Cutlass knew he was right. If they found him here, it'd be the colony again for Doc. He owed him too much, for his father as well as himself, to let that happen. And anywhere else, sooner or later-- "I guess you win, Doc. But I've still got questions. I step into the cylinder--and then where'll I be? What'll I be? Suppose I don't like it where I end up? I'm sick of the sight of space police--or any other kind of police." "I'll place you on Earth, because you're native to it, Robbin, and have a knowledge of its history. And--I'll try to pick a time that suits a young fellow of your talents! And if you don't like it, you have only to use this--" * * * * * Cutlass fingered the small object, was fascinated as it glittered with all the blended colors of the sun despite the blue-green shadows that fell everywhere about it. It was the shape and size of an old-fashioned cigarette-lighter, and made of some hard, smooth metal that doubtless was of Doc's own forging. The only break in its smooth surface was a round, countersunk button colored like a ruby. "No matter where you find yourself in Space or Time," he heard Doc saying, "press the button--hold it down hard. And I'll know you're either bored or--" the withered old face smiled gently, "in trouble that you can't battle your way out of! I'll have you in another space-time within seconds." "You're a crazy old coot, Doc. You know that." "Don't you think it, boy! And there is no need to fear my--my death, in the interim. Depending upon the time-phase in which you find yourself, anywhere from ten to a hundred years in your continuum will mean perhaps a minute to an hour in mine. But--as to what you'd be--well...." "Go ahead! Tell me," Cutlass laughed. "As long as I'll be alive!" "It is actually impossible for me to answer you. I don't think I can change the blood in a man's veins. And the blood of pirates has coursed in yours through generations!" Cutlass laughed loudly, and it was a defiant, careless laugh that told the Universe and its entire white picket-fence society to go to blazing Hell. "OK, Doc! You win! You hide me good!" Cutlass belted the small signalling device around his body and stepped inside the cylinder. The dull black sheen of his tunic lent a peculiar matter-of-factness to the underacted drama, yet Cutlass knew it was as Doc said--hide out, or die. "Good hunting, Robbin Cutlass!" * * * * * _A half-light-year beyond Pluto, floating at the edge of Deep Space in a creaking freighter hull that was disguised with the shades of night itself, a withered Martian scientist touched a series of relays with his short, reddish fingers. There was a gentle humming, the faint odor of ozone, and that was all. Robbin Cutlass, last of the Space buccaneers, had vanished completely._ * * * * *