Rusty opened the container, pulled out the roll of thin, printed sheets. It was like Skipper to send a special plane. Sure he would--this was a big story. Idly glancing through the pages, weeks old, he was surprised to catch the familiar name. Then Rusty tensed, color gone from his face, as the full meaning of the headline came to him. "PROMINENT EDITOR PASSES: S. K. Russell, Editor of the New York Tele-news for over thirty years, died at his home today, the victim of a heart attack. Russell, called 'Skipper' by all that knew him, was stricken--" Rusty dropped the page from his hand. He stared, unseeing, into the night, his mind following a torturing logic to its inescapable conclusion. Skipper was dead--Skipper was the only one that knew--no one else would know of his innocence.... He snatched up the paper, read the column, his warrant of doom. Skipper had died three weeks ago, suddenly, before he could even make a will. His wife was sole heir to the Tele-news plant. Rusty sank down to a rock. A sense of wild terror gripped him as he realized he was trapped here, for the rest of his life--he had been legally convicted of robbery, murder. Skipper was the only person who could save him. But Skipper was dead! Men howled, laughed as they passed him. And Rusty Carter knew he was now one of them. No more was there the glow of a secret thought, that soon he could leave--he was to stay until he died just as these others died, screaming or with a voiceless stare in the cold glare of Pluto. Their laughter faded away and he was alone. * * * * * Walking aimlessly, Rusty left the deserted clearing, plodded up a sparkling path. He wandered amid the ghastly spangled crags, neither knowing nor caring where he went. It did not matter and nothing mattered, for he was dead inside. The three moons of Pluto hung low in the east and the enormous Great Moon, the nearby satellite of the planet, arose beside their departing light, a darker green. Soon, another day. The cold wind. The Bugs. Haunted, restless sleep. The scream of a lonely soul in dreaming delirium. But what matter the cold and the Bugs? They _could_ bring death. Was it not better so?