Thoughtworld
                      By Terry Greenhough
Scanned by BW-SciFi
First published in Great Britain by
New English Library in 1977
© by Terry Greenhough, 1977

First NEL Paperback edition
November 1978

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45003640 5
Chapter One
   Inside Thoughtworld, Dizzy Derek changed summer into winter. He removed the leaves,
the blue sky and bright flowers. In their place he put snow-covered skeletal trees, a howling
blizzard and bleak white hills. He was childishly pleased with the transformation.
   Idly he glanced at the date-panel: 5-4-245 - Day 5, Four-month, Year of the Confederation
245. Wasn't it today that the new Director should arrive? Or should it have been yesterday?
No, because he hadn't come yet. It must be today, then. Perhaps.
   Dizzy Derek didn't really know and didn't really care. Directors drifted in and out in
endless procession, haughtily in, glumly out, at the whim of the financial backers of
Thoughtworld. So what? Another one wouldn't make much difference. If he left Derek alone,
fine. And even if he didn't, it wouldn't worry Derek.
   Halfway between ceiling and floor, Derek went to sleep.

   'What do you think he'll be like?' asked Arkon Vitch, several rooms away. He nodded to
the outer vastness from which the Director would ship-in. Space waited in the screens as
Vitch and Silver waited in Communications.
   'Does it matter? There's some good, some bad, some nothing.' Silver spoke indifferently
through her mask. Methane and ammonia flowed into her lungs with her steady breathing,
keeping her alive. 'I'm not bothered, Ark.'
   Tubes curled from the air-pack on her back. The mask hid much of her attractive face.
Her curvaceous body glittered - shiny, scaly, silver. She stood only 5ft tall, human in shape
but not in classification. Short iridescent hair framed the sheen of her delicate features.
Vitch considered her the most beautiful creature in Thoughtworld or anywhere else. He
wanted to kiss her, but without the mask she'd die. A gasping influx of oxygen and she'd
wriggle out her life in his arms, flap like a stranded fish - scales flashing, an agonised frenzy,
death. He could only gaze at her in open admiration.
   She glanced upwards, contemplated eleven dead men -eleven corpses, thirty-three years
old, grisly leftovers from the time when multiple destruction had hit Thoughtworld: Day 8,
Fourmonth, YC 212. The bodies hadn't been found. They were still concealed in the crust,
perhaps occasionally within touching-distance. The idea sent a tremor of fas-cinated horror
through her.
   Next to the visiplate, a light blinked for attention. 'Oho! The new lamb for eventual
slaughter?' Arkon wondered how long the latest Director would last.
   A face appeared on the plate, above a uniform, backed by the inside of a vessel. The
comm-officer looked young, fresh, eager. Stiffly he recited the correct identification letters.
'THEEO?' He didn't elaborate on what they signified. An adjacent screen showed a
collection of dots: part of Confed Squadron 17, in precise formation, escorting the civilian
liner carrying the expected Sciri (Professor) Pertra. 'Artificial planet Theeo, please
acknowledge.'
   Characteristically, Arkon did. 'This is Thoughtworld.'
   'Huh?' The operator was obviously raw. 'Artificial planet Theeo, please ack —'
   'This is Thoughtworld,' Arkon interrupted the mechan-ically repeated request. Theeo to
you; Thoughtworld to us.' Theeo's staff never responded to the proper title. It was a point of
honour, a display of independence. But they weren't independent and they knew it. They
hovered on the brink of the most intellectual breakthrough of all time - as amaz-ing as the
shattering Tynar's Hypothesis - but they weren't independent. Smiling, Arkon Vitch stressed
stubbornly, 'Thoughtworld acknowledging.'
   'Good enough. Prepare to receive the replacement Direc-tor, Sciri Pertra. We'll be with
you inside two minutes.'
   'Okay.' Arkon watched the screen go blank, felt a feather-light touch on his arm: Silver's
slim hand. He stared at the neighbouring scanner. The dots were enlarging swiftly. Behind
them hung the yellow glare of distant 17/LS6, the nearest star. New Athens wasn't visible.
    Tiny toes twisted nervously inside Silver's mag-boots. Although she wasn't greatly
concerned over the imminent arrival, she sensed a slight apprehension. She tried to
smother it but couldn't. Jewel-like eyes narrowed under the rainbow-blaze of perfumed hair.
    Sciri Pertra, Professor Pertra: yet another Director for Theeo, the most recent in a long
line. Would he keep to himself and let the staff get on with their work unmolested? She
hoped so. Or would he be forever prying and prodding, jabbering about deadlines, fretting
over schedules? That sort of approach to the job she didn't like, yet she under-stood it and
could almost sympathise with those who had the precarious task of managing Thoughtworld.
    Something continually prodded them: a lurking, vicious, hydra-headed monster called the
Thirteen - a monster whose attacks were intensified and complicated by the intricacy of
interworld and internation politics. It had a disturbing habit of reminding Theeo who paid the
bills and the salaries. It snapped angrily at the throats of Directors, worrying them.
Sometimes it bit them clear out of a job. Thirteen planets had promoted Thoughtworld.
Thirteen planets meant a lot of vested interests. Often the vested interests grew impatient
and governments saw fit to apply pressure. They'd driven many a Director to resignation and
one to suicide.
    'Just so long as he sticks to administration, Ark; I don't mind them.' He noticed her
peculiar inflexion, a word-slurring worsened by the mask. That mask! So vital to her, so
infuriating to him. Here in Communications, powerful fans circulated oxygenated air. In
Silver's own private part of Thoughtworld they whirled poisonous methane and ammonia. To
go there, Vitch had to mask-up before passing through the lock,
    Deftly he unbuckled his mag-boots. A gentle push and he floated serenely to the ceiling,
stayed on it a moment. Then he flicked himself expertly down again and snatched a
handhold. Dozens of them met his eyes as he buckled the boots: on walls, ceiling, floor.
They were everywhere in Thoughtworld, firm grips set into strong but lightweight plastic.
Metal walkways sliced all surfaces, for booted loco-motion whenever necessary. Mostly,
people sailed.
    Silver and Arkon glanced at the screen as Squadron 17's ship-specks englobed Theeo.
The commercial vessel peeled off and approached slowly. Twelve squadron ships formed a
protective funnel around it, the open end to Thought-world.
    'Look at that, Silver! The military mind! A perfect en-globement, a cone pouring us a
Director inwards, precautions and precision on every hand. And all quite unnecessary! Still, I
imagine somebody's having fun giving the orders.'
    'Playing games, Ark.' Neither Silver nor Arkon had any time for military discipline. Theirs
were potent minds and their own willpower alone held them on course. They kicked back
violently at any external urging - a trait shared by almost everyone who worked in Theeo, a
characteristic nourished with pride: the pride of being privileged, different, in a class apart, a
Thoughtworlder!
    The civilian ship flamed to a halt in space. Nothing ever touched down on small hollow
Theeo. From the hull a slender cylinder drove out, connecting silently with an on-the-surface
embarkation hatch after a few minutes of skilful manoeuvring. Vitch marvelled at the
dexterity of the pilot, but frowned as he saw the vessel's identification. The code gave its
home base as Hope, one of thirteen planets respon-sible for Theeo's existence. Perturbed,
he turned to Silver. 'They've never appointed their lambs from any of the Thirteen before.' He
didn't add his own cynical opinion, that it was less troublesome to terminate abruptly the
ser-vices of an outsider. 'Still, if this Sciri Pertra is from Hope, he might be a welcome
change. An individual who's come up through ability and made them alter their policy.' Then
he thought of the opposite side of the coin: or a piece of putty, a puppet, pliable!
    Without noise, the connecting tube withdrew. The Director was inside.
    'Might as well go to have a look,' Dizzy Derek said, then answered himself amicably: 'I
agree.' There was no one else in the room. He frequently talked to himself, but nobody took
much notice. They didn't take much notice of him whatever he did. Sometimes they showed
amusement at his more foolish phases, his more stupid phrases. They played harmless little
tricks on him and he laughed as loudly as anyone at the outcome. Occasionally a prankster
went a tiny bit too far and something hard flashed through Derek's easy-going facade. But
folks usually ignored him.
    He changed winter back into summer and left at a brisk float.
    His hand sought a grip, and it propelled him along, head-first and horizontal. Three times
his fingers curled around tough protuberances as he sailed in the direction of
Com-munications.
    He grinned as he flew. Arkon the Solemn would be in Communications, tending the
scanners. Silver the Beautiful wouldn't be far away, not if Arkon was there!
    Grabbing and drifting, Dizzy Derek pondered. Thoughtworld boasted no technicians. Not
that it needed many. Practically everything was in the control of machines: heat-ing, lighting,
repairs and food-preparation. Robots were always racing down the walkways, tidying
bedrooms, clean-ing lavatories, polishing away madly with all the mindless indefatigability of
steel cretins.
    'Maids in metal,' muttered Derek, to nobody.
    A few jobs required real live flesh and blood. Someone had to check the screens
regularly. Arkon saw to it, uncom-plainingly. 'He thinks I'm incompetent,' mused Derek,
admitting the truth of it. He got on well with Arkon; he got on well with nearly everyone, but he
never forgot those who went too far!
    With a shrewdness to which he wouldn't have dreamed of confessing, he realised why
Communications had been located down here and nowhere else. Because down here just
happened to be A-block, and A-block contained the cream of Thoughtworld, the best brains.
And some fool just happened to consider it a good idea to leave a tedious task to the best
brains, to stop their egos swelling beyond bounds.
    'They're trying to keep us down-to-earth,' Derek told himself. 'Which is exactly what
Thoughtworld was designed not to do!' He shook his head in wordless compassion for all
people more idiotic than he.
    As graceful as a bird, he rode air through the rooms and corridors of A-block - past
Silver's quarters with its lethal atmosphere, past huge seldom-entered chambers where
machines clicked incessantly. Whenever a closed exit panel confronted him, he pressed the
release button and said, 'Open, Theodore!' Then he dived through, chuckling. In Theeo, all
doors were called Theodore - a habit started by Derek. Several more grabs and Derek
hovered outside Com-munications, steadying himself. Smoothly he glided to the floor,
steering for a pair of mag-boots. They lined all walks at intervals, to be used when required.
He didn't like wearing them, but Arkon tended to get upset if bodies whirled around him as
he concentrated on the screens.
    A boot was fought on to each foot and Derek stood on the walkway. To either side of the
metal, a plastic floor met plastic walls which met a plastic ceiling. Derek shuffled off slowly,
as awkward in the boots as he was expert without them. Arkon, Silver, Cleo Rosa, even
bloated old Gormal could manage perfectly well in boots, and could actually pick one foot up
after the other and progress properly and unrestricted.
    Dizzy Derek shuffled, sliding his feet along the steel. He didn't dare lift either. Once, early
on, he'd made the mistake of slithering off on to the plastic and whoosh! he was air-borne.
He'd been a floater ever since, a reluctant walker.
    He entered Communications. Silver and Arkon turned, speaking together. 'Hi, Dizzy.'
They said it affably, without stifled or overt laughter.
    It didn't worry Derek to be addressed as Dizzy. He thought: 'Well, I am, aren't I?' and
smiled his best vacant smile. Unsteadily he crossed to the screen. 'He's here?'
    'Almost'. Vitch waved a large hand at the image. The connection cylinder had retracted.
The non-military ship was turning sluggishly. Squadron 17 had regrouped and presently,
space yawned empty except for sun 17/LS6. New Athens, its only inhabited planet, wasn't
visible. 'Yes, he's almost here, Dizzy. A Hope-type, probably. If that gives us cause to hope!'
    Perfume wafted; Silver's colourful hair danced as her head jerked to Arkon. 'Let's not
prejudge him, Ark.' She felt a little sorry for the Director as she pictured him clam-bering
down the Hole: hand over hand, dragging himself cautiously 'downwards' in no-grav inside a
shaft joining Thoughtworld's surface to its interior. Then the lock at the bottom would
disgorge him here in Communications.
    She wondered what he'd be like, what kind of supervisor. And what sort of creature was
he, what species? He must be an oxygen-breather, because there'd been no instructions
about air change. Apart from that, all she knew was his title and name: Sciri Pertra. It told
her hardly anything.
    A buzz and the lock door slid across. A suited cumber-some figure trundled out. His
boots held him to the walkway while he stood breathing heavily. Sciri Pertra had arrived.
    He opened with a laugh aimed at himself, brittle-sounding through the visor. 'Obviously a
poor learner on the no-grav course.' His voice was deep, the accent no clue to his race.
Clumsily he unsuited and revealed himself: a very tall and stout biped, greyish face and fat
belly. 'Greetings to you all! This is Sciri Pertra, your . . . Director.' He seemed embar-rassed
at mentioning his position of authority.
    Vitch performed perfunctory introductions, and Pertra shook hands all round. His own
huge paw dwarfed even Arkon's, utterly engulfed Silver's and squeezed firmly against
Dizzy's slack grip. Derek smiled his vacant smile again. 'I've forgot the welcome speech.'
    'Ah, please, no speeches for this one!' Pertra paused, took a few tentative steps and
proved himself more adept than Derek in mag-boots. 'Yet all of you of A-block are not here?'
    'No,' Vitch answered. 'Gormal's in his tank and Cleo Rosa's in Think. You want them
fetched?'
    'But no, I thank you! No inconvenience for them on my account.' He looked around,
noticing the walks and hand-holds. 'Like a baby child I have much to learn. To propel myself,'
    'You'll get used to it,' Arkon said, and thought: 'If they give you time!' Aloud, he continued,
'Not the safest of jobs you've dropped into, you know. Thirty-two years since Thoughtworld
started. Twenty-one Directors. That's an average of...'
    'Ah, but my arithmetic is equal to it, my friend. Now, if someone would be so kind as to
show me to my office and quarters...'
    At a nod from Arkon, Derek offered. They left together, an experienced shuffler and a
fairly capable beginner. Silver's eyes flashed a question and Arkon replied, 'He's okay, I
suppose. Friendly. Pleasant. But too soft. He won't last a month!'
Chapter Two
    Two guns spewed hot death and a rebel died. The two Enforcement men approached the
corpse, poked it with large boots. It didn't move. Dead eyes gazed sightlessly at the autumn
sky above New Athens.
    Crumpled and torn, the body stained the street with a spreading pool of red.
    'One less,' the first killer said flatly.
    'Aye.' The second man nursed his chatter-gun, slipping it into its holster and blessing its
quiet action. 'He had it coming. We'd no choice.'
    Somehow you didn't feel quite so responsible for a killing when you could scarcely hear it
done. With a chatter-gun, death hit very quietly; like ramming a knife in a rebel's back - all
you heard, if anything, was a gurgle. And even then, you hadn't broken the silence; he had. It
made a difference.
    Four parted curtains revealed curious eyes. Otherwise the street minded its own
business. The city of Attica, capital of New Athens, chose not to notice most of the rebels
shot down in its open spaces and dark holes.
    There weren't many rebels anyway, and the chatter-guns were so silent. A noise? Maybe.
Or maybe not. Perhaps the wind whispering.
    'That's what I said. Dead.' A voice rasped into a radio, giving an exact location. 'It wants
shifting. It's messing the road up.' A quick and efficient cleaning detail would be along soon.
A few bloodspots might remain, but Attica had a high rainfall. No trace! With the body in an
unmarked grave.
    A hand stroked a holster. There was now one rebel less to threaten Prime Minister
Lundren's regime. But what about the rest of them? They'd be in well-concealed hideaways
somewhere, waiting and waiting. For what? For the day when there'd be enough of them to
swarm up out of their ratholes and attempt what Lev Merrin had tried in 238.
    The Enforcement man smirked, thinking: 'Hurry the day! It'll take plenty of you to topple
Lundren. Men as big as him don't topple easily!'
    Then he said aloud, 'Come on, we've done our bit.' But somehow he didn't feel proud.
The killing hadn't elated him; it had sickened him. Something foul-tasting stuck in his throat
and crawled around in his stomach. Mentally, he endeavoured to console himself: 'It's only a
job, that's all. Somebody's got to ferret them out. If it wasn't me, it'd be ...' He left off, glancing
down. Christ, the corpse didn't look like a rebel! Just a youngster, really. Alien, yes, but what
of it? Not all the rebels were alien. Not all the Enforce-ment people were human. It wasn't a
racial problem. What was it, then? Social? Probably. Political? Definitely!
    That was it: politics. A minority of the population of New Athens wanted Lundren out.
Lundren wanted Lundren in. It was as simple as that, and as difficult! Because men as big
as Joab Lundren didn't topple easily. They clung to their positions tenaciously, ruthlessly if
necessary. According to some of the rumours that went the rounds, Joab Lundren could be
as ruthless as death itself. He was reckoned to have his share of innocent blood on his
hands and more besides. But you couldn't prove it. When a man reached the top of the tree,
he usually had sufficient power to cover up all the chopping and hacking he'd done on the
way up. You couldn't accuse him either. You took a risk listening to the rumour-whisperers, a
greater risk if you were actually doing the whispering. To so much as admit you'd heard
there were rumours was a chancy business, too.
    The Enforcement man's memory flickered back to Mer-rin's doomed insurgence in 238.
He hadn't stood the slightest chance. All the same, he'd tried. You had to admire him. He'd
tried. He wouldn't try again. An unmarked grave held the pieces.
    But somebody would rise again, one day. And what chance did they stand? Not much.
There'd been no Enforcement Agency in 238, no weapons on Lundren's side. Then, New
Athens had truly been what Lundren so often proclaimed it: Peace Planet - on the surface, at
least. Until Merrin struck, briefly and bloodily.
    Today the EA was as strong as Joab could make it, which meant very strong. And quiet.
Undercover. The government didn't recognise it officially; it just paid wages to certain
people at certain times for doing certain things which, according to the government, didn't
need to be done.
   Walking down the street, one of the Enforcement men thought of the strangeness of his
position. He was part of the planet's best-kept secret, a member of a force not known
offworld, and he walked down a street in full view armed. On Peace Planet.
   Someday the secret would escape. The Confed would hear of it. Somebody who was in
accord with Lundren would nevertheless open his mouth and say something he'd
immediately regret. And then...

