* * * * * That's how it happened that _The Luck_ lifted that night from Yakki, outward bound for Ley's Landing, with Pop and Kane aboard her alone. Sitting at the battered console of _The Luck_, Pop watched his passenger. He knew Kane, of course. Or rather, he knew of him. A killer. The kind that thrives and grows fat on the frontiers. The bulky frame, the cropped black hair, the predatory eyes that looked like two blaster muzzles. They were all familiar to Pop. Kane was all steel and meanness. The kind of carrion bird that took what others had worked for. Not big time, you understand. In another age he'd have been a torpedo--a hireling killer. But out among the stars he was working for himself. And doing well. Pop didn't care. His loyalty to the Patrol had stopped quite suddenly not long before--in a dark alley in Lower Marsport. This was only a job, he told himself now. A job for coffee and cakes, and maybe a grubstake to work a few more lonely rocks. Life had become a habit for Pop, even if living had ended. "What are you staring at, Pop?" Kane's voice was like the rest of him. Harsh and cold as space itself. "At you, I guess," Pop said, "I was wondering what you'd done--and where--and to whom." "You're a nosey old man," Kane said. "Just get me to Ley's Landing. That's what I'm paying for, not a thing more." Pop nodded slowly and turned back to the control board. They were above the Belt by now, and a few short hours from turnover point. The cranky drives of _The Luck_ needed all his attention. Presently he said, "We'll be turning over soon. Want to get some rest?" Kane laughed. "No thanks, old man. I'll stay here and watch you." Pop eyed the ready blaster and nodded again. He wondered vaguely how it would feel to die under the blast of such a weapon. It couldn't be very painful. He hoped it wasn't painful. Perhaps the boy hadn't suffered. It would be nice to be sure, he thought. There wasn't much for Pop to remember about the boy. He'd never been one for writing many letters. But the District Patrolman had come down to Yakki and looked Pop up--afterward. He'd said the boy was a good officer. A good cop. Died doing his job, and all that sort of thing. Pop swallowed hard. His job. What had 'his job' been that night in Lower Marsport, he wondered. Had someone else finished it for him? He remembered about that time hearing on the Mars Radio that a Triangle Post Office had been knocked over by a gunman. That might have been it. The Patrol would be after anyone knocking over EMV Triangle property. The Earth-Mars-Venus Government supported the Patrol for things like that.