Who ever thought that Frane Lewis—wholesale
triggerman, spaceways pirate—would be the
sweating victim of a simple, webbed, nylon
garment known as spaceman's underwear?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories November 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Frane Lewis enjoyed another sadistic shiver as he moved up the narrowpassageway to the captain's control room. To his flared nostrils thewarm, moist air of the small space-freighter was still heavy with thesmell of death. A psychiatrist could have told him that this was aneural confusion of olfactory sensation with the perverted emotionalexcitement of murder. But no physicians ever attended Frane's murders,except at inquests.
Three crewmen, still warm, lay at their posts with bloody splotchesstaining their tunic pockets. Two more chores aboard and his pay,fabulous pay, was earned.
For Frane simple plans worked best. He rapped on the gray magnesiumpanel. "Your lunch, sir," he called. Inside, a solenoid thumped. Theport slid aside revealing the captain's square back outlined againstthe white-sprinkled velvet of space. As the executive turned away fromthe transparent nose dome Frane's weapon spoke its final invitation toeternity. The captain's eyes clamped shut, and in the reduced gravityhe buckled to the deck in slow motion.
Then Frane swore as the dimly lighted astro-pit revealed anotherperson. What was the navigator doing up here at this time of watch? Thetall, uniformed second officer reacted even as unbelieving horror swepthis face.
Shoving off from the bulkhead Frane dodged the officer's lunge witha quick side-step, but the motion smashed the side of his curly headinto a grip stanchion. His ears rang, and blood spurted from a foreheadgash. In a cold rage he watched his opponent recover and crouch foranother spring. "Sucker! you could have died nice and easy. Now weshall see!"
With cruel deliberation he slipped his finger off the trigger andwaited for the spaceman's desperate dive. Up whipped the heavy handweapon in a short, vicious arc that splintered jawbone with an almostcrisp, wood-snapping sound.
Swiftly Frane secured the cabin door. Then he went about bindingthe unconscious navigator with parts of his own uniform. When hewas through he stood for a moment trying to orient himself in thehemispherical room. He compared it to a chart sketch provided him onearth before he had stowed away in his special supply crate.
"Piracy!" The word hissed into the silence with a quality ofunbelieving. Frane swung and saw that his victim had regained hissenses.
"Yeah, piracy. Didn't think it could happen, did you? They told youspace piracy was impossible, didn't they?"
"You brutal, bestial, insane—" the navigator broke off as his smashedjaw moved in spite of his gritted teeth.
"Not insane, buddy, just irritated. You caused me some trouble, see?I'm saving you, buddy." His hand came away from his face palm out andsmeared with red. "I'm saving you for later."
He moved surely now, the details of location well in mind. A low placedlocker when opened spilled out the gleaming metalized space suit whichwas prop number one in this stage play. A little nervously Franefumbled with the unfamiliar garment.
The officer watched with dull eyes as the killer prepared to don it."How—how many—men alive back there?"
"Subtract three. That leaves eighteen, doesn't it? And you can writethem off as soon as I get these pajamas on."
"Don't spill the air! For the love of Jupiter, don't spill the air! You