e could read, after a fashion. He recognized the names; the
boys were all members of the top floor secret society. He went out and
gave the list to Martha Collins.

He'd expected some argument with her, but she seemed to accept Ray
Pelton's printing as Prestonby's; she began checking room charts and
class lists, and calling for the boys to be sent at once to the
office. He went out, and down to the 'copter repair shop, where he
found that a big four-ton air truck that the senior class had been
working on for several weeks was finished.

"That thing been tested, yet?" he asked the instructor.

"Yes; I had it up, myself, this morning. Flew it over to the Bronx and
back with a load of supplies."

"O. K. Have somebody you can trust--one of your guards,
preferably--bring it around behind the Administration Wing. Captain
Prestonby wants it. I'm to take some boys from Fourth Year Civics on a
tour. Something about election campaign methods."

The instructor called a Literates' guard and gave him instructions.
Yetsko went to the guards' squad room on the second floor, where he
found half a dozen of the reserves loafing.

"All right; you guys start earning your pay," he said. "We're going to
a party."

The men got to their feet and began gathering their weapons.

"Mason," he continued, "you have your big 'copter here; the gang of
you can all get in it. I'm taking off in a four-ton truck, with some
of these kids. I want you boys to follow us. We're going to Pelton's
store. There's a fight going on there, and the captain's in the middle
of it. We gotta get him out."

They all looked at him in puzzled surprise, but nobody gave him any
argument. Funny, now that he thought of it; it had been quite a long
time since anybody had ever given him any argument about anything. A
couple of guys out in Pittsburgh had tried it, but somehow they'd lost
interest in arguing, after a little--

When he returned to the office and opened the door, a blast of shots
greeted him through the open door of Prestonby's private office. He
had his pistol out before he realized that the shooting was going on
at Pelton's Purchasers' Paradise, ten miles away. Literate Martha
Collins, in the inner room, was fairly screaming: "Shut that infernal
thing off and listen to me!"

The dozen-odd boys whom Ray had recruited for the improvised
relief-expedition were pulling weapons out of the gun locker, pawing
through the boxes on the ammunition shelf, trying