Dawnman Planet

I

Supervisor Sid Jakes was in fine fettle. As his men inspected the papers of the VIPs at the door and finally ushered them into the highly guarded room, he took over and pleasured himself in presenting the exhibit.

The exhibit was in a square box which resembled a combination coffin and deep freeze, which is exactly what it was. The exhibit itself was a small charred creature about the size of a monkey or rabbit. However, signs of clothing or harness could be made out, and what would seem to be side arms.

The routine went almost identically with each visitor. At the door, Ronny Bronston, or one of the other Section G operatives, would finish the identification and call out such as, “Sidi Hassen, Hereditary Democratic-Dictator of the Free-wealth of the Planet Medina.”

The ruler of Medina would come forward, invariably blank of face; and with a gesture, as though presenting his most valued possession, Sid Jakes would indicate the exhibit.

The Section G agents had come to expect the same initial reaction each time.

It was: “What is it?”

Sid Jakes would grin happily, but hold his peace.

The VIP, his eyes probably bugging by now, would say, in absolute astonishment: “Why, it’s an alien life form!”

The sharper ones would sometimes say, that first time: “It’s an intelligent alien life form!”

Supervisor Jakes let them remain long enough to realize the full significance of the badly burned, deep-frozen carcass; then, invariably stemming a flow of questions, he would usher the VIP to an opposite door, where other Section G operatives took over.

The secret room cleared, they would begin all over again.

“His All Holiness, Innocency the Sixteenth, Presidor of the Holy Theocracy of the Planet Byzantium.”

His All Holiness would step forward and gape in turn at the charred body of the tiny creature. “It’s an intelligent alien life form! But there is no intelligent life in the galaxy, save Created man!”

There was only one break in the routine.

Ronny Bronston had been standing to one side for the nonce, while his two companions guarding the door processed the latest arrival.

One of them began to say, “The Supreme Matriarch Harriet Dos Passos of the Planet…”

Ronny snapped “She’s a fake!”

The newcomer darted in the direction of the freezer box which contained the alien carcass, yelling. “I’ve got a right…”

Ronny put out a foot, cold-bloodedly, and she went down, arms and legs going every which way.

“Sorry, lady,” he said. “Admission is by invitation only.”

“Get her, boys” Sid Jakes snapped, coming forward quickly himself. Ronny and the other two grabbed for the intruder.

But she was made of sterner stuff than they had assumed.

She rolled, bounced to her feet and scrambled toward the freezer.

She stared into its interior, eyes bugging as all eyes had bugged that morning. Finally, she turned and faced them, her expression unbelieving, as all expressions had been unbelieving. She turned to face four cold faces, four leveled Model H hand weapons.

Sid Jakes said, “If she makes one move, any move at all, muffle her.” He grinned at the intruder. “That was bad luck for you, the fact that you managed to see it, you silly flat. Do you think we’d go to this much security if it wasn’t ultra-important? Now, let’s have it. You’re obviously not Harriet Dos Passos. Who are you, how’d you get here, and who sent you?”

The other snapped, her voice not as yet shaky, “I’m Rita Daniels, from Interplanetary News. That’s the corpse of an intelligent alien life form in there. I’m not stupid. There isn’t supposed to be other intelligent life in the galaxy. Our viewers have a right to know what’s going on here in the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs. United Planets is a democratic…”

Sid Jakes interrupted, still grinning “You’d be surprised, my stute friend. Now, once again, who sent you?”

“My editor, of course. I demand…”

Sid Jakes made a gesture with his head at one of the Section G operatives. “Terry, take her over to Interrogation. Use Scop…”

The news-hen bleated protest, which was completely ignored.

“… to find out the names of every person who might remotely know about this romp of hers. The editor, possibly her husband, if she has one, the editor’s wife, secretaries, fellow reporters, absolutely everybody. Then send out men to round up every one of these. In turn, put them on Scop and get the names of everyone they might have mentioned this to.”

“How far do we follow it, Sid?” the agent, named Terry asked.

Sid Jakes laughed wryly, as though the question were foolish. “To the ultimate. Even though you wind up with everybody in Interplanetary News in Interrogation. We’ve got to have everybody who even suspects, or might possibly suspect, the existence of our little friend, here.” He made a gesture with a thumb at the alien in its box.

The agent nodded, then asked one last question: “After interrogation, what?”

Sid Jakes said flatly, “Then well have to memorywash her. Completely wash out this involved period, no matter how far back you have to go.”

The newswoman shrilled. “You can’t do that! Under United Planets law, I’ve got…”

Ronny Bronston shook his head at her. “You’re not in the hands of United Planets, in the ordinary sense of the word, girl friend. You’re in the hands of Section G.”

“But you’re a section of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs! I have my rights!”

Sid Jakes didn’t bother to argue. He said to his other operative, “Get about it, Terry. This is bad. On your way over to Interrogation, if she makes any attempt to break away, muffle her, but tune your gun low. We don’t want her out for too long. She probably had no idea of what she was looking for, when she broke in here. Somewhere there was a leak, we’ve got to find the source of her knowledge that something was coming off. But, above all, we’ve got to prevent her from spreading what she saw.”

Terry said, “Right, Sid. Come along! You heard the Supervisor. One wrong move and you’re muffled; and, believe me, it hurts.”

Rita Daniel’s last protest, as she was marched out the door, was shrilled back over her shoulder. “You… can’t…do…”

“Famous last words.” Sid Jakes grinned at his two remaining men. “Come on boys, let’s finish. There’s only a few more to go.” He looked at Ronny approvingly. “That was a neat trick. How did you spot her?”

Ronny snorted deprecation. “She was too romantic. She was wearing makeup disguise, trying to resemble the real Matriarch. She’d have been better off altering the Tri-Di identification portrait in the credentials. We have no record of what the real Dos Passos looks like. She just recently came to office.”

They processed the remaining VIPs, then sealed the secret room and put it under armed guard.

Sid Jakes and Ronny Bronston, one of his favorite field men, went on to the conference hall, where they had been sending the viewers of the exhibition.

“Where’s the Chief?” Ronny asked. He was what could only be described as a very average man. It was one of his prime attributes as a Section G operative. He was of average height and weight. His face was pleasant enough, though hardly handsome—a somewhat colorless young man of about thirty. He was less than natty in dress and his hair had a slightly undisciplined trend. He had dark hair and brown eyes, and he absolutely never stood out in a crowd.

He was also as devoted an agent as was to be found in Section G, whose personnel was selected on the basis of devotion to the United Planets dream.

Sid Jakes, walking along beside him—bouncing along, might be the better term—couldn’t have been more different. Even his clothes breathed a happy-go-lucky air. He had a nervous vitality about him that made all others seem lazy of movement. But his appearance was as belying as that of Ronny Bronston; one does not achieve to the rank of supervisor in Section G without abilities far and beyond usual.

Sid said, grunting amusement, “The old man’s in hiding until the time comes for the big revelation. He’s not about to get into that hive of big shots and let them yell at him at random. I’ll have Irene give him the word when all’s ready.”

The selected men of importance of United Planets had been gathered in an Octagon ultra-security conference room, which had been adjusted to hold the full two thousand of them. Comfortable seating arrangements and refreshment, both food and drink, had been provided. However, there was absolutely no method by which any, no matter of what importance, could communicate with the outside.

The doors were guarded by empty-faced Section G agents, under most strict orders. Polite they were, when this president or that dictator, this scientific genius, or that head of a fanatic religious system, demanded exit or some manner of communicating with family or staff. Polite they were, but unbending. When a burly bully-boy, from the feudalistic planet Goshen, tried to be physical, a short scuffle was sufficient to demonstrate that Section G training included hand-to-hand combat.

Irene Kasansky was seated, efficient as ever, at a desk near the podium. She was answering questions, briskly issuing commands into her order box, when requests involved preferred refreshment or other minor matters, which didn’t interfere with the security of the meeting.

There comes a time, Ronny Bronston thought all over again, when automation falls flat and man returns to human labor. In this case, the ultra-efficient office secretary-receptionist. For spinster, Irene Kasansky might be, on the verge of middle age she might be, and unfortunately plain—but she was also by far the best secretary in the Octagon.

Now she snarled from the side of her mouth. “It’s about time you got here. I’ve been through more jetsam, these past few hours, than I’ve had in the past few years managing Ross Metaxa’s office. And I thought that was the ultimate. Where have you been, playing dice?”

Sid grinned down at her. “Don’t be bitter, dear. You’ll get wrinkles and an acid-looking face, and then everyone will stop propositioning you. All’s ready to go. Pry the old man away from that bottle of Denebian tequila and let’s let loose the dogs of war.”

He turned and bounded to the speaker’s stand. Holding up his hands, he called: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, ladies. Can we all be seated? The meeting is about to commence.”

He held silence then, until all was quiet, which took some time, considering the fact that the most highly individualistic persons in United Planets were gathered before him.

Sid Jakes grinned finally, as though finding the whole thing amusing, and said, “Undoubtedly, you have been spending the better part of the morning discussing among yourselves the significance of the little creature I displayed to you. But now we shall hear from Commissioner Ross Metaxa.”

“Who in the name of the Holy Ultimate is Ross Metaxa?” someone rumbled.

And someone else snapped, indignantly, “You have taken His name in vain!” The latter worthy was dressed in colorful and flowing robes.

“Please, gentlemen, please,” Sid shouted above again rising voices. “Commissioner Ross Metaxa!” He jumped down from the dais and grinned at Ronny.

“The old man can have this job,” he chortled. “Every crackpot genius in this section of the galaxy is out there.”

Ross Metaxa came in through an inconspicuous door in the rear of the room, immediately behind the speaker’s stand. Eyebrows went up. He was flanked by the Director of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs—as high an officer as United Planets provided; and by the President of United Planets—a largely honorary office chosen by interplanetary vote. Once every ten years, each member planet was entitled to one voice, in selecting the president. Metaxa did not seem to be awed by his companions, but rather was obviously accompanied by peers.

Sid chuckled from the side of his mouth. “The old man’s hanging it on heavy.”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Ronny whispered back. “He’s going to have hard enough a time as it is, getting this assembly to listen to his opinions.”

The Director and the President took chairs off to one side, and Metaxa made his way to the podium. He was a man in his middle years, sour of expression, weighty around the waist, and sloppily clothed to the point where it would seem an affectation.

The voices of the two thousand had begun to rise again, questioning, querulous.

Ross Metaxa glowered out at them for a long moment. Finally he growled, “All right, damn it, let’s cut out all this jetsam and get down to matters.”

There was an immediate hush of shocked surprise.

Before an indignant hum could rise again, the Commissioner of Section G announced brusquely: “Ladies and gentlemen, to use an idiomatic term of yesteryear, the human race is in the clutch.”

II

Someone in the first row of the audience snorted ridicule and called up, “Because of that little creature in there? Don’t be a flat!”

The Commissioner of Section G looked at him bleakly. “It should occur, even to the physically conscious Grand Duke of the Planet Romanoff, that the size of the creature in question has nothing to do with it.” He tapped his head significantly. “It is what is in here that brought us up short. You see, the little fellow was picked up by one of our Space Forces scouts well over a century ago.”

“A century!” one of his listeners bleated. “And we are only informed today?”

A buzz began again, but Metaxa held up a wary hand. “Please. That is one of the things I am here to explain. Our little alien was found in what could have only been a one-man fighter scout. He was dead, his craft blasted and torn, obviously from some weapon’s fire. His own vessel was highly equipped with what could only have been weapons: most so damaged, our engineers have yet to figure them out. To the extent they have been able to reconstruct them, they’ve been flabbergasted.