    Grey with dusk, a window framed a head grey with age. Joab Lundren stared up at the
darkening sky: several tiny specks, distant suns, glinting in the evening. In the
Con-federation's sparsely starred Sector 17, night came as a blackness unrelieved except
for a handful of scattered light points, faint and flickering. Theeo was too small and far away
to be seen.
    Lundren pulled down the curtain, switched on the light and seated himself behind a desk
littered with papers. His broad shoulders bowed as he bent to work. The weight of years and
responsibility told on him. He felt sorry for him-self. He was Prime Minister of New Athens
and he still couldn't rest content, say applaudingly to his reflection in the mirror, 'You had an
ambition, a dream. You've fulfilled it. Sleep well, old man.'
    The demon of ambition drove him even now. It pushed him while death pulled and
mocked. He knew he couldn't hope for more than a decade or two. It didn't seem much.
    It wasn't enough. His plans went beyond twenty years, but almost certainly his body
wouldn't.
    So many worries! The rebels, the strain of letting an entire world in on a secret, yet at the
same time ensuring that all lips likely to reveal it were closed forever. The business of the
Thirteen to attend to: conferences, arguments over money, keeping an eye on Theeo.
    He pronounced solemn silent anathema on Theeo's per-sonnel. Why did they have to be
so obstinate, so unruly, so undisciplined? Complacently referring to their place of work as
Thoughtworld, for instance, where was the sense in that? The planet was Theeo. Why call it
anything else?
    Lundren thumped the desk angrily, and thought: 'I made Theeo! It's mine! Tynar gets all
the credit, though, and what did he do? Dreamed up the wretched Hypothesis - with my help,
which everyone forgets - and then died in a blaze of fame. And so for me, why, I only fought a
dozen fronts at once to make Tynar's Hypothesis a concrete practicable reality! I turned an
abstraction into solid form. I made Theeo!'
    It was partly true.
    He banged a bell viciously and an assistant hurried in: a tried and trusted young man who
knew when to bow, when to scrape, when to speak. And, most important of all, when not to.
'Sir?'
    Lundren passed across a list of names. 'Scrub this lot. Known dissidents and possible
talkers. Get the EA on it tonight.' It was unfortunate: fifty murders before morning. But it
couldn't be helped. He'd built Peace Planet from nothing and it had a reputation to be
maintained. With the good name of a good planet to be upheld, a mere fifty people or so
now and then couldn't be allowed to matter. Lundren couldn't afford scruples.
    He thought irritably: 'The EA's necessary!' Which was correct, since 238. Merrin had
been a nuisance at the time and death hadn't ended his threat. His name was still
whis-pered in cellars and remote houses all over New Athens. His followers constituted
more than a nuisance. They were a positive menace to the planet's stability and Joab
Lundren's life.
    'Suffer not a menace to live,' he paraphrased coldly, and considered it ample justification.
Yet a little corner of his mind wouldn't stay quiet. It muttered insidiously, 'These so-called
rebels aren't bad. They just have different opinions to yours. That's not sufficient cause for
wholesale murder ...' But he refused to listen to it any more. He forced his brain to think of
other things - things he'd done, things he'd said, the considerable influence he'd had in the
shaping of the Confed. It titillated his vanity to look back.
   The Conference of Hope, in 209: thirteen worlds had met to enquire into the feasibility of
sponsoring a non-natural planetoid answering the requirements of Tynar's Hypothesis.
Lundren remembered anxious days of discussion, wrangling and invective. Almost
single-handed he'd battled Theeo into being. He'd organised designers, construction
workers and the collection of funds. He'd sat with a committee set up to decide on the
number and qualifications of Theeo's staff. He'd made a world to test the Hypothesis. And
yet the Confed called Tynar the Father of Thoughtworld!
   The colonisation of New Athens, in 197: Lundren himself had led the dissatisfied
multitude, a motley herd seeking a place where they could live their lives as they wished.
They'd settled in New Athens, eleven species in all, and later there'd been a colossal
immigration of similar thinkers: searchers after peace, members of the anti-war factions, the
lonely and the malcontents.
   'I moulded them,' Lundren thought smugly. 'I formed their government, this democratic
system of ours - demo-cratic in so far as the populace thinks it rules! I made New Athens!
The world with no armed forces except the secret pest controllers, the vermin chasers.
Peace Planet. It has never been attacked, and never will be. The world of the intelligentsia,
the acclaimed artists, the misguided altruists. I made it! Who's the Father of Peace Planet,
Tynar? Not you!'
   But Lundren knew Peace Planet wasn't so peaceful nowadays.

    Gormal wallowed in his tank, ruminating. Dirty black water foamed as he flopped his
enormous body about. Strengthened glass kept the water inside the tank, a cube 10 yd on a
side.
    He mused happily on the 1000 cu yd of mucky liquid sur-rounding him, remembering the
vast oceans of home: hun-dreds of miles deep, a boiling thunder of chaotic currents above a
slimy bed of luxurious clinging ooze. By comparison, the tank wasn't much. Still, it was
something; somewhere to escape to whenever he wanted to relax and do some private
extra-schedule thinking.
    What about the new Director? Hadn't seen him yet. He'd been here a full day, so perhaps
it was time to make his acquaintance. No, why bother? Thoughtworlders often saw more
than enough of their Directors as things stood.
    Across Gormal's brilliant mind ran memories of folders with various official stamps on
them: 'Top priority', 'urgent', Very urgent'. And a stream of separate Directors rushing about,
frantically demanding whether you'd dealt with them all. Courtesy, Gormal decided. For the
sake of politeness, he'd better present himself, get the other's measure. There was always a
slim chance of his being a decent supervisor, the sort who hardly ever came out of his office;
a straight-forward administrator, who realised people could work far more efficiently without
others constantly harassing them.
    Gormal fumbled through the wet murk, knocking down a switch. Noisily the emptying
mechanism sucked the water out. Nozzles entered, spraying the glass and the grotesque
occupant. Slime fell off and was swallowed. He stood there a moment, monstrous and
naked. Then he touched another switch and the front section of the tank opened. He fumbled
out into weightlessness and shook himself. Later, robots would buzz along and pick globules
of moisture from the air.
    Gormal went to find the Director.
    Meanwhile, the Director himself was indicating his own chest. He looked up at the girl
before him. 'This is Sciri Pertra. Professor Pertra. Your . . . Director.' Again embar-rassment
trembled in his voice. He stared at the ice fields, bewildered. 'You'll be Cleo Rosa?'
    'Until I die.' She grinned prettily. Her lithe body hung in mid-air, tiny and lovely, similar to
Silver's in size and contour, but human. Ebon hair billowed in static waves around a dark
oval face. Eyes black and deep as infinity drifted an appraising gaze lazily over Pertra. The
scrutiny ended and the laziness vanished. Everything about Cleo Rosa now sug-gested
vibrant vitality, a sparkling intensity caged in the frame of a seductive houri. 'Pleased to
meet you, Sciri Pertra.'
    'Just Pertra, if you would,' he requested diffidently. 'A name is sufficient for this one. The
title makes him feel old and venerable. He's neither. And as for meeting you, well, I'll say
hello from down here, if you don't mind. It doesn't look safe up there and I'm not ready to start
experimenting yet.'
    Cleo Rosa smiled with all the warm enchantment of antique Asia-Terra. This Pertra was
pleasantly different. Usually a new Thoughtworld boss blasted in with banners waving, puffed
out with assumed self-importance. Pertra had humility. She liked him. 'Found your way
around yet?'
    'By no means. Only around some of A-block. The rest I'll leave.' He contemplated the
other staffed places in Theeo: the student-wings where promising youngsters learned
Thoughtworld techniques, the smaller blocks in which less-gifted people did less-important
work. He'd decided not to visit them, in case the lower echelons considered him guilty of
condescension. 'I'll stay in A. I'd be obliged if you could pass the word on: my office is
always open for anyone, any time.'
    'Sure.' She hoped he'd last but doubted it. With a sudden-ness that surprised him, she
obliterated the desolate polar wastes in the room. Her mood had been slightly frosty, but
he'd changed it. India blossomed, a circumambient vista from light-years distant, centuries
ago. Mysticism painted god-colours on squalor. Music wailed, a haunting back-ground,
inaudible yet somehow there.
    'Remarkable!' he congratulated. This Pertra wishes he could do that.'
    'No chance, I'm afraid. It's only for us Thinkers, not you...' She stopped short, regret
pulsing in a crimson flood beneath the sombre beauty of her cheeks. 'Sorry. I didn't mean
anything by that.'
    He dismissed it with a genuine smile, grey but reassuring. 'Forget it. We can't all reach
the heights. I'm glad to have got to Theeo in any capacity.'
    'Even the highest?'
    Pertra laughed. 'Highest? In salary and authority, yes. But not in pure intellect. I'm aware
of my uses. Also my shortcomings. If one admits these, he can do much worse.'
    'And very little better. I see your philosophy matches that which was a part of me before I
was born.'
    'You please me, Cleo Rosa. Our spirits harmonise. Where I was born, on a world now
within the Benlhaut Empire ...'
    She twisted abruptly in nothingness, facing him like a lovely lethal arrow of flesh, frowning.
'The Benlhaut Empire? You aren't... ?'
    'No, no,' he broke in gently. 'I'm as loyal to the Confeder-ation as anybody. Since I was
ten, Hope is my planet and owns my allegiance. It's merely that the world where I lived as a
child, then free and autonomous, was later swallowed by the voracious mouth of the
Emperor. Bloodlessly, though, and not altogether to its detriment. I sympathise with
Ben-lhaut up to a point. Its alien ruler and his incomprehensible ethics may strike us as
tyrannical, yet not every fish in the Imperial pool has cancerous scales..'
    'You think there'll be war?'
    'In these days of colossal destruction potential? But no! Politicians love to make threats
and meaningless gestures; it's a universal disease from which most of them suffer. Although
surely not even they desire so much death!'
    'Optimist,' said Cleo Rosa. Then she recollected an adage from antiquity and quoted it:
'Optimism is often precious but costs nothing, yet when it is seen to have been misplaced, it
exacts a terrible price indeed!'

  A tremendous amount of paperwork covered Pertra's desk: requests for a Thinker to sort
out this problem, demands for a Thinker to sort out that one, a miscellany ranging from polite
applications to unequivocal orders, the accumulated backlog of the interregnum, he
realised. Not sure where to begin, he flicked through forms at random. 'Lords of Void,' he
cursed inwardly, 'not even a secretary to help!' It looked like being a long haul to so much as
catch up to the point at which his predecessor had broken off, or been broken off!
Twenty-one Directors in thirty-two years? No, it definitely wasn't the most secure post in the
Confed.
    He selected a paper, pulled it from under the spring clip that held it to the desk. Fingers
fumbled and it floated away in no-grav. Its action reminded him to tighten the straps that kept
him in his seat. He glanced at the office, big but too bare and utilitarian: a chair, a desk, a
cupboard, a row of filing-cabinets, one solitary picture.
    The buzzer told him someone was outside, seeking entry. He depressed a stud and the
panel hissed aside and he nearly jumped out of his seat despite the straps.
    Gormal swam in. 'I'm Gormal. I thought I ought to say welcome.' A broad lipless mouth
moved in what was pre-sumably his head. A resonant voice boomed, 'Welcome.'
    'I . . .' the Director fought for composure and found it. 'This is Sciri Pertra. Just Pertra,
rather. Glad to know you.'
    'Reciprocated.' With Gormal, a smell of filth had entered the office. He noticed Pertra's
nostrils wrinkling. 'Sorry. It's from the tank. I like to splash in nice homely muck now and then.
Not everyone appreciates the smell.'
    'I can believe it,' Pertra said dryly. He granted his visitor a long studious look and he saw
a creature far from human: immense, roughly ovoid, with a low bulge on top bearing a
couple of eyes, a mouth and a flattened nose. A pair of short, blubbery arms stuck out from
his shoulders. His legs were even shorter and thicker. Gormal's general appearance was
that of something which had been squashed and compressed by unimaginable forces.
'Heavy gravity planet?' the Director asked politely.
    'Originally, yes. Very heavy. You'll find it all in my file.' Two huge eyes swung to the
cabinets. 'Mammal. Male. Cetaceous. Quite happy in water for long spells. Oxygen-breather.
IQ ...'
    'Oh, I'm certain it's nothing to be ashamed of.' Pertra watched in fascination as Gormal
hovered like a massive stringless balloon. The buzzer sounded again. Derek dived into the
office before the panel had finished opening at Pertra's touch. 'Ah, Mr Derek...' Pertra
began.
    'Dizzy,' Derek insisted.
    'But yes. Yes, exactly - Dizzy. A strange name or nick-name?'
    'Aye-aye! Real.' Loose lips wobbled gleefully. 'My parents had a sense of humour. Two
senses of humour. Bob and Rhoda, the Chuckling Duo. In a circus.' Pertra laughed
sym-pathetically; Derek giggled pathetically. Through his brain trickled fond memories,
mostly fictitious. 'Rhoda fell off a trapeze and had me early. Said she was dizzy from the
tumble. So I'm Dizzy because she was. Unique, aren't I?' Compassionately, Pertra nodded.
Derek looked gratified. 'Dizzy first name, Derek second. Rhoda Derek. Mother.' He
quivered with imbecilic chuckles. 'Father...'
    'Quite!' Pertra realised he had to be firm. The man both amazed and frightened him. A
bright brain must lurk some-where in Derek, a glimmer of unusual intelligence clouded by
the superficial child-mind. The Director shrugged broad shoulders. Obviously the files would
verify Derek's mumblings.
    Pertra's eyes lifted, taking in the single decorative feature of his office: a small
two-dimensional colour shot of the incredible non-human Tynar, magnetised to a steel disc
in the far wall. Beneath it, the Hypothesis was printed in all the languages of the Thirteen.
'Decorative?' wondered Pertra. It struck the eye pleasantly enough, but it hadn't been put
there to give aesthetic satisfaction, merely as a reminder of how Theeo had originated and
what its purpose was.
    The only concessions to ornamentation were the mutable scenes of the Thinkers: Cleo
Rosa's arctic snow plains, her flickback to a magic land far distant in space and time. And
they weren't wholly for adornment; they had a function. Expediency dictated their presence,
not consideration on the part of the Thirteen for the comfort of Theeo's staff.
   Pertra thought sadly of the Thirteen. One could hate them without too much effort.
Granted, they'd taken a gamble in the first place; Tynar's Hypothesis could have transpired
to be no more than the vague theorising of a fool. But not even Tynar's detractors had called
him a fool. They'd disagreed with his ideas, dismissed them as being based on hope and
sheer speculation rather than solid logic, but they'd never called him a fool. Oh yes, the
Thirteen had gambled a little. They'd bet on a possibility so strong it was a probability. That
hadn't needed much courage, just faith and luck and money. The Thirteen had found all three
and they'd gambled and won. And now they were reaping a rich harvest.
   Too rich, in Pertra's opinion.
   They held a virtual monopoly on free thought.
   Pertra snapped out of his reveries, and remembered that Derek had come in. Plainly
he'd come in for a reason. 'Ah Dizzy, my friend, what was it you wanted me for?'
   Dizzy blinked. 'I've forgot.'
Chapter Three
   Arkon Vitch frequently came on to the surface for the simplest of reasons: to stand and
look at the stars. They were rare in Sector 17, but he enjoyed looking at them. They filled him
with a wonderful thrill of remoteness, detachment and solitude. At the moment, Silver shared
the solitude. Her presence made the thrill no less wonderful. It increased it. He could feel the
firmness of her arm locked in his, pleasur-able despite the frustration caused by the suit
fabric separat-ing them. Behind the mask, her face sparkled argent delight. Her
never-kissed lips shaped words into the suit-to-suit radio. 'I could stay out here for ever, Ark.'
   'You'd get short of breath after a while.' He started to smile, then the brutal significance of
a single word struck him: breath. They shared love, they shared solitude, they shared life, but
they couldn't live together properly because they couldn't share breath! He glanced at the
lips he could never kiss and remained silent and sullen.
   She sensed his mood and the grim thoughts behind it. Speech wouldn't alleviate the
gloom. She touched his helmet, eased his head upwards and out. 'Just drink it all in, the
vast-ness of it. Problems dissolve.'
   'Maybe.' Grudgingly he recognised truth and let space consume him.
   Mostly there was darkness, the deep-black depths of infinity. Here and there tiny motes of
brightness burned steadily, somewhere out at the limits of travel and beyond. The faintest
suggestion of mistiness, invisible to all but the sharpest of eyes, hinted at the distant
Benlhaut Empire: huge, claw-shaped, curled snatchingly around the farthest tip of the
Confed. Star 17/LS6 glinted a yellow reminder of the Thirteen.
   And there were the Void Regions, of which nothing showed since nothing existed. An
enormous sunless hole gaped from the surrounding touches of light on space: a blackness
so complete it hurt the mind, an unbelievably absolute absence of light. Like infinity's
gigantic hungry mouth, the Void Regions waited gaping.
   Wordlessly, Vitch said to himself, 'The Void Regions. Not a sun, not a planet, not a thing.
Nothing! Emptiness!' He had the ambition of every Thoughtworlder: to transport Theeo to the
place where it could fulfil its purpose to the ultimate - the place of nothingness, of no
stargrav, no inter-ference, no impediments. Out there, Thoughtworld could think itself with
consummate efficiency through to the mystery of mysteries.
   But it was a hopeless ambition, a phantom fantasy.
   Silver gazed around Thoughtworld's exterior: a near horizon, a smooth surface scarred by
meteors. It was hard to accept that the planetoid had been manufactured, that it wasn't
natural; that men and not-men had fabricated a spatial body 10 miles in diameter out of
rock, metal and asteroidal debris. It was difficult to believe that everything had been
plastimented together and a hollow sphere brought into being with a crust thin enough to
conform to stringent weight specifications yet substantial enough to resist meteoric
penetration.
   Laboriously and ingeniously, the Thirteen had perpetuated Tynar's Hypothesis by creating
the solidity to put the theory to trial. And the theory had worked! Thoughtworld was a
memorial to Tynar, a hive of high-powered cerebration that hung poised over a dizzying
edge, rushing towards a truth which must rock all sentient life to its foundations! But Silver
realised that Thoughtworld would function so much more effectively in the Benlhaut Empire
or the Void Regions - neither of which it could enter! She swore quietly for a while, looking at
metal strips on spools between vertical poles: waiting walkways, to be pinned down when
anyone needed to traverse the rock for an appreciable distance in mag-boots. As inside,
steel grips covered the outside. Walking on Theeo's surface required a lifeline and plenty of
practice: put one foot under a grip, cautiously lift the other, slip it under the next grip a yard
farther on. Without detect-able gravity, care was vital.
   'Makes you feel humble,' Arkon admitted, lowering his gaze from the Benlhaut Empire,
the Void Regions, the cosmic deeps. 'We'd be better off in the Empire, Silver.' But he knew
Thoughtworld would never get there. Imperial policy seemed to be to obstruct everything the
Confed did or suggested, to interpose its colossal might between the Confed and progress.
     'No chance.' Non-human, Silver shook her head in a human negative. 'How many times
has the Thirteen applied for permission? Fifteen? Twenty? Always the same: no! They don't
even bother to be polite.' The Empire's attitude angered her. His Supreme Magnificence
Saril onhSaril appeared to despise humans above all other life-forms, but his servants
weren't averse to stretching the point to include the whole Confederation - as if merely
mixing with human-ity contaminated the non-human Confed species and there-fore reduced
them to a similar despicable status.
     The Empire had been offered big money, favourable trade-agreements, the use of
Thoughtworld, almost anything, if only the Emperor would allow Theeo to be sited in some
near-void area of Imperial space. The benefits to Theeo would be incalculable because
parts of Saril onhSaril's dominions were inferior only to the Void Regions,
     Yet every offer met with a blunt refusal.
     Arm-in-arm, Arkon Vitch and Silver luxuriated in the freedom outside Thoughtworld. Five
yards from their feet, an engraved brass plaque embedded in rock marked the grave of
eleven men. Somewhere beneath it, eleven corpses lay hidden - unrecovered, mourned
briefly and then for-gotten. Silver shuddered and thought: 'I might be standing above a body
even now!' It had happened in 212, before she was born. In the days when Theeo had been
a growing dream, an idea taking form to immortalise Tynar, eleven men had been killed.
Tynar; the Hypothesis; the Conference of Hope, after his death; many difficult problems and
bitter arguments; an end to the arguments, a beginning to construction; two years and . . .
Thoughtworld! 'Sometimes I can't believe it's real, Ark. Such a fantastic theory, and then to
have it proved correct. Why, it's incredible!'
     'It's all of that.' He spoke agreeably now, the grey mood had passed. Space really did
dissolve problems. Set black enormity against a small black dejection and the dejection had
to disappear, swallowed into relative insignificance by the enormity whose true significance
nobody could yet fully understand.
     He thought: 'We're tiny. We don't count. Just stand and look up...'
     The ground jumped. It jerked underneath him, slapped one of his feet free of its grip. He
clung tight with the other, straining to curl his toes up around it in stiff boots. It wasn't
possible, but the foot stayed put. A quick check on his life-line and he felt more secure,
although the ground still jolted and leaped furiously.
     Seismic disturbance? Ridiculous! An explosion inside? Possible but unlikely, except
there'd been explosions before! Another sabotage attempt? That must be it.
     Then he looked over at Silver. Her face-scales were flushed with shock as she screamed,
a rising voice scale of terror. Her hands grabbed at nothingness, her feet kicked at
nothingness, and she floated through nothingness. Upwards and out. Fast. 'Ark, I'm...'
     It was a terrible effort to think clearly. Vitch knew that with every passing second she was
being drawn towards doom, away from him, out into a space-grave of eternal slowly turning
motion. Unless a star sucked her in. Unless a planet caught her. Unless he did something
quickly. He deliberately freed his other foot, launching himself rapidly off Thoughtworld.
Upwards and out. Fast. It was a risk. If he missed her, he'd lost her forever. He ought to
survive, but without her he couldn't be sure that he wanted to.
     He prayed he'd judged his course accurately, and could snatch hold of her in the one
chance he'd get.
     A backward glance showed him a bouncing surface. A forward glance showed him
Silver, adrift on an ocean with no end. Her lifeline trailed behind. He noticed the open ring on
it, the snap-shut device that, under normal circumstances, anchored it to a grip. The gap
between himself and Silver slowly shrank. They still whirled. Some sort of clarity came to
Vitch's mind - not the near-total clarity Theeo had been built to induce, only a shadow of it. At
least he could con-centrate on Silver. His course looked good. Behind him, the lifeline tied
him to Thoughtworld like an umbilical cord. It contained his every chance of continued
existence. One break would mean two deaths.
   He thought frantically: 'Stay shut, snap-shut!' and felt the line paying out from the feed
cylinder just above ground-level. He wondered how much rope he had. Silver's fear-filled
voice sobbed into his ears, a single name, over and over, 'Ark!' And she uttered pitiful little
primal animal sounds, whimpers of ancient horror dredged up through the subconscious
from the slough of evolution.
   Was he moving quickly enough and in the right direction? He decided he was.
   She drifted next to him, within reach. His greater speed wafted him past her and he
grabbed an arm just in time. He pulled her to him, clutching her tight. His hand knocked a
switch on his suit belt and the lifeline stopped feeding. It locked. Clinging together, they
swung like an octopedal pendulum above the inverted clockface of Theeo, hooked on a taut
line. Slowly they arced round along the circumfer-ence of a circle. 'Arkon . . . thanks!' It
sounded inadequate to her, even though her voice expressed all the emotion and gratitude
of which she was capable. 'I was scared. I honestly didn't think...'
   'Don't, then. You're safe.'
   'I've learned a lesson. More valuable than everything I learned in school, more priceless
than all the fabulous experiences I've had in Thoughtworld. You never really accept how
wonderful life is until you see it slipping away. Then you truly appreciate what might have
been. What you could and should have done but didn't.'
   'I know. You tell yourself, "If ever I get out of this, things are going to be different; I'll make
them different." And they stay the same!'
   'Cynic,' she said lightly.
   'Philosopher.' His quiet chuckle seemed to fill the universe as he put his faceplate next to
hers. Suddenly sad, he thought: 'If it's not a helmet, it's a mask. If it's not a mask, it's death!'
The grey mood had returned by the time they settled on Theeo.

