He ushered me in front of him into a low-ceilinged house of fir logs. The room we entered was furnished with home-made chairs and a table on which a lantern burned with a low wick. In the far corner was a door leading to another room. "My name's Roy Carlson," I said amiably as we sat down at the table, Chetzisky at one side alone, the rifle across his knees. "I'm Doctor Hansen, geologist," volunteered Chetzisky, bowing slightly, and after a pause, "an associate of Doctor MacRoberts." "Then where is he?" I demanded, seeking to keep the Doctor on the defensive. "In the next room; he's very ill." "What's the trouble?" "Radiation sickness. A very bad case. Very painful. I have to keep him under drugs constantly." "Why didn't you let his friends know?" My voice was angry and my anger was genuine. "You see, Mr. Carlson, we are out of the world here. We have no telegraphic station just around the corner." He smiled an irritating, sarcastic smile. My blood boiled. I wanted to jump him then and there, but his fingers were caressing the trigger of the rifle. "How did it happen?" "Doctor MacRoberts and I were tracing a radioactive deposit. Without the necessary precautions he handled the ore for long periods of time. Fearfully careless." Chetzisky shook his head with the "tsk-tsk" air of a Chemistry teacher deprecating the clumsiness of a freshman student in the lab. My brain tried to formulate a plan of action. But there should be two Indians. Where the devil was the other? I had to know before I went into action. My head turned sharply. Several groans mounting into shrill cries came from the other room. "May I see him?" I asked, rising. "You may. Go right in, Mr. Carlson." I went in. The air was foul from vomit. On a cot lay a twitching form, whose features became suddenly visible in the rays of the lantern Chetzisky held up behind me. I gasped. The face was puffed into fiery welts and the eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, glowed fiercely in a savage agony. "The poor devil," I exclaimed; "it would almost be better to shoot him." Chetzisky was shocked. "For a dog, yes. But for a man, Mr. Carlson, that is murder." What a sardonic jest. The man who planned to wipe out two billion people rebuking an unintended suggestion of mercy killing. I was so choked with anger that I could barely answer. "Just a figure of speech, Doctor." Outside in the other room a door slammed. Someone rushed in shouting, "Soldiers, soldiers dropping from the skies." It was the other Indian. * * * * * Chetzisky kept his rifle aimed at my belly as the Indian poured out the details. Two planes had dropped paratroopers just outside the crater. He told the Indian to go back outside and watch and tell him when the soldiers got inside the crater.