"All right? It was terrific! I haven't had such a feed since I was a
kid."
He looked relieved. "I'm glad. Because, you see, that was the first
meal I ever cooked."
"It was the first--_what!_"
"Mmm-hmm! But there were lots of cook books here in the galley. And
I figured so long as I had to do it, I might as well do it right--"
He grinned at me shyly. Once in a while I wondered, briefly, whether
any of us understood this strange, lanky genius, Lancelot Biggs. This
was one of the times. "I--I found it rather interesting, Sparks, to
tell you the truth. It is, just as I told Cap Hanson, just a matter of
elementary chemistry. The pots and pans are the test-tubes; the stove
is a huge Bunsen burner."
I said admiringly, "I'll hand you one thing, Mr. Biggs. You believe in
sticking to theories, don't you?"
"But of course. 'Get the theory first'; that's the big secret of
success in any undertaking." He looked pleased and a little excited,
too. "We're going to have a good trip home, Sparks. There's plenty of
food here to experiment with. And in the holds--"
It was just then that I caught my number being buzzed on the
intercommunicating audio. I cut through and yelled, "Sparks speaking.
What's up?"
"Sparks?" It was my relief man calling from the radio room. "You'd
better come up here on the double. A message from Sun City, and I think
it's bad news."
"Right with you," I hollered. I snapped a brief "See you later!" to
Biggs and raced up the Jacob's ladder to the turret. My relief man was
there, also Cap Hanson and the second-in-command, Lt. Todd. All three
of them looked a bit grim and a bit glum and quite a bit apprehensive.
My relief shoved a wire flimsy into my hand. It was a cipher message
from Sun City spaceport. I knew the code as well as I know English and
Universal, so I read it aloud.
"HANSON COMMANDER IPS SATURN EN ROUTE VENUS-EARTH. TURN BACK
IMMEDIATELY FOR CONVOY. PIRATE HAKE REPORTED ON COORDINATES THREE
FIFTEEN PLUS NINE OH NINE YOUR TRAJECTORY." It was signed, "Allonby,
Comm. S.S.C.B."
I stared at Cap Hanson, wondering if my face were as queasy as my tummy
felt. I said, "Hake! Runt Hake!"
Hanson said, "Yes, but that's not the worst of it, Sparks. Tell him,
Mr. Todd."
Todd wet his lips and faltered, "We--we're in a serious spot, Sparks.
We accelerated to max twenty minutes ago and cut motors for the free
run. And since we had--or thought we had--almost nine days of idleness,
I told Chief Engineer Garrity he could take down that number. Three
hypatomic that's been missing."
That still didn't make sense. I said, "So he took it down? So what? He
can put it together again, can't he?"
"No. He found the casing worn, melted it down for a recast. We--we
can't recase it for at least two days!"
* * * * *
For the sake of you Earthlubbers who don't get the lingo, let me say it
in words of one syllable. We were in a hell of a jam! The hypatomics
are the motors that operate spacecraft. In this case, one of them had
shown signs of weakness. With the ship "free wheeling," so to speak,
in space, the engineers had taken down the faulty motor, discovered it
needed remoulding, and had melted down the casing. As Todd had said, it
would take at least two days--probably more--to recast the moulding,
put the hyp together again, so we could blast.
But the worst of if was--Hake! Runt Hake. There are pirates and pirates
in the wide transverses between the planets. Some of them are good
guys, that is, if an outlaw can ever be considered a "good guy." Like
Lark O'Day, for instance, that gay, smiling bandit who always gave
lugger captains a signed receipt for the cargoes he stole, and who had
once let a tramp freighter go through untouched because the Captain
acknowledged his life savings were wrapped up in the cargo. Who had
once stopped a passenger superliner for the express purpose of stealing
a single kiss from its charming passenger, the newly crowned "Miss
Universe."
But others were skunks and dogs and--well, think of the nastiest things
you can think of. Then multiply by ten, add infinity, and you have Runt
Hake.
Runt Hake was a killer. A throwback to the rotten old days when men's
first thoughts were of death and, war and violence. He was a pirate
not so much because of the value of the cargoes he lifted as because
he liked to do battle. And he had a sadistic strain in him somewhere.
His idea of good clean fun was to board a freighter--like the
_Saturn_--unload the cargo at his convenience, then blast a slow leak
through the outer hull.
