"Oh, this is harmless! This is an instrument to aid my weak eyes! It
will help me realize your mastery! This will enable me to know your
true greatness. This will enable me to know you as a god."

Was it complacence or suspicion that stirred the liquid in the cyst so
smoothly? Was it susceptible to flattery? He sighted along the barrel.

"In another moment your great intelligence will overwhelm me,"
proclaimed his surface mind desperately, while the subconscious tensed
the trigger. And at that the clear liquid burst into a turmoil of
alarm. Too late. Forepaugh went limp, but not before he had loosed a
steel-jacketed bullet that shattered the mind cyst of the pipe
denizen. A horrible pain coursed through his every fibre and nerve. He
was safe in the arms of Gunga, being carried to the top of the pipe to
the clean dry air, and the blessed, blistering sun.

The pipe denizen was dying. A viscous, inert mass, it dropped lower
and lower, lost contact at last, shattered into slime at the bottom.

* * * * *

Miraculous sun! For a luxurious fifteen minutes they roasted there on
the top of the pipe, the only solid thing in a sea of clouds as far as
the eye could reach. But no! That was a circular spot against the
brilliant white of the clouds, and it was rapidly coming closer. In a
few minutes it resolved itself into the _Comet_, fast relief ship of
the Terrestial, Inranian, Genidian, and Zydian Lines, Inc. With a low
buzz of her repulsion motors she drew alongside. Hooks were attached
and ports opened. A petty officer and a crew of roustabouts made her
fast.

"What the hell's going on here?" asked the cocky little terrestial who
was skipper, stepping out and surveying the castaways. "We've been
looking for you ever since your directional wave failed. But come on
in--come on in!"

He led the way to his stateroom, while the ship's surgeon took Gunga
in charge. Closing the door carefully, he delved into the bottom of
his locker and brought out a flask.

"Can't be too careful," he remarked, filling a small tumbler for
himself and another for his guest. "Always apt to be some snooper to
report me. But say--you're wanted in the radio room."

"Radio room nothing! When do we eat?"

"Right away, but you'd better see him. Fellow from the Interplanetary
News Agency wants you to broadcast a copyrighted story. Good for about
three years' salary, old boy."

"All right. I'll see him"--with a happy