ON HS TRL, Pitcher tongued, plastering himself under the scant overhead of the shed’s roof.
“This is Juno Spaceport Police,” blared a loudspeaker on the copter. “You are trespassing on private property. Drop whatever you’re carrying and move into the open.”
“It’s in Bay 3,” Ishikawa called from inside the shed.
Pitcher leaned out and shot at the spotlight; it went out. Shwartz ran for it. The copter dropped a canister; gas hissed out. Ishikawa followed, dragging Pitcher. HW CLS, Pitcher’s teeth demanded to know. Shwartz climbed the ship’s ladder, coughing. The copter landed, and cops wearing gas masks piled out. THNK I CN C HM Pitcher signaled back as he stumbled up the ladder behind his mark. He dogged the hatch shut as bullets pinged against it. Ishikawa found the helm. What might have been a seat in front of it seemed to be designed for people with three glutes, and the controls were very strange.
“Let’s go,” Shwartz yelled.
KL HM, throbbed Pitcher’s jaw.
Port Police pounded on the hatch.