bly: "What the hell?"

The red-headed man hit him again. He was nerve-racked, and, therefore,
he wanted to hurt.

"Move!" he rasped. "I want the diamonds you've got for the ship from
Lunar City! Bring 'em!" Pop licked blood from his lips and the man with
the weapon raged at him. "Then phone down to the mine! Tell Sattell I'm
here and he can come on up! Tell him to bring any more diamonds they've
dug up since the stuff you've got!"

He leaned forward. His face was only inches from Pop Young's. It was
seamed and hard-bitten and nerve-racked. But any man would be quivering
if he wasn't used to space or the feel of one-sixth gravity on the Moon.
He panted:

"And get it straight! You try any tricks and we take off! We swing over
your shack! The rocket-blast smashes it! We burn you down! Then we swing
over the cable down to the mine and the rocket-flame melts it! You die
and everybody in the mine besides! No tricks! We didn't come here for
nothing!"

He twitched all over. Then he struck cruelly again at Pop Young's face.
He seemed filled with fury, at least partly hysterical. It was the
tension that space-travel--then, at its beginning--produced. It was
meaningless savagery due to terror. But, of course, Pop was helpless to
resent it. There were no weapons on the Moon and the mention of
Sattell's name showed the uselessness of bluff. He'd pictured the
complete set-up by the edge of the Big Crack. Pop could do nothing.

The red-headed man checked himself, panting. He drew back and slammed
the inner lock-door. There was the sound of pumping.

Pop put his helmet back on and sealed it. The outer door opened.
Outrushing air tugged at Pop. After a second or two he went out and
climbed down the welded-on ladder-bars to the ground.

He headed back toward his shack. Somehow, the mention of Sattell had
made his mind work better. It always did. He began painstakingly to put
things together. The red-headed man knew the routine here in every
detail. He knew Sattell. That part was simple. Sattell had planned this
multi-million-dollar coup, as a man in prison might plan his break. The
stripped interior of the ship identified it.

It was one of the unsuccessful luxury-liners sold for scrap. Or perhaps
it was stolen for the journey here. Sattell's associates had had to
steal or somehow get the fuel, and somehow find a pilot. But there were
diamonds worth at least five million dollars waiting for them, and the
whole job might not ha