TEXT: The Stars, Like Dust
  (The Rebellious Stars)
  (The second book in the Empire series) 
  Isaac Asimov
    
  
   ONE:
   The Bedroom Murmured
   The bedroom murmured to itself gently. It was almost below the limits of hearing--an 
  irregular little sound, yet quite unmistakable, and quite deadly.
  But it wasn’t that which awakened Biron Farrill and dragged him out of a heavy, 
  unrefreshing slumber. He turned his head restlessly from side to side in a futile struggle 
  against the periodic burr-r-r on the end table.
  He put out a clumsy hand without opening his eyes and closed contact.
  “Hello,” he mumbled.
  Sound tumbled instantly out of the receiver. It was harsh and loud, but Biron lacked the 
  ambition to reduce the volume.
  It said, “May I speak to Biron Farrill?”
  Biron said, fuzzily, “Speaking. What d’you want?”
  “May I speak to Biron Farrill?” The voice was urgent.
  Biron’s eyes opened on the thick darkness. He became conscious of the dry 
  unpleasantness of his tongue and the faint odor that remained in the room.
  He said, “Speaking. Who is this?”
  It went on, disregarding him, gathering tension, a loud voice in the night. “Is anyone 
  there? I would like to speak to Biron Farrill.”
  Biron raised himself on one elbow and stared at the place where the visiphone sat. He 
  jabbed at the vision control and the small screen was alive with light.
  “Here I am,” he said. He recognized the smooth, slightly asymmetric features of Sander 
  Jonti. “Call me in the morning, Jonti.”
  He started to turn the instrument off once more, when Jonti said, “Hello, Hello. Is 
  anyone there? Is this University Hall, Room 526? Hello.”
  Biron was suddenly aware that the tiny pilot light which would have indicated a live 
  
  sending circuit was not on. He swore under his breath and pushed the switch. It stayed 
  off. Then Jonti gave up, and the screen went blank, and was merely a small square of 
  featureless light.
  Biron turned it off. He hunched his shoulder and tried to burrow into the pillow again. 
  He was annoyed. In the first place, no one had the right to yell at him in the middle of 
  the night. He looked quickly at the gently luminous figures just over the headboard. 
  Three-fifteen. House lights wouldn’t go on for nearly four hours.
  Besides, he didn’t like having to wake to the complete darkness of his room. Four years’ 
  custom had not hardened him to the Earthman’s habit of building structures of 
  reinforced concrete, squat, thick, and windowless. It was a thousand-year-old tradition 
  dating from the days when the primitive nuclear bomb had not yet been countered by the 
  force-field defense.
  But that was past. Atomic warfare had done its worst to Earth. Most of it was hopelessly 
  radioactive and useless. There was nothing left to lose, and yet architecture mirrored the 
  old fears, so that when Biron woke, it was to pure darkness.
  Biron rose on his elbow again. That was strange. He waited. It wasn’t the fatal murmur 
  of the bedroom he had become aware of. It was something perhaps even less noticeable 
  and certainly infinitely less deadly.
  He missed the gentle movement of air that one took so for granted, that trace of 
  continuous renewal. He tried to swallow easily and failed. The atmosphere seemed to 
  become oppressive even as he realized the situation. The ventilating system had stopped 
  working, and now he really had a grievance. He couldn’t even use the visiphone to 
  report the matter.
  He tried again, to make sure. The milky square of light sprang out and threw a faint, 
  pearly luster on the bed. It was receiving, but it wouldn’t send. Well, it didn’t matter. 
  Nothing would be done about it before day, anyway.
  He yawned and groped for his slippers, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. No 
  ventilation, eh? That would account for the queer smell. He frowned and sniffed sharply 
  two or three times. No use. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
  He made his way to the bathroom, and reached automatically for the light switch, 
  although he didn’t really need it to draw himself a glass of water. It closed, but uselessly. 
  He tried it several times, peevishly. Wasn’tanything working? He shrugged, drank in the 
  dark, and felt better. He yawned again on his way back to the bedroom where he tried 
  the main switch. All the lights were out.
  
  Biron sat on the bed, placed his large hands on his hard-muscled thighs and considered. 
  Ordinarily, a thing like this would call for a terrific discussion with the service staff. No 
  one expected hotel service in a college dormitory, but, by Space, there were certain 
  minimum standards of efficiency one could demand. Not that it was of vital importance 
  just now. Graduation was coming and he was through. In three days he’d be saying a last 
  good-by to the room and to the University of Earth; to Earth itself, for that matter.
  Still, he might report it anyway, without particular comment. He could go out and use 
  the hall phone. They might bring in a self-powered light or even rig up a fan so he could 
  sleep without psychosomatic choking sensations. If not, to Space with them! Two more 
  nights.
  In the light of the useless visiphone, he located a pair of shorts. Over them he slipped a 
  one-piece jumper, and decided that that would be enough for the purpose. He retained 
  his slippers. There was no danger of waking anybody even if he clumped down the 
  corridors in spiked shoes, considering the thick, nearly soundproof partitions of this 
  concrete pile, but he saw no point in changing.
  He strode toward the door and pulled at the lever. It descended smoothly and he heard 
  the click that meant the door release had been activated. Except that it wasn’t. And 
  although his biceps tightened into lumps, nothing was accomplished.
  He stepped away. This was ridiculous. Had there been a general power failure? There 
  couldn’t have been. The clock was going. The visiphone was still receiving properly.
  Wait! It could have been the boys, bless their erratic souls. It was done sometimes. 
  Infantile, of course, but he’d taken part in these foolish practical jokes himself. It 
  wouldn’t have been difficult, for instance, for one of his buddies to sneak in during the 
  day and arrange matters. But, no, the ventilation and lights were working when he had 
  gone to sleep.
  Very well, then, during the night. The hall was an old, outmoded structure. It wouldn’t 
  have taken an engineering genius to hocus the lighting and ventilation circuits. Or to jam 
  the door, either. And now they would wait for morning and see what would happen when 
  good old Biron found he couldn’t get out. They would probably let him out toward noon 
  and laugh very hard.
  “Ha, ha,” said Biron grimly, under his breath. All right, if that’s the way it was. But he 
  would have to do something about it; turn the tables some way.
  He turned away and his toe kicked something which skidded metallically across the 
  
  floor. He could barely make out its shadow moving through the dim visiphone light. He 
  reached under the bed, patting the floor in a wide arc. He brought it out and held it close 
  to the light. (They weren’t so smart. They should have put the visiphone entirely out of 
  commission, instead of just yanking out the sending circuit.)
  He found himself holding a small cylinder with a little hole in the blister on top. He put 
  it close to his nose and sniffed at it. That explained the smell in the room, anyway. It was 
  Hypnite. Of course, the boys would have had to use it to keep him from waking up while 
  they were busy with the circuits.
  Biron could reconstruct the proceedings step by step now. The door was jimmied open, a 
  simple thing to do, and the only dangerous part, since he might have wakened then. The 
  door might have been prepared during the day, for that matter, so that it would seem to 
  close and not actually do so. He hadn’t tested it. Anyway, once open, a can of Hypnite 
  would be put just inside and the door would be closed again.  The anesthetic would leak 
  out slowly, building up to the one in ten thousand concentration necessary to put him 
  definitely under. Then they could enter--masked, of course. Space! A wet handkerchief 
  would keep out the Hypnite for fifteen minutes and that would be all the time needed.
  It explained the ventilation system situation. That had to be eliminated to keep the 
  Hypnite from dispersing too quickly. That would have gone first, in fact. The visiphone 
  elimination kept him from getting help; the door jamming kept him from getting out; 
  and the absence of lights induced panic. Nice kids!
  Biron snorted. It was socially impossible to be thin-skinned about this. A joke was a joke 
  and all that. Right now, he would have liked to break the door down and have done with 
  it. The well-trained muscles of his torso tensed at the thought, but it would be useless. 
  The door had been built with atom blasts in mind.Damn that tradition!
  But there had to be some way out. He couldn’t let them get away with it. First, he would 
  need a light, a real one, not the immovable and unsatisfactory glow of the visiphone. 
  That was no problem. He had a self-powered flashlight in the clothes closet.
  For a moment, as he fingered the closet-door controls, he wondered if they had jammed 
  that too. But it moved open naturally, and slid smoothly into its wall socket. Biron 
  nodded to himself. It made sense. There was no reason, particularly, to jam the closet, 
  and they didn’t have too much time, anyway.
  And then, with the flashlight in his hand, as he was turning away, the entire structure of 
  his theory collapsed in a horrible instant. He stiffened, his abdomen ridging with tension, 
  and held his breath, listening.
  
  For the first time since awakening, he heard the murmuring of the bedroom. He heard 
  the quiet, irregular chuckling conversation it was holding with itself, and recognized the 
  nature of the sound at once.
  It was impossible not to recognize it. The sound was “Earth’s death rattle.” It was the 
  sound that had been invented one thousand years before.
  To be exact, it was the sound of a radiation counter, ticking off the charged particles and 
  the hard gamma waves that came its way, the soft clicking electronic surges melting into 
  a low murmur. It was the sound of a counter, counting the only thing it could count--
  death!
    
  Softly, on tiptoe, Biron backed away. From a distance of six feet he threw the white 
  beam into the recesses of the closet. The counter was there, in the far corner, but seeing 
  it told him nothing.
  It had been there ever since his freshman days. Most freshmen from the Outer Worlds 
  bought a counter during their first week on Earth. They were very conscious of Earth’s 
  radioactivity then, and felt the need of protection. Usually they were sold again to the 
  next class, but Biron had never disposed of his. He was thankful for that now.
  He turned to the desk, where he kept his wrist watch while sleeping. It was there. His 
  hand was shaking a little as he held it up to the flashlight’s beam. The watch strap was 
  an interwoven flexible plastic of an almost liquidly smooth whiteness. And itwas white. 
  He held it away and tried it at different angles. Itwas white.
  That strap had been another freshman purchase. Hard radiation turned it blue, and blue 
  on Earth was the color of death. It was easy to wander into a path of radiating soil during 
  the day if you were lost or careless. The government fenced off as many patches as it 
  could, and of course no one ever approached the huge areas of death that began several 
  miles outside the city. But the strap was insurance.
  If it should ever turn a faint blue, you would show up at the hospital for treatment. There 
  was no argument about it. The compound of which it was made was precisely as 
  sensitive to radiation as you were, and appropriate photoelectric instruments could be 
  used to measure the intensity of the blueness so that the seriousness of the case might be 
  determined quickly.
  A bright royal blue was the finish. Just as the color would never change back, neither 
  would you. There was no cure, no chance, no hope. You just waited anywhere from a 
  
  day to a week, and all the hospital could do was to make final arrangements for 
  cremation.
  But at least it was still white, and some of the clamor in Biron’s thoughts subsided.
  There wasn’t much radioactivity then. Could it be just another angle of the joke? Biron 
  considered and decided that it couldn’t.Nobody would do that to anyone else. Not on 
  Earth, anyway, where illegal handling of radioactive material was a capital offense. They 
  took radioactivity seriously here on Earth. They had to. So nobody would do this 
  without overpowering reason.
  He stated the thought to himself carefully and explicitly, facing it boldly. The 
  overpowering reason, for instance, of a desire to murder. But why? There could be no 
  motive. In his twenty-three years of life, he had never made a serious enemy. Notthis 
  serious. Not murder serious.
  He clutched at his clipped hair. This was a ridiculous line of thought, but there was no 
  escaping it. He stepped cautiously back to the closet. There had to be something there 
  that was sending out radiation; something that had not been there four hours earlier. He 
  saw it almost at once.
  It was a little box not more than six inches in any direction. Biron recognized it and his 
  lower lip trembled slightly. He had never seen one before, but he had heard of them. He 
  lifted the counter and took it into the bedroom. The little murmur fell off, almost ceased. 
  It started again when the thin mica partition, through which the radiation entered, 
  pointed toward the box. There was no question in his mind. It was a radiation bomb.
  The present radiations were not in themselves deadly; they were only a fuse. Somewhere 
  inside the box a tiny atomic pile was constructed. Short-lived artificial isotopes heated it 
  slowly, permeating it with the appropriate particles. When the threshold of head and 
  particle density was reached, the pile reacted. Not in an explosion, usually, although the 
  heat of reaction would serve to fuse the box itself into a twist of metal, but in a 
  tremendous burst of deadly radiation that would kill anything living within a radius of 
  six feet to six miles, depending on the bomb’s size.
  There was no way of telling when the threshold would be reached. Perhaps not for 
  hours, and perhaps the next moment. Biron remained standing helplessly, flashlight held 
  loosely in his damp hands. Half an hour before, the visiphone had awakened him, and he 
  had been at peace then. Now he knew he was going to die.
  Biron didn’t want to die, but he was penned in hopelessly, and there was no place to 
  hide,
  
  He knew the geography of the room. It was at the end of a corridor, so that there was 
  another room only on one side, and, of course, above and below. He could do nothing 
  about the room above. The room on the same floor was on the bathroom side, and it 
  adjoined via its own bathroom. He doubted that he could make himself heard.
  That left the room below.
  There were a couple of folding chairs in the room, spare seats to accommodate company. 
  He took one. It made a flat, slapping sound when it hit the floor. He turned it edgewise 
  and the sound became harder and louder.
  Between each blow, he waited; wondering if he could rouse the sleeper below and annoy 
  him sufficiently to have him report the disturbance.
  Abruptly, he caught a faint noise, and paused, the splintering chair raised above his head. 
  The noise came again, like a faint shout. It was from the direction of the door.
  He dropped the chair and yelled in return. He crushed his ear up against the crack where 
  door joined wall, but the fit was good, and the sound even there was dim.
  But he could make out his own name being called.
  “Farrill! Farrill!” several times over, and something else. Maybe “Are you in there?” or 
  “Are you all right?”
  He roared back, “Get the door open.” He shouted it three or four times. He was in a 
  feverish sweat of impatience. The bomb might be on the point of letting loose even now.
  He thought they heard him. At least, the muffled cry came back, “Watch out. Something, 
  something, blaster.” He knew what they meant and backed hurriedly away from the 
  door.
  There were a couple of sharp, cracking sounds, and he could actually feel the vibrations 
  set up in the air of the room. Then there followed a splitting noise and the door was 
  flung inward. Light poured in from the corridor.
  Biron dashed out, arms flung wide. “Don’t come in,” he yelled. “For the love of Earth, 
  don’t come in. There’s a radiation bomb in there.”
  He was facing two men. One was Jonti. The other was Esbak, the superintendent. He 
  was only partly dressed.
  
  “A radiation bomb?” he stuttered.
  But Jonti said, “What size?” Jonti’s blaster was still in his hand, and that alone jarred 
  with the dandyish effect of his ensemble, even at this time of night.
  Biron could only gesture with his hands.
  “All right,” said Jonti. He seemed quite cool about it, as he turned to the superintendent. 
  “You’d better evacuate the rooms in this area, and if you have leadsheets anywhere on 
  the university grounds, have them brought out here to line the corridor. And I wouldn’t 
  let anyone in there before morning.”
  He turned to Biron. “It probably has a twelve-to-eighteen-foot radius. How did it get 
  there?”
  “I don’t know,” said Biron. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “If you 
  don’t mind, I’ve got to sit down somewhere.” He threw a glance at his wrist, then 
  realized his wrist watch was still in the room. He had a wild impulse to return after it.
  There was action now. Students were being hustled out of their rooms.
  “Come with me,” said Jonti. “I think you had better sit down too. “
  Biron said, “What brought you out to my room? Not that I’m not thankful, you 
  understand.”
  “I called you. There was no answer, and I had to see you.”
  “To see me?” He spoke carefully, trying to control his irregular breathing. “Why?”
  “To warn you that your life was in danger.”
  Biron laughed raggedly. “I found out.”
  “That was only the first attempt. They’ll try again.”
  “Who are ‘they’?”
  “Not here, Farrill,” said Jonti. “We need privacy for this. You’re a marked man, and I 
  may already have endangered myself as well.”
  
    
  TWO:
    
  The Net Across Space
    
   The student lounge was empty; it was dark as well. At four-thirty in the morning it 
  could scarcely have been otherwise. Yet Jonti hesitated a moment as he held the door 
  open, listening for occupants.
  “No,” he said softly, “leave the lights out. We won’t need them to talk.”
  “I’ve had enough of the dark for one night,” muttered Biron.
  “We’ll leave the door ajar.”
  Biron lacked the will to argue. He dropped into the nearest chair and watched the 
  rectangle of light through the closing door narrow down to a thin line. Now that it was 
  all over, he was getting the shakes.
  Jonti steadied the door and rested his little swagger stick upon the crack of light on the 
  floor. “Watch it. It will tell us if anyone passes, or if the door moves.”
  Biron said, “Please, I’m not in a conspiratorial mood. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate 
  your telling me whatever it is you want to tell me. You’ve saved my life, I know, and 
  tomorrow I’ll be properly thankful. Right now, I could do with a short drink and a long 
  rest.”
  “I can imagine your feelings,” Jonti said, “but the too-long rest you might have had has 
  been avoided, momentarily. I would like to make it more than just momentarily. Do you 
  know that I know your father?”
  The question was an abrupt one, and Biron raised his eyebrows, a gesture lost in the 
  dark. He said, “He has never mentioned knowing you.”
  “I would be surprised if he did. He doesn’t know me by the name I use here. Have you 
  heard from your father recently, by the way?”
  
  “Why do you ask?”
  “Because he is in great danger.”
  “What?”
  Jonti’s hand found the other’s arm in the dimness and gripped it firmly. “Please! Keep 
  your voice as it has been.” Biron realized, for the first time that they had been 
  whispering.
  Jonti resumed, “I’ll be more specific. Your father has been taken into custody. You 
  understand the significance?”
  “No, I certainly don’t understand.Who has taken him into custody, and what are you 
  getting at? Why are you bothering me?” Biron’s temples were throbbing. The Hypnite 
  and the near death had made it impossible to fence with the cool dandy sitting so close 
  to him that his whispers were as plain as shouts.
  “Surely,” came the whisper, “you have some inkling of the work your father is doing?”
  “If you know my father, you know he is Rancher of Widemos. That is his work.”
  Jonti said, “Well, there is no reason you should trust me, other than that I am risking my 
  own life for you. But I already know all that you can tell me. As an example, I know that 
  your father has been conspiring against the Tyranni.”
  “I deny that,” said Biron tensely. “Your service to me this night does not give you the 
  right to make such statements about my father.”
  “You are foolishly evasive, young man, and you are wasting my time. Don’t you see that 
  the situation is beyond verbal fencing? I’ll say it outright. Your father is in the custody of 
  the Tyranni. He may be dead by now.”
  “I don’t believe you.” Biron half rose.
  “I am in a position to know.”
  “Let’s break this off, Jonti. I am in no mood for mystery, and I resent this attempt of 
  yours to--”
  “Well, to what?” Jonti’s voice lost some of its refined edge. “What do I gain by telling 
  you this? May I remind you that this knowledge of mine, which you will not accept, 
  
  made it plain to me that an attempt might be made to kill you. Judge by what has 
  happened, Farrill.”
  Biron said, “Start again and tell it straight. I’ll listen.”
  “Very well. I imagine, Farrill, that you know me to be a fellow countryman from the 
  Nebular Kingdoms, although I’ve been passing myself off as a Vegan.”
  “I judged that might be a possibility by your accent. It didn’t seem important.”
  “It’s important, my friend. I came here because, like your father, I didn’t like the 
  Tyranni. They’ve been oppressing our people for fifty years. That’s a long time.”
  “I’m not a politician.”
  Again Jonti’s voice had an irritated edge to it. “Oh, I’m not one of their agents trying to 
  get you into trouble. I’m telling you the truth. They caught me a year ago as they have 
  caught your father now. But I managed to get away, and came to Earth where I thought I 
  might be safe until I was ready to return. That’s all I need to tell you about myself.”
  “It is more than I have asked for, sir.” Biron could not force the unfriendliness out of his 
  voice. Jonti affected him unfavorably with his too-precise mannerisms.
  “I know that. But it is necessary to tell you so much at least, for it was in this manner 
  that I met your father. He worked with me, or, rather, I with him. He knew me but not in 
  his official capacity as the greatest nobleman on the planet of Nephelos. You understand 
  me?”
  Biron nodded uselessly in the darkness and said, “Yes.”
  “It is not necessary to go into that further. My sources of information have been 
  maintained even here, and I know that he has been imprisoned. It isknowledge. If it were 
  merely suspicion, this attempt on your life would have been sufficient proof.”
  “In what way?”
  “If the Tyranni have the father, would they leave the son at large?”
  “Are you trying to tell me that the Tyranni set that radiation bomb in my room? That’s 
  impossible.”
  “Why is it impossible? Can’t you understand their position? The Tyranni rule fifty 
  
  worlds; they are outnumbered hundreds to one. In such a position, simple force is 
  insufficient. Devious methods, intrigue, assassination are their specialties. The net they 
  weave across space is a wide one, and close-meshed. I can well believe that it extends 
  across five hundred light-years to Earth.”
  Biron was still in the grip of his nightmare. In the distance there were the faint sounds of 
  the lead shields being moved into place. In his room the counter must still be 
  murmuring.
  He said, “It doesn’t make sense. I am going back to Nephelos this week. They would 
  know that. Why should they kill me here? If they’d wait, they’d have me.” He was 
  relieved to find the flaw, eager to believe his own logic.
  Jonti leaned closer and his spiced breath stirred the hairs on Biron’s temple. “Your father 
  is popular. His death--and once imprisoned by the Tyranni, his execution becomes a 
  probability you must face--will be resented even by the cowed slave race the Tyranni are 
  trying to breed. You could rally that resentment as the new Rancher of Widemos, and to 
  execute you as well would double the danger for them. To make martyrs is not their 
  purpose.But if you were to die in a faraway world, by accident, it would be convenient 
  for them.”
  “I don’t believe you,” said Biron. It had become his only defense.
  Jonti rose, adjusting his thin gloves. He said, “You go too far, Farrill. Your role would be 
  more convincing if you pretended to no such complete ignorance. Your father has been 
  shielding you from reality for your own protection, presumably, yet I doubt that you 
  could remain completely uninfluenced by his beliefs. Your hate for the Tyranni cannot 
  help being a reflection of his own. You cannot help being ready to fight them.”
  Biron shrugged.
  Jonti said, “He may even recognize your new adulthood to the point of putting you to 
  use. You are conveniently here on Earth and it is not unlikely you may be combining 
  your education with a definite assignment. An assignment, perhaps, for the failure of 
  which the Tyranni are ready to kill you.”
  “That’s silly melodrama.”
  “Is it? Let it be so, then. If the truth will not persuade you now, events will later. There 
  will be other attempts on your life, and the next one will succeed. From this moment on, 
  Farrill, you are a dead man.”
  
  Biron looked up. “Wait! What’s your own private interest in the matter?”
  “I am a patriot. I would like to see the Kingdoms free again, with governments of their 
  own choosing.”
  “No. Yourprivate interest. I cannot accept idealism only, because I won’t believe it of 
  you. I am sorry if that offends you.” Biron’s words pounded doggedly.
  Jonti seated himself again. He said, “My lands have been confiscated. Before my exile it 
  was not comfortable to be forced to take orders from those dwarfs. And since then it has 
  become more imperative than ever to become once again the man my grandfather had 
  been before the Tyranni came. Is that enough of a practical reason for wanting a 
  revolution? Your father would have been a leader of that revolution. Failing him, you!”
  “I? I am twenty-three and know nothing of all this. You could find better men.”
  “Undoubtedly I could, but no one else is the son of your father. If your father is killed, 
  you will be Rancher of Widemos, and as such you would be valuable to me if you were 
  only twelve and an idiot besides. I need you for the same reason the Tyranni must be rid 
  of you. And if my necessity is unconvincing to you, surely theirs cannot be. Therewas a 
  radiation bomb in your room. It could only have been meant to kill you. Who else would 
  want to kill you?”
  Jonti waited patiently and picked up the other’s whisper.
  “No one,” said Biron. “No one would want to kill me that I know of. Then it’s true about 
  my father!”
  “It is true. View it as a casualty of war.”
  “You think that would make it better? They’ll put up a monument to him someday, 
  perhaps? One with a radiating inscription that you can see ten thousand miles out in 
  space?” His voice was becoming a bit ragged. “Is that supposed to make me happy?”
  Jonti waited, but Biron said nothing more. Jonti said, “What do you intend doing?”
  “I’m going home.”
  “You still don’t understand your position, then.”
  “I said, I’m going home. What do you want me to do? If he’s alive, I’ll get him out of 
  there. And if he’s dead, I’ll--I’ll--”
  
  “Quiet!” The older man’s voice was coldly annoyed. “You rave like a child. You can’t go 
  to Nephelos. Don’t you see that you can’t? Am I talking to an infant or to a young man 
  of sense?
  Biron muttered, “What do you suggest?”
  “Do you know the Director of Rhodia?”
  “The friend of the Tyranni? I know the man. I know who he is. Everyone in the 
  Kingdoms knows who he is. Hinrik V, Director of Rhodia.”
  “Have you ever met him?”
  “No.”
  “That is what I meant. If you haven’t met him, you don’t know him. He is an imbecile, 
  Farrill. I mean it literally. But when the Ranchy of Widemos is confiscated by the 
  Tyranni--and it will be, as my lands were--it will be awarded to Hinrik. There the 
  Tyranni will feel them to be safe, and there you must go.”
  “Why?”
  “Because Hinrik, at least, has influence with the Tyranni; as much influence as a 
  lickspittle puppet may have. He may arrange to have you reinstated.”
  “I don’t see why. He’s more likely to turn me over to them.”
  “So he is. But you’ll be on your guard against it, and there is a fighting chance you may 
  avoid it. Remember, the title you carry is valuable and important, but it is not all-
  sufficient. In this business of conspiracy, one must be practical above all. Men will rally 
  about you out of sentiment and respect for your name, but to hold them, you will need 
  money.”
  Biron considered. “I need time to decide.”
  “You have no time. Your time ran out when the radiation bomb was planted in your 
  room. Let us take action. I can give you a letter of introduction to Hinrik of Rhodia.”
  “You know him so well, then?”
  Your suspicion never sleeps very soundly, does it? I once headed a mission to Hinrik’s 
  
  court on behalf of the Autarch of Lingane. His imbecile’s mind will probably not 
  remember me, but he will not dare to show he has forgotten. It will serve as introduction 
  and you can improvise from there. I will have the letter for you in the morning. There is 
  a ship leaving for Rhodia at noon. I have tickets for you. I am leaving myself, but by 
  another route. Don’t linger. You’re all through here, aren’tyou?”
  “There is the diploma presentation.”
  A scrap of parchment; Does it matter to you?”
  “Not now.”
  “Do you have money?”
  “Enough.”
  “Very well. Too much would be suspicious.” He spoke sharply. “Farrill!”
  Biron stirred out of what was nearly a stupor. “What?”
  “Get back to the others. Tell no one you are leaving. Let the act speak.”
  Biron nodded dumbly. Far away in the recesses of his mind there was the thought that 
  his mission remained unaccomplished and that in this way, too, he failed his dying 
  father. He was racked with a futile bitterness. He might have been told more. He might 
  have shared the dangers. He should not have been allowed to act in ignorance.
  And now that he knew the truth, or at least more of it, concerning the extent of his 
  father’s role in conspiracy, there was an added importance to the document he was to 
  have obtained from Earth’s archives. But there was no time any longer. No time to get 
  the document. No time to wonder about it. No time to save his father. No time, perhaps, 
  to live.
  He said, “I’ll do as you say, Jonti.”
  Sander Jonti looked briefly out over the university campus as he paused on the steps of 
  the dormitory. Certainly there was no admiration in his glance.
  As he stepped down the bricked walk that wound unsubtly through the pseudo-rustic 
  atmosphere affected by all urban campuses since antiquity, he could see the lights of the 
  city’s single important street gleam just ahead. Past it, drowned in daytime, but visible 
  now, was the eternal radioactive blue of the horizon, mute witness of prehistoric wars.
  
  Jonti considered the sky for a moment. Over fifty years had passed since the Tyranni had 
  come and put a sudden end to the separate lives of two dozen sprawling, brawling 
  political units in the depths beyond the Nebula. Now, suddenly and prematurely, the 
  peace of strangulation lay upon them.
  The storm that had caught them in one vast thunderclap had been something from which 
  they had not yet recovered. It had left only a sort of twitching that futilely agitated a 
  world here and there, now and then. To organize those twitchings, to align them into a 
  single well-timed heave would be a difficult task, and a long one. Well, he had been 
  rusticating here on Earth long enough. It was time to go back.
  The others, back home, were probably trying to get in touch with him at his rooms right 
  now.
  He lengthened his stride a bit.
    
  He caught the beam as he entered his room. It was a personal beam, for whose security 
  there were as yet no fears and in whose privacy there was no chink. No formal receiver 
  was required; no thing of metal and wires to catch the faint, drifting surges of electrons, 
  with their whispered impulses swimming through hyperspace from a world half a 
  thousand light-years away.
  Space itself was polarized in his room, and prepared for reception. Its fabric was 
  smoothed out of randomness. There was no way of detecting that polarization, except by 
  receiving. And in that particular volume of space, only his own mind could act as 
  receiver; since only the electrical characteristics of his own particular nerve-cell system 
  could resonate to the vibrations of the carrier beam that bore the message.
  The message was as private as the unique characteristics of his own brain waves, and in 
  all the universe, with its quadrillions of human beings, the odds against a duplication 
  sufficiently close to allow one man to pick up another’s personal wave was a twenty-
  figured number to one.
  Jonti’s brain tickled to the call as it whined through the endless empty 
  incomprehensibility of hyperspace.
  “…calling…calling…calling…calling…”
  Sending was not quite so simple a job as receiving. A mechanical contrivance was 
  
  needed to set up the highly specific carrier wave that would carry back to the contact 
  beyond the Nebula. That was contained in the ornamental button that he carried on his 
  right shoulder. It was automatically activated when he stepped into his volume of space 
  polarization, and after that he had only to think purposefully and with concentration.
  “Here I am!” No need for more specific identification.
  The dull repetition of the calling signal halted and became words that took form within 
  his mind. “We greet you, sir. Widemos has been executed. The news is, of course, not 
  yet public.”
  “It does not surprise me. Was anyone else implicated?”
  “No, sir. The Rancher made no statements at any time. A brave and loyal man.”
  “Yes. But it takes more than simply bravery and loyalty, or he would not have been 
  caught. A little more cowardice might have been useful. No matter! I have spoken to his 
  son, the new Rancher, who has already had his brush with death. He will be put to use.”
  “May one inquire in what manner, sir?”
  “It is better to let events answer your question. Certainly I cannot foretell consequences 
  at this early date. Tomorrow he will set off to see Hinrik of Rhodia. “
  “Hinrik! The young man will run a fearful risk. Is he aware that--”
  “I have told him as much as I can,” responded Jonti sharply. “We cannot trust him too 
  far until he has proved himself. Under the circumstances as they exist, we can only view 
  him as a man to be risked, like any other man. He is expendable,quite expendable. Do 
  not call me here again, as I am leaving Earth.”
  And, with a gesture of finality, Jonti broke the connection mentally.
  Quietly and thoughtfully, he went over the events of the day and the night, weighing 
  each event. Slowly, he smiled. Everything had been arranged perfectly, and the comedy 
  might now play itself out.
  Nothinghad been left to chance.
    
  
  THREE:
    
  Chance and the Wrist Watch
    
   The first hour of a space-ship’s rise from planetary thralldom is the most prosaic. There 
  is the confusion of departure, which is much the same in essence as that which must 
  have accompanied the shoving off of the first hollowed-out tree trunk on some primeval 
  river.
  You have your accommodations; your luggage is taken care of; there is the first stiff 
  moment of strangeness and meaningless hustle surrounding you. The shouted last-
  moment intimacies, the quieting, the muted clang of the air locks, followed by the slow 
  soughing of air as the locks screw inward automatically, like gigantic drills, becoming 
  airtight.
  Then the portentous silence and the red signs flicking in every room: “Adjust 
  acceleration suits....Adjust acceleration suits....Adjust acceleration suits.”
  The stewards scour the corridors, knocking shortly on each door and jerking it open. 
  “Beg pardon. Suits on.”
  You battle with the suits, cold, tight, uncomfortable, but cradled in a hydraulic system 
  which absorbs the sickening pressures of the take-off.
  There is the faraway rumble of the atom-driven motors, on low power for atmospheric 
  maneuvering, followed instantly by the giving back against the slow-yielding oil of the 
  suit cradle. You recede almost indefinitely back, then very slowly forward again as the 
  acceleration decreases. If you survive nausea during this period, you are probably safe 
  from space sickness for duration.
    
  The view-room was not open to the passengers for the first three hours of the flight, and 
  there was a long line waiting when the atmosphere had been left behind and the double 
  doors were ready to separate. There were present not only the usual hundred-percent 
  turnout of all Planetaries (those, in other words, who had never been in space before), 
  but a fair proportion of the more experienced travelers as well.
  
  The vision of Earth from space, after all, was one of the tourist “musts.”
  The view-room was a bubble on the ship’s “skin,” a bubble of curved two-foot-thick, 
  steel-hard transparent plastic. The retractile iridium-steel lid which protected it against 
  the scouring of the atmosphere and its dust particles had been sucked back. The lights 
  were out and the gallery was full. The faces peering over the bars were clear in the 
  Earth-shine.
  For Earth was suspended there below, a gigantic and gleaming orange-and-blue-and-
  white-patched balloon. The hemisphere showing was almost entirely sunlit; the 
  continents between the clouds, a desert orange, with thin, scattered lines of green. The 
  seas were blue, standing out sharply against the black of space where they met the 
  horizon. And all around in the black, undusted sky were the stars.
  They waited patiently, those who watched.
  It was not the sunlit hemisphere they wanted. The polar cap, blinding bright, was 
  shifting down into view as the ship maintained the slight, unnoticed sidewise 
  acceleration that was lifting it out of the ecliptic. Slowly the shadow of night encroached 
  upon the globe and the huge World-Island of Eurasia-Africa majestically took the stage, 
  north side “down.”
  Its diseased, unliving soil hid its horror under a night-induced play of jewels. The 
  radioactivity of the soil was a vast sea of iridescent blue, sparkling in strange festoons 
  that spelled out the manner in which the nuclear bombs had once landed, a full 
  generation before the force-field defense against nuclear explosions had been developed 
  so that no other world could commit suicide in just that fashion again.
  The eyes watched until, with the hours, Earth was a bright little half coin in the endless 
  black.
    
  Among the watchers was Biron Farrill. He sat by himself in the front row, arms upon the 
  railing, eyes brooding and thoughtful. This was not the way he had expected to leave 
  Earth. It was the wrong manner, the wrong ship, the wrong destination.
  His tanned forearm rubbed against the stubble of his chin and he felt guilty about not 
  having shaved that morning. He’d go back to his room after a while and correct that. 
  Meanwhile, he hesitated to leave. There were people here. In his room he would be 
  alone.
  
  Or was that just the reason he should leave?
  He did not like the new feeling he had, that of being hunted; that of being friendless.
  All friendship had dropped from him. It had shriveled from the very moment he had 
  been awakened by the phone call less than twenty-four hours earlier.
  Even in the dormitory he had become an embarrassment. Old Esbak had pounced upon 
  him when he had returned after his talk with Jonti in the student lounge. Esbak was in 
  turmoil; his voice overshrill.
  “Mr. Farrill, I’ve been looking for you. It has been a most unfortunate incident. I can’t 
  understand it. Do you have any explanation?”
  “No,” he half shouted, “I don’t. When can I get into my room and get my stuff out?”
  “In the morning, I am sure. We’ve just managed to get the equipment up here to test the 
  room. There is no longer any trace of radioactivity above normal background level. It 
  was a very fortunate escape for you. It must have missed you only by minutes.”
  “Yes, yes, but if you don’t mind, I would like to rest.”
  “Please use my room till morning and then we’ll get you relocated for the few days 
  remaining you. Umm, by the way, Mr. Farrill, if you don’t mind, there is another 
  matter.”
  He was being overly polite. Biron could almost hear the egg-shells give slightly beneath 
  his finicky feet.
  “What other matter?” asked Biron wearily.
  “Do you know of anyone who might have been interested in--er--hazingyou?”
  “Hazing me likethis? Of course not.”
  “What are your plans, then? The school authorities would, of course, be most unhappy 
  to have publicity arise as a result of this incident.”
  How he kept referring to it as an “incident”! Biron said dryly, “I understand you. But 
  don’t worry. I’m not interested in investigations or in the police. I’m leaving Earth soon, 
  and I’d just as soon not have my own plans disrupted. I’m not bringing any charges. 
  
  After all, I’m still alive.”
  Esbak had been almost indecently relieved. It was all they wanted from him. No 
  unpleasantness. It was just an incident to be forgotten.
  He got into his old room again at seven in the morning. It was quiet and there was no 
  murmuring in the closet. The bomb was no longer there, nor was the counter. They had 
  probably been taken away by Esbak and thrown into the lake. It came under the head of 
  destroying evidence, but that was the school’s worry. He threw his belongings into 
  suitcases and then called the desk for assignment to another room. The lights were 
  working again, he noticed, and so, of course, was the visiphone. The one remnant of last 
  night was the twisted door, its lock melted away.
  They gave him another room. That established his intention to stay for anyone that 
  might be listening. Then, using the hall phone, he had called an air cab. He did not think 
  anyone saw him. Let the school puzzle out his disappearance however they pleased.
  For a moment he had caught sight of Jonti at the space port. They met in the fashion of a 
  glancing blow. Jonti said nothing; gave no sign of recognition, but after he had passed 
  by, there were in Biron’s hand a featureless little black globe that was a personal capsule 
  and a ticket for passage to Rhodia.
  He spent a moment upon the personal capsule. It was not sealed. He read the message 
  later in his room. It was a simple introduction with minimum wordage.
  Biron’s thoughts rested for a while upon Sander Jonti, as he watched Earth shrivel with 
  time there in the view-room. He had known the man very superficially until Jonti had 
  whirled so devastatingly into his life, first to save it and then to set it upon a new and 
  untried course. Biron had known his name; he had nodded when they passed; had 
  exchanged polite formalities occasionally, but that was all. He had not liked the man, 
  had not liked his coldness, his overdressed, overmannered personality. But all that had 
  nothing to do with affairs now.
  Biron rubbed his crew cut with a restless hand and sighed. He actually found himself 
  hungering for Jonti’s presence. The man was at least master of events. He had known 
  what to do; he had known what Biron was to do; he had made Biron do it. And now 
  Biron was alone and feeling very young, very helpless, very friendless, and almost 
  frightened.
  Through it all, he studiously avoided thinking of his father. It would not help.
    
  
  “Mr. Malaine.”
  The name was repeated two or three times before Biron started at the respectful touch 
  upon his shoulder and looked up.
  The robot messenger said again, “Mr. Malaine,” and for five seconds Biron stared 
  blankly, until he remembered that that was his temporary name. It had been penciled 
  lightly upon the ticket which Jonti had given him. A stateroom had been reserved in that 
  name.
  “Yes, what is it? I am Malaine.” The messenger’s voice hissed very faintly as the spool 
  within whirled off its message. “I have been asked to inform you that your stateroom has 
  been changed, and that your baggage has already been shifted. If you will see the purser, 
  you will be given your new key. We trust that this will cause no inconvenience for you.”
  “What’s all this?” Biron whirled in his seat, and several of the thinning group of 
  passengers, still watching, looked up at the explosive sound. “What’s the idea?”
  Of course, it was no use arguing with a machine that had merely fulfilled its function. 
  The messenger had bowed its metal head respectfully, its gently fixed imitation of a 
  human smile of ingratiation unchanging, and had left.
  Biron strode out of the view-room and accosted the ship’s officer at the door with 
  somewhat more energy than he had planned.
  “Look here. I want to see the captain.”
  The officer showed no surprise. “Is it important, sir?”
  “It sure as Space is. I’ve just had my stateroom shifted without my permission and I’d 
  like to know the meaning of it.”
  Even at the time, Biron felt his anger to be out of proportion to the cause, but it 
  represented an accumulation of resentment. He had nearly been killed; he had been 
  forced to leave Earth like a skulking criminal; he was going he knew not where to do he 
  knew not what; and now they were pushing him around aboard ship. It was the end.
  Yet, through it all, he had the uncomfortable feeling that Jonti, in his shoes, would have 
  acted differently, perhaps more wisely. Well, he wasn’t Jonti.
  The officer said, “I will call the purser.”
  
  “I want the captain,” insisted Biron.
  “If you wish, then.” And after a short conversation through the small ship’s 
  communicator suspended from his lapel, he said urbanely, “You will be called for. Please 
  Walt.”
    
  Captain Hirm Gordell was a rather short and thickset man, who rose politely and leaned 
  over his desk to shake hands with Biron when the latter entered.
  “Mr. Malaine,” he said, “I am sorry we had to trouble you.”
  He had a rectangular face, iron-gray hair, a short, well-kept mustache of slightly darker 
  hue, and a clipped smile.
  “So am I,” said Biron. “I had a stateroom reservation to which I was entitled and I feel 
  that not even you, sir, had the right to change it without my permission.”
  “Granted, Mr. Malaine. But, you understand, it was rather an emergency. A last-minute 
  arrival, an important man, insisted on being moved to a stateroom closer the 
  gravitational center of the ship. He had a heart condition and it was important to keep 
  ship’s gravity as low as possible for him. We had no choice.”
  “All right, but why pick on me as the one to be shifted.”
  “It had to be someone. You were traveling alone; you are a young man who we felt 
  would have no difficulty in taking a slightly higher gravity.” His eyes traveled 
  automatically up and down Biron’s six-feet-two of hard musculature. “Be. sides, you 
  will find your new room rather more elaborate than your old one. You have not lost by 
  the exchange. No indeed.”
  The captain stepped from behind his desk. “May I show you your new quarters 
  personally?”
  Biron found it difficult to maintain his resentment. It seemed reasonable, this whole 
  matter, and then again, not reasonable either.
  The captain was saying as they left his quarters, “May I have your company at my table 
  for tomorrow night’s dinner? Our first Jump is scheduled for that time.”
  
  Biron heard himself saying, “Thank you. I will be honored.”
  Yet he thought the invitation strange. Granted that the captain was merely trying to 
  soothe him, yet surely the method was stronger than necessary.
    
  The captain’s table was a long one, taking up an entire wall of the salon. Biron found 
  himself near the center, taking an unsuitable precedence over others. Yet there was his 
  place card before him. The steward had been quite firm; there was no mistake.
  Biron was not particularly overmodest. As son of the Rancher of Widemos, there had 
  never been any necessity for the development of any such characteristic. And yet as 
  Biron Malaine, he was quite an ordinary citizen, and these things ought not to happen to 
  ordinary citizens.
  For one thing, the captain had been perfectly correct about his new stateroom. Itwas 
  more elaborate. His original room had been what his ticket called for, a single, second 
  class, while the replacement was a double room, first. There was a bathroom adjoining, 
  private, of course, equipped with a stall shower and an air dryer.
  It was near “officer’s country,” and the presence of uniforms was almost overpowering. 
  Lunch had been brought to his room on silver service. A barber made a sudden 
  appearance just before dinner. All this was perhaps to be expected when one traveled on 
  a luxury space liner, first class, but it was too good for Biron Malaine.
  It was far too good, for by the time the barber had arrived, Biron had just returned from 
  an afternoon walk that had taken him through the corridors in a purposely devious path. 
  There had been crewmen in his path wherever he had turned--polite, clinging. He shook 
  them free somehow and reached 140 D, his first room, the one he had never slept in.
  He stopped to light a cigarette and, in the interval spent thus, the only passenger in sight 
  turned a corridor. Biron touched the signal light briefly and there was no answer.
  Well, the old key had not been taken from him yet. An oversight, no doubt. He placed 
  the thin oblong sliver of metal into its orifice and the unique pattern of leaden opacity 
  within the aluminum sheath activated the tiny phototube. The door opened and he took 
  one step inside.
  It was all he needed. He left and the door closed automatically behind him. He had 
  learned one thing immediately. His old room was not occupied; neither by an important 
  personage with a weak heart nor by anyone else. The bed and furnishings were too neat; 
  
  no trunks, no toilet articles were in sight; the veryair of occupancy was missing.
  So the luxury they were surrounding him with served only to prevent his taking further 
  action to get back his original room. They were bribing him to stay quietly out of the old 
  room. Why? Was it the room they were interested in, or was it himself?
  And now he sat at the captain’s table with the questions unanswered and rose politely 
  with the rest as the captain entered, strode up the steps of the dais on which the long 
  table was set, and took his place.
  Whyhad they moved him?
    
