He turned over everything Plessner had said. The crew, running the fuel-pumps outside, had been told that he, Harpe, was accidentally dead—that meant they'd be loyal if they knew the truth. The ship was at hand, almost within jump of where he lay. It would remain so until it was well stocked with fuel, say half an hour. If he were free, could get there—but what had Vannie herself said about those tight-twisted bonds? It will take a robot to undo them.
What was this thing on which he lay, this hard irksome projection? He rolled clear and looked—it was a pencil-sized rod of silvery metal—Conniston's whistle. Harpe rolled back, seized the whistle in his bound hands. He remembered other things.
A robot could set him free. Conniston had been about to set robots in motion for that very purpose, so that Harpe could be put back into his space-overall and sent out to die. Harpe had seen the position of Conniston's hands on the whistle's keyboard—fingers on the two upper holes, fingers on the two lower. He duplicated that position. Then, cranning his neck, he managed to touch the mouthpiece with his lips.
A note came forth, thin and sweet. Conniston stirred a little, but did not wake. The robots began to move, all three—Harpe prolonged the note. They clanked closer, closer. Their pincer-paws touched him.
They ripped and twisted at the knots. A strand of wire fell away. Another, another. Harpe was free. He lowered the whistle, and abruptly the robots subsided into statue-like immobility. Harpe grinned in relief, pocketed the whistle. Then he ran to the air-exhaust tap, closing it. Walking back to Conniston, he stooped and looked—the giant's swoon had become a slumber. Leaving him there. Harpe hurried away through the rear door.
Directly beyond were great shadowy holds in a series, filled with drums of rocket fuel and humming machinery. A whisper of liquid motion led him toward the pumps opposite—Plessner had not finished the refuelling. Harpe still had time. He entered an observation-cabin, the size of a coffin. He looked through a round glassite port.
Yards away, on the outer deck, was parked the rocket. Almost exactly opposite the port was the entry panel of the main airlock. It would mean seconds in space, but Harpe knew that he must chance it without wasting any more seconds.
Unclamping the port, he dragged it open. Pinching his nose hard to save his lungful of air, he hurled himself out. The port clanged behind him, soundlessly in space. Harpe hurried to the panel opposite, knocking furiously, frantically, with his free hand.
Moments of waiting, while his eardrums threatened to burst and his head swam and sang with an inner pressure as of sea-bottoms—then the space-hand on watch had opened the outer panel to let him in. Harpe gratefully crept into the lock, the panel shut behind him, and a moment later the inner door slid away. Harpe took a long stride, into the interior of the ship from which he had been kicked, which he had never expected to board again.
THE hand on duty there was Beamish, a big, simple-hearted spaceman, second class. Beamish was blank of face generally—blanker of face than ever just now. He stepped back, staring at Harpe, lifting a shaky hand.
"No, Skipper," he gasped. "No. Look, you wouldn't come for poor Beamish. I never did anything to you—"
"What are you talking about?"
