Duane felt the tenseness ebb out of his throat. Here was a friend.
"Captain," he said, "you seem to be a friend of mine. If you are—I need you. You see, I've lost my memory."
"Lost your memory?" the captain echoed. "You mean that blow on your head? The ship's surgeon said something ... yes, that was it. I hardly believed him, though."
"But were we friends?"
"Why, yes, Peter."
"Then help me now," said Duane. "I have a cargo stowed in your hold, Captain. Do you know what it is?"
"Why—yes. The rifles, you mean?"
Duane blinked. He nodded, then looked dizzily for a chair. The captain was a friend of his, all right—a fellow gun-runner!
"Good God," he said aloud. "What a mess!"
"What's happened?" the captain asked. "I saw you in the corridor, arguing with Stevens. You looked like trouble, and I should have come up to you then. But the course was to be changed, and I had to be there.... And the next I hear, Stevens is dead, and you've maybe killed him. Then I heard you've lost your memory, and are in a jam with Andrias."