50 in 50

When I wrote my novel Make Room! Make Room! I was greatly concerned about the threat presented by uncontrolled population growth and environmental destruction. (After all, one causes the other.) Some thirty-five years later my worst predictions seem to be coming true. The developing nations — which truthfully should be called the never-to-be-developed nations — are already on the slippery slope to destruction. Too many people competing for too few resources, and the scourge AIDS decimating them as well — as if they did not have enough trouble already.

The developed world apparently cannot care less. Many countries are approaching ZPG, zero population growth. Apparently preferring the better life — and a better TV set — to a third child. While at the same time refusing to do anything about planetary warming. There is cause for despair. So what will happen to our overpopulated globe? In the stories here I have explored some possible futures.

A Criminal Act

The first blow of the hammer shook the door in its frame, and the second blow made the thin wood boom like a drum. Benedict Vernall threw the door open before a third stroke could fall and pushed his gun into the stomach of the man with the hammer.

"Get going. Get out of here.” Benedict said, in a much shriller voice than he had planned to use.

"Don't be foolish.” the bailiff said quietly, stepping aside so that the two guards behind him in the hall were clearly visible. "I am the bailiff and I am doing my duty. If I am attacked these men have orders to shoot you and everyone else in your apartment. Be intelligent. Yours is not the first case like this. Such things are planned for."

One of the guards clicked off the safety catch on his submachine gun, smirking at Benedict as he did it. Benedict let the pistol fall slowly to his side.

"Much better," the bailiff told him and struck the nail once more with the hammer so that the notice was fixed firmly to the door.

"Take that filthy thing down," Benedict said, choking over the words.

" 'Benedict Vernall.’ " the bailiff said, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he read from the proclamation he had just posted. " 'This is to inform you that pursuant to the Criminal Birth Act of 2053 you are guilty of the act of criminal birth and are hereby proscribed and no longer protected from bodily injury by the forces of this sovereign state. . ' "

"You're going to let some madman kill me — what kind of a dirty law is that?"

The bailiff removed his glasses and gazed coldly along his nose at Benedict. "Mr. Vernall," he said, "have the decency to accept the results of your own actions. Did you or did you not have an illegal baby?"

"Illegal? Never! A harmless infant…"

Do you or do you not already have the legal maximum of two children?"

"We have two, but…"

"You refused advice or aid from your local birth control clinic. You expelled, with force, the birth guidance officer who called upon you. You rejected the offer of the abortion clinic—" "Murderers!"

"— and the advice of the Family-Planning Board. The statutory six months have elapsed without any action on your part. You have had the three advance warnings and have ignored them. Your family still contains one consumer more than is prescribed by law, therefore the proclamation has been posted. You alone are responsible, Mr. Vernall, you can blame no one else.”

"I can blame this foul law."

"It is the law of the land.” the bailiff said, drawing himself up sternly. "It is not for you or me to question." He took a whistle from his pocket and raised it to his mouth. "It is my legal duty to remind you that you still have one course open, even at this last moment, and may still avail yourself of the services of the Euthanasia Clinic."

"Go straight to hell."

"Indeed. I've been told that before." The bailiff snapped the whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast. He almost smiled as Benedict slammed shut the apartment door.

There was an animal-throated roar from the stairwell as the policemen who were blocking it stepped aside. A knot of fiercely tangled men burst out, running and fighting at the same time. One of them surged ahead of the pack but fell as a fist caught him on the side of the head; the others trampled him underfoot. Shouting and cursing, the mob came on and it looked as though it would be a draw, but a few yards short of the door one of the leaders tripped and brought two others down. A short fat man in the second rank leaped their bodies and crashed headlong into Vernall's door, with such force that the ballpoint pen he extended pierced the paper of the notice and sank into the wood beneath.

"A volunteer has been selected," the bailiff shouted and the waiting police and guards closed in on the wailing men and began to force them back toward the stairs. One of the men remained behind on the floor, saliva running down his cheeks as he chewed hysterically at a strip of the threadbare carpet. Two white-garbed hospital attendants were looking out for this sort of thing and one of them jabbed the man expertly in the neck with a hypodermic needle while the other unrolled the stretcher.

Under the bailiff's watchful eye the volunteer painstakingly wrote his name in the correct space on the proclamation, then carefully put the pen back in his vest pocket.

"Very glad to accept you as a volunteer for this important public duty, Mr. — " The bailiff leaned forward to peer at the paper—"Mr. Mortimer," he said.

"Mortimer is my first name," the man said in a crisply dry voice as he dabbed lightly at his forehead with his breast-pocket handkerchief.

"Understandable, sir. Your anonymity will be respected as is the right of all volunteers. Might I presume that you are acquainted with the rest of the regulations?"

"You may. Paragraph 46 of the Criminal Birth Act of 2053, subsection 14, governing the selection of volunteers. Firstly, I have volunteered for the maximum period of twenty-four hours. Secondly, I will neither attempt nor commit violence of any form upon any other members of the public during this time, and if I do so I will be held responsible by law for all of my acts."

"Very good. But isn't there more?"

Mortimer folded the handkerchief precisely and tucked it back into his pocket. "Thirdly," he said, and patted it smooth, "I shall not be liable to prosecution by law if I take the life of the proscribed individual, one Benedict Vernall."

"Perfectly correct." The bailiff nodded and pointed to a large suitcase that a policeman had set down on the floor and was opening. The hall had been cleared. "If you would step over here and take your choice." They both gazed down into the suitcase that was filled to overflowing with instruments of death. "I hope you also understand that your own life will be in jeopardy during this period and if you are injured or killed you will not be protected by law?"

"Don't take me for a fool," Mortimer said curtly, then pointed into the suitcase. "I want one of those concussion grenades."

"You cannot have it," the bailiff told him in a cutting voice, injured by the other's manner. There was a correct way to do these things. "Those are only for use in open districts where the innocent cannot be injured. Not in an apartment building. You have your choice of all the short-range weapons, however."

Mortimer laced his fingers together and stood with his head bowed, almost in an attitude of prayer, as he examined the contents. Machine pistols, grenades, automatics, knives, knuckle dusters, vials of acid, whips, straight razors, broken glass, poison darts, morning stars, maces, gas bombs, and tear-gas pens.

"Is there any limit?" he asked.

"Take what you feel you will need. Just remember that it must all be accounted for and returned."

"I want the Reisling machine pistol with five of the twenty-cartridge magazines and the commando knife with the spikes on the handguard and fountain-pen tear-gas gun."

The bailiff was making quick check marks on a mimeographed from attached to his clipboard while Mortimer spoke. "Is that all?" he asked.

Mortimer nodded and took the extended board and scrawled his name on the bottom of the sheet without examining it, then began at once to fill his pockets with the weapons and ammunition.

"Twenty-four hours," the bailiff said, looking at his watch and filling in one more space in the form. "You have until 1745 hours tomorrow."

"Get away from the door, please, Ben," Maria begged.

"Quiet," Benedict whispered, his ear pressed to the panel. "I want to hear what they are saying." His face screwed up as he struggled to understand the muffled voices. "It's no good," he said, turning away. "I can't make it out. Not that it makes any difference. I know what's happening…"

"There's a man coming to kill you," Maria said in her delicate, little girl's voice. The baby started to whimper and she hugged him to her.

"Please, Maria, go back into the bathroom like we agreed. You have the bed in there, and the food, and there aren't any windows. As long as you stay along the wall away from the door nothing can possibly happen to you. Do that for me, darling. So I won't have to worry about either of you."

"Then you will be out here alone."

Benedict squared his narrow shoulders and clutched the pistol firmly. "That is where I belong, out in front, defending my family. That is as old as the history of man."

"Family," she said and looked around worriedly "What about Matthew and Agnes?"

"They'll be all right with your mother. She promised to look after them until we got in touch with her again. You can still be there with them; I wish you would."

"No, I couldn't. I couldn't bear being anywhere else now. And I couldn't leave the baby there; he would be so hungry." She looked down at the infant, who was still whimpering, then began to unbutton the top of her dress.

"Please, darling," Benedict said, edging back from the door. "I want you to go into the bathroom with baby and stay there. You must. He could be coming at any time now."

She reluctantly obeyed him, and he waited until the door had closed and he heard the lock being turned. Then he tried to force their presence from his mind because they were only a distraction that could interfere with what must be done. He had worked out the details of his plan of defense long before and he went slowly around the apartment making sure that everything was as it should be. First the front door, the only door into the apartment. It was locked and bolted and the night chain was attached. All that remained was to push the big wardrobe up against it. The killer could not enter now without a noisy struggle and if he tried Benedict would be there waiting with his gun. That took care of the door. There were no windows in either the kitchen or the bathroom, so he could forget about these rooms. The bedroom was a possibility since its window looked out onto the fire escape, but he had a plan for this too. The window was locked and the only way it could be opened from the outside was by breaking the glass. He would hear that and would have time to push the couch in the hall up against the bedroom door. He didn't want to block it now in case he had to retreat into the bedroom himself.

Only one room remained, the living room, and this was where he was going to make his stand. There were two windows in the living room and the far one could be entered from the fire escape, as could the bedroom window. The killer might come this way. The other window could not be reached from the fire escape, though shots could still be fired through it from the windows across the court. But the corner was out of the line of fire, and this was where he would be. He had pushed the big armchair right up against the wall and, after checking once more that both windows were locked, he dropped into it.

His gun rested on his lap and pointed at the far window by the fire escape. He would shoot if anyone tried to come through it. The other window was close by, but no harm could come that way unless he stood in front of it. The thin fabric curtains were drawn and once it was dark he could see through them without being seen himself. By shifting the gun barrel a few degrees he could cover the door into the hall. If there were any disturbance at the front door he could be there in a few steps. He had done everything he could. He settled back into the chair.

Once the daylight faded the room was quite dark, yet he could see well enough by the light of the city sky, which filtered in through the drawn curtains. It was very quiet and whenever he shifted position he could hear the new chair springs twang beneath him. After only a few hours he realized one slight flaw in his plan. He was thirsty.

At first he could ignore it, but by nine o'clock his mouth was as dry as cotton wool. He knew he couldn't last the night like this, — it was too distracting. He should have brought a tug of water in with him. The wisest thing would be to go and get it as soon as possible, yet he did not want to leave the protection of the corner. He had heard nothing of the killer and this only made him more concerned about his unseen presence.

Then he heard Maria calling to him. Very softly at first, then louder and louder. She was worried. Was he all right? He dared not answer her, not from here. The only thing to do was to go to her, whisper through the door that everything was fine and that she should be quiet. Perhaps then she would go to sleep. And he could get some water in the kitchen and bring it back.

As quietly as he could he rose and stretched his stiff legs, keeping his eyes on the gray square of the second window. Putting the toe of one foot against the heel of the other he pulled his shoes off, then went on silent tiptoe across the room. Maria was calling louder now, rattling at the bathroom door, and he had to silence her. Why couldn't she realize the danger she was putting him in?

As he passed through the door the hall light above him came on.

"What are you doing?" he screamed at Maria who stood by the switch, blinking in the sudden glare.

"I was so worried—"

The crash of breaking glass from the living room was punctuated by the hammering boom of the machine pistol. Arrows of pain tore at Benedict and he hurled himself sprawling into the hall

"Into the bathroom!" he screamed and fired his own revolver back through the dark doorway.

