Yet Winchester saw at once the value of the dream, if it could be made practicable. Until then the oils of both plants had been blended in the pharmaceutical laboratories, but at great expense, to make a product invaluable to man — a specific against five different types of germs.
If the plants could be crossed successfully, if would mean that the hybrid would produce the ultimate oil by natural processes. Man would have only to tap the plant's veins.
Curious, the American tuned in on other scientists just inoculated by the Poison Squad. Not all were so productive. Many of their dreams were so wild and impracticable as to cause shudders to run down the spine. Yet here and there among them were ideas worth developing, so daring that men in their normal senses would never entertain them seriously for a moment. But once formulated, competent scientists could look these schemes over in cold calculation, separate the hopelessly fantastic from those that were soundly based.
Again the fear of failure gripped Winchester. What scientists would look them over? In a few hours there would be no more sober and sane scientists. His dragnet had them all. It was true that robot receivers were busily recording every thought sent out by the drug-maddened victims. But who was there left to review them, to decide which deserved development and which not?
"I must not fail," Winchester said.
A week saw the end of the first grand sweep. The new disciplinary barracks was crammed with prisoners and its mills hummed. Regiments of guards surrounded the inmates, armed with every weapon current in that day — heat and electron guns, and the dreaded paralyzers.
On the roof heavy lightning throwers defended the place against any conceivable effort to storm it and release the imprisoned revolutionaries. It was an impregnable fortress.
The Crater of Dreams was packed to capacity. In it now reclined every scientist and engineer of note, as well as most of the former plant managers. They were slothful and indolent, dreaming day and night, sending out pulsations of thought that were appalling in their audacity.
Invariably the dreamers worked from the basis of their own memories and special capacities. But their illusions were embroidered with whimsical variations, inconceivable to a man of sane mind. Whatever course the destiny of mankind might take thereafter, these drugged intellectuals were helpless to aid or hinder.
There were no more rebels or dissenters. All had been accounted for. That is, all but Allan Winchester himself and Cynthia. And of these two, but one held the key that might with luck unlock the myriad of now helpless prisoners.
A silver gong sounded. It was the personal call of Prince Lohan himself.
"My lord?" said Winchester, answering promptly.
The full-length figure of the prince appeared upon the television screen.
"You have done well — better even than you promised. I did not know there were so many. But what of the double-crossers in my own organization?"
"That is the next step, my lord. You will be shocked at their number, but my findings are unimpeachable. I should warn you — there are wearers of the yellow among them."
"I know," said the prince, and his face was hard as nails. "They will be treated as they deserve. Name them."
"The Prince Kow Foong, the Prince Ila-Ting, the woman known as Kuka San, favorite of the Khan — "
On he went, reciting the names of many of the great. On the list were five princes of the blood, twelve grand dukes and forty-seven minor aristocrats, including the governor of Callisto. All had conspired for accession to the throne or the assassination of Lohan and his consort.
"I will attend to them," said Lohan, and his voice was like a file biting into a resonant plateglass. "What of my agents?"
"I am sorry to inform your Highness that of my fifteen highest-ranking associates, only two are to be trusted. These are Number Six and Number Fourteen. The rest merit death."
"They shall die — and tonight," said Lohan with great finality. "The rest?"
"The rest I will deal with," said Winchester.
He watched Lohan's image fade. Then he brought out his lists. The first was a short one. It consisted of four hundred and three cell leaders — dangerous and cruel men, all. Next came a longer one, the roster of the regular AFPA operatives of the third and fourth grades. It numbered above ten thousand. There followed the names of five times as many more stool pigeons, and a selection from the ranks of the more brutal prison guards.
Winchester called his fifteen subordinates. They were still unaware of their own impending fate.
"These men are to be executed within the hour. If you doubt authority, any one of you is at liberty to appeal to His Highness. That is all."
One by one they acknowledged, but with awe-struck eyes.
Again Winchester sat back, tense and on edge, until the glimmer of the monitor lights began bringing in the confirmation that his orders were being executed. This time he did not look on. For although he knew that every man marked for the purge richly deserved all that could be done to him, Winchester had no desire to witness his death agonies.
Yet the glint of supreme satisfaction was in his eyes. The iron of persecution had branded him deeply, to the very heart. Whether he failed or not, this night many a scoundrel would go to his just doom. The world would be rid of its crudest tormentors.
Then Winchester thought of Cynthia, restless and impatient in her precarious role as handmaiden to the royal princess. He stole toward the princely televisor set and examined it. A moment later he called an electrician.
"But it is death, horrible death, to do that," whispered the man in terror.
"It will be still more horrible if you do not," said Winchester grimly.
The man began to work. His hand trembled violently.
"Now you can do it, Excellency," he said, but his face was ghastly pale. "There is two-way transmission."
"Thank you," said Winchester.
His ray-gun was in his hand. Without a moment's hesitation he blasted the man out of existence. The fellow was high up on his list of proscription, for his crimes were many. He was the best wire-tapper on the Moon. Now he had done his last job.
Winchester sniffed the acrid smoke of what had a moment before been a man. He had only advanced the man's ordered death by a few hours. It was a detail he must not worry over.
With considerable trepidation he approached the controls. In a moment he would be listening in on Prince Lohan's private palace, in its beautiful location in Southern Germany.
Slowly he tuned in and was rewarded by the return glow as the screen warmed. From his point of vantage he was looking over the shoulder of Princess Chen Chin. Directly facing him was Cynthia. And her eyes were full of horror!
CHAPTER XIX
Catastrophe
The princess was sobbing and wringing her hands.
"Oh, oh, my dear," she was crying, "if only we could save him! But we cannot. Lohan is so clever. He left me only a moment ago. He has achieved what he set out to do — extinguish at one stroke all seeds of rebellion, and at the same time purge his own ranks.
"Now that he has done that he will throw your man in with the rest. He just boasted of it and taunted me with it! He says that now that your Winchester has served his purpose, he has sent his red-striped hellions to assassinate him. They will leave shortly and land on the Moon within four hours.
"Your man is