“I can see there’s no dissuading you, John.
You’re the Ulnar breed, and you won’t yield to danger.
I believe you’re really going to try to run the Belt.
I really believe you’re ready to land on that monstrous planet, a thing that even Eric wouldn’t do.”
“I am,” John Star said.
“I believe you really are.”
That white, distinguished head nodded slowly, and a feeble spark of pride came back to the stricken eyes.
“I admire your resolution, John.
At least you’ll die an Ulnar’s death.
“Now, if you please, John, I’ve one last request.”
“What is that, Commander?”
John Star heard a sudden respect in his own voice, and something close to warmth.
“In my desk, hi my stateroom, there’s a secret drawer,” the bleak-faced old man said huskily.
“I’ll tell you how to find it.
It contains a little vial of poison———”
John Star shook his head.
“We can’t do that.”
“We’re kinsmen, John.”
Adam Ulnar’s voice held a broken, pleading quaver.
“In spite of our present political quarrel, you must remember that once I did a favor for you.
I paid for your education, remember, and put you in the Legion.
Am I asking too much in return—a few drops of euthanasia?”
“I’m afraid you are,” John Star told him.
“Because I think we’ll need information from you again, when we come to deal with the Medusae.”
“No, John!” the old man sobbed, wild-eyed and frantic now.
“Please, John!
You can’t deny me death———”
“We ought to bring you the bottle, Commander.” Jay Kalam gave him a lean dark smile. “Just to see what you’d do.
Because you’ve over-played your role.”
Adam Ulnar returned that sober smile.
His clutching hands released the bars, and his bent shoulders straightened.
“I was trying to turn you back,” he confessed.
“I’ve no need of poison, if you do go on—I believe that death in the Belt is as quick as a man could wish.”
His voice still was taut and urgent.
“But every word I’ve told you is the truth.
You’ll never land alive—or, if you do, you’ll presently be needing that little bottle yourselves, to escape your madness and your pain.
“Bad luck, gentlemen!”
He dismissed them with a casual wave of his hand, and went back to the papers on his narrow bunk.
The Purple Dream drove on.
Barnard’s Star burned on their right.
A swelling, perfect sphere, sharp-edged against the ebon void.
A type-M dwarf, old beyond imagination, so far gone in stellar death that their eyes could safely look upon it, with no filters behind the lenses.
But its blood-red rays smote to their very brains, with a stark impact of fateful menace.
Straight ahead was its solitary planet, a dim and fearful crescent, washed with that ominous scarlet.
World of the monstrous Medusas, of that black spider-ship, of the waiting Belt of Peril.
The ship drove on, geodynes singing keen and clear.
John Star and Jay Kalam stood before the tele-periscopes, watching for the first sign of danger.
The red and cloudy planet swelled ahead.
The night-side of it was utterly black, a round blot on the stars.
The day-side was a curved and ugly crimson blade, stained with evil blood, clotted with dark rust.