He was only half aware of Maria's muffled squeal as she slammed the door and, for the moment, he forgot the pain of the wounds. There was the metallic smell of burnt gunpowder and a blue haze hung in the air. Something scraped in the living room and he fired again into the darkness. He winced as the answering fire crashed thunder and flame toward him and the bullets tore holes in the plaster of the hall opposite the door.

The firing stopped but he kept his gun pointed as he realized that the killer's fire couldn't reach him where he lay, against the wall away from the open doorway. The man would have to come into the hall to shoot him, and if he did that Benedict would fire first and kill him. More shots slammed into the wall but he did not bother to answer them. When the silence stretched out for more than a minute he took a chance and silently broke the revolver and pulled out the empty shells, putting live cartridges in their place. There was a pool of blood under his leg.

Keeping the gun pointed at the doorway he clumsily rolled up his pants leg with his left hand, then took a quick glimpse. There was more blood running down his ankle and sopping his sock. A bullet had torn through his calf muscle and made two round, dark holes from which the thick blood pumped. It made him dizzy to look at; then he remembered and pointed the wavering pistol back at the doorway. The living room was silent. His side hurt too, but when he pulled his shirt out of his trousers and looked he realized that although this wound was painful, it was not as bad as the one in his leg. A second bullet had burned along his side, glancing off the ribs and leaving a shallow wound. It wasn't bleeding badly. But something would have to be done about his leg.

"You moved fast, Benedict, I must congratulate you."

Benedict's finger contracted with shock and he pumped two bullets into the room, toward the sound of the man's voice. The man laughed.

"Nerves, Benedict, nerves. Just because I am here to kill you doesn't mean that we can't talk."

"You're a filthy beast, a foul, filthy beast!" Benedict splattered the words from his lips and followed them with a string of obscenities, expressions he hadn't used or even heard since his school days. He stopped suddenly as he realized that Maria could hear him. She had never heard him curse before.

"Nerves, Benedict?" The dry laugh sounded again. "Calling me insulting names won't alter this situation."

"Why don't you leave? I won't try to stop you," Benedict said as he slowly pulled his left arm out of his shirt. "I don't want to see you or know you. Why don't you go away?"

"I'm afraid that it is not that easy, Ben. You have created this situation; in one sense you have called me here. Like a sorcerer summoning some evil genie. That's a pleasant simile, isn't it? May I introduce myself. My name is Mortimer."

"I don't want to know your name, you. . piece of filth." Benedict half mumbled, his attention concentrated on the silent removal of his shirt. It hung from his right wrist and he shifted the gun to his left hand for a moment while he slipped it off. His leg throbbed with pain when he draped the shirt over the wound in his calf and he gasped, then spoke quickly to disguise the sound. "You came here because you wanted to — and I'm going to kill you for that."

"Very good, Benedict, that is much more the type of spirit I expected from you. After all, you are the closest that we can come to a dedicated lawbreaker these days. The antisocial individualist who stands alone, who will carry on the traditions of the Dillingers and the James brothers. Though they brought death and you brought life, and your weapon is far humbler than their guns…" The words ended with a dry chuckle.

"You have a warped mind, Mortimer, just what I would suspect of a man who accepts a free license to kill. You're sick."

Benedict wanted to keep the other man talking, at least for a few minutes more until he could bandage his leg. The shirt was sticky with blood and he couldn't knot it in place with his left hand. "You must be sick to come here," he said. "What other reason could you Possibly have?" laid the gun down silently, then fumbled with haste to bandage the wound.

"Sickness is relative," the voice in the darkness said, "as is crime. Man invents societies and the rules of his invented societies determine the crimes. O temporal O mores! Homosexuals in Periclean Greece were honored men, and respected for their love. Homosexuals in industrial England were shunned and prosecuted for the criminal act. Who commits the crime — society or the man? Which of them is the criminal? You may attempt to argue a higher authority than man, but that would be on an abstract predication and what we are discussing here are realities. The law states that you are a criminal. I am here to enforce that law." The thunder of his gun added punctuation to his words and long splinters of wood flew from the doorframe. Benedict jerked the knot tight and grabbed up his pistol again.

"I do invoke a higher authority," he said. "Natural law, the sanctity of life, the inviolability of marriage. Under this authority I wed and I love, and my children are the blessings of this union."

"Your blessings — the blessings of the rest of mankind — are consuming this world like locusts," Mortimer said. "But that is an observation. First I must deal with your arguments.

"Primus. The only natural law is written in the sedimentary rocks and the spectra of suns. What you call natural law is man-made law and varies with the varieties of religion. Argument invalid.

"Secundus. Life is prolific and today's generations must die so that tomorrow's may live. All religions have the faces of Janus. They frown at killing and at the same time smile at war and capital punishment. Argument invalid.

"Ultimus. The forms of male and female union are as varied as the societies that harbor them. Argument invalid. Your higher authority does not apply to the world of facts and law. Believe in it if you wish, if it gives you satisfaction, but do not invoke it to condone your criminal acts."

"Criminal!" Benedict shouted, and fired two shots through the doorway, then cringed as an answering storm of bullets crackled by. Dimly, through the bathroom door, he heard the baby crying, awakened by the noise. He dropped out the empty shells and angrily pulled live cartridges from his pocket and jammed them into the cylinder. "You're the criminal, who is trying to murder me," he said. "You are the tool of the criminals who invade my house with their unholy laws and tell me I can have no more children. You cannot give me orders about this."

"What a fool you are," Mortimer sighed. "You are a social animal and do not hesitate to accept the benefits of your society. You accept medicine, so your children live now as they would have died in the past. And you accept a ration of food to feed them, food you do not even work for. This suits you, so you accept. But you do not accept planning for your family and you attempt to reject it. It is impossible. You must accept all or reject all. You must leave your society or abide by its rules. You eat the food, you must pay the price."

"I don't ask for more food. The baby has its mother's milk; we will share our food ration…"

"Don't be fatuous. You and your irresponsible kind have filled this world to bursting with your get, and still you will not stop. You have been reasoned with, railed against, cajoled, bribed and threatened, all to no avail. Now you must be stopped. You have refused all aid to prevent your bringing one more mouth into this hungry world, and since you have done so anyway, you are to be held responsible for closing another mouth and removing it from this same world. The law is a humane one, rising out of our history of individualism and the frontier spirit, and gives you a chance to defend your ideals with a gun. And your life."

"The law is not humane," Benedict said. "How can you possibly suggest that? It is harsh, cruel, and pointless."

"Quite the contrary, the system makes very good sense. Try to step outside yourself for a moment, forget your prejudices and look at the problem that faces our race. The universe is cruel but it's not ruthless. The conservation of mass is one of the universe's most ruthlessly enforced laws. We have been insane to ignore it so long, and it is sanity that now forces us to limit the sheer mass of human flesh on this globe. Appeals to reason have never succeeded in slowing the population growth, so, with great reluctance, laws have been passed. Love, marriage, and the family are not affected up to a reasonable maximum of children. After that a man voluntarily forsakes the protection of society, and must take the consequences of his own acts. If he is insanely selfish, his death will benefit society by ridding it of his presence. If he is not insane and has determination and enough guts to win — well then, he is the sort of man that society needs and he represents a noble contribution to the gene pool. Good and law-abiding citizens are not menaced by these laws."

"How dare you!" Benedict shouted. "Is a poor, helpless mother of an illegitimate baby a criminal?"

"No, only if she refuses all aid. She is even allowed a single child without endangering herself. If she persists in her folly, she must pay for her acts. There are countless frustrated women willing to volunteer for battle to even the score. They, like myself, are on the side of the law and eager to enforce it. So close my mouth, if you can, Benedict, because I look forward with pleasure to closing your incredibly selfish one."

"Madman!" Benedict hissed and felt his teeth grate together with the intensity of his passion. "Scum of society. This obscene law brings forth the insane dregs of humanity and arms them and gives them license to kill.

"It does that, and a useful device it is, too. The maladjusted expose themselves and can be watched. Better the insane killer coming publicly and boldly than trapping and butchering your child in the park. Now he risks his life and whoever is killed serves humanity with his death."

"You admit you are a madman — a licensed killer?' Benedict started to stand but the hall began to spin dizzily and grow dark: he dropped back heavily.

"Not I," Mortimer said tonelessly. "I am a man who wishes to aid the law and wipe out your vile, proliferating kind."

"You're an invert then, hating the love of man and woman."

The only answer was a cold laugh that infuriated Benedict.

"Sick!" he screamed. "Or mad. Or sterile, incapable of fathering children of your own and hating those who can—"

"That's enough! I've talked enough to you, Benedict. Now I shall kill you."

Benedict could hear anger for the first time in the other's voice and knew that he had goaded the man with the prod of truth. He was silent, sick and weak, the blood still seeping through his rough bandage and widening in a pool on the floor. He had to save what little strength he had to aim and fire when the killer came through the doorway. Behind him he heard the almost silent opening of the bathroom door and the rustle of footsteps. He looked helplessly into Maria's tear-stained face.

"Who's there with you?" Mortimer shouted from where he crouched behind the armchair. "I hear you whispering. If your wife is there with you, Benedict, send her away. I won't be responsible for the cow's safety. You've brought this upon yourself, Benedict, and the time has now come to pay the price of your errors, and I shall be the instrumentality of that payment."

He stood and emptied the remainder of the magazine bullets through the doorway, then pressed the button releasing the magazine and hurled it after the bullets, clicking a new one instantly into place. With a quick pull he worked the slide to shove a live cartridge into the chamber and crouched, ready to attack.

This was it. He wouldn't need the knife. Walk a few feet forward. Fire through the doorway, then throw in the tear-gas pen. It would either blind the man or spoil his aim. Then walk through firing with the trigger jammed down and the bullets spraying like water and the man would be dead. Mortimer took a deep, shuddering breath then stopped and gasped as Benedict's hand snaked through the doorway and felt its way up the wall.

It was so unexpected that for a moment he didn't fire and when he did fire he missed. A hand is a difficult target for an automatic weapon. The hand jerked down over the light switch and vanished as the ceiling lights came on.

Mortimer cursed and fired after the hand and fired into the wall and through the doorway, hitting nothing except insensate plaster and feeling terribly exposed beneath the glare of light.

The first shot from the pistol went unheard in the roar of his gun and he did not realize that he was under fire until the second bullet ripped into the floor close to his foot. He stopped shooting, spun around, and gaped.

On the fire escape outside the broken window stood a woman. Slight and wide-eyed and swaying as though strong wind tore at her, she pointed the gun at him with both hands and jerked the trigger spasmodically. The bullets came close but did not hit him, and in panic he pulled the machine pistol up, spraying bullets towards the window. "Don't! I don't want to hurt you!" he shouted even as he did it.

The last of his bullets hit the wall and his gun clicked and locked out of battery as the magazine emptied. He hurled the barren metal magazine away and tried to jam a full one in and the pistol banged again and the bullet caught him in the side and spun him about. When he fell the pistol fell from his hand. Benedict, who had been crawling slowly and painfully across the floor, reached him at the same moment and clutched his throat with hungry fingers.

