Kendall walked straight up to the guard as though he had every right in the galaxy to go through the gate. The man looked up at him unsuspiciously, as though waiting for Stone to produce his ID booklet. Kendall kept walking toward him, putting his hand inside his jacket and fumbling around as though searching for the booklet. "Must be here someplace," he murmured, as he came within earshot. When he was within three feet of the unsuspecting guard, Stone withdrew his hand and swung his fist in a hard, short arc which landed crunchingly on the point of the guard's chin. The man staggered and groped groggily for his gun. "No you don't!" Stone said quietly. He sent another driving fist into the guard's solar plexus, and the man folded up like an empty potato sack. Stone caught him before he hit the ground. "Sorry, pal," he whispered, "but I've got work to do." He lowered the guard gently to the ground. The sudden shrill blast of a whistle broke the twilight silence somewhere to his left. Someone had seen the attack. Kendall didn't wait for further discussion. He ran at top speed through the gate and into the gathering darkness beyond. Fifteen minutes later he was in Mojave City. * * * * * The city, which had grown up around the spaceport, was a sprawling, busy place. Stone headed straight into the heart of town. He stopped in at the first store he met, and before the shopkeeper could say anything, he burst out with, "I'm in a hurry, friend. Can you tell me how to get to the Governor?" The merchant, a small, pale man wearing a greasy apron, smiled and said, "You won't be able to get to him easily, my good sir. You'll have to see his Secretary. It's the way it's done." "All right, where's his Secretary to be found?" Stone barked. He received full directions on how to reach the Secretary's residence, and snapped a "Thanks" and left. It was a short trip by bus, but Stone decided to walk. Walking would work off some of the nervous energy that was accumulating in him, making him tense and keyed-up. He reviewed the situation bitterly as he strode through the brightly-lit streets. The Rastolians were a peculiar race. They looked something like reptiles walking on their hind feet, but they had warm blood and were mammalian in several respects. The Government of Earth knew that much about them. What the Government didn't seem to know much about was the Rastolian moral code. The Rastolians did not believe that any government had a right to kill one of its citizens. Even murder could be punished only by life imprisonment. Usually, though, a Rastolian convicted of murder was simply given a gun with one shot in it and left alone in his cell. Regardless of how despicable his crime may have been, no Rastolian was so completely without honor that he would refuse to take the proper steps to punish himself.