He leaned against the wall, searching the cloud-shrouded ground below the ship, feeling the uneven drumming of the rockets driving the ship forward. Nerves crawled his back, and sweat slimed his hands. He shuddered, imagining the horrors that might lie below.
The mug banged against the floor, and Caxton was standing, half-crouched, his heavy face set and stony, his hands riding the butts of his twin dis-guns.
"I say we go back," he snarled through set teeth.
Headley laughed, and the sound was the only thing that could have broken the tension of the moment. He tilted his head and laughed until the tears ran from his eyes; and slowly the rage faded from Caxton's face, and his shoulders sagged in weary futility.
"Okay, you win," Caxton said sullenly. "I know I can't force you to turn around, since you're the only one of us that can recognize and work kronalium for the stern jets. But," and his eyes were swirling pools of flaming hate. "When we do get back, I'm going to blow a hole through your back some night."
Tom Headley turned away, the fear piling in his mind until it was a choking cloud that stifled all thought.
"If we get back," he said dully.
He slid his hands over the control panel, adjusting the studs and levers with a delicate familiarity, striving to bring another ounce of power from the single rocket-bank that still functioned. But there was only the uneven beat of the rockets vibrating the floor as they had done for three days now, and no adjustment of the controls could make them function better.
Bart Caxton sat again, fumbled a cigarette from his pocket, then dropped it to the floor. His face was white beneath its tan, and there was a haunted desperation in the tightness of his bulky body.