He stopped at a small square in which a fountain was centered in a plot of lawn. To the water a small quantity of detergent had been added so that it frothed and foamed in gaudy iridescence.

            He leaned against the railing, back to the western sun, and, bit by bit, slowly, he dropped blackened silver into the fountain.

            He thought of the girl who had passed him on the steps as he did so. She had been very young. Then he thought of Lower City and the momentary spasm of remorse left him.

            The silver remnants were gone and his hands were empty. Slowly he began searching his pockets, doing his best to make it seem casual.

            The contents of the pockets were not particularly unusual. A booklet of key slivers, a few coins, an identification card. (Holy Sark! Even the Squires carried them. But then, they didn’t have to produce them for every patroller that came along.)

            His new name, apparently, was Aistare Deamone. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. There were only ten thousand men, women and children in Upper City. The chance of his meeting one among them who knew Deamone personally was not large, but it wasn’t insignificant either.

            He was twenty-nine. Again he felt a rising nausea as he thought of what he had left in the cave, and fought it. A Squire was a Squire. How many twenty-nine-year-old Florinians had been done to death at their hands or by their directions? How many nine-year-old Florinians?

            He had an address, too, but it meant nothing to him. His knowledge of Upper City geography was rudimentary.

            Say!

            A color portrait of a young boy, perhaps three, in pseudotrimension. The colors flashed as he drew it out of its container, faded progressively as he returned it. A young son? A nephew? There had been the girl in the Park so it couldn’t be a son, could it?

            Or was he married? Was the meeting one of those they called “clandestine?” Would such a meeting take place in daylight? Why not, under certain circumstances?

            Terens hoped so. If the girl were meeting a married man she would not quickly report his absence. She would assume he had not been able to evade his wife. That would give him time.

            No, it wouldn’t. Instant depression seized him. Children playing hide-and-seek would stumble on the remains and run screaming. It was bound to happen within twenty-four hours.

            He turned to the pocket’s contents once more. A pocket-copy license as yacht pilot. He passed it by. All the richer Sarkites owned yachts and piloted them. It was this century’s fad. Finally, a few strips of Sarkite credit vouchers. Now those might be temporarily useful.

            It occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten since the night before at the Baker’s place. How quickly one could grow conscious of hunger.

            Suddenly he turned back to the yacht license. Wait, now, the yacht wasn’t in use now, not with the owner dead. And it was his yacht. Its hangar number was 26, at Port 9. Well.

            Where was Port 9? He hadn’t the slightest notion.

            He leaned his forehead against the coolness of the smooth railing around the fountain. What now? What now?

            The voice startled him.

            “Hello,” it said. “Not sick?”

            Terens looked up. It was an older Squire. He was smoking a long cigarette containing some aromatic leaf while a green stone of some sort hung suspended from a gold wristband. His expression was one of kindly interest that astonished Terens into a moment of speechlessness, until he remembered. He was one of the clan himself now. Among themselves, Squires might well be decent human beings.

            The Townman said, “Just resting. Decided to take a walk and lost track of time. I’m afraid I’m late for an appointment now.”

            He waved his hand in a wry gesture. He could imitate the Sarkite accent fairly well from long association but he didn’t make the mistake of trying to exaggerate it. Exaggeration was easier to detect than insufficiency.

            The other said, “Stuck without a skeeter, hey?” He was the older man, amused by the folly of youth.

            “No skeeter,” admitted Terens.

            “Use mine,” came the instant offer. “It’s parked right outside. You can set the controls and send it back here when you’re through. I won’t be needing it for the next hour or so.”

            To Terens, that was almost ideal. The skeeters were fast and skittery as chain lightning, could outspeed and outmaneuver any patroller ground-car. It fell short of ideal only in that Terens could no more drive the skeeter than he could fly without it.

            “From here to Sark,” he said. He knew that piece of Squire slang for “thanks,” and threw it in. “I think I’ll walk. It isn’t far to Port 9.”

            “No, it isn’t far,” agreed the other.

            That left Terens no better off than before. He tried again. “Of course, I wish I were closer. The walk to Kyrt Highway is healthy enough by itself.”

            “Kyrt Highway? What’s that got to do with it?”

            Was he looking queerly at Terens? It occurred to the Townman, suddenly, that his clothing probably lacked the proper fitting. He said quickly, “Wait! I’m twisted at that. I’ve got myself crossed up walking. Let’s see now.” He looked about vaguely.

            “Look. You’re on Recket Road. All you have to do is go down to Triffis and turn left, then follow it into the port.” He had pointed automatically.

            Terens smiled. “You’re right. I’m going to have to stop dreaming and start thinking. From here to Sark, sir.”

            “You can still use my skeeter.”

            “Kind of you, but. . .”

            Terens was walking away, a bit too quickly, waving his hand. The Squire stared after him.

            Perhaps tomorrow, when they found the corpse in the rocks and began searching, the Squire might think of this interview again. He would probably say, “There was something queer about him, if you know what I mean. He had an odd turn of phrase and didn’t seem to know where he was. I’ll swear he’d never heard of Triffis Avenue.”

            But that would be tomorrow.

            He walked in the direction that the Squire had pointed out. He came to the glittering sign “Triffis Avenue,” almost drab against the iridescent orange structure that was its background. He turned left.

 

            Port 9 was alive with youth in yachting costume, which seemed to feature high-peaked hats and hip-bellying breeches. Terens felt conspicuous but no one paid attention to him. The air was full of conversation spiced with terms he did not understand.

            He found Booth 26 but waited for minutes before approaching it. He wanted no Squire remaining persistently in its vicinity, no Squire who happened to own a yacht in a nearby booth who would know the real Alstare Deamone by sight and would wonder what a stranger was doing about his ship.

            Finally, with the booth’s neighborhood apparently safe, he walked over. The yacht’s snout peered out from its hangar into the open field about which the booths were placed.’ He craned his neck to stare at it.

            Now what?

            He had killed three men in the last twelve hours. He had risen from Florinian Townman to patroller, from patroller to Squire. He had come from Lower City to Upper City and from Upper City to a spaceport. To all intents and purposes he owned a yacht, a vessel sufficiently spaceworthy to take him to safety on any inhabited world in this sector of the Galaxy.

            There was only one catch.

            He could not pilot a yacht.

            He was tired to the bone, and hungry to boot. He had come this far, and now he could go no further. He was on the edge of space but there was no way of crossing the edge.

            By now the patrollers must have decided he was nowhere in Lower City. They would turn the search to Upper City as soon as they could get it through their thick skulls that a Florinian would dare. Then the body would be found and a new direction would be taken. They would look for an impostor Squire.

            And here he was. He had climbed to the farthest niche of the blind alley and with his back to the closed end he could only wait for the faint sounds of pursuit to grow louder and louder until eventually the bloodhounds would be on him.

            Thirty-six hours ago the greatest opportunity of his life had been in his hands. Now the opportunity was gone and his life would soon follow.

           

           

ELEVEN: The Captain

     

     

      IT was the first time, really, that Captain Racety had found himself unable to impose his will upon a passenger. Had that passenger been one of the Great Squires themselves, he might still have counted on co-operation. A Great Squire might be all-powerful on his own continent, but on a ship he would recognize that there could be only one master, the Captain.

            A woman was different. Any woman. And a woman who was daughter of a Great Squire was completely impossible.

            He said, “My Lady, how can I allow you to interview them in private?”

            Samia of Fife, her dark eyes snapping, said, “Why not? Are they armed, Captain?”

            “Of course not. That’s not the point.”

            “Anyone can see they’re only a pair of very frightened creatures. They’re half scared to death.”

            “Frightened people can be very dangerous, my Lady. They can’t he counted on to act sensibly.”

            “Then why do you keep them frightened?” She had the tiniest stammer when she was angry. “You’ve got three tremendous sailors standing over them with blasters, poor things. Captain, I’ll not forget this.”

            No, she wouldn’t, the Captain thought. He could feel himself beginning to give way.

            “If Your Ladyship pleases, will you tell me exactly what it is that you want?”

            “It’s simple. I’ve told you. I want to speak to them. If they’re Florinians, as you say they are, I can get tremendously valuable information from them for my book. I can’t do that, though, if they’re too frightened to speak. If I could be with them alone it would be fine. Alone, Captain! Can you understand a simple word? Alone!”

            “And what would I say to your father, my Lady, if he discovers that I allowed you to remain unguarded in the presence of two desperate criminals?”

            “Desperate criminals! Oh, Great Space! Two poor fools that tried to escape their planet and had no more sense than to board a ship going to Sark! Besides, how would my father know?”

            “If they hurt you he would know.”

            “Why should they hurt me?” Her small fist lifted and vibrated, while she put every atom of force she could find into her voice. “I demand it, Captain.”

            Captain Racety said, “How about this then, my Lady? I will be present. I shall not be three sailors with blasters. I shall be one man with no blaster in view. Otherwise”--and in his turn he put all his resolution into his voice--”I must refuse your demand.”

            “Very well, then.” She was breathless. “Very well. But if I can’t get them to speak because of you I will personally see to it that you captain no more ships.”

 

            Valona put her hand hastily over Rik’s eyes as Samia entered the brig.

            “What’s the matter, girl?” asked Samia sharply, before she could remember that she was going to speak to them comfortingly.

            Valona spoke with difficulty. She said, “He is not bright, Lady. He wouldn’t know you were a Lady. He might have looked at you. I mean without intending any harm, Lady.”

            “Oh, goodness,” said Samia. “Let him look.” She went on, “Must they stay here, Captain?”

            “Would you prefer a stateroom, my Lady?”

            Samia said, “Surely you could manage a cell not quite so grim.”

            “It is grim to you, my Lady. To them, I am sure this is luxury. There is running water here. Ask them if there was any in their hut on Florina.”

            “Well, tell those men to leave.”

            The Captain motioned to them. They turned, stepping out nimbly.

            The Captain set down the light aluminum folding chair he had brought with him. Samia took it.

            He said brusquely to Rik and Valona, “Stand up.”

            Samia broke in instantly. “No! Let them sit. You’re not to interfere, Captain.”

            She turned to them. “So you are a Florinian, girl.”

            Valona shook her head. “We’re from Wotex.”

            “You needn’t be frightened. It doesn’t matter that you’re from Florina. No one will hurt you.”

            “We’re from Wotex.”

            “But don’t you see that you’ve practically admitted you’re from Florina, girl? Why did you cover the boy’s eyes?”

            “He’s not allowed to look at a Lady.”

