Number Seven Hundred Sixty-three roared skywards as General Lloyd's men turned from their instruments in despair. Number Eight Hundred Fifty-seven left at the instant that General Lloyd asked for a volunteer to--die. Number Eleven Hundred Forty-two left-- With Jason Charless as passenger, carrying a small portable radio transmitter, in place of two hundred pounds of atomic warhead. The last--Number Two Thousand--cleared the cave before the white-faced General Lloyd succeeded in contacting Secretary of War Hegeman and telling him the unbelievable tale. 2 His nightmare forgotten, Harry Vinson drove swiftly towards his day's work--knowing it would be the greatest day's work of his life. The telephone in his car rang thrice before its urgent buzzing broke into his consciousness. He lifted the phone and spoke, giving his name and number. "Vinson! This is Hegeman. Jason Charless reports that some agency is stealing our supply of guided missiles." "Stealing?" stammered Vinson, a cold chill hitting him in the stomach. _Dream?_ Hegeman explained. "Leaving, one by one," echoed Vinson dully. _Dream! No dream, this!_ "Yes, leaving. Stolen. Without being energized, they took off one by one until they were gone!" "But what--?" Hegeman was snappish-short. "Get on that machine of yours and find out who's doing it!" "I can't," said Vinson unhappily. "Why? Have you forgotten something?" "The machine is gone," said Vinson breathlessly. "Gone!" roared Hegeman. "Where?" Vinson did not need his vast computing machine to tell him part of the answer to that question. "Gone," he said quietly, "where your stockpile of guided missiles went." "Oh my God!" said Hegeman weakly. From somewhere behind, a small vehicle came racing up beside Vinson's car. Girders reached out and opened the door to the passing air; the door snapped open and off while the car lurched sickeningly. The girders clutched Harry Vinson and lifted him from the car and tucked him in the racing vehicle. Vinson's car careened into a telephone post as the capturing machine raced off down the road. Vinson swore. This was magnificent theft, and now expert abduction. From somewhere below him, a small arm appeared with a hypodermic needle on its end. The needle went into Vinson's back with mechanical precision. He enlarged on his profanity. The only nation capable of such high-handed methods was the same one reported to have stolen some of the secrets of the American Logic Computer a number of years back--Now they had stolen not only the computer itself, but its master technician and the stockpile of atomic missiles as well. Hate was not a familiar emotion to Harry Vinson, but it sprang up in him now and grew until he hated the very name--of-- The drug hit Harry Vinson suddenly and completely. * * * * *