which American beer purled delectably down his throat. Harpe clicked his tongue thrice—Tck! Tck! Tck! As Farjohn turned toward him, the skipper stepped up and snatched away both bottle and rifle.
For a moment they confronted each other. Farjohn's bold face lengthened, his jaw dropped farther and farther. He tried twice to speak or scream, then whirled, tore open the door he guarded, and rushed inside.
Again Harpe paused, listening.
"I tell you it is—it's him! Harpe!" Farjohn yelped out.
Plessner waited before replying—he must be having trouble with his voice. "You've had a drop too much of that beer, Farjohn. Harpe can't come to life—he's dead by now—I saw to that—"
"I'm telling you, he's dead!" yelled back Farjohn. "All white skin and red blood—a space-vampire—"
Once again Harpe smiled to himself. He set down both the rifle and the beer-bottle. With one toe he pushed open the door. He made his voice deep, tomb-deep:
"Yes. You killed me, Plessner. But I came back, as I promised."
FARJOHN, nearest the door, gave one sick stare and threw himself on a bench, sobbing like a child. Harpe stepped heavily past him, widening his eyes and fixing them on Plessner. Vannie stood back, perfectly quiet and at earnest attention.
Plessner put his hand to a pistol at his belt, but it seemed too heavy for him to draw. "You're dead," he snarled, in a voice of savage protest.
"Yes," intoned Harpe. "Dead. And so will you be dead."
Plessner gave back. Harpe followed. Plessner was trapped in a corner. Harpe lifted a hand—the hand that had been chilled by Farjohn's beer-bottle—and laid it on the side of Plessner's neck.
The mate sighed gently, and sank down as if all his bones had been taken from him. Harpe bent over him, and nodded to himself.
Those space-superstitions are powerful influences on the imagination. They can stop your heart with fear—if you have a reason to be afraid enough.
"Well done, Captain Harpe," Vannie was saying. "I knew, somehow, you'd get free and come here—I did my best to build up a state of mind in this man to help you when—"
And she, too, collapsed. But Harpe caught and held her.
SHE wept, and was refreshed thereby.
"Captain Harpe—Zack—oh, you escaped, and I'm so—glad—"
Her cheek was wet, and he wanted to kiss it. But his face was all bloody. "Easy," he begged. "Take it easy. Wait till I wash up, Vannie."
"Don't let me go," she begged in turn. "Oh, don't—I've been through so much, just hoping that you'd come—you're the only man who ever tried to help me. Don't let me go, Zack—ever!"
He did not let her go. He mused that fate rules space, as well as planets. Vannie wanted him. He—now that he had time to think—wanted her. They'd get along well together. She'd be rich, but you can't shake a girl off just because she doesn't come to you in rags. . . .
He coaxed her back into command of herself, then washed the blood from his face. Then, addressing Farjohn on the bench:
"You're under arrest. When we get to home port, you'll explain this to the authorities—maybe you'll keep from
(Concluded on page 166)
