Silence.
The hands of those writing stopped and, for the space of a moment, they sat as though paralysed, relaxed, exhausted. Then Joh Fredersen’s voice said with a dry gentleness:
“Thank you, to-morrow.”
And without looking round:
“What do you want, my boy?”
The seven strangers quitted the now silent room. Freder crossed to his father, whose glance was sweeping the lists of captured number-drops. Freder’s eyes clung to the blue metal plate near his father’s right hand.
“How did you know it was I?” he asked, softly.
Joh Fredersen did not look up at him. Although his face had gained an expression of patience and pride at the first question which his son put to him he had lost none of his alertness. He glanced at the clock. His fingers glided over the flexible keyboard. Soundlessly were orders flashed out to waiting men.
“The door opened. Nobody was announced. Nobody comes to me unannounced. Only my son.”
A light below glass—a question. Joh Fredersen extinguished the light. The first secretary entered and crossed over to the great Master of Metropolis.