IV

I don't know how many were shocked at Hal's death, or how many looked

around and counted one less pair of lungs. He'd never been one of the

men I'd envied the air he used, though, and I think most felt the

same. For awhile, we didn't even notice that the air was even thicker.

Phil Riggs broke the silence following our inspection of Lomax's

cabin. "That damned Bullard! I'll get him, I'll get him as sure as he

got Hal!"

There was a rustle among the others, and a suddenly crystallized hate

on their faces. But Muller's hoarse shout cut through the babble that

began, and rose over even the anguished shrieking of the cook. "Shut

up, the lot of you! Bullard couldn't have committed the other crimes.

Any one of you is a better suspect. Stop snivelling, Bullard, this

isn't a lynching mob, and it isn't going to be one!"

"What about Grundy?" Walt Harris yelled.

Wilcox pushed forward. "Grundy couldn't have done it. He's the logical

suspect, but he was playing rummy with my men."

The two engine men nodded agreement, and we began filing back to the

mess hall, with the exception of Bullard, who shoved back into a

niche, trying to avoid us. Then, when we were almost out of his sight,

he let out a shriek and came blubbering after us.

I watched them put Hal Lomax's body through the 'tween-hulls lock, and

turned toward the engine room; I could use some of that wine, just as

the ship could have used a trained detective. But the idea of watching

helplessly while the engines purred along to remind me I was just a

handyman for the rest of my life got mixed up with the difficulty of

breathing the stale air, and I started to turn back. My head was

throbbing, and for two cents I'd have gone out between the hulls

beside Lomax and the others and let the foul air spread out there and

freeze....

The idea was slow coming. Then I was running back toward the engines.

I caught up with Wilcox just before he went into his own quarters.

"Wilcox!"

He swung around casually, saw it was me, and motioned inside. "How

about some Bartok, Paul? Or would you rather soothe your nerves with

some first-rate Buxtehude organ...."

"Damn the music," I told him. "I've got a wild idea to get rid of this

carbon dioxide, and I want to know if we can get it working with what

we've got."

He snapped to attention at that. Half-way through my account, he

fished around and found a bottle of Armagnac. "I get it. If we pipe

our air through the passages between the hulls on the shadow side, it

will lose its heat in a hurry. And we can regulate its final

temperature by how fast we pipe it through--just keep it moving enough

to reach the level where carbon dioxide freezes out, but the oxygen

stays a gas. Then pass it around the engines--we'll have to cut out

the normal cooling set-up, but that's okay--warm it up.... Sure, I've

got equipment enough for that. We can set it up in a day. Of course,

it won't give us any more oxygen, but we'll be able to breathe what we

have. To success, Paul!"

I guess it was good brandy, but I swallowed mine while calling Muller

down, and never got to taste it.

It's surprising how much easier the air got to breathe after we'd

double-checked the idea. In about fifteen minutes, we were all milling

around in the engine room, while Wilcox checked through equipment. But

there was no question about it. It was even easier than we'd thought.

We could simply bypass the cooling unit, letting the engine housings

stay open to the between-hulls section; then it was simply a matter of

cutting a small opening into that section at the other end of the ship

and installing a sliding section to regulate the amount of air flowing

in. The exhaust from the engine heat pumps was reversed, and run out

through a hole hastily knocked in the side of the wall.

Naturally, we let it flow too fast at first. Space is a vacuum, which

means it's a good insulator. We had to cut the air down to a trickle.

Then Wilcox ran into trouble because his engines wouldn't cool with

that amount of air. He went back to supervise a patched-up job of

splitting the coolers into sections, which took time. But after that,

we had it.

I went through the hatch with Muller and Pietro. With air there there

was no need to wear space suits, but it was so cold that we could take

it for only a minute or so. That was long enough to see a faint, fine

mist of dry ice snow falling. It was also long enough to catch a sight

of the three bodies there. I didn't enjoy that, and Pietro gasped.