“The conclusions are obvious. Our intelligent alien, in there, was killed in an interplanetary conflict. How long he had been drifting in space, our technicians couldn’t determine, possibly only for months, but possibly for any number of centuries. But the important thing is that there was at least one other warlike, aggressive life form in the galaxy, besides man. Probably, at least two, since it was interplanetary war, which killed our specimen.”

The buzz rose again, and was not to be silenced for a time. Ross Metaxa stood and waited it out. But they were anxious for his revelations and finally silence ruled.

He dropped another bomb.

“But we no longer need fear our friend in the other room. Man is in no danger from him and his species.”

That set them off once more, but he held firm in silence until they quit their shouting of questions, their inter-audience squabblings, chattering and debate.

At last he held up a hand, and said, “Let me leave that statement for a time. Let me lay a foundation upon which to base what we must discuss today.”

He looked out at them, thoughtfully. “Most of you are going to have some reservations about what I have to say.

“Fellow citizens of United Planets: When man first began to erupt into the stars, but a few centuries ago, his travels assumed a form that few could have foreseen. All but lemming-like, he streamed from the planet of his origin. And the form his colonizing took, soon lost all scheme of planning, all discipline. The fact was that any group that could float the wherewithal to buy or rent a space transport, or convert a freighter, could take off into the stars to found their own version of Utopia.

“And take off they did, without rhyme or reason. No, I recall that statement. Reasons they had aplenty: Racial reasons, religious reasons, political reasons, idealistic reasons, romantic reasons, socio-economic reasons, altruistic reasons and mercenary reasons. In a way, I suppose we duplicated, a hundredfold, the motivations the Europeans found to colonize the New World. The Spanish came with sword and harquebus in search of gold, ready to slaughter all who stood before them. The Pilgrims came to seek a new land, where they could practice a somewhat stilted religion, in a manner denied them at home. Large numbers of criminals came, either as convicts being exiled or fugitives from justice. Adventurers of every type zeroed-in, seeking their fortunes. Later, large numbers of Germans came, fleeing political persecution, and large numbers of Irish, fleeing famine.”

Ross Metaxa grunted, and flicked his heavy head. “And so it was in space. And in the early years, in particular, there was comparatively little friction. The galaxy is immense, and thus far, we have but touched a slightest segment of it. We are way out in a sparsely populated spiral arm, but there are still inhabitable planets in vast multitude and room for all. Every spacer-load of idealists or crackpots could safely find their habitable planet and settle down to go to hell in their own way.”

There was a mumble of discontent over the manner in which he was expressing himself, but he went on, ignoring the objections.

“However, in time, some of our more aggressive planets began to have growing pains. Planets, settled by such groups as the Amish, began to worry about their neighbors on the Planet Füehrerland. This had been settled by a disgruntled group of followers of a political leader of the 20th Century, who had come to disaster in his own time, but whose tradition came down through the years, somewhat distorted in his favor, as traditions are apt to become. Suffice to say that United Planets, based here on Mother Earth, came into being. Its purpose, of course, was obvious. To assist man in his explosion into the stars. The very basis of the organization was Articles One and Two of the United Planets Charter. Citizeness Kasansky, please.”

Irene Kasansky, without looking up, read into her desk mike. “Article One: The United Planets organization shall take no steps to interfere with the internal political, socio-economic, or religious institutions of its member planets . Article Two: No member planet of United Planets shall interfere with the internal political, socio-economic or religious institutions of any other member planet.”

Ronny Bronston knew, even as she read, that not only Irene, but everyone present in the hall knew the articles by heart. Metaxa was simply using this bit of business to emphasize his fling.

When she was done, Metaxa nodded ponderously. “Over the centuries, most planets, though not all, have joined up. Whatever their stated reasons, usually very highflown ones, the actuality is that each wishes the protection of the Charter. Each planet desperately holds on to its own sovereignty.”

There was a buzz again, and again he ignored it.

“Always remember, that within our almost three-thousand member planets are represented just about every political and every socio-economic system ever dreamed up by philosophers and economists since Plato, and every religion since the White Goddess, the Triple Goddess, prevailed throughout the Mediterranean. A planet whose economy is based on chattle slavery doesn’t want to have its institutions subverted by adherents of feudalism. And a planet with feudalistic institutions doesn’t want some entrepreneur from another planet, flying the flag of free enterprise, to come along with creeping capitalism. An atheistic planet, such as Ingersol, doesn’t want a bevy of fanatical missionaries from Byzantium, working away at its youth, which hasn’t been exposed to religion for centuries.”

His All Holiness of the Holy Theocracy of the Planet Bysantium called out in a fine rage. “I protest your levity, Commissioner.”

Ross Metaxa ignored him.

“All this is not new to you. But, somewhat over a century ago, matters changed, overnight and drastically. Our Spaces Forces brought in our little alien, there in the next room. Suddenly we had to face it. Man is not alone in the galaxy. Thus far, we had thought to be. Nowhere, in our explorations, though, admittedly, they have been but a pinprick on the chart of the Milky Way, did we find signs of intelligent life. Lower life forms, yes, occasionally. But never intelligent life of, say, even the order of the chimpanzee of Earth. But now we had to face the fact that there is intelligent, aggressive, scientifically and militarily advanced life in our galaxy; and, obviously, sooner or later, man, in his expansion into the stars, will come up against it. It was but a matter of time.”

Someone called out. “Perhaps this life form is benevolent!”

Ross nodded his shaggy head. “Perhaps it is,” he answered simply.

His words brought a deep silence. These were not stupid men and women. Largely, they were the cream of the planets they represented. The inference was obvious.

Ross Metaxa dropped another bomb. “So it was,” he went on, “that the nature of United Planets changed. Unbeknownst to the individual member planets, a new purpose for its being evolved.

There was heavy electricity in the air.

“No longer was it practical for man to allow such groups as the naturalists—who colonized the planet, Mother—to settle into their desired Stone Age society, rejecting all of man’s scientific advance down through the ages. No longer could we condone the presence among our number of the Planet Kropotkin, based on the anarchist ethic that no man is capable nor has the right to judge another. No longer were planets such as Monet to be borne.”

“Monet?” someone shouted in query.

Ross Metaxa said, “Originally colonized by a group of artists, musicians, painters, and sculptors, who had visions of starting a new race devoted entirely to the arts. They were so impractical that they crashed their ship, lost communication with the rest of the race, and, when rediscovered, had slipped into a military theocracy something like the Aztecs of Mexico. Their religion was based on that of ancient Phoenecia, including child sacrifice to the god, Moloch. Monet, too, claimed the benefits of Articles One and Two, wishing no interference with their institutions.”

The representative from Goshen, the bully-boy, who had had the run in with the Section G guards earlier, lumbered to his feet. His voice was dangerous. “And what was this new policy adopted by United Planets, unbeknown, as you say, to the member planets themselves?”

The Commissioner made a gesture with a heavy paw. “Is it not obvious, Your Excellency? It became the task of United Planets, though but a fraction of us have been privy to the fact, to advance the human race, scientifically, industrially, culturally, socio-economically, as fast as it was possible to do so.”

“Even though Articles One and Two, the very basis of the Charter were violated?”

The shaggy head lowered, and Ross Metaxa glowered out at them, in their shocked silence. “No matter what was being violated,” he growled.

A roar went through the hall and he waited it out. At long last he was able to say, “Nothing could be allowed to stand in the way of the most rapid advance of which we were capable. Sooner or later, we knew, we would come in contact with the potential enemy. A potential friend, too, of course, but that must remain to be seen. Man must be as strong as possible, when the confrontation takes place.”

Sidi Hassen of the Planet Medina was standing. All eyes went to him. Medina was one of the strongest planets in the union, though its government was one of the most repressive.

He said, “Commissioner Metaxa, it is obvious that all this is but a build-up. You have admitted that Mother Earth, home of United Planets, has been secretly subverting the institutions of the member planets. Now tell us why it has been necessary to reveal the fact to us, at this late date.” There was a dangerous element in his voice.

Sid Jakes chuckled under his breath and whispered to Ronny Bronston, standing beside him. “Our friend has probably just realized where some of his Underground troubles originated. If the boys have been briefing me correctly, that Hereditary Democratic-Dictatorship of his isn’t going to last the week out.”

The head of Section G nodded agreement. “Very well,” he said. “As I mentioned earlier, the charred body you were all invited to see no longer indicates a threat to us.” He paused, wanting the drama.

“Why not!” came from a hundred voices.

“Because, a few weeks ago, a small exploration task force, driving out beyond the point thus far ventured to, by even the most adventurous of our race, came upon the three star systems which were the origin of our little dead space traveler.”

“You mean,” the burly representative from Goshen roared, “that we now know where the sneaky little rats come from and they only dominate three star systems?”

Metaxa nodded. “From all we can find, they had evidently spread over a complex of some twelve planets. Planets similar in nature to those that will support our own life form. Our little aliens were also oxygen breathers.” He grunted and flicked his head in his dour, characteristic mannerism. “I see most of you have noted my use of the past tense.”

He dropped his last bomb. “Our exploring fleet found that each of their twelve planets were now supporting a methane-hydrogen-ammonia atmosphere. They found also that evidently the switch in atmospheres, from one predominately nitrogen-oxygen, had come so suddenly that the inhabitants had no time to attempt protection. They died. Perhaps some survived for a time, including those that might have been in space, when the atmosphere was switched. If so, it would seem they were destroyed by other means. Perhaps our specimen in the other room was one of these. At any rate, ladies and gentlemen of the human race, this whole life form has been completely destroyed by some other intelligent alien life form beyond it.” He looked about the large hall with its some two thousand rulers of the member planets. “That, by the way, should be at least a partial answer to the question of whether or not this life form, still further beyond, can be considered benevolent.”

There were a hundred questions being roared at him. He ignored them, largely, trying to answer a few that seemed more pertinent.

Someone called, “Where was this discovery of the three star systems made?”

Metaxa said, “Surprisingly near our member planet of Phrygia, which, of course, is the furtherest from Mother Earth in the direction of the galaxy’s center.”

Irene Kasansky turned to Sid Jakes and said, “Terry wants to talk to you.” She handed him a Section G hand communicator.

Sid spoke into it, his eyes darting around the crowded conference room even as he spoke.

He snapped, “All right, I’ll be right over.” He handed the communicator back to Irene, and said to Ronny Branston, “Come on, Ronny. They’re going to be yelling back and forth in here for hours.”

Out in the corridor, Ronny said, “What’s up?”

The Supervisor summoned a three wheeler. “Terry’s cracked that news-hen Daniels, or whatever her name is. Metaxa doesn’t need us for awhile. Let’s see what she has to say. Imagine that mopsy’s gall, trying to crack Section G security.”

They climbed onto the three wheeler, and Sid Jakes dialed Interrogation.

Ronny said mildly, “If you ask me, the woman’s pretty stute to have got as far as she did. We ought to recruit her.”

“Sure, sure,” Sid Jakes laughed. “She’d stay with us for a year or so, until she knew every secret in the Commissariat, then go running back to Interplanetary News again. Once a newshound, always… Oops, here we are.”

Interrogation had come a long way since the days of the Gestapo of the Third Reich, or even the cellar room with the bright light and the rubber hoses of the Land of Liberty.

