ICE PLANET

"If it's going to happen," thought Bill Ricker, "it's got to be quick." Lounging deep in his red-leather chair, he peered out of the port as the sleek space ship streamed through the darkness. He could see nothing outside but a big, humorous-eyed young man who was his own reflection and the pale green globe that was Neptune. The great planet hung like a ghostly emerald in the void, sinister in its loneliness. But bleak, desolate, a snowball of frozen gases, it was hardly the place for an ambush....

"Pretty, ain't she?" said the whiskery old fellow across the aisle.

"Neptune?" Ricker glanced at the sourdough, then followed his gaze down the narrow aisle. "Oh—her!"

There were twelve seats but only five passengers. Further down was a tubercular-looking Martian and near the pilot room sat a fat man with a woman. The fat man chewed sleepily on a dead cigar and the woman stared out of the window. They were handcuffed together.

"Ever seen the orchids on Amor?" said Ricker. "Well, she's just as beautiful—and just as dangerous...." She was obviously Venusian but her skin wasn't exactly yellow, he decided. It was golden brown, little different from a deeply-tanned Earth girl.

"They say she shot his head plumb off," said the old codger.

"Yep, she certainly mowed him down."

The sourdough lifted a bony finger toward Ricker's brief case. "I noticed th' tag on yer kit there," he ventured. "Says th' Planetary Times. Be you one o' them telenews fellows?"

Ricker grinned. "Shore am, podner," he said.

"Gonna write about this here murderess arriving on Pluto?"

Ricker nodded good-humoredly. "That's my job."

Slowly a faint siren hum penetrated the cabin, not unlike the sound of a power plant. A power plant it was too, the ship digging in full blast as it skirted the pull of Neptune. Ricker turned away from his garrulous neighbor, saw the sea-tinted planet had doubled in size. It was a perfect sphere, without a mark on its surface, a ring of solid hydrogen and helium. A worthless world, thought Ricker; worthless as was half the universe—because the woman in the seat up front had killed a man!

"Molly Borden—Benjamin Adison ..." the sourdough mused, apparently still awed by such infamous company.

"Yep," said Ricker, remembering a line from his last story: "In the flash of a pistol those names became linked forever...." It was odd, he reflected. One was a woman nobody at the trial had ever seen before, the other was a man whose name echoed throughout the spaceways. Benjamin Adison was to stellar travel what Wright had been to terrestrial aviation and in his sixtieth year when, at the completion of his work on planet-warming, he had suddenly become corpus delicti in the perfect telenews story. A stolen secret, a mysterious woman, a person high in the government—it had all the angles. Then Senator Trexel was acquitted, Molly Borden confessed. Now she was journeying to a life sentence on the penal planet.

"Too bad she burned Adison's plans when they trapped her." It was Ricker's self-appointed traveling companion again.

"We lost the resources of four worlds by that little trick," Bill agreed. "The police found enough in the ashes to convince them it was the plans." He smiled to himself slightly, like someone who expected something but wasn't quite sure he could count on it. He was probably the only one in the universe who wondered if those ashes really were the plans. What if they still existed—what if Molly Borden hadn't been working alone after all—what if those plans for an apparatus that could heat a whole planet were in the wrong hands—? Well, it would be a great telenews story at least, worth following this woman all the way from Earth on a hunch....

The Martian began coughing again and Ricker watched him get up, very tall, thin, emaciated. He was typically Martian with his dusty brown face, beaked nose and heavy handsomeness. He walked slowly down the aisle toward the water fountain.

"Funny how Adison's daughter swore she'd seen Senator Trexel leaving her pa's laboratory," continued the sourdough.

"Trexel proved he was somewhere else at the time," said Ricker. "He's got a bad reputation but it's graft—not murder. Dorothy Adison's just a dizzy debutante. She left for a hunting trip immediately after the inquest, couldn't be located for the trial. But with Molly Borden's confession there wasn't—"

It was a sound like a handclap. Ricker glanced up, then stiffened erect.

The Martian stood in the aisle beside the detective and the woman. He stared calmly over his shoulder at Ricker and the sourdough and in his right hand was a pistol leveled generally at them both.

"Please be very quiet," his lips moved in soft, even tones. Then without taking his snaky eyes from them, he spoke to the woman. "The key is in his left vest pocket," he said. "We'll take a small boat and drop out of this before the pilots can be warned."

Ricker stared like he was watching a tele-movie. Molly Borden's face was expressionless as a doll as she fumbled at the detective. Ricker heard a click and the fat man toppled out of his seat into the aisle. His limp body settled awkwardly on the floor, legs under the seat, and from the back of his head welled a dark stain that seeped into the carpet.

"He slugged 'im," breathed the sourdough.

"Shut up!" threatened the beady-eyed Martian. "The first sound of alarm will be your last!" Coughing quietly, he stepped aside to let the woman pass and she moved up the aisle like a robot. Green eyes straight ahead, she did not even glance at Ricker as she passed him.

Ricker realized in open space their scheme would be absurd but here, with the pull of Neptune on their side, they'd fall away in the darkness before the pilots knew what had happened.

The Martian turned quickly as he passed, kept the gun on them. "Open the lock and get ready," he told the woman. She threw the lever on a safety door, entered the boat and reached for the switch to slide the boat's door shut after the Martian was in.

Both doors close simultaneously, thought Ricker; the boat drops when the doors close.

The Martian backed slowly through the door like a great dark crawfish. For an instant his pistol was out of sight.

Ricker sprang from his seat like a panther, dived head first as the doors slid home.

The pistol roared.

But the flash of the gun was an instant behind the hand that knocked it aside. It clattered to the hull of the boat as Ricker bowled the man to the floor.

Both were on their feet like cats. The Martian leaped for the pistol. The woman flattened against the wall.

Clang!

The door clamped shut and Ricker's stomach rushed into his chest. Blood suddenly throbbed in his ears. His feet seemed nailed to the floor. The Martian and the woman swirled dizzily before his darkening eyes. It was like being in an elevator when the cable broke.

They were hurtling down, down through the darkness toward Neptune....

Weak and sick, when his head quit spinning, Ricker struggled to his knees. The first thing he saw was a small instrument panel in front of him. He stared at it a moment, collecting his senses. One register read "ninety-three" but it didn't sink in at first. Then he gasped.

"Ninety-three miles!" They'd fallen that far—straight down! No wonder he'd gone out. The normal jump of these boats was only twenty miles before the autobrake took over. The gravity of Neptune—! He remembered then.

His gaze leaped to the Martian lying in a corner of the cabin. The thin fellow moaned slightly and his eyes were closed. His pistol lay beside him and Ricker stepped over, snatched it up as his eyes flickered. When they opened, the gun barrel was pointed at them.

"Tables're inclined to turn when you take a dive like that." He grinned at the bewildered man. The woman, crumpled near the door, stirred and sat up. She stared at them a moment as her ivory face changed from puzzlement to rage.

She glared and finally asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Make the scoop of the century," Ricker's blue eyes twinkled. "I'm Bill Ricker of the Planetary Times. I'm going to contact my boss and give him a chat with Benjamin Adison's murderess after her most sensational but unsuccessful escape." The idea was positively brilliant. "I don't think the law'll mind—the Patrol can have you when I'm through."

"You won't get me before a radio," snarled the Martian, his eyes like black marbles.

