Closed System

CLOSEDSYSTEM

by Zach Hughes

A SIGNET BOOK

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

Copyright © 1986 by Hugh ZacharyAll rights reserved

ONE

The computer was being cranky again. The oldermodels of the Century Series were subject to ion­izationof the Verboldt Cloud memory chambers, and decontamination of the chambers in a well-equipped shop on a civilized planet was the onlycure. In the Ophiuchus sector planets were few, even if one counted Van Biesbroeck's brown dwarf,a gas giant circling VB-8, twenty-one light-yearsout from Old Earth and almost thirteen light-yearsbehind. As for the degree of civilization in Ophiu­chus, that remained to be seen.

Pat Howe had the ship's optics on scan. He wassure that he recognized the obverse patterns ofstars in both Scorpius and Sagittarius, but whendealing with distances measured in parsecs on the far end of a little-used blink route, one did not relyon optical readings as interpreted by the always fallible human mind.

The computer had begun to develop a crustypersonality after theSkimmer's last overhaul. Itreminded Pat of a creaking, proud, overly meticu­lous old man more intent on thoroughness thanefficiency. The computer had gone to H-alpha lightand was laboriously building a composite 360-degree photo map, following a procedure designed for use in the event a ship became hopelessly lost, with not one known point recognizable. However,sooner or later the computer would accomplishthe purpose of checking the ship's position. To haltthe process would have required giving the com­puter detailed instructions, and that would haveinterrupted Pat's dinner.

The nutrition servos were working well, as were,indeed, all of the ship's systems except the com­puter. Skimmer was a smoothly functioning com­plex of hardware, electronics, and subatomic tech­nology that muttered, purred, clicked around Patwith familiar, reassuring sounds. She was in excel­lent condition for her age, squat and squarish,solidly built. She was moderately luxurious insideand all space dog outside, a refitted deep-spacetug, Mule Class. She had become surplus, and thus affordable, when the deep-space tug companies be­gan racing each other to replace the dependableold Mules with the sleek, ultrapowerful Greyhounds.

For five decades, the Mules had been the most reliable ships in space.Skimmer had power to sparein her drive system, because she'd been built to be able to haul in the largest liner, and to be able tomake multiple blinks without recharging the over­sized blink generator which, with the chambers ofthe flux atmospace drive, occupied a large portionof her interior space.

As the computer built its maps on the screen, the nearer stars appeared as haloed, sparklingpoints of light. Pat slid his plate back into thenutrition servo, put his feet up on the console, andmused idly as the Carina Nebula formed on thescreen, its emission nebulosity only slightly altered in shape from the familiar pattern on UnitedPlanets-oriented maps. He was a man at homewith himself and his world, a world which con­sisted of theSkimmer, his library, his own thoughts.

Pat Howe was a sandy blond man, not only inhair coloration but in skin pigmentation. He was abit thin for his six feet, but hard-muscled, staying fit through religiously observed exercise periods both in null-gravity and in the ship's easily acti­vated artificial gravity. Some took him to be in his late twenties. Others would guess that he was nearing forty. Actually, he was thirty-five and, becauseof his emotional stability and his relatively newfreedom, expected to live past that biblically prom­ised age of six score years.

The computer whirred, an electronic chuckle."You're gonna make it yet," Pat said, as the Jewel Box, the galactic cluster Kappa Crucis, formed onthe screen. From theSkimmer's point of reference,the Jewel Box had been glaringly evident to aquick scan.

The computer, almost chortling, leaped with itsold swiftness to placeSkimmer just under two light-years out from the single star wing of the Ophiuchusgroup, just where they were supposed to be.

"Congratulations," Pat said, as the computer de­livered coordinates for orbital approach to Taratwo. Now that he had the coordinates, he was in nohurry to use them. His mind was not quite pre­pared for action.

There were times when it seemed best to post­pone action in favor of some thinking, and Pat wasa man who believed in following his hunches.

The computer flashed a green light at him, brag­ging about a job finished and well done.

"Just hold your horses," Pat said. He punchedup a cup of steaming coffee, with cream and sugar,from the servo and sat easily, feet up, the mugheating both hands as he clasped it. There was nourgent reason for his hesitation, no clang-clang of warning in his skull, just a reluctance to push thebutton and send the Skimmer on to her destina­tion. No harm, he decided, in going over it onemore time.

The ship's papers, and his own, were in order.He was Audrey Patricia Howe, an accredited freetrader, bonded to carry cargo of all classes up toClass AAA pharmaceuticals, of which his currentcargo consisted. To carry the potent drugs inSkim­mer'sstorage areas required a half-dozen permitsand licenses, for in the wrong hands the drugscould produce happy times and headaches. Prop­erly handled, his cargo was as legal as a church.

Was that the problem?

He'd had to express his concern in a polite wayto the businessmen on Zede II who had commis­sioned him. At first he'd gotten the idea that theyhad something other than legal Class AAA in mind.There'd been nothing concrete or overt, just hints that very profitable items could be carried by anaccredited trader to an independent out-planet.

Needless to say, he was having nothing to dowith illegal drugs. UP law might not be present asfar out as Taratwo, but Pat had no intention ofspending his life in the cosmic outback, no inten­tion of risking a negative entry on his record onany planet, no matter how far removed from UP Central.

So the cargo was legal, and he had the rightpapers to carry it. He had done what a traderalways strives to do. He had bought cheap and hewould sell dear, and the profit from the cargowould be a welcome bonus to the fee he'd set onthe commission from the businessmen on Zede II.

Thinking of the size of that fee gave him twoemotions, joy and happiness. Half of it was al­ready on deposit in his account in the UP Bank and Trust Company on Xanthos. The other halfwas on demand deposit on Zede II, requiring onlya coded affirmative from the men who had char­teredSkimmer to be transferred to his account.That coded affirmative would be sent before hedelivered a certain item of cargo to an isolated,private landing pad on Zede II.

The computer blinked its green light again. "Takea break," Pat said, but he let his feet slide off the console, and leaned forward to punch the stand-bybutton on the computer.

On the surface, it was to be a simple operation.All he had to do was blink out to a distant planetin the Ophiuchus sector. He would be contactedon landing by a friend of his employers on Zede II.He would trade his cargo, pick up a passenger,whose legality had been sworn to by the Zede IIbusinessmen, and take that passenger back. Sucha simple mission could have been performed moreeconomically and more comfortably for the passen­ger by any charter yacht in the UP system.

And that, he decided, was why he was hesitating.

The Zedeians, two of them, neatly dressed in thestandard tailored suits of businessmen, had soughthim in his small office on Xanthos, having made atrip of twenty parsecs from the Zede suns. Whenhe realized that they'd deliberately chosen him, a man with a cannon, to do a job which could have been done by an unarmed yacht, he had begun to wonder.

"Why do you need an armed mercenary?" hehad asked.

"The passenger is important," the spokesmanfor the businessmen had said. "We want the pas­senger to have every possible degree of safety."

"From what?" Pat had asked.

"It is a lonely and desolate part of the galaxy.There have been pirate attacks there."

But there hadn't been a recorded act of piracysince X&A had sent fifty ships of the line to reducethe pirate strongholds on the Hogg Moons.

When Pat didn't like a proposition, he set the fee impossibly high. He had named a figure, knowingthat it would be refused, and without blinking aneye the Zedeians had accepted. Obviously, therewas more to the proposition than appeared on thesurface. But it was a lot of money. Pat liked hisfreedom, and without financial freedom there isno personal freedom. And, after all, he was paid totake risks.

"Just what business are you in?" Pat had asked.

"We are involved in several areas," the spokes­man had said. "Import-export, for example. Re­cently we've become interested in producing enter­tainment films."

Just plain, ordinary businessmen. Businessmenwho were willing to spend a small fortune withouteven bargaining over the price to send a legally armed mercenary on a simple passenger-carryingmission. The problem was that there was nothingsimple about anything Zedeian. It had been a thou­sand years since the prosperous, populous Zede worlds had engaged in their last war of conquest,but historians, to whom Pat had been often ex­posed, talked about "the War" as if it had hap­pened yesterday. For a while, during that last ofman's big wars, the first all-out war in space, ithad been anyone's victory, touch and go. In desperation, the free worlds of the United PlanetsConfederation had used a terrible new weapon,the planet reducer, for the first and last time inrecorded history. Seven Zede planets were rup­ tured, blown apart, sent flying into space in chunksand pieces, all life destroyed, before the Zede war­lords capitulated.

UP historians justified the use of the planet de­stroyer by saying that freedom had been preserved,that millions of lives had been spared by endingthe war. Some historians and moralists went allthe way back to the mid-twentieth century to findhistorical precedents.

The peace treaty had been generous. The surviv­ing Zede worlds had become a semiautonomous part of the Confederation, a status which contin­ued into modern times. UP laws governed all the Zede planets, but the Zedeians were notoriouslyindependent, and sometimes rather frustratinglyinventive. Zede led the Confederation in innova­tive industrial development, in subatomic technol­ogy. The Vervoldt Cloud memory chambers whichhad given a relatively small shipboard computerthe storage capacity and reasoning ability of asomewhat backward human brain had been devel­oped on Zede's Valhalla. The advanced weaponswhich were mounted on the latest ships of the UPFleet and the ship of the Department of Explora­ tion and Alien Search, were largely Zedeian. Thearms trade, indeed, was at the core of Zede's pros­perity, big business within the UP, a profitable sideline when dealing with non-aligned, indepen­dent planets of which there were very few, andthose mostly on the far fringes of the explored andcharted portion of the galaxy.

Had the Zede "businessmen" had a small ship­ment of arms in mind when they hinted at a more profitable cargo for theSkimmer? Pat didn't thinkso. Armaments were often bulky. The store of Class AAA drugs inSkimmer's storage areas was, Patfelt, just about the most profitable cargo he couldcarry, for you could pack a lot of high-class medi­cine into a small space.

Pat had taken theSkimmer to Zede II to buy hiscargo, having been assured of the lowest prices inthe Confederation. He'd done some talking aroundthe port, and the word was that a man with theright connections could buy just about anything he wanted to buy somewhere on Zede II. It wasthere that he had heard repeated a persistent ru­ mor, unproven as yet, that someone was dealing inthe filth of the old nuclear weapons, and perhapseven the long-since-outlawed planet reducers.

The rumor had leaked originally from the crewof an X&A ship back from charting a new blink route in search of always scarce habitable planets.A long way from home, in a previously unchartedarea, the ship had picked up suspicious readingsfrom a barren, small, Mercury-like planet. Theplanet, if the X&A ship's analyzers were workingproperly, had recently, in the past two decades at the most, been the site of hydrogen fusion tests.Since the need for power from either fusion orfission had been eliminated soon after the first starship went out from Old Earth, there was onlyone possible use for the nasty power of the atom,nuclear power was good only for destruction,and not even efficient destruction. An X&A destroyer had more firepower than a thousand hydrogenbombs. If someone had been playing around withthe antique nuclear weapons their intent couldonly be blackmail. Livable planets were rare, widelyscattered. The constantly multiplying populationsof the UP worlds made X&A's search for new livingspace the most important function of government.A madman with nuclear bombs, threatening tomake a life-zone planet unlivable with slowlydecaying radioactivity would be in a powerfulposition.

All of these old thoughts replayed through Pat'smind as he sat, scratching himself. That was asmall but important luxury, to be able to scratchwhere he itched when he itched and not worryabout couth. He liked living alone.

He grinned at the computer. "Give me the dis­play file on Taratwo," he said.

The computer disliked oral orders. It fancieditself an old man, hearing becoming impaired. He had to repeat the order, loudly. The computer mut­tered to itself for a few seconds, punished him bytaking extra seconds to check and crosscheck allreferences to the planet Taratwo, then deliveredthe file to the screen.

Pat had examined the file a dozen times on the trip out. He had in his data banks all the informa­tion available on Taratwo, fourth planet of thestar Upsilon Ophiuchus. He had data not availablein the public banks, thanks to Jeanny Thompson.

A few years back, when Pat was enduring tenure in the Roget Seat of Philology at Xanthos Univer­sity, both he and Jeanny had thought that an alli­ance between learning and practical science, be­tween the learned professor and the upwardly mo­bile X&A technician, might work. Neither of themcould remember the moment of mutual decision,nor place blame, for the realization that a perma­nent marriage would be undesirable.

Jeanny just bent the rules a little bit when sheallowed Pat access to X&A's file on Taratwo.

"That's a long way from home," Jeanny hadsaid, when he made his needs known.

"That makes it interesting," Pat had said.

They had read the file together as it slid silentlyfrom the printer.

"If I were you, boy, I'd walk easy out there,"Jeanny said. "That planet is an anachronism. Anabsolute ruler in this enlightened, unquote, age?"

Taratwo had been discovered by accident and peopled by political dissidents who had carefully nursed on their journey through space an old, oldgrudge from the Old Earth, a grudge so ancientthat the reason for it was a long-forgotten mys­tery. When a race can lose its home planet forthousands of years the reasons behind a simplelittle family fight among tribes of men can also belost.

"This is interesting," Jeanny had said. "The nameof the planet is taken from the site of the palace ofa legendary race of kings, back on Old Earth."

Pat had been more interested in solid informa­tion. Taratwo's political status was Independent.There were no organized trade routes to any UP planet, but there were records of trips to the planetby free traders. The autocratic ruler of Taratwodidn't call himself a king, but according to allinformation he was the boss, the absolute ruler.

"He fancies himself to be a great leader," Jeannyhad said. "He's a bad dude, Audrey—"

"Don't call me Audrey," Pat had said.

"—standing tall and alone on the frontier of theinhabited galaxy. And look at this. He's been buying warships from the Zede munitions plants."

The figures were impressive. Taratwo, a small,insignificant planet, had the most powerful fleetarm of any independent planet or group of inde­pendent planets.

Pat whistled through his teeth in surprise. Itwould take a full UP battle fleet to reduce Taratwo'spower, and not without loss, because Taratwo had been buying the latest, most powerful ships andweapons, every modern weapon except, of course, reducers.

"Let's run down all recorded trips by free trad­ers," Pat had said, not too concerned about Tara­two's powerful fleet. TheSkimmer was armed, true,but no one in his right mind would use an entirefleet to chase—if the need arose—one small deep-space tug converted into an armed mercenary.

Taratwo seemed to welcome free traders. Iso­lated as they were, no established trade routeswithin a dozen parsecs, free traders would keepthem up to date and bring in the latest in, forexample, medicines.

There in Jeanny's office at X&A Headquarterson Xanthos, they had stared, together, at a holo­graphic chart of the Taratwo sector. Jeanny shud­dered. "It's lonely out there," she'd said.

Pat had nodded, musing. Taratwo was alone, theonly populated planet in a twelve-parsec radius of space. She was a relatively new planet, as plane­ tary age goes, and she was, in theory, too small to hold a viable atmosphere. Mountain formation wasstill going on, and that made for considerable vol­ canic activity along with the resultant earthquakes. Population was under half a billion. Chief exportswere heavy metals and gemstones.

"Well, Audrey," Jeanny had said, "you havepicked an odd profession. You can expect odd placesand odd people."

"Don't call me Audrey," Pat had said.

"You're a mercenary, a gun for hire," Jeannyhad said. "Nice citizens and nice planets don'toften need a man with a gun."

"I think of myself as a knight in shining armor."he'd said, "soaring into the nebulous distances of the universe on missions of true and pure good."

"Batshit," Jeanny had said. "It's just a way ofrunning from responsibility."

He had made the statement with a mock look ofarrogance on his face, eyes idealistically wide, eye­brows raised, for he would never admit to anyonethat he'd been naive enough, in the beginning, tosee it just that way when lucky coincidence ofbirth had made it possible for him to purchase hisfreedom from the halls of learning and from eagerfreshmen with an unexpected legacy from an un­cle who had been forgotten since he boarded acolony ship aimed for a star near the Coal Sack.

"Knight, hell," Jeanny had said. "You're a bum in an antique space tug which carries enough ar­mament to take on a destroyer."

"For defense against pirates," he'd said, remem­bering as he said it that the Zede "businessmen" had said much the same thing.

"We blasted the last pirates off the Hogg Moons,"Jeanny had said. "Why don't you grow up, Audrey Patricia?"

"Don't call me Audrey Patricia," he'd said, be­fore thanking her for her help.

From Jeanny's office he'd gone directly to UPCentral Control. Although space travel was safe,and ships dependable, anything mechanical or electronic or subatomic would break down sooner or later, usually at the most inopportune time. UPCentral Control's vast array of computers kept trackof every registered ship in UP space, and everyregistered shipalways left a flight plan on file withControl, or one of its many outposts scatteredthroughout populated space. It took two days toget a list of twenty-two ships which had filed flightplans including a stop at Taratwo in the past fiveyears. That was not a lot of traffic, but all theships had returned safely to home ports.

So, he'd gone over all of it in his mind. He'dreread the file on Taratwo. It was time to do some­thing. He punched orders into the computer.

"OK, old man, let's put it in B for boogie," hesaid, pushing a button. He felt that eerie momentof disorientation which goes with the territory whenpower is discharged in the core of a blink genera­tor and a ship ceases to exist at one point in spaceto exist with an almost immeasurable time lapse at another point.

Upsilon Ophiuchus was a small, yellowish sun glowing weakly at less than one old astronomical unit away from a small, almost barren ball shroud­ed in volcanic smoke and ash. The sun was toosmall, too weak, to ever make that sad, barrenplanet rich and pleasant like the more desirableUP worlds. In fact, when the planet's inner firescooled a bit over the millennia she'd go cold. Mostof her atmosphere would have been bled off intospace by that time, and what remained would be frozen in small caps of polar ice. He, of course, would not be around to see that happen, nor wouldany of the people alive on Taratwo.

He checked the approach instructions for Taratwoand activated the voice communicator. This was a measure of the backwardness of the planet, to have to use audio. At up-to-date facilities, approach was handled efficiently and silently by intercomputer communication.

"Taratwo Space Control, Taratwo Space Con­trol," he sang out, feeling good to be needed, "thisis the free traderSkimmer. Come in."

"Signal Two,Skimmer," said a voice with anodd and rather interesting accent. For a momenthis old interest in words and their developmentand usage was back with him, but he could notidentify the accent. He gave the computer instruc­tions to send on the proper wavelength and punchedup a cup of coffee with cream and sugar as heheard the only slightly mechanical-sounding voiceof the computer send the ship's ID, hull number,registration, licenses, all the numbers and lettersassigned by a host of red-tape artists on a thou­sand planets.

"Signal Two received," said Taratwo Space Con­trol. "Hold one."

Pat waited. He had the coffee cooled just rightwhen the accented voice came again."Skimmer,you are number one for Space Port Old Dublin.Landing instructions follow on channel eleven."

He switched channels, grinning. He was not sur­prised to be number one for the pad.Skimmer'ssensors showed nothing else in near space other than Taratwo's sad excuse for a moon.

Flux thrusters grumbled to breakSkimmer's fallinto atmosphere. There was a high layer of ash,then a band of relatively clear air, high, before theship plunged into the lower smoke and ash. Below,the lights of Old Dublin, Taratwo's principal city,were lit, but they could not dispel the appearanceof gloom over the planet, the result of the sun'sfiltered half-light.

"You see, old man, you're in better conditionthan you thought," Pat said, asSkimmer settledonto her assigned pad without so much as a clank.

The ship was alone, squarely squat, sturdy. Thepad was at the northern end of the Old DublinSpace Port. Pat had activated the armaments con­sole, sat with the fire director's helmet pushedback loosely on his head. All he had to do was jamthe helmet in place and think and the ports wouldfly open to reveal Skimmer's teeth, instantly readyto defend the ship against unpleasant surprises.

A vehicle separated from a line of one-story build­ings at a distance of approximately a mile andcame toward the ship. Pat kept power in the gen­erator and in the flux drive, for he was, by nature,a cautious man. The oncoming vehicle did notseem to be armed. There was only one occupant,male, in uniform. Pat activated the sound pickupson the hull as the vehicle drew near and stoppedat a respectful distance.

"Captain Audrey Patricia Howe?" The voice wasaccented like the voice of the Taratwo controller.

"Don't call me—" Pat began automatically, thensighed. "Yes," he said.

"I am Captain John Hook, of Taratwo Customs,at your service, sir. Will you please open your hatches for inspection."

Pat kept the ship on alert as he flipped switches.The main entry hatch hissed open, began to ex­change clean ship's air for the murky air of theplanet. He met the customs official in the lock,handed over the ship's papers.