Muller grimaced. When we came back, he sent Grundy in to move the

bodies to a hull-section where our breathing air wouldn't pass over

them. It wasn't necessary, of course. But somehow, it seemed

important.

By lunch, the air seemed normal. We shipped only pure oxygen at about

three pounds pressure, instead of loading it with a lot of useless

nitrogen. With the carbon dioxide cut back to normal levels, it was as

good as ever. The only difference was that the fans had to be set to

blow in a different pattern. We celebrated, and even Bullard seemed to

have perked up. He dug out pork chops and almost succeeded in making

us cornbread out of some coarse flour I saw him pouring out of the

food chopper. He had perked up enough to bewail the fact that all he

had was canned spinach instead of turnip greens.

But by night, the temper had changed--and the food indicated it again.

Bullard's cooking was turning into a barometer of the psychic

pressure. We'd had time to realize that we weren't getting something

for nothing. Every molecule of carbon-dioxide that crystallized out

took two atoms of oxygen with it, completely out of circulation.

* * * * *

We were also losing water-vapor, we found; normally, any one of our

group knew enough science to know that the water would fall out before

the carbon dioxide, but we hadn't thought of it. We took care of that,

however, by having Wilcox weld in a baffle and keep the section where

the water condensed separate from the carbon dioxide snowfall. We

could always shovel out the real ice, and meantime the ship's controls

restored the moisture to the air easily enough.

But there was nothing we could do about the oxygen. When that was

gone, it stayed gone. The plants still took care of about two-thirds

of our waste--but the other third was locked out there between the

hulls. Given plants enough, we could have thawed it and let them

reconvert it; a nice idea, except that we had to wait three months to

take care of it, if we lived that long.

Bullard's cooking began to get worse. Then suddenly, we got one good

meal. Eve Nolan came down the passage to announce that Bullard was

making cake, with frosting, canned huckleberry pie, and all the works.

We headed for the mess hall, fast.

It was the cook's masterpiece. Muller came down late, though, and

regarded it doubtfully. "There's something funny," he said as he

settled down beside me. Jenny had been surrounded by Napier and

Pietro. "Bullard came up babbling a few minutes ago. I don't like it.

Something about eating hearty, because he'd saved us all, forever and

ever. He told me the angels were on our side, because a beautiful

angel with two halos came to him in his sleep and told him how to save

us. I chased him back to the galley, but I don't like it."

Most of them had already eaten at least half of the food, but I saw

Muller wasn't touching his. The rest stopped now, as the words sank

in, and Napier looked shocked. "No!" he said, but his tone wasn't

positive. "He's a weakling, but I don't think he's insane--not enough

to poison us."

"There was that food poisoning before," Pietro said suddenly. "Paul,

come along. And don't eat anything until we come back."

We broke the record getting to the galley. There Bullard sat, beaming

happily, eating from a huge plate piled with the food he had cooked. I

checked on it quickly--and there wasn't anything he'd left out. He

looked up, and his grin widened foolishly.

"Hi, docs," he said. "Yes, sir, I knowed you'd be coming. It all came

to me in a dream. Looked just like my wife twenty years ago, she did,

with green and yellow halos. And she told it to me. Told me I'd been a

good man, and nothing was going to happen to me. Not to good old Emery

Bullard. Had it all figgered out."

He speared a big forkful of food and crammed it into his mouth,

munching noisily. "Had it all figgered. Pop-corn. Best damned pop-corn

you ever saw, kind they raise not fifty miles from where I was born.

You know, I didn't useta like you guys. But now I love everybody. When

we get to Saturn, I'm gonna make up for all the times I didn't give

you pop-corn. We'll pop and we'll pop. And beans, too. I useta hate

beans. Always beans on a ship. But now we're saved, and I love

beans!"

He stared after us, half coming out of his seat. "Hey, docs, ain't you

gonna let me tell you about it?"

"Later, Bullard," Pietro called back. "Something just came up. We want

to hear all about it."

* * * * *

Inside the mess hall, he shrugged. "He's eating the food himself. If

he's crazy, he's in a happy stage of it. I'm sure he isn't trying to

poison us." He sat down and began eating, without any hesitation.

