"Never mind. I'm not sure my idea is any good—yet! But have you got a book on physiochemistry?"
"In my office."
"Swell. Get it for me, will you? I'll explain later."
Well, I got him the book and he jammed it into his pocket and disappeared toward the galley, jogging along like a stork on stilts. But I had no time, now, to laugh at Biggs' physical or mental peculiarities.
Because my ears had just caught a sound they did not want to catch. The sound of metal grating on metal near the off-port. The banging of a mailed fist on permalloy, the asthmatic wheeze of the airlock, a sailor's shout ending in a choked gurgle—
I charged back into the radioroom. "Cap," I yelled, "at the airlock! Somebody. It must be—"
It was. Runt Hake and his pirates.
You wouldn't think, to look at Runt Hake, that he was a killer. True, he held a hand pierce gun on us as he approached, moving smoothly, lightly, up the runway. A half dozen men behind him also held their side arms poised, ready for action, while another half dozen deployed down the side corridors toward the engine rooms and control turrets. But as Hake came nearer he tossed back the quartzite headpiece of his bulger, and I saw that his hair was wheat-gold, his lips curved into something like a tender smile, his cheeks smooth, soft, boyish.
His voice was gentle, too. He said, "You offer no resistance, Captain? That is wise."