"I think we need not stand too much on theformalities, Captain Howe," the white-haired, distinguished-looking man said with a smile. "Isee you carry Class AAA drugs. That's good. There's always a ready market for such cargo. If I may presume, I would suggest that you trade for emer­alds. There's been a new strike, and the price is down, the gems of first quality."

It was quite unlike a local customs official togive a clue to a favorable trade. "Thank you," Patsaid. "I have the cargo manifest on the bridge. Ican offer you a cup of coffee while you're looking itover."

"Good, if it's a UP brand," Hook said. "I am especially fond of a certain brand from the planetZede II. It is called Zede's Pride."

Pat took a quick, closer look at the customsman. He had not expected contact so quickly, anddefinitely not with a Taratwo official.

"Yes," he said. "I have that brand. It's said thatthe flavor comes from the peculiar quality of thelight of a Zede II sunset, which glows like moltencopper."

Hook completed the preset identification for­mula. "Especially at the winter solstice," he said. "Welcome to Taratwo, Captain Howe."

"Are you the passenger?" Pat asked, thinkingthat if he was, he might lift off immediately. He could, after all, trade the drugs, if not as favorablyas on an out-planet, on the way home. There wassomething about the aura of semigloom, whichdeepened as the day died, that made him uneasy.

"No, I am not," Hook said. "Control has sent outword that a free trader has arrived. You can com­plete your business tomorrow. The passenger willboard sometime before sunrise on the day after tomorrow."

Pat felt a little shiver of doubt. If the passengerwas legal, why would he board in the dead ofnight?

"I'd like the passenger to be aboard tomorrowmorning, just in case I finish my trading early."

"Your passenger will board no later than onehour before sunrise on the day after tomorrow,"Hook said, and there was a finality in his voice. He smiled again, showing that Taratwo's dentists werea bit behind the times. "You will be number oneat the customs shed at one hour after sunrise to­morrow. I will be there. Inspection of your tradegoods will be our only point of discussion."

"Got you," Pat said, not liking it, not liking it atall.

Darkness came to Taratwo with a rush. Thesmoky sky lowered. Just after the stygian darkclosed around the ship a tremor rippled the flexi­ble metal grid of the landing pad, causingSkim­mer'sgyros to whine in adjustment.

Pat set all detectors. The ship was an armedcamp. Instruments would detect the approach ofwhatever passed for a mouse on Taratwo, or thefocusing of any sort of beam on the ship.

For his dinner, he selected Tigian dragon's-tailsteak and Xanthos salad. He wasn't sleepy.Skimmer operated on Xanthos standard time, which did notmatch Taratwo's time, and he didn't feel like tak­ing a sleeping pill.

As he ate, he checked the ship's film catalog.He'd added several new titles in preparation forthe trip, and he'd seen all of them at least once,with the exception of a film which had been givento him on Zede II by his "businessmen" charter­ers, with a hearty recommendation to enjoy. Hehadn't run it because, as a rule, he found Zedeianfilms to be heavy, often deep in psychological complications which would not have puzzled a XanthosU. freshman, always gloomy in outlook.

When he punched up the film he was pleasantly surprised. The theme was very Zedeian, but it had interest, if only to show that the Zedeians had aslightly antique view of the role of women insociety.

There was nothing wrong with the technical as­pects of Zede filmmaking. Zedeians were, after all,the Confederation's finest technicians. The holo­graphic image was almost realistic enough to stepinto. The acting was surprisingly good. The star ofthe film was a delicately built redhead with aknockout face and an extraordinary body. The story told of a young woman in love with one man. Shewas being forced by custom and her parents tomarry another. It was a period piece, set in thatdistant past before the Zedeian war, and as thestory progressed Pat began to see and hear refer­ences to Zede pride and Zede military strength.The male actors strutted, spoke with an arrogancewhich was familiar, because, although they weresupposed to be historical characters, their thoughtpatterns were the same as those of the Zedeians Pat had known.

He hadn't paid much attention to the credits inthe beginning. When the film ended he started it again and looked for the name of the redheadedactress. She was listed as Corinne Tower. Whenshe first appeared she was sweeping down a wide,curving flight of stairs, dressed in formal gown,hair piled atop her head. Pat froze motion, left theminiature woman frozen in space, so lifelike, somuch woman. Finally, with a sigh, he turned offthe projector.

He went to sleep with ease and dreamed of theredheaded woman. It was a very exciting dream.

TWO

A light, sooty rain delayed dawn. Pat lifted theSkimmeron her flux thrusters to land her directlyin front of the customs building. Other landingpads were already occupied by pitted and rustedwork vessels, long in service, and two new atmo­space vehicles. The names of the ships were, ofcourse, in English. It was a one-language galaxy,unless one happened to stumble into an obscurefield of esoteric knowledge, the study of extinct languages which had survived in fragments, or ofthat one alien language which man had encounteredin a book which was all that remained of a fasci­nating civilization out among the colliding gal­axies in Cygnus.

While he waited for Captain John Hook and hismen to boardSkimmer to check her cargo, Patsavored the names of the local ships:Canny Belle,Mary's Darlin', Jay-Ann.The two newer ships ap­parently belonged to the same company, since the names showed little imagination:Capcor I andCapcor II.

From appearances, some form of free enterpriseexisted on Taratwo. Pat guessed correctly that the rusted, battered older ships belonged to indepen­dent prospectors or miners.

"You are cleared, Captain," John Hook said, hand­ing over papers to be signed in triplicate. "I have heard that Capcor has eyes for your cargo. They'll go high."

"That's what I like," Pat said. "Thank you again."

He rode the cart which moved his cargo insidethe customs shed. There were thieves in customsin more prosperous and civilized places than OldDublin.

His was the only merchandise inside the hugeshed. The customs men helped him offload thecases from the cart. About two dozen men sur­rounded the platform on which his goods had beenplaced. He had had the computer print out copiesof his cargo manifest. He handed them out, smil­ing, saying, "Morning, gentlemen."

A tall, well-dressed man with a well-styled headof heavy black hair pushed forward. "Captain,there's no need for that. I am prepared to makeyou the highest offer. I will take your entire cargo."

Well, why not? He was after the highest price.He owned no obligation to the less well-dressedtraders who surrounded the platform. But whenhe looked into the tall man's eyes he saw coldness.The thin lips were pressed together. The face wasset in an imperious sneer as the tall man glanced atthe others.

Sometimes you just take an instant dislike for aman. It wasn't logical. It wasn't even good busi­ness. It made sense to think that the biggest firm,the firm with the new ships outside, would be in aposition to pay the highest price.

Pat didn't always operate on logic.

"You wanta take all the fun out of it?" he asked,grinning disarmingly at the tall, stern-faced manwho represented Capcor, whatever that was.

"Are you here for fun or for a profit?" the manasked.

Pat didn't answer immediately. He noted thatthe clothing worn by the tall man was a sort ofcompany uniform. Below the Capcor name andlogo on the left breast pocket was the name T.O'Shields. "These boonie rats can't match my offer,"O'Shields said coldly. "Excuse me, Mr. O'Shields," said a grizzled, thinboonie rat. "If you don't mind, I flew all night tobe first in

line. I have the first number." The oldman sounded servile, but there was a steady gleamin his eyes as he

looked at O'Shields. "Murphy, the man isn't stupid," O'Shields said."Your emeralds are low-grade. You can't matchCapcor quality."

"Well, Mr. O'Shields," Murphy said, "I did stayup all night, so if you'll excuse me I'll let the mantake a look at my stones anyhow."

Pat turned to John Hook, who was standing toone side. "Is that the usual procedure here?" "That's it," Hook said. "First come, first bid. Then, with all bids in, the seller has the right tocall for a second round of bidding if he's notsatisfied."

"Murphy," O'Shields snarled, "you'll save us allvaluable time if you'll just take your pebbles over to the exchange." "And sell at Capcor prices," Murphy said.

"I think we'll observe the usual procedure, gen­tlemen," Pat said. Hook moved forward. "All right. Line up by number. Stay behind the line to give each man hisright of private offer."

The men moved back away from the platform.O'Shields was far back in the line, glowering, asMurphy grinned at Pat and hopped with sprynessup onto the platform. He looked at the cargo man­ifest, held in one hand. In the other hand he car­ried a battered leather bag.

"Well, Mr. Murphy?" Pat asked, as Murphy placedthe bag on the table in front of him. "Capcor will offer you more in number andweight," Murphy said, speaking softly so that thewaiting men

would not hear. "Well, we'll just have to see about that," Patsaid. "I hear emeralds are coming back in style in the UP," Murphy said. "Well, the diamond is still the king of jewels," Pat said. Murphy poured a glittering, rattling mass of un­cut gemstones onto the padded table top.

"That's my lot," Murphy said. "Right at twothousand carats. All good quality."

Pat lost himself for a moment in the blood fire ofa ruby, shifted his attention to an oblong greenbeauty of an emerald, at least one hundred caratscuttable to a stylish stone of perhaps eighty caratswith chips for change.

"These are good-looking stones," he said.

"Cap," Murphy said, "I know the competition.I've got my eye on one case of happy pills. I'll tell you frankly that I can buy more on this forsakenplanet with them than with all these." He swepthis hand over the table to indicate the stones,misjudged, knocked a dozen stones of various sizesoff onto the floor, said a curse word under hisbreath, bent, creakingly, to begin to pick up thestones. In his haste, he brushed a few of themunder the table.

Pat, feeling sorry For the man's old, frail bones,knelt and began to help. Murphy crawled partwayunder the table, looked at Pat squintingly. "Soundpickups in the ceiling," he said, throwing a glanceupward. "Table'll block 'em. I'll make this quick. Ican't show you the stone I know you'll want most. You'll have to take my word for it. I'll deliver it toyou aboard your ship tonight."

Pat reached for a stone under the table, got his head under. It wasn't beyond logic, on a totalitar­ian planet, for there to be listening devices in theceiling. "I don't like the sound of that," he said.

"It will be my offense, not yours."

Murphy picked up two stones, dropped one ner­vously. "I want off this planet, Captain. I've got a diamond, adiamond, mind you. Biggest one sincethe Capella Glory. Half of it is yours. I don't wantyour drugs. Let Capcor have every damned one ofthem. They'll pay you the most. I just want pas­sage out. I'll come to your ship in the dark, after midnight. You get half the diamond. I get a rideout."

"Murphy," T. O'Shields yelled, from his placetoward the back of the line, "pick up your rocksand quit wasting our time."

"Why do you want off this planet so badly?" Pat asked, with the little warning bells going off in hishead.

"I got just a few years left. I got me a diamondbig enough so's I can enjoy 'em on a civilizedplanet. You get rich, too." He gathered up the laststone. "Deal?"

Pat held three emeralds in his hand. The manhad a king's ransom in gemstones if he had beenon a civilized planet. He was offering them for onecase of stress relievers.

"Them things are a dime a dozen on Taratwo,"Murphy said, as if reading his mind. "It's the dia­mond, man. The diamond. It's enough for both ofus."

"What would the local law have to say aboutyou visiting me onboard ship?" Pat asked.

"It's legal," Murphy said. "They won't care about me leaving, either. Come and go as you please, butthe trouble is there might not be another ship forfive years."

"Mr. Murphy, I'll keep an open mind," Pat said,thinking of a huge diamond. He didn't know justhow big the Capella Glory had been, but he re­membered reading about it, and it was bigger thanany other quality diamond found to date on any planet.

Pat wrote down Murphy's offer. The old mangathered his stones and shuffled away. The othertraders

filed past one by one, displaying their gems,not many of them as fine as Murphy's had been.The traders bartered without hope, fully expectinghim to hand over all his cargo to the smirking O'Shields.

He was tempted to take O'Shields's offer. TheCapcor man opened a fancy velvet-lined case builtto carry uncut gems, displaying them to their bestadvantage. He did, indeed, have some beauties.Pat looked at tray after tray of uncut emeralds andrubies, and there were four small diamonds, allunder one carat.

"Not too many diamonds on Tara?" he asked.Murphy's words were haunting him. Bigger thanthe Capella Glory? Pat's brain dredged back intomemory. The Capella Glory was still uncut. It was on display at the Museum of Galactic Natural His­tory on Old Earth, which was a museum planet initself, what with all the archaeological digs andunderwater searches which went on year after year,century after century, as man tried, mostly in vain,to search for his roots.

"The problem is that this is a very young planet,and still in upheaval," O'Shields said. "You locate a likely diamond pipe, start digging, and there's aquake and you lose all the work you've done. A fewdiamonds have been found near the surface, likethe other stones. If there are any big ones, we'llhave to find a way to dig through earthquakes toget to them."

"Still, you have a few here," Pat said.

"Capcor is the government monopoly," O'Shieldssaid. "We own all the diamondiferous areas onthis planet."

Curious, Pat thought, as he tallied up all theoffers. Either the old man was lying or there was adiamond producing pipe somewhere unknown toCapcor.

Capcor's bid, written in the neat, precise hand ofT. O'Shields, listed sizes and weights, so that itwasn't necessary for Pat to tabulate. He worked onall the other offers and grinned when he saw thatby splitting the cargo into small lots, giving someof the independent traders a share, he'd bestO'Shields offer by a few carats, even if some of thestones were of lesser quality. He wasn't greedy.For some reason emeralds and rubies were com­mon on most UP planets. He wasn't going to be­ come independently wealthy on this deal. It wouldbe a nice bonus, as he'd hoped, but that was all.Too many rubies and emeralds, beautiful as theywere.

But diamonds. The rarest. The king of stones.

Pat had a sudden flash of insight. T. O'Shieldsreminded him of his department head back atXanthos U. That clinched it for him.

"All right, gentlemen," he called out. "I've ac­cepted the following offers. By lot number here weare. . . ."

Before Pat could finish reading off the names,O'Shields pushed his way through the grinning, back-slapping independents. "Dammit," O'Shieldssputtered. "You can call for a second round ofbidding and I'll top these boonie rats."

"Where I come from," Pat said, meeting O'Shield'sgaze with a smile, "an honest trader makes his top offer first time around." That was an outright lie, for all traders lived to haggle, but he didn't care if O'Shields knew it was a lie.

The knight in shining armor, soaring around the galaxy rooting for the underdog.

Pat accepted John Hook's official-sounding invi­tation to have lunch. The restaurant windows over­looked the not very scenic space port. The restaurantwas a popular place, crowded with executive types in business dress, a few of the independent traders in their worn outdoor clothing, working-class peo­ple in neat blue uniforms.

Taratwo's women seemed to average on theskinny side, with the predominant hair coloringsbeing shades of red and black. The men were alsouniformly spare, solemn, mostly unsmiling, butthen there didn't seem to be much to smile abouton Tara, planet of ashes, smoke, half-light. But thegreen salad was tangy. the dressing good sourcream, the meat slightly tough but well flavored.

Hook's conversation between bites was banal.He hoped that the morning's trading had beenprofitable. Pat assured him that it had been. Hookmentioned that there was no export tax on gem-stones. Pat said that was good news indeed. With­out a government bite into his profits he just mightbe able to pay for a complete refitting of theSkim­mer,make her more comfortable, put in a new storage capsule in the library, decontaminate thecloud chambers in the cranky computer.

Pat thought only once that afternoon of the oldman. He tended to believe T. O'Shields, especially when he asked Hook about diamonds and was toldthat Taratwo wasn't a good diamond planet. The chances of Murphy's having a king-size diamondseemed slim. Maybe the old man was a victim oftoo many nights alone in Taratwo's dismal outback,a little mixed up in the head.

Pat asked Hook a few questions about local con­ditions, and as long as his curiosity did not touchon politics, personal freedom, or the quality oflife-style he was answered. Hook's response to asensitive question was to cough, look away, andchange the subject immediately.

Pat had finished his meal and was having a taste of a very good local brandy. "Excellent," he said."Very good."

"Grapes like a volcanic soil," Hook said.

"Make a good export, this."

Hook laughed. "First we have to make enoughfor local consumption."

The buzz of conversation died around them. Thesudden silence was a silence of attention. Pat lookedup, saw that all eyes were directed to the win­dows. A sleek, modern atmospace yacht was waftingdown onto the largest space-port pad.

"The Man," someone at a nearby table said.

"Not likely," someone else said.

"We'll know soon enough."

"More likely the Man's redheaded friend."

"The Man's whore, you mean."

John Hook shifted nervously. He cast a glaretoward the voice, then looked quickly away. Thevoices died into whispers. Then there was silencethroughout the dining room as the port of thesleek yacht hissed open and a female figure dressedin purple skirts emerged and walked gracefully to a luxurious ground

car. "Definitely not the Man," someone said, andthere was a burst of relieved, nervous laughter. "The Leader's yacht?" Pat asked Hook. "But not Himself. He values his privacy. He's seldom seen in public these days." He pushed him­self

away from the table. "My duty calls. I hope that you enjoyed your lunch." "I did," Pat said. "Should you wish to visit our city I have leftword at the terminal to arrange transport for you,"Hook said. "Thanks, but I think I'll go back aboard. I haven'tyet adjusted to Taratwo time." The street outside the restaurant was cordonedoff by lines of neatly uniformed men, tall, strong-looking

men armed with the latest in sidearms. Acaravan of big ground cars came blasting sud­denly around the corner of the building, the leadvehicle wailing a warning. A late-model Zede exec­utive limousine was sandwiched in between twoarmored police cars. As it swept past, Pat got justa glimpse of a pale, feminine face framed by fieryred hair. The Man's redheaded friend? The Man'swhore?

It was none of his affair. All he wanted fromTaratwo now was a passenger and a clear blinkroute for

space. Pat wasn't really sleepy, but he had no desire to go into the city. He stretched his legs by walkingtoward the passenger terminal. Inside there was dusty luxury in leather seats and wide spaces, allempty. Only one counter was manned. Pat caughtthe eye of the stiff-faced young man there andnodded.

"May I help you, sir?" the young man asked. "No, no.I'mjust having a bit of a walk." "Not much to see around here, sir. If you'd liketo go into the city, Captain Hook has arranged avehicle

for you."

"Very kind of him," Pat said. "But I think I'lljust have a walk and go back aboard." He turnedaway and started out of the terminal area. "Sir," the man behind the counter said, "it looksas if we're in for an ashfall this afternoon. I seethat you

don't have a breather. If you'll permit me. . ." He came out from behind the counter with alightweight

respirator unit in his hands. "I think I can make it to the ship without that,"Pat said, although the sky had darkened consider­ably in the short time since he'd left the restaurant.

"If you're not familiar with the effects of anashfall you've got an unpleasant surprise coming." Pat decided to humor the man, stood still whilethe mask was fitted to his face with adjustablestraps. He reached for his pocket. "Oh, no, sir," the young man said. "No charge.All visitors are furnished with breathers throughthe

generosity of Brenden."

Brenden was the Man, the ruler.

"Tell Brenden when you see him that I thank him," Pat said.

A brief smile crossed the young man's stiff face."That's not likely," he said. "But you're welcometo the breather. It's about the only thing that's free on this planet. Just leave it with the customs manwho checks you off."

Before he reached theSkimmer he was glad he'dtaken the mask. Ash was drifting in little windrowson the surface of the port, jetting up around hisfeet at each step. The decontaminator in the airlockwhined and puffed getting rid of the ash whichclung to his clothing and his shoes.

John Hook arrived late in the afternoon, escortedby four armed guards. By then the ashfall was sodense that although theSkimmer's instrumentswarned him of the approach of the vehicle, hedidn't see it until it was within a hundred feet ofthe ship. The decontaminator had to puff and whineagain, and then his gemstones were aboard. Hookwatched in silence as he checked the contents ofthe small cases.

Pat offered coffee. "I wish I had time, CaptainHowe," Hook said. He turned to the armed guardswho were standing by in the airlock, made a mo­tion of dismissal. When the guards were outside,the lock closed. Hook held out his hand. "Have apleasant trip, Captain." He leaned close. "Fivea.m.," he whispered. Pat nodded. Paranoia was catching. Unless Taratwo had techs of incredible cleverness there wasn't a chance of being spied onaboardSkimmer, because Pat had spent a lot ofmoney to make the ship impervious to any pene­tration.

Early evening seemed to be the time for earth tremors. A shock hit the space port just after darkness gave additional impenetrability to the ashfall. Pat could not even see the lights of the cus­toms building.

A piece of nut pie made from an ancient recipeput Pat over his allowance of carbohydrates forthe day, and he tried to work it off in the exercisegym. What the heck. A man had to celebrate nowand then. He quit the exercise early, before he'deven worked up a sweat, and drew another ancientrecipe from the nutrition servo, a concoction of gin, vermouth, and a touch of bitters. Restless,impatient, not at all sleepy, he punched up thefilm list. It was going to be a boring trip home, because there wasn't a film he hadn't seen at leasttwice.