I didn't feel as sure, and suspected he didn't. But it was too late to

back out. Together, we summarized what he'd told us, while Napier

puzzled over it. Finally the doctor shrugged. "Visions. Euphoria.

Disconnection with reality. Apparently something of a delusion that

he's to save the world. I'm not a psychiatrist, but it sounds like

insanity to me. Probably not dangerous. At least, while he wants to

save us, we won't have to worry about the food. Still...."

Wilcox mulled it over, and resumed the eating he had neglected before.

"Grundy claimed he'd been down near the engine room, trying to get

permission to pop something in the big pile. I thought Grundy was just

getting his stories mixed up. But--pop-corn!"

"I'll have him locked in his cabin," Muller decided. He picked up the

nearest handset, saw that it was to the galley, and switched quickly.

"Grundy, lock Bullard up. And no rough stuff this time." Then he

turned to Napier. "Dr. Napier, you'll have to see him and find out

what you can."

I guess there's a primitive fear of insanity in most of us. We felt

sick, beyond the nagging worry about the food. Napier got up at once.

"I'll give him a sedative. Maybe it's just nerves, and he'll snap out

of it after a good sleep. Anyhow, your mate can stand watching."

"Who can cook?" Muller asked. His eyes swung down the table toward

Jenny.

I wondered how she'd get out of that. Apparently she'd never told

Muller about the scars she still had from spilled grease, and how

she'd never forgiven her mother or been able to go near a kitchen

since. But I should have guessed. She could remember my stories, too.

Her eyes swung up toward mine pleadingly.

Eve Nolan stood up suddenly. "I'm not only a good cook, but I enjoy

it," she stated flatly, and there was disgust in the look she threw at

Jenny. She swung toward me. "How about it, Paul, can you wrestle the

big pots around for me?"

"I used to be a short order cook when I was finishing school," I told

her. But she'd ruined the line. The grateful look and laugh from Jenny

weren't needed now. And curiously, I felt grateful to Eve for it. I

got up and went after Napier.

I found him in Bullard's little cubbyhole of a cabin. He must have

chased Grundy off, and now he was just drawing a hypo out of the

cook's arm. "It'll take the pain away," he was saying softly. "And

I'll see that he doesn't hit you again. You'll be all right, now. And

in the morning, I'll come and listen to you. Just go to sleep. Maybe

she'll come back and tell you more."

He must have heard me, since he signalled me out with his hand, and

backed out quietly himself, still talking. He shut the door, and

clicked the lock.

Bullard heard it, though. He jerked to a sitting position, and

screamed. "_No!_ No! He'll kill me! I'm a good man...."

He hunched up on the bed, forcing the sheet into his mouth. When he

looked up a second later, his face was frozen in fear, but it was a

desperate, calm kind of fear. He turned to face us, and his voice

raised to a full shout, with every word as clear as he could make it.

"All right. Now I'll never tell you the secret. Now you can all die

without air. I promise I'll never tell you what I know!"

He fell back, beating at the sheet with his hand and sobbing

hysterically. Napier watched him. "Poor devil," the doctor said at

last. "Well, in another minute the shot will take effect. Maybe he's

lucky. He won't be worrying for awhile. And maybe he'll be rational

tomorrow."

"All the same, I'm going to stand guard until Muller gets someone else

here," I decided. I kept remembering Lomax.

Napier nodded, and half an hour later Bill Sanderson came to take over

the watch. Bullard was sleeping soundly.

The next day, though, he woke up to start moaning and writhing again.

But he was keeping his word. He refused to answer any questions.

Napier looked worried as he reported he'd given the cook another shot

of sedative. There was nothing else he could do.

Cooking was a relief, in a way. By the time Eve and I had scrubbed all

the pots into what she considered proper order, located some of the

food lockers, and prepared and served a couple of meals, we'd evolved

a smooth system that settled into a routine with just enough work to

help keep our minds off the dwindling air in the tanks. In anything

like a kitchen, she lost most of her mannish pose and turned into a

live, efficient woman. And she could cook.