Rita Daniels was sitting at her ease in a comfortable chair. Terry Harper was across from her. There was a low table with refreshments between them. Inconspicuously in the background was a Section G stenographer, in case human witness were necessary.

Terry got up when his supervisor entered. He was an old-timer in the bureau, due soon for retirement, which he didn’t look forward to. Section G operatives were strong on the dream.

He said, “Sid, as far as the girl knows, only her editor is aware she’s here.”

While Ronny Bronston sank into a chair, Sid Jakes perched on the stenographer’s desk. He said pleasantly to the news-woman, “And how did he find out something was cooking at the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs?”

The other’s face worked under the pressure of trying to fight off the influence of the drug. “I don’t know,” she said.

Sid looked at Terry. “You sent a man over to the editor yet?”

“Not yet, Sid. Since, so far as she knows, only the editor is involved, I though you might want to play it as stute as possible. If we don’t have to throw weight around, well and good.”

Sid patted him on the arm, happily. “Good man, Terry.” He spun on Ronny. “Get over to Interplanetary News…” He looked at Rita Daniels, “What’s this editor’s name?”

“Rosen. He’s on the Octagon desk.”

Sid’s eyes darted back to Ronny. “Bring him over, but in such a way that no ripples are started in his office.”

“Oh, great,” Ronny said. “No ripples. Just sugar talk him into coming into our lair, eh?”

Sid Jakes grinned at him happily. “Ronny, old boy, if you can’t do it ripplelessly, nobody can. You’re the most inconspicuous man in the bureau.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

III

The nadirscraper, which housed Interplanetary News, delved a good two hundred levels beneath the surface of Greater Washington. As was the prevailing trend, the face presented to the world of the open air was Antiquity Revival: in this case, Egyptian. Although Ronny Bronston had never been in the establishment before, he had passed it on many occasions, never failing to wince at the architect’s conception of the Temple of Luxor.

Now he made his way up an immense approach, flanked by a score of marble sphinxes, through an entrada of soaring columns, seemingly open to the sky, but undoubtedly roofed with ultra-transparent plasti.

There was no point in being less than direct. He marched up to the reception desk, pressed an activating button before one of the live screens, and said, “Bronston of the Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation, to see Citizen Rosen of the Octagon Desk. Soonest.”

The voice said, “Your identification, please.”

Ronny Bronston brought forth a flat wallet and performed an operation, which came down—unbeknownst to him—in all identicalness, from a long past period of law enforcement.

He flashed his buzzer.

It was a simple enough silver badge, which glowed somewhat strangely when his hand came in touch with it. It read, merely, Ronald Bronston, Section G, Bureau of Investigation, United Planets.

“Than kue, Citizen Bronston. Please state your reason for desiring an appointment with Citizen Rosen.”

Ronny said testily, “Bureau of Investigation matter, of a security nature.”

“Than kue…” the voice faded away.

Almost immediately, a three wheeler approached, and its voicebox said, “Citizen Bronston. Please be seated.”

He mounted the scooter, and noted how quickly the pseudo-Egyptian decor melted away, as soon as they had entered a ramp leading into the depths.

The three wheeler took him, first, to a bank of elevators, plunged him an unknown number of levels, emerged, and then darted into corridor traffic.

Interplanetary News, Ronny considered. An octopus, which had spread over almost all the United Planets, and over many man-occupied worlds not affiliated with the confederation. Few, indeed, were the planets that could refrain from the fabulous news dispensing service. Even those worlds, such as Goshen, which were so tightly dominated by the feudalistic clique which suppressed it (keeping the populous ninety-five percent illiterate and taking all measures to keep even the barest knowledge of what transpired on other planets from its people), subscribed. In that case, only the nobility had access to the information purveyed.

It reminded Ronny, as he thought, that some measures were going to have to be taken by Section G to overthrow that Goshen aristocracy. If the planet was ever going to get anywhere, the people were going to have to be given a shove out of the mire of class-divided society.

He wondered, vaguely: how many languages, besides Earth Basic, did Interplanetary News have to deal with? A thousand? Probably, if dialects were considered . It seemed that a considerable number of the colonists, who wandered off into space—seeking their Ultima Thule—made effort to devise a new tongue, or, at least, to revive a dead one. There must be a score of versions of Esperanto alone, out there in the stars, not to speak of such jerry-rigged artificial tongues as: Ido, Volapük, Lingua Internaciona, Lingvo Kosmopolita, Esperantido, Nov-Esperanto, Latinesce, Nov-Latin, Europan, and what not.

The more closely a world identified with United Planets, of course, the more widespread the use of Earth Basic. But the worlds which attempted to keep aloof, usually for religious or socio-economic reasons, could get so far removed, that United Planets—as well as Interplanetary News—had to deal heavily through interpreters.

There even came to mind that far-out world settled by deaf-mutes. What was its name? Keller, or something .

The three wheeler came to a halt before a door.

“Citizen Rosen,” its voicebox said.

Ronny dismounted and the vehicle darted off into the corridor traffic.

He stood before the door’s screen, and said, “Bronston, to see Citizen Rosen.”

The door opened; he stepped through, and into the arms of two well-muscled goons. They held him by his arms, pausing a moment, as though waiting for his reaction.

Ronny mentally shrugged. It was their ball. Let them bounce it.

Both, still holding his arms, with one hand, each ran their other hands over him in the classic frisk. He didn’t resist.

One leered as he touched under the Section G agent’s left arm. “Ah, packing a shooter.”

The other said, “Take it, Jed.”

Ronny said mildly, “If you take that gun, without my deactivating it first, you’re a dead man, friend.”

The other’s hand, which had been darting under his jacket, came to a quick pause.

Jed scowled, “Don’t give me that jetsam. What d’ya mean?”

Ronny said reasonably, “It’s a Model H, built especially for the Bureau of Investigation. It’s tuned to me. Unless I, personally, deactivate it, anyone who takes it from me is crisp within seconds.”

The two of them froze.

Ronny said mildly, “If it’s as important as all that, suppose I deactivate it for you? And you can return it, when I leave. I’m not here to hurt anybody.”

“The boss said…”

“The boss is obviously a flat,” Ronny said, still with an air of bored reasonableness. “Since when does the Bureau of Investigation send pistoleros around to deal with half-baked newsmen?”

One looked at the other. “The boss said…” he let the sentence dribble away.

The other said, his voice gruff, “Okay, give us the gun.” Their hands dropped away.

Ronny took the gun from its quickdraw holster, touched a hidden stud and presented it, butt first. “Now, can I see this romantic cloddy, Rosen?”

Jed, at least, flushed; but, one leading, one bringing up the rear, they passed through another door and into a quarter acre of office.

Rosen sat behind a desk much too large for him. He bent a sly eye on the Section G agent.

“So… The Department of Dirty Tricks, Section Cloak and Dagger.”

Jed put the gun on the desk. “He had this on him,” he said; the implication being that they had wrested it away from Ronny in desperate fray.

Ronny said, “Look, you characters seem to have been taking in a lot of Tri-Di crime tapes, or some such. Why don’t we cut out all this maize and get around to the reason for my coming over here. We could have simply summoned you, you know.”

Rosen said nastily, “You could have summoned till Mercury turned to ice cubes. What’s going on over there at the Octagon? What happened to…” He cut himself short.

“To Rita Daniels?” Ronny provided. “She’s okay. My supervisor asked me to come over and bring you around to discuss Rita and her assignment.”

“Yeah? And then you’d have both of us, eh? Listen, Bronston, what’s going on? Half the most important bigwigs in the system have…”

Ronny said quickly, “I don’t believe you really want to discuss this in front of the boys, here.”

“Why not?”

“That’s what my supervisor wants to talk to you about,” Ronny said mildly.

The other stared at him. He was a smaller man, even, than the Section G operative, and there was a cast of perpetual disbelief in his eyes.

He said finally to his two goons, “Go over there to the far side of the room, but keep your eye on this fella. And don’t let his size throw you off.”

They went to the room’s far end and leaned against the wall, assuming expressions of bored cynicism in the best of Tri-Di crime show tradition. Ronny wondered vaguely if it had always been thus, down through the centuries. Did the bully boys and criminal toughs of Shakespeare’s day pick up their terminology and mannerisms from watching the villains in plays and aping them? He was inwardly amused.

As yet, Rosen hadn’t asked him to be seated. However, Ron pulled up a chair across the desk from the other, his back to the two goons. He looked at the newsman.

“My supervisor wants to talk to you.”

“Before he releases Rita, eh?”

There was a certain quality about the other’s voice. Ronny assumed the room was bugged.

“I didn’t say anything like that,” he said, ever mildly. “Where did you get the idea we were holding Rita Daniels?”

“She hasn’t returned.”

Ronny shrugged. “Why couldn’t she be out having a guzzle or two?” He brought a pen from an inner pocket. “Let me have a piece of paper, will you?”

Scowling puzzlement, Rosen pushed a pad over. He failed to notice that the agent—never departing from the standard motions a man makes when he is about to jot down an item—had depressed a small stud on the supposed writing instrument’s side. He failed to notice the faintest of hisses, nor the almost microscopic-sized dart that issued from the pen and pricked into his hand.

Even as Ronny scribbled a note on the paper, Rosen, still scowling, absently scratched the back of that hand.

Ronny pushed the note over. It said, merely, Come along with me, Citizen Rosen .

Rosen read it and flushed anger. “Do you think I’m drivel-happy?” he began. Then his face went infinitesimally lax, his eyes, slightly strange. Deep in their depths, there seemed to be a trapped fear.

Ronny came to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said. “Citizen Jakes is waiting.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Rosen said emptily. He stood up also.

His guards reacted.

Jed blurted, “You ain’t going with this funker, are you, Boss? You said you expected him to pull some kinda quick one.”

Ronny picked up his gun from the desk, reactivated it and slid it back into its holster. He picked up the note he had written and slipped it into his side pocket. Without looking again at the musclemen, he headed for the door, followed by the chief of the Interplanetary News Octagon desk.

Back at the offices of Section G, in the Bureau of Investigation branch offices, still leading, Ronny pushed his way through to the office of Sid Jakes. The irrepressible Sid was sitting at his desk, legs elevated, feet messing up a half dozen reports that lay there.

The supervisor waved a hand in greeting. “Who’s this fella?” he asked happily.

Ronny growled, “You wanted Rosen. So here’s Rosen.”

Jakes peered at the small newsman. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s got a Come-Along shot in him.”

“Holy Ultimate, Ronny. You know that’s illegal. Interplanetary News will have you on a kidnap romp charge.”

Ronny grunted. “Remember? You were going to give this cloddy and his girl, Rita, a memorywash. That isn’t exactly part and parcel of the United Planets Charter, either. But one will wash out the recall of the other, so what’s the difference? What’s going on between all the bigwings?”

Before answering, Sid Jakes flicked on his order box, and said into it, “Irene, send me an antidote syrette for a Come-Along. Our boy, Ronny, has been tearing up the peapatch. Okay, okay, I know you’re busy.” He leered. “But who else could I trust with Ronny’s neck at stake?” He flicked the box off, and turned back to his field man. “That old mopsy’s sugar on you, you know.”

“How’s the chief doing?”

“The old man’s still at them, hot and heavy. He’s let them know the fat’s in the fire now. That, willy-nilly, they’re going to have to get together in an all-out cooperation, through United Planets, to meet the danger of these new aliens. It’s a madhouse.”

Sid looked at Rosen. “Sit down, fella. You look tired.”

The terror was in the depths of the other’s eyes. The wild desire to escape.

