The crew was uproariously jovial. They had broken out a case of gin that one of them had probably smuggled aboard, and they lit cigarettes and split a bottle and were having a glorious time. It grew more glorious after the third bottle, and one of them brought up the suggestion that they divide the cargo among them right then, to "see what they were going to get."
Gilligan frowned and tried to wave the suggestion down, but a half dozen voices snarled angrily at his refusal, and the slim mate was forced to acquiesce with as good grace as possible. A loader was delegated to guard Doc Slade, then the entire remainder of the crew started aft to the "hold."
In those days, ships usually carried things that were mighty hard to get or make on Mars, and were not too scarce on Earth. In this case, there was a ton of U235, a lot of organic chemicals that still couldn't be synthesized from their elements, and an assortment of odds and ends that were prized by the Martian natives in spite of their cheapness.
Into the bins where this stuff was stored, the shouting pirates who had lately been a well-behaved crew swarmed, shouting and pushing, and laying claim to this and that and the other; and in less than five minutes, three separate fights started. Gilligan stormed, threatened, and at last resorted to violence.
"This stuff'll never be divided fair if you lugs try to settle it by fightin' for it," he roared after he had clipped a couple of them. "What do you think you are, a bunch of pirates? You fools kill each other off, and who brings the ship into port, eh? How long do you think you'd go on livin', if we go short-handed and damage this can on landin'? Huddersfield would kill you off like flies for that. Now calm down and let's get this thing settled."
They stood meekly enough after that, while Gilligan looked the cargo over and assigned this portion to this fellow, that portion to that. He had apportioned a large part of the spoils to them when he came to a dozen or so large corrugated boxes. He read one of the labels and broke out into laughter.
"Look at this, you lugs," he chuckled. "Who's going to get this for his share?"
The others looked and grins began to spread over their faces. The labels said: "Dentogleme Tooth Powd. 1/2 Gr. 4 oz." The grins became laughs, and a dozen eyes turned to Manool. The little farmer felt his face begin to redden; it dawned on him that his habit of dental fastidiousness was not unknown to the crew. Gilligan's next remark made it obvious that this was the truth.
"Manool," he said. "This stuff was probably goin' to Mars to polish the teeth of them shark-jawed natives. But it would have been wasted there, Manool, wasted. But now, Manool, it shall be awarded to you, who'll value it, in appreciation of all you done for us, durin' the mutiny."
His eyes hardened for a moment as if in anticipation of a complaint; then, seeing nothing in Manool's eyes but plaintive acquiescence, he went on: "Take it, Manool, and get out o' here. Take it down to the farm and gloat over it, farmer. There's enough there to last even you for twenty years."