  There was music in the ship, and the walls that separated the salon from the view-room 
  had been retracted. The lights were low and tinged with orange-red. The worst of such 
  space sickness as there might have been after the original acceleration or as the result of 
  first exposure to the minor gravity variations between various parts of the ship had 
  passed by now; the salon was full.
  The captain leaned forward slightly and said to Biron, “Good evening, Mr. Malaine. 
  How do you find your new room?”
  “Almost too satisfactory, sir. A little rich for my way of life.” He said it in a flat 
  monotone, and it seemed to him that a faint dismay passed momentarily over the 
  captain’s face.
  Over the dessert, the skin of the view-room’s glass bubble slid smoothly back into its 
  socket, and the lights dimmed to nearly nothing. Neither sun, earth, nor any planet was 
  in view on that large, dark screen. They were facing the Milky Way, that longwise view 
  of the Galactic Lens, and it made a luminous diagonal track among the hard, bright stars.
  Automatically the tide of conversation ebbed. Chairs shifted so that all faced the 
  stars. The dinner guests had become an audience, the music a faint whisper.
  The voice over the amplifiers was clear and well balanced in the gathered question.
  “Ladies, gentlemen! We are ready for our first Jump. Most of you, I suppose, know, at 
  least theoretically, what a Jump is. Many of you, however--more than half, in point of 
  fact--have never experienced one. It is to those last I would like to speak in particular.
  “The Jump is exactly what the name implies. In the fabric of space-time itself, it is 
  
  impossible to travel faster than the speed of light. That is a natural law, first discovered 
  by one of the ancients, the traditional Einstein, perhaps, except that so many things are 
  credited to him. Even at the speed of light, of course, it would take years, in resting time, 
  to reach the stars.
  “Therefore one leaves the space-time fabric to enter the little-known realm of 
  hyperspace, where time and distance have no meaning. It is like traveling across a 
  narrow isthmus to pass from one ocean to another, rather than remaining at sea and 
  circling a continent to accomplish the same distance.
  “Great amounts of energy are required, of course, to enter this ‘space within space’ as 
  some call it, and a great deal of ingenious calculation must be made to insure re-entry 
  into ordinary space time at the proper point. The result of the expenditure of this energy 
  and intelligence is that immense distances can be traversed in zero time. It is only the 
  Jump which makes interstellar travel possible.
  “The Jump we are about to make will take place in about ten minutes. You will be 
  warned. There is never more than some momentary minor discomfort; therefore, I hope 
  all of you will remain calm. Thank you.”
  The ship lights went out altogether, and there were only the stars left.
  It seemed a long while before a crisp announcement filled the air momentarily: “The 
  Jump will take place in exactly one minute.” And then the same voice counted the 
  seconds backwards: “Fifty...forty...thirty...twenty... ten...five...three...two...one...”
  It was as though there had been a momentary discontinuity in existence, a bump which 
  joggled only the deep inside of a man’s bones.
  In that immeasurable fraction of a second, one hundred light-years had passed, and the 
  ship, which had been on the outskirts of the solar system, was now in the depths of 
  interstellar space.
  Someone near Biron said shakily, “Look at the stars!”
  In a moment the whisper had taken life through the large room and hissed itself across 
  the tables: “The stars! See!”
  In that same immeasurable fraction of a second the star view had changed radically. The 
  center of the great Galaxy, which stretched thirty thousand light-years from tip to tip, 
  was closer now, and the stars had thickened in number. They spread across the black 
  velvet vacuum in a fine powder, back-dropping the occasional brightness of the nearby 
  
  stars.
  Biron, against his will, remembered the beginning of a poem he himself had once 
  written at the sentimental age of nineteen, on the occasion of his first space flight; the 
  one that had first taken him to the Earth he was now leaving. His lips moved silently:
    
  “The stars, like dust, encircle me
  In living mists of light;
  And all of space I seem to see
  In one vast burst of sight.”
    
  The lights went on then, and Biron’s thoughts were snapped out of space as suddenly as 
  they had entered it. He was in a space liner’s salon again, with a dinner dragging to an 
  end, and the hum of conversation rising to a prosaic level again.
  He glanced at his wrist watch, half looked away, then, very slowly, brought the wrist 
  watch into focus again. He stared at it for a long minute. It was the wrist watch he had 
  left in his bedroom that night; it had withstood the killing radiation of the bomb, and he 
  had collected it with the rest of his belongings the next morning. How many times had 
  he looked at it since then? How many times had he stared at it, taken mental note of the 
  time and no note at all of the other piece of information it shouted at him?
  For the plastic wristband waswhite, not blue.It was white!
  Slowly the events of that night,all of them, fell into place. Strange how one fact could 
  shake an the confusion out of them.
    
  He rose abruptly, murmuring, “Pardon me!” under his breath. It was a breach of 
  etiquette to leave before the captain, but that was a matter of small importance to him 
  then.
  He hastened to his room, striding up the ramps rapidly, rather than waiting for the non-
  gravity elevators. He locked the door behind him and looked quickly through the 
  
  bathroom and the built-in closets. He had no real hope of catching anyone. What they 
  had had to do, they must have done hours ago.
  Carefully, he went through his baggage. They had done a thorough job. With scarcely 
  any sign to show that they had come and gone, they had carefully withdrawn his 
  identification papers, a packet of letters from his father, and even his capsular 
  introduction to Hinrik of Rhodia.
  That was why they had moved him. It was neither the old room nor the new that they 
  were interested in; merely the process of moving. For nearly an hour they must have 
  legitimately--legitimately,by Space!--concerned themselves with his baggage, and 
  served their own purposes thereby.
  Biron sank down upon the double bed and thought furiously, but it didn’t help. The trap 
  had been perfect.Everything had been planned. Had it not been for the completely 
  unpredictable chance of his leaving his wrist watch in the bedroom that night, he would 
  not even now have realized how close-meshed the Tyranni’s net through space was.
  There was a soft burr as his door signal sounded.
  “Come in,” he said.
  It was the steward, who said respectfully, “The captain wishes to know if there is 
  anything he can do for you. You seemed ill as you left the table.”
  “I’m all right,” he said.
  How they watched him! And in that moment he knew that there was no escape, and that 
  the ship was carrying him politely, but surely, to his death.
  FOUR:
    
  Free?
    
   Sander Jonti met the other’s eyes coldly. He said, “Gone, you say?”
  
  Rizzett passed a hand over his ruddy face.“Something is gone. I don’t know its identity. 
  It might have been the document we’re after, certainly. All we know about it is that it 
  had been dated somewhere in the fifteenth to twenty-first century of Earth’s primitive 
  calendar, and that it is dangerous.”
  “Is there any definite reason to believe that the missing one isthe document?”
  “Only circumstantial reasoning. It was guarded closely by the Earth government.”
  “Discount that. An Earthman will treat any document relating to the pre-Galactic past 
  with veneration. It’s their ridiculous worship of tradition.”
  “But this one was stolen and yet they never announced the fact. Why do they guard an 
  empty case?”
  “I can imagine their doing that rather than finding themselves forced to admit that a holy 
  relic has been stolen. Yet I cannot believe that young Farrill obtained it after all. I 
  thought you had him under observation.”
  The other smiled. “He didn’t get it.”
  “How do you know?”
  Jonti’s agent quickly exploded his land mine. “Because the document has been gone 
  twenty years.”
  “What?”
  “It has not been seen for twenty years.”
  “Then it can’t be the right one. It was less than six months ago that the Rancher learned 
  of its existence.”
  “Then somebody else beat him to it by nineteen and a half years.”
  Jonti considered. He said, “It does not matter. It cannot matter.”
  “Why so?”
  “Because I have been here on Earth for months. Before I came, it was easy to believe 
  that there might be information of value on the planet. But consider now. When Earth 
  was the only inhabited planet in the Galaxy, it was a primitive place, militarily speaking. 
  
  The only weapon they had ever invented worth mentioning was a crude and inefficient 
  nuclear-reaction bomb for which they had not even developed the logical defense.” He 
  flung his arm outward in a delicate gesture to where the blue horizon gleamed its sickly 
  radio. activity beyond the thick concrete of the room.
  He went on. “All this is placed in sharp focus for me as a temporary resident here. It is 
  ridiculous to assume that it is possible to learn anything from a society at that level of 
  military technology. It is always very fashionable to assume that there are lost arts and 
  lost sciences, and there are always these people who make a cult of primitivism and who 
  make all sorts of ridiculous claims for the prehistoric civilizations on Earth.”
  Rizzett said, “Yet the Rancher was a wise man. He told us specifically that it was the 
  most dangerous document he knew. You remember what he said. I can quote it. He said, 
  ‘The matter is death for the Tyranni, and death for us as well; but it would mean final 
  life for the Galaxy.’ “
  “The Rancher, like all human beings, can be wrong.”
  “Consider, sir, that we have no idea as to the nature of the document. It could, for 
  instance, be somebody’s laboratory notes which had never been published. It might be 
  something that could relate to a weapon the Earthmen had never recognized as a 
  weapon; something which on the face of it might not be a weapon--”
  “Nonsense. You are a military man and should know better. If there is one science into 
  which man has probed continuously and successfully, it is that of military technology. 
  No potential weapon would remain unrealized for ten thousand years. I think, Rizzett, 
  we will return to Lingane.”
  Rizzett shrugged. He was not convinced.
  Nor, a thousandfold, was Jonti. It had been stolen, and that was significant. It had been 
  worth stealing! Anyone in the Galaxy might have it now.
  Unwillingly the thought came to him that the Tyranni might have it. The Rancher had 
  been most evasive on the matter. Even Jonti himself had not been trusted sufficiently. 
  The Rancher had said it carried death; it could not be used without having it cut both 
  ways. Jonti’s lips clamped shut. The fool and his idiotic hintings! And now the Tyranni 
  had him.
  What if a man like Aratap were now in the possession of such a secret as this might be? 
  Aratap! The one man, now that the Rancher was gone, who remained unpredictable; the 
  most dangerous Tyrannian of them all.
  
    
  Simok Aratap was a small man; a little bandy-legged, narrow-eyed fellow. He had the 
  stumpy, thick-limbed appearance of the average Tyrannian, yet though he faced an 
  exceptionally large and well-muscled specimen of the subject worlds, he was completely 
  self-possessed. He was the confident heir (in the second generation) of those who had 
  left their windy, infertile worlds and sparked across the emptiness to capture and enchain 
  the rich and populous planets of the Nebular Regions.
  His father had headed a squadron of small, flitting ships that had struck and vanished, 
  then struck again, and made scrap of the lumbering titanic ships that had opposed them.
  The worlds of the Nebula had fought in the old fashion, but the Tyranni had learned a 
  new one. Where the huge, glittering vessels of the opposed navies attempted single 
  combat, they found themselves flailing at emptiness and wasting their stores of energy. 
  Instead, the Tyranni, abandoning power alone, stressed speed and co-operation, so that 
  the opposed Kingdoms toppled one after the other, singly; each waiting (half joyfully at 
  the discomfiture of its neighbors), fallaciously secure behind its steel-shipped ramparts, 
  until its own turn came.
  But those wars were fifty years earlier. Now the Nebular Regions were satrapies that 
  required merely the acts of occupation and taxation. Previously there had been worlds to 
  gain, Aratap thought wearily, and now there was little left to do but to contend with 
  single men.
  He looked at the young man who faced him. He wasquite a young man. A tall fellow 
  with very good shoulders indeed; an absorbed, intent face with the hair of his head cut 
  ridiculously short in what was undoubtedly a collegiate affectation. In an unofficial 
  sense, Aratap was sorry for him. He was obviously frightened.
  Biron did not recognize the feeling inside him as “fright.” If he had been asked to put a 
  name to the emotion, he would have described it as “tension.” All his life he had known 
  the Tyranni to be the overlords. His father, strong and vital though he was, unquestioned 
  on his own estate, respectfully heard on others, was quiet and almost humble in the 
  presence of the Tyranni.
  They came occasionally to Widemos on polite visits, with questions as to the annual 
  tribute they called taxation. The Rancher of Widemos was responsible for the collection 
  and delivery of these funds on behalf of the planet Nephelos and, perfunctorily, the 
  Tyranni would check his books.
  
  The Rancher himself would assist them out of their small vessels. They would sit at the 
  head of the table at mealtimes, and they would be served first. When they spoke, all 
  other conversation stopped instantly.
  As a child, he wondered that such small, ugly men should be so carefully handled, but 
  he learned as he grew up that they were to his father what his father was to a cow hand. 
  He even learned to speak softly to them himself, and to address them as “Excellency.”
  He had learned so well that now that he faced one of the overlords, one of the Tyranni, 
  he could feel himself shiver with tension.
  The ship which he had considered his prison became officially one on the day of landing 
  upon Rhodia. They had signaled at his door and two husky crewmen had entered and 
  stood on either side of him. The captain, who followed, had said in a flat voice, “Biron 
  Farrill, I take you into custody by the power vested in me as captain of this vessel, and 
  hold you for questioning by the Commissioner of the Great King.”
  The Commissioner was this small Tyrannian who sat before him now, seemingly 
  abstracted and uninterested. The “Great King” was the Khan of the Tyranni, who still 
  lived in the legendary stone palace on the Tyrannian’s home planet.
  Biron looked furtively about him. He was not physically constrained in any way, but 
  four guards in the slate blue of the Tyrannian Outer Police flanked him, two and two. 
  They were armed. A fifth, with a major’s insignia, sat beside the Commissioner’s desk.
  The Commissioner spoke to him for the first time. “As you may know”--his voice was 
  high--pitched, thin--”the old Rancher of Widemos, your father, has been executed for 
  treason.”
  His faded eyes were fixed on Biron’s. There seemed nothing beyond mildness in them.
  Biron remained stolid. It bothered him that he could do nothing. It would have been so 
  much more satisfying to howl at them, to flail madly at them, but that would not make 
  his father less dead. He thought he knew the reason for this initial statement. It was 
  intended to break him down, to make him give himself away. Well, it wouldn’t.
  He said evenly, “I am Biron Malaine of Earth. If you are questioning my identity, I 
  would like to communicate with the Terrestrial Consul.”
  “Ah yes, but we are at a purely informal stage just now. You are Biron Malaine, you say, 
  of Earth. And yet”--Aratap indicated the papers before him--”there are letters here which 
  were written by Widemos to his son. There is a college registration receipt and tickets to 
  
  commencement exercises made out to a Biron Farrill. They were found in your 
  baggage.”
  Biron felt desperate but he did not let it show. “My baggage was searched illegally, so 
  that I deny that those can be admitted as evidence.”
  “We are not in a court of law, Mr. Farrill or Malaine. How do you explain them?”
  “If they were found in my baggage, they were placed there by someone else.”
  The Commissioner passed it by, and Biron felt amazed. His statements sounded so thin, 
  so patently foolish. Yet the Commissioner did not remark upon them, but only tapped the 
  black capsule with his forefinger. “And this introduction to the Director of Rhodia? Also 
  not yours?”
  “No, that is mine.” Biron had planned that. The introduction did not mention his name. 
  He said, “There is a plot to assassinate the Director--”
  He stopped, appalled. It sounded so completely unconvincing when he finally put the 
  beginning of his carefully prepared speech into actual sound. Surely the Commissioner 
  was smiling cynically at him?
  But Aratap was not. He merely sighed a little and with quick, practiced gestures 
  removed contact lenses from his eyes and placed them carefully in a glass of saline 
  solution that stood on the desk before him. His naked eyeballs were a little watery.
  He said, “And you know of it? Even back on Earth, five hundred light-years away? Our 
  own police here on Rhodia have not heard of it.”
  “The police are here. The plot is being developed on Earth.”
  “I see. And are you their agent? Or are you going to warn Hinrik against them?”
  “The latter, of course.”
  “Indeed? And why do you intend to warn him?”
  “For the substantial reward which I expect to get.”
  Aratap smiled. “That, at least, rings true and lends a certain truthful gloss to your 
  previous statements. What are the details of the plot you speak of?”
  
  “That is for the Director only.”
  A momentary hesitation, then a shrug. “Very well. The Tyranni are not interested and do 
  not concern themselves with local politics. We will arrange an interview between 
  yourself and the Director and that will be our contribution to his safety. My men will 
  hold you until your baggage can be collected, and then you will be free to go. Remove 
  him.”
  The last was to the armed men, who left with Biron. Aratap replaced his contact lenses, 
  an action which removed ‘instantly that look of vague incompetence their absence had 
  seemed to induce.
  He said to the major, who had remained, “We will keep an eye, I think, on this young 
  Farrill.”
  The officer nodded shortly. “Good! For a moment I thought you might have been taken 
  in. To me, his story was quite incoherent.”
  “It was. It’s just that which makes him maneuverable for the while. All young fools who 
  get their notions of interstellar intrigue from the video spy thrillers are easily handled. 
  lieis, of course, the son of the ex-Rancher.”
  And now the major hesitated. “Are you sure? It’s a vague and unsatisfactory accusation 
  we have against him.”
  “You mean that it might be arranged evidence after all? For what purpose?”
  “It could mean that he is a decoy, sacrificed to divert our attention from a real Biron 
  Farrill elsewhere.”
  “No. Improbably theatrical, that. Besides, we have a photocube.”
  “What? Of the boy?”
  “Of the Rancher’s son. Would you like to see it?”
  “I certainly would.”
  Aratap lifted the paperweight upon his desk. It was a simple glass cube, three inches on 
  each side, black and opaque. He said, “I meant to confront him with it if it had seemed 
  best. It is a cute process, this one, Major. I don’t know if you’re acquainted with it. It’s 
  been developed recently among the inner worlds. Outwardly, it seems an ordinary 
  
  photocube, but when it is turned upside down, there’s an automatic molecular re-
  arrangement which renders it totally opaque. It is a pleasant conceit.”
  He turned the cube right side up. The opacity shimmered for a moment, then cleared 
  slowly like a black fog wisping and feathering before the wind. Aratap watched it 
  calmly, hands folded across his chest.
  And then it was water-clear, and a young face smiled brightly out of it, accurate and 
  alive, trapped and solidified in mid-breath forever.
  “An item,” said Aratap, “in the ex-Rancher’s possessions. What do you think?”
  “It is the young man, without question.”
  “Yes.” The Tyrannian official regarded the photocube thoughtfully. “You know, using 
  this same process, I don’t see why six photographs could not be taken in the same cube. 
  It has six faces, and by resting the cube on each of them in turn, a series of new 
  molecular orientations might be induced. Six connected photographs, flowing one into 
  another as you turned, a static phenomenon turned dynamic and taking on new breadth 
  and vision. Major, it would be a new art form.” A mounting enthusiasm had crept into 
  his voice.
  But the silent major looked faintly scornful, and Aratap left his artistic reflections to say, 
  abruptly, “Then you will watch Farrill?”
  “Certainly.”
  “Watch Hinrik as well.”
  “Hinrik?”
  “Of course. It is the whole purpose of freeing the boy. I want some questions answered. 
  Why is Farrill seeing Hinrik? What is the connection between them? The dead Rancher 
  did not playa lone hand, There was--theremust have been--a well-organized conspiracy 
  behind them. And we have not yet located the workings of that conspiracy.”
  “But surely Hinrik could” not be involved. He lacks the intelligence, even if he had the 
  courage.”
  “Granted. But it is just because he is half an idiot that he may serve them as a tool. If so, 
  he represents a weakness in our scheme of things. We obviously cannot afford to neglect 
  the possibility.”
  
  He gestured absently; the major saluted, turned on his heel, and left.
  Aratap sighed, thoughtfully turned the photocube in his hand, and watched the blackness 
  wash back like a tide of ink.
  Life was simpler in his father’s time. To smash a planet had a cruel grandeur about it; 
  while this careful maneuvering of an ignorant young man was simply cruel.
  And yet necessary.
    
  FIVE:
    
  Uneasy Lies the Head
    
   The directorship of Rhodia is not ancient, when compared with Earth, as a habitat 
  forHomo sapiens. It is not ancient even when compared with the Centaurian or Sirian 
  worlds. The planets of Arcturus, for instance, had been settled for two hundred years 
  when the first space ships circled the Horsehead Nebula to find the nest of hundreds of 
  oxygen-water planets behind. They clustered thickly and it was a real find, for although 
  planets infest space, few can satisfy the chemical necessities of the human organism.
  There are between one and two hundred billion radiant stars in the Galaxy. Among them 
  are some five hundred billion planets. Of these, some have gravities more than 120 per 
  cent that of Earth, or less than 60 per cent, and are therefore unbearable in the long run. 
  Some are too hot, some too cold. Some have poisonous atmospheres. Planetary 
  atmospheres consisting largely or entirely of neon, methane, ammonia, chlorine--even 
  silicon tetrafluoride--have been recorded. Some planets lack water, one with oceans of 
  almost pure sulphur dioxide having been described. Others lack carbon.
  Any one of these failings is sufficient, so that not one world in a hundred thousand can 
  be lived on. Yet this still leaves an estimated four million habitable worlds.
  The exact number of these which are actually occupied is disputable. According to 
  theGalactic Almanac, admittedly dependent on imperfect records, Rhodia was the l098th 
  world settled by man.
  
  Ironically enough, Tyrann, eventually Rhodia’s conqueror, was the 1099th.
  The pattern of history in the Trans-Nebular Region was distressingly similar to that 
  elsewhere during the period of development and expansion. Planet republics were set up 
  in rapid succession, each government confined to its own world. With expanding 
  economy, neighboring planets were colonized and integrated with the home society. 
  Small “empires” were established and these inevitably clashed.
  Hegemony over sizable regions was established by first one, then another of these 
  governments, depending upon the fluctuations of the fortunes of war and of leadership.
  Only Rhodia maintained a lengthy stability, under the able dynasty of the Hinriads. It 
  was perhaps well on the road to establishing finally a universal Trans-Nebular Empire in 
  a stolid century or two, when the Tyranni came and did the job in ten years.
  Ironical that it should be the men of Tyrann. Until then, during the seven hundred years 
  of its existence, Tyrann had done little better than maintain a precarious autonomy, 
  thanks largely to the undesirability of its barren landscape, which, because of a planetary 
  water dearth, was largely desert.
  But even after the Tyranni came, the Directorship of Rhodia continued. It had even 
  grown. The Hinriads were popular with the people, so their existence served as a means 
  of easy control. The Tyranni did not care who got the cheers as long as they themselves 
  received the taxes.
  To be sure, the Directors were no longer the Hinriads of old. The Directorship had 
  always been elective within the family so that the ablest might be chosen. Adoptions into 
  the family had been encouraged for the same purpose.
  But now the Tyranni could influence the elections for other reasons, and twenty years 
  earlier, for instance, Hinrik (fifth of that name) had been chosen Director. To the 
  Tyranni, it had seemed a useful choice.
  Hinrik had been a handsome man at the time of his election, and he still made an 
  impressive appearance when he addressed the Rhodian Council. His hair had grayed 
  smoothly, and his thick mustache remained, startingly enough, as black as his daughter’s 
  eyes.
  At the moment he faced his daughter, and she was furious. She lacked only two inches 
  of his height, and the Director lacked less than an inch of six feet. She was a smoldering 
  girl, dark of hair and of eyes, and, at the moment, loweringly dark of complexion.
  
  She said again, “I can’t do it! Iwon’t do it!”
  Hinrik said, “But, Arta, Arta, this is unreasonable. What am I to do? Whatcan I do? In 
  my position, what choice have I?”
  “If Mother were alive,she would find a way out.” And she stamped her foot. Her full 
  name was Artemisia, a royal name that had been borne by at least one female of the 
  Hinriads in every generation.
  “Yes, yes, no doubt. Bless my soul! What a way your mother had with her! There are 
  times when you seem all of her and none of me. But surely, Arta, you haven’t given him 
  a chance. Have you observed his--ah--better points?”
  “Which are those?”
  “The ones which...” He gestured vaguely, thought a while and gave it up. He approached 
  her and would have put a consoling hand upon her shoulder, but she squirmed away 
  from him, her scarlet gown shimmering in the air.
  “I have spent an evening with him,” she said bitterly, “and he tried to kiss me. It was 
  disgusting!”
  “But everyone kisses, dear. It’s not as though this were your grandmother’s time--of 
  respected memory. Kisses are nothing--less than nothing. Young blood, Arta, young 
  blood!”
  “Young blood, my foot. The only time that horrible little man has had young blood in 
  him these fifteen years has been immediately after a transfusion. He’s four inches shorter 
  than I am, Father. How can I be seen in public with a pygmy?”
  “He’s an important man. Very important!”
  “That doesn’t add a single inch to his height. He is bowlegged, as they all are, and his 
  breath smells.”
  “His breath smells?” Artemisia wrinkled her nose at her father. “That’s right; it smells. It 
  has an unpleasant odor. I didn’t like it and I let him know it.”
  Hinrik.dropped his jaw wordlessly for a moment, then said in a hoarse half whisper, 
  “You let him know it? You implied that a high official of the Royal Court of Tyrann 
  could have an unpleasant personal characteristic?”
  
  “He did! I have a nose, you know! So when he got too close, I just held it and pushed. A 
  figure of man to admire, that one is. He went flat on his back, with his legs sticking up.” 
  She gestured with her fingers in illustration, but it was lost on Hinrik, who, with a moan, 
  hunched his shoulders and put his hands over his face.
  He peered miserably from between two fingers. “What will happen now? How can you 
  act so?”
  “It didn’t do me any good. Do you know what he said?Do you know what he said? It 
  was the last straw. It was absolutely the limit. I made up my mind then that I couldn’t 
  stand that man if he were ten feet taIl.”
  “But--but--what did he say?”
  “He said--straight out of a video, Father--he said, ‘Ha! A spirited wench! I like her all 
  the better for that!’ and two servants helped him stagger to his feet. But he didn’t try to 
  breathe in my face again.”
  Hinrik doubled into a chair, leaned forward and regarded Artemisia earnestly. “You 
  could go through the motions of marrying him, couldn’t you? You needn’t be in earnest. 
  Why not merely, for the sake of political expediency--”
  “How do you mean, not in earnest, Father? Shall I cross the fingers of my left hand 
  while signing the contract with my right?”
  Hinrik looked confused. “No, of course not. What good would that do? How would 
  crossing fingers alter the validity of the contract? Really, Arta, I’m surprised at your 
  stupidity.”
  Artemisia sighed. “Whatdo you mean, then?”
  “Mean by what? You see, you’ve disrupted things. I can’t keep my mind on matters 
  properly when you argue with me. What was I saying?”
  “I was merely to pretend I was getting married, or something. Remember?”
  “Oh yes. I mean, you needn’t take it too seriously, you see.”
  “I can have lovers, I suppose.”
  Hinrik stiffened and frowned. “Arta! I brought you up to be a modest, self-respecting 
  
  girl. So did your mother. How can you say such things? It’s shameful.”
  “But isn’t that what you mean? “
  “Ican say it. I am a man, a mature man. A girl like you ought not to repeat it.”
  “Well, I have repeated it and it’s out in the open. I don’t mind lovers. I’ll probablyhave 
  to have them if I’m forced to marry for reasons of state, but there are limits.” She placed 
  her hands upon her hips, and the cape-like sleeves of her gown slithered away from her 
  tanned and dimpled shoulders. “What will I do between lovers? He’ll still be my 
  husband and I just can’t bear that particular thought.”
  “But he’s an old man, my dear. Life with him would be short.”
  “Not short enough, thank you. Five minutes ago he had young blood. Remember?”
  Hinrik spread his hands wide and let them drop. “Arta, the man is aTyrannian, and a 
  powerful one. He is in good odor at the Khan’s court.”
  “The Khan might think it’s a good odor. He probably would. He probably stinks 
  himself.”
  Hinrik’s mouth was an O of horror. Automatically, he looked over his shoulder. Then he 
  said hoarsely, “Don’t ever say anything like that again.”
  “I will if I feel like it. Besides, the man has had three wives already.” She forestalled 
  him. “Not the Khan, the man you want me to marry.”
  “But they’re dead,” Hinrik explained earnestly. “Arta, they’re not alive. Don’t think that. 
  How can you imagine I would let my daughter marry a bigamist? We’ll have him 
  produce documents. He married them consecutively, not simultaneously, and they’re 
  dead now, entirely dead, all of them.”
  “It’s no wonder.”
  “Oh, bless my soul, what shall I do?” He made a last effort at dignity. “Arta, it is the 
  price of being a Hinriad and a Director’s daughter.”
  “I didn’t ask to be a Hinriad and a Director’s daughter.”
  “That has nothing to do with it. It is just that the history of all the Galaxy, Arta, shows 
  that there are occasions when reasons of state, the safety of planets, the best interests of 
  
  peoples require that, uh--”
  “That some poor girl prostitute herself.”
  “Oh, this vulgarity! Someday, you’ll see--someday you’ll say something of the sort in 
  public.”
  “Well, that’s what it is, and I won’t do it. I’d rather die. I’d rather doanything. And I 
  will.”
  The Director got to his feet and held out his arms to her. His lips trembled and he said 
  nothing. She ran to him in a sudden agony of tears and clung desperately to him. “I 
  can’t, Daddy. I can’t. Don’t make me.”
  He patted her awkwardly. “But if you don’t, what will happen? If the Tyranni are 
  displeased, they will remove me, imprison me, maybe even exec--” He gagged on the 
  word. “These are very unhappy times, Arta--very unhappy. The Rancher of Widemos 
  was condemned last week and I believe he has been executed. You remember him, Arta? 
  He was at court half a year ago. A big man, with a round head and deep-set eyes. You 
  were frightened of him at first. “
  “I remember.”
  “Well, he is probably dead. And who knows? Myself next, perhaps. Your poor, harmless 
  old father next. It is a bad time. He was at our court and that’s very suspicious.”
  She suddenly held herself out at arm’s length. “Why should it be suspicious? You 
  weren’t involved with him, wereyou?”
  “I? Indeed not. But if we openly insult the Khan of Tyrann by refusing an alliance with 
  one of his favorites, they may choose to think even that.”
  Hinrik’s hand wringing was interrupted by the muted buzz of the extension. He started 
  uneasily.
  “I’ll take it in my own room. You just rest. You’ll feel better after a nap. You’ll see, 
  you’ll see. It’s just that you’re a little on edge now.”
  Artemisia looked after him and frowned. Her’ face was intensely thoughtful, and for 
  minutes only the gentle tide of her breasts betrayed life.
  There was the sound of stumbling feet at the door, and she turned.
  
  “What is it?” The tone was sharper than she had intended.
  It was Hinrik, his face sallow with fear. “Major Andros was calling.”
  “Of the Outer Police?” Hinrik could only nod.
  Artemisia cried, “Surely, he’s not--” She paused reluctantly at the threshold of putting 
  the horrible thought into words, but waited in vain for enlightenment.
  “There is a young man who wants an audience. I don’t know him. Why should he come 
  here? He’s from Earth.” He was gasping for breath and staggered as he spoke, as though 
  his mind were on a turntable and he had to follow it in its gyrations.
  The girl ran to him and seized his elbow. She said sharply, “Sit down, Father. Tell me 
  what has happened.” She took him and some of the panic drained out of his face.
  “I don’t know exactly,” he whispered. “There’s a young man coming here with details 
  concerning a plot on my life. Onmy life. Andthey tell me I ought to listen to him.”
  He smiled foolishly. “I’m loved by the people. No one would want to kill me. Would 
  they? Would they?”
  He was watching her eagerly, and relaxed when she said, “Of course no one would want 
  to kill you.”
  Then he was tense again. “Do you think it might bethey?”
  “Who?”
  He leaned over to whisper. “The Tyranni. The Rancher of Widemos was here yesterday, 
  and they killed him.” His voice ascended the scale. “And now they’re sending someone 
  over to kill me.”
  Artemisia gripped his shoulder with such force that his mind turned to the present pain.
  She said, “Father! Sit quietly! Not a word! Listen to me. No one will kill you. Do you 
  hear me? No one will kill you. It was six months ago that the Rancher was here. Do you 
  remember? Wasn’t it six months ago? Think!”
  “So long?” whispered the Director. “Yes, yes, it must have been so.”
  
  “Now you stay here and rest. You’re overwrought. I’ll see the young man myself and 
  then I’ll bring him to you if it’s safe;”
  “Will you, Arta? Will you? He won’t hurt a woman. Surely he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”
  She bent suddenly and kissed his cheek.
  “Be careful,” he murmured, and closed his eyes wearily.
   SIX:
    
   That Wears a Crown
    
   Biron Farrill waited uneasily in one of the outer buildings on the Palace Grounds. For 
  the first time in his life he experienced the deflating sensation of being a provincial.
  Widemos Hall, where he had grown up, had been beautiful in his eyes, and now his 
  memory endowed it with merely barbaric glitter. Its curved lines, its filigree work, its 
  curiously wrought turrets, its elaborate “false windows”--He winced at the thought of 
  them.
  But this--this was different.
  The Palace Grounds of Rhodia were no mere lump of’ ostentation built by the petty 
  lords of a cattle kingdom; nor were they the childlike expression of a fading and dying 
  world. They were the culmination, in stone, of the Hinriad dynasty.
  The buildings were strong and quiet. Their lines were straight and vertical, lengthening 
  toward the center of each structure, yet avoiding anything as effeminate as a spire effect. 
  They held a bluntness about them, yet lifted into a climax that affected the onlooker 
  without revealing their method of doing so at a casual glance. They were reserved, self-
  contained, proud.
  And as each building was, so was the group as a whole, the huge Palace Central 
  becoming a crescendo. One by one, even the few artificialities remaining in the 
  masculine Rhodian style had dropped away. The very “false windows,” so valued as 
  
  decoration and so useless in a building of artificial light and ventilation, were done away 
  with. And that, somehow, without loss.
  It was only line and plane, a geometrical abstraction that led the eye upward to the sky.
  The Tyrannian major stopped briefly at his side as he left the inner room.
  “You will be received now,” he said.
  Biron nodded, and after a while a larger man in a uniform of scarlet and tan clicked 
  heels before him. It struck Biron with sudden force that those who had the real power 
  did not need the outward show and could be satisfied with slate blue. He recalled the 
  splendid formality of a Rancher’s life and bit his lip at the thought of its futility.
  “Biron Malaine?” asked the Rhodian guard, and Biron rose to follow.
    
  There was a little gleaming monorail carriage that was suspended delicately by 
  diamagnetic forces upon a single ruddy shaft of metal. Biron had never seen one before. 
  He paused before entering.
  The little carriage, big enough for five or six at the most, swayed with the wind, a 
  graceful teardrop returning the gleam of Rhodia’s splendid sun. The single rail was 
  slender, scarcely more than a cable, and ran the length of the carriage’s underside 
  without touching. Biron bent and saw blue sky all the length between them. For a 
  moment, as he watched, a lifting gust of wind raised it, so that it hovered a full inch 
  above the rail, as though impatient for flight and tearing at the invisible force field that 
  held it. Then it fluttered back to the rail, closer and still closer, but never touching.
  “Get in,” said the guard behind him impatiently, and Biron climbed two steps into the 
  carriage.
  The steps remained long enough for the guard to follow, then lifted quietly and smoothly 
  into place, forming no break in the carriage’s even exterior.
  Biron became aware that the outer opacity of the carriage was an illusion. Once within, 
  he found himself sitting in a transparent bubble. At the motion of a small control, the 
  carriage lifted upward. It climbed the heights easily, buffeting the atmosphere which 
  whistled past. For one moment, Biron caught the panorama of the Palace Grounds from 
  the apex of the arc.
  
  The structures became a gorgeous whole (could they --have been originally conceived 
  other than as an air view?), laced by the shining copper threads, along one or two of 
  which the graceful carriage bubbles skimmed.
  He felt himself pressed forward, and the carriage came to a dancing halt. The entire run 
  had lasted less than two minutes.
    
  A door stood open before him. He entered and it closed behind him. There was no one in 
  the room, which was small and bare. For the moment, no one was pushing him, but he 
  felt no comfort because of it. He was under no illusions. Ever since that damned night, 
  others had forced his moves.
  Jonti had placed him on the ship. The Tyrannian Commissioner had placed him here. 
  And each move had increased the measure of his desperation.
  It was obvious to Biron that the Tyrannian had not been fooled. It had been too easy to 
  get away from him. The Commissioner might have called the Terrestrial Consul. He 
  might have hyper-waved Earth, or taken his retinal patterns. These things were routine; 
  they could not have been omitted accidentally.
  He remembered Jonti’s analysis of affairs. Some of it might still be valid. The Tyranni 
  would not kill him outright to create another martyr. But Hinrik was their puppet, and he 
  was as capable as they of ordering an execution. And then he would have been killed by 
  one of his own, and the Tyranni would merely be disdainful onlookers.
  Biron clenched his fists tightly. He was tall and strong, but he was unarmed. The men 
  who would come for him would have blasters and neuronic whips. He found himself 
  backing against the wall.
  He whirled quickly at the small sound of the opening door to his left. The man who 
  entered was armed and uniformed but there was a girl with him. He relaxed a bit. It was 
  only a girl with him. At another time he might have observed the girl closely, since she 
  was worth observation and approval, but at the moment she was only a girl.
  They approached together, stopping some six feet away. He kept his eye on the guard’s 
  blaster.
  The girl said to the guard, “I’ll speak to him first, Lieutenant.”
  There was a little vertical line between her eyes as she turned to him. She said, “Are you 
  
  the man who has this story of an assassination plot against the Director?”
  Biron said, “I was told I would see the Director.”
  “That is impossible. If you have anything to say, say it to me. If your information is 
  truthful and useful, you will be well treated.”
  “May I ask you who you are? How do I know you are authorized to speak for the 
  Director?”
  The girl seemed annoyed. “I am his daughter. Please answer my questions. Are you from 
  outside the System?”
  “I am from Earth.” Biron paused, then added, “Your Grace.”
  The addition pleased her. “Where is that?”
  “It is a small planet of the Sirian Sector, Your Grace.”
  “And what is your name?”
  “Biron Malaine, Your Grace.”
  She stared at him thoughtfully. “From Earth? Can you pilot a space ship?”
  Biron almost smiled. She was testing him. She knew very well that space navigation was 
  one of the forbidden sciences in the Tyranni-controlled worlds.
  He said, “Yes, Your Grace.” He could prove that when the performance test came,if they 
  let him live that long. Space navigation was not a forbidden science en Earth, and in four 
  years one could learn much.
  She said, “Very well. And your story?”
  He made his decision suddenly. To the guard alone, he would not have dared. But this 
  was a girl, and if she were not lying, if she reallywere the Director’s daughter, she might 
  be a persuasive factor on his behalf.
  He said, “There is no assassination plot, Your Grace.”
  The girl was startled. She turned impatiently to her companion. “Would you take over, 
  Lieutenant? Get the truth out of him.”
  
  Biron took a step forward and met the cold thrust of the guard’s blaster. He said urgently, 
  “Wait, Your Grace. Listen to me! It was the only way to see the Director. Don’t you 
  understand?”
  He raised his voice and sent it after her retreating form. “Will you tell His Excellency, at 
  least, that I am Biron Farrill and claim my sanctuary right?”
  It was a feeble straw at which to clutch. The old feudal customs had been losing their 
  force with the generations even before the Tyranni came. Now they were archaisms. But 
  there was nothing else. Nothing.
  She turned, and her eyebrows were arched. “Are you claiming now to be of the 
  aristocratic order? A moment ago your name was Malaine.”
  A new voice sounded unexpectedly. “So it was, but it is the second name which is 
  correct. You are Biron Farrill indeed, my good sir. Of course you are. The resemblance is 
  unmistakable.”.
  A small, smiling man stood in the doorway. His eyes, widely spaced and brilliant, were 
  taking in all of Biron with an amused sharpness. He cocked his narrow face upward at 
  Biron’s height and said to the girl, “Don’t you recognize him, too, Artemisia?”
  Artemisia hurried to him, her voice troubled. “Uncle Oil, What are you doing here?”
  “Taking care of my interests, Artemisia. Remember that if there were an assassination, I 
  would be the closest of the Hinriads to the possible succession.” Gillbret oth Hinriad 
  winked elaborately, then added, “Oh, get the lieutenant out of here. There isn’t any 
  danger.”
  She ignored that and said, “Have you been sounding the communicator again?”
  “But yes. Would you deprive me of an amusement? It is pleasant to eavesdrop on them.”
  “Not if they catch you.”
  “The danger is part of the game, my dear. The amusing part. After all, the Tyranni do not 
  hesitate to sound the .Palace. We can’t do much withouttheir knowing. Well, turnabout, 
  you know. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
  “No, I’m not,” she said shortly. “This is none of your business.”
  
  “Then I’ll introduce you. When I heard his name, I stopped listening and came in.” He 
  moved past Artemisia, stepped up to Biron, inspected him with an impersonal smile, and 
  said, “This, is Biron Farrill.”
  “I have said so myself,” said Biron. More than half his attention was upon the lieutenant, 
  who still held his blaster in firing position.
  “But you have not added that you are the son of the Rancher of Widemos.”
  “I would have but for your interruption. In any case, you’ve got the story now. 
  Obviously, I had to get away from the Tyranni, and that without giving them my real 
  name.” Biron waited. This was it, he felt. If the next move was not an immediate arrest, 
  there was still a trifling chance.
  Artemisia said, “I see. Thisis a matter for the Director. You are sure there is no plot of 
  any sort, then.”
  “None, Your Grace.”
  “Good. Uncle Gil, will you remain with Mr. Farrill? Lieutenant, will you come with 
  me?”
  Biron felt weak. He would have liked to sit down, but no suggestion to that effect was 
  made by Gillbret, who still inspected him with an almost clinical interest.
  “The Rancher’s son! Amusing!”
  Biron brought his attention downward. He was tired of cautious monosyllables and 
  careful phrases. He said abruptly, “Yes, the Rancher’s son. It is a congenital situation. 
  Can I help you in any other way?”
  Gillbret showed no offense. His thin face merely creased further as his smile widened. 
  He said, “You might satisfy my curiosity. You really came for Sanctuary? Here?”
  “I’d rather discuss that with the Director, sir.”
  “Oh, get off it, young man. You’ll find that very little business can be done with the 
  Director. Why do you suppose you had to deal with his daughter just now? That’s an 
  amusing thought, if you’ll consider it.”
  “Do you find everything amusing?”
  
  “Why not? As an attitude toward life, it’s an amusing one. It’s the only adjective that 
  will fit. Observe the universe, young man. If you can’t force amusement out of it, you 
  might as well cut your throat, since there’s damned little good in it. I haven’t introduced 
  myself, by the way. I’m the Director’s cousin.”
  Biron said coldly, “Congratulations!”
  Gillbret shrugged. “You’re right. It’s not impressive. And I’m likely to remain just that 
  indefinitely since there is no assassination to be expected after all.”
  “Unless you whip one up for yourself.”
  “My dear sir, your sense of humor! You’ll have to get used to the fact that nobody 
  takesme seriously. My remark was only an expression of cynicism. You don’t suppose 
  the Directorship is worth anything these days, do you? Surely you cannot believe that 
  Hinrik was always like this? He was never a great brain, but with every year he becomes 
  more impossible. I forget! You haven’t seen him yet. But you will! I hear him coming. 
  When he speaks to you, remember that he is the ruler of the largest of the Trans-Nebular 
  Kingdoms. It will be an amusing thought.”
  Hinrik bore his dignity with the ease of experience. He acknowledged Biron’s 
  painstakingly ceremonious bow with the proper degree of condescension. He said, with 
  a trace of abruptness, “And your business with us, sir?”
  Artemisia was standing at her father’s side, and Biron noticed, with some surprise, that 
  she was quite pretty. He said, “Your Excellency, I have come on behalf of my father’s 
  good name. You must know his execution was unjust.”
  Hinrik looked away. “I knew your father slightly. He was in Rhodia once or twice.” He 
  paused, and his voice quavered a bit. “You are very like him. Very. But he was tried, you 
  know. At least I imagine he was. And according to law. Really, I don’t know the details.”
  “Exactly, Your Excellency. But I would like to learn those details. I am sure that my 
  father was no traitor.”
  Hinrik broke in hurriedly. “As his son, of course, it is understandable that you should 
  defend your father, but, really, it is difficult to discuss such matters of state now. Highly 
  irregular, in fact. Why don’t you see Aratap?”
  “I do not know him, Excellency.”
  “Aratap! The Commissioner! The Tyrannian Commissioner”‘
  
  “I have seen him and he sent me here. Surely, you understand that I dare not let the 
  Tyranni--”
  But Hinrik had grown stiff. His hand had wandered to his lips, as though to keep them 
  from trembling, and his words were consequently muffled. “Aratap sent you here, you 
  say?”
  “I found it necessary to tell him--”
  “Don’t repeat what you told him. I know,” said Hinrik. “I can do nothing for you, 
  Rancher--uh--Mr. Farrill. It is not in my jurisdiction alone. The Executive Council--stop 
  pulling at me, Arta. How can I pay attention to matters when you distract me?--must be 
  consulted. Gillbret! Will you see that Mr. Farrill is taken care of? I will see what can be 
  done. Yes, I will consult the Executive Council. The forms of law, you know. Very 
  important. Very important.”
  He turned on his heel, mumbling.
  Artemisia lingered for a moment and touched Biron’s sleeve. “A moment. Was it true, 
  your statement that you could pilot a spaceship?”
  “Quite true,” said Biron. He smiled at her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she dimpled 
  briefly in return.
  “Gillbret,” she said, “I want to speak to you later.”
  She hurried off. Biron looked after her till Gillbret tweaked at his sleeve.
  “I presume you are hungry, perhaps thirsty, would like a wash?” asked Gillbret. “The 
  ordinary amenities of life continue, I take it?”
  “Thank you, yes,” said Biron. The tension had almost entirely washed out of him. For a 
  moment he was relaxed and felt wonderful. Shewas pretty.Very pretty.
    
