sent out by Central News. Stormgren wandered indoors and ruffled halfheartedly through the sheets. On the other side of the world, the Freedom League had inspired a not-very-original headline. “IS MAN RULED BY MONSTERS?” asked the paper, and went on to quote, “Addressing a meeting in Madras today, Dr. C. V. Krishnan, President of the Eastern Division of the Freedom League, said, 'The explanation of the Overlords' behaviour is quiet simple. Their physical form is so alien and repulsive that they dare not show themselves to humanity. I challenge the Supervisor to deny this.”
Stormgren threw down the sheet in disgust. Even if the charge were true, did it really matter? The idea was an old one, but it had never worried him. He did not believe that there was my biological form, however strange, which he could not accept in time and, perhaps, even find beautiful. The mind, not the body, was all that mattered. If only he could convince Karellen of this, the Overlords might change their policy. It was certain that they could not be half as hideous as the imaginative drawings that had filled the papers soon after their coming to Earth!
Yet it was not, Stormgren knew, entirely consideration for his successor that made him anxious to see the end of this state of affairs. He was honest enough to admit that, in the final analysis, his, main motive was simple human curiosity. He had grown to know Karellen as a person, and he would never be satisfied until he had also discovered what kind of creature he might be.
When Stormgren failed to arrive at his usual time next morning, Pieter van Ryberg was surprised and a little annoyed. Though the Secretary General often made a number of calls before reaching his own office, he invariably left word that he was doing so. This morning, to make matters worse, there had been several urgent messages for Stormgren. Van Ryberg rang half a dozen departments to try and locate him, then gave it up in disgust.
By noon he had become alarmed and sent a car to Stormgren's house. Ten minutes later he was startled by the scream of a siren, and a police patrol came racing up Roosevelt Drive. The news agencies must have had friends in that vehicle, for even as van Ryberg watched it approach, the radio was telling the world that he was no longer merely Assistant—but Acting—Secretary-General of the United Nations.
Had van Ryberg fewer troubles on his hands, he would have found it entertaining to study the press reactions to Stormgren's disappearance. For the past month, the world's papers had divided themselves into two sharply defined groups. The Western press, on the whole, approved of Karellen's plan to make all men citizens of the world. The Eastern countries, on the other hand, were undergoing violent but largely synthetic spasms of national pride. Some of them had been independent for little more than a generation, and felt that they had been cheated out of their gains. Criticism of the Overlords was widespread and energetic: after an initial period of extreme caution, the Press had quickly found that it could be as rude to Karellen as it liked and nothing would happen. Now it was excelling itself.
Most of these attacks, though very vocal, were not representative of the great mass of the people. Along the frontiers that would soon be gone forever the guards had been doubled—but the soldiers eyed each other with a still inarticulate friendliness. The politicians and the generals might storm and rave, but the silently waiting millions felt that, none too soon, a long and bloody chapter of history was coming to an end.
And now Stormgren had gone, no one knew where. The tumult suddenly subsided as the world realized that it had lost the only man through whom the Overlords, for their own strange reasons, would speak to Earth. A paralysis seemed to descend upon the press and radio commentators, but in the silence could be heard the voice of the Freedom League, anxiously protesting its innocence. It was utterly dark when Stormgren awoke. For a moment he was too sleepy to realize how strange that was. Then, as full consciousness dawned, he sat up with a start and felt for the switch beside his bed.
In the darkness his hand encountered a bare stone wall, cold to the touch. He froze instantly, mind and body paralyzed by the impact of the unexpected. Then, scarcely believing his senses, he kneeled on the bed and began to explore with his finger tips that shockingly unfamiliar wall.
He had been doing this only for a moment when there was a sudden click and a section of the darkness slid aside. He caught a glimpse of a man silhouetted against a dimly lit background; then the door closed again and the darkness returned. It happened so swiftly that he had no chance to see anything of the room in which he was lying.
An instant later, he was dazzled by the light of a powerful electric torch. The beam flickered across his face, held him steadily for a moment, then dipped to illuminate the whole bed—which was, he now saw, nothing more than a mattress supported on rough planks.
Out of the darkness a soft voice spoke to him in excellent English, but with an accent which Stormgren could not at first identify.
“Ah, Mr. Secretary—I'm glad to see you're awake. I hope you feel quite all right.”
There was something about the last sentence that caught Stormgren's attention, so that the angry questions he had been about to ask died upon his lips. He stared back into the darkness, then replied calmly: “How long have I been unconscious?”
The other chuckled.
“Several days. We were promised there'd be no after-effects. I'm glad to see it's true.”
Partly to gain time, partly to test his own reactions, Stormgren swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still wearing his night-clothes, but they were badly crumpled and seemed to have gathered considerable dirt. As he moved he felt a slight dizziness—not enough to be unpleasant but sufficient to convince him that he had indeed been drugged.
He turned towards the light.
“Where am I?” he said sharply. “Does Wainwright know about this?”
“Now, don't get excited,” replied the shadowy figure. “We won't talk about that sort of thing yet. I guess you're pretty hungry. Get dressed and come along to dinner.”
The oval of light slipped across the room and for the first time Stormgren had an idea of its dimensions. It was scarcely a room at all, for the walls seemed bare rock, roughly smoothed into shape. He realized that he was underground, possibly at a great depth. And if he had been unconscious for several days, he might be anywhere on Earth.
The torch-light illuminated a pile of clothes draped over a packing-case.
“This should be enough for you,” said the voice from the darkness. “Laundry's rather a problem here, so we grabbed a couple of your suits and half a dozen shirts.”
“That,” said Stormgren without humour, “was very considerate of you.”
“We're sorry about the absence of furniture and electric Light. This place is convenient in some ways, but it rather lacks amenities.”
“Convenient for what?” asked Stormgren as he climbed into a shirt. The feel of the familiar cloth beneath his fingers was strangely reassuring.
“Just—convenient,” said the voice. “And by the way, since we're likely to spend a good deal of time together, you'd better call me Joe.
“Despite your nationality,” retorted Stormgren, “—you're Polish, aren't you? — I think I could pronounce your real name. It won't be worse than many Finnish ones.”
There was a slight pause and the light flickered for an distant.
'Well, I should have expected it,” said Joe resignedly. “You must have plenty of practice at this sort of thing.”
“It's a useful hobby for a man in my position. At a guess I should say you were brought up in the United States but didn't leave Poland until—”
“That,” said Joe firmly, “is quite enough. As you seem to save finished dressing—thank you.”
The door opened as Stormgren walked towards it, feeling mildly elated by his small victory. As Joe stood aside to let aim pass, he wondered if his captor was armed. Almost certainly he would be, and in any case he would have friends around.
The corridor was dimly lit by oil lamps at intervals, and for the first time Stormgren could see Joe clearly. He was a man of about fifty, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds. Everything about him was outsize, from the stained battledress that might have come from any of half a dozen armed forces, to the startlingly large signet ring on his left band. A man built on this scale probably would not bother to carry a gun. It should not be difficult to trace him, thought Stormgren, if he ever got out of this place. He was a little depressed to