    A foetal position suited Cleo Rosa best. Cosmic immensity frightened her and made her
feel like a little girl again, cry-ing into impartial night against forms conjured up by her own
imagination. Here near 17/LS6, in the emptiest zone of Confed space, her peculiar
agoraphobia hit especially hard. Even inside, she couldn't forget fear of the outside.
    She hugged herself to herself, withdrew herself into herself - a tiny ball of beauty, sensual
and sylphine. A comfortable scene surrounded her: soft damp walls, cushioning fluid, the
circumambient beating of her mother's heart. She wanted to be in a womb, so she was in a
womb; in a large brightly lit chamber, yet nevertheless simultaneously in the smallness,
darkness and warmth of her mother's womb.
    It wasn't by sorcery. It was only a simple helpful con-solation. A Thinker needed it, working
better with it. There-fore Theeo contained the requisite facilities. Skilfully, Cleo Rosa utilised
them to the full.
    Beside her in no-grav hung a folder marked 'Urgent'. She had reduced its contents to just
one question. With typical endearing audacity, to indicate her distaste of verbosity, she had
boldly written on the folder: 'Contents condensed. Would self-government for Karmax be
detrimental under the present circumstances?'
    Of course it would! Even dim but likeable Derek must realise that. Unhampered, she'd
thought the matter through, not that it had needed much mental energy. There was only a
single possible answer: the situation on Karmax wouldn't allow self-government. Any fool
could see it. Twelve species dwelt on the planet, all xenophobic and hostile, and fighting
bitterly among themselves. Often some of them surged off-world to look for trouble
elsewhere. Karmax hadn't been out of the top three on the Confed's annual war-incidence
list for the past fifty years. It simply couldn't rule itself.
    Detailing a Thinker to the question had been a waste of time - a query with a built-in
answer, doubtless posed by some bureaucrat with nothing better to do. Cleo Rosa cursed
for a while in silence, wasting time regretting wasted time.
    The non-problematical problem was Confed-initiated, channelled through the Thirteen to
Thoughtworld - and at a high price to the Confed, since the Thirteen knew how to charge
exorbitantly for services rendered. She felt appalled when she considered how much a few
minutes of her mind-work would cost, even on a non-problem!
   Dutifully she said into a recorder, 'Autonomy for Karmax could only be disastrous.
Recommend Confed continues strict surveillance, severe punishments and direct
government from Central.' She paused, then decided to add the imprac-ticable alternative.
'Otherwise forcibly break up Karmax's population and ship it to its original home-worlds.'
   This wouldn't work, as they'd soon find their way back again and someday some
bureaucrat would set some Thinker the same question. Theeo would return more or less the
same answer and so it would go on. She couldn't imagine how the question had got to
A-block. Even allowing it to come as far as Thoughtworld had been a mistake. Then
unexpectedly she reversed her judgement and conceded that maybe she'd been hasty.
Sometimes, so great was the intellectual potential on Theeo, an apparently easy problem
could produce a solution no one had ever dreamed of. But this happened rarely. The
potential existed, yet mostly it was wasted by bureaucratic fumbling, inefficiency and lack of
foresight. Often the Thirteen routed routine stuff to A-block merely to enable the top price to
be charged. Cleo Rosa smiled, contemplating what seemed to be the Thirteen's motto:
'Maximum money for minimum endeavour.' Her smile was as cold as a polar waste.
   Nearby, thunder bellowed. A loud detonation rattled and echoed through chambers of
ringing metal, knocking the womb away, crushing it into oblivion. The beating of her mother's
heart changed to the beating of violent and caco-phonous Shockwaves. Steel walls showed
again, walkways, grips and exit panels. Once more, it was a normal room.
   Smashed by the blast, Cleo Rosa started spinning. Slowly, still curled up, she rolled
through emptiness. The folder, forgotten, curled away. She moved across the room and out
of the door, through two more rooms, and she was at the damage area.
   Fire glimmered from a jagged-edged hole in the ceiling, and robots were directing foam
at the blaze. People stood or hovered, watching: Petra, Dizzy Derek, fat Gormal, others
Cleo Rosa didn't recognise. She didn't ask questions. Obviously history had repeated itself.
She couldn't see Arkon or Silver anywhere in the press of spectators.
   The Director and Gormal looked stunned. As usual Derek looked stupid, but he
recovered his presence of mind before the others. To Cleo Rosa's surprise, he grabbed an
extin-guisher from a pile of spares behind the robots. Then he joined them in the fight
against the fire, more mobile, swim-ming. The robots, magnetically held to the walkways,
sup-plied a steady cannonade of chemicals while Derek took care of the more intricate
manoeuvres. He spouted foam and shouted, apparently enjoying himself. The fire died and
he flopped down beside the Director, struggling into his boots. 'It's out.'
   'Indeed it is. This one is indebted to you, Dizzy.'
   'Dizzy? I shouldn't be, when Thoughtworld doesn't spin. But I am, you know. That's really
odd.'
   The robots filed out with their extinguishers.
   'What happened?' Pertra asked.
   'Sounded like an explosion,' Gormal said unnecessarily. 'A grenade. A bomb. Not
serious, though. Just a minor control for the tinmen.'
   Pertra fought desperately against the urge to hold his nose. 'Are similar accidents
frequent here?'
   'Accidents? Now and then, yes. But this was deliberate.'
   'Are you sure?'
   'Fairly. Machines don't blow up by spontaneous com-bustion. Occasionally they fail, but
they don't explode. Somebody has to cause them to explode. It was E-block's public lavatory
last time. Before that, my tank. Before that
   While the Director stared in stupefaction, Gormal listed ten separate explosions or
furtively engineered breakdowns. He went back only two years. Voices backed him up,
agreed with every detail pulled from his phenomenal memory.
   'So some agency seeks to destroy Theeo?'
   'Not at all. Only slight damage and inconvenience. Annoyance tactics.' Gormal paused,
his voice altering to a dramatic roar when he continued. 'Plus an attempt to hijack us by
long-range tractor beam. Luckily, Squadron 17 were in the area and they snapped it by
some military magic.'
   'Oh,' Pertra said weakly. He'd heard of the Confed's regular checks to see Theeo was
safe. One aspect of the affair amused him: the Thirteen hadn't sufficient weapons to do the
job themselves, so to their disgust they were forced to hire Squadron 17. For this, the
Confed charged over the odds.
   'Benlhaut,' Gormal pronounced ominously. 'That's who. Though why they indulge in petty
sabotage as well, I couldn't say. Perhaps to scare us off so they can pinch Thoughtworld
empty.'
   At the mention of Benlhaut, Pertra's grey face turned greyer.
   The robots trooped back in to clean up. Five of them, wearing mag-boots, walked up the
walls and along the ceil-ing. As far as the walkways permitted, they leaned to the
jagged-edged hole and sliced off the tangled steel with heat torches. One robot held an
extensible trellis device terminat-ing in a large magnet It passed its time catching chunks of
metal, bringing them to hand with the gadget and attaching them to a magnetised band
running down each leg. Some of the torch-bearers used grips when possible, then clunked
back feet-first to the walkways. A highly specialised welding robot was also employed. It
progressed booted as far as it could and stopped by the hole. To do its job, it needed both
hands; the grips were out. Also it had to be under the hole and able to move freely; the
walkways were out. Nor were robots very clever in no-grav. So, from a box on its back it
extruded six slim rods, each tipped with a swivel-fitted sucker pad. The rods elongated,
finally stuck to floor, ceiling and all four walls. Slowly the robot adjusted them - a yard along a
wall here, two yards along the floor there - until it rested like some grotesque insect right
beneath the hole. Then it began to weld on a steel disc which had been brought up in the
meantime. Buzzes issued from beyond the disc: robot repairmen fixing the damaged
mechanism, skilled non-life.

   Stealth would have been useless. Worse, it would have invited suspicion. Lights blazed
everywhere and Thinkers of all grades wafted through no-grav on various errands:
low-levellers bringing complex problems to A-block, students hopefully searching for a
top-flight Thinker with a moment to spare. A few people moved about less speedily on the
walkways. Robots clicked and whirred past, always busy. One figure lost itself among many
and made no effort to stay hidden. It wasn't possible, and a furtive demeanour would have
aroused unwanted glances.
   The figure drifted down a corridor, not too quickly, not too slowly. It carried camouflage
which couldn't have been recognised as camouflage: an armful of folders. Outside
Communications it stopped. Naturally, it went into the empty room. Strangely, precautions
were more necessary here out of sight than outside in open view. A brisk motion locked the
door - abnormal behaviour, but several words would explain it: 'Sorry. I must have brushed
the button with my elbow. Come on in.'
   The visiplate warmed up instantly at the flick of a switch. Fingers journeyed over the keys
to punch a many-digited number. Hands grew damp. Time stretched. There'd be checks,
hasty intercom calls, re-routing through a couple of exchanges - not so much delay as usual
on this line, but still patience was needed. The plate remained blank. No one came to the
door.
   Lundren appeared on the screen. 'Successful?'
   'So-so. Quite effective.'
   'Where did you put it?'
   'In an ancillary robot control unit, to cripple some of them. At the heart, in A-block. I'd say
roughly under the plaque.'
   Colour drained from Lundren's face. 'Under the plaque?'
    Gradually the pallor surrendered to a flush of anger. 'You fool! You're supposed to be able
to think up there! You ...' He stopped when the communicant stared at him in astonish-ment.
'Forget it!'
    A mistake, thought Lundren moodily. I made a mistake there. Showed a card that only I
should know about. That dupe couldn't realise how close we came there. Too damned close
to feel easy!
    'I don't understand.'
    'Don't try!' snapped Lundren, thinking: 'I just revealed the reverse side of the card,
fortunately! Nevertheless, no one else should know it even exists!' Too proud and stub-born
to admit his error, he dismissed it and went on more quietly. 'Did they connect it with earlier
strikes?'
    'Obviously. And erroneously, in part. The tractor beam last year...'
    'Benlhaut, definitely!' Certitude made Lundren's voice ring loudly, but he disguised his
uncertainty about why Saril onhSaril should try to drag off Theeo. Surely he didn't expect to
get away with theft so blatant as that? Or perhaps he did. Thought followed such different
paths out in the Empire. 'And the others?'
    'All attributed to the same party.'
    'Good.' A mirthless smile touched the old face. 'I'll carry on knocking pieces off what I
built. We'll simply have to hope the Emperor has no better fortune in any future stunts he's
planning.' Briefly, Lundren wondered exactly what Saril onhSaril's reasons were. 'Let the
fuss die down, then hit them again. That's all.'
    'No, it isn't!'
    Lundren froze in the act of reaching out to break contact, and scowled at the
contradiction. 'I beg your pardon?' he asked, far too quietly.
    'I said there's more.'
    'Such as?'
    'Such as Dizzy Derek. He's worried me for a while; I've been watching him. He's cracked,
true! But do you know who he is?'
    Impatience darkened Lundren's features. 'A fool who must possess sufficient ability to be
useful to the Thirteen, although he hides it well, I hear. Tell me, then: who is he?'
    The communicant told him.
    'A complication,' Joab Lundren confessed. 'How did you find out?'
    'I sneaked a look at his file.'
    'I see. It could be coincidence. It could mean nothing. However ...' A frown came through
the visiplate. 'It could mean trouble. I'm a great believer in playing safe. Get rid of him!'
Chapter Four
   Lundren swept aside a dozen papers to produce a clear space on his desk. Smugly he
set down a book entitled The Ones Who Made Today. From abundant usage, it fell open at
the right page and he read a short but significant section: 'JOAB LUNDREN: Born in 177 on
Morlin (Phorac II), the son of an army captain. At the age of nineteen, Lundren col-laborated
with the celebrated Tynar on the latter's revolu-tionary Hypothesis which was directly
responsible for the building of Theeo. In 209, when representatives of the thirteen planets
with faith in the Hypothesis met at the Conference of Hope to discuss the possible creation
of Theeo, it is said by many persons present that Lundren almost single-handed pushed the
project through. It is hardly ever disputed that his drive and determination ultimately swung
the balance in favour of constructing a world to test the Hypothesis. A paradoxical man, the
peace-loving Lun-dren, who played such a large part in the colonisation of New Athens in
197, later entered the harsh world of politics, admittedly less vicious on New Athens than
anywhere else in the charted universe. Educated at the Morlin Academy, he graduated with
honours in the Social Sciences in 193, at sixteen the youngest scholar ever to do so in the
Academy's history. He is now Prime Minister of New Athens and one of Thoughtworld's
most vociferous admirers.'
   Lundren snapped the book shut, then placed it in a drawer. He handled it carefully after
the initial angry closing, almost religiously, as if it were a sacred relic. In a way it was, for it
summarised his life and his life was to him a sacred treasure, not life in general but Joab
Lundren's life in par-ticular, simply because it was Joab Lundren's. He believed in himself
more than in any deity. He read the message every day without fail to remind himself who he
was, what he was and how he'd got there. It always thrilled him to go over his career again:
the finalising of the Hypothesis with Tynar, the mass emigration that ended on New Athens,
the exciting though arduous task of thrashing down all opposi-tion and swinging the
Conference of Hope towards an affirmative backed by hard cash.
   Yet every good memory bore a concomitant bad one.
   He couldn't forgive Tynar for accepting all the praise for the Hypothesis; Lundren had
done his share of the research, but Tynar had never publicly acknowledged it. He'd just
drunk in the eulogies. And what about the settling of New Athens? A labour of love, true, yet
a hard one! Eleven species to handle, to disperse over the world at the founda-tion of
Peace Planet. Then the battle with the Confed, to convince the authorities that they should
waive their right to a levy from New Athens for the Confederation Armed Forces.
   Fighters from Peace Planet? Unthinkable!
   Thus he'd argued. He'd promised tranquillity on his world, no army, no need of one. He'd
pledged himself to internal harmony in return for exemption. After thirty years of placidity,
rebellion had burst out, grown, festered, and culminated in Lev Merrin, only to increase
again after the insurgence had been put down. This made the Enforcement Agency
necessary, secret killers paid in secret. He was con-stantly afraid that the Confed would
learn of the EA, and that Peace Planet's good name would be wrecked, perhaps his own
reputation would be besmirched, possibly a Confed military base would be established on
New Athens, and autonomy would be lost. The idea obsessed him, haunted sleep.
   Sadly he gazed at a framed script on a wall, the words of a long-dead poet whose name
no one remembered:

   Another Athens shall arise,
   And to remoter time
   Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
   The splendour of its prime;
   And leave, if nought so bright may live,
   All earth can take or Heaven can give.
    Well, the verse just wasn't applicable any more. This Athens had passed the splendour of
its prime and entered its Dark Age. Rebellion in 238, muted mutterings still, the strong silent
EA - a dreadful story, Lundren reflected.
    The drastic measures I've had to adopt to keep the secret,' he said quietly to himself: the
supposed "screening" of people as they came to New Athens. It had been straight-forward
screening at first, but today it was much worse.
    His thoughts switched to Theeo. What devious game was the Benlhaut Empire playing?
Could he outmanoeuvre the Emperor? Did Saril onhSaril intend to abduct Theeo, or were
his schemes deeper and more subtle than mere theft? What was Dizzy Derek doing up
there? Coincidence? Could be. Or did the man have plans? He might have. Either way, he
had to be eliminated. Lundren was glad he'd given the order.

