"This is your agent aboard the enemy spaceship," said the young man. "Do you read me?" "Yes," said the general. "We read you. Go ahead." "I may not have much time. Get a fix on me if you can. And send help." "What's your position?" the general was reacting well. He was alert and all business. "I don't know. I've been taken prisoner, but I'm temporarily free. There isn't much time. Hafitz is bound to be back soon. He seems to be the brains of this outfit--this part of the outfit, anyway. Naomi is here, too, but I don't know whether she's with them or against them." "Where are the plans, son?" asked the general. "They're safe, for the moment. I can't guarantee for how long." "I'm getting the fix," the colonel said. He was beyond the range of the young man's vision screen. "I've got him. He's still within range, but accelerating fast. We can intercept if we get up a rocket soon enough." "Get it up," ordered the general. "Get up a squadron. Scramble the Moon patrol and send out reserves from Earth at once." "Right!" said the colonel. The young man was so engrossed in the makings of his rescue party that he didn't see the wall open up behind him. There was a squeak of rubber tires and he whirled to see Hafitz, in his wheelchair, slamming toward him. The fat man's hand held a weird-looking gun. The young man recoiled. His back pushed against a row of control buttons. _Then everything went white._ * * * * * Paul Asher blinked his eyes, like a man awakening from a vivid dream. The house lights went on and the manager of the theater came on the stage. He stood in front of the blank master screen with its checkerboard pattern of smaller screens, on which the several lines of action had taken place simultaneously. Paul took off his selectorscope spectacles with the earphone attachments. "Ladies and gentlemen," the manager said. "I regret very much having to announce that this vicarion of the production _Spies from Space_ was defective. The multifilm has broken and, because of the complexity of the vikie process, it will be impossible to splice it without returning it to the laboratory. "Ushers are at the exits with passes good for any future performance. Those of you who prefer can exchange them at the box office for a full refund of your admission price." Paul Asher unstrapped the wired canvas band from across his chest. He put the selectorscope spectacles into the pouch on the arm of the seat and walked out of the R.K.O. Vicarion into High Street and around the corner to where his car was parked. His roommate at the communapt, MacCloy, was still up when he got there, going over some projectos. Mac snapped off the screen and quickly swept the slides together and into a case. "You're back early," MacCloy said. "The multifilm broke," Paul told him.