Mutiny in the Void
By CHARLES R. TANNER
Manool's plan for breaking the mutiny
on the Berenice was simplicity itself.
He utterly destroyed the plants that
furnished oxygen for the entire ship.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The tank-room of the rocket-ship Berenice, where the big tanks ofwater-weed were kept, was so spick and span that a man needed littlepsychology to realize that its manager was a dapper, finicky, carefullittle man. The room's lights were bright and efficient, the waterin the tanks fresh and clean, and there were no decaying fronds ofvegetation among the thousands of stems of water-weed which, floatingabout in the tank, absorbed the carbon dioxide which was pumped throughthe water, and gave back a constant stream of tiny bubbles of oxygen.
For this "farm," as the tank-room was called, was the oxygen-producerfor the rocket, and under the expert care of Manool Sarouk, the"farmer," it kept the air as fresh and wholesome as the air of Earth.Manool was proud of his work, and of the way he handled it, just as hewas proud of his appearance, and the way he kept that.
But at the moment thoughts of pride and satisfaction were furthest fromManool Sarouk's mind. He had just opened the door of the tank-room andentered, and on his face were written terror and anxiety, and writtenin unmistakable characters.
For Manool had just been an unconscious eavesdropper on aconversation—a conversation between Gilligan, the tall, cadaverous"mate" of the ship, and one of the fuel-wrestlers. Manool didn't knowthe name of the wrestler, for most of the crew were new men, picked byGilligan on this, his second trip with the Berenice.
But his name was of no moment—it was the gist of the conversation thatmattered. It was that which made the dapper little "farmer" tremblewith anxiety and, yes—terror. For they had spoken of mutiny—and ofmutiny imminent and likely to break out at any minute.
Manool was neat, and Manool was proud, but no one would call him brave.He was frightened now—frightened almost out of his wits, and uncertainas to what he should do. He mechanically reached into the breast ofhis jacket and drew out a tobaccolette. He stuck it in his mouth andinhaled it, wishing it was a cigarette he was smoking. Ninety-nine"farmers" out of a hundred wasted oxygen by smoking tobacco, but notManool. The rules said "no cigarettes," so it was "no cigarettes" forhim.
He tossed the tobaccolette away before it was half empty and began topace the floor nervously. He went to the washstand and brushed thestain of the tobaccolette from his teeth. He made a test of the air,and smiled a little as he noted that the oxygen content was well abovepar. He examined the weeds, and removed a sickly looking frond or two.But his mind was not on his work, and he soon resumed his uneasy pacing.
And then there was a knock on the door. His heart flew into his mouth;he glanced around to see if there was any place to flee, and thencalled out weakly: "Who's there?"
"It's me—Gilligan," came the sharp voice of the mate, and Manool'spanic became, if possible, greater.
"What—what do you want?" he stammered.
Gilligan's voice grew even sharper. "What's the matter with you,Manool?" he snapped. "Lemme in. I want to have a talk with you."
Manool was trembling violently, but he moved forward and unlatched thedoor.