Her lip curled in distaste, and once more her hand stole up to her hair. It dropped quickly; she was in control charge of herself once more and there was work to be done. She reached for the radio, snapped the 'on' switch and waited a moment. Her other hand reached out and pressed the pushbutton bearing the figures of the frequency reserved for emergencies. She picked up the microphone and pressed the button on its side. "Narina Varada calling," she cried in her native tongue. "I am kidnapped with our logic computer and we are travelling West in a convoy towards--" Over her shoulder came a girder that took the microphone from her hand, dropped it on the desk, then pressed the 'off' button firmly. "That is forbidden," came the voice from behind her. Narina cried out and whirled, expecting to see a man behind the machine, so lifelike was the voice. There was no one. Narina dodged around the machine, raced down the ladder and ran to her cabin. She slammed the door and once more threw herself on the bed; her hand sought the hair ornament. The theory that one is seldom kidnapped to be killed does not hold true in all cases. Narina suspected that she would be questioned--even tortured. From what she understood, torture was to be expected if she did not talk--and she would die before she told them a single word, die at her own hands where it would be as painless as possible. * * * * * Harry Vinson began to prowl the cabin as soon as the lock clicked. He discarded the blown-fuse stratagem at once because he knew the futility of trying the same trick twice. But there must be other ways, preferably quick and silent. He wanted a chance, now, to call Hegeman. Radio gear often works both ways in calling for help. On the plane, Vinson had been afraid to call lest he give the enemy notice of his position--but they had located him without it. Now he was among them and his position no longer a secret. Just a few moments alone with the radio.... The opening of the food slot gave him to think. Obviously, they preferred him alive; equally obvious they were watching him now. On the plane they had not watched him, because of lack of space or equipment or personnel--well, he mused, the plane was an electronically guided job with no person aboard. This time there were persons aboard; they would be observing him. Vinson turned out the light, then took a plate from the tray, dumped the food on the tray, and broke the plate into shards. He clenched his jaw and made a slash at his ear-lobe with one sharp bit. He bled--profusely--onto the tray. They did not enter. Vinson dribbled semi-clotted blood on the tray until it was withdrawn. Only a small puddle was there, but any man slashing his throat would spurt blood and then fall; there was enough.