"Don't…" Mortimer croaked and thrashed about. He had never learned to fight and did not know what else to do.

"Please Benedict, don't," Maria said, climbing through the window and running to them. "You're killing him."

"No, I'm not," Benedict gasped. "No strength. My hands are too weak."

Looking up he saw the pistol near his head and he reached and tore it from her.

"One less mouth now!" he shouted and pressed the hot muzzle against Mortimer's chest and the muffled shot tore into the man, who kicked violently once and died.

"Darling, you're all right?" Maria wailed, kneeling and clutching him to her.

"Yes… all right. Weak, but that's from losing the blood, I imagine, but the bleeding has stopped now. It's all over. We've won. We'll have the food ration, and they won't bother us anymore and everyone will be satisfied."

"I'm so glad," she said, and actually managed to smile through her tears. "I really didn't want to tell you before, not bother you with all this other trouble going on. But there's going to be…" She dropped her eyes.

"What?" he asked incredulously. "You can't possibly mean. ."

"But I do." She patted the rounded mound of her midriff. "Aren't we lucky?"

All he could do was look up at her, his mouth wide and gaping like some helpless fish cast up on the shore.

Roommates

The Pliable Animal

Commander Rissby was squat and square, planted solidly behind the desk-as if he had been grown there. He gave an impression of strength and determination — which was true — and of slowness and stupidity— which was completely false. He looked particularly bovine at this moment, scratching his close-cropped gray hair with one thick finger and blinking slowly while he talked.

"If I knew what you were looking for, Honorable Sir Petion, maybe then I could be of more help. .?"

The thin albino sitting opposite snapped his answer, cutting through the tentative advance of the Commander's words. "What I'm doing here is my business — not yours. You will help me and you won't ask questions. At the proper time you will be informed. Not before. In the meantime you will be able to assist me. First thing— can you get me into the palace without arousing any suspicion as to why I am here?"

The Honorable Sir Jorge Suvarov Petion didn't really enjoy throwing his weight around. But it had to be done. It was one of the uncomfortable things that occurred in his line of duty — like looking at violently battered corpses. With other men he acted differently. He spoke to Commander Rissby in this manner not from malice but from previous knowledge. It was the only way one could get along with the stolid, unimaginative men of Tacora. They made the most loyal soldiers the Empire had — if you took into consideration their grim fixation with status. Speaking as he had, Petion established his superiority of person as well as of rank. His relationship with the Commander and his soldiers would now be a good one.

Truthfully, Commander Rissby was not insulted by the reprimand. He had questioned the other's authority and now knew where they both stood. The white-haired man across from him was one of those who held the Empire together. It would be a pleasure to take orders from him. He wasn't one of those pink-eyed social parasites who grew fat off the work of others. At the appropriate moment Sir Jorge would tell his reasons for being here. Meanwhile, the Commander could be patient.

Commander Rissby wasn't mentioning it aloud, but he could make a good guess as to what Sir Petion was really after. The palace, that was the key. Turning his chair slightly, he could see it, just above the barracks roof, perched on top of the hill. An unusual structure completely covered with overlapping ceramic plates, all of them in soft pastel colors. Like a candy castle. As if one good kick would send it smashing into a thousand pieces.

"You will have no trouble getting into the palace, Honorable Sir," the Commander said. "Not after your name and rank are known to the royal family. Very few of the nobility ever visit an off-the-track planet like this, and there is always an official invitation. Would you like me to. .?" He added the question carefully, more of a suggestion than an interrogation.

Sir Petion proved he was not vindictive by nodding at the idea. "Later. Not right now. I want to do a little looking around first. I'll need your help, but we can't be too obvious about it. Until the proper time you are the only person who is to know that I am an investigator.”

"As you say, so shall I act." The Commander repeated the ritual words with sincerity, standing first and clashing the heels of his boots together as Sir Petion left.

Kai was waiting halfway across the barracks square, short and ugly as a tree stump. Even the squat Tacora soldiers towered over him, the one-and-a-half Earth gravities of their home world having had only a slight effect on their height. Kai thought that four gravities were normal, and ruthless genetic selection had compacted his people into almost solid lumps of bone and muscle. His strength was beyond imagining.

There was no hurry in Petion's step, and apparently no direction. The boredom and dilettantism of the nobility was well known, and made a perfect cover for an investigator's operation. As he strolled near Kai he snapped his fingers loudly. The short man trundled over with deceptive speed.

"What did you find out?" Sir Petion asked without bothering to look down.

"Everything, but everything, Georgie," Kai rumbled. "I copied the entire file while the clerk was out." Kai had worked with the Honorable Sir long before he had been called by that title. He enjoyed a friendship shared by very few others.

"You mean you know who did it?" Petion yawned as he said it. Their conversation couldn't be overheard, and they kept up the appearance of master and servant to anyone watching from a distance. Kai gave a quick bow that seemed to break him in half and growled his answer.

"I'm good, old buddy, but I'm not that good. We've only been on this lightweight planet a couple of hours. But I have a complete transcript of the file, notes, observations — the works. It's a first step."

"Well let's take a second one.” Petion said, starting off. "The palace gate will probably be as good a place to start as any." Kai scuttled after him as he left.

A brief walk took them to the palace. The streets weren't crowded, and the native Andriadans had a very low curiosity quotient. They made way for the white-haired Earthman, but did it in an automatic manner, their long legs working like stilts.

"Beanpoles!" Kai muttered, offended by the exaggerated length of their legs and thin forms. Any one of them could have stepped over him without breaking stride.

Kai had his notes concealed in an Andriadan guidebook. He apparently read from the book, nodding at the pink, scale-covered wall in front of them. "This is the main gate, the one the car came out of. At exactly 2135 hours according to the guard's log. It turned down the street behind us."

"And Prince Mello was alone in it?" Petion asked.

"The driver said he was, and so did the gate guard. One driver, one passenger."

"All right. How far did they go?" He led the way down the street.

"Just as far as this corner here," Kai said, seemingly pointing at a mobile of ceramic bells that hung from the building, tinkling in the wind. "The Prince shouted 'Stop' and the driver hit the brakes. Before the car had completely stopped moving the prince opened the right-hand door and jumped out, running down this passage." They followed the route the unlucky Prince had taken a year earlier, Kai tracing the course with his notes.

"The Prince left no orders, nor did he return. After a few minutes the driver began to be worried. He followed the same way — as far as this little intersection — and found the Prince lying on the ground."

"Dead from a stab wound in the heart, lying alone, soaked with his own blood," Petion added. "And no one saw him, or heard him or had the slightest idea what had happened."

He turned in a slow circle, looking at the intersection. Mostly blank walls broken by a few doors. There was no one in sight. Two other streets led away from the small square.

There was a thin creak of unoiled ceramic and Petion turned quickly. One of the doors had opened and a tall Andriadan stood looking at them, blinking. His eyes met the Earthman's for a single instant. Then he stepped back and closed the door.

"I wonder if that door is locked?" Petion asked. Kai had missed none of the interchange. He moved swiftly up the two steps and leaned against the door. It groaned but did not move.

"A good lock.” Kai said. "You want I should push against it a little?"

"Not now. It'll keep. The chances are it means nothing."

They took a different route back to the Imperial compound, enjoying the warmth of the golden afternoon. Andriad's primary glowed with a yellow brilliancy in the sky, coaxing pastel reflections from the sheen of the ceramic buildings. The air, the background murmur of the city, everything combined to produce a feeling of peace that the two men found alien after the mechanized roar of the central worlds.

"Last place you would expect to find bloody murder," Kai said.

"My very thought. But are these people as relaxed as they look? They're supposed to be, I know. Peaceful, law-abiding agrarians, leading lives of unparalleled sweetness and domesticity. All the time— or is there a hidden tendency towards violence?"

"Just like that nice little lady boardinghouse keeper on Westerix IV," Kai reminisced. "The one who killed seventy-four lodgers before we caught up with her. What a collection of luggage she had in that storeroom. . I"

"Don't make the mistake of assuming similarity just because of superficial resemblance. Many planets — like Andriad here — were cut off from mainstream galactic culture for centuries. They developed trends, characteristics, personality quirks that we know nothing about. That we have to know about if we are working on a case."

"How about some original research?" Kai asked. "In here." He jerked his thumb at an outdoor restaurant, with shaded tables around a gently splashing fountain. "I'm dehydrated."

The Andriad beer was chilled and excellent, served in cold ceramic mugs. Kai sat opposite Petion at the table — no need to keep up the master-and-servant pretense here where they were unknown — and drained his beer almost at a swallow. He banged for more and rumbled deep in his chest as the waiter shambled slowly to fetch it. Sipping slowly at the beer he looked around the garden.

"Have the place practically to ourselves," he said. "The kitchen must be open, I can smell it. Let's try the local food. That army chow we had for breakfast is still sitting in my stomach, unchanged and undigested."

"Order if you like," Petion said, looking through the carved wood screen at the slow traffic of the street outside. "I doubt if you will like it, though. In case you didn't read all of the guidebook, the An-driadans are strict vegetarians."

"No steaks!" Kai groaned. "If I wasn't starving I wouldn't consider touching their slop. Order up — I'm game if you are."

Petion left the choice of food to the waiter, who brought them a large compartmented tray filled with oddly shaped bowls. Their contents differed in flavor and texture, but had an overall sameness.

"Tasteless.” Kai snorted and shook a coating of dried herbs over everything. He ate quickly, cleaning a number of bowls, hoping that quantity might make up for quality. Petion ate slowly, savoring the variety of flavours.

"The different dishes have their own charm," he said. "But the flavors are very subtle never anything strong or overpowering like onion or garlic. If you make an effort to appreciate it, it's not too bad."

"It's terrible!" Kai said, pushing away the empty plates and belching. A plate of exotic fruits occupied his attention next.

It wasn't that the scream was particularly loud or terrifying. It was just unexpected and completely out of place. The peaceful murmur from the streets and the delicate music of the wind-stirred ceramic bells was rudely sliced into by the suddenness of the cry. Kai choked on a mouthful of fruit, his glass knife falling and shattering on the stone floor, — an ugly little gun appeared in his hand. Petion did nothing, just sat absolutely still and observed.

Waiters and customers, moving with haste unusual for Andriadans, crowded to the screen facing the street. Outside there were suddenly more people, pressing back against the walls on both sides of the street. They were all looking expectantly, and a little fearfully, in the same direction.

"What's the occasion?" Kai asked. The gun was gone now but he was still alert. The scream sounded again, closer and louder, and it was obvious now that it had been made by an animal of some kind.

"We'll know in a moment," Petion said. "Here they come."

Men pulled on ropes attached to the large wooden cage, others pushed on bars fixed to the sides. The cage moved slowly, lurching and scratching along on wooden runners — even though wheels were used on all of the other Andriadan vehicles. This was something special. Everything about the cage and the fixed, half-horrified attention of the crowd spelled out the importance of the event. It was only the animal in the cage that seemed very unimpressive for the stir it caused. A mottle-furred, long-toothed and clawed carnivore, about the size of a terrestrial lion. It paced the cage, looking in bewilderment at the crowd. Again it opened its mouth and roared piercingly. A ripple of motion passed across the tall Andriadans.

"What is that beast?" Petion asked the customer nearest to him.

