George Hanlon ran as he had never run before, but somehow, surprisingly, that Estrellan native not only kept up with him, but the young S S man could tell from the sound that he was catching up. This guy must be half greyhound, Hanlon thought—although he, himself, was slowed down by those huge shoes to which he was not yet too accustomed, so that when running he had trouble not stumbling over his own feet. It was hard remembering to keep his legs spread further apart than normal.

He finally saw just ahead of him the far edge of the wood, and beyond that a great, open meadow. He would be in clear sight out there, unless he could outdistance his pursuers. And this closest one was much too near for that. He would have to stop this gunnie somehow, and now.

Hanlon ducked behind a great tree, and peered out carefully. In his hands he held a knob of wood he had picked up. Soon he saw the native come running between the trees, straight in his direction.

Hanlon took a firmer grip on his club, and raised it above his head. The mobster came alongside the tree, the club came down—hard. One down.

Hanlon started on across the meadow then, for the woods was afire and he felt there was no chance of escape that way. He hoped he could find some sort of a hiding place out there—quite sure in his mind he could not outdistance the men following. He zigzagged a bit as he ran, and kept looking back over his shoulder from time to time.

Hanlon had covered nearly two hundred yards, and was again looking back over his shoulder, when suddenly his foot struck something, and he pitched headlong. The breath whooshed out of him as he landed. He felt as though he was a mass of cuts and bruises. He fought to regain his breath, drawing in great gulps of air. His back hurt, and his legs. One arm seemed almost useless.

"Oh, no, not broken!" he wailed inwardly. Tentatively he tried to move it, and found to his joy that it was only badly jammed. He remembered now, he had landed on that hand.

He glanced around and saw that he had fallen over a great, exposed rock-edge, perhaps a foot high, half as wide, but eight or nine feet long. Despite the inconvenience of dozens of pieces of broken rock on the ground there, he swung his body around so he was lying along the length of the rock, hoping thus to hide a bit while he regained his breath and a measure of strength.

"If I'm lucky, I can hide here until they leave," he panted, striving to calm his nerves and slow his breathing. He peered cautiously over the top of the rock, back toward the burning wood.

Soon he saw another of the men emerge carefully from the edge of the wood, but a considerable distance away. He watched this fellow as he crept out into the meadow, looking from side to side in his search for their quarry.

So intent was Hanlon on watching this man that he did not see nor hear the approach of a third man, until the other jumped the stone, almost landing on Hanlon. The S S man could not entirely stifle an exclamation, and instantly the man swiveled and shone his light directly on Hanlon.

Swiftly the Corpsman snaked out his hand, caught the goon's foot and yanked. The man fell backward, and Hanlon, injuries forgotten, leaped up. But with a lithe, swift movement his attacker was on his feet, swinging at Hanlon with the hand holding his lantern. It was, the S S man saw now, the fellow he thought he had knocked out with his club.

The Terran's hands darted out and grabbed the man's other wrist, pushing it up and away. For in the gyrations of the lamp he had seen that the fellow carried a flamer.

Forth and back they wrestled. By dint of extra effort Hanlon kept the gun's muzzle pointed away from him. But he realized sickeningly that his antagonist was stronger and heavier than he. For an Estrellan, this goon was really a giant.

Hanlon decided on a desperate chance. Instead of pushing against the man's strength, he suddenly lunged backward. The goon cursed as he strove to keep his own footing, and pulled back as best he could.

Hanlon's reflexes were faster than the mobster's, and he took full advantage of the change of leverage. He twisted half-sideways, and let go with his right hand. He swung with all his strength at the soft belly before him.

The man grunted and tottered, for he had not quite regained full equilibrium. Again and again Hanlon struck. The man staggered, reeled backward. A quick snatch, and Hanlon had the flamer ... and used it.

Swiftly he looked to see if the man he had been watching had noticed the fight—and the flash.

Apparently he had, for he was coming on a run. Hanlon snapped a shot at him—and missed. An answering lance of flame almost got him. Hanlon tried another ... and got only a weak sizzle. The first gunman's flamegun was dead.

Only flight was left. Hanlon dropped the useless weapon and started off across the field as fast as he could run. He had not fully recovered his breath, and every muscle in his body shrieked from that fall and his unusual exertions.