Suddenly he had a mind picture of the redheadedZedeian actress, and, remembering his vivid andrather erotic dream about her, punched up thefilm and settled back.

Corinne Tower was, he decided, as he ignoredaction and dialogue, the most beautiful womanhe'd ever seen. Her hair was a blazing fall of lus­trous glory when she let it hang to shoulder length.Her medium-heavy eyebrows merely drew atten­tion to her emerald-green eyes.

Curious thing, the mind. Were Corinne Tower'semerald-green eyes the reason why he'd almost ignored Taratwo's fine rubies in favor of the emer­alds? Had the Zedeian beauty been there, lurkingin his subconscious with those glowing green eyestelling him, buy emeralds, buy emeralds?

It was going to be a long night. He didn't un­dress fully to get into bed, but lay there with hishands under his head watching the holographicimage, dozed with Corinne Tower dominating hismind. She was a touchingly beautiful girl, givingthe impression of old-fashioned vulnerability, mostprobably as the result of the role she was playingin the film.

He awoke to the persistent buzzing of an alarm, came into full awareness instantly, leaped to checkthe telltale on the panel as his adrenal glandspumped. His heartbeat decreased slowly when herealized that he was not, after all, in space, where an alarm can mean quite a number of things, notmany of them pleasant. He was still on solid groundon glorious Taratwo, and the alarm had been from an outside motion detector. He activated the night-vision scanners. The ashfall had lessened. Therewas at least three inches of ash drifted on the tarmac, and it showed tracks. The old miner, Mur­phy, was standing in front of the main hatch withthat same leather bag in his hand. Pat glanced athis watch. Four a.m. He'd slept a long time. Hispassenger was due in an hour. He'd have to makeMurphy's visit a short one. He turned on the out­side speaker.

"I'll be with you in a minute, Murphy," he said.

He pulled on shirt and jacket, turned off the holoprojector, and was on his way to the controlbridge to open the hatch when another alarmbuzzed. Something big was moving swiftly towardtheSkimmer through the drifting ash. The camerasshowed nothing, but caution told him to delayopening the hatch. He checked the screens, look­ing for Murphy. The old man was no longer stand­ing before the hatch, but his footprints were clearlyvisible in the ash.

A blinding light caused all active cameras to show white before they could close aperture.Skimmerwas surrounded by four armored vehi­cles. He flipped the armament ready switch andreached for the fire-control helmet just as a man burst into view, running from the shelterof Skim­mer'sstern into the glare of the spotlights from thefour vehicles. The running man took only a few strides before projectile weapons spat from two of the ground cars and then two more faltering, wilt­ing steps before falling limply into the ash, send­ing up a small cloud.

Pat had the four vehicles targeted. One directedthought and they'd be smashed into junk. TheSkim­mer'sshield was up. It caused the hair on the headof a uniformed policeman to stand straight up ashe walked to the hatch and began to pound on thehull with the butt of a weapon.

"Hull contact," the computer said aloud.

"I know, I know," Pat said.

He deliberately waited a few seconds, then openedthe outside speakers. "Yeah? Who is it?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound sleepy.

"Security police, captain. There has been a slightdisturbance. Please open your hatch."

Pat checked the targeting of the laser beams on the four vehicles, adjusted the fire-control helmet, walked slowly back, and opened the hatch. The security man was tall, well-built. He had bolsteredhis weapon.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," he said. "Port Secur­ity detected a prowler near your ship." He wastrying to see past Pat. There wasn't much to see,just a bulkhead. Pat wasn't about to invitehim in."Were you expecting company, sir?"

Pat didn't lie. "Man, it's the middle of the night."He looked at his watch, yawned, brushed his hand through his mussed hair. The passenger was duein less than an hour and Murphy was dead, killedjust for being there near theSkimmer. What thehell was going on? He hoped that Hook knew whathe was doing. The policeman who stood in theairlock with him looked capable. He'd certainlyarrived in a hurry to kill the old man.

"Your detectors did not warn you of a prowler?"the security man asked.

"Well, I didn't have them on," Pat lied. "Beinghere on a civilized planet . . ."

The policeman's eyes did not smile with his lips. "Well, sir, I think we'd better take a look around.

Taratwo is an orderly, peaceful planet, but therehas been some resentment growing over the UP's

high-handed actions."

This was the first Pat had heard of that. NeitherX&A nor Control had indicated any anti-UP feel­ing on Taratwo.

"I'll join you," Pat said, acting as if he automati­cally assumed that the security man meant to take a look aroundoutside the ship.

"Do you always wear your fire-control helmet?"the security man asked.

Pat looked him dead in the eyes. "Only whenarmed vehicles start shooting men around my ship,"he said.

"I assume you have your laser beams aimed atmy vehicles."

"Too close to the ship to use explosives," Patsaid.

"You put it on the line, don't you, Captain?"

"When necessary," Pat said.

"There will be no problem."

The ashfall was finer, more pervasive in creep­ing into any opening in clothing. It sifted down hisneck, crawled up his sleeves. He led the securityman on a circuit ofSkimmer. The officer knew hisstuff; he ran his gloved hands into crevices, intothe tubes of the flux drivers. Pat examined theportside thrusters, and his heart leaped as his handcontacted something soft inside a tube. He squeezed,pushed, recognized the feel of the old man's small leather bag. He could not have explained why heremained silent about the bag.

Murphy's body was being casually loaded ontoone of the ground vehicles. A young security manwalked

up, steps puffing ash, saluted. "There is noidentification on the body, sir."

"Humm," the officer said. He looked at Pat, hiseyes squinted in the glare of the white spotlights."During your trading session this morning did any­one say anything unusual to you, sir? Perhaps askfor transportation off the planet?"

"No, no," Pat said thoughtfully.

"Would you mind taking a look at the body,sir?"

"Any particular reason?"

"To see if you know the man."

"I'll do that," Pat said.

He followed the officer to the ground vehicle.The old man was heaped in a sad, slack pile on the floorboards. The officer used one gloved hand to flip Murphy onto his back and expose his face.

"I think he was one of the traders," Pat said,bending over, thinking, hell, Murphy, oh, hell. "Yes,I'msure of it. I even remember his name. He had the first number, bought a case of stress relievers.Name's Murphy. He had some very good emeraldsand rubies."

"Why do you suppose he approached your shipin the dead of night?" the officer asked.

"I have no idea," Pat said. "I've never been herebefore. I know no one on this planet except Cap­tain John Hook, of customs, whom I met aboutthirty-six hours ago on landing. I saw this man in the customs shed during trading. I have his signa­ture on a bill of sale for his gemstones. That's thesum total of my knowledge."

There was a moment of strained silence. Thenthe security officer made a slight bow. "On behalfof my government, sir, I hope you will forgive thisbother."

"No big deal," Pat said. But in the back of hismind there was, surprisingly, a little prayer form­ing for the old man. "But do you always shoot onsight?"

"When a man is in a restricted area, and he runsfrom the police, he is taking his chances." Thesecurity man gave Pat a sloppy salute. "Well, goodnight, sir. I understand you're leaving at dawn."

"Right."

"Have a pleasant trip. I hope that you won't letthis incident keep you from making a return tripto our planet soon."

"The trading is good," Pat said.

He closed the airlock, waited for decontamina­tion. A suspicion hit him. The hatch had been openall the time he was out there with the securityman. Had the whole incident been staged in orderto steal his cargo of gems? He ran to the cargoarea, opened one small case after the other. All thegems were there.

He sat in the command seat, a cup of coffeesteaming in his hand. Well, Pat, he told himself.Thinking time. The old man had wanted off theplanet very badly, badly enough to offer him halfof a fabulous diamond which might or might nothave existed. Now the old man was dead. May he rest in peace. And there was a small bag thrust upinto the tube of a portside flux thruster. Suddenlyhis hands shook. What if it was a bomb? What ifMurphy had fooled hell out of him, acting the part of the underdog to get his sympathy in order to get close enough to theSkimmer to blow her open andget back the gems?

He had a burning urge to go outside and checkthat damned bag. But the police had been able tospot Murphy in the midst of an ashfall. That meantthey had detection instruments which were notfoiled by the ash. If he went out now and got thebag and they were watching he'd have more toexplain than he wanted.

Twenty minutes before his passenger was due toarrive. He activated the computer, began his pre­takeoff countdown. He decided he wouldn't wait until dawn if, indeed, his passenger arrived at fivea.m.

TheSkimmer checked out beautifully. She eventold him that there was a foreign object in the number three port thruster. The computer, fresh after a nice rest, hummed and was brisk and effi­cient when he programmed the blink which wouldtake him away from Taratwo into orbital position.He was ready. Five minutes to wait. He had aleather bag containing only God knew what in athruster. A man had been killed before his eyes.

The flux thruster would blow the bag out, disin­tegrating it, when he activated the engines. Unlessthe bag contained an explosive triggered to ignitewith the thruster.

The motion detector buzzed. A ground car. Theair outside was becoming more clear of ash. Hepicked up the vehicle at fifty yards, followed it to astop near the ramp, saw a small man in a baggywhite one-piece get out and walk unhurriedly to­ward the hatch. A quick, rather severe tremorcaused the man to stumble, andSkimmer's gyroscomplained as the ship rocked. No police. No glar­ing lights. No other motion detected. Pat opened the hatch, watched on the monitor as his passen­ger entered the hatch carrying one small, expensive-looking bag. The ground vehicle leaped into motionand disappeared while the hatch was closing. Patwaited until the decontaminator had cleared thelock of ash and any odd and assorted bugs indige­nous to Taratwo. Then he activated the radio and called, "Ground Control, Skimmer. I'm booked for a six a.m. take off. Any problem if I leave a bit early?"

He had to wait, picturing the controller check­ing with a higher authority. "No problem,Skim­mer."

"I'll be back with you for clearance as soon as Imake an outside visual," Pat said.

That was how he was going to find out what oldMurphy had hidden in the thruster. Making awalkaround visual inspection of a ship before take­off had long since ceased to be standard practice.A pilot, after all, was an inferior instrument com­pared to the ship's sensors, but there were enoughtraditionalists left to make a visual inspectionmerely eccentric, not unusual. He nodded to thepassenger in the airlock, told the small man towait up front. The man still wore his breather,face hidden behind the mask and a floppy hat.

He left the number three portside thruster untillast, jerked the bag out, tucked it under his arm. Itwas heavy enough to contain a bomb. He pausedin the airlock, left the hatch open after setting the emergency-close mech. If the bag contained some­thing unpleasant he would toss it out the hatchand push the emergency-close button while it wasstill in the air and then pray thatSkimmer's hullplates were strong enough.

There was no possibility, however, of throwingthe bag out once he had opened it gingerly to finda solid object wrapped in a soiled piece of velvet.He had to use both hands to lift the object out ofthe bag.

It was ovate, almost egg-shaped. He hefted itand estimated it at plus three pounds in weight. Itwas, even in the rough, a thing of incredible beauty.

He was holding in his hands the single largest diamond in history, a diamond, if his weight esti­mate was anywhere near right, at least half a poundlarger than the Capella Glory. He had checked the size of the Capella Glory in the library during his wait, and he knew that it was over eight thousandcarats. The old man's stone would go over ninethousand. A man could name his own price forthat stone, millions, perhaps even a billion.

And Murphy had died for it.

THREE

For a long moment, Pat Howe stood in the airlock,the hatch still open, stunned, his eyes hypnotizedby the fiery depths of the diamond. Finally, hepushed the button to close the hatch and began to think again. The stone was not his. He consideredhis alternatives. He could call the hard-eyed secur­ity man and try to explain how the stone hadcome into his possession. Or he could get the hell off Taratwo and from a safe distance worry aboutfinding the rightful owner of what just might bethe most valuable single object in the civilizedgalaxy.

That was no choice at all. He was beginning tobe just a little bit spooked. He'd been involved inmore than one hairy situation during his relativelybrief career in free enterprise. Once he'd played a deadly game of hide-and-seek on an airless moonwith his air running out and two men intent onkilling him. Once he'd had to run for his life afterhe'd lifted the ransom loot from a Hogg Moonspirate, the kidnap victim clinging to him, slowinghim down. And the total amount of money at stakein both those incidents wouldn't buy a cuttingchip from the diamond he held in his hands. Menhad killed for a tiny fraction of the worth of thatdiamond, and even a man who had never enter­tained a criminal thought might be tempted toward murder by something so valuable.

He left the diamond, in its bag, with the othergems in cargo, ran to the bridge, and wonderedwhat had happened to his passenger. The passen­ger would be housed in the spare cabin. It was crowded, for he used it to store items used onlyoccasionally, but the bed was as large and as com­fortable as his own. He jerked the door open tofind the room empty.

There were not many places aboardSkimmerwhere a man could hide. He didn't like the idea ofhis passenger wandering around down in the en­gine room, so he decided to check his own quar­ters first. The lock on the door had gone bad onthe trip out and he hadn't bothered to fix it. Hethrew the door open.

She stood beside his bed, the white one-piece ather feet, breather and hat removed to show a fallof lustrous auburn hair, slightly mussed but stillglorious. Her skin was the pale hue of old china. She wore only a tight, brief silken camiknicker,blue.

"Sorry," he said, starting to close the door. Theshock was slow to penetrate. A woman. And not just any woman. It was as if the holographic im­age had come to life, full-sized and breathing, in his cabin.

She reached for a garment she'd removed fromher bag, not in haste or modesty. "I assumed this would be my cabin," she said, with a smile whichmatched the blaze of her hair. "I also assumedthat you would knock before entering."

Corinne Tower. His passenger was Corinne Tower,the film star from Zede II, and she was not at all discomfited as she stood there in a silken piece ofunderwear which emphasized her perfect figure.She seemed to flow into a wraparound which closedoff the view of womanly curves. Her smile hadfaded into a musing expression.

Pat was paralyzed until the buzz of an alarmjerked his head around, and then he was on therun, the redheaded woman following him moreslowly. Four police vehicles were approaching atdifferent angles to surround the ship. There was,as yet, no light of dawn. The ashfall had dimin­ished almost to nothing. The night-vision camerasshowed clearly that the police vehicles had uncov­ered their weapons. Pat's hand slapped switches, buttons. Shield up, weapons ready. The lead vehi­cle mounted a respectable laser cannon with along, graceful barrel. Up close, it could punch ahole inSkimmer's shieldand hull.

"Should we be worried about this?" he askedthe girl.

She was taut, her mouth open, eyes narrowed."I'm not sure."

"Did the Man know you planned to leave?" Hereyes instantly shifted away from his.

"Quickly," he said, his voice urgent. "I'm goingto have to rely on your knowledge and judgment. Idon't want to do anything drastic unlessit'snecessary."

She seemed doubtful. "He was in the outback.Not due back until tomorrow."

The lead vehicle had come to a halt, cannonpointed towardSkimmer's weakest point, the mainentry hatch. The same tall, efficient security manwho had visited him only a short time before wasstanding behind the laser cannon. Pat activatedthe outside pickups.

"You have just ten seconds to open, Captain,and then we'll blast you open."

He couldn't wait for more information from thegirl. "Wake up, old man," he told the computer.The blink was already programmed, but it wascustomary for a ship to lift from the surface onflux. It was possible to blink away from a planet'ssurface, but decidedly unsafe for anything nearenough to the ship to be affected by the field of theblink generator.

The policeman was counting,"...six, five . . ."

"Let's go, baby," Pat said, hitting the buttonwhich activated the drive circuits.

"...three, two . . ."

There was a brief, uneasy slide into nothingness.On the screen Pat saw three of the police vehicles tumbling in free space. They'd been too near the ship. They'd been enclosed inSkimmer's powerfulfield, and now men were dying of explosive de­compression in the vacuum of space. A body, burst­ing as he watched, separated itself from a vehicleand spun slowly, eerie things happening to frailflesh and blood. It was the security officer.

"Oh, my God," Corinne Tower whispered as analarm screamed, sending Pat into motion. Two Taratwo light cruisers were closing rapidly. His screen was up. He jerked the fire-control helmetonto his head, wondering how the hell the cruisershad known to be there. True, a blinking ship sends a signal ahead of itself into space, pointing to the emergence site, but the cruisers would have had to be ready to blink instantly, would have had to bewatching him in order to detect that preblink signal.

Gun ports began to flare on the closing warships. Lasers. Two sleek and deadly ship-to-shipmissiles swam out as if in slow motion from thelead cruiser and then accelerated with slashes of light. Range seven miles. Seconds. No time toprogram a blink. The lead missile was growing rap­idly on the screen as the ship buzzed and screamedwarnings.

"Alert, alert," the computer chanted, losing, forthe moment, its reluctance for audio commun­ication.

"I hear you," Pat said, forgetting the presence ofthe tense, silent girl.

He had only one advantage. He couldn't hope to match shields and armaments with two new cruis­ers, but he had power to spare, power built into theold space tug, power to latch on to and haul the biggest space liner ever built, the generator built oversize, huge enough to store power for multipleblinks without draining the charge. He had usedonly a small portion of the charge in blinking up from the surface of Taratwo.

No time to select known coordinates. No time totrust a cranky, aging computer to obey a vocal order to select a registered blink beacon at ran­dom and put it in B for boogie. The old boy mightdecide to take a full survey of all blink beaconswithin range.

He acted on his only choice.

In spite of what Jeanny Thompson, and others,might have thought, Pat Howe was not like some old-fashioned mercenaries, imbued with a secret death wish, seeking danger for the thrill of riskingit, courting the final solution, death, as ordinarymen court women. Pat valued his freedom, and hevalued his life. He did what he had to do to pre­serve that life with two homing missiles inchesaway from his thrusters, heading in, and two light cruisers ticklingSkimmer's shield with laser can­non. Either of the cruisers could best him in aclose-in fight, and there was no question in hismind that their intent was to blast him out ofspace.

The computer was cranky. The missiles shouldhave been taken out by AMMs before they wereallowed to get in so close. At the last moment the old man sent out the hunter-killer AMMs, and the resultant explosions were far too close to the hull,but there was no new blare of noise from thealarms to indicate hull rupture, only a wild ridefor a moment, and then Pat's fingers stabbed once,twice, three times and there was that sliding feel­ing of blinking and he was still alive and breath­ing after doing the most dangerous thing a spacemancould do, take a wild blink.

Taking a random blink was recklessly dangerousbecause astronomical bodies ranging in size downto the tiniest asteroids were deadly hazards. Twobodies cannot exist at the same point in space andtime. A ship, passing through that nowhere whichis a blink, would merge, down to the molecularlevel, with any object already occupying a point inspace and time on the chosen route, the resultbeing instant death for any life form.

Pat had gambled and he'd won. He had set coor­dinates in no conscious order. It gave him, how­ever, only a few seconds respite, for the Taratwocruisers were equipped with the latest in follow-and-detect equipment, and there they were, withinten miles of theSkimmer, and they loosed a cloudof missiles, leaped into motion to close the range.Pat had to stay ahead of them. It was obvious nowthat they were equipped with the new multiblinkgenerators. There were so many missiles comingthat he didn't have enough AMMs to stop them.His fingers jabbed figures off the top of his headinto the computer.

The children of Old Earth had brought into spacewith them the legend of a deadly, ancient gameplayed

with an antique projectile weapon with six chambers for explosive-driven bullets. Pat's gamewas like that ancient one. He had pulled thetrigger once and the firing pin had fallen on anempty chamber. He pulled the trigger a secondtime, held his breath through the blink slide, lived,and the two cruisers were right behind him.

He fired his own missiles, hating to do it. Thedamned things were the latest Zedeian technologyand they cost a mint, but it would give him sec­onds while the cruisers put out their own AMMs towipe out his total missile armament. Surely, con­sidering the value of space aboard a ship of theline, the cruisers wouldn't be able to follow stillanother multiblink without recharging. But he'dwon a deadly gamble twice. He didn't dare try it a third time. With the few seconds he'd bought with his six missiles, he told the computer to pick thenearest blink beacon and go.

"Arrrr," he growled, the sound becoming amoan as the old man began to make a total surveyof all blink beacons within ten parsecs. An alarmscreamed, telling him that the shield had taken a direct laser hit. The screen gave off an odd aromaof strain and heat. He'd had that scent in his nose only once before, when he was playing dodge-'emwith that pirate ship out near the Hogg Moons.His instruments told him that the power of theshield was already down, expended in absorbingthe close, direct blaze of the cannon.

