             Interplanetary
              Consciences
                          Joseph Green
  FIRST PRINTING, DECEMBER 1974


                                   -1-

  “I’ve put us In a polar orbit, Conscience Odegaard,” said the planetary
shuttle pilot, turning around to speak to his only passenger. “Ground
Control says the blowstorm should clear up by the time we make a round.
They don’t average four a year, and it’s just bad luck that we arrived in the
middle of one. I’ll depolarize the door viewplate and let you look Sister
over direct while we wait.”
   He touched a control, and the floor in the center aisle grew milky, then
transparent. The harsh, xanthic light of Capella G flooded in. Below them,
stretching endlessly to the horizons, was a vast expanse of deep blue water.
The air was crystal clear and almost cloudless.
   The pilot made a few final adjustments to the attitude controls, then
relaxed and said, “The underwater continent they call Atlantis is on the
other side, and we’ll pass over the station in a few minutes.”
   Allan stared with interest at the featureless surface of Capella G VIII,
the fifth planet on which he expected to set foot. Born on Earth, he had
visited Mars with his family in 2042, at the age of fourteen. He had made
the “milkrun” to the Centaurus trio, and landed on the Alpha binary’s
single minor planet, as part of his Conscience field work. As a
commissioned operative in the Practical Philosopher Corps he had left
Earth some five months earlier, and completed his first assignment on
Castor IV before reporting here. From the appearance of Sister he would
be lucky to find enough solid ground on which to step.
  They were moving toward the planet’s northern pole, and the edge of
the North polar continent soon came in sight. Allan saw a narrow ledge of
ice, hugging a low and rocky shore.
   “The station is under those,” said the pilot, pointing far ahead. Allan
gazed where the finger indicated, but saw only the white-tinged clouds of
the blowstorm. But at least the swirling storm winds offered a more lively
view than the placid sea below.
   The Decision-Maker swam leisurely just beneath the surface, listening
to the vast pulsebeat that was the life of his people. It had been some time
since he had eaten and his eyes, obedient to that primal command, were
alert for prey. But hunting did not interfere with the more mental
functions which occupied the group part of his mind.
  He angled to the surface for air, glancing briefly at the humans’
Gathering-Place while his head was above water. The round gray
buildings squatted on the ground like overlarge toadstools, well back from
the rocky shore a hundred body lengths away. He could dimly see them
through the thin snow a driving wind had brought down off the
mountains.
   “The-fish-which-flys comes, Decision-Maker,” came a strong projection
from the south. It was a composite voice made by many individuals, and
accompanying it was a clear image of a small, sleekly streamlined winged
ship.
   He swam to the surface and turned his eyes to the sky. The ship was not
visible through the flying snow. He called for strength from all people in
his immediate area, received it, and projected. He found the ship
immediately, now almost overhead. And yes, the human Decision-Maker
he had been expecting was inside.
   As the shuttle moved inland the concealing clouds fell behind. Allan saw
great mountains rearing craggy heads in an immense annular formation,
the dominant feature of this continent. A thin sheet of ice covered most of
the lower land between the peaks, sparkling and glittering in the sunlight.
It made Allan think of a gigantic diamond in a Tiffany setting. Then they
were over the great sea once more.
  “There’re the first peaks of Atlantis,” said the pilot after a few minutes,
pointing again. Allan saw three small islands floating like green jewels on
the blue water, the last two curving sharply away to the left. Then the view
was monotonous until they reached the southern polar continent, where
the mountains seemed taller and the icecap even thinner.
  Allan sat back and relaxed, knowing he had seen the planet’s entire land
area. Capella G VIII could become visually dull in short order. He
wondered what it would be like to be stationed here.
   In a little over an hour the shuttle was approaching the station again,
and this time they were cleared to land. The pilot was good, the
touchdown scarcely jarring the small craft when its’ four legs contacted
the ground. The cleared area was far too small for a horizontal rolling
landing, but the versatile shuttle could also come down vertically, riding a
tail of flame.
  Two people were waiting when Allan descended the outside ladder. A
big, smiling man in cold-weather clothes helped him loosen his helmet.
The fresh air was so cold he almost strangled on his first breath.
 “I’m Station Manager Zip Murdock, Conscience Odegaard,” said the big
man in a hearty voice. “And this is Phyllis Roen, our biologist.”
  The tiny woman by the big man’s side, small even in the bulky
cold-weather gear, said, “I’m afraid I’m responsible for getting you here,
Conscience Odegaard. Zip and the others don’t feel a question even exists.”
   Murdock glanced up at the cargo hatch, where the pilot was already
rigging the small crane. “They don’t need us for the unloading. Let’s go
inside and get you settled, and then Phyllis can bring you up to date on
our problem—if we have one.”
   The sun had moved behind a high cirque in the west, and deep shadows
were creeping across the field. Allan started with them toward the
foamfab buildings, which huddled at the base of a rocky ridge
two-hundred meters inland. From the rise to the sea the ground had been
cleared of loose rock, the debris forming two rough walls of stone on each
side. The half of the cleared area nearest the beach was used for the
landing field.
   They had taken only a few steps when there was a loud yell of warning
behind them. Allan turned, to see that the scene had suddenly and
dramatically changed. From behind the rock walls near the water, and
from the sea itself, fist sized rocks were appearing and flying toward the
Earthmen. The unloading crew was scrambling for shelter, yelling wildly
and drawing their laser pistols.
   “It’s the seals!” said Phyllis, and there was fear in her voice. Murdock
had already drawn a laser, its dark red jewel glinting in the fading light.
There were no attackers in sight, just the rocks appearing from nowhere
and arcing toward them. After a moment Murdock, in apparent
frustration, fired at a cluster of rocks near at hand. The hit boulder
sparkled briefly, absorbing the heat but not all the light. Other beams
began to flash as the unloading crew got into action. The little landing
area became a weird tangle of multicolored lights, shifting shadows, and
coruscating rocks. Most of the beams fired were not only wasted, they left
the gun’s owner dangerously exposed. The small crystal in a hand laser
had to cool five seconds between pulses. In that length of time an armed
opponent, even one throwing stones, could kill a defenseless man.
   Allan saw his first seal clearly when it left the shelter of some rocks and
ran for the water, dragging a wounded comrade. They were tiny creatures,
only half his height, and they moved with an odd, stiff-jointed swing from
one leg to the other that looked awkward but was quite fast. Murdock saw
them also and lifted his gun, but the beam hissed through the air where
they had been as they dived together into the sea. And abruptly the
creatures were gone and it was quiet again, and now darkness was
stealing swiftly over the narrow beach.
  “The little devils are getting bolder,” said Murdock, holstering his gun.
“That’s the first daylight attack on dry land.”
  Allan knelt and picked up one of the stones which had just been flung at
them. It was apparently obsidian, and had been hand-chipped until it had
several sharp edges, each capable of penetrating a spacesuit. Primitive,
but deadly.
  “How did they ‘propel them so far?” Allan asked Phyllis. Before she
could answer an excited voice called, “Miss Roen! Miss Roen, I’ve found a
dead one in the rocks! Do you want the body?”
  Allan saw the small woman visibly hesitate, and then call back, “Yes,
please! Take it into the lab!”
   “I’d better stay here a moment and assess the damage,” said Murdock,
moving toward a man who was lying on the ground holding a bloody arm.
“If you’ll go with Phyllis, Conscience Odegaard...?”
   As they approached the buildings Allan saw two sentries standing on
rocky eminences, where they could observe the entire area. Large
floodlights brightly illuminated the ground around them. Evidently these
civilians had learned to take some rather military precautions.
  There was no airlock, but the station personnel had built an anteroom
where both spacesuits and cold-weather gear were hung. Allan shed his
suit with thanksgiving, and turned to find Phyllis Roen already out of her
heavy clothes and waiting for him.
   The tiny woman was obviously a Eurasian. She had very black hair
streaked with gray, and features which were delicate without being pretty.
He estimated her age at around thirty-five. She still looked very good to
him; the months in space between landings were long and usually lonely
ones. There were only a few women in the Space Service at present,
though the number was slowly growing.
  “Do you like what you see, Conscience Odegaard?” Phyllis asked, and
though she was smiling there was an edge in her voice. He realized he had
been staring.
   “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “And please call me Allan.” He paused, not
wanting to explain that “Conscience” was a popular term rather than an
actual title, and he had already grown tired of hearing it. A doctorate in
philosophy was the highest academic achievement on his record, but to
qualify as a Practical Philosopher, master’s degrees were required in
political science, alien psychology, sociology, and biology. The
Conservationist Party, with tremendous fanfare, had established the Corps
of Practical Philosophers to fulfill a campaign promise, after taking power
in the election of 2060. The new agency was manned by civilians, but
every operator automatically became an officer in the Space Service
Reserve. The public had swiftly christened the P. P.s the “Consciences of
Mankind,” and the name had stuck.
  The mission of the P. P. Corps was to identify and save from
exploitation those worlds containing intelligent species. It had been
well-proven on Earth that when unequal cultures met, the higher
inevitably eroded and eventually destroyed the lower. Guns, antibiotics,
and powertools were far more easily absorbed than mechanized
agriculture, birth control, and a nine-to-three job. The resulting strains on
the delicate fabric of social organization always pulled a culture apart.
   In the twenty-first century Mankind badly needed a professional
conscience. Thousands of worlds in the Hyades group containing Earth,
and the neighboring clusters of Ursa Major and Scorpio-Centaurus, had
already been explored. More were being discovered every day. Nowhere
was there a sign of another space-traveling species. But millions of new
lifeforms had been found, many of them in the early stages of intelligence.
Despite the customary short lifespan, hardship and misery endured by the
members of a species just entering the new world of the mind, they were
better off developing at their own pace than being force-fed from a higher-
culture. With the possible exception of small scientific research stations,
like this one on Sister, the World Council had decreed that planets
containing such species were to remain uncolonized. If the situation
justified it a Conscience could request a deviation from the World Council,
but their primary mission was to nurture intelligence by arranging for it
to flower in planetary isolation.
  The exhaustive academic requirements facing a P. P. trainee deterred
all but the most hardy, and only a dozen people had made it through that
initial class with Allan. All had been commissioned colonels in the Space
Service Reserve. Others would follow, but for the moment there were more
cases awaiting decisions than the first small band could possibly handle.
   Phyllis smiled, and this time it seemed more sincere. “Allan it is; and
the guys call me ‘Miss Roen’ only during seal attacks. Now if you’ll come
with me I’ll take you on the penny tour, and after dinner we’ll have a look
at the dead seal.”
                                   -2-
  The Decision-Maker’s body had relaxed into the state of’ lazy
somnolence which was the nearest his kind approached sleep, but his
group mind was still active. As he moved automatically toward the dark
surface for air he thought over the matter of his opposite among the
humans, and finally concluded there were too many unknowns at present.
He was unable to perform his function.
  He could, and did, reach one conclusion, and communicated it to those
individuals whose added consciousness within his mind enabled him to be
a Decision-Maker. It was that the people would make no further attacks at
present. The next move would be left to the humans.
   At dinner Allan met about half the station’s complement of forty
scientists, and discovered there was a general air of cheerful optimism
prevalent. On some tiny stations on bitterly hostile worlds he had heard of
isolation and confinement souring personal relations until the whole crew
was ready to commit murder. He was surprised, as Phyllis kept rattling off
names and professions, to find meteorologists, geologists, and glacialists
dominating the group. Usually it was chemists, biologists, and the new
generalists called “Environmental Adjustors.”
  Zip Murdock did not appear for dinner. Apparently he and the
unloading crew were still busy outside.
   The departing thunder of the planetary shuttle’s rockets penetrated the
aerated walls as Phyllis led Allan into the lab. The seal was lying on a table
in the cold room, an area ventilated to the outside atmosphere. Phyllis
produced light but warm clothing for them, and they went inside.
   Allan looked down at the prone form on the table, the sleek skin marred
by a deep-burned hole in the neck. It was the head that gave that first
strong impression of seal. The face had a black, square-cut nose, long
whiskers, a rounded ridge of forehead rising abruptly above the muzzle;
but the body ruined the illusion. The lower abdomen split into two short
legs, each ending in a large flat pad. The upper members, though equally
short, had a jointed section, and the ends terminated in long ridged
fingers of cartilage, with a thin membrane between.
   Allan ran trained fingers over the musculature of a leg. The large
muscles on the front and back were equal in size, a wonderful
arrangement for swimming but somewhat awkward for walking. Yet he
had seen two of them actually running when they retreated after that brief
attack on the landing field.
  He asked Phyllis how they did it. She grinned, an impish grimace on her
small face. “They fool you, Allan. A bit more adaptable than they look.
Watch.”
   She lifted one pad clear of the table, held the leg with her other hand,
and slowly forced the pad to move. It revolved until it was perpendicular
to the body, and he saw that it was set in a very flexible bone socket. She
dropped the leg, rolled the creature on its side, and twisted the other pad
in the opposite direction. It also moved to the perpendicular.
  “One pad before, and one behind. A very stable arrangement,” said
Phyllis. “It gets around with relative ease on land, even though it looks
awkward to us; and you saw how they threw stones with those arms.”
   “Not with the arms alone. Look what they brought in with this fellow.”
Allan stepped to another bench, picked up a long flat strip of hide she had
not noticed, and folded the ends together. A wide section in the center
formed a pouch.
  “A sling! Of all weapons!” There was a touch of awe in Phyllis’s voice.
“Well, this should convince Zip, if he still needs convincing!”
  “That the seals are intelligent? I doubt it. Animals have used tools
before.”
   “Yes, but—they didn’t have these earlier, you see. They live an almost
entirely aquatic existence, and the only artifacts we’ve seen have been
sharpened basalt spears. This is a dry land weapon. They just invented it,
to use in fighting us.”
   “That’s an interesting supposition, but how can you be certain it’s a
recent invention designed just to fight humans? This continent you’re
trying to raise has been dry land several times, I understand. Quite
possibly these creatures have used the sling in the past, and retained an
instinct of how to build it.”
  “A far more sensible explanation than intelligence,” said a new voice,
and Allan turned to see Murdock entering the cold room from the outside.
The big man stamped some clinging snow off his feet, and walked to the
table. “H-m-m-m, a nice fat one. Let’s have him for dinner tomorrow,
Cissy.”
   “Zip! Please, I have a hard enough time living with the memory that we
‘did eat a few!”
  “And they were a little fishy tasting, but not bad,” said Murdock
cheerfully. “Better than the concentrates every time. Look, I’ve got to
change and go eat. Don’t let this dizzy female fill your head full of
nonsense, Conscience Odegaard.”
   “I do not form premature conclusions,” said Allan, his voice carefully
neutral. Murdock, and most of the scientists here, were university
employees, the result of a steadily increasing trend for large universities to
contract colonization evaluations. They had almost edged out the
competing private companies, and the government had long ago settled
for supervision of the contracts. These people had a strong vested interest
in seeing that his decision went against the seals.
   “Fine. Cissy is unabashedly prejudiced on the question. I’ll see you later
in the evening, then.”
  As the big man closed the door behind him Allan turned to the short
woman and asked, “Even in an unmilitary organization such as this, isn’t
that manner of speaking to you a little familiar?”
  She gave him a cool glance. “Perhaps, but that’s because he’s my
husband as well as station manager. We’ve entered into a trial marriage
contract, and plan on full matrimony when we get back to Earth.”
  “Oh, I see. That’s odd, I wouldn’t have thought you compatible types.”
   She shrugged. “Who says we are? Perhaps it’s just sex drive and
propinquity, on both sides. I’m sure you know most women here have trial
marriage contracts with just the one man the law allows, but actually live
in a polyandrous condition with several males. Zip and I share only with
each other, and were perfectly happy until we started quarreling about the
seals. I had to go over his head to get you in here, and he’s going to be a
long time forgiving me for that.”
   Allan found himself wishing heartily he had not ventured into such
personal ground. It was presumptuous of him, and her answer had twisted
the knife of bitterness again. Kay had quickly divorced him when he had
announced he was giving up his teaching post to train for a difficult career
in space; there would be no “widow’s wait” for her. She had married again
before he finished his final studies and left Earth, and when he visited his
children his little daughter was already calling another man “father.”
  Allan beat a hasty retreat. “I’d like to see your notes, if you’ve already
performed a dissection,” he said, turning toward the door. “Tomorrow I’ll
run one on this chap; will you be available to help?”
  “Of course,” said Phyllis, reverting to business as easily as he. “I ran
several, and I’ve never seen a body better adapted for both swimming and
walking. But the brain is—very odd. You’ll have to see it for yourself.”
   She escorted him to his cubicle, then left with word that she would see
him later in the lounge. He found his luggage stacked on the bunk, and an
hour later, showered, depilated, and dressed in clean clothes, he headed
for the lounge. Most of the station’s off-duty personnel were there,
including Murdock.
  “Come sit by me, Allan,” the big man called. “I’ll split my shaker with
you.”
  Murdock was drinking maquella, a mildly intoxicating new beverage
that had no aftereffects. Allan accepted a glass and sat down.
  “What do you think of our operation so far?” asked Murdock pleasantly.
  “I hardly know enough about it to think at all. Can you give me a
general rundown on your plans? I was amazed to find Phyllis the only
biologist here, and that you have a high percentage of glacialists.”
  “He could talk about it all night,” said Phyllis, who was sitting on
Murdock’s other side. “But the basic fact is that Sister is so nearly
Earth-like chemists and biologists aren’t really needed. The only genuine
problem is raising Atlantis, and the general opinion is that this can be
accomplished by a slight change in the weather.”
   “Yes, all it requires is a new ice age,” said Murdock with a chuckle. “But
to give you some background—the median temperature on Sister is
somewhat higher than humans prefer, and the open land area almost
nonexistent, except for two polar continents covered by ice. Offhand it
looks very unpromising. But this planet has a very fortunate peculiarity.
All three major landmasses have the same distinguishing feature, a great
circle of volcanic mountains surrounding a lower Inland area. Atlantis is
the largest and lowest of the three, and almost entirely under water. We
propose, not to raise the continent, but to lower the ocean level.
  “The means of accomplishing this is relatively simple. Sister, despite the
high concentration of water vapor in the air, has a low precipitation rate.
The atmosphere is exceptionally clean, due to the tiny exposed land
surface and low volcanic activity, and there is very little dust to serve as
sublimation nuclei for raindrops. Precip is almost entirely dependent on
giant condensation nuclei, and that too is small because the oceans have a
low salinity rate, and there is very little sodium chloride in the air. Briefly,
we propose to stimulate the precip rate by blowing up the smallest of the
four moons, in such a fashion most of the material turns to dust. We will
slow it below orbital speed with the explosions, and create a rain of dust
into the upper atmosphere which will continue for many years. Precip will
rise to several thousand percent of normal. Over both polar regions this
will come down as snow, and the rapid accumulation in the two enclosed
continents will swell the existing ice fields until a sizable percentage of the
planet’s water is locked up in ice. The world ocean level will fall, we
estimate slightly over three-hundred feet, and that will bring all the ring of
mountains and about half the interior of Atlantis above the surface. In
addition, the present high temperature on that continent will drop to
bearable limits. And then you can send in the colonists.”
  “It sounds almost too simple,” said Allan wonderingly.
   “That’s an explanation in very broad terms. There are a few relevant
details to be worked out, such as the large sun mirrors we’ll have to post
above each pole, to artificially stimulate the firn fields and turn snow to
ice by continuous melting and refreezing, the four mirrors we plan to
place above what will be the largest lakes on the continent, both to help
dry them up and stimulate the precip rate, the river shaping that will have
to be done when the dropping ocean level starts them flowing, and a few
thousand smaller details, some of which we can’t even imagine yet. This
will be the first attempt to terraform an entire planet by weather control.
But if the plans work out, within a hundred years nine-tenths of Atlantis
will be growing grass, and that’s a land area of almost eight-million square
miles. The farming and industrial activities of the colonists should keep
the dust level high, and make the new precip rate self-perpetuating.”
  “It’s a big undertaking, but everyone thinks it can be done,” said Phyllis
earnestly. “When you compare that much surface to those tiny areas on
some of the new worlds, where every square foot of soil has to be treated
and retreated before it will take Earth plants, you can see what a
wonderful opportunity this is.”
   “Yes, we’ve taken at least two-thousand cores out of the higher areas in
Atlantis,” resumed Murdock. “They show it’s been raised and inundated
three times within the past hundred-thousand years, obviously a result of
volcanic activity causing a temporary increase in the dust level. Plant
growth was extensive each time the water receded, and we have a fairly
thick layer of humus-rich soil on which to plan an economy. The sea has
both animal and plant life in great quantities, including many species, like
the seals, which can live on either land or water. I think Sister, within two
hundred years, can support a hundred-million people.”
  “Weather control is still not an exact science, even on Earth. Can you
really be this sure of how your dust and mirrors wifi affect this planet?”
  “No, but we’re certain enough to recommend going ahead with it, once
we’ve finished our current job of assessing the ice-carrying capacity of this
pole. After all, there’s no intelligent life to be harmed if we blunder.”
   Phyllis glared angrily at Murdock, but chose not to answer the
challenge. Most of the people in the lounge had been drifting out as they
talked, suppressing yawns. The tiny Eurasian rose, said good night to
Allan, and left also.
 “I’m prepared to offer you any assistance within my power, Allan,” said
Murdock, rising. “Just let me know what you need.”
  “Thanks; I’ll probably call on you. Phyllis and I are going to dissect that
seal in the morning, and see what we can learn.”
   They learned very little Phyllis had not already known. Allan pushed
back from the table after four hours of intense work, and turned off the
recorder into which he had been making a running commentary. The seal
was basically a variation of its distant cousins on Earth. There was
nothing of unusual interest about its bodily processes, with the exception
of that baffling brain. The pan was small, the cranium narrow, the actual
size less than a quarter that of a human. But the outer cell layers were
creased, folded, and corrugated until he estimated the actual surface area
must equal or exceed that of Homo sapiens. It was like nothing he had
previously seen.
  They washed and went to lunch. Phyllis had been a competent but not
brilliant helper, and the notes she had taken on what little she had
observed of the seals behavior were of no help. Her belief that the
creatures were intelligent was apparently based on intuition rather than
accumulated data.
   “I think we’ve learned as much as we can from a dead specimen,” he
said after the meal. “What we need is a live seal. How do we go about
getting one?”
   “That’s a hard question; we’ve never captured one. They carry away
their wounded after an attack, and it’s almost impossible to catch them in
the water. Several of the men tried, when we were”—she made a moue of
distaste—”eating them.”
  “I’ll discuss it with Murdock tonight,” said Allan.
                                   -3-
   I should be the one! the Decision-Maker projected into the night, his
individuality for once overriding the group consciousness and speaking
clearly. Mine is the risk, let mine be the body!.. . but the soft, insistent
voices of the individuals comprising the group memory cried No! No! it
may not be! No danger to the Decision-Maker! No danger! No danger...
and he yielded, letting the desire to offer himself for the trap the humans
were setting fade from his mind. With its passing came the need for
decisions.
   The humans were establishing a work party near the edge of the water,
the work to continue after dark in hopes of luring the seals into an attack.
Men with stun guns were hidden throughout the rocks, and three large
lights had been concealed at high points overlooking the area. The seals’
movements must be planned to insure that the humans captured only the
one individual the group selected. Also, the attack must look real, must
seem to involve a large party, while actually exposing the smallest possible
number to danger.
   The word “plays” appeared in his mind, and almost immediately there
was an answering pulse. One of the new memory carriers, containing only
the human knowledge. . . He scanned the word and its associated
meanings, leaped to three other memory bank units checking out
inferences and related data, and the plan he needed started to take form.
One of the humans had been an ardent follower of a game common on
Earth, one which involved deceptive movement of bodies, concerted
displays of strength designed to mislead an op.ponent, and the hidden
movement of an object called a ball to a specified section of the playing
area. . . He worked out the necessary details, and swiftly communicated
them to the selected units of the people.
  All crouched low in the rocks and watched the water. The two larger
moons were passing slowly through the clear sky, and the beach was
well-lighted. He turned away a second to rub his eyes, and when he looked
again the beach was swarming with short figures. It was almost as if he
had signaled them to attack by looking away.
   The seals came running upright out of the water and scurried behind
the two walls of rocks, moving stiff-legged but swiftly across the open area.
From his vantage point Allan could see the leaders starting to twirl their
slings. He drew his laser pistol and sent a red beam flaring into the sky.
  Instantly the searchlights came on, brightly illuminating the areas
behind the rocks where the seals were gathering. The work gang dropped
their tools and drew stun guns, and the men hidden in the rocks rose to
their feet, searching for targets.
   The abortive attack stalled. The seals broke from the sea, fleeing what
was obviously a trap. Allan saw the hurrying line of sleek forms plunging
into the water, and rubbed his eyes. He could have sworn there were many
more of them than now seemed visible.
  “Got one!” came an exultant yell, and “Me too!” said another voice. But
Allan’s attention was abruptly distracted. A seal popped into view less
than twenty feet away, twirling a sling and looking directly at him.
  He hastily drew his stun gun, fired and missed, cursed himself for a
bungling professor who belonged in a classroom, fired again, and saw the
small figure drop. The sharp-edged missile clattered to the rock.
   The floodlights abruptly went out. There were wild yells as the humans,
their eyes slow to adjust back to moonlight, found themselves blinded.
Allan groped his way to the seal he had shot and crouched over the body.
They should have several prisoners, but remembering the creatures’ habit
of carrying off their wounded, he was taking no chances.
  After a moment someone found the outlet where the power cable had
been disconnected—the fitting was a locking type, but had somehow been
pulled free—and the lights came back on. The noises of fighting had died
away in the darkness, and now Allan saw there were no attackers in sight.
  “Hey! My seal’s gone!” called the first man who had claimed a hit, as
though he could hardly believe it.
   “Mine too!” said another voice, and other men began to climb among
the rocks, searching for seals they had been certain they saw fall. When
the confusion subsided Allan discovered they had exactly one captive.. .
his.
   The small creature in the cage twitched its long whiskers, stirred, and
after a moment raised its head. The eyelids moved, and Allan found
himself staring into a slightly protuberant pair of golden eyes. The thick
black lips opened as the seal gave an almost human yawn, showing the
long incisors of a carnivore’s dentition. The mouth closed with an audible
click of teeth, and it moved to the bars separating them.
  “At close range it even looks intelligent,” said Phyllis softly, and the
captive turned the golden eyes on her. They were alone in the cold room.
   I am not intelligent as you humans use the term, said a clear, calm voice
in both their minds, in perfect World English. As a separate entity I exist
as an animal, directed primarily by inherited instincts. But I am a
member of a mentally interlocked species, and the combined minds which
merge in my brain possess the quality of intelligence.
  The two humans turned toward each other simultaneously, and each
saw that the other had received the message. There was a brief silence
while the stunning implications sank in, and then Phyllis opened her
rosebud mouth in a yell of high glee. “I told him! Oh, the thickheaded oaf,
he’ll believe me now!”
  Her enthusiasm was contagious, but Allan forced himself to be calm. A
sense of steadily mounting excitement was building up and his breath was
ragged, but this was no time to become emotional.
  There was an odd quality to the mental voice. It gave a strong
impression of a group speaking in chorus, but with the voice of this
individual dominating the rest, as a singer dominates his accompaniment.
  “How may I best communicate with you?” Allan asked aloud.
  As you are now doing. Your immediate thoughts are unclear when you
do not vocalize.
  “Then first”—his mind shifted into high gear, many events of the past
few hours clicking together into a coherent pattern—”first I want to know
why you only pretended to attack the work party and deliberately let us
capture you.”
   Because we wish to establish face-to-face communication. It is our
understanding that you will decide whether these humans now here will
leave, or stay and be joined by many more.
  “That is my responsibility, yes. But why are you interested in my
decision?”
   There was a brief silence. Allan felt Phyllis’s hand clinging tightly to his
arm, and he stared into the unblinking golden eyes, waiting. The creature
finally projected, Face-to-face with this unit is not sufficient for our
purposes. It would be better if you would accompany this messenger to a
Gathering-Place. The Decision-Maker has decided that he wishes to meet
you in the presence of a complete memory.
  Allan turned to look at Phyllis. She was staring at him, wide-eyed. Her
expression asked, Trap?
   He shook his head, and turned back to the seal. It had closed its mouth,
and the heavy lips hid the sharp teeth. For the first time he saw how the
large eyes, the downward curve of the mouth, the jutting whiskers, gave
the seal a tragic-comic look, like the sad clowns of an ancient circus. “I will
go with you,” he said aloud.
  “Your safety while you are here is my responsibility!” Murdock said
angrily. “I couldn’t possibly permit it!”
    “You have no way of preventing me,” said Allan, making a strong effort
to keep his voice down. Despite the man’s bluff friendliness he had not
liked Murdock from the first, and this unexpected opposition was too
ill-timed to be anything but deliberate obstructionism. “My special
commission in the Space Service authorizes me to assume active status at
any time I choose. As a colonel, I have the authority to take command of
any civilian-operated station. I will do so if I must, and remove you as
manager.”
   Murdock jumped to his feet, stood towering over the smaller man. His
face was a fiery red, his big hands clenched into fists. Allan found himself
wondering if the station manager would actually hit him. It was true that
the authority he had quoted was built into the P. P. Corps’s charter, but to
his knowledge it had not been invoked within the Corps’s short life. And
while Space Service officers had no choice but to deal with outplanet
situations as they arose, they too were ultimately accountable to civilian
superiors on Earth.
  “Removing me may not be as easy as you seem to think!” the big man
bellowed. They were alone in his private office, and the sound was almost
deafening.
   “Don’t be childish. The station personnel are familiar with the authority
of a Practical Philosopher. They aren’t going to risk a turn in
rehabilitative therapy by supporting you.”
  “You talk pretty rough for such a little man.”
  “Please. Will you simply supply me with the needed equipment without
further argument?”
   Murdock supplied it. An hour after daybreak Allan and the seal were
swimming through the blue water, about ten meters below the surface,
heading northwest along the ice shelf. The station’s standard underwater
gear was a spacesuit with a ducted propeller mounted on the back, with a
simple variable speed control installed between the first two fingers of the
right hand. At maximum he could move less than ten kilometers an hour,
and keeping his head tilted back for vision and his arms rigidly extended
for guidance was tiring.
  Surrounding them, but keeping a respectful distance, were fighting
seals, all carrying basalt spears. Phyllis had assured him she had seen a
team of seals kill the largest carnivore in this fresh-water ocean with those
sharp-ended rocks.
  It was another long and weary hour before his escort projected, Move
toward the ice and descend slightly. Slow your speed.
   Allan obeyed, and after a moment saw a dark shadow in the white wall
of ice, a shadow that swiftly grew larger. He turned that way and it
became a jagged tunnel. The seal moved ahead, and led him inside.
  After a few yards the roof began to recede and he angled upward. Allan
rose until he broke the surface, to find himself in a scene of strange but
compelling beauty.
   It was a large grotto in the ice, at the head of a glacier that had reached
the shore and lost its momentum. It had calved in a peculiar way, leaving
this great hollow opening, and the sides had grown together again at the
top. The ceiling was thin, sunlight pouring in through several long cracks
where the joint was not perfect. The yellow beams struck one ice wall and
rebounded in glittering phantasms of color, springing from surface to
surface in a deceptive brightness that concealed more than it revealed.
The massive walls were rough and jagged, with many sharp, protruding
edges. It was a fairy palace of crystal and glass, or reflected light and
softened shadow, and Allan Odegaard thought it the most beautiful
structure he had ever seen.
  Lying on the little beach, and watching him with unblinking attention,
were about thirty adult seals. As he waded out of the water Allen saw that
they formed a semicircle, and at its center was the one who could only be
the Decision-Maker.
                                   -4-
   The two Decision-Makers faced each other, the golden eyes of the seal
meeting and matching the brown eyes of the small Earthman. Allan
realized his heart was pounding far more than justified by his exertions,
and his breath coming fast. He lowered his gaze to check the suit’s
environmental indicator, then undid his helmet. The air had a slightly
fishy smell, but was crisp and refreshing.
  We welcome you to this Gathering-Place came a projection, strong and
commanding, and again it was compounded of many minds, though the
overriding personality was that of the Decision-Maker. We have brought
you here to prove that within the meaning of your terms defining “species”
and “intelligent,” we are an intelligent species. We want you to declare this
planet unlawfully occupied by Earthmen, and order those present to leave
and all others to stay away.
   “I have no choice but to grant that as a whole you are intelligent,” said
Allan slowly. “But if this mental ability is achieved by grouping minds, and
as individuals you are something much less than the unified whole, then
you are a unique lifeform and will require further study. But for now I
would like to know why you want us to leave the planet.”
   We know what the other Earthmen, those who understand the ways of
wind, water, and ice, seek to do here. Three times from the year our group
memory came into being the ice has grown, the sea lowered, the area you
call Atlantis become half land and half water, the land green with growing
things. Three times within memory our people have moved in great
numbers on to the land, only to be driven back into the sea when the ice
melted once more. We have confirmed, from knowledge found in the
minds of Earthmen, what we already felt to be true, that as a species we
cannot progress until we have freed ourselves of the environment of the
sea. In another eight-thousand of our seasons the ice will begin to form, as
it has before. We will move on to the land, as we have before. But this time
we will apply what we have taken from the minds of your companions and
stored in our memory; we shall master the physical sciences, develop the
necessary technology, learn to control the weather as you do. There will be
no more flooding of the land.
   Listening to the calm, unhurried way the words formed themselves and
beat slowly through the neural passages of his brain, Allan accepted the
face these people could do exactly what they said.
   “You have taken all the knowledge of all the humans here and stored it
in your ‘group’ memory?”
  All except yourself. Yours we will have after a few more nights.
  “Since you can read my mind you obviously know that I have a difficult
decision to make. It would help me if I knew what your ‘memory’ is and
how it operates. I would also like to know your goals as a species once you
are on the land, and how you plan to achieve them.”
   Those questions are easily answered. Our group memory is an
accumulated mass of knowledge which is impressed on the brains of
young individuals at birth, at least three such carriers for each memory
segment. We are a short-lived species, dying of natural causes after eight
of our years. As each individual who carries a share of the knowledge feels
death approaching he transfers his part to a newly born child, and thus
the information is transmitted from generation to generation, forever.
  As for our aims, they are similar to your own. We have achieved—there
was a brief pause—economic independence. There is always enough to eat
and we require no environmental protection. We have none of the conflicts
between individuals, or groups of individuals, which characterize your
society. But this is not enough. We seek to improve the life of the
individual within the species, and this entails increasing the natural
lifespan, eliminating enemies, perfecting a science of medicine—a concept
new to us—and achieving the ability to enjoy pleasure, which we now
know to be lacking in our lives. All this we can accomplish by means of the
knowledge now stored in our memory, once the land is again ours.
  And the Earthman has ruined another innocent species, thought Allan
with wry bitterness.
  We can read your thoughts when you project that strongly. You equate
“ruin” with increased knowledge of the choices open to an intelligent
being, and an inclination to make those choices which lead toward greater
personal pleasure in life. Why do you consider this a regressive quality?
   “I’m afraid it would be too complicated to explain, and perhaps I don’t
fully understand myself,” said Allan. “For now it’s enough to know I must
make a decision which will vitally affect your future, and I freely admit I’m
going to find it hard to do.”
   Since you state we qualify as an intelligent species, your path should be
clear. If you are now ready, another unit will guide you back to your
Gathering-Place. When you have made your decision speak it aloud, and
we will hear. Bear in mind that if you decide to stay, we will harass and
fight you in every manner within our power.
   Allan slowly replaced his helmet. He felt like a man who has eaten too
large a meal, and wants nothing more than to crawl into a corner and
estivate while it digests. But his meal had been mental, and he might be a
long time in torpor before he fully understood all that he had learned.
  The trip back was uneventful, and by noon he found himself in
Murdock’s office, with only Phyllis and the base manager present. He gave
them a brief report, and watched the incredulous expression form on
Murdock’s face. Phyllis, too, seemed a little stunned.
  “Do I understand that you have definitely decided an individual seal is
not intelligent?” asked Murdock when he regained his composure.
  “I’ve made no decision. This ability to group minds is new to us, and
requires a thorough evaluation.”
   “Because their group intelligence is a unique phenomenon is no reason
to consider the individuals within the group as weak,” said Phyllis, her
voice sharp.
  “I’ll probably want to talk to you again later.” Murdock’s voice was
carefully expressionless. “In the meantime why don’t you get a bite of
lunch. Phyllis, can you stay a moment?”
   Allan took the implied dismissal at face value, and rose. He was hungry,
but when he sat down to eat the concentrates seemed curiously tasteless.
He kept thinking of the refreshing coolness of the air in the grotto, of the
beauty of the sun on the sparkling ice, the strange and ancient wisdom he
had found in a group of seals. How odd, that as a species they had
achieved the goals that had dominated the thought of Earth’s best minds
for thousands of years, and then had formed the conviction that the needs
of the individual were as important as those of the group. There were still
social planners on Earth who were unable to think of people in any terms
except “races” and “classes.”
  After lunch he put on cold-weather gear and went outside. He walked
the beaches all afternoon, hating his responsibility and the necessity for it.
When he returned to the station at dusk his thinking had degenerated to
vagrant thoughts; loose fragments, impressions, and partial memories
swirled through his mind . . . we have achieved economic independence,
but this is not enough . . . “ruin” is increased knowledge of the pleasures
open to an intelligent being. . . we will harass and fight you in every
manner within our power. . . The memory of blood oozing from the bitten
body of a fish he had seen an escort seal catch on the trip back, the
sad-clown faces, the overwhelming inclination to think of them as lovable
pets
   What would it be like, to share your thoughts, emotions and desires
with your fellows, to form a composite being greater than the sum of its
parts? There was a clear, reasoning power in the Decision-Maker, an
intellect of great strength.
  When he stepped inside the door the p.a. was calling his name. He
walked to Murdock’s office as requested.
   “Sit down, Allan.” The bluff heartiness, the easy, friendly attitude had
been discarded, as though the big man knew they no longer served a
purpose. His voice was brisk and impersonal. “I’m going to give you some
information about Sister you won’t find in the regular reports. All
personnel who are aware of it have been sworn to strict secrecy. Not that
that’s necessary in your case, of course.”
  “Thanks,” said Allan.
  “You are aware, I’m sure, that Earth’s supply of uranium is almost
exhausted. In the excitement over this new ‘sunlight diffusion’ method of
power generation and propagation, the public has tended to forget the
thousands of other industrial and medical applications of atomic science.
They think that virtually unlimited power, available anywhere at any time,
will solve all problems. Actually, the need for uranium grows every day,
and it has proven hard to find in commercial quantities. Sister is a very
rich planet. The cores we have taken from Atlantis show extensive deposits
of uranite and davidite, as well as some pitchblende, carnotite, and
tobernite. The primary concentration of davidite is on a rather high
plateau, one which will be above water in five years. 1 predict that within
ten there will be a refining plant there, shipping ore to Earth. I can’t
overemphasize how important this is.”
  “That’s interesting information, Zip, but I fail to see the direct
connection. I’m sure you are aware economic considerations never play
any part in a P. P.’s decision.”
   “Oh, come off it! That garbage about being the ‘conscience of mankind’
won’t wash with me. When word of these deposits reaches certain ears on
Earth, they’ll have your credentials pulled in a minute if you give us
trouble. Let me remind you that the New Roman opposition doesn’t
accept the Conversationist idea that a planet with semi-intelligent animals
has to be left isolated.”
   “Do you really think you can get me overruled?” asked Allan. His voice
was soft, almost gentle. Mentioning the New Romans, the presently “out”
political party that believed Man should have free access to the resources
of any planet, was the surest way to antagonize any P. P. Murdock
obviously believed he had enough influence to win a battle of authority
with Allan.
  “I’m certain of it. Idealism has its uses, but it can’t stand in the way of a
genuine need.”
  “Would this sudden disbelief in a P. P.’s authority be connected in any
way with the royalties your university will lose if I rule against you?”
  Murdock’s face flushed, and he rose to his feet. “Can’t you understand
that I’m thinking of the good of all mankind?”
  Allan had heard that pious declaration before. It was the powerful
appeal of the New Romans, to whom Murdock obviously belonged. From
the viewpoint of obtaining an immediate practical return from space, they
were obviously correct. It was the Conservationist position, to which Allan
heartily subscribed, that morality outweighed economics. They also
believed that in the long run, the benefits of information exchanged with
other intelligent species would be of far more benefit than any exploitation
of their physical resources.
   Allan said aloud, “Perhaps you are. And the needs of mankind influence
me, in a way you might not understand. But you’re a little late with your
information. I’ve already made my decision. And I’ll require that
underwater gear again in the morning.”
  When he was standing in his own cubicle after dinner, Allan spoke into
the air; “You said that you could hear me. Acknowledge that you do.”
   There was a sudden electric sense of presence, as though someone had
picked up a telephone in his room and stood holding it without speaking.
He waited, and after a moment the calm multiple voice asked, “What is
your wish?”
  “I would like to speak to the Decision-Maker again, in person. Would
you send someone at daylight to take me to the Gathering-Place?”
   There was another brief silence, and he could almost hear the ether
stirring with the hurried conference. Then the voice said, “It shall be
done.”
  The beautiful grotto seemed unchanged, except that there were several
more of the spear-carrying warriors present. They did not trust him,
which indicated that their mind-reading abilities were limited. He had
prepared no treachery.
   The Decision-Maker regarded him sadly from the center of his specie’s
memory bank, the golden eyes unblinking. This time you have summoned
us.
   Allan took a deep breath of the cold air and paced back and forth on the
small beach as he spoke, not looking at the seals. “You said you had no
concept until our arrival of the science of medicine. Do you understand
the meaning of the term ‘gamble’? Because I am gambling with your
future, and I can’t possibly know how it will turn out. Let me give you my
reasons and then my decision, which I have already sent to Earth.”
  The guards nearest him moved closer, their spears perceptibly rising.
He sensed the air of menace in the room, and wondered if he had made a
mistake in coming here in person. It would be strange to die in this ice
palace, surrounded by so much beauty.
   “If you are left alone it will be eight thousand years before a seal again
walks the land, but then it will be a safe and certain thing. If we occupy
your planet and war comes, you will kill many Earthmen before you are
finally hunted down and killed. But make no mistake about it, you will be
exterminated. Man is a capable, ruthless, relentless foe, and if he sets out
to destroy you your cooked bodies will grace his tables. It will not matter
that the brains he shatters contain a memory reaching farther into the
past than his own.
  “I cannot endure the thought that another thousand generations of your
kind should follow the tortuous road of the sea, gaining nothing but the
day’s food. Neither do I wish war between us. My decision has been to
report that you are definitely an intelligent species . . . but that I
recommend completing the terraforming operation and starting
colonization. I am certain the World Council will concur with this
deviation.”
   There was an instant stir among the seals, a silent shifting of bodies,
and those guards nearest him raised their spears and advanced, stood
poised, ready to thrust him through. Allan glanced at the waiting
warriors, and back to the Decision-Maker, and knew that his life hung on
his next words. He had not known how they would react, and his meager
knowledge of hive minds did not justify guesses, but somehow Allan had
not thought the seals would take an immediate and personal revenge.
   “I am an Earthman,” he said slowly and clearly. “Sometimes I have been
proud of my people, and sometimes ashamed. But the gamble I am taking
is based on a knowledge of them, of other species, of yourselves, that you
cannot match even with your long memory. If the colonists will follow my
recommendations—co-operate with you, help you on land and be helped
by you in the sea—there is no reason why the two species cannot progress
together. Despite our past history I have enough faith in Man to think he
will fulfill his share of the bargain. Will you match my faith, and pledge
your people to work with mine?”
  The Decision-Maker faced him silently, and Allen felt a secret tug of
knowing sympathy for an individual who must decide the course of his
entire species. The silence stretched out; the guards standing by him did
not lower their spears, nor did the tension in the room abate.
  Time crept by on leaden feet. Allen waited, knowing the Decision-Maker
was consulting with the elders among his people, scanning the memory
banks for data, and that ultimately he would perform his function.
  The warrior seals around Allan abruptly lowered their spears and
turned away.
   The sunlight in the grotto seemed to grow brighter, bringing an
increase in an already profound beauty, and the Decision-Maker projected
it shall be as you say.
                                   -5-
   “What’s this?’ asked Allan as Phyllis walked up to him at the base of the
shuttle. He had noticed the extra luggage piled by his own, but been
amazed when her small figure, wearing the required spacesuit, emerged
from the building.
