He remembered when the fire had flared up and they had glimpsed dim masses of something along the sides of the cave, something that was not rock, something that was seemingly sacks of gold--but now he knew those dim shapes were not sacks of gold. It was not gold that Chiswell guarded so viciously, for there was no gold here. In those few seconds before he clicked off the torch Garth felt his mind slowly slipping away into a chaos of vertiginous horror, but he caught it on the brink. He retained enough of sanity to realize why he must not leave his dead friend here. He emerged with the body of Prokle into the palely creeping sunlight. He saw the thing that was Chiswell stir and breathe and try to sit up. Garth reached for his ray-pistol, aimed it and tried to press the button. Then he let his hand drop. That was strange--he had thought he felt sorry for the thing there before him, but now he didn't feel sorry. He simply didn't feel anything. But _he_ had Prokle! With the body lightly across his shoulders Garth began the ascent of the cliff to where the cruiser waited. He did not once look back. An idiotic desire to laugh seized him, but he did not laugh; he knew that if once he laughed it would be wildly, and he could never stop, and he'd become as mad as the thing down there.... End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Star of Satan, by Henry Hasse