"No," Berne said. "You wouldn't." Stalemate. The two men sat on the black, seared rocks and watched each other, and the hours crawled. Twice Berne got up and chased Hervey away, into the outer darkness. It was useless. "You got yourself in a fine mess, boy," Hervey said. "You should learn not to be so careless." "Shut up," Berne gritted. "I figured that business of the oxygen tanks was funny," Hervey went on. "Made me sort of stop and think, Joe. Then I knew what you were up to. And when I mentioned the harness, back there in the cabin, you didn't remember to hide your face. I had sort of a hunch that you might try something tonight." "You weren't strapped down." Berne's voice was sulkily accusing. "No," Hervey agreed blithely. "I wasn't. When you went out to the tunnel to get your wrench, I unsnapped. I was holding on to the bunk with both hands, waiting for you to make up your stupid mind." "Shut up," Berne said. "Shut up!" His voice raised to a scream, deafening him in his helmet. "I'm going to break you to pieces." "Not yet, you ain't," rejoined the mocking voice. "And you forgot something else, too, I'll bet." "What?" "The daily radio report to Base, Joe. Remember?" The voice faded, chuckling grimly. For a moment Berne felt panic gripping at him, swinging him wildly through space. He was dizzy with it. The daily report! If SS-114 did not come through, Base would start wondering. "Forget it," he said. "They won't worry for awhile. Maybe reception is bad." "Sure," the other agreed readily. "For a little while, Joe. But if forty-eight hours pass and they don't hear from us, you know damned well they'll have a cruiser out here fast, investigating. The Service likes us, Joe. They don't want to lose us." Berne knew that what Hervey said was true. "You'll be dead by then," he assured Hervey. The soft, hated laugh echoed in his helmet. "Will I, Joe?" * * * * * The hours crept by, and the dim light waxed and waned as the planetoid spun in the void. Like clumsy fat robots, like puppets on a puppet master's strings, the two figures advanced, retreated, circled, attacked and fled. They danced their macabre minuet among the twisted, tortured black rocks, and always the soft, mocking laugh was in his earphones as Berne lunged panting after the darting puppet ahead of him. And finally he sank down at his post, breathing in sobbing gasps and tasting the salt of the bitter tears that trickled down his cheeks. The oxygen was sinking; not much more. At the rate they were using it, it would not last much longer. "Hervey!" The other stirred in the shadow of a rock pinnacle. "I'm still with you, Joe." "Okay, Sam," Berne said. "I've had enough. Come on in." There was silence, then, from far away, the ghost of a chuckle. "Don't you want to play any more, Joe?" Berne snarled, then with an effort regained control of himself.