"Didn't know I was all ready to leave, did you? All packed and ready to go. Supplies all stowed away; enough energy stored to carry me millions of miles. Or maybe you did know--maybe there are others coming...." He hurried across the room to open a heavy door of split logs in the rock wall. "I'll fool them all this time," he said; "and you'll never go back to tell them." The door closed behind him. "Crazy as a bed-bug," Jerry told himself. He strained frantically at the ropes that bound him. "Looks bad for me: the old bird said I'd never go back. Well, what if I die now ... or six months from now? Though I know that doctor was wrong." He tried to accept his fate philosophically, but the will to live was strong. And one of his wrists felt looser in its bonds. * * * * * Across the room his pack lay on the floor, and in it was a heavy forty-five. If he could get the pistol.... A knot pulled loose under his twisting fingers. One hand was free. He worked feverishly at the other wrist. The ropes were suddenly loose. He pulled himself to his feet, took a moment to regain control of cramped muscles, then flung himself at the pack. When the heavy door opened he was behind it, his pistol in his hand. There was no struggle: the lanky figure showed no maniacal fury. Instead, the man did a surprising thing. He sank weakly upon the rough bunk where Jerry had lain, his face buried in his thin hands. "I should have let you die," he said slowly, hopelessly. "I should have let you die. But I couldn't do that.... And now you'll steal my invention for Goodwin." Jerry was as exasperated as he was amazed. "I told you," he almost shouted. "I never knew anyone named Goodwin! I don't care a hoot about your invention. And as for letting me die--why didn't you? That's a puzzle: you were about to kill me, anyway." "No," said the other patiently. "I wasn't going to kill you." "You said I'd never go back." "I was going to take you with me." "Take me where?" "To the moon," said the drooping figure. Jerry Foster stared, open-mouthed. The pistol lagged in his limp hand. "To the moon!" he gasped. Then: "See here," he said firmly. "I've got you where I want you."--he held the pistol steady--"and now I'm going to learn what's back of this. I think you are crazy, absolutely crazy. But, tell me, who are you? What do you think you're doing? What was the meaning of that roaring blast?" * * * * * The man looked up. "You don't know?" he asked eagerly. "You really don't?" "No," said Jerry; "but I'm going to find out." "Yes," the other agreed. "Yes, you can, now that you've got the upper-hand. I guess I was half crazy when I thought I had been spied out. But I'll tell you." He sat erect. "I am Thomas J. Winslow," he said, and made the statement as if it were an explanation in itself. "Well," said Jerry, "that's no burst of illumination to my ignorance. Come again."