Conroy had barely managed to escape with his life.
And now, he had to get word to the Captain before Bayliss Kent did anything desperate.
He walked down the long corridor toward the Captain’s Quarters. There were officers bustling around the corridor, moving from one office to another; most of them were administrative officers, doing their job of governing the people of the ship.
The guard at the door of the Administration Office saluted him and said nothing as he went inside. He walked over to the appointment desk.
“I’d like to see the Executive Officer, please,” he said.
He had to see the Exec to get permission to speak with the Captain. He expected to have to wait quite a while even for the Exec, and so he was quite surprised when the pretty blonde sergeant told him to go right in.
“He’s in conference,” she said, “but he wants you there.”
“Thanks,” Conroy said, puzzled.
He walked into the Exec’s mahogany-panelled office—and found himself staring squarely down the muzzle of Bayliss Kent’s pistol.
“Well, well—the prodigal returns.” Kent’s lean face wore an ugly sneer. “Get your hands above your head, Conroy.”
“How did you get here?” Conroy demanded. “And where’s the Exec?”
Kent shrugged. “How did we get in? Very simple. I told the Exec I had important news of a mutiny—which I did. The Exec has been—ah—disposed of.”
“And I suppose you’re going to kill me now?”
“No,” Kent said surprisingly. “Things have changed.” His eyes narrowed. “One of my men got a little over-enthusiastic, I’m afraid. The Chief Navigator has been killed.”
“And you think I’ll navigate for you?”
“You’ll have to,” Kent said in blunt tones. “You see, we’re going to turn the ship around. If you don’t navigate, the ship will never get back to Earth.” He smiled coldly. “Surely, an idealist like yourself would never allow a shipload of innocent people to drift through space for all eternity.”
Conroy felt a chill at Bayliss Kent’s words. He knew that Kent was right. He had to do it—unless he could stop Bayliss Kent first. And it didn’t look as though he had much chance. There were five men against him.
“What are you going to do?” Conroy asked. “Lock up the main officers?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to kill them,” Kent said flatly.
“But why? Once you turn the ship around and start back, there won’t be anything they can do.”
“Not to the ship,” said Kent. “But they could have us killed anyway. And, after all, the main reason for this mutiny is to make sure that we see Earth before we die.”
Kent signalled to two of the men. “Take him back and lock him up in the cell. Watch him while the rest of us finish the job.”
He gestured behind himself. The Executive Officer was the law-enforcement officer aboard the ship, and behind his office the detention cells were located.
Conroy felt the two men grab his arms and push him through the open door into a cell.
One of his captors pressed a vibrokey against the locking plate, and the magnetic field came on, clamping the door tight against the frame.
“That ought to hold you,” the man said hoarsely, and with his companion returned to the Exec Officer’s cabin, leaving Conroy alone.
Conroy sat down heavily on the metal bench along the side of the cell and strained his ears for voices from without. He couldn’t hear anything. Evidently Kent and his henchmen had set about their mutinous work.
Conroy scowled. He knew what he was up against personally. They would lock him in the Navigation Observatory for the next ten years, keeping him prisoner while he guided the Starship 1 back to Earth. In all probability, they would shoot him as soon as he was no longer needed as navigator. It would be, he thought, better to die now. But if he did, there would be no one to navigate the ship—and once the fuel gave out, all people aboard would be forever lost.
Of course, it might be possible to figure a way out in ten years. And even if he didn’t, he could leave a message in the navigation log for the officials on Earth to decode. But what good would that do, really? If this expedition failed to reach Procyon, a century of human effort would have been wasted.
Conroy decided he’d have to take his chances now. This was the time to act.
He had one asset: the stun gun. They hadn’t bothered to search him, and so he had been left with one weapon, of sorts.
The trouble with a stun gun was that it wasn’t deadly. He couldn’t simply point it at the guard who had the vibrokey and force his way out. All the guard had to do was to refuse to hand the key over. If Conroy stunned him, he wouldn’t be any better off than before. He had to think up some alternate plan.
He doubled over, clutching at his stomach—and still grasping the stun gun in his hand. “Ohhh!”
The guard came over to the door of the cell and peered downward suspiciously. “Don’t pull any phony sickness with me, Conroy. I’m not going to come into that cell.”
Conroy hadn’t expected him to. Only a fool would fall for that ancient gambit—but it served Conroy’s purpose to have the guard come close to the door.
With one smooth motion, he pulled out the stunner and fired. The guard looked astonished for a bare instant, then dropped senseless.
Quickly, Conroy ran over, put his arm through the bars, took the key, and applied it to the plate. As the field shut off, he heard a voice.
“Hey! What’s going on down there?”
Conroy swore silently. It was the other guard!
He straightened up and surreptitiously pocketed the vibrokey, remaining inside the cell with the door open. He waited for the other guard to approach.
“What happened here?” the guard said, running up with a drawn pistol.
“I didn’t do anything,” Conroy said. “He just keeled over like that.” He shrugged innocently.
The second guard frowned and reholstered his pistol in order to bend over his fallen companion. That was just what Conroy had been waiting for. He jerked up the stun gun and fired.
And nothing happened.
The gun’s charge was gone!
“Hey!” At the sound of the click, the second, guard snapped his head up and went for his gun.
Conroy hurled the useless stunner straight between the bars of the cell. The butt of the gun struck the guard between the eyes, and he dropped to the floor on top of his companion.
Acting quickly, Conroy threw open the door of the cell and scooped up the ray pistols of the two guards. Then, shoving them both within the cell, he locked them in with the vibro-key. He smiled. So far, so good. He turned to run back toward the Exec’s office.
There was no one there. He eased the outer door, gun in hand. Everything looked normal enough, in the outer office. Hiding the ray pistol in his tunic, he strode boldly out.
The blonde at the desk said: “Why, yes, sir. The Captain and the other main officers left here several minutes ago.”
“Was anyone with them?”
“Ah—yes, there was,” she said. “Lieutenant Bayliss Kent and some other junior officers.”
Conroy nodded. That was as expected. “Did they say where they were going?”
“There seems to be something wrong with the atomic furnace at Number Nineteen Thrust Tube. I heard them say they were going down to check it.”
“Thanks.”
He had no time to call anyone, no time to explain. He had to move fast if he was going to save the Captain and the others. Somehow, the thought of Kent’s murdering the Captain was inconceivable. The old man had been on the ship half a century; he was the last survivor of the original crew, and was as much a part of the great star-ship by now as the drive engines and the navigator’s turret.