Revenge of the Vera By HENRY HASSE The unarmed freighter Vera was plowing through space to meet the deadliest pirate of the Void--rocketing into battle against a fighting ship even the Space Patrol could not vanquish. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man seemed too big for the single, cushioned seat of the tiny space cruiser. But he did not remain in the seat long, and when he moved it was with a swift surety that belied his bulk. He stepped over to the visipanel, peered into it and saw only a few pinpoints of stars. His eyes, as icy as those stars, narrowed until they, too, were but pinpoints. He grasped the directional finder and swung it in eccentric parabolas across all the heavens before him. The star pinpoints swung to and fro, in and out of the visipanel ... and then he saw it. A vague, darker shape against the blackness, blotting out a few of the stars. Lucky! he thought, as he leaped back to the controls to change direction. Lucky to find it before the Earth Patrol got there. The news had already gone out. But he did not exult; his lips tightened into a thin hard line, and his throat tightened too, with the foreboding that crowded out all hope. As he drew swiftly nearer, he could see the huge luxury liner helplessly drifting. He could see the black ragged hole in the hull. He could see the name on the prow, _Martian Princess_. He could see other things which he didn't want to see, which he didn't want to approach but knew he must. Numerous tiny white-faced things, staring and bloated and reflecting the leprous sunlight.... The tiny cruiser clanged against the larger bulk, and her magniplates held. The man was already in space-suit. With a trembling hand he brushed back his blonde hair, then pulled down the _Crystyte_-fronted helmet. He stepped out into space. He did not immediately board the liner. Instead he moved among the scores of drifting corpses, using a propulsion pistol. He pulled each corpse to him, stared searchingly into its face, then thrust it away with a shudder. Before he had half finished he was sick; but he felt hope surging in him again, for he had not yet found what he was looking for. Perhaps, after all ... somehow ... _she_ had not taken this liner....