  But Hinrik was not relaxed; In his own chambers his thoughts whirled at a feverish pace. 
  Try as he might, he could not wriggle out of the inevitable conclusion. It was a trap! 
  Aratap had sent him and it was a trap!
  He buried his head in his hands to quiet and deaden the pounding, and then he knew 
  
  what hehad to do.
    
   SEVEN:
    
   Musician of the Mind
    
   Night settles in time on all habitable planets. Not always, perhaps, at respectable 
  intervals, since recorded periods of rotation vary from fifteen to fifty-two hours. That 
  fact requires the most strenuous psychological adjustment from those traveling from 
  planet to planet.
  On many planets such adjustments are made, and the waking-sleeping periods are 
  tailored to fit. On many more the almost universal use of conditioned atmospheres and 
  artificial lighting make the day-night question secondary except in so far as it modifies 
  agriculture. On a few planets (those of the extremes) arbitrary divisions are made which 
  ignore the trivial facts of light and dark.
  But always, whatever the social conventions, the coming of night has a deep and abiding 
  psychological significance, dating back to man’s pre-human arboreal existence. Night 
  will always be a time of fear and insecurity, and the heart will sink with the sun.
  Inside Palace Central there was no sensory mechanism by which one could tell the 
  coming of night, yet Biron felt that coming through some indefinite instinct hidden in 
  the unknown corridors of the human brain. He knew that outdoors the night’s blackness 
  was scarcely relieved by the futile sparks of the stars. He knew that, if it were the right 
  time of year, the jagged “hole in space” known as the Horsehead Nebula (so familiar to 
  all the Trans-Nebular Kingdoms) inked out half the stars that might otherwise have been 
  visible.
  And he was depressed again. He had not seen Artemisia since the little talk with the 
  Director, and he found himself resenting that. He had looked forward to dinner; he might 
  have spoken to her. Instead, he had eaten alone, with two guards lounging discontentedly 
  just outside the door. Even Gillbret had left him, presumably to eat a less lonely meal in 
  the company one would expect in a palace of the Hinriads.
  So that when Gillbret returned and said, “Artemisia and I have been discussing you,” he 
  
  obtained a prompt and interested reaction.
  It merely amused him and he said so. “First I want to show you my laboratory,” he had 
  said then. He gestured and the two guards moved off.
  “What kind of a laboratory?” asked Biron with a definite loss of interest.
  “I build gadgets,” was the vague response.
    
  It was not a laboratory to the eye. It was more nearly a library, with an ornate desk in the 
  corner.
  Biron looked it over slowly. “And you build gadgets here? What kind of gadgets?”
  “Well, special sounding devices to spy out the Tyrannian spy beams in a brand-new way. 
  Nothingthey can detect. That’s how I found out about you, when the first word came 
  through from Aratap. And I have other amusing trinkets. My visisonor, for instance. Do 
  you like music?”
  “Some kinds.”
  “Good. I invented an instrument, only I don’t know if you can properly call it music.” A 
  shelf of book films slid out and aside at a touch. “This is not really much of a hiding 
  place, but nobody takesme seriously, so they don’t look. Amusing, don’t you think? But 
  I forget, you’re the unamused one.”
  It was a clumsy, boxlike affair, with that singular lack of gloss and polish that marks the 
  homemade object. One side of it was studded with little gleaming knobs. He put it down 
  with that side upward.
  “It isn’t pretty,” Gillbret said, “but who in Time cares? Put the lights out. No, no! No 
  switches or contacts. Just wish the lights were out. Wish hard! Decide you want them 
  out.”
  And the lights dimmed, with the exception of the faint pearly luster of the ceiling that 
  made them two ghostly faces in the dark. Gillbret laughed lightly at Biron’s 
  exclamation.
  “Just one of the tricks of my visisonor. It’s keyed to the mind like personal capsules are. 
  Do you know what I mean?”
  
  “No, I don’t, if you want a plain answer.”
  “Well,” he said, “look at it this way. The electric field of your brain cells sets up an 
  induced one in the instrument. Mathematically, it’s fairly simple, but as far as I know, no 
  one has ever jammed all the necessary circuits into a box this size before. Usually, it 
  takes a five-story generating plant to do it. It works the other way too. I can close 
  circuits here and impress them directly upon your brain, so that you’ll see and hear 
  without any intervention of eyes and ears. Watch!”
  There was nothing to watch, at first. And then something fuzzy scratched faintly at the 
  corner of Biron’s eyes. It became a faint blue-violet ball hovering in mid-air. It followed 
  him as he turned away, remained unchanged when he closed his eyes. And a clear, 
  musical tone accompanied it, was part of it,was it.
  It was growing and expanding and Biron became disturbingly aware that it existed 
  inside his skull. It wasn’t really a color, but rather a colored sound, though without 
  noise. It was tactile, yet without feeling.
  It spun and took on an iridescence while the musical tone rose in pitch till it hovered 
  above him like falling silk. Then it exploded so that gouts of color splattered at him in 
  touches that burned momentarily and left no pain.
  Bubbles of rain-drenched green rose again with a quiet, soft moaning. Biron thrust at 
  them in confusion and became aware that he could not see his hands nor feel them 
  move. There was nothing, only the little bubbles filling his mind to the exclusion of all 
  else.
  He cried out soundlessly and the fantasy ceased. Gillbret was standing before him once 
  again in a lighted room, laughing. Biron felt an acute dizziness and wiped shakily at a 
  chilled, moist forehead. He sat down abruptly.
  “What happened?” he demanded, in as stiff a tone as he could manage.
  Gillbret said, “Idon’t know. I stayed out of it. You don’t understand? It was something 
  your brain had lacked previous experience with. Your brain was sensing directly and it 
  had no method of interpretation for such a phenomenon. So as long as you concentrated 
  Qn the sensation, your brain could only attempt, futilely, to force the effect into the old, 
  familiar pathways. It attempts separately and simultaneously to interpret it as sight and 
  sound and touch. Were you conscious of an odor, by the way? Sometimes it seemed to 
  me that I smelled the stuff. With dogs I imagine the sensation would be forced almost 
  entirely into odor. I’d like to try it on animals someday.
  
  “On the other hand, if you ignore it, make no attack upon it, it fades away. It’s what I do, 
  when I want to observe its effects on others, and it isn’t difficult.”
  He placed a little veined hand upon the instrument, fingering the knobs aimlessly. 
  “Sometimes I think that if one could really study this thing, one could compose 
  symphonies in a new medium; do things one could never do with simple sound or sight. 
  I lack the capacit,y for it, I’m afraid.”
  Biron said abruptly, “I’d like to ask you a question.”
  “By all means.”
  “Why don’t you put your scientific ability to worth-while use instead of--”
  “Wasting it on useless toys? I don’t know. It may not be entirely useless. This is against 
  the law, you know.”
  “What is?”
  “The visisonor. Also my spy devices. If the Tyranni knew, it could easily mean a death 
  sentence.”
  “Surely, you’re joking.”
  “Not at all. It is obvious that you were brought up on a cattle ranch. The young people 
  cannot remember what it was like in the old days, I see.” Suddenly his head was to one 
  side and his eyes were narrowed to slits. He asked, “Are you opposed to Tyrannian rule? 
  Speak freely. I tell you frankly that I am. I tell you also that your father was.”
  Biron said calmly, “Yes, I am.”
  “Why?”
  “They are strangers, outlanders. What right have they to rule in Nephelos or in Rhodia?”
  “Have you always thought that?” Biron did not answer.
  Gillbret sniffed. “In other words, you decided they were strangers and outlanders only 
  after they executed your father, which, after all, was their simple right. Oh, look, don’t 
  fire up. Consider it reasonably. Believe me, I’m on your side. But think! Your father was 
  Rancher. What rights did his herdsmen have? If one of them had stolen cattle for his 
  
  own use or to sell to others, what would have been his punishment? Imprisonment as a 
  thief. If he had plotted the death of your father, for whatever reason, for perhaps a 
  worthy reason in his own eyes, what would have been the result? Execution, 
  undoubtedly. And what right has your father to make laws and visit punishment upon his 
  fellow human beings?H e wastheir Tyranni.
  “Your father, in his own eyes and in mine, was a patriot. But what of that? To the 
  Tyranni, he was a traitor, and they removed him. Can you ignore the necessity of self-
  defense? The Hinriads have been a bloody lot in their time. Read your history, young 
  man. All governments kill as part of the nature of things.,
  “So find a better reason to hate the Tyranni. Don’t think it is enough to replace one set of 
  rulers by another; that the simple change brings freedom.”
  Biron pounded a fist into his cupped palm. “All this objective philosophy is fine. It is 
  very soothing to the man who lives apart. But what if it had been your father who was 
  murdered?”
  “Well, wasn’t it? My father was Director before Hinrik, and he was killed. Oh, not 
  outright, but subtly. They broke his spirit, as they are breaking Hinrik’s now. They 
  wouldn’t haveme as Director when my father died; I was just a little too unpredictable. 
  Hinrik was tall, handsome, and, above all, pliant. Yet not pliant enough, apparently. They 
  hound him continuously, grind him into a pitiful puppet, make sure he cannot even itch 
  without permission. You’ve seen him. He’s deteriorating by the month now. His 
  continual state of fear is pathetically psychopathic. But that--all that--is not why I want 
  to destroy Tyrannian rule.”
  “No?” said Biron. “You have invented an entirely new reason?”
  “An entirely old one, rather. The Tyranni are destroying the right of twenty billion 
  human beings to take part in the development of the race. You’ve been to school. You’ve 
  learned the economic cycle. A new planet is settled”--he was ticking the points off on his 
  fingers--”and its first care is to feed itself. It becomes an agricultural world, a herding 
  world. It begins to dig in the ground for crude ore to export, and sends its agricultural 
  surplus abroad to buy luxuries and machinery. That is the second step. Then, as 
  population increases and foreign investments grow, an industrial civilization begins to 
  bud, which is the third step. Eventually, the world becomes mechanized, importing food, 
  exporting machinery, investing in the development of more primitive worlds, and so on. 
  The fourth step.
  “Always the mechanized worlds are the most thickly populated, the most powerful, 
  militarily--since war is a function of machines--and they are usually surrounded by a 
  
  fringe of agricultural, dependent worlds.
  “But what has happened to us? We were at the third step, with a growing industry. And 
  now? That growth has been stopped, frozen, forced to recede. It would interfere with 
  Tyrannian control of our industrial necessities. It is a short-term investment on their part, 
  because eventually we’ll become unprofitable as we become impoverished. But 
  meanwhile, they skim the cream.
  “Besides, if we industrialized ourselves, we might develop weapons of war. So 
  industrialization is stopped; scientific research is forbidden. And eventually the people 
  become so used to that, they lack the realization even that anything is missing. So that 
  you are surprised when 1 tell you that I could be executed for building a visisonor.
  “Of course, someday we will beat the Tyranni. It is fairly inevitable. They can’t rule 
  forever. No one can. They’ll grow soft and lazy. They will intermarry and lose much of 
  their separate traditions. They will become corrupt. But it may take centuries, because 
  history doesn’t hurry. And when those centuries have passed, we will still all be 
  agricultural worlds with no industrial or scientific heritage to speak of, while our 
  neighbors on all sides, those not under Tyrannian control, will be strong and urbanized. 
  The Kingdoms will be semicolonial areas forever. They willnever catch up, and we will 
  be merely observers in the great drama of human advance.”
  Biron said, “What you say is not completely unfamiliar.”
  “Naturally, if you were educated on Earth. Earth occupies a very peculiar position in 
  social development.”
  “Indeed?”
  “Consider! All the Galaxy has been in a continuous state of expansion since the first 
  discovery of interstellar travel. We have always been a growing society, therefore, an 
  immature society. It is obvious that human society reached maturity in only one place 
  and at only one time and that this was on Earth immediately prior to its catastrophe. 
  There we had a society which had temporarily lost all possibility for geographical 
  expansion and was therefore faced with such problems as over-population, depletion of 
  resources, and so on; problems that have never faced any other portion of the Galaxy.
  “They wereforced to study the social sciences intensively. We have lost much or all of 
  that and it is a pity. Now here’s an amusing thing. When Hinrik was a young man, he 
  was a great Primitivist. He had a library on things Earthly that was unparalleled in the 
  Galaxy. Since he became Director, that’s gone by the board along with everything else. 
  But in a way, I’ve inherited it. Their literature, such scraps as survive, is fascinating. It 
  
  has a peculiarly introspective flavor to it that we don’t have in our extraverted Galactic 
  civilization. It ismost amusing.”
  Biron said, “You relieve me. You have been serious for so long that I began to wonder if 
  you had lost your sense of humor.”
  Gillbret shrugged. “I am relaxing and it is wonderful. First time in months, I think. Do 
  you know what it is to playa part? To split your personality deliberately for twenty-four 
  hours a day? Even when with friends? Even when alone, so that you will never forget 
  inadvertently? To be a dilettante? To be eternally amused? To be of no account? To be so 
  effete and faintly ridiculous that you have convinced all who know you of your own 
  worthlessness? An so that your life may be safe even though it means it has become 
  barely worth living. But, even so, once in a while I can fight them.”
  He looked up, and his voice was earnest, almost pleading. “You can pilot a ship. I 
  cannot. Isn’t that strange? You talk about my scientific ability, yet I cannot pilot a simple 
  one-man space gig. But you can, and it follows then that you must leave Rhodia.”
  There was no mistaking the pleading, but Biron frowned coldly. “Why?”
  Gillbret continued, speaking rapidly: “As I said, Artemisia and I have discussed you and 
  arranged this. When you leave here, proceed directly to her room, where she is waiting 
  for you. I have drawn a diagram for you, so that you won’t have to ask your way through 
  the corridors.” He was forcing a small sheet of metallene upon Biron. “If anyone does 
  stop you, say that you have been summoned by the Director, and proceed. There will be 
  no trouble if you show no uncertainty--”
  “Hold on!” said Biron. He was not going to do it again. Jonti had chevied him to Rhodia 
  and, consequently, succeeded in bringing him before the Tyranni. The Tyrannian 
  Commissioner had then chevied him to Palace Central before he could feel his own 
  secret way there and, consequently, subjected him, nakedly unprepared, to the whims of 
  an unsteady puppet. But that was all! His moves, henceforward, might be severely 
  limited, but, by Space and Time, they would be his own. He felt very stubborn about it.
  He said, “I’m here on what is important business to me, sir. I’m not leaving.”
  “What! Don’t be a young idiot.” For a moment the old Gillbret was showing through. 
  “Do you think you will accomplish anything here? Do you think you will get out of the 
  Palace alive if you let the morning sun rise? Why, Hinrik will call in the Tyranni and you 
  will be imprisoned within twenty-four hours. He is only waiting this while because it 
  takes him so long to make up his mind to do anything. He is my cousin. I know him, I 
  tell you.”
  
  Biron said, “And if so, what is that to you? Why should you be so concerned about me?” 
  He wasnot going to be chevied. He would never again be another man’s fleeing 
  marionette.
  But Gillbret was standing, staring at him. “I want you to take me with you. I’m 
  concerned about myself. I cannot endure life under the Tyranni any longer. It is only that 
  neither Artemisia nor I can handle a ship or we would have left long ago. It’s our lives 
  too.”
  Biron felt a certain weakening of his resolve. “The Director’s daughter? What has she to 
  do with this?”
  “I believe that she is the most desperate of us. There is a special death for women. What 
  should be ahead of a Director’s daughter who is young, personable, and unmarried, but 
  to become young, personable, and married? And who, in these days, should be the 
  delightful groom? Why, an old, lecherous Tyrannian court functionary who has buried 
  three wives and wishes to revive the fires of his youth in the arms of a girl.”
  “Surely the Director would never allow such a thing!”
  “The Director will allow anything. Nobody waits upon his permission.”
  Biron thought of Artemisia as he had last seen her. Her hair had been combed back from 
  her forehead and allowed to fall in simple straightness, with a single inward wave at 
  shoulder level. Clear, fair skin, black eyes, red lips! Tall, young, smiling! Probably the 
  description of a hundred million girls throughout the Galaxy. It would be ridiculous to 
  let that sway him.
  Yet he said, “Is there a ship ready?”
  Gillbret’s face wrinkled under the impact of a sudden smile. But, before he could say a 
  word, there came a pounding at the door. It was no gentle interruption of the photo.. 
  beam, no tender of the weapon of authority.
  It was repeated, and Gillbret said, “You’d better open the door.”
  Biron did so, and two uniforms were in the room. The foremost saluted Gillbret with 
  abrupt efficiency, then turned to Biron. “Biron Farrill, in the name of the Resident 
  Commissioner of Tyrann and of the Director of Rhodia, I place you under arrest.”
  “On what charge?” demanded Biron.
  
  “On that of high treason.”
  A look of infinite loss twisted Gillbret’s face momentarily. He looked away. “Hinrik was 
  quick this once; quicker than I had ever expected. An amusing thought!”
  He was the old Gillbret, smiling and indifferent, eyebrows a little raised, as though 
  inspecting a distasteful fact with a faint tinge of regret.
  “Please follow me,” said the guard, and Biron was aware of the neuronic whip resting 
  easily in the other’s hand.
   EIGHT:
    
   A Lady’s Skirts
    
   Biron’s throat was growing dry. He could have beaten either of the guards in fair fight. 
  He knew that, and he itched for the chance. He might even have made a satisfactory 
  showing against both together. But they had the whips, and he couldn’t have lifted an 
  arm without having them demonstrate the fact. Inside his mind he surrendered. There 
  was no other way.
  But Gillbret said, “Let him take his cloak, men.”
  Biron, startled, looked quickly toward the little man and retracted that same surrender. 
  He knew he had no cloak.
  The guard whose weapon was out clicked his heels as a gesture of respect. He motioned 
  his whip at Biron. “You heard milord. Get your cloak and snap it up!”
  Biron stepped back as slowly as he dared. He retreated to the bookcase and squatted, 
  groping behind the chair for his nonexistent cloak. And as his fingers clawed at the 
  empty space behind the chair, he waited tensely for Gillbret.
  The visisonor was just a queer knobbed object to the guards. It would mean nothing to 
  them that Gillbret fingered and stroked the knobs gently. Biron watched the muzzle of 
  
  the whip intensely and allowed it to fill his mind. Certainly nothing else he saw or 
  heard(thought he saw or heard) must enter.
  But how much longer?
  The armed guard said, “Is your cloak behind that chair? Stand up!” He took an impatient 
  step forward, and then stopped. His eyes narrowed in deep amazement and he looked 
  sharply to his left.
  That was it! Biron straightened and threw himself forward and down. He clasped the 
  guard’s knees and jerked. The guard was down with a jarring thud, and Biron’s large fist 
  closed over the other’s hand, grasping for the neuronic whip it contained.
  The other guard had his weapon out, but for the moment it was useless. With his free 
  hand, he was brushing wildly at the space before his eyes.
  Gillbret’s high-pitched laugh sounded. “Anything bothering you, Farrill?”
  “Don’t see a thing,” he grunted, and then, “except this whip I’ve got now.”
  “All right, then leave. They can’t do anything to stop you. Their minds are full of sights 
  and sounds that don’t exist.” Gillbret skipped out of the way of the writhing tangle of 
  bodies.
  Biron wrenched his arms free and heaved upward. He brought his arm down solidly just 
  below the other’s ribs. The guard’s face twisted in agony and his body doubled 
  convulsively. Biron rose, whip in hand.
  “Careful,” cried Gillbret.
  But Biron did not turn quickly enough. The second guard was upon him, bearing him 
  down again. It was a blind attack. What it was that the guard thought he was grasping, it 
  was impossible to tell. That he knew nothing of Biron at the moment was certain. His 
  breath rasped in Biron’s ear and there was a continuous incoherent gurgle bubbling in 
  his throat.
  Biron twisted in an attempt to bring his captured weapon into play and was frighteningly 
  aware of the blank and empty eyes that must be aware of some horror invisible to 
  anyone else.
  Biron braced his legs and shifted weight in an effort to break loose, quite uselessly. 
  Three times he felt the guard’s whip flung hard against his hip, and flinched at the 
  
  contact.
  And then the guard’s gurgle dissolved into words. He yelled, “I’ll get you all!” and the 
  very pale, almost invisible shimmer of the ionized air in the path of the whip’s energy 
  beam made its appearance. It swept wide through the air, and the path of the beam 
  intersected Biron’s foot.
  It was as though he had stepped into a bath of boiling lead. Or as if a granite block had 
  toppled upon it. Or as if it had been crunched off by a shark. Actually, nothing had 
  happened to it physically. It was only that the nerve endings that governed the sensation 
  of pain had been universally and maximally stimulated, Boiling lead could have done no 
  more.
  Biron’s yell tore his throat raw, and he collapsed. It did not even occur to him that the 
  fight was over. Nothing mattered but the ballooning pain.
  Yet, though Biron did not know it, the guard’s grip had relaxed, and minutes later, when 
  the young man could force his eyes open and blink away the tears, he found the guard 
  backed against the wall, pushing feebly at nothing with both hands and giggling to 
  himself. The first guard was still on his back, arms and legs spread-eagled now. He was 
  conscious, but silent. His eyes were following something in an erratic path, and his body 
  quivered a little. There was froth on his lips.
  Biron forced himself to his feet. He limped badly as he made his way to the wall. He 
  used the butt of the whip and the guard slumped. Then back to the first, who made no 
  defense either, his eyes moving silently to the very moment of unconsciousness.
  Biron sat down again, nursing his foot. He stripped shoe and stocking from it, and stared 
  in surprise at the unbroken skin. He chafed it and grunted at the burning sensation. He 
  looked up at Gillbret, who had put down his visisonor and was now rubbing one lean 
  cheek with the back of his hand.
  “Thank you,” said Biron, “for the help of your instrument.”
  Gillbret shrugged. He said, “There’ll be more here soon. Get to Artemisia’s room. 
  Please! Quickly!”
  Biron realized the sense of that. His foot had subsided to a quiet quiver of pain, but it felt 
  swollen and puffy. He put on a stocking and tucked the shoe under his elbow. He already 
  had one whip, and he relieved the second guard of the other. He stuffed it precariously 
  within his belt.
  
  He turned at the door and asked, with a sense of crawling revulsion, “What did you 
  make them see, sir?”
  “I don’t know. I can’t control it. I just gave them all the power I could and the rest 
  depended on their own complexes. Please don’t stand there talking. Do you have the 
  map to Artemisia’s room?”
  Biron nodded and set off down the corridor. It was quite empty. He could not walk 
  quickly, since trying to do so made his walk a hobble.
  He looked at his watch, then remembered that he had somehow never had the time to 
  adjust it to Rhodian local chronometry. It still ran on Standard Interstellar Time as used 
  aboard ship, where one hundred minutes made an hour and a thousand a day. So the 
  figure 876 which gleamed pinkly on the cool metal face of the watch meant nothing 
  now.
  Still, it had to be well into the night, or into the planetary sleeping period, at any rate 
  (supposing that the two did not coincide), as otherwise the halls would not be so empty 
  and the bas-reliefs on the wall would not phosphoresce unwatched. He touched one idly 
  as he passed, a coronation scene, and found it to be two-dimensional. Yet it gave the 
  perfect illusion of standing out from the wall.
  It was sufficiently unusual for him to stop momentarily in order to examine the effect. 
  Then he remembered and hurried on.
  The emptiness of the corridor struck him as another sign of the decadence of Rhodia. He 
  had grown very conscious of all these symbols of decline now that he had become a 
  rebel. As the center of an independent power, the Palace would always have had its 
  sentries and its quiet wardens of the night.
  He consulted Gillbret’s crude map and turned to the right, moving up a wide, curving 
  ramp. There might have been processions here once, but nothing of that would be left 
  now.
  He leaned against the proper door and touched the photo-signal. The door moved ajar a 
  bit, then opened wide.
  “Come in, young man.”
  It was Artemisia. Biron slipped inside, and the door closed swiftly and silently. He 
  looked at the girl and said nothing. He was gloomily conscious of the fact that his shirt 
  was torn at the shoulder so that one sleeve flapped loosely, that his clothes were grimy 
  
  and his face welted. He remembered the shoe he was still carrying, dropped it and 
  wriggled his foot into it.
  Then he said, “Mind if. I sit down?”
  She followed him to the chair, and stood before him, a little annoyed. “What happened? 
  What’s wrong with your foot?”
  “I hurt it,” he said shortly. “Are you ready to leave?”
  She brightened. “You’ll take us, then?”
  But Biron was in no mood to be sweet about it. His foot still twinged and he cradled it. 
  He said, “Look, get me out to a ship. I’m leaving this damn planet. If you want to come 
  along, I’ll take you.”
  She frowned. “You might be more pleasant about it. Were you in a fight?”
  “Yes, I was. With your father’s guards, who wanted to arrest me for treason. So much for 
  my Sanctuary Right.”
  “Oh! I’m sorry.”
  “I’m sorry too. It’s no wonder the Tyranni can lord it over fifty worlds with a handful of 
  men. We help them. Men like your father would do anything to keep in power; they 
  would forget the basic duties of a simple gentleman--Oh, never mind!”
  “I said I was sorry, Lord Rancher.” She used the title with a cold pride. “Please don’t set 
  yourself up as judge of my father. You don’t know all the facts.”
  “I’m not interested in discussing it. We’ll have to leave in a hurry, before more of your 
  father’s precious guards come. Well, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s all right.” 
  Biron’s surliness canceled out any meaning to his apology, but, damn it, he had never 
  been hit by a neuronic whip before and itwasn’t fun. And, by Space, they hadowed him 
  Sanctuary. At least that much.
  Artemisia felt angry. Not at her father, of course, but at the stupid young man. He wasso 
  young. Practically a child, she decided, scarcely older than herself, if that.
  The communicator sounded and she said sharply, “Please wait a minute and we’ll go.”
  It was Gillbret’s voice, sounding faintly. “Arta? All right at your end?”
  
  “He’s here,” she whispered back.
  “All right. Don’t say anything. Just listen. Don’t leave your room. Keep him there. 
  There’s going to be a search of the Palace, which there’s no way of stopping. I’ll try to 
  think of something, but, meanwhile,don’t move.” He waited for no reply. Contact was 
  broken.
  “So that’s that,” said Biron. He had heard also. “Shall I stay and get you into trouble, or 
  shall I go out and give myself up? There’s no reason to expect Sanctuary anywhere On 
  Rhodia, I suppose.”
  She faced him in a rage, crying in a choked whisper, “Oh, shut up, you big, ugly fool.”
  They glared at each other. Biron’s feelings were hurt. In a way, he was trying to help her 
  too. There was no reason for her to be insulting.
  She said, “I’m sorry,” and looked away.
  “That’s all right,” he said coldly, without meaning it. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”
  “You don’t have to say the things you do about my father. You don’t know what being 
  Director is like. He’s working for his people, whatever you may think.”
  “Oh, sure. He has to sell me to the Tyranni for the sake of the people. That makes 
  sense.”
  “In a way, it does. He has to show them he’s loyal. Otherwise, they might depose him 
  and take over the direct rule of Rhodia. Would that be better?”
  “If a nobleman can’t find Sanctuary--”
  “Oh, you think only of yourself. That’s what’s wrong with you.”
  “I don’t think it’s particularly selfish not to want to die. At least for nothing. I’ve got 
  some fighting to do before I go.My father fought them.” He knew he was beginning to 
  sound melodramatic, but she affected him that way.
  She said, “And what good did it do your father?”
  “None, I suppose. He was killed.”
  
  Artemisia felt unhappy. “I keep saying I’m sorry, and this time I really mean it. I’m all 
  upset.” Then, in defense, “I’m in trouble, too, you know.”
  Biron remembered. “I know. All right, let’s start all over.” He tried to smile. His foot 
  was feeling better anyway.
  She said, in an attempt at lightness, “You’re notreally ugly.”
  Biron felt foolish. “Oh well--”
  Then he stopped, and Artemisia’s hand flew to her mouth. Abruptly, their heads turned 
  to the door.
  There was the sudden, soft sound of many ordered feet on the semi-elastic plastic 
  mosaic that floored the corridor outside. Most passed by, but there was a faint, 
  disciplined heel-clicking just outside the door, and the night signal purred.
    
  Gillbret had to work quickly. First, he had to hide his visisonor. For the first time he 
  wished he had a better hiding place.Damn Hinrik for making up his mind so quickly this 
  once, for not waiting till morning. Hehad to get away; he might never have another 
  chance.
  Then he called the captain of the guard. He couldn’t very well neglect a little matter of 
  two unconscious guards and an escaped prisoner.
  The captain of the guard was grim about it. He had the two unconscious men cleared 
  out, and then faced Gillbret.
  “My lord, I am not quite clear from your message exactly what happened,” he said.
  “Just what you see,” said Gillbret. ‘They came to make their arrest, and the young man 
  did not submit. He is gone, Space knows where.”
  “That is of little moment, my lord,” said the captain. “The Palace is honored tonight with 
  the presence of a personage, so it is well guarded despite the hour. He cannot get out and 
  we will draw the net through the interior. Buthow did he escape? My men were armed. 
  He was not.”
  “He fought like a tiger. From that chair, behind which I hid--”
  
  “I am sorry, my lord, that you did not think to aid my men against an accused traitor.”
  Gillbret looked scornful. “What an amusing thought, Captain. When your men, wit{l 
  doubled advantage in numbers and weapons, need help from myself, it is time you 
  recruited yourself other men.”
  “Very well! We will search the Palace, find him, and see if he can repeat the 
  performance.”
  “I shall accompany you, Captain.”
  It was the captain ‘s turn to raise his eyebrows. He said, “I would not advise it, my lord. 
  There would be some danger.”
  It was the kind of remark that one did not make to a Hinriad. Gillbret knew that, but he 
  only smiled and let the wrinkles fill his lean face. “I know that,” he said, “but 
  occasionally I find even danger amusing.”
  It took five minutes for the company of guards to assemble. Gillbret, alone in his room 
  during that time, called Artemisia.
    
  Biron and Artemisia had frozen at the purring of the little signal. It sounded a second 
  time and then there was the cautious rap upon the door, and Gillbret’s voice was heard.
  “Do let me try, Captain,” it said. Then, more loudly, “Artemisia!”
  Biron grinned his relief and took a step forward, but the girl put a sudden hand upon his 
  mouth. She called out, “One moment, Uncle Oil,” and pointed desperately toward the 
  wall.
  Biron could only stare stupidly. The wall was quite blank. Artemisia made a face and 
  stepped quickly past him. Her hand on the wall caused a portion of it to slide noiselessly 
  aside, revealing a dressing room. Her lips motioned a “Get inside!” and her hands were 
  fumbling at the ornamental pin at her right shoulder. The unclasping of that pin broke 
  the tiny force field that held an invisible seam tightly closed down the length of the 
  dress. She stepped out of it.
  Biron turned around after stepping across what had been the wall, and its closing 
  endured just long enough for him to see her throwing a white-furred dressing gown 
  across her shoulders. The scarlet dress lay crumpled upon the chair.
  
  He looked about him and wondered if they would search Artemisia’s room. He would be 
  quite helpless if a search took place. There was no way out of the dressing room but the 
  way he had entered, and there was nothing in it that could serve as a still more confined 
  hiding place.
  Along one wall there hung a row of gowns, and the air shimmered very faintly before it. 
  His hand passed easily through the shimmer, with only a faint tingling where it crossed 
  his wrist, but then it was meant to repel only dust so that the space behind it could be 
  kept aseptically clean.
  He might hide behind the skirts. It was what he was doing, really. He had manhandled 
  two guards, with Gillbret’s help, to get here, but, now that he was here, he was hiding 
  behind a lady’s skirts. A lady’s skirts, in fact.
  Incongruously, he found himself wishing he had turned a bit sooner before the wall had 
  closed behind him. She had quite a remarkable figure. It was ridiculous of him to have 
  been so childishly nasty awhile back. Of course she was not to blame for the faults of 
  her father.
  And now he could only wait, staring at the blank wall; waiting for the sound of feet 
  within the room, for the wall to pull back once more, for the muzzles facing him again, 
  this time without a visisonor to help him.
  He waited, holding a neuronic whip in each hand.
    
   NINE:
    
   And an Overlord’s Trousers
    
   “What’s the matter?” Artemisia did not have to feign uneasiness. She spoke to Gillbret, 
  who, with the captain of the guard, was at the door. Half a dozen uniformed men 
  hovered discreetly in the background. Then, quickly, “Has anything happened to 
  Father?”
  “No, no,” Gillbret reassured her, “nothing has happened that need concern you at all. 
  
  Were you asleep?”
  “Just about,” she replied, “and my girls have been about their own affairs for hours. 
  There was no one to answer but myself and you nearly frightened me to death.”
  She turned to the captain suddenly, with a stiffening attitude. “What is wanted of me, 
  Captain? Quickly, please. This is not the time of day for a proper audience.”
  Gillbret broke in before the other could more than open his mouth. “A most amusing 
  thing, Arta. The young man, whatsisname--you know--has dashed off, breaking two 
  heads on his way. We’re hunting him on even terms now. One platoon of soldiers to one 
  fugitive. And here I am myself, hot on the trail, delighting our good captain with my zeal 
  and courage.”
  Artemisia managed to look completely bewildered.
  Under his breath the captain muttered a monosyllabic imprecation. His lips scarcely 
  moved. He said then, “If you please, my lord, you are not quite plain, and we are 
  delaying matters insufferably. My Lady, the man who calls himself the son of the ex-
  Rancher of Widemos has been arrested for treason. He has managed to escape and is 
  now at large. We must search the Palace for him, room by room.”
  Artemisia stepped back, frowning. “Including my room?”
  “If Your Ladyship permits.”
  “Ah, but I do not. I would certainly know if there was a strange man in my room. And 
  the suggestion that I might be having dealings with such a man, or any strange man, at 
  this time of night is highly improper. Please observe due respect for my position, 
  Captain.”
  It worked quite well. The captain could only bow and say, “No such implication was 
  intended, my lady. Your pardon for annoying you at this time of night. Your statement 
  that you have not seen the fugitive is, of course, sufficient. Under the circumstances, it 
  was necessary to assure ourselves of your safety. He is a dangerous man.”
  “Surely not so. dangerous that he cannot be handled by you and your company.”
  Gillbret’s high-pitched voice interposed again. “Captain, come--come. While you 
  exchange courtly sentiments with my niece, our man has had time to rifle the armory. I 
  would suggest that you leave a guard at the Lady Artemisia’s door, so that what remains 
  of her sleep will not be further disturbed. Unless, my dear”--and he twinkled his fingers 
  
  at Artemisia--”you would care to join us.”
  “I shall satisfy myself,” said Artemisia coldly, “in locking my door and retiring, thank 
  you.”
  “Pick a large one,” cried Gillbret. “Take that one. A fine uniform our guards have, 
  Artemisia. You can recognize a guard as far as you can see him by his uniform alone.”
  “My lord,” said the captain impatiently, “there is no time.You delay matters.”
  At a gesture from him, a guard fell out of the platoon, saluted Artemisia through the 
  closing door, then the captain. The sound of ordered footsteps fell away in both 
  directions.
  Artemisia waited, then slid the door quietly open an inch or two. The guard was there, 
  legs apart, back rigid, right hand armed, left hand at his alarm button. He was the guard 
  suggested by Gillbret, a tall one. As tall as Biron of Widemos, though without his 
  breadth of shoulders.
  It occurred to her, at that moment, that Biron, though young and, therefore, rather 
  unreasonable in some of his viewpoints, was at least large and well muscled, which was 
  convenient. It had been foolish of her to snap at him. Quite pleasant looking too.
  She closed the door, and stepped toward the dressing room.
    
  Biron tensed as the door slid away again. He held his breath and his fingers stiffened.
  Artemisia stared at his whips. “Becareful!”
  He puffed out his breath in relief and stuffed each into a pocket. They were very 
  uncomfortable there, but he had no proper holsters. He said, “That was just in” case it 
  was somebody looking for me.”
  “Come out. And speak in a whisper.”
  She was still in her night robe, woven out of a smooth fabric with which Biron was 
  unfamiliar, adorned with little tufts of silvery fur, and clinging to the body through some 
  faint static attraction inherent in the material, so that neither buttons, clasps, loops, or 
  seam fields were necessary. Nor, as a consequence, did it do more than merely faintly 
  dim the outlines of Artemisia’s figure.
  
  Biron felt his ears reddening, and liked the sensation very much.
  Artemisia waited, then made a little whirling gesture with her forefinger and said, “Do 
  you mind?”
  Biron looked up at her face. “What? Oh, I’m sorry.”
  He turned his back to her and remained stiffly attentive to the faint rustling of the change 
  of outer garments. It did not occur to him to wonder why she did not use the dressing 
  room, or why, better still, she had not changed before opening the door. There are depths 
  in feminine psychology, which, without experience, defy analysis.
  She was in black when he turned, a two-piece suit which did not reach below the knee. It 
  had that more substantial appearance that went with clothing meant for the outdoors 
  rather than for the ballroom.
  Biron said, automatically, “Are we leaving, then?”
  She shook her head. “You’ll have to do your part first. You’ll need other clothes 
  yourself. Get to one side of the door, and I’ll have the guard in.”
  “What guard?”
  She smiled briefly. “They left a guard at the door, at Uncle Oil’s suggestion.”
  The door to the corridor ran smoothly along its runners an inch or two. The guard was 
  still there, stiffly immobile.
  “Guard,” she whispered. “In here, quickly.”
  There was no reason for a common soldier to hesitate in his obedience to the Director’s 
  daughter. He entered the widening door, with a respectful, “At your service, my 1--” and 
  then his knees buckled under the weight which came down upon his shoulders, while his 
  words were cut off, without even an interrupting squawk, by the forearm which slammed 
  against his larynx.
  Artemisia closed the door hurriedly and watched with sensations that amounted almost 
  to nausea. The life in the Palace of the Hinriads was mild almost to decadence, and she 
  had never before seen a man’s face congest with blood and his mouth yawn and puff 
  futilely under the influence of asphyxia. She looked away.
  
  Biron bared his teeth with effort as he tightened the circle of bone and muscle about the 
  other’s throat. For a minute the guard’s weakening hands ripped futilely at Biron’s arm, 
  while his feet groped in aimless kicks. Biron heaved him clear of the floor without 
  relaxing his grip.
  And then the guard’s hands fell to his sides, his legs hung loosely, and the convulsive 
  and useless heavings of the chest began to subside. Biron lowered him gently to the 
  floor. The guard sprawled out limply, as though he were a sack which had been emptied.
  “Is he dead?” asked Artemisia, in a horrified whisper.
  “I doubt it,” said Biron. “It takes four or five minutes of it to kill a man. But he’ll be out 
  of things for a while. Do you have anything to tie him up with?”
  She shook her head. For the moment, she felt quite helpless.
  Biron said, “You must have some Cellite stockings. They would do fine.” He had 
  already stripped the guard of weapons and outer clothing. “And I’d like to wash up too. 
  In fact, I have to.”
  It was pleasant to step through the detergent mist in Artemisia’s bathroom. It left him 
  perhaps a trifle over-scented, but the open air would take care of the fragrance, he 
  hoped. At least he was clean, and it had required merely the momentary passage through 
  the fine, suspended droplets that shot past him forcefully in a warm air stream. No 
  special drying chamber was required, since he stepped out dry as well as clean. They 
  didn’t have this on Widemos, or on Earth.
  The guard’s uniform was a bit tight, and Biron did not like the way the somewhat ugly, 
  conical military cap fit over his brachycephalic head. He stared at his reflection with 
  some dissatisfaction. “How do I look?”
  “Quite like a soldier,” she said.
  He said, “You’ll have to carry one of these whips. I can’t handle three.”
  She took it between two fingers and dropped it into her bag, which was then suspended 
  from her wide belt by another microforce, so that her hands remained free.
  “We had better go now. Don’t say a word if we meet anyone, but let me do the talking. 
  Your accent isn’t right, and it would be impolite to talk in my presence unless you wore 
  directly addressed, anyway. Remember! You’re a common soldier.”
  
  The guard on the floor was beginning to wriggle a bit and roll his eyes. His wrists and 
  ankles were securely tied in a clump at the small of his back with stockings that had the 
  tensile strength of more than an equal amount of steel. His tongue worked futilely at his 
  gag.
  He had been shoved out of the way, so that it was not necessary to step over him to get 
  to the door.
  “This way,” breathed Artemisia.
  At the first turning there was a footstep behind them, and a light hand came down on 
  Biron’s shoulder.
  Biron stepped to one side quickly and turned, one hand catching the other’s arm, while 
  his other snatched at his whip.
  But it was Gillbret who said, “Easy, man!”
  Biron loosened his grip.
  Gillbret rubbed his arm. “I’ve been waiting for you, but that’s no reason to break my 
  bones. Let me stare admiringly at you, Farrill. Your clothes seem to have shrunk on you, 
  but not bad--not bad at all. Nobody would look twice at you in that getup. It’s the 
  advantage of a uniform. It’s taken for granted that a soldier’s uniform holds a soldier and 
  nothing else.”
  “Uncle Gil,” whispered Artemisia urgently, “don’t talk so much. Where are the other 
  guards?”
  “Everyone objects to a few words,” he said pettishly. “The other guards are working 
  their way up the tower. They’ve decided that our friend is on none of the lower levels, so 
  they’ve just left some men at the main exits and at the ramps, with the general alarm 
  system in operation as well. We can get past it.”
  “Won’t they miss you, sir?” asked Biron.
  “Me? Hah. The captain was glad to see me go, for all his toe scraping. They won’t look 
  for me, I assure you.”
  They were speaking in whispers, but now even those died away. A guard stood at the 
  bottom of the ramp, while two others flanked the large, carved double door that led to 
  the open air.
  
  Gillbret called out, “Any word of the escaped prisoner, men?”
  “No, my lord,” said the nearest. He clicked his heels together and saluted.
  “Well, keep your eyes open,” and they walked past them and out, one of the guards at 
  the door carefully neutralizing that section of the alarm as they left.
  It was nighttime outside. The sky was clear and starry, the ragged mass of the Dark 
  Nebula blotting out the specks of light near the horizon. Palace Central was a dark mass 
  behind them, and the Palace Field was less than half a mile away.
  But after five minutes of walking along the quiet path, Gillbret grew restless.
  “There’s something wrong,” he said.
  Artemisia said, “Uncle Oil, you haven’t forgotten to arrange to have the ship ready?”
  “Of course not,” he snapped at her, as nearly as one could snap in a whisper, “but why is 
  the Field Tower lit up? It should be dark.”
  He pointed up through the trees, to where the tower was a honeycomb of white light. 
  Ordinarily, that would indicate business at the field: ships leaving for space or arriving 
  from it.
  Gillbret muttered,“Nothing was scheduled for tonight. That was definite.”
  They saw the answer at a distance, or Gillbret did. He stopped suddenly and spread his 
  arms wide to hold back the others.
  “That’s all,” he said, and giggled almost hysterically. “This time Hinrik has really 
  messed things properly, the idiot. They’re here! The Tyranni! Don’t you understand? 
  That’s Aratap’s private armored cruiser.”
  Biron saw it, gleaming faintly under the lights, standing out among the other 
  undistinguished ships. It was smoother, thinner, more feline than the Rhodian vessels.
  Gillbret said, “The captainsaid a ‘personage’ was being entertained today, and I paid no 
  attention. There’s nothing to do now. We can’t fight Tyranni.”
  Biron felt something suddenly snap. “Why not?” he said savagely. “Why can’t we fight 
  them? They have no reason to suspect trouble, and we’re armed. Let’s take the 
  
  Commissioner’s own ship. Let’s leave him with his trousers down.”
  He stepped forward, out of the relative obscurity of the trees and onto the bare field. The 
  others followed. There was no reason to hide. They were two members of the royal 
  family and an escorting soldier.
  But it was the Tyranni they were fighting now.
    
