The hawk-face remained a bleak tense mask.
“Obviously the criminal must be an able scientist,” the voiceless gambler replied.
“Obviously, he knows the New Moon intimately.
Obviously, also, he dislikes Gaspar Hannas.
I know one man, Commander, who fits those three conditions.”
“So?” wheezed Giles Habibula. “Besides yourself?”
The dark unblinking eyes darted at him, venomously.
“Who is that?” Jay Kalam prompted.
“The man who built the New Moon,” rasped Brelekko. “John Comaine.”
“But isn’t he employed by Hannas?”
“John Comaine is the slave of Gaspar Hannas,” Brelekko whispered.
“I know the story—I alone, beside the two of them.
A young man, a brilliant scientist but mad with the thirst for wealth, Comaine came to the battered hulk of a condemned space ship that was the first New Moon.
He lost too much—money that was not his to lose.
Hannas let him pay the debt with his science—and then held the new crime over him.
Comaine tried at first to escape, but every effort left him deeper in the power of Hannas. Yet I think he still has the pride and the heart of a scientist.
I know he first dreamed of the New Moon, Commander, not as a gambling resort, but as a super-observatory and laboratory of all the sciences, to be stationed out in Neptune’s orbit.
It was the ruthless power of Hannas that turned his dream of Contra-Neptune into this.
Would it be very strange, Commander, if a scientist, revolting against half a lifetime of such slavery, should make his science strike back?”
“Perhaps not,” Jay nodded slowly.
“Thank you, Brelekko.”
He detailed two plain-clothes men to shadow the gambler, and sent for John Comaine.
When the engineer appeared, stiffly awkward, the square stern mask of his slightly pop-eyed face hiding any emotion, the Commander asked him the same question about the Basilisk.
Comaine shook his big blond head, impassive as a statue.
“The Basilisk is a scientist,” said his flat harsh voice.
“I know, Commander, because I have been attempting to set my own knowledge against his. And I have failed to match him.
I have met only one mind equal in ability to the feats of the Basilisk—the mind of Dr. Max Eleroid.”
“But Eleroid is dead!”
“My only suggestion, Commander,” the engineer said flatly, “is that the cadaver in question was not accurately identified.”
Two more operatives were sent to follow Comaine.
An orderly, in the Legion green, was admitted.
“Commander Kalam.” He saluted.
“We have reports from the principal stock exchanges on all the planets.
As you surmised, sir, the shares and obligations of the New Moon syndicate fell precipitately with the news of what happened here—to about three per cent, in fact, of their former value.
“The financial reports confirm your belief, Commander, that a behind-the-scenes battle has been in progress for control of the syndicate.
One group has now capitulated, evidently, so that the other is able to buy at its own price.”
Jay Kalam nodded gravely.
“Has the buyer been traced?”
“It has always been very difficult to discover anything about the affairs of the New Moon Syndicate, sir. They are handled by very devious means.
The Legion has exerted pressure, however, upon several brokers.
The reports indicate, almost surely, that the buyer is Gaspar Hannas!”
“Eh?”
Old Giles Habibula started.
“But Hannas is the New Moon’s master, already.”
“He is head of the syndicate,” Jay Kalam told him.
“Originally he was sole owner of the enterprise. But the cost of constructing the New Moon, while the actual sum has never been revealed, must have been staggering—far beyond the resources of Hannas.
He was forced to sell a vast amount of stock, and the syndicate incurred tremen-dous obligations.
Out of that situation comes the chief reason for suspecting that Hannas himself is the Basilisk.”
“Eh, Jay?”
Giles Habibula turned pale and began to perspire.