A voice whispered in his ear: "Harry Wilson. So you are running away!"

Just a tiny voice that seemed hardly a voice at all, it seemed at once to come from far away and yet from very near. The voice, with an edge of coldness on it, was one he never would forget.

He cowered in his seat, whimpering.

The voice came again: "Didn't I tell you that you couldn't run away?

That no matter where you went, I'd find you?"

"Go away," Wilson whispered huskily. "Leave me alone. Haven't you hounded me enough?"

"No," answered the voice, "not enough. Not yet. You sold us out. You warned Chambers about our energy and now Chambers is sending men to kill us. But they won't succeed, Wilson."

"You can't hurt me," said Wilson defiantly. "You can't do anything but talk to me. You're trying to drive me mad, but you can't. I won't let you. I'm not going to pay any more attention to you."

The whisper chuckled.

"You can't," argued Wilson wildly. "All you can do is talk to me. You've never done anything but that. You drove me out of New York and out of London and now you're driving me out of Paris. But Berlin is as far as I will go. I won't listen to you any more."

"Wilson," whispered the voice, "look inside your bag. The bag, Wilson, where you are carrying that money. That stack of credit certificates.

Almost eleven thousand dollars, what is left of the twenty thousand Chambers paid you."

With a wild cry Wilson clawed at his bag, snapped it open, pawed through it.

The credit certificates were 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 pa.s.sport, 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 pa.s.sport 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 pa.s.sport and pile of other papers that lay upon the desk in front of him.

"That closes one little incident," he said grimly. "That takes care of our friend Wilson."

"Maybe you were a bit too harsh with him, Greg," suggested Russell Page.

Greg shook his head. "He was a traitor, the lowest thing alive. He sold the confidence we placed in him. He traded something that was not his to trade. He did it for money and now I've taken that money from him."

He shoved the pile of certificates to one side.

"Now I've got this stuff," he said, "I don't know what to do with it. We don't want to keep it."

"Why not send it to Chambers?" suggested Russ. "He will find the pa.s.sport and the money on his desk in the morning. Give him something to think about tomorrow."

_CHAPTER TWELVE_

Scorio snarled at the four men: "I want you to get the thing done right.

I don't want bungling. Understand?"

The bulky, flat-faced man with the scar across his cheek shuffled uneasily. "We went over it a dozen times. We know just what to do."

He grinned at Scorio, but the grin was lopsided, more like a sneering grimace. At one time the man had failed to side-step a heat ray and it had left a neat red line drawn across the right cheek, nipped the end of the ear.

"All right, Pete," said Scorio, glaring at the man, "your job is the heavy work, so just keep your mind on it. You've got the two heaters and the kit."

Pete grinned lopsidedly again. "Yeah, my own kit. I can open anything hollow with this rig."

"You got a real job tonight," snarled Scorio. "Two doors and a safe.

Sure you can do it?"

"Just leave it to me," Pete growled.

"Chizzy, you're to pilot," Scorio snapped. "Know the coordinates?"