III.

The tremendous engines of the _Procyon_ were again putting out their

wonted torrents of power. The starship, now a mere spaceship, was on

course at one gravity. The lifecraft were in their slots, but the five

and the four still lived in them rather than in the vast and oppressive

emptiness that the ship itself now was. And socially, outside of working

hours, the two groups did not mix.

Clean-up was going nicely, at the union rate of six hours on and

eighteen hours off. Deston could have set any hours he pleased, but he

didn't. There was plenty of time. Eleven months in deep space is a

fearfully, a tremendously long time.

"Morning," "afternoon," "evening," and "night" were, of course, purely

conventional terms. The twenty-four-hour "day" measured off by the

brute-force machine that was their masterclock carried no guarantee,

expressed or implied, as to either accuracy or uniformity.

One evening, then, four hard-faced men sat at two small tables in the

main room of Lifecraft Three. Two of them, Ferdy Blaine and Moose

Mordan, were playing cards for small stakes. Ferdy was of medium size;

compact rather than slender; built of rawhide and spring steel. Lithe

and poised, he was the epitome of leashed and controlled action. Moose

was six-feet-four and weighed a good two-forty--stolid, massive, solid.

Ferdy and Moose; a tiger and an elephant; both owned _in fee simple_ by

Vincent Lopresto.

The two at the other table had been planning for days. They had had many

vitriolic arguments, but neither had made any motion toward his weapon.

"Play it my way and we've got it made, I tell you!" Newman pounded the

table with his fist. "Seventy _million_ if it's a cent! Heavier grease

than your lousy spig Syndicate ever even _heard_ of! I'm as good an

astrogator as Jones is, and a damn sight better engineer. In electronics

I maybe ain't got the theory Pretty Boy has, but at building and

repairing the stuff I've forgot more than he ever will know. At

_practical_ stuff, and that's all we give a whoop about, I lay over

both them sissies like a Lunar dome."

"Oh, yeah?" Lopresto sneered. "How come you aren't ticketed for

subspace, then?"

"For hell's sake, act your age!" Newman snorted in disgust. Eyes locked

and held, but nothing happened. "D'ya think I'm dumb? Or that them

subspace Boy Scouts can be fixed? Or I don't know where the heavy grease

is at? Or I can't make the approach? Why ain't _you_ in subspace?"

"I see." Lopresto forced his anger down. "But I've got to be _sure_ we

can get back without 'em."

"You can be _damn_ sure. I got to get back myself, don't I? But get one

thing down solid. _I_ get the big peroxide blonde."

"You can have her. Too big. I like the little yellowhead a lot better."

Newman sneered into the hard-held face so close to his and said: "And

don't think for a second _you_ can make me crawl, you small-time,

chiseling punk. Rub _me_ out after we kill them off and you get nowhere.

You're dead. Chew on that a while, and you'll know who's boss."

After just the right amount of holding back and objecting, Lopresto

agreed. "You win, Newman, the way the cards lay. Have you ever planned

this kind of an operation or do you want me to?"

"You do it, Vince," Newman said, grandly. He had at least one of the

qualities of a leader. "Besides, you already have, ain't you?"

"Of course. Ferdy will take Deston----"

"No he won't! He's _mine_, the louse!"

"If you're _that_ dumb, all bets are off. What are you using for a

brain? Can't you see the guy's chain lightning on ball bearings?"

"But we're going to surprise 'em, ain't we?"

"Sure, but even Ferdy would just as soon not give _him_ an even break.

_You_ wouldn't stand the chance of a snowflake in hell, and if you've

got the brains of a louse you know it."

"O. K., we'll let Ferdy have him. Me and you will match draws to see

who----"

"I can draw twice to your once, but I suppose I'll have to prove it to

you. I'll take Jones; you will gun the professor; Moose will grab the

dames, one under each arm, and keep 'em out of the way until the

shooting's over. The only thing is, when? The sooner the better.

Tomorrow?"

"Not quite, Vince. Let 'em finish figuring course, time, distance, all

that stuff. They can do it a lot faster and some better than I can. I'll

tell you when."

"O. K., and I'll give the signal. When I yell 'NOW' we give 'em the

business."

Newman went to his cabin and the muscle called Moose spoke thoughtfully.

That is, as nearly thoughtfully as his mental equipment would allow.

"I don't like that ape, boss. Before you gun him, let me work him over

just a little bit, huh?"

"It'll be quite a while yet, but that's a promise, Moose. As soon as his

job's done he'll wish he'd never been born. Until then, we'll let him

think he's Top Dog. Let him rave. But Ferdy, any time he's behind me or

out of sight, watch him like a hawk. Shoot him through the right elbow

if he makes one sour move."

"I get you, boss."

* * * * *

A couple of evenings later, in Lifecraft Two, Barbara said: "You're

worried, Babe, and everything's going so smoothly. Why?"

"Too smoothly altogether. That's why. Newman ought to be doing a slow

burn and goldbricking all he dares; instead of which he's happy as a

clam and working like a nailer ... and I wouldn't trust Vincent Lopresto

or Ferdinand Blaine as far as I can throw a brick chimney by its smoke.

