Ricker circled the falling ship, saw no trace of a light. Its jets were off but the gyro-brake must be working because it wasn't falling fast. He moved closer alongside, shot out a spotlight. The white beam glowed weirdly on the silver hull, its dead staring windows. He flicked the light through the glass of the liner's control room—and his heart jumped.
It wasn't a Negro or a Mercurian. He could tell by the features which still clung to the face. It was an Earthian, in the stained uniform of Stellar Liners, lying on his back across the instrument board. His arms stuck out stiffly, crumbling hands palm up, and one pipe-like leg swung with the motion of the wallowing ship. His face was black, black as a charred hunk of steak—as if his head had been sprayed with a blow torch....
Ricker spasmodically snapped off the light.
It was several moments before he turned it on again and played it through the ports of the lifeless cabin.
They were all the same. The other pilot lay in the aisle. The detective lolled restlessly near his seat. The old sourdough swayed, upright in his chair—with his head almost burned away.
Ricker clicked off the light, pulled away from the drifting tomb and bent over the transmitter. "Chief?" he said hoarsely. "Everybody on that liner's been murdered. They're black—burned. I don't know how. I think—"
"Do you think you're the only plane with a radio?"
Ricker looked around helplessly as his nerves turned to high tension wire. The very hair on his head tingled. It was a voice vibrating through the walls of the boat itself. An insane metallic voice from nowhere.
Suddenly little dots of fire began to rain over the boat, sparkled on the glass roof. Then a stream of crimson light gashed the blackness outside and a drone of rockets came softly into the cabin. He caught a glimpse of a space ship circling over. The light disappeared in a cascade of sparks again. The plane vanished behind him.
Ricker gripped the panel and his nails whitened. He began talking to the transmitter, very clearly and carefully.