"First thing I learned," she told me. "I grew up in a kitchen. I guess

I'd never have turned to photography if my kid brother hadn't been

using our sink for his darkroom."

Wilcox brought her a bottle of his wine to celebrate her first dinner.

He seemed to want to stick around, but she chased him off after the

first drink. We saved half the bottle to make a sauce the next day.

It never got made. Muller called a council of war, and his face was

pinched and old. He was leaning on Jenny as Eve and I came into the

mess hall; oddly, she seemed to be trying to buck him up. He got down

to the facts as soon as all of us were together.

"Our oxygen tanks are empty," he announced. "They shouldn't be--but

they are. Someone must have sabotaged them before the plants were

poisoned--and done it so the dials don't show it. I just found it out

when the automatic switch to a new tank failed to work. We now have

the air in the ship, and no more. Dr. Napier and I have figured that

this will keep us all alive with the help of the plants for no more

than fifteen days. I am open to any suggestions!"

* * * * *

There was silence after that, while it soaked in. Then it was broken

by a thin scream from Phil Riggs. He slumped into a seat and buried

his head in his hands. Pietro put a hand on the man's thin shoulders,

"Captain Muller--"

"Kill 'em!" It was Grundy's voice, bellowing sharply. "Let'em breathe

space! They got us into it! We can make out with the plants left! It's

our ship!"

Muller had walked forward. Now his fist lashed out, and Grundy

crumpled. He lay still for a second, then got to his feet unsteadily.

Jenny screamed, but Muller moved steadily back to his former place

without looking at the mate. Grundy hesitated, fumbled in his pocket

for something, and swallowed it.

"Captain, sir!" His voice was lower this time.

"Yes, Mr. Grundy?"

"How many of us can live off the plants?"

"Ten--perhaps eleven."

"Then--then give us a lottery!"

Pietro managed to break in over the yells of the rest of the crew. "I

was about to suggest calling for volunteers, Captain Muller. I still

have enough faith in humanity to believe...."

"You're a fool, Dr. Pietro," Muller said flatly. "Do you think Grundy

would volunteer? Or Bullard? But thanks for clearing the air, and

admitting your group has nothing more to offer. A lottery seems to be

the only fair system."

He sat down heavily. "We have tradition on this; in an emergency such

as this, death lotteries have been held, and have been considered

legal afterwards. Are there any protests?"

I could feel my tongue thicken in my mouth. I could see the others

stare about, hoping someone would object, wondering if this could be

happening. But nobody answered, and Muller nodded reluctantly. "A

working force must be left. Some men are indispensable. We must have

an engineer, a navigator, and a doctor. One man skilled with

engine-room practice and one with deck work must remain."

"And the cook goes," Grundy yelled. His eyes were intent and slitted

again.

Some of both groups nodded, but Muller brought his fist down on the

table. "This will be a legal lottery, Mr. Grundy. Dr. Napier will draw

for him."

"And for myself," Napier said. "It's obvious that ten men aren't going

on to Saturn--you'll have to turn back, or head for Jupiter. Jupiter,

in fact, is the only sensible answer. And a ship can get along without

a doctor that long when it has to. I demand my right to the draw."

Muller only shrugged and laid down the rules. They were simple enough.

He would cut drinking straws to various lengths, and each would draw

one. The two deck hands would compare theirs, and the longer would be

automatically safe. The same for the pair from the engine-room. Wilcox

was safe. "Mr. Peters and I will also have one of us eliminated," he

added quietly. "In an emergency, our abilities are sufficiently

alike."

The remaining group would have their straws measured, and the seven

shortest ones would be chosen to remove themselves into a vacant

section between hulls without air within three hours, or be forcibly

placed there. The remaining ten would head for Jupiter if no miracle

removed the danger in those three hours.