He stumbled and staggered, but kept on running as fast as he could. Behind he could hear the yells of the gunman who was on his trail, apparently calling to someone else. The beam of the lantern held Hanlon almost steadily.

Still the Corpsman ran. He had no idea what lay ahead, or whether he was running toward safety or into more danger. There was no other cover he could see in the almost-dark—no trees nor bushes. Merely this meadow, almost flat, covered with a sort of blossomy grass not more than two or three inches high. Nor, even if he did find something, would he be long concealed from the lantern and the man who carried it.

Hanlon swerved, and ran toward but behind the lantern-carrier, hoping thus to elude him. In fact, he had passed behind the fellow before the light-rays picked him out again.

The beam held him steadily again, and Hanlon could hear those pounding feet coming nearer. A gun flamed out again, and Hanlon felt the excruciating pain of a burn on the side of his arm.

"Yipe, that was close," he gritted as he clamped his other hand over the wound, and tried to increase his speed. Weariness seemed forgotten for the moment, and he was able to spurt ahead.

Suddenly he saw twin beams of stronger light coming across the field to intercept him. "Oh, no," he gasped, "the trike!"

He swerved sharply to the right again, and ran on. Ahead he heard a strange sort of roar, and only after a moment or so could identify it. It sounded like the boom of breakers.

"Am I that near the sea?"

Again a sword of flame almost caught him. The car was roaring toward him, closer each second. He knew starkly that death or capture was a matter of moments only.

His mind had been reaching out, searching for any sort of animal life that might come to his assistance. But in this hour of need even that avenue of help seemed to have detoured.

That roar sounded closer—yet curiously distant. Yet he was almost sure it was the sound of breaking water. "If it's close enough, maybe I can find safety there. It's my only hope now," he prayed.

He pounded on and suddenly, almost straight ahead, the nearer of Estrella's two moons swung above the horizon. Both moons were far closer to Estrella than Luna was to Terra. Neither was nearly as large, but they gave considerable light, and this nearer moon was almost at the full tonight. Hanlon could see better now—but he knew his pursuers could, too, and that he was now plain in their sight.

"Sorry, dad, but it looks like I've failed," he groaned.

The sound of the water was closer now, and it had more the texture of breakers than of surf. He devoutly hoped so. Breakers would mean rocks, and rocks would be hard to avoid if he had to dive. But, more important, they would mean greater chances for safety if this meadow ran directly into them, so he could find a hiding place.

Now both gunmen behind were closer. They were firing steadily—and even in his anxiety to escape Hanlon found time to sneer at their marksmanship. "Wish I had a gun or a blaster—I'd show them some real shooting."

Almost blinded now with fatigue, and his run barely more than a stagger, he struggled on ... and suddenly skidded to a halt just on the lip of a sharp drop-off. He peered downward, and his heart did flip-flops. This cliff was well over a hundred and fifty feet high—and straight down to the water's edge. It was the slapping of the water against it he had heard.

Even in the moon's rays he could see that it was too vertical, too smooth, for a swift downward climb. He looked wildly to right and to left, but could see no possible safety.

The car with its gunmen was closer now, and one of the flames from their guns almost hit him. There was only one possible escape.

He ran back from the cliff's edge for several yards, straight toward the onrushing car. Then he turned and sprinted for that edge. He took off like a broad jumper, as far outward as he could, curving his body downward into a dive.

"Oh, God, please," he prayed earnestly, "deep water and no rocks."

It seemed an interminable age that George Hanlon fell through the air on that incredible dive toward the water so far away. Not knowing what was below made the moments seem dreadful eternities. His mind persisted in painting ghastly pictures....

At long last Hanlon struck—and was instantly numbed from the force of the blow and chilled by the icy water. His bruises, burns and cuts smarted painfully from the salt. He plummeted into the depths, deeper, deeper, until he thought his lungs would burst, despite the great gulp of air he had breathed in just before he hit. Slowly he let out a little bit—and as he sank ever deeper, a bit more. He just couldn't take it any longer. He would have to let go soon, and try to breathe.

But from some hidden source he drew on new reserves of will and of strength, and fought on. He felt his descent slowing, and clawed his way upward.

His head finally burst through the surface, and he trod water while he gratefully gulped in the reviving air.

All at once he heard a sharp ping, and water splashed in his face. One of those goons above had a pellet gun.

