Cargraves was at a loss for words at the blind illogic of the speech. Ross looked disgusted; he seemed about to say something. Cargraves shook his head at him.
"That speech," he announced, "had more lies, half-truths, and twisted statements per square inch than anything you've said yet. But I'll put you straight on one point: the Galileo didn't bomb your base; she's wrecked. But your men were careless. We seized your rocket and turned your own bombs on you-"
"Idioten!"
"They were stupid, weren't they? The Master Race usually is stupid when it comes to a showdown. But you claimed we bombed you without warning. That is not true; you had all the warning you were entitled to and more. You struck the first blow. It's merely your own cocksureness that led you to think we couldn't or wouldn't strike back."
Von Hartwick started to speak. "Shut up!" Cargraves said sharply. "I'm tired of your nonsense. Tell me how you happen to have this American ship. Make it good."
"Oh, that! We bought it."
"Don't be silly."
"I am not being silly. Naturally we did not walk in and place an order for one military space ship, wrapped and delivered. The transaction passed through several hands and eventually our friends delivered to us what we needed."
Cargraves thought rapidly. It was possible; something of the sort had to be true. He remembered vaguely an order for twelve such ships as the Wotan had originally been designed to be, remembered it because the newspapers had hailed the order as a proof of post-war recovery, expansion, and prosperity.
He wondered if all twelve of those rockets were actually operating on the run for which they had supposedly been purchased.
"That is the trouble with you stupid Americans," von Hartwick went on. "You assume that every one shares your silly belief in such rotten things as democracy. But it is not true. We have friends everywhere. Even in Washington, in London, yes, even in Moscow. Our friends are everywhere. That is another reason why we will win."
"Even in New Mexico, maybe?"
Von Hartwick laughed. "That was a droll comedy, my friend. I enjoyed the daily reports. It would not have suited us to frighten you too much, until it began to appear that you might be successful. You were very lucky, my friend, that you took off as soon as you did."
"Don't call me ‘my friend'," Cargraves said testily. "I'm sick of it."
"Very well, my dear Captain." Cargraves let the remark pass. He was getting worried by the extended absence of Art and Morrie. Was it possible that some other of the Nazis were still around, alive and capable of making trouble?
He was beginning to think about tying up the prisoner here present and going to look for them when the lock sighed open. Morrie and Art stepped out, prodding the other prisoner before them. "He didn't want to come, Uncle," Art informed him. "We had to convince him a little." He chuckled. "I don't think he trusts us."
"Okay. Get your suits off."
The other prisoner seemed completely dumfounded by the sight of von Hartwick. Hastily he unclamped his helmet, threw it back, and said in German, "Herr Oberst—it was not my fault. I was-"
"Silence!" shouted the Nazi officer, also in German. "Have you told these pig-dogs anything about the operation of this ship?"
"Nein, nein, Herr Oberst—I swear it!"
"Then play stupid or I'll cut your heart out!"
Cargraves listened to this interesting little exchange with an expressionless face, but it was too much for Art. "Uncle," he demanded, "did you hear that? Did you hear what he said he'd do?"
Von Hartwick looked from nephew to uncle. "So you understand German?" he said quietly. "I was afraid that you might." Ross had let the muzzle of his gun wander away from von Hartwick when the boys came in with their prisoner. Cargraves had long since shoved the pistol he had appropriated into his belt.
Von Hartwick glanced from one to another. Morrie and Art were both armed, one with a Garand, the other with revolver, but they had them trained on the Nazi pilot. Von Hartwick lunged suddenly at Cargraves and snatched the pistol from his belt.
Without appearing to stop to take aim he fired once. Then Cargraves was at him, clawing at his hands.
Von Hartwick brought the pistol down on his head, club fashion, and moved in to grapple him about the waist.
The Nazi pilot clasped his hands to his chest, gave a single bubbly moan, and sank to the floor. No one paid him any attention. After a split second of startled inaction, the three boys were milling around, trying to get in a shot at von Hartwick without hitting Cargraves. Cargraves himself had jerked and gone limp when the barrel of the pistol struck his head. Von Hartwick held the doctor's thirty pounds of moon-weight up with one arm. He shouted, "Silence!"
His order would have had no effect had not the boys seen something else: Von Hartwick was holding the pistol to Cargraves' head. "Careful, gentlemen," he said, speaking very rapidly. "I have no wish to harm your leader and will not do so unless you force me. I am sorry I was forced to strike him; I was forced to do so when he attacked me."
"Watch out!" commanded Morrie. "Art! Ross! Don't try to shoot."
"That is sensible," von Hartwick commended him. "I have no wish to try to shoot it out with you. My only purpose was to dispose of him." He indicated the body of the Nazi pilot.
Morrie glanced at it. "Why?"
"He was a soft and foolish pig. I could not afford to risk his courage. He would have told you what you want to know." He paused, and then said suddenly, "And now—I am your prisoner again!" The pistol sailed out of his hand and clanged against the floor.
"Get Doc out of my way," Ross snapped. "I can't get a shot in."
"No!" Morrie thundered. "Art, pick up the pistol. Ross, you take care of Doc."
"What are you talking about?" Ross objected. "He's a killer. I'll finish him off."
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Well—Doc wouldn't like it. That's reason enough. Don't shoot. That's an order, Ross. You take care of Doc. Art, you tie up the mug. Make it good."
"It'll be good!" promised Art.
The Nazi did not resist and Morrie found himself able to give some attention to what Ross was doing. "How bad is it?" he inquired, bending over Cargraves.
"Not too bad, I think. I'll know better when I get some of this blood wiped away."
"You will find dressings and such things," von Hartwick put in casually, as if he were not in the stages of being tied up, "in a kit under the instrument board in the control room."
"Go look for them, Ross," Morrie directed. "I'll keep guard. Not," he said to von Hartwick, "that it will do you any good if he dies. If he does, out you go, outside, without a suit. Shooting's too good for you."
"He won't die. I hit him very carefully."
"You had better hope he doesn't. You won't outlive him more than a couple of minute."
Von Hartwick shrugged. "It is hardly possible to threaten me. We are all dead men. You realize that, don't you?"
Morrie looked at him speculatively. "Finished with him, Art? Sure he's tied up tight?"
"He'll choke himself to death if he tries to wiggle out of that one."
"Good. Now you," he went on to von Hartwick, "you may be a dead man. I wouldn't know. But we're not. We are going to fly this ship back to earth. You start behaving yourself and we might take you with us."