Narda shivered again, increasingly cold, as she let her mind rove briefly over their past history and their centuries of spurious peace. For nothing as crude as open, physical warfare disturbed ever the equilibrium of the various Moons. On the surface, the various governments maintained the most cordial relations--idyllic almost. But underneath--that was a different story! The most ruthless strife had never abated for even an hour. It might take the form of secretly systematic destruction of vibroponic farms of a world desperately in need of food; or perhaps the categorical embargo of essential supplies non-existent in another Moon. Or the proselyting of vast members of colonists from a sister world by means of economic lures. The loser always paid enormous ransom in whatever it was the victor coveted. Thus the subterranean warfare was carried on by secret Societies, much as hitherto the Ancients on Terra had employed secret agents, members of the powerful "Intelligence." Only that on the "Moons," the Societies had much greater power than the _laissez-faire_ governments themselves. Each Moon had its "Society," disavowed, legendary, invisible. They maintained secret armies of Astro-operatives and space navies always in readiness for _any_ eventuality--or an initial _open_ break that none of them had the courage to be the first to start. But more important still, in their vast, secret laboratories, armies of scientists and technicians toiled ceaselessly on new techniques and inventions. Delved into intricate psychological data that was a miracle of ingenuity, calculated always to prepare as far as possible against the _unpredictable_. The murmuring wind of Io swirled among the stones and laved them with its icy caress, and Narda trembled violently again. This time the spasm failed to abate, and she whispered through chattering teeth: "Please, Julian ... hurry. I'm chilled to the marrow ... d-dear...." "You're what?" His voice was suddenly a rasping in his throat. Julian straightened slowly from where he kneeled at the base of the cliff, where he'd been activating the mechanism of the concealed entrance with the wrist transmitter. He eyed the convulsed form of Narda then touched her burning forehead; he noted the tendons corded at her throat. A cold sweat of anguish beaded his brow as he said casually, "It is cold, darling," and then he punched carefully, precisely, and cried with agony as he felt his hand touch her flesh. He caught her tenderly as she slumped in his arms without a sound. He kissed her cold cheek and sought consolation in the fact that she would not suffer the first harrowing convulsive fever of the Plague. It would last for two hours. _How well he knew from experience the course of the disease!_ And he hoped Narda would not come to before then.