"Look at this!" exclaimed Dr. Frank.
From Johnson's breast pocket the surgeon drew a folded document. It was a scale drawing of the Planetara interior corridors, the lower control rooms and mechanisms. It was always kept in Johnson's safe. And with it, another document: the ship's clearance papers—the secret code passwords for this voyage, to be used if we should be challenged by any Interplanetary Police ship.
Snap gasped, "My God, that was in my radio room strong box! I'm the only one on this vessel except the Captain who's entitled to know those passwords!"
Out of the silence, Balch demanded, "Well, what about it, Johnson?"
The purser was still defiant. "I won't answer your questions, Balch. At the proper time, I'll explain—Gregg Haljan, you're choking me!"
I eased up. But I shook him. "You'd better talk."
He was exasperatingly silent.
"Enough!" exploded Carter. "He can explain when we get to port. Meanwhile I'll put him where he'll do no more harm. Gregg, lock him in the cage."
We ignored his violent protestations. The cage—in the old days of sea vessels on Earth, they called it the brig—was the ship's jail. A steel-lined, windowless room located under the deck in the peak of the bow. I dragged the struggling Johnson there, with the amazed watcher looking down from the observatory window at our lunging starlit forms.
"Shut up, Johnson! If you know what's good for you—"