"Bins Number 13, 14 and 15, Mr. Thaxton. The first two are filled with ammunition; the last contains rotor-guns, grenades and two field pieces—"
It was at that moment that hope finally deserted me. True, Lancelot Biggs' actions had been strange, and he had seemed eager to sell us out, to save his own skin. But I had been withholding judgment—because I knew, or thought I knew, something of the genius in Biggs. I had been hoping against hope that his pose was only a ruse calculated to lull Thaxton's suspicions; so that somehow, by some trick, everything might turn out well.
But when he told the numbers of those bins, I knew at last, and with a sickening sense of distaste for all mankind, that Lancelot Biggs—my one-time friend and bunkmate—had failed under pressure. He was a traitor! Because he told the exact truth. The guns and ammunition were exactly where he had told Thaxton!
Cap Hanson was looking at Biggs as if he were some kind of slimy snail. Cap made a faint rubbing gesture, and spat. Biggs' eyes sought mine—but I refused to meet them. For a long moment there was silence, then Thaxton said,
"And how do I know you're telling the truth, Biggs?"
"But—but I am!" protested Biggs. His lanky legs gangled; there was sweat on his forehead. He was an abject picture of fear and treachery.
"You know I—"
"I know nothing about you," said Thaxton crisply. "For all I know, the bins you mention may be designed in such a fashion as to explode if anyone opens them. If so—"
Sudden hope leaped into Biggs' eyes. He bleated,