"When he returns," the stranger said, "Sutton must be killed."
II
The tiny, battered ship sank lower, slowly, like a floating feather, drifting down toward the field in the slant of morning sun.
The bearded, ragged man in the pilot's chair sat tensed, straining every nerve.
Tricky, said his brain. Hard and tricky to handle so much weight, to judge the distance and the speed…hard to make the tons of metal float down against the savage pull of gravity. Harder even than the lifting of it when there had been no consideration but that it should rise and move out into space.
For a moment the ship wavered and he fought it, fought it with every shred of will and mind…and then it floated once again, hovering just a few feet above the surface of the field.
He let it down, gently, so that it scarcely clicked when it touched the ground.
He sat rigid in the seat, slowly going limp, relaxing by inches, first one muscle, then another. Tired, he told himself. The toughest job I've ever done. Another few miles and I would have let her crash.
Far down the field was a clump of buildings and a ground car had swung away from them and was racing down the strip toward him.
A breeze curled in through the shattered vision port and touched his face, reminding him…