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solution.
    "What do you intend to do with me?" asked Stormgren at length. "Am I a hostage, or what?"
    "Don't worry-we'll look after you. We expect some visitors in a few days, and until then we'll entertain you as well as we
    can."
    He added some words in his own language, and one of the others produced a brand-new pack of cards.
    "We got these especially fur you," explained Joe. "I read in Time the other day that you were a good poker player." His voice suddenly became grave. "I hope there's plenty of cash in your wallet," he said anxiously. 'We never thought of looking. After all, we can hardly accept cheques."
    Quite overcome, Stormgren stared blankly at his captors.
    Then, as the true humour of the situation sank into his mind, it suddenly seemed to him that all the cares and worries of office had lifted from his shoulders. From now on, it was van Ryberg's show. Whatever happened, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it-and now these fantastic criminals were anxiously waiting to play poker with him.
    Abruptly, he threw back his head and laughed as he had not done for years.
     
     
    There was no doubt, thought van Ryberg morosely, that Wainwright was telling the truth. He might have his suspicions, but he did not know who had~kidnapped Stormgren. Nor did he approve of the kidnapping itself: Van Ryberg had a shrewd idea that for some tune extremists in the Freedom League had been putting pressure on Wainwright to make him adopt a more active policy. Now they were taking matters into their own hands.
    The kidnapping had been beautifully organized, there was no doubt of that. Stormgren might be anywhere on Earth, and there seemed little hope of tracing him. Yet something must be done, decided van Ryberg, and done quickly. Despite the jest. he had so often made, his real feeling towards Karellen was one of overwhelming awe. The thought of approaching the Supervisor directly filled him with dismay, but there seemed no alternative.
    30
    The Communications Section occupied the entire top floor
    of the great building. Lines of facsimile machines, some silent, some clicking busily, stretched away into the distance. Through them poured endless streams of statistics-production figures, census returns, and all the book-keeping of a world economic system. Somewhere up in Karellen's ship must lie the equivalent of this great room-and van Ryberg wondered, with a tingling of the spine, what shapes moved to and fro collecting the messages that Earth was sending to the Overlords.
    But today he was not interested in these machines and the
    routine business they handled. He walked to the little private room that only Stormgren was supposed to enter. At his instructions, the lock had been forced and the Chief Communications Officer was waiting there for him.
    "It's an ordinary teleprinter-standard typewriter keyboard,"
    he was told. "There's a facsimile machine as well if you want to send any pictures or tabular information-but you said you wouldn't be needing that."
    Van Ryberg nodded absently. "l'hat's all. Thanks," he said. "I don't expect to be here very long. Then get the place locked up again and give me all the keys."
    He waited until the Communications Officer had left, and then sat down at the machine. It was, he knew, very seldom used, since nearly all business between Karellen and Stormgren was dealt with at their weekly meetings. Since this was something of an emergency circuit, he expected a reply fairly quickly.
    After a moment's hesitation, he began to tap out his message with unpractised fingers. The machine 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