As a galactic reporter Jane Crowley knew she had hold of the biggest story of the year; thousands of people were soon to die on this-- Planet Of Doom By C. H. Thames [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy June 1956 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Less than an hour after the last spaceship made touchdown on Mandmoora, Jane Crowley stood before a scowling, head shaking public Information Officer. "My company sent me fifty light years from its nearest base in the Denebian system, Colonel," Jane said. "I'm sorry, but it's impossible for me to return to Deneb without my story." "This office has issued press releases, my dear Miss Crowley, which--" "Press releases!" The way Jane uttered those two words made the Colonel wince. "I didn't come fifty light years for press releases. I came...." She watched the Colonel's face and let her voice trail off. This approach was having absolutely no effect. But Jane Crowley was a woman, young and quite pretty and it was likely, she thought, that where the straightforward, man-to-man approach might fail, the ways of a woman might succeed. "But Colonel," she pouted, then let her composed face fall apart as if she were going to cry. "But Colonel, my job depends on this story. My ... my whole career ... you see ..." she sniffled. "There now, Miss Crowley," the Colonel said, looking very uncomfortable. "There now, miss. Please." "Then you'll let me go out there among the Mandmoora?" "I'm sorry, miss. Out of the question. Definitely out. We've evacuated all the Mandmoora who want to go. What remains is a hard core of Mandmooranian fanatics who refuse to leave their native planet under any circumstances. They've got an island just off shore here, you see. They're sun-worshippers. Ironical, isn't it? Sun-worshippers. Their sun about to go nova on them, boiling all the oceans of this waterworld and killing every speck of life on Mandmoora, and they're sun-worshippers. They just won't go. They want to stay. They say we can't make them go and they're right, we can't. Poor devils. They'll be boiled and broiled alive, all three thousands of 'em. But this headquarters can't send men out to their island after them. They'd resist and it would mean bloodshed, on both sides. We won't have it." The Colonel's haggard face brightened, and he went on: "There's your story, Miss Crowley. Three thousand die-hard sun-worshippers, facing certain death at the altar of the very deity they adore. File _that_ story from Deneb, Miss Crowley." "It's been filed a hundred times already," Jane said, shaking her head. "You know it has."