He lifted his head, his long nostrils flaring. "Murder! What's that stink coming from?"
The old man grimaced up at the air-grill.
"Eeugh! Low tide on Venus!"
Pritchard got up and went toward the intercom. "Something's died, I'd say, inside the ship or close by."
At that instant the intercom's tiny diaphragm screamed. Screamed, and broke off into a hoarse babble. The two men froze, scowling at each other. The babble rose again into a sharp screaming "NO!"—and then stopped.
Pritchard stepped to the 'phragm. "Chief on. All stations and quarters report, please."
Voices came back at him out of the wall. "Nose watch. All X here, Mr. Pritchard. What happened?"
"Stern watch. All X, chief. What—?"
"Wardroom, Greene on. All X. Something stinks, chief."
"Engine room. All X."