It was a narrow room of metallic, vaultlike aspect. Ten men sat around a table littered with documents, reports and summaries of the Turber affair; and the more recently compiled data on us. Mirrors and grids with moving images of distant scenes were on the walls; ovals of windows and a swinging door disclosed an adjacent room humming with the sounds of instruments; messengers passed in and out. There was a table in a corner with instruments and two intent operators. The business concerning us was dispatched with a celerity that left us both confused. The interrogation of us was suddenly nearly over. The president of the Great New York Branch of Anglo-Saxonia demanded of Alan: "You say your tower will return with a weapon for us to use against Turber?" "Yes. That is, we hope so." "What sort of a weapon?" "We don't know. A projector--" "Electronic, probably." He was obviously greatly interested. I said: "But you must have such weapons here." "No. Our world aerial power makes them inoperative. There was a class of weapons up to the years around 2000, called explosives. And then came the electronic weapons. We have none of them. They would not operate--and war itself is obsolete--" Was it? I doubted that, with the menace of Turber here. The president seemed to read my thoughts. He said: "We are business men. We know nothing of war." His grave face clouded with anxiety. He repeated as though to himself: "We know nothing of war." I regarded Alan. Then I said: "We have come here to have you help us. And to help you. My friend's sister is held by Turber--" An expedition against Turber to release Nanette. We urged it. The president said impatiently: "You know nothing of what you talk. That is utterly impossible of success." Alan said: "We know nothing of your conditions--that's true. But we must release my sister. Our purpose is the same as yours--if we can kill Turber--his Empire, as you call it, would go to pieces with his death. That's obvious from what you say." We listened while the council went on with its business. Gradually it was growing upon us how impregnable was Turber in this Time-world. This was only five hundred years in the future of our own world of 1945! And less than eight hundred years in the future of that little New Amsterdam! My mind went back to those forests with their roving Indians. This same Space which now was this giant city! Eight hundred years is not a long time in history. What a stupendous change! * * * * * The Council was discussing the aerial power-vibrations broadcast over the world from the main power plant in Scotland. The city comptroller said: "The Turberites refused today to pay the rental fees." He gestured to the table before him. "Here is the report--a protest from the Great London office. The Turberites are pirating the power now. Stealing it--the Wolves! "How can we stop them? We cannot, without war."