-
Mutiny in the Void
-
By Charles R. Tanner
-
The tank room of the rocket ship Berenice, where the big
tanks of water-weed were kept, was so spick and span
that a man needed little psychology to realize that its
manager was a dapper, finicky, careful little man. The
room’s lights were bright and efficient, the water in
the tanks fresh and clean, and there were no decaying
fronds of vegetation among the thousands of stems of
water-weed which, floating about in the tank, absorbed
the carbon dioxide which was pumped through the water,
and gave back a constant stream of tiny bubbles of
Oxygen.
For this “farm,” as the tank-room was called, was
the oxygen-producer for the rocket, and under the expert
care of Manool Sarouk, the “farmer,” it kept the air as
fresh and wholesome as the air of Earth. Manool was
proud of his work, and of the way he handled it, just as
he was proud of his appearance, and the way he kept
that.
But at the moment thoughts of pride and
satisfaction were furthest from Manool Sarouk’s mind. He
had just opened the do or of the tank—room and entered,
and on his face were written terror and anxiety, and
written in unmistakable characters.
For Manool had just been an unconscious
eavesdropper on a conversation—a conversation between
Gilligan, the tall, cadaverous “mate” of the ship, and
one of the fuel-wrestlers. Manool didn’t know the name
of the wrestler, for most of the crew were new men,
picked by Gilligan on this, his second trip with the
Berenice.
But his name was of no moment - it was the gist of
the conversation that mattered. It was that which made
the dapper little “farmer” tremble with anxiety and,
yes— terror. For they had spoken of mutiny - and of
mutiny imminent and likely to break out at any minute.
Manool was neat, and Manool was proud, but no one
would call him brave. He was frightened now—frightened
almost out of his wits, and uncertain as to what he
should do. He mechanically reached into the breast of
his jacket and drew out a tobaccolette. He stuck it in
his mouth and inhaled it, wishing it was a cigarette he
was smoking. Ninety-nine “farmers” out of a hundred
wasted oxygen by smoking tobacco, but not Manool. The
rules said “no cigarettes,” so it was “no cigarettes”
for him.
He tossed the tobaccolette away before it was half
empty and began to pace the floor nervously. He went to
the washstand and brushed the stain of the tobaccolette
from his teeth. He made a test of the air, and smiled a
little as he noted that the oxygen content was well
above par. He examined the weeds, and removed a sickly
looking frond or two. But his mind was not on his work,
and he soon resumed his uneasy pacing.
And then there was a knock on the door. His heart
flew into his mouth; he glanced around to see if there
was any place to flee, and then called out weakly:
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me—Gilligan,” came the sharp voice of the
mate, and Manool’s panic became, if possible, greater.
“What—what do you want?” he stammered.
Gilligan’s voice grew even sharper. “What’s the
matter with you, Manool?” he snapped. “Lemme in. I want
to have a talk with you.”
Manool was trembling violently, but he moved
forward and unlatched the door. The tall abnormally-thin
mate strode in, a sort of ingratiating smile hovering
over his face.
“Nice little place you got here, Manool,” he said
with a forced smile. “Too bad I never had a chance to
visit you here before.”
He strode over to Manool’s stool, the only scat in
the “farm,” and took possession of it. He looked about
him, glanced at Manool once or twice and gradually his
smile became more natural.
“Manool,” he said, “you’re an officer of sorts,
maybe only a warrant officer, but still—you eat with
them, so I’ve been considering you as an officer.
But—well, I like you, Manool, and—you’ve heard more than
you should, I believe, so I’ve come to have a little
talk with you.”
He lowered his voice and looked around warily
before he continued. Then, Manool,’’ he said. “I’m going
to make things plain. You heard me talkin’ to Larry, a
while ago, and you must be suspicious. Well, your
suspicion is right. There’s going to be mutiny aboard
this hunk of fireworks and Cap Tarrant is going to lose
his job. Know why? ‘Cause I’m one of Hudderfield’s men,
and I’ve been working to seize this ship for eight
months.’’
Manool shuddered.
“Huddersfield, the Cerean?“ he asked.
“The very same! Huddersfield has seized an
asteroid and intends to start a fleet of rockets. He’s
got a couple already and this’ll be his third. When we
get enough, things’ll pop, I’ll tell you.”
“Now listen, Manool—you can throw in with us and
go in for Huddersfield, or you can run and tell Cap
Tarrant—and get your bloody knob knocked off when we
take the ship. ‘Cause the men are all with me, Manool,
all of ‘em, and there ain’t a chance of Tarrant winning
if it comes to battle.”