   Phyllis smiled, somewhat wryly. “I’m going with you, Allan; at least as
far as Aldebaran XXI. Zip will have to stay until the new manager arrives,
but I decided it would be easier on both of us if I left now.”
  “I’m sorry your university president decided to relieve Zip,” Allan said
quickly. “Believe me, no such recommendation was in my report.”
  “No, but the facts were enough to damn him,” said Phyllis. “It doesn’t
matter. I’m just thankful I learned what Zip considers important—his
career—while our marriage was still in the trial stage.”
  Allan helped the shuttle pilot load their luggage—no station personnel
were there to see them off—and he and Phyllis strapped themselves in. A
few geological samples and a large volume of written reports was the only
cargo from Sister. They had a four-minute wait, tilted back in the
acceleration chairs, that passed in silence; neither Phyllis nor the pilot
seemed to feel talkative. When the flight computer activated the
non-radiative rockets and the little ship smoothly lifted off, Allan braced
himself against the 3 G strain. It was too bad stasis chambers were
impractical in small ships. But the Space Service neverlander they were
catching was in a low orbit, and it was only a few minutes before the
shuttle smoothly tilted over. In seven more they were out of the
atmosphere, and within fifteen had obtained orbital speed. Allan spotted
the huge interstellar ship they were overtaking on the forward viewscreen,
and ten minutes later the pilot was easing them into the hangar deck.
   It was amazing how much space travel had progressed in just the
twenty years since Allan had made his first off-planet trip in 2042. At that
time a vacation on Mars was still prohibitively expensive, and his parents
had saved for it by staying home during their three prior summer leaves.
In that same year the stasis region had moved from a theory to a working
reality, and the World Council had authorized the construction of
eighty-four neverlanders. A final assembly line was built in the Dumbbell,
largest of the space stations walking an endless circle around the earth,
four-hundred miles above the equator. While Allan was growing into
manhood and completing his pre-college education, the first of the mass
produced interstellar ships followed their primitive predecessors into the
galaxy.
   Mankind had accomplished a great deal prior to 2042, doing it the
hard way. The Centauri group had been explored in 2035, Munich in
2039, and Sirius A two years later. All were reached by explorers willing to
bear the grinding strain of months spent in acceleration and deceleration.
Hydrogen fusion provided almost unlimited power, but the human body
could not endure more than a 2.5 G acceleration for prolonged periods.
Einstein had been wrong in applying the limitations nature imposed on an
electromagnetic wave to a self-propelled physical object. The physiologists
had been more nearly correct in stating that Man’s physical limitations
made long trips impractical. It had taken the perfection of the stasis
region to overcome that final barrier. Now those first interstellar ships
were in museums on Earth, and the neverlanders formed the working
body of Earth’s space fleet.
   Allan’s father had been a college teacher and his mother an
administrator at a Preparatory School. It had seemed only natural that
their only child should follow them into teaching. But that first taste of
space travel had aroused a deep and abiding yearning in the adolescent
boy. Something of the sheer vastness, the grandeur and mystery of a
galaxy now slowly unfolding before Mankind, had gripped and enthralled
him. As a young man Allan had tried for the Space Service, and been
turned down. His psychological profile indicated too high a degree of
introspection, a slowness ‘to action that disqualified him for such
dangerous work. After that bitter disappointment he had followed his
parents’ plan and obtained his teaching certificate, acquiring a wife and
two children during his graduate work. Two years after he started
teaching, in 2058, the P. P. Corps was chartered. The personality factors
that had doomed his previous attempt were part of what the new
quasimilitary agency was seeking. He had been accepted as a trainee,
resigned his position, and returned to school for the required extra
graduate courses. And out of that first group of over a hundred, he and
eleven more had survived and been commissioned into the Space Service
Reserve two years later.
   Joining the P. P. Corps had been a traumatic experience. His wife Kay
had not waited to see if he survived the intensive academic training. She
had given him an immediate choice— decline the appointment or dissolve
their marriage. Kay had been very surprised when Allan accepted the
separation, and her bitterness toward him had never healed. Both had
signed trial marriage contracts a year later, Kay to another teacher who
had no ambition to leave Earth, Allan to Secret Holmes, a member of the
second group to start the rigorous training.
  Allan had long ago forgiven Kay her lack of understanding. He had had
no choice but to accept the fact she would never forgive him for leaving
her for the endless fascination of the unknown.
   The number of new planets discovered grew almost daily. When Allan
left for his first assignment, Earthmen had already visited over
thirteen-hundred solar systems. In the first half of the century space
exploration had been almost entirely a research effort, with knowledge the
only real commodity returned. The neverlanders changed that. Operated
by a crew of thirty, they had the capacity to carry over three-hundred
passengers and 200,000 pounds of cargo. Even larger ships were now
under construction, ones designed ‘to carry up to five-thousand people in
stasis and suspended animation. Planners foresaw the time when up to
ten-thousand people a day would leave Earth, never to return. Even this
figure would provide little relief to a world groaning under the weight of
eleven-thousand million people, but the products the colonists could send
back would make life more bearable for those who remained.
   Regular schedules had already been established for all stations on
planets within eighty light years of Earth, and travelers such as Allan and
Phyllis could ride free when on official business. Tourists were not yet
permitted on interstellar flights, but that too would be coming soon. A few
planets already had small permanent colonies flourishing. It was a period
of expansion and exploration such as Man had not seen since the
discovery of the American continents.
   As always, new discoveries brought new problems. The P.P Corps was
an attempt to answer one of the oldest, how to treat creatures at a lower
level of intelligence or civilization. Whether or not their work would be
accepted was another matter. The election of 2060 had been a
hard-fought battle, the newly formed coalition of parties that called itself
the New Romans opposing the older Conservationists. The Party long
dedicated to preserving the environment had won, and the P.P. Corps was
a logical extension of the philosophy that Man should utilize rather than
exploit his planet. But in a galaxy where only Homo sapiens had developed
a genuine civilization, much less space travel, it was difficult to justify
leaving worlds rich in resources in complete isolation. The fact that a
world might contain a species in the beginning stages of intelligence
simply did not mean that much to very many people.
   The shuttle had landed horizontally, and Allan found it a relief to
exchange his spacesuit for magnetic overshoes. An efficient military
steward led them to the huge hollow stasis chamber in the center of the
round part of the teardrop-shaped hull. All three availed themselves of the
sanitary facilities adjacent to the entrance—three hours was a long time to
suffer from a full bladder—and then deposited the overshoes in a cabinet
and floated into the round room. They were the last of the 280 passengers
to arrive, and the stasis regional field was turned on within two minutes.
The thirty crewmen were strapped in at their consoles, distributed evenly
around the outer edge of the sphere, and did not move. The passengers
were immediately gripped by the mass-balancing effect of the stasis
region. They floated into positions precisely separated from each other
and the immovable crewmen, until all loose weight in the room had been
balanced. The massive stasis generator, supported on invisible magnetic
beams, remained suspended in the center of the circle. The field it
produced extended well beyond the walls of the chamber, but faded into a
weak interaction field by the time it reached the fusion rockets at the long
end of the teardrop. Otherwise their thrust would have been nullified.
   By chance Allan had floated to a position not far above the captain’s
console. Phyllis was almost at his elbow. He glanced down, and saw the
officer checking the personnel location grid one last time. Methodically, he
consulted their boarding papers, although he knew perfectly well two
passengers had been added and none discharged, and added the totals.
When the two matched his grid, verifying that every person on board was
in the stasis region, he activated the course computer.
   Allan was peering over the captain’s shoulder at his console viewscreen,
showing the surface of Sister. The water below abruptly fell away. The
horizon expanded in a rush of motion, then contracted even faster,
condensing into a ball. The ball grew smaller, shrinking gradually to a
mere marble in space. Capella G came into view, already noticeably
receding. The ship was gaining speed at an acceleration that would have
flattened them into jelly but for the isolation from normal space provided
by the stasis region. Even the massive structure of the ship would have
collapsed under the enormous thrust of the series of sustained fusion
reactions. To date no stasis generator had failed while in operation.
   There was little to do but talk during the three hours before the first
relief period, and Allan tried again to apologize for his part in ruining her
marriage. Phyllis stopped him halfway through with, “I wish you wouldn’t,
Allan. It’s no fault of yours—you did your job, and I had to find out what
Zip’s
   real interest was sooner or later—but I don’t much like you for it, either.
If you have any thoughts of comforting the grieving woman . . . forget
them. I’d be just as happy if I never laid eyes on you again.”
  Crestfallen, Allan turned away and resumed staring at the captain’s
viewsereen, now showing the starfield ahead. Once Phyllis had openly
stated it he realized she was right; a comforting sharing during the
three-week journey to Aldebaran had been in the back of his mind.
   Allan lifted his gaze and surveyed the great hollow sphere with the 310
mathematically spaced bodies. As usual, the passengers were four-fifth
men. Of the few women he could see, none looked like a good prospect for
a short-term relationship. He sighed, and turned back to watching the
captain and his crew. It was going to be a dull trip. Fortunately, it was also
a comparatively short one.
   At the end of three hours the rockets were shut off, and after a moment,
the stasis field. The ship started a gentle rotation and the passengers
floated slowly toward the round walls, some of them steering away from
consoles to land on the curving deck. The captain announced that they
would start their second period of stasis flight in one hour, and left for his
other command post on the bridge. The length of a journey between stars,
for nontechnical passengers, could be measured in three-hour stasis
periods. Only one more would be required for this flight, plus the two
during which they would decelerate.
   The speed of rotation increased until the passengers were locked to the
outer floors by half a gravity. One-half was the maximum gravity
centrifugal force could produce on a ship that diameter without a
sickening side-pull. Allan saw Phyllis walk through the nearest entrance.
He followed her, but turned aside once out of the chamber and hunted his
own small cubicle. The other passengers were going about their affairs.
   Phyllis was as good as her world. She did not speak to Allan during the
remainder of the trip. The neverlander let her and many other passengers
off at Aldebaran XXI, for a two-week wait for the next ship scheduled for
Earth. Allan and the rest stayed aboard, and most of the empty spaces
were taken by people heading farther out in the galaxy.
   Allan had learned his destination before leaving Sister. He faced a
five-week journey to a very hot planet named Misery, circling a small star
some eighty light years from Earth. His orders had arrived on the same
day Zip Murdock had been informed he would be relieved as station
manager and returned to Earth.
  Allan had been in space less than six months, but he was already firmly
convinced of one fact. He would be perfectly content never to set foot on
Earth again.
                                   -6-
   Allan stepped briskly from the landing shuttle and turned to meet the
inevitable reception committee. To his surprise only one person was
waiting, a tall woman wearing a wide sun hat, a coolly aloof expression,
and an odd one-piece garment obviously designed for the local climate. It
left only the face and hands exposed to the muggy, steam-bath heat. The
suit’s light cloth was suspended from an air-conditioning unit on her
shoulders, and pulled tight at neck, wrists and boots. A slight internal
pressure puffed loose sleeves, pants, and trunk into semi-cylinders that
bent and reformed with her movements. The contrast to the cold-weather
gear worn on Sister was dramatic.
  “Welcome to Misery, Conscience Odegaard. I’m Jeri DeWitt, the plant
manager.” Her voice was deep, feminine, and guarded. “Follow me, and
we’ll get you out of that heavy rig and into one of our light suits.”
   She turned and walked rapidly toward a foamfab warehouse at the edge
of the cleared ground, moving much too swiftly for a short man in a bulky
spacesuit to keep pace. Jeri did not turn her head to check on his
progress. When he fell behind Allan deliberately slowed to the short-step
walk of the spaceman, and followed at his leisure. He had been warned by
the ship’s captain that this lady executive was a tough customer, and he
could expect only forced co-operation from her and her people.
   The dirt landing field was on the rounded top of a medium hill. It
afforded a wide view of the hot and fecund ocher-green jungle smothering
this watery world’s one small continent. In terms of land area Misery was
similar to what Sister was scheduled to become, but this planet was
larger, had a higher temperature, and a wide variety of land-based
lifeforms.
   A small loading crew emerged from the building, hand carrying rough
wooden crates to the shuttle. The men nodded courteously to their visitor,
but did not pause for conversation. Jeri was waiting inside. She helped
him out of his spacesuit and into the local clothing with impersonal
efficiency. The brief time he was exposed to the ambient heat and
humidity was more than enough. He saw that the light, comfortable
shoulder unit contained a two-way radio, and had a hand laser and
canteen strapped on opposite ends, outside the cloth. The suit’s exhaust
flow passed in front of his face, providing breathing air that had been
cooled and somewhat dried.
   Jeri led him out of the single door and off the crown of the hill on to a
well-used game trail. They were moving through almost solid walls of
greenery toward a larger foamfab building he had seen atop another
cleared hilltop about three kilometers away. The tall woman set a fast pace
and wasted no breath in talk, though she spoke to subordinates several
times on her radio. Allan had to admit that this commercial business was
certainly managed with tight economy. He wondered how this cold,
driving woman managed to dominate so effectively the men working for
her. Little tricks like walking ahead without looking back?
   Allan had lived in the neverlander at half-gravity for two months, and
Misery was a 1.4 0 planet. His legs were starting to tremble when they
reached a narrow, laser-cut tunnel branching off to the right. Jeri turned
into it and stopped short. He caught up to her, and found himself facing
one of the creatures he had been sent to investigate.
   The Shambler was standing silently in the trail, apparently waiting for
them. It was over three meters high and humanoid in shape, with four
very long limbs attached to a slim cylinder of a trunk. The hairless head
was also long and slender from chin to temples, but from there up swelled
into an impressive cranium size, Its open mouth was only a lipless slit, and
the dentition consisted of two bone grinding plates. The ropey skeletal
muscles stood out little more than the clearly visible tendons. Each arm
and leg segment had only one bone, and the joints were huge and knobby.
The skin was a uniform dull green, and innocent of covering; no sex
organs were visiable. The entire body was trembling, as though afflicted
with ague. One shaking hand clutched the strap of a carrying sack, slung
over one narrow shoulder, and the other was held before the face, palm
inward, in an odd gesture of seeming appeal. Allan saw that the raised
hand had three long thin fingers, apparently without an opposing
member.
  “Back away slowly,” Jeri said in a low voice. “This one is jumpy.”
  Allan was watching the dull brown eyes, which were blinking furiously.
“Are they dangerous?”
  “They can be. Herbivores, but armed.”
   The thin body began jerking with an almost spastic violence. Jeri took
an easy step backward, reaching slowly for the laser on her left shoulder.
In the same conversational tone she said, “Several of our people have been
attacked, and by trained pickers, within the past few months. Two were
killed. All reports indicate the killer Shamblers were in the grip of some
strong seizure, and this could be --duck!”
   Allan was already diving for the ground. The towering skeleton figure
had suddenly released the bag, and as it dropped he took a giant step
forward, a hand sweeping toward each human’s face. His great stride and
length of arm brought him within striking distance in that one motion.
The flying hands were slightly offset on their wrists and the forearm bones
continued through the base of the palms, forming two long daggers.
   Allan felt his hat whisked away as a sharp bone pierced its’ conical top,
and then he was flat on the dirt in the main trail and rolling, frantically
trying to find the strap holding his weapon on the unfamiliar shoulder
unit. He heard a hiss of heated air, followed by a cry of pain. A long,
narrow green foot hit the ground a few centimeters from his nose, and he
turned on his stomach in time to see the Shambler fleeing down the path
in a stiff-legged, shuffling trot. The awkwardness of its movements
explained the odd name. It was holding one thin arm with an equally bony
hand.
   Jeri was calmly replacing her laser. “Managed to drive him off without
killing him. Have to find the cause of these attacks. Getting serious.”
  Allan got to his feet, and found his legs trembling worse than before.
There was a lingering whiteness in Jeri’s face, but she lifted the
Shambler’s bag and swung it to her shoulder with a brief, “Can’t let these
go to waste.”
  They resumed walking. When his heart slowed to a less frenzied
pounding Allan said, “We know very little about the Shamblers on Earth.
How do they reproduce, and where are the sex organs?”
  “The Shamblers are oviparous animals; both sexes have retractable
genitalia that fold up into a body cavity when not tumescent. You can tell
them apart by the color. The female has a mottled green-yellow
camouflage that helps conceal her when she drops out of the tribe to sit an
egg.”
  Their moment of shared danger seemed to have melted some of the ice.
“Can you give me a little background on them?” Allan asked. “I’d
particularly like to know your opinion of their intelligence.”
   “The adults are definitely below the minimum reasoning level, though
the children approach it. Shamblers reach maturity at about ten of our
years in age. From the time they come out of the egg until sexual potency,
the young grow steadily smarter. A seven-year-old is about the equivalent
of a human child of three in innate intelligence. At eight they go through
puberty, a painful affair that fortunately lasts only a few days. After the
change they start retrogressing, and most old ones are like the male you
just saw.”
  “That’s an odd growth cycle. Any explanation?”
  “Not even a good guess.”
  The trail began a steep climb, and Allan needed all his wind. The top of
the hill was free of brush, and protected by a charged fence equipped with
several gates. The building behind it was obviously both processing plant
and living quarters. Jeri deactivated the voltage in the gate before them
with a key, and Allan followed her through the spacious yard and into a
narrow vestibule. A cloudy sonic insect barrier hid the inner door, which
opened into the recreation lounge.
  “Put your gear in that rack. I’ll be back in a moment.”
  Allan breathed the thoroughly cooled and dehumidified air with relief.
The high-ceilinged room was deserted in the middle of the working day,
but looked well equipped and comfortable.
  Jeri was soon back, dressed now in figure-hugging tights. Allan had to
make a conscious effort to keep the admiration off his face. He had been
expecting a tall woman of lean arrogance, but the sun hat and inflated suit
had concealed a full-bodied, statuesque Nordic redhead. She might have
been
  designed to be an opposite extreme from small, petite Phyllis Roen.
Even in low heels she matched his height of 180 centimeters, and probably
outweighed him. She was several years older than he, and strong rather
than pretty, but a crackling vitality permeated every pound of her
body—which was as shapely as it was large.
  Jeri seated herself in a locally made contour chair. “Now what can I tell
you?”
  “Everything. I know very little about your operation here.”
   “Simple enough. We’re employees of the Exotic Spice Company,
operating a station on the planet under a government commercial charter.
We extract and condense the spices that grow in abundance in these
jungles. Said spices are one of the few products that can still turn a profit
after paying the Space Service’s exorbitant commercial interstellar freight
rates. We maintain a crew of twenty, consisting of myself, assistant
manager Dergano, and eighteen technicians, of whom five or six are
always women. We recently passed the break-even point after four years
developmental work, and are starting to show a return on the investment.
And let me add that we didn’t send for a Conscience . . . and don’t feel we
need one!”
  “I’m aware that you didn’t send for me,” said Allan, trying to keep his
tone pleasant. “Captain Arcan of the Space Service filed a request that the
Shamblers be checked.”
  “Arcan? I remember that he landed with the shuttle once, and watched
us training a new group. He spent some time with the Shambler children,
and they do show a deceptive promise, as I’ve explained. But I’m an
animal psychologist by profession, and I’ve run extensive checks on the
creatures. Not one adult has qualified as intelligent.”
   “Arcan also reported that you pay for work by feeding the Shamblers a
local addictive drug,” Allan went on, his voice low. “My instructions state
that I am to check on this practice, and stop it if Space Service regulations
or Earth laws are being violated. Can you explain how you justify such a
program?”
                                   -7-
   “Our attorneys will be happy to prove the drug laws do not apply to
animals!” snapped Jeri, obviously stung. “Starting the Shamblers on
condensed sorba milk was my idea, and I had the legalities carefully
checked. I didn’t come out here as plant manager, Mister. I was the
assistant to the psychologist sent to see if the beasts could be trained to
pick spices, after it became obvious the plant couldn’t pay its way with
human labor and the company was about to lose a huge investment. I
watched that man stumble around for a year, trying to get work out of the
Shamblers. They don’t take easily to routine labor. Food is free for the
picking, and they’re too stupid to want toys and gadgets. The
pay-for-labor system failed here, because we had nothing whatever they
wanted. But I had noticed that the adults were constantly eating sorba
seed, though they have little food value. I fed a few adults the much
stronger milk our plant produces in the processing cycle, and it sent them
into a deep trance state that’s evidently highly pleasurable. When they
came off it they wanted more. I went to my boss with the idea of creating
a need using the sorba as a drug, and he climbed on his moral high horse
and preached for an hour. The station manager let me feed the milk to
three, though, and with an effective reward-stimulus available I made
productive workers out of them in a week. Now we have every adult in the
area working for us, this plant is running near full capacity, and the
Shamblers have at least one pleasure in their miserable lives. The only
change in their diet is that they drink the milk pure instead of eating the
seeds.”
  “With the drug strength increased by what factor?”
  “About thirty to one, but what does that matter? The milk doesn’t
physically harm the beasts, and the addictive effect is temporary.”
  Allan let the obviously angry woman cool down for a moment while he
examined an alternative that had just occurred to him. Mass production
had lowered the price of robots. A hundred, properly programmed and
working day and night...
   Jeri summarily disposed of the suggestion. “You can’t build a robot
with the necessary sensitivity. This world has no seasons. Three identical
trees standing side by side can have ripe fruit, green pods, and buds, at
any given time. Each tree may support three types of creeper, each of
which produces a usable product, with all three at separate points in the
growth cycle. A Shambler knows instinctively when any given item is ripe.
He eats many of them as his natural food.”
  Allan accepted the information as valid, and tried a new tack. “Captain
Arcan says that you have a Shambler female for a pet, and that she works
without reward by drug.”
   “Oh yes, Tes. That proves nothing whatever. Tes has received intensive
training and been motivated to please. Her reward is our affection, and
she works to earn it. During one of our first training courses she was
almost killed by a contaminated batch of sorba milk—one of our techs
mixing it had a rare and undetected skin disease—and Tes is deathly
afraid of it now. She stayed in our clinic so long we eventually adopted her,
and she serves as a messenger or does simple jobs around the station.”
Jeri stepped to the door of the sleeping quarters and called, “Tes! Come
here, dear.”
  A moment later a thin, stooped figure entered and straightened in the
higher lounge. Tes was slightly under three meters in height, and a
splotched mustard-green in color. The nude trunk was as featureless as
that of a male.
   “Tes is everyone’s favorite Miserite,” said the big woman, her voice
affectionate. “I’ve managed to train her for fairly complicated
tasks—cleaning the quarters, for example—but all the tests I’ve run
indicate normal Shambler intelligence.”
  Allan studied the placid female with deep interest. The brown eyes
looked back at him in a manner that hinted of evaluation.
 “Her grasp of linguistic concepts is weak, of course, but she responds to
many simple commands,” said Jeri. “You may go, Tes. Go!”
  As the Shambler obediently returned to her work the station manager
asked, “What would you like to see first?”
 Allan told her, and a few minutes later he was following assistant
manager Dergano, a lean, heavily tanned man of indeterminate age, to the
working half of the building. A Shambler tribe had just arrived. They were
being admitted into a long room that opened on to the yard at the
opposite end from the living quarters. The adults were lined up to have
their bags weighed and evaluated. Each individual received a quantity of
sorba milk proportionate to the kind and amount of spice he had brought,
they lay down on one of a series of long low cots jutting from both side
walls. The milk was swallowed in the prone position, and within minutes
each Shambler seemed to drift into peaceful sleep. The time in trance was
determined by the amount of sorba consumed.
   The young, Allan noticed, went into a large room adjoining the long
one, where a technician locked them in. Before the door closed he caught a
glimpse of fruits, vegetables, unbreakable water cans, and some
elementary toys.
   Part of the crew began working on the spices. They were sorted into
types and emptied into hoppers protruding from the inside wall. Dergano
explained that the actual extracting and condensing operations were
almost completely automatic. The finished product emerged in a pressed
block sealed in plastic. Even the sorba milk was dried into the crystalline
form for shipment. On an Earthman’s food it was a harmless and very
tasty spice.
  There was nothing to see among the somnolent Shambler adults. Allan
asked to be let inside the room with the children. After a short argument
Dergano shrugged, his face showing his exasperation, and got the key.
   There was an audible chorus of grunts and squeals as the door swung
open, but it swiftly faded into a dead silence. Allan found himself the focus
of all eyes. Several youngsters taller than himself were holding toys. Others
had fruit or water cans in their hands. All were motionless and silent, and
the lack of activity persisted after he sat down among them. He waited
until he was certain they did not intend to resume their normal routine,
and then rose and knocked on the door. The assistant manager, who was
evidently waiting, let him out.
   Dergano saw by the look on Allan’s face that the idea had not been a
success. “We learned what we know of the young while training the adults
in the woods,” he said drily. Allan could only nod.
   The third meal was waiting when they returned to the living quarters.
After eating Jeri brought out the data she had accumulated. Her tests
were standards with which Allan was intimately familiar, and he could
find no fault in her work.
  Jeri had concentrated heavily on Tes, obviously because she was always
available. Her scores seemed to vary more than the rest, but averaged out
to normal. As he was poring over her records Allan had another idea, and
asked, “Jeri, is Tes still on good terms with her tribe?”
  “Why yes, she visits them now and then.”
   “Good. I’ll like to borrow two picking sacks, and your pet. I want to see
if her people will let me live with them for a few days.”
  The redhead looked slightly alarmed. “That’s very dangerous,
Conscience. These woods are full of carnivores, a lot of whom prey on the
Shamblers.”
  “I’ll be armed. Don’t worry about me.”
  “I’m not. I just don’t want to be blamed if you don’t come back!”
   Allan watched Tes at her work. The Shambler female moved with
mindless and mechanical precision, the three thin fingers grasping a pod
and holding it against the opposing bone while she gave a little twist that
broke the stem. Since she declined sorba milk there would be no reward
for her, but the tribe’s new life pattern dictated that all adults must gather
spices. He picked at a somewhat slower pace, imitating her choices. Most
of his attention was on the Shamblers around them. Their organization
seemed equivalent to that of a baboon tribe. The mothers carrying babies
stayed in the center of the group. They were surrounded by females with
walking young and children large enough to pick their own food. The
males formed the outer circle, the largest and apparently fiercest ones
leading the way. Everyone watched for enemies. There was a fairly
extensive range of sounds and gestures which conveyed meaning, and
every adult knew them. The children obeyed their mothers without
hesitation in times of danger, but otherwise devoted themselves to play.
They picked only what they wanted to eat, leaving them much more free
time than their parents.
   When Allan first appeared with Tes he had received many suspicious
stares, but as she set to work and he joined her they gradually accepted
him. After two hours he might have been a member of the tribe all his life.
   It was only a few minutes before sundown. A grunt originated at the
edge of the circle and worked its way inward. The males stopped picking,
bunched everyone into a compact band, and began herding them through
the undergrowth. In a few minutes they reached a seemingly impenetrable
tangle of thorn and briar. The leader twisted his lean form around a bare
tree trunk, moved sideways, and vanished. The rest followed one by one.
Allan found sharp thorns tearing at his newly dyed green suit, but forced
his way along a narrow passage and emerged in a small roofed glade. It
had the smell of long years of use, a scent distinctively Shambler.
  Two guards took up stations at the entrance; the normal order was
broken among the rest, most of the adult males joining their mates and
young. There was a low mutter of grunts and groans in the brief minutes
before darkness. Allan saw a few couples mating, but most of the males
seemed to have little procreative urge, being content simply to be with
their families.
   Allan dug some concentrates out of his pack, and stretched out to rest
as he ate. Tes, who had apparently been accepted as his mate, was already
asleep a short distance away.
   After finishing his food Allan lay quietly as the light swiftly faded,
observing his companions. At the moment he would not have traded
places with any human in the galaxy. As a young man laboriously working
his way through college—he had been a competent but not brilliant
student—he had evolved a philosophy of life that enabled him to endure
when others faltered. It was a simple belief that life, for everyone, could be
divided into high, low, and routine moments of experience. The routine
ones occupied by far the largest part of anyone’s time, the low moments
were bad but at least provided motivation, and the high ones were the
rewards life offered. You were successful at living when you managed to
have enough high moments to make enduring the low ones, and living
through the routine ones, more than worthwhile.
   Allan had joined the P.P. Corps in search of more high moments, which
he found woefully lacking in teaching. It was true that traveling through
space was, terribly boring and time-consuming—the routine part of this
job—but there were few low moments, and the high ones were unique and
priceless experiences. When he had walked out of the water into that
beautiful grotto on Sister, and found himself gazing into the sad wise eyes
of the Decision-Maker, he had been too tense for abstract thought. Now,
looking back, he could realize that had been a high moment such as he
had never known. In this sheltered glade, with the lean green bodies of his
companions sprawled like stick-figures across the soft grass, he had the
leisure in which to savor the experience as it happened. This was another
such moment, and on his personal time scale, sixty seconds in this
environment equaled a month of routine life. He had tipped the scales far
in his favor.
   The dull light of dawn found the tribe on the move. By midday most
adults had a full bag, and at some signal Allan missed, the group closed up
in a tight formation and started marching for the spice plant. How they
found their way through the maze of twisting game trails was a complete
mystery, but after two hours fast hiking they wound up the side of a small
hill, where the undergrowth thinned, and Allan caught a glimpse of the
plant on its higher elevation about a kilometer away.
   They descended into an unusually straight trail. After another five
minutes, during which the group became scattered as the leaders pressed
forward like eager children, they reached the bottom of the hill. The faster
pace had dropped Allan to the rear with the young, and Tes stayed with
him. When the carnivore that resembled a snub-nosed crocodile burst
from the bushes and charged at a tall child, they were only a few meters
behind him.
                                   -8-
  Allan recognized the animal as one he had been warned of that preyed
regularly on the Shamblers. It seized the selected boy just above the ankle,
twisted, and brought the tall form crashing to the ground, screaming.
When the terrified cries reached the leading males the column halted,
turning back on itself. They were too late to aid the child, As its head hit
the ground the attacker dived for the throat in a practiced movement,
sank sharp teeth into the long neck, and gave another savage twist. Allan
heard the muffled crack of breaking bones as his fingers undid the strap
on his laser.
   The carnivore, still holding the long neck, threw the body of the dying
boy across its scaly shoulders and turned toward the undergrowth. Several
of the closer Shambler males, hands high and bones hidden, stood waiting
for an attack signal. Someone saw that the child was beyond aid, and a
harsh command came from farther up the line. They were not going to
risk more lives to recover the dead.
  Allan was not taking a risk, and he wanted the body. His stomach was
churning, in reaction to violence and sudden bloody death, but he
carefully aimed the pistol. Despite a slight shaking in his hand the hot
beam burned a hole into the killer’s feral brain. The short legs collapsed
and it crashed heavily to the ground, teeth still locked in the child.
   Both were dead when Allan walked up. He had to look away for a
moment to compose himself, then began prying at the closed jaws. They
loosened easily and the thin neck came free. There was only a little blood
in the wounds, but it was a familiar and sickening deep red.
  Allan seized the flaccid knees and spoke sharply to Tes, motioning for
her to take the trunk. She hesitated, but finally accepted half the burden.
The procession resumed its fast walk. When Allan and Tes fell behind
again, a large male dropped back and relieved Allan, and another soon
took over Tes’s load. Allan used his radio to alert the plant, and requested
that the station manager meet them in the receiving room.
  At the fence a technician let them through a rear gate, and the
Shamblers went directly to the entrance of the long room. Allan, not
wanting to interrupt the usual routine, waited impatiently just inside the
door until Jeri DeWitt appeared.
  The big woman walked casually up to them, glanced at the child’s
mutilated throat, and averted her eyes. She took their bags, glancing into
Allan’s. “Not much here, Conscience. This won’t earn you an hour under
sorba milk.”
 “Spare me the bad jokes. I’d like to take this body into your lab, if I
may. I’ll run a dissection while the tribe gets its reward.”
  “Surely.” Jeri led them to the lab, which was small and not too well
equipped. “Do you need help?”
  “I’ll manage,” said Allan. “Just get Tes out of here. I don’t went her to
see me carving up one of her people.”
  Jeri complied, and Allan reached for a vibra-scalpel. Three hours later,
when the tribe was ready to depart, he was in the middle of a gory mess.
He told the station manager to let them go. Tes could take him back to her
people later.
   The long day of Misery had ended when he finally stopped. He was
almost reeling with exhaustion, and had very little to show for his efforts.
The Shamblers were just what they seemed to be, oviparous humanoids
with a brain slightly larger than Man’s. Their nervous system, digestive
tract, and major secreting organs were all found in some known animal.
The only outstanding characteristic of the cell tissue was its noticeably
alkaline quality, and he had no way of knowing if this was normal or a
result of deterioration after death.
   Allan forced himself to clean the lab, then bathed and headed for the
dining room. He found remnants of a meal on the table. Tes was working
nearby in the kitchen. He discovered he was too tired, and too full of the
sight of blood, to eat. After forcing down some innocuous green vegetables
he gave up the effort. Most of the crew was in the adjoining lounge, but
Allan was in no mood for conversation. He went directly to bed.
  Sometime during the night Allan slowly awakened, gradually becoming
aware of a warm and naked body pressed to his own in the narrow bunk.
When he finally realized what was happening he put both arms around
that warmth and comfort, drew it close, kissed soft lips with a hunger too
long repressed—and discovered he was holding the only woman at the
station as tall as himself.
   The knowledge that it was Jeri in his arms jolted Allan fully awake.
Dergano, in response to a feeler on Allan’s part, had stated emphatically
that the station manager always slept alone. The other men and women
had adopted the form of polyandry common on such isolated stations.
Why had the big woman developed a sudden passion for Allan Odegaard?
She had seemed actually hostile at first, only gradually warming to a
semblance of cordiality. Could that have been a staged act, a psychological
gambit to throw him off his guard? If she wanted to influence his decision
she had learned at the landing field that he could not be dominated.
Fawning would be equally useless. But the gift of her herself, after she had
carefully established that it was from nothing more than shared desire. . .
he could be misjudging and insulting a lovely woman, Jeri, who looked
normal and healthy, probably practiced continence here because even in
this enlightened age men still tried to dominate their sleeping partners. If
she felt lonely and frustrated, honestly needed to share with a man who
would soon be leaving...
  Jeri sensed his confusion and kissed him again, hard. Allan twisted his
head away when their lips parted, and then turned over and faced the
wall. He couldn’t take the chance. His aroused body throbbed with need
and yearning. He ignored its demand, and forced himself into an
unyielding stiffness.
  She waited a moment, to see if his rejection was final, then got quietly
out of bed, dressed in the darkness, and left.
   Next morning Tes led Allan back to her tribe without difficulty,
confirming his suspicion that their seemingly aimless course was actually
a tightly planned schedule. Allan stopped pretending to pick spices and
settled down to an intensive study of the children. The ease with which
they accepted him, and the fact his preference for their company went
unnoticed by the adults, made him wonder if the males had accepted him
as Tes’s mate, or her child. He noticed that an old Shambler, who suffered
frequently from the attacks of trembling he had seen on his first meeting
with one, started paying a mild courtship to Tes. He was promptly
rebuffed. The male gave up his suit without argument or attempted force.
Their sexual drive was apparently as weak as that of an Earthly gorilla.
And those former inhabitants of the jungles of old Africa were propagated
in zoos by artificial insemination.
  Two hours after he started playing with the children, Allan felt certam
that Jeri was right; they were far more intelligent than the adults. On the
second day he organized some new games, and the ease with which they
mastered them caused him to increase the complexity. The children, as if
stimulated by the challenge, learned the harder games as fast as the
simple. By the third day they had become so interested in what he was
teaching them they had dropped all other nonessential activities. Allan
found that he was enjoying his brief return to the teacher’s role, and
accumulating several hours of notes on his minicorder, but sealing their
intelligence was a slow, time-consuming process. And his services were
urgently needed elsewhere. The P.P. Corps had come into existence with a
heavy backlog of cases to decide.
   On the fourth day Allan saw a Shambler adult die, apparently of natural
causes. One of the older females who was subject to frequent fits fell to the
ground, jerking and kicking violently. Somehow the tribe seemed to sense
this was the final attack, and four male adults gathered around her. The
tribal leader motioned for the others to move on. Allan chose to stay and
watch. He swiftly discovered that the normally placid chieftain was going
to treat him as he would any other rebellious child. The long fingers curled
around the sharp bone as one hand drew back for a slap. Then the tall
male remembered Allan’s unique status, or the ease with which the
Earthman had killed the carnivore. His hand turned, in the peculiar
gesture that hid the ever-ready dagger. Allan hastily backed away,
reaching for his laser. The leader stared at him a moment, then wheeled
around and shuffled after his people.
   The female on the ground continued to jerk and twitch, occasionally
trying to crawl away. The males held her, and after a time she went into
clonic convulsions and died in the middle of a violent spasm. The four
attendants picked up her body and carried it as far into a patch of thick
undergrowth as they could force their way, finally jamming it deeply into a
mass of thorny brush. Then they hurried after the tribe.
   Allan followed, somewhat sick from watching the female die, and
slightly puzzled. Even the baboons, to whom he kept constantly comparing
these people, made more of a ceremony of death than this.
   During that same afternooon one of the adults who habitually led the
way was caught by a heavy vine net that dropped suddenly from overhead.
His companions began frantically trying to free him, but retreated when
the weaver descended to his catch. Tes, who was nearby, turned and
screamed to the armed Earthman in obvious appeal. Allan unstrapped his
laser and ran for the trapped Shambler. The attacker was a huge insect,
armed with vicious mandibles and two long, jointed front limbs, tipped
with spikes. It had a round body supported by a circle of flexible legs that
raised it two meters off the ground. As Allan drew near, the deadly
creature bent the stabbing arms and inserted the sharp points into a
cavity behind its head. They emerged covered with a wet and glistening
green slime.
   Allan stopped just ahead of Tes, well out of the carnivore’s reach, and
raised his weapon. Before he could aim, two long hands pushed hard
against his back. To keep from falling he had to take three fast steps
forward, and this put him within striking distance of the waiting enemy.
   Allan took a voluntary fourth step and dived for the ground. The first
sharp spike cut the air where his head had been. He hit rolling and
brought up against the circle of legs, directly beneath a bulbous head. The
predator scuttled backward, poison-tipped limbs rising. Allan lay flat on
his back and brought up the laser. As the huge compound eyes found him
again he touched the firing stud. The sealing beam burned a hole deep
into the tiny insect brain, and the killer collapsed in a tangle of hairy legs.
  Allan struggled to his feet, to find himself shaking, as usual. He had not
consciously realized the tree-dwelling climber could not see its own feet,
but some unsuspected fighting instinct had saved him. He looked back at
Tes. She was standing where he had left her, raw hatred on her usually
blank face. The Earth people’s pet had just tried to kill him, in a manner
that would reflect no blame on herself or the tribe.
   The adults gathered around the dead enemy, grunting in excitement.
Allan, who was rapidly recovering his equilibrium, turned away and
motioned for Tes to accompany him. Her face had fallen back into its
normal dumb placidity. She followed obediently. When they were some
distance from the rest Allan asked, “Why did you push me, Tes? And don’t
pretend you can’t understand speech!”
  The long face became animated again. She hesitated, fingers curling
nervously around the deadly bones. Allan waited, holding the laser openly
ready. She quieted after a moment, and turned apartly away. When she
spoke her voice was guttural and slow, but understandable. “I—I kill! All
Earthmen die! They—they hurt Shamblers! White-milk bad! Earthmen
go!”
   Tes’s vocabulary was rudimentary, but adequate for a simple
conversation. Once the first barriers were broken she seemed almost eager
to talk, as if proud of what she had learned from listening to the spice
plant personnel.
  The rest of the tribe began to move away. The Earthman sat still,
entranced. Tes became absorbed in her narrative, and Allan did not even
remember putting his weapon away and leaving himself at the mercy of
her long bones. When a darkening of the forest gloom indicated it was
time to hunt shelter for the night, he was in possession of a strange and
mystifying story.
   It must have been heart-breaking to a puzzled child, to find early in life
that she possessed more reasoning ability than her parents. All around her
she saw other children, her playmates, in the same predicament. Habits
derived from instinct and custom kept the tribe alive, and the adults’ size
compelled obedience, but any child over five could outsmart his elders,
and knew it. The young had a system of sounds and gestures more
complex than those used by the mature Shamblers. All children learned
before time-of-the-change that their reason was a temporary gift, one that
would fade swiftly after mating. They compared themselves to
new-hatched babies, to the oldest adults, and discovered a set and definite
pattern. A child was born knowing nothing, learned slowly, reached a peak
just after sexual maturity, and started declining shortly afterward. When
an adult went into his final fit and died he was a walking idiot.
   Tes had accepted her fate without question, having no reason to think
the cycle odd. She took a mate shortly after puberty, but he was killed and
eaten almost immediately. While she was grieving her tribe was
introduced to sorba milk, but the first drink almost killed her and she
would not accept more. The station personnel nursed her back to health
and she had lived with them since.
   Tes still saw her people at frequent intervals. She had been forced to
watch her generation go through the gradual change from reasoning
beings to instinctual animals, dropping their more meaningful vocal
sounds and elaborate gestures along the way. Tes remained unaffected,
still able to reason, to think. The sickening knowledge that she alone could
remember they had once been something more than they now were tore at
her mind. She wondered if it was the elementary training received from
the Earth people that made her different, and tried working with some of
the young adolescents. They learned quickly, but the knowledge faded soon
after first mating-time. If a child did not mate the power of reason
disappeared anyway.
   Allan asked if she had been responsible for the near-idiot Shamblers
attacking station personnel. Tes admitted it without argument. The
non-thinking adults were near death themselves, but still responded to a
strong command to attack. She knew the ancient signals by which to drive
them.
  “Why?’ asked Allan.
   “Sorba milk bad. It slow big Shamblers. Eat not enough, make babies
not enough. Kill humans, kill sorba. Tes stay humans, be—be good, listen,
learn, no talk in plant. In woods say words, try. prac-tiss! Jeri not know. I
do bad tests. Act wrong, do wrong. Learn more, kill if no one know. Like
try kill you.”
   Allan asked if she knew why he was on Misery, and when her answer
was negative he told her of his mission, and what his decision might mean
to her people. They started for the plant, which was close, and as they
walked Allan told her something of Earth’s long history of racial and
species injustices, and how the World Council had organized the P.P.
Corps to ensure fair dealing with more primitive lifeforms. When
understanding swept across the now expressive face he knew his life was
no longer in danger.
  Just before they reached the electric fence Allan told Tes to behave
normally while in the plant. He also asked her to bring the body of the
next adult who died to the lab.
  “You help Shamblers, Allan? Make sorba go?”
   “I can’t answer that now. You may be a mutant, a person completely
different from the rest of your people. He hesitated, wishing he could
promise her more, then said, “Get me that body as soon as you can.”
                                   -9-
   Tes brought in an old adult the very next day. Allan, when he began his
dissection, discovered it had been killed by a hard blow to the rear of the
head.
   The cracked skull was a good place to start. He peeled back the
shattered bones to expose the parietal area, and found himself staring at
the bane of the Shamblers. He retched, turned away, forced his heaving
stomach back to calmness, and proceeded with his work. It lasted far into
the night.
  When he finally dragged himself off to a shower and bed he had a
tentative answer to the riddle of the Shamblers’ strange growth cycle.
  Next day Allan had Tes take him back to her tribe, and this time he
carried sampling equipment. He worked in the woods for two days, and at
night took specimens of the soil in the Shambler sleeping glades. Early on
the third day he returned to the station for more lab work. When he was
satisfied, Allan asked Dergano to bring him three of the humanoids’ long
cots from the receiving room. Out of the next group of pickers he selected
two adult males, one young and one old, and had them take their sorba in
the lab. When they were deep in trance be brought in a male child from
the playroom. Allan ran several comparative tests on the three prone
bodies, ignoring the inquisitive stares of the child. That afternoon he
repeated the experiment with three females of the same ages. When the
results were identical he made a few final notes into his minicorder, and
returned to the jungle to complete his field work. He was acutely conscious
that the days were slipping away on this comparatively unimportant
planet, but he wanted to be absolutely certain that his hypothesis was
correct.
   Allan was bent over the shallow excavation he had just made in a
Shambler sleeping glade, carefully extracting the small open-top box he
had buried there two days earlier, when he heard a light footstep behind
him. There was something distinctively human about the sound, and he
turned to greet his unexpected visitor. Without shock or seeming
transition he found himself pitched forward on his face, black shadows
beating at the edge of his mind. For a long moment he hovered on the
brink of consciousness, slipping over and pulling back, and then his senses
steadied somewhat and the dizziness faded.