            “Even if he’s from Wotex?”

            Valona was silent.

            Samia let her think about it. She tried to smile in a friendly way. Then she said, “Only Florinians aren’t allowed to look at Ladies. So you see you’ve admitted that you’re a Florinian.”

            Valona burst out, “He’s not.”

            “Are you?”

            “Yes, I am. But he’s not. Don’t do anything to him. He really isn’t a Florinian. He was just found one day. I don’t know where he comes from, but it’s not Florina.” Suddenly she was almost voluble.

            Samia looked at her with some surprise. “Well, I’ll speak to him. What’s your name, boy?”

            Rik was staring. Was that how women Squires looked? So small, and friendly-looking. And she smelled so nice. He was very glad she had let him look at her.

            Samia said again, “What’s your name, boy?”

            Rik came to life but stumbled badly in the attempt to shape a monosyllable.

            “Rik,” he said. Then he thought, Why, that’s not my name. He said, “I think it’s Rik.”

            “Don’t you know?”

            Valona, looking woebegone, tried to speak, but Samia held up a sharply restraining hand.

            Rik shook his head. “I don’t know.”

            “Are you a Florinian?”

            Rik was positive here. “No. I was on a ship. I came here from somewhere else.” He could not bear to look away from Samia but he seemed to see the ship co-existing with her. A small and very friendly and homelike ship.

            He said, “It was on a ship that I came to Florina and before that I lived on a planet.”

            “What planet?”

            It was as though the thought were forcing its way painfully through mental channels too small for it. Then Rik remembered and was delighted at the sound his voice made, a sound so long forgotten.

            “Earth! I come from Earth!”

            “Earth?”

            Rik nodded.

            Samia turned to the Captain. “Where is this planet Earth?”

            Captain Racety smiled briefly. “I never heard of it. Don’t take the boy seriously, my Lady. A native lies the way he breathes. It comes naturally to him. He says whatever comes first into his mind.”

            “He doesn’t talk like a native.” She turned to Rik again. “Where is Earth, Rik?”

            “I--” He put a shaking hand to his forehead. Then he said, “It’s in the Sirius Sector.” The intonation of the statement made it half a question.

            Samia said to the Captain, “There is a Sirius Sector, isn’t there?”

            “Yes, there is. I’m amazed he has that right. Still, that doesn’t make Earth any more real.”

            Rik said vehemently, “But it is. I remember, I tell you. It’s been so long since I remembered. I can’t be wrong now. I can’t.”

            He turned, gripping Valona’s elbows and clawing at her sleeve. “Lona, tell them I come from Earth. I do. I do.”

            Valona’s eyes were wide with anxiety. “We found him one day, Lady, and he had no mind at all. He couldn’t dress himself or talk or walk. He was nothing. Ever since then he’s been remembering little by little. So far everything he’s remembered has been so.” She cast a quick, fearful glance at the bored face of the Captain. “He may really have come from Earth, Squire. No contradiction intended.”

            The last was a long-established conventional phrase that went with any statement that seemed in contradiction to a previous statement by a superior.

            Captain Racety grunted. “He may have come from the center of Sark for all that story proves, my Lady.”

            “Maybe, but there’s something queer about all this,” insisted Samia, making up her mind flatly, woman-wise, on the side of romance. “I’m sure of it. . . . What made him so helpless when you found him, girl? Had he been hurt?”

            Valona said nothing at first. Her eyes darted helplessly back and forth. First to Rik, whose fingers clutched at his hair, then to the Captain, who was smiling without humor, finally to Samia, who waited.

            “Answer me, girl,” said Samia.

            It was a hard decision for Valona to make, but no conceivable lie could substitute for the truth in this place and at this time. She said, “A doctor once looked at him. He said m-my Rik was psycho-probed.”

            “Psycho-probed!” Samia felt a slight wash of repulsion well over her. She pushed her chair away. It squeaked against the metal floor. “You mean he was psychotic?”

            “I don’t know what that means, Lady,” said Valona humbly.

            “Not in the sense you’re thinking of, my Lady,” said the Captain almost simultaneously. “Natives aren’t psychotic. Their needs and desires are too simple. I’ve never heard of a psychotic native in my life.”

            “But then--”

            “It’s simple, my Lady. If we accept this fantastic story the girl tells, we can only conclude that the boy had been a criminal, which is a way of being psychotic, I suppose. If so, he must have been treated by one of those quacks who practice among the natives, been nearly killed and was then dumped in a deserted section to avoid detection and prosecution.”

            “But it would have to be someone with a psycho-probe,” protested Samia. “Surely you wouldn’t expect natives to be able to use them.”

            “Perhaps not. But then you wouldn’t expect an authorized medical man to use one so inexpertly. The fact that we arrive at a contradiction proves the story to be a lie throughout. If you will accept my suggestion, my Lady, you will leave these creatures to our handling. You see that it’s useless to expect anything out of them.”

            Samia hesitated. “Perhaps you’re right.”

            She rose and looked uncertainly at Rik. The Captain stepped behind her, lifted the little chair and folded it with a snap.

            Rik jumped to his feet. “Wait!”

            “If you please, my Lady,” said the Captain, holding the door open for her. “My men will quiet him.”

            Samia stopped at the threshold. “They won’t hurt him?”

            “I doubt if he’ll make us go to extremes. He will be easy handling.”

            “Lady! Lady!” Rik called. “I can prove it. I’m from Earth.”

            Samia stood irresolute for a moment. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

            The Captain said coldly, “As you wish, my Lady.”

            She returned, but not very far. She remained a step from the door.

            Rik was flushed. With the effort of remembering, his lips drew back into the caricature of a smile. He said, “I remember Earth. It was radioactive. I remember the Forbidden Areas and the blue horizon at night. The soil glowed and nothing would grow in it. There were just a few spots men could live on. That’s why I was a Spatio-analyst. That’s why I didn’t mind staying in space. My world was a dead world.”

            Samia shrugged. “Come along, Captain. He’s simply raving.”

            But this time it was Captain Racety who stood there, open-mouthed. He muttered, “A radioactive world!”

            She said, “You mean there is such a thing?”

            “Yes.” He turned wondering eyes on her. “Now where could he have picked that up?”

            “How could a world be radioactive and inhabited?”

            “But there is one. And it is in the Sirius Sector. I don’t remember its name. It might even be Earth.”

            “It is Earth,” said Rik, proudly and with confidence. “It is the oldest planet of the Galaxy. It is the planet on which the whole human race originated.”

            The Captain said softly, “That’s so!”

            Samia said, mind whirling, “You mean the human race originated on this Earth?”

            “No, no,” said the Captain abstractedly. “That’s superstition. It’s just that that’s how I came to hear about the radioactive planet. It claims to be Man’s home planet.”

            “I didn’t know we were supposed to have a home planet.”

            “I suppose we started somewhere, my Lady, but I doubt that anyone can possibly know on what planet it happened.”

            With sudden decision he walked toward Rik. “What else do you remember?”

            He almost added “boy,” but held it back.

            “The ship mostly,” said Rik, “and Spatio-analysis.”

            Samia joined the Captain. They stood there, directly before Rik, and Samia felt the excitement returning. “Then it’s all true? But then how did he come to be psycho-probed?”

            “Psycho-probed!” said Captain Racety thoughtfully. “Suppose we ask him. Here, you, native or outworlder or whatever you are. How did you come to be psycho-probed?”

            Rik looked doubtful. “You all say that. Even Lona. But I don’t know what the word means.”

            “When did you stop remembering, then?”

            “I’m not sure.” He began again, desperately. “I was on a ship.”

            “We know that. Go on.”

            Samia said, “It’s no use barking, Captain. You’ll drive out what few wits are left him.”

            Rik was entirely absorbed in wrenching at the dimness within his mind. The effort left no room for any emotion. It was to his own astonishment that he said, “I’m not afraid of him, Lady. I’m trying to remember. There was danger. I’m sure of that. Great danger to Florina, but I can’t remember the details about it.”

            “Danger to the whole planet?” Samia cast a swift glance at the Captain.

            “Yes. It was in the currents.”

            “What currents?” asked the Captain.

            “The currents of space.”

            The Captain spread his hands and let them drop. “This is madness.”

            “No, no. Let him go on.” The tide of belief had shifted to Samia again. Her lips were parted, her dark eyes gleamed and little dimples between cheek and chin made their appearance as she smiled. “What are the currents of space?”

            “The different elements,” said Rik vaguely. He had explained that before. He didn’t want to go through that again.

            He went on rapidly, nearly incoherently, speaking as the thoughts came to him, driven by them. “I sent a message to the local office on Sark. I remember that very clearly. I had to be careful. It was a danger that went beyond Florina. Yes. Beyond Florina. It was as wide as the Milky Way. It had to be handled carefully.”

            He seemed to have lost all real contact with those who listened to him, to be living in a world of the past before which a curtain was tearing away in places. Valona placed a soothing hand upon his shoulder and said, “Don’t!” but he was unresponsive even to that.

            “Somehow,” he went on breathlessly, “my message was intercepted by some official on Sark. It was a mistake. I don’t know how it happened.”

            He frowned. “I’m sure I sent it to the local office on the Bureau’s own wave length. Do you suppose the sub-ether could have been tapped?” He did not even wonder that the word “sub-ether” came so easily to him.

            He might have been waiting for an answer, but his eyes were still unseeing. “Anyway, when I landed on Sark they were waiting for me.”

            Again a pause, this time long and meditative. The Captain did nothing to break it; he seemed to be meditating himself.

            Samia, however, said, “Who was waiting for you? Who?”

            Rik said, “I--I don’t know. I can’t remember. It wasn’t the office. It was someone of Sark. I remember speaking to him. He knew about the danger. He spoke of it. I’m sure he spoke of it. We sat at a table together. I remember the table. He sat opposite me. It’s as clear as space. We spoke for quite a while. It seems to me I wasn’t anxious to give details. I’m sure of that. I would have had to speak to the office first. And then he. . .”

            “Yes?” prompted Samia.

            “He did something. He-- No, nothing more will come. Nothing will come!”

            He screamed the words and then there was silence, a silence that was anticlimactically broken by the prosaic buzz of the Captain’s wrist communo.

            He said, “What is it?”

            The answering voice was reedy and precisely respectful. “A message to the Captain from Sark. It is requested that he accept it personally.”

            “Very well. I will be at the sub-etherics presently.”

            He turned to Samia. “My Lady, may I suggest that it is, in any case, dinnertime.”

