He got up, took his breathe-mask off a peg, and a few minutes later was at the transshipment platform.

Terl stood there in the swirling dust and din of preshipment time. The dispatch-box courier had already been there, and the box, sealed and ready, lay on a corner of the platform. Char came over, interrupted in his preparation for transshipment firing and unfriendly.

“Routine check of dispatch transmission,” said Terl. “Security business.” He showed him the blanket authorization.

“You'll have to be fast,” shouted Char. “No time to wait around.” He glanced at his clock.

Terl scooped up the dispatch box and took it over to the car he had arrived in. He unlocked it with his master key and laid it on the seat. Nobody was watching. Char was back harassing blade machine operators to neaten up the ore.

Terl adjusted the button camera on his collar tab and speedily riffled through the sheaves. They were routine reports, routine day-to-day recounting of operational data.

Terl had done all this before and it hadn't yielded anything, but there was always hope. The Planetary Director had to initial everything and sometimes added data and comments.

The button camera whirred and in short order every sheet had been recorded.

Terl put them back in the box, locked it, and took it over to the platform.

“Everything all right?” said Char, relieved not to have another detail pushed too close to firing time.

“No personal mail, nothing,” said Terl. “When do you send the dead ones back?” He indicated the morgue.

"Semiannually as always,” said Char. “Get your car out of here. This is a big shipment and we're in a hurry.”

Terl went back to his office. Without really hoping, he put the report copies onto a screen, one after the other, studying them.

He was only interested in the ones that had Numph's writing on them. Somehow, somewhere, there was a secret communication in these reports that only Nipe in accounting could decipher; of that Terl was certain. There was no other way to get a communication back to home planet.

When he finally got this– and when he got a real lever on the animal– he could launch his private mining mission.

Terl sat late, missing dinner, studying these and older dispatch box copies until his amber eyes were dulled to a dim flicker.

It was here someplace. He was certain of it.

Collecting things that would aid his escape was not easy.

At first Jonnie had thought he might handle the two button cameras that overlooked his cage– one inside and one outside. If he could bypass these, then at night he could open his collar and freely get about and prepare.

He had spent valuable time studying button cameras in the electronics shop. They were simple devices. They had a small mirror to catch the image, and the image became transmitted electrons; the pattern was simply picked up and recorded on a disc. There was no power in the button camera; power was transmitted to it on a closed circuit from the receiver.

He tried to modify his instruction machine to perform the same function. His object was to record a view of the cage with him in it. Then, with a quick switchover, he could leave the button cameras transmitting that picture while he himself was elsewhere. But there were two cameras, viewing from different angles. He only had one recorder.

Terl caught him one day with the instruction machine in pieces. He was bringing in a rabbit he had shot.

The monster stood there for a while and finally said, “Teach an animal a trick and it has to work it on everything. I think you've wrecked that playing machine.”

Jonnie went on reassembling it.

“Put it back together so it works and you can have this rabbit.”

Jonnie ignored him. But when he had the machine back together, Terl threw down the rabbit.

“Don't monkey with things that don't need fixing,” Terl said with the air of good-god-what-you-have-to-teach-an-animal.

But later Jonnie got a break. The problem was body-heat detection equipment. If in some way he could nullify such surveillance, then he hoped he could get to the mountains. He doubted he could be traced, if the heat-seeking equipment could be fooled.

Ker had him running a drill into the side of a mine shaft over at the actual mine. It was an abandoned hole, about fifty feet in diameter. Ker had lowered the drill platform down into the hole. At that point a rock outcropping was exposed. Under the platform was an ore net.

The drill was heavy, having been built for Psychlos. Jonnie's muscles bulged as he bucked the bit into the outcropping. He had a phone in his ear and Ker was chattering away into it.

“Don't push steady. Just lean on it and let up, time after time. After you got a hole drilled, trip the second trigger and the drill will expand and break off the ore. Keep the net in place to catch it as it falls. Now just keep that sequence going....”

“It’s hot!” Jonnie had yelled back up at him. And it was hot. The drill, spinning at high revs, was heating the wall and

in itself was almost glowing with friction.

“Oh,” said Ker. “You haven't got a heat protector.” He fished around in his pockets amid papers and bits of old snacks and finally dug out a very small package. He put it in a lowering cup and let it down on a line.

Jonnie opened it up. It was a sheet of thin, transparent stuff. It had two sleeves.

“Put it on,” yelled Ker.

Jonnie was amazed that so much area could be compressed into such a small package. The garment was built for a Psychlo and the sleeves were enormous, and it was much too long. He took some tucks in it and put it on over his head and down the front of his body.

He resumed bucking the drill. It was amazing. The reflected heat from the wall and the drill bit did not reach him.

After Ker finally decided Jonnie could use the drill and handle the rig and Jonnie was back on level ground, he went through the motions of giving back the heat shield.

“No, no,” said Ker. “Throw it away. It 's disposable. They get dirty and torn. A driller usually carries half a dozen. I don't know why I forgot. But I ain't been a driller for years.”

“It’s the only one I got,” said Jonnie. “And you're sure a driller,” said Ker.

Jonnie neatly repackaged it and put it in his pouch. He was betting that no heat detector could detect through it. If he wore it and kept it from gaping, the spinning scanner would be blind to it. He hoped.

The food problem he had solved. The smoked beef was compact and would keep him from starving if he was running so fast that he had no time to hunt.

He carefully patched up moccasins and made sure he had an extra pair. Terl observed that, too.

“You don't have to wear those, you know,” Terl said one evening as he came out to check the cage locks. " There are old Chinko boots that could be cut down. Didn't they give you any boots with your clothes?”

The following day the compound tailor came out, complaining in his breathe-mask, and measured Jonnie for boots. “I am not a bootmaker!” he protested. But Terl had shown him the blanket requisition, so the tailor also measured Jonnie for a heavy knee-length overcoat and cold-weather cap. “It is coming on to summer,” said the tailor. “It’s not the time of year for winter clothing.” But he had done the measuring anyway and very soon the boots and clothing were delivered to the cage. “Freaky executives,” the tailor had muttered during the final try-on. “Dressing up animals!”

It made Jonnie uneasy that Terl was being obliging. He carefully checked all his preparations over to see whether any could give away his plans to escape. He decided not. Terl seemed very preoccupied these days, indifferent. Or was that a pose?

The thing that was really giving Jonnie a problem was how to get his hands on a gun.