vered the trap. He had to stall and hope the signal would be
picked up in time.

"The only thing I'll ever give you, Coxine," said Tom through clenched
teeth, "is a blast of a paralo-ray!"

Coxine snarled in anger and turned the valve, shouting, "One more thing,
_Mister Hero_! The minute the air lock is empty, _you_ take a swim in
space too!"

Tom was prepared for that. He knew the pirate would not take defeat at
the hands of a Space Cadet easily. Tom was resigned to his fate. He was
ready to accept anything if it would serve the purpose of ridding the
solar system of Bull Coxine.

"Tie him to that chair," snarled the giant pirate captain. "And make
sure he's secure, or you'll go swimming in space with him!"

Tom was shoved roughly into the copilot's chair in front of the control
board and tied down with a thick rope. He winced as the heavy line dug
into his arms. After inspecting the job, Coxine dismissed Brooks and the
men with a curt nod and returned to his charts.

Tom sat in front of the control panel, his eyes sweeping the gauges and
dials and at last fixing on the master acceleration lever. Two feet away
was the lever that controlled all the power on the ship. If he could
only reach it, he could stop the _Avenger_ dead, and possibly even put
the ship completely out of commission. But try as he might, he could not
get his hands free.

Coxine looked up at the astral chronometer and walked over to the valve.
"Well, Corbett," demanded the burly spaceman, "what's the recognition
signal?"

Tom only shook his head.

"Must be pretty bad, sitting down there in the dark, hearing the oxygen
feed in slower and slower. You sure you won't change your mind?"

Tom looked squarely at Coxine, hatred in his eyes, and he watched the
pirate captain shrug his shoulders, turn the valve again, and return to
his charts.

The young cadet watched the astral chronometer, seeing the red hand
sweep the seconds away, and the black minute hand inch around the dial.
Over and over, the curly-haired Space Cadet refused Coxine's demand for
the recognition signal and then watched helplessly as the pirate gave
the air-lock valve another twist.

Nearly two hours had passed and Tom knew that they would soon be in
radar range of the Ganymede garrison. The pressure in the air lock must
now be within ten units of zero. Suddenly, overhead, the audioceiver
loud-speaker crackled into life.

"Attention! This is Ganymede traffic control. Ident