Part 5 (1/2)

”My compliments, Mr. Haljan. I hope you have no strong religious convictions, else we will make your table here very miserable!”

The third pa.s.senger had evidently kept out of the argument. Snap introduced him as Rance Rankin. An American--a quiet, blond fellow of thirty-five or forty.

I ordered my breakfast and let the argument go on.

”Won't make me miserable,” said Snap. ”I love an argument. You said, Sir Arthur--”

”I mean to say, I think I said too much. Mr. Rankin, you are more diplomatic.”

Rankin laughed. ”I am a magician,” he said to me. ”A theatrical entertainer. I deal in tricks--how to fool an audience--” His keen, amused gaze was on Ob Hahn. ”This gentleman from Venus and I have too much in common to argue.”

”A nasty one!” the Englishman exclaimed. ”By Jove! Really, Mr. Rankin, you're a bit too cruel!”

I could see we were doomed to have turbulent meals this voyage. I like to eat in quiet; arguing pa.s.sengers always annoy me. There were still three seats vacant at our table; I wondered who would occupy them. I soon learned the answer--for one seat at least. Rankin said calmly:

”Where is the little Venus girl this meal?” His glance went to the empty seat at my right hand. ”The Venza, isn't that her name? She and I are destined for the same theater in Ferrok-Shahn.”

So Venza was to sit beside me. It was good news. Ten days of a religious argument three times a day would be intolerable. But the cheerful Venza would help.

”She never eats the midday meal,” said Snap. ”She's on the deck, having orange juice. I guess it's the old gag about diet, eh?”

My attention wandered about the salon. Most of the seats were occupied. At the Captain's table I saw the objects of my search: George Prince and his sister, one on each side of the Captain. I saw George Prince in the life now as a man who looked hardly twenty-five.

He was at this moment evidently in a gay mood. His clean-cut, handsome profile, with its poetic dark curls, was turned toward me. There seemed little of the villain about him.

And I saw Anita Prince now as a dark-haired, black-eyed little beauty, in feature resembling her brother very strongly. She presently finished her meal. She rose, with him after her. She was dressed in Earth-fas.h.i.+on--white blouse and dark jacket, wide, knee-length trousers of gray, with a red sash her only touch of color. She went past me, flashed me a smile.

My heart was pounding. I answered her greeting, and met George Prince's casual gaze. He, too, smiled, as though to signify that his sister had told him of the service I had done her. Or was his smile an ironical memory of how he had eluded me this morning when I chased him?

I gazed after his small white-suited figure as he followed Anita from the salon. And thinking of her, I prayed that Carter and Halsey might be wrong. Whatever plotting against the Grantline Expedition might be going on, I hoped that George Prince was innocent of it. Yet I knew in my heart it was a futile hope. Prince had been the eavesdropper outside the radio room. I could not doubt it. But that his sister must be ignorant of what he was doing, I was sure.

My attention was brought suddenly back to the reality of our table. I heard Ob Hahn's silky voice. ”We pa.s.sed quite close to the Moon last night, Mr. Dean.”

”Yes,” said Snap. ”We did, didn't we? Always do--it's a technical problem of the exigencies of interstellar navigation. Explain it to them, Gregg. You're an expert.”

I waved it away with a laugh. There was a brief silence. I could not help noticing Sir Arthur Coniston's queer look, and I have never seen so keen a glance as Rance Rankin shot at me. Were all three people aware of Grantline's treasure on the Moon? It suddenly seemed so. I wished fervently at that instant that the ten days of this voyage were over. Captain Carter was right. Coming back we should have a cordon of Interplanetary Police aboard.

Sir Arthur broke the awkward silence. ”Magnificent sight, the Moon, from so close--though I was too much afraid of pressure sickness to be up to see it.”

I had nearly finished my hasty meal when another incident shocked me.

The two other pa.s.sengers at our table came in and took their seats. A Martian girl and man. The girl had the seat at my left, with the man beside her. All Martians are tall. The girl was about my own height.

That is, six feet, two inches. The man was seven feet or more. Both wore the Martian outer robe. The girl flung hers back. Her limbs were encased in pseudomail. She looked, as all Martians like to look, a very warlike Amazon. But she was a pretty girl. She smiled at me with a keen-eyed, direct gaze.

”Mr. Dean said at breakfast that you were big and handsome. You are.”

They were brother and sister, these Martians. Snap introduced them as _Set_ Miko and _Setta_ Moa--the Martian equivalent of Mr. and Miss.

This Miko was, from our Earth standards, a tremendous, brawny giant.

Not spindly, like most Martians, this fellow, for all his seven feet in height was almost heavy set. He wore a plaited leather jerkin beneath his robe and knee pants of leather out of which his lower legs showed as gray, hairy pillars of strength. He had come into the salon with a swagger, his sword ornament clanking.