n down
to the crater floor.

The figures were rolling; then one shook himself loose; rose up,
seized the other and, with desperate strength, shoved him--

The victorious figure drew back to safety. The other fell, hurtling
down into the shadows past the camp level--down out of sight in the
darkness of the crater floor.

Snap, who was in the group near Grantline at the window gasped, "God!
Was that Gregg who fell?"

No one could say. No one answered. Outside, on the camp ledge, another
helmeted figure now became visible. It was not far from the main
building when Grantline first noticed it. It was running fast,
bounding toward the spider staircase. It began mounting.

And now still another figure became visible--the giant Martian again.
He appeared from around the corner of the main Grantline building. He
evidently saw the winner of the combat on the cliff, who now was
standing in the Earthlight, gazing down. And he saw too, no doubt, the
second figure mounting the stairs. He stood quite near the window
through which Grantline and his men were gazing, with his back to the
building, looking up to the summit. Then he ran with tremendous leaps
toward the ascending staircase.

Was it Haljan standing up there on the summit? Who was it climbing the
stairs? And was the third figure Miko?

Grantline's mind framed the questions. But his attention was torn from
them, and torn even from the swift silent drama outside. The corridor
was ringing with shouts.

"We're imprisoned! Can't get out! Was Haljan killed? The brigands are
outside!"

And then an interior audiphone blared a calling for Grantline. Someone
in the instrument room of the adjoining building was talking.

"Commander, I tried the telescope to see who got killed--"

But he did not say who got killed, for he had greater news.

"Commander! The brigand ship!"

Miko's reinforcements had come.

XXV

Not Wilks, but Coniston! His drawling, British voice:

"You, Gregg Haljan! How nice!"

His voice broke off as he jerked his arm from me. My hand with the
projector came up, but with a sweeping blow he struck my wrist. The
weapon dropped to the rocks.

I fought instinctively, those first moments; my mind was whirling with
the shock of surprise. This was not Wilks, but the brigand Coniston.

It was an eerie combat. We swayed; shoving, kicking, wrestling. His
hold around my middle shut off the Erentz circulation; the warning
buzz rang in my ears, to m