He stopped, evidently waiting for Manool to speak. The little farmer looked up miserably. "But—what can I do?" he cried, plaintively. "Me, I ain't no fighter, Gilligan. You don't want me for a fighter in your crew."
Gilligan stood up, smiling broadly. Manool's obvious terror of him seemed to have reassured him considerably. He winked confidently.
"Manool," he said. "Your business is to keep the air clean, and that's all you have to do. Except to keep your mouth shut, too. 'Cause if you peep to the Captain, or to Navigator Rogers, you'll be the first to die when we cut loose. But—" He winked again and his smile broadened. "You keep the wind fair and the trap closed, and you won't be forgotten."
He gave one final wink and stepped out, closing the door behind him. And he left Manool in a turmoil of uncertainty. The little farmer knew well where his duty lay. If he did the right thing, he'd go at once to Captain Tarrant and inform him of the impending rebellion. But, if he did, Gilligan would surely get him. He knew well that the threat the thin mate had made had been no idle one.
But if he didn't inform the captain—if he didn't, he'd be a mutineer, too. And he'd have to take his share, and leave the earth, a fugitive, and probably cast his lot with the infamous Huddersfield. He certainly didn't want to do that, either.
He strode back and forth in the tank-room, a victim of uncertainty. He didn't know what to do, he told himself, plaintively.... He still didn't know, when dinner time came.
Manool's abstraction at the dinner table was so noticeable that young Captain Tarrant was forced to speak of it.
"Where's your appetite, Sarouk?" he asked. "You haven't even finished your soup. Aren't you feeling well?"
Manool's face reddened as he answered, but old Doc Slade looked up and eyed Manool keenly.