It took time for the words to penetrate. Gillbret said, blankly, "Biron?" Then, with a quiver of life, "Biron! Are they Jumping? Death won't hurt, Biron."
Biron let the head drop. No point in anger against Gillbret. On the information he had, or thought he had, it was a great gesture. All the more so, since it was breaking him.
But he was writhing in frustration. Why wouldn't they let him speak to Aratap? Why wouldn't they let him out? He found himself at a wall and beat upon it with his fists. If there were a door, he could break it down; if there were bars, he could pull them apart or drag them out of their sockets, by the Galaxy.
But there was a force field, which nothing could damage. He yelled again.
There were footsteps once more. He rushed to the open-yet-not-open door. He could not look out to see who was coming down the corridor. He could only wait.
It was the guard again. "Get back from the field," he barked. "Step back with your hands in front of you." There was an officer with him.
Biron retreated. The other's neuronic whip was on him, unwaveringly. Biron said, "The man with you is not Aratap. I want to speak to the Commissioner."
The officer said, "If Gillbret oth Hinriad is ill, you don't want to see the Commissioner. You want to see a doctor."
The force field was down, with a dim blue spark showing as contact broke. The officer entered, and Biron could see the Medical Group insignia on his uniform.
Biron stepped in front of him. "All right. Now listen to me. This ship mustn't Jump. The Commissioner is the only one who can see to that, and I must see him. Do you understand that? You're an officer. You can have him awakened."
The doctor put out an arm to brush Biron aside, and Biron batted it away. The doctor cried out sharply and called, "Guard, get this man out of here."
The guard stepped forward and Biron dived. They went thumping down together, and Biron clawed up along the guard's body, hand over hand, seizing first the shoulder and then the wrist of the arm that was trying to bring its whip down upon him.
For a moment they remained frozen, straining against one another, and then Biron caught motion at the corner of his eye. The medical officer was rushing past them to sound the alarm.
Biron's hand, the one not holding the other's whip wrist, shot out and seized the officer's ankle. The guard writhed nearly free, and the officer kicked out wildly at him, but, with the veins standing out on his neck and temples, Biron pulled desperately with each hand.
The officer went down; shouting hoarsely. The guard's whip clattered to the floor with a harsh sound.
Biron fell upon it, rolled with it, and came up on his knees and one hand. In his other was the whip.
"Not a sound," he gasped. "Not one sound. Drop anything else you've got."
The guard, staggering to his feet, his tunic ripped, glared hatred and tossed a short, metal-weighted, plastic club away from himself. The doctor was unarmed.
Biron picked up the club. He said, "Sorry. I have nothing to tie and gag you with and no time anyway."
The whip flashed dimly once, twice. First the guard and then the doctor stiffened in agonized immobility and dropped solidly, in one piece, legs and arms bent grotesquely out from their bodies as they lay, in the attitude they had last assumed before the whip struck.
Biron turned to Gillbret, who was watching with dull, soundless vacuity.
"Sorry," said Biron, "but you, too, Gillbret," and the whip flashed a third time.
The vacuous expression was frozen solid as Gillbret lay there on his side.
The force field was still down and Biron stepped out into the corridor. It was empty. This was space-ship "night" and only the watch and the night details would be up.
There would be no time to try to locate Aratap. It would have to be straight for the engine room. He set off. It would be toward the bow, of course.
A man in engineer's work clothes hurried past him.
"When's the next Jump?" called out Biron.
"About half an hour," the engineer returned over his shoulder.
"Engine room straight ahead?"
"And up the ramp." The man turned suddenly. "Who are you?"
Biron did not answer. The whip flared a fourth time. He stepped over the body and went on. Half an hour left.
He heard the noise of men as he sped up the ramp. The light ahead was white, not purple. He hesitated. Then he put the whip into his pocket. They would be busy. There would be no reason for them to suspect him.
He stepped in quickly. The men were pygmies scurrying about the huge matter-energy converters. The room glared with dials, a hundred thousand eyes staring their information out to all who would look. A ship this size, one almost in the class of a large passenger liner, was considerably different from the tiny Tyrannian cruiser he had been used to. There, the engines had been all but automatic. Here they were large enough to power a city, and required considerable supervision.
He was on a railed balcony that circled the engine room. In one corner there was a small room in which two men handled computers with flying fingers.
He hurried in that direction, while engineers passed him without looking at him, and stepped through the door.
The two at the computers looked at him.
"What's up?" one asked. "What are you doing up here? Get back to your post." He had a lieutenant's stripes.
Biron said, "Listen to me. The hyperatomics have been shorted. They've got to be repaired."
"Hold on," said the second man, "I've seen this man. He's one of the prisoners. Hold him, Lancy."
He jumped up and was making his way out the other door. Biron hurdled the desk and the computer, seized the belt of the controlman's tunic and pulled him backward.