Curtain Of Fear Part 11

People like John Stevenson might angrily declare that in twenty years 'a lot of dirty snivelling little bureaucrats', incapable of appreciating the grandeur of their inheritance, had robbed the British people of nine-tenths of the liberties that it had taken their forefathers six centuries of courageous endeavour, and sometimes martyrdom, to win. The fact remained that such glimmerings of individual freedom and protection from oppression as still lit the darkened world did not glow in any newly-fas.h.i.+oned neon lights behind the Iron Curtain, but from the little home fires maintained through many generations by the ancient civilisations of the West.

Through a mist of pain, exhaustion and semi-suffocation, Nicholas came dimly to realise that however justified the fight against privilege, capitalism and a narrow nationalism might be, until some better way of life developed from them it must be the first duty of all who knew the truth to protect those hearth fires of the West from being trampled into extinction.

To reach that final conclusion took him a long time. He had not wound up his watch that morning, and when he glanced at it he found that it had stopped at twenty past four; so he could get no idea how long he had been in the cell, but it seemed an eternity. The sweat was running down him in rivulets, his cramped position made his muscles ache intolerably, and from lack of air his head felt as though it was about to burst. Gradually his mind lost all coherence, and ranged without direction over a score of subjects having little or no connection with one another; but every now and again it drifted back to Wendy, Frek, Bilto or Fedora.

At length the heat and exhaustion overcame him. Automatically his limbs relaxed and he slid down on to the floor in a senseless heap. His last conscious thought was that if he could live the past twenty-four hours over again, fond as he was of Bilto he would have gone straight to the nearest police station and had him arrested.

When he came to, rough hands were hauling him from the cell. Two warders half dragged, half carried him along the corridor and into a wash place. There he slid to his knees and leaned against the wall, gasping in the welcome cooler air. Without warning one of the men threw half a bucket of cold water over his head. Gasping, he staggered to his feet, once more fully conscious.

They let him dry his face on a towel, then hurried him along to the bas.e.m.e.nt office. Fedora was just outside it with the wardress. The side of her face which had been slapped was still red, but she was standing erect instead of with her shoulders hunched, and looked in an altogether better state than when he had last seen her.

Raising a smile, he said, "Congratulations on the way you have pulled yourself together. I'd never have believed anyone could look so good after what you've been through."

She made a little grimace. "Oh, it's just part of the service. The best of attention and the most expensive drugs without a penny to pay. The idea is that the quicker they repair the damage the sooner they can start in on you again without the risk of your pa.s.sing out and bringing a premature end to their fun. But you don't look too good."

"I'll be all right as soon as I get a bit more air," he a.s.sured her. "But they kept me all night in a cell like a coffin and as hot as an oven."

Fedora smiled. "I expect it felt that long, but actually we've been down here only just over two hours."

At that moment Kmoch came out of the office and signed to them to enter the waiting lift. In the hall he collected two State policemen. One was a blue-eyed ruddy-faced young man, the other was older and had a black moustache. The little party went out to the street. A six-seater car was waiting for them. Kmoch made Fedora and Nicholas sit in the back, he and the black-moustached man took the seats opposite them, and the youngster got in next to the driver. As they settled themselves Kmoch produced his automatic from the pocket of his long overcoat, and said to Nicholas: "Please observe that I can fire at you without any risk of injuring my men in front. If you make any attempt to escape I shall blow your knee-cap off. That will not prevent your appearing for your trial, but it will be a long time before you forget the pain that such a wound causes."

Fedora had lowered herself carefully into her place, but as the car started off she jerked up her head with a grimace of pain, then sat forward holding on to the strap so that her sore back should not come in contact with the cus.h.i.+ons.

Nicholas had already decided that to try to escape would be hopeless, and as he looked about him he saw from a clock in a church tower that it was just after eight. It occurred to him that it was already past his usual supper time. Apart from the bowl of stew at the airport he had had nothing to eat all day, so he now felt distinctly hungry and began to hope that they would be given some sort of meal on the train.