So, with a silent prayer, he pulled the triggerand came out close to a blazing sun, a very nearthing, and now more alarms clanged, telling himof too much heat, too much radiation in the solarwind from the star which filled his viewscreens.He considered kicking in the flux drive, but thatwould take too long. By the time he gained safedistance from the star the entire hull would beradioactive. He punched in a very, very short blink,a relatively safe blink, just to the limit of his opti­cal scanners, and he disappeared just as the twocruisers emerged. This time he had empty spacearound him, after his fourth random blink, the lastone less risky than the first three. He put theSkimmeron flux to get him away from the point ofemergence. The fact that the two Taratwo cruisers hadn't followed immediately indicated that they'dhave to charge their generators before blinkingagain, and by that time the flux drive would haveput him beyond the range of their sensors. Hecould take his time finding a blink beacon and make one more leap before he had to rechargeSkimmer'sgenerator. He wasn't about to try for afifth empty chamber in the gun.

Corinne Tower had stood quietly by. From thetense look on her face he guessed that she hadrealized the danger of the random blinks. He setthe computer to work. This time the old boy hadreason to begin a 360-degree map. Pat didn't see a single familiar feature anywhere in space. The veryshape of the disk of the galaxy had rotated, alter­ing the appearance of the dense star clouds toward the core.

Random blinks are dangerous in more ways thanone. There is no theoretical limit to the distance covered by a blinking ship. The only limitation tothe length of a blink is a known, straight-line dis­tance between two previously determined points,the distance being free of solid objects. In punch­ing in random numbers, Pat had chosen numbersin the range of known blink coordinates, but thatdidn't guarantee anything. He could be anywherewithin ten parsecs or a thousand parsecs of Taratwo.Or, if his fingers had picked a rather funny number in his haste,Skimmer could be drifting alongsilently on the flux drive in an entirely different galaxy.

He left the computer to do its valiant duty andturned to face the woman. He wiped perspirationfrom his forehead.

"Four random blinks?" she asked. He noddedgrimly.

"Bad computer?"

"Not bad," he said. "Just cranky and slow."

"So you have no idea where we are," she said.

"Not a clue."

She sighed. "Is there anything I can do?"

Suddenly he was very tired. He checked the com­puter. The old man was muttering to himself, build­ing the maps steadily, cross-checking against all the charts of the galaxy.

"Yes," Pat said. "You can move your things outof my quarters. Put them in the mate's quarters."He pointed to the door. "And then I think you andI had better have a talk." He wanted to hit thesack, rest, sink into sleep while the computerputtered over the maps. It might take hours if theywere far from known blink routes.

At first an odd expression had crossed her face,then she smiled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn'tnotice that the alarms and remotes were in that cabin."

He could have explained that, instead of merelyordering her out of his quarters, but he wasn't in avery polite mood.

"And," she said, "I guess I owe you that talk."She turned gracefully, started toward his cabin.The garment showed the litheness of her legs, therounded perfection of her. He sat down in thecommand chair, punched up coffee. She emergedcarrying her bag, put it in the mate's cabin, cameto sit on the bench facing him.

"How do you take it?" he asked, pointing hismug at her.

"Strong and black," she said with a smile. Inreal life her smile was even more impressive thanin holograph. He felt the anger and tension beginto fade out of him.

"All right," he said, as he handed her her mug."I was told that you would be a perfectly legalpassenger, that there'd be no hassle getting you offTaratwo. We seem to be in the clear now, but Iwould like to know, since I'm rather attached tothis ship and its main cargo, me, if I can expectany more surprises."

Her emerald eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and sheworried her lower lip with her perfect teeth for a moment. "I suppose the cruisers can follow us tothe point of emergence of the last blink."

"Let me worry about the technicalities," he said, his voice unnecessarily brusque. "What I want toknow is why they came after us and if we can,possibly, expect them to make another try, per­haps with knowledge of our destination so thatthey can intercept us as we come onto the chartedblink routes leading to Zede II."

"I don't think they'd dare use force in UP space,"she said.

"You're not being very informative," he said.

"I don't know why," she said. Her voice was full,vibrant.

"The Man didn't want you to leave?"

"He was away, in the outback." "But he was, ah, fond of you?" She smiled broadly. "Quite," she said. He realized that to get any information out ofher he was going to have to be persistent. "Whywere you

on Taratwo?" Was that a quick look of relief which crossed herface? "Brenden is a very good customer of the Zedeian conglomerate which produces my pic­tures," she said. "He was a great fan. He keptasking that I be sent

out to Taratwo on a public­ity tour, and apparently his arms business wasdesirable enough that my producer put pressureon me to go." Pat felt revulsion. "So you went," he said flatly."There were no other producers of pictures in thegalaxy,

so you obeyed." He had dirty little pic­tures of his own running through his mind.

Her eyes hardened as she stared directly at him."I made public appearances in the major cities, and I was a guest in Brenden's manor house. Ienjoy my work, but I don't prostitute myself forit." "Sorry," he said, thinking, yeah, yeah. "I'm justtrying for a scenario to explain why Brenden'smen were

willing to kill rather than let you go." "It doesn't occur to you that it was you theywere trying to stop?" "Hey, no sale on that idea. I'm just a free trader. They had no reason to want to stop me. If they'd

wanted to take back the gemstones I traded forthey had a perfect opportunity before you boarded." "Oh?" she asked. So why was he the one who was giving outinformation? He grinned at himself. He wanted tobelieve her,

believe that she had not been, as the men said in the space port's restaurant, Brenden'swhore. She was, by far, the most beautiful womanhe'd ever seen, and he was going to be alone with her onSkimmer for a couple of weeks,

"The security police killed a man who was prowl­ing around my ship," he said. Her hand went to her lips and her eyes widened."Oh, no," she said. "I—" Then she recoveredquickly. "You know something about that? Did you knowan old man named Murphy?" "Poor John," she whispered. "They killed him?" "Very, very dead." "But you have the diamond. I watched on thescreens as you took Murphy's bag out of a thrustertube." Pat tried to hide his surprise by lifting his coffeecup, hiding behind it for a moment, taking too biga gulp

so that it burned his mouth.

"He wasn't lying to you," she said. "We weregoing to give you half."

"We?" he asked.

"All right," she said. "I guess it's time to put itall up front and be honest."

"I'd deeply appreciate that," he said.

"Murphy knew that I'd be leaving Taratwo. Hegot my attention by sending me dozens of expen­sive bouquets, adoring fan letters, and finally Iagreed to see him. He had the diamond right therewith him in that same leather bag. He said that ifthe government or the government gem monopolyfound out that he had it they'd take it from him.

I felt sorry for him. He'd spent his life on variousout-planets and that was his first big strike. Healmost lost his life getting it, digging a diamondpipe that was quite near an active volcano, always in danger of being buried alive by an earthquakecollapsing his shaft. I guess I'm soft, but I thoughthe should enjoy the fruits of his luck and labor. Itold him I'd help, notify him when I was leaving,arrange a sale for the diamond when we were backon Zede II."

"You didn't have to help much," Pat said. "Hedid it all himself, contacted me, came to the shiphimself."

"But I told him about you, told him when youwould arrive and when you'd be leaving." A smalltear came to her right eye and fell, rolling downher cheek. "I thought he was aboard, hiding. I keptwaiting for you to tell me that there was another passenger."

"But you, you and Murphy, were going to giveme half of the sales value? How much was in it foryou?"

Her lips tensed in quick anger, then she shookher head. "Well, I don't really blame you for think­ing that."

"So what do we do now? Do we split it fifty-fifty?" He didn't know why, but there was some­thing in him that seemed to be driving him to beharsh with her when what he wanted to do was exactly 180 degrees away from harshness.

She drew herself up proudly. "If that's the wayyou want it."

"We might wonder if Murphy had children, awife back in the UP somewhere," Pat said.

"Oh? And you'd be generous and honorable aridgive the diamond to them?"

"Would you?"

She rose and walked away, and when she spoke,her face turned away from him, her voice wasstrained. "You won't believe it, I'm sure, but that'sexactly what I would do. As it happens, however,he was alone, no close kin, an old man who wantedonly to spend his last years in comfort on somenice planet."

He wanted to go to her, put his arms aroundher, tell her that he was sorry. "Hey," he said."OK. I'm sorry. I believe you would do that. Ididn't know the old man well, but I'm sorry he's dead." She turned to face him. The computer waspurring and clicking as it built a nice, three-dimensional map on the screens, working withsmooth efficiency to find one, just one, point ofreference.

"Could the security police have been after thediamond?" he asked.

"I don't think so. I don't see how they couldhave known." "They had to have a reason. If not the diamond,you. Maybe Brenden wasn't ready for you to leave." "He wouldn't have tried to kill me," she said,her voice strong, sure. "All right. It's going to take the old man a while to get a fix. Are you hungry?" She nodded withalmost

childish eagerness. "Care to check the menu,or shall I just give youSkimmer's best?" "Please," she said, coming to sit on the paddedbench again. Skimmerwasn't a luxury liner. They ate on thebridge, and as they ate, she demonstrated that shehad

people skills, diverting his questions with charmingly asked questions of her own, drawingPat out of his shell of suspicion. He found himselftalking his head off, telling her about his youthfullove of words and languages, of his pride at beinggiven the chair at Xanthos University which hadbeen endowed by the man who had first translatedthe one alien language which man had encoun­tered. She was familiar with the sad, frighteningstory of the Artunee civilization, the story of Miaree.She had, in fact, played the part of Miaree in a Zedeian production of the tale.

"I want a copy of that," he said. "I think you'dlook great with Artunee wings and those cute littleantennae

coming out of your forehead." "And I'll bet you charmed all the coeds atXanthos U," she said, turning the conversationagain. "Audrey Patricia Howe." She was reading from the ship's license, mounted over the console.

Pat rolled his eyes. "You're asking?" "Shouldn't I?" "My mother was a certified nut." "Poor baby," she said, pursing her lips. "No, really, Audrey is an old family name. Moth­er's grandfather, Fleet Admiral Alexander P. Audrey."

He rose and programmed a course change.The ship was still moving along at a small fraction of the speed of light on flux thrusters. Somewhere back there were two well-armed light cruisers, andhe was making it as difficult as possible for themto track him. "Her name was Patricia, and she wanted a girl."

"Cruel," she said. "You had fights in first schoolbecause other boys teased you." "Had to learn to fight." "Do you also always fight with ladies?" She wasswamping him, foundering him, with those greeneyes. All

of her attention was focused on him, onhis face, his eyes. "The last thing I want to do with you is fight,"he said, smiling. "Good." When she smiled her mouth seemed to double in size, a true east-west smile, a glory of asmile

which changed every aspect of her lovelyface, made her look quite young. "How long doyou estimate before the computer locates us?"

He shrugged. "The old man has already gonethrough a few hundred possibilities, using a grad­ually increasing data base."

"Sorry, I'm just an actress. I don't understandthat technical talk."

"Well, he builds a model of the visible star fields,then rotates the model, trying to match the stars with a known point of reference. For example, ifyou looked up at the night sky and saw the Bellconstellation, you'd know that you were lookinginto space from the area of Zede II. If you were afew parsecs away from Zede II, at right anglesfrom the plane of the Bell as seen from the planet,the Bell would be unrecognizable. Build a holomodel and rotate it and soon you'd see the Bell, andfrom that known position, in the area of Zede II,you could figure out where you were."

"It's as clear as a Taratwo ashfall," she said,laughing.

"The computer starts with a few stars in themodel, and then begins to add in more and morewhen rotation fails to produce any known patterns.With millions of stars to work with, he might haveto

construct quite a few models before he hits paydirt."

"So we could be here for afew days?"

"Or weeks."

"We'll just have to find a way to entertain ourselves, won't we?" she asked, then she flushed hotlyas he

grinned.

"I won't make the obvious suggestion," he said.

"Please don't."

Not yet, he was thinking. Not yet.

For the next meal she tried her hand at makingup a menu, learning the operation of the nutritionservo

quickly. She went through theSkimmer'sfilm library, picked out a few of her old favorites,and with her

comments, her inside knowledge offilmmaking, the often-seen pictures took on newinterest for Pat.

On the third ship's day, he kissed her. Her mouth tasted of lipstick and cherries. It was just after the evening meal, and he kissed her without prelimi­nary, rising and lifting her from the padded bench into his arms. Her mouth went soft and pliant andher arms tightened around him, and when he lookedinto her face she was weeping quietly, the tearswelling up in those huge, blazing green eyes to wether lashes and slip silently down onto her cheeks.

"That bad?" he asked, his voice husky with de­sire, which had been building, building, building.

"Please don't," she whispered.

He drew her to him again and lost himself in theglory of the feel of her, the warmth of her.

"Please don't," she repeated.

What the hell? Even though she was a Zedeian,that business of saying yes yes with the lips and nono

with the tongue was passe. A woman did, orshe didn't, and it was her choice, and, althoughthe old morality was strong, the family unit thebasic building block of civilization, women hadlong since been free, as men were, to do as theypleased."You're confusing me," he said, leaning toward her lips again.

"You're a nice man—" "Just nice.?" "Please, Pat." He released her with a sigh. "All right," he said. "Oh," she said, in a small, hurt way. The old man was chuckling, enjoying the de­manding work, building ever more complex andcomplete

models. Pat glanced at the screen andsaw a solid glow, a mass of millions of stars, in themodel now, so

closely packed as to be indistin­guishable from the overall mass of brightness. "I could get very serious about you," he whis­pered, and felt a small shock, realizing that eventhough he'd made a statement which, on the sur­face, was not binding, he'd made a commitment.

Pat, my boy, he told himself, you've gone and done it. You're in love with this one. "Pat, listen to me," she said. "I'm not sure I want to. I don't think I want to hear what you're going to say." "I can't. I just can't. I can't have that complica­tion in my life right now. Please understand." "Give me somethingto understand." "I want to go to bed with you," she said, notlooking at him. "That's what I want." "But not like this. Not so casually, just as if wehave to because we're alone, lost in space, time onour

hands." "What better time?" "When you're sure. When we're back home onZede II." "I'm sure." "Pat, there's time." "I have a preliminary three-point identification,"the old man said, in his slightly mechanical voice. "Great timing," Pat said.

Corinne looked at him inquiringly.

"It'll take a few minutes for him to cross-check,"Pat said. "Then we'll be going home?" "Yes." She came to him, lifting herself high on tiptoes,kissed him quickly. "Pat, let's talk when we'reback home." "Yeah, OK," Pat said. "I know when I'm beingrejected." "No. You're not being rejected. Please. I enjoyevery minute with you, Pat. I think I'm falling inlove with

you, but I must be sure." She turned away. "Please understand. I've never made a com­mitment, not with anyone."

He felt his heart race. He wanted to believe.

"I don't want to commit under these emotionalcircumstances, relief at our escape from death,being alone, lost in space. Humor me?"

"Do I have a choice?"

She turned to face him. "Yes. I'll give you thechoice. After all, I'm indebted to you. If you want—"

Oh, hell, he thought. That tore it. Now she wastelling him she'd sleep with him out of gratitude.

A small bell rang and the computerlitup greenwith pride. "Position location," he said. "Positionlocation."

"I hear you," Pat said. He took Corinne's handsin his. "OK, the old man has found us and we can be off for Zede II. I'm going to play it your way.You said you think you are falling in love with me.OK. I think I'm falling in love with you. I won'tpush. I'll just pester you night and day when we'reback on Zede II until we're both sure."

"Deal," she said. "Let's drink to it."

He punched up her favorite, a mild, tasty fruitthing developed by a bartender whose mother musthave been frightened by a fruit wagon. He hadTigian brandy. As he handed Corinne her glass sheseemed to stumble, and the contents of the glassspilled onto the deck. He grabbed for a towel, bentto clean up the spill, then drew her another as sheapologized for her clumsiness. He killed his brandyin two gulps, wondering why the damned com­puter had to pickthis time to be efficient andquick.

He checked the charge in the blink generator. Full. Ran a security check of theSkimmer. Allsystems were perfect. He made the rounds. Thegenerator room was prickly with charge, causinghis hair to want to stand up, the huge generatorgiving out a sense of being almost alive.

He stumbled going back to the bridge, felt anodd sensation at the base of his skull, shook hishead to dispel a feeling of dizziness. The computerhad pinpointed the nearest blink route and hadthe coordinates for a beacon at the ready.

"Off we go," he said as the ship blinked and thefeeling of sliding merged with the dizziness in hishead and blackness rushed at him from a far, glar­ing horizon to enfold him. A battle line of war­ships rushed out of the darkness, cannon blazing,and he tried to yell a warning, his hand reachingfor the fire-control helmet as

he fell.

There were times when he felt as if he existed ina vacuum, all blankness and darkness and not onefeature for the eyes, ears, touch to discover, andthen wild, frightful, nightmarish things came at him from all directions with deadly intent as hetried to scream and run in a medium which clung,held back, swallowed. Once or twice he felt warmth,soft hands on his forehead. He saw Corinne as sheappeared in the film, in period costume, and shewas alternately welcoming him and rejecting him.And there were strange suns with square planetspeopled by the monsters of his childhood night­mares and sweet fields of wild flowers scentedwith Corinne's perfume, and once a big, ancient derelict of a starship alone in black space with thenearby star fields close and glowing.

Corinne, in his fevered, tossing delirium, leanedover him, whispering his name as she held a cupof soup to his lips.

"Corinne?" he croaked, having to struggle tofind enough voice to say that one word.

"It's all right," she said. "Drink this."

"Corinne?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"What—happened?"

"Ah," she said, and her hand on his foreheadwas very, very real. "I do think you're back withus."

"Sick?"

"Very," she said. "You've been very, very ill. Ithink you must have picked up mindheat fever on Taratwo."

"Gggggg," he said, trying to say something thathe forgot as blackness came again.

The next time he came alive he stayed awake longer. She fed him chunky things with a spoon,and he

chewed, not being able to taste, but know­ing he needed food.

"How long?" he croaked.

"Five days."

"That long?"

"It's rarely fatal, but sometimes the victim wishesit was."

"Where—"

"You passed out as we blinked onto the routethe computer discovered. We're standing by theblink

beacon."

"Got to get—" He tried to raise himself and fell back weakly. It was two more days before he couldget

out of bed and totter, a thousand years old, tothe bridge. The computer had the route workedout. He

took the ship through five blinks before hehad to go back to bed to rest.

Corinne nursed him lovingly. She forced him toeat, to drink liquids. Gradually, as he guided theship back onto more heavily traveled blink routes,each jump putting them closer and closer to Zede II, he began to get his strength back. He wouldn'thave to worry about exercise. He'd lost fifteenpounds.

They orbited Zede II, and he checked into Con­trol. There was a wait of one hour for Zede City Space Port.

"There is one thing," Corinne said.

"There are a lot of things," he said. "I'll need aplace to stay, near you, so that I can see youoften."

"The diamond," she said.

"What about it?"

"If you don't object, I'll keep it in my possession."

He loved her. But he was the trader. He knewthat the best place to market that hunk of glorywas on Xanthos, richest of the planets, center ofthe UP. The museums of the UP would vie witheach other, bidding against private interests."I canget a better price," he said.

"All right," she said.

"I'll find a place to stay. I'll need your addressand number."

She wrote on a note pad, tore off the sheet,handed it to him. Zede Control plugged intoSkim­mer's

computer, and the old man gave a warning."Here we go down," Pat said. "When can I seeyou?"

"Call me tomorrow." It was morning, Zede City time.

"Why not tonight?"

"I'll have to report in," she said. "Bring thebrass up to date on my tour of Taratwo."

"Tomorrow morning, first thing," he said.

"You'll have business, too, getting your money."

"Yep. Look,Skimmer needs an overhaul. I've beenthinking of combining the two cabins. Make onebig,

luxurious cabin. Good place for a honeymoon."

She smiled. "I think it would be."

"Any place in the known galaxy you've alwayswanted to go?"

"Selbelle III, the planet of artists."

"Selbelle III it is," he said. "Do you think a weekwill be too long to wait to get married?"

She laughed. "You can't getSkimmer overhauledin a week."

They had talked. She didn't want to give up hercareer. He had no objections. He thought it mightbe fun to dabble in filmmaking. The proceeds ofthe sale of the diamond, which he'd tagged in hismind with the name Murphy's Stone, would makethem very, very wealthy. They could produce theirown films, on any civilized planet, starring Co­rinneHowe, or Corinne Tower if she thought itbest to keep her own professional name.

"TakeSkimmer back to Xanthos. Get her alldolled up and clear up the old man's memorychambers. I have some loose ends to take care ofhere. Call me whenSkimmer's ready."

"I'll call every night."

"At interstellar blink rates?"

"Well."

