You head up to the dock.  You won't risk escap-
ing.  The Omicron delegation is probably armed.
And while swimming through water is fine, swim-
ming through bullets is another matter.
   There are five men and women on deck.  All
wear white shirts, shorts, and shoes- and shining
plastic helmets.  And they carry submachine
guns.  One woman who wears gold stars on her
helmet seems to be the captain.
   "Handcuffs," she orders.  Your wrists are hand-
cuffed behind your back.  "Search." Someone
frisks you roughly.  The only thing they find, unfor-
tunately, is the map.  "Open," she says.  The map is
unrolled.  The captain glances at it, then smiles
grimly.   "Proof.  This person is a spy.  Home."
   The Omicron boat, you soon realize, is a hydro-
foil, and it is extremely fast.  Though the Omicron
base lies on the opposite side of the island and is
nearly twenty miles away, it takes only a few min-
utes to reach dock, which is in a long, narrow bay.
   Before entering the bay, the boat rounds a high
headland, shaped like the prow of a ship.  On top of 
the prow there's a huge, sprawling mansion.  The
place looks like an English country house, which 
supprises you here in the South Pacific.
   It is to this place that you are led.  You are taken
inside and tossed into an elevator.  The doors
close, and you are alone.  The car drops, comes to
a halt, and the doors open.  A deep, powerfull voice
orders you out.

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