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.
