"Perhaps I should say, 'All but one,'" Prof went on. "Two cossacks at the door through which you departed had been given quietus by our brave comrade Shorty Mkrum... and I am sorry to say that Shorty was lying across them, dying--"

"We knew."

"So. Duke et decorum. One guard in that doorway had a damaged face but was still moving; I gave his neck a treatment known in professional circles Earthside as the Istanbul twist. He joined his mates. By then most of the living had left. Just myself, our chairman of the evening Finn Nielsen, a comrade known as 'Mom,' that being what her husbands called her. I consulted with Comrade Finn and we bolted all doors. That left a cleaning job. Do you know the arrangements backstage there?"

"Not me," I said. Wyoh shook head.

"There is a kitchen and pantry, used for banquets. I suspect that Mom and family run a butcher shop for they disposed of bodies as fast as Finn and I carried them back, their speed limited only by the rate at which portions could be ground up and flushed into the city's cloaca. The sight made me quite faint, so I spent time mopping in the hall. Clothing was the difficult part, especially those quasi-military uniforms."

"What did you do with those laser guns?"

Prof turned bland eyes on me. "Guns? Dear me, they must have disappeared. We removed everything of a personal nature from bodies of our departed comrades--tor relatives, for identification, for sentiment. Eventually we had everything tidy--not a job that would fool Interpol but one as to make it seem unlikely that anything untoward had taken place. We conferred, agreed that it would be well not to be seen soon, and left severally, myself by a pressure door above the stage leading up to level six. Thereafter I tried to call you, Manuel, being worried about your safety and that of this dear lady." Prof bowed to Wyoh. "That completes the tale. I spent the night in quiet places."

"Prof," I said, "those guards were new chums, still getting their legs. Or we wouldn't have won."

"That could be," he agreed. "But had they not been, the outcome would have been the same."

"How so? They were armed."

"Lad, have you ever seen a boxer dog? I think not--no dogs that large in Luna. The boxer is a result of special selection. Gentle and intelligent, he turns instantly into deadly killer when occasion requires.

"Here has been bred an even more curious creature. I know of no city on Terra with as high standards of good manners and consideration for one's fellow man as here in Luna. By comparison, Terran cities--I have known most major ones--are barbaric. Yet the Loonie is as deadly as the boxer dog. Manuel, nine guards, no matter how armed, stood no chance against that pack. Our patron used bad judgment."

"Um. Seen a morning paper, Prof? Or a video cast?"

"The latter, yes."

"Nothing in late news last night."

"Nor this morning."

"Odd," I said.

"What's odd about it?" asked Wyoh. "We won't talk--and we have comrades in key places in every paper in Luna."

Prof shook his head. "No, my dear. Not that simple. Censorship. Do you know how copy is set in our newspapers?"

"Not exactly. It's done by machinery."

"Here's what Prof means," I told her. "News is typed in editorial offices. From there on it's a leased service directed by a master computer at Authority Complex"--hoped she would notice "master computer" rather than "Mike"--"copy prints out there via phone circuit. These rolls feed into a computer section which reads, sets copy, and prints out newspapers at several locations. Novylen edition of Daily Lunatic prints out in Novylen changes in ads and local stories, and computer makes changes from standard symbols, doesn't have to be told how. What Prof means is that at print-out at Authority Complex, Warden could intervene. Same for all news services, both off and to Luna--they funnel through computer room."

"The point is," Prof went on, "the Warden could have killed the story. It's irrelevant whether he did. Or--check me, Manuel; you know I'm hazy about machinery--he could insert a story, too, no matter how many comrades we have in newspaper offices."

"Sure," I agreed. "At Complex, anything can be added, cut, or changed."

"And that, señorita, is the weakness of our Cause. Communications. Those goons were not important--but crucially important is that it lay with the Warden, not with us, to decide whether the story should be told. To a revolutionist, communications are a sine-qua-non."

Wyoh looked at me and I could see synapses snapping. So I changed subject. "Prof. why get rid of bodies? Besides horrible job, was dangerous. Don't know how many bodyguards Warden has, but more could show up while you were doing it."

"Believe me, lad, we feared that. But although I was almost useless, it was my idea, I had to convince the others. Oh, not my original idea but remembrance of things past, an historical principle."

"What principle?"

"Terror! A man can face known danger. But the unknown frightens him. We disposed of those finks, teeth and toenails, to strike terror into their mates. Nor do I know how many effectives the Warden has, but I guarantee they are less effective today. Their mates went out on an easy mission. Nothing came back."

Wyoh shivered. "It scares me, too. They won't be anxious to go inside a warren again. But, Professor, you say you don't know how many bodyguards the Warden keeps. The Organization knows. Twenty-seven. If nine were killed, only eighteen are left. Perhaps it's time for a putsch. No?"

"No," I answered.

"Why not, Mannie? They'll never be weaker."

"Not weak enough. Killed nine because they were crackers to walk in where we were. But if Warden stays home with guards around him-- Well, had enough shoulder-to-shoulder noise last night." I turned to Prof. "But still I'm interested in fact--if it is--that Warden now has only eighteen. You said Wyoh should not go to Hong Kong and I should not go home. But if he has only eighteen left, I wonder how much danger? Later after he gets reinforcements.--but now, well, L-City has four main exits plus many little ones. How many can they guard? What's to keep Wyoh from walking to Tube West, getting p-suit, going home?"

"She might," Prof agreed.

"I think I must," Wyoh said. "I can't stay here forever. If I have to hide, I can do better in Hong Kong, where I know people."

"You might get away with it, my dear. I doubt it. There were two yellow jackets at Tube Station West last night; I saw them. They may not be there now. Let's assume they are not. You go to the station--disguised perhaps. You get your p-suit and take a capsule to Beluthihatchie. As you climb out to take the bus to Endsville, you're arrested. Communications. No need to post a yellow jacket at the station; it is enough that someone sees you there. A phone call does the rest."

"But you assumed that I was disguised."

"Your height cannot be disguised and your pressure suit would be watched. By someone not suspected of any connection with the Warden. Most probably a comrade." Prof dimpled. "The trouble with conspiracies is that they rot internaily. When the number is as high as four, chances are even that one is a spy."

Wyoh said glumly, "You make it sound hopeless."

"Not at all, my dear. One chance in a thousand, perhaps."

"I can't believe it. I don't believe it! Why, in the years I've been active we have gained members by the hundreds! We have organizations in all major cities. We have the people with us."

Prof shook head. "Every new member made it that much more likely that you would be betrayed. Wyoming dear lady, revolutions are not won by enlisting the masses. Revolution is a science only a few are competent to practice. It depends on correct organization and, above all, on communications. Then, at the proper moment in history, they strike. Correctly organized and properly timed it is a bloodless coup. Done clumsily or prematurely and the result is civil war, mob violence, purges, terror. I hope you will forgive me if I say that, up to now, it has been done clumsily."