   Allan resisted the inclination to straighten his bent neck and lay
perfectly still, while his strength slowly returned. Someone was kneeling by
his head; the right arm was pulled from beneath his chest and stretched
out ahead of him. The prone man cautiously cracked his left eye, which
was partially concealed by the grass. He was just in time to see a round,
flat, almost transparent insect drop from a rough wooden box on to the
back of his hand. Allan felt the impact of a slick, moist underside as wide
as his wrist; by a strong effort of will he kept the extended arm relaxed.
The creature froze, and there was no sensation of a sting.
   A short distance from his hand, almost hidden in the grass, Allan saw
an odd object he finally recognized as a bootstocking. It had been packed
with soil and tied closed above the heel. He had been hit with a weapon
that left no external trace, and the transparent insect, whose color was
already changing to match his hand, was obviously a killer he might easily
have touched accidentally.
   Allan opened both eyes without moving his head, and managed a quick
glimpse of the kneeling man’s proffle. It was Dergano.
   The tableau endured for another minute, and then Dergano impatiently
reached for Allan’s arm near the shoulder, apparently planning to shake
the extended hand and jar the insect into striking. As the fingers closed on
his biceps Allan rolled backward, yanking his hand from beneath its slimy
~
   burden with all the speed he could muster. He came to a stop on his
back, his right hand, which was functioning normally, already freeing his
laser. Dergano, after a second of stunned indecision, was reaching for his
own. Allan focused his weapon and released the safety in time to shout a
command, and the lean Earthman stopped with one hand on the strap.
   “Hands up and show your back!” snapped Allan, without moving.
Dergano hesitated, then slowly raised his arms and obeyed. Allan got to
his feet and cautiously removed the man’s weapon. When it was safely in
his own vacant strap he said, “Turn around.”
  Dergano about-faced and lowered his arms without waiting for
permission. “What now?” he asked, his voice insolent.
  “Now we go back to the station.” Allan gestured toward the glade’s
narrow exit. As Dergano shrugged and turned toward it, Allan swiftly bent
and retrieved the box he had dropped when struck. He checked its
contents, then followed Dergano back to the main trail, keeping close
enough to his captive’s back to prevent a sudden leap sideways.
   The recreation lounge was deserted, but a few people in the corridors
gazed wide-eyed as Allan marched Dergano toward Jeri’s office. When
they entered without knocking the big woman glanced up from a stack of
forms on her locally made desk, as astonished as the rest. Allan closed the
door, motioning for Dergano to sit down. If Jeri was acting she was superb
at it.
 “Would you be kind enough to explain why you’re holding that gun on
my assistant, Conscience?” the station manager asked, frost in her tone.
  “He tried to kill me,” Allan said slowly, watching her face.
  “And he chose a method that would make it appear an accident; a bite
on the hand by a deadly insect.”
  For the first time Allan saw an expression of uncertainty appear on the
woman’s strong features. “Is that true? Why?” she asked Dergano.
  The dark-faced man slumped low in his chair. Without looking at her
he said, “I saw you coming out of his room the other night”
   Jeri paled slightly, then flushed. “You utter fool! You don’t own—” she
stopped, full lips pinched thin while she regained control. More quietly,
she went on, “We have no trial marriage contract, Dergano. Our
agreement was to maintain discipline by keeping our arrangement a
secret. I though you could rise above possessive jealousy.”
  Allan felt a sharp pang of regret. He had indeed misjudged the big
woman, and forfeited the chance for a short but pleasant affair.
  “He probably could,” Allan said aloud. “That’s not why he tried to kill
me.”
  Dergano jerked erect in his chair, obviously jarred. “He attempted
murder to stop me from revealing what he somehow already knew, that
the Shamblers are an intelligent species,” Allan continued as Jeri turned
toward him in amazement. “Now he’s attempting to make his motive
seem personal, to keep from implicating you. The heroic sacrifice is
unnecessary, Dergano. I was already reasonably certain you were acting on
your own.”
   Jeri jumped to her feet and hurried around the desk, her executive
poise now completely gone. The strong face was as red as her hair, and for
a moment Allan though she might clench her large hand and hit him.
Instead she began to pace the floor, and her voice had a biting edge when
she finally asked, “Would you please tell me how the Shamblers could be
intelligent, and my tests completely wrong?”
  “Your tests were correct, as far as they went,” Allan answered. “I am
rating them at what they will be when a physical disability that impairs
mental function is removed.”
   She could not keep the interest off her face. Allan went on, “A Shambler
is born with something less than human potential. This increases steadily
until puberty, as you have noticed. At sexual maturity there is a distinct
change in body metabolism, along with the more obvious physiological
changes. All body tissues convert from an alkaline condition to a slightly
acid one. This makes it possible for a certain parasitic worm to live within
the Shambler’s body. Sometime within a few months after the change a
newly hatched larva enters a sleeping adolescent, probably through the
anus. It makes it way to the brain, where it anchors and starts eating
tissue and blood. It grows steadily for years, while it eats a large open
space for itself. During this time the adult slowly deteriorates, and when
the damage becomes irreversible, in what should be his late middle-age,
he dies. The mature worm then leaves the body by dissolving a doorway
into the ear and crawling out. It goes into a short metamorphosis,
emerges as a flying insect, and seeks a mate. The impregnated female
finds a sleeping glade by scent, lays four or five hundred eggs in the grass
to start the cycle again, and then dies.”
   Jeri stopped pacing, and there was horror and revulsion on her face.
“I’ve learned two facts I think will eradicate it,” Allan continued. “One,
they are able to live only in their present host. All other animal tissue I’ve
been able to examine is too alkaline for them. Apparently the worm is a
fairly recent mutation from some older form not inimical to the
Shamblers, since it’s destroying the species at a fairly rapid rate. Two, the
worm can’t crawl through soil. I caught the one in the adult whose skull I
opened just as it reached the ear, and buried it along with three eggs just
starting to hatch.” He showed Jeri the open-top box he had brought from
the glade.
  “All of them died after struggling upward only a few centimeters. The
easiest way to eliminate the parasite is to teach the Shamblers—”
  “To bury their dead!” Jeri interrupted him.
  Allan was able to smile for the first time in several hours.
  “Correct. I see you also noticed they failed to develop that fear of the
dead that started the human custom of locking cadavers in place
underground. With the Shamblers it can serve a useful purpose. The
parasite’s life cycle can be broken at its weakest link; with no other host
available it should die out shortly.”
   “And just how do you propose to start this new custom?” Dergano asked
sullenly.
   “There’s only one practical way. I am going to recommend that your
company be authorized to establish at least four more plants here, with
the intention of getting every adult Shambler on the planet under the
influence of sorba.” He told them briefly about the intelligence of Tes, who
had not been infected due to living in the station, and her mistaken belief
that sorba milk was the cause of Shambler sluggishness. “Each of your
stations will bring in a cultural anthropologist, who will establish the
burial custom by rewarding the action with free sorba. You’ll have to
abandon the planet when the worm species dies, but that’s far in the
future.”
  Dergano looked stricken. “Then. . . it was all for nothing? I ruined my
career for. . . ?
   “Conscience, surely. . .“ Jeri held out a hand to Allan in hopeful appeal,
and for the first time since he had known her she seemed softly and
alluringly feminine.
   “Your lover kept quiet about the worm because he was afraid your
ethics would overcome your business sense if you knew,” Allan went on,
hating what he had to say. “I’m sure Dergano was right. I don’t know if he
was thinking of his profit percentage or you, but it doesn’t matter. The
fact he tried to murder a Conscience can’t be excused. He will have to
stand trial in a Space Service court.”
  Dergano leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
  Allan turned and walked out. His head hurt, and he felt drained, tired,
and old far beyond his years.
  The preliminary report Allan had prepared the night before was in his
cubicle. He added a brief statement about the attempted murder and
headed for the communications room.
   A sub-radio message for Allan had just arrived from the P.P.
Administrator. The giant tarsiers of Epsilon Indi VI had attacked in force,
killing several people and placing one new town under virtual siege. The
local Space Service officer had declared the tarsiers intelligent and
ordered the colonists to leave. The indignant settlers had managed to
obtain a high priority, and Allan was to report as soon as possible. Less
urgent cases could wait.
  Allan sighed. It was a long trip to Epsilon Indi; he would be In space
over three months.
   The hectic work of the past few days had caused Allan to lose track of
flight schedules. He was pleasantly surprised to find the regular
neverlander was due in that night. At least he would not have to endure
the indignant anger of Jeri and her crew. He left for his cubicle.
   As he was packing Allan let his mind wander in a manner he seldom
permitted himself. The tarsiers sounded both interesting and dangerous.
But beyond Epsilon Indi VI there would be other planets, new fascinating
species, and more difficult decisions to be made. Sooner or later, he
supposed, the necessary loneliness would get to him and he would grow
tired of being a nomad. For now he could not imagine a better life. He had
been right when he had given up home and comfort, even love and family,
to take to the spaceways.
  The tarsiers, like the Shamblers and telepathic seals, somewhat
resembled creatures already familiar to Man. Allan wondered where duty
would take him after this next assignment, and when he would encounter
some species totally beyond human experience. It was a comforting
thought with which to face a long dull journey through space.
                                 - 10 -
   Allan heard a brittle tinkling, a loud warning sounded by elfin chimes,
as his pursuer brushed a crystalline flowering plant. He stopped at the end
of a small clearing and turned to confront the danger. This deaf hunting
animal had been on his trail for several minutes.
  It was going to be close. The vegetation was thick and the carnivore
would appear only a few meters away. Allan drew the spare pistol with his
left hand and held it ready for a second shot. Bodies composed of siliceous
tissue resisted even the cutting heat of a laser. Cappy Doyle, the local
station director, had told him the scientists at this isolated research
facility always carried two weapons when working in the jungle. The
ability to fire twice had saved lives that would have been lost in that five
seconds a small laser crystal had to cool between pulses.
   The powerful infrared lamp on the helmet of Allan’s protective coverall
sent a broad beam across the small open space, illuminating the wall of
brush on the opposite side. His goggles, ground to accept wavelengths in a
narrow band around the 100 frequency, kept out all visible light. The
infrared beam did not reflect off crystalline or glass surfaces as badly as
white light, and he could see clearly.
   The sounds of pursuit stopped. There was a slow movement at the rear
of the clearing as a large head approached the edge of the brush. The
hunter paused, testing the wind, unaware that it could be seen by its
intended prey. The huge mouth was open, and Allan saw a round silver
snake of a tongue curling over pyramid-shaped teeth of unbreakable glass.
And then a strong breeze started behind the human’s back and carried his
odor directly to the animal. They were so close he could see the skin
crinkling around the flaring nostrils, hear the snuffling sound of heavy
intakes. And then the wrinkled flesh smoothed out, and Allan, knew with
the certainty gained from encounters with strange beasts on many worlds
over the past eight years that it was not going to attack. To the carnivore
his strong scent indicated a mistake. It signaled that he was not only
alarmingly strange, but inedible.
  Allan had a sudden dangerous impulse and yielded to it immediately,
before reflection cost him his chance. He holstered the left-hand gun and
pulled down his goggles.
   It was like opening a doorway into the softly lighted heart of a diamond.
This planet had no moon, but stars hanging thick and close in the clear
night sky provided a diffused illumination. Crystal was a unique world,
where life had evolved with silicon instead of carbon as the anchor
element. The proportions of hydrogen and nitrogen in living tissue were
similar to his own, but the oxygen content had dropped from 76 to 68
percent, and been replaced by metallic elements. Physically this planet,
like Sister, resembled Earth, and the structure and activity of its flora and
fauna were similar. But what on Earth would have been a tree became on
Crystal a giant chandelier, with a trunk of shimmering crystal and leaves
of tinted glass. The wind rippled branches covered with innumerable tiny
jewels, bending plant tissue where the metallics in every scale of bark
colored the light and reflected it from a thousand glistening facets. In the
daylight it was blinding, a visual fury of changing light in every color and
intensity. A minute of open-eye exposure would burn out the color
receptors in the fovea; five would blind a person. No one went outdoors
without goggles similar to the ones he was wearing, ground to admit only
a few wavelengths.
   Even in the softer starlight the display was dazzling. After a few seconds
Allan recognized the head of the hunter by the pattern of the teeth,
glittering like diamond pyramids in what to the animal’s protected eyes
seemed deep shadow. And as Allan watched, the mouth that could cut him
in two with one bite slowly closed. The head receded, fading from view.
There was a low sibilant rustling as hanging vines of vitreous crystal
parted, and the fading sounds of padded feet on blades of glass.
   Reluctantly, Allan pushed the goggles back over his eyes, and the
visually dangerous beauty around him faded. The ‘silence also died as the
small jungle creatures who had quietly awaited the outcome of the stalk
went back to their nightly business. And Allan had to return to his. He
lived for moments like these, when some strange beauty burst on senses
dulled by the monotony of months in space, or his work threw him into a
situation so startling and new it surpassed previous human experience.
But he had a job to do, and little time in which to accomplish it. A
neverlander was due next day, bringing World Council Member Celal
Kaylin of Turkey, chairman of a subcommittee checking on the work of the
P.P. Corps. Kaylin was a member of the New Roman party, and in the past
had been critical of the need for the Corps. Allan had been on his way to
Earth, for the first time in eight years, to testify before that committee. He
was unexpectedly ordered to Crystal because it was on his route home.
The scientists here had reported that an elusive creature they had been
unable to capture was possibly intelligent. And Council Member Kaylin
was going to accompany Allan on this assignment and observe a
“Conscience” in action.
  As Allan started forward again, hearing the brittle crunch of small
plants breaking beneath his thick boots, the Cryer called from close ahead.
   Cappy Doyle had played several recordings of the thin, plaintive voice
for Allan. It sounded like a high-pitched child who understood a few words
of English and used them interspersed throughout a string of gibberish.
But one word that had been consistently repeated was “help,” and another
was “leave.” Once they had recorded a clearly heard, “Help us; leave.” The
voice always spoke from the same area, at night, and when the wind was
still. Limited vision and numerous carnivores who killed before they
realized their prey was inedible kept night work in the jungle to a
minimum. Two heavily armed parties had sought the elusive voice without
success, and several daylight searches of the area revealed nothing. Allan
was no braver than the resident biologists, but he had dared the night
jungle alone because experience had taught him that shy creatures on the
verge of intelligence were less likely to flee from a single person. And he
did not want to keep the subcommittee chairman waiting while he made
that first careful contact with the frightened Cryer.
   The sound came again, and Allan pushed away yielding fronds of spun
glass and moved slowly ahead. He made no attempt to walk quietly
because it was impossible. What on Earth would have been a silent walk
sounded on Crystal like a mad giant trampling on greenhouses. But the
local fauna
  were equally noisy; every bird that landed on a branch, every insect
blundering into a leaf, spread its own small circle of sound. It hardly
mattered for most of them; only a few had hearing organs, and most of
these could only detect loud noises.
   The wind died and the Cryer called again, a long wail that lasted over a
minute. Allan stopped and listened intently. He picked out the words
“leave” and “difficult” in the jumble of sounds . . . and received a strong
impression there were syllables of other words in the mixture. Then a new
breeze started and the thin voice faded.
  Allan took a few more careful steps, stopping when he judged himself
within a few meters of the creature. He waited, light focused directly
ahead. He saw nothing, and heard only the crystalline chiming of
vegetation shaking in the wind. The vagrant breeze gradually died away,
and almost immediately the sound came again, so close it startled him. He
was facing a bush a little taller than himself. Out of its shadows a high
voice cried, “Leave us!”
   Allan felt the hand still holding a laser tremble, and eased his finger
back from the firing stud. The distinct words were followed by nonsense,
and he strained his eyes to find the speaker. When he still saw nothing he
took a step forward. The bush he was searching had a slender trunk and
straight branched limbs with only a moderate number of leaves. No
animal larger than a very small bird could be hiding there.
  Another gentle wraith of a night wind appeared, and the voice stopped.
Allan strained his eyes, and when the breeze faded and the sound came
again he finally saw the Cryer.
  At almost eye level with the human one branch crossed beneath
another. A saucer-shaped leaf, laced with silver threads, hung from the
upper limb and grew into the lower; the normal growth pattern on both
branches was upward. Two thick coils of silver wire, spun fine as spider
silk, hung suspended in the air on both sides. The supple limbs, when not
disturbed by the wind, kept the leaf pulled taut to form a crude but
workable diaphragm. As Allan stared, almost unable to believe this eyes,
the leaf vibrated and the thin voice uttered a string of gibberish.
  The leaf and coils formed an electrically operated speaker. The Cryer
was the bush itself.
  “A mountain of silver?” Allan asked, astonished.
   Cappy Doyle laughed, his bony frame shaking slightly in the locally
made glass chair. A supply ship had failed during the research station’s
first year and the personnel had almost starved. Cappy, who had arrived
middle-aged and plump, had chosen not to regain the lost weight. “Yes, a
mountain, according to our seismic readings. This little hill we are sitting
on is just the top of the peak, with the rest deep underground. We’ve done
some mining and smelting as hobby work. By using silver instead of lead
in stained glass, you can get some very beautiful effects, as you see in our
windows.”
   The research station windows justified the director’s pride. The
standard dome of poured foamfab had been modified by adding thick but
narrow panes of stained glass. If the vibration barrier that surrounded the
hilltop failed and a large animal got through, the narrow embrasures
behind the windows would not admit it. The heavy coloring in the glass
kept the chaotic light reflected by the crystal jungle from penetrating too
strongly. From inside, the human eye saw a constant play of movement
and color on the exterior of each window, a chromatic, living mosaic
almost hypnotic in its intensity.
  “We’ve found silver used in various ways in plant tissue,” Cappy went
on, “but the one you describe is unique. I suppose you realize that as
hardheaded biologists we will have to see this speaker operate before we
can accept it.”
   “I saw it and still don’t believe it!” said Allan, smiling. “But you’ll have
to perform your recordings and measurements in a hurry tonight. I want
to substitute a better speaker for the makeshift one and try to establish
communication.”
  The thin director shook his head, as though to clear it of incredulity,
and got to his feet. “It’s your show. But you realize, Conscience Odegaard,
that the data we’ve already accumulated on silicon-based life will keep
three Earth universities busy for a decade. And now you throw in a wild
factor like possible plant intelligence . . .”
   “The hazard of your profession,” said Allan, also rising. “Mine is to
determine whether a questionable species has developed the basics of
intelligence. From the evidence so far this is going to be an easy decision.
Now I’d like to get some sleep before our Council Member arrives.”
   “I’ll have a crew ready to support you tonight,” Cappy promised. Allan
slid open the cloudy glass rectangle of the director’s office door and
stepped into the open community room. A few late risers were finishing
their breakfasts at a long crystal table. Allan spoke to several of the men
and women, but ignored an obvious overture to draw him into
conversation. He was too tired. The P.P. Corps, as a semimilitary
organization, required its members to keep fit. But Allan had landed out
of cycle with Crystal and was already behind on his sleep. The circadian
disassociation pill he had taken to help him stay awake was now making
him ill. And he was worried. The message from P.P. Administrator Wilson
had been blunt and clear. Unless Kaylin could be convinced of an urgent
need for the Corps, his subcommittee would probably recommend to the
World Council that it be abolished. In its eight years of controversial
decisions the official “Conscience of Mankind” had made numerous
enemies. The P.P.s had ruled that too many potentially rich planets could
not he colonized or exploited.
   Allan tumbled into bed without bathing and slept soundly until called
for dinner. In the dining room Cappy introduced him to Council Member
and Mrs. Kaylan, who had arrived while he was asleep. The C.M. from
Turkey was a short, sturdy, dark-haired man, surprisingly young for such
an important political appointment. His wife, Gilia, was a small, blonde,
and very beautiful Russian. Allan noted with approval that the short
woman had a full, almost lush figure, with broad hips and breasts that
seemed large for her small frame. This unusual field investigation made
more sense to him when he learned the Kaylins had signed their trial
marriage contract just before leaving Earth, and that Gilia had been, and
still was, on the C.M.’s staff. They were enjoying a honeymoon trip, at
World Council expense, that only the rich could afford on their own.
   “Conscience Odegaard, I have heard so much about your work,” Gilia
said as they shook hands. “Yours must be the most interesting job in the
galaxy.”
  “And one of the most difficult to justify,” Kaylin said, his voice dry.
“Each time you throw Earthmen off a planet, the demand to abolish the
P.P. Corps grows stronger.”
  “The returns will more than pay for all sacrifices in the long run, as I
hope to demonstrate here,” said Allan. “Are you going to accompany us
tonight?”
  “We certainly are!” Gilia said immediately. Kaylin only sighed.
   They ate a meal of carefully prepared concentrates—not an ounce of
edible food grew on Crystal—and afterward Allan met Carlson and
Manabe, the two biologists who were to accompany them. Cappy had
chosen for youth, strength, and a good shooting eye. Carlson was a large
blond man with long hair and a drooping mustache, who looked more like
a displaced Viking than a scientist. Manabe, a small, lithe Asian, was a
specialist in bioelectric systems, and Allan asked his help in preparing
some special equipment. It took only a few minutes to assemble the simple
device they needed. An hour after dark the small expedition set out.
                                  - 11 -
   Cappy Doyle had decided to personally safeguard his important visitors,
and joined them to make a party of six. All were wearing the protective
coveralls and helmets that shielded tender skin from the cutting edges on
a great deal of the glass vegetation. Allan led them down the hill to the
vibration barrier at its foot, where Cappy used his key to deactivate a
gateway. An electrified fence was adequate protection on most planets,
but the animals on Crystal were very poor electrical conductors.
   All the men except Kaylin were carrying portable equipment. Allan
swung his head to both sides as they passed through the safe area. The
infrared lamp revealed several surface roots, mindlessly pressing to the
edge of the low wire coils. Their tips were being oscillated into free
molecules as they grew. The barrier could disintegrate even a large
animal, but there was no portable equivalent for a personal weapon.
   They had barely entered the heavy vegetation outside the barrier when
a carnivore appeared. The wind was blowing, creating such a cacaphony
of small noises Allan did not at first recognize the purposeful sound of a
large approaching body. When he realized they were in danger it was
almost too late to fight. A long snout suddenly thrust through the
vegetation only a few meters away, two eyes like giant rubies staring down
at them from a head twice Allan’s height off the ground.
   “Hold your fire!” Allan called quickly, cutting through Gilia’s startled
scream. His order was unnecessary; the biologists had all noticed the
flaring nostrils above the two long U-shaped rows of pointed teeth. They
waited, while the dimwitted creature’s eyes and nose argued over their
edibility. The nose won and it turned away; the noise of its passage
gradually faded into the constant small sounds around them.
   ‘That was a close one,” Cappy Doyle said, his voice shaking slightly. “We
call that large lad the elecroc, unofficially. He’s big as an elephant and his
teeth like a crocodile.”
   The Kaylins both laughed nervously, but Allan heard what seemed real
fear in the C.M.’s voice. The short walk to the speaker-equipped plant,
which was near the barrier but halfway around the hill, did nothing to
relieve that fear. As the humans were approaching their destination they
met a second hungry night prowler. This one launched itself from a tree
where it had crouched in waiting, bowling over Carlson. Allan heard the
sound of metallic claws ripping at the fabric of the downed man’s coverall,
and saw diamond-hard teeth close on the thin metal of the helmet. Then a
beam from the laser ready in his hand cut through the lucent skin of the
neck, and two more from Cappy and Manabe hit it in the side. Three
burns were too much even for the tree climber’s silicate flesh. It leaped
away, threshing violently in its death agony, and the cacaphony of sound
created by shattering vegetation almost deafened the humans. The animal
was a catlike creature about twice the size of a man. When it stopped
moving Allan lowered his goggles for a moment, and told Gilia to try it. He
heard her gasp when she saw a slim pointed head of what seemed
sparkling quartz, filled with teeth like two curved rows of pyramidal
crystals.
   When they arrived at the bush it took the three biologists five minutes
to get over their awe, and two hours to film, record, and measure. Allan
volunteered to stand guard, and Kaylin and Gilia at first watched the three
men work. When they grew bored the visitors from Earth lowered their
goggles, and at once were standing in a fairyland beautiful beyond words.
Allan noticed the normal jungle noises slowly returning as the smaller
denizens resumed their interrupted nighttime routines. He kept his
infrared beam in constant motion, scanning both nearby trees and the
ground, but saw nothing dangerous.
   “If you could transport a section of this jungle back to Earth it would be
quite an attraction,” said Kaylin, bending to examine a closed flower of
fragile beauty. A huge insect, with gossamer wings as large as Allan’s
hand, fluttered to a landing on the same bush. The C.M. stared at it,
utterly absorbed. Gilia uttered a low cry of appreciation.
  The three men finally finished, and Carlson replaced Allan as guard.
Using a field-sensitive meter Manabe had brought, Allan made a few
simple measurements of his own. He needed readings on the operating
current to the silver magnetic coils. The wind had been blowing
intermittently since their arrival and the speaker had uttered some
gibberish in the quiet periods, but no discernible words. Kaylin paid little
attention to the biological speaker after an initial inspection, but Gilia
seemed fascinated.
   It was the work of a minute to adjust the speaker and microphone on
the unit Allan and Manabe had prepared to operate on the very low plant
voltage. Manabe muttered that so little power would hardly move the
diaphragm, and started tying in a spare preamplifier stage on the input
side.
   Allan was carefully checking the wire in the silver coils; it was insulated
by a layer of silicon-based tissue only a few molecules thick. The upper
wires emerged from a layer of metallic bark, formed the coils, and
disappeared beneath the bark of the lower limb. Allan scraped off
insulation and connected the leads from his input speaker on both sides of
one coil. A breeze had started and there was no current flowing at the
moment. He hesitated, and then hooked the leads from his microphone to
the opposite coil in the same way. This was the procedure in which he had
the least confidence. The plant should learn quickly that the diaphragm in
the new speaker had an automatic return to neutral, and the primitive
device of a magnetic coil on both sides was unnecessary. Whether or not it
could recognize signals coming in on what to it had been half of a
coordinated output was another matter.
  The breeze died, and almost immediately the receiving speaker on
Allan’s unit muttered some low static.
   There was a pause, and then the sound came again, a little louder; the
leaf-speaker was also rattling. Allan took a measured risk. He quickly
clipped the tiny wires below his attachments from the input speaker,
pulling the silver coil free. The speaker sounded again, now much
stronger. The noise continued for a moment while the sounds subtly
changed, gained form and substance, became syllables, became words.
The speaker said, “You have provided an air vibration device.”
  Allan felt his heart thumping, and knew his hands were trembling. He
heard a harsh intake of air as someone resumed breathing, but the other
humans were locked in silence. He reached and cut the silver wires to the
plant’s second coil, laying it on the ground. Bending his face to the
microphone that would feed a signal to whatever circuitry existed inside
the plant, he said, “Yes, we have provided you with an air vibration device,
called a ‘speaker.’ This signal is generated by a similar device called a
‘microphone’.”
   The plant was silent, and he repeated the message. There was no doubt
of the plant’s intelligence, but seeing how quickly it could recognize the
incoming signal and interpret the content would be a measure of its
adaptability. Allan knew a moment of near exaltation when the speaker
said,
   “I have made the necessary changes to accept your signal. With the two
air vibration devices you have provided we may now freely communicate.”
   There was a low murmur from the three biologists, and Gilia laughed;
she sounded on the verge of hysteria. Allan had not realized until then how
great the tension had become, or that Carlson was neglecting his guard
duty. There were so many questions it was difficult to know where to start.
He finally settled on the most basic of all and asked, “What have you been
trying to tell us with your improvised speaker?”
  “My extraction roots cannot cross beneath the killing barrier you have
placed around the local supply of silver. The next source is far away, and I
must expend great energy to transport from there. Help me. Remove the
barrier.”
  “Ask it why it needs the silver!” Cappy said quickly.
   Allan did, and the voice replied, “I am a multiple-body entity. All forms
such as the one before you are a part of my Unity. Each form in the circle
of my being connects with all others through a system of underground
nerves made of silver protected by my tissue. All young growing parts
require silver for the communications and storage matrix that exists in
every individual. I must have more silver for young growths in this area.”
  “Conscience! Ask it if all its individual forms are identical in structure!”
Carlson demanded, unable to restrain himself.
   The voice they were hearing was toneless and mechanical, without
inflection or intonation other than pauses for periods. The excited
scientist had spoken loudly enough for the microphone to pick him up.
The monotonous voice said, “All my parts are not identical. Some are
grown to produce electricity which is distributed to all. Others grow with
trunks much larger than the one before you. The extra space in these is
supplied with silver in matrix form and used for the storage of
accumulated knowledge. Unity draws upon any part as necessary.”
  “How did you learn to speak English?” demanded Kaylin loudly. Allan
had forgotten the politician was there. He looked at Gilia. Her lovely face
was almost ecstatic with the joy of discovery. She felt his stare, lifted her
rapt gaze to meet his, and Allan experienced a sudden and intense
moment of sadness. This woman should have become a Conscience.
Instead she would finish her government-paid honeymoon and become a
politician’s wife on Earth. It seemed a terrible waste’ of obvious talent.
   “All my individual forms have leaves sensitive to slow vibrations
transmitted through the air. Other leaves and roots are sensitive to
temperature-electrical potential-touch and kinesthetics. I am aware of my
own structure down to the level you think of as molecular. When your
vibrations appeared in the air I realized they were a new form of slow
communication. I transformed all slow vibrations to the faster ones that
could be stored in my memory and accumulated them. Analysis revealed
the structure of the communication and over several years I slowly learned
the meaning of individual words. When I felt ready to communicate I
changed the growth pattern of the form before you to create an air
vibration device. It is of poor quality, and I have had difficulty in
producing the correct sounds. The one you have provided is much more
efficient. The signaling device you have attached to my nerves enables me
to receive your communication in the electrical form which is acceptable
without transformation.”
  “Why did you operate your air vibration device only at night?” asked
Cappy Doyle.
   There was a moment of silence. Allan sensed that the question posed a
strain for the plant’s still limited vocabulary. After a moment the speaker
said, “I do not possess the quality you think of as intelligence when my
forms are receiving sunlight. All my sensors and storage banks function,
but the Unity that is speaking to you does not exist while each individual
form accumulates energy. When the sunlight ends and the energy cycle
reverses Unity resumes from the previous night.”
   Crystal had several small continents, but only one in the temperate
zone; most of the planet’s surface was hidden beneath water or ice. Unity
was restricted to one plant form on the single warm land mass. So far as
Allan knew this creature, like its world, was unique. It was not only the
first intelligent plant, it was the first lifeform that covered an entire
continent with what must be millions of interconnected individuals.
  Unity spoke again; “Will you remove the barrier and permit my roots to
reach the silver I need?”
   “Certainly!” and “Of course!” Cappy and Allan said simultaneously. They
glanced at each other, and Allan gestured for Cappy to speak. The thin
biologist said, “Tomorrow we will deactivate small sections of our barrier
at frequent intervals around the circle. You may send roots in through all
of them. If it would help you, we will bring pure silver here.”
  “I cannot utilize the process you call smelting,” Unity replied. “My roots
must absorb silver as it is found in small quantities in the natural state.
Open places in the barrier will serve my needs.”
   “Hadn’t we better be getting back?” Kaylin asked suddenly. “You people
are paying no attention to guarding us, and I don’t want one of those
glass-toothed monsters taking a bite out of Gilia.”
    “Celal!” Gila protested immediately. “I’ve never been so enthralled in my
life!”
   The C.M. was right; they were being inexcusably careless. Allan glanced
at Cappy, who nodded. “We will return tomorrow night and talk with you
again,” Allan said into the microphone.
   “You have learned a great deal from listening to us; we wish to learn
from you. In return we will provide you with better access to our
knowledge, which is greater perhaps than you can store in your memory
trees. For now we will say good-bye.”
   “Good-bye,” said Unity, its voice toneless. The term could have no
meaning for a creature whose separate parts were always connected by an
electrical system, but Unity had learned something of human customs
during its eavesdropping.
  Allan disconnected his leads from the silver nerves, examined the
delicate wires, and decided not to attempt to replace the fragile magnetic
coils. After he left, Cappy could provide Unity with a permanent
communications system, wired directly into the research station.
   There were no attacks by carnivores on the return trip. Allan glanced at
his chronometer as they entered the door, and saw to his amazement that
it was barely midnight on Crystal. The slow walk and the talk with Unity
had seemed to last many hours. The Kaylins said good night and retired to
their quarters immediately, but Allan and the three biologists gathered in
the deserted community room for some shop talk. Allan’s decision was a
foregone conclusion—Crystal could not be colonized or turned into a
vacation resort for the rich—but there was no harm in the research station
remaining indefinitely. Cappy wanted Allan to press for a larger
appropriation in his report, and he had no choice but to agree. The P.P.
budget and that of the research group were determined by different
Council agencies, but a recommendation by a Conscience always carried
weight.
  At the community breakfast Allan learned to his surprise that the
Kaylins were leaving that morning. The Space Service neverlander that
had brought them was waiting overhead, and the C.M. wanted to make
several other stops on planets where P.P.s were at work.
   The Kaylins left to pack, and Allan started preparing his preliminary
report. He had another week before a neverlander scheduled for Earth
would stop for him, a week to enjoy honest gravity without the constant
side-pull of rotation. He wanted to get this decision off and enjoy it.
  When Kaylin and Gilia were ready Allan and Cappy carried their
luggage to the planetary shuttle, waiting in a clear area behind the station.
The C.M. stood fidgeting as the pilot stored their gear, something
obviously troubling him. When the compartment door was sealed and it
was time to board, Kaylin abruptly said, “I hope you two don’t really think
you’ve fooled me all that easily.”
   Allan felt a sudden coldness along his spine. Cappy looked a startled
inquiry at Kaylin. “Oh, I don’t really blame you for trying to preserve the
P.P. Corps, Allan, or Cappy for wanting his budget enlarged. Everyone
does it, though not many come up with as elaborate a game as you two
played last night. But if you think I really believed all that about an
intelligent plant that covers this continent , . . gentlemen, I’m not that
naive!”
   Allan saw the expression of half-angry cynicism on Kaylin’s dark face,
the weary look of a man subject to constant pressures who had learned not
to believe even his own eyes. The C.M. went on, “It couldn’t have been very
hard to make those coils and that bent leaf, and of course someone was
hiding in the jungle and speaking into a mike on the other end of those
silver wires. I’ll admit it was very impressive, and Gilia certainly enjoyed
the show, but I’m not convinced.”
   “Celal!” cried Gilia, distress in her voice. Kaylin patted her hand, and
turned and started climbing the steep metal ladder to the airlock. She
stared after him, perplexed, and Allan saw the struggle on her face as she
tried to decide if her husband was right. The battle was quickly resolved.
She impulsively stepped to Allan, took his hand, and said rapidly, “I’ll
work on him; between now and home I have four weeks in which to
change his mind. He’s doing you an injustice, but I hope you can forgive
him. If you saw some of the schemes people pull to trick him, you’d
understand.”
   Allan bent and kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry about it. I’lll be at that
hearing when it convenes. I’ve an idea I think will convince both Celal and
all the other committee members that we’re worth our money.”
  Gilia turned and quickly followed Kaylin. She waved at the airlock door,
then disappeared inside. Allan and Cappy moved back to watch the shuttle
lift off, then walked to the station in silence.
  “I’ll be going back to the speaker plant tonight, and I’d like to go alone,”
Allan said as they entered. Cappy gave him a sharp look, but said nothing.
   Shortly after dark Allan was on his way through the now familiar but
always dangerous jungle, laser ready in his hand. This time he reached the
Cryer without incident, and carefully connected the speaking device to the
silver nerves.
  “Are you ready to communicate?” Allan asked into the microphone.
  “I am ready. I have found the inactive areas in the vibration barrier.
Some of my roots are already near the silver.”
   “Good; I hope the harm we have done you will be swiftly overcome,”
Allan said. “I have a question that is very important to me. Can you
impress enough knowledge on one of your storage forms to enable it to
live, speak and think as if it was a small version of Unity?”
   There was a short silence, as though electrical impulses were rushing
from nerve center to nerve center, through a million plants and across an
entire continent. The speaker said, “I can accomplish this within twelve
activity periods.”
  “Will you do this for me, and allow me to remove that individual and
take it to my home planet, if I guarantee that it will be returned and
reconnected into the Unity unharmed?”
  This time the silence was shorter. The speaker said, “I will.”
   Allan lowered his goggles and looked at the dazzling beauty of Crystal
for the first time that night. All the desk bound committee members
should have come with their chairman. But perhaps they would be like
Kaylin, unable to believe their eyes and ears.
  Unity had said it understood the structure of its forms down to the
molecular level. Introducing a plant as a hearing witness, and having it
submit obviously valuable new knowledge as a justification for the work of
the P.P. Corps, was a means of bringing something of Crystal to the
committee.
  Allan chuckled; this was going to make his trip to Earth far more
enjoyable than anticipated.
                                    - 12 -
  As seemed customary for Allan, the planetary shuttle landed at the
Interworld Spaceport in Lausanne just as dawn was breaking. He would
have been starting his sleep period aboard the neverlander. There was
nothing to do but take a circadian disassociation pill and resign himself to
a miserable day. At least the aircar from the hotel was waiting, with the
open top that he had requested. It was all he and the driver could do to lift
and carry the huge pot containing Cryer and forty kilograms of his native
soil, but they managed it. Allan had to ask the operator to fly at the
minimum legal speed, to keep the pressure of the wind off the plant. At
the Interplanetary Hotel he could only fit into the freight elevator, but
within an hour after landing Cryer was absorbing sunlight from the
old-fashioned balcony outside Allan’s window.
  “Are you comfortable?” Allan asked, wishing he could take a nap
instead of reporting to Siggi Wilson.
  “I am comfortable. The air is cold and has too much oxygen, but is
acceptable. The sunlight is wonderful! I shall sleep and absorb.”
   Allan chuckled. Cryer, separated from the Unity plant and undergoing
unique learning experiences, was developing an identity and attributes of
his own. One advantage to Allan was that the plant’s voice was no longer
the dull monotone he had heard on Crystal. This tree was somewhat larger
than the one which had made that first crude speaker, and contained
within its thick trunk a detached portion of the entity’s central nervous
system. A great deal of accumulated knowledge had been impressed on
this portable segment. It was the closest the multiform plant could come
to providing an individual containing the basics of its own intelligence
and personality. A highly sensitive speaker and receiver unit had been
incorporated in the base of the tub. Cryer could hear and talk almost as
well as a human.
   As Allan closed the balcony door, his chime sounded. He glanced at the
screen by the room entrance, and saw the familiar gray hair and rugged
features of Siggi B. Wilson, Lieutenant General (Ret.), Space Service, now
Administrator of the Corps of Practical Philosophers. Since individual
P.P.s were usually called “Conscience” as a title of respect, the
Administrator was referred to as the “Chief Conch.” No one called Siggi
Wilson that to his face.
   “Allan! Man, it’s good to see you! Why are you late? This is the last day
of the hearing and it’s going to be touch and go for us,” the big man said
as soon as the door opened. “We’ve got two Conservationist subcommittee
members on our side, but the third one, Kellog, is wavering; and the two
New Romans are naturally against us. So is Chairman Kaylin, but we hope
he won’t get a chance to vote. Today we have to convince at least the
leaner that we’re worth our money, or that resolution to abolish us is
going to reach the floor of the World Council.”
   Allan liked the blunt-talking Administrator, whom be had several times
spoken to on the subspace radio but never met. Wilson was the third
retired military general officer to hold the appointment. Allan felt sorry for
any man in the Corps or Space Service who had been permanently
anchored to a desk on Earth. Still, he disliked the whole bureaucratic
tangle of politics and administration, and being immediately thrust into
the midst of it grated on his nerves. He was late because of the time it had
taken the plant entity to impress a full set of memories on the matrix of
Cryer.
  But he was here, and had to be effective if he could. “What’s our
approach? Are we still taking the high road of moral imperative, or has it
got down to justifying our existence by the knowledge we produce?”
   “Both, but with the emphasis on knowledge. The big complaint is that
we cost money by isolating rich worlds, while supplying nothing of value in
return. If we can prove that we’ve more than paid for ourselves, in the
same manner as the research outfits, we’ve spiked their best gun. So far
the other field men and the administrative staff haven’t convinced them. I
want you to be prepared to speak on every planet you’ve opened to
colonization. Negative decisions aren’t very popular these days. The New
Romans are claiming we’ve cost the Colonization Department at least
three good planets without adequate reasons.”
  “When does the hearing start?”
  “It resumes at two this afternoon. I’d like to go over your material with
you this morning.”
   Allan threw a regretful glance at the untouched bed, sighed, and dug
out his presentation. It contained a summary for verbal delivery and a
detailed back-up for handouts. Wilson, aware that few committee
members would read the details, concentrated on the summary. After a
few minutes he looked up and said, “Why, you’ve spent most of your time
talking about a single lifeform on a world humans can never colonize!”
  “True, but I authorized the present research station to stay and expand,
provided they arrange for the plant entity to have free access to the silver.
Our gain will be in knowledge, as I’ve explained.”
   “Allan, trying to impress a committee of politicians with technical
knowledge that might be useful twenty years from now is a waste of time.
They think in terms of more efficient spaceships, raw materials returned
to Earth—though we all know transportation costs limit those to extremely
valuable items—that sort of thing. I don’t think this will help our cause.”
   “We don’t have time to change it now,” Allan said calmly. Siggi got to
his feet, looking tired and old. “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said quietly.
“You’d need to start over. Do the best you can to make it interesting; at
least try to keep them awake.”
  The Administrator walked out, not bothering to take a copy with him.
Allan had been going to explain that he had a live witness who would
certainly keep the subcommittee members from sleeping off their lunches,
but let Siggi go. Five minutes later he was in bed, and when the hotel
service computer called him at noon he arose hungry and refreshed. He
dressed, punched out a lunch order on his room console, and stepped out
on the balcony to check on Cryer.
  The plant was gone.
    Allan almost felt the shock send adrenaline surging into his
bloodstream. He stood frozen, mind racing as he tried to weigh
possibilities. The New Romans had the dedicated zeal of the fanatic, and
were not above sabotage to gain their political ends. But they would have
no way of knowing the importance of Cryer, or that Allan’s testimony
centered on him. Or would they? If someone on the neverlander had
scanned his report during the tedious months between Crystal and Earth .
. . legally no one could be a murderer for destroying Cryer, and without
him Allan’s presentation was as useless as Siggi obviously considered it.
He had to have the dramatic impact of having a talking plant with him
when he appeared before the subcommittee.
  The hotel guard system would have registered the presence of an
unauthorized aircar outside his window. Cryer had been removed
manually. Since the strong sunlight would have placed him deep in the
condition that approximated sleep for the plant, he would have made no
outcry. And possibly he had died and his body been fed into a disposal
without awakening.
   The thought enraged Allan. It also forced into conscious recognition the
fact that he had come to like, even admire, a plant. Cryer represented a
strange intellect, a product of conditions, aims, and interests almost
incomprehensible to a human. And yet they shared a common bond of life
and mind, and that bond was stronger than their differences. He had to
save the plant if it was not already too late.
  Allan needed help. He placed an emergency call to Siggi Wilson and
reached him immediately at his office in Geneva. There was no time to
explain the situation and the importance of Cryer. Allan invoked one of
the bureaucratic privileges he despised and asked for a Declaration of
Emergency.
  The Administrator reached for a button on his executive console, but
paused before pressing it. Face deeply troubled, he said, “I’ll have to
account for a false alarm, Allan.”
  “This is real. I need a search party with Right of Entry, immediately. I
accept full responsibility.”
  Siggi pressed the button. In under fifteen minutes an aircar landed on
the hotel roof and six men in the gray uniforms of Council Security rode
the fast elevator to Allan’s floor. He met them in the corridor and quickly
explained the situation. Within four minutes teams were at the doors of
the rooms with balconies both above and below Allan’s. On the five minute
mark they placed vibration charges against the doors and activated them.
When the plastic panels disintegrated they stepped inside, dartguns ready.
   Allan had accompanied the team going to the upper floor, as the most
likely prospect. The room they entered was empty. A quick radio check
with the other team revealed equally bad results. If Allan’s guess of the
thieves’ location was correct, they had already fled.
