“Nobody’s died yet,” Weeks tried to find an opening in the net being drawn about them.

“And nobody’s recovered,” Ali crushed that thread of hope.  “We don’t know what it is, how it is contracted—­anything about it.  Let us make a report saying that and you know what will happen—­don’t you?”

They weren’t sure of the details, but they could guess.

“So I say,” Ali continued, “the Old Man was right when he set us on an evasion course.  If we can stay out until we really know what is the matter we’ll have some chance of talking over the high brass at Luna when we do planet—­”

In the end they decided not to interfere with the course the Captain had set.  It would take them into the fringes of solar civilization, but give them a fighting chance at solving their problem before they had to report to the authorities.  In the meantime they tended their charges, let Rip sleep, and watched each other with desperate but hidden intentness, ready for another to be stricken.  However, they remained, although almost stupid with fatigue at times, reasonably healthy.  Time was proving that their guess had been correct—­they had been somehow inoculated against the germ or virus which had struck the ship.

Rip slept for twenty-four hours, ship time, and then came into the mess cabin ravenously hungry, to catch up on both food and news.  And he refused to join with the prevailing pessimistic view of the future.  Instead he was sure that their own immunity having been proven, they had a talking point to use with the medical officials at Luna and he was eager to alter course directly for the quarantine station.  Only the combined arguments of the other three made him, unwillingly, agree to a short delay.

And how grateful they should be for Captain Jellico’s foresight they learned within the next day.  Ali was at the com-unit, trying to pick up Solarian news reports.  When the red alert flashed on throughout the ship it brought the others hurrying to the control cabin.  The code squeaks were magnified as Ali switched on the receiver full strength, to be translated as he pressed a second button.

“Repeat, repeat, repeat.  Free Trader, Solar Queen, Terra Registry 65-724910-Jk, suspected plague ship—­took off from infected planet.  Warn off—­warn off—­report such ship to Luna Station.  Solar Queen from infected planet—­to be warned off and reported.”  The same message was repeated three times before going off ether.

The four in the control cabin looked at each other blankly.

“But,” Dane broke the silence, “how did they know?  We haven’t reported in—­”

“The Eysies!” Ali had the answer ready.  “That I-S ship must be having the same sort of trouble and reported to her Company.  They would include us in their report and believe that we were infected too—­or it would be easy to convince the authorities that we were.”

“I wonder,” Rip’s eyes were narrowed slits as he leaned back against the wall.  “Look at the facts.  The Survey ship which charted Sargol—­they were dirt-side there about three-four months.  Yet they gave it a clean bill of health and put it up for trading rights auction.  Then Cam bought those rights—­he made at least two trips in and out before he was blasted on Limbo.  No infection bothered him or Survey—­”