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Maril followed him. He said detachedly; "I've been working on a problem outside of the food one. It isn't the time to talk about it right now, but I think I've solved it." Maril turned her head, listening. There were footsteps on the tarmac outside the ship. Both doors of the airlock were open. Four men came in.
You don't need to worry." A few minutes later, Arcot, Morey, and Fuller stepped out of the airlock and set to work, using power flashlights to examine the outer hull for any signs of possible strain. The flashlights, equipped as they were with storage coils for power, were actually powerful searchlights, but in the airlessness of space, the rays were absolutely invisible.
Breathless, his heart pounding, he staggered down the upper corridor and impatiently went through the seemingly interminable process of negotiating the airlock. He emerged into the big room. It was empty. The ceiling was open to the Martian sky. The sunlight poured into the roofless room.
Tom knew that the only way the ship could be boarded was through those locks; a man stationed at the place where the main corridors joined could block any entry from the locks ... as long as he could hold his position. Tom reached the junction of the corridors, and crouched close to the wall. By peering around the corner, he had a good view of the airlock corridor.
He went zestfully to find Babs to tell her to leave the communicator-set and let queries go unanswered as a matter of simple business policy. The sling which swung out of the airlock now became busy. They had landed on this planet, and they were going to leave it, and there had been a minimum of actual contact with its soil.
He was well enough concealed at the moment, clinging tightly against the outside hull of the Ranger ship, hidden behind the open airlock door. But soon the airlock would be pulled closed, and then the real test would come. Carefully, he ran through the plan again in his mind. He was certain now that his reasoning was right.
"I see you've put on your light clothing. That's good this is a hot planet. These your bags?" Hanlon nodded, and each carrying one, the officer led the way to the airlock and they climbed down onto this new world. The air was thick and muggy at least 110° Fahrenheit, Hanlon guessed. There was a great bustle of activity on the landing field.
There were fifty ships coming from each planet; two hundred mighty ships in all made up this Armada of Space, two hundred gargantuan interstellar cruisers. One by one the giant ships passed through the airlock and out into space. Here they quickly reformed as they moved off together, each ship falling into its place in the mighty cone formation, with the flagship of Taj Lamor at the head.
He shot at imagined targets there. He fired at his previous victim simply because it was something to shoot at. He shot recklessly, foolishly. Alicia, his wife, touched Jamison on the arm and spoke to him urgently. Jamison followed her reluctantly down the stairs. She would be going to the airlock. Johnny Simms, shooting at the landscape, might shoot Holden.
The saloons were doing well enough, apparently, from the number that streamed in through their airlock entrances. But Gordon saw one of the bartenders paying money to a thickset person with an arrogant sneer; he knew then that the few profits from the cheap beer were never going home with the man.
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