an unharmed but furious Lee Treynor. Between them they carried a small, obviously heavy box.

"You know what this stuff is, boss?" one of the men asked. "They got a hundred or a hundred-fifty boxes like this in there." He nodded at the Navy warehouse.

They set the box down and Mantor flung back its lid. It was filled with small grey pellets. Mantor picked up a handful and stood fingering them.

"Looks like rocket fuel," he said. "Only I've never seen any this color. And it's too heavy, also." He turned to the comptroller. "You tell me what it is."

Marc shrugged. "I don't know. It's a Navy secret."

Mantor's eyes glinted. Without warning his fist flew out, sent the comptroller sprawling in the dust where he lay stunned. Lee's hands flew to her mouth barely in time to suppress a cry.

After a few moments Marc rolled over slowly and pushed himself painfully to a sitting position. He looked up at Mantor who stood watching him coldly, his fist flexing.

The comptroller licked his lips and looked around at the several men who stood watching, their faces impassive. "Okay," he said in a none-too-steady voice. "I'll tell you. You'd find out anyway from the files."

"Cut the alibis and give," Mantor growled.

"Keep your shirt on." Marc's voice indicated he was regaining control of himself. "It's H.D.T.—Hyper-Degenerate-Thorium—the stuff the destroyers use to get extra push."

Mantor roared his glee. "Pack it aboard, boys—all of it! And put it where it will be handy, just in case."

This was it, Lee thought as she stood by, watching—the final bitter pill. Mantor had as much as told them he was working for Venus. And the H.D.T. was all Venus needed to be ready for war—a war that might well blast civilization from the Solar System. Strange that so much should depend upon one man; tragic that the one man was a weakling.

With an effort Lee forced herself to be fair. It might have done no good to lie, she conceded. But anyone with even a normal amount of simple courage would have tried.

It was about two hours later when the siren went off again like a banshee wailing to a low-hanging moon. Men came running from all directions, shouting questions at the tops of their voices.

A midget auto came skidding down the pirate ship's ramp, its driver standing on the accelerator. The car knifed through the swirling crowd, barely missing several people, and skidded to a dusty stop directly in front of Mantor.

"Radar signal!" the driver yelled. "The search receiver picked up a signal that sounds like a destroyer's radar. It suddenly came in strong. Probably sneaked up on us from behind that damn moon. It's coming in fast and braking hard!"

There was a mad scramble as the looters raced for their ship. Heavy-handed horseplay was forgotten. They knew they were helpless against a Navy destroyer. Their only hope lay in a fast getaway. Seconds could easily spell the difference between safety and defeat.

In less than ten minutes the ship's locks were sealed and they fired off. As the flames roared out and the huge ship lifted swiftly it was obvious that they were throwing on all the fuel their jets could take.

Marc Polder had faded back into the crowd at the first sound of the siren. As he stood watching the blastoff Lee joined him, hands in her pockets, looking more than ever like a boy.

"Maybe my idea of asking for help wasn't so far-fetched," she said quietly. "Maybe the patrol might have been here in time. Maybe you wouldn't have had to tell them about the H.D.T."

"Maybe," Marc answered without turning his eyes from the dwindling point of reddish light high in the dark sky.

"And just by way of keeping the record straight," the girl went on in a voice that began to rasp, "you know as well as I do that the files don't list any H.D.T. It's under a code name."

"Maybe," Marc replied in a noncommittal tone.

The point of light in the sky suddenly turned blue. Lee was staring at