Ross shook his head. His eyes blazed. "Harry, there's a lot of hell breaking out on the Earth and on the Moon, too. We're in the middle. We can't be in both places, but we can find out--I hope--what's going on up here. And if we do, maybe we can put a heavy foot on what's happening to the Earth. Do you remember what Trowbridge's message said?" Moore's ordinarily placid features tightened. "The Purple Death," he whispered. "You're the boss, Bruce. All I want is to get in on whatever happens!" * * * * * The Earth Fleet slid slowly down to the craters. The pale surface of the Moon gleamed dully, phosphorescent, lambent where the rays of the sun struck crater tops. Off to the left the High Peak, Peak Number One to the Earth visitors, loomed dark and sinister. But Peak Four showed all its lights, bright and steady. Ross ordered the six following ships to stand off and await orders, or act on their own judgment if the flagship came to harm. Then he took his place beside the helmsman. "Take her down slow," he ordered. The rocket ship glided straight and sure for the brightest light. Slowly the pin-point of white fire became a circle, then an oval. Then it broke up into hundreds of lights surrounding a platform. The helmsman muttered an order, and the rocket ship, answering the urge of her flippers, dived briefly and straightened out into a glide. From the control windows the shape of the platform took form, and dim little figures could be seen scurrying on its edges. Moore fidgeted uneasily. "We'll be duck soup for them if it's Horta," he muttered. Ross chuckled. "Where's your sporting blood?" he jibed. "Bet you even money it's Artana." "That's an easy bet for you," retorted Moore. "You won't live long enough to pay off if it's Horta." The crew of the ship seemed to share his fears. Every man hunched tense at his station. The ship glided lower, to three hundred feet. Two hundred. She lost way almost entirely, and grounded with scarcely a jar. "Nice set-down," Ross complimented the helmsman. Instantly the crew sighed in unison. Tension was broken. They peered through the windows. "Back to your stations!" rapped Ross. He glanced through the control port and immediately saw a group advancing toward the ship. For an instant he held his breath. Then he whooped. "It's Artana!" The crew cheered, briefly, knowing nothing of the importance of that single identification. Two artisans stood by the gangway, waiting. "Secure your helmets, men!" shouted Ross. He adjusted his own headgear, made sure that the thin tubes from his breastplate were feeding their tiny jets of oxygen to his nostrils, and signaled to the artisans. They threw the door wide, and Ross stepped forth to meet Artana. The young Lord of the Peaks came forward with a glad cry. "Ross!" he exclaimed, and grasped the Earth-man's hand warmly. "Artana!" cried Ross. He eyed the Moon Lord from head to foot, and grinned. "You've grown, Lord of the Peaks!"