tunic was muddy and torn. There were puffs around the corners of his eyes that looked like the beginning of nice black circles. But I knew in an instant that he wasn't drunk. He was groggy, and he'd taken a terrific beating in a brawl.
Motioning the sailors to get aside, I grabbed Shane by the arm and steered him down the platform a ways. When we were out of earshot I snapped,
"Okay, tough nut. What happened?"
He shook his head, as if to clear the fog. I reached into my tunic pocket and pulled out a small vial.
"Sniff this," I ordered.
He did, and backed away coughing and choking. But his head was clearer.
"There was a fight," he said. "MacKeltish and I were grabbed by six sailors from the Saturn as we left the saloon. I was helping MacKeltish ease up on his training so he'd be fit tomorrow and not on too fine an edge."
"Go ahead," I said grimly.
"There were more space bums from the Saturn. Mac and I held 'em off as long as we could. But we were outnumbered. I came-to here on the landing platform about ten minutes ago."
But I had ceased to feel concern for Sergeant Shane.
"And where is MacKeltish?" I demanded, fearing his answer.
My erstwhile buddy and stupid companion groaned his grief-stricken reply.
"I dunno. They've probably got him cooped up somewhere until the race is over tomorrow!"
AND then, in no uncertain terms, I told Sergeant Shane a few things. I told him about Ironpants. I reminded him of the money of our own that hung on the outcome of the race tomorrow. I reminded him of the very indignant eighteen hundred men and officers of the Western Hemisphere who'd bet their shirts on the strong back of MacKeltish and the prize crew. And I topped it off with a somewhat profane description of his thinking powers.
But Sergeant Shane could only groan.
"Go ahead, Cork," he said hoarsely. "I deserve every word of it."
I took him back to the sailors and we all climbed into the little life cruiser.
"He's all right," I said. "Let's get going." I didn't tell them that MacKeltish had been with Shane, and that said same MacKeltish wasn't due back aboard the Western Hemisphere until the race was over tomorrow. They'd know that soon enough.
I sat in the stern of the little life cruiser as we made our way back out to the space harbor. We were slipping past the tramps and space freighters again, and Shane sat wordlessly beside me.
Sarcastically, I muttered,
"What are you thinking, bright boy?"
He raised his head from his paws in despair.
"Of some way out of this," he groaned. "There's gotta be a way out."
I gave vent to a bitter, sardonic laugh. Off our port beam was the gray hulk of a dirty old space freighter just slipping into mooring. We seemed to be sliding toward it a little too close for comfort. I raised my head.
"Watch that freighter on the port beam," I shouted to the space sailor at the controls. "She's not moored yet."
The fellow at the controls gave the atomic motor a little more power, and we stopped sliding toward the other vessel and got back on the right route.
"That's funny, Corporal," he remarked conversationally. "There seemed to be a pull toward that old space scow."
I glanced out at the old tub, and by peering intently was able to make
