"You brutal, bestial, insane--" the navigator broke off as his smashed jaw moved in spite of his gritted teeth. "Not insane, buddy, just irritated. You caused me some trouble, see? I'm saving you, buddy." His hand came away from his face palm out and smeared with red. "I'm saving you for later." * * * * * He moved surely now, the details of location well in mind. A low placed locker when opened spilled out the gleaming metalized space suit which was prop number one in this stage play. A little nervously Frane fumbled with the unfamiliar garment. The officer watched with dull eyes as the killer prepared to don it. "How--how many--men alive back there?" "Subtract three. That leaves eighteen, doesn't it? And you can write them off as soon as I get these pajamas on." "Don't spill the air! For the love of Jupiter, don't spill the air! You have the ship. Why murder us all?" "Orders. I don't make them, I just carry them out. For money. Big money. That's why I'm here. I'm reliable. Besides, your men might break out and pester me. They're locked in their quarters." "You mean you're alone?" "I'm your man, space boy," Frane said with flat boastfulness. He caught up a strange webbed garment of nylon yarn. "What do you call this fish net? It was in the suit locker." "You wouldn't know about that, you earthbound slug. We call it spaceman's underwear. Didn't your buddies tell you about it?" Frane shrugged, started to discard it and changed his mind. "Better put it on me, I guess. I suppose it's pretty cold when the air goes out." Through twisted, motionless lips, the navigator told him, "Very cold. Absolute cold. You won't live if you spill the air." Frane said nothing. The spaceman watched the killer strip off his clothes, slip into the net garment and redress himself. Wool slacks snugged in at the ankles and belted tightly to a felt jacket with a tight, soft collar. Now he proceeded with the space suit. "With enough air a man can live for weeks in one of these," Frane lectured to dispel a depressed feeling of confinement, as he tugged the bulky space garment up and fastened it around his neck. "And I got plenty of air, see?" He uncoiled the length of silicon-plastic hose and plugged one end into the bubble helmet, the other into the wall valve of the control cabin. "How do you intend to navigate this craft?" the officer asked with honest curiosity. After a moment's reflection Frane could see no reason to conceal the procedure. He felt like talking. He had often talked to his victims before. Foolishly, perhaps, but his victims had never lived to repeat the conversations. Nor would this one. "We'll be boarded in about twenty hours. They told me they couldn't trail too closely or your radar would have alerted you. They'll have their own crew to take over." "Suppose they don't show up at all?" the officer needled. "They will. Don't you worry your silly little head over that."