She kissed him, hard, as the ship settled downonto the assigned pad at Zede City Space Port. "Pat,I'll be waiting," she whispered. "One thing . . ."

"When you say one thing I get nervous."

"Don't call me while you're here. Not just yet.I'm going to have to break my contract withZedefilms. I don't need any complications. I'll bethinking of you. I'll be ready to go with you whenSkimmer'sready."

He stood in the airlock and watched her walkaway, carrying her small bag. She walked withbrisk, purposeful, and yet very graceful strides,and there were two "businessmen" in tailored suits waiting for her at the gate. A third "businessman"walked to theSkimmer and asked permission tocome aboard. He gave Pat the interbank notice thatthe balance of Pat's commission had been trans­ferred to his account.

"I understand you had some trouble with theTaratwo navy," the businessman said.

"Glad you mentioned that," Pat said. "I wastold that there'd be no rough stuff, that Corinnewas making a legal exit from the planet."

"The dictator fell in love with her," the mansaid. He shrugged. "Power-mad. We owe you a debt, Captain Howe, for getting our star safelyhome. If you'll take a closer look at that transfer you'll see."

A healthy bonus had been added. Hell, it was allover now, the hassle out there on that earthquake­tortured planet. And in a month or six weeks, he'dbe coming back to Zede II to pick up a bride.

He spent the night in a spacers' hotel, luxuriat­ing in a full-sized shower, good Zedeian food anddrink, and a huge circular bed in which he feltalmost lost but decidedly comfortable. For onebrief moment he was tempted to find company.All he had to do was dial the desk. But in a monthor six weeks he'd have all the company he needed—Corinne.

He kept his promise. He didn't call. He liftedship just after dawn and was soon back on Xanthos, traveling quickly down well-populated blink routes.Skimmerwas moved to a pad in the repair yards.Pat offloaded the gems, being especially carefulwith Murphy's leather bag. He locked the diamond,still in the leather bag, in his office safe, made anexcursion to the gem markets, and came back withhis bank account well fortified, for the price ofemeralds was up. It was time to show Murphy's Stone to a few selected people, but before he made the first call he opened the safe and took out Mur­phy's bag. His mind was telling him that the dia­mond couldn't be as large as he remembered it.

He put the bag on his desk, opened it, pulledaway the soiled velvet wrap, and froze in place.Where there should have been a huge, gleaminguncut diamond there was foil wrapping. He beganto jerk and tear at the foil and uncovered a mass ofsmall metal tools and parts obviously taken fromSkimmersstores. The metal, just over three pounds' worth, was encased in storage gel molded to matchthe shape of Murphy's Stone.

He was on the communicator within seconds. Ittook a few minutes to get through to Zede II. Hegave the Zede City operator Corinne's number,wondering what time it was on Zede II.

"I'm sorry, sir, the number you have given me isnot an operating number."

"Check again," he said.

There was not and had never been such a num­ber in Zede City. The address she'd given him wasthat of a ground-car salesroom in Zede City's busi­ness section. He was a bit more than irate, for his anger was feeding on fear of loss, on a sense ofbetrayal, on a growing sadness to think that he'dlost her without even knowing why. He reachedthe number of the businessmen who had hiredhim to go out to Taratwo immediately and recog­nized the voice of the spokesman who had come toXanthos to hire him.

"Ah, Captain Howe. We've been expecting yourcall."

"I want to be put in touch with Corinne Tower,"he said.

"That is impossible now and it will be in anyconceivable future."

"Dammit," he began.

"Captain Howe," the smooth Zedeian voice said, "you were paid well to perform an errand. You didvery well. You came briefly into possession of anobject to which you have no claim. Nor do youhave any claim on Corinne Tower. Take your profit,Captain, and go about your business. If we everneed your services again, you can be sure we'll paywell, but, as the old saying goes, don't call us,we'll call you. And please, to save us all problems,do not try to contact Corinne Tower."

"I'll have to hear that from her," Pat said. "Youmay hold a film contract on her, but you don'tcontrol her private life."

"That, too, has been anticipated," the Zedeian said. "Listen."

"Pat," Corinne's voice said, full and throaty. "I'msorry it had to be this way. I told you I could nothave complications in my life. Don't try to call me or come to see me. As for a certain object, you'llrealize that you never had any right to it. That'sall. Thank you for an eventful journey home."

"Is that clear enough for you, Captain Howe?"the Zedeian asked.

"I was promised half the value of that object,"Pat said, not really caring about the money, or thediamond. He felt as if he'd been slugged in thebelly by a giant. He hurt. He wanted to throw thecommunicator out the window.

"Come now," the Zedeian laughed. "Grow up,Captain Howe." Pat hung up. "Ah, Corinne," he said. He'd go to Zede II and find her. She'd have totell him to his face. He was reaching for the communicator

to call the space port's passenger serv­ice when it sang out a summons to him. "Captain Audrey Patricia Howe?" "Don't call me Audrey Patricia," he growled,recognizing Jeanny Thompson's voice. "I'm using your title and full name because thisis an official call," Jeanny said. "You're in trouble,Pat." "What's up?" he asked. He wasn't concentrat­ing. The reaction was setting in. Hell, he'd beencrazy to

think that the most beautiful woman inthe world could fall for him. "Pat, a very grim-faced officer from Xanthos Cen­tral is in my office at this moment. He has a copyof the route and travel tapes from yourSkimmerwith him." "Why?" Pat asked. It was routine for the com­puter to feed the travel information to Xanthos Central Control at the end of a trip. "Did the old man goof up?" Pat asked. "It's no computer goof, Pat," Jeanny said. "Youknow that it's against regulations to tamper withthe

automatic computer log which records theroutes traveled. Of course you do. So why the hell did you erase a portion of the tape, and very clum­sily at that?" Gulp. "You're kidding." "Pat, you'd better get over here right away. Youknow this is a license-lifting offense. What the hellwere

you thinking about?"

"Why did Central come to you?" Pat asked, stall­ing for time as he tried to sort out his confused thoughts. He knew that he hadn't erased the routetape. "Because X&A is the enforcement agency, chum.It's up to us to see that dumbos who erase theroute

tape never take a ship into space again." "My God, Jeanny," he said. "You'd better get over here right away." "Yeah, sure. Look, I'd like to go by the ship,check this out myself." "You do that. But be in my office no later thanthree hours from now." "Yes, ma'am," Pat said. Maybe it was just the computer. The old manhad been ailing, cranky. He'd have a talk with that

gentleman, get to the bottom of it. But as he hur­ried out of his office a feeling of deep, agonizing depression hit him. What was the use? His worldhad been compressed into the twin green eyes of agirl.

So what if X&A grounded him? What did itmatter?

FOUR

A smart little flux-drive runabout with X&A mark­ing sat directly in front of the pad on whichSkimmer squatted, her hull showing the dullness of a longtime in space, the thousand-parsec syndrome, itwas called. When Pat left his vehicle and walkedonto the pad a uniformed security guard blockedhis way to Skimmer's hatch.

"Sorry, friend," the security guard said. "Thiscrate has been impounded by X&A."

Jeanny Thompson's pert face appeared in theopen hatch. "It's all right, guard. Please let thegentleman

pass."

"You've already seized the ship?" Pat asked, as he followed Jeanny ontoSkimmer's bridge.

"No, final seizure will take court action. Mean­while, we're just making sure that no one comesaboard

and destroys evidence."

"Jeanny, you know I didn't erase the tape," hesaid.

She turned to face him. "Someone did."

Corinne. He had been ill for days. Had she triedto use the computer? There were, of course, safe­guards against erasing the trip log. It would takean intimate knowledge of computers or some acci­dent against which the odds were astronomical totamper with that separate chamber in the old man'sstorage areas where the trip information was re­ corded.

"Well?" Jeanny demanded.

"Jeanny, let me talk to the old man for a fewminutes."

"I'm on your side," Jeanny said, "but I'm notabout to put myself in a sling, Pat. I'm going to belooking

over your shoulder. I see you trying totamper and I call the guard."

"OK, OK," he said testily, seating himself at theold man's console. He punched up the trip tapeand checked coordinates with his own handwrit­ ten log.

"Holy—" Jeanny said unbelievingly, as the fourrandom blinks outbound from Taratwo showed onthe star map which the computer was laying outon the screen. "What in the holy hell were youdoing, Pat? Four random blinks?"

"I had two hostile light cruisers with all thelatest armament on my tail," Pat said. "There's nolaw against random blinks."

"There should be a law against stupidity," shesaid.

The map built smoothly to record the coursechanges Pat had made on flux and on the blinkSkimmer had made to get back onto an establishedblink route.

"Coming up," Jeanny said.

You had to be watching closely. The map showedthe next blink down the range toward UP space,but there was, before that blink, just a tiny glitch,a sort of instantaneous glimmer on the screen. Patbacked up

the tape and ran it again.

"That's where the delete button was pushed," Jeanny said.

"Jeanny, if I'd wanted to erase a portion of thetape I wouldn't have left such obvious tracks."

"That's why I'm here. That's why I haven't turnedthe case over to the action section."

"That I appreciate," Pat said. "Look, honey, Ineed a little time. I know this old bird here. Iknow him like

a friend, inside out. I need to have along, long talk with him."

"I just can't allow you to be alone on board,"Jeanny said, "and I have work to do back at theoffice."

"Come on, Jeanny."

She shook her head. "Pat, dammit, if you get meinto trouble—"

"You know better than that."

"All right, look. I can hold up notifying actionsection until tomorrow afternoon at the latest. Idon't think you're going to find anything morethan our techs found, but I'm willing to give youthe chance. On one condition. I want to knowwhat the hell you were up to out there and who itis you suspect might have tampered with yourcomputer."

"Later," he said. He didn't think he could talkabout Corinne without displaying emotion. Jeannyknew him too well. He didn't want to have toadmit to her that he had been suckered in by abunch of city slickers from Zede II and made tolook like a complete fool by a redheaded film star.

"Now," Jeanny said.

"I had a passenger. That was my main gig goingto Taratwo, to pick up a woman—"

"Ah," Jeanny said.

"—and take her back to Zede II. What they didn'ttell me was that the Man, Brenden, didn't wantthe woman to leave his comfortable bed." Andeven as he said it a fist closed over his heart. But after what she'd done, what else could he believe?One lie almost guaranteed others. And she'd notonly stolen Murphy's Stone, she'd fooled aroundwith the computer while he was ill.

"Do you think she erased the tape?"

"That's not the only possibility," Pat said. "There'sthis. The ship went nowhere except the places which are recorded on tape. Once the computer locatedour position, I blinked onto the route and then wewent straight down the route to Zede II. The com­puter had been cranky. Maybe that glitch there, which indicates that the delete button was pushedafter going through half a dozen fail-safe's is acomputer glitch. If so, maybe I can reproduce it."

"What are the other possibilities?" Jeanny asked.

"I was off the ship for a night on Zede II," he said. "Zede City Port is a big one, with all themodern equipment. Someone might have used somepretty sophisticated gear to bypass my securitysystem, get on board, get into the computer."

"Why?"

"Why? I don't know. It's just a possibility."

"I still think the best bet is the passenger," Jeannysaid.

"I don't think she had enough computer trainingto be able to do it," Pat said. "She'd have had todo it by oral order, and the old man was, and is,cranky, fancying himself to be hard of hearing."

"So you think you'd have heard her talking, evenif you were asleep at the time?"

"Yeah," Pat said. Now why didn't he just tellJeanny that he'd come down with the mindheatfever? He'd been out for days. Corinne had hadplenty of time to carry on lengthy conversationswith the old man.

"OK, Audrey," she said, and he didn't even bother to tell her not to call him Audrey. "You have about twenty-four hours."

He had the servo make coffee, pulled himself upto the computer console, settled in. First he told the old man to run a comprehensive check of allfunctions during the time period beginning withthe first blink after the ship was lost in space.There was a mass of material, because the com­puter monitored all functions of all the ship's sys­ tems. He couldn't afford to skip over any of it, noteven the inventory of stores in the nutrition ser­vos. An unskilled computer operator might justhave had to hunt and seek for a successful way toget the old man to erase, or at least push thedelete button on the trip log.

Nothing is ever wasted, he felt, after he'd spentfour hours checking the boring, seemingly endlesscatalog of ship's functions, because that minuteexamination told him just how wellSkimmer func­tioned. He was proud of her. As for the computer,those automatic functions were carried out assmoothly as if the machine had been fresh off theassembly line.

The fact was that the ship could not have goneanywhere not recorded on the tape because he'dbeen lost in delirium and fever for seven and a halfdays. When he tabulated the time he was shocked.As he remembered it—and he couldn't be sure of his memory, when he'd asked Corinne how longhe'd been

out he was still pretty weak—she'd toldhim that he'd been ill five days.

That was when he first began to think that maybethe ship had been moved and that maybe the tapehad been erased. She'd said five days. The com­puter showed a seven-and-a-half-day period of nutrition-servo operation between the first blinkonto the route and the next leap down the route toward Zede II.

"All right, old man, let's check that," he said,typing orders rapidly. He was looking at the engine-room log now, beginning with the first blink afterbeing lost. Nothing to it. Smooth as silk, the rec­ord of charges and discharges in the generator appeared. But just for kicks he decided to comparetime—that missing seven and a half days—betweenthe nutrition-servo record and the engine-room rec­ord. He opposed the two sets of information.

It came out wrong.

It came out very, very wrong.

The measure of elapsed time on the engine-roomrecord between the first blink onto the route and the next was exactly zero. In short, the recordshowed that the two blinks had been made withno elapsed time between. On the engine-room tape someone had done a very skillful job of alteration, taking out seven and a half days of routine moni­toringsby the computer.

Or were they seven and a half days of routine?

"Old man," he said, "you're not going to likethis, but it's necessary." He flipped to oral mode."Someone has been messing around in your in­nards," he said to the computer. "It would be nice if you could just tell me who."

"I'm sorry, you'll have to speak more distinctly,"the computer said.

"Now, look, buddy," Pat said, "I know you'retired. You've got ionized contamination in yourmemory chambers, and you have to work harderto get a job done in some areas, but this is vital. IfI don't find out what happened out there they'regoing to take the ship and you'll probably be carvedup for scrap."

A computer had no emotion. He had not askedfor a response and there was none. He was talkingto himself as much as to the old man.

"Do you have any record of someone other thanthe captain using your facilities?" he asked. It wasa stab in the dark. The computer was not pro­grammed to make such a distinction.

"There are no such records," the old man said.

He'd been hoping, since the old man was getting cranky and independent, that he'd taken it on him­self to make a note of the tampering.

"Is there recorded, anywhere in your memory, any information regarding an order to delete ma­terial from any portion of your memory?"

"Wait one," the computer said, and went to work.

Pat settled back. The Century Series was not thefastest computer ever built, but it was among the most

thorough, and had a storage capacity mea­sured in the billions. Even at subatomic speed it would take a while.

"There are no records of an order to delete ma­terial," the computer said, two cups of coffee later.

Outside, night came. Inside Pat had shed hisjacket, had eaten a sandwich, had enjoyed oneafter-dinner drink, had made a dozen trips to thesanitary closet to complete the flow of a half-dozencups of coffee through his system. He had the com­puter manual on his lap, and he was giving the oldman a real workout, coming at him from all an­gles, rephrasing questions, cross-checking by giv­ing the computer opposing orders, going back againand again to that time lapse between the first two blinks toward Zede

II.

It was a long night. TheSkimmer was a living thing around him. The hatch was open so that thesecurity guard could look in on him now and then,obviously at Jeanny's orders, so the heaters cameon and hummed smoothly. There were clicks andhums, and once each hour the tiny ting of the chronometer and the chuckling and hissings of theold man as Pat exercised every part of his capac­ity, always coming back to the central question.

The chronometer tingled, and Pat glanced up. Three in the morning. He'd been at it since earlyafternoon. He felt as if he'd been run over by aherd of Tigian buffalo. His mouth was stale and brown from coffee, his head fuzzy, aching.

He went at the old man once again, head on, hisvoice a bit hoarse from talking. "The delete buttonwas used," he said. "It was used on the trip log and on the engine-room log. Material was erased. Iwant to know how much material, old man. Iwant to know who did it. I want to know how she bypassed the fail-safes." For now he had accepted the fact that only Corinne could have done it, andthat she'd done it during those seven and a halfdays while he was delirious with fever.

"There are no records of such actions," the oldman said, not at all perturbed. He could go onwith the game forever. He didn't get tired.

Pat took a break, walked to the hatch, and lookedoutside. The guard had been changed. The newman was young, and he looked miserable standingthere in the chill of early morning.

"Why don't you come into the lock?" Pat asked."We can button up and put some heat into it."

"Orders," the guard said. "But I appreciate thethought."

Pat went back inside, looked at the old man,winking and blinking peacefully, hated him for amoment or two, drew one more cup of coffee. Athought came to him, something he hadn't checked."Information on a fever known as mindheat fever,reference Taratwo."

The long session had accomplished one thing,however minor. The computer was no longer pre­tending to be hard of hearing.

"No information," the old man droned.

"Double-check."

"No information."

"Diseases indigenous to the planet Taratwo," heordered.

"The planet Taratwo is unique among known planets in that the evolution of viral and bacterialforms is still in a primitive stage. Ash and smokeare health hazards on the planet, and there havebeen recorded cases of disease carried to the planetfrom other areas of habitation. On the Standard Star Index of Public Health, Taratwo is listed asthe fourth most disease-free planet."

"General reference, health and disease. Checkfor mindheat fever."

That took a while. Finally, "There is no refer­ence to mindheat fever. The two words, mind andheat, are not referenced as a unit. However, on thestandard list of pharmaceuticals there is a syn­ thetic drug, dexiapherzede, developed on Wagner'sPlanet, Zede system, which in the illegal drug tradeis called heat."

"Depth search," Pat said, a feeling of revulsion in his stomach.

"Dexiapherzede was developed for use in treat­ment of depression. In regulated doses the effecton the patient is a feeling of well-being. In over­dose the effect is hallucinatory. Moderate overdoses release the unconscious mind into domin­ance, and the hallucinations can be somewhatguided by the conscious mind into paths of plea­sure or sensuous imagination. Heavier overdosesoverwhelm the conscious mind and hallucinations are not controllable. Very heavy overdoses irritatethe nerve tissue and are sometimes fatal, alwaysaccompanied by loss of consciousness and highfever."

Ah, Corinne.

"Time period of adverse effects of an extreme overdose?"

"Dexiapherzede is fragile, quickly assimilatedand rapidly metabolized by the human body. A nonfatal overdose produces hallucinations and fe­ver for approximately twelve hours, depending onthe individual rate of metabolism."

Seven and a half days. She'd have had to dosehim with that junk over a dozen times.

One more question. "Does dexiapherzede leaveany detectable residue in the human body?"

"Heavy overdose amounts of the drug do moder­ate damage to certain cells in the liver. The effectsof this damage are self-reparable by the liver over a period of some weeks."

So if she had drugged him it could be proved bya check of his liver. He paced the bridge. He could remember her face as if it were before him in oneof her pictures, and in that face he simply couldnot find the cruelty which would be necessary toput a man through the agony he'd experienced. Hecould still remember some of those nightmares.They'd been coming at him at night ever since his illness, and they were no child's nightmares. Theywere full-grown and damned mean nightmares thatmade him wake up in a cold sweat.

So, she'd drugged him. Why? Just to sit on theship for seven and a half days and play games with the computer? No. It was becoming moreand more evident that Corinne Tower had been amuch better actress than he'd suspected. She'dpretended ignorance of ship's operations, but she'dtaken theSkimmer somewhere while he was underthe influence of the drug, somewhere she didn't want him to know about. And she'd been goodenough at computers to get past several guards inthe trip log, and to erase the engine-room monitor­ing tape so smoothly that it wasn't noticeable un­less compared for time lapse with another tape.Sharp, but not sharp enough to erase the timelapse on the other monitoring tapes, such as

thenutrition servos. Sharp, but not sharp enough tosee that she'd left just a tiny little glitch on thetrip log, just enough to catch the attention of Cen­tral's computer.

"She drugged me, old man. She put me underfor over a week. What did she do for a week?"

He dived back into his work. For a week she'deaten—that was shown by the nutrition-servo tapes. She'd used the toilet; this was shown by thesanitary-system tapes. She'd even watched a coupleof movies. Calm as calm. Sitting there watchingpictures while he fought monsters and sweatedblood.

But, as dawn came, and the guard changed out­side, he was no closer to the answer. "Dammit,"he said, "what else did she do? Did she move theship?"

"There is no record on the trip log of the ship'shaving been moved," the computer said.

