Mark's molecular rate was faster than any other strata, purposely, because of his calling, and to the spectators it seemed as if he'd twisted, turned and flung himself into a prodigious tackle all in one motion. The attacking International, fully as tall as Mark, went down under the terrific impact, his atomo-pistol sailing through the icy atmosphere in a falling arc. But with the agility of a Martian Hellacorium, he was up and snarling: "Traitor!" through clenched teeth. With a cry of baffled fury he launched himself at Mark unhesitatingly, one hand fumbling at his belt. But Mark ducked, side-stepping. He was icy calm now, although the reason for this attack baffled him. Mark was in his element in a fight; the International Police trained its wards to be fighting machines, deadly in their efficiency. Explorers had to be! II Mark wheeled as the attacker hurtled past him and his straight left went unerringly to the man's head, jarring him. Automatically Mark's training came to the fore, as everything else faded until it was only Spacer Lynn and a murderous enemy. Mark's right was a peg upon which he hung the attacker's blasting blow, while he used the boxer's left, long and weaving, throwing it swiftly like a cat sparring with a mouse dangling by the tail from its teeth. His left bounced off the attacker's chin. It was a little high, but the man rocked on his heels. The killer rushed. Mark let his heels touch the ground, refused to run. The attacker was too aggressive and eager for complete defense. Mark caught him with a left and right and calmly took a murderous hook to the belly without flinching, then he let his right hand ride, dropping it like a sledge-hammer. The attacker's face seemed to lose contour, its features blurred as the face went gory; his feet crossed and his knees went suddenly rubbery. The conveyor-road inspector fell with a crash and didn't get up. Mark became suddenly aware that two Martian proctors flanked him, deadly atomo-pistols pressing at his sides. "Silence and obedience, International! Follow!" came the crisp, laconic order from the senior proctor. Instantly a visi-screen lighted and a cold, imperious voice directed: "Remove the attacker, dispose as power reserve. Spacer Lynn proceed on mission!" In unison, the two proctors saluted and the atomo-pistols disappeared. It was the voice of the Council, through some subordinate.