"You're a sensible man, Cosmo, a sensible man." The planter rubbed
his hands together triumphantly. He snapped on the intercommunicating
telecast on the glassite desk, said into it: "Rabaul!"
"Right," came the voice from the audio.
"That was good work with the gas tubes, Rabaul."
"You can thank Llana," came the voice of the overseer from the audio.
Cosmo recognized the sibilant accent of a Martian. "She gave the alarm."
Bemmelman grunted. "Take twenty Jovians," he said, "and a dozen serfs.
Arm the serfs with Ray Rifles. Hide them about the roof. The Renegade's
men will try to land shortly and I'd like to prepare a welcome for 'em."
"Right," came Rabaul's voice.
The planter switched off the telecast. He looked at Cosmo, smiled,
said: "Whistle 'em down, Cosmo, that's all. My Jovians will take care
of the rest."
"It's daylight," said the Blue Venus with an air of childish surprise.
She was looking out the windows.
Cosmo was aware of the heat, all at once. It curled about him like a
steaming towel. He looked at Mia. There were circles under her eyes.
Her hair was tangled, her tunic in threads. "Poor kid," he said.
Bemmelman glanced at his watch. "Your men should be up in the clouds
now, waiting? Eh, Cosmo?"