    The date-panel read 7-4-245. 'Day 8 tomorrow,' Derek estimated accurately, looking
forward to it. Every year, Day 8 of Fourmonth witnessed a change of routine in
Thought-world. 'It appeals to my morbid streak,' Derek mumbled.
    No one paid any attention to him. He was such an extra-ordinary character that his
colleagues now considered him nothing out of the ordinary - a figure floating rapidly through
A-block, talking to himself and replying amicably. He was commonplace.
    Flecks of saliva dripped from his slack mouth. 'Sorry, robots! You don't mind, do you? No,
of course you don't. How can you mind when you haven't any minds?' Then he said, 'Another
pun,' and shrieked with laughter.
    Nobody bothered.
    Derek nodded now and then to people he either knew or didn't. Brilliant light flooded the
corridors as he made his way back to his quarters after a tiring session in Think. He was
ready for bed, with or without supper, depending on whether or not he remembered to eat.
The lights went out.
    A slight suggestion of vibration was in the air, an electronic call to the robots closest to
whichever mechanism had mal-functioned. Derek felt it plainly, although not everyone's
senses were as acute as his. The robots would soon repair the lights. They were very quick.
Say five or six minutes and...
    He was being strangled. A thin cutting cord noosed his throat, tightening. He heard the
heavy breathing of exertion near him in the total darkness. He didn't want to be strangled. In
nothing, he kicked out and met clothing. Then he punched hard and fast, left-right-left, and
his fists hit air. The cord tautened further on his neck as the assailant twisted in no-grav to
avoid unseen but expected blows. He or she - or even it, since there were several neuters in
Theeo - seemed to be angling round towards Derek's back, out of reach. Yes, the grunts
came from behind him now. Hands pulled at the cord. He couldn't breathe!
    His hands tore at the constricting rope and he managed to slip a fingertip under it. The
next breath, little better than a gulping gasp, was the sweetest he'd ever drawn. He tried to
slide the finger further under, but it wouldn't go. In fact it was slowly being squeezed out by
the cord. His nostrils gaped open, narrowed, sniffing in tiny drags of air. But hardly any of it
got through to his lungs. He writhed, twitched, kicked, scratched - at nothing. Then, relying on
all his skill in weightlessness, he swung his legs up high in front of him, then slammed his
feet back in a powerful curving heel-kick.
    He struck flesh. Somebody groaned in pain and he took advantage of a momentary
slackening of the cord. Both hands flew up and he snatched it, tugging forward and
launching himself away as forcibly as he could. If he were lucky, he should get free. If his
opponent hung on tightly enough, he might break his neck. His neck stayed intact, and
Derek found himself still diving forward in the dark. Occasionally he blundered into someone
and heard angry comments about people sky-diving during a light failure. He ignored them
and finally bumped solidly against a wall. It hurt his head, but he could tolerate the kind of
agony that didn't choke off his breath. He almost enjoyed it. He remained exactly where he
was - crumpled up at some indefinable point on a wall - and waited. The cord had fallen off
somewhere. Eventually the lights flashed on and he studied the view: walkers standing
frozen on walkways, a fair number of Thinkers gently floating, all innocence.
   After peeling himself off the wall, he made it with a thundering heart back to the safety of
his rooms. The first place he headed for was the lavatory. 'These horrible suction toilets!' he
thought uncomfortably. 'I'll never be happy with them!' They felt as if they were pulling his
insides out. To a certain extent, they were.

     Derek woke from a nightmare, sweat-wet and trembling. He couldn't recollect details, just
a frightful miscellany of rattling explosions, buffeting bodies, expressionless robots, and the
memory of strangulation. Derek asked himself ques-tions. They were glimmerings in a
murky night, sluggish thoughts in a murky brain. Who had tried to kill him? And why? There
was nothing special about him. Then a searing bolt of contradiction rocked his mind: 'Yes,
there is, there is! Much that's special! Someday...'
     The mental chain snapped and another one took over. Was there any connection
between the attack on him and the attacks on Thoughtworld? No, there couldn't be. They
must be separate incidents stemming from separate motives. He wished he understood
either motive. Because there couldn't be any connection, could there? Unless somebody
intended to annihilate Thoughtworld simply in order to annihilate Derek! In which case, why
set a killer inside Thoughtworld and endanger the hired assassin's life too? Or didn't the
power behind the assault care about his underlings? Was the assailant merely a form of
insurance to ensure Derek's death in case the attempts to destroy Thoughtworld failed?
     'Doesn't add up,' Derek muttered, tired yet incapable of sleep. They can't be after
Thoughtworld merely to get me. Because why get me? I've not done anybody any harm. Yet.'
He giggled. 'Yet!' And then he saw the flaw in his reasoning: nobody had ever tried to
destroy Thoughtworld. Admittedly, they had tried to capture it, but these attempts were
neither really serious nor dangerous - just isolated damage from time to time, not a single
injury apart from scratches and bruises. Theeo had suffered one attempted theft, foiled by
Squadron 17, and a host of scattered inconveniences.
     Derek squirmed restlessly in the cocoon, a fine-stranded web used by those who
preferred not to sleep strapped down to a normal bed. Four rods stuck from the nominal
ceiling, two at the head, two at the feet. Between them was sus-pended the silky net
envelope into which the occupant wriggled.
     The cocoons allowed plenty of movement. They were comfortable, secure, ideal for rest
or sleep - but with one glaring disadvantage which suddenly occurred to Derek: you couldn't
get out quickly if somebody came in to kill you!
     Then Derek took up a new line of reasoning.
     Why shouldn't there be two agencies responsible for the trouble in Theeo? He couldn't
think of a reason why there should be one, but nevertheless, why shouldn't there be two?
Derek settled for two different parties, but he was at a loss to imagine what each expected
to gain. Like most things, it baffled him. The alternative to two enemies seemed to be an
alien autocrat whose brain could see a valid purpose in firstly making the effort to race off
with Thoughtworld, then later - and also beforehand, come to that - crippling relatively
unimportant parts of it.
     The door buzzed.
     Derek tensed. 'Who is it?'
     In tones of thunder, a voice said, 'Gormal'.
     Must be Gormal, Derek decided. You can't fake a voice like his. And who'd want to? I'm
nervous and feeling per-secuted. Next, I'll be fancying someone's trying to kill me. 'Someone
is!' he yelled, remembering.
     'I beg your pardon?'
     'I said come in.' He was far enough out of the cocoon now to make an airborne break for
it, if necessary. It wouldn't be easy to catch him in no-grav. He knew he was good. 'Come in.'
     'I can't. The wretched door's locked.'
    'That's right, I remember locking it Just a minute.' Derek floated to the button, pressed it,
and leapt back warily. He was ensconced in the furthest top corner when Gormal walked in,
in boots.
    The cetacean turned to the cocoon, goggling at its empti-ness. 'Where are you?' Bulbous
eyes rolled a gaze upwards. 'Oh, there you are! What's the idea?' He stared through gloom
at a cornered shape.
    'Exercises.' Derek left it at that and asked, more sharply than he'd meant to, 'What do you
want?'
    'Called in to chat. I was just passing and it's obvious you weren't asleep. You were talking
to yourself.'
    'Was I? I didn't realise.'
    'You seldom do.' Uninvited, Gormal flicked on the light. That's better. Excuse my smell, but
what shall we chat about?'
    'Anything.' Derek was playing for time. His head had suddenly filled with unpleasant
thoughts. What if there were only one enemy, after all? That would mean whoever was trying
to steal Theeo was trying to sabotage it piecemeal also. Derek hadn't been able to make up
his mind which of the two had attacked him, if either, and reducing the enemy to one almost
certainly meant that the saboteur/ thief had Derek's assassination on his list. Or did a third
party exist?
    He worked backwards along a somewhat confusing string of incidents.
    Attack on me - minor sabotage - attempt to steal Theeo.
    Vaguely, he reasoned that the person responsible for in-cident three was behind incident
one and incident two. And the person responsible for incident three was Emperor Saril
onhSaril. Therefore Saril onhSaril had plans to effect a successful incident one, Derek's
murder.
    The Emperor hated humans and would in all probability employ a non-human
killer/saboteur. Which narrowed the possibilities: Silver definitely alien; Sciri Pertra, a
human-looking although perhaps not fully human being, plus ap-proximately 300 other aliens
in Thoughtworld. Plus Gormal, who was in his room at that moment! Derek trembled in his
corner, frightened. His stomach felt queer again. Still, he had the advantage if the worst
came to the worst.
    Gormal wore boots; Derek didn't. Even in no-grav, Gormal wouldn't stand much chance of
catching him. Ex-cept he stood between Derek and the door! If he started to unbuckle his
boots ...
    'Nice day,' Gormal said conversationally, realising Derek might remain dumb forever.
'They're all the same, of course, but...'
    Derek stayed mute, thinking hard. It couldn't be Gor-mal. He wouldn't have needed a
strangling cord. There was strength enough in those massive arms to throttle anyone
bare-handed, with no chance of breaking away. Also, he could easily snap the spine of any
creature in Thought-world. So it isn't Gormal, Derek mused. But even so, I'm not too thrilled
by the fact that he's here. For a chat? Okay. Although I feel vulnerable. 'Yes.' Emboldened by
the steadi-ness of his voice, he pursued the conversation. 'Yes.'
    'Yes what? Oh, I see. A nice day. Yes.' Gormal decided the man couldn't talk sense.
    Dizzy, still thoroughly on edge and nervous, glanced at a cupboard. He felt scared for
what was locked in it: his most treasured possession, retained to keep his hate burning - a
small book, neatly handwritten, but now the writer was dead. She'd been a beautiful girl,
once. He'd never seen her alive, yet he knew she'd been beautiful, before it happened. No,
he couldn't bear the memory. But he couldn't ward it off either. Her red lips, which would
never kiss again. Her ripe young body, her corn-gold hair. And those hideous bulging blue
dead eyes!
    'Gormal, there's no mercy outside Heaven. They talk of Hell, Gormal. I think Hell's being
alive. For some people, death isn't the gate to Heaven; it is Heaven.'
    Gormal found himself speechless in the face of Derek's unusual fervour and coherence.
Something must be riding him devilishly hard!

    Fastened to a walkway, Arkon Vitch pondered what envir-onment to Think in. How about
a pleasant scene of home, the blue hills and redstone quarries of Phorac III? No, Phorac III
wasn't home any longer; Thoughtworld was.
    Why resurrect painful memories of a harsh infancy and youth? Not Phorac III, then.
Perhaps he'd surround him-self with women, unreal models posing as real flesh. He decided
against it, as it would be a form of intellectually two-timing Silver. She didn't deserve that.
He'd create the home for which he yearned, the home in which he could never live: Silver's
world.
    Unbuckled, the boots clung to metal as Arkon took off. He levelled out in the middle of the
room, stopped himself and lay horizontal. The folder - doubtless not so urgent as it
pretended - he hung on air beside him. Then he Thought his environment.
    Distant ice mountains rimmed a horizon no farther away than the walls of the room. Pale
lightning slashed an infinite grey sky as near as the ceiling. He rested warm in a bed of cold
snow, a dozen yards above the floor. He was on Silver's world.
    Inside Theeo.
    Sometimes the spot itched. Sometimes you could actually feel the microscopic device
surgically implanted under the skull. Occasionally you heard - or only imagined you heard? -
it relay its impulses, your premeditated desires, to much larger electronic miracles all
around the Think chamber: machines which translated patterns of thought into pat-terns of
colour, intangible but visible images, engineered dreams. Outside the head, inside Theeo.
The environments were conducive to relaxation. Relaxation was conducive to lucid thought.
Thoughtworld had been designed to produce lucid thought, so the Thirteen had provided the
means of relaxation. Also no-grav, as dictated by Tynar's Hypothesis.
    Vitch made several adjustments to depth, colour, per-spective. Images melted, then
came into being exactly as he wanted them. He was on Silver's world. The room was Silver's
world, both to its creator and to a spectator. It would stay that way until he chose to obliterate
the colours, or until some unexpected external stimulus jarred it out of his mind and out of
existence. He could hold it for the rest of his life, mentally compartmentalised yet always
there, requiring no more thought than did breathing. If he forgot to unthink it, the chamber
would retain it until he eventually remembered; an empty room of unattractive steel, with a
whole view of Silver's world within its bleak confines. Often, Thinkers deliberately didn't
unthink their scenes. They left them behind as decorations after a session in Think.
    Arkon Vitch organised his thoughts prior to tackling the folder. Next door, Gormal sung
merrily but tunelessly of home, with all the noise of a friendly storm:

  'Cloud-ships sailing seas of sky, sun-ship sinking over world-lip,
  'Sinking into womb of Ocean;
  'Roaring wind and painted mountain, rock-tip painted on the...'

   Vitch switched Gormal completely out of his mind. He looked at the folder, checked his
recorder and thought. Slowly and purposefully he worked his way through a series of
unrelated ideas. Not everybody did it like this, but Vitch preferred to lead up to Think
gradually, climb over other things with no relevance to the folder. He saw Think as one of
Gormal's mountains. First you ascend a foothill idea, then clamber up a low cliff, then scale a
precipice, little by little overcoming the think rocks until you reach the flat summit of Think.
   So he thought of the annual ceremony in a couple of hours: he hated it. Each year it upset
Silver more. She was very sensitive. The reminder of death plunged her into gloom all day.
Day 8, Fourmonth, 212. Thirty-three years ago. It disturbed him because it disturbed her.
Exactly as it disturbed him to think of methane, ammonia, masks. Lips he couldn't kiss.
Although there were other beautiful lips he could kiss if he wished, the lips of Cleo Rosa:
Black Rose. A rare beauty. But he didn't love her. Silver was the ultimate desire of his life,
the penultimate step of his ascent. He paused, tasting her name: Silver. Then forgot her and
climbed up on to the clear-sky summit of Think.
Chapter Five
    Words droned monotonously in Silver's ears: 'Let space which bends above us shield
their bones. Let the stars be God's eyes and watch over them. Let them lose all taint of Sin
in the physical dissolution accompanying assimilation with the All. We pray for their souls as
we mourn their bodies. Far from home they came, and far from home they died. We
beseech the God Who manifests Himself as every god in the Universe...'
    She wanted to scream at the banality of it, yell at some-body to stop the voice. But it was
a recording, tinny and maddening. The only switch that would kill it rested on Sciri Pertra's
belt, under his thumb. He looked uncomfort-able and bored, as if he'd like nothing better
than to squash the words. His thumb twitched now and then. Silver glanced away from his
restless thumb, and looked upwards to the Void Regions, black-on-black, a fruitless
ambition, and to the Benlhaut Empire, a faint sight but a glaring threat, a mystery, the realms
of an incomprehensible sovereign. She looked anywhere except at the mass grave, bizarre
in the ghost-glow of temporary lighting.
    Arkon squeezed her arm. 'Don't worry.' She couldn't help it. 'Death in Thoughtworld,' she
thought. 'Eleven corpses somewhere beneath our feet.' Granted it had only been an
accident. Nothing brutal, nothing vicious. Simply a tragic cave-in, caused by ill-luck or
perhaps negligence, made possible by the colossal grav-generators the contractors had
been using at the time. Eleven men buried, swallowed up in the crust of a planetoid they
were helping to build. Eleven humans killed, a curious fact, since many a race had been
engaged on the work. Still, only a coincidence. Only an accident. But nevertheless, there
was death on Thought-world even before its completion. 'An omen!' shrieked a deep part of
her mind. 'A bad one!'
    The tinny voice droned on.
    Theeo's personnel formed a circle centred on the plaque. Some were uneasy, some
relaxed, some enjoying it, some not. Silver wondered why they'd come, and why she'd
come. She felt a sense of duty, a feeling that she was showing respect for the dead she'd
never known. She hated it, but she came. How many others among the gathered hundreds
did the same?
    Every Day 8, Fourmonth, the deceased were remembered, and played into each helmet
were words relating to physical dissolution, a state which the preacher who prattled these
sentiments might himself be undergoing. Assimilation with the All? Had even he believed it?
Did anyone here today believe it? Certainly Silver didn't.
    Thoughtworld wasn't the place for memorial services, religion, and metaphysical
speculation. It dealt with facts, science, and knowledge, not theory. Yet it had been founded
on a theory.
    'And,' persisted Silver's inner voice, against her will, 'you've overlooked something.
You've overlooked ...'
    'The Breakthrough…’
    'Isn't that religion? At least, isn't it - or won't it soon be -an answer? And what is religion
but answers? Right or wrong, it doesn't matter! Religions are the answers to ques-tions the
brain isn't capable of even framing properly. Answers accepted without proof, without need
of proof. Religions hang on faith, not demonstrable evidence!'
    'With the Breakthrough, there'll be evidence!' But the problem would be in demonstrating
it.
    ' ... in God's Holy Name,' rattled the recording, 'we entreat Eternity to smile upon their
eleven souls. Let this world, this creation within Creation - Tynar's Hypothesis Experimental
Environment One - be both their tomb and their epitaph. Amen.'
    'Ah-bloody-men!' sighed Derek, although he'd enjoyed it. He himself couldn't understand
his relief at the cessation of enjoyment. 'That appealed to my morbid streak.' He knew
everyone on-surface could hear him, but it didn't matter.
    Affable enquiries were directed at him: 'You okay, Derek?' 'Ready for dinner, Dizzy?' He
answered them all by nodding, thinking: 'That's no answer at all, but it'll do.' They always
asked silly questions, nearly always called him Dizzy. 'They must think I'm stupid, which I
am. Must believe that stuff about my name.' Occasionally he believed it himself;
occasionally he forgot the truth. The small book helped:

  'The life still there upon her hair -
  'The death upon her eyes.'

