Bemlsty shook his head, thinking that Berel's usual intelligence had failed her. "We'd make bad matters worse." "Then what will you do?"

Bemisty admitted he had no idea, and went away to think. Later in the day, he decided on a course of immense consequence; he swerved aside to make a survey of the Kay System. If anything would rouse the spirits of his men, this was it.

There was danger to the detour, but none of great note; spice.to the venture came from the fascination of the alien, the oddness of the Kay cities with their taboo against regular form, the bizarre Kay social system.

The star Kay glowed and waxed, and Bemisty saw that his scheme was succeeding. There was once more talk, animation, argument along the gray steel corridors.

The Blauelm slid above the Kay ecliptic; the various worlds fell astern, passing so close that the minute movement, the throb of the cities, the dynamic pulse of the workshops were plain in the viewplates. Kith and Kehnet—these two waited over with domes—Kamfray, Koblenz, Kavanaf, then the central sun-star Kay; then Kool, too hot for life; then Kon-bald and Kinsle, the ammonia giants frozen and dead—and the Kay System was astern.

Now Bemisty waited on tenterhooks; would there be a relapse toward inanition, or would the intellectual impetus suffice for the remainder of the voyage? Blue Star lay ahead, another week's journey. Between lay a yellow star of no particular note. ... It was while passing the yellow star that the consequences of Bemisty's ruse revealed themselves.

"Planet!" sang out the cartographer.

This was a cry to arouse no excitement; during the last eight months it had sounded many times through the Blauelm. Always the planet had proved so hot as to melt iron; or so cold as to freeze gas; or so poisonous as to corrode skin; or so empty of air as to suck out a man's lungs. The call was no longer a stimulus.

"Atmosphere!" cried the cartographer. The meteorologist looked up in interest "Mean temperature—twenty-four degrees!"

Bemisty came to look, and measured the gravity himself.

"One and one-tenth normal . . ." He motioned to the navigator, who needed no more to compute for a landing.

Bemisty stood watching the disk of the planet in the viewplate. "There must be something wrong with it. Either the Kay or ourselves must have checked a hundred times; it's directly between us."

"No record of the planet, Bemisty," reported the librarian, burrowing eagerly among his tapes and pivots. "No record of exploration; no record of anything."

"Surely it's known the star exists?" demanded Bemisty with a hint of sarcasm.

"Oh, indeed—we call it Maraplexa, the Kay call it Melli-flo. But there is no mention of either system exploring or developing."

"Atmosphere," called the meteorologist, "methane, carbon dioxide, ammonia, water vapor. Unbreathable, but Type.6-D —potential."

"No chlorophyll, haemaphyl, blusk, or petradine absorption," muttered the botanist, an eye to the spectrograph. "In short—no native vegetation."

"Let me understand all this," said Bernisty. "Temperature,
gravity, pressure okay?" *

"Okay."

"No corrosive gas?" "None."

"No native life?" "No sign."

"And no record of exploration, claim or development?" "None."

"Then," said Bemisty triumphantly, "we're moving in." To the radioman: "Issue notice of intent. Broadcast to all quarters, the Archive Station. From this hour, Maraplexa is a Blue Star development!"

The Blauelm slowed, and swung down to land. Bernisty sat watching with Berel the play-girl.

"Why—why?" Blandwick the navigator argued with the cartographer. "Why have not the Kay started development?"

"The same reason, evidently, that we haven't; we look too far afield."

"We comb the fringes of the galaxy," said Berel with a sly side-glance at Bemisty. "We sift the globular clusters."

"And here," said Bemisty, ruefully, "a near-neighbor to our own star—a world that merely needs an atmosphere modification—a world we can mold into a gardenl"

"But will the Kay allow?" Blandwick put forth.

"What may they do?"

"This will come hard to them."

"So much the worse for the Kay!"

"They will claim a prior right."

"There are no records to demonstrate."

"And then—"

Bemisty interrupted. "Blandwick, go croak your calamity to the play-girls. With the men at work, they will be bored and so will listen to your woe."

"I know the Kay," maintained Blandwick. "They will never submit to what they will consider a humiliation—a stride ahead by Blue Star."

"They have no choice; they must submit," declared Berel, with the laughing recklessness that originally had called her to Bemisty's eye.

"You are wrong," cried Blandwick excitedly, and Bemisty held up his hand for peace.

"We shall see, we shall see."

Presently, Bufco—the radioman—brought three messages. The first, from Blue Star Central, conveyed congratulations; the second, from the Archive Station, corroborated the discovery; the third from Kerrykirk, was clearly a hasty improvisation. It declared that the Kay System had long regarded Maraplexa as neutral, a no-man's-land between the two Systems; that a Blue Star development would be unfavorably received.

Bemisty chuckled at each of the three messages, most of all at the last. "The ears of their explorators are singing; they need new lands even more desperately than we do, what with their fecund breeding."

"Like farrowing pigs, rather than true men," sniffed Berel.

"They're true men if legend can be believed. We're said to be all stock of the same planet—all from the same lone world."

"The legend is pretty, but—where is this world—this old Earth of the fable?"

Bemisty shrugged. "I hold no brief for the myth; and now—here is our world below us."

"What will you name it?"

Bemisty considered. "In due course well find a name. Perhaps 'New Earth', to honor our primeval home."

The unsophisticated eye might have found New Earth harsh, bleak, savage. The windy atmosphere roared across; plains and mountains; sunlight glared on deserts and seas of white alkali. Bemisty, however, saw the world as a diamond in the rough—the classic example of a world right for modification. The radiation was right; the gravity was Tight; the atmosphere held no halogens or corrosive fractions; the soil was free of alien life, and alien proteins, which poisoned even more effectively than the halogens.

Sauntering out on the windy surface, he discussed all this with Berel. "Of such ground are gardens built," indicating a plain of loess which" spread away from the base of the ship. "And of such hills—" he pointed to the range of hills behind "—do rivers come."

"When aerial water exists to form rain," remarked Berel.

"A detail, a detail; could we call ourselves ecologists and be deterred by so small a matter?"

"I am a play-girl, no ecologist—"

"Except in the largest possible sense."

"—I can not consider a thousand billion tons of water a detail."

Bemisty laughed. "We go by easy stages. First the carbon dioxide is sucked down and reduced; for this reason we sowed standard 6-D Basic vetch along the loess today."

"But how will it breathe? Don't plants need oxygen?"

"Look."

From the Blauelm, a cloud of brown-green smoke erupted, rose in a greasy plume to be carried off downwind. "Spores of symbiotic lichens: Type Z forms oxygen-pods on the vetch. Type RS is non-photosynthetic—it combines methane with oxygen to make water, which the vetch uses for its growth. The three plants are the standard primary unit for worlds like this one."

Berel looked around the dusty horizon. "I suppose it will develop as you predict—and I will never cease to marvel."

"In three weeks, the plain will be green; in six weeks, the sporing and seeding will be in full swing; in. six months, the entire planet will be forty feet deep in vegetation, and in a year, we'll start establishing the ultimate ecology of the planet."

"If the Kay allow."

"The Kay can not prevent; the planet is ours."

Berel inspected the burly shoulders, the hard profile. "You speak with masculine positivity, where everything depends and stipulates from the traditions of the Archive Station. I have no such certainty; my universe is more dubious."

"You are intuitive, I am rational."

"Reason," mused Berel, "tells you the Kay will abide by the Archive laws; my intuition tells me they will not." "But what can they do? Attack us? Drive us off?" "Who knows?"

Bemisty snorted. "They'll never dare." "How long do we wait here?"

"Only to verify the germination of the vetch, then back to Blue Star." "And then?"

"And then—we return to develop the full scale ecology."

On the thirteenth day, Bartenbrock, the botanist, trudged back from a day on the windy loess to announce the first shoots of vegetation. He showed samples to Bemisty—small pale springs with varnished leaves at the tip.

Bemisty critically examined the stem. Fastened like tiny galls were sacs in two colors—pale green and white. He pointed these out to Berel. "The green pods store oxygen, the white collect water."

"So," said BereL "already New Earth begins to shift its atmosphere."

"Before your life runs out, you will see Blue Star cities along that plain."

"Somehow, my Bemisty, I doubt that."

The head-set sounded. "X. Bemisty; Radioman Bufco here. Three ships circling the planet; they refuse to acknowledge signals."

Bemisty cast the sprig of vetch to the ground. That'll be the Kay."

Berel looked after him. "Where are the Blue Star cities now?"

Bemisty hastening away made no answer. Berel came after, followed to the control room of the Blauelm, where Bemisty tuned the viewplate. "Where are they?" she asked.

"They're around the planet just now—scouting.''

"What land of ships are they?"

"Patrol-attack vessels. Kay design. Here they come now." Three dark shapes showed on the screen. Bemisty snapped to Bufco, "Send out the Universal Greeting Code." "Yes, Bemisty."

Bemisty watched, while Bufco spoke in the archaic Universal language.

The ships paused, swerved, settled.

""It looks," said Berel softly, "as if they are landing."

"Yes."

"They are armed; they can destroy us."
"They can—but theyll never dare." \

"I don't think you quite understand the Kay psyche." "Do you?" snapped Bemisty.

She nodded. "Before I entered my girl-hood, I studied; now that I near its end, I plan to continue."

"You are more productive as a girl; while you,study and cram your pretty head, I must find a new companion for my cruising."

She nodded at the settling black ships. "If there is to be more cruising for any of us."

Bufco leaned over his instrument, as a voice spoke from the mesh. Bemisty listened to syllables he could not understand, though the peremptory tones told their own story.

"What's he say?"

"He demands that we vacate this planet; he says it is claimed by the Kay."

"Tell him to vacate himself; tell him he's crazy . . . No, better, tell him to communicate with Archive Station."

Bufco spoke in the archaic tongue; the response crackled forth.

"He is landing. He sounds pretty firm."

"Let him land; let him be firml Our claim is guaranteed by the Archive Station!" But Bemisty nevertheless pulled on his head-dome, and went outside to watch the Kay ships settle upon the loess, and he winced at the energy singeing the tender young vetch he had planted.

There was movement at his back; it was Berel. "What do you do here?" he asked brusquely. "This is no place for play-girls."

"I come now as a student."

Bemisty laughed shortly; the concept of Berel as a serf-' ous worker seemed somehow ridiculous.

"You laugh," said Berel. "Very well, let me talk to the Kay." ^You!"

"I know both Kay and Universal."

Bemisty glared, then shrugged. "You may interpret."

The ports of the black ship opened; eight Kay men came forward. This was the first time Bemisty had ever met one of the alien system face-to-face, and at first sight he found them fully as bizarre as he had expected. They were tall spare men, on the whole. They wore flowing black cloaks; the hair had been shorn smooth from their heads, and then-scalps were decorated with heavy layers of scarlet and black enamel.

"No doubt," whispered Berel, "they find us just as unique."

Bemisty made no answer, having never before considered himself unique.

The eight men halted, twenty feet distant, stared at Ber-nisty with curious, cold, unfriendly eyes. Bemisty noted that all were armed.

Berel spoke; the dark eyes swung to her in surprise. The foremost responded.

"What's he say?" demanded Bemisty.

Berel grinned. "They want to know if I, a woman, lead the expedition."

Bemisty quivered and flushed. "You tell them that I, Explorator Bemisty, am in full command."

Berel spoke, at rather greater length than seemed necessary to convey his message. The Kay answered.

"Welir

"He says well have to go; that he bears authorization from Kerryldrk to clear the planet, by force if necessary."

Bemisty sized up the man "Get his name," he said, to win a moment or two.

Berel spoke, received a cool reply.

"He's some kind of a commodore," she told Bemisty. "I can't quite get it clear. His name is Kallish or Kallis.. . ."

"Well, ask Kallish if he's planning to start a war. Ask him which side the Archive Station will stand behind."

Berel translated. Kallish responded at length.

Berel told Bemisty, "He maintains that we are on Kay ground, that Kay colonizers explored this world, but never recorded the exploration. He claims that if war comes it is our responsibility."

"He wants to bluff us," muttered Bemisty from the comer of his mouth. "Well, two can play that game." He drew his needle-beam, scratched a smoking line in the dust two paces in front of Kallish.

Kallish reacted sharply, jerking his hand to his own weapon; the others in his party did likewise.

Bemisty said from the side of his mouth, "Tell 'em to leave—take off back to Kerryldrk, if they don't want the beam along their legs . .."

Berel translated, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. For answer, TfalHgh snapped on his own beam, burned a flaring orange mark in front of Bemisty.

Berel shakily translated his message. "He says for us to leave."

Bemisty slowly burned another line into the dust, closer to the black-shod feet "He's asking for it"

Berel said in a worried voice, "Bemisty, you underestimate the Kay! They're rock-hard—stubborn—"

"And they underestimate Bemisty!"

There was quick staccato talk among the Kay; then gnllfoh, moving with a jerky flamboyance, snapped down another flickering trench almost at Bernisty's toes.

Bemisty swayed a trifle, then setting his teeth, leaned forward.

"This is a dangerous game," cried Berel.

Bemisty aimed, spattered hot dust over Kallish's sandals. Kallish stepped back; the Kay behind him roared. Kallish, his face a saturnine grinning mask, slowly started burning a line that would cut across Bernisty's ankles. Bemisty could move back—or Kallish could curve aside his beam . . .

Berel sighed. The beam spat straight, Bemisty stood rock-stilL The beam cut the ground, cut over Bernisty's feet, cut on.

Bemisty stood still grinning. He raised his needle-beam.

Kallish turned on his heel, strode away, the black cape flapping in the ammoniacal wind.

Bemisty stood watching; a taut shape, frozen between triumph, pain and fury. Berel waited, not daring to speak. A minute passed. The Kay ships rose up from the dusty soil of New Earth, and the energy burnt down more shoots of the tender young Vetch .. .

Berel turned to Bemisty: he was stumbling; his face was drawn and ghastly. She caught him under the armpits. From the Blauelm came Blandwick and a medic. They placed Bemisty in a litter, and conveyed him to the sick-ward.

As the medic cut cloths and leather away from the charred bones, Bemisty croaked to Berel, "I won today. They're not done . . . But today—I wont"

"It cost you your feet!"

"I can grow new feet—" Bemisty gasped and sweated as the medic touched a live nerve "—I can't grow a new planet . . ."

Contrary to Bernisty's expectations, the Kay made no further landing on New Earth. Indeed, the days passed with deceptive calm. The sun rose, glared a while over the ocher, yellow and gray landscape, sank in a western puddle of greens and reds. The winds slowed; a peculiar calm fell over the loess plain. The medic, by judicious hormones, grafts and calcium transplants, set Bernisty's feet to growing again.

Temporarily he hobbled around in special shoes, staying close to the Blauelm.

Six days after the Kay had come and gone, the Beaudry arrived from Blue Star. It brought a complete ecological laboratory, ■ with stocks of seeds, spores, eggs, sperm; spawn, bulbs, grafts; frozen fingerlings, copepods, experimental cells and embryos; grubs, larva, pupae; amoeba, bacteria, viruses; as well as nutritive cultures and solutions. There were also tools for manipulating or mutating established species; even a supply of raw nuclein, unpatterned tissue, clear protoplasm from which simple forms of life could be designed and constructed. It was now Bemisty's option either to return to Blue Star with the Blauelm, or remain to direct the development of New Earth. Without conscious thought he made his choice; he elected to stay. Almost two-thirds his technical crew made the same choice. And the day after the arrival of the Beaudry, the Blauelm took off for Blue Star.

This day was notable in several respects. It signalized the complete changeover in Bemisty's life; from Explorator, pure and simple, to the more highly-specialized Master Ecologist, with the corresponding rise in prestige. It was on this day that New Earth took on the semblance of a habitable world, rather than a barren mass of rock and gas to be molded. The vetch over the loess plain had grown to a mottled green-brown sea, beaded and wadded with lichen pods. Already it was coming to its first seed. The lichens had already spored three or four times. There was yet no detectable change in the New Earth atmosphere; it was still C02, methane, ammonia, with traces of water vapor and inert gases, but the effect of the vetch was geometrically progressive, and as yet the total amount of vegetation was small compared to what it would be.

The third event of importance upon this day was the appearance of Kathryn.

She came down in a small space-boat, and landed with a roughness that indicated either lack of skill or great physical weakness. Bemisty watched the boat's arrival from the dorsal promenade of the Beaudry, with Berel standing at his elbow.

"A Kay boat," said Betel huskily.

Bernisty looked at her in quick surprise. "Why do you say that? It might be a boat from Alvan or Canopus—or the Graemer System, or a Dannie vessel from Copenhag."

"No. It is Kay."

"How do you know?"

Out of the boat stumbled the form of a young woman. Even at this distance it could be seen she was very beautiful —something in the confidence of movement, the easy grace. . . . She wore a head-dome, but little else. Bernisty felt Berel stiffening. Jealousy? She felt none when he amused himself with other play-girls; did she sense here a deeper threat?

Berel said in a throaty voice, "She's a spy—a Kay spy. Send her awayl" Bernisty was pulling on his own dome; a few minutes later, he walked across the dusty plain to meet the young woman, who was pushing her way slowly against the wind.

Bernisty paused, sized her up. She was slight, more delicate in build jhan most of the Blue Star women; she had a thick cap of black elf-locks; pale skin with the luminous look of old vellum; wide dark eyes.

Bernisty felt a peculiar lump rising in his throat; a feeling of awe and protectiveness such as Berel nor any other woman had ever aroused. Berel was behind him. Berel was antagonistic; both Bernisty and the strange woman felt it.

Berel said, "She's a spy—clearlyl Send her awayl"

Bernisty said, "Ask her what she wants."

The woman said, "I speak your Blue Star language, Bernisty; you can ask me yourself."

"Very well. Who are you? What do you do here?"

"My name is Kathryn—"

"She is a Kay!" said Berel.

"—I am a criminal. I escaped my punishment, and fled in this direction."

"Come," said Bernisty. "I would examine you more closely."

In the Beaudry wardroom, crowded with interested watchers, she told her story. She claimed to be the daughter of a Kirkassian freeholder—

"What is that?" asked Berel in a skeptical voice.

Kathryn responded mildly. "A few of the Kirkassians still keep their strongholds in the Keviot Mountains—a tribe descended from ancient brigands."

"So you are the daughter of a brigand?"

"I am more; I am a criminal is my own right," replied Kathryn mildly.

Bemisty could contain his curiosity no more. "What did you do, girl; what did you do?"

"I committed the act of—" here she used a Kay word which Bemisty was unable to understand. Berel's knitted brows indicated that she likewise was puzzled. "After that," went on Kathryn, "I upset a brazier of incense on the head of a priest. Had I felt remorse, I would have remained to be punished; since I did not I fled here in the space-boat"

"Incredible!" said Berel in disgust.

Bemisty sat watching in amusement "Apparently, girl, you are believed to be a Kay spy. What do you say to that?"

"If I were or if I were not—in either case I would deny it"

"You deny it then?"

Kathryn's face creased; she broke out into a laugh of sheer delight. "No. I admit it. I am a Kay spy." "I knew it I knew ft—"

"Hush, woman," said Bemisty. He turned to Kathryn, his brow creased in puzzlement "You admit you are a spy?" "Do you believe me?"

"By the Bulls of Bashan—I hardly know what I believe!"

"She's a clever trickster—cunning!" stormed Berel. "She's pulling her artful silk around your eyes."

"Quietr roared Bemisty. "Give me some credit for normal perceptiveness!" He turned to Kathryn. "Only a madwoman would admit to being a spy."

"Perhaps I am a madwoman," she said with grave simplicity.

Bemisty threw up his hands. "Very well, what is the difference? There are no secrets here in the first place. If you wish to spy, do so—as overtly or as stealthily as you please, whichever suits you. If you merely seek refuge, that is yours too, for you are on Blue Star soiL" My thanks to you, Bemisty."

Bernistt flew out with Broderick, the cartographer, mapping, photographing, exploring and generally inspecting New Earth. The landscape was everywhere similar—a bleak scarred surface like the inside of a burned out kiln. Everywhere loess plains of wind-spread dust abutted harsh crags.

Broderick nudged Bemisty. "Observe."

Bernisty, following the gesture, saw three faintly-marked but unmistakable squares on the desert below—vast areas of crumbled stone, strewed over by wind-driven sand.

"Those are either the most gigantic crystals the universe has ever known," said Bemisty, "or—we are not the first intelligent race to set foot on this planet."

"Shall we land?"

Bernisty surveyed the squares through his telescope. "There is little to see. . . . Leave it for the archaeologists; 111 call some out from Blue Star."

Returning toward the Beaudry, Bernisty suddenly called, "Stop!"

They set down the survey-boat; Bernisty alighted, and with vast satisfaction inspected a patch of green-brown vegetation: Basic 6-D vetch, podded over with the symbiotic lichens which fed it oxygen and water.

"Another six weeks," said Bernisty, "the world will froth with this stuff."

Broderick peered closely at a leaf. "What is that red blotch?"

"Red blotch?" Bernisty peered, frowned. "It looks like a rust, a fungus." "Is that good?"

"No—of course not! It's—bad! ... I can't quite understand it. This planet was sterile when we arrived."

"Spores drop in from space," suggested Broderick.

Bemisty nodded. "And space-boats likewise. Come, let's get back to the Beaudry. You have the position of this spot?"

"To the centimeter."

"Never mind. Ill loll this colony." And Bemisty seared the ground clean of the patch of vetch he had been so proud of. They returned to the Beaudry in silence, flying in over the plain which now grew thick with mottled foliage. Alighting from the boat, Bemisty ran not to the Beaudry but to the nearest shrub, and inspected the leaves. "None here .. . None here—nor here ..." "Bemisty!"

Bernisty looked around. Baron the botanist approached, his face stem. Bemisty's heart sank. "Yes?" "There has been inexcusable negligence." "Rust?"

"Rust. It's destroying the vetch." Bernisty swung on his heel. "You've got a sample?" "We're already working out a counter-agent in the lab." "Good ..."

But the rust was a hardy growth; finding an agency to destroy the rust and still leave the vetch and the lichens unharmed proved a task of enormous difficulty. Sample after sample of vims, germ, blot, wort and fungus failed to satisfy the conditions and were destroyed in the furnace. Meanwhile, the color of the vetch changed from brown-green to red-green to iodine-color; and the proud growth began to slump and rot.

Bemisty walked sleeplessly, exhorting, cursing his technicians. "You call yourselves ecologists? A simple affair of separating a rust from the vetch—you fail, you flounder! Here—give me that culture!" And Bemisty seized the culture-disk from Baron, himself red-eyed and irritable.

The desired agent was at last found in a pulture of slime-molds; and another two days passed before the pure strain was isolated and set out in a culture. Now the vetch was rotting, and the lichens lay scattered like autumn leaves.

Aboard the Beaudry there was feverish activity. Cauldrons full of culture crowded the laboratory, the corridors; trays of spores dried in the saloon, in the engine-room, in the library.

Here Bemisty once more became aware of Kathryn, when he found her scraping dry spores into distribution boxes. He paused to watch her; he felt the shift of her attention from the task to himself, but he was too tired to speak. He merely nodded, turned and returned to the laboratory.

The slime-molds were broadcast, but clearly it was too late. "Very well," said Bemisty, "we broadcast another setting of seed—Basic 6-D vetch. This time we know our danger and we already have the means to protect ourselves."

The new vetch grew; much of the old vetch revived. The slime-mold, when it found no more rust, perished—except for one or two mutant varieties which attacked the lichen. For a time, ft appeared as if these sports would prove as dangerous as the rust; but the Beaudry catalogue listed a virus selectively attacking slime-molds; this was broadcast, and the molds disappeared.

Bemisty was yet disgruntled. At an assembly of the entire crew he said, "Instead of three agencies—the vetch and the two lichens—there is now extant six, counting the rust, the slime-mold, the virus. The more life—the harder to control. I emphasize most strongly the need for care and absolute antisepsis."

In spite of the precautions, rust appeared again—this time a black variety. But Bemisty was ready; inside of two days, he disseminated counter-agent The rust disappeared; the vetch flourished. Everywhere, now, across the planet lay the brown-green carpet. In spots it rioted forty feet thick, climbing and wrestling, stalk against stalk, leaf lapping leaf. It climbed up the granite crags; it hung festooned over precipices. And each day, countless tons of C02 became oxygen, methane became water and more C02.

Bemisty watched the atmospheric-analysis closely; and One day the percentage of oxygen in the air rose from the 'imperceptible' to the 'minute trace' category. On this day, he ordered a general holiday and banquet. It was Blue Star formal custom for men and women to eat separately, the sight of open mouths being deemed as immodest as the act of elimination. The occasion however was one of high comradeship and festivity, and Bemisty, who was neither modest nor sensitive, ordered the custom ignored; so it was in an atmosphere of gay abandon that the banquet began.

As the banquet progressed, as the ichors and alcohols took effect, the hilarity and abandon became more pronounced. At Bemisty's side sat Berel, and though she had snared his couch during the feverish weeks previously she had felt that his attentions were completely impersonal; that she was no more than play-girl. When she noticed his eyes almost of themselves on Kathryn's wine-flushed face, she felt emotions inside her that almost brought tears to her eyes.

"This must not be," she muttered to herself. "In a few months I am play-girl no more; I am student. I mate whom I choose; I do not choose this bushy egotistical brute, this philandering Bemistyl"

In Bemisty's mind there were strange stirrings too. "Berel is pleasant and land," he thought. "But Kathrynl The flair! The spirit!" And feeling her eyes on him he thrilled like a schoolboy.

