They had stopped in Darkside, the spaceport on the side of Luna that keeps perpetually averted from Earth, as if the moon knows shame and wants to hide the rough and roaring dome city that nestles in one of the great craters. Duane remembered sitting in a low-ceilinged, smoke-heavy room, across the table from a tall man with white hair. Stevens! "_Four thousand electron rifles_," the man had said. "_Latest government issue. Never mind how I got them; they're perfect. You know my price. Take it or leave it. And it's payable the minute we touch ground on Callisto._" There had been a few minutes of haggling over terms, then a handshake and a drink from a thin-necked flagon of pale-yellow liquid fire. He and the white-haired man had gone out then, made their way by unfrequented side streets to a great windowless building. Duane remembered the white-hot stars overhead, shining piercingly through the great transparent dome that kept the air in the sealed city of Darkside, as they stood at the entrance of the warehouse and spoke in low tones to the man who answered their summons. Then, inside. And they were looking at a huge chamber full of stacked fiber boxes--containing nothing but dehydrated dairy products and mining tools, by the stencils they bore. Duane had turned to the white-haired man with a puzzled question--and the man had laughed aloud. He dragged one of the boxes down, ripped it open with the sharp point of a handling hook. Short-barreled, flare-mouthed guns rolled out, tumbling over the floor. Eight of them were in that one box, and hundreds of boxes all about. Duane picked one up, broke it, peered into the chamber where the tiny capsule of U-235 would explode with infinite violence when the trigger was pulled, spraying radiant death three thousand yards in the direction the gun was aimed.... And that memory ended. Duane got up, stared at his haggard face in the cracked mirror over the bed. "_They say I'm a killer_," he thought. "_Apparently I'm a gun-runner as well. Good lord--what am I not?_" His reflection--white, drawn face made all the more pallid by the red hair that blazed over it--stared back at him. There was no answer there. If only he could remember-- "All right, Duane." The deep voice of a guard came to him as the door swung open. "Stop making eyes at yourself." Duane looked around. The guard beckoned. "Governor Andrias wants to speak to you--now. Let's not keep the governor waiting." * * * * * A long, narrow room, with a long carpet leading from the entrance up to a great heavy desk--that was Andrias' office. Duane felt a click in his memory as he entered. One of the ancient Earth dictators had employed just such a psychological trick to overawe those who came to beg favors of him. Muslini, or some such name.