     Nearby, Cleo Rosa felt dampness on her dark cheeks, and tasted salt as it touched her
lips. She'd never even read the names of the eleven men. They'd lived and died a decade
before her birth, but she could cry for them and shed tears for dead strangers. She
concluded that she was too emo-tional. Too much the woman, too little the Thinker. 'Gormal,
I...' Words failed her and she rested a slim gloved hand on his immense arm; not with
affection, merely for com-panionship, and yet not without affection, she realised. He was
non-human, huge and ugly, but at the moment his size was a bulwark against the ambient
emptiness, a vacancy so inconceivable it pressed down like the weight of a thousand
worlds.
     He let her hand lie there, spoke solely to her through a hundred other conversations which
had sprung up as soon as Dizzy had shattered what might have become a reverent silence.
He was conscious of the din, but his voice, unusually subdued, picked out only Cleo Rosa,
caressed her with its quiet proximity verging on intimacy. 'You weep, Dark Flower?'
     'I weep, Gormal. For men whose names I don't know. Am I foolish?'
     'Not foolish; different, that's all. Different emotionally. To me, for instance.'
     'Can't you cry, Gormal? Don't you have emotions?'
     'Yes and scores of them, respectively. Different emotions, though. Happy-joy at a new
birth. Sad-joy when the sun dies each evening, drowned in Ocean. Happy-joy when it's born
again. Bhrilla when I ride a fast wave. An'laBhrilla under a crush of water, coasting deep.
But none that allow of crying for the dead who won't be reborn. For the dead who, unlike the
sun…'
     'I think I understand, Gormal,' she said quietly.
     'I believe you do, Bloom of Night. Truly I believe it!' And with surprising tenderness, his
hand fell leaf-light upon hers, an interspecies contact transcending words. Still the other
conversations clamoured as the crowd began to break up, but between Gormal and Cleo
Rosa lay a silence of mutual respect which could only have suffered by the violation of
words. No words broke their silence, but Cleo Rosa's thoughts shattered the spell. She
couldn't shake off an imagination-picture of partially completed Theeo thirty-three years ago:
an enormous hole, with eleven men some-where in it, dead or dying. There must have been
a rescue operation, a failure. Then the difficult decision to call a halt, to give the men up for
lost. Then a brief funeral service, the words she'd just heard taped, listened to in silence in
the middle of nowhere by representatives of every party with an interest in Theeo: Erranlal
on behalf of his brother Tynar, President Darren for Hope, Joab Lundren for New Athens,
other people from the Thirteen. Then machines shovelling the hole full again, entombing
eleven corpses.
     The attack came. It came as a sudden quiet. Conversations died as though at a
prearranged signal, but no signal had been given. Nobody had looked up yet. Nobody knew.
Yet conversations died spontaneously, without the erstwhile talkers realising why they'd
died. Somebody looked up. Everybody looked up.
     And there they were, drifting down from space like lethal pollen: a task-force of fifty or
sixty, their backs breathing the flames of blast-packs. Seven ships waited high and
motionless. They could have been steel clouds, sprinkling living raindrops over Theeo.
     'Invasion!' thought Gormal, tensing. They've chosen a bad time, with so many of us up
top!' Then he realised they hadn't chosen badly at all. They'd chosen remarkably well. 'We're
herded together, just waiting to be surrounded. Or picked off by the dozen!' Or would they do
it less messily? Simply cut the lifelines, kick feet clear of grips, and then the long float off into
death and nowhere would begin. Voices broke out again agitatedly, but Gormal kept calm.
He watched, patiently searching for a weakness. Numerically, the attackers were inferior.
Surprisingly, only about a tenth of them had weapons. Still, a tenth was more than enough.
Didn't they have any weaknesses, then?
    'Yes, they did!' Gormal chuckled, expecting a laugh before long. Not that the situation was
exactly funny, but it pro-mised to show an amazing side shortly - if he'd assessed things
correctly. He ignored the voices, even Cleo Rosa's, and studied the invaders as they
approached. He counted nine different species, some appeared human although likely they
were non-humans who were constructed similarly. You couldn't really tell with a suited figure.
Saril onhSaril wouldn't use the humans he despised so much. Or would he? You couldn't
really tell with the Emperor, either.
    The nearest attackers were almost down, scattering wide over Theeo. 'Now for the fun,'
thought Gormal. He was willing to wager a year's salary against the Emperor's troops having
come properly prepared. On Thoughtworld, walking conditions tended to be slightly
disconcerting unless you'd practised a lot. The creatures all seemed to be wearing
stan-dard-issue mag-boots, but boots wouldn't help because the surface walkways were
spooled, not laid out. Even without weapons, the advantage must be with the
Thoughtworlders. 'If we could only bring them closer somehow,' thought Gormal.
    The first invader touched down, blast-pack switched off. It seemed to bounce, then tried
once more to land. It scrambled for a grip, missed, and started to float away up the sky-path
down which it had arrived. Its comrades were experi-encing the same trouble. A few caught
grips, but not many. They stood uncertain, while reinforcements arrived to try and help them.
    'Never underestimate gravity,' muttered Gormal. 'Especi-ally when it isn't there.' A fat
smile crossed his contorted face. Saril onhSaril's minions weren't going to have much luck
unless they learned about the spooled walkways. His train of thought was interrupted as he
caught sight of Derek hurrying to a spool. He reached it and began to pud out the metal
strip. Gormal grimaced. Admittedly it was stalemate at the moment - the assailants could
not do a great deal of harm to Theeo since they were unable to stick to its surface in
sufficient numbers - but it wouldn't take a great deal to upset the balance. It would only take a
single traitor to pull out several strips. It would only take Dizzy Derek...
    'Gormal!' A cry lashed through the stupefied silence. It was Derek's voice, abnormally
loud and urgent. 'Gormal! Spools! Unwind, rewind!'
    At first it didn't make sense. Then suddenly it did, and Gormal felt honoured to have been
selected. 'Okay, Dizzy, I get it.'
    Hoping that the rest of the Thoughtworlders would remain numbed by shock and not try to
stop him, Gormal deliber-ately threw off his lifeline. It was an encumbrance. He'd have to rely
on his ability to grip-walk. If anyone did try to halt him, he knew he'd need to get tough, for
Thought-world's sake. He considered it unlikely anyone would come at him, but the weaker
Derek was a different matter. Under-standably, they might gang up on him and prevent him
finish-ing what he'd started. They might conceivably even gang up on Gormal himself, but he
could only pray they wouldn't.
    They decided to take Derek first.
    A group of youngsters had snapped out of astonishment. Lifelines discarded, they set off
towards Derek. A quiet but authoritative voice froze them: 'Remain where you are, please!'
But Pertra wasn't asking; he was telling! And the group took no notice. 'I repeat: remain
where you are!' The Director's tone was still level and steady. 'Otherwise Thoughtworld will
be rid of you within the month. Forever. That is a solemn promise, not a threat.' They
hesitated just long enough to perceive a glimmer of what was really hap-pening. Obediently,
they stopped. The minority who'd also seen the light gazed at Dizzy with respect. But the
majority were still in the figurative dark, under the ultimate unchang-ing dark. They spoke of
treachery in scared voices. Shrill expletives from Cleo Rosa burned like acid in Gormal's
brain.
    Fourteen of the outsiders had succeeded in sticking to the surface. Statuesque, they
seemed content just to cling to grips. Not one shot had been fired. 'This is comedy,' thought
Gormal. 'It shouldn't be, but it is. It should be deadly serious!' But an upward glance told him
it was deadly serious. The Imperial troops hadn't come to kill. They'd come to steal.
    From one of the ships, a score of huge devices dropped slowly, guided by
remote-controlled blasts. Suddenly fright-ened, Gormal recognised them: grapplers. When
the advance party had established a foothold on Theeo, the grapplers would be strategically
placed by them. Each one would bore inexorably through the crust, sealing as it went. Inside,
they'd blossom into gigantic, powerful, inverted umbrella-frames. And nothing would budge
them until somebody up aloft pressed the right buttons and the blossoms closed again and
withdrew.
    Gormal shuddered. The operation was crude and clumsy, not so sophisticated as a
tractor beam, but definitely effective and definitely capable of stealing Theeo. Yet how did
the Emperor expect to sneak off across the length of the Confed with Thoughtworld in tow,
undetected? Maybe the Emperor didn't operate by the rules of common sense. Maybe he
didn't believe in it. Maybe sense wasn't common out here. Maybe practically anything,
mused Gormal, confused.
    Suddenly Gormal came out of his reverie and realised the need for action. He quickly
moved towards spools, trying not to hear Cleo Rosa. Derek already had a strip laid out,
deliberately pinned down only by an absolute minimum of pins. He made gestures, telling
the attackers by sign language to set down on the walkway. Aimed by blast-pack bursts,
they did. Packs flared. Boots clicked and clung. Stranded colleagues gleefully yielded
themselves to space, then returned to safer ground with sporadic boot clunks. Derek laid his
second strip at right-angles to the first and formed a large L enclosing two sides of the
crowd. At his signal, bodies flitted over to occupy it. Humming tunelessly, he stood by the
two spools he'd used. He was equidistant from each, waiting.
    Gormal copied Dizzy's actions. He made another L on the other two sides and thought: 'L
+ L = a square, if they're arranged properly.' Which they were. His L, added to Derek's L,
made a square containing the throng around the plaque. The throng murmured dangerously
about foul sedition. Several individuals seemed on the verge of inter-fering, but Pertra's
promise was keeping them irresolute. All four strips now held occupiers. All the attackers
were down, securely magnetised. If they were amazed at the unexpected help, they didn't
show it. They simply took advantage of it and watched the twenty grapplers closing in.
    Gormal, too, stool equidistant from his pair of spools. 'We've got them concentrated. Not
spread out. Now wait. Wait for the word,' he told himself. He steadied his legs, readied his
arms and prepared to act. The word came 'Now!' As he shouted, Derek pounced. Gormal
pounced also. Cautiously yet swiftly, grip-tripping, they leapt to their spools. Hands blurred,
slapping switches, and highly tensile springs inside the spools did their silent implacable
duty. They whipped their strips in, fast. Pins tore loose, slashed up sharp. Three suits were
punctured - three less to worry about. Creatures floundered as the ground did a speedy
slither from under them, like a slimy serpent bouncing fleas off its back. Outsiders, flapped
up into space, did their best to flap down again using blast-packs. They touched land, only to
see it recede rapidly because it hadn't the gravity to retain them. Bodies flew up, blasted
down, grabbed at grips and missed, and the pattern was repeated again and again.
    Dizzy Derek had turned fear into farce, robbery into rout. 'Move, please!' urged Pertra,
still quiet-voiced. 'We have a task.' As an example, he cast off his lifeline. He was far from
confident, but he did it. Most of the others did the same. Hundreds of lines would have
resulted in an impos-sible tangle, an unnecessary complication. Pertra led the way with
careful-stepping determination. His untrained army fol-lowed and the Battle of Thoughtworld
was joined. It lasted almost four minutes.
    The suit-to-suit intercoms were a gabble of shouts as Pertra's suddenly animated
Thoughtworlders plunged into action. A few shots hissed in the first onslaught and a couple
of Thinkers went down. Lineless, their corpses sailed up into the black yonder. There was no
second onslaught because the first was enough to crush the attackers. 'We've numbers on
our side,' thought Gormal, doing his bit. He snatched a humanoid figure as no-grav sent it
away from Theeo, but not quickly enough for its liking or its health. Gormal pulled it down by
the ankle, wrenched off the blast-pack, tossing it gaily towards infinity. With grim
amusement, he repeated the trick twice more. He knew that at close quarters, numerical
superiority plus grip-walk expertise would more than make up for lack of guns. He noticed
ragged patches of strife around him: groups of Pertra's People singling out a lone attacker,
disarming it if armed, relieving it of back-pack. Then off it went,' another one gone.
Occasionally, weapons flashed before they were ripped away. Thought-worlders died and
drifted. A girl from F-block, dead, swayed with her foot caught in a grip as the press of
bodies waved her this way and that.
   The grapplers were in ponderous retreat. Obviously some-one had realised the requisite
foothold wasn't going to be established. There wouldn't be sufficient troops left on Theeo in
sufficient condition to operate the machines. There might not even be any. Very shortly,
there were none. Roughly two dozen survivors managed to tear free and blast off. They
dwindled like shrinking fireflies, heading for the seven ships. Bodies bobbled, bound for the
eternal voyage. Some were dead already. All would be dead soon. Horrible visions filled
Silver's head. This, too, could have been her fate. Seven ships cut trails of fire across
space, defeated, and Derek stood alone, thinking about death.

   Tynar didn't look like a genius: a seemingly ordinary adult male Tuahi, perhaps a bit
abstracted around the eyes, but certainly not the kind of face to hint at a superb intellect such
as that responsible for the Hypothesis.
   'We wouldn't be here,' thought Arkon Vitch, 'if it weren't for him. None of us; either here in
Theeo nor here in this office.' He gazed around Pertra's office, studying moods and
postures: the Director himself, seated, strapped in, pensive; Gormal, a booted heavyweight,
apparently even further weighed down with worry; Dizzy Derek, up high in a corner, intoning
a nursery rhyme; Silver, next to Vitch, expression-less; Cleo Rosa, pert and pretty, bootless,
down the wall from Derek. 'And me, a devotee at the shrine of Tynar.' Vitch smiled thinly. A
two-dimensional colour represent-ation hardly constituted a shrine. After another glance at
the Father of Thoughtworld, he scanned the thirteen inscrip-tions, picking out the language
of Phorac III. All thirteen read the same:

  tynar's hypothesis: That thought, although im-material (?), is, like light, measurably
  influenced by gravity. That the products of cellular brains, whether manifested as
  imagination, dreams, memory, ratiocination or intuition, would increase in potency
  and efficiency were the brain itself to be insulated totally against, or at least
  isolated as much as possible from the pernicious effects of gravity. That the
  thoughts, although immaterial (?), of all living organisms would achieve greater
  clarity and coherency by the removal of the organism into a place of artificially
  nullified gravity, or, until such is produced, into a region of space completely free
  from - or as com-pletely free from as may be - all deleterious gravitational
  influence.

   'Concise,' ruminated Vitch. 'And, by all that's impossible, correct!' He knew the
question-marks were Tynar's own, included at his stubborn insistence. One of his
unpublished ideas - some called it another flight of fantasy - was that thought might plausibly
assume, after its generation in the brain, some solid or near-solid or perhaps so far
unknown state on a different level of existence, a different plane, a different dimension, even
quite simply in a different part of the charted physical universe.
   He'd never attempted to formulate the idea, let alone prove it. He'd merely propounded it
and challenged anyone to disprove it. No one had. But someone had proved the
Hypothesis. Thoughtworld was its proof. Thought did benefit by being removed from the
ponderous pull of gravity. Even here in the relative emptiness of Sector 17, Vitch could think
more clearly, with fewer interruptions, fewer mental sidetrackings. And yet, if Theeo could
get out into the Benl-haut Empire, or better still to the Void Regions . . . Arkon became
aware of Gormal's deep voice, slightly irascible. 'We should do something!'
    'But yes!' Pertra agreed amiably. 'But what? I call you all here for that, all you senior
personnel. For suggestions.' His eyes, suddenly hard, turned on Gormal. 'Not for reiter-ation
of the sentence in our every mind!'
    'I'd say a formal complaint to the Empire,' Vitch ventured.
    'Without proof? Ah, no! Without a single corpse to unsuit, to reveal an Imperial uniform -
which Saril would claim to be a fake? No, no, Arkon. Our supply of corpses consists of
twelve of our own, alas!'
    'Well, a complaint might shake them up!'
    'And might also shake the Emperor into hasty action. One can never predict the reactions
of a member of the onhSaril Dynasty. Unless any sound idea is forthcoming, we must rely on
the slow movements of "proper channels".'
    Vitch detected a note of bitterness in Pertra's last two words. 'I assume you've set the
wheels turning in the proper channels?'
    'Naturally, my friend. The Thirteen will send authorised people to investigate - the
sabotage, that is, not the larger issue. That's a Confed affair, too big for the Thirteen.'
    Silver spoke for the first time. 'Couldn't we request the Thirteen to ask the Confed to
increase the frequency of checks?'
    'We could, my dear. In fact we have. I suggested an appli-cation for eight fly-pasts per
month, doubling the frequency. But much depends on what forces the Confed can spare.
And more depends, of course, on whether the Thirteen can ... spare the money!'
    Arkon again noted the bitterness in Pertra's voice. He felt bitter himself. 'God, they should
be able to spare the money! The Thirteen exists purely to administer this place! Its funds
were all collected to be used on us!'
    'Precisely. Though I seriously doubt the Thirteen exists "purely", at all.' The Director's
smile didn't reach his eyes. 'However, the suggestion has been made with firmness, if not
with confidence in its being heeded.'
    Words dripped hesitantly through Silver's mask. 'Shouldn't the Confed . . . well, at least
take an interest in attempted theft within its jurisdiction?'
    'It should and it does, child. Yet obviously it cannot spread its patrols widely enough to
guard every object that might arouse the avarice of the unrighteous. Even a valuable object
like Theeo. But rest assured, the Confed itself will investigate the greater atrocity,
independently of the Thirteen. I was presumptuous enough to contact the Confed direct, on
my own initiative, which may get me deposed,' Pertra's eyes smiled, 'to report the incident
and also to, again on my own initiative, apply for those eight checks per month I suggested
the Thirteen should request. I contacted Confed first.'
    Vitch realised that the Director was a shrewd operator. If Confed Central granted his
application, the Thirteen -whether or not they decided to make an identical application
themselves, which they probably wouldn't - would be legally bound to honour the agreement
and hand over the payment for it. They'd employed Pertra to run Theeo. If he considered
more protection was needed because of the invasion, they had to back him. They had to
abide by everything he'd been authorised to do, and done, while in office. They could throw
him out afterwards, but his contract with Central would hold. They'd be stuck with it. Arkon
revised his estimate. It hadn't been bitterness in Pertra's tone when he'd mentioned the
Thirteen's ability to spare the money. It had been the grim amusement of an employee
worsting, with perfect legality, an employer he plainly didn't like, Vitch admired him for it. He
wasn't fond of the Thirteen, either.
    'You understand? They have to make payment if the Confed can stretch Squadron 17 to
eight checks in the month. Out I go, maybe. What suffers? Only me, a little. Not
Thoughtworld.' Pertra resented the profits being gained from Theeo. In his estimation, such
a boon to thought should be flung open to the entire Confed - no, even to Benlhaut, to all
sentient creatures everywhere - at no cost whatsoever. It shouldn't be a private business
enterprise, enriching only the Thirteen.
    Cleo Rosa grip-slid down the wall. 'Couldn't Lundren help us? I read somewhere he's one
of our most ardent fans. Perhaps he could pressurise Central into a massive investi-gation,
not just the cursory one we can expect. A determined fight to uncover the truth. And then, if
it's necessary - and with evidence, if they find any - drop a documented com-plaint right on
Saril's conceited head!'
    'Oh, but Confed will be thorough, not cursory,' Pertra explained. 'As for Lundren's being
one of our most...'
    'Vociferous admirers? I read the book, too.' Dizzy Derek stayed in his corner, but the
flash of his eyes blazed down over everyone. 'Yes, he's certainly vociferous, but he's also
resentful because he thinks he should be up here and he isn't!'
    The Director looked bewildered. 'I'm not with you, Dizzy.'
    'He put himself forward as a Thinker and then found he didn't meet the qualifications
which he himself helped decide. Now if that's not a laugh, I'm not laughing!' Derek was
laughing loudly. 'He tried to bend the rules and get himself through the Examination Board
the easy way: via the side door, without taking exams he couldn't pass!'
    'It's news to me.' Silver felt almost frightened by the un-controllable quivering of Dizzy's
body. It didn't seem to be altogether mirth.
    'Although he had plenty of rule-bending accomplices, there was someone who refused to
wilt before his tantrums! Although he close on had a fit, there was someone who stood in his
way and defied him and met him word for word. There happened to be someone whose
quiet obstinacy gathered a formidable group around him and opposed Lundren! Because...'
    'That's enough!' interrupted Pertra, disturbed. 'Someone? Suppose you get hold of
yourself and tell us who?' But Dizzy shut the world out and went back to his nursery rhyme.
Chapter Six
   The sun disc curled over the rim of the world, bringing morning again to the countryside
around Attica. The city itself slumbered in a hollow beside a broad slow river. Sur-rounding it
were cultivated fields, vineyards and orchards. The dots of early traffic moved along the
white ribbons of roads. Blossoms opened at the magical touch of daytime. New Athens
looked very peaceful.
   As star 17/LS6 climbed the sky, it watched workers toil, some singing. As it gradually
ascended towards meridian, it watched Attica come alive, apparently tranquil. As it kissed
the world with day, it seemed to bring a good day to a good world. But light breeds dark,
and shadows crept over Peace Planet. Shade scurried across the land, as if to hint at a
black presence among the bright colour, a diseased core in a fine fruit.
   Joab Lundren sat at his cluttered desk and thought that sometimes one has to be cruel to
be kind. He remembered many harsh acts, all unpalatable to an individual or a num-ber of
individuals, yet necessary for the smooth running of the State. Cruel to the few in order to be
kind to the majority. A reasonable attitude, surely? He thought of him-self as a tyrant, but in
the original connotation rather than the erroneous new - an absolute ruler, tyrannos,
meaning only 'lord' or 'master', the man best fitted for the position regardless of nepotism.
He was the best fitted so he held the position. What could be fairer than that?
   Admittedly his title was Prime Minister. Admittedly he sheltered what he considered his
benevolent tyranny behind the mask of democracy. Yet he was still the master of New
Athens, the power on Peace Planet. Therefore the term 'tyrant' suited him perfectly. He could
hardly be held culpable for the fact that earlier tyrants had abused their authority and caused
time to twist the meaning of the word.
   Cruel to be kind. 'No!' The interruption came from inside him, the rebellious little corner of
his mind, the insidious whisperer, whispering, 'Cruel? Oh yes, you're that! But kind? Never -
except to yourself, which invariably involves cruelty to others!' He recognised it as an
overdeveloped conscience, but this time he couldn't drown it. It mocked him like the feared
enemy, death: 'You have abused your authority! Many times. Twisted yourself as the aeons
have twisted a word. Power corrupts. You're living proof of it. Yes, you set out with wonderful
intentions. You, a peaceful man, built a peaceful world of peaceful people. Beautiful! But a
dream!'
   He found himself arguing with himself, aloud. 'A dream?'
   'Of course! Peace can't last! Not while the savage remains in us!' Lundren had to agree.
Of all the races he'd seen, not a single one had pulled itself utterly clear of the jungle, up into
enlightenment. Some vestige of violence always remained, underlying even the most brilliant
gloss of civilisation.
   'Why, the very universe itself isn't placid! Stars flame into death or freeze into death.
Constant change, eternal turmoil. The Music of the Spheres is a raucous lack of harmony!' A
lack of harmony? No, it couldn't be true. The universe pulsed with a perfect rhythm. A place
for everything and everything in its place. He thought angrily: 'Order out of chaos...'
   'Order out of chaos? Rubbish! In the beginning there was chaos. Then a lesser chaos you
choose to call order! But it's still chaos! Grinding down slowly to greater chaos, as it was in
the beginning. Full circle!'
   A question born of guilt scorched across Lundren's brain: when the Confed checked
Theeo, did it also do a little periodical spying on New Athens? Could it have caught a
forbidden glimpse of the EA?
   'Another fact of nature: mostly, the top dog barks louder than he needs to, just to hear
himself bark! And he bites, to prove his teeth are sharpest. You're the dog! Cruel to the few
in order to be kind to the majority? How about cruelty to the whole population in order to be
kind to one? To be kind to you! How about screening?'
   Fading away, the whisperer left Lundren doubting his sanity. And doubting, too, the
rectitude of what he'd done. He'd suppressed a truth, and he'd suppressed it if not by actual
violence at least by invasion. He'd invaded the personality of every being on the planet, to
benefit the planet. Benefit it? Yes, to maintain the myth of Peace Planet. And myth it was,
today. Nothing more. Lundren visualised the screening machines, descendants of the
ancient and clumsy electroen-cephalographs, but vastly refined. They not only recorded the
brainwaves, they interpreted them, registered wave-frequencies and matched them against
their source within the brain's tissue. The result was a chillingly accurate cata-logue of
emotions, desires, ambitions, and traits.
    It wasn't mind-reading, but it was quite close. Not that he'd been much concerned with
emotions, desires, or ambi-tions. He'd concentrated solely on what he'd called the
aggression factor, and discovered, to his surprise, that it was present in every creature of
every species. Which necessi-tated the establishment of a permissible aggression factor,
covering both would-be settlers and visitors. Below it, you could come in. On or above it, no
entry. Helpful in selecting Peace Planet's inhabitants - until 238!
    Then Lundren visualised the other machines, the personality-invaders, vital since that
awful year. They were descendants of the electroencephalographs, even more re-fined.
They didn't break off at recording, they engineered change, such change as he wanted:
psych-surgery!
    One couldn't possibly stop a person seeing the EA. One couldn't mentally 'blind' a person
or kill his curiosity, at least not without permanently altering the character. And Lundren
sincerely wanted the people whom the earlier devices had selected, whom the earlier
devices still selected. He simply didn't intend for them to mention the EA. Hence the
refinements on refinements: obliterate a synapse here, bend a synapse there, divert a
synapse somewhere else. Straightforward surgery, mind-manipulation, numbing the ability
to speak of the secret EA. It worked on everybody apart from the natural immunes who saw
things and took note of things. They were the ones who might talk, given the chance. The
ones who had to be sacrificed to uphold Peace Planet's reputation, and Lundren's.
    The whisperer had whispered truth. Joab Lundren's eyes glanced feverishly around the
office, seeking somewhere to hide from the truth. He noticed:

  Another Athens shall arise,
  And to remoter time
  Bequeath...

