Kenneth Bulmer (12 page)

"Suitable, yes. But unexpected."

"I
suppose you're going to Santa Cruz Two." They had reached a -bar; but
Howland hesitated at the glass door. "I don't need a drink right now and I
don't think you do.

Look,
Helen—I'd love to tell you why I'm here is something deeply romantic and secret
and adventurous. But I'm just taking
a
holiday.
We all are between terms. We're not searching for ancient manuscripts in line
of academic duty—"

"If you don't want a drink, what do you
want?"

He
looked at her. He looked into her eyes. She returned his stare and then, with a
sudden gesture of her right hand on his arm, looked away. Her face colored.

"I—I don't know, Helen. I'm not sure. .
. ."

More than anything else he wanted to tell her
what was going on, empty himself of his worries and fears, bring in the strong
sure comfort of her spirit to help him. Instead, he said, "Perhaps you'd
care to join Professor Randolph? We're going into the grand salon."

Brighdy—too brighdy—she said, "I'd love
that."

They began to walk towards Randolph's suite.

Howland
knew that once in the grand salon when the draw was taking place he could keep
Helen under observation, make sure she was not hurt. Their feet were soundless
on the carpet. They reached Randolph's door. As he raised his hand to activate
the chimes, the door swung open.

Professor Cheslin Randolph had ordered dinner
to be served in his private suite. He tapped his lips with a serviette. The
wine was good. Life was good. In just five more minutes he would walk down to
the Grand Salon and watch the draw. Then—why then Plan Randolph would swing
into Phase Two. Now that success was so closely within his grasp he felt keyed
up, slightly anxious and annoyed that he should experience so foolish a
sensation.

The
bell chimed and he let Willi Haffner in. Haffner said, "That fellow Warner
and a ship's officer are on the way here. I don't know what they want—"

A
frown of annoyance crossed Randolph's face. "This Warner is becoming a
nuisance." He released the catch. Warner and the officer entered.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Warner?"

"Well, now, professor. Perhaps you can
help me quite
a
bit. I've been making a few enquiries into
the death of a man called Fingers Kirkup, back at Lewistead—"

"Really?
How can I possibly be of the slightest use in that type of inquiry? Deoxyribose
Nucleic Acid is more in my line of country."

"I
wouldn't know about that, prof. You have a nephew called Terence Mallow?"

"Yes."

"I expected he would be aboard
Poseidon—"

"But
he is not. Really, Warner, perhaps you would be good enough to give me some
reason why you are asking what, after all, are personal and, I may add,
impertinent questions."

Warner smiled. The ship's officer, a young,
fresh-faced, rugby-shouldered, six-foot of toughness in his white uniform
remained impassively by the door. Randolph, with an odd twinge noted that he
was wearing a sidearm in its holster clipped to his belt.

"I'll
tell you, prof. I anticipate that Howland will be along in a moment. Then we'll
have the whole gang—or the brains of the organization. There's a woman in it
and she'll be picked up in due time."

"What
do you mean?" flared Randolph. "What sort of journalism is this?
Please leave my suite at once. I shall have a word to say to the captain about
this."

Warner glanced meaningly at the officer.
"I am not a journalist. Here." He reached in an inside pocket and
drew out a leather flapped wallet. He flipped it open. Quite plainly Randolph
saw the bronze medallion with the globe of Earth, the palm leaves, the
inscription:
"Terran
Space Navy
Intelligence."

Randolph did not say
anything.

"We're
an old-fashioned kind of organization. But we get results. Fingers Kirkup was
telling what might have been an interesting story; he wouldn't tell all. Before
we heard the rest he was murdered. But we know enough for me to ask Lieutenant
Atherstone here to place you all under arrest. I've been waiting to see what
happens. I still don't know all the story; but I know enough to act now to stop
whatever mischief it is you have planned. My hunch—ah, ah!" he broke off
abruptly as Haffner dived for the door.

Atherstone's gun leaped into his hand. Willi
Haffner froze.

Randolph
retained his composure well. He stared up at Wamer, bulging bis frog's-eyes.
"I think you must have taken leave of your senses, Warner. I'm a professor
of extraterrestrial micro-biology at Lewistead—I know nothing of this man,
Ketchup—"

"Kirkup," said
Warner, gendy.

"I shall have this matter looked into
and I promise you Wamer, you will emerge a very chastened man!" "Just
so long as I stop you—"

Randolph
glanced at his watch. Stella would be going into the Grand Salon now. All over
the ship speakers were hissing, ready to broadcast her voice as she made the
big draw. "I intend to humor you, Wamer. I have not the faintest idea what
you think you are doing. I am on holiday here, I know nothing of the murder of
this man. My nephew has gone on holiday, too. I believe you questioned him at
the time of the murder."

"That's right. He was
clean."

"Very
well. You have a man with a gun and I do not argue with that ridiculous show of
force. I cannot conceive what lies in that inflamed brain of yours and I doubt
that even Doctor Haffner with his profound knowledge of the human brain could
tell. But this I do know—you'll suffer for this indignity, this outrage!"

Randolph
paused. Then he said evenly, "I'm an honest man. What exacdy do you want
with me?"

