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Barnhart shook his lean, bronze head wearily. “Simmons, the Admiralty has gone through this thousands of times. Obviously they know our danger is greater by staying where we are. Why, Ignatz 6Y out there may nova! We’ll have to take our chances.”

“No, sir.” Simmons thrust his pale, blue-veined jaw at him, his light eyes Nordicly cold below a blond cropping. “The storm spots are dying down. We aren’t phasing yet.”

Barnhart drew himself up and looked down at the mate. Behind Simmons, York moved closer. The captain was suddenly aware of York’s low forehead and muscular, free-swinging arms. It was probably sheer bias, but he had frequently entertained the idea that Englishmen were closer to our apelike ancestor than most people ... the way they ran around painted blue when everybody was civilly wearing clothes and all. Obviously York was incapable of thinking for himself and was willing to do anything Simmons commanded him to do.

It became transparent to Barnhart that they were going to mutiny to avoid following their duty as clearly outlined in regulations. Judging from York’s twitching knuckles, they were going to resist by strangling him.