Olcott looked up from the controls. The air was clear, and the tremendous power of the engines hurled them southward at fantastic speed.

“Sit over here, Duncan,” he invited. “I want to talk to you.”

“Okay. Let’s have it. You’ve got a job lined up for me, I know that. The question is—why me?”

Olcott picked his words carefully. “There aren’t many qualified space pilots in the system. And those are well paid; I couldn’t get at any of ’em. I tried, I’ll admit—but not after I heard about you. Would you like to make half a million credits?”

“Keep talking.”

“With that many credits, you’d never need to work again. I know a good surgeon who’d remold your face and graft new fingers on your hands, so you wouldn’t have to worry about prints. You probably couldn’t be convicted even if they arrested you—not without complete identification.”

Duncan didn’t answer, but his lips had gone pale and thin. One is seldom transported instantly from hell to heaven. Yet Olcott’s offer was—well, it meant everything, including Andrea.

“Go on,” Duncan said hoarsely. “What d’you want me to do?”

Olcott’s cool, watchful eyes met his own.

“Go into space,” he said, “without a Varra Helmet.”

The plane thundered on, and miles had been left behind before Duncan spoke again.

“Suicide.”

“No. There’s a way.”

“When I was piloting, no one was allowed to space-travel without a Helmet. Even with the Varra convoys, people were sometimes killed by the Plutonians. I remember a few screwballs tried to slip out without the Varra, but they didn’t live.”

Olcott said, “I’ve found a way of leaving Earth without a Helmet, and without being detected by the Plutonians. It isn’t sure-fire, but all the chances are in your favor. Shall I go on?”

“Yeah,” Duncan said tonelessly.

“I need money. I need it bad, just now. And there’s a ship heading for Earth now that’s got a 

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