"Well!" said Ricker, feigning surprise. "The dear boy's publicity shy! Afraid your boss'll be annoyed if you make a fool of yourself?" The question went in the man like a barb. He said nothing, but his swarthy cheeks paled a shade. Ricker's elation soared. "I followed Molly Borden all the way from Earth thinking something would happen." He grinned. "I thought another plane'd attack and try to rescue her but you, my weak-lunged friend, were melodramatic enough. Also, when the Patrol gets through with you maybe we'll know where those plans are."

The woman started, perceptibly. "I burned the plans!" she flared.

"That's what the police thought," said Ricker. "But they thought you were working alone, too, and your Martian chum here has rather disproved that. No, Molly Borden. There's more to the Adison case than came out in the trial. There're others involved. I'm going to find out who if it's my last story."

"You blundering imbecile—!" the woman broke suddenly. But quickly she stopped, clinched her teeth and lowered her eyes. Since Ricker had known her, this was the first time she'd lost that notorious composure and he made a mental note of it. He had the telenews man's objectivity about murderers, millionaires and chorus girls. Molly Borden wasn't a cold-blooded killer to him, nor a most lovely woman. To Ricker she was just a good telenews yarn....

He waved the pistol toward the boat's little air lock. "Get in there, both of you," he ordered. "It'll keep you out of mischief while I contact the Times."

The lock was slightly larger than a closet, about one quarter the size of the whole boat. Standing well away from any sudden move, Ricker forced them in, sullen and tight-lipped. He spun a wheel giving them enough air and slid the door on the hissing chamber. Then hands on his hips, he surveyed the interior of the cabin.

From about waist-high on all sides and sloping overhead, the walls were transparent—glassite, a foot thick. At the nose of the triangular shaped room was a control box, instrument panel and a small radio outfit. Ricker stepped over quickly, his pulse pounding with glee.

He checked the auto-pilot; it was idling the boat correctly in its wide driftless circle. Then he clicked on the transmitter, found the New York beam and sat down.

"Ricker calling Times, Ricker calling Planetary Times...." As he waited, he glanced through the glass, saw the huge ball of Neptune circle beneath him. The planet glowed like a weak green light bulb in the lonely darkness and he shivered to think twelve inches of glassite was all that stood between him and the vacuum of stellar night, the long dead fall to those snows far below....

"Planetary Times. What is it—?"

"Gimme th' Chief!" His fingers tattooed excitedly on the panel. "Chief? This's Rick. Got th' biggest story since the ice age. Molly Borden's escaped with a Martian. What? No! Don't start an extra yet!" He paused for breath. "Gimme a Mercury-to-Pluto hook up. I've got Molly and her accomplice here—for a personal interview."

"Jupiter's jumpers!"

Ricker had never heard the Chief so gone wild before. "Yep. That's right." He laughed. "Do I get that raise? Just a moment and I'll put Molly Borden on the ether...."

He turned half-way around, half rose from his seat—and froze.

Beside him, outside the glass, was a huge glistening shape, like a space beast swimming in the void. It gleamed bright silver in the light from the cabin and as he stared, mouth open, it THUMPED against the side of the boat.

Panic jumped in Ricker. He almost fell over the instrument panel.

Then he made out a row of darkened ports, a shark-like prow. He realized then slowly. The shadowed bulk outside was a space ship. It showed no lights, no life....

The ship drifted past like a falling leaf, a ghostly hulk floating aimlessly down toward Neptune. As it disappeared below the glass, Ricker caught a number and an insignia.

It was the liner they had just left.

"Chief," Ricker spoke to the transmitter. "Stand by! There's something wrong! The Jupiter-Pluto Liner—the one we were on—it just passed without signaling." He grabbed the controls, eased down on the throttle. Top-jets humming, it was but a moment till the liner came in view again.

Ricker circled the falling ship, saw no trace of a light. Its jets were off but the gyro-brake must be working because it wasn't falling fast. He moved closer alongside, shot out a spotlight. The white beam glowed weirdly on the silver hull, its dead staring windows. He flicked the light through the glass of the liner's control room—and his heart jumped.

It wasn't a Negro or a Mercurian. He could tell by the features which still clung to the face. It was an Earthian, in the stained uniform of Stellar Liners, lying on his back across the instrument board. His arms stuck out stiffly, crumbling hands palm up, and one pipe-like leg swung with the motion of the wallowing ship. His face was black, black as a charred hunk of steak—as if his head had been sprayed with a blow torch....

Ricker spasmodically snapped off the light.

It was several moments before he turned it on again and played it through the ports of the lifeless cabin.

They were all the same. The other pilot lay in the aisle. The detective lolled restlessly near his seat. The old sourdough swayed, upright in his chair—with his head almost burned away.

Ricker clicked off the light, pulled away from the drifting tomb and bent over the transmitter. "Chief?" he said hoarsely. "Everybody on that liner's been murdered. They're black—burned. I don't know how. I think—"

"Do you think you're the only plane with a radio?"

Ricker looked around helplessly as his nerves turned to high tension wire. The very hair on his head tingled. It was a voice vibrating through the walls of the boat itself. An insane metallic voice from nowhere.

Suddenly little dots of fire began to rain over the boat, sparkled on the glass roof. Then a stream of crimson light gashed the blackness outside and a drone of rockets came softly into the cabin. He caught a glimpse of a space ship circling over. The light disappeared in a cascade of sparks again. The plane vanished behind him.

Ricker gripped the panel and his nails whitened. He began talking to the transmitter, very clearly and carefully.

"Chief!" The humming increased as the plane neared again, coming in from behind. "Can you hear me? There's another ship outside. They're using impact phones and it isn't a Patrol boat. I think I'm in for trouble." The little pointer on the transmitter dial quit vibrating.

"We burned off your aerial," chattered the mechanical voice through the walls. "Open your space-door and prepare for boarding. And no tricks! We have a sight on you."

With clenched fists, Ricker gazed into the blackness a moment, then resignedly walked over and opened the lock. The Martian stepped out with a smirk of malicious triumph. The woman's face was expressionless. Of course they'd heard the voice, too, probably recognized it, and Ricker made no pretense of covering them with the pistol. Doubtless, he was the prisoner now.

The Martian coughed behind his hand. "Soon," he said, "I shall repay you for this delay."

"It's all in the game," said Ricker.

The boat trembled as the craft outside clamped to the air lock.

Ricker opened the lock when the order came and a dark, rat-like little man in gray coveralls entered the cabin. He carried a pistol of a type Ricker had never seen before. It looked like a revolver with the barrel sawed off.

"Nice work, Vanger," he greeted the Martian. He glanced at Molly Borden curiously, then with narrow-eyed admiration. Ricker waited stiffly. The Martian motioned to him.

"Watch this man, Gurren," he said. "Don't hesitate to shoot if he tries anything but I'd like to find out what he knows when we land."

Land! Ricker's forehead wrinkled. Where could they land? The nearest habitable planet was the radium-warmed Pluto and prison was what they were escaping. And who were they? Could they explain the liner and its cremated passengers? As he was marched through the lock into the other plane he decided information wouldn't do a corpse much good but he'd certainly find out all he could until he became one....

The ship was egg-shaped, its interior bisected into cabin and blast-engines. Small but powerful, Ricker inferred from the heavy insulation. He was led into the cabin where another man, also wearing coveralls, with ear-phones on his head, sat at the wheel. He was squat, like a tractor. He eyed Molly Borden appraisingly.

"Hello, Hines," said the Martian. "Get rid of that boat out there and let's go."

