"So what's any of this to do with Luna going haywire?" asked Bill thoughtfully. "If I thought--" "Let's talk about it tomorrow," whispered Crane as footsteps neared. Gates came in, sleepy-eyed, sullen. He ignored them both. "Going to turn in," Crane winked at Bonwitt. "Sleepy. Bye." "Me, too," grinned the engineer. But he went up to the dome and mulled things over for hours. * * * * * Bonwitt couldn't connect the moon's eccentric behavior with Peterson's. But something was up. If personal, okay; if against Atomic Power, something else again. Looking out first over the moon's broken desolate surface, then up at the bright orb of Earth, the engineer tried to rationalize things. It couldn't be against Atomic. Mercury is something you just can't steal. It's heavy. Atomic is the only big market for it. You can't make big-time power on Earth without mercury, and Atomic has the monopoly. You have to have a fleet of space ships to transport it--and a market. No; something bigger was involved; something simpler. Peterson. What was he up to? He had long been a trusted man in various departments of Atomic. Where did Gates fit? The engineer began thinking over his own ten years with the Company. Three years on Luna. Rotten. But you have to mine mercury for the terrestrial power plants. The moon was the only place. Lucky for Earth, in 2012, when mercury deposits petered out in Rhodesia, the first rocket to the moon found that Luna's rays were mostly of purest hydrargyrum. Pure metallic mercury, frozen solid in the long Lunar night, liquid in the equally long day. And, fortunate for Atomic Power, World Government had granted them exclusive rights to its mining. But you couldn't fit Peterson into any of this. What could he do to the immensely influential Atomic Corporation? Or to Luna? Bill Bonwitt gave it up and went to bed. It was just midnight (Lunar) and only fourteen more days until sunup. Dozing off comfortably, Bonwitt wished he could sleep that long. * * * * * The ethertype man awakened him a few hours later. "Wake up, Chief," he husked, shaking, his teeth a-chatter. Blinking, Bonwitt sat up. "What the hell? What time is it?" He was climbing into his clothes in a mental hangover of dreams. "Six. It'd be daylight back home. That mechanic, Pauchek, is dead. Knife in his throat. Peterson's gone. So's Gates." Now Bonwitt was thoroughly awake. "So!" he grunted, tying his last lace. "We go hunting." "Right." Crane looked out at the bleak lunar landscape through Bonwitt's dome. Earthlit, that landscape. Cold. Airless. Bonwitt shivered, looking over at Peterson's dome across the long transverse passage of the workings. "Where the hell are they?" he asked. Crane said suddenly: "Look, Chief. See what I see? Two shadows out by the crater wall? Moving." "I do--so help me! Space-suits, both of them. What--?"