  Allan stepped out on the balcony of the deserted room. The noon sun
was shining over the low railing at an angle that threw the northside
juncture of floor and riser into sharp relief. He saw a glitter of silver and
mica grains in the interstice.
   Heart starting to pound again, Allan hurried inside and punched the
console for registration. When the house brain refused to supply the
information he wanted he turned it over to one of the security men, who
used his override card to obtain an answer. The room they were in had
been charged to the number of the Acme Detective Agency. Mr. John
Dassinkar, who had been registered in a room just down the hail for two
days, was using an Acme charge card for his visiphone calls.
   World Council Security was the only legal force authorized to carry
arms in the international zone around Lake Geneva, but innumerable
private detective agencies performed quasi-legal work for every competing
national and private interest. When caught, their actions could be
disavowed. When the vibration charge disintegrated the door of John
Dassinkar’s room they discovered he was not one of the wiser operators.
He had a dartgun, and used it. The first security man through the door
fell, unconscious in seconds from nerve shock. The second went through
the opening at a sharp angle and got off one shot before be followed the
first to the floor. The third got Dassinkar.
  When Allan stepped inside he saw a small plump Nordic about his own
age stretched unconscious on the rug. A husky young Indian stood a few
meters away, arms self-consciously high in surrender. Cryer was in a
corner, apparently unharmed.
  Allan hurried to the plant, and saw at once that the silver nerves to the
speaker unit in the tub had been broken. He searched in the sandy soil for
the tiny insulated roots, and finally saw them. They had moved to the
opposite side of the tub, and now trailed over the edge. He pulled the plant
away from the wall, and saw the tiny threads snap at the metal rim.
Curious, Allan found the almost invisible nerves on the floor and followed
them. They led to the communications jack into which the room console
plugged. One wire had already slipped between the plug and the wail; the
other was just starting to enter.
   Allan had learned that Cryer and all his fellow units had sensors that
provided information on temperature, movement and kinesthesia,
electrical potential in both air and ground, vibration, and touch. Precisely
how these interacted to provide information on the environment, and how
the limited “brain” of Cryer interpreted it to form a picture, was
impossible for a creature conditioned to visual imagery to understand.
The Unity on Crystal had managed not only to recognize the vibrations of
spoken words as communication, but constructed a device to imitate
them. It had also learned English. The poor quality of the organic speaker
had been due to the difficulty of execution, not the concept. Cryer, when
taken out of the sunlight, had somehow awakened and realized he was in
unfriendly hands. The plant had extended his fast-growing roots, not back
to the speakers which his kidnapers had disconnected, but to the house
communication system. Obviously he had planned to call Allan for help.
   As he worked rapidly to reconnect the nerve ends to the speaker unit
Allan heard the remaining security men calling the other team on their
reserved radio channel. When they arrived, Allan arranged to have a
second aircar come for the paralyzed men on the floor, and
commandeered the available one for himself and Cryer. Within ten
minutes they were airborne and headed for the Council Building, looming
like a rectangular metal mountain across the long blue lake.
  Allan glanced at his chronometer, and could hardly believe his eyes.
They were arriving several minutes early.
   The hearing room was far from crowded, though a few spectators were
seated on the front rows. Allan recognized a small but lush figure among
them, and felt his breath come faster. It was Gilia Kaylin. The short blonde
woman saw him at the same time and waved, but did not smile. Allan had
a sudden hunch she not only had not succeeded in changing her husband’s
mind about the discovery on Crystal, but had suffered second thoughts
herself. Apparently he had lost an ally.
   Chairman Kaylin and two committee members were sitting behind
old-style oak tables on a raised platform at the head of the room. Siggi
Wilson, who met Allan at the door, whispered that these were the two New
Romans. Unless all three Conservationist members returned for the
afternoon session a tie vote could occur, giving Kaylin the final say. And
there was no doubt in Allan’s mind how the young Turk would vote.
   Allan and Cryer had caused a buzz of conversation when they entered,
Allan pulling the beautiful glass and silver plant on a low truck borrowed
from the hotel. A Tri-D camera on a long boom swung in for a closer look
at the small tree from Crystal. Allan saw the operator in a booth at the
rear of the room, speaking into his microphone. Despite the lack of live
attendance this hearing was being broadcast on the networks. And
although no less than five-thousand live channels were available to a Tri-D
viewer every day, it was quite probable a fair audience was watching this
hearing. The P.P. Corps had been founded with little opposition, but eight
years of work by a growing number of Consciences had made them a very
controversial agency. The Conservationists, with a small majority in the
Council, could probably beat a motion to disband the Corps. The party
leaders did not want the move to get that far. Siggi Wilson had been
informed it was best this effort be nipped at the committee level.
   It was an unfortunate bit of bad luck that had enabled the New Romans
to capture the chairmanship of this standing investigation committee. All
such posts were distributed among Council parties by lot, the number in
proportion to the party’s elected representation. The New Romans were an
amalgam of several older highly conservative parties, and the only one
large enough to seriously challenge the Conservationists. Since committee
memberships were also distributed in proportion to representation, the
leading party had a majority on every committee; but if even one member
was out the scales could tip the minority way.
  As Allan seated himself in the witness section there was another stir at
the door, and the Tri-D camera lifted and swung that way. He turned and
saw a tall, grim-faced, very pot-bellied man entering, preceded by a
red-haired guard in Council Security uniform. A retinue of aides followed
behind. The handsome features and shock of gray hair, standing up like
dried wheat, were unmistakable. Siggi Wilson, who was sitting by Allan,
groaned softly. “Space save us! It’s Blankenship!”
  Even Allan was not too out of touch with Earth to recognize the
Minority Leader of the New Roman party, Council Member Blankenship of
North America. The opposition had brought out their biggest gun for this
attempt to shoot down the P.P. Corps.
                                  - 13 -
   The Minority Leader and his followers settled into the spectator seats.
Evidently he was there only to lend the weight of his commanding
presence, not testify. Allan turned back to the front of the room. It was
almost time for the hearing to start. A door opened on the right side and
three men entered, talking among themselves. Siggi Wilson gave a big sigh
of relief, and Allan realized these had to be the three Conservationists.
Now they had at least a fighting chance. Wilson whispered to Allen that
Kellog, the key to the vote, was the man in the lead. The others were
Hartley and Dao Chi.
   Promptly at two o’clock Chairman Kaylin lifted his gavel and declared
the committee in session. Allan was the final witness, his appearance
having been slid to the end when he was late. When his name was called
Allan rose and walked to the table just below the committee’s, pulling
Cryer behind him. Kaylin’s dark face stared down at him without
expression, but Allan thought he detected a concealed dislike. It was going
to be hard to convince the chairman he had made an error on Crystal; he
resented the fact Allan was even going to try.
  Allan had no intention of trying to change Kaylin’s mind, or that of any
New Roman. If he could convince that one Conservationist who was
wavering he would have done his job.
   “Welcome to Earth, Conscience Odegaard,” and Kaylin, his smooth
voice even and pleasant. “I see you’ve brought one of those beautiful trees
from Crystal with you. This one looks a little larger than the one you
rigged with a speaker for our benefit that night you were our escort. Are
you saying now that you’ve found a second tree that can make a speaker
out of leaves and talk to us?”
   Allan had been prepared for skepticism, but the context in which Kaylin
framed his remarks put him immediately on the defensive. He had been
accused of being a charlatan even before he opened his mouth. Alan took a
deep breath, nerved himself, and took the plunge. “No, Mr. Chairman, I
am making no such claim. This p1ant, which I call Cryer, has both a
microphone and a speaker built into the tub, both of our manufacture.
What I say instead is that the intelligence animating the sound system is
that of Cryer. Neither the P.P. Corps nor the scientists on Crystal have
done anything whatever to this plant, other than install it in this tub and
hook up its nerves to the sound system.”
   “We will let that statement stand for the moment, subject to later
challenge,” said Kaylin, his voice calm and deliberate. “To move on to
more immediate matters, what are the claims for this plant that you wish
to present to us? Why have you brought it, and of what possible benefit
can it be to anyone other than perhaps the biologists already studying it
on Crystal?”
   Kaylin had unwittingly given Allan a good opening. “Mr. Chairman, let
me clarify a point there before I start the more technical part of my
presentation. You ask what benefit Cryer can be to anyone other than a
biologist. What I want to emphasize here is that the biologists on Crystal,
though fine men and top scientists, did not find Cryer. I did. And of course
I was able to do this by my training on Earth and eight years of experience
in the field. Cryer, and the larger plant of which he is a detached part,
form the strangest lifeform we have encountered on any of the thousand
planets we have explored. Only the P.P. Corps has personnel with the
training and experience to locate and identify these very different
lifeforms.”
  “That’s a personal opinion, Conscience, not the type of hard data we are
seeking here,” Kaylin said swiftly. Allan noticed that the other five
committee members had sensed the enmity between chairman and
witness and were paying close attention. The small audience in the room
behind him listened in silence.
   “I understand that all testimony made today is subject to later
confirmation, Mr. Chairman,” said Allan. “But I submit that my special
training and work on previous cases is the type of firm data you are
seeking, not a matter of opinion. I merely wish to establish that a regular
extresbiologist does not possess the particular qualifications required of a
Conscience. I make no claim that one is superior to the other. What I hope
to help prove today is that both are needed.”
   “This committee has been assigned the responsibility to determine that,
Conscience Odegaard. Please leaves the decision to us. Now we would like
to have your presentation.”
   “Certainly, sir. I have a detailed report here, with sufficient copies for all
committee members and a few for the news media. The basic report is
preceded by a nontechnical summary, which I trust you will all find
interesting. What I wish to show you today is from the detailed section,
but simplified for easier verbal presentation.”
   The five committee members were still following Allan with alert
attention, and Siggi Wilson’s fear that they might have difficulty staying
awake was unfounded. Allan noticed they glanced at their chairman more
often than seemed necessary, and then back to him. The unspoken conflict
had brought an unexpected liveliness to the proceedings.
   “Mister Chairman, you were with us on the night we first established
communication with Cryer, and heard the first exchanges. If you will
search your memory you will recall that the plant stated it understood its
own metabolism down to the molecular level. What my report states, sir,
is that despite all our advances this is an area of biology about which we
remain woefully ignorant. The means by which roots absorb inorganic
salts from the soil, for example, are reasonably well understood. But most
roots are able to augment their salt absorption by energy-expending
processes, and these have defied analysis. Cryer has explained the means
to me, and it is in my report. The effects on the science of biology would
have justified a Nobel Prize, if acquired in original research. We have
received the knowledge free. It will greatly aid a hundred colonies growing
Earth-type plants on alien soils, as well as our food industry on Earth.
Another example is the regulation of the lengthwise growth of individual
cells in the growing parts of a plant, which enables it to grow upward
regardless of the position of the seed, or even a chance in stem position.
The three phytohormones, auxin a, auxin b, and heteroauxin, have long
been recognized as controlling factors. I can now report plants have a
fourth phytohormone, which determines the rate of growth. I believe it
has escaped detection to date because its chemical structure is very
similar to several substances found in the cytoplasm of many plant cells. I
submit that by producing this phytohormone in quantity we can regulate
the growth rate of many of our food plants. I need not point out how this
will help us obtain the maximum possible amount of food off each
cultivated area. And there is much more we have learned, which is here in
my report. I submit that it is only a small beginning, though, and the real
rewards of being able to ask questions directly of an intelligent plant are
still to come.”
  Allan paused, and finished by saying, “That is all the verbal
presentation I wish to make, but I will answer questions if you have any.”
   One of the committee members leaned forward. Alan recognized him as
one of the two New Romans. “I have a question, Conscience,” he said,
speaking very loudly into his microphone. “I majored in biology in college,
and I haven’t forgotten everything I learned. My question, is, how do you
expect to prove all the incredible statements you’ve made here this
afternoon?”
  Kaylin smiled, and there was a nervous female laugh from the small
audience. Allan thought he recognized the voice. He looked the committee
member in the eyes and said, “I brought a second witness to testify to my
truthfulness, sir. May I present Cryer, native of the planet of Crystal,
whom I am proud to call my friend. Cryer is a small reproduction of the
multibody plant that grows throughout the entire temperate continent on
Crystal. His vocabulary is still somewhat limited, but if you will confine
your questions to the biological area he will probably understand them.”
   “Very well, Conscience, I’ll play your game for the moment,” the man
replied, and addressed a few elementary questions on biological science to
Cryer. When they were answered correctly he sat back and folded his
hands. Allan noted with approval that Cryer’s voice, while still lacking
intonation and shading, was reasonably pleasing.
  “Conscience, how are we supposed to know there isn’t a radio in that
pot?” Kaylin demanded, his voice reflecting the weary cynicism he had
shown on Crystal. “Or more subtle and less detectable, a point-focus
broadcast to the speaker that couldn’t be found afterward by our security
people. Frankly, sir, this little charade is even less convincing than the one
you staged for us on Crystal. I thought the little leafspeaker a far more
original trick.”
   Allan pushed back his chair and rose. Looking directly in the committee
chairman’s face, but knowing that he was actually speaking to Kellog, he
said, “Mr. Chairman and committee members, you have heard a voice I
think you recognize as nonhuman. You have before you a detailed report
on new knowledge just acquired that will have important effects on our
lives. I think you will grant me that if the hardest part of my testimony to
accept is true, the rest must be also. The hardest part is, of course, the
idea that you see before you an intelligent plant. And yet that is precisely
the easiest part of my testimony to prove, and I will be happy to do so.
Subject only to the provision that he be well cared for, I will turn Cryer
over to this committee, to examine and question as long as you wish. You
may place him in a radio frequency shielded room. You may take him up
in a plane, down in a sub, or out in space, if you wish. You may examine
his sound system, and trace the small silver wires you will find to where
they enter his body. You may isolate him from possible trickery in any way
whatever that you may desire, and he will still speak with you. And that, I
submit, will prove beyond any doubt that all I have said is true.”
  “I don’t think any such elaborate test program will be necessary,
Conscience,” Kaylin said, his voice very cold and formal. “You may take
your plant with you.”
  “I quite agree with you, Celal,” said the Conservationist Hartley,
speaking for the first time. “In fact I move the question be called, right
now. Let’s find out who thinks the Conscience is lying, and who doesn’t.”
   For the first time during the hearing Allan saw genuine anger on the
chairman’s dark face. Kaylin said, his voice sharp, “I would like to remind
the member from the U.K. that voting on the question is scheduled as the
last order of business today.”
  “Yes, and I’m ready now,” Hartley replied, smiling slightly. “Then we
can go home. Question! Question!”
  Dao Chi joined the call. Under the parliamentary procedures by which
Council committees operated, Kaylin had no choice but to put the
question.
  The chairman slowly read the formal resolution that said the committee
recommended the World Council abolish the Corps of Practical
Philosophers. “All in favor, say aye,” Kaylin finished.
  The two New Romans looked at each other, and muttered low “ayes.”
Allan was watching the Conservationists; neither man opened his mouth.
  “All opposed, nay,” said Kaylin, his voice cold and remote, as though he
had no interest in the answer.
  Kellog voted with Hartley and Dao Chi to kill the resolution.
  “I declare this meeting adjourned,” said Kaylin. “Committee members
with specific inputs for the report may see me in my office.” He tapped his
gavel sharply on the table, rose, and walked from the room.
  Allan, who was still standing behind the witness table, turned and faced
the audience. He had not been worried about the outcome since Hartley
called for the vote. The Conservationist had felt certain Allan’s testimony
had returned the wavering member to the fold. And he had been right.
   Siggi Wilson was hurrying toward Allan, rugged features beaming and
hand outstretched. Allan saw someone in the small audience with whom
he was more concerned at the moment. Gilia Kaylin was walking rapidly
toward the door, tears in her eyes and a look of controlled anger on her
lovely ‘face. Then Siggi was pumping his hand, and some other members
of the Corps staff were crowding around to congratulate him. He
mumbled his thanks, excused himself, and hurried after Gilia, catching
her in the corridor.
   She stopped when he touched her elbow, and turned to face him. The
tears had been wiped away, and the anger had subsided. “I’m sorry,
Allan,” she said immediately. “After I left you on Crystal I tried to get Celal
to believe it wasn’t a trick, but I couldn’t get through to him. Instead he
made me doubt you, at least a little, and doubt my own judgment. I won’t
make that mistake again.”
  “I wanted to tell you something I should have said on Crystal,” Allan
replied, searching for the right words. This woman was married to
another man, even though on a trial basis. He had met her only once and
that time briefly; she should not be affecting him so strongly. “I wanted to
say you would have made a fine Conscience. You have the sensitivity, the
open mind . . . the benefits that might not mean much to some people
would be rich rewards to you, as they are for most of us in the Corps. I
wish it could have been.”
   “I do too. Oh, do I! But the qualifications are so hard, and I’m a poor
student.. . is it too late, Allan? I’m going to leave Celal today, that’s why I
was half-crying. I overhead some talk, I know Blankenship was counting
on him to get that resolution to the floor. The New Romans know they
don’t have the votes to actually kill the P.P. Corps, but they wanted to
force a floor debate and dramatize how many planets have been lost to
settlement. If he had succeeded, Celal would have been next in line for the
whip’s post in the party, and a lot of people say he would have been a good
bet to replace Blankenship eventually. All that’s ruined now. And he knows
I hated what he was doing, and we’ve been quarreling about it, and now
I’m going. Allan . . . I’ve got a deferred vacation coming. Would you like to
spend a month in the Martian Red Desert Resort with me?”
   The unexpected question caught Alan completely off guard. For a
moment he could only gape at her. He also had a vacation coming, in fact
had accumulated more of them than he could possibly take. Enough
people had qualified as P.P.s to relieve the shortage over the past few
years, and there was no need for him to rush back to work. “You know I’d
like that,” he finally said, hearing the tremble in his voice, “But are you
sure? Are you positive it’s over with Celal?”
   “It was over when he tried to force a vote without making any effort to
see if your testimony was truthful. He knew then he was wrong, had been
wrong all along, but instead of facing up to it he tried to rush the
committee to a wrong decision. He was hoping Kellog would abstain,
letting the chairman cast a tie-breaking vote. It would have been excellent
publicity for him. No, I don’t think he wants to see me again; it’s best we
part now. You’re in the Interplanetary? I’ll call you tomorrow.”
  She turned and hurried away. Allan understood the reason for the
sudden departure when a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and a
hearty voice said, “Allan, I see why you rushed off. I’m sorry to interrupt,
but I want to talk to you. Have you heard about the reorganization we
have on the boards?”
  Allan wrenched his mind away from the most pleasant vision it had
contemplated lately, and turned to face Siggi Wilson. “Reorganization?
Haven’t beard a word.”
   “Well, you know we’ve always kept the Corps lean and mean, especially
in the field staff where you have those rugged scholastic qualifications. But
we’re getting too big for our spacesuits, and the outfit’s hard to manage.
As of next month I get a deputy here, which I’ve needed all along, and
we’re going to set up three sector chiefs in the field. I want you to take one
of those slots, Allan. The duties would be fairly similar to your present
ones, except that you’d have a permanent base and be required to evaluate
the performance of your people. You would also intervene when a field
man gets overruled by a Space Service general, and try to settle the case
before it reaches the World Council. We’re getting too many appealed
decisions in here. The Council doesn’t like it, and the New Romans use
them against us. What do you say?”
   Allan did not have to think it over. As a sector chief he would be
working with even more different lifeforms than at present, and probably
visit more strange and unique planets. “I’ll take it!” he said aloud.
   “Good! Good! Then come by my office tomorrow and we’ll make it
official. And the wife and I will be expecting you for dinner tomorrow
night. She’s got the robochef programmed to use all those fancy spices
from Misery. Food like that you never tasted!”
   Allan felt a wry sense of incongruity at the thought of eating spices
picked by the Shamblers, but agreed. After a few more words Siggi left to
return to his office, in the Space Service building down the street. Allan
headed for the roof, where he caught an automatic aircar back to
Lausanne and the Interplanetary Hotel. He was debating whether or not
he wanted to look up Kay and visit his children. If she was in Europe he
would have time enough before tomorrow night.
  Allan neither attended the dinner nor saw his children. Gilia called him
early next morning. He spent a busy day making arrangements with
people he trusted to see that Cryer was safely returned to Crystal and
Cappy Doyle, to be recombined with Unity as he had promised, and that
night he and Gilia boarded the regular spacebus to Mars.
                                   - 14 -
  Allan and the eight other passengers gazed through the transparent
center aisle floor at the verdant surface of Beauty, visible as a green carpet
that seemed to cover most of this lovely planet. The pilot had extended the
folding wings of the shuttle and was landing it like an airplane. They had
been inside the atmosphere for several minutes, and had already shed
most of the heat accumulated during entry. Beauty had an unpaved but
adequate runway. On most planets Allan visited, the shuttles had to land
vertically on their quadruped legs.
   Allan was eager to experience full gravity again. It was a long trip,
almost two months, from his new “permanent” station on Arcturus IX to
this hospitable planet, circling a star known only by a number. He had
been a sector chief for almost a year, and had spent very little time at his
supposed “base.” The opposition to the P.P. Corps, which he had seen
growing steadily on Earth, had moved into space. Siggi Wilson had known
what he was doing in creating sector chiefs to try to resolve disputed
decisions in the field. Once they reached Earth, political considerations
became as important as the actual facts in the case. Allan felt certain at
least two worlds which should have remained closed had been opened to
colonization.
  On this planet Allan was going to have a very personal problem. The
Conscience whose work he was to check had been his wife for a year.
   Allan’s thoughts reverted to his more recent affair with Gilia Kaylin.
The month they had spent on Mars formed one of the best memories of his
life. Her trial contract with Celal Kaylin still had six months to run when
they left Earth together, and unlike the regular marriage agreement, a
trial license could not be terminated in less than a year. After the interlude
on Mars Gilia had signed up for the P.P. Corps, She was in school now,
and Allan had not heard from her in several months. There had been no
discussion of marriage between them. With both in the Corps, any real
married life was almost impossible.
   The shuttle touched down on a grassy runway. Allan saw that most of
the greenery he had admired from above did not grow very high, being
barely taller than the low craft he was riding. The pilot applied the brakes,
and the shuttle shuddered and veered to the side. He brought it back to
the center of the runway and it veered again; Allan saw the foamfab
domes of the colony just ahead. And the craft rolled to a stop, and Allan
violated protocol by unfastening the door and letting himself out without
waiting for the pilot. When he swung to the ground he saw a lovely figure
running toward him, arms outstretched. Behind her, several other people
were coming toward the shuttle at a more sedate pace.
  Secret Holmes was bare-breasted, and Allan felt his pulse quicken. She
was a trim blonde weighing barely forty-five kilograms in 1 G and only 148
centimeters tall. The short skirt she wore above low open-top boots was
made from vertical fibers covered by a thick but light fur, offering
tantalizing glimpses of bare skin as the strands curled and yielded to
admit the wind . . . and there was the explanation of Secret’s provocative
dress. The temperature was uncomfortably high, but strong, variable
breezes were always blowing, and they were pleasantly cool on exposed
skin.
   Secret ran into his welcoming arms, oblivious of the amused stares of
the other passengers, and they kissed hungrily and long. When she finally
pushed against his chest and he reluctantly let her go, the shuttle pilot was
opening the cargo hatch. There was a polite cough, and Secret turned to
introduce Allan to the colony administrator, a short, dark, plump man
named Pasquale Bartolini. He was surprisingly young for such a
responsible post, and had the typical political leader’s heartiness and
quick friendliness. He broke away to speak to a few other passengers, but
returned and accompanied them as Secret led Allan toward the round
buildings of High Hope.
   Beauty deserved its name. The gravity was just over 0.9 0, the sky a
clear blue without clouds, and the green of vegetation was everywhere.
There were no hardwoods visible, but a riot of ferns, brush, grass and
flowers, all plants that yielded and moved with the ever-present wind, hid
low rolling hills until they faded over the horizon. The tallest plants he saw
were a grove of flower-topped trees, strongly resembling Royal Palms, on
the crown of the next hill.
  Secret interrupted her own flow of small talk to say, “And
congratulations on your promotion to sector chief; among other benefits it
brought us together again. My decision was blocked by Brigadier General
Timothy Terhune, and the case is already on its way to the World Council.
But our beloved chief saw my report, and said it didn’t provide enough
data to be certain we’ll win. You’re supposed to find additional evidence to
back me up. And after you do, I hope the word will get around and the
military learn to keep its nose out of our decisions.”
   “The trend seems to be in the other direction,” said Allan, smiling. “But
I agree that this is a serious case. I’d like to at least examine the butterflies
before I say you were right though.”
  Secret laughed, and squeezed the arm to which she was clinging. Pat
Bartolini said, “I’m sure the decision was correct, but the local New
Roman leader happens to be Buck Terhune, the brother of the general.
Buck doesn’t much care about the facts involved, he’s determined to stay.
Not that any of us want to leave Beauty, but most settlers belong to the
Conservationist Party, and we try to apply what we believe, even when it
personally hurts.”
   They were at the outer edge of the raw new town of High Hope, and
Allan looked around with interest. All the round topped buildings were of
foamfab that had been poured to leave numerous openings to admit the
wind. Air-conditioning equipment was far too heavy to justify transport
charges. A few people were clearing away the heavy brush and pouring
new houses. The workers moved rather slowly, and most were as nearly
nude as Secret. They passed a large garden; he recognized several varieties
of Earth food crops, growing well among plants native to Beauty.
  Allan felt a vague unease. This colony had been established for more
than two Earth years, and he had seen more progress on far harsher
worlds after a few months. Evidently the heat kept the work efficiency low.
  Pat stopped before an open sliding door in a house near the center of
the small town. He gestured for them to enter.
   Allan stepped inside, and Pat introduced him to a blonde Amazon
named Astrid. The administrator’s wife was taller than her husband, and
wore only a skirt as short as Secret’s. Allan had to make a conscious effort
to keep from staring at her magnificent breasts. Women on Earth
practiced every conceivable style of dress and undress, but the colonial
worlds were usually more restrictive in their clothing habits.
   When her guests were seated in comfortable but immovable chairs,
Astrid walked into the kitchen area to prepare them drinks. There were no
partitions in the small house and all furniture was made of foamfab,
including a huge bed protruding from the wall below an adjustable
window. Although their hostess looked capable of breeding a multitude,
Allan saw no signs of children.
  The open interior, sliding doors, and numerous adjustable windows
enabled the occupants of one of these homes to channel and control the
varying winds of Beauty. These people were adjusting to their new world
rather than attempting to change it into another Earth, a good sign.
  Secret and Pat, frequently interrupting each other in their eagerness,
briefed Allan on Beauty’s largest native animal, its forty kilogram
butterfly.
   An hour later the foursome headed out of High Hope, following a trail
through the thick brush to the nearby hill where Allan had noticed the tall
flowers. As they approached the grove he estimated the plants at less than
two hundred in number, but they were wide-spaced and covered the
rounded hilltop.
  “We’re in luck; here comes a butterfly,” said Secret, pointing into the
sky.
   Allan lifted his gaze and saw a startlingly beautiful creature gliding
toward the grove, huge diaphanous wings curling and rippling as it lost
speed. Those wings extended well ahead of the narrow body and were a
burnt orange in color. They were laced with long black streaks of
contractile tissue, and had large yellow and white discs interspersed
throughout the orange. As the creature settled into an immense blossom
and out of sight, Allan saw a row of little grasping feet running the length
of body. The head, surprisingly large, was round as a ball and covered with
thick fur.
   “They can’t actually fly with the wings,” Secret said as they walked into
the grove. “They launch themselves into a strong breeze, glide to get back
into the jetstream, and ride those around and around the planet.”
   Allan had studied Beauty’s peculiar atmosphere during the long trip
from Arcturus. The planet rotated in fifteen hours, and had extremely
strong jetstreams around its equator and adjoining temperate zones.
These approached to within three kilometers of the ground. Below them
was a shallow region of high turbulence, and beneath that a slower but
more massive balancing flow of air in the opposite direction. At ground
level the many hills interrupted the even flow, while lakes and other areas
with temperature differentials created updrafts, breaking the bottom
stream into innumerable cross currents and ripples. There was no weather
prediction on Beauty; the air currents were too complex for analysis.
   Allan noticed that the varying breezes were gone, and they were
standing in a steady wind of more than usual intensity. The thick trunks of
the flower trees were all bending in the same direction. Pat noticed his
puzzlement, and said, “We’re in a windbore; you often get these on top of a
hill, and sometimes they blow steadily for half an hour.”
   Secret and Pat were scanning the tops of the tall plants as they walked.
“I think that one we saw land is the only butterfly here,” she said as they
neared the end of the grove. They turned back, picking their way carefully
through the underbrush. The steady wind of the bore, which had been at
their backs, now pushed against them. Allan found himself leaning
forward and walking with his head lowered. He was jarred erect by a loud
cry of warning from Pat, and raised his gaze just in time to see a flat green
disc as wide as his head flying toward him. It was spinning as it came,
turning at an angle that let it rise slightly in the wind. Before Allan could
dodge it hit him on the chest, and he saw thorns protruding from its
rounded rim. Some of them snagged in the cloth of his light jacket as the
wind whipped the flat body against him. Allan froze, and Pat called, “Turn
around! Quickly!”
   Allan did as directed, and the wind again caught the seed and ripped it
loose. He saw it dip toward the ground, then tilt and start rising again as
it disappeared. Pat and Secret hurried to him, alarm on their faces. Astrid
was a little behind them.
  “Did it sting you?” asked Pat. “That’s a sin-sin seed and the thorns are
poisonous!”
   Allan hastily shed his jacket and tunic and examined his chest. The two
layers of cloth had prevented the short thorns from reaching the skin. “I’m
all right. But where did that overlarge seed come from?”
   “That buth,” said Pat, pointing to a large one directly ahead. “This isn’t
the season for seed release, but one sometimes gets torn loose during a
bore. My mind was starting to ‘float’ and I didn’t watch where I was
leading you.”
  “I haven’t felt anything this time,” said Secret. Astrid nodded in
agreement.
   “When one of the butterflies wants to communicate it uses a form of
telepathy,” Secret explained to Allan. “That’s one reason the person being
contacted can’t prove he’s actually received info from the creatures. The
first indication is that you start to feel a little lightheaded, something like
the beginning of drunkenness. Only it doesn’t get any worse, and you start
receiving strong nonverbal sensory impressions.”
   “I was almost on the verge of understanding this one when I saw that
disc flying and was jarred out of contact,” said Pat, sounding irritated.
“Hey, there it goes!”
   The butterfly had launched itself into the air, great wings spread wide
to take the wind, and the steady breeze brought it directly toward them.
As it passed overhead Allan saw that it was rising steeply. The wings did
not flap but they were in constant motion, the bands of black muscle
tissue stretching and forming them to provide maximum lift. It was out of
sight in seconds.
   “You should see them mating on the wing,” Astrid said in a dreamy
voice. “I’ve taken up a glider—our favorite sport here, as you can
understand—and hovered by them. The courtship ritual goes on for hours
and hours, involving all sorts of aerial gymnastics, but when they meet and
couple it takes just seconds. I’ve filmed a whole sequence, if you’d like to
study it.”
  “Certainly, and all the other material you have on them,” Allan replied,
somewhat surprised. The big woman had seemed more formally correct
than friendly up to now.
  “Allan!” Secret called urgently.
   He hurried to the small woman, where she was crouching behind the
sin-sin bush. Secret pointed silently to the ground. There were two
depressions where someone had knelt, and several broken twigs. Allan
raised his gaze and found the torn branch from which the seed had come.
It was in the center of the bush, surrounded on all sides by more discs. The
steady breeze at their backs had all the seeds flattened immovably against
the dense body.
   “So someone deliberately tried to sting you,” said Pat, who had rushed
to join them. “The New Romans think they can get Secret overruled, but
they’re afraid of you. We have an antidote for this poison, but you would
have been sick for weeks, long enough for the case to reach the World
Council. And since they didn’t succeed . . . Allan, you’d better be careful. I
think your life is in danger.”
   “It certainly seems that way,” said Astrid, who was breathing deeply
with excitement. She seemed thrilled at the thought, giving Allan the
impression life must be very dull here for most colonists. He kept his eyes
off her heaving bosom.
  “And I think I know who did this,” Pat added. “Buck Terhune! Maybe if
we hurry we can beat him back!”
   Allan had no particular wish to confront the known enemy at this point,
but he followed the short colony administrator as he set a rapid pace back
to High Hope. Pat led them to the edge of town, where they saw a small
group of men busily assembling a solar power plant. They were being
supervised by a big man with very black hair who seemed older than most.
Pat introduced Allan to Buck Terhune, the colony’s chief engineer.
  The tall man extended a broad hand, and Allan had no choice but to
shake it. He noticed that Buck was breathing heavily, but it could have
been from helping the other men.
  “Buck’s group doesn’t believe the butterflies are intelligent, although
they’ve had the same contact experiences as the rest of us,” said Pat.
  “You mean we’ve all had lightheaded moments we couldn’t explain,” the
burly engineer said immediately, and Allan could see that it was an old
quarrel between them. “The fact that all of us get dizzy now and then
doesn’t prove some stupid, overlarge insect is trying to talk to us. I think
it’s a very thin gas in the air we haven’t isolated yet.”
   They talked for a moment and then left. The hurried walk back had
been useless, as Allan had expected. “The real trouble with Buck is that he
wants my job,” Pat volunteered when they were out of hearing. “And he
may get it, if we don’t start moving faster here. Trouble is, it’s such a
pleasant place no one wants to work!”
   Allan did not reply, but from what he had seen he felt that Pat was
right. The number of new people that could be absorbed depended
primarily on how rapidly the present settlers built houses and planted
food crops, and the people of the first town were moving very slowly. But if
the butterflies were declared intelligent and the settlers had to leave before
the lack of progress became known… Allan glanced sharply at Pat, but the
short man’s guileless face gave no hint that he considered Allan’s decision
important to his future.
   Secret had taken Allan’s arm as they walked, and he looked down to find
her staring at him. She grinned and winked, and he felt a quick stir of
blood, thinking that perhaps they would spend the night together. It had
been over four years since their paths had last crossed. At that time they
had arranged a short trip together, and renewed the fire that had burned
so heartily during their trial marriage almost a decade ago. Secret was
several years his junior, and had been one of his students when he stopped
teaching to try for the P.P. Corps. She had entered directly from college
the next year, and they had taken out the standard twelve month contract
for the remainder of Allan’s time in school. They had got along well, but
their chosen careers made a regular marriage impossible. There had been
no regrets or recriminations when he left Earth.
   Allan left the Bartolini’s at their home and accompanied Secret to a
guest house, to study her accumulated data. He saw with a thrill of joy
that his two battered travel bags had been placed inside. Evidently Secret
felt his agitation, for she laughed softly and came into his arms for their
second kiss. When she pulled back at last she said, “If you close the doors
and windows you have privacy, but the heat melts you into jelly. If you
don’t close them someone may walk in any second, because they’ve
dropped the habit of knocking here. Or you can restrain yourself until
dark. No one comes in when the lights are off.”
  She knew him better than he liked to admit. It hurt to say it, but Allan
managed to get out, “We’ll wait till twilight anyway. With a fifteen hour
rotation, it can’t be too long.”
  He was wrong. It seemed a lifetime.
                                  - 15 -
  Next morning Allan dragged himself out of bed to the sound of Secret’s
cheerful singing in the re-circulating shower, and they dressed and left for
the communal dining hail. Allan had got little work done the previous
day—Secret had deliberately tormented him by her closeness and
near-nudity until be had become completely distracted—and after
breakfast he settled down to an intensive study of her notes. They began
impressively enough, with an area survey of the butterfly population,
extensive data on the huge flowers whose blossoms provided the only food
supply, and a detailed report on the behavioral patterns of a butterfly
ingesting nectar. But after that the quality of the data seemed to become
fuzzy, as though Secret had stopped caring. He checked some of her later
math and found mistakes in simple addition, and the safeguards she had
used to exclude environmental influences on some behavioral experiments
were hopelessly inadequate. A report of a full day spent following a
particular butterfly about in a glider plane was nothing more than an
account of seven idyllic hours in the sky.
   Allan pushed the paperwork away, stretched, and walked outdoors. It
was already noon in Beauty’s short day. He saw Secret returning from an
errand to the supply store, and waited for her. She seemed subdued, and
handed him a spacegram without comment. He saw that it was addressed
to him in care of Secret.
  NEW ROMAN PARTY CHAIRMAN CLAIMS SEVERAL RECENT
MAJOR ERRORS ON P.P. DECISIONS, PROOF AVAILABLE SHORTLY.
SECTOR CHIEFS TO DOUBLE-CHECK ALL DOUBTFUL CASES,
EMPHASIZE P.P.S TO PREPARE UNBREAKABLE JUSTIFICATION ON
ALL ABANDON DECISIONS.
  - SIGGI B. WILSON, ADMIN
  - CORPS OF PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHERS
   “I don’t know what our greedy enemies on Earth are up to, but I realize
my report contains too much subjective material,” said Secret, sounding
worried. “But you have to be here, actually communicate with a butterfly
once, before you’re qualified to judge them. Their thinking is nonverbal,
all images/sensations. That doesn’t make it any less effective.”
   “No, we’ve ruled in favor of species that communicate nonverbally many
times,” agreed Allan. “But since we’re undoubtedly going to be questioned
on this one, I think I’d better do a little more work. Can we get a butterfly
body to dissect?”
   “I’ve never seen a dead one. But there’s a story . . .“ she paused
doubtfully, then tossed her short blond hair and went on, “Oh, the local
version of the elephant graveyard legend. There are hot sulphur springs in
the mountains to the west of us. Several colonists flying in the area claim
to have seen butterflies with torn wings descending into the mist. One
man hovered at the lowest safe height and watched for hours after seeing
two hurt ones go down; they didn’t reappear. And since they normally
spend only a few minutes on their feeding plants, and don’t touch down
elsewhere that we’ve observed,” She shrugged bare shoulders.
   “Secret, you know I’m biologically oriented. If you haven’t run a
dissection then I think that should be our first job. How can we reach
these hot springs?”
   “We can fly a powered glider to a high-level plateau at the base of
Charlemagne, the tallest peak, but we’d have to walk in from there. The
tiny powerplants on the fliers won’t outpull the vicious downdrafts you
find in the mountains. It will take two days.”
  “That’s okay. Let’s plan on it for tomorrow. Now what about this film
Astrid has? Is it useful?”
  “Probably as good as mine.” Secret sounded peeved.
   “Then let’s see if she’ll show it to us tonight. For this afternoon I’d like to
return to that grove and get a sample of the nectar they eat, since I notice
you haven’t chemically analyzed it yet. And we’d better check with Pat to
be certain we can use a glide plane tomorrow.”
  “You can check with him tonight,” Secret said, rising and moving
toward the unmade foamfab bed. “And you won’t need my help getting a
nectar sample; I don’t climb trees very well. I’m not accustomed to these
short sleep shifts yet, you kept me awake half the night, and I’m going to
nap till the second meal. Have fun.”
   Allan felt a small surge of anger, but quickly repressed it. He was
Secret’s official superior, but giving orders to your lover was a difficult
business at best, and impossible with her, as he had learned long ago on
Earth. He gathered up the sampling equipment he needed, dressed in a
light jumpsuit, and left. Pat was not at home, but Astrid agreed to show
the film and ask her husband about the glide plane for tomorrow.
   The jumpsuit was too warm for comfort, but protected the tender skin
of his arms and legs as Allan clasped the bare trunk and slowly worked his
way up. The wind was again steady, though from a new angle, and the tree
bent beneath his weight and the steady push of the breeze. By the time he
thrust his head over the top, the trunk was leaning at a 45 degree angle.
Distrusting the light fronds that branched from the center, Allan kept his
legs around the bole. He felt slightly dizzy, as though he had overexerted
himself during the long climb, and rested for a moment. When the feeling
of vertigo faded he opened the sampling kit on his belt. The stigma were
large and soft, and he had no difficulty in tilting a pistil and squeezing the
syrupy fluid into his phial. He capped it and reached for another . . . and
froze when a huge shadow swept across his face. The thin whistling sound
of air being spilled across a wide flat surface reached his ears. He looked
up in time to see a gorgeously colored golden butterfly, wings rippling and
curling as they shed air, shooting directly toward him. Just when it
seemed the huge creature would knock him off his precarious hold the
great wings lifted sharply, coming almost together as they lost purchase
on the air, and the long body dropped suddenly on to a frond. It dipped
beneath the forty kilograms of weight, but held. Allan was staring into a
golden-furred insect face not a meter away, where two huge faceted eyes
were calmly inspecting him in return.
   One of the several reasons Beauty deserved its name was the absence of
carnivores large enough to be dangerous, and the colonists did not carry
weapons. Allan froze, fervently wishing for his laser pistol. The creature
did not appear to have teeth and he might have beaten it away on the
ground, but he was almost twenty meters high. The butterfly made no
hostile move, and after his initial fright passed, Allan returned the stare
with interest. This one had the usual bands of black muscle tissue circling
and weaving through the wings, but both body and primary wing surfaces
were a colorful riot of varying golds. Short yellow fur covered the entire
round head except for the eyes; it did not appear to have ears. Two
tubelike projections extended twenty centimeters from the center of the
face.
   It seemed like an hour to Allan, but could have been only minutes,
before the creature abruptly bent its head, inserted the two thin tubes into
the fluid accumulated on a stigma, and drank. Through the almost
transparent walls of chitin he saw the thick syrup flow slowly upward. The
butterfly fed until the cup seemed empty, then calmly shifted to another. It
took almost five minutes to drain both. When it was through the golden
head lifted, and the large eyes once more met Allan’s. Suddenly he felt
dizzy again, this time so strongly he seemed to be losing consciousness.
Afraid of falling, he leaned forward until his torso lay flat across the
yielding fronds. His legs were too weak to grip the bole and an abrupt
change in the wind would tear him loose, but dark shadows were
flickering at the edge of his sight, ready to overwhelm him. Allan closed
his eyes and waited passively for the weakness to either fade or conquer
him.
   It did neither, Allan became acutely conscious of the sweet smell of the
nectar cups, the springy support of the fronds, the pressure of the breeze
on his face. . . he realized he had been receiving these sensory messages all
along, at a lower level of awareness. Then the smell of nectar seemed to
turn into taste, he felt the touch of simple sugars on his tongue. The
waving fronds seemed to move more regularly, as though changed to
beating wings . . . he felt the lift of the wind on his body, knew he could
hurl himself forward, ride the air currents upward into the high pure sky,
clean and free . . . he spread his arms . . .
   And the dizziness faded. Allan opened his eyes, vision still blurred, to
find his gaze locked on the multifaceted glitter of the butterfly’s compound
orbs. The blurriness disappeared; he realized his arms were lying limply
on the fronds, and with a return of his earlier fear, gripped the rough
stems with both hands. The calmly impersonal eyes regarded him without
anger or fear. And then the lifted wings lowered and fanned out, caught
the strong bore wind immediately, and tore the many clinging feet from
their swaying perch. It came directly at Allan, the great spread of the thin
wings blotting out the sky. He ducked his head and gripped with both
hands and legs, and the small feet brushed his hair as the long body
passed directly over him. Allan turned and watched the beautiful insect
rising slowly into the sky, wings spread to the maximum. Another
appeared from the side and joined it, and abruptly both turned into the
wind and began riding it swiftly upward, circling and wheeling around
each other.
   Allan watched until the two were only small black dots, still rapidly
rising, in the vastness of the wind-torn sky. He slowly filled three more
phials with pollen and tissue samples, and started down the rough trunk.
The windbore had died while he worked and the huge flower swayed
sickeningly with every vagrant breeze, making the descent far harder than
the climb. Safely on the ground again, Allan drew a deep breath of relief.
As a Conscience he had to keep himself fit, but he was not a very good
athlete. There were times when Allan wondered if the P.P. Corps had
made a mistake in accepting him. But somehow he had lasted nine years
while better men and women died in service, and been promoted to one of
the three new positions of sector chief.
  Allan felt fully recovered by the time he reached the small settlement.
The second and last communal meal had been eaten, but the cooks found
enough for him. Secret was already at the Bartolini house. He made his
way there just as the short twilight faded into darkness, and found the
projector set up and ready. Astrid ran the film immediately, and Allan
studied it intently. He saw nothing in the elaborate courtship ritual that
indicated whether intelligence or simple instinct was at work. On Earth
some types of herons went through equally complex formalities before
mating, and though the dance patterns were beautiful, he had see similar
ones performed by insects on other worlds.
