TABLE of CONTENTS

RAIDERS OF THE RED DEATH

WAR MASTERS FROM THE ORIENT

First published in Operator #5 magazine, December 1935

1. FIELD OFFICE #3

Nero fiddled while Rome burned. And nearly two thousand years later, in the City of Washington, D.C., distinguished guests at the brilliant reception given by Mrs. Glenna Hawkins, dances to soft music and chatted idly of trivial things. And even while they laughed and chatted, newspapers were being hawked in the streets; newspapers carrying strange, black, disturbing headlines:

AZTEC REVOLUTION OVERTURNS MEXICAN GOVERNMENT!
SELF-STYLED DESCENDENT OF MONTEZUMA MAKES SELF EMPEROR!

The voices crying extras did not penetrate to gay guests in the home of Mrs. Hawkins. Indeed, few except two of the guests concerned themselves much with what was happening in little Mexico. The two who were interested were none other than the American Secretaries of War and of State, whose limousines were conspicuous among those parked outside Mrs. Hawkins' home.

But those two gentlemen were not in evidence in the huge reception room, and the other guests naturally assumed that they were closeted somewhere, discussing weighty matters.

So the gay reception went on...

In New York City, a furtive man slunk out of the Times Square subway station, lingered a moment at the corner of Forty-second Street and Times Square, glancing behind him frequently as if he were fearful of being followed.

He was a thin man; his hands were small, almost effeminate. His face was long, his features sharp, pinched with some sort of inward terror. He belonged, obviously, to one of the Latin races.

His eyes strayed upward and across Forty—second Street, to the Times Building. There, high above the heads of the passing crowds, was the ingenious news strip consisting of an arrangement of electric light bulbs, by which the latest happenings all over the world were flashed before the eyes of passing New Yorkers. The electric-light bulbs carried the illuminated words clear around the building, and the effect was that of a continuous sentence which could be read by anyone walking on any side of the tall Times Building.

Now the thin man seemed to shiver as he read the moving sentence that flashed around:

AZTECS IN FULL CONTROL OF MEXICO...
THEIR LEADER NAMES HIMSELF MONTEZUMA THE THIRD...
DECLARES WAR AGAINST UNITED STATES...
OUR PRESIDENT DECLARES THAT UNITED STATES TROOPS
WILL CRUSH AZTECS WITHIN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS....

The little man shivered as he read, and mumbled to himself under his breath. He cast a last, backward glance at the subway kiosk from which he had emerged into the street, then suddenly made up his mind and turned to enter the drugstore on the corner.

Behind him in the street, passing New Yorkers were reading further news items on the Times Building:

THIRTEEN PERSONS REPORTED KILLED
IN STRANGE EXPLOSIONS IN VARIOUS PARTS OF COUNTRY...
THOUGHT TO BE WORK OF FOREIGN SABOTAGE AGENTS....
METHOD OF BOMBINGS REMAINS A MYSTERY.....

The little man did not see these last news flashes, because he was already in the drugstore, crouched at one of the telephone booths.

Had he not been so nervous, he might have noticed the man who had come out of the subway kiosk behind him, and who had slid into a convenient doorway while he himself hesitated at the corner. Now, the second man strolled casually past the drug-store, peered in, saw the other in the telephone booth. He walked by the drug-store entrance, disappeared down the street.

The thin man, meanwhile, had inserted his nickel in the slot, and dialed 211—the long distance operator. He asked for a number in Washington, D.C., and two minutes later he was speaking Viciously into the transmitter.

"Thees," h said cautiously, "ees Miguel Esprada. You—remember?"

"Yes!" a crisp voice at the other end answered. "Did you find out anything?"

The thin man glanced about him furtively, brought his mouth close to the instrument. "You 'eve promise' me that you weel pay ten thousan' dol- lar—"

"No," the voice at the other end broke in. "I promised you five thousand. Come, Esprada, I'm very busy. Have you five thousand dollars' worth of information for me?"

Esprada'S eyes gleamed with avarice. "I 'ave, senor. But I am in the very great danger. You mus' send two of your—w'at-you-call?— operators to meet me and take me to Washington. There I weel talk. I can tell you w'ere is the secret 'eadquarters of the Aztecs in New York. I can tell you 'ow they make the men to explode. But you must be careful. There is a leak in your War Department. The nephew of the Secretary—Vance—"

His voice broke in a thin shriek of terror as the air in the drug-store seemed suddenly to change. Customers and clerks turned at the note of terror in Esprada's voice. A hush suddenly descended upon the noisy interior of the store.

And through that hush rose Esprada's fear—chilled voice: "The exploding death! Help—"

He started to run for the door, and suddenly his panic was communicated to the throng in the store. A mad stampede began toward the street. Jerks hurdled counters, men and women pushed each other roughly out of the way. And Esprada raced faster than all.

But he was too late. Abruptly, as if a huge hand had reached out from infinity, all that throng in the brilliantly lit store ceased to run, staggered, fought against an overwhelming power that seemed to be pushing the eyeballs out of their heads, to be causing the blood to burst from their nostrils and their eardrums.

And then, each individual in that store seemed to burst from within!

With a terrific series of popping explosions, all those people in the store burst into torn and bloody fragments of flesh and bone and clothing —as if a time bomb inside them had exploded!

The air was filled with blood and the stench of burned flesh, with flying fragments of humanity. The electric lights shattered into bits, plunging the interior into darkness. The plate—glass windows of the store burst outwards in shards, catapulting bits of human flesh into the street. Not a soul was left alive in the store....

Outside, people fled from the scene of the sudden holocaust, shrieking in terror. Something dreadful, inexplicable, had happened. The corner of Times Square and Forty-second Street was transformed abruptly from a busy, bustling intersection, into a charnel house.

Police patrol cars raced toward the scene with sirens screaming. Fire trucks roared through the streets. Gas and electric emergency squads arrived. Police reserves established a wide cordon about the corner, while other bluecoats attempted to quell the near-panic of persons in the subway system below who had heard the explosion.

Reporters sped to nearby telephones to rap out the dreadful news to their papers, while high across the street, on the tall Times Building, the news- strip continued to flash its items:

AZTECS REPORTED MOBILIZING TEXAS BORDER...
SPOKESMAN AT WHITE HOUSE STATES THERE IS NO CAUSE FOR ALARM.....

And the man who had been Migual Esprada a few minutes ago, was no more. Bits of him lay scattered on Times Square, together with shreds of the other unfortunate patrons of that store. The secrets he had offered to sell would never be sold....

In Washington, a blue-eyed, keen-faced young man jiggled the hook of his private telephone desperately.

"Operator!" he barked. "I was connected with New York. Reestablish that connection at once. This is government business!"

"Sorry, sir," the operator answered. "New York reports that there has been an explosion in the store where the pay telephone was located. Everybody in the store was killed!"

"Thank you," the young man said in a low voice, and racked the receiver slowly. His blue eyes had become suddenly cloudy as he stared across his desk. After a moment, he picked up another telephone beside the one he had just used, spoke three words into it: "Field Office Three!"

A few seconds later he was saying: "Chief! Are the Secretary of State and the Secretary of War there yet? Insist that they wait. It's more serious than they realize. We must make them understand. Yes, I'll be there inside of ten minutes!"

He hung up, picked up the other telephone, and spoke a number into it. When he got his connection his voice, which had been crisp and tense, softened a bit.

"Tim? You dressed? Big doings on. I'll pick you up at the usual corner in five minutes. Don't keep me waiting!"

On a side street in Washington, D.C. there is a down-at-heels two-story stucco building to which no one ever pays any attention. The small plot of ground in front of it is unkempt, full of weeds.

A faded "To Let" sign on the door directs any one interested to inquire at, a real estate office—not in Washington, but in New York City. Anyone desirous of renting this house would find his path beset by many difficulties. The rental demanded was so high as to deter any prospect from further inquires. But should he be persistent enough to get in touch will the New York real estate firm; and should he be profligate enough to be willing to pay the exorbitant rental, he would then be informed that the owner had investigated his references and found them unsatisfactory. The house remained unkempt and apparently untenanted....

Around the corner from it was the home of Mrs. Glenna Hawkins, the popular Washington hostess. It was here that the splendid reception was being given this evening, and it was outside her home that the limousines of the Secretaries of State and of War were parked.

The affair was well on its way when additional guests arrived. A young man and a boy drove up in a long, low-slung roadster whose throttled purr spoke of great reserves of power.

Because of the press of cars on the block, these two parked at some distance up the street. The young man got out, revealing a tall, well-knit, athletic figure, faultlessly attired in evening clothes. He had keen, intelligent, blue eyes; a strong chin, and a virile mouth. He moved lithely, with poise and with the suggestion of swift efficiency in emergencies. He was Operator 5 of the American Intelligence. Only a few persons knew him as James Christopher.

The boy, a freckle-faced lad of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, remained in the car, he slipping behind the wheel into the seat just vacated by the young man. His youthful, mischievous gray eyes twinkled as he said:

"Not owning a tuxedo, Jimmy, I guess I'll have to stay out here with the other chauffeurs. When the party's over, bring me out some of Mrs. Hawkins' caviar sandwiches, will you?"

The young man whom he addressed as Jimmy, did not smile. He glanced keenly up and down the street, his gaze probing into the shadows opposite, and on either side. He said grimly:

"It won't be that kind of a party, Tim. Now I'm sorry I called you. I hate to leave you out here."

Tim laughed, youthfully, infectiously. "It's not me they want, Jimmy. It's you. And besides, they couldn't get at me if they tried. You know darn well this car is bullet-proof; and with the windows up and the doors locked—"

The young man nodded, smiled affectionately. "All right, kid. As long as you're here, I can use you. Turn the window up as soon as I leave you, and don't open it for anybody! If you see Vance Snyder, the nephew of the Secretary of War, coming out, tail him and phone me as soon as you can. It's mighty important that we keep him in sight from now on!"

The boy's face suddenly grew serious. "Okay, Jimmy," he said quietly. "You can depend on me. And—good luck to you, Jimmy!"

The young man watched while Tim closed the window beside the driver's seat; then he turned silently and strode down the street toward the brilliantly lit home of Mrs. Glenna Hawkins.

As he walked, in swift, long, space-covering strides, his face— though that of a young man in the middle twenties—was etched in grim lines as if its owner had crammed many experiences into the short span of years. He walked swiftly, on the balls of his feet, hands swinging loosely at his sides. His appearance was deceptively casual, but his whole body was taut, ready to swing into blinding action at the first call of emergency....

At the door of the Hawkins home, he presented an engraved invitation to the flunkey, who relieved him of his hat and topcoat and led him into the reception hall. The name on that card of invitation was: "Carleton Victor," and it was thus that the flunkey announced him.

Glenna Hawkins, the hostess, was surrounded by a bevy of admiring men as he approached her. She elapsed herself, and gave him her hand, smiling graciously.

"So very nice of you to come, Mr. Victor," she said in her soft, drawling Southern voice.

Glenna Hawkins was a vivacious little thing, full of nervous energy. Her full, rather plump figure more than made up for by the sparkle in her lively eyes and by her consent stream of witty chatter. A widow at twenty-six, she had half of Washington offering to bestow another name upon her. Her husband, a career man in the diplomatic service, had died in an accident a couple of years before. Somehow, she seemed suddenly to have acquired unlimited funds, and her functions had become the talk of Washington.

She stood there now, holding the tall young man's hand, smiling and seeming to exchange trivial remarks with him. None of the guests were within earshot, for she had managed to move away from her admirers without appearing to do so. To any one observing her, it seemed that she was the perfect hostess, making her latest arrival feel at home. In reality, she was saying: "They are waiting for you, Operator 5. Z-7 is there, with the Secretaries of State and War. You'd better go right in to them before they get impatient. Use entrance number three. You know the way."

The young man who had been variously addressed that evening as "Jimmy," as "Carlton Victor," and as Operator 5," smiled as if Glenna Hawkins had said something very amusing. He seemed to be entirely preoccupied with his charming hostess. But his eyes had already swept over the assembled company, had noted the presence of a certain man.

He spoke urgently now, swiftly, though he continued to smile in a pleasant, carefree way: "I see that Vance Snyder is here. Did he come with the Secretary of War, or did he come alone?"

Involuntarily Glenna Hawkins' eyes strayed across the room to the sallow- skinned, foppishly dressed man who stood by himself in the middle of the room, shunning the gay groups about him. This man was evidently suffering from some sort of nervous strain. His small, restless eyes had flicked many times toward the tall young man, and each time he had turned away quickly, as if he feared to be observed.

Glenna Hawkins replied to her guest's query: "Vance Snyder came alone, just a couple of minutes before you did. Why do you ask? Surely there can't be anything wrong about Vance; he's private secretary to the Secretary of War —as well as being his nephew!"

The young man smiled thinly. "I am afraid that Vance Snyder needs watching. Keep your eye on him when I leave you. If he should follow me out of here, give me the usual signal—two green lights in the passageway."

The hostess' eyes expressed concern, though her lips continued to smile for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. "But surely you don't suspect Vance Snyder? The Secretary's nephew—"

The young man shrugged. "Even the Secretary's nephew," he said. "There are strange things occurring these last few days. Men in positions of trust are becoming traitors—men in very high places. There is danger all about us. If I can only convince those two old fossils inside, before it's too late."

Quickly Glenna Hawkins put a hand on his arm. "Is—is it that serious, Operator 5? Is the country really in danger?"

He nodded somberly. "In very great danger, Mrs. Hawkins. We are faced by a very powerful menace—so great that it can corrupt men like the nephew of the Secretary of War!" Suddenly he bowed to her. "I had better go. We may be observed, and we've talked too long already. Remember, watch Vance Snyder."

He left her, and started across the gay reception room. The buzz of light conversation assailed his ears on all sides, but he did not smile. He wondered how these people would act if they were suddenly made aware of the things that he had learned tonight. He could imagine the laughter dying on their lips, could almost see the dreadful fear growing in their eyes. But by no outward sign could any one tell what was going on behind those quiet blue eyes of his. To all appearances he was a slightly bored society gentleman, aimlessly strolling across the room.

His eyes sought Vance Snyder, but found no trace of the man in the gay assemblage. The Secretary's nephew had apparently vanished....

Operator 5 threaded his way casually among the guests, bowing here and there to an acquaintance, but managing deftly not to engage in any lengthy conversations. Finally he reached the other end of the ballroom, stepped out into a corridor. He glanced both ways to be sure that he was not observed, then crossed and opened a door opposite.

He slipped into an unlighted room, closed the door behind him, and made his way across in the dark. His hand touched a knob, he opened another door, and entered a small closet. Here he used a small, flat flashlight that fitted inconspicuously in his evening clothes, directed its beam at the wall.

His long, dexterous fingers felt along the wall, counting a row of nail heads that ran across it at about the height of a man's head. When he reached the eighth, he pressed hard with his thumb, and a hidden spring clicked. The entire wall rose at his touch, revealing to the beam of his light, a narrow wooden staircase. Unhesitatingly, he stared down, and as his foot touched the second step the wall descended behind him, closing off the closet.

When he reached the bottom of the flight of stairs, he followed a dank cellar wall for ten paces. Here he stooped and touched another spring. A section of the wall slid away, and he stepped through into a low tunnel. The wall closed behind him once more, and he followed the passageway for perhaps ten feet.

Suddenly he stopped, his eyes focused on two small green bulbs on the wall at his right which had begun to glow.

He pressed a button in token that he had seen the signal, and the light in the bulbs died once more. Using his flashlight, he hurried along the passageway for perhaps fifteen feet more, where it abruptly ended in a blank wall.

He bent down, focused his flashlight on a small hole in the wall, about two feet from the floor. At once there was a rumbling noise, and a section of the wall slid away, revealing a lighted room. He stepped within, and the wall-panel closed behind him.

A steady clack of typewriters greeted him from perhaps two dozen desks arranged in rows. At each of these desks, men in shirtsleeves worked. Behind the desks, other men worked at long rows of filing cabinets along the walls. The scene was one of bustling activity.

The men at the desks seemed to know him, for they nodded respectfully as he passed through the room into a small foyer-like space where a single man sat on guard. The man arose when he entered, smiled in welcome, said:

"You better hurry, Operator 5. Z-7 has sent down twice already to ask if you were here."

The young man did not smile. He asked swiftly: "Someone just came in through entrance number four. Who was it?"

The guard nodded. "Only Vance Snyder. He went upstairs, said he had an urgent message for his uncle. I didn't like to stop him. Did I do wrong?"

The young man nodded grimly. "I'm afraid you did, Sommers."

He left the bewildered guard, passed through two more rooms filled with busy men, and then up a flight of stairs to the upper floor.

Here there was similar activity. The entire floor was divided into glass- enclosed rooms. In some of them were teletypewriters, in others were batteries of phones. Everywhere men were working at top speed. At the places where the windows should be, long strips of soundproof board hot been nailed. No light shone out of this house, no sound came from it. Huge exhaust fans carried the stale air away, and brought in fresh. In an alcove at the side of the hall was an electric stove upon which fresh coffee was constantly being brewed for the busy men.

And the faded "To Let" sign on the front door, the unkempt lawn, concealed the fact that here was housed a unit designated as WDC—Field Office No. 3 of the United States Intelligence Service. The hostess in the house around the corner was a name in Washington society, but just another number in the rolls of the Intelligence Service. And she performed a highly useful duty in acting as a blind for Field Office No. 3.

Operator 5 hurried past the glass-enclosed offices, mounted to the second floor, and rapped twice at a door.

It was opened by a solidly built man whose flashing black eyes and black hair gave emphasis to his thin-lipped, shark featured face. He smiled, stood aside for Operator 5 to enter. His face now, even though he smiled, was lined with care. "We've been waiting for you, Operator 5," he said.

Operator 5 nodded to the Secretary of State and the Secretary of War, who were seated on either side of the polished mahogany desk in the center of the room. Then he turned to the man who had admitted him.

"I'm sorry, Chief," he said, "but I had to wait for an important phone call. Then, I had to double on the trail here, to make sure we weren't followed."

As he spoke, he fingered a watch-charm, fashioned in the shape of a death's-head, which hung on a chain across his vest. He gazed somberly at the three men. "Gentlemen!" he announced crisply, "I have very disturbing news for you!"

The Secretary of State, a stout man with a round, shrewd face and a thin scattering of gray hair, arose from the desk, frowning. "Your chief here tells me," he began irritably, "that you have been advancing some wild theories—"

"Wait, sir!" Operator 5 broke in. "My theories are far from wild. You, sir—and the whole nation, for that matter—are sitting on a keg of dynamite. And I am speaking literally now!"

The Secretary of State uttered a short, impatient laugh. "My dear boy, that's all rubbish. The Secretary of War and I have minutely gone over the forces available for national defense. Mexico is a weak, backward country. It is poor. The morale of its inhabitants is low. It is impossible to conceive that it could successfully make war upon—" he paused, then rolled the words in his mouth—"upon the United States of America!" He turned to the Secretary of War, who sat cross-legged close to the desk.

The Secretary of War was a tall, thin man, whose hair rose in a bristly pompadour from a long, wrinkled face. He uncrossed his legs, recrossed them the other way, then said: "Of course, my dear young man! The whole idea is preposterous. We have given more freight to your hot-headed reports than we should—only because of your chief's insistence—" he nodded in the direction of the black-haired man who had admitted Operator 5—"of your chief's insistence that you have never been wrong in the past." He leaned forward in his chair, pointed a finger at Operator 5. "I have even gone so far as to concentrate the bulk of the Third Army in the Eighth Corps Area, along the Mexican Border—"

Operator 5 interrupted him earnestly. "But don't you see, sir, that if my reports are well—founded, it is suicide for us to do that?"

He swung about, addressed all three men. "Let me go over the situation: A revolution has occurred in Mexico. A strange leader has arisen who calls himself Montezuma the Third, and who claims to be the rightful heir to the throne of the Aztec nation, which was overthrown by Cortez four hundred years ago. He has named himself Emperor of the Aztecs, and has set up temples to the ancient Aztec gods, where they sacrifice human beings by tearing out their hearts from their living bodies on the altars—"

The Secretary of War waved his hand in a gesture of impatience. "We know all that—"

The black-haired man who had admitted Operator 5 arose from behind his desk, his square, powerful fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on the glass top. He said: "Please, gentlemen! I suggest you wait until you hear everything that Operator 5 has to say."

This man behind the desk was known only by a number—Z-7. He was the Washington chief of the United States Intelligence Service. Through those blunt fingers of his passed the threads of every major intrigue that arose to menace the country; behind those raven-black eyes of his lurked more knowledge of matters vital to the country than even the Secretaries of State and of the Army could command. And they gave his unusual abilities a tremendous amount of grudging respect.

"Operator 5, gentlemen," he went on, "is the only man in the service whose judgment I respect without reservation. You could do worse," he added dryly, "than to hear him out!"

The Secretary of State shrugged, glanced at his fellow cabinet member, said: "Very well. Go on, Operator 5."

The young man turned eagerly to Z-7. "Chief! Let me have those reports in file 2318!"

Z-7 pressed a button at the side of his desk, and when a shirt-sleeved clerk appeared, ordered him to bring the file. In a moment Operator 5 was holding in his hand a thick sheaf of papers. He glanced keenly at both the cabinet members, riffled through the papers.

"Here, gentlemen, are a series of reports that have already been called to your attention. In Texas, in the last two days, there have been more than a dozen unaccountable deaths. Men have suddenly been killed—without warning—by exploding into bits! Among the victims are Major General Stanton, who was temporarily in command of the Third Army—" he read from the list—"Captain Polk, in charge of the Border Patrol; Captains Evans and Steele, and Lieutenant Worth of the flying corps, who were commanding Biggs, Hensley and Laredo Fields, respectively."

His keen eyes bored into them as he hammered home each point. "In New York, far away from the Mexican border, a Colonel Allison suddenly explodes into bits as he is entering the armory of the Twenty-third Field Artillery. There are other casualties—a list numbering fifty-one deaths. All these men exploded, gentlemen—exploded into bits of flesh and bone —without any apparent cause!"

His tone dropped, became confidential. "In the last two days, sirs, thirty-two airplanes took off from army bases, and did not return. We have every reason to believe that those planes haven't been destroyed—they have been forced to fly in a certain direction—"

he was interrupted by a hurried tapping at the door. A clerk entered, with a typewritten message. "Sir!" the clerk blurted to Z7. "T-this has just come in on the teletype from our San Antonio office!"

He handed the flimsy to Z-7 who glanced at it, paled, and looked up at the others. He nodded to the clerk, who turned and left. When the door had shut behind him, Z-7 said to them huskily: "Gentlemen, let me read this to you:

... WDC-13... ENTIRE CONTINGENT BORDER PATROL WIPED OUT BY MYSTERIOUS EXPLOSION... HUNDRED AND FIFTY MEN BLOWN TO BITS... NO TRACE OF BOMB... CANNOT DISCOVER CAUSE... PLEASE RUSH US MORE MEN... SAT- 1.

He finished reading, glanced up at the two cabinet members. The Secretary of State snatched the flimsy from him, read it with his own eyes, then lifted his head and stared blankly at his colleague. The telephone on Z-7's desk jangled, interrupting him, and the Chief picked it up, answered it. Then he handed the instrument across to Operator 5.

He at once recognized the voice of the young Irish lad whom he had left outside in the car. The boy's voice was tense with excitement.

"Jimmy! Vance Snyder is up to something. I spotted him coming out of the servants' entrance of Mrs. Hawkins' house, and I followed him. He walked down a couple of blocks, and went in a drugstore. By the time I got there, I just saw him come out of a phone booth, and I tailed him back to Mrs. Hawkins' house. He went in the same way!"

Operator 5 rapped out: "Okay, Tim. Get back to the car, and wait for me!"

He hung up, and his eyes bored into those of the Secretary of War. "Did you tell your nephew of this meeting, sir?" he demanded.

"Why—no. But I did tell him of this office. After all, he is my secretary."

"You should never have done that, sir!"

The Secretary of War flushed. "Young man!"

Jimmy Christopher was not listening. He had picked up the phone, and was jiggling the hook. "Give me Sommers... Sommers! Did Vance Snyder go out and return within the last few minutes? He did? He's on his way up? Have two men seize him and bring him to Z-7's office—at once! Yes, I know who he is. Do what I say!"

He slammed down the receiver, raised a hand to still the indignant protests of the Secretary of War. "Mr. Secretary, if your nephew is an innocent man I will be the first to apologize to him. But with things the way they are—"

He swung to the door as a knock sounded, pulled it open. Vance Snyder stood there, panting in the grip of two of the Secret Service men.

Operator 5 ordered them quietly: "Let him come in, boys. You can go."

The two men were puzzled, but at a nod from Z-7 they obeyed.

Vance Snyder glanced at his uncle, rearranged his rumpled clothing. There was a hint of terror in his eyes as he blustered: "Who ordered that I be dragged up here? This is outrageous—"

Jimmy Christopher rapped out at him: "Snyder! Whom did you phone to a few minutes ago?"

The Secretary's nephew glared at Jimmy Christopher. "By what authority —?" Jimmy's eyes were blazing. He stepped forward, seized Snyder by the lapels of his coat. "You fool! Tell me quickly! To whom did you phone and what did you tell that person?"

The Secretary of War arose from his chair. "See here, Operator 5! This has gone far enough. My nephew—"

Jimmy, still clutching Snyder's coat, whirled on the Secretary. "Your nephew," he said coldly, "just sneaked out of the servants' entrance of the house around the corner, and went to a public telephone booth to make a call."

The Secretary glanced at his nephew indulgently. "I am sure that Vance can explain everything." He addressed Snyder. "To satisfy Operator 5's baseless suspicions, Vance, tell him why you made that call."

Snyder lowered his eyes "I don't see that it's any of his business," he said sulkily. "There's no law to prevent me from making a little extra money."

"What do you mean?" Jimmy Christopher demanded.

"Why—I have a newspaper friend who pays me for news tips. His paper is very generous. They're paying me five hundred dollars to tell them about this conference here. Of course, the paper won't state the location of this office—"

"So you told it to him in confidence?" Jimmy Christopher groaned.

Snyder fidgeted under Jimmy's powerful grip, nodded reluctantly. "Yes. But I assure you, it won't—"

Z-7 stepped quickly around the desk to interrupt. "What's the name of this newspaper friend? Who is he?"

Jimmy Christopher suddenly released his grip on Snyder's coat. He said swiftly to Z-7: "Wait, Chief. There's something more important than that right now. "You've got to empty this house of every man—at once!"

Z-7 paled. "You mean!"

"That Snyder here, has unwittingly been giving information to Montezuma and the Aztecs! He's not the only one. That's how they've been able to stage their explosions at crucial moments. I'm positive they're going to send their exploding death into this house! They may be doing it now!"

The Secretary of War deliberately sat down, stared at the others. His ruddy face was set stubbornly. "I won't leave here," he said. "I don't believe a word of this hair-brained operator of yours. I trust my nephew implicitly. You others may go if you are frightened—" his lip curled scornfully —"at what this scatter brained young man tells you!"

Operator 5 met the gaze of Z-7. "And you, Chief?" he asked. "Will you get all your men out of here before they're all destroyed?"

Z-7 looked at him helplessly. "I'm sorry, Operator 5," he murmured. "If the others stay—"

Operator 5 sighed. "Very well, gentlemen. I hope you don't mind if I go myself?"

He wheeled, strode for the door. Once out in the corridor, however, he did not make for the exit. Instead, he glanced quickly up and down to see if he was observed; then, with fingers that worked like oiled instruments of precision, he extracted from his pocket a small object made of aluminum.

It was a cone—no more than an inch and a half long and an inch in circumference at its base. He set it on the floor in a corner, lit a match and touched the flame to the apex. Almost at once, a thick mass of black smoke rose in the hallway, so dense that it was impossible to see anything through it. It spread rapidly, filling the hallway.

This was a device which Operator 5 had perfected in his own laboratory, and which he always carried with him in case it should become necessary for him to make a quick escape under cover of a smoke screen. The cone contained a skillfully blended mixture of phosphorus and chlorosulphonic acid—the chemical base of smoke screens ejected from the funnels of battleships. Although Operator 5 carried that cone for a different purpose, he found it useful now.

He felt his way through the dense cloud of smoke, jerked open the door of the room he had just left. The four men looked up in startled surprise as the thick clouds floated in.

Operator 5 shouted: "It's here! Get out quick!"

Z-7 jumped from behind his desk, seized the Secretary of War by the arm. "Come on, sir!" he exclaimed. "You can't doubt now!"

The Secretaries of War and State, Vance Snyder and Z-7 rushed from the room, and Operator 5 followed them down the stairs. On the way, Z-7 issued swift orders to the men in the offices to evacuate the house, and a steady stream of shirt-sleeved workers hastened from the house, through the front door which had never been used before. Within a few minutes, the house was completely empty....

Out in the street, they gathered in small groups, watching the thick clouds of smoke that billowed from the building. Operator 5 stood close to Vance Snyder, with Z-7 and the two cabinet members. From afar they could hear the clangor of fire apparatus.

And suddenly, as they watched the house, there came a dull, muffled explosion from within it. Every pane of glass in the building was shattered; the shutters on the windows were thrust outward in splinters as by some invincible force. The air about them became thin, hard to breathe, and they backed further away.

The crashing, shattering noise of the explosion died away, leaving in the air the terrified cries of the crowding pedestrians who had stopped, astonished at the sudden exodus of men from a house they, had believed to be empty.

The Secretary of War stared at his nephew, haggard-faced. "Vance!" he exclaimed.

Vance Snyder had been staring at the building with the eyes of a madman. Now he groaned: "God! What have I done?" And suddenly he thrust his uncle aside, sped across the street. In a moment he had reached the other side, and they saw him stagger, saw blood spurt from his ears and nose. He stumbled forward another few steps, into the entrance....

And no sooner had he stepped within that house than he suddenly seemed to disintegrate! With a short, sharp explosion, he was torn into a thousand pieces. There was nothing left of the man who had been Vance Snyder....

Z-7 glanced somberly at Jimmy Christopher. "Now," he said, "We'll never know the name of his newspaper friend!"

The Secretary of War had covered his face with his hands. Now he raised his head, and his long, wrinkled face gray and drawn. He glanced wordlessly at the Secretary of State. Then he said to Jimmy Christopher: "Operator 5, everything you told us was correct. I don't know what to say, or what to do. We place ourselves in your hands!"

Jimmy nodded. He said crisply: "I suggest that you authorize me to fly to the Mexican border. If I'm right, the next move of the Aztecs will be to wipe our armed forces in Texas!"

2. PRISONER OF THE AZTECS

Texas dust swirled fitfully about the small group of temporary buildings comprising Provisional Headquarters of the Third Army, covering the Eighth Corps Area along the southern frontier of the United States.

Within the large, frame building which had only been completed an hour or so before dusk, a dozen executive officers sat at a long table. A gray-haired, haggard-featured man in uniform presided. His shoulder straps bore four silver stars—the insignia of a commanding general.

Outside, constant streams of infantry and artillery plodded by, the enlisted men—entirely unaware that they were marching to almost certain death. The officers at that table in Provisional Headquarters, however, knew it only too well....

They talked in low, grim tones. There was a strange expression in the eyes of all of them—the look of brave men who know Death waits for them, yet who cannot understand its nature. Most men are willing to fight for a righteous cause against a known force. But it takes brave men indeed to face death in a horrible, unknown manner....

The man at the head of the table was addressing the others: "Gentlemen," he said in weary tones, "I have just had a report from the front. The Aztecs are advancing across the border. Major-General Oppington reports that he has lost five hundred troops without being able to strike a blow. The artillery cannot be brought into action—each gun crew that approaches a piece of ordnance immediately explodes into bits—as if by a time bomb. Our planes go up, and then seem to set a direct course for Mexico. Not one of them returns. Whole squads of men defending our positions are suddenly exploded, and the Aztecs march ahead without opposition. Gentlemen—" The general arose at the head of the table. His eyes lowered before the gaze of the assembled officers. "I have ordered Major-General Oppington to fall back!"

A stocky, bullet-headed colonel of Intelligence leaped to his feet at the opposite end of the table "Do you mean to say, sir, that you ordered a retreat? We have thirty thousand men in this corps area; are we to run away from a rabble of peons and mestizos led by a madman who has named himself an emperor?"

The general sighed wearily. "Why not, Colonel? We are faced by some mysterious force that we cannot understand. Our men explode from within— as if they had swallowed dynamite. Do you expect me to send more of our boys out to be slaughtered in the same way? God, man—" the general's face was twisted with passion—"it—it's uncanny, gruesome; like marching against eternity. I won't do it, I tell you! I won't sacrifice any more lives!"

"But, sir," the colony protested, "if Major—General Oppington retreats, it will leave no opposition between the Aztecs and Fort Sam Houston. If the Aztecs take Houston, they'll have a solid footing in the United States!"

The general shrugged. "Let them take it, Colonel Lacon. I'll order Houston evacuated. The Aztecs will have to hold up their advance there for at least a day in order to organize their position and bring up provisions. It'll give us a breathing spell—"

He stopped as a second lieutenant entered, saluted and said: "Colonel Grant's respects, sir. The Fifty-sixth Regiment is ready to be reviewed, sir, before marching."

The general nodded and the lieutenant left. The staff officers all gazed at their commander gravely. He turned from the table said slowly: "I'll review them, anyway. But I'm going to countermand their marching orders."

The officers followed him out into the night. Flares lighted the entire field. Regimental bands were playing as men marched by. A whole regiment of United States infantry—a powerful, almost invincible fighting machine, stepping as one man; fifteen hundred men, comprising a unit of military strength that could have routed a dozen Roman legions.

The general sighed as he and his staff saluted the passing colors. "I wish," he murmured to his aide, "that the man they're sending from Washington would come soon. It'll be a relief to turn over the responsibility for all these men to someone else." He gulped, as his aide eyed him sympathetically. "God! I have never shirked responsibility before in my life. But this—"

HIS words were drowned by the sudden thunderous explosion that seemed to roll over the field of marching men. Suddenly all those uniformed men seemed to disintegrate before the very eyes of the general and his staff. Individual explosions followed each other with crackling rapidity as if an immense hand were sweeping over the field and touching a match to groups of firecrackers, one after the other.

Bits of flesh and bone, bits of torn clothing, filled the air, rained down upon the heads of the transfixed staff. The air grew stifling, hard to breathe, filled with the stench of scorched flesh. A haze gathered over the field through which it was difficult to see.

And abruptly as it had come, the holocaust passed. The air cleared slightly. And the general and his staff stared with dread-filled eyes at that field. Not a single man of that marching regiment was left alive. The ground was strewn with blood and bits of flesh and torn clothing. In the space of one minute an entire regiment had been annihilated as by a breath from some unseen god!

The general staggered backward, leaned against the wall of his headquarters for support. Suddenly he had become an old man. He tried to speak, but no words came from his lips. He could only gaze in stupefaction at his officers.

And from far above to the north, there came to their ears the drone of a plane. The colonel of Intelligence gulped, said: "T-that must be the man from Washington, sir. My God! He's come just in time to see death and destruction!"

The general pulled himself together. "This is the end!" he grated hoarsely. "We can't fight a thing like this. When that plane lands, I'm going to turn over—"

"Wait, sir!" the colonel of Intelligence exclaimed. "His motor's cut out. He's coming from the north, with the wind. He couldn't be landing that way. He's out of control!"

Indeed, the heavy army transport seemed to be acting erratically above that field of carnage. It swooped low over the heads of the staff officers, with the motor dead; then once more they heard it cough, burst into its droning roar. It was working again. They watched the pilot climb, try to bank, and once more they strained eagerly as they heard the engine go dead.

Again and again, white stretcher bearers patrolled the field in a vain search for a single living man, the general and his aides watched that plane try to veer into the wind for a landing; and each time they heard the engine die.

The colonel of Intelligence exclaimed: "He can't make it, sir. His motor is all right, but there's some sort of air pocket up there that cuts it off. What?"

He ceased talking, watched intently as a small figure legged over the side of the plane, hurtled toward them. A parachute billowed out, the sudden drop of the figure was broken, and they all ran toward the spot where he would fall.

Before they got there, the figure landed. Several enlisted men helped him out of his parachute harness, and he stood erect just as General Everard and his staff came running up.

The general came to a halt, staring in amazement, as did the other officers, at the freckle-faced, tough-looking Irish lad who faced them.

General Everard demanded: "Who in tarnation are you? How did you get into that army plane?"

But the boy paid him no attention for the moment. He was gazing upward anxiously, watching the transport. It was now a good distance away, winging its way southward. His lips moved, and he said under his breath, with his eyes still on the plane: "Good luck to you, Jimmy! I wish—" his lips trembled, and he gulped a little—"that you'd let me go along!"

Abruptly the boy turned, drew from his pocket a slip of paper.

"General Everard?" he asked, eyeing the four silver stars on that officer's uniform. The general nodded, puzzlement and irritation showing in his seamed face. "This message is for you, general, from Operator 5—the man you were expecting from Washington. He wrote it up there in the plane when he found we couldn't land."

The general took the slip of paper, growled: "I don't understand this. Instead of a man they send me a boy—!" His words trailed off as he read the note by the glare of one of the flares:

To General Everard, Commanding Third Army:

Impossible to land due to mysterious atmospheric conditions. We are being compelled, by some strong power, to fly south toward the area under occupation by the Aztecs. Our radio sending-set does not function. Apparently the Aztecs plan to force us to land within their lines and to capture us. I shall do so in hope of securing valuable information. In the meantime, would advise you retreat upon Fort Sam Houston. The bearer of this note is Tim Donovan, my unofficial assistant. Keep him close to you, as any messages I may be able to send will be in code which he can easily read.

Operator 5.

General Everard glanced up from the strange note, written hastily in pencil, eyed the boy. "How do I know," he demanded, "that this is authentic? How do I know that the man who wrote this note is really Operator 5? How do I know that your name is—" he looked at the paper—"Tim Donovan?"

Tim Donovan said quietly: "That is easily proved, sir." He glanced at the colonel of Intelligence, raised his right hand. Upon his finger there gleamed a ring with a death's-head skull, peculiarly fashioned. "You are an Intelligence officer, sir," he said. "Do you recognize this ring?"

The colonel took the boy's hand in his own, studied the ring. Then he nodded. "This is the ring, General Everard. All Intelligence officers have been instructed. There is a certain mark on it that identifies it as authentic. This boy is really Tim Donovan, who has been assisting Operator 5 remarkably well for some time. This lad is too young to be admitted to the Secret Service yet, but—"

Tim Donovan said urgently: "If you're satisfied about me, general, let's get to a wireless receiving-set as quickly as possible. Ji—I mean —Operator 5, may send through a message at any moment."

The general nodded. "All right. Operator 5 is our only hope now. The Aztecs seem to be able to annihilate our entire forces at will. Guns are no good against them!"

In the army plane, which was soon lost to sight in the engulfing darkness to the south of provisional headquarters, the pilot sat grim-lipped at his controls. Behind him, his passenger stared ahead through the night. Jimmy Christopher, known in the Secret Service only as Operator 5, had taken off his own helmet and goggles, and was gazing ahead, regardless of the furious wind that lashed at him. His sharp, intelligent, clean-cut face was like that of some young god, riding the skies fearlessly toward whatever fate might hold....

Down below he could see, faintly in the night, the terrain of Texas —broad, parched fields upon which there was no life whatsoever. But soon the panorama changed. Little, motionless dots flecked the landscape below —thousands of them. Jimmy Christopher's pulse raced. He knew only too well what those little dots were—the pitiable, torn remains of what had once been stalwart United States Army soldiers, and their officers; all horridly mangled and torn by this strange force that Montezuma controlled.

Far to the east were dark moving specks—the remnants of the first line divisions, In retreat. And soon there came into the range of Operator 5's vision the forces of the Aztecs, encamped in a huge circle upon the plain.

He tapped the pilot on the shoulder, motioned to him to attempt a landing. The pilot nodded, and the plane veered down. And almost at once the twin motors sputtered, grew silent!

Jimmy Christopher felt a strange tightness in the atmosphere; breathing became more difficult. Frantically the pilot fought his controls, managed to keep the plane level. And in a moment, the motors coughed, resumed their rhythmic beat. The plane spurted ahead, and the pilot turned his head to Jimmy, his lips formed panicky words: "They won't let us land! We've got to go on!"

Operator 5 nodded. His face was eager with expectation. He motioned the pilot to continue along the same course. They had enough fuel to keep them in the air for hours. There was no immediate danger.

Below them there passed in swift panorama the huge encampment of the Aztec invaders—thousands upon thousands of orderly tents, with watch fires burning brightly. Those invaders, he reflected bitterly, were safe from attack by the troops of the United States. Every detachment that had advanced against them had been destroyed by the invisible force—the same invisible power that was compelling this plane to continue on its southward course.

They passed a thin, twisting silver band that bisected the earth below; Jimmy Christopher knew it was the Rio Grande. Now they were over Mexico....

Several times the pilot tried to descend, and each time the same phenomenon occurred—the motors went dead until he brought the plane up again, in the path of its southward Eight. It was uncanny, chilling; the feeling that unseen eyes were watching them, driving them along.

At last, Jimmy's sharp eyes discerned the gleaming sheen of water. He drew in his breath sharply at the beauty of the scene below him—Mexico City, sitting high on its natural plateau, on the edge of Lake Tezcuco.

The white macadam roads leading toward the city were covered with moving lines of men and trucks, marching northward. More forces for the invasion of America! And far over the plateau were more moving masses of men; a mere handful against the vast armies which the United States could muster, but invincible now with the aid of the terrible weapon that their master had acquired....

And now, when the pilot attempted to veer into the wind and land, there was no dying of motors. The plane dropped slowly under his skillful manipulation toward a field to the east of the city, illuminated by huge incandescent bulbs....

A LINE of Aztec infantry was drawn up to meet them as the plane coasted to a stop, and mechanics ran out to help them.

When the motors were shut off, Jimmy Christopher said to the pilot: "Here we are, lieutenant. Keep a stiff upper lip. They didn't bring us here just to sacrifice us on their alters. But if we have to die, let's go out like men!"

They shook hands, descended from the plane. A tall man in brilliant uniform stepped forward, saluted gravely. He was lean-featured, thin-lipped, with sharp eyes that roved over Jimmy's well-knit figure like those of a hangman. There was a note of wonder in his voice as he said: "Are you then, that so dangerous person who is known as Operator 5? I expected an older man."

Jimmy said curtly: "I am Operator 5."

"That, my friend," the officer said, "is but a number. What is your name?"

Jimmy grinned. "Operator 5 will have to do you. Only my friends call me by name."

The officer smiled thinly. "You are another of those who need coaxing, no? No matter. At the palace we will know how to make you loquacious. Come!"

He turned, stalked across the landing field. A file of soldiers opened, took position on either side of Jimmy. Jimmy said to the pilot: "They don't want you, old man. Stay by the plane if you can."

The two men shook hands, and the pilot said earnestly: "Good luck, Operator 5!"

At the edge of the field, a large closed car was waiting. The Aztec officer got in first, then Jimmy was motioned in. Two soldiers sat on the rear seat, on either side of him, while the officer sat on one of the forward folding seats. The car got in motion.

Jimmy said: "Would it be too much, sir, to ask where we are going?"

The officer turned his head, gazed at him a moment, then answered: "You are being taken to an interview with our emperor—Montezuma the Third. Be careful how you speak to him. If you are wise, you will answer his questions more fully than you have answered mine."

Jimmy relaxed in his seat, thoughtfully. Why Montezuma should have gone to this trouble to bring him here, he could guess. As Operator 5 of the United States Secret Service, it might well be assumed that he was in possession of all the secrets of defense of the country. If they should torture him....

Jimmy Christopher's lips set firmly.

3. THE PRINCESS DOLORES

Looking through the windows of the swiftly moving car, Jimmy Christopher could see the feverish military activity on all sides. This small country of sixteen million people had overnight become a warrior nation. Only a few months ago there had come out of the province of Zacatecas a man who claimed to be of pure Aztec blood—a direct descendant of the haughty, cruel Montezuma who had been emperor of the Aztecs when the Spaniards conquered Mexico. He called himself Montezuma the Third. Indians and mestizos flocked to him. The Mexican government had viewed this at first as only another chronic rising, to be quelled quickly.

But the authorities soon learned their mistake. Montezuma was possessed of a mysterious force which destroyed the detachments of Nationalist soldiers sent against him. In a short time, he was master of Mexico, had proclaimed himself Emperor. And now he was extending his conquest to the United States! If Operator 5 did not quickly discover the secret of this strange power which Montezuma wielded, his country would soon be a vessal of the Aztec Empire!

Jimmy Christopher continued to watch the progress of the car, saw they were racing along a wide, concrete causeway toward a huge castle—like structure about a half-mile away. The causeway stretched like a long, white ribbon straight ahead of them, over a glittering body of water upon the edge of which the palace was built.

To the right and left of them were other causeways. These roads were crowded with Aztec soldiers marching in slovenly fashion. Jimmy glanced sideways at the brilliantly uniformed, thin—lipped officer who sat next to him, saw that the man was watching him through sharp, narrowed eyes. "Do you speak Spanish?" he asked, and when Jimmy nodded, he immediately changed to that language. "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Major Juan Horgavo, the head of the Aztec Intelligence Bureau. I have heard many tales of you, Operator 5, and I am surprised to find that you are so young."

Jimmy answered dryly: "Thanks for the compliment. How did you know I was in that plane?"

Horgavo raised his eyebrows. "We know nearly everything that goes on in Washington, Operator 5. Our agents are everywhere."

Jimmy Christopher grinned. "Pretty good organizer, aren't you, major? When the Aztecs are licked, and you're looking for another job, let me know and I'll give you a reference."

The major's teeth shoved in a wolfish smile. "You Americans are so rash in your talk. You are all fools. You will change your tune when our torturers have worked on you for a while. You—"

He stopped as the car swung off the causeway into a wide drive, braking under an immense portico.

A squad of soldiers under a junior officer were drawn up to receive them, and Major Horgavo got out first, then bowed ironically, murmured: "Welcome to Mexico City, Operator 5!"

Jimmy grimaced, and descended from the car. At a sharp command from Horgavo, the squad of soldiers divided, took positions on either side. They marched through the aisle of men to the broad entrance and into the huge palace.

Here there was much scurrying and bustle. Men in uniform were everywhere. All saluted Horgavo with great respect and cast curious eyes on the prisoner. Jimmy, with his military escort, ascended a broad flight of stairs, marched along another hall, and finally stopped before a huge, oak door.

Major Horgavo motioned to the junior officer, who produced a pair of handcuffs. The Aztec intelligence commander murmured to Jimmy: "I hope you will not object. No prisoner is permitted to appear in the presence of the emperor unbound."

