The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nomad, by Wesley Long

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Title: Nomad

Author: Wesley Long

Illustrator: Orban

Release Date: June 16, 2022 [eBook #68325]

Language: English

Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOMAD ***

# Nomad

## By WESLEY LONG

Illustrated by Orban

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science-Fiction, December 1944, January, February 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

I.

Guy Maynard left the Bureau of Exploration Building at Sahara Base and walked right into trouble. It came more or less of a surprise; not the trouble as a condition but the manner and place of its coming was the shocking quality. Guy Maynard was used to trouble but like all men who hold commissions in the Terran Space Patrol, he was used to trouble in the proper places and in the proper doses.

But to find trouble in the middle of Sahara Base was definitely stunning. Sahara Base was as restricted an area as had ever been guarded and yet trouble had come for Guy.

The trouble was a MacMillan held in the clawlike hand of a Martian. The bad business end was dead-center for the pit of Guy's stomach and the steadiness of the weapon's aim indicated that the Martian who held the opposite end of the ugly weapon knew his MacMillans.

Maynard's stomach crawled, not because of the aim on said midriff, but at the idea of a MacMillan being aimed at any portion of the anatomy. His mind raced through several possibilities as he recalled previous mental theories on what he would do if and when such a thing happened.

In his mind's eye, Guy Maynard had met MacMillan-holding Martians before and in that mental playlet, Guy had gone into swift action using his physical prowess to best the weapon-holding enemy. In all of his thoughts, Guy had succeeded in erasing the menace though at one time it ended in death to the enemy and at other times Guy had used the enemy's own weapon to march him swiftly to the Intelligence Bureau for questioning. The latter always resulted in the uncovering of some malignant plot for which Maynard received plaudits, decorations, and an increase in rank.

Now Guy Maynard was no youngster. He was twenty-four, and well educated. He had seen action before this and had come through the Martio-Terran incident unscathed. Openly he admitted that he had been lucky during those weeks of trouble but in his own mind, Maynard secretly believed that it was his ability and his brain that brought him through without a scratch.

His dreaming of action above and beyond the call of duty was normal for any young man of intelligence and imagination.

But as his mind raced on and on, it also came to the conclusion that the law of survival was higher than the desire to die for a theory.

Therefore it was with inward sickness that Guy Maynard stopped short on the sidewalk before the Bureau of Exploration Building and did nothing. He did not look around because the fact that this Martian was able to stand before him in Sahara Base with a MacMillan pointed at his stomach was evidence enough that they were alone on the street. Had anyone seen them, the Martian would have been literally torn to bits by the semi-permanent MacMillan mounts that lined the roof tops.

The Martian had everything his own way, and so Maynard waited. It was the Martian's move.

"Guy Maynard?"

Maynard did not feel that such an unnecessary question required an answer. The Martian would not have been menacing him if he hadn't known whom he wanted.

"Guy Maynard, I advise that you do nothing," said the Martian. His voice was flat and metallic like all Martian voices, and the sharply-chiseled features were expressionless as are all Martian faces. "You are to come with me," finished the Martian needlessly. He had not concluded the last bit of information when invisible tractor beams lashed down and caught the pair in their field of focus and lifted them straight up.

The velocity was terrific, and the only thing that saved them suffocation in the extreme upper stratosphere was the entrapped air that went along with the field of focus.

The sky went dark and the stars winked in the same sky as the flaming sun.

And then they entered the space lock of an almost invisible spaceship. The door slammed behind them and air rushed into the confines of the lock just as the tractors were snuffed.

Maynard arose from the floor to face once more that rigidly held MacMillan. Before he could move, the door behind him flashed open and three Martians swarmed in upon him and trussed him with straps. They carried him to a small room and strapped him to a surgeon's table.

The one with the MacMillan holstered the weapon as the ship started off at 3-G.

"Now, Guy Maynard, we may talk."

Maynard glared.

"It is regrettable that this should be necessary," apologized the Martian. "I am Kregon. Your being restrained is but a physical necessity; I happen to know that you are the match for any two of us. Therefore we have strapped you down until we have had a chance to speak our mind. After which you may be freed—depending upon your reception of the proposition we have to offer."

Maynard merely waited. It was very unsatisfactory, this glaring, for the Martian went on as though Maynard were beaming in glee and anxiously awaiting for the "Proposition." He recalled training which indicated that the first thing to do when confronted by captors is to remain silent at all cost. To merely admit that your name was correctly expressed by the captor was to break the ice. Once the verbal ice was broken, the more leading information was easier to extract; a dead and stony silence was hard to break.

"Guy Maynard, we would like to know where the Orionad is," said Kregon. "We have here fifty thousand reasons why you should tell. Fifty thousand, silver-backed reasons, legal for trade in any part of the inhabited Solar System and possibly some not-inhabited places."

No answer.

"You know where the Orionad is," went on Kregon. "You are the aide to Space Marshal Greggor of the Bureau of Exploration who sent the Orionad off on her present mission. The orders were secret, that we know. We want to know those orders."

No answer.

"We of Mars feel that the Orionad may be operating against the best interests of Mars. Your continued silence is enhancing that belief. Could it be that we have captured the first prisoner in a new Terra-Martian fracas? Or if the Orionad is not operating against Mars, I can see no reason for continued silence on your part."

No answer, though Maynard knew that the Orionad was not menacing anything Martian. He realized the trap they were laying for him and since he could not avoid it, he walked into it.

Kregon paused. Then he started off on a new track. "You are probably immunized against iso-dinilamine. Most officials are, and their aides are also, especially the aide to such an important official as Space Marshal Greggor. That is too bad, Guy Maynard. Terra is still behind the times. Haven't they heard that the immunization given by anti-lamine is good except when anti-lamine is decomposed by a low voltage, low frequency electric current? They must know that," said Kregon with as close to a smile as any Martian could get. It was also cynically inclined. "After all, it was Dr. Frederich of the Terran Medical Corps who discovered it."

Maynard knew what was coming and he wanted desperately to squirm and wriggle enough to scratch his spine. The little beads of sweat that had come along his backbone at Kregon's cool explanation were beginning to itch. But he controlled the impulse.

"We are not given to torture," explained the Martian. "Otherwise we could devise something definitely tongue-loosening. For instance, we could have you observe some surgical experiments on—say—Laura Greggor."

The beads of sweat broke out over Maynard's face. It was a harsh thought and very close to home. And yet there was a separate section of his mind that told him that Laura would undergo that treatment without talking and that he would have to suffer mentally while he watched, because she would hold nothing but contempt for a man who would talk to save her from what she would go through herself. He wondered whether they had Laura Greggor already and were going to do as they said. That was a hard thing to reason out. He feared that he would speak freely to save Laura disfigurement and torture; knowing as he spoke that Laura would forever afterward hate him for being a weakling. Did they have her—?

"Unfortunately for us, we have not had the opportunity of getting the daughter of the Space Marshal. But there are other things. They are far superior, too. I was against the torture method just described because I know that Mars would never have peace again if we destroyed the daughter of Space Marshal Greggor. Your disappearance will be explained by evidence. A wrecked spaceship or flier, will take care of the question of Guy Maynard, whereas Laura Greggor is forbidden to travel in military vehicles."

Kregon turned and called through the open door. His confederates came with a portable cart upon which was an equipment case, complete with plug-in cords, electrodes, and controls.

"You will find that low frequency, low voltage electricity is very excruciating. It will not kill nor maim nor impair. But it will offer you an insight on the torture of the damned. Ultimately, we will have decomposed the anti-lamine in your system and then you will speak freely under the influence of iso-dinilamine. Oh yes, Guy Maynard, we will give you respite. The current will be turned off periodically. Five minutes on and five minutes off. This is in order for you to rest."

"—to rest!" said Maynard's mind. Irony. For the mind would count the seconds during the five free minutes, awaiting with horror the next period of current. And during the five minutes of electrical horror, the mind would be counting the seconds that remain before the period of quiet, knowing that the peaceful period only preceded more torture.

Kregon's helpers tied electrodes to feet, hands, and the back of his head. Then Kregon approached with a syringe and with an apologetic gesture slid the needle into Maynard's arm and discharged the hypodermic.

"Now," he asked, "before we start this painful process, would you care to do this the easy way? After all, Maynard, we are going to have the answer anyway. For your own sake, why not give it without pain. That offer of fifty thousand solars will be withdrawn upon the instant that the switch is closed."

Maynard glared and broke his silence. "And have to go through it anyway? Just so that you will be certain that I'm not lying? No!"

Kregon shook his head. "That possibility hadn't really occurred to us. You aren't that kind of man, Maynard. I think that the best kind of individual is the man who knows when to tell a lie and when not to tell. Too bad that you will never have the opportunity of trying that philosophy, but I think it best for the individual, though often not best for society in general. Accept the apology of a warrior, Guy Maynard, that this is necessary, and try to understand that if the cases were reversed, you would be in my place and I in yours. I salute you and say good-by with regrets."

Maynard strained against the straps in futility. He felt that sense of failure overwhelm him again, and he fought against his fate in spite of the fact that there was nothing he could do about it. Another man would have resigned himself, realizing futility when it presented itself, and possibly would have made some sort of prayer. But Guy Maynard fought—

And the surge of low frequency, low voltage electricity raced into his body, removing everything but the torture of jerking muscle and the pain of twitching nerves. It was terrible torture. He felt that he could count each reversal of the low frequency, and yet he could do nothing of his own free will. The clock upon the wall danced before his jerking eyeballs so that he could not see the hands no matter how hard he tried. Ironically, it was a Martian clock and not calibrated into Terran time; it would have had no bearing on the five-minute periods of sheer hell.

Ben Williamson raced across the sand of Sahara Base, raising a curling cloud of dust behind him. The little command car rocketed and careened as Williamson approached his destroyer, and then the long, curling cloud of dust took on the appearance of a huge exclamation point as the brakes locked and the command car slid to a stop beside the space lock. Williamson leaped from the command car and inside with three long strides.

He caught the auxiliary switch on his way past, and the space lock whirred shut. "Executive to pilot," he yelled. "Take her up at six."

The floor surged, throwing Williamson to his knees. Defiantly, Ben crawled to the executive's chair and rolled into the padded, body-supporting seat. He lay there for some seconds, breathing heavily. Then from the communicator there came the query:

"Pilot to executive: Received. What's doing?"

"Executive to crew: Martian of the Mardinex class snatched Guy Maynard on a tractor. We're to pursue and destroy."

"Golly!" breathed the pilot. "Maynard!"

"That's right," said Williamson. "They grabbed him right in front of the BuEx and that's that."

"But to destroy them—?"

"We're running under TSI orders, you know," reminded Williamson.

"Yeah, I know. But killing off one of our own people doesn't sound good to me. Makes me feel like a murderer."

"I know," said Ben. "But remember, Maynard was grabbed by a Martian. Being an aide to Greggor, he was filled to the eyebrows with anti-lamine. That means the electro-treatment for him, plus a good shot of iso-dinilamine. All we're doing is giving peace to a man who is suffering the tortures of hell. After all, would any of you care to go on living after that combination was finished?"

"No, I guess not. Must be worse than death not to have a mind."

"What's worse is what happens. You haven't a mind—and yet you have enough mind to realize that fact. Strange psychological tangle, but there it is. Tough as it is, we've got to go through with it."

"They're after some information on the Orionad?"

"Probably. That's why we're taking out after them. It's the only reason why Guy Maynard was covered under the TSI order."

"Too bad," said the pilot.

"It is," agreed Williamson. "But—prepare for action. Check all ordnance."

It was almost an hour later that the communicator buzzed again. "Observer to executive: Martian of Mardinex class spotted."

"Certain identification?"

"Only from the cardex file. Can't see her yet, but the spotters have picked up a ship having the characteristics of the Mardinex class. It's the Mardinex herself, Ben, because she's the only one left in that class. Old tub, not much good for anything except a fool's errand like this."

"Turretman to executive: Have we got a chance, tackling a first-line ship like the Mardinex in a destroyer?"

"Only one chance. They probably didn't staff it too well. On an abortive attempt like this, they'd put only those men they could afford to lose aboard. Probably a skeleton crew. Also the knowledge that detection meant extermination, therefore go fast and light and as frugal as possible on crewmen. That's our one chance."

"One more chance," interrupted the technician. "We have the drive pattern of the Mardinex in the cardex. We can bollix their drive. That's one more item in our favor."

"Right," said Ben. "What's our velocity with respect to theirs?"

"Forty miles per second."

"Tim, launch two torpedoes immediately. Pete, continue course above Mardinex and cross their apex at two hundred miles. Tim, as we cross their apex, drop a case of interferers. Once that is done, Pete, drop back and give Tim a chance to say hello with the AutoMacs."

"Giving them the whole thing at once?"

"Yes. And one thing more, Jimmy?"

"Technician to executive," answered Jimmy. "I'm here."

"Can you rig your drive-pattern interferer?"

"In about a minute. I've been setting up the constants from the cardex file."

"And hoping they've not been changed?" asked Ben with a smile.

"Right."

The little destroyer lurched imperceptibly as the torpedoes were launched, and then continued on its course a hundred miles to the south of the Martian ship, passing quickly above the Mardinex and across the apex of the Martian's nose. The turretman was busy for several seconds dropping his case of interferers from the discharge lock. The little metal boxes spread out in space and began to emit signals.

Then the destroyer dropped back, and from the turret there came the angry buzz of the AutoMacs. On the driving fin of the Mardinex appeared an incandescent spot that grew quickly and trailed a fine line of luminous gas behind it. Then the turrets of the Mardinex whipped around and Tim shouted: "Look out!"

His shout was not soon enough. On the turret of the Martian ship there appeared two spots of light that were just above the threshold of vision against the black sky. The destroyer bucked dangerously, and the acceleration fell sharply.

"Hulled us."

On the pilot's panel there appeared a number of winking pilot lights. "We'll get along," said he, studying the lights and interpreting their warning.

"Got him!" said the turretman. The top turret of the Mardinex erupted in a flare of white flame blown outward by the air inside of the ship.

"Can we catch him for another shot?" asked Ben pleadingly.

"Not a chance," answered Pete. "We're out of this fight."

"No, we're not," said Ben. "Look!"

Before the Mardinex there began to erupt a myriad of tiny, winking spots. The meteor spotting equipment and projectile intercepting equipment were flashing the interferers one after the other with huge bolts from the secondary battery of the Mardinex.

Ben counted the flashes and then asked the technician: "How many spotters has the Mardinex?"

"Thirty."

"Good. The torps have a chance then." The nonradiating torpedoes would be ignored by the spotting equipment since the emission of the interferers made them appear gigantic and dangerously close to the nonthinking equipment. The torpedoes, on the other hand, would be approaching the Mardinex from below and slowly enough to be considered not dangerous to the integrating equipment. If they arrived before the spotting circuits destroyed the entire case of interferers—

The lower dome of the Mardinex suddenly sported a jagged hole. And almost immediately there was a flash of explosive inside of the lower portion of the Martian ship. The lower observation dome split like a cracked egg, and the glass shattered and flew out. Portholes blew out in long streamers of fire around the lower third of the Mardinex and a series of shattering cracks started up the flank of the ship.

"There goes number two—a clean miss," swore Ben.

"Number one did a fine job."

"I know but—"

"This'll polish 'em off," came Jimmy's voice. "Here goes the drive scrambler."

"Hey! No—!" started Ben, but the whining of the generators and the dimming of the lights told him he was too late.

The Mardinex staggered and then leaped forward until six full gravities. Bits of broken hull and fractured insides trailed out behind the Mardinex as the derelict's added acceleration tore them loose. Within seconds, the stricken Martian warship was out of the sight of the Terrans.

"No reprimand, Jimmy," said Ben Williamson soberly. "I did hope to recover Guy's body."

II.

Thomakein, the Ertinian, stopped the recorder as the Terran ship reversed itself painfully and began to decelerate for the trip back to home. He nodded to himself and made a verbal addition to the recording, stating that the smaller ship had been satisfied as to the destruction of the larger, otherwise a continuance of the fight would have been inevitable. Then Thomakein placed the recording in a can and placed it on a shelf containing other recordings. He forgot about it then, for there was something more interesting in view.

That derelict warship would be a veritable mine of information about the culture of this system. All warships are gold mines of information concerning the technical abilities, the culture, the beliefs, and the people themselves.

Could he assume the destruction of the crew in the derelict?

The smaller ship had—unless they were out of the battle and forced to withdraw due to lack of fighting contact. That didn't seem right to Thomakein. For the smaller ship to attack the larger ship meant a dogged determination. There would have been a last-try stand on the part of the smaller ship no matter how much faster the larger ship were. At worst, the determination seemed to indicate that ramming the larger ship was not out of order.

But the smaller ship had not rammed the larger. Hadn't even tried. In fact, the smaller ship had turned and started to decelerate as soon as the larger ship had doubled her speed.

Thomakein couldn't read either of the name plates of the two fighting ships. He had no idea as to the origin of the two. As an Ertinian, Thomakein couldn't even recognize the characters let alone read them. He was forced to go once more on deduction.

The course of the larger vessel. It was obviously fleeing from the smaller ship. Thomakein played with his computer for a bit and came to two possibilities, one of which was remote, the other pointing to the fourth planet.

A carefully collected table of masses and other physical constants of the planets of Sol was consulted.

Thomakein retrieved his recording, set it up and added:

"The smaller ship, noticing the increased acceleration of the larger, assumed—probably—that the larger ship's crew was killed by the increased gravity-apparent. Since the larger ship was fleeing, it would in all probability have used every bit of acceleration that the crew could stand. Its course was dead-center for the fourth planet's position if integrated for a course based on the larger ship's velocity and direction and acceleration at and prior to the engagement.

"This fourth planet has a surface gravity of approximately one-eighth of the acceleration of the larger ship. Doubling this means that the crew must withstand sixteen gravities. The chances of any being of intelligent size withstanding sixteen gravities is of course depending upon an infinite number of factors. However, the probable reasoning of the smaller ship is that sixteen gravities will kill the crew of the larger ship. Otherwise they would have continued to try to do battle with the larger ship. Their return indicates that they were satisfied."

Thomakein nodded again, replaced the recording, and then paced the derelict Mardinex for a full hour with every constant at his disposal on the recorders.

At the end of that hour, Thomakein noted that nothing had registered and he smiled with assurance.

He stretched and said to himself: "I can stand under four gravities. I can live under twelve with the standard Ertinian acceleration garb. But sixteen gravities for one hour? Never."

Thomakein noted the acceleration of the derelict as being slightly over six gravities on his own accelerometer, which registered the Ertinian constant.

Then he began to maneuver his little ship toward the derelict.

Entering the Mardinex through the blasted observation dome was no great problem. The lower meteor spotters and most of the machinery had gone with the dome and so no pressor came forth to keep Thomakein from his intention.

The insides were a mess. Broken girders and ruined equipment made a bad tangle of the lower third of the great warship. Thomakein jockeyed the little ship back and forth inside of the derelict until he had lodged it against the remainder of a lower deck in such a manner as to keep it there under the six Terran gravities of acceleration. Then he donned spacesuit and started to prowl the ship. It was painful and heavy going, but Thomakein made it slowly.

An hour later, Thomakein heard the ringing of alarms, coming from somewhere up above, and the sound made him stop suddenly. Sound, he reasoned, requires air for propagation. The sound came through the floor, but somewhere there must be air inside of the derelict.

So upward he went through the damage. He found an air-tight door and fought the catch until it puffed open, nearly throwing him back into the damaged opening. White-faced, Thomakein held on until his breath returned, and then with a determined look at the gap below—and the place where he would have been if he had fallen out of the derelict—Thomakein tried the door again. He closed the outer door and tried the inner.

His alien grasp of mechanics was not universal enough to discover his trouble immediately. But it was logical, and logic told him to look for the air vent. He found it, and turned the valve permitting air to enter the air-tight door system. The inner door opened easily and Thomakein entered a portion of the hull where the alarm bells rang loud and clear.

He found them ringing in a room filled with control instruments. Throwing the dome of his suit back over his head, Thomakein looked around him with interest. There was nothing in the room that logic or a grasp of elementary mechanics could solve. It did Thomakein no good to look at the Martian characters that labeled the instruments and dials, for he recognized nothing of any part of the Solar System.

He did recognize the bloody lump of inert flesh as having once been the operator of this room—or one of them he came to conclude as his search found others.

Thomakein was not squeamish. But they did litter up the place and the pools of blood made the floor slippery which was dangerous under 6-G Terran—or for Thomakein, five point six eight. So Thomakein struggled with the Martian bodies and hauled them to the corridor where he let them drop over the edge of the central well onto the bulkhead below. He returned to the instrument room in an attempt to find out what the bell-ringing could mean.

He inspected the celestial globe with some interest until he noticed that the upper limb contained some minute, luminous spheres—prolate spheroids to be exact. Wondering, Thomakein tried to look forward and up with respect to the ship's course.

His anxiety increased. He was about to meet a whole battle fleet that was spread out in a dragnet pattern. Then before he could worry about it he was through the network and some of the ships tried to follow but with no success. The Mardinex bucked and pitched as tractors were applied and subsequently broken as the tension reached overload values.

Thomakein smiled. Their inability to catch him plus their obvious willingness to let the matter drop with but a perfunctory try gave him sufficient evidence as to their origin.

They could never catch a ship under six gravities when the best they could do was three. The functions with respect to one another would be as though the faster ship were accelerating away from the slower ship by 3-G plus the initial velocity of the faster ship's intrinsic speed, for the pursuers were standing still.

The Mardinex swept out past Mars and Thomakein smiled more and more. This maze of equipment was better than anything that he had expected. The Ertinians would really get the information as to the kind of people who inhabited this system.

Thomakein wandered idly from room to room, finding dead Martians and dropping them onto the bulkhead. Two he saved for the surgeons of Ertene to inspect; they were in fair physical condition compared to the rest but they were no less dead from acceleration pressure.

Eventually, Thomakein came to the room wherein Guy Maynard was lying strapped to the surgeon's table. The Ertinian opened the door and walked idly in, looking the room over quickly to see which item of interest was the most compelling.

His glance fell upon Maynard and passed onward to the equipment on the cart beyond the Terran. Then Thomakein's eyes snapped back to the unconscious Terran and Thomakein's jaw fell while his face took on an astonished look.

Thomakein often remarked afterwards that it was a shame that no one of his photographically inclined friends had been present. He'd have enjoyed a picture of himself at that moment and he realized the fact.

Thomakein had ignored the dead Martians. They were different enough to permit him a certain amount of callousness.

But the man strapped to the table, and hooked up to the diabolical looking machine was the image of an Ertinian! Thomakein didn't know what the machine was for, but his logical mind told him that if this man, different from the rest, were strapped to a table with some sort of electronic equipment tied to his hands, feet, and head, it was sufficient evidence that this was a captive and the machine some sort of torture. He stepped forward and jerked the electrodes from Maynard's inert frame and pushed the machine backward onto the floor with a foot.

A quick check told Thomakein that the unknown man was not dead, though nearly so.

He raced through the derelict to his own ship and returned with a stimulant. The man remained unconscious but alive. His eyes opened after a long time, but behind them was no sign of intelligence. They merely stared foolishly, and closed for long periods.

Thomakein tended the man as best he could with the limited supplies from his own ship and then began to plan his return to Ertene with his find.

Days passed, and Thomakein unwillingly abandoned any hope of having this man give him any information. The man was as one dead. He could not speak, nor could he understand anything. Thomakein decided that the best thing to do was to take the unknown man to Ertene with him. Perhaps Charalas, or one of his contemporary neuro-surgeons could bring this man to himself. Thomakein diagnosed the illness as some sort of nerve shock though he knew that he was no man of medicine.

Yet the surgeons of Ertene were brilliant, and if they could bring this unknown man to himself, they would have a gold mine indeed.

So at the proper time, Thomakein took off from the derelict with the mindless Guy Maynard. By now, the derelict was far beyond the last outpost of the Solar System and obviously beyond detection. Thomakein installed a repeater-circuit detector in the wrecked ship; it would enable him to find the Mardinex at some later time.

So unknowing, Guy Maynard came to Ertene.

The first thing that reached across the mental gap to Guy Maynard was music. Faint, elfin music that seemed to sway and soothe the ragged edges of his mind. It came and it went depending on how he felt.

But gradually the music increased in strength and power, and the lapses were shorter. Warm pleasant light assailed him now and gave him a feeling of bodily well-being. Flashes of clear thinking found him considering the satisfied condition of his body, and the fear and nerve-racking torture of the Martian method of extracting information dropped deeper and deeper into the region of forgetfulness.

Then he realized, one day, that he was being fed. It made him ashamed to be fed at his age, but the thought was fleeting and gone before he could clutch at it and consider why he should be ashamed. One portion of his mind cursed the fleetingness of such thoughts and recognized the possibilities that might lie in the sheer contemplation of self.

There were periods in which someone spoke to him in a strange tongue. It was a throaty voice; a woman. Maynard's inquisitive section tried the problem of what was a woman and why it should stir the rest of him and came to the meager conclusion that it was standard for this body to be stirred by woman: especially women with throaty voices. The tongue was alien; he could understand none of it. But the tones were soothing and pleasant, and they seemed to imply that he should try to understand their meaning.

And then the wonder of meaning came before that alert part of Maynard's mind. What is meaning? it asked. Must things have meaning? It decided that meaning must have some place in the body's existence. It reasoned thus: There is light. Then what is the meaning of light? Must light have a meaning? It must have some importance. Then if light has importance and meaning, so must all things!

Even self!

So the voices strived to teach Ertinian to the Terran while he was still in the mindless state, and gradually he came to think in terms of this alien tongue. But he had been taught to think in Terran, and the Terran words came to mind slowly but surely.

And then came the day when Guy Maynard realized that he was Guy Maynard, and that he had been saved, somehow, from the terrors of the Martian inquisition. He saw the alien tongue for what it was and wondered about it.

Where was he?

Why?

The days wore on with Maynard growing stronger mentally. They gave him everything they could, these Ertinians. Scrolls were given to him to read, and the movement of reflections from his eyeballs motivated recording equipment that spoke the word he was scanning into his ear in that pleasant throaty voice. It was lightning-fast training, but it worked, once Guy's mentality went to work as an entity. Maynard learned to read Ertinian printing and lastly the simplified cursory writing.

Then with handwriting at the gate of learning, they placed his hand around a controlled pencil, and the voice spoke as the controlled pencil wrote. They spoke Ertinian to him, not knowing Terran, though his earlier replies were recorded.

And as he strengthened, his replies made sense, and for every Ertinian word impressed upon his mind, he gave them the Terran word. They taught him composition and grammar as he taught them, and whether it was by the written script or the spoken word, the interchange of knowledge was complete.

One day he asked: "Where am I?"

And the doctor replied: "You are on Ertene."

"That I know. But where or what is Ertene?"

"Ertene is a wandering planet. We found you almost dead in a derelict spaceship and brought you back to life."

"I recall parts of that. But—Ertene?"

"Generations ago, Ertene left her parent sun because of a great, impending cataclysm. Since then we have been wandering in space in search of a suitable home."

"Sol is not far away—you will find a home there."

The doctor smiled sagely and did not comment on that. Maynard wondered about it briefly and tried to explain, but they would have none of it.

He tried at later times, but there was a reticence about their accepting Sol as a home sun. No matter what attack he tried, there was a casual reference to a decision to be made in the future.

But their lessons continued, and Guy progressed from the hospital to the spacious grounds. He sought the libraries and read quite a bit, for they urged him to, saying: "We can not entertain you continually. You are not strong enough to work, nor will we permit you to take any position. Therefore your best bet is to continue learning. In fact, Guy, you have a job to perform on Ertene. You are to become well versed in Ertinian lore so that you may converse with us freely and draw comparisons between Ertene and your Terra for us. Therefore apply yourself."

Guy agreed that if he could do nothing else, he could at least do their bidding.

So he applied himself. He read. He spoke at length with those about him. He practised with the writing machine. He accepted their customs with the air of one who feels that he must, in order that he be accepted.

And gradually he took on the manner of an Ertinian. He spoke with a pure Ertinian accent, he thought in Ertinian terms, and his hand was the handwriting of an Ertinian. And from his studies he came to the next question.

"Charalas, how could you tell me from an Ertinian?"

Charalas smiled. "We can."

"But how? It is not apparent."

"Not to you. It is one of those things that you miss because you are too close to it. It is like your adage: 'Cannot see the forest for the trees.' It will come out."

"Come out?"

"Grow out," smiled the neuro-surgeon. "Your ... beard. You notice that I used the Terran name. That is because we have no comparable term in Ertinian. That is because no Ertinian ever grew hair on his face. Daily, you ... shave ... with an edged tool we furnished you upon your request. You were robotlike in those days, Guy. You performed certain duties instinctively and the lack of ... shaving equipment ... caused you no end of mental concern. Thomakein studied your books and had a ... razor ... fashioned for you."

"Whiskers. I never noticed that."

"No, it is one of those things. Save for that, Guy, you could lose yourself among us. The ... mustache ... you wear marks you on Ertene as an alien."

"I could shave that off."

"No. Do not. It is a mark of distinction. Everyone on Ertene has seen your picture with it and therefore you will be accorded the deference we show an alien when people see it. Otherwise you would be expected to behave as we do in all things."

"That I can do."

"We know that. But there is another reason for our request. One day you will know about it. It has to do with our decision concerning alliance with Sol's family."

Guy considered. "Soon?"

"It will be some time."

Again that unwillingness to discuss the future. Guy thought it over and decided that this was something beyond him. He, too, let the matter drop for the present and took a new subject.

"Charalas, this sun of yours. It is not a true sun."

"No," laughed Charalas. "It is not."

"Nor is it anything like a true sun. Matter is stable stuff only under certain limits. If that size were truly solar matter, it would necessarily be so dense that space would be warped in around it so tight that nothing could emerge—radiation, I mean. To the observer, it would not exist. That is axiomatic. If a bit of solar matter of that size were isolated, it would merely expand and cool in a matter of hours—if it were solar-core matter it would probably be curtains for anything that tried to live in the neighborhood. Matter of that size is stable only at reasonable temperatures. I don't know the limits, but I'd guess that three or four thousand degrees kelvin would be tops. Oh, I forgot the opposite end; the very high temperature white dwarf might be that size—but it would warp space as I said before and thus do no good. Therefore a true sun of that size and mass is impossible.

"Another thing, Charalas. We are close to Sol. A light-week or less. That would have been seen ... should have been seen by our observatories. Why haven't they seen it?"

"Our shield," explained Charalas, "explains both. You see, Guy, in order that a planet may wander space, some means of solar effect must be maintained. As you say, nothing practical can be found in nature. Our planet drive is poorly controlled. We can not maneuver Ertene as you would a spaceship. It requires great power to even shift the course of Ertene by so much as a few degrees. We've taken luck as a course through the galaxy and have visited only those stars that have lain along our course. Trying to swing anything of solar mass would be impossible. Ertene would merely leave the sun; the sun would not answer Ertene's gravitational pull.

"But this is trivial. Obviously we have no real sun. But we needed one." Charalas smiled shyly. "At this point I must sound braggart," he said, "but it was an ancestor of mine—Timalas—who brought Ertene her sun."

"Great sounding guy," commented the Terran.

"He was. Ertene left the parent sun with only the light-shield. The light-shield, Guy, is a screen of energy that permits radiation to pass inwardly but not outwardly. Thus we collect the radiation of all the stars and lose but a minute quantity of the input from losses. That kept Ertene warm during those first years of our wandering.

"It also presented Ertene with a serious problem. The entire sky was faintly luminous. It was neither night nor day at any place on Ertene, but a half-light all the time. Disconcerting and entirely alien to the human animal. Evolutionary strains might have appeared to accept this strange condition, but Timalas decided that Intis, the lesser moon, would serve as a sun. He converted the screen slightly, distorting it so that the focal point for incoming radiation was at Intis. The lesser moon became incandescent, eventually, and serves as Ertene's sun. It is synthetic. The other radiations that prove useful to growing things and to man but which are not visible are emitted right from the inner surface of the light-shield itself. Intis serves as the source of light and most of the heat. It is a natural effect, giving us beautiful sunrises and peaceful sunsets. The radiation that causes growth and healthful effects is ever-present, because of the screen. Some heat, too, for that is included in the beneficial radiation. But the visible spectrum is directed at Intis along with a great quantity of the heat rays. Intis is small, Guy, and it is also beneficial that the re-radiation from Intis that misses Ertene and falls on the screen is converted also. Much of Ertene's power is derived from the screen itself—a back-energy collected from the screen generator."

"So the effective sun is the result of an energy shield? And this same shield prevents any radiation from leaving this region. I can see why we haven't seen Ertene. You can't see something that doesn't radiate. But what about occultation?"

"Quite possible. But the size of the screen is such that it is of stellar size as seen from stellar distances. It is but a true point in space." Charalas smiled. "I was about to say a point-source of light similar to a star but the shield is a point-source of no-light, really. Occultation is possible but the probabilities are remote, plus the probability of a repeat, so that the observer would consider the brief occultation of the star anything but an accident to his photographic plate."

"Don't get you on that."

"It's easy, Guy. Take a star-photograph and lay a thin line across it and see how many stars are really covered by this line—which is of the thickness of the stars themselves. Too few for a non-suspecting observer to tie together into a theory. No, we are safe from detection."

"Detection?"

"Yes. Call it that. Suppose we were to pass through a malignant culture. We did, three generations ago and it was only our shield that saved us from being absorbed into that system. We would have been slaves to that civilization."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"Certainly," said Guy. "You intend to have me present the Solar Government to your leaders. Upon my tale will rest your decision. You will decide whether to join us—or to pass undetected."

"I believe you understand," said Charalas. "So study well and be prepared to draw the most discerning comparisons, for the Council will ask the most delicate questions and you should be able to discuss any phase of Ertene's social system and the corresponding Terran system."

Mentally, Guy bade good-by to Sol. He applied himself to his Ertinian lessons because he felt that if Sol were lost to him—as it might be—he could at least enter the Ertinian life as an Ertinian.

III.

Guy Maynard, the Terran, became steeped in Ertinian lore. He went at it with the same intensity that he went at anything else, and possibly driven with the heart-chilling thought that he might not be able to convince Ertene that Sol had a place for her. He saw that possibility, and prayed against it, yet he realized that Ertene was a planet of her own mind and that they might decide against alliance. It was a selling job he had to do.

And if not—

Guy Maynard would have to remain on Ertene. Therefore in either case it would serve him best to become as Ertinian as possible. He did not believe that they would exile him—that would be dangerous. Nor did he believe that death would accompany his failure to convince Ertene of their place around Sol. The obvious course in case of failure would be to permit him the freedom of the planet; to become in effect, an Ertinian.

He'd be under watch, of course. Escape would prove dangerous for their integrity. Imprisonment was not impossible, but he hoped that his failure to convince would not be so sorry as to have them suspect him.

Of course, an opportunity to escape would be taken, unless he gave his word of honor. Yet, he had sworn the oath of an officer in Terra's space fleet, and that oath compelled him to serve Terra in spite of danger, death, or dishonor to self. He must not give his parole—

Guy fought himself over that problem for days and days. It led him in circular thinking, the outlet to which would be evident only when he found out the Ertinian reaction. Too much depended on that trend; there were too many if's standing between him and any plan for the future.

He forgot his mental whirl in study. He investigated Ertinian science and tucked a number of items away in his memory. He visited the observatory and after a number of visits he plotted Ertene in the celestial sphere within a few hundred thousand miles. That, too, he filed away in his memory along with the course of the wanderer.

He learned that his place of convalescence was no hospital, but Thomakein's estate. It staggered him. Thomakein was—must be—a veritable dynamo of energetic mentality to have the variety of interests as reflected in the trappings about the estate. The huge library, the observatory, the laboratories. How many of the things he saw and studied were Thomakein's personal property he would never know; though he did know that some of them came from museums and institutes across the planet.

He wondered about Thomakein. He had never seen his saviour since his mind had come back. He recalled vague things, but nothing cogent. He asked Charalas about Thomakein.

"Thomakein's main problem is Sol," explained Charalas. "A problem which you have made easy for him. However, he is on the derelict, studying the findings there. A warship is a most interesting museum of the present, you know. Often things of less than perfect operation are there; things that will eventually become perfected and established into private use. It is almost a museum of the future. Thomakein will learn much there and he has been commissioned to remain on the derelict until he has catalogued every item on it."

"Lone life, isn't it?" asked Guy.

"He has friends. Last I heard from him, he had sealed the usable portion of the derelict against the void, and was turning the course to bring it toward Ertene. Eventually the wreck will circle Ertene. Perhaps we may attempt to land it here."

"It'll be a nice museum piece," said Guy, "but it will not endear you to those of Mars."

"I know. Of course if we accept Sol's offer, we will destroy it completely."

"Keep it," said Guy, shrugging his shoulders. "Ertene will find little in common with Mars. It will be Terra and Ertene; together we will form the nucleus of Solar power."

"So?"

"Naturally. Ertene and Terra are the most alike, even to the flora and fauna."

"I see."

Charalas let the matter drop as he did before. Guy tried to open the line of thought again, but met with no success. It was not a matter of indifference to Guy's arguments, but more a complete disinclination to make any sort of statement prior to the decision of the Council of Ertene. Realizing that this decision was one of the single-try variety, Guy studied hard during the next few days. There would be no appeal even though he tried to get another hearing during the rest of his life.

He wondered how soon it would be.

Charalas landed on Thomakein's estate in a small flier and asked Guy if he would like to see the famous Hall of History. They flew a quarter of the way around the planet, and during the trip, Charalas pointed out scenes of interest. It was enlightening to Guy, who hadn't seen anything beyond a few miles of Thomakein's estate. There were farms laid out on the production-line scale while the cities and towns that housed the farmers were sprawling, rustic villages of simple beauty. The larger cities had evolved from the square-block and rubber-stamp home kind to specialized aggregations in which the central, business sections were close-knit while the residences were widespread and well apart, giving each family adequate breathing room.

"The railroad," smiled Charalas, "is still with us. It will never leave, because shipments of heavy machinery of low necessity can be transported cheaper that way. Like the barges that ply the rivers with coal, ore, and grain, they are powered with adaptations of the space drive, but they are none the less barges or trains."

"They've found that, too," laughed Guy. "There is little economic value in trying to ship a million tons of coal by flier."

"Normally, you should say. The slowest conveyor system is rapid if the conveyor is always filled and the material is not perishable. Coal and ore have been here for eons. Therefore it is no hardship to wait for six weeks while a given ton of ore gets across the continent, provided that the user can remove a ton of ore from the conveying system simultaneously with the placement of another ton that will not get there for six weeks."

"Sounds correct, though I've never thought of it in that manner," said Guy thoughtfully. "But that must be why it is done. We hull ore across space untended, and in pre-calculated orbits, picking it up at Terra from Pluto, for instance. The driverless and crewless hull is packed with ore, towed into space by a space tug and set into its orbit, the tug then returning to the shipping area to await the next hull. The hull may take a couple of years to get to Terra, but when it does, it begins to emit a finder-signal and Terran space tugs pick the hull up and lower it to Terra. The hulls are returned with unperishable supplies to the Plutonian miners."

"We hadn't the necessity of applying that thought to space shipping," answered Charalas. "Tonis, the larger moon, is so close that special shipping methods are not needed. We have but a few colonists there, most of which are members of the laboratory staff."

"You've found moon laboratories essential in space work, too?" asked Guy.

"Naturally. Tonis is airless and upon it is the Ertinian astronomical laboratory."

"Moons—even sterile moons—are good for that," said Guy. "They—Say, Charalas, what is that collection of buildings below here? They look like something extra-special."

"They are. That is the place we're going to see."

Charalas put the flier into a steep dive and landed in the open space between the buildings. They entered the long, low building at the end opposite the most ornate building of the seven that surrounded the landing area and Charalas told the receptionist that they were expected.

The long hall was excellently illuminated, and on either side of the corridor were murals; great twelve-foot panels of rare color and of photographic detail. Upon close examination they proved to be paintings.

The first panel showed an impression of the formation of Ertene, along with the other eleven planets of Ertene's parent sun. It was colorful, and impressionistic in character rather than an attempt to portray the actual cataclysm that formed the planets. The next few panels were of geologic interest, giving the impressions of Ertene through the long, geologic periods. There were dinosaur-picturizations next, and the panels brought them forward in irregular steps through the carboniferous; through the glacial ages; through the dawn ages; and finally into the coming of man to power.

The next fourteen panels were used in the rise of man on Ertene from the early ages to full, efficient civilization. They were similar to a possible attempt to portray a similar period on Terra, showing wars, life in the cities of power during the community-power ages, and the fall of several powerful cities.

Then the rise of widespread government came with its more closely-knit society made possible by better means of communication and transportation. This went on and on until the facility of the combining factors made separate governments on Ertene untenable, and there were seven great, fiery panels of mighty, widespread wars.

"Up to here, it is similar to ours," commented Guy.

"And here it changes," said Charalas. "For the next panels show the impending doom of Ertene's parent sun. The problem of space had been conquered but the other planets were of little interest to Ertene. We fought about four interplanetary wars as you see here, all against alien races. Then came trouble. The odd chance of a run-away star coming near Ertene did happen, and we faced the decision of living near an unstable sun for centuries, for our astronomers calculated that the two stars would pass close enough to cause upheavals in the suns that would result in instability for thousands, perhaps millions of years."

"Instability might not have been so bad," said Guy thoughtfully, "if it could be predicted. No, I'm not speaking in riddles," he laughed. "I may sound peculiar, saying that it would be possible to predict instability. But a regular variable of the cepheid type is predictable instability."

"True. But we had no basis for prediction. After all, it would have been taking a chance. Suppose that the instability had caused a nova? Epitaphs are nice but none the less final. We left hundreds of years before the solar proximity. Now we know that we might have survived, but as you know, we can not swerve Ertene's course readily and though we are slowly turning, the race may have died out and gone for a galactic eon before we could return. Once the race dies out—or the interest in returning to a certain sun back there in the depths of the galaxy dies—we will cease to turn. We may find a haven somewhere, before then."

"You were speaking of years," said Guy. "Was that a loose reference or were you approximating my conception of a year?"

"A year is a loose term indeed, no matter by whom it is used," said Charalas. "To you, it is three hundred and sixty-five, and about a quarter, days. A day is one revolution of Terra. From Mars, say, a Terran year is something else entirely. Mars, of course, is not too good an example for its sidereal day is very close to Terra's. But your Venus, with its eighteen hour day—eighteen Terran hours—sees Terra's year as four hundred eighty-six, plus, days. On Ertene, we have no year. We had one, once. It was composed of four hundred twelve point seven zero four two two nine three one days, sidereal. Now, our day is different, since the length of the solar day depends upon the progression of the planet about its luminary. Our luminary behaves as a moon with a high ecliptic-angle as I have explained. No, Guy, I have been mentally converting my year to your year, by crude approximation."

The next panel was an ornate painting of the Ertinian system, showing—out of scale for artistic purpose—the planets and sun, with Ertene drawing away in a long spiral.

"For many years we pursued that spiral, withdrawing from the sun by slow degrees. Then we broke free." Charalas indicated the panel which showed Ertene in the foreground while the clustered system was far behind.

They passed from panel to panel, all of which were interesting to Guy Maynard. There was a series of the first star contacted by Ertene. It was a small system, cold and forbidding, or hot and equally forbidding. The outer planets were in the grip of frozen air, and the inner planets bubbled in moltenness "This system was too far out of line to turn. It was our first star, and we might have stayed in youthfulness. Now, we know better."

The next panel showed a dimly-lighted landscape; a portrayal of Ertene without its synthetic sun. The luminous sky was beautiful in a nocturnal sort of way; to Guy it was slightly nostalgic for some unknown reason, at any rate it was the soul of sadness, that landscape.

Charalas shook his head and then smiled. He led Guy to the next panel, and there was a portrait of an elderly man, quite a bit older than Charalas though the neuro-surgeon was no young man. "Timalas," said Charalas proudly. "He gave us the next panel."

The following panel was a similar scene to the dismal one, but now the same trees and buildings and hills and sky were illuminated by a sun. It was a cheerful, uplifting scene compared to the soul-clouding darkness.

Ertene was a small sphere encircled by a band of peaceful black in a raving sky of fire and flame. Three planets fought in the death throes, using every conceivable weapon. Space was riven with blasting beams of energy and segregated into square areas by far-flung cutting planes. Raging energy consumed spots on each of the planets and the corners of the panel were tangled masses of broken machinery and burning wreckage, and the hapless images of trapped men. But Ertene passed through this holocaust unseen because of Timalas' light-shield.

"He saved us that, too," said Charalas reverently. "We could not have hoped to survive in this. Our science was not up to theirs, though the aid of a derelict or two gave us most of their science of war. I doubt that Terra herself could have survived. We passed unseen, though we worried for a hundred years lest they find us."

A race of spiders overran four of the planets of the next panel. They were unintelligent, there was a questioning air to the panel, as though posing the query as to how this race of spiders had crossed the void. And the picture of an Ertinian dying because contact with one of the spiders indicated their reason for not remaining.

The next panel showed a whole system with ammoniated atmosphere. "It was before the last panel," said Charalas, "that Ertene became of age as far as the wanderlust went. We knew that we could survive. We wanted no system wherein Ertene would be alone. Of what use to civilization would a culture be if its people could never leave the home planet?"

"No," agreed Guy. "Once a race has conquered space, they must use it. It would restrict the knowledge of a race not to use space."

"So we decided never to accept a system wherein we could not travel freely to other planets. Who knows, but the pathway to the planets may be but the first, faltering step to the stars?"

"We'd never have reached the planets if we'd never flown on the air," agreed Guy.

"We prefer company, too," smiled Charalas, pointing out the next panels. One was of a normal system but in which the life was not quite ready for the fundamentals of science and therefore likely to become slave-subject to the Ertinian mastery. The next was a system in which the intelligent life had overrun the system and had evolved to a high degree—and Ertene might have been subject to them if they had remained. "Unfortunately we could learn nothing from them," said the Ertinian. "It was similar to an ignorant savage trying to learn something from us."

Then they came to a panel in which there were ten planets. It was a strange collection of opposites all side by side. There were several races, some fighting others, some friendly with others. Plenty and poverty sat hand in hand, and in one place a minority controlled the lives of the majority while professing to be ruled by majority-rule. Men strived to perfect medicine and increase life-expectancy and other men fought and killed by the hundreds of thousands. A cold and forbidding planet was rich in essential ore, and populated by a semi-intelligent race of cold-blooded creatures. The protectors of these poor creatures were the denizens of a high civilization, who used them to fight their petty fights for them, under the name of unity. For their trouble, they took the essential ores to their home planet and exchanged items of dubious worth. The trespass of a human by the natives of a slightly populated moon caused the decimation of the natives, while the humans used them by the hundreds in vivisection since their anatomy was quite similar to the human's.