"Right," said the big fellow, reluctant to take his eyes from the woman.

They cast off, circled the boat and then settled just over it. Hines jerked a trigger-like lever on the wheel. Ricker glanced through the viewplate.

The boat beneath him glowed red. A puff of white smoke—it was gone!

God o' Mars! Ricker stared through the glass hardly believing what he'd seen. A little chill tickled the back of his neck. The boat had vanished in clear space, like a magician's trick. This plane must have some sort of heat gun—a disintegrator.

Vanger, the Martian, laughed in a voice irritatingly shrill. "And you tried to interfere with us," he jeered at Ricker's amazement. He pushed him into a seat in a corner of the cramped cabin, then turned to Gurren. "It took you long enough to find us," his tone changed to displeasure.

"The liner circled back and radioed the Patrol," the ratty fellow explained. "We thought we better put it out of the way." He grinned. "We just gave 'em a small dose—cooked 'em. When the Patrol comes, won't they get a headache trying to figure that out?"

Vanger laughed with him till a fit of coughing darkened his face.

Ricker ground his teeth. So that's what happened to the liner! They'd blasted it like the small boat, but with only just enough heat to—. Ricker thought of the friendly old sourdough. The dirty yellow weasels!

Suddenly he sprang up like a whip, lashed his fist into Vanger's mouth. The Martian crashed backward into the instrument panel. Ricker started after him with blind fury in his heart.

Something banged into the back of his head, stunning, blackening.

As he fell, he saw Molly Borden standing over him with a wrench in her hand. Her green eyes glinted with a look he could not define as he wavered into blackness....

"We can't fail!" The words reached Ricker through a haze of pain throbbing in his head. "With all that equipment, it'll be like capturing a rabbit hutch. And won't I just love potting several rabbits I know. The chief of police, the judge, twelve rabbits that were on the jury—I really can't wait!"

Ricker opened his eyes, fought with his whirling senses. The Martian leaned against the opposite wall, the other two men worked silently at the controls. The woman sat on the floor with her legs neatly crossed, a cigarette spiraling toward the ceiling. Her green eyes played the Martian like a piano and apparently the strings of his black heart were attuned.

"But," Molly Borden purred, "you don't know what I went through on that liner, Van. After we passed Uranus and nobody came, I almost gave up. I knew there wasn't a livable place after Jupiter and—well, I had no idea you could have located at Neptune...."

"So!" Vanger glanced toward Ricker, interrupted her. "Our publicity agent's with us again!"

Ricker met his eyes evenly, said nothing. Sinking into his mind was what he had just heard. Something was located on Neptune; something would be like shooting rabbits.... But Neptune was covered with snow a hundred miles deep. Its surface was a bleak hell of frozen, screaming winds. Nothing could hide, or live on Neptune. And equipment—rabbits—?

He turned to the port, looked out as in his mind three facts suddenly and logically came together: Benjamin Adison could warm a planet and his plans were stolen—Neptune was barren with ice and—He saw the planet slowly spreading out beneath them like a convex plain of white glass....

"That's right, telenewsman," the Martian interpreted his movement. He coughed like a dog sneezing. "Take a good look. Out of that desolate waste soon will come the most terrible armada of all history. We shall sweep everything before us—in a blast of white heat. Did you notice what happened to the boat we escaped in? Such will happen to your war planes. Who opposes us will quickly become a crisp black corpse."

"I presume," said Ricker dryly, "that you have Adison's plans. They were supposed to be able to heat a planet but your Neptune still appears cold as ever. Do you care to elaborate on this little scheme of yours?"

"Certainly." Vanger smiled like a cat in the canary's cage. "As to Neptune, you will have a personal showing in due time. As to the Adison Unit—you've seen an application of it destroy a plane in a matter of seconds. This ship is equipped with four guns that can cut through a yard of steel instantly. And the guns are controlled in range, intensity and breadth of contact. They can reduce a space liner to dust at ten feet—or melt a pin-head a mile away. What will you think when you see ten thousand planes like this—and materials for a million?"

"I'll think you're a damn liar," said Ricker, "till I do see 'em. And even then I won't believe you can lick one Patrol boat." He was bluffing and he knew it. Obviously Vanger knew it, too, for he winked at the imperturbable Molly Borden, his nasty smile still there.

Ricker cursed himself. If he'd called the Patrol instead of trying to be smart and contact the Times, this would have been nipped in the bud. What if it all was true? He'd seen what this ship could do. He'd also seen those dark crumbling bodies in the liner. And he'd followed Molly Borden on the wildest hunch. What had he run into? And what a story—if he lived to tell it....

"Landing," voiced Gurren from the wheel.

Ricker felt a sinking sensation as the plane slowed its descent. Looking out the port, he saw the surface of Neptune gradually flatten into an endless table of sleek gleaming ice, ghostly blue in the pale light, like a frozen lake in moonlight. They sank closer and the bare expanse swelled to a dim monotonous plain of mirrored shadows. Far out, above the razor-smooth horizon, a dull red ball cast its feeble light across the lonely scene. Ricker felt a twinge of helplessness, home-sickness. That weak orange light was the sun....

Gurren fought the controls. The plane wallowed like a ship in a storm and outside a wind that was almost visible tore at them with grim, icy fingers. That sweep of wind, Ricker knew, was an endless hurricane that scoured the dead surface of Neptune to the smoothness of tin. It was a wind of tinted methane, a five hundred mile gale, eternally....

What live secret teemed on this forgotten planet? What lurking fate awaited him—when he'd learned its festering secret—too late?

Bump!

The plane jarred down to a rough landing, streamed across the snow in a swirl of wind-driven ice dust. Ricker thought of what the Martian had said. Ten thousand planes—where? The man was mad. There was no place on this naked planet to hide a factory.

"Forty-four-five!" said Hines. Apparently it was their magnetic position on Neptune. Ricker remembered it.

"Right," said Gurren. "Dig in!" He threw the brake, made a breathtaking stop and held the plane like a wild horse against the wind.

Hines pulled a trigger on the wheel. A misty cloud of white—steam—suddenly frosted the windows. An angry hissing penetrated the walls and the falling sensation rose in Ricker again, though he could see nothing through the ice-coated ports. His eyes widened.

The plane had landed, but it continued to fall!

Ricker stared at the pilots with mixed exasperation and astonishment. He glanced at Molly Borden but she was blasé as ever. Finally he turned to Vanger.

"Would you mind telling me what's going on?" he asked with more nonchalance than he felt.

"Not at all." The Martian grimaced with what was his smile. "Since you won't live to repeat it, we're bound for the perfect hideout—beneath the snows of Neptune."

He laughed and the sound of his laughter mingled with the whispering hiss of steam, seemed to echo from the painted windows which had now turned black.

Ricker watched the windows. His eyes narrowed again when they glowed again with the reflection of light outside. The light was brighter than before.

Then, suddenly, as if by some quick heat, the ice vanished from the windows, and, if he felt surprise at the wizardry of their descent into the snow, what he beheld now was with a staggering shock.

The ship floated down into a cavernous box-like place that stretched out into miles of smooth floor surrounded by white, glistening walls of sheer ice. On the floor, long geometrical rows of flat buildings, like an automobile factory, striped one side of a wide smooth landing field. On the other side of the field stood a large house like an office building and behind it lay a silver, windowed dome from which ran heavy tubes curving into the ground. Upon the field, forming a great dotted circle around it, rested literally thousands of egg-shaped space ships.

