Within the capital, Plastica, and in each of the twelve cities, each individual life had a definite pattern known only to the members of the Inner Circle. Any deviation from that pattern brought instant retribution. There was no appeal, for each judgment was based on cold, inexorable law. Ever since the great exodus from Earth, when the original Council had fled Terra, and forced colonies on Mars and Venus, and later after their disastrous war with Europa, the Council itself had been given the alternative of leaving the inner planets or being executed, the members of the Council had colonized Neptune with millions who unable to live without the "controls" had chosen to accompany them into space. As the centuries passed and a new ruler of the Council had been elected, changes had occurred in the laws, methods had been perfected, until now, all Neptune was ruled by the City in the Flaming Sphere, and to the millions in Plastica and the other great cities, the Protectors (as they now styled themselves), had become legendary figures. The Law was supreme. And behind the Law, was the "Blessed Sleep." * * * * * In the fabulous hall of the palace, where the reeling torches in relief threw faces of ink and of gold, there was a sudden silence as an unearthly voice rose limpid, supernally lovely, in a single ululating note. It was as if a gargoyle were singing with the voice of an angel. But the bizarre assemblage of jaded, pleasure-sated "Protectors" of the _Inner Circle_ had no eyes for the cadaverous Minister of Justice, whose distorted features seemed uglier as he directed a stream of modulated notes upward toward the gigantic doors at the top of jewelled stairs. All eyes peering through the slits of black and golden masks that completely hid their faces, were directed at the great red doors, shining like gigantic, square cut rubies under the primitive light of resinous torches. Every detail of the masquerade was perfection itself, copying faithfully the conditions of primitive ages thousands of years past. The magnificent costumes of the guests harked back to pirates and slave-dealers, to vanished kings and oriental potentates. Back to an era when humanity was young, as if these scientists who had the command of miracles at their finger-tips, had wearied of their scientific perfection. Bejamel, Minister of Justice, had conceived the idea, and His Benevolence had approved. From the current "favorite" of His Benevolence, to the newest neophyte of the Inner Circle, the Masquerade had immediately become a command performance.