"Sinnd…" the man said and shuddered. "What are they going to do with it?"

This question was obviously the wrong one, because the man turned shocked eyes on the Earthman. When Petion returned his gaze the Andriadan blushed and murmured something and turned quickly away.

"Pay the bill.” Petion told Kai, "and let's follow that cage. This is something that is definitely not mentioned in the guidebooks." The Sinnd's cry, muffled now by distance, echoed in the empty street.

By the time they had caught up with it the cage had almost reached its destination, an open field just below the palace. The cage had been pulled onto a raised platform and men with ropes gathered around it. Getting close enough to watch was no problem, since the native An-driadans seemed torn between horrified attraction and repugnance. There were large gaps in the crowd that stirred and shifted in an unceasing Brownian movement. An empty space surrounded the platform. Petion and Kai stood in the first rank and watched the strange ceremony approach its climax.

A webwork of ropes now held the Sinnd immobile. It mewled in terror as a noose pulled its head up, stretching its neck to the utmost. Thin white cloth was now wrapped firmly round and round its neck. The entire affair seemed meaningless.

"Look!" Kai hissed. "The man in the white nightshirt. Recognize him from the photographs?"

"The King.” Petion said. "This is getting more interesting all the time."

Nothing was said from the platform and the affair proceeded at breakneck speed. It was over in less than thirty seconds. The King looked only once at the crowd and lowered his chin. A rustle swept the field as the gathered thousands bowed in answer. The King turned and took the sword from an attendant. With a single quick thrust he plunged it into the white wrappings, severing the bound beast's throat.

A voiceless gasp swept the audience as they drew in their breaths, almost in unison. Struggling against its bindings, the Sinnd burbled a last horrible cry, then slumped down. The King withdrew the sword and the white bindings turned a brilliant scarlet. Next to Petion a man bent over and vomited on the ground.

He wasn't the only one; the repugnance seemed universal. There were only a few women in the crowd, and all had apparently fainted at the moment of execution, as had a number of the men. Their friends were quickly carrying them off. The field cleared with suspicious speed; even the King and officials from the platform joined the exodus. Within a minute the two offworlders and the dead beast were alone.

"Well I'll be damned!" Kai exploded. "It wasn't that bad. Why, I've seen infinitely worse things than that. I can recall—"

"Save your sordid reminiscences.” Petion told him. "I've heard them all. In addition to which — you are correct. It wasn't that bad, particularly with the bandage to cover the wound." He walked over and looked pensively at the slain Sinnd, freed of life and bondage at last.

"What does it all mean?" Kai asked.

"We're going to have to find out. The whole thing seems meaningless now, but it was obviously of great importance to the locals. Let's get back to the base and talk to Rissby. He's been stationed here nine years, and should know what it's about."

"So you've uncovered the local secret," Commander Rissby said. "It's hard to tell if they are ashamed or proud of it. Anyway they make no attempt to stop people from watching, though they do fight strongly against any kind of publicity or official attention. Our policy during ninety-six years of occupation has been simply hands off."

"Is it a religious ceremony?" Petion asked.

"Might be, Honorable Sir. We had an anthropology team through here once, and they were getting interested until they were officially requested to leave. One of them told me that the ceremony has an historical necessity that developed into a public ritual of exorcism."

"How?"

"I don't know how much you know of this planet's history, Honorable Petion. .?" He hesitated, afraid to presume too much.

"For Empress's sake, tell us man!" Kai snapped. "If you think Sir Petion has the time to bone up on the history of every off-trail planet — you're completely wrong. He knows what I tell him because I handle the mechanics of these investigations and keep the records. All he has to do is solve the problem. We know next to nothing about this rock; we came here direct from the last job and never got back to the archives."

"Then you'll forgive a short lecture," Commander Rissby said placidly, still not knowing where he stood in the chain of command. "Early history is obscure, but it is obvious this planet passed through a simple agrarian economy after being settled. Almost Stone Age, at least as far as artifacts go, since Andriad has no heavy metals. If the Honorable Sir has deemed it necessary to make a study of anthropology he will know that one of the theories of the development of mankind on Earth concerned man's using his long legs for running, to escape predators. This happened, in actuality, right here. With no real mountains or forests, Andriad is a perfect habitat for herbivores. You've seen the gigantic herds that still roam the grasslands. Of course, as part of the ecology, there were the carnivores. One species dominated almost completely, the Sinnd that you saw today."

"Men are better carnivores.” Kai said. "So they knocked the Sinnd over the head and ate the ruminants themselves?"

"Quite the contrary. They ran away along with the other animals." Kai snorted in contempt, but the other two ignored him. "They became pure vegetarians — as they still are today. This period of food gathering and flight must have lasted quite a number of years."

"But not forever.” Petion said, "or this city wouldn't be here. Sooner or later they had to stop running and find another way to deal with the carnivores."

"Of course. They found that the Sinnd could be trapped in pits, captured alive. By this time they had developed such an aversion to taking life that they found it hard to kill. Rather they found it impossible. Yet a crime even worse than killing would be to let the animals starve to death. That was when Grom — ancestor of the present King — started the royal family. He killed a trapped Sinnd. That's the way the myths have it and for a change they're probably true. Of course the rest of the Andriadans were horrified that a man could do this — yet at the same time strangely attracted. Grom was obviously the strongest man and quickly gained the power passed on to the present King Grom. They have all had the same name."

"And the same job.” Petion said. "Killing Sinnd. Does it happen often now?"

"Only a few times a year when a Sinnd will raid one of the towns. Most of them stay away, following the herds. Then the captured Sinnd is sent here to be dispatched in the proper manner. The professor who told me all this also claimed it was a ritual murder of evil. The king-protector destroys the symbolic and the real devil at the same time."

"Probably true.” Petion considered. "It certainly explains what we saw today. Don't think these questions foolish, Commander. Everything on this planet is relevant to the case under investigation. I imagine you know why I'm here?"

"One can only guess…" Commander Rissby murmured politely.

"The murder of Prince Mello."

"The murder of course," Rissby agreed with no surprise.

"Tell me about Prince Mello. What kind of reception did he have here?"

Commander Rissby was no longer at ease. He mumbled something and suddenly his collar was tight enough to need easing with his forefinger.

"Louder please, Commander," Petion asked.

"Prince Mello. . Why the Prince was of course a nobleman, a gentleman. All admired him and praised him…"

"Rubbish and nonsense!" Petion exploded, angry for the first time.

"This is an investigation, not an attempt to whitewash the already tarnished name of a wastrel and a dolt! Why do you think a prince of the House, eighty-second cousin of the Empress, should be pleasure-jaunting in an out-of-the-way spot like this? Because the departed Prince's intelligence just cleared the moron borderline and he had trouble signing his own name. Through stupidity compounded by arrogance he caused more trouble for the Empire than an army of liberationists."

Rissby's face and neck were flushed bright red. He looked like a bomb ready to explode and Petion took pity on him. "You know all this — or suspected it," he said gently. "You must realize if the Empire is to prosper — as we both want it to prosper — some of the evils of generations of inbreeding must be eliminated, Mello's death was more of a blessing than a tragedy. Just the manner of his going reflects ill on the Empire and must be investigated. You are too long in the service not to know these things. Now tell me about the Prince's activities here."

Commander Rissby opened his mouth, but no words came out. Loyalty fought with honesty. Petion respected the combination— knowing how rare it was — and treated the old soldier gently.

"It is no crime to discuss the faults of members of the royal family, since there is no doubt of your loyalty. You may talk safely to me." Petion put his hand to one eye and when he removed it the iris was brown, in striking contrast to the pink albinism of the other eye. Rissby gasped.

"It is an open secret," Petion said, "that a reward of great service merits admission to the royal family. The Empress was good enough to reward my police work with a knighthood. With it goes the honor of royal albinism. I have had the operations to change my coloring; the manipulating techniques even changed my genes so the trait is hereditary in me now. I have not had the time for the eye operation— it means months in bed — so wear these contact lenses instead. So you see I am half of one world, half of the other. You can talk to me, Commander. You can tell me about Prince Mello."

Rissby recovered quickly, with a trained soldier's resiliency. "I thank you for taking me into your confidence, Sir Petion. You will understand then that I attempt no rumor or slander when I tell you that Prince Mello was — unpopular here…"

"That's the strongest term you can use?"

"Perhaps—'detested' might be a better one. It hurts me to say it, but it was the truth. My own soldiers felt it and only strong discipline kept them in line. The Prince laughed at the native customs, paid no attention to the people's sensitivities, blundered in where he had no business, in general he, you might say—"

"Made an ass of himself."

"Precisely. He was tolerated by the Andriadans because of his nobility and his relationships with the royal family here. He was with them quite often. He favored King Grom's daughter, Princess Melina, and I understand the attraction was mutual. She was so upset by his death that she was confined to her bed for weeks. I visited her myself, in the name of the Empress. Shock. Crying. Very unhappy case.”

"Then everything was peaceful inside the castle?" Petion asked.

"I would say so. King Grom is very reserved, so there is no way of telling his feelings at any time. But if he did not encourage, he certainly did nothing to hinder the romance of the royal youths."

"What about in the city?" Kai broke in. "Mello make enemies there? Go to gambling joints? Have girls? Associate with toughs?"

"Never!" Rissby gasped, shocked in spite of himself. "The Prince may have had his failings, but he was still nobility! He rarely ventured into the city, and certainly had no acquaintances there."

"Yet he did see someone in the city," Petion said. "Someone he knew well enough to recognize from a moving car at night. Someone he rushed to meet, never considering it a risk. Someone who may have killed him. I'll need more information on the Prince's activities outside of the palace. He may have been visiting the city unknown to you. Have you any spies or paid informers? Reliable ones I can contact?"

"Intelligence Section can give you more detailed information on that, though I don't think you will need it. We have one operative who has been consistently reliable, the only one I might say. His loyalty is to money and we see that he is well paid. He will tell you anything you need to know. Only you must go to him, he is never seen near the military compound."

"The name?"

"One-finger. He has an unusual deformity of one hand. He keeps a low-class inn and drinking parlor in the Old Town. I will arrange for the proper clothes and someone to show you the way."

No possible disguise could have made Kai resemble anything other than what he was. He grumbled at being left behind while Petion was slipping into the loose robes of a Turaccian trader. The Intelligence Officer, Captain Langrup, adjusted the outfit with professional skill.

"A number of traders come through here," Langrup said, "so two more wouldn't be noticed. A lot of them stay at One-finger's so this is a natural cover."

"Do you have the caller?" Kai asked, taking the small, high-frequency receiver out of his pocket. Petion nodded and held up his hand with the ornate ring. When he pressed on the stone and twisted a shrill squeal blasted from the receiver. It warbled up and down when Kai changed the angle of the directional aerial.

"I doubt if we'll need to use it.” Petion said. "We're just going there for information and there's no danger involved."

"That's what you said on Cervi III.” Kai scoffed, "and you were four months in the hospital afterwards. I'll be hanging around close, ready to bust in."