"Where is Ertene?" asked Guy.

"Ertene is not yet placed," said Charalas.

"No?" asked Guy in wonder.

"No," said Charalas with a queer smile. "Ertene is still not sure of her position. You see, Guy, that system is Sol."

Guy Maynard stood silent, thinking. It was a blow to him, this picturization of the worlds of Sol as seen through the eyes of a totally alien race. His own feelings he analyzed briefly, and he knew that in his own heart, he was willing to shade any decisions concerning the civilization of Ertene in the Ertinian favor; had any dispute between Ertene and a mythical dissenter, Guy would have had his decision weighted in favor of the wanderer for one reason alone.

Ertinians were human to the last classification!

Guy smiled inwardly. "Blood is thicker than water," he thought to himself, and he knew that while the old platitude was meant to cover blood-relations who clung together in spite of close bonds with friends not of blood relationship, it could very well be expanded to cover this situation. Obviously he as a Terran would tend to support a human race against a merely humanoid race. He would fight the Martians for Ertene just as he would fight them for Terra.

Fighting Ertene itself was unthinkable. They were too human; Ertene was too Terran to think of strife between the two worlds. Being of like anatomy, they would and should cling together against the whole universe of alien bodies.

But—

He had spoken to Charalas, to the nurses, to the groundkeepers, and to the scientists who came to learn of him and from him. He had told them of Terra and of the Solar System. He had explained the other worlds in detail and his own interpretation of those other cultures.

And still they depicted Terra in no central light. Terra did not dominate the panel. It vied with the other nine planets and their satellites for the prominence it should have held.

What was wrong?

Knowing that he would have favored Ertene for the anatomical reasons alone, Guy worried. Had his word-picture been so poor that Ertene gave the other planets their place in the panel in spite of the natural longing to place their own kind above the rest?

"I should think—" he started haltingly, but Charalas stopped him.

"Guy Maynard, you must understand that Ertene is neutral. Perhaps the first neutral you've ever seen. Believe that, Guy, and be warned that Ertene is capable of making her own, very discerning decision."

Guy did not answer. He knew something else, now. Ertene was not going to be easily convinced that Sol was the place for them. She was neutral, yes, but there was something else.

Ertene had the wanderlust!

For eons, Ertene had passed in her unseen way through the galaxy. She had seen system after system, and the lust for travel was upon her. Travel was her life, and had been for hundreds of generations.

Her children had been born and bred in a closed system, free from stellar bonds. Their history was a vast storehouse of experience such as no other planet had ever had. Every generation brought them to another star and each succeeding generation added to the wisdom of Ertene as it extracted or tried to extract some bit of knowledge from each system through which Ertene passed.

With travel her natural life, the wandering planet would be loath to cease her transient existence.

Like a man who has spent too many years in bachelorhood, flitting like a butterfly from lip to lip, Ertene had become inured to a single life. It would take a definite attraction to swerve her from her self-sufficiency.

These things came to Maynard as he stood in thought. He knew then that his was no easy job. Not the simple proposition of asking Ertene to join her own kind in an orbit about Sol. Not the mere signing of a pact would serve. Not the Terran-shaded history of the worlds of Sol with the Terran egotism that did not admit that Terra could possibly be wrong.

Ertene must be made to see the attractiveness of living in Maynard's little universe. It must be made more attractive than the interesting possibilities offered by the unknown worlds that lie ahead on her course through the galaxy.

All this plus the natural reticence of Ertene to become involved in a system that ran rife with war. The attractiveness of Sol must be so great that Ertene would remain in spite of war and alien hatred.

And Maynard knew in his heart that he was not the one to sway them easily. Part of his mind felt akin to their desire to roam. Even knowing that he would not live on Ertene to see the next star he wanted to go with them in order that his children might see it.

And yet his honor was directed at the service of Terra. His sacred oath had been given to support and strive to the best interest of Terra and Sol.

He put away the desire to roam with Ertene and thought once more of the studying he must do to convince Ertene of the absolute foolishness of continuing in their search for a more suitable star than Sol about which to establish a residence.

Maynard turned to Charalas and saw that the elderly doctor had been watching him intently. Before he could speak, the Ertinian said: "It is a hard nut to crack, lad. Many have tried but none have succeeded. Like most things that are best for people, they are the least exciting and the most formal, and people do not react cheerfully to a formal diet."

Maynard shook his head. "But unlike a man with ulcers, I cannot prescribe a diet of milk lest he die. Ertene will go on living no matter whether I speak and sway them or whether I never say another word. I am asked to convince an entire world against their will. I can not tell them that it is the slightest bit dangerous to go on as they have. In fact, it may be dangerous for them to remain. In all honesty, I must admit that Terra is not without her battle scars."

Charalas said, thoughtfully: "Who knows what is best for civilization? We do not, for we are civilization. We do as we think best, and if it is not best, we die and another civilization replaces us in Nature's long-time program to find the real survivor."

He faced the panel and said, partly to himself and partly to Guy:

"Is it best for Ertene to go on through time experimenting? Gathering the fruits of a million civilizations bound forever to their stellar homes because of the awful abyss between the stars? For the planets all to become wanderers would be chaos.

"Therefore is it Nature's plan that Ertene be the one planet to gather unto herself the fruit of all knowledge and ultimately lie barren because of the sterility of her culture? Are we to be the sponge for all thought? If so, where must it end? What good is it? Is this some great master plan? Will we, after a million galactic years, reach a state where we may disseminate the knowledge we have gained, or are we merely greedy, taking all and giving nothing?

"What are we learning? And, above all, are we certain that Ertene's culture is best for civilization? How may we tell? The strong and best adapted survive, and since we are no longer striving against the lesser forces of Nature on our planet, and indeed, are no longer striving against those of antisocial thought among our own people—against whom or what do we fight?

"Guy Maynard, you are young and intelligent. Perhaps by some whimsy of fate you may be the deciding factor in Ertene's aimlessness. We are here, Guy. We are at the gates to the future. My real reason for bringing you to the Center of Ertene is to have you present your case to the Council."

He took Guy's arm and led him through the door at the end of the corridor. They went into the gilt-and-ivory room with the vast hemispherical dome and as the door slowly closed behind them, Guy Maynard, Terran, and Charalas, Ertinian, stood facing a quarter-circle of ornate desks behind which sat the Council.

Obviously, they had been waiting.

IV.

Guy Maynard looked reproachfully at Charalas. He felt that he had been tricked, that Charalas had kicked the bottom out of his argument and then had forced him into the debate with but an impromptu defense. He wondered how this discussion was to be conducted, and while he was striving to collect a lucid story, part of his mind heard Charalas going through the usual procedure for recording purposes.

"Who is this man?"

"He is Junior Executive Guy Maynard of the Terran Space Patrol."

"Explain his title."

"It is a rank of official service. It denotes certain abilities and responsibilities."

"Can you explain the position of his rank with respect to other ratings of more or less responsibility?"

Charalas counted off on his fingers. "From the lowest rank upward, the following titles are used: Junior Aide, Senior Aide, Junior Executive, Senior Executive, Sector Commander, Patrol Marshal, Sector Marshal, and Space Marshal."

"These are the commissioned officers? Are there other ratings?"

"Yes, shall I name them?"

"Prepare them for the record. There is no need of recounting the noncommissioned officials."

"I understand."

"How did Guy Maynard come to Ertene?"

"Maynard was rescued from a derelict spaceship."

"By whom?"

"Thomakein."

"Am I to assume that Thomakein brought him to Ertene for study?"

"That assumption is correct."

"The knowledge of the system of Sol is complete?"

"Between the information furnished by Guy Maynard and the observations made by Thomakein, the knowledge of Sol's planets is sufficient. More may be learned before Ertene loses contact, but for the time, it is adequate."

"And Guy Maynard is present for the purpose of explaining the Terran wishes in the question of whether Ertene is to remain here?"

"Correct."

The councilor who sat in the center of the group smiled at Guy and said: "Guy Maynard, this is an informal meeting. You are to rest assured we will not attempt to goad you into saying something you do not mean. If you are unprepared to answer a given question, ask for time to think. We will understand. However, we ask that you do not try to shade your answers in such a manner as to convey erring impressions. This is not a court of law; procedure is not important. Speak when and as you desire and understand that you will not be called to account for slight breaches of etiquette, since we all know that formality is a deterrent to the real point in argument."

Charalas added: "Absolute formality in argument usually ends in the decision going to the best orator. This is not desirable, since some of the more learned men are poor orators, while some of the best orators must rely upon the information furnished them by the learned."

The center councilor arose and called the other six councilors by name in introduction. This was slightly redundant since their names were all present in little bronze signs on the desks. It was a pleasantry aimed at putting the Terran at ease and offering him the right to call them by name.

"Now," said Terokar, the center one, "we shall begin. Everything we have said has been recorded for the records. But, Guy, we will remove anything from the record that would be detrimental to the integrity of any of us. We will play it back before you leave and you may censor it."

"Thank you," said Guy. "Knowing that records are to be kept as spoken will often deter honest expression."

"Quite true. That is why we permit censoring. Now, Guy, your wishes concerning Ertene's alliance with Sol."

"I invite Ertene to join the Solar System."

"Your invitation is appreciated. Please understand that the acceptance of such an invitation will change Ertene's social structure forever, and that it is not to be taken lightly."

"I realize that the invitation is not one to accept lightly. It is a large decision."

"Then what has Sol to offer?"

"A stable existence. The commerce of an entire system and the friendship of another world of similar type in almost every respect. The opportunity to partake in a veritable twinship between Ertene and Sol, with all the ramifications that such a brotherhood would offer."

"Ertene's existence is stable, Guy. Let us consider that point first."

"How can any wandering program be considered stable?"

"We are born, we live, and we die. Whether we are fated to spend our lives on a nomad planet or ultimately become the very center of the universe about which everything revolves, making Ertene the most stable planet of them all, Ertinians will continue living. When nomadism includes the entire resources of a planet, it can not be instable."

"Granted. But do you hope to go on forever?"

"How old is your history, Guy?"

"From the earliest of established dates, taken from the stones of Assyria and the artifacts of Maya, some seven thousand years."

Charalas added a lengthy discussion setting the length of a Terran year.

"Ertinian history is perhaps a bit longer," said Terokar. "And so who can say 'forever'?"

"No comment," said Guy with a slight laugh. "But my statements concerning stability are not to be construed as the same type of instability suffered by an itinerant human. He has no roots, and few friends, and he gains nothing nor does he offer anything to society. No, I am wrong. It is the same thing. Ertene goes on through the eons of wandering. She has no friends and no roots and while she may gain experience and knowledge of the universe just as the tramp will, her ultimate gain is poor and her offering to civilization is zero."

"I dispute that. Ertene's life has become better for the experience she has gained and the knowledge, too."

"Perhaps. But her offering to civilization?"

"We are not a dead world. Perhaps some day we may be able to offer the storehouses of our knowledge to some system that will need it. Perhaps we are destined to become the nucleus of a great, galactic civilization."

"Such a civilization will never work as long as men are restrained as to speed of transportation. Could any pact be sustained between planets a hundred light-years apart? Indeed, could any pact be agreed upon?"

"I cannot answer that save to agree. However, somewhere there may be some means of faster-than-light travel and communication. If this is found, galactic-wide civilization will not only be possible but a definite expectation."

"You realize that you are asking for Ertene a destiny that sounds definitely egotistic?"

"And why not? Are you not sold on the fact that Terra is the best planet in the Solar System?"

"Naturally."

"Also," smiled Charalas, "the Martians admit that Mars is the best planet."

"Granted then that Ertene is stable. Even granting for the moment that Ertene is someday to become the nucleus of the galaxy. I still claim that Ertene is missing one item." Guy waited for a moment and then added: "Ertene is missing the contact and commerce with other races. Ertene is self-sufficient and as such is stagnant as far as new life goes. Life on Ertene has reached the ultimate—for Ertene. Similarly, life on Terra had reached that point prior to the opening of space. Life must struggle against something, and when the struggle is no longer possible—when all possible obstruction has been circumvented—then life decays."

"You see us as decadent?"

"Not yet. The visiting of system after system has kept you from total decadence. It is but a stasis, however. Unless one has the samples of right and wrong from which to choose, how may he know his own course?"

"Of what difference is it?" asked the councilor named Baranon. "If there is no dissenting voice, if life thrives, if knowledge and science advance, what difference does it make whether we live under one social order or any other? If thievery and wrongdoing, for instance, could support a system of social importance, and the entire population lives under that code and thrives, of what necessity is it to change?"

"Any social order will pyramid," said Guy. "Either up or down."

"Granted. But if all are prepared to withstand the ravages of their neighbors, and are eternally prepared to live under constant strife, no man will have his rights trod upon."

"But what good is this eternal wandering? This everlasting eye upon the constantly receding horizon? This never ending search for the proper place to stop in order that this theoretical galactic civilization may start? At Ertene's state of progress, one place will be as good as any other," said Guy.

"Precisely, except that some places are definitely less desirable. Recall, Guy, that Ertene needs nothing."

"I dispute that. Ertene needs the contact with the outside worlds."

"No."

"You are in the position of a recluse who loves his seclusion."

"Certainly."

"Then you are in no position to appreciate any other form of social order."

"We care for no other social order."

"I mentioned to Charalas that in my eyes, you are wrong. That I am being asked to prescribe for a patient who will not die for lack of my prescription. I can not even say that the patient will benefit directly. My belief is as good as yours. I believe that Ertene is suffering because of her seclusion and that her peoples will advance more swiftly with commerce between the planets—and once again in interstellar space, Ertene will have no planets with which to conduct trade."

"And Sol, like complex society, will never miss the recluse. Let the hermit live in his cave, he is neither hindering nor helping civilization."

"Indirectly, the hermit hinders. He excites curiosity and the wonder if a hermit's existence might not be desirable and thus diverts other thinkers to seclusion."

"But if the hermit withdraws alone and unnoticed, no one will know of the hermitage, and then no one will wonder."

"But I know, and though no one else in the Solar System knows, I am trying to bring you into our society. I have the desire of brotherhood, the gregarious instinct that wants to be friend with all men. It annoys me—as it annoys all men—to see one of us alone and unloved by his fellows. I have a burning desire to have Ertene as a twin world with Terra."

"But Ertene likes her itinerant existence. The fires that burn beyond the horizon are interesting. Also," smiled Terokar, "the grass is greener over there."

"One day you will come to the end of the block," said Guy, "and find that the grass is no greener anywhere, with the exception that you now have no more grass to look at, plus the sorry fact that you cannot return. A million galactic years from now, Ertene will have passed through the galaxy and will find herself looking at intergalactic space. Then what?"

"Then our children will learn to live in a starless sky for a hundred thousand generations. Solarians live in a sky of constant placement; Ertene's sky is ever changing and all sky maps are obsolete in thirty or forty years. You must remember that to us, wandering is the normal way of life. Some of us believe that we may eventually return to our parent sun. We may. But all of us believe that we would find our parent sun no more interesting than others. No Guy, I doubt that we will stop there either."

"You are assuming that you will not remain at Sol?"

"We are a shy planet. We do not like to change our way of life. You are asking us to give up our life and to accept yours. It is similar to a man asking a woman to marry. But a woman is not completely reversed in her life when she marries. Here you are asking us to cleave unto you forever—and there is no bond of love to soften the hard spots."

"I did mention the bond of brotherhood," said Guy.

"Brotherhood with what?" asked Terokar. "You ask us to enter a bond of twinship with a planet that is the center of strife. You ask us in the name of similarity to join you—and help you gain mastery over the Solar System."

"And why not?"

"Which of you is right? Is the Terran combine more righteous than the Martian alliance?"

"Certainly."

"Why?"

Guy asked for a moment to think. The room was silent for a moment and then he said, slowly and painfully: "I can think of no other reason than the trite and no-answer reason: 'We're right because we're right!' The Martian combine fights us to gain the land and the commerce that we have taken because of superiority in space."

"A superiority given merely because of sheer size," said Baranon. "The Martians, raised under a gravity of less than one third of Terra's find it difficult to keep pace with the Terrans, who can live under three times as much acceleration. Battle under such conditions is unfair, and the fact that the Martians have been able to survive indicates that their code is not entirely wrong."

Charalas nodded. "Any code that is entirely in error will not be able to survive."

"So," said Terokar, "you ask us to join your belligerent system. You ask us to emerge from our pleasure and join you in a struggle for existence. You ask that we give up the peace that has survived for a thousand years, and in doing so you ask that we come willingly and permit our cities to be war-scarred and our men killed. You ask that we join in battle against a smaller, less adapted race that still is able to survive in spite of its ill-adaption to the rigors of space."

Guy was silent.

"Is that the way of life? Must we fight for our life? Strife is deplorable, Guy Maynard, and I am saying that to you, who come of a planet steeped in strife. You wear a uniform—or did—that is dedicated to the job of doing a better job of fighting than the enemy. Continual warlike activity has no place on Ertene.

"Plus one other thing, Guy Maynard. You are honorable and your intent is clear. But your fellows are none too like you. Ertene would become the playground of the Solar System. There would be continual battles over Ertene, and Ertene with her inexperience in warfare would be forced to accept the protection of Terra. That protection would break down into the same sort of protection that is offered the Plutonians by a handful of Terrans. In exchange for 'protection' against enemies that would possibly be no better or worse, the Plutonians are stripped of their metal. They are not accorded the privilege of schooling because they are too ignorant to enter even the most elementary of schools. Besides, schooling would make them aware of their position and they might rebel against the system that robs them of their substance under the name of 'protection.' Protection? May the Highest Law protect me from my protectors!" Terokar's lips curled slightly. "Am I not correct? Have not the Plutonians the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? It would be a heavy blow to Terra if the third planet were forced to pay value for the substance that comes from Pluto."

"After all," said Guy, "if Terra hadn't got there first, Mars would be doing the same thing."

"Granted," said Baranon. "Absolutely correct. But two wrongs do not make a right. Terra is no worse than Mars. But that does not excuse either of them. They are both wrong!"

"Are you asking Terra to change its way of life?" demanded Guy.

"You are asking Ertene to change. We have the same privilege."

"Obviously in a system such as ours a completely altruistic society would be wiped out."

"Obviously," said Baranon.

"Then—"

"Then Ertene will change its way of life—providing Terra changes hers."

"Mars—"

"Mars will have to change hers, too. Can you not live in harmony?"

"Knowing what the Martians did to me—can you expect me to greet one of them with open arms?"

"Knowing what you have done to them, I wouldn't expect either one of you to change your greetings. No, Guy, I fear that Ertene will continue on her path until such a time as we meet a system that is less belligerent and more adapted to our way of life."

"Then I have failed?"

"Do not feel badly. You have failed, but you were fighting a huge, overwhelming force. You fought the inheritance of a hundred generations of wanderers. You fought the will of an integrated people who deplore strife. You fought the desire of everyone on Ertene, and since no Ertinian could change Solar society, we cannot expect a Terran to change Ertinian ideals. You failed, but it is no disgrace to fail against such an overwhelming defense."

Guy smiled weakly. "I presume that I was fighting against a determined front?"

"You were trying to do the most difficult job of all. In order to have succeeded, you would first have had to unsell us on our firm convictions, and then sell us the desirability of yours. A double job, both uphill."

"Then I am to consider the matter closed?"

"Yes. We have decided not to remain."

"You decided that before I came in," said Guy bitterly.

"We decided that a thousand years before you were born, so do not feel bitter."

"I presume that a change in your plans is out of the question even though further information on Sol's planets proves you wrong?"

"It will never be brought up again."

"I see," said Guy unhappily. "Part of my desire to convince you was the hope of seeing my home again."

"Oh, but you will," said Charalas.

Guy was dumfounded. He could hardly believe his ears. He asked for a repeat, and got it. It was still amazing. To Guy, it was outright foolishness. He wouldn't have trusted anyone with such a secret. To permit him to return to Terra with the knowledge he had—

"Charalas, what would prevent me from bringing my people to Ertene? I could bring the forces of Terra down about your very ears."

"But you will not. We have a strict, value-even trade to offer you."

"But it would be so easy to keep me here."

"We could not restrain you without force. And if we must rely upon your honor, we'd be equally reliant whether you be here or on Terra."

"Here," said Guy dryly, "I'd be away from temptation. If I were tempted to tell, there'd be no one to tell it to."

"We must comply with an ancient rule," explained Terokar. "It says specifically that no man without Ertinian blood may remain on Ertene. It was made to keep the race pure when we were still about our parent sun and has never been revoked. We wouldn't revoke it for you alone."

"But permitting me to go free would be sheer madness."

"Not quite. We are mutually indebted to one another, Guy. There is the matter of knowledge. You gave freely of yours, we gave you ours. We have gained some points that were missing in our science, you have a number of points that will make you rich, famous, and remembered. Use them as your own, only do it logically in order that they seem to be discoveries of your own. You admit the worth of them?"

"Oh, but yes," said Guy eagerly. "Wonderful—"

"Then there is no debt for knowledge?"

"If any, I am in your debt."

"We'll call it even," said Baranon, dryly.

"Then there is the matter of life," said Terokar. "You know how you were found?"

Guy shook his head in wonder. "I had been through the Martian idea of how to get information out of a reluctant man," he said slowly. "I know that their methods result in a terrible mindless state which to my own belief is worse than death itself. I know that as I lost consciousness, I prayed for death to come, even though I knew that they would not permit it."

"We found you that way. You know. And we brought you back to life. You owe us that."

"Indeed I do."

"Then for your life, we demand our life in return."

"I do not understand."

"Your life is yours. We ask that you say nothing of us—for we feel that we will die if we are found. At least, the integrity of Ertene is at stake. In any event, we will not be taken, you may as well know that. And when I say die, I mean that Ertene will not go on living in the way we want her to live. Therefore you will disclose nothing that will point our way to anyone."

"And you are willing that I should return to Terra with such an oath? What of my oath to Terra?"

"Do you feel that your presence on Ertene will benefit Terra in some small way?" asked Charalas.

"Now that you have given me the things we spoke of before, I do."

"Then," said Charalas, "consider this point. You may not return unless you swear to keep us secret. You may not give Terra the benefit of your knowledge unless you deprive them of Ertene. Is that clear?"

"If I may not return to Terra, and may not remain on Ertene, I can guess the other alternative and will admit that I do not like it. On the returning angle, about all I can do is to justify myself in my own mind that I have done all that I can by bringing these scientific items back with me. Since doing the best I can for Terra includes keeping your secret, I can do that also. But tell me, how do you hope to cover the fact that I've been missing for almost a year? That will take more than mere explanation."

"The process is easy," said Charalas. "We have one of the lifeships from the derelict. It was slightly damaged in the blast. It is maneuverable, but unwieldy. Evidence has been painstakingly forged. Apparently you will have broken your straps under the shock of the blast—and before the torture reached its height—and you found yourself in a derelict with no one left alive but yourself. You were hurt, mentally, and didn't grasp the situation clearly. There was no way to signal your plight in secrecy, and open signaling would have been dangerous since you were too close to Mars.

"You found the lifeship and waited until you could safely take off. The derelict took a crazy course, according to the recorded log in your own handwriting, and headed for interstellar space. You took off at the safe time and have been floating free in the damaged lifeship. You've been on a free orbit for the best part of a year."

"Sounds convincing enough."

"The evidence includes empty air cans, your own fingerprints on everything imaginable, a dulled can opener and the remnants of can labels that have fallen into nooks and crannies of the ship. The water-recovery device has been under constant operation and examination will show about a year's accumulation of residual matter. A scratch-mark calendar has been kept on the wall of the lifeship, and daily it has been added to. That is important since the wall will show more oxidation in the scratches made a year ago than the ones made recently. The accumulators of the ship have been run down as if in service while you were forcing the little ship into its orbit, and the demand recorder shows how the drain was used. The lights in the ship have been burned, and the deposits of fluorescent material in the tubes have been used about the calculated number of hours. Books have been nearly worn out from re-reading and they were used with fingerprint gloves though they were studied by us. Instruments and gadgets are strewn about the ship in profusion, indicating the attempts of an intelligent man trying to kill time. Also you will find the initial findings on the energy collector we used in conjunction with the light-shield.

"Now, yourself. Into your body we will inject the hormones that occur with fear and worry. You will not enjoy a bit of atmosphobia, but believe us, it is necessary. You will have the appearance and attitude of a man who has been in space alone for a year, and luckily for you, you are a spaceman and inured to the rigors of space travel so that it will not be necessary to really give you the works in order to make you seem natural.

"As a final touch, both for our safety and yours, we will inject in your body a substance far superior to your anti-lamine. This is not destroyed by electrolysis, but only by a substance made from the original base. This will protect you against any attempt to make you talk. As long as it is your will, consciously or subconsciously, our secret will be kept. Is there anything we may have overlooked?"

"One thing. The space tan."

"That you will get before you leave."

"Then that sounds like the works."

"It is. Guy Maynard, we wish you the best of luck. We are all sorry that you must leave, but it is best that way. Sooner or later you would become homesick for the things you knew on Terra. Ertene will not last in your memory, we have been careful not to let you indulge in anything that will leave memories either pleasant or unpleasant, and forgetting is easy when the subject was uneventful. Farewell, Guy Maynard."

"Good-bye. And if you ever decide whether your way is at all questionable, have someone look me up. I'll be around Sol."

Terokar laughed. "And if you find that Sol changes her way of living, you may see if you can find us!"

Charalas smiled: "No need. They will not. This is farewell forever, Guy. Good luck."

It was little more than an hour later that Guy Maynard, inoculated with all kinds of shots, was lifted into the sky in a heavy spaceship and on the way for a predetermined section of the Solar sky.

They left him, a couple of weeks later.

And Guy Maynard was headed for Terra in a broken lifeship saved from the derelict of the Mardinex. He thought of Ertene briefly, and then put the thought from him. He would never see Ertene again.

But the things he had in his mind would make Ertene's influence everlasting over an unknown Terra. That alone made the contact worth while.

Guy Maynard stumbled upon another thought. He had accused them of going on forever like an itinerant, taking nothing and giving nothing and living sterile as far as their good toward civilization. He was wrong, and now he knew it. Ertene did not go on her lonely path. She had strewn the fruits of experience in Sol's path as best she could and still maintain safety for herself. It was reasonable to suppose that Ertene had done the same things for those other systems.

Hers was not a useless existence. Ertene was doing as much for civilization as Terra, surely.

And though he would never see Ertene again, his own personal gain from having been to Ertene would cause him to remember the wanderer. And even though Terra would never know of Ertene's existence, she would benefit from their experience.

Ertene—completely altruistic.

Or was she completely selfish?

Terra would never know.

V.

Ben Williamson sat bolt upright in his chair and listened to the faint piping whistle that came through the communicator along with the sounds from the communications office. He snapped the button calling for silence in order to hear better, and then scratched his head in wonder.

"Executive to Communications and Pilot: Tune in that signal better and get a fix on it. Prepare to follow the fix."

"Received," came the laconic reply, and then the less formal: "What's in the sky, Ben?"

"Whether you know it or not, that signal was Guy Maynard's private sign."

"I thought so," said the communications officer. "I wasn't certain."

"We'll not court-martial you for that," laughed Ben. "After all, you didn't know Maynard personally."

"Right. I didn't know him at all. But this fix—I've got it."

"Can you get range and possible track?"

"Fairly well." There was silence for several minutes and then the communications officer announced the figures concerning the distance and probable course constants of the emitting source.

"Executive to Technician: Jimmy, have you got the cards on the Mardinex or did we put them in the morgue after we slipped her the slug?"

"Still got 'em. BuSI thought we should keep 'em a bit just in case. After all, the Mardinex was a secret proposition and to remove her cards from the Terran cardexes would be like the guy in that story."

"Which guy in what story."

"The fellow who suspected his neighbor of stealing his chickens just because he found the neighbor garbaging chicken feathers and chicken carcasses. They've made no announcement of the Mardinex's failure to return. To have Terra toss away the information that we have so painstakingly gathered concerning her most intimate features would be almost an open admission that Terra is not longer concerned about the Mardinex."

"They couldn't prove a thing."

"No, but as the Chinese say: 'A wise man does not stoop to secure his shoes in a melon patch nor adjust his hat under a cherry tree.' They could trump up enough evidence to arouse their people if they could prove our disinterest in some concrete manner. As it is, the whole system knows that Terra still carries the cards of the Mardinex. That's the one thing they've ascertained. We've got 'em all right."

"Good. Then as soon as we get close enough to that source, and the spotters take hold, run the constants through the cardex."

"Good Sol, Ben. What do you expect?"

"Dunno. Couldn't be the Mardinex, of course. That couldn't possibly be here and now. But—that was Maynard's sign and he may have survived in some queer manner. We know that the Mardinex carried lifeships."

Time passed as the destroyer accelerated constantly, reached turnover, and began to decelerate toward the suspected position of the signal-emitting object. Just after turnover the spotters took hold and announced that the object was capable of being scanned and analyzed.

The whirr of the file as the cardex ran through the thousands of minute cards filled the technician's office and came through the open communicator. Then the attention bell tingled once, and the card that matched the constants of the emitting object was slid from the file into a projector. The micro-printing above the cardex pattern was projected on the ground glass above the instrument and the technician read it off in a flat voice.

"Fore lifeship—standard type from Martian space craft of the Mardinex class. One of six similar models placed in the upper quadrant of the ship. These ships are capable of four gravities, Terran, and are capable of making the one hundred million mile trip. No armament as per agreements under the Eros Conference. Will accommodate thirty passengers for a period of ninety days, Terran without discomfort other than atmosphobia and the possibility of avoirduphobia if the distance demands free flight for any period of time. Equipped with spotter equipment and signaling equipment capable of reaching interested searchers but not raising those whose equipment is nondirective or whose directive equipment is pointed away from the emitting source. Also equipped with complete spares for signaling equipment—"

"That's enough," said Ben. "Executive to Turretman: Trim your autoMacs and load the torpedo tubes. This may be a trap."

"Right," said Tim. "And according to Jimmy, they may be trying to see how we react after a sign of the Mardinex's lifeship pattern. They're capable of duplicating that pattern, you know."

"We're going in there to win or lose," said Ben soberly. "No matter how they take it, we're ready. Tim, put a remote arming fuse in one torp and launch it right now. If this is trouble, we'll butter our chances. If this is not trouble, we'll keep the arming signal running and retrieve the torpedo. Right?"

"Received. Want it set to remain inert as long as the arming signal is on?"

"That's the order."

The destroyer bucked slightly and Tim said: "She's off. Any time anybody thinks we should let her roar, poke the arming button on the panels."

Instinctively, Ben Williamson glanced at the minute pilot light that gleamed faintly just above a button on the ordnance panel. It was the left-most button of a row of twenty. By reaching out of his chair with the right hand and leaning back so that his spine was arched deeply, Williamson could touch the arming control. He nodded, and as he watched, the panel below winked on, indicating that the turret was ready for action. Beside it, the winking lights indicated that his orders to load up the torpedo tubes had been conveyed to the tube crew. A string of varicolored lights indicated a series of interferers and space bombs that were being armed in the bomb bay. Williamson smiled. Tim Monahan was an excellent ordnance officer; one who rode the turret himself and directed the fire controls from there.

"Executive to Pilot: What's our position?"

"Twenty minutes from object."

"Ring the Action Alarm. Who knows—we may see action!"

"Turretman to Executive: Object sighted. Definitely a lifeship. Doesn't look dangerous. Shall we take a chance?"

"Executive to Communications: Answer 'em on their band."

"Received. Ben, they went off the air as soon as I opened my transmitter." There was some period of silence. "Communications to Executive: Identifies himself as Guy Maynard. Says alone and safe. Cut emitter to prevent curiosity on the part of Martian observers who may be listening."

"Good fellow. He should be an Intelligence Officer. Tell him to prepare for transshipping."

"He says that after a year in that sardine can, it can't be too quick. Want him to jump?"

"Can he put on any speed?"

"His suit is still in partial operation. He can rev up about a G."

"Tell him to dive. We'll scoop him without trying to match speed."

Guy smiled vaguely. He made one last prayer that he could look as starved for company as a man would after a year in that tiny ship. He didn't stop to wonder why they'd asked him to dive. He merely prayed that his story would be acted as convincingly as his forged diary read. He'd partially committed that to memory; certain lapses would be expected. It was good and it contained several references to ideas for equipment which would help explain his sudden inventive streak. He hugged the volume to him and dived out of the open space lock. Once free of the ship, Guy turned the tiny driving fin on and he stood upright on the soles of the spacesuit shoes.

And minutes later the destroyer arrowed silently past and a silent, invisible tractor reached out and caught him in the focal area. It stretched like a thin elastomer cord, invisible, and it accelerated him gently as the destroyed sped on. He caught up with the destroyer and was taken aboard just as the soundless gout of flame far below marked the end of the lifeship.

"Why?" he asked patiently, shortly and tersely.

"Didn't care to leave any evidence for the Marties."

"Sort of got attached to it," said Guy.

"Could be, but one sight of that anywhere in the Solar System would mean trouble. Evidence from the Mardinex, you know. Forget it, Maynard. You're far more important. What happened, and how, and why?"

Maynard looked pained.

"Forget it, Guy. Obviously you had a tough time. Take your time about telling us. What do you want most?"

Guy smiled shyly. "I thought about that a lot," he said slowly. "I wanted steak and potatoes. I wanted cigarettes. I even thought of Laura Greggor. I wanted.... Ben, I want everything, and in mass-production lots."

"Steak and potatoes we can give you. Cigarettes we have in plenty. A shower and a shave and a soft, well-made man-sized bed. Books and pictures and a dollop of liquor, too. Candy, cigars, chewing gum, et cetera. But the only female we have on board is cooky's pet hen. Like a fresh egg?"

"Anything as long as it is not lonely," said Guy. "My throat is slightly lame."

"I can imagine. Well, it's sick bay for you and we'll wait on you. And—Guy, there'll be plenty of company." Ben snapped the general communicator button and said: "Executive to crew: Junior Executive Guy Maynard is aboard. He is to be shown every consideration, and it is directed that each watch appoint three roving spacemen whose duties will be to replace crew members who will visit Maynard. His stay in sick bay is not quarantine."

"Williamson, I'll take that shower now. And then the steak. Got a cigarette?"

As Maynard ignited the cigarette, he thought: Carefully prepared evidence! How painstaking they were! Even the scratches on the wall made so that the earlier ones would be made first. The millions of fingerprints. And destroyed because it would be bad evidence against us. Ironic. And yet—they might have missed something. And supposing Williamson hadn't armed that torpedo but had taken the crate in to Terra instead? Then Ertene's evidence would have been needed. We couldn't have known—

"Now for that shower," he said to Ben. There was no use in deliberately thinking of Ertene now. Forget it. To Ben he added: "Might run through that log of mine. Gives you the story pretty well, and my voice-box is still unused to talking much. I'm going, but I'll be back."

"Good thing you kept a log," said Ben. "It'll be most valuable evidence for the investigation."

Investigation! Guy hadn't thought of that factor. Naturally he must give his evidence before a court-martial, though he would by no means be on trial. Yet, they were thorough and he prayed that he wouldn't make the most unnoticed slip. They'd ply him with questions and watch his answers. He was glad that he hadn't memorized the log by rote. To repeat word for word certain parts would be expected, and to miss completely other parts would be expected. There would even be parts he had forgotten and parts too doleful for the mind to keep fresh.

Then Guy Maynard put it all aside. He forgot his troubles and his worries, and gave himself up to the luxuries of civilization once more. His act was most convincing. He ate with relish and smoked until his throat was sore. He was reticent at the right time, and he made it appear as though it had become habit with him to remain silent; and also brought out the fact that his larynx was slightly unused to exercise. He was glad to be home, though he deplored the destruction of his lifeship—he spoke of it affectionately sometimes, other times he outwardly hated the thought of it—because there were some experiments uncompleted on it. They could be duplicated from the log, of course, but the originals were priceless in his estimation—

And then the reaction really set in. Guy Maynard was home again. Home, to Guy, was the ever-changing orientation of the starry sky and the never constant gravity. He fingered the ordnance controls on the destroyer with affection and realized that Ertene was long ago and far away, and that his place was here, and that his life was geared to the quick life of a spaceman in the Terran Space Patrol.

Peace was wonderful, of course, and at the time he wanted it desperately. But now he realized that the excitement of living in a system of planets offered more than the placid existence of Ertene with its one moon and the occasional space trip.

In spite of the treaties and acceptance of peaceful measures made on the part of the Martians, there was always the chance that some underhanded move might be made. There was that edge to life; that fine, razor-sharp edge of excitement and danger. Mars might make untoward moves, but it was not all Mars' party. Terra made her own espionage and operations tended to display her might to the Red Planet. Brushes that never reached notice were always going on.

He permitted himself to wax enthusiastic over his being home again. They never knew that it was not merely the release from space loneliness but a return from a too long, too uneventful vacation.

He considered himself objectively one day after he found himself looking forward to the return to Terra. The investigation did not bother him; it was the question of whether his year of absence from the service would cause him a year's loss in advancement. If it caused him no loss, he would become a Senior Executive within a month or so after his return. That would give him the right to captain a destroyer like this one.

His interest and anxiousness to return to Terra had become honest. On Ertene he had argued against it. Now he knew his mind and also knew that Charalas had done the proper thing. He would not have remained on Ertene. Some day the everlasting peace and quiet would get him, and then there would have been trouble.

He owed them his life, and if some of the things in his log worked to his own satisfaction, he owed them more than that. He'd keep their secret; denying Terra the right to exploit Ertene was hard, but better deny them that than to deny them the knowledge he had gained. Terra would hold dominance over the Solar System without Ertene's presence; though it was not without Ertene's help.

Poor Ertene. A sterile, placid life that was beginning to look pale and uninteresting against the rugged, boisterous existence of men who roamed the Solar System.

Let them have their stability. What was their history? A few thousand years since the dawn of their written lore? Far greater than Sol's though he had been loath to tell them that. At that time such an admission was like admitting that one was but an adolescent. But it was true. But in those thousands of years, had their science come a comparable distance with Terra's?

And Guy knew why. With nothing to strive against, progress ceases.

He wondered whether the investigating committee would make an issue of the fact that a junior executive had been so oblivious to his duty as to permit capture by Martians. That was the only fly in his ointment, the only point over which he worried. He felt that his capture could have happened to anyone, and secretly he admired the bold stroke in the light of how daring it had been for Mars to storm the very ramparts of Sahara Base.

But investigating committees are strange things and their decisions are often based on theory instead of action with no regard to circumstances.

That one minor point continued to worry him at times.

And then the destroyer dropped out of the sky onto Sahara Base, and Guy Maynard stooped to pick up a handful of the soil of Terra. He shook it in the sky and rubbed it into his hands. He smelled of it and exhaled deeply. Then, still holding a bit of it, he faced the sector commander who was waiting for him in the command car.

The commander smiled curtly and said: "Junior Executive Maynard, you are to speak to no one. You are technically not under arrest, nor are you to be placed in that light. However a violation of the order to discuss nothing with anyone will lead to arrest."

"How long is this quarantine going to last, sir?"

"Not too long. The Board of Investigation will convene tomorrow. At that time we will decide your future."

Maynard entered the command car and they drove off silently. He was thinking: One more hurdle. If I can make it—

His dreams were troubled that night. There was nothing definite about them; they were kaleidoscopic in nature and Charalas whirled in and out of them along with Greggor of the Bureau of Exploration and Laura Greggor. In these dreams he was the central figure; a pitiful, unarmed being that could not strike back against the pointed questions that they hurled at him. He was mired in a black mess of intrigue that would follow him forever. And only by living in constant guardedness would he be safe.

For once the hurdle of the investigation was passed, there would be no recanting.

God help him if after he perjured himself they found out that his tale had been designed to cover a definite breach of his own oath.

It was the price he would pay for the success that Ertene's science would bring him.

Yet he knew that if he continued as he had started, he would be all right. To be convincing in a lie, he knew that the first problem was to convince himself.

And so Guy Maynard went into the Board of Investigation almost self-convinced that his year of loneliness was a fact.

He didn't dare consider the future if he failed to convince the Board. Not only for himself, but for Ertene and Terra both. They—he dropped the awful possibility there. He stiffened his resolve and thrust the thought from his mind. There must be no slip.

So with a part of his mind fighting to keep from viewing utter chaos, and another part of his mind telling him that he was hiding his head in the sand like an ostrich, Guy Maynard entered the large room with the silent, waiting men.

He swallowed deeply as he noted the weight of the platinum braid and he took his appointed position with a qualm of misgiving.

VI.

Guy Maynard's eyes swept about the room and saw eyes that were quiet, and if they were not openly friendly, at least they were neither hostile nor doubtful. The Board of Investigation was composed of several high officers and a civilian. He glanced at the neat pile of papers that were placed on the table before his appointed position and glanced through the names of those present, wondering about the civilian; most of the officers he knew by sight.

He nodded to himself; the civilian was Thomas Kane, a news publisher, and therefore quite natural a presence in this investigation. The fact that he was the publisher himself, and not one of his hirelings gave the investigation the air of extreme secrecy, and Guy understood that whatever went on in this gathering today would be held in the utmost confidence until the necessities of living made the publicity of the conference desirable—if ever. The public would accept the word of the publisher with more credulity than they would a prepared statement issued for common consumption by a propaganda department.

People had become used to normal propaganda, and were capable of picking it out and disregarding it. A publisher's own statements were considered to be noncontrollable since the only recourse that any Patrol investigation could take was to bar the publisher from their subsequent conferences, and to combat that the publisher could make things literally warm for any body of Patrol officers who tried to muzzle him.

The chairman, Patrol Marshal Alfred Mantley, rapped for order, and started the proceedings by telling Guy: "We have been in order for three hours, during which time we have considered the evidence presented by the log of your ... er ... journey. Also, the log has been read and digested by professional readers and pronounced authentic. The latter is not so much in defense of you, Maynard, as it is to assure us that you have not been or are not now acting under duress. You present us quite a problem, young sir. Quite a problem. Coldly and cruelly, we would find our lives less complicated if you hadn't returned," he said with a laugh. "But you are here and we are glad to have you returned. You have had quite an experience—one that is seldom enjoyed and only recorded a few times in the annals of the Terran Space Patrol. How are you feeling?"

"Quite all right."

"Fine. Now, Guy, tell us in your own words a brief account of your travels."

Guy got as far as the encounter with the Martian when he was interrupted by Patrol Marshal Jones. "How do you account for the fact that a Martian was able to penetrate to the very heart of Sahara Base?"

"I have no idea, sir. I, like the rest of us, have been led to believe that our security in the Base was perfect. Naturally I was not armed."

"No," said the chairman. "And had you been armed, I doubt that the encounter would have been different. Fighting unarmed against a Martian who is holding a MacMillan at the ready is not considered the kind of thing that any intelligent man would attempt. The fault lies with the security office, not with you."

His chief, Greggor of the Bureau of Exploration asked: "Is this an official decision? I want it made clear that my assistant is not responsible for his trouble."

"Maynard is not to be held responsible. When the word came via Senior Executive Williamson, the investigation of the kidnaping act disclosed that the blame—if any—was to lie with Security. Off the record, I can not see how any security bureau could cope with such boldness. It was born of desperation and bred of terror—and it died for lack of sheer weight and velocity."

"Thank you," said Space Marshal Greggor.

Guy went on, telling his partly-memorized tale, until he was again questioned.

"You hadn't felt the brunt of the electrolysis before the Mardinex was attacked?"

"It had just started. The final explosion broke my straps and destroyed the electrolysis equipment."

"And you couldn't make your way to a lifeship at that time?"

"I did as soon as I came to, and realized that I was alone. The least damaged lifeship required repairs that were completed several hours later. By that time we were passing through the midst of Martian territory and I thought it best to lie low."

"You preferred to take the chance of orbiting rather than running the Martian gauntlet?"

"Orbiting was no chance, sir. Running the gauntlet would have been sheer suicide since the Martians were extremely interested in the Mardinex. They had most of their grand fleet out watching. Only my velocity—which prevented any attempt to stop me—and my acceleration—which prevented any attempt to try to match my speed—got me past safely. I am certain that they put a pointer on me as we went past."

"By what reasoning?"

"I would have done it, sir, if the cases had been reversed."

"Naturally," said the chairman. "Proceed, Maynard."

"Knowing that any deviation of the Mardinex or electrical activity aboard would register at the Martian detector stations, at least until we were out of safe range, I proceeded to make the lifeship as spaceworthy and as comfortable as I could. I took plenty of spare equipment—"

"Of what sort?"

"Sheer gadgetry, sir, I've had a few ideas, and this looked as though I'd have plenty of time to try them out. I powered the lifeship far beyond her normal power because I had to get back home from a ship leaving the System at better than ten thousand miles per second."

"In order to bring out the resourcefulness of my assistant," said Greggor, "I want the record to state that he prepared for the boredom he knew would come."

"It is recorded."

"Then, as soon as we were beyond the longest possible range of the most powerful detector-analyzers, even when aimed by a pointer, and taking into consideration that Mars might have had an observer out about even with the orbit of Pluto, I emerged from the derelict and began to decelerate."

"Good."

"Well, that's about all," he said. He felt that this was it. He was worried that the deeper discussion might bring forth errors and contradictions, and he wanted them to lead him into the initial disclosures rather than to have them add to a statement that might be straining at the truth already. "I slept. I worked. I did about everything a man can do when he's sitting in a lifeship for a solid year waiting for his home planet to come close enough to signal to. This is the hard part. Nothing of any importance happened. One hour was like the rest. I slept when I got tired and worked until I tired of it. I ate when hungry. I shaved when my beard got uncomfortable. I probably have attained a number of bad habits during my enforced hermiting, but they will be easily broken."

"Your record is quite clear," said Chairman Mantley. "Is it the agreement of this investigation that Guy Maynard's story be accepted?"

"I see no reason why it should be disputed."

"What purpose would Maynard have in lying?"

"It is truthful enough for me."

"I'm in accord."

"Let's drop this foolishness," said Kane, the publisher. "What is far more important is the public explanation for Maynard's absence."

"Our friend of the Fourth Estate is correct," said Mantley. "The log is accepted, and will be maintained in the archives under secret classification." He smiled at Maynard. "Now, young man, you force us into developing a year-long cock-and-bull story for the public."

"Sir? I don't understand."

"If you breathe a word of that story to anyone else, you'll be the direct reason for an Interplanetary War—with capital letters."