The city looked very peaceful in the soft evening light, and except for the still overloaded trams, there was very little traffic in the streets though which they pa.s.sed; so the police chauffeur drove swiftly. His klaxon wailed and the car sped through a big square to the south of the Pikopy. Beyond the square they shot down a narrow turning. A hundred yards along it the klaxon wailed again. A heavy lorry had emerged just ahead of them from a side-street.

Suddenly there came a shriek of brakes, shouts and a violent crash. The car stopped dead. Nicholas and Fedora were thrown forward on top of the two men opposite. She screamed as the unexpected movement lacerated the weals on her back, then fell upon Kmoch. Nicholas' right hand landed on the policeman's shoulder, and with it he thrust himself away.

Next second a single shot rang out. A man who was standing on the pavement had fired through a window of the car. It starred as the bullet made a neat round hole in its centre. The policeman with the black moustache gulped and clawed at his neck. It was spurting blood. His eyes bulged, then he slid over sideways.

Kmoch was yelling curses as he tried to thrust Fedora from on top of him. He had managed to get out his gun and was pointing it under her arm in the direction of Nicholas's legs. Nicholas made a grab at the pistol. As he seized it the weapon spurted flame and three shots crashed out from it. His wrist was seared but the bullets missed him, and smacked into the leather-covered cus.h.i.+oning behind his back. Forcing the pistol down, so that it pointed at the floor of the car, he strove to tear it from Kmoch's grasp. Suddenly Kmock gave an awful scream and let go. Fedora had got her hands up and plunged her thumbs down into his brown spaniel-like eyes.

While they were still struggling two more single shots rang out; then came a burst of fire from a sten gun. Police whistles were blowing and people shouting. One glance through the gla.s.s part.i.tion of the car showed Nicholas that nothing was to be feared from the men in front. As the car hit the lorry the driver's head had shot forward and cracked the wind-screen. He lay slumped over the wheel of the car. The young policeman with the ruddy complexion had attempted to get out, but had been shot as his foot touched the road. He had fallen backwards and lay writhing half in and half out of the driver's box. The civilian who had fired from the pavement through the window of the car was now under cover in a shop doorway. He was yelling at the prisoners to jump out and run for it.

Nicholas needed no urging. Wrenching open the door of the car, he stumbled over the policeman who had been shot in the neck, and landed in the road. Turning, he grasped Fedora by the arm and pulled her after him.

For a moment he paused there, uncertain which way to take. Behind him the groans of the ruddy-faced youngster mingled with Kmoch's screams. To his right the big lorry blocked the view. Its driver was crouching beside its bonnet, a pistol in his hand. At that second he raised it and fired at someone Nicholas could not see. To his right, towards the square, the street had been blocked by another lorry; but there was no one in its driver's cab, and near it a still figure sprawled in the gutter. Three policemen emerged, running from behind it. All of them were holding their pistols at the ready. They shouted in chorus at Nicholas and Fedora: "Stay where you are! Put up your hands!"

The sten-gun opened again with a staccato clatter. It was being fired from the first-floor window of a corner house overlooking the crossroads at which the crash had occurred. The foremost of the running policemen stopped dead in his tracks, threw up his hands, gave at the knees and crumpled up within a few feet of the dead lorry-driver. As the other two dashed for cover the man in the doorway ran out into the road and shouted: "Follow me!"

Nicholas still had Fedora by the arm with his left hand; in his right he grasped Kmoch's gun. Hardly ten seconds had elapsed since they had scrambled from the car. Turning as one, they ran after their rescuer. He dived round the corner of the alley from which the lorry used for the ambush had come. As they followed several bullets whizzed past their heads and thudded into the lorry's canvas hood, but once round the corner they were temporarily safe.

