Biggs drew a deep breath. Then, carefully, "Well, here's my thought. I'm planning to be married very soon, Mr. Thaxton. I have no desire whatsoever to be incarcerated in a Venusian jail--especially for participation in something over which I have no control. It was my thought, my hope, that in consideration for services rendered, you might agree to give me my liberty--" Once upon a time there was something redder than Cap Hanson's face. But it exploded. So did the skipper. "Traitor!" he bellowed. "Why, you dirty, sneaking lowdown space viper! Selling us out, are you? _I'll_ show you!" And he made a dive for Señor Biggs. But Thaxton, interested now, stepped between them, forced the skipper back. To Biggs he said, "Your proposition is not impossible, Lieutenant. But might I ask what you have to offer?" Biggs said, "When your men board the _Saturn_, a long search awaits them, doesn't it? They'll have to comb the entire ship looking for the contraband." Thaxton sniffed. "Thanks to your stupid friend, the radioman," he said, "we know the contraband is stored in the aft section of the ship." "But there are many bins in the aft section," Biggs pleaded. "I can spare you the trouble of searching them all. I'll tell you which ones to look in--if you'll grant me full pardon. I--I might even be willing to accept service in your army." "The Venusian army _uses_ traitors," said Thaxton pointedly, "but it does not employ them. However, I think your suggestion has merit. It's a bargain, Biggs. And we might as well take care of that little matter right now. So if you'll just tell me the bin number--" "I'll kill you, Biggs!" howled the skipper. "One more word and I'll cut out your heart and eat it for breakfast!" But his words fell on deaf ears. For as if the syllables couldn't tumble past his lips fast enough, Biggs was blurting out, "Bins Number 13, 14 and 15, Mr. Thaxton. The first two are filled with ammunition; the last contains rotor-guns, grenades and two field pieces--" * * * * * It was at that moment that hope finally deserted me. True, Lancelot Biggs' actions had been strange, and he had seemed eager to sell us out, to save his own skin. But I had been withholding judgment--because I knew, or _thought_ I knew, something of the genius in Biggs. I had been hoping against hope that his pose was only a ruse calculated to lull Thaxton's suspicions; so that somehow, by some trick, everything might turn out well. But when he told the numbers of those bins, I knew at last, and with a sickening sense of distaste for all mankind, that Lancelot Biggs--my one-time friend and bunkmate--had failed under pressure. He was a traitor! Because he told the exact truth. The guns and ammunition were exactly where he had told Thaxton!