As Petion and the intelligence captain strolled through the Old Town they were barely aware of the stocky shadow that followed them. Kai was a good policeman, and a good tail even in the twisted labyrinth of dark passageways. Petion had lost his direction completely by the time Langrup turned into a black entranceway. It was a side entrance to a tap room. A noisy, badly lit place, filled with the stink of the burning weed the Andriadans smoked and the sweet pungency of beer slops. Langrup ordered two mugs of the best and Petion took careful note of the man who banged them down on the bar. His skin was sallow and wrinkled; the way it hung on the thin Andriadan bones it made him look like a walking skeleton. An accident or deformity had left him with only the index finger of his left hand. It appeared to be quite strong and he used it skillfully.

"We have some samples to show you," Captain Langrup said. "Shall we take them inside?"

One-finger only grunted, his eyes half-closed and flicking back and forth at both of them. "Are the prices right?" he asked finally, the single finger scratching towards them across the bar, an animal nosing about for money.

"Don't worry," Langrup said and pulled back the corner of his cloak so the full wallet could be seen hanging from his belt. One-finger grunted again and turned away.

"A repulsive type, but valuable," Langrup said. "Finish the beer then follow me." They left by the main entrance, but instead of going all the way out into the street they climbed quietly up the stairs in the entranceway. There was a small room in the back of the building and they only waited a few minutes before the informer came in.

"Information costs money," he said, and the finger scratched towards them again from across the table.

Langrup clinked ten of the translucent glass coins on the table. "Tell us about Prince Mello," he said. "Did he ever come here to the city?"

"Many times. In his car. On the way to the palace or the country. ."

"Don't be devious!" Langrup snapped. "We're paying for facts. Did he ever come here². Did he go anywhere else in the city? Did he have any friends here he visited… or girls?"

One-finger laughed, a crackling unpleasant sound. "A girl! What girl could stand being near a Sinnd-smeller! He came here once and I had to fumigate the place afterwards. He told me that my place stank! He came here, went some other places, he never came back. There were no friends of his here" — his eyes half-closed again—"or enemies."

"What's this about being a 'Sinnd-smeller'?" Petion asked the Captain.

Langrup answered him, ignoring the informer's presence as though he were part of the furniture.

"It's a local idea, I'm not sure if it is true or just a way to insult us. They say that all offworlders smell like Sinnd — that's a local carnivore. Say they can't stand to be near us too long. One-finger over there probably has plugs in his nose right now."

"Is this true?" Petion asked him. One-finger didn't answer but grinned and tilted his head back instead, while the long finger leapt up and tapped at the white base of a plug barely seen in one nostril.

"Interesting," Petion mused.

"Damned insult," Langrup snapped. "You're going to have to tell us more than that if you want your money.” he said to the informer. "When I investigated a year ago you had no idea of who had killed Prince Mello. What do you know now? You've had plenty of time to hear rumors, find out things."

One-finger was suffering. He writhed inside his skin and sweat stood out on his face. The questing finger ran out towards the money on the table, then retreated.

"You can get in bad trouble for withholding information," Langrup said with angry intensity. "Arrest, jail. . even transportation…" One-finger didn't even hear the threats, he was frightened enough already.

"Try money," Petion suggested. "I'll supply whatever funds are needed."

Langrup slowly stacked high-denomination coins on the table, and as the pile mounted One-finger began to shiver, pulling away. But his eyes never left the money.

"Here," Langrup murmured, sliding the money slowly across the table, "look at this. There's more here than you can make in a year of hard work. It's yours. Just tell us…"

"I don't know who did it!" One-finger shouted hoarsely, falling forward across the coins, clutching them with his arms. "I can't tell you that. But I can tell you something…" He gasped for breath and squeezed the words out. "It was no one. . from the city."

"That's not enough!" Langrup shouted, standing and shaking the man so that the tempered glass coins sprayed down and rattled in all directions. One-finger's face was wide-eyed with fear, but he said no more.

"Leave him.” Petion said quietly. "You're not going to get any more out of him. And he's told us what we want to know." Not satisfied, Langrup slowly let go of the man who dropped back into his chair as limply as if the bones had been dissolved from his body. They left him there and made their way back down the stairs.

"That's an awful lot to pay for so little.” Langrup said, not trying to disguise his dissatisfaction.

"It's enough," Petion told him. "It is really more than I expected to find out here. I would appreciate it if you would go back now and tell the Commander that I would like to meet with both of you, in his office, in about two hours time."

"But I can't leave you alone here," Captain Langrup said, shocked.

"I'm not alone as you see," Petion told him. He had thumbed a message on his ring as soon as they had left the building, so he expected the squat figure that sidled up to them out of the darkness. Langrup gave a start. "I assure you that Kai and I will be able to take care of ourselves," Petion said.

"Can you find the square where the murder took place?" Petion asked after the Intelligence officer had gone.

"With my eyes shut," Kai scored, and led the way into an alley. "What did you find out?"

"A little — or a lot. I don't know yet. The whole thing is still simmering in my head. There is just one more thing I would like to find out before reaching any conclusions." They entered a square and he looked around. "This is it, isn't it?"

"Crossroad of the Carved-up Corpse," Kai agreed.

Petion looked around at the black doorways. He pointed. "There's the one we saw open earlier. I don't like to rely on coincidences, but they do occur. It also happens to be the one nearest the palace and we should look there first. Now's your chance to lean on it — but quietly."

There was just enough light in the square to catch the white shine of Kai's grin. Climbing silently up to the door, he put one shoulder against it and his bar-like fingers clamped onto the carved stone jamb. A single contraction of his muscles pulled his weight forward a few centimeters. It was enough, a motion as sudden and powerful as a hydraulic ram. Something snapped sharply and the door swung open. They moved in quickly and closed it behind them. The building was silent.

"We're looking for a door," Petion said. "It may be in the wall or it may be in the floor. It will be concealed. I'll work this side and you Work the other."

Their lights threw wandering circles of radiance as they searched. Only a few minutes passed before Kai called softly. "Nothing to it. A real amateur job." His light outlined a flag in the stone floor. The gap between it and the other stones was narrow and deep, clear of dust.

It took even less time to find out how it opened. When the stone slid aside they shone their lights into the black opening. A tunnel vanished into the darkness.

"If I were to ask you to make a guess — where would you think that tunnel goes?" Petion asked.

Kai bent down and squinted along the length of the tunnel as far as his light could carry. "If it turns it could go anywhere. But if it goes on the way it starts it should end up bang in the center of the royal palace."

"That's what I would say myself.” Petion murmured.

"I should have made it clear earlier," Petion told them. "I want no notes or records kept of this meeting or anything else to do with this investigation. The Empress will have my report — and that will be the only one."

"Sorry," Captain Langrup said, and turned the recorder off and returned it to his pocket. Commander Rissby looked on quietly without commenting. All of their eyes followed Petion as he paced back and forth the length of the room.

"Some very important facts have come to light," he said. "One of the most interesting was supplied tonight by the informer. If he wasn't lying he has narrowed down our search for us. Whoever killed Prince Mello must have been from one of four groups." He counted them off on his fingers. "First — an Andriadan from the city or the country. Since the Prince had no contact with any of them, he certainly wouldn't have recognized someone and stopped the car. Group two are offworlders."

"You can rule them out too," Captain Langrup said. "I worked on the original investigation. Every offworlder was grilled and cross-examined in detail. None of them could have possibly been the killer."

"Then the third group is the military here—"

"Sir!" Commander Rissby gasped in a shocked voice. "You can't be suggesting—"

"I'm not, Commander — so set your mind at ease. Your Tacora troops might be suspected of a lot of crimes, but killing a member of the royal house is too unthinkable. In addition, I imagine the whereabouts of all your men were checked at the time?"

"They were — and eliminated from all suspicion.” the Commander said, only slightly mollified.

Petion folded a fourth finger into his palm. "Then logic leads us to the conclusion that the murder was committed by a member of the final group. Someone from within the palace." He smiled at their shocked expressions. "Before you tell me that is an impossibility, that no one left the palace before the Prince, I should inform you of a discovery we made tonight."

"A tunnel," Kai said. "Looks like it runs from the palace to the place where Mello got carved."

"That could be it," Captain Langrup shouted, jumping to his feet with excitement. "A difference of opinion, a fight in the palace— we know that Mello left early — and while he is leaving the killer goes ahead of him. Calls to him, entices him into the alley — and kills him!"

"A nice construction," Petion agreed. "But there are some obvious holes in it that I won't bother pointing out, Captain. It might have been that way, but I do not think it was. The truth is a little more complex. I'll need a little more evidence before I will be able to state exactly. Could I talk to the driver of the car, the man who last saw the Prince alive?"

The Commander looked unhappy. "I'm afraid that will be impossible, Honorable Sir. He was rotated six months ago, shipped out with his troop when their term of duty was up."

"It's not important." Petion waved the thought aside. "I was expecting only negative evidence from him anyway. There is one more fact missing, with that the picture will be clear. Tell me about Prince Mello's eating habits."

Only a shocked silence followed his words. The two army officers gaped and Kai grinned widely. He had little enough idea where the conversation was going, but was more used to Petion's turn of mind than the others.

"Come, come — that's a plain enough question." Petion frowned. "Simply looking at the Prince's photo and his height-weight index will show that he was overweight. Fat, if you are not afraid of the right word. Did this have an uncorrected glandular source — or did he overeat?"

''He overate," Captain Langrup said as calmly as he could, trying not to smile. "If you want the truth this was about the only thing that endeared him to the troops. Tacorans enjoy their food, and they were always a little awed at the quantity the Prince could put away."

"During meals or between meals?" Petion asked.

"Both. He didn't talk much but I rarely saw him when his jaws weren't working. There was almost a path worn from his quarters to the back door of the cookhouse. The head chef became a close friend of his."

"Get the chef up here, he's the man I want to talk to." Petion turned to the Commander. "Could you arrange for me to be invited to the palace tomorrow?" he asked. "I would like to go to dinner there, the same place and the same hour as the Prince's last meal."

Commander Rissby nodded and reached for the phone. * <

"I feel like an idiot in this outfit!" Kai whispered fiercely in Petion's ear, from where he stood behind him at the table. Dressed in colorful servant's livery he looked like a garishly painted tree stump.

"If it's any relief, you look like one too," Petion answered imper-turbably. "Now be quiet and keep your eyes open for trouble from any direction. As soon as we have finished eating I'm going to stir this crowd up and see what develops."

The banquet board was a large U with the royal family at the base of the U. As guest of honor Petion sat between King Grom and Princess Melina. The Queen had died in childbirth and the young prince was still a child, too young to sit at the adults' table. Since by Andriad custom only women of the royal family attended state banquets, the princess was the only female present. She was an attractive enough girl and Petion wondered idly what she had seen in that idiot Mello. Alien attraction and prestige seemed the only answer.

Both King and Princess were still unknown quantities. Frozen by protocol they could only discuss unimportant things in abstract terms. If anything, King Grom seemed a little wary and on his guard.* Which was understandable. His last noble guest had been butchered soon after leaving this same table.

Petion ate of the numberless different dishes and found himself enjoying the food. If you didn't mind not having meat with your meal this was good eating indeed. Herbs and spices in great variety, even hot little peppers that had scorched his mouth. He wasn't surprised when he saw that the Princess had taken a large portion of the peppers and was eating them with pleasure. She also oversalted her food. This underlined something he had suspected when he first heard her nasal voice and noticed the way she breathed through her mouth. A final bit of evidence that pulled his entire bundle of conjecture into shape. He had no foolproof evidence yet — but the theory seemed watertight.

