demanded.

In minutes, it seemed, he was demanding: "How much can we take? Any
more than that?"

"No more," said Bell. "All the weight we can spare goes for fuel. See
if you can find another hose and funnel and get to work on the other
tank. I'm going to rustle oil."

He came staggering back with heavy drums of it. A thought struck him.

"How do we get out? What works the harbor door?"

* * * * *

Ortiz pointed, smiling.

"A button, Senor, and a motor does the rest." He looked at his watch.
"I had better see if my fellow subjects have come."

He vanished, smiling his same queer smile. Bell worked frantically. He
saw Ortiz coming back, pausing to light a cigarette, and taking up a
hatchet, with which he attacked a packing case.

"They are outside, Senor," he called. "They have found the signs of
the car entering, and now are discussing."

He plucked something carefully from the packing box and went leisurely
back toward the door. Bell began to load the food and stores into the
cabin, with sweat streaming down his face.

There was the sound of a terrific explosion, and Bell jumped savagely
to solid ground.

"Keep loading! I'll hold them back!" he snapped to Jamison.

But when he went pounding to the back of the warehouse he found Ortiz
laughing.

"A hand grenade, Senor," he said in wholly unnatural levity. "Among
the subjects of The Master. I believe that I am going mad, to take
such pleasure in destruction. But since I am to die so shortly, why
not go mad, if it gives me pleasure?"

* * * * *

He peered out a tiny hole and aimed his automatic carefully. It
spurted out all the seven shots that were left.

"The man who poisoned me," he said pleasantly. "I think he is dead. Go
back and make ready to leave, Senor Bell, because they will probably
try to storm this place soon, and then the police will come, and
then.... It is amusing that I am the one man to whom those enslaved
among the city authorities would look for The Master's orders."

Bell stared out. He saw a small horde of people, frantically agitated,
milling in the cramped and unattractive little street of Buenos Aires'
waterfront. Sheer desperation seemed to impel them, desperation and a
frantic fear. They surged forward--and Ortiz flung a hand grenade. Its
explosion was terrific, but he had perhaps purposely flung it short.
Bell suddenly saw police uniforms, fighting a way throug