The Devil—With Wings by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

nation.”
    â€œYou’ll sell me out?” shrieked Shinohari.
    â€œYou have sold yourself out. Your price for being good is your life and your reputation. To cover this treason you pinned a crime on me—a crime which was never committed. Repaying that, I am holding your life in my palm.”
    Shinohari was thoroughly beaten down. He was a pile of mustard-colored cloth, sagging hopelessly.
    Forsythe clothed himself in the irregular officer’s greatcoat, turning up the collar and pulling down the cap until they almost met in effective disguise.
    He went to the door and halted there for an instant to turn and click his heels in a stiff and mocking bow. He stepped out into the thick gloom and was gone.
    Shinohari sat shivering, yellow fingers pulling weakly at a loose thread on his jacket. Abruptly he was animated with mixed decision and terror. He sprang up and snatched the field phone from its hook.
    â€œColonel Shimizu!” cried Shinohari. “I have seen Akuma-no-Hané ! Send out immediate orders to all troops and pilots to be on the alert! Give orders for them to shoot the renegade on sight and shoot to kill! HE MUST DIE BEFORE DAWN!”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The Secret of Confucius
    M ORNING had come to spread its yellow flood across the restive reaches of the Amur River. The three huts which huddled close beside the muddy bank of the twisting stream seemed to be without occupants or hope of ever having any, so squalid was their condition.
    A staccato sound grew in volume to mingle with the lapping rush of the river. A cloud was churning skyward from the trackless plain and a plunging dot grew in size as it approached the huts.
    Forsythe slewed the mustard-colored motorcycle to a stop beside the stream and looked cautiously at the three houses. No shots greeted him and, reassured, he drew off the irregular officer’s now very dusty coat and cap and lashed them to the handlebars close beside a small pennant there which, in Japanese, indicated the machine to be the property of “Staff Dispatch. Japanese Imperial Army Headquarters. Aigun.”
    Forsythe kicked the stand up and twisted the grip. The engine raced wildly and he ran with it toward the yellow flood. At the bank he let go.
    The motorcycle bellowed outward into the air, curved down and vanished with a dirty, spluttering splash. The river swept onward, leaving not a ripple to mark the spot.
    Forsythe adjusted his goggles. What was visible of his face looked white and strained and weary. But as he walked toward the first hut he summoned up the energy to grin.
    Before he reached the door it opened and Ching stepped out.
    â€œThe next time you beat it off like that,” said Ching, “I’m going with you, girl or no girl. I couldn’t sleep all night! How did you make out?”
    â€œI talked with Shinohari,” said Forsythe. “And he generously gave me…”
    He hauled the Confucius from his jacket pocket.
    â€œYou got it!” cried Ching. “Quick! Lemme see!”
    Forsythe gave it over, suddenly disinterested in it and very interested in Patricia, who was peering over Ching’s shoulder. She showed the worry of a dangerous night but even this could not sap the vibrant vitality of her.
    Forsythe thrust Ching aside and stepped into the room. He pulled off his gauntlets and cast them to the table. He turned, smiling, to Patricia.
    â€œYour brother is alive.”
    Her eyes on him were wide and blank as she tried to understand what he had said. She did not move or speak.
    â€œHe’s alive,” said Forsythe, “and the key to his whereabouts is in that Confucius.”
    He said it very casually and then turned away from her to give her a chance to collect her startled thoughts.
    A North Chinese with a face as impassive and yellow as brass was standing beside a small Primus stove, waiting to be recognized by Forsythe. He was one of many such subagents and his position was that of