"Hide your gun, Alan." I gripped him. "Do you hear me?" "Yes." "Let me go first. I'll do the talking. When he opens the gate, let me handle him. You--if there are two of them--you take the other." We emerged from the darkness, into the glow of light by the gate. I had the horrible feeling that a shot would greet us. A challenge came, at first in French and then in English. "Stop! What do you want?" "To see Mr. Rascor." We were up to the bars now, shapeless hooded bundles of snow and frost. A man stood in the doorway of a lighted little cubby behind the bars. A black muzzle in his hand was leveled at us. "He sees no one. Who are you?" Alan was pressing at me from behind. I shoved him back, and took a step forward. I touched the bars. "My name is Fred Davis. Newspaperman from Montreal I must see Mr. Rascor." "You cannot. You may send in your call. The mouthpiece is there--out there to the left. Bare your face; he talks to no one without the face image." The guard had drawn back into his cubby; there was only his extended hand and the muzzle of his weapon left visible. I took a step forward. "I don't want to talk by phone. Won't you open the gate? It's cold out here. We have important business. We'll wait with you." Abruptly the gate lattice slid aside. Beyond the cubby doorway was the open darkness within the wall. A scuffed path leading inward from the gate showed for a few feet. I walked over the threshold, with Alan crowding me. The Essen in my coat pocket was leveled. But from the cubby doorway, I saw that the guard was gone! Then I saw him crouching behind a metal shield. His voice rang out. "Stand!" A light struck my face--a thin beam from a television sender beside me. It all happened in an instant, so quickly Alan and I had barely time to make a move. I realized my image was now doubtless being presented to Polter. He would recognize me! I ducked my head, yelling, "Don't do that!" It was too late! The guard had received a signal. I heard its buzz. From the shield a tiny jet of fluid leapt at me. It struck my hood. There was a heavy sickening-sweet smell. It seemed like chloroform. I felt my senses going. The cubby room was turning dark, was roaring. I think I fired at the shield. And Alan leapt aside. I heard the faint hiss of his Essen, and his choked, horrified voice: "George, run! Don't fall!" I crumpled; slid into blackness. And it seemed, as I went down, that Alan's inert body was falling on top of me.... * * * * * I recovered after a nameless interval, a phantasmagoria of wild, drugged dreams. My senses came slowly. At first, there were dim muffled voices and the tread of footsteps. Then I knew that I was lying on the ground, and that I was indoors. It was warm. My overcoat was off. Then I realized that I was bound and gagged.