Captain Chris Douglas mopped his brow when he was alone in his quarters. "Witches," he murmured incredulously. "Purifying the soul of a ship against witches!" He gave his close-cropped, blond head a vigorous shake, as if to clear it of any goblins or pixies that might have crept in by contamination with Tug Skelly; and a second later he was at the desk communicator contacting the bridge. "Mr. Jackson," Captain Douglas said when he heard the mate's voice. "I have decided to change our course. You will take all readings necessary to bring the _Lucifer_ to the Straits of the Cross.... Yes, Mr. Jackson, I said the Straits of the Cross. At once!" * * * * * The _Lucifer_, a hollow black needle in the immense twilight of space, hurtled eagerly on the second day out toward the new pole her tiny masters had set for her. But First Mate Pete Jackson alone on the bridge didn't find himself any too eager about their new route. For one thing, the last three ships known to have tried the Cross Straits had never been heard from afterwards. For another, Jackson just didn't feel easy traveling off the main lanes. He had intimated his fears to Captain Douglas at mess that morning; but without making any impression on the young skipper. "Sure I know about those ships that were lost in the Straits fifty years ago," Captain Douglas had responded cheerfully, fresh from a much needed sleep. "But that was fifty years ago, Mr. Jackson. Those early ether-blasters were just clay pigeons to space hazards that can't even tickle the _Lucifer_. Our ship is equipped with every modern safety device known to astrogation. I think we'll get through all right." Pete Jackson rolled the captain's words over in his mind and shifted in his seat before the visiplate with a sigh. A moment later, he jumped with a startled oath as a heavy finger prodded his shoulder. It was Tug Skelly, looking as big and mournful as a Great Dane bereft of his master. But Pete Jackson wasted no sympathy on his ungainly subordinate. "Hah! It's you," the little mate said with fierce scorn. "I suppose ye've come to tell me about those witches of yours, eh? Well, you're wastin' y' time. Captain Douglas's already told me about your crazy ideas; and I must say you made a proper fool of yourself before the new skipper, Tug. I'm thoroughly disgusted with you!" "Pete," Tug pleaded, "it's true what I said about the Twin Witches. Old Josh MacLevy told me about 'em, and you know he wouldn't jes' spin a yarn. Listen, Pete, all I need for the ritual o' purification is a lot o' white paint. You gimme a release for the paint and I'll attend to all the rest. Please, Pete." But Jackson was adamant. "First off," the mate grunted sourly, "we ain't got a pail of white paint aboard. Second, I wouldn't give it to ye, if we had it! The trouble with you, Tug, is you need some education. You're worse than an old Irishlady when it comes to superstitions, and that's a fact."