"Very," said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping like
a fin from the stern of the skiff. "Not hopeless, though. There should
be an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that--"
"You ought to of poked him," said Hannigan.
"What? Oh, you mean--?"
"Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it."
"His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident," said Greg. "It could
have happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Considering
everything. Anyhow--" Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,
efficient secretary. "Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremely
precarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man's
nervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering--"
"Umbrage!" snorted Sparks. "Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sure
I know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean _anything_." He
glanced at Greg oddly. "You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back there
on the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man to
the boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a movie
hero--for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you the
spur without a squawk--"
Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almost
stubbornly, "Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering."
"Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?"
Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which they
were separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved to
make a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, more
or less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures toward
removing certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight and
uncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.
The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, was
that everyone wanted "something" to be done, but no two could agree as
to just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any bursting
desire to participate in actual physical labor.
J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,
was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open port
of the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doul
who--as Greg watched--stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload of
edibles.
'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to the
complaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do had
suffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews
(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) and
Miss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-opener
immediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was _so_
hungry)!
Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave the
warmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,
while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps was
shouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture his
divided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpieces
of confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crew
should immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistent
equipment, Breadon did not venture to say.
"You see what I mean?" demanded Sparks disgustedly.
* * * * *
Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,
while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means an
ideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed by
shallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly on
their greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.
These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, might
well become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.
He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northern
hills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things--
He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There was
but one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. The
apparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, argued
his judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through an
atmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting with
disaster.
"Titan," he said. "Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan."
Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression of
dismay.
"Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?"
"I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us as
large as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.
Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturnian
tractile constant, would give us a strong pull."
Sparks wailed, "But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comes
to Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no--" He stopped
suddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. "And, hey--this place is
_dangerous_! There are--"
"I know it," said Greg swiftly, quietly. "Shut up, Sparks. No use
telling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don't
know won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselves
organized into a defensive community. That's the only way--"
Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. "Well,
Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!"
And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented the
order. "Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, my
man. We want action!"
Sparks said, "Maybe you'll get it now, fatty!" under his breath, and
looked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, moved
forward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Hannigan groaned and followed him.