The second group slowly approached the first. The girl evidently recognized Curt, for her voice held a triumphant ring. "I see you've captured him," she said. "That's good. The reward for him will make all of you men rich. He's Curt Varga, Chief of the Food and Smothalene Pirates."
"Who'da thought it!" Duke Ringo said in mock amazement, turned away. "Come on, we'll get back to where it's comfortable."
"Nice going, Jean," Curt Varga said bitterly. "Because of your sheer stupidity, we're in a jam that made your former one look infantile. These boys are part of the smothalene smugglers; we haven't got a chance."
"Shut up, Varga," Duke Ringo said curtly.
Curt subsided, went slowly forward. They entered a small compression compartment, and Duke cogged a door shut. Air hissed from vents in the walls, and the pressure gradually mounted. Thirty seconds later, Duke Ringo unzippered his suit, motioned for the others to do the same. He lifted a box from one corner of the chamber, handed small nitration masks about.
"Stick these on," he said to Curt and Jean. "Otherwise you may find yourself aging pretty rapidly."
Curt fitted his mask to his nose, clamped his lips, his eyes flicking over the group of men. They were tough, as tough as any men he had ever seen in space. And he felt queasiness in his stomach when he saw the sheer cold brutality in their eyes when they looked at him. His fists tightened when he saw the manner in which they regarded Jean.
"All right, Ringo," Curt said. "Now what's the play?"
Duke Ringo turned slowly. He was fully as tall as Curt, but he was bulkier, heavier. He surveyed Curt deliberately out of expressionless eyes, then turned his gaze to Jean.
"The young lady," he said, "will be confined to a cabin for a few days. You, I think, will earn your keep by working at a drier."