Ricker stared through the viewplate as if watching the very gates of Hades open before him. They landed slowly. And despite his astonishment, he absorbed everything he saw with the photographic memory of a good telenewsman.

The place was an immense chamber deep in the icy rind of the planet—apparently resting on the very surface of Neptune itself for the floor appeared to be rock, different from the glistening walls and the roof. And the roof—glancing up, Ricker saw the low sleek dome held no mark of their entrance! The ice had instantly frozen behind them again as they passed through. This place was impregnable, perfectly hidden. A hundred miles of snow was at once a shield and camouflage.

But how?

Then he saw how. Along the walls reared tall tripods, similar to radio towers. At the top of each flared a ring of yellow light—it was blinding to look at. Like looking full at the noonday sun. And through the windows, he could feel the sweaty penetration of—heat!

"Show Miss Borden to her room, Hines." The Martian's voice brought Ricker's staring eyes back to the cabin. "I'll call for you shortly, Molly. And you, Gurren, lock up our meddlesome journalist till I have time for him."

The ship landed like a feather. Vanger opened the door, ogled a twittering good-by to the woman, and jumped to the ground. He strode off toward the office-like building beside the ship-encircled field. All the planes were shiny and new, Ricker noticed.

Gurren and Hines motioned the woman and him out. The floor was a kind of granite underfoot, Ricker saw. The field was about the size of a baseball diamond, the ships staggered in a wide circle around it like eggs in a giant incubator. And an incubator it was. From the shops a quarter of a mile away echoed the whirr of machinery, the clang of metal against metal, the stutter of riveting hammers. Pale blue light rayed from the windows and open doors, cast an aura of stark efficiency above the gleaming roofs and in the streets.

Several men passed, wearing the gray coveralls of his captors, and obviously a landing space ship was not unusual for they gave them no more than a passing glance. They stared at Molly Borden, of course. But then she would have attracted attention in the Shangri-la where dead nymphs go.

"This way," said Hines, and led them across the field, past a center tripod toward the factories. Ricker had never seen the Adison unit before but he knew this must be it. Like steel columns, heat held back Neptune's sunless cold, forced a rigid hollow inside the living ice.

Hines and the woman walked ahead. Ricker followed with Gurren a few paces behind him. Neither of his guards drew their strange-looking guns and Ricker also knew that escape was impossible. It would be like trying to get out of a box buried in a block of concrete. And he was no Houdini....

A few yards into the canyons of the seething city and Hines stopped. "This is your room for the time being." He grinned at Molly Borden like a school boy at the teacher. He waited beside an open door which led into a living compartment of some sort. "If there's anything you wish—"

Next door stood a building from which droned a low monotonous chatter, the hum of a transmitter, the crackle of static. On the roof towered two poles from which hung a long radio antenna. An idea akin to suicide suddenly quickened Ricker's pulse.

"Thank you," the woman said to Hines who, since Vanger left, was rapidly becoming a two-bit cavalier on his own. Ricker glanced at Gurren out of the corner of his eye. He was also gulping in the beauty of the Venusian.

If that radio room was only empty! thought Ricker. If he could make it in time—get the door closed—

"Perhaps I should see if everything's all right," said Gurren, reluctant to leave. As Hines frowned nastily, he took Molly Borden's arm, started into the room with her.

Like a fleeing deer, Ricker suddenly streaked away.

A shout behind him. The door wasn't ten feet ahead. A hot white blast whizzed past his left shoulder. The door frame glowed red, steamed.

Ricker dived through the door.

He caught the door as he went through, slammed it shut behind him.

A man whirled around from a mass of instruments. In that split second all Ricker saw was the man's startled face, his hand snatching a pistol from his belt.

Ricker leaped for him as from a catapult, brought up a swift short right. Smack! The fellow fell back into a bank of scattered dials. Ricker jerked the gun from his hand as he sagged to the floor.

Without another glance at him, he leaped to the transmitter. It was an ordinary radio outfit but apparently of tremendous power. He snapped the sending switch, kept his eyes fused to the door.

"Come out, Ricker!" It was Gurren's voice. "We'll burn you through the door!"

Ricker didn't answer. His ears strained for the warming tone of the sender. He knew they wouldn't blast the building; it would destroy the radio. And they wouldn't come through the door—for a moment.

A low hum sang in the room. The transmitter was working. Ricker bent over the mike, eyes on the door.

"Attention, all listeners." He spoke rapidly but without a tremor. "Ricker, Planetary Times—calling for help. Send Patrol to Neptune. Magnetic location—" God! what was that number! "Forty-four-five. Neptune, magnetic forty-four-five—"

The door opened.

"Get back!" said Ricker. "I'll kill the first man that enters!"

Molly Borden came through the door.

"Stop," said Ricker. "I swear I'll shoot if you come a step inside."

"Put down that gun," she said quietly. Gurren and Hines stood in the door behind her, their pistols leveled but unable to shoot with her directly in the line of fire. The woman moved slowly toward Ricker.

"Stop!" he said. God! Why didn't he shoot! This woman was dead anyway. The state had condemned her. It wouldn't be like killing anybody else.

She came on, slowly, like a lion trainer approaching a dangerous animal but with no vestige of fear. Her eyes knifed into his, unblinking, commanding, like the paralyzing fangs of a serpent. His finger tightened on the trigger.

"Give me the pistol. Please." Her voice was low, throaty but with vibrant confidence. With the spell of her eyes, it urged Ricker like the subtle demand of a hypnotist. "Please."

She halted before him, a gorgeous creature, like some great poisonous jungle flower. Her cold green eyes bored into him without a waver. Her face was expressionless, a thing of tinted marble. She held out her hand.

"Give me the gun, Bill Ricker," she said softly. "They'll kill you if you don't."

Ricker leveled the pistol at her heart. "I've never killed a woman—" Gurren and Hines moved around to get a shot at him. "Stay where you are!" said Ricker. "I'll burn a hole through her if you move a step."

He tried to avoid her seeking eyes, met them again. Their gaze met like live wires touching. A current passed between them that almost made sparks. Ricker's whole body vibrated to the electric force of her gaze. Her eyes became an irresistible power transfixing his very being.

For an instant he felt like a moth on a pin. Then without shifting her eyes, Molly Borden slapped the pistol from his hand.

It clattered to the floor. The men were upon him....

Ricker found his pockets contained one cigarette, a book of matches and a clipping from the Times. He sat down on the cold metal bunk, dejectedly lit the cigarette and stared at the dark windowless walls and the heavy door that made his prison. Finally he glanced at the clipping:

Ricker crumpled the slip of paper, hurled it across his narrow cell. Why hadn't he killed her when he had the chance. She was a killer, heartless, cruel as a lynx—and doubly dangerous because she possessed the claws of woman. Her beauty was a mask of murder; the charm of her eyes—well, he'd fallen into them and she'd taken a gun away from him like a toy from a child.

His black thoughts returned to the fullness of his plight. Obviously, Molly Borden had pretended to burn the plans to keep the police off the trail of her henchmen. Then the law had virtually delivered her to their door-step again. Blind fools! He'd written story after story doubting those ashes they found in her stateroom. On the evidence of a few half-burned symbols and a charred notebook cover, the law had made a mistake endangering the very universe!

He was as blind as the police. At least he had expected something—but now here he was trapped like a rabbit in a box. With a plot forming around him that could shake worlds—with a story any telenewsman would give his typewriter-fingers for!