            He saw that the girl was about to protest her lack of appetite, to urge him to leave and not to bother about her. He continued, more diplomatically, “It is also time to feed these creatures. They are probably tired and hungry.”

            Samia could say nothing against that. “I must see them again, Captain.”

            The Captain bowed silently. It might have been acquiescence. It might not.

            Samia of Fife was thrilled. Her studies of Florina satisfied a certain aspiration to intellect within her, but the Mysterious Case of the Psycho-probed Earthman (she thought of the matter in capitals) appealed to something much more primitive and much more demanding. It roused the sheer animal curiosity in her.

            It was a mystery!

            There were three points that fascinated her. Among these was not the perhaps reasonable question (under the circumstances) of whether the man’s story was a delusion or a deliberate lie, rather than the truth. To believe it anything other than truth would spoil the mystery and Samia could not allow that.

            The three points were therefore these. (1) What was the danger that threatened Florina, or, rather, the entire Galaxy? (2) Who was the person who had psycho-probed the Earthman? (3) Why had the person used the psycho-probe?

            She was determined to sift the matter to her own thorough satisfaction. No one is so modest as not to believe himself a competent amateur sleuth, and Samia was far from modest.

            As soon after dinner as she could politely manage, she hurried down to the brig.

            She said to the guard, “Open the door!”

            The sailor remained perfectly erect, staring blankly and respectfully ahead. He said, “If Your Ladyship pleases, the door is not to be opened.”

            Samia gasped. “How dare you say so? If you do not open the door instantly, the Captain shall be informed.”

            “If Your Ladyship pleases, the door is not to be opened. That is by the strict order of the Captain.”

            She stormed up the levels once more, bursting into the Captain’s stateroom like a tornado compressed into sixty inches.

            “Captain!”

            “My Lady?”

            “Have you ordered the Earthman and the native woman to be kept from me?”

            “I believe, my Lady, it was agreed that you were to interview them only in my presence.”

            “Before dinner, yes. But you saw they were harmless?”

            “I saw that they seemed harmless.”

            Samia simmered. “In that case I order you to come with me now.”

            “I cannot, my Lady. The situation has changed.”

            “In what way?”

            “They must be questioned by the proper authorities on Sark and until then I think they should be left alone.”

            Samia’s lower jaw dropped, but she rescued it from its undignified position almost immediately. “Surely you are not going to deliver them to the Bureau of Florinian Affairs.”

            “Well,” temporized the Captain, “that was certainly the original intention. They have left their village without permission. In fact they have left their planet without permission. In addition, they have taken secret passage on a Sarkite vessel.”

            “The last was a mistake.”

            “Was it?”

            “In any case, you knew all their crimes before our last interview.”

            “But it was only at the interview that I heard what the so-called Earthman had to say.”

            “So-called. You said yourself that the planet Earth existed.”

            “I said it might exist. But, my Lady, may I be so bold as to ask what you would like to see done with these people?”

            “I think the Earthman’s story should be investigated. He speaks of a danger to Florina and of someone on Sark who has deliberately attempted to keep knowledge of that danger from the proper authorities. I think it is even a case for my father. In fact I would take him to my father, when the proper time came.”

            The Captain said, “The cleverness of it all!”

            “Are you being sarcastic, Captain?”

            The Captain flushed. “Your pardon, my Lady. I was referring to our prisoners. May I be allowed to speak at some length?”

            “I don’t know what you mean by ‘some length,” she retorted angrily, “but I suppose you may begin.”

            “Thank you. In the first place, my Lady, I hope you will not minimize the importance of the disturbances on Florina.”

            “What disturbances?”

            “You cannot have forgotten the incident in the library.”

            “A patroller killed! Really, Captain!”

            “And a second patroller killed this morning, my Lady, and a native as well. It is not very usual for natives to kill patrollers and here is one who has done it twice, and yet remains uncaught. Is he a lone hand? Is it an accident? Or is it all part of a carefully laid scheme?”

            “Apparently you believe the last.”

            “Yes, I do. The murdering native had two accomplices. Their description is rather like that of our two stowaways.”

            “You never said so!”

            “I did not wish to alarm Your Ladyship. You’ll remember, however, that I told you repeatedly that they could be dangerous.”

            “Very well. What follows from all this?”

            “What if the murders on Florina were simply side shows intended to distract the attention of the patroller squadrons while these two sneaked aboard our ship?”

            “That sounds so silly.”

            “Does it? Why are they running away from Florina? We haven’t asked them. Let us suppose they are running away from the patrollers since that is certainly the most reasonable assumption. Would they be running to Sark of all places? And on a ship that carries Your Ladyship? And then he claims to be a Spatio-analyst.”

            Samia frowned. “What of that?”

            “A year ago a Spatio-analyst was reported missing. The story was never given wide publicity. I knew, of course, because my ship was one of those that searched near space for signs of his ship. Whoever is backing these Florinian disorders has undoubtedly seized on that fact, and just knowing that the matter of the missing Spatio-analyst is known to them shows what a tight and unexpectedly efficient organization they have.”

            “It might be that the Earthman and the missing Spatio-analyst have no connection.”

            “No real connection, my Lady, undoubtedly. But to expect no connection at all is to expect too much of coincidence. It is an impostor we are dealing with. That is why he claims to have been psycho-probed.”

            “Oh?”

            “How can we prove he isn’t a Spatio-analyst? He knows no details of the planet Earth beyond the bare fact that it is radioactive. He cannot pilot a ship. He knows nothing of Spatioanalysis. And he covers up by insisting he was psycho-probed. Do you see, my Lady?”

            Samia could make no direct answer. “But to what purpose?” she demanded.

            “So that you might do exactly what you said you intended to do, my Lady.”

            “Investigate the mystery?”

            “No, my Lady. Take the man to your father.”

            “I still see no point.”

            “There are several possibilities. At the best, he could be a spy upon your father, either for Florina or possibly for Trantor. I imagine old Abel of Trantor would certainly come forward to identify him as an Earthman, if for no other reason than to embarrass Sark by demanding the truth concerning this fictitious psycho-probing. At the worst, he will be your father’s assassin.”

            “Captain!”

            “My Lady?”

            “This is ridiculous!”

            “Perhaps, my Lady. But if so, the Department of Security is also ridiculous. You will recall that just before dinner I was called away to receive a message from Sark.”

            “Yes.”

            “This is it.”

            Samia received the thin translucent foil with its red lettering. It said: “Two Florinians are reported to have taken secret, illegal passage on your ship. Secure them immediately. One of them may claim to be a Spatio-analyst and not a Florinian native. You are to take no action in this matter. You will be held strictly responsible for the safety of these people. They are to be held for delivery to Depsec. Extreme secrecy. Extreme urgency.”

            Samia felt stunned. “Depsec,” she said. “The Department of Security.”

            “Extreme secrecy,” said the Captain. “I stretch a point to tell you this, but you have left me no choice, my Lady.”

            She said, “What will they do to him?”

            “I cannot say for certain,” said the Captain. “Certainly a suspected spy and assassin cannot expect gentle treatment. Probably his pretense will become partly a reality and he will learn what a psycho-probe is really like.”

           

           

TWELVE: The Detective

     

     

      The four Great Squires regarded the Squire of Fife each in his own way. Bort was angry, Rune was amused, Balle was annoyed, and Steen was frightened.

            Rune spoke first. He said, “High treason? Are you trying to frighten us with a phrase? What does it mean? Treason against you? Against Bort? Against myself? By whom and how? And for S ark’s sake, Fife, these conferences interfere with my normal sleeping hours.”

            “The results,” said Fife, “may interfere with many sets of sleeping hours. I don’t refer to treason against any of us, Rune. I mean treason against Sark.”

            Bort said, “Sark? What’s that, anyway, if not us?”

            “Call it a myth. Call it something ordinary Sarkites believe in.”

            “I don’t understand,” moaned Steen. “You men always seem so interested in talking each other down. Really! I wish you’d get all this over with.”

            Balle said, “I agree with Steen.” Steen looked gratified.

            Fife said, “I’m perfectly willing to explain immediately. You have heard, I suppose, of the recent disturbances on Florina.”

            Rune said, “The Depsec dispatches speak of several patrollers killed. Is that what you mean?”

            Bort broke in angrily. “By Sark, if we must have a conference, let’s talk about that. Patrollers killed! They deserve to be killed! Do you mean to say a native can simply come up to a patroller and bash his head in with a two-by-four? Why should any patroller let any native with a two-by-four in his hand come close enough to use it? Why wasn’t the native burned down at twenty paces?

            “By Sark, I’d rattle the Patrol Corps from captain to recruit and send every dunderhead out on ship duty. The entire Corps is just an accumulation of fat. It’s too easy a life for them down there. I say that every five years we should put Florina under martial law and scrape out the troublemakers. It would keep the natives quiet and our own men on their toes.”

            “Are you through?” asked Fife.

            “For now, yes. But I’ll take it up again. It’s my investment down there, too, you know. It may not be as big as yours, Fife, but it’s big enough for me to worry about.”

            Fife shrugged. He turned suddenly to Steen. “And have you heard of the disturbances?”

            Steen jumped. “I have. I mean, I’ve heard you just saying--”

            “You haven’t read the Depsec announcements?”

            “Well, really!” Steen became intensely interested in his long, pointed fingernails with their exquisitely applied coppery coating. “I don’t always have time to read all the announcements. I didn’t know it was required of me. In fact,” and he gathered his courage in both hands and looked full at Fife, “I didn’t know you were making rules for me. Really!”

            “I haven’t,” said Fife. “Just the same since you, at least, know none of the details, let me summarize it for you. The rest may find it interesting as well.”

            It was surprising into how few words the events of forty-eight hours could be put and how flat they could sound. First, there had been an unexpected reference to Spatio-analysis texts. Then a blow on the head of a superannuated patroller who died of a fractured skull two hours later. Then a pursuit that ended with untouchability in the lair of a Trantorian agent. Then a second patroller dead at dawn with the murderer tricked out in the patroller’s uniform and the Trantorian agent dead in his turn some hours later.

            “If you wish the very latest nugget of news,” Fife concluded, “you might add this to this catalog of apparent trivia. Some hours ago a body, or, rather, the bony remnants of one, was found in City Park on Florina.”

            “Whose body?” asked Rune.

            “Just a moment, please. Lying next to it was a pile of ash that seemed to be the charred remnants of clothing. Anything of metal had been carefully removed from it, but the ash analysis proved it to be what was left of a patroller uniform.”

