shoulder. He looked up at the stony face of a Space-Station Guard.

"Are you David Conroy?" the guard asked.

"What if I am?" Conroy asked stiffly....

"Major Hawes wants you, Conroy. The penalty for escaping from—"

He was out of his seat in an instant, cutting off the guard's words before Janet could hear them. He could see her pale, frightened face. She shrank back.

"I'm not the man you want!" he snapped.

"That doesn't matter. Come with me, Conroy."

The guard reached out for him. Conroy responded with a short choppy blow to the gray-clad midsection, and as the man grunted Dave swung a roundhouse right that sent him wobbling back against a table of noisy tourists.

The table went over; glassware shattered tinklingly and angry voices could be heard. In the crowded lounge, people turned to watch the brawl.

He heard Janet's cry. "Dave! What's happening?"

The guard rose from the heap of dishes and bottles, and Conroy ran toward him. They locked, and Conroy knocked him back again. The guard didn't dare fire in these close quarters.

Instead he grabbed a champagne bottle from a nearby table and hurled it at Conroy. Dave ducked; the bottle sped over his head and crashed into the mirror back of the bar.

Conroy saw several more guards entering the lounge, and ducked back behind another table.

They came toward him. Patrons of the lounge huddled back out of the way. As the three guards approached, Conroy upended the table, tossing to the floor a shower of half-filled plates, and hurled it at them.

It knocked them back. Nimbly he sprinted past them, only to meet four more entering the lounge.

By now almost everyone in the lounge was up and swinging; Dave had no idea where Janet was, but he hoped she was gone.

His fist struck a gray uniform just as a hand clubbed down numbingly on his shoulder. He shook the blow off, pile-drove his way through the confused, milling pack of people, and headed for the exit.

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