LITMIR.BIZ

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the hands and faces of the three with a powerful, sweet-smelling detergent.

      Refreshed, the Amazon and Abna rose and crossed to their places at the table, but Viona still lingered by the window, lost in speculations.

      “Time to eat, sweetheart!” Abna called, and at that Viona glanced and then looked away. When she finally took her seat at the table, it looked as though she were deliberately trying to avoid looking at her mother and father.

      “Anything wrong?” the Amazon asked.

      “No,” Viona said, and went on eating slowly.

      “Then why so silent?” Abna questioned, surprised. “As a rule you be­have like me…clean crazy. Or so your mother thinks, anyway.”

      “I—I don’t feel like eating,” Viona said abruptly, getting to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get some rest. I’m worn out.”

      “So are all of as,” the Amazon remarked, “but we still need food. Get on with your meal and don’t be so silly.”

      Viona gave them a hard look, which was unusual for her. Then without another word she left the room.

      Abna remarked: “Perhaps I said something to her which she didn’t like, but I can’t remember what.”

      “It’s not that.” The Amazon shook her head slowly. “I know her better than you do, Abna, and there’s something deep inside her mind upsetting her. And, judging from the look she just gave us, we’re mixed up in it somewhere.”

      Abna said: “I could read her thoughts if I wanted and find the cause of the trouble, but I don’t think I’m entitled to do it.”

      So the conversation drifted into normal channels and. presently, the meal was over.

      “Next, rest and plenty of it,” Abna said. “But let me make sure our old friend, Quorne, is well and truly locked away, then I can retire.… And you look as though you need sleep, too.”

      “I am tired,” the Amazon admitted, pressing the button for the robot to clear away the meal; then she stood watching as Abna took the air ampule from his belt and placed it carefully on top of the grand piano. Moving away to a short distance he studied his de­tector and then nodded.

      “Still registering,” he said. “Which means that, despite our journey, and the vicissitudes of time and space, Quorne is still bottled up in the other plane. Better put him in the lab­oratory safe and forget all about him—or, rather, take a reading of him every now and again to make sure he isn’t finding a way back.”

      “Our time journey, then, changed time for that air ampule as it did for us?” the Amazon asked.

      “Obviously, since it traveled us.”

      Abna put the detector away then, picking up the ampule, left the room with it, returning in a few moments from the laboratory.

      “Which settles that,” he announced. “It’s in the safe and since only you, Viona, and I know the thought-formula for the safe lock, Quorne is well and truly bottled.… Now, how about some rest?”

      On their way along the upper corridor the two paused for a moment outside Viona’s room, listening. There were no sounds.

      “Should I look in on her?” the Amazon asked. ‘“Tell her that we’re going to get some sleep?”

      “And probably disturb her own repose to advise her of the fact?” Abna shook his head. “No, Vi. Let her be.”

      So they continued to their own room, unaware that Viona was cer­tainly not asleep, nor, indeed, had she made any attempt to relax. She had changed and bathed and, at the mo­ment, was busy combing her hair and considering her reflection in the mir­ror, not for reasons of vanity, but with the in-seeing look of one still lost in profound and somewhat unpleasant meditation. Finally she surveyed her­self in her maroon corduroy slacks and red space-shirt; then she opened the bedroom door slightly and stood listening.

      Gliding out into the corridor, she moved to the bedroom doorway where her parents slept. They were quiet, and Viona went silently downstairs into the lounge and across to the wall safe. Opening it, she looked inside, her expression darkening as she did not see what she sought.

      Closing the safe, she reflected, then she headed for the big laboratory at the rear of the residence. She was as well acquainted with the various ap­paratuses as her parents. Including the neat very short-wave radio detector, which by beam process, could pick up any voice anywhere in the world by a simple process of frequency and “per­sonal aura” detection.

      Going over to this instrument, she switched it on, set the indicator to her mother’s aura number and then snapped the power button into place. After a second or two the voices of her mother and father came floating through from the bedroom upstairs.

      “We’ll probably find it monotonous, Vi, after all we’ve seen and done to just sit around and do nothing.”

      Long pause, then Abna spoke again: “In some ways I’m sorry there’s nothing left to fight. I’ve no zest for humdrum things. With Quorne’s exit point from that other plane bottled up in the laboratory safe, our last chance of an enemy has gone. Why don’t we start an exploration of the remoter deeps beyond the solar system and—”

      Viona switched off, her eyes bright. Hurrying across to the laboratory safe, she threw the unlocking thought ­waves against it and then quickly pulled open the door and took out the ampule. Carefully, she placed it in a soft bed of cotton wool inside a specimen case, locked it, then hurried with it from the laboratory and into the lounge.

      Here she wrote a letter, propping it up where it could not fail to be seen. Then she left the house, still with the specimen case in her hand, and hurried over to her own garage. In a matter of minutes her completely silent atomi­car was speeding down the driveway and she did not stop it until she had reached the Central London spaceport. Here she garaged the car and then headed for the executive offices, where Chris Wilson, a distant relation through law of the Golden Amazon, ruled the destinies of the great space lines.

      “Hello, Viona!” he greeted, as the girl entered. “Many a long day since I’ve seen you—or your mother and father. How are you?”

      Chris rose from his desk—a kindly-faced, white-haired man of still vigor­ous health, and probably one of the richest men on Earth.

      “Fine, uncle, thanks.” Viona gave him his courtesy title as she kissed him. “I’ve been away on a long voy­age with mother and father—something connected with Quorne.”

      “Oh, him!” Chris Wilson made a grimace. “I hope he’s out of the way for good. He’s an infernal menace—or was.”

      “Also a very clever man,” Viona said. “Anyhow, my reason for being here is to charter the best-equipped and fastest space machine you’ve got. And I want it immediately with a full load in the power plant.”

      “Oh? Why the urgency? And what’s the matter with your mother’s Ultra? Surely she’d loan it to you?

      “It’s wrecked.”

      “Wrecked?” Chris looked astonished. “But how does—?”

      “Please, uncle, I’m in a hurry,” Viona pleaded. “I’ve a very long voyage to make. So what can you do for me?”

      Chris hesitated.

      “Do your parents know about this projected voyage of yours?” he asked, switching through to the chief coordinator of space machines.

      “Does it signify?” Viona asked. “I’m at an age to make my own decisions.”

      Chris shrugged, eyeing her, and then the specimen case in her hand. He seemed about to say something but the voice of the co­ordinator distracted him.

      “Yes, Mr. Wilson? Coordinator speaking.”

      “I want the fastest and best-equip­ped space machine

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