MALLORY CHOKED, SICKENED. “Lord, man! How did you get aboard here? Why—”
Liquid breath gurgled in Lemming’s throat. Glaze filmed his eyeballs. “Tried to—” he panted, “—stow away. Wilmot dead—knew suspect me—hid—”
His head fell forward to the floor. Dan fingered his pulse, found there not the feeblest stir of life. Lemming, fleeing the dreaded breath of suspicion, had lost the more important breath of life. The miracle was that he had survived, even so long, the tremendous acceleration that had taxed all Mallory’s space-trained, protected faculties.
And the two space-skiffs closed inexorably the gap between them. Mallory’s quick brain leaped to the final problem. But before he could solve it, the small skiff audio burst into speech.
“Well done, whoever you are!” said the voice from the