"But—"

"So it's the truth. You'll learn, young man, that there are times when the truth is not always the best. You are all right, alive and well—to say nothing of being equipped with a few brilliant ideas for your trouble. Your captors are dead and gone. Mars doesn't really know what happened to their Mardinex, and Terra doesn't really know anything about the incident. You can't be court-martialed for being Absent Without Leave for we need you and your ideas. You haven't been spacewrecked, for no ship is missing."

"How was my absence explained?" asked Guy.

"You were M-12."

"Oh?" said Guy.

"Then it's easy," said Greggor. "Has his first contact been reported yet?"

"No. I see your point. Certainly. Funny, it never has happened this way before and now that it did, I forgot the reality."

"As an M-12 case, he can make the one-year mention in his own right. It will also tend to authenticate other M-12 cases which must be false. Then after the third year—if he hasn't been returned to full duty already—he can make the third-year mention. But instead of decreasing the mention, Guy will increase it."

"Providing it is necessary. After all, we are not trying to establish a fade-out for a man killed in an incident that might lead to total war. This time the man has returned."

"How can we strengthen this contact?"

Kane spoke up cheerfully. "From the stuff in his log, I'd say that the best way would be to promote him a rank for service above and beyond the requirements of his present rank. It will also permit him to skipper a destroyer or lighter craft which was denied him by the Junior Executive's rank. I'll plant his picture in my news sheet with a vague reference to the fact that Guy Maynard has been engaged in experiments at a secret place and that his initial experiments have been so successful that he is being given the command of a small laboratory ship in order that the experiments may be tested in the prime medium."

"And then?"

"Marshal, there is nothing that sounds like truth than a lie liberally sprinkled with truth. In fact, I'd say the latter sounded even better than truth."

"Truth? Is there any in this story?"

"Maynard," asked Kane, "you said that some of these things were partially assembled and tested in that lifeship?"

"Yes. It is deplorable that they were completely destroyed."

"Not too deplorable," said Marshal Warsaw wryly. "After all, the evidence was pretty bald-faced."

"Well, his story about working in a secret laboratory is not too untrue, is it? What could have been more secret than his position? Gentlemen, no one but he knew where he was! And some of the experiments were eminently successful, were they not?"

"I believe so."

"Then his statements warrant the trust of this assemblage. What do you say, gentlemen?"

"Sounds reasonable," said the chairman. "Any dissent?"

There was none.

"Furthermore," said Kane, "I'd suggest that you have professional writers copy his log and convert it into a day-by-day account of his experiments. Use it as close to the real thing as possible so that he won't have to memorize too much. Then destroy this original."

"Excellent," said Patrol Marshal Mantley. "Maynard, you may think this cold-blooded. No doubt you want revenge. I'd want it, I know. But we're all satisfied, here. You are back, and the Martians lost their battlecraft."

"It does sound brutal," said Maynard. "And very depressing. But I do suppose that one man's loss against the loss of a heavy space craft and a partial crew can not be argued. I'll accept it."

"Then," said Mantley, "this Board of Investigation is closed and the recommendations will be followed. Maynard, your rank will be increased immediately, and until we can commission a small laboratory ship for you, you are released from active duty. You will remain in touch with this office, for you will be needed from time to time to sign papers and to requisition the materials you will require to complete your experiments. As soon as our writers have been able to copy your original log, the Bureau of Science will check it over and decide which of your experiments will be completed."

"Will I be able to work on the rest of them, sir?"

"That depends. You will probably be called upon for consultation since you developed them. But we cannot overlook the urgency of some of these."

Space Marshal Greggor came over to Guy and placed an arm over the young man's shoulders. "That was quite an experience, Guy. Far beyond the experiences of most men. I am sorry for myself, and happy for you. You'll be coming to the house?"

"As soon as I can get settled, sir. Possibly tonight."

"Excellent. I'll prepare Marian and Laura—they think you're a real M-12."

"Will it be a shock?"

"Somewhat. They aren't too certain of the M-12 business; though they do not know the blunt truth, they are aware that few men classified under the M-12 are ever heard of again. That's because they're close to the Service. M-12 is a brilliant method of permitting a man to drop from sight, since it was designed to permit a man to leave his friends gently—the so-called contacts are made by telegram and personal messenger to remove certain portions of the man's effects and to pay his rent and so on. Eventually all of his stuff is gone, his friends wonder where he is and eventually forget him.

"But your return will put faith in M-12 again. They'll both be glad to see you."

"You must do me a favor," asked Guy earnestly. "Please explain to Laura about my leaving without saying good-bye."

"I'll do that. M-12 is the roughest on the ones who are close without being blood-relations. We'll smooth it over. Now take it easy. Hello, Kane," he said looking over Guy's head. "Are you sorry we deprived you of a story?"

"Some day this young man will make me a better one," laughed Kane. "Drop up to the office tomorrow if you can. I'll buy lunch—you deserve some special treatment to pay for your year of—experimenting. He'll be safe," said Kane to Greggor.

"I know it," said the Space Marshal. "You wouldn't be permitted the inside the Council unless you were proven, you know."

"I'll do more," said Kane. "I'll have one of my boys run over the forged log for you. He can make it sound a bit more authentic. I've always thought that your logs and diaries were a little stiffish. A bit of yearning and youthful hope would lend that log a world of reality, it having been written by a lonely young scientist."

"That's a deal. Well, take it easy. And we'll see you later."

Guy Maynard arrived to find his room in order as according to the treatment given M-12 cases. He walked around the room and inspected everything there, finally dropping into the easy-chair to think. It struck him, then. For a moment he was thoughtful, and then the humor of the situation hit him like a blow.

For Ertene had prepared a world of painstaking evidence to support his tale of suffering and trouble. They gave him every bit.

And for their trouble on the lifeship, it had been destroyed without inspection because of Terran fear of discovery. Not that Terra was concerned about reprisals, but just because Terran ideas of exchange dictated that they should let a matter drop after they had received the better of the argument.

And then his story. Had he memorized that log day for day and word for word, it would have been of no use. He was ordered to forget it in every detail save those "ideas" he was supposed to have had.

How neatly had the Terrans destroyed every mite of Ertinian evidence.

All expect the scientific side.

And Ertene would roam on through the Galaxy in utter silence, having scattered the seeds of advancement upon fertile ground.

Ertene's life was not in vain.

Guy Maynard paused a moment before he pressed the doorbell. He'd been missing a long time, and he wondered just how Laura Greggor would greet him. He hoped her eagerness would match his, at least, and with that prayer he rang.

Laura came to the door herself, which lifted Guy's heart. She took him by the hand and drew him in, saying: "Teemens is busy mixing a cocktail. I had to answer myself."

Guy wanted to say "Oh" but didn't. He knew that the tone of his voice would have betrayed his feelings. And then he lifted his feelings again by main force. After all, Laura was no schoolgirl. There was no reason why she should be carried away by any cheap melodrama. She believed him to be an M-12 and as such he was doing a job. He wished he could tell her the truth; perhaps then she would be more emotional in her greeting.

So after a solid year of semi-loneliness, Guy was greeted with a carefree: "You've been gone a long time, Guy. I'm glad to see you."

"I'm more than just glad to see you," said Guy earnestly. He gave her hand an affectionate squeeze and then tried a gentle urge towards him. It was almost unnoticeable, that attempt to draw her to him; and had he not met with instant and opposite reaction—

He sighed, relinquished her hand, and then handed her the small box he held under the other arm.

Laura looked at the corsage and then said: "Wait a moment, Guy. I want to run in and put this in my hair. Make yourself comfortable."

Guy entered the large drawing room and looked around slightly in wonder. It was the same—but he hadn't remembered it as being so large. Everything was as immaculate as ever and Guy felt slightly out of place there. He knew that he was expected to sit down, but that old feeling of wondering which piece to sit upon came back to him.

He found a chair that had a minute scratch on one leg and seated himself. He wanted a cigarette, but there was no ash tray nearby and so he stifled the want. He was seated in the chair stiffly when Laura returned with the gardenia in her hair. She was smoking a cigarette and as she passed through the room she flicked the ash negligently at a large ash tray. Some of the ash missed and landed on the deep carpet. Laura didn't notice.

"My," she said. "You look slightly formal, Guy."

"Relax, Guy," her mother told him as she entered just behind Laura. "Andrew was telling me of a few of your ideas. Too bad you can't tell us more. We're interested."

"I'd like to tell you, Mrs. Greggor," said Guy shyly. "But I'm under strict orders not to disclose—"

"Pooh, orders," said Laura. "Oh well, you can have your silly secrets. I want to know, Guy; did you miss me?"

"Quite a bit," he answered, thinking that this was no time to ask a question like that. Her mother's presence took the fine edge off of his anticipated answer.

"I'd like to go out in a Patrol ship," said Laura. "This normal traveling on the beaten path doesn't seem like much fun to me."

"It's no different," said Guy. "It's the same sky, the same sun, and the same planets. They remain the same no matter what you're doing."

"Yes, but they're in different places—I mean that you aren't always going Venusward or Terraward. You change around."

"It's still similar."

"Don't be superior," Laura said. "You're just saying that because you're used to traveling in a Patrol ship."

"No," said Guy earnestly. "It is still the same sky whether you look at it from a destroyer or a luxury liner."

"Some day I shall see for myself," said Laura definitely.

A faint, male roar called Mrs. Greggor's attention to the fact that her husband had mislaid his shirt studs. "I shall have to leave," she said. "Please pardon me—?"

"Certainly," responded Guy, jumping to his feet.

She smiled at him and left immediately.

"Laura," he said. "I've brought—" and he opened the little flat plastic box and held out his senior executive's insignia.

"I'm glad," she said. "Father told me you were being raised in rank."

"That's why I'm here," he answered, a little let down that all of his surprises were more or less expected. "You'll do me the honor?"

"I'd be angry if I weren't permitted," said Laura casually. "Stand close, Guy. You're quite tall, you know."

His eyes were level with the top of her head as she stood before him, removing the junior executive's insignia from his coat lapels. She worked deftly, her face warmly placid. She placed the old, plain stars on the table beside her and picked up the rayed stars of the senior executive.

Quickly she fixed them in his lapels, and then stood back a step. She gave him a soft salute, which he returned. Then she stepped forward and kissed him chastely.

"Ah, fine!" boomed the voice of Andrew Greggor from the doorway. "The old ritual! That makes you official, Guy. Like the old superstition about a ship that is launched without a proper christening, no officer will succeed whose insignia is not first pinned on by a woman. Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir," said Guy, taking the extended hand.

"Now," said Greggor, "dinner is served. Come along, and we'll toast my loss of a fine secretarial assistant. Your swivel-chair command is over, Guy."

"We're not sorry," said Laura. "After all, what glory is there in doing space hopping in a desk-officer's job?"

"None," agreed her father.

"He'll get some now," Laura assured the men.

"If those experiments turn out correct," said Greggor to Guy Maynard over Laura's head, "you sure will. Funny, though, I still considered you as my assistant until they handed you the senior's rank."

"Still had your brand on him?" laughed Laura.

"Sort of," said Greggor. His real meaning was not lost on Guy, who knew that the girl's father was only establishing the official facts of his adventure.

The dinner was excellent, and the wines tended to loosen Guy's tongue slightly. He forgot his stiffness and began to enjoy himself. He hadn't realized how much he had missed this sort of thing in the year among the Ertinians. They treated him fine, but he missed the opportunity of mingling with people who spoke his language. He looked at the clock. There'd be dancing later—if he could break away, and he hadn't danced in a solid year.

Marian Greggor said: "You've been gone a long time, Guy. Can you tell me the tiniest thing of your adventures?"

"They were not adventures," said Guy.

"Nonsense!" boomed Malcolm Greggor. "Some of them will be out in the open soon. I'll tell you one."

"Why can't he?" asked his wife.

"He's had his fun—I'm going to have mine," said Greggor, winking at Guy. "He's developed a means of making Pluto a livable place."

"No!" breathed Laura.

"Indeed. Our trouble there has always been the utter cold. Pluto is rich in the lighter metals—lithium, beryllium, and the like. It has been a veritable wonderland for the light-metal metallurgist. But it has been one tough job to exploit. But Guy has invented a barrier of energy that prevents any radiation from leaving outward and passes energy inward. That'll heat Pluto excellently—with the unhappy result that Pluto will be hard to find save by sheer navigation."

"Oh, wonderful."

"There's another angle to that," said Guy. "It'll make Pluto harder to find for the Martians, too. Since the radiation passes inward, the incoming ship may signal with a prearranged code, and the shield may be opened long enough for the ship to get a sight on Pluto. The barrier offers no resistance to material bodies."

"Hm-m-m. We'll score another one for Guy," said Malcolm Greggor. "That'll be a nice nail in the ladder of success, young man. There's one more thing—are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Perhaps. May I speak?"

"Go ahead. Marian and Laura will not repeat it. Their interests are clear, and their trust has been accepted by the Patrol. All officials' wives are cleared to the Patrol's satisfaction since we know it is impossible to prevent us from mentioning small things from time to time."

"Yes, indeed," said Marian. "Living with a man for years and years as we do, it would be hard to keep from knowing things. We hear a hint today, another next week, and a third a month from now. Adding them to something we heard last month, and we have a good idea of what the man is thinking of."

"That's not all," laughed Greggor. "Wives have some sort of lucky mental control. Mine, confound it, can almost read my mind—and most of them can almost read their husbands' minds. So go ahead and speak."

"I was thinking of a cruiser equipped with the barrier."

"Is the equipment small enough?"

"Certainly. The size of the barrier dictates the size of the equipment—within limits. Anything from a lifeship—say fifty feet long—to a super battlecraft like the Orionad—twelve hundred feet long—can be equipped."

"Fine. And now as to this barring of radiation? How would the drive work?"

"I don't know, not having had the opportunity of trying it out. I doubt that it will work."

"Then the idea is not so good."

"I think it fair enough for a trial."

"But a ship without a drive is useless."

"It has limitations. But it is not useless. Battle conditions may be developed to take the limitations as they may exist. Look. The course of the target is determined—or wait, we must determine the course of the target first. The course of the target is found by lying in wait with detectors. The ship is concealed in the barrier-screen, and the target can not see or detect the sub-cruiser, but the detectors catch the target. The sub-cruiser must remain in the shell, so to speak, until the target is out of detection range. This gives plenty of time to plot the course of the target. Once out of range, the shell is opened and the sub-cruiser takes off on a tangent course at high acceleration. It exceeds the speed of the target, and then turns to intercept the course of the target at some distant spot—calculated on the proposition of the sub-cruiser driving powerless, or coasting. The shell is re-established, and the target and the sub-cruiser converge. At point-blank range, the sub-cruiser lets fly with interferers and torpedoes, and continues on and on until it is out of range once more.

"The target is either demolished; or missed, requiring a second try. At worst, the target knows that from out of the uninhabited sky there has come a horde of interferers and torpedoes, and there is nothing to shoot at. They still do not know which way the blast will come from next. Follow?"

"Sounds cumbersome," said Greggor. "But it may work."

"Is that what you've been working on?" asked Laura.

"Yes," said Guy.

"Sounds as though we have genius in our midst," she answered, flashing Guy a glance that made his heart leap.

"Oh, I—" started Guy, and then remembered the whole tale again. He couldn't really take credit for this. It wasn't truly his idea; that had come from Ertene. The application of the light-shield had been his, but they were giving him credit for the whole thing.

That was not fair—and yet he knew that he must take false credit or betray not only himself but Ertene, too. And now that his die was cast, he must never waver from that plan. To do so would bring the wrath of the Board of Investigation for his not telling all upon his arrival.

So he stopped the deprecatory sentence and merely smiled.

"—don't think it is too wonderful. It is, or was, but a matter of time before someone else struck the same idea."

"But you were first!" said Laura. "And we're going to celebrate. Mind if I run off with him?" she asked her parents.

She drew him from the dining room without waiting for an answer.

VII.

From Sahara Base to New York is a solid, two-hour flight for the hardiest driver. Maynard was no tyro at the wheel of a sky-driver, and he drove like fury and made it in slightly over the two-hour mark. He let the flier down in New Jersey and they took the interurban tube to the heart of Manhattan.

Guy was proud. Very proud and very happy. The rayed stars on his lapels gave him a lift that acted as a firm foundation for the presence of Laura Greggor, whose company always lifted him high.

Her hand was at his elbow in a slightly possessive manner, and he was deliriously happy at the idea of belonging to Laura Greggor. They swept into the Silver Star, and though he was unknown, the rayed stars of the senior executive gained him quite a bit more deference than he had ever known as a junior. He'd been in the Silver Star before; usually it was too rich for his blood, but he had one year's salary in his wallet, and the increase in rank warranted shooting the whole wad.

He palmed a twenty solar note into the head waiter's hand, and the head waiter led them to a ringside table and removed the "Reserved" sign.

As they settled, Guy said: "'Reserved'? For whom?"

"What?" asked Laura.

"Nothing," said Guy cynically. A great truth had dawned upon him. Before, he had been refused the better tables because they were reserved. Now he knew that they were reserved for the ones who could pay for them. "Dance?"

Laura was peering into the haze of cigarette smoke and answered absently: "Not now. I want a cigarette first."

Maynard handed over the little cylinder and snapped his lighter. Laura drew deeply, and then turned to scan the crowd once more. She satisfied herself, and then smoked the cigarette down to the last drag before consenting to dance.

"I'm a little rusty," he apologized. "We don't do much dancing in a destroyer."

"I'm afraid not," answered Laura.

"You are as light as ever," he told her. He didn't like the inference; obviously she had been dancing long and often while he was gone.

"Forget it," said Laura, catching his thought. She put her forehead against his chin and sent his pulse racing.

Too soon the dance was over, and he followed her to their table. Guy offered Laura another cigarette, and as he was lighting it, a young man in evening clothes came over and greeted them with a cheery "Hello!"

Maynard went to his feet, but the stranger draped himself indolently into a chair which he lifted from a vacant table adjoining. Maynard shrugged, and sat down, feeling slightly overlooked.

"Hi, Laura, what brings you here?"

"He does," said Laura, nodding across the table to Guy. "Guy Maynard, this is Martin Ingalls."

Greetings were exchanged, and each man took the other's measure. "Senior executive, hey?" smiled Ingalls. "That's something!"

"Oh," said Maynard cheerfully, "they think I've been useful."

"Keep 'em thinking that," suggested Ingalls, "and you'll get along fine."

"He'll get along fine," offered Laura. "But what are you doing here?"

"Oh, Timmy and Alice hauled me in for dinner. They're over there."

"Well! Let's join them!"

Maynard swallowed imperceptibly. He wanted Laura to himself. And here was a young man faultlessly attired in evening clothing who came to a place like the Silver Star for dinner.

He nodded dully, and followed to another table where a couple sat waiting. The man known as Timmy handed over a twenty solar bill and said, laughingly: "All right, Mart. You win."

"What was the bet?" asked Laura.

"I bet Mart that he couldn't get you over here."

"That was a foolish bet," said Laura. "I'm always happy to be with friends."

"We know," said Alice. "But your friend has a brand new set of rayed stars on, and I told both of these monkeys that it looked like a celebration to me—and lay off."

"Yeah, but if there's any celebrating to be done, we can do it better," laughed Martin Ingalls.

"You aren't here alone?" asked Laura.

"I am a recluse tonight," answered Ingalls. "Nobody loves me."

"Liar!" said Timmy. "He didn't bother to call anyone."

"So he's alone," added Ingalls. "And where do we go from here?"

"Let's go to Havana," suggested Alice. "I've been needing some blood pressure." To Maynard she added: "If you know a better way to get high blood pressure without hatred, let me know. Do you?"

"Better than what?" asked Guy.

"Dice. I crave excitement."

"But we just came," objected Maynard.

"You can leave," said Ingalls. "After all, the Silver Star is nothing to get wrought up over."

"Who's to drive?" asked Alice.

"We'll take Mart's junk," said Timmy. "It'll hold the five of us with ease."

"Mine is in New Jersey—we could follow," said Maynard.

"Now I know we'll take mine," said Martin. "It's on the roof. We'll waste no time dragging all the way to New Jersey."

Maynard settled up with the waiter, and within five minutes found himself seated in the rear seat with Martin Ingalls, and Laura Greggor between them. The run to Havana was made during a running fire of light conversation. And from there on, the night became lost to Guy Maynard.

He followed. He did not lead, not for one minute. They led him from place to place, and he watched them hazard large sums of money on the turn of a pair of dice. He joined them, gingerly, hiding his qualms, and played cautiously. He won, at first, and permitted himself to enjoy the play as long as he was playing with the other party's money. Then he lost, and tried to buck up his loss with shrewdness. But skill and shrewdness never prevail against an honest pair of dice, and these were strictly honest. So Maynard played doggedly, and his financial status remained the same. He was a couple of hundred solars behind the game.

He missed the others, and went to look for them and found them dancing. He stood on the side line for a few minutes, until Laura spied him. She broke from Martin's arms and came to him, leading him on to the floor for the rest of the dancing.

The excitement had done its work on Laura. Her eyes were bright, and her hair was ever-so-slightly mussed, which removed the showcase perfection and made her, to Maynard, a glamorous and wonderful thing. His arm tightened about her waist, and she responded gently.

"Like this?" he asked her quietly.

Her head nodded against his cheek. Maynard took a deep breath. "You're lovely," he said.

Laura caressed his cheek with her forehead. "It's been a wonderful evening," she said. "But I'm getting tired. Let's go home?"

Guy lifted his left hand from hers and stroked her hair. "Anything you want," he promised.

"You're a grand person," she said.

The music stopped, and Maynard felt that the spell of the evening stopped with it. They found Alice, Timmy, and Martin at the bar, and Martin called for drinks for them. "A final nightcap," he said, "to a perfect evening."

They agreed to his toast.

"And now," said Martin practically. "As to getting home."

"Yes, indeed. Who lives where?"

"We are in Florida," said Timmy. "We can catch us a cab."

"The rest of us—at least Guy and I are from Sahara Base," said Laura. "But Guy's flier is in New Jersey."

"Shame to make you travel all that way," said Martin. "Should have thought of that when I demanded that we all take my crate. I'm deucedly sorry, Guy."

"Forget it," said Maynard with a wave of his hand.

"I can do this much for you, though," offered Ingalls. "It's past dawn at Sahara now, and since you folks live by the sun, I can imagine that Laura is about asleep on her feet. Look, Maynard, you're used to a rigorous life; you can take this sort of thing. Laura can't. I live by New York time and am therefore several hours better off than she for sleep. I'll run her across the pond, and you traipse up to New Jersey for that flier of yours. That way Laura will get to bed an hour sooner. What say?"

Maynard groped. How could he tell Ingalls that he wanted to take Laura home without sounding like a jealous adolescent? Perhaps he was, but he didn't want to sound childish in front of these people. Ingalls' suggestion was reasonable, from a practical standpoint, but Maynard did not want to be practical. He thought that Laura should have objected; surely she would prefer that he see her home. She should prefer it, according to etiquette. But she did not protest, and Maynard sacrificed his desire for the benefit of practicality.

They said good-by, and Laura patted his cheek and made him promise to see her soon. Guy promised, and as she turned away to go with Ingalls, he had a fleeting thought that the pat on the cheek was small solace. Maynard wanted a bit of loving.

Instead, he sat on the far side of Alice from Timmy, and watched Alice doze on Timmy's shoulder all the way from Havana to Miami. Their good-by was quick, and though Timmy demanded his right to pay this part of the fare on the basis that Maynard had a long drag ahead and that this portion of the trip would have been his anyway, Guy laughed and waved the other man out of the cab with a cheery: "See you later!"

Dawn was over New York when Maynard's flier started out across the Atlantic toward Sahara Base. Maynard dropped in his landing-space at Sahara nearly two and one half hours later, and wearily made his way toward home.

The smell of good coffee caused him to stop, and he entered the small lunchroom with remembrance. Coffee and breakfast might take the pang out of the night's lack of climax, so Guy seated himself at the long counter and toyed with the menu. The waitress came forward, recognized him, and said: "Guy Maynard! Well! Hello!"

Guy looked up. The open welcome sound in the voice was good to hear. He smiled wearily and answered: "Howdy, Joan. Glad to see me back?"

Joan leaned forward over the counter and put her elbows down, cradling her chin on the interlaced fingers. "You, Guy Maynard, are a sight for sore eyes. Over at Mother Andrew's we thought you were a real M-12."

"I am," he smiled. Joan and the rest of the people might think they knew the real purpose of M-12. Those who lived within the vastness of Sahara Base had good reason to think as they did, but Maynard believed that this was as good a time as any to dispel that belief. "I am a real M-12. I've been off working on some hush-hush. You're still living at Mother Andrew's?"

"You bet. I'm going to stay there, what's more, until my name isn't Forbes any more," and Joan held up the bare left hand. "We missed you every morning at breakfast."

"I saw her last night. She kept my room in fine shape."

"She's wonderful," Joan yawned.

"Tired?"

"Uh-huh. I've been on the dawn patrol. Look, Guy, I'm going off in about an hour. Have yourself a good, hearty breakfast, and you may walk me home. O.K.?"

Guy Maynard looked into Joan's cheerful face and nodded. Joan shook her curls at him, and without asking for his order, she went to the kitchen and was gone for fifteen minutes. When she returned, she was laden with breakfast, complete from grapefruit to toast. She drew his coffee, sugared and creamed it, and then said: "Pitch in, spaceman. Have a good breakfast. I'll bet my hat that you haven't had one like that since you left on that M-12."

Maynard looked the counter-full over and said: "You are right, Joan."

He set to with a will, and when he finished, Joan was ready to leave.

They walked home in almost-silence. Joan knew better than to press him concerning tales of his activities while on the mission, and she was wise enough to know better than to speak of other men and other fun to a man who has been away and at work. Nothing had happened to her worth mentioning, and the rest of her life had been discussed with Guy Maynard long ago.

As for Guy, he felt at ease. He did not know it; he was unaware of the reason for his better-feeling. He did know that the tightness was gone from the muscles across his stomach, and he felt less like running and hiding than he had in hours. He wondered whether the coffee and excellent breakfast had done it, and then forgot about it. He felt too good to wonder why.

They walked in silence and partly in understanding companionship. Maynard knew that he needed no "act" to impress Joan. She would accept him as he was. And when Joan spoke, she directed her thought at him, which made him feel at ease.

Together they entered Mother Andrew's apartments, and as Joan did not dismiss him, he followed up the stairs to the door of her apartment. She fumbled with the key and the door swung open.

"Well," he said, extending a hand, "it's been nice seeing you again."

Joan took the hand and gave it a gentle pressure. She smiled up at him mischievously and said: "Is that the best you can do?" She laughed, but her laugh was gentle.

Instinctively, Guy put his free hand on her shoulder, and her head went back so that she faced him squarely. "You know, I think you've been lonely," she told him. She did not evade him, but went into his arms willingly, almost eagerly.

VIII.

The days that followed were busy, indeed. Maynard found that the increase in rank not only gave him more pay, but more authority too. He was now entitled, by his rank of senior executive, to command one of the speedy, small destroyers, and his command was being prepared for him.

Unlike other, normal commands, the Asterite was being fitted with laboratory equipment, and was to be staffed with technical men. Maynard found himself literally swamped with paper work, and he was expected to supervise the installation of the equipment too. But he found time to dine with Kane twice, and the publisher extracted a promise from Maynard that the young officer should co-operate with him.

When the time for leaving was at hand, Guy made his parting with Laura Greggor at the Greggor home. Laura, realizing that her actions had not been too complimentary to him, was duly affectionate. Guy left there with his heart high and his spirit unbeatable.

He went home and packed, and as he was leaving for the Asterite, he paused and knocked on Joan's door. There was no answer, and so Maynard asked Mother Andrew to tell the girl good-by for him.

The elderly woman smiled cheerfully and said: "She knew she'd miss you, Guy. She left this letter. You're to read it after you get aboard your command."

"After?" asked Maynard. "Nonsense." He ripped the envelope and read:

Dear Guy:

I was right. You were lonely. Space must be lonely; even if for no other reason than its vastness. I've been told before, but I didn't realize. You've been lonely, Guy, and you will be lonely again, once you are back in space. I may not keep you from loneliness there, Guy, but please, never be lonely again when at home.

Joan.

"She's a fine girl," said Guy.

"Joan Forbes is one of the world's finest," said Mother Andrew positively. She was gratified to see him put the letter in an inside pocket as he left. What was in Guy's mind, she could not guess, but she believed that he was slightly muddled, for some reason.

Guy was confused. There was something wrong with the way things went, and he was not brilliant enough to understand the trouble. He gave it up as a major problem after trying several times to unravel the tangle.

Then, too, there was no time to think about it. His problem lost importance when displayed against the program he had set out to cover.

And as the miles and the days sped by, the problem at hand became the important thing, and the other problem died in dimness. The Asterite moved swiftly out into the region beyond the Belt, and into a completely untenanted region that was marked by absolutely nothing. On his astrogator's chart, a dotted line was labeled Neptune, but the planet itself was almost in quadrature with that position. Pluto was on the far side of Sol from him, and Saturn and Uranus were motes of unwinking light in almost-opposition to Neptune.

He was alone with his crew. They worked diligently, setting up the barrier-screen generators, and when they had them working to satisfaction, they tried variations.

The pilot worked upon their course day by day until it was corrected and stable; an orbit about a mythical point, the centripetal force of the outward-directed drive being in balance with the centrifugal force of their orbit. It made them a neat 1-G for stability, and did not cause them to cover astral units in seconds, or require continuous turnovers for deceleration and return, which would have been the case had no orbit been established.

Their work progressed. The neat, orderly arrangement of the scanning room became slightly haywire as they ran jury-rigged circuits in from the barrier-generators.

No petty quarreling marred their work. This was partly due to the training of the men at Patrol School, and partly due to Maynard's foresight in picking his crew. He had done a masterful job, for in this kind of job, the tedious nature of flight was amplified, and the lack of any variation in the day's duration, or of one day from the one past or the one coming next, made men rub each other the wrong way.

And part of it was due to the nature of the job, enigmatically. They were working on something entirely new. It was interesting to watch the results pile up, and to add to the diary of the experiment the day's observations and the opinions of the workers.

Then as the end came in sight, the inevitable irritation flared briefly as the technician tossed his chessboard aside with a snort and stamped to his quarters. It might have started a long chain of events if a real diversion had not presented itself, right in the technician's department.

Maynard heard the communicator snap on, and listened.

"Technician to Executive: Spacecraft approaching. Range extreme, about one point seven megs."

"One million, seven hundred miles," said Maynard aloud. "Technician: can you get a reading?"

"The cardex is chewing on the evidence, sir," came the reply.

"Let me know as soon as you get the answer, Stan."

"O.K. Here it is. It is the Loki, a private craft owned by the publisher, Kane. Want the vital statistics?"

"Forget the color of eyes, weight, and fighting trim," smiled Maynard. "What's his course and velocity?"

"Deceleration at about 4-Gs, course within ten thousand miles of us. Velocity less than a thousand miles per second."

"How soon can we match her speed?"

"Depends upon their willingness. Perhaps ten or twelve hours will do it," answered Stan. "Get your astrogator on it."

"Executive to astrogator: Have you been listening?"

"Astrogator. You bet, and Stan's wild. Make it fourteen hours."

"Executive to pilot: Contact astrogator and follow course. Stan, will you try to contact them? I think it's your job, since they're at extreme range. Communications, you try with the standard sets, but I will not have any tinkering with the set-up in an effort to get another mile of range out of it."

"This is Stan. I have them on a weakling signals, they're asking for you."

"Tell 'em I'm here and we'll see 'em later. Check their course and prepare to match it. Then tell 'em to keep silence. That's an official order. Follow?"

"Check."

Fourteen hours later, Thomas Kane came across the intervening space in a tender and shook Maynard by the hand.

"Kane! How are you?"

"Fine. And you?"

"The same. But how did you find us?"

"Did a little ferreting."

"Did you know this is restricted space?"

"Sure, but forget it. How's the experiment?"

"Excellent."

"Mind telling all?"

"No. We set up a barrier on the Asterite, here, and have been testing and investigating it for months, as you know."

"Have you licked the main bugaboo?"

"We'll never lick that one. The drive, being a type of radiation, will not pass the barrier and so will not drive us. We can not discover a range of radiation that passes outward at all, though there is some minute leakage. The latter is absolutely insufficient to do any good."

"Too bad."

"It is. But the barrier is a good thing."

"Oh, it'll serve in spite of its difficulties."

"We developed the reverse, too. In addition to the barrier, we have what we call a disperser. It is the reverse of the barrier in every way."

"That's interesting. You can drive through that one?"

"Yes, but that's strictly impractical for space maneuvers. You see, both barriers are tenuous with regard to material bodies. A torpedo will pass without knowing that a barrier is there. And no ship can hope to match acceleration with a torpedo, roaring along at a hundred Gs or better. The barrier will keep a ship from detection, but it is sudden death to the ship if its presence is known. AutoMacs will burn the ship to nothing, torpedoes will enter and blast. Even misses with the AutoMacs cause trouble because their energy goes into the barrier-sphere and remains, reflecting off of the insides of the sphere until absorbed by the ship. The trick in use is to speed up and stab with torpedoes, and then continue on your course undetected until a safe distance is covered.

"The disperser screen is opposite. It will protect against AutoMacs or any other energy. It is detectable in itself, since it reflects anything sent against it, and also passes any inside energy right out through the screen. A ship with one of those is bear-meat. The AutoMacs wouldn't be used at all, a torpedo will be shot out to blast it from the universe. No, the disperser is useless."

"Do torpedoes work on the barrier?"

"Not too well," said Maynard. "You see, their aiming and steering circuits are useless until a target is set. Since the sphere is nonradiating, the only way you can fire a torpedo into a sub-ship is to aim it well and drive it into the barrier-screen by sheer aim. Once inside the screen, however, it will track the target. It will bar against drive-interferers, too. But take my word for it, there is nothing good about the disperser."

"How about combining them?"

"We had that idea, too," laughed Maynard. "No dice."

"Why? Seems to me—?"

"When the barrier is equal to the disperser, they cancel, believe it or not. If the barrier is put inside of the disperser, the disperser can not form since the barrier also bars the radiation that sets up the disperser screen. It will also bar the idea of establishing two barriers, too, by the way. On the other hand, if the disperser is put inside of the barrier, they can be held. But—and this is a big but, Kane, energy enters the barrier, and energy emanates from the ship, and there is a stress set up in the volume between the two spheres that sets up a counter force that blows the generators right out of this universe."

"You seem to have seen the whole works," smiled Kane.

"You know, I can't even see the idea of carrying this disperser equipment on a detector to go up in case of attack with AutoMacs, even if it could be made to establish instantly. Just takes up good room—the generators, I mean."

"What's the generating time?"

"Seventy-three milliseconds is the best we've been able to clock. That's a close screen, and it takes considerable stability in the generators to hold it. The best barriers for distance and power establish in point one nine eight seconds. Anything beyond that would require too much holding power, anything closer requires more generator stability."

"How does instability affect the screen?"

"Won't hold up. It collapses, and the build-up begins from zero again. That would be dangerous."

"You've been a busy boy," smiled Kane. "Also a definite credit to us all."

"Thanks."

"And how do you intend to operate this thing in practice?" asked Kane. "Not attack, in defense. I mean?"

"We've got the thing hitched to the finders," Maynard punched a switch. "Now, for instance, if anything that radiates comes within detector range of us, the barrier goes on. You'll see that everything is tacked down. We've been trying it out with the tenders, and the first time we did it, we went free and everything floated around the place in no-gravity. We're now protected, and if your pilot should kick his drive, we'd go free." Maynard adjusted three dials. "Now," he said, "the spotter is set to neglect any radiation from the Loki. We can set up many such channels, compensating for every ship in a flight, and yet have the whole flight protected in case of intrusion by another ship."

"You've got everything all set, haven't you?"

"Just about. If we had torpedoes, we could declare a private war on Mars."

"Then you're about finished?"

"Just about. Want to come in with us, or will you go in the Loki?"

"I'll ride with you, if you do not mind."

"Not at all," smiled Guy. "Executive to Communications: Inform Loki that Kane will return with us, and to make for Terra immediately."

"Check."

"We'll lose him," grinned Guy. "We're all set for 5-G."

"He'll take it easy, at three. I don't mind."

"Executive to Pilot: Take course for Terra at five!"

"Check!"

The Asterite turned and left the Loki far behind, and the velocity began to build up for the return trip. An hour later, with the Asterite bettering a hundred miles per second, the second incident occurred. It came as a complete surprise, since they were running through a restricted space, and Maynard remarked that it looked more like a public thoroughfare.

The finder-alarm clanged stridently, and immediately the ship went free. Men clutched at the hand-rails, and as they settled down, the technician took the communicator and started to speak excitably: "Technician to crew: Hold your hats! We're about to be passed by the Orionad!"

"Orionad? Holy Pete!" exploded Maynard. "See that this confounded screen doesn't fail. If it dies, so do we!"

"Huh?" asked Kane.

"This restricted space was created for the Orionad to return through. The nature of the restriction is such that anyone of official nature will be warned, and no civil traffic will be cleared through here. I am here because I didn't think the Orionad was due to return yet, and you came because you probably left without clearance. Right?"

"Right."

"Well, the Orionad believes that anybody who is in the restricted space is an enemy; spying upon their course. The consequences are clear."

"I hope they hold that screen," said Kane. "But what about Jimmy? My pilot?"

Maynard groaned. "He's several thousand miles behind, and any attempts to save him would fail. The Orionad will recognize no incoming signals. Nothing we can do will save him!" Maynard groaned, and then he brightened briefly. "Stan!" he called. "What's the chances of the Orionad missing the Loki?"

"Not too bad," said the technician. "They'll be running with their finder at cruising range, and they'll just touch us. Loki is sliding sidewise and may be out of range."

"We hope. Well, keep it going, fellows. This may be dangerous."

Time passed slowly and ponderously, and the Orionad caught up and passed the Loki without seeing or detecting the publisher's ship. Of this, Maynard was certain, since the celestial globe would have flared briefly had any action been taken against the Loki.

Then as the Orionad passed the Asterite, Maynard said: "Chalk us up a win, Kane. Your crate is safe."

"You're certain?"

"I am. Loki is now beyond range of our detector, which was souped up and is running at overload range. Orionad's detectors would be running at cruising range, which I happen to know is one quarter meg—two hundred and fifty thousand miles, to you."

"I see. Loki is on the far side of us from the Orionad, and their distance is such that their cruising range on the detector is less than the distance to Loki?"

"Right. And give us another ten minutes, and Orionad will go beyond detection range from us. Cruising range, that is."

"Mark yourself up a credit for this one, too," smiled Kane. "If you were an enemy, you could surely score one on the super ship itself."

"Sure could," agreed Guy enthusiastically.

Stan Norman said: "Technician to Executive: May I enter this encounter in the log?"

"Go ahead," said Guy. "They'll never believe us, though."

"Wouldn't a definite statement of their course and velocity be evidence?"

"Nope. I happen to know it. It was part of the maneuver secret that I was kidnaped for, remember."

"They'd just accuse you of telling tall tales that couldn't be substantiated," agreed Kane. "The crew and myself would be considered biased witnesses. I'd sure like to cinch the argument, though."

"So would I," said Guy thoughtfully.

"Do you trust this dingbat of yours? The barrier, I mean."

"Naturally."

"Then couldn't we really do something about it?"

"I don't know what—unless we splashed them with a bucket of paint. We have a gallon of bright red, wire-impregnating varnish. Executive to Pilot, Astrogator, Technician, and Observer: Get the course of the Orionad to the last millimeter. Both the intrinsic course and the course with respect to the Asterite. Then plot a free flight across their path to intercept within a thousand feet at thirty degrees angle. You know the standard attack problem as we have designed it; this is an applied problem, fellows. We're going to label the Orionad! And when they land, they're going to bear the Asterite's trademark, and they'll not know it until we make Terra. Like?"

"We're on it now," said Stan.

"And working in nine decimals," added Astrogator Cummins.

Technician Norman stretched his back, and started to gather his tools. "So far," he told Maynard, "every instrument we need has been checked and corrected to the last micron. Turretman Hastings and Machinist Trenton have converted one of the mounts to a spring-loaded gadget to propel a gallon-sized cannister of plastic material. Adkins has just cemented such a cylinder together and filled it with the wire gluck. I hope we hit the main personnel lock; it'll stay glucky until they land, and that wire-impregnating googoo ranks high among the things I wouldn't care to bathe in."

"It ranks top with me," said Maynard.

"To me, it is outranked only by chewing gum and rubber cement. But anyway, we're ready, all of us."

"That correct?" asked Maynard of the crew.

A series of "Check" shouts came in ragged confusion.

"O.K. Start going!"

With the instruments under personal supervision, the Asterite accelerated in a wide circle, and then corrected the side-vector component of her course.

Then for an hour solid, the Asterite accelerated on a die-true course. The components of the intersection were complex because the Orionad was in deceleration all the time, while the Asterite was in acceleration, and would be picking up speed until the barrier established; then the little destroyer would coast free, crossing the Orionad's course at the precise instant that the super ship came to the course of the free-flying Asterite.

The last driving moments of the Asterite's maneuver passed. The barrier went on, and the tiny ship went free. Time passed, and eventually the Orionad, long beyond detector range, came into the scope of the Asterite's souped-up finder.

Furious and extensive checking on the part of the crew resulted in the information that everything was going according to plan.

More time passed, and now within sight, the two ships were converging. They became tense, a single moment of failure would be death for all. But the barrier held, as they expected it to, and with lightning velocity, the two ships crossed at thirty degrees angle.

"Fire!" called the technician.

"Stick to your meters," drawled Turretman Hastings. "This is a job for an eyepiece and fingertip man. A man, may I say, with eyes in his fingertips. A man, may I add ... Ughh. There she goes, fellers!... who is capable of doing things based upon the excellency of his coordination."

"What a line of baloney," snorted Norman. "Did he follow through on that malarkey?"

"And, may I add," drawled Hastings, "a man who never claims ability beyond his capability? Who never claims that which he is unable to produce. The Orionad is now bearing a great, ugly, irregular circle of bright red, gooey paint."

"Are they aware?"

"Apparently not," said Technician Norman. "Also, the projectile we tossed at them is nondetectable and nonradiating, and was in the separation-space too briefly for observation. Another thing, we hit 'em in a blind spot."

"Blind spot?" asked Kane. "I didn't know she had any."

"She hasn't. What I meant was that we hit 'em in a bald spot. They'll not see the mess until they land. Pilot, how're we doing?"

"Fine. We're coasting away at a great rate."

"Well, get this barrier down as soon as you get out of range. Wait until you are out of operating range, but don't worry about extreme range unless you think they smell a crate full of mice."

"Right-o."

"You know, Kane, that was fun, sort of. But I hate to think of what they will say back home. I'm liable to get busted right down to a junior aide again."

"They can't break you for that kind of demonstration," said Kane.

"Yes they can. I'm still at the mercy of my superiors."

Kane smiled. "No, you're not. I forgot to tell you—or you didn't let me get to the point of my coming. But, Guy Maynard, since the successful establishment of the Plutonian shield, you are now a sector commander. That gives you—"

"I'm what?" asked Maynard.

"A sector commander. Here, if you don't believe me," and Kane handed Guy a tiny box. Guy opened it, and found lapel-insignia; the circling comet of the sector commander. In Kane's other hand was an envelope stamped "Official" which contained official notice of his advance in rank.

"That puts you in the upper bracket," said Kane. "You are now on your own, Guy. Any demonstrations you may give will be viewed officially, and this is no longer a prank, but a self-assertion; a very definite evidence of your ability to accomplish the difficult."

The barrier dropped, and the celestial globe traced the last indication of the receding Orionad to the surface of the clear, glassite sphere.

Maynard touched his hat in salute to the Orionad's last glimmer and said: "Hi!"

IX.

The Asterite beat the Orionad to Terra by a few hours, and in sufficient time for the report of Maynard's trip to be reviewed by the Bureau of Ordnance. When they came to the incident of the painting, they laughed first, and then called Malcolm Greggor to ascertain the moment of the Orionad's landing. Armed with the information they went to the big landing area at Sahara Base, and waited for the big ship to touch.

Greggor was there; he arrived almost as they did.

"What's the meaning of this?" he stormed.

Patrol Marshal Mantley grinned at the irate man and answered: "Your erstwhile employee has demonstrated his sub-screen to excellent effect, Greggor. He hung a gallon of red paint on the Orionad without their notice."

"This is preposterous!" exploded Greggor.

"Not at all," said Mantley. "Sector Commander Maynard was merely bringing home the effectiveness of his own invention. If he can do that to the Orionad, no Martie can hope to best us. You must admit that he has something good."

"That I admit. But to play such a prank—"

"No prank, Greggor. This was a very convincing demonstration. How can you possibly classify such an epoch-making act as a prank? It is deplorable that your pride and joy should be thus decorated by a mere ... he was but Senior Executive Maynard at the time ... destroyer, a spacecraft one tenth the tonnage of the Orionad. But I insist that it does not detract from the pride of the Orionad to have been bested by such a weapon."

"I feel as though I've been made a fool of."

"Ridiculous! It is not an admission of defeat to acknowledge a minor defeat at the hands of a man who is responsible for making Pluto inhabitable. After all, Greggor, Maynard is one in fifty billion."

Greggor smiled wryly. "When you put it that way, I must admit," he said. "Any man who can bring the means of warming a planet to human climates certainly must be capable of decorating the Orionad. Maybe I should grow angry again; why should such a genius stoop to tamper with my ship?"

"It was available and the best thing we have to boot."

Maynard interrupted. "Surely you would not believe me capable of bringing ridicule upon you, Marshal Greggor. It was but a splendid opportunity to demonstrate what could have been done to an enemy with a torpedo. What if I had been a Martian?"

"I agree," said Greggor. Then he laughed uproariously. "We'll pink Patrol Marshal Inkland with the idea," he said. "Tell him that his ship was destroyed in space by a real destroyer; that he must have been asleep. Roast him good, and see what happens. Here she comes—and Maynard, that splotch of red paint sticks out like a miniature sun. What a mal-beautiful job of decoration."

The Orionad landed, and Inkland came across the sand toward the little group as soon as he saw who it was. He shook hands all around and smiled until Greggor told him of the decoration.

Inkland turned red and blustered. "Nothing was within detector range of me!" he insisted.

"That slab of red paint says you're wrong," said Greggor sternly.

Inkland inspected the red paint from where they stood and was forced to admit that something had been close enough to do it while in space. "Who did that?" he stormed.

