I reached Spawn's front gate. The house and front garden were dark. "Use your fuses, Phil. What colors?" "I have red and blue." "I'll talk to the patrol ship again. Tell them to watch for you. Red and blue. Two short red flashes, a long blue." "Right, Chief. I'm here at Spawn's, cutting off." "Come back on when you can." His voice went anxious again. "I'll wait here." "All right." I cut silent. I ran through the front doorway of Spawn's inn. The living room was dim and empty. Which way was Jetta's room? I could only guess. I had a few minutes, perhaps, before my pursuers would arrive. * * * * * I reached the inner, patio garden. The moon was well out from under the clouds now. The patio shimmered, a silent, deserted fairyland. "Jetta!" I called it softly. Then louder. "Jetta!" Spawn's house was fairly large and rambling. There were so many rooms. Jetta was gagged; how could she answer me? But I had no time to search for her. "Jetta?" And then came her voice. "Philip?" "Jetta! Which way? Where are you?" "Here! This way: in my room." A window and a door near the pergola. "Jetta!" "Yes. I am in here. They tied me up. Not so loud, Phil: father will hear you." "He's gone out." I reached her garden door. Turned its handle. Rattled the door. Shoved frantically with my shoulder! The metal door was firmly sealed! _(To be continued)_ [Illustration: _One of the men rolled free and came lurching toward us._] The Terrible Tentacles of L-472 _By Sewell Peaslee Wright_ It was a big mistake. I should not have done it. By birth, by instinct, by training, by habit, I am a man of action. Or I was. It is queer that an old man cannot remember that he is no longer young. [Sidenote: Commander John Hanson of the Special Patrol Service records another of his thrilling interplanetary assignments.] But it was a mistake for me to mention that I had recorded, for the archives of the Council, the history of a certain activity of the Special Patrol--a bit of secret history[1] which may not be mentioned here. Now they insist--by "they" I refer to the Chiefs of the Special Patrol Service--that I write of other achievements of the Service, other adventures worthy of note. [Footnote 1: Editors Note: "The Forgotten Planet" July 1930 issue of Astounding Stories] Perhaps that is the penalty of becoming old. From commander of the _Budi_, one of the greatest of the Special Patrol ships, to the duties of recording ancient history, for younger men to read and dream about. That is a shrewd blow to one's pride. But if I can, in some small way, add luster to the record of my service, it will be a fitting task for a man grown old and gray in that service; work for hands too weak and palsied for sterner duties.