Free Cargo of Coffins by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

bridge . . .
    Lars knew too well what he himself was doing. How easy it would have been to swing in with Paco. But there were other elements involved besides revenge which had chosen his course for him. Terry Norton’s safety was now paramount. Since his play last night he had known that he had been fighting to choose between two paths—his own safety and that of Terry Norton. The girl had won. For Lars, now, there would only be French Guiana or Madame Guillotine, no matter if he won against Paco. He saw that clearly. Until midnight of last night, when he had swung that wheel, he had tried to preserve his hard-won freedom. But all question of doing that was gone.
    Hurried footsteps were sounding in the passageway. By the blue light, Lars saw Ralph coming. And with him Ralph dragged Terry. She was protesting, glancing back, anxious about the violent sounds which came from the main deck, the repeated shots.
    Ralph inserted the keys in the lock, opened the door and slapped a .45 into Lars’ big hand.
    “What madness is this?” cried Terry. “I thought you said . . . It’s a trick! Ralph, you’re crazy! Can’t you . . .”
    “Shut up,” said Lars roughly. “Paco is taking over the Valiant. We can get to the bridge from the engine room.”
    Terry stared at him. Shots were more frequent now on deck.
    “Are you coming?” demanded Lars.
    She did not move and he scooped her up in his arms and bore her swiftly up the passageway. Ralph, panting excitedly, strove to keep up with Lars’ long, anxious strides. Terry’s negligee floated behind Lars like a ship’s wake. The back of the .45 slide was hard and bruising in Terry’s side but, staring at Lars’ face in wonder, she did not even feel it.
    They reached the engine room, skirting the big Diesels and the shining rails, brushing past an astounded engineer, mounting the iron ladders which led upward.
    At the top of the last stage, Lars set Terry down. “You’ll have to climb. I’ll go first.”
    Lars mounted the precarious rungs up the sheer side. In a moment he reached the open fidley. He stopped there, looking toward the bridge on the same level. Dawn faintly lit the world.
    Johnson was leaning over the bridge rail, shouting down at the forward deck. A bullet snapped beside his head and he drew back, almost somersaulting in his rush.
    Heavy feet thundered on the bridge ladder. Lars slid out of the hatch and stepped quickly to a position commanding the forward part of the bridge.
    Tallien, shaggy hair streaming like black smoke behind him, charged into sight. The light was faint but the range was short. He saw Lars and threw the Mannlicher rifle to his shoulder.
    Lars shot from the hip.
    Tallien’s great bulk stood immobile. He took an uncertain step back. Abruptly the rifle clattered to the deck and Tallien shot out of sight, backwards down the bridge ladder.
    Lars raced to the rifle and scooped it up, darting back in time to dodge a random shot from below.
    Ralph came up on all fours and Terry stood shivering, pressed against the door to the radio room. It opened against her and the sleepy operator stuck out his head.
    “What the hell’s the shooting . . . ? Oh, beg pardon, Miss Norton, how—”
    Lars was at her side. “Get a radio to Casablanca, French Morocco . Tell them Renoir and Patou are attacking the Valiant. Tell them to get a cruiser or anything out here instantly.”
    “Where are we?”
    “About fifty miles straight west of Casablanca.” Lars turned to the bridge. “I’ll give you the position exactly in a minute.”
    Terry was swept along by Lars. He thrust her into the protection of the chart room. “Get down out of sight!”
    Ralph was digging the riot guns from beneath a transom . A bullet shattered the glass over his head and he ducked. Lars crouched and fired forward at the fo’c’s’le head .
    “This is going to be hot,” said Lars. He looked up as Johnson came in on hands and knees, and grabbed a riot gun from Ralph, shoving it