"I'd like to burn 'em out!" Peterson snarled.
* * * * *
Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,
checked the concentrated rations and grunted.
Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. "The boss said strip
her, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside." He followed the
Centaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.
The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.
On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. "All set."
Roberds nodded at him. "Stick with it!" and jerked a thumb at Rat
outside. Grease nodded understanding.
"Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now." He dropped the ladder against the
wall and sat on it. "Good night." He watched Rat walk slowly away.
Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught a
sibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.
"Here ... can you see me?" A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Rat
regarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and he
stepped to the sill.
"Yes?"--in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droning
conversation drifted in. "What you want?"
Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: "Can you pilot
that ship?" Her voice was shaky.
He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearly
as he detected it in her words.
"Well, _can_ you?" she demanded.
"Damn yes!" he stated simply. "It now necessary?"
"Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.
And ... well, we want _you_ to pilot it! She refuses to risk
Mr. Roberds' job. She favors you."