swarthy, elegant. Just now he held in his hand the short haft of a rocket-control lever, with which he had smitten Conniston down from behind. He laughed, and tossed it upon the huge, quivering body.
"My children," he said with false genialty, "I know all."
"You know—" Vannie Conniston echoed.
"All. You see, I've been listening to the radio. Jan Conniston here rigged up something to tap the main speaker system—and he left it running. I picked up all the dialogue that took place in this office. Most interesting. Most dramatic. He rolled up his handsome blue-black eyes. "And so, knowing that Conniston's attention would be taken up with you, I landed quietly on the far side of the hull—told the boys to start refuelling—nipped around and jimmied my way through the outer locks. And just now I had a chance to remove him from consideration."
Vannie had recovered enough to run to her father. She lifted his huge, grizzled head. "He—is he dead?" she stammered.
"Not now, but he will be," replied Plessner gently. "He'll die after you and I leave."
"I won't go with you," cried Vannie, looking up from her clubbed father.
"Yes, you will. I'll drag you. As to Harpe here, he has to die—so that I can recover him, dead, and comfort the crew."
Harpe understood that. His men would mutter the legend he'd mulled over in space, the belief that men lost between worlds became evil spirits. Plessner elaborated:
"I'll see that you're found, in that space-overall yonder, and taken home for Spaceways to give a classy killed-in-performance-of-duty funeral too."
"Miss Vannie," said Harpe, "listen to everything he says. You'll be able to wrap the law around his neck—"
"Not she," interposed Plessner airily, "for she'll be my wife. Can't give evidence against a husband, not in a criminal action. You see, I'll be Skipper now, and I can perform a provisional space-marriage for myself, just as Conniston was going to."
Harpe threw a kick at Plessner. He missed and fell to the floor. Chuckling, Plessner went to a set of gauges on the wall.
"Here's the air-exhaust." He turned a tap, which began to hiss. "You'll die quickly and quietly, of air starvation, just as you're supposed to have died. I'll slip back later, jockey you into your space-overall, sling you out to be picked up—"
"Plessner," broke in Harpe, "I suddenly realize that the legend is true. Air-starved-murdered—I'll become a space-vampire. I'll hunt you down, Plessner. I'll settle with you—after I die."
Plessner looked at him. The words of the pinioned man had chilled him despite himself. He gritted his teeth, and jerked Vannie to her feet. "Goodbye," he growled at Harpe, and went out, slamming the door. Zack Harpe was left alone in the thinning air, with the silent robots and the unconscious Conniston.
"At least I gave him a scare," said Harpe to himself. "And I meant what I said—I'll do my best to come back and haunt that swine—"
He slackened a little inside the wire bindings. They would not come off that way, either. "Conniston!" he called. "Wake up!"
THE injured man breathed heavily, but did not stir. No help to be had there. Harpe hadn't really expected it.
