The chart room door, here beside us, which opened onto the
superstructure roof, was closed. But the small oval window beside it,
also facing sternward, was open. I dashed to it. The dim roof deck
seemed empty. I noticed a light in Len Smith's helio cubby.
I drew down the metal shade of our window. Whirled back. The astonished
young Wilson stared at me in numbed amazement. "They're coming into the
open," I murmured. "Look here, Captain, we've got to plan--"
"Why--why, good Lord--I thought we were guarding against a plot on the
Moon--"
"Well, we're not. It's here--now--" I told him what Nina had said; five
of the crew. The new men, placed here on board. And how many of the
officers might be in it--
"Why--why good Lord--" Mackensie was completely stricken. For an
instant that floored me. I saw him now as a Captain of the old
school--bluff, roaring; the sort of fellow who on a surface vessel
would deal grimly and ruthlessly with mutineers. But he was frightened
now; frightened and confused.
"Why--why Penelle--you mean to think that here on my ship--"
"Ready to strike--now," I murmured. I told him about the burned place
on the helio room door. He could only stare, numbed. And now the murder
of Bentley--the first tangible attack our adversaries had made. Who
were they? Five of the crew--that would include the hunchback Durk ...
Mokk, the Martian? Ollog Torio, the pallid Venus man? Some of the other
passengers maybe? And of the ship's officers, whom could we trust?
"Why--why all of them, by God," Mackensie murmured, as I voiced it. "I
wouldn't have traitors on my staff--"
But this treasure of the T-catalyst--it might be worth a million
decimars to the Venus revolutionists. And money can buy men--even men
who have long been in honest service. The Second Officer--fat, jolly
little Peter Green--he perhaps could be trusted. James Polter, the
Purser? Of him I could not guess. Dr. Fyre, the Surgeon? Even with a
plugged, counterfeit thousandth part of a decimar, I wouldn't take my
eyes off him.
* * * * *
The handsome young giant, Wilson, stood gazing at us now in blank
horror. He was hardly more than a boy. Quite evidently he knew
completely nothing of what was going on.
"But what are we going to do?" Mackensie was stammering. Then he
spluttered, "By the God's I won't have this sort of thing on my ship.
I'll muster them all up here--find out who this damned murderer is--"
I seized him. "Easy Captain." Then I bent closer to him. "Captain
Mackensie--things I don't understand yet about this. That big box in
Miss Blake's room--" And on impulse I whispered: "Someone was climbing
out her window a while ago. She called him Jim. She's in terror of him.
Captain, see here, you've got to tell me everything about this."
For an instant, his spluttering ineptitude left him. "I can't," he
murmured. "That--that isn't mine to tell. Don't ask it, Penelle." Then
he swung back to his own troubles. "What do you think we ought to do?
By heaven--I'll turn back to Earth. Turn the whole damn ship's company
over to the authorities."
We were now some forty thousand miles from Earth--just about a sixth of
the way to the Moon.
"And have them see us swing?" I murmured. "Wouldn't that precipitate
whatever it is they're planning to do?"
Three of us here, in the control turret and chart room--and except for
Nina, down there alone in her cabin, so far as I really knew, everyone
else on the ship might be against us. Swiftly I questioned Mackensie.
The _X-87_ was not equipped with any long-range guns, and very few
side arms. What there were, we had now with us here in the chart room.
Mackensie gestured to the little arsenal-locker, here in one of the
walls beside us.
"Are the crew members allowed to be armed?" I demanded.
"Good Heavens, no!"
"But they will be," young Wilson put in. "Mutineers will be armed--"
There was no argument on that. And each of the officers normally
carried one small heat gun. Here in the chart room we had perhaps a
half dozen of the heat ray projectors; a few old-fashioned weapons of
explosion; powder rifles and automatic revolvers; a small collection of
miscellaneous glass bombs--loaded with gas; darkness bombs; a few of
the "fainting bombs," as they are popularly called--detonators, with
tiny shrapnel impregnated with acetylcholine, which, when introduced
into the blood stream by a fragment of shrapnel, instantly lowers
the blood pressure so that the victim faints but is not otherwise
damaged. And we had two or three small hand projectors of the Benson
curve-light, with a device by which we could project the heat ray in a
curve as well.
"Well, if I don't turn back, then I'll helio my owners for
instructions," Mackensie was saying.
It sounded futile. What could financiers back at their desks in
Great-New York have to do with us, embattled out here in Space,
barricaded in our little chart room?
"Send a helio for the Interplanetary Patrol," I suggested. "A call for
help. If we could contact one of the roving police vessels--"
"Not a one in telescopic sight," Mackensie murmured. "I had a routine
report on that a few hours ago."
"Well, we might as well try anyway." Would the pirates be aware of our
efforts? Would it bring an attack from them? My only idea was to stall
the situation here, whatever it might be. That, and summon help. Then
I had another thought: young Len Smith, the helio man--could he be
trusted?
"Why--I suppose so," Mackensie stammered. And then he jerked himself
out of his terror; his huge hamlike fist banged down on the chart room
table, making his calipers and compasses jump. "Damnation, I'll find
out quick enough which of my men are loyal. We'll fight this thing
through. Penelle, you go tell Smith to get off a distress call. Blast
the ether with it--call Interplanetary police. Tell Smith to keep at
it till he raises one. You stay with him and see, by God, that he does
it. You, Wilson, open up that cupboard--get out the weapons. I'll have
my damned officers up here."
* * * * *
As I started for the door I gripped him, whispered: "Captain--where
have you got the T-catalyst hidden?"
It startled him. For a second I saw that he was wondering if he could
even trust me with the knowledge. Then he gestured. "Over there," he
murmured with his lips against my ear. "Little safe hidden in that
wall-panel. You press a spring at the left molding. The catalyst is in
a small lead cylinder--Gamma-ray insulated."