Star Winds

With the loping steps they were already used to, Zhorga led the way to the air-shed, a double-doored cubicle erected on the maindeck which acted as an airlock and gave access to below decks. One by one they passed through it, pulling themselves hand over hand down the companionway beneath until they were standing in the short corridor that led to the common messdeck. Here they removed their helmets and placed them on the companionway steps. A murmur of voices came from the end of the passageway, where a glimmer of lamplight outlined the frame of a door.

Zhorga beckoned. Lead boots thudded quietly on timber as they crept to the end of the corridor. Then Zhorga pushed open the door, and without a pause stepped through.

Faces turned, and froze to see Zhorga’s bearded visage. Zhorga glowered around him, taking in the long compartment with bunks down both sides and a board table down the middle. A barrel of powdered air threw off a faint smoke which dissipated quickly into breathable phlogiston. He had known there were not many weapons aboard; as he glanced here and there he saw axes, knives, a couple of swords—and one more flintlock, lying on the table in front of Boxmeld, who was regarding him with a calculating eye.

Zhorga pointed his cutlass at him. “Sparge got what he deserved, Boxmeld—and the same is in store for you, unless you give yourself up and take whatever punishment I mete out.”

Standing to the rear, Rachad wondered if Zhorga’s apparent confidence was not misplaced. What if the whole crew were ready to rally behind Boxmeld? How could Zhorga possibly cope?

Boxmeld clearly had the same thought. He came to his feet with an unpleasant smile and turned, addressing the others. “Well, do you want to follow our good captain into eternity, boys? Do you want to die out here, where no one will even find our bodies? Of course you don’t—so get them!”

As he snapped out the last words he snatched up his pistol. But Clabert was too quick for him; his shot took Boxmeld in the throat, and the renegade fell slowly back with the blast still resounding on the air.

His death was hardly noticed by those who attempted to rush the newcomers. Zhorga and Clabert found themselves shoulder to shoulder, facing a dozen angry and determined men. Rachad, heeding Zhorga’s earlier advice, dodged back into the passageway, and peered between the straining bodies to try to see what was happening.

Zhorga realized that few of his crewmen had stomach enough to fight. Even so, the odds were heavily against himself and Clabert, encumbered as they were in their spacesuits. He slashed and swiped, ripping cloth and spilling a spray of blood, at the same time taking a nick in the cheek.

Momentarily the mutineers drew back from the ferocious blades. “Give up!” a voice cried hoarsely. “You haven’t got a chance!”

At that moment a loud pounding noise came from the far end of the messdeck. A door that led to a storeroom burst open. Through it piled four men whose faces Zhorga had noticed were missing from the gathering—those same diehards who had already saved the ship when she had been caught in the hurricane.

Yelling wildly, the four raced the length of the mess-deck, shoving aside any who stood in their way and grabbing up chairs to attack the renegades from the rear. For a while the scene resembled a tavern brawl. In the confusion Zhorga managed to disarm one of the swordsmen facing him, snatching up the weapon and tossing it to his new fillies.

Axes and knives were no match for three skillfully wielded swords, and suddenly the fight did not seem so uneven. Even so, more blood was spilled before the mutineers lost heart, threw down their weapons and backed grudgingly against the bunks. Three were dead; four others lay injured.

Zhorga called for Salwees, a sailor who doubled as barber and amateur surgeon. While the wounds were being dressed he turned to Bruge, one of those who had come bursting in from the storeroom.

“Thanks for your intervention,” he said. “I was wondering where you were.”

“We couldn’t get loose straight away,” Bruge replied. He grinned crookedly. “They took us by surprise, you know. But you needn’t worry about us—we’re with you, all the way.”

Zhorga nodded. He turned to face the rest of the crew, who were staring ashen-faced. “So, you want to go home,” he rumbled. “Well, there’s only one thing I can say to you—put the thought out of your minds. It’s Mars we’re bound for, and Mars is where we’re going. When we come back, you’ll all be rich.”

“We’ll never get there!” a sailor backed against the bunks protested in a tremulous voice. “The ship’s simply not up to it. Already we must be way off course!”

“It’s true we’re a few degrees off,” Zhorga admitted in an even, reasonable tone, “but it’s nothing we can’t compensate for. We’re navigable; we can correct errors.” His voice became suddenly impatient. “Do you think I can’t read an astrolabe?”

“You can’t correct for space monsters,” another voice muttered.