Jimmy shrugged, extended his hands. The officer slipped the handcuffs on him, then quickly searched Jimmy, took the automatic from his shoulder holster, as well as a thin, flat silver case. He handed the case to Horgavo, who, still smiling with mock courtesy, opened it. Within the case was revealed a typed sheet of paper which read:

THE WHITE HOUSE
Washington

To Whom It May Concern:

The identity of the bearer of this letter must be kept strictly confidential. He is Operator 5 of the United States Intelligence Service.

The signature at the bottom of the document was that of the President of the United States of America.

Horgavo nodded in satisfaction. "This is what I wanted to make sure of," he said. "You are the man whom our emperor wishes to see!"

He turned, and at a word from him, the guard opened the big oak door. They passed into a huge room at the far end of which was a raised dais. Men in brilliant uniform filled this room, but the figure on the dais outshone them all. Montezuma the Third sat there upon a chair of gold, clad in a gold- embroidered mantle which must have cost a fortune. Upon his head rested a glittering crown, and at his side, in a scabbard, hung a short sword whose hilt was cunningly fashioned into the head of a bird of prey.

The emperor's face was long and thin, with a sharp, straight nose and a cruel gash of a mouth almost hidden by his moustache and carefully trimmed beard. The haughty, predatory features reminded Jimmy Christopher of pictures he had seen of the earlier Montezuma. He reflected that it was quite possible for this man to be a direct descendant of the Emperor of the Aztecs.

Jimmy was propelled across the room by his guards, and he approached the dais. Horgavo bowed low before the emperor, bending himself almost double, and said reverentially: "Lord, my Lord, my great Lord!"

Montezuma raised his hand to the others in the room, ordered imperiously: "Leave us!" There were some forty or fifty men there, and they all backed meekly out the doorway.

When they were alone, Horgavo said humbly: "Master, I bring you Operator 5. By projection, we forced his plane to fly directly here."

Montezuma's black, piercing eyes settled on Jimmy. He spoke in English with only a slight accent. "Operator 5, do you know why I had you brought to me?"

Jimmy shook his head. He was studying the other, trying to decide what manner of man this was who had made himself Emperor of the Aztecs— overnight.

"For five days, Operator 5, I have caused my priests to make sacrifice upon the altars of the old gods of the Aztecs—Huitzilopochtli and Tezcatlipoca. In the old tradition of our beliefs, we offered the still palpitating hearts of hundreds of your captured countrymen upon the altars, asking our gods to give us an omen that would bring us victory. And our gods spoke. They told us to find a certain man who we known as Operator 5."

Jimmy, returning the stare of Montezuma, said dryly:

"Are you sure it was your gods that spoke, or was it the tortured lips of some of my countrymen?"

Montezuma smiled. "You are bold, Operator 5. I like bold men. I like to see them writhe before they die. After you have served your—"

Suddenly, from somewhere behind the curtains which hung in back of the dais, came a shriek of agony. It filled the whole room, seeming to have been torn from a tortured throat by red—hot, demoniac fingers.

Operator 5's flashing blue eyes became cloudy and dark. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his manacled hands clenched in front of him. He took an involuntary step toward the dais, but was roughly seized by his guards, held back.

He said tightly: "I give you my word, Montezuma, that my country will exact terrible vengeance for every one of its men whom you torture!"

Montezuma's face became ugly with rage for an instant, and he half rose from his throne. Then he smiled thinly, said softly: "Your country, Operator 5, will bow its head in abject submission!"

"Never!" Jimmy said hoarsely. "The United States will never surrender to a barbarian race led by a madman like you!"

Montezuma's face darkened. He grated: "You are too bold." He stopped, for once more that shriek sounded from behind the dais, chilling Jimmy Christopher's soul, then it died away in a soft gurgle of agony. From behind the curtains came the roll of a drum in a dreadful, funereal cadence. Then the sound of many jabbering voices.

Jimmy Christopher watched, white-faced, while Montezuma rang a bell at his elbow. Immediately, the curtains behind the dais parted, and a tall Aztec, clad in a long, white robe that was spattered with blood, entered, bowed low. This man had a gaunt face with deep-set eyes under heavy, bushy brows. His teeth were big, and glistened as he spoke in a tongue that Jimmy could not understand, but which he guessed to be the language of the ancient Aztec nation.

Montezuma listened carefully, until the man had ceased talking. Then he smiled in satisfaction, said to Jimmy:

"My high priest brings me most interesting information. He has just made another sacrifice to Tezcatlipoca, our god of war; and Tezcatlipoca has spoken, telling us your true name. You are James Christopher. Your father, John Christopher, was once known as Q-6 in the American Intelligence Service. Is it not so?"

Jimmy Christopher's face flushed. "No god told you that, Montezuma! That devilish priest of yours has just tortured some poor captive into revealing who I am. Who was that man who just shrieked?"

Montezuma smiled thinly, motioned to the high priest, said something to him in their own tongue. The high priest bowed, stepped back to draw the curtains aside. "I will show you, Operator 5," Montezuma said softly. "So that you may know what fate to expect yourself!" The priest drew back the curtains, and at a sign from Montezuma, Jimmy's guards urged him around the dais so that he could see what lay behind it.

There was a small room there, windowless, except for a large opening cut into the stone of the roof. In one corner sat a large, ugly idol, fat, revolting. This was the god, Tezcatlipoca, half man and half serpent. It was carved out of stone, about five times the size of a normal man, and about its fat throat hung a necklace of human skulls. Some of them were fresh— still dripping blood.

On the floor before the gruesome idol lay a man, stripped to the waist, and stretched upon a wooden rack to which his hands and feet had been nailed. Jimmy gazed down with wide eyes at the agonized, pain-distorted face of the man. This was one whom he knew well—F-13, one of the most trusted agents of the Secret Service. F-13 was one of the few men who knew Operator 5's true identity. He had been sent down into Mexico only a few days before, in company with Jimmy's own father, who, in spite of a bad heart, had insisted upon serving his country in this grave, new peril.

Now he saw F-13 lying nailed to that rack, dying. And he saw the long bloody furrows on F13' s body, where Montezuma's torturers had torn strips of skin from his living body to make him talk. F-13's torso was a bloody thing of pain and agony, and Jimmy Christopher's face was gray and drawn as he knelt, handcuffed, beside the dying Secret Service man.

"F-13!" he said in a choked voice. "I promise you they'll pay for this!"

F-13 stared up at him through filming eyes. He said huskily: "I—I couldn't stand the torture. They—they made me talk, made me tell your name. I—God! I'm a skunk. I should have kept quiet. Now they know—"

Jimmy Christopher forced a smile. "Don't worry, old man. No harm will come to me. You should have talked—sooner!"

F-13's face twisted into a pain-wracked smile. "Thanks, Operator 5. I —I know—you're trying to make me feel—better. I shouldn't—have—talked!" Suddenly, a spasm of pain shot through his body. A low moan tore through his tortured lips. His eyes glazed, and his body stiffened. He was dead.

Jimmy Christopher arose slowly from his knees. He whispered: "God forgive you, F-13, and save your soul!"

His darkening eyes sought those of Montezuma, who had stood in the doorway watching the scene. The two guards felt Jimmy's body stiffening as if for a leap, and their hard hands clamped on his arms. But Jimmy did not move. He recognized the foolhardiness of attempting to spring upon the bloody emperor. For beside Montezuma stood Horgavo, a loaded automatic in his hand. Jimmy would only have thrown away his life fruitlessly.

Montezuma was smiling maddeningly. "There are certain things we wish to know from you, Operator 5. Even if you do not care what happens to you, you will not wish to see your father in the hands of our priests. Come, I will show you more. Perhaps then you will be more ready to answer Major Horgavo's questions!" He turned, led the way out. Jimmy cast a last glance back at the dead, distorted body of F-13, and followed, propelled by his guards. Horgavo stood in the doorway, smiling ironically.

Jimmy asked him: "Where is my father?"

"Your father," Horgavo replied, "has not been harmed—yet." And he stepped back so that Jimmy and his guards could pass through.

Outside, in the corridor, the guards bowed reverently as Montezuma passed them. They crossed a courtyard, entered another wing of the palace. Jimmy Christopher, still in the grip of his captors, still manacled, followed Montezuma silently.

At length they arrived at another room, where a dozen officers were assembled. There was another raised dais in this room, and Montezuma mounted it while all the officers bowed reverently, saying: "Lord, my Lord, my great Lord!" As they said it, they bowed almost to the floor.

Jimmy gazed at them scornfully for a moment, and then his eyes settled on the fiery—eyed, darkly beautiful woman who stood beside the dais. She did not bow like the others, but held her head high, proudly, haughtily. Her figure was encased in some sort of clinging, red-silk gown that trailed on the floor, and her black hair was done up into a great knot at the back off her neck.

Jimmy noted at once the resemblance she bore to the emperor. He was not surprised when Montezuma, after seating himself, said to her: "My daughter, this is the man of whom you have heard—Operator 5 of the United States Secret Service. You remember that our agents informed us about him, but regretted that he was too clever to capture?"

The girl's cruel, red mouth curved in a slow smile as she inspected Jimmy Christopher. Her dark flashing eyes studied him with a sort of feline interest as she breathed: "Yes, I have heard much about him. I am very glad he is our prisoner."

Jimmy Christopher shuddered inwardly as she spoke. There was revealed in her eyes a cruelty fully equal to that of her father. And there was something else—something that he had seen in the eyes of many women, but hoped to find only in the eyes of one. For Operator 5 was good to look at. He was clean-cut, blue-eyed, with the broad shoulders and narrow hips of an athlete. And despite his youth, he was possessed of a poise that many an older man might have envied; for his life had been packed with danger and action and strange experiences—which are the doings that fashion a man out of a youth.

Now the girl said softly, with the air of one who is accustomed to getting anything that she wants: "Do not kill him, father—yet. I would like—to know him better!"

Montezuma chuckled. "You shall have him, Dolores, as soon as I am through with him." He suddenly became brusque. "But now—let us get to business. We are here to pass judgment upon a culprit. Bring him in!"

At a sign from one of the officers at the door, two guards led in a trembling Aztec soldier, who seemed to shrink away from the august presence of the emperor as he was dragged toward the dais.

He was perhaps forty-five years old, well built. But his face was pale and drawn with pain. Jimmy Christopher saw that he had been tortured— the fingers of both his hands hung at queer angles; all had been broken!

When the man stood before the dais, half supported by the two guards, Montezuma said: "What is this man accused of, and who is the complainant?"

The beautiful Dolores took a single step forward. "I am the complainant, father. This man failed to salute me when I passed him this morning. For that, the fingers of his hands have been crushed between two rocks. But I demand further punishment."

The man with the broken fingers raised both his hands in supplication. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his hands, with their gruesome broken fingers, trembled. "Great Lord!" he cried. "Do not torture me further—!"

Montezuma frowned at him, and the man subsided into frightened silence. "What punishment do you wish for him, Dolores!" the emperor asked.

Dolores said coldly: "Let him die," and tossed her head in contempt.

Montezuma nodded. "It is right. We must set an example for the other soldiers. My daughter's person is as sacred as my own. Those who forget their respect toward us must die."

The poor wretch with the broken fingers screamed: "Mercy, my lord. Mercy! Mercy!"

But at a look from Montezuma, Horgavo, who had been standing on the other side of the dais from Dolores, motioned to the guards, and they dragged the man, struggling, screaming for mercy, to a wide French window that faced on the courtyard. The window was open, and they thrust him out, sent him sprawling to the flagstones.

The man struggled to his feet, raising himself up on his wrists to avoid resting on his broken fingers. He turned a piteous, pleading face toward them; but Horgavo, who had come close to the window, raised his arm in some sort of signal. And suddenly, with horrid abruptness, the man outside seemed to explode from within!

His body seemed to have been torn to a thousand bits, as if there had been a time-bomb within him. Blood spattered the flagstones, bits of flesh and bone hurtled through the air. And in a moment all was quiet again. The big incandescents in the courtyard threw a glittering light on the bloody pavement.

And through the sudden stillness that followed, rang the brittle laughter of the woman Dolores. She was laughing! Laughing at the sight of a man blasted into bloody shreds because he had failed to salute her. And Operator 5 realized she was beautiful—beautiful even in her cold, heartless amusement. Her eves were flashing with the sadistic pleasure of some medieval princess, and her laughter echoed in the large, stone room, while Horgavo bowed in her direction with a smirk on his face.

And it was at that moment, when the attention of everyone in the room was focused on the bloody event that had just taken place, that Jimmy Christopher acted—with the swift sureness that had made him the ace of the United States Intelligence.

The grip of his two guards was still tight on his arms, but their eyes were on the courtyard. Jimmy twisted his body to the left, then lunged right, allowing his weight to break the grip of the guards. For a fraction of a second, he was free; and in that instant of time, he raised his manacled hands, brought them down hard on the skull of the guard at his right. The man dropped like a plummet. Jimmy dropped with him, picking up the rifle that the unconscious soldier had dropped!

The second guard, with a vicious expression on his face, had raised his own clubbed gun. In a moment, he would have brained Operator 5 with it; but Jimmy, from his position on the floor, shot out both his legs to catch the guard in a powerful scissors hold that sent him toppling off balance.

Then, as the second guard crashed to the floor, Jimmy Christopher rolled over, uncoiled his legs and catapulted toward the doorway, holding in his manacled hands the rifle he had picked up.

The superbly swift reaction of his trained muscles brought him to the door before any one of the assembled officers could raise a finger to stop him. There, Jimmy, with a face grim as granite, turned, raised the rifle awkwardly to his shoulder and drew a bead on the august figure of Montezuma....

Even in that split second when he leaped for the door, he had realized that this was the only thing to do. With Montezuma dead, the whole attack against the United States would collapse, leaderless. Jimmy himself might be torn to pieces by the enraged followers of the emperor, but his own life was a small price to pay for the safety of America.

Jimmy's finger curled around the trigger while the brilliantly uniformed officers stood rooted to the floor. Only one person in that whole room thought quickly—Montezuma's daughter, Dolores. With the grace of a tigress she stepped in front of her father, facing Jimmy's rifle.

There was a tenseness in her eyes, and her whole body was quivering under its red sheath of a dress.

Jimmy'S eyes clouded. In spite of the heartless cruelty which she had just shown, he could not bring himself to send a slug of lead crashing into that beautiful breast. Into his mind there flashed the words that Z-7, his chief, had often spoken: "In the Secret Service, we cease to become human beings—we become numbers. We must have no emotions, no mercy, no loves; we must be machines. And we must destroy whatever threatens our country!"

Jimmy tightened his lips. This woman was beautiful, cruel—but she was brave. He steeled himself to shoot—and it was too late!

Dolores' action had pricked the panicky lethargy of the officers. With shouts of rage, they hurled themselves at Jimmy, forming a well of living flesh between his rifle and the body of their emperor. Guns appeared in their hands. One exploded, crashing in the confines of the room; but Jimmy had already ducked around the edge of the doorway, out into the corridor.

He collided with the guard stationed outside the doorway, whirled, and brought the muzzle of the rifle up sharply against the guard's chin. The uniformed man staggered backward, reeled against the wall, sank to the floor....

Jimmy, gripping the rifle in his manacled hands, dashed, zigzagging, down the corridor, turned a corner just as a hail of lead thundered after him from the weapons of the officers who had stormed out of the room. He sped down the bend of the corridor. A broad flight of stone stairs loomed before him, and he knew he could not get to the top of it before his pursuers reached the bend. They would be able to pick him off with ease as he ran up. So he raced past the foot of the stairs, swung in behind the staircase. There was an open door here, and a flight of steps led down into darkness. Jimmy did not hesitate. He stepped through the doorway, reached out and swung the door shut behind him. In the dark, he felt his way down the narrow steps with one hand against the wall.

The steps seemed unending. The air grew foul and dank, the wall slimy and wet under his touch. He reached a landing, stepped cautiously until he found more steps, and continued his descent.

At last, the staircase ended in some sort of platform, and Operator 5 risked putting on his flashlight. He found that he had come down into a narrow, vaulted passageway that seemed to lead around the palace. The sound of a low, chanting voice came to him from somewhere at the left.

He made his way toward that sound, clicking off his light, and feeling along the side wall. The old Aztec palaces, he recalled reading, had been honeycombed with secret passages, with underground dungeons, and with torture chambers. There was an old story to the effect that one of the temples of the god, Huitzilopochtli, was located underneath the earth in the palace of Montezuma, and that it had been the scene of rites too obscene to be exposed to the light of day. It was in this underground temple that the Aztecs had secretly sacrificed living beings after the Spanish conquerors under Cortez had forbidden the practice.

It was entirely possible that he was now in one of the passages of the old temple. He worked swiftly along now, turned a bend in the passageway, and glimpsed, at a little distance away, a dull shaft of light which was coming across the stone flags from somewhere. The sound of the chanting gained in volume.

Jimmy headed for the light, found that it came from a low, wide-grilled opening on the right. He crept up close, and the chanting ceased. He risked peering through the opening, and he crouched there, frozen with horror.

This must indeed be the secret underground sacrificial temple of which legend had spoken.

The grilled opening was close to the ceiling of the room into which he looked....

4. CHAMBER OF SACRIFICE

The room beneath Operator 5 was immense, lighted by tapers that stood in sconces along the walls. At the far end, directly opposite the window, was a great stone image of a repulsive god—Huitzilopochtli, half serpent and half man. Before the god was a stone altar, smeared with dried blood.

Two bearded priests, with close-shaven heads, in white robes, stood on the altar. A man was staked out on his back, at their feet, tied to a rack similar to the one upon which F-13 had died. This man was dead also, and Jimmy's blood grew hot with revulsion as he realized the manner of the victim's death. He had been offered as a sacrifice in the ancient Aztec manner; the heart had been torn from his body, and one of the priests was even now holding the gory thing in his hands, offering it before the ghastly idol.

The dead man was stripped to the waist, and his torso was bathed in his own blood. Jimmy saw the lower part of the man's body was clothed in puttees of olive drab. He had been an officer of the United States Army—probably captured in the first advance of the Aztecs when they had overrun southeastern Texas.

Along both side walls of this room there were small iron cages, about two dozen in all. And in each of these cages was a man, sitting in a crouching position, because there was not enough room to straighten. These were the sacrificial victims who would follow the one now on the altar. The Aztecs always fattened those whom they prepared for the sacrifice— Huitzilopochtli did not like lean and scrawny offerings.

The two priests now prostrated themselves before the stone god, and Jimmy's eyes roved from one cage to another—seeking a certain face. He dreaded to see the features of his father in one of those cages. But he did.

In the third cage from the altar John Christopher was crouched in the narrow cubicle, head bowed in prayer.

Jimmy's lips tightened. He took from the lining of his coat a thin, tempered steel saw sheathed in a small chamois scabbard. He removed the scabbard with his teeth, proceeded to file at one of the bars. But at the first rasp of the saw, one of the priests rose, gazed toward the window suspiciously. Jimmy drew back. He was in darkness, of course, but he did not know how sharp the eyes of the white-robed votary of Huitzilopochtli might be.

The second priest got to his knees, and the two of them whispered together for a moment. Then one of them shrugged, and they returned to their devotions. Jimmy surmised that they considered it impossible for an enemy to have reached that window.

They prostrated themselves once more, and Jimmy knew they would remain there for hours, hoping that their god would vouchsafe them some word of advice or prophecy in return for the sacrifice.

He dared not resume his sawing, lest he attract their attention again.

Suddenly Jimmy noticed that his father had turned his head and was gazing through red—rimmed eyes up at the grilled window. The other prisoners in the cages were lethargic, hopeless, not even casting a glance at the grisly figure of their dead compatriot on the altar. But John Christopher, in spite of the obvious torture of his cramped position, in spite of the awful fate that seemed to be in store for him, was alert and keen.

Jimmy's pulse raced as he saw his father's face, gray and lined, with a four or five day growth of beard, looking up in his direction.

He waited, breathless, watching his father. And then a slow, glad smile spread over Jimmy's face. For John Christopher had begun to sing!

In his deep baritone voice that Jimmy remembered listening to so fervently in his childhood days, John Christopher began to chant the august, cadenced measures of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic!"

The priests looked up, disturbed, from their prostrate devotions; then shrugged, and returned to their prayers. No doubt they thought that the prisoner was seeking surcease in song. And slowly the other prisoners, cheered by the slow swing of the majestic melody, joined in, until the room was filled with sound.

Jimmy Christopher murmured: "Good old dad!" and began to saw away at the window bars. The rasping of the saw was entirely drowned by the chorus of voices!

The priests looked up several times, but did not disturb the singers. And in less than fifteen minutes, Jimmy had two of the bars cut through. He squirmed through the window, dropped to the floor. And several of the singers, seeing him, involuntarily halted their song. This attracted the attention of the two priests, who turned their heads, saw Jimmy, and sprang to their feet.

One of them ran toward a small gong near the altar, with the intention of striking it. The other reached out his bloody hands, seized a long, sacrificial knife which was still red from the last victim's blood. He leaped from the altar and raced across the room past the cages at Jimmy. He brandished the knife wildly, and his eyes blazed with a murderous, fanatical fury.

Jimmy Christopher's automatic sprang into his hand like a live thing, and barked twice. He shot first at the priest who was raising the baton to strike the gong; then at the second one, who had the knife. Both shots were aimed for the heart, and both went home. The first white-robed devotee of the Aztec cult collapsed over the brass gong without striking it. The second fell literally at Jimmy's feet, and though he had a slug in his heart, he raised a hate-stained face, lifted his knife to slash. And in that moment death overtook him. He fell face down on the stone floor.

Jimmy rushed to the cage in which his father was crouching, and disregarding the shouts of the other prisoners he reached through the bars, clasped his father's hand.

"Dad!" he exclaimed, almost choking with emotion. "Good old dad! I'll have you out of here in no time!"

John Christopher clung to his son's hand for a moment, tears filming his eyes. Then he said huskily: "Jimmy, lad! How did you get here?"

The other prisoners were shouting: "Save us! Save us!" and their voices reached a high pitch of frenzy. Jimmy had to raise his voice so as to be heard by his father.

"I failed, dad," he said. "I failed miserably. I had a chance to kill Montezuma, and didn't shoot because of a woman!" He spoke swiftly, relating the events that had brought him here, telling his father hour F-13 had died, and how the man had revealed his identity. As he spoke, Jimmy set to work on the bars of the cage with his saw.

John Christopher grasped his hand. "No, no, Jimmy. Leave me. There's something more important."

Jimmy Christopher gazed, uncomprehending at his father. "More important?"

John Christopher nodded. "F-13 and I were at the Texas border when we were captured. You know why we went there—an electro-chemist named George Powers claimed to know the secret of Montezuma's mysterious force."

"I know," said Jimmy. "He wrote to Washington, and Z-7 sent you and F-13 to interview him."

"That's right, son. Well, we were all captured—F-13, myself, and Powers, together with his wife and daughter. Powers is here, son, in the next room, with his family. You've got to get him out of here, and learn what he knows!"

"And leave you, dad?"

John Christopher gazed deeply into his son's eyes. "You're Operator 5, Jimmy, of the United States Intelligence. Forget that you are my son. Getting Powers out of here may mean the salvation of our country."

Thee other prisoners had grown quiet, watching these two. Perhaps they had realized that their shouts might attract guards.

In the comparative quiet, Jimmy said: "I'll get Powers, then come back for you, dad. We'll fight our way—"

John Christopher stopped him, shaking his head. "You can't do it, Jimmy. Look at the bars on this cage they're four times as thick as the bars on that window. It would take you an hour to cut through one of them, and a guard detail looks in here every hour. There's one due in a short while."

The older man was speaking urgently now, almost pleadingly. "The Powers family is in the next room, and the connecting door is open. It'll be an almost hopeless task to get them out as it is. But if you stop to saw these bars as well—no, Jimmy, you must leave me."

Jimmy's eyes were bitter, as they strayed to the poor, mangled remains of the dead man on the altar at the feet of the heathen god. "So they can offer your heart—?"

"Even that, Jimmy," John Christopher answered in a calm voice. "I am ready—in fact, I've been ready for a long time. Only, if you will, Jimmy, leave me that death's-head watch-charm of yours. Maybe I can break the capsule inside it, and spare myself and these others—" he motioned toward the other caged prisoners—"the—ordeal."

For a long time, Jimmy Christopher crouched beside that cage, fighting a terrific battle within himself, while his fingers toyed nervously with the death's-head charm on its chain. He knew very well what his father meant, and his eyes were bleak. He always carried that watch—charm with him. For within it, there reposed a silver, thin-walled capsule of diphenlolchlorasine, a liquid which, upon being exposed to the action of the atmosphere, changed at once into a gas—a gas so volatile that it would cause instant death. By removing the capsule from the watch-charm and pinching it, Jimmy could at any time bring about the immediate death of everyone within a radius of fifty feet —including himself.

And his father was asking for this watch—charm now....!

Jimmy Christopher's pain-filled eyes sought those of his father. He was like a small child seeking guidance.

He asked in a thick, choked voice: "If I were in that cage, Dad, would —would you—leave me—to die?"

Quietly, with cool eyes steady, John Christopher nodded. Without hesitation he said:

"If our situations were reversed, I would, Jimmy. We mean much to each other—but think of the millions of fathers and sons and mothers who will be spared the pain of losing loved ones if you can only break the power of Montezuma!"

Suddenly, uttering a little choked cry, Jimmy tore the watch-charm from the chain, handed it to his father. Their hands met between the cage bars, clasped firmly. They avoided looking at each other.

"Right behind you," John Christopher said, "is the door to the room where Powers is held. Good-bye, son—and good luck to you!"

Blindly, Jimmy Christopher tore his hand from the older man's, turned and made his way, stumbling, across the chamber. The other prisoners in their cages sensed that they were being left to their fate, and began to howl, shout and scream.

Jimmy Christopher hardly heard them. He pushed through the connecting door, entered the next room without looking back at his father—lest he weaken and return...

5. UNMASKED!

The room Jimmy Christopher entered was much smaller than the other. It was lighted by only a single candle, which was burning very low.

Jimmy closed the connecting door, stared at the three occupants of the room. They were a man and two women, and they sat on the stone floor, looking at Jimmy in terror.

Jimmy said: "Have no fear. I am a friend."

He noted that each of the three was secured to the wall by a heavy chain about the right ankle, and that the three chains were all fastened to a single staple in the wall. If they wanted to walk they could probably walk two or three feet away from the corner in which they crouched, but no more.

The man was in his early fifties, gray-haired, with an absent look in his watery eyes. Jimmy assumed that this was George Powers, the electro-chemist. Next to him sat a plump lady with a tear-stained face. She was perhaps forty- eight or forty-nine. Beside her sat a girl, hardly more than nineteen or twenty. She was blonde, and pretty in a child-like sort of way, though tears had stained the white cheeks of her thin, almost elf-like face.

It was she who spoke first. "You—you are not from— Montezuma?"

Jimmy shook his head, knelt beside them. "I'll try to take you out of here—if you're willing to risk it," He turned to the man. "You are George Powers?"

The gray-haired man lifted vacant eyes to him. "Eh?" he asked in a cracked voice. "What's that you say? I'd like some tobacco for my pipe, young man. Do you know where my pipe is?"

Jimmy said impatiently: "Mr. Powers! I am going to take you out of here, to get you through the Aztec lines to Washington. Do you understand?" Powers gazed at him vacantly.

"Washington? I tell you, I want my pipe." He turned to the plump lady, said irritatedly: "Emma! Where is my pipe? You always used to get me my pipe."

There were tears in the plump lady's eyes. She said softly: "Yes, George, dear. I'll get your pipe—soon. Just have patience." She put a hand on Jimmy Christopher's arm. "Please," she begged. "He—he's sick. The shock of capture—" she threw a significant side glance at her husband— "he hasn't been quite right since we were brought here."

Jimmy nodded understandingly. "Once we get him out of here, he can be brought around. We'll get the best physicians in the world. The knowledge that is locked in his mind will save America." He turned to the girl. You are —?

"His daughter," she answered. "Helen Powers. We were all caught together, with two agents—"

"I know," Jimmy said. He set to work bruskly, examined the chains about their ankles. Each was fastened with a large padlock.

Helen Powers said urgently: "Please, I don't know who you are, but we trust you. You must act quickly if we are to escape. Montezuma—" she lowered her eyes "is going to send for me in a few minutes."

Jimmy looked at her. "Why?"

She hesitated, blushed. She seemed fragile, delicate, with the slight tinge of red in her cheeks. Mrs. Powers answered for her. "Montezuma intends to —take Helen away from us. He has taken a fancy to her. He says he will share his empire with her!"

Jimmy whistled. Montezuma—infatuated with this slip of a girl!

Suddenly Helen Powers buried her face in her hands, and her little body was wracked with sobs. "I don't want to be an empress!" she blurted. "I'm afraid! Afraid of that terrible man!"

Jimmy was working swiftly with the padlocks. His mind and his heart were with John Christopher in the cage in the next room, but automatically he soothed the girl. "Don't worry. You'll be away from here before he sends for you."

The long, supple steel instrument with which Jimmy had been working on the old man's lock clicked it open, and the chain was of George Power's ankle. The other two padlocks yielded in short order, while the three watched him, two with suddenly reviving hope and the third with vacant interest.

And at that moment, disaster came to knock at the door. The heavy tread of footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Helen Powers' face lost all its color. "They're coming!" she gasped.

George Powers displayed no especial interest, merely staring at the wall, vacantly. But Mrs. Powers began to sob quietly. Her hopes had been raised so high, only to be dashed.

But Jimmy Christopher acted swiftly, with quick decision. He stooped quickly, replaced the heavy chain about the older man's ankle, but without snapping the padlock. He did the same for the two women, then hurried to the far end of the room, crouched against the wall in the shadows where the light of the candle did not reach.

He was not a second too soon. The footsteps had stopped at the next room, and many voices were raised in excitement. They had discovered the dead bodies of the priests. This must be the guard detail that John Christopher had spoken of.

One voice, uttering hot, angry orders in Spanish, Jimmy recognized. It was that of Horgavo. He heard Horgavo say: "Send for more men. Place guards in every corridor. Operator 5 must not leave the palace. I will give twenty ounces of gold to the one who kills him!"

There was a mad marching and trampling of feet outside, and the connecting door opened. Horgavo peered in cautiously. His narrow eyes darted to the corner where the Powers family crouched, and his lips twisted in a smile. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He paid no attention to the vacant-eyed scientist or his wife, but moved over to tower above the shrinking figure of the girl, Helen.

"I am glad that you are safe, Miss Powers," he said softly. "My master would have been very angry had anything happened to you."

Horgavo bent over her, leering. "The noble Montezuma has chosen you to be his lady. I hope that when you are empress you will not forget the humble Horgavo." He holstered his gun, produced a key from his pocket, and started to insert it in the padlock. "Now, you must come—"

He stopped abruptly as he heard Jimmy Christopher step out from the shadows. He straightened, turned, and his hand darted to the holstered pistol at his side.

Jimmy Christopher covered the distance between them in a quick leap, brought up his bunched fist to the point of the other's jaw. Horgavo's hand fell away empty from his holster, his eyes glazed, his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor.

George Powers' vacant eyes were fixed on the brightly uniformed, inert body. "I wonder," he cackled, "if he has a pipe on him?"

The two women gazed in terror.

Jimmy Christopher paid them no attention. Acting swiftly, he dragged the unconscious Horgavo over under the candle where the light was best.

"You ladies," he said, "had better turn your backs for a few minutes. Maybe we can squirm out of this." And he began to remove the uniform from the inert officer. As in a daze, Mrs. Powers and her daughter arose, turned away.

Jimmy Christopher's fingers worked with desperate speed. He got his own clothes off, squirmed into Horgavo's uniform. Then, while men stormed to and from in the corridor outside, while frantic orders were issued in hoarse voices, Operator 5 took from the inner lining of the coat he had discarded a flat leather case, which, when opened, revealed a number of tubes, and many small metal plates of various colors, set into slits in the case.

There was also a mirror and a small, flat battery which had been especially constructed at Jimmy Christopher's specifications to fit into the case. There was a small bulb fitted into the frame of the mirror, and when it was connected with the battery, this bulb gave off a powerful light through a small magnifying-glass set into the top. It furnished enough light for the delicate task Jimmy now undertook.

The tubes contained plastic material, tints and dyes. The small, metal plates were nose and cheek fillers, ear distorters, tooth coverings. In short, that case contained everything necessary for effecting a perfect-make-up...

Now, with the mirror before him on its collapsible stand, illuminated by the magnifier—bulb, Jimmy Christopher's fingers fairly flew over his face. From time to time he stopped to examine Horgavo's features, and then he would continue with his work.

Seconds sped into minutes while the two women stood with their backs to him. And gradually, the coarse features of Horgavo began to take shape, superimposed upon the face of Operator 5. With exquisite skill, Jimmy Christopher spread his own nose, by means of two little plates inserted in the nostrils, so that it became the exact replica of the unconscious officer's. Using the plastic material, he created the effect of Horgavo's high cheek bones. Then he used the tubes of tint to duplicate the officer's face coloring.

At last he was finished, and packed away the make-up case. He covered the unconscious man's body with his own discarded clothing, threw a grim smile at George Powers, who had been watching him listlessly, and got to his feet. Standing there in the dim light thrown by the candle, anyone would have sworn that he was an officer of Montezuma. He cleared his throat, and spoke: "You may turn around, now, ladies."

But his voice was not the voice of Jimmy Christopher. His marvelous ability had duplicated to the very slightest tone quality the voice of Horgavo!

Mrs. Powers and her daughter whirled, startled, and Helen Powers shrank away, uttering a little cry of terror. Her eyes jerked unbelievingly to the unconscious form of the officer on the floor. She had seen him knocked out, could not understand what had happened.

Jimmy said: "It's all right, Miss Powers. Your father was watching me. He will tell you that I am not Horgavo."

George Powers nodded, cackled. "Very clever young man. Very clever indeed. He ought to be an actor. But you shouldn't have hit that man so hard."

Jimmy stepped over to him, helped him to his feet. "Come on, Mr. Powers. We're going out through the front way."

Mrs. Powers gasped: "We'll be caught. We can't do that!"

Jimmy Christopher laughed bitterly. "Why should you be caught? You will be escorted out by the great Horgavo, the right-hand man of Montezuma. Come!"

He led them to the corridor door, flung it open, and stepped out....

This was the crucial moment. Back there in the dim light of the dungeon room, the two women had taken him for Horgavo. But the disguise had been hastily assumed; he had worked quickly, spurred by great necessity. It was possible that he had omitted some slight detail that would betray him at once to the soldiers, here, in the better light.

Jimmy kept his hand close to the holster, with his fingers taut. If his impersonation were discovered now, everything would be lost. He might kill half a dozen of these Aztec soldiers, but he could never hope to fight his way out of the palace with the Powers family.

Grimly he stood for a moment in the doorway while the eyes of several of the hurrying, excited soldiers rested on him. But they noticed nothing. Each of them saluted briskly as he passed. Jimmy heaved a sigh of relief, moved along the corridor, motioning to the Powers family to follow him. They moved along behind him nervously, the two women holding tight to each other's hands.

As they came abreast of the next door in the corridor, Jimmy Christopher halted a moment. His pulse was racing. In there was his father. Rescue of John Christopher had seemed impossible a little while ago.

But now...?

Major Horgavo, it seemed, was second in power only to Montezuma. Disguised as the major, was it not possible to effect his father's release too?

Jimmy turned abruptly, said to his wards: "Come in here with me!"

Grimly he pushed aside the guard who stood before the wide door, stepped into the sacrificial chamber in which his father was caged. A dozen soldiers were here now, and some of them were moving the bodies of the dead priests to one side. The prisoners in the cages were silent, staring in terror. They feared that the Aztecs would exact dreadful reprisals from them for the deaths of the priests.

Jimmy's eyes flicked to the cage where his father crouched. John Christopher had raised his eyes, was staring at him, but without any hint of recognition.

A JUNIOR officer, who was in command of the detail, approached, clicked his heels smartly together, and saluted. "Your orders," he said, "have been carried out, major. Guards have been posted everywhere. The American Secret Service man cannot escape from the palace without being seen. All sentries outside have been doubled, and warned to be on the lookout for him."

He spoke in Spanish, and Jimmy answered him in the same language, mimicking to perfection the thick, guttural speech of Horgavo.

"It is well. Go now, and get me the key to these cages."

The junior officer hesitated, looked puzzled. "But you know, sir, that only Montezuma has the key to these cages. Montezuma himself chooses the next victims for the sacrifices."

Jimmy's blood suddenly ran cold. His hopes of rescuing his father by means of this disguise had been high. But he had not foreseen this.

He saw John Christopher gazing at the Powers family in hopeless dejection. He understood that his father was thinking that there was no more hope. The sight of Horgavo, in charge of Powers could mean only one thing to the older man—that Jimmy had failed in his attempt to rescue them, and that everything was lost.

Jimmy Christopher said to the young officer in Spanish: "Leave me here. Take your men out for a few moments."

The officer saluted, turned and gave reluctant orders to his men, who began to file out. The lieutenant followed, saying, puzzledly:

"I obey, Major Horgavo, but I do not understand?"

"It is not necessary that you understand," Jimmy broke in coldly. He waited until the door had closed behind the last of them, and then hurried over to his father's cage.

"Dad!" he exclaimed. "Didn't you recognize me?"

John Christopher swung startled eyes to his son. "Jimmy! You! I—I thought you had been caught or—killed in there!"

"I'm going to get you out of here, dad, while I have the chance. These others, too!"

John Christopher's voice took on an edge of steel. "No. You'd only be caught. There's too much to risk. Go now. Take the Powers family out of here. Get Powers to Washington."

"Look at him, dad," Jimmy interrupted. "He's lost his mind from shock. Shall I have you to die for the sake of that?"

"You know very well it's only a temporary shock, Jimmy. Once he's out of here, in the care of competent doctors, he'll recover his mind, and give us the secret that will save America—the secret of Montezuma's mysterious force!"

Jimmy lowered his eyes rebelliously.

John Christopher said firmly but gently: "I know it's hard for you, Jimmy. But remember, I've got that watch-charm of yours. Death will not be hard for me..."

Jimmy sighed; "Good-bye, dad," he choked, and turned to the Powers family. "Come!" he ordered, and stumbled from the room.

Out in the corridor, he recovered his poise, said to the young officer who was looking at him suspiciously: "The prisoner on the third cage to the left must not be harmed in any way. He is the father of that gringo, Operator 5, and will be a valuable hostage in case we do not recapture the son."

The young officer saluted and Jimmy motioned to the Powers family to follow him. They had not said a word all this time, but followed Jimmy docilely.

Now Jimmy led the way up along a steep stone staircase that must be the mate of the one he had descended. Helen Powers, walking close beside him on the stairs, plucked at his sleeve timidly. "W-where are you taking us?"

Jimmy told her grimly: "We are going to walk out through the front entrance. Say nothing. Leave all the talking to me. And see if you can keep your father quiet."

They reached the top of the long flight of stairs, came out into the main hallway. Here there were many uniformed men, all armed. Every nook and cranny of the palace was being searched for Operator 5.

Jimmy led the way in the direction of the wide entrance, before which a detail of armed men was drawn up. Soldiers saluted him respectfully all the way along the hall. He was even imitating Horgavo's manner of walking.

Helen Powers, alongside him, whispered: "Please God you can carry it through!"

"If we can only get safely outside."

Jimmy said, "I can commandeer one of the palace cars. We'll say I'm talking you to other quarters at the command of Montezuma. We—"

He suddenly ceased talking, stopped short with a hand on Helen Powers' arm. A door at the left of the corridor had opened, and Dolores, the daughter of Montezuma, stood framed in the doorway.

Her dark, imperious eyes returned Jimmy Christopher's stare. Her red lips curved in a cold smile. "You do not salute me, Major Horgavo?" she asked icily.

Helen Powers barely restrained a gasp of dismay, while her father and mother huddled close to Jimmy.

Jimmy left them standing there, came over close to Dolores, saluting. "A thousand pardons, princess," he said. His eyes were gleaming with a sudden, bold plan. "Something of grave importance has arisen. May I see you alone for a moment?"

She studied him a moment, and her eyes dropped to his right hand. There, exposed to her gaze, a peculiar grayish birthmark. It was in the shape of an American eagle, and it shone, grayish under the red cuff of the bright uniform. Jimmy Christopher had carried that strange birthmark with him all his life, had become so used to it that he forgot it most of the time; forgot that it was noticeable to other people.

Now he looked into Dolores dark eyes, saw that she was smiling cruelly.

"You," she announced sternly, "are not Major Horgavo. You are Operator 5!"

The hall was teeming with armed servants of Montezuma. Dolores had only to raise her voice, and a hundred men would swarm about Jimmy Christopher and his wards, each one eager to earn the reward of gold offered for his death. She was aware of this, and she took a crude delight in the situation.

But Jimmy Christopher gave her no opportunity to summon help. He had seen recognition in her eyes even before she spoke; and he acted swiftly, surely. His right hand slipped inside his bright red tunic to his mechanical pencil. His thumbnail flipped up the small metal plate covering the top. This plate opened on a hinge, exposing a grayish powder that nestled in the receptacle where one usually carries spare leads.

Jimmy dipped his thumbnail in the powder, then withdrew his hand, leaving the pencil in his pocket. The whole thing was so swiftly done that Dolores noticed nothing until Jimmy reached out, took her arm. She was just saying: "You are not going to escape, Operator 5. I think I shall enjoy your company for a short time—and then I shall enjoy even more watching you die—"

She broke off, startled, as Jimmy, leaning over her, raked his thumbnail down the flesh of her soft, white arm. She winced with pain as the sharp nail tore the skin of her arm, making a bloody furrow.

The powder on Jimmy's thumbnail entered the wound. It was a chemical that Operator 5 had developed in his own laboratory in New York. The few grains on his thumbnail were sufficient to induce a coma lasting for several hours. It consisted of a mixture of urethane, scopolamine and ethyl chloride, delicately balanced so as to form the most powerful anaesthetic known to man.

Its effect on Dolores was immediate. Her whole body stiffened, her eyes glazed, and the words she had been about to utter died on her lips. She would have collapsed if Jimmy had not placed an arm about her waist, half carried her into the room from which she had appeared. The whole thing had been done so swiftly that, to those passing in the hall, nothing extraordinary seemed to have taken place. Indeed, no one looked very closely, for they preferred to keep a good distance from Horgavo and the daughter of Montezuma.

Jimmy lost no time. He laid the unconscious princess on the floor, sprang across the room and yanked down one of the silken drapes hanging over the window. While Helen Powers with her father and mother waited breathless just outside the door, Jimmy the drape completely around the princess, lifted her dead weight up in his arms, and strode out into the hall.

"Follow me," he said to them, and led the way out through the broad main entrance, past the lined-up guards. A junior officer saw him, said obsequiously: "Can I help you carry that—burden, sir?"

Jimmy shook his head. "No. But you can get me a car and a chauffeur. I must take these people away at once, by order of the emperor."

The officer saluted, left. In less than five minutes, a big car pulled up at the entrance, driven by a gaudily uniformed Indian chauffeur. The officer was riding the running board.

"Do you wish an escort, Major Horgavo?" he asked. "This gringo, Operator 5 is loose, and there may be danger."

"Never mind," Jimmy Christopher said. "I can take care of him." He bundled the unconscious princess into the car, had the door open for Helen Powers and her father and mother. Then he closed the door, went around in front and got in with the chauffeur.

He said to the driver in Spanish: "Just a minute," and took from his pocket a small notebook and his pencil. While the officer waited at attention, he wrote upon a page of the notebook:

Emperor Montezuma:

I have your daughter with me. If any harm should come to my father while he is in your hands, I swear that Dolores will never return to you. If you attempt to use your explosive force to prevent our escape, your daughter will perish with us.

Operator 5.

Jimmy Christopher tore the page from the notebook, folded it and gave it to the officer.

"See that this is delivered at once to the emperor," he said.

The officer took it, bowing. "It shall be done, major." He watched while the chauffeur got the car in motion. "Drive to the flying field," Jimmy directed.

As the car rolled away from the palace, Jimmy glanced back into the rear, to see Helen Powers supporting the inert body of the princess, still wrapped in the drape. George Powers and his wife were sitting in the two folding-seats. Powers was listless, while his plump wife was nervously tearing a handkerchief to shreds.

Jimmy faced forward again, staring out into the night along the awash of the car's powerful headlights. He glanced at his wrist watch. It was eleven o'clock; only two fleeting hours had passed since he had landed here, a prisoner. Now he was riding in an imperial car which had the right of way over all other traffic; he was taking away, with him the one man who might be able to reveal the secret of the mysterious force which enabled the Aztecs to decimate United States troops; he was abducting the daughter of Montezuma. But he had a heavy heart. His father... The car came in sight of the flying field. Jimmy's blood raced. This was going to be a crucial moment. Was there a plane available that could carry five people—and could he get it?

An official came out of the operations building, bowed low when he saw the man he thought to be Major Horgavo descend from the car. Jimmy asked bruskly in Spanish: "Have you a large plane available? One that will accommodate four besides the pilot?"

Elation glowed in Jimmy's eyes as the official replied obsequiously: "But yes, senor. We have a large transcontinental plane that we captured from the gringos only yesterday. It is all ready in the hangar. I can have a pilot—"

"I will fly it myself," Jimmy announced.

The official raised his eyebrows. "I did not know, Major Horgavo, that you could—"

Jimmy said coldly, in the tone which he was almost certain the major would employ: "There are many things you do not know. Be careful that your lack of knowledge does not cause you—unhappiness."

The official squirmed. "But I meant nothing at all, Major! I am only too glad to serve you. I will have the plane ready in ten minutes."

"Five minutes," Jimmy said firmly. "Otherwise—"

"But of course, senor," the official agreed hastily. "It shall be done as you say!" He hurried away.

Operator 5 returned to the car, and with the aid of Helen Powers and her mother, he got out the bundled form of Dolores, placed her on the ground. George Powers got out, stared around him vacantly.

"Are we going to take a ride in a plane?" he asked with sudden interest. "Do you think I'll be able to get a pipe and some tobacco where we're going?"

Jimmy Christopher sighed, turned away from him. "You may go," he told the chauffeur. "Leave the car here. You need not return to the palace. You may have the rest of the night off."

The Indian chauffeur got out of the car with alacrity. "Gracias, senor!" he said, saluting, and hurried away toward a troop-truck which was just ready to return to the city.

Jimmy, watching him go, said to Helen Powers: "He won't report back for duty till tomorrow morning—and Montezuma may not learn for hours that we have commandeered the plane."

