Connor."
"But I can't stand it!" the girl pleaded tremulously. The Master turned to Connor.
"Remembering your oath," he said, "do you second this request? This is no move against me?"
"I do not break my word," Connor said.
"Well, I see no harm in it." The Master called a few syllables into the box beside him, then spoke to Evanie. "You have the liberty of the halls and the Inner Gardens —no more. As for you"—his eyes flickered over Connor —"apparently you manage without my permission. That's all."
Evanie dropped again to her knee, rose and moved toward the archway. As Connor followed, the Master called: "Not you, Thomas Connor."
Connor turned again toward the faintly amused face of the ruler.
"I perceive," the Master said, "that my sister has disobeyed me."
The Princess laughed in that mocking way of hers. "Do I ever obey you, Joaquin?"
"Nominally, at times." He paused, studying his sister coolly for a moment, then again turned his attention to the man before him. "As you may know," he remarked, "I have summoned a Conclave for day after tomorrow. I am completely occupied. But I do not forget your promise, Thomas Connor, nor have I lost interest in the stores of ancient knowledge. Therefore, you will accompany the Princess to the chambers behind the Throne Room and fulfill your promise by explaining to her as much as time permits of mathematics, particularly of the meaning of logarithms and of the device I have heard termed the slide–rule. She will understand you. That's all."
He met the eyes of the Princess. "I may obey you this time, Joaquin," she said, and moved out of the door.
Connor followed her. The halls betrayed the activity of the coming Conclave, and were more crowded than he had observed before. Twice grave–faced, long–haired Immortals passed them, raising respectful hands in salute to Margaret of Urbs.
She turned into the South Corridor.
"This isn't the way," he objected.
"We're going to the Tower." She glanced sideward at him. "You'll see soon why the Palace needs all of its size. There'll be twenty thousand Immortals here, and we have room for all of them—half the Immortals in the world."
"Half! Evanie said there were three million."
She gave him an inscrutable smile.
"It does no harm to let the Weeds over–estimate our strength."
"Then why tell me?"
Her smile was the unfathomable one of the Mona Lisa. "I never do anything without reason," was her only reply.
He laughed. When once again they reached the aspiring pinnacle of the Tower, without a glance at the mighty city below, the Princess pulled pen and paper from a table, seated herself, and faced Connor.
"Well?" she queried. "Begin."
He did. It was a new Margaret of Urbs he saw now, unknown before save possibly in that brief moment when he had mentioned the Venus of Milo, or when earlier in the woods she had shown him how vast was her knowledge of and interest in history and world events.
She was eager, curious, questioning, avid for knowledge and uncannily quick to comprehend. There were queer gaps in her learning. Often he had to stop to explain terms utterly elementary, while at other times she followed him through the most complex maze of reasoning without a question.
The afternoon waned, dusk crept over the great vista, and at length she threw down her pen.
"Enough," she said. "We must have ten–place logarithm tables worked out. They'll be priceless at Earth–eye." Not until then did a trace of mockery creep into her voice. "I suppose you realize," she taunted, "that once we have your knowledge all reasons to keep you alive are gone, but the reasons to kill you remain."
He laughed.
"You'd like to frighten me, wouldn't you? Haven't you tried that often enough? The Master trusts my word. I trust his—but not yours." His lips twisted. "Had I not trusted him, I could have escaped this morning. What was to prevent me from taking your weapon away, dropping you on a deserted shore—or even kidnapping you—and escaping in the Sky–Rat? I never promised not to escape. What kept me here was my trust in his word, and a desire to see this game played out!"
"There is no safety anywhere in the world for you, Thomas Connor," said the Flame softly, "except in my favor. And why you still live is a mystery, so much so that I wonder at it. I have never before been so indulgent to one I hate." She flashed her glorious emerald eyes to his face. "Do I hate you?"
"You should know hatred better than I."
"Yes—and yet I wonder." She smiled slowly. "If ever I love the way I hate, not death itself could thwart me. But there is no man strong enough to conquer me."
"Or perhaps," he retorted, "that one isn't interested." She smiled again with almost a trace of wistfulness. "You're very strong," she admitted. "I should have loved to have lived in your ancient days. To have lived among your great fighters and great makers of beauty.
At least those were men—your ancients. I could have loved one of those."
"And haven't you," he asked ironically, "ever loved a man?"
He could detect no mocking note in her voice. "Loved? I have thought myself in love a hundred times. At least a dozen times I have gone to Joaquin to beg immortality for some man I have loved. But Joaquin swore to Martin Sair long ago to grant it only to those worthy of it, and he has kept that oath."
She smiled wryly. "It takes all a man's youth to prove himself worthy, and so the Immortals are all dry scientists—not to my taste! Joaquin refused me each time I asked for the favor, wanting to know if I were sure I'd never tire of him for whom I begged—to swear I was sure. And of course I couldn't swear." She paused thought–fully. "He was always right, too; every time. I did tire even before old age blighted them."
"And what did you do to prove yourself worthy?" Connor mocked.
"I'm serious today," the Princess said. "I'm not teasing now. I think I could love you, Thomas Connor."
"Thank you." He grinned, suspecting the glitter in the green eyes though he did not see it. "In my time it was the custom for the man to make such declarations."
"Your time!" flared Margaret of Urbs. "What do I care for your primitive customs and prehistoric prejudices? Would you have the Black Flame as shrinking and modest as little Evanie pretends to be?"
"I'd dislike you less if you were."
"You don't dislike me. You're merely afraid of me because I represent everything you hate in a woman—and yet you can't hate me. Indeed, I rather think you love me."
He laughed, mocking now, himself.
"I'm Margaret of Urbs!" she flashed. "What do I want of you? Nothing! I don't really want you at all, Tom Connor. You'd be like all the others; you'd age. Those mighty limbs of yours will turn skinny, or else fat and bloated. Those clear eyes will be pale and watery. Your teeth will yellow and your hair fall out, and then you'll be gone!"
She pulled a cigarette from the box and blew a plume of smoke in his impassive face.
"Go brag of this when we release you—if we do! Go tell it up and down the world that you alone of all men were strong enough to reject the love of Margaret of Urbs. Go say that the Black Flame failed to scorch you —failed even to warm you." Her voice quivered. "Andgo say too that no other man save you ever learned—how unhappy—she is!"
The deep eyes were tear–bright. He stared into them perplexed. Was this merely more acting? Was there nothing left of Margaret of Urbs save a lovely mask and a thousand poses—no real being within? He forced a sardonic grin to his lips, forced it, for the impossible beauty of the girl tore at him despite his will.
At his smile her face darkened.
"And then say," she said, from between