"You
may be honest now, professor. But that's only because I'm stopping you putting
through your schemes. From what Kirkup said you intend putting through some sort
of hold-up on this ship. You know she's carrying money to pay the Navy—well,
I'm here to see the Navy receive their pay. And from your actions I've judged
you plan the break tonight." Atherstone opened the door. "And
I," said Wamer, "intend to stop that, but good."

The four men stepped into the corridor.
Facing them,

Howland
and Helen Chase stared at the gun in Ather-stone's hand.

"Ah!" said Warner. "The love
birds. Fall in, you two. We're all going to see the captain. And then I'll lock
you up—tight!"

CHAPTER TEN

Poseidon
was
a
large ship. The little procession wended
along corridors and down escalataors, making for that mysterious region aboard
ship where passengers were not allowed and where ship's officers strode about
their work, humanly stripped of that dedicated look they assumed in passenger
compartments, and which so powerfully affected the more susceptible of the
female tourists.

Atherstone
had the decency to holster his sidearm; but he remained at the tail and Howland
for one knew the officer would draw and shoot if Warner gave the word.

He
glanced at his wristwatch. Ten minutes to go and then everyone would have
gathered in the Grand Salon and smaller lounges, ready for the big attraction
of the cruise, the great gamble, the big draw. But—
Poseidon
was a large ship. The minutes ticked away as they walked towards the
control flats.

Randolph
strutted along, his little legs twinkling, his head high, his face a black and
wrinkled mask of wrath. As for Peter Howland, he felt within himself a churning
knot of fear, a chaos of indecision—he even felt they
should
be safely locked away in cells and thus settle once and for all the
problems that wracked him.

After that first abortive break Haffner had
remained subdued, shrunken, drawn in on himself. He walked with head down, chin
pressed against his chest.

The corridor widened into a small annex.
Directly ahead a white-painted door, closed, was marked: PRIVATE. CREW ONLY.
They walked quietly up to it. In the annex a number of passengers sat or
lounged about, obviously waiting for the draw results to come in over the
speakers rather than crush in among the throngs in the Grand Salon. No one looked
at them. But Howland looked at the seated passengers, wondering, trying to
make up his mind to make a break for it, here and now. He rejected the idea at
once.

Warner
opened the door and stood aside to allow them to precede him. Howland said,
"Did you enter my cabin, Warner, and hit me on the head?"

Warner smiled, his hps
barely moving. "Sure."

"Well, next time I'll
be ready, and I may hit back."

"I wouldn't try that,
if I were you. Now get on in."

The
character of the corridor subtly changed beyond that door. The lighting was
dimmer, the carpet less lush, the walls painted with only thought for
protection and not decoration. Through an arched opening a wide main corridor
stretched up to the control room. The party pushed along this, aware of
Atherstone's gun, now held openly.

They had reached the angle beneath the arched
opening when the door behind them opened again. Howland turned to look, aware
of Atherstone swinging around. Through that door marked, PRIVATE-CREW ONLY the
group of passengers he had seen seated in the annex marched in a body. But as
the corridor had
changed,
so, too, the bearing and
manner of these men had changed. Their faces were set and grim, their actions
swift and sure, and they kept their hands in their pockets. There were about a
dozen of them.

Atherstone, the gun still in his hand,
stepped forward.

"What
are you doing here? Passengers aren't allowed here—"

He
didn't say any more. He couldn't. The leading passenger had taken a gun from
his pocket and shot Atherstone in the chest. The officer fell, blood pouring
across the carpet. The gun made no sound.

Tim
Warner let out a yell and, jerking Randolph with him, ducked back behind the
angle of wall. Howland, bemused, wondering what was happening, scuttled hack,
bumping Haffner. He heard three strange cracks in the air above his head, like
a giant ring-master's whip. He couldn't comprehend what they were.

"So your pals have come to rescue you,
have they!" said Warner, hot-eyed, angry. "Well, they won't get
far!"

He
shouted up the corridor, waving his arms, then began to run towards the
control room, leaving Randolph and Haffner and Howland, who put his hand on
Helen's arm.

"What the
blazes—" said Randolph.

Haffner laughed. His face had regained much
of its color. "So someone else is after the bullion! Interesting."

"We'd
better find somewhere to hide—" Howland spoke quickly, feeling his hands
clammy with fear, his mouth dry. To one side a door stood open. The four
bundled through.

The
passengers—gangsters, robbers, hi-jackers—Howland couldn't know how they
regarded themselves—went running up the corridor. Presently the sound of gun
fire broke out, harsh and ugly, and the frenetic stammer of automatic weapons.
The air began to stink with burned explosives. Howland put his head around the
door.

A
man was crawling back down the corridor, his face sheening with blood, his
right leg dragging, twisted and distorted after him. Beyond him the corridor
was filled with darting figures, men running and firing.

As Howland watched about twenty men and
women, passengers, sprinted in through the open crew door, slammed it shut.
They worked as though to a rehearsed drill. Four men remained by the door,
cradling automatic weapons. The others ran past Howland's cracked-open door. A
girl with dark hair and a round, compassionate face, dropped to her knees by
the wounded man, unstrapped her handbag and began to administer first aid.

"Whoever they are," Howland said,
half turning, "they're organized."