   Both Astrid and Pat stood up when the film ended, and Allan realized
this was a direct hint. With only seven hours of darkness available, these
people went to bed early. They thanked their hostess and returned to the
guest cottage. The second night was even better than the first, and when
their clock awoke them at dawn, Allan had to exert all his willpower to get
out of bed. Secret grumbled and complained when he shook her, but
finally crawled out and into her brief skirt.
   After a hasty breakfast they loaded their gear into one of the colony’s
two powered glide planes and wheeled it out of the foamfab hangar. Two
men Pat had sent to help them get off the ground held the light craft by its
long wings until a steady breeze appeared. Secret, the more experienced
pilot, opened the throttle and ran into the wind. The plane rolled for less
than thirty meters before clearing the ground, and though it dipped badly
once she managed to keep it aloft. In five minutes they were just below the
area of high turbulence that separated the jetstreams from the lower air,
and she banked and turned to the west. At that altitude the wind pushed
against the plane one moment but aided them the next, and they averaged
almost two-hundred kilometers an hour.
   Looking down, Allan was impressed again with the fact that Beauty had
been well named. There were never any clouds here, and no rain. A very
heavy dew condensed out of the air and watered the thronging vegetation
every night. The plants lived in constant motion, yielding ‘to each erratic
wind, and the petals of uncounted billions of flowers swayed and bent in
stately rhythms. The entire surface of the world seemed to be alive
beneath the plane.
   In a little over two hours Secret started losing altitude, looking for an
open place to land. They had passed a few foothills and were over a grassy
plateau that abutted a low old mountain range, as green as the rest of
Beauty. She found a level spot free of brush and touched down without
difficulty. Allan was out of the small cabin the instant the plane stopped
rolling, holding the craft by the crossbar between the wheels. Secret
tumbled out behind him and hastily drove tie-down pegs at front and
back.
  Allan’s backpack was large, Secret’s much smaller. It was a little before
noon when they started walking. There were only scattered patches of
brush at this elevation and they made good time. The swift twilight caught
them just as they rounded the flank of Charlemagne. Secret prepared a
hasty meal from concentrates while Allan inflated their sleeping bags. It
was quite dark when they finished eating and both were bone tired, but
Secret shared his bed for a few minutes before getting into hers. When the
sun awoke them after what seemed only a nap, Allan understood why the
colonists retired early.
  Before noon they were behind Charlemagne, and for the first time Allan
saw bare ground on Beauty. It stretched directly ahead of them to several
small vapor-covered lakes, apparently fed by the sulphur springs. When
the vagrant breezes blew toward them, their noses were assaulted by an
odor like rotten eggs.
   Allan saw several large stone ridges crossing the valley floor, and the
closest lake was bordered by one on the right. The winds seemed milder
here and the temperature higher.
   Not a butterfly was in sight. Allan decided to start their search at the
nearby lake, and picked a path toward it. In thirty minutes they were
standing on the shore, staring out over the mist-covered water. The lake
was several kilometers wide, but the opposite shore was hidden in the
thick haze.
   “Allan, there’s a cave,” said Secret, pointing to the stony ridge. “It’s the
first one I’ve seen on Beauty.”
  Allan looked to their right and saw a low dark shadow extending twenty
meters across the face of the rock. At the center it seemed at least two
meters high, but was less than one at the water’s edge. It was difficult to
see through the mist, and the high heat was making Allan uncomfortable.
He let Secret toward the ridge at the point where it met the shore, the
cave being as good a place as any to look for dead butterflies.
  And they found them.
                                   - 16 -
   The elephant graveyard of old Africa was a myth. The butterfly burial
ground was real. Hurt or dying elephants could hardly travel hundreds of
miles to a single spot; the butterflies could. A picture had started forming
in Allan’s mind, and the examination of a few dead bodies confirmed it.
Corpse after corpse was dry, drained of all substance, with the cracked
eggshells of the eater still clinging to the chitinous exterior. The floor was
littered with the dry husks of long dead adults, and as Allan straightened
up from his fourth examination he saw a small, weak figure emerge from
the deep shadows at the rear. It was a baby butterfly, crawling slowly and
painfully on his hundred feet.
   Allan motioned for Secret to leave the crawler alone, and they watched
silently as it struggled to the opening above the water, the baby wings
unfolding as it neared the light. At the edge it paused, testing the almost
motionless air. It was stiflingly hot in the cave, the trapped vapor from the
lake providing both heat and moisture. But the persistent breezes of
Beauty reached even here, and after a moment there was a stir of air at
the entrance. The baby suddenly launched itself out over the water,
dipping at first until it almost touched but then rising swiftly as it gained
speed and the updraft lifted the light body. In seconds it was out of sight
in the mist.
  The butterfly life cycle both began and ended here, in one of the few
places on Beauty where the restless winds could not steal away the heat
needed for hatching. There were probably other caves nearby, and other
hot lakes around the planet, but they would only be duplicates. The
picture that had been forming in Allan’s mind was complete.
   Even so, he needed proof. Allan slipped off his backpack and knelt at the
head of a newly dead butterfly. He opened the bag, found his laser pistol,
and adjusted the beam for short-range cutting. Two maximum length
burns cut through the thorax just behind the head. Secret watched in
silence as Allan wrapped the round ball in his jacket and stuffed it in the
pack, but when he started toward the shore she hastily followed. Once
safely on the ground and away from the wet heat, Allan immediately felt
better.
  “Do you want to look around the other lakes for more hatcheries?”
asked Secret. Allan noticed there was a new respect in her voice. “We have
enough time before dark,” she added.
   “Yes, though I’m certain we’ll just find more of the same.” said Allan.
And two hours later, when they turned and started back toward their glide
plane, he had been proven right. The other caves were of different sizes
‘and locations, but all were heated by proximity to the water and all
contained the bodies of adult butterflies. They had seen one female
attaching her eggs to a dead male, and Allan noticed that when her chore
was finished she too crawled off into a corner to die. The males returned
here solely to furnish food for the young; the females came back as their
last act after their egg sacs were fertilized. As with many insect species,
that probably meant many more females than males were born.
   It was rapidly growing dark, and both were exhausted when they
reached the slopes of Charlemagne again. Allan insisted they keep moving
until it was no longer safe to travel. The shadows were deep at the point
where a ridge from the mountain on their right forced them to follow a
narrow defile past Charlemagne. It was the deceptive lighting that saved
Allan’s life when a laser beam lashed down from high on the slope to their
left, burning a hole in the ground behind him.
   Allan had been shot at before, and though he was not a soldier he had
acquired the reflexes of one. He leaped backward instantly, and the second
beam from the ridge on their right seared the air where he had been. Allan
continued his motion by catching Secret about the waist and pushing her
hard to the side. She lost her balance after two running steps and fell
sprawling, but her torso was behind the rock he had selected. Allan left his
own feet in a dive, hit rolling, and saw the hot beam burn grass behind
him as the first man fired again when his laser cooled. Allan stopped
behind Secret and scrambled to her side; the rock was barely large enough
to hide them.
   Keeping his head low, Allan got to his knees and slipped off his pack. He
found his laser, and adjusted the beam to its longest range. Fatigue had
vanished, dispelled by a surge of adrenaline into the bloodstream, and his
mind was racing. Now that a try had been made to kill two P.P.s, the
ambushers had to finish the job and hide the bodies. If the attempt on
their lives became known the Space Service would never rest until the
killers were found. The would-be murderers had to come after them, and
though they had no way of knowing Allan had a laser, they would take no
chances.
   The twilight gloom was rapidly fading into darkness. Allan placed his
lips against Secret’s ear and said, “We’ll sneak back into the valley in a
minute. Is there any other way out?”
  She shifted her head and whispered, “Yes, we can go around
Charlemagne on the opposite side, but it would take days. We’d need food
and water.”
   “And you can bet they disabled the glide plane,” Allan said grimly. He
cautiously looked around the rock on the opposite side, but could see
nothing in the dimness. As he started to draw back he heard a faint
scraping noise, as of a boot sliding along a rock wall. At least one of their
attackers was climbing down to the level ground. It was time to leave.
  A new hazard occurred to Allan, and he swiftly muttered some
emergency instructions to Secret. They crawled backward, keeping the
rock between themselves and the danger in front as long as possible. When
he finally stood and took Secret’s hand to lead the way he could barely see
enough to avoid large boulders. They moved quickly but quietly for several
meters, and suddenly a light flared behind them. Allan looked back and
saw the area behind the rock that had sheltered them brightly
illuminated. There was a yell from the man holding the light, and then it
moved and swung toward them. Secret hurled herself to the left as Allan
had instructed, while he went right and snapped off a shot at the light. He
missed, but had the satisfaction of hearing a startled cry, and seeing the
light go out.
   “Come on!” Allan snapped, low-voiced, as he reversed himself and went
after Secret. He found her immediately and led the way again, walking
rapidly but quietly. By the time the man with the light found a secure
place and turned on his beam again, they had moved behind a rock
buttress and were out of sight.
  Allan had been thinking as they walked, considering the alternatives.
Knowing now that he was armed, the killers were unlikely to come after
them until morning. When they came they would be slow and cautious.
They probably knew there was no drinkable water in the valley, and could
be certain their intended victims had little left in their canteens. Even if
the two P.Ps managed to walk around Charlemagne on the opposite side,
they would still face an impossible trek through the dense brush. Unless
help came from the colony— and Allan had a strong hunch none would
come in time—the killers could hunt them down at their leisure.
  Allan stopped, slipped off the pack, and sat on it to remove his boots.
He stuffed them and the canteen inside and handed it to Secret. “Cross to
the opposite side, climb up among the rocks, and hide, if I don’t make it
back, wait until they pass in the, morning and walk to the plane. You’ll
have enough water and food to last until help comes.”
  “But Allan! What are you going to do?”
   “What they least expect; go after them,” he said, making a strong effort
to keep his voice calm and even. He turned and walked rapidly away
before she could protest.
  Allan cautiously rounded the corner they had just turned, and was not
surprised to see the light still on ahead. The hard rock was rough on his
bare feet and he bruised himself several times, but ignored the pain. As he
drew closer he heard voices, and saw there were only two men and that
they were arguing over what to do, as he had hoped. Allan dropped to his
knees and crept forward, trying to keep near enough to shelter to dodge if
the light should suddenly sweep his way. When he reached the last rock
large enough to protect him he crouched behind it, then eased his head
and the laser around the right side. The two men were standing where he
and Secret had huddled, still talking. They agreed on what they would do
just as Allan drew a bead on the one holding the light.
  And paused.
   And realized he could not deliberately kill a man. It Was
ridiculous—these two were obviously professional assassins, men who had
shot at them without warning and would kill instantly if the advantage
were theirs—but nevertheless he could not slay except by bad aim in the
heat of battle. His inability had nothing to do with what the men were—it
was the way be himself was made.
  With an inner sigh, Allan shifted his aim and burned a crippling hole in
the thigh of the man with the lamp.
   There was a scream of pain, and the light fell and clattered along the
rock floor. The second man turned and ran, but there was no shelter
handy and the lamp had stopped with him in its glow. He hesitated, then
started around the large rock. But five seconds had passed and Allan fired
a second time, at the largest nonfatal target he could see. The hot beam
caught the main in the right buttock.
   Allan sprang to his feet and started for the two downed men. Their
weapons were ready to fire and his was not, but it took several seconds for
the worst effects of shock to hit a severely burned person. The first man
had his hand on his holster but seemed unable to open it. Allan kicked
him in the head as he went by. The second had his pistol in hand but was
trying to crawl behind the rock, expecting a finishing shot when the five
seconds were up. Allan caught the weapon with his toe and sent it sliding
across the rock, out of sight. He turned back instantly to the first killer,
ready to shoot if necessary, and saw that the kick had sent him on into
unconsciousness.
  Allan picked up the light, took the first man’s pistol, and after a short
hunt found the second weapon. A brief search located the standard issue
knife each man had in his spaceman’s emergency kit. Then he yelled for
Secret to join him.
   The short blonde stared at the groaning man trying to see the hole in
his buttock, and the second one lying unconscious, with something like
awe. “Holy life, Allan, I didn’t know you could fight like that! I always
thought you were a little on the mild side. I mean I loved you anyway, but
once out of your classroom . . .”
   Allan grinned in the darkness. This was probably the best handled
combat he had ever engaged in, but he was not going to tell an admiring
woman that. “I’ve learned a lot not taught in school during nine years,” he
said instead. “But save the praise for later; let’s find out who these two
are.”
   When he had the would-be assassins awake and propped up on elbows
facing the light, Allan learned one interesting fact immediately. Both were
Earthmen and neither was from the colony. A brief search while Secret
held the light and gun gave him the answer. They were out-of-uniform
members of the Space Service.
  Allan stared at the sullen men in deep anger. The fact that anyone
would try to kill a Conscience was bad; that they were from the force
supposed to protect them was far worse.
  After an hour of futile questioning, Allan realized the two were not
going to talk except under drugs. There was nothing he could do except
send a security party from the colony to bring them in. As he had
expected, there was a part from the glide plane’s power-plant in one man’s
emergency pack, and a crystal from the radio in the other.
   “You two are going to be left here for a couple of days to think over your
sins,” Allan finally told them. “I don’t think you can get far, and I’d advise
you not to hide; your packs don’t hold much water. The penalty for killing
a Conscience is death, as you well know, but since you didn’t succeed
maybe they’ll let you off with deep-trance rehabilitative personality
reorganization.”
   The men refused to answer, or even meet his eyes. Allan finally donned
his pack again and led Secret a kilometer toward the glide plane before
stopping for what remained of the night. When the first light of dawn
awoke them he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all, and it took a distinct effort
of will to struggle erect.
   By noon they were back at the glider. Allan had the stolen parts
installed and the machine operable within five minutes, but it was better
than an hour before the vagrant winds finally died long enough to let him
hastily cut the tie-downs and jump aboard. Taking off on rough ground
and without a headwind was very dangerous in the under powered craft,
but there was no other way. The wind started again as the wheels cleared,
a strong gust from the rear that immediately cost the plane lift and set
them bumping along on the grass. They were near the end of the clear
area and had to get airborne at once or try to stop and turn back into the
wind, a dangerous procedure. Secret made her decision and kept going.
The rough brush that could tear the light craft apart drew rapidly closer,
and Allan gripped his seat in horrified fascination. But Secret knew what
she was doing. The following breeze died and was instantly replaced by
one from ahead and to the left. She swung the plane squarely into it, and
almost instantly they cleared and rose ten meters. Within twenty seconds
they were fifty meters off the ground. And then they had enough speed to
be independent of the headwind, and were safe.
  “Are you going to call Captain Schultz?” Secret asked as they settled
down for the slow trip back.
   Schultz was the commanding officer of the neverlander that had
brought Allan. The ship was not on a regularly scheduled run, and was
waiting in orbit overhead. But Allan knew every man on board, and their
two attackers had not been part of the crew. “No, I want to find out what’s
happened at the colony first,” he replied, and despite Secret’s obvious
curiosity refused to discuss his plans. Two hours later, as they descended
through the lower turbulence to land, he had the satisfaction of
confirming an expectation. There was a second shuttle standing not far
from the one that had brought him down.
  “Brigadier General Timothy Terhune,” said Allan, pointing. “I think you
can guess why he’s here.”
                                 - 17 -
  “Then those were his men!” cried Secret, alarm in her voice.
   “Don’t mention them at all; let me do the talking for the P.P. Corps,”
Allan said urgently as they descended toward the landing field. “That’s an
official order as well as a personal request, sweetheart.”
  Secret was too busy with the controls to answer, but Allan saw the quick
anger on her face. It faded as the wheels touched and cleared again in a
heavy gust, and she concentrated on getting them down alive. He could
only hope she would remember the order after the anger was forgotten.
   The wings were caught and the craft pulled into the hangar by two men
in Space Service blue. When the door cut off the wind behind them they
stepped out, and were asked to report at once to the colony administration
building. One of the patrolmen served as an escort, staying slightly ahead
of Allan as if only accompanying them.
   Inside the low open building where Pat maintained his official desk they
encountered several men in Service blue, hurrying about various tasks.
The plump colony administrator was sitting on a foamfab couch, his face
slightly pale. Behind Pat’s desk was a tall gray-haired officer in formal
dress, sitting ramrod straight and issuing a rapid stream of orders. One
white Space Service star glittered on his shoulder.
  Their escort nodded politely at the couch, and they joined Pat and
waited for the general to notice them. Within five minutes the building
was empty except for themselves and a guard, and General Terhune finally
rose and advanced around the desk with hand extended. His grip was firm
and his deep crisp voice cordial when he said, “Very happy to meet you,
Conscience Odegaard. I’ve heard nothing but good about you, and was
delighted to hear you’d been chosen as one of the P.P. sector chiefs.
Congratulations, and I hope you can help me straighten out the mess we
have here.”
   Allan formally introduced Secret, and then asked what had happened
since they left two days before. The tall officer smiled and said, “I had
received instructions to prepare this planet for six hundred new colonists
before Conscience Holmes declared the butterflies intelligent. They are
now on their way. Since I’ve been hearing bad reports on Administrator
Bartolini and the lack of progress here, I came to see for myself. It didn’t
take long to learn that the situation was even worse than I’d heard. I
declared martial law on this planet about an hour ago, and assumed
command myself. We intend to be ready for those new people. I’m
shipping Bartolini back to Earth tomorrow, along with a full report on the
situation and a request to the Colonization Department that he be
permanently reassigned. I am going to send Conscience Holmes back with
him, but only because she needs to appear before the appropriate World
Council committee and defend her decision to abandon this planet. You
are free to accompany her if you wish, or resume your duties elsewhere
until the issue here is resolved.”
   “Under Space Service regulations,” Allan said slowly, “when martial law
is declared, all reserve officers automatically assume their active rank.
Secret becomes a colonel, and I am a brigadier general. Therefore…”
   “Therefore nothing,” Terhune cut him off quickly and smoothly. “I am
your senior by about ten years, as well as commanding officer of this
sector. You are under my authority as long as you work within my
jurisdiction.”
   Terhune was right, and there was nothing Allan could do at the
moment. The general had the authority, and certainly the power. “Very
well. I am performing an evaluation of Conscience Holmes’s report and
would like to continue my work. I’ll let you know in the morning if I wish
to accompany her back to Earth.”
   “Fine. In the meantime, Mr. Bartolini, I suggest you pack your personal
effects, excluding official records which I am going to keep. I’ll see all of
you again in the morning.”
  When they stepped outside the sun was setting. Allan and Secret walked
the subdued Pat to his house. To their surprise they saw his bags already
packed, and Astrid sprawled comfortably on the big couch, swinging one
long leg. Buck Terhune was sitting in the solid foamfab chair.
   The big woman rose to greet them, and Allan was again impressed by
the sheer size and magnificence of her body. “I want you to sleep in the
new arrival’s house tonight, Pat,” she said immediately. “If you insist on
staying here I’ll go with Buck to his place. To preserve what little respect
your friends here may have left for you.
  Pat stopped as though struck. Allan glanced at his face, and had to look
away.
  After a long moment of silence Pat said slowly, “I thought there was
someone else, but Buck Terhune, my worst enemy… why did you do it,
Astrid?”
  She glanced uncomfortably at Allan and Secret, obviously disturbed by
their presence, but finally said, “I’m tired of mothering a boy; I wanted a
man for a change. And Buck will be the new administrator when General
Terhune leaves.”
   “I didn’t know the status meant that much to you. Well, we live and
learn. Certainly I’ll stay in the guest house, I wouldn’t want to disturb you
two. Have fun.”
   Pat grabbed two bags as Allan reached for the third, and almost ran
from the room. The two P.P.s left the broken man in the halfway house
and returned to Secret’s quarters, where Allan immediately seized the
nectar and plant samples he had obtained two days earlier. He turned to
leave again.
  “Where are you going?” Secret asked in surprise.
   “To the lab; I want to run an analysis on the head and these plant
tissues. Try to get some sleep; I may need you before morning.”
  “But—but what are you going to do?” she demanded in exasperation.
  Secret was questioning more than his wish to run a chemical analysis.
Allan slipped an arm around her bare shoulders and said, “Unless there’s a
second Buck Terhune around I’m going to keep fighting.” And he kissed
her quickly and left.
  Just before dawn Allan found the answer. He got Secret and Pat out of
bed, and with their help rolled the glide plane they had used out of the
hangar. He took off into the next steady breeze, wondering if a laser beam
would come out of the darkness to send him crashing in flames. None did,
and as the rapid dawn paled the sky in the east he set a course for Mount
Charlemagne.
   Allan found the two military assassins where he had left them,
comfortable and with their wounds treated, but with empty canteens. He
wrote out a confession for each, and realized when they almost
contemptuously refused to sign them that they were expecting to be
rescued at any moment. Obviously a shuttle from the general’s neverlander
had touched down around Charlemagne’s flank, out of sight and hearing
of the two P.P.s, and they had walked in. Their rendezvous time had
passed and the shuttle crew would be looking for them.
   There was no way he could coerce the two men into signing. Allan
accepted the inevitable, searched their emergency kits again, and left his
water canteen when he walked away. Once out of their sight he calmly
signed both confessions himself, using the names he had seen on the
fatigues they had stuffed into their kits when they donned civilian clothes.
   The landing had not been too dangerous—Allan had gained some skill in
estimating the probable duration of a ground wind by watching the
degree of yield in the vegetation—but the takeoff was more difficult. After
thinking it over he redid his ground straps where they could be released by
a single tug, and ran lines from each to a rope that he took into the small
cabin. In less than five minutes the breeze changed until it was blowing
directly at the light plane. Allan opened the throttle and yanked on the
release cord. He had to steer with one hand while pulling in the rope and
closing the cabin door, and the light craft veered sharply to the right. He
corrected just as a long wing almost touched the grass, and picked up
enough speed barely to clear the ground at the edge of the brush.
Fortunately, the wind held and he was soon safe in the slow air stream
below the turbulent layer.
   It was only a little after noon when Allan landed again at High Hope.
The earlier excitement and bustle had died away, but there was now an
armed guard at the hangar. He helped Allan roll the plane inside, and
said, “General Terhune would like to see you in the administration
building, sir.”
  Allan nodded, and left for the inevitable confrontation. He was not
surprised to see Secret and Pat there when he entered the round building.
In the careful game of power politics the general was playing, it seemed
unlikely he would have sent them away before learning why Allan had left.
   “Good afternoon, General Odegaard,” the service officer rose and
greeted him with formal correctness. “I placed no restriction on your
movements last night, having no idea you were planning a trip. In the
future please obtain my personal permission before leaving High Hope.”
   “Certainly, sir,” Allan agreed, glancing around the room. There were no
guards present, but the general’s adjutant, a colonel, sat at the next desk.
“I’m happy to see you haven’t sent Conscience Holmes to Earth yet, since
her planned trip is no longer necessary. I am reversing her decision.”
   There was a brittle silence, electric with tension. Allan looked at Secret.
She had turned white with shock, but held her peace. The adjutant
stopped work and stared at his commander. Allan could almost see the
mental gears turning as the general absorbed the unexpected blow. After a
moment he said, “Ah, I can’t, ah, permit a change at this point,
Conscience Odegaard. Since the formal declaration by Conscience Holmes
and my override order have . . . ah, already been submitted to the World
Council, I . . .”
  “I am withdrawing her declaration; there is no need for your
countermanding order, sir. To be absolutely clear and explicit I will file a
new declaration, stating unequivocally that the butterflies are
unintelligent insects.”
  “And, ah, how did you arrive at this conclusion?” the general asked, as
though feeling his way.
   “Simple enough, sir. On our trip of two days ago Conscience Holmes
and I obtained, for the first time, the head of a dead butterfly. We found it
in a hatchery the creatures use in the nearby mountains. I dissected that
head last night, and learned that they have the enlarged anterior ganglia
common to insects, and not a true brain. It is literally impossible for a
butterfly to be intelligent.”
  Secret jumped to her feet. “Then how do you account for their
communicating with us!” she demanded angrily; her face had gone from
white to red.
   “We’ll get to that in a moment,” Allan said, his voice controlled. “Please
sit down and don’t interrupt again.”
   Secret opened her mouth as though to protest, and Allan turned his
profile to the two officers and gave her a wink with the hidden eye. Still
disturbed, she reluctantly sat down.
  “There’s another matter I’d like to bring to your attention, sir,” Allan
went on. He produced the two handwritten papers from his pocket. “I
have here two signed confessions from members of your ship’s crew. They
attempted to kill Conscience Holmes and me as we were leaving the
butterfly hatchery. Both state they were acting on your direct orders, with
the understanding that they were to wear civilian clothes and there would
be no military record of the executions.”
   General Terhune, still standing, perceptibly stiffened. The adjutant
caught his breath in an audible gasp. Allan saw his hand creeping toward
his holstered pistol.
   “I used the aircraft’s radio to send these charges, in code, to Captain
Schultz,” Allan went on, his voice shaking slightly. “They are now a matter
of record on Earth. I don’t know how thoroughly you have your men
indoctrinated, but I find it impossible to believe there could be more than
a few like the two killers you sent against us. I respectfully request that you
surrender your command to me, as next senior officer in the sector, and
accept quarters arrest until you can be returned to Earth for trial.”
   The adjutant’s hand was openly on his laser. He looked questioningly at
his superior, whose face had turned pale. The general’s voice trembled
when he said, “I’ll see you in hell first, sir!”
  “There is no legal way I can force you to surrender your command,”
Allan continued, his voice becoming steady as he saw how badly he had
hurt Terhune. “But I assure you a message will arrive within the next few
hours, ordering you to turn command over to your adjutant and report
back to Earth. P.P. Administrator Wilson maintains a direct contact with
the Secretary of the Space Service.”
  The general’s color had returned. “This is the worst nonsense I’ve ever
heard in my life!” he said in a loud voice, and turned to the adjutant.
“Place all three of them under arrest! I want them confined and guarded
until further notice.”
   “Colonel, if you draw that laser I’ll charge you as an accessory after the
fact,” Allan said, turning to the other officer. “It will be the end of your
career.”
  The colonel, his hand already on the butt of the pistol, hesitated. Allan
saw calculation on his face as he tried to weigh the odds, and realized the
man was not privy to the general’s plans. He was not surprised. The Space
Service was an elite military force, and not even a sector commander
could hide more than a few professional assassins in the ranks.
  “I think you know your plan to discredit the P.P. Corps hasn’t worked,
General Terhune,” Allan said to the stiffly erect officer. “It was an
ingenious scheme—beautiful animals that seemed intelligent, although
your brother had discovered their hatchery and knew otherwise, a ruling
by a Conscience that you could override and take to the World Council
knowing you would win—but it has failed. You had to attempt to eliminate
us after we discovered the butterfly life cycle because you knew I’d
countermand Secret’s order and ruin your chance to make the Corps look
ridiculous. And during my last visit to Earth I heard some talk about you
that could explain what you hope to gain. You’re ready to retire after
thirty years, with no higher rank than brigadier despite all your work for
New Roman causes. Your associates in the party promised you a
member’s seat on the World Council if you discredited us, didn’t they?
Loomis of Florida is ready to retire, and that’s your home state and a safe
Roman district.”
   The way the suddenly stricken man almost wilted before their eyes told
Allan his guess had been correct. The colonel’s hand had moved away from
his holster, and his face showed that he now believed Allan.
  “Those confessions will never hold up in court,” the general said feebly.
“The men will retract them tomorrow.”
   “Probably,” Allan agreed. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll retire after the
investigation, and you won’t run for political office. I realize I can’t put you
in rehabilitation where you belong, but your military career is over.
General—I suggest you start packing.”
  “You mean the butterflies have to die?” Secret asked, horrified.
    “I’m afraid so,” Allan replied. They were back in the guesthouse, where
he had been telling Secret and Pat of his discoveries. “The tall trees must
come down over the entire planet, and with their only source of food gone
the butterflies will vanish. It’s always regrettable to see a species die, and
of course we’ll analyze every molecule in a few specimens to be certain no
biochemicals of possible value are lost. But the need for habitable planets
is urgent; we do well just to preserve the ones with species that show
budding intelligence. And I think Beauty can easily spare the trees. The
pollen from their flowers is so fine it passes through lung tissue directly
into the bloodstream, where it has the same effect as a mild opiate.
Chemically it resembles serotonin, and is almost impossible to isolate once
it’s in the body. You can fight off the effect—Buck Terhune did—but it
takes a lot of willpower. The people here have been working in a light state
of euphoria since the colony was founded, which explains why they’ve
accomplished so little.”
  “And the communication with the butterflies? You haven’t explained
that,” said Secret.
   “That was a puzzler,” admitted Allan. “I found the answer when I ran
the flowertree tissue samples through the analyzer. There were traces of a
second type of pollen. I got the clothes I wore while climbing and found
quite a bit more clinging to them, on the front side only. It seems these
trees are male and female, and only the female pollen gets scattered freely
by the wind. The butterflies fertilize them by carrying pollen from the
male to the female during their feeding, in the same manner as smaller
flying insects. Both are mild opiates, and when you combine them you get
a strong hallucinogenic drug, where only a tiny touch will have you
hallucinating. When you stand downwind from a butterfly you’re very
likely to get both at once. The primary effect is to heighten your awareness
of bodily sensations from below to above the threshold of consciousness.
The images and sensations you feel are those of your own body, not
nonverbal communication with a butterfly.”
  There was a moment of silence. Then Pat said musingly, “So I get to
keep my job, even though I’ve lost my wife.”
  “I’m afraid not,” Allan said, low-voiced.
  Pat stood up, leaned forward to place the glass he had been holding
carefully on the table, and walked out of the door.
 “Allan! Was that necessary?” Secret demanded the instant the plump
man was out of hearing.
   “I’m afraid it was. Pat is a very nice guy, but no administrator. I’m
going to recommend that Terhune’s order removing him stand. There’s no
excuse for this situation having dragged on so long. And I’m going to ask
that Buck Terhune be recalled, of course. I could never prove conspiracy,
but my recommendation alone should be enough to get him sent back to
Earth. I can’t prove Astrid threw that poisonous seed at me either, though
I’m certain she did it herself or told Buck where we’d be. They deserve
each other. And that leaves only you.”
  “Me!”
  “Yes, you. Surely you realize your work on the original decision was
something less than satisfactory?”
  “No I damn well don’t! What do you think you are, a little infallible
genius? When I think of the way I pulled you through Alien Psych, and
some of the compromises you’ve arranged on other worlds—why damn
you!”
  Secret was on her feet facing them, breathlessly angry. Suddenly feeling
very old and tired, and with no trace at all of genius, Allan rose and said,
“Your performance was poor. You let the Terhune brothers sucker you into
the decision they wanted while the facts were in front of you. The New
Romans gain seats in every election. This could have been the start of a
drive to discredit the Corps that would have ended with a Roman majority
in the World Council. I’m not going to recommend any disciplinary
action—your past record is too good for that—but I have no choice but to
give you a low rating.”
  Allan followed Pat into the night. But he had taken only a few steps
when there was a rush of feet behind him, and a sobbing Secret tackled
him neatly around the knees and brought him crashing to the ground.
                                   - 18 -
   A gentle breeze shook the leaves on the branches hiding him, and Allan
extended his nonreflecting binoculars to the edge of the green fringe. The
dwarf had given the Earthman’s blind several sharp glances earlier, when
the glasses inadvertently moved greenery. At the moment this subject was
sitting in its high nest, idly searching one lightly furred thigh for parasites.
Allan saw that those it caught were discarded rather than eaten. He
looked down to make a note, and when he returned to the glasses the
dwarf had got to its feet and was leisurely stretching. This male was
approximately 120 centimeters tall, witth the broad shoulders and heavy
musculature of his kind. In one G he would weigh in at over 50 kilograms,
and Zwergwelt was a 1.08 G world. Except for the height, the resemblance
to a hairy naked man was startling.
   The dwarf stepped out of his carefully woven vine basket and dropped
to a lower limb. Moving with the easy grace of an animal at home in the
arboreal pathways, he ambled to an intersecting branch and shifted to the
next tree. The neighboring giant was a nut-bearer, and on a planet
without seasons a few seeds were always ripe. The short hominid picked
two large ones as he walked toward the trunk. Just as the leaves started to
hide the dwarf Allan saw him pause, heft one of the nuts, and suddenly let
fly. From out of his sight came a thin scream of fear, overriding the soft
ripping sound of a body falling through the vegetation.
  The hunter disappeared into the thicker lower growth, hurrying to
reach his prey before another hungry predator found it on the ground.
Allan settled back, and wrote on his pad that an adult male dwarf had
obtained a meal of nuts and meat within two minutes after starting his
evening hunt.
  Such proficiency should have indicated intelligence of a relatively high
order. But the ease with which the sturdy hominid had obtained his meal
was due as much or more to a bountiful environment. The slain animal
was almost certainly one of the large rodents who lived primarily off the
nuts of that particular type of tree. The dwarfs could eat almost any seed,
tuber, or fruit in the woods, as well as meat.
   Once again, nothing had been proven. Allan stared at his notebook,
knowing from long experience that the three days of data would be
inconclusive when statistically analyzed. The dwarfs had an extremely
large repertoire of situational responses, but so far he had not recorded
any actions unambiguously proving intelligence; they could as well be
complex instinctual responses.
   Allan gathered his gear, slipped on the backpack, and descended slowly
and cautiously to the ground. There was just enough time to reach the
field station before dark. He set a brisk pace through the moderate
undergrowth, glad of the chance to stretch cramped legs. There were few
worlds with continents where a temperate year-round climate produced,
huge trees and little brush. He was more accustomed to struggling
through dense jungles or primeval swamps.
   One of the several rocky hills in the area was on his left, with a small
limestone ciiffside that paralleled his path. The trees grew so close to the
vertical shoulder that several branches touched it, and a solid curtain of
leafy vines almost hid the stone. Allan had passed this way earlier, but at a
distance. From this close, something about the rock face seemed odd,
subtly wrong. He paused, staring at the thickest cover near the center.
After a moment he identified the oddity; the coloring was off.
  Allan took a step toward the vines, and froze when a savage scream
sounded almost in his ear. A second later a heavy body landed on his back,
knocking him to the ground. Short but powerful arms locked around his
chest and a hard bead burrowed beneath his jaw, sharp canines seeking
the jugular.
   Allan exerted all his strength and pulled his chin down, at the same
time rolling over and trying to pin his attacker. His left arm was free and
he brought the hand around to push desperately against a thick jawbone,
aware without pain that the champing teeth had already cut into his neck.
He heard several sharp clicks as his opponent tried to catch his fingers
and abruptly the creature rolled Allan in turn, swinging its head free.
Allan continued the roll and they ended up lying side by side. Very quickly
he brought up a knee, planted it in a firm belly, and shoved with all his
strength. The dwarf lost its grip around his shoulders and slid a meter
away. Almost instantly the short hominid bounced to its feet and launched
itself in a dive at his throat, now exposed again. The Earthman doubled up
both legs and caught his hairy opponent on the chest with his boots. This
time Allan heaved so hard the smaller dwarf went flying back against the
vine-covered cliff. Allan made a half-roll away to free his right hip and
grabbed for the laser there. It cleared the holster just as the dwarf, which
had regained its footing in seconds, ended the combat by darting behind a
bush. The creature was visible again a second later, but Allan held his fire.
There was a final scream of animal rage and then it was gone.
   Badly shaken, Allan got to his feet and brushed himself off. He was
bleeding profusely from several lacerations of the neck, but none seemed
deep. He opened his pack for the medical kit, and applied an antiseptic
coagulant. When the bleeding stopped he covered the torn areas with
plastiskin bandages. His clothes were soaked with blood, but there was
nothing he could do about that at the moment.
   Allan had recognized his attacker; it was the female who claimed this
territory. Whether she wanted him for dinner or was simply defending her
land was a moot question. The dwarfs lived alone except for temporary
alliance for mating, and the females were fully as vicious as the slightly
larger males. It was his own fault he had been attacked; a short detour to
the right would have kept him out of her way.
   Strange; he would never have knowingly walked into the territory of a
female leopard at the time of the evening hunt, but had moved into the
dwarf's area without conscious thought. Because they were both hominids
and he had the deeply ingrained male chauvinism common to their kind?
The dwarfs did not have a leopard's deadly claws, but their dentition
included four long matched cutting fangs. And in addition to throwing
nuts and branches, Allan had seen one male use a knobbed stick as a club.
Neither of these justified a claim of intelligence, but it did make them
fearsome opponents. Although the forest abounded in herbivores three
times their size, the omnivorous dwarfs were the only large meat-eaters.
His carelessness had almost cost him his life.
  Allen walked four meters to the vines against which he had kicked the
female, and pulled them apart. There had been no sound of solid impact
when they stopped the hurtling body, and he saw why; there was a
head-high cave behind the thick cover. The dark opening also explained
why he had noticed a subtle change in color from outside, though the leafy
growth completely shielded the entrance.
  Allan had a powerlight in his pack. He took it out, and with laser pistol
ready in his right hand, edged through the vines. Five meters in both floor
and ceiling started rising, and then the narrow tunnel widened into a
small underground grotto. Allan moved the light around. He was standing
in a circular cavern about twelve meters in diameter, with a low concave
roof. The room was empty except for a single figure, seated on a natural
stone bench protruding from the rear wall.
   Allan focused his torch on the lone inhabitant. It was a statue,
apparently made of clay, and almost human in appearance. The
workmanship was crude, but it had clearly defined features, a normal
head, and four limbs. The scale was slightly larger than human. No
attempt had been made to indicate hair, the ears were outsized, and the
lips were huge and ugly, extending like two halves of a saucer broken in
the center and lying on top of each other, the round sides protruding. This
was not a dwarf cast twice life size, nor a man.
   Allan moved closer and touched the statue, then turned his light and
swept it across the chamber floor. The stone was covered with a fine layer
of powdered lime; only his own footsteps showed. He had an almost
certain feeling this room had not been entered for decades, perhaps
centuries. And yet the oddly made crude figure seated on its soft stone
bench was composed of simple clay, just as it had appeared, and was not
even fire-cured. It should have crumbled to pieces within a few days of its
making, from loss of moisture.
  Allan shook his head in bafflement, then conceded the mystery was
beyond present understanding and turned away. Outside again, he pulled
the vines back in place. The grotto was as well hidden as before.
   Dusk was falling, but Allan easily found the main herbivore's game trail
that led to the local station. He walked the remaining three kilometers lost
in thought; on this trail he was safe from attack. There had been many
mysteries during his years in space, but this was surely one of the oddest.
It was within the physical skills of the dwarfs to have made the statue, but
they were not sufficiently advanced in culture or intelligence to have need
for a god. And if it had been formed by someone else - who, when, and
why? And what kept tin fragile clay together?
   The last yellow rays of Pollux had faded when Allan emerged at the base
of a low hill, crowned by the standard foamfab dome of a temporary
human structure. Halfway up he used a special key to let him through a
gate in the charged protective fence that encircled the building. Trees that
approached the fence from either side had been cut down, eliminating
aerial pathways, but new green bushes were growing where the original
brush had been burned away.
  At the door Allan was met by Victoria Gant, the chief of the eight
personnel at this field location. She was a short, dumpy brunette, slightly
older than Allan and fanatically devoted to her job. She saw the bandages
on his neck, asked what had happened, and insisted on treating the
wounds again when Allan admitted to having been bitten. He sighed, and
submitted with good grace.
  "You know very well you may have left some foreign matter in those
cuts," Victoria admonished, when she had seated him in her office and
opened the station's large medical kit. "Even if not, these wounds need to
be cleaned and flushed better than you could manage yourself."
   Allan removed his upper garments, and Victoria opened each
laceration, poured on foaming antiseptic, and let the fresh blood and
liquid run out on the floor. It hurt when she carefully tucked the torn
edges of flesh back together, but Allan gritted his teeth and endured. She
opened a new tube and carefully covered each wound with a white gel he
recognized as a coagulant and flesh sealant, then re-bandaged them after
the bleeding stopped.
  "We're late for dinner; hurry into some clean clothes," Victoria said
when Allan rose. She started cleaning up the small mess they had made on
the floor.
  Thirty minutes later Allan had bathed, changed, and was eating a
dinner made almost entirely of local products. The scientists stationed on
Zwergwelt were lucky; the best of concentrated foods started to taste
monotonously alike after the hundredth meal.
   Two other dinner guests had just arrived, the Director of the Zwergwelt
stations, Dr. Boris Magnitsky, and his aircar pilot. The elderly scientist
spent most of his time at Main Base in the central highlands, but visited
the three outlying field stations regularly. The four buildings were the only
human inhabitations on the planet. When the dwarfs were declared
intelligent this world had been proscribed except for rigidly controlled
scientific work.
  "Did you finish today, Conscience?" the director asked, after picking
delicately at his food. His voice was deep and pleasant, but had a slight
quaver of age. There was a faintly sardonic smile on his wrinkled face. "I'll
be returning to Main tomorrow, if you need a ride."
  Allan decided to meet the challenge head-on. "Dr. Magnitsky, I-haven't
uncovered one fact that invalidates the prolonged observations your
people have made," he said slowly. "Still, I'm not willing to reverse a prior
decision without an intensive investigation of my own. I'm going to stay
here a few more days."
   "Then you'll have to catch Jacque on the regular supply run next week;
we can't spare the aircar for a special trip," said the director, rising. He
was a very tall man now stooped with age, the first scientist over a
hundred Allan had seen at an out-planet location. Magnitsky was also a
giant in modern biology, and when he had reported that the Conscience
who had ruled on the Zwergwelt dwarfs six Eryears ago had been wrong,
Sector Chief Allan had been dispatched immediately to check on the
claim. Politicians were always trying to influence the decision of a
Conscience, but Magnitsky had
  impeccable scientific credentials. There were also several
extrespsychologists on his staff.
   This problem on Pollux Five had arisen at a bad time. World Council
elections would be held on Earth within sixty days, and if the New Roman
opposition could prove that a highly compatible world like Zwergwelt had
been withheld from colonization by error, the embarrassment could cost
the Conservationist Party the election. The P.P. Corps had been quietly
doing its job during the six Ermonths since Allan had ruined the plan to
discredit them on Beauty. It had seemed reasonable to expect another
attempt, but when this new and potentially damaging problem arose,
Allan had been unable to blame it on political interference. The reputation
of the scientists involved was too high, and the work on which they based
their claim of previous error too well done.
  Allan had been informed by Siggi Wilson that it was terribly important
the original decision be proven correct. Unfortunately, to date he had no
proof that would enable him to so rule.
                                  - 19 -
   The five men and three women finished their meal and started drifting
into the common room for the night's entertainment; their Director had
brought some new Tri-D discs. "Going to watch the Olympics with us,
Conscience?" asked Margarete Olmedo, a pretty, olive-skinned girl who
had been more than casually friendly to Allan during his short stay.
   Allan was tempted. It had been a long day crouching in his blind, and
whether or not you liked sports was immaterial; the tapes showed Earth.
But he also needed to start extracting the figures that were going to build
to an inconclusive statistic, and tomorrow he wanted to get an early start
and construct an observation post near the female dwarf which had
attacked him. She had launched herself from an overhead branch when he
made a definite move toward the hidden cave. If that was not simply a
coincidence . . . Regretfully, he declined, and saw the coldness of
Margarete's face when she turned away.
  1n the small cubicle that had been assigned to him Allen sat on the
foamfab bunk and patiently assembled his data into class orders. He ran a
preliminary analysis in all classes for central value, and compared the
result to the established intelligence scales used by all P.P.s. As be had
expected, the dwarfs were a borderline case, with a slight bias on the
lower side. Apparently the previous Conscience had been influenced by
their biological classification as hominids and their demonstrated
competence. Allan could not believe his predecessor had seen the hidden
grotto and its god figure; the air of antiquity had been too strong.
   Borderline was not good enough. Allan sighed, and ran a comparison
check between his own data and the refined statistics gathered by station
personnel and correlated by Magnitsky. The two were almost identical
when obtained under similar conditions. Unless their more detailed
studies were faked, which seemed highly improbable, Magnitsky's case
was practically proven.
  The idea of delaying a decision until after the next election occurred to
Allan, but the discarded it immediately. In the first place such conduct
was against his principles. In the second, he considered the commitment
Mankind had made to avoid old errors of arrogance a lasting one, not
subject to changing conditions. If he was wrong he would as soon learn it
with the coming election. Opening up new worlds to colonization was the
major platform adopted by the New Romans. They had built a good,
practical case for the idea that any planet not owned by civilized beings
should be available. So far that meant every habitable world Earthmen
had explored.
