VAL KENTON SAT FOR a long time, reading and rereading the note, really understanding the gravity of the situation for the first time. He crumpled the note in his capable hand, gazed unseeingly about the tiny cabin.
And then anger drew white lines down his face, and his hands reached out to the controls to swing the ship toward Mars. He knew only too well how hopeless the task was that had been given him; not one man in a million had a chance to bring it to a successful conclusion.
His hands slowly relaxed then, dropping from the control studs, sinking back to his lap. He knew that he had no choice in the matter, for, should he not try, he would be disrupted into disassociated atoms by the first Patrol ship that sighted him and his tiny cruiser.
Slowly, the anger faded from his mind, and
