Val Kenton straightened then, reading something in the clear eyes of his former friend that he had thought he would never see again in the eyes of any man. He fought the lump in his throat for seconds, then whirled.
"Let's get to the ship," he said. "It's foolish to try and do anything here."
They dodged down the path, the fetid odor of the pursuing protoplasm following them on the light wind. Val Kenton thought many things then, the thoughts racing through his mind with quicksilver-like speed. And in those flashing seconds, he found the answers to many things that he had refused to face in the past.
And then they were at the ship, and Elise was waiting at the port.
"Tony," she called, "Johnson can't make the adjustment; he needs your help."
Val Kenton caught the Patrolman's arm in a grip of steel. "Give me your coat and cap," he snapped, "and get into the pilot's seat." He swallowed heavily.
"Get Johnson into the control cabin with you. I'm going into the rear emergency port, and repair that jet. I don't know if the ship will carry all of us, but you've got to make the try. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but—" Tony Andrews began puzzledly.
"No time for talk," Val Kenton snapped. "I'll brace myself in that repair space, and tap when I'm ready. After that, it's up to you."
He shrugged into the Patrolman's coat and cap, straightened his shoulders in the familiar set of the coat.