"Did she charge the generator?"

"There is no record on the engine-room log of the generator's being charged."

Pat was grasping at straws. "Print out the lasttwo responses."

There is no record on the trip log of the ship'shaving been moved. There is no record onthe engine-room log of the generators beingcharged.

"All right, old man," Pat said. "I'm beginning toget the idea that you know something I don't know.What

do you know that I don't?"

"I am programmed in many fields of knowl­edge," the computer said. "Perhaps I know littlethat you do not, in a sense, know, having beenexposed to the information at one period or an­other of your existence. However, my capacity to recall such information is, by the nature of com­puters and human brains, greater."

"A philosopher, yet," Pat said. But still therewas something. It tickled at his brain, made him feel that he was near a breakthrough.

"I still say," he muttered, "that you know some­thing I don't know. What is it, dammit?"

"The question is very general," the computer said. "It will require that you transcribe all thatyou know. At that time I will compare your knowl­edge with that recorded in my chambers and giveyou your answer."

"Go to hell," Pat said, rising, thinking that if hedrank one more cup of coffee he'd turn brown, drawing it anyhow. He looked down at the lastprinted lines.

There is no record. There is no record.

He consulted the computer manual. Somewherein those small but almost infinitely capacious memory chambers, even with the ionization, there hadto be something that would tell him what Corinne had done with those seven and a half days. Hethumbed through the thick book. It would takedays, weeks, for him to check every function, everyarea of storage. He didn't have the time. Jeannywould drag him off the Skimmer kicking and screaming in about seven hours.

The Century Series of computer was a sophisti­cated piece of technology. In a way, a Centurywhich was ship-mounted corresponded in function with the human brain. A part of the Century oper­ated on what could be compared to the conscious level of the human mind. Another part was muchlike the unconscious part of the human mind whichkept house, operated the multitude of involuntary functions of the system, told the eyes to blink so many times a second without the conscious mindhaving to remember, kept the heart beating, enzymes and mysterious little fluids flowing, thenerves doing their thing. The old man performedsuch a function aboard ship, monitoring and con­trolling theSkimmer's systems. The computer it­self controlled the mundane but vital functions ofthat second-to-second, day-to-day ship's housekeep­ing. On the "conscious" level, the computer re­sponded to its human controller.

Pat began to read about the computer's auto­matic functions, got interested, but got nowherecloser to the solution of the problem. He was aboutto put the manual aside and go back to his oralquizzing of the computer when he saw the heading"Space Law." Since he was in violation of the law,he decided to read it. Found the section regarding the penalties for tampering with the trip log, got achill when it was confirmed that X&A could lift his license and seize theSkimmer. Gloom piledatop doom.

"What do you know about space law?" he askedthe old man.

"All relevant information is contained . . ." Andthe computer gave reference numbers for a partic­ular

memory chamber.

"Let's take a look," Pat said.

The computer began to recite space law.

"Skip to the section regarding the trip log," Patordered.

"Access to the trip log is limited to manufac­turer and X&A," the computer said.

"Just tell me about it," Pat said.

The computer gave reference numbers.

"What would it take for an unauthorized personto get access to that section?"

"The exact access code."

"How does one get the exact access code?"

"The access code is known only to the manufac­turer and X&A."

"Ah," Pat said. "Where were you manufactured,old man?"

"I am a product of Century Subatomics, Inc."

"And where is Century Subatomics located?"

"The three facilities of Century Subatomics, Inc.,are located on the planet Zede II. Plant numberone is

twenty-two point three three miles south-southeast of Zede City—"

"OK," Pat said. He felt as if he was getting closeto something. "If an unauthorized person had the exact access code to the trip log memory chamberand used it, would you keep a record?"

"Yes."

"OK, let's see that record."

"The record is kept in—" The computer gave thenumbers for the trip log chamber with a sub-number. "Access only to X&A's central computer."

Great. But not bad. He could call Jeanny and gether to connect with the old man from down atX&A and see who had used the access code last.

Jeanny was still in bed. "God," she moaned,"have you been up all night?"

"Jeanny, get down to the office as quick as youcan. Plug into my computer and check in the triplog

section and I think you're going to find outthat I wasn't the one who ordered the erasure."

"Tell you what," she said. "I'll call you backafter breakfast when I get to work."

"Jeanny—"

"Oh, hell. I'll call the duty man. He'll check andgive you a call."

He drank another cup of coffee and went to thesanitary closet twice, and then the duty man was on the

communicator.

"Captain Howe, this is highly irregular. How­ever, I have checked, as Captain Thompson re­quested, and the last access to your trip log was byan authorized computer at X&A."

"And before that?"

"The authorized computer at Xanthos Central."

"And before that?"

"I must warn you, Captain, that I have recordedthe following information for the action section ofX&A. Prior to the last two authorized accesses byX&A and Xanthos Central a deletion has been made.It is serious enough to erase the record of blinksfrom the trip log, Captain. This is the first inci­dence I've encountered where the computer's rec­ord of access has been altered. Someday, whenyou get out of jail, I'd like you to tell me how youmanaged to break the fail-safes and get the accesscode."

"You've made my day," Pat said, closing off.

He slouched in the chair, beaten. The old man, calm as calm, blinked green lights at him in readi­ness, as if he wasn't tired of the game. "You heart­less monster," Pat said.

"You are drawing a comparison which has norelevance," the old man said.

"You know, dammit. You're playing with me. You know and you won't tell me."

"I have been computing something you said pre­viously," the old man said. "You asked me specif­ically

what I know that you don't know. Is thatcorrect?"

"That is correct. Do you have a different answer?" "By a narrow definition of that question, relat­ing it to your search for the missing segments oncertain of

my storage areas, I can say that I, ap­parently, know of one memory chamber."

"Access numbers," Pat ordered, feeling a surgeof hope.

"There are no access numbers. This chamber isconcerned with internal function of a Century Se­ries

computer."

"Depth search," Pat said.

"A capacity for self-diagnosis is built into theCentury Series. This chamber is accessible to au­thorized

repair technicians manually."

"What is the purpose of this chamber?" Pat asked.

"Between cleanings and repairs I note all abnor­malities. Upon printout, the technician has a com­plete

record of those abnormalities."

"Printout," Pat ordered.

"Printout of the self-diagnosis chamber is activated . . ." The computer went into a complicatedtechnical

explanation.

"Repeat that slowly, one instruction at a time,"Pat ordered, after running to get his tool kit out ofthe mate's cabin.

He had removed an access plate, two plug-incircuit boards, and saw, just where the old mansaid it

would be, a two-stage switch. He activatedit. The computer began to spew out symbols incomputer language and figures.

"What is all this?" Pat asked in exasperation.

"I am printing the development of ionization inchamber 73-R-45-B."

"Skip to sections relevant to alteration of thetrip log," Pat ordered.

"I do not control this printout once it is under­way."

"Great," Pat said.

He watched the paper emerge. It was coveredwith data of meaning only to the computer and a good

computer tech.

It was difficult to be optimistic, with his timerunning out, but at least the new owner wouldhave the self-diagnosis printout in case he wantedto keepSkimmer in service instead of junking her.

Coffee. Blah. The old man announcing the num­bers of each chamber as he printed his own diag­nosis.

Pat sat up with a jerk as he recognized thenumber of the engine-room log. There were only afew abnormalities, and they were readable.

The following discharges and charges of theblink generator were erased on oral ordersfrom an unidentified operator:

She'd gone a long way. She'd blinked the generator several times on the way out and severaltimes on the way back.

It was another thirty minutes, during which Patwent quietly hyper, nerves jangling from too muchcoffee, before the old man got to the section in hisself-diagnosis chamber which dealt with abnor­malities in the chamber containing the trip log.

On oral orders from an unidentified operatorthe following blink coordinates were deletedfrom the trip log.

Pat whooped with joy. His hands were shaking from coffee nerves. He had on the printout all the coordinates for the blinks Corinne had taken while he was out. He could check against charts and tell where she'd taken theSkimmer. He was out of thewoods. All he had to do was call Jeanny and tell her.

Tell her what?

He could imagine a stern-faced X&A hangmansaying, "The fact that, without your knowledge,the computer kept a record of the blinks whichyou erased does not lesson your guilt."

Damn. "Is that all, old man?"

Suddenly the printout was supplemented bysound. First the old man's voice. "Space law statesthat access to the trip log shall be by manufac­turer and X&A only for the matter of alterations, and for extracting information access is granted to Xanthos Central Control or one of its substations.Therefore, since an unidentified operator, not men­tioned in space law, has ordered alterations of thetrip log, I have recorded for later identificationthat operator's voice."

Pat whooped again, and then fell silent as Co­rinne's throaty, calm voice began to read off anorder to erase the following blinks, and then thenumbers, still in that cool, throaty voice.

He caught Jeanny just as she was entering heroffice. "Get over here as quick as you can," hesaid. "And bring someone in authority with you."

"I'm the authority, Pat, until I turn it over to the action section."

"Then get over here, Jeanny, please."

He was waiting for her with a hot cup of coffeejust the way she liked it, with plenty of low-calsweetener. He told her about the drug and then he showed her the self-diagnosis printout, let her hearCorinne's voice giving the illegal orders.

"Looks as if we can throw you in jail for beinggullible, Audrey," she said.

He started to say it, but didn't, letting it pass.He'd had time to check the coordinates Corinne had used. They went right off any known chartinto a region of crowded stars toward the galacticcore. You didn't go too close to the core. The starswere dense there, and the chaos of interconnectedmagnetic and gravitational fields made naviga­tion, and even survival, a nightmare. The massed stars put out storms of hot radiation which could cook anything living within the hull of a ship inseconds. But Corinne had gone toward that chaos, directly toward the heart of the galaxy, where that huge, fiery engine at the core gave off incredible energies.

Pat didn't tell Jeanny that he'd already checked the coordinates. Nor did he, for some reason, tellher about Murphy's Stone.

"I'd say that if we can find residue of that drugin your system, Pat, you have a good case for being reinstated," Jeanny said.

He was burning inside. His entire body was vibrating, coffee nerves, a caffeine rush. And more.He was burning to find out where she'd taken theship, what was out there toward the core stars.

"What are you waiting for?" Jeanny asked. "Let'sget over to the clinic."

Pat lay on a cold metal table, separated from thecold metal by a thin sheet. A monster of a ma­chine lowered, buzzed. The results were in withinminutes. There was superficial damage to livercells. The damage was healing nicely. The damage was consistent with several known causes, amongthem an overdose of at least three separate drugs.Meanwhile, the analysis of his body fluids hadbeen completed. A technician came into the room where Pat, dressed again, sat drinking coffee withJeanny.

"Captain," the technician said, "I'd advise youto cut down on your intake of coffee. Your urine is discolored and I've never seen a higher caffeinelevel."

"Yeah, thanks," Pat said, putting down his cup.

"You do drugs often?" the technician asked.

"I do drugs never," Pat said.

The technician glanced at Jeanny with a know­ing smile. "Sometime during the past few weeksyou've taken a rather massive overdose of a littlegoodie which the druggies call heat, technical name dexiapherzede. I thought we'd just about done awaywith that one. We'd be interested in knowing, Cap­tain, just where you got your hands on it."

"I'd like that report in writing in my office withinthe next hour," Jeanny said, rising.

Pat was merely a ship's captain. Jeanny Thomp­son was a captain in X&A. When she gave an orderto a technician, that order was obeyed. In her office, the report in hand, she looked atPat with her eyes squinted. "All right, Audrey—"

"Don't call me Audrey," he said.

"—you're cleared. I've filed your reinstatementon the computer. If you leave Xanthos by shipwithin the next twenty-four hours you might haveto have Central check with me. It takes a whileto counteract something as serious as having your license lifted."

"Jeanny, when I get back, the best dinner foryou, and a nice little gift."

"So you are going?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"I don't know. I might just write off my lossesand forget it. You were playing in the big time onthat trip to Taratwo, Pat. Maybe out of your class. You're alive, and our scan on your affairs showed that you made a bundle out of the trip. Why don't you just stay here, get the overhaul completed onSkimmer?"

To that point she'd been all business. Now herfacial expression softened. "I have two weeks ofvacation

coming up. If you'd like some companywhen you take the ship out for a check ride afterthe overhaul—"

"Jeanny, that sounds great," he said. "Hold thatvacation until I get back, OK?"

She shrugged. "Have yourself a ball," she said,standing, making it clear that she was dismissinghim.

FIVE

Skimmerlifted into space with her hull still show­ing the dullness of the thousand-parsec syndrome.Pat had taken time only to restock the food sup­plies and pick out a few new movies. The first partof the trip was routine, along well-maintained blinkroutes, and he was able to program several blinksat one time, then let the old man do the work. Thelong oral sessions with the computer seemed tohave had an invigorating effect. There was, at first,no indication of the sluggishness associated withionization of the memory chambers.

Pat didn't have a cup of coffee for three days. Heused the time to try to make estimates, a difficulttask, of just how far toward the core of the galaxyCorinne's route would take him.

He passed within a few light-years of Zede II,then began to retrace the routeSkimmer had fol­lowed in taking Corinne home. It was difficult notto think of her. X&A had made some preliminaryinquiries, based on the solid evidence in the oldman's self-diagnosis chamber, and had run head-oninto a gaggle of space lawyers who said that Co­rinne Tower, the famous Zedeian holo star, hadnot been off Zede II in over five years, and thatany half-baked space mercenary who said that shehad was risking a libel suit.

Well, it was X&A's baby now. Since there wasno record of Corinne Tower holding a space li­cense there was little X&A could do, even if itsinvestigators did wade through the banks of law­yers. Pat guessed that they'd file the informationand forget it. That was all right with him. Hecouldn't bring himself to want to see Corinne pun­ished. Not while he was there alone on the ship, re­membering how she looked when she first awoke inthe morning and came out of the mate's cabin forbreakfast.

As the days passed and the nightmares began to fade, he began to rationalize her actions. All right,so she was a professional actress. So her tender­ness, that one time that he'd kissed her, couldhave been sheer acting. Certainly she'd double-crossed him. She'd stolen his diamond, or at least his half of the diamond. It was sort of pleasant to think of what he could have done with half of thevalue of Murphy's Stone, but what would he dowith himself if he were fabulously wealthy? Hedidn't take on sometimes dangerous assignmentsjust for the thrill of it. He did it for money, but didhe really want the things that megamillions couldbuy?

Hell, yes. The newest and best in space yachts,manor houses on the most pleasant planets, some of those beautiful and awesome light-brush paint­ ings by Anleian of Selbelle III which brought mil­lions at auction. Hell, yes. But what the hell.What he wanted most was what he couldn't evenhope to have. He could hope for another big strike.He'd made one, in Murphy's Stone, so he could makeanother and have the yacht and the houses and the paintings. What he couldn't have was Corinne, andit was, he realized, that loss which was sendinghim out and away from UP space into uncharted space. If he couldn't have her he had to know why.He couldn't believe, down in his heart, that shecould have acted that scene when he kissed her,when the quiet tears came as she fought againstthe desires of her own body.

The first part of the trip, reversing the coursethey'd traveled together, was preliminary. The bigshow got underway after he'd reached the firstblink beacon they'd found after those lovely daysof being lost and alone in space. He punched in thecoordinates of the first jump Corinne had takenalone and held his breath. Three jumps later theold man was going bananas, because Pat wouldn'tgive him time to make those time-consuming360-degree scans for points of identification.

The star patterns were entirely different. Themassive glow of the Milky Way was before them,growing dense. The blinks were becoming shorterbecause of increasing star population, and all thestars were alone, bright solitaires in space, with­out a comforting family of planets. That's the way it was in toward the core, and that was the mainreason why all of X&A's exploration efforts weredirected toward less densely starred areas outtoward the periphery.

The only suns with planets which were knownto be tucked away amid that glaring, hard chaosof stars toward the core were nowhere near Pat'sroute, but off at a bearing of about 45 degrees to his port. He'd been there. Once after he'd finisheda particularly profitable trip he'd taken a sweetyoung girl from Xanthos University, a former student, not that much younger than himself, to cruiseslowly by a dozen worlds which had, at some timein the distant past, been sterilized by some unimag­inable weapon. The Dead Worlds. Hundreds of ex­peditions had searched for their secret. The rubblepiled over bedrock showed, in minutes bits andpieces, that once a thriving civilization had ex­isted there on each of the closely packed planets ofan odd grouping of a family of interrelated stars.And because of that rubble, because of that total destruction of a dozen worlds, X&A ships wentarmed with weapons of war which had not been used in a thousand years. For any race which couldpulverize a dozen civilizations had to have potentweapons, and on each X&A expedition there were two hopes among the crew. One, that they'd find asweet, beautiful water planet with livable condi­tions and, possibly, an intelligent race with whomman could exchange ideas and information, no longer alone in a big, big universe. Two, that they would not encounter the beings who had reducedthe Dead Worlds to rubble lying loosely atopbedrock.

Space, to a man alone, engenders a variety ofthoughts. Pat thought of the Dead Worlds, andwondered if he'd find anything like that up ahead, where the stars were densely packed and a confu­sion of solar winds from that vast population ofsuns sent radiation counters clattering. He thoughtmostly of Corinne, just a little about a two-week vacation with Jeanny, and scolded himself because he couldn't work up much enthusiasm for the latter.And he remembered his drug-induced nightmares, tried to sort them, identify them as spinoffs ofchildhood horrors, things he'd heard, things he'dread. After all, the unconscious can't create. Itmerely stores, like a computer, and distorts storedinformation in seemingly random patterns.

It was interesting to analyze his nightmares. Hecould identify three or four childhood dreams,dreams which were fairly common. He had flownin his illness, soaring, pumping his legs against airto gain altitude—that, of course, a distortion bythe unconscious of the act of swimming upward toward the surface of a pool after diving deep. Hehad fled unseen terror fighting against clinging, molasses-like resistance. He couldn't trace that one back to any known influence. He had gnashed histeeth in his fever, feeling them crumble and fallout in pieces. That, of course, went back to child­hood and the first traumatic loss of baby teeth, or,perhaps, to adult visits to the dentist.

Monsters he could remember from his night­mares during that time were really not so mon­strous. Upon analysis, they became nothing morethan composites from horror movies, legends,stories.

There was one thing, however, that he could not trace back. His memory of the entire episode washazy, dredged up with difficulty and little clarity,but twice during the trip outward from Xanthoshe had seen in his dream a huge, centuries-oldstarship, hull marked and battered, floating alonein space, dead, silent. He supposed that his uncon­scious mind had composed the ship from space-opera stories or movies, but still that memoryseemed to have a solidity that the others from thefevered period lacked.

Skimmer'sgenerator had no difficulty chargingwhen he had emptied it with the multiple blinkswhich led him even closer to the core, ever deeper,by zig and zag past blue giants and white dwarfs,all the various types of stars, some of them very, very old, some of them surprisingly young.

There was a school of astrophysics which theo­rized that stars were continually being createdthere in the inaccessible heart, in the core heat of the galaxy. Pat chose not to believe that. He be­lieved in a single act of creation and, although hewas not pious or devout, in a single creator. WhenPat's God said, "Let there be light," there waslight,the Big Bang, a light never seen before orsince. Faced with an act of creation, he had toaccept a creator, and that rather pleased him. Hecouldn't accept the orthodox opinion that God spenthis time watching sparrows fall and listening toevery prayer by the pious. He imagined God to bea bit too busy for that, but there, nevertheless.

Deep and shallow thoughts while alone. The oldman chuckling and complaining because the shipwas hopelessly lost, except for Corinne's series ofblink coordinates, the ship functioning perfectly, Pat back on coffee. No blink beacons. And yet it was impossible for a ship to have established the route by random blinks. One random blink there near the core and the ship would never emerge,having merged forever with the molten subatomic particles of the sun. No. Someone, in some ship, atsome time, had had to feel his way along thatroute, perhaps at sublight speeds, although that was farfetched, because a ship traveling at sublightspeeds would have taken not just one generationbut several to chart that route and leave blink coordinates. More likely the course was charted as X&A ships now charted new blink routes, makingblinks to the safe extent of their optical and sensorscouting ability, covering short, short distances in an instant, then taking hours to determine how farthe next blink can take them without contact witha solid body.

Even with the X&A method it would have takenyears, decades, to chart the route.Skimmer's trackon the chart being constructed by the computerextended backward far and away in that zigzaggingline out toward the areas where the stars werethinner.

