Bent over his desk, the Dictator struggled to compose a speech to the people--one that would reassure, enhearten, inflame the blackening coals of hope. He wrote: "There is nothing to fear but fear. A way will be found...." He scowled at the shaky hand-writing of the last line, scratched it out angrily and began again. "A way will be found...." But his fingers twitched convulsively with the pen, and the sentence trailed into a senseless scrawl. * * * * * The truck swung round and lurched to a halt not far from the road, and they saw that there would be no grave--only a stretch of wild, rank weeds in a wet meadow. "So," said Joseph Euge in the same weary monotone, "there will be an end of man--unless somewhere on Earth are found men without fear." He flinched from the prodding bayonet of a frightened man in a terrible mask, and stumbled stiffly to his feet.