ly hope, Gordon--the only chance
Mars had, has, or will have! Believe me, I know. Security has to be
notified. There's a code message I had ready--a message to a
friend--even you can send it. And they'll be watching. I've got the
basic plans in the book here."

He slumped back. Gordon frowned, then found the book and pulled it out
as gently as he could. It was a small black memo book, covered with
pages of shorthand. The back was an address book, filled with
names--many crossed out. A sheet of paper in normal writing fell out.

"The message ..." Murdoch took another swallow of brandy. "Take it.
You're head of Security on Mars now. It's all authorized in the plans
there. You'll need the brains and knowledge of the others--but they
can't act. You can--we know about you."

The old woman sighed. She put down the hot water and picked up the
bottle of brandy, starting down the stairs.

"Gordon!" Murdoch said faintly.

He turned to put his head down. From the stairs, a sudden cry and thump
sounded, and something hit the floor. Gordon jumped toward the sound, to
find the old lady bending over the inert figure of Sheila Corey.

"I heard someone," the woman said. She stared at the brandy bottle
sickly. "_Gott in Himmel_, look at me. Am I a killer, too, that I should
strike a young and beautiful girl. She comes into my house, and I sneak
behind her ... It is an evil time, young man. Here, you carry her
inside. I'll get some twine to tie her up. The idea, spying on you!"

Gordon picked the girl up roughly. That capped it, he thought. There was
no way of knowing how much she'd heard, or whether she'd tipped others
off. He dropped her near the bed, and went over to Murdoch. The man was
dying now.

"So Security wants me to contact the others in the book and organize
things?"

"Yes." Murdoch swallowed. "Not a good chance, then--but a chance. Still
time--I think. Gordon?"

"What else can I do?" Bruce Gordon asked.

He knew it was no answer, but Asa Murdoch apparently accepted it as a
promise. The gray-speckled head relaxed and rolled sideways on the
bloody pillow.

"Dead," Gordon said to the woman, as she came up with the twine. "Dead,
fighting wind-mills. And maybe winning. I don't know."

He turned toward Sheila--a split second too late. The girl came up from
the floor with a single push of her arm. She pivoted on her heel, hit
the door, and her heels were clattering on the stairs. Before Gordon
could reach the entran