            “Our impostoring friend?” asked Balle.

            “Not likely,” said Fife. “Who would kill him in secret?”

            “Suicide,” said Bort viciously. “How long did the bloody bastard expect to keep out of our hands? I imagine he had a better death this way. Personally, I’d find out who in the Corps were responsible for letting him reach the suicide stage and put a one-charge blaster in their hands.”

            “Not likely,” said Fife again. “If the man committed suicide he either killed himself first, then took off his uniform, blasted it to ash, removed the buckles and braid, and then got rid of them. Or else he first removed his uniform, ashed it, removed the buckles and braid, left the cave naked, or perhaps in his underwear, discarded them, came back and killed himself.”

            “The body was in a cave?” asked Bort.

            “In one of the ornamental caves of the Park. Yes.”

            “Then he had plenty of time and plenty of privacy,” said Bort belligerently. He hated to give up a theory. “He could have taken off the buckles and braid first, then--”

            “Ever try to remove braid from a patroller uniform that hasn’t been ashed first?” asked Fife sarcastically. “And ca~ you suggest a motive, if the body were that of the impostor after suicide? Besides, I have a report from the medical examiners who studied the bone structure. The skeleton is that of neither a patroller nor a Florinian. It is of a Sarkite.”

            Steen cried, “Really!”; Balle’s old eyes opened wide; Rune’s metal teeth, which, by catching a gleam of light now and then, added a bit of life to the cube of dusk in which he sat, vanished as he closed his mouth. Even Bort was dumfounded.

            “Do you follow?” asked Fife. “Now you see why the metal was removed from the uniform. Whoever killed the Sarkite wanted the ash to be taken for that of the Sarkite’s own clothing, removed and ashed before the killing, which we might then take for suicide or for the result of a private feud in no way connected with our patroller-impostor friend. What he did not know was that ash analysis could distinguish between the kyrt of Sarkite clothing and the cellulite of a patroller uniform even with the buckles and braid removed.

            “Now given a dead Sarkite and the ash of a patroller uniform, we can only assume that somewhere in Upper City there is a live Townman in Sarkite clothing. Our Florinian, having posed as a patroller long enough, and finding the danger too great and growing greater, decided to become a Squire. And he did that in the only way he could.”

            “Has he been caught?” inquired Bort thickly.

            “No, he hasn’t.”

            “Why not? By Sark, why not?”

            “He will be caught,” said Fife indifferently. “At the moment we have more important things to wonder about. This last atrocity is a trifle in comparision.”

            “Get to the point!” demanded Rune instantly.

            “Patience! First, let me ask you if you remember the missing Spatio-analyst of last year.”

            Steen giggled.

            Bort said with infinite contempt, “That again?”

            Steen asked, “Is there a connection? Or are we just going to talk about that horrible affair of last year all over again? I’m tired.”

            Fife was unmoved. He said, “This explosion of yesterday and day before yesterday began with a request at the Florinian library for reference books on Spatio-analysis. That is connection enough for me. Let’s see if I can’t make the connection for the rest of you as well. I will begin by describing the three people involved in the library incident, and please, let me have no interruptions for a few moments.

            “First, there is a Townman. He is the dangerous one of the three. On Sark he had an excellent record as an intelligent and faithful piece of material. Unfortunately he has now turned his abilities against us. He is undoubtedly the one responsible for four killings now. Quite a record for anyone. Considering that the four include two patrollers and a Sarkite, it is unbelievably remarkable for a native. And he is still uncaught.

            “The second person involved is a native woman. She is uneducated and completely insignificant. However, the last couple of days have seen an extensive search into every facet of this affair and we know her history. Her parents were members of the ‘Soul of Kyrt’ if any of you remember that rather ridiculous peasant conspiracy that was wiped out without trouble some twenty years ago.

            “This brings us to the third person, the most unusual one of the three. This third person was a common mill hand and an idiot.”

            There was an expulsion of breath from Bort and another high-pitched giggle from Steen. Balle’s eyes remained closed and Rune was motionless in the dark.

            Fife said, “The word ‘idiot’ is not used figuratively. Depsec has driven itself mercilessly but his history could not be traced back more than ten and a half months. At that time he was found in a village just outside Florina’s main metropolis in a state of complete mindlessness. He could neither walk nor talk. He could not even feed himself.

            “Now note that he made this first appearance some few weeks after the disappearance of the Spatio-analyst. Note in addition that, in a matter of months, he learned how to talk and even how to fill a job at a kyrt mill. What kind of an idiot could learn so quickly?”

            Steen began, almost eagerly, “Oh, really, if he were psycho-probed properly, it could be arranged so . . .” His voice trailed off.

            Fife said sardonically, “I can think of no greater authority on the subject. Even without Steen’s expert opinion, however, the same thought occurred to me. It was the only possible explanation.

            “Now the psycho-probing could have taken place only on Sark or in Upper City on Florina. As a matter of simple thoroughness, doctors’ offices in Upper City were checked. There was no trace of any unauthorized psycho-probing. It was then the notion of one of our agents to check the records of doctors who had died since the idiot first made his appearance. I shall see to it that he is promoted for that idea.

            “We found a record of our idiot in just one of those offices. He had been brought in for a physical checkup about six months ago by the peasant woman who is the second of our trio. Apparently this was done secretly since she was absent that day from her job on quite another pretext. The doctor examined the idiot and recorded definite evidence of psycho-probic tampering.

            “Now here is the interesting point. The doctor was one of those who kept double-deck offices in Upper City and Lower City. He was one of these idealists who thought the natives deserved first-rate medical care. He was a methodical man and kept duplicate records in full in both his offices to avoid unnecessary elevator travel. Also it pleased his idealism, I imagine, to practice no segregation between Sarkite and Florinian in his files. But the record of the idiot in question was not duplicated, and it was the only record not duplicated.

            “Why should that be? If, for some reason, he had decided of his own accord not to duplicate that particular record, why should it have appeared only in the Upper City records, which is where it did appear? Why not only in the Lower City records, which is where it did not appear? After all, the man was a Florinian. He had been brought in by a Florinian. He had been examined in the Lower City office. All that was plainly recorded in the copy we found.

            “There is only one answer to that particular puzzle. The record was duly entered in both files, but it was destroyed in the Lower City files by somebody who did not realize there would remain another record in the Upper City office. Now let’s pass on.

            “Included with the idiot’s examination record was the definite notation to include the findings of this case with the doctor’s next routine report to Depsec. That was entirely proper. Any case of psycho-probing could involve a criminal or even a subversive. But no such report was ever made. Within the week he was dead in a traffic accident.

            “The coincidences pile up past endurance, don’t they?”

            Balle opened his eyes. He said, “This is a detective thriller you are telling us.”

            “Yes,” cried Fife with satisfaction, “a detective thriller. And for the moment I am the detective.”

            “And who are the accused?” asked Balle in a tired whisper.

            “Not yet. Let me play the detective for a moment longer.”

            In the middle of what Fife considered to be the most dangerous crisis that had ever confronted Sark, he suddenly found that he was enjoying himself hugely.

            He said, “Let’s approach the story from the other end. We will, for the moment, forget the idiot and remember the Spatio-analyst. The first we hear of him is the notification to the Bureau of Transportation that his ship will soon land. A message received from him earlier accompanies the notification.

            “The Spatio-analyst never arrives. He is located nowhere in near space. Furthermore, the message sent by the Spatio-analyst, which had been forwarded to BuTrans, disappeared. The I.S.B. claimed that we were deliberately concealing the message. Depsec believed that they were inventing a fictitious message for propaganda purposes. It now occurs to me that we were both wrong. The message had been delivered but it had not been concealed by the government of Sark.

            “Let us invent someone and, for the moment, call him X. X has access to the records of BuTrans. He learns of this Spatio-analyst and his message and has the brains and ability to act quickly. He arranges that a secret sub-ethergram be sent out to the Spatio-analyst’s ship, directing the man’s landing on some small, private field. The Spatio-analyst does so and X meets him there.

            “X has taken the Spatio-analyst’s message of doom with him. There may be two reasons for that. First, it would confuse possible attempts at detection by eliminating a piece of evidence. Second, it would serve, perhaps, to win the confidence of the mad Spatio-analyst. If the Spatio-analyst felt he could talk only to his own superiors, and he might well feel that, X might persuade him to grow confidential by proving that he was already in possession of the essentials of the story.

            “Undoubtedly the Spatio-analyst talked. However incoherent, mad, and generally impossible that talk might have been, X recognized it as an excellent handle for propaganda. He sent out his blackmailing letter to the Great Squires, to us. His procedure, as then planned, was probably precisely that which I attributed to Trantor at the time. If we didn’t come to terms with him, he intended to disrupt Florinian production by rumors of destruction until he forced surrender.

            “But then came his first miscalculation. Something frightened him. We’ll consider exactly what that was later. In any case, he decided he would have to wait before continuing. Waiting, however, involved one complication. X didn’t believe the Spatio-analyst’s story, but there is no question that the Spatio-analyst himself was madly sincere. X would have to arrange affairs so that the Spatio-analyst would be willing to allow his ‘doom’ to wait.

            “The Spatio-analyst could not do that unless his warped mind was put out of action. X might have killed him, but I am of the opinion that the Spatio-analyst was necessary to him as a source of further information (after all, he knew nothing of Spatioanalysis himself and he couldn’t conduct successful blackmail on total bluff) and, perhaps, as ransom in case of ultimate failure. In any case, he used a psycho-probe. After treatment, he had on his hands, not a Spatio-analyst, but a mindless idiot who would, for a time, cause him no trouble. And after a time his senses would be recovered.

            “The next step? That was to make certain that during the year’s wait the Spatio-analyst would not be located, that no one of importance would see him even in his role as idiot. So he proceeded with a masterly simplicity. He carried his man to Florina and for nearly a year the Spatio-analyst was simply a half-wit native, working in the kyrt mills.

            “I imagine that during that year he, or some trusted subordinate, visited the town where he had ‘planted’ the creature, to see that he was safe and in reasonable health. On one of these visits he learned, somehow, that the creature had been taken to a doctor who knew a psycho-probing when he saw one. The doctor died and his report disappeared, at least from his Lower City office. That was X’s first miscalculation. He never thought a duplicate might be in the office above.

            “And then came his second miscalculation. The idiot began regaining his senses a little too quickly and the village Townman had brains enough to see that there was something more to it than simple raving. Perhaps the girl who took care of the idiot told the Townman about the psycho-probing. That’s a guess.

            “There you have the story.”