Peters got the straws, and Muller cut them and shuffled them. There

was a sick silence that let us hear the sounds of the scissors with

each snip. Muller arranged them so the visible ends were even. "Ladies

first," he said. There was no expression on his face or in his voice.

Jenny didn't giggle, but neither did she balk. She picked a straw, and

then shrieked faintly. It was obviously a long one. Eve reached for

hers--

And Wilcox yelled suddenly. "Captain Muller, protest! Protest! You're

using all long straws for the women!" He had jumped forward, and now

struck down Muller's hand, proving his point.

"You're quite right, Mr. Wilcox," Muller said woodenly. He dropped his

hand toward his lap and came up with a group of the straws that had

been cut, placed there somehow without our seeing it. He'd done a

smooth job of it, but not smooth enough. "I felt some of you would

notice it, but I also felt that gentlemen would prefer to see ladies

given the usual courtesies."

He reshuffled the assorted straws, and then paused. "Mr. Tremaine,

there was a luxury liner named the _Lauri Ellu_ with an assistant

engineer by your name; and I believe you've shown a surprising

familiarity with certain customs of space. A few days ago, Jenny

mentioned something that jogged my memory. Can you still perform the

duties of an engineer?"

Wilcox had started to protest at the delay. Now shock ran through him.

He stared unbelievingly from Muller to me and back, while his face

blanched. I could guess what it must have felt like to see certain

safety cut to a 50 per cent chance, and I didn't like the way Muller

was willing to forget until he wanted to take a crack at Wilcox for

punishment. But....

"I can," I answered. And then, because I was sick inside myself for

cutting under Wilcox, I managed to add, "But I--I waive my chance at

immunity!"

"Not accepted," Muller decided. "Jenny, will you draw?"

It was pretty horrible. It was worse when the pairs compared straws.

The animal feelings were out in the open then. Finally, Muller,

Wilcox, and two crewmen dropped out. The rest of us went up to measure

our straws.

It took no more than a minute. I stood staring down at the ruler,

trying to stretch the tiny thing I'd drawn. I could smell the sweat

rising from my body. But I knew the answer. I had three hours left!

* * * * *

"Riggs, Oliver, Nolan, Harris, Tremaine, Napier and Grundy," Muller

announced.

A yell came from Grundy. He stood up, with the engine man named

Oliver, and there was a gun in his hand. "No damned big brain's

kicking me off my ship," he yelled. "You guys know me. Hey,

_roooob_!"

Oliver was with him, and the other three of the crew sprang into the

group. I saw Muller duck a shot from Grundy's gun, and leap out of the

room. Then I was in it, heading for Grundy. Beside me, Peters was

trying to get a chair broken into pieces. I felt something hit my

shoulder, and the shock knocked me downward, just as a shot whistled

over my head.

Gravity cut off!

Someone bounced off me. I got a piece of the chair that floated by,

found the end cracked and sharp, and tried to spin towards Grundy, but

I couldn't see him. I heard Eve's voice yell over the other shouts. I

spotted the plate coming for me, but I was still in midair. It came on

steadily, edge on, and I felt it break against my forehead. Then I

blacked out.

V

I had the grandaddy of all headaches when I came to. Doc Napier's face

was over me, and Jenny and Muller were working on Bill Sanderson.

There was a surprisingly small and painful lump on my head. Pietro and

Napier helped me up, and I found I could stand after a minute.

There were four bodies covered with sheets on the floor. "Grundy, Phil

Riggs, Peters and a deckhand named Storm," Napier said. "Muller gave

us a whiff of gas and not quite in time."

"Is the time up?" I asked. It was the only thing I could think of.

Pietro shook his head sickly. "Lottery is off. Muller says we'll have

to hold another, since Storm and Peters were supposed to be safe. But

not until tomorrow."

Eve came in then, lugging coffee. Her eyes found me, and she managed a

brief smile. "I gave the others coffee," she reported to Muller.

"They're pretty subdued now."

"Mutiny!" Muller helped Jenny's brother to his feet and began helping

him toward the door. "Mutiny! And I have to swallow that!"

