ke, and black eyes and heavy brows. His mouth
was thin-lipped, though smiling now, disclosing even, white teeth. Yet a
cruel mouth, with the firm jaw of determination and power under it. The
familiar gray Venus skin, but with that bronze cast of the people of the
Central State.

At first glance, not an unusual or particularly commanding figure. Yet
the man's power of personality, the sheer dominant force of him,
radiated like a tower code-beam. No one could be in his presence an
instant without feeling it. A power that enwrapped you; made you feel
like a child. Helpless. Anxious to placate a possible wrath that would
be devastating; anxious--absurdly--for a smile. It was a radiation of
genius, humbling every mediocre mortal it touched.

I felt it--felt all this from the moment I came into his presence. Felt
like a child, sitting there on that bench. Vaguely frightened; sullen,
with childish resentment at my superior. And over it all, my man's
mentality made me angry at myself for such emotions; angry at the
consciousness of my own inferiority, forced upon me now more strongly
than ever anything or any one had made me feel it before.

Tarrano was smiling gently. "... killed your father. I would not have
had it so. Yet--perhaps it was necessary. The Lady Elza----"

I could feel Elza trembling again. Georg burst out: "What do you want of
us? Who are you?"

Tarrano's slim gray-brown hand came up.

"The Lady Elza remembers me----" He seemed waiting with his gentle smile
for her to speak.

"They called you Taro then," she said. Her voice was the small, scared,
diffident voice of a child.

"Yes. Taro. A mere sub-officer of the Central State. But destined for
bigger things than that, as you see. They did not like what they called
my ambitious ways--and so they sent me to the Cold Country. That was
soon after I had met you and your father, Lady Elza. You hardly remarked
me then--I was so insignificant a personage. But you--I remembered
you----"

Still there was in his voice and on his face nothing but kindness and a
queer whimsical look of reminiscence. He broke off at the buzz of a disc
that hung from his belt by a golden chain. He jerked it loose from its
snap, and to his ear clasped a small receiver. Like a mask his
gentleness dropped from him. His voice rasped:

"Yes?..." The receiver murmured into his ear. He said: "Connect
him--I'll listen to what he has to say."

A moment; then on the tiny mirror fastened to