school-books."

Pop Ganlon frowned slightly. "You talk big, mister."

Kane's eyes took on that metallic glitter again. He leaned forward and
threw a canvas packet on the console. It spilled crisp new EMV
certificates. Large ones. "I take big, too," he said.

Pop stared. Not at the money. It was more than he had ever seen in one
pile before, but it wasn't that that shook him. It was the canvas
packet. It was marked: _Postal Service, EMV_. Pop suddenly felt cold,
as though an icy wind had touched him.

"You ... you killed a Patrolman for this," he said slowly.

"That's right, Pop," grinned Kane easily. "Burned him down in an alley
in Lower Marsport. It was like taking candy from a baby...."

Pop Ganlon swallowed hard. "Like taking candy from a ... baby. As easy
as that...."

"As easy as that, old man," Kane said.

* * * * *

Pop knew he was going to die then. He knew Kane would blast him right
after turnover point, and he knew fear. He felt something else, too.
Something that was new to him. Hate. An icy hate that left him shaken
and weak.

So the boy's job hadn't been finished. It was still to do.

There was no use in dreaming of killing Kane. Pop was old. Kane was
young--and a killer. Pop was alone and without weapons--save _The
Luck_....

Time passed slowly. Outside, the night of deep space keened
soundlessly. The stars burned bright, alien and strange. It was time,
thought Pop bleakly. Time to turn _The Luck_.

"Turnover point," he said softly.

Kane motioned with his blaster. "Get at it."

Pop began winding the flywheel. It made a whirring sound in the
confined space of the tiny control room. Outside, the night began to
pivot slowly.

"We have to turn end-for-end," Pop said. "That way we can decelerate
on the drop into Callisto. But, of course, you know all about that,
Mr. Kane."

"I told you I'm no space pig," Kane said brusquely. "I can handle a
landing and maybe a takeoff, but the rest of it I leave for the
boatmen. Like you, Pop."

Pop spun the flywheel in silence, listening to the soft whir.
Presently, he let the wheel slow and then stop. He straightened and
looked up at Kane. The blaster muzzle was six inches from his belly.
He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.

"You ... you're going to kill me," Pop said. It wasn't a question.
Kane smiled, showing white teeth.

"I ... I know you are," Pop said unsteadily. "But first, I want to say
something