Broderick the cartographer, his head spinning and fuzzy, at this moment seized Kathryn's shoulders and drew her back to kiss her. She pulled aside, cast a whimsical glance at Bemisty. It was enough. Bernisty was by her side; he lifted her, carried her back to his chair, still hobbling on bis burnt feet. Her perfume intoxicated him as much as the wine; he hardly noticed Berel's furious face.

This must not be, thought Berel desperately. And now inspiration came to her. "Bemisty! Bemistyl" She tugged at his arm.

Bemisty turned his head. "Yes?"

"The rusts—I know how they appeared on the vetch!'*

"They drifted down as spores—from space."

"They drifted down in Kathryn's space-boat! She's not_a spy—she's a saboteur!" Even in her fury Berel had to admire the limpid innocence of Kathryn's face. "She's a Kay agent— an enemy."

"Oh, bah," muttered Bernisty, sheepishly. "This is woman-talk."

"Woman-talk, is it?" screamed Berel. "What do you think is happening now, while you feast and fondle?—" she pointed a finger on which the metal foil flower blossom quivered "-that-that besom!"

"Why—I don't understand you," said Bemisty, looking in puzzlement from girl to girl.

"While you sit lording it, the Kay spread blight and ruin!"

"Eh? What's this?" Bemisty continued to look from Berel to Kathryn, feeling suddenly clumsy and rather foolish. Kathryn moved on his lap. Her voice was easy, but now her body was stiff. "If you believe so, check on your radars and viewscopes."

Bemisty relaxed. "Oh—nonsense.'*

"No, no nol" shrilled Berel. "She tries to seduce your reasonl"

Bemisty growled to Bufco, "Check the radar." Then he, too, rose to his feet. "Ill come with you."

"Surely you don't believe—" began Kathryn.

"I believe nothing till I see the radar tapes."

Bufco flung switches, focussed his viewer. A small pip of light appeared. "A ship!"

"Coming or going?"

"Right now it's going!"

"Where are the tapes?"

Bufco reeled out the records. Bemisty bent over them, his eyebrows bristling. "Humph."

Bufco looked at him questioning!/. "This is very strange." "How so?"

"The ship had only just arrived—almost at once it turned aside, fled out away from New Earth."

Bufco studied the tapes. "This occurred precisely four minutes and thirty seconds ago."

"Precisely when we left the saloon."

"Do you think-"

"I don't know what to think."

"It's almost as if they received a message—a warning.

"But how? From where?" Bemisty hesitated. "The natural object of suspicion," he said slowly, "is Kathryn."

Bufco looked up with a curious glint in his eyes. "What will you do with her?"

"I didn't say she was guilty; I remarked that she was the logical object of suspicion ..." He pushed the tape magazine baek under the scanner. "Let's go see what's been done. ... What new mischief . .."

No mischief was apparent. The sides were clear and yellowish-green; the vetch grew well.

Bemisty returned inside the Beaudry, gave certain instructions to Blandwick, who took off in the survey-boat and returned an hour later with a small silk bag held carefully. "I don't know what they are," said Blandwick.

"They're bound to be bad." Bemisty took the small' silk bag to the laboratory and watched while the two botanists, the two mycologists, the four entomologists studied the contents of the bag.

The entomologists identified the material. "These are eggs of some small insect—from the gene-count and diffraction-pattern one or another of the mites."

Bemisty nodded. He looked sourly at the waiting men. "Need I tell you what to do?"

"No."

Bemisty returned to his private office and presently sent for BereL He asked, without preliminary, "How did you know a Kay ship was in the sky?"

Berel stood staring defiantly down at him. "I did not know; I guessed."

Bemisty studied her for a moment. "Yes—you spoke of your intuitive abilities."

"This was not intuition," said Berel scornfully. "This was plain commonsense."

"I don't follow you."

"It's perfectly clear. A Kay woman-spy appears. The ecology went bad right away; red rust and black rust. You beat the rust, you celebrate; you're keyed to a sense of relief. What better time to start a new plague?"

Bemisty nodded slowly. "What better time, indeed . . ."

"Incidentally—what kind of plague is it going to be?"

"Plant-lice—mites. I think we can beat it before it gets started."

Then what?"

"It looks as if the Kay can't scare us off, they mean to work us to death."

"That's what it looks like." "Can they doit?"

"I don't see how we can stop them from trying. It's easy to breed pests; hard to loll them."

Banta, the head entomologist, came in with a glass tube. "Here's some of them—hatched."

"Already?"

"We hurried ft up a little."

"Can they live in this atmosphere? There's not much oxygen—lots of ammonia."

"They thrive on it; it's what they're breathing now."

Bemisty ruefully inspected the bottle. "And that's our good vetch they're eating, too."

Berel looked over his shoulder. "What can we do about them?"

Banta looked properly dubious. The natural enemies are certain parasites, Viruses, dragonflies, and a land of a small armored gnat that breeds very quickly; and which I think we'd do best to concentrate on. In fact we're already engaging in large-scale selective breeding, trying to find a strain to live in this atmosphere."

"Good work, Banta." Bemisty rose to his feet

"Where are you going?" asked Berel.

"Out to check on the vetch."

Til come with you."

Out on the plain, Bemisty seemed intent not so much on the vetch as on the sky.

"What are you looking for?" Berel asked. Bemisty pointed. "See that wisp up there?" "A cloud?"

"Just a bit of frost—a few sprinkles, of ice crystals . . . But it's a start! Our first rainstorm—that'll be an event!"

"Provided the methane and oxygen don't explode—and send us all to kingdom come!"

"Yes, yes," muttered Bemisty. "Well have to set out some new methanophiles."

"And how will you get rid of all this ammonia?"

There's a marsh-plant from Salsibeny that under proper conditions performs the equation:

12NH_a+9 0₂ = 18 ELp+6 N, "

"Rather a waste of time for it I should say," remarked Berel. "What does it gain?"

"A freak, only a freak. What do we gain by laughing? Another freak."

"A pleasant uselessness."

Bemisty was examining the vetch. There, here. Look.

Under this leaf." He displayed the mites; slow yellow aphid-creatures.

"When will your gnats be ready?"

"Banta is letting half his stock free; maybe they'll feed faster on their own than in the laboratory." "Does—does Kathryn know about the gnats?" "You're still gunning for her, eh?" "I think she's a spy."

Bemisty said mildly, 1 can't think of a way that either one of you could have communicated with that Kay ship." "Either one of u$r

"Someone warned him away. Kathryn is the logical suspect; but you knew he was there."

Berel swung on her heel, stalked back to the Beaudry.

The gnats were countering the mites, apparently; the population of both first increased, then dwindled. After which the vetch grew taller and stronger. There was now oxygen in the air, and the botanists broadcast a dozen new species— broad-leaves, producers of oxygen; nitrogen-fixers, absorbing the ammonia; the methanophiles from the young methane-rich worlds, combining oxygen with methane, and growing in magnificent white towers like carved ivory.

Bemisty's feet were whole again, a size larger than his first ones and he was forced to discard his worn and comfortable boots for a new pair cut from stiff blue leather.

Kathryn was playfully helping him cram his feet into the hard vacancies. Casually, Bemisty said, "It's been bothering me, Kathryn: tell me, how did you call to the Kay?"

She started, gave him an instant piteous wide-eyed stare, like a trapped rabbit, then she laughed. "The same way 'you do—with my mouth."

"When?"

"Oh, every day about this time." "I'd be glad to watch you."

"Very well." She looked up at the window, spoke in the ringing Kay tongue.

"What did you say?" asked Bemisty poHtely.

"I said that the mites were a failure; that there was good morale here aboard the Beaudry; that you were a great leader, a wonderful man."

"But you recommended no further steps."

She smiled demurely. "I am no ecologist—neither constructive, nor destructive."

"Very well," said Bemisty, standing into his boots. "We shall see."

Next day the radar-tapes showed the presence of two ships; they had made fleeting visits—"long enough to dump their villainous cargo," so Bufco reported to Bemisty.

The cargo proved to be eggs of a ferocious blue wasp, which preyed on the gnats. The gnats perished; the mites prospered; the vetch began to wilt under the countless sucking tubes. To counter the wasp, Bemisty released a swarm of feathery blue flying-ribbons. The wasps bred inside a peculiar, small brown puff-ball fungus (the spores for which had been released with the wasp larva). The flying-ribbons ate these puff-balls. With no shelter for their larva, the wasps died; the gnats revived in numbers, gorging on mites till their thoraxes split.

The Kay assaulted on a grander scale. Three large ships passed by night, disgorging a witches-cauldron of reptiles, insects, arachnids, land-crabs, a dozen phyla without formal classification. The human resources of the Beaudry were inadequate to the challenge; they began to fail, from insect stings; another botanist took a pulsing white-blue gangreene from the prick of a poisonous thorn.

New Earth was no longer a mild region of vetch, lichen, and dusty wind; New Earth was a fantastic jungle. Insects stalked each other through the leafy wildernesses; there were local specializations and improbable adaptations. There were spiders, and lizards the size of cats; scorpions which rang like bells when they walked; long-legged lobsters; poisonous butterflies; a species of giant moth, which, finding the environment congenial, grew even more gigantic.

Within the Beaudry there was everywhere a sense of defeat Bemisty walked limping along the promenade, the hmp more of an unconscious attitude than a physical necessity. The problem was too complex for a single brain, he thought —or for a single team of human brains. The various life-forms on the planet, each evolving, mutating, expanding into vacant niches, selecting the range of their eventual destinies— they made a pattern too haphazard for an electronic computer, for a team of computers.

Blandwick, the meteorologist, came along the promenade with his daily atmospheric-report Bemisty derived a certain melancholy pleasure to find that while there had been no great increase in oxygen and water-vapor, neither had there been any decrease. In fact," said Blandwick, "there's a tremendous amount of water tied up in all those bugs and parasites."

Bemisty shook his head. "Nothing appreciable. . . . And they're eating away the vetch faster than we can kill em off. New varieties appear faster than we can find them."

Blandwick frowned. "The Kay are following no clear pattern."

"No, they're just dumping anything they hope might be destructive."

"Why don't we use the same technique? Instead of selective counter-action, we turn loose our entire biological program. Shotgun tactics."

Bemisty limped on a few paces. "Well, why not? The total effect might be beneficial. . . . Certainly less destructive than what's going on out there now." He paused. "We deal in unpredictables of course—and this is contrary to my essential logic."

Blandwick sniffled. "None of our gains to date have been the predictable ones."

, Bemisty grinned, after a momentary irritation, since Bland-wick's remark was inaccurate; had Blandwick been driving home a truth, then there would have been cause for irritation.

"Very well, Blandwick," he said jovially. "We shoot the works. If it succeeds we'll name the first settlement Blandwick."

"Humph," said the pessimistic Blandwick, and Bemisty went to give the necessary orders.

Now every vat, tub, culture tank, incubator, tray and rack in the laboratory was full; as soon as the contents achieved even a measure of acclimatization to the still nitrogenous atmosphere, they were discharged: pods, plants, molds, bacteria, crawling things, insects, annelids, crustaceans, land ganoids, even a few elementary mammals—life-forms from well over three dozen different worlds. Where New Earth had previously been a battleground, now it was a madhouse.

One variety of palms achieved instant success; inside of two months they towered everywhere over the landscape. Between them hung veils of a peculiar air-floating web, subsisting on flying things. Under the branches, the brambles, there was much killing; much breeding; much eating; growing; fighting; fluttering; dying. Aboard the Beaudry, Ber-nisty was well-pleased and once more joviaL

He clapped Blandwick on the back. "Not only do we call the city after you, we prefix your name to an entire system of philosophy, the Blandwick method."

Blandwick was unmoved by the tribute. "Regardless of the success of 'the Blandwick method', as you call it, the Kay still have a word to say."

"What can they do?" argued Bemisty. "They can liberate creatures no more unique or ravenous than those we ourselves have loosed. Anything the Kay send to New Earth now, is in the nature of anti-climax."

Blandwick smiled sourly. "Do you think they'll give up quite so easily?"

Bemisty became uneasy, and went off in search of BereL "Well, play-girl," he demanded, "what does your intuition tell you now?"

"It tells me," she snapped, "that whenever you are the most optimistic, the Kay are on the verge of their most devastating attacks."

Bemisty put on a facetious front "And when will these attacks take place?"

"Ask the spy-woman; she communicates secrets freely to anyone."

"Very well," said Bemisty. "Find her, if you please, and send her to me."

Kathryn appeared, "Yes, Bemisty?"

"I am curious," said Bemisty, "as to what you communicate to the Kay."

Kathryn said, "I tell them that Bemisty is defeating them, that he has countered their worst threats."

"And what do they tell you?"

"They tell me nothing."

"And what do you recommend?"

"I recommend that they either win at a massive single stroke, or give up."

"How do you tell them this?"

Kathryn laughed, showing her pretty white teeth. "I talk to them fust as now I talk to you."

"And when do you think they will strike?"

"I don't know. . . . It seems that certainly they are long overdue. Would you not think so?"

"Yes," admitted Bemisty, and turned his head to find Bufco the radioman approaching.

"Kay ships," said Bufco. "A round dozen—mountainous
barrels! They made one circuit—departed!" ^

"Well," said Bemisty, "this is it." He turned upon Kathryn the level look of cold speculation, and she returned the expression of smiling demureness which both of them had come to find familiar.

In three dats every living thing on New Earth was dead. Not merely dead, but dissolved into a viscous gray syrup which sank into the plain, trickled like sputum down the crags, evaporated into the wind. The effect was miraculous. Where the jungle had thronged the plain—now only plain existed, and already the wind was blowing up dust-devils.

There was one exception to the universal dissolution—the monstrous moths, which by some unknown method, or chemical make-up, had managed to survive. Across the wind they soared; frail fluttering shapes, seeking their former sustenance and finding nothing now but desert.

Aboard the Beoudry there was bewilderment; then dejection; then dull rage which could find no overt outlet, until at last Bemisty fell into a sleep.

He awoke with a sense of vague uneasiness, of trouble: the collapse of the New Earth ecology? No. Something deeper, more immediate. He jumped into his clothes, hastened to the saloon. It was nearly full, and gave off a sense of grim malice.

Kathryn sat pale, tense in a chair; behind her stood Banta with a garrote. He was clearly preparing to strange her, with the rest of the crew as collaborators.

Bernisty stepped across the saloon, broke Banta's jaw and broke the fingers of his clenched fist Kathryn sat looking up silently.

"Well, you miserable renegades," Bernisty began; but looking around the wardroom, he found no sheepishness, only growing anger, defiance. "What goes on herer^ roared Bernisty.

"She is a traitor,'' said Berel; "we execute her."

"How can she be a traitor? She never promised us faith!"

"She is certainly a spyl"

Bernisty laughed. "She has never dissembled the fact that she communicates with the Kay. How can she then be a spy?"

No one made reply, there was uneasy shifting of eyes.

Bernisty kicked Banta, who was rising to his feet. "Get away, you cur. ... Ill have no murderers, no lynchers in my crew!"

Berel cried, "She betrayed us!"

"How could she betray us? She never asked us to gfve her trust. Quite the reverse; she came to us frankly as a Kay; frankly she tells me she reports to the Kay."

"But how?" sneered Berel. "She claims to talk to them— to make you believe she jokes!"

Bernisty regarded Kathryn with the speculative glance. "If I read her character right Kathryn tells no untruths. It is her single defense. If she says she talks to the Kay, so she does. . . ." He turned to the medic, "Bring an infrascope."

The infrascope revealed strange black shadows inside Kathryn's body. A small button beside her larynx; two slim boxes flat against her diaphragm; wires running down under the skin of each leg.

"What is this?" gasped the medic.

"Internal radio," said Bufco. "The button takes her voice, the antenna are the leg-wires. What better equipment for a spy?"

"She is no spy, I tell you!" Bemisty bellowed. "The fault lies not with her—it lies with me! She told me! If I had asked her how her voice got to the Kay, she would have told me—candidly, frankly. I never asked her; I chose to regard the entire affair as a game! If you must garret someone —garrot me! I am the betrayer—not she!"

Berel turned, walked from the wardroom, others followed. Bemisty turned to Kathryn. "Now—now what will you do? Your venture is a success."

"Yes," said Kathryn, "a success." She likewise left the wardroom. Bemisty followed curiously. She went to the outdoor locker, put on her head-dome, opened the double-lock stepped out upon the dead plain.

Bemisty watched her from a window. Where would she walk to? Nowhere. . . . She walked to death, like one walking into the surf and swimming straight out to sea. Overhead the giant moths fluttered, flickered down on the wind. Kathryn looked up; Bemisty saw her cringe. A moth flapped close; strove to seize her. She ducked; the wind caught the frail wings, and the moth wheeled away.

Bemisty chewed his lip; then laughed. "Devil take all; devil take the Kay; devil take all ..." He jammed on his own head-dome.

Bufco caught his arm. "Bemisty, where do you go?"

"She is brave, she is steadfast; why should she die?"

"She is our enemy!"

"I prefer a brave enemy to cowardly friends-." He ran from the ship, across the soft loess now crusted with dried slime.

The moths fluttered, plunged. One clung to Kathryn's shoulders with barbed legs; she struggled, beat with futile hands at the great soft shape.

Shadows fell over Bemisty; he saw the purple-red glinting of big eyes, the impersonal visage. He swung a fist, felt the chitin crunch. Sick pangs of pain reminded him that the hand had. already been broken on Banta's jaw. With the moth flapping on the ground he ran off down the wind. Kathryn lay supine, a moth probing her with a tube ill-adapted to cutting plastics and cloth.

Bernisty called out encouragement; a shape swooped on his back, bore him to the ground. He rolled over, kicked; arose, jumped to his feet, tackled the moth on Kathryn, tore off the wings, snapped the head up.

He turned to fight the other swooping shapes but now from the ship came Bufco, with a needle-beam puncturing moths from the sky, and others behind him.

Bernisty carried Kathryn back to the ship. He took her to the surgery, laid her on the pallet. "Cut that radio out of her," he told the medic. "Make her normal, and then if she gets information to the Kay, they'll deserve it."

He found Berel in his quarters, lounging in garments of seductive diaphane. He swept her with an indifferent glance.

Conquering her perturbation she asked, "Well, what now, Bernisty?"

"We start again!"

"Again? When the Kay can sweep the world of life so easyr^

"This time we work differently." "So?"

"Do you know the ecology of Kerryldrk, the Kay capitol world?" "No."

"In six months—you will find New Earth as close a duplicate as we are able."

"But that is foolhardy! What other pests will the Kay know so well as those of their own world?"

"Those are my own views."

Bernisty presently went to the surgery. Hie medic handed him the internal radio. Bernisty stared. "What are these— these little bulbs?"

"They are persuaders," said the medic. They can be easily triggered to red-heat..."

Bernisty said abruptly, "Is she awake?"

"Yes."

Bernisty looked down into the pale face. "You have no more radio." "I know."

"Will you spy any longer?"

"No. I give you my loyalty, my love."

Bemisty nodded, touched her face, turned, left the room, went to give his orders for a new planet

Bemisty ordered stocks from Blue Star: Kerryldrk flora and fauna exclusively and set them out as conditions justified. Three months passed uneventfully. The plants of Kerryldrk throve; the air became rich; New Earth felt its first rains.

Kerryldrk trees and cycads sprouted, grew high, forced by growth hormones; the plains grew knee-deep with Kerryldrk grasses.

Then once again came the Kay ships; and now it was as if they played a sly game, conscious of power. The first infestations were only mild harassments.

Bemisty grinned, and released Kerryldrk amphibians into the new puddles. Now the Kay ships came at almost regular intervals, and each vessel brought pests more virulent or voracious; and the Beaudry technicians worked incessantly countering the successive invasions.

There was grumbling; Bemisty sent those who wished to go home to Blue Star. Berel departed; her time as a play-girl was finished. Bemisty felt a trace of guilt as she bade him dignified farewell. When he returned to his quarters and found Kathryn there, the guilt disappeared.

The Kay ships came; a new horde of hungry creatures came to devastate the land.

Some of the crew cried defeat "Where will it end? It is incessant; let us give up this thankless task!"

Others spoke of war. "Is not New Earth already a battleground?"

Bemisty waved a careless hand. "Patience, patience; just one more month." "Why one more month?"

"Do you not understand? The Kay ecologists are straining their laboratories breeding these pests!" "Ah!"

One more month, one more Kay visitation, a new rain of violent life, eager to combat the life of New Earth. "Now!" said Bemisty.

The Beaudry technicians collected the latest arrivals, the most effective of the previous cargoes; they were bred; the seeds, spores, eggs, prepared carefully stored, packed.

One day a ship left New Earth and flew to Kerry kirk, the holds bulging with the most desperately violent enemies of Kerry lark life that Kerry kirk scientists could find. The ship returned to New Earth with its hold empty. Not till six months later did news of the greatest plagues in history seep out past Kay censorship.

During this time there were no Kay visits to New Earth. "And if they are discreet," Bemisty told the serious man from Blue Star who had come to replace him, "they will never come again. They are too vulnerable to their own pests—so long as we maintain a Kerry kirk ecology."

"Protective coloration, you might say," remarked the new governor of New Earth with a thin-lipped smile.

"Yes, you might say so."

"And what do you do, Bemisty?"

Bemisty listened. A far-off hum came to their ears. "That," said Bemisty, "is the Blauelm, arriving from Blue Star. And it's mine for another flight, another exploration."

"You seek another New Earth?" And the thin-lipped smile became broader, with the unconscious superiority die settled man feels for the wanderer.

"Perhaps 111 even find Old Earth. ... Hm ..." He kicked up a bit of red glass stamped with the letters STOP. "Curious bit, this..."

honored; the transaction (for the process represented a great deal more than simple giving and taking) had augmented the prestige of both. That time was far gone; the houseboat now commanded no prestige whatever. Edwer Thissell, resident on Sirene only three months, recognized the lack but could do nothing about ft: this particular houseboat was the best he could get. He sat on the rear deck practising the ganga, a zither-like instrument not much larger than his hand. A hundred yards inshore, surf denned a strip of white beach; beyond rose jungle, with the silhouette of craggy black bills against the sky. Mireille shone hazy and white overhead, as if through a tangle of spider-web; the face of the ocean pooled and puddled with mother-of-pearl luster. The scene had become as familiar, though not as boring, as the ganga, at which he had worked two hours, twanging out the Siren-ese scales, forming chords, traversing simple progressions. Now he put down the ganga for the zachinko, this a small sound-box studded with keys, played with the right hand. Pressure on the keys forced air through reeds in the keys themselves, producing a concertina-like tone. Thissell ran off a dozen quick scales, making very few mistakes. Of the" six instruments he had set himself to learn, the zachinko had proved the least refractory (with the exception, of course, of the hymerkin, that clacking, slapping, clattering device of wood and stone used exclusively with the slaves).

Thissell practised another ten minutes, then put aside the zachinko. He flexed his arms, wrung his aching fingers. Every waking moment since his arrival had been given to the instruments: the hymerkin, the ganga, the zachinko, the kio, the strapan, the gomapard. He had practised scales in nineteen keys and four modes, chords without number, intervals never imagined on the Home Planets. Trills, arpeggios, slurs; click-stops and nasalization; damping and augmentation of overtones; vibratos and wolf-tones; concavities and convexities. He practised with a dogged, deadly diligence, in which his original concept of music as a source of pleasure had long become lost. Looking over the instruments Thissell resisted an urge to fling all six into the Titanic.

He rose to his feet, went forward through the parlor saloon, "the dining-saloon, along a corridor past the galley and came out on the fore-deck. He bent over the rail, peered down into the underwater pens where Toby and Rex, the slaves, were harnessing the dray-fish for the weekly trip to Fan, eight miles north. The youngest fish, either playful or captious, ducked and plunged. Its streaming black muzzle broke water, and ThisselL looking into its face felt a peculiar qualm: the fish wore no maskl

Thissell laughed uneasily, fingering his own mask, the Moon Moth. No question about it, he was becoming acclimated to Sirenel A significant stage had been reached when the naked face of a fish caused him shock!

The fish were finally harnessed; Toby and Rex climbed aboard, red bodies glistening, black cloth masks clinging to their faces. Ignoring Thissell they stowed the pen, hoisted anchor. The dray-fish strained, the harness tautened, the houseboat moved north.

Returning to the after-deck, Thissell took up the strapontins a circular sound-box eight inches in diameter. Forty-six wires radiated from a central hub to the circumference where they connected to either a bell or a tinkle-bar. When plucked, the bells rang, the bars chimed; when strummed, the instrument gave off a twanging, jingling sound. When played with competence, the pleasantly acid dissonances produced an expressive effect; in an unskilled hand, the results were less felicitous, and might even approach random noise. The strapan was Thissell's weakest instrument and he practised with concentration during the entire trip north.

In due course the houseboat approached the floating city. The dray-fish were curbed, the houseboat warped to a mooring. Along the dock a line of idlers weighed and gauged every aspect of the houseboat, the slaves and Thissell himself, according to Sirenese habit. ThisselL not yet accustomed to such penetrating inspection, found the scrutiny unsettling, all the more so for the immobility of the masks. Self-consciously adjusting his own Moon Moth, he climbed the ladder to the dock.

A slave rose from where he had been squatting, touched knuckles to the black cloth at his forehead, and sang on a three-tone phrase of interrogation: "The Moon Moth before me possibly expresses the identity of Ser Edwer Thissell?"

Thissell tapped the hymerkin which hung at his belt and sang: "I am Ser TbisseU."

"I have been honored by a trust," sang the slave. "Three days from dawn to dusk I have waited on the dock;' three nights from dusk to dawn I have crouched on a raft below this same dock listening to the feet of the Night-men. At last I behold the mask of Ser Thissell."

Thissell evoked an impatient clatter from the hymerkin. "What is the nature of this trust?"

