"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak, out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
Arliess turned his head at last, slowly, as if the movement were painful. His dispassionate goggles regarded the telltale needles that had come quiveringly alive on the radiodetector box between them, bluntly giving the lie to the automatic chart. "You know more than I supposed," he said, and laughed unpleasantly. "But it won't do you any good now. We're to be inspected in space—a surprise of which we weren't informed until a few minutes before you came sneaking into the ship."
"That's too bad," said Mury. He sounded as if he thought it was too bad. As he spoke, he leaned sidewise, to the left this time, and closed a switch, lighting a darkened panel on the board; his long forefinger selected and pressed two studs. "Too bad," he repeated, and picked up the flame pistol. Young Arliess exploded in another furious surge against the binding clamps, clawing with clumsy gloved hands for the release; then he quieted, and stared at the small black bore trained on him.