Carlos made a quick adjustment. The telltale on the softly-glowing sky chart centered itself. "On orbit," the astrogator amended. "On orbit it is!" The perspiring Commander smoothed his rumpled hair and nervously adjusted his moustache. "Take over, mister. We've half an hour before the tubes are hot enough to start revving up to speed. I must inspect the ship. Come on, Dave." They found the decks in shining order, with each crew member standing stiffly at his post. The only damage from turnover had been a slight shift in a secondary radar antenna caused by a backdraft from one of the stern jets. "Greta and I can fix that, sir," Frank suggested. The operator appeared, swearing her usual blue streak, after Carlos called her on the intercom. The profanity still burned Frank's ears through his helmet mike after they had wriggled into bulky spacesuits, attached tools to hooks on their belts and clumped to an airlock. "All right, lubbers," the Amazon snarled through the open face plate of her helmet at crewmen assigned to operate the door. "Get the lead outa yer pants. Open 'er up." With hatred in their eyes, the others leaped to obey. The inner door clanged shut. As the pressure dropped, their articulated suits expanded with loud pops. Moments later, the outer door slid away and they clambered up an iron ladder and onto the hull. Their breath spurting into space as jets of ice particles, they used magnetized shoes and gloves to creep like beetles along the smoothly welded plates. As they worked together at the tedious repair a project began to form in Frank's mind. Perhaps it was the giddy reeling of the heavens about the ship. Perhaps the compressed air he breathed was too rich in oxygen. Whatever the cause, he reached the blinding conclusion that Greta must be the Underground's Agent 542. It all fitted together. She had a key position on board; she had been kind to him. Now they were outside the ship and out of range of the spy rays. Here was his chance.... "Greta," he whispered through the intercom. "Yeh?" Her helmet swivelled toward him. At that moment all hell broke loose! Up from the Venusian cloud blanket only a few miles below spurted a shower of golden sparks. All else forgotten, he blinked at them while his heart began pounding. They could only be ... they were the little globular ships of the Space Patrol. Travelling at four or five G's--much faster than the speed which the _Champ_ had yet attained--they started closing in. Ahead of them, he knew, would be probing their fission torpedoes. "Smart!" He heard Greta's voice in his ears. "I've got to hand it to 'em." She started scrabbling toward the airlock, cursing bitterly. "Not smart enough," he answered, his heart sinking. "The _Champ_ will accelerate and escape them within a few minutes. Then she'll circle and...." "That's what you think, bud. Feel the hull." * * * * *