“They're late,” he said. “Wainwright should have been here five minutes ago.”

“I've just heard from the police. He's got quite a procession with him, and it's snarled up the traffic. He should be here any moment now.” Van Ryberg paused, then added abruptly, “Are you still sure it's a good idea to see him?”

“I'm afraid it's a little late to back out of it now. After all, I've agreed—though as you know it was never my idea in the first place.”

Stormgren had walked to his desk and was fidgeting with his famous uranium paperweight. He was not nervous—merely undecided. He was also glad that Wainwright was late, for that would give him a slight moral advantage when the interview opened. Such trivialities played a greater part in human affairs than anyone who set much store on logic and reason might wish.

“Here they are!” said van Ryberg suddenly, pressing his face against the window. “They're coming along the Avenue—a good three thousand, I'd say.”

Stormgren picked up his notebook and rejoined his assistant. Half a mile away, a small but determined crowd was moving slowly towards the Secretariat Building. It carried banners that were indecipherable at this distance, but Stormgren knew their message well enough. Presently he could hear, rising above the sound of the traffic, the ominous rhythm of chanting voices. He felt a sudden wave of disgust sweep over him. Surely the world had had enough of marching mobs and angry slogans!

The crowd had now come abreast of the building; it must know that he was watching, for here and there fists were being shaken, rather self-consciously, in the air. They were not defying him, though the gesture was doubtless meant for Stormgren to see. As pygmies may threaten a giant, so those angry fists were directed against the sky fifty kilometres above his head—against the gleaming silver cloud that was the flagship of the Overlord fleet.