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"Now, how many eggs have you got now? an' how much dust do I tote up the hill?" Smoke consulted his notebook. "As it stands now, according to Shorty's figures, we've three thousand nine hundred and sixty-two eggs. Multiply by ten " "Forty thousand dollars!" Wild Water bellowed. "You said there was only something like nine hundred eggs. It's a stickup! I won't stand for it!"
He couldn't quite take it in. "This," snapped the red-headed man abruptly, "is a stickup!" Pop's eyes went through the inner lock-door. He saw that the interior of the ship was stripped and bare. But a spiral stairway descended from some upper compartment. It had a handrail of pure, transparent, water-clear plastic. The walls were bare insulation, but that trace of luxury remained.
"They didn't wear signs," Duke answered grumpily. "But holdup men usually say something, don't they? 'This is a stickup. Or something like that." Jerry Webster examined bruised knuckles in the glare of the car head lamps. "They didn't say anything," he added. "Not a word. When you yelled, they broke off and ran into the woods." Scotty scratched his head. "Mighty funny," he mused.
Pop gazed at the plastic, fascinated. The red-headed man leaned forward, snarling. He slashed Pop across the face with the barrel of his weapon. It drew blood. It was wanton, savage brutality. "Pay attention!" snarled the red-headed man. "A stickup, I said! Get it? You go get that can of stuff from the mine! The diamonds! Bring them here! Understand?" Pop said numbly: "What the hell?"
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