"We're not satisfied, candidly," he was saying. "Woller, you've had more money than our resources can afford. Everything you've asked for you got. And what have you to show for it? Three ships--not one of them fit to fly." Woller laughed contemptuously. "Candidly, Cafferty," he mimicked, "I don't care how you feel. My money's gone right along with yours. Warships cost money." "So do thousand-acre Martian estates," shot the little lieutenant. "How much of your money is in these ships--and how much of ours is in your pockets?" Woller turned his blind eyes toward the lieutenant and stood motionless for a second. Then, softly, "Once again, Brie--keep your fat face shut. You are not indispensable." The pudgy soldier glared and opened his mouth to speak--but an interruption halted the quarrel. The door opened without warning, and another man entered. What he looked like Nolan could not guess. He wore a heat suit with the helmet down. The polar-plastic faceplate was set for one-way vision. Even his voice was muffled and distorted as he spoke. "Are we all here?" he asked. The others seemed to note nothing odd about his incognito--did he always disguise himself, Nolan wondered? "Where's Orlando?" Brie answered. "He was on Mars, on the other side of the sun. He's on his way." The mirror-faced helmet bobbed as its owner nodded. Then it turned toward Nolan. "What's this?" he asked, advancing. Vincennes gestured with the pyro. "His name is Nolan," he said. "He tried to get rough with Mr. Woller. He's dangerous." "Dangerous!" The blurred voice was angry. "Then why is he here? We have enough danger as it is. Give me that pyro!" This was it, Nolan knew, and he tensed his body for the leap he had to attempt, though he knew it was useless. The man in the heat suit reached for Vincennes' pyro. In the moment while the gun was passing from hand to hand there might be a chance.... There were shouts from outside, and the sound of running feet. The man in the heat suit whirled. "Bolt that door!" he shouted. "Bolt it! Now!" Brie, dazed for a second, sprang to obey. Then he turned, his plump, pale face damp with sudden sweat. "What is this, Chief?" he asked. "Are we--is there trouble?" _Chief!_ thought Nolan. So this hooded stranger was the leader of the conspiracy. Masked, disguised like the bandit chief of a flamboyant operetta. The Chief was laughing. "Lots of trouble," he answered. The dull shouting from outside continued, rising to a crescendo as whoever was without pounded against the door and found it locked. Then abruptly it subsided. The huge telescreen on the desk buzzed sharply. The solid little man seated beside it automatically clicked the switch that turned it on.