Weeks nodded. "Don't let my imagination work," he answered shrewdly. "I
know. It has to be real. How long do you suppose?"
"We don't know," Rip sounded tired, beaten. "Meanwhile," he got to his
feet, "we'd better set a course home--"
"Home," Weeks repeated. To him Terra was not his own home--he had been
born in the polar swamps of Venus. But to All Solarians--no matter which
planet had nurtured them--Terra was home.
"You," Rip's big hand fell gently on the little oiler's shoulder, "stay
here with Thorson--"
"No," Weeks shook his head. "Unless I black out, I'm riding station in
the engine room. Maybe the bug won't work on me anyway."
And because he had done what he had done they could not deny him the
right to ride his station as long as he could during the grueling hours
to come.
Dane visited the cargo hold once more. To be greeted by an irate scream
which assured him that Queex was again awake and on guard. Although the
Hoobat was ready enough to give tongue, it still squatted in its chosen
position on top of the log stack and he did not try to dislodge it.
Perhaps with Queex planted in the enemies' territory they would have
nothing to fear from any pests not now confined in the deep freeze.
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