After--I might mention--having first removed all lifeskiffs and bulgers
from the ill-fated victim. Once, in the asteroid Sargossa, I saw a ship
that had been scuttled by Runt Hake's cutthroat crew. Its crew still
remained with the ship. But not as recognizable human beings. As raw
and frozen clots of pressured flesh.
Oh, a swell guy, this Runt Hake. And now we, disabled and helpless,
were drifting right into the trajectory where he awaited us.
Cap Hanson said grimly, "There's nothin' much that we can do about it,
of course. We've got one six millimeter rotor-gun for'rd. We'll give
him that."
"And get ourselves blown to atoms," interjected Todd, "with his
pierce-guns. No, Skipper, that's no good. But how about the Ampie? If
we set out our Ampie, maybe--"
An "Ampie" is that strange, energy-devouring beast from Venus whose
inordinate appetite for electrical power forms a shield for spaceships
penetrating the Heaviside layers of the various planets. It wasn't
altogether a bad idea. But Hanson shook his head.
"No. It wouldn't work. An Ampie couldn't take a heat ray. There's
only one thing to do. Send word for the convoy to come on the
double-quick--and hope it reaches us before we run into Hake."
That was my cue. I shoved the relief man to hell off the bench and got
the wobble-bug going. And, mister, I filled the ether with SOS's--and
added a couple of PDQ's for good measure. I picked up an acknowledgment
from Sun City, and threw them a hasty explanation. They wired back that
the convoy cruiser would make all haste, and to not be frightened....
Ha! Can I help it if my knees chatter?
* * * * *
There was one thing you could absolutely depend on Lancelot Biggs to
do. And that was--stick his nose in at the wrong minute. For as we
three were giving the sob-towel the good old go-over, the door popped
open and who gangled in but Mr. Slops, First-Mate-and-Bottle-Washer!
His face, in contrast to ours, was radiant with joy and delight. He had
a grin on his phizz that stretched from here to there and back again.
He chortled, "Hey, Cap--"
"Go 'way!" mourned Cap Hanson. "I'm thinking."
"But, look!" Biggs opened one hamlike paw. And there was a wee, gray
ship-mouse. He placed it on the floor before him. "Look what I found in
the No. 4 Bin. It acts so darned funny--"
"Go 'way!" repeated the skipper, still gloomily. "If you make me lose
my temper--"
Biggs said, "But he _does_ act funny--" And to tell you the truth, the
little mouse did. Usually, you know, a mouse is the scaredyest thing
alive. Put him down in a place like this, surrounded by giant humans,
and he'll run like mad to the darkest corner.
But this little twerp didn't run. Matter of fact, he deliberately moved
to the man nearest him, Todd, that was, and began to nuzzle himself
against Todd's shoe! Just as if the Lieutenant were an old and loved
acquaintance! Mr. Biggs chuckled again.
"See that? Do you know what makes him act that way, Skipper? I'll tell
you. It's the prol--"
"_Mister Biggs!_" The Old Man's face was fiery red with rage. "This is
no time for nonsense. Within hours, or perhaps minutes, we may all be
dead! Now, for the last time, get out of here!"
Biggs, sort of stunned, said, "Y-yes, sir!" He retrieved his
curiously-acting little pet from where it rubbed its soft muzzle
against Todd's shoelaces, put it in his pocket, and backed out the
doorway. As he went he tossed me a beseeching wigwag. I nodded; then
when no one was paying me any neverminds, joined him in the runway
outside.
"What's the matter, Sparks?" he demanded.
I gave it to him, both barrels. He had a right to know. Every man has
a right to know when it's bye-bye time. "But don't tell the crew," I
warned. "The Old Man'll do that if he thinks best."
Biggs' eyes were huge and round. "Runt Hake! Gee, no wonder the Skipper
was cross." He plunged into one of his characteristic silences. Then,
suddenly, "Hey!"
"Hey, what?"
"They say Hake is a show-off. Likes to crack the whip on captured
ships, ordering up big meals and so on before he scuttles it--"
"Well?" I said. "You think you're going to poison him, maybe? Don't be
a dope. He'll make you swallow a pussfull of everything you serve him."
"Never mind. I'm not sure my idea is any good--yet! But have you got a
book on physiochemistry?"
"In my office."
"Swell. Get it for me, will you? I'll explain later."
