He, Joe Berne, did not dare return to the ship so long as Sam Hervey lived, for then Hervey could make a dash for the safety of the station. Nor did Berne dare go to the station, for that would leave the ship unprotected. If Berne went to either place, Hervey could easily reach the air lock of the other refuge, slip through, dog down the doors and sit it out, waiting for the Space Patrol to come. "Stalemate, Joe," Sam Hervey said softly. "It's your move." Berne went berserk then. Howling with rage, he picked up a rock and hurled it toward the voice. Cursing, he plunged into the tortured rocks, seeking out his tormentor. "I'll kill you," he sobbed. "I'll kill you!" Sam Hervey did not hesitate. Bracing himself, he shot away. For half an hour Berne followed him, panting, raging, almost mad with rage. They leaped and turned and twisted, two crazy little running figures under the cold Jupiter-light, gasping in the thin trickle of air from their suit flasks, blood pounding in their brains. And always Hervey circled away, trying to get between Berne and the ship, between Berne and the station, between Berne and the things that the big man had always wanted, the riches and comfort for which he had been prepared to murder.... And then the wild dash was over, and Berne sprawled gasping beneath a black rock finger and glared at the awkward space-garbed figure that watched him so placidly from another rock five hundred yards away. "We use up a lot of oxygen that way, Joe," Hervey said quietly. Berne cursed, looked swiftly at his indicator. No, the tanks had been full. They had three days' supply. But ... when that was gone? Could he calmly return to the ship or to the station storage locker and recharge his tanks? No. Oh, Lord, no! In that brief interval, Hervey would gain the refuge he sought, the refuge that meant the end of Joe Berne. Berne got up and started to walk back toward the ship. He turned once; Hervey was following him, keeping his distance, but following. Berne spun, made a move toward him. Hervey darted away, and his chuckle was in the earphones. Hervey paused, waited. "Tag, Joe," Hervey said. "Who's It? Do you know?" Berne did not answer. He angled toward the ship, watching over his shoulder. Suddenly Sam Hervey dashed off toward the station. Berne shouted, raced towards him. Hervey retreated to safety. When Berne turned toward the station, Hervey started for the ship. Berne drove him back. "This is fun, Joe," Hervey said. He was circling warily, drifting closer and closer toward the ship this time. Again the big man charged, again Hervey retreated, waited. When Berne finally reached his post squarely between the ship and the station, where he had dropped the rifle, Hervey was still five hundred yards away, but he was closer to the ship than he had been. "You can't make it to the ship," Berne warned him. "I'll be on you before you get the lock closed." "I know," Hervey agreed soberly. "I wouldn't like that at all, Joe."