  Zwergwelt had a nineteen-hour day and he had worked through half the
short night. Allan tumbled into bed and slept dreamlessly until called for
breakfast.
   After the excellent meal Allan lingered over a second cup of stimcaf with
Magnitsky, who was preparing to leave. The aged scientist seemed to have
something on his mind. Finally he pulled a flimsy sheet from a pocket and
said, "I received an interest rumor on the daily activity report from Main
Base this morning, Allan. The word is out that you're scheduled to leave
here for Earth and become Siggi Wilson's deputy administrator. Also, that
you just might break a short tradition and replace Wilson when he retires
next year."
  Magnitsky chuckled, and Allan realized his face must have shown his
surprise. The present P.P. Deputy Administrator was leaving and Allan
had been offered the job just before coming here, but the thought he was
being groomed to replace Wilson was new. The Corps was now firmly
established as a semi-military agency, and the short tradition of selecting
retired Space Service generals as administrators had seemed likely to
become equally firm.
   What Magnitsky could not know was that Allan planned to decline the
promotion. He had been in the field now for ten years, eight as a
Conscience and the last two as a sector chief. He found more satisfaction
in his present job than anything crowded Earth had to offer.
  The two men shook hands and Allan slipped on his backpack. At the
door he was stopped by Victoria Gant, who asked where he would be if
they should need to reach him.
  "I’d rather not take a chance on disturbing the subject under
observation, unless it's an emergency," he answered, somewhat surprised.
  "Understood; but there may be one."
   Allan yielded, and showed her the low cliff on his terrain map. An hour
later he was sitting on top of it, hidden behind some bushes near the edge.
The tallest trees reached well above the limestone outcropping, and he
patiently scanned their upper levels with the binoculars. In ten minutes
Allan located the female dwarf. She had built her nest on the second tree
away from the edge, in a large forked branch slightly below the level of the
cliff top.
   The thick brush provided an adequate shield, and Allan decided it
would not be necessary to build a blind. He settled down to observing
details of behavior and taking notes. This female had no children, and like
the males, spent most of the morning napping and occasionally eating
local fruits. At noon she left and made a circuit of what was obviously her
territory, but returned for another nap. Allan began wondering where the
dwarfs got their muscular power. Like male lions in the wild, they received
hardly enough exercise to stay alive. Yet in fact both had strength out of
proportion to their size.
   As Pollux sank slowly toward the green horizon Allan entertained the
hope that Victoria would send someone after him. At the least it would
stir the female into activity; at most, she might exhibit protective
behavior if strangers approached the cave. But nothing bad happened
when it was time to leave, and Allan donned his pack and crept backward,
until he could rise and walk down the gentle slope to the north.
   Allan reached the main game trail that led toward the station and
started down it, mulling over the obviously high but unrealized potential
of the dwarfs. For some reason he felt very listless and tired, as though
drugged by fatigue. There was no reason for it, since he had spent most of
the day lying on the ground in reasonable comfort, but the feeling
persisted and even grew stronger as he walked.
   Some instinct developed by a hundred brushes with death on primitive
worlds alerted Allan to danger. He looked carefully around and saw
nothing, but the uneasy feeling persisted. There was an abrupt bend just
ahead in the trail, and without conscious intent his hand drifted to the
laser in his belt as he started around it. And then he saw the waiting
human female ahead and started to relax, and reached for the pistol again
when he realized she wore an odd black hood with a front panel that hid
her face.
   "Hold it!" called a harsh voice alongside the trail, and Allan turned to
see a pistol barrel covering him for the shadowed bush. There was a
crackling of brush from the opposite side, and a second armed and
black-hooded figure emerged.
  "Who are you? What do you want with me?" Allan demanded.
  "You will know shortly," said the female who had waited in the trail,
and Allan could not repress his startled surprise. The voice was muffled by
the hood, but he was almost certain it was that of Victoria Gant.
   The woman turned and started back down the trail, and one of the two
men removed Allan's laser and gestured for him to follow. He had a slight
dizzy spell, as though his body was almost too weak to endure excitement,
but recovered and walked after her.
   The masked woman led them toward the station at a brisk walk, but
turned aside into an interesting trail after less than a kilometer. Allan felt
so weak it was all he could do to keep up, but forced himself to meet her
pace. Two-hundred meters down the new trail she turned into the brush.
Allan followed for a short distance, the two guards at his elbows, and
emerged into a grassy clearing, a little delta formed by a sharp bend in a
small swift river. Three other masked figures, one of them another woman,
were sitting on the grass a few meters from the bank.
  When he stopped walking Allan's legs almost betrayed him. He sat
down and rested a moment, then looked up at the woman he knew to be
Victoria and said, "This is an odd game, and I don't really want to play."
  "It is not a game, and your participation is mandatory," the woman
replied, her voice cold. "This is a Safeguard Squad, Conscience Odegaard."
  Allan felt a small thrill of horror. He had heard the vaguest, most
fleeting rumors about a secret society recently active on the outlying
world, and the word "Safeguard" had been whispered. He had not believed
the stories, nor put credence in hints that the recent death of two P.P.s
had been something more than the accidents they appeared to be. The
thought that some of the people he knew and worked with could don
masks and become killers was insupportable. The horror he felt now was
not for his own safety; it was the realization that the unacceptable was
true.
 "I have heard of you, but only vaguely," he said aloud. "Please tell me
more about yourselves."
  "In good time, Conscience. At the moment we have more urgent
business. Please sign this."
   She extended a single page, and Allan took and read it in the gathering
twilight. It was the usual preliminary report filed over the subradio when
a Conscience reached a decision, and imitated his writing style reasonably
well. It stated that the dwarfs of Zwergwelt were definitely below the
minimum intelligence level, and the decision of the previous Conscience
was reversed. Zwergwelt was to be opened for full colonization. Allan's
name and rank of sector chief had been typed in.
  "I may very well file a similar report when I'm satisfied here, but I'll
never sign this under duress," he said, handing it back.
  "You will sign, and promptly," said the voice he was certain was
Victoria's. "I have a hypnotic in this medical case, and its antidote. If I
must I will drug you, order you to sign, and then administer the antidote
before you stand trial. But in your present weakened condition the double
drug dose might be fatal. I advise you to sign."
  "Why are you trying to force me, when this is probably the decision I'm
going to reach anyway?" he asked.
   "Even if you were willing to overrule your mistaken predecessor, which
we doubt, you made it perfectly clear in talking to Magnitsky that you
intend to delay a decision until it's too late to affect the coming elections.
We can't wait; this will be just what the New Romans need to throw the
idiot Conservationists out of power, at long last. Now sign, or take your
chances with the drugs."
   She extended the paper to Allan again; he shrugged, accepted it, and
signed. As he handed it back Allan said, "I don't understand the rules of
the game. What's to prevent me from repudiating this the moment I reach
a subradio?”
  "If you are found innocent of Crimes Against Mankind in the trial you
are about to undergo, you will be kept isolated in a nearby cave until after
the election," said the woman, her voice even and very formal. "if found
guilty as charged, you will be executed."
  The horror came back, prickling at the skin of Allan's forehead. He had
been seconds away from death on many occasions, and was frightened
every time. But it was not fear that sent cold chills down his back; it was
the knowledge he was dealing with self-appointed executioners. These
people were willing to sit in judgment on him for what they alone
considered crimes. He had thought such barbarism gone from human
society.
  Victoria slipped the report in her jacket. In measured tones she said,
"Conscience Odegaard, you are charged with Crimes Against Humanity;
specifically, with forbidding the colonization of dozens of worlds perfectly
suited for human growth and expansion. You may speak in your own
defense, and as judge I shall appoint a counselor for you. I suggest you
take time to consult with him before the trial begins. I warn you fairly; if
you are convicted by this jury," she swept a hand toward the woman and
two men who had been waiting for them, "you will be summarily executed.
This is not a game, as you referred to it earlier; for you it could hardly be
more serious. To lose is to die."
   "Just a moment," Allan said, raising one hand. "A minute ago you
referred to my `weakened condition.' How did you know I was feeling
badly?"
   There was a short laugh behind the woman's black mask. "The salve
Victoria Gant used on your wounds yesterday contained a new drug,
discovered here on Zwergwelt. It acts very slowly, and weakens without
killing. We had already planned to take you prisoner today, and the drug
lowered your ability to resist."
  It certainly had. Allan was so physically weak it was an effort to hold his
head erect. His mind was clear, though, and he caught the illogic at once.
"Then you had intended to force me to sign that false report even before
you heard the conversation with Magnitsky. Right, Victoria?"
   There was a short silence. Then she said: "Your guess as to my identity
is not important; think what you wish. And yes, we had planned to take
action today, even before we overheard the conversation that gave away
your intentions. But enough talk. The jury and I will withdraw. The man
on your right is the prosecutor. I appoint the one on the left as your
counsel. The trial begins in ten minutes, and I repeat if found guilty you
die. Prosecutor, you may move out of hearing distance. I think he is now
too weak to run."
   The man on Allan's right followed Victoria, and the two stood talking in
low tones a few meters away. The other one turned to Allan and said,
"Now listen, Conscience, this trial is real, not just an excuse to execute
you. If we win you'll be kept on the drug for a couple of months and
released after the elections, just as the judge said. It won't matter then
because our friends will be in power. Now the best way to beat this charge
is to show what you've done for Mankind, to counteract the bad. I've read
the folder on you, and it shows a lot of cases where you ruled
`questionable' species unintelligent, opening up several worlds to
colonization. We'll throw those at the jury."
   "Are you saying I can't defend the work of the P.P. Corps In toto?" asked
Allan.
  "Of course not! That's a sure way to lose. The Corps as a whole has done
more to hold Man back from his rightful place in the galaxy than any
organization in history. Some of those muddle-brained `Consciences' and
their bleeding heart supporters have ruled us off worlds that could be
colonized tomorrow. And why? Because of some dumb animal that just
might develop intelligence a million years from now! That's what the
Safeguard Squads have been organized to fight, Conscience. You know as
well as I do that we need those worlds. But look, let's don't you and I
argue; save it for the jury. Now will you do it my way?"
   "For the moment," Allan agreed. His body felt as if it had been ravaged
by a long illness, but his mind remained clear. Evidently the drug did not
affect the nervous system. And his defender, whom he felt fairly certain
was one of the local Station personnel, sounded sincere. Allan also saw
that it would be dark in a few minutes. If he could overcome this
debilitating weakness he might find a chance to escape.
                                 - 20 -
   The defense counsel called to the judge and prosecutor. When they
started back, Allan struggled to his feet and walked slowly toward the jury
near the riverbank. His appointed attorney hastily followed and the other
two moved to intercept him, but slowed when they saw he was making no
effort to escape. Allan stopped in front of the woman and her two male
companions, who had got to their feet, and sat down again. He was now
less than fifteen meters from the water.
  "The court is now in session," Victoria said promptly when she reached
them. "Is the prosecution ready? And the defense?"
   The two men mumbled an assent; apparently neither was accustomed
to his role. Allan had been studying the three jurors in the fading light,
and was convinced the second woman was pretty Margarete Olmedo. The
two women at the local station who had been kindest to him were
co-conspirators. He was equally certain he had not met the two male
jurors. There was something in the way they moved, the easy but sure
physical reactions of men accustomed to changing gravites, that said
Space Service. Allan had a sudden grim hunch that one of those two would
play a second role if the verdict was guilty; that of executioner. And if he
enjoyed such tasks, which seemed likely, there was little chance he would
vote for acquittal.
   The prosecutor began his presentation, Allan listened carefully. At first
it might have been lifted directly from a hot speech by a New Roman
politician, a familiar blend of fact, prejudice, and distortion. The diatribe
was directed not so much against Allan as against the Conservationists in
general and the P.P. Corps in particular. The charge that they had denied
human access to hundreds of worlds was accurate. It was also true that no
species had been found with a civilization comparable to Earth's, and with
several thousand worlds already explored, there was no good reason to
think one ever would. Man was apparently alone in the galaxy, and it was
ridiculous and wasteful to refrain from relieving Earth's burdensome
population when the means of transport and the empty worlds were
available. The Conservationists had taken advantage of mistaken idealism
and the gullibility of billions of voters to maintain their hold on power, at
a cost to the future development of Man that was incalculable. Since they
had succeeded in duping a majority of the voting public until now, a
group dedicated to operating in secret for the benefit of Mankind had
been organized. They supported the New Roman party but were not a part
of it. The Safeguard Squads were their enforcement arms, and had the
vested power to bring known criminals to trial and execute sentence upon
them.
   The last few items were not part of the New Roman dogma, but Allan
felt certain higher-up party officials must be aware of the existence of the
Safeguard Squads. It was hard to operate in space without the active
connivance of some members of the Space Service hierarchy. He had
thought the scheming of General Terhune an isolated incident; now he
wasn’t so certain. The general had retired from the service, but was
immediately appointed to a functionary's post in government. The New
Romans were either actively supporting this extralegal society or passively
condoning it.
   It was almost full dark now, and the judge produced a light and placed
it on the grass, focused on Allan. Behind the glare Victoria Gant became a
dim and lumpy figure, sitting on crossed legs. Only the prosecutor and
defense counsel were still standing.
  "Your honor, I have a question of legality," Allan said when the
prosecutor finished. "Am I to understand that the only possible
punishment for a guilty verdict is death? Why are there no lesser
sentences? And if someone is found innocent, what keeps him from
reporting you to the officials?"
  There was a short wait, and when Victoria answered it was obvious she
was choosing her words carefully. "There have been only two trials to date,
and both produced guilty verdicts. The defendants would have been placed
on one of the habitable worlds their own people caused to be isolated, if
found innocent. As for death being the only sentence for guilt, I'd like to
remind you that killing a Conscience is the one crime for which the Space
Service is authorized to hold a field trial and execute upon conviction. It
seems only fair that you be subject to the same penalty."
  "Thank you for the enlightening comparison, your honor," said Allan,
unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
  "Acting smart won't win you any favor with the jury, mister. Now if you
Want to live to see tomorrow you'd better start defending your career as a
`Conscience'."
   "I'd like to do that, your honor," said Allan's counsel, hastily stepping
forward. "I’m happy to be able to defend Conscience Odegaard, since he's
certainly one of the better members of his club. I can name at least a
dozen worlds where he made the decision that a questionable species was
unintelligent, opening the way to colonization. Recently there was the case
of Beauty, where he overruled one of his fellows and declared the planet
okay after the stupid idiot had ordered the colonists off. He forced one of
our friends in the Space Service to retire on that deal, but at least we got
the planet. On the world of Misery, not one of the better planets for sure,
he gave permission for the local spice processing company not only to
continue its work, but to expand. Even on many worlds that he ruled
ineligible for colonization, like the silicon-life planet Crystal, he okayed the
installation or expansion of scientific stations. I maintain that his record
as a Conscience is unusually good, and he should be spared and turned
free after the election."
  "The defense counsel makes some good points," said the prosecutor,
without waiting for the judicial permission to speak. "Odegaard is
admittedly one of the less softheaded members of his profession. But I
deny that his record is really all that great, since he's followed the same
line as the rest in ruling humans off any world where the local animals
could so much as throw stones. If he's less guilty than most, it's strictly a
matter of degree. Since we don't have any lesser sentence, I say we have no
choice but to find this man guilty as charged."
   The defense counsel took a step forward and started a rebuttal. Both
men had got wrapped up in their role-playing and were working hard;
each seemed equally sincere. For the first time since the start of this wild
trial Allan could almost believe that it was real. His defense counsel was
arguing from a limited viewpoint, but judging by the effect on the
prosecutor he was telling heavily. It was true that Allan was known as a
hardheaded Conscience, influenced as much by biology as behavior, and
he had made more compromises with idealism than most. And where the
evidence was statistically uncertain, Allan always followed the guideline
that intelligence had to be positively demonstrated. Many P.P.s ruled
otherwise, as had his predecessor on Zwergwelt.
   The two court opponents argued for almost an hour, while Allan stayed
quiet and saved his strength. This world had no moon, and there was a
light mist in the air, hiding the stars. Allan had been squinting his eyes for
some time, to shut out the light and accustom them to darkness. When
the judge asked him if he had anything further to say in his defense, he
shook his head.
   "Then the jury will vote immediately, since we judge by majority
decision and consultation is not permitted," said the judge, picking up the
light and swinging it toward the three seated figures. "All who vote `guilty'
please raise your right hand."
   One hand, that of the man on the left, shot up immediately. Allan knew
with almost certainty that he was staring at his intended executioner. The
other man made no move. Margarete hesitated, started to raise a hand,
and then nervously lowered it. Her agitation was apparent even through
the shielding hood. The judge waited a moment, and Allan heard the relief
in her voice when she finally said, "Vote noted. All innocent, same sign.'
  The man on the right raised his hand, and the woman followed suit. The
one on the left muttered something under his breath.
  "The verdict is innocent," said Victoria, her voice neutral again. She
swung the light back to Allan. "Conscience Odegaard, you will be held in
custody for sixty days and then released, providing we win the election. I
am sorry we must detain you . . ." She went into a lengthy apology, but
Allan was no longer listening. He had planned to make his break when the
judge passed sentence; now he would be risking his life when it was
otherwise out of danger.
   The ruling Victoria had forced him to sign would be promptly
transmitted to Earth, but it was the one he would almost certainly have
forwarded within a week anyway. It might well cost the Conservationists
the election as anticipated, but that was no fault of Allan's; he had not
made the original wrong decision. There was no good reason for him to
risk his life, especially in this seriously weakened condition.
   And then Allan realized he was ignoring one very important
consideration. If he escaped and exposed the Safeguard Squads and their
secret supporters, the scandal would very likely keep the New Romans out
of power for at least another term. The coming election might be won or
lost because of what he did tonight.
   Allan tilted his torso and dived for the light, snatched it up, rolled to his
feet, and hurled it at the left-hand juror. It caught him in the face,
knocking him over as he was scrambling erect. Allan stiff-armed Victoria,
sending her sprawling on her back, and ran for the water, crouching and
zigzagging. There had really been no contest with his own conscience. It
was far too strong to permit any choice but the one be had made.
   A laser beam, aimed low, flashed past his legs on the right; he had
miscalculated the timing. Allan threw himself at the grass, hit rolling,
scrambled to his feet, and darted for the water again. After two seconds he
cut hard to the left, and had the satisfaction of seeing a second beam miss
by two meters. Then his foot touched water and he hurled himself forward
in a long flat dive. In midair he felt a surge of weakness, so overwhelming
he almost blacked out. The sudden tremendous exertion against the
deadening effect of the drug had brought him to the edge of physical
collapse.
  A third laser beam burned him across the left thigh as his head hit
water.
   Allan felt the shock of the wound even through the faintness. The water
was unexpectedly cold, and jarred him back to full consciousness.
Momentum carried him into the strong central current, and he felt it
pulling him down. He had snatched a deep breath as he dived, but it was
only a minute before he suffered a frantic need for air. He slowly vented
his breath, and managed a feeble stroke or two to keep himself under.
Even that small effort brought blackness washing back over his mind. He
hovered on the verge of awareness for a long moment, and then felt air on
his face; his still inflated lugs had brought him back to the surface. He
emptied them and sucked in air in a great gasp, and then a light swept
over his head, came back, and as he turned on his face to dive a laser
beam burned the air a few centimeters in front of his eyes. The water
beyond exploded into a cloud of steam.
   Allan managed another feeble stroke that took him down, but again lost
his fragile hold on consciousness. For a timeless interval he hovered in the
grip of shadows, eyes closed, moving as the current took him, and again
broached the surface. The light found him immediately, but from farther
away. When the laser beam came it boiled the water where he had just
ducked, and he felt the heat before the current dragged him away.
   When he came up for the third time Allan was past the point where the
light was effective. The accumulated need for air was so great he had to
take several deep breaths. The mist had lifted, and bright starlight
revealed that the fast water had taken him around a bend.
   The sound of someone crashing heavily through the brush reached Allan
from the near bank, and he managed a few strokes to push himself farther
out. He had submerged by the time the expected light swept the surface
toward him. This time he managed to stay down for almost a minute, and
when be came up again Allan knew he was safe.
   It took a minimum of effort to keep afloat in the swift but smooth
current. Allan gingerly felt over his burned leg, and for the first time
discovered he was bleeding heavily. The beam had taken away some upper
muscle tissue as well as skin. Function seemed unimpaired, but it was a
nasty wound.
   After another half kilometer a natural eddy swept Allan toward the
bank. He recognized the area, and realized there was a place of refuge
close at hand. When his feet touched bottom he fought the current to
stand erect, finally succeeded, and staggered ashore. The extra effort made
him weak again, and he had to lean against a tree. When he recovered
Allan went on, hoping he was not leaving a blood trail in the grass. Within
a hundred meters he had reached the rocky hill he sought, and walked
around it toward the limestone cliffside. If the female dwarf was on the
prowl now she would find an easy victim. But only the noises of the smaller
animal population disturbed the night, and he found the rock face and its
concealed cave without difficulty.
  After carefully pulling the vines together behind him, Allan struggled up
the slight incline to the grotto. In the pitch darkness inside he sat down
and finished ripping off the trouser leg partly burned by the laser. Unable
to make a tourniquet, he compromised by wrapping the cloth tightly
around the wound, placing his left palm over it, and lying with the weight
of his body on the hand.
   Instead of recovering now that he was resting, Allan felt the familiar
black fingers closing around his mind again; he must have lost a lot of
blood. His imprisoned hand was swiftly growing numb, and he could not
tell if the bleeding had slowed or was carrying him toward death. But
Allan knew with absolute certainty that he could not rise from the
powdered limestone floor, that he must live or die on what he had
managed to that point. The blackness deepened, grew more threatening,
and Allan surrendered his hold on life and let the fingers pluck him up and
cast him into a wider, stronger river, where he floated toward a more
lasting darkness.
                                    - 21 -
  "Hey, Allan Trueheart, wake up there!"
   Allan opened his eyes, gasped in fright, and shrank back from the
incredible countenance bending over him. The huge flattened lips that
extended ten centimeters beyond the lumpy nose twisted into a weird
grin. "Come on, Keeper-of-the Earthman's-Burden, on your feet. We're
going for a little walk." The voice was high and peremptory, hauntingly
familiar to Allan. What he saw was unbelievable. The rough clay statue
had come to life and was kneeling beside him, one crude arm extended to
help him up.
   Allan closed his eyes to the nightmare, but it refused to go away.
Instead he felt a large hand pulling him upward, and reluctantly got to his
feet. The effort made his head swim and he staggered; only the supporting
clay arm kept him from falling. He opened his eyes again, and with
blurred vision saw that the little circular cavern was lighted by a dim blue
radiance of unseen origin. He glanced at the roughly outlined face, a head
higher than his own, and quickly looked away. The sight was unacceptable
to the senses. He had to be delirious.
   "Come on there, fella, let's take a little stroll and say hello to your friends
in the Safeguard Squad. They're looking for you.”
  One grainy arm moved across Allan's back and a huge hand clasped
him under the right armpit. As the ponderous body urged him forward he
instinctively gripped the supporting shoulder, and was half carried to the
low tunnel. The living statue had to stoop to miss the ceiling. As they
walked down the gentle slope Allan felt the rough clay under his hand.
  The surface did not move and shift to indicate internal muscular
activity. With thumb and forefinger he tried to pinch off some material,
and could not. In homogeneity alone it felt and acted like living tissue.
   "Leave off trying to steal my corporeal substance there, fella," said the
slightly high but pleasant voice that Allan knew from long ago. They
reached the vine curtain and carefully maneuvered through it. Pollux was
almost overhead, its yellow rays high-lighting another beautiful day on a
nearly perfect world.
   Allan had revived slightly, though dizziness was a constant menace,
waiting for a chance to pounce. He recognized the now familiar effect of
the drug as a deep and abiding lassitude, but he was also feverish and not
fully recovered from the shock of a serious wound. As they started through
the woods, moving faster in the open, the exertion brought blackness
swirling toward him. Just before it hit Allan finally remembered why the
statue's voice was familiar.
    "Clay!" he gasped. "Clay Forrester!" And then consciousness retreated
and hovered, taunting him, just outside his skull. When the dark clouds
lifted his companion was chuckling aloud.
  "Straight on, fella, straight on. This is ol' Clay talkin', or at least his
personality as you saw it when you knew him."
  "But, but why?" Allan asked, feeling helpless and lost. "If you aren't
human what's the purpose?”
   "You'd have a hell of a time communicating with me in my elemental
form, junior. And that's a pretty good yuk! if you understood it, `cause it
happens I am an elemental. And I chose Clay's personality out of the
several I could have formed from your memory cause this body I'm
activating is made of the stuff, and that's just the type of obvious joke he'd
like. It also fits in with the fact I've got to lay a few heavy words on you,
and Forrester enjoyed nothing more than displaying his superior
erudition. So just call me Clay."
   The description of his former college friend was accurate enough. Allan
remembered Clay with fondness, though he had an exasperating
affectation of using expressions that had enjoyed a brief popularity and
then died into history. Clay had remained a teacher when Allan joined the
PP. Corps, and to the best of his knowledge, carved out a successful career
for himself on Earth.
  They had reached the main gametrail leading toward the station, and
Allan heard voices around a bend ahead: one was Victoria Gant's. "Yeah,
they're lookin' for you, daddy-o," said Clay, the wide flat lips grinning in
earthen mockery. "Stand to the side, and i'll hide us by casting a spell
that'l dazzle the minds of men."
   If this was nightmare or delirium it was terribly real. Allan clung to a
sturdy bush and waited, Clay standing by his side. Victoria and two men
Allan did not recognize rounded the bend. These strangers had to be the
male members of the jury, the Space servicemen apparently sent here
specifically to try him. One had a plastiskin strip across his forehead. As
they passed, the bandaged man turned and looked directly at Allan. In two
cold and remote gray eyes he saw a lingering fascination with the finality
of death.
  To this point Allan had accepted the unacceptable with numbed
acquiescence. When the killer looked through him and searched the woods
on both sides, it finally became too much to bear. He waited until the
three hunters had passed out of hearing, and said, "I can't believe it any
more."
   Clay chuckled, a light, pleasing sound. "It took a pretty good tolerance
to get this far, dad. But brace yourself, `cause the worst is yet to come."
  "If you can keep them from seeing us," Alan said slowly, "can't you do
something about my physical weakness? Lend me some of the strength
you've got animating that clay figure?"
   "Could, but ain't gonna; want you just the way you are, for reasons of
mental health you'll understand better later. That's why I brought you out
in the sunlight. This would be tough on you in the dark. But let's follow
your dedicated friends for the moment. And go ahead and talk; they can't
hear us."
  They stepped into the trail and started after the three humans. "Who
are you?" Allan demanded. "Or perhaps I should ask, what are you?"
   "I told you what I am, Allan; an elemental. We were there before your
ancestors swung that first bone club, and will be here after your
descendants have mutated themselves up the ladder, probably. But just to
keep from making this too simple, only a small part of my consciousness is
in this sloppy form supporting you. Most of it is back on the old home
grounds, Mother Earth and environs."
  "Then you're . . . God?" whispered Alan. The concept was alien in his
scheme of beliefs.
  "Naw, that's too simple also, Allan baby. There's nothing
anthropomorphic about me in my basic form."
  It was too much. Logic and reason failed, and a trained mind was
useless. And then with a flash of insight Allan saw his way clear, and
accepted the fact he was dealing with matters beyond logic and reason.
There was a soft chuckle beside him, and he realized Clay was reading his
thoughts as they formed.
  "Yeah, keerect, dad. They do have to be expressed, though. Not even I
can follow the subprocesses that eventually produce a mental
verbalization."
   For a moment Allan had managed to forget his physical weakness, but
was reminded when dizziness again swept over him and his legs abruptly
buckled. Clay supported him without slackening their pace. After a minute
of foot-dragging the spell passed, and Allan could walk again.
  "I think I've made the quantum jump," he said aloud. "Okay, I'm in a
new universe. But I'm lost. Guide me."
  Clay chuckled again. "That's what I'm here for. Tell me, Allan, when you
were a small child and looked at the sun, what did you see?"
 Allan thought for a moment, then said, "A big white ball in the sky that
made your eyes water."
  "Very good. And when you were a teenager in Preparatory?"
  "A mass of gases heated by atomic processes in the central core, the
source of all energy in the solar system and probably all matter. An
understanding that the sun is an incredibly complex mechanism, and only
specialists can ever know it in depth."
  "And when you became a partial `specialist' during your astronomy
courses in college?"
   "I moved from external large basics into fundamentals, more details. I
learned how and why the hydrogen-into-helium fusion process works, how
other elements are created, the complete life cycle of a star. I also learned
there's a great deal we still don't know, and may never know."
   "Right. And during these years that was the same sun sitting out there,
not changing any appreciable amount. Your grasp, your understanding of
it changed. Now as to what I am . . . you're just at the small child stage,
Allan. You've got a long ways to go to reach Preparatory, much less
  college."
   "Then . . . you're a higher intelligence. We've found a more developed
being in our own solar system." After he had said the words Allan realized
they sounded distorted, as though he had missed the real point and they
lacked meaning.
  Clay sighed, loudly. "No, dammit, I'm above intelligence. The term is
meaningless when applied to me. I told you I'm an elemental, as much a
part of Earth and the sun as the gravitic force that binds them together.
Use the previous analogy but substitute intelligence for the sun, and you'll
have a better idea of what you really know on the subject."
  That hurt. Allan rebelled against such a condemnation, but the
conviction that he had just heard an unyielding truth slowly swelled and
grew, until it overwhelmed him. His voice was dull when he finally
acknowledged the bitter fact. "Then my life has been wasted. I've
specialized in the study of intelligence, and what's more, I've made a
hundred decisions that vitally affect whole species, based on what I
thought we knew."
   "Wrong again. Those first protective tears teach the small child not to
stare directly at the sun; that's learning by immediate personal
experience. In school he switches to a new class of learning techniques, the
manipulation of symbols and concepts. Here he loses immediacy, but the
volume grows tremendously because of the nature of the working medium,
the ability of symbolical representation to condense a tremendous amount
of knowledge into a form that can be quickly absorbed. In dealing with
intelligence, Homo saps is still in the personal experience area, and is
going to be there for some time. You learn as you grow, doing the best you
can with what you know at the particular moment. You can't refuse to act
because you know a deeper understanding will come after you've advanced
to a whole new class of knowledge."
   The changes in Allan's personal orientation to life were too rapid, too
profound for absorption. The hurt eased into numbness, which slowly
changed into indignation. "Then why are you telling me about the heights
I’m never going to reach? What do you want!"
   "Well, laddiebuck, now that we've cut the watermelon rind we get down
to the juicy heart. You've finally strayed from the straight and narrow by
making a wrong decision, and you're about to compound the error by
following it with a second one. I'm here to change your mind on both, if
that can be done without actual interference. We elementals have our own
rules - there's no such quality as total freedom anywhere in the universe
and one is that we don't interfere with lower life forms. Sound familiar?
But if you choose a new path when we finish our walk, especially
considering that you're only going to half-believe in this conversation
tomorrow anyway, then I haven't bothered you any more than your
research stations bother the dwarfs. And to hit `em in reverse order, that's
the second wrong decision you're about to make, that our short look-alikes
aren't intelligent. They are, Oh Homologous Hominid, they are!"
   "Not as I understand intelligence at my child's level," said Allan
stubbornly, feeling a helpless certainty that he was wrong.
   "Oh, technically and temporally you're quite right, but you've got a
short-term perspective, I was on this planet about forty-thousand years
ago, for reasons that are none of your business, and at that time the
dwarfs would have passed your tests. Your own ancestors were scavenging
carrion for a living back then, incidentally. That's when these longtoothed
shorties made this statue of the form I took. I kinda' liked it, and told the
clay to hang together. Then this world warmed up a little and it turned
entirely too lush on this continent. The result was that earning a meal
became too easy, and they got lazy. All they really need are some hard
times, and they're coming within a thousand of their years. This continent
is going to dry out and wrinkle up like an old apple. Five-thousand years
after that they'll be finding some of your artifacts and writing learned
papers on the unexpected metallurgical abilities of their primitive
ancestors."
   "I don't have any choice but to accept that, as I accept you," Allan said
slowly. They had caught up with Victoria and here two companions, who
were standing at the river's edge discussing the possibility that he had
survived the swift water. He learned they knew the laser beam had caught
him and considered it likely he had drowned. Two other squadsmen had
launched a raft upriver and were poling it toward them, searching the
banks for his body.
  Allan had reached a temporary equilibrium with both drug and fever,
and for the moment was having no difficulty clinging to consciousness.
"What's the first mistake, the one I've already made?" he asked the
hulking figure beside him.
  Clay sighed again. "Now we get down to the real nittygritty, Allan. Brace
yourself, `cause you ain't heard nothin' yet!"
   Allan had heard more than enough, but he followed the advice and tried
to compose himself to accept the worst.
   "You've already made a firm decision to reject that Deputy
Administrator's job," Clay said, his slow voice indicating a careful choice
of words. "You did this for purely selfish reasons, the fact that the life you
lead now is a hell of a lot more interesting and exciting than anything
Earth can offer. I want you to change your mind. The P.P. Corps will need
you in that top spot when Siggi Wilson leaves, and despite all its faults it's
a good organization. Some of my fellow elementals in other systems -
including this one, incidentally - want the work you're doing to continue.
And on the personal level, you're about spoiled for field work anyway. Take
the bigger job and quit while you're ahead."
   The world turned dark again for Allan, but this time he recognized the
encroaching blackness as a frantic defense against believing what he had
just heard. He forced the tempting oblivion back, and cried, "What do you
mean I'm spoiled for field work?"
   "I'm sorry this has to be heard to take, Allan, but keep in mind that the
cut a surgeon makes to operate could kill a man, if that was the intent.
Instead it's the first step in the healing process. You have more than a
touch of arrogance in you. It's a common fault of the competent. With all
the good intentions possible, you're beginning to think and act too much
like these Safeguard cats looking for you. . . becoming a man who knows
for certain that he's right! It's a dangerous and unforgiving attitude. I
think you'd better move on up the ladder, and let a younger and more
idealistic person take your place."
  Clay turned and began walking back down the trail, still supporting
Allan. "I don't think they're going to find you in my little hideaway, and
when the fever eases you won't have much trouble getting food and water.
Just stay away from my hairy girlfriend with the built-in protective drive
who guards the joint. Your friends at the station will be guarding the
shuttle from Main Base next week, but you should manage to sneak
aboard somehow. Competency is a virtue as well as a vice. In any case, it's
your problem."
   Allan was silent on the short trip back to the cavern, trying to digest
what he had learned. It was too much to take in at once. Being on his feet
for almost an hour had finally drained his strength, and he was losing his
precarious hold on full consciousness. Despite the confusion in his mind
he remembered at the cliffside to ask a final question. "How will I find you
on Earth? You can't just show yourself to us and then disappear, as you
did with the dwarfs. Where are you in our solar system?"
   Clay chuckled. "Man, you're centered on the geographical and temporal
location bit, strictly centered only Look, dad, I don't want you hunting for
me, and this little chat has to be strictly confidential, not that anyone
would believe you anyway. Mankind has to grow up to us, not find us.
Think about that, and when you recover try to remember this as just a
vivid fever dream, where maybe you gleaned a few pearls of wisdom from
your subconscious."
  They passed through the vine curtain, and it was the last thing Allan
saw for two days.
   Allan awoke to a knowledge of serious bodily dehydration, but his mind
was clear and the fever had run its course. He staggered outside, hoping
that vicious female dwarf was not at home. After drinking from a forest
pool and eating some thoroughly ripened fruits he felt much stronger, and
returned to the cavern. In the darkness he made his way to the clay figure
at the rear and carefully felt over it. The statute was as lifeless as when he
had first examined it, but seemed to have slightly shifted its position.
With only memory as a comparison guide, it was impossible to be certain.
Without a light he could not even check the floor for large flat footprints.
   Allan remembered a verifiable point, and attempted to pinch off a bit of
material from an arm. His fingers slipped from what felt like ordinary dry
clay without making an impression. The material in the figure was still
obeying the elemental's command to "hang together."
  Clay had refused to relieve Allan's dizziness for reasons of "mental
health." He had said it was best this experience be remembered as a
dream, even though the lessons learned were to be heeded. Which meant
that Clay, godlike though he might be, was far from omniscient. There was
no slightest doubt in Allan's mind of the reality of his experience. He did
not even feel the need to return with a light and examine the floor.
   But the elemental had also said Allan was on his own. He had to reach
Earth and expose the Safeguard Squads by his own efforts. And Allan had
a strong hunch that Clay had made his single contribution by speaking to
him, and would not interfere again even If the Conscience died before be
could utilize the new knowledge.
   Four days later Allan crouched behind a thick bush only a few meters
from the charged fence protecting the station. The aircar from Main Base
was just settling to the ground, and he saw with approval that it was going
to shield him from the laser-armed "gardener" working at the rear of the
building. When the pilot stepped outside and was also hidden behind the
aircar, Allan picked up the heavy stile he had made and walked rapidly to
the fence.
   Without cutting tools or power Allan had been forced to use dead
branches and vines to construct the inverted V. shaped stile, but it would
get him over the two-meter high wire. He held it by one leg and carefully
tilted the other back and manhandled it over the top strand; each leg had
lashed side braces to hold it erect. Allan had practiced climbing up and
over, but not where a slip would result in a severe shock. He moved
carefully up the vine-tied cross pieces, and had just reached the top when
a low voice called, "Nice try, Conscience."
  Allan froze, then slowly turned, keeping his hands carefully in sight. The
out-of-uniform space serviceman with the dead gray eyes was standing a
few meters away, a laser pistol rock-steady on Allan's chest.
   The two men looked at each other. In the coldly controlled face below
him Allan saw the need to confront the victim that had delayed his death
for a few seconds. Without conscious thought he let the genuine fear be
felt show on his face, and when the hot beam did not come seeking his
heart, let the expression grow. The killer drank it in, his mouth opening
slightly. When it started to close Allan hurled himself to the side in a
horizontal dive over the fence, and felt the burning touch of death in the
air above his ribs. He landed on top of a young green bush, growing amid
charred stalks where the old undergrowth had been burned away.
  The breaking branches cushioned Allan's descent to the ground. He
curled into a ball as he fell and landed almost on his feet. Coming instantly
erect, he spotted a shallow depression just behind the bush that partially
hid him, and left his feet in another long dive. This time he hit rolling and
was out of the killer's immediate sight when he stopped. But the man had
held his fire, and could easily see Allan from two steps up on the stile.
   Allan changed his escape plan. He opened his mouth and yelled for help
at the top of his lungs. There was a startled cry from inside the aircar. A
second later a surprised face appeared in the nearest window, staring
down at Allan. He had forgotten the safety rule that required two men
aboard all flights extending more than fifty kilometers from Main Base.
   Allan swung his head, and saw the face of his intended executioner
rising just above the top of the stile. The man hesitated, and for the first
time Allan saw indecision on the usually impassive features. And then the
killer realized it would be impossible to hide the fact of naked murder, and
unwillingness to risk his own death won. He stepped down and silently
faded into the woods.
  For a moment more Allan remained where he was, then crawled to the
end of the shallow gully. By that time the man in the aircar had swung to
the ground, and was approaching him at a trot. Allan recognized him as
Jacque Flomain, the pilot; the man who had entered the station must have
been a passenger. Jacque was holding a laser at the ready.
  The pilot kept his gaze on the quiet woods outside the fence, and called,
"Run for the aircar, Conscience; I'll cover."
   On a world where a Safeguard Squad existed, where the highest local
official was a member, and at least two space servicemen out of uniform
roamed at will and one killed on command, it was impossible to know
friend from secret foe. Allan had planned to try to reach Magnitsky, of
whose honesty he felt certain, without trusting another person. The
cleverness of the Safeguards in planting a dummy guard inside the fence,
while the real killer stayed outside, had exposed him. Now he was to
chance Jacque and the man with him being trustworthy, as well as the
laser beam that could still come seeking him from outside the fence.
   Jacque had advanced to the head of the shallow gully, where he stood
with his pistol pointed at the woods, and Allan had not lost all faith in his
fellow man. He pushed erect and, crouching low, ran for the opposite side
of the aircar.
  "I don't understand!" Magnitsky said sharply, "You're certain the
masked judge was Victoria. You are fairly sure one juror was Margarete
Olmedo and you think you know both the prosecutor and your assigned
`counsel.' Why won't you prefer charges?"
   "Lack of any proof better than my word against theirs,"replied Allan.
The aircar had brought him back to Main Base immediately, and they
were seated in Magnitsky's unfinished but comfortable office. Allan had
just had the dubious satisfaction of seeing someone as shocked and hurt
as he had been. "Besides, prosecuting Victoria and her immature crew
would make them too happy. Fanatics are always willing to die nobly for a
`great cause.' I think it was Willhelm Stekel who said it best two-hundred
Eryears ago: A mature man wants to live humbly for what he believes. If
you had been at the trial you'd have seen how little Margarete and
Victoria wanted to kill me, even though the roles they had adopted might
have forced them into it. I suggest you transfer all of them back to Earth,
where they can work for the New Romans in more legitimate ways. I'm
more concerned with the Space Service officer responsible for those two
roving `jurors.' After the election we have to start rooting out the
bureaucrats and officers who support these extralegal activities."
  "Of course I'll send Victoria and the rest back, that being the only
punishment I can administer if you won't prosecute," said Magnitsky. "In
the past I’ve had some reservations about the mission of the P.P. Corps,
but now that I see what would happen if exploiters like the New Romans
took power, I'll vote Conversationist."
  "So will a few billion others, when Earth hears about the Safeguard
Squads," said Allan, rising. "And I am filing charges against the two
spacers. We can't have killers like that gray-eyed fellow roaming loose. We
have Jacque's word to back mine on the ambush at the fence. From those
two the Inspector General can work his way up."
  They shook hands and Allan headed for the landing field, where a
planetary shuttle waited to lift him to the neverlander in orbit overhead.
At the entrance port he paused for a last look at the lush and verdant
woods of Zwergwelt, wondering how often he would be able to escape his
new office and walk again through such primeval beauty. Not frequently,
once the bureaucracy got him in its grip.
   Allan gazed in the direction of a small hidden grotto, where a crude clay
figure sat in lonely but majestic splendor. There was still no slightest
doubt in his mind of the authenticity of his experience there, and it was
not going to affect his mental health in the slightest. "I hope to God you're
satisfied," ha murmured, and entered the shuttle.
                                   - 22 -
   Allan stepped into the aircar, glanced at the two other passengers, and
punched out his destination, the Space Service building in Geneva, on the
small console. He seated himself in an empty safety chair, and felt the
gentle but firm restraining arms lock across his thighs and chest. No one
entered behind him, and precisely on schedule a minute later the door
locked with an audible click. The aircar performed its automatic
self-check, a series of green lights that flickered across the console face for
ten seconds. Allan watched the "Passengers Secured" light come on above
them and remain steady. It was followed by the "Operational" light, and
two seconds later the eight-passenger car lifted off. It had been on the
ground less than three minutes.
   The aircar accelerated rapidly to enter the main corridor across the
long body of Lake Geneva. Allan risked a strained neck by turning around
to watch the next aircar coming in. It was almost directly below them,
decelerating to land at the spot they had occupied at the Lausanne
Spaceport. He would have much preferred to board that car. It was
headed for Bern, and to the best of his knowledge Gilia was still in school
there. They had kept in touch, but it had been almost two years since they
had enjoyed that almost idyllic, legally unsanctioned honeymoon at the
Martian Red Desert Resort. The
  only advantage Allan could see to his new job was that he would at least
get to see her again before she left on her first assignment.
   It was only an eight-minute ride from Lausanne to Geneva, and they
were already halfway there. Allan stared at the snowcapped peaks in the
distance, and down at the cold blue water . . . and a tinny voice said
loudly, "Alert! Passenger alert! The powerplant has failed! Prepare for
emergency landing!"
  The quiet hum of the craft's two motors died. A ducted fan aircar had
no wings, but its tub-shaped body provided aerodynamic lift. A landing in
the water would be rough but comparatively safe. And then to Allan's
amazement the normal forward tilt became almost a dive, and their
descent speed increased. They were going to hit the water at a sharp
angle, while moving at a speed he estimated at better than 200 kilometers
an hour.
