REVOLT ON IO
Death stalked the Libra. The Io-plunging space liner freighted a secret weapon, and the rebel Kreuther had vowed it should not arrive.
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THE SHIP’S CLOCK BONGED drowsily three times. Bud Chandler, the junior watch, glared at it languidly. “Thus,” he yawned, “endeth the lobster patrol. Three bells, my fine bucko—and the soft, warm hay for you. Or—” There was a hopeful note in his voice. “Or would you like to finish out my trick for me? I’ll stand double for you some night.”
Dan Mallory said, “Comets to you, sailor!” And he rose, stretching the kinks out of weary muscles. His collar was open at the throat, his back ached from five solid hours in the bucket-shaped control chair. His eyes were strained. That was from peering alternately at glowing panels, throug