Pietro watched him go, and handed Eve back his cup. "And there's no

way of knowing who was on which side. Dr. Napier, could you do

something...."

He held out his hands that were shaking, and Napier nodded. "I can use

a sedative myself. Come on back with me."

Eve and I wandered back to the kitchen. I was just getting my senses

back. The damned stupidity of it all. And now it would have to be

done over. Three of us still had to have our lives snuffed out so the

others could live--and we all had to go through hell again to find out

which.

Eve must have been thinking the same. She sank down on a little stool,

and her hand came out to find mine. "For what? Paul, whoever poisoned

the plants knew it would go this far! He had to! What's to be gained?

Particularly when he'd have to go through all this, too! He must have

been crazy!"

"Bullard couldn't have done it," I said slowly.

"Why should it be Bullard? How do we know he was insane? Maybe when he

was shouting that he wouldn't tell, he was trying to make a bribe to

save his own life. Maybe he's as scared as we are. Maybe he was making

sense all along, if we'd only listened to him. He--"

She stood up and started back toward the lockers, but I caught her

hand. "Eve, he wouldn't have done it--the killer--if he'd had to go

through the lottery! He knew he was safe! That's the one thing we've

been overlooking. The man to suspect is the only man who could be sure

he would get back! My God, we saw him juggle those straws to save

Jenny! He knew he'd control the lottery."

She frowned. "But ... Paul, he practically suggested the lottery!

Grundy brought it up, but he was all ready for it." The frown

vanished, then returned. "But I still can't believe it."

"He's the one who wanted to go back all the time. He kept insisting on

it, but he had to get back without violating his contract." I grabbed

her hand and started toward the nose of the ship, justifying it to her

as I went. "The only man with a known motive for returning, the only

one completely safe--and we didn't even think of it!"

She was still frowning, but I wasn't wasting time. We came up the

corridor to the control room. Ahead the door was slightly open, and I

could hear a mutter of Jenny's voice. Then there was the tired rumble

of Muller.

"I'll find a way, baby. I don't care how close they watch, we'll make

it work. Pick the straw with the crimp in the end--I can do that, even

if I can't push one out further again. I tell you, nothing's going to

happen to you."

"But Bill--" she began.

I hit the door, slamming it open. Muller sat on a narrow couch with

Jenny on his lap. I took off for him, not wasting a good chance when

he was handicapped. But I hadn't counted on Jenny. She was up, and

her head banged into my stomach before I knew she was coming. I felt

the wind knocked out, but I got her out of my way--to look up into the

muzzle of a gun in Muller's hands.

"You'll explain this, Mr. Tremaine," he said coldly. "In ten seconds,

I'll have an explanation or a corpse."

"Go ahead," I told him. "Shoot, damn you! You'll get away with this,

too, I suppose. Mutiny, or something. And down in that rotten soul of

yours, I suppose you'll be gloating at how you made fools of us. The

only man on board who was safe even from a lottery, and we couldn't

see it. Jenny, I hope you'll be happy with this butcher. Very happy!"

He never blinked. "Say that about the only safe man aboard again," he

suggested.

I repeated it, with details. But he didn't like my account. He turned

to Eve, and motioned for her to take it up. She was frowning harder,

and her voice was uncertain, but she summed up our reasons quickly

enough.

And suddenly Muller was on his feet. "Mr. Tremaine, for a damned

idiot, you have a good brain. You found the key to the problem, even

if you couldn't find the lock. Do you know what happens to a captain

who permits a death lottery, even what I called a legal one? He

doesn't captain a liner--he shoots himself after he delivers his ship,

if he's wise! Come on, we'll find the one indispensable man. You stay

here, Jenny--you too, Eve!"

Jenny whimpered, but stayed. Eve followed, and he made no comment. And

then it hit me. The man who had _thought_ he was indispensable, and

hence safe--the man I'd naturally known in the back of my head could

be replaced, though no one else had known it until a little while ago.

"He must have been sick when you ran me in as a ringer," I said, as we

walked down toward the engine hatch. "But why?"