Mantley indicated Maynard, and Inkland strode over to Guy with murder in his eye. "You insolent young puppy—I'll see that you lose your rank, senior executive." He whirled to the assembly and said: "No matter what was done, the fact that a mere senior executive did it is good enough to prove that it was a prank—"

"Just a moment," snapped Maynard. "First, I resent being called a puppy. I dislike being called insolent. And third, I defy your intent to deprive me of my rank!"

"Why you—"

"For your troubles, Patrol Marshal Inkland, I shall consider my success complete upon the day that I command the Orionad myself!"

"Ridiculous."

"Inkland," said Mantley softly, "I would speak more even. You are at fault, and the fact that Sector Commander Maynard has decorated your ship in a complex space maneuver of his own device should bring praise from you instead of hatred."

"Sector Commander?" asked Inkland.

"His insignia has not been properly installed," said Space Marshal Greggor with a fatherly smile. "But his rank has. And if young Guy Maynard puts his aim at commanding the Orionad, I'm beginning to believe that I would start looking for another job, if I were you."

Inkland turned upon his heel and left, with no further word.

The group of high-ranking officers followed him at length, leaving Maynard to watch the mighty Orionad being serviced and unloaded. He stood there for some time, relaxing and enjoying the fresh air and watching the operations. He found a comfortable spot, and seated himself lazily.

He did not sleep, though he did drowse a bit, and a sparse circle of cigarette butts began to surround him. He did not care; his last sojourn into space had made him appreciative of the comforts of just being on Earth where he could watch the sky and the ground meeting at the horizon.

He was not molested; though many people came to see the monster Orionad, none bothered him until the day wore into late afternoon. His first visitor was Laura Greggor.

"Guy," she said. Her voice was neither sharp nor inviting, but rather a flat tone of greeting.

Guy leaped to his feet and reached for her hands. "Laura!" he breathed. "It's good to see you!"

"I thank you for that," she said coldly.

"Why," he asked her, "what's the matter?"

"Guy, before I go any further, I want to know something. Did you, or did you not decorate father's ship?"

"Why," he answered proudly, "I most certainly did."

"I didn't believe it of you," she said sharply.

"There was nothing wrong with it," he said. "It was the best thing that happened to me."

"You believe that?" asked Laura.

"I certainly do. After all, it proved the worth of my invention. And," he added eagerly, "it gave me another set of insignia to have installed."

"If the worth of your invention is more interesting to you than the interest of my father's office," said Laura sharply, "your latest rise in power—made by using father's finest ship as a stepping stone—is of little interest to me."

"But Laura. I'm a sector commander now. And you may have my senior executive's stars."

"I have a fair collection," said Laura coldly. "You may bring me your patrol marshal's nebula when you're raised to sector marshal. Good day!"

She stamped off angrily, and Maynard searched his mind for the answer to the question, and gave it up as one of the unanswerable mysteries of life. If Malcolm Greggor could look upon the incident without rancor, why should she turn upon him? Any reasoning he did made no sense.

And as he stood there, footsteps made him aware of another visitor. He turned to see Joan Forbes.

"Hello," she said brightly. "I was on my way to the lunchroom and passed by to see the Big Fellow." She indicated the Orionad now being illuminated by mighty floodlights in the dusk. "I found you instead."

"Hi," he said to her. "What's new?"

"Nothing in my life," she said with a broad smile. Her eye caught the boxed insignia in Guy's clenched hand. "I see that something is new in yours. May I salute you, Sector Commander?"

Guy looked at her with a half-smile as she stepped back and cast him a womanly salute. "Congratulations," she said, offering her hand.

Guy looked first at her face, and then at her outstretched hand. Instead of taking it in his for a handshake in friendship, which was the manner of its offering, Guy placed the opened box in the outstretched fingers.

Joan blinked, and looked down at the box in surprise for a moment. Then she brightened.

She stepped forward and removed the rayed stars from Guy's lapel and replaced them with the circularly tailed comets. She stepped back, saluted him silently, and then came forward and kissed him on the lips. Her caress was affectionate, but brief.

"You're properly installed, commander," she told him. "But if I don't hurry, I'll be un-installed by my boss. I've got to run along. Keep rising, Guy!"

And with that she was gone.

Guy looked at the empty box, and then at the comets on his lapels.

And from them, across to the Orionad.

And a challenge arose to confront him. He would be sector marshal one day, and whether he took his patrol marshal's insignia to Laura Greggor depended only upon her. And he would also command the Orionad.

He clenched his fist upon the empty box, crushing it. His question was not: Would he command the Orionad? It was: How long would it take?

It took five years. Five long, toilsome years.

But five years of constantly increasing, constantly expanding, constantly improving. He never forgot the day of the Orionad's landing in all that five years, though there was evidence that Laura Greggor had been reprimanded by Malcolm Greggor for her actions. But Maynard remembered, and it was Joan Forbes that pinned the silver nebula on his lapels—in public as befitted a Patrol Marshal—just before he stepped aboard the Orionad to take his first major command.

He hoped that Laura Greggor remembered.

Then the Orionad sped into the sky above Sahara Base on the way to Pluto.

Guy Maynard was on his way to the top. Ertene was a dim remembrance by now, and though he could almost pick out the spot of the nomad planet's present position, it occurred to him only at odd intervals. Ertene was gone. But the strength of Ertene's knowledge was serving both him and Terra, and her brief visit was not wasted.

Maynard lost himself in reverie for a half hour, relaxing in the luxury of the master's office aboard the mighty Orionad. Then Guy's active mind asserted itself, and he called the chief technician for a conference.

Senior Executive Martin Carrington entered the office and stood at attention, and Guy recalled briefly that on his first command, he had been of the same rank as his chief technician now. Then he asked Carrington to be seated.

"Carrington, I've been worrying."

"Worrying, sir?"

"Suppose we are attacked by a sub-ship? How may we detect him?"

"You are supposing that the Martians gain the secret."

"I fear they will, some day. We haven't all the brains, you know."

"But a Martie, sir?"

"They may capture one of ours by a fluke. Then we'd all be bear-meat."

"Hardly possible, sir."

"Then accept it as hypothetical, Carrington. Take off from there and answer my question."

"That I cannot do, sir. Frankly, I do not know."

"Then listen. I have an idea; I want you to pass on its value."

"I shall try, sir."

"Carrington, is it possible to establish a celestial globe that is capable of giving a negative action? No, wait, I'll explain. Our present celestial globe is positive; it operates by three-dimensional fluorescence in the sphere, glowing when a positive radiation comes in from a spaceship. What I want is a negative indication: one that will glow in any location from which there comes absolutely zero radiation. Is that possible?"

"Hm-m-m," mused Carrington. "Our present level of detection is based upon the maximum level of celestial radiation, which is fairly constant in all directions save Solward. Your supposed sphere would operate on the celestial radiation—with the normal globe the entire sphere would glow—and be dark everywhere except in a place where all radiation were absorbed. It would be devilishly ticklish, sir."

"You follow my reasoning?"

"Oh certainly. Your idea is to prepare a sphere that glows with no signal. That can be done with a local signal, which is cut when no-radiation enters. Hard to say in words, isn't it?"

Maynard laughed cheerfully. "As long as you get my thought, I don't care how you say it. The barrier-screen absorbs all radiation. Therefore any position holding a sub-ship would produce zero radiation. It would then show on the negative sphere. Right?"

"I think that's about it," said Carrington.

"Good. We agree on that. Want to work on it?"

"Absolutely."

"It's yours, then. Go ahead and make it tick."

"That I'll do, sir. We'll have it by the time we hit Pluto."

"One more thing, Carrington. Keep it under your hat. It's a military secret, you know."

"I'll say nothing."

"Check. I'll be down and see you later."

Carrington left, and as he went back to his quarters, he told several of his contemporaries that the new commander was everything that they had ever heard of him.

Finding Pluto was a good job of work for the combined efforts of the astrogator and the chief pilot. Pluto was completely hidden just as Ertene was, and Maynard knew the completeness of that shield. It was done gropingly, by sheer hit and miss effort, but finally a black circle in the starry sky established above them. And as the pilot announced his success, it began to spread from a minute spot to mightiness. Then they passed through the barrier, and Pluto was a warm, greenish planet above them, much the same as Terra as seen from Luna.

The Orionad dropped onto the Spaceport; the entire trip without incident.

Maynard signed his command into the base marshal's office and ordered his chief executive officer to grant planet liberty as he saw fit. Space Marshal Lincoln smiled at the younger man and told him: "I think you'll be interested in the experiments going on in the radiation laboratory."

"Yes?"

"They're having a bit of trouble on one of your gadgets."

"Which one?"

"The stellar light-filter. Somehow, it doesn't work as you predicted."

"Why didn't they ask for me sooner?" wondered Maynard. "It's been six years since I thought that one up—they've had plenty of time."

"It's possible," admitted Lincoln. "But you forget that it was extremely complex and highly theoretical. Also, no good use has ever been found for it. Unlike your other inventions, this seems to be an experiment in pure research. So we didn't start on it until last, and it's been three years in the building."

"So long?"

"Oh yes. Some of the parts were entirely unheard of before, and many of the major components had to be built of parts that were designed for the job. When you design the minor components to assemble the major components—which also require design—you pyramid the time and difficulty."

"I hadn't thought of it that well."

"I wish you'd go over and tell them what's wrong. Kane, the publisher came in for the unveiling of the thing, and we'd hate to present him with a complete failure, in spite of its uselessness."

"Kane's here? Good, I'll go right over."

Maynard was youthful enough to be amazed that the weight of his rank opened a path through the grouped technicians to the complex instrument that lined the entire wall of the huge laboratory. Kane was near the center, and the only one in the group that knew Guy Maynard well enough to call him by his first name: therefore he was the first to speak.

"You invented this thing, Guy. Can you make it work?"

Guy blushed. "I didn't invent it—" he started and then saw Kane's puzzled look, which caused him to pause; then he nodded and finished: "—I merely worked on it theoretically. I did not have enough equipment in the lifeship to build any more than a few of the more complex circuits."

"Good enough," laughed Kane. "Well you may know more than we do at that. After all," he said in defense of his statement, "these men have been working on it for a couple of years."

A man with the rayed stars of a senior executive offered: "That's not strictly true, Mr. Kane. We started to work on it about three days ago—if you consider the instrument as a whole. There have been many groups working on the components separately, building them up. We assembled the whole last week."

"Take a swing at it, Guy."

"It's a maze to me," admitted Guy. "Let me see the circuits."

It took Maynard some time to figure them out. He was working from memory now, and it was none too good, plus the fact that he had memorized the complex circuit in Ertinian symbols and in Ertinian constants, and they all required conversion to Terran terms. He called for the group leaders of the various components, and asked them to report on the functions of their parts.

Together, they pinned the error down, and corrected it. Then Maynard turned the thing on himself.

The broad plate took on a gray-green background, mottled with huge circular blotches of white. He turned the focusing knob, and the mottling contracted into individual circles of intense, flaming white. He reduced the intensity control, and the eye-searing brightness dimmed to a more comfortable level. More fiddling with the focus, with alternate adjustment of the intensity, for they were inter-reacting, and the plate took on the appearance of the sky.

"So far so good. Now for the shaping control," said Maynard. He drove the left hand end swirling upward on the plate with one knob, stretched the stars across the top of the plate, and compressed them along the right side. He caused them to whirl circularly, and gradually the distortion dropped until the constellations appeared.

"There you are," he told the chief technician.

"Fine. Now what can we do?"

"Well, there aren't too many planets," said Maynard. "We can decrease the response of celestial bodies that shine by reflected light. That one," he said needlessly, since they all knew it well, "is Jupiter. Watch him fade!" and Maynard turned the knob. After the demonstration, he returned it to its original position again.

"On the other hand, we have a lot of stars," he said, turning the other knob. The starry heavens faded, leaving a widely scattered group of pinpricks grouped about a deeper black disk. He pointed to the disk and said: "Since it is the brightest, we may expect it to be the darkest too. Can't beat Sol from here. At any rate, this knob causes the fading of all bodies that shine by intrinsic light. The reflected-light bodies remain, so."

"Marshal, sir, there are nine of them," said the technician.

"Well," interrupted Kane, "there are nine planets, aren't there?"

"Not from one of them," answered the technician. "Or," he asked Maynard, "would we appear along with the rest?"

"No," said Maynard slowly. "You're right. There are nine planets, which counting the one we're on makes a total of ten."

"You realize what you're saying?" stammered Kane. "That means you've discovered a new planet with this gadget."

Maynard shook his head in dazed unbelief. "Another planet?" Then he shook off the amazement and said: "It may be so. But before we shout too loud, we must investigate and be certain."

"Of course."

Maynard turned the stellar intensity knob up slightly, bringing the stellar background into faint light. "Get the constants of that planet, and we'll check. Kane, you'll come along as a representative of the Terran Press?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world itself," said Kane. "Any chance of missing it?"

"If we get the linear constant of that planet from Pluto, here, we'll line-drive out there. Once within a few million miles, passing by if need be, we'll know it."

"Couldn't we pack this thing aboard the Orionad?"

"Not unless we tear the side out of the ship," grinned Maynard. "We'll fly this blind, and that won't be too hard."

"And then we may find that planet is but a flyspeck," said Kane.

"It could be," agreed Maynard. But he knew better. He was thinking of a huge panel; a brilliant painting in a vast hall lined with paintings. The one he faced showed Sol—and ten planets.

And Maynard had patiently waited for all these years for the stellar light-filter to be built. He knew that the unknown planet was so far from Sol and at such an angle that it would remain unseen until they made the filter work. After all, it had been unseen for hundreds of years during the advent of space travel, and for hundreds of years of pure stellar research from Terra before space travel gave the astronomers a chance to prove their planetary theories. He had not been worried that his find would be found too soon, but he would have broken all rules to get to Pluto at the time he did. Luckily, there was no reason to break rules.

Now he could go anywhere and do anything except the short periods when he was under explicit orders.

He wondered whether his action had been too abrupt, and then remembered that his position permitted a large amount of snap-decision and some eccentricity. The quickness of his action would add to the legends of one Guy Maynard, and would cover up the fact that he had been planning this particular party for years.

At the end of the usual landing duration, Guy gave orders for the Orionad to go out to the new planet.

X.

Die-straight, the Orionad flew. On a course tangent to the orbit of Pluto, on and on and on beyond the limits of the Solar System, out to a position almost twice the distance from Pluto to Sol; a distance of 7,180,000,000 miles. And there Maynard looked down upon the globe of another world.

"There it is," he said to Kane in what he hoped to sound like awe.

"I'd never have believed it," breathed Kane.

"The funny part," said Maynard in a surprised tone, "is that this planet is about the correct distance for agreement with Bode's Law for Pluto, which is not met. Wonder why it never occurred to the brass hats to look in the 'Bode Position' all the way around."

"Neptune sort of screwed Bode's Law up," smiled Kane. "It is the fly in the ointment. If you set up Bode's Law and check for Neptune, you find that Pluto occupies that position, while Neptune is in a supposedly unoccupied position. Neptune is an interloper."

"Wonder why he came," mused Maynard.

"Probably got here and couldn't leave," said Kane. "Well, Guy, if nothing else, you've re-established the value of Bode's Law. Proper continuity on either side of a discontinuous section—Neptune—indicates to me that the Law is correct. It is the presence of an alien planet that is the troublemaker."

"Is there anything on that planet?"

"I wouldn't know. Has three moons, though. Guy, how could anything live on this planet ... you're entitled to name it, you know, since you discovered it."

"I discovered it?"

"You'll get the credit, and not without reason, Guy."

Guy shrugged. "We'll call him Mephisto. I'm going to run in close, Kane. I'd like some initial information on this planet before we return." He called into the communicator: "Marshal to Executive: Until further notice, we shall call this planet 'Mephisto.' Therefore, circle Mephisto at one thousand miles. Have the technician's crew take all data possible. Have the astrogator check his constants, and if possible, get an initial estimate of Mephisto's velocity, orbit, and ecliptic angle."

"Executive to Marshal: Check."

The answer to Kane's idle question as to the possibility of Mephisto being inhabited came with a distinctness that left no doubt. Not only was Mephisto inhabited, but Mephisto harbored intelligent life. And the intelligent life either resented the arrival of the Orionad, or thought that the Orionad was the vanguard of a special invasion.

At any rate, both were correct. And no matter what the inhabitants of Mephisto thought, they acted.

The detectors rang in alarm, and automatic circuits closed. The big turrets of the Orionad whipped around with speed enough to warm their almost frictionless bearings in the brief arc. They threw their surge on the ordnance-supply lines, and the meters jumped high. The big AutoMacMillans emitted their energy silently and invisibly, and seven great gouts of flame bloomed in the space between Mephisto and Orionad.

They swiveled slightly and fired a second time, and four more blossoms of flame spread, this time closer to the Orionad. Upon the third attack, the flashes were very close to the super ship.

"Ships—or torpedoes?" asked Kane.

"Torpedoes," said Maynard definitely.

"How can you tell?" asked Kane.

"Ships would have flared less brilliantly and more slowly. It takes a well-loaded warhead to blast that way. The fierceness and the velocity of the blast give the answer to that one. Also, those things were coming up at better than a thousand G, all the way. That's guessing that they all started at once or nearly so. In order to separate that much in the distance they covered, and to cover so much distance between the first, second, and third contacts the acceleration must be about that high." He snapped the communicator and asked: "Marshal to Executive: What was the acceleration of the exploded bodies?"

The answer came immediately. "Approximately, 941-G, according to the recorders on the detector circuits."

"Good-bye, Guy."

"Lots of practice," said Maynard. "Well, we're heading back. I'm not going to risk the Orionad in a single-handed battle against a whole planet. Even if I won, they'd bust me flat. We'll head for Terra and set us up a real punitive expedition. Then we'll return and take Mephisto for Terra!"

The Orionad based at Sahara Base and Maynard went into the Bureau of Exploration building. His entry into Malcolm Greggor's office was easy, and he told the space marshal about his discovery. Greggor's reaction was first doubt, but Maynard called Kane and his executive officer, and when Greggor was convinced, his excitement knew no bounds.

He called an immediate conference with the head of several bureaus, and told Maynard he was to remain, and then added Kane to the list. Once assembled, Maynard explained the details, complete, and Malcolm Greggor opened the discussion by stating: "This will be difficult. They resent us. If we go in at all, we must go in armed to the teeth, and expect trouble all the way."

Mantley, of the Bureau of Ordnance, said: "You expect anything unique in ordnance, Maynard?"

"I hardly think so. On the other hand, they have space travel, as witness those torpedoes. They must have a definite isolation policy, otherwise they would have contacted us long ago."

"Not necessarily," objected the head of the Bureau of Exploration. "They may be alien—they must be utterly alien to inhabit a planet that far from Sol. What form they take, or what their chemistry might be, I have no idea. Furthermore, I don't care, and if I ask about it, it'll be academically only. They exist, they have science. They do not like us. Perhaps they know of us, and realize that any traffic with us of the inner worlds is impossible."

"Their attitude in firing upon the Orionad gives us no alternative," said Mantley. He turned to Garlinger, and asked: "We haven't heard from the Bureau of Maneuvers, yet. Have any ideas?"

"It'll be out and out war," said Garlinger. "I'm certain that we made no warlike move in merely visiting them. They've been in preferred isolation, and now that we've discovered them, they fire on us, without provocation. My guess is that we'd not only be better off going in armed, but we'd best prepare for countermeasures, counterattack, and all the trimmings. Now that they've been smoked out, I'll bet they won't sit there on their icy planet and wait for us to come a-blasting."

"How and why have they developed space travel," asked Greggor, "if they care nothing for interplanetary commerce?"

"Their moons," suggested Kane. "There were signs of inhabitation on all three of them."

"This is going to be more difficult than I thought. The problem of breaching a planet alone is one that has seldom been tried. But if Mephisto has three armed moons, that's another item to consider. Well, fellows, it has never been Terra's way to go in with less than all we have. If we have ten million men that never see Mephisto from anything but the viewports of the transports, we'll be better off than if we were blasted to every last man for not having enough of them. It'll be a full-scale attack, gentlemen."

"More than that, Garlinger, we'll get lots of practise."

"Meaning?"

"Some day we're going to be forced into fighting Mars on an all-out basis. This will be excellent experience. I believe that Mars will be the harder to fight, gentlemen. After all, knowing your enemy makes the battle easier—and they know us very well. So if we correct our mistakes on Mephisto, and take the resulting plan to Mars, we may break this deadlock between Mars and Terra forever."

"No one here doubts that it will be an all-out attack," said Mantley. "We'll have to mobilize—and that's your job, Donigan."

"Yup," drawled Donigan. "After you boys get all done making your plans, you hand it to me. Uh-huh—and after I get 'em, it's war with a capital W. Gentlemen, is it your wish that the Bureau of Warfare take over from here on in?"

"It is."

"My aides will present to you the requirements of the Bureau of Warfare as soon as they can be pulled from the files. You will break the news," he said to Kane, "immediately, and in headline form only. Mere mention, in this case, of the new planet, and Guy Maynard, the discoverer. Meanwhile I'll have the Bureau of Propaganda prepare a news-campaign for you, which you will follow within reason."

"With nothing to print but the mere discovery of Mephisto," smiled Kane, "I'll be forced to play up Patrol Marshal Maynard. That all right?"

"Oh certainly. After all, he's fairly well-known and it will seem only right that a well-known figure gets the limelight. I see your problem; you can't break a lonely headline."

"I must at least fill up one column, and even with eighteen point type it takes words. We'll prepare the way, though."

"I want Maynard," said Donigan suddenly.

"The Bureau of Warfare runs this show," nodded Mantley. "May I ask what for?"

"He'll command one phase of the attack. And it will look well that the discoverer leads the battle. It implies that we have implicit confidence in him, in spite of his youth."

"Will he require an increase in rank?"

"Not at the present time. That will come as necessary. But let's close this. Time is important; Mephisto will be mobilizing even as we are."

"May I use the official wire?" asked Kane. "And one more item. What about secrecy?"

"A thing this big can not be kept a secret," answered Donigan. "We haven't enough men and materiel to successfully attack a militant planet. Therefore we must recruit men, and get the manufacturers to produce supplies. Mars—I believe—will sit tight and wait until we take the initiative. A move on their part will hinge upon our success or failure on Mephisto. Break it wide and big, Kane. And send it out on the interplanetary service. Mars may as well have something to think of. We know she will never attack Terra as long as the Terran Space Patrol maintains a fleet. Mars is too small and, therefore, too easy to cover compared to Terra. Go ahead and break your story, Kane."

Kane was as good as his word. It hit the newsstands that evening, in three-inch headlines. They said nothing more than the hourly news-broadcasts for news, but Kane's writers had done an excellent job in building Maynard up as the man of the hour.

And then the report of the attack followed. Guy Maynard, commanding the Orionad, had been fired upon without provocation as he attempted to run in close to the new planet for photographic records. The bursting of the torpedoes was pictured in the newscasts in all their blasting flame, and the pictures suffered nothing from the film record.

Guy Maynard was then called upon to face the iconoscopes. He looked into the faces of three hundred billion Terrans and told them simply and forcefully that Mephisto's military action prevented any peaceful negotiations, and that it was certain that they were even now preparing to maintain their isolation.

"And," he finished, "we know that isolation can not be defended. To preserve isolation, the enemy must be destroyed on his home base. We can expect attack from Mephisto unless we tackle them first. And to take the battle from Terra to them, we need men, material, and all the myriad of things that follow."

The recruiting posters hit the public next, and all of the machinery of war was started. And though it rolled in the super-slow gear at first, it would pick up momentum as time went on. All that the Patrol needed was a backlog to replace losses, and with that assured within the next few months, the mighty fleet of the Terran Space Patrol assembled at Sahara Base, formed a complex space lattice, and drove outward towards Mephisto.

Inexorably, the Terran battle fleet drove onward. Massively ponderous; immobile in its chosen course, the massed fleet flashed up through the velocity range to mid-course, made their complex turnover, and started to decelerate. Hours passed, grew into days, and the days added one to the other, and the lattice was maintained with precision and perfection. Hardly a centimeter of vacillation was observed from ship to ship, and from the Orionad in the center of the space lattice, it seemed as though the monstrous, assembled fleet were truly set in a huge glasslike jelly, immobilized.

But it was a wary personnel that manned the huge Terran Space Patrol task force. They expected something. And the fact that so many hours and days had gone without interruption did not make them less restive. Each moment that went without trouble brought more certain the chance of excitement in the next. It was a beautiful war of nerves, with the Terrans getting more and more certain of attack as the hours sped on and the fleet's velocity dropped to far below the lightning-speed of the maximum at turnover.

The watch was not stirring, save that the crews were on the constant alert for the clangor of the alarms; and the detectors were operating at overload range which gave them plenty of time to get into action—barring something superior in the way of weapons. Far better than human senses were the detectors, and they could be relied upon.

Surprise was impossible because attack was inevitable. And since the human element of watching was eliminated by the ever-alert detectors and the element of counterattack was automatic with the turret-coupled AutoMacs, it was only a matter of time. As one, the fleet moved through the vastness of space between the orbit of Pluto and their goal.

Guy Maynard prowled his scanning room impatiently. In the easy-chair beside the broad desk, Ben Williamson lazed without apparent excitement. Upon the twentieth cigarette, Ben said softly: "You should take it easy, Guy."

"Like you?" asked Maynard. "You look calm—but!"

"I know all about it. But remember, even though it's action you crave; you're the big boss on this expedition and you'll be able to do nothing but watch."

"Watch—and pray that my plans are effective. Uh-huh. But talking it down won't lessen the tension."

"Wait 'em out, Guy. They'll come soon enough."

Guy snorted, tossed his cigarette into the wastebasket and tried to relax. A matter of time, all right. Well, maybe he could wait in patience. At best he'd have to wait until the Mephistans were ready to attack.

When it came, it was swift to start and equally swift to end. From one side there came a fast-moving jet of tiny spacecraft. At unthinkable velocities, the thin stream poured into the space pattern of the Terrans.

The clangor of the alarm ceased as contacts were opened. The communications band roared with cries and questions.

"Who got it?"

"Scorpiad!"

"Bad?"

"Not yet."

"Get out the fighter-cover!"

"They're coming—give us time!"

"Time, hell! This is a space fight, not a pink tea!"

The turrets of the Scorpiad danced back and forth in a mad pattern. At the end of each lightning move they paused. At each pause they vomited unseen energy that catapulted the temperature of the Mephistan ship into incandescence.

The sky beside the moving fleet was dotted with winks of light as the fencing AutoMacs parried the rapier thrusts of the tiny fighters. More ships poured into the arrowing horde, and the dancing turrets raced madly to keep up their program. They lost space, and the wall of coruscating death moved inward.

From long range the Pleiad opened fire, and the dancing motes of flame moved back as the overloaded detectors found more time to focus upon the incoming horde.

Maynard mopped his forehead, one half at a time to permit at least one eye on the celestial globe during the job. "That was close," he snapped.

"It ain't over yet!" said Williamson shortly.

"No ... here comes another line of those devils ... at Pleiad!"

"They're not afraid to die!"

"They seem to want it!"

The Pleiad stopped the long-range fire and began to take care of the horde that was striking at her direct. Pleiad was capable of handling this new attack easily, but it left the brunt of the heavy attack on the Scorpiad.

Once more the flashing motes moved inward as the detectors found themselves unable to keep up. And still more of the tiny ships poured into the stream, and the borderline of death moved into almost-contact with the constellation ship.

A burst of flame came from the flank of the Scorpiad, and the ports flashed outward, followed by gouts of smoke and incandescence. Four red spots spread outward on the Scorpiad's hull, and the constellation ship lost drive. Unable to keep up the deceleration of the rest of the Terran fleet, Scorpiad fell out of position and dropped below the fleet—farther and farther ahead.

A blinding flash of flame came and died.

"Gone!" moaned Maynard.

"But what a cost!" said Ben.

"No cost is worth it!" said Maynard. Then he calmed and added: "Accursed business. But we may be ahead in the exchange."

"It's brutal," agreed Ben. "Let's keep 'em from getting another."

"Might be robots."

"Nope. If so, the technicians would have scrambled 'em. What's making now?"

"The fighter-cover! It's arrived!"

The incoming jet of Mephistan fighters wavered like a gas flame in a high wind, and scintillations scarred the perfection of the needling ships. The long-range fire of the constellation ships picked off the aimlessly moving ships and as the flaming specks reached an almost-solid appearance, the jet of tiny fighters ceased abruptly.

"Stopped 'em!"

Maynard nodded. "For the time."

The communicator spoke: "Commander to Marshal: Located the mother-fleet."

"Yes?"

"We're hitting them now—as per orders. But this is a warning. If we don't stop 'em first, they'll be there in fifteen minutes. They're on collision course!"

"Expected that," said Guy, worriedly.

"O.K.," said Ben in what he hoped would be an encouragement. "Now we'll see if your battle-plan works."

"I keep worrying that it won't."

"If it didn't have merit," observed Ben dryly, "it wouldn't have been adopted."

"I want to get out there and pitch."

"You gotta stay in here and hope they pitch to your call," said Williamson.

Twelve minutes later, the Mephistan fleet came into long-detector range, and the entire Terran fleet opened fire. The heavies, still circling the fleet, took up the job as soon as they came into range, and the space between became filled with flashes of fire as crossed MacMillan beams neutralized one another and spent their mighty energies in light and heat. The power rooms of the ships became a noisy clatter of automatically opening and closing circuit breakers as the MacMillan overloads worked the safety-circuits. Now and then the ultra-loud clamor of the fuse alarms rang out above the chattering racket, and the power gangs worked furiously to replace master line-fuses while the rest of the ship fumed and fretted without power for offense or defense.

The heavies—the sluggers—got between the constellation ships and the Mephistans, and their super-powered AutoMacs outfought the lighter turret-mounts of the Mephistans.

They took their long-range toll, and then as the Mephistans came into torpedo range, the sluggers fell back through the open-work pattern of the constellation ships. From here on in, the omni-powerful battlecraft would have to face battle with every weapon.

Unleashed energy filled the gap between the fleets, and the sky below the decelerating ships became a blazing graveyard of ruin as the ships lost drive and went free, falling ahead of the main body.

Word flashed through the Terran fleet that the Centuriad II had discovered the interference frequency of the Mephistan torpedoes. Technicians in all Terran ships shifted their transmitters to the called frequency, and the torpedoes lost their aiming perfection.

But they were not safe.

Wandering torpedoes continued to roam in among the Terran fleet and touched off fountains of flame and death.

Then from point-blank range, the sub-ships of Terra flashed in through the Mephistan fleet. In one great swarm they came. From the virtual zero of the detectors—that in-close distance that limited the minimum range—torpedoes dropped into being from nowhere and hit full upon ship after ship.

The Mephistan fleet became a flaring holocaust of coruscating flame.

When the fifteen-minute deadline came, the Terrans fought a remainder of the huge Mephistan horde that had tried to stop them. The dead hulls, still incandescent, were easy to dodge, though most of them had fallen free long enough before to have them cross Terra's course ahead rather than at coincidence.

Combining the big turrets of the sluggers with the primary, secondary, and tertiary batteries of the constellation ships, Terra's forces fairly crushed the fragments of Mephisto's horde that remained.

And then the sky was clear once more. The winking lights of death were silent. The furor and clatter of the instrument rooms ceased more slowly as the alarms continued to pick out detritus and to reject such harmless stuff. The power rooms were quiet, too, and the generator rooms no longer resounded to the scream of overworked generators. A clean-up began, and droplets of metal from blown fuses mingled with blackened bits of contalloy from the circuit breakers. Pyrometers dropped back to the central portion of their scales, and the air, acrid and warm, cooled and became sweet again.

They looked, and saw that the sky was theirs—completely.

Mephisto was a disk in the sky below them.

It beckoned—or did it taunt?

XI.

Terra deployed, encircled, and closed down upon Mephisto III. A flurry of up-shooting energy broke out, catching the planet-slow spacecraft easily. Down-fire crisscrossed the third moon of Mephisto, silencing some batteries.

The sluggers made a compact mass, and dropped swiftly. Their AutoMacs scored and re-scored a ten-mile square until no answering fire returned. They spread, making a vast circle and spreading a curtain of MacMillan fire as they spread. The lighter ships and the fighter carriers circled up, around, and landed in the cleared area. Constellation craft paced above the sluggers, beating off attempts to break the tightly woven circle.

A barrier went up around the area, and the landed ships opened to disgorge spacesuited men. Planet-mount detectors were set upon prefabricated towers, and coupled AutoMacMillans pointed their mute parabolic bowls at the sky, awaiting the impulse from the detectors.

The barrier increased in size as the sweeping ships spread, and as the circle increased, more ships landed and set up more planet-mounts.

With a hundred-mile moonhead established, Terra's forces relaxed to rest, eat, and plan.

It was six solid weeks before Mephisto III belonged to Terra completely. But it was not six solid weeks of constant fighting. Wars are never constant fighting. Terra photographed the moon, and went in picked groups to blast reinforced spots as they were discovered.

At first it was fairly easy to find the embattled spots. Then as the Mephistans were cleaned out of area after area, the lesser spots became harder to find. Time and again a previously-blasted spot would return to life, and it became second nature for the Terrans to be wary of any smaller place that adjoined a dead and blackened place.

The total energy sent against the smaller places rose higher than the power directed at the larger places, since it appeared wise to give the charred spots another blasting for safety.

But Terra widened her circle, covered a hemisphere, and then began to tighten down on the other side.

The peak of effort was past, now, and with ever-lessening area to cover, the job of blasting Mephisto III clean and free of Mephistans dropped in magnitude.

Then like the closing of an iris, the circle of Terra's domain throttled the resistance, and Mephisto III was completely in the hands of the Terran forces.

Maynard called Sahara Base, reported, and called for reinforcements. With orders to sit tight and hold on, Guy returned to the moon to make the best of it. He hoped to have peace and quiet for a time, but peace was not for them.

As Orionad passed inside of the barrier that blocked all radiation from Mephisto III, a horde of Mephistan fighters circled down out of the sky, came through the barrier, and made a suicide attack against the ground forces.

Again they went through that saturation attack, and they silenced battery after battery. The roar of the attack came through the almost-nothing atmosphere, and the blasting of mighty bombs shook the ground and misaligned delicate instruments. The answering fire was terrific, and the fighters rose to fight the Mephistans off with sub-ships and torpedoes.

Then this first raid was over. The Mephistans retreated and were gone in seconds, leaving the massed flight of the Terran Space Patrol with nothing to fight. They landed once again.

It was but a pattern for the days that followed. Regularly every thirty-one hours, twelve minutes, and eight seconds, a horde of Mephistans dropped down upon their third moon with all projectors blazing and then fled before the Terrans could take the initiative against them. It happened seven times this way, and then as the Terrans established the regularity of the attack, the Mephistans shifted the time, leaving the Terrans standing at their positions awaiting the order to go. Ten hours passed with no attack, and then Maynard ordered his men to relax. The wave of destruction came one hour later, and it was the same as before. The next time came within ten hours after the delayed fight, and the one after that waited until the Terrans were almost exploding with anticipation before it came. Three came within one day, and then nothing for a solid week.

Maynard swore and prowled his office in the Orionad. He lost sleep and worried ten pounds away. Then he ordered the Orionad outside of the barrier and contacted Sahara Base in person.

"Donigan?" he stormed. "When are the replacements coming?"

"Soon," said Space Marshal Donigan.

"That isn't good enough!" retorted Maynard. "This is no pink tea, Donigan. This is a matter of life and death. We have the moonlet you wanted for a base—we've had it for three weeks of sheer hell—and you say 'Soon.' With what I've got left I can't even make a stab back. It's no fun fighting a purely defensive fight, Donigan. You never know when the devils will hit, and my men are tired of being surprised in their beds."

"Do they do that all the time?" asked Donigan, thinking to chide Guy for exaggeration.

"About seven times out of ten. We may not know them, Donigan, but somehow they know us—all about us."

"What do you want?"

"Men, ordnance, materiel, hospital units, doctors, nurses, ships, and planet-fighters."

"Guy, you aren't going to blast the planet itself?"

"I sure am. At least I can make the fight come when I want it. This way, they'll blast us off of Three in another two weeks."

"You'll get them. They should be there now."

Maynard returned to the moonlet in hope—and he was watching the sky when the Mephistans hit.

Out of the black sky came a downpour of deadly torpedoes. They burst among the barracks, and though their detonations did no harm in the ultrathin atmosphere of Mephisto III, the fragmentation shot the shelters full of holes and the trapped Terran air escaped. Men died in their sleep, that night, and the Mephistans covered the moonlet in sub-ships of their own devising.

"Sub-ships!" breathed Maynard.

MacMillan beams sought the invisible enemy, and their random hits were all too few. Maynard ordered them silenced, and the Terrans hurled material torpedoes into the sky. Up among the Mephistan sub-ships went the torpedoes, to burst with great, eye-searing gouts of radiant energy.

Thousands of the energy torpedoes went aloft, and they served their purpose. The barriers of the enemy ships collected the energy and heated the sub-ships to utterly unlivable temperatures—for the Mephistans. The ships dropped out of the sky—still enveloped in their barriers—and burst open against the hard surface of Mephisto.

Three days later, the reinforcements arrived. Terrans by the million swarmed the third moonlet of Mephisto, and the hemispherical shelters dotted the surface. Cylindrical runways connected one to the next so that spacesuits were not needed to pass from one to the other. Gigantic, permanent-mount AutoMacMillans were set up in readiness; and they assured protection against practically anything that flew the skies.

With the coming of aid, life took on a less hectic appearance, and smiles appeared once more. The medical corps took over, and the injured men received better care than with the rugged life on the tiny moon. Music filled the hemispheres, and though they could not go outside because of the atmosphere, things smoothed out as time went on. There were the reunions of old friends, and stories of those hectic weeks on Mephisto III were recounted and amplified in the time-honored Terran custom.

Even Guy Maynard.

He looked up from a sheet of figures into a familiar face and came to his feet in a jump. "Joan Forbes! What are you doing here?"

Joan waved the comet-borne caduceus before him and said: "Senior Aide Forbes, if you please. Fully graduated and ready for work."

"But ... when?"

"I've been studying for three years."

"What about the ptomaine-palace?"

"I had to work somewhere to pay my tuition."

"What ambition!"

"Now stop sounding like a grandfather, Guy Maynard."

"But this is no place for a woman," objected Guy.

"Isn't it? Someone has to do the work."

"But this is grim work."

"So is life, Guy. Someone has to care for the injured. We've got to be here, you know. After all, we must be where the injured and dead are. We can only help them when we're on the very spot."

"But I think—"

"It sounds grisly? Maybe it is. Look, Guy, I'm a healthy, normal woman, no different than the average. I'm not much different than the average male when it comes to stamina, fortitude, and will. Look, Guy, it's all right for other women?"

Guy's blank face told Joan that she had scored a hit.

"But you think it not all right for a friend of yours? That's stuffy, ridiculous, and hypocritical. Rot, Guy. After all, what's good for the patrol marshal should be good enough for the girl that pinned on his insignia."

"Hm-m-m, I suppose you're right."

"I am right. After all, in order to do any limb-grafting, the free limb must be fresh. A corpse will not keep too long, Guy. Autointoxication sets in and kills the cells, and then the limb is useless for grafting. The same is true for eyes, ears, and anything that can be grafted. All right," she snapped, "it's ghoulish to take a leg from a corpse and graft it on to a man who is alive but with a shattered thigh. It's inhuman? Not at all. Of what good to the dead is their lifeless body?"

"O.K., Joan, I didn't mean to sound sanctimonious."

"All right. It's pretty ghastly sometimes, but I think it's worth it all the way."

"I'm sorry, Joan."

"Well, consider me good enough to be where the trouble is," she said with a shy smile.

"Look, Senior Aide Forbes, you are as fine an officer and gentleman as I have ever seen, even though it did take an Act of Terran Congress to make a gentleman out of you. You have my undying admiration."

"You sound sincere," she said.

"I am sincere. Some day some bird will come along that's good enough for you."

Joan's peculiar glance was lost on Guy. "When he does," she said in a strained voice, "I'll follow him to the very end of the Solar System!"

She looked at him seriously, and then turned and left. "I'll bet she will at that," he said to himself, and then forgot her in the maze of figures on his broad desk. After all, he had an important decision to make, and a conference to attend within the next hour.

"Gentlemen, we'll by-pass One and Two, and hit Mephisto direct. I think we'll fox 'em that way, they'll be certain that we wouldn't leave a main base behind us, much less two bases. But we will, and by doing that we'll take the system!"

"And when?"

"As soon as we can mobilize. Hamilton, how soon is that?"

"Do you mean that?" asked Hamilton uncertainly. The conference laughed at his deep swallow. "All right. Three hours!"

"It's done, then! Come on, fellows. This is IT!"

The grand assembled fleet lifted from Three and headed for the planet direct. With numbers enough to invade a planet, they swarmed in and were met by planet-mounted beams that took a terrible toll with their extra power. They hit Mephisto in one spot, and literally sterilized the planet for a hundred square miles. The weight of their numbers would have broken into any planet, no matter how armed. Invading was not difficult; keeping the break and spreading it to cover the planet was the difficult job. No defense can be set up against an enemy that is able to choose the time and place for his invasion. Once the invasion is made, concentration of power against the invader is possible, and that is the point in dispute.

So with ease, the Terran Space Patrol wiped out a hundred square miles of Mephisto and landed. Convoys poured in from Three, and the heavy permanent-mounts ranged the ragged square. Overhead, a horde of fighter-cover searched the skies for counterattack.

It was inevitable, and it came from all sides.

Across the plains of Mephisto came the tractor-mounted projectors. Maynard thought of the disperser screen, but behind that they were blind.

"Isn't there something better than this useless barrier?" he asked.

"Not that we know of," answered Williamson.

"Look, Ben, you take a hunk of that crew of yours and go out to the East, to sector G-21, and blast the power-conversion plant. Take the entire city if you have to. But get that plant!"

"I'll get it," said Williamson, and left. Maynard turned to Hamilton. "And you, Jack, get some of your heavies into action against sector A-13. You know the target we want destroyed."

"I sure do. And I'll get it!"

He turned to the commanding officer of the forces that arrived with the reinforcements. "Can you hold them to the north, south, and west? If so, can you advance to the east?"

"That's quite a job."

"Can you?" demanded Maynard.

The other man looked at Maynard's nebula and then down at his own rayed star. "I'll try," he said.

"No, Walter, say 'I'll do it!' and then try. We're counting on you."

There was a three-mile border around the hundred square miles of Terran-held Mephisto. It was a terrible border now. It was a solid mass of flame and fragment, and it was creeping inward slowly. Saturation destruction, it was called, and if successful, obliterated not only the enemy, but also his traces.

Above, the circling of tiny fighter ships darkened the sky, and the rain of broken ships became dangerous.

And then a wave of intense hatred filled Maynard. It was so violent that he found himself climbing the roof of his shelter to man one of the AutoMacMillans himself. He got control of himself, and saw that all the Terrans in the field of his sight were positively writhing in hatred. Shaking his head in wonder, Maynard returned to his scanning room and watched the luminous map of operations.

He was amazed to see that the sides of the square held by the Terrans were advancing, closing down that barrier of fire that bordered the square. The east side, which should have advanced slowly, was rocketing forward at a dizzy pace.

The wave of hatred diminished, and so did the swift advance. The battle settled down to a continuous roar.

Hamilton's group returned and as the sector commander landed to report, his command roared through the skies above the embattled defenders of the planet and poured destruction down upon them. Hamilton came in and told Guy: "We did it, but what a cost!"

"Bad?"

"Terrible. They hacked at us all the way there and all the way back—and when we got there, that place was defended like Sahara Base itself."

"But you got the target?"

"We did."

"Good. Can you get the target in sector L-14 now?"

"If my command holds out."

"Go ahead then—and we'll meet you at Area 2. Don't return here at all."

"I get it. You're going to abandon this place?"

"No. I'm going to hit F-67 with three quarters of the main fleet. That'll divide their defenses and we'll end up with two hundred-mile areas."

"You're going to leave enough here to hold this place?"

"Yes. It'll be tough going, but once they're divided, it'll be easier here. With three quarters of our fleet attacking another place, they'll be forced to follow. Look, Hamilton, some of their power is down! Ben must have got that power-conversion plant!"

"When are you leaving?"

"As soon as Ben returns. Hello," he said, turning to see four officers struggling with—a creature.

"We caught this one alive," offered the foremost. "Thought you'd like to see what we've been fighting!"

"Nice to know," said Maynard drily. "What now? Do you expect me to give it tea?"

The laugh was universal. But the creature straightened, and waved the tentacle on top of the shapeless collection of antennæ, tendrillike fronds of hair, and wide, flat appendages that must have passed for the head on Mephisto. It whipped the tentacle to the back of the head and found a curved case that fitted the back of the head. Another tentacle tore from the officer's grasp and found a similar box at the belt.

It turned a knob on top, and Maynard whipped his MacMillan from its holster and blasted the tentacle off at the "shoulder."

And then, in Maynard's mind there came a thought. It staggered the patrol marshal, and he blinked in unbelief. It rang in his mind: "You shouldn't have done that!"

"What?" asked Maynard aloud. "Why—?"

"You shouldn't have done that. I meant no harm with this. Now I may not retune it to your fellows."

"But—?"

"It is a development that will ultimately win for us," came the thought. "A thought-beam transmitter."

Maynard sat down suddenly. "No," he said. "I'm mad! I must be."

Hamilton said: "That I doubt, Guy. What's the matter, though. You look ill, but madness I doubt."

"He says that thing on his head and belt is a thought-beam transmitter."

"What? He says—?"

"That's his thought. But it can not be—"

"Or can it?"

"Your misbelief is amusing in the face of fact," came the amused thought. "Tell me aloud to perform some simple action."

"Can you sit down?" asked Maynard.

To the amazement of everyone, the creature bent in the middle and seated itself on a stool.

Hamilton smiled foolishly. "From here on in, Guy, that's a thought-beam transmitter. Take it from there and go on."

Guy smiled and nodded. "I'll accept it."

"It's the explanation for a lot of things," said Hamilton. "Their concentration of forces against selected targets, for instance. Their use of the barrier."

"Naturally," came the Mephistan's thought.

"I thought you couldn't tune to them," remarked Guy.

"They spoke to you—your mind followed their speech; I followed your mind. I can not talk to them direct."

"I see. It's logical. But why did you permit us to get this far?"

"You are alien; tuning the instrument to your very alien minds was a matter of hundreds of years. We have been trying, and only succeeded after the first horde of you came close—landed upon Ungre—and gave us a large thought-input to work on."

"But why did your kind fight us from the very beginning?"

"Because we know what manner of mind you have. We saw it in action before."

"Surely you knew that we would negotiate with you?"

"To our disadvantage."

"Not necessarily."

