"Very well; very well!" The captain scribbled, tore a receipt from his pad, and handed it to the underling. "You may go now, Corporal."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Corporal Tandred left hurriedly, still uncertain why he had obeyed the instructions of the mysterious voice, still uncomprehending as to why he should have asked for a receipt, but with a strong conviction he had done the wise thing.
He was right! Five minutes later the money vanished mysteriously from the captain’s desk. Or so, at any rate, in stern, judicial court the captain swore repeatedly to an even colder superior. In vain the captain protested his innocence and tried to shift the blame to Corporal Tandred’s shoulders. The Corporal was in the clear, triumphantly acquitted through possession of a signed receipt for the missing money.
In the bleak gray of the following dawn, the captain was shot for theft and conspiracy against the State. But the money was not found among his effects....
*
Brian Shaughnessey, crouched in the concealment of a flowering hedge, heard the footsteps of the guard pass within scant inches of his head. He counted slowly to himself.
"... eight…nine…ten...."
Noiselessly he gathered himself for the silent dash. Watchful waiting had taught him that ten seconds after marching past this bush, the guard turned briefly down a side lane from which the roadway was invisible. A hurried run, a swift and silent dash, would take him to the doorway of the supply warehouse.
He crouched, tensed, listened…then ran. For a big man he made little noise. He had reached his objective with seconds to spare before the guard, returning from the bypath, glanced up and down the main avenue, found all clear, and resumed his rounds.
Shaughnessey grinned, slipped into the shadow of the doorway, and fumbled at his belt. He withdrew a metal ovoid, prepared to draw the pin that set its mechanism into operation…then stopped! His fingers faltered, and he whirled, eyes darting anxiously. For from the darkness, a voice had spoken.
"No, Brian! "
Brian Shaughnessey shook himself like a great, shaggy dog. He was a strong man, a man of great courage. But he was also a superstitious man. Awe dawned now in his eyes. "This is it, then," he whispered to himself. "I’m not long for this world. It…it’s him, come to meet me. Well—" He shrugged—"if that’s the way it must be, I might as well finish this job—"
And again he reached for the pin. But this time the sense of unseen presence was so strong that Brian Shaughnessey could almost feel the grip of ghostly fingers tingling on his wrist. And the voice was louder, clearer.
"No, Brian! Not here! "
"Morris!" cried Shaughnessey starkly, unbelievingly. "Dirk Morris!"
"Hush, you idiot! " warned the voice. "You’ll bring the guard down upon us! "
"Us?" repeated Brian, baffled.
"Don’t toss that grenade here. You’re too close to the munitions bins. Here…let me have it! "
Shaughnessey, stricken with a near-paralysis of awe, felt a curious vibration tingle through his fingers as from his slackened grip the explosive ovoid slipped…and vanished! He stared about him wildly, gasped, "The grenade! Where did it go? Dirk—"
"Not now! " whispered the urgent voice. "Go to Neil. Tell him to gather the Group at the regular place tonight. I will come to you. Now, get out of here. Quickly! "
"B-but I don’t understand—" gulped Brian.
"Quickly! " insisted the voice.
Shaughnessey nodded. He did not in the least understand what manner of mystery here confronted him. But he was a faithful servant of the Group. It was enough for him that he had heard Dirk Morris’ voice, and that voice issued orders. Without another word he turned and slipped across the pathway to the cover of the hedge. Using it as a shelter, he fled the vicinity of the warehouse.
It was well he did so. Less than two minutes later, a terrific blast hurled him headlong to the ground as a bolt of man-made lightning seared the munitions dump wherein was stored the bulk of Graed Garroway’s military supplies for this area. A livid stalk of greasy smoke, flame-laced, mushroomed to the skies, and the terrain for miles around was shaken as by a temblor.
When the ensuing fire was finally brought under control, there remained but charred and twisted girders in that gaping pit which once had been a fortress....
*
Lenore Garroway hummed softly to herself as she sat before the gorgeous, full-length mirror of her dressing-room table. She was happy…and that was not altogether commonplace, because for an Emperor’s daughter, surrounded by ease and every comfort, dwelling in the lap of luxuries few others even dared dream of, Lenore Garroway was not often happy.
But she was now, because she was with her gems. No pleasure in the seven worlds compared, in the Princess Lenore’s mind, with that of fondling her precious stones, rare and perfect specimens gathered from the farflung corners of the System at the cost of no one dared guess how many lives.
Before and about her in bounteous array lay a ransom of glittering baubles. Chalcedony and sardonyx…diamond and ruby…the rare green pharonys delved from the sea-bottoms of Venus, the even rarer ice-amethyst of Uranus ... wisstrix from giant Jupiter and the faceted koleidon of tiny Eros…these were her playthings.
So she sat, allowing the glittering motes to sift through her soft, white fingers, raising this matched set of rings to her ears, that exquisite lavaliere to her equally exquisite throat, humming softly to herself as she sat at her dressing table, watching the graceful movements of her perfect body in the full-length rock-quartz mirror.
A soft tap pulsed through the room, and the Princess Lenore turned, the flicker of a frown marring the perfection of her brow.
"Well, Marta?" she demanded.
Her maid-in-waiting entered fearfully. She was old and ugly. The Princess would not have about her any who were not; her radiance must be at all times like that of a true jewel amidst paste. Even the ladies of the court were required to dress down their own lesser beauty when gathered for state occasions.
"Well, Marta?" repeated the princess.
"Your pardon, Highness," breathed the old woman. "A delegation from the women of the city—"
"What do they want?"
"It is something about…taxes, Highness. They say they cannot afford—"
"Taxes!" The princess’ eyes clouded. "Why must they fret me with their miserable woes? I know nothing of taxes. Bid them see my father."
Marta cringed humbly.
"They have tried to, Highness, but without success. That is why they have come here. To beg your intercession—"
"I cannot see them," said Lenore. "Tell them to go away. I am busy."
"But, Highness—"
"Away,