He donned the helmet and goggles which one of the mechanics brought him, helped Powers and the two women to put on similar equipment. Then he motioned to two men who stood near by to carry the princess, and started across toward the huge passenger plane which was being wheeled out of a hangar at the other end of the field.

The Powers family followed him... The rest was easy....

6. SLAVERY OR DEATH!

Newark airport was a bedlam of excitement. Bright incandescents made daylight of the field. Planes were taking off one after the other, each with a full quota of passengers.

Near one edge of the field, a squad of Secret Service men were anxiously watching a huge transport that had banked into the wind and was settling to a perfect landing. Brakes squealed as the plane taxied toward them.

The Secret Service men swarmed about it, while several of them made sure that no unauthorized person approached. They all seemed nervous, high-strung, as if they expected trouble.

From the pilot's compartment of the plane emerged Operator 5. He had not yet removed the uniform or make-up of Major Horgavo, and he had to identify himself to the Secret Service operatives. He shook hands with B-6, a small, wiry man, who was in charge of the squad. "Why are all these planes taking off?" Jimmy asked. "The airline seems to be having a rush of business."

B-6 nodded jerkily. "People are fleeing the city," he replied in terse, clipped accents. "Montezuma is striking here. That's why Z-7 hurried to New York, and wired you to fly directly here to meet him. He's waiting for you at Address Y." B-6 extended a yellow sheet. "Here's a message from Z-7. He instructed me to deliver it to you as soon as you landed."

Jimmy took the message, and his eyes clouded as he read:

OPERATOR 5—MEN WOMEN DYING BY EXPLOSION IN STREETS OF NEW YORK... MONTEZUMA DEMANDS UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER ... CLAIMS HE CAN DESTROY NEW YORK CITY WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS... WE CANNOT LOCATE HEADQUARTERS OF AGENTS HERE... MUST ACT QUICKLY OR POPULAR PANIC WILL FORCE PRESIDENT TO CAPITULATE... RUSH POWERS TO MEDICAL CENTER FOR ATTENTION ... SEE ME AT ONCE AT ADDRESS Y... Z-7...

Jimmy crushed the paper in his hand. He spoke swiftly. "I've got George Powers in the plane, with his wife and daughter. The Aztec princess, Dolores, is also in there, being watched by Tim Donovan."

He added in explanation, as he saw B-6's surprised look: "I picked Tim up at Fort Sam Houston on the way up. Now the first thing to be done is to get Powers into the hands of competent physicians."

"We've arranged that," B-6 told him. "We have half a dozen specialists at the Medical Center, waiting for him right now—the biggest men in the country. If they can't do anything with him, nobody can. There's even a doctor from Washington, who just flew in by plane."

"All right," Jimmy said. "You take care of him. I'll take care of Powers' wife and daughter. Have two cars ready—one for Powers, and another for the two women. Tim and I will take care of the Princess Dolores."

He watched B-6 walk over to the plane to take charge of the scientist, then he entered the operations-office and used the phone to arrange for a room for Helen Powers and her mother at the Beacon Hotel which was often used by Intelligence...

When Jimmy came out of the operations—office, he saw Powers being driven off in a car with a guard of Intelligence men. At his direction, B-6 ordered another car to take Helen and her mother to the Beacon; then the wiry little agent returned and reported. "Your roadster is here, too, Operator 5. Z-7 ordered one of the men to drive it out for you. It's parked back of the operations office."

"Splendid!" Jimmy retorted. "Have the roadster brought here."

B-6 left to execute the order, and Jimmy went over to the plane, entered the passenger compartment. He found Tim Donovan grimly guarding the Princess Dolores, who sat stiffly disdainful. When Jimmy climbed in, her dark eyes flashed with momentary fear.

"What are you going to do with me?" she queried huskily.

Jimmy said gently: "You will not be harmed, princess. Come with me."

He turned and led the way out. The princess' eyes flashed, but she followed, accompanied by Tim Donovan.

AS Jimmy Christopher drove swiftly toward New York City, his mind reverted to the crisis facing the nation. B-6's sketchy information had been filled out by the messages which Jimmy had gotten over the phone. All of New York, he learned, was under martial law. People did not dare to leave their homes, for the exploding death struck everywhere. And even their homes were not safe, it appeared, for men had been exploded within theatres, offices and residences. Montezuma's mysterious force could reach everywhere, and he was spreading terror and demoralization throughout New York.

Operator 5's eyes scanned with grim bitterness the motor trucks full of soldiers which they passed on the road. The mobilizing of these men was only a futile gesture—for Montezuma could destroy them in a moment, just as he had destroyed others. These soldiers were contingents of the National Guard, which had been called to the colors overnight. It was the only thing that the government could think of doing—well knowing the futility of mobilizing troops that could be wiped out by the enemy at will; yet—what else was there to do...?

The soldiers in the trucks were not laughing and singing as the National Guard usually do when on their way to training camps in the summer. This was no pleasant two weeks of training and target practice that they were going to; at any moment, without warning, they might be destroyed in a dreadful, inexplicable manner. Their faces were very somber, gray...

At the Holland Tunnel, Jimmy was stopped by a lieutenant of the regular army in charge of a detail of men. Every car was being examined. Jimmy Christopher had removed his gaudy uniform, but he still kept the make-up on his face. He produced credentials showing that he was George Wakely, of the Department of Justice. The lieutenant at once stepped aside.

As they drove through the tunnel, the princess Dolores fidgeted in her seat between Jimmy and Tim Donovan. Finally she spoke. "Where are you taking me, Operator 5?"

"To the apartment of a very good friend of mine," Jimmy told her. "A young lady who will take excellent care of you. We're not going to any of the regular Intelligence offices because I'm afraid that your father's agents will already be watching those spots. Where I am taking you, you will be er— safe!"

Tim exclaimed: "We're not going to Diane's apartment, are we Jimmy?"

Operator 5 nodded. "I need an unofficial place. The princess is an unofficial prisoner. Diane, being a newspaper reporter, and not an Intelligence agent, will not be suspected by Montezuma's agents."

AT the New York end of the tunnel, Jimmy swung north to Gramercy Park, drew up before a small, two-story brownstone house. With himself on one side and Tim on the other, the princess was brought up the short flight of stone steps. Before they could touch the bell, the door was opened by a trim, chestnut-haired young lady whose softly modeled face reflected deep anxiety as she gazed at the princess, at Jimmy, and finally at Tim Donovan.

"Hello, Tim," she said. "I'm so glad you're safe." She looked questioningly at Operator 5, not recognizing him in his disguise. Then she glanced once more at Tim Donovan, a question in her eyes. "W-where is Jimmy? He phoned me from the airport that he was coming here with you—"

She was gazing directly at Jimmy, but seeing only the gross-featured face of Horgavo which the make-up showed.

Operator 5 chuckled, and Tim burst out laughing. "I fooled you that time Di—I didn't think you'd fall for it!"

Tim Donovan took the princess by the arm, escorted her into the house.

Jimmy walked ahead with Diane, explaining to her swiftly what had taken place in Mexico City. "As long as we can keep Dolores out of the way, Di," he finished, "Dad may be comparatively safe. Montezuma won't dare to harm him for fear of reprisal. Of course, he doesn't know that we aren't capable of the same kind of cruelty that he indulges in. Men like him can't understand anyone who is different from themselves."

Diane said eagerly: "I'll put her in the spare bedroom. There are bars on the window, because it's a ground floor. She won't be able to get away."

Jimmy nodded. "And stay here every minute of the time, Di. If you see anyone or anything suspicious in the neighborhood, phone me at Dad's house. If I'm not there, talk to the man who answers the phone. He'll be some one you can trust."

When they had gotten the princess safely in the spare room, Operator 5 and Tim Donovan prepared to take their leave. Diane went to the door with them. Her face bore a troubled expression. "Jimmy," she said! "I'm—I'm afraid for the country. Terrible things are happening. Tonight the entire audience of the International Theater and two other theaters were killed in their seats. They exploded—" she snapped her fingers—"poof! Just like that! The theater was like a—like a charnel house! I went over there to cover the story for the Amalgamated, and it was—beyond description. No one can understand how it was done."

Jimmy soothed her. If we can only bring George Powers back to sanity, we'll know the answer. He pressed Diane's hand. "We're off, Di. Remember, stay here every minute. Come on, Tim...!"

Outside, Tim scrambled into the seat beside Operator 5. As the powerful Diesel engine purred to life, and the car slipped effortlessly away from the curb, Tim asked: "Where to now, Jimmy?"

"We're going to Dad's house," Operator 5 told the lad. "Z-7 is waiting for us there. Then we'll phone the Medical Center, and see what progress they've made with Powers."

Four times they were stopped on their trip, forced to show their credentials. The city was in the grip of a reign of terror....

Jimmy swung north on Fifth Avenue, drove to a quiet residential street in the East Forties. Here was the unpretentious brownstone house which was John Christopher's home in New York. It had also been entered among the official addresses of the United States Intelligence as "Address Y." Jimmy had a laboratory here, and did much work in this house. It was here that he had perfected his anaesthetic powder that he had used with such success on the Princess Dolores.

Jimmy Christopher, with the caution that had many times saved himself and Tim Donovan from death, did not drive up directly to the house. He slowed up upon turning the corner, observed the street keenly. It was deserted, as were all the other streets of the city. He drove past slowly, blew his horn twice, and watched the window on the ground floor.

In a moment, a face appeared at that window—the face of Z-7, Jimmy's chief. Z-7 lowered the shade, then raised it—the signal that the coast was clear. Then his face disappeared.

Jimmy pulled in close to the opposite curb, preparing to make a complete turn and park before the building. But at that moment, a man darted out from a doorway near by, ran up close to the car. The man was swarthy, might have been a Latin American; but he might also have been a Mexican Indian.

Jimmy's hand involuntarily strayed toward his shoulder holster, and his eyes narrowed. But the man made no threatening moves. Instead he said, speaking rapidly in Spanish, and looking right past Tim at Jimmy:

"Do not go into that house, major. In five minutes the explosive death will be directed against it!"

For a moment, Jimmy had forgotten that he still retained make-up that duplicated the features of Major Horgavo. Now, suddenly, the full import of the man's words struck home. In five minutes, everybody within Address Y would be destroyed!

Jimmy saw that Tim Donovan's puzzled face was directed at the man, and he gripped the lad's hand before he could say anything that would give the game away.

Jimmy said sternly: "Who ordered this destruction?"

The man appeared nonplussed. "Why, major, you yourself ordered it, only a half hour ago, as soon as you arrived in New York. I thought that you were here to see that your orders are carried out."

Jimmy thought quickly. Horgavo in New York! It meant that the Aztec invaders must have removed their headquarters from Mexico City. Horgavo could have flown here as well as Jimmy had. This was an opportunity to discover where the major was holed up. Five minutes to go. One was elapsed already.

Jimmy spoke swiftly, mimicking Horgavo's imperious tones: "You must be mistaken. Where was I when I ordered this?"

"Why, major," the man answered puzzled, "you were in the big house on the river—secret headquarters. You even gave me the address yourself!"

Jimmy thought quickly, while Tim Donovan sat tense, not understanding the Spanish, but realizing that something vital was in the wind. Horgavo must have discovered the secret of Address Y from some other agent whom he had tortured as F-3 had been tortured. Even now, Z-7 was in that house. With the shrewd chief of Intelligence dead, the whole service would he crippled for hours.

Jimmy said crisply in Spanish: "I wish to change my mind. I wish to countermand the order to direct the explosive death against that house. Cancel the order!"

The man stared at him suspiciously. "You know that cannot be done, major. The instruments have been set at the house on the river. You set them yourself. The explosion will take place unless you yourself telephone to change the order. And—" he glanced at his watch—"there are but three minutes left!"

Jimmy Christopher said, very low: "I see." At the same time his hand darted out past Tim's astonished face, in a lightning quick, stiff-fingered jab that caught the swarthy man at a point just beneath the Adam's apple. The man's eyes bulged, his mouth dropped open, and he collapsed to the pavement, writhing in agony.

Jimmy exclaimed: "Watch him, Tim!" and frantically punched his horn in a raucous summons. He turned his head as he did so, watching the window of the brownstone house. A face appeared there, and Jimmy thrust open the door of his car, sped across the street...

"Come out!" he shouted "Come out! Danger in there!"

The face at the open window was that of Z-7. The chief of Intelligence saw Jimmy gesticulating, but did not recognize Operator 5 behind the gross features of Horgavo. Z-7 frowned, thinking, perhaps, that it was some sort of trick to lure him into the open. He stepped back frown the window as Jimmy raced toward the house, and in a moment his hand appeared with an automatic.

There was, perhaps, only a minute or a minute and a half to spare. Jimmy Christopher acted like lightning, with the well-trained coordination of mind and muscle that had helped him in many a crisis in the past.

His right hand moved with eye-defying speed, came away from his shoulder bolster with his own automatic; and before Z-7 could take aim, Jimmy Christopher's pistol had barked a single shot. The slug went true to its mark, struck Z-7's automatic, sent it spinning from his numbed hand.

And in a bound Jimmy Christopher was up the three steps of the stoop, calling frantically:

"Z-7! It's Operator 5! Come out of there—through the window! There's no time to lose!"

Z-7 looked out, his face pale, puzzled. He started to say: "Op— ?"

But Jimmy did not let him finish. He reached over, grasped Z-7 by the sleeve, yanked powerfully. Z-7 lost his balance, came tumbling over the windowsill. Jimmy let him fall to the pavement, then leaped over the railing down beside him. Z-7 was struggling to his knees when Jimmy landed next to him, gripped him about the waist, raised him to his right shoulder and ran across the street.

Z-7 gasped: "Wait—what—?"

Jimmy said: "It's Operator 5, Z-7. Montezuma is going to send his exploding death into that house in less than a minute!"

Z-7 gasped: "My God! There's some one else in there—Yes! He was reporting—"

His words were cut off by the sound of a terrific, dull detonation emanating from the interior. Something like a cold draft of air pressed around them, and Jimmy suddenly found it hard to breath. He staggered to the opposite curb, let Z-7 rise to his feet. Then he looked toward the house. Every pane of glass in the brownstone house was shattered. Bits of clothing and torn flesh came catapulting through the open window from which Jimmy had dragged his chief.

Z-7 groaned: "Y-8! That's the end of him!" His face was purple with the effort of breathing. It was as if the air in the neighborhood had suddenly become polluted....

Immediately to the left of the brownstone house was an empty lot; but on the right was another building, also of brownstone, and this one seemed also to have suffered from the detonation, but not to the same extent. For the glass windows were also shattered, and a man and a woman came running from it, clutching at their throats as if to tear something dreadful away from them. Out on the sidewalk, they could run no more. They both dropped, writhed, and then stiffened, lay still.

Jimmy had been breathing in deep lungfuls of air. Now, suddenly, breathing seemed to become easier. In a moment it became normal. Jimmy left Z-7, crossed the street to the two prostrate bodies. He knelt beside them. Both were dead....

He looked up to find Z-7 and Tim Donovan beside him, staring down at the disfigured faces of the man and the woman. It seemed that their veins had burst, for their faces were clotted with blood, their eyes bulging, their tongues hanging from their mouths. They had both died in exactly the same way.

Z-7 said: "They were choked, somehow!"

Jimmy shook his head. "No, Z-7, they weren't choked. It's the same sort of death as killed our troops, as killed Y-8 in there. They exploded. Only the process wasn't completed with them for some reason, and they didn't die immediately. Perhaps the attack was concentrated on Dad's house, here, and they only got the excess."

Tim Donovan was staring about him, wide—eyed. "Gee, Jimmy, is it a sort of gas?"

"No, Tim, it isn't a gas. It is something far more deadly. Let's get hold of that fellow that warned us. He knows a lot, and we'll make him talk!"

Jimmy raced across the significantly empty street. Not even the sound of the explosion had brought anybody out—so great was the fear of the public. And that fear was very well based indeed, as the bodies of the man and woman on the pavement testified...

The swarthy man was just scrambling to his knees as Jimmy got across the street. He saw Jimmy coming, snarled, and his hand went to his armpit. Jimmy still had his automatic in his hand, and snapped a shot that caught the other in the right shoulder. The swarthy man's hand fell away from his holster, and he reeled against Jimmy's car.

Operator 5, with Tim Donovan at his side, came up to the man, caught him as he was about to fall. He looked up at Operator 5 with hate-filled eyes, gasped: "You—you are not Major Horgavo!"

Jimmy shook his head. "You are going to tell us everything you know about this explosive death, do you understand? Do you want to talk now, or shall I take you where you will be made to talk?"

The man winced with the pain of his wounded shoulder, whispered: "I will—"

He seemed to slump, but in a moment he straightened up, pushed Jimmy away from him. He wavered on his feet. He was holding a small white pellet in his hand. Operator 5 leaped toward him, but it was too late. The man lifted it to his mouth, swallowed it.

His lips twisted in a ghastly smile. In Spanish he said: "You cannot make —me talk—any more. I—have been faithful to my emperor!" His body was suddenly convulsed in agony; he slumped to the pavement.

Jimmy bent beside him, heard him murmur through froth-flecked lips: "I —pay the penalty—of failure. I go to the bosom—of Huitzilopochtli!" And the man was dead....

Jimmy arose slowly, gazed somberly at Z-7 and at Tim Donovan. "At least," Jimmy said, "he died bravely. But I hope there are not many more like him in the service of Montezuma!"

7. THE ROAD TO HELL

Jimmy Christopher, with Tim Donovan and Z-7 in the car, drove uptown to the Medical Center.

At One Hundred and Sixty-eighth Street, Jimmy swung the roadster left, in through the wide gate leading to the grounds on which were erected the dozen or so buildings that comprised the huge institution.

They went up in the elevator to the ninth floor, where a dozen of the most eminent physicians in the country were gathered in the consultation room adjoining the chamber where George Powers was resting.

Dr. Angus Maynard, the head of the psychiatric department of the biggest hospital in the city, was presiding. In answer to Jimmy Christopher's terse question, Dr. Maynard replied: "It is our opinion, young man, that the patient suffers from a trauma of the brain. That, of course, is a very general diagnosis. For more definite findings, it will be necessary to subject him to a series of tests to ascertain the extent to which his coordinative faculties—"

Jimmy Christopher interrupted him. "How long will these tests take that you propose?"

Dr. Maynard raised his eyebrows. "In cases such as these, young man, we cannot hasten things. I have often kept a patient under observation for as long as ten weeks—"

Jimmy Christopher heaved a deep sigh, cast a significant glance at Z-7 who had remained in the background, standing near the door with Tim Donovan.

"If you don't mind, doctor," Jimmy broke in, "I should like to talk to Powers myself. Perhaps I can extract some information from him without waiting ten weeks. The entire nation may well be destroyed while you conduct your tests!"

Doctor Maynard smiled in superior fashion. "The layman," he said indulgently, "never appreciates the problems which face the physician—"

"Pardon me, doctor," Jimmy said softly, "it so happens that I hold a degree of Doctor of Medicine myself. I studied under Prague and Liegnitz. If you will permit me—" he bowed to the assembled physicians—"to cut the red tape with which you have surrounded your profession!"

He stepped toward the connecting door which led to Powers' room. One of the other physicians, a Doctor Cabello, to whom Jimmy had been introduced among others, hurried toward him, gripped his arm: "You musn't go in there, young man! We are leaving the patient in strict solitude for three hours, after which we shall conduct further tests. If you disturb his rest now, you will ruin the tests!" Doctor Cabello was tall, thin, with piercing black eyes that commanded attention.

His fingers on Jimmy's arm felt strong as iron.

Jimmy Christopher said quietly: "I am sorry, Doctor Cabello, but Mr. Power's rest must be disturbed. This is an emergency."

Cabello shrugged. "Then I wash my hands of the whole affair. I will have nothing further to do with it." He turned to the other physicians. "Good day, gentlemen!" He bowed, stalked from the room.

Jimmy frowned, turned the knob, and entered the bedchamber of George Powers. Inside, he stopped stock-still, gazing at the motionless form on the white, clean bed. George Powers was dead. The needle of a hypodermic syringe had been thrust through his eye and had pierced his brain. He had died, bloodlessly, while asleep. Even in death his countenance was vacuous, peaceful. But he would never reveal the secret of Montezuma's mysterious force to anyone....

Jimmy Christopher swung about, thrust back into the consultation room again. He snapped at the astounded physicians: "Powers is dead— murdered! Who was with him last?"

Dr. Maynard stammered: "Why—why—we all were there. Dr. Cabello suggested that Powers be given an opiate so that he could rest. I filled the hypodermic, and Dr. Cabello administered it. I—"

Jimmy did not wait for him to finish. He lunged past Dr. Maynard, tore through the door into the corridor, with Tim Donovan and Z-7 following him. The white-tiled corridor was empty except for a neatly uniformed nurse who gazed in wonder at the two men and the boy who had barged out of the consultation room. Jimmy Christopher seized her arm, demanded: "Did you see a tall, thin man come out of here just now?"

The nurse nodded, bewildered. "Yes. A tall thin man just went down in the elevator."

Jimmy turned from her, to face Z-7 and Doctor Maynard, who had come out after them. "How long have you known Doctor Cabello?"

"I had never met him before," Doctor Maynard confessed. "In fact, I never heard of him as a specialist. But he came here with a letter signed by someone in the office of the Secretary of State. I thought he was a government doctor."

Operator 5's eyes met those of Z-7, and his lips formed one word: "Forgery!" He said aloud to Doctor Maynard: "Thank you, sir. I think there's no further use in our staying here." He glanced at Z-7 who nodded, and led the way to the elevator.

Downstairs, in the roadster, Tim Donovan rubbed his freckled nose in puzzlement. "Who was that Cabello guy, Jimmy?"

Jimmy Christopher explained dully: "He must be an agent of Montezuma. He came here with a forged letter from the office of the Secretary of State. Montezuma is making sure that we don't learn the secret of his mysterious power!"

"Which means," said Z-7 bitterly, "that we are back just where we started."

The old Beacon Hotel on Fifty-ninth Street, was a superannuated structure that would long since have been torn down had it not been for the financial support accorded it by the United States Intelligence Service.

The rental paid by the Intelligence Bureau for the fifteenth floor alone, was enough to defray the operating costs of the entire undertaking. The proprietor of the Beacon Hotel was a retired Intelligence Agent, and he knew how to render exactly the service required.

Here, on the fifteenth floor, many strange things had taken place that had never seen the light of day, never been reported in any newspaper. Here men from all over the world had sold secrets vital to the safety of the United States. To this hotel had come, from time to time, free lance spies with information to sell, inventors with ideas for destroying whole armies of the enemy in case of war. Intelligence agents were always on hand to interview them, to make deals, to investigate the worth of the things that were offered for sale.

Now the fifteenth floor of the Beacon Hotel played host to two women, fugitive from a ruthless invader. And it was to the Beacon Hotel that a young, keen-eyed man, accompanied by a freckled boy, came. At the desk the young man said to the desk clerk: "May I see Mr. Zilder, please?"

"Mr. Zilder?" the clerk asked. "What room is he in, sir?"

"1501," said the young man. "You might tell him that I come from Mr. Frost."

"Ah, yes; Mr. Frost. You mean Mr. Frost the architect?"

"No. Mr. Frost, the linguist."

The clerk was satisfied. "You wish to give Mr. Zilder a number, sir?"

"Yes," said the keen-eyed young man. "Tell him that Operator 5 is here."

"Yes, sir," said the clerk, suddenly deferential. "You may go right up, sir. Mr. Zilder is expecting you. It will not even be necessary to announce you."

Jimmy Christopher thanked the clerk, winked at Tim Donovan, and led the way to the elevator. At the fifteenth floor, Jimmy Christopher and Tim made their way down the corridor to 1501, and knocked at the door. It was opened in a moment by a man in a green eye shade, who nodded a greeting, let them through. The room was equipped with a battery of telephones, and two teletype machines. A dozen agents were at work here, taking messages as fast as they came in.

The man in the green eye shade said: "This way, Operator 5," and led the way through a connecting door into another room. Here there were filing cabinets reaching up to the ceiling, and more agents were busy cataloging information. They passed through this room into another, and here the man in the green eye shade left them alone with the man who was sitting before the big battered desk. The man was Z-7....

He arose, shook hands with Jimmy Christopher, then with Tim Donovan.

Jimmy Christopher asked crisply: "Have you checked on all those locations I gave you, Chief?"

Z-7 nodded. "We've gone through every one of those buildings with a fine tooth comb, and I would be willing to stake my life that not a spot in any of them has been used as a headquarters by any agents of Montezuma!"

Jimmy frowned. "Then there must be some spot that I overlooked. Well, what about those two men you phoned me about who registered on this floor?"

Z-7 returned to his desk, picked up a folder. "They're in 1531, which is right next door to the suite in which Helen Powers and her daughter are confined. They seem to be Latin-Americans, and they have registered under the names of Gonzales and Hernando. Their story is that the rooming house where they have been staying was visited by the explosive death this morning, and everybody in it annihilated, while they were out. Naturally, they say that they do not wish to return there. They told all this to one of our men who managed to get friendly with them in the barroom."

Jimmy Christopher tapped the edge of the chief's desk thoughtfully, while Tim Donovan watched him. "Have you checked on their story, Chief?"

Z-7 nodded. "The lists of casualties for today mentions eight deaths at the boarding house they named. There is no flaw in their story—except for the fact that they wanted the fifteenth floor. They had a good reason for that, too. As you know, this is the top, and they feel they will have a little better chance of escaping alive in case of another visitation of the exploding death. They think that it may not reach so high up."

Jimmy Christopher laughed bitterly. "It reached me in an aeroplane. It reached hundreds of our aviators before the War Department could be induced to ground all flying units!"

Z-7 gazed into Jimmy Christopher's eyes for a long minute. Then he sighed, said: "I guess you're right, Operator 5. I—"

He stopped as a knock sounded at the door. A shirt-sleeved agent entered, reported tensely: "There's a report in from Gramercy Park, Chief! S-3 and P-12 are dead—blasted to pieces by the exploding death!"

Z-7 glanced at Jimmy Christopher with concern. "Two of our best men, Operator 5. You—know why they were posted there?"

Jimmy Christopher suddenly paled. "Chief! They were posted to guard Diane Elliot's house!" Jimmy gulped, addressed the shirt-sleeved agent. "You— you got a report on Miss Elliot? She's—safe?"

The agent shook his head. With reluctance he said slowly: "I'm sorry, Operator 5, Miss Elliot's apartment is empty. I sent two men down there at once. Neither Miss Elliot nor the Aztec princess whom she had in charge was in the apartment. They must have been kidnapped by Montezuma's men."

Jimmy Christopher whirled to Z-7. "You'll have to excuse me, Chief. I'm going down to Gramercy Park. Come on, Tim."

Z-7 made no move to restrain him. Jimmy Christopher and Tim were on their way out, when one of the phones one the chief's desk rang. "Wait!" said Z-7. "This may be—" He picked up the receiver, listened a moment, then said: "I'll have Operator 5 handle it. He's already been up against that set-up."

Jimmy looked inquiringly at the chief. Z-7 said: "Operator 5, I hate to ask you to do this—but you've got to pass up going to Gramercy Park. That was the agent posted in Room 1529, right next door to those two men who are registered here as Gonzales and Hernando. We've got a dictagraph planted in their room, and it seems that one of them is talking. If he's reporting to Aztec headquarters, it's our chance to check on locations. You're the logical one to take charge."

Jimmy Christopher lowered his eyes to hide the intensity of feeling in them. For a moment he was silent, fighting a quiet battle to master his emotion. Then he said in a voice rendered thin by the effort he made to control it: "Okay, Tim. Take the car and go over there. Be careful, old-timer. And for God's sake, see if you can pick up Diane's trail."

He followed Z-7 and H-9 out into the corridor, and down past 1533, where Helen Powers and her mother were resting. Next door, in 1531, were the two men, Gonzales and Hernando; and beyond them, in 1529, was posted the agent with the dictagraph.

The agent looked up as they entered, removed the earphones from his head. "They've just finished talking," he reported, "most of it was inaudible, but I got a few words. Here they are." He handed to Jimmy Christopher a sheet of paper upon which he had taken a stenographic record of the conversation.

Jimmy read it without difficulty, translating: from Spanish into English as he went along:

"We should make our report, Hernando... It is the hour at which our master will be waiting..." (second voice) "Master, we are ready... the girl and her mother are in the next..."

Jimmy glanced up from the sheet. "Chief! Those men in the next room are preparing to kidnap Helen Powers, right under our noses! They must have a carefully laid plan. They're probably getting instructions over the radio."

He stepped to the window, gazed out over the roofs of the city. "Their portable transmitter can't be very powerful. The Aztec headquarters is undoubtedly within the metropolitan area. Use direction finders—"

The chief dispatched an agent with terse instructions.

The agent at the dictagraph suddenly raised his hand for silence. His lips formed the words: "They're talking again next door!"

Jimmy hastened to his side, watched the words take shape under the agent's pencil as he transcribed the Spanish conversation. Jimmy Christopher translated for the others as he read:

Come, Hernando, in ten minutes it will be time to strike. You will shoot out the lock of the connecting door, and we will break into the girl's room. The mother we may kill—but the girl must be brought unharmed to our Master....

The words droned off into silence, and Jimmy Christopher sprang into action. "Come on, Chief! They're going to break into 1533!"

H-8 produced a key from his pocket. "This'll open their door. I made sure to get it ready."

Jimmy Christopher took the key, hurried out into the corridor. He inserted the key in the lock of 1531, gave it a quick twist, and flung the door open. An automatic appeared in his hand as if by magic.

From within the room, at the instant that Jimmy had flung the door open, came the sharp report of a gun. Two men, dark complexioned, sharp-featured, were standing close to the side door connecting with Room 1531, where Helen Powers was.

The shot had been fired by one of them into the lock, and the connecting door was now yawning open. Beyond it, Jimmy Christopher could see the startled faces of Helen Powers and her mother. But he had no time to call out to them. For the two dark-complexioned men turned on him, snarling, and raised their automatics....

Jimmy'S gun barked twice, swiftly. The nearer of the two men pitched forward with a slug in his heart, while the second, who had just been about to step through the connecting door, was whirled around violently by the impact of Jimmy's bullet, and fell across the doorway into Room 1531. He groaned. Blood spurted from his side. He had been partly behind his companion, and Jimmy Christopher had to shoot him in the right side.

Operator 5 strode into the room, called through the connecting doorway: "It's all right, Mrs. Powers; you're safe!" He knelt beside the wounded man, demanded: "Talk quick! Where are your headquarters?"

The man groaned, glared up at Jimmy, twisted with pain, but made no answer. Jimmy tried again. "Your master will kill you for failing. Why not speak?"

The man's lips quivered, his lips clamped shut determinedly.

Z-7 had gone through the connecting door, and was quieting the two women. Jimmy Christopher pushed past H-9, stared about the room. On the bed was a suitcase, all packed and closed. Another suitcase lay on the floor. Jimmy stooped beside them, used his master keys, and in a moment had both suitcases open. One of them contained a complete radio set.

Operator 5 sprang to his feet, sped to the side of the wounded man. His eyes burned into the eyes of the other as he demanded: "Where is the message you just received over that radio?"

The other whispered feebly: "I—don't—know!"

Jimmy pursed his lips, thrust his hand into the man's pockets, one after the other. He found a notebook with the man's name in it, showing that he was Gonzalez. He found other odd trinkets, but no message.

He looked up to see that Z-7 was watching him from the doorway. Saying nothing, he turned to the body of the dead man, went through his pockets. This time he found what he had been looking for—a crumpled sheet of paper.

Jimmy hastily straightened out the paper. He motioned to H-9: "Take this down as I translate it!" And proceeded to read and translate:

All is ready. At six-fifteen promptly you will break through the connecting door and seize the girl, Helen Powers. Her mother you may kill if she resists; but the girl—at the peril of your lives, no harm must come to her!

At six-twenty-five exactly you will start to leave the hotel with the girl. Do not start a minute sooner, for at six-twenty-five exactly the explosive death will be sent into the street outside the hotel. This will distract the attention of the agents, and you will be able to leave by the back way. A car will await you, to conduct you and the girl to headquarters. Do not fail. Do not harm the girl!

Slowly Operator 5 looked up from the perusal of that message. There was a calculating gleam in his eye. He was gazing speculatively through the open connecting doorway at Helen Powers....

Z-7 said urgently: "H-9! Have the street outside cleared of all people! It's six-twentythree—you have two minutes to save anybody who may be out there. At six-twenty-five the explosive death will strike!"

H-9 hurried from the room to obey.

Operator 5 exclaimed: "Chief! This is our chance to discover where the Aztec headquarters are located!"

"How?" Z-7 asked, puzzled.

"Don't you see? There is to be a car waiting at the back entrance— to take Gonzalez and Hernando to their headquarters—with Miss Powers!"

"I still don't see—I'll have a radio report—"

"Wait, Chief!" Jimmy Christopher strode across the writhing body of the dying Gonzalez, into the next room. He seized both hands of Helen Powers.

"Miss Powers!" he said urgently. "You know that your father was killed by the agents of Montezuma; you know that the United States is threatened with slavery or complete annihilation!"

She stared at him wide-eyed. "Of course I do. Why?"

"Would you be willing to take a great risk—with me—to try to strike a blow to rid us of this menace—perhaps to avenge the death of your father?"

"I would!" she breathed. Her eyes shone, gray and determined. "Even if it means my death! Whatever you say, I will do!" Her pretty, child-like face was suddenly transfigured with a shining zeal.

"Good!" he exclaimed. He left her, stepped across the threshold, and knelt beside the body of the dead Hernando. His swift, long fingers extracted from an inner pocket his flat make-up case. He set up the adjustable mirror on the floor, beside Hernando's body, laid out his tubes of pigment and plastic material.

Under the wondering gaze of Z-7, of Mrs. Powers, and of Helen Powers, his dexterous fingers began to stray swiftly over his own face, applying pigment here, molding plastic material there. From time to time he glanced at the dead Hernando. Soon his own keen, intelligent features had disappeared, to give place to those of the other.

So swiftly did he work, that at the end of four minutes he arose, after packing away his makeup case and mirror. Z-7 uttered a gasp of astonishment. "God!" he exclaimed. "Every time you do that I'm astounded. I'd swear you were a twin brother of that dead man!"

Helen Powers' eyes were shining. "You—you are going to take me with you to that car—instead of Hernando!"

Operator 5 nodded. "Exactly. As far as the Aztecs know, the plan to kidnap you has gone through. I will tie your hands, gag you, and take you out the back way. We will enter that car, and let them take us to their headquarters. I will say to them that my partner, Gonzalez, was killed in the escape."

Helen Powers said eagerly: "Let's do it. And may God grant us success!"

Operator 5 led her into the corridor. "We'll go down in the service elevator," he told Z-7. "Have a couple of your men appear to chase us, and fire at us—but be sure they shoot high! And don't forget, Chief, to have a couple of cars trail us!"

He shook hands quickly with his chief, and they left, the girl stumbling along with a gag in her mouth, her arms tied behind her, while Jimmy Christopher followed her, the living image of the dead Hernando....

8. MACHINE-GUN MESSAGE

When Jimmy Christopher had brought Helen Powers out of the Beacon and pushed her into the waiting sedan, he had not even bothered to look behind. He had been too busy appraising the Aztec agents.

Two men sat in front, and the car was in motion almost at once, roaring down the street with the throttle wide open. The man siding in front, next to the driver, said in Spanish to the one who sat in the rear beside Helen:

"Bring out the quick-firing gun, Leon. We will give them a doze of the exploding death!"

Jimmy Christopher glanced at him across the trembling form of Helen Powers. He was a gaunt man, with the hard face of a killer. Jimmy decided that he must be one of Montezuma's officers. Leon turned his bulging eyes on Helen Powers, and his glance traveled up and down her form admiringly. He switched to English:

"And you, pretty flower. You are very pretty, yes. But I do not understand why our master, the Emperor, wishes so badly to have you. For myself, I like the dark beauties of Mexico City." His eyes raised to Jimmy's. "Eh, Hernando? What say you?"

Jimmy Christopher shrugged. From where he sat, in the corner, he could not see out in back. He could still hear a few shots behind them, and knew that the Intelligence men were staging a good imitation of pursuit.

He glanced across at Leon. He must be careful now. Apparently, as Hernando, he was very well known to Leon. He could imitate the dead man's voice well enough, even though he had heard him speak only a few words. Anything he said might be the wrong thing, might arouse the suspicions of these men and destroy any chance of being taken by them to the Aztec headquarters. However, he could not remain silent all the time. He would have to talk sooner or later, and now was as good a time as any. So he shrugged at Leon's question, said carelessly in Spanish: "It is all one to me beauty or no beauty; as long as the emperor is pleased."

"Ha!" exclaimed Leon, his gaunt face twisting into a sardonic grin. "That is our Hernando—always the business! Tell me, Hernando, what has happened to Gonzalez?"

"Gonzalez," Jimmy told him, "was killed while we were escaping. The gringos fight well."

Leon clucked sympathetically. "Too bad!" He fondled the machine gun in his lap. "I think I will let off a few blasts at these fools who pursue us to avenge Gonzales. What do you think, Hernando?"

"I think you had better not," Jimmy said hastily. "It may attract soldiers."

Leon laughed. "Soldiers! What do we care for soldiers! Soon we shall rule this whole country, and step on the necks of the proud Americans!"

Jimmy asked a question that he had been wanting an answer to, badly. "Is the Emperor Montezuma in New York now, Leon?"

"Did you not know?" Leon asked, surprised. "Ah, yes! I forget that you have been away from headquarters for almost a whole day. Our emperor has but just arrived from Mexico City by plane. It is from here that he will rule America. He brought with him two or three gringo prisoners. We are going to him now, with this pretty flower. He awaits us at the old Craigland estate, across the Hudson."

Jimmy Christopher's blood raced. His question was answered—better than he had expected. The Craigland estate—a massive old pile which stood like a fortress on the New Jersey side of the Hudson. Z-7 would spot it from his radio reports...

Important as that information was, Jimmy had just received equally as important information—the news that Montezuma was in New York— with some prisoners! Would one of them be John Christopher? Operator 5's blood raced with excitement. But he maintained an outward appearance of calm, asked: "The Princess Dolores has she been rescued from the Americans?"

"Of a surety, Hernando. We followed their car from the airport, the one in which that Operator 5 took her to the home of the newspaper girl. Soldiers wished to stop us at the Holland Tunnel, but we blasted them with this—" he tapped the machine gun affectionately—"and we rode past their riddled bodies. When he spotted the house of the newspaper girl, we made our plans just as we did here. Only a little while ago, another group of our men carried off the princess and the newspaper girl. They also are being brought to the Craigland estate. The emperor—"

Suddenly the driver turned, said in Spanish to Leon: "There is a black roadster behind us. It is coming too close, Leon. It has a more powerful motor than ours."

Leon swore, looked out through the rear window. Jimmy looked too, past Helen Powers' shoulder, and his blood went cold. He hadn't paid any attention to the pursuing cars, knowing that the agents had been instructed to keep far behind. But now he saw his own roadster, guessed that Tim was driving it. Tim must have come back to the hotel, he assumed, and taken up the chase. The boy, in his usual headstrong manner, was not counting the odds, but was bent on stopping the sedan.

Leon growled: "It is that same Operator 5. I recognize the car. He will soon be up to us!"

The driver threw over his shoulder in Spanish: "Give him a drink of your lead, Leon. He must not follow us to the river!"

Leon's thin lips twisted in a cold smile. "Now," he said softly, "I shall show you, Hernando, that I can use this plaything as well as you!"

He raised the sub-machine gun, and with the muzzle broke the rear window. Then he stuck it out, aimed at the tires of the pursuing roadster. He chuckled. "Watch him turn over when I puncture the tires!"

Jimmy Christopher met the frightened gaze of Helen Powers over her gag. And he acted... He raised his left arm, with his hand opened stiffly; brought it around in a wide circle so that the edge of his hand caught Leon in a sharp blow at the base of the skull. It was a blow that seemed weak, ineffective to an observer not initiated in the art of jiu-jitsu. In reality, that particular spot at the base of the skull was one of the eighty nerve centers in the human body which, when struck at the proper angle, will paralyze the entire system. Jimmy Christopher knew all eighty of those nerve centers, as well as the proper way to strike at them. He had studied the "soft art" (which is a literal translation of the word, jiu-jitsu) under one of the most exacting teachers in the world—Kashawatska Hoia, the Imperial Instructor in Tokyo.

Leon, who had been facing toward the rear, suddenly let out his breath in a deep sigh as Jimmy's blow went home. Soundlessly he clumped, and his head lolled to one side. His body slipped from the seat to the floor at the feet of Helen Powers, and the machine gun dropped from his nerveless fingers.

So swift had been the flash of Jimmy Christopher's arm, that the two men in the front seat had not noticed it; neither had been looking back at the moment.

But now, the man next to the driver turned his head, exclaimed in Spanish: "Hold! Leon!"

Jimmy interrupted: "He's been shot!" and snatched up the machine gun. He gave a good imitation of ferocity, saving: "The dog shot Leon through the broken window. I will make him pay!"

He swung the muzzle once more out of the window at the swiftly nearing roadster, and pressed the trip. His slugs, aimed with precision, struck against the steel fender of the roadster in a peculiar rhythm.

As the two cars raced westward across the deserted city streets, the hail of lead from the sub-machine gun beat a strange tattoo on that fender— dash; dash, dot, tot—T. D.! T. D.I

The clever Irish lad in the roadster at once grasped the significance of the situation. Though he did not understand how Jimmy Christopher came to be in that sedan, he knew that only he could have sent that rapid-fire message drumming through the air against the steel fender, using the trip hammer of a machine gun for a sending key.

Jimmy Christopher held his breath while he watched the boy do marvelous tricks with the roadster, causing it to swerve from curb to curb without perceptibly diminishing its speed. Finally, at the Intersection of Eleventh Avenue, Tim jammed on the brakes, sent the roadster skidding in a wide, screeching curve, while the sedan roared west toward the river, free of pursuit. The Intelligence men in their cars had long since been outdistanced.

Jimmy turned from the rear window to hear the driver say: "That must be the finish of this Operator 5!"

Jimmy Christopher said nothing while the car slowed up at the river front. He could easily, now, have finished off the driver and the man beside him; but that was not his objective. He had to get into that house on the far side of the Hudson.

So, when the car pulled up along a wooden jetty, he got out, allowed himself and the girl, who was still bound and gagged, to be led toward a small power-boat moored alongside. Half a dozen men were waiting there, and each one of them seemed to have had his duties planned to the last detail for everything proceeded smoothly, and within two minutes, the boat was speeding with muffled motor across the Hudson.

The girl, cold and frightened now, huddled on a bench in the stern, with the sharp spray whipping into her face. Operator 5 stood beside her, and took advantage of the darkness to whisper a word of encouragement in her ear. "It's going off nicely, Miss Powers," he said. "We'll be inside that place in a few minutes. Intelligence knows where we're headed for, and we'll be able to count on some outside help." He reached and took off the gag from her mouth.

He stooped under cover of the darkness, and his swift fingers moved with uncanny certainty as he unfastened the cord that bound her wrists. He did not untie it entirely, but left it loose, so that she could drop it off if she had to. Then he took out his automatic, and pressed it into her cold hands.

"If you should need it later," he murmured.

He straightened just as a dark figure approached, walking spread-legged to balance himself against the rolling of the boat. Jimmy Christopher's eyes narrowed upon that figure—familiar even in the night: the heavy, brutish body, the coarse features as the man came nearer. It was Major Horgavo —....!

His thick lips twisted in a smile, and he said to Jimmy: "You are the man named Hernando, are you not?"

Jimmy bowed, watching the other tensely. "I answer to that name, major," he said quietly.

Horgavo smiled his gross approval. "They tell me that you wrecked the car of Operator 5 with your machine gun fire."

Jimmy bowed again, murmured: "I am honored that my small action has been brought to your attention, major."

"Small action? Why, man, don't you realize that you destroyed the foremost Secret Service operator in our enemies ranks? There is a reward on that man's head—and you shall have it!"

"Thank you, sir."

"They tell me that you are an expert with the machine gun."

"I am quite familiar with it, sir."

"Then come. Follow me!" The major turned, gestured toward one of the men who were standing close by. "Watch the girl. Hernando is coming with me." Then he strode away along the tilting deck.

Jimmy followed him into the single low ceilinged cabin. There was no light here, for the boat was apparently riding without lights. The major stopped only a moment here, to pick up a sub-machine gun lying on the floor, and to hand it to Jimmy. He led the way out at once, took Jimmy's arm and guided him to the rail.

"Do you hear anything?" he asked.

Jimmy had already heard it. It was the low, muffled chug-chug of another powerboat coming down the river. He nodded, said: "Yes, major. I hear it. It is a boat—"

Horgavo bent close to him. "It is a river patrol. They, too, are riding without lights. In a moment they will cross our path. It will be your duty to spray their deck with the machine gun. Do you understand?"

Jimmy said: "Yes, sir. I understand."

The jaw muscles of Jimmy Christopher's face bulged as he fingered the tommy-gun. He hoped that the patrol would pass them in the dark.

The sound of the police motor grew louder, and Jimmy, glancing up and down the deck, saw that he was not the only one with a machine gun. A half dozen forms were lined up along the rail, waiting tensely. The moment they were challenged they would unleash a vicious hail of lead that would mow down every living man on the deck of the patrol.

Horgavo remained beside him, staring into the night, and Operator 5 hoped fervently that the police boat would miss them. Nothing must interfere now, with his gaining entrance to that gloomy building high on the cliffs.

And just then they were discovered. Across the water they heard a low- voiced order; a burst of brilliant light came into being, and a huge spotlight centered upon their boat. At the same time, Horgavo shouted a hoarse order: "Lights! Fire!"

From the rail on both sides of Jimmy Christopher a hail of vicious lead tore from a half dozen machine guns in the direction of the police boat, while from the roof of the cabin their own searchlight clicked on to flood the patrol with light.

Only for a moment did those two spotlights remain on, then they were shattered by the rapid—fire slugs now coming from both boats. Now, auxiliary searchlights, fore and aft of the police boat began to glower, throwing a dull beam across the water.

A storm of lead tore across the deck of the Aztec boat, and cries of agony sounded as men fell. Horgavo, standing beside Jimmy, exclaimed hoarsely: "It is the armored power-boat. We cannot fight them! I must signal the Master!" He turned, ran in the direction of the cabin, and reappeared in a moment with a Very pistol which he raised in the air and fired.

Two green balls of fire described a graceful parabola in the air from the muzzle of the gun. At the same time, the barrage from the patrol-boat ceased, and a voice called out to them: "Cut out your engine till we pull alongside, or we'll rake you again. You're under arrest!"