He knew now just how and why Prince Mello had died. After the final course the Princess excused herself and left. Which was just as well. What was going to happen next would not be pretty.

"Your Majesty," Petion said, pushing his plate away from him. "I have dined with you and would like to feel that we are friends." The king nodded gravely. "So you will pardon me if I sound unfriendly. I do so because I only wish to uncover the truth. The truth that has lain concealed too long."

He had not spoken loudly, yet suddenly the table was quiet. Conversation dead in an instant, as though the talk had just been used to fill the time waiting for this moment. The dozen or more noblemen at the table all had their eyes fixed intensely on the tall albino next to the King. Behind him Petion heard Kai's clothing rustle and knew that man and gun were ready for action.

"You are talking about Prince Mello's death.” the King said. Not a question, but a statement. His Majesty was no coward when it came to facing things.

"Exactly," Petion said. "I don't wish to presume upon your hospitality, but this blot upon the relations of our peoples must be cleared up. If you will hear me out I will tell you what happened on that evening a little over a year ago. When I am finished we will decide what must be done." He shifted position and took a sip of the royal beer. No one else moved and every eye was fixed unblinkingly on him. Petion felt grateful for Kai waiting alertly behind him. He turned to the King.

"You'll pardon the indiscretion, Your Majesty, but there is a rather personal question I would like to ask you. Is it true that your daughter suffers from a minor physical disability?"

"SIR!"

"The question is important, or I wouldn't ask it. Am I correct in saying that Princess Melina has little or no sense of smell? That this is the reason she could bear Prince Mello's presence, even enjoy being with him—"

"Enough!" the King interrupted. "You are insulting the memory of a dead man and my daughter as well!"

"There is no insult intended," Petion said, letting a cold touch of steel slip into the formal tones of his voice. "If we are discussing insults I might mention the fact that Your Majesty has filter plugs in his nose to enable him to bear my presence at his table. That could be called an insult…"

King Grom had the good grace to blush red and made no further interruptions when Petion continued.

"There should be neither shame nor blame attached to what is a simple physical fact. All meat-eating animals have a characteristically strong odor — particularly to non-meat eaters. To your people the men of other planets smell bad. That is a simple and undeniable fact. Princess Melina — lacking a refined sense of smell — was unaware of this difference. She befriended Prince Mello and enjoyed his presence. She even asked him to dine here and you all put up with his presence for her sake. Until that evening when he did. . what he did. And was killed for the repulsiveness of his crime."

Petion's final words hung in a shocked silence. The unsayable had been said, the unspeakable spoken. Then a chair grated back and a young noble jumped to his feet, white-faced. Kai appeared at Petion's shoulder gun pointing.

"You will sit down.” Petion said, "and you and everyone else will be quiet until I have spoken. We are on very delicate ground here and I do not wish any mistakes to be made. You will hear me out." He stared intensely until the man dropped back into his chair, then went on. "Prince Mello committed the crime and died for it. You all witnessed it and by law are equally guilty. That is why I am addressing you together like this. The Prince was killed and you conspired to remove his body and conceal your crime."

Some of the men were not looking at him now, but staring wide-eyed into space. Reliving that night they had tried to conceal and forget. Petion's voice flowed on as smoothly as the voice of memory.

"You stopped the flow of blood, but he was dead. You fought between yourselves as to what to do, but in the end all were convinced that dishonorable as it was, the crime must be concealed. The only other alternative would be the end of everything as you knew it. You thought your monarchy could not survive a blow like this. So you undressed the corpse and one of you put on the dead man's clothes. In the darkness of the courtyard it was easy for him to get into the official car. Without being seen clearly. The driver said that no order was given, nor would one be necessary. There was only one place for him to drive to. The disguised man simply sat in the car until it passed the agreed-on spot, then shouted 'Stop' and leapt out. He ran to the square where his friends were waiting with the body, having brought it there through the underground passage. There was more than enough time to redress the corpse before the driver became suspicious. The deed was done. Mello had left the palace safely, and been killed by person or persons unknown. A tragedy, of course, but not a world-destroying one."

"It is true," King Grom said, rising slowly to his feet. "The truth has been concealed…"

"You can protect me no more, Your Majesty!" a shrill, almost screaming, voice cried. The same young man was on his feet again. "I did it and I must pay the penalty, you have all protected me too long. ."

"KAI! STOP HIM!" Petion shouted.

With unbelievable speed the stocky body hurtled the table, crashing into the youth. But he was an instant too late. The man had his hand to his mouth, swallowing something.

He didn't struggle when Kai pinioned his wrists.

"Majesty…" the man said and smiled. Then a shudder tore through his body, his figure arched back in sudden torture. Kai released his hands and the dead man fell to the floor.

"That was unnecessary.” Petion shouted, turning on the King, his face twisted with anger. "Horrible waste!"

"I didn't know," was all King Grom mumbled, sunk in his chair, older now.

"We could have arranged something. . not this! That's why I'm here."

"I didn't know," was all the King could say, his face buried in his hands.

Petion dropped into his chair, suddenly exhausted. "Well then, that's the way it will have to be," he said. "This man killed Prince Mello, then committed suicide rather than be taken. A life for a life. The rest of you will receive a reprimand for concealing the fact, and there will be a two percent rise in the Empire duties on your planet for the next ten years. Agreed?"

From the shelter of his hands the King could only dumbly nod his head.

Commander Rissby was only confused after he read the report and the evening's affair had been explained to him. Petion was tired to exhaustion but held his temper well.

"This killer — the young man.” Rissby said, "I don't understand. Why didn't they just turn him over to us for trial?"

"For the simple reason that he didn't kill the Prince.” Petion said. "The King did. He was the only possible one. The insult was done to his daughter, directly in front of him. They all hate the taking of life, and would never consider it, even in anger. But the King is a killer — a ritual murderer perhaps — but the animals he kills are just as dead after the ritual. He kills with a knife and Mello was killed with a knife. The King must have been wild with anger and didn't realize what he was doing until it was all over. I'm sure he wanted to surrender then, but they talked him out of it. It would have meant the end of the regency and probably the royal family. For the sake of his planet — not for his own sake — he allowed the crime to be concealed. When I appeared the nobles must have sensed something in the wind and arranged for a suicide. Drawn lots or some such without the King's knowledge. A life for a life and the Empire still safe. The poison is a quick-acting one they used for euthanasia."

"Then the King. .?" Rissby asked.

"Is the murderer. And he is undoubtedly punishing himself every hour of the day much more than we could ever do. I'm telling you this so you won't start thinking after I have gone and figure it out for yourself. And send in a report. The King's culpability will not appear in my final report. If it did he would have to be arrested. As it stands now the balance is straight and everyone is happy. At least on paper. I'll tell the Empress the truth — off the record — just as I am telling you. I won't need to swear her to secrecy as I am swearing you now. Raise your hand and touch the scroll."

"I so swear. ." Commander Rissby repeated numbly, still shocked. He finally stirred to life and tapped the report. "But this— the roast leg of beef Mello got from the kitchen — what was wrong with that?"

"Use your imagination, Commander," Petion said with barely concealed disgust. "He brought this joint of meat, still steaming hot in insulating foil, unwrapped it and dropped it in front of the Princess, right there on the table. He was so stupid, he thought he was doing her a favor, letting her try some good food for a change."

"Yes… I know what he did. But why should the King kill him for a harmless thing like that?"

"Harmless?" Petion sat back and laughed. "These people are strict vegetarians with an absolute horror of our eating habits. Just try to put yourself in the King's position. Let's say that you invited a cannibal home for dinner — he's reformed, but still a cannibal. And he has never quite understood what all fuss was about. So he does you a favor, trying to introduce you to a whole new world of enjoyable eating.He drops a nice hot, steaming, crackling human arm on the table in front of you right in the middle of the meal! What would you do, Commander?"

After the Storm

The tide was on the way out, leaving a strip of hard sand that felt good to jog upon. The sun, just clear of the horizon, was already hot on my face. Last night's storm had finally blown itself out, although the long Atlantic rollers were still crashing onto the beach with its memory. It was going to be hot, but the sand was still cool under my bare toes as I jogged along easily, the last surge of the surf breaking around my ankles. I was very much at peace with the world: this was a good time of day.

There was something that caught my eye ahead, dark against the white foam. Driftwood, very good, it would make a lovely fire in the winter. It was a long plank with something draped over it. As I splashed toward it I felt a chill down my bare back, a sudden fear.

It was a body, a man's body.

I did not want to look too closely at this waterlogged corpse. I hesitated and stopped, with the water surging about my legs, unsure of what I should do. Phone the police? But if I did that it might wash out to sea again while I was away. I had to pull it in — but did not want to go near it. A wave surged up and over the body and strands of seaweed tangled in the long hair. The head lifted and dropped back.

He was still alive.

But cold as death. I felt the chill when I seized his hands and dragged him, a dead weight, through the shallow water to the beach. Dropped him facedown, his forearm under his mouth and nose to keep them out of the sand, then leaned hard on his back. And again— until he coughed and gasped, emptying his stomach of sea water. He groaned when I rolled him onto his back and his eyelids moved and opened. His eyes were a transparent pale blue and they had trouble focusing.

"You are all right," I said. "Ashore and safe."

He frowned at my words, and I wondered if he could understand me. "Do you speak English?"

"I do. ." He coughed, then rubbed his lips. "Could you tell me the name of this place?"

"Manhasset, north shore of Long Island."

"One of the states of the United States, is it?"

"You're Irish?"

"Aye. And a devil of a long way from home."

He struggled to his feet, swaying, and would have fallen again if I hadn't caught him.

"Lean on me.” I said. "The house isn't far. We'll get some dry clothes on you, something warm to drink."

When we reached the patio he dropped onto the bench with a sigh. "I could do with that cup of tea now," he said.

"No tea — what about coffee?"

"Good man. That'll do me fine."

"Cream and sugar?" I asked as I punched in the order on the keyboard on the wall. He nodded and his eyebrows rose as I took the steaming cup from the dispenser. He sipped it gingerly, then drank deep. He drained the cup before he spoke again.

"That's a miraculous yoke you have there. Could you do it again?"

I wondered just where he was from that he had never seen an ordinary dispenser before. I dropped his cup into the recycler and passed him a full one.

"From Ireland," he said, answering my unspoken question. "Five weeks out of Arklow when the storm caught us. Had a load of cured hides for the Canadians. Gone now, with the rest of the crew, God rest their souls. The name is Byrne, Cormac Byrne, sir."

"Bil Cohn-Greavy. Would you like to get out of those wet clothes?"

"Fine now, Mr. Greavy, just sitting in the sun here…"

"Cohn-Greavy. Matronym, patronym. Been the law now for what?… at least a hundred years. I suppose on your side of the ocean you just use your father's name?"

"We do, we do. Things change that slowly in Ireland. But you say, that it's the law of the land that you must use both your mother and your father's family name?"

I nodded and wondered how it was that an ordinary sailor understood a bit of Latin. "The feminist block pushed it through Congress in the 2030s when Mary Wheeler became President. Look, I have to make a phone call. Just stay here and rest. Back in a moment."

