But the other agent had made a worm's progress half across
the room and Rip had to halt in haste to prevent stepping on him.
Shannon stooped and, hooking his fingers in the other's tunic, heaved him
back while the helpless man favored them with some of the ripest
speech--and NOT Trade Lingo--Dane had ever heard. Rip waited until the
man began to run down and then he broke in with his pleasant soft drawl.
"Oh, sure, we're all that. But time runs on, Eysie, and I'd like a couple
of answers which may mean something to you. First--when do you expect
your relief?"
That set the agent off again. And his remarks--edited--were that no
something, something F-T was going to get any something, something
information out of him!
But it was his companion in misfortune--the Com-tech--who guessed the
reason behind Rip's question.
"Cut jets!" he advised the other. "They're just being soft-hearted. I
take it," he spoke over the other agent's sputtering to Rip, "that you're
worried about leaving us fin down--That's it, isn't it?"
Rip nodded. "In spite of what you think about us," he replied, "We're not
Patrol Posted outlaws--"
"No, you're just from a plague ship," the Com-tech remarked calmly.
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