II

Barnard looked through narrowed eyes at Commander Lansfer of the Space

Police, and he knew the man was lying. All his newsman's instinct told

him that the dark-haired, sharp-featured police officer knew more than

he was telling. He leaned across the desk.

"Commander, I came all the way from Earth to get the inside on this

dope ring. Who's behind it? Where does it come from?"

Lansfer shrugged slightly. His face was expressionless, as always. "We

are working on the problem," he said.

Barnard made a disgusted gesture. "We know that the outer planets are

being flooded with _neoin_. Mars is full of human wrecks, and half the

asterites are using the stuff. If it ever gets loose on Earth, the

human race will have a worse enemy than the black plague."

"We will cooperate with the press," said Lansfer, "as far as it's

practical to do so. In the meantime, you may be sure we're not

sleeping."

"I hope not." Barnard glared at the policeman and made a mental note to

pan the Space Police in his next despatch. "And how does Gail Melvin

fit in?"

"Gail Melvin is a minor peddler. We've nothing on her--just took her

in for questioning, to be sure she knew nothing important." A trace of

annoyance shaded his eyes for a moment. "But we took her in quietly.

How did you find out about it?"

"From my special secret service," said Barnard dryly.

"Then," said Lansfer, "your secret service can tell you the rest of the

story. If you're quite through--"

They stood and for a second faced each other across the desk. Lansfer,

six hard feet of spaceman, hard jawed and poker faced. Barnard, six

lean flexible feet of newsman, crowding his thermostats. Then Barnard

whirled and went out.

Standing before the building, he reflected. No news meant the boss

would be sending more spacegrams threatening to fire him--and meaning

it. His hunch was still solid on Lansfer's knowing something. There was

something behind the secrecy with which the space police worked, but--

There was more than one way to find out. If Lansfer wouldn't talk,

other policemen might. He looked around, found the nearest saloon. Some

of the space police had just finished their day's work. Thoughtfully

jingling the platinum coins in his pocket, he went into the saloon.

Alone at one end of the bar was a patrolman. Barnard took a place

beside him and ordered a drink.

"H'lo, Remish," he said. "What's the news on Gail Melvin?"

Remish grinned and shook his head. Barnard felt a slight distaste for

what he was about to do. It didn't seem right.

He took a balled fist from his pocket and opened it slowly, holding it

between himself and the patrolman so that it was not visible to anybody

else in the room. He opened it just enough for Remish to see the five

Martian platins.

Remish turned and faced the row of bottles behind the bar. His face was

blank. For a long minute he said nothing. Then:

"I don't like that, Barnard. I could use that as well as anybody. But

there's something I like better."

Barnard hadn't liked it either. But hell--after some of the police he'd

met on the outer planets, he couldn't help but be cynical. He raised

his glass and threw down the drink.

"It's everyday stuff, of course," Remish conceded. "But I'm going to

be one cop who's different. There's talk enough now about the Space

Patrol--that we're fronting for pirates and transporting _neoin_. And

some funny things have been going on."

He fingered his glass thoughtfully. "Nothing I can put a definite

finger on," he mused. "But maybe you're the man who can do it. With the

System News Service behind you--

"I don't know much," he went on. "But I'll play along with you--and I

hope I'm doing the right thing. Gail Melvin--the chief had her under

a Sokolsky lie detector. Greatest thing in lie detectors yet. She was

clear--has no connection with the dope ring."

Barnard caught his breath. Gail Melvin had no connection with the

_neoin_ gang? But Lansfer had said she was a minor peddler?

The patrolman stared into his glass of _boorsha_ for a moment,

hesitating. He turned again to Barnard. "Another thing. That George

Melvin is faking. He's no more of a half-wit than I am--I hope. When I

last saw him, he was on Venus running the swankiest gin mill in Lidice.

He and his partner--Quong Kee!"

Barnard stared incredulously at the patrolman. "George Melvin faking!

Not a chance--he's just what he seems to be, and I wouldn't bet any

more on a royal flush!"

"I know," Remish shrugged. "And do you want to know something else? I

haven't been able to find a person who's seen Quong Kee since he came

to Mars!"

Barnard slowly put down his drink and left the saloon.

* * * * *

He sailed into Quong Kee's, paused cautiously to see that the fiend who

had attacked him was sleeping with his head on the table, and plunged

through the drapes into the back room. There was an answer to this and

he was bound he'd find it.

A gray, tired Chinese looked up from behind a desk. His right hand had

darted to the edge of the desk when Barnard entered. Thoughtfully, he

studied the reporter and folded his hands.

Barnard faced him. "Quong Kee. You and George Melvin were partners at

one time."

Quong Kee gazed back coolly, and Barnard saw that he'd learn only what

the man decided he should know. After a while Quong Kee nodded.

"Yes--Mr. Barnard. George Melvin was--and is--my partner."

"How did you know me?" Barnard demanded. "You never leave this room."

A tired smile flickered over the thin lips. "Earlier this evening I

watched Miss Melvin extricate you from a difficult position. Until

she informed me that you were seeking news, I never realized that

journalism involved such jeopardy."

Barnard grinned involuntarily. He was beginning to like this Oriental

who spoke in cultured tones. Since he realized that threats or bribes

would do no good, he gave in to the impulsive liking.

"Mind telling me something about Gail Melvin?" he asked. "And about

things in general?"

