With cruel deliberation he slipped his finger off the trigger and waited for the spaceman's desperate dive. Up whipped the heavy hand weapon in a short, vicious arc that splintered jawbone with an almost crisp, wood-snapping sound.
Swiftly Frane secured the cabin door. Then he went about binding the unconscious navigator with parts of his own uniform. When he was through he stood for a moment trying to orient himself in the hemispherical room. He compared it to a chart sketch provided him on earth before he had stowed away in his special supply crate.
"Piracy!" The word hissed into the silence with a quality of unbelieving. Frane swung and saw that his victim had regained his senses.
"Yeah, piracy. Didn't think it could happen, did you? They told you space piracy was impossible, didn't they?"
"You brutal, bestial, insane—" the navigator broke off as his smashed jaw moved in spite of his gritted teeth.
"Not insane, buddy, just irritated. You caused me some trouble, see? I'm saving you, buddy." His hand came away from his face palm out and smeared with red. "I'm saving you for later."
He moved surely now, the details of location well in mind. A low placed locker when opened spilled out the gleaming metalized space suit which was prop number one in this stage play. A little nervously Frane fumbled with the unfamiliar garment.
The officer watched with dull eyes as the killer prepared to don it. "How—how many—men alive back there?"
"Subtract three. That leaves eighteen, doesn't it? And you can write them off as soon as I get these pajamas on."