I thought swiftly. The earnestness of the youngster had touched me. Beneath the formality and the “sirs” there was a real affection between us.
In the darkness I reached for his hand; I found it and shook it solemnly—a gesture of Earth which it is hard to explain. It means many things.
“Go, then, Andy,” I said softly. “But do not stay long. An hour at the longest. If you are not back in that length of time, we’ll come after you, and whatever else may happen, you can be sure that you will be well avenged. The Ertak has not lost her stinger.”
“Thank you, John,” he replied. “Remember that I shall wear my menore. If I adjust it to full power, and you do likewise, and stand without the shelter of the Ertak’s metal hull, I shall be able to communicate with you, should there be any danger.” He pressed my hand again, and strode through the exit out into the darkness, which was lit only by a few distant stars.
The long, slim legs closed in around him; like a pigmy guarded by the skeletons of giants he was led quickly away.
The minutes dragged by. There was a nervous tension on the ship, the like of which I have experienced not more than a dozen times in all my years.
No one spoke aloud. Now and again one man would matter uneasily to another; there would be a swift, muttered response, and silence again. We were waiting—waiting.
Ten minutes went by. Twenty. Thirty.
Impatiently I paced up and down before the exit, the guards at their posts, ready to obey any orders instantly.