   The other two passengers - both were old women - had sat as though
frozen after the announcement of an emergency.
   When the aircar tilt increased they screamed together, and fell silent
again almost as if reacting as one. Both turned to look at Allan, and for the
first time he realized they were elderly twin sisters. He had not noticed
earlier because they did not dress alike. It seemed odd, inappropriate, that
a man who had survived a decade of very dangerous adventures on alien
worlds should die on Earth, and in such prosaic company.
  Something else about this mechanical failure was odd. Allan found the
seat restraint emergency release button, and pressed it. The padded bands
across his legs and chest retracted into the chair. Internal power at least
was still on.
   He heaved himself to his feet and took two uncertain steps to the
console. Even as he moved he saw that its face reflected only two lights,
The green "Operational" was still burning; the "Passengers Secured" light
had turned to amber. And just to confirm his suspicion, a recorded voice
said: “This is a fully secured flight. All passengers will remain seated.
Repeat; all passengers remain in their seats."
   There was no pilot's chair at the low console, but a panel padded on the
inside was recessed into the face. There had been little change in Earth's
most popular form of personal transportation during the past ten years,
and Allan still remembered the emergency instructions he had learned as
part of his pilot's training. He pulled on the release handle, and and the
panel swung down and locked into place. In the opening behind it was an
emergency control stick. On an inner wail was a small red switch with two
positions, "Manual" and "Programmed." Allan moved the switch from the
Programmed to the Manual position as he seated himself and grasped the
stick. Almost instantly be felt the glide angle change, easing into a less
direct fall. Another recorded message came on and warned him he was not
authorized to operate an aircar.
  The aged twins, still together, started to babble questions as Allan
increased the glide angle to the maximum and began shedding speed. He
held up a restraining hand and they obediently fell silent. There were a few
other controls inside the tiny compartment. Allan pressed the button
marked "Emergency Restart," and was not very surprised when the two
powerplants almost instantly began humming again. He felt the drag as
the four fans began fighting their downward momentum, and glanced
ahead out of the curved windshield. The water was close.
   The aircar was still moving much too fast for a safe landing. Allan held
the stick all the way back, feeling a heavy weight in his stomach as they
started pulling out of the dive. The small movable control surfaces on the
fat aircar body provided little actual lift; the real control was in the fans.
The duel between momentum and opposing power continued for long
seconds, while Allan held the control stick at the maximum and waited to
see if the airfoils would hold. They were only a few hundred meters high,
and slowly changing the angle of descent while rapidly approaching the
surface. And then the aircar reached the bottom of its new curved path,
flew level less than fifty meters above the water for a few seconds, and
started ascending.
   Allan released the breath he had not realized he was holding, eased the
stick ahead, and glanced at the other controls. They were designed for
simplicity and ease of operation, and in less than a minute he had slowed
their speed and was turning toward Geneva.
  Belatedly, the emergency visiphone came on. A sharp-faced gray-haired
man looked up at Allan from the tiny screen. "This is your emergency
operator. Do you need assistance? Why are you on Manual?"
   "What does your recording equipment show?" Allan demanded instead
of answering. `We've been on emergency status for two minutes!"
   The emergency operator disappeared, but was back shortly, wearing a
puzzled expression. "Our record shows nothing out of the ordinary until
you activated the manual override about three minutes ago, sir. What was
this emergency of which you spoke?"
  "Does your system record your own actions, or only these fed back to
you by the monitors in the aircars?" Allan demanded, again without
answering.
  "Why. . . only the monitor input, sir. But my predecessor should have
received a signal and taken action before I rekeyed him. I don't know what
happened here."
   "I do. And I'll take care of it shortly after I land," Allan said, his voice
grim. "Now give me directions for a manual landing on the roof of the
Space Service building."
  "Sir, I shall have to report this . . . incident.
   “So do I," Allan replied. And then he was busy maneuvering the small
aircar through the bustling traffic of Geneva. In three more minutes they
were settling toward the nonsked landing area on the tall blue spire that
housed the Space Service. As they disembarked, Allan turned to the twins
and said, "Ladies, I want you both to know I think you would have made
good spacers. Your nerves are better than mine."
   They gave him grateful smiles, and shy thanks for saving their lives, and
Allan caught an elevator down to the 89th floor. His first appointment was
with the adjutant to the Inspector General, External Operations. Allan
stopped at a visiphone in the hail outside his office and dialed the security
section of the P.P. Corps. When he had the correct official on the line,
Allan briefly explained that an attempt had been made to murder him by
crashing the aircar in which he was riding. An emergency operator had
been bribed to assume control and wreck the craft in such a fashion it
would appear an accident. Allan was certain now that the first supposedly
recorded emergency warning had been a fake. A very human operator had
spoken those words, while actually taking control of the vehicle and
putting it into a steep dive.
   Allan supplied the P.P. official with the flight time, origin, and
destination of his aircar, which would enable Council Security operatives
to locate the specific emergency operator on duty at the time. The relief
who had spoken to him might report the incident as he had said, but Allan
was taking no chances. That man had been willing to kill two passengers
in whom he could have no interest in order to eliminate a planned victim.
   The two attempts to kill Allan on outworld planets had been forceful
and direct, by men with lasers. On Earth the means chosen were more
subtle, and even less conscionable; innocent bystanders were involved. The
incident only confirmed Allan's preference for duty away from Earth. Only
special training received long ago had enabled him to survive. And if
murder was now a political tool, there might be more attempts on his life.
If so, sooner or later one was bound to succeed.
  Three minutes later Allan was explaining the circumstances of the
weird trial on Zwergwelt to Colonel Bagnulo, adjutant to the Inspector
General. The photographs of all spacers in the Pollux system were ready,
and Allan quickly identified the two men who had served on his "jury."
  "I was afraid of that," muttered Bagnulo, a tall, lean African of Nilotic
extraction. "The one you call the psychotic killer is Hardtack McComber,
who has three medals for bravery and four busts on his record for
insubordination. It only figures he'd join a secret society that promised a
little extra danger and excitement. The other man I know nothing about;
probably just a sidekick. We'll have them both brought in for questioning
and formal charges."
   Allan considered telling Bagnulo about the second attempt on his life
just moments ago, but refrained. It had nothing to do with the Space
Service directly, although Allan would wager a year's pay that the same
persons were responsible if you went high enough: Someone had not
wanted him to reach Bagnulo. Possibly they did not want him to reach his
second appointment, which was with Siggi Wilson in this same building.
  Allan stopped at the public visiphone again after leaving the colonel,
and looked up Gilia's number in Bern. She was not there, and the home
secretary had no recorded message.
   In Wilson's office Allan asked that the conversation be recorded, and
then quickly informed the heavy-set administrator of all he knew about
the Safeguard Squads. Siggi listened carefully, tilting back in his executive
chair with his massive chin resting on a clenched fist. When Allan was
through he sighed, put his feet on the floor with a loud thump of
spaceman's boots, and said, "Most flagrant and best documented case I
know of illegal assumption of authority. I agree with Magnitsky, not you.
All participants should have been prosecuted to the fullest possible
extent."
   Allan shrugged, and said, "Why waste time on the knaves? I’d like to get
at the king."
   "That isn't so easy," said Siggi, frowning. `Well, I'll turn it over to our
legal and political staffs. The latter have less than two weeks to make the
most of what we know before the election. Your story isn't the first we've
heard, just the clearest and most complete. I've had suspicions about
those two `accidents' you mentioned for some time. Both were highly
experienced P.Ps who had got out of worse scraps without a scratch."
  "Do you think it will swing the election to us?" asked Allan.
   "No doubt about it, in my mind. Which brings up a point, Allan. There
may be an equivalent of the Safeguard Squads here on Earth. We have
your testimony safely on tape now, but they may still feel you're a bad lad
to have around. I think I'd better ask Council Security to assign you a
guard."
   "You're a little late," Allan said, grinning. He told Siggi about the aircar
failure.
   "Holy Space! Why didn't you tell me earlier?" demanded Siggi. "The
situation is even worse than I thought!"
   Siggi calmed down after Allan explained that P.P. Security had been
notified. The P.P. Corps did not have a security force of its own, but had
recourse to that of either the Space Patrol or the World Council. A
full-scale investigation was probably already underway.
  Allan considered also telling Siggi about his encounter with the
consciousness called Clay on Zwergwelt, but decided against it. Siggi had
most of the characteristics of the good administrator, but a totally open
minded was not one of them. He would find the story hard to believe. . .
and highly upsetting if he finally came to accept it!
  "These killers seem very efficient at knowing where you are and what
you're doing," muttered Siggi. "The Space Patrol has obviously developed
some rotten spots. We'll cut them out after the election."
   "Yes, and in the meantime I have some personal business I want to
attend to," said Allan, rising. "I'm going to take a few days off, if you can
spare me."
  "Of course, Allan. You're at the point where you have to start deciding
your own hours, you know."
  Allan accepted the small rebuke in silence, and turned away. Most high
government officials worked long hours, but also took long vacations,
where they could not be reached except for emergencies. He would have to
get used to the same refuge from overwork. But for the next few years he
had a strong hunch he would be seeing more of the long days than the
privileged vacations.
   Allan caught the next flight to Bern. Gilia was not at home, and there
was no door message. While in space he had wired ahead on subradio that
he was coming; it seemed strange that she had apparently dropped out of
sight. With some foreboding, he called the school where she was enrolled
for her P.P. courses. The attendance clerk informed him she had not been
in class for a week.
    The message he had sent was probably on her home secretary, unread,
if she had left a week ago. That might explain why she was not here to
greet him, but not where she had gone, and why.
   Allan decided to use his new authority as Deputy Administrator, and
put in another call to P.P. Security. They agreed to attempt to trace Gilia
Kaylin, but asked that he come by the office and sign the official request
as soon as possible. Allan had not actually been sworn into office, but he
had no
  reason to think his interview with the World Council committee that
passed on P.P. appointments would be more than a formality.
  Allan debated looking up Kay and visiting his children, but decided
against it. His years in space had compelled a clean break; best keep it
that way.
   For the rest of the day Allan occupied himself with the mundane chores
of renting a living unit and getting his baggage delivered. He chose, for the
time being, to stay in Lausanne, near the spaceport. Geneva was nothing
but a complex of business and government buildings, where apartments
were not allowed. The Lake Geneva International Zone covered not only
the water but all land for more than fifteen kilometers on every side. The
area bordering the lake was thickly covered with living buildings and
commercial enterprises, though all the old cities had retained their
separate identities. Most higher government officials and well-paid
executives lived in chalets out of the Zone, perching thickly on the
mountains on every side. Supporting the World Council was now the
major business of the state of Switzerland. The Zone and its satellite cities
formed a complex containing more than eighty million people.
   Allan felt restless after unpacking his few belongings, and wandered out
into the night. As in most urban complexes on Earth, virtually every legal
and illegal pleasure known to man was available if you had the money. He
enjoyed a fine meal at an excellent restaurant, one that proudly advertised
its spices from Misery, but passed up the many other forms of
entertainment. Instead he took a long walk after dinner, exploring some of
the older streets and byways of the city.
   Lausanne had not erected an environmental dome, and the October air
was crisp and smelled of mountain pine. He was approached several times
by women who offered companionship and/ or sex, but each took the
refusal gracefully when he declined. Allan would have enjoyed the
company but hoped to find Gilia shortly.
   The suspicion that something had happened to Gilia Kaylin was very
much on Allan's mind. It did not seem like her to disappear without a
trace, even though she had apparently vanished before learning he was
coming to Earth. He was mulling over the problem when a small voice
said, in international English, "Mister? Mister, will you help me get my
father inside?"
   Jarred into full awareness, Allan glanced down at the speaker, who was
standing against the wall of a house a few meters away. The bright
streetlights revealed a small elfin faced girl, supporting a large fat man
apparently far gone in drink or drugs. He was leaning against the wall,
barely erect, one heavy arm across the girl's thin shoulders.
   She inclined her head toward a set of tall steps just down the street. The
daughter did not look more than twelve, and the big man was a heavy
burden on her slender frame. Allan suppressed a small sense of distaste,
and walked to them. He saw that the man's eyes were closed, and heard
his heavy breathing.
   Allan moved to the father's left side and slipped a massive but slack arm
over his shoulder. Locking it in place with his left hand on the inside of the
man's elbow, he passed his right arm around the thick waist and pulled
the heavy frame away from the wall. The man sagged at once, but then
caught himself before his full weight fell on Allan. The girl supported the
other side as best she could, and they took several staggering steps to the
first riser. There Allan had to shift his grip and urge the man to lift a foot,
but he finally seemed to understand, and started slowly up the stairs. His
footing became more steady, and Allan and the girl had no trouble
supporting him up the steps to the landing. There she pressed her palm
against the recognition glass, and the door opened. The father sagged
again, as though exhausted, and Allan muttered under his breath and took
the burden on his shoulders. Almost lock-stepping to support the immense
weight, he followed the girl down a short hall and into a room on the left.
The light was off, but came on as the door shut behind him. At the same
time his charge drew himself erect and lifted his arm off Allan's shoulder.
He stepped away, and Allan found himself staring into the tiny barrel of a
dart pistol, held rock-steady in the hand of the slim girl.
                                  - 23 -
   "Please don't move, Odegaard. You'll wake up tomorrow with a nasty
headache if I have to shoot." Her voice was suddenly deeper, more mature.
Even the facial expression had changed, though the figure was as girlishly
thin and youthful as before. She was a grown although quite young
woman.
  "What do you want with me?" Allan demanded.
   We don't want you at all. We've been paid to deliver you. And you do
make it difficult, I must say. I'd think a bachelor just in from a
two-months trip would be lonely enough to take one of the women we sent
you. But every male has his weakness, and we finally found yours." She
smiled pleasantly, as though pleased to find he was human after all. "Now
this will be much easier for all concerned if you stay docile. Just put your
hands behind you and don't argue about breathing from this bottle."
  Allan took a quick look around, trying to memorize the room, but it
seemed only another living unit out of ten thousand similar ones in
Lausanne. And then his hands were being tied behind him with tape, and
when they were secure the girl placed a palm over his mouth and held an
open phial beneath his nose. He had been neatly and competently trapped
apparently by another of the quasi-legal detective agencies and for the
moment Allan saw nothing he could do but submit. He breathed the
fumes without trying to turn his head.
   In only a few seconds his vision blurred, he was assailed by a strong
sense of disorientation, and consciousness moved outside his skull and
hung there, looking back into eyes he knew must be glazed and blank. And
then he became a creature of physical senses only, as though alive just
from the neck down, He could feel himself walking, knew when they
reached the cool side again, again felt the steps when they descended to
the street, even realized some time later that they were flying But he had
no control at all of this body, and no awareness of where he was or what
was happening around him.
   "You should be back with us by now, Odegaard," said a strange male
voice. Allan realized that his senses had been slowly returning for some
minutes. He still felt stinging from an inhalator they had made him
breathe, obviously an antidote to the mentally disabling drug. And then he
was aware enough to make a conscious effort, and shook off the last effects
of the mind-numbing chemical.
   Allan looked around. He was in a small, almost bare room, sitting on a
narrow bed. The only other items of furniture was a combination lavatory
and water closet below a mirror in the corner. The fat man had vanished.
The thin young woman was standing by the door, ready to leave. Bending
over him was a pudgy, gray-haired man with a lined brown face and very
black eyes.
  "Good, good; you look awake." The brown-faced man turned to the girl
and said, "That's all we need from you, Nina. Good work. Pick up your
bonus from Kians on the way out."
  The girl nodded, and left. Allan saw that beneath the child's short skirt
and slim but mature hips, which swung with provocative grace as she
walked. There had been no such swing when she was being a little girl.
  The man turned back to Allan and said, "You can call me McCoy,
Odegaard. This is a jail, and I’m the head jailer. We have a very important
recording lined up for you tomorrow ... or the next day or the next,
whenever we get you to the point where you can say your lines without
giving away the fact you're on drugs."
  "And just what are my `lines'?" asked Allan. His tongue felt thick, but
he was able to speak clearly.
  "Oh, nothing complicated. Just a confession that your statements in
Siggi Wilson's office about the Safeguard Squads on the outworlds were
politically motivated lies. Plus an acknowledgment that you were
promised a promotion to Deputy P.P. Administrator as your reward for
the slander. And of course the usual request that your home state accept
you for rehabilitative therapy and make a decent citizen out of you again."
  "You have drugs that can make me say all that while looking more than
half alive?" asked Allan. "The chemists must have discovered some new
ones while I've been away."
   "Oh, they have indeed. We can make a man do everything up to and
including shooting himself, and sound as if it was all his own idea. But we
won't go to that much trouble with you. During the talk you're also going
to reveal that you've been a kinzie addict for years, and within a week
you're going to be found dead in your living unit from an overdose. You
should have stayed in the outworlds, Odegaard, where you belong. When
the P.P. Corps is disbanded after the election, perhaps you could have
found something useful to do."
  Allan was silent for a moment, and then said simply: "I didn't know
there were so many people like you."
   His captor stiffened, first defensiveness and then anger playing across
the fat brown features. Anger dominated, and he almost snarled when he
said, "I hate a damn' bleedin' pure heart! I really do, I hate `em! So
damned smugly sure they're right, with never a thought to the common
man! You blinkn' snobs" He stopped abruptly, paused, and when he
resumed his voice fell back into the bland tone he had used before. "Yes, I
suppose you fellows get rather good at looking after yourselves, out there
in the wilds. If you can shake up an opponent, make him lose his temper
and his self-possession . . . I admire you, Odegaard. Too bad you couldn't
have put your abilities to better use. Sleep sweet; you'll need your strength
tomorrow."
  McCoy turned and followed Allan's kidnaper out of the cell. The door
shut behind him with a finality that denied any possible hope of escape.
   The pudgy jailer had been seeing too many badly written space
adventure Tri-D programs. Allan had said exactly what he felt, with no
ulterior motive in mind. With a feeling of almost hopeless certainty that it
would do no good, Allan rose and explored his cell. The bed was anchored
to the floor with heavy bolts, and the water closet did not have a movable
top. The flat light fixture overhead was slightly recessed into the ceiling,
and he could be reasonably certain it contained a wide-angle monitoring
camera he could not reach to disable. The air vent was only twenty
centimeters square and the room had a slightly musty smell, as though
circulation was poor. The door fitted flat into the wall and had no inside
knob. There was a small space beneath for air movement.
   Allan gave a mental shrug, and accepted the inevitable. He shed all
clothes but his underwear and crawled into the narrow bed turning his
face up to the ceiling he called, "Would you turn off the light, please?"
  When there was no response Allan pulled a corner of the cover over his
eyes. In five minutes he was fast asleep.
   Allan was awakened by the opening of the cell door. It took a few
seconds for him to remember where he was, and then he quickly sat up in
bed. An old man who seemed so short he might almost have been a dwarf,
but who also appeared made entirely of muscles, deposited a tray of hot
food
  on the foot of the bed. He turned and shuffled out without a word. The
door closed behind him.
   Allan struggled out of bed, feeling distinctly groggy, and bathed his face
and hands. Though the chemical they had used did not have the
long-lasting effects of the one rubbed into his wounds on Zwergwelt, he
still felt shaky. He examined the food, wondering if it too was drugged. He
was ravenously hungry, and there seemed little point in starving himself.
They could force him to swallow the drugs that were supposed to turn him
into a lively seeming puppet, if they were not in the food. Allan ate his
breakfast.
  An hour later the muscular short keeper returned to pick up the tray.
He brought Allan a depilatory cream and a brush, and took away his
wrinkled clothes. Allan performed his morning ablutions in his underwear,
checked his appearance in the mirror, then paced the floor for half an
hour before his clothes were returned. Not long after he was dressed the
door opened again and he saw a different but familiar face.
  The cold, remote gray eyes and the frozen expression were
unmistakable. But now Allan had a name to go with them. "McComber”'
he gasped.
  The lean, glacial features split into a thin smile. "Good morning,
Conscience. I see you remember me, even though I'm out of uniform."
  "You I could never forget!" Allan said fervently, backing into the cell.
Hardtack McComber carried a dartgun in one hand and a laser in a hip
holster.
  "My . . . associates here on Earth tried to prevent you reaching the
Inspector General's office and identifying me," McComber went on. "If
they had succeeded I'd have remained in the Service; it's a fun job. But the
powers-that-be sent me here on the next flight after yours, just in case I
had to drop out of sight. Now I have, of course, and my only consolation is
that I'll get to finish what I started on Zwergwelt."
 The thin smile widened, and Allan saw again the lust for death that
made this man a walking anachronism among civilized beings.
  "You were born too late, McComber," Allan said aloud. "Two-hundred
years ago you might have found your niche as a traveling hangman! Why
don't you turn yourself in for deep-trance rehabilitative therapy?"
  MeComber laughed, a brittle, frozen sound. “I like my present
personality, Conscience. I have more fun than people like you. Now move
out!" He gestured with the dartgun. "It's time for your medicine."
   Allan stepped outside his cell into a long corridor, lined with apparently
identical doors on either side. This group, whether New Roman or another
splinter force, was well organized and had elaborate facilities. McComber
followed him, gesturing to the right. Allan walked to the end of the cell
   corridor, turned right again into an intersection hallway, and soon
reached a small dispensary. A man who appeared to be a paramedic- he
did not have the competent ease of an experienced physician - gave Allan
injections in each arm, using the standard pressure gun. He did not
bother to roll up Allan's sleeves, as required by good medical practice.
Then the captive was marched back into the corridor system and they
made several confusing turns before passing through two doors in quick
succession, this time into what Allan recognized as a small recording
studio.
   There were already four people in the narrow room. The recording
technician sat in a corner, facing the table that occupied most of the floor
space. A camera mounted on an extension boom rose out of his console. A
blond young man with the smooth and polished look of the professional
interviewer sat at the table, facing the door through which they had
entered. In chairs pushed back against the wall, next to the technician,
were two people Allan did not know. One was a beefy, red-haired man of
indeterminate age. The other was a rail-thin gray-haired woman with a
big nose and birdlike features.
  Allan had an excellent memory for faces, and though he was certain he
had not met the red-haired man, he seemed familiar. As McComber
gestured for him to be seated across from the interviewer, memory clicked
and Allan placed him.
   He had seen that strong form once before, at the hearing where Allan
testified before Celal Kaylin's investigations subcommittee. This was the
man, wearing a Council Security guard uniform at the time, who had
preceded New Roman Party Chairman Blankenship into the hearing
room.
   Allan felt his breath catch and his heart beat faster. McComber placed
some papers with large type in front of him, and said, "He'll become
suggestible in about ten more minutes." Allan's mind was racing, and he
barely heard the controlled killer. Unless Red-hair had changed jobs,
which seemed unlikely, he was a direct link with Blankenship. The Party
Chairman had not stood as aloofly above the dirty work as Allan had
expected. Which meant he was not as invulnerable as Siggi Wilson had
feared.
  A seductive lethargy was slowly creeping up from Allan's toes, but he
fought it back and concentrated on the new thought. If he could obtain
some documented proof this man was still associated with Blankenship,
and an actual party to this kidnapping.. . in one long jump the
Conservationists might reach from knave to king, and bring down the New
Roman house of cards.
   Those were brave thoughts for a man whose body was swiftly sinking
into numbness, but Allan clung to them as his senses faded. If it took two
or three sessions with the drug before it overcame a normally stubborn
man's resistance, he would try for four.
  The world around Allan became fuzzy and dim. He heard voices
speaking but could not distinguish the words. He seemed to withdraw
inside himself, fighting to protect some inner core which was being
assaulted by battering winds. He tried to huddle in on his own
consciousness, concealing its naked heart, and after a time the winds died
away. His last genuine memory was of a vulture-like face peering into his
own, big brown eyes blinking. And then for all practical purposes, he slept.
  When Allan awoke he was back in his cell.
   Allan struggled to his feet, and discovered to his surprise that he had
been sitting upright on the edge of the bed. Only his mind had been
asleep. He had no certain memory to sustain such a conviction, but Allan
felt sure he had not performed as they wanted him to. There would be
more drug doses, followed by questions at the interview table.
   Since he was still mentally fuzzy and physically lethargic, Allan decided
to exercise and see if he could eliminate the drug's physical symptoms. He
stripped to his underwear and started some light calisthenics, gradually
working up to more vigorous ones. Ten minutes later be was breathing
heavily while running in place, and feeling better. Allan took a short rest,
and resumed with push-ups. He felt almost back to normal by the time the
door opened and the pudgy McCoy entered with a tray. Behind him in the
hall, Allan glimpsed McComber leaning casually against a wall, his hand
playing with the handle of the laser in his belt. It was so obviously a
calculated pose Allan wondered whom McComber was trying to impress.
And then he realized he knew; the man was impressing himself.
   McCoy put the tray on the bed and said, "Second session in half an
hour, Odegaard. Eat well." He turned and walked out, avoiding meeting
Allan's gaze.
   The food was of the substantial type usually eaten at dinner, not a light
lunch. Two of the items were portions from what had obviously been a
larger dish. Allan guessed that he was eating the same food as the crew
that manned his secret prison, and that noon had passed while he was in a
daze. Evidently it took several hours for the drugs to wear off.
   McComber came back alone to escort Allan to the dispensary and the
studio. Allan noted that the paramedic, again, gave him the two shots
directly through the cloth of his shirt, and an idea dawned. The man's
sloppy workmanship was a weakness of which be could possibly take
advantage.
   The group in the studio was the same as before, but this time the thin
woman did not wait until the drugs had him almost out before coming
forward to start the conditioning process. Allan still had more than a trace
of consciousness when she said, "This morning you were a free spirit,
floating in the clouds. We are going to take another trip into the sky, but
this time you will observe your body still on the ground more clearly, see it
perform in the play you have entered. Are you looking forward to playing
your part? You do enjoy the acting, yes?"
  "I enjoy it, no," Allan whispered, and that was the last thing he
remembered.
  When he came out of the drugs a second time he was in bed, wearing
only his underwear. The light cover had been pulled up around his neck
and he was quite comfortable, except for the awareness that his mind was
not functioning normally.
   Allan stirred, shifted in bed as though restless, turned on his side, and
drew the cover over his eyes. Despite his partially dazed condition he
remembered what he had decided to attempt, and time might be sort. He
waited a moment, then lifted the cover high over his face. He turned
again, until he was lying with his mouth just off the edge of the pillow. The
back of his head was to the spying eye in the ceiling, and he had one
corner of the single coverlet folded back in under itself, the free end near
his mouth. Trying to keep his head from moving while his jaw worked,
Allan started biting through the top edge of the material.
  It took him several minutes because of the slowness with which he
moved, but Allan eventually stripped several centimeters both ways from
the corner, gaining access to the inner sheet. As he had expected, it was
the standard thin but impervious material found in virtually all bedding.
The pressed plastic had no weave and could not be torn in strips. Allan
patiently worked a large section out of the corner and started biting,
making a continuing series of teeth impressions downward some twenty
centimeters from the edge. He had to use his front teeth only and they
were not accustomed to pressing against each other. It was irritating and
somewhat painful work, but he persisted. Patience and perseverance were
two qualities he had had no choice but to develop. Occasionally he had to
move his head to shift position, and near the bottom of the cut had to
draw the cover upward until his feet were exposed, but hoped his monitor
would accept that as normal behavior.
   Allan finally reached a point he judged twenty centimeters into the
sheet, and stopped. He had to know now if the material was going to tear.
Curling himself up into a ball, Allan managed to get both hands under the
cover and in front of his face. He paused to calm his breathing, lying
perfectly still for several minutes, and then seized the inner sheet on each
side of his toothmarks and pulled hard. It resisted, and he knew a moment
of panic; then the worn places slowly parted at the top. Allan stopped
again, this time as much to gain control as fool his guardians, and then
continued to pull. It took great physical effort, but the tear moved
downward for the full length he wanted. When he paused to rest, Allan
found that his drug symptoms had vanished. He was fully awake and alert.
Tension and excitement could stimulate as much as physical exercise.
   Allan shifted back to the edge of the material, twenty centimeters down
from the corner opposite his cut, and repeated the slow biting process. He
had just reached the intersection with the first cut when his cell door
opened and the silent dwarf entered with his breakfast.
  The short man placed the tray on the foot of the bed and left as usual. If
they followed yesterday's schedule, Allan had almost two hours before
McComber would be there to take him to the studio. He ate hurriedly,
then placed the tray on the floor and went back to bed, feigning
exhaustion. It had been easy enough to keep his work hidden by turning
under the torn corner, but it took several shifts of position before he finally
was able to get both hands on the sheet and start the tear. He had been
too hurried with his teeth and it was even tougher than the first one, but
he eventually had a square of material in his hands.
  It was difficult to judge time, but Allan felt that only a few minutes had
passed since breakfast. He should have time to complete the last cut
before the dwarf returned for the tray.
   He folded the square in half and started the slow process of biting down
the doubled edge. The smaller piece was easier to handle and he made
good time. He was in possession of two 10 x 20 centimeter strips when the
cell door opened again. Hastily, be tucked them in his undershirt.
  Seeing him still in bed, the dwarf crossed the small room and shook
Allan by the shoulder. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and got out of bed
when his jailer gestured, carefully hiding the open corner of the cover.
When he staggered to the lavatory and reached for the depilatory, the
short man turned and walked out.
   Allan bathed slowly, pretending to be weak and shaky on his feet. When
he looked presentable again be walked back to the bed and made it up,
keeping his body between the revealing corner and the overhead light. He
left his work hidden by turning the entire top cover edge inward in a five
centimeter fold. He had also made up the bed the day before, and with a
normal flat ending to the coverlet, but if his monitors noticed the change
they gave no sign.
   Allan had been wearing a conservative one-piece jumpsuit when
captured. He slipped into the legs, then stopped, as though dizzy, and
staggered hurriedly to the bed. At its edge he sat down in an awkward
posture, facing inward, bent forward as though very weak, holding his
head in his arms. He held the position a moment, and then slowly reached
for the left sleeve and fumbled to get his hand inside. With his right hand
he quickly slipped one of the two laboriously cut strips out from beneath
his undershirt and positioned it around his left biceps. It was impossible
to completely hide what he was doing, but neither was it obvious to
anyone looking down from the ceiling. He did the same for his right arm,
and then sat up and pressed the suit's self-locking edges together down the
sides. The form-fitting garment held the thin bands in place around his
arms. He walked over to the mirror and checked; the slight bulge they
created was almost undetectable.
   The door opened and McComber gestured for him to come out. The
timing had been fearfully close.
   The careless medic was no more conscientious than before. Allan
docilely submitted to the shot through his sleeves, this time feeling the
liquid run down his arm and soak the material when it could not
penetrate the protective bands. The quantity was small, and he did not
think the wetting would show.
   McComber marched Allan to the studio for his third encounter with the
bird-faced conditioning expert. The former spacer was an excellent guard,
always just out of reach of a sudden jump, alert and ready for trouble. He
no longer carried his dartgun in hand, but Allan felt certain McConiber
would have practiced until he could draw and fire in tenths of a second.
   They entered the studio, and Allan felt his heart sink. The redheaded
former Council Security guard was not present.
                                  - 24 -
   Allan's plan to both save himself and expose Blankenship had been
nebulous at best, but at least the first part had worked. For the second, he
had to have positive proof someone closely associated with the political
leader was a party to this forcible detention. Now his hopes were
shattered.
   Allan remembered, with wry self-mockery, that first Secret Holmes and
then the elemental Clay had accused him of starting to think like a little
tin god. And they had been right. Instead of being concerned with saving
his own neck, as any sensible man would, Allan was worried because his
plans to topple the New Roman party chairman were not working out. It
was mental arrogance of the worst sort. His first aim should be to escape
and after acknowledging this, Allan admitted to himself that he still
wanted to drag Blankenship right off his political throne, if he possibly
could.
   The skinny woman Allan had come to think of as "The Vulture"
gestured for him to be seated at the table. He did as he was told. She
waited a moment, watching him, and Allan realized he did not know how
to act to persuade them he was under the drugs. McComber seated
himself against the wall, tilting the straight chair back and crossing his
legs. He looked comfortably bored.
  The woman smiled at Allan and said: "Today I am going to coach you
until you learn your part perfectly, and then you will give your first
performance. Now don't be nervous this is just for your friends. We are all
your friends, helping you learn your role. Just relax and try to be natural
when you say your lines. Ready? Then let's begin with the first scene, right
after your introduction to the audience and your bio. Your first words are,
“I’m here because I can't live with myself, Mr. Dupleis. I have to tell the
truth or burst.' Now say the first sentence. `I'm here because . .
  "I'm here because I can't live with myself," Allan dutifully repeated,
keeping his voice dull and monotonous. He was watching McComber, who
seemed to be almost dozing. Neither the interviewer nor the technician
appeared to have weapons, and if the woman had one it was in the bag by
her chair.
   "That's fine, just fine, Allan; you have the words perfectly." The narrow
face split into an encouraging rictus that exposed large and spotlessly
white teeth. "Now let's work on the emotional tones. Say it again, and put
more life into it. Act as if it was really very, very important to you to tell
the truth. Your conscience is bothering you, you want to make a clean
breast of your fraud, ask the world to forgive you. Now once more, and go
on into the rest on your cue."
   She signaled to the technician, who activated his camera and moved it
toward Allan. He saw by the little red light on its face that this response
was going to be recorded. Allan tried to put enough more life into his voice
to indicate he had complied with directions, but not enough to pass for
normal speech. He saw by the disappointed look on her face that he had
succeeded.
  She leaned forward to coach him again, raising her hand to stop the
camera as her face moved within its range. Behind her, the door opened
and the red-haired man entered and quietly took his seat by McComber.
   Allan felt his pulse quicken, and something of the excitement he felt
entered his voice on the next try. The woman smiled, satisfaction on her
face. She moved back out of range, gesturing for Dupleis to ask the first
question and signaling the camera on for a take. The red bulb brightened,
and the smooth-voiced man across the table asked Allan why he had come
to International News.
  "I'm here because I can't live with myself, Mr. Dupleis," Allan said, and
rose and hurled himself across the room at McComber, all his weight
behind the fist that he planted solidly on the lean killer's slightly pointed
chin. He felt the jaw tear loose beneath the impact. The former spaceman
had started to lean forward when Allan moved, his mouth open to yell. He
was slammed back against the wall and bounced off it without uttering a
sound, instantly unconscious. Allan tore the laser pistol out of its holster.
While the Vulture's startled scream was still ringing in the air he whirled
to face the others, his hand thumbing off the familiar safety. Redhair had
jumped to his feet, but froze when he found himself looking into the red
jewel at the base of the laser barrel. The technician, mouth agape, was
simply staring at him. Dupleis had risen to his feet, his polished features
suddenly pale.
   Allan noted with satisfaction that the camera light was still on. The
start of his jump had been recorded, although he had moved out of range.
"Turn the camera on me," he ordered, gesturing with the pistol. When the
operator did not move, Allan lifted the barrel in an aiming motion. The
man hastily swung the instrument around. The Vulture realized what he
was doing and turned her face away at once, but Red-hair was still
mentally stunned and only gaped at the recording eye. Allan grinned at
him and said, "I'm sorry I can't go on; forgot my lines. Would you like to
say a few words instead?" When the man did not answer Allan turned
back to the table.
  "Then perhaps our glib friend here would like to talk. Dupleis! Come
here!"
   The interviewer quickly rose and walked around the table, his eyes on
the laser. Allan pointed to the wall between the Vulture and Red-hair,
almost above the unconscious form of McComber. "Just keep that camera
recording," he called to the technician, backing away a few steps while
staying within range of the lens. "Now would you people like to sing a
song, do a dance, or maybe act a part such as the one you were teaching
me? Here's your chance at fame. And you, Ugly Bird, turn and face the
camera. I don't shoot to kill, but I have no objection to burning a hole in
your thigh. Raise your eyes and look at me!"
  The woman slowly did as bidden, her face filled with hate. She no longer
resembled a bird. At the moment she reminded Allan far more of a snake.
   I think this little change in the script will put a lot more truth into the
story," Allan said with satisfaction. "Operator turn it off and take out the
recording disc. Put it in the protective box and hand it to me. And if you
touch it anywhere but on the edge, you're going to lose an arm."
  "You'll never get out of here alive, Odegaard," Red-hair finally said, his
voice hoarse. Allan motioned them away from McComber and retrieved
the unconscious man's dart pistol. The former Security Council guard had
recovered his equilibrium, and although he obeyed orders he was
obviously poised to jump. "That laser can only get off one burn before we'll
have you."
   "True, but you aren't going to be the one to risk dying," Allan told him.
Red-hair, like many men who carried guns regularly, had come to depend
on weapons rather than himself. The only truly dangerous man in the
room was McComber, and on Zwergwelt even he had overcome the killing
lust when gratifying it meant exposure.
   The technician walked toward Allan, carefully extending the magnetic
disc in its protective case well ahead of his body. Allan held the pistol on
the man's stomach while taking it, but saw by the white face and
protruding eyes that he was in no danger of being jumped. He motioned
with his
  head for the operator to join the others. . . and shot him in the back
with the dartgun just as he reached them.
   The hapless technician gave a loud gasp of pure fright, and when he fell,
Allan was uncertain if it was the fast drug or a faint that had taken him
down. He hoped terror had not caused a heart attack. Before the first man
hit the floor Allan had shot Red-hair in the chest, and quickly made a
choice and shot the Vulture next. He looked into the frightened face of
Dupleis, no longer smooth and controlled
  and holstered the dartgun and lifted the laser.
  Wild terror replaced the fear, and Allan knew he had guessed correctly.
"Now, Mr. Dupleis, I don't have to hesitate in using the laser, because
there will be no one to jump me after I burn you down," Allan said in a
conversational tone.
   "As I mentioned, it's against my rules to kill people. . . but you'll spend
the rest of your life walking on artificial legs if you don't tell me what I
want to know. And don't try to lie; you wouldn't be good at it except in
front of a camera. Tell me where I am, and the best way out. Talk!"
   Only a quick-witted and self-possessed person could have thought up a
convincing lie when compelled to speak without preparation. Dupleis was
not such a man. He babbled out immediate answers to every question, and
Allan felt reasonably certain they were truthful. This prison was in the
subbasement of a large old former government building in Geneva. It had
been sold to a right-wing lobby that had its own broadcast stations. They
operated legitimately on the upper floors, and kept the basement sealed
off to all but a select inner circle. There was only one entrance, and it was
always doubleguarded.
  "Does Blankenship ever come here?" demanded Allan. "What's his
connection with the lobby?"
   “He's never been here," answered Dupleis. "Dawson, there," he nodded
at Red-hair on the floor, and for the first time Allan had a name, "Dawson
always seemed to me just a messenger, but the wheels here listened to
him; I think he spoke for someone very high up." They had been talking
for several minutes, and Dupleis's initial fright had started to fade. Allan
suddenly realized the man's expression had become almost guileless; he
had regained enough control to start lying. Allan holstered the laser and
shot Dupleis with the dangun.
   There were two ways to break out of a prison; stealth and force. Allan
briefly considered turning the other prisoners loose and attempting to
take over the basement and then the building, but rejected the idea. That
single exit might be impossible to attack from below, and he had no idea
of the prison's current population. There might not be enough able-bodied
men to be of any real help. Stealth seemed the better choice.
   The building location and description had been given while Dupleis was
still shaking with fright, and Allan felt he could rely on them. He removed
McComber's gunbelt and holstered both pistols. The extra gun made him
feel ridiculously conspicuous. Dartguns were seldom used away from
Earth; on unknown metabolisms they might either kill or be ineffective.
The studio door had an upper glass panel. Allan dragged all the
unconscious bodies close beneath, where they could not be seen from
outside. He had no way of knowing how long it would be before someone
would come looking for one or more of them, but since his previous
recording sessions bad taken several hours, he should have plenty of time.
   Allan walked through the two isolating doors into the main corridor
system, and turned right. He passed two people in the hall, and both
looked sharply at him but made no effort to interfere. Possibly they
thought he was the new man, McComber. There were cell doors lining
both sides. The single stairway to the main basement was in the center of
the area, and he reached it after one more turn. A bored-looking old man
sat behind a small monitoring desk placed in front of a heavy steel door, a
sign-in book in front of him.
   Allan walked briskly toward the guard, who glanced up from a faxmag
and gave him a disgusted look. "Christ, don't you know better than wear a
thing like a weapons belt out of here?" he said irritably. "Go back to your
room and take it off."
  "Don't have time," Allan said, keeping his voice cheerful and light.
"Can't you put it in a drawer for me?”
  The guard looked even more disgusted, but shoved the sign-in book
toward Allan and opened a desk drawer, searching for room. Allan ignored
the book, instead undoing the clasp and taking off the belt. The guard
extended one hand, and Allan quickly flipped open a holster, drew the
dartgun, and shot him in the chest.
  The surprised man surged ahead in the chair, his mouth open and eyes
bulging. But then the drug hit, and momentum carried him forward so
that he collapsed across the desk. Allan opened the right side of his suit
and slipped the dartgun inside the elastic band around his waist, at the
rear. He walked around the desk. There was a small grill in its top, with a
black button below. He pressed it, imitated the older man's voice as best
he could, and said, "One new boy coming up."
   Allan released the button and a bored voice from the grill said, "Roger."
He reached beneath the desk, found the single' button, and pressed it. The
steel door behind him slid aside. It moved rather slowly. A red light came
on beneath the speaker grill, and a green one went out. Allan debated a
moment, then pressed the button again and jumped for the door. It
seemed most likely a similar status system was built into the upper desk;
it would look suspicious if the red light stayed on.
   He had trapped himself between heavy steel doors if he failed to
overcome the upper guard, but that was a chance Allan had to take. He
briskly climbed the spiral stairs inside the enclosure, coming out on a
landing four meters up, where a second guard sat before a similar steel
door. This was a younger man with better manners. He looked up and
smiled, but then the expression froze on his face. It was obvious he
recognized Allan; he had probably been on duty when they brought him
in.
   The young guard pushed his chair back and started to rise. The landing
was narrow, less than three meters wide, and Allan was almost on him
when he emerged from the stairs. He covered the remaining distance in
two steps and hurled himself across the desk, his shoulder carrying the
seated man back against the wall. The guard got out one good yell, but
Allan was hopeful there was no one inside with them to hear it. They went
to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, jammed against the wall in the
narrow space available. The inexperienced guard made a mistake; he
attempted to draw his dartgun. Allan, who had concentrated on regaining
his balance, caught the younger man with a hard right to the cheek. He
then managed to get one knee under him and put most of his weight into
another blow with the same fist. This one caught the guard on the temple,
and his eyes glazed. The pistol was in his hand, but he seemed unable to
raise it. Allan took his time, set himself, and knocked the man out with a
hard left hook to the side of the jaw.
   Allan pulled the same trick as before with the slowly moving steel door,
knowing this time be could not be trapped. After jumping through, he saw
that he was inside a walk-in closet. It even had some clothes hanging on
racks. The outer face of the steel door formed the back wall. Allan walked
out of the closet door without worrying about being seen, and saw that he
was in a small but luxuriously furnished lounge. It was empty. He spared
it only a brief look before heading for the door. Outside, he glanced back
at the panel. A discrete attached tag said: EXECUTIVE LOUNGE:
ADM1TANCE BY IDENTIFICATION ONLY.
   The information he had frightened out of Dupleis had been accurate so
far, and Allan felt reasonably confident he could rely on the rest. He
shifted the dartgun to where he could reach it in seconds by opening the
side of his suit, and headed for the elevators. The passenger carriers were
all busy on the upper floors, but the freight was available. Allan entered
and asked for the main lobby. A respectful robot voice acknowledged his
request, and the door closed. Three minutes later Allan was walking into
the street, a free man . . . for the moment.
   There were several things Allan needed to do, but he decided securing
what he had gained was most important. There was a branch of the Zone
postal system on the corner. He went inside looked up P.P. Security in the
government directory, and mailed them the recording disc. With that
incriminating evidence in the right hands the next election should be
secure, even if a laser beam caught him unawares. And that was no longer
a remote possibility. These well entrenched enemies would be desperate to
recover that disc, once word of what he had done spread throughout the
organization. He would be safe only after the recording was released and
there was no profit in killing its originator.
   All of the main streets in downtown Geneva were equipped with
two-speed pedstrips going in opposite directions, replacing what had
formerly been highways. The one nearest the sidewalk rolled at six
kilometers an hour and the inner one at twelve, making a twenty-four kilo
change of speed across a narrow dividing space. Jumping from one to the
other was strictly forbidden; tunnels provided a means of changing
direction. As Allan stepped from the slow to the faster walk, watching his
footing, he heard a low cry. He raised his gaze and looked into the face of
Gilia Kaylin, her mouth open in delighted surprise. She was on the
opposite track, being carried swiftly in the direction from which he had
come.