This whole situation stinks. There's going to be shooting for sure."

"But they couldn't do _anything_ without you two!" Bernice exclaimed.

"It'd be suicide ... and with no motive ... _could_ they, Ted,

possibly?"

Jones' dark face did not lighten. "They could, and I'm very much afraid

they intend to. As a crew-chief, Newman is a jack-leg engineer and a

very good practical 'troncist; and if he's what I _think_ he is----" He

paused.

"Could be," Deston said, doubtfully. "In with a mob of normal-space

pirate-smugglers. I'll buy that, but there wouldn't be enough plunder

to----"

"Just a sec. So he's a pretty good rule-of-thumb astrogator, too, and

we're computing every element of the flight. As for motive--salvage.

With either of us alive, none. With both of us dead, can you guess

within ten million bucks of how much they'll collect?"

"_Blockhead_!" Deston slapped himself on the forehead. "I never even

_thought_ of that angle. That nails it down solid."

"With the added attraction," Jones went on, coldly and steadily, "of

having two extremely desirable female women for eleven months before

killing them, too."

Both girls shrank visibly, and Deston said: "Check. I thought that was

the main feature, but it didn't add up. This does. Now, how will they

figure the battle? Both of us at once, of----"

"Why?" Barbara asked. "I'd think they'd waylay you, one at a time."

"Uh-uh. The survivor would lock the ship in null-G and it'd be like

shooting fish in a barrel. Since we're almost never together on duty ...

and it won't come until after we've finished the computations ...

they'll think up a good reason for _everybody_ to be together, and that

itself will be the tip-off. Ferdy will probably draw on me----"

"And he'll kill you," Jones said, flatly. "So I think I'll blow his

brains out tomorrow morning on sight."

"And get killed yourself? No ... much better to use their own trap----"

"We _can't_! Fast as you are, you aren't in _his_ class. He's a

professional--probably one of the fastest guns in space."

"Yes, but ... I've got a ... I mean I think I can----"

Bernice, grinning openly now, stopped Deston's floundering. "It's high

time you fellows told each other the truth. Bobby and I let our back

hair down long ago--we were both tremendously surprised to know that

both you boys are just as strongly psychic as we are. Perhaps even more

so."

"Oh ... so _you_ get hunches, too?" Jones demanded. "So you'll have

plenty of warning?"

"All my life. The old alarm clock has never failed me yet. But the girls

can't start packing pistols now."

"I wouldn't know how to shoot one if I did," Bernice laughed. "I'll

throw things I'm very good at that."

"Huh?" Jones asked. He didn't know his new wife very well, either. "What

can _you_ throw straight enough to do any good?"

"Anything I can reach," she replied, confidently. "Baseballs, medicine

balls, cannon balls, rocks, bricks, darts, discus, hammer,

javelin--what-have-you. In a for-real battle I'd prefer ... chairs, I

think. Flying chairs are really hard to cope with. Knives are too ...

uh-uh, I'd much rather have you fellows do the actual executing. I'll

start wearing a couple of knives in leg-sheaths, but I won't throw 'em

or use 'em unless I absolutely have to. So who will I knock out with the

first chair?"

"I'll answer that," Barbara said, quietly. "If it's Blaine against Babe,

it'll be Lopresto against Herc. So you'll throw your chairs or whatever

at that unspeakable oaf Newman."

"I'd rather brain him than anyone else I know, but that would leave that

gigantic gorilla to ... why, he'd ... listen, you'll simply _have_ to go

armed."

"I always do." Barbara held out her hands. "Since they don't want to

shoot us two--yet--these are all the weapons I'll need."

"Against a man-mountain like that? You're _that_ good? Really?"

"Especially against a man-mountain like that. I'm that good. Really,"

and both Joneses began to realize what Deston already knew--just how

deadly those harmless-seeming weapons could be.

Barbara went on: "We should have a signal, in case one of us gets

warning first. Something that wouldn't mean anything to them ...

musical, say ... Brahms. That's it. The very instant any one of us feels

their intent to signal their attack he yells 'BRAHMS!' and we _all_ beat

them to the punch. O. K.?"

It was O. K., and the four--Adams was still hard at work in the

lounge--went to bed.

* * * * *

And three days later, within an hour after the last flight-datum had

been "put in the tank," the four intended victims allowed themselves to

be inveigled into the lounge. Everything was peaceful; everyone was full

of friendship and brotherly love. But suddenly "BRAHMS!" rang out, with

four voices in absolute unison; followed a moment later by Lopresto's

stentorian "NOW!"

It was a very good thing that Deston had had ample warning, for he was

indeed competing out of his class. As it was, his bullet crashed through

Blaine's head, while the gunman's went harmlessly into the carpet. The

other pistol duel wasn't even close! Lopresto's hand barely touched his

gun.

