mother and I squabbled, broke up—I brought her here, to get her away from the rottenness of a civilization that lets such things happen. But why am I telling you? You met her here, refueling or something. Made a play for her. All right, Plessner, the girl's worth making a play for—she's worth marrying. You've pushed yourself into her life, and you're elected as the bridegroom." A wintry grin on the broad face. "I can make it stick. Here I'm in the position of any space-skipper—can give orders to any man or Martian aboard, judge and execute criminals, make Thanksgiving fall on Good Friday if I like. And," the big cube-chin thrust forward, "I can perform provisional marriage ceremonies—"
Harpe was at Conniston's throat.
FOR an instant the two swayed and struggled. Harpe's first aggressor advantage was quickly offset as Conniston brought bulk and strength into play, thrusting the lighter man back. A hand like a shovel pinned Harpe's shoulder, and a quick shove backed him against a bulkhead. The other fist swung—had it connected, Harpe's head would have been driven stunningly against the metal; but Harpe knew the trick, writhed and ducked. Conniston's mighty knuckles clanged on the bulkhead, Conniston howled with pain, and Harpe twisted loose.
Before the giant could prepare again, Harpe let him have right and left in the face. Conniston flinched ever so slightly, like a stone statue in a high gale; hit Harpe lightly on the mouth, then in the hard belly', and clipped him behind the ear as he doubled over. Harpe managed to reel away, recover, weave in, and then he got home, hard and clean, on the heavy jaw. Even as that lucky punch sped home,
Harpe cocked and let go another. Now it was Conniston who reeled and staggered, groggy. Harpe was after him, desperate and swift but calculating. The strife had driven all faintness from him.
Left, right, left—he clustered punches on the massive chin that now began to sag. Conniston made clumsy returns that bruised but did not punish, while Harpe speared him again and again with jabs and hooks. The giant spun half around, and Harpe clubbed the thick nape of the neck with a solid right. Conniston swayed like a dancing bear, pawing ineffectually at the smaller battler who circled him, striking again and again—scoring each time—would Conniston never collapse? He must. He was doing it. The great bulk settled, its mighty legs wavered. Harpe connected once more, Conniston settled slowly to his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his beaten face upon the metal flooring.
"Had enough?" Harpe panted, setting himself to strike again if his huge old adversary tried to get up.
But Conniston rolled sidewise into a sitting crouch. His big. fist-chopped features knotted into a demon smile.
"Well done, Plessner," he wheezed. "If it was only my welfare I'd say enough, and no hard feelings; but, since it concerns my daughter Vannie—"
He whipped something from his pocket, a bright flute-whistle. Before Harpe could stoop and snatch it, he had set it to his split lips and blew a shrill, prolonged blast.
On the instant, a rear door flew open and in rushed clanging, gleaming figures. Men in metal space-armor? No—
Robots!
THERE were three of them. Harpe tried to run, was cornered, tried to