Behind them the firing continued. It had roused the whole quarter. Some people were running to get clear of the danger area, others had flung up windows and were leaning from them, shouting questions at one another to find out what had started the battle.

The fresh air during the drive from the headquarters had completely restored Nicholas, but he was worried about Fedora, The man ahead was running fast, and knowing what she must be suffering from her recent whipping, he feared she might not be able to stay the pace. Glancing at her, he cried: "Can you manage to keep it up?"

"Don't worry!" she panted. "I'll run till I drop! Better to die of heart-strain than be recaptured."

They had covered about sixty yards. Their rescuer was leading by some fifteen feet. He was within that distance of another crossroads. Suddenly two policemen, attracted by the sounds of firing, came charging round the corner towards them. Almost simultaneously shots crashed out from two directions. The man ahead pulled up with a jerk, his gun clattered to the pavement, and he grabbed at his right arm. One of the policemen seemed to rise on tiptoe, then he executed a graceful pirouette and fell flat on his face in the road. The other fired again, but still clutching his arm, the wounded man jumped sideways; then, with extraordinary agility, took a flying leap through the open doorway of a small restaurant that occupied the corner of the street.

The remaining policeman and Nicholas were left face to face with only about six paces between them. Never before in his life had Nicholas handled an automatic, much less fired one; but already he had instinctively pointed it at the policeman's body. He pressed the trigger and it went off. The policeman's mouth opened, he swayed drunkenly, then fell to his knees; but he did not collapse. He had been in the act of lifting his gun to fire a third time. As he was. .h.i.t his arm had fallen to his side; but now he raised it again, although slowly as though the weapon he held was very heavy.

Nicholas stared into the kneeling man's eyes. The very idea that he might have killed a fellow human being shocked him to the depths of his conscience. In spite of all that had happened-the ambush, the shooting, their rescue and the danger they were still in-it never even occurred to him to fire again. In another moment he would most probably have been choking out his own life, had not Fedora intervened. Das.h.i.+ng forward she kicked the policeman in the face. His hand swung sideways and the gun exploded; the bullet shattered the plate-gla.s.s window of the restaurant. He gave a choking cry and rolled over dead.

It was now Fedora who seized Nicholas' arm and dragged him forward. "Hurry!" she cried. "Hurry! or we won't get away before the squad-cars come on the scene!"

Stuffing the gun into his jacket pocket, he ran on with her round the corner. They crossed the street diagonally and dived down another turning. Before they were half way along it they heard the wailing klaxons of the squad-cars behind them. Jerking on Nicholas' arm to slow his pace, Fedora gasped: "We must walk now! If they spot us running they'll be on us like a ton of bricks."

They covered another thirty yards, then a klaxon wailed ahead of them. Next moment a squad-car pulled up at the far end of the street along which they were advancing. Four policemen tumbled out of it. The street was quite a long one, so they were some distance off; but they spread out across the road, turning back the few pedestrians who were coming towards them, and barring it to traffic. It was useless for the fugitives to retrace their steps, as the whole area in which the ambush had taken place was now swarming with police.

Desperately, Fedora looked round. A little way further on there was a neon-light sign, as yet unlit. It outlined a windmill, and the Czech words above it were the equivalent of 'Le Moulin Rouge'. Fedora nodded towards it.

"We'll go in there! Our best chance of escaping recognition lies in mingling with a crowd."

Obediently he walked forward with her; but he was still thinking of the awful staring eyes of the policeman who had tried to shoot him, and he muttered: "You saved my life just now! I almost wish you hadn't. I killed that man. He was only doing his duty. It is a frightful thing to have done."

She shook his arm impatiently. "Don't be a fool! This isn't England, where the police are honest decent men. There are no Czechs in our police-force now who haven't volunteered of their own free will to take orders from the Russians. Every one of them is a Com. They are the dregs of our race, ex-convicts and criminals of all kinds. There is no law for them, except obedience to their bosses; and they are all stinking with money that they have blackmailed out of shopkeepers and householders for small breaches of the regulations. You wouldn't spend a sleepless night if you had trodden on a slug in a garden, would you?"

