The other’s normally ruddy face drained of colour. He fell back into his chair.

Warren Casey walked around the desk and brought the gun the other had been fumbling for from the drawer. He allowed himself a deprecating snort before dropping it carelessly into a pocket.

Senator Phil McGivern was no coward. He glowered at Warren Casey. “You’ve broken into my home—criminal,” he said. “You’ve assaulted my secretary and threatened me with a deadly weapon. You will be fortunate to be awarded no more than twenty years.”

Casey sank into an easy chair so situated that he could watch both McGivern and his now unconscious assistant at the same time. He said flatly, “I represent the Pacifists, Senator. Approximately an hour ago your son was kidnapped. You’re one of our top priority persons. You probably realize the implications.”

“Fredric! You’d kill a nine-year-old boy!”

Casey’s voice was flat. “I have killed many nine-year-old boys, Senator.”

“Are you a monster!”

“I was a bomber pilot. Senator.”

The other, who had half risen again, slumped back into his chair.

“But that’s different.”

“I do not find it so.”

In his hard career, Phil McGivern had faced many emergencies. He drew himself up now. “What do you want—criminal? I warn you, I am not a merciful man. You’ll pay for this, Mr.…”

“Keep calling me Jakes, if you wish,” Casey said mildly. “I’m not important. Just one member of a widespread organization.”

“What do you want?” the Senator snapped.

“How much do you know about the Pacifists, McGivern?”

“I know it to be a band of vicious criminals!”

Casey nodded agreeably. “It’s according to whose laws you go by. We have rejected yours.”

“What do you want?” the Senator repeated.

“Of necessity,” Casey continued, evenly, “our organization is a secret one; however, it contains some of the world’s best brains, in almost every field of endeavour, even including elements in the governments of both Hemispheres.”