The Man From Siykul By RICHARD WILSON The Siykulans demanded pay for Myra and Steve's freedom. The price was small--merely the losing of their sanity in the spider's ray-trap. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Myra Horn awoke from her nap on the couch in the control room and looked at her husband. He was hunched over the Simplimatic 50-Button control board of their sleek Skypiercer space-launch, peering through the vision shield with a grim intensity. Myra turned her involuntary smile into a wifely frown at his muscular back. "Steve!" she said sharply. "Will you stop chasing that meteor? Aren't you ever going to grow up?" Steve Horn glanced at her over his shoulder. "Hush, dear," he grinned. "Papa's in the money." Myra sat up and smoothed her satin-leather jumper. She looked again at the meteor they were pursuing. "What a funny color!" she exclaimed. "The Primary Color," said Steve. "It's a flying goldmine. I think we're gaining on it." "What are you going to do when you catch up with it?" "Lasso it," replied her husband. "In half an hour," he paused impressively, "--we'll be Horns of plenty." Myra made a face at his back. "Bless your heart, darling," she said. "If there were another man closer than Jupiter I'd divorce you." "I'm captain here," said Steve Horn, "with power of life, death and divorce. You'll do no such thing. Grab the keyboard while I trip up our quarry." Myra slipped into his seat while Steve jumped to a boxlike affair that jutted from the floor on a pedestal. It was one of the "accessories optional at slight additional cost" which Myra had insisted they could do without--a Netaction wireless-grapple capable of exerting a magnetic pull on objects up to half a mile distant. Myra fell into the spirit of the chase. She accelerated their little craft until they were within snaring distance of the meteor. "Take it easy," advised Steve. "Don't get too close. You might dent it." He flicked over a switch on the wireless grapple. "Got it!" he cried triumphantly a moment later. "How do you know?" demanded Myra. "You can't see any more than I can--and I don't notice any difference." "Try decelerating," Steve suggested. Myra cut the motor. There was a silence they hadn't experienced since the start of their trip to Jupiter, more than two weeks before. It was broken almost immediately by a series of less-deep, sonorous staccato bursts from the Retarderockets in the nose of the ship. "You're right, Steve. There is a definite forward drag not caused by momentum." "'Course, I'm right." "But, Steve," said Myra abruptly, "that can't be gold. Since when has gold been attracted by a magnet?"