"You'd better," said Isabel vehemently. "Both of our lives will be riding on whether or not you can convince the airport guards that you're Elisabeta Vazquez.

INTO THE FIRE.

Lieutenant Raul Jofre was quite bored with his assignment at the First International Airport of the Revolution. He and his detachment had been on search and recovery detail for over a month, and not one criminal or spy had as yet been appre- hended. Quite obviously, the extreme security precautions, the visibility of armed, patrolling guards, both within and without the terminals, had discouraged any of the reactionary forces from attempting to leave by that route. He strutted through the ultra-modern terminal, the iron- grey monoliths of Heroes of the Revolution, carved from granite blocks, emphasizing the general emptiness of the terminal these days.

The few travellers seated on the long, black, leather seats were isolated splashes of color against the tan and white, rectangular pillars and marble- faced inner walls of the building. Jofre could hear the echo of his shadows, Garcia and Jiminez, their hard boots ringing on the shiny, stone floor.

As Jofre passed little knots of people, he was met by several defiant looks, usually from the young wives of the renegades fleeing the country in the wake of the Revolution, sure now, after the preliminary inspection, that they were secure from him. Jofre smiled inwardly. The men were still nervous and sweating, despite the chilly atmosphere of the vast edifice, built as one of the showplaces of the late dictator, Ferdinand Reyes. The men knew Jofre's power only too well. Most surely had paid

off someone in the Interior Ministry Police, someone a notch or two higher than Jofre most likely, for the visa under which they and their women were travelling.

Jofre turned past the Monument to Hector Chuy Coronado, coming suddenly onto a small group, two men and two women, sitting below the hulking mass intended to represent the Raising of the Flag of the Revo- lution over San Martino. The Lieutenant slowed for a moment and glanced over the group. The two stocky men looked back impassively at him, their very lack of emotion causing a red tide of anger to well up inside Jofre.

The woman with short black hair, her generally flat face dominated by large cheekbones, smiled sardonically the Interior Ministry policemen. The other girl, however, short brown curls surrounding her thin face, shifted nervously under the policeman's gaze. She readjusted her sitting position, casting her black madeup eyes downward. Jofre stopped dead still and stared for a moment. Despite her thinness and overall angularity, the girl was a double for a young Irene Varga, the heroine of the Revolution, and current Presi- dent of the Revolutionary Council. The resemblance was to the Irena of the days before she had started to grow her hair long, then dyeing blonde streaks

in it.

"Pardon me, senorita," he smiled in the way he knew all the girls admired about him, his even white teeth accentuating the brownness of his clear skin. Her head shot up, her red-tipped fingers gripping tightly to the seat. There was fright in her dark brown eyes, a wildness exceeding that to be expected by anyone addressed by an officer of the Interior Ministry.

"Elisabeta cannot speak to you, Lieutenant," the dark brown eyes of the other girl were

hooded.

She indicated the bandage about the brown-haired girl's throat. "She has a very bad case of laryngitis. She can only croak and cough a little." The line of her mouth curved into a perceptible sneer.

Jofre flushed beneath his tan. That was too much. "Your documents," he snapped. He felt, rather than saw, Garcia and Jiminez step up beside him, their hands caressing their automatic sub-machine guns.

The thin girl watched her companion hand over the two passports and visas. The two men handed theirs to the Lieutenant without rising to their feet, making him move over to them. Jofre seethed as he glanced over the papers, Jorge Davila, Jose-Maria Sanchez, Dolores Rodriguez, and Elisabeta Vazquez contempt showed in his face - reactionary lackeys and their mistresses, most like, slipping off to friend- lier confines. They ought to pay more dearly for the way true revolutionaries had suffered, he thought darkly. He turned away with their documents. "Bring them to the interrogation room. he snapped over his shoulder. As he strode swiftly away, he grinned as Dolores Rodriguez' protests screeched across the hall after him.

In the small, windowless room, Jofre scanned the lists of wanted reactionaries, escaped prisoners and known political opponents of the Revolution. The comprehensive extent of the list could be seen in that the President's own brother was listed as an opponent of the Revolution. Of the four tense people who sat against the wall, however, there was record, nor even a similarity to those on Jofre's lists, despite his exhaustive search. Sullenly he closed his folders and put them back in the side drawer of the desk. Garcia and Jiminez, standing at either end of the long, green bench, looked at