Which meant that Jim Palmer had lied.
He snapped his fingers in sudden thought. Palmer had not tried to injure him, instead, he had merely tried to remove the oxy-helmet.
And that meant another mystery. For Palmer knew that the faintly tainted air of Venus would not knock out the trouble-shooter.
The trouble-shooter growled deep in his throat, crushed out the cigarette, stood and paced to the port window. He frowned from the port, watched the men coming toward the rocket ship. He felt no uneasiness, for he knew that the hull would be impervious to any ati-blasts they might fire in trying to force an entrance.
Then he stiffened, the blood draining from his face.
For walking quietly in the middle of the tight group was Jean Palmer.
Don Denton swore briefly, didn't move. He watched, as the group came quietly to a halt a hundred feet from the Comet, their tightness melting away as they stopped.
Then Don Denton saw Jim Palmer lift a heavy strip of leather belt, swing it with a brutal viciousness at the slender shoulders of his daughter.
Don Denton whipped around, a white hot rage blazing in his mind, his breath a choking mass in his throat, as he dashed for the port door. He uncogged it with trembling hands, pushed it open, dropped through, the ati-guns cold in his sweaty hands.
He ran toward the silent group, conscious that Palmer's arms was lifting for another blow. His hand swept up for a snap-shot.