Ronny said, “He’s tuned to me, of course.” He said to the newsman. “Sit down, Rosen.”

Rosen sat down.

Sid Jakes flicked his order box again. “Send Terry Harper over with a charge of Scop.”

Ronny said wryly, “Our friend here is going to look like a pincushion before we’re through with him, what with Come-Along and its antidote, Scop, and then the memory-wash.”

There was fear and hate in the depths of the eyes again.

Later, shots administered, they sat around, Jakes, Bronston and Harper, and stared at the Interplanetary News man, freed of the kidnapping drug now, but loaded with Scop. Sid Jakes grinned at him, as though forgivingly. “Now, my stute friend, how many others, besides you and this Rita Daniels, knew about her assignment to break in on the UP conference?”

The other was trying to fight and couldn’t. He tried to hold back each word, and couldn’t.

“Nobody… except… my informant.” Sid nodded encouragement. “All right. And who told you about the meeting at all?”

“Baron Wyler.”

Sid looked at Ronny and Terry. “Who’s Wyler?” Rosen took it as a question directed at him. “Baron Wyler, Supreme Commandant of the Planet Phrygia.”

“Phrygia!” Ronny blurted. “That’s the planet nearest to the alien threat. The Space Forces expedition that found the three star systems, where the little aliens came from, took off from Phrygia as its final base.”

Sid Jakes chuckled. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He bent a cheerful eye on his victim. “And why did the good Baron tell you about the meeting?”

“I… I’m not… sure. I think… it’s because… he gives us… news beats… available to him… as result… of his high… office. We… support… his politics… on Phrygia.” There were blisters of cold sweat on the little man’s forehead and his shirt was soaked, but his efforts were valueless. There was hate rather than fear in his eyes now.

“I see,” Jakes drawled. “Which would come under the head of interfering with the internal political system of a member planet of United Planets, eh? Naughty, naughty, Rosen. Violation of Article Two. Interplanetary News could lose its license to operate on an interplanetary basis. My, wouldn’t your competitor, All-Planet Press just love that?”

But in spite of the levity of his words, his eyes were bleak and he spun to his order box. “If that yoke, Baron Wyler, would break ultra-security to tip off a newsman, who knows who else he might sound off to?” He flicked a switch, and blatted, “Irene, have the boys pick up Baron Wyler of the planet Phrygia and bring him here. Absolutely soonest. Kid gloves, he’s a chief of state.”

The order box squawked a reply and Sid Jakes winced. “All right. Find out soonest where he’s staying and send the boys to get him.”

He turned to Bronston and Harper. “It’s the most delicate situation that’s come up in the history of the UP. We’ve got almost three thousand member planets, but the leaders of only two thousand were let in on the crisis. If the word gets out to some of these more backward, reactionary or crackpot worlds, that they were ignored and that their internal matters have been messed with, they’ll be dropping out of United Planets like dandruff.”

“What happened?” Ronny said.

Sid Jakes grumbled deprecation. “The conference has knocked off for the day and the delegates have melted away into their various embassies, to hotels, or to the homes of friends. The Holy Ultimate only knows where the Baron is. It’ll be a neat trick finding him, if he doesn’t want to be found.”

IV

When Ronny Bronston came in, in the morning, Irene Kasansky looked up from her desk, and said, in comparatively good humor, “Where’ve you been, Ronny? The commissioner’s been asking for you.”

Ronny said mildly, “I’ve been getting some sleep. Remember? Even Section G operatives have to do it occasionally.”

She snorted, but not with her usual acidity. “Jetsam, jetsam. All I get around here is jetsam. Why I don’t go drivel-happy…”

Ronny grinned at her, pushed through the door beyond her desk, turned left in the corridor and knocked at another door, which was inconspicuously lettered, Ross Metaxa, Commissioner, Section G . Ronald Bronston seldom entered here, without the realization coming over him, all over again, that behind this door was possibly the single most powerful man in United Planets, and that not one person in a million had ever heard of him. Ross Metaxa of Section G, the ultra-secret enforcement arm of the inner-workings of United Planets. Section G, whose unstated principle was that the ends justified the means: any means necessary to achieve the United Planets dream were acceptable. As always, when this thought came to him, Ronny Bronston shook his head. He had been raised in another ethic.

By his appearance, one would have assumed that the commissioner of Section G had not seen his bed the night before. Either that, or he had been on a monumental toot. He was red and slightly moist of eye, his clothes more disheveled than before. He looked up grumpily, when Ronny entered.

Sid Jakes was there, too, sprawled in a chair, his hands in his pockets, his face in its all but perpetual grin. Lee Chang Chu was also present, sitting demurely to one side of Metaxa’s desk, her cheongsam dress emphasizing her oriental background.

Metaxa grunted. “Ronny. Good. We’re just about to get underway. Drink?” He made a motion to the inevitable squat bottle that stood at his right hand.

Ronny shuddered. “That stuff? And this time of day?” He looked at the girl. “Hi, Lee Chang.” So far as he knew, every unmarried man in Section G was in love with the diminutive Chinese girl, despite the fact that she was possibly the most effective agent of them all, and had reached supervisor status, ranking the great majority.

She smiled her slow smile and nodded her greetings, as though too shy to speak out in this gathering of men.

Metaxa grunted, “Sid, bring Ronny up to date.”

Sid chuckled happily. “Everything’s going to pot. Whether or not we’re going to keep the lid on this, even temporarily, is moot. We thought we’d selected the two thousand most responsible chiefs of state of United Planets. Actually, what we’ve got is a madhouse. Hardly any two of them agree on what’s to be done. At least a dozen have dropped out of UP.”

Ronny stared at him. “Dropped out! But why? In this emergency…”

Metaxa interrupted. “They didn’t wait long enough to consider the emergency. As soon as they heard that we had been violating Articles One and Two, they resigned.”

Lee Chang Chu spoke for the first time. She said softly, “Self-interest we shall always have with us. There’s a sizable percentage of our species that would rather die, and bring down the whole race with them, than face the threat of having their political or religious institutions changed.”

There was no refuting that.

Sid went on. “Goshen and some of the other hairy-chested planets want to declare war on the aliens. Right now.” He laughed his pleasure at the idea. “We don’t even know where they are located in the galaxy, but Goshen wants to declare war. On their own planet, of course, they’ve resisted the introduction of gunpowder. Afraid that the serfs they exploit might get uppity if there were weapons available capable of knocking over castle walls. But they want to declare war on some unknown aliens, who evidently have the neat trick of changing a whole world’s atmosphere from nitrogen-oxygen, to poison gas, overnight. Oh, great.” Sid chortled again.

“Get on with it, you laughing hyena,” Metaxa grumbled.

Sid said, “Others want to sue for peace. How we can sue for peace is another mystery. Keeping in mind that even if we knew where they came from, we still have no particular reason to believe we could communicate. Or, if we could, that they’d be interested in doing so. But even that’s not the end. A few of the member planets want to send missionaries. Missionaries, yet! If there’s anything that’ll irritate just anybody at all, it’s bothering around with his religious institutions. Besides, who ever heard of missionaries being sent from a weaker to a stronger power. It’s the stronger power that always beats its weaker neighbors over the head with its missionaries.”

Ronny said, thoughtfully, “What is our own stand? Section G has been aware of the problem for over a century. What should we do?”

Metaxa stirred in his chair. He growled, “For the most part, what we have been doing. That is, speeding up our own development by every means that we can. Scientifically, industrially, socio-economically…”

Ronny frowned at him.

His chief scowled back. “We’ve got to push toward the optimum socio-economic system…”

Ronny said mildly, “There are nearly as many ideas on what that is as you’ve got persons who have considered the question.”

Sid chuckled.

Metaxa growled, “Please, no humor at this time of day. So far as we’re concerned, the optimum social system is one under which the greatest number can exercise the greatest amount of each individual’s ability. As much education as the individual can assimilate, all-out encouragment of unusual gifts, absolutely nothing so silly as industrial production cycles that allow such nonsense as unemployment, not to speak of anything as reactionary as featherbedding.”

Lee Chang Chu said softly, “It is an optimum which has been realized on few planets, I am afraid.”

The commissioner said, “At this point, we are aware that our potential enemy exists, though we are not in contact. But we haven’t any reason to believe that he is aware of our existence. It is possible that we have another year, another century, another millennium before our cultures touch. Possible, but not probable. To the extent we can delay that meeting, we can be more happily prepared for it. That’s our job. Delay, delay, delay, while man continues to advance.” He looked at Ronny again. “And that’s where you come in.”

Ronny Bronston was taken aback. “What?”

Sid chuckled his amusement.

Ross Metaxa reached his hand out for his Denebian tequila, while saying to Lee Chang, “You’re the only one of us that’s been to Phrygia. Brief Ronny on the place. That’s why I called you in.”

Lee Chang nodded demurely. “Are you acquainted with the derivation of the planet’s name, Ronny?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“It was one of the early Greek states. Myth has a story about one of its kings, a cloddy named Midas who had an abnormal love of gold. He befriended Silenus…”

Sid put in, “I know that one. The god of drunks.”

Lee Chang looked at him from the side of her eyes and went on. “And as a reward Dionysus gave him one wish. He chose the power to turn everything he touched into gold.” She twisted her mouth in gentle mockery. “The ramifications are obvious.”

She looked at Ronny again. “The name has a certain validity. Phrygia, I mean. The original colonists were a group which rebelled against the growth of what was then called the Welfare State. They were even more emphatic than usual. Many planets have been colonized by elements strong for, ah, free enterprise, and opposed to any interference at all by the state in the management of business—not to speak of democratic ownership of the means of production, distribution and communications. The colonists of Phrygia didn’t even believe in common ownership of such things as the post office and highways, not…”

Ronny blinked at her. “How can you conduct a post office or…”

Sid chuckled. “Ronny, old man, you don’t go far enough into history. Don’t you remember the Pony Express and Wells Fargo? In the early days, mail was in the hands of private concerns. And quite a hash they made of it, too. And early toll roads and toll bridges were private, too.”

“At any rate,” Lee Chang went on, “the settlers of Phrygia were strong individualists and great believers in pragmatism. On Phrygia, it’s each man for himself and the devil take the hindmost.”

“Also,” said Sid, “dog eat dog, never give a sucker an even break, and if I don’t take advantage of this situation, somebody else will.” He laughed.

Lee Chang said thoughtfully, “The characteristic also manifests itself in their interplanetary relations. The Phrygians are great entrepreneurs, great traders. More than once, less advanced member planets have had to evoke Article Two of the UP Charter to avoid being swallowed up, economically speaking, by the stutes from Phrygia.” She allowed herself a slight smile. “I suspect, actually, that they are in considerable revolt against the existence of such a restraint. Given a free rein, Phrygia would be in full control of a considerable section of her part of our growing confederacy, in short order.”

When she paused, Ronny looked at his superior. “What’s this got to do with me?”

Metaxa had slugged back the drink he had poured. As he wiped the heel of his beefy hand over his mouth, he said, “Sid didn’t bring you completely up to date. Yesterday, when we found out it was Baron Wyler, who had tipped off Interplanetary News, we sent out a call to have him picked up. Until we are able to concoct some mutually satisfactory plans to present to United Planets as a whole, we want to keep the existence of the aliens secret in order to minimize confusion. However, the good Baron has flown the coop.”

Ronny stared at him. “He’s gone? Where?”

