za. We crossed it, and entered one of
their queerly flat buildings at the ground level; entered through an
archway, passed through several rooms and came at last into a room
whirring with instruments.

Argo said triumphantly, yet humbly: "Tarrano, Master--we are here."

A man at a table of helio-sending instruments turned and faced us. We
were in the presence of the dread Tarrano!

CHAPTER VI

_Man of Destiny_

Tarrano! He rose slowly to his feet, his gaze on us for an instant, then
turning to Argo.

"So! You took them? Well done, Argo!"

His gesture dismissed his subordinate; Argo backed from the room. From a
disc, an announcer was detailing dispatches. Tarrano frowned slightly.
He advanced to us as we three stood together. I had heard Elza give a
low, surprised cry as we entered. She stood with a hand upon my arm. I
could feel her trembling, but her face now was impassive.

Georg whispered to me: "This Tarrano----"

But our captor's voice checked him. "Come this way, please." He
signalled, and three men came forward. To them he issued short commands;
they took their places at the instrument tables. Then he led us from the
room through an arch, over a small trestle, into a tiny inner courtyard.
A tropical garden, surrounded by blank circular walls of the building. A
patch of blue sky showed above it. A garden secluded from prying eyes,
with only a single spider bridge crossing overhead. Vivid flowers and
foliage made it a bower. Brown bark paths laced it; a tiny fountain
splashed in the center.

Tarrano sat on the rim of the fountain; he gestured to a white stone
bench where we three sat in a row, Elza between us. It made me feel like
a child.

"Your father is dead." He was addressing Elza; and then Georg. "That is
unfortunate. He was a good man. I'm sorry."

His voice was soft and musical. He sat there on the fountain rim, an
elbow on his crossed knees, chin resting in his hand, his eyes studying
us. A small, slight figure of a man, no more than thirty-five. Simply
dressed; white trousers of the tropics, with a strip of narrow black
down the leg-fronts; a girdle of gold; ruffled white shirt, with sleeves
that flared a trifle, and a neck-piece of black. From his belt dangled a
few instruments and several personal weapons--beautifully wrought,
small--almost miniatures--yet deadly-looking for all that.

He was bareheaded; black hair closely clipped. A face smooth-shaven.
Thin, with a nose hawk-li