Hanlon struck out away from the shore, swimming under water as fast and as far as his breath and strength would allow, coming up only to gulp another lungful of air, then submerging again. Finally he surfaced and looked back toward the cliff-top. He could dimly see three forms standing there.

Another pellet struck close by ... and another. Why, he wondered, hadn't they used that gun on him before?

Never too strong a swimmer, the exhaustion and weakness of his wounds and that long run made swimming almost impossible for the young secret serviceman. But he knew his life—and the success of his mission here—depended on his keeping going. He kicked off the heavy, water-logged special shoes that made his feet look Estrellan. Ridding himself of their weight helped a little.

He had felt hundreds of tiny waves of strange thought beating at the fringes of his mind, and now he opened it wide to receive these impressions.

"Fish," he said disgustedly after a moment, as he kept swimming further out. "What good...?" He stopped and thought carefully. "If it was a big enough fish, maybe...." He sent his mind purposefully out and around.

He was still trying to swim, but his body was worn out. He knew desperation, for even if he outdistanced their pellets, there was just not enough strength left in him to swim back to shore. He turned over on his back and floated, resting as much as possible, but still kept his mind searching, searching through the waters. It was his only chance, he felt sure, and sent it ever farther out.

Finally he contacted a larger, stronger thought. Avidly he seized it, insinuated his mind into it, and realized at once that it was the brain of a fish. He forced it to swim at its top speed toward him. From the size and texture of the mind it felt like a large fish. He hoped it was big enough.

Soon it came up to him, and he saw that it was shark-like, almost eight feet long, but rounder, and with a head and face much like that of a Terran sea-elephant. Eagerly and thankfully he grasped one of the small fins protruding from its underside, and his mind started it swimming along parallel to the coast.

The musket-type gun had been splatting at him from time to time—evidently as fast as the shooter could reload. He looked up toward the cliff-top, and could see men running along it.

"Must be they can see me," although he doubted if they could see the fish, that swam just below the surface. "Probably," he grinned mirthlessly, "they're wondering how I can swim so fast."

Another pellet plowed into the water close ahead of his face. The portion of his mind inside the fish felt the intolerable, burning shock of pain. The fish seemed almost to stumble. It twisted and coiled about until Hanlon was able to tighten his control and calm it.

In the dim moonlight he could see the water becoming discolored—and knew the fish was bleeding profusely.

His mind in the fish knew where the wound was, and Hanlon reached up for that place and found a gaping hole. He put the tip of a finger into it to stop the bleeding as much as possible. But he realized at once that this would not save his carrier, which by now he knew was not a true fish, but an amphibious mammal, just as Terran's whales are mammals, not fish.

What could he do? As weak as he was, and as poor a swimmer as he was at best, there was absolutely no chance of his making it back to shore under his own power. And even if he did get back, there was no beach, only that unscalable rocky escarpment ... and the gunmen on top of that.

The fish was his only hope, for he had not been able to locate another fish-mind of the same calibre. And now his savior was dying.

More carefully now, with his mind inside the amphibian, he examined the structure of its brain and nervous and muscular systems. Would it be possible to close that terrible wound?

He traced the nerves to the muscles of that portion of the body and skin. He tested and tried everything he could figure out.

Finally, Hanlon found the nerve-muscle combination that controlled exactly that portion of the body. He made it contract—and felt the muscle tighten about his fingertip. Gently he withdrew the latter from the wound, and made the muscles close it tightly and completely. It was necessary to keep doing it consciously, for the moment he relaxed his concentration it opened again.

He noted subconsciously that there had been no more shots for some time. "Maybe the guy's outta bullets," he thought. "Or perhaps they think I'm dead—can see the blood-stains and think they're mine. Or maybe," as an after-thought, "they've lost track of me in the dimness and the choppy waters."

Whatever the reason, Hanlon knew a deep thankfulness. He relaxed as best he could, shivering in the icy waters, still holding loosely onto the fin of the fish-thing.

He did not try to make it swim. In fact, he kept it from doing so. He would take time out to try to regain some of his own strength, while letting the fish overcome, if possible, some of its own weakness and shock from the pellet-wound.

Adwal Irad had been growing strangely worried. Acting on a compulsion he did not realize existed, he moved Admiral Newton to a different and, a certain being in a spaceship high above hoped, a more concealed place of imprisonment.