Too late, Tremont saw that the speaker had already braced a foot against the far bulkhead. Then the broad face with its crooked blob of a nose above a ridiculous little mustache shot across the chamber at him. Desperately, Tremont groped for a hold that would help him either to avoid the charge or to pull himself back into the shaft, but he was caught half in and half out. He met the rush with a fist, but the tangle of bodies immediately became confusing beyond belief as the other pair joined in. Something cracked across the back of his head, much too hard to have been accidental. When Tremont began to function again, it took him only a few seconds to realize that life had been going on without him for some little time. For one thing, the heavy man's nosebleed had stopped, and he was tenderly combing blood from his mustache with a fingertip. For another, they had managed to stuff Tremont into a spacesuit and haul him down the shaft to the air lock. Someone had noosed the thumbs of the gauntlets together and tied the cord to the harness supporting the air tanks. Tremont twisted his head around to eye the three of them without speaking. He was trying to decide where he had made his mistake. Bill Braigh, the elderly youth with the crewcut? Ralph Peters, the pilot who had come with the ship? Dorothy Stauber, the trim brunette who had made the trip from Earth on the same starship as Tremont? He could not make up his mind without more to go on. Then he remembered with a sinking sensation that _all_ of them had been clustered about his case of papers and microfilms when he had interrupted them. "I trust you aren't thinking of making us any trouble, Tremont," drawled Braigh. "Give up the idea; you've been no trouble at all." "Where do you think this is getting you?" demanded Tremont. Braigh chuckled. "Wherever it would have gotten you," he said. "Only at less expense." "Ask him for the combination," growled Peters. Braigh scrutinized Tremont's expression. "It would probably take us a while, Ralph," he decided regretfully. "It's simpler to put him outside now and be free to use tools on the box." Tremont opened his mouth to protest, but Braigh clapped the helmet over his head and screwed it fast. "You'll never read the code!" yelled Tremont, struggling to break free. "Those papers are no good to you without me!" Someone slammed him against the bulkhead and held him there with his face to it. He could do nothing with his hands, joined as they were, and very little with his feet. It dawned upon him that they could not hear a word, and he fell silent. Twisting his head to peer out the side curve of his vision band, he caught a glimpse of Peters suiting up. A few minutes later, they opened the inner hatch of the air lock and shoved Tremont inside. Peters followed, gripping him firmly about the knees from behind. "Here we go!" grunted Peters, and Tremont realized that he could communicate again, over their suit radios.