Vanger hadn't lied. His heat-gunned ships could stop any army. And here, beneath the lying ice-wastes of Neptune, such planes were being made like bubbles....

Ricker combed desperate fingers through his unruly hair, got up and paced the cramped floor. What was their plan? To attack Earth—conquer Mars, Venus, Mercury—all the colonies? No! It was unimaginable! But this unknown cave, those ships out there—?

He wondered if his attempted message had gotten through to the Patrol. But he hadn't had time to say he was beneath the location he'd given. They wouldn't find a trace up there on the ice and how could they guess what lay under a hundred miles of frozen gas?

He heard a key clink in the lock of his cell door. It opened to Hines' tank-like figure. He had his gun ready, apparently wasn't taking any chances since the incident of the radio building.

"Let's go, telenewsman," he ordered Ricker outside. Ricker walked out the door without a word.

Hines motioned him to go ahead, directed him out into the noisy street. The hum of machinery was deafening and in the buildings they passed, Ricker saw space ships in all stages of construction along busy assembly lines.

"Where do you get the materials?" he asked idly.

"Simple," said Hines. "Neptune's minerals have never been tapped before. We mine everything we need right here."

"And the men?" The streets were deserted but hundreds were at work in the shops.

"Every man has his price. We pay well."

Ricker remembered several mysterious disappearances in the industrial centers on Earth. They had usually been without families and of small means, however, and no extensive inquiry was made....

The gigantic cavern itself still fascinated him. Glancing up, he noticed the dome of ice was almost the hue of clear blue sky. It was perhaps a mile high and the suggestion of distance lent by the shimmering walls made the place appear even larger than it was. He wondered why there wasn't a constant dripping, why the chamber wasn't moist like a cave. Then he remembered it wasn't frozen water around them. It was frozen atmosphere, melting back into its gases—like dry ice.

Wouldn't the public eat this story up, he thought, as they wove between the evenly-spaced ships beside the field. Then he smiled ironically. What public? The only public he could reasonably expect was a jolly bunch of pallbearers....

They crossed the field, Hines with the pistol at his back. Ricker saw three new ships rolled out into line as they walked the short distance to buildings on the other side.

"What're these?" he asked, looking at the tall three-story house and the big silver dome at the rear.

"The Boss's place," said his guard. "And that dome's the power plant."

The Boss! Ricker's mind clicked. Who was the leader? Was it Vanger? Molly Borden? Somehow neither of them seemed to fit.

They paused at the door of the building. Hines pushed a button. A moment's wait, the door opened to Vanger's dusty face.

"Hello," he greeted. "I hope you found our humble hospitality to your liking, Mr. Ricker." He led them down a narrow corridor to another closed door. Hines left them, retraced his steps. Vanger opened the door, ushered Ricker in.

Ricker saw Molly Borden standing beside a small glass table in a spacious but dim-lit room. The walls were mirrored and a dull hidden light cast vague shadows upon heavy chairs and a sofa, gleamed weirdly upon chrome ash-trays, a carved bottle and glasses. The highlighted silhouette of the woman commanded the scene. She stood carelessly, one crimson-tipped hand resting on the table, a cocktail glass glinting in the other. She had changed from her traveling suit, wore a shimmering gown that bathed her lithe body in a sheen of liquid silver. Had it been under any ordinary circumstances, Ricker would have whistled at the sight of her.

"Your stare tickles, Mr. Ricker," she said. "Won't you come in? Will you have scotch or—"

"He's a telenewsman," said a deep voice from a shadowed chair to the left. "He'll have scotch. And please turn on the light, Vanger. We must make our guest feel at home."

A sudden light glowed over the room. Ricker gazed at the person who had spoken.

He saw a large fat man lounging deep in a cushioned armchair. He had three folds of pale flesh for a chin below his thick lips, his eyes were puffed with the whites startlingly large and his skin was white, an unhealthy white—like a great white worm.

Ricker inhaled quickly. His jaw dropped.

It was Senator Trexel sitting there.

Ricker was struck dumb. He clutched the back of a chair as his mind swirled.

"So Dorothy Adison was right!" He heard himself speak the words as if somebody else had said them.

"Alibis are easily purchased." The fat man's heavy lips curled up at the corners and his hog-like eyes became slitted puffs of flesh. "But do sit down," he smiled. "We have much to talk about."

Ricker found his way around the chair, sank down slowly with his eyes upon the man. Dorothy Adison was right! The phrase roared in his mind. Trexel did have something to do with the murder. Had he hired Molly Borden to do it? Was he a member of this Neptune gang? Was he the leader?

"What will you have to drink?"

Ricker looked at the man as he would a Black Widow spider. "I don't drink with murderers—and traitors," he said carefully.

With an amazing swiftness for a man of his bulk, Trexel left his chair, stepped over and struck him smartly across the mouth with the flat of his palm.

"You will be careful of your words!" he breathed. "Another remark like that and you die where you sit!"

He returned to his chair, his composure regained as quickly as it left him. He took a cigarette from his waistcoat pocket, struck a match.

"Now talk, telenewsman," he said. "Who knows where you are? How did you suspect Molly Borden?" The light of the match made his face a white wax mask. He lit the cigarette, blew out the match with a puff of his pasty cheeks.

Ricker refused to open his bruised lips, stared at the man and kept silent.

"There are ways," said Trexel, "of making you talk." Vanger, behind Ricker's chair, coughed in agreement.

"I know," said Ricker finally. "And I imagine you could put Mercurian torture methods to shame. But I'll save you the trouble. There are three people who know where I am. One is my boss, the editor of the Planetary Times, another is Dorothy Adison who saw you leaving her father's laboratory after the murder and the other is—the President of the United States."

Molly Borden put down her glass with a sharp clink.

Trexel slowly took his cigarette from his mouth, dropped his tree-trunk arm to his lap. Ricker met his eyes evenly. Would he believe it?

"You lie," said Trexel. "One of my men is in the President's office. I know every move he makes."

"The President knew your spy was there," said Ricker. "We found him more useful in your employ than in jail."

The fat man took on the look of a bullfrog caught in the glare of a flashlight. The cigarette smoldered in his hand unnoticed. He gazed at Ricker a long few seconds, as silence held the room like a stifled breath.

Then he looked up quickly to the Martian.

"Vanger," he said in a voice like Napoleon must have had at Waterloo. "Contact Number 12 at the White House, tell him to find out if what the man says is true. And tell him whether it's true or not to prepare for immediate action."

Vanger gasped, then choked with a cough. "Attack now!"

"Why not?" Trexel decided, twisting his cigarette into a tray. "We have enough ships to take Earth and the colonies can't do much with their supplies cut off. Any one of our ships can fight off fifty ordinary ones. Perhaps we should begin before Adison's daughter does cause trouble—since we can't find her to keep her quiet.

"Give the word for complete mobilization in an hour!" He stared at the ceiling a moment in silent thought. "We'll pick off the Patrol ships, have Earth surrounded by dawn in New York. When the city awakes there will be a new ruler—of the solar system!"

"Yes, sir." The Martian smiled and turned to go.

"Wait," said Trexel. He nodded to Ricker. "On your way, take this man out and shoot him." Ricker's heart jumped but he stared at the man without a change of expression.

"Shouldn't you first find out if he's lying, Senator?" Molly Borden's unruffled voice raised the fat man's bulbous eyes. "We shouldn't rush into this attack unless quite sure—"

"I know where I stand," said Trexel. "I have men close to every government on Earth. When I give the command, they'll take over while my ships destroy all resistance. And why delay longer? We'll strike before our luck changes."

