And when the big Hawaiian"s hand clamped on, von Liegnitz" hand stopped almost dead.
Mellon was screaming. "You ----!" He ran out a string of unprintable and almost un-understandable words. "I"ll kill you! I"ll do it yet! _You stay away from Leda Crannon!_"
"Calm down, Doc!" snapped Mike the Angel. "What the h.e.l.l"s the matter with you, anyway?"
Von Liegnitz was still straining, trying to get away from Keku to take another swipe at the medic, but the huge Hawaiian held him easily. The navigator had lapsed into his native German, and most of it was unintelligible, except for an occasional reference to various improbable combinations of animal life.
But Mellon was paying no attention. "You! I"ll kill you! Lecher!
Dirty-minded, filthy...."
He went on.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, he smashed his heel down on Mike"s toe. At least, he tried to; he"d have done it if the toe had been there when his heel came down. But Mike moved it just two inches and avoided the blow.
At the same time, though, Mellon twisted, and Mike"s forced shift of position lessened his leverage on the man"s shoulders and arms. Mellon almost got away. One hand grabbed the wrench from von Liegnitz, whose grip had been weakened by the paralyzing pressure of Keku"s fingers.
Mike had no choice but to slam a hard left into the man"s solar plexus.
Mellon collapsed like an unoccupied overcoat.
By this time, von Liegnitz had quieted down. "Let go, Keku," he said.
"I"m all right." He looked down at the motionless figure on the deck.
"What the h.e.l.l do you suppose was eating him?" he asked quietly.
"How"s your shoulder?" Mike asked.
"Hurts like the devil, but I don"t think it"s busted. But why did he do it?" he repeated.
"Sounds to me," said Keku dryly, "that he was nutty jealous of you. He didn"t like the times you took Leda Crannon to the base movies while we were at Chilblains."
Jakob von Liegnitz continued to look down at the smaller man in wonder.
"_Lieber Gott_" he said finally. "I only took her out a couple of times.
I knew he liked her, but--" He stopped. "The guy must be off his bearings."
"I smelled liquor on his breath," said Mike. "Let"s get him down to his stateroom and lock him in until he sobers up. I"ll have to report this to the captain. Can you carry him, Keku?"
Keku nodded and reached down. He put his hands under Mellon"s armpits, lifted him to his feet, and threw him over his shoulder.
"Good," said Mike the Angel. "I"ll walk behind you and clop him one if he wakes up and gets wise."
Vaneski was standing to one side, his face pale, his expression blank.
Mike said: "Jake, you and Vaneski go up and make the report to the captain. Tell him we"ll be up as soon as we"ve taken care of Mellon."
"Right," said von Liegnitz, ma.s.saging his bruised shoulder.
"Okay, Keku," said Mike, "forward march."
Lieutenant Keku thumbed the opener to Mellon"s stateroom, shoved the door aside, stepped in, and slapped at the switch plaque. The plates lighted up, bathing the room in sunshiny brightness.
"Dump him on his sack," said Mike.
While Keku put the unconscious Mellon on his bed, Mike let his gaze wander around the room. It was neat--almost too neat, implying overfussiness. The medical reference books were on one shelf, all in alphabetical order. Another shelf contained a copy of the _International Encyclopedia_, English edition, plus several dictionaries, including one on medical terms and another on theological ones.
On the desk lay a copy of the Bible, York translation, opened to the Book of Tobit. Next to it were several sheets of blank paper and a small traveling clock sat on them as a paperweight.
His clothing was hung neatly, in the approved regulation manner, with his shoes in their proper places and his caps all lined up in a row.
Mike walked around the room, looking at everything.
"What"s the matter? What"re you looking for?" asked Keku.
"His liquor," said Mike the Angel.
"In his desk, lower left-hand drawer. You won"t find anything but a bottle of ruby port; Mellon was never a drinker."
Mike opened the drawer. "I probably won"t find that, drunk as he is."
Surprisingly enough, the bottle of wine was almost half full. "Did he have more than one bottle?" Mike asked.
"Not so far as I know. Like I said, he didn"t drink much. One slug of port before bedtime was about his limit."
Mike frowned. "How does his breath smell to you?"
"Not bad. Two or three drinks, maybe."
"Mmmm." Mike put the bottle on top of the desk, then walked over to the small case that was standing near one wall. He lifted it and flipped it open. It was the standard medical kit for s.p.a.ce Service physicians.
The intercom speaker squeaked once before Captain Quill"s voice came over it. "Mister Gabriel?"
"Yes, sir?" said Mike without turning around. There were no eyes in the private quarters of the officers and crew.
"How is Mister Mellon?" A s.p.a.ce Service physician"s doctorate is never used as a form of address; three out of four s.p.a.ce Service officers have a doctor"s degree of some kind, and there"s no point in calling 75 per cent of the officers "doctor."
Mike glanced across the room. Keku had finished stripping the little physician to his underclothes and had put a cover over him.
"He"s still unconscious, sir, but his breathing sounds all right."
"How"s his pulse?"
Keku picked up Mellon"s left wrist and applied his fingers to the artery while he looked at his wrist watch.
Mike said: "We"ll check it, sir. Wait a few seconds."
Fifteen seconds later, Keku multiplied by four and said: "One-oh-four and rather weak."
"You"d better get hold of the Physician"s Mate," Mike told Quill. "He"s not in good condition, either mentally or physically."