staring

yacht.
So it probably was the yacht, Zamm decided—and it would be hidden just below the moon’s frozen surface. She had pin-pointed the spot; and on the ­opposite side of the big satellite the skiff came streaking down into a thin, icy atmosphere.
“You can start hoping that ship was one of those I’ve been waiting for,” Greemshard was remarking meanwhile. “Or else just somebody who isn’t interested in us.”
He stood in the center of the yacht’s control room, staring at Bropha with intense dislike and a touch of fear. A suspicion had begun to grow on Greemshard that with all his cleverness and planning he might have worked himself at last into an impossible situation. None of the dozens of coded messages he had sent out during the past few days had been answered or perhaps '