"See, Skipper? It's got him, too. We're all going to be candidates for the straitjacket squad when we finish this trip."
Algase smiled sourly. "Well, don't lift gravs for the next twenty-four hours, that's all I ask. See you later, boys." He turned to leave; was interrupted by the buzz of the intercommunications box. "What, again! Yes, Sparks—what is it this time? If it's Wilmot again, tell him to go beat his brains out with a rusty bar! I'll see him at—"
Sparks' voice was harsh with excitement.
"It is Wilmot, sir! But I can't tell him anything. He's dead, sir! Murdered!"
Chandler said, "Murdered? Mi-god!" Captain Algase said a more effective and less printable thing which ended in, "Come on!" And he and Chandler pounded down the runway, their footsteps ringing on the Jacob's-ladder, disappearing in the distance.
Dan Mallory, his thoughts chaotic, sat chained to his bucket seat by the obligation of guiding the spaceship through the treacherous void. His fingers played over the control keys automatically; slowly the chaos left his brain and cold, clear, reasoning thought took its place.
Wilmot dead. Why? The first thought that suggested itself was Norton. Motive—jealousy. The desire to get Susan Wilmot's husband out of the way so—
But that was illogical. Norton was a skirt-chaser and a quixotic fool, but he wasn't a criminal. Murder was not in his line. Why else, then?
Because Wilmot had been the bearer of the formula? Had he been slain by a spy? And if so, by whom? Lady Alice was in her cabin, or at least—with a swift constriction of the throat—Dan hoped she was. He pressed the intercommunications button hurriedly; Sparks' face appeared before him on the visiplate. "Get me the M-13 plate, Sparks! The one in the stateroom passageway!"