Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardly trap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response to that desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh in his memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid of this lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, _die_ for! A woman like no other in the universe. Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from the tempting shadow, cried: "Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens on another beam, Syd!" Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the _perilens_. Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded in devising a transparent medium through which to view the void wherein he soared; the _perilens_ was a device which translated impinging light-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull. When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequency could be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted. But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to--the image persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figure beckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of that heart-tugging voice: "_Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help_--" Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previously have held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldly upon him, and his brow became dark with anger. "_We're blanketed!_ Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm! Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three North and loft ... fire No. 3 jet...." He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; now his fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The _Chickadee_ groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thing as he thrust it into a rising spiral. It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, it was certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; the flaming jets of the _Chickadee_ must form a crimson arch against black space visible for hundreds--thousands!--of miles. Nor was there any way of knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic death might loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot of blindness, clear their instruments.... And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prow of the _Chickadee_ like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of his bucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above the grinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of Salvation Smith: "We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old--'" Then Syd's angry cry, "Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with a tractor-blast!" Chip stared at his companion numbly. "But--but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannon couldn't hurt us--"