For a few bad moments, Pop Wills thought Carnavon was going to blast him as soon as the _Carefree_ lost way, but then even his gin-soaked mind began to understand that the end wasn't quite yet. Carnavon needed help looting the murdered liner. If he was going to lay his hands on her valuables before the Guard appeared, he'd have to get Pop working with him. Maybe if Pop had been more of a man he could have stopped the wrecker cold right there, but long years of boozing had left Pop weak. He could hate well enough, but fear conquers even hate. And that blaster that followed him in every movement made Pop's thin blood run cold. Life--even a life like Pop Wills'--was better than the black void of death. Pop was ready to buy a few more minutes of life at almost any price, even from the man who had killed his boy. The old man was like a rusty watch-spring--battered and wound to the utmost limit. And jammed there. Frozen by the reality of that ugly blaster and the cold eyes behind it, Pop would help Carnavon. He couldn't help himself. And his hate expanded to include his own senile weakness.... * * * * * The _Thunderbird_ spun slowly in the light of the faraway sun, the rent in her hull gaping like a mouthful of jagged teeth. She had been a beautiful thing once, but she was ugly now in death. She had not died gracefully. Her back had been broken and her innards scattered. She orbited sullenly, and around her spun the broken fragments of her inner body--the bloated, frozen corpses of the men she'd carried. Against the backdrop of the stars and the blaze of the Milky Way, she seemed to be a blot on the heavens. Pop Wills and Ron Carnavon watched her, each of them with his own thoughts. Then the wrecker motioned toward the suit lockers with his blaster. It took a bit of doing to get into his own pressure suit and still keep the blaster pointed at Wills, but Carnavon was a large man, and supple, and he managed it well enough. The _Carefree_ had no escape boat, so there was nothing for it but to rely on the suit motors to take them across to the _Thunderbird_. It promised to be slow going, for the suit motors were weak and produced only one tenth G of thrust. Almost anything thrown out ahead by a man in a space-suit was enough to stop him cold. The recoil overcame the suit motor with ridiculous ease and though the motor labored mightily, it would take a long while to reestablish the original direction of movement. But Carnavon had an answer for that, too. A quick check of the radar showed that there were still no Guard ships within hailing distance. Carnavon's original estimate of the time it would take the Space Guard to arrive on the scene turned out to be surprisingly accurate. He connected his suit to Pop's with a short cable and snap-hooks and together they made their way to the _Carefree's_ dorsal valve.