            Fife clasped his strong hands and waited for the reaction.

            Rune supplied it first. The light had turned on in his cubicle some moments earlier and he sat there, blinking and smiling. He said, “And a moderately dull story it was, Fife. Another moment in the dark and I would have been asleep.”

            “As nearly as I can see,” said Balle slowly, “you have created a structure as insubstantial as the one of last year. It is nine tenths guesswork.”

            “Hogwash!” said Bort.

            “Who is X, anyway?” asked Steen. “If you don’t know who X is, it just doesn’t make any sense.” And he yawned delicately, covering his small white teeth with a bent forefinger.

            Fife said, “At least one of you sees the essential point. The identity of X is the nub of the affair. Consider the characteristics that X must possess if my analysis is accurate.

            “In the first place, X is a man with contacts in the Civil Service. He is a man who can order a psycho-probing. He is a man who thinks he can arrange a powerful blackmailing campaign. He is a man who can take the Spatio-analyst from Sark to Florina without trouble. He is a man who can arrange the death of a doctor on Florina. He isn’t a nobody, certainly.

            “In fact he is a very definite somebody. He must be a Great Squire. Wouldn’t you say so?”

            Bort rose from his seat. His head disappeared and he sat down again. Steen burst into high, hysterical laughter. Rune’s eyes, half buried in the pulpy fat that surrounded them, glittered feverishly. Balle slowly shook his head.

            Bort yelled, “Who in Space is being accused, Fife?”

            “No one yet.” Fife remained even-tempered. “No one specifically. Look at it this way. There are five of us. Not another man on Sark could have done what X did. Only we five. That can be taken as settled. Now which of the five is it? To begin with, it isn’t myself.”

            “We can take your word for it, can we?” sneered Rune.

            “You don’t have to take my word for it,” retorted Fife. “I’m the only one here without a motive. X’s motive is to gain control of the kyrt industry. I have control of it. I own a third of Florina’s land outright. My mills, machine plants and shipping fleets are sufficiently predominant to force any or all of you out of business if I wish. I wouldn’t have to resort to complicated blackmail.”

            He was shouting over their united voices. “Listen to me! The rest of you have every motive. Rune has the smallest continent and the smallest holdings. I know he doesn’t like that. He can’t pretend he likes it. Balle has the oldest lineage. There was a time when his family ruled all of Sark. He probably hasn’t forgotten that. Bort resents the fact that he is always outvoted in council and cannot therefore conduct business in his territories in quite the whip-and-blaster fashion he would like. Steen has expensive tastes and his finances are in a bad way. The necessity of recouping is a hard-driving one. We have it there. All the possible motives. Envy. Greed for power. Greed for money. Questions of prestige. Now which of you is it?”

            There was a gleam of sudden malice in Balle’s old eyes. “You don’t know?”

            “It doesn’t matter. Now hear this. I said that something frightened X (let’s still call him X) after his first letters to us. Do you know what it was? It was our first conference when I preached the necessity of united action. X was here. X was, and is, one of us. He knew united action meant failure. He had counted on winning over us because he knew that our rigid ideal of continental autonomy would keep us at odds to the last moment and beyond. He saw that he was wrong and he decided to wait until the sense of urgency vanished and he could proceed again.

            “But he is still wrong. We will still take united action and there is only one way we can do it safely, considering that X is one of us. Continental autonomy is at an end. It is a luxury we can no longer afford, for X’s schemes will end only with the economic defeat of the rest of us or the intervention of Trantor. I, myself, am the only one I can trust, so from now on I head a united Sark. Are you with me?”

            They were out of their seats, shouting. Bort was waving his fist. There was a light froth at the corner of his lips.

            Physically, there was nothing they could do. Fife smiled. Each was a continent away. He could sit behind his desk and watch them foam.

            He said, “You have no choice. In the year since our first conference, I, too, have made my preparations. While you four have been quietly in conference, listening to me, officers loyal to myself have taken charge of the Navy.”

            “Treason!” they howled.

            “Treason to continental autonomy,” retorted Fife. “Loyalty to Sark.”

            Steen’s fingers intertwined nervously, their ruddy, copper tips the only splash of color upon his skin. “But it’s X. Even if X is one of us, there are three innocent. I’m not X.” He cast a poisonous glance about him. “It’s one of the others.”

            “Those of you who are innocent will form part of my government if they wish. They have nothing to lose.”

            “But you won’t say who is innocent,” bawled Bort. “You will keep us all out on the story of X, on the--on the--” Breathlessness brought him to a halt.

            “I will not. In twenty-four hours I will know who X is. I have not told you. The Spatio-analyst we have all been discussing is now in my hands.”

            They fell silent. They looked at one another with reserve and suspicion.

            Fife chuckled. “You are wondering which of you can be X. One of you knows, be sure of that. And in twenty-four hours we shall all know. Now keep in mind, gentlemen, that you are all quite helpless. The ships of war are mine. Good day!”

            His gesture was one of dismissal.

            One by one they went out, like stars in the depths of the vacuum being blotted out on the visiplate by the passing and unseen bulk of a wrecked spaceship.

            Steen was the last to leave. “Fife,” he said tremulously.

            Fife looked up. “Yes? You wish to confess now that we two are alone? You are

            Steen’s face twisted in wild alarm. “No, no. Really. I just wanted to ask if you’re really serious. I mean, continental autonomy and all that. Really?”

            Fife stared at the old chronometer in the wall. “Good day.”

            Steen whimpered. His hand went up to the contact switch and he, too, disappeared.

 

            Fife sat there, stony and unmoving. With the conference over, the heat of the crisis gone, depression seized him. His lipless mouth was a severe gash in his large face.

            All calculations began with this fact: that the Spatio-analyst was mad, there was no doom. But over a madman, so much had taken place. Would Junz of the I.S.B. have spent a year searching for a madman? Would he be so unyielding in his chase after fairy stories?

            Fife had told no one this. He scarcely dared share it with his own soul. What if the Spatio-analyst had never been mad? What if destruction dangled over the world of kyrt?

            The Florinian secretary glided before the Great Squire, his voice pallid and dry.

            “Sir!”

            “What is it?”

            “The ship with your daughter has landed.”

            “The Spatio-analyst and the native woman are safe?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Let there be no questioning in my absence. They are to be held incommunicado until I arrive. . . . Is there news from Florina?”

            “Yes, sir. The Townman is in custody and is being brought to Sark.”

           

           

THIRTEEN: The Yachtsman

     

     

      THE PORT’S LIGHTS brightened evenly as the twilight deepened. At no time did the over-all illumination vary from that to be expected of a somewhat subdued late afternoon. At Port 9, as at the other yacht ports of Upper City, it was daylight throughout Florina’s rotation. The brightness might grow unusually pronounced under the midday sun, but that was the only deviation.

            Markis Genro could tell that the day proper had passed only because, in passing into the port, he had left the colored night lights of the City behind him. Those were bright against the blackening sky but they made no pretense of substituting for day.

            Genro paused just inside the main entrance and seemed in no way impressed by the gigantic horseshoe with its three dozen hangars and five take-off pits. It was part of him, as it was part of any experienced yachtsman.

            He took a long cigarette, violet in color and tipped with the filmiest touch of silvery kyrt, and put it to his lips. He cupped his palms about the exposed tip and watched it glow to greenish life as he inhaled. It burned slowly and left no ash. An emerald smoke filtered out his nostrils.

            He murmured, “Business as usual!”

            A member of the yacht committee, in yachting costume, with only a discreet and tasteful lettering above one tunic button to indicate that he was a member of the committee, had moved up quickly to meet Genro, carefully avoiding any appearance of hurry.

            “Ah, Genro! And why not business as usual?”

            “Hello, Doty. I only thought that with all this fume and fuss going on it might occur to some bright boy to close the ports. Thank Sark it hasn’t.”

            The committeeman sobered. “You know, it may come to that. Have you heard the latest?”

            Genro grinned. “How can you tell the latest from the next-to-the-latest?”

            “Well, have you heard that it’s definite now about the native? The killer?”

            “You mean they’ve caught him? I hadn’t heard that.”

            “No, they haven’t caught him. But they know he’s not in Lower City!”

            “No? Where is he then?”

            “Why, in Upper City. Here.”

            “Go on.” Genro’s eyes widened, then narrowed in disbelief.

            “No, really,” said the committeeman, a little hurt, “I have it for a fact. The patrollers are swooping up and down Kyrt Highway. They’ve got City Park surrounded and they’re using Central Arena as a co-ordination point. This is all authentic.”

            “Well, maybe.” Genro’s eyes roved carelessly over the hangared ships. “I haven’t been at g for two months, I think. Are there any new ships in the place?”

            “No. Well, yes, there’s Hjordesse’s Flame Arrow.”

            Genro shook his head. “I’ve seen that. It’s all chromium and nothing else. I hate to think I’ll have to end by designing my own.”

            “Are you selling Comet V?"

            “Selling it or junking it. I’m tired of these late models. They’re too automatic. With their automatic relays and trajectory computers, they’re killing the sport.”

            “You know, I’ve heard others say the same thing,” agreed the committeeman. “Tell you what. If I hear of an old model in good condition on the market, I’ll let you know.”

            “Thanks. Mind if I wander about the place?”

            “Of course not. Go ahead.” The committeeman grinned, waved, trotted away.

            Genro made his slow rounds, his cigarette, half gone, drooping from one side of his mouth. He stopped at each occupied hangar, appraising its contents shrewdly.

            At Hangar 26 he displayed a heightened interest. He looked over the low barrier and said, “Squire?”

            The call was one of polite inquiry, but after a pause of several moments he had to call again, a little more peremptorily, a little less politely.

            The Squire who emerged to view was not an impressive sight. For one thing, he was not in yachting costume. Secondly, he needed a shave, and his rather repellent-looking skullcap was yanked down in a most unfashionable manner. It seemed to cover half his face. Lastly, his attitude was one of peculiarly suspicious overcaution.

            Genro  said, “I’m Markis Genro. Is this your craft, sir?”

            “Yes, it is.” The words were slow and tense.

            Genro disregarded that. He tilted his head back and looked over the yacht’s lines carefully. He removed what was left of his cigarette from between his lips and flicked it high in the air. It had not yet reached the high point of its arc when, with a little flash, it vanished.

            Genro said, “I wonder if you’d mind my coming in?” The other hesitated, then stepped aside. Genro entered.

            He said, “What kind of motor does the craft carry, sir?”

            “Why do you ask?”