And then, as if in answer to the Very pistol's signal, a tremendous searchlight fingered down upon the river from the Craigland house on the cliffs. It swept across the deck of Horgavo's boat, revealing the still bodies lying in pools of blood. That volley from the police boat had done plenty of damage. The searchlight kept moving, played upon the police patrol, and remained there. From across the intervening gap between the two boats Jimmy Christopher heard a voice order: "Full speed ahead. Get out of that light!"

Too well did Jimmy know what would follow. And it did. Suddenly, as if the thing had occurred spontaneously, a terrific explosion sounded from the deck of the police boat. The screams of men echoed above the sound of the detonation, and the air was suddenly filled with cascading fragments of torn and battered bodies. Then quiet descended upon the river once more.

The police boat raced madly, aimlessly across the water, with its throttle wide open. No hand was guiding the tiller. It was a boat filled with the torn shreds of what had just been brave men. For a moment, the spotlight followed that boat in its erratic course, then it suddenly clicked off, and darkness hid the gory bits of floating jetsam that littered the surface of the river. The exploding death had come and gone....

Jimmy Christopher's thoughts were bitter as the boat nosed its way into a dark shed at the foot of the tall rock far below the Craigland house....

9. THE MAN WHO KILLED OPERATOR 5

The deck of the power-boat was a shambles. The boards were slippery with blood. They had started out from the New York side with eight men; now, only two besides Horgavo and Operator 5 were left on their feet. The barrage from the police boat had accounted for the others.

Horgavo ordered the two men to take care of the casualties. Then he motioned to Jimmy Christopher. "Come, Hernando. We will bring the lady up to the emperor!"

Jimmy Christopher felt the girl shiver under his grasp. She turned frightened eyes to him, was about to blurt out something. But he squeezed her arm. "Steady, Miss Powers," he whispered. "You've gone this far—go through with it."

At last, they reached the top of the cliff, came out into a wide clearing. The big house loomed dark and ugly, with one side of it sitting at the very edge of the rock, overlooking the river.

Dark shapes moved everywhere, with small flashlights. Jimmy discerned many cars grouped in the clearing, and he noted, as they followed Horgavo toward the wide, unlit entrance of the house, that the license plates on those cars were representative of many states. They were from Pennsylvania, Jersey, Massachusetts, Connecticut. Montezuma's agents, apparently, were assembling from all over the country.

They entered through two huge doors of solid oak, and stood in a brightly lit, low-ceilinged foyer. Jimmy saw why no light had shown out while they were climbing the path down below—all the windows were tightly shuttered. Men in uniforms were hurrying to and fro here. All who passed close saluted Horgavo, and some of them nodded in recognition to Jimmy. He assumed that as Hernando he must be known to them, and nodded in response.

Horgavo bowed to Helen Powers, said: "If you will come with me now, I will present you to my master. He has been unhappy ever since you—er —left him in Mexico City. You, fair lady, are one of the principal reasons for transferring our headquarters to this place."

He took her unwilling arm, and threw over his shoulder to Jimmy Christopher: "Wait for me in the officer's room, Hernando. I have more work for you tonight."

Jimmy saluted, watched Helen Powers go unwillingly with the major. Then he turned to inspect his surroundings. The other two men who had come up the path with them had already left, and he was alone to do as he pleased.

He noted that many of the officers were turning to the left down a broad corridor, and he followed them. He turned a bend in the hallway, and saw that these men were all going into one of the rooms off the corridor.

He strolled up past the open doorway, and peered into the room. There must have been at least a hundred men in there, all standing about in attitudes of expectancy.

Over their heads, at the far end, Operator 5 saw that a makeshift altar had been erected, over which brooded the vicious, stone carved features of the obscene god, Huitzilopochtli.

Jimmy Christopher's blood raced as he thought that if the Aztecs mastered the country, altars to this deity might be set up throughout the land. He turned away from the scene in revulsion, stopped short at sight of the small procession that was approaching from the other end of the corridor.

About a dozen officers in brilliant uniform, with swords clanking at their sides, were marching in escort to the Princess Dolores.

All the men in the hall stood at attention as she passed, and saluted. Horgavo's eyes lighted on Jimmy, and he bent, whispered in her ear. The dark gaze of Dolores settled upon Operator 5, and he stiffened, saluted as he had seen the others do. Dolores' full red lips parted in a smile, and she raised her hand, motioned him to come closer.

JIMMY stepped up near her. His heart was beating fast. He had taken the precaution this time, to cover that birthmark on the back of his hand, by spreading a tinted wax over it. But Dolores was a woman, and it is more difficult to deceive a woman than a man. She had looked into his eyes once before, and he could not avoid her gaze now.

But there was no hint of recognition in her voice as she said to him: "Major Horgavo tells me that you are the man who brought about the death of Operator 5."

Jimmy bowed, lowering his eyes.

The princess sighed. "He was a brave man. I would have preferred to have had him captured alive. I would have given much to watch him upon the torture rack!"

She spoke in Spanish, and Jimmy Christopher answered in the same language. "I am sorry, your highness, that I did not know. I would have saved him for you." The princess' eyes became dreamy. She said musingly to Horgavo:

"Do you know, major, that this Operator 5 was the only man who ever aroused my interest? There was something dynamic about him—a certain poised strength that made me want to conquer him. I never thought that a man like Operator 5 would meet his death in a minor chase, from machine-gun bullets!"

Jimmy Christopher watched Horgavo's sultry eyes play upon the supple form of the princess. It could be readily seen that his desire for her was so strong that it bid fair to overcome his discretion. "It shall be my endeavor, your highness," he said gallantly, "to make you forget that—that spy!" He spat the last word out venomously. He was deathly jealous of a man whom he believed to be dead.

The princess shrugged, resumed her stately walk toward the room with the altar. She threw over her shoulder negligently at Jimmy: "You may come with us, and view the sacrifices—"

Jimmy Christopher was about to bow and ask to be excused, for he wanted to be free to explore the house. But he froze into silence at the next words of the princess: "I shall, at least, derive some satisfaction from watching the death agonies of this woman whom Operator 5 is supposed to have loved. She will be the first on the altar." And she added savagely, gloatingly: "We will see if this much vaunted hero can come back from the grave to save her!"

Automatically, as in a daze, Jimmy fell in behind the princess's retinue. Diane to be sacrificed on the altar! To have her heart torn from her still- living body as he had seen done in Mexico City—to have her still living, palpitating heart offered up to Huitzilopochtli in the bloody hands of those barbarous priests!

Operator 5 was but a number in the archives of the United States Intelligence. Yet he was human.

His eyes had become a dull, murky blue; his jaw muscles were bunched into hard ridges as he tried to keep from throwing himself upon Dolores and choking the life from her.

As soon as they were within the room, the doors were closed. Jimmy was puzzled at this, for he had expected that the Emperor Montezuma would himself preside at such a sacrifice He had the explanation in a moment when he heard the princess say to Horgavo, with a scornful curve of her lips: "My father is so infatuated with that American girl whom you brought, that he cannot even spare the time for the sacrifices! He should be careful; I saw that girl's eyes, and she hates him!" The princess shrugged. "If the girl kills him in his sleep some night, I shall not be too surprised."

Horgavo smiled, said very low, so that none could hear except Operator 5; who was close behind them: "If that should happen, your highness would become the Empress of the Aztecs. And you would have no more loyal servant than —myself!"

The princess made no reply, but turned her eyes to the altar, where two white-robed priests had appeared. The officers in the room had divided to form a lane down which the princess and her retinue could approach the altar, and Jimmy Christopher had followed close behind.

Now he watched as the two priests prostrated themselves before the stone idol, then arose to their knees and began to recite strange incantations. A hush fell upon the entire room. The droning voices of the priests rose higher and higher until they reached a screaming pitch of frenzy. Finally one of them seized a long, gleaming knife, and whirled it above his head three times, touched its point to his own forearm, drawing blood.

He lowered his eyes, pointed a scrawny finger at Dolores. "O Princess!" he intoned, as if speaking a ritual, "Do you bring an offering to the great God, Huitzilopochtli? Do you wish power and glory? Do you wish to know the secrets of life and death and love and hate? Then bring to the altar an offering of a live thing, and Huitzilopochtli will speak!"

The priest Mazatlan, lowered the knife, continued to stare at the princess.

Dolores spoke slowly, clearly, so that all in the room could hear: "Mazatlan, High Priest of the temple of Huitzilopochtli!" she intoned. "I bring two offerings. One is the heart of a young girl, the other is the heart of an old man. But both will be welcome to Huitzilopochtli; for they are the hearts of those who were loved by a bitter foe of the Aztec Empire. Let them die, and then I will ask my questions of Huitzilopochtli!"

She turned to Horgavo, ordered: "Bring in the girl, Diane Elliot."

Almost at once the door opened. Diane Elliot appeared there. Her face was pale, but she held her chin high. She was attired in a long white robe that fell to her feet, with a girdle at the waist. Her hands were tied behind her back.

Behind her, with one huge paw on her shoulder appeared a giant of a mestizo, whose coarse, brutish features were twisted into a leer of expectancy. This must be her jailer.

Diane stopped a moment in the doorway, and her hopeless eyes darted around the room as if in search of some one. When she saw the roomful of men, the two priests, the darkly arrogant princess, she seemed to shrink back. But the mestizo pushed her forward roughly, and she stumbled toward the altar under the fanatical gaze of all in the room.

She recovered her balance with difficulty, and stood facing the princess, who said to her acridly: "Before you are sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli, pale one, I will give you some news. Your gallant knight, Operator 5, has been killed—killed, do you hear? There is none to help you here. We shall see if you can die as bravely as he would have died!"

Diane Elliot staggered under the news. Her breasts heaved with emotion. Jimmy, watching her, wanted to cry out to her, to tell her that it was not the truth. But he waited.

Diane, by a supreme effort, mastered her emotion. She swallowed hard, said in a low voice: "I am ready—to die, too!"

ONE of the priests stepped close to her, seized her by both elbows from behind, and forced her down on her back upon the great stone set at the foot of the image. Mazatlan, the high priest, still held the long, curved knife in his scrawny hand. Now he approached, gazing down upon her with his gaunt face as obscene in its blood thirsty fanaticism as that of the bestial god he served.

He raised the knife high, spoke in Spanish, in a high-pitched, screaming voice: "Huitzilopochtli! Great god of the Aztecs! In return for this offering, bring us victory! Bring strength and greatness to Emperor Montezuma, and to the Princess Dolores! Make our people the rulers of the earth!"

And he reached down one long-fingered, claw-like hand, gripped the blouse of Diane's robe, and tore it open. Diane uttered a shriek, but she was hapless in the grip of the second priest.

She shut her eyes as the sharp blade described a flashing arc in the air, descended toward her white body.

Until then, Jimmy Christopher had stood tense, waiting. He had not dared to act until the lustful attention of every one in the room was riveted upon the altar. Now he moved.

He no longer had his own gun, for he had given it to Helen Powers. He took a quick step to the left, which brought him alongside Horgavo. His left hand reached into Horgavo's holster, while his right, bunched into a hard- knuckled fist, came up in a smashing blow to the side of the major's chin.

The blow sent Horgavo crashing backward to the floor, and Jimmy's hand came away with his automatic. Suddenly the room was in pandemonium. Men shouted, scrambled toward Jimmy. The Princess Dolores turned a livid face toward his face momentarily robbed of all its beauty by the rage that twisted her features. She screamed something unintelligible at him—something that was unintelligible because it was drowned by two quick reports from the automatic that had sprung up like a live thing in Jimmy Christopher's hand.

The two priests were thrown backward by the impact of the slugs, and their bodies went hurtling into the stone image of Huitzilopochtli, then slumped to the floor of the altar. They were both dead before their bodies came to rest on the cold stone. The knife went slithering from the grasp of the executioner, lay almost at Diane's feet.

In the second of astounded silence that followed those two shots, Operator 5 launched himself like a rocket through the throng about the altar, bounded up its steps at a single leap. His movements were swift, well-coordinated; he had shot with his left hand, with which he was equally as accurate as with the right. Now he snatched up the long knife, stepped to the side of the bound girl, and pushed her roughly over. With a single slash he cut the cords that held her wrists, saying as did so: "It's I, Diane! Jimmy!"

Diane Elliot's glad cry rang through the room. "Jimmy! Thank God!"

Operator 5 lifted her swiftly, pushed her toward the edge of the altar. Men were swarming toward them now, guns flashed the room.

Now he thrust Diane behind him, turned to meet the rush of uniformed men who swarmed about them. Several guns exploded, harmlessly; for the fighting was at too close quarters. Jimmy clubbed his automatic in his right fist, and his arms pistoned in and out.

He threw over his shoulder: "Diane! The door! Get it open!" His fists kept flailing at the attacking officers; each blow that he struck was carefully placed, directed at a vital spot. He stood there, fighting coolly, methodically, taking advantage of the lack of elbow room of his opponents. He was a cold, dangerous fighting machine. His face was set, expressionless, but his blue eyes darted everywhere, seemed to see everything. Pistol butts were raised against him, swords flashed; but hardly a blow reached him.

AND while he fought coolly, calculatingly, the eyes of one woman were on him with dawning wonder and amazement. The Princess Dolores watched him, with her red lips slightly parted, her breast rising and falling with each blow he struck. She was like some old Roman empress watching a barbarian gladiator fight in the arena for his life. Never had she seen such an exhibition of cold fighting nerve.

Suddenly the voice of Major Horgavo rose above the noise of the fighting. He had gotten to his feet from the floor, his jaw blue and swollen. He had snatched a revolver from the hand of one of the officers on the fringe of the attackers, and now he shouted:

"Stand back, all of you." He sprang up on the altar, from where he had an unobstructed view of Jimmy and Diane, over the heads of the fighting men.

At his command the officers fell back, leaving several of their number on the floor. The major lowered his gun to cover Jimmy Christopher, and at the same time Diane cried out: "Jimmy. Come. The door is open!"

Her voice was drowned by the roar of the major's revolver; but the bullet went high—for the Princess Dolores had sprung up on the altar after him, and just as he pulled the trigger, she had knocked up his gun hand. "I want that man alive!" she exclaimed.

Jimmy had whirled at Diane's call. Now he lunged through the open doorway after her, just as the other officers surged forward at the Princess's command. And Jimmy slammed the door in their faces!

He glanced around at the room they were in. It was small, dark, lit by only a single, small, electric bulb. It was the pen in which the prospective sacrificial victims were confined. And there was one other victim there— John Christopher!

Another huge mestizo, like the one who had brought in Diane, stood guard beside him, with an automatic in his hand. Before the mestizo could bring his weapon up, Jimmy Christopher stepped in, brought up the edge of his open hand in a short, cutting blow that landed at a point about two thirds of an inch below the mestizo's eye.

Though Jimmy had seemed only to hit him lightly, the mestizo uttered a shriek of agony, dropped the gun, and raised both hands to his face. That blow had paralyzed his optic nerves. He would be unable to see for hours. He doubted over in agony, uttering screen after scream.

And though Jimmy's face was distorted into the features of another man —though he was skillfully disguised—John Christopher exclaimed gladly: "Jimmy!"

The door behind them urged open under the influx of attackers from the other room, and Jimmy swung quickly, snapped a shot at the face that appeared in the opening. The face disappeared in a spray of blood, and Jimmy, moving with swift precision, drew a knife from his pocket. The blade snapped open at his touch on a hidden spring, and he slashed twice at his father's bonds.

John Christopher's hands came free. The two men, father and son, wasted no time in explanations. All that John Christopher needed to know was that this was Jimmy, and that Jimmy had come out of the next room fighting.

With a single step John Christopher reached the side of the screaming mestizo, stooped and picked up the revolver he had dropped. Then they each took one of Diane's arms, hurried her toward the door in the opposite wall.

The other door was coming open again; it swung wide, and the doorway was jammed with uniformed officers eager to be the first through. They got in their own way in the narrower entrance, and Jimmy turned his automatic on them, kept the trigger down while it sprayed lead into the thick of them.

Then he turned, and with lead whining wildly into the small room from the sacrificial chamber, he darted out after Diane and his father, kicked the door closed behind him.

They found themselves in a narrow, unlighted passageway. John Christopher threw back: "Follow me! I know the way here."

No unnecessary words were spoken. These two fighting men had been in ticklish spots together before. They could almost read each other's minds in a crisis. And Diane was too overcome yet with emotion at finding Jimmy alive again—at the sudden escape from the sacrificial altar—to be able to say anything. She was content to go where they took her, to be guided by them. Now with peril all about them, she felt unaccountably safe...!

10. THE CHALLENGE

The passageway into which John Christopher had led Diane and Jimmy was unlighted. It had no windows. The floor creaked under them. John Christopher called back to Jimmy: "I know just where this goes, son. I was brought along here to the sacrifice room. If we can get down to the end, there's a door with only a single guard, then a short stairway that takes you out through a rear entrance. If we can make it—"

Jimmy Christopher could hear Diane's quick breathing just in front of him, and he pressed her arm reassuringly. "You two go on ahead. I'll hold them here, And when you get out, find Z-7; I'm sure he's out here by now, preparing to attack. Tell him to wait till I give the signal, or all his men will be wiped out by the exploding death!"

John Christopher demanded suspiciously: "What do you plan to do, lad? If it's a question of holding them a while, to give Diane a chance to get out, I'm the man to do it. I'm old. I've nothing much to live for—"

"Trust me, dad!" Jimmy whispered urgently. "I'm not sacrificing my life uselessly, I promise you that. I've got to cripple that mysterious exploding death. Now go!"

He heard his father say huskily: "All right, Jimmy. Come, Diane!"

Operator 5 heard them move down the passageway, but did not turn. He was facing the door now, and he dropped to one knee. From the lining of his coat, he extracted a long, pencil-like tube. It was made of dull metal, and there was a cap at one end, with a smell pin sticking out of it. He had this in his right hand, his eyes intently fixed on that door. In the darkness he could just discern the dark shape of the officer he had shot, lying inert on the floor.

Jimmy swiftly raised the tube in his hand, and drew out the pin. Then he held it poised, while the watch on his wrist ticked off three seconds. From where he knelt he could hear the click of a machine gun bolt through the door, and he waited no longer. He drew back his arm, hurled the tube straight at the door.

This tube was a modification of the Mills bomb, used extensively by the police of large cities. But unlike the Mills bomb, its area of damage was confined to a radius of only four feet. He had developed this pencil bomb in his laboratory at Address Y. and had perfected it only after tireless experiments with varying quantities of explosive, and with various containers. This was the first time since he had perfected it that he had occasion to use it.

Even as he threw it, he dropped prone on the ground, placed fingers in both his ears. He waited there in the darkness for what seemed an eternity; but it was only two seconds—hardly enough for the machine gunner on the other side to get his weapon in position. And then suddenly, a deafening explosion shook the walls and floor of the passageway...

The terrific force of that concentrated detonation jarred Operator 5 even where he lay, a dozen feet from the door. The sound of tinkling, broken glass and of rending, cracking wood followed the explosion. He took his fingers from his ears, raised his head, then got to his feet.

A dark, gaping hole showed where the door had been. Groans and screams of wounded men came to him. The lights in the room beyond the doorway had all been shattered by the concussion, and he could distinguish a milling, panicky crowd of figures there. Between him and them, at the spot where the pencil bomb had exploded, there was a wide gap in the floor.

Jimmy Christopher turned silently and made his way in the opposite direction along the passageway after his father and Diane. They were not in the corridor. He hoped they had had time to get outside the mansion.

Behind him now, over the agonized groans of dying men, he heard the voice of the Princess Dolores: "Fools! Why do you wait here! That passageway leads to the cliff entrance. Go around and head them off!"

Jimmy hurried on, groping ahead of him for the end of the passageway. And then he heard Horgavo's smooth voice, saying: "Let us try them with the exploding death, your highness. This Operator 5 had already killed some of our best men. Why send more men against him, when we can destroy him in a moment?"

"All right, Horgavo," the princess assented. "Order them to direct the exploding death to cover the cliffs behind the house!"

Jimmy's blood ran cold. He had seen the terrible results of the exploding death. His father and Diane must even now be coming out of the mansion. He shuddered at the thought of what would happen to them.

And as if in answer to that very thought of his came the words of the princess once more: "They will all three be shattered into bits. I am sorry that I cannot capture that Operator 5 alive. I would let the other two go if I could make that man my prisoner!"

And Jimmy Christopher suddenly, without thinking, called out from the darkness of the passageway in Spanish: "You have your wish, princess! I am still here. Let my father and the girl go out unharmed, and I will give myself up!"

Abruptly, at the sound of his words, there was a hush in the small room at the end of the passageway. Even the men who were groaning with pain ceased their laments for a moment.

The princess exclaimed: "It is he! Bring a flashlight!"

Someone clicked on a flashlight, but Jimmy Christopher's automatic slid out of his holster, and it barked once. The flashlight was shattered, and the man who held it uttered a yelp of pain.

Jimmy called out coldly: "Countermand the order you just gave for the exploding death, princess, and I will give myself up. Then you can turn on your flashlights."

The princess raised her voice: "Do you give me your word that you will surrender?"

"I give it!" Operator 5 said simply.

The princess ordered Horgavo: "Call back the one who went with my order. At once!"

Horgavo grumbled, but he obeyed. Jimmy, listening attentively, heard him shout out to someone to return.

Jimmy Christopher stood erect, squared his shoulders, and walked slowly toward the shambles created by his pencil bomb. A dozen rays of light from as many torches were concentrated on him, almost blinding him. Someone called out from the other room: "Wait! There is a hole in the floor."

He stood still, while boards were brought, placed over the gaping hole in the floor, so that he could cross. He stepped across into the room, and almost slipped on the blood of the men who had been killed by the pencil bomb.

The cold voice of the Princess Dolores ordered: "Seize him!"

ROUGH hands gripped his arms, twisted them behind his back. He was held helpless while the princess stepped close, took a flashlight from one of the men, and held it close to his face, shining straight into his eyes.

"Operator 5," she said, "you are a fool. You deliberately sacrificed yourself for a girl and a man. It is the weakness that will destroy all of you Americans—your senseless gallantry."

Jimmy said nothing, but stared into the eye of the flashlight. His lips were set grimly. The princess was right. He had given himself into her cruel hands to save Diane and his father.

He said coolly: "Thank you for your compliment, princess. But it is not gallantry that will destroy us. It is the mysterious force which your father controls."

Dolores' cold laugh tinkled like ice in a glass. "It is too bad that the leaders of your country do not understand that as well as you do, Operator 5. They are hard to convince. But the lesson we will give them tonight is one that they will never forget. There are soldiers climbing the cliff outside now —thousands of them. And in one hour, they will all be destroyed. No doubt your father and that girl will be with them—so that your sacrifice is in vain, you see."

She was laughing at him. "And now, Operator 5, I shall give myself the pleasure of seeing you on the torture rack," She swung to Horgavo. "Take him away, and prepare him! We shall have some sport for the next hour!"

Jimmy Christopher allowed himself to be led away by Horgavo asked two other men. The last sound in his ears was the cold laughter of the princess.

They took him back through the sacrificial chamber, where the bodies of the two dead priests lay in a water of their own blood; then out into the broad hallway, where men stared at him curiously.

They led Jimmy Christopher down a flight of stairs, and past an open door. A peculiar, humming sound came from that room, and Horgavo motioned for Jimmy's two captors to stop a moment, then stepped inside.

Jimmy glanced after him, saw that the hum came from a tremendous generator that was set in the concrete floor, and rose through an opening in the ceiling into the room above. Machinery was arranged in orderly fashion along the two opposite walls of this room—huge, black steel monsters over which men in greasy overalls were climbing, oiling and testing them.

Jimmy's keen eyes traveled over the various items, classifying them in his mind. He turned quickly to the man at his left, said in Spanish: "Those are the instruments by which you spread the exploding death, are they not?"

The man grinned, nodded. "From that room, Senor Operator 5, the exploding death goes out all over your country. Soon it will be set in motion again —but you will not be interested. You will be screaming in agony while the Princess Dolores watches and laughs!"

Jimmy swung his eyes back into the room. Horgavo was talking to a bald- headed, sharp—eyed man in white smocks who was nodding and smiling. Jimmy heard this man say in English:

"All is ready, major. The rarefying element is in position, set to saturate the area from here down to the river. At the word, everything on the cliffs below will explode. Not a single one of the soldiers will be left alive!"

He motioned toward the one wall against which no machinery was erected.

On this wall was an immense map of the United States in detail. The reading matter on this map was so fine that it could not be read with the naked eye, but a huge magnifying glass hung on a projecting steel elbow in front of the map; and the particular spot before which it was suspended stood out in bold relief, magnified fifty times.

A beam of light, emanating from a lens in one of the machines on the opposite wall was lancing across the room, and was focused on the map through the magnifying glass. Jimmy Christopher immediately recognized the spot on the map as corresponding to the place on the edge of the water where he had landed with Horgavo and Helen Powers. It was there that the forces of Z-7 were concentrating now, awaiting a signal from him. And it was there that the exploding death was focused to strike!

Horgavo was saying: "That is well, Doctor Maltbie. If they should begin the attack before the hour, you will be notified."

He left the white-smocked man, came out into the corridor, smirking at Jimmy. "Now you have seen the device that has struck death to your countrymen, Operator 5. Do you understand it?"

Jimmy Christopher nodded. "I understand the principle, Horgavo," he said quietly. He nodded his head toward the white-smocked man who was moving about in the other room. "I also know that renegade scientist. Maltbie is the inventor of an electronic ray that decomposes the atmosphere at any given spot with the speed of lightning. It is that ray which he is generating in there."

Horgavo stared, surprised. "You are clever, Operator 5!"

Jimmy Christopher went on, stating the swift confusions he had readied, and waiting for Horgavo to confirm them.

"The electronic ray is discharged by means of that vacuum"—he nodded toward a huge round, duralumin-enclosed piece of machinery at which the white-smocked scientist was bending—"and travels with the speed of light toward the spot at which it is projected. At that spot, it rarefies the atmosphere so suddenly that all pressure from the outside is removed from any object in the area, and the object explodes due to the pressure from within. Is that right, Horgavo?"

Maltbie, the scientist, had heard what Jimmy said. Now he turned, and his small, bird-like eyes settled on Operator 5. He came out of the room, still staring at Jimmy. He muttered: "There was only one other man in the world who knew the secret!"

Jimmy relaxed in the grip of his two captors, said bitingly: "That man was George Powers, Maltbie! But unlike you, Powers died in an effort to save his country. You"—his words bit like acid at the scientist— "have sold your soul to the devil! You have betrayed your country, Maltbie!"

The scientist shrank from the hot rage in Jimmy's eyes, turned and slunk back into the room. Horgavo said shortly: "Come!" and the two men dragged Jimmy along after him.

The major led the way to the end of the corridor, thrust open an iron- grilled door. Jimmy was pushed roughly in, and the two men and Horgavo came in after him. They were in a small, cell-like room, absolutely bare of furniture. The two men each seized one of Jimmy's wrists, stretched his arms out on either side of him, and snapped handcuffs on them. Then they clicked the free end of each pair of handcuffs to a ring set in the wall, so that Jimmy stood spread-eagled against the wall, facing the iron-barred door.

Horgavo watched, smiling with smug satisfaction. Then, when Jimmy seemed helpless, he stepped closer, and with his finger nails he raked the make-up from Jimmy's face. He said, "It is not fitting that you should meet your death with the features of one of our own men."

He kept on raking Jimmy's face until none of the make-up remained. His inquisitive fingers removed the small plates from Jimmy's nostrils, and he examined them carefully nodding in appreciation. "You are a very clever man, Operator 5," he said. "Too clever to live!"

His hands rapidly went through Jimmy's pockets, removing article after article. He examined them all with growing amazement as he realized their possible use. He handed each article to one of the other men as he finished with it.

While this was going on, Jimmy tentatively tried the handcuffs that stretched his arms taut on either side of him. And his blood chilled. Those cuffs were not the usual kind. Ordinarily he could so manipulate his wrists as to release himself from a set of handcuffs within a few minutes. But he knew at once that it would be impossible in this case. These cuffs closed tighter than any he had ever seen, and they had been clamped high on his wrist, just above the ulna. Even if he were able to come free of them, it would take hours of painful manipulation. And there was less than an hour to spare before Z-7's men were to be annihilated down there on the cliffside—with John Christopher and Diane among them, no doubt.

Jimmy's plan of action had been essentially simple—relying on that very simplicity for success. He had expected to be left alone for long enough to effect his release, and then, with the knowledge of the exact location of the exploding death device, first to find Montezuma and kill him, and then to wreck that device.

Now, however, Jimmy Christopher realized that his plan would not work. These men had done their job only too well; he could not get free of those handcuffs. Like the good strategist that he was, he did not stick to a worthless plan until it was futile.

At once he began to work on a new one. He had not been blind to the ardent glances that Major Horgavo had cast in the direction of the Princess Dolores; neither had he been blind to the fact that Horgavo was deathly jealous of himself. This was a weakness of the enemy, and like a good general, he used it.

He said dryly: "I suppose you will be quite relieved to see me die, major?"

Horgavo laughed, showing his large, white teeth. "It will be a pleasure which I could never think of denying myself, Operator 5."

Jimmy made sure he spoke loud enough for the other two men in the cell to hear. "It is too bad, major," he drawled, "that you have to win in such a cowardly fashion!"

Horgavo's cheek flushed. Involuntarily he raised his open hand, brought it sharply across Christopher's face in a vicious slap that left a livid mark. "You call me a coward!"

Jimmy's cheek smarted from the blow, but he managed to grin under it. His hands were manacled to the wall, but his legs were free. With his right foot he lashed out vigorously, and the toe of his shoe caught Horgavo in the left shin.

With a howl of agony the major doubled over, dancing about on one foot, while the other two officers gazed in dismay. Jimmy said to the groaning major: "If the princess were to see you now, what would she think of you? There are tears in your eyes!"

Horgavo straightened, and white hate shone from his eyes. His gross mouth twisted into a merciless leer. "When I am through with you," he snarled, "the princess will find no pleasure in looking at you!"

He raised his automatic, brought it down in a raking blow that tore a long furrow in Jimmy's left cheek, bared it to the bone.

Operator 5 tensed, said deliberately:

"You are brave, major—while I'm handcuffed to the wall. Would you be so brave if we faced each other with weapons?"

Horgavo sneered. "Go on. Talk. You will be whining soon!"

He transferred the automatic from his right hand to his left, prepared to rake it across Jimmy's other cheek. But from the doorway an imperious feminine voice called out sharply: "Stop!"

The eyes of Horgavo and the other two men swiveled toward the doorway, and they stood stiffly at attention, saluting. For there stood the regally beautiful Dolores. Her face was cold, expressionless, but her bosom was heaving. She stepped into the cell, stared at Horgavo. "Why do you strike this man? Were you not ordered to prepare him for the torture? Am I to be cheated of the pleasure of witnessing this man's agony?"

Horgavo stammered: "He insulted me, your highness. I lost my temper."

She laughed coldly. "Fool! Can you not see that he is deliberately trying to goad you into killing him? He has no taste for the things that my father and I will order done to him!"

Jimmy said tautingly: "If you feel yourself insulted, major, why don't you demand satisfaction? I'll be glad to fight you with any weapons you name!"

Horgavo sputtered with rage, but dared not strike again....

The princess eyed Jimmy speculatively for a while, her gaze resting on the bleeding furrow in his cheek. "You are a brave man, Operator 5," she said. "Also, you are a fool!" She motioned to Horgavo and the two others. "Leave us. I wish to talk to this man alone!"

Horgavo started to protest, but his words froze at the glance she gave him. Silently the three officers filed out of the cell. The princess waited, tapping her foot impatiently, until they were alone. Then she stepped close to Jimmy, her eyes flashing, her breasts heaving excitedly.

She drew herself up to her full height before him. "Look at me, Operator 5," she commanded. "Am I not beautiful?"

Jimmy gazed at her appreciatively. "You are very beautiful, princess!"

Suddenly her eyes flashed. "You are a fool to waste your loyalty on a lost cause. America is doomed!"

Jimmy Christopher said nothing. His lips were set tight, and his blue eyes met her dark ones in an uncompromising gaze.

She went on, the words rushing from her lips. "But you are so brave, so clever, so strong! You face death and torture so nonchalantly!" Her lips were close to his now as she whispered: "I could have you tortured—tortured until you scream from sheer agony which no man can endure. Our priests know refined tortures which can keep you gasping in pain for days and days, praying for death to relieve you. Operator 5, I could make you plead with me for death. But I offer you life!"

She paused, and Jimmy Christopher murmured: "Thank you, princess. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to give up your senseless loyalty to a country that will be in slavery within twenty—four hours. Cast your lot with my father and with me. Montezuma will conquer the world—no power on earth can resist his exploding death. Montezuma the Third shall be Emperor of the World. You and I will be married in the temple of Huitzilopochtli, and Montezuma will make you the president of America. You will have more land to govern under my father than the president of the United States has; and you will have more power than any king. You will be a Prince of the Aztec Empire. And I will be your Princess!"

She stopped, breathing quickly, spasmodically, her eyes shining at the picture of power she had painted. She stepped back, drew herself up, displaying to the full the curves of her glorious figure. Her head, with its heavy knot of raven-black hair was held high on the white column of her throat, and she looked like some goddess of legend offering a chance at heaven to a mere mortal.

Jimmy Christopher gazed at her in frank admiration. His life had been a hard one, filled with action and the thunder of guns. He had found happiness and the zest of life in fighting for his country, and thoughts of women seldom interrupted the pattern of his existence except for the rare occasions when he saw Diane Elliot. Now this woman stood before him in all her beauty, in her sheer, ravishing loveliness.

He had to force himself to remember that it was this superbly beautiful woman who had caused a poor soldier to be tortured and then killed for failing to salute her. He had to force himself to remember that only a short while ago this deceptively handsome creature had ordered Diane Elliot to be placed upon the stone block of the altar in the sacrificial room, and had ordered that the heart be torn from Diane's living body as a sacrificial offering to a loathsome god.

And he said tightly, coldly: "Princess Dolores, you are a cruel, heartless beast. You have the body of a beautiful woman, but you have the mind and the soul of the Devil. I regret that I must refuse your kind offer."

For a moment the princess stared at him unbelievingly, as if she could not credit her ears. Then slowly her face became suffused with a deep, dull red. Her black eyes blazed with ungovernable rage, and her red lips twisted cruelly. She half crouched as if to leap at him, and her fingers bent, claw- like. A transformation took place, and Jimmy Christopher gazed at her in disgust. She was no longer beautiful.

For a moment, Jimmy Christopher thought that she would leap at him, with fingers clawed to rake the flesh from his face. But she mastered her rage, took a step toward the door. When she spoke, she was once more mistress of herself. She said, in a queer, low voice: "Then we shall see how a fool can die!"

She stood there for a long two minutes, staring at him, and a cunning look crept into her face. "Perhaps," she added enigmatically, "you shall have your satisfaction from Major Horgavo!"

Then she turned and walked from the cell, leaving Jimmy Christopher alone....

11. THE DUEL

Minutes passed, and no one entered the cell—minutes that seemed like hours to Jimmy Christopher, who knew that the time was so short to the moment when the exploding death would burst upon the soldiers congregating on the cliffs below.

He made futile attempts to release his wrists from those handcuffs, but to no avail. Doubt began to assail him there in the darkness of the cell —doubt as to whether or not his usually keen knowledge of human nature had failed him at this crucial moment. He had staked everything on the vanity that he had read in Horgavo's features. But if the major did not rise to the bait....

At last he heard footsteps outside, and the iron door creaked open. The two officers who had brought him here, entered. Their faces were grim, mask- like. They said nothing, but went about their work quickly.

One of them stepped close to Jimmy Christopher, grinned at him sneeringly, and unbuttoned Jimmy's coat and shirt. Then he stepped back, and the other produced a knife similar to those used by the priests.

Jimmy stared at him with narrowed eyes, thinking that they had come to murder him here in the cell. He tensed, prepared to defend himself with his feet.

But the officer had no intention of killing the prisoner. Instead, he seized Jimmy's coat and shirt in one hand, and slashed at them with the other. Two swift slashes on either side, and both coat and shirt came away in the officer's hand. Then the man with the knife seized Operator 5's undershirt, ripped it away viciously.

Jimmy's body was bared to the waist. The officer now stepped back, eyeing the smooth muscles of Jimmy's torso.

The second one now came closer, and ran his hands through the pockets of the prisoner's trousers, and transferred everything to his own pockets. A thick roll of bills that he found, he glanced at contemptuously, but kept.

Throughout the proceedings, not a single word was spoken.

Now, they released the handcuff which held Jimmy Christopher's left hand to the wall, and the officer with the knife clicked the cuff onto his own right wrist. Then the other officer did the same for Jimmy's right wrist, so that he stood between them, handcuffed to both men.

The officer with the knife had transferred it to his left hand, and he now held it's point to Jimmy Christopher's chest just below the heart, spoke for the first time:

"Come!" was all he said, in Spanish.

Out in the corridor was a file of soldiers, who fell in step behind them as they marched along the broad hall. Men turned to stare at the baretorsoed prisoner under escort, and Jimmy saw that their glances were pitying.

The procession passed the open door of the room where the electronic rarefying device was located, and the white-smocked Maltbie came to the door to watch them pass. His restless eyes followed them until they turned a bend in the corridor.

Jimmy ventured a question to the one with the knife. "Would it be out of place for me to ask where we are going, senor?" he inquired courteously.

The other grunted, kept the point of his blade at Jimmy's chest, but made no response. Jimmy shivered a little. It was chilly going through the hall, with nothing to cover him from the waist up. He ventured once more: "Of course I realize, senor, that since I am only the principal in this ceremony, I have no business being curious. But I am dying to know where we are going."

The officer laughed harshly, and his knife point pricked the skin of Jimmy's chest. He winked across at his companion. "You are not dying— yet, Operator 5. But you will wish you were dying before the ceremony is over!" He continued to laugh, tickled at his conception of a witticism. Then, grudgingly, he added: "The Princess Dolores has decided that before you are turned over to the priests, you must give the satisfaction to the major Horgavo for the insult to him. You will fight him. He honors you by stooping to duel with you!"

Jimmy Christopher'S blood raced. He had been right. His taunts had produced the proper effect. He was going to be permitted to duel with Horgavo!

The officer, watching him narrowly, said. "You are a fool. The major is a deadly swordsman. He will trim you down a bit for the amusement of the emperor and the princess—but he will be careful to leave enough for the priests to play with." He eyed Jimmy's muscular body appraisingly. "You are strong. You should last four or five days!"

Jimmy said courteously: "I hope you enjoy the spectacle, senor. I shall do my best to amuse you."

There was a flicker of admiration in the other's eyes, as he said to his companion on the other side of Jimmy: "This one is indeed a brave man. It is a pity that the princess hates him so. He must have said something terrible to her."

They passed through another wide corridor, and stopped before a closed door. Jimmy's keen eyes swept the hall, and he recognized the spot. This was the door to the sacrificial chamber from which he had fled only a little while ago, with Diane and his father. Now he was returning to it—a prisoner.

There were two guards standing before the door, and they opened it at once as Jimmy and his captors approached.

Jimmy passed inside between the two officers, leaving the file of soldiers outside. The door closed behind them.

The sacrificial chamber had been rearranged for the ceremony, whatever it was to be. On the altar still squatted the loathsome figure of the fat god, Huitzilopochtli. The bodies of the two priests whom Jimmy Christopher had killed were no longer there. But two other priests now stood before their god, with arms folded across their chests, glaring with fanatical eyes at their prospective victim.

Beside the altar had been erected a raised dais, and upon it now sat Montezuma, the Emperor of the Aztecs. He was attired in the full regalia of an Aztec emperor. Over his head hung a canopy skillfully wrought out of green feathers, gold and silver embroidery set with pearls. He wore a crown of gold on the front of which was emblazoned the figure of a bird of prey, the features of which were no less hawk-like than those of Montezuma himself. He was fully covered down to his wrists by a richly wrought suit of chain mail that fitted him like a glove. Over his shoulders was thrown carelessly a rich ermine cloak, and there were strings of pearls about his throat. He sat proudly erect, not even deigning to glance down at the room full of richly uniformed officers who thronged about the dais.

Beside him, on the right, on a lower chair, Jimmy Christopher saw the white, frightened face of Helen Powers. She, too, had been richly dressed, and she fidgeted nervously with a bit of her gown. Her eyes met those of Operator 5, and there was terrified, hopeless appeal in them.

Jimmy Christopher tried to look his reassurance at Helen Powers, and then switched his glance to the left of Montezuma, where sat the Princess Dolores.

She had changed her costume to one of brilliantly glittering white. Jewels adorned her white throat and her hands, and a long pin set with huge diamonds was thrust into the big black knot of hair at the nape of her neck.

Her black eyes gashed hate at Jimmy Christopher as he was led across the room.

In the center of the room Jimmy saw a peculiar wire cage. It was larger than those used for keeping prisoners—there was enough room in it for a dozen men to move about with ease. He was puzzled for an explanation of its presence, but that explanation was soon forthcoming.

The two officers did not lead him to the dais where Montezuma sat with his daughter and with Helen Powers. Instead they led him to this cage, turned a key in the lock of the wire door, and unfastened the handcuffs from his wrists. Then they thrust him into the cage, fastened the door.

Jimmy Christopher turned coolly, surveyed the audience. They were all staring at him as some old Roman crowd might have stared at the gladiators in the arena, about to fight to the death for the delectation of the audience.

Montezuma touched a bell at the side of his seat, and the door at the side of the altar opened to admit Major Horgavo!

The major had removed his scarlet Tunic, and he was in his shirtsleeves. He carried a naked sword in his right hand. He stepped with military precision up to the dais, bowed low, murmuring: "Lord, my lord, my great lord!"

Montezuma glanced at him, asked: "Are you ready, Horgavo?"

The major bowed low once more. "I am ready, mighty emperor!"

Montezuma smiled cruelly, turned to the cage in which Jimmy Christopher stood.

"Operator 5!" he said in ominous tones. "You have insulted an officer of the Aztec Empire. For that you must die. But before you die, you shall be taught humility. Major Horgavo has consented to fight a duel with you. Are you willing?"

Jimmy's glance met the gaze of the princess "I am willing," he said.

He was watching the princess. There seemed to be a queer quirk at her lips, as if she were enjoying a huge joke at his expense.

At a nod from Montezuma, Major Horgavo bowed, turned and strode toward the cage. He was smiling cruelly, swinging his long sword ahead of him. The two officers at the door opened it, and Horgavo stepped inside the cage, stood facing Jimmy Christopher.

Now Jimmy saw that the men in the audience were all smiling broadly. There was some huge joke going on, of the nature of which he was not aware. He soon learned....

Montezuma, himself smiling wolfishly, ordered: "Let the prisoner be armed for the duel!" A page, who Stood near the dais, now stepped forward, approached the cage. He was carrying a long wooden stick, perhaps an eighth of an inch in thickness, and about four feet long. He passed this in through the wires of the cage, offered it to Jimmy.

Operator 5 looked at the stick, and suddenly understood what they were all laughing at. This was not to be a duel. It was to be a cruel farce. He was to be compelled to face Horgavo, armed with a glittering steel sword; but he himself was to have no more than this stick.

He shrugged, took the stick. He hefted it in his hand, found that it weighed no more than about fifteen ounces. It would be no defense at all against the major's sword.

He smiled, bowed toward Montezuma's dais. But he addressed the princess. "Your highness is too generous!" he murmured.

Dolores was watching him with triumphant, malignant eyes. Montezuma raised and announced: "Major Horgavo will now give us a demonstration of accurate swordsmanship. It will be his task to slice off the prisoner's ears. He will do this, not with a single blow of his weapon, but only a bit at a time, until the prisoner's head has no further protuberances on either side. I have never liked the appearance of ears, and this will be an opportunity to see how a man looks without them."

His announcement was greeted with loud laughter from the uniformed officers, whose sadistic faces were lighted up with glee at the anticipation of the spectacle.

"The prisoner," Montezuma went on, "will, of course, be able to defend himself with his own weapon. Judging by his reputation he should put up a good fight."

Jimmy had been listening to Montezuma automatically. His eyes were on a small pile of articles that lay on the floor of the dais at Montezuma's feet. He recognized those articles. They were the things that Horgavo had taken from him in the cell. He distinguished his flat make-up case, his mechanical pencil, and three of the pencil bombs similar to the one he had used a while ago, except in color. The one he had used had been black. The others were green, red and yellow. There were also his file, and his compact tool kit, as well as many other items. Apparently Montezuma had been interested in the uses of the various things.

He was startled out of his study of the pile by the voice of the emperor. "Before the duel begins," the Aztec was saying, "it is only fitting that the noble fight which we are sure the prisoner will put up should be witnessed by some of his friends."

The emperor struck a bell twice, and the door at the side of the altar opened again. And an icy finger of despair coursed down Jimmy Christopher's spine. For there in the doorway, stood the two people for whose safety he had allowed himself to be dragged into this predicament. John Christopher and Diane Elliot were still prisoners!

Their hands were bound behind them, and they were urged into the room by a huge mestizo. Jimmy exclaimed huskily: "Diane! Dad!" His eyes blazed as he swung his gaze to the Princess Dolores. His lips formed a single word, which she heard distinctly: "Cheat!"

She flushed, half rose in her chair, then shrugged and subsided. Horgavo, watching Jimmy in the cage, chuckled. Diane cried out: "Jimmy! We couldn't leave you there, fighting, so we came back to look for you, to help you. And they caught us!"

Operator 5 groaned inwardly. "You—didn't deliver the warning?"

"No. We—"

Montezuma interrupted. He motioned to the mestizo, who pushed them forward until they were in front of the altar.

The emperor said to them: "You may watch your hero from there. No doubt you will be greatly entertained! After we are through with your hero, our priests will have some business with you both—on the altar!"

He clapped his hands twice. "Let the duel begin!"

Jimmy tore his eyes away from Diane and his father, swiveled to face Horgavo. The major was smiling, holding his sword over his heart, one hand on the hilt, the other fingering the sharp, pointed tip. He had his right leg slightly advanced, and his body leaned forward at the hips, in the position of the accomplished duelist.

He taunted Jimmy: "It is too bad that you have to be the subject of my exhibition, Operator 5. Which ear shall I begin on—the right or the left?" Christopher smiled at him bleakly. "Whichever you think you can reach first, major. For my part, I warn you that I shall aim for the heart!"

Horgavo laughed loudly at this, as did all the others in the room.

Diane wailed: "Jimmy! He'll kill you!"

And Operator 5 heard his father say: "Quiet, Diane! Jimmy knows what he's about!"

Then Horgavo took his fingers from the tip of the sword, let it whistle through the air in a vicious, glittering arc. Its edge came slashing down toward the side of Jimmy's head.