    And what had happened? Violence, bloodshed, and rebellion. The failed experiment of
Peace Planet. The ruin of a man whose dream had become a nightmare, all day long and all
through the night.
    Lundren's star was at nadir. The tide of his hopes was at ebb. There was nowhere to hide
in the office. There was nowhere to hide outside the office. The only hiding-place might be in
the cool everlasting bosom of death. The thought of suicide brushed him and stayed for a
long moment before departing, like the heavy shadow of a thundercloud loping slowly ahead
of a straining wind. He dismissed it. Death could be an answer, a refuge, but not
self-inflicted death. That was for lesser creatures, not for Joab Lundren. So, accept the truth!
Clutch it tight, but never let it fly off into the ears of others! Never openly confess it! There
could be no running away from truth, no salvation, only the empty comfort of silence.
    Another salvation, although temporary, burst through the window in a storm of shattered
glass. Part of the frame fell inwards noisily. Shouts rang from outside. Something rolled
unevenly across the floor. A grenade! It was momen-tary salvation because it took his mind
completely off the painful truth. Like a squashed ball, the steel bundle of concentrated
destruction bounced over the carpet, past the desk, and rested with lethal impatience in a
corner.
    Lundren's chair crashed backwards as he leapt up, racing the other way. Panic flashed in
his mind, lightened by inept humour. 'Now I won't need to bother!' But it only served to
increase the horror, by contrast. He reached the door and stopped. Somehow he knew the
grenade was soon going to blow. He hadn't counted the seconds, and didn't even know how
many seconds there should be before it exploded, but he just knew it was going to explode
very soon. No time to get out! An itch ran down his back, the dreadful anticipa-tion of
imminent annihilation.
     Lundren dived and the grenade blew. Metal tangled in the force of a vicious blast,
furniture crumpled, glass erupted outwards, leaving behind glass which had already erupted
inwards. Tumbling end over end, the desk came crazily across the carpet and banged the
filing-cabinet behind which Lundren cowered. It knocked him into the corner but scarcely hurt
him.
     Seven seconds had passed since he'd first considered suicide. Shaken, he thought:
'They're getting ambitious!' Explosives were a speciality of the rebels lately, anywhere they
could hamper Lundren's administration: Government offices, employment exchanges, EA
stations, always with ample warnings, which had ensured no fatalities, just the odd cut.
'They've carved their initials on twigs and branches, crushed the juice out of a few leaves.
And now they're after chopping the trunk right down dead!' Suddenly Joab Lun-dren felt very
much afraid.

    'The boy badly needs help,' thought Silver. She snatched a hold outside the door, pausing
a moment with the button unpressed. It didn't seem odd to think of Dizzy as a boy. He had
the advantage of several years over her, but still to her eyes he was a child in need of
comfort and affection. She liked him and pitied him.
    'Why the hesitation?' asked Vitch, booted, behind and below her.
    'I'm not sure, Ark.' She kept her voice to a whisper. 'Only, are we really right to stick
ourselves in his affairs?' Doubts touched her, despite her decision to offer whatever comfort
she could.
    'We don't intend to stick ourselves in; we intend to ask and offer. With friends, that's no
invasion of privacy. It's friend-ship.' As he gestured for her to depress the stud, he wondered
why he'd accompanied her. Jealousy? Ridiculous! You simply couldn't feel jealous of Dizzy;
it was impossible. He concluded that it must be a case of wherever Silver went, there he
must go, too. Also he genuinely wanted to do what he could for Derek. 'Get it pressed, Sil.'
    The memory of his violent quivering in Pertra's office, an alarming sight, overcame doubt.
Yes, he had to be given comfort. She pressed the button and Derek's voice tore through the
door, either surprised or frightened. 'Who is it?'
    'Silver, Dizzy, and Ark. Can we talk?'
    Sluggish seconds crawled by. Surely it wasn't such a diffi-cult decision? A yes or no
would suffice. Finally there was a commotion behind the door - it sounded like Derek
un-locking the door and for some reason retreating - and he said, 'Come in'.
    The panel slid away and revealed him backing quickly to the far wall. His eyes were wide
and wary. He seemed re-lieved at seeing Vitch's boots, but suspicious of Silver's floating.
One foot remained in contact with the wall, leg bent, as if he contemplated a fast take-off.
Silver realised it had definitely been fear she'd heard in his voice. But why? Did his dark
unreal inner-world contain evil phan-toms? Until today, she'd always imagined it a land of
fairies, colour and tiny elfin companions, a retreat from some dark outer reality.
    Words weren't easy to find. 'Dizzy, we ... myself and Ark ... we wondered if ... if ...' Then
her words suddenly flowed in a torrent. 'Well, we could see you'd got something on your
mind, perhaps an awful memory. Damn it, would it ease your burden to talk? If we can help,
even just by listening.'
    'Thanks, Silver; I appreciate that. You too, Arkon.' He spoke with close control, but' the
suspicion lingered. 'I have things on my mind, yes. Who hasn't? Yet I'm lucky.' He brightened.
'I've less mind than most folks, you see. Less room for the things on it. That's a blessing.'
    'Seriously, Derek...'
    'Seriously, Silver, seriousness is harmful in large doses. Too much profound thinking
hurts! So laugh! Temper gravity ...' He chuckled at the pun. Saliva-globs hung on air.
'Temper gravity with . . . ' Derek paused, then sung his nursery rhyme for fully two minutes, to
the amazement of Silver and Arkon, '... levity!' He sung it again, a shorter version.
    'Is he real?' thought Silver. 'Is the idiocy real? Or an act?' She knew it was real. It was
maintained too immaculately to be an act. And supposing it were an act, why the sudden
unpredictable surges into brief sanity? Obviously something had shocked him into his
present state.
    The door buzzed. Derek didn't know, but he snapped into rigidity. He hazarded a shrewd
guess and decided someone must be outside, wanting to come in. Could he trust his two
visitors? Could they have both been involved in the attack on him? Did another potential
murderer even now wait in the corridor? He didn't fancy his chances much against three. His
voice trundled from his mouth, reluctant and tremulous. 'Who is it?'
    'A humble friend, Dizzy. May he enter?'
    Two in boots and one floater, Derek calculated. Better than two floaters and one in boots.
He'd risk it. Pertra wouldn't have progressed beyond the boot stage yet. 'Yes. Walk in.'
    Pertra floated in. 'I learn, I grow proficient!' He sailed around the room clumsily but
happily, and noticed the other two. 'Ah, company! I don't intrude?'
    'No, no, you're welcome!' ('I hope!'). 'Can I help you?'
    'I rather believed the contrary. That I could aid you, Dizzy. I often read anguish in the heart
of a person. I read it in yours. I thought, perhaps, a sympathetic ear ...'
    'That's kind of you. I'm surrounded by friends.' Friends? He could only pray they were
friends. If they were all in league - no, that didn't bear thinking about! Suddenly he spotted
consolation: if any one or two of them had his destruction in mind, the presence of the third
should re-strain him or her or them. But if all three were together ...
    'A sympathetic ear, a sympathetic brain. A receptacle into which to pour troubles, to
lessen them by the sharing.' Pertra glanced at Vitch and Silver. 'We are all here together for
the same purpose?' Derek's heart thundered.
    'Ah, good!' The affirmative pleased the Director. 'Well, Dizzy, if we may be your three
receptacles, so be it! If we presume too much, merely show us the door.'
    'It's there.' Derek pointed.
    'You wish us to go?'
    He giggled. 'No, no, of course not!' Derek lied. 'Just trying to be helpful.'
    'Ah, yes, I follow. Most hilarious.' Pertra managed to smile. 'I noticed earlier your tension
on speaking of... some-one, as I notice it now on my mentioning it. A mind-doctor would
urge you to talk of this enigmatical someone, to unload, to rid your system of the majority of
its injurious associations, partially to exorcise you of this someone.'
    Derek thought: 'How can you exorcise yourself of that someone?'
    'Perhaps under hypnosis, for which we here aren't equip-ped. Still even without it. ..'
Pertra stopped; Dizzy's blank gaze made it clear he wasn't getting anywhere. Pertra tried
the tactic of trying to take Dizzy's side: 'Now you say this someone thwarted Lundren? A
laudable action, that! Why not talk about it?' This time Pertra felt a flush of anger as Dizzy
again sought sanctuary in his nursery rhyme. The Director turned to Arkon and Silver and
shrugged. His ex-pression said, 'What can one do? How can one help the helpless who
refuse to be helped?'
    A Thinker clumped along the outer corridor, reciting poetry. 'Gormal,' Silver observed
absently. Derek stiffened, staring at the door. His previously empty face now filled with
sudden apprehension. He seemed to be listening for the buzzer but not wanting to hear it. A
barely audible word escaped his pale lips: 'Four?' The clumping poet passed on and Dizzy
relaxed.
    Pertra tried another method. He air-trod closer to Derek and asked gently, 'A vacation?
Would it ease you? Any-where you like, for an indefinite period?' But he didn't expect any
response. Thoughtworlders often took a month or so out to visit home, or any place they
chose. New Athens was popular because of the apparent placidity of life there, although
most Thinkers suspected shadow beneath the superficial shine. Also the planet was popular
with the
    Thirteen as a holiday spot for Theeo's staff as it was the closest and so it cost less to ship
them there. Pertra had taken the trouble to check on various aspects of vacation. He knew
Derek had plenty of time due to him, as did every-one in A-block. They were conscientious
workers and only used a little of their leave. They'd all visited New Athens and brought back
casual reports contradicting the planet's Confed-wide image.
    'A couple of months at home, Derek?' Pertra suggested. 'I can stretch the length of time
to any reasonable period, especially if your health ...' Again he stopped. It might be a touchy
subject. And anyway, wherever he went, Derek would most likely take with him the
brain-shadow tied up inside his head. Maybe he was beyond help. He seemed to be.
    While Pertra pondered, Derek stayed in his leg-flexed pose, set for instant flight from
some enemy evidently trapped in his mind. His muscles were tight, poised for haste, but he
was still singing. When he stopped, silence fell except for steady breathing. Animation
suddenly sparkled in his eyes, but he spoke with more confidence than he felt. 'Thanks,
Pertra; I see you've my welfare at heart. But I'll face it out. Just remember I'm a trifle
abnormal and then everything I do will appear quite normal... for me.'
    'Strange advice, but I grasp it. However, please reconsider: perhaps a while resting; a
month in pleasant fields and woods. New Athens perhaps?'
    'You're joking! Pleasant? The countryside's nice, yes, but have you forgotten 238?'
    'When Lundren nearly had Peace Planet's levy-exemption rescinded on account of
internal squabbles? I recall it, but that's over.'
    'That's over,' Derek agreed. '238's over. Yet when a year passes, it doesn't die. It lives on
in future years by affecting them.' He paused for his meaning to sink in. Nobody argued.
Rumours drifted from Peace Planet: rumours of small acts of rebellion against the
government. 'Look, Sciri, give up trying. I may be my worst enemy, yet I'm still the closest
friend I've got. Not that I'm knocking your efforts, you three. It's just that some things a man
has to square up to alone. Conquer them alone. Or not conquer them. Only it has to be
alone.'
    'The philosophy of the lonely,' thought Pertra. 'Or the loner. There's a difference. Who am I
to tell him he's wrong, when I believe he could be right?' Aloud he said: 'I under-stand, Dizzy.
I did no more than what I mistakenly con-ceived of as my duty. As a fellow-creature, not a
Director. Regrettably I overstepped the mark.'
    'Not at all!' Derek sounded sincere. 'In friendship, you only overstep the mark in one way:
by going a tiny bit too far, irreversibly, and becoming an enemy.' His unusual coher-ence
kept the others quiet. 'As a Director, you're a good one. They'll kick you out soon, of course;
you're too much of an individual thinker to be allowed to last long. Like Dat.'
    'Like what?' asked Pertra, misunderstanding him.
    'Like Dat. Burl Dat, our last Director but one but one but one. Four Directors ago. He was
an individual, too, so he had to go. Except he denied them the pleasure of sacking him. He
resigned; driven to it, mind, but he played his card before they could play theirs. A fine
person!'
    Arkon Vitch seconded Derek's opinion. That's true. I remember Dat. Quietly spoken,
easy-going, but stern when necessary. Unfortunately he was forced to bow out with dignity.
There were arguments.'
    'Yes, and remember who he argued with!' Emotion scorched in Dizzy's eyes. His voice
rang with abrupt vehe-mence. Then he withdrew into his shell. Hot emotion sput-tered into
nothing but an unseeing stare. His lips closed in introspective, and retrospective silence. He
seemed to have burned up all his conversational energy for the moment. Right now, he
hadn't even the energy to be scared.

  Outside, they moved along the corridor and then stopped. Vitch stepped to the side of the
walkway, half-on, half-off. His heels, in contact with plastic, lifted; his soles remained
magnetised to the metal. It was a peculiar sensation. He bobbed himself slowly up and
down, like a leaf in a wind which couldn't decide whether to drop him or keep him.
    The Director and Silver held handholds, out of the way of traffic.
    An alarm shrilled and Thoughtworld juddered. 'Must have been a big one,' Silver said
through her mask. Elec-tronic hums raced throbbingly in the walls as command impulses
were sent out. Once more a shudder shook Theeo, but more gently, and controlled. Up on
the surface, stabilis-ing blasts directed by computer set the planetoid back where it
belonged and cut out its incipient spin. The alarms only shrieked at strikes by very large
meteorites, in the unlikely event of their being large enough to have pierced the crust.
    The shrilling ceased. 'As we were. No hole.' Pertra mastered his relief and spoke evenly.
'That lad worries me. There's a weight on his soul and he doesn't know how to raise it.'
    'Perhaps he does,' murmured Silver, 'but lacks the strength to do it. Or possesses the
strength, but needs to raise it gradually.'
    'Ah, but is it a question of strength? We offered him that, in abundance. It could go deeper
than any of us realise.'
    'As Derek does,' Vitch put in cryptically. 'Certainly he's verging on the imbecilic, but with
those occasional flashes of perspicacity, profundity, and even downright sanity, he can't be
an utter imbecile. You don't ascend to Thoughtworld without passing rigorous and extremely
selective tests.'
    'Unless your name's Lundren! And you don't have a mysterious someone opposing you.'
Pertra became solemn. 'Speaking of profundity, and I quote: "When a year passes, it
doesn't die. It lives on in future years by affecting them". A point one would be foolish to
contest. A point moreover, made by a distorted mind. No, he's not an utter imbecile!'
    'He may be no kind of imbecile at all.' Although she didn't mention it, Silver remembered
overhearing a group of students talking about Derek. An argument as to his right to be in
Theeo had been terminated by forceful words she'd never forgotten: 'He's such an idiot he
must be a genius!' It had a ring of truth to it, she felt. 'And he knows which way the scales are
tipping on New Athens. That's more than most of the Athenians know!'
    'Your score, Sil. 238's bound to return.' Arkon bobbed.
    'Not by any time-twist, simply because plain old-fashioned psychology says it must. No
student of the behaviour of ... intelligent? . . . species would argue against that. 238 will
happen again, just as it happened the first time, and for an identical reason: inevitability.'
    In Pertra's brain clanged chains of concurrence, a con-catenation forged of link upon link
of sound logic. Peace Planet had been ripe for internal explosion long before 238. That year
had been nothing more than the time when a smouldering fuse called Lev Merrin had ignited
a deadly inflammable substance called unrest.
    Since its colonisation in 197, New Athens had seemed to be paradise. At least, no hint of
dissent had seeped out. But Pertra had learned a lesson from studying history: tran-quillity is
finite, not eternal. He had every respect for the opinions and ideals of the original settlers -
the pacifists, the discontented - yet he realised they'd been chasing dreams. Thinking they'd
found heaven, they'd found only temporary shelter from hell. 238's violence had to come. In
the very nature of things, and of people, it couldn't be avoided.
    'It was an inevitable occurrence,' he assented. 'We're little better than machines; worse, in
many respects! Who pro-grammed us, I don't know; I prefer not to dwell upon it too much,
since I feel myself shrinking with every metaphysical or theological question left unanswered.
And how many are answered satisfactorily?' He made a despairing gesture. 'We react to
stimuli, machine-like - although in a complex manner, tangled by emotions - and I
occasionally think the Almighty Programmer has Himself a good laugh at our conceits.'
    Pertra waited for someone else to take up the topic. No one did. 'I said machines? I could
have said bombs! In our machine-guise, we come up with the same reaction to a whole
spectrum of stimuli: violence. We live by it and die from it sometimes. As bombs, all we
need is a depressed plunger or a flame applied. Maybe even the Great Almighty
Programmer detonates us from afar now and then for some vast joke we're too tiny to
appreciate. And often too dead!'
    'What surprises me,' said Vitch, 'is that it took so long to come to a head. Okay,
Lundren's original lot were probably a fine crowd in theory. But they had their own self-styled
titles to live up to; hence wholesale repression of instincts and widespread lie-living. Then
they'd have children. More people, more repression, more savagery looking for an out-let.
The marvel is, it took forty-one years to spark off!'
    'Ah, if we could suppress the ugly instincts totally then we'd have advanced. Next step:
eradicating them totally.' Pertra smiled at his own daydreaming. 'I ramble. We can only
lament the ferocity of rebel and non-rebel alike. The desire to overturn authority in the former,
the vicious brutality with which the latter stamped out the insurrection. A pity from start to
finish, whenever that is!'
    Silver said succinctly, 'So much for screening!'
    'Indeed, my dear! The boasted screening. The aggression factor. I wonder what
Lundren's is?'
    'High!' The monosyllable lashed from Vitch, a word-whip. There was a little-publicised
libel action some years ago. Lundren as plaintiff, a talented young poet as defendant.
Remember it?' He received two negatives. 'Well, the kid must have had a grievance and
tore Lundren to shreds with a single short poem. No subtlety, or else the youngster just didn't
care. Whoever it was - I don't recall any name, even species - the kid called the work JL: An
Attack! And it was an attack! I read a copy before the unsold ones were de-stroyed after the
hearing. It was so flagrantly libellous that the case was a formality. The poem referred to JL's
face: supposedly hard as a rock, apart from his public smile. All teeth. It slammed him for a
number of rule-bends, and said he made the law a weapon against enemies and a shield
for himself. I only recollect a couple of lines:

  "I rate the man a hateful man. I urge you not to trust his "Adamantine face and his
  Rhadamantine justice"

   plus plenty more, even harsher. Anyway, Lundren went in with the maximum legal
aggression.' Vitch smiled coldly and paused to let the point register. 'The suit completely
broke the kid financially. Lundren had ways of seeing to that.'
   A sudden thought occurred to Pertra. 'Finance, that is nothing. Did Lundren also break
the youngster's spirit?'
   Arkon Vitch spread his hands. 'I've no idea.'

