ed at his
watch.

"Where is Wade now?" Blake asked.

"At South Station since last night," O'Toole said.

"Does he know I'm on Earth?"

O'Toole looked doubtful.

"I'm afraid he does," he admitted. "I sent your radio-wave last week and
he was in the office at the time. I can't explain why, but I have the
feeling he checked up after I left and found out who I had radioed."

Blake followed O'Toole to the door, drew on his heavy coat.

"Let's get it over with," he shrugged his shoulders. "I've had to take
Wade in hand a couple of times. Once more won't do any harm. We'll go to
South Station."

O'Toole hesitated. He had something else to get off his chest.

"Jeff," he spoke gravely. "It's only fair to tell you that being Wade's
twin may get you into some pretty heavy trouble."

Jeff grinned queerly.

"Good!" he said. "I sort of like the stuff."

The door slammed behind them and the light from the single window faded
against the dark field.

* * * * *

A swift shadow of a man darted from between the empty space docks. The
stranger's arm went high and jerked straight. A wicked knife flicked
from the steeled fingers. It missed Blake's neck by inches; struck the
heavy door behind him. Blake took two swift steps forward, realized the
man was already lost in the night. He stopped and pivoted. O'Toole had
already jerked the knife from the door, was staring at it with tight
lips.

"Playful bunch of goons you've got around here," Blake said mirthlessly.

"I'm afraid that's some of the trouble I mentioned," O'Toole replied. "I
told you Wade is stirring up a pack of trouble and I'm afraid you're
dropping right into the middle of it."

He held the knife out toward Blake and the younger man took it.

"My brother must have changed a lot since I saw him last. Ten years ago
he spent most of his time playing the violin and raising flowers."

"Still does," O'Toole answered in a far-off voice. "But he has a few
other hobbies now. Games that he's learned to play too well for his own
good."

Blake was studying the knife that had missed his head. He ran a thumb
lightly over the razor edge of the weapon.

"Games that you play with knives?"

O'Toole nodded.

"Unless I'm greatly mistaken," he answered grimly. "That nice little
fellow who tossed the bread knife at you is one of Grudge Harror's play
boys."

"Now," Blake said, "we're getting some place. Who is Grudge Harror and
what's he go