* * *

The slide whirred open. Hilary waited a second, tense, ready to shoot
at the slightest sound. His eyes bored through the oblong. Nothing was
in sight except the luxurious furnishings he remembered so well;
nothing stirred. But his vision was limited to that part of the room
framed by the slide. With infinite caution he peered out, his
searching gaze flicking swiftly, around the sleep-apartment. It was a
man's room with built in divans, automatic sleep-spray, wall rack to
hold illuminated book sheets, magnified so as to be read comfortably
from a reclining position on the divan--in short, the usual ordered
luxuries of a well-furnished sleep-room.

It was empty--but the divan was touseled, certain small things
disarranged. Someone used this room. Hilary stepped out, leaving the
slide behind him open in case of an enforced retreat. He paused to
think. Where could Joan be held prisoner--if, and it was a big if--she
were really here. He ran over the possibilities.

The laboratories were out of the question. The great master room then.
No doubt Artok, the Viceroy, had installed himself there. It was
regally magnificent. That might repay a visit. A bold scheme flashed
across his mind. Seize Artok himself, abduct him into the secret
passage, and compel him to disclose Joan's whereabouts, give her up.
Hilary smiled grimly. Sheerly suicidal, yes, but he was desperate now,
and there seemed no other way.

Gun shifted back into his blouse, with his right hand thrust in, on
the butt, he glided softly out of the chamber. No one was in sight.
The passageway seemed oddly deserted. Possibly the staff had been
attracted to the outer rim of the terrace by the commotion below.

At the end of the passageway, facing him, was the master room. Another
swift look about, and Hilary was moving down the long corridor, close
to the wall, his footfalls deadened by the soft composition rug.

Slowly, very slowly, he pressed the button to release the slide. It
slid open at a barely perceptible rate. As the slender crack widened,
Hilary, looked in, taking care to keep his body to one side.

CHAPTER VII

_In the Hands of the Mercutians_

A Mercutian was lolling in a reclining chair, his gray, warty face
turned half away from Hilary. He was rather undersized for a
Mercutian, standing not more than seven feet, and his gray, unwieldy
body was heavy and gross as though thickened with good living and
debauch. A fleshy th