            Genro was tall, skin and eyes were dark, hair crisp and cut short. He topped the other by half a head, and his smile showed white, evenly spaced teeth. He said, “To be very frank, I’m in the market for a new ship.”

            “You mean you’re interested in this one?”

            “I don’t know. Something like it, maybe, if the price is right. But anyway, I wonder if you’d mind my looking at the controls and engines?”

            The Squire stood there silently.

            Genro’s voice grew a trifle colder. “As you please, of course.” He turned away.

            The Squire said, “I might sell.” He fumbled in his pockets. “Here’s the license!”

            Genro looked at each side with a quick, experienced glance. He handed it back. “You’re Deamone?”

            The Squire nodded. “You can come in if you wish.”

            Genro looked briefly at the large port-chronometer, the luminescent hands, sparking brightly even in the daylight illumination, indicating the beginning of the second hour after sunset.

            “Thank you. Won’t you lead the way?”

            The Squire rummaged his pockets again and held out a booklet of key slivers. “After you, sir.”

            Genro took the booklet. He leafed through the slivers, looking at the small code marks for the “ship stamp.” The other man made no attempt to help him.

            Finally he said, “This one, I suppose?”

            He walked up the short ramp to the air-lock balcony and considered the fine seam at the right of the lock carefully. “I don’t see--Oh, here it is,” and he stepped to the other side of the lock.

            Slowly, noiselessly, the lock yawned and Genro moved into the blackness. The red air-lock light went on automatically as the door closed behind them. The inner door opened and as they stepped into the ship proper white lights flickered on over all the length of the ship.

 

            Myrlyn Terens had no choice. He no longer remembered the time, long since, when such a thing as “choice” had existed. For three long, wretched hours, now, he had remained near Deamone’s ship, waiting and helpless to do anything else. It had led to nothing till now. He did not see that it could lead to anything but capture.

            And then this fellow had come with an eye to the ship. To deal with him at all was madness. He could not possibly maintain his imposture at such close quarters. But then he could not possibly remain where he was, either.

            At least within the ship there might be food. Strange that that had not occurred to him before.

            There was.

            Terens said, “It’s close to dinnertime. Would you like to have something?”

            The other had scarcely looked over his shoulder. “Why, later, perhaps. Thank you.”

            Terens did not urge him. He let him roam the ship and applied himself thankfully to the potted meat and cellulite-wrapped fruit. He drank thirstily. There was a shower across the corridor from the kitchen. He locked its door and bathed. It was a pleasure to be able to remove the tight skullcap, at least temporarily. He even found a shallow closet from which he could choose a change of clothing.

            He was far more master of himself when Genro returned.

            Genro said, “Say, would you mind if I tried to fly this ship?”

            “I have no objection. Can you handle this model?” asked Terens with an excellent imitation of nonchalance.

            “I think so,” said the other with a little smile. “I flatter myself I can handle any of the regular models. Anyway, I’ve taken the liberty of calling the control tower and there’s a take-off pit available. Here’s my yachtsman’s license if you’d like to see it before I take over.”

            Terens gave it as cursory a glance as Genro had given his. “The controls are yours,” he said.

 

            The ship rolled out of the hangar like an air-borne whale, moving slowly, its diamagnetized hull clearing the smooth-packed clay of the field by three inches.

            Terens watched Genro handling the controls with finger-tip precision. The ship was a live thing under his touch. The small replica of the field that was upon the visiplate shifted and changed with each tiny motion of every contact.

            The ship came to a halt, pinpointed at the lip of a take-off pit. The diamagnetic field strengthened progressively towards the ship’s prow and it began tipping upward. Terens was mercifully unaware of this as the pilot room turned on its universal gimbals to meet the shifting gravity. Majestically, the ship’s rear flanges fitted into the appropriate grooves of the pit. It stood upright, pointing to the sky.

            The duralite cover of the take-off pit slipped into its recess, revealing the neutralized lining, a hundred yards deep, that received the first energy thrusts of the hyperatomic motors.

            Genro kept up a cryptic exchange of information with the control tower. Finally, “Ten seconds to take-off,” he said.

            A rising red thread in a quartz tube marked off the disappearing seconds. It made contact and the first surge of power tore backward.

            Terens grew heavier, felt himself pressing against the seat. Panic tore at him.

            He grunted, “How does it handle?”

            Genro seemed impervious to acceleration. His voice had almost its natural timbre as he said, “Moderately well.”

            Terens leaned back in his chair, trying to relax with the pressure, watching the stars in the visiplate turn hard and bright as the atmosphere vanished from between himself and them. The kyrt next to his skin felt cold and damp.

 

            They were out in space now. Genro was putting the ship through its paces. Terens had no way of telling that first hand but he could see the stars march steadily across the visiplate as the yachtsman’s long, slim fingers played with the controls as though they were the keys of a musical instrument. Finally a bulky orange segment of a globe filled the visiplate’s clear surface.

            “Not bad,” said Genro. “You keep your craft in good condition, Deamone. It’s small but it has its points.”

            Terens said carefully, “I suppose you’d like to test its speed and its jumping capacity. You may, if you like. I have no objection.”

            Genro nodded. “Very well. Where do you suggest we take ourselves? What about--” He hesitated, then went on, “Well, why not to Sark?”

            Terens breathed a little more quickly. He had expected that. He was on the point of believing himself to be living in a world of magic. How things forced his moves, even without his connivance. It would not have been difficult to convince him that it was not “things” but design that prompted the moves. His childhood had been steeped in the superstitions that the Squires fostered among the natives and such things are hard to outgrow. On Sark was Rik with his returning memories. The game was not over.

            He said wildly, “Why not, Genro?”

            Genro said, “Sark it is then.”

            With gathering speed, the globe of Florina slanted out beyond the visiplate’s view and the stars returned.

            “What’s your best time on the Sark-Florina run?” asked Genro.

            “Nothing record-breaking,” said Terens. “About average.”

            “Then you’ve done it in better than six hours, I suppose?”

            “On occasion, yes.”

            “Do you object to my trying to shave five?”

            “Not at all,” said Terens.

 

            It took hours to reach a point far enough from star-mass distortion of the space fabric to make a jump possible.

            Terens found wakefulness a torture. This was his third night with little or no sleep and the tensions of the days had exaggerated that lack.

            Genro looked at him askance. “Why don’t you turn in?”

            Terens forced an expression of liveliness onto his sagging facial muscles. He said, “It’s nothing. Nothing.”

            He yawned prodigiously and smiled in apology. The yachtsman turned back to his instruments and Terens’ eyes glazed over once again.

            Seats in a space-yacht are comfortable by very necessity. They must cushion the person against accelerations. A man not particularly tired can easily and sweetly fall asleep upon them. Terens, who could, at the moment, have slept on broken glass, never knew when he passed the border line.

            He slept for hours; he slept as deeply and as dreamlessly as ever in his life.

            He did not stir; he showed no single sign of life other than his even breathing when the skullcap was removed from his head.

 

            Terens woke blearily, slowly. For long minutes he had not the slightest notion of his whereabouts. He thought he was back in his Townman’s cottage. The true state of affairs seeped back in stages. Eventually he could smile at Genro, who was still at the controls, and say, “I guess I fell asleep.”

            “I guess you did. There’s Sark.” Genro nodded toward the large white crescent in the visiplate.

            “When do we land?”

            “About an hour.”

            Terens was awake enough now to sense a subtle change in the other’s attitude. It was an icy shock to him that the steel-gray object in Genro’s hand turned out to be the graceful barrel of a needle-gun.

            “What in Space--” began Terens, rising to his feet.

            “Sit down,” said Genro carefully. There was a skullcap in his other hand.

            Terens raised a hand to his head and his fingers found themselves clutching sandy hair.

            “Yes,” said Genro, “it’s quite obvious. You’re a native.”

            Terens stared and said nothing.

            Genro said, “I knew you were a native before I ever got on poor Deamone’s ship.”

            Terens’ mouth was cotton-dry and his eyes burned. He watched the tiny, deadly muzzle of the gun and waited for a sudden, noiseless flash. He had carried it so far, so far, and had lost the gamble after all.

            Genro seemed in no hurry. He held the needle-gun steady and his words were even and slow.

            “Your basic mistake, Townman, was the thought that you could really outwit an organized police force indefinitely. Even so, you would have done better if you hadn’t made the unfortunate choice of Deamone as your victim.”

            “I didn’t choose him,” croaked Terens.

            “Then call it luck. Alstare Deamone, some twelve hours ago, was standing in City Park, waiting for his wife. There was no reason, other than sentiment, for him to meet her there of all places. They had met in that very spot originally, and they met there again on every anniversary of that meeting. There’s nothing particularly original about that sort of ceremony between young husbands and wives, but it seems important to them. Of course Deamone did not realize that the comparative isolation of the spot made him an appropriate victim for a murderer. Who would have thought that in Upper City?

            “In the ordinary course of events the murder might not have been discovered for days. Deamone’s wife, however, was on the scene within half an hour of the crime. The fact that her husband was not there astonished her. He was not the type, she explained, to leave in a fury because she herself was a trifle late. She was often late. He would more or less have expected that. It occurred to her that her husband might be waiting for her inside ‘their’ cave.

            “Deamone had been waiting outside ‘their’ cave, naturally. It was the nearest one to the scene of the assault, consequently, and the one into which he was dragged. His wife entered that cave and found-well, you know what she found. She managed to relay the news to the Patrol Corps through our own Depsec offices, although she was almost incoherent with shock and hysteria.

            “How does it feel, Townman, to kill a man in cold blood, leaving him to be found by his wife at the one spot most steeped with happy memories for them both?”

            Terens was choking. He gasped out, through a red mist of anger and frustration, “You Sarkites have killed millions of Florinians. Women. Children. You’ve grown rich out of us. This yacht--” It was all he could manage.

            “Deamone wasn’t responsible for the state of affairs he found at birth,” said Genro. “If you had been born a Sarkite, what would you have done? Resigned your estates, if any, and gone to work in the kyrt fields?”

            “Well then, shoot,” cried Terens, writhing. “What are you waiting for?”

            “There’s no hurry. There is plenty of time to finish my story. We weren’t certain as to the identity of either the corpse or the murderer, but it was a very good guess that they were Deamone and yourself respectively. It seemed obvious to us from the fact that the ashes next to the body were of a patroller uniform that you were masquerading as a Sarkite. It seemed further probable that you would make for Deamone’s yacht. Don’t overestimate our stupidity, Townman.

