in solid, covering
mass at the base of a titanic ridge. Faintly he could see a ghostly
outline, much too large for men. It might be a ship, but it would have
to be large enough for a space-yacht. No stinking two-man sled like
his spacer. And he could not be sure in that eerie blankness if it
even were a ship.

Besides, the range was too great. Uncertainty vanished as a circle of
light showed briefly. An airlock door opened and closed swiftly.
Denver stood clear of the rocks and wondered if he should risk
anything further. Pursuit was useless with such arms as he carried. No
question of courage was involved. A man is not required to play
quixotic fool under such circumstances. And there might not be time to
return to his spacer for a long-range heat gun. If he tried to reach
the strange ship, its occupants could smoke him down before he covered
half the distance. If he continued toward the buildings, they might
return and stalk him. They would, he knew, if they guessed he was
alone.

Decision was spared him. Rockets thundered. The ridge lighted up as
with magnesium flares. A big ship moved out of the banked shadows,
accelerating swiftly. It was a space-yacht, black-hulled, and showed
no insignia. It was fast, incredibly fast. He wasted one blaster
charge after it, but missed focus by yards. He ducked out of sight
among the rocks as the ship dipped to skim low overhead. Then it was
gone, circling in stiff, steep spiral until it lost itself to sight in
distant gorges.

"Close!" Denver murmured. "Too close. And now what?"

He quickly recharged the blaster. A series of sprawling leaps ate up
the remaining distance to the mine's living quarters. One whole side,
where airlock doors had been, was now a gaping, ragged hole. A haze of
nearly invisible frost crystals still descended in slow showers. It
was bitterly cold on the sharp, opaque edge of mountain-shadow.
Thermal adjustors in his suiting stopped their irregular humming.
Automatic units combined chemicals and began to operate against the
biting cold. With a premonition of ugly dread, Denver clambered into
the ruined building.

Inside was airless, heatless cell, totally dark. Denver's gloved hand
sought a radilume-switch. Light blinked on as he fumbled the button.

Death sat at a metal-topped table. Death wore the guise of a tall,
gaunt, leathery man, no longer young. It was no pretty sight, though
not too unfamiliar a sight on Luna.

The man had been writing. F