chair at the courtroom and squeezed through the crowd at the back just in time to hear the whack, whack, whack of the gavel marking the end of the trial. Standing defiantly in the prisoner's box was Cappy Wilkerson, his eyes flashing and his iron-gray mane thrown back. He looked like an indignant old lion brought to bay by a pack of jackals. The judge, a young man with a monocle and a stiff black pompadour, was dressed in a smart military uniform which made him appear anything but judicial. He was biting out his words as if what he was saying was inspired by personal venom.

"I have heard all you have had to say, including your filthy imputations as to the integrity of this court. Your guilt is so apparent that we need not trouble even to preserve the record of your silly and malicious allegations...."

Here the judge contemptuously tossed a sheaf of papers into a wastebasket.

"Therefore, bearing in mind not only your guilt but your contumacious conduct before me, I sentence you to five years at hard labor in such a one of our prison camps as the Director of Welfare and Beneficence may select.

"It is further directed that your ship, together with its illicit contents, be confiscated and sold at public auction in order to defray the cost of these proceedings. Marshal! Take him away."

Hank Karns was on his feet at once, elbowing and pushing his way forward through the departing throng of curiosity-seekers. His voice was shrill with indignation.

"Hey, you can't do that!" he yelled. Officials closed in on him at once, and the judge's face grew red with anger. "This is a court of law," he said, "and the decisions of the presiding judge are final. Now get out before I haul you up for contempt."

"Tarnation damn!" muttered Hank Karns as he turned and left the building. This was no ordinary shakedown. This called for action, and quick action, for it was unthinkable that his buddy should be carted off to the insect-infested, fever-ridden, infamous Great Swamp of Venus. White men lived but a few months there; a year, let alone five years, was as good as life.

A bulletin caught his eye, and as he read it he gasped. The paste that fastened it to the board was still wet, but the paper bore characteristics of printed type. It must have been prepared at least a day ago. It read:

COLLECTOR'S SALE

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