“For life’s sake, lad, forget your mortal tricks.
There’s no need for you to crush old Giles Habibula to a bloody pulp with your blessed geopellor.
For he’s no enemy, lad. Ah, no!
He comes to you as a precious friend!”
Chan Derron studied the old man with a grim suspicion.
And then he saw, behind Giles Habibula, the money stacked on the deck.
Thick packets of new Green Hall certificates, bound into great bales and piled high against the bulkheads.
The wrapper on every packet was printed with a yellow crescent.
Here was the treasure of Caspar Hannas, taken from the New Moon’s vaults!
His hand jerked tense on the little black spindle.
“You aren’t—” he gasped hoarsely.
“You aren’t the Basilisk?”
Giles Habibula quivered.
The seamed moon of his face turned slightly green.
He caught a croaking, asthmatic breath.
“No, lad!” he gulped.
“In life’s name—no!
I’m just a poor old soldier.
Ah, but a hunted fugitive, lad. A friendless deserter from the Legion.”
“Deserter, eh?”
The dark-stained eyes of Chan Derron narrowed.
“If you really are the famous Giles Habibula, why should you desert? And what are you doing here?”
Giles Habibula blinked his colorless eyes.
“Thank you, lad,” his thin voice quavered.
“Ah, so, lad, from the bottom of my failing old heart, I thank you for calling me famous.
For the Legion has forgotten me, lad.”
He wiped his eyes with the back of a fat hand.
“Once old Giles Habibula was the hero of the Legion,” he sighed. “Aye, of the whole precious System.
For his noble courage, lad, and his blazing genius, have twice saved the very life of mankind—once from the hateful Medusae, and again from the frightful Cometeers.
And what reward has he got, lad?”
He choked and sobbed and gasped for breath.
“A beggar’s reward, lad.
Old Giles is forgotten.
His precious medals tarnish hi a box.
The few miserable dollars they gave him are all drunk up.
A lonely, hopeless old soldier, dying on the ungrateful charity of those who had been friends—ah, lad, but life was mortal black—until he heard of your exploits!”
A brighter look came over his yellow face.
“Ah, so, lad!” he cried. “You’re the sort that old Giles was, in the days when he was young.
A bold man, aye! Reckless and dashing.
Not caring whether he drove to sunward of the law, or to spaceward.
Taking his wine and his gold and his love wherever he found them!
Ah, lad, old Giles has come to you, to beg you to help him find his own lost youth.”
The hand of Chan Derron tightened again on the spindle.
“Don’t lad!” gasped Giles Habibula.
“Don’t—for life’s sake.
It’s known to all the Legion that you’re the Basilisk. Ah, so, and that’s a thing of which you should be precious proud—to stand alone against the law of all the planets, and mock the Legion of Space.”
Chan Derron shook his head, protestingly.
“But I’m not the Basilisk,” his voice broke hoarsely.
“I’m just his victim.
He has planted a hundred bits of evidence, to pin suspicion on me.