Stunning him with a beam-edge, Boone jumped down, gun concealed once more, as a uniformed Federation trooper stepped from the lift. He made his voice harsh, peremptory: "Who's in charge here?" It brought the trooper up short. "Sergeant Martov, sir." "The crew's aboard?" "Yes, sir. Security ordered them interned on the ship so word wouldn't get out that we'd taken over." "Then take me to the sergeant. Fast!" "Yes, sir." The man spun about. Boone waited till they were both inside the lift, then hit the other behind the ear with the nerve-gun's barrel. The trooper went down, unconscious. * * * * * Rolling him out of the shaft, onto the ramp, Boone shoved the lift control lever to the fifth stop, the crew quarters. The lift ground upwards. There was another trooper on duty on the fifth level exit. Boone paralyzed him with the nerve-gun, not even speaking, and ran on down the corridor to the wardroom. Two Independent ensigns sat playing N'rlan with a navigator. One glanced up as Boone burst in; half-rose, mouth gaping. "My God! The mek-man!" Boone's heart leaped. "Then--you know about me?" "Of course!" This from the other ensign. "Terral had the whole ship readied to take off on two minutes' notice. Only then they grabbed you, and the damn' Cartel nailed us down here with a secret internment order from the Federation." "But you still could make a run? Everything's aboard and ready?" "Sure, if the locks would only open. There's just a sergeant and three troopers on duty." Triumph surged through Boone--a wild, raw-nerved elation that left him sagging back against the door-frame, dizzy. In a voice that didn't even remotely resemble his own, he said, "The locks are open." The others took over, after that. As from afar, Boone heard the terse commands, the bellowed orders. Then lights were flashing, hatches slamming. There was the grav-off's momentary lurch and wallow; the swift rush up, the hiss of passage through the airlocks while the sphere rocked like a cork in the vortex of the bubble's escaping atmosphere. By the time the medmen had sealed the gash in his forehead, the ship was hurtling out across the void on its appointed course, away from Mars, towards far Hyperion. Hyperion, and Eileen Rey. Though there was little enough time for Boone to think about her. And perhaps that was best, also. For the memory of her was with him every moment, like a shadow, and when he paused even for a second, dark fantasies rose and his belly knotted. So he was glad when the Independents' wizened, thong-tough captain called him in for consultation in the chart-room. The hurtling heavens flashed on the wall-screen, sharp-focussed by the microreel projector. The captain raised a long light-pointer. "This is our track. To save time, we'll cut short through The Belt and Jupiter's orbit. It's dangerous, but it may fool them." A chill touched Boone. "You think they'll follow?"