As she finished speaking they were within a few yards of the entrance of the Moulin Rouge. An elderly, lethargic-looking doorman dressed in a shabby uniform said, "Welcome, Comrades; it's a good show to-night," in a tone which implied that he couldn't have cared less; and they went inside.

There was no entrance fee to pay and no pretension to smartness about the place; no welcoming cloak-room attendants and no semi-nude young ladies carrying trays with cigarettes, chocolates and sprays of flowers for sale. They walked down a broad, empty corridor and entered a large, lofty room.

It was the type of nachtlokal which is to be found in every central European city, and in the old days combined the functions of music-hall, restaurant, dance place and rendezvous for prost.i.tutes. The raised stage at one end of it was large enough to hold a score of girls or a team of acrobats, a small s.p.a.ce in the middle of the floor was left free for couples to dance in between the acts, and rows of small tables were set round it; behind them in a horseshoe were ranged a double tier of private boxes.

However, it was obvious that the place had degenerated sadly since Austrian n.o.bles and rich Czech industrialists had been its princ.i.p.al patrons. Even the poor lighting failed to disguise the fact that it had not been painted for a decade and that the gilding on the scroll-work of the boxes had become tarnished. None of the customers was in evening dress, no food was being served and the stage show in progress was most decorous, as it consisted of a dozen peasants in traditional costume doing a village dance. The only things that linked it with its past were that drinking was permitted and that some of the tables were occupied by very seedy-looking women whose profession was obvious.

A bald-headed waiter with mean little eyes shuffled forward, and at a word from Fedora showed them into a lower-tier box. Without waiting for any order, or to perform any service, he closed the door behind them, and Fedora whispered: "Occupying a box means we've got to pay for champagne, whether we drink it or not. I expect it's pretty filthy, but you might open it and see."

There was a bottle on the table, in an ice-bucket that contained no ice, and two thick tumblers. As Nicholas picked the bottle up he said uneasily, "I haven't got any Czech money."

"Don't worry about that, I have." She put up a hand and began to feel about under her beret among the tight plaits of hair. "That ghoul of a wardress went through my bag, of course, but she didn't get anything for her pains except small change. After our midday interview with sweetie-pie Frek I took the opportunity to hide the few Czech notes I brought with me from London."

Nicholas eased the cork out of the bottle and half filled the two tumblers. As the hour was still early, and the place had not been open long, the wine had not had time to lose entirely the chill of the cellar. It was Hungarian Sparkling Samorodny, and anyone accustomed to drinking the finer cuvees of the famous French houses would have taken a poor view of it. But Nicholas did not know one brand of champagne from another, and his two hours in the X-cell had given him an appalling thirst; so he drank it down gratefully.

He had only just set down his gla.s.s when he saw a woman come in. She was wearing a white straw hat decorated with imitation cornflowers. After a furtive glance round she sidled up to the box in which they were sitting. It was raised only a foot or so above the level of the main floor, so she could lean an elbow on its edge. As she turned towards them he looked down into her face. It was not old in years; she was probably no more than thirty, but it was loose-mouthed, pouch-eyed, and riddled with debauchery. There could be little doubt how she sc.r.a.ped a living.

In a swift whisper, she said, "I saw you come in. The police are questioning people outside and asking if they've seen a couple like you two. Old Jan, the doorman, is all right. He'll keep mum; but you had better pa.s.s the waiter something to shut his mouth. I came in to give you the tip-off, because I heard one of the top Coms tell some of his boys to run through this place-and they'll be in here in a minute."

CHAPTER XIV.

NIGHT-LIFE UNDER THE SOVIETS.

