And Hawk Carse found himself caught between ray-guns held unswervingly on his body by a man at each door. He was not fool enough to try to shoot, even though his own gun was in his hand; his best speed would be slow-motion in the hampering space-suit. He was fairly caught--because for a few precious seconds he had let his mind slip from the all-important matter of escaping. At a shout from someone, both doors filled with men, and thin faces appeared at the window-ports. Their ray-guns made an impregnable fence around the netted Hawk. And then a well-remembered voice, harsh as the man from whom it came, cut through the room. "Apparently you're caught, Captain Carse!" The cold gray eyes narrowed, scanned the room, the blocked doors, the barricade of guns held by the grim men at doorways and window-ports. "Yes," Hawk Carse murmured. "Apparently I am." * * * * * Lar Tantril, the Venusian chief, smiled. He was tall for one of his race, even taller than the prisoner he faced. Clad in tight-fitting, iron-gray mesh, he had the characteristic wiry body, thin legs and arms of his kind. Spiky short-cropped hair grew like steel slivers from the narrow dome of his long hatchet head, and the taut-stretched skin of his face was burned a deep hard brown. He looked what he was: a bold and unscrupulous leader of his men. "The gun in your belt," he said, "--drop it. Right on the floor. There--better. I like you not with a gun near your hand, Carse." The Hawk regarded him frigidly. "And now what?" he asked. Lar Tantril continued smiling. His ray-gun did not move for an instant from the line it held on the metal and fabric giant. He said at a tangent, quite pleasantly: "Think fast, Captain Carse--think fast! Isn't that one of Dr. Ku's new suits?--a little space-ship all your own? Why not plan a sudden sweep for that door in an attempt to crash through my men and get free up in the air--eh?" "Why not?" said the Hawk. "It might be possible," Tantril continued, "with your luck. _Unless something went wrong with your helmet gravity-plates._" At this the Venusian's gun moved. Deliberately it came up and aimed at the crown of the adventurer's helmet. Tantril squeezed the trigger. _Spang!_ A pencil-thin streak of orange stabbed between Venusian and Earthling; sparks hissed out where it struck the tip of the helmet; and for an instant life and strength seemed to leave the grotesquely clad figure. Carse slumped down under a quick crushing weight. Weight! It bent him low, and it was only with a great effort that he was able to straighten again. For the suit's full load of metal and fabric was upon him now, its enormous boots binding him to the ground since their weight was unrelieved by the partial lift of the helmet plates. An inch-wide, black-rimmed hole in the mechanism above the helmet told what had happened. Lar Tantril chortled, and his men, most of them only half comprehending what he had done, echoed him.