"You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In a delicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptu element introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail at Sector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear?" "Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe?" "Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions, you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less than an hour." "What's this native life form like?" Retief asked, getting to his feet. "When you get back," said Passwyn, "you tell me." The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spat toward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen. "They's shootin' goin' on down there," he said. "See them white puffs over the edge of the desert?" "I'm supposed to be preventing the war," said Retief. "It looks like I'm a little late." The pilot's head snapped around. "War?" he yelped. "Nobody told me they was a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out of here." "Hold on," said Retief. "I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you." "They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance." He started punching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist. "Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down." The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retief blocked casually. "Are you nuts?" the pilot screeched. "They's plenty shootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out." "The mail must go through, you know." "Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'll tell 'em to pick up the remains next trip." "You're a pal. I'll take your offer." The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. "Get in. We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lob one this way...." Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over the controls. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief a heavy old-fashioned power
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