He stopped, evidently waiting for Manool to speak.
The little farmer looked up miserably. “But—what can I
do?” he cried, plaintively. “Me, I ain’t no fighter,
Gilligan. You don’t want me for a fighter in your crew.”
Gilligan stood up, smiling broadly. Manool’s
obvious terror of him seemed to have reassured him
considerably. He winked confidently.
“Manool,” he said. “Your business is to keep the
air clean, and that’s all you have to do. Except to keep
your mouth shut, too. ‘Cause if you peep to the
Captain, or to Navigator Rogers, you’ll be the first to
die when we cut loose. But—” He winked again and his
smile broadened.
“You keep the wind fair and the trap closed, and
you won’t be forgotten.”
He gave one final wink and stepped out, closing
the door behind him. And he left Manool in a turmoil of
uncertainty. The little farmer knew well where his duty
lay. If he did the right thing, he’d go at once to
Captain Tarrant and inform him of the impending
rebellion. But, if he did, Gilligan would surely get
him. He knew well that the threat the thin mate had made
had been no idle one.
But if he didn’t inform the captain—if he didn’t,
he’d be a mutineer, too. And he’d have to take his
share, and leave the earth, a fugitive, and probably
cast his lot with the infamous Huddersfield. He
certainly didn’t want to do that, either.
He strode back and forth in the tank-room, a
victim of uncertainty. He didn’t know what to do, he
told himself, plaintively. . . . He still didn’t know,
when dinner time came.
Manool’s abstraction at the dinner table was so
noticeable that young Captain Tar-rant was forced to
speak of it.
“Where’s your appetite, Sarouk?” he asked. “You
haven’t even finished your soup. Aren’t you feeling
well?“
Manool’s face reddened as he answered, but old Doe
Slade looked up and eyed Manool keenly.
“You better come in and see me after dinner, Sarouk,” he
suggested. “Maybe you got something wrong and I’ll have
some work to do. You stop in and see me.”
Manool was about to insist that he had nothing
wrong with him, when he caught Doc’s eye, and realized
that the old man knew something. And then he realized
that here was opportunity knocking. He could go in and
see Doc Slade, and Gilligan would never suspect
anything. He rose from the table murmuring: “I’ll be in
and see you in a few minutes, Doc.” Then hurried back to
the farm.
He entered the tank-room and checked everything
again, he put on a clean shirt, and brushed his teeth
and combed his straight black hair. Then, after a
moment’s consideration, he brushed his teeth again. Doc
might take a notion to examine him, and he certainly
didn’t want his teeth to be soiled, if Doc looked at his
mouth and throat.
He was about to leave the tank-room when he heard
a cry from somewhere down the passage. It was a startled
cry, and it was followed by a sharp command that ended
in an oath. His heart leaped into his mouth. Not an
officer on the ship ever used profanity to the men.
Besides, he’d have recognized the voice of any of the
four officers. That command had been shouted by one of
the men, and the cry that had preceded it had been one
of surprise. Had the mutiny started already?
As if in answer to his question, the sharp report
of an automatic rang out suddenly through the
passageway. Manool swung the door shut and ducked
back as suddenly as if the bullet had been fired at him.
He was beginning to tremble; he felt a smothering
constriction of his throat, and yet, at the same time,
an unreasoning thrill of excitement was rising within
him. He felt an overpowering desire to see what was
going on outside.
For many minutes his caution overcame his
curiosity, but at last the continual silence convinced
him that, in all probability, the mutiny was over. So,
ever so slowly, he stepped out into the corridor and
started down. The hail where he had heard the shot
proved to be quite empty, and he wondered where
everybody was. This was certainly a queer mutiny,
nothing like any he had ever read about. He trod more
and more cautiously, and it dawned on him that this
silence was more fearsome that tumult would have been.
He was passing a store-room just then, and when he
was just abreast of the door, it was flung suddenly open
and there was one of the fuel-wrestlers, with a loaded
automatic leveled at Manool’s chest, and a spiteful look
in his eyes.
Manool’s reaction was almost automatic. He threw
up his hands and shouted, “Don’t shoot.’’ And from
behind the fuel-wrestler, another voice - Gilligan’s -
said, ‘Let him alone, it’s the farmer.” Then it grew
sharper as the mate snapped, “Get in here, Manool. What
are you doin'’ wanderin’ around in the halls? You want
to get shot?”
