Title: The Cosmic Derelict
Author: Broome, John
Language: English
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                          The Cosmic Derelict

                            By JOHN BROOME

                Ever-deeper into that Sargasso of space
              the Earth-bound Lucifer bored. And guiding
                   her, mocking her, was the fabled,
            gaunt-skeletoned Flying Dutchman of the stars.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Summer 1942.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


It was Tug Skelly's fault that the Starways freighter, _Lucifer_,
four hours out of Orion City, was running behind time; and Captain
Christopher Douglas, Starways' newest and youngest Old Man, found it
hard to maintain the dignity befitting a transgalactic skipper, as he
inveighed against the guilty bo'sun in his cabin.

"Twenty-four hours lost in port, Mr. Jackson," Captain Douglas groaned,
dropping the latest triangulator readings to his desk. "A full day we
can't possibly make up! And no one to blame for it but bo'sun Skelly!"

First mate Pete Jackson, who had just brought the computator results
into the cabin, responded to the captain's forlorn glance with a
clucking noise and a sympathetic grimace of his blue-eyed, terrier's
face. There was no doubt that Douglas' vexation with Tug Skelly was
justified; but Jackson felt called upon to put in a word for his
unfortunate shipmate.

"I wouldn't be too hard on Tug, sir," Pete Jackson said placatingly.
"He may have some queer ways, but after you get to know him ye'll
likely find Tug a pretty valuable hand aboard ship."

"All I would like to know," Captain Douglas returned unhappily, "is why
in Old Nick he had to nose out that stowaway in Orion right at blasting
time? Why didn't he just keep that big turnip of his where it belonged!"

Jackson shrugged helplessly. The _Lucifer's_ youngish, new skipper
just didn't know Tug Skelly yet, that was the truth. It was clearly
no part of a bo'sun's duties to hunt down stowaways; but then Tug had
never been content to perform only his duties. The plain fact was that
the stowaway, a pink-skinned Orionian, had sneaked aboard right after
loading was finished. He was apparently seen by no one except the
usually sleepy-eyed Tug; but that alone proved more than enough to
spell the poor devil's doom.

"If it hadn't been for the Orion port authorities, though," Mate
Jackson essayed weakly, "we'd have blasted on schedule. I know Tug
didn't intend to stir them up, sir."

"No!" Captain Douglas jeered miserably. "I suppose not. But that
infernal racket he raised chasing the stowaway was enough to bring the
whole city aboard!"

Jackson nodded sadly. The Orionian port officials, summoned by Tug's
wild bellowings, had swarmed on the ship _en masse_, like a brood
of pink and imperturbable owls. They helped Tug snag the first
stowaway; and then, over Douglas' frantic protests, they very slowly
and assiduously fine-combed the _Lucifer_ the rest of that night for
others. They didn't find any more stowaways, but by the time the
_Lucifer_ got clearance an entire day had elapsed, leaving Captain
Douglas in a near catatonic state. The guilty Skelly meanwhile had
mysteriously disappeared underdeck--where, for all Jackson knew, he
still was.

First Mate Jackson stirred uneasily. A suspicion suddenly shot through
his mind regarding Tug's possible motive in acting the way he did.
But the little first carefully refrained from voicing his thought. If
it were true, it would definitely not help the big bo'sun's case with
Captain Douglas!

"Like I said, sir," Pete Jackson contented himself by sighing, "Tug's
mostly a first-rate bo'sun, though sometimes he does get sort of queer
ideas. However--" Jackson added hastily, "you can depend on all the
boys now. I mean, Captain, Sparks told us about that message that
came from the owners a while back; you can bank on it we'll all do
everything possible to help you make up the time."

"Thank you, Mr. Jackson," Douglas said gratefully. "I appreciate that."

Captain Douglas spoke with some composure, but, after Jackson saluted
smartly and left the cabin, the young skipper's _papier mache_ dignity
melted rapidly and he slumped down into his swivel. The first officer's
promise was merely a gesture, as both men knew. The _Lucifer_ was at
top speed, doing better than ten and a half kilos, but the computator
showed that even that would fetch New York nearly twenty hours late.
Christopher Douglas' usually trim blond mustache drooped woe-begonely,
but he was too miserable to straighten it.

Instead, he parted the braids of his breveted uniform and drew a
crumpled slip of paper from his breast pocket. The radiogram Jackson
had referred to was from A. J. Braithewaite himself, president of
Starways. It had come only a few hours before; and, re-reading it,
Douglas could still hardly believe his own ill luck. Belated rocketings
were always held against Starways skippers; but the _Lucifer's_ tardy
arrival threatened to be starkly tragic.