  Simok Aratap of Tyrann had been impressed the first time he had ever seen the Palace 
  Grounds at Rhodia years earlier, but it had turned out to be only a shell that had 
  impressed him. The interior was nothing but a musty relic. Two generations earlier 
  Rhodia’s legislative chambers had met on these grounds and most of the administrative 
  offices had been quartered there. Palace Central had been the heartbeat of a dozen 
  worlds.
  But now the legislative chambers (still existing, for the Khan never interfered with local 
  legalisms) met once a year to ratify the executive orders of the past twelve months. It 
  was quite a formality. The Executive Council was still, nominally, in continuous session, 
  but it consisted of a dozen men who remained on their estates nine weeks in ten. The 
  various executive bureaus were still active, since one could not govern without them, 
  whether the Director or the Khan ruled, but they were now scattered over the planet; 
  made less dependent upon the Director, more conscious of their new masters, the 
  Tyranni.
  Which left the Palace as majestic as it had always been in stone and metal, and that only. 
  It housed the Directorial family, a scarcely adequate corps of servants, and an entirely 
  inadequate corps of native guards.
  Aratap felt uncomfortable in the shell and was unhappy. It was late, he was tired, his 
  eyes burned so that he longed to remove his contact lenses, and, most of all, he was 
  disappointed.
  There was no pattern! He glanced occasionally at his military aide, but the major was 
  listening to the Director with expressionless stolidity. As for Aratap himself, he paid 
  little attention.
  “Widemos’s son! Indeed?” he would say, in abstraction. Then, later, “And so you 
  arrested him? Quite right!”
  But it meant little to him, since events lacked a design. Aratap had a neat and tidy mind 
  
  which could not bear the thought of individual facts loosely clumped together with no 
  decent arrangement.
  Widemos had been a traitor, and Widemos’s son had attempted a meeting with the 
  Director of Rhodia. He had attempted it first in secret, and when that had failed, such 
  was the urgency, he had attempted it openly with his ridiculous story of an assassination 
  plot. Surely that must have been the beginning of a pattern.
  And now it fell apart. Hinrik was giving up the boy with indecent haste. He could not 
  even wait the night, it seemed. And that did not fit at all. Or else Aratap had not yet 
  learned all the facts.
  He focused his attention on the Director again. Hinrik was beginning to repeat himself. 
  Aratap felt a twinge of compassion. The man had been made into such a coward that 
  even the Tyranni themselves grew impatient with him. And yet it was the only way. Only 
  fear could insure absolute loyalty. That and nothing else.
  Widemos had not been afraid, and despite the fact that his self-interest had been bound 
  at every point with the maintenance of Tyrannian rule, he had rebelled. Hinrikwas afraid 
  and that made the difference,
  And because Hinrik was afraid, he sat there, lapsing into incoherence as he struggled to 
  obtain some gesture of approval. The major would give none, of course, Aratap knew. 
  The man had no imagination. He sighed and wished he had none either. Politics was a 
  filthy business.
  So he said, with some air of animation, “Quite so. I commend your, quick decision and 
  your zeal in the service of the Khan. You may be sure he will hear of it.”
  Hinrik brightened visibly, his relief obvious.
  Aratap said, “Have him brought in, then, and let us hear what our cockerel has to say.” 
  He suppressed a desire to yawn. He had absolutely no interest in what the “cockerel” 
  had to say.
  It was Hinrik’s intention at this point to signal for the captain of the guard, but there was 
  no necessity for that, as the captain stood in the doorway, unannounced.
  “Excellency,” he cried and strode in without waiting for permission.
  Hinrik stared hard at his hand, still inches from the signal, as though wondering whether 
  his intention had somehow developed sufficient force to substitute for the act.
  
  He said uncertainly, “What is it, Captain?”
  The captain said, “Excellency, the prisoner has escaped.”
  Aratap felt some of the weariness disappear. What was this? “The details, Captain!” he 
  ordered, and straightened in his chair.
  The captain gave them with a blunt economy of words.
  He concluded, “I ask your permission, Excellency, to proclaim a general alarm. They are 
  yet but minutes away.”
  “Yes, by all means,” stuttered Hinrik, “by all means. A general alarm, indeed. Just the 
  thing. Quickly! Quickly! Commissioner, I cannot understand how it could have 
  happened. Captain, put every man to work. There will be an investigation, 
  Commissioner. If necessary, every man on the guards will be broken. Broken! Broken!”
  He repeated the word in near hysteria but the captain remained standing. It was obvious 
  that he had more to say.
  Aratap said, “Why do you wait?”
  “May I speak to Your Excellency in private?” said the captain abruptly.
  Hinrik cast a quick, frightened look at the bland, unperturbed Commissioner. He 
  mustered a feeble indignation. “There are no secrets from the soldiers of the Khan, our 
  friends, our--”
  “Say your say, Captain,” interposed Aratap gently.
  The captain brought his heels together sharply and said, “Since I am ordered to speak, 
  Your Excellency, I regret to inform you that my Lady Artemisia and my Lord Gillbret 
  accompanied the prisoner in his escape.”
  “He dared to kidnap them?” Hinrik was on his feet. “And my guards allowed it?”
  “They were not kidnapped, Excellency. They accompanied him voluntarily.”
  “How do you know?” Aratap was delighted, and thoroughly awake. It formed a pattern 
  now, after all. A better pattern than he could have anticipated.
  
  The captain said, “We have the testimony of the guard they overpowered, and the guards 
  who, unwittingly, allowed them to leave the building.” He hesitated, then added grimly, 
  “When I interviewed my Lady Artemisia at the door of her private chambers, she told 
  me she had been on the point of sleep. It was only later that I realized that when she told 
  me that, her face was elaborately made-up. When I returned, it was too late. I accept the 
  blame for the mismanagement of this affair. After tonight I will request Your Excellency 
  to accept my resignation, but first have I still your permission to sound the general 
  alarm? Without your authority I could not interfere with members of the royal family.”
  But Hinrik was swaying on his feet and could only stare at him vacantly.
  Aratap said, “Captain, you would do better to look to the health of your Director. I 
  would suggest you call his physician.”
  “The general alarm!” repeated the captain.
  “There will be no general alarm,” said Aratap. “Do you understand me? No general 
  alarm! No recapture of the prisoner! The incident is closed! Return your men to their 
  quarters and ordinary duties and look to your Director. Come, Major.”
    
  The Tyrannian major spoke tensely once they had left the mass of Palace Central behind 
  them.
  “Aratap,” he said, “I presume you know what you’re doing. I kept my mouth shut in 
  there on the basis of that presumption.”
  “Thank you, Major.” Aratap liked the night air of a planet full of green and growing 
  things. Tyrann was more beautiful in its way, but it was a terrible beauty of rocks and 
  mountains. It was dry, dry!
  He went on: “You cannot handle Hinrik, Major Andros. In your hands he would wilt and 
  break. He is useful, but requires gentle treatment if he is to remain so.”
  The major brushed that aside. “I’m not referring to that. Why not the general alarm? 
  Don’t you want them?”
  “Do you?” Aratap stopped. “Let us sit here for a moment, Andros. A bench on a pathway 
  along a lawn. What more beautiful, and what place is safer from spy beams? Why do 
  you want the young man, Major?”
  
  “Why do I want any traitor and conspirator?”
  “Why do you, indeed, if you only catch a few tools while leaving the source of the 
  poison untouched? Whom would you have? A cub, a silly girl, a senile idiot?”
  There was a faint splashing of an artificial waterfall nearby. A small one, but decorative. 
  Now that was a real wonder to Aratap. Imagine water, spilling out, running to waste, 
  pouring 1ndefinitely down the rocks and along the ground. He had never educated 
  himself out of a certain indignation over it.
  “As it is,” said the major, “we have nothing.”
  “We have a pattern. When the young man first arrived, we connected him with Hinrik, 
  and that bothered us, because Hinrik is--what he is. But it was the best we could do. 
  Now we see it was not Hinrik at all; that Hinrik was a misdirection. It was Hinrik’s 
  daughter and cousin he was after, and that makes more sense.”
  “Why didn’t he call us sooner? He waited for the middle of the night.”
  “Because he is the tool of whoever is the first to reach him, and Gillbret, I am sure, 
  suggested this night meeting as a sign of great zeal on his part.”
  “You mean we were called here on purpose? Towitness their escape?”.
  “No, not for that reason. Ask yourself. Where do these people intend on going?”
  The major shrugged.--”Rhodia is big.”
  “Yes, if it were the young Farrill alone who was concerned. But where on Rhodia would 
  two members of the royal family go unrecognized? Particularly the girl.”
  “They would have to leave the planet, then? Yes, I agree.”
  “And from where? They can reach the Palace Field in a fifteen-minute walk. Now do 
  you see the purpose of our being here?”
  The major said,“Our ship?”
  “Of course. A Tyrannian ship would seem ideal to them. Otherwise, they would have to 
  choose among freighters. Farrill has been educated on Earth, and, I’m sure, can fly a 
  cruiser.”
  
  “Now there’s a point. Why do we allow the nobility to send out their sons in all 
  directions? What business has a subject to know more about travel than will suffice him 
  for local trade? We bring up soldiers against us.”
  “Nevertheless,” said Aratap, with polite indifference, “at the moment Farrill has a 
  foreign education, and let us take that into account objectively, without growing angry 
  about it. The fact remains that I am certain they have taken our cruiser.”
  “I can’t believe it.”
  “You have your wrist caller. Make contact with the ship, if you can.”
  The major tried, futilely.
  Aratap said, “Try the Field Tower.”
  The major did so, and the small voice came out of the tiny receiver, in minute agitation: 
  “But, Excellency, I don’t understand--There is some mistake. Your pilot took off ten 
  minutes ago.”
  Aratap was smiling. “You see? Work out the pattern and each little event becomes 
  inevitable. And now do you see the consequences?”
  The major did. He slapped his thigh, and laughed briefly. “Of course!” he said.
  “Well,” said Aratap, “they couldn’t know, of course, but they have ruined themselves. 
  Had they been satisfied with the clumsiest Rhodian freighter on the field, they would 
  surely have escaped and--what’s the expression?--I would have been caught with my 
  trousers down this night. As it is, my trousers are firmly belted, and nothing can 
  savethem. And when I pluck them back, in my own good time”--he emphasized the 
  words with satisfaction--”I will have the rest of the conspiracy in my hands as well.”
  He sighed and found himself beginning to feel sleepy once more. “Well, we have been 
  lucky, and now there is no hurry. Call Central Base, and have them send another ship 
  after us.”
    
   TEN:
    
  
   Maybe!
    
   Biron Farrill’s training in spationautics back on Earth had been largely academic. There 
  had been the university courses in the various phases of spatial engineering, which, 
  though half a semester was spent on the theory of the hyperatornic motor, offered little 
  when it came to the actual manipulation of ships in space. The best and most skilled 
  pilots learned their art in space and not in schoolrooms.
  He had managed to take off without actual accident, though that was more luck than 
  design. TheRemorseless answered the controls far more quickly than Biron had 
  anticipated. He had manipulated several ships on Earth out into space and back to the 
  planet, but those had been aged and sedate models, maintained for the use of students. 
  They had been gentle, and very, very tired, and had lifted with an effort and spiraled 
  slowly upward through the atmosphere and into space.
  TheRemorseless, on the other hand, had lifted effortlessly, springing upward and 
  whistling through the air, so that Biron had fallen backward out of his chair and all but 
  dislocated his shoulder. Artemisia and Gillbret, who, with the greater caution of the 
  inexperienced, had strapped themselves in, weFe bruised against the padded webbing. 
  The Tyrannian prisoner had lain pressed against the wall, tearing heavily at his bonds 
  and cursing in a monotone.
  Biron had risen shakily to his feet, kicked the Tyrannian into a brooding silence, and 
  made his way along the wall rail, hand over hand against the acceleration, back to his 
  seat. Forward blasts of power quivered the ship and reduced the rate of increasing 
  velocity to a bearable quantity.
  They were in the upper reaches of the Rhodian atmosphere by then. The sky was a deep 
  violet and the hull of the ship was hot with air friction, so that warmth could be felt 
  within.
  It took hours thereafter to set the ship into an orbit about Rhodia. Biron could find no 
  way of readily calculating the velocity necessary to overcome Rhodia’s gravity. He had 
  to work it by hit and miss, varying the velocity with puffs of power forward and 
  backward, watching the massometer, which indicated their distance from the planet’s 
  surface by measuring the intensity of the gravitational field. Fortunately, the massometer 
  was already calibrated for Rhodia’s mass and radius. Without considerable 
  experimentation, Biron could not have adjusted the calibration himself.
  Eventually, the massometer held steady and over a period of two hours showed no 
  
  appreciable drift. Biron allowed himself to relax, and the others climbed out of their 
  belts.
  Artemisia said, “You don’t have a very light touch, my Lord Rancher.”
  “I’m flying, my lady,” Biron replied curtly. “If you can do better, you’re welcome to try, 
  but only after I myself disembark.”
  “Quiet, quiet, quiet,” said Gillbret. “The ship is too cramped for pettishness, and, in 
  addition, since weare to be crushed into an inconvenient familiarity in this leaping prison 
  pen, I suggest we discard the many ‘lords’ and ‘ladies’ which will otherwise encrust our 
  conversation to an unbearable degree. I am Gillbret, you are Biron, she is Artemisia. I 
  suggest we memorize those terms of address, or any variation we care to use. And as for 
  piloting the ship, why not use the help of our Tyrannian friend here?”
  The Tyrannian glared, and Biron said, “No. There is no way we could trust him. And my 
  own piloting will improve as I get the hang of this ship. I haven’t cracked you up yet, 
  have I?”
  His shoulder still hurt as a result of the first lurch and, as usual, pain made him peevish.
  “Well,” said Gillbret, “whatdo we do with him?”
  “I don’t like to kill him in cold blood,” said Biron, “and that won’t help us. It would just 
  make the Tyranni doubly excited. Killing one of the master race is really the 
  unforgivable sin.”
  “But what is the alternative?”
  “We’ll land him.”
  “All right. But where?”
  “On Rhodia.”
  “What!”
  “It’s the one place they won’t be looking for us. Besides which, we’ve got to go down 
  pretty soon, anyway.”
  “Why?”
  
  “Look, this is the Commissioner’s ship, and he’s been using it for hopping about the 
  surface of the planet. It isn’t provisioned for space voyages. Before we go anywhere, 
  we’ll have to take complete inventory aboard ship, and at least make sure that we have 
  enough food and water.”
  Artemisia was nodding vigorously. “That’s right. Good! I wouldn’t have thought of that 
  myself. That’s very clever, Biron.”
  Biron made a deprecating gesture, but warmed with pleasure, nevertheless. It was the 
  first time she had used his first name. She could be quite pleasant, when she tried.
  Gillbret said, “But he’ll radio our whereabouts instantly.”
  “I don’t think so,” said Biron. “In the first place, Rhodia has its desolate areas, I 
  imagine. We don’t have to drop him into the business section of a city, or into the middle 
  of one of the Tyrannian garrisons. Besides, he may not be so anxious to contact his 
  superiors as you might think.... Say, Private, what would happen to a soldier who 
  allowed the Commissioner of the Khan to have his private cruiser stolen from him?”
  The prisoner did not answer, but his lip line became, pale and thin.
  Biron would not have wanted to be in the soldier’s place. To be sure, he could scarcely 
  be blamed. There was no reason why he should have suspected trouble resulting from 
  mere politeness to members of the Rhodian royal family. Sticking to the letter of the 
  Tyrannian military code, he had refused to allow them aboard ship without the 
  permission of his commanding officer. If the Director himself had demanded permission 
  to enter, he insisted, he would have to deny it. But, in the meantime, they had closed in 
  upon him, and by the time he realized he should have followed the military code still 
  more closely and had his weapon ready, it was too late. A neuronic whip was practically 
  touching his chest.
  Nor had he given in tamely, even then. It had taken a whip blast at his chest to stop him. 
  And, even so, he could face only court-martial and conviction. No one doubted that, 
  least of all the soldier.
    
  They had landed two days later at the outskirts of the city of Southwark. It had been 
  chosen deliberately because it lay far from the main centers of Rhodian population. The 
  Tyrannian soldier had been strapped into a repulsion unit and allowed to flutter 
  downward some fifty miles from the nearest sizable town.
  
  The landing, on an empty beach, was only mildly jerky, and Biron, as the one least likely 
  to be recognized, made the necessary purchases. Such Rhodian currency as Gillbret had 
  had the presence of mind to bring with him had scarcely sufficed for elementary needs, 
  since much of it went for a little biwheel and tow cart, on which he could carry the 
  supplies away piecemeal.
  “You might have stretched the money farther,” said Artemisia, “if you hadn’t wasted so 
  much of it on the Tyrannian mush you bought.”
  “I think there was nothing else to do,” said Biron hotly. “It may be Tyrannian mush to 
  you, but it’s a well-balanced food, and will see us through better than anything else I 
  could have gotten.”
  He was annoyed. It had been stevedore’s work, getting all that out of the city and then 
  aboard ship. And it had meant a considerable risk, buying it at one of the Tyrannian-run 
  commissaries in the city. He had expected appreciation.
  And there was no alternative anyway. The Tyrannian forces had evolved an entire 
  technique of supply adapted strictly to the fact that they used tiny ships. They couldn’t 
  afford the huge storage spaces of other fleets which were stacked with the carcasses of 
  whole animals, neatly hung in rows. They had had to develop a standard food 
  concentrate containing what was necessary in the way of calories and food factors and 
  let it go at that. It took up only one twentieth of the space that an equivalent supply of 
  natural animal food would take, and it could be piled up in the low-temperature 
  storeroom like packaged bricks.
  “Well, it tastes awful,” said Artemisia.
  “Well, you’ll get used to it,” retorted Biron, mimicking her petulance, so that she flushed 
  and turned away angrily.
  What was bothering her, Biron knew, was simply the lack of space and all that 
  accompanied the lack. It wasn’t just a question of using a monotonous food stock 
  because in that way more calories could be packed to the cubic inch. It was that there 
  were no separate sleeping rooms, for instance. There were the engine rooms and the 
  control room, which took up most of the ship’s space. (After all, Biron thought, this is a 
  warship, not a pleasure yacht.) Then there was the storeroom, and. one small cabin, with 
  two tiers of three bunks on either side. The plumbing was located in a little niche just 
  outside the cabin.
  It meant crowding; it meant a complete absence of privacy; and it meant that Artemisia 
  would have to adjust herself to the fact that there were no women’s clothes aboard, no 
  
  mirrors, no washing facilities.
  Well, she would have to get used to it. Biron felt that he had done enough for her, gone 
  sufficiently out of his way. Why couldn’t she be pleasant about it and smile once in a 
  while? She had a nice smile, and he had to admit that she wasn’t bad, except for her 
  temper. But oh, that temper!
  Well, why waste his time thinking about her?
  The water situation was the worst. Tyrann was a desert planet, in the first place, where 
  water was at a premium and men knew its value, so none was included on board ship for 
  washing purposes. Soldiers could wash themselves and their personal effects once they 
  had landed on a planet. During trips a little grime and sweat would not hurt them. Even 
  for drinking purposes, water was barely sufficient for the longer trips. After all, water 
  could be neither concentrated nor dehydrated, but had to be carried in bulk; and the 
  problem was aggravated by the fact that the water content of the food concentrates was 
  quite low.
  There were distilling devices to re-use water lost by the body, but Biron, when he 
  realized their function, felt sick and arranged for the disposal of waste products without 
  attempt at water recovery. Chemically, it was a sensible procedure, but one has to be 
  educated into that sort of thing.
  The second take-off was, comparatively, a: model of smoothness, and Biron spent time 
  playing with the controls afterward. The control board resembled only in the dimmest 
  fashion those of the ships he had handled on Earth. It had been compressed and 
  compacted frightfully. As Biron puzzled out the action of a contact or the purpose of a 
  dial, he wrote out minute directions on paper and pasted them appropriately on the 
  board.
  Gillbret entered the pilot room.
  Biron looked over his shoulder. “Artemisia’s in the cabin, I suppose?”
  “There isn’t anyplace else she could be and stay inside the ship.”
  Biron said, “When you see her, tell her I’ll make up a bunk here in the pilot room. I’d 
  advise you to do the same, and let her have the cabin to herself.” He muttered the 
  addition, “Now there’s one childish girl.”
  “You have your moments, too, Biron,” said Gillbret. “You’ll have to remember the sort 
  of life she’s used to.”
  
  “All right. I do remember it, and so what? What sort of life do you think I’m used to? I 
  wasn’t born in the mine fields of some asteroidal belt, you know. I was born on the 
  biggest Ranch of Nephelos. But if you’re caught in a situation, you’ve got to make the 
  best of it. Damn it, I can’t stretch the hull of the ship. It will hold just so much food and 
  water, and I can’t do anything about the fact that there isn’t any shower bath. She picks 
  on me as if I personally manufactured this ship.” It was a relief to shout at Gillbret. It 
  was a relief to shout at anybody.
  But the door opened again, and Artemisia stood there. She said, freezingly, “I would 
  refrain, Mr. Farrill, from shouting, if I were you. You can be distinctly heard all over the 
  ship.”
  “That,” said Biron, “does not bother me. And if the ship bothersyou, just remember that 
  if your father hadn’t tried to kill me off and marry you off, neither one of us would be 
  here.” c
  “Don’t talk about my father.”
  “I’ll talk about anyone I please.”
  Gillbret put his hands over his ears.“Please!”
  It brought the argument to a momentary halt. Gillbret said, “Shall we discuss the matter 
  of our destination now?It’s obvious at this point that the sooner we’re somewhere else 
  and out of this ship, the more comfortable we’ll be.”
  “I agree with you there, Oil,” said Biron. “Just let’s go somewhere where I don’t have to 
  listen to her clacking. Talk about women on space ships!”
  Artemisia ignored him and addressed Gillbret exclusively. “Why don’t we get out of the 
  Nebular area altogether?”
  “I don’t know about you,” said Biron at once, “but I’ve got to get my Ranch back and do 
  a little something about my father’s murder. I’ll stay in the Kingdoms.”
  “I did not mean,” said Artemisia, “that we were to leave forever; only till the worst of 
  the search was over. I don’t see what you intend doing about your Ranch, anyway. You 
  can’t get it back unless the Tyrannian Empire is broken to pieces, and I don’t see you 
  doing that.”
  “You never mind what I intend doing. It’s my business.”
  
  “Might I make a suggestion?” asked Gillbret mildly.
  He took silence for consent, and went on, “Then suppose I tell you where we ought to 
  go, and exactly what we ought to do to help break the Empire to pieces, just as Arta 
  said.”
  “Oh? How do you propose doing that?” said Biron.
  Gillbret smiled. “My dear boy, you’re taking a very amusing attitude. Don’t you trust 
  me? You look at me as though you think that any enterprise I might be interested in was 
  bound to be a foolish one. I got you out of the Palace.”
  “I know that. I’m perfectly willing to listen to you.”
  “Do so, then. I’ve been waiting for over twenty years for my chance to get away from 
  them. If I had been a private citizen, I could have done it long since; but through the 
  curse of birth, I’ve been in the public eye. And yet. if it hadn’t been for the fact that I 
  was born a Hinriad, I would not have attended the coronation of the present Khan of 
  Tyrann, and in that case I would never have stumbled on the secret which will someday 
  destroy that same Khan.”
  “Go on,” said Biron.
  “The trip from Rhodia to Tyrann was by Tyrannian warship, of course, as was the trip 
  back. A ship like this, I might say, but rather larger. The trip there was uneventful. The 
  stay on Tyrann had its points of amusements, but, for our purposes now, was likewise 
  uneventful. On the trip back, however, a meteor hit us.”
  “What?”
  Gillbret held up a hand. “I know quite well it’s an unlikely accident. The incidence of 
  meteors in space--especially in interstellar space--is low enough to make the chances of 
  collision with a ship completely insignificant, but it does happen, as you know. And it 
  did happen in this case. Of course any meteor that does hit, even when it is the size of a 
  pinhead, as most of them are, can penetrate the hull of any but the most heavily armored 
  ship.”
  “I know,” said Biron. “It’s a question of their momentum, which is a product of their 
  mass and velocity. The velocity more than makes up for their lack of mass.” He recited it 
  glumly, like a school lesson, and caught himself watching Artemisia furtively.
  
  She had seated herself to listen to Gillbret, and she was so close to him that they were 
  almost touching. It occurred to Biron that her profile was beautiful as she sat there, even 
  if her hair was becoming a little bedraggled. She wasn’t wearing her little jacket, and the 
  fluffy whiteness of her blouse was still smooth and unwrinkled after forty-eight hours. 
  He wondered how she managed that.
  The trip, he decided, could be quite wonderful if she would only learn to behave herself. 
  The trouble was that no one had ever controlled her properly, that was all. Certainly not 
  her father. She’d become too used to having her own way. If she’d been born a 
  commoner, she would be a very lovely creature.
  He was just beginning to slip into a tiny daydream in whichhe controlled her properly 
  and brought her to a state of proper appreciation of himself, when she turned her head 
  and met his eye calmly. Biron looked away and fastened his attention instantly on 
  Gillbret. He had missed a few sentences.
  “I haven’t the slightest idea why the ship’s screen had failed. It was just one of those 
  things to which no one will ever know the answer, but it had failed. Anyway, the meteor 
  struck amidships. It was pebble-sized and piercing the hull slowed it just sufficiently so 
  that it couldn’t blaze its way out again through the other side. If it had done that, there 
  would have been little harm to it, since the hull could have been temporarily patched in 
  no time.
  “As it was, however, it plunged into the control room, ricocheted off the far wall and 
  slammed back and forth till it came to a halt. It couldn’t have taken more than a fraction 
  of a minute to come to a halt, but at an original velocity of a hundred miles a minute, it 
  must have crisscrossed the room a hundred times. Both crewmen were cut to pieces, and 
  I escaped only because I was in the cabin at the time.
  “I heard the thin clang of the meteor when it originally penetrated the hull, then the 
  click-clack of its bouncing, and the terrifying short screams of the two crewmen. When I 
  jumped into the control room, there was only the blood everywhere and the torn flesh. 
  The things that happened next I remember only vaguely, although for years I lived it 
  over step by step in my nightmares.
  “The cold sound of escaping air led me to the meteor hole. I slapped a disk of metal over 
  it and air pressure made a decent seal of it. I found the little battered space pebble on the 
  floor. It was warm to the touch, but I hit it with a spanner and split it in two. The 
  exposed interior frosted over instantly. It was still at the temperature of space.
  “I tied a cord to the wrist of each corpse and then tied each cord to a towing magnet. I 
  dumped them through the air lock, heard the magnets clank against the hold, and knew 
  
  that the hard-frozen bodies would follow the ship now wherever it went. You see, once 
  we returned to Rhodia, I knew I would need the evidence of their bodies to show that it 
  had been the meteor that had killed them and not I.
  “But how was I to return? I was quite helpless. There was no wayI could run the ship, 
  and there was nothing I dared try there in the depths of interstellar space. I didn’t even 
  know how to use the sub-etheric communication system, so that I couldn’t SOS. I could 
  only let the ship travel on its own course.”
  “But you couldn’t very well do that, couldyou?” Biron said. He wondered if Gillbret 
  ‘were inventing this, either out of simple romantic imaginings or for some severely 
  practical reason of his own. “What about the Jumps through hyperspace? You must have 
  managed those, or you wouldn’t be here.”
  “A Tyrannian ship,” said Gillbret, “once the controls are properly set, will make any 
  number of Jumps quite automatically.”
  Biron stared his disbelief. Did Gillbret take him for a fool? “You’re making that up,” he 
  said.
  “I am not. It’s one of the damned military advances which won their wars for them. 
  They didn’t defeat fifty planetary systems, outnumbering Tyrann by hundreds of times in 
  population and resources, just by playing mumblety-peg, you know. Sure they tackled us 
  one at a time, and utilized our traitors very skillfully, but they had a definite military 
  edge as well. Everyone knows that their tactics were superior to ours, and part of that 
  was due to the automatic Jump. It meant a great increase in the maneuverability of their 
  ships and made possible much more elaborate battle plans than any we could set up.
  “I’ll admit it’s one of their best-kept secrets, this technique of theirs. I never learned it 
  until I was trapped alone on theBloodsucker-- theTyranni have the most annoying 
  custom of naming their ships unpleasantly, though I suppose it’s good psychology--and 
  watched it happen. Iwatched it make the Jumps without a hand on the controls.”
  “And you mean to say that this ship can do that too?”
  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
  Biron turned to the control board. There were still dozens of contacts he had not 
  determined the slightest use for. Well, later!
  He turned to Gillbret again. “And the ship took you home?”
  
  “No, it didn’t. When that meteor wove its pattern through the control room, it didn’t 
  leave the board untouched. It would have been most amazing if it had. Dials were 
  smashed, the casing battered and dented. There was no way of telling how the previous 
  set of the controls had been altered, but it must have been somehow, because it never 
  took me back to Rhodia.
  “Eventually, of course, it began deceleration, and I knew the trip was theoretically over. 
  I couldn’t tell where I was, but I managed to maneuver the visiplate so that I could tell 
  there was a planet close enough to show a disk in the ship telescope. It was blind luck, 
  because the disk was increasing in size. The ship was heading for the planet.
  “Oh, not directly. That would have been too impossible to hope for. If I had just drifted, 
  the ship would have missed the planet by a million miles, at least, but at that distance I 
  could use ordinary etheric radio. I knew how to do that. It was after this was allover that 
  I began educating myself in electronics. I made up my mind that I would never be quite 
  so helpless again. Being helpless is one of the things that isn’t altogether amusing.”
  Biron prompted, “So you used the radio.”
  Gillbret went on: “Exactly, and they came and got me;”
  “Who?”
  “The men of the planet. It was inhabited.”
  “Well, the luck piles up. What planet wasit?”
  “I don’t know.”
  “You mean they didn’t tell you?”
  “Amusing, isn’t it? They didn’t. But it was somewhere among the Nebular Kingdoms!”
  “How did you know that?”
  “Because they knew the ship I was in was a Tyrannian vessel. They knew that by sight, 
  and almost blasted it before I could convince them I was the only one on board alive.”
  Biron put his large hands on his knees and kneaded them. “Now hold on and pull back. I 
  don’t get this. If they knew it was a Tyrannian vessel and intending blasting it, isn’t that 
  the best proof that the world wasnot in the Nebular Kingdoms? that it was anywhere but 
  there?”
  
  “No,by the Galaxy.” Gillbret’s eyes were shining, and his voice climbed in enthusiasm. 
  “Itwas in the Kingdoms. They took me to the surface, and what a world it was! There 
  were men there from allover the Kingdoms. I could tell by the accents. Andthey had no 
  fear of the Tyranni. The place was an arsenal. You couldn’t tell from space. It might have 
  been a rundown farming world, but the life of the planet was underground. Somewhere 
  in the Kingdoms, my boy,somewhere there is that planet still, and it isnot afraid of the 
  Tyranni, and it is going to destroy the Tyranni as it would have destroyed the ship I was 
  on then, if the crewmen had been still alive.”
  Biron felt his heart bound. For a moment he wanted to believe.
  After all, maybe. Maybe!
    
   ELEVEN:
    
   And Maybe Not!
    
   And then again, maybe not!
  Biron said, “How did you learn all this about its being an arsenal? How long did you 
  stay? What did you see?”
  Gillbret grew impatient. “It wasn’t exactly what I saw at all. They didn’t conduct me on 
  any tours, or anything like that.” He forced himself to relax. “Well, look, this is what 
  happened. By the time they got me off the ship, I was in more or less of a bad state. I 
  had been too frightened to eat much--it’s a terrible thing, being marooned in space --and 
  I must have looked worse than I really was.
  “I identified myself, more or less, and they took me underground. With the ship, of 
  course. I suppose they were more interested in the ship than in myself. It gave them a 
  chance to study Tyrannian spatio-engineering. They took me to what must have been a 
  hospital.”
  “But what did you see, Uncle?” asked Artemisia.
  
  Biron interrupted, “Hasn’t he ever toldyou this before?”
  Artemisia said, “No.”
  And Gillbret added, “I’ve never told anyone till now. I was taken to a hospital, as I said. 
  I passed research laboratories in that hospital that must have been better than anything 
  we have on Rhodia. On the way to the hospital I passed factories in which some sort of 
  metalwork was going on. The ships that had captured me were certainly like none I’ve 
  ever heard about.
  “It was all so apparent to me at the time that I have never questioned it in the years 
  since. I think of it as my ‘rebellion world,’ and I know that someday swarms of ships 
  will leave it to attack the Tyranni, and that the subject worlds will be called upon to rally 
  round the rebel leaders. From year to year I’ve waited for it to happen. Each new year 
  I’ve thought to myself: This may be the one. And, each time, I half hoped it wouldn’t be, 
  because I was longing to get away first, to join them so that I might be part of the great 
  attack. I didn’t want them to start without me.”
  He laughed shakily. “I suppose it would have amused most people to know what was 
  going on in my mind. Inmy mind. Nobody thought much of me, you know.”
  Biron said, “All this happened over twenty years ago, and they haven’t attacked? There’s 
  been no sign of them? No strange ships have been reported? No incidents? And you still 
  think--”
  Gillbret fired at him, “Yes, I do. Twenty years isn’t too long to organize a rebellion 
  against a planet that rules fifty systems. I was there just at the beginning of the rebellion. 
  I know that too. Slowly, since then, they must have been honeycombing the planet with 
  their underground preparations, developing newer ships and weapons, training more 
  men, organizing the attack.
  “It’s only in the video thrillers that men spring to arms at a moment’s notice; that a new 
  weapon is needed one day, invented the next, mass-produced the third, and used the 
  fourth. These things take time, Biron, and the men of the rebellion world must know 
  they will have to be completely ready before beginning. They won’t be able to strike 
  twice.
  “And what do you call ‘incidents’? Tyrannian ships have disappeared and never been 
  found. Space is big, you might say, and they might simply be lost, but what if they were 
  captured by the rebels? There was the case of theTireless two years back. It reported a 
  strange object close enough to stimulate the massometer, and then was never heard from 
  again. It could have been a meteor, I suppose, butwas it?
  
  “The search lasted months. They never found it.I think the rebels have it. TheTireless 
  was a new ship, an experimental model. It would be just what they would want.”
  Biron said, “Once having landed there, why didn’t you stay?”
  “Don’t you suppose I wanted to? I had no chance. I listened to them when they thought I 
  was unconscious, and I learned a bit more then. They were just starting, out there, at that 
  time. They couldn’t afford to be found out then. They knew I was Gillbret oth Hinriad. 
  There was enough identification on the ship, even if I hadn’t told them myself, which I 
  had. They knew that if I didn’t return to Rhodia there would be a full-scale search that 
  would not readily come to a halt.
  “They couldn’t risk such a search, so they had to see to it that I was returned to Rhodia. 
  And that’s where they took me.”
  “What!” cried Biron. “But that must have been an even greater risk. How did they do 
  that?”
  “I don’t know.” Gillbret passed his thin fingers through his graying hair, and his eyes 
  seemed to be probing uselessly into the backward stretches of his memory. “They 
  anesthetized me, I suppose. That part all blanks out. Past a certain point there is nothing. 
  I can only remember that I opened my eyes and was back in theBloodsucker; I was in 
  space, just off Rhodia.”
  “The two dead crewmen were still attached by the tow magnets? They hadn’t been 
  removed on the rebellion world?” asked Biron.
  “They were still there.”
  “Was there any evidence at all to indicate that you had been on the rebellion world?”
  “None; except for what I remembered.”
  “How did you know you were off Rhodia?”
  “I didn’t. I knew I was near a planet; the massometer said so. I used the radio again, and 
  this time it was Rhodian ships that came for me. I told my story to the Tyrannian 
  Commissioner of that day, with appropriate modifications. I made no mention of the 
  rebellion world, of course. And I said the meteor had hit just after the last Jump. I didn’t 
  want them to think I knew that a Tyrannian ship could make the Jumps automatically.”
  
  “Do you think the rebellion world found out that little fact? Did you tell them?”
  “I didn’t tell them. I had no chance. I wasn’t there long enough. Conscious, that is. But I 
  don’t know how long I was unconscious and what they managed to find out for 
  themselves.”
  Biron stared at the visiplate. Judging from the rigidity of the picture it presented, the 
  ship they were on might have been nailed in space. TheRemorseless was traveling at the 
  rate of ten thousand miles an hour, but what was that to the immense distances of space. 
  The stars were hard, bright, and motionless. They had a hypnotic quality about them.
  He said, “Then where are we going? I take it you still don’t know where the rebellion 
  world is?”
  “I don’t. But I have an idea who would. I am almost sure I know.” Gillbret was eager 
  about it.
  “Who?”
  “The Autarch of Lingane.”
  “Lingane?” Biron frowned. He had heard the name some time back, it seemed to him, 
  but he had forgotten the connection. “Why he?”
  “Lingane was the last Kingdom captured by the Tyranni. It is not, shall we say, as 
  pacified as the rest. Doesn’t that make sense?”
  “As far as it goes. But how far is that?”
  “If you want another reason, there is your father.”
  “My father?” For a moment Biron forgot that his father was dead. He saw him standing 
  before his mind’s eye, large and alive, but then he remembered and there was that same 
  cold wrench inside him. “How does my father come into this?”
  “He was at court six months ago. I gained certain notions as to what he wanted. Some of 
  his talks with my cousin, Hinrik, I overheard.”
  “Oh, Uncle,” said Artemisia impatiently.
  “My dear?”
  
  “You had no right to eavesdrop on Father’s private discussions.”
  Gillbret shrugged. “Of course not, but it was amusing, and useful as well. “
  Biron interrupted, “Now, wait. You say it was six months ago that my father was at 
  Rhodia?” He felt excitement mount.
  “Yes.”
  “Tell me. While there, did he have access to the Director’s collection of Primitivism? 
  You told me once that the Director had a large library of matters concerning Earth. “
  “I imagine so. The library is quite famous and it is usually made available to 
  distinguished visitors, if they’re interested. They usually aren’t, but your father was. Yes, 
  I remember that very well. He spent nearly a day there.”
  That checked. It had been half a year ago that his father had first asked his help. Biron 
  said, “You yourself know the library well, I imagine.”
  “Of course.”
  “Is there anything in the library that would suggest that there. exists a document on 
  Earth of great military value?”
  Gillbret was blank of face and, obviously, blank of mind.
  Biron said, “Somewhere in the last centuries of prehistoric
  Earth there must have been such a document. I can only tell you that my father thought it 
  to be the most valuable single item in the Galaxy, and the deadliest. I was to have gotten 
  it for him, but I left Earth too soon, and in any case”--his voice faltered--”he died too 
  soon.”
  But Gillbret was still blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  “You don’t understand. My father mentioned it to me first six months ago. He must have 
  learned of it in the library on Rhodia. If you’ve been through it yourself, can’t you tell 
  me what it was he must have learned?”
  But Gillbret could only shake his head.
  Biron said, “Well, continue with your story.”
  
  Gillbret said, “They spoke of the Autarch of Lingane, your father and my cousin. 
  Despite your father’s cautious phraseology, Biron, it was obvious that the Autarch was 
  the fount and head of the conspiracy.
  “And then”--he hesitated--”there was a mission from Lingane and the Autarch himself 
  was at its head. I--I told him of the rebellion world.”
  “You said a while ago you told nobody,” said Biron.
  “Except the Autarch. Ihad to know the truth.”
  “What did he tellyou?”
  “Practically nothing. But then, he had to be cautious too. Could he trust me? I might 
  have been working for the Tyranni. How could he know? But he didn’t close the door 
  altogether. It’s our only lead.”
  “Is it?” Biron said. “Then we’ll go to Lingane. One place, I suppose, is like another.”
  Mention of his father had depressed him, and, for the moment, nothing mattered much. 
  Let it be Lingane.
    
  Let it be Lingane! That was easy to say. But how does one go about pointing the ship. at 
  a tiny speck of light thirty-five light-years away. Two hundred trillion miles. A two with 
  fourteen zeros after it. At ten thousand miles an hour (current cruising speed of 
  theRemorseless) it would take well over two million years to get there.
  Biron leafed through theStandard Galactic Ephemeris with something like despair. Tens 
  of thousands of stars were listed in detail, with their positions crammed into three 
  iigures. There were hundreds of pages of these figures, symbolized by the Greek letters? 
  (rho),? (theta), and f (phi).
  ?was the distance from the Galactic Center in parsecs;? , the angular separation, along 
  the plane of the Galactic Lens from the Standard Galactic Baseline (the line, that is, 
  which connects the Galactic Center and the sun of the planet, Earth) ; f the angular 
  separation from the Baseline in the plane perpendicular to that of the Galactic Lens, the 
  two latter measurements being expressed in radians. Given those three figures, one could 
  locate any star accurately in all the vast immensity of space.
  
  That is, on a given date. In addition to the star’s position on the standard day for which 
  all the data were calculated, one had to know the star’s proper motion, both speed and 
  direction. It was a small correction. comparatively, but necessary. A million miles is 
  virtually nothing compared with stellar distances, but it is a long way with a ship.
  There was, of course, the question of the ship’s own position. One could calculate the 
  distance from Rhodia by the reading of the massometer, or, more correctly, the distance 
  from Rhodia’s sun, since this far out in space the sun’s gravitational field drowned out 
  that of any of its planets. The direction they were traveling with reference to the Galactic 
  Baseline was more difficult to determine. Biron had to locate two known stars other than 
  Rhodia’s sun. From their apparent positions and the known distance from Rhodia’s sun, 
  he could plot their actual position.
  It was roughly done but, he felt sure, accurately enough. Knowing his own position and 
  that of Lingane’s sun, he had only to adjust the controls for the proper direction and 
  strength of the hyperatornic thrust.
  Biron felt lonely and tense. Not frightened! He rejected the word. But tense, definitely. 
  He was deliberately calculating the elements of the Jump for a time six hours later. He 
  wanted plenty of time to check his figures. And perhaps there might be the chance for a 
  nap. He had dragged the bed makings out of the cabin and it was ready for him now.
  The other two were, presumably, sleeping in the cabin. He told himself that that was a 
  good thing and that he wanted nobody around bothering him, yet when he heard the 
  small sound of bare feet outside, he looked up with a certain eagerness.
  “Hello,” he said, “why aren’t you sleeping?”
  Artemisia stood in the doorway, hesitating. She said, in a small voice, “Do you mind if I 
  come in? Will I be bothering you?”
  “It depends on what you do.”
  “I’ll try to do the right things.”
  She seemedtoo humble, Biron thought suspiciously, and then the reason for it came out.
  “I’m awfully frightened,” she said. “Aren’t you?”
  He wanted to say no, not at all, but it didn’t come out that way. He smiled sheepishly, 
  and said, “Sort of.”
  
