Silently the speeder drove down the ramp past rows of cradled space
ships. In the darkness Pell could see very little more than their
shadowy shapes. Over on the east part of the field Pell could make out
the nightly DIC liner to Mars loading passengers. He wondered vaguely
what kind of a ship they were using. From what Gret had said about not
desiring to attract attention, he was already a little dubious.
Smoothly the black speeder drew to a halt and Pell got out to examine
the little ship before him. It was an obsolete Mark III interceptor.
Pell whistled softly as he looked at the hull where huge flakes of
rust were apparent, even in the dim light. Its jets were in bad
condition; their surfaces were corroded and scarred, but he noted with
satisfaction that they had recently been scraped clean of exhaust
deposits. Followed by the girl and Heintz, he entered the air-lock and
looked at the interior of the ship.
"Let me show you the fine points of this can, Pell," the fat man said,
switching on the illumination. He squeezed by Pell and shoved his
ungainly body up the passage-way to the control room.
When Pell entered, the fat man's face was creased with a smile that
extended from one huge ear to the other on his tiny bullet head.
Proudly he pointed at the celestial globe for extra-dimensional
navigation.
"Ain't that a beauty? And here's the Thelmard Distorter Generator.
Installed it myself, just this afternoon."
With a sinking feeling, Pell stared at the incomprehensible maze of
cables that spewed out of the thing and slithered across the deck to
their unknown destinations. Heintz squeezed by him again and thrust
himself back through the narrow passage-way to the waist where Gret
Helmuth was waiting.
Heintz demonstrated the jerry-built uranium vaults which had been
welded hap-hazardly to any convenient spot. "It's all there," Heintz
beamed. "Enough to last ten years."
He motioned for Pell to follow him and disappeared into the stern of
the ship.
Pell emerged a few minutes later, his face an unnatural shade of green.
With great deliberation he lowered himself into one of the shock chairs
and looked up at Gret Helmuth helplessly.
"That creaky converter won't even get us off the ground, much less take
the hyper-space jump," he said.
She looked at him coolly and replied, "This is the best we could do,
Mr. Pell. If you are afraid, you can back out now, but--" she produced
the ancient automatic pistol she had used with such deadly effect
earlier in the evening, "I warn you that I will have to kill you if you
do. We cannot take chances."
Pell looked at her eyes. They were bleak and frosty and as hard as blue
diamonds. He knew she meant what she said. He shrugged. With everyone
apparently intent upon erasing him, it didn't make too much difference
where he died. And he would certainly prefer death in space rather than
in some back alley.
"Okay, baby, I'll pilot this tub. But you'd better be ready to get out
and push!"
He turned to go forward, then stopped as if remembering something. "You
realize that this ship is strictly contraband, don't you?"