“I’m ready any time you’re ready, you yellow mutinous bastard!”
Ackerman Boone launched himself at the smaller, older man, who stood his ground unflinchingly although he probably knew he would take a sound beating. But four or five crewmen came between them and held them apart, one saying:
“Look who’s talking, Boone. You say time’s precious but you’re all set to start fighting. Every minute—”
“Every second,” Boone said grimly, “brings us more than a hundred miles closer to the sun.”
“What can we do, Acky?”
Instead of answer, Ackerman Boone dramatically mopped the sweat from his face. All the men were uncomfortably warm now. It was obvious that the temperature within the Glory of the Galaxy had now climbed fifteen or twenty degrees despite the fact that the refrigs were working at full capacity. Even the bulkheads and the metal floor of crew quarters were unpleasantly warm to the touch. The air was hot and suddenly very dry.
“I’ll tell you what we ought to do,” Ackerman Boone said finally. “Admiral Stapleton or no Admiral Stapleton, President of the Galactic Federation or no President of the Galactic Federation, we ought to take over this ship and man the life boats for everyone’s good. If they don’t want to save their lives and ours—let’s us save our lives and theirs!”
Roars of approval greeted Boone’s words, but Spacer McCormick and some of the other veterans stood apart from the loud speech-making which followed. Actually, Boone’s wild words—which he gambled with after the first flush of enthusiasm for his plan—began to lose converts. One by one the men drifted toward McCormick’s silent group until, finally, Boone had lost almost his entire audience.
Just then a T/2 rushed into crew quarters and shouted: “Hey, is Boone around? Has anyone seen Boone?”