_Captain Douglas_, the gram went, _Solar Council going off platinum
standard as of twelve midnight July third. Imperative that you bring
Lucifer in as scheduled by noon that day. Any delay in arriving will
cost Starways huge sum on your cargo of platinum. Am certain you will
not fail us. Braithewaite._

       *       *       *       *       *

Douglas sank down into the swivel until his smooth, clean-shaven chin
almost rested on the desk top. The spanking new _Lucifer_, cargoing a
bin full of Orion's precious powdered platinum, was Chris Douglas's
first real deep-galactic command--after years of school theorizing and
practical activity as everything from a galley-knave to a blast-wiper.
He loved his new ship; but already his first voyage under his own
ticket threatened to be his last! Starways' hard-boiled employee policy
might well put him on a muck-ridden asteroid run after this, or ground
him altogether.

Chris Douglas groaned and ran a limp hand over his moist face. He
hadn't felt more sheerly miserable since he was turned down by the
lady of his choice when he was fifteen. The lady, to be sure, was
almost twice his age then; but even so her answer still rankled. She
was his schoolmarm, and she had made it painfully clear that under
no circumstances would she consider becoming engaged to a fat little
appleknocker like Christopher Douglas. Her name was Lucy; and it still
gave him a pang to recall her cool gray eyes and her--

"Beg pardon, Cap'n. Are yuh busy?"

Douglas looked up with a start. A big face--quite different from the
beautiful vision in his mind--was framed in the aperture formed by
the partly open cabin door. It was a thoroughly, almost enjoyably,
ugly face, that looked as if it had been kneaded by a crazy baker. It
possessed just about the color and consistency of limp dough. Captain
Douglas straightened slowly in his seat as he gazed on it.

"Skelly!" He said ominously, "come in!"

Bo'sun Tug Skelly came in cautiously, as if he were afraid of wrecking
the daintily appointed cabin by one awkward movement of his great,
brawny frame. He held his cap very respectfully in one gnarled
hand; but his huge face wore what Douglas thought was an altogether
out-of-place grin. He looked like an overgrown urchin who is caught
swiping pies but is unrepentant because of a full stomach.

"I suppose," Captain Douglas said icily when the big bo'sun stood
before his desk, "that you know what your shenanigans in Orion has
cost, Skelly!"

"Yessir," Tug grinned unblushingly, "but don't let that bother yuh too
much, Cap'n. Shux, so long's we got rid o' that stowaway everything'll
be shipshape, never fear."

"Listen, Skelly," Captain Douglas rose holding the shreds of his
dignity around him with a shaking hand, "are you aware that we could
have cargoed that Orionian from here to Betelgeuse and back for what
the lost day is going to cost?"

Tug nodded brightly. He was obviously not too impressed by his young
superior's analogy. "Sure, Cap'n," he said easily, "but we wouldn't
have got very far with him. I mean we'd've had an accident o' some
kind. Maybe a rocket tube woulda slipped its moorings; maybe the
gravs woulda gone dead without no reason. But something woulda
happened--that's the godshonest truth."

Captain Douglas's eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep, opened wide;
then narrowed dazedly. He was remembering something Mate Jackson had
said about queer ideas.

"Yesiree, Cap'n," Tug spoke confidently since he obviously held the
new master's undivided, even spellbound attention. "Everybody knows a
stowaway's bad jinks; but not many aside from Tug Skelly knows jest
how bad an _Orionian_ stowaway can be! Cap'n Douglas, an Orionian
stowaway's no different from a cargo o' loose cordite. He's jest bound
to cause mischief on a ship."

"Mischief!" Captain Douglas felt that that was a poor way to describe
the fix they were already in; but he didn't pursue the point. Another
aspect of the bo'sun's speech drew his attention. It was obvious that
in Tug Skelly, he, Chris Douglas, was confronted by a withering example
of ignorance on the loose. All the new skipper's years of training,
his sleeplessness and his distraught nerves, rose gorgelike at this
shambling, dough-faced anachronism who posed as a space sailor.

"Bo'sun Skelly," Douglas said acidly, "your remarks reveal an
incredible disregard for the scientific viewpoint. In fact, I haven't
heard such sinful tommyrot since I was six--and even then I knew
better. An Orionian stowaway, or any other stowaway, Mister Skelly, can
cause no more damage to a vessel than the amount of edible cargo he can
consume. The rest is rubbish."

Tug looked hurt. "I dunno, Cap'n," he said slowly. "Now you take the
_Campanella_--the big liner that jes' blew apart one day off Venus.
What did the Safety Board investigation show afterwards? Why, that she
was carrying a whole nestful of Orionians underdeck!"

And Tug flashed his young master a look of triumphant vindication.
Chris Douglas heaved a long breath and slumped back in the swivel. The
task of bringing bo'sun's Skelly's education up to date was clearly
not one for a single afternoon. Nor, with Braithewaite's message still
before him, did the skipper feel any taste for the job.