  Oddly enough, that comforted her. She knelt down on the floor beside him and looked at 
  the thick volumes opened before him and at the sheets of calculations.
  “They had all these books here?”
  “You bet. They couldn’t pilot a ship without them.”
  “And you understand all that?”
  “Notall that. I wish I did. I hope I understand enough. We’ll have to Jump to Lingane, 
  you know.”
  “Is that hard to do?”
  “No, not if you know the figures, which are all here, and have the controls, which are all 
  there,and if you have experience, which I haven’t. For instance, it should be done in 
  several Jumps, but I’m going to try it in one because there’ll be less chance of trouble, 
  even though it means a wasteful use of energy.”
  He shouldn’t tell her; there was no point ill telling her; it would be cowardly to frighten 
  her; and she’d be hard to handle if she got really frightened, panicky frightened. He kept 
  telling himself all that and it did no good. He wanted to share it with somebody. He 
  wanted part of it off his own mind.
  He said, “There are some things I should know that I don’t. Things like the mass density 
  between here and Lingane affect the course of the Jump, because that mass density is 
  what controls the curvature of this part of the universe. TheEphemeris-- that’sthis big 
  book here--mentions the curvature corrections that must be made in certain standard 
  Jumps, and from those you’re supposed to be able to calculate your own particular 
  corrections. But then if you happen to have a super giant within ten light-years, all bets 
  are off. I’m not even sure if I used the computer correctly.”
  “But what would happen if you were wrong?”
  “Wecould re-enter space too close to Lingane’s sun.”
  She considered that, then said, “You have no idea how much better I feel.”
  “After what I’ve just said?”
  “Of course. In my bunk I simply felt helpless and lost with so much emptiness in all 
  directions. Now I know that we’re going somewhere and that the emptiness is under our 
  
  control.”
  Biron was pleased. How different she was. “I don’t know about it’s being under our 
  control.”
  She stopped him. “It is. Iknow you can handle the ship.”
  And Biron decided that maybe he could at that.
  Artemisia had tucked her long unclad legs under her and sat facing him. She had only 
  her filmy underclothes for cover, but seemed unconscious of the fact, though Biron was 
  definitely not.
  She said, “You know, I had an awfully queer sensation in the bunk, almost as I were 
  floating. That was one of the things that frightened me. Every time I’d turn, I’d give a 
  queer little jump into the air and then flop back slowly as if there were springs in the air 
  holding me back.”
  “You weren’t sleeping in a top bunk, were you?”
  “Yes, I was. The bottom ones give me claustrophobia, with another mattress six inches 
  over your head.”
  Biron laughed. “Then that explains it. The ship’s gravitational force is directed toward 
  its base, and falls off as we move away from it. In the top bunk you were probably 
  twenty or thirty pounds lighter than on the floor. Were you ever on a passenger liner? A 
  really big one?”
  “Once. When Father and I visited Tyrann last year.”
  “Well, on the liners they have the gravitation in all parts of the ship directed toward the 
  outer hull, so that the long axis of the ship is always ‘up,’ no matter where you are. 
  That’s why the motors of one of those big babies are always lined up in a cylinder 
  running right along the long axis. No gravity there.”
  “It must take an awful lot of power to keep an artificial gravity going.”
  “Enough to power a small town.”
  “There isn’t any danger of our running short of fuel, is there?”
  “Don’t worry about that. Ships are fueled by the total conversion of mass to energy. Fuel 
  
  is the last thing we’ll run out of. The outer hull will wear away first.”
  She was facing him. He noted that her face had been cleaned of its make-up and 
  wondered how that had been done; probably with a handkerchief and as little of the 
  drinking water as she could manage. She didn’t suffer as a result, for her clear white skin 
  was the more startlingly perfect against the black of her hair and eyes. Her eyes were 
  very warm, thought Biron.
  The silence had lasted a little too long. He said hurriedly, “You don’t travel very much, 
  do you? I mean, you were on a liner only once?”
  She nodded. “Once too often. If we hadn’t gone to Tyrann, that filthy chamberlain 
  wouldn’t have seen me and--I don’t want to talk about that.”
  Biron let it. go. He said, “Is that usual? I mean, not traveling.”
  “I’m afraid so. Father is always hopping around on state visits, opening agricultural 
  expositions, dedicating buildings. He usually just makes some speech that Aratap writes 
  for him. As for the rest of us, however, the more we stay in the Palace, the better the 
  Tyranni like it. Poor Gillbret! The one and only time he left Rhodia was to attend the 
  Khan’s coronation as Father’s representative. They’ve never let him get into a ship 
  again.”
  Her eyes were downcast and, absently, she pleated the material of Biron’s sleeve where 
  it ended at the wrist. She said, “Biron.”
  “Yes--Arta?” He stumbled a bit, but it came out.
  “Do you think Uncle Oil’s story can be true?”
  “Do you suppose it could be his imagination? He’s been brooding about the Tyranni for 
  years, and he’s never been able to do anything, of course, except to rig up spy beams, 
  which is only childish, and he knows it. He may have built himself a daydream and, over 
  the years, gradually come to believe in it. Iknow him, you see.”
  “Could be, but let’s follow it up a little. We can travel to Lingane, anyway.”
  They were closer to one another. He could have reached out and touched her, held her in 
  his arms, kissed her.
  And he did so.
  
  It was a completenon sequitur. Nothing, it seemed to Biron, had led to it. One moment 
  they were discussing Jumps and gravity and Gillbret, and the next she was soft and silky 
  in his arms and soft silky on his lips.
  His first impulse was to say he was sorry, to go through all the silly motions of apology, 
  but when he drew away and would have spoken, she still made no attempt at escape but 
  rested her head in the crook of his left arm. Her eyes remained closed.
  So he said nothing at all but kissed her again, slowly and thoroughly. It was the best 
  thing he could have done, and at the time he knew it.
  Finally she said, a bit dreamily, “Aren’t you hungry? I’ll bring you some of the 
  concentrate and warm it for you. Then, if you want to sleep, I can keep an eye on things 
  for you. And--and I’d better put on more of my clothes.”
  She turned as she was about to go out the door. “The food concentrate tastes very nice 
  after you get used to it. Thank you for getting it.”
  Somehowthat, rather than the kisses, was the treaty of peace between them.
  When Gillbret entered the control room, hours later, he showed no surprise at finding 
  Biron and Artemisia lost in a foolish kind of conversation. He made no remarks about 
  the fact that Biron’s arm was about his niece’s waist.
  He said, “When are we Jumping, Biron?”
  “In half an hour,” said Biron.
  The half hour passed; the controls were set; conversation languished and died.
  At zero time Biron drew a deep breath and yanked a lever the full length of its arc, from 
  left to right.
  It was not as it had been on the liner. TheRemorseless was smaller and the Jump was 
  consequently less smooth. Biron staggered, and for a split second things wavered.
  And then they were smooth and solid again.
  The stars in the visiplate had changed. Biron rotated the ship, so that the star field lifted, 
  each star moving in a stately arc. One star appeared finally, brilliantly white and more 
  than a point. It was a tiny sphere, a burning speck of sand. Biron caught it, steadied the 
  ship before it was lost again, and turned the telescope upon it, throwing in the 
  
  spectroscopic attachment.
  He turned again to theEphemeris, and checked under the column headed “Spectral 
  Characteristics.” Then he got out of the pilot’s chair and said, “It’s still too far. I’ll have 
  to nudge up to it. But, anyway, that’s Lingane right ahead.”
  It was the first Jump he had ever made, and it was successful.
    
   TWELVE:
    
   The Autarch Comes
    
   The Autarch of Lingane pondered the matter, but his cool, well-trained features scarcely 
  creased under the impact of thought.
  “And you waited forty-eight hours to tell me,” he said.
  Rizzett said boldly, “There was no reason to tell you earlier. If we bombarded you with 
  all matters, life would be a burden to you. We tell you now because we still make 
  nothing of it. It is queer, and in our position we can afford nothing queer.”
  “Repeat this business. Let me hear it again.”
  The Autarch threw a leg upon the flaring window sill and looked outward thoughtfully. 
  The window itself represented perhaps the greatest single oddity of Linganian 
  architecture. It was moderate in size and set at the end of a five-foot recess that 
  narrowed gently toward it. It was extremely clear, immensely thick, and precisely 
  curved; not so much a window as a lens, funneling the light inward from all directions, 
  so that, looking outward, one eyed a miniature panorama.
  From any window in the Autarch’s Manor a sweep of vision embracing half the horizon 
  from zenith to nadir could be seen. At the edges there was increasing minuteness and 
  distortion, but that itself lent a certain flavor to what one saw: the tiny flattened motions 
  of the city; the creeping, curved orbits of the crescent-shaped stratospherics climbing 
  from the airport. One grew so used to it that unhinging the window to allow the flat 
  tameness of reality to enter would seem unnatural. When the position of the sun made 
  
  the lenslike windows a focus for impossible heat and light, they were blanked out 
  automatically, rather than opened, rendered opaque by a shift in the polarization 
  characteristics of the glass.
  And certainly the theory that a planet’s architecture is the reflection of a planet’s place in 
  the Galaxy would seem to be borne out by the case of Lingane and its windows.
  Like the windows, Lingane was small yet commanded a panoramic view. It was a 
  “planet state” in a Galaxy, which, at the time, had passed beyond that stage of economic 
  and political development. Where most political units were con. glomerations of stellar 
  systems, Lingane remained what it had been for centuries--a single inhabited world. This 
  did not prevent it from being wealthy. In fact, it was almost inconceivable that Lingane 
  could be anything else.
  It is difficult to tell in advance when a world is so located that many Jump routes may 
  use it as a pivotal intermediate point; or evenmust use it in the interests of optimal 
  economy. A great deal depends on the pattern of development of that region of space. 
  There is the question of the distribution of the naturally habitable planets; the order in 
  which they are colonized and developed; the types of economy they possess.
  Lingane discovered its own values early, which was the great turning point of its history. 
  Next to the actual possession of a strategic position, the capacity to appreciate and 
  exploit that position is most important. Lingane had proceeded to occupy small 
  planetoids with neither resources nor capacity for supporting an independent population, 
  choosing them only because they would help maintain Lingane’s trade monopoly. They 
  built servicing stations on those rocks. All that ships would need, from hyperatomic 
  replacements to new book reels, could be found there. The stations grew to huge trading 
  posts. From all the Nebular Kingdoms fur, minerals, grain, beef, timber poured in; from 
  the Inner Kingdoms, machinery, appliances, medicinals; finished products of all sorts 
  formed a similar flood.
  So that, like its windows, Lingane’s minuteness looked out on all the Galaxy. It was a 
  planet alone, but it did well.
  The Autarch said, without turning from the window, “Start with the mail ship, Rizzett. 
  Where did it meet this cruiser in the first place?”
  “Less than one hundred thousand miles off Lingane. The exact coordinates don’t matter. 
  They’ve been watched ever since. The point is that, even then, the Tyrannian cruiser was 
  in an orbit about the planet.”
  “As though it had no intention of landing, but, rather, was waiting for something?”
  
  “Yes.”
  “No way of telling how long they’d been waiting?”
  “Impossible, I’m afraid. They were sighted by no one else. We checked thoroughly.”
  “Very well,” said the Autarch. “We’ll abandon that for the moment. They stopped the 
  mail ship, which is, of course, interference with the mails and a violation of our Articles 
  of Association with Tyrann.”
  “I doubt that they were Tyranni. Their unsure actions are more those of outlaws, of 
  prisoners in flight.”
  “You mean the men on the Tyrannian cruiser? It may be what they want us to believe, of 
  course. ‘ At any rate, their only overt action was to ask that a message be delivered 
  directly to me.”
  “Directly to the Autarch, that is right.”
  “Nothing else?”
  “Nothing else.”
  “They at no time entered the mail ship?”
  “All communications were by visiplate. The mail capsule was shot across two miles of 
  empty space and caught by the ship’s net.”
  “Was it vision communication or sound only?”
  “Full vision. That’s the point. The speaker was described by several as being a young 
  man of ‘aristocratic bearing,’ whatever that means.”
  The Autarch’s fist clenched slowly. “Really? And no photo-impression was taken of the 
  face? That was a mistake.”
  “Unfortunately there was no reason for the mail captain to have anticipated the 
  importance of doing so, If any importance exists! Does all this mean anything to you, 
  sir?”
  The Autarch did not answer the question. “And this is the message?”
  
  “Exactly. A tremendous message of one word that we were supposed to bring directly to 
  you; a thing we did not do, of course. It might have been a fission capsule, for instance. 
  Men have been killed that way before.”
  “Yes, and Autarchs too,” said the Autarch. “Just the word ‘Gillbret.’ One word, 
  ‘Gillbret.’ “
  The Autarch maintained his indifferent calm, but a certain lack of certainty was 
  gathering, and he did not like to experience a lack of certainty. He liked nothing which 
  made him aware of limitations. An Autarch should have no limitations, and on Lingane 
  he had none that natural law did not impose.
  There had not always been an Autarch. In its earlier days Lingane had been ruled by 
  dynasties of merchant princes. The families who had first established the subplanetary 
  service stations were the aristocrats of the state. They were not rich in land, hence could 
  not compete in social position with the Ranchers and Grangers of the neighboring 
  worlds. But they were rich in negotiable currency and so could buy and sell those same 
  Ranchers and Grangers; and, by way of high finance, they sometimes did.
  And Lingane suffered the usual fate of a planet ruled (or misruled) under such 
  circumstances. The balance of power oscillated from one family to another. The various 
  groups alternated in exile. Intrigues and palace revolutions were chronic, so that if the 
  Directorship of Rhodia was the Sector’s prime example of stability and orderly 
  development, Lingane was the example of restlessness and disorder. “As fickle as 
  Lingane,” people said.
  The outcome was inevitable, if one judges by hindsight. As the neighboring planet states 
  consolidated into group states and became powerful, civil struggles on Lingane became 
  increasingly expensive and dangerous to the planet. The general population was quite 
  willing, finally, to barter anything for general calm. So they exchanged a plutocracy for 
  an autocracy, and lost little liberty in the exchange. The power of several was 
  concentrated in one, but that one, frequently enough, was deliberately friendly to the 
  populace he sought to use as a make-weight against the never-reconciled merchants.
  Under the Autarchy, Lingane increased its wealth and strength. Even the Tyranni, 
  attacking thirty years earlier at the height of their power, had been fought to a standstill. 
  They had not been defeated, but they had been stopped. The shock, even of that, had 
  been permanent. Not a planet had been conquered by the Tyranni since the year they had 
  attacked Lingane.
  Other planets of the Nebular Kingdoms were outright vassals of the Tyranni. Lingane, 
  
  however, was an Associated State, theoretically the equal “ally” of Tyrann, with its 
  rights guarded by the Articles of Association.
  The Autarch was not fooled by the situation. The chauvinistic of the planet might allow 
  themselves the luxury of considering themselves free, but the Autarch knew that the 
  Tyrannian danger had been held at arm’s length this past generation. Only that far. No 
  farther.
  And now it might be moving in quickly for the final, long-delayed bear hug. Certainly, 
  he had given it the opportunity it was waiting for. The organization he had built up, 
  ineffectual though it was, was sufficient grounds for punitive action of any type the 
  Tyranni might care to undertake. Legally, Lingane would be in the wrong.
  Was the cruiser the first reaching out for the final bear hug?
  The Autarch said, “Has a guard been placed on that ship?”
  “I said they were watched. Two of ourfreighters”-- hesmiled one-sidedly, “keep in 
  massometer range.”
  “Well, what do you make of it?”
  “I don’t know. The only Gillbret I know whose name by itself would mean anything is 
  Gillbret oth Hinriad of Rhodia. Have you had dealings with him?”
  The Autarch said, “I saw him on my last visit to Rhodia.”
  ”You told him nothing, of course.”
  “Of course.”
  Rizzett’s eyes narrowed. “I thought there might have been a certain lack of caution on 
  your part; that the Tyranni had been the recipients of an equal lack of caution on the part 
  of this Gillbret--the Hinriads are notable weaklings these days--and that this now was a 
  device to trap you into final self-betrayal.”
  “I doubt it. It comes at a queer time, this business. I have been away from Lingane for a 
  year or more. I arrived last week and I shall leave in a matter of days again. A message 
  such as this reaches me just when I am in a positionto be reached.”
  “You don’t think it is a coincidence?”
  
  “I don’t believe in coincidence. And there isone way in which all this would not be 
  coincidence. I will therefore visit that ship. Alone.”
  “Impossible, sir.” Rizzett was startled. He had a small, uneven scar just above his right 
  temple and it suddenly showed red.
  “You forbid me?” asked the Autarch dryly.
  And he was Autarch, after all, since Rizzett’s face fell, and he said, “As you please, sir.”
    
  Aboard theRemorseless, the wait was proving increasingly unpleasant. For two days 
  they hadn’t budged from their orbit.
  Gillbret watched the controls with relentless concentration.His voice had an edge to it. 
  “Wouldn’t you say they were moving?”
  Biron looked up briefly. He was shaving, and handling the Tyranni erosive spray with 
  finicky care.
  “No,” he said, “they’re not moving. Why should they? They’re watching us, and they’ll 
  keep on watching us.”
  He concentrated upon the difficult area of the upper lip, and frowned impatiently as he 
  felt the slightly sour taste of the spray upon his tongue. A Tyrannian could handle the 
  spray with a grace that was almost poetic. It was undoubtedly the quickest and closest 
  non-permanent shaving method in existence, in the hands of an expert. In essence, it was 
  an extremely fine air-blown abrasive that scoured off the hairs without harming the skin. 
  Certainly the skin felt like nothing more than the gentle pressure of what might have 
  been an air stream.
  However, Biron felt queasy about it. There was the well-known legend, or story, or fact 
  (whatever it was), about the incidence of face cancer being higher among the Tyranni 
  than among other cultural groups, and some attributed this to the Tyranni shave spray. 
  Biron wondered for the first time if it might not be better to have his face completely 
  depilated. It was done in some parts of the Galaxy, as a matter of course. He rejected the 
  thought. Depilation was permanent. The fashion might always shift to mustaches or 
  cheek curls.
  Biron was surveying his face in the mirror, wondering how he would look in sideburns 
  down to the angle of the jaw, when Artemisia said from the doorway, “I thought you 
  
  were going to sleep.”
  “I did,” he said. “Then I woke up.” He looked up at her and smiled.
  She patted his cheek, then stroked it gently with her fingers. “It’s smooth. You look 
  about eighteen.”
  He carried her hand to his lips. “Don’t let that fool you,” he said.,
  She said, “They’re still watching?”
  “Still watching. Isn’t it annoying, these dull interludes that give you time to sit and 
  worry?”
  “I don’t find this interlude dull.”
  “You’re talking about other aspects of it now, Arta.”
  She said, “Why don’t we cross them up and land on Lingane?”
  “We’ve thought of it. I don’t think we’re ready for that kind of risk. We can afford to 
  wait till the water supply gets a bit lower.”
  Gillbret said loudly, “I tell you theyare moving.”
  Biron crossed over to the control panel and considered the massometer readings. He 
  looked at Gillbret and said, “You may be right.”
  He pecked away at the calculator for a moment or two and stared at its dials.
  “No, the two ships haven’t moved relative to us, Gillbret. What’s changed the 
  massometer is that a third ship has joined them. As near as I can tell, it’s five thousand 
  miles off, about 46 degrees? and 192 degrees f from the ship-planet line, if I’ve got the 
  clockwise and counterclockwise conventions straight. If ‘ I haven’t, the figures are, 
  respectively, 314 and 168 degrees.”
  He paused to take another reading. “I think they’re approaching. It’s a small ship. Do 
  you think you can get in touch with them, Gillbret?”
  “I can try,” said Gillbret.
  “All right. No vision. Let’s leave it at sound, till we get some notion of what’s coming.”
  
  It was amazing to watch Gillbret at the controls of the etheric radio. He was obviously 
  the possessor of a native talent. Contacting an isolated point in space with a tight radio 
  beam remains, after all, a task in which the ship’s control-panel information can 
  participate only slightly. He had a notion of the distance of the ship which might be off 
  by a hundred miles plus or minus. He had two angles, either or both of which might 
  easily be wrong by five or six degrees in any direction.
  This left a volume of about ten million cubic miles within which the ship might be. The 
  rest was left to the human operator, and a radio beam which was a probing finger not 
  half a mile in cross section at the widest point of its receivable range. It was said that a 
  skilled operator could tell by the feel of the controls how closely the beam missed the 
  target. Scientifically, that theory was nonsense, of course, but it often seemed that no 
  other explanation was possible.
  In less than ten minutes the activity gauge of the radio was jumping and theRemorseless 
  was both sending and receiving.
  In another ten minutes Biron was able to lean back and say, “They’re going to send a 
  man aboard.”
  “Ought we to let them?” asked Artemisia.
  “Why not? One man? We’re armed.”
  “But if we let their ship get too close?”
  “We’re a Tyrannian cruiser, Arta. We’ve got three to five times their power, even if they 
  were the best warship Lingane had. They’re not allowed too much by their precious 
  Articles of Association, and we’ve got five high-caliber blasters.”
  Artemisia said, “Do you know how to use the Tyrannian blasters? I didn’t know you 
  did.”
  Biron hated to turn the admiration off, but he said, “Unfortunately, I don’t. At least, not 
  yet. But then, the Linganian ship won’t know that, you see.”
    
  Half an hour later the visiplate showed a visible ship. It was a stubby little craft, fitted 
  with twosets of four fins, as though it were frequently called upon to double for 
  stratospheric flight.
  
  At its first appearance in the telescope, Gillbret shouted in delight. “That’s the Autarch’s 
  yacht,” he cried, and his face wrinkled into a grin. “It’s his private yacht. I’m sure of it. I 
  told you that the bare mention of my name was the surest way to get his attention.”
  There was the period of deceleration and adjustment of velocity on the part of the 
  Linganian ship, until it hung motionless in the plate.
  A thin voice came from the receiver. “Ready for boarding?”
  “Ready!” clipped Biron. “One person only.”
  “One person,” came the response.
  It was like a snake uncoiling. The metal-mesh rope looped outward from the Linganian 
  ship, shooting at them harpoon-fashion. It’s thickness expanded in the visiplate, and the 
  magnestized cylinder that ended it approached and grew in size. As it grew closer, it 
  edged toward the rim of the cone of vision, then veered off completely.
  The sound of its contact was hollow and reverberant. The magnetized weight was 
  anchored, and the line was a spider thread that did not sag in a normal weighted curve 
  but retained whatever kinks and loops it had possessed at the moment of contact, these 
  moving slowly forward as units under the influence of inertia.
  Easily and carefully, the Linganian ship edged away and the line straightened. It hung 
  there then, taut and fine, thinning into space until it was an almost invisible thing, 
  glancing with incredible daintiness in the light of Lingane’s sun.
  Biron threw in the telescopic attachment, which bloated the ship monstrously in the field 
  of vision, so that one could see the origin of the half-mile length of connecting line and 
  the little figure that was beginning to swing hand over hand along it.
  It was not the usual form of boarding. Ordinarily, two ships would maneuver to near-
  contact, so that extensible air locks could meet and merge under intense magnetic fields. 
  A tunnel through space would connect the ships, and a man could travel from one to the 
  other with no further protection than he needed to wear aboard ship. Naturally, this form 
  of boarding required mutual trust.
  By space line, one was dependent upon his space suit. The approaching Linganian was 
  bloated in his, a fat thing of air-extended metal mesh, the joints of which required no 
  small muscular effort to work. Even at the distance at which he was, Biron could see his 
  arms flex with a snap as the joint gave and came to rest in a new groove.
  
  And the mutual velocities of the two ships had to be carefully adjusted. An inadvertent 
  acceleration on the part of either would tear the line loose and send the traveler tumbling 
  through space under the easy grip of the faraway sun and of the initial impulse of the 
  snapping line--with nothing, neither friction nor obstruction, to stop him this side of 
  eternity.
  The approaching Linganian moved on confidently and quickly. When he came closer it 
  was easy to see that it was not a simple hand-over-hand procedure. Each time the 
  forward hand flexed, pulling him on, he would let go and float onward some dozen feet 
  before his other hand had reached forward for a new hold.
  It was a brachiation through space. The spaceman was a gleaming metal gibbon.
  Artemisia said, “What if he misses?”
  “He looks too expert to do that,” said Biron, “but if he does, he’d still shine in the sun. 
  We’d pick him up again.”
  The Linganian was close now. He had passed out of the field of the visiplate. In another 
  five seconds there was the clatter of feet on the ship’s hull.
  Biron yanked the lever that lit the signals which outlined the ship’s air lock. A moment 
  later, in answer to an imperative series of raps, the outer door was opened. There was a 
  thump just beyond a blank section of the pilot-room’s wall. The outer door closed, the 
  section of wall slid away, and a man stepped through.
  His suit frosted over instantly, blanking the thick glass of his helmet and turning him 
  into a mound of white. Cold radiated from him. Biron elevated the heaters and the gush 
  of air that entered was warm and dry. For a moment the frost on the suit held its own, 
  then began to thin and dissolve into a dew.
  The Linganian’s blunt metal fingers were fumbling at the clasps of the helmet as though 
  he were impatient with his snowy blindness. It lifted off as a unit, the thick, soft 
  insulation inside rumpling his hair as it passed.
  Gillbret said, “Your Excellency!” In glad triumph, he said, “Biron, it is the Autarch 
  himself.”
  But Biron, in a voice that struggled vainly against stupefaction, could only say, “Jonti!”
    
  
   THIRTEEN:
    
   The Autarch Remains
    
   The Autarch gently toed the suit to one side and appropriated the larger of the padded 
  chairs.
  He said, “I haven’t had that sort of exercise in quite awhile. But they say it never leaves 
  you once you’ve learned, and, apparently, it hasn’t in my case. Hello, Farrill! My Lord 
  Gillbret, good day. And this, if I remember, is the Director’s daughter, the Lady 
  Artemisia!”
  He placed a long cigarette carefully between his lips and brought it to life with a single 
  intake of breath. The scented tobacco filled the air with its pleasant odor. “I did not 
  expect to see you quite so soon, Farrill,” he said.
  “Or at all, perhaps?” said Biron acidly.
  “One never knows,” agreed the Autarch. “Of course, with a message that read only 
  ‘Gillbret’; with the knowledge that Gillbret could not pilot a space ship; with the further 
  knowledge that I had myself sent a young man to Rhodia whocould pilot a space ship 
  and who was quite capable of stealing a Tyrannian cruiser in his desperation to escape; 
  and with the knowledge that one of the men on the cruiser was reported to be young and 
  of aristocratic bearing, the conclusion was obvious. I am not surprised to see you.”
  “I think you are,” said Biron. “I think you’re as surprised as hell to see me. As an 
  assassin, you should be. Do you think I am worse at deduction than you are?”
  “I think only highly of you, Farrill.”
  The Autarch was completely unperturbed, and Biron felt awkward and stupid in his 
  resentment. He turned furiously to the others. “This man is Sander Jonti--the Sander 
  Jonti I’ve told you of. He may be the Autarch of Lingane besides, or fifty Autarchs. It 
  makes no difference. To me he is Sander Jonti.”
  Artemisia said,“He is the man who--”
  
  Gillbret put a thin and shaking hand to his brow. “Control yourself, Biron. Are you 
  mad?”
  “Thisis the man! I amnot mad!” shouted Biron. He controlled himself with an effort. 
  “All right. There’s no point yelling, I suppose. Get off my ship, Jonti. Now that’s said 
  quietly enough. Get off my ship.”
  “My dear Farrill. For what reason?”
  Gillbret made incoherent sounds in his throat, but Biron pushed him aside roughly and 
  faced the seated Autarch. “You made one mistake, Jonti. Just one. You couldn’t tell in 
  advance that when I got out of my dormitory room back on Earth I would leave my wrist 
  watch inside. You see, my wrist-watch strap happened to be a radiation indicator.”
  The Autarch blew a smoke ring and smiled pleasantly.
  Biron said, “And that strap never turned blue, Jonti. There was no bomb in my room that 
  night. There was only a deliberately planted dud! If you deny it, you are a liar, Jonti, or 
  Autarch, or whatever you please to call yourself.
  “What is more,you planted that dud.You knocked me out with Hypnite and arranged the 
  rest of that night’s comedy. It makes quite obvious sense, you know. If I had been left to 
  myself, I would have slept through the night and would never have known that anything 
  was out of the way. So who rang me on the visiphone until he was sure I had awakened? 
  Awakened, that is, to discover the bomb, which had been deliberately placed near a 
  counter so that I couldn’t miss it. Who blasted my door in so that I might leave the room 
  before I found out that the bomb was only a dud after all? You must have enjoyed 
  yourself that night, Jonti.”
  Biron waited for effect, but the Autarch merely nodded in polite interest. Biron felt the 
  fury mount. It was like punching pillows, whipping water, kicking air.
  He said harshly, “My father was about to be executed. I would have learned of it soon 
  enough. I would, have gone to Nephelos, or not gone. I would have followed my own 
  good sense in the matter, confronted the Tyranni openly or not as I decided. I would 
  have known my chances. I would have been prepared for eventualities.
  “But you wanted me to go to Rhodia, to see Hinrik. But, ordinarily, you couldn’t expect 
  me to do whatyou wanted. I wasn’t likely to go toyou for advice. Unless, that is, you 
  could stage an appropriate situation. You did!
  “I thought I was being bombed and I could think of DO reason. You could. You seemed 
  
  to have saved my life. You seemed to know everything; what I ought to do next, for 
  instance. I was off balance, confused. I followed your advice.”
  Biron ran out of breath and waited for an answer. There was none. He shouted, “You did 
  not explain that the ship on which I left Earth was a Rhodian ship and that you had seen 
  to it that the captain had been informed of my true identity. You did not explain that you 
  intended me to be in the hands of the’ Tyranni the instant I landed on Rhodia. Do you 
  deny that?”
  There was a long pause. Jonti stubbed out his cigarette.
  Gillbret chafed one hand in the other. “Biron, you are being ridiculous. The Autarch 
  wouldn’t--”
  Then Jonti looked up and said quietly, “But the Autarch would. I admit it all. You are 
  quite right, Biron, and I congratulate you on your penetration. The bombwas a dud 
  planted by myself, and I sent you to Rhodia with the intention of having you arrested by 
  the Tyranni.”
  Biron’s face cleared. Some of the futility of life vanished. He said, “Someday, Jonti, I 
  will settle that matter. At the moment, it seems you are Autarch of Lingane with three 
  ships waiting for you out there. That hampers me a bit more than I would like. However, 
  theRemorseless is my ship. I am its pilot. Put on your suit and get out. The space line is 
  still in place.”
  “It is not your ship. You are a pirate rather than a pilot.”
  “Possession is all the law here. You have five minutes to get into your suit.”
  “Please. Let’s avoid dramatics. We need one another and I have no intention of leaving.”
  “I don’t needyou. I wouldn’t need you if the Tyrannian home fleet were closing in right 
  now and you could blast them out of space for me.”
  “Farrill,” said Jonti, “you are talking and acting like an adolescent. I’ve let you have 
  your say. May I have mine?”
  “No. I see no reason to listen to you.”
  “Do you see one now?”
  Artemisia screamed. Biron made one movement, then stopped. Red with frustration, he 
  
  remained tense but helpless.
  Jonti said, “I do take certain precautions. I am sorry to be so crude as to use a weapon as 
  a threat. But I imagine it will help me force you to hear me.”
  The weapon he held was a pocket blaster. It was not designed to pain or stun. It killed!
    
  He said, “For years I have been organizing Lingane against the Tyranni. Do you know 
  what that means? It has not been easy. It has been almost impossible. The Inner 
  Kingdoms will offer no help. We’ve known that from long experience. There is no 
  salvation for the Nebular Kingdoms but what they work out for themselves. But to 
  convince our native leaders of this is no friendly game. Your father was active in the 
  matter and was killed. Not a friendly game at all. Remember that.
  “And your father’s capture was a crisis to us. It was life and horrible death to us. He was 
  in our inner circles and the Tyranni were obviously not far behind us. They had to be 
  thrown off stride. To do so, I could scarcely temper my dealings with honor and 
  integrity. They fry no eggs.
  “I couldn’t come to you and say, ‘Farrill, we’ve got to put the Tyranni on a false scent. 
  You’re the son of the Rancher and therefore suspicious. Get out there and be friendly 
  with Hinrik of Rhodia so that the Tyranni may look in the wrong direction. Lead them 
  away from Lingane. It may be dangerous; you may lose your life, but the ideals for 
  which your father died come first.’
  “Maybe you would have done it, but I couldn’t afford to experiment. I maneuvered you 
  into doing it without your knowledge. It was hard, I’ll grant you. Still, I had no choice. I 
  thought you might not survive; I tell you that frankly. But you were expendable; and I 
  tell youthat frankly. As it turned out, you did survive, and I am pleased with that.
  “And there was one more thing, a matter of a document--”
  Biron said, “What document?”
  “You jump quickly. I said your father was working for me. So I know what he knew. 
  You were to obtain that document and you were a good choice, at first. You were on 
  Earth legitimately. You were young and not likely to be suspected. I say,at first!
  “But then, with your father arrested, you became dangerous. You would be an object of 
  prime suspicion to the Tyranni; and we could not allow the document to fall into your 
  
  possession, since it would then almost inevitably fall into theirs. We had to get you off 
  Earth before you could complete your mission. You see, it all hangs together.”
  “Thenyou have it now?” asked Biron.
  The Autarch said, “No, I have not. A document which might have been, the right one has 
  been missing from Earth for years. If itis the right one, I don’t know who has it. May I 
  put away the blaster now? It grows heavy.”
  Biron said, “Put it away.”
  The Autarch did so. He said, “What has your father told you about the document?”
  “Nothing that you don’t know, since he worked for you.”
  The Autarch smiled. “Quite so!” but the smile had little of real amusement in it.
  “Are you quite through with your explanation now?”
  “Quite through.”
  “Then,” said Biron, “get off the ship.”
  Gillbret said, “Now wait, Biron. There’s more than private pique to be considered here. 
  There’s Artemisia and myself, too, you know. We havesomething to say. As far as I’m 
  concerned, what the Autarch says makes sense. I’ll remind you that on Rhodia I saved 
  your life, so I think my’ views are to be considered.”
  “All right. You saved my life,” shouted Biron. He pointed a finger towards the air lock. 
  “Go with him, then. Go on. You get out of here too’. You wanted to find the Autarch. 
  There he is! I agreed to pilot you to him, and my responsibility is over. Don’t try to 
  tellme what to do.”
  He turned to Artemisia, some of his anger still brimming over. “And what about you? 
  You saved my life too. Everyone went around saving my life. Do you want to go with 
  him too?”
  She said calmly, “Don’t put words into my mouth, Biron. If I wanted to go with him, I’d 
  say so.”
  “Don’t feel any obligations. You can leave any time.”
  
  She looked hurt and he turned away. As usual, some cooler part of himself knew that he 
  was acting childishly. He had been made to look foolish by Jonti and he was helpless in 
  the face of the resentment he felt. And besides, why should they all take so calmly the 
  thesis that it was perfectly right to have Biron Farrill thrown to the Tyranni, like a bone 
  to the dogs, in order to keep them off Jonti’s neck. Damn it, what did they think he was?
  He thought of the dud bomb, the Rhodian liner, the Tyranni, the wild night on Rhodia, 
  and he could feel the stinging of self-pity inside himself.
  The Autarch said, “Well, Farrill?”
  And Gillbret said, “Well, Biron?”
  Biron turned to Artemisia. “What doyou think?”
  Artemisia said calmly, “I think he has three ships out there still, and is Autarch of 
  Lingane, besides. I don’t think you really have a choice.”
  The Autarch looked at her, and he nodded his admiration. “You are an intelligent girl, 
  my lady. It is good that such a mind should be in such a pleasant exterior.” For a 
  measurable moment his eyes lingered.
  Biron said, “What’s the deal?”
  “Lend me the use of your names and your abilities, and I will take you to what my Lord 
  Gillbret called the rebellion world.”
  Biron said sourly, “You think thereis one?”
  And Gillbret said simultaneously, “Then itis yours.”
  The Autarch smiled. “I think there is a world such as my lord described, but it is not 
  mine.”
  “It’snot yours,” said Gillbret despondently. “Does that matter, if I can find it?”
  “How?” demanded Biron.
  The Autarch said, “It is not so difficult as you might think. If we accept the story as it 
  has been told us, we must believe that there exists a world in rebellion against the 
  Tyranni. We must believe that it is located somewhere in the Nebular Sector and that in 
  twenty years it has remained undiscovered by the Tyranni. If such a situation is to 
  
  remain possible, there is only one place in the Sector where such a planet can exist.”
  “And where is that?”
  “You do not find the solution obvious? Doesn’t it seem inevitable that the world could 
  exist only within the Nebula itself?”
  “Insidethe Nebula!”
  Gillbret said, “Great Galaxy, of course.”
  And, at the moment, the solution did indeed seem obvious and inescapable.
  Artemisia said timidly, “Can people live on worlds inside the Nebula?”
  “Why not?” said the Autarch. “Don’t mistake the Nebula. It is a dark mist in space, but it 
  is not a poison gas. It is an incredibly attenuated mass of sodium, potassium, and 
  calcium atoms that absorb and obscure the light of the stars within it, and, of course, 
  those on the side directly opposite the observer. Otherwise, it is harmless, and, in the 
  direct neighborhood of a star, virtually undetectable.
  “I apologize if I seem pedantic, but I have spent the last several months at the University 
  of Earth collecting astronomical data on the Nebula.”
  “Why there?” said Biron. “It is a matter of little importance, but I met you there and I 
  am curious.”
  “There’s no mystery to it. I left Lingane originally on my own business. The exact 
  nature is of no importance. About six months ago I visited Rhodia. My agent, 
  Widemos--your father, Biron--had been unsuccessful in his negotiations with the 
  Director, whom we had hoped to swing to our side. I tried to improve matters and failed, 
  since Hinrik, with apologies to the lady, is not the type of material for our sort of work.”
  “Hear, hear,” muttered Biron.
  The Autarch continued. “But I did meet Gillbret, as he may have told you. So I went to 
  Earth, because Earth is the original home of humanity. It was from Earth that most of the 
  original explorations of the Galaxy set out. It is upon Earth that most of the records 
  exist. The Horsehead Nebula was explored quite thoroughly; at least, it was passed 
  through a number of times. It was never settled, since the difficulties of traveling 
  through a volume of space where stellar observations could not be made were too great. 
  The explorations themselves, however, were all I needed.
  
  “Now listen carefully. The Tyrannian ship upon which my Lord Gillbret was marooned 
  was struck by a meteor after its first Jump. Assuming that the trip from Tyrann to Rhodia 
  was along the usual trade route--and there is no reason to suppose anything else--the 
  point in space at which the ship left its route is established. It would scarcely have 
  traveled more than half a million miles in ordinary space between the first two Jumps. 
  We can consider such a length as a point in space.
  “It is possible to make another assumption. In damaging the control panels, it was quite 
  possible that the meteor might have altered the direction of the Jumps, since that would 
  require only an interference with the motion of the ship’s gyroscope. This would be 
  difficult but not impossible. To change thepower of the hyperatomic thrusts, however, 
  would require complete smashing of the engines, which, of course, were not touched by 
  the meteor.
  “With unchanged power of thrust, the length of the four remaining Jumps would not be 
  changed, nor, for that matter, would their relative directions. It would be analogous to 
  having a long, crooked wire bent at a single point in an unknown direction through an 
  unknown angle. The final position of the ship would lie somewhere on the surface of an 
  imaginary sphere, the center of which would be that point in space where the meteor 
  struck, and the radius of which would be the vector sum of the remaining Jumps.
  “I plotted such a sphere, and that surface intersects a thick extension of the Horsehead 
  Nebula. Some six thousand square degrees of the sphere’s surface, one fourth of the total 
  surface, lies in the Nebula. It remains, therefore, only to find a star lying within the 
  Nebula and within one million miles or so of the imaginary surface we are discussing. 
  You will remember that when Gillbret’s ship came to rest, it was within reach of a star.
  “Now how many stars within the Nebula do you suppose we can find that close to the 
  sphere’s surface? Remember there are one hundred billion radiating stars in the Galaxy.”
  Biron found himself absorbed in the matter almost against his will. “Hundreds, I 
  suppose.”
  “Five!” replied the Autarch. “Just five. Don’t be fooled by the one hundred billion 
  figure. The Galaxy is about seven trillion cubic light-years in volume, so that there are 
  seventy cubic light-years per star on the average. It is a pity that I do not know which of 
  those five have habitable planets. We might reduce the number of possibles to one. 
  Unfortunately, the early explorers had no time for detailed observations. They plotted 
  the positions of the stars, the proper motions, and the spectral types.”
  “So that in one of those five stellar system,” said Biron, “is located the rebellion world?”
  
  “Only that conclusion would fit the facts we know.”
  “Assuming Oil’s story can be accepted.”
  “I make that assumption.”
  “My story is true,” interrupted Gillbret intensely. “I swear it.”
  “I am about to leave,” said the Autarch, “to investigate each of the five worlds. My 
  motives in doing so are obvious. As Autarch of Lingane I can take an equal part in their 
  efforts.”
  “And with two Hinriads and a Widemos on your side, your bid for an equal part, and, 
  presumably, a strong and secure position in the new, free worlds to come, would be so 
  much the better,” said Biron.
  “Your cynicism doesn’t frighten me, Farrill. The answer is obviously yes. If there is to 
  be a successful rebellion, it would, again obviously, be desirable to have your fist on the 
  winning side.”
  “Otherwise some successful privateer or rebel captain might be rewarded with the 
  Autarchy of Lingane.”
  “Or the Ranchy of Widemos. Exactly.”
  “And if the rebellion is not successful?”
  “There will be time to judge of that when we find what we look for.”
  Biron said slowly, “I’ll go with you.”
  “Good! Then suppose we make arrangements for your transfer from this ship.”
  “Why that?”
  “It would be better for you. This ship is a toy.”
  “It is a Tyrannian warship. We would be wrong in abandoning it.”
  “As a Tyrannian warship, it would be dangerously conspicuous.”
  
  “Not in the Nebula. I’m sorry, Jonti. I’m joining you out of expedience. I can be frank 
  too. I want to find the rebellion world. But there’s no friendship between us. I stay at my 
  own controls.”
  “Biron,” said Artemisia gently, “the shipis too small for the three of us.”
  “As it stands, yes, Arta. But it can be fitted with a trailer. Jonti knows that as well as I 
  do. We’d have all the space we needed then, and still be masters at our own controls. 
  And, for that matter, it would effectively disguise the nature of the ship.”
  The Autarch considered. “If there is to be neither friendship nor trust, Farrill, I must 
  protect myself. You may have your own ship and a trailer to boot, outfitted as you may 
  wish. But I must have some guarantee for your proper behavior. The Lady Artemisia, at 
  least, must come with me.”
  “No!”said Biron.
  The Autarch lifted his eyebrows. “No? Let the lady speak.”
  He turned toward Artemisia, and his nostrils flared slightly. “I dare say you would find 
  the situation very comfortable, my lady.”
  “You, at least, wouldnot find it comfortable, my lord. Be assured of that,” she retorted. 
  “I would spare you the discomfort and remain here.”
  “I think you might reconsider if--” began the Autarch, as two little wrinkles at the bridge 
  of his nose marred the serenity of his expression.
  “I think not,” interrupted Biron. “The Lady Artemisia has made her choice.”
  “And you back her choice then, Farrill?” The Autarch was smiling again.
  “Entirely! All three of us will remain on theRemorseless. There will be no compromise 
  on that.”
  “You choose your company oddly.”
  “Do I?”
  “I think so.” The Autarch seemed idly absorbed in his fingernails. “You seem so 
  annoyed with me because I deceived you and placed your life in danger. It is strange, 
  then, is it not, that you should seem on such friendly terms with the daughter of a man 
  
  such as Hinrik, who in deception is certainly my master.”
  “I know Hinrik. Your opinions of him change nothing.”
  “You know everything about Hinrik?”
  “I know enough.”
  “Do you know that he killed your father?” The Autarch’s finger stabbed toward 
  Artemisia. “Do you know that the girl you are so deeply concerned to keep under your 
  protection is the daughter of your father’s murderer?”
    
   FOURTEEN:
    
   The Autarch Leaves
    
   The tableau remained unbroken for a moment. The Autarch had lit another cigarette. He 
  was quite relaxed, his face untroubled. Gillbret had folded into the pilot’s seat, his face 
  screwed up as though he were going to burst into tears. The limp straps of the pilot’s 
  stress-absorbing outfit dangled about him and increased the lugubrious effect.
  Biron, paper-white, fists clenched, faced the Autarch. Artemisia, her thin nostrils flaring, 
  kept her eyes not on the Autarch, but on Biron only.
  The radio signaled, the soft clickings crashing with the effect of cymbals in the small 
  pilot room.
  Gillbret jerked upright, then whirled on the seat.
  The Autarch said lazily, “I’m afraid we’ve been more talkative than I’d anticipated. I 
  told Rizzett to come get me if I had not returned in an hour.”
  The visual screen was alive now with Rizzett’s grizzled head.
  And then Gillbret said to the Autarch, “He would like to speak to you.” He made room.
  
  The Autarch rose from his chair and advanced so that his own head was within the zone 
  of visual transmission.
  He said, “I am perfectly safe, Rizzett.”
  The other’s question was heard clearly: “Who are the crew members on the cruiser, sir?”
  And suddenly Biron stood next to the Autarch. “I am Rancher of Widemos,” he said 
  proudly.
  Rizzett smiled gladly and broadly. A hand appeared on the screen in sharp salute. 
  “Greetings, sir.”
  The Autarch interrupted. “I will be returning soon with a young lady. Prepare to 
  maneuver for contact air locks.” And he broke the visual connection between the two 
  ships.
  He turned to Biron.”I assured them it was you on board ship. There was some objection 
  to my coming here alone otherwise. Your father was extremely popular with my men.”
  “Which is why you can use my name.”
  The Autarch shrugged.
  Biron said, “It is all you can use. Your last statement to your officer was inaccurate.”
  “In what way?”
  “Artemisia oth Hinriad stays with me.”
  “Still? After what I have told you?”
  Biron said sharply, “You have told me nothing. You have made a bare statement, but I 
  am not likely to take your unsupported word for anything. I tell you this without any 
  attempt at tact. I hope you understand me.”
  “Is your knowledge of Hinrik such that my statement seems inherently implausible to 
  you?”
  Biron was staggered. Visibly and apparently, the remark had struck home. He made no 
  answer.
  
