What shall we do with—
"Shut up," said Captain Torkel, frowning. "Van Gundy wasn't with us. He didn't drink any wine."
They stood over Van Gundy. The singing stopped and the laughter stopped, and time, too, seemed to stop.
An ivory-handled knife was buried hilt-deep in Van Gundy's throat.
They carried the dead man to the shadow beneath the starboard side of the Star Queen. Each was a capped jug of solemn silence.
Captain Torkel withdrew the knife. "Van Gundy's," he muttered. "Van Gundy was killed with his own knife."
He knelt and wiped his blood-smeared hands on the grass. Then he saw Garcia squatting on the deck in the rocket's open airlock. A fan-nosed flame pistol dangled from the engineer's loose hand.
Captain Torkel walked up to him.
"Give me the pistol, Garcia."