It was hard work. Corinne had made the tripthere and back in seven and a half days. At the endof three days, with only a few catnaps while thedepleted generator drew on the energies of thestars themselves for its charge, he had just one more blink to make to be at the end of Corinne'scourse. He forced himself to wait for a full genera­tor charge. He wanted to have all the power hecould when he blinked out at the end of his jour­ney. He had no idea what he'd find there and if ithad teeth, he'd have to rely on that brute of agenerator inSkimmer's engine room to make moremultiple blinks than whatever it was that hadteeth. He had two hours' sleep, awoke, ate. Co­rinne looked almost frail, but she'd been toughenough to go without sleep in more than two-hour segments for at least six days and look fresh andbeautiful when he came out of his drugged condition.

"OK, old man," he said, when the generator wascharged to a capacity which so energized the wholeof Skimmer that the hairs on his arms and hands tingled. "Here we go."

Tensed, he waited for the alarms to start whin­ing, clanging, shouting. A calm computer told himthat he was one quarter of an astronomical unit from a planet about the size of ancient Mars in theSolar System, and that the planet emanated noenergies other than the natural reflections of thesolar winds of a weak yellow star which was onlya small disk in the distance.

He gave it some time. He scanned the planet. Itwas a planet of rock and sand, barren, and yet itshowed an atmosphere. Men had settled worse plan­ets, drawing the subterranean water upward tothe surface, altering the climate with importedplant life.

Nothing happened. All sensors working showed no danger, no manmade emanations. He putSkim­mer on flux and made his approach. When he coulddistinguish surface features on the planet he saw barren mountain ranges, deep chasms. Once theplanet had lived, had built mountains, had shothot lava and rock into the air, had possessed sur­face water to cut those massive gorges.

The planet hung over him now, theSkimmer inorbit, all sensors and instruments at work. Theonly change in readings was a hint of water in anarrow belt around the equator. That was onlymildly interesting. The optics picked up hints of green in that belt. More interesting. And it becameeven more interesting when a half-dozen alarms clanged and whistled and whined at the same timeand the old man broke his sulky silence.

"Alert, alert. Unidentified vessel."

She came swimming toward theSkimmer in aslightly higher orbit, clearing the curve of the planet with stately, slow, majestic movement, a huge ship.

Pat jerked on the arms-control helmet, went intoaction. The alarms were quieted. The computer spat out information. There was no radiation ofany kind coming from the huge ship. There wereno overt signs of hostile intent.

The ship looked very familiar to Pat. It took himonly seconds to realize that the ship which movedslowly and majestically toward him in an orbit which would bring it almost directly over theSkimmerwas the ship of his nightmares.

He threw the optics on highest magnification.The ship expanded on his screen. The hull showedmultiples of the effects of the thousand-parsec syn­drome. Pat waited. She was almost spherical inshape, a design from the past, and she had a feel­ ing, a sense of age. She was close enough now sothat he could see the closed ports which, in allprobability, housed weapons. There was no sign oflife, no emanations detectable by theSkimmer'sarray of instruments.

When she was directly overhead he could see the exit ports. They were open. The ship was dead in space, open to space, silent, deserted, eerie.

When she had disappeared behind the curve ofthe planet, her discolored hull sending back onegleaming flash of reflected sunlight from the weakyellow sun, he went to the computer and punchedup a tape on spaceship design and history.

The ship which was in a high, stable orbit aroundthis barren planet in an area where there shouldnot even

be a planet, so near the core that thehuge, fiery monsters, the crowded stars, seemed topush down, to overwhelm, was of a type whichhad not been built for a thousand years. She wasan ancient colonization ship, a ship of the typeused in the days of early expansion outward from the core of the UP, a ship whose only purpose wasto carry masses of people, with their possessions,to a new home among the stars.

SIX

There are few things in existence which attaininfinite perfection. The universe itself is flawed,for it is not eternal. All of it, all that small portionknown to man and that vast unknown portion, ison a minutely slow slide to nothing, expendingenergies which cannot, short of another creation,be replaced. Someday it will all be cold, and mo­ tionless, and sterile. An orchid approaches perfec­tion, but nevertheless is subject to mutation,environmental damage, and swift decay.

Of all the things that approach perfection, PatHowe thought, as he exitedSkimmer's airlock, space comes closest in quality to the absolute perfectionof loneliness. No man is ever more alone than aman in self-contained space gear outside the frail protection of the hull of his ship.

He had dosed himself heavily with radiation pre­ventatives, and had the after-exposure doses readyon the bridge to take when he returned.Skimmer was on her own, in the care of the old man. He lefther with the out hatch open, the inner hatch of the airlock closed. He pushed off, and the movementgave him a slow tumbling motion which he counteracted with the control jets. Then he was oneman alone, a tiny mote in the glare of those claus­trophobic star fields, one side of his suit beingcooled by frantically working units, the other sidebeing warmed until he was out ofSkimmer's shadowand the full impact of the solar winds from thethousands of stars hit him, sending the counter clattering.

Skimmerwas parked in a matching orbit lessthan a hundred yards from the ancient, giant colo­nization ship. Pat looked back, just once. The shiplooked dearly familiar, warm, inviting. There wasa great urge in him to go back, run for the airlock, close the hatch behind him, and seek safety withinSkimmer's friendly confines.

But somehow, the woman he loved, or had loved,had obtained the access codes to the computer's restricted chambers. The Zede connection had tobe the answer—the "businessmen." He guessed thatif an investigation could plow through to the heartof the matter there'd be a traceable link betweenCorinne's "film producers" and Century Subatom­ics. Simple enough for the right people to get theaccess codes from company records. Which meant,of course, that they had had to have the serialnumber of the computer onSkimmer. Had theycome up with the computer number and the ac­cess codes and then come to seek him out, or hadthey found him, then obtained the access codes?

None of that really mattered, except as a ques­tion of curiosity. What mattered was Corinne's motivation.

Jetting carefully toward the big ship, he had time to wonder just what significance the shiphad. Obviously, it had been the destination of Co­rinne's solo trip. What had been on the ship whichwas important enough to make her drug him andtake a long, tiresome trip into the area near thegalactic core? If she had taken something from that ancient derelict it had been small, for she'dleft the ship with only her one bag, and a good bitof the storage area inside the bag had been taken up by Murphy's Stone.

He eased himself up to the hull of the old shipnear a large, gaping hatch, pulled himself along to the hatch using magnetic clingers, moved his headto shine his helmet light into the dark interior.The inner hatch of the lock was also open. That part of the big ship, at least, was open to space,cold, dead. According to the information he hadfromSkimmer's library, such ships had carriedfour to six space launches. There were tiedowns for such a launch in the lock which he entered, using the suit's jets to swim clear of the discoloredbulkheads and decking.

The airlock was empty, any speck or mote ofloose dust sucked into the insatiable maw of space's vacuum long ago.

Fighting an urge to keep looking over his shoul­der, he floated into a corridor, his way lit only by the helmet light. The corridor was as bare as thelock. Brackets on the bulkheads showed that somekind of equipment, perhaps spacesuits or safetygear, had been removed.

He contacted the computer onSkimmer. "Giveme the shortest route to the control areas," he said.

The computer, checking Pat's oral reports againstthe plans for similar ships fromSkimmer's infor­mation store, sent Pat on a route which took himtoward the core of the ship, heading for a point onthe opposite side where the control bridge perchedon the outside circumference of the huge sphere.

Since he was near, he detoured into the engineareas.

It became quickly obvious to him that the shiphad not met with some totally damaging disaster,but had been abandoned, and not in panic. Theship had been thoroughly cannibalized. All mov­able equipment and gear had been removed, andthe gold shielding of the almost unbelievably hugeand antique blink drive had been removed. It had been necessary, in the technology of a thousandyears past, to use a lot of gold for shielding. It wasall gone, and the more accessible parts of the gen­erator itself had been removed.

He passed through an area of living quarters tofind the same conditions. In places, even the divid­ing bulkheads had been ripped out, presumably forreclamation of the lightweight metals therein.

Far down in the guts of the ship, alone in asilence which caused a continuous reaction in hisinner ears, a vacuous, almost unrealized hissingwhich was the psychological reaction to the totalabsence of sound, he could hear his own heartbeating, could sense the song of his blood as it waspumped through his veins.

He whirled once, swiftly, panic causing his heartto race, for there in the closeness of the engineering spaces his fully alerted senses had given him a false signal of movement where there was onlyvacuum, and space-discolored bulkheads andstripped-down machinery.

"Whoa, Pat," he said. "No ghosts here. Theydidn't die here. They left the ship."

Although he sent the words aloud to the oldman, the computer made no reply. It was not pro­grammed for small talk.

He found the instrument and computer sectionsbefore he reached the bridge. Computers had beenquite large when the ship was built. They werestill using microchips then, but the microchipshad all been removed. He'd been hoping to find afew in place. He could have rigged the old man to read them, if indeed, information had lasted for athousand years. But even the light-metal accessdoors had been removed.

The viewports on the control bridge were open.Radiation had clouded the plastic of the ports, sothat it now acted as an inefficient filter for thestorm of particles which swirled constantly aroundthe ship.

And on the bridge, as elsewhere, all instruments,anything movable, had been removed. There was not so much as a scrap of paper, a mote of dust, asmall personal item left behind to give him a clue.

He found the reason for the ship's abandonmentin the guidance and navigational section. Therehad been a severe explosion, and a resulting fire. That he could tell by twisted shards of metal andscorch marks, but the people of the ship had gut­ted that section, too.

"Old man," he said, "do you think it would beworthwhile to search the ship? I mean every com­partment, every nook and cranny?"

"Such a course would give the most availableinformation," the computer said.

Pat felt a little shiver. The damned ship was big.He'd have to make several trips back toSkimmer to recharge the suit's life-support gear. It wouldtake days. And each time he stuck his head into a new hole, the beam of light from his helmet doingnot the world's best job of dispelling the totaldarkness, he felt that shiver come again. He per­sisted, however, until he had located the ship'slibrary. There'd been a fire there, too, for the li­brary, although there was no direct connection,backed the section which had taken the full forceof the explosion. The fire must have been fed by anoxygen-rich mixture, for in the library area, identifiable by the twisted, ruined, gutted pans whichhad once held computer tapes, even light metals had been consumed.

He was within thirty minutes of having to go on reserve on the suit's life-support system. There wasone more thing he wanted to check. He found asmall exit hatch open near the control areas anddid the checking from space, jetting around theglobe of the ancient ship to locate all six of the airlocks where once the space launches had beenstored. All were empty. All the launches had beenused.

For what? There was but one answer. For some reason the old colony ship had chosen to explore toward the core, and, following a slow and erraticcourse, dodging stars, had found a planet. It wasnot much of a planet. It loomed over Pat's head ashe jetted back towardSkimmer, colorful, true, withred and orange pigments in the barren areas, butpoor as planets go. So the ship had found the planet,before the explosion had destroyed its abil­ity to maneuver, and the people had left the dis­abled ship on the space launches. The launches werenot lifeboats. If there'd been a full complement ofcolonists aboard, enough to people those warrensof quarters, the launches would have had to makeseveral trips. There was only one place which couldhave been a destination for such back-and-forth ferrying. The planet.

He'd set the computer to analyzing the planetduring his absence. He checked over the information while he was taking the multiple doses ofafter-exposure drugs, washing them down with cof­fee. There was a viable atmosphere, surprisinglyrich in oxygen. There was a bit of surface water,much of it frozen into thin icecaps at the poles,some of it in the greenbelt around the equator. The deep basins which once had been oceans werearid. The tall mountains were eroded only slightlyin areas, showing that they'd been formed late inthe planet's wet period, before something happenedto stop the rains, and the water which had filled

the vast ocean spaces had disappeared, evaporat­ing into space, or sinking into porous rock.

There was enough carbon dioxide in the atmo­sphere to block out most of the harmful radiationfrom the suns which surrounded the small area ofopen space occupied by the planet and its small star.

In spite of the fact thatSkimmer's state-of-the-art sensors and instruments showed no evidence oflife on the scrubby planet, Pat made his prepara­tions for a low-level scouting run with care.Skimmerlowered through atmosphere on her flux thrusters,leveled off at ten thousand feet with all her eyesand ears on full amplification, her shield up, herskipper wearing the fire-control helmet, the com­puter humming and purring as it digested and correlated the flood of data.

It was pretty good down there. Good air. Water just under the surface, close enough so that several species of vegetation existed. The greenest areaswere on low ground, at the lowest points of what had once been ocean beds.

It didn't occur to Pat until he had takenSkimmer halfway around the circumference of the planet atthe equator, passing through the night zone intosunlight, that he might have himself a planet. Hewouldn't own all of it. There were too few habit­able planets to allow one man or a small group ofmen to claim an entire world by right of discov­ery, but there was a well-established reward sys­tem. To qualify for right of discovery he'd have toprove that the planet was unrecorded on X&Acharts, and that it was uninhabited.

He didn't know, for a moment, whether to hopeto find descendants of the survivors of the big colonization ship or to hope that there was no intelligent life down there. He didn't have too longto muse over it, however, because the computerwas sending him a shrill little warning from oneparticular instrument which worked only when aship was very close to a particular form of lifewhich emanated the faint results of oxygen-basedmetabolism.

"Oh ho," Pat said. There were, after all, people,or at least animal forms, down there.

He saw the village on the optics screen just afterthe computer had alerted him. He putSkimmer onhover and let the ship's instruments and sensors work, but he could see himself that there wereartifacts of man there, log cabins with thatched roofs, cultivated fields. He ordered the computerto try contact on all known wavelengths. He didn'treally expect an answer, because there were noenergy emanations, just the detection of combus­tion, wood smoke, coming from the chimneys ofseveral of the cabins.

The village was connected, he saw, as he liftedSkimmerfor an overall view of the area ahead, toother villages by a network of roads. The roadswere not paved. There was no evidence of grading,for there was no need for it in that rainless climate. The roads showed an overall pattern which intrigued him. He movedSkimmer again and hov­ered over a large stone building, low, walls high,apparently thick, and sloping slightly upwardtoward a roof which was paved with light metals inslabs, slabs taken from the partitions which hadbeen removed from the abandoned colony ship inorbit around the planet.

OK. So he wasn't going to get discovery rights to a planet. It was, obviously, populated, and by the descendants of the people who had come onthe big ship.

From the stone building, the roads radiated outlike the spokes of a wheel to the outlying villages. Obviously, the stone building was the center ofthings. The ship's sensors were picking up life em­anations in quantity in the villages and in thecentral area, where the same style of rude cabinslined the streets radiating out from the stonebuilding.

Pat decided not to land at the heart of that littlecommunity of villages, not because he was afraidfor himself, but for the safety of the people downthere. It was obvious that they'd reverted to primi­tivismand had shown little advancement in thethousand or so years they'd been on the planet. Notelling what they remembered about the civiliza­ tion which had sent them forth. They might seeSkimmeras a threat and attack, and Pat didn'twant to have to use modern weapons, even inself-defense, against people armed, perhaps, withbows and arrows.

He picked a rather isolated hut near the out­skirts of one of the outlying villages. He lowered the ship on flux, saw, as the ground neared, thatthere were two men, yes, men, standard model,unmutated, two arms, two legs, one head, workingin a field near the isolated cabin.

They heard the whispering thunder ofSkimmer's flux thrusters, dropped their tools, and stood, faces upturned, as the ship blew dust and lowered tosquat about a hundred yards from them. Theycontinued to stare as Pat opened the hatch.

Man knew little about his origins. History esti­mated that only a small number of people, per­haps less than one million, left Old Earth beforenuclear war devastated the planet, riding outwardfrom that small, isolated sun on ships far more primitive than the old colony ship which circledthis world.

The people from Old Earth had settled, it wasfelt, only four or five planets in the original wave of colonization from Old Earth. Various portions ofthe UP claimed to have been the original points of settlement, including the older planets of the Zedesystem. In all cases, the small groups of settlerswere unable to maintain, on virgin planets, thelevel of technology which had sent them into space.In fact, the best estimates of historians were thatit had taken between ten and thirty thousand yearsfor the space children of Old Earth to soar backout among the stars.

It was felt that one Old Earth "country," or,perhaps, a small group of "countries," had beenresponsible for sending the starships up, for therewas a surprising singularity of racial types in the entire race of UP man. Earth history was nothingmore than semimyth, or legend, but the old talessaid that on Old Earth, there had been red menand yellow men, black men and brown men, andlight-skinned men like modern man. And legend/myth said that each different type of man on OldEarth had had his own language. Some historianssaid that that fact alone would have accounted forEarth's constant warfare which led to the final conflagration.

Only a specialist, such as ex-professor Pat Howe,understood the concept of different languages.There'd been a brief flurry of interest in the popu­lar media when an expedition brought back fromthe colliding galaxies in Cygnus a book in an alientongue, but that flurry faded quickly. Pat, ex-occupier of the one seat of language study atXanthos University, knew of the extensive archeo­logicalwork on Old Earth which had begun imme­diately when man accidentally stumbled onto theplanet of his origin. Through the bravery and thedream of one of the mutated humans who had survived Earth's nuclear agony, this work had beensteadily adding to modern man's store of phrases, words, and some fragmented works of literature inthe various languages of Old Earth.

It was not surprising, then, to Pat, to see, as thetwo men approachedSkimmer, that they were ofthe usual racial type, two fine specimens, as amatter of fact, and that they seemed not in theleast awed by the landing of a spaceship. Theywalked boldly, with longbows—yep, bows and ar­rows, Pat thought—in one hand, quivers with ar­rows slung over their left shoulders. They pausedat a distance of about a hundred feet and looked athim in silence.

"I am a friend," Pat said, raising his right handin salute. The two men shifted their longbows totheir left hands, raised their right hands in return salute, and one of them spoke in a harsh, gutturallanguage.

Pat's old interest in languages soared. This wouldknock the socks off the ivory-tower eggheads backat Xanthos U.

But it would, he soon realized, be an immediate problem for him. If these people had evolved alanguage of their own during their thousand ormore years of isolation, it might cause quite aproblem in communications.Skimmer's computerdidn't have the kind of philology programmingwhich, long years ago, had enabled translation ofthe Artunee manuscript.

Pat waved, saying, "Come closer. Friend. Comecloser."

The two men came to within a few feet, lookedup at him from guileless blue eyes, smiled, madethat salute with the right hand again.

"I come from the United Planets," Pat said. "Icome as a friend."

"Ichsighgorben,"one of the blue-eyed men said.

They were dressed lightly for the warm climate.Their strong legs extended below a short, girdledskirt, chests were bare, feet semiwrapped in a typeof sandal. The material of the skirts was rough,most probably woven from plant fiber.

"My name is Pat Howe," Pat said, punchinghimself in the chest.

"Ichsighgorben,"was the answer, the man, too,punching himself in the chest.

Bells began to ring in Pat's head. He'd beengood in his field when he was a professor of philol­ogy, and one of his last big research projects had been to compile a grammar for one particular Old Earth language from the fragments of books and inscriptions unearthed in a dig on the fringe of thelargest continental mass of Old Earth.

"Ah," he said, pointing to the man who hadspoken. "Gorben."

The man nodded and spoke. Pat tried to identifythe words he'd helped translate with the soundscoming from the blue-eyed man. It took a while.He came down out of the lock and squatted, invit­ing the two to join him. They hunkered down, stillholding their longbows. He encouraged them totalk, nodding, smiling, putting it all together until he thought he had it. Of course, some rough rulesof pronunciation can be compiled from the writtenlanguage, but theyare rough, and when he firstspoke the two men cocked their heads in puzzle­ment.

It got easier. There were certain gutturals whichgave Pat some trouble, but he soon mastered them,and then he said, "You speak an ancient tongue,friend, a language called German."

The man called Gorben looked startled. "Howdo you know that?"

Pat smiled and tapped one finger to his temple,saying in English, "Smart, smart joker."

Gorben looked at his companion. Both wereyoung, physically fit. Well-developed muscles toldPat they were not unacquainted with some form ofphysical work. "The one who flies from the starsspeaks our language."

"Yes," Pat said, and added, "Why does that sur­prise you?"

The silent man's face went pale then. He looked at Gorben, his mouth open, something akin to fearin his eyes. "Only the gods," he whispered.

"Yes," Gorben said. With a swiftness that startled Pat, the two youngmen kicked their feet backward and fell to lie onthe ground before him, heads nodding. "Welcome,Honored One," Gorben said. "We pray that you come in friendship."

"I come in friendship," Pat said. He put hishand on Gorben's shoulder. "Please rise," he said."This is unnecessary." They rose, looking at him with awe. "Then youhave come, at last?" Gorben said.

"I am here," Pat said. "May you, Honored One, give your blessings toourDorchlunt," Gorben said. "You will want to talk with our elder."