  Artemisia said, “I say it’s not so.Do you have proof?”
  “No direct proof, of course. I was not present at any conferences between your father 
  and the Tyranni. But I can present certain known facts and allow you to make your own 
  inferences. First, the old Rancher of Widemos visited Hinrik six months ago. I’ve said 
  that already. I can add here that he was somewhat overenthusiastic in his efforts, or 
  perhaps he overestimated Hinrik’s discretion. At any rate, he talked more than he should 
  have. My Lord Gillbret can verify that.”
  Gillbret nodded miserably. He turned to Artemisia, who had turned to him with moist 
  and angry eyes. “I’m sorry, Arta, but it’s true. I’ve told you this. It was from Widemos 
  that I heard about the Autarch.”
  The Autarch said, “And it was fortunate for myself that my lord had developed such 
  long mechanical ears with which to sate his lively curiosity concerning the Director’s 
  meetings of state. I was warned of the danger, quite unwittingly, by Gillbret when he 
  first approached me. I left as soon as I could, but the damage, of course, had been done.
  “Now, to our knowledge, it was Widemos’s only slip, and Hinrik, certainly, has no 
  enviable reputation as a man of any great independence and courage. Your father, Farrill, 
  was arrested within half a year. If not through Hinrik, through this girl’s father, then 
  how?”
  Biron said, “You did not warn him?”
  “In our business we take our chances, Farrill, but hewas warned. After that he made no 
  contact, however indirect, with any of us, and destroyed whatever proof he had of 
  connection with us. Some among us believed that he should leave the Sector, or, at the 
  very least, go into hiding. He refused to do this.
  “I think I can understand why. To alter his way of life would prove the truth of what the 
  Tyranni must have learned, endanger the entire movement. He decided to risk his own 
  life only. He remained in the open.
  “For nearly half a year the Tyranni waited for a betraying gesture. They are patient, the 
  Tyranni. None came, so that when they could wait no longer, they found nothing in their 
  net but him.”
  “It’s a lie,” cried Artemisia. “It’s all a lie. It’s a smug, sanctimonious, lying story with no 
  truth in it. If all you said were true, they would be watching you too. You would be in 
  danger yourself. You wouldn’t be sitting here, smiling and wasting time.”
  
  “My lady, I do not waste my time. I have already tried to do what I could toward 
  discrediting your father as a source of information. I think I have succeeded somewhat. 
  The Tyranni will wonder if they ought to listen further to a man whose daughter and 
  cousin are obvious traitors. And then again, if they are still disposed to believe him, why, 
  I am on the point of vanishing into the Nebula where they will not find me. I should 
  think my actions tend to prove my story rather than otherwise.”
  Biron drew a deep breath and said, “Let us consider the interview at an end, Jonti. We 
  have agreed to the extent that we will accompany you and that you will grant us needed 
  supplies. That is enough. Granting that all you have just said is truth, it is still beside the 
  point. The crimes of the Director of Rhodia are not inherited by his daughter. Artemisia 
  oth Hinriad stays here with me, provided she herself agrees.”
  “I do,” said Artemisia.
  “Good. I think that covers everything. I warn you, by the way. You are armed; so am I. 
  Your ships are fighters, perhaps; mine is a Tyrannian cruiser.”
  “Don’t be silly, Farrill. My intentions are quite friendly. You wish to keep the girl here? 
  So be it. May I leave by contact air lock?”
  Biron nodded. “We will trust you so far.”
    
  The two ships maneuvered ever closer, until the flexible airlock extensions pouted 
  outward toward one another. Carefully, they edged about, trying for the perfect fit. 
  Gillbret hung upon the radio.
  “They’ll be trying for contact again in two minutes,” he said.
  Three times already the magnetic field had been triggered, and each time the extending 
  tubes had stretched toward one another and met off-center, gaping crescents of space 
  between them.
  “Two minutes,” repeated Biron, and waited tensely.
  The second hand moved and the magnetic field clicked into existence a fourth time, the 
  lights dimming as the motors adjusted to the sudden drain of power. Again the airlock 
  extensions reached out, hovered on the brink of instability, and then, with a noiseless jar, 
  the vibration of which hummed its way into the pilot room, settled into place properly, 
  clamps automatically locking in position. An air-tight seal had been formed.
  
  Biron drew the back of his hand slowly across his forehead and some of the tension 
  oozed out of him.
  “There it is,” he said.
  The Autarch lifted his space suit. There was still a thin film of moisture under it.
  “Thanks,” he said pleasantly. “An officer of mine will be right back. You will arrange 
  the details of the supplies necessary with him.”
  The Autarch left.
  Biron said, “Take care of Jonti’s officer for me for a while, will you, Oil. When he 
  comes in, break the air-lock contact. All you’ll have to do is remove the magnetic field. 
  This is the photonic switch you’ll flash.”
  He turned and stepped out of the pilot room. Right now he needed time for himself. 
  Time to think, mostly.
  But there was the hurried footstep behind him, and the soft voice. He stopped.
  “Biron,” said Artemisia, “I want to speak to you. “ He faced her. “Later, if you don’t 
  mind, Arta.”
  She was looking up at him intently. “No, now.”
  Her arms were poised as though she would have liked to embrace him but was not sure 
  of her reception. She said, “You didn’t believe what he said about my father?”
  “It has no bearing,” said Biron. “Biron,” she began, and stopped. It was hard for her to 
  say it. She tried again, “Biron, I know that part of what has been going on between us 
  has been because we’ve been alone and together and in danger, but--” She stopped 
  again.
  Biron said, “If you’re trying to say you’re a Hinriad, Arta, there’s no need. I know it. I 
  won’t hold you to anything afterward.”
  “No. Oh no.” She caught his arm and placed her cheek against his hard shoulder. She 
  was speaking rapidly. “That’s not it at all. It doesn’t matter about Hinriad and Widemos 
  at all. I--I love you, Biron.”
  
  Her eyes went up, meeting his. “I think you love me too. I think you would admit it if 
  you could forget that I am a Hinriad. Maybe you will now that I’ve said it first. You told 
  the Autarch you would not hold my father’s deeds against me. Don’t hold his rank 
  against me, either.”
  Her arms were around his neck now. Biron could feel the softness of her breasts against 
  him and the warmth of her breath on his lips. Slowly his own hands went upward and 
  gently grasped her forearms. As gently, he disengaged her arms and, still as gently, 
  stepped back from her.
  He said, “I am not quits with the Hinriads, my lady.”
  She was startled. “You told the Autarch that--”
  He looked away. “Sorry, Arta. Don’t go by what I told the Autarch.”
  She wanted to cry out that it wasn’t true, that her father had not done this thing, that in 
  any case--
  But he turned into the cabin and left her standing in the corridor, her eyes filling with 
  hurt and shame.
    
   FIFTEEN:
    
   The Hole in Space
    
   Tedor Rizzett turned as Biron entered the pilot room again. His hair was gray, but his 
  body was still vigorous and his face was broad, red, and smiling.
  He covered the distance between himself and Biron in a stride and seized the young 
  man’s hand heartily.
  “By the stars,” he said, “I’d need no word from you to tell me that you are your father’s 
  son. It is the old Rancher alive again.”
  “I wish it were,” said Biron, somberly.
  
  Rizzett’s smile faltered. “So do we all. Every one of us. I’m Tedor Rizzett, by the way. 
  I’m a colonel in the regular Linganian forces, but we don’t use titles in our own little 
  game. We even say ‘sir’ to the Autarch. That reminds me!” He looked grave. “We don’t 
  have lords and ladies or even Ranchers on Lingane. I hope I won’t offend if I forget to 
  throw in the proper title sometimes.”
  Biron shrugged.” As you said, no titles in our little game. But what about the trailer? I’m 
  to make arrangements with you, I take it.”
  For a flickering moment he looked across the room. Gillbret was seated, quietly 
  listening. Artemisia had her back to him. Her slim, pale fingers wove an abstracted 
  pattern on the photocontacts of the computer. Rizzett’s voice brought him back.
  The Linganian had cast an all-inclusive glance about the room. “First time I’ve ever seen 
  a Tyrannian vessel from the inside. Don’t care much for it. Now you’ve got the 
  emergency air lock due stern, haven’t you? It seems to me the power thrusters girdle the 
  midsection.”
  “That’s right.”
  “Good. Then there won’t be any trouble. Some of the old model ships had power 
  thrusters due stern, so that trailers had to be set off at an angle. This makes the gravity 
  adjustment difficult and the maneuverability in atmospheres just about nil.”
  “How long will it take, Rizzett?”
  “Not long. How big would you want it?”
  “How big could you get it?”
  “Super deluxe? Sure. If the Autarch says so, there’s no higher priority. We can get one 
  that’s practically a space ship in itself. It would even have auxiliary motors.”
  “It would have living quarters, I suppose.”
  “For Miss Hinriad? It would be considerably better than you have here--” He stopped 
  abruptly.
  At the mention of her name, Artemisia had drifted past coldly and slowly, moving out of 
  the pilot room. Biron’s eyes followed her.
  
  Rizzett said, “I shouldn’t have said Miss Hinriad, I suppose.”
  “No, no. It’s nothing. Pay no attention. You were saying?”
  “Oh, about the rooms. At least two sizable ones, with a
  communicating shower. It’s got the usual closet room and plumbing arrangements of the 
  big liners. She would be comfortable.”
  “Good. We’ll need food and water.”
  “Sure. Water tank will hold a two months’ supply; a little less if you want to arrange for 
  a swimming pool aboard ship. And you would have frozen whole meats. You’re eating 
  Tyrannian concentrate now, aren’t you?”
  Biron nodded and Rizzett grimaced.
  “It tastes like chopped sawdust, doesn’t it? What else?”
  “A supply of clothes for the lady,” said Biron.
  Rizzett wrinkled his forehead. “Yes, of course. Well, that will be her job.”
  “No, sir, it won’t. We’ll supply you with all the necessary measurements and you can 
  supply us with whatever we ask for in whatever the current styles happen to be.”
  Rizzett laughed shortly and shook his head. “Rancher, she won’t like that. She wouldn’t 
  be satisfied with any clothes she didn’t pi«k. Not even if they were the identical items 
  she would have picked if she had been given the chance. This isn’t a guess, now. I’ve 
  had experience with the creatures.”
  Biron said, “I’m sure you’re right, Rizzett. But that’s the way it will have to be.”
  “All right, but I’ve warned you. It will be your argument. What else?”
  “Little things. Little things. A supply of detergents. Oh yes, cosmetics, perfume--the 
  things women need. We’ll make the arrangements in time. Let’s get the trailer started.”
  And now Gillbret was leaving without speaking. Biron’s eyes followed him, too, and he 
  felt his jaw muscles tighten. Hinriads! They were Hinriads! There was nothing he could 
  do about it. They were Hinriads! Gillbret was one andshe was another.
  
  He said, “And, of course, there’ll be clothes for Mr. Hinriad and myself. That won’t be 
  very important.”
  “Right. Mind if I use your radio? I’d better stay on this ship till the adjustments are 
  made.”
  Biron waited while the initial orders went out. Then Rizzett turned on the seat and said, 
  “I can’t get used to seeing you here, moving, talking, alive. You’re so like him. The 
  Rancher used to speak about you every once in a while. You went to school on Earth, 
  didn’t you?”
  “I did. I would have graduated a little over a week ago, if things hadn’t been 
  interrupted.”
  Rizzett looked uncomfortable. “Look, about your being sent to Rhodia the way you 
  were. You mustn’t hold it against us. We didn’t like it. I mean, this is strictly between us, 
  but some of the boys didn’t like it at all. The Autarch didn’t consult us, of course. 
  Naturally, he wouldn’t. Frankly, it was a risk on his part. Some of us--I’m not 
  mentioning names--even wondered if we shouldn’t stop the liner you were on and pull 
  you off. Naturally that would have been the worst thing we could possibly have done. 
  Still, we might have done it, except that in the last analysis, we knew that the Autarch 
  must have known what he was doing.”
  “It’s nice to be able to inspire that kind of confidence.”
  “We know him. There’s no denying it. He’s got it here.” A finger slowly tapped his 
  forehead. “Nobody knows exactly what makes him take a certain course sometimes. But 
  it always seems the right one. At least he’s outsmarted the Tyranni so far and others 
  don’t.”
  “Like my father, for instance.”
  “I wasn’t thinking of him, exactly, but in a sense, you’re right. Even the Rancher was 
  caught. But then he was a different kind of man. His way of thinking was straight. He 
  would never allow for crookedness. He would always underestimate the worthlessness 
  of the next man. But then again, that was what we liked best, somehow. He was the 
  same to everyone, you know.
  “I’m a commoner for all I’m a colonel. My father was a metalworker, you see. It didn’t 
  make any difference to him. And it wasn’t that I was a colonel, either. If he met the 
  engineer’s ‘prentice walking down the corridor, he’d step aside and say a pleasant word 
  or two, and for the rest of the day, the ‘prentice would feel like a master engineman. It 
  
  was the way he had.
  “Not that he was soft. If you needed disciplining, you got it, but no more than your 
  share. What you got, you deserved, and you knew it. When he was through, he was 
  through. He didn’t keep throwing it at you at odd moments for a week or so. That was 
  the Rancher.
  “Now the Autarch, he’s different. He’s just brains. You can’t get next to him, no matter 
  who you are. For instance. He doesn’t really have a sense of humor. I can’t speak to him 
  the way I’m speaking to you right now. Right now, I’m just talking. I’m relaxed. It’s 
  almost free association. With him, you say exactly what’s on your mind with no spare 
  words.And you use formal phraseology, or he’ll tell you you’re slovenly. But then, the 
  Autarch’s the Autarch, and that’s that.”
  Biron said, “I’ll have to agree with you as far as the Autarch’s brains are concerned. Did 
  you know that he had deduced my presence aboard this ship before he ever got on?”
  “Hedid? We didn’t know that. Now, there, that’s what I mean. He was going to go 
  aboard the Tyrannian cruiser alone. To us, it seemed suicide. We didn’t like it. But we 
  assumed he knew what he was doing, and he did. He could have told us you were 
  probably aboard ship. He must have known it would be great news that the Rancher’s 
  son had escaped. But it’s typical. He wouldn’t.”
    
  Artemisia sat on one of the lower bunks in the cabin. She had to bend into an 
  uncomfortable position to avoid having the frame of the second bunk pry into her first 
  thoracic vertebra, but that was a small item to her at the moment.
  Almost automatically, she kept passing the palms of her hands down the side of her 
  dress. She felt frayed and dirty, and very tired.
  She was tired of dabbing at her hands and face with damp napkins. She was tired of 
  wearing the same clothes for a week. She was tired of hair which seemed dank and 
  stringy by now.
  And then she was almost on her feet again, ready to turn about sharply; she wasn’t going 
  to see him; she wouldn’t look at him.
  But it was only Gillbret. She sank down again. “Hello, Uncle Oil.”
  Gillbret sat down opposite her. For a moment his thin face seemed anxious and then it 
  
  started wrinkling into a smile. “I think a week of this ship is very unamusing too. I was 
  hoping you could cheerme up.”
  But she said, “Now, Uncle Oil, don’t start using psychology on me. If you think you’re 
  going to cajole me into feeling a responsibility for you, you’re wrong. I’m much more 
  likely to hit you.”
  “If it will make you feel better--”
  “I warn you again. If you hold out your arm for me to hit, I’ll do it, and if you say ‘Does 
  that make you feel better?’ I’ll do it again.”
  “In any case, it’s obvious you’ve quarreled with Biron. What about?”
  “I don’t see why there’s any necessity for discussion. Just leave me alone.” Then, after a 
  pause, “He thinks Father did what the Autarch said he did. I hate him for that.”
  “Your father?”
  “No! That stupid, childish, sanctimonious fool!”
  “Presumably Biron. Good. You hate him. You couldn’t put a knife edge between the 
  kind of hate that has you sitting here like this and something that would seem to my own 
  bachelor mind to be a rather ridiculous excess of love.”
  “Uncle oil,” she said, “could he really have done it?”
  “Biron? Done what?”
  “No! Father. Could Father have done it? Could he have informed against the Rancher?”
  Gillbret looked thoughtful and very sober. “I don’t know.” He looked at her out of the 
  corner of his eyes. “You know, hedid give Biron up to the Tyranni.”
  “Because he knew it was a trap,” she said vehemently. “And itwas. That horrible 
  Autarch meant it as such. He said so. The Tyranni knew who Biron was and sent him to 
  Father on purpose. Father did the only thing he could do. That should be obvious to 
  anybody.”
  “Even if we accept that”--and again that sideways look --”he did try to argue you into a 
  rather unamusing kind of marriage. If Hinrik could bring himself to do that--”
  
  She interrupted. “He had no way out there, either.”
  “My dear, if you’re going to excuse every act of subservience to the Tyranni as 
  something he had to do, why, then, how do you know he didn’t have to hint something 
  about the Rancher to the Tyranni?”
  “Because I’m sure he wouldn’t. You don’t know Father the way I do. He hates the 
  Tyranni. Hedoes. I know it. He wouldn’t go out of his way to help them. I admit that 
  he’s afraid of them and doesn’t dare oppose them openly, but if he could avoid it 
  somehow, he would never help them.”,
  “How do you know he could avoid it?”
  But she shook her head violently, so that her hair tumbled about and hid her eyes. It hid 
  the tears a bit too.
  Gillbret watched a moment, then spread his hands helplessly and left.
    
  The trailer was joined to theRemorseless by a waspwaist corridor attached to the 
  emergency air lock in the rear of the ship. It was several dozen times larger than the 
  Tyranni vessel in capacity, almost humorously outsized.
  The Autarch joined Biron in a last inspection. He said, “Do you find anything lacking?”
  Biron said, “No. I think we’ll be quite comfortable.”
  “Good. And by the way, Rizzett tells me the Lady Artemisia is not well, or at least that 
  she looks unwell. If she requires medical attention, it might be wise to send her to my 
  ship.”
  “She is quite well,” said Biron curtly.
  “If you say so. Would you be ready to leave in twelve hours?”
  “In two hours, if you wish.”
  Biron passed through the connecting corridor (he had to stoop a little) into 
  theRemorseless proper.
  He said with a careful evenness of tone, “You’ve got a private suite back there, 
  
  Artemisia. I won’t bother you. I’ll stay here most of the time.”
  And she replied coldly, “You don’t bother me, Rancher. It doesn’t matter to me where 
  you are.”
    
  And then the ships blasted off, and after a single Jump they found themselves at the edge 
  of the Nebula. They waited for a few hours while the final calculations were made on 
  Jonti’s ship. Inside the Nebula it would be almost blind navigation.
  Biron stared glumly at the visiplate. There was nothing there! One entire half of the 
  celestial sphere was taken up with blackness, unrelieved by a spark of light. For the first 
  time, Biron realized how warm and friendly the stars were, how they filled space.
  “It’s like dropping through a hole in space,” he muttered to Gillbret.
  And then they Jumped again, into the Nebula.
  Almost simultaneously Simok Aratap, Commissioner of the Great Khan, at the head of 
  ten armed cruisers, listened to his navigator and said, “That doesn’t matter. Follow them 
  anyway.”
  And not one light-year from the point at which theRemorseless  entered the Nebula, ten 
  Tyranni vessels did likewise.
    
   SIXTEEN:
    
   Hounds!
    
   Simok Aratap was a little uncomfortable in his uniform. Tyrannian uniforms were made 
  of moderately coarse materials and fit only indifferently well. It was not soldier-like to 
  complain of such inconveniences. In fact, it was part of the Tyrannian military tradition 
  that a little discomfort on the part of the soldier was good for discipline.
  But still Aratap could bring himself to rebel against that tradition to the extent of saying, 
  
  ruefully, “The tight collar irritates my neck.”
  Major Andros, whose collar was as tight, and who had been seen in no other than 
  military dress in the memory of man, said, “When alone, it would be quite within 
  regulations to open it. Before any of the officers or men, any deviation from regulation 
  dress would be disturbing influence.”
  Aratap sniffed. It was the second change induced by the quasi-military nature of the 
  expedition. In addition to being forced into uniform, he had to listen to an increasingly 
  self-assertive military aide. That had begun even before they left Rhodia.
  Andros had put it to him baldly.
  He had said, “Commissioner, we will need ten ships.”
  Aratap had looked up, definitely annoyed. At the moment he was getting ready to follow 
  the young Widemos in a single vessel. He laid aside the capsules in which he was 
  preparing his report for the Khan’s Colonial Bureau, to be forwarded in the unhappy 
  case that he did not return from the expedition.
  “Ten ships, Major?”
  “Yes, sir. Less will not do.”
  “Why not?”
  “I intend to maintain a reasonable security. The young man is going somewhere. You say 
  there is a well-developed conspiracy in existence. Presumably, the two fit together.”
  “And therefore?”
  “And therefore we must be prepared for a possibly well-developed conspiracy. One that 
  might be able to handle a single ship.”
  “Or ten. Or a hundred. Where does security cease?”
  “One must make a decision. In cases of military action, it is my responsibility. I suggest 
  ten.”
  Aratap’s contact lenses gleamed unnaturally in the wall light as he raised his eyebrows. 
  The military carried weight. Theoretically, in times of peace, the civilian made the 
  decisions, but here again, military tradition was a difficult thing to set aside.
  
  He said cautiously, “I will consider the matter.”
  “Thank you. If you do not choose to accept my recommendations, and my suggestions 
  have only been advanced as such, I assure you”--the major’s heels clicked sharply, but 
  the ceremonial deference was rather empty, and Aratap knew it--”that would be your 
  privilege. You would leave me, however, no choice but to resign my commission.”
  It was up to Aratap to retrieve what he could from that position. He said, “It is not my 
  intention to hamper you in any decision you may make on a purely military question, 
  Major. I wonder if you might be as amenable to my decisions in matters of purely 
  political importance.”
  “What matters are these?”
  “There is the problem of Hinrik. You objected yesterday to my suggestion that he 
  accompany us.”
  The major said dryly, “I consider it unnecessary. With our forces in action, the presence 
  of outlanders would be bad for morale.”
  Aratap sighed softly, just below the limits of hearing. Yet Andros was a competent man 
  in his way. There would be no use in displaying impatience.
  He said, “Again, I agree with you. I merely ask you to consider the political aspects of 
  the situation. As you know, the execution of the old Rancher of Widemos was politically 
  uncomfortable. It stirred up the Kingdoms unnecessarily. However necessary the 
  execution was, it makes it desirable to refrain from having the death of the son attributed 
  to us. As far as the people of Rhodia know, the young Widemos has kidnapped the 
  daughter of the Director, the girl, by the way, being a popular and much publicized 
  member of the Hinriads. It would be quite fitting, quite understandable, to have the 
  Director head the punitive expedition.
  “It would be a dramatic move, very gratifying to Rhodian patriotism. Naturally, he 
  would ask for Tyrannian assistance, and receive it, but that can be played down. It would 
  be easy, and necessary, to fix this expedition in the popular mind as a Rhodian one. If the 
  inner workings of the conspiracy are uncovered, it will have been a Rhodian discovery. 
  If the young Widemos is executed, it would be a Rhodian execution, as far as the other 
  Kingdoms are concerned.”
  The major said, “It would still be a bad precedent to allow Rhodian vessels to 
  accompany a Tyrannian military expedition. They would hamper us in a fight. In that 
  
  way, the question becomes a military one.”
  “I did not say, my dear Major, that Hinrik would command a ship. Surely you know him 
  better than to think him capable of commanding or even anxious to try. He will stay with 
  us. There will be no other Rhodian aboard ship.”
  “In that case, I waive my objection, Commissioner,” said the major.
    
  The Tyrannian fleet had maintained their position two light-years off Lingane for the 
  better part of a week and the situation was becoming increasingly unstable.
  Major Andros advocated an immediate landing on Lingane. “The Autarch of Lingane,” 
  he said, “has gone to considerable lengths to have us think him a friend of the Khan, but 
  I do not trust these men who travel abroad. They gain unsettling notions. It is strange 
  that just as he returns, the young Widemos travels to meet him.”
  “He has not tried to hide either his travels or his return, Major. And we do not know that 
  Widemos goes to meet him. He maintains an orbit about Lingane. Why does he not 
  land?”
  “Why does he maintain an orbit? Let us question what he does and not what he does not 
  do.”
  “I can propose something which will fit the pattern.”
  “I would be glad to hear it.”
  Aratap placed a finger inside his collar and tried futilely to stretch it. He said, “Since the 
  young man is waiting, we can presume he is waiting for something or somebody. It 
  would be ridiculous to think that, having gone to Lingane by so direct and rapid a route--
  a single Jump, in fact that he is merely waiting out of indecision. I say, then, that he is 
  waiting for a friend or friends to reach him. Thus reinforced, he will proceed elsewhere. 
  The fact that he is not landing on Lingane directly would indicate that he does not 
  consider such an action safe. That would indicate that Lingane in general--the Autarch in 
  particular--is not concerned in the conspiracy, although individual Linganians may be.”
  “I don’t know if we can always trust the obvious solution to be the correct one.”
  “My dear Major, this is not merely an obvious solution. It is a logical one. It fits a 
  pattern,”
  
  “Maybe it does. But just the same, if there are no further developments in twenty-four 
  hours, I will have no choice but to order an advance Linganeward.”
    
  Aratap frowned at the door through which the major had left. It was disturbing to have 
  to control at once the restless conquered and the short-sighted conquerors. Twenty-four 
  hours. Something might happen; otherwise he might have to find some way of stopping 
  Andros.
  The door signal sounded and Aratap looked up with irritation. Surely it could not be 
  Andros returning. It wasn’t. The tall, stooped form of Hinrik of Rhodia was in the 
  doorway, behind him a glimpse of the guard who accompanied him everywhere on the 
  ship. Theoretically, Hinrik had complete freedom of movement. Probably he himself 
  thought he had. At least, he never paid any attention to the guard at his elbow.
  Hinrik smiled mistily. “Am I disturbing you, Commissioner?”
  “Not at all. Take a seat, Director.” Aratap remained standing. Hinrik seemed not to 
  notice that.
  Hinrik said, “I have something of importance to discuss with you.” He paused, and some 
  of the intentness passed out of his eyes. He added in quite a different tone, “What a 
  large, fine ship this is!”
  “Thank you, Director.” Aratap smiled tightly. The nine accompanying ships were 
  typically minute in size, but the flagship on which they stood was an outsized model 
  adapted from the designs of the defunct Rhodian navy. It was perhaps the first sign of 
  the gradual softening of the Tyrannian military spirit that more and more of such ships 
  were being added to the navy. The fighting unit was still the tiny two-to-three-man 
  cruiser, but increasing the top brass found reasons for requiring large ships for their own 
  headquarters.
  It did not bother Aratap. To some of the older soldiers such increasing softness seemed a 
  degeneration; to himself it seemed increasing civilization. In the end--in centuries, 
  perhaps--it might even happen that the Tyranni would melt away as a single people, 
  fusing with the present conquered societies of the Nebular Kingdoms--and perhaps even 
  that might be a good thing.
  Naturally, he never expressed such an opinion aloud.
  
  “I came to tell you something,” said Hinrik. He puzzled over it awhile, then added, “I 
  have sent a message home today to my people. I have told them I am well and that the 
  criminal will be shortly seized and my daughter returned to safety.”
  “Good,” said Aratap. It was not news to him. He himself had written the message, 
  though it was not impossible that Hinrik by now had persuaded himself that he was the 
  writer, or even that he actually headed the expedition. Aratap felt a twinge of pity. The 
  man was disintegrating visibly.
  Hinrik said, “My people, I believe, are quite disturbed over this daring raid upon the 
  Palace by these well-organized bandits. I think they will be proud of their Director now 
  that I have taken such rapid action in response, eh, Commissioner? They will see that 
  there is still force among the Hinriads.” He seemed filled with a feeble triumph.
  “I think they will,” said Aratap.
  “Are we within range of the enemy yet?”
  “No, Director, the enemy remains where he was, just off Lingane.”
  “Still? I remember what I came to tell you.” He grew excited, so that the words tumbled 
  out. “It is very important, Commissioner. I have something to tell you. There is treachery 
  on board. I have discovered it. We must take quick action. Treachery--” He was 
  whispering.
  Aratap felt impatient. It was necessary to humor the poor idiot of course, but this was 
  becoming a waste of time. At this rate he would become so obviously mad that he would 
  be useless even as a puppet, which would be a pity.
  He said, “No treachery, Director. Our men are stanch and true. Someone has been 
  misleading you. You are tired.”
  “No, no.” Hinrik put aside Aratap’s arm which, for a moment, had rested upon his 
  shoulder. “Where are we?”
  “Why, here!”
  “The ship, I mean. I have watched the visiplate. We are near no star. We are in deep 
  space. Did you know that?”
  “Why, certainly.”
  
  “Lingane is nowhere near. Did you know that?”
  “It is two light-years off.”
  “Ah! Ah! Ah! Commissioner, no one is listening? Are you sure?” He leaned closely, 
  while Aratap allowed his ear to be approached. “Then how do we know the enemy is 
  near Lingane? He is too far to detect. We are being misinformed, and this signifies 
  treachery.”
  Well, the man might be mad, but the point was a good one. Aratap said, “This is 
  something fit for technical men, Director, and not for men of rank to concern themselves 
  with. I scarcely know myself.”
  “But as head of the expedition I should know. I am head, am I not?” He looked about 
  carefully. “Actually, I have a feeling that Major Andros does not always carry out my 
  orders. Is he trustworthy? Of course, I rarely give him orders. It would seem strange to 
  order a Tyrannian officer. But then, I must find my daughter. My daughter’s name is 
  Artemisia. She has been taken from me, and I am taking all this fleet to get her back. So 
  you see, I must know. I mean, I must know how it is known the enemy is at Lingane. My 
  daughter would be there too. Do you know my daughter? Her name is Artemisia.”
  His eyes looked up at the Tyranni Commissioner in appeal. Then he covered them with 
  his hand and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m sorry.”
  Aratap felt his jaw muscles clench. It was difficult to remember that the man before him 
  was a bereaved father and that even the idiot Director of Rhodia might have a father’s 
  feelings. He could not let the man suffer.
  He said gently, “I will try to explain. You know there is such a thing as a massometer 
  which will detect ships in space.”
  “Yes, yes.”
  “It is sensitive to gravitational effects. You know what I mean?”
  “Oh yes. Everything has gravity.” Hinrik was leaning toward Aratap, his hands gripping 
  one another nervously.
  “That’s good enough. Now naturally the massometer can only be used when the ship is 
  close, you know. Less than a million miles away or so. Also, it has to be a reasonable 
  distance from any planet, because if it isn’t, all you can detect is the planet, which is 
  much bigger.”
  
  “And has much more gravity.”
  “Exactly,” said Aratap, and Hinrik looked pleased.
  Aratap went on. “We Tyranni have another device. It is a transmitter which radiates 
  through hyperspace in all directions, and what it radiates is a particular type of distortion 
  of the space fabric which is not electromagnetic in character. In other words, it isn’t like 
  light or radio or even sub-etheric radio. See?”
  Hinrik didn’t answer. He looked confused.
  Aratap proceeded quickly. “Well, it’s different. It doesn’t matter how. We can detect that 
  something which is radiated, so that we can always know where any Tyrannian ship is, 
  even if it’s halfway across the Galaxy, or on the other side of a star.”
  Hinrik nodded solemnly.
  “Now,” said Aratap, “if the young Widemos had escaped in an ordinary ship, it would 
  have been very difficult to locate him. As it is, since he took a Tyrannian cruiser, we 
  know where he is at all times, although he doesn’t realize that. That is how we know he 
  is near Lingane, you see. And, what’s more, he can’t get away, so that we will certainly 
  rescue your daughter.”
  Hinrik smiled. “That is well done. I congratulate you, Commissioner. A very clever 
  ruse.”
  Aratap did not delude himself. Hinrik understood very little of what he had said, but that 
  did not matter. It had ended with the assurance of his daughter’s rescue, and somewhere 
  in his dim understanding there must be the realization that this, somehow, was made 
  possible by Tyrannian science.
  He told himself that he had not gone to this trouble entirely because the Rhodian 
  appealed to his sense of the pathetic. He had to keep the man from breaking down 
  altogether for obvious political reasons. Perhaps the return of his daughter would 
  improve matters. He hoped so.
  There was the door signal again and this time it was Major Andros who entered. Hinrik’s 
  arm stiffened on the armrest of his chair and his face assumed a hunted expression. He 
  lifted himself and began, “Major Andro--”
  But Andros was already speaking quickly, disregarding the Rhodian.
  
  “Commissioner,” he said, “theRemorseless has changed position.”
  “Surely he has not landed on Lingane,” said Aratap sharply.
  “No,” said the major. “He has Jumped quite away from Lingane.”
  “Ah. Good. He has been joined by another ship, perhaps.”
  “By many ships, perhaps. We can detect only his, as you are quite aware.”
  “In any case, we follow again.”
  “The order has already been given. I would merely like to point out that his Jump has 
  taken him to the edge of the Horsehead Nebula.”
  “What?”
  “No major planetary system exists in the indicated direction. There is only one logical 
  conclusion.”
  Aratap moistened his lips and left hurriedly for the pilot room, the major with him.
  Hinrik remained standing in the middle of the suddenly empty room, looking at the door 
  for a minute or so. Then, with a little shrug of the shoulders, he sat down again. His 
  expression was blank, and for a long while he simply sat.
    
  The navigator said, “The space co-ordinates of theRemorseless have been checked, sir. 
  They are definitely inside the Nebula.”
  “That doesn’t matter,” said Aratap. “Follow them anyway.”
  He turned to Major Andros. “So you see the virtues of waiting. There is a good deal that 
  is obvious now. Wherever else could the conspirators’ headquarters be but in the Nebula 
  itself? Where else could we have failed to locate them? Avery pretty pattern.”
  And so the squadron entered the Nebula.
    
  
  For the twentieth time Aratap glanced automatically at the visiplate. Actually, the 
  glances were useless, since the visiplate remained quite black. There was no star in 
  sight.
  Andros said, “That’s their third stop without landing. I don’t understand it. What is their 
  purpose? What are they after? Each stop of theirs is several days long. Yet they do not 
  land.”
  “It may take them that long,” said Aratap, “to calculate their next Jump. Visibility is 
  nonexistent.”
  “You think so?”
  “No. Their Jumps are too good. Each time they land very near a star. They couldn’t do as 
  well by massometer data alone, unless they actually knew the locations of the stars in 
  advance.”
  “Then why don’t they land?”
  “I think,” said Aratap, “they must be looking for habitable planets. Maybe they 
  themselves do not know the location of the center of conspiracy. Or, at least, not 
  entirely.” He smiled. “We need only follow.”
  The navigator clicked heels. “Sir!”
  “Yes?” Aratap looked up.
  “The enemy has landed on a planet.”
  Aratap signaled for Major Andros.
  “Andros,” said Aratap, as the major entered, “have you been told?”
  “Yes. I’ve ordered a descent and pursuit.”
  “Wait. You may be again premature, as when you wanted to lunge toward Lingane. I 
  think this ship only ought to go.”
  “Your reasoning?”
  “If we need reinforcements, you will be there, in command of the cruisers. If it is indeed 
  a powerful rebel center, they may think only one ship has stumbled upon them. I will get 
  
  word to you somehow and you can retire to Tyrann.”
  “Retire!”
  “And return with a full fleet.”
  Andros considered. “Very well. This is our least useful ship in any case. Too large.”
    
  The planet filled the visiplate as they spiraled down.
  “The surface seems quite barren, sir,” said the navigator.
  “Have you determined the exact location of theRemorseless?”
  “Yes, sir.”
  “Then land as closely as you can without being sighted.”
  They were entering the atmosphere now. The sky as they flashed along the day half of 
  the planet was tinged with a brightening purple. Aratap watched the nearing surface. The 
  long chase was almost over!
   SEVENTEEN:
    
   And Hares!
    
   To those who have not actually been in space, the investigation of a stellar system and 
  the search for habitable planets may seem rather exciting, at the least, interesting. To the 
  spaceman, it is the most boring of jobs.
  Locating a star, which is a huge glowing mass of hydrogen fusing into helium, is almost 
  too easy. It advertises itself. Even in the blackness of the Nebula, it is only a question of 
  distance. Approach within five billion miles, and it will still advertise itself.
  
  But a planet, a relatively small mass of rock, shining only by reflected light, is another 
  matter. One could pass through a stellar system a hundred thousand times at all sorts of 
  odd angles without ever coming close enough to a planet to see it for what it is, barring 
  the oddest of coincidences.
  Rather, one adopts a system. A position is taken up in space at a distance from the star 
  being investigated of some ten thousand times the star’s diameter. From Galactic 
  statistics it is known that not one time in fifty thousand is a planet located farther from 
  its primary than that. Furthermore, practically never is ahabitable planet located farther 
  from its primary than one thousand times its sun’s diameter.
  This means that from the position in space assumed by the ship, any habitable 
  planetmust be located within six degrees of the star. This represents an area only 
  1/3600th of the entire sky. That area can be handled in detail with relatively few 
  observations.
  The movement of the tele-camera can be so adjusted as to counteract the motion of the 
  ship in its orbit. Under those conditions a time exposure will pinpoint the constellations 
  in the star’s neighborhood; provided, of course, that the blaze of the sun itself is blocked 
  out, which is easily done. Planets, however, will have perceptible proper motions and 
  therefore show up as tiny streaks on the film.
  When no streaks appear, there is always the possibility that the planets are behind their 
  primary. The maneuver is therefore repeated from another position in space and, usually, 
  at a point closer to the star.
  It is a very dull procedure indeed, and when it has been repeated three times for three 
  different stars, each time with completely negative results, a certain depression of 
  morale is bound to occur.
  Gillbret’s morale, for instance, had been suffering for quite a while. Longer and longer 
  intervals took place between the moments when he found something “amusing.”
  They were readying for the Jump to the fourth star on the Autarch’s list, and Biron said, 
  “We hit a star each time, anyway. At least Jonti’s figures are correct.”
  Gillbret said, “Statistics show that one out of three stars has a planetary system.”
  Biron nodded. It was a well-worn statistic. Every child was taught that in elementary 
  Galactography.
  Gillbret went on, “That means that the chances of finding three stars at random without a 
  
  single planet--without one single planet--is two thirds cubed, which is eight twenty-
  sevenths, or less than one in three.”
  “So?”
  “And we haven’t found any. There must be a mistake.”
  “You saw the plates yourself. And, besides, what price statistics? For all we know, 
  conditions are different inside a Nebula. Maybe the particle fog prevents planets from 
  forming, or maybe the fog is the result of planets that didn’t coalesce.”
  “You don’t mean that?” said Gillbret, stricken.
  “You’re right. I’m just talking to hear myself. I don’t know anything about cosmogony. 
  Why the hell are planets formed, anyway? Never heard of one that wasn’t filled with 
  trouble.” Biron looked haggard himself. He was still printing and pasting up little 
  stickers on the control panels.
  He said, “Anyway, we’ve got the blasters all worked out, range finders, power control--
  all that.”
  It was very difficult not to look at the visiplate. They’d be Jumping again soon, through 
  that ink.
  Biron said absently, “You know why they call it the Horsehead Nebula, Gil?”
  “The first man to enter it was Horace Hedd. Are you going to tell me that’s wrong?”
  “It may be. They have a different explanation on Earth.”
  “Oh?”
  “They claim it’s called that because it looks like a horse’s head.”
  “What’s a horse?”
  “It’s an animal on Earth.”
  “It’s an amusing thought, but the Nebula doesn’t look like any animal to me, Biron.”
  “It depends on the angle you look at it. Now from Nephelos it looks like a man’s arm 
  with three fingers, but I looked at it once from the observatory at the University of Earth. 
  
  Itdoes look a little like a horse’s head. Maybe that is how the name started. Maybe there 
  never was any Horace Hedd. Who knows?” Biron felt bored with the matter, already. He 
  was still talking simply to hear himself talk.
  There was a pause, a pause that lasted too long, because it gave Gillbret a chance to 
  bring up a subject which Biron did not wish to discuss and could not force himself to 
  stop thinking about.
  Gillbret said, “Where’s Arta?”
  Biron looked at him quickly and said, “Somewhere in the trailer. I don’t follow her 
  about.”
  “The Autarch does. He might as well be living here.”
  “How lucky for her.”
  Gillbret’s wrinkles became more pronounced and his small features seemed to screw 
  together. “Oh, don’t be a fool, Biron. Artemisia is a Hinriad. She can’t take what you’ve 
  been giving her.”
  Biron said, “Drop it.”
  “I won’t. I’ve been spoiling to say this. Why are you doing this to her? Because Hinrik 
  might have been responsible for your father’s death? Hinrik is my cousin! You haven’t 
  changed toward me.”
  “All right,” Biron said. “I haven’t changed toward you. I speak to you as I always have. I 
  speak to Artemisia as well.”
  “As you always have?”
  Biron was silent.
  Gillbret said, “You’re throwing her at the Autarch. “
  “It’s her choice.”
  “It isn’t. It’s your choice. Listen, Biron”--Gillbret grew confidential; he put a hand on 
  Biron’s knee--”this isn’t a thing I like to interfere with, you understand. It’s just that 
  she’s the only good thing in the Hinriad family just ROW. Would you be amused if I said 
  I loved her? I have no children of my own.”
  
  “I don’t question your love.”
  “Then I advise you for her good. Stop the Autarch, Biron.”
  “I thought you trusted him, Oil.”
  “As the Autarch, yes. As an anti-Tyrannian leader, yes. But as a man for a woman, as a 
  man for Artemisia, no.”
  “Tell her that.”
  “She wouldn’t listen.”
  “Do you think she would listen if I told her?”
  “If you told her properly.”
  For a moment Biron seemed to hesitate, his tongue dabbing slightly at dry lips. Then he 
  turned away, saying harshly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
  Gillbret said sadly, “You’ll regret this.”
  Biron said nothing. Why didn’t Gillbret leave him alone? It had occurred to him many 
  times that he might regret all this. It wasn’t easy. But what could he do? There was no 
  safe way of backing out.
  He tried breathing through his mouth to get rid, somehow, of the choking sensation in 
  his chest.
    
  The outlook was different after the next Jump. Biron had set the controls in accordance 
  with the instructions from the Autarch’s pilot, and left the manuals to Gillbret. He was 
  going to sleep through this one. And then Gillbret was shaking his shoulder.
  “Biron! Biron!”
  Biron rolled over in his bunk and out, landing in a crouch, fists balled. “What is it?”
  Gillbret stepped back hastily. “Now, take it easy. We’ve got an F-2 this time.”
  
  It sank in. Gillbret drew a deep breath and relaxed. “Don’t ever wake me that way, 
  Gillbret. An F-2, you say? I suppose you’re referring to the new star.”
  “I surely am. It looks most amusing, I think.”
  In a way, it did. Approximately 95 per cent of habitable planets in the Galaxy circled 
  stars of spectral types F or G; diameter from 750 to 1500 thousand miles, surface 
  temperature from five to ten thousand centigrade. Earth’s sun was G-0, Rhodia’s F-8, 
  Lingane’s G-2, as was that of Nephelos. F-2 was a little warm, but not too warm.
  The first three stars they had stopped at were of spectral type K, rather small and ruddy. 
  Planets would probably not have been decent even if they had had any.
  A good star is a good star! In the first day of photography, five planets were located, the 
  nearest being one hundred and fifty million miles from the primary.
  Tedor Rizzett brought the news personally. He visited theRemorseless as frequently as 
  the Autarch, lighting the ship with his heartiness. He was whoofing and panting this time 
  from the hand-over-hand exercises along the metal line.
  He said, “I don’t know how the Autarch does it. He never seems to mind. Comes from 
  being younger, I guess.” He added abruptly, “Five planets!”
  Gillbret said, “For this star? You’re sure?”
  “It’s definite. Four of them are J-type, though.”
  “And the fifth?”
  “The fifth may be all right. Oxygen in the atmosphere, anyway.”
  Gillbret set up a thin sort of yell of triumph, but Biron said, “Four are J-type. Oh well, 
  we only need one.”
  He realized it was a reasonable distribution. The large majority of sizable planets in the 
  Galaxy possessed hydrogenated atmospheres. After all, stars are mostly hydrogen, and 
  they are the source material of planetary building blocks. J-type planets had atmospheres 
  of methane or ammonia, with molecular hydrogen in addition sometimes, and also 
  considerable helium. Such atmospheres were usually deep and extremely dense. The 
  planets themselves were almost invariably thirty thousand miles in diameter and up, 
  with a mean temperature of rarely more than fifty below zero, centigrade. They were 
  quite uninhabitable.
  
