Chuck stirred fretfully.
"What does that mean, Steve? The third degree? Say, we've got an organization now. What say we spunk up and give them toads a dose of—"
"No," said Steve, rising swiftly. "That would only tip our hand. And besides, they don't want to see us any more than we want to see them. That's what we came here for. Let's go!"
Thus it was that, a few minutes later, the recently captured band of Tuckians and time-exiles, surrounded by armed Daans, ascended in the elevator to the topmost stage of Carew Tower. They debouched from their lift into a place which had once upon a time been a swank nightclub, a glass-encased roof garden wherein beneath the light of the stars gay humans had wined and dined and danced.
Age had shattered the glass panes here as elsewhere throughout Nedlunplaza, but in this place the windows had not gone unrepaired. They were filled with that odd, transparent plastic of which the Sinnaty bridge had been made. The whole chamber was a gigantic council-hall, at the head of which sat in opulent splendor the Venusian vice-regents.
A fanfare greeted their entrance into the hall, and a guard, with the haft of his knout, prodded Steve roughly to his knees. Then a voice, curiously gentle and mellow, issued a command ... and from somewhere roused the strident cry of an equerry:
"Let the prisoners rise! Bring them forward, that they may be seen by the Overlord Loala!"
Again the whip dug Steve's back. Stifling an urge to turn and let his captor have one, Steve rose, took a step forward, lifted his eyes and—almost gasped aloud in utter amazement.
For the central figure of those enthroned before him was—though not altogether Earthly—unmistakably feminine. The Overlord Loala was a woman!