"I've just had a wild guess as to part of it," Muller said.

* * * * *

Wilcox was listening to the Buxtehude when we shoved the door of his

room open, and he had his head back and eyes closed. He snapped to

attention, and reached out with one hand toward a drawer beside him.

Then he dropped his arm and stood up, to cut off the tape player.

"Mr. Wilcox," Muller said quietly, holding the gun firmly on the

engineer. "Mr. Wilcox, I've detected evidence of some of the Venus

drugs on your two assistants for some time. It's rather hard to miss

the signs in their eyes. I've also known that Mr. Grundy was an

addict. I assumed that they were getting it from him naturally. And as

long as they performed their duties, I couldn't be choosy on an old

ship like this. But for an officer to furnish such drugs--and to

smuggle them from Venus for sale to other planets--is something I

cannot tolerate. It will make things much simpler if you will

surrender those drugs to me. I presume you keep them in those bottles

of wine you bring aboard?"

Wilcox shook his head slowly, settling back against the tape machine.

Then he shrugged and bowed faintly. "The chianti, sir!"

I turned my head toward the bottles, and Eve started forward. Then I

yelled as Wilcox shoved his hand down toward the tape machine. The gun

came out on a spring as he touched it.

Muller shot once, and the gun missed Wilcox's fingers as the

engineer's hand went to his hip, where blood was flowing. He collapsed

into the chair behind him, staring at the spot stupidly. "I cut my

teeth on _tough_ ships, Mr. Wilcox," Muller said savagely.

The man's face was white, but he nodded slowly, and a weak grin came

onto his lips. "Maybe you didn't exaggerate those stories at that," he

conceded slowly. "I take it I drew a short straw."

"Very short. It wasn't worth it. No profit from the piddling sale of

drugs is worth it."

"There's a group of strings inside the number one fuel locker," Wilcox

said between his teeth. The numbness was wearing off, and the

shattered bones in his hip were beginning to eat at him. "Paul, pull

up one of the packages and bring it here, will you?"

I found it without much trouble--along with a whole row of others,

fine cords cemented to the side of the locker. The package I drew up

weighed about ten pounds. Wilcox opened it and scooped out a

thimbleful of greenish powder. He washed it down with wine.

"Fatal?" Muller asked.

The man nodded. "In that dosage, after a couple of hours. But it cuts

out the pain--ah, better already. I won't feel it. Captain, I was

never piddling. Your ship has been the sole source of this drug to

Mars since a year or so after I first shipped on her. There are about

seven hundred pounds of pure stuff out there. Grundy and the others

would commit public murder daily rather than lose the few ounces a

year I gave them. Imagine what would happen when Pietro conscripted

the _Wahoo_ and no drugs arrived. The addicts find out no more is

coming--they look for the peddlers--and _they_ start looking for their

suppliers...."

He shrugged. "There might have been time and ways, if I could have

gotten the ship back to Earth or Jupiter. It might have been

recommissioned into the Earth-Mars-Venus run, even. Pietro's

injunction caught me before I could transship, but with another

chance, I might have gotten the stuff to Mars in time.... Well, it was

a chance I took. Satisfied?"

* * * * *

Eve stared at him with horrified eyes. Maybe I was looking the same.

It was plain enough now. He'd planned to poison the plants and drive

us back. Murder of Hendrix had been a blunder when he'd thought it

wasn't working properly. "What about Sam?" I asked.

"Blackmail. He was too smart. He'd been sure Grundy was smuggling the

stuff, and raking off from him. He didn't care who killed Hendrix as

much as how much Grundy would pay to keep his mouth shut--with murder

around, he figured Grundy'd get rattled. The fool did, and Sam smelled

bigger stakes. Grundy was bait to get him down near here. I killed

him."

"And Lomax?"

"I don't know. Maybe he was bluffing. But he kept going from room to

room with a pocketful of chemicals, making some kind of tests. I

couldn't take a chance on his being able to spot chromazone. So I had

Grundy give him my keys and tell him to go ahead--then jump him."