"I carry a message, Ser Thissell. It is intended for you."

Thissell held out his left hand, playing the hymerkin with his right. "Give me die message."

"Instantly, Ser ThisselL"

The message bore a heavy superscription:

EMERGENCY COMMUNICATION! RUSH!

Thissell ripped open the envelope. The message was signed by Castel Cromartin, Chief Executive of the Interworld Policies Board, and after the formal salutation read:

ABSOLUTELY URGENT the foflowing orders be "executed! Aboard Carina Cruzeiro, destination Fan, date of arrival January 10 U.T., is notorious assassin, Haxo Angmark. Meet landing with adequate authority, effect detention and incarceration of this man. These instructions must be successfully implemented. Failure is unacceptable.

ATTENTION! Haxo Angmark is superlatively dangerous. Kill him without hesitation at any show of resistance.

Thissell considered the message with dismay. In coming to Fan as Consular Representative he had expected nothing like this; he felt neither inclination nor competence in the matter of dealing with dangerous assassins. Thoughtfully he rubbed the fuzzy gray cheek of his mask. The situation was not completely dark; Esteban Roh/er, Director of the Space-Port, would doubtless cooperate, and perhaps furnish a platoon of slaves.

More hopefully, Thissell reread the message. January 10, Universal Time. He consulted a conversion calendar. Today,

40th in the Season of Bitter Nectar—ThisseD ran his finger down the column, stopped. January 10. Today.

A distant rumble caught his attention. Dropping from the mist came a dull shape: the lighter returning from contact with the Carina Cruzeiro.

Thissell once more re-read the note, raised his head, studied the descending lighter. Aboard would be Haxo Angmark. In five minutes he would emerge upon the soil of Sirene. Landing formalities would detain him possibly twenty minutes. The landing field lay a mile and a half distant, joined to Fan by a winding path through the hills.

Thissell turned to the slave/ "When did this message arrive?"

The slave leaned forward uncomprehendingly. Thissell reiterated his question, singing to the clack of the hymerkin: "This message: you have enjoyed the honor of its custody how long?"

The slave sang: "Long days have I waited on the wharf, retreating only to the raft at the onset of dusk. Now my vigil is rewarded; I behold Ser Thissell."

Thissell turned away, walked furiously up the dock. Ineffective, inefficient Sirenese! Why had they not delivered the message to his houseboat? Twenty-five minutes—twenty-two now....

At the esplanade Thissell stopped, looked right then left, hoping for a miracle: some sort of air-transport to wisk him to the space-port, where with Rolver's aid, Haxo Angmark might still be detained. Or better yet, a second message canceling the first. Something, anything . . . But'air-cars were not to be found on Sirene, and no second message appeared.

Across the esplanade rose a meager row of permanent structures, built of stone and iron and so proof against the efforts of the Night-men. A hostler occupied one of these structures, and as Thissell watched a man in a splendid pearl and silver mask emerged riding one of the lizard-like mounts of Sirene.

Thissell sprang forward. There was still time; with luck he might yet intercept Haxo Angmark. He hurried across the esplanade.

Before the line of stalls stood the hostler, inspecting hisstock with solicitude, occasionally burnishing a scale or whisking away an insect. There were five of the beasts in prime condition, each as tall as a man's shoulder, with massive legs, thick bodies, heavy wedge-shaped heads. From their fore-fangs, which had been artificially lengthened and curved into near-circles, gold rings depended; the scales of each had been stained in diaper-pattern: purple and green, orange and blade, red and blue, brown and pink, yellow and silver.

Thissell came to a breathless halt in front of the hostler. He reached for his kk>*, then hesitated. Could this be considered a casual personal encounter? The zachinko perhaps? But the statement of his needs hardly seemed to demand the formal approach. Better the kk> after aTL He struck a chord, but by error found himself stroking the ganga. Beneath his mask Thissell grinned apologetically; his relationship with this hostler was by no means on an intimate basis. He hoped that the hostler was of sanguine disposition, and in any event the urgency of the occasion allowed no time to select an exactly appropriate instrument. He struck a second chord, and, playing as well as agitation, breathlessness and lack of skill allowed, sang out a request: "Ser Hostler, I have immediate need of a swift mount Allow me to select from your herd."

*stimic: three flute-like tubes equipped with plungers. Thumb and forefinger squeeze a bag to force air across the mouth-pieces; the second, third and fourth little fingers manipulate the slide. The stimic is an instrument well-adapted to the sentiments of cool withdrawal, or even disapproval.

The hostler wore a mask of considerable complexity which Thissell could not identify: a construction of varnished brown cloth, pleated gray leather and high on the forehead two large green and scarlet globes, minutely segmented like insect eyes. He inspected Thissell a long moment, then, rather ostentatiously selecting his stimic*, executed a brilliant progression of trills and rounds, of an import Thissell failed to grasp. The hostler sang, "Ser Moon Moth, I fear that my steeds are unsuitable to a person of your distinction."

Thissell earnestly twanged at the gangs. "By no means; they all seem adequate. I am in great haste and.will gladly accept any of the group."

The hostler played a brittle cascading crescendo. "Ser Moon-Moth," he sang, "the steeds are ill and dirty. I am flattered that you consider them adequate to your use. I cannot accept the merit you offer me. And"—here, switching instruments, he struck a cool tinkle from his krodatch** —"somehow I fail to recognize the boon-companion and co-craftsman who accosts me so familiarly with his ganga."

The implication was clear. Thissell would receive no mount. He turned, set off at a run for the landing field. Behind him sounded a clatter of the hostler's hymerkin— whether directed toward the hostler's slaves, or toward himself Thissell did not pause to learn.

The previous Consular Representative of the Home Planets on Sirene had been killed at Zundar. Masked as a Tavern Bravo he had accosted a girl beribboned for the Equinoctial Attitudes, a solecism for which he had been instantly beheaded by a Red Demiurge, a Sun Sprite and a Magic Hornet. Edwer Thissell, recently graduated from the Institute, had been named his successor, and allowed three days to prepare himself. Normally of a contemplative, even cautious, disposition, Thissell had regarded the appointment as a challenge. He learned the Sirenese language \>y sub-cerebral techniques, and found it uncomplicated. Then, in the Journal of Universal Anthropology, he read:

**krodatch: a small square sound-box strung with resined gut. The musician scratches the strings with his fingernail, or strokes them with his fingertips, to produce a variety of quietly formal sounds. The krodatch is also used as an instrument of insult.

"The population of the Titanic littoral is highly indivualistic, possibly in response to a bountiful environment which puts no premium upon group activity. The language, reflecting this trait, expresses the individual's mood, his emotional attitude toward a given situation. Factual information is regarded as a secondary concomitant Moreover, the language is sung, characteristically to the accompaniment of a small instrument. As a result, there is great difficulty in ascertaining fact from a native of Fan, or the forbidden city Zundar. One will be regaled with elegant arias and demonstrations of astonishing virtuosity upon one or another of the numerous musical instruments. The visitor to this fascinating world, unless he cares to be treated with the most consummate contempt must therefore learn to express himself after the approved local fashion."

Thissell made a note in his memorandum book: Procure small musical instrument, together with directions as to use. He read on.

There is everywhere and at all times a plentitude, not to say, superfluity of food, and the climate is benign. With a fund of racial energy and a great deal of leisure time, the population occupies itself with intricacy. Intricacy in all things: intricate craftmanship, such as the carved panels which adorn the houseboat; intricate symbolism, as exemplified in the masks worn by everyone; the intricate half-musical language which admirably expresses subtle moods and emotions; and above all the fantastic intricacy of inter-personal relationships. Prestige, face, mono, repute, glory: the Sirenese word is strakh. Every man has his characteristic strakh, which determines whether, when he needs a houseboat, he will be urged to avail himself of a floating palace, rich with gems, alabaster lanterns, peacock faience and carved wood, or grudgingly permitted an abandoned shack on a raft. There is no medium of exchange on Sirene; the single and sole currency is strakh . . ."

Thissell rubbed his chin and read further.

"Masks are worn at all times, in accordance with the philosophy that a man should not be compelled to use a similitude foisted upon him by factors beyond his control; that he should be at liberty to choose that semblance most consonant with his strakh. In the civilized areas of Sirene—which is to say the Titanic littoral—a man literally never shows his face; it is his basic secret.

"Gambling, by this token, is unknown on Sirene; it would be catastrophic to Sirenese self-respect to gain advantage by means other than the exercise of strakh. The word luck' has no counterpart in the Sirenese , language."

Thissell made another note: Get mask. Museum? Drama guild?

He finished the article, hastened forth to complete his preparations, and the next day embarked aboard the Robert Astroguard for the first leg of the passage to Sirene.

The lighter settled upon the Sirenese space-port, a topaz disk isolated among the black, green and purple hills. The lighter grounded, and Edwer Thissell stepped forth. He was met by Esteban Rolver, the local agent for Spaceways. Rolver threw up his hands, stepped back. "Your mask," he cried huskily. "Where is your mask?"

Thissell held it up rather self-consciously. "I wasn't sure—"

"Put it on," said Rolver, turning away. He himself wore a fabrication of dull green scales, blue-lacquered wood. Black quills protruded at the cheeks, and under his chin hung a black and white checked pom-pom, the total effect creating a sense of sardonic supple personality.

Thissell adjusted the mask to his face, undecided whether to make a joke about the situation or to maintain a reserve suitable to the dignity of his post.

"Are you masked?^ Rolver inquired over his shoulder.

Thissell replied in the affirmative and Rolver turned. The mask hid the expression of his face, but his hand unconsciously flicked a set of keys strapped to his thigh. The instrument sounded a trill of shock and polite consternation.

"You cant wear that mask!" sang Rolver. "In fact—how, where, did you get it?"

"It's copied from a mask owned hy the Poh/polis museum," declared Thissell stiffly. "I'm sure it's authentic."

Rolver nodded, his own mask more sardoriic-seeming than ever. "It's authentic enough. It's a variant of the type known as the Sea-Dragon Conqueror, and is worn on ceremonial occasions by persons of enormous prestige: princes, heroes, master craftsmen, great musicians."

"I wasn't aware—"

Rolver made a gesture of languid understanding. "It's something you'll learn in due course. Notice my mask. Today I'm wearing a Tarn-Bird. Persons of minimal prestige—such as you, L any other out-worlder—wear this sort of thing."

"Odd," said Thissell as they started across the field toward a low concrete blockhouse. "I assumed that a person wore whatever mask he liked." -

"Certainly," said Rolver. "Wear any mask you like—if you can make it stick. This Tarn-Bird for instance. I wear it to indicate that I presume nothing. I make no claims to wisdom, ferocity, versatility, musicianship, truculence, or any of a dozen other Sirenese virtues."

"For the sake of argument," said Thissell, "what would happen if I walked through the streets of Zundar in this mask?"

Rolver laughed, a muffled sound behind his mask. "If you walked along the docks of Zundar—there are no streets— in any mask, you'd be killed within the hour. That's what happened to Benko, your predecessor. He didn't know how to act. None of us out-worlders know how to act In Fan we're tolerated—so long as we keep our place. But you couldn't even walk around Fan in that regalia you're sporting now. Somebody wearing a Fire-snake or a Thunder Goblin—masks, you understand—would step up to you. He'd play his krodatch, and if you failed to challenge his audacity with a passage on the skaranyi*, a devilish instrument, he'd

'skaranyi: a miniature bag-pipe, the sac squeezed between thumb and palm, the four fingers controlling the stops along four tubes.

play his hymerkin—the instrument we use with the slaves. That's the ultimate expression of contempt: Or he might ring his duelling-gong and attack you then and there."

"I had no idea that people here were quite so irascible," said Thissell in a subdued voice.

Rolver shrugged and swung open the massive steel door into his office. "Certain acts may not be committed on the Concourse at Folypolis without incurring criticism."

"Yes, that's quite true," said Thissell. He looked around the office. "Why the security? The concrete, the steel?"

"Protection against the savages," said Rolver. "They come down from the mountains at night, steal what's available, kill anyone they find ashore." He went to a closet, brought forth a mask. "Here. Use this Moon-Moth; it won't get you in trouble."

Thissell unenthusiastically inspected the mask. It was constructed of mouse-colored fur; there was a tuft of hair at each side of the mouth-hole, a pair of feather-like antennae at the forehead. White lace flaps dangled beside the temples and under the eyes hung a series of red folds, creating an effect at once lugubrious and comic.

Thissell asked, "Does this mask signify any degree of prestige?"

"Not a great deal."

"After all, I'm Consular Representative," said Thissell. "I represent the Home Planets, a hundred billion people—"

"If the Home Planets want their representative to wear a Sea-Dragon Conqueror mask, they'd better send out a Sea-Dragon Conqueror type of man."

"I see," said Thissell in a Subdued voice. "Well, if I must. . ."

Rolver politely averted his gaze while Thissell doffed the Sea-Dragon Conqueror and slipped the more modest Moon Moth over his head. "I suppose I can find something just a bit more suitable in one of the shops," Thissell said. "I'm told a person simply goes in and takes what he needs, correct?"

Rolver surveyed Thissell critically. "That mask—temporarily, at least—is perfectly suitable. And it's rather important not to take anything from the shops until you know the strakh value of the article you want The owner loses prestige if a person of low strakh makes free with his best work."

Thissell shook his head in exasperation. "Nothing of this was explained to mel I knew of the masks, of course, and the painstaking integrity of the craftsmen, but this insistence on prestige—strakh, whatever the word is . . ."

"No matter," said Rolver. "After a year or two youll begin to learn your way around. I suppose you speak the language?"-

"Oh indeed. Certainly."

"And what instruments do you play?"

"Well—I was given to understand that any small instrument was adequate, or that I could merely sing."

"Very inaccurate. Only slaves sing without accompaniment I suggest (hat you learn the following instruments as quickly as possible: the hymerkin for your slaves. The ganga for conversation between intimates or one a trifle lower than yourself in strakh. The kio for casual polite intercourse. The zachinko for more formal dealings. The strapan or the kro-datch for your social inferiors—in your case, should you wish to insult someone. The gomapard* or the douhle-kamartthil" for ceremonials." He considered a moment. "The crebarin, the water-lute and the slobo are highly useful also —but perhaps you'd better learn the other instruments first They should provide at least a rudimentary means of communication."

"Aren't you exaggerating?" suggested Thissell. "Or joking?" Rolver laughed his saturnine laugh. "Not at all. First of all, you'll need a houseboat And then youll want slaves."

Rolver took Thissel from the landing field to the docks of Fan, a walk of an hour and a half along a pleasant path

'gomapard: one of the few electric instruments used on Sirene. An oscillator produces an oboe-like tone which is modulated, choked, vibrated, raised and lowered in pitch by four keys.

"double-kamanthil: an instrument similar to the ganga, except the tones are produced by twisting and inclining a disk of resined leather against one or more of the forty-si* strings.

under enormous trees loaded with fruit, cereal pods, sacs of sugary sap.

"At the moment," said Rolver, "there are only four out-worlders in Fan, counting yourself. Ill take you to Welibus, our Commercial Factor. I think he's got an old houseboat he might let you use."

Comely Welibus had resided fifteen years in Fan, acquiring sufficient strakh to wear his South Wind -mask with authority. This consisted of a blue disk inlaid with cabo-chons of lapis-lazuli, surrounded by an aureole of shimmering snake-skin. Heartier and more cordial than Rolver, he not only provided Thissell with a houseboat, but also a score of various musical instruments and a pair of slaves.

Embarrassed by the largesse, Thissell stammered something about payment, but Welibus cut him off with an expansive gesture. "My dear fellow, this is Sirene. Such trifles cost nothing."

"But a houseboat—"

Welibus played a courtly little flourish on his kio. "HI be frank, Ser Thissell. The boat is.old and a trifle shabby. I can't afford to use it; my status would suffer." A graceful melody accompanied his words. "Status as yet need not concern you. You require merely shelter, comfort and safety from the Night-men."

"Night-men?"

"The cannibals who roam the shore after dark."

"Oh yes. Ser Rolver mentioned them."

"Horrible things. We won't discuss them." A shuddering little trill issured from his kw. "Now, as Jo slaves." He tapped the blue disk of his mask with a thoughtful forefinger. "Rex and Toby should serve you well." He raised his voice, played a swift clatter on the hymerkin. "Avon esx trobuT

A female slave appeared wearing a dozen tight bands of pink cloth, and a dainty black mask sparkling with mother-of-pearl sequins.

"Fascu etz Rex ae Toby."

Rex and Toby appeared, wearing loose masks of black cloth, russet jerkins. Welibus addressed them with a resonant clatter of hymerkin, enjoining them to the service of then-new master, on pain of return to their native islands. They prostrated themselves, sang pledges of servitude to Thissell in soft husky voices. Thissell laughed nervously and essayed a sentence in the Sirenese language. "Co to the houseboat, clean it well, bring aboard food."

Toby and Rex stared blankly through the holes in their masks. Welibus repeated the orders with hymerkin accompaniment. The slaves bowed and departed.

Thissell surveyed the musical instruments with dismay. "I haven't the slightest idea how to go about learning these things."

Welibus turned to Rolver. "What about Kershaul? Could he be persuaded to give Ser Thissell some basic instruction?"

Rolver nodded judicially. "Kershaul might undertake the job."

Thissell asked, "Who is Kershaul?"

"The third of our little group of expatriates," replied Welibus, "an anthropologist. You've read Zundar the Splendid? Rituals of Skene? The Faceless Folk? No? A pity. All excellent works. Kershaul is high in prestige, and I believe visits Zundar from time to time. Wears a Cave OwL sometimes a Star-wanderer or even a Wise Arbiter."

"He's taken to an Equatorial Serpent," said Rolver. "The variant with the gilt tusks."

"Indeed!" marveled Welibus. "Well, I must say he's earned ft. A fine fellow, good chap indeed." And he strummed his zachmko thoughtfully.

Three months passed. Under the tutelage of Mathew Kershaul Thissell practised the hymerkin, the ganga, the strapan, the kiv, the gompard, and the xachinko. The double-kamanthU, the krodatch, the shbo, the water-lute and a number of others could wait, said Kershaul, until Thissell had mastered the six basic instruments. He lent Thissell recordings of noteworthy Sirenese conversing in various moods and to various accompaniments, so that Thissell might learn the melodic conventions currendy in vogue, and perfect himself in the niceties of intonation, the various rhythms, cross-rhythms, compound rhythms, implied rhythms and suppressed rhythms. Kershaul professed to find Sirenese music a fascinating study, and Thissell admitted that it was a subject not readily exhausted. The quarter-tone tuning of the instruments admitted the use of twenty-four tonalities which multiplied by the five modes in general use, resulted in one hundred and twenty separate scales. Kershaul, however, advised that Thissell primarily concentrate on learning each instrument in its fundamental tonality, using only two of the modes.

With no immediate business at Fan except the weekly visits to Mathew Kershaul, Thissell took his houseboat eight miles south and moored it in the lee of a rocky promontory. Here, if it had not been for the incessant practising, Thissell lived an idyllic life. The sea was calm and crystal-clear; die beach, ringed by the gray, green and purple foliage of the forest, lay close at hand if he wanted to stretch his legs.

Toby and Rex occupied a pair of cubicles forward, Thissell had the after-cabins to himself. From time to time he toyed with the idea of a third slave, possibly a young female, to contribute an element of charm and gayety to the menage, but Kershaul advised against the step, fearing that the intensity of This sell's concentration might somehow be diminished. Thissell acquiesced and devoted himself to the study of the six instruments.

The days passed quickly. Thissell never became bored with the pageantry of dawn and sunset; the white clouds and bhie sea of noon; the night sky blazing with the twenty-nine stars of Cluster SI 1-715. The weekly trip to Fan broke the tedium. Toby and Rex foraged for food; Thissell visited the luxurious houseboat of Mathew Kershaul for instruction and advice. Then, three months after Thissell's arrival, came the message completely disoi£anizing the routine: Haxo Ang-mark, assassin, agent provocateur, ruthless and crafty criminal, had come to Sirene. Effective detention and incarceration of this man! read the orders. Attention! Haxo Angmark superlatively dangerous. Kill without hesitation!

Thissell was not in the best of condition. He trotted fifty yards until his breath came in gasps, then walked: through low hills crowned with white bamboo and black tree-ferns; across meadows yellow with grass-nuts, through orchards and wild vineyards. Twenty minutes passed, twenty-five minutes; with a heavy sensation in his stomach Thissell knew that he was too late. Haxo Angmark had landed, and might be traversing this very road toward Fan. But along the way Thissell met only four persons: a boy-child in a mock-fierce ADc-Islander mask; two young women wearing the Red-bird and the Green-bird; a man masked as a Forest Goblin. Coming upon the man, Thissell stopped short Could this be Angmark?

Thissell essayed a strategem. He went boldly to the man, Stared into the hideous mask. "Angmark," he called in the language of the Home Planets, "you are under arrestl"

The Forest Goblin stared uncomprehendingh/, then started forward along the track.

Thissell put himself in the way. He reached for his ganga, then recalling the hostler's reaction, instead struck a chord on the zachinko. "You travel the road from the space-port,'" he sang. "What have you seen there?"

The Forest Goblin grasped his hand-bugle, an instrument used to deride opponents on the field of battle, to summon animals, or occasionally to evince a rough and ready trucu-lence. "Where I travel and what I see are the concern solely of myself. Stand back or I walk upon your face." He marched forward, and had not Thissell leapt aside the Forest Goblin might well have made good his threat.

Thissell stood gazing after the retreating back. Angmark? Not likely, with so sure a touch on the hand-bugle. Thissell hesitated, then turned and continued on bis way.

Arriving at the space-port, he went direcdy to the office. The heavy door stood ajar; as Thissell approached, a man appeared in the doorway. He wore a mask of dull green scales, mica plates, blue-lacquered wood and black quills— the Tarn-Bird.

"Ser Rolver," Thissell called out anxiously, "who came down from the Carina Cruzeiro?'

Rolver studied Thissell a long moment. "Why do you ask?"

"Why do I ask?" demanded Thissell "You must have seen the space-gram I received from Castel Cromartinl"

"Oh yes," said Rolver. "Of course. Naturally."

"It was delivered only half an hour ago," said Thissell bitterly. "I rushed out as fast as I could. Where is Angmark?"

"In Fan, I assume," said Rolver.

Thissell cursed softly. "Why didn't you hold him up, delay him in some wayp^

Rolver shrugged. "I had neither authority, inclination nor the capability to stop him.''

Thissell fought back his annoyance. In a voice of studied calm he said, "On the way I passed a man in rather a ghastly mask—saucer eyes, red wattles."

"A Forest Goblin," said Rolver. "Angmark brought the mask with him."

"But he played the hand-bugle," Thissell protested. "How could Angmark—"

"He's well-acquainted with Sirene; he spent five years here in Fan."

Thissell grunted in annoyance. "Cromartin made no mention of this."

"It's common knowledge," said Rolver with a shrug. "He was Commercial Representative before Welibus took over." "Were he and Welibus acquainted?"

Rolver laughed shortly. "Naturally. But don't suspect poor Welibus of anything more venial than juggling his accounts; I assure you he's no consort of assassins."

"Speaking of assassins," said Thissell, "do you have a weapon I might borrow?"

Rolver inspected him in wonder. "You came out here to take Angmark bare-handed?"

"I had no choice," said Thissell. "When Cromartin gives orders he expects results. In any event you were here with your slaves."

"Don't count on me for help," Rolver said testily. "I wear the Tam-Bird and make no pretensions of valor. But I can lend you a power pistoL I haven't used it recently; I won't guarantee its charge."

"Anything is better than nothing," said Thissell.

Rolver went into the office and a moment later returned with the gun. "What will you do now?"

Thissell shook his head wearily. Til try to find Angmark in Fan. Or might he head for Zundar?"

Rolver considered. "Angmark might be able to survive in Zundar. But he'd want,to brush up on his musicianship. I imagine hell stay in Fan a few days."

"But how can I find him? Where should I look?"

"That I can't say," replied Rolver. "You might be safer not fending him. Angmark is a dangerous man."

Thissell returned to Fan the way he had come.

Where the path swung down from the hills into the esplanade a thick-walled pisS-de-terre building had been constructed. The door was carved from a solid black plank; the windows were guarded by enfoliated bands of iron. This was the office of Comely Welibus, Commercial Factor, Importer and Exporter. Thissell found Welibus sitting at his ease on die tiled verandah, wearing a modest adaptation of the Waldemar mask. He seemed lost in thought, and might or might not have recognized Thissell's Moon Moth; in any event he gave no signal of greeting.

Thissell approached the porch. "Good morning, Ser Welibus."

Welibus nodded abstractedly and said in a flat voice, plucking at his krodatch. "Good morning."

Thissell was rather taken aback. This was hardly the instrument to use toward a friend and fellow out-worlder, even if he did wear the Moon-Moth.

Thissell said coldly, "May I ask how long you have been sitting here?"

Welibus considered half a minute, and now when he spoke he accompanied himself on the more cordial crebarin. But the recollection of the krodatch chord still rankled in Thissell's mind.

Tve been here fifteen or twenty minutes. Why do you ask?"

"I wonder if you noticed a Forest Goblin pass?"

WeUbus nodded. "He went on down the esplanade-turned into 'that first mask shop, I believe."

Thissell hissed between his teeth. This would naturally be Angmark's first move. Til never find him once he changes masks," he muttered.

"Who is this Forest Goblin?" asked Welibus, with no more than casual interest.

Thissell could see no reason to conceal the name. "A notorious criminal: Haxo Angmark."

"Haxo Angmark!" croaked Welibus, leaning back in his chair. "You're sure he's here?" "Reasonably sure."

