He glanced up at the huge square frame of the palace, crouched like
a great machine waiting to devour him. There was something about the
building that was subtle, mysterious, luring. Engraved in deep convex
letters above the door was the motto of the Imperator: THE WORLD
BELONGS TO THE STRONG. Now for the first time, Ostby thought, he was
to meet that controversial figure face to face.
There was no formal greeting of the entering guests. Two liveried
servants stood at either side of the entrance, eyeing, politely but
carefully, each entrant. They did not stop Ostby and he passed through
the doorway. He deposited his outer wrap with still other servants
inside, and mingled unobtrusively with the guests in the wide entrance
hall.
For a half-hour Ostby loitered about the edge of the thickening crowd,
wearing an expression of abstract concentration that discouraged
conversation. At the end of that time the Imperator had not appeared.
Ostby decided to wait no longer.
Walking casually down a long corridor that led into the palace he began
his search for the man he wanted. The occasional servants he met asked
no questions. They merely nodded politely and went about their duties.
When he came to a long circular stairway he walked quickly up. He knew
that the closer he came to his goal the greater would be the risk. But
this was not the time for surreptitious conniving. Only action would
produce results now.