And after that, when he wasn't quite killed, they'd been forced to

finish the job. Wilcox shrugged again. "I guess it got out of hand.

I'll make a tape of the whole story for you, Captain. But I'd

appreciate it if you'd get Napier down here. This is getting pretty

messy."

"He's on the way," Eve said. We hadn't seen her call, but the doctor

arrived almost immediately afterwards.

He sniffed the drug, and questioned us about the dose Wilcox had

taken. Then he nodded slowly. "About two hours, I'd say. No chance at

all to save him. The stuff is absorbed almost at once and begins

changing to something else in the blood. I'll be responsible, if you

want."

Muller shrugged. "I suppose so. I'd rather deliver him in irons to a

jury, but.... Well, we still have a lottery to hold!"

It jerked us back to reality sharply. Somehow, I'd been fighting off

the facts, figuring that finding the cause would end the results. But

even with Wilcox out of the picture, there were twelve of us left--and

air for only ten!

Wilcox laughed abruptly. "A favor for a favor. I can give you a better

answer than a lottery."

"Pop-corn! Bullard!" Eve slapped her head with her palm. "Captain,

give me the master key." She snatched it out of his hand and was gone

at a run.

Wilcox looked disappointed, and then grinned. "Pop-corn and beans. I

overlooked them myself. We're a bunch of city hicks. But when Bullard

forgot his fears in his sleep, he remembered the answer--and got it so

messed up with his dream and his new place as a hero that my complaint

tipped the balance. Grundy put the fear of his God into him then. And

you didn't get it. Captain, you don't dehydrate beans and

pop-corn--they come that way naturally. You don't can them, either, if

you're saving weight. They're seeds--put them in tanks and they grow!"

He leaned back, trying to laugh at us, as Napier finished dressing his

wound. "Bullard knows where the lockers are. And corn grows pretty

fast. It'll carry you through. Do I get that favor? It's simple

enough--just to have Beethoven's Ninth on the machine and for the

whole damned lot of you to get out of my cabin and let me die in my

own way!"

Muller shrugged, but Napier found the tape and put it on. I wanted to

see the louse punished for every second of worry, for Lomax, for

Hendrix--even for Grundy. But there wasn't much use in vengeance at

this point.

"You're to get all this, Paul," Wilcox said as we got ready to leave.

"Captain Muller, everything here goes to Tremaine. I'll make a tape on

that, too. But I want it to go to a man who can appreciate Hohmann's

conducting."

Muller closed the door. "I guess it's yours," he admitted. "Now that

you're head engineer here, Mr. Tremaine, the cabin is automatically

yours. Take over. And get that junk in the fuel locker cleaned

out--except enough to keep your helpers going. They'll need it, and

we'll need their work."

"I'll clean out his stuff at the same time," I said. "I don't want any

part of it."

He smiled then, just as Eve came down with Bullard and Pietro. The fat

cook was sobered, but already beginning to fill with his own

importance. I caught snatches as they began to discuss Bullard's

knowledge of growing things. It was enough to know that we'd all

live, though it might be tough for a while.

Then Muller gestured upwards. "You've got a reduced staff, Dr. Pietro.

Do you intend going on to Saturn?"

"We'll go on," Pietro decided. And Muller nodded. They turned and

headed upwards.

I stood staring at my engines. One of them was a touch out of phase

and I went over and corrected it. They'd be mine for over two

years--and after that, I'd be back on the lists.

Eve came over beside me, and studied them with me. Finally she sighed

softly. "I guess I can see why you feel that way about them, Paul,"

she said. "And I'll be coming down to look at them. But right now,

Bullard's too busy to cook, and everyone's going to be hungry when

they find we're saved."

I chuckled, and felt the relief wash over me finally. I dropped my

hand from the control and caught hers--a nice, friendly hand.

But at the entrance I stopped and looked back toward the cabin where

Wilcox lay. I could just make out the second movement of the Ninth

beginning.