Jimmy swung his body an inch, brought up his stick, which he held like a sword. The two unequal weapons met in the air, and Horgavo's steel sliced through Jimmy's wood, shearing off a foot of it.

Horgavo stepped back quickly, executed a lightning-fast feint, then lunged. Jimmy Christopher fought calmly, his eyes locked with those of his adversary. He parried with all the skill in his possession, and the major frowned as his steel slithered off Jimmy's laughably short piece of wood without reaching its mark.

He couldn't understand how that maneuver had failed to bring the point of his sword to Jimmy's naked torso. It had been his intention to draw blood, then quickly to slash upward toward the ear. But he found his sword entangled by that short length of wood. Wherever he lunged, wherever he feinted, always his blade was met by the pitiable stick.

The throng in the room watched in silence, and the major grew more and more irritated. At last a vicious slash of his sword sheared off most of Jimmy's remaining stick. Jimmy stepped back quickly out of range, dropped the piece of wood remaining in his hand.

Horgavo smiled cruelly. "You put up a good fight. Operator 5. Now I will begin!"

He took a step forward, and Jimmy Christopher retreated before him. The major's eyes gleamed lustfully. From the dais, the princess cried out: "Go on, Horgavo. The exhibition! But remember—do not kill him yet!"

Jimmy had his back to the wire wall of the cages eyes were still fixed on the major's, and his hand flew to the buckle of his belt. Horgavo advanced, his big white teeth showing as he smiled in triumph, his sword point extended toward Jimmy.

And suddenly Operator 5's hand flashed away from his belt. He had released the buckle, and the belt seemed to spring away from his body, to straighten out in his right hand. A flick of that hand, and the leather sheath fell away from the long, flashing rapier of Toledo steel that had rested within the belt.

Horgavo stopped, astounded, as the glittering steel flashed before his eyes in a bewildering series of lightning-fast thrusts. He parried the lunges mechanically, giving ground before the sudden furious onslaught of Jimmy's weapon.

Gasps of amazement went up from the audience. Montezuma shouted: "Quick! Open the cage and disarm him...!"

Jimmy Christopher had taken the measure of Horgavo while he fought with the length of wood. Horgavo was an accomplished swordsman, but Operator 5 knew all the tricks that Horgavo knew, and then a few more. He forced the major back toward the door of the cage, and the major gave ground steadily. Perspiration covered his forehead, dripped down over his face. He understood that he had met his master, and sudden fear showed in his eyes.

He dared not take his glance from that bewilderingly swift blade of whistling steel that seemed to be everywhere at once. But he shouted in a panicky voice: "Quick! Help me!"

The two officers who stood near the door bustled frantically with the lock, got it open. But when one of them put out a hand to open the door and enter the cage, Jimmy's blade flicked out at him through the wire, pierced his wrist, then swung back to threaten the major.

The officer with the wounded wrist cried out in agony and jumped away. The second officer sprang toward the door, and once more Jimmy's rapier flicked out, this time through the muscles of the officer's arm. The man uttered a shriek of pain, fell back from the unlocked door.

Now Jimmy Christopher faced Horgavo. The man was sweating copiously, and he was so weary from the fast fighting that he could hardly lift his heavy sword.

Operator 5 said coldly: "I warned you, major—straight for the heart!" And his blade flashed swiftly through the air. "On guard, major!" he shouted. "Through the heart—in tierce!" His right knee bent, his wrist came up to a level with his shoulder, and he lunged!

Horgavo saw the point coming, and raised his sword for the parry. But his movements were like those depicted in a slow-motion camera beside Operator 5's Lightning lunge. Jimmy Christopher's point pierced the major's body right through the heart, and the heavy man dropped like a log.

Jimmy whipped his sword out of Horgavo's body, sprang backward and kicked open the door of the cage.

The room was in pandemonium, with a dozen men running toward the cage. Jimmy leaped across the floor, with men shouting behind him.

"Turn around, Dad!" he shouted, and John Christopher caught his meaning, spun around, extending his bound hands behind him.

Jimmy's sword flashed down swiftly, and the keen edge severed the cords that tied John Christopher's hands. Then Operator 5 leaped up on the dais, with men in uniform howling behind him. A revolver barked, then another. Lead flew through the room, whined and ricochetted. Jimmy glanced back to see that his father had picked up a revolver from one of the fallen men, and was pumping lead at the uniformed officers.

Operator 5 did not spare a second glance. He swung at Montezuma, who had arisen from his seat, dragging Helen Powers up in front of him. The emperor's face was ashen-white under his crown, and he twisted Helen Powers' arm behind her back, held her before him as a shield while he drew his own sword.

Jimmy glimpsed Dolores rushing at him, screaming wildly above the thunder of the guns, her fingers curved to scratch like the claws of a wildcat. He sidestepped her, rushed at Montezuma.

Helen Powers' face was white with the pain of her twisted arm, as Montezuma backed away from the point of Jimmy's sword, dragging her with him.

Jimmy could not reach Montezuma without striking Helen Powers. The plucky little girl raised her foot, kicked back wildly. Her heel caught Montezuma in the shins, and he howled, relaxed his hold on her arm.

At once she dropped away, and Jimmy seized the opportunity. He stepped in quickly, his blade flicked out at the only spot in the emperor's body unprotected by chain mail—his face. Jimmy was grimly determined to kill. And kill he did. The point of his sword pierced through Montezuma's eye, and the emperor uttered a weird, ungodly shriek. Blood spurted gruesomely from the wound, and the emperor dropped to the floor of the dais, writhed there for a moment, shrieking. Then suddenly he stiffened, lay still. Jimmy's lunge had reached his brain.

Operator 5 swung from the dead body of the man who had planned to make America part of his empire, faced the brightly uniformed officers who had been storming the dais. John Christopher now had two guns in his hands, and both were blazing methodically. But he stopped as the officers suddenly fell back. They had seen their emperor killed. Some one among them began to shout: "Kill the gringos! They murdered Montezuma!"

Jimmy Christopher recognized the voice of Dolores, but he could not see her in the crowd of men. He did not wait for them to surge forward, but leaped from the dais, his sword point whirling before him. He reached quickly the small pile of his belongings on the dais, snatched up the three different-colored bombs in his hand.

"This way, Dad! Run, Diane! Run, Helen!" he shouted, and sprang toward the small door. John Christopher, Diane, and Helen Powers rushed to him, with the uniformed men after them.

But Jimmy had already pulled the pin from the green pencil-bomb. Now he flung it among the officers, and they leaped back from it, turned to flee the certain death they knew it would spew.

Jimmy tore open the door behind them, pushed his father and the two girls through just as the green pencil exploded with a terrific detonation that shook the rafters of the room.

Jimmy pulled the door closed, led the others through the room, over the planking that bridged the gap in the floor that his earlier bomb had left.

Behind them, on the other side of the door they heard the groans of dying men.

As they hurried out into the wide corridor, he said: "The green one was twenty percent stronger than the one I used before. This red one is fifty percent stronger, and the yellow one has almost the force of a Mills bomb. I'm going to use the yellow one now!"

The corridors were filled with armed men, with officers uttering hasty commands. Men were rushing to all the windows and doors, bringing up sub- machine guns. But they were paying no attention to Operator 5 and his companions.

Diane gasped, as she ran beside him: "Something's up, Jimmy! These men don't even know what happened in the sacrificial room. Why are they hurrying?"

Operator 5 returned grimly: "Don't you hear it? There's musketry fire outside. Z-7's men are coming up!"

It was true enough. From outside came the rumble of rifle fire, the clatter of machine guns. The United States troops were attacking!

"Let's hurry," Jimmy urged, "before the exploding death goes into action!"

He left his father and Diane behind as he tore down the corridor to the room where he had seen Maltbie. The door was shut now, and he gripped the knob, twisted. It came open under his hand, and he saw the huge machinery of the exploding death in operation. The room was in darkness except for a glowing luminance tinged with all the colors of the spectrum, which came from the huge machine at the far wall. A dozen men were in the room now, stationed at various switches.

Maltbie himself was behind a huge metal desk, on which rested an instrument that resembled a compass. Operator 5. Knew that this was the means of directing the electronic ray at whatever point on the map was desired.

Maltbie glanced up as the door opened, and his face twisted into a mask of fear as he saw Jimmy Christopher pulling the pin from the yellow pencil bomb.

His hand reached across the desk to snatch up a huge automatic that lay in front of him, and he leveled it at Operator 5. Jimmy Christopher did not move by so much as an inch from his position in the doorway. He was listening to the tick of his watch, counting. Even as Maltbie's finger contracted on the trigger of the automatic, Jimmy hurled his bomb into the room. Jimmy was deliberately throwing away his own life in order to wreck the exploding death device, in order to save the lives of those advancing United States troops outside....

But Maltbie never fired. For from behind Jimmy Christopher there came the wicked bark of an automatic; a slug whined past his ear, buried itself in Maltbie's heart. And Jimmy Christopher stepped quickly back, slammed the door on the terrific detonation that shook the whole building.

He turned, saw his father, still holding the automatic with which he had shot Maltbie over his son's shoulder. The two men looked at each other, and they smiled in understanding. These two made a remarkable fighting team.

Jimmy said simply: "Thanks, dad. That wasn't a split-second too soon!"

The door of the room behind them was creaking, yawing wildly open, sagging on broken hinges. Within, a fire was raging. The machinery had come tumbling down, had crashed through the floor. The body of Maltbie would never be recovered from the flaming inferno of that room. It had perished with the secret of his hellish device.

Diane Elliot, who, with Helen Powers, had panted up beside them, suddenly exclaimed exultantly: "Jimmy! They've broken through! Here come our men!"

From around the bend in the corridor came the staccato bursts of machine gun fire within the building. Men's screams sounded, and above all the noise and thunder rose the thrilling notes of a bugle!

Aztec soldiers came pouring back from the door, fleeing in panic. Jimmy and his father stood with guns in hand, with the girls behind them. But panic had seized the Aztec forces, with no one to command them. They fled pell-mell, passing right by the trio.

And in a moment, there appeared the bend of the corridor the familiar olive-drab of United States troops—with Z-7 in the lead beside a captain of infantry.

Z-7 raised a hand as he saw them, came running over with a glad shout. The troops poured by, rounding up the fleeing Aztecs. Z-7 clasped Jimmy's hand. "You've done it, boy. We climbed the cliffs unhindered! The exploding death —?"

Jimmy motioned toward the room behind them, where the fire was roaring, with flames licking out into the corridor. "There's the last of it, Z-7. It will never threaten the United States again!"

A small figure, fairly flying through the corridor, catapulted itself at Jimmy Christopher, threw arms about him.

Jimmy exclaimed gladly: "Tim! How are you, kid?"

Tim Donovan was speechless with joy. There were tears of gladness in his eyes. "Jimmy!" he finally managed to get out. "I—I never thought I'd see you alive again!"

They had moved down toward the door, away from the spreading heat of the fire. The infantry captain came up to them, saluted Z-7. "The Aztecs are completely routed, sir," he reported. "Every last one of them killed or captured. I'm ordering the men out—this whole building will go up. Nothing can save it."

Z-7 nodded. Jimmy asked the captain: "Did you see any trace of a women? Tall, dark, with black hair?"

The officer shook his head. "No sir. But as we were working up the cliff, we saw a helicopter take off from the roof of the house. Perhaps—"

Diane Elliot exclaimed: "She's escaped, Jimmy. I—I'm glad!"

Z-7 ordered a handsome young lieutenant to escort Helen Powers from the burning building—to take her back to her mother at the Beacon Hotel.

Outside, in the clearing, the olive drab soldiers herded their captives into a small circle, while the troops reformed.

Jimmy Christopher, Diane, John Christopher and Z-7 stood by themselves in a small group, watching the blaze. "There," Operator 5 said somberly, "is the funeral pile of the Aztec Empire."

The flames roared up into the night sky, throwing their sanguine blaze over the waters of the Hudson, clear across to the docks of New York on the other side. Suddenly the west wail crumbled, went toppling with the roar of thunder, down the cliffside. The heat from the flames became almost unbearable, and they were forced to move backs They watched while the rest of the old building caved in. As if by mutual agreement, no fire apparatus was sent for. It was as if they all wanted every last vestige of the ambitions of Montezuma to be consumed.

Finally Z-7 said: "Well, that's the end."

Jimmy Christopher shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Z-7."

The others looked at him questioningly. He explained. "While Dolores is still alive; the end is not here!"

Z-7 scoffed. "What! One woman! Tomorrow, when the rightful government of Mexico is restored to power, she will not even have a country! What can one woman do against the United States of America?"

Jimmy Christopher pressed the hand of Diane Elliot in the darkness. "I know that woman," he said somberly. "She is all evil, but she has supreme beauty, which is enough to turn men's heads. And I have seen how she can hate. I tell you, Z-7, that woman is dangerous!"

His eyes sought those of Diane. "Yet," he added in an undertone, "I can't feel sorry that she has escaped!" He felt Diane shudder beneath his arm as they turned to make their way down the cliff toward the river; toward a world of sanity again, and safety.

And somewhere in the void of the heavens a beautiful woman flew south; a woman whose full red lips were pressed into a tight, bitter line, and whose eyes behind the goggles were a terrible mirror of hate. Suddenly she turned around in the seat, and shouted into the void behind her: "We shall meet again, Operator 5. We shall meet again...!"

First published in Operator #5 magazine, March 1936

A brawny coolie from the filthy waterfront of Hong Kong was Emperor of Asia and master of the vast reaches of Russia. Armed with mysterious new weapons which made the bravest man craven, he marched ruthlessly to conquer the world, and to win the proud daughter of the Muscovite nobility who scorned his amorous advances... Jimmy Christopher—Operator 5 of the United States Intelligence—had given America more than enough warning to prepare for the barbaric, invading yellow hosts. And when all seemed lost —when great cities were razed and countless thousands butchered— Operator 5 finally ignored restraining bureaucracy and pitted himself in a single-handed battle to wrest our nation from the Coolie Emperor's bloody grasp!

FOREWORD

Cold Russian sun glinted on desolate, shell-torn fields. Here and there lay the still-smoldering debris of a wooden house which had been struck by roaring projectiles.

Along the narrow, white road which paralleled the torn-up, single-track railroad lay the bodies of gray-clad Soviet soldiers, torn and maimed. Rifles, knapsacks, canteens, various articles of clothing also lay strewn along the way. At the side of the road, a gun-carriage tilted crazily in the ditch, the gun pointing grotesquely at a sign on the opposite side which had miraculously survived the punishing barrage that must have been laid down upon the road not so long before. The sign read:

MOSCOW—220 versts
LENINGRAD—300 versts

An old Model T Ford touring car chugged over a rise from the direction of Moscow. Its radiator was smoking. Icicles clung to the windshield and to the outsides of the curtains, which were carefully locked on to keep out the cold.

A thin man was driving, and beside him sat a girl of perhaps twenty or twenty-one. They were both clothed in astrakhan coats and caps with earmuffs. They wore heavy, fur-lined gloves. Their faces were red from the biting cold, and the girl's eyes were watering.

The driver was hunched forward over the wheel, and each time he expelled his breath, a huge cloud of vapor issued from between his lips, as if he were smoking. His face was thin, pinched; and at intervals a twinge of agony crossed his features, and he put a hand quickly to his side, where blood seeped through his coat and stained the fur.

At the top of the rise, abreast of the sign, he pressed his foot on the brake, brought the car to a squealing stop. The girl glanced at him swiftly, put a hand on his arm, spoke with quick sympathy.

"Feodor! Your wound makes you weak! Let me drive!"

Feodor smiled bitterly. "It is hopeless, Katerina," he answered, in the full, guttural accents of Southern Russia, in which the girl had also spoken. He pointed to the signpost. "It is three hundred versts farther to Leningrad. The Russian armies have retreated all the way. Behind us come the tanks and the motorcycles of the Asiatic hordes. We cannot hope to outdistance them!"

Weakly, as if every move caused excruciating agony, he opened the side door, stood in the road. The girl descended from the other side of the car and joined him, looking back over the empty expanse through which they had come. Far in the distance, the sunlight glinted on metal.

Feodor raised a hand and pointed. "There they come, Katerina. They move twice—no, three times—as fast as we. There is no chance to escape them!"

Katerina's beautiful, finely chiseled features were raw from the cold. Her black eyes flashed.

"Feodor!" she exclaimed. "You must not give up like this!" The patrician lines of her face hardened, set stubbornly. "Come, Feodor. Let us go on. There may yet be a chance—"

He shook his head. His eyes were on the metallic flashes far back on the road. "See," he said, "the vanguard of the Leopard's hosts will soon be upon us. Those armored motorcycles could have caught us long ago, but the Leopard is playing with us—he knows he will get us. He knows there is no help for us between here and Leningrad." His thin lips tightened. "While Europe drains itself of life in war, these hordes overrun Russia. And you and I, sister, are the only ones who know what the Leopard plans next. If we die here, both of us, there will be no one to warn the world—"

She tugged at his arm, her insistence becoming more frantic as the glinting metal ranks drew ever nearer. Now she could make out the individual shapes of the armored motorcycles which seemed to be flying toward them with the speed of rockets.

"All the more reason for us to escape. Come, Feodor—!"

Gently he pushed her hand from his arm, moved to the car, and reached inside. From within he brought out a submachine gun, lifting the heavy weapon with a tremendous effort. The stain on his coat grew larger as he adjusted a clip in the gun.

"What are you going to do, Feodor?" the girl asked, suddenly breathless.

He looked at her, smiled gravely. "Both of us have no chance to escape, Katerina, One of us has. Get in the car, and drive. It is only thirty miles to where the plane is hidden. I will hold the Leopard here—for a while."

The girl's cheeks paled. "No, no, Feodor! You will be killed—"

"Exactly. I am dying anyway. I will stay here and stop them for a little while. It will give you a start—"

"No! Let me surrender to the Leopard. He will not harm me, and he will spare you if I give myself up to him. It is I whom he wants—"

"Stop!" Feodor's voice was like the crack of a whip. There was a terrible anger in his eyes, and for a moment it seemed as if he would strike her. Then his voice softened. "Katerina," he said urgently, "remember that you are a Saratoff. Remember that your father was a Duke of the Russian Empire. Rather than see you give yourself to this Leopard—this coolie who has made himself the master of Asia—I would shoot you with my own hand. You must go, Katerina. In Leningrad, you will find Captain Kusmarenko. He will take you in his steamer to America. There, you will find this friend of mine, whose name I have given you—James Christopher. He is known as Operator 5 of the American Intelligence. You will tell him you are my sister. He will remember me. Give him the paper which you carry. Make him understand what the Leopard plans. He will know what to do."

Feodor turned from her toward the swiftly approaching motorcycles.

"Go quickly, Katerina. In a moment it will be too late."

"I will stay with you," she announced stubbornly.

He did not look at her. "Go!" he repeated harshly, as he knelt in the road, raising the sub-machine gun, resting it on one knee. "In your hands rests the fate of the world. You have no choice!"

For a moment she stood there, looking down at him rebelliously. The motorcycles were less than a mile away. The road was filled with them, and far behind them she could see horsemen. Great clouds of dust rose in the air from the advancing host.

Feodor said over his shoulder: "Katerina, I am the head of the family. You swore to our father before he died that you would obey me in all things. You swore it by the Holy Virgin, and you kissed the cross. Will you violate that oath now?"

He could not see the anguish in her eyes, but he heard the choked sob that caught in her throat.

"I—will go, Feodor," she said, very low. "I obey."

He sighed, his eyes still on the advancing motorcycles, which had slowed down now, at sight of them. "There are more clips of ammunition in the car," he told her, matter-of-factly. "Leave them beside me."

Moving as in a dream, she took out four clips, placed them next to him, then bent impulsively and threw her arms around him. "Feodor!" she cried brokenly. "I can't bear to leave you here to die—"

He laughed grimly, lifting his eyes to her. "The Saratoffs know how to die, Katerina."

She kissed him. "Good-by, Feodor. I will go to America, and find this friend of yours, this Operator 5. And I swear to you that I will never rest until I have seen the Leopard pay for the Saratoff blood he is about to spill!"

She said it calmly enough, but there was a queer, cold deadness in her voice. He pressed her hand, pushed her away.

She got into the car, the motor of which had been left running. She pressed the pedal and the old Ford pulled away, leaving Feodor Saratoff in the road facing the speeding motorcycles...

He did not look after her, did not wave. Tight-lipped, he stretched out, belly to the ground, and sighted along the submachine gun. He heard the Ford chugging away, and above it the quick back-firing of the oncoming motorcycles. There were perhaps fifty of them, and they advanced two abreast on the narrow road. Each was equipped with an armored side-car, from which projected the muzzle of a gun.

The thundering cycles swept up the rise in the road toward where Saratoff lay, and he pressed the trip of his gun, sent a stream of lead screaming toward them. He aimed low, at a point beneath the metal plates which protected the drivers of the two foremost machines.

His slugs clanged against steel, and the two first motorcycles careened madly, crashed into each other with a deafening explosion, in the center of the road. Tongues of flame lanced up from them, and in a second the second pair of cycles had piled upon the first, adding to the twisted, blazing wreckage.

The cycles behind swerved sharply to avoid the same fate, spreading out to either side of the road, and slowing to a halt.

Feodor Saratoff, grinning coldly behind the sights of his machine gun, kept up a steady stream of lead, fanning it across from one side of the road to the other. But now, with the motorcycles halted, his barrage did little damage. His first burst had caught the only exposed portion of the bodies of the drivers—their feet. The following cyclists had drawn their feet up behind the protection of the armor plates, and there was now nothing to shoot at. The screaming lead from the machine gun clanged futilely against the metal armor.

Strangely enough, the muzzles of the guns which peeped from the loopholes in the armor of each of those motorcycles did not spit death back at the prone man on the hilltop. On the contrary, they were silent.

Saratoff emptied his clip, frenziedly slipped another into the hot gun. In the quarter-minute that it took him to effect the change, the cycles chugged another fifty feet toward him, then stopped again as he let loose another burst, which did no harm.

Behind the cycles, a company of cavalry was cantering up, and the troops stopped, just out of range. Then, at an order from an officer, they fanned out into the fields on either side of the road, and advanced warily in a flanking movement, still staying out of range. Not a single shot had yet been fired at the lone man.

Saratoff wavered to his feet, holding the still chattering machine gun at his hip.

He swung it in a wide arc, so that his slugs now cut a wide swathe into the fields on both sides. He could see where his snub-nosed bullets plowed into the ground, far short of the troops, and he cursed wildly, feverishly inserted another clip. The hot breech burned his hands through the gloves. In the brief respite while he ceased firing, the motorcycles moved forward once more, stopped immediately when he again pressed the trip of the gun. The cavalry remained out of range.

Saratoff glanced fleetingly behind him, smiled thinly as he saw that the road toward Leningrad was empty as far as the eye could reach. The old Ford was out of sight. He turned and bared his teeth at the sight of the motorcycles, which had stolen another fifty feet. He shouted wild defiance into the air.

"You want me alive, Mr. Leopard! Well, come and take me!"

And once more the staccato chattering of his machine gun cut through the air, and the motorcycles halted.

He had only one clip left on the ground beside him. The bloodstain in his right side was spreading over his coat, and dripping to the ground to form a small crimson pool. His face was pinched with frost, though his hands were hot from contact with the gun.

He could see the horsemen, crouching low over their mounts, waiting for him to exhaust his ammunition before charging in. These men wore strange, angularly shaped helmets, and breastplates of some sort of chain mesh which bent with their bodies. The horses were unprotected, and that was why the riders kept out of range.

Grimly he played the mad tune on his gun, finished the clip, and reloaded. Once more the motorcycles rolled up toward him, stopped when he started to fire again. This was the last clip. Behind the motorcycles and the cavalry, marching foot soldiers appeared on the road, helmeted and mailed. They were marching four abreast, and their armor shone in the sun. In the forefront of the infantry, a banner eddied in the slight breeze, billowed out, showing a white background upon which was emblazoned the figure of a leopard, stretched at full length, apparently leaping through the air.

A FIGURE became visible, cantering ahead of that banner. It was a mounted man, riding a tall, coal-black horse. Saratoff's eyes, glued to his sights, glinted with hatred as he glimpsed that horseman. He was naked, save for a loin cloth. Naked, in that frozen country where no man dared venture out unless bundled in furs! Saratoff raised the sights of the gun, sent lead screaming over the heads of the cavalry. His burst fell far short, but the naked rider seemed to recognize the gesture, and raised one arm in a mocking salute.

Now, Feodor's last clip was exhausted. His gun became silent, and he threw the smoking weapon from him, reached into his coat pocket and drew out a heavy automatic. He stood with this in his hand—legs braced wide, tottering upon his feet, with the blood from his side dripping slowly to the ground—and faced the advancing array of mailed men.

His face was set, grim with hatred, as the motorcycles once more resumed their advance, and the horsemen began closing in from both sides. He fired nine times in rapid succession, swinging his gun from side to side. Horses fell with each shot but in a moment he was hemmed in, the last shot fired from his automatic.

Mailed men leaped from the horses and from behind the armored plates of the motorcycles. Saratoff's fists flailed out in fierce resistance, but his arms were seized, and he was held helpless. The faces of his captors were not visible behind their glittering metal helmets, but almond eyes peered out at him through slitted eyeholes as his struggles stopped. He stood, breathing hard, would have fallen were it not for the hands that held him up.

The press about him opened, and the naked man on the black horse rode up close and dismounted, stood facing Saratoff.

The naked man towered above the frail Russian. He was a giant of a man, with muscles that played in powerful ripples over all his body and that ridged his back. He was a Chinese, and his skin was dark, oily, his face was broad, flat, distinctly Mongol, with thick lips and high cheekbones. His hair was cropped close to his head, and his eyes were surmounted by bushy, unkempt brows. The lips were parted now, in a cruel smile of vindictiveness. He spoke in a queer, high-pitched dialect of the Steppes.

"Saratoff, I promised I would kill you with these two hands if you tried to escape with your sister!"

Feodor Saratoff raised his head, not attempting any longer to struggle in the grip of his captors. He answered simply: "I am ready to die, Leopard!"

The naked man turned, spoke swift orders to a mailed officer who stood behind him, using the sing-song Cantonese dialect.

The officer saluted, stepped back, and raised a hand, issued orders to the crews of the motorcycles. At once, the men returned to their machines, started the motors, and set off down the road in the direction the Ford had taken.

The naked man turned back to Saratoff, who smiled defiantly. "You will not catch her, Leopard. By this time, she has reached a plane which we had hidden in Novomirsk!"

The features of the naked man contorted with rage. Stained teeth showed through parted, thick, red lips. For a moment, those two slanted eyes flared in small, ruby pinpoints. Then the huge man seemed to master himself. He said coldly:

"She cannot go far enough, Saratoff. I will have her if I must comb the world. Just as you see the armies of Russia retreat before me, so shall the armies of other countries make way before me. Wherever she may hide, the Leopard will find her. Your sister, Saratoff, shall be the Leopard's queen! Where has she gone in the plane?"

Feodor Saratoff's eyes blazed. His whole body shook in futile anger. Far down on the road he could see rank upon rank of mailed men, marching. The hosts of Asia were behind this naked man in the loin-cloth. His body stiffened, and he threw his shoulders back, raised his head. He spoke slowly, with an apparent effort to remain calm.

"You are nothing but a filthy wharf-rat, Leopard—a filthy coolie who has somehow made himself master of Asia. But ruler of Asia or not, the Saratoffs are too good for you. My ancestors were Dukes of Muscovy while yours groveled in the mud of Mongolia. How dare you raise your eyes to a woman of the Saratoffs?—you, in whose veins runs the hybrid blood of the carrion races of Asia!"

The naked man snarled, stretched out two powerful, hairy hands toward Feodor's throat. But he stopped, suddenly laughed.

"You are clever, Saratoff. You wish to goad me into killing you before I force you to tell me where your sister has fled!" He shook his head. "It does not matter what you say of me. It remains that I am the master of Asia." He nodded. "Yes, a dirty coolie, raised on the waterfront of Mukden, now rules Asia. Soon he will rule the world. Look at these hands. They have loaded freight on a hundred boats, have stoked coal in a hundred engine rooms. Now they hold the fate of Asia. One day they will hold that beautiful sister of yours. It is my misfortune, Saratoff, that I once saw your sister. Now I must have this proud daughter of the Dukes of Muscovy; I will make her the queen of the dirty coolie who will rule the world. And now, Saratoff, you will tell me where she has fled."

Feodor laughed. "You are mistaken, Leopard. You think your tortures will make me talk. But a Saratoff knows how to endure pain. Once I was tortured by the Ogpu for four days, but I did not reveal the secrets of the White Russian army. Do you think I will betray my own sister?"

The Leopard nodded. "I think you will, Saratoff." He gestured at the torn- up fields on both sides of them. "Why do you think the Soviet armies retreated before me? They were as well armed and as numerous as my own forces. I will show you, Saratoff, why they retreated—and why you will tell me where your sister has gone."

He motioned behind him, spoke in Cantonese. A mailed horseman turned, and spurred down the road, alongside the ranks of troops. In a few moments, he returned with another rider. This was an old, wizened Chinese who carried a large, flat, black case under his arm.

The old man dismounted, bowed low before the naked one.

"Doctor Fu," said the Leopard, motioning toward Feodor, "I want this man to talk!"

Doctor Fu bowed once more, opened his case and drew a small vial from it. He came and stood before Feodor, spoke sharply to the two soldiers who held him: "Grip him tight. Do not let him move."

Then he removed the stopper from the vial, held it under Feodor's nose. Feodor tried to rear back, sudden panic in his eyes. But he was held firmly, helpless.

After a moment, Doctor Fu replaced the stopper in the vial, put the glass tube back in the case, and bowed again. "He will talk now, Lord," said the old doctor, and backed away.

The Leopard nodded, pleased, his gaze on Feodor. The thin Russian's eyes were becoming glazed, dull. His jaw sagged a little. His feet slid a bit in the frozen puddle of his own blood.

The Leopard asked him softly: "Where did your sister, Katerina, fly in the plane, Saratoff?"

And suddenly, inexplicably, Feodor answered! He spoke In a dull voice, the words coming from his lips effortlessly, as if it were imperative that he tell: "She flies to Leningrad. There she will embark with a Captain Kusmarenko, who served our father, but who is now in the employ of the Soviet Steamship Lines. He will take her to America."

"And where will she be in America, Saratoff?"

"She seeks an old friend of mine, whom I knew in Constantinople. He is of the American Secret Service. He is known as Operator 5. His name is James Christopher."

The Leopard's ugly face darkened. He took a step closer. "She has a message perhaps, for this James Christopher?"

"She has. I gave her a letter, stating everything that I discovered about you and your plans. It tells that you have some strange means of winning victory after victory in the field. It tells how you mastered Asia, and how you waited, watching Europe destroy itself in this new world war which is even more destructive than the first. It tells how you march across Russia to the sea."

"And do you also write to this Operator 5 of what I plan next?"

FEODOR nodded dully. "I told him in the letter, how you plan to seize ships and sail for America with this strange power of yours that brings you victory always. And I warned him that he must use all his ingenuity if he would prevent his country from becoming vassal to the Leopard of Asia."

The Leopard bent forward eagerly, asked tensely: "This power of mine, Saratoff—did you tell him what it was?"

"No. How could I? I do not know its nature myself."

The Leopard nodded in satisfaction. "That is so. I just wanted to make sure."

He turned to an officer behind him. "You heard, Dato?"

The mailed and helmeted officer bowed. "I heard, Lord."

"Then ride back at once. Send wires to our men in America. Have them watch the docks in every port. Find out what ship this Kusmarenko commands. We cannot reach Leningrad before her, but we can stop her at the docks in America. Also let our own men in America turn their attention to this Operator 5. You understand?"

The officer bowed. "I understand, Lord; and I obey." He clicked his heels, turned, and went to one of the motorcycles. In a moment, the cycle was turned around, and went speeding back up the road, along the ranks of halted soldiers.

The Leopard faced Feodor once more. There was a set smile of savagery on his broad, flat face. "And now, Saratoff," he laughed, "I keep my promise!" His two huge hands came up slowly to Feodor's throat, linked themselves around it, and pressed...

1. THE LEOPARD MAKES A MOVE

It was the seventh month after the entry of the United States into the Second World War, as it was already officially termed. Two million eight hundred thousand stalwart young Americans had been equipped with arms, hastily trained, and shipped across the Atlantic to bolster up the cracking battle-line of the League of Nations Sanctioning Powers. Materials of war had poured across the ocean in equally amazing quantities.

In seven months, the United States had stripped herself of men and materials in order—as the propagandists put it this time—'to make the world safe for Liberty'.

So cleverly had foreign diplomacy maneuvered—so brilliantly had foreign financed propaganda played its cards—that the objections of those veterans who still recalled the tortured days and nights of the trenches of 1917 had been smothered under a wave of high-pitched national feeling.

America was plunged into the war...

A regiment of fresh conscripts was marching down Broadway to the accompaniment of blaring bands and the raucous cheers of the thousands who lined the curbs. From every window of the tall buildings on either side of New York's great thoroughfare, bits of paper and confetti fluttered down upon the marching men.

At the docks, four huge transports were waiting to take them aboard, together with other regiments which were hastily leaving to plug up the gaps in the Twelfth Division on the Southern Front.

In the Hudson River, eight huge ships of war rode at anchor. These were to be the convoys for the transports. There were six long, sleek cruisers, and the capital ships, Dakota and Oregon. The Dakota was the flagship of the Atlantic fleet, and Admiral Stanley Winston, who was going across to take command of the Mediterranean blockade for the Sanctioning Powers, would soon board her.

At Broadway and Forty-second Street, a black limousine purred at the corner, waiting for a break in the ranks of the marching draftees so that it could proceed west.

The man at the wheel was pockmarked, with gnarled, bony hands and a face upon which there was a set expression of stolidity. He wore a chauffeur's cap and uniform, but his bearing was far from being that of a servant.

In the rear of the car sat a man and a woman. The man was grossly fat, and small eyes peered furtively out from between folds of flesh. There was a queer, unhealthy color in his cheeks. His companion was taller than he. Her dark hair was braided around her head, and set off as in a frame by the high collar of her ermine coat. Her red lips formed a bright line of color in her otherwise white face. The coat was open at the throat, revealing a string of shimmering pearls which lay across her breast.

The woman, as well as the two men, was quite distinctly of Eastern origin. A keen observer might have placed them as belonging to one of those Eurasian races of mixed European and Asiatic descent—which are notoriously known to have bred the most unprincipled spies and intriguers in history.

At the feet of the fat man and the woman, a bundle lay stretched across the floor of the car, covered by an auto robe. This bundle was wriggling frantically, and for a moment the robe was thrown back, revealing a young, freckled-faced boy, whose arms were tied behind his back, and who was cruelly gagged with a greasy automobile rag thrust into his mouth and tied behind his head with a luggage strap.

The boy's eyes expressed desperate anger as he labored to a half-sitting position, and tried to wriggle himself still higher.

The woman, who had been staring straight ahead at the marching men, over the shoulder of the chauffeur, glanced down and saw the struggles of the boy. She nudged her companion, said:

"That brat is up again, Dmitri. Some one will notice him while we are stopped here."

She spoke in English, with a trace of soft, slurring accent. Her beautiful features showed no tinge of emotion at the lad's pitiful struggles.

The fat man stirred, and frowned. He said nothing, but raised a foot, planted the sole squarely in the boy's face, and pushed. The bound lad's head cracked against the floor with a thud, and he lay still.

AT that moment the marching men halted, and a traffic officer motioned to the limousine to proceed. The chauffeur shifted into first, and shot the car across, then sped west toward the Hudson.

The woman said chillingly to the fat man beside her: "It will be too bad if you have cracked the boy's skull. We will need to have him conscious for a while, Dmitri."

Dmitri grunted, bent over and pinched the lad's pallid face. The boy uttered a muffled groan through the gag, and his eyes opened wide. The fat fingers had left a livid mark on his cheek.

Dmitri laughed. "You needn't worry," he said to the woman. "This boy is hard to kill—like his friend."

The boy glared up at his tormentor.

The woman looked down at him coldly, and remarked to her companion: "He has a lot of spirit; he will be hard to break."

"We'll break him, all right," the man chuckled. "We've broken harder ones."

Playfully he raised his foot again, poked his toe at a spot in the boy's elbow. The young captive squirmed in agony, and the fat man's chuckle rose higher.

"You see, Lina, my dear, there is a good deal of science to this business. One must use finesse. My toe poked him in what these Americans call the funny bone. Just a little tap, and you see the agony it causes. There are many little spots like that in the human body. I assure you this boy will not be able to resist my—er—persuasion for long."

The woman's gray-green, expressionless eyes regarded the fat man for a moment, and she shuddered. "I should hate, Dmitri, to be the subject of your attentions," she said. "It is not wise to have you for an enemy."

Dmitri bowed. "Thank you, Lina," he murmured. "Let us hope that the Leopard will appreciate my services when the time comes for dispensing rewards."

At Eleventh Avenue, the limousine swung onto the ramp leading to the elevated express highway, sped north to Riverside Drive, then up the Drive to One Hundred and Third Street. It pulled up before a brownstone house around the corner from the Roerich Museum. In the first floor window of this house was a modest sign which read:

DMITRI OSMAN STUDIO OF THE DANCE

Cold wind roared in from the Hudson, causing pedestrians to walk with their heads down, more occupied in holding onto their hats than in watching the queer bundle which Dmitri and the chauffeur carried into the house.

The door was opened without their ringing by a skinny Oriental in a white house jacket, who grinned knowingly at sight of the squirming bundle, and lent a hand to the two men in carrying it into a room at the rear of the long, dark hall. The woman followed them in.

The room which they entered was darkened; there were two windows, but heavy steel shutters allowed no light to filter in. The walls were bare, and the only furniture was a cot with a single chair beside it, and a desk in one corner.

Dmitri and the chauffeur dumped the boy on the cot while the woman lit a cigarette and watched dispassionately.

Then the chauffeur, at a nod from the fat man, untied the lad's hands, and removed the gag. He stepped back, drawing from a shoulder holster an automatic which he trained on the youthful prisoner.

The boy sat up on the cot with an effort, moved his arms, painfully, in order to restore circulation. He gazed from one to the other of his captors, and his young, freckled face wrinkled in perplexity. Finally he let his glance settle on the fat man and said:

"Maybe you'll tell me what's the big idea of the kidnapping, mister?"

Dmitri stepped close to him, brought his fat, pudgy hand down in a vicious, openhanded slap that stung the boy's cheek to a vivid purple hue. "You will answer questions," he purred, "and not ask them."

The boy was flung back on the cot by the force of the blow. He did not cower, but lay there, glaring up at the other.

Dmitri bent over him. "Your name," he grated, "is Tim Donovan. You are the boy who assists the man known as Operator 5. You are his constant companion. I want to know if he has recently received a visit from a young lady named Katerina Saratoff?" He bent lower, his eyes fastened on the boy's. "Well?"

The lad's cheek still stung from the vicious blow. He pressed his lips tight to keep back the tears that came involuntarily to his eyes, and suddenly raised his knees, kicked upward with both feet. The heels of his shoes caught the fat man in the stomach, and Dmitri was thrown backward, doubled up in agony, both hands pressed to his paunch.

The boy grinned, shouted: "That's for the smack you took at my funny bone, Fatty! Maybe—"

He got no further, for the stocky, pockmarked chauffeur had rushed in with his automatic clubbed. He brought the butt down on the boy's head, and the youngster buckled over on the cot, unconscious. Blood oozed from his scalp at the spot where the gun-butt had struck. He twitched a moment, then lay still.

The fat man was groaning with pain. He backed into the chair, leaned far forward, still clutching at his stomach, swaying from side to side, and moaning loudly.

The woman paid no attention to the fat man, but hurried to the cot, put a hand on the boy's heart. After a second she nodded, then turned to the chauffeur, her eyes flashing.

"You are an utter fool, Selig!" she snapped. "Don't you see that this boy deliberately kicked Dmitri in order to goad you into doing something like this? Now we cannot question him further!"

Selig hung his head. "I am sorry, Lina."

She didn't answer him, but turned to the fat man, helped him to get up.

"Come, Dmitri," she said. "I'll help you into the office. Leave this brat here till he recovers. There is much to be done."

She aided him to arise and walked him, still groaning, to the door.

The chauffeur remained in the room with the unconscious boy.

"When he awakes," the woman said to the chauffeur from the threshold, "'call us."

The fat man groaned, said through pain-twisted lips: "Yes. Call— me. I will have something to—say to him!"

The chauffeur nodded, and watched them leave. Then he seated himself in the chair which Osman had vacated and settled himself to wait for Tim Donovan to come to.

2. PRIDE BEFORE A FALL

While Tim Donovan was being carried across town by the obese Dmitri Osman and the woman, Lina, James Christopher—Operator 5, ace of the United States Intelligence—was facing three men in a room on the third floor of the Custom House Building, on Bowling Green, in downtown New York.

The three men were seated. Operator 5 was standing, talking to them vehemently, urgently. As he spoke, he gestured toward a girl who stood beside him.

"Gentlemen," he was pleading, "you must believe what this young lady tells us. She is Katerina Saratoff, the sister of a very dear friend of mine, who died so that she might come here to give me the message. For two weeks I have tried to get you to listen to her. Today I practically forced my way in here. I beg of you, gentlemen, give this young lady five minutes of your time!"

One of the three men rose, glanced at the others, and cleared his throat. He was a tall man in his late fifties, and his bearing was distinguished, sedate. He was the Secretary of War—the man who had the last word on the disposition of the fighting forces of the United States. He adjusted his glasses on his thin, aquiline nose, and spoke sharply:

"Operator 5, you must realize that you are interfering with the embarkation of four thousand soldiers. The war in Europe—"

"The war in Europe be damned!"

Jimmy Christopher broke in hotly. "Don't you realize, Mr. Secretary, that our own shores are in danger? What will you do when the enemy ships are sighted off our coastline?" He turned pleadingly to the two seated men. "You, General Falk, and you, Admiral Winston. Perhaps you will listen to me. This young lady has definite information that the Union of Asiatic States plans to attack the United States. You yourselves know that no news has come out of Asia for months. You know, also, that Soviet Russia has been fighting desperately, fruitlessly, for her life on her eastern frontiers. You have heard rumors that a new dictator has sprung up in Asia, who has consolidated all the yellow races under a single banner. Yet—"

The man whom Jimmy Christopher had addressed as Admiral Winston raised a hand. He was a comparatively young man, in his early forties. He was attired in the full-dress uniform of a rear-admiral of the United States Navy. It was he who was to take command of the convoy sailing that evening—and who was scheduled to assume full charge of the Sanctioning Powers' Joint Fleet in Mediterranean waters.

He was smiling indulgently as he said:

"All these things may be quite true, Operator 5. But I should like to point out to you that even if there is a new dictator in Asia—even if the Asiatic States have conquered Russia—they can constitute no very serious menace to us. Our fleet has been brought up to full war-time capacity. We can literally blast any attacking force out of the ocean. Just what do you want us to do about this Asiatic attack that you fear so much?" "This is no laughing matter, sir!" Jimmy said urgently. "Miss Saratoff here, tells me that she and her brother covered eight hundred miles across Russia, in the wake of the retreating Soviet armies. She tells me that not a single pitched battle was fought, but that the Russian forces fell back constantly, leaving a clear path across Europe from Lake Baikal."

He turned to Katerina Saratoff, who had been watching him breathlessly, and said, switching easily into Russian: "Let me have the message which Feodor wrote quickly. Perhaps I can convince them now—"

He took the envelope which she extracted from her purse, and turned back to the three men, opening it and extracting the folded sheet of notepaper, covered with Russian hieroglyphics, written in pencil in a small, scholarly hand.

"This, gentlemen, is the letter which Feodor Saratoff wrote when he realized that he would never leave Russia alive. I won't take your time to translate and read it. But Saratoff hints here that the Dictator of the Union of Asiatic States has developed a new kind of warfare. He has advanced across Russia without fighting a single major engagement."

The tall man who had spoken first cleared his throat and stopped Jimmy Christopher. "No doubt these Asiatics bribed the craven Soviet commanders—"

JIMMY shook his head. "There is more than bribery behind this, Mr. Secretary. There is some peculiar force which this coolie—who calls himself The Leopard—has developed, and—"

General Falk, the Chief of Staff of the United States, who had been sitting silent all this time, suddenly snapped his fingers in impatience, and exclaimed: "Bosh! Let this Leopard cross the Atlantic. We will show him—"

He stopped as a knock sounded on the door. "Come in!" he barked.

The door opened, and a young naval lieutenant entered, saluted briskly, and handed a dispatch to Admiral Winston.

"Captain Loring's compliments, sir," he said, with a manner of barely restrained excitement. "The radio room on the Dakota just picked up this message in code, from the Destroyer, Macklin. We tried to communicate with the Macklin at once after receiving it, sir, but were unable to raise them again."

Admiral Winston frowned, took the dispatch and glanced at the others. Then he unfolded it and his ruddy face grew pale as his eyes traveled over the typed words.

Suddenly he looked up, and his gaze met Jimmy Christopher's.

"Operator 5," he said in a strangely altered voice, "it appears that part of what you have been telling us has come true!"

There were gasps of astonishment from the Secretary of War and from General Falk. Winston motioned them to silence, and read aloud from the dispatch:

HAVE SIGHTED FLEET OF FORTY SHIPS THIRTY-EIGHT DEGREES NORTH LAT SEVENTY DEGREES EAST LONG. CANNOT ASCERTAIN NATION FOR THEY ARE FLYING BLACK FLAG WITH FIGURE OF RED LEOPARD. HAVE COUNTED THIRTY CONVOYS AND TEN SHIPS OF WAR. STANDING BY FOR ORDERS. JOHN DENNY COMMANDER DESTROYER MACKLIN

For a moment there was startled silence in the room. From outside came the blare of trumpets and the roll of drums as marching men debauched from Broadway onto the docks and prepared to embark.

The Secretary of War snatched the sheet from Winston's hand, reread it himself, handed it to Falk.

Jimmy Christopher whispered in Katerina Saratoff's ear a translation of the message, and her dark eyes suddenly snapped fire.

She said in Russian to Jimmy:

"It is the Leopard! I shall pray now, every moment, that the Holy Virgin give you strength and wit and courage to avenge the death of my brother!"

Jimmy said to her somberly: "If my guess is right, Katerina, it will take more than prayer to lick this Leopard. From Feodor's letter, I should judge that we are going to be invaded within twenty-four hours!"

