He was a lot tougher than he looked. That boyish figure was all wiry muscle, and I was still dopey from sleep--not much, but just enough to impair my efficiency. I got a grip on his gun hand and began slowly twisting it while we rolled over and over on the floor. Then, somehow, he managed to get his other arm loose, and he drove an elbow into my throat. There was an instant of blinding pain, and I heard the hypogun go _chuff!_ as my muscles tightened with the searing fire in my throat. The next thing I knew, somebody was wiping my face with a cold, wet towel. I opened my eyes. It was Vivian Deveraux. I tried to say something, but nothing came out. There was only a terrible aching in my throat. Videnski was standing near a chair where Brentwood was seated. Brentwood looked a little dazed; Videnski looked furious. So did Felder, who was looking at the hypospray gun he was holding in his hand. "Who hired you, Brentwood?" he asked sharply. There was nothing Santa Clausy about him now. "A man named Borodin," Brentwood said, in an uninterested voice. I managed to force air past my bruised larynx. All that came out was a whisper. "What happened?" "He tried to use pythantin on you," Felding said. "But he got the dose himself. That's why he's co-operative." I nodded and stopped when a pain went through my throat. Pythantin would have made me receptive to any suggestions Brentwood wanted to make. "What were you supposed to do after you dosed Daniel Oak?" Felder asked the electronicist. "Tell him to order McGuire to change course, to go to Asteroid MJ3-1990." I sat up. It was nice just to lie there and have Vivian bathe my brow, but I had more pressing things to do. I didn't feel in the pink of condition, and my throat hurt like hell, but I wasn't in too bad a shape. "This Borodin," I whispered, "who was he working for?" "I don't know," Brentwood said. "He didn't say." * * * * * We questioned him for another half hour, but it soon became apparent that he didn't know very much. He'd been offered a tremendous amount of money to do the job, and he didn't have the stamina to refuse it. It's guys like Brentwood who gave rise to the saying that every man has his price. "What'll we do now?" Felding asked at last. "Go on to Phobos, or go back to Ceres?" "Back to Ceres," I whispered. "Colonel Brock will know what to do with him." I'd been uneasy ever since my calls to Brock and Marty that morning had disclosed that Venuccio had lost the men who were supposed to be tailing him. It's fairly easy to do on Ceres, if you know how. "It won't mean much of a delay," I went on. "Ravenhurst can still have his big splash on Earth." We herded Brentwood into the lounge and bound him to a chair. Then I said: "McGuire?" "Yes, sir?" "We're changing course. Return to Ceres." And McGuire said: "I'm sorry, sir; I cannot obey any orders except those of Mr. Daniel Oak."