But Margaret of Urbs caught his meaning. A faint trace of anger glinted in her eyes.
"The Immortals," she said coldly, "do not consider themselves metamorphs."
"Then I don't consider myself Irish," said Thomas Connor. "Any freak that comes out of Martin Sail's ray is a metamorph to me."
"Enough," said the Master. "That's all, Connor."
But at the door the Princess halted Connor, and he gazed down into her upturned face.
"Do you believe," she said coldly, "that Joaquin's promise will protect you—or Evanie Sair—from me? I have my own debt to collect from you."
He glanced back at the impassive figure at the desk. "I traded my knowledge for your word," he called to the Master. "Is it good?"
"I am the Master," said that individual calmly.
Connor gazed again at the perfect features of the Flame. Slowly he raised his hand, holding her eyes with his. And then, with a sharp gesture, he snapped his finger stingingly against her dainty nose, grinned and strode away.
At the outer door he turned. The Black Flame, her lovely face a pale mask of fury, held a beam–pistol in her hand, but she made no move as he grinned back at her. Behind her the Master smiled cryptically.
But back in his room, an amazing realization came to Connor. Under the guise of his mildness, the Master had won every single point! He had extracted from Connor the promise of his knowledge, the promise of secrecy concerning the Triangle blasts, his alienation from the Weed cause, and more than half an oath of allegiance to himself!
And all for—what? The right of Thomas Connor to bear his own children, and the same promise of safety given at their earlier meeting!
He swore softly and lay thinking of the mocking loveliness of the Black Flame.
The Sky-Rat
Connor awoke fully rested, with the ache from muscles strained by Evanie's weight almost vanished. He arose, bathed, donned his glittering Urban costume, and looked into Evanie's room.
The girl was awake at last, and apparently well on toward recovery. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. At least in one matter, then, the unpredictable Princess had been sincere.
"Evanie!" he murmured. "Are you really all right? Are you better?"
She smiled and nodded. "I feel almost myself."
"Well, we misjudged the Princess in one respect, then. I'll have to thank her for pulling you through." Evanie's eyes widened in horror.
"Thank her! What do you mean? Tom—have you—did you see her while I—"
He was taken aback.
"Why, I had dinner with her."
"After I warned you!" she wailed. "I tell you she's like a madness that gets into your blood. A man can't even look at her without suffering—and she's cruel and utterly inhuman." She compressed her lips firmly and whispered:
"There's a scanner here—right under the light. I mustn't talk like this."
"Who cares? She won't get into my blood, Evanie. I've met only two Immortals. The Master I like. The Princess —I hate!"
"See!" she whispered. "You like the Master! Tom, he's as bad as the Princess. He's subtle, scheming, insidious! His charm is poisonous. Don't let him talk you over—please!"
He was startled at her vehemence. But the Master had his word now. Could he break it? He was more than half convinced of the great ruler's sincerity. After all, Evanie was only a sweet, impulsive country girl whose grandfather had been killed. Something of his thoughts must have shown in his expression, for her face grew suddenly hard.
"If I believed you were turning away from us to them," she said tensely, "I'd despise you, Tom. But I believe in you! Believe you're strong enough to resist the trickery of the Immortals. Don't fail me."
He could not answer her then, for the maid, Sora, came in with a tray of food. She placed it on a cleverly constructed swinging arm that held it above the bed. It was a silent meal. Sora's presence put a restraint on them, and Evanie was cold, eyeing Connor suspiciously.
He was relieved when they finished and the woman departed with the tray. He found a box of the magically self–lighting cigarettes, and puffed moodily, while Evanie watched him in silence.
A rap sounded. A Palace guard entered, bowed, and handed Connor a tiny package and an envelope sealed with the imprint of the Midgard Serpent, and departed.
Connor broke the seal and slipped a card from within, read it, and whistled. There was a queer expression on his face when he handed it to Evanie. Written on it in script as fine and precise as engraving were the two sentences:
We desire your presence at once in our laboratory in the East Chambers.
Show our medallion to the guard at your door.
Margarita, Urbis Regina, Soroque Domini.
The royal "we." It was no invitation, but a command. Connor stared at Evanie, who stared back with narrowed eyes.
"Well?" he said at last.
"Well?"
"What can I do? Ignore it and expose both of us to her anger—if she's such a devil as you say?"
"Oh, go!" snapped Evanie. "You and your ancient strength and courage! You're like any other man before the Black Flame of Urbs—just a fool! Go!"
"And leave you?"
"I'll have Sora for company," she retorted. "Go ahead. Burn yourself at the Flame, and see if I care."
"I don't see what else I can do than go," he muttered unhappily.
He turned moodily to the door, stripping the wrapper from the tiny package. A beautifully cast golden disc lay in his hand, with the pure features of the Princess in high relief.
The guard outside challenged him at once. It gave him a grim pleasure to flash the medallion in the fellow's face, to see him salute amazedly and step aside. Connor took the elevator to the ground floor, and passed moodily into the vast cavity of the Throne Room.
He passed through Martin Sair's disorderly chamber and finally to his destination. Margaret of Urbs sat with a glass of purple wine in one hand and the inevitable cigarette in the other, her dainty sandaled feet on a soft foot–stool. She wore Urban dress of glistening silver, above which her black hair gleamed like metal. She gave him a sardonic smile.
"You may kiss my sandal," she said.
"Or the hem of your skirt," he retorted. "Why did you send me that note?"
She gestured at the vision screen beside her.
"Mostly to watch you and Evanie quarrel over it."
"Then you know my opinion of you."
"Yes. I was rather amused."
"Well, if you've ceased to be amused, may I go back?"
"Not immediately," said the Princess. "Don't you think I owe you a little amusement in return?"
"I'll forgive the obligation."
"But I'm very circumspect about my debts," she insisted, with that maddening twinkle of mockery in the eyes that dared him. "Isn't there anything about the Palace—or in the world—that interests you? I'll take you sightseeing."
It was an opportunity, at that. There certainly was much he would like to see in this world that had grown up a thousand years after he was born. He hesitated. The inky–haired girl gestured at a chair and he sat down. Without permission he poured himself a goblet of the wine beside her. It was quite different from the still wines of Ormon;