“Evidently, back to Phrygia. He came to the conference in his own official yacht. Which is, by the way, at least as fast as any Space Forces cruiser, or public transportation. You won’t be able to beat him back to his home planet, no matter how soon you start.”

It was clearing up now. Ronny looked from one of them to the other. “You want me to go to Phrygia, eh? What do I do there?”

Ross scowled at him. “If we knew, then we wouldn’t have to send as good a man. You play it by ear. Do what has to be done.”

Ronny grunted at the left-handed compliment. “How big is our Section G force on Phrygia?”

Metaxa looked at Sid Jakes.

Sid was amused. “Only one man,” he said. “And he’s incognito. Operates under the guise of a member of the UP Department of Trade. The Phrygians are as stute as they come and evidently suspect the true nature of Section G. They don’t want any of our operatives stirring around in their affairs.”

Ronny came to his feet. “I suppose I’d better get under way.” He hesitated. “What happened to Rita Daniels and Rosen?”

Sid shrugged. “We memorywashed them and sent them back to Interplanetary News. They can’t complain. They’ve been violating Article Two in return for news beats.”

Irene Kasansky had made the arrangements for his trip out to Phrygia. When Ronny issued forth from Metaxa’s sanctum sanctorium, she had looked up at him from her multiple duties on phone screen and order box, at desk mike and auto-files.

“Got your marching orders, eh? Before they’re through in there, there won’t be an agent left on Mother Earth.” She handed a slip of paper to him. “Your shuttle for Neuve Albuquerque leaves at six. You’ll have only one hour stopover. It’s all on the paper there. Take care of yourself, Ronny.”

It occurred to him only then, why Metaxa and Jakes had sent but one agent to Phrygia. Section G must be impossibly short of men in this crisis. Metaxa must have a thousand sore spots with which to deal. Metaxa had been right, up there on the podium, man was in the clutch and must soon alter all his most basic institutions, or he would be a sitting duck for the ultra-advanced aliens.

Ronny Bronston packed sparsely. He had no idea how long he might remain on the distant planet, which was his destination. It might be a matter of hours or years; he might spend the rest of his life there. However, if the stay were lengthy, he could augment his possessions on the spot. To date, he had no idea of what Phrygia climate or clothing styles might be. Why overload himself with non-essentials?

The roof of his apartment building was a copter-cab pickup point, and it took him little time to make his way to the Greater Washington shuttleport. Within three hours of his exit from Ross Metaxa’s office, he was being lobbed over to the spaceport at Neuve Albuquerque.

Irene had made him reservations on an interplanetary liner, rather than assigning a Space Forces cruiser. More comfortable than the military craft, of course, but not so fast. He shrugged. It was a long trip, and one to which he didn’t look forward.

When Ronny Bronston had been a younger man, working in Population Statistics in New Copenhagen, had someone suggested that he wouldn’t enjoy interplanetary travel, he would have thought the other mad. Getting into space was every earthborn boy’s dream, and few there were who realized it. Long since, the authorities had taken measures to keep Earth’s population from leaving wholesale. These days, when new planets were colonized, the colonists came from older settled planets, other than Earth. Earth, the source of man, could not spare its people. Its sole “industry” had at long last become the benevolent direction of human affairs, a super-government. More than four thousand man-populated worlds looked to it, in one degree or another, even those not members of United Planets.

However, no matter how strong the dream, no matter how wrapped up in interplanetary affairs, Ronny Bronston soon came to realize that the actual time involved in getting from one colonized planet to the next was the sheerest of boredom. All passenger activity in space was manufactured activity. There was little to do, certainly nothing to see, once the ship has gone into underspace.

One sits and reads. One plays battle chess, or other games. One talks with one’s fellow passengers. One watches the Tri-Di tapes, if one is mentally of that level.

Thus it was, on the first day out, that Ronny Bronston made his way to the lounge, hoping that at least the craft was stocked with reading material new to him.

He sank into an auto-chair, as far as possible from the Tri-Di stage, and reached his hand for the stud, which would activate the reading tape listing, set into the chair’s arm. His eye, however, hit upon the fellow passenger seated a few feet to his right.

He frowned, and said, “Don’t we know each…” and then broke it off. Of course. It was Rita Daniels, the Interplanetary News reporter. He hadn’t recognized her at first, since she had been wearing a heavy makeup disguise-trying to look like the Supreme Matriarch, Harriet Dos Passos—when he had seen her last. Now, in her own guise, he realized that she was considerably younger than he had thought—and considerably more attractive.

She was blonde, a bit too slim, with a pert, slightly freckled face, and ignored current hair style in favor of a rather intricate ponytail arrangement. In spite of her pertness, there was another more elusive quality, a certain vulnerableness about her mouth. She was clad in a businesslike, inconspicuous crimson suit, and she obviously was of the opinion that this somewhat colorless young man was attempting to pick her up.

She said coolly, “I am afraid not”—and turned away.

What in the name of the Holy Ultimate was she doing on this vessel? The implication was obvious.

He snapped his fingers. “Citizeness Daniels. Interplanetary News.”

She turned on him, her eyebrows high, in surprise. “I’m sorry. You do seem to know me. But… I’m afraid…”

It came to him suddenly that to reveal his true identity would put her on guard. However, he had an advantage. He knew she had been memorywashed. There was a period of at least twenty-four hours, probably more, of which she remembered nothing whatsoever, nor did her immediate superior, Rosen. It must be a confusing situation, he realized. But advantage, it was.

He said easily, smiling, “You remember me. Just yesterday.”

She blinked, her eyes immediately alert. Without doubt, she was keen to take advantage of an opportunity to replace erased memories. “Oh, yes, of course, Citizen…”

He grinned at her, both on the surface and inwardly, in true amusement. “Smythe,” he supplied. “Jimmy Smythe, I helped you out of that trouble with the bottle of guzzle and the traffic coordinator. Wow, were you drenched, eh?”

She stared at him blankly.

V

“Where are you bound?” he said, the standard traveler’s gambit. He was less apt to be suspect if he asked it.

She hesitated, then smiled. “End of the line, I suppose. All the way to Phrygia.”

“Some special news story?”

This time the hesitation was longer, but the question was still the expected one anybody, knowing she was a reporter, would ask. She smiled ruefully, and said, “What else? And you?”

He projected embarrassment. “My job is supposed to be kind of secret. Orders are not to discuss it with anybody.”

She laughed, obviously not caring. “I’ll have to worm it out of you. Probably make a good newstape.”

He grunted self-deprecation. “Hardly. Worst luck. It must be something, being with Interplanetary News. You must meet a lot of interesting people.”

She looked at him, as though wondering if he were kidding. However, no matter how much of a yoke, he was probably better than no companionship at all, and it was a long trip. Besides, he knew at least something about what had happened to her during her twenty-four hour blackout.

“Well, yes,” she drew out. “I suppose so. There’s a lot of fun being on the inside of everything.” She was wondering how she could get around to asking just what the circumstances were under which he had met her. Perhaps the blunt approach would do it. He didn’t seem to be particularly stute, not to say devious. At most, there seemed to be a kind of sad sensitivity about him, as though he felt something in life was passing him by.

“How about a drink?” he suggested, looking down at the wine list in the chair’s arm. He winced at the prices, as he knew an ordinary traveling salesman type might do.

“In space? Good heavens.”

“I’ll put it on the expense account,” he said, with an air of gallantry. “Oiling up the press, or whatever they call it.”

They settled for John Brown’s Bodies, and he told her the one about feeling like you were moldering in your grave, came morning.

Then he said, “How do you mean, on the ‘inside’ of everything?”

She considered that. “Well, back when I was in school I decided that there were two kinds of people throughout the worlds. Those who were on the inside pertaining to everything that really counts, and those who were on the outside, and didn’t have a clue. And I decided, then and there, I wanted to be an insider.”

He sipped his drink and looked at her, his eyes guileless. “I’ll bet you were in your sophomore year, when you thought that up,” he said.

“Why… as a matter of fact, I suppose I was,” she said. “How did you know?”

“I used to work in statistics,” he said meaninglessly. He covered over. “But what is an example of being on the inside?”

She touched the tip of her slightly freckled nose, in a young girl’s gesture, slightly incongruous on the part of an experienced news-hen. “Well, let’s take one of the early examples. Have you ever heard of a man named Hearst?”

He had, but he said no.

“Well, Hearst was the owner of a newspaper chain back about the turn of the 20th Century. At that time, he supported a group that believed the United States was getting into the colony-grabbing game too late. He beat the drums for intervention in Cuba, where a great deal of American capital was invested, against Spain. The story is that he sent a photographer down to take pictures of the war. The photographer cabled that there wasn’t any war. And Hearst cabled back, You supply the photos, I’ll supply the war . And he continued to beat the drums. Not long after, the American battleship Maine was sunk in Havana harbor.”

Ronny nodded. “I’ve often wondered who sank the Maine,” he said.

She looked at him.

He said reasonably, “Obviously, it had to be one of three groups, the Cubans, the Spanish or the Americans. No one else was involved. Of them all, the Spanish had the least reason to sink it. The sad excuse for a war that followed was ample proof that they wanted to provoke no such scrap.” He paused; then added thoughtfully, “I wonder if the ship was well insured.”

“Look,” she demanded, “who’s being cynical here, you or me?”

He laughed, as though embarrassed. “Go on.”

“So, pushed by Hearst and other drum beaters, President McKinley got increasingly tougher. Unfortunately, the Spanish didn’t cooperate. Their queen ordered Cuban hostilities suspended, in an attempt to placate the Americans. They were doing all they could to keep the war from happening. However, Hearst and the other drum beaters hardly mentioned her efforts. And McKinley ignored the fact that the potential enemy had already offered capitulation, when he addressed Congress asking for war measures. To wind it all up, the Spanish were clobbered. It was like taking candy from babes.”

Ronny attempted to portray dismay. “So that’s what it’s like be be on the inside. You mean the press can actually influence the news.”

She laughed at him in scorn. “My dear Citizen Smythe, the press today makes the news. We shape it to fulfill our own needs, to realize our own ideals, to build a better race.”

He looked at her, wide-eyed, in complete sympathy. “The way you put it, it’s absolutely inspiring.”

She had his admiring interest now, and responded. “Take for instance,” she explained, “some planet of which we don’t approve. Suppose that three news items came out of there one day. The first mentions a new cure for cancer; the second, some startling statistics on industrial progress being made; the third mentions a riot by high school children, who overturn some copter-cabs in the streets and throw stones through some windows. What story do you think we put on the interplanetary broadcasts?”

“You mean the last one? Only the last one?”

“Why should we mention the other two?” she said reasonably.

“Well, doesn’t it kind of involve freedom of speech, or of the press, or something?”

She scoffed at him. “It’s our press, isn’t it? The freedom consists of printing what we wish.”

“Well, that isn’t the way I should have put it. I mean, the right of the public to know… or something.”

She scoffed again. “Let’s have another of these. What did you call them? This time we’ll put it on Interplanetary News’ swindle sheet.” She dialed the drinks. “It’s up to us, we who are on the inside, to decide what the public ought to know. They’re a bunch of yokes, not up to making decisions.”

Ronny thought about it. “Well, possibly the reason they’re yokes, like you say, incapable of making competent decisions, is because they’re improperly informed. But, anyway, that’s the reason you’re going to Phrygia, eh? Something really inside is going on.”

She sipped the potent drink and scowled at him. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know what’s going on. But it’s something very big. It involves Baron Wyler himself.”

“Who’s Baron Wyler?” Ronny said, trying to look as though he were trying to look interested.

