He ducked too late and took a right to his temple that set him spinning and seeing stars. A left cross spun him back and, by enraging him, cleared his head. He clinched to get breath, then flung the big radio man off and drove him against the table. Gates staggered and hung on under a rain of body blows, rallied to come back with a left and a right that both jolted Bonwitt's jaw. Then he was tearing at the engineer's eyes with clawed fingers, bearing him to the floor. So it was to be that kind of fighting! Bonwitt heaved up and got a full Nelson on his wriggling foe that nearly snapped his spine. He downed Gates, panting, cursing between his teeth. He could see Crane's poor headless body sprawled there. The sight robbed him of all knowledge of what he was doing and he did not return to normal until the voice of Peterson halted him. Only then did he realize that he had been banging Gates's head against the metal floor with all the force of a pounding sledge. "He's dead," gloated Peterson. "Save your strength." Bonwitt saw that it was true. His antagonist's skull was a thing squashed, unrecognizable. Sick at the stomach, he reeled to his feet. Peterson stood regarding him with a cryptic smile, a pistol in either hand, his own and Gates's. "Good work," he approved. "Saved me trouble. But we'll have to get rid of the bodies. Have to tell Peel I've sent the two to the workings temporarily." He eyed the panting engineer sharply and was apparently satisfied, for he thrust the two pistols in his belt. But he wasn't taking any chances with the powerful and alert Bonwitt; he'd been quick to snatch that second pistol out of reach during the fight. * * * * * The succeeding days were nightmares of uncertainty to Bonwitt. Under Peterson's eye constantly, no way of getting the upper hand over the man occurred to him. And, could he have done that, he'd still have the Selenites to account to. Besides, even if he could remove Peterson and get himself away, there was little time left in which to do it. It was self-preservation now. The big geared down motor was already starting to churn the mercury in the crater above into rotation. Its starting torque must be terrific to get that huge mass of metal in motion. Even to think of so enormous a disc, liquid or solid, in rotation was staggering; the speed must be not in revolutions per minute but a fraction of one turn in that terrestrial measure of time. For, even at one revolution per minute, the peripheral speed of the mass would be 31.416 miles a minute. Not only an impossible figure but far in excess of that needed. Time fled on wings. Bonwitt did his best to locate the supersonic wave generator. If he could find this and warn Peel he might circumvent Peterson and perhaps earn from the brown men a gratitude that would pave the way for Earth's acceptance of them as colonists.