"Taking it a bit hard, aren't you, son?"
"I should have ordered him back," said Kort tightly.
"Maybe," retorted Hodge, stuffing a biscuit between his teeth. "And maybe he shouldn't have played the fool. Never give the sea bigger odds than you can help. They do say the critter was all tangled up with the net to the last second—and then it wasn't."
"That's true."
"Reminds me of them native magicians you can see in Dana T'resa. But the sea's full of surprises. We'll never outguess her—well, D'loo?"
The pilot house door had been flung open as by a tempest. One of the stokers, a squat green-skinned Venusian, stood breathless and wild eyed before the two officers.
"Steady, boy," rumbled Hodge. "What's up?"
The native's broad ears twitched. "Twahna ekeh-il! Twahna is dead!" He lapsed into chattering dialect, his eyes almost idiotic with fright.
"He says Twahna was killed by the ghost-snake," muttered Hodge. "Sounds like a lie to cover up some liquor stealing, but we'd better go see. Have Pratt take over; it's almost his watch anyway."
The third officer, flushed of face and glaring resentfully, answered Kort's telephoned summons by appearing on the bridge. He slouched on the leather bench behind the wheel, pulled a bottle from his hip even before the others left.