Part 4 (1/2)

Chet's groan, as he turned his face away from the others who had tried to smile cheerfully, had nothing to do with the pain of his body. It was his mind that was torturing him.

But he muttered broken words as he lay there, words that had reference to one Schwartzmann. ”I'll get him, d.a.m.n him! I'll get him!” he was promising himself.

And Herr Schwartzmann, who was clever, would have proved his cleverness still more by listening. For a Mister Pilot of the World does not get his rating on vain boasts. He must know first his flying, his s.h.i.+ps and his air--but he is apt to make good in other ways as well.

CHAPTER III

_Out of Control_

Walter Harkness had built this s.h.i.+p with Chet's help. They had designed it for s.p.a.ce-travel. It was the first s.h.i.+p to leave the Earth under its own power, reach another heavenly body, and come back for a safe landing. But they had not installed any luxuries for the pa.s.sengers.

In the room where the three were confined, there were no self-compensating chairs such as the high-liners used. But the acceleration of the speeding s.h.i.+p was constant, and the rear wall became their floor where they sat or paced back and forth. Their bonds had been removed, and one of Harkness' hands was gripping Diane's where they sat side by side. Chet was briskly limbering his cramped muscles.

He glanced at the two who sat silent nearby, and he knew what was in their minds--knew that each was thinking of the other, forgetting their own danger; and it was these two who had saved his life on their first adventure out in s.p.a.ce.

Walt--one man who was never spoiled by his millions; and Diane--straight and true as they make 'em! Some way, somehow, they must be saved--thus ran his thoughts--but it looked bad for them all. Schwartzmann?--no use kidding themselves about that lad; he was one bad hombre. The best they could hope for was to be marooned on the Dark Moon--left there to live or to die amid those savage surroundings; and the worst that might happen--! But Chet refused to think of what alternatives might occur to the ugly, distorted mind of the man who had them at his mercy.

There was no echo of these thoughts when he spoke; the smile that flashed across his lean face brought a brief response from the despondent countenances of his companions.

”Well,” Chet observed, and ran his hand through a tangle of blond hair, ”I have heard that the Schwartzmann lines give service, and I reckon I heard right. Here we were wanting to go back to the Dark Moon, and,”--he paused to point toward a black portlight where occasional lights flashed past--”I'll say we're going; going somewhere at least.

All I hope is that that Maxie boy doesn't find the Dark Moon at about ten thousand per. He may be a great little skipper on a nice, slow, five-hundred-maximum freighter, but not on this boat. I don't like his landings.”

Diane Delacouer raised her eyes to smile approvingly upon him. ”You're good, Chet,” she said; ”you are a darn good sport. They knock you down out of control, and you nose right back up for a forty-thousand foot zoom. And you try to carry us with you. Well, I guess it's time we got over our gloom. Now what is going to happen?”

”I'll tell you,” said Walter Harkness, looking at his watch: ”if that fool pilot of Schwartzmann's doesn't cut his stern thrust and build up a bow resistance, we'll overshoot our mark and go tearing on a few hundred thousand miles in s.p.a.ce.”

Diane was playing up to Chet's lead.

”_Bien!_” she exclaimed. ”A few million, perhaps! Then we may see some of those Martians we've been speculating about. I hear they are handsome, my Walter--much better looking than you. Maybe this is all for the best after all!”

”Say,” Harkness protested, ”if you two idiots don't know enough to worry as you ought, I don't see any reason why I should do all the heavy worrying for the whole crowd. I guess you've got the right idea at that: take what comes when it gets here--or when we get there.”

Small wonder, thought Chet, that Herr Schwartzmann stared at them in puzzled bewilderment when he flung open the door, and took one long stride into the room. Stocky, heavy-muscled, he stood regarding them, a frown of suspicion drawing his face into ugly lines. Plainly he was disturbed by this laughing good-humor where he had expected misery and hopelessness and tears. He moved the muzzle of a detonite pistol back and forth.

”You haff been drinking!” he stated at last. ”You are intoxicated--all of you!” His eyes darted searching glances about the little room that was too bare to hide any cause for inebriation.

It was Mam'selle Diane who answered him with an emphatic shake of her dark head; an engaging smile tugged at the corners of her lips. ”_Mais non!_ my dear Herr Schwartzmann,” she a.s.sured him; ”it is joy--just happiness at again approaching our Moon--and in such good company, too.”

”Fortunes of war, Schwartzmann,” declared Harkness; ”we know how to accept them, and we don't hold it against you. We are down now, but your turn will come.”

The man's reply was a sputtering of rage in words that neither Chet nor Harkness could understand. The latter turned to the girl with a question.

”Did you get it, Diane? What did he say?”

”I think I would not care to translate it literally,” said Diane Delacouer, twisting her soft mouth into an expression of distaste; ”but, speaking generally, he disagrees with you.”