“Then that’s your final answer?” Mr. Benasco asked, his disappointment giving way to annoyance. “I’m afraid it must be,” Hugh told him. “I’m sorry.” “You’ve disappointed me sorely, young man,” Mr. Benasco retorted. “Good day to you.” He turned briskly and clattered out the door. As he left, Hugh caught sight of the handle of an old type miniature rocket pistol protruding from his coat pocket. “Did you see that pistol?” Link asked, in surprise. “It’s a wonder he didn’t hold us up for the stamps right here and now! But I guess he was afraid to risk it.” “For a moment I almost felt sorry for him and was about to give in,” Hugh admitted. “Now I’m glad I didn’t.” In the days that followed, Hugh and Link saw little of Mr. Benasco except in the dining room. One morning, near the end of the flight, Hugh and Link were standing in front of their compartment port looking out. The orange-red globe of Mars was so dominant that it seemed to press back the surrounding stars and nebulae to near obscurity. “Only a few more days and our shipment will be safely in the hands of Mr. Elfs in Mars City,” Hugh said. “Then Mr. Benasco will be Mr. Elfs’s worry.” “That will be just dandy as far as I’m concerned,” Link replied earnestly. By this year of 2031, space mail service had increased to such proportions that it had opened up a brand new field of stamp specialization for the philatelist. It was for this reason that Mr. Elfs was attempting a stamp hobby business in Mars City. Mr. Davone’s portfolios of both low and high values was to provide him with the bulk of his opening merchandise. Even the most remote colonies of the Solar System, including the farthest on Triton, Neptune, had their own postage by now. The lone Triton bi-color, picturing Valhalla Peak, tallest mountain yet discovered in the System, was one of the most wanted by collectors. Suddenly the chimes for lunch were heard over the compartment intercom. Entering the dining room, Hugh and Link saw Benasco in his usual place at the end of the table near the door. They took their seats and Link smiled at his plate. “Cubed beef, Hugh.” Hugh grinned. “You can’t say they don’t aim to please on the _Princess of Mars_.” But the fellows did not get to finish their cubed roast, nor did anyone else at the table. A shock hit the ship like an unheralded thunderbolt. Hugh had the crazy feeling of being in a nightmare. After the deafening report, he felt his lap belt snap, and then he was hoisted out of his chair as though in the vortex of a whirlwind. The table tore loose from the floor fittings. Hugh bounced into a coffee urn and it nearly stunned him. Groans of distress from those around him filled his ears. “What has happened?” Hugh thought dazedly.