He turned from the girl to hear Admiral Winston say to the Secretary of War:

"This Leopard is in for a huge surprise. I ask you, sir, to give me full command of the Atlantic Fleet. The troopships will have to wait for their convoys. There are more than a hundred warships along the Atlantic seaboard, and I can have most of them here within a few hours. I will go meet this Leopard, and blow him to Kingdom Come!"

"You have full authority, Winston," the Secretary said without hesitation. "The fleet is yours!"

Winston beamed with satisfaction, snatched up the telephone on the desk, and began to snap instructions. Jimmy Christopher approached the Secretary, said low-voiced:

"There is another matter, sir, that I must call to your attention." There was no trace of elation, of the I-told-you-so attitude in Jimmy's manner. These men had laughed at him only a moment ago, and his prediction and warning had come true, dramatically. Yet he refrained from calling it to the Secretary's attention.

"In Feodor Saratoff's note, here, he warns me that the Leopard has placed agents of his in key positions with our armed forces, as well as with the large industrial plants throughout the country. Perhaps—"

The Secretary put a kindly hand on his shoulder. "Do not concern yourself about that, Operator 5. Within a few hours, this Leopard will have become a thing of the past. With ten warships, he cannot hope to oppose our splendid fleet. Either he will turn tail and head back to Asia, or he will be annihilated."

"That may be so, sir," Jimmy Christopher insisted stubbornly. "But it might be well to make some preparations to receive him in the event that he manages to break through our fleet. The four thousand men who are embarking now are about the only effective armed forces in the East. The training camps have only raw youths—"

The Secretary laughed. "You are far too pessimistic, Operator 5. The Leopard will never break through."

Jimmy was about to protest further, but at that moment Winston put down the telephone, turned from the desk, his face beaming with excitement.

"Everything is arranged!" he exclaimed. "Within three hours every available squadron will be ready for action. We will teach the Leopard a lesson that he won't soon forget. I am ordering the embarkation to continue. As soon as we have disposed of those tubs from Asia, I will sail for Europe as originally planned!"

Jimmy Christopher frowned. "Why not keep those men here, Admiral? You can return after the engagement, and go on with the embarkation. It's little enough protection for New York if anything should happen to the fleet. And you must remember that the Leopard controls some peculiar instrument of warfare—"

"Bah!" The admiral snapped his fingers. "Those Soviet soldiers were nothing but rank cowards; and their officers were probably bribed. I'll concede that your information about the Leopard's arrival was correct—but even then, it's nothing to get worried about. It's ridiculous to think that ten battleships and thirty tubs full of yellow soldiers could constitute a serious threat to America!"

The Secretary of War was nodding in agreement with the naval officer. "Your zeal is commendable, Operator 5. But I think that you may well leave the handling of this business to Admiral Winston from now on."

Hopelessly, Jimmy Christopher turned away from them, took Katerina Saratoff by the arm. There was no use arguing with these men. As he led the girl out of the room, none of them paid him any attention.

Outside, Katerina said to him: "I am afraid, Operator 5—afraid for your country. Those men are fools. They do not understand that the Leopard would not come against them were he not sure of victory. The Leopard knows how strong your fleet is; and he is not a fool. He has some plan to destroy it —I am sure!"

Jimmy shrugged. "What can I do, Katerina? Those men hold the country's fate in their hands. They are the highest officers in the land; I am only a number in the Intelligence Service!"

3. THE MAN-BREAKER

Less than two hundred miles from the coast of New England, the great Atlantic Fleet of the United States was steaming eastward.

The long, lean, metal monsters cut through the clear blue water, holding formations, squadron by squadron. Above them, and far ahead, roared the naval aircraft, while from the stern of the Dakota, the huge new flagship of the fleet, there fluttered the two-starred pennant of Rear Admiral Stanley Winston.

A hundred and nine ships comprised that mighty fleet. There were five capital ships of the line, besides the Dakota; there were sixty-four destroyers, eleven heavy cruisers, the aircraft carriers, Langley and Mattson, four submarine tenders, and twenty-two submarines. Nine squadron pennants billowed in the wind.

Behind the fleet lagged supply and hospital ships.

Inter-squadron and inter-division messages crackled over wireless sets, and intra-division signal flags slid up and down on signal-hoists.

On every ship the men were all at battle stations, and decks were cleared for action. Grim, tight-lipped officers waited word for the reconnoitering planes that the enemy had been sighted.

In a cabin on the flagship, Dakota, Admiral Stanley Winston sat before a desk piled with memoranda, lists and charts. Though he hadn't slept the night before, his uniform was spotless, and the two silver stars and foul anchor of his shoulder insignia gleamed with bright newness.

His voice crackled as he issued swift orders which sent junior officers scurrying to the wireless room with messages for the fleet. At his elbow stood Lieutenant Earl Ward, the Admiral's personal secretary. On the desk was an ash-tray littered with dead butts of cigarettes. As soon as Winston finished one, Lieutenant Ward would hand him another, light it for him. It was a standing matter of knowledge in the navy that Winston, brilliant sea strategist that he was, would be lost without Ward to attend to the little details of his personal comfort, which Winston himself utterly forgot when in action.

"Now," Lieutenant Ward bent over his superior, whispered: "How about a little rest, sir? It may be a matter of hours before we contact the enemy. You've got everything in hand. You haven't slept—"

Winston waved him aside impatiently. "I'll sleep after the engagement —if there is any, Ward. There are still things to be done." His voice assumed an edge of irritation. "I have to receive this young fool that Intelligence is sending out. I don't know why in God's name they should send me an Intelligence man at this time. He'll probably get under our feet and clog up the works. Those fellows think they've got a monopoly of brains!"

He picked up the phone at his elbow, barked: "Give me the bridge!" Then when he got his connection: "My compliments to Captain Loring, and instruct him to watch for an autogyro that should be approaching us about this time. He is to signal it to alight on the Langley. Its occupant is to be brought to me at once!"

He hung up, sat back in the swivel chair, and looked up at his orderly with an air of utter weariness. They were alone in the cabin for the first time that morning. Suddenly his stern face broke into a warm smile. He reached up and patted Ward on the shoulder.

"Relax, Lieutenant," he said. "You seem to be all on edge. Why the worry? This Leopard from Asia may be a big shot on land, but I'll warrant you he's never met a fleet like this. We'll blow him out of the water. There won't be a trace of his forty ships an hour after we sight them!"

Lieutenant Ward fidgeted nervously, his glance straying through the porthole, through which he could catch a glimpse of a long line of destroyers that steamed to leeward of them.

"It isn't that, sir," he said uneasily.

"It's you I'm worried about. You haven't taken a minute's rest in the last forty-eight hours. Perhaps a little coffee?"

"Good idea!" Winston grunted. He glanced at a small electric stove in the corner. "I see you've got some brewing. Let's have a cup."

WARD nodded, and went to the stove. An ensign entered, and saluted. "Captain Loring's respects, sir. The plane you are expecting has been sighted, flying very high. It should land within a few minutes."

"All right," the admiral growled. "Have him brought right over."

The ensign left, and Ward brought over a cup of black coffee, which he placed on the desk.

"Have some yourself, Ward," the admiral said in kindly fashion. "You can use it."

"No thanks, sir. I've had too much of it already."

Winston sipped the hot black liquid. "What do you think of that, Ward?" he grumbled. "Intelligence is going to teach us how to fight a sea battle. It's that Operator 5, I suppose. He tried to sell Falk and myself some damned silly bill of goods this morning, and now he must have got to the Secretary's ear again, and convinced him. His story is that the Leopard will lick us by making a couple of passes in the air, and saying some magic hocus-pocus! Intelligence! Bah!"

He set the cup down with a bang, and arose to pace impatiently up and down the cabin.

Ward stood aside respectfully as the admiral pushed past him, and stared out of the porthole. The speeding vessel rocked hardly at all as it ate up the knots. Streaming far out behind it, in a huge V on either side, churned squadron after squadron of the most powerful sea-fighting machine in the world.

Almost subconsciously, Winston's shoulders straightened, and the weariness which he had felt fell from him as a discarded mantle. Pride shone in his eyes.

"Do you know, Ward," he said over his shoulder, "it's a queer feeling —having all these ships under my orders. Imagine! I have supreme command over a hundred and nine fighting vessels. This whole fleet moves only at my word, stops only at my word! When I was a cub at Annapolis, I never dreamed that such power would one day lie in my hands!"

"It's a great responsibility, sir," Ward said quietly behind him. "I'd be afraid—"

He stopped as a knock sounded on the door. An ensign entered, saluted. "Captain Loring's respects, sir. Our planes have sighted the enemy fleet, sir!"

Winston's eyes gleamed. He finished the rest of the coffee at a gulp, and arose. "My compliments to Captain Loring. Tell him that I will be on the bridge in ten minutes. In the meantime, have the gun crews of every ship get the range from the planes—."

The ensign interrupted. "Captain Loring instructed me to tell you, sir, that our planes are acting strangely. They have ceased to communicate with us by radio, and they are veering about erratically. Captain Loring respectfully requests that you come up at once, sir. He is afraid there is something radically wrong!"

For a moment there was silence in the cabin, while Winston's suddenly haggard eyes met the glance of Lieutenant Ward. There was suddenly a queer sort of lassitude in the Admiral's eyes, that had not been there a few moments before, even in spite of his utter physical exhaustion. Almost blindly he stumbled out of the door of the cabin. "Strange, very strange," he was muttering as he walked unsteadily along the companionway, with the lieutenant and the ensign trailing him. "Very strange..."

4. THE FINGER OF DOOM

When Operator 5 left the Custom House Building with Katerina Saratoff, he did not take her out through the front way. At a little-used side entrance a high-powered convertible coupe was parked. The top was up. The glass sides had also been raised, making it in effect, a coupe. No one could have suspected that the canvas top really covered sheet steel, or, that the innocent appearing sides and hood of the car were of bullet-proof construction, with bullet-proof glass in the windows. The car was a veritable moving fortress.

At the wheel sat a young, chestnut-haired girl whose softly-modeled face and shining eyes formed a distinct contrast to the reserved, patrician features of Katerina Saratoff. This girl was Diane Elliot, star reporter for the Amalgamated Press. She was one of the few people with whom Operator 5 was closely associated; and she was, by the same token, one of the very few who knew that the person listed on the rolls of the Secret Service only by the designation of Operator 5 was really a human being, with emotions and feelings like other people.

She opened the door of the car hastily now, as Operator 5 and Katerina Saratoff appeared, and moved over to make room for them in the wide seat.

The Secret Service ace took the wheel, guided the car expertly away from the curb, and headed uptown, glancing backward several times to make sure they were not followed.

It was only after they were well away from the Custom House that Diane Elliot spoke. Her bright blue eyes were clouded with worry.

"Jimmy! Didn't you say that Tim Donovan was to meet us here?"

He nodded, gazing ahead as he threaded his way skillfully through the cluttered traffic of Fulton Street. He was avoiding Broadway because of the marching troops, and the narrow street was crowded with vehicles which had been shunted here by the police.

"Yes," he said. "I told Tim to come down here. I wanted him to keep a lookout in case we were observed. The Leopard has a lot of agents in New York, and they're darned anxious to get their hands on Katerina." He glanced sideways at the Russian girl, who was sitting between Diane and himself, saw her shudder at the mention of the Leopard. He smiled grimly. "It seems that the big coolie from Asia has taken a fancy to Katerina. I'm sure she appreciates the compliment!"

Diane exclaimed hurriedly: "But about Tim, Jimmy! I looked for him. He wasn't anywhere around."

Jimmy Christopher shrugged. "Maybe he was tied up at the house, with dad. We'll probably find him home—"

"No, no, Jimmy!" Diane's voice throbbed with anxiety. "I phoned home a little while ago, and there was no answer. I'm afraid—something's —happened! Your dad should have answered the phone. He said he'd wait for us to come back—"

Operator 5's face was suddenly bleak. His father, John Christopher, who had been Q-6 in the Intelligence Service until forced into semi-retirement by a wound received in the discharge of his duty, presided over the brownstone house in the middle forties where Jimmy Christopher made his home while in New York. Between the father and son there existed a remarkable mutual understanding and love.

Jimmy Christopher frowned at the news Diane had just given him. "It's not like Dad to leave the phone unattended at a time like this. I wonder— ?"

HIS lips clamped tight in a thin, grim line. His foot pushed down on the accelerator and he made the long roadster squirm through traffic with an exhibition of almost unbelievable driving skill, until he had fought free of the snarl of cars around Brooklyn Bridge. Then he raced north up Lafayette Street.

Katerina Saratoff put a sympathetic hand on his arm. "You fear that something has happened to your father, Operator 5?"

"I don't know," he muttered. "Tim should have been down here. If he isn't, and if Dad doesn't answer the phone—"

Diane, in an effort to take his mind from thoughts of Q-6's possible danger, asked:

"How did you make out with the Secretary of War and with Admiral Winston, Jimmy?"

"We didn't make out at all, Di! While I was warning them about the Leopard, they got word that his fleet had been sighted out at sea. That should have proved to them that I know what I was talking about—that there was some truth to Feodor's claim that the Leopard has some strange power. But no —they're sending out the whole Atlantic Fleet under Winston to meet them. I tried to get them to hold these troops in New York, in case the fleet should be beaten, but they couldn't see it. In a couple of hours, Admiral Winston will take out the whole sea power of the United States—and they may be destroyed, just the way the Leopard destroyed the Soviet resistance!"

"And there's nothing you can do about it?"

"Nothing! They won't listen to us. Will they, Katerina?"

The Russian girl's face was white. "God forgive them," she said, very slow, "for they know not what they do! They are delivering their country to the claws of the Leopard!"

They drove in silence until they reached the brownstone house which was recorded in the files of Intelligence as "Address Y," and which was the home of John Christopher.

Operator 5 did not stop at the door. He drove slowly past, glancing keenly at the building, and up and down the street. At the far corner, satisfied that no one was watching the place, he made a U turn, and pulled up before the door. Quickly, he and the two girls got out of the car and entered the house.

Just inside the hallway he stopped short, his blood suddenly cold as he gazed down at the pitiful body on the floor. Diane and Katerina pressed close behind him, and Diane uttered a choked cry.

Jimmy Christopher knelt swiftly beside the body, gasped in a broken voice: "Dad!"

The man who lay face up on the floor was like an old edition of Operator 5. The cleanly-etched features, the wide forehead, the straight nose. The hair, though, was not dark, but gray. And the eyes were closed, while the head rested in a great pool of blood from a wound behind the left ear.

Jimmy Christopher bent low, raised his father's head gently. His lips were a tight, straight line as he placed his cheek against the unconscious man's lips, waited for a warm breath that would tell him there was still life in that body. The agony in his eyes was hidden from the two girls behind him.

Diane came around opposite him in the hallway, and knelt on the other side of the unconscious Q-6. She said huskily: "No wonder he didn't answer the phone! Jimmy! Is he—dead?"

Operator 5 raised his head, his eyes gleaming with hope. "No, Di! Quick! On the phone, and get Doctor Harlan!"

She nodded, got to her feet, and hurried down the hall into a room at the right.

Jimmy Christopher raised the body of his father tenderly In his arms, carried him up the stairs into a bedroom. Katerina Saratoff followed, hurriedly prepared the bed, then bustled about the room in search of water, towels, antiseptic.

When Jimmy would have helped her she pushed him aside. "I know what to do," she whispered. "I nursed many men in Russia!"

Jimmy knelt beside the bed, his eyes fastened to the pallid face of his father. The pillow was rapidly becoming stained with blood.

Katerina came back with the things she had found, gently pushed Jimmy out of the way, and her cool white hands flew with the efficient speed of a ministering angel. Diane came into the room, and at a questioning glance from Jimmy, she nodded, then hurried over to help Katerina. The wound in the back of John Christopher's head was an ugly one, evidently made with some blunt weapon. Matted hair and broken skin clotted it, and Katerina swabbed it out.

Q-6 stirred, groaned at the pain, and his eyelids fluttered open. Diane exclaimed: "Dad! Thank God! Lie still, Dad. Don't move!"

But John Christopher stubbornly kept his eyes open, muttered weakly: "Jimmy! They got—Tim! Must—" He groaned again, closed his eyes, then started to mumble once more.

Jimmy bent over him, said anxiously: "Keep quiet, Dad. You—"

He stopped as his father's voice came to him once more, faintly. "They broke in...fat man and—pock-marked man. Got—Tim. I— fought—with them—Got fat man's—fingerprints!"

"Where, Dad?" Jimmy asked eagerly.

"Here...on wristwatch strap...go get'em, Jimmy!" And John Christopher's gray head fell back on Katerina's tenderly supporting arm.

For a moment, Jimmy held his breath, thinking his father was dead. But a sigh of relief escaped him as he noted the slow rise and fall of John Christopher's chest. He leaned over, and lifted his father's wrist, carefully unbuckled the silver chain of the wrist watch.

His eager eyes examined its surface, detected the unmistakable smudges of two prints—a thumb and another finger.

"Good old Dad!" he exclaimed. "He must have struggled with one of them, just to get those prints!"

Diane looked up from the bedside. "Jimmy! What are you going to do? Tim—"

"I'm going to find him!" Operator 5 said harshly. "And find the ones who did that to Dad! Stay here, Di, with Katerina. I'll call back to find out how he is!"

And without looking back, he hurried out of the room, and downstairs to the car. Outside, he met Doctor Harlan, who was the unofficial surgeon to the men of the Intelligence Service. He gripped Harlan's arm.

"Doc! It's dad! They got him in the head." His lips twitched. "I've got to go, Doc. You'll do your best—more than your best?"

Doctor Harlan nodded warmly. "You know I will, Jimmy. Go ahead with your work—and leave your father to me."

Jimmy tore himself away, got into the car and drove downtown, to police headquarters. Paralleling his course, only a block away, festive men and women were shouting in acclaim, showering marching troops with confetti, cheering them on toward their embarkation. Out on the Hudson, giant ships were steaming down toward the Bay to meet other ships, summoned from along the Atlantic seaboard, to go out and meet an approaching enemy. None knew of the tragedy in the brownstone house. There was none to share Jimmy Christopher's anxiety with him—anxiety about his father, about Tim, and about the coming naval engagement.

At police headquarters, Operator 5 showed credentials indicating that he was one, George Wakely, of the Department of Justice. He asked to have the prints on the watch band checked at once.

He waited, fiercely restraining his impatience and anxiety. It was a very slim chance—the chance that the man who had struck his father would have a criminal record, would have his prints filed here. He thought, as be paced up and down the little anteroom where he waited, that it would be a grisly irony if his father's sacrifice in fighting that man were to go for naught.

But in less than five minutes, a grinning fingerprint man came into the room with a card and photographs. "Here's your man, Wakely! How's that for cooperation?"

Jimmy seized the card and the pictures. The name typed at the top of the card brought recollections to him.

OSMAN, DMITRI, alias Michael Feene, alias Franz Broca. 5 ft. 8 in., wt. 192 lbs. Hair brownish, sparse; eyes grayish brown.
Arrested, March 15, 1919—suspicion of murder—discharged, lack of evidence.
Arrested, May 21, 1922—homicide—acquitted, Gen'l Sessions.
Arrested, May 9, 1927—for extradition at request of Surêté Genérale;, Paris. Wanted for espionage. Turned over to U. S. Marshal for hearing on extradition request. Discharged by U. S. Comm'r. Hendricks—charge not extraditable. No convictions. Present occupation: Proprietor of Dance Studio, 720 West 103 St.
(Note: Seems to be legitimate; precinct house notified to keep under surveillance, reports he has numerous pupils among foreign-born.)

There was more, but Jimmy skipped it. He fastened his eyes on the picture of the oily, fat Dmitri Osman, committed every feature to his memory. Then he returned them, together with the card, to the fingerprint man, uttered hasty thanks, and hurried out. Downstairs, in the lobby, he entered a telephone booth, dialed a number.

"Operator 5, talking!" he snapped. "Give me Z-7, quick!" as he got the connection he spoke crisply, concisely: "Chief! Dad's been—"

"I know," broke in Z-7, the head of the United States Intelligence Service, who was almost a second father to Jimmy Christopher. His voice was full of sympathy. "I've been trying to get you, and I phoned Address Y. Diane told me about your dad, and about Tim. What in the world would they want to kidnap Tim for?"

"I think I know, Chief. They want to make Tim talk. They want to find out where Katerina Saratoff is. They're agents of the Leopard, or I miss my guess. And Chief—you remember Dmitri Osman, the international spy? He's in this. Dad got his prints on his wristwatch strap. And I've got Osman's address. They may have Tim there—trying to make him talk. Give me a couple of men, Chief. I'm going to raid that place."

"You'll have 'em, Jimmy. You'll have more than a couple. I'll send you a dozen! What's the address?"

Jimmy Christopher gave it, then hung up. He phoned his father's house, learned that Doctor Harlan was having Q-6 moved to a hospital..

"Is it that bad, Di?" he asked hoarsely. "Will he—"

Diane Elliot's voice was husky, tired. "The doctor doesn't know yet, Jimmy. They—they'll know by morning. Katerina and I are going with him to the hospital. We've got special permission. What about Tim, Jimmy?"

"I think I know where they've got him. I'm raiding the place. I'll call you later." He got the name of the hospital, hung up, and went out once more to the car, raced uptown to meet the raiding squad...

5. TREASON TRAIL

Tim Donovan groaned, stirred, and blinked. Then he opened his eyes. He closed them again at once, because fiery shooting pains were stabbing through his head. His mouth was parched, and his throat was dry. For a moment he thought he was at home, awakening from some sort of nightmare. Slowly recollection struggled back through the dreadful throbbing behind his temples.

He opened his eyes once more, and the room swam around; the walls performed grotesque antics about him, and the ceiling seemed to be tipping drunkenly. He turned painfully from his back to his side, and put a hand gingerly to the lump on the back of his head.

His gaze met the stolid glance of the pockmarked man, Selig, who sat watching him, with a gun on his knee. The man's figure seemed blurred, and his face looked like a gruesome gargoyle that advanced and receded, grew bigger and smaller, and danced around.

Tim managed a rueful smile, and said: "Hello, Funny-face. That was an awful sock you handed me. Hope to return the compliment some time."

The other snarled, and rose from his chair, went to the door and opened it. He called down the corridor, and the white-coated Chinese who had admitted them came, peered in, nodded, and padded away. In a few moments foot steps sounded, and the woman, Lina, appeared, followed by Dmitri Osman.

The fat man waddled in, his small eyes fixed intently, viciously on Tim. He said nothing, but came up to the cot and seized the boy's left arm in both of his big fat hands, twisted it cruelly. Tim gasped with the sudden agony, and his face went white with pain. His head swam. He felt the bone of his arm was about to be torn from its socket.

But the woman, Lina, cried out: "Osman! You fool! He'll faint again. We must question him first. Later you can pay him for the kick in the stomach!"

Osman growled deep in his throat, like an angry animal. But under the whiplash of the woman's voice, he released Tim's arm.

The boy lay panting on the cot, weak with agony.

Osman stepped back from him, deliberately twisted his face into a grimace that was meant to be a suave smile. His little eyes burned with malice. "All right, Lina," he said. "I—wait!"

The woman turned to Tim Donovan, and she too, smiled, her red lips curving into soft lines, and her eyes suddenly seeming to caress the boy.

"My poor lad," she said. "You see, this man is so very hard to keep in leash. He wants to do so dreadful things to you. Why do you not speak, and spare yourself suffering? Tell us what you know of Katerina Saratoff. You are in the confidence of Operator 5. You know where he hides her. Speak, and I promise that you shall go unharmed."

Tim's head still throbbed mercilessly; his shoulder muscles still ached, with a dull, twisted pain. Yet he grinned up at her impudently.

"Believe me, lady," he said, exerting a tremendous effort to keep his voice steady, "Fatty is going to get his when Operator 5 catches up with him. You can't get away—"

He stopped as Lina raised a long, white hand. "Foolish boy! In a few hours, your Operator 5 will be as helpless as the rest of your country. From Asia comes the Leopard. Soon he will march into New York. The fools go out to meet him in stately ships; their ships will turn tail and run. The Leopard will land with his conquering might. For no man can resist the Leopard!"

She spoke with such earnestness, with such intensity of feeling, that Tim forgot his pain. He raised himself on an elbow, asked her: "Then why are you so anxious to find Katerina Saratoff? If you're so sure the Leopard will be top hand, why don't you wait?"

The woman cast a side glance at Osman and at the chauffeur, Selig. She shrugged. "We are only servants of the Leopard. The Leopard orders, and we obey. He has sworn that his first stroke on setting foot in the United States, shall be to punish Katerina Saratoff for defying him in Russia. He wishes her to be presented to him when he lands."

She came closer to the cot, said urgently: "Speak, boy! I have told you all you need to know. Now you must talk, or else I cannot help you."

Tim glared up at her. "Lady," he said, "if you were a man, I'd tell you to go to hell. Being that you're not a man, I'm only thinking it!"

Lina's face was suddenly convulsed with frustrated rage. She swung away from him to Osman. "He is yours, Dmitri!" she blazed. "Do with him what you like!"

Osman'S thick lips parted in a smile of vicious satisfaction. His thick hands clasped and unclasped, as If they already had the boy in their grip.

"Now," he gloated, "You will see—"

He ceased talking as the sound of a smashing window came to them from somewhere in the house. It was followed at once by another crash of breaking glass, and by a shout in the high-pitched voice of the Chinese servant. There was a revolver shot out in the hall; which mingled with the quick, short barks of an automatic.

Osman was fat, but he was a man of action. He swung away from Tim's cot, and an automatic appeared in his hand. He ripped open the door, launched himself into the hall, followed by Selig, who had also drawn a gun.

The woman, Lina, stood with blanched cheeks, one hand at her breast. From where he lay, propped once more on his elbow, Tim could see into the hallway, could see Osman crouching, and firing toward the front of the house, and Selig beside him.

The room, and the hall outside were filled with the thunderous reverberations of gunfire, and with the acrid fumes of smoke, which stung Tim's nostrils. From the front of the house he could see flash after flash from the guns of the attackers. Slugs ricocheted into the room. Selig uttered a strangled cry, pitched backward, writhed on the floor, and then lay still, almost at Lina's feet.

The woman snapped out of her momentary fright, and shouted: "Osman! Back! Back in here!"

The fat man heard her above the gun roar, and sprang back into the room, still shooting.

"The boy!" Lina shouted. "Use him as a shield!"

Osman fired the last shot from his automatic, kicked the door shut, and his fat fingers raced as he inserted another clip. A heavy body thudded against the door, and Osman, his teeth showing in a wolfish grin, stepped back, seized Tim by the collar, and dragged him upright, held him in front of himself. Lina had stooped and picked up the heavy revolver which Selig had dropped.

For a moment the shots ceased coming from outside, and a cautious hand tried the knob of the door. Osman called out: "We have the boy here. If you shoot, you will kill him!"

Tim Donovan was struggling like a wildcat in the grip of the fat man, striving to twist around so that his fists could reach his captor's face. He shouted: "Come in shooting, Jimmy! To hell with him!"

Osman swore under his breath, raised the barrel of the automatic to strike at Tim's head. But just then a terrific jolt jarred the door, and it creaked on its frame. Osman stepped back involuntarily, swung his automatic down to fire through the wood.

A shot sounded from outside, and the lock flew loose, the wood around it splintered and smoking. The door swung open, and a man came charging in, gun raised to fire. The man was Operator 5, and behind were other Secret Service men. Jimmy Christopher saw Tim in the grip of Osman, shielding the fat man, and he held his finger away from the trigger of his gun, pulling up short.

Osman's lips were foaming at the edges. He kept his grip on Tim, raised the automatic so that its muzzle pointed at Operator 5. His finger contracted...

And Tim Donovan, exerting every last ounce of strength in his pain- wracked body, twisted, pushed out with both hands, and shoved Osman's gun arm far to the right. The fat man's automatic exploded, the slug going wild into the wall.

In that second, Jimmy Christopher leaped in, switched his gun from right hand to left, and brought it down hard on Osman's temple. Osman's eyes rolled up, the automatic dropped from nerveless fingers, and his grip on Tim relaxed. Slowly his body collapsed to the floor.

Lina had clicked the trigger of the revolver she had picked up from the floor, aiming at Operator 5, but Selig must have emptied before he was hit. For the hammer fell on an empty chamber, and before she could move, other Secret Service men had swarmed into the room to overpower her.

Tim Donovan was wobbling on his feet, and Operator 5 gripped him, demanded anxiously: "Tim! You all in one piece?"

The boy took a grip on himself, and grinned. "I'm okay. I'm a little frayed here and there, but I guess I'll last." Suddenly his tone changed, became somber. "How's dad, Jimmy? Is he—"

"Dad's in the hospital," Jimmy told him shortly. "I've got to call up to find out how he is. Who—?"

Tim's eyes dropped to Osman, who was slowly getting to his feet. "This guy socked him, Jimmy."

Operator 5's eyes were bleak as he turned to the other Secret Service men in the room. "Will you boys leave for a few minutes?" He asked softly. "I've got a little business with this gentleman!"

The men glanced at each other knowingly, winked at Jimmy, and filed out. Two of them, holding the woman captive, led her to the door. As she passed Jimmy she stopped, let her eyes wander over his trim, well-knit figure. Then she looked up into his face.

"So you are the famous Operator 5?" she queried. "You are clever, to have found this place so quickly. You and I, perhaps, can do some business, too. When you are through with that swine—" her glance flicked to Osman —"come and talk to me."

Operator 5 did not answer. His eyes were cold, hard, and he did not take them from the fat man. His body was held taut.

The woman shrugged, allowed herself to be led out. Tim remained in the room. He picked up Osman's automatic, went and took a position with his back to the door.

"Go ahead, Jimmy," he said, very low. "Give it to him!"

Osman regarded Operator 5 out of his narrow slits of eyes. There was a trace of fear in them. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

Jimmy Christopher's thinned lips moved with cold precision as he said: "The man whom you wounded back at the house is my father. He is at the hospital now, dying. I am going to put my hands around your throat and choke you to death!"

Osman's teeth bared in a snarl. He crouched, his two hands hanging low.

Jimmy Christopher stepped in, and Osman suddenly lifted both hands, fingers held stiffly forward, and poked at Jimmy's eyes.

But Operator 5 had learned that trick many years ago in Constantinople. His head flicked back out of reach; and at the same time, he brought up his own hands, caught Osman's two forefingers, and pushed forward and down.

There were two short, ugly snaps of cracking bone, and Osman's face drained of color. He uttered a short, whimpering cry, staggered backward, and raised his hands stupidly, looked at the dangling forefingers. They were both broken.

Jimmy said softly: "That's for what you did to Tim, Mr. Osman. I'm not blind. I can see that you've been torturing the kid. I'm not through, either. I've got a few more little tricks to show you before I kill you!"

He came slowly closer to the fat man, like an inevitable nemesis.

Osman cringed away from him, all the fight gone out of his fat body. "For the Love of God," he whimpered, "be merciful! I cannot stand pain; I will do whatever you want. But do not hurt me!"

Jimmy Christopher's lips curled in scorn. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it, eh? Well, you've got to take it. Or—" his voice lowered —"would you prefer to tell me a few things?"

"Anything! Anything!" Osman gasped. There were lines of sweat running down his round face.

"All right. Tell me how the Leopard plans to win America."

"I do not know that. I swear I do not know! We, here, are not in the Leopard's confidence. Wait!" As Jimmy came closer, his voice rose to a screech, and the words tumbled from his quivering lips. "I only know that the Leopard can make armies to retreat before him, and can melt all defense. I do not know how. But I can tell you that he has agents planted with the fleet. Those agents will see that the fleet is destroyed."

"Their names?" Operator 5's voice crackled. "Quick!"

Osman fumbled in his pocket, drew out a folded slip of paper. "Lina and I enlisted them all. But we do not know their duties. We handed them sealed instructions which were mailed to us."

His shaking hand extended the paper to Jimmy, who took it, stepped back, and ran his eye down the list of six names. He whistled. "No wonder the Leopard is so confident!" he exclaimed to Tim. "These are all executive officers!"

Tim suggested: "Call up Admiral Winston, Jimmy, and have him hold those men on shore—"

"Too late, Tim. The fleet has sailed. Here's the wireless operator on the Dakota, on the list. We'd never be able to get a message through to Winston. And here's Lieutenant Ward, Winston's personal secretary."

Suddenly he went to the door, pulled it open. "All right, boys," he called to the other Secret Servicemen. "You can come in."

He turned Osman over into their custody, watched them leave with the fat man, and the woman, Lina, who kept looking back at him all the time, but who said nothing. Jimmy knew that she guessed Osman had talked. As soon as the men were gone, leaving two of their number on guard in the house, Operator 5 swung to Tim Donovan. "How do you feel, kid? Equal to a little flight?"

Tim flexed his muscles. "As good as ever, Jimmy. Where do we go this time?"

"We're going to use my autogyro. We're flying out to the fleet, and have a personal interview with Admiral Winston. God grant that we get there before he sights the Leopard!"

6. DISASTER AT SEA

The wide stretch of the Atlantic Ocean was dotted with little specks from which thin streams of smoke rose in wavering spirals.

To the two figures in the autogyro high up near the clouds, the panorama was vast, the ships merely tiny shells whose decks seemed to swarm with insects.

Those insects were United States marines, hurrying to battle stations. From their vantage point, high above the planes of the fleet, the mighty formation of the United States navy appeared strangely picayune to Operator 5 and to Tim Donovan.

Operator 5 was piloting and Tim was scanning the ocean beyond the fleet with a pair of binocular telescopes. The thought occurred to Jimmy Christopher that it was thus with everything that man did—down on the earth, it all seemed so important—his father dying in a hospital, with Diane and Katerina at his bedside; Winston, confident in the vast floating armament which he commanded; the Leopard, seeking world dominion while Europe writhed in the death-throes of war. They loomed so large down below, while up here they receded to minute proportions. Jimmy wondered how all those things must look to God.

He snapped out of his reverie as Tim's arm rose and fell over the side of the cockpit, pointing to a cluster of smoke spirals far to the east of the fleet. Jimmy picked up his own binocular telescopes, leveled them down at the spot indicated. The powerful glasses brought everything up close to his eyes, and he discerned a small flotilla, steaming in close formation directly for the United States Fleet! At the masthead of each of those ships he made out the peculiar ensign with the figure of the crouching leopard.

He spoke into the instrument connecting with Tim's earphones. "The Leopard's got something up his sleeve, Tim, or he'd never sail so boldly for a fleet more than twice his size. And we're too late. There goes the first gun."

A puff of smoke had billowed out from a forward gun on the Dakota, and as if at a signal, the long V of the American ships spread out into a straight line.

It was then that Jimmy Christopher observed the peculiar actions of the United States planes. They were veering about, flying in odd directions, as if the pilots did not know exactly what to do, or where to go. Suddenly they turned, streaked back for their mother ships, the Langley and the Mattson. The first plane to reach the Langley bumped and bounced in an awkward landing, crashed its gear. The pilot of the second plane had not waited to see if the runway was clear, and he thundered down to end in a smashing holocaust, tangled with the first. Almost the same thing happened on the Mattson. In a moment, both aircraft carriers were a mass of living flame, and the other planes circled helplessly around them, unable to land, apparently at a loss as to what to do.

Jimmy Christopher watched, his eyes clouded with dread. "Tim!" he gasped into the transmitter. "They're without orders! Something's happened on the Dakota!"

Indeed, the flagship was steaming in an aimless circle, while the other ships of the line slowed their speed, also began to wander aimlessly. A destroyer rammed a heavy cruiser, and a huge pillar of flame erupted into the air. Smoke and fire engulfed the two ships, and when the wind blew it away, there was little left of them but the stern of the cruiser, rearing up into the air. Both ships had sunk in less than five minutes. Other ships rammed each other now, and soon the whole fleet was entangled in a snarl of aimlessly wandering, unguided ships. Many of the planes streaked down into the water, apparently out of control.

Half of the great fleet which had sailed so majestically only a few minutes before was now nothing but a helpless mass of wreckage; while the other half, including the Dakota, turned tail and ran.

And behind them steamed the forty ships of the Leopard, proudly victorious in their first battle with the greatest fleet in the Atlantic —victorious in a battle in which they had not struck a single blow!

Jimmy Christopher circled the scene of wreckage and death, grinding his teeth helplessly. The two aircraft carriers were on fire, and he could not land on them. His plane was not equipped with pontoons, and he couldn't come down on the water.

Before his eyes had taken place the greatest disaster in American naval history, and he had been utterly powerless to avert it.

Tim Donovan turned a dread-filled face toward him, asked tremblingly through the earphones: "Jimmy! What—what's it all about?"

Jimmy Christopher gazed down at the fleeing remnants of the United States fleet, and his eyes narrowed. He circled the Dakota, then flew to windward of her, and peered through the telescope at the cluster of figures on the bridge. He made out the uniform of Admiral Winston, and beside him that of Captain Loring, the commander of the ship. Just behind them was Lieutenant Ward.

Ward's name had been on that list in Dmitri Osman's possession. Jimmy had feared that Ward might do some physical harm to Admiral Winston at the critical moment, thus leaving the fleet without a supreme command. That might have slowed up the fleet's movements, but would not have proved disastrous. There were plenty of men on those ships who could direct the mighty armada in a sea battle nearly as well as Winston.

But apparently Ward had not harmed the admiral. Something far more subtle —far more devastating had been consummated under Jimmy Christopher's very eyes. What it was, he could not guess. However, he had seen its effects.

Now he exclaimed to Tim: "They've got enough ships left to stop the Leopard's fleet even now! Why, in God's name, are they falling back?"

There was very little space separating the rearmost of the United States ships from the foremost of the Leopard's fleet. Now, with startling abruptness, a long gun in the forward turret of the Leopard's leading ship belched flame and sound, and a shell screamed through the air, smashing into the stern of a lagging American destroyer. At that close range it had been impossible to miss.

The destroyer's rudder was shattered, and she wallowed suddenly in the trough of the sea, swinging around slowly with her broadside to the leading Asiatic ship.

Jimmy Christopher, flying above the Dakota, exulted. Now was the opportunity of the crippled destroyer. A single broadside would blast the pursuing vessel to Kingdom Come. Yet her big guns were silent. She rocked helplessly, and her captain apparently gave no orders as the Asiatic ship steamed up past her and let go with all of her port guns.

The destroyer was raked from stem to stern by that withering broadside, and abruptly Jimmy Christopher's throat became parched. For he saw the United States ensign being hauled down from the staff of the destroyer. She was surrendering without firing a shot!

Such a thing, to Operator 5's knowledge, had never before occurred in American naval history! His hand shook a little as he fingered the controls and banked, coming around into the wind and returning toward the Dakota.

Tim Donovan's face was white under the flying helmet and goggles. He brought his lips close to the transmitter, exclaimed: "God, Jimmy! They're quitting cold! Look! There's the flag coming down on another ship!" The boy closed his eyes to hide the sight.

He opened them again, looked back toward Jimmy Christopher. "What's the matter with Winston? He's watching those ships strike their colors and not even making a move to do anything about it!"

It was true. The admiral was standing on the bridge there beside Captain Loring. He was watching the surrender of the two ships and not moving. As the autogyro passed directly over the flagship, Jimmy Christopher looked squarely down, saw that the admiral's shoulders seemed to droop with despondency. The plane was quite low, and Jimmy could see the listless glance that Winston threw upward at them.

Suddenly Operator 5's lips narrowed into a thin line. His eyes mirrored quick resolve as he barked into the transmitter: "Take over the controls, Tim!"

The boy looked around very startled. "W-what're you going to do, Jimmy?"

"I'm going to bail out! I've got to talk to Winston, and see what's the trouble with him!"

"But Jimmy—!"

"Take over, Tim! Orders!"

Operator 5's voice crackled with authority, and Tim Donovan turned reluctantly, tested the controls. The boy had been trained to fly by Jimmy Christopher, and he held a pilot's license by special dispensation of the Department of Commerce, even though he was not of age. And he could fly rings around many seasoned airmen.

"Get me altitude!" Jimmy snapped.

In response to his command, the plane rose under Tim Donovan's manipulation, while Operator 5 tightened the cinches of the parachute about himself.

From one of the Asiatic ships, an antiaircraft gun began to spit; then another and another. The air about the plane began to be peppered with lead.

Calmly, in spite of the air-barrage, Jimmy Christopher threw a leg over the side of the cockpit, waited while Tim maneuvered the autogyro into position at a spot well ahead of the swiftly retreating Dakota. Half a dozen of the Asiatic ships were now joining in the fusillade. A slug sang through a wing of the plane, another screeched along one of the struts, but did not break it.

Tim glanced back at Operator 5, cried frantically into the transmitter: "You can't make it, Jimmy! They'll get you sure on the way down!"

But Jimmy Christopher didn't hear; for he had just then ripped off the earphones, thrown his other leg over the side, and kicked away from the plane. Tim's anxious eyes followed him as he plummeted down, and the boy uttered a short prayer.

His heart stopped in his mouth until he saw Jimmy Christopher pull the rip-cord, saw the bag billow and open, saw Jimmy's drop suddenly broken.

Operator 5 had fallen unscathed through the barrage, and now the antiaircraft guns followed him down. He was an easier target than the plane.

Tim Donovan, looking down, saw the muzzles of the long, thin guns on the Asiatic ship lower, to get Operator 5 in range. He said under his breath: "God, Jimmy, they'll get you!"

He saw the tracers from below scorching closer and closer to the parachute. In a moment now they would have the range. The chute was moving down so slowly that they'd be able to pick off Jimmy Christopher at their leisure.

And Tim Donovan, his face white, shouted defiantly down:

"Damn you! You won't get him!" With sudden decision, he snapped off the autogyro control, flung the plane downward in a singing power dive at the Asiatic fleet. The two machine guns mounted on the wings of the plane burst out in a wicked stutter as he pressed the trips, and a hail of lead spattered the deck of the foremost of the Leopard's ships. Tim flew low, keeping the machine guns belching until the last moment; then he pulled the plane out of the dive and rose swiftly.

His trick worked. The guns on all of the Asiatic ships swung away from the easy target offered by Operator 5, and concentrated on the autogyro. Tim had drawn their fire in order to give Jimmy Christopher a chance to get down!

Once more Tim dived; once more he swept the decks of the enemy ship with hot lead; and again he climbed steeply at the fag end of the dive. The air around him seemed literally filled with leaden death. Holes appeared in a hundred places in the plane. A strut snapped with a sound that was audible even above the roar of the motors.

But the boy, with his young face set in stubborn lines, returned again to dive. But he held his hand on the controls. For his downward glance at the parachute showed him Jimmy Christopher dropping squarely on the deck of the Dakota!

He yelled jubilantly into space: "Made, it, Jimmy! Attaboy!" He saw Jimmy Christopher get up out of the tangled mess of the chute, aided by some of the seamen on the deck. Jimmy looked up, and waved to Tim.

The boy leaned far out over the side of the ship, and shook hands with himself in the air. Then, his face all a grin, he snapped on the autogyro controls, and the huge blades overhead resumed their rhythmic movement. Tim swung the plane about, lifted it high out of the range of the barrage and climbed slowly.

Down below, on the Dakota, Jimmy Christopher hastened up to the bridge. As he passed along the decks he noted the expressions of the seamen and the marines. Their faces were dazed, uncomprehending. Most of them paid no attention to Operator 5. They were looking out to sea, watching boarding parties from the Asiatic ships taking over command of the United States vessels which had struck their colors.

When Jimmy Christopher readied the bridge, he strode wrathfully past several officers, faced Admiral Winston.

"Look here, sir!" he exclaimed. "You are throwing this battle to the Leopard! Even now, you have more ships left than he has. Why don't you turn on him? You haven't fired a shot yet!"

ADMIRAL WINSTON stood there dejectedly, a beaten man. Beside him, Captain Loring seemed no more spirited. The commander of the Dakota did not even appear to hear what Jimmy had said to the admiral. Instead, he threw a frightened glance in the direction of the pursuing ships of the Asiatic fleet, and turned to the engine room telegraph. He pressed a button, spoke into the tube:

"Can't you get more steam up, Michaels?" he demanded of the engineer. "They're still gaining on us!"

Then he turned back, stared out over the bridge at the dreadful scene behind them on the sea. United States ships were floating in flames behind them. Other ships were being boarded by the enemy. Not an American plane was left in the air. All around, behind them, the waters were dotted with the wreckage of those planes—twisted masses of metal and fabric which had plunged into the water at the command of some invisible force.

The anti-aircraft guns had ceased the snarling, but other guns on the enemy ships had opened up now, and shells were falling all about the Dakota and the other fleeing vessels.

Admiral Winston's eyes seemed glazed, expressionless, as he faced Jimmy Christopher. Behind the admiral, Lieutenant Ward gazed out at the scene with a dull, listless face.

Operator 5 stepped close to the admiral, seized his coat in one hand, shook him.

"Winston!" he cried. "Don't you hear me? What's the matter with you? Look at those ships firing at us! Turn around, man, and put up a fight! Our guns are superior to theirs. We have a longer range! You can still smash that Asiatic fleet!"

Winston shook his head slowly, hopelessly. "It's no use, Operator 5. It's no use! We can never fight the Leopard. Our only hope is to escape!"

The other officers clustered about the rail, paying no attention to Jimmy's hot words, but staring listlessly out over the ocean, their sole thought seeming to be of escape.

Jimmy Christopher's hand dropped from the admiral's coat. His eyes reflected puzzlement, bewilderment. These men were all brave men, he knew. They had distinguished themselves in many naval engagements during the war. The very men who stood there—the captain and officers of the Dakota—had run a submarine blockade into the Mediterranean half a dozen times, convoying troops to Europe. The Dakota had been chosen as the flagship of the Atlantic fleet because its crew had signalized itself by its valor in standing off an enemy squadron in the Mediterranean for sixteen hours only a couple of months ago, while the transports it was convoying made port safely. Yet here they were, turning tail meekly without firing a shot, and fleeing from an enemy which had not fired a single shot at them until just now.

Impulsively, Jimmy Christopher turned to Captain Loring. "You, captain!" he urged. "You're a hero to the American public. If you turn tail now, running away like this without firing a shot, you'll go home in disgrace. Give the order to turn around and fight, Captain. I'm sure the other ships will follow your example!"

Loring's face was white with some unnamed dread. "We can't fight!" he groaned hoarsely. "We don't mind dying; but we can't fight something we don't understand!"

The heavy guns of the Asiatic fleet were thundering behind them. The cruiser, Star, next in line to the Dakota, was suddenly struck by a shell. The shell hit the rear gun-turret, doing little damage against the heavy armor-plate. Yet almost at once the Star's flag began to come down!

Winston turned away from Jimmy Christopher, said in a dazed voice to Lieutenant Ward: "Do you think we should strike our colors too? It's so hopeless—"

Operator 5's face was set, his eyes bleak. He seized Winston by the shoulder, swung him around roughly.

