Ardmore got up and stood over the board. He studied it for a few moments, while the Oriental watched him. The courtiers were as silent as the pieces on the board -- waiting.

"I would move this pawn -- so," Ardmore announced at last.

"In such a fashion? That is a most unorthodox move."

"But necessary. From there it is mate in three moves -- but, of course, the Master sees that.",

"Of course. Yes, of course. But I did not fetch you here for chess," he added, turning away. "We must speak of other matters. I learn with sorrow that there have been complaints about your followers."

"The Master's sorrow is my sorrow. May the servant ask in what manner. his children have erred?"

But the Prince was again studying the chessboard. He raised a finger; a servant was kneeling beside him with writing board. He dipped a brush in ink and quickly executed a group of ideographs, sealing. the letter with his ring. The servant bowed himself away, while a messenger sped out with the dispatch.

"What was that? Oh, yes -- it is reported that they lack in grace. Their manner is unseemly in dealing with the Chosen Ones."

"Will the Master help an humble priest by telling him which of his children have been guilty of lapses from propriety and in what respects that he may correct them?"

This request, the Prince admitted to himself, was awkward. In some manner this uncouth creature had managed to put him on the defensive. He was not used to being asked for details; it was improper. Furthermore there was no answer; the conduct of the priests of Mota had been impeccable, flawless, in every fashion that could be cited.

Yet his court stood there, waiting, to hear what answer he would make to this crude indecency. How went the ancient lines? " ... Kung F'tze confounded by the question of a dolt!"

"It is not meet that the servant should question the master. At this moment you err in the fashion of your followers."

"Your pardon, Master. Though the slave may not question, is it not written that he may pray for mercy and help? We are simple servants, possessing not the wisdom of the Sun and of the Moon. Are you not our father and our mother? Will you not, from your heights, instruct us?"

The Prince refrained from biting his lip. How had this happened? By some twist of words this barbarian had put him in the wrong again. It was not safe to let the man open his mouth! Still -- this must be met; when a slave cries for mercy, honor requires an answer.

"We consent to instruct you in one particular; learn the lesson well and other aspects of wisdom will come to you of themselves." He paused and considered his words. "The manner of address used by you and your lesser priests in greeting the Chosen Ones is not seemly. This afront corrupts the character of all who see it."

"Am I to believe that the Chosen Race disdains the blessing of the Lord Mota?"

He had twisted it -- again! Sound policy required that the ruler assume that the gods of the slaves were authentic. "The blessing is not refused, but the form of greeting must be that of servant to master."

Ardmore was suddenly aware that he was being called with urgency. Ringing in his head was the voice of Thomas: "Chief! Chief! Can you hear me? There's a squad of police at every temple, demanding the surrender of the priests -- we're getting reports in from all over the country!"

"The Lord Mota hears!" It was addressed to the Prince; would Jeff understand also?

Jeff again -- "Was that to me, Chief?"

"See to it that his followers understand." The Prince had answered too quickly for Ardmore to devise another double meaning in which to speak to Thomas. But he knew something that the Prince did not know he knew. Now to use it.

"How can I instruct my priests when you are even now arresting them?" Ardmore's manner changed suddenly from humble to accusatory.

The face of the Prince was impassive, his eyes alone gave away his astonishment. Had the man guessed the nature of that dispatch? "You speak wildly."

"I do not! Even while you have been instructing me in the way that I must instruct my priests, your soldiers have been knocking at the gates of all the temples of Mota. Wait! I have a message to you from the Lord Mota: His priests do not fear worldly power. You have not succeeded in arresting them, nor would you, did not the Lord Mota bid them to surrender. In thirty minutes, after the priests have cleansed themselves spiritually and girded themselves for the ordeal, each will surrender himself at the threshold of his temple. Until then, woe to the soldier who attempts to violate the House of Mota!"

"'At's telling 'em Chief! 'At's telling 'em! You mean for each temple priest to hold off thirty more minutes, then surrender -- is that right? And for them to be loaded for bear, power units, communicators, and all the latest gadgets. Acknowledge, if you can."

"In the groove, Jeff." He had to chance it four meaningless syllables to the Prince, but Jeff would understand.

"O. K., Chief. I don't know what you're up to, but we'll go along a thousand percent!"

The face of the Prince was a frozen mask. "Take him away."

For some minutes after Ardmore was gone the Serene One sat staring at the chessboard and pulling at his underlip.

They placed Ardmore in a room underground, a room with metal walls and massive locks on the door. Not content with that, he was hardly inside when he heard a soft hissing noise and saw a point at the edge of the door turn cherry red. Welding! They evidently intended to make sure that no possible human weakness of his guards could result in escape. He called the Citadel.

"Lord Mota, hear thy servant!"

"Yes, Chief."

"A wink is as good as a nod."

"Got you, Chief. You are still where you can be overheard. Slang it up. I'll get your drift!"

"The headman witch doctor hankers to chew the rag with the rest of the sky pilots."

"You want Circuit A?"

"Most bodaciously."

There was a brief pause, then Thomas answered. "O. K., Chief, you've got it. I'll stay cut in to interpret it

probably won't be necessary, since the boys have practiced this kind of double talk. Go ahead you've got five minutes, if they are to surrender on time."

Any cipher can be broken, any code can be compromised. But the most exact academic knowledge of a language gives no clue to its slang, its colloquial allusions, its half statements, over statements, and inverted meanings. Ardmore felt logically certain that the PanAsians had planted a microphone in his cell. Very well, since they were bound to listen to his end of the conversation, let them be confused and baled by it, uncertain whether he spoke in gibberish to his god, or had possibly lost his mind.

"Look, cherubs -- mamma wants baby to go to the nice man. It's all hunkydory as long as baby-bunting carries his nice new rattle. Yea, verily, rattle is the watchword -- you don't and they do. Deal this cold deck the way it's stacked and the chopstick laddies are stonkered and discombobulated. The stiff upper lip does it."

"Check me if I'm wrong, Chief. You want the priests to give themselves up, and to rattle the PanAsians by their apparent unconcern. You want them to carry it off the way you did, cool as a cucumber, and bold as brass. I also take it that you want them to hang on to their staffs, but not to use them unless you tell them to. Is that right?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson!"

"What happens after that?"

"No thirty."

"What's that? Oh, 'No thirty' -- more to come on this story; you'll tell us later. All right, Chief -- it's time!"

"Okey-dokey!"

Ardmore waited until he was reasonably certain that all the PanAsians not immediately concerned with guarding the prisoners would be asleep, or at least in their quarters. What he proposed to do would be effective fully only in the event that no one knew just what had happened. The chances were better at night.