The planter's little eyes were bloodshot. Obscenity burst from his mouth. A laugh rumbled up from the Commissioner's belly, shook all three of his chins. "You're done for, Hal. What's the combination?" Grudgingly Bemmelman told him. "But you won't find anything there," he added vindictively. "I'm going to sink you." Cosmo opened the safe, waved the Commissioner forward to investigate. "Um," said the Commissioner in disappointment, leafing through the papers. "Maybe we can dig something incriminating out of this mess. I don't know. Hey! What's this?" He held up the paper upon which Bemmelman had written the directions for reaching the Ormoo's feeding ground. "Looks like a map!" "It is a map," replied Cosmo grimly. "I wouldn't be surprised if it isn't the location of the loot from the plantations Bemmelman's men have raided." There was a knock on the door. "Come in," snapped the excited Commissioner. The Martian overseer stalked into the office, glanced about him in surprise. "Tell these fools I'm not the Renegade!" Bemmelman roared. Rabaul regarded his employer blankly. "You're certainly not the Renegade so far as I know." "Of course not," interrupted the Commissioner. "We don't expect you to be able to identify him. We only want to ask you a few questions." The Martian pursed his lips, shrugged. "Anything I know, Commissioner." "Where was Bemmelman yesterday morning?" "I don't know." The Martian overseer looked surprised. "He left in his surface plane in the direction of the MacIver plantation." "Alone?" Rabaul nodded. "Um. Has he ever received messages from the Cloud Mountains? Radio calls?" "Yes," admitted Rabaul grudgingly. "Though I can't tell you what they're about. I've instructions to call him immediately when the call signals come through. He takes them personally." "Have you ever known him to make trips into the mountains?" Again the Martian nodded. "Yes. He's made expeditions into them after botanical specimens, I believe." "We got him!" said the Commissioner and Cosmo could see him counting his half of the reward. "That map is the most damning evidence of all. It's in his handwriting, isn't it?" "You can have it checked," said Cosmo complacently. "But there's one thing more." "Eh?" "Motive." * * * * * Cosmo's face hardened. "Slaves aren't cattle. After Bemmelman started his slave farm he couldn't expect profits for eighteen years. He needed money, lots of money to carry on certain experiments. He was an organic chemist. He believed it possible to force humans the same way a gardener forces plants. An aging process isn't a new idea, but it took Bemmelman to find a commercial use for it." "It fits like a glove," said the Commissioner, "but how do you know about the experiment?" "I can tell you about the experiments," interposed Llana suddenly. Everyone stared at her.