“You cannot let people run a hundred miles at this altitude,” railed Dr. Robert Woodward. He was so pissed off he had a finger in Ken’s face, which didn’t bode well for his finger. If you’ve seen Ken, with those steel-toed boots on his size 13 stompers and that mug as craggy as the rock he blasted for a living, you figure out pretty quick you don’t put a hand near his face unless you’re dead drunk or dead serious. Doc Woodward wasn’t drunk. “You’re going to kill anyone foolish enough to follow you!” “Tough shit!” Ken shot back. “Maybe killing a few folks will get us back on the map.”
