“Ever hear of a customs man named Crosby?” Moran rasped.
“Sure. I know him.”
“Is there a stool pigeon named José down at Carana—”
“Yes. Keeps the store. We’ve had trouble before, there. Little Mexican settlement—”
“Crosby just called up and said he landed in Carana and that there’s a big bunch of aliens due over within an hour. It’ll take a couple of hours before he can get help. Wants us—”
“To fly down!” shouted Scarth, leaping to his feet. “It can’t be done! Listen to that wind.”
Moran’s eyes glittered suddenly.
“He says there’s a field down there we’ve landed in before—”
“Sure there is. But we can’t go. Are you crazy? I—”
Moran’s contempt for Scarth, his utter contempt for his own yellowness, the fact that life was a hateful thing, all combined to force the words from his lips: