He spun on one heel, went toward the emergency port, then retraced his steps. "Will you shake hands, Tony?" he asked.
A moment later, he climbed into the port, his eyes blurred because of his emotion at the warm pressure of Tony Andrews' hand. He squirmed into position, fought with the stubborn catalyst feed. Within seconds, he had it fixed. He drew a deep breath, then pounded the agreed signal on the metal bulkhead.
The Patrol cruiser staggered a bit in its upward flight, then fled for the clouds high over the water world. And at the moment of its takeoff, the monster blob of protoplasm burst through the surrounding trees, halted as though it knew its prey had escaped. Then it moved a bit, and a blind pseudopod came questing from its body.
Val Kenton watched it move toward him, and he waited its coming unflinchingly. He stood straight and proud, the Patrol cap cocked jauntily on his head, his shoulders square in the blue coat that bore the crossed comets of the Patrol Service.
He lit a cigarette, watched the protoplasm coming ever closer. He fired the last charge in his gun, laughed aloud at the instant withdrawal of the pseudopod.
He saluted gravely, as he had done years before. Then, the cigarette canted in firm lips, he went forward—a Captain in the Space Patrol moving forward, never backward, facing danger as tradition demanded.