Welibus rubbed his shaking hands together. "This is bad news—bad news indeed! He's an unscrupulous scoundrel." "You knew him well?"

"As well as anyone." Welibus was now accompanying himself with the kw. "He held the post I now occupy. I came out. as an inspector and found that he was embezzling four thousand UMI's a month. I'm sure he feels no great gratitude toward me." Welibus glanced nervously up the esplanade. "I hope you catch him."

"I'm doing my best He went into the mask shop, you say?"

"I'm sure of it"

Thissell turned away. As he went down the path he heard the black plank door thud shut behind him.

He walked down the esplanade to the mask-maker's shop, paused outside as if admiring the display: a hundred'miniature masks, carved from rare woods and minerals, dressed with emerald flakes, spider-web silk, wasp wings, petrified fish scales and the like. The shop was empty except for the mask-maker, a gnarled knotty man in a yellow robe, wearing a deceptively simple Universal Expert mask, fabricated from over two thousand bits of articulated wood.

Thissell considered what he would say, how he would accompany himself, then entered. The mask-maker, noting the Moon Moth and Thissell's diffident manner, continued with his work.

Thissell, selecting the easiest of his instruments, stroked his strapan—possibly not the most felicitous choice, for it conveyed a certain degree of condescension. Thissell tried to counteract this flavor by singing in warm, almost effusive, tones, shaking the strapan whimsically when he struck a wrong note: "A stranger is an interesting person to deal with; his habits are unfamiliar, he excites curiosity. Not twenty minutes ago a stranger entered this fascinating shop, to exchange his drab Forest Goblin for one of the remarkable and adventurous creations assembled on the premises."

The mask-maker turned Thissell a side-glance, and without words played a progression of chords on an instrument Thiss-ell had never seen before: a flexible sac gripped in the palm with three short tubes leading between the fingers. When the tubes were squeezed almost shut and air forced through the slit, an oboe-like tone ensued. To Thissell's developing ear the instrument seemed difficult, the mask-maker expert, and the music conveyed a profound sense of disinterest

Thissell tried again, laboriously manipulating the strapan. He sang, "To an out-worlder on a foreign planet, the voice of one from his home is like water to a wilting plant. A person who could unite two such persons' might find satisfaction in such an act of mercy."

The mask-maker casually fingered his own strapan, and drew forth a set of rippling scales, his fingers moving faster than the eyes could follow. He sang in the formal style: "An artist values his moments of concentration; he does not care to spend time exchanging banalities with persons of at best average prestige." Thissell attempted to insert a counter melody, but the mask-maker struck a new set of complex chords whose portent evaded ThisselTs understanding, and continued: "Into the shop comes a person who evidently has picked up for the first time an instrument of unparalleled complication, for the execution of his music is open to criticism. He sings of home-sickness and longing for the sight of others like himself. He dissembles his enormous strakh behind a Moon Moth, for he plays the strapan to a Master Craftsman, and sings in a voice of contemptuous raillery. The refined and creative artist ignores the provocation. He plays a polite instrument remains noncommittal,'and trusts that the stranger will tire of his sport and depart."

Thissell took up his kiv. The noble mask-maker completely misunderstands me—"

He was interrupted by staccato rasping of the mask-makers strapan. The stranger now sees fit to ridicule the artist's comprehension."

Thissell scratched furiously at his strapan: To protect myself from the heat I wander into a small and unpretentious mask-shop. The artisan, though still distracted by the novelty of his tools, gives promise of development. He works zealously to perfect his skill, so much so that he refuses to converse with strangers, no matter what their need."

The mask-maker carefully laid down his carving tool. He rose to his feet, went behind a screen, and shortly returned wearing a mask of gold and iron, with simulated flames licking up from the scalp. In one hand he carried a skaranyi, in the other a scimitar. He struck off a brilliant series of wild tones, and sang: "Even the most accomplished artist can augment his strakh by killing sea-monsters, Night-men and importunate idlers. Such an occasion is at hand. The artist delays his attack exactly ten seconds, because the offender wears 4 Moon Moth." He twirled his scimitar, spun it in the air.

Thissell desperately pounded the strapan. "Did a Forest Goblin enter the shop? Did he depart with a new mask?"

"Five seconds have lapsed," sang' the mask-maker in steady ominous rhythm.

Thissell departed in frustrated rage. He crossed the square, stood looking up and down the esplanade. Hundreds of men and women sauntered along the docks, or stood on the decks of their houseboats, each wearing a mask chosen to express his mood, prestige and special attributes, and everywhere sounded the twitter of musical instruments.

Thissell stood at a loss. The Forest Goblin had disappeared. Haxo Angmark walked at liberty in Fan, and Thissell had failed the urgent instructions of Castel Cromartin.

Behind him sounded the casual notes of a kw. "Ser Moon Moth Thissell, you stand engrossed in thought."

Thissell turned, to find beside him a Cave Owl, in a somber cloak of black and gray. Thissell recognized the mask, which symbolized erudition and patient exploration of abstract ideas; Mathew Kershaul had worn it on the occasion of their meeting a week before.

"Good morning, Ser Kershaul," muttered Thissell.

"And how are the studies coming? Have you mastered the C-Sharp Plus scale on the gomapard? As I recall, you were finding those inverse intervals puzzling."

"I've worked on them," said Thissell in a -gloomy voice. "However, since I'll probably be recalled to Polypolis, it may be all time wasted."

"Eh? What's this?"

ThisseD explained the situation in regard to Haxo Angmark Kershaul nodded gravely. "I recall Angmark. Not a gracious personality, but an excellent musician, with quick fingers and a real talent for new instruments." Thoughtfully he twisted the goatee of his Cave-Owl mask. "What are your plans?"

They're non-existent," said ThisselL playing a doleful phrase on the kic. "I haven't any idea what masks hell be wearing and if I don't know what he looks like, how can I find him?"

Kershaul tugged at his goatee. "In the old days he favored the Exo Cambian Cycle, and I believe he used an entire set of Nether Denizens. Now of course his tastes may have changed."

"Exactly," Thissell complained. "He might be twenty feet away and I'd never know it" He glanced bitterly across the esplanade toward the mask-maker's shop. "No one will tell me anything; I doubt if they care that a murderer is walking their docks."

"Quite correct," Kershaul agreed.. "Sirenese standards are different from ours."

"They have no sense of responsibility," declared ThisselL "I doubt if they'd throw a rope to a drowning man."

"It's true that they dislike interference," Kershaul agreed. They emphasize individual responsibility and self-sufficiency."

"Interesting," said Thissell, "but I'm still in the dark about Angmark."

Kershaul surveyed him gravely. "And should you locate Angmark, what will you do then?"

"Ill carry out the orders of my superior," said Thissell doggedly.

"Angmark is a dangerous man," mused KershauL "He's got a number of advantages over you."

"I can't take that into account It's my duty to send him back to Polypolis. He's probably safe, since I haven't the remotest idea how to find him."

Kershaul reflected. "An out-worlder can't hide behind a mask, not from the Sirenese, at least There are four of us here at Fan—Rolver, Welibus, you and me. If another outworlder tries to set up housekeeping the news will get around in short order."

"What if he heads for Zundarr"

Kershaul shrugged. "I doubt if he'd dare. On the other hand—" Kershaul paused, then noting Thissell's- sudden inattention, turned to follow Thissell's gaze.

A man in a Forest Goblin mask came swaggering toward them along the esplanade. .Kershaul laid a restraining hand on Thissell's arm, but Thissell stepped out into the path of the Forest Goblin, his borrowed gun ready. "Haxo Angmark," he cried, "don't make a move, or 111 kill you. You're under arrest."

"Are you sure this is Angmark?" asked Kershaul in a worried voice.

"Ill find out," said ThisselL "Angmark, turn around, hold up your hands."

The Forest Goblin stood rigid with surprise and puzzlement He reached to his zachkiko, played an interrogatory arpeggio, and sang, "Why do you molest me, Moon-Moth?^

Kershaul stepped forward and played a placatory phrase on his slobo. "I fear that a case of confused identity exists, Ser Forest Goblin. Ser Moon-Moth seeks an out-worlder in a Forest Goblin mask."

The Forest Goblin's music became irritated, and he suddenly switched to his stknic. "He asserts that I am an out-worlder? Let him prove his case, or he has my retaliation to face."

Kershaul glanced in embarrassment around the crowd which had gathered and once more struck up an ingratiating melody. "I am sure that Ser Moon Moth—"

The Forest Goblin interrupted with a fanfare of skaranyi tones. "Let him demonstrate his case or prepare for the flow of blood."

Thissell said, "Very well, IT prove my case." He stepped forward, grasped the Forest Goblin's mask. "Let's see your face, that'll demonstrate your identity!"

The Forest Goblin sprang back in amazement. The crowd gasped, then set up an ominous strumming and toning of various instruments.

The Forest Goblin reached to the nape of his neck, jerked the cord to his duel-gong, and with his other hand snatched forth his scimitar.

Kershaul stepped forward, playing the slobo with great agitation. Thissell, now abashed, moved aside, conscious of the ugly sound of the crowd.

Kershaul sang explanations and apologies, the Forest Goblin answered; Kershaul spoke over his shoulder to Thissell: "Run for it, or you'll be lolled! Hurry!"

Thissell hesitated; the Forest Goblin put up his hand to thrust Kershaul aside. "Runt" screamed Kershaul "To Welibus' office, lock yourself in!"

Thissell took to his heels. The Forest Goblin pursued him a few yards, then stamped his feet, sent after him a set of raucous and derisive blasts of the hand-bugle, while the crowd produced a contemptuous counterpoint of clacking hymerkins.

There was no farther pursuit. Instead of taking refuge in the Import-Export office, Thissell turned aside and after cautious reconnaissance proceeded to the dock where his houseboat was moored.

The hour was not far short of dusk when he finally returned aboard. Toby and Rex squatted on the forward deck, surrounded by the provisions they had brought back: reed baskets of fruit and cereal, blue-glass jugs containing wine, oil and pungent sap, three young pigs in a wicker pen. They were cracking nuts between their teeth, spitting the shells over the side. They looked up at Thissell, and it seemed that they rose to their feet with a new casualness. Toby muttered something under his breath; Rex smothered a chuckle.

Thissell clacked his hymerkin angrily. He sang, "Take the boat off-shore; tonight we remain at Fan."

In the privacy of his cabin he removed the Moon Moth, stared into a mirror at his almost unfamiliar features. He picked up the Moon Moth, examined the detested lineaments: the furry gray skin, the blue spines, the ridiculous lace flaps. Hardly a dignified presence for the Consular Representative of the Home Planets. If, in fact, he still held the position when Cromartin learned of An gm ark's winning free!

Thissell flung himself into a chair, stared moodily into space. Today he'd suffered a series of setbacks, but he wasn't defeated yet, not by any means. Tomorrow he'd visit Mathew Kershaul; they'd discuss how best to locate Angmark. As Kershaul had pointed out, another out-world establishment could not be camouflaged; Haxo An gmark's identity would soon become evident. Also, tomorrow he must procure another mask. Nothing extreme or vainglorious, but a mask which expressed a modicum of dignity and self-respect.

At this moment one of the slaves tapped on the door-panel, and Thissell hastily pulled the hated Moon Moth back over his head.

Early next morning, before the dawn-light had left the sky, the slaves sculled the houseboat back to that section of the dock set aside for the use of out-worlders. Neither Rol-ver nor Welibus nor Kershaul had yet arrived and Thissell waited impatienUy. An hour passed, and Welibus brought his boat to the dock. Not wishing to speak to Welibus, Thissell remained inside his cabin.

A few moments later Roh/er's boat likewise pulled in alongside the dock. Through the window Thissell saw Rol-ver, wearing his usual Tarn-bird, chmb to the dock. Here he was met by a man in a yellow-tufted Sand Tiger mask, who played a formal accompaniment on his gomapard to whatever message he brought Rorver.

Roh/er seemed surprised and disturbed. After a moment's thought he manipulated his own gomapard, and as he sang, he indicated Thissell's houseboat Then, bowing, he went on his way.

The man in the Sand Tiger mask climbed with rather heavy dignity to the float and rapped on the bulwark of Thissell's houseboat

Thissell presented himself. Sirenese etiquette did not demand that he invite a casual visitor aboard, so he merely struck an interrogation on his zachmko.

The Sand' Tiger played his gomapard and sang, "Dawn over the bay of Fan is customarily a splendid occasion; the sky is white with yellow and green colors; when Mireille rises, the mists bum and writhe like flames. He who sings derives a greater enjoyment from the hour when the floating corpse of an out-worlder does not appear to mar the serenity of die view."

ThisseD's zachmko gave off a startled interrogation almost of its own accord; the Sand Tiger bowed with dignity. The singer acknowledges no peer in steadfastness of disposition; however, he does not care to be plagued by the antics of a dissatisfied ghost. He therefore has ordered his slaves to attach a thong to the ankle of die corpse, and while we have conversed they have linked the corpse to the stem of your houseboat. You will wish to administer whatever rites are prescribed in the Out-world. He who sings wishes you a good morning and now departs."

Thissell rushed to the stem of his houseboat. There, near-naked and mask-less, floated the body of a mature man, supported by air trapped in his pantaloons.

Thissell studied the dead face, which seemed characterless and vapid—perhaps in direct consequence of the mask-wearing habit. The body appeared of medium stature and weight, and Thissell estimated the age as between forty-five and fifty. The hair Was nondescript brown, the features bloated by the water. There was nothing to indicate how the man had died.

This must be Haxo Angmark, thought Thissell. Who else could it be? Mathew Kershaul? Why not? Thissell asked himself uneasily. Roh/er and Welibus had already disembarked and gone about their business. He searched across the bay to locate Kershaul's houseboat, and discovered it already tying up to the dock. Even as he watched, Kershaul jumped ashore, wearing his Cave-Owl mask.

He seemed in an abstracted mood, for he passed ThisselTs houseboat without lifting his eyes from the dock.

Thissell turned back to the corpse. Angmark, then, beyond a doubt. Had not three men disembarked from the houseboats of Roh/er, Welibus and Kershaul, wearing masks characteristic of these men? Obviously, the corpse of Angmark . . . The easy solution refused to sit quiet in ThisselTs mind. Kershaul had pointed out that another out-worlder would be quickly identified. How else could Angmark maintain himself unless he . . . ThisseD brushed the thought aside. The corpse was obviously Angmark. And yet. . .

Thissell summoned his slaves, gave orders that a suitable container be brought to the dock, that the corpse be transferred therein, and conveyed to a suitable place of repose. The slaves showed no enthusiasm for the task and Thissell was forced to thunder forcefully, if not skillfully, on the hymerkm to emphasize his orders.

He walked along the dock, turned up the esplanade, passed the office of Cristofer Welibus and set out along the pleasant little lane to the landing field.

When he arrived, he found that Roh/er had not yet made an appearance. An over-slave, given status by a yellow rosette on his black cloth mask, asked how he might be of service. Thissell stated that he wished to dispatch a message to Polypolis.

There was no difficulty here, declared the slave. If Thissell would set forth his message in clear block-print it would be dispatched immediately.

Thissell wrote:

OUT-WORLDER FOUND DEAD, POSSIBLY ANGMARK. AGE 48, MEDIUM PHYSIQUE, BROWN HAIR. OTHER MEANS OF IDENTIFICATION LACKING. AWAIT ACKNOWLEDGMENT AND/ OR INSTRUCTIONS.

He addressed the message to Castel Crornartin at Polypolis and handed it to the over-slave. A moment later he heard the characteristic sputter of trans-space discharge.

An hour passed. Roh/er made no appearance. Thissell paced restlessly back and forth in front of the office. There was no telling how long he would have to wait: trans-space transmission time varied unpredictably. Sometimes the message snapped through in micro-seconds; sometimes it wandered through unknowable regions for hours; and there were several authenticated examples of messages being received before they had been transmitted.

Another half-hour passed, and Roh/er finally arrived, wearing his customary Tam-Bird. Coincidentafly Thissell heard the hiss of the incoming message.

Rolver seemed surprised to see Thissell. "What brings you out so early?"

Thissell explained. "It concerns the body which you referred to me this morning. I'm communicating with my superiors about it"

Rolver raised his head and listened to the sound of the incoming message. "You seem to be getting an answer. I'd better attend to it."

"Why bother?" asked Thissell. "Your slave seems efficient

"It's my job," declared Rolver. Tm responsible for the accurate transmission and receipt of all space-grams."

"Ill come with you," said ThisselL "I've always wanted to watch the operation of the equipment"

"I'm afraid that's irregular," said Rolver. He went to the door which led into the inner compartment Til have your message in a moment."

Thissell ~~pro~~tested, but Rolver ignored him and went into the inner office.

Five minutes later he reappeared, carrying a small yellow envelope. "Not too good news," he announced with unconvincing commiseration.

Thissell glumly opened the envelope. The message read:

BODY NOT ANGMARK. ANGMARK HAS BLACK HAIR. WHY DID YOU NOT MEET LANDING. SERIOUS INFRACTION, HIGHLY DISSATISFIED. RETURN TO POLYPOLIS NEXT OPPORTUNITY.

CAS TEL CROMARTIN

Thissell put the message in his pocket "Incidentally, may I inquire the color of your hair?"

Rolver played a surprised little trill on his kk>. Tm quite blond. Why do you ask?"

"Mere curiosity."

Rolver played another run on the Jfeto. "Now I understand. My dear fellow, what a suspicious nature you have) Lookl" He turned and parted the folds of his mask at the nape of his neck. Thissell saw that Rolver was blond indeed.

"Are you reassured?" asked Rolver jocularly.

"Oh, indeed," said Thissell. "Incidentally, have you another mask you could lend me? I'm sick of this Moon Moth."

"I'm afraid not," said Rolver. "But you need merely go into a mask-maker's shop and make a selection."

"Yes, of course," said Thissell. He took his leave of Rolver and returned along the trail to Fan. Passing Welibus' office he hesitated, then turned in. Today Welibus wore a dazzling confection of green glass prisms and silver beads, a mask Thissell had never seen before.

Welibus greeted him cautiously to the accompaniment of a kiv. "Good morning, Ser Moon Moth."

"I won't take too much of your time," said Thissell, "but I have a rather personal question to put to you. What color is your hair?"

Welibus hesitated a fraction of a second, then turned his back, lifted the flap of his mask. Thissell saw heavy black ringlets. "Does that answer your question?" inquired Welibus.

"Completely," said Thissell. He crossed the esplanade, went out on the dock to Kershaul's houseboat Kershaul greeted him without enthusiasm, and invited him aboard with a resigned wave of the hand.

"A question I'd like to ask," said Thissell; "What color is your hair?"

Kershaul laughed woefully. "What little remains is black.. Why do you ask?" "Curiosity."

"Come, come," said Kershaul with an unaccustomed bluff-ness. "There's more to ft than that."

- Thissell, feeling the need of counsel, admitted as much. "Here's the situation. A dead out-worlder was found in the harbor this morning. His hair was brown. I'm not entirely certain, but the chances are—let me see, yes, two out of three that Angmark's hair is black."

Kershaul pulled at the Cave-Owl's goatee. "How do you arrive at that probability?"

"The information came to me through Rolver's hands. He has blond hair. If Angmark has assumed Rolver's identity, he would naturally alter die information which came to me this morning. Both you and Welibus admit to black hair."

"Hm," said Kershaul. "Let me see if I follow your Hne of reasoning. You feel that Haxo Angmark has killed either Rolver, Welibus or myself and assumed the dead man's identity. Right?"

Thissell looked at him in surprise. "You yourself emphasized that Angmark could not set up another out-world establishment without revealing himself! Don't you remember?"

"Oh, certainly. To continue. Rolver delivered a message to you stating that Angmark was dark, and announced himself to be blond."

"Yes. Can you verify this? I mean for the old Rolver?"

"No," said Kershaul sadly. "I've seen neither Rolver nor Welibus without their masks."

"If Rolver is not Angmark," Thissell mused, "if Angmark indeed has black hair, then both you and Welibus come under suspicion."

"Very interesting," said Kershaul. He examined Thissell warily. Tor that matter, you yourself might be Angmark. What color is your hair?"

"Brown," said Thissell curtly. He lifted the gray fur of the Moon Moth mask at the back of his head.

"But you might be deceiving me as to the text of the message," Kershaul put forward.

Tm not," said Thissell wearily. "You can check with Rolver if you care to."

Kershaul shook his head. "Unnecessary. I believe you. But another matter: what of voices? You've heard all of us before and after Angmark arrived. Isn't there some indication there?"

"No. Tm so alert for any evidence of change that you all sound rather different And the masks muffle your voices."

Kershaul tugged the goatee. "I don't see any immediate solution to the problem." He chuckled. "In any event need there be? Before Angmark's advent there were Rolver, Welibus, Kershaul and ThisselL Now—for all practical purposes —there are still Rolver, Welibus, Kershaul and Thissell. Who is to say that the new member may net be an improvement upon the old?"

"An interesting thought" agreed ThisselL "but it so happens that I have a personal interest in identifying Angmark. My career is at stake."

"I see," murmured Kershaul. "The situation then becomes an issue between yourself and Angmark,"

"You won't help me?"

"Not actively. I've become pervaded with Sirenese individualism. I think you'll find that Rolver and Welibus will respond similarly." He sighed. "All of us have been here too long."

Thissell stood deep in thought. Kershaul waited patiendy a moment, then said, "Do you have any further questions?^

"No," said Thissell. "I have merely a favor to ask you."

"I'll oblige if I possibly can," Kershaul replied courteously.

"Give me, or lend me, one of your slaves, for a week or two."

Kershaul played an exclamation of amusement on the ganga. "I hardly like to part with my slaves; they know me and my ways—"

"As soon as I catch Angmark you'll have him back."

"Very well," said Kershaul. He rattled a summons on his hymerkin, and a slave appeared. "Anthony," sang Kershaul, "you are to go with Ser Thissell and serve him for a short period."

The slave bowed, withoutpleasure.

Thissell took Anthony to his houseboat, and questioned him at length, noting certain of the responses upon a chart. He then enjoined Anthony to say nothing of what had passed, and consigned him to the care of Toby and Rex. He gave further instructions to move the houseboat away from the dock and allow no one aboard until his return.

He set forth once more along the way to the landing field, and found Rolver at a lunch of spiced fish, shredded bark of the salad tree, and a bowl of native currants. Rolver clapped an order on the hymerkin, *nd a slave set a place for Thissell. "And how are the investigations proceeding?"

"I'd hardly like to claim any progress," said Thissell. "I assume that I can count on your help?"

Rolver laughed briefly. "You have my good wishes."

"More concretely," said Thissell, Td like to borrow a slave from you. Temporarily."

Rolver paused in his eating. "Whatever for?"

Td rather not explain," said Thissell. "But you can be sure that I make no idle request."

Without graciousness Rolver summoned a slave and consigned him to ThisselFs service.

On the way back to his houseboat, Thissell stopped at Welibus' office.

Welibus looked up from his work. "Good afternoon, Ser Thissell."

Thissell came directly to the point. "Ser Welibus, will you lend me a slave for a few days?"

Welibus hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not?" He clacked his hymerkin; a slave appeared. "Is he satisfactory? Or would you prefer a young female?" He chuckled rather offensively, to Thissell's way of thinking.

"He'll do very well. Ill return him in a few days."

"No hurry." Welibus made an easy gesture and returned to his work.

Thissell continued to his houseboat where he separately interviewed each of his two new slaves and made notes upon his chart.

Dusk came soft over the Titanic Ocean. Toby and Rex sculled the houseboat away from the dock, out across the silken waters. Thissell sat on the deck listening to the sound of soft voices, the flutter and tinkle of musical instruments. Lights from the floating houseboats glowed yellow and wan watermelon-red. The shore was dark; the Night-men would presently come slinking to paw through refuse and stare jealously across the water.

In nine days the Buenaventura came past Sirene on its regular schedule; Thissell had his orders to return to Poly-polis. In nine days, could he locate Haxo Angmark?

Nine days weren't too many,. Thissell decided, but they might possibly be enough.

Two days passed, and three and four and five. Every day Thissell went ashore and at least once a day visited Rolver, Welibus and KershauL

Each reacted differently to his presence. Rolver was sardonic and irritable; Welibus formal and at least superficially affable; Kershaul mild and suave, but ostentatiously impersonal and detached in his conversation.

Thissell remained equally bland to Rolver's dour jibes, Welibus' jocundity, Kershaul's withdrawal. And every day, returning to his houseboat he made marks on his chart.

The sixth, the seventh, the eighth day came and passed. Rolver, with rather brutal directness, inquired if Thissell wished to arrange for passage on the Buenaventura. Thissell considered, and said, "Yes, you had better reserve passage for one."

"Back to the world of faces," shuddered Rolver. "Faces! Everywhere pallid, fish-eyed faces. Mouths like pulp, noses knotted and punctured; flat, flabby faces. I don't think I could stand it after living here. Luckily you haven't become a real Sirenese."

"But I won't be going back," said Thissell. —

"I thought you wanted me to reserve passage." "I do. For Haxo Angmark. Hell be returning to Polypolis, in the brig."

"Well well," said Rolver. "So you've picked him out"

"Of course," said Thissell. "Haven't you?"

Rolver shrugged. "He's either Welibus or Kershaul, that's as close as I can make it. So long as he wears his mask and calls himself either Welibus or Kershaul, it means nothing to me."

"It means a great deal to me," said Thissell. "What time tomorrow does the lighter go up?"

"Eleven twenty-two sharp. If Haxo Angmark's leaving, tell him to be on time."

"Hell be here," said Thissell.

He made his usual call upon Welibus and Kershaul, then returning to his houseboat put three final marks on his chart

The evidence was here, plain and convincing. Not absolutely incontrovertible evidence, but enough to warrant a definite move. He checked over his gun. Tomorrow, the day of decision. He could afford no errors.