"Bo'sun Skelly," Douglas sighed disgustedly, "did you come here to
regale me with your views on Orionian stowaways?"

"Eh?" Tug scratched his head and grinned a little at the captain's
peculiar way of talking. "Naw, but I almost did forget, sir. Fact is,
Cap'n, I come to tell yuh how to make up the day we lost. Yessir."

"You did!" Douglas sneered miserably. "How? By getting out and pushing?
Or simply by wishing on a star? The _Lucifer_ can't do any more than
ten and a half kilos."

"She don't hafta," Tug said equably, no whit abashed by the irony. "We
can gain a lot o' time by using an old route I know. I forget the real
name, but it's called the Pass o' the Twin Witches. It's at the tip o'
the Southern Cross, Cap'n. Joshua P. MacLevy, my old skipper, used to
tell me about it. It'll save--"

       *       *       *       *       *

But Chris Douglas was no longer heeding the big bo'sun. His eyes, which
had widened suddenly as Tug spoke, were now peering at the great blue
and white astrochart on the wall back of his desk. He rose and fixed
his gaze on a little star-clustered area far off the main commercial
routes--the tip of the Southern Cross. Then he sprang to the desk and
began working with a pencil. A moment later, he looked up strangely
excited. It was no wonder he hadn't thought of the Cross Straits--the
old pass had been out of use for over fifty years. For vague reasons,
it still had a bad name and skippers avoided it. But Chris Douglas was
no shell-backed worshipper of traditions.

"Skelly," he said regarding the bo'sun with new shining eyes. "I think
you've got something! Using the old Cross Straits will clip nearly a
million kilos from our course, and give us a good chance to fetch New
York on time. A very good chance!"

Captain Douglas' sudden, almost boyish enthusiasm was infectious, but
now it was his bo'sun's turn to become oddly perturbed. The wrinkles on
Skelly's massive face were as big as troughs.

"That's right, Cap'n," Tug nodded uneasily, "but the Pass is pretty
dangerous, yuh know. If yuh leave it to me, there won't be no need to
worry, though. I know how to fix those hags so they can't touch the
_Lucifer_ no matter how hard they try!"

"Hags?" Captain Douglas said with a now friendly smile. "What hags are
you talking about, Tug?"

"The witches, Cap'n, that guard the Pass." Tug's voice had dropped to
a whisper and he leaned forward with a fearful, secretive air. "There
are two o' them, Cap'n Douglas. One on each side. Giants they are, and
woe to the poor ship as passes under their hot breath without first
undergoin' the ritual o' purification! But don't you worry, Cap'n. I
know the formula that'll wash all the sins from the _Lucifer_ and leave
her clean as a baby. Yes sir!"

"What the dickens--!" Captain Douglas began with a dazed frown. But
Tug Skelly went on hurriedly; it was clear that he regarded the young
skipper's astonishment as an evil omen.

"All we gotta do, Cap'n," Tug pleaded, "is give the _Lucifer_ a pure
white soul; and I can do it. Jes' let me handle it, Cap'n Douglas, and
those two witches won't bother us a bit."

"Bo'sun Skelly!" Captain Douglas swallowed hard and gathered his
benumbed senses. "I have heard tall tales and weird stories; but for
sheer cockeyed balderdash yours is far and away the best yet! Your
suggestion of the Cross Straits was invaluable; and I am very grateful
to you for it. But by Jupiter if you go on talking about Twin Witches
I'll have to clap you in irons. Good day."

Tug started to protest, but something about Young Douglas' clamped jaw
made him halt and drop his big arms to his sides miserably. He stood
there for a moment before mumbling a low, "Aye, aye," and offering
a clumsy salute. Then he turned and walked from the cabin, his big
shoulders drooped despairingly.

Captain Chris Douglas mopped his brow when he was alone in his quarters.

"Witches," he murmured incredulously. "Purifying the soul of a ship
against witches!"

He gave his close-cropped, blond head a vigorous shake, as if to clear
it of any goblins or pixies that might have crept in by contamination
with Tug Skelly; and a second later he was at the desk communicator
contacting the bridge.

"Mr. Jackson," Captain Douglas said when he heard the mate's voice. "I
have decided to change our course. You will take all readings necessary
to bring the _Lucifer_ to the Straits of the Cross.... Yes, Mr.
Jackson, I said the Straits of the Cross. At once!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Lucifer_, a hollow black needle in the immense twilight of space,
hurtled eagerly on the second day out toward the new pole her tiny
masters had set for her. But First Mate Pete Jackson alone on the
bridge didn't find himself any too eager about their new route. For one
thing, the last three ships known to have tried the Cross Straits had
never been heard from afterwards. For another, Jackson just didn't feel
easy traveling off the main lanes.

He had intimated his fears to Captain Douglas at mess that morning; but
without making any impression on the young skipper.

