The Citadel Of Death By CARL SELWYN Vulcan held the weirdest secret of the ages, one of eternal life that Rick Norman had to find to save his friend from death. But it held another secret, too--one that was so vicious, even knowing it meant Rick Norman was doomed. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "It's too risky for you to go alone, Johnny," Rick Norman said. "Wait till I get through showing the Senator around the mine. Then if you still think your gravity gadget can get us to Vulcan against Sun drag, we'll go look into this Fountain of Youth business together." He knew Johnny wasn't paying any attention to his argument, however, and as he talked his big fingers were busy under the table unfolding the wax paper from the two small green capsules--Martian knockout drops. Two of them would be enough to put Johnny out for a week. Johnny Gordon's black hair gleamed in the nightclub's orange light. When he laughed, his tanned face was surprisingly boyish--surprising because his name was linked with adventure in headlines on many planets. "You think the patrol's going to be laying for me off Mercury," he laughed. "Well, I'd like a little excitement." Norman dropped the wax paper on the floor and hid the capsules in his big palm. Johnny was right--they would've had a lot more fun if they'd never bumped into that dead comet off Neptune. But how were they to know that cold hunk of drift metal would turn out to be solid platinum? That was three years ago and now their income was a number like the circumference of Jupiter in feet. To him it was a devil of a responsibility. To Johnny it was just plain boring. But he couldn't let Johnny get himself killed running away from a full dress suit. "Okay," he said, faking resignation. "You win." Roughly handsome, Norman's hell or high water smile was as much a part of him as his long legs. He filled their glasses as the orchestra started moaning _Martian Moon_, dropped the capsules into the bubbly green wine in Johnny's glass. "Here's to the Twenty-First Century Ponce de Leon," he smiled, raising his glass. Johnny reached across the table and picked up the bottle. "Here's to the boredom of a million dollars," he said and drank the toast straight from the bottle. He wiped his chin, grinning. "You ought to know you can't catch me on a Martian mickey. They stop the bubbles." As Norman stared at the suddenly lifeless wine in Johnny's glass, he realized there was only one thing left to do. He knew a couple of boys who were pretty handy with a blackjack and he knew an old hunting lodge in the Adirondacks where they could lock Johnny up for a week. * * * * *