The day dawned bright white, the sky like the inside of an oyster shell; Mireille rose through iridescent mists. Toby and

Rex sculled the houseboat to the dock. The remaining three out-world houseboats floated somnolently on the slow swells.

One boat Thissell watched in particular, that whose owner Haxo Angmark had killed and dropped into the harbor. This boat presently moved toward the shore, and Haxo Angmark himself stood on the front deck, wearing a mask Thissell had never seen before: a construction of scarlet feathers, black glass and spiked green hair.

Thissell was forced to admire his poise. A clever scheme, cleverly planned and executed—but marred by an insurmountable difficulty.

Angmark returned within. The houseboat reached the dock. Slaves flung out mooring lines, lowered the gangplank. Thissell, his gun ready in the pocket flap of his robes, walked down the dock, went aboard. He pushed open the door to the saloon. The man at the table raised his red, black and green mask in surprise.

Thissell said, "Angmark, please don't argue or make any—"

Something hard and heavy tackled him from behind; he was flung to the floor, his gun wrested expertly away.

Behind him the hymerkin clattered; a voice sang, "Bind the fool's arms."

The man sitting at the table rose to his feet, removed the red, black and green mask to reveal the black cloth of a slave. Thissell twisted his head. Over him stood Haxo Angmark, wearing a mask Thissell recognized as a Dragon-Tamer, fabricated from black metaL with a knife-blade nose, socketed-eyelids, and three crests running back over the scalp.

The mask's expression was unreadable, but Angmark's voice was triumphant. "I trapped you very easily."

"So you did," said Thissell. The slave finished knotting his wrists together. A clatter of Angmark's hymerkin sent him away/ "Get to your feet," said Angmark. "Sit in that chair."

"What are we waiting for?" inquired Thissell.

"Two of our fellows still remain out on the water. We won't need them for what I have in mind."

"Which is?"

"You'll learn in due course," said Angmark. "We have an hour or so on our hands."

Thissell tested his bonds. They were undoubtedly secure.

Angmark seated himself. "How did you fix on me? I admit to being curious . . . Come, come," he chided as Thissell sat silently. "Can't you recognize that I have defeated you? Don't make affairs unpleasant for yourself."

Thissell shrugged. "I operated on a basic principle. A man can mask his face, but he can't mask his personality."

"Aha," said Angmark. "Interesting. Proceed."

"I borrowed a slave from you and the other two out-worlders, and I questioned them carefully. What masks had their masters worn during the month before your arrival? I prepared a chart and plotted their responses. Rolver wore the Tam-Bird about eighty percent of the time, the remaining twenty percent divided between the Sophist Abstraction and the Black Intricate. Welibus had a taste for the heroes of Kan-Dachan Cycle. He wore the Chalekun, the Prince Intrepid, the Seavain most of the time: six days out of eight The other two days he wore his South-Wind or his Gay Companion. Kershaul, more conservative, preferred the Cave Owl, the Star Wanderer, and two or three other masks he wore at odd intervals.

"As I say, I acquired this information from possibly its most accurate source, the slaves. My next step was to keep watch upon the three of you. Every day I noted what masks you wore and compared it with my chart. Rolver wore his Tarn Bird six times, his Black Intricate twice. Kershaul wore his Cave Owl five times, his Star Wanderer once, his Quincunx once and his Ideal of Perfection once. Welibus wore the Emerald Mountain twice, the Triple Phoenix three times, the Prince Intrepid once and the Shark-God twice."

Angmark nodded thoughtfully. "I see my error. I selected from Welibus's masks, but to my own taste—and as you point out, I revealed myself. But only to you." He rose and went to the window. "Kershaul and Rolver -are now coming ashore; they'll soon be past and about their business—though I doubt if they'd interfere in any case; they've both become good Sirenese."

Thissell waited in silence. Ten minutes passed. Then Angmark reached to a shelf and picked up a knife. He looked at Thissell. "Stand up."

Thissell slowly rose to his feet. Angmark approached from the side, reached out, lifted the Moon Moth from Thissell's head. Thissell gasped and made a vain attempt to seize it Too late; his face was bare and naked.

Angmark turned away, removed his own mask, donned the Moon Moth. He struck a call on his hymerkm. Two slaves entered, stopped in shock at the sight of Thissell.

Angmark played a brisk tattoo, sang, "Carry this man up to the dock."

"Angmark," cried Thissell. "I'm maskless!"

The slaves seized him and in spite of Thissell's desperate struggles, conveyed him out on the deck, along the float and up on the dock.

Angmark fixed a rope around Thissell's neck. He said, "You are now Haxo Angmark, and I am Edwer Thissell. Welibus is dead, you shall soon be dead. I can handle your job without difficulty. Ill play musical instruments like a Nightman and sing like a crow. I'll wear the Moon Moth till it rots and then 111 get another. The report will go to Polypous, Haxo Angmark is dead. Everything will be serene."

Thissell barely heard. "You can't do this," he whispered. "My mask, my face ..." A large woman in a blue and pink flower mask walked down the dock. She saw Thissell and emitted a piercing shriek, flung herself prone on the dock.

"Come along," said Angmark brightly. He tugged at the rope, and so pulled Thissell down the dock. A man in a Pirate Captain mask coming up from his houseboat stood rigid in amazement.

Angmark played the zachinko and sang, "Behold the notorious criminal Haxo Angmark. Through ail the outer-worlds his name is reviled; now he is captured and led in shame to his death. Behold Haxo Angmark!"

They turned into the esplanade. A child screamed in fright; a man called hoarsely. Thissell stumbled; tears tumbled from his eyes; he could see only disorganized shapes and colors. Angmark's voice belled out richly: "Everyone behold, the criminal of the out-worlds, Haxo Angmark! Approach and observe his execution!"

Thissell feebly cried out, "I'm not Angmark; I'm Edwer Thissell; he's Angmark." But no one listened to him; there were only cries of dismay, shock, disgust at the sight of his face. He called to Angmark, "Give me my mask, a slave-cloth .. ."

Angmark sang jubilantly, "In shame he livedo in mask-less shame he dies."

A Forest Goblin stood before Angmark. "Moon Moth, we meet once more."

Angmark sang, "Stand aside, friend Goblin; I must execute this criminal. In shame he lived, in shame he diesl"

A crowd had formed around the group; masks stared in morbid titillation at Thissell.

The Forest Goblin jerked the rope from Angmark's hand, threw it to the ground. The crowd roared. Voices cried, "No duel, no duel! Execute the monster!"

A cloth was thrown over Thissell's head. Thissell awaited the thrust of a blade. But instead his bonds were cut. Hastily he adjusted the cloth, hiding his face, peering between the folds.

Four men clutched Haxo Angmark. The Forest Gobhn confronted him, playing the sharanyi. "A week ago you "reached to divest me of my mask; you have now achieved your perverse aim!"

"But he is a criminal," cried Angmark. "He is notorious, infamous!"

"What are his misdeeds?" sang the Forest Goblin.

"He has murdered, betrayed; he has wrecked ships; he has tortured, blackmailed, robbed, sold children into slavery; he has—"

The Forest Goblin stopped him. "Your" religious differences are of no importance. We- can vouch however for your present crimes!"

The hostler stepped forward-. He sang fiercely, "This insolent Moon Moth nine days ago sought to pre-empt my choicest mount!"

Another man pushed close. He wore a Universal Expert, and sang, "I am a Master Mask-maker; I recognize this Moon Moth out-worlder! Only recenUy he entered my shop and derided my skill. He deserves death!"

"Death to the out-world monster!" cried the crowd. A wave of men surged forward. Steel blades rose and fell, the deed was done.

Thissell watched, unable to move. The Forest Goblin approached, and playing the stimic sang sternly, "For you we have pity, but also contempt. A true man would never suffer such indignities!''

Thissell took a deep breath. He reached to his belt and found his zachinko. He sang, "My friend, you malign me! Can you not appreciate true courage? Would you prefer to die in combat or walk maskless along the esplanade?"

The Forest Goblin sang, There is only one answer. First I would die in combat; I could not bear such shame."

Thissell sang, "I had such a choice. I could fight with my hands tied, and so die—or I could suffer shame, and through this shame conquer my enemy. You admit that you lack sufficient strekh to achieve this deed. I have proved myself a hero of bravery! I ask, who here has courage to do what I have done?"

"Courage?" demanded the Forest Goblin. "I fear nothing, up to and beyond death at the hands of the Night-men!" Then answer."

The Forest Goblin stood back. He played his double-kamanthil. "Bravery indeed, if such were your motives."

The hostler struck a series of subdued gomapard chords and sang, "Not a man among us would dare what this maskless man has done."

The crowd muttered approval.

The mask-maker approached Thissell, obsequiously stroking his double-JkamanfM. "Pray Lord Hero, step into my nearby shop, exchange this vile rag for a mask befitting your quality."

Another mask-maker sang, "Before you choose, Lord Hero, examine my magnificent creations!''

A man in a Bright Sky Bird mask approached Thissell reverently. "I have only just completed a sumptuous houseboat; seventeen years of toil have gone into its fabrication. Grant me the good fortune of accepting and using this splendid craft; aboard waiting to serve you are alert slaves and pleasant maidens; there is ample wine in storage and soft silken carpets on the decks."

"Thank you," said Thissell, striking the zachmko with vigor and confidence. "I accept with pleasure. But first a mask."

The mask-maker struck an interrogative trill on the goma-pard. "Would the Lord Hero consider a Sea-Dragon Conqueror beneath his dignityP"

"By no means," said Thissell. "I consider it suitable and satisfactory. We shall go-now to examine it."

comfortable. The other young men in the full dress suits must feel rather sticky, he thought. ... An idea tugged at a corner of his mind, nagged, teased. There was a significant aspect to the affair which he was overlooking. Refusing to surface, the idea lay like an irritant just below the level of his conscious mind.

He noticed that the young men nearby had moved away from him. He heard raucous chortles of amusement, astonished exclamations. A gir! dancing past him saw him over the arm of her escort; she gave a startled squeak, jerked her eyes away, giggling and blushing.

Something was wrong. These young men and women were startled and amazed by his naked skin to the point of embarrassment. The submerged gnaw of urgency came closer to the surface. He must do something. Taboos felt with such intensity might not be violated without unpleasant consequences; such was his understanding. He was lacking garments; these he must obtain.

He looked about him, inspecting the young men who watched him with ribald delight, disgust or curiosity. To one of these latter he addressed himself.

"Where can I get some clothing?"

The young man shrugged. "Where did you leave it?" '

Two heavy-set men in dark blue uniforms entered the tent; Arthur Caversham saw them from the comer of his eye, and his mind worked with desperate intensity.

This young man seemed typical of those around him. What sort of appeal would have meaning for him? .Like any other human being, he could be moved to action* if the right chord were struck.

By what method could he be moved?

Sympathy?

Threats?

The prospect of advantage or profit?

Caversham rejected all of these. By violating the taboo he had forfeited his claim to sympathy, a threat would excite derision, and he had no profit or advantage to offer. The stimulus must be more devious. . . . He reflected that young men customarily banded together in secret societies. In the thousand cultures he had studied this was almost infallibly true. Long-houses, drug-cults, tongs, instruments of sexual initation—whatever the name, the external aspects were near-identical: painful initiation, secret signs and passwords, uniformity of group conduct, obligation to service. If this young man were a member of such an association, he might react to an appeal to this group-spirit.

Arthur Caversham said, Tve been put in this taboo situation by the brotherhood; in the name of the brotherhood, find me some suitable garments."

The young man stared, taken aback. "Brotherhood? . . . You mean fraternity?" Enlightenment spread over his face. "Is this some kind of hell-week stunt?" He laughed. "If it is, they sure go all the way."

"Yes," said Arthur Caversham. "My fraternity."

The young man said, "This way then—and hurry, here comes the law. We'll take off under the tent. Ill lend you my topcoat till you make it back to your house."

The two uniformed men, pushing quietly through the dancers, were almost upon them. The young man lifted the flap of the tent, Arthur Caversham ducked under, his friend followed. Together they ran through the many-colored shadows to a little booth painted with gay red and white stripes near the entrance to the tent.

"You stay back, out of sight," said the young man. "I'll check out my coat."

"Fine," said Arthur Caversham.

The young man hesitated. "What's your house? Where do you go to school?"

Arthur Caversham desperately searched his mind for answer. A single fact reached the surface.

"I'm from Boston."

"Boston U? Or M.I.T.? Or Harvard?"

"Harvard."

"Ah." The young man nodded. "I'm Washington and Lee myself. What's your house?" "I'm not supposed to say."

"Oh," said tie young man, puzzled but satisfied. "Well-just a minute. ..."

Bearwald the Halfom halted, numb with despair and exhaustion. The remnants of his platoon sank to the ground around him, and they stared back to where the rim of the night flickered and glowed with fire. Many villages, many wood-gabled farmhouses had been given the torch, and the Brands from Mount Medallion reveled in human blood.

The pulse of a distant drum touched Bearwald's skin, a deep thrumm-thrumm-thrumm, almost inaudible. Much closer he heard a hoarse human cry of fright, then exultant killing-calls, not human. The Brands were tall, black, man-shaped but not men. They had eyes like lamps of red glass, bright white teeth, and tonight they seemed bent on slaughtering all the men of the world.

"Down," hissed Kanaw, his right arm-guard, and Dearwald crouched. Across the flaring sky marched a column of tall Brand warriors, rocking jauntily, without fear.

Bearwald said suddenly, "Men—we are thirteen. Fighting arm to arm with these monsters we are helpless. Tonight then-total force is down from the mountain; the hive must be near-deserted. What can we lose if we undertake to bum the home-hive of the Brands? Only our fives, and what are these now?"

Kanaw said, "Our lives are nothing; let us be off at once."

"May our vengeance be great," said Broctan the left arm-guard. "May the home-hive of the Brands be white ashes this coming mom. ..."

Mount Medallion loomed overhead; the oval hive lay in Pangborn Valley. At the mouth of the valley, Bearwald divided the platoon into two halves, and placed Kanaw in the van of the -second. "We move silently twenty* yards apart; thus if either party rouses a Brand, the other may attack from the rear and so loll the monster before the vale is roused. Do all understand?"

"We understand."

"Forward, then, to the hive."

The valley reeked with an odor like sour leather. From the direction of the hive came a muffled clanging. The ground was soft, covered with runner moss; careful feet made no sound. Crouching low, Bearwald could see the shapes of his men against the sky—here indigo with a violet rim. The angry glare of burning Echevasa lay down the slope to the south.

A sound. Bearwald hissed, and the columns froze. They waited. Thud thud thud thud came the steps—then a hoarse cry of rage and alarm.

"Kill, kill the beast!" yelled Bearwald.

The Brand swung his club like a scythe, lifting one man, carrying the body around with the after-swing. Bearwald leapt close, struck with his blade, slicing as he hewed it; he felt the tendons part, smelled the hot gush of Brand blood.

The clanging had stopped now, and Brand cries carried across the night

"Forward," panted Bearwald. "Out with your tinder, strike fire to the hive. Burn, bum, bum—"

Abandoning stealth he ran forward; ahead loomed the dark dome. Immature Brands came surging forth, squeaking and squalling, and with them came the genetrices—twenty-foot monsters crawling on hands and feet grunting and snapping as they moved.

"Kill!" yelled Bearwald the Halfom. "Kill! Fire, fire, fire!"

He dashed to the hive, crouched, struck spark to tinder, puffed. The rag, soaked with saltpeter, flared; Bearwald fed it straw, thrust it against the hive. The reed-pulp and withe crackled.

He leapt up as a horde of young Brands darted at him. His blade rose and fell; they were cleft, no match for his frenzy. Creeping close came the great Brand Genetrices, three of them, swollen of abdomen, exuding an odor vile to his nostrils.

"Out with the fire!" yelled the first "Fire out The Great Mother is tombed within, she lies too fecund to move. . . . Fire, woe, destruction!" And they wailed, "Where are the mighty? Where are our warriors?"

Thrumm-thrumm-thrumm came the sound of skin-drums. Up the valley rolled the echo of hoarse Brand voices.

Bearwald stood back to the blaze. He darted forward, severed the head of a creeping genetrix, jumped back. . . . Where were his men? "Kanaw!" he called. "Laida! Theyatl Gyorg! Broctan!"

He craned his neck, saw the flicker of fires. "Men! Kill the creeping mothers!" And leaping forward once more, he hacked and hewed, and another genetrix sighed and groaned and rolled flat.

The Brand voices changed to alarm; the triumphant drumming halted; the thud of footsteps came loud.

At Bearwald's back the hive burnt with a pleasant heat. Within came a shrill keening, a cry of vast pain.

In the leaping blaze he saw the charging Brand warriors. Their eyes glared "like embers, their teeth shone like white sparks. They came forward, swinging their clubs, and Bear-wald gripped his sword, too proud to flee.

After grounding his air-sled Ceistan sat a few minutes inspecting the dead city Therlatch: a wall of earthen brick a hundred feet high, a dusty portal, and a few crumbled roofs lifting above the battlements. Behind the city the desert spread across the near, middle and far distance to the hazy shapes of the Altilune Mountains at the horizon, pink in the light of the twin suns Mig and Pag.

Scouting from above he had seen no sign of life, nor had he expected any, after a thousand years of abandonment. Perhaps a few sand-crawlers wallowed in the heat of the ancient bazaar, perhaps a few leobars inhabited the crumbled masonry. Otherwise the streets would feel his presence with great surprise.

Jumping from the air-sled, Ceistan advanced toward the portal. He passed under, stood looking right and left with interest. In the parched air the brick buildings stood almost eternal. The wind smoothed and rounded all harsh angles; the glass had been cracked by the heat of day and chill of night; heaps of sand clogged the passageways.

Three streets led away from die portal and Ceistan could find nothing to choose between them. Each was dusty, narrow, and each twisted out of his line of vision after a hundred yards.

Ceistan rubbed bis chin thoughtfully. Somewhere in the city lay a brass-bound coffer, containing the Crown and Shield Parchment. This, according to tradition, set a precedent for the fief-holder's immunity from energy-tax. Glay, who was Ceistan's liege-lord, having cited the parchment as justification for his delinquency, had been challenged to show validity. Now he lay in prison on charge of rebellion, and in the morning he would be nailed to the bottom of an air-sled and sent drifting into the west, unless Ceistan returned with the Parchment.

After a thousand years, there was small cause for optimism, thought Ceistan. However, the lord Glay was a fair man and he would leave no stone unturned. ... If it existed, the chest presumably would he in state, in the town's Legalic, or the Mosque, or in the Hall of Relicts, or possibly in the Sumptuar. He would search all of these, allowing two hours per building; the eight hours so used would see the end to the pink daylight.

At random he entered the street in the center and shortly came to a plaza at whose far end rose the Legalic, the Hall of Records and Decisions. At the facade Ceistan paused, for the interior was dim and gloomy. No sound came from the dusty void save the sigh and whisper of the dry wind. He entered.

The great hall was empty. The walls were illuminated with frescoes of red and blue, as bright as if painted yesterday. There were six to each wall, the top half displaying a criminal act and the bottom half the penalty.

Ceistan passed through the hall, into the chambers behind. He found but dust and the smell of dust. Into the crypts he ventured, and these were lit by oubliettes. There was much litter and rubble, but no brass coffer.

Up and out into the clean air he went, and strode across the plaza to the Mosque, where he entered under the massive architrave.

The Nunciator's Confirmatory lay wide and bare and clean, for the tesselated floor was swept by a powerful draft. A thousand apertures opened from the low ceiling, each communicating with a cell overhead; thus arranged so that the devout might seek counsel with the Nunciator as he passed below without disturbing their attitudes of supplication. In the center of the pavilion a disk of glass roofed a recess. Below was a coffer and in the coffer rested a brass-bound chest. Ceistan sprang down the steps in high hopes.

Bat the chest contained jewels—the tiara of the Old

Queen, the chest vellopes of the Gonwand Corps, the great ball, half emerald, half ruby, which in the ancient ages was rolled across the plaza to signify the passage of the old year.

Ceistan tumbled them all back in the coffer. Relicts on this planet of dead cities had no value, and synthetic gems were infinitely superior in luminosity and water.

Leaving the Mosque, he studied the height of the suns. The zenith was past, the moving balls of pink fire leaned to the west. He hesitated, frowning and blinking at the hot earthem walls, considering that not impossibly both coffer and parchment were unfounded rumor, like so many other tales regarding dead Therlatch.

A gust of wind swirled across the plaza and Ceistan choked on a dry throat He spat and an acrid taste bit his tongue. An old fountain opened in the wall nearby; he examined it wistfully, but water was not even a memory along these dead streets.

Once again he cleared his throat, spat turned across the city toward the Hall of Relicts.

He entered the great nave, past square pillars built of earthem brick. Pink shafts of light struck down from the cracks and gaps in the roof, and he was like a midge in the vast space. To all sides were niches cased in glass, and each held an object of ancient reverence: the Armor in which Plange the Forewarned led the Blue Flags; the coronet of the First Serpent; an array of antique Padang skulls; Princess Thermosteraliam's bridal gown of woven cobweb palladium, as fresh as the day she wore it; the original Tablets of Legality; the great conch throne of an early dynasty; a dozen other objects. But the coffer was not among them.

Ceistan sought for entrance to a possible crypt, but except where the currents of dusty air had channeled grooves in the porphyry, the floor was smooth.

Out once more into the dead streets, and now the suns had passed behind the crumbled roofs, leaving the streets in magenta shadow.

With leaden feet burning throat and a sense of defeat Ceistan turned to the Sumptuar, on the citadel. Up the wide steps, under the verdigris-fronted portico into a lobby painted with vivid frescoes. These depicted the maidens of ancient

Therlatch at work, at play, amid sorrow and joy: slim creatures with* short black hair and glowing ivory skin, as graceful as water-vanes, as round and delectable as chermoyan plums. Ceistan passed through the lobby with many side-glances, thinking sadly that these ancient creatures of delight were now the dust he trod under his feet

He walked down a corridor which made a circuit of the building, and from which the chambers and apartments of the Sumptuar might be entered. The wisps of a wonderful rug crunched under his feet, and the walls displayed moldy tatters, once tapestries of the finest weave. At the entrance to each chamber a fresco pictured the Sumptuar maiden and the sign she served; at each of these chambers Ceistan paused, made a quick investigation, and so passed on to the next. The beams slanting in through the cracks served him as a gauge of time, and they flattened ever more toward the horizontal.

Chamber after chamber after chamber. There were chests in some, altars in others, cases of manifestos, triptychs, and fonts in others. But never the chest he sought

And ahead was the lobby where he had entered the building. Three more chambers were to be searched, then the light would be gone.

He came to the first of these, and this was hung with a new curtain. Pushing it aside, he found himself looking into an outside court, full in the long light of the twin suns. A fountain of water trickled down across steps of apple-green jade into a garden as soft and fresh and green as any in the north. And rising in alarm from a couch was a maiden, as vivid and delightful as any in the frescoes. She had short dark hair, a face as pure and delicate as the great white frangipani she wore over her ear.

For an instant Ceistan and the maiden stared eye to eye; then her alarm faded and she smiled slyly.

"Who are you?" Ceistan asked in wonder. "Are you a ghost or do you live here in the dust?"

*T am real," she said. "My home is to the south, at the Palram Oasis, and this is the period of solitude to which all maidens of the race submit when aspiring for Upper Instruction. ... So without fear may you come beside me, and rest and drink of fruit wine and be my companion through the lonely night, for this is my last week of solitude and I am weary of my own aloneness."

Ceistan took a step forward, then hesitated. "I must- fulfil] my mission. I seek the brass coffer containing the Crown and Shield Parchment. Do you know of this?"

She shook her head. "It is nowhere in the Sumptuar." She rose'to her feet, stretching her ivory arms as a kitten stretches. "Abandon your search, and come let me refresh you."

Ceistan looked at her, looked up at the fading light, looked down the corridor to the two doors yet remaining." "First I must complete my search; I owe duty to my lord Glay, who will be nailed Under an air-sled and sped west unless I bring him aid."

The maiden said with a pout, "Go then to your dusty chamber; and go with a dry throat. You will find nothing, and if you persist so stubbornly, I will be gone when you return."

"So let it be," said Ceistan.

He turned away, marched down the corridor. The first chamber was bare and dry as a bone. In the second and last, a man's skeleton lay tumbled in a corner; this Ceistan saw in the last rosy light of the twin suns.

There was no brass coffer, no parchment So Glay must die, and Ceistan's heart hung heavy.

He returned to the chamber where he had found the maiden, but she had departed. The fountain had been stopped, and moisture only filmed the stones.

Ceistan called, "Maiden, where are you?_ Return, my obligation is at an end. ..."

There was no response.

Ceistan shrugged, turned to the lobby and so outdoors, to grope his way through the deserted twilight street to the portal and his air-sled.

Dobnor Daksat became aware that the big man in the embroidered black cloak was speaking to him.

Orienting himself to his surroundings, which were at once familiar and strange, he also became aware that the man's voice was condescending, supercilious.

"You are competing in a highly advanced classification," he said. "I marvel at your—ah, confidence." And he eyed Daksat with a gleaming and speculative eye.

Daksat looked down at the floor, frowned at the sight of his clothes. He wore a long cloak of black-purple velvet, swinging like a bell around his ankles. His trousers were of scarlet corduroy, tight at the waist, thigh and calf, with a loose puff of green cloth between calf and ankle. The clothes were his own, obviously: they looked wrong and right at once, as did the carved gold knuckle-guards he wore on his hands.