"You're mad, Winston!" he shouted. "You've got more strength than the Leopard. Look at that fleet of his—there are not more than ten ships of war; the rest are transports. Didn't you say that you could blast them out of the water in no time? Go ahead and do it! Give the signal to the fleet to stand and fight!"

Winston gazed at him with dull eyes. "I was mistaken, Operator 5. No man can stand against the Leopard. The less opposition we give him, the better it will be for us—and for the whole country.

"Damn you!" Jimmy Christopher cried, "you're yellow!" He pushed past the admiral and Captain Loring, stared down onto the deck at the massed men below. They were all looking up at the bridge with pallid, fear-ridden faces.

Operator 5 called out to them: "Men! Your officers are mad. They are throwing this fight. Are you going to let them? By running away now, you are delivering your wives and daughters to the mercy of the Leopard. Will you fight? Then let's take over the ship—"

He got no farther than that. Behind him he heard Captain Loring order: "Seize him!"

He swung about, but too late. There was a rush of feet, and the dozen officers on the bridge overwhelmed him. He struck out with both fists, desperately, madly. For a moment they gave back before the fierceness of his attack.

He stepped quickly to the rail again, shouted down to the men below:

"Come on up, men! Take the ship! Let's put up a fight!"

But the men below stood about listlessly, not moving. And he swung back to the attacking officers just in time to see Lieutenant Ward aiming at him with a revolver from behind Admiral Winston's back. He ducked, launched himself at Ward. But the revolver in the lieutenant's hand bucked, roared. If Jimmy had been standing still at the moment, the slug from that gun would have struck him between the eyes. As it was, his leap saved his life. The slug tore through his flying helmet, creased the top of his skull.

Jimmy fell full length on the deck, lay there still. Blood oozed from the top of his head.

The big guns of the Asiatic fleet continued to boom, as Ward calmly put his revolver away, said coolly to Winston: "That disposes of him, sir. Now we had better try to get away before they sink us."

Winston nodded eagerly, said to Loring: "Get that engineer of yours to coax more steam out of her, Captain."

Loring saluted, turned to obey. And far above them, Tim Donovan in the autogyro, put down the binocular telescopes with which he had been watching the scene on the deck of the Dakota, while tears of chagrin coursed down his youthful cheeks. He shook his little fist down at the sea with impotent rage.

"Jimmy!" he sobbed. "Jimmy! They've killed you, Jimmy. God, they've killed you!" His hands shook on the controls as he raced back for shore...

7. AMERICA IS DOOMED!

IT was toward evening that the crippled remnants of the American fleet steamed into New York harbor past the Statue of Liberty, which seemed to stare at them in sardonic bitterness as they filed by. Some thirty-odd ships were all that was left of the majestic fleet which had sailed out so confidently to meet an inferior enemy that morning... New Yorkers, drawn and gray of face, lined the Battery and the banks of the Hudson, staring uncomprehendingly at these iron-and-steel bulwarks of their safety, which had proved to be no bulwarks at all.

Tim Donovan had returned hours ago, bringing word of the debacle, and now the boy sat tense and white-lipped in that same room in the Custom House where Jimmy Christopher had brought Katerina Saratoff that morning. He was telling the story of what he had seen to the Secretary of War, to General Falk, and to another man. This other man was the black-eyed, square-jawed head of the United States Intelligence Service, known as Z-7. He was Operator 5's chief.

The three men listened to Tim's tale in unbelieving wonder. "I tell you—" the boy's voice almost broke—"I saw it with my own eyes. I saw the ships haul down their flags, and I saw Jimmy shot. They were fighting on the bridge, and one of the officers with Admiral Winston pulled out a gun and shot him!"

Z-7 got up and paced nervously up and down the room. "After all this!" he muttered. "To think that Operator 5 would be killed by our own men!" He turned to the Secretary of War and General Falk. "That young man was like a son to me. His father served under me. Now his father's in the hospital—and Jimmy is dead!"

The Secretary of War shrugged. "I sympathize with you, Z-7. But there are graver things for us to consider. It appears that Operator 5 was right when he warned us of the Leopard's power. We laughed at him this morning. Now, if he were alive, he could laugh at us."

Tim Donovan got up, his lower lip trembling. The boy was trying hard to restrain his emotion. "Jimmy wouldn't laugh at you, Mr. Secretary. He would do something! Look!" Tim pointed dramatically out the window, from which a view of the Upper Bay was afforded. There, under their eyes, was the spectacle of the fleet, limping into port.

Behind the United States ships appeared a line of strange vessels. "There they come!" Tim exclaimed. "The Leopard's fleet! Why do you sit here? Why don't you do something? Are you going to let them take New York?"

General Falk stirred, got up and came to the window.

"They won't take New York," he said with confidence. "The fleet will make a stand in the harbor. Every fort in the harbor and on Staten Island, as well as the coast defense, is just waiting for my signal to open up, We—"

The general stopped short, and his face went pale. "God!" he exclaimed. He reached to the desk, snatched up a telescope, and raised it to his eye. The others in the room clustered around him.

"The fleet is surrendering!" he said hoarsely. "Look at that!"

The others didn't need the telescope to see the flag coming down on the Dakota.

In a moment the other ships of the fleet followed suit. There, practically within the harbor of New York, the remnants of the country's sea-forces were striking their colors.

"It's uncanny!" Falk murmured. "I would never have thought it of Winston. I've seen that man fight. He's never been afraid of anything in his life. And now—"

He swung away from the window. The Secretary of War took the telescope from him with a trembling hand, applied it to his eye. Tim Donovan crowded up beside the portly cabinet officer, and watched the American ships heave to, each with its flag lowered, and await the slow, steady approach of the Asiatic fleet.

The Secretary suddenly thrust the telescope at Tim, rushed to the phone on the table. "I've got to call Washington—"

But he was roughly pushed aside by General Falk, who growled at him:

"Washington can wait! This is more pressing!" And he seized the phone, barked a number into it. When he got his connection he snapped:

"Falk talking! Give the signal for Forts Wood and Jay to open up at once on the enemy fleet in the harbor. Have them flood the bay with shells! Bring every gun to bear on those ships. And they needn't worry about our own vessels. Understand? And they're not to stop until I give the word. I'll be watching!"

He put down the phone, turned to the others with a saturnine smile. "Watch the fireworks now!" he said. "The gunners at those forts have been waiting for the signal for an hour. In one minute the bombardment will begin. The Leopard and his fleet have sailed into a trap!"

He pushed past the Secretary of War, and stepped to the window beside Tim Donovan. The Secretary peered over his shoulder, while Z-7 went to the next window.

Everybody in the room was at high tension. The thoughts of Z-7 and of Tim Donovan were divided between the peril that threatened the city, and the fate which had overtaken Operator 5. They all watched, dull-eyed, the dramatic scene in the Bay, almost within the shadow of the Statue of Liberty, and of Fort Wood, on Bedloe Island. Boarding parties had left several of the vessels in the Asiatic Fleet, and were moving toward the American ships, which were awaiting them docilely.

Falk chuckled, deep in his throat. "Thirty seconds more," he said, "and you will see what I mean by a trap. These ships are right under the guns of Fort Wood on Bedloe Island, and of Fort Jay on Governor's Island. They won't be there five minutes after the bombardment opens. Mr. Leopard doesn't seem to know that it is impossible to attack New York Harbor. I've spent ten years making it impregnable. Our coast defense guns, together with the batteries in the forts can sink anything that floats before it gets to the Battery!"

He reached for the telescope which Tim was using, saying gruffly: "Here, boy. I'll take—"

Tim interrupted him with a hoarse shout, jerked the glass out of the general's grasp, and kept his eye at it. "Jimmy!" he shouted. "It's Jimmy! He's just dived off the Dakota!" The lad turned around, his eyes shining with sudden relief and joy, and he almost screamed at Z-7: "It's Jimmy, I tell you! I saw his face as he jumped!"

The others, also, had seen the lone figure race down the ladder from the bridge to the deck of the Dakota, leap over the side. They had not recognized the man, of course, but Tim had been focusing his glass on the flagship, in an effort to find the body of Operator 5. Now he almost danced with joy.

Falk scowled, attempted to take the telescope from him, but the boy pushed the general aside, peered through it again. He followed the swimming figure as it stroked powerfully away from the Dakota, while Z-7 breathed a deep sigh of relief. The news that Jimmy Christopher was still alive had removed a heavy load from his heart.

But General Falk growled: "Too bad. Ten seconds to go. When the bombardment starts, Operator 5 won't have a chance. Even if he isn't directly hit, the detonation will stun him. He'll sink!"

Tim Donovan turned quickly, gripped the general's sleeve. His eyes were desperate, and his lips were trembling. "Please, General!" he begged. "Hold off on the bombardment for a couple of minutes. He's a strong swimmer. Give him a fighting chance to get away. Quick! You still have time to phone!"

FALK shook his head. "Sorry, boy. I know how you feel. But we can't let one man's life stand in our way now. Operator 5 will have to take his medicine. I'd sacrifice a thousand lives—I'm doing it anyway—in order to blast that Asiatic. Fleet out of the harbor. I'm sacrificing the lives of every man in our own ships. I can't—"

Tim Donovan sobbed hysterically, beat with his fists against Falk's uniformed breast. "Damn you! Damn you!" he shouted. "You never liked Jimmy. Now you're willing to see him die. Well, you won't!"

Out in the harbor the lone swimmer cut through the water lithely, swiftly. In the room, Falk staggered backward under the boy's sudden onslaught, his face purple with rage.

Abruptly Tim sprang away from him, scooped up the phone from the desk. "Give me Corps Headquarters!" he snapped into the instrument.

Falk demanded: "What are you going to do?" and leaped toward him.

Tim Donovan's eyes were blazing. He reached into the open drawer of the desk, where he saw a service revolver lying, and snatched it out, leveled it at General Falk.

"Stand back!" he shouted. "I'll kill you if you try to stop me!"

Falk stopped stock-still at the wild look in Tim's eyes. He knew that the boy would shoot.

Into the telephone Tim spoke rapidly: "Corps Headquarters! General Falk wishes to countermand the order to open bombardment. You will delay it ten minutes, then open—"

He stopped speaking as Z-7 came around the desk, behind him, and struck down the wrist in which he held the revolver. Falk jumped in and snatched it away, clubbed it to bring it down on Tim's head. But Z-7 blocked the blow.

Falk glared at the Intelligence Chief. "Look out of my way! I'll break that whelp's neck—"

"You'll do nothing!" Z-7 snapped at him. "Don't you see that the lad is crazy with fear?" He glanced down at Tim, who had collapsed on the desk, sobbing with deep rasping sobs that racked his young body. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Tim!" he said softly. "It had to be this way. Jimmy would have wanted it like this if he'd been asked. I'd gladly die in his place if I could—"

Falk had grasped the telephone, and was barking into it:

"Proceed as I ordered, Lieutenant Gormley. Let the bombardment commence without delay. Have you given the order...what?"

Tim Donovan stopped his sobbing, raised his head at the sudden urgency —the sudden hint of panic in the general's voice.

The Secretary of War stepped closer, demanded sharply: "What's the matter, Falk?"

But the Chief of Staff didn't answer. He listened to a staccato voice at the other end, then shouted into the transmitter: "Put me through directly to Colonel Sloane at Fort Wood. Why! the—the—" Falk seemed to choke on the sudden anger that filled him. He stuttered for a moment, swallowed hard, then roared into the phone: "I'll hold the line! Put me right through!"

While he waited for the connection he sputtered with rage.

Z-7 glanced at Tim Donovan, said quietly: "I don't think you need to worry about Jimmy."

The Secretary of War demanded again: "What is the meaning of all this, Falk? You said the bombardment would commence in one minute. It's more than two minutes now—"

Falk tried to keep calm. His hand squeezed so hard on the telephone that it seemed the instrument would be snapped in two. He said tightly: "Colonel Sloane, at Fort Wood, informs Lieutenant Gormley that he thinks it's no use to bombard the Leopard's fleet. He says it's hopeless to try to defend New York against the invasion. He won't fight!"

The Secretary took a step backward as if he had been struck a blow. He echoed Falk's words. "Won't fight? But-but—!"

He stopped as Falk got his connection, fairly roared into the phone:

"Sloane! What's happened to you over there? Are you mad? Get your guns in action, I tell you. Hurry man! You... my God!" Falk's voice broke. Tim and Z- 7, who were quite close to the general,—distinctly heard the click at the other end, as Colonel Sloane hung up on his superior.

All the energy seemed to go out of Falk. He sighed, and let the phone drop from listless hands. "We're licked!" he said in a very low voice. "Sloane is quitting on the job. Gormley tells me that the commanders of Wadsworth and Hamilton won't fight either. The coast defense are lying down, too. They all say the same thing—that it's no us trying to fight the Leopard!"

TIM stared at him with wet, red eyes. "Jimmy Christopher warned you that something like this would happen. Didn't he tell you that the Leopard had marched across Russia without opposition? Didn't he tell you the same thing would happen here? But you wouldn't listen to him! Maybe you'll listen to him now!"

The boy sprang to the window. Night had fallen swiftly.

It was too dark to be able to make out anything on the waters of the bay. If Operator 5 were still swimming, it was impossible to catch sight of him.

There were red lights on the ships, now, and Tim shuddered as he saw the ominous Leopard flag go up on one after another of the American vessels as the boarding parties reached them.

The Secretary of War watched over Tim's shoulder. "There's no more United States Navy!" he whispered. He swung on Falk. "Those ships of the Leopard will land their troops in the morning. We've got to organize a defense. We've got to keep them out of New York!"

Falk laughed. "How are we going to keep them out? Our officers won't fight!" His eyes swung to Z-7, who had picked up the telephone and was talking quietly into it. When the Intelligence chief hung up, Falk asked him sarcastically: "Well, what are you doing to save your country from invasion? Or do you think we ought to retreat before the Leopard the way the Russians did?"

Z-7 replied without rancor. "We seem to be at a standstill. You appear helpless. I've phoned some of my men to get out in the harbor and try to pick up Operator 5. I confess I don't know what steps to suggest next. Perhaps he will know what to do."

Falk grimaced. "I'll not wait for that. I'm going to order all the troops available into New York. The Leopard can't land till morning. By then we'll have a reception ready for him!"

Z-7 laughed bitterly. "The only trained troops in the area embarked this morning—against the advice of Operator 5, I understand. They're out at sea now, waiting for a convoy which will never arrive. Where are you going to get troops?"

"I'll get them...somewhere!" Falk said stubbornly. "We're not reduced yet to waiting for the advice of a young whippersnapper like your Operator 5!"

The Secretary of War frowned. He leaned his stout, soft body against the window sill, stared out moodily at the ships clustered in the bay. "I can't understand this," he said querulously. "What could Winston have learned that caused him to turn tail and retreat? And what can have happened to Sloane and the commanders of the other forts in the bay, to make them feel it's useless to fight? I've got to call the President, and God help me, I don't know what to tell him!"

"Tell him," Z-7 said harshly, "that he will soon be a president without a country. Tell him that within forty-eight hours he will see the United States laid waste the way Russia was; that he will see his country pillaged and raped and burned—if he leaves its defense in the present hands!" Z-7's chin jutted. "And if you don't tell him that, I will, by God!"

General Falk's face flushed a deep red, and his hands clenched. He took a single step forward, and stopped, facing the Intelligence Chief. The two men stood that way for a long minute, their eyes locked, wills clashing.

In a moment there might have been a physical clash between the two. But just then the telephone rang. Without taking his eyes from Z-7, Falk picked it up and answered it. Then he handed it sullenly to Z-7. The Intelligence Chief took the instrument, said: "'Yes?" and listened for a second. His eyes brightened. "See that he has dry clothes," he ordered, "and bring him right up here!" He put down the phone, exclaimed excitedly: "They've picked up Operator 5! He's safe! Now—!"

His words were drowned by the dull boom of cannonading. Flashes of fire shone from Governor's Island, out in the harbor. They all rushed to the window. Thunderous detonations reverberated through the air, deafening them. Huge projectiles screamed high over their heads, above the roof of the Custom House Building. The night was suddenly made garish with flame and fire and noise.

The three men and the boy looked out at the harbor, standing in speechless amazement; terror rushed upon them as they realized what was happening.

Z-7 exclaimed in choked horror: "The Leopard has taken Fort Jay! They've turned our guns against us. They're bombarding the city!"

8. THE LEOPARD'S FIRST BLOW

Within twenty minutes after the bombardment began, New York City became untenable. The enemy had not stopped at the capture of Fort Jay. They had taken, in swift sequence, Forts Wood, Hamilton and Wadsworth. The big guns of these forts, together with the heavy pieces of the surrendered ships, belched a continuous torrent of steel into the metropolis. The Leopard seemed to be bent upon making a shambles of Manhattan Island, and he succeeded. Shells fell everywhere, spreading destruction and devastation. Almost at once the great exodus began. Every means of conveyance was used to hurry frantic, terror-stricken civilians to safety. But those who perished far outnumbered those who escaped.

All the main arteries leading out of Manhattan were clogged with autos of all vintages and descriptions. Household goods were abandoned. Trucks labored under loads of fifty and sixty people apiece. Private cars were crowded to capacity. The few regular soldiers available in the city, as well as the National Guard, were hastily impressed to aid the police in keeping traffic moving northward into Westchester, and across the Hudson into Jersey.

General Falk had acted with speed and efficiency. In spite of his choleric temper and hide-bound, old-school methods, he was a brave man, capable of quick decisions. He had only a few minutes after the commencement of the rain of steel projectiles in which to issue orders. After that the telephones and the lighting systems were paralyzed.

It was characteristic of him that he was big enough to acknowledge his mistakes when he was finally convinced of them; and when Jimmy Christopher burst into the room in the Custom House, dripping wet, not having waited to change clothes, the general was the first to meet him at the door.

"Operator 5," he said steadily, "I've been an old fool. Everything you predicted has come to pass." Falk's face was suddenly lined and old. "If we shouldn't survive this night, I want to say here and now that I am the one to blame!"

He had to shout to make himself heard above the thunder of the guns and the crashing explosions in the city where the big shells fell.

Jimmy Christopher passed a wet hand across his face, and wrung water from his flying suit. He was panting, breathing hard from his long swim. There was a raw welt across the top of his head, where Ward's bullet had creased him. He was weary, almost dropping from his wound and from exhaustion. But his eyes still flashed with the energy that kept him going even while his body screamed to him from every muscle for rest.

He brushed Falk's self-criticism aside. "You're not to blame, General. You couldn't be expected to believe that anything like this could happen. Now we've got to face it. You must use every available man in uniform. All cars and trucks must be commandeered, and the city of New York must be evacuated. God knows if we'll be able to get a tenth of the people out of here alive!"

Falk nodded eagerly, rushed to the telephone. He issued swift orders, then listened while Jimmy swiftly outlined more things that had to be done.

"We must keep communications open. In a little while, the telephone lines will be down, and the light cables will be destroyed. A shell may strike a vital spot at any time. Arrange for communication by flares and Very light. Get in touch with Forts Slocum and Schuyler in Westchester, with Fort Tilden in Rockaway, and Totten in Bayside. They all have the range of the harbor. Have them open up at once."

Falk nodded, talked swiftly into the phone. He got the machinery of transportation in motion, then called Fort Tilden. Just as he got the connection, the line went dead. He dropped the phone, made a gesture of resignation. "That's that. I'll have to send messengers now."

He turned to the Secretary of War. "You'd better be getting out, sir. This building may be hit any minute. All of you—" he waved a hand to include Tim Donovan and Z-7—"come out of here."

He led the way down to the street. Outside, though night had set in, there was plenty of light to see by. Fires had started in a hundred places throughout the city, and the flames made the darkness bright. The din of the cannonading deafened them, and the screeching of the shells made a continuous unearthly sound that dinned into their brains.

Men and women were running about wildly, panic-stricken. They had come down here to the Battery to see the fleet come back victorious. Instead, they had witnessed its abject surrender. Even when they saw the gruesome flag of the Leopard on the pursuing ships—even when they saw that flag go up on the captured United States vessels—they had not fully realized their own peril. Now, with the city in flames, with the continuous booming of cannon, their minds refused to react to the full significance of the catastrophe. They milled about on the Battery and in Bowling Green, like so many sheep, waiting for a shell to descend upon them and wipe them out of existence.

In response to Falk's orders, automobiles began to pour into the square, driven by National Guardsmen, and the terror-stricken people were loaded into them, packed like sardines, and driven quickly across to the East River, where ferries carried them over to Queens and the remoter parts of Brooklyn.

All the bridges were jammed. One of the first shells struck the Williamsburg Bridge, and the mighty structure buckled, collapsed into the river carrying with it thousands of unfortunates who had been seeking safety. After that, no one would use the remaining bridges to Queens and Brooklyn, and as a result, the ferries were overloaded. One ferry foundered in crossing, and hundreds more perished.

Soon the streets became impassable with debris from collapsed buildings. Huge craters appeared in the asphalt where shells struck. Water mains burst, flooding the whole of Manhattan Island. Gas fumes filled the air, mingling with the smell of cordite.

At Times Square, where there was an intricate network of subway lines underground, the whole surface caved in from the west side of Seventh Avenue to the east side of Broadway, and from Forty-second to Forty-fourth street. The Times Building and the Paramount Theatre Building collapsed, as well as many smaller structures in the area. The exact loss of life was never ascertained.

At last it became impossible for vehicles to move out of the city, due to the broken up streets. Those who had not escaped with the first wave of the exodus, and who were unable to find accommodations on any of the ferries, were doomed to remain and die. And die they did.

After five hours of steady shelling, the bombardment suddenly ceased. There was now no sign of life anywhere in the streets. Of the almost two million souls who had inhabited the borough of Manhattan, it was estimated that less than two hundred thousand had escaped the holocaust. The scorched, twisted, charred, drowned bodies of the other million eight hundred thousand persons made of Manhattan Island the greatest graveyard in the world.

At a single stroke, as many people had been wiped out as the United States had sent overseas to the trenches of Europe. And now the pitifully depleted troops gathered in Westchester, in Long Island and in Jersey, prepared to make a stand against the invaders.

The Secretary of War had flown to Washington in Jimmy Christopher's autogyro, with a pilot whom General Falk had supplied.

Jimmy himself, with the general, Tim Donovan and Z-7, remained in Manhattan until the last moment; all three of them kept constantly on the move, exerting themselves tirelessly to save the last possible human being from the terrific barrage that was being laid down. The section around the Battery had not been as heavily hit as other parts, and they were able to stall almost until the end of the bombardment. It was from an improvised headquarters that General Falk issued orders by means of runner and signal, for the concentration of what troops there were at hand around the Kensico Dam in Westchester, around Forest Park in Queens, and along the Palisades on the Jersey shore.

IT was at Jimmy Christopher's recommendation that he chose those sites, each of them being ideal for defense by a small body of men.

At last, bursting water mains flooded them out of Bowling Green, and they moved eastward just as the first of the Leopard's ships moved up the Hudson with the dawn.

Forts Schuyler, Slocum and Totten, as well as Tilden in Rockaway, had laid down a barrage in the harbor, but had done little damage to the enemy ships, for they had moved about constantly, without lights. Observation planes sent up from every field had been able to render little help in range-finding, due to the darkness. A couple of hits had been scored on Bedloe Island, but not at the fort; the right arm of the Statue of Liberty had been struck, falling in a shattered mass of metal. One or two of the enemy ships had been struck by accident, but aside from that, the Leopard's fleet was unscathed through the night.

With the coming of dawn, a flock of airplanes went up at Falk's command, but no sooner had they appeared over the Asiatic Fleet, than they began to act as erratically as had those attached to Winston's squadrons. Some mysterious power wielded by the Leopard seemed to deprive the pilots of their faculties, and the planes crashed into each other in the air, took nose dives, and went into tailspins until they struck the water.

After the destruction of the first contingent, Falk ordered no more air observation. It was at this time that he decided to leave Manhattan and take over command of the forces he had concentrated in Westchester.

"We'll make our stand around the Kensico Dam," he told Jimmy. "If this damn voodoo of the Leopard's should, by any chance, work up there, we'll be able to smash the dam and flood him out. It'll mean a terrific waste of land, and it'll do irreparable damage; but it'll all be nothing to what's already been done!"

Jimmy Christopher had worked like a beaver with the general, as had Tim and Z-7. But through it all there had preyed on Jimmy's mind the thought of his father in Mercy Hospital, and of Diane and Katerina with him. The hospital must have been destroyed with everything else. There was a queer heaviness in his chest when he stopped for a moment to think of that, but he said nothing, knowing that the same thing must be in the minds of Z-7 and Tim Donovan.

At last, the general was ready to leave by the power boat which awaited him at the foot of Liberty Street, on the East River. He said to Operator 5: "All right. I guess there's nothing more we can do here. We can't help the dead. The power boat will take us up the river around Astoria to the Glenn Curtiss Airport. I've got a plane waiting there to fly us to the Kensico Dam. Let's go—"

"Just a minute, general," Jimmy Christopher said quietly. "You go with Tim and Z-7. I'm staying here."

Falk stared at him. "Staying here! Why, man, the Leopard's troops will land here in an hour. You'll be taken—"

"I've got to stay, General," Jimmy persisted. "You know in your heart that all these plans you're making aren't worth a tinker's damn. The Leopard has some kind of power that makes our men quit before they start. How do you know you'll be immune to it, any more than Winston was, or the commanders of the forts in the bay? Our only chance is to find out what that power is. I'm going to stay and make a try at finding out!"

They were in the street in front of the Custom House Building, and Z-7 stepped up beside Jimmy, said quickly: "I'm staying too!"

Tim Donovan exclaimed: "Attaboy! The three of us will stay. We can't leave Jimmy here alone. We'll show that Leopard—well clip his claws yet!"

GENERAL FALK'S face was gray in the half light of the new morning. His eyes mirrored a strange wistfulness. "You are brave—I almost said 'men'—" with a glance at Tim's slim youthfulness". The Three Musketeers! I—I wish I could stay here with you. You're right, Operator 5. There's little chance of our making a stand against the Leopard as long as he controls this power to make us quit. There's no use in my taking over command at Kensico; anybody else can surrender just as well as I can." Suddenly a fierce resolve showed in his face.

"I'm going to remain here with you! Let me die with you, rather than see our country ravished by this coolie from Asia!"

"No, no!" Jimmy Christopher burst out. "You're needed elsewhere, sir!" General Falk was an executive whom it would be hard, if not impossible to replace at this time. Though Operator 5 had clashed with him often, he recognized the old war-dog's outstanding ability and innate tenacity. For him to stay here engaged in espionage work, would constitute a fatal loss to the defenses of the country.

"You've got to go, sir!" he rushed on. "This isn't your work; it's ours. Take Tim along with you—he doesn't belong here either. Hurry, sir. Z-7 and I will need time to get under cover and perfect our plans. Come on!" He started to lead the way across the water-swept street, littered with sewage from broken pipes.

But Falk stood his ground stubbornly. "I'm staying with you! Operator 5, I am the Chief of Staff of the United States Army. As such I am the superior of yourself and Z-7. I order you to cease arguing. I'm staying!"

Jimmy turned slowly, throwing a side glance at Z-7. He said: "I admire you for your courage, sir. If I were in your place, I'd want to do the same. But you're needed at Kensico. So I hope that later on you'll forgive me for this!"

As he spoke he stepped in close, brought up his bunched fist in a swift blow to the point of Falk's jaw. There was a dull thud, and the general sagged, his eyes glazing.

Jimmy caught him before he fell to the ground. "Help me carry him to the boat, Z-7!" he rapped.

The Intelligence Chief was startled at Jimmy's swift action; then suddenly he smiled, bent to help. The two men carried General Falk across the three blocks to the foot of Liberty Street, deposited him in the power boat which was waiting, manned by three officers of the General Staff.

They fired questions at Z-7 and Jimmy Christopher when they saw their chief being carried, unconscious.

"The general's had an accident," Jimmy explained. "He'll be all right in a little while. Take him up to the airport as fast as you can."

The officer in charge, who knew both Z-7 and Operator 5, nodded, and made Falk as comfortable as possible in the stern of the boat.

"Just a minute," Jimmy said. He swung around to Tim Donovan. "All right, kid. Get in there too."

Tim Donovan shook his head rebelliously. "Nix, Jimmy. I go where you go. Laugh that off!"

Jimmy stepped close to Tim, drawing his right arm back a bit, setting himself for another blow. But the boy had learned his lesson from watching what had happened to Falk. He backed away hurriedly, turned and ran down the street. Then, when he got a safe distance away he stopped, and thumbed his nose at Jimmy.

"Come back here!" Jimmy shouted. "Get in that boat or I'll break your neck!"

"Okay, Jimmy!" the lad called back. "Send the boat away, and I'll bring my neck over to be broken!"

Jimmy shrugged helplessly. He nodded to the officer, and the painter was thrown off, the boat chugged up the river bearing the unconscious Chief of Staff.

Z-7 said to Jimmy: "The lad's been through so much with you, he's entitled to stay, Jimmy. I can tell how he feels with your father and Diane probably dead, with you going into the face of almost certain death; I guess there's nothing left in life for him."

Jimmy nodded somberly. He motioned to Tim, who came running back, but stayed at a respectful distance.

"Fingers, Jimmy?" he asked, watching warily lest Jimmy Christopher make a dive for him.

"Fingers, Tim. I guess you stay."

The boy's face lighted up joyfully, and he came closer. "What do we do now?"

Jimmy glanced questioningly at Z-7. "First of all, we've got to find a place to hole up in till after the Leopard and his men have landed. Has Intelligence got any spots around here, that haven't been destroyed?"

Z-7 shook his head. "You know all the Intelligence addresses as well as I do, Jimmy. There's nothing—"

Suddenly Operator 5 snapped his fingers. "I've got just the place! Do you remember the old municipal wine cellars under the Brooklyn Bridge?"

"They haven't been used for years. Hardly anybody knows about them. We could hide out in them for years, and nobody would find us!"

"Wine cellars?" Tim asked. "I never heard of them."

"You've got a lot to learn yet, kid," Jimmy told him.

Z-7's eyes were sparkling. "It's a natural, Jimmy. Maybe we can recruit a force of men down there. There must be some survivors wandering about the city, unable to escape. We can move them in there!"

The three hurried up Broadway, picking their way in the unsure footing of torn-up asphalt and mangled bodies, debris of buildings and floating sewage.

Behind them, the first of the Leopard's ships tied up at the Battery, and a stream of men began to descend. Jimmy Christopher and his two companions glanced back frequently, watching the queerly mailed soldiers from Asia set foot on New York ground. In their van was a huge figure, with a peculiar breastplate of mail, and a helmet of similar material. In the light of the flares which illuminated the landing they could see this huge figure strut up and down while his men disembarked. He carried only a single weapon—a huge Chinese broadsword, which the average man would have required two hands to wield, but which he carried easily in his right fist.

Z-7 whispered to Jimmy: "The Leopard!" Jimmy Christopher nodded. He half turned, as if to go back. "If we could get him now, the whole invasion would fall to pieces!" But Z-7 laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Too late, Jimmy. You could never reach him!" It was true. The immense figure of the Leopard was now completely surrounded by a bodyguard of mailed warriors. Other Asiatic soldiers now descended, wheeling motorcycles, They formed in a solid phalanx ahead of the bodyguard. And so the procession of the conquering horde from Asia marched into the wrecked streets of New York City, while Operator 5, Z-7 and Tim Donovan slunk away before them toward the old wine cellars.

9. MINUTE MEN OF 1936!

Though Manhattan had been turned into a gory shambles, there were yet many spots between the Battery and Spuyten Duyvil which had been spared by the screaming barrage. Here and there, houses stood, untouched. By a peculiar quirk of fate, the old Sixth Avenue Elevated line between South Ferry and Fifty-third Street had not been hit in its entire length. The old, rickety looking structure, which the taxpayers of the city had been fighting to tear down for years, still stood intact. Along its entire length the trains of wooden cars remained on the tracks, at the spots where they had stopped when the power-houses ceased to function.

And it was to the shelter of these cars that hundreds of survivors flocked. Men and women without homes, carrying children in their arms, or lugging some few possessions that they had managed to salvage, climbed the creaking staircases of the "L" structure, walked the tracks until they found a car in which there was room for them.

The biting January winds had caught many without clothes, just as they had run from their homes. Some had only thin night clothes to protect them against the bitter winds; and there was none who had clothing to spare. So they hurried gladly to the comparative warmth of the elevated cars.

The stations along the line had been improvised into emergency dressing rooms for the wounded, and here the handful of doctors who had survived were treating victims of the bombardment as well as many patients who had been carried from neighboring hospitals.

As well as they could, without leadership, physicians and nurses had organized a home-made system of relief, scouting among the wreckage of drug stores for medical supplies, gauze and bandages, and using whatever came to hand.

During the early morning hours these unselfish doctors and nurses labored over the sick and wounded, not knowing what their fate was to be, wondering vaguely in the backs of their minds whether the conquerors would not come in a little while and undo with the sword what they had done so well with the implements of the healing arts.

They were soon to know...

At eleven o'clock the first cohorts of the Asiatic army began their march through Manhattan Island. In their van, strangely, rode the Leopard himself, in the armored sidecar of a motorcycle. The streets were impassable to wide- bodied, automobiles, but these narrow vehicles, which the Asiatic army had used in Russia, were able to negotiate them with comparative ease, skirting the wide maws of the shell-holes in the asphalt, sloshing through deep puddles of sewage. The stench in the city was almost unbearable, but the Leopard did not seem to mind.

His darting eyes, set deep in his flat head, seemed to look everywhere at once, as if he were savoring to the full the perfume of his victory. In spite of the cold, he wore the same breech-clout that he had worn on the plains of Russia, with the addition of a glinting metal breastplate, and helmet of the same material. His arms, thighs and legs were bare, copper-colored, oily. Muscles bulged on his sinewy body.

Behind him, far down Broadway, was strung out the long line of motorcycles, and behind the motorcycles came infantry, disembarking from ship after ship that tied up at the dock.

Lean, wiry, yellow men these, who marched phlegmatically, stoically, hardly impressed with the sight of the havoc their guns had wrought. Each motorcycle was armed with a machine-gun cunningly fastened to the front plate of the side car, so that it could be swiveled in any direction. The cycles themselves were heavy machines, with solid tires. The driver was protected by a sort of shield which was part of the handle-bar, and which came down in front almost to his knees. It was equipped with slotted holes for the eyes. The only parts of the driver which were exposed were his feet.

As the motorcade proceeded up lower Broadway, patrols branched out from the main column into the side streets wherever they were passable, and then filtered up the other north-and-south thoroughfares. Wherever there appeared to be signs of life, the patrols stopped and investigated...

Whatever unfortunates were found huddled in chance buildings which had been left standing were immediately seized and searched. Then, after any valuables in their possession had been taken from them, they were forced to march north at the double-quick, ahead of the motorcycles. No words were spoken to them by the little yellow soldiers, but resistance or objections of any kind insured swift death.

On the East Side, a patrol found two dozen or so bedraggled men and women, with two children among them, huddled for shelter in one of the loading platforms used by the vegetable markets.

The mailed Asiatics descended from the armored cars, swarmed into the loading platform, and prodded the shivering, frightened captives out into the raw cold night at the points of their bayonets.

Several of the women were only half dressed, and the gallant men had lent them overcoats and other articles of clothing. The overcoats were ruthlessly stripped from the women, and the rough hands of the wiry yellow soldiers searched them for valuables.

One of the women, a plump young matron, pretty, with blond hair, wore only a night dress under the great overcoat which she pressed about her. She shrank from the brutal soldier who ripped the coat open, and turned to cling to a tall man who was holding a curly-headed girl of five by the hand. The little girl was staring with wide, frightened eyes at the silent soldiers. The tall man put his free arm about the woman, shouted at the mailed looters: "Damn you! Take your hands off my wife!"

The soldier grinned wickedly under his helmet, swung his long rifle down, and without hesitation thrust the bright, glinting bayonet into the tall man's stomach, twisted it cruelly, and yanked it out, dripping red.

The tall man screamed, writhing in agony as blood gushed from him, then he collapsed to the ground, his screams dying to muted groans. The little girl whose hand he had been holding stood rooted to the spot, staring with unbelieving eyes at the death throes of her father, while the woman swiftly knelt, grasped at her husband with frantic hands. She cradled his head in her arms, let her tears fall on his face. The wounded man's hands were pressed hard to his stomach, and they were becoming swiftly wet with his own blood.

The soldiers of the Asiatic patrol were facing the rest of the group of fugitives, holding their bayonets ready for any further protests. But the others were too cowed by what had happened to do anything but stand meekly by. There were six mailed men in that patrol, under the command of a petty officer. It was the officer who had stabbed the woman's husband.

Now he bent down, seized her by the shoulder, and dragged her roughly away from her husband. The man's head fell to the ground as she was suddenly compelled to release him, while the little girl, with a sudden cry of anguish, rushed at the officer, beating at him with her two little fists, and shouting:

"My daddy! You hurt my daddy!"

The Asiatic officer bared his teeth at the child, held the woman with one hand, and raised his clubbed rifle with the other. In another instant he would have brought it down on her skull.

It was at that instant that the bark of an automatic sounded at a little distance behind him. A slug whined through the air, smashed into the bone of his right wrist, shattered it. The rifle fell from inert fingers, and he let go of the screaming woman, gazed stupidly at his bloody hand, which suddenly hung uselessly at his side.

The five men of his detail swung, startled, in the direction from which the shot had come. About fifty feet down the street was a low pile of debris from a shell-torn building, consisting of bricks and fragments of steel which had fallen athwart the gutter. Behind this pile of wreckage they saw the head and shoulders of a young man, attired in a flying suit and helmet. The top of his leather helmet was stained with clotted blood.

Beside the young man stood a grizzled, older man, and on his left hand was a boy with a freckled face. All three of them held automatics.

EVEN as the yellow soldiers raised their rifles, the young man and his two companions fired again, their automatics spitting flame at the armored warriors. Lead slugs clanged harmlessly against the armor of the Asiatics; their breastplates were bullet-proof. The fusillade did no damage beyond staggering the Asiatics backward, spoiling their aim with the rifles.

Their first volley went high over the heads of the three behind the breastwork of debris. The twenty-odd American captives stood tense with sudden hope as the young man and his two companions fired again, more carefully from behind their protection.

One of the Asiatic soldiers uttered a scream that ended in a gurgling whisper, pitched forward with a jagged hole spurting blood from his throat. Another collapsed on a wounded leg, while a third was spun about by the force of a bullet through the exposed part of his shoulder.

The three with the automatics had realized at once that the armor was not for show, but was truly bullet-proof; and they were aiming at the exposed parts of the Asiatics.

The wounded officer shouted to the two unwounded soldiers in a high- pitched, sing-song dialect, and the two dropped to their knees, took deliberate aim with their rifles. But the young man behind the debris fired twice quickly, with deadly accuracy, and caught them both between the eyes before they could shoot.

A glad shout went up from the shivering white captives, and the Asiatic officer, suddenly gripped with fear, turned to run, holding his shattered wrist pressed close to his chest. But the little girl, who had been standing at the side of her dying father, threw herself at him, clasping his shins in both her frail arms. The officer went sprawling to the ground, and in a moment the three had run out from behind the breastworks and leaped upon him.

In a few minutes, the four wounded Asiatics were securely tied with belts and suspenders commandeered from the men among the fugitives. The young man with the automatic patted the little girl on the head.

"That was a brave thing you did, young lady," he said.

She looked up at him, smiling through her tears, then glanced at the trembling form of her mother, leaning over the rigid body of her father.

"Daddy!" she called in choked voice. "Daddy!"

Gently the young man led her away from the sight. He called over the freckle-faced boy, who had been busy examining the armor and weapons of the fallen Asiatics.

"Here's something for you to do, Tim," he said. "Take care of this young lady. She needs care."

Tim Donovan grimaced, but took over the assignment without other objection.

Z-7 was talking to the bedraggled fugitives, and Jimmy Christopher went over to him, said crisply: "I have an idea, Chief. Let's get all these people into the shelter of the wine cellar. Have them help to carry the Asiatics in there too. We can use that armor and those rifles."

He turned to the assembled group. "It's a lucky thing this happened right around the comer from our hiding place. We heard the motorcycles, and came out to investigate. Now, if you'll help us carry these prisoners around the comer, we'll get them in there and mop up around here, so as not to leave any trace of what's happened in case another patrol should come along. Then I've got a little plan to talk over with all of you. I suppose you'd all be willing to strike a blow against the Leopard?"

The men in the group assured him fervently that they would. The wife of the man who had been bayoneted came over, pressing the overcoat about her, her eyes shining with a fanatic glow.

"I'll help," she said. "They killed my husband."

The statement was a simple one, and she said it without any great show of emotion. But Jimmy Christopher could detect the taut hate behind her eyes.

"You shall have your chance, madam," he promised. "Meanwhile, you can help best by taking care of your little girl." He motioned to Tim Donovan, who led the child over, gave her into the custody of her mother.

IT was the work of only a short while for the men and women of that group to carry the wounded Asiatic soldiers around the comer, and to dispose of the body of the dead father and the two yellow soldiers whom Jimmy had shot between the eyes. Soon there was nothing to show that anything had happened at this spot except for several dull, reddish stains in the gutter.

Around the corner was the entrance to the old wine cellars. Above them loomed the wrecked structure of the Brooklyn Bridge, with long shanks of steel hanging from the splintered framework. All about them were the torn and twisted bodies of civilians who had died during the bombardment, half covered by debris from the destroyed bridge.

Through all this wreckage Jimmy Christopher led the way to a shattered subway kiosk. Picking his way through twisted steel, he found the staircase leading down into the subway station. Behind him came a procession of bedraggled men and women, carrying the wounded Asiatics. Into the eyes of these people had come a new light of hope. Jimmy's quiet, efficient manner, his crisp, quick decisiveness, had imbued them with fresh courage.

At the end of the procession, Z-7 and Tim Donovan, with one of the men from the fugitive group, wheeled the three motorcycles. Quietly, silently, the whole company disappeared within the kiosk. Under the ground, about a hundred feet up the subway track, there was a wall opening in the tunnel, which led directly into the old wine cellars. Here there was refuge from the merciless Asiatic hordes who patrolled the streets above.

No sounds entered these deep caverns from above, and the air was musty, stagnant. Candles guttered in one corner, and provisions of every description, which Jimmy Christopher, Z-7 and Tim had foraged early that morning were piled high. There were tins of canned salmon, canned corned beef, canned milk and fruit juices, as well as boxes of crackers and stores of other groceries.

Beside them, Operator 5 had knocked together a rude wooden table upon which he had placed electrical materials picked out of a wrecked wholesale warehouse. He and Tim were working on the construction of a wireless sending equipment with which to communicate with General Falk and the outside world.

Jimmy smiled as he saw the expressions of astonishment and pleasure on the faces of the refugees.

"If you ladies," he suggested gaily, "will go to work on the groceries, you may be able to scare up a meal for all of us. If you're as hungry as I am, those cans ought to go fast."

The women welcomed the chance to do something that would take their minds from the tragedy of the sacked city, and they were soon busying themselves with can-openers, chatting animatedly among themselves.

Jimmy Christopher drew the men of the group to one side, and while Tim Donovan and Z-7 listened, he spoke swiftly, keeping one eye on the three Asiatic captives, whose wounds were being tended by some of the other women.

"You men are going to be the nucleus of the fight to drive the Leopard from the city and from the country," he told them. "We'll use this place as headquarters, and we'll go about the city in search of more refugees and of weapons to arm them with. Wherever you find white men and women in hiding, you will try to guide them here in safety. We—"

"Just a minute," one of the men interrupted. "How are we going to go around the city, without being caught by these Asiatics? The minute we walk out —even if it's at night we'll be spotted!"

"We're going to minimize that chance," Jimmy told him grimly. "We'll go out only at night, as you say—"

"But they'll have flares up. They'll be able to tell us from their—"

"No they won't. Tonight, only six of us will go out. We'll be dressed just like them! There's complete equipment for six of us on the captured soldiers—even including the motorcycles. We'll be an Asiatic patrol!"

The boldness of Jimmy Christopher's proposal stunned his listeners for a moment. There were fifteen men in that group. Some of them were downtown business employees—insurance agents, bank tellers, stockbrokers' clerks.

Others were husky laborers from the fruit markets, and petty East Side gangsters. Two or three were fairly prosperous business men from other sections of the city, who had been caught in restaurants with their wives and children by the sudden bombardment. All of them, Jimmy Christopher knew, were exempt from military service either by reason of some physical disability such as heart trouble or defective eyesight, or by reason of employment in an industry necessary to the conduct of the war. The trenches in Europe had already claimed the best of American manhood, and these were but pitiable tools with which to work.

Yet he saw by the eagerness which grew in their eyes as the possibilities of his plan opened up before them, that they would work with him to the limit. All nationalities were represented in this group—they were men whose parents or grandparents or great-grandparents had come from the four corners of the earth. But they were Americans. Theirs was the stock which had brought the country to the pinnacle of its power; and when catastrophe threatened, they would fight to the last breath in their body.

A quick murmur of enthusiasm ran through the crowd. They surrounded Jimmy, throwing questions at him, each volunteering to be among the first six to man the motorcycles that night.

Operator 5 ran his eye over them, and selected four likely-looking men.

None of them knew who he was, but they all were ready to trust themselves to his leadership. The four men selected grinned with pride at being chosen.

Jimmy detailed others to the task of stripping the armor and weapons from the dead and wounded Asiatics. Then he took a census of the weapons in the possession of the group, and found that there was only one revolver among them all.

The man who owned the revolver, he stationed at the foot of the subway stairs, with instructions to keep a lookout there. The possibility of discovery was very slight; but, like a good general, Jimmy guarded against it.

Then he drew aside the four men he had selected, and spoke to them in low tones.

"We'll start tonight, as soon as it gets dark. I'll drive one motorcycle, and this gentleman—" he nodded toward Z-7—"whom you can call Mr. Smith, will drive another. You, Green—" he addressed one of the four, a stocky man of forty who was clad in the greasy overalls of a mechanic, and who knew all about motorcycles will drive the third. "You three—Hadley, Cohen and O'Ryan—will man the side cars and use the machine guns in case we get in a jam. Mr. Smith and I will show you how they work before we leave. Our object—"

Tim Donovan, who had been listening on the fringe of the group, broke in heatedly:

"Hey, Jimmy! Where do I come in on this? Why can't I drive the third motorcycle? I—"

"You stay here, Tim!" Jimmy told him sternly, pointing at the pile of electrical supplies. "Your job is to build a sending set before morning. You've got everything you need right there, and it's vital that we have some means of communicating with General Falk."