"Sure I know about those ships that were lost in the Straits fifty
years ago," Captain Douglas had responded cheerfully, fresh from a much
needed sleep. "But that was fifty years ago, Mr. Jackson. Those early
ether-blasters were just clay pigeons to space hazards that can't even
tickle the _Lucifer_. Our ship is equipped with every modern safety
device known to astrogation. I think we'll get through all right."

Pete Jackson rolled the captain's words over in his mind and shifted in
his seat before the visiplate with a sigh. A moment later, he jumped
with a startled oath as a heavy finger prodded his shoulder. It was
Tug Skelly, looking as big and mournful as a Great Dane bereft of his
master. But Pete Jackson wasted no sympathy on his ungainly subordinate.

"Hah! It's you," the little mate said with fierce scorn. "I suppose
ye've come to tell me about those witches of yours, eh? Well, you're
wastin' y' time. Captain Douglas's already told me about your crazy
ideas; and I must say you made a proper fool of yourself before the new
skipper, Tug. I'm thoroughly disgusted with you!"

"Pete," Tug pleaded, "it's true what I said about the Twin Witches. Old
Josh MacLevy told me about 'em, and you know he wouldn't jes' spin a
yarn. Listen, Pete, all I need for the ritual o' purification is a lot
o' white paint. You gimme a release for the paint and I'll attend to
all the rest. Please, Pete."

But Jackson was adamant.

"First off," the mate grunted sourly, "we ain't got a pail of white
paint aboard. Second, I wouldn't give it to ye, if we had it! The
trouble with you, Tug, is you need some education. You're worse than an
old Irishlady when it comes to superstitions, and that's a fact."

Captain Douglas had used those very words to describe the bo'sun when
he and the mate spoke at mess. But Pete Jackson felt no qualms of
plagiarism in borrowing the apt phrases. He even remembered a little
more the new skipper had said.

"Tug," Jackson advised with a superior air, "I think you'd better
take a home study course next voyage in the elements of physics and
chemistry. That's what you need--a little educating. Take it from the
Captain and me."

For a long moment, Tug Skelly played miserably with fingers that were
like bananas. Then he heaved a sigh and turned. At the bulkhead,
however, he looked back.

"Edjacation," he asserted with a truculent nod, "ain't everything,
Pete. No, sir!" And with that Tug lumbered out.

Pete Jackson snorted and turned troubledly once again to his forward
sight. The nearer the _Lucifer_ got to the Straits, the more the first
mate found himself wishing they were back on the good old slow lanes.
There were no familiar skymarks here; and the _Lucifer_ was being
guided by dead reckoning. Yet, remembering young Douglas's words,
Jackson took heart.

"Witches!" Pete Jackson scoffed aloud to the empty bridge round him.
"Hah!" But the sneer didn't sound too convincing even to himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the beginning of the long middle watch, when most of the
_Lucifer's_ crew slept; but Tug Skelly returning to his bunk didn't
go right to sleep as usual. Instead, he paced his narrow deck for
many long minutes--before finally beginning an activity that would
undoubtedly have astonished any of his shipmates if they had been
awake to witness it. Out of his cabin locker, Tug dragged his battered
bulger. And as he donned it the bo'sun's massive face, gargoyled
by the port starlight, wore a strangely desperate but determined
expression. He went down into the holds and stayed there for some time
before he finally emerged on the hull.

All during the long watch that ticked away inside the peaceful
_Lucifer_, a shapeless, bulging form toiled outside her hull. The
myriad stars roundabout blinked in amazement at the tiny, squid-like
object that moved on the great hull. They watched with endless
curiosity as the moving blob several times disappeared from view only
to reappear again. And they marveled greatly at how the aspect of the
hull was changed wherever the restless object toiled. When finally the
blob disappeared for the last time, the stars blinked in delighted
wonder at the vision he had left them. The middle watch inside the
_Lucifer_ was not yet ended when Tug Skelly crawled out of his bulger
and toppled into his bunk like a stricken Sequoia.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_Captain. Captain Douglas._"

The _Lucifer's_ young skipper opened his eyes, focused them on the lad
who was shaking him by the shoulder, and sat upright. It was Andy, the
galley-boy, who stood before the bed, his tow-thatched face screwed up
puzzledly.

"Captain Douglas," Andy said scratching his head, "the cook sent me to
wake you. He said to get you up. It's something about the ship, sir."

"Something about the ship!" Douglas was out of bed like a shot. "What
are you talking about?"

"The _Lucifer_, sir," Andy grinned mysteriously. "She's all white
outside--like a yacht. The cook saw it first this morning when we were
emptying the slop pail. He says she's beautiful, nicer now than A. J.
Braithewaite's yacht. The cook said that."