Well, I got him the book and he jammed it into his pocket and
disappeared toward the galley, jogging along like a stork on stilts.
But I had no time, now, to laugh at Biggs' physical or mental
peculiarities.
Because my ears had just caught a sound they did not want to catch.
The sound of metal grating on metal near the off-port. The banging of
a mailed fist on _permalloy_, the asthmatic wheeze of the airlock, a
sailor's shout ending in a choked gurgle--
I charged back into the radioroom. "Cap," I yelled, "at the airlock!
Somebody. It must be--"
It was. Runt Hake and his pirates.
* * * * *
You wouldn't think, to look at Runt Hake, that he was a killer. True,
he held a hand pierce gun on us as he approached, moving smoothly,
lightly, up the runway. A half dozen men behind him also held their
side arms poised, ready for action, while another half dozen deployed
down the side corridors toward the engine rooms and control turrets.
But as Hake came nearer he tossed back the quartzite headpiece of his
bulger, and I saw that his hair was wheat-gold, his lips curved into
something like a tender smile, his cheeks smooth, soft, boyish.
His voice was gentle, too. He said, "You offer no resistance, Captain?
That is wise."
Cap Hanson said, "Hake, I surrender my ship to you freely. But do not
harm my men. That is all I ask. My men do not deserve--"
"But, Captain!" The slender little pirate's eye-brows lifted archly.
"Surely you are a little premature in your pleas? We have just arrived.
There are so many, many things to be done before we--ah--enjoy our
little pleasures."
And then, as he said that, I saw why men cursed the name of Runt Hake.
It was not in his face. His golden hair, his pink cheeks, his soft
mouth--all these were but gilding for the rottenness within him. The
real Hake was in his eyes. Those dancing, glinting, gloating eyes that
leaped into swift, flaming delight as he hinted at that which was to
come.
He was a devil. A pint-sized devil, perhaps, but a devil nonetheless.
I knew, now, that the stories were all true; that we could expect no
mercy of this man. He would amuse himself with us for a while, toying
with us in feline fashion. Then he would leave. And we would stay. Like
the broken things I had seen in the Sargossa.
He was speaking again. Softly, melodiously, as if he were a warrant
officer at some cargo port on Earth rather than a midspace pirate
appraising his "take".
"The cargo, of course, Captain, is mine. Even now my men will be
transferring it to my ship beside yours. But there are a few other
things we will do while aboard. It is lonely, being in space for
months on end. And we do not dine luxuriously. You have, I suppose,
a well-stocked larder? With fine foods; wines, perhaps, to tempt the
palate?"
Hanson tried again.
"We have, Hake. And they are all yours if you'll promise me the men
will be unharmed." He hesitated. "Take me along as hostage, if you want
to. That'll be all right. But--"
"But, no, Captain! That would never do. I think you had best
remain--with your men." Again there was that tiny, dancing light in
Hake's eyes. "You see, many know my name, Captain, and I understand I
have a small reputation. But none have ever seen my face--and lived. It
would be unfortunate if I were to be identified, would it not?"
He turned to his followers.
"Disarm them," he designated us negligently. "And when the cargo has
been transferred, have our men come in to dine. We will dine aboard the
_Saturn_."
* * * * *
You Earthlubbers will think this part strange, maybe? That we showed no
more resistance than this to Hake's invasion? Well, I don't blame you.
I've read _Martian Tales_ and _Spaceways Weekly_, too. The writers for
those mags would like you to believe that every freighter captain is
a horny-fisted John Paul Jones. But think it over! The _Saturn_ was a
lumbering old cow compared to Hake's streamliner. Hanson had adopted
the only sane policy. To placate the pirate, be nice to him, hope we
could stall off his scuttling plans until the S.S.C.B. cruiser reached
us.
So for more than two hours, unarmed and disconsolate, we of the
_Saturn_ sat around and diddled our fingers while Hake's men, using our
engine crew, the wipers and blasters, for porters, transferred the more
valuable parts of our cargo to their ship. They didn't take the bulk
stuff. Just small necessities that could be fenced from a hideout on
one of the rogue asteroids.
Meanwhile, Runt Hake had made at least one special trip. Down to the
galley. He took Todd and Cap and me along so he could keep an eye on
us. Down there we found Lancelot Biggs, quietly reading.