Manool was almost too scared to speak. “I was
looking for you,” he answered. “I think the fight is all
over, so I look for you.”
"It ain’t all over, by a dam’ sight,’’ Gilligan
snarled. “You seen Doc Slade?”
“I ain’t seen nobody,” Sarouk
answered, truthfully. “I just came out of the farm and
walked down here. I hear a shot, while ago.”
“That was when we took a pop at Slade. I think he
must have had some Suspicions, the way he acted. Now,
look, Manool,” the mate went on, “this stuff ain’t
exactly in your line. You better go back to the farm and
lay low till I call you.”
Manool was still a little trembly from the scare
he’d got when he saw the pistol pointed at his breast.
He nodded enthusiastically at Gilligan’s suggestion,
darted to the door and, running down the corridor, he
crept into the tank-room without another word.
He was in the tank-room, alone, for hours, it
seemed. It was almost time for supper when there was a
knock on the door, and when he hesitatingly opened it,
Gilligan came in with a big smile on his face.
“Well, it’s all over but the shoutin’, Manool,” he
boasted. “We’ve got Tarrant and Navigator Rogers cooped
up in the dining room. They’ve got food and water, and
they’ve locked themselves in, but we got a guard posted
at the door, and we’ll get ‘em if they make a break. We
got Hoc Slade, too—alive. He fought like a tiger, hurt
two of the boys before we nailed him, but we took him,
alive, and we’re holding him, up in the weighin’ room.
Cookie’s stirred up some supper, so come on up and eat.
You needn’t be afraid,” he added as an afterthought.
“The fighting’s all over.”
Manool followed him out of the door and down the
passageway. They went up the stairs to the loading room
near the central axis of the rocket; Manool feeling
again the dizziness that he always felt when he lost
weight. He had never really become a spaceman, in spite
of all his years in space. He walked a little
uncertainly and giddily into the room, a pace or two
behind Gilligan.
The entire crew was there. Doc Slade was there,
too. He had a black eye and a long, deep scratch down
one side of his face. His hands were tied, and he was
seated on a stool with his legs tied to the stool’s.
Doc’s eyes widened when he saw Manool walk in with
Gilligan; then a look of scorn came into them and he
turned his head away. Manool squirmed uncomfortably
tinder his gaze—he liked Doc Slade, and Hoc had always
liked him, up to now. He hoped these fellows wouldn’t
hurt the old Doc.
The table was set and the crew were about to sit
down to eat. Manool was seated beside Gilligan, and they
untied Hoc’s hands and sat him down, too, at the
opposite end of the table.
The meal was sheer torture to the little farmer.
The crew ignored him, Gilligan ignored him and Doc
Slade—Doc wouldn’t ignore him, and Manool wished he
would. Before the meal was over, Manool was in an agony
of anxiety. He wondered what would become of Tarrant and
Rogers; he wondered what they’d do to Doc Slade; he
wondered also what they were going to do to him.
The crew was uproariously jovial. They had broken
out a case of gin that one of them had probably smuggled
aboard, and they lit cigarettes and split a bottle and
were having a glorious time. It grew more glorious after
the third bottle, and one of them brought up the
suggestion that they divide the cargo among them right
then, to “see what they were going to get.”
Gilligan frowned and tried to wave the suggestion
down, but a half dozen voices snarled angrily at his
refusal, and the slim mate was forced to acquiesce with
as good grace as possible. A loader was delegated to
guard Doc Slade, then the entire remainder of the crew
started aft to the “hold.”
In those clays, ships usually carried things that
were mighty hard to get or make on Mars, and were not
too scarce on Earth. In this case, there was a ton of
U235, a lot of organic chemicals that still couldn’t he
synthesized from their elements, and an assortment of
odds and ends that were prized by the Martian natives in
spite of their cheapness.
Into the bins where this stuff was stored, the
shouting pirates who had lately been a well—behaved crew
swarmed, shouting and pushing, and laying claim to this
and that and the other; and in less than five minutes,
three separate fights started. Gilligan stormed,
threatened, and at last resorted to violence.
“This stuff’ll never he divided fair if you lugs
try to settle it by fightin’ for it,” he roared after he
had clipped a couple of them. “What do you think you
are, a bunch of pirates? You fools kill each other off,
and who brings the ship into port, eh? How long do you
think you’d go on livin’, if we go short-handed and
damage this can on landin’? Huddersfield would kill you
off like flies for that. Now calm down and let’s get
this thing settled.”
