had suspected many, if not most of his recent associates of being stool pigeons, but not Heim. Heim rang true.
"Okay, pal. From, now on we don't pull punches. Here's the dope."
For half an hour Dominguez poured forth the details of the revolution to be. It was set for Lunar dawn — just forty hours to come. There was ample time to station all the details. The plants of Cosmopolis were to be taken over by the current shift, with the concurrent massacre of the guards.
Other disgruntled elements on the Moon were to be notified, so that they could synchronize their uprising with that of the inner group in the big city. After that they need only boycott the Earth. The slant-eyes would soon come to terms for lack of the necessities of life.
"Hold on," suggested Winchester. "Haven't you overlooked a bet? What about the Khan's personal army and his flotilla of space cruisers that he keeps close to him at his palace? And don't forget that in the old days, Terra supported a population of five billion. If the Khan plowed his lawns under and reopened his mines, he would have more resources than all the rest of the System put together."
"Pooh!" replied Dominguez. "With slaves? Forget it, pal. Once we take Cosmopolis, the whole System will fold up like an accordion."
"Then?" asked Winchester.
"Then we take over. We divvy up. Hugo here gets Africa. Donyi, South Asia. You get South America and I get North. Giuseppi takes what he wants of Australia, and — "
"All right," agreed Winchester. "Let's go. My job is to turn out the steelworkers. I meet you here after we have cleaned out our own crater. Is that right?"
Dominguez nodded, and Winchester slipped out into the dark.
For the fourth time Winchester rode in the secret subway beneath the Citadel. The first had been when he left 8-RYF's office for the Botanical Gardens. The second had been two months before, when he obeyed a mysterious summons to appear in person before his chief; the third when he left for Cosmopolis. That time he had changed personality again, and was dressed as a foreman of the steel-fabricating trade. Now he was back with a report to make.
He made the required signals before the secret panel and waited for the faint click that was to come.
Number Eight did not look up when he first came in, but continued to study a sheaf of flimsies in his hand. When he did look up, it was with a cold scowl.
"When I gave you the means of reaching me here, I did not mean for you to abuse it," he said icily. "You should make your reports in the usual way, except in emergencies."
"There is an emergency," said Winchester quietly. "The gang you sent me to investigate have completed their plans and are about to strike. The word is being passed now. In thirty hours the massacre will commence."
"Strange," said Number Eight thoughtfully. He pressed a button, and when the answering buzz came he barked, "When did Fifty-eight report last?"
The answer was prompt.
"Yesterday. Says final meeting to be held tonight. Nothing since — "
Number Eight snapped the switch off, pressed another button.
"Cosmo-one? Trace this number at once." He gave it out.
"Got him right here," came back the answer, clear as a bell.
Winchester felt a small muscle in his neck twitch. He had seen the number before, and it was an easy one to memorize. It was the number worn by Donyi Dangar, timekeeper at the big smelter, one of the arch-conspirators!
But Cosmo-one had more to say.
"He was picked up ten minutes ago in Astarte Road. Throat slit from ear to ear and a dagger stuck in his back — "
"Okay," snapped 8-RYF. "Stand by for secret general alarm. It will be going out in about two seconds."
"Talk fast," said Number Eight to Winchester.
The chief began playing on buttons, and small pilot lights of many colors blinked on the board across the room.
Winchester told his story. It was the account of tonight's meeting, and the detailed plans for the insurrection. When it was over, Number Eight looked inquiringly past Winchester, who realized for the first time that while he had been talking, someone had come in behind him unheard.
"That's right," confirmed the unseen person.
Winchester knew the voice. It was that of Lorenz, chief of the pattern-makers, another member of the conspirators!
"You've got it all," snapped Number Eight into his transmitter. "Round up those men. Execute them the slow way. No trials, but learn the names of the next men under them in each industry. Send them to Central. Thirty lashes and a warning to any small fry you catch. Got it? Acknowledge!"
The colored lights blinked, one after another, and went out, as each local police captain signified he had heard and understood.
"Good work," said Number Eight to Winchester. "You have proved yourself not only trustworthy, but capable. I had several other men cover the job too, so I know. Now you had better get back to your laboratory and stay out of sight for a few weeks, until we have cleaned up in Cosmopolis. Stand by for a new detail at the end of that time."
"Yes, sir," said Winchester, his heart pumping with excitement, and headed for the secret door.
Back in laboratory H-3 he lay in his bunk and stared upward into the darkness, thinking over all he had seen and done.
The entire incident shook his self-confidence to the foundations. He had hoped by turning spy to be able to learn who and where the real revolutionaries were, then to shield them by turning in false reports. Later, when all was ripe, he would throw off the mask and join them.
But if he was checked up in every single act and utterance, as he had been so far, he could accomplish nothing. He would either have to become a better AFPA man to save his own skin, or else court almost certain exposure and the death by torture that would follow on its heels.
He could not sleep. He got up after a time and turned on the lights. Restlessly he paced his sleeping compartment, then enlarged his beat to include the tiny laboratory. He tried to quit thinking of that hidden room in the heart of Central, and the cold-eyed man who sat there and calmly ordered numberless deaths and floggings.
He turned his thoughts rather to the weird vegetation in the craters about him, and the potent juices that ran through these plants. He had come to this place as an actor. Now that he was about to leave it for all time, he realized it would be as a genuine scientist and not as a faker.
The American thought suddenly of the experiments he had begun and never quite finished. Perhaps it would soothe his mind and give him a better perspective if he occupied himself with them once more. So, as he paced the floor, he retraced his findings, step by step, until he had freshened his memory. He stopped in his tracks, hit by an uninvited and unexpected thought. He frowned for an instant, then strode to the chemical cabinet.
Winchester took down a small vial of silvery oil, and a half-dozen standard solvents. He tried each until he found the combinations that would mix with the oil and not emulsify. He then jabbed his arm for blood, and experimented with it in combination with the Crater specimens. Last but not least,