   Dizzy Derek hung in spare-time Think, spare-time Thinking. It was A-block's pet project,
extra-schedule; not quite secret, but not widely talked about with outsiders. It had to be done
in A-block. It was far too vast for anyone with lesser abilities than Theeo's top five. Often it
seemed far too vast for them, because it was extremely ambitious and possibly
presumptuous.
   They wanted to crack the universe wide open and come to terms with God, supposing He
existed. They wanted to unravel primordial cosmic secrets, delve into the universe's
mysteries, then surface with an excited cry of 'Truth!' They wanted the Supreme Being, face
to face, with all His works and reasons.
   'That's all,' thought Derek, descending momentarily to ordinary Think from the intoxicating
realms of extra-ordinary Think. 'Only how do you find what your instincts tell you isn't there to
be found?' It was like playing hide-and-seek without any real faith that someone was actually
hiding; the most enormous of playgrounds in which to search, but you just couldn't be
positive you'd uncover the other player even if you looked in the right place. The other player
might be nothing but part of your imagination. Or he might be such a preternaturally skilful
adversary that he could prevent your seeing him even if you stared right at him.
   As for the secrets, what if they didn't appear to be secrets? What if the complex seemed
simple, the simple complex? The adversary - if there was one - could be an expert in subtle
camouflage. You could waste the entire game search-ing in the wrong places for the wrong
things, with Truth screaming its presence unheard under your ignorant nose.
    Suppose the Big Bang theory could be refuted as easily as the statement 1 + 1 = 3?
Suppose the Steady State hypothesis could be torn apart with equal ease. Suppose the
cosmos could be declared finite or infinite with as little diffi-culty as declaring whether or not
2 + 2 = 4?
    Derek pondered on the enormity of the task. Still, it had to be done. Intelligent creatures
had never before possessed such an aid to cerebration as Theeo. No matter how slender
the chances of success, no matter how slim the chances of even fractional success, it had to
be tried. Curiosity dictated it. A-block's Thinkers spent as much leisure-time as they could at
it: probing the universe, thought-fingers reaching into black depths that could contain a
partial answer or a total madness; rolling questions around their heads, Think-ing about that
which often seemed to defy thought; compar-ing notes, exchanging ideas, arguing and
discussing, all the while trying to snatch the answers to questions they could scarcely set
down sensibly.
    Progress was always slow, except when it stopped alto-gether. They realised they could
have taken on too much, but they stuck to it with tenacity bordering on obstinacy. They
designated it, with mental capital letters, The Break-through, yet what they were hoping to
break through they couldn't definitely say. Space? Time? Religion? Metaphysics?
Ignorance, most likely. Occasionally they seemed to be close, but . . . The shot was closer. It
zipped past Dizzy's head, whining. Simultaneously he heard a sharp crack. He turned
quickly, looking for the enemy. A door was closing. He thought: 'It missed, I'm safe,' and then
realised he wasn't. He was in a no-grav room with a bullet that wouldn't stop zipping for a
long while. Unless something absorbed it, it would not cease its flight for a good many days.
He didn't even want to stay with it for a minute.
    It sang around the room, wall to wall, to floor to ceiling, slanting off in wild lethal ricochets.
He knew he could predict its course right down to the time it finally lost its momentum if he
could spare thought for the problem and if it didn't lose its inertia in some absorbent body
such as his own. His grasp of mathematics was brilliant. His grasp on life at the moment
appeared to be tenuous, precarious and insecure.
    There were two exits, not counting death. To reach either of the two, all Dizzy had to do
was get through the unpredictable criss-cross pattern of a hungry bullet - an up-and-down,
side-to-side, wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-anywhere network of potential murder. It looked difficult.
No wonder the attacker hadn't bothered with a second shot. A first shot, even a complete
miss, could eventually hit.
    Both exits were closed. No problem there, they'd open at the touch of a finger. Which still
left a big problem: how to get the finger across the room without losing finger, arm, maybe
life? Derek pondered, while the bullet continued its course with no visible decrease in its
velocity. Once it ripped his shirt. Twice it warmed his face. If it happened to home in on a
killing course, there'd be no dodging it. A door opened and a robot whirred in, passing
through. It had every right to do so, since the 'In Think' panel wasn't lit up outside dur-ing
Breakthrough sessions. A Thinker could hardly divert a busy robot because he was himself
only working on a diver-sion, not a Thirteen-sent Think. In the case of official Think, robots
and people alike simply had to find another route to their destinations.
    Dizzy resented the machine's presence. If he had to die, he'd rather die alone, or at least
with living companions. It seemed vaguely undignified and ignominious to be killed in front of
a robot, although, of course, it wasn't sufficiently sensitive to even notice him, dead or alive.
It continued on its errand mechanically, then flopped into inactivity with a bullet in its
power-pack. After relief, fear caught up with Derek, as exquisitely and intimately frightful as
a ghost's kiss. 'A ghost's kiss?' Vile memory hit him out of the lost years. He fainted.

   As Pertra sat pensively at his desk, Dizzy Derek's enigmatic words echoed in his ears:
'Yes, and remember who he argued with!' He'd named no names, but he'd clearly intimated
that the reasons behind Burl Dat's abrupt departure from Theeo were worth investigating.
There'd been an unaccustomed fire burning in Derek's normally dull eyes, a passion in his
speech rarely evinced. These two things in themselves warranted a check on the last days
of Dat.
     'Also I'm curious,' mused Pertra, decisively standing up and booting his way to the
filing-cabinets. He didn't know exactly what an investigation would turn up, yet obviously the
exit of ex-Director Burl Dat must be closely examined.
     'I might learn something to make my own tenure less un-certain. A selfish motive, but...'
     In the fourth drawer he opened, Pertra found a copy-spool of Dat's last official
communication from Thought-world. The Director pulled it from its clip, lifting out a portable
playback. Strapped in again, he set the machine on his desk and inserted the spool. He
caught Dat in mid-sentence: ' ... in view of the many previous conflicts in policy, I feel I can no
longer hold this position with an untroubled conscience. It seems to me that my term of
use-fulness has expired. These latest differences, especially those with Prime Minister
Lundren...'
     Pertra jerked forward, made the words repeat themselves. He'd heard right first time.
Superfluously, he listened through till the end. ' . . . have made concrete a decision which has
been forming in my mind for some time, through-out all the political turbulence haunting this
post; and haunting it unnecessarily and most unfairly, in my opinion, since I believe politics
and self-interest should not be allowed to interfere with the remarkable work being carried
out by the excellent team here. Being no hypocrite, I have no intention of remaining in this
intolerable situation solely for the prestige involved. Prestige I can live without, self-respect I
cannot. Nor shall I wait passively until an enemy has pulled the job out from underneath me
by force. The only course open to me is to regretfully offer my resignation.'
     The Director switched off. He didn't need to check further. Dat's resignation had been
accepted, no doubt about that, and probably no doubt about who'd made sure the Thirteen
accepted it! I'd like to have met you, he thought, replacing spool and playback. He pictured
Dat as a creature of integrity, most likely an ideal Director. But he'd tackled Lundren and
Lundren was plainly not a safe man to tackle. 'You've opened my eyes, Derek. Thank you.
Only why the fire in your own?'
Chapter Seven
   Vitch discovered Derek in free-fall, quite free but not falling anywhere. He was a
horizontal unconsciousness, rotating slowly on its head-to-foot axis. Nothing external
indicated his shocked withdrawal into a sombre half-world where the kissing spectres of the
lost years couldn't torment him. He looked peaceful and unhurt.
   'Derek?' Vitch received no answer, but he wasn't alarmed. Dizzy had gone to sleep on
the job before, many a time. 'Derek?' He repeated the name, then louder still.
   No response. Buckles clicked as Vitch kicked himself briskly out of his boots. They
remained on the walkway as he steered Dizzy and steadied his senseless turning. A rip in
his shirt puzzled him. Derek's face was pale, his breathing shallow but no cause for worry. It
could be simple slumber, despite the pallor.
   Vitch noticed the robot. It stood inert, upright, feet magnetised to the walkway. The
manufactured body rocked gently, erect, as from some blow. There was a large cavity in its
chest. Vitch guessed it was pack-explosion. He re-booted and examined the robot's
damage. Exploding power-packs weren't rare. They happened now and then. Robots
mal-functioned, as well as people. He wasn't too concerned about the damage. His fingers
ran delicately over the chest: curled-back metal and plastic, a hole, the wreckage of the
power-pack, with a bullet embedded in it!
   Arkon looked up: a stationary and pale Derek. Arkon looked down: a useless robot, shot.
Any connection? Assume Dizzy shot the robot. Okay, so what had stunned Dizzy? Or was he
asleep? Either way, where was the gun?
   And if Dizzy hadn't used it, who had? And if Dizzy had used it, why had he used it?
Robots were perfectly harmless, no threat. Even if he'd imagined danger from one, surely
he'd brain enough to realise he could easily outpace it and effect a non-violent escape?
Maybe he hasn't brain enough? Perhaps he'd expected it to follow him wherever he went, a
hunt to the death, so he'd shot it? But that was stretching idiocy, even for Dizzy.
   Arkon scratched his head, bemused. Then he stared up, startled. Dizzy was rotating
again and muttering disquiet-ingly about ghosts - ghosts with soft lips, kissing people. It
didn't make sense. Vitch began to feel strangely nervous. The words had such an uncanny
ring, bizarre words dredged up from a macabre fancy. They almost scared him..
   He unbooted, went to Derek and shook him thoroughly. 'Dizzy! Get hold of yourself! Calm
down and ... oh, hell!' He swore at the stupidity of it. It might have been laughable if it hadn't
been so tragic and pathetic. Derek had got hold of himself, as commanded. His arms were
wrapped tight around his chest, as if embracing an invisible lover. 'Arkon?'
   'Yes, yes, it's me! Now what happened? I found you out cold.'
   'Cold!' screamed Derek, and he gave the syllable such a freezing, frightening quality that
Vitch suddenly did feel cold and chilled with a nameless fear. 'Cold, yes. They kiss, Arkon.
Though dead.'
   Vitch decided to try levity. 'You mean vampires?'
   'Vampires?' An abrupt broken laugh nearly broke Arkon's grip on the fear. It came close
to bursting out as unadulter-ated terror. Derek's insane laugh fell to an insane titter. 'Not
vampires, Arkon. Ghosts. With lips that kiss!'
   Uncertainty ran through Vitch's shaken mind. Was all this nonsense just a raving of an
unbalanced mentality? Or did it have a foundation in reality, way back? Did the dread-ful
references to ghosts, ghostly kisses, ghosts with soft lips, point to some unspeakable horror
in Dizzy's past - a colossal shock, in some inexplicable manner involving ghosts and lips
and kisses, which had tripped him over an awful brink?
   'Like this.' Derek moved his arms, tightened his embrace on himself or the invisible lover.
'Just like this . . . arms round me ... she held me ... she ... she ... she ...' He was shrieking
now, a repetitious chant. Arkon slapped him flat-handed across the face and Derek's fist
replied with a hard lunge to the stomach. Vitch gasped, breathless. The return blow, so
quick and expert, had surprised him. The slap had sobered Derek. They glared at each
other in hostile stupe-faction - Dizzy because a veil had lifted, Arkon because he hadn't
expected such obvious experience and fast reflexes in Dizzy.
    'I'm sorry, Derek. It seemed necessary.'
    'I'm sorry too, Ark. Only don't try it again, will you?'
    And Arkon Vitch realised he wouldn't dare. To salvage a little pride, he said. 'No. Unless
it's necessary again.' But he didn't believe it. 'God! There's lightning in the man. Just waiting
to strike. I hope I'm not around when it does.' Warily, he changed a touchy subject. That
robot. What went wrong?'
    'It got shot.' Derek saw the other's eyebrows raise inter-rogatively, and he wondered how
much he could disclose. He didn't want to mention the attempts on his life. Even if he could
be sure of being believed, his solitary nature wouldn't allow it. He'd see it through alone. He
thought that maybe the best policy was to act dumb. He wondered if Vitch already knew
what had gone wrong: the robot had been deactivated instead of the Thinker. From the
attacker's point of view, that was what had really gone wrong. Vitch could have been the
attacker. Derek acted dumb.
    'Well? What went wrong?' Arkon persisted.
    'I...' Derek paused, swallowing exasperation at Vitch's doggedness. 'I was in Think when
somebody opened the door and let the machine have it. A practical joke, probably.'
    'Not very practical.' Arkon showed no sign of credulity or otherwise. Derek hadn't
expected much. If he were the would-be killer, he'd consider his every word and action as
closely as Dizzy intended to consider his own. 'More sabotage, do you think?' asked Vitch.
    'Doubtful. Just one robot? It'd be the pettiest yet.' A frown saw ephemeral life on Dizzy's
face, the shadow of his uncertainty. He sighed, blinked and quoted, for no apparent reason:

  'Arms of marble, eyes of sapphire,
  'Death-glaze filming over;
  'And I weep beside the corpse
  'Of her, my new-dead lover.'

    Then he added quietly, 'That's from a verse whose name I can't remember. Very
appropriate. I forgot who wrote it.'
    A taut wire of memory twanged in Arkon; something somebody had said recently, some
conversation between himself and Pertra. But he couldn't exactly place it, couldn't precisely
trace it. He mentally recited Tynar's Hypothesis, then thought: 'Here's Vitch's corollary: That
the failings of cellular brains, such as delusions, madness, neuroses, obses-sions and
hatred, must also increase in potency in no-grav.' In Derek's case, it seemed totally
irrefragable.

    Lundren asked impatiently, 'What do you want?' The visi-plate showed his unsmiling face,
age-lines crossing temper-grooves, a forbidding mask concealing a calculating brain.
    Nervously, the communicant chewed a lower lip, wonder-ing how to impart his news. 'I
tried again. Missed again.' It wasn't easy to say.
    Two shots, two failures!' From Lundren's tight mouth shot a foul oath. 'Have I got to come
up there and do it myself?'
    There was a sharp intake of breath, another bite at the lip to chop off hasty speech.
Words formed which must never be said: 'You? Come up here? That'll be the day, when you
do the dirty work! And you're not fit to be here! Not as a Thinker, anyway, because you're
short of what it takes and somebody wouldn't let you bludgeon your way through!' But to
speak thus would be to invite bad trouble, so the words had to remain a burden in the head,
an impossible ambition. They hurt.
    Lundren waited, a set of cruel features, for something to be said.
    'Is it. . . ?' A pause followed, a searching for courage. 'I mean, is it necessary? Derek. His
murder.' ('Him being who he is? Of course it is! Yet...')
   'You aren't questioning my decisions, are you?' Lundren inquired with dangerous
politeness. With sadistic pleasure he watched the head shake, the cheeks redden with bitter
humiliation. He derived an hour's enjoyment from a few seconds of embarrassment and
fear. That's good. I wouldn't be happy if you did.' His laugh had no humour in it, only malice.
'Let's hope you're more fortunate next time. For your sake.'
   'But…'
   'Do it!' Immediately, the screen went blank.

    He didn't like his temporary office. It was too small for a big man. Lundren clenched his
fists and squeezed hard, as if his impatience would speed up repairs. His original office
was untenable: broken furniture, smashed windows and fire damage. Ominously, the framed
piece of archaic poesy had been completely incinerated.
    ' "Another Athens," ' he thought gloomily. ' "And leave, if nought so bright may live . . . "'
Well, his particular Athens could have been bright, but nowadays the glitter had gone. 'If
nought so bright may live?' Yes, it seemed New Athens might not be permitted to live;
Lundren had to admit it. Though exactly why should it be forced into extinction? 'Because of
the rebels,' Lundren told himself wordlessly. 'Because they've darkened the shine I put on
Peace Planet, with their sedition and dissatisfaction!'
    The insidious whisperer dared to disagree. It whispered from the inside of his head to the
inside of his head, 'Arrant sophistry! Delusion! The culprit is governmental corruption, the
reason for the dissatisfaction. The culprit is none other than...'
    He slammed a hand on to the desk. The sudden sound successfully drew his treacherous
deep-mind from thoughts of sedition. He managed to think once more precisely as he
wished to think, about the hated rebels. Early morning sunlight cascaded in crystalline
brilliance through the windows as black clouds of stormy loathing welled up in his brain:
loathing of the disease started, or at least made more viru-lent, by Lev Merrin, then cured
with surgical expertise by the loyal element in 238.
    'Cured?' asked a hidden whisper. 'Then how is it that it's even more virulent today?
Surgical expertise? I doubt it! Surgical detachment, yes. But without anaesthetic, with no
attempt to alleviate the pain. Say, rather, with the expert brutality of a crazed surgeon!'
Trembling, Lundren could almost feel his mind shattering, his sanity crumbling, his
personality separating. He was too frightened and pre-occupied to hear the noise outside in
the courtyard. It rose to a great muttering from many throats: cries of surprise, fury and
shock. But he didn't hear it.
    In his head roared worry upon worry: the threat posed by Dizzy Derek, if it were a threat
and not coincidence; the inefficient efforts to kill the fool, up high in Theeo; the anxiety over
an indispensable EA. If one of the black-market munitions organisations were to hint at
certain deal-ings . . . The intercom bell rang stridently. He lifted the receiver. 'Yes?'
    'Out in the courtyard, sir. I think you ought to come down.'
    'You do, do you? Isn't it more to the point what I think?'
    A voice stammered, 'Well... yes, sir. Of course, but...'
    'Shut up! What's the trouble?'
    'The rebels, sir. Perhaps their boldest strike to date. Really, sir, you ought to see for
yourself. Their boldest...'
    'Boldest? Probably their third-boldest,' Lundren thought, remembering 238 and the
grenade. 'I'll be down.' Grimly, he left the office, strode into a courtyard full of chattering
people, and stopped short with a gasp when he saw it. It was definitely bold: a tall memorial
stone set firmly in the ground, headed by the legend 'Our Glorious Dead'. On the slab,
intricately and carefully carved, were names, names that upset Lundren's sleep, arranged in
an erroneous though impressive genealogy:
                                              L. MERRIN

                                  k. merrin               r. merrin
                          10,000 good men, who did not die in vain

                        ---------------------the living ones----------------------

                        100,000 good men (and growing), who will not

                                             fight in vain

                                            we're waiting

                                 the writing's on the wall, lundren

    'Devil take the bastards!' he hissed hoarsely. With bitter reluctance, he admired their
audacity, courage and planning. Their timing must have been perfect, between patrols. Their
work rate could have been nothing less than phenomenal; the hole dug, the stone planted,
over the wall and away, all inside thirty seconds at the most. But his admiration didn't last
long. He glanced in sullen fury at the top three names, the triumvirate in command of the
insurgents until 238, when they'd all been killed. It gave him no comfort to know the
supposed family-tree bore no relevance to lineal descent, matrimonial connections or true
births. It was only a well-designed reconstruction of the rebels' defunct hierarchy.
    According to the genealogy, Lev Merrin was the sire of his own father and uncle. Karl
Merrin and his brother had between them borne '10,000 Good Men' who, in their turn, had
borne 100,000 more, still alive, still waiting. But despite the familial inaccuracies, the point
had been very forcefully made. Lundren's gaze fell to the bottom line: 'The Writing's on the
Wall, Lundren'. Instinctively, he whirled round, gaped in astonishment and cool horror. The
writing was indeed on the wall, literally, in painted letters a yard high: 'You've Had a Long
Day, Lundren. Prepare for Night'. Mated with the slab it could have only one meaning. It was
an elaborate, glyphic, coloured announcement of his forth-coming death - if they could pull it
off. He began to feel they could.
    Abruptly, he shook with agonising regret at a single fact: the rebel who'd thrown the
grenade had been shot as soon as he'd flung it. 'A pity,' he mused. 'It was too fast, not
sufficiently drawn-out.' Also the rebel could have served a better purpose alive than dead: a
trial with planetwide news coverage and a public execution. It wouldn't help Peace Planet's
image around the Confed, but it ought to make a few vacillating minds think twice at home.
He realised New Athens was slipping out of his hands, slithering from his control. Even the
religious factions were resorting to violence instead of propaganda these days. There'd
been open con-frontations between the Children of Peace and the Imminent Millennium
Order within the past week; not an exchange of pamphlets and arguments, but a bloody
exchange of blows.
    He thought cynically: 'If the Children of Peace can't be peaceful, what price the Imminent
Millennium?' It almost amused him, in a cold mirthless sort of way. A developing chuckle
froze dead deep down inside him, stillborn. Against his will, his eyes held steady on the
painted warning: 'You've Had a Long Day, Lundren. Prepare for Night.'