"He did?" Chris Douglas rubbed the last vestige of sleep from his eyes
and strode to the communicator in his outside cabin, where he proceeded
at once to contact first mate Jackson.

"Mr. Jackson," Douglas said suspiciously when he got the mate, "did you
give orders to paint the hull? What? Yes. Unless Andy here is crazy.
Put on a suit and meet me at the forward lock at once."

Two minutes later, Captain Douglas and first mate Jackson, each clad
in bulgers, climbed laboriously out of the lock. Both men stared in
simultaneous astonishment at the sight that met their eyes when they
emerged on the broad hull. Around them, the _Lucifer's_ former dark
steel torso was now a sea of glistening whiteness. Every inch of the
hull had been covered; the _Lucifer_ preened like a snowbird under her
frosty new plumage that stretched from stem to stern. Reaching down a
gloved hand, Douglas found that the paint was still tacky, a little of
it came away on his fingers.

"_Jumping Jupiter!_" Captain Douglas whispered shakily. "What's going
on here? First, our crazy bo'sun starts chasing stowaways in port; and
now someone paints my ship a pure blasted white while I'm asleep. What
kind of a voyage is this, Mr. Jackson!"

But as he spoke the words "pure white" a gleam of suspicion shot into
the Captain's eyes.

"Skelly!" Douglas said with sudden vehemence. "Skelly's ritual of
purification."

Mate Jackson nodded troubledly. The connection between Tug's latest
remarks and this deed was all too apparent. But something more was
worrying the little first mate at the moment.

"Maybe it was Tug, sir," Pete Jackson said puzzledly, "but what I'd
like to know is where the devil he got all the white paint? I happen
to know we moved every can of paint off ship to make room for the
platinum. Yes, sir. I had it done myself."

"The platinum?" Captain Douglas repeated the word very slowly; then he
stared for a long, terrible moment at the white stain on his fingers.
Pete Jackson stared at the stain, too. A second later, the two men
broke as one body for the lock behind them.

Down in the hold where the platinum was kept, Captain Douglas panted
heavily, and stared about him with the haggard look of a man who has
received a mortal blow.

Around the two men, the precious cargo had been vandalled. The empty
tins were strewn all over the hold. Of all the powdered platinum,
perhaps a dozen or two cans remained intact. The rest of it--and no
other conclusion was possible--now adorned the steel hull of the
_Lucifer_!

"Bring Tug Skelly to my quarters, Mr. Jackson," Captain Douglas said
in a mechanical voice. "Under guard if necessary."

       *       *       *       *       *

But Tug came to the Captain's cabin without protest, even though he
came not too happily. There shone, however, under bo'sun's Caliban
countenance, the kind of inner serenity that can only come from doing
the right thing regardless of consequences. Captain Douglas eyed the
culprit wrathfully.

"Bo'sun Skelly," Douglas shot out when Tug stood before his desk, "all
I want you to do is answer one question: Was it you who painted the
_Lucifer's_ hull during the last watch?"

Tug shifted his big feet uncomfortably; but his serene expression did
not vanish.

"Yes sir," Tug confessed. "I did it for the good of all of us. It jes'
had to be done, Cap'n Douglas. Because now those witches--"

"Mr. Skelly!" Douglas cut in shakily, "are you aware that you used
eight-hundred-thousand dollars worth of platinum to paint the ship!
What are you trying to do, man--" the young skipper's voice rose to a
croaked scream--"buy those damned witches off?"

Tug shuddered visibly at the profane reference to the dreaded Giants of
the Pass.

"I wouldn't talk that way about them, Cap'n," he shivered, "no, sir.
You see, the formula for purification includes platinum--that's
according to old Joshua MacLevy. But I couldn't find any white paint at
all. So I jes' had to use--well, what came to hand."

"Which happened to be our cargo of platinum," Captain Douglas murmured
incredulously. He sank into his swivel like a man in a dream. It was
still possible, of course, to salvage much of the precious metal from
the hull. But doing the job now, while en route, would mean a suicidal
delay; while bringing the _Lucifer_ in, festooned as she was, would
very likely mean his ticket. Misery seemed to threaten both courses
equally; but the young skipper felt he had no choice. Somehow--white or
black--the _Lucifer_ had to be brought in on schedule.

"Mr. Jackson," Captain Douglas said with forgivable bitterness, "you
will have bo'sun Skelly confined to irons for the remainder of the run.
We may all lose our jobs for this, but with him in the holds, we'll at
least have a chance to complete the voyage alive!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Lucifer_, now a white spear cleaving the darkness, reacted to
the proximity of the Cross Straits like a cat to danger. All flight
regulations were strictly enforced, by the Captain's special command.
Every instrument and delicate warning device was tested out and brought
up to specifications. The ship took on the grim aspect of a citadel
prepared to withstand any eventuality.

