them.

Their guard shoved them into another tunnel and they wound down a gentle grade between basalt walls until they came to another series of airtights. At the end they were shoved into a chamber walled all in metal, a sort of giant strongbox with doors at each of the five sides.

A desk made of packing boxes stood in the center. A rubber mattress bed was several feet behind it. A crude hat tree bore the fragments of a space suit. The place was a combination of arsenal, bedroom and office, sealed in, double-bolted, entrenched and triple-guarded.

At the desk sat a singularly dirty man, covered with matted black hair, clad in pants, glistening with perspiration and scowling furiously under crew cut bristles.

This was Slavinsky, Vladimir, one-time general of Russia, currently dictator of the world.

The guard had got out of his clumsy space helmet. "The ship crew, Ruler," he said in English.

Whittaker had taken off his helmet and was biting at a plug of Ole Mule. Boyd was examining his fingernails.

Only Angel was still fully suited and helmeted.

"Who is commander?" barked Slavinsky, black eyes screwing up.

Boyd glanced up.

"I am Lieutenant Cannon Gray," he said with blue eyes wide.

"Don't forget the despatches, lootenant," said Whittaker.

Boyd tossed the packet on the desk. It floated down.

"I am displeased," said Slavinsky.

"I'm sorry to hear it," said bogus Gray. "I'll sure tell the President when I get back."

"You're not going back!" said Slavinsky. "You have failed."

"Looks to me like we brought a lot of supplies," said Boyd.

"You brought no cigarettes!" said Slavinsky.

 Prev. P 17/27 next