The big man in the dark cloak continued speaking, looking at a point over Daksat's head, as if Daksat were nonexistent.

"Clauktaba has won Imagist honors over the years. Bel-Washab was the Korsi Victor last month; To! Morabait is an acknowledged master of the technique. And there is Ghisel Ghang of West Ind, who knows no peer in the creation of fire-stars, and Pulakt Havjorska, the Champion of the Island Realm. So it becomes a matter of skepticism whether you, new, inexperienced, without a fund of images, can do more than embarrass us all with your mental poverty."

Daksat's brain was yet wrestling with his bewilderment, and he could feel no strong resentment at the big man's evident contempt. He said, "Just what is all this? I'm not sure that I understand my position."

The man in the black cloak inspected him quizzically. "So, now you commence to experience trepidation? Justly, I assure you." He sighed, waved his hands. "Well, well—young men will be impetuous, and perhaps you have formed images you considered not discreditable. In any event, the public eye will ignore you for the glories of Clauktaba's geometries and Ghisel Ghang's star-bursts. Indeed, I counsel you, keep your images small, drab and confined: you will so avoid the faults of bombast and discord. . . . Now, it is time to go to your imagicon. This way, then. Remember, greys, browns, lavenders, perhaps a few tones of ocher and rust; then the spectators will understand that you compete for the schooling alone, and do not actively challenge the masters. This way then—"

He opened a door and led Dobnor Daksat up a stair and so out into the night

They stood in a great stadium, facing six great screens forty feet high. Behind them in the dark sat tier upon tier of spectators—thousands and thousands, and their sounds came as a soft crush. Daksat turned to see them, but all their faces and their indivualities had melted into the entity as a whole.

"Here," said the big man, "this is your apparatus. Seat yourself and I will adjust the ceretemps."

Daksat suffered himself to be placed in a heavy chair, so soft and deep that he felt himself to be floating. Adjustments were made at his head and neck and the bridge of his nose. He felt a sharp prick, a pressure, a throb, and then a soothing warmth. From the distance, a voice called out over the crowd:

"Two minutes to grey mist! Two minutes to grey mist! Attend, imagists, two minutes to grey mist!"

The big man stooped over him. "Can you see well?"

Daksat raised himself a trifle. "Yes. . . . All is clear."

"Very well. At 'grey mist', this.little filament will glow. When it dies, then it is your screen, and you must imagine your best."

The far voice said, "One minute to grey mist! The order is Paulakt Havjorska, Tol Morabait, Ghisel Ghang, Dobnor Dcksat, Clauktaba and Bel-Washab. There are no handicaps; all colors and shapes are permitted. Relax then, ready your lobes, and now—grey mist!"

The light glowed on the panel of Daksat's chair, and he saw five of the six screens light to a pleasant pearl-grey, swirling a trifle, as if agitated, excited. Only the screen before him remained dulL The big man who stood behind him reached down, prodded. "Grey mist, Daksat; are you deaf and blind?"

Daksat thought grey mist, and instantly his screen sprang to fife, displaying a cloud of silver grey, clean and clear.

"Humph," he heard the big man snort. "Somewhat dull and without interest—but I suppose good enough. . . . See how Clauktaba's rings with hints of passion already, quivers with emotion."

And Daksat, noting the screen to his right, saw this to be true. The grey, without actually displaying color, flowed and filmed as if suppressing a vast flood of light.

Now to the far left, on Pulakt Havjorska's screen, color glowed. It was a gambit image, modest and restrained—a green jewel dripping a rain of blue and silver drops which struck a black ground and disappeared in little orange explosions.

Then Tol Morabait's screen glowed; a black and white checkerboard with certain of the squares flashing suddenly green, red, blue and yellow—warm searching colors, pure as shafts from a rainbow. The image disappeared in a flush mingled of rose and blue.

Ghisel Ghang wrought a circle of yellow which quivered,
brought forth a green halo, which in turn bulging, gave rise
to a larger band of brilliant black and white. In the center
formed a complex kaleidoscopic pattern. The pattern sud-
denly vanished in a brilliant flash of light; on the screen for
an instant or two appeared the identical partem in a com-
plete new suit of colors. A ripple of sound from the spectators
greeted this tour de force. /

The light on Daksat's panel died. Behind him he felt a prod. "Now."

Daksat eyed the screen and his mind was' blank of ideas. He ground his teeth. Anything. Anything. A picture. . . . He imagined a view across the meadowlands beside the river Melramy.

"Hm," said the big man behind him. "Pleasant. A pleasant fantasy, and rather original."

Puzzled, Daksat examined the picture on the screen. So far as he could distinguish, it was an uninspired reproduction of a scene he knew well. Fantasy? Was that what was expected? Very well, he'd produce fantasy. He imagined the meadows glowing, molten, white-hot. The vegetation, the old cairns slumped into a viscous seethe. The surface smoothed, became a mirror which reflected the Copper Crags.

Behind him the big man grunted. "A little heavy-handed, that last, and thereby you destroyed the charming effect of those unearthly colors and shapes. . . ."

Daksat slumped back in his chair, frowning, eager for his turn to come again.

Meanwhile Claulctaba created a dainty white blossom with purple stamens on a green stalk. The petals wilted, the stamens discharged a cloud of swirling yellow pollen.

Then Bel Washab, at the end of the line, painted his screen a luminous underwater green. It rippled, bulged, and a black irregular blot marred the surface. From the center of the blot seeped a trickle of hot gold which quickly meshed and veined die black blot

Such was the first passage.

There was a pause of several seconds. "Now," breathed the voice behind Daksat "now the competition begins."

On Pulakt Havjorska's screen appeared an angry sea of color: waves of red, green, blue, an ugly mottling. Dramatically a yellow shape appeared at the lower right vanquished the chaos. It spread over the screen, the center went lime-green. A black shape appeared, split bowed softly and easily to both sides. Then turning, the two shapes wandered into the background, twisting, bending with supple grace. Far down a perspective they merged, darted forward like a lance, spread out into a series of lances, formed a slanting partem of slim black bars.

"Superb!" hissed the big man. "The timing, so just so exact!"

Tol Morabaft replied with a fuscous brown field threaded with crimson lines and blots. Vertical green hatching formed at the left, strode across the screen to the right. The brown field pressed forward, bulged through the green bars, pressed hard, broke, and segments flitted forward to leave the screen. On the black background behind the green hatching, which now faded, lay a human brain, pink, pulsing. The brain sprouted six insect-like legs, scuttled crabwise back into the distance.

Ghisel Ghang brought forth one of his fire-bursts—a small pellet of bright blue exploding in all directions, the tips working and writhing through wonderful patterns in the five colors, blue, violet white, purple and light green.

Dobnor Daksat, rigid as a bar, sat with hands clenched and teeth grinding into teeth. Now! Was not his brain as excellent as those of the far lands? Now!

On the screen appeared a tree, conventionalized in greens and blues, and each leaf was a tongue of fire. From these fires wisps of smoke arose on high to form a cloud which worked and swirled, then emptied a cone of rain about the tree. The flames vanished and in their places appeared star-shaped white flowers. From the cloud came a bolt of lightning, shattering the tree to agonized fragments of glass. Another bok into the brittle heap and the screen exploded in a great gout of white, orange and black.

The voice of the big man said doubtfully, "On the whole well done, but mind my warning, and create more modest images, since—"

"Silence!" said Dobnor Daksat in a harsh voice.

So the competition went, round after round of spectacles, some sweet as canmel honey, others as violent as the storms which circle the poles. Color strove with color, patterns evolved and changed, sometimes in glorious cadence, sometimes in the bitter discord necessary to the strength of the image.

And Daksat built dream after dream, while his tension vanished, and he forgot all save the racing pictures in his mind and on the screen and his images became as complex and subtle as those of the masters.

"One more passage," said the big man behind Daksat, and now the imagists brought forth the master-dreams: Fulakt Havjorska, the growth and decay of a beautiful city; Tol Morabait, a quiet composition of green and white interrupted by a marching army of insects who left a dirty wake, and who were joined in battle by men in painted leather armor and tall hats, armed with short swords and flails. The insects were destroyed and chased off the screen; the corpses became bones and faded to twinkling blue dust Chisel Chang created three fire-bursts simultaneously, each different a gorgeous display.

Daksat imagined a smooth pebble, magnified it to a block of marble, chipped it away to create the head of a beautiful maiden. For a moment she stared forth and varying emotions crossed her face—joy at her sudden existence, pensive thought, and at last fright. Her eyes turned milky opaque blue, the face changed to a laughing sardonic mask, black-cheeked with a fleering mouth. The head tilted, the mouth spat into the air. The head flattened into a black background, the drops of spittle shone like fire, became stars, constellations, and one of these expanded, became a planet with configurations dear to Daksat's heart. The planet hurtled off into darkness, the constellations faded. Dobnor Daksat relaxed. His last image. He sighed, exhausted.

The big man in the black cloak removed the harness in brittle silence. At last he asked, "The planet you imagined in that last screening, was that a creation or a remembrance of actuality? It was none of our system here, and it rang with the clarity of truth;"

Dobnor Daksat stared at him puzzled, and the words faltered in his throat. "But it is—homel This worldl Was it not this world?"

The big man looked at him strangely, shrugged, turned away. "In a moment now the winner of the contest will be made known and the jeweled brevet awarded."

The day was gusty and overcast, the galley was low and black, manned by the oarsmen of Belaclaw. Ergan stood on the poop, staring across the two miles of bitter sea to the coast of Racland, where he knew the sharp-faced Racs stood watching from the headlands. -_v

A gout of water erupted a few hundred yards astern.

Ergan spoke to the helmsman. "Their guns have better range than we bargained for. Better stand offshore another mile and well take our chances with the current."

Even as he spoke, there came a great whistie and he glimpsed a black pointed projectile slanting down at him. It struck the waist of the galley, exploded. Timber, bodies, metal, flew everywhere, and the galley laid its broken back into the water, doubled up and sank.

Ergan, jumping clear, discarded his sword, casque and greaves almost as he hit the chill grey water. Gasping from the shock, he swam in circles, bobbing up and down in the chop; then, finding a length of timber, he clung to it for support.

From the shores of Racland a longboat put forth and approached, bow churning white foam as it rose and fell across the waves. Ergan turned loose the timber and swam as rapidly as possible from the wreck. Better drowning than capture; there would be more mercy from the famine-fish which swarmed the waters than from the pitiless Racs.

So he swam, but the current took him to the shore, and at last, struggling feebly, he was cast upon a pebbly beach.

Here he was discovered by a gang of Rac youths and marched to a nearby command post. He was tied and flung into a cart and so conveyed to the city Korsapan.

In a grey room he was seated facing an intelligence officer of the Rac secret police, a man with the grey skin of a toad, a moist grey mouth, eager, searching eyes.

"You are Ergan," said the officer. "Emissary to the Bargee of Salomdek. What was your mission?"

Ergan stared back eye to eye, hoping that a happy and convincing response would find his hps. None came, and the truth would incite an immediate invasion of both Belaclaw and Salomdek by the tall thin-headed Rac soldiers, who wore blade uniforms and black boots.

Ergan said nothing. The officer leaned forward. "I ask you once more; then you will be taken to the room below." He said "Room Below" as if the words were capitalized, and he said it with soft relish.

Ergan, in a cold sweat, for he knew of the Rac torturers, said, "I am not Ergan; my name is Ervard; I am an honest trader in pearls."

"This is untrue," said the Rac. "Your aide was captured and under the compression pump he blurted up your name with his lungs."

"I am Ervard," said Ergan, his bowels quaking.

The Rac signaled. "Take him to the Room Below."

A man's body, which has developed nerves as outposts against danger, seems especially intended for pain, and cooperates wonderfully with the craft of the torturer. These characteristics of the body had been studied by the Rac specialists, and other capabilities of the human nervous system had been blundered upon by accident. It has been found that certain programs of pressure, heat, strain, friction, torque, surge, -jerk, sonic and visual shock, vermin, stench and vileness created cumulative effects, whereas a single method, used to excess, lost its stimulation thereby.

All this lore and cleverness was lavished upon Ergan's citadel of nerves, and they inflicted upon him the entire gamut of pain: the sharp twinges, the dull lasting joint-aches which groaned by night, the fiery flashes, the assaults of filth and lechery, together with shocks of occasional tenderness when he would be allowed to glimpse the world he had left Then back to the Room Below.

But always: "I am Evard the trader." And always he tried to goad his mind over the tissue barrier to death, but always the mind hesitated at the last toppling step, and Ergan lived.

The Racs tortured by routine, so that the expectation, the approach of the hour, brought with it as much torment as the act itself. And then the heavy unhurried steps outside the cell, the feeble thrashing around to evade, the harsh laughs when they cornered him and carried him forth, and the harsh laughs when three hours later they threw him sobbing and whimpering back to the pile of straw that was his bed.

"1 am Ervard," he said, and trained his mind to believe that this was the truth, so that never would they catch him unaware. "I am Ervard! I am Ervard, I trade in pearls!"

He tried to strangle himself on straw, but a slave watched always, and this was not permitted.

He attempted to die by self-suffocation, and would have been glad to succeed, but always as he sank into blessed numbness, so did his mind relax and his motor nerves take up the mindless business of breathing once more.

He ate nothing, but this meant little to the Racs, as they injected him full of tonics, sustaining drugs and stimulants, so that he might always be keyed to the height of his awareness.

"I am Ervard," said Ergan, and the Racs gritted their teeth angrily. The case was now a challenge; he defied their ingenuity, and they puzzled long and carefully upon refinements and delicacies, new shapes to the iron tools, new types of jerk ropes, new directions for the strains and pressures. Even when it was no longer important whether he was Ergan or Ervard, since war now raged, he was kept and maintained as a problem, an ideal case; so he was guarded and cosseted with even more than usual care, and the Rac torturers mulled over their techniques, making changes here, improvements there.

Then one day the Belaclaw galleys landed and the feather-crested soldiers fought past the waDs of Korsapan.

The Racs surveyed Ergan with regret. "Now we must go, and still you will not submit to us."

"I am Ervard," croaked that which lay on the table. "Ervard the trader."

A splintering crash sounded overhead.

"We must go," said the Racs. "Your people have stormed the city. If you tell the truth, you may live. If you lie, we kill you. So there is your choice. Your life for the truth."

"The truth?" muttered Ergan. "It is a trick-" And then he caught the victory chant of the Belaclaw soldiery. "The truth? Why not? . . . Very well." And he said, "I am Ervard," for now he believed this to be the truth.

Galactic Prime was a lean man with reddish-brown hair sparse across a fine arch of skull. His face, undistinguished otherwise, was given power by great dark eyes flickering with a light like fire behind smoke. Physically he had passed the peak of his youthj-his arms and legs were thin and loose-jointed; his head inclined forward as if weighted by the intricate machinery of his brain.

Arising from the couch, smiling faintly, he looked across the arcade to the eleven Elders. They sat at a table of polished wood, backs to a wall festooned with vines. They were grave men, slow in their motions, and their faces were lined with wisdom and insight. By the ordained system, Prime was the executive of the universe, the Elders the deliberative body, invested with certain restrictive powers.

"Well?"

The Chief Elder without haste raised his eyes from the computer. "You are the first to arise from the couch."

Prime turned a glance up the arcade, still smiling faintly. The others lay variously: some with arms clenched, rigid as bars; others huddled in foetal postures. One had slumped from the couch half to the floor; his eyes were open, staring at remoteness.

Prime returned to the Chief Elder, who watched him with detached curiosity. "Has the optimum been established?"

The Chief.- Elder consulted the computer. "Twenty-six thirty-seven is the optimum score."

Prime waited, but the Chief Elder said no more. Prime stepped to the alabaster balustrade beyond the couches. He leaned forward, looked out across the vista—miles - and miles of sunny haze, ruffling the scant russet strands of his hair. He took a deep breath, flexed his fingers and hands, for the memory of the Rac torturers was still heavy on his mind. After a moment he swung around, leaned back, resting his elbows upon the balustrade. He glanced once more down the line of couches; there were still no signs of vitality from the candidates.

"Twenty-six thirty-seven,'' he muttered. "I venture to estimate my own score at twenty-five ninety. In the last episode I recall an incomplete retention of personality.

"Twenty-five seventy four," said the Chief Elder. "The computer judged Bearwalk the Halfom's final defiance of the Brand warriors unprofitable."

Prime considered. "The point is well made. Obstinacy serves no purpose unless it advances a predetermined end. It is a flaw I must seek to temper." He looked along the line of Elders, from face to face. "You make no enunciations, you are curiously mute."

He waited; the Chief Elder made no response. s "May I enquire the high score?"

"Twenty-five seventy-four." - Prime nodded. "Mine."

"Yours is the high score," said the Chief Elder.

Prime's smile disappeared; a puzzled line appeared across his brow. "In spite of this, you are still reluctant to confirm my second span of authority; there are still doubts among you."

"Doubts and misgivings," replied the Chief Elder.

Prime's mouth pulled in at the corners, although his brows were still raised in polite inquiry. "Your attitude puzzles me. My record is one of selfless service. My intelligence is phenomenal, and in this final test, which I designed to dispel your last doubts, I attained the highest score. I have proved my social intuition and flexibility, my < leadership, devotion to duty, imagination and resolution. In every commensurable aspect, I fulfill best the qualifications for the office I hold."

The Chief Elder looked up and down the line of his fellows. There were none who wished to speak. The Chief Elder squared himself in his chair, sat-back.

"Our attitude is difficult to represent. Everything is as you say. Your intelligence is beyond dispute, your character is exemplary, you have served your term with honor and devotion. You have earned our respect, admiration and gratitude. We realize also that you seek this second term from praiseworthy motives: you regard yourself as the man best able to coordinate the complex business of the galaxy."

Prime nodded grimly. "But you think otherwise."

"Our position is perhaps not quite so blunt."

"Precisely what is your position?" Prime gestured along the couches. "Look at these men. They are the finest of the galaxy. One man is dead. That one stirring on the third couch has lost his mind; he is a lunatic. The others are sorely shaken. And never forget that this test has been expressly designed to measure the qualities essential to the Galactic Prime."

"This test has been of great interest to us," said the Chief Elder mildly. "It has considerably affected our thinking."

Prime hesitated, plumbing the unspoken overtones of the words. He came forward, seated himself across from the line of Elders. With a narrow glance he searched the faces of the eleven men, tapped once, twice, three times with his fingertips on the polished wood, leaned back in the chair.

"As I have pointed out, the test has gauged each candidate for the exact qualities essential to the optimum conduct of office, in this fashion: Earth of the twentieth century is a planet of intricate conventions; on Earth the candidate, as Arthur Caversham, is required to use his social intuition—a quality highly important in this galaxy of two billion suns. On Belotsi, Bearwald the Halforn is tested for courage and the ability to conduct positive action. At the dead city Therlatch on Praesepe Three, the candidate, as Ceistan, is rated for devotion to duty, and as Dpbnor Daksat at the Imagicon on Staff, his creative conceptions are rated against the most fertile imaginations alive. Finally as Ergan, on

Chankozar, his will, persistence and ultimate fiber are explored to their extreme limits.

"Each candidate is placed in the identical set of circumstances by a trick of temporal, dimensional and cerebro-neutral meshing which is rather complicated for the present discussion. Sufficient that each candidate is objectively rated by his achievements, and that the results are commensurable."

He paused, looked shrewdly along the tine of grave faces. "I must emphasize that although I myself designed and arranged the test, I thereby gained no advantage. The mnemonic synapses are entirely disengaged from incident to incident, and only the candidate's basic personality acts. All were tested under precisely the same conditions. In my opinion the scores registered by the computer indicate an objective and reliable index of the candidate's ability for the highly responsible office of Galactic Executive."

The Chief Elder said, "The scores are indeed significant."

"Then—you approve my candidacy?"

The Chief Elder smiled. "Not so fast. Admittedly you are intelligent, admittedly you have accomplished much during your term as Prime. But much remains to be done."

"Do you suggest that another man would have achieved more?"

The Chief Elder shrugged. "I have no conceivable way of knowing. I point out your achievements, such as the Glen art civilization, the Dawn Time on Masilis, the reign of King Karal on Aevir, the suppression of the Arldd Revolt. There are many such examples. But there are also shortcomings: the wars on Earth, the savagery on Belotsi and Chankozar, so pointedly emphasized in your test. Then there is the decadence of the planets in the Eleven Hundred Ninth Cluster, the rise of the Priest-kingi on Fiir, and much else."

Prime clenched his mouth and the fires behind his eyes burnt more brightly.

The Chief Elder continued. "One of the most remarkable phenomena of the galaxy is the tendency of humanity to absorb and manifest the personality of the Prime. There seems to be a tremendous resonance which vibrates from the brain of the Prime through the minds of man from Center to the outer fringes. It is a matter which should be studied, analyzed and subjected to control. The effect is as if every thought of the Prime is magnified a billion-fold, as if every mood sets the tone for a thousand civilizations, every facet of his personality reflects in the ethics of a thousand cultures."

Prime said tonelessly, "I bave remarked this phenomenon and have thought much on it. Prime's commands are promulgated in such a way as to exert subtle rather than overt influence; perhaps here is the background of the matter. In any event, the fact of this influence is even more reason to select for the office a man of demonstrated virtue."

"Well put," said the Chief Elder. "Your character is indeed beyond reproach. However, we of the Elders are concerned by the rising tide of authoritarianism among the planets of the galaxy. We suspect that this principle of resonance is at work. You are a man of intense and indomitable will, and we feel that your influence has unwittingly prompted an irruption of paternalistic doctrine."

Prime was silent a moment. He looked down the line of couches where the other candidates were recovering awareness. They were men of various races: a pale Northkin of Palast, a stocky red Hawolo, a grey-haired grey-eyed Islander from the Sea Planet—each the outstanding man of the planet of his birth. Those who had returned to consciousness sat quietly, collecting their wits, or lay back on the couch, trying to expunge the test from their minds. There had been a toll taken: one lay dead, another bereft of his wits crouched whimpering beside bis couch.

The Chief Elder said, "The objectionable aspects of your character are perhaps best exemplified by the test itself."

Prime opened his mouth; the Chief Elder held up his hand. "Let me speak; I will try to deal fairly with you. When I am done, you may say your say.

"I repeat that your basic direction is displayed by the details of the test that you devised. The qualities you measured were those which you considered the most important: that is, those ideals by which you guide your own life. This arrangement I am sure was completely unconscious, and hence completely revealing. You conceive the essential characteristics of the Prime to be social intuition, aggressiveness, loyalty, imagination and dogged persistence. As a man of strong character you seek to exemplify these ideals in your own conduct; therefore it is not at all surprising that in this test, designed by you, with a scoring system calibrated by you, your score should be highest.

"Let me clarify the idea by an analogy. If the Eagle were conducting a test to determine the King of Beasts, he would rate all the candidates on their ability to fly; necessarily he would win. fn this fashion the Mole would consider ability to dig important; by his system of testing he would inevitably emerge King of Beasts."

Prime laughed sharply, ran a hand through his spare red-brown locks. "I am neither Eagle nor Mole."

The Chief Elder shook his head. "No. You are zealous, dutiful, imaginative, indefatigable—so you have demonstrated, as much by specifying tests for these characteristics as by scoring high in these same tests. But conversely, by the very absence of other tests you demonstrate deficiencies in your character."

"And these are?"

"Sympathy. Compassion. Kindness." The Chief Elder settled back in his chair. "Strange. Your predecessor two times removed was rich in these qualities. During his term, the great humanitarian systems based on the idea of human brotherhood sprang up across the universe. Another example of resonance—but I digress."

Prime said with a sardonic twitch of his mouth. "May I ask this: have you selected the next Galactic Prime?"

The Chief Elder nodded. "A definite choice has been made."

"What was his score in the test?"

"By your scoring system—seventeen eighty. He did poorly as Arthur Caversham; he tried to explain the advantages of nudity to the policeman. He lacked the ability to concoct an instant subterfuge; he has little of your quick craft. As Arthur Caversham he found himself naked. He is sincere and straightforward, hence tried to expound the positive motivations for his state, rather than discover the means to evade the penalties."

"Tell me more about this man," said Prime shortly.

"As Bearwald the Halfom, he led his band to the hive of the Brands on Mount Medallion, but instead of burning the hive, he called forth to the queen, begging her to end the useless slaughter. She reached out from the doorway, drew him within and killed him. He failed—but the computer still rated him highly on his forthright approach.

"At Therlatch, his conduct was as irreproachable as yours, and at the Imagicon his performance was adequate. Yours approached the brilliance of the Master Imagists, which is high achievement indeed.

"The Rac tortures are the most trying element of the test. You knew well you could resist limitless pain; therefore you ordained that all other candidates must likewise possess this attribute. The new Prime is sadly deficient here. He is sensitive, and the idea of one man intentionally inflicting pain upon another sickens him. I may add that none of the candidates achieved a perfect count in the last episode. Two others equaled your score—"

Prime evinced interest. "Which are they?"

The Chief Elder pointed them out—a tall hard-muscled man with rock-hewn face standing by the alabaster balustrade gazing moodily out across the sunny distance, and a man of middle age who sat with his legs folded under him, watching a point three feet before him with an expression of imperturbable placidity.

"One is utterly obstinate and hard," said the Chief Elder. "He refused to say a single word. The other assumes an outer objectivity when unpleasantness overtakes him. Others among the candidates fared not so well; mental readjustments will be necessary in almost all cases."

Their eyes went to the witless creature with vacant eyes who padded up and down the aisle, muttering quiedy to himself.

"The tests were by no means valueless," said the Chief Elder. "We learned a great deal. By your system of scoring, the competition rated you most high. By other standards which we Elders postulated, your place was lower."

