"You mean it's being stolen from them?" Jamison shrugged. "Maybe." He paused, and then he drew me toward him. "Anyway, the _X-87_, on this Voyage 9 tonight, is taking the largest supply of T-catalyst to the Moon which has ever been transported." Jamison smiled wryly. "You and I, Fred, are among the very few people who know of it. The _X-87_ is not being unduly guarded. That in itself would look suspicious. Every possible precaution has been taken to keep the thing a secret. But there have been queer things happen. Perhaps only coincidences--" "Such as what?" "Well, Georg Blake died, quite mysteriously, a few days ago--" "Murdered?" Again Jamison shrugged. "The whole thing was censored. I don't know any more about it than you do. He has a son and daughter--young Blake, still under twenty--and Nina, his young daughter, who is only sixteen. The management of the entire Moon industry devolves now upon them." I could envisage Interplanetary spies on the Moon--and with the forceful Georg Blake now out of the way, a raid upon that supply of the T-catalyst-- "Little Nina is going back to the Moon this voyage to take control of the company," Jamison was adding. "Her father died--was murdered if you like--here in Great-New York. And to make it still more mysterious, young Blake--the girl's brother--seems to have vanished. There is only Nina--" Queer indeed. And even worse, Jamison now told me that several members of the _X-87's_ crew were ill, and one or two had recently died, so that she was starting on her flight tonight with at least five new men.... * * * * * The little space-ship was to sail at 3 a.m. I had my luggage aboard an hour ahead; and at quarter of three I was loitering on the tube-lit stage watching the passengers bidding good-bye to their friends and then going up the long incline to where the _X-87_ was cradled forty feet overhead. An S.S. Man, without too much equipment, can hide it all pretty comfortably. Most of my small apparatus was tucked into capacious pockets. And with my square-cut jacket buttoned over my weapon belt, I imagine I looked like any ordinary citizen. I was booked as a mathematics clerk, going to the Moon to take a position in the bookkeeping department of the Blake Company. I'm smallish, and dark--and not too handsome, my friends tell me. Just an unobtrusive fellow whom nobody would particularly notice. I certainly hoped now that that would prove to be so. "How many passengers this voyage?" I asked young Len Smith, who was standing here on the landing shed beside me. He was a slim, handsome fellow, the _X-87's_ radio-helio operator, ornate and exceedingly dapper in his stiff white-and-gold uniform. "Damned if I know. Fifteen or twenty maybe. Usually are about that many." A big seven-foot Martian stopped near us, directing the attendants who were carrying his luggage. "Who's that?" I murmured to Len Smith.