"You know, I think I'll just take you along--for a short distance, anyway." Mark's voice was taunting. "Because you're not quite sure how to handle this Frequency control. You'll need me." "And that's where you're wrong. I've studied it plenty. It's easy!" Mark dropped suddenly to his knees, and with the same movement his body lashed forward--low and hard. He heard the neutro sing, and felt the swirling heat of it over his shoulder. But Ferris was quick. He danced lithely back. His right hand with the gun in it came swinging up. The heavy gun caught Mark squarely under the chin. * * * * * He came struggling back to consciousness, aware that he was still lying prone. He allowed his brain to clear before opening his eyes, but already he could tell they were in space. He thought of his friends on Perlac--stranded! It would be a miracle if they ever succeeded in building another spaceship there, with their limited equipment. "Hi, Travers. We're on our way. So I can't handle the Tuner, eh?" Mark groaned, rolled his head a little, feigning grogginess. But he was alert now, and he cursed himself for a fool for underestimating Ferris. He heard the man's voice go on: "And to show how much I need you, I'll just toss you out somewhere between Perlac and Pluto. Or maybe between Pluto and Neptune. Which would you prefer?" Mark's heart leaped. They couldn't have come far, then! He was lying near the control-console and he knew they were on robot control. Ferris must have set the course already. He was confident now, watching Mark, for he knew it took minutes to adjust that complex set-up. Mark stirred, grasped a metal stanchion to help hoist himself erect. His plan was made. To the right of the console was an auxiliary unit, feeding emergency power to the Tuner. He wondered if Ferris knew of it. He glimpsed Ferris coming toward him. Mark surged erect, his right hand darted out. It came down in a full sweep against the auxiliary impellator. The spacer leaped ahead, sickeningly, as acceleration multiplied in a split second. Mark glimpsed Ferris flying backward. He hadn't time to see more. Both hands gripped the stanchion now as intolerable pressure built up. His arms seemed to be wrenching from their sockets. Slowly, agonizingly, he managed to encircle the stanchion with his left arm. His right hand seemed to weigh a ton as it reached out. It touched the impellator stud ... reversed it. Mark sagged limply forward as acceleration lowered. He hadn't the strength left to turn his head, see what had happened to Ferris. When he did, minutes later, he saw a limp figure against the far wall. The limbs were twisted beyond recognition. The head was crushed. It wasn't a pretty sight.