miracle! They droned on without even a glance at the pain–racked, exquisite face. Tom Connor touched her cold cheeks, kissed the soot–streaked fore– head.
"Careful!" warned Martin Sair.
"But she breathes!" Connor whispered exultantly. "You're sure—certain she'll live?"
"She'll be conscious in ten minutes. A little sick, but conscious." The scientist's tone softened again. "In two days she'll be as bright as ever. After all, her body is the body of a twenty–year–old girl. She has youth, resilience. You can stop worrying."
Someone touched Connor's shoulder; a guard, who began droning, "Orbis Terrarum Imperator—"
"I won't go!" Tom Connor blazed. "I'm staying here!"
"She's out of danger, I tell you," insisted Martin Sair. "If she were ever in danger—with me at hand!"
Hesitantly then, Connor followed the guard, glancing apprehensively back at Margaret of Urbs, prone on the stone floor of the corridor. Then he reluctantly went on into the Throne Room.
The Master Sits in Judgment
In the Throne Room the ventilators had drawn out the steam and smoke–poisoned air, but moisture dripped from the walls and gathered in pools on the floor. The terrific destruction of the blast was evident everywhere. No single hanging remained on walls or windows. Everything inflammable was in cinders, and the very floor was still almost blistering hot.
The far end was a mass of indescribable ruin, debris from the shattered wall, even fragments of the diorite bases of the thrones. The air, despite the humming ventilators, was stifling in the radiations from floor and walls.
The Master sat upon the half–melted wreckage of his throne, his stem eyes on Evanie and Jan Orm, who stood between guards before him.
The frightened look on Evanie's face moved Connor despite the injuries she had done him. After all, she had nursed him out of the very grave and given him, penniless and strange, a home and a place in this bizarre world. She was clinging frantically to the arm of Jan, who stood morose and impassive before the Master.
"Thomas," the ruler said, "I can get nothing from this sullen pair. Tell me what you know of this."
Connor met Evanie's terrified gaze, and it wrung pity from him. He owed much to this girl. Was it any more than right that he help her now? At least he could confuse the issue, prolong it until he could obtain the aid of Margaret of Urbs.
"I did it myself!" he said promptly.
There was no change in the Master's face.
"You?" he repeated mildly. "How?"
"I made the bomb in Martin Sair's laboratory," Connor said, with a quick warning glance at Evanie. "I made it at night, and smuggled it in here during the darkness. That's all."
"Indeed? After your oath, Thomas? And I had flattered myself that you were my friend—my esteemed friend."
There was something inscrutable in the Master's face. The grave eyes surveyed Connor sorrowfully as he fingered a beam–pistol.
"I think," said the Master, slipping out the weapon, "that I will destroy you once and for all, Connor." He leveled the gun.
"Wait!" shrieked Jan Orm. "He didn't do it—I did!" He paused as the Master's cool eyes shifted to him. "I had it made in Ormon and smuggled here to me. I hid itin the Throne Room early this morning, before any one was about!"
"Well," said the Master slowly, "I might believe that both of you had a hand in it."
His eyes flickered over Evanie.
She drew herself erect.
"What's the use?" she said dully. "I won't have you two shielding me. I did it. I had the bomb smuggled to me by an amphimorph, who rode a bubble down the mains to the pool in the Gardens. That's the truth."
"Suppose, then," said the Master, "I destroy all three of you, and thus assure myself that the guilty one is punished."
"I don't care!" Evanie flung out defiantly. "I'm sorry I failed, but at least I've extinguished the Black Flame of Urbs—and I'm glad!"
The ruler's eyes held a curious light as he gazed over their heads. A step sounded behind them. Connor whirled to see Margaret of Urbs approaching, supported by the arm of Martin Sair. Soot–stained, the whole slim length of her right leg red and blistered by the blast, her right cheek inflamed by the contact with the steaming floor, she was yet so incredibly lovely that she was breath–taking. Tom Connor sprang to her side, slipped a steadying arm about her as she swayed willingly against him. Evanie, so pale she seemed about to faint, was leaning weakly against Jan Orm.
"What's all this, Joaquin?" asked the Princess.
"Merely an attempt to fix responsibility for the bombing, my dear."
"And have you fixed it?"
"All three claim the honor."
"I see." She paused. "Well, I can throw some light on the mystery. I am responsible for the bomb explosion. It was an accident. I was watching some detonol crystallize, in Martin Sair's room, and forgot to take it off the burner. I was stunned by the concussion, and Thomas Connor rushed in and guided me out. Somewhere in the Throne Room I suppose I must have been overcome."
She paused again, staring back at the Master.
"Don't you see? Each of these three suspects the others and each is trying to shield his friends. But I did it; it was an accident."
She slipped from Connor's arm and sank wearily to the steps that led to her ruined Throne.
"I burn!" she muttered, and sipped the goblet of water that a guard held to her lips.
Quizzically, the Master gazed down at her.
"You know," he said, suddenly stern, "that to me the one unforgivable sin is the thwarting of my plans. Not even you, my sister, may stand in the way of them. While I live, I am the Master. I shall yield only when a power arises strong enough to overthrow me, for that will tell me that my work is done. When that occurs, I shall have guided humanity as far as I am able along the path of Destiny, but until then—I am the Master."
His face, austere as an image in basalt, loomed over them. For the first time Connor glimpsed dimly the colossus behind the mild mask, the diamond hardness below the silk that sheathed it. Then the ruler smiled.
"I suppose I cannot doubt my sister's word. I release all of you."
He arose and descended from the throne.
Connor followed a step or two. "I'm interested to learn," he whispered, "which of us you believe."
The Master smiled again. "Haven't I just said?" He turned away. "Of course, if I were curious, I could ask you and Jan Orm how you knew what time to set the blast. I hadn't decided on a time for the Conclave until I had it announced in the corridors, and the bomb must have been placed between that moment and the arrival of the guards."
"Or the Princess is telling the truth," suggested Tom Connor.
"Some day Margaret shall explain why detonol causes a cloud of steam," observed the Master. He continued absently, "Evanie has good blood in her. So has Jan Orm." Then he was gone, followed by Martin Sair and the guards.
Connor returned to Margaret of Urbs. Evanie's incredulous eyes were fixed on the Princess as she whispered:
"Why did you do that?"
"Because I thought it would please Tom Connor," Margaret of Urbs said frankly.
Evanie stared at her with dawning comprehension. "The Black Flame herself burned!" she murmured wonderingly. "I see now why we can still learn from the ancients. They're miracle workers." But the next instant