It was a very nasty moment. Nicholas was conscious of a horrid empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Less than fifteen minutes ago they had been Kmoch's prisoners and on their way to Moscow. In the past few hours he had lost all his illusions about people receiving justice in any of the Communist-controlled countries. He had had all the evidence he needed that overnight he had been plunged back into a way of life in which barbarities were practised that had never been equalled in the Dark Ages. Even Ivan the Terrible had never included among his tortures a body of men charged with destroying men's minds and robbing them of their personalities.

As yet he had hardly had time to appreciate his rescue from that appalling fate; now he was threatened with it again. Desperately he looked round for some side-entrance to the hall by which they might escape, or a place where they could hide during the police raid that the prost.i.tute had warned them was about to take place.

The blood had drained from Fedora's thin cheeks, but she did not lose her head. Crumpling up one of the notes she had just taken from her hair, she pressed it into the woman's hand, and said: "Thanks, sister. We will be in greater danger if we leave our box, so will you see the waiter for us and try to square him with this? And ... and, could you possibly lend me your hat!"

The gaily-dressed peasants on the stage were stamping and whirling through their dance; the attention of the audience was concentrated on them. The lights were dim and neither of the adjacent boxes had yet been taken. After a quick look round, to make certain that she was not observed, the woman took off the white straw with the cornflowers and slipped it over the edge of the box. Not only her mouth but her tired eyes smiled, as she murmured: "It's my new one, for the summer; but you're welcome. If they don't spot you, when you've done with it leave it in the back of the box. I'll fix the waiter, then I shall make myself scarce; but I'll come back for it before the place closes. Good luck, dearie."

As she sidled away Fedora whispered, "Thanks, sister; and bless you." Then she turned to Nicholas.

"They will have the back entrance covered by now, so any attempt to get out will be hopeless. But they can't know for certain that we are in here. If the doorman and the waiter don't split, the Coms may content themselves with a quick look round, and not bother to have everyone paraded on the dance floor. Anyhow, we've just got to stick it out and keep our fingers crossed. If only this d.a.m.n' thing still works we may escape recognition."

As she spoke she pressed a small b.u.t.ton underneath the edge of the table. To Nicholas' amazement he felt the floor slowly sink beneath them. The table, the small couch behind it on which they were sitting, and an oval of floor nearly as large as the area occupied by the box were all supported on a single hydraulic pillar, making it like an open goods-lift.

On the continent, unlike in puritanical Britain, there have never been any regulations limiting the width of curtains in private boxes, or other devices which could be used to screen their occupants from view; so that couples in them can, if they wish, ignore the show to indulge in more intimate amus.e.m.e.nts. Had Nicholas been older when he was in Prague before, and owned the money to visit such places, he would no doubt have come across this ingenious and amusing idea of supper tables which could be made to sink below the level of the floor; as it was, he could only exclaim at this apparent miracle and wonder when it would stop.

The lift brought them to rest about six feet down, so that they were now in an almost dark pit with their heads about five feet below the level of the edge of the box.

Pulling off her beret, Fedora thrust it at Nicholas, and said, "Here, put this on to hide your red hair." Then she adjusted the flashy white straw so that it hid her silvery-blonde coronet of plaits. It was at that moment that the band abruptly ceased playing and the lights went up.

They could now see one another clearly in the glow coming from above, and she smiled at him a little wickedly. "I'm afraid you've got to play the he-man now and do your stuff. Try to imagine that we're back in the bad old days, and that you're an Austrian Count supping with the prettiest girl in the chorus."

Nicholas grinned. The tumbler of champagne he had drunk was beginning to have its effect, the danger they were in gave him a sense of recklessness, and he had not forgotten that only a few hours ago she had called him a prude.' Without the slightest hesitation he put his arms round her, pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her full on the mouth.

She shuddered, let him kiss her for a moment, then gave a low groan. In some surprise he took his mouth from hers and asked, "What's the matter. Didn't you really mean me to kiss you?"

