An instant later, he was dazzled by the light of a powerful electric torch. The beam flickered across his face, held him steadily for a moment, then dipped to illuminate the whole bed—which was, he now saw, nothing more than a mattress supported on rough planks.

Out of the darkness a soft voice spoke to him in excellent English, but with an accent which Stormgren could not at first identify.

“Ah, Mr. Secretary—I'm glad to see you're awake. I hope you feel quite all right.”

There was something about the last sentence that caught Stormgren's attention, so that the angry questions he had been about to ask died upon his lips. He stared back into the darkness, then replied calmly: “How long have I been unconscious?”

The other chuckled.

“Several days. We were promised there'd be no after-effects. I'm glad to see it's true.”

Partly to gain time, partly to test his own reactions, Stormgren swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still wearing his night-clothes, but they were badly crumpled and seemed to have gathered considerable dirt. As he moved he felt a slight dizziness—not enough to be unpleasant but sufficient to convince him that he had indeed been drugged.

He turned towards the light.

“Where am I?” he said sharply. “Does Wainwright know about this?”

“Now, don't get excited,” replied the shadowy figure. “We won't talk about that sort of thing yet. I guess you're pretty hungry. Get dressed and come along to dinner.”

The oval of light slipped across the room and for the first time Stormgren had an idea of its dimensions. It was scarcely a room at all, for the walls seemed bare rock, roughly smoothed into shape. He realized that he was underground, possibly at a great depth. And if he had been unconscious for several days, he might be anywhere on Earth.