Look at this money taken from the vaults of Hannas.”
Giles Habibula nodded, and his yellow face broke into a happy smile.
“Ah, so lad!” he wheezed.
“Look at it—millions and millions of dollars.
Enough to keep a man in wine and women and luxury for a whole lifetime.
Or two men, when the life of one is already run to the end.
Shall we take off with our loot?
Ah, it will be like the old days, lad—living in flight from the Legion?”
The eyes of Chan Derron narrowed to an accusing stare.
“You admit you were an outlaw hi the old days,” he muttered.
“You’re famous for your way with locks.
And you have learned all the scientific tricks of the Medusae and the Cometeers.
I believe you are the Basilisk, Giles Habibula.”
“Life, no lad!”
The old man turned pale.
“Don’t think that—”
“If you aren’t,” rapped Chan Derron, “tell me one thing: how did you find the Phantom Atom, when all the Legion failed?”
“Easy, lad,” wheezed Giles Habibula.
“Among the keys I lifted from Dr. Charles Derrel in the Diamond Room, was one stamped: Controlhouse 17-B-285.
One question told me that the mirror that motor turns was out of order.
That’s how I knew where to meet you.
But surely, lad, you don’t think—”
Soberly, Chan Derron shook his head.
“I believe you’re hunting the Basilisk,” he said.
“So am I.
And I’ve a clue—which is more than I believe the Legion has—besides those the Basilisk has planted to pin his crimes on me.
You may come with me, if you like.”
The small leaden eyes bunked at him, blankly.
“I told you, lad, that I came to seek the Basilisk,” Habibula wheezed at last.
“If you are not the monster—and if you can take me to him—then I’ll go with you.”
Chan gestured briefly toward the compact living apartments aft.
“Make yourself at home,” he said.
“I am going forward.
We have got to slip out of the sign, and elude the fleet, and get to an object I have discovered near Thuban, in Draco.
We’ve cathode plates enough to reach it, but not to return.
I shall expect you to stand a watch, later.”
“Ah, so, lad.
You can depend on Giles Habibula.”
Chan Derron went up into the pilot bay, and Giles Habibula waddled back into the galley.
There, preparing an extravagant meal out of the slender stock of supplies he found, he made an immense deliberate clatter of pots and pans.
Presently his deft pudgy fingers tuned the visiwave relay hidden under his cloak.
Keeping up the noise to cover his voice, he put the communicator disk to his lips and dispatched his first brief message to Commander Kalam: “Aboard Derron’s ship. Bound for mysterious object near Thuban in Draco. For life’s sake, follow!”
He finished getting the meal, tasting copiously from every dish, and carried a loaded tray forward to the pilot bay.
Chan Derron was towering in that tiny space, concentrated on instruments and controls.
His great hand motioned Giles Habibula impatiently back.
“What’s the trouble, lad?” the old man demanded.
“We’ve a race on.”
Chan Derron’s intent eyes didn’t look away from the controls.
“Samdu’s fleet picked us up.
We’d outrun them if we had enough margin of fuel.