esponsive
to his thoughts. Not disdainful, not inimical; not appreciative, nor
friendly--simply indifferent to a degree unknown and incomprehensible to
any human mind. He sent Brandon only one message, which came clear and
coldly emotionless.

"I do not want to talk to you. Tell the hairy doctor that I am now
strong enough to be allowed to go to the communicator screen. That is
all." The Vorkul's mind again became an oblivious maze of unintelligible
thoughts. Not deliberately were Kromodeor's thoughts hidden; he was
constitutionally unable to interest himself in the thoughts or things of
any alien intelligence.

"Well, that for that." A puzzled, thoughtful look came over Brandon's
face as he called von Steiffel. "A queer duck, if there ever was one.
However, their ship will never bother us, that's one good thing; and
I think we've got about everything of theirs that we want, anyway."

The surgeon, after a careful examination of his patient, unlocked the
heavy collar with which he had been restraining the over-anxious Vorkul,
and supported him lightly at the communicator panel. As surely as though
he had used those controls for years Kromodeor shot the visiray beam out
into space. One hand upon each of the several dials and one eye upon
each meter, it was a matter only of seconds for him to get in touch with
Vorkulia. To the Terrestrials the screen was a gray and foggy blank; but
the manifest excitement shrieking and whistling from the speaker in
response to Kromodeor's signals made it plain that his message was being
received with enthusiasm.

"They are coming," the Vorkul thought, and lay back, exhausted.

"Just as well that they're comin' out here, at that," Brandon commented.
"We couldn't begin to handle that structure anywhere near Jupiter--in
fact, we wouldn't want to get very close ourselves, with passengers
aboard."

Such was the power of the Vorkulian vessels that in less than twenty
hours another heptagon slowed to a halt beside the _Sirius_ and two of
its crew were wafted aboard.

They were ushered into the Venerian room, where they talked briefly with
their wounded fellow before they dressed him in a space-suit, which
they filled with air to their own pressure. Then all three were lifted
lightly into the air, and without a word or a sign were borne through
the air-locks of the vessel, and into an opening in the wall of the
rescuing heptagon. A green tractor beam reached out, seizing the
derelict, and