to his men. The brigands from Mars now were following
that information.

A tense interval passed. We could see the ship plainly above us now, a
gray-black shape among the stars up beyond the shaggy, towering
crater-rim. The vessel came upon a level keel, hull-down, slowly
circling, looking for Miko's signal, no doubt, or for possible lights
of Grantline. They were also picking a landing place.

* * * * *

We saw it soon as a cylindrical, cigarlike shape, rather smaller than
the _Planetara_, but similar of design. It bore lights now. The ports
of its hull were tiny rows of illumination, and the glow of light
under its rounding upper dome was faintly visible.

A bandit ship, no doubt of that. Its identification keel-plate was
empty of official pass-code lights. These brigands had not attempted
to secure official sailing lights when leaving Ferrok-Shahn. It was an
outlawed ship, unmistakably. And here upon the deserted Moon there was
no need for secrecy. Its lights were openly displayed, that Miko might
see it and join it.

It went slowly past us, only a few thousand feet higher than our
level. We could see the whole outline of its pointed cylinder-hull,
with the rounded dome on top. And under the dome was its open
deck-space, with a little cabin superstructure in the center.

I thought for a moment that by some fortunate chance it might land
quite near us. There was a wide ledge a quarter of a mile away.

"Anita, look."

But it went past. And then I saw that it was heading for a level,
plateau-like surface a few miles further on. It dropped, cautiously
floating down.

There was still no sign of Miko. But I realized that haste was
necessary. We must be the first to join the brigand ship.

I lifted Anita to her feet. "I don't think we should signal from
here."

"No. Miko might see it."

We could not tell where he was. Down on the plains, perhaps? Or up
here, somewhere in these miles of towering rocks?

"Are you ready, Anita?"

"Yes, Gregg."

* * * * *

I stared through the visors at her white, solemn face.

"Yes, I'm ready," she repeated.

Her hand-pressure seemed to me suddenly like a farewell. Were we
plunging rashly into what was destined to mean our death? Was this a
farewell?

An instinct swept me not to do this thing. Why, in an hour or two I
could have Anita back to the comparative safety of the Grantline
buildings. The exit port