“I should think that was a cheap price for the pocketknife, if it was as fancy as you say,” said Jonnie.

Well, Stormalong hadn't thought about that. But anyway the small gray man finished his yarb tea and put the bank note away very carefully between two pieces of metal and put them in an inside pocket, and then he thanked her and went back to the ship and said something to somebody inside and got in. He called back for the old woman not to come close and shut the door. And then there was a curl of flame and it rose up, and then all of a sudden it got as big as the whole sky and vanished. Yes, as Jonnie said, probably a phenomenon of light. But it didn't fly like our ships and it didn't teleport. It didn't seem to be Psychlo what with the man being a small gray man.

Jonnie had become very quiet. Some other alien race? interested in Earth now that the Psychlos weren't here?

He looked across the lake, puzzling about it. The storm was building even higher.

Well, be that as it may, continued

Stormalong, that wasn't why he was here. He fumbled in a flat case he carried for maps.

“It’s a letter from Ker," said Stormalong. “And he said I had to bring it personally and not let it get out of my hands. I owe him favors and he said if you didn't get it the whole shaft would fall in. Here it is.”

Jonnie regarded the envelope. It was the paper cover used to package antiheat shields. The only writing on it was “AWFUL SECRET.” He held it up to the light, darkening now as the storm drew nearer. It had no explosive in it that he could detect. He ripped it open. Ah, it was Ker's writing all right. The semiliterate curved hooks and loops might not spell correctly but they spelled Ker's idea of a Psychlo alphabet. He opened it up all the way to read it. It said:

AWFUL SECRET

To You Know Who.

As you know, Personal letters are forbidden by company policy and if I was caught writing and sending one it would cost me three months' pay. Ha. Ha. But you said before you left I should write you if a certain thing happened and give it to a pilot like you know who to bring to you fast. So no names as names is out-security. But it is going to happen so I am writing you even if the company docks me three months' pay. Notice this handwriting is disguised too. Yesterday that flunked-out ex-pilot knothead Lars the one who thought he was the world's greatest combat acrobactic pilot from talking to a party I won't mention because of out-security (security, get it?) and broke his silly neck and got promoted to assistant to you know who (no names) come down and asked all the Psychlos they got in stir to fix up the breathe-gas pumps and ventilators in you know who's old office. Well, they won't cooperate as I knew and you knew they wouldn't. They believe and I am sure they are drilling straight in that you know who killed old you know who by murder. Another one that was murdered afterward had figured it out and told them just before the semiannual firing and then he got missing down the shaft so they believe it. They ain't going to do a thing for you know who or have anything to do with you know who's old quarters because the Psychlos are sure you know who would blow them up. So anyway the breathe-gas pumps and circulators in that section are all blown to bits as we both know and before anybody can go work in there without a mask they have to be fixed but they are broke. So this crazy idiot the universe's greatest combat pilot that never was in combat and broke his neck and we couldn't train come over to see me and I said yes I could fix up the offices of you know who but I would need certain parts maybe even from other minesites because the breathe-gas pump is so broke. And he said it was a Council order and he could make sure I got what I needed. So I am drawing up a very fancy repair design that needs lots of parts and I am delaying as long as I can. They said you know who on the Council said it was secret and urgent and they're going to ride me to get it done and pay me extra pay. Ha. Ha. So I am stalling and like you said you better get over here as I told them I needed assistants, but don't use your name as anything to do with you know who and you know who is poison gas in the drift. So there, you know now and I have about wore my paw out writing this and my ears out listening to how rush it is but I will delay and look for unnecessary parts as long as I can for the breathe-gas circulator that sure was broke and is now even more broke. Ha. Ha. This personal letter could cost me three months' pay. Ha. Ha. So you owe me if I’m caught at it. Ha. Ha.

–You know who

Addition: Claw this letter up so it don't cost me three months' pay-or my furry neck. No ha, ha.

Jonnie read the letter again and then, as required, tore it into bits. “When was this given to you?” he asked Stormalong.

“Yesterday morning. I had to trace you.”

Jonnie looked out across the lake. The storm was huge now, towering with black turmoil. It was almost upon them.

Jonnie pushed Stormalong onto the tri-wheeler and started it up. Without another word he tore across the savannah to the minesite.

The growl of thunder sounded and the first stinging slashes of rain lanced the air.

Jonnie knew he had to get to America now. At once!

It's a trap!” said Robert the Fox.

Jonnie had returned. He rapidly told them what Ker had said. He had given orders for the immediate refueling, check-over, and cleaning of Stormalong's plane to be ready within the hour. He had the copilot who had come with Stormalong in front of him now with Angus standing nearby, and he was comparing the two.

“Can you trust Ker?" demanded Sir Robert.

Jonnie didn't answer. He was satisfied Angus could be mistaken for the copilot if he darkened his beard, put on a bit of walnut stain, and changed clothes.

“Answer me! I canna think ye've got all yer wits!” Robert was so agitated he was pacing back and forth in the underground room Jonnie had been using. He was even lapsing into his colloquial Scot dialect.

“I must go. Now and fast,” Jonnie shot at them.

“No!” said Dunneldeen. “No!” said Robert the Fox.

There was a flurry of translations with his Coordinator and then Colonel Ivan shouted, "Nyet!"

Jonnie had Angus changing clothes with the copilot. “You don't have to go, Angus,” he said. “You said 'yes' too hastily.”

Angus said, "I’ll go. I’ll say my prayers and make my will but I’ll go with you, Jonnie.”

Stormalong was standing there and Jonnie pulled him over to a huge Psychlo mirror and stood beside him. Tropic sun had tanned Jonnie lately: their skin tone difference was not so great now. Stormalong's beard was a little darker: some walnut stain would fix that. There was the new facial scar, well healed now, that Jonnie had gotten: nothing could be done about that, and he hoped people would think Stormalong had had an accident; yes, wait, he could put a bandage on it. Ah, the square cut of the bottom of the beard: that was what was making the difference. He reached for the tool kit Angus always carried, got out some sharp wire snips, and began to make his beard exactly the same as Stormalong's. That done, he changed clothes with him. Now a little walnut stain in the beard...good. He looked at himself in the mirror. Ah, yes. The piece of bandage. He got that and put in on. Now? Good. He could pass for Stormalong. The huge, old– fashioned goggles, white scarf, and leather flying coat: yes, they did it. Unless he was looked at too closely or their slight difference in accent was heard....

He made Stormalong talk, then he talked. No Scot burr in Stormalong's accent. Scot university? A little soft in pronunciation? He tried it. Yes, he could also sound like Stormalong.