"All right, all right," Pitchblend snapped. "Hurry up and get her loaded." "What's the rush?" one of the stevedores asked. "The gals ain't even arrived from the hotel yet." "I'll tell you what the rush is," Pitchblend declared as the bell tolled again. "If you were an escaped prisoner on Triton, just where would you head?" "Why, I don't know for sure, Pitchblend." "Then I'll tell you where. You'd head for the spaceport, fast as your legs could carry you. You'd head for an out-going spaceship, because it would be your only hope. And how many out-going spaceships are there tonight?" "Why, just two or three." "Because all our business is in the daytime. So if the convict was smart enough to get out, he'll be smart enough to come here." "We got no weapons," the stevedore said. "We ain't even got a pea-shooter." "Weapons on Triton? You kidding? A frontier moon like this, the place would be blasted apart every night. Interstelpen couldn't hold all the disturbers of the peace if we had us some guns." "But the convict--" "Yeah," Pitchblend said grimly. "He'll be armed, all right." Pitchblend rushed back to the manifest shed as the bell tolled a third time. He got on the phone and called the desk of the Hotel Triton. "Hardesty over at the spaceport," he said. "Loading foreman." "Loading foreman?" The mild, antiseptic voice at the other end of the connection said it as you would say talking dinosaur. "Yeah, loading foreman. At night I'm in charge here. Listen, you the manager?" "The manager--" haughtily--"is asleep. I am the night clerk." "O.K., then. You tell those hundred girls of yours to hurry. Don't scare them, but have you heard about the prison break?" "Heard about it? It's all I've been hearing. They--they want to stay and see what happens." "Don't let 'em!" roared Pitchblend. "Use any excuse you have to. Tell 'em we got centrifigal-upigal and perihelion-peritonitus over here at the spaceport, or any darn thing. Tell 'em if they want to blast off tonight, they'll have to get down here quick. You got it?" "Yes, but--" "Then do it." Pitchblend hung up. The escape bell tolled a fourth time. * * * * * His name was House Bartock, he had killed two guards in his escape, and he was as desperate as a man could be. He had been sentenced to Interstelpen for killing a man on Mars in this enlightened age when capital punishment had been abolished. Recapture thus wouldn't mean death, but the prison authorities at Interstelpen could make their own interpretations of what life-in-prison meant. If House Bartock allowed himself to be retaken, he would probably spend the remaining years of his life in solitary confinement.