center of the corridor.

“Course change!” gasped white-haired Stevens. “Good God!”

The ship had reached the midpoint of its flight. The bells had sounded, warning every soul on it to take shelter, to strap themselves in their pressure bunks against the deadly stress of acceleration as the ship reversed itself and began to slow its headlong plunge into Callisto. But the two men had not heeded.

The small steering rockets flashed briefly. The men were thrust bruisingly against the side of the corridor as the rocket spun lazily on its axis. The side jets flared once more to halt the spin, when the one-eighty turn was completed, and the men were battered against the opposite wall, still weightless, still clinging to each other, still struggling.

Then the main-drive bellowed into life again, and the ship began to battle against its own built-up acceleration. The corridor floor rose up with blinking speed to smite them⁠—

And the lights went out in a burst of crashing pain for Peter Duane.


Someone was talking to him. Duane tried to force an eye open to see who it was, and failed. Something damp and clinging was all about his face, obscuring his vision. But the voice filtered in.

“Open your mouth,” it said. “Please, Peter, open your mouth. You’re all right. Just swallow this.”

It was a girl’s voice. Duane was suddenly conscious that a girl’s light hand was on his shoulder. He shook his head feebly.

The voice became more insistent. “Swallow this,” it said. “It’s only a stimulant, to help you throw off the shock of your⁠—accident. You’re all right, otherwise.”

Obediently he opened his mouth, and choked on a warm, tingly liquid. He managed to swallow it, and lay quiet as deft feminine hands did something to his face. Suddenly light filtered through his closed eyelids, and cool air stirred against his damp face.

He opened his eyes. A slight redheaded girl in white nurse’s uniform was standing there. She stepped back a pace, a web of wet gauze bandage in her hands, looking at him.

“Hello,” he whispered. “You⁠—where am I?”

“In the sick bay,” she said. “You got caught out when the ship changed course. Lucky you weren’t hurt, Peter. The man you were with⁠—the old, white-haired one, Stevens⁠—wasn’t so lucky. He was underneath when the jets went on. Three ribs broken⁠—his lung was punctured. He died in the other room an hour ago.”

Duane screwed his eyes tight together and grimaced. When he opened them again there was alertness and clarity in them⁠—but there was also bafflement.

“Girl,” he said, “who are you? Where am I?”

“Peter!” There was shock and hurt in the tone of her voice. “I’m⁠—don’t you know me, Peter?”

Duane shook his head confusedly. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “I⁠—I don’t even know my own name.”

“Duane, Duane,” a man’s heavy voice said. “That won’t wash. Don’t play dumb on me.”

“Duane?” he said. “Duane.⁠ ⁠…” He swiveled his head and saw a dark, squat man frowning at him. “Who are you?” Peter asked.

The dark man laughed. “Take your time, Duane,” he said easily. “You’ll remember me. My name’s Andrias. I’ve been waiting here for you to wake up. We have some business matters to discuss.”

The nurse, still eyeing Duane with an odd bewilderment, said: “I’ll leave you alone for a moment. Don’t talk too much to him, Mr. Andrias. He’s still suffering from shock.”

“I won’t,” Andrias promised, grinning. Then, as the girl left the room, the smile dropped from his face.

“You play rough, Duane,” he observed. “I thought you’d have trouble with Stevens. I didn’t think you’d find it necessary to put him out of the way so permanently. Well, no matter. If you had to kill him, it’s no skin off my nose. Give me a release on the merchandise. I’ve got your money here.”

Duane waved a hand and pushed himself dizzily erect, swinging his legs over the side of the high cot. A sheet had been thrown over him, but he was fully dressed. He examined his clothing with interest⁠—gray tunic, gray leather spaceman’s boots. It was unfamiliar.

He shook his head in further confusion, and the motion burst within his skull, throbbing hotly. He closed his eyes until it subsided, trying to force his brain to operate, to explain to him where and what he was.

He looked at the man named Andrias.

“Nobody seems to believe me,” he said, “but I really don’t know what’s going on. Things are moving too fast for me. Really, I⁠—why, I don’t even know my own name! My head⁠—it hurts. I can’t think clearly.”

Andrias straightened, turned a darkly-suspicious look on Duane. “Don’t play tricks on me,” he said savagely. “I haven’t time for them. I won’t mince words with you. Give me a release on the cargo now, before I have to get rough. This is a lot more important to me than your life is.”

“Go to hell,” Duane said shortly. “I’m playing no tricks.”

There was an instant’s doubt in Andrias’ eyes, then it flashed away. He bent closer, peered at Duane. “I almost think⁠—” he began.

Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re lying all right. You killed Stevens to get his share⁠—and now you’re trying to hold me up. That’s your last chance that just went by, Duane. From now on, I’m running this show!”

He spun around and strode to the door, thrust it open. “Dakin!” he bellowed. “Reed!”

Two large, ugly men in field-gray uniforms, emblazoned with the shooting-star insignia of Callisto’s League police, came in, looking to Andrias for instructions.

“Duane here is resisting arrest,” Andrias said. “Take him along. We’ll fix up the charges later.”

“You can’t do that,” Duane said wearily. “I’m sick. If you’ve got something against me, save it. Wait till my head clears. I’m sure I can explain⁠—”

“Explain, hell.” The dark man laughed. “If I wait, this ship will be blasting off for Ganymede within two hours. I’ll wait⁠—but so will the ship. It’s not going anywhere till I give it clearance. I run Callisto; I’ll give the orders here!”

II

Whoever this man Andrias was,

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