They stood meekly enough after that, while
Gilligan looked the cargo over and assigned this portion
to this fellow, that portion to that. He had apportioned
a large part of the spoils to them when he came to a
dozen or so large corrugated boxes. He read one of the
labels and broke out into laughter.
“Look at this, you lugs,” he chuckled. “Who’s
going to get this for his share?”
The others looked and grins began to spread over
their faces. The labels said: “Dentogleme Tooth Powd.
1/2 Gr. 4 oz.” The grins became laughs, and a dozen
eyes turned to Manool. The little farmer felt his face
begin to redden; it dawned on him that his habit of
dental fastidiousness was not unknown to the crew.
Gilligan’s next remark made it obvious that this was the
truth.
“Manool,” he said. “This stuff was probably goin’
to Mars to polish the teeth of them shark-jawed natives.
But it would have been wasted there, Manool, wasted. But
now, Manool, it shall be awarded to you, who’ll value
it, in appreciation of all von done for us, durin’ the
mutiny.’’
His eves hardened for a moment as if in
anticipation of a complaint; then, seeing nothing in
Manool’s eyes but plaintive acquiescence, he went on:
“Take it, Manool, and get out o’ here. Take it down to
the farm and gloat over it, farmer. There’s enough there
to last even you for twenty years.”
The crew looked at him, looked at the dazed Manool
and burst into spasms of laughter. They poked jibes at
him, made obscene puns at his expense, and Manool stood
there, taking it all in and getting redder and redder.
He wished futilely that he had had time to do
something before the mutiny. He wished that it wasn’t
too late to do something, now. Then he realized that
there was something for him to do now. Gilligan was
ordering him again, in no uncertain terms, to get that
toothpowder down to his tank-room. He smiled weakly at
the ring-leader and picked up one box.
For the next half hour he was busy carrying his
“fortune” down to his quarters and it is doubtful if, in
all his life, Manool Sarouk had ever been so miserable.
He upbraided himself at every step for his cowardice and
vacillation. He racked his brain, striving to devise
sonic brilliant plan to circumvent the mutineers and
even as he did so, another part of his mind was scoffing
at the futility of daring to oppose that group of
ruffians. By the time he came back for the last box, he
had admitted the absurdity of even trying it.
They had emptied the gin bottles by that time. Some
of them were singing, and some were shooting craps,
gambling with their share of the cargo. Gilligan and a
couple of others were gathered around Doe Slade. They
had removed his bonds and had evidently been talking to
him.
“You’ll take a chance with us or you’ll take a
chance with them two in the officer’s mess,” Gilligan
was saying, menacingly, as Manool entered. It was
evident that he had shared in the gin since Manool had
started his work. He was looking ugly and seemed to be
feeling the same way.
Doe Slade’s lip was curling with contempt before
Gilligan had finished his sentence. “There’s no
choice,” the doctor spat. “You give me passage to the
mess-room and I’ll go, right now. What have I got in
common with a pack of space-rats like these? I don’t
like the smell of you, even.”
“Okeh!“ Gilligan snarled, with an air of finality
that showed that he was ending what had been an attempt
to persuade Slade to join them. “I’ll give you passage.
Git out o’ here and git down to the dinin’ room.”
He flung the door open and gestured out into the
passageway. Doc Slade looked at him, with a look in his
eyes that Manool couldn’t fathom. “Git!“ repeated
Gilligan, and drew his weapon. “Git out o’ here before I
forget myself and let you have a dose o’ this.”
Doc hesitated the briefest second, then he
shrugged and stepped out of the door. He started down
the passageway swiftly, and Manool noticed that he
neither slackened his pace nor looked backward. He was
some sixty feet away when Gilligan muttered to the two
or three who bad crowded to the door, “All right. Let
him have it!”
And to Manool’s horror, a half dozen shots cracked
and echoed in the narrow confines of the hail. Doe
staggered, put out a hand to the bulkhead, coughed and
slumped to the floor. Gilligan ran forward and put
another bullet in him.
Manool didn’t: even wait until Gilligan came back
into the room. He grabbed up his last box mechanically
and ran to the steps. His mind was a chaos of horror; he
was choking, his eyes were filling with tears and he was
aware of only one thought—to get to the steps before a
bullet smacked into his back, too.
