He watched in silence while his Minister of Culture made a pile of gold coins four feet high. When the floor timbers began creaking, Nick made another similar heap; then, others, till the thick walls began bulging inward. "Stop!" Broncov cried. "A couple of tons is enough." Eyes now popping, he waved his arms as the floor sagged under fifty times that weight. "There's the two hundred million for you, Prince. The rest is for--us. We'll sign the papers in another room." Ignoring frightened cries, Nick made more piles of gold next to the windows. Outside on Red Square, people were running in all directions, shouting and waving newspapers. A cannon roared. A hundred or more machine guns began rattling. Plainly, the bullets were not fired at any one, for the people were laughing and weeping, singing and dancing. "Come here and have a look, Bronco," Nick suggested. "It's--a trick, a revolution," Broncov panted. "Damn you, Volonsky, you started it." He snatched a heavy revolver from his desk and fired it at Nick without warning. The false Volonsky laughed when five of the slugs bounced off the invisible shield around him. A sixth bullet splintered the window glass. The other five returned and struck the raging Red boss, cutting his face and arms enough to bring streams of blood. He dashed for the door but collided with the six guards who burst into the room. Broncov wiped off some of the blood running into his eyes well enough to see all six waving copies of Pravda. "What's going on here?" he screamed. "Read about it in Pravda," bellowed Gorkzy, the huge guard. "It always prints the truth--you've taught us." "What truth?" quavered the Premier. "Put down those guns!" "Oh, no. Pravda says you were shot trying to escape, and for once it really told the truth." Implacably, the big guard brought up his Tommy-gun and let it rattle. The stricken Red leader took two steps backward and fell to the floor as the other five guns opened up on him in a hell's chatter of death. His falling weight added the last straw to the overstrained floor timbers. They gave way in a roar, and a hundred tons of yellow gold streamed downward in a cataclysmic wave of wealth and death to the Council members below. * * * * * Poised on air, Nick and Cletus became invisible to mortal eyes. "That wraps it, Cleet. Let's see how the boys take it." The six guards were peering down into the ruin below, and at some of the fortune still clinging to the slanting floor. "Great Nicholas!" Gorkzy yelled. "Gold!" "Just like Pravda says," howled another man. "Listen! It says: 'Volonsky and the mysterious Persian prince have disappeared. Broncov executed by heroic guards. All members of the once-feared Inner Council crushed almost beyond recognition when floor crashed upon them from the weight of the gold brought by the prince.'"