The meeting Blane had called in the rec hall had been brief. Men and
women had stared incredulously at him as he told them the facts--all
the facts this time. There hadn't even been a vote, since none was
needed. Now they were scurrying about, hastily following the orders
he had given. Manners was destroying the tapes, the weather men were
collecting the reports of future weather that should have been filed
within the next few days, and others were gathering what bits of
scientific material and notes they could. Edwards had somehow joined
them and was already out in the little ferry, heading for the big lunar
ship that was fueled and almost completed.
Devlin sat in the hub still. He was conscious now, but the blood
on his head ruined what would otherwise have been a fine military
posture. He made his slight bow, smiling bitterly in recognition of his
helplessness.
"I'm oddly grateful to you, Blane," he said. "But I don't expect you
to believe me. And I find I regret what will happen to you and the men
here when this catches up with you. What are your plans for me?"
Blane hadn't thought of that. He watched through the port as the ugly,
clumsy lunar ship moved toward the ship, to a distance where the ferry
could be used to carry them all out to it.
"You can pilot a ship, I remember. Take Edwards' ship and go back to
the Island," he decided at last.
Devlin smiled. "I thought of that, too. But with your permission, I'd
rather come with you. I'm curious. And I give you my word I shall not
interfere in any way. Your case is hopeless, of course--but so is mine."