“Fin landing, brother!  Four points and down!”

Rip glanced up, a grin made him look his old self.  “Ought to have a recording of that for the Board when I go up for my pass-through.”

Dane matched his smile.  “Too bad we didn’t have someone out there with a tri-dee machine.”

“More likely it’d be evidence at our trial for piracy—­” their words must have reached Ali on the ship’s inter-com, for his deflating reply came back, to remind them of why they had made that particular landing.  “Do we move now?”

“Check first,” Rip said into the mike.

Dane looked at the visa-plate.  Against a background of jagged rock teeth was the bubble of the E-Stat housing—­more than three-quarters of it being in the hollowed out sections below the surface of the miniature world which supported it, as Dane knew.  But a beam of light shown from the dome to center on the grounded Queen.  They had not caught the Stat agents napping.

They made the rounds of the spacer, checking on each of the semi-conscious men.  Ali had ready the artificial oxgy tanks—­they must move fast once they began the actual task of clearing and restocking the hydro.

“Hope you have a good story ready,” he commented as the other three joined him by the hatch to don the suits which would enable them to cross the airless, heatless surface of the asteroid.

“We have a poisoned hydro,” Dane said.

“One look at the plants we dump will give you the lie.  They won’t accept our story without investigation.”

Dane was aroused.  Did Ali think he was a stupid as all that?  “If you’d take a look in there now you’d believe me,” he snapped.

“What did you do?” Ali sounded genuinely interested.

“Chucked a heated can of lacoil over a good section.  It’s wilting down fast in big patches.”

Rip snorted.  “Good old lacoil.  You drink it, you wash in it, and now you kill off the Hydro with it.  Maybe we can give the company an extra testimonial for the official jabber and collect when we hit Terra.  All right—­Weeks,” he spoke to the little man, “you listen in on the com—­it’s tuned to our helmet units.  We’ll climb into these pipe suits and see how many tears we can wring out of the Eysies with our sad, sad tale.”

They got into the awkward, bulky suits and squeezed into the hatch while Weeks slammed the lock door at their backs and operated the outer opening.  Then they were looking out across the ground, still showing signs of the heat of their landing, and lighted by the dome beam.

“Nobody hurrying out with an aid and comfort kit,” Rip’s voice sounded in Dane’s earphones.  “A little slack aren’t they?”

Slack—­or was it that the Eysies had recognized the Queen and was preparing the sort of welcome the remnant of her crew could not withstand?  Dane, wanting very much in his heart to be elsewhere, climbed down the ladder in Rip’s wake, both of them spotlighted by the immovable beam from the Stat dome.