She was stung by the fact that she didn’t seem to be impressing him. “I can see you’re not one of those insiders. The Baron is the most aggressive single man in UP. He’s Supreme Commandant of Phrygia and Phrygia is the most aggressive planet in the system.”

Ronny snorted. “What good does it do to be aggressive these days? Under United Planets, no member planet is allowed to interfere with any other. Where can your aggressiveness, go, besides inward?”

She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it suddenly. She looked into her drink. “These are strong, aren’t they, Jerry?”

“Pretty strong, all right. In the auto-bars, they usually have a sign—only one to a customer.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Oh, listen. That song.” She wagged her head to it, setting her blonde ponytail a-swing. It was coming from the Tri-Di stage at the other end of the lounge. “Do you dance?” she said.

“Well, a little. I’m not very good at this rock’n’swing stuff.”

She stood up. “Neither am I. Let’s try this, it’s an old favorite of mine.”

He took her in his arms and they joined half a dozen other couples on the small dance floor.

They had taken only a few steps before she said, tightly, “That’s what I thought. You’re carrying a shooter, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She stopped dancing, turned and returned to her chair. She began to pick up her half-finished drink, but then sat it down again, decisively.

He lowered himself to his own seat, across from her, and looked into her eyes.

She said bitterly, “It’s that ineffective air of yours. Who are you from?”

He shook his head.

She asked, “How did you know my name?”

“Like I said, I met you yesterday.”

“Yes. You also said your name was Jimmy Smythe, and then managed to forget that, not correcting me, when I called you ‘Jerry’.”

She had him there. Ronny had to laugh aloud.

She said, bitterly, “You look smarter when you laugh. How did you know my name?”

Ronny shook his head, as though sorry she wouldn’t believe him.

She said, “If you met me yesterday, then you probably have something to do with the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs.”

“Why should that follow?” he asked mildly.

“Because yesterday”—she hesitated, then plunged on— “through a tip given us by… one of our informants, I went to the Octagon, on an assignment from Dave Rosen. I was memorywashed there, and, now, can’t even remember the assignment.”

Ronny played it out. “Why not ask this—what was his name? Rosen?—what he sent you for?”

“He was memorywashed, too, as you undoubtedly are aware.”

He shrugged. “I thought that was very illegal. Who did it?”

“How could we know? I told you, we were memory-washed.”

Ronny scowled puzzlement at her. “Well, why not just check back with your informant and find out what tip you were working on?”

“That’s what I’m doing,” she said, still bitterly. “Unfortunately, he’s gone all the way to Phrygia.” She got up, preparatory to stomping off. “And don’t ask me why we don’t simply ultra-wave him. All-Planet Press, the Bureau of Investigation and who knows who else, would be listening in. Good-bye, Jerry!”

“Jimmy,” Ronny said mildly. “Sure you wouldn’t like another drink. I was really beginning to enjoy our talk, about being inside and all.”

Rita Daniels wasn’t as much of a lightweight as his first encounter on the spaceliner with her might have indicated. She avoided him for two days, then showed up at his table in the passenger’s mess, while he was finishing off some fruit dessert.

He began to come to his feet, but she slid into a chair before he could invite her.

“Your name is Ronald Bronston,” she informed him. “And you’re an operative for Ross Metaxa in that Section G mystery outfit. In fact,” she added snappishly, “you’re one of his top hatchet-men. I must say, it’s hard to believe.”

He said calmly, “You Interplanetary News people have your resources, haven’t you?”

“What do you want with me?” she asked flatly.

“Nothing,” he told her. He didn’t like this. If he hadn’t been a flat, he would have let the girl alone. Evidently, she had an in with Baron Wyler, or, at least, Interplanetary News did, and she through that organization. Now the Baron would be informed that Agent Bronston was on his way, and the Baron didn’t cotton to Section G.

“Then what are you doing following me?”

“I wasn’t aware that I was, Citizeness Daniels. We’re simply on the same vessel.” He twisted his mouth ruefully. “Why don’t we start all over again?”

“And you continue to pump me? No thanks. Do you deny that you’re going to Phrygia?”

He thought about it. “No. I don’t deny that. But, you know, I could reverse the question. Why are you following me?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Well, we’re on the same spacecraft and you don’t deny you’re going to Phrygia.”

She stood again, abruptly. “I don’t know why I was memorywashed, but, obviously, something big is in the wind and my job is to find out what.”

He murmured mildly. “So that Interplanetary News will be inside, eh?”

She glared at him. “And, don’t be too sure that Section G won’t be outside.”

He wasn’t too sure at all.

A few hours before estimated coming out time, he approached the captain’s private quarters and looked into the door’s screen. He said, “Ronald Bronston, requesting an interview with Captain Henhoff.”

The screen said, “The Captain is busy. Could you state your business?”

He brought forth his badge and held it to the screen. “Important matters involving the Bureau of Investigation.”

In a few moments, the door opened. Ronny stepped through.

Captain Henoff’s quarters were moderately ample, considering that this was, after all, a spacecraft. He was seated at a desk, going through reports, a junior officer across from him, taking orders.

The captain, frowning, said, “Citizen Bronston? What can I do for you? Frankly, I am afraid I’ve never heard of Section G of the Bureau of Investigation.”

Ronny looked at the junior officer. “May I speak to you privately?”

The frown had become a testy scowl. However, the skipper said, “Howard, go on out into the corridor. I’ll call you.”

Howard got up, looked at Ronny, shrugged and left.

The captain said, “Well?”

Ronny laid it on the line. “We’ll be coming out of under-space and setting down at Phrygia in a matter of hours. I’m on a special mission. I have reason to believe an attempt will be made at the spaceport to apprehend me. I want to be smuggled off the ship in some manner.”

Captain Henhoff leaned back in his swivel chair. “That’s asking a lot.”

Ronny said, “I suggest you get in touch with your superiors and ask whether or not you should cooperate with Section G.”

Henhoff looked at him for long moments. He said finally, “I suppose that won’t be necessary.” He thought about it. “They use pilots at Phrygia. Usually, three men pick us up in orbit and supervise setting us down. When we’ve finally set down, a spaceport auto-floater picks them up and runs them back to the spacepilot quarters, while the ship is still going through quarantine procedures. You can leave with them. I’ll see that one of the men fixes you up in a uniform like the pilots wear to get you by. Think that would do it?”

“It should,” Ronny nodded. “Thanks, Captain.”

“You’re not doing anything against the Phrygian government, are you? I don’t want to get into trouble with that gang.”

“Of course not. I’ve shown you my credentials. You don’t think the Department of Interplanetary Justice goes about meddling in the affairs of member planets of UP, do you?” Ronny was very righteous.

“No. Of course not.”

He left the liner in the spacepilot’s auto-floater, as provided; the others couldn’t have cared less. They probably figured he was some Tri-Di entertainment star, beating the fans out of an opportunity to give him the rush, when the regular passengers disembarked.

His precautions had been well merited.

At the foot of the spaceliner’s disembarking ladder, he noted, stood three brawny, though inconspicuously dressed men. He didn’t have to look at their feet to know their calling.

The Supreme Commandant’s welcoming committee for visiting Section G operatives. Citizeness Daniels was doing her best to make certain that whilst Interplanetary News got inside, the Bureau of Investigation didn’t.

VI

The auto-floater left him off at the spacepilot’s quarters, and Ronny Bronston started off up the street immediately. He wanted to get out of the vicinity of the spaceport as soon as possible. He imagined that it would take a half hour or so before the Phrygians realized that he had gotten through their fingers. He didn’t know what their instructions were: Whether they had meant simply not to allow him to disembark, or whether he was to be picked up and questioned by Phrygian authorities. Probably the latter. Undoubtedly, they had their own version of Scop. Nobody, but nobody, stood up under questioning these days.

He had none of the local means of exchange, whatever it was. His instructions had been to go immediately to the United Planets building and get in touch with Section G operative Phil Birdman, who would check him out on the local situation.

The auto-floater he had been in with the spacepilots had been similar to those on Earth, and were fairly general on the more advanced planets. He assumed there were taxis, of some sort or another, and kept his eyes open for something resembling a stand, having no idea of how the locals summoned such a vehicle.

He was struck by a certain sameness about this city. It was, he knew, named Phrygia and was the capital city of the planet of the same name.

The sameness, he decided—even as he strode briskly up a shopping street—came from the fact that so many of the buildings, vehicles, signs, traffic indicators and what not, were those of Earth, Avalon, Shangri-La, Catalina and Jefferson—the most advanced worlds. Evidently, Phrygia was quick to pick up any discoveries and developments pioneered elsewhere. Well, that was commendable.

There was one thing, though. The average person in the street seemed to have a drab quality. Not one person in a hundred seemed up to the styles and general appearances of well-being, that one would find on Earth or Shangri-La. Yes, a gray drabness that you couldn’t quite put your finger upon. They seemed well-fed and healthy enough, however.

He came to what would seem to be a cab stand, and stood, for a moment, looking at the first vehicle in line. He wanted to avoid asking questions and thus branding himself a stranger.

Well, he could only try. If the cab weren’t fitted to take instructions in Earth Basic, he would be out of luck.

He opened the door and slipped into a rear seat. He made himself comfortable, and said into the screen, “The United Planets Building.”

No trouble. The vehicle started up and edged itself into the street traffic.

The UP Building, he found, he could have easily walked to. It was less than a mile from the spaceport.

There were two Space Marines on guard at the door. Ronny Bronston called out to one of them.

The marine marched over and scowled down into the car.

Ronny flashed his badge. “I just came from the spaceport and have no local exchange. Can you pay the cab off for me?”

“Oh. Yes, sir. Certainly. They use credit cards here, sir.” The marine brought one from his pocket and held it to the cab’s screen. The door automatically opened.

Ronny stepped out and said, “Now, quickly, take me to Citizen Phil Birdman.”

The marine blinked. “Yes, sir.” He turned and marched off, Ronny following.

The suite of offices was lettered simply, Interplanetary Trade.

Ronny said, “Thanks. I’ll have that cab fare returned to you.”

“Not necessary, sir,” the space-soldier said stiffly. “We’re on unlimited expense account.” He did an about-face and was off.

Ronny looked after him for a moment. How does it feel to be a professional soldier, when there hasn’t been a war for centuries? He grunted sourly. Perhaps the soldier would be practicing his trade before long.

He opened the door and entered into a reception room. He walked over to the screen and said, “Ronald Bronston, Section G. To see Phil Birdman.”

A door beyond opened immediately and a very dark-complected man, in his mid-forties, well over six feet tall and with a startlingly handsome face, came hurrying out, hand extended.

“Come in!” he said. “Holy Jumping Zen, it’s been two years since I’ve seen a fellow agent from Section G.”

Ronny ignored the hand. He brought his wallet out and showed his badge. He touched it with a finger and the badge glowed silver.

Birdman laughed, said, “Okay, okay, if you want to play it formal.” He fished his own wallet out and displayed his badge. He touched it with a finger, and like Bronston’s it shone brightly.

Ronny stuck out his hand for the shake, grinning self-deprecation.

Birdman cocked his head on one side. “Something must be up.”

“Yes,” Ronny said. “Let’s get out of here.”

The tall dark man looked at him. “Get out to where? Come on in the office and we’ll have some firewater.”

Ronny shook his head impatiently. “I’m already on the run. They’ll probably be here any minute. Surely you’ve got an ultimate hideout—just in case.”