"But—!"

"Sorry, Tim, but the answer is nix!"

Tim Donovan made a wry face, but refrained from further protest. He realized the importance of building a sending set, and he knew that he was probably the only one there, outside of Jimmy Christopher himself, who could do it. Many times he had puttered about in the laboratory which Jimmy maintained at his father's house, and he had taken a keen interest in wireless, learning everything that Jimmy tried to teach him. Though he was barely out of his middle teens, his fund of information on many subjects was equivalent to that of an expert.

"Okay, Jimmy," he said. "I'll get to work."

He left the group, and Operator 5 went on with his instructions. "Our object will be to cruise the city, avoiding large Asiatic patrols if possible. We will try to locate as many refugees as we can, and direct them to this place. If we should meet any isolated motorcycles, we will try to capture them, and thus increase our strength. We will always cruise together; if we should be recognized and chased by a superior force, we will separate, and return here by different routes, singly. In that way, the chances of all of us being caught will be reduced. Under no circumstances is any of you to come back here unless you're absolutely certain that you have shaken off pursuit. This place must remain a secret!"

As he finished issuing his instructions, one of the women came over, smiling, to inform them that dinner was served.

The whole tone of the group was different now from what it had been an hour before. Their spirits were soaring with the prospect of action.

And one of the men, raising his improvised cup, offered a toast:

"Here's to us—the Minute Men of 1936!"

A low shout went up from all of them, and the cups were drained. Eyes glowed, talk bubbled. The spirit of 1776 was rumbling through the vaulted spaces of the old wine cellar!

10. TOWERS OF TERROR

The disembarking of the hordes of Asiatic troops took most of the morning. While it went on, the Leopard pushed up as far as Thirty-fourth Street. Here he found the Sixty-ninth Regiment Armory standing undamaged, and he made it his headquarters.

On the way up town, the yellow soldiers had rounded up several hundred homeless refugees, driving them from "L" stations and other places where they had hidden.

When the long column of mailed troops halted at noon time, the captives were forced to cook for the soldiers, in the improvised kitchens set up in the streets. Others were made to wait on the invaders. At the least sign of unwillingness, at the slightest mistake, death came painfully—by means of a bayonet in the stomach. The iron heel of the conqueror was making itself felt.

Down at the docks, the captured seamen and marines from the thirty-odd American ships which had surrendered were compelled to unload large square plates of metal, of material similar to the of the armor yellow soldiers After the metal plates came heavy crates of mysterious machinery. All of this had to be hauled through the streets to the Leopard's headquarters and since it was impossible for trucks to drive through the shell-torn thoroughfares, the prisoners were pressed into service as beasts of burden. And if a man dropped and could not rise again, he met a lingering, painful death.

At last, the machinery reached Thirty-fourth Street, but the prisoners were given no respite. They were at once set to work at putting together the plates, fastening them with heavy threaded bolts which fitted into slots in the metal. Others were ordered to unpack the crates of machinery.

Supervising all the work was a wizened, wrinkle-faced Chinese, whom the yellow officers addressed as Doctor Fu. So hard did Doctor Fu drive the conscript labor, that within two hours the work was completed, and there stood, in the street before the armory, a tall, square tower, with loopholes through which projected long-barreled objects resembling guns.

The prisoners could guess, however, that these were not ordinary guns, for instead of having breeches which could be loaded, there was merely a long piston-like ramrod, worked by a lever. At a shift of the lever, the ramrod could drive into the long barrel of the tube. Just within that tube, where the ramrod struck, was a chamber containing powder, and an aluminum ball about six inches in diameter. These balls were apparently hollow, for they weighed almost nothing.

It was shortly after noon that the first counter-attack against the invaders was launched by the United States forces under General Falk. It took the shape of a small flotilla of airplanes which flew over Manhattan Island, reconnoitering.

From outside, in the street, the prisoners watched the droning planes overhead, almost hoping that the aviators would drop heavy explosives upon them and though ending their own misery, wipe out these yellow warriors who were a grisly threat against American ideals and liberty. Manhattan Island was a shambles anyway; an air bombardment could not do much further damage, and it would destroy most of the Asiatic troops massed in the streets.

But no bombs were dropped...

FOR suddenly, while the planes were still north of Manhattan, the long tubes in the tower began to belch flame as they were fired. The aluminum balls were catapulted upward at amazing velocity, bursting among the planes.

And abruptly, though no direct hits had been scored, the pilots seemed to lose control of their machines. Formations broke. Wings grazed, and ships crashed.

Those planes which were not destroyed at once turned tail and fled. It was the last air attack attempted by the beleaguered United States forces.

But the long guns in the metal tower did not cease firing. The American captives, watching with sinking hearts, saw that the elevation of the muzzles was being changed, saw a second tier of guns in the tower, longer than the first, swing into action.

And then they saw a part of the Asiatic column start to move northward again. Motorcycles barked and stuttered as rank upon rank of yellow troops swung into motion, drove past them.

They saw the Leopard standing in the entrance of the armory, watching his hordes move on to the attack. There were among them many who would gladly have leaped upon that figure if they had possessed a weapon of any sort. But they had been stripped of everything in their possession; and, moreover, a double rank of mailed warriors was lined up between them and the coolie conqueror.

Black anger suddenly shone in the eyes of the prisoners, as they saw a dapper figure in naval officer's uniform come out of the armory and join the Leopard. Some of them knew that man. It was Lieutenant Earl Ward.

Ward spoke a few words respectfully to the Leopard, who grinned wolfishly, nodded, and reentered the armory, with the American lieutenant trailing him.

Murmurs ran among the captives. They all wore hangdog, ashamed expressions. They could not understand what had happened to them aboard their ships. They could not understand now why they had, abruptly hauled down their flags, meekly surrendered to the enemy more than thirty first-class fighting ships, all superbly equipped. They only knew that they had done a shameful thing, and they burned to vindicate themselves.

But their captors seemed to understand their mood completely, and they were given no opportunity to attempt anything. They were ringed by a circle of glittering steel bayonets in the hands of merciless yellow soldiers who did not hesitate to use them.

Now a little food was passed among them, the remains of the repast of the Asiatic troops. And then they were once more put to work.

More plates were fastened together, more machinery lifted into place by the labor of their sweating backs. But this time, the tower which they constructed was built upon a platform of steel which in turn rested on wheels. It was a mobile fort.

They were driven to their task as long as daylight lasted, and by the time night had fallen, the moving tower was complete. Then they were allowed to sleep—out in the street, wherever they dropped, too weary from exhaustion to quibble at the hardness of their bed, or at their lack of covering...

In the mean time, the word had flashed over the entire United States that New York was destroyed. The country was in a panic of excitement. Criticism of the General Staff, of the Secretary of War, of the President, was rife.

Washington was a beehive of feverish activity. Orders crackled over the wires across the length and breadth of the country. In every training camp in the East, raw, untrained men were rushed into trains and motor trucks, headed for New York.

General Falk, who had recovered consciousness from Jimmy Christopher's blow, was once more his old dynamic self. From his headquarters at White Plains he ordered the disposition of all the American troops available. Almost a hundred thousand men were strung out across Westchester County in New York, and across Bergen and Essex Counties in New Jersey. These men were not the highly trained troops which the United States had sent to Europe, but they were far more eager to fight—because this was really a war for the protection of their homeland.

With a shrewd eye to a pitched battle, Falk had concentrated the bulk of his force around Kensico Dam, as he had told Jimmy he would do. The terrain here was ideal for defense, and there was not much doubt in General Falk's mind that he would be able to stem the advance of the Asiatic horde. All of southern Westchester County had been evacuated up to White Plains. Supplies of every kind had been withdrawn. Throughout the day, huge trucks, driven by volunteer civilians, had removed from that section all the food and useful supplies which could be found. Stores and warehouses were emptied.

When the invader marched north from New York, he would find nothing to eat. Heavy cannons were being moved into place which would lay down a devastating barrage. Forts Slocum and Schuyler were crammed with ammunition for their big guns, ready to join the barrage at the zero hour. And the zero hour would be, according to Falk's plan, when the Asiatic troops reached Yonkers and Mount Vernon. He was prepared to sacrifice those towns deliberately—to wipe them from the map—and with them, the handful of yellow invaders from the East.

As a feeler, he ordered four squadrons of planes into the air, to observe the movements of the enemy in Manhattan. From the roof of the County Building in White Plains he watched the flight of those squadrons, watched them destroy themselves just as the naval planes had done the day before.

He waited in vain for a single plane to return-to report exactly what had happened. None returned. But he heard the dull booming reports of guns from New York City. He didn't know about the metal tower.

Suddenly, all the snap and pep went out of him. The same uncanny power which had made Winston surrender, was reaching out for the peppery old Chief of Staff. With sagging shoulders, Falk descended from the roof, made his way to a room in the County Building where a telegraph operator sat at a key, alertly waiting.

"Have you picked up anything from Operator 5 yet?" Falk asked anxiously.

The telegraph operator shook his head.

"Watch for his code signal," Falk ordered. "If he isn't dead yet, he'll manage to communicate with us somehow. He is our only hope!"

He went into his own office to report by telephone to Washington. His report was never given out to the press...

11. THE LEOPARD HOLDS COURT

In New York City, in the armory on Thirty-fourth Street, the Leopard was holding court. He sat at the desk of the former commanding officer of the armory, which had been hauled out of the office into the large assembly room. Light from dozens of tapers fell on the Leopard's brutish, powerful face.

He was well satisfied with himself and with the progress of the invasion. As he sat there, runners entered every few minutes, to I report further advances of the mailed troops into Westchester.

One messenger entered, breathless, saluted, and spoke swiftly: "Master, Colonel Dato reports complete victory. The American troops encamped around the dam at Kensico are in flight. The Colonel bid me tell you that he used Doctor Fu's magic which is shot from the towers. Thousands of them were easily slaughtered, and General Falk, who commanded them, has been captured. He is being sent here to grace one of your cages!"

The Leopard smiled, and waved to the runner. "Go and eat," he ordered. "Then rest. You have done well."

He turned to the parchment-faced, shriveled old Doctor Fu, who sat at his right, clad in a silk jacket and skull cap. He nodded in satisfaction. "The country is ours," he said. "They cannot stand against the magic of your science, Fu."

The wizened old doctor made no reply, merely smiled tightly.

The Leopard glanced up at the man who stood at his left. This man still wore the uniform of a naval lieutenant in the United States Navy. He was Earl Ward. "Now, Ward," said the Leopard, "we can question these prisoners." He glanced at a row of a dozen captives facing the desk, under guard of a file of Asiatic soldiers with fixed bayonets.

"You will be my interpreter," he told the lieutenant. Ward smirked, and bowed...

Among the prisoners was Admiral Stanley Winston. The admiral's face was haggard, his eyes filled with misery at the thing he had done. He stood erect, shoulders back, facing the desk. And his eyes never left the face of Lieutenant Earl Ward.

Also in the line of captives was a gray-haired man with a bandaged head, and a chestnut-haired, blue-eyed girl, who solicitously supported the gray- haired man, with an arm about his shoulders. The man reached up and gently removed the girl's arm from about his shoulders.

"It's all right, Diane," he said softly. "I'm not an invalid any more. I can stand without help."

Diane's troubled eyes swung to glance at him sideways as she stood in the line facing the giant Leopard. "Don't exert yourself too much, dad," she whispered. "That wound in your head isn't healed yet." Her tone changed quickly to one of worry. "I wonder—" her voice dropped an octave lower— "if Katerina will be safe where we hid her." She shuddered. "I hate to think of her fate if the Leopard's men should find her while they're patrolling."

"Shhh!" Jimmy's father cautioned her. His eyes were on the Leopard, who had raised his coarse face, whispered something to Ward.

The lieutenant nodded servilely, and pointed at Admiral Winston, whose uniform was bedraggled, clotted with dirt and mud, so that it was hard to determine his rank.

Two Asiatic soldiers stepped up behind him at a gruff order from the Leopard, seized the Admiral by the arms, and pushed him forward toward the desk.

The Leopard whispered a question to Ward, who interpreted it to Winston.

"Have you any idea where Operator 5 could have gone to after he escaped from the Dakota?"

Winston's gaze burned into the face of his treacherous former assistant. His voice came hoarsely, huskily, filled with emotion.

"You Judas! You put some sort of drug in my coffee! Tell that dirty coolie emperor of yours that he better look out—you may do the same for him some day, if he trusts you the way I did!"

Ward's eyes lowered before the accusing glance of his former chief. He bit his lip, said: "Answer my question!"

"Go to hell!" exclaimed Admiral Winston. The lieutenant hesitated a moment, then bent and spoke in the Leopard's ear. The big coolie bared his stained teeth in a snarl, spoke quickly, angrily. Ward smiled thinly, straightened, and interpreted the Leopard's words with vicious vindictiveness. "The emperor says that he is sparing you now only because of your rank. He likes to collect ex-generals, ex-kings, ex-dukes and ex-admirals of the countries he conquers. He keeps them in small steel cages, where they cannot stand up, but must remain perpetually in a crouching position. He has eleven such cages on board one of the ships in the harbor. In those cages he has a Manchukuan emperor, two Russian commissars, and the president of Finland. He instructs me to tell you that you are to join that noble collection of his. After a while, you will forget all about your pride, and beg for something to eat every day when the keeper comes around with food!"

Winston paled, and his hands clenched at his sides. But he said nothing. At an imperious motion from the Leopard, the two soldiers who held him dragged him from the room.

Two more soldiers stepped up, and pushed forward the next in line of captives. This was a huge, bearded man, with a thick, bull neck, and shoulders whose corded muscles rippled across his shoulders, under his coat.

Ward asked him a number of questions which apparently were routine, and which were asked of each prisoner. "What is your name?"

The man's thick eyebrows came together as he frowned, and answered reluctantly: "John Shoomacher."

"What is your occupation?"

"I'm a professional wrestler."

Ward smiled, stooped and interpreted to the Leopard, whose eyes gleamed wickedly, sizing up the captive. The emperor turned to the silent Doctor Fu, at his left, and spoke to him in Cantonese. "This man looks very powerful, Fu."

The wizened Chinese doctor bobbed his head. "I am sure he is not as strong as the Leopard!"

Ward was proceeding with the usual questions.

"The emperor is very anxious to find three people who were here in New York when the bombardment started. If you can give him any information about them, your life will be spared, and you will be given a handsome reward. These people were a very fat man named Dmitri Osman, a woman named Lina Cavelli, and a beautiful Russian girl by the name of Katerina Saratoff. Have you ever heard those names?"

John Shoomacher glared at Ward from under his thick eyebrows. He growled: "I want none of your rewards. I wouldn't tell you if I knew. And what that Admiral said to you goes for me too. You can go to hell, you Judas!"

Ward shrugged, and interpreted.

The Leopard's eyes blazed. He turned to Doctor Fu, spoke again in Cantonese, his voice rising uncontrollably.

"Fu, I must find Katerina Saratoff! From the moment when I first set eyes upon her, I knew that she was the woman to grace the Leopard's throne—a fitting companion for the conqueror of the world. I must have her, Fu! I would give up half of my conquests to have her!"

In the line of captives, the eyes of old John Christopher flickered slightly as he listened. But his face betrayed nothing. He understood Cantonese, could talk it as well—better, perhaps, than the ignorant coolie who sat behind that desk. In his youth he had served as an American Intelligence officer in Peiping during the Boxer Rebellion, and had been assigned to the Far East for five years after that. He spoke half a dozen Asiatic dialects like a native, and it was he who had schooled his son, Operator 5, in those same languages when Jimmy Christopher was assigned to the same station which his father had covered thirty years before. Jimmy himself had spent a good deal of time in the Orient, and often in their leisure, father and son would converse in Chinese, switching from one dialect to another, in order to keep in practice.

Now, John Christopher understood the passion that drove the Leopard to search for Katerina Saratoff. This wharf-rat, this coolie who had risen from the slum quarter of Hong Kong to be the dictator of all Asia, and the potential conqueror of the world, had fallen blindly in love with the beautiful, patrician daughter of Russian nobility. And he would never rest until he had found her.

But John Christopher's thoughts were dragged away from the subject of Katerina, as he noted the thing that was occurring now. The Leopard had spoken swiftly to Ward, while John Shoomacher, the wrestler, fidgeted from one foot to the other, already regretting the lack of restraint with which he had defied the emperor.

Ward listened intently, nodding appreciatively, then translated to Shoomacher: "The emperor wishes to know whether you think you can beat him in a hand-to-hand fight."

A slow smile spread over the wrestler's not-too-intelligent features. His eyes traveled over the well-muscled body of the Leopard and Shoomacher's chest expanded with confidence. "I hope to tell you I can. I could lick him easy. I bet I could pin him to the floor in five minutes." Ward smiled in smug satisfaction. "The Leopard will give you a chance for your life. If you beat him, you go free!"

Two guards seized Diane while a third leveled a bayonet at her stomach!

The Leopard arose from behind his desk, and walked around in front, stripping off his armor. He stood there, mighty muscles rippling smoothly, dressed only in his breech-clout.

At a wave of his hand, the yellow soldiers pressed the other prisoners back out of the way, so that a space was cleared around the two men.

Shoomacher eagerly removed his coat and shirt, flexed his muscles, and grinned at the emperor.

The Leopard nodded to Ward, who snapped "Begin!"

Shoomacher fell into a crouch, warily circled the emperor, hands hanging loose at his sides, thick stubby fingers spread to seize a grip.

The Leopard stood erect, turning slowly as the professional wrestler moved around him. His slanting eyes never left the eyes of Shoomacher.

Suddenly the wrestler lowered his head, dove straight at the emperor's stomach. The coolie did not move by so much as an inch, but his body tautened to receive the shock of the impact.

There was a dull thud as Shoomacher's head smacked into the abdomen of the emperor with all the weight of the heavy wrestler's body behind the lunge.

The Leopard merely grunted, and his two arms went about Shoomacher's middle and lifted the heavy man into the air as if he were a child. Then the emperor's arms contracted slowly, squeezing, squeezing, while Shoomacher's arms and legs threshed futilely in the air. The pressure against the wrestler's stomach must have been terrific, for suddenly the breath was expelled from his body in a long, agonized whistle. For a moment, his arms and legs ceased to move, and in that moment, the Leopard, with a cruel, set smile on his copper features, swung the wrestler upright, keeping one arm around his waist while he pressed with his left hand against the helpless man's chin.

Shoomacher's feet wriggled helplessly under that murderous pressure, then hung limp. His head was pushed far back, his spine was arched at an almost impossible angle. Beads of sweat gleamed on his forehead, and his eyes rolled in uncontrollable terror.

Suddenly there was a sickening, crunching snap, and Shoomacher uttered a gurgling shriek that died in his throat.

His body went limp. His spine was broken.

The Leopard let him drop carelessly to the floor, where he lay, a sprawled, broken, inert completely pitiable figure.

Doctor Fu, who had sat calmly through the spectacle, nodded benevolently, went through the motions of shaking hands with himself. "An interesting exhibition," he murmured.

The emperor laughed deep in his throat. "The Leopard," he said, "has yet to meet the man he cannot break!"

He waved carelessly, and two soldiers stepped forward, picked up the still living body of the broken wrestler, carried him to the door.

"Let him lie outside," the coolie emperor ordered. "He will have time to think about the fight before he dies!"

Unconcernedly, he buckled his armor on once more. Then he stepped behind his desk, sat down with a satisfied smile.

"In accordance with my oath," he said to Doctor Fu, "I will break the back of one man every day until I find Katerina Saratoff!" He motioned to Ward. "Go on with the questioning of the prisoners!"

John Christopher was next in line, and he was pushed roughly forward by the guards while Diane watched with anxious eyes, her stomach still churning after the sight of the wrestler's broken body.

The Leopard's slant eyes studied the brave, dignified bearing of John Christopher. His lips were drawn back in a half snarl. For he recognized in the quiet fearlessness of the old man the same spirit of indomitable courage that he had found in other white men—like Feodor Saratoff. And it angered this coolie wharf-rat that he could not break the spirit of such men by torturing their bodies. Innately, he knew that men such as these were superior to himself; and the knowledge produced an ungovernable rage within him, drove him to fiendish, gruesome tortures.

Now, as he gazed upon Q-6, Ward bent close to him, whispering excitedly in wretched Cantonese: "I know that man! He is the father of him whom you seek. I failed to notice him in the line with the other prisoners. But now I know him. He is the father of Operator 5!"

The Leopard stiffened, threw a triumphant side glance at Doctor Fu, who smiled benignly.

"You are very sure?" the Leopard asked softly.

"Positively!" Ward said.

"That is well. For this day's work you may ask me for anything you wish!"

"Thank you, master," Ward murmured.

The Leopard kept his eyes fixed on Q-6. "Play with him a while," he instructed his interpreter. "Let him think we do not know him. I wish to watch how he acts."

Ward nodded, was about to address John Christopher, when the old man spoke loudly, clearly, in flowing Mandarin—a tongue which neither Ward nor the Leopard understood. He seemed to be speaking to the emperor, for he gazed directly at him But it was the wizened Doctor Fu who started in his seat at the first sound of the noble language which he had not heard spoken in years. And John Christopher was speaking to Doctor Fu, though he looked at the Leopard. He used the bombastic, rounded sentences of the old Chinese court, where learned conversation in stilted phrases had been the popular pastime for centuries before China passed into the hands of war-lords and bandits.

"A learned man," he said. "A noble descendant of the House of Han. Are you, too, one of those who has stepped into the gutter to serve a rat of the T'angs who has raised his head from the filth of those whom you once scorned? And do you so soon forget your friends? Do you not recall the days when the Manchu emperor glittered in brocade and silk among his sparkling courtiers in the court at Peiping? I was there, my friend, you were there. You were the court astrologer, but you were also a man of science, widely read, and replete with knowledge. Do you not recall the service I did you when the emperor was angry with you, and ordered you beheaded? I saved you then. I call upon you now to pay your debt!"

There was no expression on the face of the Chinese scientist, but his narrow, watery eyes blinked a little.

The Leopard frowned, glanced up at Ward, then turned to Doctor Fu. "He speaks in Mandarin, does he not?" the emperor asked, in Cantonese.

Fu nodded. "He is a master of the noble language of the scholars."

"What does he say?"

"He says," Fu lied, "that he is a man of honor, and he knows that you are aware of his identity."

"Does he speak Cantonese?"

"Assuredly. He has lived much in the East, he says, and speaks many languages."

"Then I will speak with him!" The Leopard addressed John Christopher. "Man, you are the father of him to whom Katerina Saratoff came, sent by her brother. I must know where she is. You will tell me—or you will scream for a quick death!"

John Christopher smiled. "You are wrong," he said quietly. "I will neither talk, nor will I scream."

The Leopard half rose in his seat, his face livid. "Three inches of bayonet in your groin will make you sing a different song!" He raised his hand to a guard. "The bayonet! But be careful not to pierce a vital organ! Twist it—"

He stopped as Doctor Fu laid a hand on his arm. "Wait!" commanded the old doctor.

The Leopard turned on him questioningly. "Well?"

"I have served you well, have I not, Leopard? I have given into your hands the weapon which defeats your enemies before they strike a blow, have I not?"

The emperor frowned. "You have. It is true. But why do you speak of it now? Your rewards shall be great—"

"I have never asked a favor of you before. I ask one now."

"Name it!"

"I ask for the life of this man!"

"What? You are mad, Fu! He knows where Katerina Saratoff is. I must make him speak—if I cut him to bits!"

"I ask you for his life," Fu persisted. "Will you grant it if I tell you another way to make him speak?" "Another way? You mean the way you made Feodor Saratoff speak?" "No, I have no more of the fluid in the vial. The way I will show you is much surer." The Leopard glanced at the skinny doctor suspiciously, but he nodded. "How?" Fu pointed a long, crooked finger at Diane Elliot, who was standing in line with the other captives. "That girl, I observed her before. She is very close to this man. I noted from the way he talked to her that he loves her almost as a father. If you will but turn the bayonet on her, I am sure he will speak—" John Christopher had heard every word of what the doctor had said. He broke in hoarsely: "Fu! You are a devil! You have violated the memory of your ancestors! You have betrayed one who did you a great service—" Doctor Fu shrugged. "I have paid my debt. I owed you a life, and I have given it to you. The debt does not extend to this girl; she was not even in the world when I knew you in Peiping!" Q-6 stood, speechless at the logic of the Chinese scientist. It was the Eastern fatalism, the disregard for human beings as such. Fu did not consider the agony of soul that he was inflicting on John Christopher. He was paying his debt to the letter. At a swift order from the vilely grinning Leopard, two guards seized Diane, while a third leveled a bayonet at her stomach. She attempted to struggle in their grip, but was helpless.

John Christopher cried out: "Wait! Wait! You must not do that! I know nothing of my son's whereabouts!"

"I do not ask you that," the Leopard said. "I ask you where I can find Katerina Saratoff. If you know, you will talk. If you do not know, then it is too bad; for you will witness the disemboweling of this beautiful young lady whom you love more than yourself!"

12. RAID ON THE LEOPARD'S DEN

Three armored motorcycles chugged north on Fifth Avenue. Their spotlights lanced long furrows up the street ahead, limning the deep pits where shells had gouged out the concrete.

They proceeded slowly, like the other patrols of Asiatic troops in the conquered city. But the occupants of those cycles were not Asiatics. In the driver's seat of the leading machine sat Jimmy Christopher, and beside him, in the side car was a young American by the name of Max Cohen. The second cycle was manned by Z-7 and Bert Hadley, while in the third rode Joe Green, with Pat O'Ryan at the machine gun.

Minute Men. They were casting their lives upon the gaming table of fate as the stakes in a desperate game to learn the secret of the Leopard's power. Earlier that evening, Jimmy Christopher and Max Cohen had reconnoitered the enemy's position, learned that he had established headquarters at the armory. Now they were going to try getting inside.

Tim Donovan had succeeded in establishing contact by wireless with the main body of United States troops at Kensico under General Falk; and the newly raised hopes of the refugees in the old wine cellar had been dashed at the news of Falk's capture and the precipitate route of the American forces.

Now it became imperative to pierce the enemy's stronghold and try to wrest his secret from him. The faces of all six men were grim, tight. Several times they passed other patrols, and slowed up, while Jimmy, carefully keeping his face in the shadow, had carried on a short conversation with the Asiatic soldiers in Cantonese. If there was a diversity of accent, it was not noticed, for these soldiers of the Leopard were recruited from every part of the Orient, and there were many dialects and many accents among them. Cantonese seemed to have been adopted as their official language.

From these conversations, Jimmy Christopher learned that the Leopard was questioning prisoners himself, in an effort to find if anyone had seen or heard of Katerina Saratoff. He also learned that every patrol had been charged with the task of finding her, and that a princely reward would be paid to the motorcycle team that was successful.

At Thirty-fourth Street the small cavalcade turned east, pulled up at a side entrance of the armory. It was quite dark here, and Jimmy felt that they could risk showing themselves. The only thing that could betray them was a glimpse of their faces, which were distinctly not Asiatic, but the helmets afforded them some security from that danger.

At a signal from Operator 5, they all dismounted, approached the entrance.

Two guards were stationed here, and dozens of yellow soldiers swaggered about. Across the street, hundreds of captives, men and women, were huddled in a close group, resting on the hard concrete, while guards watched them with rifles ready. These prisoners had labored until every muscle of their bodies ached. Now they were waiting to be questioned.

Jimmy Christopher marched to the doorway of the armory at the head of his small company, striding boldly as if he had business inside. The guard, recognizing the insignia of a petty officer on his breastplate, saluted, and stood aside.

Numerous yellow soldiers were moving about within, bent on various missions. The six Americans made their way along a corridor, turned left toward the main assembly room. Suddenly, Operator 5 stopped stock still, his face set and cold. His eyes had met the eyes of another man who was being marched out of the assembly room between two soldiers! They recognized each other...

It was Admiral Stanley Winston, being taken from the presence of the Leopard. Winston half-opened his mouth to utter an exclamation, then shut it again.

Jimmy Christopher whispered to the others: "After them boys! But take it easy. And keep your heads down!"

They followed Winston and his two guards to the other end of the armory, and down a flight of stairs. The two guards paid no attention.

Down below were the detention cells, and into one of these the guards were about to thrust Winston. Jimmy Christopher glanced around, saw that there was no one else in the cellar, and exclaimed:

"Now boys!"

He leaped at the startled guards, lunging with his bayonet. Z-7, beside him, did likewise. So efficiently had it been done, that no sound was made. The other four Minute Men dragged the two dead guards into the cell, stripped them of armor and weapons, while Jimmy Christopher and Z-7 spoke to Winston.

The admiral exclaimed: "Operator 5! How did you get here?"

"Never mind!" Jimmy said hurriedly. "There's no time for explanations. We're here to find some clue to the Leopard's secret. Can you help us?"

Winston shook his head. "I know as little as I did yesterday. I know that Ward doctored my coffee in some way. It was my fault that the fleet was destroyed. I should have listened—"

Jimmy stopped the admiral, said: "Put on that suit, sir. It'll get you by."

While Winston was donning the armor, he spoke quickly: "Your father's up there in the assembly room, Operator 5. It'll be his turn to be questioned in a few minutes. There's a girl with him—"

"One?" Jimmy queried anxiously. "Yes. Very pretty, with chestnut hair —?" "Diane!" Z-7 exclaimed. "Then he hasn't caught Katerina yet?" "No. But he's torturing the prisoners to make them talk. God!" Winston's voice was tense with emotion. "I only want one chance at that Leopard—and at Earl Ward. Ward's his interpreter." Jimmy swung around. "Let's go! We're going to take a crack at the Leopard!" He hurried back up the stairs. The entrance to the cellar was on the Thirty-third Street side, and he stopped, his eyes narrowed, looking down a corridor at right angles to the one they had used.

A long line of Asiatic soldiers was moving along this corridor through the main entrance of the building. And they were passing, one at a time, into a room, the door of which was wide open. From where the Americans stood, they could see into that room, which was lit by a half-dozen candles. Four Chinese, in white smocks, were in that room, and as the soldiers entered, the white-smocked Celestials picked up hypodermic syringes from tables at their elbows, swabbed off the arm of a soldier, and drove home the plunger of the hypo.

They were giving some sort of injection to the men as fast as they could work.

"I think, Chief," Operator 5 whispered, "that we're on the track of the Leopard's secret!" His eyes were fixed on a small room next to the laboratory, the door of which was also open. In this room, two more white-smocked Asiatics were working over test-tubes set in brackets above Bunsen burners. While Jimmy and Z-7 watched, one of these two poured the contents of the test tubes into a large vial, and carried it out into the laboratory in which the injections were being given. There was only one man left in the small room, and Jimmy said hurriedly:

"Z-7! I'm going to get one of those!"

Without waiting for acknowledgement Operator 5 swiftly entered the small room. The white-coated Chinese looked up inquiringly, peering near-sightedly through thick-lensed glasses. He started in consternation as he realized that Jimmy was not an Asiatic. But Operator 5 gave him no chance to cry out.

Stepping in close, he brought up his fist in a swift, hard blow to the man's chin, sent him smashing back against the wall, unconscious. Then he swung quickly to the row of tubes above the Bunsen burner, removed them, and poured their contents into a vial. He corked it, sped out of the room to join Z-7 again.

"Let's get away from here, quick!" he urged. He led the way down the corridor. No alarm was raised...

Jimmy hurried in the direction of the assembly room, with Z-7 beside him, and Winston and the Minute Men behind.

They came in sight of the large double doors, and Z-7 shouted suddenly: "God! Jimmy! God! Look at that! Diane!"

The tableau caused Jimmy's blood to race. The Leopard was seated at the desk. In front of the desk, stood his father, in the grip of two guards. Close by, two more Asiatics were gripping Diane while a third was drawing back a bayonet to plunge it into her body.

Jimmy Christopher flung himself forward, headlong, his automatic snapping into his hand as if by magic. The guard with the bayonet was just lunging toward Diane when Jimmy's first hasty shot caught him high in the chest.

John Christopher turned toward the corridor. Numerous Asiatics now swung toward the doorway, raising their rifles, but Jimmy's automatic spoke quickly in sharp, staccato barks. A deadly calm was upon him. Each shot was placed perfectly. Four men fell to four shots. They were the huge guards who pinioned Diane and John Christopher. Above the reverberations of the swift reports, Jimmy shouted loudly: "Diane! Dad! Run! This way!"

John Christopher leaped into action at the sound of his son's voice, seized Diane by the hand and raced with her through the doorway, then dragged her flat on the floor as the rifles in the room began to crack spitefully.

Operator 5 had held his fire during that tense moment while his father and Diane raced from the room.

Now Diane and John Christopher were safe, and the doorway was clear. The Minute Men raised their own rifles, poured out a withering blast.

John Christopher had urged Diane on again, and Jimmy gestured his men on down the corridor. They raced around an angle in the passageway and out into the night through the side door they had entered.

The Oriental guards died without understanding what had killed them.

Outside, the motorcycles were still parked where Jimmy and his men had left them. They all piled in, Diane, Q-6 and Admiral Winston each crowding into a side car with one of the Minute Men.

The soldiers in the street were dazed by the unexpected swiftness of the escape. For a moment, they did not realize that the armored men were not their Asiatic comrades. And that moment of respite was sufficient for the Americans.

After a few minutes of breakneck speed, Jimmy raised a hand, pointed south, and they raced downtown.

Through the night, along broken streets, Jimmy Christopher led his tiny army at a reckless pace. Behind them in the armory, the Leopard, livid and choking with rage, was spluttering orders, threats, curses. Every motorcycle available was ordered out to hunt the fugitives.

But the Minute Men had a good start, and a brilliant commander. They shook the pursuit easily, and in twelve minutes they were holed up in the old wine cellar. Tim Donovan let out a boyish whoop of joy when he saw Diane and Q-6. But Jimmy permitted little time for greetings. He drew Z-7 and Tim Donovan aside. "Any more news, Tim?" he questioned.

Tim nodded. "I did what you told me, Jimmy. I got through to Washington, and talked to the Secretary of War. He's at his wits' end—a regular blue funk. He orders you to report to him in person at once. He has called the North Beach Airport, and has arranged for a seaplane to be waiting for you in the East River, without lights, at midnight. You're to get out to it tonight. The Secretary wants you in Washington too, Z-7. The plane will hold two people besides the pilot."

"All right," Jimmy said. "I have to go anyway. I want to get to a laboratory as fast as I can, and analyze the contents of this vial. These people will be safe."

For a moment he stood deep in thought. Then he called over Admiral Winston, explained to him what he was going to do. "You're the logical man to take charge of this secret headquarters, Winston. Keep these people safe in here. Don't let them venture out again. The Asiatics are surely combing the city for us."

Winston's eyes held a wistful light. "Do you feel confident that I can be trusted with a command of any kind, Operator 5, after the way—?"

"Nonsense," Z-7 cheered him heartily, clapping him on the back. "Look at what happened to Falk. You couldn't help it. Operator 5 and I know you're all right."

It was plainly visible to them both how Winston's shoulders suddenly straightened, and how his chin rose and jutted. He had been bitterly reproaching himself as a coward—a traitor, almost.

The confidence in him which Jimmy had shown by placing him in charge of these people had given him faith in himself.

Jimmy hurried over to Diane and his father, managed to pull them away from the eager, curious men and women about them. "Where is Katerina Saratoff?" Diane exchanged glances with John Christopher then informed Jimmy quickly: "When the shells began to fall near Mercy Hospital, we moved all the patients out on stretchers. Dad was able to walk by then, and he and I and Katerina helped. After the bombardment, the Sixth Avenue "L" Station at Fourteenth Street was still standing, so we moved into it. Two patients died while we were in the station.

Then we saw the Asiatics coming to round up prisoners, and dad here said that if the Leopard got Katerina, she would be worse off than any of us. So we put her on a stretcher and covered her with a sheet, alongside of the two who had previously died. When the soldiers came, dad told them that they were the bodies of small-pox cases, and the Asiatics left them severely alone. So Katerina is probably still up there."

"Good work, Diane," Jimmy praised her. He turned to his father. "I'm leaving here at midnight, dad. I've asked Winston to take charge. I thought it would help him get his self-confidence back." He explained about the message from the Secretary of War. "Besides, I want to analyze this stuff. If, God willing, it helps us beat these Asiatics, we'll come down on New York shooting. So help Winston keep everybody down in these vaults where they'll be safe. I'll communicate with Tim, and let you know what's going on."

John Christopher nodded. "If you stage a counter-attack, Jimmy, let me know a little ahead of time. I'll try to get to where Katerina is, and keep her safe."

13. FATE CALLS THE COOLIE EMPEROR

Dawn of the second day following the successful raid of the Minute Men against the Leopard's stronghold in the armory found the remnants of the United States troops entrenched around the southeastern edge of Muscoot Reservoir, thirty miles north of New York City.

The vanguard of the Asiatics was less than five miles away, at Mount Kisco.

Southern Westchester and western Connecticut had been sacked, burned and pillaged. It was now a trackless, charred wasteland.

From every part of the country, frantic queries were pouring into Washington. Why were the troops retreating without striking a blow? Why was heavy ordnance abandoned without a shot being fired? Would the whole country be given over to pillage and fire and rapine, like New York?

To all these questions, Washington had for two days maintained a discreet, painful silence.

At the Muscoot Reservoir, however, a strange spirit of animation was in the air. Peculiarly, the atmosphere of self-distrust and futility which had pervaded the American troops for the past three days was lacking. And strange things were happening there, too...

Heavily guarded supply trucks raced along all the highways, and, upon arrival at the Muscoot encampment, were unloaded with frenzied zeal and haste. On being opened, the crates were proved to contain however, not guns or other similar implements of war, but cases of bottles, outfits of hypodermic syringes, and cartons of cotton and antiseptics!

Physicians and internes by the hundreds seized the strange military material and laid it out in hastily improvised infirmaries along the reservoir.

At Headquarters, located just outside the small town of Goldens Bridge, Jimmy Christopher sat before a hurriedly installed battery of telephones. As the reports came in from the physicians in charge of each field-unit, he assigned to that unit troops for inoculation.

In a field near Jimmy's office, a plane whirred to a landing, and a few moments later, the Secretary of War strode into the room. Scowling, he strode wrathfully to the desk where Jimmy sat.

Jimmy Christopher smiled, motioned to an officer to take charge of the phones, and arose from his chair. He took the Secretary's arm, led him into the next room. Here, a laboratory had been set up—small, but complete in every detail.

"I haven't had a chance to talk to you, sir, since I came up here. I told you about the vial I had taken from the laboratory, in the armory, but you didn't pay much attention to it at the time. Well, I analyzed the stuff, and found it was a compound of strychnine and caffeine. The Leopard was giving his men an injection of that stuff."

The Secretary gazed at Jimmy in a puzzled manner. "Why?"

"I couldn't understand it either," Jimmy went on, "until I analyzed some of the air in the pockets of the ground around Kensico Dam where we were defeated two days ago.

"I found a gas which I had never known to exist before. It has all the properties which would be possessed by a compound of nembutal, aconitine and sodium amytol. Those are all coma-producing drugs, but if they were to be reduced to a gaseous form they would be too volatile for any practical use. This gas which I found in the air-pocket, is a heavy gas and yet possesses all the coma-producing qualities."

"I still don't—" the Secretary began.

But Jimmy hurried on. "Don't you understand, sir? Those towers of the Asiatics; those queer guns of theirs—it would be impossible to disseminate any ordinary gas over a vast area. But it can be done with this one. And to ensure that his own troops are not affected by it, the Leopard injects them with a stimulant of strychnine and caffeine. Thus, when that queer feeling of futility struck the navy, the Asiatics were not affected in the same way because they had already assimilated a powerful stimulant. The same thing happened at Kensico Dam."

Suddenly a light gleamed in the Secretary's eyes. "Then you're giving the same stimulant to our own men now!"

"Exactly, sir! And we'll—"

He stopped as an officer burst into the room, saluted, and reported excitedly: "The Asiatics are advancing, sir. The attack has started!"

Jimmy nodded. He said to the Secretary: "The next ten minutes will tell the story, sir. If I've guessed right—victory. If I've guessed wrong —we're doomed!"

Operator 5 hurried out of the headquarters building, issued swift orders to the officers gathered about him. To the East he could see the armored motorcycles of the Asiatics racing toward the hastily built trenches.

From a distance came the dull reports of the queer guns on the steel towers of the Asiatics. The gas shells began to burst in the air about them. The gas itself was odorless, and Jimmy gazed anxiously from one face to another of the officers about him. They had all had injections, including himself.

Z-7 came hurrying over to him, exclaimed: "Jimmy! I think you've hit it this time. I don't feel a thing!"

Jimmy nodded. "The troops all seem okay." He glanced down the line of trenches at the tense, youthful faces of the volunteer defenders, waiting for the signal to fire at the advancing motorcycles.

Suddenly Jimmy Christopher's body tautened. He gripped Z-7's arm. "Look at that, Chief!" he exclaimed.

From a side road, only a hundred yards distant, an automobile had swung into the main road in the path of the oncoming motorcycles. It was an open touring car, and Jimmy and Z-7 could see that the two occupants were both women.

"It's Diane!" Jimmy shouted. "And she's got Katerina with her!"

Behind the touring car raced a motorcycle. It was driven by an Asiatic soldier, and in the side car, standing erect, was the huge figure of the Leopard bent down to the machine on the side car. Flame belched from it, and a stream of bullets lanced out toward the auto, to the accompaniment of a wicked rat-tat-tat.

A rear tire on the automobile exploded with a report that sounded like a dull echo of the guns from the towers. The touring car careened, and Jimmy could see Diane struggling with the wheel.

The oncoming motorcycles were close now, on the main road. Diane's car lurched to one side, landed in the ditch along the road. The two white-faced girls sprang from the twisted wreckage, started to race toward the American trenches, while the Asiatic motorcycles charged down on them from behind.

At the same time, the Leopard sprang from the side car of his motorcycle, raced, after the girls. His great body glistened in the morning light and he was brandishing a heavy, two-edged sword. His face was twisted in fury; his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarl. He was very close to the panic-stricken girls now. It was obvious that he would reach them perhaps two minutes before the roaring motorcycles of his own troops. In either event, the two girls were doomed...

Jimmy groaned aloud. He could not give the order to the men in the trenches to shoot, for Diane and Katerina were directly in the line of fire.

"Z-7!" he shouted hoarsely. "Take over command!" And with that, he leaped up, sprinted furiously, frantically, down the road toward the three. As he ran, his automatic came into his hand, and he raised it to take a pot-shot at the Leopard. But at that instant, he saw the driver of the Leopard's side car rise behind his plate armor, and draw a bead with his rifle on the two fleeing girls. Jimmy swung his automatic, sent a stream of hot lead spouting at that soldier until the clip of the automatic was empty. But his shots had winged home, for the man dropped the rifle from nerveless fingers, toppled from the cycle to sprawl dead in the dusty roadway.

And just at that moment, when it seemed the girls might outrun the huge man pursuing them still, Katerina tripped, fell in the road. Diane, close behind her, barely missed stumbling over her, lost precious seconds as she bent to help.

The Leopard, now only a few paces away uttered a mad cry of triumph, raised his ponderous broadsword. Jimmy, coming from the opposite direction, covered the short space between him and the coolie emperor in a desperate breathless sprint, clubbed his automatic, flung it violently into the Leopard's face!

That blow probably would have killed any ordinary man, but the giant coolie shook his head, plunged ahead...

Jimmy stood weaponless now, and the Leopard grinned evilly, advanced toward him with the sword raised aloft for a slicing, slanting blow which could shave a man's head from his neck Operator 5 waited until the sword was actually descending before he acted. Then, with the swiftness of light, he dropped flat to the ground while the blade whistled harmlessly over his head.

The Leopard was pulled off balance, by the weight of the sword at that instant, and Jimmy launched himself from the ground in a short football tackle which toppled the huge man sideways.

Like a majestic forest giant falling before the grim hacking of the woodsman, the coolie fell heavily on his right arm. The keen edge of the sword, still gripped in his massive fists was jammed up between his shoulder and his neck. It sliced through the Leopard's thick throat as if it were cutting butter, and the conqueror of Asia—the scourge of Russia and terror of America—lay there on the road, bleeding to death.

Jimmy Christopher was back on his feet in an instant. He raced to Katerina, who was limping in the road with a badly twisted ankle, resting on Diane's arm. He picked up the Russian girl, gave Diane a shove that sent her sprawling off the road into the ditch, leaped to follow her just as the first ranks of the armored motorcycles swept up. The drivers tried frantically to brake their machines when they saw their master lying in the road bathed in his own blood. But they were traveling far too fast. Solid-tired wheels crunched on the bones of the man who had yearned to master the world.

And at that instant, Z-7, standing in front of the headquarters building, raised his arm in a signal. From the trenches lining the reservoir a solid sheet of fire belched at those motorcycles from the muzzles of a thousand rifles. The cycles piled up on one another in crashing wreckage. The road became a mess of twisted, flaming metal and writhing dying men.

A great shout of triumph rose from the trenches, and wave after wave of young men went over the top, charging with bayonets. They swept past the spot where Jimmy Christopher crouched with Diane and Katerina, swept around the wrecked motorcycles, swarmed down the road in a yelling, mad, victorious charge against the foot-soldiers of the Asiatics who were still a great distance in the rear.

Those Oriental troops had never encountered active resistance before. The sudden sight of the charging madmen of the American army signified only one thing to them—that their master's magic had finally failed.

Their courage was not equal to facing that onsweeping charge. They turned tail and ran. The great Asiatic army fled in panicky rout...!

Along the edge of the road, Diane was saying swiftly to Jimmy:

"I couldn't bear to think of Katerina staying alone there with the corpses. So I stole out last night, and went to the "L" station, and found her. We wandered over to the Express Highway, and saw that touring car, abandoned. I started it, and we raced up here. We didn't know that the Leopard was camped around Mt. Kisco, and they sighted us."

Diane was breathing quickly, her eyes shining with excitement. "And believe me, Jimmy, the Leopard almost had us!"

Jimmy saw Z-7 run past them after the charging troops, and waved to him.

From the direction of the headquarters building, the Secretary of War was sedately approaching them, his face wreathed in smiles.

Jimmy sighed. "It's a victory, all right, those lads of ours won't stop until they've chased every last Asiatic back into the ocean again. And you, Katerina—" he glanced somberly at the pile of twisted motorcycles in the road, beneath which lay the body of the coolie who had wanted to be emperor —"and you, Katerina, are revenged for your brother."

"Yes," Katerina said simply. "Feodor must be satisfied—wherever he is. And I—well, I've found a wonderful new friend, Jimmy Christopher —the bravest man in the world!"

THE END