"No, it ain't!" the other said flatly. "You deserted yore duty. Me and the crew'll make it stick before the court-martial back home!"
Rawson saw that the underofficer had the force to back him up. "You won this round, Durk. But it's only the first." He smiled coolly.
A young cyclone thundered into the cabin. "Hey, what's going on here?"
"Mr. Seymour!" This from Rawson.
Young Seymour hesitated, but his freckled face was blazing. "Yes, sir." He replied mechanically. But his fists were balled and he advanced angrily on Durk. "You can't do it! Captain's got more brains than the whole bunch of you!"
"Shut up, Squirt!"
Young Seymour lunged at Durk and pounded his fists again the alligator toughness of the underofficer. Durk deftly cuffed the cabin boy and knocked him into a corner.
Seymour rose slowly, wiping the blood from the cut on his lips. He charged again with head lowered and balled fists.
Durk gave him a brief glance. "Throw him in irons."
Two hard space men grabbed Seymour by the arms and hauled him, kicking, out of the cabin. The boy's words came floating back. "You're goin' to be sorry, Durk—"