He stumbled down the steps and along the corridor,
sobbing as he went. They had killed Doc Slade… killed
him in cold blood. They’d kill the other officers, too,
if they got the chance. There was no good in them, there
was no hope in trying to placate them and appeal to
their good nature. At any moment, they’d be likely to
take a notion to kill him, too; just for the fun of the
thing! He hardly knew what he was doing by the time he
entered the tank-room and dropped the box of toothpowder
onto the others and then slammed the door shut and
locked it.
For a while he was a little hysterical. He sobbed;
he walked the floor; he beat his temples with his lists,
and wondered if he could kill himself. He could see
before him, with awful clarity, the form of Doe Slade,
lying as he had lain in the passageway, with a gradually
spreading pool of blood beneath his head.
He covered his face with his hands and wept anew.
He kicked savagely at the boxes that were the price of
his neutrality in this little war. He felt that he was
the lowest, the most despicable coward in history. He
wrung his hands and wept again. And at last, in time,
his eyes dried and he took a deep breath.
There was a new look in his eyes. The thought had
come to him suddenly, that he held the lives of these
madmen in his own hand. Of course, he did! He had been
worrying so much about the safety of his own paltry life
that this thought had been entirely overlooked. He was
the farmer on this ship! What was he weeping and wailing
for, when every one of them depended for their air on
his continued attention to the tanks?
Why, they were a good twenty million miles from
the nearest spaceport. If he wanted to die, if he was
willing to give his life, he could destroy those tanks
of vegetation, and not a man on this rocket would live
to land on a planet again.
He stood up and threw out his chest. He inhaled
deeply—and smothered an involuntary sob. He went to the
wash-bowl and washed his face and eyes and combed his
lank, black hair. He absently reached for his
toothbrush, then he shuddered. But habit was too great;
in spite of the feeling of revulsion that the very
thought of toothpowder brought to him, he wound up by
carefully brushing his teeth. Then he felt better.
He started to turn away from the washbowl and
suddenly stopped. He turned back quickly and seized the
can of toothpowder standing there. He picked it up,
poured some of the powder into his hand and let a drop
or two of water fall on it. A sinister grin began to
spread over his face—if he handled this thing right, the
joke they had made in giving him the toothpowder was
going to backfire with a vengeance.
He sat down and began to think.
He sat there for almost half an hour. Once He got
up and went over and examined the openings to the
ventilator pipes. He removed the screen from one of
them, a pipe about two feet in diameter, and looked into
the blackness of the pipe’s interior. What he saw
evidently satisfied him, for he smiled again and went
back to resume his pensive pose.
At last, he rose and with the grim smile playing
on his face he went to work. He climbed up into the
ventilator pipe he had examined, and started to worm his
way into its dark maw. His legs kicked futilely for a
moment, then he was hunching his way along through the
tube.
He worked his way along for a dozen yards or so,
then he came to a place where the tube divided in two.
He unhesitatingly chose the path to the right—he knew
these tubes well enough to traverse them with his eyes
shut, even though he had never seen them from the inside
before. After a few yards of further crawling, he saw a
light ahead and increased his speed. Before long, he
was lying in front of a grating and looking out into the
officer’s mess-room.
He could see Tarrant and Rogers. They were seated
disconsolately at the table, speaking little,
apparently, for Manool watched them for five minutes
before he tried to attract their attention, and in all
that time, Tarrant only spoke once. When Manool tapped
on the grating, they looked up startled, and reached for
their weapons. Rogers was unable to locate the rapping
and swung about a little wildly until Tar-rant pointed
out the ventilator opening. Then he recognized Manool
before Tarrant did.
“It’s the farmer,” he exclaimed, in surprise.
“What are you doing up there, Sarouk?’
Manool beckoned them over to the ventilator.
“Don’t talk too loud,” he cautioned in a hoarse
whisper. “I can’t say much. Somebody is guarding outside
the door, maybe they hear me. They kill Doc Slade and
the chemist. I got a scheme. You take this grating off,
while I go back to the farm and get something.”
He backed away without waiting for an answer and
made his way slowly back to the farm. He picked up one
of his boxes of toothpowder and hoisted it up to the
ventilator shaft, shoving it back as far as he could.
Then he climbed in after it and began his journey back
to the mess room, pushing the box ahead of him. It was
slow work, but he made it at last, and called softly to
Tarrant to come and get the box.
“What’s this all about, Manool?” demanded the
captain, but Manool refused to answer.
“Can’t talk too much, Captain,” he whispered. “Got
to hurry. If someone tries to come in farm before I get
these boxes over here, this whole plan be shot. Don’t
you talk now, please.”