            “Matters were still rather complex. You were a desperate man. It was insufficient to track you down. You were armed and would undoubtedly commit suicide if trapped. Suicide was something we did not wish. They wanted you on Sark and they wanted you in working order.

            “It was a particularly delicate affair for myself and it was quite necessary to convince Depsec that I could handle it alone, that I could get you to Sark without noise or difficulty. You’ll have to admit that is just what I’m doing.

            “To tell you the truth, I wondered at first if you were really our man. You were dressed in ordinary business costume on the yacht-port grounds. It was in incredibly bad taste. No one, it seemed to me, would dream of impersonating a yachtsman without the proper costume. I thought you were being deliberately sent in as a decoy, that you were trying to be arrested while the man we wanted escaped in another direction.

            “I hesitated and tested you in other ways. I fumbled with the ship’s key in the wrong place. No ship ever invented opened at the right side of the air lock. It opens always and invariably at the left side. You never showed any surprise at my mistake. None at all. Then I asked you if your ship had ever made the Sark-Florina run in less than six hours. You said you had--occasionally. That is quite remarkable. The record time for the run is over nine hours.

            “I decided you couldn’t be a decoy. The ignorance was too supreme. You had to be naturally ignorant and probably the right man. It was only a question of your falling asleep (and it was obvious from your face that you needed sleep desperately), disarming you and covering you quietly with an adequate weapon. I removed your hat more out of curiosity than anything else. I wanted to see what a Sarkite costume looked like with a red-haired head sticking out of it.”

            Terens kept his eyes on the whip. Perhaps Genro saw his jaw muscles bunch. Perhaps he simply guessed at what Terens was thinking.

            He said, “Of course I must not kill you, even if you jump me. I can’t kill you even in self-defense. Don’t think that gives you an advantage. Begin to move and I’ll shoot your leg off.”

            The fight went out of Terens. He put the heels of his palms to his forehead and sat rigid.

            Genro said softly, “Do you know why I tell you all this?”

            Terens did not answer.

            “First,” said Genro, “I rather enjoy seeing you suffer. I don’t like murderers and I particularly don’t like natives who kill Sarkites. I’ve been ordered to deliver you alive but nothing in my orders says I have to make the trip pleasant for you. Secondly, it is necessary for you to be fully aware of the situation since, after we land on Sark, the next steps will be up to you.”

            Terens looked up. “What!”

            “Depsec knows you’re coming in. The Florinian regional office sent the word as soon as this craft cleared Florina’s atmosphere. You can be sure of that. But I said it was quite necessary for me to convince Depsec that I could handle this alone and the fact that I have makes all the difference.”

            “I don’t understand you,” said Terens desperately.

            With composure, Genro answered, “I said ‘they’ wanted you on Sark, ‘they’ wanted you in working order. By ‘they’ I don’t mean Depsec, I mean Trantor!”

           

           

FOURTEEN: The Renegade

     

     

      SELIM JUNZ had never been the phlegmatic type. A year of frustration had done nothing to improve that. He could not sip wine carefully while his mental orientation sat upon suddenly trembling foundations. In short, he was not Ludigan Abel.

            And when Junz had done with his angry shouting that on no account was Sark to be allowed freedom to kidnap and imprison a member of the I.S.B. regardless of the condition of Trantor’s espionage network, Abel merely said, “I think you had better spend the night here, Doctor.”

            Junz said freezingly, “I have better things to do.”

            Abel said, “No doubt, man, no doubt. Just the same, if my men are being blasted to death, Sark must be bold indeed. There is a great possibility that some accident may happen to you before the night is over. Let us wait a night then and see what comes of a new day.”

            Junz’s protests against inaction came to nothing. Abel, without ever losing his cool, almost negligent air of indifference, was suddenly hard of hearing. Junz was escorted with firm courtesy to a chamber.

            In bed, he stared at the faintly luminous, frescoed ceiling (on which glowed a moderately skillful copy of Lenhaden’s “Battle of the Arcturian Moons”) and knew he would not sleep. Then he caught one whiff, a faint one, of the gas, somnin, and was asleep before he could catch another. Five minutes later, when a forced draft swept the room clean of the anesthetic, enough had been administered to assure a healthful eight hours.

 

            He was awakened in the cold half-light of dawn. He blinked up at Abel.

            “What time is it?” he asked.

            “Six.”

            “Great Space.” He looked about and thrust his bony legs out from under the sheet. “You’re up early.”

            “I haven’t slept.”

            “What?”

            “I feel the lack, believe me. I don’t respond to antisomnin as I did when I was younger.”

            Junz murmured, “If you will allow me a moment.”

            This once his morning preparations for the day took scarcely more than that. He re-entered the room, drawing the belt about his tunic and adjusting the magneto-seam.

            “Well?” he asked. “Surely you don’t wake through the night and rouse me at six unless you have something to tell me.”

            “You’re right. You’re right.” Abel sat down on the bed vacated by Junz and threw his head back in a laugh. It was high-pitched and rather subdued. His teeth showed, their strong, faintly yellow plastic incongruous against his shrunken gums.

            “I beg your pardon, Junz,” he said. “I am not quite myself. This drugged wakefulness has me a little lightheaded. I almost think I will advise Trantor to replace me with a younger man.”

            Junz said, with a flavor of sarcasm not entirely unmixed with sudden hope, “You find they haven’t got the Spatio-analyst after all?”

            “No, they do. I’m sorry but they do. I’m afraid that my amusement is due entirely to the fact that our nets are intact.”

            Junz would have liked to say, “Damn your nets,” but refrained.

            Abel went on, “There is no doubt they knew Khorov was one of our agents. They may know of others on Florina. Those are small fry. The Sarkites knew that and never felt it worth while to do more than hold them under observation.”

            “They killed one,” Junz pointed out.

            “They did not,” retorted Abel. “It was one of the Spatio-analyst’s own companions in a patroller disguise who used the blaster.”

            Junz stared. “I don’t understand.”

            “It’s a rather complicated story. Won’t you join me at breakfast? I need food badly.”

 

            Over the coffee, Abel told the story of the last thirty-six hours. Junz was stunned. He put down his own coffee cup, half full, and returned to it no more. “Even allowing them to have stowed away on that ship of all ships, the fact still remains they might not have been detected. If you send men to meet that ship as it lands--”

            “Bah. You know better than that. No modem ship could fail to detect the presence of excess body heat.”

            “It might have been overlooked. Instruments may be infallible but men are not.”

            “Wishful thinking. Look here. At the very time that the ship with the Spatio-analyst aboard is approaching Sark, there are reports of excellent reliability that the Squire of Fife is in conference with the other Great Squires. These intercontinental conferences are spaced as widely as the stars of the Galaxy. Coincidence?”

            “An intercontinental conference over a Spatio-analyst?”

            “An unimportant subject in itself, yes. But we have made it important. The I.S.B. has been searching for him for nearly a year with remarkable pertinacity.”

            “Not the I.S.B.,” insisted Junz. “Myself. I’ve been working in almost an unofficial manner.”

            “The Squires don’t know that and wouldn’t believe it if you told them. Then, too, Trantor has been interested.”

            “At my request.”

            “Again they don’t know that and wouldn’t believe it.”

            Junz stood up and his chair moved automatically away from the table. Hands firmly interlocked behind his back, he strode the carpet. Up and back. Up and back. At intervals he glanced harshly at Abel.

            Abel turned unemotionally to a second cup of coffee.

            Junz said, “How do you know all this?”

            “All what?”

            “Everything. How and when the Spatio-analyst stowed away. How and in what manner the Townman has been eluding capture. Is it your purpose to deceive me?”

            “My dear Dr. Junz.”

            “You admitted you had your men watching for the Spatio-analyst independently of myself. You saw to it that I was safely out of the way last night, leaving nothing to chance.” Junz remembered, suddenly, that whiff of somnin.

            “I spent a night, Doctor, in constant communication with certain of my agents. What I did and what I learned comes under the heading of, shall we say, classified material. You had to be out of the way, and yet safe. What I have told you just now I learned from my agents last night.”

            “To learn what you did you would need spies in the Sarkite government itself.”

            “Well, naturally.”

            Junz whirled on the ambassador. “Come, now.”

            “You find that surprising? To be sure, Sark is proverbial for the stability of its government and the loyalty of its people. The reason is simple enough since even the poorest Sarkite is an aristocrat in comparison with Florinians and can consider himself, however fallaciously, to be a member of a ruling class.

            “Consider, though, that Sark is not the world of billionaires most of the Galaxy thinks it is. A year’s residence must have well convinced you of that. Eighty per cent of its population has its living standard at a par with that of other worlds and not much higher than the standard of Florina itself. There will always be a certain number of Sarkites who, in their hunger, will be sufficiently annoyed with the small fraction of the population obviously drenched in luxury to lend themselves to my uses.

            “It is the great weakness of the Sarkite government that for centuries they have associated rebellion only with Florina. They have forgotten to watch over themselves.”

            Junz said, “These small Sarkites, assuming they exist, can’t do you much good.”

            “Individually, no. Collectively, they form useful tools for our more important men. There are members even of the real ruling class who have taken the lessons of the last two centuries to heart. They are convinced that in the end Trantor will have established its rule over all the Galaxy, and, I believe, rightly convinced. They even suspect that the final dominion may take place within their lifetimes, and they prefer to establish themselves, in advance, on the winning side.”

            Junz grimaced. “You make interstellar politics sound a very dirty game.”

            “It is, but disapproving of dirt doesn’t remove it. Nor are all its facets unrelieved dirt. Consider the idealist. Consider the few men in Sark’s government who serve Trantor neither for money nor for promises of power but only because they honestly believe that a unified Galactic government is best for humanity and that only Trantor can bring such a government about. I have one such man, my best one, in Sark’s Department of Security, and at this moment he is bringing in the Townman.”

            Junz said, “You said he had been captured.”

            “By Depsec, yes. But my man is Depsec and my man.” For a moment Abel frowned and turned pettish. “His usefulness will be sharply reduced after this. Once he lets the Townman get away, it will mean demotion at the best and imprisonment at the worst. Oh well!”

            “What are you planning now?”

            “I scarcely know. First, we must have our Townman. I am sure of him only to the point of arrival at the spaceport. What happens thereafter . . .” Abel shrugged, and his old, yellowish skin stretched parchmentlike over his cheekbones.

            Then he added, “The Squires will be waiting for the Townman as well. They are under the impression they have him, and until one or the other of us has him in our fists, nothing more can happen.”

            But that statement was wrong.

