they have learned it. Would you have me destroy the knowledge because fools envy it—and envy it mistakenly?"
"Did you summon me here merely to justify your acts?" Tom Connor snapped in reply.
"Exactly. You possess knowledge invaluable to me. I'd like to convince you of my sincerity."
"You never will."
"See here," said the Master, still in tones of calm gravity. "Don't ever doubt that I could steal your knowledge. I know ways to encompass it, and if I failed, others would not fail."
"The Princess tried that," said Connor grimly. "She will not try it again." He fingered a small bronze bust on the desk before him. "And incidentally, what's to prevent me from flinging this bronze through your skull right now—killing you, instead of waiting for you to kill me?"
"Your word to make no move against me in the Palace," reminded the Master gently.
Connor's lips tightened. In that moment he realized suddenly what it was that had perturbed him so violently. He was beginning to believe the Master and he didn't want to! The memory of the Messenger's torture was too recent; the picture of Evanie's helplessness was too burning. He was being won over against his will, but
"You win," he growled, releasing the bust. "Go ahead. Tell me what all this is leading up to. You must have some objective other than the indefinite perpetuation of your own power."
The Master smiled. "I have. I plan the ultimate destiny of Mankind." He held up a hand to still Connor's quick, unbelieving protest. "Listen to me. I have bred out criminals by sterilizing, for many centuries, those with criminal tendencies. I have raised the general level of intelligence by sterilizing the feeble–minded, the incompetent. If we have fewer supreme geniuses than your people, we have at least no stupid nor insane—and genius will come.
"I try, to the best of my knowledge, to improve the race. I think I'm succeeding. At least we're far advanced over the barbarians of the Dark Centuries, and even, I believe, over the average of your mighty, ancient people. I think we're happier." He paused. "Do you?"
"In a way," Connor conceded. "But even happiness isn't always a fair exchange for—liberty!"
"Liberty? Suppose I granted liberty? Suppose I abdicated? How long do you think it would be before every sort of Weed village was at war with every other sort? Do you want the world to break up into another welter of quarreling little nations? That's what I found; out of it I've created an empire."
He drummed a finger on the desk, thoughtfully eyeing Connor.
"Moreover, I've preserved what differences I could. The yellow race was a remnant; I've bred it strong again. The red race has gone, but the black is growing. And the tag–ends of nations—I've nourished them."
"Why?" Connor demanded. "Differences are only grounds for future trouble, aren't they?"
"Civilization grows out of differences. No race can produce a high culture by itself. There must be an exchange of ideas, and that means that there must be differences."
"You're very sure, aren't you?" Connor taunted.
"I've spent centuries thinking of it. I'm confident I've found the truth. And I do the best I can."
"I wish—" Connor paused. "I wish I could believe you!"
"You can. I never lie."
"I almost feel I can. You're not the mocking devil your sister is. I rather like you."
A queer smile flickered on the Master's lips.
"I have instructed her to cease tormenting you. I assume she has been, but she'll keep away from you hereafter…Won't you, my dear?"
Connor spun around. Lounging carelessly in the far doorway, a half–smoked cigarette in her hand, was the exquisite form of Margaret of Urbs.
"Perhaps," she drawled slowly and advanced leisurely into the room, seating herself casually on the desk regardless of its litter of papers.
"Joaquin," she remarked, "this man neglects to kneel in my presence. In yours as well, I perceive. Shall I command him?"
"Try commanding the statue of Olin," snapped Connor.
"We could persuade him," insinuated the Princess. "After all, Evanie Sair is our hostage."
"Be still!" the Master said sharply. "You know I never impose a custom on those who reject it."
The Princess turned taunting eyes on Tom Connor and was silent. "With your permission I should like to retire," he said. "We seem to have covered the ground."
"Not entirely," said the Master.
"What more do you want of me?"
"Two things. First, your knowledge. Your understanding of the ancient mathematics, and whatever else we need."
"Granted—on condition." At the Master's inquiring look he said boldly: "On condition that any knowledge I impart be made public. You have enough secrets—though some of them are apt not to remain so!"
"I'll agree," the Master said promptly. "That was always my intention. But what secret of mine is in danger of exposure?"
Connor laughed. "What else was it you wanted of me?"
"Your blood. Your strain in the race, like an infusion of bulldog blood to give greyhounds courage. I want you to marry and have children."
"And that," said Connor bluntly, "is my personal business. I refuse to promise that."
"Well," the Master genially remarked, "we'll let Nature take its course. I'll trade you that indulgence for the revelation of what secret you suspect."
"Done! It's the Triangle rocket–blasts."
"The rocket–blasts!"
"Yes. I've heard your craft in flight. I've listened to the blasts." He turned sardonic eyes from the Master to the Princess. "The blast isn't steady. It throbs. Do you understand? It throbs!"
The Master's face was stern. "Well?"
"I know you can't control the rate of power. You've had the whole world looking for a means of controlling the rate. That's impossible. Hydrogen has its natural period like radium. You can release the energy at that single rate or all at once, as in our rifles—but you can't control it otherwise!"
There was silence.
"I know what you do in the blast. You detonate your water—a little at a time in an enormously strong firing chamber, and release the blast gradually. It's no more continuous than the power of a gasoline engine!"
"You're endangering your life!" whispered the Master. "You can't live now!"
"With her Satanic Majesty, the Goddess of Mockery, to intercede for me?" Connor jeered, staring steadily into the gray–green eyes of the Princess. In her features now was no slightest trace of a taunt, but something more like admiration. "If I'm to die, it had better be here and now, else I'll find a way to tell what I know!"
"Here and now!" said Margaret of Urbs.
"Not yet," said the Master. "Thomas Connor, long ago in my youth I knew men like you. They're dead, and it's a great loss to the world. But you're living. I don't want to kill you. I'd rather trust the fate of my empire to your word. Having heard my side, then, will you swear allegiance to me?"
"No. I'm not sure of your sincerity."
"If you were, would you?"
"Gladly. I see more with you than with the Weeds."
"Then will you swear not to oppose me until such time as you are sure? And will you swear to keep that knowledge you have to yourself?"
"Fair enough!" Connor said, and grinned. He took the bronzed hand the Master extended. "I swear it." He glanced coolly at the Princess. "And by the three kinds of metamorphs, I'm glad to swear it!"
"Two kinds," corrected the Master mildly.