"Look, we've got a real space drive. We can go to the moon or Mars—or Pluto if we want to. And we've got to let Nails know real quick that he can get us out of here—and without making him mad that we wrecked Thule Base. But really, after the way those Security goons acted, maybe he won't be mad if you handle it right. How about it?"
The hangover was disappearing magically. But this flow of information was nearly as bad.
A space drive? Bessie knew she couldn't evaluate one way or the other on that. That would be Nails' problem.
But they were in a pickle, and it would be up to her to see that Nails didn't waste too much time evaluating things. Those Security men had been prepared to play real rough, and more of them were on their way up.
"Where is Nails?"
"The boys put him to bed. In his quarters. He got a dose of the same stuff that put you out. He ought to be coming to almost any time now. And probably mad about the whole thing."
Instantly, Bessie was on her feet, flinging on clothes, and out down the corridor toward Nails' private stateroom.
It had been thirty-two hours since Major—General—whatever it was Elbertson—had been defeated on the bridge for the final time.
He and his men were now securely locked in one of the empty labs. The paralysis effect of the needle gun had probably worn off. Mike hadn't checked to find out.