is hunger as well. He felt keenly alert
and alive. The sun was warm, the air was balmy. He was on Vinin.

Spiritually he had come home, to the thing he believed in. Not many
men had such opportunity to realize their dreams of perfection. To cap
the triumph Dirrul knew it might still be possible to make his report
and save the Movement on Agron.

From the top of a purple-swathed knoll he looked down across a
twisting red stream toward the suburbs of the city. Magnificent
black-stone villas, surrounded by stylized gardens, were on both sides
of the green highway.

Further on, close to the city, were the crowded workers' quarters,
behind them, hidden in a faint mist, the rectangular masses of public
buildings reaching up toward the stars. This was as Paul Sorgel had so
often described it. Such grandeur could only belong to the capital
city of the Vininese Confederacy.

Under the brow of the knoll Dirrul saw one of the stone block
buildings within its protective double walls. A huge trumpet-like
transmitter was exposed at the top of the structure. In some ways it
resembled the Beam Transmitters on Agron but the differences were so
striking Dirrul knew it was a totally new device--possibly a more
efficient variation invented by the Vininese. The faint hum of
machinery and the regular movement of the sending tube indicated that
the machine was running--but for what purpose Dirrul could only guess.

The yard between the two walls was patrolled by a smartly disciplined
score of Vininese. Dirrul considered going to them to ask for
transportation to the city but changed his mind. It was very possible
that the installation was secret. The guards might have had
instructions to dispose immediately of any intruder. On the whole it
seemed wiser to go a little farther to one of the walled villas.

Dirrul walked half a thousand feet along the green highway and turned
up the drive leading toward one of the sprawling mansions. As he
passed the portals of the open gate an alarm bell clanged--seconds
later five Vininese infantry surrounded him, prodding him into the
house with their gleaming weapons. In precise Vininese, carefully
enunciated, Dirrul tried to explain what he wanted--but the guards
made no reply, merely staring at him with cold glazed eyes,
comprehending nothing.

They threw him roughly into a dark room, where a slim Vininese waited
in a lounge chair. As Dirrul's eyes grew accustomed to the faint light
he saw that th