Ricker stood up. "Listen, fat man," he said. "You hold all the cards as far as I'm concerned. But as far's Earth is concerned it's a different matter. You can't conquer a planet. Men will hide in mountain, jungle and sea. They'll leap at you from every bush and corner. What if you do burn a few ships—a few armies? What if you take every government? The people will rise again. You can't rule by force alone."

"History," said Trexel, "proves that men forget. They soon grow accustomed to new eras. They have learned to love tyrants before." He waved his hand to Vanger. "But this is no discussion of political philosophy...."

Ricker felt something jabbed into his side. It was a pistol in the Martian's hand.

"No!" Molly Borden cried suddenly. "Don't kill him!"

"What?" Trexel looked up at her as if she'd thrown her cocktail in his face. "What is this man to you?" His piggish eyes narrowed. Her exclamation surprised Ricker as much as it did the rest of them.

"You're tired, Molly," snapped Vanger. "Perhaps you should go to your room."

The woman's painted nails bent against the glass of the table beside her. She looked like a tigress about to spring. Why? Ricker almost forgot his own plight at the sudden change in her manner.

"Don't shoot that man," she said slowly. "I'm not—"

"Leave the girl here, Vanger," Trexel interrupted her with dead eyes. "Maybe I'd like to talk with her awhile. You go ahead and follow orders."

"Yes, sir," said the Martian, reluctantly. He pushed the gun into Ricker, forced him around to the door as he looked back at the woman with a puzzled expression on his dusky face.

They passed out of the room into the long darkened corridor.

Ricker's mind was an ant hill of thought as Vanger marched him down the hall. His bluff had worked. Trexel feared his whereabouts was known. But the bluff, in working so well, had precipitated an early start of their scheme—and sounded taps for himself. Oddly, as the Martian pushed open the door and the yellow light of the heat units burst into his eyes, his own death didn't matter much, his dying didn't seem very real. In his brain was the vision of those charred bodies in the liner—they were real. And he could picture that same scene in each ship of Earth as thousands of egg-shaped craft met them in terrestial space, blasted a path of hell to the cities below.

Even his failure to "get the story" seemed insignificant. This thing was bigger than himself.

Ricker felt the pistol withdrawn from his side, glanced back at the Martian. The man's beady eyes fixed on him like a snake's.

As Ricker stared back, almost absently, Vanger's left fist whipped up, banged into his chin, knocked him backward upon the hard ground.

Stunned by the unexpected blow, Ricker got to his hands and knees shakily. He rubbed his numb jaw, gazed at the Martian through a quick red film of rage.

Vanger took careful aim at him. "Die, Earthman," he said softly. "Die with a blackened face, as all your brothers will."

Ricker didn't wait. The crouch he found himself in was not unlike the position in four years of college football. He hurtled at the man like a blocking-back gone wild.

Hiss-s-s!

White flames streamed over his head. White flame singed his hair and clothing, bathed his face in quick burning sweat. He struck Vanger high in the belly, carried him down in a perfect tackle.

Vanger's head knocked against the ground. Ricker's fingers shot to his throat like a striking cobra. But there wasn't time to throttle the man. He let him go, drew his right fist back just six inches and stabbed into the Martian's chin. Vanger's head slammed against the ground again. He lay still.

Ricker snatched the pistol from his limp hand, heard shouts and glanced about frantically.

He saw men running toward him across the field, about ten of them with others trailing in the distance. They must have seen the fight from the factory. They came on like a drove of stampeding horses. Between himself and the charging crowd, Ricker saw the ship he had arrived in. It was about the distance of a city block away.

Without any definite plan, he jumped off the unconscious Martian, raced for the ship.

To an observer at the side, it would have appeared that the crowd of running men and the lone sprinter were speeding to meet each other. But it was a match-meet for the space ship between them. The men apparently inferred Ricker's goal. They increased their pace. Ricker dug in with his long legs.

The ship wasn't fifty feet away. The men weren't a hundred. Ricker's feet pounded the rock of the field like a race horse going down the home stretch. The wind whistled in his ears, he scarcely seemed to run, felt as if he was gliding. But the men were gaining. With each panting breath, the distance between them and the ship narrowed. He saw they would get to it before he did. And if they got there first—!

He remembered the gun, clutched forgotten in his swinging hand.

Without breaking his stride, Ricker brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger. There was no report. A stream the color of molten lead hissed from the barrel, like tracer bullets from a machine gun. Several of the men fell forward kicking like shot deer. Black oily smoke curled up from the pack. The rest stopped. Then they scattered in all directions across the field leaving five writhing, smoking mounds on the ground behind them. The smell of burning flesh came to Ricker's flared nostrils.

Ricker squeezed the trigger. Men fell. Black oily smoke curled up. The others scattered, leaving five smoking mounds behind.

He was at the ship. He snatched open the door, leaped in and slammed it behind him.

He didn't remember taking off. The next thing he knew, he was in the air, circling high above the field.

Looking down, he saw men like little bugs swarming out of the buildings far below. He saw ships pushed out on the field. The ships spiraled up toward him.

Ricker's first thought was to head into the ice, cut on the heat guns and bore through to safety. But no. It was slow going through the ice and they'd catch him before he'd gone a mile.

Below he saw toy ships rising, growing like mushrooms as they gained altitude. There were eighteen of them, he counted out loud. What chance had he against eighteen? He squeezed his triggers testily, felt a slight recoil as the hot breath of death licked out from all sides of his ship. Well, it'd be one fine fight anyway....

Suddenly he noticed the radio before him. Of course! Quickly he switched on, spoke into the transmitter.

"Calling Stellar Patrol, calling Stellar Patrol!"

"What is it?" The answer came so quickly Ricker jumped. They must be close by. "Is this Ricker? Where are you?"

"Where are you!"

"At forty-four-five Neptune. The location you gave." His message had gotten through. They were right over him, just a hundred miles away—and they might as well be on the other side of the sun. "What's the trouble? We've been looking for you since—"

"Listen!" cried Ricker. "No time to explain. I'm trapped inside the planet—under the ice. There's a cave here. Made with Adison's Heat Unit. I've found out what's behind Molly Borden. They have ten thousand ships here, plan to attack Earth. Senator Trexel's the leader—they're coming up after me now. You must do something. Quick!"

"What? How? How can we get to you?"

How could they get down here! Patrol ships didn't have these heat guns. God!

Glancing down, Ricker saw the ships closing beneath him like a flock of starved condors. In a moment they'd be in gun range.

"Gotta keep moving," he told the radio. "They're coming fast. Stand by and I'll try to think of something."

He streaked up to the roof of the icy chamber, sailed fast toward the far end.

And suddenly he did think of something—something so simple it seemed foolish.

"Listen!" he yelled to the radio. "Turn your ships around. Sit down on the ice! Give your rockets half throttle and let gravity pull you down as the ice melts under you. It'll take a long time but I may hold 'em off till—"

A flash of white lightning streaked across his view plate. The ship steamed, sweat formed little beads on Ricker's forehead, ran into his eyes. One was diving in front of him. Ricker squeezed his trigger, saw the ship flash into floating dust before him. He saw another coming down from above.

With a quick jerk of the wheel, he zoomed up and over, wheeled into a swift Immelman and dived.

The buildings, the field, the standing planes below whirled, surged up to meet him like a nightmare of falling.