  Back on Earth they used to tell him that these planets were called J-type because the J 
  stood for Jupiter, the planet in Earth’s solar system which was the best example of the 
  type. Maybe they were right. Certainly, the other planet classification was the E-type and 
  E did stand for Earth. E-types were usually small, comparatively, and their weaker 
  gravity could not retain hydrogen or the hydrogen-containing gases, particularly since 
  they were usually closer to the sun and warmer. Their atmospheres were thin and 
  contained oxygen and nitrogen usually, with, occasionally, an admixture of chlorine, 
  which would be bad.
  “Any chorine?” asked Biron. “How well have they gone over the atmosphere?”
  Rizzett shrugged. “We can only judge the upper reaches from out in space. If there were 
  any chlorine, it would concentrate toward ground level. We’ll see.”
  He clapped a hand on Biron’s large shoulder. “How about inviting me to a small drink in 
  your room, boy?”
  Gillbret looked after them uneasily. With the Autarch courting Artemisia, and his right-
  hand man becoming a drinking companion of Biron, theRemorseless was becoming 
  more Linganian than not. He wondered if Biron knew what he was doing, then thought 
  of the new planet and let the rest go.
    
  Artemisia was in the pilot room when they penetrated the atmosphere. There was a little 
  smile on her face and she seemed quite contented. Biron looked in her direction 
  occasionally. He had said, “Good day, Artemisia,” when she came in (she hardly ever 
  did come in; he had been caught by surprise), but she hadn’t answered.
  She had merely said, “Uncle Oil,” very brightly; then, “Is it true we’re landing?”
  And Oil had rubbed his hands. “It seems so, my dear. We may be getting out of the ship 
  in a few hours, walking on solid surface. How’s that for an amusing thought?”
  “I hope it’s the right planet. If it isn’t, it won’t be so amusing.”
  “There’s still another star,” said Oil, but his brow furrowed and contracted as he said so.
  And then Artemisia turned to Biron and said, coolly, “Did you speak, Mr. Farrill?”
  Biron, caught by surprise again, started and said, “No, not really.”
  
  “I beg your pardon, then. I thought you had.”
  She passed by him so closely that the plastic flair of her dress brushed his knee and her 
  perfume momentarily surrounded him. His jaw muscles knotted.
  Rizzett was still with them. One of the advantages of the trailer was that they could put 
  up a guest overnight. He said, “They’re getting details on the atmosphere now. Lots of 
  oxygen, almost 30 per cent, and nitrogen and inert gases. It’s quite normal. No chlorine.” 
  Then he paused and said, “Hmm.”
  Gillbret said, “What’s the matter?”
  “No carbon dioxide. That’s not so good.”
  “Why not?” demanded Artemisia from her vantage point near the visiplate, where she 
  watched the distant surface of the planet blur past at two thousand miles an hour.
  Biron said curtly, “No carbon dioxide--no plant life.”
  “Oh?” She looked at him, and smiled warmly.
  Biron, against his will, smiled back, and somehow, with scarcely a visible change in her 
  countenance, she was smiling through him, past him, obviously unaware of his 
  existence; and he was left there, caught in a foolish smile. He let it fade.
  It was just as well he avoided her. Certainly, when he was with her, he couldn’t keep it 
  up. When he could actually see her, the anesthetic of his will didn’t work. It began 
  hurting.
    
  Gillbret was doleful. They were coasting now. In the thick lower reaches of the 
  atmosphere, theRemorseless, with its aerodynamically undesirable addition of a trailer, 
  was difficult to handle. Biron fought the bucking controls stubbornly.
  He said, “Cheer up, Gil!”
  He felt not exactly jubilant himself. Radio signals had brought no response as yet, and if 
  this werenot the rebellion world, there would be no point in waiting longer. His line of 
  action was set!
  
  Gillbret said, “It doesn’t look like the rebellion world. It’s rocky and dead, and not much 
  water, either.” He turned. “Did they try for carbon dioxide again, Rizzett?”
  Rizzett’s ruddy face was long. “Yes. Just a trace. About a thousandth of a per cent or so.”
  Biron said, “You can’t tell. They might pick a world like this, just because it would look 
  so hopeless.”
  “But I saw farms,” said Gillbret.
  “All right. How much do you suppose we can see of a planet this size by circling it a few 
  times? You know damn well, Oil, that whoever they are, they can’t have enough people 
  to fill a whole planet. They may have picked themselves a valley somewhere where the 
  carbon dioxide of the air has been built up, say, by volcanic action, and where there’s 
  plenty of nearby water. We could whiz within twenty miles of them and never know it. 
  Naturally, they wouldn’t be ready to answer radio calls without considerable 
  investigation.”
  “You can’t build up a concentration of carbon dioxide that easily,” muttered Gillbret. 
  But he watched the visiplate intently.
  Biron suddenly hoped that itwas the wrong world. He decided that he could wait no 
  longer. It would have to be settled,now!
    
  It was a queer feeling.
  The artificial lights had been turned off and sunlight was coming in unhindered at the 
  ports. Actually, it was the less efficient method of lighting the ship, but there was a 
  sudden desirable novelty to it. The ports were open, in fact, and a native atmosphere 
  could be breathed.
  Rizzett advised against it on the grounds that lack of carbon dioxide would upset the 
  respiratory regulation of the body, but Biron thought it might be bearable for a short 
  time.
  Gillbret had come upon them, heads together. They looked up and leaned away from 
  each other.
  Gillbret laughed. Then he looked out of the open port, sighed, and said, “Rocks!”
  
  Biron said mildly, “We’re going to set up a radio transmitter at the top of the high 
  ground. We’ll get more range that way. At any rate, we ought to be able to contact all of 
  this hemisphere. And if it’s negative, we can try the other side of the planet.”
  “Is that what you and Rizzett were discussing?”
  “Exactly. The Autarch and I will do the job. It’s his suggestion, which is fortunate; since 
  otherwise I would have had to make the same suggestion myself.” He looked fleetingly 
  at Rizzett as he spoke. Rizzett was expressionless.
  Biron stood up. “I think it would be best if I unzipped my space-suit lining and wore 
  that.”
  Rizzett was in agreement. It was sunny on this planet; there was little water vapor in the 
  air and no clouds, but it was briskly cold.
    
  The Autarch was at the main lock of theRemorseless. His overcoat was of thin foamite 
  that weighed a fraction of an ounce, yet did a nearly perfect job of insulation. A small 
  carbon-dioxide cylinder was strapped to his chest, adjusted to a slow leak that would 
  maintain a perceptible CO2vapor tension in his immediate vicinity.
  He said, “Would you care to search me, Farrill?” He raised his hands and waited, his 
  lean face quietly amused.
  “No,” said Biron. “Do you want to checkme for weapons?”
  “I wouldn’t think of it.”
  The courtesies were as frigid as the weather.
  Biron stepped out into the hard sunlight and tugged at the handle of the two-handled 
  suitcase in which the radio equipment was stowed. The Autarch caught the other.
  “Not too heavy,” said Biron. He turned, and Artemisia was standing just within the ship, 
  silent.
  Her dress was a smooth, unfigured white which folded in a smooth drape that fled before 
  the wind. The semitransparent sleeves whipped back against her arms, turning them to 
  silver.
  
  For a moment Biron melted dangerously. He wanted to return quickly; to run, leap into 
  the ship, grasp her so that his fingers would leave bruises on her shoulders, feel his lips 
  meet hers--
  But he nodded briefly instead, and her returning smile, the light flutter of her fingers was 
  for the Autarch.
  Five minutes later he turned and there was still that glimmer of white at the open door, 
  and then the rise in the ground cut off the view of the ship. The horizon was free of 
  everything but broken and bare rock now.
  Biron thought of what lay ahead, and wondered if he would ever see Artemisia again--
  and if she would care if he never returned.
    
   EIGHTEEN:
    
   Out of the Jaws of Defeat!
    
   Artemesia watched them as they became tiny figures, trudging up the bare granite, then 
  dipping below and out of sight. For a moment, just before they disappeared, one of them 
  had turned. She couldn’t be sure which one, and, for a moment, her heart hardened.
  He had not said a word on parting. Not one word. She turned away from the sun and 
  rock toward the confined metal interior of the ship. She felt alone, terribly alone; she had 
  never felt so alone in her life.
  It was that, perhaps, that made her shiver, but it would have been an intolerable 
  confession of weakness to admit that it wasn’t simply the cold.
  She said peevishly, “Uncle Gil! Why don’t you close the ports? It’s enough to freeze a 
  person to death.” The thermometer dial read plus seven centigrade with the ship’s 
  heaters on high.
  “My dear Arta,” said Gillbret mildly, “if you will persist in your ridiculous habit of 
  wearing nothing but a little fog here and there, you must expect to be cold.” But he 
  closed certain contacts, and, with little clicks, the air lock slid shut, the ports sunk 
  
  inward and molded themselves into the smooth, gleaming hull. As they did so, the thick 
  glass polarized and became nontransparent. The lights of the ship went on and the 
  shadows disappeared.
  Artemisia sat down in the heavily padded pilot’s seat and fingered the arms 
  aimlessly.His hands had often rested there, and the slight warmth that flooded her as she 
  thought that (she told herself) was only the result of the heaters making themselves felt 
  decently, now that the outer winds were excluded.
  The long minutes passed, and it became impossible to sit quietly. She might have gone 
  with him! She corrected the rebellious thought instantly as it passed through her mind, 
  and changed the singular “him” to the plural “them.”
  She said, “Why do they have to set up a radio transmitter anyway, Uncle Gil?”
  He looked up from the visiplate, the controls of which he was fingering delicately, and 
  said, “Eh?”
  “We’ve been trying to contact them from out in space,” she said, “and we haven’t 
  reached anyone. What special good would a transmitter on the planet’s surface do?”
  Gillbret was troubled. “Why, we must keep trying, my dear. We must find the rebellion 
  world.” And, between his teeth, he added to himself, “We must!”
  A moment passed, and he said, “I can’t find them.”
  “Find whom?”
  “Biron and the Autarch. The ridge cuts me off no matter how I arrange the external 
  mirrors. See?”
  She saw nothing but the sunny rock flashing past.
  Then Gillbret brought the little gears to rest and said, “Anyway, that’s the Autarch’s 
  ship.”
  Artemisia accorded it the briefest of glances. It lay deeper in the valley, perhaps a mile 
  away. It glistened unbearably in the sun. It seemed to her, at the moment, to be the real 
  enemy.It was, not the Tyranni. She wished suddenly, sharply, and very strongly that they 
  had never gone to Lingane; that they had remained in space, the three of them only. 
  Those had been funny days, so uncomfortable and yet so warm, somehow. And now she 
  could only try to hurt him. Somethingmade her hurt him, though she would have liked--
  
  Gillbret said, “Now what doeshe want?”
  Artemisia looked up at him, seeing him through a watery mist, SO that she had to blink 
  rapidly to put him into normal focus. “Who?”
  “Rizzett. Ithink that’s Rizzett. But he’s certainly not coming this way.”
  Artemisia was at the visiplate. “Make it larger,” she ordered.
  “At this short distance?” objected Gillbret. “You won’t see anything. It will be 
  impossible to keep it centered.”
  “Larger, Uncle Gil.”
  Muttering, he threw in the telescopic attachment and searched the bloated nubbles of 
  rock that resulted. They jumped faster than the eye could follow at the lightest touch on 
  the controls. For one moment, Rizzett, a large, hazy figure, flashed past, and in that 
  moment his identity was unmistakable. Gillbret backtracked wildly, caught him again, 
  hung on for a moment, and Artemisia said, “He’s armed. Did you see that?”
  “No.”
  “He’s got a long-range blasting rifle, I tell you!”
  She was up, tearing away at the locker.
  “Arta! What are you doing?”
  She was unzipping the lining from another space suit. “I’m going out there. Rizzett’s 
  following them. Don’t you understand? The Autarch hasn’t gone out to set up a radio. 
  It’s a trap for Biron.” She was gasping as she forced herself into the thick, coarse lining.
  “Stop it! You’re imagining things.”
  But she was staring at Gillbret without seeing him, her face pinched and white. She 
  should have seen it before, the way Rizzett had been coddling that fool. That emotional 
  fool! Rizzett had praised his father, told him what a great man the Rancher of Widemos 
  had been, and Biron had melted immediately. His every action was dictated by the 
  thought of his father. How could a man let himself be so ruled by a monomania?
  She said, “I don’t know what controls the air lock. Open it.”
  
  “Arta, you’re not leaving the ship. You don’t know where they are.”
  “I’ll find them. Open the air lock.”
  Gillbret shook his head.
  But the space suit she had stripped had borne a holster. She said, “Uncle Oil, I’ll use 
  this. I swear I will.”
  And Gillbret found himself staring at the wicked muzzle of a neuronic whip. He forced a 
  smile. “Don’t now!”
  “Open the lock!” she gasped.
  He did and she was out, running into the wind, slipping across the rocks and up the 
  ridge. The blood pounded in her ears. She had been as bad as he, dangling the Autarch 
  before him for no purpose other than her silly pride. It seemed silly now, and the 
  Autarch’s personality sharpened in her mind, a man so studiedly cold as to be bloodless 
  and tasteless. She quivered with repulsion.
  She had topped the ridge, and there was nothing ahead of her. Stolidly she walked 
  onward, holding the neuronic whip before her.
    
  Biron and the Autarch had not exchanged a word during their walk, and now they came 
  to a halt where the ground leveled off. The rock was fissured by the action of sun and 
  wind through the millennia. Ahead of them there was an ancient fault, the farther lip of 
  which had crumbled downward, leaving a sheer precipice of a hundred feet.
  Biron approached cautiously and looked over it. It slanted outward past the drop, the 
  ground riddled with craggy boulders which, with time and infrequent rains, had scattered 
  out as far as he could see.
  “It looks,” he said, “like a hopeless world, Jonti.”
  The Autarch displayed none of Biron’s curiosity in his surroundings. He did not 
  approach the drop. He said, “This is the place we found before landing. It’s ideal for our 
  purposes.”
  It’s ideal for your purposes, at least, thought Biron. He stepped away from the edge and 
  
  sat down. He listened to the tiny hiss from his carbon-dioxide cylinder, and waited a 
  moment.
  Then he said, very quietly, “What will you tell them when you get back to your ship, 
  Jonti? Or shall I guess?”
  The Autarch paused in the act of opening the two-handed suitcase they had carried. He 
  straightened and said, “What are you talking about?”
  Biron felt the wind numb his face and rubbed his nose with his gloved hand. Yet he 
  unbuttoned the foamite lining that wrapped him, so that it flapped wide as the gusts hit 
  it.
  He said, “I’m talking about your purpose in coming here.”
  “I would like to set up the radio rather than waste my time discussing the matter, 
  Farrill.”
  “You won’t set up a radio. Why should you? We tried reaching them from space, without 
  a response. There’s no reason to expect more of a transmitter on the surface. It’s not a 
  question of ionized radio-opaque layers in the upper atmosphere, either, because we 
  tried the sub-ether as well and drew a blank. N or are we particularly the radio experts in 
  our party. So why did you really come up here, Jonti?”
  The Autarch sat down opposite Biron. A hand patted the suitcase idly. “If you are 
  troubled by these doubts, why didyou come?”
  “To discover the truth. Your man; Rizzett, told me you were planning this trip, and 
  advised me to join you. I believe that your instructions to him were to tell me that by 
  joining you I might make certain you received no messages that I remained unaware of. 
  It was a reasonable point, except that I don’t think you will receive any message. But I 
  allowed it to persuade me, and I’ve come with you.”
  “To discover truth?” said Jonti mockingly.
  “Exactly that. I can guess truth already.”
  “Tellme then. Let me discover truth as well.”
  “You came to kill me. I am here alone with you, and there is a cliff before us over which 
  it would be certain death to fall. There would be no signs of deliberate violence. There 
  would be no blasted limbs or any thought of weapon play. It would make a nice, sad 
  
  story to take back to your ship. I had slipped and fallen. You might bring back a party to 
  gather me up and give me a decent burial. It would all be very touching and I would be 
  out of your way.”
  “You believe this, and yet you came?”
  “I expect it, so you won’t catch me by surprise. We are unarmed and I doubt that you 
  could force me over by muscular power alone.” For a moment Biron’s nostrils flared. He 
  half flexed his right arm, slowly and hungrily.
  But Jonti laughed. “Shall we concern ourselves with our radio transmitter, then, since 
  your death is now impossible?”
  “Not yet. I am not done. I want your admission that you were going to try to kill me.”
  “Oh? Do you insist that I play my proper role in this impromptu drama you have 
  developed? How do you expect to force me to do so? Do you intend to beat a confession 
  out of me? Now understand, Farrill, you are a young man and I am disposed to make 
  allowances because of that and because of the convenience of your name and rank. 
  However, I must admit you have until now been more trouble than help to me.”
  “So I have been. By keeping alive, despite you!”
  “If you refer to the risks you ran on Rhodia, I have explained it; I will not explain it 
  again.”
  Biron rose. “Your explanation was not accurate. It has a flaw in it which was obvious 
  from the beginning.”
  “Really?”
  “Really! Stand up and listen to me, or I’ll drag you to your feet.”
  The Autarch’s eyes narrowed to slits as he rose. “I would not advise you to attempt 
  violence, youngster.”
  “Listen.” Biron’s voice was loud and his cloak still bellied open in the breeze, 
  disregarded. “You said that you sent me to a possible death on Rhodia only to implicate 
  the Director in an anti-Tyrannian plot.”
  “That remains true.”
  
  “That remains a lie. Your prime object was to have me killed. You informed the captain 
  of the Rhodian ship of my identity at the very beginning. You had no real reason for 
  believing that I would ever be allowed to reach Hinrik.”
  “If I had wanted to kill you, Farrill, I might have planted a real radiation bomb in your 
  room.”
  “It would have been obviously more convenient to have the Tyranni maneuvered into 
  doing the killing for you.”
  “I might have killed you in space when I first boarded theRemorseless.”
  “So you might. You came equipped with a blaster and you had it leveled at me at one 
  point. You had expected me on board, but you hadn’t told your crew that. When Rizzett 
  called and saw me, it was no longer possible to blast me. You made a mistake then. You 
  told me youhad told your men I was probably on board, and awhile later Rizzett told me 
  you had not. Don’t you brief your men concerning your exact lies as you tell them, 
  Jonti?”
  Jonti’s face had been white in the cold, but it seemed to whiten further. “I should kill you 
  now for giving me the lie, certainly. But what held back my trigger finger before Rizzett 
  got on the visiplate and saw you?”
  “Politics, Jonti. Artemisia oth Hinriad was aboard, and for the moment she was a more 
  important object than myself. I’ll give you credit for a quick change of plans. To have 
  killed me in her presence would have ruined a bigger game.”
  “I had fallen in love so rapidly, then?”
  “Love! When the girl concerned is a Hinriad, why not? You lost no time. You tried first 
  to have her transferred to your ship, and when that failed, you told me that Hinrik had 
  betrayed my father.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “So I lost her and left you 
  the field undisputed. Now, I presume, she is no longer a factor. She is firmly on your 
  side and you may proceed with your plan to kill me without any fear that by doing it you 
  may lose your chance at the Hinriad succession.”
  Jonti sighed and said, “Farrill, it is cold, and getting colder. I believe the sun is heading 
  downward. You are unutterably foolish and you weary me. Before we end this farrago of 
  nonsense, will you tell me why I should be in the least interested in killing you anyway? 
  That is, if your obvious paranoia needs any reason.”
  “There is the same reason that caused you to kill my father.”
  
  “What?”
  “Did you think I believed you for an instant when you said Hinrik had been the traitor? 
  He might have been, were it not for the fact that his reputation as a wretched weakling is 
  so well established. Do you suppose that my father was a complete fool? Could he 
  possibly have mistaken Hinrik for anything but what he was? If he had not known his 
  reputation, would not five minutes in his presence have revealed him completely as a 
  hopeless puppet? Would my father have blabbed foolishly to Hinrik anything that might 
  have been used to support a charge of treason against him? No, Jonti. The man who 
  betrayed my father must have been one who was trusted by him.”
  Jonti took a step backward and kicked the suitcase aside. He poised himself to withstand 
  a charge and said, “I see your vile implication. My only explanation for it is that you are 
  criminally insane.”
  Biron was trembling, and not with cold. “My father was popular with your men, Jonti. 
  Too popular. An Autarch cannot allow a competitor in the business of ruling. You saw to 
  it that he did not remain a competitor. And it was your next job to see to it that I did not 
  remain alive either to replace or to avenge him.” His voice raised to a shout, which 
  whipped away on the cold air. “Isn’t this true?”
  “No.”
  Jonti bent to the suitcase. “I can prove you are wrong!” He flung it open. “Radio 
  equipment. Inspect it. Take a good look at it.” He tossed the items to the ground at 
  Biron’s feet.
  Biron stared at them. “How does that prove anything?”
  Jonti rose. “It doesn’t. But now take a good look at this.”
  He had a blaster in his hand, and his knuckles were white with tension. The coolness had 
  left his voice. He said, “I am tired of you. But I won’t have to be tired much longer.”
  Biron said tonelessly, “You hid a blaster in the suitcase with the equipment?”
  “Did you think I wouldn’t? You honestly came here expecting to be thrown off a cliff 
  and you thought I would try to do it with my hands as though I were a stevedore or a 
  coal miner? I am Autarch of Lingane”--his face worked and his left hand made a flat, 
  cutting gesture before him--”and I am tired of the cant and fatuous idealism of the 
  Ranchers of Widemos.” He whispered then, “Move on. Toward the cliff.” He stepped 
  
  forward.
  Biron, hands raised, eyes on the blaster, stepped back. “You killed my father, then.”
  “I killed your father!” said the Autarch. “I tell you this so you may know in the last few 
  moments of your life that the same man who saw to it that your father was blasted to bits 
  in a disintegration chamber will see to it that you will follow him--and keep the Hinriad 
  girl for himself thereafter, along with all that goes with her. Think of that! I will give you 
  an extra minute to think of that! But keep your hands steady, or I will blast you and risk 
  any questions my men may care to ask.” It was as though his cold veneer, having 
  cracked, left nothing but a burning passion exposed.
  “You tried to kill me before this, as I said.”
  “I did. Your guesses were in every way correct. Does that help you now? Back!”
  “No,” said Biron. He brought his hands down and said,“H you’re going to shoot, do so.”
  The Autarch said, “You think I will not dare?”
  “I’ve asked you to shoot.”
  “And I will.” The Autarch aimed deliberately at Biron’s head and at a distance of four 
  feet closed contact on his blaster.
    
   NINETEEN:
    
   Defeat!
    
   Tedor Rizzett circled the little piece of tableland warily. He was not yet ready to be 
  seen, but to remain hidden was difficult in this world of bare rock. In the patch of 
  tumbled, crystalline boulders he felt safer. He threaded his way through them. 
  Occasionally he paused to pass the soft back of the spongy gloves he wore over his face. 
  The dry cold was deceptive.
  He saw them now from between two granite monoliths that met in a V. He rested his 
  
  blaster in the crotch. The sun was on his back. He felt its feeble warmth soak through, 
  and he was satisfied.H they happened to look in his direction, the sun would be in their 
  eyes and he himself would be that much less visible.
  Their voices were sharp in his ear. Radio communication was in operation and he smiled 
  at that. So far, according to plan. His own presence, of course, was not according to 
  plan, but it would be better so. The plan was a rather overconfident one and the victim 
  was not a complete fool, after all. His own blaster might yet be needed to decide the 
  issue.
  He waited. Stolidly he watched the Autarch lift his blaster as Biron stood there, 
  unflinching.
  Artemisia did not see the blaster lift. She did not see the two figures on the flat rock 
  surface. Five minutes earlier she had seen Rizzett silhouetted for a moment against the 
  sky, and since then she had followed him.
  Somehow, he was moving too fast for her. Things dimmed and wavered before her and 
  twice she found herself stretched on the ground. She did not recall falling. The second 
  time, she staggered to her feet with one wrist oozing blood where a sharp edge had 
  scraped her.
  Rizzett had gained again and she had to reel after him. When he vanished in the 
  glistening boulder forest, she sobbed in despair. She leaned against a rock, completely 
  weary. Its beautiful flesh-pink tint, the glassy smoothness of its surface, the fact that it 
  stood as an ancient reminder of a primeval volcanic age was lost upon her.
  She could only try to fight the sensation of choking that pervaded her.
  And then she saw him, dwarfed at the forked-rock formation, his back to her. She held 
  the neuronic whip before her as she ran unevenly over the hard ground. He was sighting 
  along the barrel of his rifle, intent upon the process, taking aim, getting ready.
  She wouldn’t make it in time.
  She would have to distract his attention. She called, “Rizzett!” And again, “Rizzett, 
  don’t shoot!”
  She stumbled again. The sun was blotting out, but consciousness lingered. It lingered 
  long enough for her to feel the ground jar thuddingly against her, long enough to press 
  her finger upon the whip’s contact; and long enough for her to know that she was well 
  out of range, even if her aim was accurate, which it could not be.
  
  She felt arms about her, lifting. She tried to see, but her eyelids would not open.
  “Biron?” It was a weak whisper.
  The answer was a rough blur of words, but it was Rizzett’s voice. She tried to speak 
  further, then abruptly gave up. She had failed!
  Everything was blotted out.
    
  The Autarch remained motionless for the space it would take a man to count to ten 
  slowly. Biron faced him as motionlessly, watching the barrel of the blaster that had just 
  been fired point-blank at him. The barrel sank slowly as he watched.
  Biron said, “Your blaster seems not be in firing order. Examine it.”
  The Autarch’s bloodless face turned alternately from Biron to his weapon. He had fired 
  at a distance of four feet. It should have been allover. The congealed astonishment that 
  held him broke suddenly and he disjointed the blaster in a quick movement.
  The energy capsule was missing. Where it should have been, there was a useless cavity. 
  The Autarch whimpered with rage as he hurled the lump of dead metal aside. It turned 
  over and over, a black blot against the sun, smashing into the rock with a faint ringing 
  sound.
  “Man to man!” said Biron. There was a trembling eagerness in his voice.
  The Autarch took a step backward. He said nothing.
  Biron took a slow step forward. “There are many ways I could kill you, but not all 
  would be satisfying. If I blasted you, it would mean that a millionth of a second would 
  separate your life from your death. You would have no consciousness of dying. That 
  would be bad. I think that instead there would be considerable satisfaction in using the 
  somewhat slower method of human muscular effort.”
  His thigh muscles tensed, but the lunge they prepared was never completed. The cry that 
  interrupted was thin and high, packed with panic.
  “Rizzett!” it came. “Rizzett, don’t shoot!”
  
  Biron whirled in time to see the motion behind the rocks a hundred yards away and the 
  glint of sun on metal. And then the hurled weight of a human body was upon his back. 
  He bent under it, dropping to his knees.
  The Autarch had landed fairly, his knees clasped hard about the other’s waist, his fist 
  thudding at the nape of Biron’s neck. Biron’s breath whooshed out in a whistling grunt.
  Biron fought off the gathering blackness long enough to throw himself to one side. The 
  Autarch jumped free, gaining clear footing while Biron sprawled on his back.
  He had just time to double his legs up against himself as the Autarch lunged down upon 
  him again. The Autarch bounced off. They were up together this time, perspiration 
  turning icy upon their cheeks.
  They circled slowly. Biron tossed his carbon-dioxide cylinder to one side. The Autarch 
  likewise unstrapped his, held it suspended a moment by its mesh-metal hose, then 
  stepped in rapidly and swung it. Biron dropped, and both heard and felt it whistle above 
  his head.
  He was up again, leaping on the other before the Autarch could regain his balance. One 
  large fist clamped down on the other fist exploded in the Autarch’s face. He let the 
  Autarch drop and stepped back.
  Biron said, “Stand up. I’ll wait for you with more of the same. There’s no hurry.”
  The Autarch touched his gloved hand to his face then stared sickly at the blood that 
  smeared off upon it. His mouth twisted and his hand snaked out for the metal cylinder he 
  had dropped. Biron’s foot came heavily down upon it, and the Autarch yelled in agony.
  Biron said, ‘.You’re too close to the edge of the cliff, Jonti. Mustn’t reach in that 
  direction. Stand up. I’ll throw you the other way now.”
  But Rizzett’s voice rang out: “Wait!”
  The Autarch screamed, “Shoot this man, Rizzett! Shoot him now! His arms first, then 
  his legs, and we’ll leave him.”
  Rizzett brought his weapon up slowly against his shoulder.
  Biron said, “Who saw to it that your own blaster was unloaded, Jonti?”
  “What?” The Autarch stared blankly.
  
  “It was not I who had access to your blaster, Jonti. Who did have? Who is pointing a 
  blaster at you right now, Jonti? Not at me, Jonti, but atyou/”
  The Autarch turned to Rizzett and screamed, “Traitor!”
  Rizzett said, in a low voice. “Not I, sir. That man is the traitor who betrayed the loyal 
  Rancher of Widemos to his death.”
  “That is not I,” cried the Autarch. “If he has told you I have, he lies.”
  “It is you yourself who have told us. I not only emptied your weapon, I also shorted your 
  communicator switch, so that every word you said today was received by myself and by 
  every member of the crew. We all know you for what you are.”
  “I am your Autarch.”
  “And also the greatest traitor alive.”
  For a moment the Autarch said nothing, but looked wildly from one to the other as they 
  watched him with somber, angry faces. Then he wrenched to his feet, pulled together the 
  parted seams of his self-control, and held them tightly by sheer nervous force.
  His voice was almost cool as he said, “And if it were all true, what would it matter? You 
  have no choice but to let matters stand as they are. One last intranebular planet remains 
  to be visited. Itmust be the rebellion world, and only I know the co-ordinates.”
  He retained dignity somehow. One hand hung uselessly from a broken wrist; his upper 
  lip had swollen ludicrously, and blood was caking his cheek, but he radiated the hauteur 
  of one born to rule.
  “You’ll tell us,” said Biron.
  “Don’t delude yourself that I will under any circumstances. I have told you already that 
  there is an average of seventy cubic light-years per star. If you work by trial and error, 
  without me, the odds are two hundred and fifty quadrillion to one against your coming 
  within a billion miles of any star.Any star!”
  Something wentclick! in Biron’s mind.
  He said, “Take him back to theRemorseless!”
  
  Rizzett said in a low voice, “The Lady Artemisia--”
  And Biron interrupted, “Then itwas she. Where is she?”
  “It’s all right. She’s safe. She came out without a carbon-dioxide cylinder. Naturally, as 
  the CO2washed out of her blood stream, the automatic breathing mechanism of the body 
  slowed. She was trying to run, didn’t have the sense to breathe deeply voluntarily, and 
  fainted.”
  Biron frowned. “Why was she trying to interfere with you, anyway? Making sure her 
  boy friend didn’t get hurt?”
  Rizzett said, “Yes, she was! Only she thought I was the Autarch’s man and was going to 
  shootyou. I’ll take back this rat now, and, Biron--”
  “Yes?”
  “Get back as soon as you can. He’s still the Autarch, and the crew may need talking to. 
  It’s hard to break a lifetime habit of obedience....She’s behind that rock. Get to her 
  before she freezes to death, will you? She won’t leave.”
    
  Her face was almost buried in the hood that covered her head, and her body was 
  formless in the thick, enveloping folds of the space-suit lining, but his steps quickened 
  as he approached her.
  He said, “How are you?”
  She said, “Better, thank you. I am sorry if I caused any trouble.”
  They stood looking at each other, and the conversation seemed to have burned itself out 
  in two lines.
  Then Biron said, “I know we can’t turn time backward, undo things that have been done, 
  unsay things that have been said. But I do want you to understand.”
  “Why this stress on understanding?” Her eyes flashed. “I have done nothing but 
  understand for weeks now. Will you ten me again about my father?”
  “No. I knew your father was innocent. I suspected the Autarch almost from the start, but 
  I had to find out definitely. I could only prove it, Arta, by forcing him to confess. I 
  
  thought I could get him to confess by trapping him into attempting to kill me, and there 
  was only one way of doing that.”
  He felt wretched. He went on, “It was a bad thing to do. As bad, almost, as what he did 
  to my father. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
  She said, “I don’t follow you.” He said, “I knew he wanted you, Arta. Politically, you 
  would be a perfect matrimonial object. The name of Hinriad would be more useful for 
  his purposes than that of Widemos. So once he had you, he would need me no longer. I 
  deliberately forced you on him, Arta. I acted as I did, hoping you would turn to him. 
  When you did, he thought he was ready to rid himself of me, and Rizzett and I laid our 
  trap.”
  “And you loved me an the time?”
  Biron said, “Can’t you bring yourself to believe that, Arta?”
  “And of course you were ready to sacrifice your love to the memory of your father and 
  the honor of your family. How does the old doggerel go? You could not love me half so 
  much, loved you not honor more!”
  Biron said, miserably, “Please, Arta! I am not proud of myself but I could think of no 
  other way.”
  “You might have told me your plan, made me your confederate rather than your tool.”
  “It was not your fight. If I had failed--and I might have --you would have remained out 
  of it. If the Autarch had killed me and you were no longer on my side, you would be less 
  hurt. You might even have married him, even been happy.”
  “Since you have won, it might be that I would be hurt athis loss.”
  “But you aren’t.”
  “How do you know?”
  Biron said desperately, “At least try to see my motives. Granted that I was foolish--
  criminally foolish--can’t you understand? Can’t you try not to hate me?”
  She said softly, “I have tried not to love you and, as you see, I have failed.”
  
  “Then you forgive me.”
  “Why? Because I understand? No! If f were a matter of simply understanding, of seeing 
  your motives, I would not forgive you your actions for anything I might have in life. If it 
  were only that and nothing more! But Iwill forgive you, Biron, because I couldn’t bear 
  not to. How could I ask you to come back to me unless I forgave you?”
  And she was in his arms, her weather-cold lips turning up to his. They were held apart 
  by a double layer of thick garments. His gloved hands could not feel the body they 
  embraced, but his lips were aware of her white, smooth face.
  At last he said in concern, “The sun is getting lower. It’s going to get colder.”
  But she said softly, “It’s strange, then, that I seem to be getting warmer.”
  Together they walked back to the ship.
  Biron faced them now with an appearance of easy confidence which he did not feel. The 
  Linganian ship was large, and there were fifty in the crew. They sat now facing him. 
  Fifty faces! Fifty Linganian faces bred from birth to unquestioning obedience to their 
  Autarch.
  Some had been convinced by Rizzett; others had been convinced by the arranged 
  eavesdropping on the Autarch’s statements to Biron earlier that day. But how many 
  others were still uncertain or even definitely hostile?
  So far Biron’s talking had done little good. He leaned forward, let his voice grow 
  confidential. “And what are you fighting for, men? What are you risking your lives for? 
  A free Galaxy, I think. A Galaxy in which each world can decide what is best in its own 
  way, produce its own wealth for its own good, be slave to none and master of none. Am 
  I right?”
  There was a low murmur of what might have been agreement, but it lacked enthusiasm.
  Biron went on, “And what is the Autarch fighting for? For himself. He is the Autarch of 
  Lingane. If he won, he would be Autarch of the Nebular Kingdoms. You would replace a 
  Khan by an Autarch. Where would be the benefit of that? Is that worth dyingfor?”
  One in the audience cried out, “He would be one of us, not a filthy Tyranni.”
  Another shouted. “The Autarch was looking for the rebellion world to offer his services. 
  
  Was that ambition?”
  “Ambition should be made of sterner stuff, eh?” Biron shouted back, ironically. “But he 
  would come to the rebellion world with an organization at his back. He could offer them 
  all of Lingane; he could offer them, he thought, the prestige of an alliance with the 
  Hinriads. In the end, he was pretty sure, the rebellion world would be his to do with 
  what he pleased. Yes, this was ambition.
  “And when the safety of the movement ran counter to his own plans, did he hesitate to 
  risk your lives for the sake of his ambition? My father was a danger to him. My father 
  was honest and a friend of liberty. But he was too popular, 80 he was betrayed. In that 
  betrayal, the Autarch might have brought to ruins the entire cause and all of you with it. 
  Which one of you is safe under a man who will deal with the Tyranni whenever it suits 
  his purpose? Who can be safe serving a cowardly traitor?”
  “Better,” whispered Rizzett. “Stick to that. Give it to them.”
  Again the same voice called from the back rows. “The Autarch knows where the 
  rebellion world is. Doyou know?”
  “We will discuss that later. Meanwhile, consider instead that under the Autarch we were 
  all headed for complete ruin; that there is still time to save ourselves by turning from his 
  guidance to a better and nobler way; that it is still possible from the jaws of defeat to 
  snatch--”
  “--only defeat, my dear young man,” came a soft interrupting voice, and Biron turned in 
  horror.
  The fifty crewmen came babbling to their feet, and for a moment it seemed as though 
  they might surge forward, but they had come to council unarmed; Rizzett had seen to 
  that. And now a squad of Tyrannian guardsmen were filing through the various doors, 
  weapons ready.
  And SimokAratap himself, a blaster in each hand, stood behind Biron and Rizzett.
   TWENTY:
    
   Where?
  
    
   Simok Aratap weighed carefully the personalities of each of the four who faced him and 
  felt the stirring of a certain excitement within him. This would be the big gamble. The 
  threads of the pattern were weaving toward a close. He was thankful that Major Andros 
  was no longer with him; that the Tyrannian cruisers had gone as well.
  He was left with his flagship, his crew and himself. They would be sufficient. He hated 
  unwieldiness.
  He spoke mildly, “Let me bring you up to date, my lady and gentlemen. The Autarch ‘s 
  ship has been boarded by a prize crew and is now being escorted back to Tyrann by 
  Major Andros. The Autarch’s men will be tried according to law and if convicted will 
  receive the punishment for treason. They are routine conspirators and will be treated 
  routinely. But what shall I do with you?”
  Hinrik of Rhodia sat beside him, his face crumpled in utter misery. He said, “Consider 
  that my daughter is a young girl. She was led into this unwillingly. Artemisia, tell them 
  that you were “
  “Your daughter,” interposed Aratap, “will probably be released. She is, I believe, the 
  matrimonial object of a highly placed Tyrannian nobleman. Obviously, that will be kept 
  in mind.”
  Artemisia said, “I’ll marry him, if you’ll let the rest go.”
  Biron half rose, but Aratap waved him down. The Tyrannian Commissioner smiled and 
  said, “My lady, please! I can strike bargains, I admit. However, I am not the Khan, but 
  merely one of his servants. Therefore, any bargain I do make will have to be justified 
  thoroughly at home. So what is it exactly that you offer?”
  “My agreement to the marriage.”
  “That is not yours to offer. Your father has already agreed and that is sufficient. Do you 
  have anything else?”
  Aratap was waiting for the slow erosion of their wills to resist. The fact that he did not 
  enjoy his role did not prevent him from filling it efficiently. The girl, for instance, might 
  at this moment burst into tears and that would have a salutary effect on the young man. 
  They had obviously been lovers. He wondered if old Pohang would want her under the 
  circumstances, and decided that he probably would. The bargain would still be all in the 
  
  ancient’s favor. For the moment he thought distantly that the girl was very attractive.
  And she was maintaining equilibrium. She was not breaking down. Very good, thought 
  Aratap. She was strong willed as well. Pohang would not have joy of his bargain after 
  an.
  He said to Hinrik, “Do you wish to plead for your cousin too?”
  Hinrik’s lips moved soundlessly.
  Gillbret cried, “No one pleads for me. I don’t want anything of any Tyranni. Go ahead. 
  Order me shot.”
  “You are hysterical,” said Aratap. “You know that I cannot order you shot without trial.”
  “He is my cousin,” whispered Hinrik.
  “That will be considered too. You noblemen will some. day have to learn that you cannot 
  presume too far on your usefulness to us. I wonder if your cousin has learned that lesson 
  yet.”
  He was satisfied with Gillbret’s reactions. That fellow, at least, sincerely wanted death. 
  The frustration of life was too much for him. Keep him alive, then, and that alone would 
  break him.
  He paused thoughtfully before Rizzett. This was one of the Autarch’s men. At the 
  thought he felt a faint embarrassment. At the start of the chase, he had dismissed the 
  Autarch as a factor on the basis of what seemed iron logic. Well, it was healthy to miss 
  occasionally. It kept self-confidence balanced at a point safely short of arrogance.
  He said, “You’re the fool who served a traitor. You would have been better off with us.”
  Rizzett flushed.
  Aratap went on, “If you ever had any military reputation, I am afraid this would destroy 
  it. You are not a nobleman and considerations of state will play no part in your case. 
  Your trial will be public and it will become known that you were a tool of a tool. Too 
  bad.”
  Rizzett said, “But you are about to suggest a bargain, I suppose?”
  “A bargain?”
  
  “Khan’s evidence, for instance? You have only a shipload. Wouldn’t you want to know 
  the rest of the machinery of revolt?”
  Aratap shook his head slightly. “No. We have the Autarch. He will do as a source of 
  information. Even without it, we need only make war on Lingane. There would be little 
  left of revolt thereafter, I’m sure. There will be no bargain of that sort.”
  And this brought him to the young man. Aratap had left him for last because he was the 
  cleverest of the lot. But he was young, and young people were often not dangerous. 
  They lacked patience.
  Biron spoke first, saying, “How did you follow us? Was he working with you?”
  “The Autarch? Not in this case. I believe the poor fellow was trying to play both sides of 
  the game, with the usual success of the unskillful.”
  Hinrik interrupted, with an incongruously childish eagerness, “The Tyranni have an 
  invention that follows ships through hyperspace.”
  Aratap turned sharply. “If Your Excellency will refrain from interrupting, I would be 
  obliged,” and Hinrik cringed.
  It really didn’t matter. None of these four would be dangerous hereafter, but he had no 
  desire to decrease by even one any of the uncertainties in the young man’s mind.
  Biron said, “Now, look, let’s have facts, or nothing. You don’t have us here because you 
  love us. Why aren’t we on the way back to Tyrann with the others? It’s that you don’t 
  know how to go about killing us. Two of us are Hinriads. I am a Widemos. Rizzett is a 
  well-known officer of the Linganian fleet. And that fifth one you have, your own pet 
  coward and traitor, is still Autarch of Lingane. You can’t kill any of us without stinking 
  up the Kingdoms from Tyrann to the edge of the Nebula itself. You’vegot to try to make 
  some sort of bargain with us, because there’s nothing else you can do.”
  Aratap said, “You are not altogether wrong. Let me weave a pattern for you. We 
  followed you, no matter how. You may disregard, I think, the Director’s overactive 
  imagination. You paused near three stars without landing on any planet. You came to a 
  fourth and found a planet to land on. There we landed with you, watched, waited. We 
  thought there might be something to wait for and we were right. You quarreled with the 
  Autarch and both of you broadcast without limitation. That had been arranged by you for 
  your own purposes, I know, but it suited our purpose as well. We overheard.
  
  “The Autarch said that only one last intra-nebular planet remained to be visited and that 
  it must be the rebellion world. This is interesting, you see. A rebellion world. You know, 
  my curiosity is aroused. Where would that fifth and last planet be located?”
  He let the silence last. He took a seat and watched them dispassionately--first one, then 
  another.
  Biron said, “There is no rebellion world.”
  “You were looking for nothing, then?”
  “We were looking for nothing.”
  “You are being ridiculous.”
  Biron shrugged wearily. “You are yourself ridiculous if you expect more of an answer.”
  Aratap said, “Observe that this rebellion world must be the center of the octopus. To find 
  it is my only purpose in keeping you alive. You each have something to gain. My lady, I 
  might free you of your marriage. My Lord Gillbret, we might establish a laboratory for 
  you, let you work undisturbed. Yes, we know more of you than you think.” (Aratap 
  turned away hastily. The man’s face was working. He might weep and that would be 
  unpleasant.) “Colonel Rizzett, you will be saved the humiliation of court-martial and the 
  certainty of conviction and the ridicule and loss of reputation that would go with it. You, 
  Biron Farrill, would be Rancher of Widemos again. In your case, we might even reverse 
  the conviction of your father.”
  “And bring him back to life?”
  “And restore his honor.”
  “His honor,” said Biron, “rests in the very actions that led to his conviction and death. It 
  is beyond your power to add to or detract from it.”
  Aratap said, “One of you four will tell me where to find this world you seek. One of you 
  will be sensible. He will gain, whichever one it is, what I have promised. The rest of you 
  will be married, imprisoned, executed--whatever will be worst for you. I warn you, I can 
  be sadistic if I must be.”
  He waited a moment. “Which one will it be? If you don’t speak, the one next to you 
  will. You will have lost everything and I will still have the information I want.”
  
