respond when her desire to continue life had been instilled. And that would never be when she lay in that perpetual coma, not caring whether she lived or died.

He began to plot desperately, knowing that this twilight state would not last forever. Perhaps the sound of a loved one's voice, the awakening of old memories of earth, would reach through the gloom and arouse her lethargic brain. At least it was worth a chance.

The curtains across the control room were shoved back against the wall. He was sitting nonchalantly before the mechanisms when the space-wireless began to sputter, roar harsh words.

"This is ZIX, Earth Space Station in San Francisco!" shouted the amplifier. "Tonight we are cutting into our regular programs so that a frightened, sick old man can make a last desperate appeal over the ether. To ships of space, and especially to one pirate craft on whose board is a kidnaper, we give you the voice of Keith Randolph Marshall!"

The thin face against the coverlet had moved. The eyes were wide and staring, watching him. He hoped desperately that she was listening as well.

Over the space-wireless a familiar voice began speaking, vibrantly but brokenly.

"I am hoping that Rufus Thallin, kidnaper of my daughter, will hear me now. If you do, you will know that your crime will be forgotten if you return my little girl to me. She is all that I have, all that I have ever loved. Somehow, against my better judgment, I feel that she is still alive. Bring her back to me, and you may have my pledge. Every spacer of the Marshall Spacelines will be turned over to you."

The announcer's voice, booming and sympathetic, cut back in, "So you have heard the final plea of a tired old man, whose health has been broken and is under the constant care of doctors, who is hoping against hope that a miracle may be achieved, and the hard heart of a criminal softened by a father's plea...."

Alyce was moving. He didn't dare look, as he pretended to deliberate the words from the radio, then stalked across the metal floor slowly. He snapped the switch on the announcer's voice, then wheeled about.

She was standing there, a frail phantom, but her eyes were like jets of flame. Terrible hate burned from the wasted contours. Now she was tottering toward a wall, with one hand reaching where a holstered flame-gun was hung. The weapon was too high. Upon this realization, she collapsed.

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