I gave it to him, both barrels. He had a right to know. Every man has a right to know when it's bye-bye time. "But don't tell the crew," I warned. "The Old Man'll do that if he thinks best." Biggs' eyes were huge and round. "Runt Hake! Gee, no wonder the Skipper was cross." He plunged into one of his characteristic silences. Then, suddenly, "Hey!" "Hey, what?" "They say Hake is a show-off. Likes to crack the whip on captured ships, ordering up big meals and so on before he scuttles it--" "Well?" I said. "You think you're going to poison him, maybe? Don't be a dope. He'll make you swallow a pussfull of everything you serve him." "Never mind. I'm not sure my idea is any good--yet! But have you got a book on physiochemistry?" "In my office." "Swell. Get it for me, will you? I'll explain later." Well, I got him the book and he jammed it into his pocket and disappeared toward the galley, jogging along like a stork on stilts. But I had no time, now, to laugh at Biggs' physical or mental peculiarities. Because my ears had just caught a sound they did not want to catch. The sound of metal grating on metal near the off-port. The banging of a mailed fist on _permalloy_, the asthmatic wheeze of the airlock, a sailor's shout ending in a choked gurgle-- I charged back into the radioroom. "Cap," I yelled, "at the airlock! Somebody. It must be--" It was. Runt Hake and his pirates. * * * * * You wouldn't think, to look at Runt Hake, that he was a killer. True, he held a hand pierce gun on us as he approached, moving smoothly, lightly, up the runway. A half dozen men behind him also held their side arms poised, ready for action, while another half dozen deployed down the side corridors toward the engine rooms and control turrets. But as Hake came nearer he tossed back the quartzite headpiece of his bulger, and I saw that his hair was wheat-gold, his lips curved into something like a tender smile, his cheeks smooth, soft, boyish. His voice was gentle, too. He said, "You offer no resistance, Captain? That is wise." Cap Hanson said, "Hake, I surrender my ship to you freely. But do not harm my men. That is all I ask. My men do not deserve--" "But, Captain!" The slender little pirate's eye-brows lifted archly. "Surely you are a little premature in your pleas? We have just arrived. There are so many, many things to be done before we--ah--enjoy our little pleasures." And then, as he said that, I saw why men cursed the name of Runt Hake. It was not in his face. His golden hair, his pink cheeks, his soft mouth--all these were but gilding for the rottenness within him. The real Hake was in his eyes. Those dancing, glinting, gloating eyes that leaped into swift, flaming delight as he hinted at that which was to come.