Nomad

By WESLEY LONG

Illustrated by Orban

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

I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Guy Maynard?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, Guy Maynard, we may talk."

Maynard glared.

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

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

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

No answer.

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

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But to destroy them—?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Too bad," said the pilot.

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

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

"Certain identification?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Forty miles per second."

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

"Giving them the whole thing at once?"

"Yes. And one thing more, Jimmy?"

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

"Can you rig your drive-pattern interferer?"

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

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

"Right."

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

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

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

"Hulled us."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thirty."

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

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

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

"Number one did a fine job."

"I know but—"

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

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

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

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

II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thomakein retrieved his recording, set it up and added:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So unknowing, Guy Maynard came to Ertene.

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

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

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

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

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

Even self!

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

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

Where was he?

Why?

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

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

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

One day he asked: "Where am I?"

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

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

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

"I recall parts of that. But—Ertene?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charalas smiled. "We can."

"But how? It is not apparent."

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

"Come out?"

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

"Whiskers. I never noticed that."

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

"I could shave that off."

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

"That I can do."

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

Guy considered. "Soon?"

"It will be some time."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Great sounding guy," commented the Terran.

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

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

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

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

"Don't get you on that."

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

"Detection?"

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

"I see."

"Do you?"

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

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

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

III.

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

And if not—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So?"

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

"I see."

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

He wondered how soon it would be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is Ertene?" asked Guy.

"Ertene is not yet placed," said Charalas.

"No?" asked Guy in wonder.

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

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

Ertinians were human to the last classification!

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

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

But—

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

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

What was wrong?

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

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

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

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

Ertene had the wanderlust!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obviously, they had been waiting.

IV.

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

"Who is this man?"

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

"Explain his title."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, shall I name them?"

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

"I understand."

"How did Guy Maynard come to Ertene?"

"Maynard was rescued from a derelict spaceship."

"By whom?"

"Thomakein."

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

"That assumption is correct."

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

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

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

"Correct."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I invite Ertene to join the Solar System."

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

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

"Then what has Sol to offer?"

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

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

"How can any wandering program be considered stable?"

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

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

"How old is your history, Guy?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps. But her offering to civilization?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Naturally."

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

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

"You see us as decadent?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

"Certainly."

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

"We care for no other social order."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And why not?"

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

"Certainly."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

Guy was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Obviously," said Baranon.

"Then—"

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

"Mars—"

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

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

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

"Then I have failed?"

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

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

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

"Then I am to consider the matter closed?"

"Yes. We have decided not to remain."

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

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

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

"It will never be brought up again."

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

"Oh, but you will," said Charalas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then there is no debt for knowledge?"

"If any, I am in your debt."

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

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

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

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

"Indeed I do."

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

"I do not understand."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sounds convincing enough."

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

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

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

"One thing. The space tan."

"That you will get before you leave."

"Then that sounds like the works."

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

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

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

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

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

They left him, a couple of weeks later.

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

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

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

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

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

Ertene—completely altruistic.

Or was she completely selfish?

Terra would never know.

V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you get range and possible track?"

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

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

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

"Which guy in what story."

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

"They couldn't prove a thing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's the order."

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

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

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

"Twenty minutes from object."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can he put on any speed?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maynard looked pained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That one minor point continued to worry him at times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VI.

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

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

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

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

"Quite all right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," said Space Marshal Greggor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"By what reasoning?"

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

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

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

"Of what sort?"

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

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

"It is recorded."

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

"Good."

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

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

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

"What purpose would Maynard have in lying?"

"It is truthful enough for me."

"I'm in accord."

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

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

"Sir? I don't understand."

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

"But—"

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

"How was my absence explained?" asked Guy.

"You were M-12."

"Oh?" said Guy.

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

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

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

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

"How can we strengthen this contact?"

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

"And then?"

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

"Truth? Is there any in this story?"

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

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

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

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

"I believe so."

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

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

There was none.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will it be a shock?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All expect the scientific side.

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

Ertene's life was not in vain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's still similar."

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled at him and left immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"None," agreed her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They were not adventures," said Guy.

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

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

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

"No!" breathed Laura.

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

"Oh, wonderful."

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

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

"Perhaps. May I speak?"

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

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

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

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

"Is the equipment small enough?"

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

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

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

"Then the idea is not so good."

"I think it fair enough for a trial."

"But a ship without a drive is useless."

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

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

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

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

"Yes," said Guy.

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

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

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

So he stopped the deprecatory sentence and merely smiled.

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

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

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

VII.

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" asked Laura.

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

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

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

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

"I'm afraid not," answered Laura.

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

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

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

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

"Hi, Laura, what brings you here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well! Let's join them!"

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

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

"What was the bet?" asked Laura.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Better than what?" asked Guy.

"Dice. I crave excitement."

"But we just came," objected Maynard.

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

"Who's to drive?" asked Alice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like this?" he asked her quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

They agreed to his toast.

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

"Yes, indeed. Who lives where?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She's wonderful," Joan yawned.

"Tired?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Guy:

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

Joan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maynard heard the communicator snap on, and listened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How soon can we match her speed?"

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

"Executive to astrogator: Have you been listening?"

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

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

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

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

"Check."

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

"Kane! How are you?"

"Fine. And you?"

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

"Did a little ferreting."

"Did you know this is restricted space?"

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

"Excellent."

"Mind telling all?"

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

"Have you licked the main bugaboo?"

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

"Too bad."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do torpedoes work on the barrier?"

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

"How about combining them?"

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

"Why? Seems to me—?"

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

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

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

"What's the generating time?"

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

"How does instability affect the screen?"

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

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

"Thanks."

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

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

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

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

"Then you're about finished?"

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

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

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

"Check."

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

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

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

"Check!"

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

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

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

"Huh?" asked Kane.

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

"Right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're certain?"

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

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

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

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

"Sure could," agreed Guy enthusiastically.

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

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

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

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

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

"So would I," said Guy thoughtfully.

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

"Naturally."

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

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

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

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

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

"It ranks top with me," said Maynard.

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

"That correct?" asked Maynard of the crew.

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

"O.K. Start going!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Fire!" called the technician.

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

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

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

"Are they aware?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Right-o."

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

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

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

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

"I'm what?" asked Maynard.

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

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