"O. K. , Scheer, you take Wilkie's place at the projector. Don't let fly unless you are spotted. If we aren't back in thirty minutes, return to the Citadel. Come on, Wilkie -- now for a little hocus-pocus."

Scheer acknowledged the order, but it was evident from the way his powerful jaw muscles worked that he did not like it. Ardmore and Wilkie, each attired in the full regalia of a priest, moved out across the roof in search of a way down. Ardmore kept his staff set and projecting in the wave band to which Mongolians were sensitive, but at a power-level anesthetic rather than lethal in its effect. The entire palace had been radiated with a cone of these frequencies before they had landed, using the much more powerful projector mounted in the scout car. Presumably every Asiatic in the building was unconscious -- Ardmore was not taking unnecessary chances.

They found an access door to the roof, which saved them cutting a hole, and crept down a steep iron stairway intended only for janitors and repair men. Once inside, Ardmore had trouble orienting himself and feared that he would be forced to find a PanAsian, resuscitate him, and wring the location of the Prince's private chambers out of him by most ungentle methods. But luck favored them; he happened on the right floor and correctly inferred the portal of the Prince's apartment by the size and nature of the guard collapsed outside of it.

The door was not locked; the Prince depended on a military watch being kept rather than keys and bolts -- he had never turned a key in his life. They found him lying in his bed, a book fallen from his limp fingers. A personal attendant lay crumpled in each of the four corners of the spacious room.

Wilkie eyed the Prince with interest. "So that's his nibs. What do we do now, Major?"

"You get on one side of the bed; I'll get on the other. I want him to be forced to divide his attention two ways. And stand up close so that he will have to look up at you. I'll talk all the business, but you throw in a remark or two every now and then to force him to split his attention."

"What sort of a remark?"

"Just priestly mumbo-jumbo. Impressive and no real meaning. Can you do it?"

"I think so -- I used to sell magazine subscriptions."

"O. K. This guy is a tough nut really tough. I am going to try to get at him with the two basic congenital fears common to everybody; fear of constriction and fear of falling. I could handle it with my staff but it will be simpler if you do it with yours. Do you think you can follow my motions and catch what I want done?"

"Can you make it a little clearer than that?"

Ardmore explained in detail, then added, "All right let's get busy. Take your place." He turned on the four colored

lights of his staff. Wilkie did likewise. Ardmore stepped across the room and switched out the lights of the room.

When the PanAsian Prince Royal, Grandson of the Heavenly One and ruler in his name of the Imperial Western Realm, came to his senses, he saw standing. over him in the darkness two impressive figures. The taller was garbed in robes of shimmering, milky luminescence. His turban, too, glowed with a soft white fire -- a halo.

The staff in his left hand streamed light from all four faces of its cubical capital -- ruby, golden, emerald, and sapphire.

The second figure was like the first, save that his robes glowed ruddy like iron on an anvil. The face of each was partially illuminated by the rays from their wands.

The figure in shining white raised his right hand in a gesture not benign, but imperious. "We meet again, O unhappy Prince!"

The Prince had been trained truly and well; fear was not natural to him. He started to sit up, but an impalpable force shoved against his chest and thrust him back against the bed. He started to speak.

The air was sucked from his throat. "Be silent, child of iniquity! The Lord Mota speaks through me. You will listen in peace."

Wilkie judged it to be about time to divert the Asiatic's attention. He intoned, "Great is the Lord Mota!"

Ardmore continued, "Your hands are wet with the blood of innocence. There must be an end to it!"

"Just is the Lord Mota!"

"You have oppressed his people. You have left the land of your fathers, bringing with you fire and sword. You must return!"

"Patient is the Lord Mota!"

"But you have tried his patience," agreed Ardmore. "Now he is angry with you. I bring you warning; see that you heed it!"

"Merciful is the Lord Mota!"

"Go back to the place whence you came -- go back at once, taking with you all your people -- and return not again!" Ardmore thrust out a hand and closed it slowly. "Heed not this warning -- the breath will be crushed from your body!" The pressure across the chest of the Oriental increased intolerably, his eyes bulged out, he gasped for air.

"Heed not this warning -- you will be cast down from your high place!" The Prince felt himself suddenly become light; he was cast into the air, pressed hard against the high ceiling. Just . as suddenly his support left him; he fell heavily back to the bed.

"So speaks my Lord Mota!"

"Wise is the man who heeds him!" Wilkie was running short of choruses.

Ardmore was ready to conclude. His eye swept around the room and noted something he had seen before -- the Prince's ubiquitous chess table. It was set up by the head of the bed, as if the Prince amused himself with it on sleepless nights. Apparently the man set much store by the game. Ardmore added a postscript. "My Lord Mota is done -- but heed the advice of an old man: men and women are not pieces in a game!" An invisible hand swept the costly, beautiful chessmen to the floor. In spite of his rough handling, the Prince had sufficient spirit left in him to glare.

"And now my Lord Shaam bids you sleep." The green light flared up to greater brilliance; the Prince went limp.

"Whew!" sighed Ardmore. "I'm glad that's over. Nice cooperation, Wilkie -- I was never cut out to be an actor." He hoisted up one side of his robes and dug a package of cigarettes out of his pants-pocket. "Better have one," he offered. "We've got a really dirty job ahead of us."

"Thanks," said Wilkie, accepting the offer. "Look, Chief -- is it really necessary to kill everybody here? I don't relish it."

"Don't get chicken, son," admonished Ardmore with an edge in his voice. "This is war -- and war is no joke. There is no such thing as humane war. This is a military fortress we are in; it is necessary to our plans that it be reduced completely. We couldn't do it from the air because the plan requires keeping the Prince alive."

"Why wouldn't it do just as well to leave them unconscious?"

"You argue too much. Part of the disorganization plan is to leave the Prince still alive and in command, but cut off from all his usual assistants. That will create a turmoil of inefficiency much greater than if we had simply killed him and let their command devolve to their number-two man. You know that. Get on with your job."

With the lethal ray from their staffs turned to maximum power, they swept the walls and floor and ceiling, varying death to Asiatics for hundreds of feet -- through rock and metal, plaster and wood. Wilkie did his job with white-lipped efficiency.

Five minutes later they were carving the stratosphere for home -- the Citadel.

Eleven other scout cars were hurrying through the night. In Cincinnati, in Chicago, in Dallas, in major cities across the breadth of the continent they dove out of the darkness, silencing opposition where they found it, and landed little squads of intent and resolute men. In they went, past sleeping guards, and dragged out local senior officials of the PanAsians provincial governors, military commanders, the men on horseback. They dumped each unconscious kidnapped Oriental on the roof of the local temple of Mota, there to be received and dragged down below by the arms of a robed and bearded priest.