With a tight mouth Prime inquired, "Who is this paragon of altruism, kindliness, sympathy and generosity?"

The lunatic wandered close, fell on his hands and knees, crawled whimpering to the wall. He pressed his face to the cool stone, stared blankly up at Prime. His mouth hung loose, his chin was wet, his eyes rolled apparendy free of each other.

The Chief Elder touched the mad creature's head This is he. Here is the man we select."

The old Galactic Prime sat silent, mouth compressed, eyes burning like far volcanoes.

At his feet the new Prime, Lord of Two Billion Suns, found a dead leaf, put it into his mouth, and began to chew.

"The Clock. . . ." Sister Mary sighed, sank into a chair. "If it weren't for the Clock we'd all be lunatics."

Brother Raymond, at the window, looked up toward Salvation Bluff, where the great clock bulked unseen. Mary joined him; they stood gazing through the dark. Presendy Mary sighed. "I'm sorry, dear. But I get so upset."

Raymond patted her shoulder. "It's no joke living on Glory."

Mary shook her head decisively. "I shouldn't let myself go. There's the Colony to think of. Pioneers can't be weaklings."

They stood close, drawing comfort from each other.

"Look!" said Raymond. He pointed. "A fire, and up in Old Fleetville!"

In perplexity they watched the far spark.

"They're all supposed to be down- in New Town," muttered Sister Mary. "Unless it's some kind of ceremony. . . . The salt we gave them ..."

Raymond, smiling sourly, spoke a fundamental postulate of life on Glory. "You can't tell anything about the Flits. ■ They're liable to do most anything."

Mary uttered a truth even more fundamental. "Anything is liable to do anything."

"The Flits most liable of all. . . . They've even taken to dying without our comfort and help!"

"We've done our best," said Mary. "It's not our fault!"— almost as if she feared that it was.

"No one could possibly blame us."

"Except the Inspector. . . . The Flits were thriving before the Colony came."

"We haven't bothered them; we haven't encroached, or molested, or interfered. In fact we've knocked ourselves out to help them. And for thanks they tear down our fences and break open the canal and throw mud on our fresh paint!"

Sister Mary said in a low voice, "Sometimes I hate the
Flits. . . . Sometimes I hate Glory. Sometimes I hate the
whole Colony." ^

Brother Raymond drew her close, patted the fair hair that she kept in a neat bun. "You'll feel better when one of the suns comes up. Shall we start?"

"It's dark," said Mary dubiously. "Glory is bad enough in the daytime."

Raymond shot his jaw forward, glanced up toward the Clock. "It is daytime. The Clock says it's daytime. That's Reality; we've got to cling to it! It's our link with truth and sanity!"

"Very well," said Mary, "well go."

Raymond kissed her cheek. "You're very brave, dear. You're a credit to the Colony."

Mary shook her head. "No, dear. I'm no better or braver than any of the others. We came out here to found homes and hve the Truth. We knew there'd be hard work. So much depends on everybody; there's no room for weakness."

Raymond kissed her again, although she laughingly protested and turned her head. "I still think you're brave—and very sweet."

"Get' the light," said Mary. "Get several lights. One never knows how long these—these insufferable darknesses will last."

They set off up the road, walking because in the Colony private power vehicles were considered a social evil. Ahead, unseen in the darkness, rose the Grand Montagne, the preserve of the Flits. They could feel the harsh bulk of the crags, just as behind them they could feel the neat fields, the fences, the roads of the Colony. They crossed the canal which led the meandering river into a mesh of irrigation ditches. Raymond shone his light into the concrete bed. They stood looking in a silence more eloquent than curses. " "It's dry! They've broken the banks again."

"Why?" asked Mary. "Why? They don't use the river water!"

Raymond shrugged. "I guess they just don't like canals. Well," he sighed, "all we can do is the best we know how."

The road wound back and forth up the slope. They passed the lichen-covered hulk of a star-ship which five hundred years ago had crashed on Glory. "It seems impossible," said Mary. "The Flits were once men and women just like us."

"Not like us, dear," Raymond corrected gently.

Sister Mary shuddered. "The Flits and their goats! Sometimes it's hard to tell them apart."

A few minutes later Raymond fell into a mudhole, a bed of slime, with enough water-seep to make it suckling and dangerous. Floundering, panting, with Mary's desperate help, he regained solid ground, and stood shivering—angry, cold, wet.

"That blasted thing wasn't there yesterday!" He scraped slime from his face, his clothes. "It's these miserable things that makes life so trying."

"We'll get the better of it, dear." And she said fiercely: "Well fight it, subdue it! Somehow well bring order to Glory!"

While they debated whether or not to proceed, Red Ro-bundus belled up over the northwest horizon, and they were able to take stock of the situation. Brother Raymond's khaki puttees and his white shirt of course were filthy. Sister Mary's outfit was hardly cleaner.

Raymond said dejectedly, "I ought to go back to the bungalow for a change."

"Raymond—do we have time?"

"Ill look like a fool going up to the Flits like this."

"They'll never notice."

"How can they help?" snapped Raymond.

"We haven't time," said Mary decisively. "The Inspector's due any day, and the Flits are dying like flies. They'll say it's our fault—and that's the end of Gospel Colony." After a pause she said carefully, "Not that we wouldn't help the Flits in any event."

"I still think I'd make a better impression in clean clothes," said Raymond dubiously.

"Pooh I A fig they care for clean clothes, the ridiculous way they scamper around."

"I suppose you're right."

A small yellow-green sun appeared over the southwest horizon. "Here comes Urban. ... If it isn't dark as pitch we get three or four suns at once!"

"Sunlight makes the crops grow," Mary told him sweetly.

They climbed half an hour, then, stopping to catch their breath, turned to look across the valley to the colony they loved so well. Seventy-two thousand souls on a checkerboard green plain, rows of neat white houses, painted and scrubbed, with snowy curtains behind glistening glass; lawns and flower gardens full of tulips; vegetable gardens full of cabbages, kale and squash.

Raymond looked up at-the sky. "It's going to rain."

Mary asked, "How do you know?"

"Remember the drenching we had last time Urban and Robundus were both in the west?"

Mary shook her head. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Something's got to mean something. That's the law of our universe—the basis for all our thinking!"

A gust of wind howled down from the ridges, carrying great curls and feathers of dust. They swirled with complicated colors, films, shades, in the opposing lights of yellow-green Urban and Red Robundus.

"There's your rain," shouted Mary over the roar of the wind. Raymond pressed on up the road. Presendy the wind died.

Mary said, "I believe in rain or anything else on Glory when" I see it."

"We don't have enough facts," insisted Raymond. "There's nothing magic in unpredictability."

"It's just—unpredictable." She looked back along the face of the Grand Montague. "Thank God for the Clock—something that's dependable."

The road wandered up the hifl, through stands of homy spile, banks of gray scrub and purple thorn. Sometimes there was no road; then they had to cast ahead tike surveyors; sometimes the road stopped at a bank or at a blank wall, continuing on a level ten feet above or below. These were minor inconveniences which they overcame as a matter of course. Only when Robundus drifted south and Urban ducked north did they become anxious.

"It wouldn't be conceivable that a sun should set at seven in the evening," said Mary. "That would be too normal, too matter-of-fact."

At seven-fifteen both suns set. There would be ten minutes of magnificent sunset, another fifteen minutes of twilight, then night of indeterminate extent.

They missed the sunset because of an earthquake. A tumble of stones came pelting across the road; they took refuge under a jut of granite while boulders clattered into the road and spun on down the mountainside.

The shower of rocks passed, except for pebbles bouncing down as an afterthought. "Is that all?" Mary asked in a husky whisper.

"Sounds like it."

"I'm thirsty."

Raymond handed her the canteen; she drank. "How much further to Fleetville?" "Old Fleetville or New Town?" "I don't care," she said wearily. "Either one." Raymond hesitated. "As a matter of fact, I don't know the distance to either."

"Well, we can't stay here all night."

"It's day coming up," said Raymond as the white dwarf Maude began to silver the sky to the northeast.

"It's night," Mary declared in quiet desperation. "The Clock says it's night; I don't care if every sun in the galaxy is shining, including Home Sun. As long as the Clock says it's night, it's nightl"

- "We can see the road anyway. . . . New Town is just over this ridge; I recognize that big spile. It was here last time I came."

Of the two, Raymond was the more surprised to find New Town where he placed it. They trudged into the village. "Things are awful quiet."

There were three dozen.huts, built of concrete and good clear glass, each with filtered water, a shower, wash-tub and toilet. To suit Flit prejudices the roofs were thatched with thom, and there were no interior partitions. The huts were all empty.

Mary looked into a hut. "Mmmph—horrid!" She puckered her nose at Raymond. "The smelll"

The windows of the second hut were innocent of glass. Raymond's face was grim and angry. "I packed that glass up here on my blistered back! And that's how they thank us."

"I don't care whether they thank us or not," said Mary. "I'm worried about the Inspector. Hell blame us for—" she gestured—"this filth. After all it's supposed to be our responsibility."

Seething with indignation Raymond surveyed the village. He recalled the day New Town had been completed—a model village, thirty-six spodess huts, hardly inferior to the bungalows of the Colony. Arch-Deacon Burnette had voiced the blessing; the volunteer workers knelt to pray in the central compound. Fifty or sixty Flits had come down from the ridges to watch—a wide-eyed ragged bunch: the men all gristle and unkempt hair; the women sly, plump and disposed to promiscuity, or so the colonists believed.

After the invocation Arch-Deacon Burnette had presented the chief of the tribe a large key of gilded plywood. "In your custody, Chief—the future and welfare of your people! Guard it—cherish it!"

The chief stood almost seven feet tall; he was lean as a pike, his profile cut in and out, sharp and hard as a turtle's. He wore greasy black rags and carried a long staff, upholstered with goat-bide. Alone in the tribe he spoke the language of the colonists, with a good accent that always came as a shock. "They are no concern of mine," he said in a casual, hoarse voice. "They do as they like. That's the best way."

Arch-Deacon Burnette had encountered this attitude before. A large-minded man, he felt no indignation, but rather sought to argue away what he considered an irrational attitude. "Don't you want to be civilized? Don't you want to worship God, to live clean, healthy lives?"

"No."

The Arch-Deacon grinned. "Well, well help anyway, as much as we can. We can teach you to read, to cipher; we can cure your disease. Of course you must keep clean and you must adopt regular habits—because that's what civilization means,"

The chief grunted. "You don't even know how to herd goats."

"We are not missionaries," Arch-Deacon Burnette continued, "but when you choose to learn the Truth, we'll be ready to help you."

"Mmph-mmph—where do you profit by this?"

Arch-Deacon smiled. "We don't You are fellow-humans; we are bound to help you."

The chief turned, called Jto the tribe; they fled up the rocks pell-mell, climbing like desperate wraiths, hair waving, goat-skins flapping.

"What's this? What's this?" cried the Arch-Deacon. "Come back here," he called to the chief, who was on his way to join the tribe.

The chief called" down from a crag. "You are all crazy people."

"No, no," exclaimed the Arch-Deacon, and it was a magnificent scene, stark as a stage-set: the white-haired Arch-Deacon calling up to the wild chief with his wild tribe behind him; a saint commanding satyrs, all in the shifting light of three suns.

Somehow he coaxed the chief back down to New Town. Old Fleetville lay half a mile farther up, in a saddle funnelling all the winds and clouds of the Grand Montagne, until even the goats clung with difficulty to the rocks. It was cold, dank, dreary. The Arch-Deacon hammered home each of Old Fleetville's drawbacks. The chief insisted he preferred it to New Town.

Fifty pounds of salt made the difference, with the Arch-Deacon compromising his principles over the use of bribes. About sixty of the tribe moved into the new huts with an air of amused detachment, as if the Arch-Deacon had asked them to play a foolish game.

The Arch-Deacon called another blessing upon the village; the colonists knelt; the Flits watched curiously from the doors and windows of their new homes. Another twenty or thirty bounded down from the crags with a herd of- goats which they quartered in the littie chapel. Arch-Deacon Bumette's smile became fixed and painful, but to his credit he did nothing to interfere.

After a while the colonists filed back down into the valley. They had done the best they could, but they were not sure exactly what it was they had done.

Two months later New Town was deserted. Brother Raymond and Sister Mary Dunton walked through the village; and the huts showed dark windows and gaping doorways.

"Where have they gone?" asked Mary in a hushed voice.

"They're all mad," said Raymond. "Stark staring mad." He went to the chapel, pushed his head through the door. His knuckles shone suddenly white where they gripped the door frame.

"What's the trouble?" Mary asked anxiously.

Raymond held her back. "Corpses. . . . There's—ten, twelve, maybe fifteen bodies in there."

"Raymond!" They looked at each other. "How? Why?"

Raymond shook his head. With one mind they turned, looked up the bill toward Old Fleetville.

"I guess it's up to us to find out."

"But this is—is such a nice place," Mary burst out. "They're-they're beasts! They should love it here!" She turned away, looked out over the valley, so that Raymond wouldn't see her tears. New Town had meant so much to her; with her own hands she had white-washed rocks and laid neat borders around each of the huts. The borders had been kicked askew, and her feelings were hurt. "Let the Flits live as they like, dirty, shiftless creatures. They're irresponsible," she told Raymond, "just completely irresponsibler

Raymond nodded. "Let's go on up, Mary; we have our duty."

Mary wiped her eyes. "I suppose they're God's creatures, but I can't see why they should be." She glanced at Raymond. "And don't tell me about God moving in a mysterious way."

"Okay," said Raymond. They started to clamber up over the rocks, up toward Old Fleetville. The valley became smaller and smaller below. Maude swung up to the zenith and seemed to hang there.

They paused for breath. Mary mopped her brow. "Am I crazy, or is Maude getting larger?"

Raymond looked. "Maybe it is swelling a little."

"It's either a nova or we're falling into it!"

"I suppose anything could happen in this system," sighed Raymond. "If there's any regularity in Glory's orbit it's defied analysis."

"We might very easily fall into one of the suns," said Mary thoughtfully.

Raymond shrugged. "The System's been milling around for quite a few million years. That's our best guarantee." "Our only guarantee." She clenched her fists. "If there were only some certainty somewhere—something you could look at and say, this is immutable, this is changeless, this is something you can count on. But there's nothing! It's enough to drive a person crazyl"

Raymond put on a glassy smile. "Don't, dear. The Colony's got too much trouble like that already."

Mary sobered instantly. "Sorry. . . . I'm sorry, Raymond. Truly."

"It's got me worried," said Raymond. "I was talking to Director Birch at the Rest Home yesterday." "How many now?"

"Almost three thousand. More coming in every day." He sighed. "There's something about Glory that grinds at a person's nerves—no question about it."

Mary took a deep breath, pressed Raymond's hand. "Well fight it, darling, and beat it! Things will fall into routine; well straighten everything out."

Raymond bowed bis head. "With the Lord's help."

"There goes Maude," said Mary. "We'd better get up to Old Fleetville while there's still light."

A few minutes later they met a dozen goats, herded by as many scraggly children. Some wore rags; some wore goatskin clothes; others ran around naked, and the wind blew on their washboard ribs.

On the other side of the trail they met another herd of goats—perhaps a hundred, with one urchin in attendance.

"That's the Flit way," said. Raymond, "twelve kids herd twelve goats and one ldd herds a hundred."

"They're surely victims of some mental disease. ... Is insanity hereditary?"

"That's a moot point ... I can smell Old Fleetville."

Maude left the sky at an angle which promised a long twilight. With aching legs Raymond and Mary plodded up into the village. Behind came the goats and the children, mingled without discrimination.

Mary said in a disgusted voice, "They leave New Town-pretty, clean New Town—to move up into this fifth."

"Don't step on that goat!" Raymond guided her past the gnawed carcass which lay on the trail. Mary bit her Up.

They found the chief sitting on a rock, staring into the air. 110

He greeted them with neither surprise nor pleasure. A group of children were building a pyre of brush and dry spile.

"What's going on?" asked Raymond with forced cheer. "A feast? A dance?"

"Four men, two women. They go crazy, they die. We bum
them." ^

Mary looked at the pyre. "I didn't know you cremated your dead."

"This time we bum them." He reached out, touched Mary's glossy golden hair. "You be my wife for a while."

Mary stepped back, and said in a quivering voice. "No, thanks. I'm married to Raymond."

"All the timer

"All the time."

The chief shook his head. "You are crazy. Pretty soon you die."

Raymond said sternly, "Why did you break the canal? Ten times we've fixed it; ten times the Flits come down in the dark and pulled down the banks."

The chief deliberated. "The canal is crazy."

"It's not crazy. It helps irrigate, helps the farmers."

"It goes too much the same."

"You mean, it's straight?"

"Straight? Straight? What word is that?"

"In one line—in one direction."

The chief rocked back and forth. "Look—mountain. Straight?"

"No, of course not" "Sun-straight?" "Look here—"

"My leg." The chief extended his left leg, knobby and covered with hair. "Straight?"

"No," sighed Raymond. "Your leg is not straight"

"Then why make canal straight? Crazy." He sat back. The topic was disposed of. "Why do you come?"

"Well," said Raymond. "Too many Flits die. We want to help you."

"That's all right. It's not me, not you."

"We don't want you to die. Why don't you live in New Town?"

"Flits get crazy, jump off the rocks." He rose to his feet "Come along, there's food."

Mastering their repugnance, Raymond and Mary nibbled on bits of grilled goat. Without ceremony, four bodies were tossed into the fire. Some of the Flits began to dance.

Mary nudged Raymond. "You can understand a culture by the pattern of its dances. Watch."

Raymond watched. "I don't see any partem. Some take a couple hops, sit down; others run in circles; some just flap their arms."

Mary whispered, "They're all crazy. Crazy as sandpipers." Raymond nodded. "I believe you."

Rain began to fall. Red Robundus burnt the eastern sky but never troubled to come up. The rain became hail. Mary and Raymond went into a hut. Several men and women joined them, and with nothing better to do, noisily began ioveplay.

Mary whispered in agony. "They're going to do it right in front of us! They don't have any shame!"

Raymond said grimly, "I'm not going out in that rain. They can do anything they want."

Mary cuffed one of the men who sought to remove her shirt; he jumped back. "Just like dogs!" she gasped.

"No repressions there," said Raymond apathetically. "Repressions mean psychoses."

"Then I'm psychotic," sniffed Mary, "because I have repressions!"

"I have too."

The hail stopped; the wind blew the clouds through the notch; the sky Was clear. Raymond and Mary left the hut with relief.

The pyre was drenched; four charred bodies lay in the ashes; no one heeded them.

Raymond said thoughtfully, "It's on the tip of my tongue —the verge of my mind ..."

^Whatr

"The solution to this whole Flit mess."

"It's something like this: The Flits are crazy, irrational, irresponsible."

"Agreed."

"The Inspector's coming. We've got to demonstrate that the Colony poses no threat to the aborigines—the Flits, in this case."

"We can't force the Flits to improve their living standards."

"No. But if we could make them sane; if we could even make a start against their mass psychosis ..."

Mary looked rather numb. "It sounds like a terrible job."

Raymond shook his head. "Use rigorous thinking, dear. It's a real problem: a group of aborigines too psychotic to keep themselves alive. But we've got to keep them alive. The solution: remove the psychoses."

"You make it sound sensible, but how in heaven's name shall we begin?"

The chief came spindle-legged down from the rocks, chew-
ing at a bit of goat-intestine. "We've got to begin with the
chief," said Raymond. _

"That's like belling the cat."

"Salt," said Raymond. "He'd skin his grandmother for salt."

Raymond approached the chief, who seemed surprised to find him still in the village. Mary watched from the background.

Raymond argued; the chief looked first shocked, then sullen. Raymond expounded, expostulated. He made his telling point: salt—as much as the chief could carry back up the hill. The chief stared down at Raymond from his seven feet, threw up his hands, walked away, sat down on a rock, chewed at the length of gut

Raymond rejoined Mary. "He's coming."

Director Birch used his heartiest manner toward the chief. "We're honored! It's not often we have visitors so distinguished. Well have you right in no time!"

The chief had been scratching aimless curves in the ground with his staff. He asked Raymond mildly, "When do I get the salt?"

"Pretty soon now. First you've got to go with Director Birch."

"Come along," said Director Birch. "Well have a nice ride." The chief turned and strode off toward the Grand Montagne. "No, no!" cried Raymond. "Come back here!" The chief lengthened his stride.

Raymond ran forward, tackled the knobby knees. The chief fell like a loose sack of garden tools. Director Birch administered a shot of sedative, and presently the shambling, dull-eyed chief was secure inside the ambulance.

Brother Raymond and Sister Mary watched the ambulance trundle down the road. Thick dust roiled up, hung in the green sunlight. The shadows seemed ringed with bluish-purple.

Mary said in a trembling voice, "I do so hope we're doing the right thing. . . . The poor chief looked so—pathetic. Like one of his own goats trussed up for slaughter."

Raymond said, "We can only do what we think best, dear."

"But is it the best?"

The ambulance had disappeared; the dust had settled. Over the Grand Montagne lightning flickered from a black-and-green thunderhead. Faro shone like a cat s-eye at the zenith. The Clock—the staunch Clock, the good, sane Clock —said twelve noon.

"The best," said Mary thoughtfully. "A relative word . . ."

Raymond said, "If we clear up the Flit psychoses—if we can teach them clean, orderly Kves—surely it's for the best" And he added after a moment "Certainly its best for the Colony."

Mary sighed. "I suppose so. But the chief looked so stricken."

"We'll go see him tomorrow," said Raymond. "Right now, sleep!"

When Raymond and Mary awoke, a pink glow seeped through the drawn shades: Robundus, possibly with Maude. "Look at the clock," yawned Mary. "Is it day or night?"

Raymond raised up on his elbow. Their clock was built into the wall, a replica of the Clock on Salvation Bluff, and guided by radio pulses from the central movement. "It's six in the afternoon—ten after."

They rose and dressed in their neat puttees and white shirts. They ate in the meticulous kitchenette, then Raymond telephoned the Rest Home.

Director Birch's voice came crisp from the sound box. "God help you, Brother Raymond."

"God help you, Director. How's the chief?"

Director Birch hesitated. "We've had to keep him under sedation. He's got pretty deep-seated troubles."

"Can you help him? It's important."

"All we can do is try. We'll have a go at him tonight"

"Perhaps we'd better be there," said Mary.

"If you like______ Eight o'clock?"

"Good."

The Rest Home was a long, low building on the outskirts of Glory City. New wings had recently been added; a set of temporary barracks could also be seen to the rear.

Director Birch greeted them with a harassed expression.

"We're so pressed for room and time; is this Flit so terribly important?"

Raymond gave him assurance that the chief s sanity was a matter of grave concern for everyone.

Director Birch threw up his hands. "Colonists are clamoring for therapy. They'll have to wait, I suppose."

Mary asked soberly, "There's still—the trouble?"

"The Home was built with five hundred beds," said Director Birch. "We've got thirty-six hundred patients now; not to mention the eighteen hundred colonists we've evacuated back to Earth."

"Surely things are getting better?" asked Raymond. The Colony's over the hump; there's no need for anxiety."

"Anxiety doesn't seem to be the trouble."

"What is the trouble?"

"New environment I suppose. We're Earth-type people; the surroundings are strange."

"But they're not really 1" argued Mary. "We've made this place the exact replica of an Earth community. One of the nicer sort. There are Earth houses and Earth flowers and Earth trees."

"Where is the chief?" asked Brother Raymond.

"Well—right now, in the maximum-security ward."

"Is he violent?"

"Not unfriendly. He just wants' to get out Destructive! I've never seen anything like it!"

"Have you any ideas—even preliminary?*'

Director Birch shook his head grimly. "We're still trying to classify him. Look." He handed Raymond a report. "That's his zone survey."

"Intelligence zero." Raymond looked up. "I know he's not that stupid."

"You'd hardly think so. It's a vague referent, actually. We can't use the usual tests on him—thematic perception and the like; they're weighted for out own cultural background. But these tests here—" he tapped the report "—they're basic; we use them on animals—fitting pegs into holes; matching up colors; detecting discordant patterns; threading mazes."

"And the chief?"

Director Birch sadly shook his head. "If it were possible to have a negative score, he'd have it." "How so?"

"Well, for instance, instead of matching a small round peg into a small round hole, first he broke the star-shaped peg - and forced it in sideways, and then he broke the board."

"But why?"

Mary said, "Let's go see him."

"He's safe, isn't he?" Raymond asked Birch.

"Oh, entirely."

The chief was confined in a pleasant room exactly ten feet on a side. He had a white bed, white sheets, gray coverlet The ceiling was restful green, the floor was quiet gray.

"My!" said Mary brighdy, "you've been busy!"

"Yes," said Doctor Birch between clenched teeth. "He's been busy."

The bedclothes were shredded, the bed lay on its side in the middle of the room, the walls were befouled. The chief sat on the doubled mattress.

Director Birch said sternly, "Why do you make this mess? It's really not clever, you know!"

"You keep me here," spat the chief. "I fix the way I like it. In your house you fix the way you like." He looked at Raymond and Mary. "How much longer?"

"In just a little while," said Mary. "We're trying to help you."

"Crazy talk, everybody crazy." The chief was losing his 116 good accent; his words rasped with fricatives and glottals. "Why you bring me here?"

"It'll be just for a day or two," said Mary soothingly, "then you get salt—lots of it."

"Day—that's while the sun is up."

"No," said Brother Raymond. "See this thing?" He pointed to the clock in the wall "When this hand goes around twice —that's a day."

The chief smiled cynically.

"We guide our lives by this," said Raymond. "It helps us."

"Just like the big Clock on Salvation Bluff," said Mary.

