Caxton shook his head. "_I'm_ going back," he said viciously. "I'm taking the ship, the _kronalium_, and a couple of those damned animals for evidence. I'll say that you died on Uranus." His voice was suddenly flat and deadly. "_Sucker!_" A cone of blackness flared from the gun in his hand, caught Tom Headley, dropped him in his tracks. He twitched silently, lay where he had fallen, his right arm splashing liquid from the tiny pool at his feet. [Illustration: _A cone of blackness dropped Headley in his tracks._] Bart Caxton tossed the gun aside, leaned over, unscrewed the hinged valve on Headley's oxygen tank, then callously dumped the unconscious man into the pool. Then, without another glance at the body submerged in the pool, Caxton caught up three of the living rocks, turned and fought his way back to the ship. He stood for a moment in the ship's port, staring bleakly at the pool where the dying body of his partner lay. Then he slammed the port, cogged it shut. He laid the rock animals in a dark corner of the tank room, then walked heavily back to the control room and removed his suit. Grinning, he sank into the pilot's seat, and his hands raced over the controls. Rockets drummed, and the ship fled into space on a tail of flaming gasses. Bart Caxton watched the gauges, then reached out and adjusted the oxygen valve. He would have to go on three-quarters' rations, but there would still be oxygen left when he struck the spacelanes. * * * * * And back on Uranus, Tom Headley stirred out of his unconsciousness. He gasped, struggled to his feet. Metal banged on his shoulder, and a reaching hand found the opened valve. He instinctively screwed it shut, dull horror and terror piling in his mind. He knew that he had but seconds to live, and the utter futility of his predicament made the situation even more horrible. True, he had his radio--but its range was less than a hundred miles; it would bring rescue only if a rescue party landed. He laughed a bit, grimly, ironically, remembering the great supply of food tablets that were in his suit. All that he lacked to live was air. Then he frowned, seeing the oxygen gauge in his suit. The needle pressed tight against its stop-post. He tapped it, then checked another gauge. And sudden understanding came to his eyes--and he fought against the hysterical laughter that filled his throat. Bart Caxton had failed in his murder attempt. For Tom Headley's shoulder tank was full of liquid oxygen. He had fallen into a pool of oxygen, liquesced by the tremendous pressure of Uranus, and the pressure of the atmosphere had forced the oxygen into his tank. Now there were but the interminable weeks of waiting that were to come before a rescue expedition was sent to save him. * * * * *