Thursday is maid's night out. Okay? _Eeeeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the sea tides, seething in his brain. _Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang the distant voices softly, soft. What'll you say, is it a _bargain_, Iorr, Tylle? _No_, said a voice. _No_, said another. Greedy, both of you, greedy! complained Sale. A pox on both your houses! He slept. *       *       *       *       *

He _was_ Iorr, jeweled rings on his hands. He arose beside his rocket
and held out his fingers, commanding blind armies. He was Iorr, ancient
ruler of jeweled warriors. He _was_ Tylle, lover of women, killer of dogs! With some hidden bit of awareness, his hand crept to the holster at his
hip. The sleeping hand withdrew the gun there. The hand lifted, the gun
pointed. The armies of Tylle and Iorr gave battle. The gun exploded. The bullet tore across Sale's forehead, wakening him. He stayed awake for another six hours, getting over his latest siege. He knew it to be hopeless now. He washed and bandaged the wound he had
given himself. He wished he had aimed straighter and it was all over. He watched the sky. Two more days. Two more. Come on, ship, come on. He
was heavy with sleeplessness. No use. At the end of six hours he was raving badly. He took the gun
up and put it down and took it up again, put it against his head,
tightened his hand on the trigger, changed his mind, looked at the sky
again. Night settled. He tried to read, threw the book away. He tore it up and
burned it, just to have something to do. So tired. In another hour, he decided. If nothing happens, I'll kill
myself. This is for certain now. I'll _do_ it, this time. He got the gun ready and laid it on the ground next to himself. He was very calm now, though tired. It would be over and done. He would
be dead. He watched the minute hand of his watch. One minute, five minutes,
twenty-five minutes. The flame appeared on the sky. It was so unbelievable he started to cry. "A rocket," he said, standing
up. "A rocket!" he cried, rubbing his eyes. He ran forward. The flame brightened, grew, came down. He waved frantically, running forward, leaving his gun, his supplies,
everything behind. "You _see_ that, Iorr, Tylle! You savages, you
monsters, I beat you! I _won_! They're coming to rescue me now! I've
won, damn you." He laughed harshly at the rocks and the sky and the backs of his hands. The rocket landed. Leonard Sale stood swaying, waiting for the door to
lid open. "Goodbye, Iorr, goodbye, Tylle!" he shouted in triumph, grinning, eyes
hot. _Eeeeee_, sang a diminishing roar in time. _Ahhhhhh_, voices faded. The rocket flipped wide its air-lock. Two men jumped out. "Sale?" they called. "We're Ship ACDN13. Intercepted your SOS and
decided to pick you up ourselves. The Marsport ship won't get through
until day after tomorrow. We want a spot of rest ourselves. Thought
it'd be good to spend the night here, pick you up, and go on." "No," said Sale, face melting with terror. "No spend night--"

He couldn't talk. He fell to the ground. "Quick," said a voice, in the bleary vortex over him. "Give him a shot
of food liquid, another of sedative. He needs sustenance and rest." "No rest!" screamed Sale. "Delirious," said one man softly. "No sleep!" screamed Sale. "There, there," said the man gently. A needle poked into Sale's arm. Sale thrashed. "No sleep, go!" he mouthed horribly. "Oh, go!" "Delirious," said one man. "Shock." "No _sedative_!" screamed Sale. The sedative flowed into him. _Eeeeeeeeeeee_, sang the ancient winds. _Ahhhhhhhhhhhh_, sang the ancient seas. "No sedative, no sleep, please, don't, don't, _don't_!" screamed Sale,
trying to get up. "You don't--understand!" "Take it easy, old man, you're safe among us now, nothing to worry
about," said the rescuer above him. Leonard Sale slept. The two men stood over him. As they watched, Sale's features changed violently. He groaned and
cried and snarled in his sleep. His face was riven with emotion. It was
the face of a saint, a sinner, a fiend, a monster, a darkness, a light,
one, many, an army, a vacuum, all, all! He writhed in his sleep. _Eeeeeeeeee!_ the sound burst from his mouth. _Ahhhhhhhhhhh!_ he
screamed. "What's wrong with him?" asked one of the two rescuers. "I don't know. More sedative?" "More sedative. Nerves. He needs more sleep." They stuck the needle in his arm. Sale writhed and spat and moaned. Then, suddenly, he was dead. He lay there, the two men over him. "What a shame," said one of them. "Can you figure that?" "Shock. Poor guy. What a pity." They covered his face. "Did you ever
see a face like that?" "Totally insane." "Loneliness. Shock." "Yes. Lord, what an expression. I hope never to see a face like _that_
again." "What a shame, waiting for us, and we arrive, and he dies anyway." They glanced around. "What shall we do? Shall we spend the night?" "Yes. It's good to be out of the ship." "We'll bury him first, of course." "Naturally." "And spend the night in the open, with good air, right? Good to be in
the open again. After two weeks in that damned ship." "Right. I'll find a spot for him. You start supper, eh?" "Done." "Should be good sleeping tonight." "Fine, fine." They made a grave and said a word over it. They drank their evening
coffee silently. They smelled the sweet air of the planet and looked at
the lovely sky and the bright and beautiful stars. "What a night," they said, lying down. "Pleasant dreams," said one, rolling over. And the other replied, "Pleasant dreams."