"Granted," I said, "that I can actually think. So why the enthusiasm?"
He turned serious suddenly.
"I tried to be confusing," he said. "But even so, he learned too much.
Entirely too much. Didn't you notice, Sparks, that several times when I
fumbled for a word, _he_ was the one who supplied it?"
"Why, darned if you're not right!" I recalled.
"And another thing--when you were first introduced to him, didn't
you feel--er--peculiar? You must have. Because you started to say
something--"
"I felt," I told him, "like a person in a nuthouse. I don't know why,
but I felt like something inside my skull was digging for information.
I almost spilled the secret of where we got the contraband hidden--"
"Not almost, Sparks," corrected Lancelot gravely. "You did! And to the
worst possible person. For unless I'm greatly mistaken, that Thaxton
person is a _spy_!
"More than that, he's the cleverest sort of a spy. Because--he's an
_esper_!"[1]
[Footnote 1: In the world of Lancelot Biggs, an esper is a man who
makes his living telling fortunes. This he is able to do through his
ability to make use of extra-sensory perception, the psychological
phenomenon discovered by Dr. J. B. Rhine of Duke University, and
outlined in his book "New Frontiers of the Mind."--Ed.]
The minute he said it I knew he was right. A spy. And an Esper! Earth
is lousy with 'em. Most of them are quacks. But a few--
I gasped, "But sweet shades of Io, Lanse! If he's an esper, he's sure
to learn all about the cargo. From you or me or Cap or one of the
crew--What in Sam Hill are we going to do about it?"
"Po?" said Lancelot Biggs.
"What? What's that?"
"Never mind. I was thinking."
"Well, think about something important!" I snapped. "Else we'll all
be on the inside looking out when we reach Sun City. Why--why that
redheaded little squirt will report us and then we'll all be in the
soup!"
"I know," said Biggs. "That's why I wouldn't give a true explanation
of the audio unit. I didn't want him to come in here sometime while
you were off duty and send Venus a message. I figured if we could gain
a little time I might think of some way to--Seine?" he said querulously.
"The word you want," I said, "is 'insane'. Listen, Biggs, I've got it!
We'll get this bracket-legged guy into the blasting room and--"
"Sometimes, Sparks," shuddered Maestro Marco Polo Biggs delicately, "I
wonder what strange chemistry goes on in that brain of yours. Of course
we can't use violence. In the first place, if we did, the Venusian
authorities would _know_ something was wrong, confiscate our ship and
goods, ignoring our navicert,[2] interne us--"
[Footnote 2: A navicert is a navigation and transport permit issued
by foreign consular authorities for space travel. Here, the Venusian
consulate on Earth certified the _Saturn's_ passage.--Ed.]
"If we don't," I reminded him gloomily, "they'll do all them things
anyway. And maybe give us two slaps on the wrist for good measure. With
a crowbar."
"Knowledge!" said Biggs feverishly. "Knowledge is the answer to all
problems. It's right on the tip of my mind, but I can't quite grasp it.
Mississ--no! Thames? No!"
"Thames and tide," I punned, "wait for no man. Oh, go 'way, will you
please? I've got things to do. But quick!"
* * * * *
So he went away, and I snapped on the old powerhouse and pretty soon
current hummed and sang through the coils and I made the ether vibrate.
And I do mean vibrate.
I contacted Joe Marlowe at Lunar III, Joe being not only one of the
best bug-pounders in the business but also a personal friend. And I
asked him to find out, (1) if this bozo Thaxton was really a friend
of Doc Challenger's, (2) if there'd been any leak on Earth about our
gun-running exploits, and (3) if there were hot and cold running water
in Venusian hoosegows.
Pretty soon the answer came back.
"No, no, a thousand times no." After which Joe asked me, on our private
conversation band,
"What's all this about somebody named Thaxton?"
So I told him. So it turned out that Thaxton was aboard the _Saturn_
on forged papers in the first place, and that in the second place
we couldn't clap him in irons even if he were a secret agent of the
Venusian government, and that in the third place we shouldn't have let
ourselves get in such a jam to begin with.
"Besides," tapped Joe, "all you've got to do is to keep your collective
mouths shut. You're running under a navicert, and that means you won't
be inspected at Sun City. You'll be free to make a short hop to New
California and leave the aft hold cargo with the assigned parties." And
with that he signed off.
A moment later the door busted open and in came Cap Hanson, his face
the color of an uncleaned pullet. He bawled,
"Sparks! Sparks, for gosh sakes' get in touch with Earth immediately,
if not sooner! Find out what we're to do! That there Thaxton guy, he's
a phony. A--"
"Park it, Cap," I said glumly, "and hear the rest. He's a spy. And he's
also an esper."
"You--you knew?"
"Mr. Biggs guessed it an hour ago. We talked the situation over."
Then I told him about calling Joe Marlowe, and went on to detail
the hopelessness of our situation. But Hanson is a fighting man. He
flinched as I threw verbal lefts and rights at him, but he was still
sparring feebly when the bell rang.
He came up with, "Well, then, get in touch with Chief Garrity. Tell him
to turn this crate around. We'll go back to Earth--"