purred away quietly and the words gleamed for a few seconds on the darkened screen.
Then he leaned back and waited for the answer. Scarcely a minute later the machine started to whirr again. Not for the first time, van Ryberg wondered if the Supervisor ever slept. The message was as brief as it was unhelpful.
NO INFORMATION. LEAVE MATTERS ENTIRELY TO YOUR DISCRETION. K. Rather bitterly, and without any satisfaction at all, van Ryberg realized how much greatness had been thrust upon him.
During the past three days Stormgren had analyzed his captors with some thoroughness. Joe was the only one of any importance; the others were nonentities—the riff-raff one would expect any illegal movement to gather round itself The ideals of the Freedom League meant nothing to them; their only concern was earning a living with the minimum of work.
Joe was an altogether more complex individual, though sometimes he reminded Stormgren of an overgrown baby. Their interminable poker games were punctuated with violent political arguments, and it soon became obvious to Stormgren that the big Pole had never thought seriously about the causes for which he was fighting. Emotion and extreme conservatism clouded all his judgments. His country's long struggle for independence had conditioned him so completely that he still lived in the past. He was a picturesque survival, one of those who had no use for an ordered way of life. When his type vanished, if it ever did, the world would be a safer but less interesting place.
There was now little doubt, as far as Stormgren was concerned, that Karellen had failed to locate him. He had tried to bluff, but his captors were unconvinced. He was fairly certain that they had been holding him here to see if Karellen would act, and now that nothing had happened they could proceed with their plans.
Stormgren was not surprised when, four days after his capture, Joe told him to expect visitors. For some time the little group had shown increasing nervousness, and the prisoner guessed that the leaders of the movement, having seen that the coast was clear, were at last coming to collect him.
They were already waiting, gathered round the rickety table, when Joe waved him politely into the living room. Stormgren was amused to note that his jailer was now wearing, very ostentatiously, a huge pistol that had never been in evidence before. The two thugs had vanished, and even Joe seemed somewhat restrained. Stormgren could see at once that he was now confronted by men of a much higher calibre, and the group opposite him reminded him strongly of a picture he had once seen of Lenin and his associates in the first days of the Russian Revolution. There was the same intellectual force, iron determination, and ruthlessness in these six men. Joe and his kind were harmless; here were the real brains behind the organization.
With a curt nod, Stormgren moved over to the only vacant seat and tried to look self-possessed. As he approached, the elderly, thick-set man on the far side of the table leaned forward and stared at him with piercing grey eyes. They made Stormgren so uncomfortable that he spoke first—something he had not intended to do.
“I suppose you've come to discuss terms. What's my ransom?”
He noticed that in the background someone was taking down his words in a shorthand notebook. It was all very businesslike.
The leader replied in a musical Welsh accent.
“You could put it that way, Mr. Secretary-General. But we're interested in information, not cash.”
So that was it, thought Stormgren. He was a prisoner of war, and this was his interrogation.
“You know what our motives are,” continued the other in his softly lilting voice. “Call us a resistance movement, if you like. We believe that sooner or later Earth will have to fight for its independence—but we realize that the struggle can only be by indirect methods such as sabotage and disobedience. We kidnapped you partly to show Karellen that we mean business and are well organized, but largely because you are the only man who can tell us anything of the Overlords. You're a reasonable man, Mr. Stormgren. Give us your co-operation, and you can have your freedom.”
“Exactly what do you wish to know?” asked Stormgren cautiously.
Those extraordinary eyes seemed to search his mind to its depths; they were unlike any that Stormgren had ever seen in his life. Then the sing-song voice replied:
“Do you know who, or what, the Overlords really are?”
Stormgren almost smiled.
“Believe me,” he said, “I'm quite as anxious as you to discover that.”
“Then you'll answer our questions?”
“I make no promises. But I may.”
There was a slight sigh of relief from Joe, and a rustle of anticipation ran round the room.
“We have a general idea,” continued the other, “of the circumstances in which you meet Karellen. But perhaps you would describe them carefully, leaving out nothing of importance.”
That was harmless enough, thought Stormgren. He had done it many times before, and it would give the appearance of co-operation. There were acute minds here, and perhaps they could uncover something new. They were welcome to any fresh information they could extract from him—so long as they shared it. That it could harm Karellen in any way he did not for a moment believe.
Stormgren felt in his pockets and produced a pencil and an old envelope. Sketching rapidly while he spoke, he began:
“You know, of course, that a small flying machine, with no obvious means of propulsion, calls for me at regular intervals and takes me up to Karellen's ship. It enters the hull—and you've doubtless seen the telescopic films that have been taken of that operation. The door opens again—if you can call it a door—and I go into a small room with a table, a chair, and a vision screen. The layout is something like this.”
He pushed the plan across to the old Welshman, but the strange eyes never turned towards it. They were still fixed on Stormgren's face, and as he watched them something seemed to change in their depths. The room had become completely silent, but behind him he heard Joe take a sudden indrawn breath.
Puzzled and annoyed, Stormgren stared back at the other, and as he did so, understanding slowly dawned. In his confusion he crumpled the envelope into a ball of paper and ground it underfoot.
He knew now why those grey eyes had affected him so strangely. The man opposite him was blind.
Van Ryberg had made no further attempts to contact. Karellen. Much of his department's work—the forwarding of statistical information, the abstracting of the world's press, and the like—had continued automatically. In Paris the lawyers were still wrangling over the proposed World Constitution, but that was none of his business for the moment. It was a fortnight before the Supervisor wanted the final draft; if it was not ready by then, no doubt Karellen would take what action he thought fit.
And there was still no news of Stormgren.
Van Ryberg was dictating when the “Emergency Only” telephone started to ring. He grabbed the receiver and listened with mounting astonishment, then threw it down and rushed to the open window. In the distance, cries of amazement were rising from the streets, and traffic was slowing to a halt.
It was true: Karellen's ship, that never-changing symbol of the Overlords, was no longer in the sky. He searched the heavens as far as he could see, and found no trace of it. Then, suddenly, it seemed as if night had swiftly fallen. Coming down from the north, its shadowed underbelly black as a thundercloud, the great ship was racing low over the towers of New York. Involuntarily, van Ryberg shrank away from the onrushing monster. He had always known how huge the ships of the Overlords really were—but it was one thing to see them far away in space, and quite another to watch them passing overhead like demon-driven clouds.
In the darkness of that partial eclipse, he watched until the ship and its monstrous shadow had vanished into the south. There was no sound, not even the whisper of air, and van Ryberg realized that despite its apparent nearness the ship had passed at least a kilometre above his head. Then the building shuddered once as the shock wave struck it, and from somewhere came the tinkling of broken glass as a window blew inwards.
In the office behind him all the telephones had started to ring, but van Ryberg did not move. He remained leaning against the window ledge, still staring into the south, paralyzed by the presence of illimitable power.
As Stormgren talked, it seemed to him that his mind was operating on two levels simultaneously. On the one hand he was trying to defy the men who had captured him, yet on the other he was hoping that they might help him unravel Karellen's secret. It was a dangerous game, yet to his surprise he was enjoying it. The blind Welshman had conducted most of the interrogation. It was fascinating to watch that agile mind trying one opening after another, testing and rejecting all the theories that Stormgren himself had abandoned long ago. Presently he leaned back with a sigh.
