e gone!

"You took my money," he shrieked. "You took everything I had. I haven't
got a cent. Nothing except a few dollars in my pocket."

"You haven't got that either, Wilson," whispered the voice.

There was a sound of ripping cloth as something like a great, powerful
hand flung aside Wilson's coat, tore away the inside pocket. There was a
brief flash of a wallet and a bundle of papers, which vanished.

The hostess was hurrying toward him.

"Is there something wrong?"

"They took ..." Wilson began and stopped.

What could he tell her? Could he say that a man half way across the
world had robbed him?

The three traveling men were looking at him.

"I'm sorry, miss," he stammered. "I really am. I fell asleep and
dreamed."

He sat down again, shaken. Shivering, he huddled back into the corner of
his seat. His hands explored the torn coat pocket. He was stranded, high
in the air, somewhere between Paris and Berlin ... stranded without
money, without a passport, with nothing but the clothes he wore and the
few personal effects in his bag.

Fighting to calm himself, he tried to reason out his plight. The plane
was entering the Central European Federation and that, definitely, was
no place to be without a passport or without visible means of support. A
thousand possibilities flashed through his mind. They might think he was
a spy. He might be cited for illegal entry. He might be framed by secret
police.

Terror perched on his shoulder and whispered to him. He shivered
violently and drew farther back into the corner of the seat. He clasped
his hands, beat them against his huddled knees.

He would cable friends back in America and have them identify him and
vouch for his character. He would borrow some money from them, just
enough to get back to America. But whom would he cable? And with aching
bitterness in his breast, Harry Wilson came face to face with the
horrible realization that nowhere in the world, nowhere in the Solar
System, was there a single person who was his friend. There was no one
to help him.

He bowed his head in his hands and sobbed, his shoulders jerking
spasmodically, the sobs racking his body.

The traveling men stared at him unable to understand. The hostess looked
briskly helpless. Wilson knew he looked like a scared fool and he didn't
care.

He _was_ scared.

* * * * *

Gregory Manning riffled the sheaf of credit certificates, the wallet,
the passpo