"And there are seven in all, mates," breathed Big Bill Barlow, staring down at the dark shape which shimmered in his grasp. "Seven black pearls ..."
"And each one worth a fortune, I’ll wager," muttered the fat bartender, Quarl. "I’ve heard of unknown gems like this, found in the hearts of meteors or the soil of far-off worlds and moons, going for half a million credits each to the big jewellers on Mars ... say, in Syrtis Port, or Propontis, or Sun Lake ..."
"Half a million ..." breathed someone in the crowd.
"Then my partner and I are rich,” grinned Big Bill, wrapping one huge arm around the skinny shoulders of the Scotchman. "Rich ... we can retire from space, and live at ease like gentlemen on one of them pleasure moons ... ’cause with Scotty an’ me, it's always been half an' half, an’ always will be ..."
In the rear of the saloon, half-hidden in a booth which lay in the shadow of a stone pillar, two men sat hunched over the remnants of their meal and half-empty winecups, listening to the loud voice of the meteor miner.
One was a slender, milk-pale Venusian, with the pink eyes and hairless pate of his kind. The other was a tall, long-legged, rangy, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped Earthling who wore leathern space-boots and a drab one-piece zipper suit of gray synthetic. He was wrapped in a gray wool hooded cloak, whose cowl was drawn up around his face, perhaps to conceal features already a bit too well known in these parts.
He had a merry, space-tanned, clean-shaven face, with an impish grin, and his eyes were sparkling green with mischief under an unruly mop of red curls.
They called him Star Pirate.
3. Death by Ghostly Hands
Big Bill Barlow bought round after round of drinks for his fellow spacemen and miners in the saloon, including the two strangers in the back booth. The more he drank, the happier and noisier he got, boasting of the high and glorious days to come when he and Scotty would he living it up in Luna City or Paris or anywhere else in the System they cared to travel—maybe in their private spare yacht, with girl stewards and manicurists and the choicest wines and finest gourmet chefs, and ...
Eventually, husky Quarl helped little Scotty guide the faltering footsteps of the stumbling giant up the steep stairs to the little green room on the second floor where the two miners often slept off their night’s carousal at the Spaceman's Rest, at the end of a long and usually successful voyage.
Scotty put his snoring friend to bed and fell into bed himself.
Below, spacemen marvelled over Barlow’s remarkable discovery, and enviously vied with each other in estimating the enormous value of the seven strange black gems the big man had discovered in the age-old Asterian sepulchre—or whatever it was.
As for Star Pirate and his Venusian sidekick, Phath, they finished their wine, and had a cup of strong black coffee, before going back to their ship. The two space adventurers were returning to their secret base in the Belt after a voyage to one of the moons of Uranus, where they had been instrumental in frustrating the plans of a brilliant but deranged scientist who had attempted to use his formidable intelligence and technical wizardry to subjugate bands of innocent natives to his own unscrupulous ends. On their way back to Haven, as Star’s hidden headquarters was called, they had stopped off briefly here at Ganymede to replace worn receptor coils with new ones aboard their trim little speedster, the Jolly Roger.
The two had just reached the door of the saloon and were about to venture out into the dark alleyway beyond, when they were frozen in their tracks by a screech of unearthly horror sounding from one of the little rooms above—
"Bill!—Bill! Curse you, get off him, you fiend! Oh, Gawd help me! Help me, somebody—the black ghost is murderin' me partner—!"
A bartender is always the soberest, most alert man in any saloon—since he's working, not drinking, unlike everyone else in the place. So it was not surprising that the echoes of Scotty McGuire's anguished plea for assistance had barely died away before the huge and hefty Uranian had vaulted over the bar, a stout cudgel clasped in one thick-fingered hand, and went charging up the steep wooden stair to the rooms above.
And, since they were already on their feet, it was also no wonder that Star Pirate and his Venusian sidekick, Phath, were on his very heels, their proton needles in their hands, ready for trouble.
They found the scrawny little Scotsman crouched over the sprawled corpse of his giant friend, babbling and trying to snuffle back the tears that flowed down his freckled cheeks.
"—Bill, Bill! Speak to me, ol' pall Say you ain't croaked—that shadow-devil didn’t kill yer.—Bill!"
But Scotty's tears were useless. The big, brawny Earthling miner was stone dead. While Quarl led the diminutive prospector downstairs for a slug of brandy, Star swiftly examined the body. As far as could be told by eye alone, Barlow had been strangled ... but, curiously, no marks were to be found upon his throat. At least, no marks that could have been made by human hands ... there was only one thick, continuous bruise, purpling now in the crushed flesh and muscle ... a belt-like mark, such as might have been made by a band of living steel, tightening with frightful power about the dead man's throat!
"By Yakdar's brazen backside," whispered the Venusian feelingly, "what on Earth, or off it, did this thing, chief?" Phath came from a hard school and had seen sudden death—aye, and slow and lingering death in all its many forms. But never had he seen anything remotely like this before.
The dead man's features were contorted into an expression of such unbelieving horror that it sent a chill of cold fear traveling up the spine of the lithe Venusian.
"I'd like to know the answer to that question myself," grunted Star Pirate, And his face was hard, his eyes wary and watchful, and his hand hovered only inches from the worn butt of his weapon.
4. Branigan Investigates
While the Jovian moon had its own constabulary, of course, the spaceport and its precincts happened to be under the direct authority of the Space Patrol, so it was a veteran Patrol officer who was dispatched to investigate the murder of Big Bill Barlow—for that it was obviously murder no one could doubt.
This officer was a granite-jawed man in his middle years, with thin disapproving lips and cold, colorless eyes. He was lean and trim, his spare figure taut in the dead-black tunic and leggings of the Patrol, and the silver crescent moon of an inspector-major gleamed on his high collar. His name was Branigan, and, as it happened, he and Star were rivals from the days of old.
When the rangy redhead had been a cunning and elusive rogue back in the wild and reckless days of his outlawry, it had been Branigan's bad luck to be assigned the task of bringing Star to justice. But the mischievous young daredevil had outsmarted him at every twist and turn, leaving him to writhe in impotent fury as Star Pirate vanished into the void with the loot from his most recent caper.
These things rankle in a lawman's soul; and even in these later days, when Star had received a full pardon for his crimes from a grateful System government for a favor done freely, Branigan still held a grudge against the impudent youth who had dared make such mock of him in the old days. Hence it came as no surprise to any when at the very sight of his arch-nemesis and the slim Venusian, Branigan swore by twenty spacedevils, and his hard face flushed crimson.