The scene shifted. Aiken, a space gob, looked up as the audio before him glowed into life, touched his forelock respectfully. "Lieutenant Mallory?"
"The prisoner is in her stateroom?"
"Aye, sir."
"She hasn't been out?"
"Not for a moment, sir." The sailor added, "Might I ask the lootenant what the h—I mean, what's going on?"
"Plenty!" snapped Dan. "That's all, sailor. Carry on!"
The glow faded. Mallory shook his head. No dice on that hunch. Then what else—?
The thought came so suddenly, so breathtakingly, that it literally lifted him out of his chair. There was but one possible answer! The reverse of his former theory. Wilmot was neither the bearer of the precious secret nor a spy. He was the "innocent bystander"; the traditional victim who, from time immemorial, has always been the one to get bopped. Somehow the nervous, jittery little man had learned who the spy was. He had attempted to communicate his knowledge to Captain Algase; the petulance of his own nature had rendered this impossible. And the spy, knowing that Wilmot had learned his secret, had—
Again he pressed the button. This time Sparks said, "Lieutenant Mallory? Have you seen Mr. Lemming? The captain wants to question him, but he can't be found anywhere—"
"Never mind that!" rapped Mallory. "Sparks, I want to know this. How was Wilmot killed?"