   As Gilia passed Allan turned his head to follow her, and a block away
saw the wide doors of the building hiding the underground prison
disgorge seven or eight men. They immediately split into two's and headed
in both directions, as well as into the tunnel leading under the street.
   Allan and Gilia were already several meters apart. He started toward
her at a hard run, watching the distance between them widen. When he
was moving at his maximum speed, Allan jumped. His feet shot out from
under him on the opposite strip, but he had been moving fast enough to
counter more than half the differential speed. Allan fell, feeling the
bruising impact of the hard steel mesh, and almost rolled off on the slower
strip. He recovered and scrambled to his feet, to see Gilia running back to
him. But his action had brought him to the attention of the prison guards.
The two who had been sent in the correct direction were now dashing
toward them, drawing laser guns. There was a fair crowd on the strips and
Allan's illegal transfer had drawn several disapproving stares, but no one
actually spoke to him.
   Allan regretted the impulsive jump. There was an excellent chance the
guards would not have recognized Gilia, and she would have been perfectly
safe. But it was too late for hindsight. He seized her arm and hurried on to
the slower strip so rapidly she almost lost her footing. Gilia was trying to
ask him a question, her fair face flushed with joy and excitement, but her
words were lost in the confusion. Allan glanced at the rapidly approaching
guards, unable to shoot because of the people shielding them, and chose to
ride the strip for a few more seconds. Then they were opposite a tunnel,
and be pulled Gills off and almost dived into it. That took them out of
immediate firing range, but also put their pursuers only seconds behind.
They would certainly jump the strip as he had.
   At the end the tunnel angled back and descended to run under the
street, but also connected to another, slower moving belt into the building
the tunnel faced. Allan hurried Gilia on to the new strip, hushing her
questions with a raised hand and insisting they walk rapidly. She felt
silent as she sensed
   the urgency, and followed Allan into the store. He led her immediately
to the elevators, and they were lucky enough to find one on the ground
floor. Before the door shut behind them Allan turned to face the main
room, and saw a man hurriedly enter from the tunnel; one hand was
concealed in his pocket. The hunters had split up, and if he had been
seconds later in hustling Gilia through the store they would have been
seen.
  Allan hurriedly checked the elevator register and map. This commercial
building had no aircar landing on top. He saw that there was a bridge at
the 28th level, connecting with the Transportation Ministry across the
street, and there would certainly be an aircar facility there. He asked for
that floor, and the bland recorded voice acknowledged his instructions.
   At the 28th level they hurried down the hail and into the bridge, Allan
finally having both breath and time to tell Gilia whom they were fleeing.
He saw her lovely face grow pale when she realized he had been very close
to death. "And we're not safe yet," he concluded. "If the fellow on our trail
is shrewd, he'll be only a few seconds behind. I've led us on a very logical
course since leaving the pedstrips."
  "Maybe he won't think logically," Gilia said hopefully.
  "And maybe he will," Allan replied.
   In the Transportation Ministry they had to wait over a minute for an
elevator to stop, but when one finally did it was empty. They stepped
inside, Allan asked for the aircar landing, and then took Gilia into his
arms for a long and clinging kiss. The two-year separation vanished as
though they had never been.
   It was a little before the noon hour, and to Allan's surprise the aircar
landing area was deserted. As a precaution, he undid the right-hand seal
on his suit, slipping his hand inside on the dartgun handle. He also moved
away from the direct sight of the elevators, standing to one side. As he
watched, the light clicked on above the door next to the one they had
ridden. A second later it slid back and a man stepped outside.
  He carried one hand tucked into his suit.
   Allan had had only a brief look at his pursuer through the crowd in the
store. He could not be certain, but thought this was the same man. If not,
a dart produced only a pinprick wound and several hours of
unconsciousness, unless a victim was hurt while falling. Allan drew his gun
and calmly shot the stranger in the side.
   Geneva, like most modern cities, had no security force personnel
walking the streets. Every area of public accommodation, from the
pedstrips to the rooftops, was covered by a camera system tied into a
central computer. Most stores and other private businesses paid a fee to
connect into the guard system, placing their main rooms and
money-handling areas under constant surveillance. The computer was
programmed to recognize most obviously illegal acts and bring them to
the attention of human monitors. Each camera had a disc that could
contain a week's recordings. When a crime was committed, the reusable
disc was removed and preserved as evidence. With any luck at all, the
computer had recognized the guns drawn by their pursuers and alerted
the security monitors. They should have also recognized Allan's ambush of
the stranger at his feet as an illegal act. Security patrol cars were in the air
at all times, for the fastest possible response to an alert by the monitors.
By now they should have arrived at the scene of the first encounter, and be
looking for himself and the guards. They should also be here within two
minutes of the new alert.
   There was a humming sound behind them, and a gray security car
settled to the nonsked landing deck. Two men jumped out, dartguns in
hand. It had been less than one minute from the time Allan pulled his
trigger.
                                   - 25 -
  Allan paused to shift the heavy backpack where a strap was cutting into
one shoulder, and wiped sweat off his forehead. This was their fifth day in
the Cascade Mountains of Washington State and the snowcapped peaks of
Mount Baker had finally dropped out of sight behind them. They had
crossed the upper Baker River just north of the frigid waters of the lake of
the same name, beading deep into the Cascades. There was no particular
hurry - it was only sixty straight-line miles to Mazama, the little town
where they would emerge, and they still had eleven days - and he had let
Gilia hold them to a very slow pace.
    Allan looked back and down from the small summit he had just
climbed. Gilia was toiling up behind him, bent forward under the weight
of her lighter pack. These Northwest mountain slopes just below the
Canadian border were cool in October, but still green and beautiful. On
every side, tall fir and spruce trees aimed their narrow, cone-shaped tops
at the blue skies. To their left, purple asters grew in massed banks in a
small meadow. Just down the slope ahead a spreading phlox plant lifted
five-petaled violet flowers to the sun, now streaking the sky with gold as it
sank slowly toward the southwest. Several varieties of thrush kept the air
filled with song, and in the distance they could hear the intermittent
hammering of a woodpecker, seeking his final meal of the day.
   This was the first time Allan had been on a camping trip In an Earth
forest since his college days. He had forgotten how sheerly beautiful his
native world could be. Despite the burdensome population and intense
crowding in the large cities, there were still millions of acres of virgin
wilderness such as those around them. The Cascades extended far north
into Canada, and these western slopes were warmed by proximity to the
Japanese Current, just off the coast. Winter would still cover these
highlands with a blanket of white, but the cold would not be as extreme as
that on the eastern plains side of the range.
   Gilia reached Allan and stood by his side, breathing deeply but evenly.
The sense of beauty around them was so strong Allan impulsively bent and
kissed a flushed cheek, and saw her quick, almost shy smile of pleasure.
Gilia had refused his proposal of marriage, and he had had a difficult time
even persuading her to accompany him on this much-needed vacation.
She seemed to feel unworthy, as though her failure in graduate school had
disqualified her not only as a Conscience, but even to love one.
   Allan had been torn between joy and sorrow when he learned the reason
for Gilia’s mysterious disappearance. She had been at her parents’ home
in Moscow, recovering from the bitter knowledge she could never master
the hard-science part of the P.P. curriculum. He hated to see her fail—in
all other ways Gilia would have made an excellent Conscience— but was
happy that she would not be leaving Earth. During the hectic final two
weeks before the election, Allan had spent all the time he could manage
between Tri-D political telecasts with Gilia. But beneath that soft and
sensitive exterior lurked a will of iron. He had been unable to change her
mind.
   Gilia also caught the beauty of the scene, and Allan saw her face grow
subdued and quietly contented. She reached and took his arm, leaning on
his shoulder. When she recovered her breath she said, “I think it would be
a good idea to make vacations in the woods compulsory for people like
Chairman Blankenship and Celal Kaylin.”
   Allan chuckled; no answer in words was needed. One of the
disappointments of the recent election was that the Conservationists had
not been able to defeat Blankenship. Allan’s high hopes of ruining him
through association with Dawson had come to nothing. The redheaded
former Council Security guard had been employed by a private detective
agency for over a year, an agency owned by a prominent New Roman
supporter. The fact that he actually worked for Blankenship, and had
undoubtedly been drawing two salaries since he became closely associated
with the politician as a guard, had been well concealed.
   Allan’s disclosure of the Safeguard Squads, and the extremist
organizations on Earth who were supporting them, had been enough to
send the New Romans down to a sound defeat at the polls. It had not
ruined the party, or even disorganized it as much as he had hoped. The
pressure group that owned the underground prison beneath the Tri-D
station had been broken up and all its broadcast outlets sold, but they had
been bought by a wealthy New Roman sympathizer. As soon as new
licenses could be issued they would be back in action.
   Allan led the way down the slope, and on to a wooded tongue of land
between two rocky, almost barren cliffs. Once past the narrow tract of
level ground they turned to the right and walked through unusually heavy
brush, following the right-hand rock wall. They had gone only a few meters
when they heard faint cries ahead. A moment later, and somewhat closer,
there was an outburst of the short, excited barking of hunting dogs
following a scent that was getting warm.
   Wary, Allan stopped beneath one of the few mature trees in the area,
behind a thick Cascades Azalea bush. The ground immediately ahead was
treeless, covered by some brush and many large rocks that had fallen from
the rearing cliff face on their right. It was better than a hundred meters to
the next stand of spruce. He motioned for Gilia to join him. There were no
dangerous animals in these woods, except for an occasional stray grizzly
bear, and they were unarmed.
  They stood in silence, listening to the approaching sounds of the hunt.
In less than two minutes Allan, looking straight ahead, saw movement in
the brush beneath the trees on the opposite side. He placed a cautionary
hand on Gilla’s arm. They were well hidden, and would see the hunted
animal when it emerged.
   The noise of the dogs grew louder. They were only a few hundred meters
away, swiftly drawing closer. The creature at the edge of the open area
hesitated, obviously disliking leaving the sheltering trees, but the hounds
were coming fast. Abruptly the concealing brush swayed aside, and it
leaped on to the nearest rock. It stood there a second, erect, almost as
though posing for the watching humans.
  Allan heard his own gasp as he involuntarily took a deep breath. The
sound seemed so loud he was afraid he would be heard. Gilia gripped his
arm so tightly it was painful.
  They had not known what to expect, but the creature before them
would have been last on any list. The fugitive from the dog pack was a
huge, naked man, almost two-and-a-half meters high. He had a
protruding belly, and was covered from head to calloused feet with a thick
blanket of coarse white hair, making him seem even larger. Allan’s trained
eye immediately saw several more subtle anatomical oddities. A massive
supraorbital ridge protruded above slightly recessed eyes. The forehead
did not slope backward as severely as in the gorilla, but was less
prominent than that of Homo sapiens. The chin receded, but though he
could not be certain at this distance, Allan thought its structure indicated
progression past the need for a simian shelf. Despite its impressive height,
the torso was blocky and the limbs thick; it would weigh close to 180
kilograms.
   After that brief pause to select the next rock, the hairy figure jumped to
it without touching foot to the ground between. He continued across the
open ground in the same fashion. After forty meters he made a sharp turn
to the left, leaping a space between rocks that must have extended three
meters. It was almost too long a jump for the heavy form, and he lost his
balance and fell forward. The rock on which he had landed was wide
enough that his hands came down on its surface, but the impact must
have been painful even to palms as hardened as his. And for the first time
Allan saw the long dark streak of a bullet wound across the back of the
right forearm, and the red blood that had matted the hair heavily on both
sides.
   Allan also had a good look at the man’s feet during the seconds he was
stretched prone across the almost flat rock. It took a large surface to
support a bulk that massive. The local name for this shy, almost legendary
creature, whose footprints had been reported many times over the past
two hundred years, was “Bigfoot.” The title was well deserved. The broad,
nearly flat feet had close to three times the area of a man’s.
   As Bigfoot scrambled erect and searched for his next jump, Allan made
a logical connection. This surviving branch of early man was almost
certainly the fabulous “yeti” of Himalayan renown. The scanty,
fragmentary descriptions that had come out of the small high countries
over the years fitted him perfectly.
      After two more successful jumps Bigfoot was at the cliff face, and
started climbing. The wall sloped gently inward at that point and he
moved rapidly at first, but slowed as he had to angle to the right to bypass
an overhanging small prominence. He was still in sight when the first
yelping dog burst from the brush, and ruined Bigfoot’s careful effort to
throw him off the track by catching his scent direct. The hound lifted his
gaze, saw his prey, and dashed across the rocky ground, yelping in
triumph.

   Two more dogs were right behind the first. All three gathered at the
base of the cliff, trying to climb it and constantly falling back. Their early
barking changed to a frustrated snarling and snapping when they tumbled
into each other. Bigfoot ignored them. He had to work his way carefully
around the point where the overhang ended on the right, which would put
him past the shoulder and out of sight for the moment. There were very
few handholds to cling to, and his progress was slow. He was still visible
when two running men broke from the woods and spotted him.
   “There it is!” shouted the first one, a short apopletically red-faced man
dressed in expensively tailored hunting clothes. His companion wore an
elaborately beaded Amerindian buckskin outfit, and appeared to be of
Indian origin. The hunter was carrying a 30-30 rifle, the heaviest weapon
considered
   “sporting” when hunting the deer in these woods. The guide had a laser
pistol strapped to his waist.
   “I’ve got ‘im!” the hunter called to his companion, raising the rifle. He
drew a bead on the slowly moving Bigfoot. Allan saw that he actually
intended to shoot the fleeing man.
  “Hold it!” Allan yelled at the top of his lungs, and walked hastily around
the azalea bushes shielding them. Gilia followed him. “Don’t you idiots
realize what you’re chasing?” he called as he walked toward them. They
turned and waited, surprise and hostility on the hunter’s face. When he
drew near Allan saw that the man was breathing deeply, apparently as
much from excitement as exertion.
  “What’s it to you?” the hunter demanded angrily, lowering his rifle so
that it was pointed in Allan’s direction, though not directly at him. “What
the hell are you doing on my land?
  This is private property, mister!”
   The Amerindian guide, who was watching Bigfoot’s slow progress, drew
his laser pistol and took careful aim. Allan started to protest, but stopped
when the guide held up a cautionary hand. The laser beam burned into
the rocks just ahead of the primitive man’s next gripping point, and Allan
saw him recoil from the heat. The Amerindian called aloud to the climber,
who paused, but then started his sideways movement again. After the
obligatory five seconds the guide fired another beam, this one just above
and to the right of the hairy head. The huge man stopped, and when the
Amerindian called again, turned a blank, impassive face toward them. The
man on the ground motioned vigorously for the climber to return,
pantomiming that he must descend. Bigfoot turned and looked at the two
laser burns; one had hit a dead root, which was still smoldering.
   Some primitive fear of fire seemed to lurk deep in the early man’s
psyche. He had endured the pain of a rifle bullet and kept going. This new
weapon that spat fire seemed his undoing. He hesitated, then started
slowly angling to his left and back toward the ground.
  Bigfoot’s fear of fire probably meant he did not have control of that tool.
Allan wondered how he survived the winters in these mountains, or the far
worse ones in the Canadian wilderness to the north from which he almost
certainly came. His fur coat seemed extremely heavy, and judging by his
bulk, overlay a thick covering of fat. He probably had a deep, still cave to
crawl into during storms.
   “Sir, I’m sorry to interfere in your hunt,” Allan said to the richly dressed
hunter, who was hauntingly familiar. “But surely you realize that’s an early
form of man you were about to shoot. His value to science is incalculable.
We’ve had recorded stories of a species of such men in this area for
hundreds of years, but none was ever captured before. You’ll go down in
history as the man responsible for bringing us into contact with them.”
  The hunter did not seem impressed. “Just who the hell are you?’ he
demanded.
  This was the type of man to whom title meant more than name. “I’m
Deputy Administrator of the World Council Corps of Practical
Philosophers,” Allan said, disliking such an identification but knowing
there was no other way. “My name is Allan Odegaard.”
  “Odegaard! By God, no wonder your face seemed familiar! Well! Well!”
There were sounds of tramping feet behind them, and another foppishly
dressed man, followed by a second Amerindian guide, emerged into the
open. The hunter called, “Hey, Bill Look who we got here! It’s Odegaard,
the kook who cost us the election!”
  Memory clicked, and Allan finally recognized the first hunter. This was
Thomas Doughtery, a Council Member from Washington State who was
chairman of the powerful Appropriations Committee, the most important
Council chairmanship the lottery had thrown to the New Romans after the
recent election. And although a peaked hunting cap hid the wheat-colored
mane that usually elevated him to an imposing height, Allan recognized
the protruding belly and long horseface of Bill. It was C.M. William C.
Blankenship, Chairman of the New Roman party.
                                   - 26 -
   “Are you going to put them all in there together?” asked one of the
Amerindians. Allan, Gilia and Bigfoot were standing in front of a small
sturdy outbuilding that contained supplies for Doughtery’s hunting lodge.
The windows were barred and the wooden walls constructed of heavy
timbers, to keep bears away from the food when the lodge was
unoccupied.
   “There’s no room in the lodge for ‘em, even if we had a place the big
fella’ couldn’t break out of,” said Doughtery. “Yeah, throw ‘em all in there.
Maybe the big ape will break Odegaard’s neck and rape his girlfriend.”
   Gilia gave an unladylike snort of disgust. The guide gestured with the
laser, and Bigfoot docilely stepped forward. Despite his size the primitive
man seemed more timid than aggressive. If his sexual awareness was
aroused by the presence of Gilia, though, that could change in a hurry.
Even male deer fought each other when in rut. Doughtery’s speculation
could easily come true.
   “This has been the damnedest day,” said Blankenship, who was
standing beside Doughtery. His face was also flushed, and Allan had
learned the reason on the short walk here. Both men were drinking heavily
from hip flasks, ignoring the hundreds of harmless intoxicants available in
favor of alcohol. It was typical of what they considered “manly” behavior,
as were these guided hunting trips where they carried light rifles. The
guides were armed with lasers against the occasional bear. Cilia had
known of this lodge, though not its exact location. The Washington C.M.
was famous for inviting New Roman politicians here. “Yessir, the
damnedest day,” Blankenship went on. “I take a shot at what you thought
was a bear, and it turns out to be some kind of a hairy ape-man. We turn
the dogs loose on it, catch it, and just like fate, who steps in but the big
defender of the damn’ dumb apes all over the galaxy, Mr. Allan Odegaard,
pronounced Odd-God.” Blankenship guffawed at his own humor;
Doughtery alone laughed with him.
  “But what the hell are we going to do with them, Tom?
   Doughtery, who did not appear quite as intoxicated as Blankenship,
said, “We can’t turn this big ape loose, Bill. I’m no scientist, but it seems
kinda’ obvious the P.P. Corps would have him declared intelligent . . . and
maybe throw us off the planet!” He laughed, and it was Blankenship’s turn
to join in. “No, if word gets out that we have a form of primitive man
living right here on Earth with us, it would strengthen the P.P. Corps’
hand so much we’d never get rid of ‘em. We’ve got to see to it he gets
mistaken for a bear again, this time with somebody better than you doing
the shootin’. As for Odegaard and Celal Kaylin’s ex-secretary, we’ll have
one of our boys in the Truth Lab do a little of that brain-burning and deep
conditioning that permanently knocks out things you don’t want
remembered. Of course the IQ never quite gets back to what it was before
the treatment, but Odegaard was always too damn’ smart for his own
good anyway.”
  “Sounds like a winning program!” said Blankenship, again laughing
heartily. He took a final drink from his flask and threw it away. “You
know, I enjoy getting my hands into the real work for a change. Makes me
feel a lot more like I’m actually doing something for my fellow man.
Shuffling paper and chewing out your help can get mighty old. You keep
an eye on them, now”—this to the Amerindians—”and call us if the big one
starts after the girl.”
   The two world leaders walked toward the lodge, arms around each
other’s shoulders in happy camaraderie, still laughing and sharing the last
of Doughtery’s flask. Allan watched them in benumbed wonder. It was
incredible that such men should have a mighty hand in shaping the
destinies of billions, and yet it was true, a fact that had to be faced. The
democratic process had elected them, and they honestly represented the
thinking of many of their constituents.
   The guards interrupted Allan’s thoughts by motioning for the captives
to enter the small building. The door locked behind them with the solid
sound of heavy timbers’ meeting.
   One of the Amerindians immediately went to the window, as instructed,
and stared in at them. Bigfoot looked around, tentatively tested the bars
through the open window opposite the guard, sniffed at some of the
smoked meat hanging from hooks in the ceiling, picked up and examined
apples in an open bin by the wall, and then sat down. He stared at his
fellow prisoners with alert attention, but no hostility that Allan could see.
There was no indication that Bigfoot found Gilia sexually attractive.
   Allan had been trying to identify Bigfoot more closely since first laying
eyes on him. As part of his P2 training he had taken intensive courses in
physical anthropology, and was intimately familiar with every form of
early and pre-man known. Bigfoot fitted none of them. The closest Allan
could come was the large, very ancient vegetarian, Australopithecus
robustus. That branch of hominidae had faded away while his smaller,
meat-eating cousin, africanus, survived. And yet there were obvious
differences. The structure of Bigfoot’s skull indicated the brain was larger,
and the long-past herbivore had never reached such a height. . . and what
almost had to be the truth dawned on Allan. Robustus, one of the first two
creatures on Earth from which Homo sapiens could descend, had indeed
died out. . . but not before mutations produced the larger hominid before
him.
   Bigfoot opened his mouth in a wide, slow yawn. Allan saw two U-shaped
rows of massive grinding molars, set behind reduced canines no sharper
or longer than his own. Bigfoot was a vegetarian.
   The lost story of how this child of Africa had wandered into Asia, and
later across the land bridge to North America, would be one of the great
untold epics of anthropology. The migration had obviously occurred not
too long after the line was established, since to date no bones had been
found in Africa. An added jot of intelligence had enabled it to survive,
though it could not compete with the meat-eaters and had been forced to
hunt Sanctuary in the less-frequented areas of the world. And there had
been no yeti seen in the Himalayas in many years, of which Allan was
aware. Reports of Bigfoot sightings had persisted in the temperate
mountain ranges around them, but they were rare and scattered over both
time and space. Quite possibly this was the last of the species, sitting
quietly in front of them.
  Bigfoot got to his feet, towering like a living mountain over the seated
humans. He walked to the apple bin and helped himself to three. Quite
calmly, he started eating.
  “Allan, I take back what I suggested about exposing Blankenship and
Celal to the beauties of nature,” Gilia said, her voice shaking a little.
   Allan discovered he still had the ability to laugh. Gilia joined in, and
after a few seconds of thin edge of hysteria faded and she was
experiencing a deeply felt release from tension. Bigfoot sat and looked at
them, his placid features expressionless. Allan saw the guard staring at
them through the window, his dark face perplexed. After a minute he went
away. His head appeared only at infrequent intervals thereafter, as he
became convinced the three captives were not going to provide a show.
   “At least we won’t go hungry,” Allan said as he got to his feet. He helped
himself to an apple, and offered one to Gilia. She declined with a grimace
of distaste, saying her stomach was not up to food.
   Allan ate the apple and prowled around the interior of the cabin,
stopping when a face appeared at the window. The walls and bars were so
heavy not even Bigfoot’s obvious strength could break them—they had
been built to withstand assault by a hungry grizzly. But the strong little
structure had been designed to keep animals out, not people in, and after
a few minutes Allan found its weakness. The walls rested on a concrete
slab, to keep burrowing animals from tunneling in. The interior was
unfinished, the heavy joists and beams exposed and no flooring installed
above the concrete. The two cross timbers to which the vertical risers
attached were locked down by four simple bolts embedded in the slab. The
shafts of these bolts passed through holes drilled in the timbers, and the
securing nuts were in plain sight.
  Allan carefully rechecked to be certain he was right; he could see no
other hold-downs. With those four nuts off, the entire cabin could be
moved . . . providing one had the strength to lift such a massive weight.
  Keeping a wary eye on the windows, Allan bent and examined one of the
nuts. It was almost five centimeters in diameter, a standard hexhead of
the type that had been in common use since the dawn of the industrial
age. All he needed was the proper tool.
    Obtaining a wrench presented a problem. There was undoubtedly a
large toolbox around somewhere, but since there was little need to guard
it from animals it was not placed in the reinforced storehouse.
   All personnel who spent much time in space or on other worlds, where
the technological resources were invariably limited, learned to improvise.
It was rapidly growing dark in
   the small hut, and the blackness hindered Allan, but hid what he was
doing from the guard. He had noticed two left-over pieces of concrete
reinforcing rod, both over a half-meter long, lying in a corner. Several of
the crates of food were held together with heavy baling wire. He had the
parts from which
  to construct a tool.
   Allan first picked up the two-centimeter diameter rods and moved them
to the darkest corner. With his bare hands he managed to remove forty
centimeters of wire from the nearest crate. He laid the rods parallel with
each other and touching the nut on each side, with ends extending past
the steel. Then he moved the ends farthest from the nut apart, to allow for
the slack that would inevitably occur, and bound the ends just past the nut
together with the wire. What he achieved was a large, crude nutcracker,
fitted to the outside diameter of the steel nut. When he squeezed the free
ends together, the parallel bars locked against two sides of the hex with
satisfying firmness.
  Gilia had watched intently as he worked. Now she giggled, and said, “If
that’s the best modern science can do, Allan...”
  “Sufficient unto the task be the tool thereof,” Allan misquoted, laughing
with her. He hid the nutcracker under a crate. After a few more minutes it
was completely dark in the small room. Bigfoot sat as still as before,
ignoring his companions. When he felt it was safe Allan replaced the tool
around the nut, working by feel alone. He pulled it toward him until the
wire touched the outermost hex, then locked the free ends firmly together
with his hands and pulled.
  Nothing moved. Allan squeezed the handles more tightly together, and
pulled harder. The tied ends stretched apart until the rod ends in his
hands met, and the steel pressing the sides of the hex slipped around the
nut without turning it.
  Gilia heard Allan’s low curse, and asked what had happened. Before he
could answer the door abruptly opened and a light flashed inside. Allan
had time to drop the tool before the beam reached him, though he was
caught leaning forward on his knees.
   “You two can go in the house and use the bathroom,” a surly voice said
from the darkness. “We’ll take the ape out in the woods for a minute, and I
just hope he tries to run.”
  Allan got to his feet and looked at Bigfoot in the faint light. He
pantomimed a man squatting to have a bowel movement, motioned to the
open door, and, hesitantly, reached and placed gentle fingers on the
wound on the back of the hairy arm. Bigfoot recoiled at the last gesture,
but slowly brought the arm back and let Allan touch it.
  The huge hominid had clearly understood the use of weapons, and that
the guide’s laser could kill him. To this point he had been a docile captive.
Allan could only hope that Bigfoot knew what he meant by touching the
wound, and would continue to respect the slaying ability of the smaller
humans.
  The Amerindian guides were gone. The two men who escorted them to
the lodge were obviously part of the serving staff. Two others marched
Bigfoot out of their sight, staying at a respectful distance and covering
him with both lights and ready lasers.
   Bigfoot was already back in the storeroom when they returned, sitting
as silently as before. Allan found his nutcracker and rebound the ends, this
time pulling them even closer together to allow for yielding when the
flexible wire pulled taut. He moved to one of the other three nuts, on the
theory they might not all be equally tight. With a low but intense screech,
the one he had selected turned when he pulled hard on the improvised
wrench.
   Allan stopped, went to the open window and closed it, and tried again.
By moving very slowly he discovered he could turn the nut with a
minimum of noise. He worked carefully until it was no longer tight and
tried it with his fingers; the threads were too rusty for him to remove the
nut by hand.
  Using the clumsy wrench was slow and awkward, but Allan persisted,
and in a few minutes had that one off.
   The first nut on which the nutcracker had failed was the Worst of the
four. It was late at night, and after a painfully prolonged struggle, which
Allan often thought he would lose, before it finally yielded. He sat and held
the rusty key to freedom in his hand, physically and emotionally drained.
  The guard—there was only one now—had continued to flash his light
through the windows at intervals, but the four corners where Allan worked
were out of the way. He was never caught. Gilia and Bigfoot had curled up
on the floor and gone to sleep, the giant hominid’s face only a few
centimeters from her stomach. The plethora of fictional treatments of
Bigfeet that had appeared over the years invariably had them returning to
the edge of civilization to capture a human mate. The fact seemed to be
that Gilia appealed to him as a sexual partner about as much as he
appealed to her.
   Allan decided it would be best to make their try at escape just before
dawn. Blundering through these mountain woods in the darkness was a
sure invitation to disaster. He had noticed aircars parked behind the
luxurious lodge, and in the daylight they could be used to hunt them; and
of course the hounds would be on their trail. But they should be able to
hide from the air in the thick forest, and the dogs they could outwit.
  After setting his mental alarm clock, Allan snuggled up to Gilia for some
needed sleep. She uncurled to accommodate her body to his, and he held
her close and dozed off.
   The faintest touch of gray could be seen through the east window when
Allan awakened. He carefully awoke Gilia, and then pondered the problem
of doing the same for Bigfoot. He finally decided the direct approach was
best, and shook the unwounded arm. The giant stirred instantly, coming
erect without a sound, obviously fully awake and ready for trouble.
  Hoping some sign language was universal, Allan quickly but gently
moved his hand to press lightly against the haircovered lips. He felt the
head turn toward him, the body beneath it stiffening into readiness for
combat.
   One thing Allan had learned during his years of dealing with animals at
all intelligence levels was that stillness was seldom threatening. He stood
quietly, not even removing the hand, deliberately forcing his body into a
relaxed posture; Bigfoot would know how he was standing. And after a
moment, very slowly, he felt the tense form he was touching relax. A huge
hand came out of the darkness and plucked Allan’s off the wide mouth.
   There had been no doubt in Allan’s mind about Bigfoot’s intelligence
since the hominid had stopped trying to escape when threatened with
laser fire. The degree, though, was still unknown. Now Allan felt that even
the latter was coming through. They might never equal Homo sapiens, but
on the scales used by P.P.’s, the species Bigfoot represented would rate
quite highly.
   Allan peeped through the window and located their guard. He was
sitting, leaning against a stack of firewood a few meters to one side of the
storeroom, wrapped in a blanket and sound asleep.
   The area outside the little building was suffused with a pale gray glow.
Allan estimated the distance to the guard, and then pulled Bigfoot after
him to the opposite side of the building. They had to clear away some
crates to reach the wall near the center, and Bigfoot helped. When they
could touch the base timber, Allan hunted for and found a good grip in the
woodwork just above it. He guided a pair of broad hands to a hold just
opposite his, braced himself, and heaved. He finally lost his giant helper.
Allan removed one hand and pulled on Bigfoot’s arm, while lifting himself.
His message was understood, and the big hominid set himself, grunted
with effort, and heaved with Allan. The wall cleared the concrete, rose, and
the entire building tilted up and flipped over behind them.
                                  - 27 -
  The instant the wall he was holding started moving upward of its own
accord, Allan turned and ran around the side of the falling building. This
was the most dangerous part of his plan; he had to reach that guard
before the man awoke enough to realize what had happened.
   The thick timbers had creaked and groaned as Bigfoot and Allan
heaved, but the noise was minor. The crash when the structure landed on
its side would have awakened a hibernating bear. It smashed into the
ground just two meters short of the guard’s booted feet; he could almost
have touched the sharply pointed roof. When Allan rounded the corner the
man was just struggling erect, still partially asleep but already pulling his
laser from its holster. Allan launched himself in a hard dive at the guard’s
knees, and realized he was clasping buckskin when he brought him down;
this was one of the Amerindian guides.
   For once luck was on Allan’s side. The guard’s head hit one of the small
fireplace logs stacked behind him when he fell. He sat up immediately, but
then was motionless, obviously dazed. Allan sent him on into
unconsciousness with a hard right over the ear. He recognized the guide
as the coolly self-possessed one who had been with Doughtery and had
captured Bigfoot.
  Neither of the two windows in the storehouse faced the main lodge, and
Allan saw that he had made a serious miscalculation. The people there
were awake, and bright lights blazed from several windows. As he bent
over the guard, searching for the laser, a door opened and a handlight
swept their way. As the beam caught him Allan realized that the gun was
gone; the Amerindian had lost it when his head hit the log.
  “Allan! Come on!” Gilia called from where she and Bigfoot stood at the
edge of the woods. To reinforce her words, there were shouts from the
lodge. Allan took a last look in the dim light, hoping to spot the red glint of
the laser’s jewel; they would need that weapon. It was not in sight.
  Allan straightened and ran after Gilia, momentarily placing the
overturned storehouse between himself and the large house. Another light
caught them as they entered the trees, but it was a long way behind. A yell
indicated they had been spotted, but no shots followed. And then they
were out of
  sight from the lodge, running through the deep forest shadows.
   Allan slowed to a safer speed. They were heading due west, and he
wanted to maintain that direction until they reached a stream that ran
north and south. The nearest habitations of which he knew were on Baker
Lake, about twenty kilometers to the southwest. Doughtery and his
Amerindians would probably realize they had headed that way, but it was
still their best course.
  The area abounded in small streams, and they reached one within
minutes. The clear water was cold in the extreme, being fed from snow on
the peaks around them, but neither Gilia nor Bigfoot demurred when
Allan motioned for them to walk south down its sand and gravel center.
He went on across and emerged on the west bank, took several steps into
the woods, and then walked backward in his tracks into the water again.
He hurried after his companions, catching them just around the first
bend. The false trail he had made might at least delay the dogs a few
minutes.
  Their pace was determined by the best speed Gilia could make, and she
moved rather slowly in the water. Bigfoot kept constantly getting ahead of
them and then slowing; it was obvious he wanted to go faster, but would
not abandon his new companions.
   Bigfoot had thoroughly proven his intelligence. It was becoming equally
clear to Allan that the hairy man possessed qualities of loyalty and
thoughtfulness as well. The savagery and rapacity Blankenship and
Doughtery had automatically ascribed to him because of his physical
appearance did not exist.
  “Sweetheart, we’ve got to step it up,” Allan called to Gilia after a few
minutes. She lifted a white, despairing face, already strained with effort.
Allan could almost read her thoughts as she started to tell him to leave her
behind, then realized she would only be wasting breath, and that Allan
must have something else in mind.
  He did. All three stopped, and Allan scooped Gilia up in his arms.
Although a small woman she was solidly built, and probably weighed more
than fifty kilograms. “Allan!” she protested, knowing be could not possibly
carry her very far... and Allan walked to Bigfoot and held Gilia out toward
him.
   The hominid took her instantly, but instead of the tiring arms-forward
carry, he laid Gilia on her stomach across the massive right shoulder, her
face to the rear. He raised the right arm, placed a hair-covered hand
across her buttocks, and set off down the stream at trot. Allan followed at
his own best pace, and their speed almost doubled.
   After an hour of hard travel Allan started to lose touch with his lower
limbs. His boots were waterproof, but the stream bottom was uneven and
he had long ago got into water too deep for them and wet his legs and feet.
Now they felt like mushy pillows attached to his lower body, hardly a part
of him.
  The stomach-down position in which Gilia rode must have been acutely
uncomfortable for her, but she had not said a word. Her face was still
white and she looked ill, probably from the pressure of the jouncing
shoulder against her lower abdomen. But she gave Allan a game smile
when she saw him looking at her.
  The small stream had widened and deepened. It was time to leave the
water. Allan started looking for a suitable place just as they rounded a
sharp bend and found themselves standing on the shore of a small lake.
   Allan looked both ways. The sun was hidden behind clouds at the
moment, but there was plenty of light. To their left the trees ended directly
at the water’s edge. Forty meters away on the right there was a large rock
outcropping that extended well into the lake. It looked easy to climb, and
the bare rock would leave no footprints and a minimum of scent. Allan
took the lead, moving ahead of Bigfoot through the shallow water near the
shore. It was still early morning, and the woods were quiet. The small
round lake was barely three-hundred meters in diameter, and Allan felt
exposed as they splashed along the edge; anyone in the woods almost
anywhere along its shoreline could see them. But they reached the rock he
had selected without incident, and Allan started to climb. The top was
only four meters above the lake bottom, and he made it without difficulty.
   Allan turned around, lying on his stomach, and reached for Glila.
Bigfoot boosted her high enough that Allan could pull her up beside him.
And then he backed away from the edge, and the white-haired giant
effortlessly swarmed up to join them.
    The small ridge sloped downward and sank below the floor of the forest
only a few meters into the woods. But at least their trail would not start at
the water’s edge, the area most likely to be searched. Allan, with Gilia on
her feet and Bigfoot bringing up the rear, headed for the concealing
trees... and as they reached the level ground a controlled voice said, “Hold
it! Hands up, all three of you!”
   A man emerged from behind thick brush to their left, a laser pistol in
his hand. Allan recognized him as the second of the two guides who had
captured them the day before, the one who had been with Blankenship.
And then the party chairman himself followed, this time carrying an
automatic shotgun.
   Allan felt a black rush of despair. After having got so far it seemed a
malignant twist of fate to be captured by a politician who had got up early
to hunt ducks. Blankenship had been drunk enough the day before that
Allan would not have credited him with the fortitude to arise before dawn.
But these early morning ambushes were a part of the hunting “mystique,”
and Blankenship had conformed with custom. Allan had seen unexpected
crudities of both thought and behavior the day before, but there was no
denying this man the strength of will that had driven him up the ladder of
power.
   Now that it was too late, Allan saw the camouflaged blind in which the
hunters had been hiding, at the water’s edge on the farther side of the rock
ridge. They had probably heard them splashing along the shore and set up
the ambush.
   “By God I guess it does pay to get up early around here,” Blankenship
said as he reached them. “How the hell did you three get out of the
storehouse?”
   Allan shrugged, but did not answer. The Amerindian with the laser was
keeping his gaze almost entirely on Bigfoot, whom he obviously feared far
more than the smaller humans. But the peaceful herbivore, as seemed his
way when confronted by superior power, was standing quietly, arms at his
sides. No one had raised their hands as ordered by the guide.
   Allan mentally pushed away the feeling of hopelessness and his mind
started functioning again. As always with hand lasers, the guide had only
one beam available before someone could reach him. Blankenship’s
shotgun almost had to be loaded with medium-weight birdshot. If he
could force the Amerindian to fire uselessly. . . as unobtrusively as
possible, Allan slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. All tools and weapons
had been taken from them the day before, but he had used his pack’s small
medical kit not long before being captured, and they had let him keep it.
  “By God, Odegaard, you’re quite a fellow,” Blankenship went on. “No
wonder so many of our people on the dirty work details want to get rid of
you. And here I am, for once, getting my hands into the real action. I’ve
done what all the tough boys at the lower levels haven’t managed; I’ve got
Conscience Odegaard.”
   “That you have,” said Allan, drawing the medical kit out of his jacket.
“I’ll get the guide!” he yelled at Bigfoot, and took a short step forward,
drawing his arm back. The startled Amerindian turned toward him, laser
barrel swinging, and Allan let fly. His throw was good, the kit deflecting
the barrel just as the trigger was pressed; The beam burned through
underbrush two meters to the side.
   Allan took two running steps and reached for the weapon. The guide
tried to draw back and keep the laser out of Allan’s grasp, but he was too
late. With his right hand locked around the barrel, Allan made a
roundhouse swing with his left fist. He connected high on the
Amerindian’s skull. The impact almost broke his hand, but the guide’s
head snapped back. Allan tried to pull the weapon free, but failed when
the man grabbed it with his other hand and tried to swing the barrel
toward Allan. The two swayed back and forth, each trying to wrest the
pistol away.
   The roar of a shotgun shattered the morning stillness behind the
struggling men, close and deafeningly loud. As he and the guide twisted
and turned in their battle, Blankenship came into Allan’s view. He saw the
politician fire again, directly into the breast of Bigfoot, whose long arm
had almost reached the barrel. And still a third time the rapidfire gun sent
a load of birdshot crashing into the primitive man’s broad chest; and then
one big hand reached the weapon and yanked it away.
   Bigfoot’s upper body was covered by a swelling flow of blood. Even the
“sportsman’s” birdshot was deadly as such close range. But none had
penetrated to the heart, and the giant was still on his feet. For the first
time since Allan had seen him Bigfoot was grunting with anger, his usually
impassive features twisted with hate. He probably recognized Blankenship
as the same man who had shot him the day before. The politician squalled
with fear and turned to run, but it was useless. One long arm grasped him
by the shoulder and spun him around. The descendant of robustus raised
the screaming man above his head and held him there, kicking and yelling
like a frightened baby.
   As if gripped equally strongly by the drama before them, the
Amerindian stopped trying to pull the laser away. He and Allan froze in a
breathless truce, and time seemed to hang suspended there on the shore of
the small hidden lake. Very abruptly, as if a giant hand had swept the
intervening clouds away, sunlight poured across the lake from the east and
penetrated beneath the trees, outlining the hairy giant hominid and the
writhing leader of the New Romans in golden splendor. A rush of
impressions engulfed Allan, so strongly he momentarily forgot he was in
the middle of a fight for his life.
   A primitive, uncivilized being, not even a true man, held in his hairy
hands one of the most powerful men in the known galaxy. The
self-assigned task of that man-of-power was the spread of Mankind,
regardless of the cost to creatures such as the one holding him. Allan
knew, without consciously analyzing it, that he was seeing a symbolic
enactment of the eternal struggle. There were billions of other
semi-intelligent beings on thousands of worlds, and there were millions of
exploiters like Blankenship who wanted the planets on which the less-able
creatures lived. After this small battle the struggle would go on, endlessly.
But for the moment it had been reduced to these two figures, on this
isolated lakeshore, and the end might forecast the larger end to come.
   A short distance beyond Bigfoot, just under the first trees, the slanting
sunbeams reflected a tinge of dull red. Allan saw a bank of clay as high as
himself, the side toward them free of plants. And the suspicion that the
symbolism here was almost too perfect flashed through his mind. The
sudden burst of sunlight, the presence of clay, the peaceful ancient
survivor of a species that preceded man, holding aloft an omnivore far
more savage than himself . . . the scene might almost have been contrived
to illustrate a point dramatically.
   Allan’s gaze locked on the clay. He saw nothing but the common red
earth. Bigfoot took two steps toward the lake, raising his arms until he
seemed to reach the sky, and brought the screaming body of Blankenship
smashing down on the low rocks of the ridge. There was a sickening thud,
followed by an abrupt and unnatural silence.
   The giant hominid turned toward them. Allan saw blood gushing from
the three wounds in the barrel chest, covering his hairy form with a
coating of bright red. And then slowly, very slowly, like a great tree
yielding to the ax, he swayed, tilted forward, and fell on his face.
  The guide let go of the laser, stood for a moment staring at Blankenship
and the hairy early man, and then turned and walked into the woods. He
did not look back.
  The Amerindian’s intuitive understanding of the changed situation was
correct. Allan was not going to shoot or attempt to detain him. Instead he
hurried to Bigfoot, knelt by the great form, and heaved it over on the
broad back. Gilia tossed away the branch she had picked up but not had a
chance to use in the fight, and followed him.
   Allan placed a hand on the rounded chest. Beneath the bloody fur and
protective layer of fat he felt the huge ribs, but no heartbeat. Blood was
still oozing from the wounds, but with no pressure behind it. Bigfoot was
dead.
  Allan walked to Blankenship and examined him, though certain it was
useless. And he was right. The political leader had died instantly, his skull
cracked and the chest caved in by the terrific impact.
  There was a gentle humming sound from across the lake, followed by
human voices. Allan raised his gaze and saw two small electric powerboats
entering the open water from the lake’s outlet. The first was painted the
deep green of the Forestry Corps. The second was a gaily multicolored
boat with the words Lake Baker Lodge painted across the bow. The Forest
Rangers were peering in their direction, probably looking for the source of
the gunshots. When they were spotted, the green boat accelerated and
moved toward them.
  Even if one of the aircars undoubtedly hunting them stumbled on this
scene, they were safe now. Allan ignored the blood and death around them
and turned and took Gilia in his arms. He needed human reaffirmation, a
new dedication to the course toward which his life had been set. Gilia was
crying, a wet rain of tears pouring down her cheeks. She snuggled close to
him, and Allan knew she would be there throughout his future. They
comforted each other.