It's a responsibility that cannot be avoided. If you own shore property you are sworn in as an auxiliary Coast Guard. Anything that comes ashore has to be reported. I even had a gun to warn off anyone who tried to land. Immigration is very illegal in the United States. I imagined that this included shipwrecked sailors.

"Coast Guard emergency," I said and the screen lit up at once. The gray-haired duty chief looked up from my ID, which would be automatically displayed.

"Report, Cohn-Greavy."

"I have a man here, washed ashore from a wreck, sir. Foreign national."

"Right. Detain him. Patrol's on the way."

It was my duty, of course. There were sound reasons for this country's immigration policy. The glass door opened as I approached, and I could hear a familiar voice. I called out.

"Is that you, Kriket?"

"None other."

She had come along the shore, for her legs were sandy, the seat of her bikini bottom as well. Like most girls she went topless in the summer, and her breasts were as tan as the rest of her. As beautiful as her mother. Then I noticed that Byrne was standing, facing out to sea, the back of his neck burning red. I was puzzled for a moment— then had to smile.

"Kriket, this is Mr. Byrne from Ireland." He nodded quickly, still not facing her, and I waved her inside. "If you have a moment there is something I want to show you."

She looked at me, puzzled, as I waited until the door had closed before I spoke again. "I have a feeling that our guest is not used to naked girls."

"Dads, what on earth do you mean? I'm dressed. ."

"Not on top. Be a jagster and pull on one of my shirts. I'll bet you billions to bytes that girls don't flaunt their bare topsides where he comes from."

"How revoltingly ancient." But she was going toward the bedroom when she said it. As I went back to the patio a big white copter was just setting down on the shore. The Irishman was gaping at it as though he had never seen one before. Perhaps he hadn't. This was indeed his day for surprises. A Coast Guard captain and two Shore Patrolmen dropped down and walked briskly to the house. The captain stopped in front of Byrne while the others stood ready, hands resting on their revolvers. He frowned up at the Irishman — who was a head taller — and spoke brusquely.

"I want your name, place of birth, age, name of your vessel, last port of call, port of registry, the reason you have illegally entered our country…"

"Shipwrecked, Your Honor, shipwrecked," he said in a gentle voice. With an edge to it that might have been laughter. Not really enough for insult, though the captain's scowl deepened as he punched the answers into his hand terminal.

"Remain here," he said when all of the questions had been answered, then turned to me. "I would like to use your phone. Would you show me where it is?"

Everything he had entered into his cellular terminal was already in the base computer, so there was no need for my phone. He was silent until we were inside.

"We have reason to suspect that this is more than a simple case of shipwreck. It has therefore been decided that instead of taking the suspect into custody he will remain here with you where he can be observed…"

"I'm sorry, that is just not possible. I have my work."

Even as I spoke he was stabbing at his hand terminal. Behind me my printer pinged and a sheet dropped into the hopper.

"Yeoman Cohn-Greavy, you have just been recalled to active status in the Coast Guard. You will follow your orders, you will not ask questions, you are now subject to the Official Secrets Act of 2085 and will be court-martialed if you speak of this matter to anyone." He took up the sheet of paper and handed it to me. "Here is a copy of your orders. The suspect will remain here. All of the pickups in this house have been activated and all conversations are to be recorded. You will have no conversations away from the house. If the suspect leaves the vicinity of this house you will instantly inform us. Do you understand these orders?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

He ignored the sarcasm in my tone, turned and stamped out, waving me after him. I kept my anger down — I had no other choice — and followed meekly after. He ordered the SPs into the copter, then faced the Irishman.

"Although immigration is restricted, there are regulations concerning shipwreck. Until a decision has been reached in your case, you will remain here with Mr. Cohn-Greavy. Since public funds are not available for your welfare, he has volunteered to look after you for the time being. That is all."

Byrne watched the copter leave before he turned to me. "You are a kind man, Mr. Cohn-Greavy…"

"The name is Bil." I wanted no thanks for hospitality I had been ordered to extend.

"You have my thanks, Bil. And Cormac is my Christian name."

The door slid open and Kriket emerged, wearing one of my shirts with the tails knotted at her waist. "I heard the copter. What's happening?"

"Coast Guard patrol. They must have seen me dragging Cormac ashore." The first of many lies, — I did not like it. "He'll be staying with me."

"Wonderful. A new beast will liven up the neighborhood."

Cormac flushed at her words and pushed at his sodden clothing. "I beg your pardon. I'm sure I look the beast…"

He blushed harder when she laughed. "Silly man. It's just an expression. A beast is a man, any man. I could call Dads a beast and he wouldn't mind. Are you married, Cormac?"

"I am."

"Good. I like married men. Makes the chase more exciting and sexy. I'm divorced. Twice."

"You'll excuse us, Kriket," I broke in. "I'm going to show Cormac the shower and get him some dry clothes. Then we'll have breakfast out here before it gets too hot."

"Fair-diddly.” she agreed. "I'll read the paper — and don't be too long or I'll suspect buggery."

Cormac's skin was now as red as a tomato. I had the feeling that the social customs he was used to did not include the casualness of my daughter's speech. Young people today said things that would have been shocking to my generation. I led the way to the bath, then went to get him some clothes.

"Bil," he called after me. "Could I ask a favor? This shower-bath here — it doesn't have any knobs."

I tried not to smile even though I wasn't sure what knobs on a shower were.

"To turn it on just tell it to… Wait, I'll do it." I poked my head into the shower enclosure. "Thirty-five degrees, soap, on." It burst into steaming life. "After you've lathered just say 'Rinse,' then say 'Off when you are through. I'll put some clothes on the bed."

I was on my second cup of coffee when he reappeared. I had laid out a selection and he had, predictably perhaps, chosen dark trousers and a long-sleeved dark shirt.

"What's to feet?" Kriket asked, her fingers poised over the keyboard.

"Translation: 'What would you like to eat?' " I said.

"Whatever's on the fire, thank you, I'm that famished."

"I'll take care of it," Kriket said, touching the keys. I was intrigued and wanted to hear more of this place named Ireland. A fire in the kitchen! I had a vision of it crackling away in the middle of the floor, smoke curling all along the ceiling.

His plate appeared heaped with scrambled eggs, pork chops, fried potatoes, rice, and noodles. Kriket's idea of a joke. But it backfired for he tucked in and looked able to demolish the lot.

"Tell me about Ireland," Kriket said. He smiled and washed down a heroic mouthful with coffee before he spoke.

"What's to say, miss? It's the same place it has always been."

"That's what I mean. All this is strange to you. I saw you bugging your eyes at the copter. Never seen one before?"

"In God's truth, no, though certainly I've read about the creatures and seen their likeness in the books. Nor have I ever seen a fine meal like this appear steaming from a hole in the wall, or ever talked before to a shower. You live in a land of miracles, you do."

"And yourself?"

He laid his fork down and slowly sipped his coffee before he answered.

"I suppose you would think our life primitive, compared to yours, that is. But we're comfortable, well fed, and as happy as anyone is happy in this mortal sphere. The Emerald Isle has always been an underpopulated and agricultural place. When the oil ran out we never had the trouble old England had. None of the riots and shootings. We had it a bit hard at first, of course. People leaving the cities, back to the country when the electricity was turned off and the motorcars stopped running. But peat makes a good fire, and cutting it keeps you warm. A donkey cart will take you most places you want to go, there are trains twice a week now to Dublin and Cork. Fish in the ocean, cattle and sheep in the meadow, it's not a bad life, you know."

"Sounds lovely and primitive, like being back in the Stone Age living in a cave and all that."

"Don't be insulting, Kriket."

"Dads, I'm not! Did I insult you, Cormac?"

"No insult given, none taken."

"See, Dads? Now what was that you said about England? Isn't that part of Ireland?" She was never very strong on geography.

"Not exactly — though the English have thought so from time to time. It's another island, just next to ours. Very industrialized they used to be, right up to the end of the twentieth century. That ended when the oil ran out and the economy collapsed completely. Been well on its way for years, right up to the Second Civil War. North against the south they say, really the rich against the poor. The UNO^ refused to intervene the way they did in North Ireland, sending in the Swedish troops when the Brits pulled out early one rainy morning. Now Britain is pretty much like Ireland, except for the ruins of the cities of course. Mostly agricultural, though manufacturing still goes on in the Midlands. After all, they did win the war. You're the lucky ones here. The Quick Wars never crossed the Atlantic. Though you did have your troubles. At least that's what the history books say."

"Communist propaganda," Kriket said in firm tones, the way one corrects a child. "We know all about that. Jealousy on their part with the world falling apart and America staying strong and secure."

"I'm sorry. But I am of the opinion that your books have it wrong," he said, all too blandly. "We were always taught that the States sealed their borders tight. An armed wall…"

"We had no choice. It was the only thing possible to protect us against the starving Third Worlders."

"Didn't you add slightly to those Third Worlders?"

This was treacherous ground — and every word of it being recorded.

There was nothing I could say, but I hoped he would show more discretion.

"That's nonsense, criminal nonsense. I majored in history and I know. Of course there were some illegal immigrants and they had to be ejected.”

"What about the inner-city deportations? The Detroit and Harlem transshipments?"

Kriket was angry now, her words sharp. "I don't know what kind of Communist propaganda they feed you on your little cow-shit-covered island but—"

"Kriket, Cormac is our guest. And the events he mentioned did happen." I had to watch my words now or I would be in trouble myself. "Well before you were born I taught history at Harvard. Of course, that was before it was computerized and closed. You'll find all of the Congressional investigations on the record. Those were hard times, hungry times, and there were excesses. General Schultz, you will remember, died in jail for his part in the Harlem shipments. There were excesses and they were punished. Justice was not only done but seen to be done." That for the record and now to get back on safer ground. "Ireland has one of the oldest and best-known universities in the world, Trinity College. Is it still open?"

"TCD? Who would dare close it? I went to Bellfield myself, one year studying law. Then the brother went down with the Flying Cloud and the money ran out and I went back to the shipyard then to sea like the others. But you said 'closed/ Harvard closed? I can't believe it — in Ireland we've heard of Harvard. Was it a fire or like disaster?"

I smiled at that and shook my head. "Not really closed, Cormac, I said, 'computerized/ Here, I'll show you." I went into the house and accessed my files, took the black disc from the hopper, and returned. Handed it to Cormac.

"You've got it there," I said.

He turned it over and over in his hands, rubbed the gold terminals with his fingers, then looked up. "Sure and I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Mass storage. When computer memories went to a molecular level it wasn't long before they could store ten to the sixteenth bytes on a wafer that size. A significant figure."

He shook his head, puzzled.

"The memory capacity of the human brain," Kriket said smugly. "That wafer holds infinitely more than that."

"It contains Harvard University," I said. "All the libraries, the professors, lecturers, lectures, and laboratories. Everyone goes to university now — everyone who can afford the twenty-five dollars that a university costs. I'm in there, I'm proud to say. All of my best lectures and tutorials. I'm even there in an RS on the early-nineteenth-century slave trade. That's what I did my doctorate on."

"An RS?"

"Response Simulation. All the responses are cross-indexed by key words and relationships, and the answers are speaker-simulated. Put simply, it means you sit and talk with me on the screen, and I answer all your questions. In great detail."

