Gradually, his breathing slowed to normal, and some of the unnatural fright of the past moments loosened their icy clutch from about his heart. He removed his oxy-helmet, dropped it carelessly to the floor, went slowly to the control room of the ship. He stared from the quartzite port, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. Two of the _Lanka_ workers were helping the stunned Palmer to his feet, while the rest of the men gazed woodenly toward the _Comet_. Then, as though turned by some common command, the entire group whirled, stalked back across the field, disappeared within the rendering shed. Don Denton shook his head in bewilderment, sank tiredly into the pilot's seat, found one of his carefully rationed cigarettes in a panel box. Touching a radi-light to its end, he leaned back in the cushions, drew slowly on the fragrant smoke. "Whew!" he sighed explosively, winced when his exploring fingers found the great bruise on his chest where Palmer had struck so viciously. He went over the entire, bizarre situation point by point; and as the moments passed he made less sense out of the entire proceedings. He couldn't figure the slightest of reasons from what was happening. He tried to rationalize the events, ended at a blind alley of thinking. First, he had the fact that the _Lanka_ shipments had failed to make their scheduled appearances. So he had been sent to investigate. Jean Palmer had come along, ostensibly to see her father. Then, after landing, he had killed some Venusian slug, and found fourteen dead men in their bunks. Right after that, Jean had disappeared into thin air. An hour and a half later, the dead men were alive, and he had been attacked by Jim Palmer, whose friend he thought he was. Don Denton scowled bleakly into space. This set-up was too screwy for him! He thought for a moment of rocketing into space and bringing back the Space Patrol to make a complete investigation. His blue eyes narrowed abruptly, as he caught sight of the perpetual calendar on the wall. Hell! It was still the same day as the day he had arrived on Venus. Which meant that Jim Palmer had lied. He snapped his fingers in sudden thought. Palmer had not tried to injure him, instead, he had merely tried to remove the oxy-helmet. And that meant another mystery. For Palmer knew that the faintly tainted air of Venus would not knock out the trouble-shooter. The trouble-shooter growled deep in his throat, crushed out the cigarette, stood and paced to the port window. He frowned from the port, watched the men coming toward the rocket ship. He felt no uneasiness, for he knew that the hull would be impervious to any ati-blasts they might fire in trying to force an entrance. Then he stiffened, the blood draining from his face. For walking quietly in the middle of the tight group was Jean Palmer. Don Denton swore briefly, didn't move. He watched, as the group came quietly to a halt a hundred feet from the _Comet_, their tightness melting away as they stopped.