He pulled out of the dive not fifty feet from the tops of the buildings, zoomed away again with the planes hot on his tail. They'd followed him down, were streaming after him like a swarm of hornets.

For the next ten minutes those below witnessed the weirdest dog fight in all flying history. There wasn't room to make a running battle of it. It was dive, zoom, streak from one end of the cave to the other like hawks fighting in a cage. Ricker twisted into every contortion his straining jets allowed. And still those ships closed in relentlessly, often striking one of their own number—which closeness of battle was Ricker's only ally. The ships closed in slowly, inexorably formed a ring of murderous heat around him.

It was a losing fight. Ricker knew it. He couldn't elude them forever. One well-timed blast and he'd go down in a swirl of ashes and smoke. And his constant fighting the controls to avoid the ships, to avoid crashing the walls and the roof, was wearing his arms to dead aching weights.

The ships tried strategy. They divided, Ricker saw, into five groups, waited for him at each corner of the chamber while the others gave chase. And these groups closed in with each wild dive he made.

Soon they would have him trapped between them. Well, the game was about up. It was a matter of minutes now. He might as well do as much damage as he could before they got him.

He banked over in a last dive, hoping only that the Patrol got in before the ships saw them. Even the Patrol wouldn't have much chance against these weapons. As he went over, saw the floor of the cave revolve around like a side wall, a streak of lightning struck the tail of his ship with an impact that jarred every rivet. The ship went crazy, spun down like a shot bird.

Ricker hit the wheel with all the failing strength of his arms. More by will power than anything else, he pulled out into a shaky glide. But try as he might there was no response from the elevator jets. He couldn't rise again. The ships fell like stones upon him for the kill.

Below, looming rapidly in the windows, he saw the long line of buildings, the thick circle of ships resting on the field. He fired full-blast as he passed over them. Buildings burst, split into halves as if an earthquake had struck them. Ships disappeared in a wide swath under him, hundreds went up in smoke.

The field fled beneath him, a deep smoldering trench following his flaming guns. The house across the field and the silver dome loomed up, raced toward him with the speed of a locomotive.

"The power plant!" Ricker suddenly yelled it at the top of his voice. If he could crash that—!

With a supreme effort—he didn't know how he did it for the ship was beyond all control—he keeled over into the metal dome as he left the field.

The painted wall of silver filled his viewplate. Each rivet stood out. He could have counted them. He saw the nose of the ship push into the metal. The glass of the viewplate caved in upon him. The instrument panel reared up, smashed him in the face with an ear-splitting explosion.

The world splintered in a hell of sound....

Oddly, Ricker wasn't knocked out. When the ship stopped bucking, he found himself sitting amidst the twisted wreckage of the controls, smoke curling through the torn hull and his face wet and sticky.

His mind was numb, unthinking as he fingered a swelling lump between his eyes. His fingers came away red. He crawled out of the ship. Wires, tubes, warped transformers and machinery were everywhere. He heard a hum of ships outside. It was dark in the room, the shadowed wreckage reared in grotesque shapes like dancing demons. He couldn't move his right arm and, looking down, saw that his whole side was stained with warm blood. A feeling of coldness penetrated his dulled senses. It was like a deep ice cave.

Ricker limped to the door of the ruined powerhouse, stared out upon a scene like a polar twilight. Gray hulks, ships, bordered the ghostly field and black silhouettes were the factory buildings across the dismal space. Where the heat units had been were scarecrow towers, a sputtering orange flame at each peak—like small dying suns. Their heat was gone. The air was deadly cold, not the biting cold of a north wind but the numb rigid cold of breathless freezing. Yet the cold was alive, moving. It seemed to push against his body like air pressure. The temperature fell degree after degree as he stood there, like a thermometer with the red fluid leaking out the bottom.

Ricker smiled. He had destroyed the powerplant, the heat units were dying. The place was returning to ice again....

He passed a weary hand across his clotted forehead. Although he had destroyed himself, the work of Trexel was also ruined. It was worth it, his thoughts came slowly. The hell inside Neptune would return to its frozen gases.

How long had it been since he crashed? It seemed hours. But it must have been seconds for ships suddenly landed out on the field in a storm of rocket fire. As he grew weak from loss of blood and the cold, he noticed a surging dark wave sweep across the field toward the ships. Then the sound of shouts, screams, shrieks reached his ears. It was the clamor of fear itself. Slowly he realized it was men racing across the field, now white with frost. The men swarmed around the ships. He could see little in the dim light of the red flares, could make out only a writhing mass of vague shapes around the silver ships which reared above them like huge turtles.

As he watched, the voices grew weaker, died to low cries of crawling terror and despair. And Ricker felt himself grow weaker. The cold crept into his bones, into his heart, into his brain. He couldn't think fast. He thought slowly, leaning against the door. The icy walls of the place seemed to be sliding toward him, the roof descending. The field was cold as a snow-covered grave.

The voices out on the field were hushed. All was quiet, soundless with the utter silence of deep hidden places.

He was lying on the ground beside the door, staring up at the black glistening roof that was moving down upon him. He didn't think any more. He was very tired.

A hulking shadow stood over him. He felt it more than saw it. He saw two hands reach down. They dragged him across the field. He could see everything quite clearly but his eyes seemed set in a vise-like single focus. He noticed the twin tracks his heels made in the frost on the field....

Then it was warm, a soft clinging warmth that seemed to flow throughout his tired body—like life flowing into him again. He was lying on something soft and comfortable.

He opened his eyes, saw a woman's face before him.

Ricker stared at the face a long time. It was a perfect oval, wreathed in jet black hair, molded with deft yet full lips and a firm nose. The eyes were green. It was Molly Borden. Her green eyes were glistening, wet with tears....

"Why did you save me, Molly Borden?" he asked finally.

"I am not Molly Borden," she said. "I am Dorothy Adison."

The words meant nothing to Ricker for a moment. He just lay there staring up at her. Then with a shock like cold water, the meaning of her words crashed upon him.

"Dorothy Adison—!"

"Don't talk," she said softly. "Lie still and drink this." She put a glass of warm liquid to his lips. He gulped thirstily and the stuff darted through his veins like fire. Quick strength suffused his body.

He lay there, panting a moment, then slowly struggled up on an elbow. His right arm was tightly bandaged with a piece of silver cloth. He saw it was a strip from the woman's dress, which was in tatters above her rounded knees. She sat on the end of the sofa. She was crying, softly like a child.

"Dorothy Adison," breathed Ricker. "You lie! She was blonde—an Earthian. You're Venusian and—It's a lie!"

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I dyed my hair," she said.

"But your eyes—they're Venusian—slanting—!"

"Makeup," she said.

Ricker sank back upon the sofa. "But why?" he said. "Why!" None of this made sense. Molly Borden confessed killing Benjamin Adison and now she said she wasn't Molly Borden but Adison's daughter....

"You—killed your own father?" It was the only thing Ricker could think of to say.

"Trexel killed him," she said. The phrase seemed to harden her again. "I saw him coming out of the laboratory after father was—. But I couldn't prove it. He had a perfect alibi. And after the inquest, he tried to kill me—twice. I became Molly Borden to escape him, then got the idea of following it through. There was just a chance that confessing the murder might arouse Trexel's curiosity, make him get in touch with me. I took the chance—and it worked...."

It was too much to believe. "You mean you acted suspicious, let the police catch you and burned something to look like those plans? You risked a life sentence on Pluto—!"

