But that brief glimpse was enough. Both men had recognized the grotesque figure below. And it was Prokle who pronounced the name first, in a hoarse whisper:
"Chiswell! J. P. Chiswell, president of EMV Lines! Of all men to survive in this hellish place, it had to be him."
"Why not?" Garth snapped venomously. His lips were tight and his face was pale beneath his helmet. He was remembering again, with all the old bitterness, the exceedingly unethical ruse by which he'd been captured in the spaceways many years ago—the ruse engineered by Chiswell himself. "Why shouldn't it be him?" he went on. "The survival of the fittest, remember? Look at that ray-gun!"
For a moment Prokle was uncomprehending; then he said in a rush of fierce words:
"Hype, I'll bet you're right! Of course, you're right! The survival of the fittest, and with that gun old Chiswell was the fittest. I'll bet you he murdered the others and kept all the provisions of that life-boat for himself! There's no other way he could have subsisted here so long."
Garth nodded grimly. "Maybe. Some of 'em may have been lost in space somewhere, though. We've no proof of murder yet; but I know he's capable of it if it means his own hide."
"Sure, I know that, too. Look at the two pot shots he took at me! We've got a maniac on our hands, Hype, what'll we do now?"
"For one thing, he hasn't a helmet. I'm gonna get out of this damned uncomfortable head-gear."
Cautiously Garth unscrewed the helmet at his neck; lifted it slightly, and sniffed the air. Then he threw it back, where it dangled from his shoulders. "Don't breathe too deeply," he warned Prokle who followed his example.
Garth reached into a rocky cleft near by and brought out a handful of greenish, lichen-like growth. "See there? That's the stuff I told you sometimes grows on these big rocks. Maybe it's what he's burning down there. He could dry it out if the sun hits down this far. All right, I'm going to call to him now, so watch out for that ray-gun."