Endor’s protest made, he sat down again at the table. He must now abide the issue. Clairvoyantly he awaited the slow unfolding of an odd ritual. The proceedings began with curious solemnity. As the latest member of the Council of Seven, the task devolved upon himself of drawing from the velvet bag the first slip of paper. Should he or should he not bear his part? It was a momentous decision to have to take. But there shot through his mind a clear perception of the fact that there was really no alternative. He was under oath to obey the rules of the Society or pay the heaviest penalty of all. One glance at the faces around the table told him quite plainly that the penalty would be exacted. These men were not to be trifled with. He would die like a rat in a trap. And such an exit would not save Saul Hartz, nor would it help the future of mankind. On the spur of the moment Endor had to decide. By a withdrawal now from the Council of Seven he would gain nothing and yet he would lose his life. Was he ready to lose it? Was he ready to lose it without a struggle for the vindication of his ideals? Automatically, yet with a subtle sense of coercion from the powerful minds around him, he dipped his hand into the velvet bag and drew out one of the slips of paper. Unfolding the strip with a feeling of irresponsibility a little bizarre he found that on it was written the name George Hierons. The rules now required that upon the American should devolve the duty of taking from the velvet bag the name of him who was called to a dreadful task. A hush fell upon the table. In a silence that was physical torture to more than one around that bright mahogany, the strings at the bag’s mouth were pulled tight, and then the bag itself was handed to George Hierons. In this moment of exquisite torment, it was as if something broke inside John Endor’s heart. Even before the second slip was drawn from the bag, and the name it bore was made known, Endor realized, as if by the magic of an occult power, that in an especial manner Fate had marked him down. Before the impassive American opened this paper and announced its contents, the latest member of the Council saw and heard his own name: JOHN ENDOR When seconds later that name was pronounced, he gave a little gasp. He felt the burning eyes of the others envelop him. Overcome by emotion, he was unable to meet those eyes and bent his own to the table. A nausea of dismay bereft him of the power to think or act. But all too soon there came to his ear the calm and precise speech of Lien Weng. “John Endor,” said the President in a small soft voice, not unlike a cat’s purr, that turned to ice the blood of the man whom he addressed, “you are called, within the term of eight days, reckoning from this Sunday midnight, to kill the man Saul Hartz by the method ordained in such cases by the Council of Seven. What that method is, it is now our duty to reveal.” XLIV