Brettner had come cat-footed down the ladder. "There's one way to
hustle things up," he growled, patting his hip holster. "I wish you'd
let me blister their stern-plates a little. Little old Frontier Lawyer
here would teach 'em some manners right now!"
Stuart repressed a shudder.
The captain strode over and confronted the scout with a frown. "That's
what we're here to avoid, Mr. Brettner, and you know it. Our weapons
are purely for defense, and there'd be hell raised if we harmed any
natives. If we got out of here alive, we'd lose our million credits
and all our expenses, as well as being tried for unauthorized warlike
acts." He sounded hoarse with fatigue and irritation. "Get over any
belligerent ideas you may have. That goes for all of you--at least on
this trip."
He looked sternly at the group a moment, then nodded toward the ladder.
"Let's go have a conference. Nestor, will you stay here and keep a
sharp eye on that hideout?"
The chubby engineer leaned back in the seat, swung the eyepiece over
into a comfortable position, and sighed. "Yeah, all right. Somebody
better bring me some food before long, though. I'm dying."