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  _CHAPTER ELEVEN_

  The Paris-Berlin express thundered through the night, a gigantic shipthat rode high above the Earth. Far below one could see the dim lightsof eastern Europe.

  Harry Wilson pressed his face against the window, staring down. Therewas nothing to see but the tiny lights. They were alone, he and theother occupants of the ship ... alone in the dark world that surroundedthem.

  But Wilson sensed some other presence in the ship, someone besides thepilot and his mechanics up ahead, the hostess and the three stodgytraveling men who were his fellow passengers.

  Wilson's hair ruffled at the base of his skull, tingling with an unknownfear that left him shaken.

  A voice whispered in his ear: "Harry Wilson. So you are running away!"

  Just a tiny voice that seemed hardly a voice at all, it seemed at onceto come from far away and yet from very near. The voice, with an edge ofcoldness on it, was one he never would forget.

  He cowered in his seat, whimpering.

  The voice came again: "Didn't I tell you that you couldn't run away?That no matter where you went, I'd find you?"

  "Go away," Wilson whispered huskily. "Leave me alone. Haven't youhounded me enough?"

  "No," answered the voice, "not enough. Not yet. You sold us out. Youwarned Chambers about our energy and now Chambers is sending men to killus. But they won't succeed, Wilson."

  "You can't hurt me," said Wilson defiantly. "You can't do anything buttalk to me. You're trying to drive me mad, but you can't. I won't letyou. I'm not going to pay any more attention to you."

  The whisper chuckled.

  "You can't," argued Wilson wildly. "All you can do is talk to me. You'venever done anything but that. You drove me out of New York and out ofLondon and now you're driving me out of Paris. But Berlin is as far as Iwill go. I won't listen to you any more."

  "Wilson," whispered the voice, "look inside your bag. The bag, Wilson,where you are carrying that money. That stack of credit certificates.Almost eleven thousand dollars, what is left of the twenty thousandChambers paid you."

  With a wild cry Wilson clawed at his bag, snapped it open, pawed throughit.

  * * * * *

  The credit certificates were gone!

  "You took my money," he shrieked. "You took everything I had. I haven'tgot a cent. Nothing except a few dollars in my pocket."

  "You haven't got that either, Wilson," whispered the voice.

  There was a sound of ripping cloth as something like a great, powerfulhand flung aside Wilson's coat, tore away the inside pocket. There was abrief flash of a wallet and a bundle of papers, which vanished.

  The hostess was hurrying toward him.

  "Is there something wrong?"

  "They took ..." Wilson began and stopped.

  What could he tell her? Could he say that a man half way across theworld had robbed him?

  The three traveling men were looking at him.

  "I'm sorry, miss," he stammered. "I really am. I fell asleep anddreamed."

  He sat down again, shaken. Shivering, he huddled back into the corner ofhis seat. His hands explored the torn coat pocket. He was stranded, highin the air, somewhere between Paris and Berlin ... stranded withoutmoney, without a passport, with nothing but the clothes he wore and thefew personal effects in his bag.

  Fighting to calm himself, he tried to reason out his plight. The planewas entering the Central European Federation and that, definitely, wasno place to be without a passport or without visible means of support. Athousand possibilities flashed through his mind. They might think he wasa spy. He might be cited for illegal entry. He might be framed by secretpolice.

  Terror perched on his shoulder and whispered to him. He shiveredviolently and drew farther back into the corner of the seat. He claspedhis hands, beat them against his huddled knees.

  He would cable friends back in America and have them identify him andvouch for his character. He would borrow some money from them, justenough to get back to America. But whom would he cable? And with achingbitterness in his breast, Harry Wilson came face to face with thehorrible realization that nowhere in the world, nowhere in the SolarSystem, was there a single person who was his friend. There was no oneto help him.

  He bowed his head in his hands and sobbed, his shoulders jerkingspasmodically, the sobs racking his body.

  The traveling men stared at him unable to understand. The hostess lookedbriskly helpless. Wilson knew he looked like a scared fool and he didn'tcare.

  He _was_ scared.

  * * * * *

  Gregory Manning riffled the sheaf of credit certificates, the wallet,the passport and pile of other papers that lay upon the desk in front ofhim.

  "That closes one little incident," he said grimly. "That takes care ofour friend Wilson."

  "Maybe you were a bit too harsh with him, Greg," suggested Russell Page.

  Greg shook his head. "He was a traitor, the lowest thing alive. He soldthe confidence we placed in him. He traded something that was not his totrade. He did it for money and now I've taken that money from him."

  He shoved the pile of certificates to one side.

  "Now I've got this stuff," he said, "I don't know what to do with it. Wedon't want to keep it."

  "Why not send it to Chambers?" suggested Russ. "He will find thepassport and the money on his desk in the morning. Give him something tothink about tomorrow."