"Yes," Pat said. So they had reverted to primi­tivism, clinging to an antique language, space lostto them, perhaps even the memory of it, and hewas being greeted as, if not a god, at least a pow­erful friend.

"Please come, then," Gorben said. Pat gave the computer orders to buttonSkimmerup tight. When the outer hatch closed, Gorben andhis companion jumped in nervousness, but Patsmiled and said, "It's all right. Don't worry."

A middle-aged woman was standing in the doorof the nearest cabin as they approached. She wore a shapeless dress which fell to mid-thigh.

"He has come at last, Mother," Gorben shouted. The woman's eyes went wide. She fell to theground and began to nod her head to Pat. It wasgetting downright embarrassing. It was the firsttime he'd ever been a god, and he wasn't too fond of the idea.

The woman, mother to Gorben and probably theother young man, fell in behind them. On the wayto the center of the village they accumulated oth­ers who first fell down in worship and then fol­lowed in awed silence.

From a cabin at the center of the village a white-haired, close-shaven, distinguished old man cameto meet them.

"He has come, Elder," Gorben shouted jubilantly. "Welcome, Honored One," the village elder said,bowing. It was a relief to Pat not to have the oldman fall on his face and worship. "We have longawaited your coming."

"I am honored to be here, Elder," Pat said. "But perhaps I am not who you think I am. May we talk in privacy?" The elder, he reasoned, would be thewisest man in the village. Study of a primitivesociety might

be interesting, if he had the time,but he'd come a long way to get some answers.

"Of course, Honored One," the elder said. Hestepped aside and bowed, motioning with his handfor Pat to proceed him through the open doorwayto the cabin. Pat took a couple of steps, and two sounds came to him at once. First, the beep of his communicator. He lifted it from his belt quickly, hearing as he did, a low moan of surprise from thecrowd on the village square.

"Speak to me," he said to the computer.

"Alert, alert," the old man said. "Unidentifiedvessels—" And then there was silence. The crowdmoaned. Pat turned and went rigid.

There, high up, hulls reflecting the afternoonsun, rode a battle fleet, ship after ship, huge dreadnaughts, cruisers, little destroyers, supplyships, auxiliaries. And even as he took a deep breathhe saw a ship separate from the fleet and fallswiftly, under power. The crowd around him, in­cluding the elder, had fallen to the dirt in fear and worship.

It took only seconds. There was nothing he coulddo. The falling ship grew in size, showed the out­lines of one of the new Greyhound Class spacetugs. At least, he thought, they weren't going toblastSkimmer.

The Greyhound's fall slowed swiftly, the skipperstopping her not more than five feet fromSkim­mer's squat hull, and then she was lifting,Skimmerenclosed in her field, while the people moaned and worshiped.

Five minutes later the tug was back in position,just a tiny, gleaming dot. And then the fleet blinked simultaneously and was gone.

"Well," Pat told himself, "it looks as if I'm goingto have plenty of time to get acquainted."

"Rise, people," he shouted in German. "Arise,for those who fly to the stars have gone."

SEVEN

Pat had the position of honor at a well-made wooden table. The boards of the table did notbend, although there was enough food there toexcuse them if they had. The main meat dish wasroasted pig, a standard UP-type swine. It was deli­cious, and not surprising, for the old colony shipshad taken everything needed to establish a life­style on a new planet. Only the vegetable disheswere different, and not all of them. There weregreen beans which tasted as if they had been cookedon a UP planet, and, of course, potatoes. The saladwas different, spicy, tangy, and quite good.

Pat had had his private talk with the villageelder, whose name was Adrian Kleeper. The talkhad been

quite revealing. Kleeper was a very piousman, sprinkling his talk with references not onlyto God, but to a hoard of gods, gods in such profu­ sion that Pat, a monotheist and no scholar of com­parative religions, was confused.

The important things that Pat learned from histalk with the elder were that the citizens ofDorchlunt, as they called their village complexandthe planet, had never heard of the UnitedPlanets, that they considered him to be a minorangel sent down by the fleet of angels which they'dseen, and that although their tools, weapons, andliving utensils were primitive and self-made, theywere not awed in the slightest by Pat's hand weap­ons and personal equipment.

Pat grinned wryly when he learned that he wasnot a god, but just an angel. Well, so fleeting is fame and honor.

Before the meal, the elder led the selected com­pany, which included the handsome young manGorben, in a prayer of thanksgiving. Pat countedreferences to at least ten deities. He recognized the names of only three, God, Allah, and Buddha, all, incidentally, different names for the same God who had come with the children of Old Earth into space.As an angel, he assumed that he would be ex­pected to know all about the odd gods mentionedby Adrian Kleeper, so he couldn't ask questions.

Eating in silence seemed to be the custom. Atlast, everyone seemed to have his fill. There wereno women present. Women had served the food,and women brought earthenware mugs of a verygood and very potent beer after the meal, and,after taking an extended drink, the elder leaned back, burped into his hand, and smiled at Pat.

"Now, Honored One, perhaps you will give us news of theforfarvelts."

The ancestry worlds?

"All is well there," Pat said. Kleeper lookeddisappointed.

"Honored One," Gorben said, "has the time come,then?"

"It is near," Pat said. He was walking on thinice. The banquet hall of the elder's cabin housed atleast twenty of the finest specimens of mankindhe'd seen in one place, all vital, handsome, strongyoung men except Kleeper, and even though hewas in middle age, Pat would not have wanted tohave to fight him hand to hand.

He had a sudden inspiration. "I have been sent,my friends, to live among you, to observe you, to determine your state of readiness."

"Ah," Kleeper said. "That is good."

So far so good, Pat thought. They were hand­some, intelligent people, but theywere primitive.He had no doubt that they had built up a fearsomelist of laws and tabus. "My friends, as an inspec­tor, perhaps you will see me do and hear me saythings which, without knowledge, will seem oddto you. I ask your patience, and ask you to remem­ber that there is purpose in all things."

That should cover any goofs, he thought.

"Ah, yes," Kleeper said."The way of the godsare, indeed, mysterious."

As if to prove it, Pat's communicator buzzed athim. With a surge of excitement—had they re­ leased the Skimmer? —he thumbed it, and held itbefore his face, although that was unnecessary.

"Captain Howe," a male voice said, in English,"there is no haste, but when you have finishedyour meal, will you please make your way to thetemple." It wasn't a request, it was an order.

"Ahhhhh," sighed the young men at the table.

"You are called?" asked Kleeper. "We had hopedthat you would be our honored guest for afestival.The young women are working, even now."

"There is no haste," Pat said. Well, that's whatthe fellow had said.

"Splendid," Kleeper said, clapping his hands.All the young men rose. Gorben, apparently, hadbeen appointed, or self-appointed, as Pat's guide and companion. He led Pat into the village square.Upon Pat's emergence from the cabin a band—odd-looking instruments, but sounding familiar, strings, drums, woodwinds, brass—began a sprightly mel­ody and a dozen very pretty blond girls in shortembroidered skirts and white blouses danced in perfect unison.

Something had been nagging at Pat. It crystal­lized in his mind as he sat in a place of honor and watched the dances of the girls, the semimilitaryposturings of the young men. He was in a primi­tive village, on a primitive planet. Bread was bakedin mud ovens. The cabins were heated by wood burned in a fireplace, and lit by lamps which usedanimal oil as a fuel. Water was drawn by windlassfrom a community deep well. The sanitary facili­ties consisted of privies built from rough, unpaintedplanks. And yet the people seemed to be uniformlyhealthy. And they were all much too uniformlybeautiful. And where were the children? Only afew, not more than a half-dozen, ranging in agefrom a babe in arms to a young girl in her earlyteens, were in the square.

When the dancing ended, the impromptu festi­val over, Pat told Gorben that he wanted to walk.Gorben offered to accompany him. Pat nodded.They walked the road to the next village, wherePat found similar conditions. Apparently, his pres­ence was known, for the people of the village wereout en masse to bow low, some to fall on theirfaces in worship.

As the hour grew late, he walked with Gorbenback to Gorben's village. "I will stay here tonight,"he said. He'd been thinking about that voice onthe communicator. If they wanted him before hechose to go to the temple, which he had suspectedto be the stone building at the hub of the spokelike roads connecting the villages, they could come andget him.

He took food with the elder, and was escorted,after beer and more talk, which did little to an­swer any of his persistent questions, to a neatlyfurnished bedroom.

He awoke before dawn, awakened by movementin the house. He dressed quickly. Kleeper andGorben were at table.

"We thought to let you sleep, Honored One," Gorben said.

It wasn't coffee they were drinking, but it had atang, and a pleasant taste. Hen's eggs and baconmade up the main meal, with a chewy, tasty bread.And, breakfast over, one of Pat's unstated ques­tions had an answer.

"Perhaps you will honor us," Kleeper said, hav­ing taken a carved wooden chest from a cabinet,"by

distributing the morning prayer tablets."

"My honor," Pat said.

The sun was just above the horizon. All the in­habitants of the village were assembled in thesquare. They looked just too damned bright and cheerful for early morning, and Pat had to force himself to smile.

"One tablet each, of each individual color, toeach person, Honored One," Kleeper said, as a lineformed quickly in front of the low steps to theelder's cabin.

Inside the carved wooden box, five compartmentsheld the latest in food-supplement tablets, some marked with the brand name of a Zedeian nutri­tional firm. And Pat recognized one of the tabletsas a shotgun disease preventive, good for keepingthe human system free of just about every known disease-causing organism. Mystery number onesolved. The people of Dorchlunt were physicallybeautiful and unbelievably healthy because, eachmorning, they received dosages of the best preven­tive medicine and the finest in food supplements.

"Now, Honored One," Gorben said, when thelittle ceremony was over and everyone except thebabe in arms had been pilled and tableted, "Iimagine you will leave us."

Pat looked at him quickly to see if Gorben hadbeen detailed to be sure he obeyed orders. Theyoung man showed no signs of it.

"Yes, it is time I paid my respects," he said.

He walked alone through three villages towardthe stone building. The people bowed, greeted him respectfully. It was a lovely morning. Althoughrain was unknown on Dorchlunt, there had beenmorning dew, and in the field alongside the roadmen were busy pumping water from the deep wells. A sophisticated system of irrigation ditches distri­buted the water to crops, which, in the year-roundgrowing season, were at various stages of maturity.

The earthen road changed to a stone-paved ave­nue as he neared the temple. The grounds werewell landscaped. Patches of flowering plants, somefamiliar, some not, made for a pleasant vista. Thenative trees of Dorchlunt were squat and thick oftrunk, and had leathery, large leaves.

Two young men in short leather skirts, armedwith well-decorated longbows, guarded the stone temple gates. The guards, Pat felt, were purelyceremonial, since anyone could step over the lowwall at any point and approach the temple bywalking pathways through flowering patches ofvegetation.

There were no guards at the temple door. Hewalked into a large room, lit by skylights, andhalted. The room was at least fifty feet in width,and quite long. The walls were lined with objects obviously taken from the abandoned colony ship.Spacesuits had been stuffed with something sothat they stood alone. Control panels, with buttonsand switches, had been rather artfully built intothe stone walls. And on the wall there were paint­ings, all of them in deplorable condition with flak­ing paint and large areas of damage. They wereportraits, likenesses of people dressed in the stylesof long ago, a thousand years ago.

Pat walked through an archway and was stunnedby an array of sculpture along the walls. The me­dium was stone in various colors. An almost nudewoman posed with an antique projectile hand weapon. A handsome man wore a military uni­form painted on the stone statue with great skill,but with the paint fading, flaking. There was anameplate for each statue, and upon close exami­nation Pat saw that they were called gods. TheGod Schmidt. The Goddess Helga.

In a display of conspicuous waste on a planetwith no surface water, a fountain bubbled andsang in the center of the second area. Pat walkedaround it. A man in a dark robe stood quietly inthe next archway, hands folded in front of him.

"The goddess has been expecting you," he said, with respect in his voice. He turned, and Pat fol­lowed him through a door which closed behindthem. Then another door, which was plated in hammered gold. The inner sanctum was window-less, light coming from one skylight and two oillamps on columns set on either side of two "thrones."The thrones were also from the abandoned ship,the command chairs from the control bridge. Theywere still mounted on their swivels, and their backswere to Pat.

He glanced around. Most of the gold from theshielding of the blink generator had been utilizedin the inner sanctum. The walls were armoredwith light metal from the ship. Silent, lifeless viewscreens had been built into the walls as deco­ration. Ship's instruments were grouped around thescreens in neat patterns.

The priest who had led Pat into the closed throneroom bowed to him, backed away, and went out, shutting the gold-clad door behind him.

"Anybody home?" Pat asked, speaking to thehigh backs of the command chairs. One chair be­gan to turn. "Ha?" Pat said, for there was thequiet purr of an electric motor. In the temple, atleast, there was power. And this brought a quickthought. The power source was damned wellshielded, for he'd flown right over the templeinSkimmer and had been unable to detect any­thing.

The motor hummed, and the command chair turned slowly. He saw her profile first. Her hair had been swept up into a neat, shimmering, au­burn mass, and the mass was topped by a diademof gold and jewels. She was dressed in flowing royal purple, and the material was definitely notthe homespun vegetable fibers of the clothing wornby the villagers.

Literally stunned by her beauty, Pat was unable to speak. The command chair turned to face him.She looked down at him with a smile which seemedto enlarge her mouth.

"Hello, Pat," she said.

He had to swallow, then moisten his lips. "Hello,Corinne."

"Now that you're here, you'll have to stay, you know."

"With you?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered, rising, gathering her long,purple skirt in one hand to run down the steps ofthe throne dais toward him.

EIGHT

The purple material, of Corinne's long gown wassilky-smooth. It clung to her, and allowed the soft warmth of her to come through to Pat's hands.Her lips were more than he had remembered, andthere was an urgency in her kiss which sent asurge of elation through him. Something of valuelost, then reattained, increases in value. With herin his arms he forgot, for the moment, all that hadhappened between them in the past.

After a long, delicious time, she pushed him away,her small hands against his chest. "You shouldn't be here," she said.

Sanity returned to him. This small, exquisitely constructed lady had drugged him, had comman­deered his ship and altered restricted computertapes in a way which had almost cost him his shipand his license. She'd stolen Murphy's Stone. Beau­tiful she was, and he loved her. He knew that now,his mouth still tasting her kiss, but she had someexplaining to do.

"Come," she said, taking his hand. "It wouldn'tdo for the priests to see their goddess being sohuman."

"Just what goddess are you?" he asked.

"I am Hera, Queen of Heaven, and Inana, Astarte,Isis, plus a few others."

"You'll have to introduce me," Pat said. "I don'tknow any of those ladies."

"That's not surprising," Corinne said, as sheopened a door leading into an apartment whichwas well lit and furnished with modern items. "Itwas strange to me, too, until I read the sacredbooks."

"I'd like to read them."

"Perhaps you'll have the chance." She flowedtoward a bar, turned. "I have only Taratwo wines."

He grinned wryly. "The last time you gave me adrink it hit me pretty hard."

"Pat, I'm sorry. That was necessary."

"I think I'd like you to start explaining now whyit was," he said.

She sighed, poured two glasses of red wine,flowed to stand in front of him. "I will explain,"she said. "First let me say that I'm so happy to see you. Really."

He wanted to believe. He took the glass. "No funny Zedeian drugs this time?"

"No," she said, with a sad little smile.

She was the only stimulant he needed. He didn'tneed the wine. He took one sip, reached out andtook her glass from her hand, put the glasses on a table. She made no resistance as he pulled her intohis arms. Her arms went around him and hismouth covered hers, and as the kiss deepened hefelt a small, insignificant sting at the base of hisneck. Her kiss deepened, but the joy of it was goneas a wave of shock and deep hurt killed his desirefor her. He jerked her hands down from around hisneck and forced her right hand open. The smallhand syringe was cupped there. The quarter-inch injection needle showed a small drop of clear fluidat its tip.

"Oh, damn," Pat said, as weakness seemed toflow throughout his body.

"It will be all right," she said, her face no longersmiling. "Sit down, please."

He made it to a large sofa before the darknesstook him.

Awareness came back to him with a rush. Hefelt fine. There was no fuzziness in his brain. Heopened his eyes and squinted, for he was looking into a bright light on the ceiling over his head. He tried to move and discovered that he was secured quite firmly by straps. He was in a half-recliningposition on a soft, comfortable couch. His shirthad been removed. There was a slight chill to the air which told him that, in addition to the electric lights, the room was climate-conditioned.

He jerked his head to the left. A man in a white smock stood beside him, looking down at him withhis

lips thrust out thoughtfully.

"Relax, Captain Howe," the man said. "No harm will come to you. We merely require some infor­mation."

"Where is Corinne?" He needed to talk to her, totell her how disappointed he was by this new be­trayal. And yet he was not too chagrined. It didn't really matter, did it? He felt fine. There seemed tobe a glow of health and well-being in him.

The man in the white smock turned his back,walked away. Pat saw that under the smock theman wore a

long, dark robe like the priest whohad greeted him upon his arrival at the temple.

The man came back. "You will feel no pain," hesaid, as he pushed a mister against Pat's bare arm and injected something that burned only slightlythrough Pat's skin. The man then pulled a tallstool up beside the couch and perched there, look­ing down.

Ah, Pat was thinking, it was a beautiful world, and the couch was so comfortable, and how con­siderate of them to make him so comfortable.

"I am your friend," the man said, smiling.

"Yes."

"You are my friend. You want to help me. Youwant to tell me everything I want to know."

"Sure, be glad to," Pat said, filled with warmthfor the man, filled with peace, and happiness.

"And you will hold nothing back," the man said,"because you want Corinne to know all, don't you?"

Such a burst of emotion in him as he thought ofher. "Oh, yes," he said. He laughed. He knew ev­erything. They were using a mind-domination drugon him, and that was so very, very illegal that it was funny.

"You are happy," the man said. "You are laugh­ing with happiness, and you want to help us."

"I'd have done it without the illegal drug," Patsaid, still laughing happily.

"I'm sure you would have," the man said, with asmile. "Now, let us begin. Tell me, Captain Howe, how you found us and tell me who knows that youare here."

Pat chuckled happily and told all. He told howXanthos Central Control had detected Corinne's tampering with the trip tape, and how he'd wormedthe truth out of the old man, and how he'd beenable simply to follow the blink coordinates to Dorchlunt.

He was chortling so happily that he had to be primed to go on.

"And did you file a flight plan with XanthosCentral?"

"Heck, no," Pat said. "Couldn't, except in gen­eral. I gave them the known blink beacon, of course,and then I just said that I'd be exploring unchar­teredspace."

"And the blink coordinates?" the man asked."Did you file the blink coordinates for Dorchlunt?"

"No," Pat said. He laughed. "But they're on fileat X&A. They have copies of the old man's tapefrom his self-diagnosis chamber. All they'd have todo is dig out the coordinates from that tape and they'd come right here, no problem. Simple trip once you have the right coordinates."

"In your opinion, how long will X&A wait, whenyou don't close your flight plan?"

"Oh, weeks and weeks, I'd say. Maybe months. Itold Jeanny that I might be gone for a while. Yousee, I guess that I believed, deep inside, that I'dfind Corinne, and that I might be staying withher."

"And so you have found her," the man said."Now, let us begin again, Captain Howe."

He went through it again, laughing merrily, hav­ing a wonderful time with his new friend. "I imag­ine Jeanny might worry about me," he said."Because of the personal relationship there—but Idon't love Jeanny, I love Corinne—she might start a search for me in, oh, maybe two months. Thatwould be my guess. She wouldn't want to mount a search for me and have me show up on Xanthos inthe middle of it. So she'll wait. She knows I'mcapable of taking care of myself. I got here, didn'tI? I found Corinne, didn't I?" He laughed for the sheer joy of it.

"Now again," the man said.

"Hey, this isn't much fun anymore," Pat said,but he went through it again, beginning to feel tired, and as he talked there was no laughing asthe tiredness grew and became bone-weariness, aheavy exhaustion which made it an effort to breathe.As he said, once more, that Jeanny probablywouldn't begin to worry about him for a month or six weeks he gave up, surrendered to the exhaus­tion, slept.

The couch was no longer comfortable. It washard, and narrow. The lights had been dimmed.He ached in every bone, in every muscle. He liftedone arm, and the effort tired him, sent him backinto sleep. When next he awoke he lay quietly,forced his eyes open. He was in a stone-lined room,and the room was windowless. The light camefrom one fixture, dimly, the fixture sunken intothe rock of the ceiling. He heard someone breath­ing and, with a great effort, turned his head.