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.
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