Her eyes flamed electric-blue, and her voice cracked like a whip.
"Don't be a fool! Get in here—and hurry! When he thinks it over he may change his mind. We're getting away with murder!"
It didn't make sense, but there was nothing to gain by lingering here. The two entered the conveyance, the girl pressed a button and concealed motors whined as they began to descend swiftly. But the last word was still Chip's.
"That's just what you have been getting away with," he acknowledged grimly, "but you're nearing the end of your rope now—Lorelei!"
In the semidarkness, the girl's eyes were pools of liquid surprise.
"Getting away with—end of—I don't understand?"
"Murder!" gritted Chip. "Murder and piracy. A dozen spacecraft within the past two months, scuttled and every man of their crews done to death. But your siren-song won't tempt many more, Lorelei. The Space Patrol is on to your alluring little trap. You may finish us off, but the battle fleet will find you eventually, and when it does—"
He didn't finish his prophecy, for the elevator came to rest; the door opened. And peering in at them, hurrying forward to greet them and take the sagging weight of the aged missionary from the girl's arm, was a white-haired old man.
"Alison!" he cried. "You're back safely! Thank the Lord! You shouldn't have gone above. It's dangerous, child, dangerous to mingle with such scoundrels! Who are these—?"
And then the girl did a surprising thing. A particularly surprising thing, inasmuch as a few minutes ago, facing Blacky Jordan like a golden Valkyr, her boldness had won from Chip Warren a grudging admiration. She fled to the old man's side, buried her face in his shoulder and cried: