mistake.

Bill Braigh, the elderly youth with the crewcut? Ralph Peters, the
pilot who had come with the ship? Dorothy Stauber, the trim brunette
who had made the trip from Earth on the same starship as Tremont? He
could not make up his mind without more to go on.

Then he remembered with a sinking sensation that _all_ of them had
been clustered about his case of papers and microfilms when he had
interrupted them.

"I trust you aren't thinking of making us any trouble, Tremont,"
drawled Braigh. "Give up the idea; you've been no trouble at all."

"Where do you think this is getting you?" demanded Tremont.

Braigh chuckled.

"Wherever it would have gotten you," he said. "Only at less expense."

"Ask him for the combination," growled Peters.

Braigh scrutinized Tremont's expression.

"It would probably take us a while, Ralph," he decided regretfully.
"It's simpler to put him outside now and be free to use tools on the
box."

Tremont opened his mouth to protest, but Braigh clapped the helmet
over his head and screwed it fast.

"You'll never read the code!" yelled Tremont, struggling to break
free. "Those papers are no good to you without me!"

Someone slammed him against the bulkhead and held him there with his
face to it. He could do nothing with his hands, joined as they were,
and very little with his feet. It dawned upon him that they could not
hear a word, and he fell silent. Twisting his head to peer out the
side curve of his vision band, he caught a glimpse of Peters suiting
up.

A few minutes later, they opened the inner hatch of the air lock and
shoved Tremont inside. Peters followed, gripping him firmly about the
knees from behind.

"Here we go!" grunted Peters, and Tremont realized that he could
communicate again, over their suit radios.

"You won't get far, trying to read the code I have those papers
written in," he warned. "You'd better talk this over before you make a
mistake."

"Ain't no mistake about it," said Peters, pressing toward the outer
hatch. "So you chartered the rocket. You felt you oughta go out to see
about a heavy dust particle hitting the hull. You fell off an' we
never found you."

"How will you explain not going yourself? Or not finding me by
instruments?"

Peters clubbed Tremont's foot from the tank rack he had hooked with
the toe.

"How could I go? Leave the ship without a pilot? An' the screens are
for pickin' up meteorites far enough out to mean somethin' at the