The hooded man's green eyes were reckless. The law on Venus was harsh, implacable. There were no pardons. The disintegration chamber at Venusport yawned for him inexorably. "You know, Bemmelman, I'd be completely at your mercy if I unmasked?" "You are right now. Yes sir. You can take it off alive, or I'll take it off of you dead." The hooded man was half crouched against the glassite desk. He said softly: "You don't leave me much choice," and dived beneath the dart gun. His head struck the slave breeder's paunch like a cannon ball. Bemmelman went, "Ooof!" and sat down with a thud. The dart gun spat a needle into the ceiling where it quivered viciously. The hooded man was on him like a cat. One swipe of his hand knocked the dart gun clattering under the sofa. Purple faced, gasping Bemmelman scrambled to his feet. A look of fright swept his gross features, and he began stabbing a button on the glassite desk. The hooded man could hear the shrill clamor of alarm bells pealing through the rambling building. He leaped for the door, threw it back. "Ahhh!" he said. Sofi stood in the entrance, her dart gun almost against his chest. Like a whip, the hooded man twisted sideways, snatched the gun from the startled girl. He saw Bemmelman charging across the room. He grinned, shoved the girl into the planter's arms, slammed the door. The sound of shouts drifted up to him. He saw a Venusian serf, armed with a bell muzzled ray rifle, dash into the corridor. The serf caught sight of him. A yellow ray streamed from the gun, splashed off the wall; but the hooded man already had vanished up the stairs. Bemmelman burst from the office. "Which way did he go? The force screens are up! He can't escape!" "He got in," Sofi pointed out coolly. Half a dozen armed serfs dashed into the hall. The alarm bells were still ringing. "Which way?" Bemmelman roared. The serf said: "Up." "We've got him. That leads to the roof. He can't get off!" He charged the steps followed by the pack of Venusians. At the roof Bemmelman paused, shoved up the trap. With considerable respect for his own skin, he ordered one of the serfs through first. "Careful," he advised. "The man's desperate." The serf climbed fatalistically onto the roof, turned around and around. "He's not here." "Impossible!" The planter roared and squeezed his bulk through the opening. The green phosphorescent glow of the vegetation lit the flat roof eerily. A raucous screech from some night flying bird floated down from the cloud mass overhead. There was no plane, no sign of a plane; but the man with the hood was gone. II Mia MacIver tried to concentrate on her head overseer's report. She felt hot and sticky and the figures ran together, didn't make sense. Moreover, the delicate notes of a flute kept scattering her thoughts. They came through the casement window from the patio outside her study. "Damn," said Mia MacIver and wriggled at her desk.