“Mister Gabriel,” Captain Quill said, “after what happened last night, I am suspicious of everything that goes on aboard this ship. But—yes. You may take them. However, I want them returned before we land tomorrow morning.”
Mike blinked. Neither he nor anyone else—with the exception of Captain Quill and Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz, the navigator, knew the destination of the ship. Mike hadn’t realized they were that close to their goal. “I’ll have them back by then,” he promised.
“Very well. Now let’s get on about our work.”
The job was completed within forty-five minutes. A man can’t carry a great deal with him on a spaceship. When they were through, Mike the Angel excused himself and went to his quarters. Two hours after that he went to the officers’ wardroom to look up Pete Jeffers. Pete hadn’t been in his quarters, and Mike knew he wasn’t on duty by that time. Sure enough, Jeffers was drinking coffee all by himself in the wardroom. He looked up when Mike came in.
“Hullo, Mike,” he said listlessly. “Come sit. Have some coffee.”
There was a faint aroma in the air which indicated that there was more in the cup than just coffee. “No, thanks, Pete. I’ll sit this one out. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sit. I am drinking a toast to Mister Lew Mellon.” He pointed at the coffee. “Sure you won’t have a mite? It’s sweetened from the grape.”
“No, thanks again.” Mike sat down. “It’s Mellon I wanted to talk about. Did you know him well, Pete?”
“Purty well,” Pete said, nodding. “Yeah, purty well. I always figured him for a great little bloke. Can’t figure what got into him.”
“Me either. Pete, you told me he was an Anglo-Catholic—a good one, you said.”