Sounds of distress wafted up from still further down in the workings. A metallic crash. Shouts. Bonwitt started down toward the machine shop as Crane hunched once more over his ticker. A new drill press, not yet bolted down, had toppled and pinned one of the mechanics to the floor. The man was unconscious; his fellow workers were heaving sweatily to free him. Peterson, the new super of the mines, looked on, bellowing, purpled. He leered at Bill Bonwitt. "What the hell happened?" he demanded. "Where were you?" Bonwitt flared up; he didn't like Peterson. "I'm off duty," he snapped. "Besides, nothing could be done. All that happened is the moon shifted a little on its axis and came back." "I'll say it shifted! A mile of Tycho's rim caved in just past our workings. And you in the dome!" A sneer twisted the super's thin lips. He was looking for trouble. Bonwitt bristled anew but curbed his wrath, shrugging it all off. "No damage, was there?" he inquired mildly. "No air leaks?" He moved nonchalantly to where they were helping the victim of the accident. Peterson followed, watching as they pulled the man out and laid him on a bench. Bonwitt examined the injured man swiftly. "No broken bones," he proclaimed tersely. "Take him to Doc Tonge. He'll fix him up in a jif." The fellow, tawny of skin, a runt of unguessable age and origin, gasped and opened his eyes. They fixed, glass-hard, on Peterson. "Ficora!" he shrieked. "Jombalo!" He slipped again into coma. Bonwitt wheeled but Peterson had gone. Queer! Andy Pauchek was the victim's name on the payroll. A mystery to the rest in the place. No friends; apparently no antecedents. But it was sure he had known the new super before and held something against him. Hated him. Bonwitt climbed the stair to consult with Crane. * * * * * The ethertype told them little they did not know. A few Lunar crags and spires had toppled; crater rims had crumpled. But Earth astronomers had no explanation and were themselves mystified. New York headquarters of Atomic Power didn't care as long as their workings weren't wrecked. So that was that. Crane was disgusted. Bonwitt told him about Peterson. "Screwy," the ethertype man agreed. "Couple of times he's wanted to sneak out messages in private code. 'Can't do; regulations,' says I." Bonwitt chuckled mirthlessly. "Where'd he want to ethertype?" "Another odd thing; I don't know." "What do you mean, you don't know? No address?" "Just an off-wave call number. X2273--not listed." Crane yawned. "The crook!" exploded the young Chief. "Got to snag him." "I've been trying to. Thought you'd get wise soon, Bill." Bonwitt frowned. "No copies of his messages?" "Naturally not." Crane lowered his voice. "He got them through." Amazed, the engineer asked: "How?" "Gates." Gates was the relief operator at the ethertype. "Lord! Maybe you're right." "Sh-h!" Crane warned. "Gates is due any minute."