Pop began winding the flywheel. It made a whirring sound in the
confined space of the tiny control room. Outside, the night began to
pivot slowly.
"We have to turn end-for-end," Pop said. "That way we can decelerate
on the drop into Callisto. But, of course, you know all about that,
Mr. Kane."
"I told you I'm no space pig," Kane said brusquely. "I can handle a
landing and maybe a takeoff, but the rest of it I leave for the
boatmen. Like you, Pop."
Pop spun the flywheel in silence, listening to the soft whir.
Presently, he let the wheel slow and then stop. He straightened and
looked up at Kane. The blaster muzzle was six inches from his belly.
He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.
"You ... you're going to kill me," Pop said. It wasn't a question.
Kane smiled, showing white teeth.
"I ... I know you are," Pop said unsteadily. "But first, I want to say
something to you."
"Talk, old timer," Kane said. "But not too much."
"That boy--that boy you killed in Marsport. He was my son," Pop said.