. It had pitched over onto one side, its shell cracked and
mangled irreparably. Grotesque pieces of crumpled metal lay all around
it. Its slanting course had tumbled it within fifteen yards of the
sphere.

In silence the old man and the girl watched Quade walk deliberately
over to it, his automatic steady in his right hand. He wrenched at the
long, narrow door, but it was so badly bent that for a while he could
not get it open. At last it swung out, however, and Quade peered
inside.

After a moment he reached in and drew out a rifle. He took it over to
a nearby rock, smashed the gun's breech, then flung it, useless,
aside. Returning to the borer, he again peered in.

Sue was about to scream from the torturous suspense when he at last
straightened up and looked around at the white-faced girl and her
father.

"Mr. Holmes is tougher than I'd thought possible," he said, with a
thin smile; "he's still alive." And, as Sue gasped with relief, he
added: "Would you like to see him?"

* * * * *

He dragged the young man's unconscious body roughly out on the floor.
There were several bad bruises on his face and head, but otherwise he
was apparently uninjured. As Quade stood over him, playing idly with
the automatic, he stirred, and blinked, and at last, with an effort,
got up on one elbow and looked straight at the thin lips and narrowed
eyes of the man standing above. He shook his head, trying to
comprehend, then muttered hazily:

"You--you're--Quade?"

Quade did not have time to answer, for Sue Guinness cried out:

"Phil! Are you all right?"

Phil stared stupidly around, caught sight of the two who lay bound on
the floor, and staggered to his feet. "Sue!" he cried, relief and
understanding flooding his voice. He started towards her.

"Stand where you are!" Quade snapped harshly, and the automatic in his
hand came up. Holmes peered at it and stopped, but his blood-streaked
face settled into tight lines, and his body tensed.

"You'd better," continued Quade. "Now tell me what happened to Juan."

Phil forced himself to be calm. "Your pal, the greaser?" he said
cuttingly. "He's lying on a bunk in your shack. He shot himself,
playing with a gun."

Quade chose not to notice the way Phil said this, but a little of the
suave self-confidence was gone from his face as he said: "Well, in
that case I'll have to hurry back to the surface to attend to him. But
don't be alarmed," he added, more