Several strangling voices replied in order. Pritchard and Savage crowded into the lift with the rest of the men and went aloft.
"What do you think it is, son?" said Savage. Pritchard shrugged. "I don't know. What kind of thing or things could get through the ventilating system?"
The old man pursed his lips. "That's right. That's how we smelled it first. And then the blowers kicked off when all that compression backed up to them. You're right, Mr. Pritchard, whatever it is, it's still in the ducts."
The lift halted at the muster deck and the door slid open. "So here's what we'll do," said Pritchard as they stepped off. The old man heard him out and then nodded slowly, his rheumy eyes narrowing.
They waited while the men arrived, the whole ship's company of twenty cadet hunters (less McManus, now) and five crewmen. They all stood around eyeing Pritchard and the captain. The air was heavy with that lurking stench, but it was not too thick here to be unbreathable.
As soon as the gas mask detail had shoved the last of the cartons off the lift Pritchard started for the controls.
The muster deck was a heavily insulated circular chamber a bit forward from amidships.
The entire ship could be controlled from there. In emergencies it could be detached from the ship and used as a temporary space raft, having all necessary supplies in its padded wall lockers.
"First," announced Pritchard, "we're going to button this ship up tight." He reached for the ventilator switch and flicked it on.
Little motors all over the inner and outer hulls began wheeling shut the valves that closed the six-inch holes that were the ventilating system's intake and exhaust ports. In a matter of seconds the Apollo would stop breathing the wine-like night air of Thisbe II.