where men had been lined up and mowed
down with one sweeping blast from a heater.

Russ turned the television controls. "Let's see about Venus and Mars."

The scenes in Ranthoor were duplicated in Sandebar on Mars, in New
Chicago, the capital of Venus. Everywhere Stutsman had struck ...
everywhere the purge was wiping out in blood every person who might
revolt against the Chambers-dictated governments. Throughout the Solar
System violence was on the march, iron-shod boots trampling the rights
of free men to tighten the grip of Interplanetary.

* * * * *

In the control room of the _Invincible_ the two men stared at one
another.

"There's one man we need," said Greg. "One man, if he's still alive, and
I think he is."

"Who is that?" asked Russ.

"John Moore Mallory," said Greg.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He was imprisoned in Ranthoor, but Stutsman transferred
him some place else. Possibly to one of the prison fleet."

"If we had the records of the Callisto prison," suggested Russ, "we
could find out."

"If we had the records ..."

"We'll get them!" Russ said.

He swung back to the keyboard again.

A moment later the administration offices of the prison were on the
screen.

The two men searched the vision plate.

"The records are most likely in that vault," said Russ. "And the vault
is locked."

"Don't worry about the lock," snapped Greg. "Just bring the whole damn
thing here--vault and records and all."

Russ nodded grimly. His thumb tripped the tele-transport control and
from the engine rooms came a drone of power. In Ranthoor Prison, great
bands of force wrapped themselves around the vault, clutching it,
enfolding it within a sphere of power. Back in the _Invincible_ the
engines screamed and the vault was ripped out of the solid steel wall as
easily as a man might rip a button from his shirt.

_CHAPTER FIFTEEN_

John Moore Mallory sat on the single metal chair within his cell and
pressed his face against the tiny vision port. For hours he had sat
there, staring out into the blackness of space.

There was bitterness in John Moore Mallory's soul, a terrible and futile
bitterness. So long as he had remained within the Ranthoor prison, there
had always been a chance of escape. But now, aboard the penal ship,
there was no hope. Nothing but the taunting reaches of space, the
mocking pinpoints of the stars, the hooting laughter of the engines.

Someti