(Continued from page 37)

The Voice growled back: “It's curtains for you. Lauder, that psalm-singing, beer-swilling, first edition collecting boob, died in that chair. We are the Matamata Killers!”

Lloyd shrieked. He shrieked again, when he was crowned with a leather cap …

The Atmosphere Was Electrical.

He pleaded for mercy, for release on probation, for anything but the juice. He knew it would be horribly uncomfortable for him when the current jammed him into the straps. And the electrodes would leave scars on his Lux'd fair skin.

He screamed “spare me, and the world is mine—and yours. Give me

another chance, and I'll quit the Force and go straight for all time.”

“Lauder couldn't take it standing up,” went on the Thug irrelevantly. “So we fixed him up in this chair. Later we carted him over to the signal cabin. Then to his aide-de-camp somewhere:

“All set, brother? Goodo. Switches oiled? Fine. Stand by!”

The Unspeakable moved lumberingly toward the switchboard … Lloyd shrieked like a doe hit with a soft-nosed .22 … There was a crash at the window…

Two-gun P.C. Fanning came through, his eyes blazing, his automatics roaring… (To be continued).