Quong Kee peered narrowly at Barnard through half-closed eyes. The

reporter wondered uncomfortably if the man used _neoin_ and was

studying him with extra sensory faculties, but he swiftly rejected the

thought. There was no trace of the drug in Quong Kee's appearance.

Maybe it was natural ESP--or just an old-fashioned sizing-up.

"You are very anxious to secure this--scoop, aren't you, Mr. Barnard?"

Barnard thrust his face closer. "Quong Kee," he said slowly, "I would

give my right arm to break this story. I would cut every throat on Mars

if it would help me to find out where _neoin_ comes from."

He meant it--almost, anyway. Somehow the thought of cutting Gail

Melvin's throat persisted. He forced the thought back. No price was too

high!

"I, too, would give much to destroy the drug traffic," Quong Kee said

softly. "George Melvin and I operated an establishment in Lidice,

Venus--until _neoin_ appeared. We were doing excellently. But then

George became involved in a crusade against the drug peddlers. He found

out some things--I do not know exactly what.

"But he disappeared. And things began to happen to our establishment.

Things like bombs, bullets, poison in the food--I was forced to close

and barely escaped with my life."

He picked up the mounted photograph that Barnard had vaguely noticed

on the desk and turned it for the reporter to see. Barnard recognized

Quong Kee and--George Melvin! But a George Melvin whose eyes were

young and intelligent and flashing with the joy of living!

"Gail located him," said Quong Kee, "through the Missing Persons

Division. He was here in Kainor, in the condition in which you saw him

tonight. Gail and I packed what we could into George's space ship,

the _Chicago_, and we came here, where I opened this--ah--place of

refreshment."

"_Chicago_," Barnard mused. "I should have guessed that."

"Gail recognized you standing out there this evening," said Quong Kee.

Again the haunted smile crept over his lips. "I can't understand her

motivation for intervening in your quarrel. She told me you were a

great reporter who might expose the criminals and she had to save you."

"Isn't that reason enough?" Barnard demanded suspiciously. "What did

she say to him?"

"She told him you were a higher-up in the _neoin_ organization and

would see that his supply was stopped if he harmed you. A clever

girl--but foolish."

Barnard didn't ask why. "Where is George Melvin now?" he demanded.

Before Quong Kee could answer, the pound of heavy feet sounded in the

doorway. Barnard whirled and watched the three local policemen march in.

"Where's the body?" asked the leader.

Quong Kee's eyes flickered briefly toward Barnard, and he gestured

toward something the newsman hadn't noticed. In a corner of the room

was a bed. With something on it. The policeman yanked a sheet off the

something. Barnard felt the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to

rise.

He stared at the body of George Melvin.

* * * * *

"I had my men detain everybody," Quong Kee told the police. "But the

body was discovered close to the door, indicating that the murderer

escaped. Several fights were in progress at the time, and it is

possible that he was struck by a stray knife, but I doubt it."

"No," the policeman grunted. "The knife struck upwards and his pockets

have been searched."

"Evidently he was enticed into the hallway for that purpose," said

Quong Kee.

Barnard frowned, watching the police examine the knife that protruded

from George Melvin's chest. Then the dope ring, fearing that he would

divulge something, had finished him off.

But that didn't make sense. They had seemed pleased to let him run

loose before, probably as an example--why the sudden fear of his

talking? He thought suddenly of the new lie detector mentioned by

Remish, and wondered if that instrument could reach even into the mind

that George Melvin did not have.

He stayed close to the police as they made a brief examination, asking

a few questions and then closing up their notebooks and leaving. It

was clear that they didn't expect to solve the murder. To them it was

routine--another derelict knifed by a _neoin_ fiend.

The whole thing made Barnard a little sick. He gazed uncomfortably at

the corpse. The man had hardly known that he lived, yet--

His lucky nickel hadn't brought much luck lately. It seemed to have

turned into a Jonah.

He said nothing until the police had departed and the body had been

removed. When he and Quong Kee were alone, he asked:

"Does Gail know this yet?"

"No."

"She's the only lead now." A thought made him uncomfortable. "Quong

Kee--do you think she's in danger?"

The Chinese shrugged. He looked suddenly ancient, tired. His weary eyes

met Barnard's.

"Since I've been on Mars, I've never left this room. Call it cowardice

or intelligence, but I dare not expose myself. They haven't molested

me here--my current clientele wouldn't be disturbed by a few bombs,

anyway. And here I am protected--you narrowly escaped death when you

entered this room."

He ran his hand along the side of his desk. "I could fill this room

with the deadliest rays known to military science. I mention this by

way of reminding you that you are not in a friendly game. You stand an

excellent chance of being killed, or of losing your mind."

That shocked Barnard for about one second. But he had no time to be

bothered with danger. And the System News Service was all-important.

"I'll take the chance," he said grimly. "Where's Gail?"

Quong Kee's haunted eyes closed momentarily. "She is on the _Chicago_.

She needs somebody now, Ron Barnard. Go to her. I can't help; I'm an

old man and afraid for my life. You are young and strong. There is

danger, but go to her. Even if only for your scoop."

Something in the old man's voice was hypnotic. Barnard stared at him.

"Where is this _Chicago_?" he asked.

"It's at Main Spaceport, in the public field. If she is not there, use

this key and wait for her."

Barnard rose slowly. He tried to shake a lump out of his throat,

cursing himself for going soft. Sitting here listening to an old man

mouth sentiment--he shook his head angrily and glared at Quong Kee.

"I'll go," he said. "But _only_ for the scoop."