Kleber gang, been convicted and sentenced as a pirate. Ten hateful and horror-filled days and nights he had spent in the mines of Sans Espérance, the Federal Penitentiary, digging radioactive ores. Two of his friendly competitors heard of it and pled for a new trial wherein it was shown that he had been sent up through perjured testimony to screen the trial of the real culprits. The wave of public opinion they started then did not subside until Von Kleber and his outlaws were put finally behind the bars.

No, there was no choice. Cappy Wilkerson and Cappy Merrill must be released and Ellison and Carter avenged. How? That remained to be seen.

"Wa-al," drawled Hank Karns, elaborately, now that his mind was made up, "I'll be seein' you. I'm taking a little trip into Mercury and back."

The bartender shook his head ominously.

"No fool like an old fool," he said, and he didn't laugh.

In the rain-lock, or the vestibule outside the bar, Karns stopped. He felt inside the lining of his vest and after much fumbling produced a dog-eared memorandum book. He ran through the yellowed pages until he found one covered with cryptic entries. They appeared as if made long ago, but several interlineations in various colored inks showed that amendments had been made from time to time since the original writing of them.

Halfway down was the group P2, and what followed had been twice changed. The line that stood in lieu of them read: "Vbg—wickerware—4-1/2B, Eros." Hank Karns read the line through two or three times, then snapped the book shut and replaced it in its hiding place. He carefully buckled up his slicker and jammed his sou'wester tight upon his head. Then he stepped forth into the steamy drizzle of Artemis Lane.

He sloshed his way through mud and water until he came to the main drag. He turned to the right and splashed along until he came to the corner where Erosville Road turned off. He took the turn and plugged along for four blocks of its twisting, boggy length. A dozen steps farther on he lifted his eyes and peered from beneath dripping brows at the signs about. Across the street was what he sought—a sagging awning crudely painted with the legend; "An Shirgar—Dealer in Native Basketry." On the bedewed window below was another, "Hir Spak Anglass."

Hank Karns stopped under the awning long enough to squish some of the water out of his shoes, then he entered. A swarthy, turbanned Venusian met him, rubbing his hands together 

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