out the cargo markings on her beam.[1]
"No wonder," I said. "She's carrying plagterium[2] in her hold. That's pull enough to swerve any little craft like this."
And an instant after I closed my mouth, Sergeant Shane was on his feet beside me. He seemed suddenly to have gone crazy with excitement.
"Stop everything. Stop this life cruiser!" he shouted. Then to me: "I've got it. I've got it!"
The space tar at the controls cut off our power, and looked back at Shane over his shoulder bewilderedly. I was wondering if some blow on the bean outside that Martian saloon had been too much for my chum.
"Listen!" Shane insisted, and then he was talking a mile a minute and waving his hands to punctuate his words. When, in a little less than five minutes, he concluded breathlessly, he asked us, "What about it? Are you all game?"
I just sat back jaw agape. It was a chance. A long one and a wild one. But it was better than none at all. The sailors, who were suddenly aware—from Shane's words—what had happened to MacKeltish, and what would happen to our chances in the race without him, weren't long in making up their minds to act on the scheme.
"Good," said Shane. "Now put over to that freighter. We've got a lot to do." I was only able to shake my head in bewilderment at the audacity of the scheme. But it was typical of Shane that he was now on top of the universe.
SHANE, myself, and the six sailors who'd been with us all through that night should have been tossed in the brig the next morning when we returned aboard the F.S.S. Western Hemisphere.
The military police detail took us right to the stateroom of Old Ironpants himself, who was in a frothing rage.
"Sergeant Shane," he demanded, "what is the meaning of all this?"
Shane had coached us all to silence. So in spite of my better judgment he spieled for the group.
"Admiral, our A.W.O.L. was in the line of duty, sir. It concerned the honor of the ship and fair-play in the Fleet." And then, graphically, he went into a lurid tale of MacKeltish's abduction by space tars from the F.S.S. Saturn. He omitted the Martian saloon, however, and added a few touches that struck me as being highly imaginary.
Old Ironpants was purple as he listened.
"I'll get the Fleet Commander immediately. There's still an hour before the race is due. I'll chase this to the ground!" he stormed.
"Begging your pardon, Admiral," Shane broke in. "But we of the ship wish you'd say nothing of it. We've spent all last night until dawn searching for MacKeltish."
This was a barefaced lie.
"But you haven't found him!" Old Ironpants thundered, undoubtedly thinking of his huge bet and Mrs. Ironpants back on Earth.
"No, sir," Shane admitted. "But as supervisor of the prize lifecraft crew during these past days I can guarantee that we'll win for the honor of the
- ↑ "Cargo markings" in space freighting are made clearly visible on the bows of space craft, a necessary precaution to indicate to other craft what is being carried aboard. Due to the complexities of cargo and navigation this was deemed necessary by the Space Commerce Board in 2100 A. D.—Ed.
- ↑ "Plagterium" is a metal obtained from Juno which has extraordinary powers of magnetic pull. Space craft carrying this cargo have been known to collect "barnacles" of countless small metallic substances adrift in the void through the pull of the cargo as the craft passes the objects. Small space craft, like the life cruiser mentioned, would be attracted to a ship carrying plagterium if atomic motor power was of low velocity.—Ed.
