"Your papers read that you just came from Mars," objected Hamlin.
"I did. We were married just before the ship left. If I were carrying the plague, I'd have it myself. She couldn't have it—"
Hamlin laughed nervously. "I wish you could convince the doctor of that. He's been taking blood tests of me ever since we left her. I'm sorry for you, Coran, but she has it. I saw the grey rash myself. It's horrible, horrible...."
Coran's mind worked like lightning. She had said she would think of something. Something to keep the stateroom to herself. There might even be a more sinister motive than that. After that picture of the man he wanted in her purse, he could believe anything of her. Maybe she even knew about him. She was faking, but how? How, since she had been securely tied when he left her? Had he started his quest at the wrong end? She must have been the woman accomplice who had got a gun through the security police guarding the prisoner.
"What am I charged with?" he asked.
"Deliberate murder and plotting against the welfare of the ship. If the officers agree on your guilt, you can be put to death immediately. They put you through an airlock. The regulations have to be pretty stringent on a space-ship."
Coran stood up. "Let's go up and get it over with," he said. "We'll see about your regulations."
Manacled between the two brawny crewmen, a sullen Coran rode up in the elevators. Outside the wardroom, the group stopped while Hamlin knocked. "I wish you'd let me help you," he said in a final attempt.
Coran shook his head. "I know what I'm doing."
Hamlin shrugged. "I hope you do."