“That, of course, is the way to do it. I am rather surprised that you have attached no importance to the fact that Drai has made no progress exploring Planet Three for the seventeen years I have been with him.”
For nearly a minute Ken stared at the mechanic, while his mental picture of the older being underwent a gradual but complete readjustment.
“No,” he said at last, “I never thought of that at all. I should have, too — I did think that some of the obstacles to investigation of the planet seemed rather odd. You mean you engineered the television tube failures, and all such things?”
“The tubes, yes. That was easy enough — just make sure there were strains in the glass before the torpedo took off.”
“But you weren’t here when the original torpedoes were lost, were you?”
“No, that was natural enough. The radar impulses we pick up are real, too; I don’t know whether this idea of a hostile race living on the blue plains of Planet Three is true or not, but there seems to be some justification for the theory. I’ve been tempted once or twice to put the wrong thickness of anti-radar coating on a torpedo so that they’d know we were getting in — but then I remember that that might stop the supply of tofacco entirely. Wait a few days before you think too hardly of me for that.” Ken nodded slowly in understanding, then looked up suddenly as another idea struck him.
“Say, then the failure of that suit we sent to Three was not natural?”
“I’m afraid not.” Feth smiled a trifle. “I overtightened the packing seals at knees, hips and handler joints while you were looking on. They contracted enough to let air out, I imagine — I haven’t seen the suit, remember. I didn’t want you walking around on that planet — you could do too much for this gang in an awfully short time, I imagine.”
“But surely that doesn’t matter now? Can’t we find an excuse for repeating the test?”
“Why? I thought you weren’t going to help.”