“Wait’ll I get my shooter,” the other clipped. He hurried back into the inner office, returned in moments, shrugging a shoulder holster into a more comfortable position beneath his jacket.

“This way.”

He led Ronny through a series of door and halls, finally emerging at the back of the building. There was a row of hovercars. Birdman slid into one, a speedy-looking model. Ronny slipped into the seat beside him.

“We’re not going very far in this, are we?” Ronny growled. “If it’s yours, it’s spotted.”

“Of course,” Birdman grunted. “Who are you working with?” His hand maneuvered the vehicle out of the parking area and into the traffic stream.

“Directly under the Old Man,” Ronny said.

“Oh? And Sid Jakes? How’s Sid?”

“Chuckling his fool head off,” Ronny said.

They spoke no more for the next fifteen minutes, during which time Phil Birdman put on a show of how to lose a possible tail and leave no possible trail behind, in a big city. They dropped his car after a few miles, sending it back to the UP Building. They took a cab for a time. Then they got out and walked. They took a rolling-road for a time. They took a pneumatic. Then they walked some more.

Finally, in a residential area, they entered a house. It seemed deserted. They entered a closet. The closet was an elevator.

When they left the elevator, they were in a Spartan apartment, well-equipped from the Section G gimmick department, and from Communications and Weaponry.

Ronny looked about and whistled approvingly through his teeth. “Nice setup, considering you’re only one man here.”

Birdman nodded. “I’m going to have to brace Sid Jakes on that. We need a bigger staff. Phrygia is more important than they seem to think back there in the Octagon.” He headed for a manual bar. “Now how about that firewater?”

“Firewater?” Ronny said.

Phil Birdman grinned at him. “Ugh, guzzle, you palefaces call it. I’m from Piegan.”

Ronny frowned in memory. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Colonized by Amerinds. Mostly Blackfeet and Sioux. Diehards, who still wanted to get away from the whiteman and go back to the old tribal society. Setup, kind of a primitive communism, based on clan society.”

“That’s the way it started,” Birdman nodded. “How about pseudo-whiskey?” At Ronny’s nod, he added, “And water?” He finished the drinks and returned with them.

Ronny was already seated. He took the drink and said, “How did it work out?”

“Piegan? Terribly. You can’t go back, no matter how strong the dream.”

“So what happened?”

Birdman grinned at him, wryly. “Section G happened. A few of the boys turned up and subverted our institutions. Best thing that ever happened. We’ve still got an Indian society, but we’re rapidly industrializing. Couple of more decades and well be at least as advanced as Phrygia, here.”

Ronny drank half of the pseudo-whiskey down. “If any of us are around, a couple of decades from now.”

The big Indian looked at him. “I knew it was something inportant,” he said.

Ronny nodded and briefed the other operative on recent developments.

Their drinks were finished by the time he was through. His host got up to get new ones. “And now?” he asked.

Ronny shrugged. “My assignment isn’t particularly important. Just one phase of the whole. Ross Metaxa wants me to take what steps I can and keep Baron Wyler from sounding off about the Octagon’s plans to speed up the amalgamation of United Planets and all other human settled worlds. From what this mopsy, Rita Daniels, tells me, the Baron has been playing footsie with Interplanetary News.”

“Footsie, yet,” Birdman snorted. “Baron Wyler is Interplanetary News.”

Ronny gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you we need a larger staff here. There’s a lot cooking that’s going to have to come right before Metaxa’s eyes. I’m working on the report right now. At any rate, Baron Wyler owns communications on Phrygia. All communications. And he also controls Interplanetary News. Who did you think owned it?”

“It never occurred to me to wonder. I realize, of course, that we’ve got every kind of socio-economic system ever dreamed up, through the centuries, at one place or another in United Planets; but I didn’t think in terms of an organization as strong as Interplanetary News being privately owned. Certainly not by one individual.”

“It’s not exactly one individual,” the Indian growled. “More like a family, and the Baron’s the head of the family.”

He made a face. “I’d better give you some background. You were right, when you said UP has every socio-economic system ever dreamed up by man, on one planet or the other. It also has a lot of crisscrosses.”

Ronny frowned at him.

Birdman explained. “Take communism. We’ve got planets, such as my own Piegan used to be, that practice primitive tribal communism. Then we’ve got planets of ‘purists,’ who have attempted to build a society such as Marx and Engels originally had in mind back in 1848. Then we’ve got a sample or two of communism, as Lenin saw it; then, one or two as DeLeon adapted socialism to America; and, at least one on the Stalinist conception—that’s a real honey—and one, I can think of, based on Trotsky’s heresy. And Mao, the Chinese. And Tito, remember Tito?”

“No,” Ronny said, “but you’ve made your point. There’s a lot of confusion on just what communism is.”

The Indian was nodding. “Yes. Well, the crisscross on this planet is a doozy. You might call it industrial feudalism. Kind of a classical capitalism gone to seed. Kind of free enterprise without either freedom, or, except for a handful, any enterprise. You see, they got to the point where the wealth of Phrygia is in the hands of less than one percent of the population. The means of production, distribution, communications, the farms, the mines, the whole shebang—all owned and controlled by comparatively few families.”

Ronny grunted. “In any society, a good man gets to the top.”

“Or loses his scalp trying,” Birdman agreed. “If he can’t, he tries to change the society. Well, they have one fairly workable way of getting around that on Phrygia. Any real stute that comes along, gets adopted into one of the big families. The Romans used to do the same thing; Octavius was an adopted son of Caesar.

“But to get on with it. There’s evidently no end to the desire for wealth and the power it brings. A millionaire wants to become a billionaire and a billionaire wonders how it’d be to have a trillion. Far, far beyond the point where his own needs are completely satisfied, the stute with a power complex continues to accumulate more wealth, more power. It might not make sense to you and me, but there it is. Well, Baron Wyler has about outgrown Phrygia. He’s looking for new worlds to conquer, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion he doesn’t expect to allow United Planets to stand in his way. It fact, it didn’t even start with the present Baron. The dream had evidently been in his family, and probably other industrial feudalistic families here, for several generations. Interplanetary News is just one of the projects designed to help pave the way.”

Ronny was staring at him.

The Indian chuckled sourly. “Sounds unbelievable, eh? Well, in spite of the far-out nature of this super-loose confederation of ours, United Planets is still basically a republic. Whatever the home government of each planet, in the UP it has one voice, one vote, no more. But there’s no particular reason why man, in his eruption into space, has to remain a republican. Given a strong enough ambition on the part of a few fellas like our good Baron, and what’s to prevent an empire from being established?”

Ronny was shaking his head. “Too many would fight.”

The other nodded in agreement. “That’s what’s baffled me. Something is going on. Something the Baron is counting upon to give him such an edge over the other strong worlds, which would ordinarily resist his ambitions, that he’d prevail.”

Ronny Bronston thought about it for a long moment, staring down into his glass. He said finally, “I suppose it’s about time I got in touch with this Baron Wyler. Have you got a Section G communicator handy?”

“Over there.”

Ronny sat at the indicated desk. The device was about the size of a woman’s vanity case, and was propped up now so that the small screen was immediately before the operative. He activated it.

“Ronald Bronston,” he said. “I want to report to Supervisor Jakes, soonest.”

He sat there, saying nothing, until Sid Jakes’ grinning face appeared on the screen.

“Hi, Ronny.” He chuckled. “On Phrygia, eh? How’s that redskin coming along?”

Ronny said, “That redskin is evidently a one-man task force. He’s dug up the fact that Baron Wyler controls Interplanetary News and is evidently prettying up a scheme to unite UP…”

“Well, isn’t that what we want to do?”

“… under his leadership. Possibly, I should say, under his dictatorship.”

The supervisor scoffed. “Neat trick, if he could pull it off.”

“Evidently, he has some reason to believe he can.”

Sid Jakes looked at him thoughtfully. “Get a complete report on this, soonest, Ronny.”

“Phil Birdman’s just about got it finished. Meanwhile, would it be possible for you to put through an order making me a plenipotentiary extraordinary from UP to the Supreme Commandant of Phrygia?”

“Have you gone drivel-happy, old boy?”

“No. The Baron’s got his heavies out looking for me. I want to face him, but not on the kind of basis he evidently has in mind. I want some weight to throw around.”

Jakes thought about it some more. “All right. Within twenty-four hours, you’ll be a special mission from the President of UP to Baron Wyler. You’ll have to play it from there. Dream up your own idea of what the mission is. Wyler won’t dare touch you, with such a commission.” He grinned. “This oughta be a neat trick.”

He faded from the screen.

Ronny turned back to his companion.

Birdman said, “I’m not sure I like this. Wyler’s feeling his oats. He’s getting near the point where he’s ready to take action. I don’t think he’s afraid of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs.”

Ronny shrugged. “The way you brought me here, to his hideout, I couldn’t find it again. So even though he slips me Scop, I can’t betray you. For myself, I’m no big loss. If I don’t get away from him, again, there’s not much he can get out of me that he doesn’t already know. Now, let’s get about the job of outfitting me properly to be a plenipotentiary from the President to the Baron. Sid is going to radio through to Wyler that I am to appear.”

VII

If Ronny Bronston had thought the surface buildings of the nadirscraper, which housed the Interplanetary News in Greater Washington, were ostentatious, he could only admit he had had little upon which to base his opinion—comparatively.

Baron Wyler’s official residence was some ten kilometers outside the Phrygia city limits. At first, the Section G agent couldn’t place the theme; but it began to come to him, when his limousine—driven by a United Planets Space Forces marine, in dress uniform, with another seated beside him—was stopped at a gate by a squad of men in an armor of yesteryear and in short linen tunics. They were armed with spears, swords buckled to their sides.

The driver said from the side of his mouth, “You’re getting the full official greeting, sir. Ordinarily, we could’ve driven inside.”

Six of the guards stood at rigid attention, spear butts grounded. An officer, his breastplate of gold, approached the heavy hovercar, and came to the salute.

He said, “Hail the Plenipotentiary from the United Planets!”

Maintaining his dignity, Ronny nodded.

The officer said, “If your Excellency will alight, you will be conducted to audience with the Supreme Commandant.”

Evidently, his two marines were going to be left here at the gate. Ronny mentally shrugged. He was already in the Baron’s hands. Let them bounce the ball. He left the car.

In a clatter and a small cloud of dust, a chariot, pulled by three enormous white horses, came speeding forth. Ronny blinked at it. He had seen chariots in illustrations, and in historic Tri-Di shows, but never in actuality.

The driver pulled the horses to a rearing halt, only a few feet from him.

The officer said, not a flicker of expression on his face, “If His Excellency will mount…”

Ronny Bronston looked at his marines from the side of his eyes. They remained expressionless as well. He wondered vaguely if they would have pulled this gimmick had he been an eighty year old man. Well, there was nothing for it. He jumped up into the wheeled vehicle and grasped the edge, next to the driver.

They were off in a clatter.

The setting was beginning to come to him. The double-headed ax motif, the bulls in fresco and statuary. Once, as a boy, his father had taken him to the so-called Palace of Minos, at Knossos on Crete. Baron Wyler had obviously drawn upon the reconstructions of Sir Arthur Evans in building his residence. The British archaeologist had notoriously exercised his imagination in the reconstruction; but many a Cretean must have turned in his grave at this version of a palace of the four thousand year old civilization.

They clattered up a broad ramp, Ronny Bronston hanging on for life, and came to a rearing halt before an entrada flanked with highly colorful columns, which started narrow at the bottom and widened at the roof.

