Pop eyed the ready blaster and nodded again. He wondered vaguely how
it would feel to die under the blast of such a weapon. It couldn't be
very painful. He hoped it wasn't painful. Perhaps the boy hadn't
suffered. It would be nice to be sure, he thought.
There wasn't much for Pop to remember about the boy. He'd never been
one for writing many letters. But the District Patrolman had come down
to Yakki and looked Pop up--afterward. He'd said the boy was a good
officer. A good cop. Died doing his job, and all that sort of thing.
Pop swallowed hard. His job. What had 'his job' been that night in
Lower Marsport, he wondered. Had someone else finished it for him?
He remembered about that time hearing on the Mars Radio that a
Triangle Post Office had been knocked over by a gunman. That might
have been it. The Patrol would be after anyone knocking over EMV
Triangle property. The Earth-Mars-Venus Government supported the
Patrol for things like that.
Pop guided _The Luck_ skillfully above the Belt, avoiding with
practiced ease the few errant chunks of rock that hurtled up out of
the swarms. He talked to Kane because he was starved for
talk--certainly not because he was trying to play Sherlock. Pop had
long ago realized that he was no mental giant. Besides, he owed the
Patrol nothing. Not a damned thing.
"Made this trip often?" Pop tried to strike up a conversation with
Kane. His long loneliness seemed sharper, somehow, more poignant,
when he actually had someone to talk to.
"Not often. I'm no space pig." It was said with scorn.
"There's a lot to spacing, you know," Pop urged.