The eyes of Spud O'Malley followed Chet's, and his imaginative faculties must have been stimulated by Chet's words, for he gazed open-mouthed, as if for the first time he visioned that golden scimitar as something more substantial than a high-hung light. He drew one long incredulous breath before he answered. "What position, sir? Say the word and I'll lose myself so bad we'll be over the Pole and half-way to the equator again!" "Not that bad," was Chet's assurance. "Just spot this ship over 82:14 north, 93:20 east, and I'll give you local bearings from there." Then to himself: "'Cold storage,' Walt said; he meant our old shop, of course. Probably had a hunch we would need it." But to the pilot he said only the one word: "Thanks!"--though the grip of his hand must have spoken more eloquently. * * * * * The eastbound lanes of the five thousand level saw them plod slowly along, while faster and better-groomed ships slipped smoothly past; then the red hull rose to Level Twelve and swung out upon the great circle course that would bear them more nearly in the direction of the destination Chet had given. There were free levels higher up in which they could have laid a direct course, but the Irish pilot did not need Chet to tell him that the old hull would never stand it. Her internal pressure could never have been maintained at any density such as human lungs demanded. But they were on their way, and Chet's customary genial expression gave place to one of more grim determination as he watched the white-flecked ocean drift slowly past below. Once a patrol ship spoke to them. Daylight had come to show plainly the silver hull with the distinctive red markings of the Service that slipped smoothly down from above to hang poised under flashing fans like a giant humming-bird. Her directed radio beam flashed the yellow call signal in O'Malley's control room. * * * * * Chet was beside him, and the two exchanged silent glances before O'Malley cut in his transmitter. He must give name and number--this signal was a demand that could not be disregarded--but on the old freighter was no automatic sender that would flash the information across to the other ship; the pilot's voice must serve instead. "Number three--seven--G--four--two!" he thundered into the radiophone. "Freighter of the Intercolonial Line, without cargo--" "For the love of Pete," shouted the loudspeaker beside him in volume to drown out the pilot's words, "are you sending this by short wave, or are you just yelling across to me? Calm down, you Irish terrier!" Then, before the pilot could reply, the voice from the silver and red patrol ship dropped into an exaggerated mimicry of the O'Malley brogue--