green globe that was his own world did he think of Jeffrey Anson again. It was with a grim smile that he pondered the consternation his disappearance would cause. Gnarled, gnome-like Loren Bayard had banked heavily on Anson's brains. Anson had that fox-like cunning that got results in tracking down reactionaries.
Dane looked down, measuring his distance from the sleek blue expanse of the Atlantic, shining miles below. He tilted over and dropped swiftly.
A warm feeling of satisfaction pulsed his body. With Anson out of the way, his road had one gigantic stumbling block removed from it. He wondered how long it would be before they knew he was not coming back again. At least, that was one job they could not pin on him! He foresaw a stretch in Central Detention for the beating he had given East Bayard, but, strangely, that prospect cheered him somewhat. Four or five months to map out his campaign and compile a list of possible accomplices. The time wouldn't be wasted.
Land came rushing up at him. His eyes found the ragged gray outline of New York City. Dane sloped for the landing field in the mainland foothills. With a little tug at his heart, Dane thought of Brooke down there in the city. He wondered if he must always be fighting his battle without her. Then the field shot up at him, a brown square coming out of greens and grays. Under his skillful hands the rockets coughed a last blast and went dead. Gravity repulsors commenced to throb, bearing the ship safely to earth in strong, invisible arms.
As the cement grated under his feet, Dane stood up and stepped out. Breathing deeply of the fresh, clean air, he stretched mightily. And then, sidling out of hangars, slipping from between buildings, he saw them coming . . .
Gray-uniformed policemen, each carrying a wicked-looking automatic rifle. Like gray wolves they closed in on him, the sunlight catching blue glints from their weapons. A shout broke the unnatural hush.
"Put up your hands, Cabot! You're under arrest!"
DANE thought in a stunned sort of way: "They're being damned cautious about an ordinary assault-and-battery case!"
He obeyed the order, standing tall against the shiny side of his ship. A big, red-faced officer came up to him and shoved the rifle in his stomach.
"Where's Anson?" he snapped.
Dane looked blankly at him. His stunned gaze traveled over the others, who were closing in.
"Anson?" he muttered. "What about him?"
"Where is he?" barked the officer again. "The last we heard of, he radioed back from the Quicksands that he'd picked up your trail. Where is he now?"
Dane Cabot's brown, lean features did not alter. But inside him there was a block of ice that included his stomach and heart and was spreading out with each passing second. He drew on all his self-control for the strength to reply calmly.
"I don't know. I haven't seen him."
"Ahh!" the officer spat disgustedly. "Put the cuffs on him, George. We'll see what they can do with him at Central Detention!"
That was the way Dane learned that he had already made one mistake. The mistake was forgetting that the Vedette carried trans-patial radios in their pursuit ships. So the whole world knew Anson had been closing in on the rebel when the static barrages of the Quicksands cut short his broadcast. That
