o!_"

"Yes, sir, but well ... I just don't--"

"Do you think _I_ like it?" asked the Director, fiercely.

In the silence that followed, they looked at each other, guiltily.

"There's nothing else we can do," said the Director. "The orders are
explicit. _No one escapes from Hades!_"

"I know," replied the biophysicist. "I'm not blaming you. Only I wish
someone else had my job."

"Well," said the Director, heavily. "You might as well get started." He
nodded his head in dismissal.

As the biophysicist went out the door, the Director looked down once
more at the pile of papers before him. He pulled the top sheet closer,
and rubber-stamped across its face--CASE CLOSED.

"Yes," he mused aloud. "Closed for us, but--" He hesitated a moment, and
then sighing once more, signed his name in the space provided.

* * * * *

AUGUST 6, 430th Year GALACTIC ERA

Tee Ormond sat morosely at the spaceport bar, and alternately wiped his
forehead with a soggy handkerchief, and sipped at his frosted rainbow,
careful not to disturb the varicolored layers of liquid in the tall
narrow glass. Every now and then he nervously ran his fingers through
his straight black hair, which lay damply plastered to his head. His
jacket was faded and worn, and above the left pocket was emblazoned the
meteor insignia of the spaceman. A dark patch on his back showed where
the perspiration had seeped through. He blinked and rubbed the corner of
his eye as a drop of perspiration ran down and settled there.

A casual look would have classified him as a very average looking pilot
such as could be found at the bar of any spaceport; i.e. if space pilots
can ever be classified as average. Spacemen are the last true
adventurers in an age where the debilitating culture of a highly
mechanized civilization has pushed to the very borders of the galaxy.
While most men are fearful and indecisive outside their narrow
specialties the spacemen must at all times be ready to deal with the
unexpected and the unusual. The expression--"Steady as a spaceman's
nerves"--had a very real origin.

A closer look at Tee would have revealed the error of a quick
classification. He gripped his drink too tightly, and his eyes darted
restlessly from side to side, as though searching, searching; yet
dreading to find the object of their search. His expressive face
contorted in a nervous tic each time his eyes swept by the clock hanging
behind the bar. He