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satisfaction at all, van Ryberg realized how much greatness had been thrust upon him
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    During the past three days Stormgren had analysed 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 ~ie 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 lessInteresting place.
    There was now little doubt, as far as Storingren was concerned, that Karellen had failed to locate him. He had tried to blufl, 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 dear, 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 da~ys 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.
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    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-Genera]. 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