"Of course I did, silly," she answered. "But it's my back, and my poor bottom. Hauling me into your arms like that hurt frightfully."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I'll never forget what that swine did to you; but it had slipped my memory for the moment." Holding her more carefully, he kissed her again, then they snuggled down together and she began to return his kisses.

As they sat there embraced, anyone looking over the edge of the box could have seen only the white straw, the beret, and parts of their arms and shoulders. They formed a tableau of silent rapture, which was just the sort of thing that a snooper peering down into the shaft would have expected to see.

For a good ten minutes they remained locked in one another's arms, then the lights went out and the band started to play again. They had not even known the moment at which a plain-clothes man, holding a pistol ready in his hand, had glanced down at the white straw, decided that its wearer could not be the woman he and his fellow searchers were after, and with a fleeting wish that he was off duty so that he could be making love to his own girl, dismissed them from his mind.

When darkness enveloped them again they cautiously drew apart, but Nicholas had one of Fedora's hands in his and he continued to hold it. She gave his fingers a slight squeeze, and said: "You know, if I wasn't in love with someone else, I believe I could like you quite a lot."

He smiled at her. "That goes for me too."

"In that case we had better make the best of one another." She let her head fall back on to his shoulder. "I'm feeling pretty part-worn, and it's rather a comfort to have you hold me instead of sitting bolt upright, or leaning my wretched back against the sofa."

He put his arms round her again and laid his cheek against hers. "Yes; it gives me a more relaxed feeling too. Besides, if anyone pops his head over the edge of the box we'll be better placed for going back into action."

"I think the danger is past for the moment. We'll have to stay here for an hour or two, though, until it is dark."

"What do you think our prospects are of getting away?"

"Not too bad, if only we are not challenged in the street. My friends in the Legion should be able to hide us and smuggle us out of the country."

"I take it that it was Legion men who rescued us. But what beats me is how they knew we'd be at a certain place at a certain time, and so were able to make arrangements for the ambush."

"They must have been tipped off by someone at Frek's headquarters. The police and warders are all swine, but some of the secretaries and lift-girls are good types. Theirs is a lousy a.s.signment, as they have to sleep with whoever takes a fancy to them; but through them there's not much that the Legion doesn't get to know. One of them must have got a message out that we were being sent to Moscow on the evening train. The rest would have been simple."

"I suppose so-given the guts," Nicholas remarked, thinking of the dead lorry driver and the other man who had been wounded, and perhaps afterwards captured. "They must owe you quite a bit, to have fought a pitched battle with the police like that, in order to rescue you."

"I've helped to get a few people away now and then," she admitted modestly, "but all those who belong to the Legion must always be prepared to risk their lives, even if they have never met the brother or sister on whose account they are ordered to risk them. Otherwise they would never be accepted into the Legion to start with."

"Why is it called that?"

"Because it is the successor to the famous Czechoslovak Legion that fought under General Gaida in the First World War."

Somehow Nicholas did not like to confess to Fedora that he was a Pacifist, and, having a prejudice against even reading about wars, knew next to nothing about those which had taken place before his own time; so he said truthfully, "I remember my father telling me something about that, but I'm afraid I've forgotten the details."

Starting up, she exclaimed in a shocked voice, "Forgotten! Since you have Czech blood in your veins I'm amazed that you're not ashamed to admit it."

"It's a long time since I lost my father," Nicholas hastened to excuse himself, "and I was brought up as an Englishman. But I'd like to hear about it. Please tell me."

Apparently mollified, Fedora resettled her head on his shoulder. "Well, anyway, you must know that in August 1914 all our troops formed part of the Austro-Hungarian Army. Many of them hated the Austrians and the old Emperor so much that as soon as the war started they went over to the Russians. Several divisions went over complete with their bag, baggage and officers; then as the war went on many thousands more allowed themselves to be captured. It was from them that the Legion was formed, to fight with the Russians for the liberation of Czechoslovakia."

