state on Long
Island, Terra, that same evening, and joined up in the Patrol. The Sir
Francis Drake strain had immediately come forth--and Kendall was having
the time of his life. In a six-man cruiser, his real work in the
Interplanetary Patrol had started. He was still in it--but it was his
command now, and a blue circle on his left sleeve gave his lieutenant's
rank.

Buck Kendall had immediately proceeded to enlist in his command the IP
man who had made the mistaken bet, and Rad Cole was on duty with him
now. Cole was the technician of the T-247. His rank as Technical
Engineer was practically equivalent to Kendall's circle-rank, which made
the two more comfortable together.

Cole was listening carefully to the signals coming through from Pluto.
"That," he decided, "sounds like Tad Nichols' fist. You can recognize
that broken-down truck-horse trot of his on the key as far away as you
can hear it."

"Is that what it is?" sighed Buck. "I thought it was static mushing him
at first. What's he like?"

"Like all the other damn fools who come out two billion miles to scratch
rock, as if there weren't enough already on the inner planets. He's got
a rich platinum property. Sells ninety percent of his output to buy his
power, and the other eleven percent for his clothes and food."

"He must be an efficient miner," suggested Kendall, "to maintain 101%
production like that."

"No, but his bank account is. He's figured out that's the most economic
level of production. If he produces less, he won't be able to pay for
his heating power, and if he produces more, his operation power will
burn up his bank account too fast."

"Hmmm--sensible way to figure. A man after my own heart. How does he
plan to restock his bank account?"

"By mining on Mercury. He does it regularly--sort of a commuter. Out
here his power bills eat it up. On Mercury he goes in for potassium, and
sells the power he collects in cooling his dome, of course. He's a good
miner, and the old fool can make money down there." Like any really
skilled operator, Cole had been sending Morse messages while he talked.
Now he sat quiet waiting for the reply, glancing at the chronometer.

"I take it he's not after money--just after fun," suggested Buck.

"Oh, no. He's after money," replied Cole gravely. "You ask him--he's
going to make his eternal fortune yet by striking a real bed of jovium,
and then he'll retire."

"Oh, one of that kind."

"They all are," Cole laug