A man had landed in the bluff pasture one morning six thousand years before and John H. Sutton, Esq., had come ambling down the hill, swinging a stick, for he was the sort of man who would have carried a stick, a stout, strong hickory stick, no doubt, cut and trimmed with his own jackknife. And the man had talked with him and had used the same kind of mental tactics on John H. Sutton as Pringle now was trying to use on Sutton's far descendant.
Go ahead, said Sutton silently. Talk yourself hoarse in the throat and squeaky in the tongue. For I am on to you and you're the one who knows it. And pretty soon we'll get down to business.
As if he had read Sutton's thoughts, Case said to Pringle:
"Jake, it isn't working out."
"No, I guess it ain't," said Pringle.
"Let's sit down," said Case.
Sutton felt a flood of relief. Now, he told himself, he would find out what the others wanted, might get some clue to what was going on.
He sat down in a chair and from where he sat he could see the front end of the cabin, a tiny living space that shrieked efficiency. The control board canted in front of the pilot's chair, but there were few controls. A row of buttons, a lever or two, a panel of toggles that probably controlled lights and ports and such…and that was all. Efficient and simple…no foolishness, a minimum of manual controls. The ship, Sutton thought, must almost fly itself.
Case slid down into a chair and crossed his long legs, stretching them out in front of him, sitting on his backbone. Pringle perched on a chair's edge, leaning forward, rubbing hairy hands.
"Sutton," asked Case, "what is it that you want?"