The swish of the air current through the narrow corridors made a constant murmur of sound, but he found himself listening for something else, for a footfall other than his own, for the betraying rasp of clothing against a wall—­for even a whisper of voice.  And time and time again he paused suddenly to listen—­sure that the faintest hint of such a sound had reached his ears.  He had a dozen containers lined up when the welcome signal reached him by the com-unit of his field helmet.  To transfer the cylinders to the lock, get out, and then open the outer door, did not take long.  But as he waited he still listened for a sound which did not come—­the notice, that someone besides himself was free to move about the Stat.

Not knowing just how many of the supply tins were needed, he worked on transferring all there were in the storage racks to the upper corridor and the lock.  But he still had half a dozen left to pass through when Rip sent a message that he was coming in.

Out of his pressure suit, the Astrogator-apprentice stepped lightly into the corridor, looked at the array of containers and shook his head.

“We don’t need all those.  No, leave them—­” he added as Dane, with a sigh, started to pick up two for a return trip.  “There’s something more important just now—­” He turned into the side hall which led to the com room.

Both the I-S men had awakened.  The Com-tech appeared to accept his bonds philosophically.  He was quiet and flat on his back, staring pensively at the ceiling.  But the other agent had made a worm’s progress half across the room and Rip had to halt in haste to prevent stepping on him.

Shannon stooped and, hooking his fingers in the other’s tunic, heaved him back while the helpless man favored them with some of the ripest speech—­and NOT Trade Lingo—­Dane had ever heard.  Rip waited until the man began to run down and then he broke in with his pleasant soft drawl.

“Oh, sure, we’re all that.  But time runs on, Eysie, and I’d like a couple of answers which may mean something to you.  First—­when do you expect your relief?”

That set the agent off again.  And his remarks—­edited—­were that no something, something F-T was going to get any something, something information out of him!

But it was his companion in misfortune—­the Com-tech—­who guessed the reason behind Rip’s question.

“Cut jets!” he advised the other.  “They’re just being soft-hearted.  I take it,” he spoke over the other agent’s sputtering to Rip, “that you’re worried about leaving us fin down—­That’s it, isn’t it?”

Rip nodded.  “In spite of what you think about us,” he replied, “We’re not Patrol Posted outlaws—­”

“No, you’re just from a plague ship,” the Com-tech remarked calmly.  And his words struck his comrade dumb.  “Solar Queen?”

“You got the warn-off then?”

“Who didn’t?  You really have plague on board?” The thought did not appear to alarm the Com-tech unduly.  But his fellow suddenly heaved his bound body some distance away from the Free Traders and his face displayed mixed emotions—­most of them fearful.