Only bo'sun Tug Skelly was idle as the _Lucifer_ neared the Pass. In
the tiny cell underdeck, Tug accepted his enforced inactivity with the
resignation of a martyr. But he learned from Andy, the galley-boy, that
the _Lucifer's_ white coat lay still untouched, and that brought him
some comfort.

"There's things about spacin'," Tug told the boy, as he ate the food
Andy had brought him, "that nobody learns in books. Don't make no
mistake, Andy, edjacation is good--but it ain't everything. Nossir!"

"Nuts," Andy remarked picking up the fast-emptied tray. "I've heard
that the skipper is gonna have you examined in New York. Says you're
bugs."

Tug stared ahead of him and nodded with a long-suffering look. "People
with real knowledge," he said slowly, "is always considered bugs, Andy.
Sure. Look at Mad Old James Flaherty, the man who first reached Moon.
And before him there was a feller named Gally Leo who told everybody
the earth moved around the sun--like it does. Everybody thought they
was bugs, until it turned out they was _geenyusses_!"

"Yeh," Andy grunted unimpressed, "only you _are_ bugs."

The galley-boy's simple but crushing logic left Tug without a reply. He
merely growled contemptuously and watched Andy, as the boy leisurely
gathered his utensils and exited from the cell. Alone, the big bo'sun
shivered suddenly and sat motionless on his cot as if transfixed. It
seemed to Tug that through the thick bulkhead before him a low, far-off
wailing sound was coming--a sound just like the one Old Joshua MacLevy
had described. By Tug's private reckoning, the _Lucifer_ was right at
the Straits. And that wail could only be--! Despite the careful and
costly precaution he had taken against the Witches of the Pass, Tug
Skelly's eyes began to bulge.

Up on the bridge, a few minutes before, Captain Chris Douglas also
witnessed a peculiar thing. It was mate Pete Jackson, at the forward
sight, who called his attention to it. Douglas reluctantly tore his
gaze from the gleaming, many-dialed instrument panel before him, and
answered the mate's summons.

"A cloud," Jackson frowned. "Dead ahead."

They were at the lips of the Straits; a few moments more and they would
be inside. Captain Douglas glanced hurriedly at the plate. A vague and
nebulous gray mist was swirling before the ship; but even as he watched
it, it seemed to melt away and disappear. Douglas quickly volted up
to maximum the ray-repellers and meteor-deflectors that lined the
_Lucifer's_ hull.

"Whatever's in the Straits," Chris Douglas said grimly, "is going to
bounce right off our hull. The _Lucifer_ was made for heavy weather."

"Sure thing, Capt'n," Pete Jackson said wistfully, "but I can't help
wishing we were through already!"

"We'll get through," Douglas said with more confidence than he actually
felt. "The Pass can't be more than twenty-thousand kilos long. We'll be
out the other side before you can whistle Home Sweet Home."

"I couldn't whistle anything now," Pete Jackson sighed as he bent his
wizened face to the visiplate.

For a few moments, it looked as if the Captain's optimistic prediction
might be justified. The _Lucifer_ was covering almost a thousand
yards every tenth of a second. It was after about five seconds that
the wailing and shrieking noises first came through the hull into the
bridge.

"Stars and saints above!" Pete Jackson stiffened slowly in his
seat, his little blue eyes engulfed in whiteness. Captain Douglas,
too, jerked nervously at the eerie sounds. But the dials before him
continued to reveal nothing amiss. He shot a quick, hard command to
keep the course. The mate obeyed trembling as from ague. A split-second
later they were in the Pass.

       *       *       *       *       *

There wasn't any doubt they were in something! A wave of superheated
steam seemed to strike the _Lucifer_ simultaneously from all sides. The
needle on the tempogauge jerked sharply upward. The pressure oxygen
in the bridge grew suddenly warm. Captain Douglas and mate sweat in a
trice.

"What's this?" Pete Jackson started from his seat.

"Can't tell what it is," Captain Douglas frowned before the dials. "The
tempogauge is going up, but I don't know why."

"Hah!" Pete Jackson's laugh broke queerly. "It couldn't be the hot
breath o' Tug Skelly's witches now, could it, Capt'n?"

"Witches be blowed!" Douglas snarled.

"Still," Jackson protested weakly, "it might be a good idea to turn
back, even now. That tempo-needle's going up awful fast."

"Hold the course, Mr. Jackson," Douglas said angrily. To execute a slow
turning maneuver at this point would be tantamount to suicide! Jackson
knew that too, only the mate wasn't using his head any longer. Whatever
danger they were in, their best chance was to hold speed and try to
slip through the Pass before the blistering heat outside melted down
their hull plates.

The mate steadied in his seat.

"Give her everything she'll take," Captain Douglas ordered the
engine-room via his speaking-tube. "Everything!"

