"Three weeks. Just give me three weeks of reasonable sunrise and sunset! This cursed Moon! You mean, Williams, next daylight." "Ha! He's inventing a Lunar language. You'll be a Moon man yet." Olaf Swenson, the big blond fellow from the Scandia fiords, came and flung himself down beside Grantline. "Ay tank they bane without enough to do, Commander ----" "Three weeks isn't very long, Ole." "No. Maybe not." From across the room somebody was saying, "If the _Comet_ hadn't smashed on us, damn me but I'd ask the Commander to let some of us take her back." "Shut up, Billy. She _is_ smashed." "You all agreed to things as they are," Johnny said shortly. "We all took the same chances--voluntarily." A dynamic little fellow, this Johnny Grantline. Short of temper sometimes, but always just, and a perfect leader of men. In stature he was almost as small as Snap. But he was thick-set, with a smooth-shaven, keen-eyed, square-jawed face; and a shock of brown tousled hair. A man of thirty-five, though the decision of his manner, the quiet dominance of his voice made him seem older. He stood up now, surveying the blue lit glassite room with its low ceiling close overhead. He was bow-legged; in movement he seemed to roll with a stiff-legged gait like some sea captains of former days on the deck of his swaying ship. Odd looking figure! Heavy flannel shirt and trousers, boots heavily weighted, and bulky metal-loaded belt strapped about his waist. He grinned at Swenson. "When the time comes to divide this treasure, everyone will be happy, Ole." The treasure was estimated to be the equivalent of ninety millions in gold leaf. A hundred and ten millions in the gross as it now stood, with twenty millions to be deducted by the Federated Refiners for reducing it to the standard purity for commercial use. Ninety millions, with only a million and a half to come off for expedition expenses, and the _Planetara's_ share another million. A nice little stake. Grantline strode across the room with his rolling gait. "Cheer up, boys. Who's winning there? I say, you fellows--" An audiphone buzzer interrupted him, a call from the duty man in the instrument room of the nearby building. Grantline clicked the receiver. The room fell into silence. Any call was unusual--nothing ever happened here in the camp. The duty man's voice sounded over the room. "Signals coming! Not clear. Will you come over, Commander?" Signals! It was never Grantline's way to enforce needless discipline. He offered no objection when every man in the camp rushed through the connecting passages. They crowded the instrument room where the tense duty man sat bending over his radio receivers. The mirrors were swaying. The duty man looked up and met Grantline's gaze. "I ran it up to the highest intensity, Commander. We ought to get it--" "Low scale, Peter?" "Yes. Weakest infra-red. I'm bringing it up, even though it uses too much of our power." "Get it," said Grantline shortly.