he had accomplished the task Hilary had set her,
but she was still puzzled. What earthly good would it do him to talk?

She found out almost immediately. He was twisting his head, burrowing
with his nose against the blouse over his right shoulder. The open
tunic give a bit, and he burrowed painfully, Joan watching with
growing fascination, until one of the binding wires stopped further
progress. But it seemed far enough, judging from the satisfied
illumination in Hilary's eyes.

He spoke, his mouth pressed close against the shoulder blade, his
tones queerly muffled, thick.

"Grim Morgan, Wat Tyler, Grim Morgan, Wat Tyler," he whispered over
and over again. He could not hear if there was any response; his ears
were muffled now by the spread gag. He could not help that.

"Grim Morgan, Wat Tyler," he muttered monotonously, "Hilary Grendon
calling. Held prisoner with Joan, top of Robbins Building. Guarded.
Urgent you free us. Artok has sent out general death orders. I have
plan to stop him. Come, quickly."

Over and over he murmured the message, hoping desperately they would
hear him in the communication disks strapped to their shoulders.

"Come quickly," he repeated; and then the guard, tiring of the view
below, or the streets having been cleared of rebels, came softly into
the room. Hilary's head jerked quickly back, the shoulder of his tunic
falling back into position.

"Here, what's this?" the guard growled suspiciously, catching sight of
the displaced gag. "How on Mercury did you do that?"

He knelt swiftly, thrust the gag back into position with ungentle paw,
kicked the unresisting form in the side to show his displeasure, and
rose. Hilary's heart pounded; the guard had not seen the inconspicuous
disk under the tunic. He was in an agony of expectation. Had his
comrades caught his message? Could they rescue him even if they had?
Questions that only time could answer.

The guard was alert now; he did not like that queer removal of the
gag. There would be no further chance to unbind themselves. What
seemed hours passed as they lay cramped, immobile.

The air grew thick and warm, or was it only his imagination? No, for
the guard felt it, too. Then something buzzed, intermittently. One
long, two short. It seemed to emanate from a round black button on the
sleeve of his gray tunic. A signal!

* * * * *

The guard exclaimed something in guttural Mercutian, rose hastily, and
close