There was another guard unit, clad in the costume of Knossos, at the entry. A full twenty of them here. They came to the salute.

An officer stepped forward, came to attention.

“The Supreme Commandant sends greetings to His Excellency, the Plenipotentiary from United Planets.”

Ronny stepped down from the chariot, looked at the driver bitterly. Inaudibly he muttered. “Do you have a license to operate that thing?”

“Thanks,” he said to the officer. “I would like to see the Baron immediately.”

“His instructions are to bring you to his quarters upon arrival, Your Excellency.”

He turned and marched, stiff legged, into the building. Ronny followed.

As at the Interplanetary News building in Greater Washington, the resemblance to the ancient past fell off immediately in the interior. The officer’s costume seemed doubly ludicrous among the hosts of guards, messengers, secretaries and officials, all garbed in modern dress.

Two guards, fish-cold of eye, stood before an elevator door, one behind a device of switches and screens. Ronny assumed he was being given an electronic frisk. Well, they’d find him clean. It would have been ridiculous to think he could approach the ruler of Phrygia armed.

The elevator opened and the officer accompanying him gestured. Ronny entered alone, the door closed and the car dropped.

Then the door reopened, and even before Ronny Bronston could step out, the tall, heavy-set man there—his face beaming—reached for his hand.

“Ronald Bronston!” he said heartily. “Your Excellency, I’ve been waiting for you!”

He was at least as tall as Phil Birdman, but would have outweighed the Indian by fifty pounds. He carried his weight well; gracefully, might be the word. He moved as a trained pugilist moves, or perhaps one of the larger cats. His charm reached out and embraced you, all but suffocatingly. His face was open, friendly; his eyes, blue and wide-set; his nose, the arched Hapsburg nose, giving an aristocratic quality that only his overwhelming friendliness could dissipate.

He could only be , Ronny realized, Baron Wyler, Supreme Commandant of the Planet Phrygia, and, were Phil Birdman correct, would-be dictator of this sector of the galaxy .

Ronny let his hand be pumped, admittedly taken aback. He realized now that, although he had never seen even a photo of the Baron, he had built up a ficticious picture of him. Yes, the picture, he admitted in sour realization, had nothing to do with reality. Among other things, far from being middle-aged or even an elderly Prussian type, the Baron was little older than Ronny, himself.

Ronny Bronston hated to be touched by another man—other than perhaps a quick handshake—however, he suffered now his host to place an arm around his shoulders and lead him to as comfortable a room as the Section G agent could remember ever having been in. It was a man’s room. A small but complete bar to one side. A number of large, well-used chairs and couches. Racks of books that, even at a distance, looked interesting and oft-handled. Good, well-chosen, not necessarily expensive, paintings on the walls. A fireplace.

A fireplace, Ronny thought. At this distance down into the Earth’s crust ? He wondered vaguely what effort must have gone into devising a manner of dispelling smoke and fumes.

The Baron was at the bar. “May I suggest this departure on the wines of the Rhine and Moselle? One of my ancestors imported the Riesling grape to Phrygia. Local soil conditions were somewhat different; but I trust you will find a lightness and bouquet not at all unpleasing.” Even as he spoke, he was pouring from a very long necked bottle into two delicate crystal glasses.

Ronny found himself seated in one of the chairs, glass in hand. The Baron was across from him and now picked up a small sheaf of papers from a coffee table.

He read aloud. “Ronald Meredith Bronston, 32. Born in Luana, Hawaii. Parents, Michael L. Bronston, and Pauline Meredith. Studied, ummm, ummm, finished education at University of Stockholm… ummm, ummm, at age of twenty-six took position at New Copenhagen in the Population Statistics Department. Was discovered by Bureau of Investigation scouts and jockeyed into Section G…”

Ronny stared at him. ” Jockeyed,” he protested. “I applied for a position that would take me overspace and was lucky…”

Baron Wyler chuckled at him magnanimously. “My dear Bronston, no luck is involved in getting into our friend Metaxa’s Section G. Not one human being in a million qualifies. Were you a bit more privy to the inner workings of your ultra-ultra cloak and dagger organization, you would know that at any given time at least a hundred of Metaxa’s picked men are scouting out potential agents. You were probably selected as far back as when you were in high school.”

Wyler’s eyes went back to the report. “But to go on with it. Given first assignment with Supervisor Lee Chang Chu and, as a result, was made full agent… Umm, umm, worked with distinction on the planets Kropotkin, Avalon and Palermo. Has become one of Supervisor Jakes’ most trusted field men. Height, weight, ummm, fingerprints, eye pattern, skull measurements.” The Baron looked up. “Some of these statistics come directly from Section G files.”

“All right,” Ronny said in resignation. “You’ve made your point. You have a rather complete dossier on me.”

The Baron put down the report and turned on his charm with a smile. “So we can dispense with preliminaries and get to the point.”

Ronny said, “The point being that the Supreme Commandant of the Planet Phrygia is ambitious to encroach upon the sovereignty of fellow worlds belonging to the United Planets.”

“Which is one way of putting it.” The Baron nodded agreeably. “Tell me, Bronston, what is the eventual goal of this United Planets to which you have devoted your life?”

“The advancement of the human race!”

“Neatly summed up in but six words. But, my dear Bronston, man has made his advances down through the ages in a wide variety of methods. Your knowledge of history must be such that you recognize the contributions of strongmen who have arisen in time of need. The democratic principle does not always apply.”

Ronny said sharply, “My studies have led me to believe that man makes his greatest advances under conditions of freedom.”

“An example?”

The Section G agent groped for a good one. “The Athens of the Golden Age. The Athenian democracy nourished a culture such as had never been seen before, nor since.”

Baron Wyler chuckled. “My dear Bronston, have you never heard of the strongman, Pericles? Besides, calling the Athenian society a democracy is somewhat stretching a point, is it not? For every Athenian citizen free to pursue the arts and sciences, there were a dozen slaves, or more, kept in complete subjugation. Come now, do you contend that if these slaves—who did the drudgery necessary to maintain the leisure of the Athenian citizens—had been given their freedom, been given complete equality, that the Golden Age could have been?”

Ronny looked at him. The Baron was obviously no fool.

The Baron got up, brought the bottle from the bar and refreshed the glasses. The Section G agent was no connoisseur of wine, but, admittedly, this was the most pleasant beverage he could remember drinking. He wondered if it was available on Earth.

The Baron said, “Let me use a somewhat more recent example of strongman versus the mob.”

“I wasn’t exactly advocating mob rule.”

“Indeed? However, remember when the Egyptian Nasser seized power in his country, oh, somewhere about the middle of the 20th Century? His nation had been a backward one, dominated by the big powers, ignored in the world’s councils. When he took over the Suez Canal, all prophesied that the waterway would soon be silted up and impassable. Instead, within a few years, traffic had doubled. Borrowing, begging, securing funds and techniques from every source he could find, he began to industrialize, to irrigate, to find new potentials in his desert country. His soldiers were sent out to fill up the wells in thousands of native communities, supposedly a crime beyond understanding in a desert land. They filled them up and forced the fellahin to dig new wells in places where the water would not be contaminated with sewage. He sent soldiers out and rounded up the children and forced them into schools. Children that otherwise would have been taught nothing further than a few suras from the Koran. These were but a few things done by strongman Nasser.”

Ronny was scowling at him.

The Baron twisted his mouth in deprecation. “At the same time, and on the same continent, the newly emerged nation, the Congo, seemed unable to find an equivalent of Nasser. Instead, in an atmosphere of pseudo-democracy, they went from one barbarism to the next, going backward, rather than progressing. Come now, Citizen Bronston, don’t you think conditions sometimes call for a strongman?”

Ronny put his glass down. Thus far, he had been satisfied to hold his peace, if only to see just how the other was going to bounce the ball.

Now he said, “Interpreting history isn’t my field. I do know this, as Metaxa said, the human race is in the clutch. This is not the time for would-be strongmen to try to seize control of worlds other than their own. We can’t afford the time, nor the energies involved in interplanetary war. And, please don’t attempt to put over the idea that you, or anyone else, could form an empire from the largely individualistic United Planets, without war. Baron Wyler, you saw that charred body of the intelligent alien life form. You heard what Ross…”

The Baron held up a hand to restrain him. He nodded, still agreeable. “Indeed I did. And I was surprised that the estimable Commissioner was in possession of it. However, we could have shown him better examples.”

“Better examples?”

The Baron reached out and touched a switch on the coffee table. One wall of the room clouded, then became a giant screen.

The Baron fiddled with a small dial set into the table.

On the screen, there faded in an extensive laboratory. At least a dozen white-smocked men were working about an operating table. The Baron turned another dial, zooming in on the scene.

Ronny sucked in his breath. Those on the screen were dissecting two bodies of what were obviously specimens of the tiny life form Metaxa had deep frozen.

Another turn of the dial. A new room, more extensive than the last. At least several thousand men—technicians and mechanics—were working away at various benches, on various pieces of equipment: the nature of which, Ronny couldn’t even guess.

The Baron said wryly, “They’re trying to figure out the use of some of the devices, weapons or whatever, that we’ve gleaned from the alien planets.” He snorted his deprecation. “What if you took a squad of Neanderthal men and set them down in a 25th Century laboratory in the midst of all the products that century produced? What do you think they might accomplish?”

Ronny, his eyes bugging still, said, “Is there that much difference?”

“At least,” the Baron told him. “However, as our good Metaxa pointed out at the conference, this culture is not the one we must confront. This culture was destroyed by one beyond.”

Ronny nodded. “That is the basic point, Baron Wyler. That is why the human race doesn’t have the time to bother with ambitious men of the caliber of the Supreme Commandant of Phrygia. We know nothing at all about the culture beyond.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the Baron said easily. “A taste more wine?”

He had Ronny staring again. “What do you mean by that?”

The Baron waggled a finger at him. “You see, my dear Bronston, we are far, far beyond Section G and its well-intentioned plans to preserve the race. Some time ago, long before the Space Forces exploration force located the alien planets, Phrygian cruisers had found them. Properly masked, of course, we were able to descend and explore. My laboratories have been working on the equipment, and even the bodies of the aliens, as you have seen. We found a few under conditions which had preserved them.”

“But you said something about the power beyond.”

The Baron nodded. “Yes. Our little aliens left enough in the way of photographs to indicate part of what we’re up against.”

“Photographs?”

“Both still photographs and also a tape that one of my more brilliant young men has been able to project. It would seem that our little aliens actually landed upon at least one of the beyond culture’s planets.”

For the last half hour the Baron had been throwing curves faster than Ronny Bronston found himself capable of catching. Now he blurted, “What in the world is the other culture like?”

“Fantastically advanced. Among other items, it would seem they have matter conversion units that can make anything out of anything else. It would seem they have fusion reactors, and, hence, unlimited power. Oh yes, an unbelievably advanced technology.”

“What do they look like?”

The Baron paused. “Just a moment.” He played with his screen dials again, said something into an order box. The screen clouded, went clear once more.

On it was an incredibly handsome man. He was dressed in nothing more than brief shorts and sandals. He had a golden-brown coloration, was of bodily perfection seldom seen, and then only among physical culture perfectionists who spend a lifetime achieving it. There was no indication that he was aware of being photographed.

“Who’s that?” Ronny said blankly.

“That’s one of your aliens.”

“Alien! That’s a man.”

“Ummm,” the Baron said. “There’s just one thing in which he differs from man as we know him.”

He paused for effect. “These aliens don’t seem to be intelligent.”