Tarrant nodded his understanding and Manool
started back for another box of toothpowder. As he
hunched his way along, he heard Tarrant say to Rogers,
quite plainly: “Think he knows what he’s doing, Ike?”
He smiled bitterly. It seemed impossible for
anyone to expect anything important could be
accomplished by little Manool Sarouk. Well, if things
went right, he was certainly going to show them, this
time.
In spite of his haste, and in spite of the fact
that Rogers helped him after the third trip, it was some
little time before Manool dropped down in the tank-room
after that last box. He heaved a huge sigh of relief as
he put it into the ventilator shaft, and turned to do
the one thing left to do. This was the one job he hated,
hut it was the most important job of all. He went to
his locker and got out a big bottle and poured liquid
from it into every one of the tanks. He turned off a
valve under each tank and took a hammer and beat the
valve-handle into uselessness. Then, after checking to
make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything, he climbed into
the tube and started pushing that last box of
toothpowder ahead of him.
At last he reached the mess-room again and handed
down his box. He climbed down, himself, and had no more
than landed when Tarrarit was on him with a whispered,
“Come on now, Manool, tell us what this is all about.”
“Just a couple minutes more, Captain,” Manool
pleaded. “You think they can get through that door?”
“Not a chance,” Rogers spoke up.
“That’s fine. Maybe, then, you help me fix that
ventilator, too.” They put the grill back on the
ventilator, and covered it by nailing boards from the
table over it.
By in by, we make that airtight,” said Manool, and
gave his next order. Yes, he was giving orders to the
captain and the navigator now, and he was quite
conscious that he was doing so.
“You get all the bowls and pans and pots in here
and fill ‘em with water. No telling when those fellows
decide to cut our water lines.”
It took them half an hour to do that, and it
wasn’t until it was done that Manool felt satisfied.
Then he began to break open one of the cartons of
toothpowder, explaining his plans as he did so, in the
same whisper he had used all along.
“Those fellows out there got the whole ship to
themselves,” he said. “They got lots of food and lots of
water and lots of air. They got fuel, too, and somebody
who can lay an orbit for contact with Ceres. But I don’t
think they ever get there.”
“There’s a whole lot of fellows, too,” said
Manool, dubiously. I think maybe the air they got won’t
last ‘em.”
“Their air!” ejaculated Tarrant. “Manool, you
haven’t monkeyed with the tanks, have you?”
“I just kill the water-weed, that’s all.”
“Are you nuts, little man?” asked Tar-rant at
last. “How in thunder are we going to breathe, when this
air gets stale. You may smother those pirates, hut we’re
all in the same boat here, you know.”
Manool smacked his fist into his hand to emphasize
his remark.
“We may be in same boat, but we three, we’re in
different part of this boat. Maybe them rats outside
quit breathing, all right, but not us! Look here.”
He seized them both by the shoulder and hauled
them across the room, he broke open one of the
corrugated boxes as they watched, and pulled out a gaily
colored can. He opened the can and dumped the contents
into a pan of water, while they looked on.
He stirred the paste in the bottom of the pan for
a moment and then let out a cry of triumph.
“Aha! See there! What you think of that, by gum!”
A series of bubbles was rising from the paste,
rising and breaking, bringing fragments of the
toothpowder with them, giving the water a cloudy and
dusty quality as they grew and joined each other, faster
and faster. Manool winked.
“Maybe Manool isn’t as big fool as these hoodlums
think,” he said proudly. ‘I don’t know much, maybe. But,
by gum, I know my business. I know about toothpowders
and I know about providing oxygen for rocket ships.
“You know what, Captain. Most toothpowders got
sodium perborate in ‘em. They put it in because that
perborate give off pure oxygen when you put it in water,
and pure oxygen is pretty good antiseptic. Only this
time, we’re going to use that oxygen to keep us alive
instead of killing germs.”
He leaned over and took a sniff of the life-giving
gas.
“In a day or two,” he said, happily, “the air out
in the rest of the rocket is going to get pretty stale.
Then they try to get in here. We hold ‘em out all right,
then after while they come, offering to surrender,
begging for a breath of fresh air. Ain’t it nice to
think that there’s only enough for the three of us? If
we get soft and let ‘em breathe any of our air, nobody
will reach port alive. So we have to be hard and let
that mob of cutthroats smother to death.”
He sat down arid leaned back and smiled. Manool
Sarouk felt pretty good. He felt satisfied with himself
for the first time in a long while.
The End