The devil's rage flamed in her face. She yelled, and a lance whistled from the sky and buried itself in the great breast. "Wocha!" yelled Donovan. The Donarrian snarled and snapped off the shaft that stood between his ribs. He whirled it over his head, and Valduma's green eyes widened in fear. "Donovan!" roared Wocha, and let it fly. It smashed home, and the Ansan dropped his sword and swayed on his feet. He couldn't look on the broken thing which had been Valduma. "Boss, you go home now." Wocha laid him in the airlock and slammed the outer valve shut. Turning, he faced the Arzunians. He couldn't see very well--one eye was gone, and there was a ragged darkness before the other. The sword felt heavy in his hand. But-- "Hooo!" he roared and charged them. He spitted one and trampled another and tossed a third into the air. Whirling, he clove a head and smashed a rib-case with his fist and chopped another across. His sword broke, and he grabbed two Arzunians and cracked their skulls together. They ran, then, turned and fled from him. And he stood watching them go and laughed. His laughter filled the city, rolling from its walls, drowning the whistle of the ship's takeoff and bringing blood to his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, spat, and lay down. "We're clear, Basil." Helena clung to him, shivering in his arms, and he didn't know if it was a laugh or a sob in her throat. "We're away, safe, we'll carry word back to Sol and they'll clear the Black Nebula for good." "Yeah." He rubbed his eyes. "Though I doubt the Navy will find anything. If those Arzunians have any sense, they'll project to various fringe planets, scatter, and try to pass as harmless humanoids. But it doesn't matter, I suppose. Their power is broken." "And we'll go back to your home, Basil, and bring Ansa and Terra together and have a dozen children and--" He nodded. "Sure. Sure." But he wouldn't forget. In the winter nights, when the stars were sharp and cold in a sky of ringing crystal black, he would--go out and watch them? Or pull his roof over him and wait for dawn? He didn't know yet. Still--even if this was a long ways from being the best of all possible universes, it had enough in it to make a man glad of his day. He whistled softly, feeling the words run through his head: Lift your glasses high, kiss the girls good-bye, (Live well, my friend, live well, live you well) for we're riding, for we're riding, for we're riding out to Terran sky! Terran sky! Terran sky! The thought came all at once that it could be a song of comradeship, too. End of Project Gutenberg's Sargasso of Lost Starships, by Poul Anderson