"Holy Mother…" he said, staring wide-eyed at Harvard University. Then passed it back quickly as though it were burning his fingers.

"What was it you said about boat building?" Kriket asked, politics thankfully forgotten for the moment.

"I worked at it, there in the yard in Arklow. Prime oak forest all around the Wicklow hills. Build fine boats, they do."

"Do you mean wooden ships?" she asked, laughing. Cormac was a hard man to anger; he nodded and smiled in return. "Really? It's like something out of prehistory. Dads, can I use your terminal for a moment?"

"Help yourself. Do you remember the access code?"

"Have you forgotten? I stole it when I was fifteen and ran up all those frightening bills. Be right back."

"Excuse me for asking," Cormac said, his eyes never moving as she walked by in front of him, all brown flesh and female. A strange reaction, any American male would have watched her, a visual compliment. "With the university closed, where do you teach now?"

"I don't. Retraining for new skills is a requirement these days. You do it two, three times in a lifetime as jobs are eliminated and new ones take their place. Right now I'm a metal dealer."

I caught him looking about and he stopped, embarrassed. "A good business. You keep it behind the house?"

He was even more embarrassed when I laughed: I couldn't help myself. I had a vision of myself cruising the roads in a broken-down truck heaped high with junk.

"I do all my work at the terminal. Wrote my own programs. I keep track of every importer, smelter, and breaker in the country. My computer accesses theirs at local closing time every day and copies their inventory. I know to the gram where every rare metal is at any time. Manufacturers phone in requests, and I arrange for shipments, bill them, and pass on payment minus my commission. I have everything so automated it could almost run itself. Most businesses work that way. It makes life easier."

"You couldn't do that in Ireland. We have only two phones in Arklow and one is at the Gardai barracks. But still — you can't build ships or farm by phone."

"Yes you can. Our farms are fully automated so that less than two percent of the population are farmers. As to ships — here, I'll show you."

I turned on the daylight screen, punched the library menu, then found a shipbuilding film. Cormac gaped at the automated assembly — not a man in sight — as the great plates were moved into place and welded together.

"Not quite the way we build them," he finally said. Kriket came out of the house at this moment and heard him.

"How well do you know your boat business?" she asked.

"Well enough. Built enough of them."

"I hope so, because I just got you a contract. I work on programming for the network. I checked the archives and we have nothing on hand-building a wooden craft. We'll supply tools and wood, pay an advance and commission against points on residuals…"

"Kriket — I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about."

I interrupted before she could speak again.

"You're being offered a job, Cormac. If you build a small boat from scratch, they'll make a film of it and pay you a lot of money. What do you think?"

"I think that it is madness — and I'll do it! Then I can pay you back, Bil, for your hospitality, which is greater than that of your government. Do they really not have funds to feed a shipwrecked mariner?"

"This is a cash-and-carry economy. You pay for what you get. And now you can pay, so there is no problem."

Not for him, but for me and those listening ears. There was enough about economics on the tapes for one day.

Kriket's network did not waste time. Next day a skyhook dropped a prefab studio behind the house, fully equipped to Cormac's specifications. The automated cameras, controlled from the studio, tracked him as he tightened the first piece of wood into the vise.

"She's going to be klinker-built, mast forward, a ten-footer," Cormac explained into the mike that hovered above his head.

"What is a footer?" the director asked, his voice coming over the speaker in the ceiling.

"Not footer, feet. Ten feet in length she'll be."

"How many feet in a meter?"

The pager in my watch buzzed and I went to the nearest phone. The screen was dark, which meant something very official, since only the government can legally blank a screen.

"This phone is not secure. Go to one inside the house," the voice ordered. I went to my study, closed the door, and activated the phone there. The speaker was heavyset and grim, as official as his voice.

"I am Gregory, your case officer. I have been through yesterday's tapes, and the suspect is very subversive."

"Really? I thought everything he said was a matter of public record."

"It is not. Subversive statements were made about England. This evening you will lead the conversation to other European states. In particular Bohemia, Napoli, and Georgia. Do you understand?"

"Do I understand that I am now an unpaid police informer?"

He looked at me in cold silence, and I had the feeling that I had gone too far.

"No," he finally said. "You are not unpaid. You are on active duty with the Coast Guard and will receive your salary in addition to your normal income. Will you do this — or will I make a permanent record of your remark about a police informer?"

I knew I was getting a second chance. The permanent record was already made, but attention would not be drawn to it if I cooperated.

"You will have to excuse me. I spoke hastily, without thinking. I will, of course, cooperate with the authorities."

The screen went dark. I saw that there were four orders waiting for me; I punched them up, happy to work and take my mind off the affair at hand.

Kriket became a more frequent visitor in the next weeks, until she was there for dinner nearly every night. Not from any newfound filial responsibility, I was sure. She could never resist a man who offered a real challenge, and Cormac was challenge enough for anyone. The summer was turning into a long, hot one, and they swam every afternoon now, when he had finished work. I watched this, had a call from Gregory every day, brought up topics at the dinner table that I had no interest in — and generally began to get very irritated at myself. I put off the moment as long as I could, until I noticed that Kriket was again swimming topless. It was time to act. I changed into swimming trunks as well.

"Hello you two," I said, striding through the bubbling surf towards them. "A scorcher. Mind if I join you for a swim?"

Cormac stepped away from her a bit when I appeared.

"You hate swimming, Dads," she said, looking puzzled.

"Not on a day like this. And I bet I can still outswim you. Out to the buoy and back, what do you say?"

I touched my fingers to my lips as I took the pager bracelet off my wrist. Then reached out and unclasped Kriket's necklace with the pendant dolphin that disguised her pager. I held them below the surface of the water and swished them around before I spoke.

"Most people don't realize that these things are two-way. I want this conversation to be private."

"Dads, you're being paranoid…"

"Quite the contrary. Everything said in the house is being recorded by security. They think that Cormac is some kind of spy. I might have kept my silence except for the fact that I don't want you hurt."

I didn't think that he could do it, but Cormac managed to blush under his new tan. Kriket laughed.

"How sweet and medieval, Dads. But I can take care of myself."

"I hope so — although two divorces in three years is not much of a track record. Normally I would say it is your life and leave you to it. But Cormac is a foreign national, illegally in this country, suspected of a major crime."

"I don't believe a word of it! Cormac, sweet beast, tell Dads that he's brain-drained, that you're no spy."

"Your father is right, Kriket. According to your laws I'm here illegally, and they'll put me away as soon as it suits their fancy. I'm for a swim."

He dived in and splashed away. I noticed that he hadn't denied the spy charges. "Think about it," I said, then handed her back her necklace and plunged in as well.

The first of the autumn storms blew the heat away in September. We were watching them film the last of the series with a live interviewer. Thunder was rumbling outside but the filter circuits would grab the sound and nullify it.

"An ancient craft, nay verily, 'tis an art that is still practiced by aboriginals at the far ends of the world," the interviewer said. "But you have seen the incredibly ancient done right before your eyes, and I know that you, like me, have thrilled to see these lost skills exhumed from the darkness of history at last and displayed for all to see. That's it, cut and end."

"You're finished, then?" Cormac asked.

"In the can and we pull the set tomorrow."

"You do know that you were talking diabolical rubbish?"

"Of course. And you're being paid for it, Charley, don't forget that. With the average mental age of TV viewers hovering around twelve and a half, no one is going to lose money playing to that audience."

"And the boat?"

"Property of the network, Charley, read your contract. It goes with the rest tomorrow."

Cormac rested his hand on the smooth wood, rubbing it lightly. "Treat her well. You'll enjoy sailing in her."

"Going to sell her for money, Charley. Plenty of offers."

"Well, then." Cormac turned his back on the boat, already forgetting her. "It it suits your pleasure, Bil, I would greatly enjoy some of your bourbon, which, while not Irish whiskey, will do until the next bottle of Jamie comes along."

The rain was still lashing down and we ran the few meters to the house.

Kriket went off to dry her hair, and I poured two large drinks.

"Here's to you," he said, raising his. "May the road rise up before you and may you be in heaven a year before the devil knows you're gone."

"Are you saying goodbye?"

"I am. A wee man with bandy legs and a vile disposition, name of Gregory, talked to me today. Asked a lot of political questions — even more than you have. He's coming for me in a few minutes, but I wanted to say goodbye first."

"So quickly? And about those questions, I'm sorry. I simply did as I was asked."

"A man can do no more. I appreciate your hospitality — and would have done the same myself. I have had the money I earned transferred to your account. I can't use it where I'm going."

"That's not fair—"

"It is, and I'll have it no other way."

He raised his head and I heard it too, the sound of a copter almost drowned out by the rain. He stood.

"I would like to go now, before your daughter returns. Say goodbye for me. She's a fine girl. I'll just get my raincoat. I'm not to take anything else."

Then he was gone, and I felt there were things I should have said that would now remain unsaid. The patio door opened and Gregory came in, dripping onto the carpet. His legs were too short for his body, bowed as well. He was far more impressive on the phone.

"I've come for Byrne."

"He told me. He's getting his coat. Isn't this all rather sudden?"

"No. Just in time. We finally pressured the English police. Sent them Byrne's prints from one of your glasses. He's not what he seems."

"He seems to be a sailor, a fisherman, and a boatwright, or whatever they are called."

"Perhaps." His smile was humorless. "He is also a colonel in the Irish Army."

"So I'm a yeoman in the Coast Guard. Is either a crime?"

"I am not here to talk to you. Get him."

"I dislike being ordered about in my own home."

I weakened my protest by doing as he bid. The door to the bath was open, and Kriket was still drying her hair. "Be with you in a moment,” she called out over the hum of the machine. I went to Cormac's room and looked in. Closed the door and returned to the living room. Sat and sipped some of my drink before I spoke.

"He's not there."

"Where is he?"

"How should I know?"

His chair went over as he rushed from the room. "In quite a hurry, isn't he?" Kriket said as she came in. "Can I have a drink?"

"Bourbon on the rocks, of course."

I reached out and touched her hair, — it was still damp.

"Cormac is gone.” I said as I poured the drink.

"So I heard. But he can't get far."

She smiled as she said this and made a very rude signal in the direction of the door. Then sipped demurely as Gregory came back in, streaming water and bursting with anger.

"He's gone — and his goddamn ship is gone too. You knew about this."

"Everything said here is being recorded, Gregory," I said, cold anger in my voice. "So watch your accusations, or I'll have you in court. I have cooperated with you every millimeter of the way. My daughter and I were right here when Cormac left. If there is any blame — why, you will just have to blame yourself."

"I'll get him!"

"I doubt it. The sea brought him — and now it will take him away. To report all the government secrets that he learned here." I could not help smiling.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Yes. You and your kind. This is a free country, and I would like to see it freer. We survived the crises of the twentieth century that wreaked destruction on the rest of the world. But we paid — are still paying — a very high price for this. It is time now that we opened our borders again and rejoined the rest of mankind."

"I know what Cormac was doing here," Kriket said suddenly, and we both turned to look at her. "He was a spy all right. A spy from Europe come to look us over. And I know his reasons, too. He wants to see if we are acceptable to the rest of the human race."

Gregory snorted in disgust and stamped out. For myself — I wasn't so sure. Perhaps Kriket was right.