"It was the only way. I played free-lance thief—Trexel believed I was at the laboratory after he left. I told him I stole what I thought were the plans. I told him the police frightened me into a confession of the murder—and they were none too gentle."

"But why didn't you tell the police—before you left for Pluto. They could have—"

"I could trust no one. At first I planned to tell at the last minute but after his message came—in jail—I knew I couldn't. It was delivered by the district attorney himself. He told me I would be taken from the ship before I reached Pluto."

Ricker understood a lot of things now. It was like finishing a jig-saw puzzle, when all the pieces are suddenly seen to fit. "Does Trexel know who you are yet?"

"I tried to kill him after you left," she said. "But I had only a knife—he was too strong. You saved my life when you stole the ship. Trexel went after you. I watched from the window."

Ricker glanced toward the window. The light was gone and in the room itself crept the chill of the darkness outside. The heat units were dull red embers.

Ricker sat up quickly. Swift pain drove him back down. "We've got to get out of here!" he said. "This place'll be a block of ice in no time, air and all! We can steal a ship and—"

"Steal it?" said the woman. "There's no one to stop you. The workers are dead. There's nothing to stop you—but the cold outside. It's sudden death out there now. It's too late."

Ricker gritted his teeth, arose despite the lightning pain. He waved aside her restraining hand, sat on the edge of the sofa till the weakness passed.

"We've got to get away," he said. "We can't stay here. We'll die."

"I know," said Molly Borden-Dorothy Adison quietly. "We'll die. It was far below zero when I went out to look for you. By now, the roof must have lowered half-way down—it's probably 200 degrees below zero out there now. But I don't mind the dying so much. It's that I've failed that hurts. Trexel got away—father is unavenged."

Ricker had forgotten about Trexel for the moment. The thought brought him to his feet and he forgot his pain. Both Trexel and Vanger must have escaped. They were up in one of the planes. They had only to melt through the ice. "Trexel got away—"

"Yes," a calm deep voice from the door. "And he will complete his purpose!"

Ricker turned slowly toward the door. He heard the woman gasp.

Trexel and Vanger stood there. They wore heavy electro-suits, heat steaming from them into the chill room. Trexel held a pistol in his right hand.

"Notice the window, telenewsman," he said.

Ricker turned to the window, saw bright daylight outside. The heat units were on again—!

"Yes," said Trexel. "The units are working. Did you think we would depend on a single source of power? It took a few moments but it was simple to switch on an auxiliary plant. And most of the men will revive, the cold struck them so quickly. Before you know it, everything will be as good as new." He smiled his fat, pasty smile. "Watch them, Vanger, while I get out of this suit."

The Martian pulled his own gun, Trexel struggled out of the hot clothing, dropped it to the floor and sat down heavily. Ricker stared as if he'd been struck with a mallet.

"Now," the fat man said, pouring a drink, "I'd like to clear up just one minor point before we dispense with you two. Did Ricker know who you were all the time, Miss Adison?"

The woman didn't answer, looked at him like a caged animal. But to Ricker there flooded a sudden ray of hope. Trexel might still believe his stall about the President knowing his whereabouts. Did he still have an ace in the hole?

"Yes," he spoke for the woman, "Miss Adison and I have been working together for weeks. But that doesn't matter, Trexel. In a few moments your hide-out'll be swarming with Patrol ships. They know where I am and they'll be here any moment."

The fat man laughed. "Still trying to pull that stuff," he scoffed. "Well, it doesn't go over again. I contacted Washington and my agents tell me there's no truth whatsoever in your story. No one knows where you are. You were both working entirely on your own." He raised his pistol. "But enough of this!"

"Wait," said Vanger. He coughed behind his hand. "Why shoot the woman? Give her to me and she'll never speak a word of what she's seen if I have to cut her tongue out."

Trexel smiled. "So you, too, have been attracted by Miss Borden's beauty. But perhaps you won't like her, so well as Dorothy Adison, Vanger. Have you thought how she would look without that yellow dye on her skin, without that makeup on her eyes and with Dorothy Adison's blonde hair?"

"I like blondes," said Vanger. "And if I remember rightly, Dorothy Adison was a beauty in her own right."

"Well," said Trexel. "A dead woman's little use to anyone. If you'll remember about that tongue-cutting—"

Vanger laughed till he began coughing.

Trexel raised the gun, pointed it full in Ricker's face and laughed. Ricker could see his fat knuckle whiten as it squeezed the trigger.

Molly Borden screamed, flung herself in front of him. The Martian jerked her aside. Ricker's good left arm came up. Then it halted in mid-air.

To his ears came a sound like bubbling water to a man dying of thirst. He didn't believe it at first, paused, lips parted, listening. Then his eyes danced with a wild light.

Trexel heard it too. His face was like chalk. He stood there with the gun still poised, a great bear-like statue. It was the hum of rockets! Not the rockets of Trexel's ships, the jets of the Stellar Patrol. It was! The Patrol had gotten through!

Trexel stood like a man of stone. For a full ten seconds he didn't move.

Ricker knocked the woman aside, dropped to the floor. The gun flamed. Trexel pulled the trigger wildly. Ricker snatched the glass table from the floor beside him, hurled it up into the man's ghastly face. His thick mouth burst into a red spray as glass crashed. He fought to get rid of the table, its jagged edges cut into his arms and face. Ricker hurled a chair. It hit the man's head like a pole striking cement. Trexel's gun fell from his hand, thudded on the floor. He sagged down beside the wall.

The Martian didn't pull his gun. He stood, staring, listening to the cries, the sound of the planes and the guns outside. He didn't appear to see what was going on in the room. Suddenly he whirled, bolted to the door.

In the heat of his fury, Ricker flew after him.

Vanger dashed down the corridor, Ricker ten feet behind. He went through the door, started out upon the field. As Ricker reached the door, he saw Vanger stop suddenly, look up. The din of the Patrol boats was thunder in the echoing hollow. The air was filled with them. The field was littered with men running, falling and lying still. A boat swooped down toward the lone Martian standing there, fell like a bird of prey. Vanger started to run back toward the building. Tat, tat, tat! A long flaming line followed him, slowly, like a curse. Little puffs of dust spurted around him. The puffs stopped. The Martian halted. He stared at Ricker in the doorway and his face was puzzled. He coughed and his chin, his shirt became cherry-red. Then he crumpled to the ground.

Ricker turned, walked slowly back to the room.

At the door, he paused. He saw Dorothy Adison standing over the motionless hulk of Trexel. She swayed, one hand at her throat. In her other hand was Trexel's gun. Where the head of the fat man had been was a dark, dripping ball of horror.

The woman dropped the pistol. It struck the man's body, rolled to the floor.

Then she was suddenly in Ricker's arms.

Lounging deep in his red-leather chair, Bill Ricker squinted out at the port as the sleek space ship streamed through the darkness. He could see nothing outside but a big, humorous-eyed young man who was his own reflection and the green tinted star that was Earth—home.

"I hear you got a raise," said the tall blonde women in the seat beside him.

"Yep," said Ricker. "The Chief tried to get out of it but since the government offered his star reporter twice as much, he had to give in." He stared at the woman queerly. With her golden hair, her clear emerald eyes and perfect features she possessed a strange loveliness.

"Madam," he said. "What do you plan to do with your life? Have you no aims, no ideals, no guiding light?"

"Nope," she said. "I'll just follow you around, I suppose."

"And what if I get tired of it?"

The woman smiled. "I hit you with a wrench once—"