The Martian night was clear and cold. Its thin air was sweetly welcome
to Chip's nostrils. When they gained the street outside, Salvation
spoke to him suddenly. "Where is your ship, my son?"
"Ship, sir?" queried Warren. "But why--?"
"Don't waste time!" snapped the old man. "We're in grave danger. Blaze
Amborg is a man of violence. In a few minutes he'll figure out what
happened to the ekalastron and be out looking for us."
Chip stared at him. "The ekalastron? But what _did_ happen to it? It
disappeared--"
"Into," grunted Salvation, "my pocket! While I was arranging Jenkins'
clothing. 'He who taketh in the cause of righteousness hath done the
will of the Lord!' Amborg is an evil, wilful man. He would have used
the ekalastron for his own wicked purposes. In our hands, all mankind
shall profit of its beneficence. But, come! Where?"
"C-churchill Field," stammered Chip. "Dock 31, Bin A. T-this way,
Padre."
They moved at quickened stride through the darkened streets. As they
neared the cradles wherein lay the vessels of a thousand diverse ports,
Salvation questioned Chip still further.
"What type of ship is it, lad?"
"Not a very new one, sir. A Challenger 7-jet, four berth explorer. But
in good shape. My friend and I managed to get it cheap, reconditioned
it--"
"Then you have a companion?"
"Yes, Padre. Syd Palmer. He's waiting aboard. We had planned to lift
gravs tomorrow for a prospecting tour of the planetoids. I visited the
Cosmobar because I thought I might run into some old space-dodger who
would give me a tip on a lode-rock--"
"And you ran into," said the missionary, "something which may turn out
to be the greatest discovery ever made by man. Murder ... thievery ...
wealth ... is this the ship?"
They had stopped before one of the smaller cradles. Chip pressed a
signal button, a buzzer responded, there came from within the familiar
wheeze of an air-lock generator.
"This is it, sir. Please step in. 'Lo, Syd. This is Doctor--Mister--"
"Call me 'Salvation'," said the old man. "I'm used to it. Palmer, I
take it you're the chief engineer of this jaloppy?"
Syd Palmer was short and chubby; his hair was a tow colored bristle
that stood up like a cock's-comb when he was excited or annoyed. It
stood up now, and his pale blue eyes danced with tiny, indignant sparks.
"I'm the engineer of this _ship_!"
"Call it what you will," grunted Salvation. "Is it fast?"
Palmer grinned. "Puh-lenty! I've hepped the hypos to super-max. The
_Chickadee_ can outrun anything its size in space, and a lot of bigger
ones, besides!"
"Good! And have you got clearance papers?"
"Why, yes, but--"
"Excellent: 'Verily, He taketh care of His own nor faileth them in time
of need.'" Salvation nodded to Warren. "We'll lift gravs," he said,
"immediately!"
Palmer stared at him, then at his companion.
"What is this, Chip? Old boy off his jets?"
"Far from it," said Chip seriously. "Can't explain everything now, Syd;
time's too short. But you like a good, old-fashioned fight, don't you?"
"Fight? Sa-a-ay, now--"
"Then warm the hypos," ordered Chip, "while I plot a course. We're
lifting gravs immediately--for Titania."
* * * * *
During the long days that followed, there was time and to spare
in which to clarify the situation to Syd. When he heard of Chip's
adventure at the Cosmobar, his pale eyes gleamed and fists less chubby
than they appeared tightened at his sides. "Wish I'd been there--" he
muttered. Salvation glared at him and snorted, "'Verily they are fools
who do not rejoice that they have escaped woe!'"