"Don't be ridiculous," came the thought. "You and I both know that the Solar System is not large enough for both our kinds."

"We have no desire to own your world."

"No? Then what are you fighting for?"

"For the right to negotiate with you—and to uphold our honor. After all, we were fired upon without provocation."

"You are the commander of the Terran forces here. Suppose a race came to Terra. Suppose this race was one you knew to be absolutely ruthless, grasping, ambitious, and proud. Suppose you knew this hypothetical race to be the one that used a minor race as subjects in vivisection; and because of valuable minerals on another planet, this race oppressed still another race and held them in ignorance so that the true value of the minerals was not known to the ignorant natives."

"You're speaking of the troglodytes of Titan—who haven't the power of reason. Why shouldn't we use their bodies as experimental subjects to aid our researches into the subject of medicine?"

"Because they, themselves, are life!" came the scathing thought. "Given the opportunity, they develop reasoning minds and are quite intelligent. Their environment holds them back. Titan is a poor place, destitute of minerals and unproductive of easy living, such as is necessary for civic advancement."

"That I do not follow."

"In order that a race advance, he must have time to think. That means leisure. His living must come easy enough to give this race time to think, and to dream, and to plan. When scratching a living out of nature becomes a full-time job, little civic advancement can prevail. Also, on Titan, he is already supreme as far as his native enemies go. There is nothing to drive the Titan to his fellows for mutual protection. Each Titan is alone because he has nothing to fear, not even his own kind.

"But," continued the Mephistan, "give him the opportunity, and you will find that the Titan can evolve into intelligent life. Say three generations!"

Guy let this matter drop, and said: "And your other statement pertains to Pluto."

"Certainly. Valuable ores were found on Pluto. Also a race of semi-intelligent natives. They traded worthless bits of glass and glittering, chromium-plated jewelry for gray and shapeless masses of dirt—but the dirt must be excavated from certain locations, and in certain ways. To keep the ores moving, and at this ridiculous rate of exchange, no program of education was installed on your Pluto. Even your Men of God—missionaries—obscured the real value of those ores. What did you give them in exchange?"

"We gave them protection against a common enemy."

"An enemy of yours that would probably have treated them no worse than you did. The protection you prattle of was protection of your own mines against the enemy, not of the natives against this enemy. In either case, the natives would be no better off."

"You paint our race as black-hearted," said Guy.

"And what did you do?" came the cynical thought. "As soon as you discovered this barrier-screen, you raised it over Pluto, and the rise in temperature, good for Terrans, killed the Plutonians to the last one! A benign race? Bah!"

"We—"

"Nothing you say will convince me that your main desire is not for yourselves! And if you think for one moment that we will permit you to throw up a barrier around Mephisto and kill us off, you're mistaken."

"You're all convinced that we mean harm?"

"You do!" The creature tapped the thought-beam instrument.

"I presume that you speak for the entire race?"

"I do. You, with your so-called democratic government; with your populace swayed by orators; with your justice biased with bribery; with your elections purchased by the highest bidder, could not possibly understand how a race could hold an honest government. But we do," said the Mephistan proudly. Again he tapped the thought-beam instrument. "This instrument tells the truth! No silvery-tongued orator can sway the people; no biased judge can color the evidence; no public servant can buy an election, for problems of state are presented via thought-wave, and a liar is detected! When you first advanced into the planets, we saw your progress. And when we found you in our system, we knew your real thoughts at last! We broadcast your hidden purpose and to the last Mephistan, we decided to fight! To the last one of us we will fight, for we know that your purpose is to move in on us and run us to death. We have nothing to lose but our lives, and those we will lose if we permit your invasion."

"You hold us in deep contempt," said Maynard. "Therefore your statements themselves are biased."

"They are not. Perhaps, with this instrument, we know you better than you do yourselves. You are death for us—unless we become death for you!"

"But what can we do when you fire upon us without provocation?"

"Stop prattling about provocation," came the thought. "When a burglar pries his way into your living room, do you wait until he collects your valuables before you fire on him?"

"Now we're burglars?"

"Worse. A burglar knows that he is doing wrong."

Guy shook his head. How could he make this creature see that Terra meant no real harm until the Mephistans made the first aggressive move?

"You made the first aggressive move," said the Mephistan. "You made it when you first landed on Titan. You made the second on Pluto. What is your feeling toward Mars? You plan extermination for them—and they only desire to grow with you."

"They—"

"Only fought back when you fought them. Only this"—tapping the instrument at his belt—"will keep us from falling in death. You, yourself, brought home many new concepts from Ertene which will throw the balance of power for Terra."

Guy started, and then looked wildly around at the other officers in the room.

"I know of Ertene from your own mind," said the creature. "These others can not hear my mind. But I curse Ertene for the things she gave you; they will make our battle difficult."

"It will make your fight impossible," said Maynard, catching the brief flash of a hidden, fearsome thought in the Mephistan's mind. He turned to Hamilton and said: "Set up a barrier about the system, and focus the output of the screen on the center of Mephisto!"

The creature snarled audibly; it was the first sound ever heard that was made by a Mephistan. He drove forward, shaking the officers' grip from him as though the hold was nothing.

A darting tentacle lunged forward like a rapier; and like a rapier it impaled Hamilton through the throat. Withdrawn, it flattened and swung like a scimitar in and among the stunned officers.

They came to life and rushed the Mephistan. Crowding the creature close. The stool upon which he had been sitting was lifted high in another tentacle and it shattered to bits against the skull of the tallest officer in the room. The other three grappled with the Mephistan and bore him backward to the floor which may have seemed desirable to the Terrans. It was also desirable to the Mephistan, too, for it gave him a more solid basis for his slashing attack. He cut through one officer's midsection entirely, crushed the skull of the next against his own by driving that bullet head forward, and then picked the last from the floor in his tentacles and dashed him across the room against the wall. The body crunched, quivered, and fell to the floor.

Maynard lifted the MacMillan and drilled the Mephistan again and again. His eyes blazed with hatred for the alien creature, and his mouth curled in utter distaste. The room filled with the stench of—burning varnish!

"Naturally," came the thought, continuing as though nothing had happened, "I could not come to such a fearsome temperature as you maintain and hope to live. You seem to have destroyed my servant, but we shall destroy you!"

When the aides came to clean up Guy's office, they found him inspecting the little instrument that fitted head and waistline of the alien creature. It was off, now, and partly disassembled upon the patrol marshal's desk.

Williamson came at Maynard's call and raised an eyebrow at Maynard's action.

"I had to do something," said Guy in a flat voice. "I couldn't just sit here and contemplate those bodies."

"I know," said Ben softly. "Anything I can do?"

"Yes. Set up a barrier. Focus the screen's output on the center of Mephisto. And then maintain that barrier for your life—and it will be just that. It will be for your very life, for it will be against the lives of all Mephistans!"

"Good!" glowed Williamson. "That'll do it!"

"It may take months," said Maynard. "But from now on we're fighting a winning battle."

"What is that thing you're tinkering with?"

"A goldberg that was on the creature's body. Interesting thing, too. Look, Ben, this thing may have been a robot, but their psychology is such that they hate us completely. Issue orders that no more prisoners are to be taken. Extermination is the only way; their strength is such that three of them could wipe out a regiment. If we don't exterminate them, they'll exterminate us, and they can do it if we permit them one chance. We'll not give them that chance. Have the technicians figure out the estimated temperature rise of Mephisto with a full screen and full output directed at the center of the planet. I'd like to know when this affair can be considered over."

"Check. I'll do it, Guy. What you need is a rest."

"I know. But there'll be no rest for any of us until this fight is finished. Come on, Ben. Let's get moving. We've got a job to do."

XII.

Guy put the alien instrument in his personal locker and went to see how the battle was coming. Out across the face of Mephisto, he saw the battle machinery locked in mobile death with the huge, alien machines of Mephisto.

The ground was strewn with smoking ruin, and Guy saw with horrified gratification that the ruined machinery was all on the Terran side of the battleground—which meant that his ring of offense was advancing. The energy bombs were bursting above the planethead, and the sky was filled with blinding light. Sub-ships fell as their drive was burned by the entrapped energy within the barriers, and Guy wondered how many men were getting energy burns from the terrific radiation from the energy bombs.

Orionad, standing in the circle of planeted ships, was dealing power blows from the turrets, and beams of energy—just energy—were roving the sky to saturate the barrier-protected sub-ships. Now and then a MacMillan beam would touch one of the sub-ships unawares, and there would be a terrific blast as the entire ship exploded instantly.

Then Guy saw his forces waver slightly, fall back, and then go down in a terrible wave of destruction from massed sub-ships.

Again they retreated, and as the next wave dropped, they expended their energy on nothing but the bald surface of Mephisto. The solid ice of Mephisto boiled into great clouds of vapor and liquid water ran across Mephisto's face for the first time.

The vapor clouded operations—for both.

One sub-ship scraped Mephisto—broke the barrier, and slid through a crashing pile of accumulating rubble to a destructive stop.

And on one upthrust plate, torn and almost obliterated, was the device of the Martian Space Guard!

"Martian!" breathed Guy.

"Right!" agreed Ben.

"Check that wreck!" exploded Guy. "What's running it!"

His order was passed: fifty Terran machines raced forward and encircled the smoking ruin; and seven of the planeted constellation ships blasted a pathway back to safety for the carry-alls.

The ruined Martian ship was dropped in a clear area, opened by brute force, and through the torn plates streamed a group of cautious Terrans. They emerged immediately.

"Martians!"

"The devil! They've made a pact!"

Maynard looked understandingly at the broken ship. "Naturally," he said sourly. "What would you do?"

Williamson looked up and nodded. "Right. Well, does this change anything?"

"No—unless it is to apply what we know about fighting Martians to the present situation. We didn't consider this possibility."

As Maynard turned to re-enter the Orionad, eighteen of Hamilton's raiding horde returned in a screaming landing. Hamilton came out, white-faced, and said, dully: "It was sheer hell—both ways. We got 'em—but they hit us with the book. Sixty percent lost!"

"How do you feel?" asked Maynard.

"I don't know."

"Take your command out again and hit Sector F-67."

Hamilton looked up in surprise, and then anger crossed his face. He saluted and said: "Yes sir!"

As he turned to go, Maynard called softly: "Hamilton! We're fighting Martians now—they've made a pact!"

Hamilton turned, looked at Maynard, and muttered something that Guy could not hear over the roar of battle. Then he returned, and faced Guy.

"The stinking, rotten devils—!" His face cleared, and he left.

Behind the embattled lines of the Mephistans, Martian craft landed. Martian sluggers, Martian power-craft, Martian constellation class super battlecraft. And as they were landing, and getting set for an open battle, the Terran forces lined up behind the thin line that flanked Orionad.

It was a situation that made Maynard start. For years, no real action had ever been fought between the two forces. Sorties, scrapes, incidents; these had been the sum total of the trouble between the denizens of two worlds. Ream upon ream had been written concerning theoretical battle-plans for war against Mars, and in the Martian pictographs, equally large quantities of ink and paper went into the libraries on how to fight Terra.

Guy realized: Here it is!

The power ships of the two forces faced one another across ten miles of plain. Above the heads of each roved the tiny fighters, and above this cover, reaching up far into the realm of space, were rising the battlecraft.

Planet forces began to move against one another, right through the unseen death that roved from the MacMillans on the tractors and the moving pillboxes. Space above the battleground filled with a continuously exploding roar, and sheets of released energy flares at the meeting points of crossed MacMillans.

The constellation ships fenced momentarily, and then roared forward into full battle. The sluggers stood back and threw the might of their energy from long range. Tiny fighters raced forward, depending upon speed, mobility, and minuteness to escape the wary detector-coupled AutoMacs.

Sight became impossible. The flaring of explosive and raw energy seared the eye that dared to look, and when the flaring light stopped by chance, the rising wreaths of smoke, steam, and incandescent vapor obscured the vision. Lightnings flashed in and through this cloud, and the instruments became wabbly.

Fire ceased briefly, and both sides waited for the veil to clear. Technicians put the cancel plugs on ruined targets to clear them from further destruction, and turretmen served the heating projectors.

A wave of sub-ships zoomed in and spread flaming death among the Terran forces, and the energy bombs poured up, and among the barrier-protected ships. A group of Martians holding disperser screens zoomed over, spreading energy in wide-aperture releases from their turrets. Bombs and torpedoes raced in through the disperser screens, and the blind crews died without knowing whether they had hit anything. Terran sub-ships crossed beneath the first wave of Martians, and hit the enemy. A veritable fence of exploding ships barred the view as sub-ships collided. Their indetectability was mutual, too.

Like twin tornadoes, the ships of both worlds spun upwards in a vast, whirling spiral. Bits of dust, smoke, and vapor intermingled with the ships, giving them a definitely tornadolike appearance as they swept the surface of Mephisto towards each other.

The volume between the twin vortices was torn and blasted. Slowly and ponderously they moved together, and as they intermingled in a whirling eddy of battle, the ground of Mephisto was scoured clean of life.

The weight of Terra's forces carried the most momentum, and the spout moved across the territory formerly held by Mars.

Reinforcements swooped in from space, and the whirling mass expanded. And with gathering speed, the vortex moved in an irregular path across Mephisto, sterilizing the planet as it went. Mephistans went before the tornado of huge battlecraft as straws go before a hurricane.

The path of the storm was strewn with smoking, ruined ships. The luckless were forced inside of the whirling cylinder and gunned there. They fell down that chimney of death to the ground that awaited them at the bottom, or crashed against uprising sub-ships that swooped upward through the vortex and fired on all sides, relying on the identifier-couplers that stopped their aim against their fellows.

The vortex broke, and the Terran ships opened from circle to crescent to straight line to closing crescent and strove to encircle the Martians. Outnumbered now, the latter fled slowly and kept up a killing fire of retreat.

Across the face of Mephisto arrowed the embattled fleets. A wall ten miles high and fifty miles long and thirty miles from front to back accelerated and swept everything before it. Between the two walls of fighting ships was a constant flare of death. Cities caught in the conflagration died; their buildings seared, blasted, and broken.

In full rout, the Martian forces raced to converge upon a large city.

In a tight circle, the Martians braced themselves. Power beams came from the city to feed them, and as Terra came before them they lashed out with the power of planet-supported fire. Terra englobed the city, but it was a questionable success.

From horizon to zenith, the Terrans poured their power into the Martian hemisphere. The ground about the city ran hot, and the grounded ring tilted and mired down, but they continued to fire back. Stalemate set in; Terra could not breach that close-knit hemisphere and Mars could not fight off the pressing Terrans. Destroyed torpedoes filled the annular gap with explosions, and crossed MacMillans flared to sear the eye.

Then a mile inside of the Martian ring, the ground heaved upward, and the ugly snouts of underground raiders appeared. Their protected turrets lifted out of the blisters and began to pour energy into the Martians from behind. The Martians swept downward from their hemisphere and fought back against the pincer-movement. The topmost Terrans pressed downward as a second ring of underground raiders appeared to bolster the first wave.

The city erupted in tiny areas as Terran undergrounds broke the surface, blasted the interfering building away with torpedoes, and lifted to add to the ever-increasing energy of the battle.

The Martians hopped backwards over the ring of undergrounds and set up an inner line. At point-blank range, and almost plate to plate, the Terrans massed their energy in a flaming wall of destruction, fighting the Martians back, foot by foot.

The circle tightened upon a tiny, central park. Spacesuited figures worked furiously under a disperser screen; they were putting the last touches upon an alien projector. No light came to them from without, but they could be seen by the light of their own working floods. Outside of the projector and the disperser, a ring of large detector-coupled MacMillans were dancing from point to point and dropping Terran ships with each point.

"Ben!" snapped Maynard. "We'd best get that thing before they finish!"

"Right. We'll hit 'em with AutoMacs and keep 'em under constant fire."

"No good."

"We can't hit 'em through that disperser, but they can't see to hit us."

"I know. But there's one thing they don't need sight to hit."

"Huh?"

"Mephisto III, you idiot. Could you hit Luna from Terra without aim?"

"If I had an ephemeris."

"What do you suppose they call theirs?"

"I—"

"Break out a ground force," ordered Maynard. "We're going to take that projector!"

The Terran fire tripled as the ground force moved ponderously across the intervening yards. A salient point was made, and the sides began to widen. Back and forth the individual sorties went, and as men and machines went up in flaring puffs of fire, the salient moved forward toward the projector.

Inside the disperser, the combined Martians and Mephistans worked furiously, though they seemed oblivious to their danger. No signals would enter this barrier, and no living thing could step outside and hope to re-enter.

They stepped back from the thirty-foot parabola, and one of them thrust down upon a plunger.

Above the parabolic reflector, a thick haze formed. A torpedo succeeded in passing the coupled AutoMacs and raced inside of the disperser and into the haze. It exploded, and its energy added to the forming vortex.

The haze thickened, became toroidal, and spread out. Up from a dun color it went, into cherry-red incandescence. Up through the red past yellow into blue and then into flaming white went the color-temperature. Like a close-knit toroid of flaming, white-hot metal, it poised above the projector, moved slightly, and then raced upwards. It passed the disperser, and the screen went up in a flare of white.

Into the sky above Mephisto went the toroid, and below it, Terrans swarmed over the projector, fought off the remaining enemy, and held the projector as their objective. The last floods of resistance died as the toroid went into the far sky above.

"Orionad!" bellowed Maynard. His ship lifted, swooped over him, and lifted him on a tractor. Upward they raced, catching the slow-moving vortex.

Turret-mounted AutoMacs vomited energy into the vortex—and back-thrusting power burned out the feedlines. Torpedoes entered the flaming mass and just disappeared. Tractor beams slid from the coruscating surface and pressor beams found nothing against which to push. A sub-ship plunged against the vortex. It was stripped of its barrier and it floated down, inert, and started the long fall to the hard ground below.

Fighting against the vortex with weapons that did no good, and cursing the foul thing all the way, Maynard and the Orionad followed its ponderous course out and out and out to Mephisto III.

It spread as it went, and by the time it wrapped its tenuousness about the tiny moon, it was almost gone. But it contained strength enough to blow out the barrier-generator that held Mephisto III invisible from without.

The toroid disappeared, and Guy, with misgivings, made inward to land at the base.

His fears grew as time went on, for he was not challenged. A swift report gave him some hope, but it came from Mephisto itself, telling him that resistance was at an end in the sector he had just left, and that the fleet, victorious and supreme on Mephisto, was returning to the outer moon.

Guy worried. Returning to what?

Inspection showed that nothing was harmed—save life. Dead men sat in their places operating instruments, dead men patrolled unseen areas, dead men manned the landing ports. It was a moon of the dead—with every instrument operable.

Not a machine was damaged—but no living things remained on Mephisto III.

Broken with grief, Guy Maynard looked down on the silent face of Senior Aide Joan Forbes. He felt wooden, and it all seemed dreamlike and unreal, but he knew that this was no dream, but cruel reality. Hat in hand, he stood there as if frozen and searched the girl's face as though expecting the closed lips to part in a smile, and the closed eyelids to open before a pair of twinkling eyes. His men knew of the affection there, and they pitied him silently.

In neat, geometrically precise rows; seven billion, four hundred million miles from home; on a tiny, almost airless moonlet of an alien planet the hundreds upon hundreds of physically perfect bodies were buried. Not a scar or burn marred them, yet—

The chaplain said: "—from the earth thou camest, and to the earth thou hast returned. And though this earth is far removed from the earth which bore thee and thine, it is thy resting place and home, for in the eyes of God Almighty all places and all planets are His Domain. And though ye travel to the farthest star, yet you will find Him there before thee, and this we know and believe for His Only Begotten Son hath said: 'My Father hath other worlds beside thine.'

"And so we consign these erstwhile friends of ours to the depths of the earth, knowing that time and space knows no deterrent to Our Father Almighty; We shall all meet again some day—"

Guy Maynard plodded away from the scene. His eyes were dry, and in his heart was nothing. Shock had taken control of Maynard. Through the rows of mounds he walked, back to the Orionad, and his entry into the super ship failed to give him that lift he always felt.

He sat in his scanning room and stared at the blank wall. Nothing aroused him. Nothing caused him to think; his mind was almost a blank, and it raced with futile rapidity from scene to scene with no plan, no reason.

An hour he sat, and the shock began to wear off. It left him with heartbreaking grief, and Maynard put his hands over his face and wept bitter, honest tears.

A phrase crept into his mind: "—the fortunes of war—!"

Maynard hated it. He hated the unknown who first said it. And then his hatred changed to the creatures that had created this ill fortune. He arose, his eyes blazing; and he thought:

Am I mad?

How could any man with such hatred be anything but mad?

Then I am mad!

He stormed out of the scanning room and went to the upper turret. He strode in, and saw that the super-projector was being installed there. Williamson turned and his face softened.

"Well, Guy?" he asked quietly.

"It's not well!" snapped Guy. Then his voice cleared and he said: "Sorry, Ben. When?" he asked, meaning the vortex projector.

"Now, I think. We lifted it wholesale, generators and all."

"Then blast the accursed planet until it writhes!"

The vortex formed and hurtled down upon Mephisto. Again it formed and went down, following the first. Rings of violent energy, the vortices flew from the snout of the projector one after the other, time and time again until Ben stopped because the power was running low. Lines were thrown in from adjoining ships and the everlasting barrage continued. Hour after hour it went on, and each vortex laid waste to a section of Mephisto.

And long after the last Mephistan was dead, the Terran torpedoes dropped on the planet. His men wondered, but still there came no order to cease fire. Moonlet-mounted AutoMacs crossed the void and scored Mephisto, and when the final blast was fired and the Patrol landed upon Mephisto, no complete article of Mephistan life was anything but a smoking, charred mass.

The taking of Mephisto was finished.

And Guy's hatred had passed through the saturation point, and all that was left to him was a dull ache. Shock had taken him again; it was with a dull, toneless voice that Guy issued orders to return the Orionad to Sahara Base.

XIII.

Guy Maynard inspected his image in the mirror and swore at it. He hated what he saw. His glance went from the mirror to the surroundings, and the face in the mirror, he felt, did not seem in keeping with the ornate suite of rooms at the Officers' Club. The rooms were rich, formal, and sedate. The face that looked back at Guy from the mirror was a composite between care and foolishness.

Lines had come between his eyes, and the frown of worry marked him, too. His face about the eyes and nose seemed old. An honest observer would have said that Guy's face had character there. But the lower piece of face was the idea of frivolity. That mustache! It was the sign of a youth trying to be grown up. It was an admission of immaturity that the face behind it was not enough front in itself; that foliage was needed to conceal the lineless face of youth.

It was there for beauty's sake! Beauty, he repeated in his mind. He snorted aloud. From now on they'd take him as he felt; as he was. In the face of his sorrow and self-hatred, Maynard was eschewing all signs of youth and self-indulgence.

He smiled slowly. They'd accept him, all right. They'd taken him wholeheartedly when he landed at Sahara after the completion of the Mephistan campaign. He'd had a three-day beard then and it hadn't mattered.

He entered the bathroom and when he emerged, his face was clean-shaven for the first time since he was twenty.

The bell rang, and from somewhere a junior aide came to open the door. Kane stepped in, and greeted Guy with surprise. "Well, young man, where's that face-fern of yours?"

"Shaved it off," grinned Maynard.

"You look better, I must say."

"I feel as though I've dropped a lot of foolishness since I did it," admitted Maynard.

"Why did you grow it in the first place?"

"Laura Greggor said she liked men with mustaches."

"And now you don't like Laura Greggor?"

"That isn't it. She'll take me for what I'm worth from now on."

"Them's harsh words, podner," drawled Kane. "What is your feeling for Laura?"

"I don't know," said Maynard honestly. "We've both been a little rough on one another, you know. She treated me slightly coldish the last time I saw her—though she was indeed warmer than the incident after the Orionad got painted. Then, too, the last time I saw her was the day before I headed for Pluto with the Orionad. Because she has been so snippy once before, I gave nebulae to Joan Forbes to pin on, remember?"

"That was a cold thing to do," said Kane.

"Laura told me not to annoy her until I could give her the insignia of a patrol marshal—when I became sector marshal. So when I was raised last time, I did as she demanded."

"Sometimes women don't expect to have their snapped words taken to the letter."

"Are you carrying her banner?" asked Guy.

"Not exactly. I'm trying to be honest. And I think that Laura Greggor would make a good wife for you."

"Why?"

"Laura has background, money, friends. She has social standing. Also, I have a feeling that she has been sort of waiting for you. After all, she is a very desirable woman, and I doubt that she has been friendless all these years."

"She's twenty-six," said Guy absently. "Maybe you're right. It'll depend upon how she greets me."

"Any woman in her right mind would greet you affectionately," smiled Kane. "You're the Man of the Hour for fair. The Man Who. You're famous, Guy. Wealth is yours for the taking. Fame is yours already. They're talking about hitting Mars, and they're naming you as supreme commander. How do you like that?"

Guy shook his head. "I've had enough killing for one lifetime."

"You'll change that opinion," said Kane. "What you need is rest and relaxation."

"I'd like to get away from the whole business," said Maynard. "I'm beginning to hate the whole shebang."

"You'll forget that. Did you know that they're going to present you with your starred nebulae tonight?"

"Are they?"

"Yes. Laura Greggor will be there, too. Are you going to offer her the chance?"

"Might as well," said Guy.

Kane looked at the younger man sharply. "You lost more than friendship out there on Mephisto," said Kane. "You lost more than your fellow men."

"You mean Joan Forbes?"

"Yes."

Guy nodded slowly. "I curse myself that I didn't realize her affection sooner. I'd have had her now if I'd not been so accursedly blind."

"No, you're wrong," said Kane. "Forbes would have followed you out there anyway. Nothing would have changed, excepting that Joan could have eased your worry some. Call her Joan Forbes or Mrs. Guy Maynard, and you would have found her out there on Mephisto III."

"I called her Forbes and ignored her affection," said Maynard with a groan.

"It's done now," said Kane. "In all of our lives, there are mistakes which cause us regret for the rest of our lives. Not one of us is immune. But, Guy, the successful ones of us forget our regrets and look forward instead of backward. Living in the past is death in the future."

"It's hard to forget," said Guy.

"And yet," said Kane, "out there you will find an entire planet ready to give you their acclaim. They'll make you forget. Unless, of course, you prefer to remember, in which case you'll retreat within yourself and become an embittered man. But if you'll go out there among the people who want you to be the hero they think you are, you'll find yourself being so busy living up to their belief that there'll be no time for regret.

"But above all, Guy, don't take the other road. You can go anywhere from here, now. If you become embittered because of your regret, you'll end up a wizened old man with nothing but sorrow to recall for all your lifetime. Life is too short and too interesting to spend it in the past. Guy, what would Forbes tell you to do?"

Guy turned. "She'd probably laugh and tell me not to be a fool. She'd probably admit in that laughing way of hers that she was the best—but second best becomes top when the best is gone."

"You're bitter," said Kane. "The remedy is people, noise, music, excitement, and forgetfulness. Come on, Guy, we'll go out now and find it!"

"I don't think I care to."

"Don't be an idiot. Must I tell the world that their hero does not come to his own functions because of grief? And Guy, why do you now fall grief-stricken? I know and you know. But frankly it was because you didn't know until too late. Now, snap out of it and come with me."

Maynard viewed the banquet with distaste. Yet it was exactly like one of those same functions that he would have given his life to attend five years ago. He thought of that and tried to forget. The reception room was filled with glitter, and the sound of talk and light laughter assailed his ears, and in part, Maynard forgot his feelings. He became eager for the laughter. Kane noticed the change, however slight its appearance, and he smiled inwardly.

"Good boy, Guy," he said. He led Guy to the center of the larger group and without a word shouldered into the circle.

It was enough. They knew Kane and accepted him easily. Then they saw Guy, and accepted him immediately; while they did not know him, they recognized him. Guy became the center of a smaller circle and one of the men growled cheerfully in Kane's ear:

"I don't know whether I like you any more or not. That young cub has collected all our women."

Kane laughed. "Call him a young cub to his face, Tony, and he'll collect your scalp."

"I know it. He's quite a fellow, I hear."

"He's the finest. Get Bill over there and we'll find a drink. And don't worry, your women will be here when you find time to take 'em home."

"I know that, too. And for nine weeks afterward they'll be yelling at me to show some get. Darn him, he even looks like a swashbuckler."

"I doubt that any piratical thoughts run through Maynard's mind," said Kane, motioning to the man called Bill. "And as far as women go, he's been a very busy boy for a long time."

"That's the trouble right now. If I'd been isolated as long as he has, I'd be howling at the moon. And look at 'em flock around! A mutual admiration society if I ever saw one."

Bill came up smiling. "It looks as though your protégé is doing well in all fields of endeavor, Kane. Right now he's fighting the battle of Amazonia."

Tony growled again. "Don't you call my wife an Amazon!"

Bill laughed. "I meant mine. Come on, let's haunt the bar where we can excel in our own fields."

The lightness of the talk was doing Maynard a world of good. There was nothing said at all; nothing of the slightest importance. It was all done by inference and by double-talk, and each of the women seemed to be doing her best to entice him. In the back of Maynard's mind something kept telling him that it was all sort of silly; that he had nothing in common with these frivolous women, but the fore portion of his mind enjoyed it.

And the stiffness went out of him, and absently he began to look over their heads for Laura Greggor. When he saw her arrive, he wondered how he should greet her, but she took the problem in her own way and came over to the group.

"Hello, Guy," she said, offering him her hand.

"I'm glad to see you," he told her.

One of the other women smiled wryly. "An eligible, girls. That's about all, now."

"We've experience," returned another. "And what has she got that we haven't?"

"His hand," said the first. "And from here, it looks as though she intends to keep it."

The orchestra broke into dance music, and as though prearranged, Guy led Laura through the crowd to the dance floor.

"How've you been?" he asked quietly.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Fine," she said. "I'm glad you're here."

"So am I—now. An hour ago I didn't think I would."

"So?"

"I was feeling low. Reaction, I guess."

"What you need is relaxation," she told him. "A drink, perhaps?"

"Could be," he agreed.

"If I were you, I'd get good and fried. You must have been through everything."

"It seems like everything," he smiled. "But I can't get stinkeroo. I'm supposed to be the guest of honor."

Laura laughed lightly, and led him to the bar where she prescribed a healthy drink. Guy downed it, gulped, and wiped tears from his eyes. "Whoooooo!" he squealed, hugging his midsection.

"Sissy," giggled Laura.

"Feels like a MacMillian going off down there. Is there a fire extinguisher in the place?"

They both laughed. Then Laura led the way to the opened French doors and out into the fragrant garden. It was warm and pleasant there, and with one thought they went to the far, darker end of the garden and sat down.

"Did you think of me?" asked Laura.

"Always," lied Maynard. Then he said truthfully: "I've been working toward this moment for a long time. You wanted a set of patrol marshal's nebulae. You may have mine, now."

Laura took the box, and looked at the starred nebulae of the sector marshal.

"I shouldn't do this," she teased.

It rubbed Maynard the wrong way, that teasing. He knew it was just coquetry, but still it went against the grain. It was probably because he knew what was in her mind.

"Why not?" he asked. "In some circles it is considered an honor."

"Huh," gibed Laura, "perhaps in some circles. But remember it is no great novelty to the daughter of a space marshal."

"The thrill of giving some bird the royal send-off is gone, hey?" asked Guy, stubbornly. "How many other officers have you done the honor for?"

"Quite a number," she told him. "Quite a few more than any one man can boast of having women do it for him. After all, one man only gets eight new insignia during the course of his life."

"You must have quite a collection," said Guy. "Which collection includes some of mine."

"Some," answered Laura sharply. "Most of my officers are true, though, and do not go off letting other girls pin their insignia on."

Guy shrugged. This was not going according to plan at all. But best have it out. If he could get the upper hand in this argument with Laura, he'd feel better. Always before he had come off second best in disagreements with Laura Greggor. But he felt that he was dead right in this affair, and he was not going to back down now that she had flung his actions into his teeth.

"Well," he said with an expansive wave of the hand, "you told me not to annoy you with petty trifles, and that you'd be glad to accept the patrol marshal's nebulae when I became sector marshal. I merely followed your wishes. To the letter, in fact."

"You didn't have to make a public show of yourself with that little waitress!"

"You mean Senior Aide Forbes?" asked Maynard, feeling the back of his neck bristle. If he'd been possessed of any kind of mane, it would have stood up in anger.

"Senior aide? How did she get that rank?" scorned Laura.

"She worked for it. And hard."

"Slinging hash?"

"No, you little twirp. She went to a school for Patrol Nurse Corps and paid for her tuition by working nights."

"She could have made a better night-living than working in a beanery," snapped Laura.

Slap!

Maynard had been raised as a normal youngster. His mother had done her best to instill the instincts of a gentleman in her son Guy, and at an early age he discovered that little girls are not to be beaten over the skull with a toy truck, and that beebee guns make little round bruises when they hit little girls' legs, and that produced bad evidence. Little girls, he learned, had no such restriction upon their action, but could let him have a few quick blows without suffering the consequences. On the other hand, he soon discovered that at best their blows didn't count for much, and so he learned that hitting women was taking an unfair advantage.

But hitting with the tongue had never been explained to Maynard's satisfaction. Laura Greggor was being just too open with her scorn. And so Maynard, who never had hit a lady before, slapped Laura Greggor across the face.

"You hit me," she said in absolute surprise and equally absolute anger.

"You talk too rotten about someone far above you," snapped Maynard.

"Don't you call me rotten," snarled Laura. "Go on back to that little trollop you prefer."

"Can't," said Guy shortly. "She died up there!"

It made no impression on Laura. "And so now you come running back to me? Sorry, Guy. I don't play second fiddle—even to a corpse!"

"You don't have to," he said evenly. He took the box from her hand. Then as she watched in amazement, Guy removed his own insignia and placed the starred nebulae on his own lapel. With that finished, he arose from the bench; flung the plain nebulae into the little lagoon, and left Laura sitting there.

Guy entered the room through the same door, and went immediately into the bar where he downed four drinks in rapid succession.

He felt as though he needed that alcoholic sterilization of his mouth. Maynard's stomach was unused to liquor in such undilution. It reacted; got rid of the alcohol as soon as it could by filtering it into the blood stream. In other words, Guy became slightly drunk on a total of five drinks. Unevenly, Guy went to the main room, where he was immediately taken in tow by two women.

"Now," said the one on his right, "we have you to ourselves. Tell us about Mephisto."

"How did you find it?"

I found it cold and forbidding.

"To think that it was undiscovered for all of these years!"

Too bad I did find it.

"You found it, and you conquered it. That makes it almost your own planet, Guy."

I'll trade it for a chance to seek it again.

They prattled on, not noticing his silence. They wouldn't have heard him if he had spoken, for they poured the questions at him without waiting for an answer.

"Was it exciting to go all the way out there?"

It was deadly. They hit us with all they had.

"Tell us about the battle. We want to hear the final words on the finish of the fight. Tell us how you captured the weapon that destroyed all Mephisto. Was that thrilling?"

Thrilling? Maynard saw a white face with closed eyes, neatly placed in endless rows of other faces. He heard the voice of the chaplain saying again: "—vast though the universe be, and though you travel it endlessly, there you will find His work—"

How could death be thrilling?

"You make me sick," said Maynard uncertainly.

"He's drunk."

"Yes, I'm drunk," he roared. "And you'd be dead or worse than drunk if you'd seen what I had to live with. What do you know of death and of war? Thrilling? Exciting? Wonderful? Bah. It was rotten, as sordid, and as ungodly as running opium! Sending men to their death. Fighting a war against an enemy that knows it is fighting for its right to live.

"Fighting for what? So that you and your kind can sit here and praise the unlucky man who is destined to return for these medals.

"Fighting to make the Solar System bend to Terra's will, that's what it is. What did we want of Mephisto? Nothing except tribute. I'm sick and tired of people telling me that I did a wonderful job. A brilliant job of butchering, that's what they mean!"

"Guy, take it easy. They mean no harm," interposed Kane.

"If they want to see how thrilling war is," blazed Guy, "let 'em go out and see!"

"Take it easy!"

"Let 'em help cut the leg from a corpse so that it can be grafted onto a lad with his leg shot off!" stormed Guy. "Let 'em watch a ship fall ten thousand miles into a planet, and watch it blaze as it hits the air."

"It's all over," Kane told him. He turned to the rapidly collecting group and said: "Permit me to apologize. Guy has been through hell, and shock still claims him."

"It's over?" asked Guy. "It'll never be over. It'll go on and on and on until the last Terran is dead and forgotten."

"Well," said Kane, "you'd better make the best of it, Guy. You're Terran, and there's no place else to go."

"I'd like to find a planet that hasn't seen war for a thousand years," said Guy uncertainly. The alcohol-concentration was reaching new levels in Guy's system, and his brain was feeling more and more the effects.

"We'd all like that," said Kane. "Now break it up, Guy, and simmer down."

The storm passed, then, and Kane walked Guy into the dining room and seated him at the speakers' table.

The room hazed before Guy's eyes as he sat down. The echo of his voice resounded in his brain: "A thousand years—"

What was it that Charalas said? A thousand years—no, it was more than that. Thousands of years since they had war. That was a planet! Ertene. The nomad world that wanted no part of Sol's warfare and strife; killing and death. They knew—they knew from the things he said—that Terra was a planet of self-aggrandizement and that Terrans were proud, haughty, and belligerent.

Maynard laughed wildly.

His hand felt the clean-shaven face.

He'd go there!

"No strife for thousands of years," he said aloud.

Space Marshal Mantley, at his side, turned in puzzlement and asked: "What was that?"

Maynard saw the other as a sheer maze of white; no features were visible to his befuddled mind.

"They haven't had war for thousands of years," he said.

"Who? What kind of dead, sterile place is that?"

"Ertene—and never call Ertene dead!" exploded Guy.

"What's Ertene?"

"Ertene—the nomad planet. The wanderers."

"I do not follow?"

"They came and saw us. They decided not to have any."

Mantley turned to Kane and said: "What is this young man talking about?"

"I should know?" asked Kane with a shrug. "He's drunk—and though it is deplorable that he should pick this time to get that way, I, for one, don't blame him."

"Well, after the circumstances, neither do I," agreed Mantley with a sympathetic smile. "Those female predators would drive any man to murder with their thoughtless questions. But look, Kane, this tale of a nomad planet that preferred peace to association with Terra sounds too complicated to be the figment of a drunken imagination."

"How could it be anything but?"

"Not a drunken figment," blurted Guy. "I was there, I should know."

"It must be a wonderful place," said Mantley soothingly.

"It is a paradise," insisted Guy.

"And you were there?"

"How would I know about it otherwise?"

"All right," laughed Kane. "Prove it!"

"How can I? They destroyed every shred of evidence."

"Who did?"

"You did—you and your kind. Didn't want Mars to know about Mardinex—shot up the lifeship. Made me mem'rise forged log—forged by Ertinians to fool you—and then burned log. Ha!" and Guy went into a paroxysm of laughter. "You forged a log from a forged log."

"When was this visit?"

"When—right after capture by Martians. Came home to Terra."

"Kane," said Mantley, "there may be nothing to this wild yarn. But to stop any wild talk on the part of observers here, I'm going to investigate thoroughly."

"Please do. I'm certain that it will kill any rumors. Guy went through part of the Martian idea of torture, I think, and it may have deranged his mind somewhat."

"I'll look into it," said Mantley.

"We can permit no ugly rumor to mar the record of Guy Maynard," insisted Kane. "He is too high a figure now to permit rumors—and there are those who would spread such rumors."

Mantley nodded. "Some of them are here, and they have heard."

"You don't mind a bit of scorn?"

"Of what kind?"

"My publications will break this, of course. We'll do it in the light of an investigation made over the statements made in jest by Sector Marshal Maynard. You may find yourself an object of some scorn since you are willing to accept the prattlings of a slightly-drunken man, suffering from battle-shock, as basis for a formal investigation."

"If you'll paint me as an unwilling investigator, I'll take it."

"Well," smiled Kane, "you are unwilling, I know. You'll be portrayed as a friend of Maynard's who is forced to investigate and is doing so only because your duty to the Patrol insists that you do. Correct?"

"Yes. But let's get it over with. I wouldn't want this dragged out too far."

XIV.

Guy Maynard faced the President of the Court, who said to him: "Maynard, your story is absurd. That you spent a year on an unknown planet sounds impossible. But—there is one bit of evidence which, if you can explain, will be discarded. Early medical records claim that you have a MacMillan burn beneath your right arm. It is further stated that if this scar is not removed, it will turn into cancer. No record can be found of its removal—yet it is gone. To clear yourself, name the surgeon that removed the dangerous scar."

Maynard blinked. He'd forgotten the scar entirely. It had been a minute speck that had never given him a bit of trouble.

"The record states that you got that scar at age twenty-two. You were a junior aide at the time, and you received the burn in a fight with the Martians during the Martio-Terran Incident."

He'd gotten it before he went to Ertene!

"Can you recall the name of the doctor?"

Guy shook his head.

"I can not believe that you would visit a disreputable doctor for such treatment when the Base doctor is available—and the expense is no answer. Having received the wound in service, its treatment is a responsibility of the government. Yet we have searched the records of all reputable doctors and find no mention."

Guy shook his head again.

"Maynard, I am beginning to assume that there is truth in your drunken story. Your developments—your inventions—were so startling and so brilliant. Memorized details of a civilization's best efforts. The barrier-screen. Used, no doubt, to keep Ertene hidden as it passes from start to finish through the universe. A brilliant bit of adaptation, Maynard."

"That's a little harsh, Mantley," said Kane.

"Are you in this with him?" asked Mantley sharply. "If I were you, Kane, I'd look to my own past and see if there are any loose ends. We may decide that you know about this, too."

"You're being overharsh to a man that should have the entire world at his feet."

"Maynard, will you swear upon your honor that no such planet exists?" demanded Mantley.

Maynard remained silent, convicting himself.

"Ha! Then it was not drunkenness entirely. Look, Maynard. Your high position as sector marshal will not help you in the face of this. The entire situation will be overlooked if you do your duty and lead us to Ertene now."

Maynard made a soundless "No".

"You are a valuable man," insisted Mantley. "Copies though the originals may have been, your work at adaptation is nothing short of genius. To take an alien concept and reduce it to practice is no small feat, Guy. Do not fling your future into the drink. Lead us to Ertene, and we will consider your job well done."

"They saved my life," said Guy. "They gave me knowledge. I strived and worked enthusiastically in an effort to convince Ertene that Terra and Sol would ever be friendly, and offered her a place near Sol. I assured Ertene of our undying alliance and protection. They preferred eternal loneliness to joining a militant system such as ours. Since they felt that entering Sol's system would bring about the death of Ertinian integrity, they offered me life in exchange for silence."

"A fine bargain," sneered Mantley.

"I swore to keep their secret. I shall."

"Your honor is rooted in dishonor—"

"That I deny. I had no other alternative. I could bring their secrets to you only by swearing silence. If I had not sworn silence, I would have been executed. Alive, but silent, I brought to Terra the science by which she will gain mastery over the Solar System. Dead, I would have been able to do nothing, and Terra would not have the benefit of the things I brought. Give me that credit, at least!"

"You should have sworn silence," said Mantley coldly. "And then taken us to them."

"You would prefer an officer whose word means nothing?"

"False oaths. The only oath that is worth the breath of life is your oath to the Patrol."

"I see. Dishonesty extends in only one direction? Be rotten to the core—for the Terran Space Patrol! Even a Martian spy has more honor than that!"

"Enough. We find you guilty of treasonable acts, Maynard. You will be removed from command, relieved of any connection with the Terran Space Patrol, and your citizenship in the Terran and Colonial Alliance destroyed. We'll see how popular you are, Maynard. No matter how big a man may get, he still is less than the world itself. We'll find out whether you can find friends who trust you when you've been dishonorably discharged from the Patrol.

"There is this fact. To remove the Act of Treason from your record, you must remove the charge. By leading us to Ertene you will remove any cause for action, and by doing so you will regain your position. Understand?"

Maynard's lips curled in a sneer. He said nothing because there was nothing to say. The President of the Court approached him and harshly ripped the insignia from his uniform.

"Thus I remove the sacred shields of honor from a man of dishonor. He has defiled them."

The insignia were dropped into a small box, which was then burned so that no trace of the original shapes remained. During the firing of the insignia, Guy stood woodenly. His former friends looked past him, through him, ignoring him. They arose and filed out of the room, leaving Guy standing alone.

Completely alone.

He stood on the edge of the great spaceport and watched the activity. It was hard to realize that he was no longer a part of it; he knew that he could return as soon as he grew tired of going hungry, of finding no work, of being without a single friend. But before he did that—well, he was not reduced to starvation yet. Perhaps something would turn up.

He heard a footstep beside him, and found it was Kane.

"Sorry," he said to the publisher.

"So am I, Guy. But I believe with you. You should have been permitted your little secret. Would they have preferred another Mephisto? A planet such as you describe ruined and sterilized because of pride? No—and believing that I know the mettle of the people on that mysterious planet, I know that they'd die before they'd permit invasion. Right?"

"Absolutely. That's why I did nothing. They were human, Kane, as you and I are human. A dead specimen is no good in a zoo."

"I know. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"Don't take it too hard. I'm still the big publisher. I'll see that your case reaches the public in the proper light. You'll be a victim of Patrol politics, thrown out because of personal pettiness over practical action."

"That may help."

"They'll never stand for it."

"You should know."

"I do. Now look, Guy. Will you take the Loki and head for Pluto? Get lost there on Pluto; hire out as a workman. When the time is ripe, you'll know and can come back. I'm not going to see my friend broken because of their high-handed methods."

"That's offering a lot."

"Not at all. I can pick the Loki up there. Right at the present time you'd get nowhere if you stay on Terra; your face is known to every man, woman, and child on the planet."

"But—"

"Go to Pluto, Guy. Out there they will not demand ten years of references before you apply for a job."

Guy faced Kane once more. "Was I right?" he asked.

"As far as I am concerned, you were. And as far as I have the ability to make people believe—and I've made quite a pile doing just that—they'll believe, too. We'll campaign you right back into the service. But meantime you must play this my way. Disappear, Guy, because when you return, we can claim another M-12 for you, and tell the world that your dismissal was all a part of a grand plot. Understand?"

Guy nodded. Kane's argument was very sound. Remaining in the light would destroy any chances of squashing the charge later.

"I'll do it!"

Kane handed Maynard the key to the Loki's shelter. "Keep an eye on the newsprint," he said. "You'll know when to return!"

High in the Solar System; up near the orbit of Jupiter, Guy became lonely. Killing time, he'd started at a 1-G drive, and in spite of the terrific velocities that can be achieved at a single G, it took a long time to make the run to Pluto at 1-G. He'd watched and listened daily to the Press Broadcasts and gratified to know that Kane's campaign was off to a successful start.

