Heavy steps sounded in the hall. A moment later six men entered the chamber and strode belligerently to the Emperor. Five of them were Sirians. The sixth was a man of Earth--a tall broad shouldered man with a bullet head and a cruel predatory face. This was Drum Faggard. He wore the Sirian uniform and a flowing scarlet cloak hung from his shoulders. At his waist were holstered two long barreled genithode pistols. "Your mines are lying idle," Faggard snarled. "Why?" Through the crevice between the partially closed door Standish saw the Emperor shrug eloquently. "We have had troubles." "What troubles?" The Emperor hesitated. "Labor," he said. "My workers refuse to toil further when the results of their work are stolen from them. They see no reason to struggle for the benefit of murdering raiders." Blunt anger crimsoned Faggard's face. He struck the Emperor hard across the face. "Watch your tongue, fool!" Standish made fists of his hands. He had an overpowering desire to leap into the room and seize the renegade. To do that, however, he knew, would mean failure for his plans. Drum Faggard paced to a window. "What is the meaning of all that material piled outside the city?" Quietly the Emperor continued to play his part. "We are moving to new grounds," he explained, "moving higher into the hills. The weather on Lyra is changing, growing warmer due to the planet's gradual approach to our sun. Surely your observers must have noticed it." For a long moment the renegade stood there motionless, digesting this information. Then he crossed back to the table, slammed a mailed fist down upon it. "Old man, I give you one more chance. Either those mines are worked and a double amount of ore made ready for us, or we level Calthedra to the ground. Do you understand? We will return later." He turned on his heel, and the five Sirians followed puppet-like into the corridor. Darting across to the window, Standish saw them march pompously across the square and enter the space cruisers. A moment later, with a roar of rocket exhaust, the six armored vessels shot upward. Standish turned and ran out the door, heading for the landing field. Half way he met Ga-Marr. "The ruse worked," the Emperor's son exulted. "They've gone." "Order the ship cleared!" Standish commanded. "We take off at once." Quickly the screen of material was torn from the new ship. A vat of necessary water and a case of food concentrate were hastily carried into the storage chamber. The twenty-four chosen Lyrians took their places. In the pilot cuddy, Standish nodded to Ga-Marr and pulled down the microphone of the ship address-system. "Close stern hatch!" he ordered. A dial flicked on the panel before him, and from the loudspeaker a voice answered: "Hatch closed, sir." "Close midships-tower." "Midships-tower closed." "Gunner's mate!" Standish called. "Test all gun swivels, air locks and automatic loaders." There was a moment's pause. Then: "All guns tested, sir."