The meal was just over in the officers’ mess. With a low exclamation Don Winslow jumped up and stepped to the nearest porthole.
“If I’m not mistaken, Captain,” he said, turning to face the others, “this ship is losing way. The engines, ... hear that, sir? The vibration has stopped completely!”
Captain Riggs sprang to his feet, scowling.
“You’re right, Commander!” he cried. “We’ll be losing steerage way in a few moments. I’ll ring the bridge and find out....”
A heavy knocking on the cabin door interrupted. Opening it, the captain faced a breathless yeoman, whose message of disaster fairly tumbled from his lips.
“Trouble with the main steam line, sir!” the enlisted man reported. “And the Chief Machinist’s Mate has met with an accident, too. Lieutenant Allen requests your presence at once in the engine room!”
VII
“MAN OVERBOARD!”
Shoulder to shoulder with Captain Riggs, Don Winslow made for the engine room ladder. In their wake hurried the medical officer and Lieutenant Red Pennington. Mercedes, at Michael Splendor’s insistence, stayed behind in the cabin.
Not one of them believed that the “accidents” reported by the yeoman were at all accidental. With Scorpion spies aboard trouble could be expected from any quarter. Unfortunately, there was no guessing in advance where disaster would break out; or treachery, for that matter. Even as the Gatoon’s afterguard was bending over Ahern’s twisted corpse in the engine room, a shadowy form slipped into the radio shack, abaft the galley. In the faint glow of a shaded bulb, the man’s face was a mere blur. Only his hands showed in dark outline, as they fingered a pair of invisible dials.
Abruptly the fellow sat down, his right hand now concealed beneath the table. A faint, almost inaudible clicking began spelling out in International Morse Code: “SCP—SCP—Acknowledge—SPC—SPC....”