MacRae reserved for himself the job of taking the planet office-the main offices on Mars of the Company, Beecher's own headquarters. The Resident Agent General's personal apartment was part of the same building; the doctor expected to come to grips with Beecher himself.

MacRae sent a squad of men to reinforce Marlowe at the power house, then called out, "Let's go, before we all freeze to death. Chop, chop!" He led the way at a ponderous trot.

Jim located Frank in the group and joined him. "What took you guys so long in that building?" he asked. "Was there a fight?"

"Took so long?" said Frank. "We weren't inside two minutes."

"But you must have-"

"Cut out that chatter back there!" called out Doc. Jim shut up and pondered it.

MacRae had them cross the main canal on ice, avoiding the arching bridge as a possible trap. They crossed in pairs, those behind covering those crossing; in turn they who had crossed spread out and covered those yet to come. The crossing held a nightmarish, slow-motion quality; while on the ice a man was a perfect target-yet it was impossible to hurry. Jim longed for his skates.

On the far side the doctor gathered them together in the shadow of a warehouse. "We'll swing around to the east and avoid the dwellings," he told them in a hoarse whisper. "From here on, quiet!-for your life. We won't split up because I don't want you shooting each other in the dark." He set forth a plan to surround the building and cover all exits, while MacRae himself and about half their numbers tried to force an entrance at the main door.

"When you get around in back and make contact," MacRae warned the two who were to lead the flanking and covering moves, "you may have one deuce of a time telling friend from foe. Be careful. The word is "Mars'; the answer is 'Freedom'."

Jim was in the assault party. Doc stationed six of them in fan shape around the door, at an easy twenty-five yards range, and had them take cover where available. Three of them were on the open ramp in front of the door; he had them lie down and steady their guns. "In case of doubt-shoot," he instructed them. "Come on, the rest of you."

Jim was included in the last order. MacRae walked up to the outer door and tried it; it was locked. He pressed the signal switch and waited.

Nothing happened. MacRae pressed the switch again and called out mildly to the speaker grille, "Let me in. I have an important message for the Resident."

Still nothing happened. MacRae changed his tone to pretended exasperation. "Hurry up, please! I'm freezing to death out here."

The door remained dark and silent. MacRae changed his manner to belligerence. "Okay, Beecher, open up! We've got the place surrounded and we're ready to blast in the door. You have thirty seconds till we set off the charge."

The seconds ticked away. Doc muttered to Jim, "I wish it were the truth," then raised his voice and said, "Time's up, Beecher. This is it."

The door hissed as the compressed air in the lock began to escape to the outside; the lock was starting to cycle. MacRae motioned them back a little; they waited, not breathing, all guns drawn and aimed at the point where the door would begin to open.

Then it was open and a single figure stood in it, the lock's light shining behind him. "Don't shoot!" said a firm, pleasant voice. "It's all right. It's all over."

MacRae peered at the figure. "Why, Doctor Rawlings'" he said. "Bless your ugly face."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"It's an Ultimatum."

RAWUNGS HIMSELF HAD spent half the night locked up, along with half a dozen other prominent citizens who had attempted to reason with Beecher. As the story got around, especially the matter of the deaths of the Pottles, Beecher found himself with no support at all, save from his own clique of sycophants and toadies and the professional, largely disinterested support of the Company's police.

Even Kruger cracked up under the strain, tried to get Beecher to reverse himself-and was stuffed in with the other dissidents, which by then included the chief engineer of the power plant. But it was Doctor Rawlings who talked the guard placed over them into risking his job and letting them go-the doctor was treating the guard's wife.

"I don't think Beecher would ever stand trial, even if we had him back on Earth," MacRae remarked about the matter to Rawlings and Marlowe. "What do you think, Doctor?" The three were seated in the outer offices of the planet office building. Marlowe had come there after getting word at the power house from MacRae and had gotten busy at once, writing despatches to the Project camps and the other outlying activities, including North Colony itself, trying to round up boats. He had then tried, red-eyed and uncertain from lack of sleep, to compose a suitable report to Earth, until MacRae had interrupted him and insisted that he rest.

"Paranoia?" said Rawlings.

"A clear case.7'

"My opinion, too. I've seen suggestive indications of it, but the case was not fully developed until his will was crossed. He must be hospitalized-and restrained." Doctor Rawlings glanced over his shoulder at a closed door. Behind it was Beecher.

"Certainly, certainly," agreed MacRae, "but speaking nonprofessionally, I'd rather see the no-good so-and-so hang. Paranoia is a disorder contracted only by those of fundamentally bad character."

"Now, Doctor," protested Rawlings.

"That's my opinion," insisted MacRae, "and I've seen a lot of cases, in and out of hospitals."

Marlowe put down his coffee cup and wiped his mouth. "All that is as may be. I think I'll stretch out on one of these desks for a couple of hours. Doc, will you see that someone wakes me?"

"Certainly," agreed MacRae, having no intention of allowing the man to be disturbed until he was fully rested. "Don't worry."

Jim and the others were back at the school where they were to remain until boats could be gotten to take them to Copais. Mrs. Palmer was bustling around with her assistants, getting a mammoth breakfast for weary men and boys. Jim himself was dead tired and hungry but much too excited to think about sleeping, even though dawn had broken outside.

He had just received a cup of coffee and was blowing on it when Smythe showed up. "Say, I understand you really did kill mat cop that took a pot shot at me."

"No," Jim denied, "he's in the infirmary now, just wounded. I've seen him."

Smythe looked troubled. "Oh, shucks," he said finally, "it won't happen more than once in a lifetime. Here's your I.O.U."

Jim stared at him. "Smitty, you're sick."

"Probably. Better take it."

Jim reached back into his subconscious memory and quoted his father. "No, thanks. Marlowes pay their debts."

Smythe looked at him, then said, "Oh, the heck with you, you ungracious twerp!" He tore the I.O.U. into small pieces

and stalked away.

Jim looked wonderingly after him. "Now what was he sore about?" He decided to look up Frank and tell him about it.

He found Frank but had no time to tell him about it; a shout came through the crowd: "Marlowe! Jim Marlowe!"

"Captain Marlowe's at the planet office," someone answered.

"Not him, the kid," the first voice replied. "Jimmy Marlowe! You're wanted up front, right away."

"Coming," yelled Jim. "What for?" He pushed his way toward the entrance, Frank behind him.

The man who had paged him let him get close before he answered, "You won't believe it-I don't myself. Martians."

Jim and Frank hurried outside. Gathered in front of the school door were more than a dozen Martians. Gekko was there, and G'kuro, but not K'booch. Nor could Jim make out the old one whom he thought of as "head man" of Gekko's tribe. Gekko spotted them and said in his own speech, "Greetings, Jim-Marlowe, greetings, Frank-Sutton, friends sealed with water."