I could see those same thoughts, that gouged savagely into my own brain, burning in Geedeh's cat eyes, where he sprawled near me. Being a Martian, born to a lesser gravity than the terrestrial, he was suffering more than I--physically. But perhaps my mental torture was worse. Geedeh was Irene's friend, but I loved her. She was gone--lost somewhere--maybe dead. That, for me, was the worst--much worse than that crushing weight. I couldn't let things remain the way they were! My seething fury and need lashed me on, even in my helplessness. God--what could I do? I tried to figure something out. Could I break the gravity machinery some way? Impossible, now, certainly! I tried to remember my high school physics. Principles that might be used to give warning signals, and so forth. And just what that awful gravity would do to things. Close to me was the base of the domelike crystal shell that covered the gravity generator. It wasn't a vital part, certainly, just stout quartz. But it was the only thing I could reach. As I lay there on the floor, I drew my foot back, doubling my knee. I stamped down against the quartz with all my strength. The first blow cracked it. The second drove my metal-shod boot-heel through with a crashing sound. A small hole, eighteen inches long, was made in the barrier. The sounds of the great machinery went on as before. The gravity kept slowly increasing. Geedeh, suffering more, now, looked at me puzzledly. Pa Mavrocordatus stared anxiously. And Norman Haynes at the surface phone laughed unpleasantly. "Cracking up, eh, Wallace?" he sneered. "I know who your would-be helpers on those space ships are, now. I suppose I should be surprised at their identities. They're calling to you. Want to listen? My men above have locked this surface phone to our ship radio." [Illustration: _"Cracking up, eh, Wallace?" Norman Haynes sneered._] He turned up the volume of the reproducer. Irene's voice was the first in the speaker. "Chet!" she was urging. "Chet Wallace! Pa! Geedeh! Do you hear me? I left 487 of my own free will. I couldn't waste time, going to the Space Patrol for help--they'd want proof, and that would take a while to present. So--there was only one person and I thought you'd mistrust him.... Why don't you answer? Or have you left 487 too? I'm turning the mike over to somebody else, now. I found him on Enterprize, just come from Earth, Mr. Arthur Haynes...." IV I gasped, listening to Irene. I didn't know what surprised and confused me most--her being alive and safe, or what she'd done about old Art Haynes. Could I trust old Art? I had no way of telling. Had Irene told him about his nephew, or had she kept silent? Did he know he was opposed to Norman Haynes, or did he think it was somebody else who had sabotaged the project? Where would his loyalties be, if he found out? It was a ticklish situation.