"Who's this fellow?" Verrick mumbled, with a wave to­wards Benteley.

"An eight-eight." Eleanor nervously grabbed up her things from the desk; her good luck charms dangled and vibrated excitedly. "I'll get my coat."

"Eight-eight? Biochemist?" Verrick eyed Benteley with interest. "Is he any good?"

"He's all right," Wakeman said. "What I found out seemed to be top-notch."

Eleanor slammed the cupboard door, then threw her coat over her shoulders. "He just came in, from Oiseau-Lyre." She breathlessly joined the group clustered round Verrick. "He doesn't know, yet."

Verrick's heavy face was wrinkled with fatigue and worry, but a faint spark of amusement lit up his deep-set eyes.

"The last crumbs, for a while. The rest goes to Cartwright, the Prestonite." He addressed Benteley. "What's your name?"

They shook hands as Benteley replied. Verrick's massive hand crunched his bones has Benteley feebly asked: "Where are we going? I thought——"

"Chemie Hill." Verrick and his group moved towards the exit—all but Wakeman, who remained behind to await the new Quizmaster. To Eleanor Stevens, Verrick ex­plained briefly: "We'll operate from there. The lock I put on Chemie last year was to me personally. I can still claim loyalty there, in spite of this."

"In spite of what?" Benteley demanded, suddenly horrified. The outside doors were open; for the first time the cries of the newsmachines came loudly to his ears. As the party moved down the ramp towards the waiting intercon transports Benteley demanded hoarsely: "What's happened?"

"Come on," Verrick grunted. "You'll know all about it before long."

Benteley slowly followed the party. He knew, now. It was being shrilled on all sides of him, screamed out by the mechanical voices of public newsmachines.