"We're friends," said Alan hastily. "Don't hurt us—take us to your government headquarters. You can do that, can't you?"
The fellow stared. Astonished, I think, at Alan's strangely antiquated English.
"They have already sent for you," he said. "Come."
He led us swiftly away. The crowd stared after us.
Into a small tunnel. A lighted car whirled us aloft. It passed endless floors—or streets, or tiers. People everywhere. The car stopped its vertical movement; it rolled sidewise upon a track. Our captor spoke into a mouth-piece on his chest. I heard the answering voice.
"Room 400—tier 8 Tappan Government House, Westchester, Section 6 N. W."
"Yes," he said. He repeated it to the operator of our car who sat at a switch.
The microscopic voice added: "Bring them."
"Coming now."