"Yes. Secret." He was leading us to the door. "They won't need you for more than half an hour. When they finish, come back to my office. You can come openly." He stood with his finger on the door lever. "Good-by, lads. Foley will lead you to the service room. You are to take a mail cylinder for Postal Switch-station 20. They'll re-route you from there to the conclave auditorium." The door slid up. "When you disembark," he added, "Ask for Johnny Grantline. You are to sit with him." He showed us out and the door slid down before him. We trudged the corridor, and Snap gripped me. "For myself," he whispered swiftly, "I'll go to the damnable conclave because I'm ordered. But I won't stay there long. Once we get out of it, if I don't route myself back to the Red Spark, I'm a motor-oiler." I agreed with him. We had a mental picture of Anita and Venza in the Red Spark's public room. Doubtless Orentino had created a way for them to meet Molo. They would sit there in the Red Spark with that drinking party, and in less than an hour we would be back. But as we crossed diagonally across an end of the main room with Foley leading us, we caught a glimpse of Molo's table. The party was still there, but Molo, Anita, and Venza were gone! We had no time to get any information. Foley abruptly left us and another man took his place. In the service room a passenger cylinder was waiting. Our guide entered it with us. At the switch station we had the breath knocked out of us. After another ten minutes in the vacuum tube, we reached our unknown destination. The cylinder-slide opened. We found ourselves with a lone guard; and through a gloomy arcade opening, Johnny Grantline was advancing, to greet us. "Well, so here you are, Gregg. Hell to pay heaven, going on here. Come on in; I'll tell you." "We were sent for," Snap said. "Yes, but they don't want you yet. Come in here." He waved away the guard and led us through a padded arcade into a low-vaulted audience room, windowless and gloomy. Across it, a doorway panel stood ajar. Grantline peered through it. There was the glow of light from the adjoining room and the distant murmur of many voices. Grantline closed the door. "Sit down and I'll tell you...." "Where are we?" I asked. "The ninth Conclave Hall." I knew its location: Lower Manhattan, high under the city roof. Grantline produced little cigarette cylinders. "Steady your nerves, lads; you'll need it." He grinned at us. The hand with which he lighted my cylinder was steady as a tower-base, but he was excited. I could see it by the glint in his eyes, and hear it in his voice. "What's going on?" Snap demanded. "It's about this invading planet. By the gods, when you hear what's really been learned about it!" "Well, what?" I asked. He sketched what he had heard this night at the conclave. The mysterious invader was inhabited. "How do they know that?" Snap put in.