But he had no time for such questions now. He ran back to the space-suit, dropped when Wrymore had appeared, and got the helmet and its oxygen tank. Captain Wallace looked lifeless; he was waxen-white and unbreathing. But there was a faint heart-action. Cargyle thrust the helmet over his head, and turned the flow-control. He sat there an hour or more, and he thought the oxygen tank would have emptied before Markoe showed signs of life. Both men were still dazed when they entered the pilot room. While Cargyle explained what had happened to them, and the manner of his own survival, his glance noted the signs of battle. Blackened pits, marks of blastor discharges, spattered the walls and furniture. Equipment had been shattered by chance shots. The inner lens of one of the ports had been drilled through the center, long cracks radiating from the spot. It had been hastily repaired, fused together with _thurlite_. Most of the men wore bloody bandages, and one lay unconscious. Chapman, the chief pilot, was pacing nervously back and forth before the dead control board; the other men were now dropping back into attitudes of listless dejection. "Why are we drifting?" Cargyle asked. The ship was silent, vibrationless. All rockets were inoperative--they were sweeping helplessly through space, undirected. "Why?" growled Simms. "Because those crazy devils took as much fuel as they could and then drained the tanks. We're falling into an orbit--" "Speed?" "Roughly ten per second. We were trying to contact Tracolatown, but the mutineers smashed the hull plates. Parker and Swift are out on the hull now, working on the plates." "Then we're--" "We're sunk, unless we can fix those plates and get a patrol ship out to us." * * * * * A red light over the viso-set winked, and then glowed steadily. Barfield, the viso operator, sprang to his control board and swiftly manipulated switches and dials. The viso-screen remained blank, but from the speaker came the familiar uproar produced by the vibrations that flood space. Barfield swung the controls, seeking the wave-length of the station at Tracolatown. "Calling the _Denebola_," said the speaker, hollowly, a moment later. "Calling the _Denebola_ ... where are you, _Denebola_? 3TRA45 calling. Tracolatown calling the _Denebola_." "They've got those hull plates working, Captain," cried Barfield. "That's the Martian operator, Nunglon! This is the _Denebola_, Nunglon!" he continued, speaking into the phone. "The _Denebola_ calling Tracolatown! A mutiny ... the crew deserted. They drained our tanks and we're drifting. Here's our position--" He turned to Chapman. "What is the position?" The pilot began reading off the ship's co-ordinates. "Send him those. They're some hours old, but they can start on them, and correct course as soon as our present position is determined." "Stop!" interrupted Markoe. "Wait a minute. We can't call a ship out here. What about the flames?"