"Big devil," the chief said eamesdy. "You good people; you all crazy. Come to Fleetville. I help you; lots of good goat. We throw rocks down at Big Devil."

"No," said Mary quietly, "that would never do. Now you try your best to do what the doctor says. This mess for instance—it's very bad."

The chief took his head in his hands. "You let me go. You keep salt; I go home."

"Come," said Director Birch kindly. "We won't hurt you." He looked at the clock. "It's time for your first therapy."

Two orderlies were required to conduct the chief to the laboratory. He was placed in a padded chair, and his arms and legs were constricted so that he might not harm himself. He set up a terribly, hoarse cry. "The Devil, the Big Devil-it comes down to look at my life. .. ."

Director Birch said to the orderly, "Cover over the wall clock; it disturbs the patient"

ust Ke still," said Mary. "We're trying to help you—you your whole tribe." The orderly administered a shot of D-beta hypnidine. The chief relaxed, his eyes open, vacant his skinny chest heaving.

Director Birch said in a low tone to Mary and Raymond, "He's now entirely suggestible—so be very quiet; don't make a sound."

Mary and Raymond eased themselves into chairs at the side of the room.

"Hello, Chief," said Director Birch. "Hello."

"Are you comfortable?"

"Too much shine—too much white."

The orderly dimmed the lights.

"Better?"

"That's better."

"Do you have any troubles?" '

"Coats hurt their feet, stay up in the hills. Crazy people down the valley; they won't go away." "How do you mean 'crazy?*"

The chief was silent. Director Birch said in a whisper to Mary and Raymond, "By analyzing his concept of sanity we get a clue to his own derangement."

The chief lay quiet. Director Birch said h> his soothing voice, "Suppose you tell us about your own life."

The chief spoke readily. "Ah, that's good. I'm chief. I understand all talks; nobody else knows about things."

■"A good life, eh?"

"Sure, everything good." He spoke on, in disjointed phrases, in words sometimes unintelligible, but the picture of his Kfe came clear. "Everything go easy—no bother, no trouble—everything good. When it rain, fire feels good. When suns shine hot, then wind blow, feels good. Lots of goats, everybody eat."

"Don't you have troubles, worries?"

"Sure. Crazy people live in valley. They make town: New Town. No good. Straight—straight—straight. No good. Crazy. That's bad. We get lots of salt, but we leave New Town, run up hill to old place."

"You don't like the people in the valley?"..

"They good people, they all crazy. Big Devil brings them to valley. Big Devil watch all time. Pretty soon all go tick-tick-tick-like Big Devil."

Director Birch turned to Raymond and Mary, his face in a puzzled frown. "This isn't going so good. He's too assured, too forthright."

Raymond said guardedly, "Can you cure him?"

"Before I can cure a psychosis," said Director Birch, "I have to locate it. So far I don't seem to be even warm."

"It's not sane to die off like flies," whispered Mary. "And that's what the Flits are doing."

The Director returned to the chief. "Why do your people die, Chief? Why do they die in New Town?"

The chief said in a hoarse voice, "They look down. No pretty scenery. Crazy cut-up. No river: Straight water. It hurts-the eyes; we open canal, make good river. . . . Huts all same. Go crazy looking at all same. People go crazy; we km'em."

Director Birch said, "I think that's all we'd better do just now till we study the case a little more closely."

"Yes," said Brother Raymond in a troubled voice. "We've got to think this over."

They left the Rest Home through the main reception hall. The benches bulged with applicants for admission and their relatives, with custodian officers and persons in their care. Outside the sky was wadded with overcast. Sallow light indicated Urban somewhere in the sky. Rain spattered in the dust, big, syrupy drops.

Brother Raymond and Sister Mary waited for the bus at the curve of the traffic circle.

"There's something wrong," said Brother Raymond in a bleak voice. "Something very very wrong."

"And I'm not so sure it isn't in us," Sister Mary looked around the landscape, across the young orchards, up Sarah Gufvin Avenue into the center of Glory City.

"A strange planet is always a battle," said Brother Raymond. "We've got to bear faith, trust in God—and fight!"

Mary clutched his arm. He turned. "What's the trouble?"

"I saw—or thought I saw—someone running through the bushes."

Raymond craned his neck. "I don't see anybody." "I thought it looked like the chief." "Your imagination dear."

They boarded the bus, and presently were secure in their white-walled, flower-gardened home.

The communicator sounded. It was Director Birch. His voice was troubled. "I don't want to worry you, but the chief got loose. He's off the premises—where we don't know."

Mary said under her breath, "I knew, I knew!"

Raymond said soberly, "You don't think there's .any dan-get?"

"No. His pattern isn't violent. But I'd lock my door anyway."

"Thanks for calling, Director." "Not at all, Brother Raymond."

There was a moment's silence. "What now?" asked Mary. "Ill lock the doors, and then well get a good night's sleep." Sometime in the night Mary woke up with a start. Brother Raymond rolled over on his side. "What's the trouble?" "I don't know," said Mary. "What time is it?" Raymond consulted the wall clock. "Five minutes to one." Sister Mary lay still.

"Did you hear something?" Raymond asked.

"No. I just had a—twinge. Something's wrong,-Raymond!"

He pulled her close, cradled her fair head in the hollow of his neck. "All we can do is our best, dear, and pray that it's God's will."

They fell into a fitful doze, tossing and turning. Raymond got up to go to the bathroom. Outside was night—a dark sky except for a rosy glow at the north horizon. Red Robun-dus wandered somewhere below. ■ Raymond shuffled sleepily back to bed.

"What's the time, dear?" came Mary's voice.

Raymond peered at the clock. "Five minutes to one."

He got into bed. Mary's body was rigid. "Did you say-
five minutes to one?" X

"Why yes," said Raymond. A few seconds later he climbed out of bed, went into the kitchen. "It says five minutes to one in here, too. I'll call the Clock and have them send out a pulse."

He went to- the Communicator, pressed buttons. No response.

"They don't answer."

Mary was at his elbow. "Try again."

Raymond pressed out the number. "That's strange."

"Call Information," said Mary.

Raymond pressed for Information. Before he could frame a question, a crisp voice said, "The Great Clock is momentarily out of order. Please have patience. The Great Clock is out of order."

Raymond thought he recognized the voice. He punched 120 the visual button. The voice said, "God keep you, Brother Raymond."

"God keep you, Brother Ramsdell . . . What is the world has gone wrong?"

"It's one of your proteges, Raymond. One of the Flits-raving mad. He rolled boulders down on the Clock."

"Did he-did he-"

"He started a landslide. We don't have any more Clock."

Inspector Coble found no one to meet him at the Glory City space-port. He peered up and down the tarmac; he was alone. A scrap of paper blew across the far end of the field; nothing else moved.

Odd, thought Inspector Coble. A committee had always been on hand to welcome him, with a program that was flattering but rather wearing. First to the Arch-Deacon's bungalow for a banquet, cheerful speeches and progress reports, then services in the central chapel, and finally a punctilious escort to the foot of the GrandvMontagne.

Excellent people, by Inspector Coble's lights, but too painfully honest and fanatical to be interesting.

He left instructions with the two < men who crewed the official ship, and set off on foot toward Glory City. Red Ro-bundus was high, but sinking toward the east; he looked toward Salvation Bluff to check local time. A clump of smoky lace-veils blocked his view.

Inspector Coble, striding briskly along the road, suddenly jerked to a halt. He raised his head as if testing the air, looked about him in a complete circle. He frowned, moved slowly on.

The colonists had been making changes, he thought. Exactly what and how, he could not instantly determine: The fence there—a section had been torn out. Weeds were-prospering in the ditch beside the road. Examining the ditch, he sensed movement in the harp-grass behind, the sound of young voices. Curiosity aroused, Coble jumped the ditch, parted the harp-grass.

A boy and girl of sixteen or so- were wading in a shallow pond; the girl held three limp water-flowers, the boy was kissing her. They turned up startled faces; Inspector Coble withdrew.

Back on the road he looked up and down. Where in thunder was everybody? The fields—empty. Nobody working. Inspector Coble shrugged, continued.

He passed the Rest Home, and looked at it curiously. It seemed considerably larger than he remembered it: a pair of wings, some temporary barracks had been added. He noticed that the gravel of the driveway was hardly as neat as it might be. The ambulance drawn up to the side was dusty. The place looked vaguely run down. The inspector for the second time stopped dead in his tracks. Music? From the Rest Home?

He turned down the driveway, approached. The music grew louder. Inspector Coble slowly pushed through the front door. In the reception hall were eight or ten people—they wore bizarre costumes: feathers, fronds of dyed grass, fantastic necklaces of glass and metal. The music sounded loud nam the auditorium, a kind of wild jig.

"Inspector!" cried a pretty woman with fair hair. "Inspector Coble! You've arrived!'*

Inspector Coble peered into her face. She wore a kind of patchwork jacket sewn with small iron bells. "It's—it's Sister Mary Dunton, isn't it?"

"Of course! You've arrived at a wonderful time! We're having a carnival ball—costumes and everything!"

Brother Raymond clapped the inspector heartily on the back. "Clad to see you, old man! Have some cider—it's the early press."

Inspector Coble backed away. "No, no thanks." He cleared his throat "111 be off on my rounds . . . and perhaps drop in on you later."

Inspector Coble proceeded to the Grand Montague. He noted that a number of the bungalows had been painted bright shades of green, blue, yellow; that fences in many cases had been pulled down, that gardens looked rather rank and wild.

He climbed the road to Old Fleetvflle, where he interviewed the chief. The Flits apparently were not being exploited, suborned, cheated, sickened, enslaved, forcibly proselyted of systematically irritated. The chief seemed in a good humor.

"I kill the Big Devil" he told Inspector Coble. "Things go better now."

Inspector Coble planned to slip quiedy to the spaceport and depart, but Brother Raymond Dunton hailed him as he passed their bungalow.

"Had your breakfast, Inspector?"

"Dinner, darling!" came Sister Mary's voice from within. "Urban just went down."

"But Maude just came up."

"Bacon and eggs anyway, Inspector!"

The inspector was tired; he smelled hot coffee. "Thanks," he said, "don't mind if I do."

After the bacon and eggs, over the second cup of coffee, the inspector said cautiously, "You're looking well, you two."

Sister Mary looked especially pretty with her fair hair loose.

"Never felt better," said Brother Raymond. "It's a matter of rhythm, Inspector."

The inspector blinked. "Rhythm, eh?"

"More precisely," said Sister Mary, "a lack of rhythm."

"It all started," said Brother Raymond, "when we lost our Clock."

Inspector Coble gradually pieced out the story. Three weeks later, back at Surge City he put jt in his own words to Inspector Keefer.

"They'd been wasting half their energies holding onto— well, call it a false reality. They were all afraid of the new planet. TTiey pretended it was Earth—tried to whip it, beat it, and just plain hypnotize it into being Earth. Naturally they were licked before they started. Glory is about as completely random a world as you could find. The poor devils were trying to impose Earth rhythm and Earth routine upon this magnificent disorder; this monumental chaos!"

"No wonder they all went nuts."

Inspector Coble nodded. "At first, after the Clock went out, they thought they were goners. Committed their souls to God and just about gave up. A couple of days passed, I guess—and to their surprise they found they were still alive.

In fact, even enjoying life. Sleeping when it got dark, working when the sun shone."

"Sounds like a good place to retire," said Inspector Keefer. "How's the fishing out there on Glory?"

"Not so good. But the goat-herding is great!"

He tested the surface of the plain with his foot. The glassy surface (though it likewise seemed a construction of red and gray-green pyramids) accepted his weight, then suddenly sucked at his leg. In a frenzy he tore himself free, jumped back, squatted on the temporarily solid rock.

Hunger rasped at his stomach. He must eat. He contemplated the plain. Not too far away a pair of Organisms played —sliding, diving, dancing, striking flamboyant poses. Should they approach he would try to kill one of them. They resembled men, and so should make a good meal.

He waited. A long time? A short time? It might have been either; duration had neither quantitative nor qualitative reality. The sun had vanished, there was no standard cycle or recurrence. Time was a word blank of meaning.

Matters had not always been so. The Relict retained a few tattered recollections of the old days, before system and logic had been rendered obsolete. Man had dominated Earth by virtue of a single assumption: that an effect could be traced to a cause, itself the effect of a previous cause.

Manipulation of this basic law yielded rich results; there seemed no need for any other tool or instrumentality. Man congratulated himself on his generalized structure. He could live on desert, on plain or ice, in forest or in city; Nature had not shaped him to a special environment.

He was unaware of his vulnerability. Logic was the special environment; the brain was the special tool.

Then came the terrible hour when Earth swam into a pocket of non-causality, and all the ordered tensions of cause-effect dissolved. The special tool was useless; it had no purchase on reality. From the two billions of men, only a few survived—the mad. They were now the Organisms, lords of the era, their discords so exactly equivalent to the vagaries of the land as to constitute a peculiar wild wisdom. Or perhaps the disorganized matter of the world, loose from the old organization, was peculiarly sensitive to psycho-kinesis.

A handful of others, the Relicts, managed to exist, but only through a delicate set of circumstances. They were the ones most strongly charged with the old causal dynamic. It persisted sufflciendy to control the metabolism of their bodies, but could extend no further. They were fast, fast dying, for sanity provided no leverage against the environment. Sometimes their own minds sputtered and jangled, and they would go raving and leaping out across the plain.

The Organisms observed with neither surprise nor curiosity; how could surprise exist? The mad Relict might pause by an Organism, and try to duplicate the creature's existence. The Organism ate a mouthful of plant; so did the Relict. The Organism rubbed his feet with crushed water; so did the Relict. Then presendy the Relict would die of poison or rent bowels or skin lesions, while the Organism relaxed in the dank black grass. Or the Organism might seek to eat the Relict; and the Relict would run off in terror, unable to abide any part of the world—running, bounding, breasting the thick air; eyes wide, mouth open, calling and gasping until finally he foundered in a pool of black iron or blundered into a vacuum pocket, to bat around like a fly in a bottle.

The Relicts now numbered very few. Finn, he who crouched on the rock overlooking the plain, lived with four others. Two of these were old men and soon would die. Finn likewise would die unless he found food.

Out on the plain one of the Organisms, Alpha, sat down, caught a handful of air, a globe of blue liquid, a rock, kneaded them together, pulled the mixture like taffy, gave it a great heave. It uncoiled from his hand like rope. The Relict crouched low. No telling what deviltry would occur to the creature. He and all the rest of them—unpredictable! The Relict valued their flesh to eat; but they also would eat him if opportunity offered. In the competition he was at a great disadvantage. Their random acts baffled him. Seeking to escape, he ran, and then the terror began. The direction he set his face was seldom the direction the varying frictions of the ground let him move. Behind was the Organism, as random and uncommitted as the environment. The double set of vagaries sometimes compounded, sometimes canceled each other. In the latter case the Organism might catch him. ... It was inexplicable. But then, what was not? The word "explanation" had no meaning.

They were moving toward him. Had they seen him? He flattened himself against the sullen yellow rock.

The Organisms paused not far away. He could hear then-sounds, and crouched, sick from conflicting pangs of hunger and fear.

Alpha sank to his knees, lay flat on his back, arms and legs flung out at random, addressing the sky in. a series of musical cries, sibilants, guttural groans. It was a personal language he had only now improvised, but Beta understood him well.

"A vision," cried Alpha. "I see past the sky. I see knots, spinning circles. They tighten into hard points; they will never come undone."

Beta perched on a pyramid, glanced over his shoulder at the mottled sky.

"An intuition," chanted Alpha, "a picture out of the other time. It is hard, merciless, inflexible."

Beta poised on the pyramid, dove through the glassy surface, swam under Alpha, emerged, lay flat beside him.

"Observe the Relict on the hillside. In his blood is the whole of the old race—the narrow men with minds like cracks. He has exuded the intuition. Clumsy thing—a blunderer," said Alpha.

"They are all dead, all of them," cried Beta. "Although three or four remain." (When past, present and future are no more than ideas left over from another era, like boats on a dry lake—then the completion of a process can never be defined.)

Alpha said, This is the vision. I see the Relicts swarming the Earth; then whisking off to nowhere, like gnats in the wind. That is behind us."

The Organisms lay quiet, considering the vision.

A rock, or perhaps a meteor, fell from the sky, struck into the surface of the pond. It left a circular hole which slowly closed. From another part of the pool a gout of fluid splashed into the air, floated away.

Alpha spoke: "Again—the intuition comes strong! There will be lights in the sky."

The fever died in him. He hooked a finger into the air, hoisted himself to his feet

Beta lay quiet. Slugs, ants, flies, beedes were Crawling on him, boring, breeding. Alpha knew that Beta could arise, shake off the insects, stride off. But Beta seemed to prefer passivity. That was well enough. He could produce another Beta should he choose, or a dozen of him. Sometimes the world swarmed with Organisms, all sorts, all colors, tall as steeples, short and squat as flower-pots. Sometimes they hid quietly in deep caves, and sometimes the tentative substance of Earth would shift, and perhaps one, or perhaps thirty, would' be shut in the subterranean cocoon, and all would sit gravely waiting, until such time as the ground would open and they could peer blinking and pallid out into the light.

- "I feel a lack," said Alpha. "I will eat the Relict" He set forth, and sheer chance brought him near to the ledge of yellow rock. Finn the Relict sprang to his feet in panic.

Alpha tried to communicate, so that Finn might pause while Alpha ate. But Finn had no grasp for the many-valued overtones of Alpha's voice. He seized a rock, hurled it at Alpha. The rock puffed into a cloud of dust blew back into the Relict's face.

Alpha moved closer, extended his long arms. The Relict kicked. His feet went out from under him, he shd out on the plain. Alpha ambled complacendy behind him. Finn began to crawl away. Alpha moved off to the right—one direction was as good as another. He collided with Beta, and began to eat Beta instead of the Relict The Relict hesitated; then approached, and joining Alpha, pushed chunks of pink flesh into bis mouth.

Alpha said to the Relict T was about to communicate an intuition to him whom we dine upon. I will speak to you."

Finn could not understand-Alpha's personal language. He ate as rapidly as possible.

Alpha spoke on. There will be lights in the sky. The great lights."

Finn rose to his feet and, warily watching Alpha, seized Beta's legs, began to pull him toward the hill. Alpha watched with quizzical unconcern.

It was hard work for the spindly Relict Sometimes Beta floated; sometimes he wafted off on the air; sometimes he adhered to the terrain. At last he sank into a knob of granite which froze around him. Finn tried to jerk Beta loose, pry him up with a stick, without success.

He ran back and forth in an agony of indecision. Beta began to collapse, wither, like a jellyfish on hot sand. The Relict abandoned the hulk. Too late, too late! Food going to waste! The world was a hideous place of frustration!

Temporarily his belly was full. He started back up the crag, and presently found the camp, where the four other Relicts waited—two ancient males, two females. The females, Gisa and Reak, like Finn, had been out foraging. Gisa had brought in a slab of lichen; Reak a bit of nameless carrion.

The old men, Boad and Tagart, sat quiedy waiting either for food or for death.

The women greeted Finn sullenly. "Where is the food you went forth to find?"

"I had a whole carcass," said Finn. "I could not carry it."

Boad had slyly stolen the slab of lichen and was cramming it into his mouth. It had come alive; it quivered and exuded a red ichor which was poison, and the old man died.

"Now there is food," said Finn. "Let us eat."

But the poison created a putrescence; the body seethed with blue foam, flowed away of its own energy.

The women turned to look at the other old man, who said in a quavering voice, "Eat me if you must—but why not choose Reak, who is younger than Ir

Reak, the younger of the women, gnawing on the bit of carrion, made n6 reply.

Finn said hollowly, "Why do we worry ourselves? Food is ever more difficult, and we are the last of all men."

"No, no," spoke Reak, "not the last. We saw others on the green mound."

"That is long ago," said Gisa. "Now they are surely dead." "Perhaps they have, found a source of food," suggested Reak.

Finn rose to his feet, looked across the plain. "Who knows? Perhaps there is a more pleasant land beyond the horizon."

"There is nothing anywhere but waste and evil creatures,"
snapped Gisa. ' v

"What could be worse than here?" Finn argued.

No one could find grounds for disagreement

"Here is what I propose," said Finn. "Notice this tall peak. Notice the layers of hard air. They bump into the peak; they bounce off; they float in and out and disappear past the edge of sight. Let us all climb this peak, and when a sufficiendy large bank of air passes, we will throw ourselves on top, and allow it to carry us to the beautiful regions which may exist just out of sight."

There was an argument The old man Tagart protested his feebleness; the women derided the possibility of the bountiful regions Finn envisioned, but presently, grumbling and arguing, they began to clamber up the pinnacle.

It took a long time; the obsidian was soft as jelly; Tagart several times professed himself at the limit of his endurance. But still they climbed, and at last reached the pinnacle. There was barely room to stand. They could see in all directions, far out over 'the landscape, till vision was lost in the watery gray.

The women bickered and pointed in various directions; but there was small sign of happier territory. In one direction blue-green hills shivered like bladders full of oil. In another direction lay a streak of black—a gorge or a lake of clay. In another direction were blue-green hills—the same they had seen in the first direction; somehow there had been a shift. Below was the plain, gleaming like an iridescent beetle, here and there pocked with black velvet spots, overgrown with questionable vegetation.

They saw Organisms, a dozen shapes loitering by ponds, munching vegetable pods or small rocks or insects. There came Alpha. He moved slowly, still awed by his vision, ignoring the other Organisms. Their play went on, but presently they stood quiet sharing the oppression.

On the obsidian peak, Finn caught hold of a passing filament of air, drew it in. "Now—all on, and we sail away to the Land of Plenty."

"No," protested Cisa, "there is no room, and who knows if it will fly in the right direction?"

"Where is the right direction?" asked Finn. "Does anyone know?"

No one knew, but the women still refused to climb aboard the filament. Finn turned to Tagart. "Here, old one, show these women how it is; climb on!"

"No, no," he cried. "I fear the air; this is not for me."

"Climb on, old man, then we follow."

Wheezing and fearful, clenching his hands deep into the spongy mass, Tagart put himself out on the air, spindly shanks hanging over into nothing. "Now," spoke Finn, "who next?"

The women still refused. "You go then, yourself," cried Gisa.

"And leave you, my last guarantee against hunger? Aboard now!"

"No. the air is too small; let the old one go and we will follow on a larger."

"Very well." Finn released his grip. The air floated off over the plain, Tagart straddling and clutching for dear life.

They watched him curiously. "Observe," said Finn, "how fast and easily moves the air. Above the Organisms, over all the slime and uncertainty."

But the air itself was uncertain, and the old man's raft dissolved. Clutching at the departing wisps; Tagart sought to hold his cushion together. It fled from under him, and he

fen.

On the peak the three watched the spindly shape flap and twist on its way to earth far below.

"Now," Reak exclaimed vexatiously, "we even have no more meat."

"None," said Gisa, "except the visionary Finn himself."

They surveyed Finn. Together they would "more than out-
match him. z

"Careful," cried Finn. "I am the last of the Men. You are my womeri, subject to my orders."

They ignored him, muttering to each other, looking at him from the side of their faces. "Careful!" cried Finn. "I will throw you both from this peak."

"That is what we plan for you," said Gisa.

They advanced with sinister caution.

"Stop! I am the last man!"

"We are better off without you."

"One moment! Look at the Organisms!"

The women looked. The Organisms stood in a knot, staring at the sky.

"Look at the skyl"

The women looked; the frosted glass was cracking, breaking, curling aside.

The bluel The blue sky of old times'"

A terribly bright light burnt down, seared their eyes. The rays warmed their naked backs.

"The sun," they said in awed voices. The sun has come back to Earth,"

The shrouded sky was gone; the sun rode proud and bright in a sea of blue. The ground below churned, cracked, heaved, solidified. They felt the obsidian harden under their feet; its color shifted to glossy black. The Earth, the sun, the galaxy, had departed the region of freedom; the other time with its restrictions and logic was once more with them.

This is Old Earth," cried Finn. "We are Men of Old Earthl The land is once again ours!"

"And what of the Organisms?"

"If this is the Earth of old, then let the Organisms beware!"

The Organisms stood on a low rise of ground beside a runnel of water that was rapidly becoming a river flowing out onto the plain.

Alpha cried, "Here is my intuition! It is exactly as I knew. The freedom is gone; the tightness, the constriction are back!"

"How will we defeat it?" asked another Organism.

"Easily," said a third. "Each must fight a part of the battle. I plan to hurl myself at the sun, and blot it from existence." And he crouched, threw himself into the air. He fell on his back and broke his neck.

The fault," said Alpha, "is in the air; because the air surrounds all things."

Six Organisms ran off in search of air, and stumbling into the river, drowned.

"In any event," said Alpha, "I am hungry." He looked around for suitable food. He seized an insect which stung him. He dropped it. "My hunger remains."

He spied Finn and the two women descending from the crag. "I will eat one of the Relicts," he said. "Come, let us aT eat."

Three of them started off—as usual in random directions. By chance Alpha came face to face with Finn. He prepared to eat, but Finn picked up a rock. The rock remained a rock, hard, sharp, heavy. Finn swung it down, taking joy in the inertia. Alpha died with a crushed skull. One of the other Organisms attempted to step across a crevass twenty feet wide and so disappeared; the other sat down, swallowed rocks to assuage his hunger, and presendy went into convulsions.

Finn pointed here and there around the fresh new land. "In that quarter, the new city, like that of the legends. Over here the farms, the cattle."

"We have none of these," protested Gisa.

"No," said Finn. "Not now. But once more the sun rises and sets; once more rock has weight and air has none. Once more water falls as rain and flows to the sea." He stepped forward over the fallen Organism. "Let us make plans."