This was what he had been waiting for all those nineteen days in cataleptic hypnosis. He couldn't have cut his way into the hideout from the outside; he had had to wait until it was opened, and that time had come only with the supply ship. Once in the airlock, he touched the control stud that would close the outer door, pump air into the waiting room, and open the inner door. Here was his greatest point of danger--greater, even, than the danger of coming to the planetoid itself, or the danger of waiting nineteen days in a cataleptic trance for the coming of the supply ship. If the ones who remained within suspected anything--anything at all!--then his chances of coming out of this alive were practically nil. But there was no reason why they should suspect. They should think that the man coming in was one of their own. The radio contact between the men outside had been limited to a few micromilliwatts of power--necessarily, since radio waves of very small wattage can be decoded at tremendous distances in open space. The men inside the planetoid certainly should not have been able to pick up any more than the beginning of the early conversation before it had been cut completely off by the intervening layers of solid rock. The chamber he entered was a high-speed airlock. Unlike the soundless discharge of his special gun in the outer airlessness, the blast of air that came into the waiting chamber was like a hurricane in noise and force. The room filled with air in a very few seconds. The detective held on to the handholds tightly while the brief but violent winds buffeted him. He turned as the inner door opened. His eyes took in the picture in a fraction of a second. In an even smaller fraction, his mind assimilated the picture. The woman was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and muscular. Her mouth was wide and thick-lipped beneath a large nose. The man was leaner and lighter, bony-faced, and beady-eyed. The woman said: "Fritz, what--?" And then he shot them both with gun number two. No needle charges this time. Such shots would have blown them both in two, unprotected as they were by spacesuits. The small handgun merely jangled their nerves with a high-powered blast of accurately beamed supersonics. While they were still twitching, he went over and jabbed them with a drug needle. Then he went on into the hideout. He had to knock out one more man, whom he found asleep in a small room off the short corridor. It took a gas bomb to get the two women who were guarding the kid. He made sure that the BenChaim boy was all right, then he went to the little communications room and called for help. _[12]_ St. Louis hadn't been hit during the Holocaust. It still retained much of the old-fashioned flavor of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, especially in the residential districts. The old homes, some of them dating clear back to the time of Sam Clemens and the paddle-wheel steamboat, still stood, warm and well preserved.