I had a few minutes, perhaps, before my pursuers would arrive.
I reached the inner, patio garden. The moon was well out from under the clouds now. The patio shimmered, a silent, deserted fairyland.
"Jetta!" I called it softly. Then louder. "Jetta!"
Spawn's house was fairly large and rambling. There were so many rooms. Jetta was gagged; how could she answer me? But I had no time to search for her.
A window and a door near the pergola. "Jetta!"
"Yes. I am in here. They tied me up. Not so loud, Phil: father will hear you."
I reached her garden door. Turned its handle. Rattled the door. Shoved frantically with my shoulder!
[Illustration: _One of the men rolled free and came lurching toward us._]
It was a big mistake. I should not have done it. By birth, by instinct, by training, by habit, I am a man of action. Or I was. It is queer that an old man cannot remember that he is no longer young.
[Sidenote: Commander John Hanson of the Special Patrol Service records another of his thrilling interplanetary assignments.]
But it was a mistake for me to mention that I had recorded, for the archives of the Council, the history of a certain activity of the Special Patrol--a bit of secret history[1] which may not be mentioned here. Now they insist--by "they" I refer to the Chiefs of the Special Patrol Service--that I write of other achievements of the Service, other adventures worthy of note.
[Footnote 1: Editors Note: "The Forgotten Planet" July 1930 issue of Astounding Stories]
Perhaps that is the penalty of becoming old. From commander of the _Budi_, one of the greatest of the Special Patrol ships, to the duties of recording ancient history, for younger men to read and dream about. That is a shrewd blow to one's pride.
But if I can, in some small way, add luster to the record of my service, it will be a fitting task for a man grown old and gray in that service; work for hands too weak and palsied for sterner duties.
But I shall tell my stories in my own way; after all, they are my stories. And I shall tell the stories that appeal to me most. The universe has had enough and too much of dry history; these shall be adventurous tales to make the blood of a young man who reads them run a trifle faster--and perhaps the blood of the old man who writes them.