The corsair chieftain chuckled pleasantly.
"Why, yes, Captain. So we noticed. That's our mission. I thought it would be a good joke to stop you—just to see if we could, you know. And as a matter of proof, in case anyone should ever contest our claim, I've asked my men to remove the insignia from the uniforms of each of your crew. Sorry to seem impolite, Captain, but if you wouldn't mind tossing me your epaulettes ... just as a little souvenir, you know—"
Hugh Warren's face, which had been apoplectic with rage, now froze in slack-jawed wonder.
"J-joke!" he stammered. "Just to see if you could? Souvenir! There's only one pirate in space crazy enough to do a thing like this. You must be—"
The marauder smiled amiably. "Well, now," he drawled, "that's right flattering of you, Captain. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is O'Day. Larkspur O'Day."
CHAPTER VII
Moon of Madness
And he pushed back the quartzite helmet of his bulger, exposing the whitest smile, the handsomest face, the laughingest pair of eyes, all topped by the most unruly mop of cinnamon hair, Gary Lane had ever seen. A buccaneer the man might be, but he could equally well have been an artist's model for a gay and laughing cavalier of the Seventeenth Century.
"Lark O'Day!" gasped Nora Powell.
She knew the name, as did all Earthmen and women with a spark of romantic imagination in their systems. Lark O'Day was a privateer whose exploits were so remarkable as to be almost legendary. Though a tremendous price was offered for his apprehension by the harassed merchantmen of Earth's fleet, there were few but had a sneaking admiration for this gallant and quixotic young champion of derring-do, who, alone in this late day of ultra-civilization, carried on the traditions of an earlier Robin Hood or Dick Turpin.