Bernice, even while shrieking the battle-cry, leaped to her feet, hurled

her chair, and reached for another; but one chair was enough. That

fiercely but accurately-sped missile knocked the half-drawn pistol from

Newman's hand and sent his body crashing to the floor, where Deston's

second bullet made it certain that he would not recover consciousness.

Barbara's hand-to-hand engagement took about one second longer. Moose

Mordan was big and strong; and, for such a big man, was fairly fast

physically. If he had had time to get his muscles ready, he might have

had a chance. His thought processes, however, were lamentably slow; and

Barbara Warner Deston was almost as fast physically as she was mentally.

Thus she reached him before he even began to realize that this

pint-sized girl actually intended to hit him; and thus it was that his

belly-muscles were still completely relaxed when her small but extremely

hard left fist sank half-forearm-deep into his solar plexus.

With an agonized "_WHOOSH_!" he began to double up, but she scarcely

allowed him to bend. Her right hand, fingers tightly bunched, was

already boring savagely into a selected spot at the base of his neck.

Then, left hand at his throat and right hand pulling hard at his belt,

she put the totalized and concentrated power of her whole body behind

the knee she drove into his groin.

That ended it. The big man could very well have been dying on his feet.

To make sure, however--or to keep the girl from knowing that she had

killed a man?--Deston and Jones each put a bullet through the falling

head before it struck the rug.

Both girls flung themselves, sobbing, into their husband's arms.

The whole battle had lasted only a few seconds. Adams, although he had

seen almost everything, had been concentrating so deeply that it took

those few seconds for him actually to realize what was going on. He got

up, felt[2] of Newman's head, then looked casually at the three other

bodies.

[2] Transcriber's note: As in original.

"Oh, I _killed_ him, Carl!" Barbara sobbed, convulsively. "And the worst

of it is, I really _meant_ to! I _never_ did anything like that before

in my whole life!"

"You didn't kill him, Barbara," Adams said.

"Huh?" She raised her head from Deston's shoulder; the contrast between

her streaming eyes and the relief dawning over her whole face was almost

funny. "Why, I did the foulest things possible, and as hard as I

possibly could. I'm _sure_ I killed him."

"By no means, my dear. Judo techniques, however skillfully and

powerfully applied, do not and can not kill instantly. Bullets through

the brain do. I will photograph the cadavers, of course, and perform the

customary post-mortem examinations for the record; but I know already

what the findings will be. These four men died instantly of gunshot

wounds."

* * * * *

With the four gangsters gone, life aboardship settled down quickly into

a routine. That routine, however, was in no sense dull. The officers had

plenty to do; operating the whole ship and rebuilding the mechanisms

that were operating on jury rigging or on straight "bread-board"

hookups. And in their "spare" time they enjoyed themselves tremendously

in becoming better and better acquainted with their wives. For Bernice

and Jones, like Barbara and Deston, had for each other an infinite

number of endless vistas of personality; the exploration of which was

sheerest delight.

The girls--each of whom became joyously pregnant as soon as she

could--kept house and helped their husbands whenever need or opportunity

arose. Their biggest chore, however, was to see to it that Adams got

sleep, food, and exercise. For, if left to his own devices, he would

never have exercised at all, would have grabbed a bite now and then, and

would have slept only when he could no longer stay awake.

"Uncle Andy, why don't you _use_ that Big Brain of yours?" Barbara

snapped at him one day. "For a man that's actually as smart as you are,

I swear you've got the least sense of anybody I know!"

"But it's necessary, my dear child," Adams explained, unmoved. "This

material is new. There are many extremely difficult problems involved,

and I have less than a year to work on them. Less than _one year_; and

it is a task for a team of specialists and all the resources of a

research center."

To the officers, however, Adams went into more detail. "Considering the

enormous amounts of supplies carried; the scope, quantity, and quality

of the safety devices employed; it is improbable that we are the first

survivors of a subspace catastrophe to set course for a planet."

After some argument, the officers agreed.

[Illustration]

"While I cannot as yet detect it, classify it, or evaluate it, we are

carrying an extremely heavy charge of an unknown nature; the residuum of

a field of force which is possibly more or less analogous to the

electromagnetic field. This residuum either is or is not dischargeable

to an object of planetary mass; and I'm virtually certain that it is.

The discharge may be anything from an imperceptible flow up to one of

such violence as to volatilize the craft carrying it. From the facts:

One, that in the absence of that field the subspace radio will function

normally; and Two, that no subspace-radio messages have ever been

received from survivors; the conclusion seems inescapable that the

discharge of this unknown field is in fact of extreme violence."

"Good God!" Deston exclaimed. "Oh ... _that_ was what you meant by

'fantastic precautions,' back there?"

"Precisely."

"But what can we _do_ about it?"

"I don't know. I ... simply ... do ... not ... know." Adams lost himself

in thought for over a minute. "This is all _so_ new ... I know _so_

little ... and am working with such _pitifully_ inadequate

instrumentation--However, we have months of time yet, and if I am unable

to arrive at a conclusion before arrival--I don't mean a rigorous

analysis, of course, but merely a stop-gap, empirical, pragmatic

solution--we will simply remain in orbit around that sun until I do."