"He says you're a sissy, sir. Afraid of the storm. He says you ain't got no business—"
"Very good, Mr. Seymour. That will be all."
Rawson watched with a fond smile as Seymour departed.
Rawson had no intention of letting his precious cargo of serum be lost or his first space ship wrecked because of Durk's desire for the captaincy.
He picked up a volume "Cross Currents of Space" from his book shelf and opened it. After poring intently through many pages, he snapped to his crane-like feet with a grin.
They were approaching Orus—the planet which was covered with borax sand.
Rawson drew together his gangling frame, hung together with tremendous muscles and casually strode on his long legs into the control room.
The crew worked under the emergency lights dismantling the control panel. Durk's bullying voice urged them to speed like the slave whips of Jupiter. His face marked with his years in the space lanes like a freighter's meteor scars was covered with streaks of oil.
"Orus dead ahead," Rawson remarked with a grin. "It wouldn't do to set the Star Flight down for repairs."