"I remember now," Nicholas put in. "They got caught up in the Russian revolution, didn't they?"

"That's right. By the spring of 1918 there was a body of our troops 55,000 strong, in the middle of European Russia. Austria still held Czechoslovakia, and the Bolsheviks were trying to make peace with the Central Powers. The Bols.h.i.+es tried to get our men to join the revolution and shoot their officers; but they wouldn't. They wanted to go on fighting for the Allies; but the trouble was that without proper supplies and munitions they couldn't form a front on their own, and there seemed no way to get them out of Russia. Then some bright boy at Versailles suggested that if they would march to Vladivostok, they could be taken off there and s.h.i.+pped right round to Europe to fight on the Western Front. Their officers agreed, so the Legion set out on its first great march. By then all Russia was in a state of anarchy, and not a day pa.s.sed without them being attacked for one reason or another; but they crossed the Urals and fought their way through 5,000 miles of the worst country in the world, to the Pacific."

Nicholas had poured out the rest of the champagne, and Fedora paused a moment to drink some, then she went on, "By the time they got to Vladivostok the whole situation had changed. The Allies were getting on top in the West, and reckoned that they could finish the Germans without any help from the Legion; but they had come to regard the Bols.h.i.+es as a lot of mad dogs who must be destroyed. So instead of bringing the Legion back by sea to Europe they asked that it should remain in Russia to fight the Reds. As an inducement they offered to recognise Czechoslovakia as an independent state when they had finally defeated the Central Powers. That was the thing nearest the heart of every one of our men, so they turned round and started on the second half of their 10,000 mile march. Fighting all the way, without support, reinforcements or supplies, they recrossed the vast Siberian wastes and the Urals, until at last, with hardly a rag of their uniforms left, their proud columns re-entered their homeland. The Allies kept their word; the Legion had earned Czechoslovakia her independence." Fedora broke off again, then her low voice came with a ring of pride. "It was one of the greatest military feats that the world has ever known. Its aim was to bring freedom to our people, and it could only have been accomplished by a combination of courage and discipline. That is why we call ourselves 'The Legion', and we endeavour to prove worthy of our predecessors."

For all his ingrained Pacifist outlook, Nicholas could not help being impressed, and said, "Those original Legionnaires must have been darn' good soldiers; but I think the crowd to which you belong even braver, because they have to work alone and in secret. Are there many of you?"

"Yes; several thousand. There is hardly a village in the country now that is not organised to rise at a given signal. The only depressing thing is that until the West is strong enough to back us with active support, and shows its willingness to do so, we dare not give it."

"Was that poor woman who lent you the hat a Legionnaire?" Nicholas asked.

Fedora raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Not as far as I know. What leads you to think she might be?"

"Well, for one thing, the way she took a chance on being nabbed in order to help us; and for another, your calling her 'sister'."

"Oh, you don't have to be a Legionnaire to take a hand against the Coms. In these days it has become second nature to nearly everyone outside the Party and their hangers-on to throw gravel in the works at every opportunity. As for my calling her 'sister', why not? If I had offered to buy the hat from her she would have felt most terribly hurt, so the best way I could show my appreciation was to let her know that I regarded her as just another woman like myself, whom I would have been glad to help as she was helping me. After all, Jesus Christ put up the idea that we were all made of flesh and blood long before Karl Marx, you know."

Nicholas winced. Wendy had said very much the same thing to him only a few evenings before; but he was in no mood either to defend or to repudiate his old idol. Instead, at the thought of Wendy he said: "The girl I'm in love with lives in Birmingham. Is your boyfriend a Czech, here in Prague, or someone in England?"

"He is in London at the moment, as far as I know."

"I'm hoping to get married. How about you?"

She rolled her head slightly in a negative motion. "I'd like to, but I don't know. It's all rather complicated, but I might be able to pull it off, if we are lucky enough to escape the Coms to-night and can get back to England."