"No," Gregson said. "Why would he wait so long? Lal was the type to do such a thing the moment he found out. Besides, the alien wouldn't be bothered by space if it has no body." "Damn; you're right. Just trying to cheer things, old man. Just trying...." Suddenly the sound of a pistol-shot echoed through the chambers of the space satellite. The crewmen always carried pistols as safeguards against one another. "You hear that?" Gregson said. Beveridge nodded. Moments later Lasseux came running into the chamber, muttering excitedly and incoherently to himself in French. He carried a smoking gun in his hand. Gregson and Beveridge immediately drew but Lasseux raised his other hand and dropped the gun. "Calm yourself!" Gregson ordered, shaking Lasseux roughly. "Calm down! What happened!" The flow of French finally ceased. Lasseux made a visible effort to master himself and said. "Golovunoff--the Russian--_he_ was the alien!"[1] [Footnote 1: Transcriber's Note: This paragraph seemed to be a printer error. A portion was removed for better readability. The original text of this paragraph was "The flow of French finally ceased. Lasseux made a visible effort added an exotic spark to the group that was missing now and the tragic nature of his death dampened to master himself and said. "Golovunoff--the Russian--_he_ was the alien!"] "What?" "I saw him change shape," Lasseux gasped. "He seemed to waver for a moment when he thought I wasn't looking. The edges of his body blurred. It was awful! Then he saw me--and I shot him!" "Is he dead?" "Yes! Yes! I sealed off the chamber, so the alien couldn't escape if it's still alive." Lasseux was trembling violently. Beveridge and Gregson, pale, stared at him. "Two men dead," Gregson said. "And we don't know if we've killed the creature yet. Or if there really is a creature," he added more silently to himself. Then--"Great God! _Lasseux!_" Gregson gaped. The Frenchman was ... _wavering_. It was the only way to describe it. He seemed to be blurring and shifting mistily, but only for an instant. An instant was long enough. Gregson had his gun out and pumped three shots into Lasseux's body. The Frenchman looked incredulously at him a moment, then crumpled. Gregson took four steps back and let the gun drop from his nerveless fingers. "It was a trick," he said in a half-whisper. "He killed the Russian and made up the story about him--but he couldn't control his own wavering! Lucky thing I got him first, wasn't it?" He turned to Beveridge for confirmation, but the Englishman was gazing at him sternly, coldly, almost angrily. "He _was_ wavering, wasn't he?" Gregson asked. "You saw it too--that sort of blurring?" The American knotted his hands tensely. "Well, now the alien's dead--unless it's taken a new host. You don't think that's possible, do you, Beveridge? I mean, if you shoot the body it's in, can it hop to the next person like that? Do you think...." "Yes," said the Englishman. "I think so."