Other headline stories bothered him. The Patrol had started a search for the hidden planet. It worried Guy. Supposing that they did manage to find it? The recurring worry caused cold sweat and shakes, and it was only by main force that Guy willed himself into a semblance of nervous stability.

Again and again he analyzed his actions. He viewed them as Guy Maynard. He tried to see them from the standpoint of the Patrol. He tried to visualize the thoughts of the people, and knew that they were being swayed by both Kane's publicity and the Patrol's adverse reports. Would they ever know the real truth? How could they ever really realize the facts when the facts were cloaked in suave words and shaded tones?

The Mephistan was right. True democracy would occur only when the thought-beam instruments became universal and fancy words no longer prevailed. But all evidence of the mental instruments was destroyed on Mephisto; Guy had seen to that. He'd been afraid that their use would disclose his secret.

It would have uncovered his secret, without a doubt.

And yet he was responsible for destroying an instrument that would have been the salvation of mankind. Wars and strife and graft and lies were the rewards of power; and power went to the man who was wealthy and dishonest enough to buy it. An honest man did not have a real chance to gain power; others bought it easily, and by trying their tactics and buying their power, they themselves became dishonest.

He felt like cursing Ertene, and then remembered that without the nomad world, he would have been dead.

And yet, what had he gained from life?

It was a hard thing to balance and justify. He'd had his day of success and power. Regardless of what they said about him, he had made his good mark on history. He realized the life was a continuous succession of rises and falls, and by all the rules he had been heading for the fall. But to have fallen so far—was that really fair?

How should he have treated Laura Greggor? And what of Joan? Could he have changed that, really?

Mephisto? Well, he'd found the tenth planet for them because he wanted power himself. He'd fought the tenth planet, and had given Terra another planet to colonize, and in carrying on the long incident of the tenth planet, had succeeded in losing something that could not be calculated in the mean terms of money.

He wondered whether he was any better than the rest. Had he been satisfied to remain as he was, Mephisto would have been discovered by someone else, and that would have lessened his chances of getting involved in this present situation. But no. He had to strike high and hard, so that he could fling the insignia of the Patrol Marshal in Laura Greggor's face with an "I told you so!"

Laura Greggor didn't deserve it.

And then what had he done? He'd pinned them on himself.

Guy smiled glumly. "Superstition," he snorted. And yet it had happened. The first time he'd pinned his own lapel ornaments on, trouble had claimed him for its own. "Superstition!" he growled. Perhaps superstition was just the human-equation coming to the fore. Those unexplainable factors of human behavior. In walking under a ladder, one might get hit by falling tools; in breaking a mirror one might cut himself; one was fortunate to find a four-leaved clover because they were rare, one so fortunate might repeat. In having disaster fall upon an officer that had no friend to pin his insignia on—it meant that he had no true friends. At least, no friends among the opposite sex.

And Maynard knew that a man of that character, whose friends did not include one member of the opposite sex, was possessed of a warp in his get-together and quite capable of speeding blindly into some form of disaster. A man should be balanced in all things—even to the sex of his friends.

Guy felt a tiny pang of jealousy. Who, he wondered, had been the lucky man to pin the caduceus on Joan's uniform?

Guy turned to the news-recorder and read the pages with aloof interest. A great verbal fight was beginning between Kane's outfit and another. Guy shook his head. It was all wrong. Kane shouldn't be fighting the Patrol. They'd break him—and then what good could he do. For even a publication company such as Kane's to attempt to sway the people against the wishes of the Patrol was foolish. And Kane's interests covered everything possible in the realm of the Fourth Estate. Books, broadcast, newsprint, commercial advertising, everything.

A trace of humor passed through Guy. It was a trace of that same humor that had been essential in saving every human being since the beginning of time.

Guy listened to the glowing claims of an advertiser on the newscast and laughed to think what the thought-beam would do to his script—"—and these cigarettes, ladies and gentlemen, are made of no worse a grade of floor-sweepings than any other brand!"

He laughed, and it did him good.

But this rise in feeling was short-lived. The next newscast took him right down to the bottom again.

It was a long editorial, written by one of the High Command, denouncing Kane and his publications, and officially suspending all operations of the Kane Publishing Co. for publicly and aggressively resisting the Patrol's attempt to add still an eleventh planet to the Solar System.

It made no matter that Ertene was passing through. They did not know that Ertene was dirigible and could be swung into an orbit. In fact they thought not. But they were determined to visit Ertene. And Guy Maynard knew that their intent was to ravage the nomad of her treasures and every bit of her science.

So Kane was no longer a factor. He had fallen in the battle to save a friend—himself, Guy Maynard.

Guy felt that he was an unfortunate fellow. Everything that he loved and wanted to befriend was going to hell—or had gone there already. Even Ertene—

No! Perhaps he could still do something about that!

Not openly. But he could pass as Ertinian, he knew, provided that he shaved twice daily and managed to hide his razor well.

It would take years of careful planning and working to get himself to a dominant position on Ertene—one that would be without question. He'd done it on Terra—using Ertinian science, and no doubt he could do the same thing on Ertene using Terran science.

He had time. Ertene was still far, far out beyond the orbit of Mephisto and the speed gave him years to prepare, unless an unhappy accident cut his time. He made an oath, then. There were two things to take with him. The vortex projector and the thought-beam. One, Terra had. The other, neither knew existed. A threat on the part of Ertene to blast Sol itself with vortices might hold Terra away, and the thought-beam would solidify Ertene against invaders.

If his action in coming to Ertene to protect them were really known, he didn't think they'd act harshly in his direction. Ertene was one place where the thought-beam would save him at the proper time.

Maynard strode to the tiny pilot's chamber and charted the course of the Loki.

When he established the barrier, he did not know that a hundred beam-detectors throughout the system went wandering foolishly; their center-of-urge gone completely. But he suspected, and he searched the Loki with a sensitive detector rigged out of the communications set parts and located twelve separate spotter-generators.

If he were to land on Ertene safely, he'd want no detectors on him. And if the barrier failed for the barest instant on his course, Terra would be on the trail in minutes.

Once inside the great barrier that covered Ertene, he would be safe—except that he wanted no Ertinian to detect him either.

So he combed the Loki free of all emission and then continued to coast toward Pluto, concealed behind the barrier.

Ertene was on the far side of Sol.

Evasion of the Patrol was going to be a problem. Though he was not undetectable, they knew where he was and how fast he was going and in what direction. Their course-predictors could extrapolate very well indeed, and could predict the position of a barrier-hidden ship since no drive would work behind the barrier. It was a matter of straight-line projection unless the celestial masses caused some deflection, but this could also be calculated.

Since his creation of the barrier would be taken as an admission of flight, he was willing to wager his life that a Terran ship would soon take the pursuit. Armed with the course-prediction, the ship would match the Loki's velocity and position to a precision within a few days.

He could not hope to drive the Loki under the barrier. Yet he was beyond the negative-detector range that he had devised on the Orionad to predict the positions of sub-ships. His problem, then, was to stay outside of that range, and at the same time change his course.

Once the barrier was removed, he would be detected by his drive. He shook his head. Well, there were certain ideas he could give a try. And, luckily, there was no premium put on time.

He would make use of the minor errors in all detectors. He could make use of the "angles of confusion" which give areas instead of pinpricks at great distances for the position of a target. And he could hope to win through.

Kane's little ship was not a Patrol ship, unluckily, though the publisher had installed just about every attachment that he could get his hands on. Guy's assumption that he would find acceleration garb in the locker was correct, and he strapped the binding, holding suit on tightly and waited while the oxygen-content of the Loki increased.

Then Guy cut the barrier and pointed the top of the Loki north; at ninety degrees from his line of flight and drove it for thirty minutes at a bone-tingling 10-Gs. Then he set the barrier again and coasted.

He'd been loafing along the road to Pluto at 1-G. He was about halfway there, and it had taken him slightly less than ten days, twenty-four hours each, to achieve his present initial velocity, Plutowards, of just a trace over five thousand miles per second. His action at driving the ship northward had changed his course only slightly. It had given him one hundred and ten miles per second velocity northward. His course, then, differed from the original course by the angle whose tangent is equal to one hundred ten divided by five thousand, or roughly one over fifty.

In decimals, this becomes point zero two. It is one degree, eight minutes, and forty-four plus seconds.

Not much, but enough to throw Guy quite a bit out of place by the time he continued to coast toward Pluto. Minute angles add up when they are projected for half the distance from Sol to Pluto, a matter of one billion, eight hundred fifty million miles. That plus the fact that he should start decelerating at 1-G to make Pluto and his calculated course constants come out even.

Then there came a long period of nothing to do.

But Guy found things to do. He went to work on the detector. He increased its gain, and in doing so sacrificed much of its selectivity and directivity. Targets at one million miles, formerly at extreme range, would no longer be pinpoints in the celestial sphere, but shapeless masses but one third the distance out from the center of the detector sphere. The angles of confusion would be greater, too, and the noise level went up to almost prohibitive quantities. Flecks of noise-projected light filled the globe with a constantly swirling, continually changing pattern that reminded Guy of the Brownian Movement viewed in three dimensions.

Calibration of the souped-up detector range was based on estimation since no accurate measure of distances was available to him. Guy pessimistically estimated the range at three million miles and hoped it good enough.

At least, no ships were within that range.

And since the barrier, when first established, had broken the far-flung contact maintained by the driver-detectors on Terra, Guy was safe until they could send out ships to intercept him.

He cursed the cardex files in all Patrol ships, and wondered whether he could change the Loki sufficiently to make it appear different to the sorting machines and the characteristic detectors. The detector impulses were based on the size, the characteristic radiation of the drivers, the mass, and the metal of the hull. Those four characteristics were individual and while some duplications occurred, sufficient evidence remained to pin the cardex-information down to a particular ship. Especially when this particular ship was being sought and others of the same characteristic would be catalogued as to course, and position.

He had the barrier, but he could not drive through it. He could hide, but when hiding could not run. He could run, but when running could not hide.

But he was the equal of the Patrol's best watchdogs. A bit of hare and hounds might come out with the hare a winner. At worst, Guy had nothing to lose.

XV.

His only hope of escaping detection was his knowledge that the negative-detector, developed in the Orionad for use against sub-ships was less sensitive as to range than the positive-detector. The establishment of negative evidence is never conclusive. And his souped-up detector would outrange any but another souped-up job.

So Guy coasted for days, which at five thousand miles took him far, far beyond the orbit of Pluto. Then he crammed on the deceleration and came to a stop, with respect to Sol, and then started back along a course several degrees to the south and thirty degrees to the right of Sol. He drove at the same 10-Gs for an hour and then closed the barrier about him once more.

Meanwhile, the mathematicians on Terra had been plying their trade. The Laws of Probability came out of hiding and became their favorite subject. Knowing his course and direction up to the first establishment of the barrier, which surprised them and caused them to dislike Kane that much more for having installed one on the Loki, they tossed their hypothetical coin, drew probability curves, made space-models, and came up with a flared cone, in which volume Guy must appear. And then they buttered their decision by stating that the cone held true only if Guy did not apply power in another direction.

They grinned, when they said it. It was thirty billion to one that Guy would apply power instead of just running off at five thousand miles per second until he hit the next star in line with that course.

So they sent out ships with souped-up detectors to follow the edges of the cone.

And Guy, running back Solward outside of the cone of expectancy with the barrier on, detected them at extreme range and laughed. He left them running in the opposite direction, and when they were far beyond range, Guy dropped his barrier and drove at an angle away from Sol which added to a quartering course from Pluto by the time he had the course corrected. He drove solid for days at 1-G, and then decelerated in an upwards vector which carried him a billion miles to the north of the Celestial Equator and ten billion miles from Sol. He turned again and ran tangent to the circle from his position to Sol, and dropped slightly southward. Again he came to a stop.

Then, with a sad shake of his head, he abandoned the Loki. He dropped from the larger ship in the tiniest of lifeships, and taking the barrier-generator with him, he let the Loki drive across the System towards Mephisto, while he in the lifeship gave a short, ten minute thrust at 10-Gs and set up the barrier again.

If any detectors had been close enough to catch him, they would be souped-up to the limit of gain, for his own super-sensitive detectors caught no pursuit. At that range, both lifeship and Loki would appear as a single drive, and when he disappeared, only Loki at 10-Gs would remain to lead them across the Solar System towards Mephisto.

He laughed. If this chase had been a chase to the death, he'd have been dead by now. But they had preferred to let him think he was being let alone, or that they had lost him. He'd given them the slip, he knew. And if they were still on the lookout, they'd follow Loki right across that vast orbit and beyond Mephisto on the other side. Better than twenty billion miles!

And with Loki running on clockwork for the barrier, and with the autopilot set for a series of gyrations with an apparent ending of the course completely unpredictable and yet obviously better than fifty billion miles beyond Mephisto, in an area that covered as much sky as the orbit of Mars itself—

They'd spend a lot of time thinking of that one.

It was slightly funny, though. The Terran mathematicians did not know that Guy was starting for Pluto in the first place. They believed that the initial start was but a throw-off direction on the secret way to Ertene. They based their probabilities on that one fact, and built their house of mathematical cards on that false premise. They came up with what they thought to be a shrewd guess—and when the Loki was picked up rifling across the Solar System in the direction of Mephisto, they jumped up and down in glee.

The Laws of Probabilities had coincided with the Laws of Absolute Randomness, the basic rule of which argument is that there are no laws that prevail.

And while the Solar System combed the vastness of space beyond Mephisto for the hidden planet, Guy Maynard was coasting out of the Solar System on the opposite side, approaching the hidden planet in truth.

Guy was going slowly as spaceships travel, but he was secure in the belief that he was not followed. He wondered whether his arduous path had been really necessary. He'd given them the shake easily. Right on the first try, and from then on he'd been able to go free as he wanted. The rest of his manipulation had been insurance.

But there had been no pursuit. It was almost impossible to have flown the millions of miles he had covered in free flight along a course beside another freely flying ship without diverging or converging. That would take corrective driving, and the radiation would flare in his detector. He had seen none. He was safe.

He spent his time figuring, and trying to fix the position of Ertene. He corrected his fix time after time, and prayed that he was right.

And when he detected the great, nonreflecting sphere in space with his converted detector, he shouted in joy.

He passed Ertene and went beyond detector range by twenty million miles. Then he broke his barrier and directed the lifeship to the center of the big barrier over Ertene. He closed his own barrier again and watched the blackness increase in size as he coasted toward it. He made contact, passed inside, and saw Ertene and the synthetic sun.

He kept his barrier on and approached the planet with the acceleration of falling bodies.

He hit the atmosphere and the falling velocity turned the silence of space-flight into a scream. He watched the pyrometers, and though the hull became hot, it did not become dangerously so. His velocity upon contact had been in thousands of feet per second, not miles, as would have been the case in a meteor.

The velocity dropped slightly; Guy calculated the terminal velocity of the lifeship at three hundred miles per hour, and with that in mind he began to figure furiously.

He had none too much time.

His automatic calculator ground out the answer. The best he could do was sixty seconds at 12-Gs! That would bring him to almost-zero velocity upon contact with Ertene.

He believed that sixty seconds would be short enough to escape detection by any but an observer expecting him. The recorders, showing a streak that ended deep in Ertene's broad ocean would be suspected of recording noise-transients instead of a signal. No ship would land deep in an ocean.

And it must be remembered that Ertinians were quite nonsuspicious, since they'd had no experience with disreputable characters for several thousands of years. They might not even have detection circuits working other than to enumerate the items that came in through the screen above. His barrier would not cause reaction with the big barrier about Ertene; it would have presented another problem of entering if it were so.

Guy sprawled in the flattened pilot's chair, took a deep breath, and then the autopilot threw on 12-Gs of deceleration. Sixty seconds later, the slowed ship splashed wide and beautifully into the ocean, and sank gently to the bottom.

And Guy spent twenty-four solid hours trying to detect the spurious responses that might emanate from a close-at-hand detector circuit.

No one came to investigate.

Running submerged, Guy went slowly across the ocean to the nearest land. He lowered the lifeship to the ocean floor beside a forbidding cliff and emerged, swimming to the beach several miles down the coast, clothed in spacesuit and bulging like a blimp with buoyant air.

He walked along the coast back to the spot above the ship, and cached his helmet and as much of the heavy equipment of his suit as he could remove. He loafed and rested until night fell, and then made his way toward the blinking lights of the city several miles in the other direction along the coast.

His following actions were not according to the code of ethics.

He completely submerged whatever conscience he had and proceeded along the back-ways of the darkened streets at an hour when most honest Ertinians were fast asleep. Those who were not asleep were preoccupied, as he found when he almost passed within arm's length of a couple that were sitting silent and close together on a street-side bench as far from the dim streetlight as they could get. They did not see him, though he watched them and chuckled quietly.

He located the back entrance of a clothing store and tackled the lock with a bit of steel wire. He worked for an hour, undisturbed, before it clicked open. Then he stood up and went to work on the lock above the door that kept the alarm from ringing when turned by a proper key. Another hour solved that lock, and Guy entered the store stealthily. His action was quite logical. He went to the stock room below and selected one each of his size from the bottom boxes. He rifled the jewelry counter and selected a minor item or two with the Ertinian initial that signified the pseudonym of his choice. He took a few small coins from the register and then left, attired as an Ertinian.

They'd notice the discrepancy in time. But it would occur from time to time, as each rifled box was opened and found to be short. They might even put the shortages to error in packing instead of robbery.

He went directly away from the town, hiking along the road that returned him to his ship. Here Guy buried the last evidence of his Terran origin, and when the first rays of morning shone across the broad ocean, Guy Maynard became Gomanar.

He looked at himself. Gone were the Terran shirt and trousers. Gone were the low, soft shoes. In the warmth of Ertene, Guy was thankful for the abbreviated costume, and equally thankful for the over-all tan that came as a result of spending much time in space.

Blue trunks; loose, flowing shirt; hard-soled, high-laced boots of the softest material known; and a short shawl or cape that hung from the shoulders to mid-thigh in back. Maynard worried about the lack of pockets and found some difficulty in getting used to the cartridge belt effect that passed in place of pockets on Ertene. A small, hard handcase contained his razor and some spare items of clothing.

Maynard left Terra behind him beside the ocean, and strode along the highway. He continued to practice his speech and though he knew he was proficient, he worried about the first time he'd be expected to use it. But he could not remain silent forever, and so he turned into the first farmhouse he came to. Breakfast was his aim, and the sun was getting high.

He knocked on the door. A dog came rushing around the corner of the house, all suspicion, and smelled Guy's feet curiously. Then as Guy spoke to the animal, the dog backed up several feet and lay with chin on forefeet.

"Doda seems to like you," came the rich, pleasant tones of the woman from inside the doorway. "May I ask your business, sir?"

Guy smiled his best smile, usually reserved for special occasions. "I am named Gomanar. I am a migratory worker in search of two items: Breakfast first and work second. Have you either?"

"Of course," smiled the woman. Her smile broke into a full laugh. "You'll not mind if we present them to you in reverse order?"

"You'll get the worst of the agreement that way," smiled Guy, cheerfully. "I'll work less on an empty stomach and then be hungrier."

"You look like the kind of man who can pack it away," she said. "It might be that you would eat so much that you become sluggish?" she finished with another laugh. Her eyes traveled up and down Guy's muscular figure and decided that sluggish was possibly the one way that this startling young man did not get. She turned and called: "Lors! We have a visitor!"

Her husband came to the door and looked questions at Maynard. He repeated his tale.

"Naturally," he boomed. "Naturally."

"Thank you," answered Guy simply.

"What's the disagreement?" he asked his wife.

"A mere argument as to the sequence of events. He wants to eat first."

"A natural desire. That gives him the benefit of deciding the value received. But let's keep no man hungry, Tena. Your name again?"

"Gomanar."

"Lorsana," said the man. "Come in. We'll quibble over value received while eating." He treated the argument as a huge joke though it was serious business to Guy.

Breakfast was large and appetizing, and near the finish, Lorsana said: "You look as though hard work did not bother you too much. You didn't get that figure just roaming back and forth, performing odd jobs."

"I've managed to keep fit," said Guy noncommittally.

"I see that," laughed Lorsana. "But look, Gomanar. I need a helper for a few days. Have you ever logged?"

"No."

"Too bad, but not impossible. I'm clearing a bit of wooded land and need an experienced logger. If you'll help out until it's finished, I'll pay you the regular wage-level. Would you care to help?"

"I may at that. Yes, a bit of logging would round out a wide and varied experience."

"It's done then," laughed the man.

Guy thanked his active life. The job would have killed him if his muscles hadn't been in condition. It was hard, heavy work, and it covered long hours daily. At night, Guy crawled into his bed and slept like an innocent. And though he kept a sharp ear out for any mention of the System that Ertene was approaching, nothing was said in his presence. It worried him. Had positions been reversed, the subject would have been in every Terran radio and in every Terran newspaper, and a common subject for dinner-conversation.

When the work was finished and Lorsana paid him sixty Ertinian ronnads, Guy said good-by to Lorsana and his wife, patted the dog and left. The work had done him good. It had taken the newness out of his clothing and had filled his belt with good, Ertinian money.

But farm work was no place to make a start in life—from Guy's age, at least. So with regret, he left the farmhouse and trudged along the road for several miles until he came to a large city. He sought lodgings, bought dinner at a restaurant, and then on the following morning presented himself to a manufacturer of precision instruments.

His age and bearing seemed to have good effect, and he was given preference over several other applicants, and ushered into the employment manager's office.

"Be seated," directed the manager. He looked at the card in his hand and memorized briefly. "You're Gomanar. Call me Jerimick."

"Thank you."

"You seek technical work, Gomanar. Yet your card indicates that you have no formal education."

"I am well read. And I believe that I can hold my own ground with any college graduate."

"Perhaps. Have you attended any college or university, even for a single term?"

Guy had, but not for Ertinian publication. He shook his head and smiled defiantly.

"You understand that regulated study is far superior to the random investigations made at home?"

"If one marshals his mind to follow a prescribed pattern, the ill effects of random study are not present."

"Quite true. I feel inclined toward you—Gomanar." He thought for a moment. "We have some instruments in here at present which require repair. There is no rush on a couple of them—I'm going to try you out, Gomanar, on these. You'll pardon my taking insurance by giving you those of little urgency first. If you succeed in your repair of these instruments in equal or better than the time normally spent by accredited employees, you'll be hired. Is it a deal?"

"I'm confident enough," laughed Guy. Small tools and instrument-work came as a second nature to the Terran. "Lead me to it!"

"I have but one objection to hiring a man like you," said Jerimick. "You'll prove an excellent worker—and in forty days you'll tire of it and go to wandering again."

"I can't answer that."

"I can. You've never had a woman thrown your way. Some day one will come along and tie you down, and the whole planet will be better off for it. You're the type that we worry about."

"Why?" asked Maynard innocently.

"You—and all your kind—are restless. You are always searching for something you can not find. I don't know what it is, but what you seek does not exist."

"You mean we're looking for something nonexistent?"

"I do."

"That's strange. After all, I've met my kind. They all seem intelligent. No intelligent man would search the world over for something that did not exist. Or is my logic false?"

"Sounds reasonable. Yet you explain it. I know your type. I've dealt with people for ten kilodays. I've consulted the brainiest psychiatrists on Ertene, and they agree with me. Your type," said Jerimick, "is restless. You are quick of mind, and sure of yourselves save for this unrest. You can turn your hands to any trade, and prosper, yet no trade offers you the outlet you seek. I'll wager my income for the next kiloday that you'll repair my instruments in record time—and wager the next kiloday's income that you have never seen their like before. You have an ability to visualize hidden details of operation and apply a sort of rule-thumb logic to them and make them work. And when you've discovered that your logic is good, you seek a more complex problem.

"I'm going to make a serious admission, Gomanar. I believe that your kind of man would be better off if Ertene joined Sol's System."

That stunned Guy. "I'd keep that idea beneath my skull," said Maynard.

"I know. I shall. It was merely hypothetical. I'm certain that it will go no farther. Besides, such a rash move would most certainly be bad for the great majority of us, though your kind might prosper."

"I'd really hate to see such a thing happen," said Guy.

"And that statement, I believe, is the voice of education, of training, of conditioning. I doubt that you really know what is good for you!"

"We'll never know," said Maynard.

"No, please God," said Jerimick, fervently. "But both of us have work to do." He scribbled on a printed form, filling out less than one quarter of the spaces, and handed it to Guy. "Through that door and to your right. The medical examiner will O.K. you first, and then you'll be sent direct to your job. Luck, Gomanar."

"Thank you," replied Guy, worrying slightly about the examiner.

He discovered that the examination was as sketchy as the filled-in hiring-form. Within an hour he was seated at a bench with tools and equipment before him, and was whistling a cheery but tuneless melody as he delved into the insides of a small traffic-control that must be intended for local flier-traffic.

And so Guy Maynard came to Ertene.

XVI.

In the days that passed, Guy noted a tendency to show him deference. He could not understand, though he tried, why they would single him out above the others. When he needed a tool, and his actions showed that he was in search, a mere question brought immediate—not only results—but delivery to his bench.

They stood aside as he approached narrow passageways, and in a tight corridor they would back up all the way without a word. His own offer of retreat went unwanted; the other party retreated and waited with a smile until Guy decided that they had reached an impasse and went himself since the other obviously had no intention of moving.

He found this same condition prevailed throughout the city, too. They spoke to him seldom, yet he found himself with the best meals, the better seats, the quieter rooms, and the clearest path.

It took about twenty days of that to get Guy worried.

And since he became dead certain that they suspected him of being different, Guy left the city at night, and gave only a short note of thanks to Jerimick. He explained that his search required that he seek new fields. His only concession to Terran training was the night he selected. It was the night after payday, and it increased his tiny store of funds to a more reasonable value.

Guy took a night-flier and went halfway across the continent. It still followed him, for the stewardess gave him more than his share of attention.

Guy was not vain. No more, that is, than any other normal man. He knew that his figure was well-proportioned and did not require any apology in the abbreviated Ertinian costume. His features were regular, and though his thirty years was still considered young, the lines on his face gave him character. He'd been shaving within an inch of his life each morning and before dinner each night, and he knew that his beard was light enough to escape detection as long as he maintained that schedule.

This attention he was getting bothered him. He was not ready for attention yet. He'd prefer a couple of years to establish some sort of false foundation by skipping around from place to place, and losing his past in the maze of data.

What was worse, he could pin nothing down definitely. He wondered whether he might be guiltily self-conscious. That might be. But he'd been honestly critical and knew that Ertene was singling him out for something.

It was not the kind of attention that accompanied suspicion or notoriety. It was a universal will to help him, to offer him the best, to accord him some sort of deference.

But why?

His discussions with others were nonproductive. They spoke in vague terms until they heard his viewpoint and then agreed with him, and it was only with difficulty that he learned their true views were calculable only by the magnitude of their agreement.

For lack of anything more desirable, Guy took to walking in the evening. He covered miles in his meanderings through this city in the center of the continent, and in doing so learned very little, but at least it kept him from being everlastingly confronted by that unnamable acclaim.

Worst of all, most of them treated his name—Gomanar—with some amusement. Guy searched his mind, and knew that it had no amusing nuance by any stretch of the imagination. He wondered whether he had assumed the name of some famous man, but a search of the libraries gave him negative evidence—which in this case was fairly conclusive both for fame and for notoriety.

His work was well received. Even when he made errors, it was overlooked, and Guy knew that others were called to task for their errors.

At last he could stand it no longer, and since his position as an instrument worker placed him in contact with numberless small, technical parts, Guy pilfered them shamelessly, and started to make a thought-beam receiver in his rooms.

And that was a project that might take a year in itself.

But it would give him the answer.

Forty days after he arrived in this city, which contained among other things the most prominent university on Ertene, Guy was walking alone in his usual habit. His steps unconsciously turned toward the university campus, and as he neared the broad campus, the pleasant strains of music came to him. It gave him a lift of spirit, and his steps quickened until he was approaching a ten-deep ring of people surrounding the vast campus.

He stood behind them, trying to look between their heads, and his curiosity caused him to press forward. The man ahead of him turned, annoyed, and his annoyance turned to pleasure. He stepped aside and motioned Guy to take his place. Guy blinked, smiled, and moved forward; it had become natural to accept these offers. A whispering arose, faint, unintelligible, insidious. Those in front of him pressed aside, one by one, and opened a lane for Guy until he could see the entire campus from the front line.

He remembered seeing a notice in the evening news; The University of Locana was holding the graduation dance for the upper classmen. It meant absolutely nothing to Guy, but the sight was interesting to see.

The gay colors, the glad music, the circling couples—were all cheerful until the music stopped with a sudden crash, and played a loud, joyous chord.

The orchestra leader pointed his long wand in Guy's direction, and from the maze of dancers there came a youthful figure, running.

"Elanane!" she called. "Oh, Elanane!"

He heard the whisper "—the lanee's sister—" and nothing registered save that this girl must be the sister of the elected governor of Ertene. He didn't know her, which he thought to be a shame since she appealed to his sense of appreciation as few other women ever had. He probably never would know her.

"Elanane!" she called as she approached her brother, who must be near Guy. He looked around to see who he might be—and when he looked back at her to get another "fix" on the line of her sight, to better follow her intended course, he found himself hurled back three steps as the girl ran, without stopping, right into him.

She hurled herself at Guy hungrily, and hugged him until he felt his ribs complaining.

He grunted, and she stepped back to inspect him. "I knew you wouldn't miss it," she said. She was deliriously happy and went right on talking with the appearance of one who has had no one to talk to for several years. "I was worried—you worried me, Elanane. I actually thought you'd miss your sister's graduation, and I'll only graduate once. But you didn't."

Guy took the wise course. He said nothing. A protestation would have caused comment and questioning as to his real identity. An acceptance of the masquerade would set him up even afterwards as a liar and an open fake. He decided to brazen it out and hope for an opening that would permit him to get away without exciting more comment.

He wondered what her name was. A man should know his own sister's name.

"—ill, they told me. Unable to visit me. Elanane, you look the soul of health!"

Guy decided that an answer was necessary and he wondered about the tone of his voice and the characteristics of his speech. They would give him away. But a short, precise answer might not.

"I've had a sore throat," he said. He hoped that would explain the differences in tonal range.

"Pooh! Couldn't have been bad at all."

"They thought so."

"Why, you're not even hoarse!"

Guy decided that she was so elated at her brother's presence that anyone could sell her a bill of goods. "I'm not?"

"Not in the least. I don't think you were ill at all. You've been running all over Ertene again, Elanane, trying to make people think you are a vagrant, and trying to get honest information out of them. You should be ashamed, not trusting us!"

Guy Maynard felt a bit of worry. He began to wonder several things, among which were the answers to the questions of: One, was he completely insane; two: was he Guy Maynard, Elanane, or the reincarnation of Haroun El-Raschid; and three: how was he going to get out of this? He decided then that the first was possible, the last desirable, and the second highly questionable.

A bit of Terra's own private humor reared its horned head in Guy's mind and the forked tail glinted impishly over the ruddy forehead as the devil winked at him. Guy felt a hand-shaking acquaintance with the devil at that moment and decided to have something to remember, at least.

"I'm here," he told her, "to see your graduation. I came because you would be hurt if I remained away, and because I wanted to see you happy. But I'm holding up the proceedings here, and not even a lanee should demand that your ceremonies be interrupted for a whim. I'd stay, but I have work to do—and believe me if it did not concern the integrity of Ertene I'd remain and watch. But you go back to your dance and I'll be with you later!"

"That's a promise, Elanane?"

"A promise. Now give your big brother a kiss and go back to your ceremony."

"A promise," said the girl to seal the agreement. Her kiss was affectionate but sisterly, and Guy wondered afterwards why he expected anything but a sisterly kiss from a sister. Then she turned and went back to her partner. The music began again, and Guy stood there watching. To rush off would excite suspicion, and though the nerves up and down his spine were tingling, Guy stood there brazenly, fighting that rising impulse to turn and bolt.

Then feigning sorrow at having to leave, Guy turned and made his way through the crowd. A man behind him shouted: "All right, folks! It's no secret now! Do you like him?"

The roar of cheers that went up nearly staggered Guy.

Elanane must be one swell person, thought Guy. Well, that was that. Now what? Disguise upon disguise? He was a marked man, just as much marked as if he'd permitted his whiskers to grow.

He cursed Elanane for his looks, and wished that the lanee of Ertene had been possessed of brown eyes, a hook nose, and a cleft chin—or that he did. Well, now what—?

Guy didn't know.

The next move was made for him. A man came up, tapped him on the shoulder and said: "Thomakein will be glad to see you, Elanane."

Guy squirmed inside. He'd never seen Thomakein, but he'd heard plenty about this Ertinian. On the other hand, Thomakein had seen him on his previous visit to Ertene, and Guy knew that Thomakein might have seen him without his mustache at one time, for he vaguely recalled having been shaved clean at one time during his convalescence. He turned and looked behind him.

A second Ertinian smiled widely. "Thomakein said you were playing the vagrant again, Elanane, and that he insisted that you come immediately. Things require your personal attention."

Guy knew that violence would result in only one answer—he'd be taken horizontal instead of vertical, and resistance would show Thomakein that he meant harm. There was still the partly-finished thought-beam receiver in his room—

"Where is he?" asked Guy.

"Come," said the first Ertinian. He led the way for several yards, and then fell back as the other Ertinian came up to walk on the opposite side of Guy. Guy felt like a prisoner making his Last Mile.

"Look, boys, I'm really not Elanane."

"We know you aren't," laughed the first one. "What name are you using this time?"

"Gomanar."

"Not too good," laughed the one on Guy's left. "You did better as Inualdi the last time."

"You'll excuse us," smiled the first, "if we treat this matter lightly. You know us and we know you. Furthermore, we know you know us and you know we know it. We'd like to follow your wishes, Elanane, but we cannot think of you as anything other than Lanee Elanane. May we have your forgiveness?"

Guy smiled, nodded, and gave up. To himself he admitted that he was licked. Whatever his next move was, it was out of the question now. It must be a spur-of-the-moment plan, Guy thought, and he decided to bluff it out as long as he could. He'd try valiantly, for if Ertene failed him, he was a man without a planet.

He reminded himself that he had one ace in the hole. The partly-finished thought-beam instrument. If they questioned his motives, he could ask permission to finish that and let them see for themselves that his interest was only in saving Ertene.

With the eyes of his captors on his back, Guy strode across the cabin of the luxurious flier and without hesitation opened the door, stepping into the inner compartment.

He had little hope that he would be able to fool Thomakein, but he must try.

The door swung shut behind him, and as it slammed, the flier lifted into the sky, effectively cutting Guy's retreat completely.

"Come in—sit down," greeted the Ertinian.

"You seem to have been expecting me?"

"Yes—but we knew you'd show up sooner or later. Had things become acute, I think we might have made an open appeal. But you are in time."

"Anything urgent?"

"The Terran, Guy Maynard, ah—talked open!"

"Uh ... he—What?"

Guy blinked. It was too close to home not to stagger him. This was one place where he'd be forced into carefulness. He'd have to watch his step. Discussing himself as a third party was more than likely to bring out too many things that he, as Elanane, could not possibly know. If he were to fool Thomakein—and it looked all right at this point—he'd have to submerge himself in Elanane's unknown personality, and use Elanane's unknown knowledge. That could be done by permitting Thomakein to do all the talking. Well, he'd permit Thomakein to talk continually.

And then it filtered into Guy's dazed mind that the last words had been spoken in Terran. The term "Talked open" was a Terran idiom—and—

It had been expressed in Terran!

"You seem surprised, Elanane. I'm amused. Really, I'm sorry that the shock should come to you this way, Guy, but you have lost all resemblance to Elanane in the last few minutes. Guy, don't you recognize me?"

Guy stood open-jawed and stared at the Ertinian. Slowly, uncertainly, Guy shook his head in negation.

"I suppose that surroundings and dress do have a lot to do with recognition. That plus the fact that you never expected to see me here on Ertene. I am in strange dress, in an impossible place, and you do not know me. At your expense, Guy, I'm amused." Thomakein went into a deep laugh.

Guy was irritated, but he said nothing. He was still dazed. "Thomakein—Thomas Kane!" he said after a full ten minutes had passed.

"Fine! So you do recognize me? Shake, Guy. If I'd not known your intent, I wouldn't know you either in that Ertinian get-up."

"But ... but—?"

"There's one thing you'll need, Guy. Your face shows the effect of so much daily shaving. We'll have you whisker-free in three days, Guy, using a permanent depilatory often used by some of us who are unlucky enough to retain a few facial hairs. Then you can go on without worrying."

"But—?"

"Forget everything for the moment, Guy. I want the answer to one question. Will you swear that your desire is for the good of Ertene?"

"I swear that—I came to see if I could undo the damage I started."

"I knew we could count on you. We still can—and will. Now listen, and I'll tell you my end of this long and complicated tale. And, Guy, it is complicated beyond imagination. Confound it, remind me to call you Elanane. I might slip and that would be bad. You'll be Elanane for some time, you know, and you must be Elanane to the letter. Sit down and I'll begin to talk."

"I'm dazed."

"You must be thunderstruck. But you won't really feel the shock for a couple of hours. I'm going to do my talking now before shock sets in, and you'll be able to evaluate both sides at once. O.K.?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I feel that an explanation is due."

"It started with a coincidence and swiftly built up into an impossible necessity, Guy. First, an explanation of my actions. Ertene does not kill unless it is necessary, Guy. You won the liking of too many men; to eliminate you would have gone against the grain. You are a likable, innocuous chap, Guy. You are intelligent, quick, ingenious, and ambitious. You have few bad traits and vindictiveness is not one of them.

"However, since you were set free, and a living danger to us in spite of our drugs, plus the desire on the part of Ertene to learn all we could of Terran science—and what makes Terra run—I was appointed to the unenviable position of spy. Fortified with unlimited wealth, I purchased my way into the high spots. I took a sincere liking to you too, Guy, and together we climbed to a place near the top. I reported regularly to Ertene, and we are in possession of Terra's every secret. Believe me, it was necessary."

"I can see that," said Guy. "Ertene has never wanted to join Sol, nor wanted any part of us."

"Correct. You also realize that Terra would try like everything to keep us once you knew where we were—and that we were. You do not begrudge us Terra's secrets, Guy, because you believe in Ertene's ideal.

"Seven decdays ago, Elanane died. Ordinarily we would hold an immediate election to select a new lanee. One thing interfered. There is a faction on Ertene that desires conquest. Why, I do not know. They do—that's all. They are powerful, and the death of Elanane put these people in the limelight—or would have if his death had been disclosed. Therefore, knowing the majority of the people were against union, we kept Elanane's death a secret. We hired an actor for a few days—twenty or thirty. He is one of us, and one of the few who really know."

"How many know?"

"Believe it or not, Guy, less than ten men on all Ertene know that Elanane is dead. Members of the Council, even, are not all in the knowledge. Too many knowers make a bad secret, Guy. Now comes the coincidence."

"Me?" asked Guy in surprise.

"You," said Thomakein, nodding his head in amusement. "Your likeness to the assistant lanee on your initial visit was a factor in your freedom, Guy. Had you resembled one of our hateds you might not have had your chance. But people and human nature are funny. Resemblance to a loved character is a fine way to get yourself liked in an alien land. You resembled the assistant lanee then—and he became lanee not many decdays after your return to Terra. When, after his death, you became involved in the trouble on Terra and headed this way, I came to the conclusion that permitting you to masquerade as Elanane would serve us well."

"It sounds thin to me," objected Guy.

"I'll explain why you are a logical man. I've been the only one with contacts in your system. My stories about Terran prowess in the art of war have not been too well received. Most of Ertene do not understand your ability to take two widely divergent arts—luxuries, even—and combining them into hard-hitting weapons. Ertene would never think of using the barrier for a thing of war—yet you did it in a few weeks. That's one example.

"Now Elanane was openly against any traffic with Terra. You are Elanane. If we elected a new lanee who believed me and armed Ertene, those who desire conquest—and they really mean conquest—would use that as a lever. Their propaganda would direct everyone to the thought that the new lanee believed in conquest. In spite of previous thought, that conquest would be desirable and that he was preparing for eventual war. Follow?"

"I think so. If Elanane ordered that Ertene be prepared, no such propaganda would hold water. With Elanane, it would be strictly defensive armament. Is the fact of our resemblance clear to Ertene?"

"Uh—Oh. You mean the resemblance between the races. No. That would excite Ertene even more. Generally similar, yes. But the identicalness has been withheld."

"Do they know of me?"

"Vaguely. We caught a denizen, baffled him, questioned him completely, and strove to cure him of terrible MacMillan burns but failed."

"Too bad you couldn't use his open talk as a lever to gain your ends."

"No. We can't. But you'll help?"

"I must. It was my foolishness that put Ertene in danger. I'll strive to help Ertene as best I can. How am I to fool my friends?"

"With my help. You are a closer double to Elanane than you think, Guy. Even Leilanane, your sister, is fooled."

"I won't fool her too long," smiled Guy wryly.

"You will. Leilanane has been in school for four kilodays and her contact with her famous brother has been limited to scant visits, letters occasionally, and the visibox broadcasts every decday. People change—so have you changed. Oh, you've been ill and your lapses will be forgiven."

"I hope."

"Why," laughed Thomakein, "your predecessor even had the habit of masquerading so that he could get the un-retouched opinion of the man in the street."

Guy understood the meaning of the deference, the willingness to give him the better portion, the smiles and amusement at the name Gomanar, the willingness to accept his scant record as experience. A lot of things became clear, and he smiled, wiped his face with his open hand and said: "Thomakein, my heart is with Ertene. I feel that I have failed you in one thing. But with my knowledge of Terran strategy plus my high position on Ertene, we'll do everything in our power to keep Ertene free!" Guy's face brightened at the thought of far horizons, "I'll see another system some day. Perhaps ... Thomakein, has Lanee Elanane a wife or do I start from scratch?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to remain single—or give up the idea of children. I doubt very much that any offspring can come of a union between Terra and Ertene. You might marry, but you'll remain childless."

"At least I'd have company," said Guy, "or would I be likely to talk in my sleep?"

"Your trouble was something we of Ertene hadn't anticipated. It was twofold. You imbibed considerable of the higher alcohols, which exert a temporary nullifying effect on our super-drug. It is of the iso-dinilamine family too, you know. Well, that, plus your ingrained desire to tell people off after being goaded to the screaming point did it. You actually willed yourself to speak—and speak you did. Nothing Ertene could have done would have saved you, Guy, and so I am not holding you in blame."

Guy nodded, and then said: "Not to change the subject, Thomakein, but haven't you the ability to become lanee?"

"My liaison work with Sol kept me too much out of the public eye. Also, I am the only one who had contacts there. I'll have to return from time to time, too, which would interfere with being lanee. No, you're the man, Guy. We'll play this our way, you and I, and we'll get our answer that way."

"O.K. I'll play."

"You're tired."

"I am."

"Also slightly whirly, I imagine," grinned Thomakein. "Well, Elanane, you may sleep in the royal apartment tonight. We'll be there shortly. One more thing. You'll see Charalas. He's not aware. But you'll be hidden because of your resemblance to Elanane and the Ertinian dress, and so forth, plus the idea that no one—no, never—would ever impersonate the lanee! The latter is going to get us over a lot of close spots, Guy."

"I won't fear meeting Charalas. As long as you think I'm capable, I must be. You know the answers to this problem, Kane."

"From now on, it's Thomakein," reminded the latter. "And don't forget it for your life. That's one job—remembering one another's names—that we'll both have to work at."

"Right—Thomakein."

"Dead right—Elanane!"

XVII.

In the lanee's apartments, Guy sat down to think. It was morning, breakfast was over, and Guy had enjoyed a full night of deep and honest sleep. He had analyzed things to his satisfaction right up to the next move, and that troubled him.

There was no doubting Thomakein's statements concerning the need for masquerade, though Guy wondered whether it wasn't slightly off color. But Thomakein was of Ertene, and should know the temper of the Ertinians better than any Terran. Certainly there was no doubting Thomakein's ideals. And as for his friendship—that was well established.

But Thomakein was a little glib in expecting a rank outsider to come in and masquerade as a Public figure. It would be hard enough to act as a mere citizen with no popularity, let alone a rising, popular, and well-balanced governor of a planet.

He fingered the book of Elanane's friends and their descriptions and habits, and despaired of ever being able to call them by name, much less knowing them well enough to discuss their favorite subjects with them. It was a heavy volume, and Guy knew that Elanane was very much loved by his people.

Habit set in at this point, and Guy opened his little kit to shave before he recalled the depilatory that Thomakein gave him. Shaving, for Guy Maynard, was over forever since his trial of the rather tingling unguent that morning.

But—beside his razor was the partly-assembled thought-beam instrument. Guy laughed aloud.

This would put him in the possession of anything that was needed. And Guy grinned again. This was his secret. Let Thomakein think that he was really brilliant. He'd use the thought-beam gadget for himself, and use it for the best. Besides, letting knowledge of the thought-beam instrument out would be as dangerous for Guy on Ertene as it would have been on Terra. No one alive, save Guy, knew of the instrument. Its inventors were dead and gone and every instrument of its kind a smoking mass of burned components. For his own protection, he would keep this one secret.

He snorted in derision. Would he never finish having secrets to keep? Was his life to continue with one important phase hidden from the world? Would he never be free?

Or, came the comforting thought, do all men have something hidden from their fellows?

Finishing the instrument was impossible at the present time. That would take some work. But if Guy by-passed some of the finer circuits, he could at least gain a crude idea of a man's surface thoughts, especially if they were directed at him. Guy started to hook the partially-completed instrument together, and considered the effectiveness of the instrument.

It was small, luckily. It fitted one pouch of the pocket-belt to perfection, and Guy closed the flap over the instrument and snapped the little catch with confidence.

Guy nodded. Then he rang for his valet.

"You rang." It was an introductory statement rather than a redundant question, and it held none of the abruptness that a query as to the wants of the lanee might have held.

Guy faced the Ertinian and read in the man's mind that his name was Willadoran. "Willadoran, when is Leilanane expected to arrive?"

In the man's mind Guy could see admiration for his lanee, enhanced since the busy governor had time to think of his younger sister no matter how busy he was.

"Sometime today," answered Willadoran.

"I wonder if I'll have time to see Charalas first."

An annoying thought crossed Willadoran's mind—had Elanane forgotten that Charalas never awakened at this time?

"I mean after Charalas arises," amended Guy.

Elanane must be reading my mind, came the amused thought. "I'll see," came the reply, "that he is informed of your desire as soon as he awakens."

