Only one thing they had no need to imitate, one thing that harked back to the darkest annals of Terra and surpassed anything that Planet had ever known--their utterly ruthless intrigues for the favor of His Benevolence. Assassinations were a commonplace, besides it provided a constant incentive to the Scientists of the First Order, for from them were chosen the fortunate ones who filled the vacancies of the Inner Circle. The audience gave a vast sigh, like a susurrating breeze, as the ponderous doors began to open under the exact tonal vibration of Bejamel's voice, for Bejamel, Minister of State, was the only one who could open those doors, aside from the "Protector in Chief" himself. Within the inner chamber nothing was discernible as the doors opened--nothing but a vast radiance intolerable to their eyes. As if a command had been given, all of them kneeled with bowed heads. At last, Bejamel's ululating chant ceased and when they looked again, the jewelled door had closed, but on the dais at the top of the stairs immediately above them reclined a figure--a monstrous figure of man, whose sharp, pale-yellow eyes gazed at them with bored contempt from amid folds of bulging flesh. "Benevolence!" The roar of thousands of voices rose in servile tribute, and left hands were flung upwards, fingers extended in salute. His Benevolence looked them over with cold, cruel eyes that seemed to miss no detail, and a little smile extended the bulbous lips. Languidly he waved a massive hand to the masqueraders, noting that none had achieved the bejewelled opulence of his Mandarin's costume, and instantly the revelry burst into tumult. The corps of exquisite dancers until now frozen in motionless attitudes, began a series of provocative movements, while barbaric drums and percussion instruments wove a theme of madness and desire. Over all, the shrill _passionata_ of the reeds and strings winged insistently to combine in a diabolic pattern that plucked at raw nerves and bared hidden jealousies and hates and bared the instincts of the jungle, red in tooth and claw. A group of dancers weaving and undulating in the suggestive rhythms of the Venusian "_Vuda_" passed like an uncoiling serpent before the august dais and burst into bacchanalian frenzy before the sardonic yellow eyes of His Benevolence. The fantastic splendor of the scene was heightened by the young, supple bodies of the most beautiful girls in the empire, the Virgins of the Sacred Flame, chosen yearly for that sacred trust. * * * * * "Well," an impassive voice inquired of a tall, dark-haired _guest_ who stood in the side-lines, stiff and uncertain, his conventional black mask too small to hide the firm, square-cut mouth, his blue-black mane of shoulder-length hair betraying him as a newcomer lacking as it did the curled and perfumed artistry of the other guests.