He closed the box.

He rapidly connected the wire he had earlier loosened.

Char turned back to him after chomping on Ker.

“It’s fixed,” said Jonnie. “It was just a loose wire.”

Ker yelled to the operator, “Try it now!”

The operator did and the ore duster purred.

“See?” said Ker. “I trained him myself.”

Jonnie got back on Windsplitter, using the motion to turn off his picto-recorder.

“It’s working now,” said the operator. Char looked venom at Jonnie. “You keep that horse out of this area. If this was a firing time he'd land in Psychlo!" He went off muttering something about damned animals.

The conveyor belt and buckets and machines were roaring away again, making haste to clear the load before the new freighter came in. The old one took off.

Windsplitter wandered down toward the morgue. This building, remarkable for its refrigerator coils, stood well back. Jonnie turned and looked from it back at the compound. It was a straight course from here, across the transshipment platform and up the hill to the cage.

“And what,” said a voice, “are you doing down here with a picto-recorder?”

It was Terl. He had stepped out of the morgue and had a list in his hand. In the dark reaches of the building, coffins were stacked. Terl had been checking Psychlo corpses scheduled for return home at the semiannual firing.

“Practicing,” answered Jonnie. “For what?” growled Terl.

“Sooner or later you'll want me to take pictures for you up in the-'

“Don't talk about that around here!”

Terl tossed his list back of him toward the morgue and stepped close to Jonnie. He yanked the picto-recorder off Jonnie's chest, snapping the holding straps. The thongs bit into Jonnie's back as they resisted just before they gave.

Turning the machine over, Terl snapped the disc out of it, threw it in the dust, and stamped on it with his boot heel.

He poked sharp talons into Jonnie's belt and flipped out four more discs.

“They're just blanks,” said Jonnie.

Terl threw those into the dust and ground them under a heavy toe.

He shoved the picto-recorder back at Jonnie. “It’s a company rule not to record a transshipment area.”

“When you want me to take pictures,” said Jonnie, “I hope you'll be able to make them out.”

“I better be able to,” snarled Terl illogically and stamped back into the morgue.

Later, when Jonnie was let in to take Chrissie supplies, he had no trouble slipping the earlier discs from his incoming pack to Chrissie's outgoing pack.

But they weren't the circuit diagrams that would detect uranium.

Out of plain revenge that night he showed his whole crew the earlier pictures he had taken. He showed them all the locations of the whole transshipment area. He would have to do it again later when proper plans were formed. But for now he wanted to show them pictures of Chrissie and Pattie.

The shots showed the girls, showed the collars, showed the switch box to the bars. But mainly it showed their faces, the faces of a little girl and a beautiful woman.

The Scots watched the pictures, attentive to the geography of the transshipment area, the battle planes, the breathe-gas dump, the fuel dump, the morgue, and the platform. But when they saw the pictures of Chrissie and Pattie they began with pity and ended with rage.

Robert the Fox had to speak again to prevent them from tearing over right then and ripping the place to pieces. The pipers played a mournful lament.

If the Scots had been enthusiastic before, they were deadly determined and angry now.

But Jonnie lay unable to sleep that night. He had had it right in the camera– the circuit of a uranium detector. He had not memorized it. He had counted upon getting the pictures. He blamed himself for depending on machines. Machines were all right but they did not replace man.

There would come a day of reckoning with Terl. He vowed it bitterly.

In the clear, cold noon they were on their way for a first look at the lode. Jonnie, Robert the Fox, the three who looked similar to Jonnie, and the two Scot mining shift leaders who had been appointed sped along in the small personnel carrier, high above the grandeur of the Rockies.

Terl had come early that morning, threatening and secretive. His ground

car had been spotted some time since by a posted sentry and Jonnie had been warned.

Wrapped in a puma skin against the dawn chill, Jonnie met the ground car as it stopped. Breakfast was just over in the mess hall and a warning had been sent to stay inside. The grounds were nearly deserted and there was nothing to distract Terl's attention.

He got out, tightening his breathe-mask, and stood there tossing the remote control box idly into the air and catching it in his paw.

“Why,” said Terl, “are you interested in a uranium detector?”

Jonnie frowned and looked mystified– or tried to.

“I heard after you left the other day that you 'repaired' the ore duster. With a picto-recorder around your neck? Ha!”

Jonnie decided on a sudden verbal attack. “You expect me to go up into those mountains without knowing what to avoid? You expect me to go tearing around getting myself wrecked-”

“Wrecked?”

“Physically wrecked from uranium contamination-”

“See here, animal, you can't talk this way to me!”

“-when you know very well that I could be made sick if I didn't avoid uranium dust! You've told me there's uranium up there! And you expect me-!”

“Wait a minute,” said Terl. “What are you talking about?”

“Mining toxicology!” snapped Jonnie.

The kilted sentry who had called him was standing by the mess hall door, looking daggers and dirks at Terl.

“Sentry!” shouted Jonnie. “Grab a book, any book in English, and bring it here! Fast!”

Jonnie turned back to Terl. The running footsteps of the sentry could be heard inside the building. Terl put the control box back in his pocket so his gun paw could be free just in case.

The sentry rushed out with an ancient volume labeled The Poems of Robert Burns. He had snatched it from the parson who was reading at breakfast. It would have to do.

Jonnie snapped it open. He put his finger on a line that said, “Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie..."

“See there!” he demanded of Terl. "In the presence of uranium, a man's hair falls out, his teeth fall out, his skin develops red blotches, and his bones crumble! And it happens in just a few weeks of exposure.”

“You don't explode?” said Terl.

“It doesn't say anything here about explosion, but it says that continuous exposure to uranium dust can be fatal! Read it yourself!"

Terl looked at a line that said something about, "O, what a panic's in thy breastie!" and said, “So it does. I didn't know that.”

“You know it now,” said Jonnie. He closed and thumped the book. “I found this by accident. You didn't tell me. Now are you going to let me have a detector or aren't you?”

Terl looked thoughtful. “So your bones turn to dust, do they? And it takes a few months?”

“Weeks,” said Jonnie.

Terl began to laugh. His paw dropped from his belt gun and he swatted himself in the chest, catching his breath. “Well,” he said at length, “I guess you'll just have to take your chances, won't you?”

It hadn't worked. But Terl was totally off the scent now. Actually feeling more secure.

“That wasn't what I came over here for, anyway,” said Terl. “Can we go some place less public?”

Jonnie handed the book back to the sentry with a wink to reassure him. The Scot had enough sense not to grin. But Terl was rummaging around the ground car.

He beckoned Jonnie to follow and took him back of the chapel where there were no windows. He had a big roll of maps and photos and he sat down on the ground. He motioned for Jennie to hunker down.