"Good," said Guy. He reminded himself never to take an expressed thought for speech. He smiled inwardly at Willadoran's amusement and wondered what the valet would do if the truth were known. Willadoran was highly amused at the idea that Elanane was a mind-reader, and considered the act utterly impossible.

A deep-seated impulse to shock the valet crossed Guy's mind, and it was only with trouble that he stifled the impulse.

Guy tried to discern Willadoran's thought concerning Charalas again, but it was a blank. Thomakein was blank, as was Leilanane, and Guy decided that his instrument was not sensitive enough to dig these deep-seated thoughts out of the below-threshold level. Only the surface thoughts were available—which, thought Guy, were sufficient.

Guy spent an hour speculating, and roaming the apartment to investigate its mysteries. Then Charalas came.

The neuro-surgeon smiled affably, looked around, and asked: "Well, where is it?"

Guy started, and then smiled. "You're slightly earlier than I expected." He went to the cupboard indicated in Charalas' mind and returned with the toran set. He was about to ask: white or black? when he perceived that Charalas expected the black men since he had been victorious on their last game. Reading the positions from Charalas' mind, Guy set up the various men upon their proper squares, and offered Charalas the first move, which was proper.

Guy's knowledge of chess was fair, and toran was an Ertinian version of the ancient Terran game. He had no idea as to the moves, but—Charalas thought: Elanane always counters my first move by counter-attacking with his vassal.

Guy moved the minor piece up to confront the other.

Charalas covered his pawn with a major piece and Guy countered with exactly the one thought that Charalas hoped against.

Charalas set up a complicated trap, and sat back thinking: Let's see you outguess that one, Elanane.

Guy wondered about the move of the castle piece, and touched it briefly. Four moves in any direction, came Charalas' thought. Guy moved the castle, and Charalas thought: Now why did he do that?

Guy worried. Elanane might not have made that move.

If I move my protector, he should fall into the trap by capturing it. He always does.

Guy decided that this game was no fun at all, and took the piece. Charalas smiled brightly and removed three of Guy's major pieces with a single move, Guy countered by making the one move that Charalas did not want, and the Ertinian lost the piece that he was hoping to save. The rest was quick, Charalas moved and Guy countered, but Charalas triumphed because Guy didn't know enough to set up his own traps. He could avoid Charalas' traps, but in simple exchanges he lost ground, and finally Charalas removed the last white piece from the board.

The neuro-surgeon smiled tolerantly, "You may be lanee, Elanane, but I am still your master at toran."

"I'll learn some day," promised Guy.

"You seemed preoccupied," said Charalas. "You've been worrying."

"That's possible."

"About Sol, I'd guess."

"Right."

"Why worry about them?" asked Charalas.

"They threaten our integrity."

"You mean since Thomakein informed us that the Terran, Gomanar, was forced to violate his oath?"

Guy blinked. To treat this properly, he would have to absolutely divorce himself from his personality and treat the Terran as another entity. "Yes," he said. "The Terrans, according to Thomakein, are more than capable of setting up a detector that will detect the presence of the light-shield."

"We'll cross that bridge when it comes."

"We should look forward to it—and plan."

"Elanane," said Charalas, "my loyalty has never been questioned. For a moment, I'd like to discuss this as an impartial observer."

"Of course."

"Ertene is stale."

"Stale?" asked Guy in astonishment.

"Ertene has lost the pathway that leads to the apex," said Charalas. "We have become soft and stale."

"I don't understand."

"When mankind came to Ertene, he was a soft, inefficient creature. Nature had tried size, force, quantity, physical adaptability, and a score of other concepts before she tried brains. Mankind was nature's experiment with brains as a means of survival. We are a weakling race, Elanane. Unarmed, we are no match for any of the beasts of the jungle. Dropped into the depths of uncivilization—naked and alone—what happens?"

"We die."

"No we do not. Within fifteen minutes we are armed with a stone bound to a treelimb. Then we are the match for anything that lives. Within a day, we are supreme in our jungleland. Our home is in a tree. Snares are set for food animals, death traps are set for carnivores, and the jungle is cleared for our safety. And, Elanane, from that time on the beasts of the jungle avoid us. We, the weakling creature, are to be feared mortally."

"Granted, but what has that to do with the present?"

"Mankind fought the jungle to supremacy. Mankind fought beasts, the cannibals, and nature herself. He pushed himself upward by walking on the heads of those below him. Then he fought with himself, since there was nothing left that was worthy of his mettle. He fought himself because he could gain no more by fighting lesser things."

"What may we gain by fighting among ourselves?" asked Guy.

"The right way to live," said Charalas thoughtfully. "Consider, Elanane, the extremes of government. No matter what you call them, they are absolute anarchy and absolute tyranny, and between these two lie every other form of government. Obviously complete anarchy is impossible at the present level of human nature. Equally obvious is the impossibility of absolute tyranny in a culture based upon ambition and education. But, Elanane, somewhere between these extremes is the best system."

"Can fighting find it?" asked Guy doubtfully.

"It is the only way. Consider an hypothetical planet containing two continents of equal size, on opposite hemispheres. One continent is absolute anarchy, the other complete tyranny." Charalas grinned boyishly for all of his years. "Obviously they have been living in complete ignorance of one another up to now, for otherwise they couldn't have arrived at those extremes.

"Well, it is hypothetical, anyway, and there are your constants. This goes on, and then one day one of two things happen. Either is possible and I am not plumping for either side—but the two possibilities are: One, the tyrant decides to gather the anarchs under his rule, or; two: the anarchs decide to free their fellows from the tyrant rule. This, Elanane, means war, to quote an ancient cry.

"Immediately the tyrant finds that he cannot run the whole show by himself, so he relegates power to able men. The anarchs decide that they are impotent, and elect leaders to run certain phases of the campaign. So we have less of a tyranny on one side and less anarchy on the other. In either case, power relegated is seldom regained, and as the years bear on, war after war is fought and either side approaches a norm."

Guy smiled. "Supposing one side wins."

"That is a sign that the winning side is closer to the best form of social co-operation."

"And when they reach that norm, then what?"

"They never reach," said Charalas. "Their struggles cause each of them to rise above the norm, and then they swing like the pendulum below the norm. It is a long, damped cycle."

"A damped cycle must eventually cease."

"Not when you constantly change the norm," said Charalas. "The norm of prehistoric times is vastly different from the present. Our norm is different than the future norm. Men advance in knowledge and in responsibility, and they resent, bitterly, being judged on laws and rules set up to control their forefathers. City Indilee was the object of ridicule some hundred kilodays ago because some jurist tried to invoke a rule against flying less than five thousand noads above the city."

"I've read about that," smiled Guy, reading it from Charalas' mind. "At the time, we'd been landing on the building stages for thirty kilodays."

"Right. Another thing, Elanane. Some day anarchy will be the government of man. But not until man has learned to control himself as an individual, to respect the rights of others, and to follow the common wish. Until then we will have government."

"Which brings us back to the original question. You said Ertene is stale."

"I mean it. Elanane—are we capable of running ourselves?"

"Obviously."

"Then we shouldn't fear a test of fire."

"Our ability to keep out of the fight should be answer enough."

"Any coward can keep from fighting by hiding. Perhaps these Terrans are right."

"Right? Is it right to destroy the people of Pluto with their way of living in comfort?"

"Yes. We do not mind killing cattle for food, do we?"

"Yes, but—"

"No, Elanane, it is no different."

"Then how about the ones used by the Terrans for medical experiments?"

"Justified. Up to a certain point a race may experiment to good advantage on the lower primates. Eventually, there is little to be known, since the more delicate investigations must be carried out on higher levels of intelligence."

"These denizens of the outer moon of one of their planets were not of high intelligence."

"Wrong," said Charalas. "They are of a high order of intelligence. It is their knowledge that is low. They have the capability. Yet, Elanane, we have the fundamental law of the survival of the fittest. In warring upon Mars, weapons and sciences are unloosed which out-strip the advances made in medicine. Nothing is said against Terra for fighting against Mars. They are traditional enemies.

"To return to the denizens of Titan. These semi-intelligent natives are like swine wearing diamonds. They evolved in a society in which they had no native enemy. They were not forced to become intelligent in order to live—if they had but one single enemy, they would have evolved into first-rate civilization ages ago. There has been no forward step on Titan for ten thousand Terran years. They will never make an advance. Even if offered the sciences of the inner system, they would shrug them off and revert back to their semi-savagery."

"I've been told that three generations of schooling would make them suitable allies for Terra," objected Guy.

Charalas shook his head. "Wrong. Mankind on Terra rose because he was ambitious—he still is. Titan is not ambitious and never will be. They have no reason to work, and will not. Terrans—and early Ertinians—fought their way upward because they had to in order to live. Therefore, Elanane, the Titanians fall under the classification of those whose lives are only to support intelligence."

"Um," said Guy. "Then Terra is not the black race they've been painted?"

"Not by a jugful. Nothing was said of downtrodden races of the past—why balk at downtrodden races of the present?"

"But they should help—"

"Helping anyone is possible only when they want to be helped. The Titanians are not even grateful for the comforts given to them by Terra."

"Comforts?" sneered Guy. "The comfort of being vivisected?"

"Terra is not a vampire race," smiled Charalas. "Terra tried to raise their level and failed because of their lassitude. They didn't give a hoot. Terra tried to conduct their experiments on a gentle basis; small experiments such as testing vaccines and antibodies—all, mind, on Titanians who were ill. They had no chance of danger, and a good chance of living. Titan had nothing to lose; either the vaccines would work and save the victim, or would not work and the victim would receive the best care possible anyway. Terra offered to pay royally. Titan didn't even care for that. They didn't care for payment; didn't care for comfort; didn't care that some of their members died.

"And," added Charalas pointedly, "they do not care now, when Terra uses a few of them for medical purposes."

"How many?"

"There are one hundred million Titanians. Terra takes perhaps one thousand per year. And a goodly portion of these are ill already. Terra developed their limb-grafting method out of them, and that alone is worth their trouble."

"That puts a new face on it," said Guy.

"As for their new find—Mephisto. Mephisto might have received good friendship. The Mephistans were absolutely alien to Terrans. Mephisto has nothing that Terra really needs, that Terra couldn't exchange for. Terra has items that Mephisto could have had, too, thus completing the cycle. Mephisto's atmosphere is unsuited for Terrans and vice versa. Their body chemistry would have been poisonous to each other. Here, then, we have a condition whereby two alien races could have lived in peace together. Yet Mephisto, not knowing the entire story, thought Terra a rapacious, vampire race. They, the utter fools, sought Martian assistance."

"That's what I'd have done."

"Not smart," smiled Charalas. "Never, never get between traditional enemies, Elanane. You become an innocent bystander that goes down before the steam roller of a spite battle. That, plus the traditional system of both planets."

"What's that?"

"Never fight your battles on the home ground—it spoils it badly. Fight your battles all over some poor innocent's land and leave the homeland unscarred. Also dirty, Elanane, but Nature is a dirty fighter."

"So you think Terra is all right fundamentally?"

"Obviously. Nature will not permit any unsuitable system to obtain. Given a few hundred years and Terra will see eye to eye with Mars against some other system."

"Perhaps against Ertene—?"

"I hope not," said Charalas fervently. "Yet they have some attributes we need."

"Have they anything we need?"

"They have the verve, the ambition, and unbeatability of youth. We, Elanane, are stodgy and slow and old."

"That doesn't please me too much."

"That's too bad. It's true. Look, Elanane, how long is our history compared to theirs?"

"Several hundred times as long, I believe."

"Not quite several hundred, Elanane. But long enough—far long enough to prove my statement. How does their scientific culture compare?"

"Somewhat less—"

"Equal! Or better perhaps!"

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. The two are divergent to the nth power, but their development is as high as ours is. Now, Elanane, they've come up alone, driven only by Mars and other exigencies. Mars came with them. We, Elanane, came up by slyly taking bits of culture from this system and that system as we came along.

"Be that as it may," added Charalas. "The question I ponder is this: How do we know we're so right?"

XVIII.

Guy didn't answer. And Charalas smiled. "I've said my piece," he told Maynard. "Take it as from an old, old, bothersome man who may be bitter because of his age."

"Charalas, you are Ertene's foremost neuro-surgeon, and also one of the most popular philosophers. I'll accept your arguments. But I am still convinced that Ertene will suffer if any alliance is formed between Terra and Ertene."

"A little suffering might wake us from our lethargy, but it is also human nature to let the other guy suffer. We'll go on and on until we get caught. Some day," promised Charalas, "Ertene will suffer. It's just a matter of time before we get caught."

"Not if I can help it," said Maynard stoutly.

The door opened to admit Thomakein. He bore a sheaf of papers. He looked surprised at Charalas and then greeted the neuro-surgeon. "Been here long?"

"Couple of hours," answered Charalas. "Elanane and I have been discussing the state of Ertene."

Thomakein's forehead wrinkled, and he cast a worried look at Guy, who smiled cheerfully. "Have you come to a conclusion?" he asked with forced cheer.

"We've decided that Ertene may be in for trouble some day," said Charalas. "And also that we'll forestall it as best we can."

"That's what I came for," said Thomakein. "We're setting up vortex projectors on strategic places. We need your signature, Elanane, on the orders which procure the land."

"Upon what basis?"

"Purchase, of course."

"I'll sign—and pray that they are never used."

"So will we all," smiled Thomakein. "But to need them and not have them would be terrible."

Guy signed the papers, and Thomakein left with Charalas. Maynard smiled inwardly as they left. Thomakein's anxiety was so obvious; he wanted to question Charalas to see what, if anything, was said that might lead to trouble. He shrugged as the phone rang once and a girlish voice told him that she was home and could she come up to see him. The voice clicked a chord in Guy's mind, and he answered: "Come on up, Leilanane."

He wondered whether it was customary for the lanee to kiss his sister on every possible occasion; his thought-beam instrument gave him enough information to make his heart beat faster.

The days passed swiftly for Guy Maynard. Had he been the real Elanane, they would have passed slowly, for nothing of any real interest transpired. It was a humdrum life, he found. The affairs of state were few and far between, and more and more Guy came to believe that Ertene's system was as good or better than the turmoil that prevailed on Terra. The only activity that went on was the construction of the vortex machines, and that was the job of a few, specially-trained technicians. Guy found his time passing swiftly because of the constant necessity of keeping his guard up.

The thought-beam instrument kept him out of trouble, and gradually he completed it, making the special parts in a tiny workshop that the real Elanane had furnished. He thanked the dead lanee for having that kind of a hobby, and used it to the best advantage.

Leilanane helped. The affairs of state were the small part of being lanee, but the social functions were nightly. And since Lanee Elanane had no mate, nor cared to speak with intent, he appeared at the state functions with his sister. He was gently criticized for this; not as lanee, but for the fact that he prevented his sister from the company of young men of her own set. In shorter, blunter words, Guy was "spoiling her chances!"

But Leilanane did not seem to care. She was happy. Guy pondered this, and wondered whether she would have been as happy with her real brother, or whether the facts, though unknown to her mind, were not unknown to the chemistry that attracted men and women mutually.

Wondering, Guy opened the gain of his instrument one evening and looked into her mind. He wanted to know, truly, whether she preferred him, or whether her preference was but a desire to serve him. To Guy's way of thinking, there was a difference in love between love of the man and love of doing things for him.

So Guy looked and retreated blushing. For in Leilanane's mind there was confusion and frustration; she was bitter against the laws that forbade mating between blood relatives. That one experience told Guy how huge a weapon the thought-beam instrument really was, and he swore never to do that again.

It also gave him confusion. He was in no position to ponder the unanswerable question he put to himself. It evolved into a merry-go-round that left him dizzy. In telling Leilanane the truth, he could establish a right to openly court her. But it would at once remove any possibility of remaining close to her. On the other hand not telling her kept them together—with the most formidable barrier between them.

It gave Maynard sleepless nights, and in order to keep from thinking himself into a bottomless pit, Guy started to build a thought-beam instrument of monster proportions. What he hoped to do with the instrument he did not know, but at one time he considered using it to condition Ertene into believing that it would be proper to mate him with his sister. When he analyzed the latter consideration, he scorned himself for thinking of it. He'd be throwing Ertene to the dogs for his own personal desire for a woman. And then he knew that no matter how he felt, he could not use the instrument in that manner.

It was excellent, he found, for gaining information without the giver's knowledge. But trying to coerce the individual in the slightest thing was impossible without letting the one know that mental tricks were being played.

He was forced to do some fast talking on the day he found that out, and only managed to talk himself out of trouble by calling to mind and attention the fact that he had known the man for many kilodays.

If the small one were that ticklish a proposition, the larger one would be more brutal in its operation. Yet he continued to work on the thing as a means of keeping his mind and hands busy. So night after night he worked in the little workshop, and then as he grew drowsy at his bench, Guy would stand under the stars upon the spiderweb of a foot-bridge that connected the governmental offices with the governmental apartments. He would look Solward and wonder how and why such a mess had been made of his life, and whether happiness would always be out of grasp.

He counted on his fingers. He'd been kidnaped, and he'd spent a year on Ertene. That was one. There was a year or so developing the barrier-screen—that made two. There were five years of advancing from senior executive to marshal's rank, and that made seven. It was a year since his being discharged from the Terran Space Patrol, and that made eight years.

Eight long years since he hadn't had a care on his mind. And in spite of his successes, there was that constant gnawing knowledge that he was not true to himself or his fellows. Yet, his conscience was clear. The knowledge had not been bad for his morale; it was merely disconcerting to know that the things they gave him credit for were not his own.

Maynard did not consider for one moment that Ertene hadn't given him everything. It took inventive genius to fit the barrier to spacecraft, and the other developments were all Maynard's own. But he scorned them all and debased himself.

It was eight long, lonely years ago—

He mentally kicked himself. He wondered whether Joan Forbes would have made a difference in his life. She might have been the outlet to pent-up feelings that he needed so badly. Joan would have given him rest without asking suspicious questions. It might have been better—

But Joan was dead, and though Thomakein claimed that she would have been there anyway, it did little to cheer him up. Thomakein's reasoning did not include the possibility that Joan might have been making a home for him, or that even the tiniest mite of family would have immobilized her against following a planet invasion.

Joan Forbes, thought Maynard, might have been the answer—but at the present time she was another blind alley of thought. Might have been is the cry of the second-guesser; the Monday Morning Quarterback.

The sense of thermal balance that was high in Maynard warned him first. Then that sense that tells of another sentient being close by, its warning, and Guy turned to see a small figure beside him on the bridge.

"Elanane," she said.

"Don't say it," he warned softly. "I can watch the stars, too."

"They're so silent and quiet and big."

"And peaceful," agreed Guy.

"I've been lonesome," said Leilanane plaintively. It was with effort that Maynard resisted the impulse to put his hand on her shoulder.

"Are you now?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "Elanane, I want to talk."

"Go right ahead," smiled Guy. "I like to hear you."

"No—this is important, and it is hard for me to begin."

"Serious?"

She nodded. "No ... Elanane, please don't take my shoulders like that ... it makes it more difficult."

Guy turned her around, pointed her head at the sky. "Up there, somewhere," he said quietly, "is the answer to everything. We'll find it some day. Now, Leilanane, tell me what you are worrying about."

"Thomakein asked me to marry him."

Guy's reason beat his reflex to the muscles in his forearms and prevented him from closing his hands tight on Leilanane's shoulders. Thomakein perceived the emotional tangle that was becoming more and more imminent, and by marrying Leilanane he would eliminate it. Guy knew that Thomakein thought everything of Leilanane—possibly loved the girl in a passive manner. Guy smiled briefly, obviously Thomakein could have had little opportunity to make real love to her, but a man of Thomakein's personality could carry off such a proposal by his own sheer persuasiveness. Also, Thomakein wanted power himself. Marrying the lanee's sister would put him in the eyes of the public, and doing it with the approval of the lanee himself would give him the official recognition that he needed to become lanee after Elanane. Well, Guy would resign as soon as Thomakein wanted him to, that was reasonable and desirable. It also solved the problem that bothered both Guy and Leilanane.

"Why not?" he asked softly.

"I don't know. Something—keeps me from it."

"Me?" asked Guy in a voice that was almost a whisper.

Leilanane turned and buried her face in Guy's shoulder. "Am I bad?" she cried. "Is it so terrible to love my brother?"

"It is unfortunate, Leil," said Guy softly. "It cannot be. I, too, am torn. We must face this thing as it is. Brothers and sisters normally do not care for one another. Perhaps our being apart so much has removed the usual reason. Yes, Leil, I love you too. Do you love Thomakein at all?"

"Thomakein attracts me," admitted Leilanane. "There is something dynamic in him; dynamic and powerful and all-sweeping. I could learn to love him truly."

"Then do so. Leil, no matter what we do, you and I, if we permit this outlandish thing to go on, it will mean unhappiness for both of us."

"No. Couldn't we go ... to Sol ... and live there?"

Guy shook his head. "You'd learn to hate me, Leil. In our hearts we'd always know that what we were doing was dead wrong."

Leilanane nodded pitifully. "There are times, though," she said earnestly, "when you do not seem like my brother."

"Forget it," said Guy. "There is nothing more certain in the world." Guy's sense of humor told him that he was right, all things considered.

"I suppose I will forget it soon enough. What will you do?"

"What I should have done years ago—go out and find me a mate."

"I'll hate her."

Guy laughed, and if it sounded forced, Leilanane did not notice. He turned her around to face him and shook her gently. "You're a silly little lovely," he told her. "Nothing is less like the intelligent girl I know you are. It's been my fault all along. Now you'll marry Thomakein and you'll love it."

"Think so?"

"Do you think of him at all?"

Leilanane thought for a moment. "I think so," she said slowly. "Perhaps I might learn to love him—I've never had much chance."

"Again my fault. Come on, I think he's up. We'll settle this right now."

They found Thomakein reading. Guy opened abruptly with: "Thomakein, Leil says you have been talking deep."

Thomakein smiled solemnly. "I have—and what's your answer?"

"There can be one answer. When?"

"As soon as possible."

Guy searched the other man's mind for any ulterior motive and found none. He feared to increase the sensitivity of his instrument because of the necessity of fiddling with the tuning and gain controls before their eyes. He nodded, smiled and gave Leilanane a little hug. "You're it," he said. "Now go away."

Leilanane left, and Guy sat quiet for a moment, thinking. Thomakein had solved his problem again. No matter how he felt, Guy knew that what had been growing was not to be. He asked: "Are you on the level?"

"I am. I've loved her a long time."

"Good. I think rather well of my sister."

"I know."

"Look, Tom, you're not doing this just to break this up?"

"Not entirely. Forgive me if I ramble a moment, but I want you to understand. You are never out of danger, Guy. You never will be as long as you are lanee. Once you retire, you can accept the alternative of utter retirement, or you may be more inclined to a less public life. People will revere you always, but your importance will wane, and your words will be less quoted and less watched until you are safe from chance slips of the tongue.

"Now I want to be lanee—permit me that. As I have said, I've been too far from Ertene too long. People know me, but not well enough. You sponsor this marriage, and it will be practically an endorsement from you. Then in a kiloday you may announce your retirement and I'll announce my candidacy. The family tie-up will run me in on a wave of popularity. As for Leilanane, I'll be as good and as loving a husband as I can. I know that she'll be a good wife."

"I haven't heard the word 'love' used yet."

Thomakein smiled wryly. "Honest, Guy, it always struck me slightly silly to hear two grown, mature, intelligent, strong, capable men discussing love. Forgive me. I feel that some things should be kept between the man and the woman alone. I do love Leilanane, that I promise."

"O.K.," laughed Guy. "Go ahead and commit matrimony. But look, Tom, once you get settled and running, see if you can find a friend for me."

Forty days later, Guy led Leilanane down the long aisle with a golden cord. The choral voice of the great organ rolled sonorously, exultantly, and then faded to a musical whisper as the couple reached the altar bar. The ceremony started, and its origin was lost in antiquity but returned in symbol. Guy removed the golden halo from Leilanane's head, and burned it on the flame-blackened pedestal. Thomakein accepted the protection of the woman as Guy's protection was removed and destroyed by the all-consuming fire.

Guy returned up the long aisle alone where he stood to watch the final phases of the ceremony.

The bridal couple clasped hands, and then as the music rolled out again, they left the altar bar hand in hand. They stopped before Guy, who smiled and said: "Life, love, and happiness."

Then he shook his head. The official ceremony was over, and Guy grinned hugely. He pried them apart and took an arm of each, leaving the chapel with them. He handed them into their flier, and motioned them away with a jerking movement of his thumb. "Beat it," he said, "and don't return until you're better acquainted."

Guy returned to his offices and called for Charalas.

XIX.

The period that follows defies description. It is simple to take a protracted length of time and describe the events that transpire, but when little or nothing of interest takes place, there is nothing to record. It is similar to the engineering report of negative answer; it is inconclusive and unsatisfying.

This is an historical record of the events that took place during a certain period, and during that period there are times such as this in which nothing happened.

Literally nothing.

It is this lack of action that made the outcome. Guy Maynard was a Terran. Terrans have been accustomed for centuries to action. From the time of the caveman to the present, Terrans have lived in a cultural system that was ever accelerating. They progressed from the animal-powered vehicle to the machine-powered vehicle in a matter of years, and they went from land-travel to air-travel in the scant matter of years. Life on Terra has been a constantly-increasing tempo to the present, when Terrans traverse space in velocities measured in thousands of miles per second.

It is improbable that Terrans will slow down. Like the Ertinians, once a race is geared to high-velocity, slowing down is impossible.

The Ertinians, geared to a nomad life, could not conceive of a stable system and like the proverbial tramp, continued to think in terms of travel.

The Terran—Guy Maynard—found the peaceful life on Ertene suitable for a long time. He expected that action would take place once Thomakein and Leilanane were mated, but things fell into their grooves again, and time went on interminably.

Guy tried to push the physicists that were working on his pet projects and found a placitude that maddened him. The necessities of sudden and decisive action were not there. Ertinians didn't think as Terrans do. Eons had passed since anything of real velocity was needed, and their thinking habits had been trained along these lines.

The idea of accepting an idea and developing it immediately into a practical thing was unheard of. There had been no need. Certainly there must be no need now.

Guy was a dynamo of action in a world geared to ten miles per hour.

He found that their scientific developments were slow and cumbersome. Their science was not their own, but that of the worlds of their passage, and with years between such contacts, scientific ambition was low, indeed. With no competitive force driving them forward, Ertene had assumed the role of a lazy man, content to live in indolence.

Had any danger come to Terra, it would have been answered immediately and more than likely Terra would have gone out to meet the threat on the threat's home ground. But after the first flurry of worry over the disclosure of Ertene to Terra by the man Gomanar, Ertene's concern subsided. Half-heartedly Ertene put up vortex projectors about their cities, and then returned to their homes.

At first, Guy worried about these weapons. It was not fair to his peace of mind to see on every hand the evidence of Ertene's dislike of Terra. His own feelings were mixed; Terra hadn't played fair with him, true, but the idea of ruling a planet that would kill thousand upon thousand of his people stuck in Guy's throat. He worried about this, and because he could tell no one about it—not even Thomakein for fear that his motives be mis-read—he worried alone.

His worry gave him something to do, at least.

But then as the days added into kilodays, and Ertene continued on and on and on in its course through the heavens, and no Terran forces came to contest or to seek, Guy became used to the idea that Ertene's barrier was far more obscure than the proverbial needle in the haystack. A magnet, well plied, will show the fallacy of that platitude, but trying to see nothing against a field of black—impossible.

Guy knew that his no-radiation detectors were being used. He suspected deeper developments, and fumed and fretted because he could not know what they were. His imagination cooked up many ideas, possible and impossible, for the finding of such a minute bubble in space. And it all reduced to one thing.

Mephisto had been unfound for hundreds of years of space travel and exploration. Men suspected the possibility of inner- and outer-planets and went on the search for them. They failed until the Ertinian science provided Guy with an instrument to locate such bodies.

Ertene's chances were excellent.

And the mathematicians of Ertene spent kilodays in deep theory and high abstractions and decided that the law of probabilities prohibited the finding of Ertene.

And instead of feeling concern at the idea of fighting his own people, Guy looked upon the vortex projectors in the same light as a fire department in a city of pure metal.

Guy's life changed as a result of this. Like the man on vacation, he began to seek something to do. The job of lanee was unexciting and drab after the life of activity he knew on Terra.

On every hand he saw things that would be hailed as miraculous on Terra. Medical science was far ahead of Terra's in spite of the drive of necessity; Ertene's science had gone forward passively and the diseases were gone completely from the planet. Their accident-surgery could stand a bit of Terran influence just as the Terrans could stand some of Ertinian vaccine and antibody discoveries.

He scorned the speed of the workmen that erected the home for Thomakein and Leilanane—now named Leilakein, of course—because it took them almost a thousand days. The same home, he knew, could have been erected upon the planets Venus, with material shipped cold from Terra, and the couple would have been living in it within sixty days.

But Terran workmen used tiny MacMillans to drill holes instead of the brace and bit of the ancients. Spikes and nails were unused on Terra, instantaneous welding was done on metal, and molecular-bonding, and forming. Wood was worked with portable power-tools, and fastened together with huge wire staples formed as used from spools of wire, and driven with the machine on the premises.

In the sky, traffic moved ponderously and sedately. Even in rush periods Ertinian traffic did not approach the mad scramble that took place on Terra.

Guy drove his flier through the skies with them and came to the conclusion that the hurrying scramble of traffic and its frequent accidents was productive of a bunch of better drivers. The percentages of dented wings to fliers in the sky was higher on Ertene.

He read an editorial in a paper objecting to the lanee's hairbreadth sky-tactics and Guy scorned the words because he hadn't been in the slightest danger. After all, Guy had learned to run a flier over Sahara Base, where a flier sometimes cut between building tops in a vertical bank to keep from hitting wingtips, and where one of the more scatter-brained stunts consisted of racing another driver to the last landing space.

"Sure, they lost fliers that way," grinned Guy aloud. But it made for the quick or the dead and it kept people on their toes.

He accepted Charalas' theories about survival, and admitted that if Terra were rotten and avaricious, so was he. He knew that if it came to a choice, he'd prefer that they experiment on a Titanian than upon him.

His only sore spot was the fact that Terra denied him his right to his secret—and his life. They had been more than unreasonable in that, expecting him to break his oath to them.

And that brought back the old argument. Who was right? Should he have agreed to Ertene's oath and then sold them out?

He shook his head. Had he been that kind, Ertene would not have permitted him to leave.

Guy had spent his life under the idea that when things went too quietly too long grief was brewing. He had theorized upon it, and had formulated the relation that the amount of grief was proportional to the length of quiet time.

His accounting was piling up to a terrible, staggering total. He knew it wouldn't last, couldn't last. He hoped that Thomakein would move, giving him a chance to lose himself. But Thomakein went about his business quietly, testing the vortex projectors and handling the details of defense.

What form the end would take, Guy didn't know.

He'd have welcomed it save for the one fact that if and when it came, Guy would then be out of a place to live. Terra had made it impossible to remain there, to have Ertene denied him would make him a man without a planet.

And so he fought the idea of alliance with Terra because such an alliance would place him right in the hands of the Terrans themselves. There would be no forgiving if they came, and once they came and disclosed Guy's real identity, Guy would have no Ertinian shelter. Ertene would throw him out for violating his promise never to return.

Guy snorted at himself. His was a life of broken promises and cross-purpose oaths.

But there was one oath he intended to keep. He would do all he could to keep Ertene free—his life depended upon it! It occurred to Guy that the way to keep things that way was to remove the source of irritation, and so he began to investigate and to reason.

How lucky it was that Elanane had passed on as he did. How lucky that Guy resembled him. Guy had accepted these coincidences glibly, without question, until it came to him that Thomakein could have done otherwise if he had found it necessary. Charalas had been lanee once, and the neuro-surgeon would have followed Thomakein's urgings, especially after Thomakein's stories of Terran intrigue.

It was too trite.

Would a popular ruler, professing isolation, refuse to arm his planet against invasion? Perhaps. There are men who think that if they mind their business, others will mind theirs. But not Terra. Not when known otherwise, would such a policy work. The idea of passive resistance went out when the airplane came in.

The real Elanane was quite a man. He was loved, admired, and eulogized. He was intelligent, well-balanced mentally, morally, and physically. Elanane was neither crank nor crackpot, and Guy knew that his theories of government were stable and sensible.

Therefore Guy reasoned that Elanane would be certain to take any measures to insure the safety of Ertene.

That would mean absolute co-operation with Thomakein. Elanane had appointed Thomakein to study Terra and to report. A spy, if the word must be used. Elanane would accept the word of his friend and do as that friend suggested.

But Elanane might go so far and no more. There is a vast difference between preparing to stand off a possible invasion and preparing to fight an offensive war. Elanane might believe that the best defense is a quick offense.

Would Thomakein do away with a friend for that?

Hardly. It must be deeper.

Coincidence was too thick. That alcohol and irritation business did not make sense. Ertinian anti-lamine drugs were similar to Terra's, and furthermore Ertinians used alcohol which would mean that the Ertinian drug must have been tested under these conditions. That brought up another thought.

If Thomakein had slipped a neutralizer into Guy's drinks, he could almost be certain that exposure would follow.

Would Thomakein gain by such a deal?

Well, would he?

Guy's hand found the sensitivity control and stepped the power high. His sensitive fingertips tuned for maximum contact with Thomakein.

The answer he sought exploded in his mind with clearness and conciseness. Its sheer audacity staggered Guy. The very gall of the man was appalling, and yet the utter forcefulness of Thomakein might push it through. The plan itself was so daring that Thomakein would stun those who were against him. Not permanently, but they would be amazed long enough for the Ertinian to take his toll.

Once Thomakein unwound his plot, it would defy catching.

Guy headed for Thomakein's office on the run, and caught him present.

"I've just figured it," snapped Guy.

"So? Figured what?"

"That little plot you've been cooking!"

"Plot? You mean my plan for—"

"It's a stinking plot and nothing more."

"You're a little upset, Elanane. Remember that you live only at my bidding."

"What did you do to Elanane?"

"It was unfortunate—"

"The men who permitted his death were dealt with," admitted Guy harshly.

"So?"

"But removing Elanane permanently didn't bother you at all."

"No, not too much. But remember that Elanane was my friend."

"I hope that I never have such a friend."

"You have," smiled Thomakein in a superior manner.

"You? God forbid!"

"Look, hothead, cool down. If you get tossed off of Ertene, then what?"

"I made an oath to protect Ertene."

"You made an oath never to return."

"I also made an oath never to tell. Also one previous to tell Terra of anything I discover."

"Do you suppose that Ertene will believe anything you tell them once the truth of your broken oaths are known?"

"They needn't know. I—am Elanane."

"We can put a stop to that," snapped Thomakein.

"I think that I can stop you first."

"No doubt," said Thomakein easily. "The Terran methods of hand-to-hand fighting are devastating. But you'll never conceal your victory."

"You stinker," snarled Guy. "How about Leil?"

Thomakein's face fell. "I will be blamed for Elanane's death," he said solemnly. "I am more than sorry about that."

"Being sorry is not enough."

"What do you intend to do about it?"

"Thomakein"—Guy opened the phonoscope key, dialed government headquarters, and continued—"I arrest you, Thomakein, for treason against the integrity of Ertene!"

The faces on the plate registered horror, and then action. The plate continued to register as headquarters kept the circuit open. Guy dropped his hold on the audio key to cut the sounds of men in full cry.

"Now we'll see."

"You idiot," laughed Thomakein. "You'll see how Ertinians stick together!"

"We'll see."

"You might have come in," said Thomakein. "Together we could have ruled the entire System."

"You planned to rule it alone," sneered Guy.

"I shall—now."

"You're the kind of man to share such power with me."

"Certainly."

"Rot."

"Have it your way."

"I'll have it my way," said Guy. "It's not your way."

"Nor yours. I don't particularly care," said Thomakein easily. "My plans are about set anyway. A day or so means little."

"Days—even hours can ruin anything."

"Not when the plan includes the possibility of something slipping."

"Nice trick you played on me."

"Thank you, Guy. That's just an idea. If I can play puppets with a ruler of Ertene, an ambitious young man from Terra, and the fate of worlds and make everything come out even—I can run the show."

"You controlled the election of Elanane because he resembled me."

"Naturally. That was part of it."

"Why?"

"Because I knew that no Ertinian would permit me to arm Ertene for power and invasion. It took an energetic man, with will, force, and fear of discovery to push it through. Guy, you'd have been safe if I'd been permitted to run this freely. Terra couldn't touch you. But you choose to pit your futile will against mine. Mine—and Ertene's!"

"I am going to keep Ertene free!" shouted Guy, hammering on the desk with his fist.

"You mean, 'Gomanar is going to save his skin!' don't you?" sneered Thomakein.

"I'll shoot the works, Thomakein, if it's necessary."

"Poor lad. You had promise."

The door flung open, and police entered. They begged Thomakein's forgiveness, and then marched him from the office to the great hall wherein the Council met.

The great Hall of History brought back the memory of his first visit, and Guy smiled. Then as the Council entered and seated itself, Guy faced them. In the balcony above, faces peered over at the governmental representatives. The wall below the balcony's edge came alive with the hundred and eighty phonoscopes that would take this proceeding to all Ertene.

"A grave charge has been made," said the leader of the group. "Who brings this charge."

"I, Lanee Elanane, charge that this man, Thomakein, has plotted against the Will of Ertene."

"The charge is treason, then?"

"Yes."

"Explain the reason for these charges. Remember, Lanee Elanane, this is no trial, but a pretrial to arrive at the decision as to the graveness of the crime. Evidence for such a crime must be collected, and if the charge is allowed, you will be permitted to gather such evidence during a period of time decided by this Council."

"I have reason to believe that Thomakein is plotting to take Ertene into the Solar System," said Guy.

The Council exploded. The austere meeting broke into a riot of talk until Guy shouted: "Quiet!"

"Proceed, Elanane."

"In addition, Thomakein has ambition to become the supreme ruler over the allied Solar System and Ertene."

Harabond, the head of the Council, arose. "Assuming that Thomakein were successful in his mechanical intrigue—he might be elected to rule. The accomplishment of such a feat would prove his ability."

"Ertene can be swung, can't it?" asked Guy.

"Yes—but only if it is universally agreed on Ertene."

Guy leaned forward and his voice was dry and hard. "Harabond, on Terra it is reported that many times a brilliant but dishonest leader of minorities has succeeded in making a shambles of the world before he was subdued. It is fear of this that has made Terrans distrustful of everyone who is not openly for them. And do you think that a man capable of running this intrigue to its present state of completion would stop at elections? He'll grab!"

"Thomakein, will you offer defense?"

Thomakein stood forward with a cryptic smile upon his lips. "Harabond, how long have you been Leader of the Council?"

"Proceed, Thomakein. Leave the personalities out of this."

"You do not know the man before you," said Thomakein. "Those of you who were here when we first met a denizen of Sol—do you remember Gomanar? This is he!"

"Impossible."

"Not at all. I remembered how he resembled the lanee-assistant. Elanane became lanee later, remember. This man before you, Members of the Council, is the man who promised never to tell of Ertene. He was willing to violate his initial oath to Terra and keep us from exposure. This is the man who spoke openly on Terra, violating his oath to us. This is the man who is now violating his oath to us by being here—he promised never to return."

"Get Charalas," said Harabond. A courier left silently, scowling that his absence would deprive him of some interesting scenes.

"Now," said Harabond, "if this is whom you say, prove it here and now!"

"Have I no time to gather evidence?" asked Thomakein cynically.

"His charge against you was first. This matter of counter-charges complexes the proceedings. Must we hold our lanee in trial to prove his right to charge another with treason?"

"I need no time," said Thomakein. "I can prove that he is not Elanane."

"Perhaps I can disprove you," smiled Guy.

"He thinks to baffle us all," laughed Thomakein. "Harabond, so great is his deceit that he thinks to fool us all."

"You may answer his charge," said Harabond to Guy.

"Harabond, do you recall thrashing me for swimming in your abandoned quarry as a youngster? I was four kilodays old, then. At four point three kilodays, Neilamon, your son and I—we were of an age—skipped school and ran away to become vagrants. They found us and we were again thrashed. It is laughable, gentlemen, but I find that I cannot recall any incidents of good, bright, intelligent youth. Apparently I was a healthy, normal youth that got into trouble as any healthy schoolboy will. And there is Tocamay. He knocked out one of my baby teeth for pulling the hair of the girl that sat in front of me in school. Afterwards, we split an apple stolen from Harabond's orchard, and swore never to trust a woman again—she walked home with the school sissy whom we both hated. The sissy, remember him, Tocamay? He sits beside you, now one of the better philosophers of Ertene and destined to go down in history. Did you marry her, Diamony?"

"No," grinned the philosopher.

"Shall we take a vote?" asked Harabond.

"No impostor can be that well read," said Tocamay.

"To become educated in the present society might be accomplished, but never to recall childhood things from learning. Impossible."

"Then you admit that Elanane is Elanane?"

"We do."

"I wish to add something," smiled Guy. "If I am this Gomanar, I want to know what Thomakein did with Elanane?"

"You answer me that," smiled Thomakein. Guy started. The Ertinian looked as though he were enjoying himself immensely. It worried Guy, and he knew that Thomakein must have a pair of aces up his sleeve.

"Then we proclaim that this man is Elanane," said Harabond, "and Lanee Elanane may proceed with the charges against Thomakein." He thought for a moment. "No, we must—by law—listen to any evidence offered by Thomakein that this man is not Elanane."

"I'll take the chance," said Thomakein brightly. Harabond looked at Thomakein in amazement.

"Yes," nodded Thomakein. "I'll take the initiative now. Members of the Council, a mind-reader could baffle us all. He could recall things of our childhood at will, by reading our minds. This impostor—Gomanar by Ertinian pronunciation—Guy Maynard by his mother on Terra—Elanane by his own selection, has a mental amplifier, which enables him to read thought!"

"Incredible!"

"Impossible!"

"Not at all," said Thomakein. "It is fact. This instrument is not perfect. It reads surface thoughts only—unless the subject is thinking at you. Then the deeper thoughts are clear."

"But if this is true, and he is not Elanane, how can he read deep thoughts directed at Elanane?"

"Misdirection," said Thomakein. "You and I and Ertene thought he was Elanane. We thought at him as Elanane. He used these thoughts for his own purpose."

"Can you prove this?"

"Am I talking for fun?" sneered Thomakein. He stepped to the phonoscope, snapped the key, and said: "Bring it in, Lentanar."

The door opened and the man brought in the huge thought-beam instrument that Guy built in Elanane's workshop. "This is it," said Thomakein.

"What have you to say?" asked Harabond.

"May I show you how it works?" asked Guy. He stepped forward, turned it on, tuned it to Thomakein and himself, and broadcast their thoughts.

"Now," he said, "read and think!"

XX.

An hour passed in silence. Then Harabond held up a hand and Guy turned the instrument off. "So," he said to the Council, "you see that my interest is for Ertene!"

"A man who is capable of developing an instrument such as this," said Harabond, "is more than capable of distorting its output to his own purpose!"

"But thought—" said Guy.

Harabond shook his head. "To think that Thomakein would plot this way against Ertene is unbelievable. Were this charge brought by an Ertinian, we might consider it valid. There is too much at stake to believe a Terran, whose word has proven to be none too good."

"Use this thing for yourself," Guy directed. "Put technicians on it, build several and prove that you cannot distort its output. Then believe me."

"An instrument such as this would deprive all of us of our sacred privacy. I direct that it be destroyed and that no research be permitted along these lines," said Harabond. "As for the incredible story I see—or was directed to witness—at the operation of this machine, I can only shake my head. I reiterate, any man possessing genius enough to build an instrument like this is more than capable of making it perform to his will. Therefore its evidence will not be allowed. And, furthermore, the Terran, Guy Maynard, will be charged with the murder of Elanane!"

"But—!"

"Take him away!"

Guy was marched from the room before the same policemen that he had summoned to bring Thomakein. As they passed the portal, Charalas entered, shook his head in puzzlement and asked Thomakein what was this all about?

"An incredible impersonation," said Thomakein, "plus the loss of a loved leader," Guy heard him explaining as the door closed behind them.

Halfway across the rotunda between the buildings, the whine of sirens climbed up the scale and shook the very ground with their power. It was a frightening sound, and the men clinging to Guy's arms let go to look around in wonder.

Guy might have run, but he was too stunned and bitter to react properly. The very gall of Thomakein! The utter blindness of the Council!

Guy envisioned the end of Guy Maynard's unhappy life at the end of a rope—or according to the Ertinian plan of painless removal. He went limp and beaten. He was licked. He was a poor pawn, and all that he could do to sway the lives of worlds was to push in futility and fall below them when they refused to move. It would have been better—

"Terrans!"

"The Space Patrol!"

"You summoned them!" snarled one captor.

"No—"

"Liar!"

"I swear not."

"We believe not!"

Down out of the clear sky came the Terran Patrol in battle formation. With the precision that spoke volumes, the space pattern flowed from the closed cylinder to a lenticular disk and the massed ships of the task force sped across the city at fifty thousand feet.

"They've come for you!"

"No," swore Guy.

"They'll not get you!"

"We'd best give him," argued the other. "They'll fire!"

"They're firing."

"No, they're not," said Guy. "That's signaling."

"Either signaling or poor marksmanship," said the captor. "Nothing's hit."

"Terra doesn't miss," said Guy.

From the ringed emplacements, the vortex projectors vomited their toroids. Upward went the pattern of vortexes, and the Patrol broke formation in an effort to elude the whirling toroids.

"Did you?" asked Charalas, coming up behind.

"Send for them? No."

"Your story is true?"

"I swear it!"

"Then what of them?"

The pattern of toroidal vortices went up and up, and caught Terran ships, passed on, and left the Terran ships to fall inert. Pressor beams cradled the falling ships and lowered them to ground. The rest of the Terran Patrol drove inward on a slant, with the turreted AutoMacs blazing purple at the snouts and the invisible beams cutting flaring furrows across the city.

Another toroid went up before them, and pilots fought their controls to divert the ships. The slow-moving vortex hovered, and the high-velocity ships arrowed through the vortex in spite of the pilots. More pressor beams caught the inert ships.

Torpedoes started to burst in the city, and with each explosion a building leaped skyward in a mass of flame and dropped in ruin. The sky crisscrossed with flaring beams, and the vortex projectors spewed forth again and again, filling the air with death.

The Patrol drove high, hovered. They fenced with MacMillans on automatic, and then fled precipitately as a super-sized toroid formed and raced upwards.

"Beat 'em off."

Guy nodded.

Then he turned and slugged his nearest captor. He took the man's MacMillan and faced the rest. "I'm leaving," he snarled.