"_Aye, aye, sir._" The choked reply from below was followed by a long,
muttered oath that almost made young Douglas grin. He called down a
word of encouragement, and stepped swiftly back to the instrument
panel. The tempo-needle was mounting in the dangerous red ever closer
and closer to the hull melting-point. The heat inside the bridge was
insufferable by now; the two men, stripped to the waist, their bodies
shining oilily, could hardly breathe. The shrieking outside had risen
to a horrendous, deafening clamor. The end, one way or another, could
scarcely be more than a few seconds off.

"We can't take much more," Pete Jackson gulped miserably. "She'll open
a seam sure!"

"Jackson," Douglas said with sudden thought, "better get Skelly out
of the hold. If the ship goes, we might have a chance with the
emergency-dories." The thought was futile though, and both men knew it.
A temperature that could melt the _Lucifer's_ hull would reduce one of
the flimsy dories to ash in an instant. Nevertheless, Jackson got to
his feet. But, before he could take a step, something in the port sight
caught the mate's eye. Pete Jackson slowly stiffened until he stood
rigid and pallid as a corpse.

"Capt'n Douglas!" Jackson cried in the weak and despairing voice of a
man whose innermost dread is all too horribly realized. "_There's the
witch!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

With an impatient frown, Douglas sprang to the port plate where the
mate's gaze was transfixed. But the vision that met the skipper brought
him up in his tracks. An icy chill trickled down Chris Douglas's spine
despite the terrible heat around him. A great black shape, long as the
_Lucifer_ herself, loomed beside them; half-shrouded in mist, huge
funereal form now rode alongside the freighter, so close that hissing
sparks from the _Lucifer's_ steaming plates sprayed it. Like some
grim and timely escort from beyond, the apparition kept pace with the
stricken white ship.

[Illustration: _"Skipper!" he screamed. "Look! Look there!"_]

"Merciful Mary!" Pete Jackson gasped incoherently. "We're done for now,
Capt'n!"

Douglas ran a dazed hand over his sweat-ridden eyes, opening them
wider. Then, even as he watched, the black shape began to turn slowly,
falling back from the hurtling _Lucifer_. Only then could he see it
fully. A cry of astonishment broke from the skipper as he recognized
the thing for what it was. This Witch of the Pass was the gaunt and
charred corpse of an ether-blaster, whose orbit lay round and round
inside the Straits that had destroyed it. Like a mute, accusing ghost,
the old ship was forever destined to haunt the narrow scene of its
murder.

No wonder that for an instant he had half-believed the Straits
bewitched! The sight outside wasn't very pleasant. Nor was it
comforting to think that the _Lucifer_ might yet join that lonely
vigil. Captain Douglas turned from the plate and choked an angry oath
back at the searing heat around him.

"Get Skelly," he snapped to Jackson; but the mate was clearly in no
condition to obey. Pete Jackson still stood like a man who has looked
into the inferno and is only awaiting the summons of a ghastly tap on
the shoulder. Douglas scowled, blinked the sweat from his eyes, and
started to exit himself. It didn't seem to make much difference, but he
couldn't let the bo'sun perish like a caged rat.

However, he didn't leave the bridge. Something on the instrument
panel gave Captain Douglas the sudden hope that he might be able to
let Skelly stay where he was. The tempo-needle had halted its upward
swing. The tiny arrow hovered motionless a hair's breadth from the hull
melting-point; but it did not advance. As he watched it, the needle
began to retreat, imperceptibly at first; then faster. Douglas jumped
incredulously to the forward plate.

The twilighted expanse before the _Lucifer_ was wide, frosty and
marvelously clear. The mists had disappeared. They were through! The
Captain's call brought mate Jackson up from his seat and all the way
across the bridge in two jumps.

"Praise be!" Pete Jackson blinked joyfully into the sight. "It's a
miracle--that's what it is!"

"A miracle, my big toe!" was Captain Douglas's very unskipperish
retort. A thought which might explain the _Lucifer's_ narrow escape
from the fate of the charred ether-blaster, was forming in the
skipper's mind. It was a thought which gained credence when Douglas
quickly tested the contents of a vial in the bridge. The glass
receptacle was filled with a sampling of the misty vapor in the Straits.

"Look at this," Douglas called the mate to him. Jackson peered at
the results of the test, incredulously at first; then with an abject
expression as he realized what it meant. Captain Douglas's further
explanation did not make the little mate feel any happier.

"I just don't know what happened to me," Pete Jackson shook his head.
"First those infernal shrieks and then that old oxy-burner back
there--" The mate broke off with a woeful, contrite look.

"I know, Pete," Douglas grinned with a mock shudder. "Seeing that old
hulk had me believing in ghosts for a while myself. Anyway, it's
over and we're damned lucky. It's double rations all around at mess
tonight. And I think we'll get Skelly out of the brig. He's probably so
overcooked by now that he doesn't need any more punishing. Besides, I
want to talk to him."

