He bowed forward, until his helmet touched the ground, then collapsed.
Cargraves heard a noise behind him. Snatching the gun he had taken to the ready, and turning, he watched the door of the air lock open.
It was Art, wild-eyed and red. “Any more in here?” the boy called out to him, while swinging his revolver in a wide arc. His voice reached Cargraves faintly, muffled by their two helmets.
“No. Turn on your radio,” he shouted back, then realized his own was still off. Switching it on, he repeated his statement.
“Mine is on,” Art replied. “I turned it on while the lock filled. How are they doing outside?”
“All right, it looks like. Here, you guard this guy.” He pointed down at his feet. “I’m going outside.”
But it was unnecessary. The lock opened again and both Ross and Morrie bulged out of it. Cargraves wondered absently how the two had managed to squeeze into that coffin-like space.
“Need any help?” demanded Morrie.
“No. It doesn’t look like you guys did, either.”
“We ambushed `em,” Ross said jubilantly. “Hid in the shadow of the ship and picked `em off as they showed up. All but the second one. He darn near got us before we got him. Do you know,” he went on conversationally, as if he had spent a lifetime shooting it out, “it’s almost impossible to sight a gun when you’re wearing one of these fish bowls over your head?”
“Hmm . . . You made out all right.”
“Pure luck. Morrie was shooting from the hip.”
“I was not,” Morrie denied. “I aimed and squeezed off every shot.”
Cargraves cautioned them to keep an eye on the prisoner, as he wanted to take a look around outside. “Why,” demanded Art, “bother to guard him? Shoot him and chuck him out, I say.”
“Cool down,” Cargraves told him. “Shooting prisoners isn’t civilized.”
Art snorted. “Is he civilized?”
“Shut up, Art. Morrie — take charge.” He shut himself in the air lock.
The examination took little time. Two of the strangers had received wounds which would have been fatal in any case, it seemed to him, but their suits were deflated in any event. The third, whose helmet had been struck, was equally beyond help. His eyes bulged sightlessly at the velvet sky. Blood from his nose still foamed. He was gone — drowned in vacuum.
He went back to the little ship, without even a glance at the dismal pile of junk that had been the sleekly beautiful Galileo.
Back in the ship, he threw himself in one of the acceleration chairs and sighed. “Not so bad,” he said. “We’ve got a ship.”
“That’s what you think,” Art said darkly. “Take a look at that instrument board.”
Chapter 16: THE SECRET BEHIND THE MOON
“WHAT?” SAID CARGRAVES and looked where he was pointing.
“This is no space ship,” Art said bitterly. “This thing is a jeep. Look at that.” He indicated two gauges. One was marked SAUERSTOFF, the other ALKOHOL. “Oxygen and alcohol. This thing is just a kiddy wagon.”
“Maybe those are just for the maneuvering jets,” Cargraves answered, not very hopefully.
“Not a chance, Doc,” Ross put in. “I’ve already given her the once-over, with Art translating the Jerry talk for me. Besides, did you notice that this boat hasn’t any wings of any sort? It’s purely a station wagon for the moon. Look, we’ve got company.”
The prisoner had opened his eyes and was trying to sit up. Cargraves grabbed him by a shoulder, yanked him to his feet, and shoved him into the chair he had just vacated. “Now, you,” he snapped. “Talk!”
The man looked dazed and did not answer. “Better try German on him, Uncle,” Art suggested. “The labels are all in German.”
Cargraves reached far back into his technical education and shifted painfully to German. “What is your name?”
“My name is Friedrich Lenz, sergeant-technician of the second class. To whom am I speaking?”
“Answer the questions you are asked. Why did you bomb our ship?”
“In line of duty. I was ordered.”
“That is not a reason. Why did you bomb a peaceful ship?” The man simply looked sullen. “Very well,” Cargraves went on, still speaking in German. “Get the air lock open, Art. We’ll throw this trash out on the face of the moon.”