Thus the subterranean warfare was carried on by secret Societies, much as hitherto the Ancients on Terra had employed secret agents, members of the powerful "Intelligence." Only that on the "Moons," the Societies had much greater power than the laissez-faire governments themselves. Each Moon had its "Society," disavowed, legendary, invisible. They maintained secret armies of Astro-operatives and space navies always in readiness for any eventuality—or an initial open break that none of them had the courage to be the first to start. But more important still, in their vast, secret laboratories, armies of scientists and technicians toiled ceaselessly on new techniques and inventions. Delved into intricate psychological data that was a miracle of ingenuity, calculated always to prepare as far as possible against the unpredictable.
The murmuring wind of Io swirled among the stones and laved them with its icy caress, and Narda trembled violently again. This time the spasm failed to abate, and she whispered through chattering teeth:
"Please, Julian ... hurry. I'm chilled to the marrow ... d-dear...."
"You're what?" His voice was suddenly a rasping in his throat.
Julian straightened slowly from where he kneeled at the base of the cliff, where he'd been activating the mechanism of the concealed entrance with the wrist transmitter. He eyed the convulsed form of Narda then touched her burning forehead; he noted the tendons corded at her throat. A cold sweat of anguish beaded his brow as he said casually, "It is cold, darling," and then he punched carefully, precisely, and cried with agony as he felt his hand touch her flesh. He caught her tenderly as she slumped in his arms without a sound. He kissed her cold cheek and sought consolation in the fact that she would not suffer the first harrowing convulsive fever of the Plague. It would last for two hours. How well he knew from experience the course of the disease! And he hoped Narda would not come to before then.
Quickly he retraced his steps to where they had left the ship, and deposited her inert form in the control room. Then he prepared a note which he placed in her hand, it read: "It was the kindest thing to do, darling. Wait until I return. There's hope."
He finally adjusted the wrist-transmitter to the exact wave-length required to open the entrance to the Dekka's Hall of Sessions, raced swiftly toward the cliff like a disembodied shadow. In the distance a golden Felirene wailed its banshee love-call, urgent, savage—as savage as the burning agony that stifled Julian's breath, and as primordial.
II
"For this is wisdom—