And Chris Douglas offered the mate a significant look which made
Jackson brighten up considerably as he grinned back in understanding.

       *       *       *       *       *

"So you see, Skelly,"--several hours later Captain Douglas summed up
the points of the simple but precise lecture in his cabin: "The myth of
the Twin Witches can be altogether explained by the facts on hand now.
The real danger in the Straits was--air. Plain dust-filled air. A wide
column of it circulates about the Pass at better than gale velocity.
That, and nothing else, accounts for the howling noises."

The _Lucifer's_ skipper addressed his bo'sun in the presence of mate
Jackson and a few other crew members. Tug Skelly's great face, as
he listened, was the livid hue of broiled lobster. The heat in his
little cell _had_ been terrific. But no gleam of enlightenment lit the
bo'sun's eyes as the Captain spoke. Tug's only reaction was a rather
mistrustful frown.

"It's clear," Douglas went on carefully, "that the old ships that tried
the Straits were charred instantly by the terrible friction set up when
they struck the air. The same thing would have happened to us, if it
hadn't been for the platinum on our hull."

Tug's face brightened with that; but his grin cost him such pain that
he gulped hard and swallowed it down. In the little room, his swollen,
flaming countenance flared like a great beacon.

"Sure, Cap'n," Tug nodded as he managed an imperceptible smile. "I told
you we'd get through all right if yuh left it to me."

"Now, listen," Douglas said a trifle testily, "the platinum didn't do a
thing but insulate our hull from the heat. Don't you see? It was just
enough to keep the plates from melting. Platinum can't be oxidized--it
can't be burnt! And that's what saved our lives. You see it now, don't
you, Skelly?"

"Yessir, Cap'n," Tug frowned. "I get what you're drivin' at." The
big bo'sun did seem to be making an effort to understand the simple
mechanics that underlay their escape. And that, Captain Douglas felt,
was a momentous step in the right direction.

"Good!" Captain Christopher Douglas said with feeling. He relaxed
and looked about him with a pleased smile. Another convert had been
led from darkness into the light of truth and science. It was not
every day that Chris Douglas was privileged to rescue some poor,
superstition-ridden soul. A sense of warm beneficence filled the young
skipper. But he had another reason, besides the fact that the _Lucifer_
was now certain to fetch New York on schedule, to congratulate himself.

"I've got good news for you, Skelly," Douglas smiled; "you'll be glad
to learn that the platinum you used on the hull was caked by the heat;
and it is almost a hundred-percent recoverable."

"That's jes' fine!" Tug said with much relief. "I was sort of worried
about that."

"Yes," Douglas went on pointedly but not unkindly, "and since it was
your boner in Orion City that got us into the mess in the first place,
I have decided, Skelly, that you're going to do the recovering, by
yourself! However, once the platinum is back in the hold we'll call all
accounts square. How is that?"

"Me, Cap'n? Myself?" Tug's singed eyebrows went up in surprised
disappointment. It was clear the bo'sun had expected a different kind
of reward for the part he played in traversing the dread Pass. Tug
scratched his head wryly. "It's OK I guess," he sighed.

"You've got three days," Douglas said, "before we arrive in New York to
do the job. That's providing you start at once. I think you'd better
get your bulger and go out on the hull right now--unless--" the Captain
smiled a little--"unless you're still afraid of those witches, Skelly."

The Captain bantered easily. The light of science brightened every
corner of the cabin now. The darkness was a thing of the past. It was
impossible even to think of witches without snickering. However, the
painful grin on Tug Skelly's face was hardly a snicker; rather it was a
sly and knowing grin.

"No sir! Cap'n," Tug scoffed heavily. "Not me! I never was afraid o'
those witches on account of myself--it was the rest of the crew I was
thinkin' about all along! Yessir. Y'see, I had _this_ all the time,
Cap'n."

Tug drew from his huge bosom a tiny, bedraggled object that hung by a
cord from his neck. With some pride, he exhibited his possession to
Captain Douglas who stared puzzledly at the little, shapeless thing.
But before Douglas could examine it, the bo'sun tucked it back inside
his shirt and saluted with as much vigor as his par-boiled frame would
allow.

"Yessir!" Tug Skelly announced confidently. "I'll have that platinum
back in the hold before morning mess."

It wasn't until the group had followed Tug Skelly out of the cabin,
leaving him alone, that Captain Douglas realized what the bo'sun had
held up in his gnarled palm. The realization made the young skipper
sigh heavily and sink back into his seat. The victory of science
over bo'sun Tug Skelly was not destined to be an easy one. Tug was
going bravely out onto the _Lucifer's_ hull armed with an old and
much-used--rabbit's foot!





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Cosmic Derelict" ***

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