The chattering Venusian led them to the second forecastle reserved for native seamen. Half a dozen other natives, all off duty for the present, were huddled in the passageway outside. The low room was deserted. A single fluorescent bulb glowed bluishly between the tiers of bunks. Almost directly beneath sprawled Twahna.
His face was cupped in both hands as though to shut out the sight of death. Kort rolled him over and got the shock of his life. The Venusian was dead white, his flesh drained of color. His hands stayed up before his face and Kort tried to put them down.
"He's frozen!" Kort marveled. "Frozen stiff. Feel him."
Hodge touched the man. "It wasn't liquor," he rumbled. "Alcohol will kill a native quick enough, but it won't do that. D'loo says a snake came through the bulkhead while they were getting dressed for their watch, and wrapped itself around Twahna. It was between D'loo and the door, so he had to stay until the thing went back through the bulkhead. And he's too scared to be lying."
There was a clatter of footsteps on the ladder. Kort looked up into the flushed face of Pratt, and knew there was more trouble. Nothing less could have induced him to leave the comfort of the wheelhouse.
"Well, mister?" asked Hodge.
"A—a net tender's been killed," the third mate stuttered. "They say—they say he's the second."
"The third, mister," said Hodge harshly. "Anything queer about the net tender?"
"Yes—yes, he was frozen. Frozen blue. I thought I'd better call you."