THE SPACE FLAME By ALEXANDER M. PHILLIPS A rocketless hulk spinning helplessly through uncharted heavens.... A derelict space-ship. But within that Eternity-bound shell was even greater peril. Fire--living, writhing, horrible! Flame that hissed and coiled and struck with jeweled tongues of Death. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Cargyle wiped away the blood from a flesh wound over one eye. The body of a mutineer lay half across the threshold of the small cabin. They'd gotten that close to him. They were out there in the corridors, the mutineers, searching out the officers ... killing them. Far off in the rocket ship a burst of firing broke out. A chorus of wild yelling began, muted by distance and the intervening walls. Cargyle listened intently; perhaps a stand was being made against the crew! The sounds seemed to come from the control room. He hesitated, staring through the heavy port in the hull at the still stars in the blackness beyond. If there were officers still defending the pilot room, his place was with them. But if the mutineers were in possession, he'd be going to his death. With a shrug, he pressed a concealed button set in the wall. A panel of the inner wall of the hull slid quietly open. Tucking his blastor pistol into his belt, Cargyle crawled into the space revealed. All space cruisers were equipped with passages like this, known only to the officers: in the long monotonous months in space tension between men would sometimes sweep up to murderous frenzy, and mutinies were not uncommon. Mutiny on the _Denebola_ had been long coming. They were returning from a three-year surveying and specimen-collecting expedition among the asteroids. Sent out by the Cranford Foundation, they had outfitted in the Martian colony of Tracolatown. Loneliness and monotony change men queerly, undermine character and sanity. And three years is a long time. Quarrels flared up and became feuds. Between two members of the crew, Kalson and Wrymore, a particularly bitter hatred developed. The crew were permitted no weapons, but Kalson was found shot to death. The crew and their quarters were searched by the officers. No weapons were found. There are many places small side arms can be hidden in the length of a ship. Captain Wallace didn't confine Wrymore, for there was no definite proof of his guilt. But he informed him he would be turned over for trial at the first port reached. Then there was the starboard-dorsal rocket jet, forever threatening disintegration, which no amount of tinkering ever made right. At any unusual sound the crew would freeze, their expressions set. Had that jet gone at last?