II

The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing Chip

Warren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,

gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, for

suddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveled

and fired.

The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,

scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squander

in vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through the

doorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the real

murderer, and in that way clear himself....

But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleyway

behind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chip

knew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get out

of here. But quick!

It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed the

scarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuers

could no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to the

spaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the _Chickadee_.

Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in the

electro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, "Salvation, look what the cat

drug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life too

much for you?"

"Never mind that now!" panted Chip. "Is this tin can ready to roll?

Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs--"

Palmer said anxiously, "Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quite

finished plating the hull, Chip!"

"Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very few

minutes--_Ahh!_ There he goes now!" Chip had gone to the _perilens_ the

moment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which he

had expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from its

cradle. "Hurry, Syd!"

There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know

_who_ went _where_; he was bursting with curiosity about the "important

business" which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; his

keen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. But

he was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.

"O.Q.," he snapped. "It's your pigeon!"

And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, the

scuff of equipment being disengaged from the _Chickadee's_ hull, the

thin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warren

quizzically.

"It smells," he ventured gently, "like trouble."

"It is trouble," Chip told him. "Plenty trouble!"

"In that case--" said the old man mildly--"I guess I'd better get the

rotor stripped for action." He stepped to the gunnery turret, dropped

the fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. "'Be ye men of

peace,'" he intoned, "'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'

Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!"

Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.

"All set, Chip! Lift gravs!"

Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the _Chickadee_

rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.

* * * * *

Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint of

scarlet which marked the course of his quarry.

In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told his

friends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, Salvation

Smith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. "A

woman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet--" And

when he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in the

missionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, white

fists. Said Syd, "A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooner

or later. And when we do--" His tone boded no good to the man who had

slain an old and loved friend.

"As a matter of fact," offered Salvation, "we've got him now. Any time

you say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on him

in five minutes."

"I know," nodded Warren grimly. "But we won't do it--yet. I'm borrowing

a bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon as

I'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of _him_. But our first

and most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway."

Syd said, "That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as much

as the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictly

speaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the Space

Patrol, let them take care of it."

Salvation shook his head.

"That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.

So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it's

cleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-faced

man who is wanted for the killing of Haldane--but Chip!"

"B-but--" gasped Palmer--"b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny were

old buddies. Lifelong friends!"

"Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.

Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with a

flame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chip

and accuse him of murder!"

Chip said ruefully, "That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but it

backfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out of

there like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we can

bring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And that

may not be so easy."

He stirred restlessly. "But we'll cross that bridge when we come to

it. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone farther

already than I expected we would." He turned to the old preacher.

"Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?"

"I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, of

course, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'd

better keep a weather-eye peeled."

"The Bog!" Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,

but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region of

tightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the gigantic

rocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetrate

the Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. "The

Bog! Say! I'd _better_ keep a sharp lookout!"

He turned to the _perilens_ once more, fastened an eye to its lens. And

then--

"Syd!" he cried. "Salvation! Look! She--she--!"

He pressed the plunger that transferred the _perilens_ image to the

central viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area which

should have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriad

glowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, the

golden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide with

an indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.

And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.

"_The Lorelei!_"

* * * * *

At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space through

a second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's

_telaudio_ wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual words

of the girl:

"_Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help_--"

Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardly

trap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response to

that desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh in

his memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid of

this lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for,

_die_ for! A woman like no other in the universe.

Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from the

tempting shadow, cried: "Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens on

another beam, Syd!"

Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the _perilens_.

Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded in

devising a transparent medium through which to view the void wherein

he soared; the _perilens_ was a device which translated impinging

light-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.

When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequency

could be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.

But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to--the

image persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figure

beckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of that

heart-tugging voice:

"_Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help_--"

Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previously

have held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldly

upon him, and his brow became dark with anger.

"_We're blanketed!_ Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!

Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three North

and loft ... fire No. 3 jet...."

He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; now

his fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The

_Chickadee_ groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thing

as he thrust it into a rising spiral.

It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, it

was certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; the

flaming jets of the _Chickadee_ must form a crimson arch against black

space visible for hundreds--thousands!--of miles. Nor was there any way

of knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic death

might loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot of

blindness, clear their instruments....

And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prow

of the _Chickadee_ like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of his

bucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above the

grinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of Salvation

Smith:

"We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old--'"

Then Syd's angry cry, "Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with a

tractor-blast!"

Chip stared at his companion numbly.

"But--but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannon

couldn't hurt us--"

"_Half-plated!_" howled Syd savagely. "And those damn fools started

working from the stern of the _Chickadee_! We're vulnerable up front,

and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like a

sieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!"

He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore them

hastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the _perilens_ vernier. No

good! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them to

certain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates air

was seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, a

man had to keep on fighting.

He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls that

answered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was now

angrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing bursts

that had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his white

hair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.

"'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!'" he cried, "'who loose their

stealth upon me like a thief from the night--'"

Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. The

straining _Chickadee_ stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.

Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertia

flung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studs

took the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,

and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.

For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescent

stars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hair

was a golden glory....

After that--nothing!