"Then he's more than a menace. He's a devil!"
"So what? We've appealed to Gerd Lel Rayne. And what did he say? He said that we should hang tight because Wanniston was headed for trouble."
"Do we wait until we are all dead before it happens?" snapped Wilks.
"I'm no prophet," growled Conan. "I know this. We're licked. Or is this any good. Can we run him out?"
"How?"
"Superman he may be. Superior to even Gerd Lel Rayne—Sorry, Lel Rayne," he said, seeing the emissary as Gerd opened the door. "You heard?"
Gerd nodded pleasantly. "Wanniston's intellect has increased. A fatal illness. He does not recognize it, nor would he believe it if he were told. Yet it is so; Wanniston's illness has caused an increase in the acuity of the brain, a definite increase in the intelligence quotient. He is quite capable of out-thinking any of you—of us, pardon me. I feel no self-reproach, though. I," and Gerd Lel Rayne laughed heartily—too heartily, though the Terrans did not know it, "have known men of my race who were superior to me, and have no animosity as long as I am well fitted to my position, and can do my job well, better than many others. I may not advance above my present level, yet I can be emissary to Terra where the bulk of my race would find it against their liking."
"Well, suppose you tell us what to do?"
"I don't know," admitted Gerd. "Isolate him. Can you do that?"
"No. He has a finger in every man's business here. We can do nothing unless he is permitted to pass on it. Furthermore, he will find it out in time to circumvent us if we try to operate without his approval. We do that and we land in jail, our life's ambitions stripped from us and dropped into his hands like a ripe plum."