Hanlon made the bird land on the window sill, and then begin tapping with its beak on the gla.s.s. Time and again it did this, until the two inside, attracted by the sound, looked about for its source.

"Look, Admiral Hawarden, it's a pigeon, tapping on the window," the secretary laughed.

"Must think there's something to eat in here," the officer grinned back.

"It really acts as though it was trying to attract our attention," the girl commented a few seconds later.

"Hmmm, I wonder," the admiral spoke half aloud, then as the bird kept up its purposeful tapping he recognized the Inter-Stellar code S O S.

Quickly he rose, went to the window, opened it, and stepped back.

The bird, showing no fear of the humans, entered and flew to his desk.

The secretary had also risen, and now shrank back against the wall, her hand at her mouth stifling a scream.

"It's magic," she said in fright. "No bird ever acted like that."

"It certainly is unusual," he said, and his eyes were puzzled. "I can't make it out."

The bird flew toward the officer, and with fluttering wings poised in the air before him, its beady, bright eyes peering directly into his.

Then it flew toward the door. When the admiral made no move to follow, the bird repeated the performance.

"It seems almost as though it wanted me to go somewhere with it," the officer said in a dazed manner. "Are we dreaming this, Thelma?"

"I ... I don't know, sir. We ... we must be," she stammered. "It just couldn't be possible otherwise."

But now the bird apparently noticed something else in the room, for it flew over to the secretary's desk and alighted on it. It hopped up to her electro-writer.

That was too much. The girl rushed over, waving her hands. "Shoo!" she scolded. "Get off my desk, you crazy creature!"

But Admiral Hawarden was no fool. This was far beyond any experience he had ever had, but there was such a purposefulness in the bird's actions, strange and unusual though they were, that he felt this little drama should be played out without interruption.

"Leave it alone!" he commanded sharply in a tone that startled her, so different was it from his usual polite manner.

Looking at him in astonishment, she stepped back, and watched with him this unprecedented action.

With its foot Hanlon made the bird throw the little switch that activated the writing mechanism, and then with its beak began pecking at the keys. Luckily there was paper in the machine, a letter she had not finished. The admiral stepped up to where he could see, but waved the girl back when she started to follow. It seemed impossible that the bird could write anything sensible ... but the admiral was beginning to be not too sure of that.

His eyes opened wide with surprise as he saw the letters appear one by one on the paper:

a n d r m a 7

No longer did he doubt. How it was possible, the future might tell. But he did know the significance and the urgency of that message. He ripped the paper from the machine and pocketed it, then jumped to his desk and flipped the intercom switch.

"Captain Jessup! A company of marines, in full armor and all weapons, at the main gate in trucks in two minutes. _Hipe!_"

He ran to a cabinet in one corner of the room and threw open the door.

"Come and help me!" he commanded the astonished girl, dragging his own long-unused s.p.a.ce armor out and starting to climb into it. With her help he was completely encased in the minute, and was strapping on his weapons. "You can go home now," he told her.

He turned to the desk where the bird was watching with its beady eyes, and held out his arm curved at the elbow. With a quick swish of wings the pigeon launched itself toward the suited figure and rested on the out-stretched wrist.

The admiral plunged through the door and into the hall, where his private elevator waited. "Ground!" he yelled, and the bird was lifted from his wrist by the sudden plunging descent, but fluttered back and rode that wrist as the admiral dashed out of the elevator, through the halls and out the front door to the waiting, marine-filled trucks.

Willing hands hauled him aboard the lead truck, and he threw the pigeon into the air.

"Follow that bird!" he commanded, and the incredulous driver did so, wondering secretly if the Old Man had suddenly gone bats.

When he saw beyond doubt the bird's destination, Admiral Hawarden gasped, but he was too old a campaigner to be stopped now. There was something here that needed himself and his men, and he would go through with it, no matter where it led.

He knew the calibre of the men of the Secret Service, and while he could not know how it was possible for one of them to train a bird in such a manner, he knew his job was to back up whatever that high-powered individual was doing.

As the trucks skidded to a halt at the entrance of the Prime Minister's ornate palace, he issued swift commands. His men, disregarding the indignant cries of the palace guards, who swarmed out to stop this unbelievable invasion of their rights, deployed to their designated positions, weapons at the ready.

To the officer of the guard who tried to bar his way, the admiral snapped, "I'll apologize later. Now get out of my way!" Then, with a squad of husky marines at his heels, he followed the fluttering pigeon through the opened door, along a hall, and down some stairs.

But here the bird seemed at a loss, fluttering from door to door, seeking that certain room.

As Hanlon had so shrewdly guessed, Admiral Hawarden was no fool, but quick on the up-take. "Open all these doors!" his voice rang out commandingly.

As fast as doors were opened--whether locked or not made no difference to the marines--the pigeon darted forward and glanced into each one before flying on the next. Then it disappeared through one of the doorways, and the admiral, who had kept as close to it as possible, yelled "Here!" and ran into the room, his men streaming after him.

"Welcome to out cozy nest, Mister," a voice from the depths of a big chair called, and the officer ran forward to where he could see. "You certainly made time, and am I happy to see you soldiers. Get me out of these things," and Hanlon rattled his chains.

At the admiral's gesture the marines made short work of the manacles, and Hanlon stood up, tottered a moment and would have fallen but for the quickly extended friendly arm of the admiral. He was still groggy, even though the serum was wearing off. But he was almost in complete control of his mind.

"We got here in time, then?" anxiously.

"Yes, thanks to my little friend here." Hanlon took the bird, and handed it to one of the marines, meanwhile impressing on its mind that it was safe among friends. "Look after her." And withdrew his mind.

"She gets good care the rest of her life," the admiral ordered the wondering marines. "Wait outside."

Hawarden looked about the room. "Who are these men ... and what in Snyder's name happened to them?"

"They were stung to death by bees," Hanlon said, and there was a trace of vindictiveness in his voice. "One of 'em's the Prime Minister; the others his gunmen."

"Great John!" the admiral breathed. "This'll raise a stink!"

"There'll be a bigger one before I get through," Hanlon was grim. "Get me back to your office, and get a doctor. They gave me truth serum, and it hasn't all worn off yet. And I'm hungry," he added so plaintively that Hawarden, accustomed enough to sight of death so it didn't affect him too much, laughed.

"What'll we do with the bodies?"

"Guard the Prime Minister's closely. Merely notify the people here where to find the others."

Hawarden called back two of the marines. "Bring that body with us," and they left.

At the entrance the admiral recalled his men. To the palace officer he partially explained. "The Prime Minister was killed, and we're taking his body with us. There are three of his men, also dead, in Room 37-B down there. I'll notify the Emperor, and a.s.sume full responsibility."

He jumped into the truck's front seat beside Hanlon and the driver.

"Back to base!"