His voice was soft and musical. He sat there on the fountain rim, an elbow on his crossed knees, chin resting in his hand, his eyes studying us. A small, slight figure of a man, no more than thirty-five. Simply dressed; white trousers of the tropics, with a strip of narrow black down the leg-fronts; a girdle of gold; ruffled white shirt, with sleeves that flared a trifle, and a neck-piece of black. From his belt dangled a few instruments and several personal weapons--beautifully wrought, small--almost miniatures--yet deadly-looking for all that. He was bareheaded; black hair closely clipped. A face smooth-shaven. Thin, with a nose hawk-like, and black eyes and heavy brows. His mouth was thin-lipped, though smiling now, disclosing even, white teeth. Yet a cruel mouth, with the firm jaw of determination and power under it. The familiar gray Venus skin, but with that bronze cast of the people of the Central State. At first glance, not an unusual or particularly commanding figure. Yet the man's power of personality, the sheer dominant force of him, radiated like a tower code-beam. No one could be in his presence an instant without feeling it. A power that enwrapped you; made you feel like a child. Helpless. Anxious to placate a possible wrath that would be devastating; anxious--absurdly--for a smile. It was a radiation of genius, humbling every mediocre mortal it touched. I felt it--felt all this from the moment I came into his presence. Felt like a child, sitting there on that bench. Vaguely frightened; sullen, with childish resentment at my superior. And over it all, my man's mentality made me angry at myself for such emotions; angry at the consciousness of my own inferiority, forced upon me now more strongly than ever anything or any one had made me feel it before. Tarrano was smiling gently. "... killed your father. I would not have had it so. Yet--perhaps it was necessary. The Lady Elza----" I could feel Elza trembling again. Georg burst out: "What do you want of us? Who are you?" Tarrano's slim gray-brown hand came up. "The Lady Elza remembers me----" He seemed waiting with his gentle smile for her to speak. "They called you Taro then," she said. Her voice was the small, scared, diffident voice of a child. "Yes. Taro. A mere sub-officer of the Central State. But destined for bigger things than that, as you see. They did not like what they called my ambitious ways--and so they sent me to the Cold Country. That was soon after I had met you and your father, Lady Elza. You hardly remarked me then--I was so insignificant a personage. But you--I remembered you----" Still there was in his voice and on his face nothing but kindness and a queer whimsical look of reminiscence. He broke off at the buzz of a disc that hung from his belt by a golden chain. He jerked it loose from its snap, and to his ear clasped a small receiver. Like a mask his gentleness dropped from him. His voice rasped: