Mury’s voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd’s right. “You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd,” he said dryly. “That doesn’t mean you,” to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot’s seat with his pressureclamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.

Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, “Where are we?”

Young Arliess exploded in another furious surge against the binding clamps, clawing with clumsy gloved hands for the release...

But the moment in which he had thumbed the release and wrenched free of the padded clamps had been too long. Ryd flinched away...