appeared in the
doorway, and behind him came a tall man in a tan tunic, similarly
masked. They stepped into the room and looked around.

Knowing that he would be shooting over a two hundred percent negative
gravitation-field, Verkan Vall aimed for the Assassin's belt-buckle
and squeezed. The bullet caught him in the throat. Evidently the
bullet had not only been lifted in the negative gravitation, but
lifted point-first and deflected upward. He held his front sight just
above the other man's knee, and hit him in the chest.

As he fired, he saw a wisp of gas come sliding around the edge of the
inverted table. There was silence outside, and for an instant, he was
tempted to abandon his post and go to the bathroom, back of the
bedroom, for wet towels to improvise a mask. Then, when he tried to
crawl backward, he could not. There was an impression of distant
shouting which turned to a roaring sound in his head. He tried to lift
his pistol, but it slipped from his fingers.

* * * * *

When consciousness returned, he was lying on his back, and something
cold and rubbery was pressing into his face. He raised his arms to
fight off whatever it was, and opened his eyes, to find that he was
staring directly at the red oval and winged bullet of the Society of
Assassins. A hand caught his wrist as he reached for the small pistol
under his arm. The pressure on his face eased.

"It's all right, Lord Virzal," a voice came to him. "Assassins'
Truce!"

He nodded stupidly and repeated the words. "Assassins' Truce; I won't
shoot. What happened?"

Then he sat up and looked around. Prince Jirzyn's bedchamber was full
of Assassins. Dalla, recovering from her touch of sleep-gas, was
sitting groggily in a chair, while five or six of them fussed around
her, getting in each others' way, handing her drinks, chaffing her
wrists, holding damp cloths on her brow. That was standard procedure,
when any group of males thought Dalla needed any help. Another
Assassin, beside the bed, was putting away an oxygen-mask outfit, and
the Assassin who had prevented Verkan Vall from drawing his pistol was
his own follower, Marnik. And Klarnood, the Assassin-President, was
sitting on the foot of the bed, smoking one of Prince Jirzyn's
monogrammed and crested cigarettes critically.

Verkan Vall looked at Marnik, and then at Klarnood, and back to
Marnik.

"You got through," he said. "Good work, Marnik; I thought they'd
down