  Biron said, “It’s no use. You’re setting this up so carefully, and yet it won’t help you. 
  There is no rebellion world.”
  “The Autarch says there is.”
  “Then ask the Autarch your question.”
  Aratap frowned. The young man was carrying the bluff forward past the point of reason.
  He said, “My own inclination is to deal with one of you.”
  “Yet you have dealt with the Autarch in the past. Do so again. There is nothing you can 
  sell to us that we are willing to buy from you.” Biron looked about him. “Right?”
  Artemisia crept closer to him and her hand folded slowly about his elbow. Rizzett 
  nodded curtly and Gillbret muttered, “Right!” in a breathless manner.
  “You have decided,” said Aratap, and put his finger on the correct knob.
    
  The Autarch’s right wrist was immobilized in a light metal sheath, which was held 
  magnetically tight to the metal band about his abdomen. The left side of his face was 
  swollen and blue with bruise except for a ragged, force-healed scar that seamed it redly. 
  He stood before them without moving after that first wrench which had freed his good 
  arm from the grip of the armed guard at his side.
  “What do you want?”
  “I will tell you in a moment,” said Aratap. “First, I want you to consider your audience. 
  See whom we have here. There is the young man, for instance, whom you planned death 
  for, yet who lived long enough to cripple you and destroy your plans, although you were 
  an Autarch and he was an exile.”
  It was difficult to tell whether a flush had entered the Autarch’s mangled face. There was 
  no single muscle motion upon it.
  Aratap did not look for one. He went on quietly, almost indifferently, “This is Gillbret 
  oth Hinriad, who saved the young man’s life and brought him to you. This is the Lady 
  Artemisia, whom, I am told, you courted in your most charming manner and who 
  betrayed you, nevertheless, for love of the youngster. This is Colonel Rizzett, your most 
  trusted military aide, who also ended by betraying you. What do you owe these people, 
  
  Autarch?”
  The Autarch said again, “What do you want?”
  “Information. Give it to me and you will be Autarch again. Your earlier dealings with us 
  would be held in your favor at the Khan’s court. Otherwise--”
  “Otherwise?”
  “Otherwise I will get it from these, you see. They will be saved and you will be 
  executed. That is why I ask whether you owe them anything, that you should give them 
  the opportunity of saving their lives by yourself being mistakenly stubborn.”
  The Autarch’s face twisted painfully into a smile. “They cannot save their lives at my 
  expense. They do not know the location of the world you seek. I do.”
  “I have not said what the information I want is, Autarch.”
  “There is only one thing you can want.” His voice was hoarse--all but unrecognizable. 
  “If my decision is to speak, then my Autarchy will be as before, you say.”
  “More closely guarded, of course,” amended Aratap politely.
  Rizzett cried out, “Believe him, and you’ll but add treason to treason and be killed for it 
  in the end.”
  The guard stepped forward, but Biron anticipated him. He flung himself upon Rizzett, 
  struggling backward with him.
  “Don’t be a fool,” he muttered. “There’s nothing you can do.”
  The Autarch said, “I don’t care about my Autarchy, or myself, Rizzett.” He turned to 
  Aratap. “Will these be killed? That, at least, you must promise.” His horridly discolored 
  face twisted savagely. “That one, above all.” His finger stabbed toward Biron.
  “If that is your price, it is met.”
  “If I could be his executioner, I would relieve you of all further obligation to me. If my 
  finger could control the execution blast, it would be partial repayment. But if not that, at 
  least I will tell you what he would have you not know. I give you rho, theta, and phi in 
  parsecs and radians: 7352.43, 1.7836, 5.2112. Those three points will determine the 
  position of the world in the Galaxy. You have them now.”
  
  “So I have,” said Aratap, writing them down.
  And Rizzett broke away, crying, “Traitor! Traitor!”
  Biron, caught off balance, lost his grip on the Linganian and was thrown to one knee. 
  “Rizzett,” he yelled futilely.
  Rizzett, face distorted, struggled briefly with the guard. Other guards were swarming in, 
  but Rizzett had the blaster now. With hands and knees he struggled against the Tyrannian 
  soldiers. Hurling himself through the huddle of bodies, Biron joined the fight. He caught 
  Rizzett’s throat, choking him, pulling him back.
  “Traitor,” Rizzett gasped, struggling to maintain aim as the Autarch tried desperately to 
  squirm aside. He fired! And then they disarmed him and threw him on his back.
  But the Autarch’s right shoulder and half his chest had been blasted away. Grotesquely, 
  the forearm dangled freely from its magnetized sheath. Fingers, wrist, and elbow ended 
  in black ruin. For a long moment it seemed that the Autarch’s eyes flickered as his body 
  remained in crazy balance, and then they were glazed and he dropped and was a charred 
  remnant upon the floor.
  Artemisia choked and buried her face against Biron’s chest. Biron forced himself to look 
  once, firmly and without flinching, at the body of his father’s murderer, then turned his 
  eyes away. Hinrik, from a distant corner of the room, mumbled and giggled to himself.
  Only Aratap was calm. He said, “Remove the body.”
  They did so, flaring the floor with a soft heat ray for a few moments to remove the 
  blood. Only a few scattered char marks were left.
  They helped Rizzett to his feet. He brushed at himself with both hands, then whirled 
  fiercely toward Biron. “What wereyou doing? I almost missed the bastard.”
  Biron said wearily, “You fell into Aratap’s trap, Rizzett. “
  “Trap? I killed the bastard, didn’t I?”
  “That was the trap. You did him a favor.”
  Rizzett made no answer, and Aratap did not interfere. He listened with a certain 
  pleasure. The young fellow’s brains worked smoothly.
  
  Biron said, “If Aratap overheard what he claimed to have overheard, he would have 
  known that only Jonti had the information he wanted. Jonti said that, with emphasis, 
  when he faced us after the fight. It was obvious that Aratap was questioning us only to 
  rattle us, to get us to act brainlessly at the proper time. I was ready for the irrational 
  impulse he counted upon. You were not.”
  “I had thought,” interposed Aratap softly, “that you would have done the job.”
  “I,” said Biron, “would have aimed at you.” He turned to Rizzett again. “Don’t you see 
  that he didn’t want the Autarch alive? The Tyranni are snakes. He wanted the Autarch’s 
  information; he didn’t want to pay for it; he couldn’t risk killing him. You did it for 
  him.”
  “Correct,” said Aratap, “and I have my information.”
  Somewhere there was the sudden clamor of bells.
  Rizzett began, “All right. If I did him a favor, I did myself one at the same time.”
  “Not quite,” said the Commissioner, “since our young friend has not carried the analysis 
  far enough. You see, a new crime has been committed. Where the only crime is treason 
  against Tyrann, your disposal would be a delicate matter politically. But now that the 
  Autarch of Lingane has been murdered, you may be tried, convicted, and executed by 
  Linganian law and Tyrann need play no part in it. This will be convenient for--”
  And then he frowned and interrupted himself. He heard the clanging, and stepped to the 
  door. He kicked the release.
  “What is happening?”
  A soldier saluted. “General alarm, sir. Storage compartments.”
  “Fire?”
  “It is not yet known, sir.”
  Aratap thought to himself, Great Galaxy! and stepped back into the room. “Where is 
  Gillbret?”
  And it was the first anyone knew of the latter’s absence.
  
  Aratap said, “We’ll find him.”
  They found him in the engine room, cowering amid the giant structures, and half 
  dragged, half carried him back to the Commissioner’s room.
  The Commissioner said dryly, “There is no escape on a ship, my lord. It did you no good 
  to sound the general alarm. The time of confusion is even then limited.”
  He went on, “I think it is enough. We have kept the cruiser you stole, Farrill, my own 
  cruiser, on board ship. It will be used to explore the rebellion world. We will make for 
  the lamented Autarch’s reference points as soon as the Jump can be calculated. This will 
  be an adventure of a sort usually missing in this comfortable generation of ours.”
  There was the sudden thought in his mind of his father in command of a squadron, 
  conquering worlds. He wasglad Andros was gone. This adventure would be his alone.
  They were separated after that. Artemisia was placed with her father, and Rizzett and 
  Biron were marched off in separate directions. Gillbret struggled and screamed.
  “I won’t be left alone. I won’t be in solitary.”
  Aratap sighed. This man’s grandfather had been a great ruler, the history books said. It 
  was degrading to have to watch such a scene. He said, with distaste, “Put my lord with 
  one of the others.”
  And Gillbret was put with Biron. There was no speech between them till the corning of 
  space-ship “night,” when the lights turned a dim purple. It was bright enough to allow 
  them to be watched through the tele-viewing system by the guards, shift and shift about, 
  yet dim enough to allow sleep.
  But Gillbret did not sleep.
  “Biron,” he whispered. “Biron.”
  And Biron, roused from a dull semi-drowse, said, “What do you want?”
  “Biron, I have done it. It is all right, Biron.”
  Biron said, “Try to sleep, Oil.”
  But Gillbret went on, “But I’ve done it, Biron. Aratap may be smart, but I’m smarter. 
  Isn’t that amusing? You don’t have to worry, Biron. Biron, don’t worry. I’ve fixed it.” 
  
  He was shaking Biron again, feverishly.
  Biron sat up. “What’s the matter with you?”
  “Nothing. Nothing. It’s all right. But I fixed it.” Gillbret was smiling. It was a sly smile, 
  the smile of a little boy who has done something clever.
  “What have you fixed?” Biron was on his feet. He seized the other by the shoulders and 
  dragged him upright as well. “Answer me.”
  ‘They found me in the engine room.” The words were jerked out. “They thought I was 
  hiding. I wasn’t. I sounded the general alarm for the storage room because I had to be 
  alone for just a few minutes--a very few minutes. Biron, I shorted the hyperatomics.”
  “What?”
  “It was easy. It took a minute. And they won’t know. I did it cleverly. They won’t know 
  until they try to Jump, and then all the fuel will be energy in one chain reaction and the 
  ship and us and Aratap and all knowledge of the rebellion world will be a thin expansion 
  of iron vapor.”
  Biron was backing away, eyes wide. “You did that?”
  “Yes.” Gillbret buried his head in his hands and rocked to and fro. “We’ll be dead. 
  Biron, I’m not afraid to die, but not alone. Not alone. I had to be with someone. I’m glad 
  I’m with you. I want to be with someone when I die. But it won’t hurt; it will be so 
  quick. It won’t hurt. It won’t hurt.”
  Biron said, “Fool! Madman! We might still have won out but for this.”
  Gillbret didn’t hear him. His ears were filled with his own moans. Biron could only dash 
  to the door.
  “Guard,” he yelled.“Guard!” Were there hours or merely minutes left?
    
   TWENTY-ONE:
    
   Here?
  
    
   The soldier came clattering down the corridor. “Get back in there.” His voice was sour 
  and sharp.
  They stood facing one another. There were no doors to the small bottom-level rooms 
  which doubled as prison cells, but a force field stretched from side to side, top to 
  bottom. Biron could feel it with his hand. There was a tiny resilience to it, like rubber 
  stretched nearly to its extreme, and then it stopped giving, as though the first initial 
  pressure turned it to steel.
  It tingled Biron’s hand, and he knew that though it would stop matter completely, it 
  would be as transparent as space to the energy beam of a neuronic whip. And there was a 
  whip in the guard’s hand.
  Biron said, “I’ve got to see Commissioner Aratap.”
  “Is that what you’re making a noise about?” The guard was not in the best of humors. 
  The night watch was unpopular and he was losing at cards. “I’ll mention it after lights-
  on.”
  “It won’t wait.” Biron felt desperate. “It’s important. “
  “It will have to wait. Will you get back, or do you want a bit of the whip?”
  “Look,” said Biron, “the man with me is Gillbret oth Hinriad. He is sick. He may be 
  dying. If a Hinriad dies on a Tyrannian ship because you will not let me speak to the 
  man in authority, you will not have a good time of it.”
  “What’s wrong with him?”
  “I don’t know. Will you be quick or are you tired of life?”
  The guard mumbled something and was off.
  Biron watched him as far as he could see in the dim purple. He strained his ears in an 
  attempt to catch the heightened throbbing of the engines as energy concentration 
  climbed to a pre-Jump peak, but he heard nothing at all.
  
  He strode to Gillbret, seized the man’s hair, and pulled his head back gently. Eyes stared 
  into his out of a contorted face. There was no recognition in them, only fear.
  “Who are you?”
  “It’s only me--Biron. How do you feel?”
  It took time for the words to penetrate. Gillbret said, blankly, “Biron?” Then, with a 
  quiver of life, “Biron! Are they Jumping? Death won’t hurt, Biron.”
  Biron let the head drop. No point in anger against Gillbret. On the information he had, or 
  thought he had, it was a great gesture. All the more so, since it was breaking him.
  But he was writhing in frustration. Why wouldn’t they let him speak to Aratap? Why 
  wouldn’t they let him out? He found himself at a wall and beat upon it with his fists. If 
  there were a door, he could break it down; if there were bars, he could pull them apart or 
  drag them out of their sockets, by the Galaxy.
  But there was a force field, which nothing could damage. He yelled again.
  There were footsteps once more. He rushed to the open-yet-not-open door. He could not 
  look out to see who was coming down the corridor. He could only wait.
  It was the guard again. “Get back from the field,” he barked. “Step back with your hands 
  in front of you.” There was an officer with him.
  Biron retreated. The other’s neuronic whip was on him, unwaveringly. Biron said, “The 
  man with you is not Aratap. I want to speak to the Commissioner.”
  The officer said, “If Gillbret oth Hinriad is ill, you don’t want to see the Commissioner. 
  You want to see a doctor.”
  The force field was down, with a dim blue spark showing as contact broke. The officer 
  entered, and Biron could see the Medical Group insignia on his uniform.
  Biron stepped in front of him. “All right. Now listen to me. This ship mustn’t Jump. The 
  Commissioner is the only one who can see to that, and I must see him. Do you 
  understand that? You’re an officer. You can have him awakened.”
  The doctor put out an arm to brush Biron aside, and Biron batted it away. The doctor 
  cried out sharply and called, “Guard, get this man out of here.”
  
  The guard stepped forward and Biron dived. They went thumping down together, and 
  Biron clawed up along the guard’s body, hand over hand, seizing first the shoulder and 
  then the wrist of the arm that was trying to bring its whip down upon him.
  For a moment they remained frozen, straining against one another, and then Biron 
  caught motion at the corner of his eye. The medical officer was rushing past them to 
  sound the alarm.
  Biron’s hand, the one not holding the other’s whip wrist, shot out and seized the officer’s 
  ankle. The guard writhed nearly free, and the officer kicked out wildly at him, but, with 
  the veins standing out on his neck and temples, Biron pulled desperately with each hand.
  The officer went down; shouting hoarsely. The guard’s whip clattered to the floor with a 
  harsh sound.
  Biron fell upon it, rolled with it, and came up on his knees and one hand. In his other 
  was the whip.
  “Not a sound,” he gasped. “Not one sound. Drop anything else you’ve got.”
  The guard, staggering to his feet, his tunic ripped, glared hatred and tossed a short, 
  metal-weighted, plastic club away from himself. The doctor was unarmed.
  Biron picked up the club. He said, “Sorry. I have nothing to tie and gag you with and no 
  time anyway.”
  The whip flashed dimly once, twice. First the guard and then the doctor stiffened in 
  agonized immobility and dropped solidly, in one piece, legs and arms bent grotesquely 
  out from their bodies as they lay, in the attitude they had last assumed before the whip 
  struck.
  Biron turned to Gillbret, who was watching with dull, soundless vacuity.
  “Sorry,” said Biron, “but you, too, Gillbret,” and the whip flashed a third time.
  The vacuous expression was frozen solid as Gillbret lay there on his side.
  The force field was still down and Biron stepped out into the corridor. It was empty. This 
  was space-ship “night” and only the watch and the night details would be up.
  There would be no time to try to locate Aratap. It would have to be straight for the 
  engine room. He set off. It would be toward the bow, of course.
  
  A man in engineer’s work clothes hurried past him.
  “When’s the next Jump?” called out Biron.
  “About half an hour,” the engineer returned over his shoulder.
  “Engine room straight ahead?”
  “And up the ramp.” The man turned suddenly. “Who are you?”
  Biron did not answer. The whip flared a fourth time. He stepped over the body and went 
  on. Half an hour left.
  He heard the noise of men as he sped up the ramp. The light ahead was white, not 
  purple. He hesitated. Then he put the whip into his pocket. They would be busy. There 
  would be no reason for them to suspect him.
  He stepped in quickly. The men were pygmies scurrying about the huge matter-energy 
  converters. The room glared with dials, a hundred thousand eyes staring their 
  information out to all who would look. A ship this size, one almost in the class of a large 
  passenger liner, was considerably different from the tiny Tyrannian cruiser he had been 
  used to. There, the engines had been all but automatic. Here they were large enough to 
  power a city, and required considerable supervision.
  He was on a railed balcony that circled the engine room. In one corner there was a small 
  room in which two men handled computers with flying fingers.
  He hurried in that direction, while engineers passed him without looking at him, and 
  stepped through the door.
  The two at the computers looked at him.
  “What’s up?” one asked. “What are you doing up here? Get back to your post.” He had a 
  lieutenant’s stripes.
  Biron said, “Listen to me. The hyperatomics have been shorted. They’ve got to be 
  repaired.”
  “Hold on,” said the second man, “I’ve seen this man. He’s one of the prisoners. Hold 
  him, Lancy.”
  
  He jumped up and was making his way out the other door. Biron hurdled the desk and 
  the computer, seized the belt of the controlman’s tunic and pulled him backward.
  “Correct,” he said. “I’m one of the prisoners. I’m Biron of Widemos. But what I say is 
  true. The hyperatomics are shorted. Have them inspected, if you don’t believe me.”
  The lieutenant found himself staring at a neuronic whip. He said, carefully, “It can’t be 
  done, sir, without orders from Officer of the Day, or from the Commissioner. It would 
  mean changing the Jump calculations and delaying us hours.”
  “Get the authority, then. Get the Commissioner.”
  “May I use the communicator?”
  “Hurry.”
  The lieutenant’s arm reached out for the flaring mouthpiece of the communicator, and 
  halfway there plummeted down hard upon the row of knobs at one end of his desk. Bells 
  clamored in every corner of the ship.
  Biron’s club was too late. It came down hard upon the lieutenant’s wrist. The lieutenant 
  snatched it away, nursing it and moaning over it, but the warning signals were sounding.
  Guards were rocketing in upon the balcony through every entrance. Biron slammed out 
  of the control room, looked in either direction, then hopped the railing.
  He plummeted down, landing knees bent, and rolled. He rolled as rapidly as he could to 
  prevent setting himself up as a target. He heard the soft hissing of a needle gun near his 
  ear, and then he was in the shadow of one of the engines.
  He stood up in a crouch, huddling beneath its curve. His right leg was a stabbing pain. 
  Gravity was high so near the ship’s hull and the drop had been a long one. He had 
  sprained his knee badly. It meant that there would be no more chase. If he Won out, it 
  was to be from where he stood.
  He called out, “Hold your firer I am unarmed.” First the club and then the whip he had 
  taken from the guard went spinning out toward the center of the engine room. They lay 
  there in stark impotence and plain view.
  Biron shouted, “I have come to warn you. The hyperatomics are shorted. A Jump will 
  mean the death of us all. I ask only that you check the motors. You will lose a few hours, 
  perhaps, if I am wrong. You will save your lives, if I am right.”
  
  Someone called, “Go down there and get him.”
  Biron yelled, “Will you sell your lives rather than listen?”
  He heard the cautious sound of many feet, and shrank backward. Then there was a sound 
  above. A soldier was sliding down the engine toward him, hugging its faintly warm skin 
  as though it were a bride. Biron waited. He could still use his arms.
  And then the voice came from above, unnaturally loud, penetrating every corner of the 
  huge room. It said, “Back to your places. Halt preparations for the Jump. Check the 
  hyperatomics.”
  It was Aratap, speaking through the public-address system. The order then came, “Bring 
  the young man to me.”
  Biron allowed himself to be taken. There were two soldiers on each side, holding him as 
  though they expected him to explode. He tried to force himself to walk naturally, but he 
  was limping badly.
    
  Aratap was in semidress. His eyes seemed different: faded, peering, unfocused. It 
  occurred to Biron that the man wore contact lenses.
  Aratap said, “You have created quite a stir, Farrill.”
  “It was necessary to save the ship. Send these guards away. As long as the engines are 
  being investigated, there’s nothing more I intend doing.”
  “They will stay just awhile. At least, until I hear from my engine men.”
  They waited, silently, as the minutes dragged on, and then there was a flash of red upon 
  the frosted-glass circle above the glowing lettering that read “Engine Room.”
  Aratap opened contact. “Make your report!”
  The words that came were crisp and hurried: “Hyperatomics on the C Bank completely 
  shorted. Repairs under way.”
  Aratap said, “Have Jump recalculated for plus six hours.”
  
  He turned to Biron and said coolly, “You were right.”
  He gestured. The guards saluted, turned on their heels, and left one by one with a 
  smooth precision. Aratap said, “The details, please.”
  “Gillbret oth Hinriad during his stay in the engine room thought the shorting would be a 
  good idea. The man is not responsible for his actions and must not be punished for it.”
  Aratap nodded. “He has not been considered responsible for years. That portion of the 
  events will remain between you and me only. However, my interest and curiosity are 
  aroused by your reasons for preventing the destruction of the ship. You are surely not 
  afraid to die in a good cause?”
  “There is no cause,” said Biron. “There is no rebellion world. I have told you so already 
  and I repeat it. Lingane was the center of revolt, and that has been checked. I was 
  interested only in tracking down my father’s murderer, the Lady Artemisia only in 
  escaping an unwanted marriage. As for Gillbret, he is mad.”
  “Yet the Autarch believed in the existence of this mysterious planet. Surely he gave me 
  the co-ordinates of something!”
  “His belief is based on a madman’s dream. Gillbret dreamed something twenty years 
  ago. Using that as a basis, the Autarch calculated five possible planets as the site of this 
  dream world. It is all nonsense.”
  The commissioner said, “And yet something disturbs me.”
  “What?”
  “You are working so hard to persuade me. Surely I will find all this out for myself once I 
  have made the Jump. Consider that it is not impossible that in desperation one of you 
  might endanger the ship and the other save it as a complicated method for convincing 
  me that I need look no further for the rebellion world. I would say to myself: If there 
  were really such a world, young Farrill would have let the ship vaporize, for he is a 
  young man and romantically capable of dying what he would consider a hero’s death. 
  Since he has risked his life to prevent that happening, Gillbret is mad, there is no 
  rebellion world, and I will return without searching further. Am I too complicated for 
  you?”
  “No. I understand you.”
  “And since you have saved our lives, you will receive appropriate consideration in the 
  
  Khan’s court. You will have saved your life and your cause. No, young sir, I am not 
  quite so ready to believe the obvious. We will still make the Jump.”
  “I have no objections,” said Biron.
  “You are cool,” said Aratap. “It is a pity you were not born one of us.”
  He meant it as a compliment. He went on, “We’ll take you back to your cell now, and 
  replace the force field. A simple precaution.”
  Biron nodded.
    
  The guard that Biron had knocked out was no longer there when they returned to the 
  prison room, but the doctor was. He was bending over the still-unconscious form of 
  Gillbret.
  Aratap said, “Is he still under?”
  At his voice the doctor jumped up. “The effects of the whip have worn off, 
  Commissioner, but the man is not young and has been under a strain. I don’t know if he 
  will recover.”
  Biron felt horror fill him. He dropped to his knees, disregarding the wrenching pain, and 
  reached out a hand to touch Gillbret’s shoulder gently.
  “Gil,” he whispered. He watched the damp, white face, anxiously.
  “Out of the way, man.” The medical officer was scowling at him. He removed his black 
  doctor’s wallet from an inner pocket.
  “At least the hypodermics aren’t broken,” he grumbled. He leaned over Gillbret, the 
  hypodermic, filled with its colorless fluid, poised. It sank deep, and the plunger pressed 
  inward automatically. The doctor tossed it aside and they waited.
  Gillbret’s eyes flickered, then opened. For a while they stared unseeingly. When he 
  spoke finally, his voice was a whisper. “I can’t see, Biron. I can’t see.”
  Biron leaned close again. “It’s all right, Oil. Just rest.”
  “I don’t want to.” He tried to struggle upright. “Biron, when are. they Jumping?”
  
  “Soon, soon!”
  “Stay with me, then. I don’t want to die alone.” His fingers clutched feebly, and then 
  relaxed. His head lolled backward.
  The doctor stooped, then straightened. “We were too late. He’s dead.”
  Tears stung at Biron’s eyelids. “I’m sorry, Oil,” he said, “but you didn’t know. You 
  didn’t understand.” They didn’t hear him.
    
  They were hard hours for Biron. Aratap had refused to allow him to attend the 
  ceremonies involved in the burial of a body at space. Somewhere in the ship, he knew, 
  Gillbret’s body would be blasted in an atomic furnace and then exhausted into space, 
  where its atoms might mingle forever with the thin wisps of interstellar matter.
  Artemisia and Hinrik would be there. Would they understand? Wouldshe understand that 
  he had done only what he had to do?
  The doctor had injected the cartilaginous extract that would hasten the healing of Biron’s 
  tom ligaments, and already the pain in his knee was barely noticeable, but then that was 
  only physical pain, anyway. It could be ignored.
  He felt the inner disturbance that meant the ship had Jumped and then the worst time 
  came.
  Earlier he had felt his own analysis to be correct. Ithad to be. But what if he were 
  wrong? What if they were now at the very heart of rebellion? The information would go 
  streaking back to Tyrann and the armada would gather. And he himself would die 
  knowing that he might have saved the rebellion, but had risked death to ruin it.
  It was during that dark time that he thought of the document again. The document he 
  had once failed to get.
  Strange the way the notion of the document came and went. It would be mentioned, and 
  then forgotten. There was a mad, intensive search for the rebellion world and yet no 
  search at all for the mysterious vanished document.
  Was the emphasis being misplaced?
  
  It occurred to Biron then that Aratap was willing to come upon the rebellion world with 
  a single ship. What was that confidence he had? Could he dare a planet with a ship?
  The Autarch had said the document had vanished years before, but then who had it?
  The Tyranni, perhaps. They might have a document the secret of which would allow one 
  ship to destroy a world.
  If that were true, what did it matter where the rebellion world was, or if it existed at all.
    
  Time passed and then Aratap entered. Biron rose to his feet.
  Aratap said, “We have reached the star in question. Thereis a star there. The co-ordinates 
  given us by the Autarch were correct.”
  “Well?”
  “But there is no need to inspect it for planets. The star, I am told by my astrogators, was 
  a nova less than a million years ago. If it had planets then, they were destroyed. It is a 
  white dwarf now. It can have no planets.”
  Biron stared. “Then--”
  Aratap said, “So you are right. There is no rebellion world.”
   TWENTY-TWO:
    
    There!
    
   All of Aratap’s philosophy could not completely wipe out the feeling of regret within 
  him. For a while he had not been himself, but his father over again. He, too, these last 
  weeks had been leading a squadron of ships against the enemies of the Khan.
  But these were degenerate days, and where there might have been a rebellion world, 
  
  there was none. There were no enemies of the Khan after all; no worlds to gain. He 
  remained only a Commissioner, still condemned to the soothing of little troubles. No 
  more.
  Yet regret was a useless emotion. It accomplished nothing.
  He said, “So you are right. There is no rebellion world.”
  He sat down and motioned Biron into a seat as well. “I want to talk to you.”
  The young man was staring solemnly at him, and Aratap found himself gently amazed 
  that they had met first less than a month ago. The boy was older now, far more than a 
  month older, and he had lost his fear. Aratap thought to himself, I am growing 
  completely decadent. How many of us are beginning to like individuals among our 
  subjects? How many of us wish them well?
  He said, “I am going to release the Director and his daughter. Naturally, it is the 
  politically intelligent thing to do. In fact, it is politically inevitable. I think, though, that I 
  will release them now and send them back on theRemorseless. Would you care to pilot 
  them?”
  Biron said, “Are you freeing me?”
  “Yes.”
  “Why?”
  “You saved my ship, and my life as well.”
  “I doubt that personal gratitude would influence your actions in matters of state.”
  Aratap was within a hair of laughing outright. Hedid like the boy. “Then I’ll give you 
  another reason. As long as I was tracking a giant conspiracy against the Khan, you were 
  dangerous. When that giant conspiracy failed to materialize, when all I had was a 
  Linganian cabal of which the leader is dead: you were no longer dangerous. In fact, it 
  would be dangerous to try either you or the Linganian captives.
  “The trials would be in Linganian courts and therefore not under our full control. They 
  would inevitably involve discussion of the so-called rebellion world. And though there is 
  none, half the subjects of Tyrann would think there might be one after all, that where 
  there was such a deal of drumming, there must be a drum. We would have given them a 
  concept to rally round, a reason for revolt, a hope for the future. The Tyrannian realm 
  
  would not be free of rebellion this side of a century.”
  “Then you free us all?”
  “It will not be exactly freedom, since none of you is exactly loyal. We will deal with 
  Lingane in our own way, and the next Autarch will find himself bound by closer ties to 
  the Khanate. It will be no longer an Associated State, and trials involving Linganians 
  will not necessarily be tried in Linganian courts hereafter. Those involved in the 
  conspiracy, including those in our hands now, will be exiled to worlds nearer Tyrann, 
  where they will be fairly harmless. You yourself cannot return to Nephelos and need not 
  expect to be restored to your Ranch. You will stay on Rhodia, along with Colonel 
  Rizzett.”
  “Good enough, “ said Biron, “but what of the Lady Artemisia’s marriage?”
  “You wish it stopped?”
  “You must know that we would like to marry each other. You said once there might be 
  some way of stopping the Tyrannian affair.”
  “At the time I said that I was trying to accomplish something. What is the old saying? 
  ‘The lies of lovers and diplomats shall be forgiven them.’ “
  “But thereis a way, Commissioner. It need only be pointed out to the Khan that when a 
  powerful courtier would marry into an important subject family, it may be motives of 
  ambition that lead him on. A subject revolt may be led by an ambitious Tyrannian as 
  easily as by an ambitious Linganian.”
  Aratap did laugh this time. “You reason like one of us. But it wouldn’t work. Would you 
  want my advice?”
  “What would it be?”
  “Marry her yourself, quickly. A thing once done would be difficult to undo under the 
  circumstances. We would find another woman for Pohang.”
  Biron hesitated. Then he put out a hand. “Thank you, sir.”
  Aratap took it. “I don’t like Pohang particularly, anyway. Still, there is one thing further 
  for you to remember. Don’t let ambition mislead you. Though you marry the Director’s 
  daughter, you will never yourself be Director. You are not the type we want.”
  
    
  Aratap watched the shrinkingRemorseless in the visiplate and was glad the decision had 
  been made. The young man was free; a message was already on its way to Tyrann 
  through the sub-ether. Major Andros would undoubtedly swell into apoplexy, and there 
  would not be wanting men at court to demand his recall as Commissioner.
  If necessary, he would travel to Tyrann. Somehow he would see the Khan and make him 
  listen. Given all the facts, the King of Kings would see plainly that no other course of 
  action was possible, and thereafter he could defy any possible combination of enemies.
  TheRemorseless was only a gleaming dot now, scarcely distinguishable from the stars 
  that were beginning to surround it now that they were emerging from the Nebula.
  Rizzett watched the shrinking Tyrannian flagship in the visiplate. He said, “So the man 
  let us got You know, if the Tyranni were all like him, damned if I wouldn’t join their 
  fleet. It upsets me in a way. I have definite notions of what Tyranni are like, and he 
  doesn’t fit. Do you suppose he can hear what we say?”
  Biron set the automatic controls and swiveled in the pilot’s seat. “No. Of course not. He 
  can follow us through hyperspace as he did before, but I don’t think he can put a spy 
  beam on us. You remember that when he first captured us all he knew about us was what 
  he overheard on the fourth planet. No more.”
  Artemisia stepped into the pilot room, her finger on her lips. “Not too loudly,” she said. 
  “I think he’s sleeping now. It won’t be long before we reach Rhodia, will it, Biron?”
  “We can do it in one Jump, Arta. Aratap had it calculated for us.”
  Rizzett said, “I’ve got to wash my hands.”
  They watched him leave, and then she was in Biron’s arms. He kissed her lightly on 
  forehead and eyes, then found her lips as his arms tensed about her. The kiss came to a 
  lingering and breathless end. She said, “I love you very much,” and he said, “I love you 
  more than I can say.” The conversation that followed was both as unoriginal as that and 
  as satisfying.
  Biron said after a while, “Will he marry us before we land?”
  Artemisia frowned a little. “I tried to explain that he’s Director and captain of the ship 
  and that there are no Tyranni here. I don’t know though. He’s quite upset. He’s not 
  himself at all, Biron. After he’s rested, I’ll try again.”
  
  Biron laughed softly. “Don’t worry. He’ll be persuaded.”
  Rizzett’s footsteps were noisy as he returned. He said, “I wish we still had the trailer. 
  There isn’t room here to take a deep breath.”
  Biron said, “We’ll be on Rhodia in a matter of hours. We’ll be Jumping soon.”
  “I know.” Rizzett scowled. “And we’ll stay on Rhodia till we die. Not that I’m 
  complaining overloud; I’m glad I’m alive. But it’s a silly end to it all.”
  “There hasn’t been any ending,” said Biron softly.
  Rizzett looked up. “You mean we can start allover? No, I don’t think so. You can, 
  perhaps, but not I. I’m too old and there’s nothing left for me. Lingane will be dragged 
  into line and I’ll never see it again. That bothers me most of all, I think. I was born there 
  and lived there all my life. I won’t be but half a man anywhere else. You’re young; 
  you’ll forget Nephelos.”
  “There’s more to life than a home planet, Tedor. It’s been our great shortcoming in the 
  past centuries that we’ve been unable to recognize that fact.All planets are our home 
  planets.”
  “Maybe. Maybe. If therehad been a rebellion world, why, then, it might have been so.”
  “Thereis a rebellion world, Tedor.”
  Rizzett said sharply, “I’m in no mood for that, Biron.”
  “I’m not telling a lie. Thereis such a world and I know its location. I might have known 
  it weeks ago, and so might anyone in our party. The facts were all there. They were 
  knocking at my mind without being able to get in until that moment on the fourth planet 
  when you and I had beat down Jonti. Do you remember him standing there, saying that 
  we would never find the fifth planet without his help? Do you remember his words?”
  “Exactly? No.”
  “I think I do. He said, ‘There is an average of seventy cubic light-years per star. If you 
  work by trial and error, without me, the odds are two hundred and fifty quadrillion to 
  one against your coming within a billion miles of any star.Any star!’ It was at that 
  moment, I think, that the facts got into my mind. I could feel the click.”
  
  “Nothing clicks in my mind,” said Rizzett. “Suppose you explain a bit.”
  Artemisia said, “I don’t see what you can mean, Biron.”
  Biron said, “Don’t you see that it is exactly those odds which Gillbret is supposed to 
  have defeated? You remember his story. The meteor hit, deflected his ship’s course, and 
  at the end of its Jumps, it was actuallywithin a stellar system. That could have happened 
  only by a coincidence so incredible as to be not worth any belief.”
  “Then itwas a madman’s story and there is no rebellion world.”
  “Unless there is a condition under which the odds against landing within a stellar system 
  are less incredible, and there is such a condition. In fact, there is one set of 
  circumstances, and only one, under which hemust have reached a system. It would have 
  been inevitable.”
  “Well?”
  “You remember the Autarch’s reasoning. The engines of Gillbret’s ship were not 
  interfered with, so the power of the hyperatomic thrusts, or, in other words, the lengths 
  of the Jumps, were not changed. Only their direction was changed in such a way that one 
  of the five stars in an incredibly vast area of the Nebula was reached. It was an 
  interpretation which, on the very face of it, was improbable.”
  “But the alternative?”
  “Why, that neither powernor direction was altered. There is no real reason to suppose the 
  direction of drive to have been interfered with. That was only assumption. What if the 
  ship had simply followed its original course? It had been aimed at a stellar system, 
  therefore it ended in a stellar system. The matter of odds doesn’t enter.”
  “But the stellar system it was aimed at--”
  “--was that of Rhodia. So he went to Rhodia. Is that so obvious that it’s difficult to 
  grasp?”
  Artemisia said, “But then the rebellion world must be at home! That’s impossible.”
  “Why impossible? It is somewhere in the Rhodian System. There are two ways of hiding 
  an object. You can put it where no one can find it, as, for instance, within the Horsehead 
  Nebula. Or else you can put it where no one would ever think of looking, right in front 
  of their eyes in plain view.
  
  “Consider what happened to Gillbret after landing on the rebellion world. He was 
  returned to Rhodia alive. His theory was that this was in order to prevent a Tyrannian 
  search for the ship which might come dangerously close to the world itself. But then 
  why was he kept alive? If the ship had been returned with Gillbret dead, the same 
  purpose would have been accomplished and there would have been no chance of 
  Gillbret’s talking, as, eventually, he did.
  “Again, that can only be explained by supposing the rebellion world to be within the 
  Rhodian System. Gillbret was a Hinriad, and where else would there be such respect for 
  the life of a Hinriad but in Rhodia?”
  Artemisia’s hands clenched spasmodically. “But if what you say is true, Biron, then 
  Father is in terrible danger.”
  “And has been for twenty years,” agreed Biron, “but perhaps not in the manner you 
  think. Gillbret once told me how difficult it was to pretend to be a dilettante and a good-
  for-nothing, to pretend so hard that one had to live the part even with friends and even 
  when alone. Of course, with him, poor fellow, it was largely self-dramatization. He 
  didn’t really live the part. His real self came out easily enough with you, Arta. It showed 
  to the Autarch. He even found it necessary to show it to me on fairly short acquaintance.
  “But it is possible, I suppose, to really live such a life completely, if your reasons are 
  sufficiently important. A man might live a lie even to his daughter, be willing to see her 
  terribly married rather than risk a lifework that depended on complete Tyrannian trust, 
  be willing to seem half a madman--”
  Artemisia found her voice. She said huskily, “You can’t mean what you’re saying!”
  “There is no other meaning possible, Arta. He has been Director over twenty years. In 
  that time Rhodia has been continually strengthened by territory granted it by the 
  Tyranni, because they felt it would be safe with him. For twenty years he has organized 
  rebellion without interference from them, because he was so obviously harmless.”
  “You’re guessing, Biron,” said Rizzett, “and this kind of a guess is as dangerous as the 
  ones we’ve made before.”
  Biron said, “This is no guess. I told Jonti in that last discussion of ours that he, not the 
  Director, must have been the traitor who murdered my father, because my father would 
  never have been foolish enough to trust the Director with any incriminating information. 
  But the point is--and I knew it at the time--that this was just what my father did. Gillbret 
  learned of Jonti’s conspiratorial role through what he overheard in the discussions 
  
  between my father and the Director. There is no other way in which he could have 
  learned it.
  “But a stick points both ways. We thought my father was working for Jonti and trying to 
  enlist the support of the Director. Why is it not equally probable, or even more probable, 
  that he was working for the Director and that his role within Jonti’s organization was as 
  an agent of the rebellion world attempting to prevent a premature explosion on Lingane 
  that would ruin two decades of careful planning?
  “Why do you suppose it seemed so important to me to save Aratap’s ship when Gillbret 
  shorted the motors? It wasn’t for myself. I didn’t, at the time, think Aratap would free 
  me, no matter what. It wasn’t even so much for you, Arta. It was to save the Director. He 
  was the important man among us. Poor Gillbret didn’t Understand that.”
  Rizzett shook his head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t make myself believe all that.”
  It was a new voice that spoke. “You may as well. It is true.” The Director was standing 
  just outside the door, tall and somber-eyed. It was his voice and yet not quite his voice. It 
  was crisp and sure of itself.
  Artemisia ran to him. “Father! Biron says--”
  “I heard what Biron said.” He was stroking her hair with long, gentle motions of the 
  hand. “And it is true. I would even have let your marriage take place.”
  She stepped back from him, almost in embarrassment. “You sound so different. You 
  sound almost as if--”
  “Asif I weren’t your father.” He said it sadly. “It will not be for long, Arta. When we are 
  back on Rhodia, I will be as you knew me, and you must accept me so.”
  Rizzett stared at him, his usually ruddy complexion as gray as his hair. Biron was 
  holding his breath.
  Hinrik said, “Come here, Biron.”
  He placed a hand on Biron’s shoulder. “There was a time, young man, when I was ready 
  to sacrifice your life. The time may come again in the future. Until a certain day I can 
  protect neither of you. I can be nothing but what I have always seemed. Do you 
  understand that?”
  Each nodded.
  
  “Unfortunately,” said Hinrik, “damage has been done. Twenty years ago I was not as 
  hardened to my role as I am today. I should have ordered Gillbret killed, but I could not. 
  Because I did not, it is now known that there is a rebellion world and that I am its 
  leader.”
  “Only we know that,” said Biron.
  Hinrik smiled bitterly. “You think that because you are young. Do you think Aratap is 
  less intelligent than yourself? The reasoning by which you determined the location and 
  leadership of the rebellion world is based on facts known to him, and he can reason as 
  well as you. It is merely that he is older, more cautious; that he has grave 
  responsibilities. He must be certain.
  “Do you think he released you out of sentiment? I believe that you have been freed now 
  for the same reason you were freed once before--simply that you might lead him farther 
  along the path that leads to me.”
  Biron was pale. “Then I must leave Rhodia?”
  “No. That would be fatal. There would seem no reason for you to leave, save the true 
  one. Stay with me and they will remain uncertain. My plans are nearly completed. One 
  more year, perhaps, or less.”
  “But Director, there are factors you may not be aware of. There is the matter of the 
  document--”
  “For which your father was searching?”
  “Yes.”
  “Your father, my boy, did not know all there was to know. It is not safe to have anyone 
  in possession of all the facts. The old Rancher discovered the existence of the document 
  independently in the references to it in my library. I’ll give him credit. He recognized its 
  significance. But if he had consulted me, I would have told him it was no longer on 
  Earth.”
  “That’s exactly it, sir. I am certain the Tyranni have it.”
  “But of course not.1 have it. I’ve had it for twenty years. It was what started the 
  rebellion world, for it was only when I had it that I knew we could hold our winnings 
  once we had won.”
  
  “It is a weapon, then?”
  “It is the strongest weapon in the universe. It will destroy the Tyranni and us alike, but 
  will save the Nebular Kingdoms. Without it, we could perhaps defeat the Tyranni, but 
  we would only have exchanged one feudal despotism for another, and as the Tyranni are 
  plotted against, we would be plotted against. We and they must both be delivered into 
  the ashcan of outmoded political systems. The time for maturity has come as it once 
  came on the planet Earth, and there will be a new kind of government, a kind that has 
  never yet been tried in the Galaxy. There will be no Khans, no Autarchs, Directors, or 
  Ranchers.”
  “In the name of Space,” roared Rizzett suddenly, “what will there be?”
  “People.”
  “People? How can they govern? There must be some one person to make decisions.”
  “There is a way. The blueprint I have, dealt with a small section of one planet, but it can 
  be adapted to all the Galaxy.”
  The Director smiled. “Come, children, I may as well marry you. It can do little more 
  harm now.”
  Biron’s hand tightly enclosed Artemisia’s and she was smiling at him. They felt the 
  queer inward twinge as theRemorseless made its single precalculated Jump.
  Biron said, “Before you start, sir, will you tell me something about the blueprint you 
  mention, so that my curiosity will be satisfied and I can keep my mind on Arta?”
  Artemisia laughed and said, “You had better do it, Father. I couldn’t bear an abstracted 
  groom.”
  Hinrik smiled. “I know the document by heart. Listen.”
  And with Rhodia’s sun bright on the visiplate, Hinrik began with those words that were 
  older--far older--than any of the planets in the Galaxy save one:
  “‘We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect Union, establish 
  justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the 
  general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do 
  ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America....’“
  
    
    
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/A/Asimov, Issac/Empire/(The Empire Novels) Isaac Asimov-The Stars, Like Dust -Spectra (1991).pdf