He backed carefully away, keeping his back against the building. A movement caught his eye, and Guy's quick hand dropped an Ertinian from a high window. With the diversion, the other policeman reached for his MacMillan, and Guy blasted the hand as it grabbed, and then drilled the man behind him for trying to reach forward for it.

"I'm not fooling," snarled Guy. "And I'll take hostage. Charalas, come along!"

"Me?" asked the aged man, stalling for time.

"You—and jump!" yelled Guy, sniping a swift shot at his feet. Guy reached the parked police flier, pushed Charalas in, and then took off on a screaming zoom upwards.

A MacMillan flared and missed, a vortex rolled upwards too slow by half, another MacMillan missed, and then Guy was off and far away and free once more. He grinned. They'd left him his personal thought-beam instrument. They'd find it hard to run him down when he could read their minds. He turned the gain a little lower so that they couldn't read his, and he wondered whether the more powerful instrument would really be destroyed now.

An hour later, along near the ocean's edge, Guy dropped the flier. "Charalas," he said, offering a hand, "I'm sorry."

"You're in a real mess," said the neuro-surgeon.

"I know—but what's Ertene going to do now?"

He snapped on the flier-radio and caught Thomakein in the act of speaking: "—obviously came at the call of the impostor. He was a high official in the Patrol, and was working undercover here. People of Ertene, we must reply! We may not hold up our heads until this insult has been repaid. We now have a fine space fleet, thanks to the vortex and the pressors, and the Terrans. Never could we have built such a fleet here on Ertene; but it is now ours."

Guy growled and snapped Thomakein off.

"What are your plans?" asked Charalas.

"I'm going to drop you off here. Then I'm going somewhere."

"Where?"

"That's it. I don't know where. I'm barred from everything but Mars—I might try there."

"You loved Ertene, didn't you?" asked Charalas.

Guy nodded. "Until I found out how blind they are. A fine thing! They give credence to a plotter because his accuser is not of Ertene. And this last—I hate them and him!"

"This last?"

"Thomakein dropped the barrier so that the Terrans would come to investigate. He planned it all—and got his fleet ready-made."

"They came to fight—"

"They wouldn't have come if Thomakein hadn't started it all. Blame whom you will, but Thomakein saw his plan start when he found me alive in the Mardinex. My life has been just a pusharound for Thomakein for nine years."

"You think Ertene will win?"

"Thomakein may be highly successful for a long time—but Terra will win," said Guy. "Remember, Charalas, when you strike a rat, the rat bites back. That slaughter of Terrans back there is just nasty enough to make Terra completely mad. It happened before, on Mephisto III, and when we cooled down to the mere screaming point, there wasn't a living thing on Mephisto proper. Berserk, is the word for angry Terrans, Charalas. And I say Beware."

"And you?"

"Me, I'd like to push something around. I'm getting sick of being a pawn. I've reached the last straw, Charalas, and something's going to be crowned. That utter murder of Terrans just about broke me, and if I break completely, I'll take after Ertene single-handed."

"Slaughter?" asked Charalas.

"It was downright murder. If I only had an army."

"That's not murder. Ertene seldom kills."

"Look, Charalas, I'm in no mood for foolishness. I saw those ships come down after the vortex hit them. Terrans do not scare stiff, Charalas, they fight to the last."

"I know, but the vortex does not kill."

"The ... vortex ... does ... not ... kill?" repeated Maynard dully.

"No."

"It doesn't kill?" came the dazed repeat again.

"No. The vortex slows the life processes to almost zero, but not quite. Several, repeated exposures will kill, of course, but two or three aren't too dangerous to healthy people."

"What do they do to recover them?"

"Heat lamps, massage, and a shot of cuperenalin."

"I've got my army then," said Guy quietly. "I've got my army!" His voice repeated the phrase, and his tone crescendoed from stunned quietness to an exultant roar. "I've got my men!"

"I don't understand," said Charalas.

"I don't expect you to," smiled Guy. "Below here, in the ocean, is my spacecraft. I'm leaving Ertene—but I'll be back. Oh, will I be back! Terra needs some Ertinian love of leisure, and Ertene needs some of Terra's ambition. As a team, they should get on fine!"

"What are you going to do?" asked Charalas in alarm.

"Terra pushed me around for trying to protect Ertene. Ertene shoved me out for being Terran. They're both blindly unreasonable. I'm going to play Kilkenny cats, Charalas."

"Play what?"

"The Kilkenny cats were tied by the tails and hung over a line. They clawed each other to death. I'm going to break up this balance of power in Sol, with Mars and Terra always running the main show, by hanging Ertene in an orbit. Then there'll be three to treat with, plus the minority on Venus, and they'll all be standing around with their hands in one another's pockets. Mars will have to come off of her high horse or lose her shirt when Terra and Ertene get together, and Terra will have to listen to Mars if and when Ertene takes a notion to let Mars into confidence. Ertene will have to play baseball with both Terra and Mars or the Solarians will gang up in spite of themselves. And eventually there'll be less isolationism around Sol, and we'll all be better off. I'm going out to get me enough people to do the job—and now I know where to get 'em!"

Guy grinned at Charalas, stepped to the high bluff over the ocean, and dived.

The Loki emerged from the ocean an hour later. It went high and arrowed into the sky, and it was out of sight in seconds. Charalas wondered if followers would come, certainly the detectors would be running full power and would catch this ship and register it as nonconforming to the licensed ships of Ertene.

But the followers did not come, and Charalas realized that Guy Maynard was once a high officer in the Terran Patrol, and that he was more than familiar with the technical details of such a small craft. Charalas grinned, and wondered which one of Ertene's destroyed ships was now being detected in action again, and not being recorded because of matrices that eliminated unwanted alarms.

But Charalas wondered most about Guy's future plans. How and what was he going to do—and alone, too!

"Also unarmed," added Guy to himself. "Nice to know you, Charalas. And if you'll wonder about me for a week, I'll appreciate it. Bet the Ertinian land forces are on the prod right now—and you'll be found directly. No matter, I can take care of Guy Maynard from here."

Guy nosed the Loki cautiously toward the moon of Ertene. Their synthetic sun, dimming a bit now that the unbounded energy-intake was cut, shone full and bright upon one side, and Guy wasted precious minutes circling to the dark side.

It was mostly wasteland, yet Guy went die-straight to the half-concealed emplacement.

With callousness born of necessity, Guy rammed the dome and the Loki was flung away in the out-rush of air. Guy set his grapples, and literally tore the building apart, brick by brick, and then hooked onto the great vortex projector and lifted it high into the sky. He returned for the power equipment and took that also. He thanked his lucky star that the Loki was a Terran ship and not one of the less agile Ertinian jobs. The fact that it was fitted with everything but a set of turret-mounted MacMillans made Guy jump up and down in glee. He recalled the game of hide-and-seek of a couple of years ago, and knew that the Loki could take it.

He set the Loki down on a barren plain on the side away from Ertene, and donned space garb. Welding the vortex projector on the top of the Loki made a strange-looking spacecraft, but streamlining was unimportant in space anyway. He hooked girder after girder on the huge parabolic reflector, welding them securely to his hull. He fitted the supply cables with air-tight bushings through the walls, and then spent several hours fitting up a series of relays to a thumb-button on the pilot's levers.

His detector rang as he was finishing, and Guy poked the drive control without waiting to see the nature of the approaching ship.

He grinned as he arrowed away from Ertene, because he knew that no matter whose ship it was, it was against him. They'd given him the time he needed, and if he managed to get through the next phase, they would never be able to stop him again. No one would ever collect the price that was upon his head—a double price, one in Solar coin, one in Ertinian.

His detector rang again, and Guy saw a small Terran ship approaching. Its turrets jerked forward, and Guy's thumb hit the button. The Loki bucked to avoid the discharge of the AutoMacs, but the velocity of the Terran was too high to swerve. It ran into the floating vortex and went dead, at full velocity, on and on into the nothing of the sky. It was picked up later by Ertinians, who added it to their captured fleet.

And Guy, knowing that his life might control the future of billions of lives, hardened. Friend or foe, all must fall before him until he had reached the end of this phase of his life. If he fell, the Solar System itself might never recover from the outcome of his failure.

For Maynard, knowing his Terrans, his Martians, and also his Ertinians, could have pointed out the moves of the next five years on the fingers of his hand—and no one alive could have denied him.

From ten thousand miles above, Guy looked at Mephisto III. "Two or three aren't dangerous," muttered Guy, repeating Charalas' statement. "Please God it be three with no danger, for they will have had two!"

His thumb pressed the button, and the vortex formed, whirled, and then went racing forward in a boiling toroid of energy. It spread as it went, widening swiftly and encompassing the entire moon before it wrapped itself about the ground, closing like a monstrous blanket on the far side in curlers of lightnings and fire. The vortex died, and Mephisto III was again lifeless. Guy dropped quickly, and landed the Loki on the same spaceport that he had created from the hard ground years ago. He looked about him at the supplies and the ships lying mute, and shuddered at the bodies that lie a-sprawl. Then he smiled wryly and apologized mentally. There were but few of the big guns of the Terran Patrol present—but they would be a good nucleus.

For now, though, Guy had work to do.

XXI.

Maynard looked at the ground, and wondered. It was cold—deathly cold—in spite of the years of the barrier-input. Cold enough to give him hope.

Guy set his crowbar into the grave and pried. The dirt came out in lumps—the same lumps blasted long ago to create the shallow trench. The white wrappings were not soiled; the ground was frozen hard enough to prevent bits of grime from working their way into the soft cloth. The body was stiff and utterly cold beneath the wrappings, and it was more like carrying a log than a human being. But Guy took the exhumed one to the Loki, removed the white wrappings, and snapped on the battery of heat lamps.

Losses made the air grow unbearably hot in the little cabin, but Guy worked woodenly and did not notice. He forced himself to this. The handling of a corpse—for until it showed the sign of life it was a corpse—made Guy's stomach crawl and made his hands feel as though they never would be clean again. Time and again he looked away to keep from screaming aloud.

And when it came time to insert the needle containing superenalin into the body, Guy's fingers went cold and insensitive. The needle did not slide in the way it should, it entered with that dead feeling similar to cutting dead flesh with a dull knife. It sickened him, and after emergence, when the tiny droplet of blood did not come, it brought on that nausea again.

Massage! It was a gruesome thing, this fondling and stroking of cold, stiff limbs. The heat seemed to be doing no good, for Guy could discern no softening of the joints. They creaked and cracked as he moved the arms and legs, and it worried him because he knew the brittleness of frozen flesh. Was he breaking bone and flesh deep within this body?

More—was it worth it?

Guy's mind recoiled and rejected the horror that he felt. This body was no stranger to him. Alive, physical contact would not have been distasteful. Now that it was dead, why did he feel horror?

Alive, it might have fought him because of the liberties he was taking; with no objections to his ministrations possible, why did he feel horror and fear?

It struck Guy as insanely funny and he laughed uproariously. The cabin rocked to the sound of his laughter, and as he stopped, the echo reminded him of the cackle of an idiot. He stopped with indrawn breath, shook his head, and returned to his task.

The body moved perceptibly, and Guy recoiled from the table with the same feeling of horror and fear. This was too much like awakening the dead.

A gasp of indrawn breath came, and the body choked on the volume of air that entered the lungs. Color returned to the cheeks, and the eyes opened, fluttered, and then looked at Guy full and open.

The lips parted.

"Guy!"

"Joan! You're all right?"

"Of course—shouldn't I be?"

"But—"

"That toroid in the sky—what was it?"

"It came from Mephisto."

"Then it is not dangerous?"

"Not when you understand it."

Joan snorted. "If that's the best they can do—we'll lick them easy."

Guy nodded foolishly. How was he going to tell Joan the whole story in short of a lifetime?

She looked around. "This isn't the Orionad. Why did you bring me here?"

"I ... we—"

"Guy!" she came from the table, put her hands on his shoulders, and looked up into his face. "It's been long, hasn't it?"

He nodded.

She searched his face understandingly, comprehended the suffering and worry there, and said: "Tell me."

It came then, all in a burst of words. The entire tale from start to finish with nothing withheld. It took an hour solid, and when Guy finished, Joan looked up and asked:

"You're still going on?"

He nodded, but asked: "Should I?"

"You must. First off, Guy, you are a man alone. That might be fine for you, but life demands that you do your utmost to progress. You know what will happen."

"Ertene and Terra will fight. Ertene will fight to join the System as ruling planet, and Terra will fight to haul Ertene in by brute force. Eventually, Terra will win, partly, and subdue Ertene. Ertene will reply by swerving outward again, and try to continue on the roaming, nomad life. As a last measure, Ertene will hit Sol with a vortex. That will set things off—how, I do not know. Nova, perhaps. Instability, definitely. Or Ertene will hit Terra with a vortex. At any rate, super-vortexes will be hurled back and forth, and Ertene—if she isn't a black ruin—will go on through space with no man alive. Sol will continue to run as a dead, sterile system.

"So long as they are permitted to fight, complete ruin will be the outcome. I must ... I MUST prevent that."

"You must," agreed Joan. "You must be ruthless and calloused. You mustn't hesitate to kill and maim—though it sounds against all nature. Ertene must be chastened—and Ertene must be brought into the System! To let Ertene go will constitute a constant threat to Sol—no constant, but lasting for a hundred years. So long as Ertene can hurl a vortex at Sol, we are endangered. Ertene must be immobilized, and placed under the same necessities—those of keeping Sol alive and stable. Terra must be taught to accept Ertene as an equal.

"And since a three-world system must become interwoven to remain, Terra, Ertene, and Mars will lose their isolationism. But it's your job, Guy. You're the only man who understands. You are the only man who can bring a balance of power to bear. Take it and knit a new system!"

"You'll help?"

Joan smiled. "Naturally." She lifted herself on tiptoe and held him close. "I've always wanted to help, Guy. Anything you say—name it!"

Guy choked.

"You've"—and Guy recalled years ago when Joan said the same words to him—"been lonely, Guy."

Years of loneliness and yearning and heartbreak expended themselves in a matter of minutes, and the long, bitter years dropped away, bringing them right up to the present moment. Then the future promised briefly before they broke apart. They regretted the break, though something unspoken made them stop; they could not seek the future with so much to be done in the present: They must cross this bridge first.

Gradually, the scene took on a busy appearance. Men in suits bustled around the ships, and they rang with the sound of repair and servicing. And across the plain there came a steady stream of men carrying white-swathed bodies, and when six came in, twelve left to continue the work. With progressingly larger numbers at work, the stream of men entering the huge, squat building became a double line, a triple line, and then a sixfold line. Other buildings opened, and the stream continued to expand.

Projectors and turret-mounted MacMillans roved the sky and the detectors went out to their extreme limit.

Technicians worked over Guy's thought-beam, and produced a large one for each ship in the small group. Maynard's fleet would be knit with thought-communications, and no interference would cause them to lose control. Other technicians toyed with the vortex projectors, and though Guy saw no more success here than on Ertene, the amount of activity was higher by far, and in a few weeks the Terrans had passed the most advanced researches of the Ertinians.

A convoy of Terran ships approached, and Guy merely smiled.

"I've been expecting them. Go get 'em, Harrison!"

"Right. They're replacements for this gang?"

"Were."

"Why don't we wake up the gang that was here when you came?"

"You know that. I can't trust 'em. I brought you fellows back—at least you owe me your lives."

"I'll argue that point when I get back. Ships, supplies, and men! We need 'em!"

The little fleet sped out to contact the larger convoy. Unlike the usual Terran procedure, Maynard's fleet spread wide apart, and waited in the dark of space, behind barriers.

It would have been slaughter again. This convoy expected to find its own men awaiting supply and materials. Instead, the vortex projectors spewed.

Out they rolled, and the barriers went down as they passed. Turreted MacMillans whirled, and the invisible energies laced the sky. Torpedoes winked in gouts of flame and the interferers chopped the communications band into uselessness. Maynard's ships fired a second series before the first reached the Terrans, and the Terrans, fighting their own velocity, rolled into the whirling toroids firing their AutoMacs to the last.

Ships rained out of the sky in flaming ruin, cut bright arcs in the sky, and died.

And then it was all over. Massacre it would have been if the vortex projectors had been deadly. The Terran convoy was not prepared to meet a powerful fleet, and it succumbed in a matter of seconds.

Cradling pressors lowered the Terran ships to ground, and Maynard's men took possession.

"Well?" asked Harrison. "Have we got what it takes?"

"Not enough," said Guy glumly. "There was one constellation craft in that bunch—the Leoniad. It's a creaky old crate that uses co-ordinator fire in the turrets instead of autosyncs. Her torpedo tubes are rusty, her generator room reeks, and her drive is one of those constantly variable affairs that never settles down to a smooth run. The Leoniad is a derelict, as far as I'm concerned. The smaller stuff is fine business, though I doubt that they could stand up to a half dozen constellations. We'll fit the old tub up, though, and use her. She's all we have in that class."

"Any chance of getting more?"

"Might raid Ertene. I think it might be easy—Ertene is none too sharp invasionwise. They're armed to the teeth with vortex jobs, though."

"Vortexes aren't deadly."

"A local anaesthetic would be a killer-weapon if you could numb up a man's trigger finger only," grinned Guy. "Might as well be dead as sleeping it off on Ertene."

"I get you. How about raiding Sahara Base?"

"We might duck their mounted stuff. I wish I knew what they are doing with the vortex projectors."

"Let's wake up the commanding officer of the convoy and ask. He'd know."

"Good idea," said Maynard, and gave the order over the phone.

Eventually, the man was brought in. He was indignant, defeated, angry, and anxious about his future in turns, and his emotions changed from one to the other swiftly. He was Sector Commander Neville.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?" he asked. "I know you. You're the renegade, Maynard."

"Stop it!" exploded Harrison. "He is Guy Maynard, and a better man than you and I, Neville."

"You, too, must have turned pirate, commander."

"I'm no pirate. What I'm doing is by sheer choice. Wait until you hear his story, and you may wish to join us."

"Never."

"Never say 'never'," grinned Harrison. "It shows how much you don't know about everything—especially human nature."

"Look, Neville, I want to know what Terra is doing with the vortex gun."

"I'll never tell you."

"I'll tell you, then," smiled Maynard. "Emplacements augmenting the planet-mounted MacMillans are being set up around Sahara Base. Luna is being set up with them, too, since the moon is a natural invasion-springboard. The main cities are being protected, too, and some long-range stuff is being put in the remote spots to stave off any attempt at entry. The triple-mounts in the midships turret of all constellation craft are being changed from MacMillan to vortex, and the fore turret on all cruisers. Destroyers will carry a smaller edition in a semi-mobile mount in the nose, and the fighter craft of the heavier classes are to have vortex projectors in fixed position. The three MacMillans will drop to two, the center being replaced in the lighter ships.

"Oh, and yes, Neville, I mustn't forget the super-sized job that is being erected on Luna for cross-space work. That's a nice, brutal, long-futured thought, Neville, and it can do nothing but bring reprisals."

"That one will not be used except in self-defense—"

"Sky-juice! I only hope that it can be destroyed before it is used. The fools! Can't you realize that Mars is erecting one on Phobos, too?"

Neville blanched. "Hadn't considered it."

"Why not? Why shouldn't they? They're no less intelligent than we are ... don't jump up and down, Neville, they are and you know it ... and they react in about the same fashion. The only thing that has enabled us to stay ahead of Mars is the fact that we can take three times the acceleration standing up. Another item of general interest. Ertene—you've heard of that one—is erecting a projector of super-size, too. Guess where it will be used."

Neville thought, and then asked: "How do you know these things?"

Guy tapped the thought-beam on his belt. "Thought-reading gadget," he said quietly, and then proceeded to read Neville's thoughts to him, saying them word for word as Neville expressed them in his mind.

"Now," said Guy, "Sol is in for trouble. That is, unless we get Ertene in here too. That'll mean invasion. But, Neville, I don't want Ertene overrun like we did on Mephisto. Ertene is like Terra, but its culture is just enough different and its physiology different enough to make a separate entity in the System. They think somewhat differently, too, as you'll see later. But, Neville, getting Ertene here as a prime power will entail much work."

"Why must she be a power?"

"Because this projector is a final weapon. With it, I alone in a tiny fighter, can lay every living thing down on Terra, and then proceed onward to Mars, Ertene, the inhabited planetoids, moons, asteroids, meteors, spacecraft, and anything else I've forgotten to mention. The planets of Sol must be stripped of their militant attitude. Otherwise any progress we might make is stopped. With Mars and Ertene, Sol may have the combination to the long-sought space drive. Centauri lies beyond the horizon, Neville, and we may reach it if we forget our petty quarrels."

"Why couldn't Terra get that herself?"

"Because Ertene and Mars hold certain keys. Neither will work for Terra, either freely or under duress. If this war is fought to the finish, there'll be no great minds left to carry on the research. Remember that."

"What do you intend to do?"

"I intend to conquer them all!"

"You deluded idiot—"

"Look, Neville, I've got this," and Guy slapped the mind instrument. "I've got this," and Guy waved a hand at the field, teeming with its workmen, awakened from the vortex-induced sleep. "And, I've got this!" and Guy pointed outside to the great vortex projector that stood on the ordnance field. "Do you think I can be beaten?"

"Eventually, you will. No dictator ever held out against the entire System."

"I don't intend to hold out. All I want to do," said Guy pointedly, "is to set up this mind-reading, thought-beam instrument on every planet, in every congress, in every voting booth, and in every home! Then we'll see what happens to warmongers, hate-raisers, and petty politicians! The will of the people is to work in peace, and peace they will get when each knows the will of the other, alien races. Fear drives men to fight, Neville, and if any group decides to get up and run things, the vast majority will know it first."

"It'll destroy our privacy," whispered Neville.

"With everyone wearing one, the effects cancel pretty well," said Guy. "Except when the wearer intends to have his thoughts read. And the larger models, set in voting places and congressional groups, will be used to broadcast on frequencies open to anyone who cares to listen. I don't intend that this thing will be used to deprive people of their right to think as they please, but it can be used wisely and well to prevent criminal cliques, ill-advised minorities, and individual criminals."

"It won't work."

"That I want to see for myself. At any rate, either we put a stop to this warfare that will leave Sol lifeless or we will never be able to look up into the sky ourselves."

"Far too much time and wealth is spent," said Neville slowly, "in fighting or preparing for war. The research—could use some of that money. No one has even got the first inkling of a defense against the vortex—you're right, if all have it, it will wind up in death to all. I'll help Maynard."

"Because you think that Terra is unable to accomplish her purpose alone?"

"No," answered Neville. "It's because you are sincere. You let me read your mind—and I know."

"If used for nothing else," grinned Guy, "we can assume right now that any candidate for high office must use this machine. Any who do not will find their qualifications and intentions up for argument. The graft it will kill will be wonderful."

XXII.

Maynard's force swept out from Mephisto, drove in toward Sol, and slipped between Terra and Venus. They passed Sol just outside of the orbit of Mercury and headed outward again.

Just beyond the orbit of Terra, the souped-up detectors flared briefly and then burst into full indication. Maynard smiled wryly and said: "How can any military strategy work when both sides have mental telepathy, even though it is mechanical?"

The Martian task force was plunging into space almost on an opposite course, coming forward under battle acceleration. "We're not having any," snapped Guy.

"They must have heard of the trouble Terra had with us," observed Turretman Holmes. "Maybe they'd like Mephisto?"

"They aren't heading for Terra," said Guy. "Well, we're being attacked, technically. Let's have at them."

The indication in the detector opened, and the pattern of the Martian fleet became clear. Guy shook his head at the perfection of the space lattice. Against the vortex, a perfect space lattice meant ruin.

Into the Martian fleet went Maynard's group. At terrific velocity, the two fleets met, and the vortexes flowed from Guy's ships and ran together in a mad pattern through which there was no place to pass unharmed.

There was a flash of MacMillan fire. Crossed beams radiated, and the space between the ships dotted with blinding flashes of premature torpedoes.

The Martians were more interested in avoiding the toroids, and their fire was desultory. The Terrans were more interested in the Martian ships, and their fire was defensive only.

Then at once, the Martians were through, passed, and inert. They sped on at zero drive, and their courses diverged.

"After 'em!" grunted Maynard. "Get 'em on detectors!"

The Martians went out of sight. The contact-detectors stretched as the two opposing velocities caused the separation to add into the unthinkable miles. Days passed before the velocity of Guy's fleet dropped to turn-back velocity, and more days passed before Guy's ships were within sight of their quarry. By then, no ship was within detector range of its fellow; the sky was clear save for the inert Martian and the pursuing ship.

Slowly, the Leoniad crept up beside the Martian ship. And then as the velocity of Leoniad approached zero relative to the Martian, there was motion in the sky, the detectors flared bright, and the alarm bells rang with ear-splitting loudness. The detector showed a Martian sub-ship at pointer range.

Its barrier had been blasted open by the huge vortex that crept and rolled towards the Leoniad.

"Pilot! Vortex at fourteen—seven ten!"

Leoniad creaked. Ponderously, it swapped ends. A seam split, and the intercom became hoarse with the shrill of escaping air and the cries of the repair crew. An alarm rang loud, which stopped when the split seam was plastered. Acceleration took hold, and the men were nailed to their places. The generator alarm pealed, indicating dangerous overload. More plates creaked as the drivers took the power and strained against the mass and inertia of the Leoniad.

"Not enough!"

The turrets of the Leoniad whipped around and the sub-ship was blasted in a vast, expanding flare.

But its work was done. Though the drivers, straining their best, were fighting the Leoniad into velocity, there was too little time. The vortex caught up with the Leoniad, passed upward from base to top, and went on to die in the remoteness of space.

The breakers blew, the fuses sputtered, and Leoniad went inert.

She coasted away from the Martian at much less than one mile per second.

Maynard bumped gently into the wall of his scanning room and the pain wakened him. Dazedly, he passed a hand over his face, and the movement turned him over in midair. He clutched foolishly at the wall, and then waited until he found a handhold. He handed himself to the floor of the room, and sought the desk.

Forcing himself into the seat, Guy snapped the safety belt and then reached for the communicator.

"Pilot! Technician! Navigator! Isn't there anybody alive on this crate!"

He sat and thought. Something had happened that was not in the books. He'd hit a vortex and had awakened without help. The others—what had happened to them?

The communicator spoke tinnily: "Is there anybody else on this space can?"

"Maynard—who's speaking?"

"You and I are all?" came the return. "This is Hume, the assistant calculator."

"Might as well get together," said Maynard. "Come on in."

"This is Evans, of the Technician's crew. Can I come in, too?"

"Wait a minute, both of you," said Guy. "Go take a look around. Someone else may be alive, too."

"How many?" asked another voice. "In case anyone's interested, this is Ted Jones, of the power gang."

"Pete Rivers and I ... I'm Jim Phelps ... are both O.K."

"Wait a minute," said Guy. "Someone run into the turretman's office, and the other go into the navigator's office. If either of them come out of it, let me know immediately."

"Pilot Tinsley, sir. Just came out of it."

"Were you on duty?"

"No, sir. Assistant Pilot Adcock was on the board."

"Oh," answered Guy. "He's still in the greenhouse, then."

"Did you expect him?"

"Dunno," said Guy slowly. "The passage of the vortex effect is leaving this office spherically. Or roughly so. Spread out—"

"Turretman Greene just came to, sir."

"You beat me by ten seconds. Navigator Sampson just took up his interest in life."

"See?" continued Guy. "As I was saying; spread out and cover the ship. Record each awakening time precisely. Later we'll get the dimensions of this can to the fractional millimeter, and we can chart what happened."

As time went on, the communicator took up the clamor, swelling from individual calls to the full cry of the personnel in a regular increase.

The calculator and Guy sat before the plans of the Leoniad and drew lines, scribed curves, and calculated in simple trigonometry. It did not take long. Guy put a pinprick in the plan and said:

"It's right here!"

"You suspected that," answered the other.

"I know—but what's in here that would nullify that effect? It takes heat, work, and superenalin."

"Haven't you anything odd?"

"Nothing that the other ships haven't got ... no, wait ... no, can't be."

"What?"

"Can't possibly be."

"Name it, Maynard. No matter how silly it may seem, that's it!"

"This thought-beam gadget—the heavy-duty one."

"That's it."

"But Mephisto went down under the vortex projector. To the last man. They had these things."

"You fired and fired and fired, though. Hundreds and hundreds of vortexes. The effect is cumulative, I've heard. But for a single shot, Guy, we've got a remedy."

The ship took control as the instrument gang replaced the fuses, threw in the breakers, and reset the balancing controls. The Leoniad swapped ends, raced for the quarry that was invisible in the distance, and took over the Martian.

It was days before the combined fleets were collected again. They converged upon a million cubic miles of space, and mulled around in a mad pattern before they turned and headed for Mephisto.

The commander of the Martians came before Guy.

"I am defeated," said the Martian stiffly. "I would have preferred it at the hands of—"

"One who is not a traitor?" asked Guy. "Marshal Monogon, why am I a traitor?"

"You betrayed your oath."

"My oath," said Guy, "was intended to set up a condition in which a man will do the best thing for his homeland. That I am doing."

"You think so."

"They'll all think so."

"I am defeated," repeated Monogon. "I hope to see the day when you are caught."

"You may, at that."

"But to what end are you working? You fought Terrans. You fight us. Why?"

"Monogon, you have a super vortex machine set up on Phobos. Terra has one on Luna. You now know that the vortex will not kill on a single try. But how much less dead will the entire System be if either of us fires?"

"I ... yes, the speed will permit you to fire once we have fired. You would be able to detect the operation of the projector hours before the toroid envelops Terra."

"And with no one alive to awaken any of us—those who are not on Terra will fight one another to the death—vortexes will be coming from every solid body in the Solar System within a week. Do you think I want that?"

"You hope to accomplish something?" asked Monogon. "What—and how and why?"

"I hope to unify. I cannot appeal directly because of my ... my traitorous past. But Monogon, I can and will fight to the last breath to try my plan. Never forget Ertene, Monogon. They'll be here next, looking for me—or something. They've got to have their trouble, and they well know that a good offense is the best defense. They've got vortexes too, you know. As a last resort, they'll fire on us both. What I've got to do is to hold off both Mars and Terra—and then go out and take Ertene!"

"Madness."

"Necessary. Ertene must be brought in, so that she will depend on Sol and the rest of us."

"You're mad, Guy Maynard. Stark mad. But I agree with you. The vortex is deadly, and with things at the breaking-point as they are now, oblivion is but a step. Can you believe me?"

"Yes," smiled Guy. He tapped the thought-instrument and explained.

"Then you can also believe me when I offer you my aid?"

"Yes."

"I'll make no move against Mars, understand."

"I'll not ask you to. You'll go to—"

The radiation alarm broke.

"What's up?" asked Maynard.

"Nothing dangerous. We just uncovered a Terran crate trying to run through us under a barrier."

Maynard looked at Monogon. "We'd better hurry," he told the Martian. "They'll be tearing up the Solar System before we can stop them."

The combined fleet increased its acceleration towards Mephisto.

The spaceport on Mephisto became a mad place. Terran ships stood plate to plate against Martian ships, and the sky above the port was interlaced with the invisible communication beams that connected incoming and outgoing ships. At no time was the sky ever completely clear of spacecraft.

They came in sight out of the clear black sky of the moonlet, and hovered until the ship before them had landed. Then they dropped slowly into the landing place assigned to them, coming to a full landing just in time to see the next ship begin to drop. Another ship would come from outer space at this time, and assume the hovering area, awaiting its turn.

Ships took off at the same rate. But unlike the cumbersome landing feat, they leaped upward into the sky, running a direction-beam before them, and disappeared in seconds.

The nerve center of this activity was a squat building on the edge of the port. In it worked Maynard's spies—his agents provocateur. A black chamber of intense men, all working their shifts over huge mental projectors.

Solarian shipping was being completely disrupted.

No ship took off from any of the spaceports without Guy's knowledge. And no cargo worth having ever reached its destination. Mephisto was becoming the most valuable planet-system in the Solar sphere, for the cargoes that were pirated and brought to Mephisto were those items that Terra and Mars could not find in plenty at home.

The capture of single ships had gone on unchecked for a long time. Then protection began to go with the shipping, and finally the spacelines were running in full convoys that sported constellation craft for protection. But Guy's fleet collected the constellation craft as easily as they caught tramp spacers. When a spaceship is going a thousand miles per second, a barrier-sown toroid could burst from space before the huge ship. It was a matter of dropping the toroid so close to the nose of the ship that the turreted AutoMacs had no time to answer the impulses that came from the detector-couplers. The huge ship plunged through the toroid, and left the rest of the unprotected convoy for Maynard's choice.

And when they sent decoys, Maynard's men ignored them. Only when the carriers held valuable material did they suffer.

The ships of Ertene came in for their share. Guy worried about the thought-beam instrument that he had left there; he knew that no sensible world would adhere to a program of destroying such a device. One of the main thought-beam jobs was continually directed at Ertene and the thought-beam instrument that Guy had left. So far, they had done nothing but use the thing locally. It would not reach Mephisto by a billion miles, and so Guy knew his secret was safe.

At least for the time being.

But molesting Ertene on Ertene's own ground was not possible; once they came within range of Ertene's thought-beam, the secret of avoiding the vortex would be out. Only those ships of Ertene that came outside of range were taken—and they were all too few.

But there are ways of starting trouble—

The intercom pealed in Maynard's office. "Andrew has escaped," came the message.

Maynard smiled. "Good. As we planned?"

"According to clockwork," came the amused answer. "He bopped Timmy over the head with that hunk of plastic, used the same plastic rod to pry his way out of the house, and then he took off like a demon in the Ursiad's lifeship."

"I wonder what he thought we had it out for," laughed Guy. "Also I wonder what he thought we were using to keep him in?"

"He's not too well informed. He knows, for instance, that we can avoid the vortex—and that some sort of mind-reading gadget is available. Furthermore, he knows that there is one on Ertene. Nothing about the stuff, understand, but just that such a thing exists."

"That's the ticket," smiled Guy. "Now we'll get action!"

Detector operation of the following events were impossible. In their place, the men in Maynard's black chamber controlled a model of the System, synchronized with others throughout the Mephistan system of planet and moons.

And for the first time in history, Mars and Terra took off in battle array and headed together in the same direction. And Mephisto followed them, watching all the way.

At nightside, the combined fleets dropped onto Ertene, showered the area with toroids, and landed. They forced the heavy doors open and emerged again with the machine.

Up they drove, into the Ertinian sky, and away. Ertene came to life then, and vortex projectors hurled their toroids into the sky after the fleeting ships of Sol.

Sol's ships scattered and avoided the toroids, and then answered by dropping their own onto a greater area than before. They silenced those that might give danger, and then sped away in a die-true line for Sol. From Ertene there arose the Ertinian fleet to give chase.

Normally, Terra could have out-distanced them, for they had the head start in an accelerative race. But Mars could not keep that killing pace, and Terra was forced to hang back; they hoped to best Ertene in full battle, if escape were impossible.

Conquest would give them Ertene, and that would have been desirable, too. But conquest of Ertene was planned for the future, and well-planned.

So Ertene caught up with the slower fleet of Sol, and the two intermingled.

Space filled with the myriad winking spots of prematured torpedoes. Gouts of released energy burst in empty space as crossed MacMillans backfired. Energy bombs were strewn as a matter of course to prevent the operation of sub-ships, and the milling mass circled in a battle plan that no space marshal had ever planned.

The ship that had Ertene's thought-beam was known. Battle centered about it, and it became evident that neither side cared to direct its fire in that direction. The whirling melee spread out into a vast sphere of fighting ships, with the thief in the middle. Wide spread the battle; the thickness of the fighting globe dropping as the sphere increased.

Maynard smiled. "Now!" he said.

And from the Leoniad there dropped a torpedo in a barrier. Invisibly and indetectably it sped, led by the radiation from the thief. Through the fighting globe it went safely, and inside, where no bit of stray energy filled space. Not even detector beams entered this space, and the men in the thief looked out on all sides at the mighty globular battle with wonder. They realized that this fight was over them, and that because of their loot—the thought-beam instrument—neither side would strike at them.

But the barrier-covered torpedo found them. The barrier hid the torpedo from them, but the barrier permitted the detecting radiation to enter and energize the director.

The thief exploded in one coruscating flash. The white-hot gases expanded rapidly, wildly, cooling as they spread.

Action stopped.

Had this been a fight on land between men, they would have turned as one and looked at the ruin. They would have stood elbow to elbow with their enemies, and wondered. Both sides knew the value of what they were fighting for, and they knew the other side knew its value, too. Loss of the thief stunned them beyond belief—

And stunned them beyond the desire to fight one another.

The flashing lights of prematured torpedoes died as the mechanical finders still worked on the already-launched missiles. No more came from the tubes, and gradually the flaring died, leaving the ether clear of crackling radiation.

Far-flung detectors flared, and the cardex machines in hundreds of ships purred, and came up with a single answer. It was called aloud, and on the throats of a million men, Terrans, Ertinians, and Martians, there came the single word:

"Leoniad!"

With no order from High Command, every ship turned and headed for the Leoniad.

The Leoniad lazed along, waiting. Just ahead of MacMillan range, the Leoniad ran before the combined fleets. From all sides there came the rest of Maynard's fleet, making a space pattern about the Leoniad.

Within the Solarian fleet, quick orders and consultations passed. The fleet took battle shape, spread out, and gave chase according to plan. Their space pattern became that which was developed by the Terran command to avoid sown toroids, and in comparative safety, they settled down to the long, stern chase.

Before them, Maynard's fleet ran easily. Forward-flying toroids died abruptly, killed by the anti-radiations of Guy's high-powered projectors; torpedoes were sought and prematured in space; and MacMillan fire was not answered save to cross the oncoming beam with a backward-flung beam. The initial flurry of fire stopped, then, and the chase became a matter of hare and hounds.

The Solarian fleets were forcing the flight. Mephisto's fleet was obviously running to their base. That meant, to the Solarians, that at midway, there must be a turnover maneuver so that Mephisto's fleet could decelerate for their landing. Then they would catch up, for the velocity attained by Maynard's outfit must be forced down. The Solarians were not trying to effect a Mephistan landing, but were after the other fleet. They would not turnover at mid-point, and then they could catch that fleet of pirates that stayed just out of range.

XXIII.

Turnover came, inevitably. Maynard's fleet flashed up to the "fix" in space and began the end-swapping job. Solarians watched, gloating. Maynard was going to turnover! The gap closed. Terra and Ertene alerted for action, and the entire personnel of the combined fleets went on double-watch. No one knew how much stuff Maynard's men had developed.

Vortex projectors sowed toroids that floated with Guy's ships. In and about the pirate fleet, the huge vortexes of energy roamed, covering the fleet by sheer number.

Torpedoes directed against the toroids prematured. MacMillan fire entered them, and added to their total energy. Other toroids flung into them merely added to their number.

And the very number of them made operations in the combined fleets difficult. The space pattern was never intended to fight into a massed effect. Ertene and Terra spread slightly, opening up a hole. Through this hole flowed the toroid-covered Mephistan fleet, and Maynard's men were behind. Turnover was completed, and with the indifference to the Solarian fleet that was maddening, Maynard gave the order to decelerate for landing on Mephisto.

Solarians fell behind—below, now, for they were dropping onto Mephisto, the deceleration creating a false gravity.

They crammed on the deceleration too; not to do so would have put them far beyond Mephisto. They crammed on all they had, and it was just enough to stay below Maynard's fleet—

Just outside of range.

The men in the combined fleets of Ertene and Terra writhed in hatred. Mars, unable to keep up with the man-killing gravities, laughed nastily—she thought that the fun would have been over before her slower ships could join.

But though amused, Mars was none the less angry. Her men in her ships were killing themselves to keep from arriving too late. They knew now that the big fight would be around Mephisto.

It takes but a minute to tell, but it was days and days in the action. Men slept and changed watches and went through the tiresome routines of space travel across the System. And ever before them was the specter of Maynard's fleet, just out of range. It maddened them, and it made them sacrifice a few fighter ships that tried to run ahead, into the other fleet. They were lost, every time, without doing any damage.

And the temper of the men increased by the minute—and days and days with hours full of minutes went by with not one bit of action to salve their hatred.

Mephisto loomed in the sky below, eventually, and the fleets swept down to Mephisto, and the Solarian fleet spread wide and passed the planet. They did not like the idea of being between a fighting fleet and its home base. Maynard landed easily, and was able to consolidate his force on the ground before the combined Ertinian and Terran fleets circled and returned.

"Just hold 'em off," said Guy.

And again there passed the maddening job of not being able to do anything to the enemy. They patrolled the planet, but it was unsatisfactory patrol. Any ship that came too low was fired upon and collected by Guy's planet-mounted projectors. Solarians thought that they knew how to arm a planet, but Mephisto was well-nigh impregnable. Toroids stopped, torpedoes prematured, and MacMillans flashed in the sky, dissipating the energy with no harm save the blown fuses in the ships.

"How long?" asked Neville.

"Wait for Mars," smiled Monogon. "I insist that Mars be not left out. What's good enough for them is good enough for my world, too."

"He's right," said Guy. "We'll wait."

And finally Mars arrived on the scene, and the fleets went high to discuss the problem of extinguishing this menace. Guy followed their conference—and they suspected that he did. Their plan was bold. A power play, and it came in a down-thrust of the ships of three worlds. They drove toroids before them, filled the air with torpedoes, and interlaced the sky with MacMillans.

"Now?" asked Neville.

"Now," smiled Guy. His smile was bitter and hard. He stepped to the vast instrument and put the helmet over his head. His left hand turned the switch and the right hand adjusted the intensity. "Cease fire!"

The fighting stopped.

"Land!"

The inrushing of fighting ships continued, and they landed quietly, one after the other. Immediately, doors opened in three of them and three men emerged. Stiffly they walked to Maynard's headquarters where they were greeted and taken to Guy's room.

"You can not touch me," said Guy in a hard, cool voice. "I am impregnable. You will never be able to touch me!"

"You stinker," snarled Space Marshal Mantley.

Guy faced Thomakein next. "Have you anything to say?" he snapped.

"We are defeated," said Thomakein. "What would you have me say?"

Guy turned to the Martian. "Marshal Ilinoran, any comment?"

"We are defeated—but we need take no insult! What have you in mind?"

"At the present time, the carriers of your fleets are being packed with your men. Some of them will remain, of course. But I like the size of your fleet, gentlemen. I'm keeping most of it for my own. I have prepared a little proclamation which you may take back to your respective governments. I, gentlemen, proclaim myself the Emperor of Sol!"

"Megalomaniac!"

"As Emperor of Sol, I will tell you," continued Guy, indifferent to the snarl, "how and when to collect the yearly tribute from each and every Terran, Martian, and Ertinian. You may suit yourselves to any other arrangements. Mephisto is mine, and will stay mine. But I shall require money, merchandise, and supplies to stock the planet.

"And if you think differently, you may try to defeat me! And I hope you try!"

"We'll pay nothing—"

"I hope you try that, too," snapped Maynard. "You have no idea of how tough a real tyrant can get! A single lesson might convince you. A super-toroid hurled into the Manhattan area—?"

"You're a fiend!"

Guy nodded. "Never make me prove it," he said quietly. "Now, gentlemen, you will receive your instructions as you leave, if you prefer to leave. I offer you the chance to join me—but remember that I can read your mind and find out how true you intend to be. I intend to be very harsh with spies."

"I'm leaving—but I'll be back!" promised Mantley. He tried to sound ominous, but his position was not firm to carry it away. He knew that he sounded flat and it enraged him.

"We'll both be back, together!" snapped Ilinoran.

"Ertene will be back, too!" added Thomakein. "You wouldn't permit us to leave, and I know it!"

Guy nodded. "I'll be waiting. But don't forget that I am still master of you all. And I'm going to stay master. I've spent ten years being pushed around, and now I'm going to do some pushing myself! I have very little affection for any of you; Terra disowned me, Ertene did not want my offer of fidelity; Mars wanted to torture me and did, partly. Had any one of you taken me for what I had to offer, this would never have happened."

Mantley and Ilinoran left. But Thomakein came forward and put out a hand.

Guy looked at the hand and then at Thomakein. "Why?" he said sharply.

"You did it!"

"I did it, all right. But look at me. And what have you to offer?"

"You still do not know. Guy, forgive me. I tried, myself, and failed. Your plan is superior to mine—yours works."

"Plan? Know?"

"I forced you into this."

"Yes, but you had no plan except a sort of self-aggrandizement."

Thomakein shook his head. "You didn't read my mind deep enough, Guy. The instrument you carried was never perfect and deep-seated concepts are often hidden because of the more powerful surface thoughts. I thought of conquest—and realized that sleepy, lazy Ertene couldn't conquer the Solar System and keep it conquered. What Sol needed was a man with drive and ability. No one wanted you, Guy, because you were continually torn between your own promises. I was responsible for that, I fear. I took you because of your latent ability, those long years ago, and planned well."

"And so you forced me into this place?"

"Yes," smiled Thomakein. "But the only way that you'll hold this sun full of cross-purposes together is to provide a common menace. Terra hates you more than she hates Mars, and Mars will co-operate with Ertene to get you. Ertene, burning mad because her desire to wander is curtailed by you, will throw in with both of them. Perhaps they will get used to co-operation after a bit, but never forget that competition will make advances far quicker than complete co-operation.

"Yes," said Thomakein, "I tried. I plotted and tried, and then knew that Ertene did not have the drive, the ambition. You, Guy, had the ambition, and all you needed was to get the killer-instinct, so to speak. You had to be driven to it. You did it. Can you hold it once someone finds the key to the mental-gadget?"

Guy grinned. "They never will. Mephisto is the only world with normal temperatures low enough to make key more than a feeble-order effect. Upon Mephisto, it becomes evident in the third decimal place; on any other world it is several decimal places beyond the experimental error. Besides," Guy said with a hardening of the jaw muscles, "I've got the whole System under coverage. I'll permit no experiments along those lines!"

"I see what you mean. Well, Guy, you're the Emperor. For the love of God, stay that way! The first time you abdicate, hell will break loose all over the System. You are the common menace that will hold us together."

Guy smiled wryly. "So you drove me to it. It was necessary. I know. But it was a dirty trick to play on any man. It goes deeper than that. Joan and I can't see raising a kid in this mess."

"Your children must be raised absolutely incognito. I owe you more than life, Guy. May I help, please?"

Maynard took Thomakein's outstretched hand.

"Finished," said Thomakein, shaking the hand hard.

"Not finished—nor will it be. I have a lifetime job of making myself more hated than any traditional enemy."

Thomakein nodded. He stepped back and saluted.

"Farewell, Guy Maynard—Ruler of The Solar Worlds!"

THE END.

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