"Don't call me ‘my friend'," Cargraves said testily. "I'm sick of it."

"Very well, my dear Captain." Cargraves let the remark pass. He was getting worried by the extended absence of Art and Morrie. Was it possible that some other of the Nazis were still around, alive and capable of making trouble?

He was beginning to think about tying up the prisoner here present and going to look for them when the lock sighed open. Morrie and Art stepped out, prodding the other prisoner before them. "He didn't want to come, Uncle," Art informed him. "We had to convince him a little." He chuckled. "I don't think he trusts us."

"Okay. Get your suits off."

The other prisoner seemed completely dumfounded by the sight of von Hartwick. Hastily he unclamped his helmet, threw it back, and said in German, "Herr Oberst—it was not my fault. I was-"

"Silence!" shouted the Nazi officer, also in German. "Have you told these pig-dogs anything about the operation of this ship?"

"Nein, nein, Herr Oberst—I swear it!"

"Then play stupid or I'll cut your heart out!"

Cargraves listened to this interesting little exchange with an expressionless face, but it was too much for Art. "Uncle," he demanded, "did you hear that? Did you hear what he said he'd do?"

Von Hartwick looked from nephew to uncle. "So you understand German?" he said quietly. "I was afraid that you might." Ross had let the muzzle of his gun wander away from von Hartwick when the boys came in with their prisoner. Cargraves had long since shoved the pistol he had appropriated into his belt.

Von Hartwick glanced from one to another. Morrie and Art were both armed, one with a Garand, the other with revolver, but they had them trained on the Nazi pilot. Von Hartwick lunged suddenly at Cargraves and snatched the pistol from his belt.

Without appearing to stop to take aim he fired once. Then Cargraves was at him, clawing at his hands.

Von Hartwick brought the pistol down on his head, club fashion, and moved in to grapple him about the waist.

The Nazi pilot clasped his hands to his chest, gave a single bubbly moan, and sank to the floor. No one paid him any attention. After a split second of startled inaction, the three boys were milling around, trying to get in a shot at von Hartwick without hitting Cargraves. Cargraves himself had jerked and gone limp when the barrel of the pistol struck his head. Von Hartwick held the doctor's thirty pounds of moon-weight up with one arm. He shouted, "Silence!"

His order would have had no effect had not the boys seen something else: Von Hartwick was holding the pistol to Cargraves' head. "Careful, gentlemen," he said, speaking very rapidly. "I have no wish to harm your leader and will not do so unless you force me. I am sorry I was forced to strike him; I was forced to do so when he attacked me."

"Watch out!" commanded Morrie. "Art! Ross! Don't try to shoot."

"That is sensible," von Hartwick commended him. "I have no wish to try to shoot it out with you. My only purpose was to dispose of him." He indicated the body of the Nazi pilot.

Morrie glanced at it. "Why?"

"He was a soft and foolish pig. I could not afford to risk his courage. He would have told you what you want to know." He paused, and then said suddenly, "And now—I am your prisoner again!" The pistol sailed out of his hand and clanged against the floor.

"Get Doc out of my way," Ross snapped. "I can't get a shot in."

"No!" Morrie thundered. "Art, pick up the pistol. Ross, you take care of Doc."

"What are you talking about?" Ross objected. "He's a killer. I'll finish him off."

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Well—Doc wouldn't like it. That's reason enough. Don't shoot. That's an order, Ross. You take care of Doc. Art, you tie up the mug. Make it good."

"It'll be good!" promised Art.

The Nazi did not resist and Morrie found himself able to give some attention to what Ross was doing. "How bad is it?" he inquired, bending over Cargraves.

"Not too bad, I think. I'll know better when I get some of this blood wiped away."

"You will find dressings and such things," von Hartwick put in casually, as if he were not in the stages of being tied up, "in a kit under the instrument board in the control room."

"Go look for them, Ross," Morrie directed. "I'll keep guard. Not," he said to von Hartwick, "that it will do you any good if he dies. If he does, out you go, outside, without a suit. Shooting's too good for you."

"He won't die. I hit him very carefully."

"You had better hope he doesn't. You won't outlive him more than a couple of minute."

Von Hartwick shrugged. "It is hardly possible to threaten me. We are all dead men. You realize that, don't you?"

Morrie looked at him speculatively. "Finished with him, Art? Sure he's tied up tight?"

"He'll choke himself to death if he tries to wiggle out of that one."

"Good. Now you," he went on to von Hartwick, "you may be a dead man. I wouldn't know. But we're not. We are going to fly this ship back to earth. You start behaving yourself and we might take you with us."

Von Hartwick laughed. "Sorry to disillusion you, dear boy, but none of us is going back to earth. That is why I had to dispose of that precious pilot of mine."

Morrie turned away, suddenly aware that no one had bothered to find out how badly the sergeant-pilot was wounded. He was soon certain; the man was dead, shot through the heart. "I can't see that it matters," he told von Hartwick.. "We've still got you. You'll talk, or I'll cut your ears off and feed them to you."

"What a distressing thought," he was answered, "but it. won't help you. You see, I am unable to tell you anything; I am not a pilot."

Art stared at him. "He's kidding you, Morrie."

"No," von Hartwick denied. "I am not. Try cutting my ears off and you will see. No, my poor boys, we are all going to stay here a long time, until we rot, in fact. Heil dem Führer!"

"Don't touch him, Art," Morrie warned. "Doc wouldn't like it."

Chapter 18 - TOO LITTLE TIME

CARGRAVES WAS WIDE ENOUGH awake to swear by the time Ross swabbed germicide on the cut in his hair line. "Hold still, Doc I-"

"I am holding still. Take it easy."

They brought him up to date as they bandaged him. "The stinker thinks he's put one over on us," Ross finished. "He thinks we can't run this boat without somebody to show us."

"He may be perfectly right," Cargraves admitted. "So far it's got us stumped. We'll see. Throw him in the hold, and we'll have another look. Morrie, you did right not to let him be shot."

"I didn't think you would want him killed until you had squeezed him dry."

Cargraves gave him an odd smile. "That wasn't your only reason, was it?

"Well—shucks !" Morrie seemed almost embarrassed. "I didn't want to just shoot him down after he dropped the gun. That's a Nazi trick."

Cargraves nodded approvingly. "That's right. That's one of the reasons they think we are soft. But we'll have a little surprise for him." He got up, went over, and stirred von Hartwick with his toe. "Listen to me, you. If possible, I am going to take you back to earth to stand trial... If not, we'll try you here."

Von Hartwick lifted his eyebrows. "For making war on you? How delightfully American!"

"No, not for making war. There isn't any war, and there hasn't been any war. The Third Reich disappeared forever in the spring of 1945 and today there is peace between Germany and the United States, no matter how many pipsqueak gangsters may still be hiding out. No, you phony superman, you are going to be tried for the murder of your accomplice—that poor dupe lying over there." He turned away. "Chuck him in the hold, boys. Come on, Ross."

Three hours later Cargraves was quite willing to admit that von Hartwick was correct when he said that the operation of the Wotan could not be figured out by a stranger. There were strange controls on the arms of the piloting seats which certainly had to be the flight controls, but no matter what they twisted, turned or moved, nothing happened. And the drive itself was sealed away behind a bulkhead which, from the sound it gave off when pounded, was inches thick.