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Updated: June 22, 2025
Varga, for the life of him, could not help drawing from the inside pocket of his dolman a checkered cotton pocket-handkerchief, with which he dried his eyes. "What is it your ladyship deigns to command?" he inquired, in a voice that sounded as if every syllable he uttered were shod with as tight jackboots as the ones he was himself wearing.
"There are only a dozen men on that ship," he said softly. "We've got seventy-four. When Varga comes back to the village tomorrow, we tell him to take his friend back to the ship and shove off. We give him five minutes to get turned around, and if he doesn't, we start shooting." "Just one little thing," said Pete quietly. "What about the supplies?
Pete reached out for the papers, flipped through them, and handed them back with a long look at Captain Varga. He was younger than Captain Schooner, with sandy hair and pale eyes that looked up at Pete from a soft baby face. Clean-shaven, his whole person seemed immaculate as he leaned back calmly in the chair. His civilian companion, however, had indecision written in every line of his pink face.
The Squire beckoned to everybody to be seated Rudolf on his right, Mike Kis on his left, the fiscal opposite to him, that they might the better hear what he was going to say. At the furthest end of the table sat Mr. Varga, with all the candles piled in front of him. He knew why.
John was checking the bolt on his ancient rifle. "Hank and Ringo? Just got back an hour ago. If Varga wants to get his surface planes into action, he's going to have to dismantle them and rebuild them outside. The boys jammed up the launching ports for good." He spat again. "Don't worry, Pete. This is going to be a ground fight." "Okay." Pete held out his hand to the old man. "This may be it.
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