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For a moment they remained frozen, straining against one another, and then Biron caught motion at the corner of his eye. The medical officer was rushing past them to sound the alarm.
Biron's hand, the one not holding the other's whip wrist, shot out and seized the officer's ankle. The guard writhed nearly free, and the officer kicked out wildly at him, but, with the veins standing out on his neck and temples, Biron pulled desperately with each hand.
The officer went down; shouting hoarsely. The guard's whip clattered to the floor with a harsh sound.
Biron fell upon it, rolled with it, and came up on his knees and one hand. In his other was the whip.
"Not a sound," he gasped. "Not one sound. Drop anything else you've got."
The guard, staggering to his feet, his tunic ripped, glared hatred and tossed a short, metal-weighted, plastic club away from himself. The doctor was unarmed.
Biron picked up the club. He said, "Sorry. I have nothing to tie and gag you with and no time anyway."
The whip flashed dimly once, twice. First the guard and then the doctor stiffened in agonized immobility and dropped solidly, in one piece, legs and arms bent grotesquely out from their bodies as they lay, in the attitude they had last assumed before the whip struck.
Biron turned to Gillbret, who was watching with dull, soundless vacuity.
"Sorry," said Biron, "but you, too, Gillbret," and the whip flashed a third time.
The vacuous expression was frozen solid as Gillbret lay there on his side.
The force field was still down and Biron stepped out into the corridor. It was empty. This was space-ship "night" and only the watch and the night details would be up.
There would be no time to try to locate Aratap. It would have to be straight for the engine room. He set off. It would be toward the bow, of course.
A man in engineer's work clothes hurried past him.
"When's the next Jump?" called out Biron.
"About half an hour," the engineer returned over his shoulder.
"Engine room straight ahead?"
"And up the ramp." The man turned suddenly. "Who are you?"
Biron did not answer. The whip flared a fourth time. He stepped over the body and went on. Half an hour left.
He heard the noise of men as he sped up the ramp. The light ahead was white, not purple. He hesitated. Then he put the whip into his pocket. They would be busy. There would be no reason for them to suspect him.
He stepped in quickly. The men were pygmies scurrying about the huge matter-energy converters. The room glared with dials, a hundred thousand eyes staring their information out to all who would look. A ship this size, one almost in the class of a large passenger liner, was considerably different from the tiny Tyra
He was on a railed balcony that circled the engine room. In one corner there was a small room in which two men handled computers with flying fingers.
He hurried in that direction, while engineers passed him without looking at him, and stepped through the door.
The two at the computers looked at him.
"What's up?" one asked. "What are you doing up here? Get back to your post." He had a lieutenant's stripes.
Biron said, "Listen to me. The hyperatomics have been shorted. They've got to be repaired."
"Hold on," said the second man, "I've seen this man. He's one of the prisoners. Hold him, Lancy."
He jumped up and was making his way out the other door. Biron hurdled the desk and the computer, seized the belt of the controlman's tunic and pulled him backward.
"Correct," he said. "I'm one of the prisoners. I'm Biron of Widemos. But what I say is true. The hyperatomics are shorted. Have them inspected, if you don't believe me."
The lieutenant found himself staring at a neuronic whip. He said, carefully, "It can't be done, sir, without orders from Officer of the Day, or from the Commissioner. It would mean changing the Jump calculations and delaying us hours."
"Get the authority, then. Get the Commissioner."
"May I use the communicator?"
"Hurry."
The lieutenant's arm reached out for the flaring mouthpiece of the communicator, and halfway there plummeted down hard upon the row of knobs at one end of his desk. Bells clamored in every corner of the ship.
Biron's club was too late. It came down hard upon the lieutenant's wrist. The lieutenant snatched it away, nursing it and moaning over it, but the warning signals were sounding.
Guards were rocketing in upon the balcony through every entrance. Biron slammed out of the control room, looked in either direction, then hopped the railing.
He plummeted down, landing knees bent, and rolled. He rolled as rapidly as he could to prevent setting himself up as a target. He heard the soft hissing of a needle gun near his ear, and then he was in the shadow of one of the engines.
He stood up in a crouch, huddling beneath its curve. His right leg was a stabbing pain. Gravity was high so near the ship's hull and the drop had been a long one. He had sprained his knee badly. It meant that there would be no more chase. If he Won out, it was to be from where he stood.
He called out, "Hold your firer I am unarmed." First the club and then the whip he had taken from the guard went spi
Biron shouted, "I have come to warn you. The hyperatomics are shorted. A Jump will mean the death of us all. I ask only that you check the motors. You will lose a few hours, perhaps, if I am wrong. You will save your lives, if I am right."
Someone called, "Go down there and get him."
Biron yelled, "Will you sell your lives rather than listen?"
He heard the cautious sound of many feet, and shrank backward. Then there was a sound above. A soldier was sliding down the engine toward him, hugging its faintly warm skin as though it were a bride. Biron waited. He could still use his arms.
And then the voice came from above, u
It was Aratap, speaking through the public-address system. The order then came, "Bring the young man to me."
Biron allowed himself to be taken. There were two soldiers on each side, holding him as though they expected him to explode. He tried to force himself to walk naturally, but he was limping badly.
Aratap was in semidress. His eyes seemed different: faded, peering, unfocused. It occurred to Biron that the man wore contact lenses.
Aratap said, "You have created quite a stir, Farrill."
"It was necessary to save the ship. Send these guards away. As long as the engines are being investigated, there's nothing more I intend doing."
"They will stay just awhile. At least, until I hear from my engine men."
They waited, silently, as the minutes dragged on, and then there was a flash of red upon the frosted-glass circle above the glowing lettering that read "Engine Room."
Aratap opened contact. "Make your report!"
The words that came were crisp and hurried: "Hyperatomics on the C Bank completely shorted. Repairs under way."
Aratap said, "Have Jump recalculated for plus six hours."
He turned to Biron and said coolly, "You were right."
He gestured. The guards saluted, turned on their heels, and left one by one with a smooth precision. Aratap said, "The details, please."
"Gillbret oth Hinriad during his stay in the engine room thought the shorting would be a good idea. The man is not responsible for his actions and must not be punished for it."
Aratap nodded. "He has not been considered responsible for years. That portion of the events will remain between you and me only. However, my interest and curiosity are aroused by your reasons for preventing the destruction of the ship. You are surely not afraid to die in a good cause?"