 

            Strictly speaking, all foreign embassies throughout the Galaxy maintained extraterritorial rights over the immediate areas of their location. Generally this amounted to nothing more than a pious wish, except where the strength of the home planet enforced respect. In actual practice it meant that only Trantor could truly maintain the independence of its envoys.

            The grounds of the Trantorian Embassy covered nearly a square mile and within it armed men in Trantorian Costume and insignia maintained patrol. No Sarkite might enter but on invitation, and no armed Sarkite on any account. To be sure, the sum of Trantorian men and arms could withstand the determined attack of a single Sarkite armored regiment for not more than two or three hours, but behind the small band was the power of reprisal from the organized might of a million worlds.

            It remained inviolate.

            It could even maintain direct material communication with Trantor, without the need of passing through Sarkite ports of entry or debarkation. From the hold of a Trantorian mothership, hovering just outside the hundred-mile limit that marked off the boundary between “planetary space” and “free space,” small gyro-ships, vane-equipped for atmospheric travel with minimum power expenditure, might emerge and needle down (half coasting, half driven) to the small port maintained within the embassy grounds.

            The gyro-ship which now appeared over the embassy port, however, was neither scheduled nor Trantorian. The mosquito-might of the embassy was brought quickly and truculently into play. A needle-cannon lifted its puckered muzzle into the air. Force screens went up.

            Radioed messages whipped back and forth. Stubborn words rode the impulses upward, agitated ones slipped down.

            Lieutenant Camrum turned away from the instrument and said, “I don’t know. He claims he’ll be shot out of the sky in two minutes if we don’t let him down. He claims sanctuary.”

            Captain Elyut had just entered. He said, “Sure. Then Sark will claim we’re interfering in politics and if Trantor decides to let things ride, you and I are broken as a gesture. ‘Who is he?”

            “Won’t say,” said the lieutenant with more than a little exasperation. “Says he must speak to the Ambassador. Suppose you tell me what to do, Captain.”

            The short-wave receiver sputtered and a voice, half hysterical, said, “Is anyone there? I’m just coming down, that’s all. Really! I can’t wait another moment, I tell you.” It ended in a squeak.

            The captain said, “Great Space, I know that voice. Let him down! My responsibility!”

            The orders went out. The gyro-ship sank vertically, more quickly than it should have, the result of a hand at the controls that was both inexperienced and panicky. The needle-cannon maintained focus.

            The captain established a through line to Abel and the embassy was thrown into full emergency. The flight of Sarkite ships that hovered overhead not ten minutes after the first vessel had landed maintained a threatening vigil for two hours, then departed.

 

            They sat at dinner, Abel, Junz and the newcomer. With admirable aplomb, considering the circumstances, Abel had acted the unconcerned host. For hours he had refrained from asking why a Great Squire needed sanctuary.

            Junz was far less patient. He hissed at Abel, “Space! What are you going to do with him?”

            And Abel smiled back. “Nothing. At least until I find out whether I have my Townman or not. I like to know what my hand is before tossing chips onto the table. And since he’s come to me, waiting will rattle him more than it will us.”

            He was right. Twice the Squire launched into rapid monolog and twice Abel said, “My dear Squire! Surely serious conversation is unpleasant on an empty stomach.” He smiled gently and ordered dinner.

            Over the wine, the Squire tried again. He said, “You’ll want to know why I have left Steen Continent.”

            “I cannot conceive of any reason,” admitted Abel, “for the Squire of Steen ever to have fled from Sarkite vessels.”

            Steen watched them carefully. His slight figure and thin, pale face were tense with calculation. His long hair was bound into carefully arranged tufts held by tiny clips that rubbed against one another with a rustling sound whenever he moved his head, as though to call attention to his disregard for the current Sarkite clipped-hair fashion. A faint fragrance came from his skin and clothing.

            Abel, who did not miss the slight tightening of Junz’s lips and the quick way in which the Spatio-analyst patted his own short, woolly hair, thought how amusing Junz’s reaction might have been if Steen had appeared more typically, with rouged cheeks and coppered fingernails.

            Steen said, “There was an intercontinental conference today.”

            “Really?” said Abel.

            Abel listened to the tale of the conference without a quiver of countenance.

            “And we have twenty-four hours,” Steen said indignantly. “It’s sixteen hours now. Really!”

            “And you’re X,” cried Junz, who had been growing increasingly restless during the recitation. “You’re X. You’ve come here because he’s caught you. Well now, that’s fine. Abel, here’s our proof as to the identity of the Spatio-analyst. We can use him to force a surrender of the man.”

            Steen’s thin voice had difficulty making itself heard over Junz’s staunch baritone.

            “Now really. I say, now really. You’re mad. Stop it! Let me speak, I tell you. . . . Your Excellency, I can’t remember this man’s name.”

            “Dr. Selim Junz, Squire.”

            “Well then, Dr. Selim Junz, I have never in my life seen this idiot or Spatio-analyst or whatever in the world he may be. Really! I never heard such nonsense. I am certainly not X. Really! I’ll thank you not even to use the silly letter. Imagine believing Fife’s ridiculous melodrama! Really!”

            Junz clung to his notion. “Why did you run then?”

            “Good Sark, isn’t it clear? Oh, I could choke. Really! Look here, don’t you see what Fife was doing?”

            Abel interrupted quietly. “If you’ll explain, Squire, there will be no interruptions.”

            “Well, thank you at least.” He continued, with an air of wounded dignity. “The others don’t think much of me because I don’t see the point of bothering with documents and statistics and all those boring details. But, really, what is the Civil Service for, I’d like to know? If a Great Squire can’t be a Great Squire?

            “Still that doesn’t mean I’m a ninny, you know, just because I like my comfort. Really! Maybe the others are blind, but I can see that Fife doesn’t give a darn for the Spatio-analyst. I don’t even think he exists. Fife just got the idea a year ago and he’s been manipulating it ever since.

            “He’s been playing us for fools and idiots. Really! And so the others are. Disgusting fools! He’s arranged all this perfectly awful nonsense about idiots and Spatio-analysis. I wouldn’t be surprised if the native who’s supposed to be killing patrollers by the dozen isn’t just one of Fife’s spies in a red wig. Or if he’s a real native, I suppose Fife has hired him.

            “I wouldn’t put it past Fife. Really! He would use natives against his own kind. That’s how low he is.

            “Anyway, it’s obvious that he’s using it just as an excuse to ruin the rest of us and to make himself dictator of Sark. Isn’t it obvious to you?

            “There isn’t any X at all, but tomorrow, unless he’s stopped, he’ll spread the sub-etherics full of conspiracies and declarations of emergencies and he’ll have himself declared Leader. We haven’t had a Leader on Sark in five hundred years but that won’t stop Fife. He’d just let the constitution go hang. Really!

            “Only I mean to stop him. That’s why I had to leave. If I were still in Steen, I’d be under house arrest.

            “As soon as the conference was over I had my own personal port checked, and, you know, his men had taken over. It was in clear disregard of continental autonomy. It was the act of a cad. Really! But nasty as he is, he isn’t so bright. He thought some of us might try to leave the planet so he had the spaceports watched, but”--here he smiled in vulpine fashion and emitted the ghost of a giggle--”it didn’t occur to him to watch the gyro-ports.

            “Probably he thought there wasn’t a place on the planet that would be safe for us. But I thought of the Trantorian Embassy. It’s more than the others did. They make me tired. Especially Bort. Do you know Bort? He’s terribly uncouth. Actually dirty. Talks at me as though there were something wrong with being clean and smelling pleasant.”

            He put his finger tips to his nose and inhaled gently.

            Abel put a light hand on Junz’s wrist as the latter moved restlessly in his seat. Abel said, “You have left a family behind. Have you thought that Fife can still hold a weapon over you?”

            “I couldn’t very well pile all my pretty ones in my gyroplane.” He reddened a trifle. “Fife wouldn’t dare touch them. Besides, I’ll be back in Steen tomorrow.”

            “How?” asked Abel.

            Steen looked at him in astonishment. His thin lips parted. “I’m offering alliance, Your Excellency. You can’t pretend Trantor isn’t interested in Sark. Surely you’ll tell Fife that any attempt to change Sark’s constitution would necessitate Trantor’s intervention.”

            “I scarcely see how that can be done, even if I felt my government would back me,” said Abel.

            “How can it not be done?” asked Steen indignantly. “If he controls the entire kyrt trade he’ll raise the price, ask concessions for rapid delivery and all sorts of things.”

            “Don’t the five of you control the price as is?”

            Steen threw himself back in the seat. “Well, really! I don’t know all the details. Next you’ll be asking me for figures. Goodness, you’re as bad as Bort.” Then he recovered and giggled. “I’m just teasing, of course. What I mean is that, with Fife out of the way, Trantor might make an arrangement with the rest of us. In return for your help, it would only be right that Trantor get preferential treatment, or even maybe a small interest in the trade.”

            “And how would we keep intervention from developing into a Galaxy-wide war?”

            “Oh, but really, don’t you see? It’s plain as day. You wouldn’t be aggressors. You would just be preventing civil war to keep the kyrt trade from disruption. I’d announce that I’d appealed to you for help. It would be worlds removed from aggression. The whole Galaxy would be on your side. Of course, if Trantor benefits from it afterward, why, that’s nobody’s business at all. Really!”

            Abel put his gnarled fingers together and regarded them. “I can’t believe you really mean to join forces with Trantor.”

            An intense look of hatred passed momentarily over Steen’s weakly smiling face. He said, “Rather Trantor than Fife.”

            Abel said, “I don’t like threatening force. Can’t we wait and let matters develop a bit--”

            “No, no,” cried Steen. “Not a day. Really! If you’re not firm now, right now, it will be too late. Once the deadline is past, he’ll have gone too far to retreat without losing face. If you’ll help me now, the people of Steen will back me, the other Great Squires will join me. If you wait even a day, Fife’s propaganda mill will begin to grind. I’ll be smeared as a renegade. Really! I! I! A renegade! He’ll use all the anti-Trantor prejudice he can whip up and you know, meaning no offense, that’s quite a bit.”

            “Suppose we ask him to allow us to interview the Spatio-analyst?”

            “What good will that do? He’ll play both ends. He’ll tell us the Florinian idiot is a Spatio-analyst, but he’ll tell you the Spatio-analyst is a Florinian idiot. You don’t know the man. He’s awful!”

            Abel considered that. He hummed to himself, his forefinger keeping gentle time. Then he said, “We have the Townman, you know.”