who break them."

Master Miners! Pell was one of these. Sam kept the planes of his face wooden. "What must I do to become one of this society of yours?"

"You must submit to questioning to prove you are worthy. You must swear loyalty to all our other brother miners. You must agree to be guided by our laws, as supreme here, as long as you are in the Asteroid Belt."

"Very well, I agree."

They took a small space-dory to the largest ship in the mining fleet, the governing ship, White Lark. Sam wondered if he were being wise. If they had the latest mind-probe, all the truth would come out in the examination. His connection with Terran Justice would be discovered, and perhaps all chance lost of taking Pell. It was unlikely that they had the new probe, he decided, and if they had the old model he could fool them.

They had no mind-probe at all. They simply asked him questions, the seven of them, trained to evaluate character swiftly in their rough life, they watched him as he answered their questions. They sat around him in a semi-circle, and in the center, in charge, was the man he hunted. He had found Pell!

The questioning began. When they touched the dangerous fringes of knowledge with their probing questions he held his face even more wooden than usual, careful too to let no emotion show in the timbre of his voice.

And at last it was over. Pell rose and looked at the circle of Master Miners. "I am satisfied," he announced. "Are there any objections to the entrance of Mr. Knox as a Miner of our Order?"

There were none. Pell said, "You will take the oath of fealty tomorrow, here. There will be many who want to meet you." He walked with Sam to the lock, to the small space-dory in which they had come.

Sam thought, I can take him now. I can slip a dis-gun into his ribs, and take him now. The reaction of the other miners was unpredictable, but with speed and skill he could make it. And once aboard the Wanderer no mining ship could approach his super-drive.

His hand slid down his pocket to the cold plastic butt of his dis-gun.

There was a rattle as another dory struck the ship. A space-suited form slid into the lock. He took his hand off the dis-gun. The figure stripped off its helmet, and a mass of flame-colored hair cascaded down around the shoulders. It was Nancy Rorke.

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