   'If only you were human,' said Cleo Rosa wistfully. She gazed at Gormal with a respect as
immense as his gigantic frame. 'We have so much in common. Soul mates.' Her beautiful
dark eyes sparkled with a love beyond mere sexuality. Her lack of surprise at the emotion
surprised her. 'Yet no matter how close you get to someone...'
   He sensed her difficulty and eased her out of it. 'Alien. That's the word. Don't be afraid to
say it. You're alien also, to me.'
   'Alien. Thank you. No matter how close - talking, ex-changing experiences, ambitions,
tastes - there's always an inter-species gulf, not only of body but of mind. I mean, we're as
close as we can ever be physically, because...'
    'I'd squash you. Not to mention splitting you in half.'
    Her cheeks flushed with quick anger. 'I'm being serious!'
    'So am I. Completely. You mistake alien seriousness for the coarse humour it would have
been from a human tongue. Never forget, different races are different. This is the first lesson
on the obstacle-filled road to concord.'
    'Lesson learned,' she replied meekly. She rested, foetal, in the air. In Gormal's personal
rooms, she was uncomfortable on account of his smell, but comfortable on account of his
presence: huge, reassuring, philosophic and different. She felt relaxed in his company. 'I
wish ...' Her voice whipped off into a scream. Nothing was normal any more. Every-thing was
wrong.
    There was gravity. She fell out of nothing, crashed into something: the floor, unyielding. It
smacked her as though with sentient savagery, clubbed her, knocked her. She finished up
lying very still - while Theeo spun! Improbably, appallingly, impossibly - except for the
whirling fact which proved the possibility, the actuality - Thoughtworld was spinning.
    Shouting incoherently, Gormal rolled across the floor and collided with Cleo Rosa. A wall
slid dizzyingly towards him and cracked his head. Through a swirl of pain, he thought: 'We're
rotating! Fast! How? Why?' No answers came, just a single searing word: 'meteorite!' But
he dismissed it at once. It couldn't be a meteorite. There were no alarms shrieking.
    And suddenly he knew what it was.
    The wild swift rotation continued for two minutes, then ceased. No-grav returned.
On-surface blasts compensated for the erratic couple of minutes and brought no-spin again
to Theeo; tranquillity, stability, the static normality of a planetoid without rotation.
    Cleo Rosa's body twisted slowly and Gormal studied her injuries: cuts, bruises, nothing
worse. He surprised himself by offering a fervent prayer. Eventually she regained
con-sciousness and turned wide questioning eyes on him. 'Meteorite?'
    'No, Sombre Blossom. One big enough to knock us so badly a-twirl would have come
inside. In addition, no alarms. So, no meteorite.' Her eyes appealed and he said tersely,
'Sabotage.'
    'Again? But how?'
    'Simple. A command to the computers controlling blasts; a command to blast hard for a
while, to twirl us silly. Machines might berserk on us, yes? Therefore isn't it a wise
precaution to give the power of override to super/inferior brains of flesh, like ours?'
    'I see. More specifically, to B-blockers and above. It's sensible, yes.'
    Gormal laughed, not altogether pleasantly. 'Sensible, I agree. Yet not on the part of the
saboteur who, by displaying an authority reserved solely for just fifteen Thinkers and the
Director, narrows the possibles to sixteen. A major mistake, I think.' Again the disturbing
laugh sounded. 'A fair plan,' mused Gormal, 'which may be the undoing of someone. To
utilise a brilliant dumb-brute machine; to take advantage of its compulsion to obey sixteen
pre-fed voice patterns; to order a short vicious blast, then correction - yes, indubitably a fair
plan. But fair is far from foolproof! You err, my enemy, you err!'
    'He's made a slip-up, then?' asked Cleo Rosa.
    'Or she. Or it, if we remember the Tuahi neuter in B! A shame the override-susceptible
mechanisms don't record the identity of the overrider! Still, we can check who was where
and when. Think-schedules, our memories, things like that. Prune sixteen possibles to...'
    'Sixteen,' Cleo Rosa interrupted, with a mischievous smile. 'Don't forget time-devices on
explosives. Even a blast-command with a prior command to delay. You could have done it
yourself and got back here, with an alibi, long before the crunch.'
    'Oh, I concede it! Further, I'd be inclined to select an alien as my prime suspect. A
non-human. I can't envisage His Supreme Magnificence paying a human agent. Although I
hear he's a devious object, and he might not pay at all.'
    'What I don't understand…'
    'Nor do I.' Gormal noticed her blank look and explained hurriedly. 'No, not telepathy. Just
plain straightforward sym-pathy. Kindred feelings, identical doubts; no inter-species mental
gulf, you see? Not at the moment, anyway.' He took both her hands, engulfing them in one of
his own. 'Pardon the smell, but I don't understand one aspect of the affair, either: the minor
acts of sabotage. Theft, yes; I comprehend it. But to attempt the hijacking of an organism,
and meanwhile send it annoyances no more crippling than an insect on the eyeball, where's
the consistency?'
    'There doesn't seem to be any, Gormal. Twelve of us killed in the grappler incident.' She
blushed, recalling her misplaced abuse of Gormal and the awkward apologies afterwards.
'And virtually simultaneously, these compara-tively trivial things. Perhaps a few broken
bones today, perhaps just superficial injuries. Nothing terrible, surely. So where's the point of
it all?'
    'Again, Lovely Nightshade, there doesn't seem to be any. That is, none that we can see.
Yet remember lesson one: different races are different. Thought differs. Ambitions differ, as
do their methods of execution. The idea of right and wrong varies. Therefore how do we
locate the point if we can't understand the brain that plans?'

   'Come in,' Pertra called, and Derek came in. 'Now, Dizzy, I've sent for you because I want
you.'
   'Sounds reasonable.'
   'Lords of Void,' thought the Director, 'he's so unpredict-able.' Pertra asked Derek to sit
down. His voice was firm and his hand gestured to a chair on the other side of the desk.
Since he'd been told to sit down, Dizzy went up. He hooked his feet in handholds and
formed himself into an oblique protuberance on the ceiling, inverted. Pertra sighed. 'Very
well. Just make yourself comfortable.'
   'I have done, thanks.' Derek nodded to Arkon Vitch and wondered what his presence
meant. 'You wanted me. I'm here.'
   'Yes. We're going to talk. Our friend Arkon has brought me a strange tale. It concerns
you.'
   'They mostly do. Hi, Ark. The robot, is it?'
   'Yes, Dizzy.' He sounded apologetic. 'I think it's for your own good.'
   'So do I.' Pertra's neck was already aching from looking up. 'A disabled robot hardly
counts, except when it's been shot. And then, not because of trivial damage but because a
bullet implies a gun. Someone fired a gun and a robot was hit. This suggests three theories
to me. First, a joke; irresponsible but possible. Second, more sabotage; very minor but
probable. Three, an accident, a mischance, in so far as the robot wasn't intended as the
victim. You were.' He held Derek with his eyes. 'What do you say to that?'
   'Three sixes are twelve.'
   Pertra began, 'I...' and stopped, determined not to lose his temper.
   'In other words,' Derek elucidated, 'rubbish! Three sixes aren't twelve.'
   'I see.' ('At least,' thought Pertra, 'I think I do.') 'You deny the third possibility?' Derek
offered an upside-down affirmative and the Director sighed again. 'I expected you to.
Though, with due apologies, I find in myself the effrontery to call you a liar.' Derek shrugged
indifference. 'In fact, I'd stake my... ah... insecure position upon it. You're a liar.'
   'I'm a liar, yes.'
   Annoyance grew in Pertra's mind. Not speaking, he asked himself, 'Is this man to be
suffered? I martyr myself! To strangle him and toss him into endless night would save much
strain on my nerves!' But he knew it was the wrong approach and forced himself to speak
gently. 'Dizzy, we are solicitous for your well-being. Arkon and I both noticed a certain
apprehension in you recently. Follow this by what may have been an effort to shoot you...'
   'Who do you think is after me?' Derek interrupted. 'And why?'
   'So you admit... ?'
   'No. Just for the sake of argument.'
   'I couldn't even begin to guess who. As for the why - an old grudge, maybe; some person
you've upset by your idio ...' Pertra broke off and changed the word: 'Idio-syncrasies.
Perhaps a very tiny wrong, real or imagined, has grown in a certain mind to unwholesome
proportions and become an apparent motive for murder. I believe that's highly probable,
taking into account an amazing though credible idea Arkon imparted to me. Please repeat
it, Arkon.'
    Cautiously, Vitch recited Vitch's Corollary, watching Derek for a reaction which didn't
come. He'd told it Pertra merely as a time-filler and hadn't expected him to take much
notice. Feeling uneasy, he thought: 'That could have triggered him off. One day he's going to
explode and there'll be lots of pieces flying!' But Derek didn't react and Vitch was glad of it.
    'An interesting idea,' Pertra resumed. 'Don't you think?'
    'Sometimes.' Derek's eyelids drew down slowly, upwards, in a long lazy blink.
    Irritation surged through Pertra as an involuntary clench-ing of the fists. Derek was
obviously in one of his impossible moods. There'd be no sense issuing from his slack lips
yet a while. Again the Director communed with himself sub-vocally: 'I'm positive he's in
danger, but how can he be helped if he stays locked inside himself?'
    'Listen, Dizzy,' he said quietly, 'we can't keep an eye on you all the time, which is clearly
desirable if my suspicions are correct. Yet if you persist in playing a lone hand...'
    'That's the way I like it. The way I am.'
    'I know that!' Impatience had crept into Pertra's voice. 'And it's perilously wrong! You have
to sleep. You don't have 360° vision. Against at least a hundred creatures in Thoughtworld
you wouldn't stand a chance in a life-or-death fight . . . ' Unseen, Vitch shook his head in a
silent denial. '... so bearing all these things in mind, how can you hope to prevail? Assuming
I'm right, that is?'
    'It is, isn't it? Quite a sizeable assumption, too.'
    'Demons of the Empire, Dizzy, you're not a fool!' Pertra blazed, with a sudden loss of
control. 'I'm trying to help you, can't you see? Trying to save your life. Assuming I'm right.'
    'You are.'
    'And assume further that...' He stopped. He went back six words. 'I'm right?' The voice
was incredulous now, not at the truth, but at Derek's utterly unexpected admission.
Surprisingly, Pertra found himself laughing. 'Dizzy, I'd rather bet my life on guessing the
weight of the universe than on guessing which way you'll turn next!' The laughter ceased.
'However, to return to the problem...'
    'Forget it. It'll resolve itself. You know what's under the plaque?'
    It seemed an inconsequential question, but Pertra answered it. 'Unless you're intimating
something I couldn't possibly fathom, tons of dirt and eleven dead men.'
    'Right again. Eleven corpses in Thoughtworld, if we over-look the victims of the atrocity at
the service. Eleven corpses. Only soon it'll be eleven plus one. That's twelve.'
    'Meaning?'
    'Meaning either somebody'll catch me or I'll get sus-picious of somebody. And once I'm
sure of 'em, they're dead!'
    'That's murder, Dizzy. Taking the law into your own hands.'
    'When it's me that's threatened,' Derek said solemnly, staring at his hands, 'that's exactly
where it belongs!'
Chapter Eight
  It was a small paragraph, heavily ringed in red ink: 'obituary: On 14-4-245, at exactly six
and seven-tenths hours after dawn, the death occurred under violent circum-stances of Joab
Lundren, then Prime Minister of New Athens. His passing is mourned by many and
welcomed by many, and it may seem gruesomely coincidental that his murder transpired
exactly six and seven-tenths years after The Day in 238. It is, however, no coincidence.
Requiescat in pace. Perhaps. In the name of the Merrin Triad, Amen!'

     Furiously, Lundren slammed the newspaper on to his desk. They're sick,' he thought,
'without compassion. Warped facetious vermin!' He glanced at the calendar-clock:
12-4-245, mid-morning. That gave him just over two days before they struck. And he knew
they'd strike. They'd strike pre-cisely when they'd predicted they would, violently. He
won-dered how. Another grenade? A suicidal fanatic coming right into the building? He
didn't doubt they were capable of infiltrating so far; the memorial stone was fresh in his
memory, as fresh as the painted letters on the wall. A bomb to blast the entire government
complex?
     He realised they were perfectionists. They paid fine atten-tion to detail. A quick
calculation verified their arithmetic; six and seven-tenths years since what they called The
Day, 14-7-238. With twisted logic, they'd time their attack for six and seven-tenths hours
after dawn, six and seven-tenths years after The Day. And they might be successful!
     Sudden ice ran through him. Death, the old enemy, the feared - and here it was, in print,
forecast to the minute. From the front sheet of the newspaper its title shrieked in brazen
perverted humour: Mole's Digest - The Underground News. 'God,' thought Lundren, 'who
could laugh at that? It's so foolish!' But he knew plenty of people did find it amusing, as they
also chuckled at the light-hearted inter-pretation of the initial letters MOLE: the Merrin
Organisa-tion for Lundren's Extermination, as they'd also chuckle at his death! He thought
irritably: 'They're playing with me. They'd already demonstrated that they could get into the
courtyard, yet last night they'd been content merely to fling a handful of their pamphlets over
the wall.' He pictured the rebels smugly tittering, happy in the knowledge of his knowledge of
their powers.
     A bell rang urgently on the intercom. 'What now?' he asked himself angrily, snatching up
the receiver. He could hear voices chattering loudly at the other end, dozens of them,
speculative. Ghost-fingers of premonition brushed the back of his neck. 'What is it this
time?'
     'The Confed, sir!'
     The ghost-fingers started to stab with long, long-dead nails. 'The . . . Confed?' He cursed
his startled pause, a sign of weakness, indecision, inability to meet a shock unruffled. The
Confed? Were they coming to New Athens? 'Go on,' he ordered, controlled again.
     'Theeo, sir!'
     'Theeo?' He repeated it automatically, with a repeat of the chill nastiness slithering over
and into his neck. The Confed? Theeo? Why can't the bastard be more coherent and
specific?' His fingers tightened on the receiver. Other fingers tightened on his neck. 'Look,
what is this? A bloody guessing-game?'
     'No, sir, I mean, of course not, sir! No! Only we've picked them up on the scanners -
Confed ships - the greater part of Squadron 17, massed around Theeo!' The voice waited
for instructions.
     The greater part of 17, massed around Theeo? Better there than converging on New
Athens, anyway! Still, what were they doing up there? A tiny shower of relief assuaged
Lundren's sweating brow, a cool dampness, a fact among a score of questions. It couldn't
have anything to do with the EA, or 17 would be dropping towards Peace Planet with no
stopovers on the way. The secret was safe, so far.
     'Any orders, sir?'
   'Yes,' Lundren replied immediately, wondering what the orders would be. He was angling
for time, determined not to show indecision. But so many things were coming all at once, so
many dangers and problems! He made up his mind. 'Get me in touch with Theeo's Director,
that new fellow Pertaara, or whatever his infernal name is!'
   'Right away, sir!'

     'I'm telling you, Sil, he's primed to go bang at absolutely any moment!' Arkon Vitch stated
it flatly, then added significantly, 'With or without provocation as we'd under-stand it.'
     The mask slurred Silver's speech. 'Pertra said we're all bombs. Just waiting for a flame or
a plunger.'
     'True.' He stared at her unreachable face, her lips a few feet away, a lifetime distant. 'And
Dizzy's the biggest bomb I've met. There's enough explosive in him to destroy a world:
memories, emotions, a whole lot of hate. Nothing you can define, but it's all there, waiting,
but what, for him, makes a flame or a plunger?'
     Silvery cheeks shone, jewelled eyes aflash with an effort at humour. 'We'll find out, Ark.
When it's flamed or plunged.'
     'Which will be too late!'
     'You look scared, Ark,' she said softly, her hand in his, 'I am, and that's a fact! Scared of
what he'll do when he blows. And who he'll do it to. Also ...' He paused, weighed his pride,
then discarded it. He felt braver for the touch of her hand, brave enough to confess, 'I'm also
scared of him personally. Oh, I know I'm no hero, but I've never admitted fear of another
human before! What makes it worse is, I actually like the poor idiot. When he's rational, at
any rate.'
     Self-consciously, he related the incident of his slap to quieten Dizzy's hysteria, and the
lightning return punch. 'Nobody's ever got one in against me as fast and hard as that. I
appreciate he's second-to-none in no-grav; that gave him an advantage. But I'd swear he'd
have managed it even if his hands had been tied.'
     'His troubles have really got inside you, haven't they?'
     'Inside me?' He released her hand to press a button. They passed through a door,
walking slowly. 'Yes, they've got inside me. Although what worries me most is the effect
they're having inside him! Pushing to burst out. I'd rather you were on the other side of the
Confed when they do.' He smiled wryly. 'I'd rather I was, too!'
     Another button depressed and they were in Communica-tions. He checked panels
beneath the visiplate; no record of any calls, no requests for anyone to call back, no
numbers listed. Vitch's Corollary buzzed in his mind. Already he'd been widely congratulated
on it; apparently Pertra had made a full-scale production about broadcasting the idea, and
set it flowing like excited sap down every branch of the grape-vine he could discover.
     He styled it the first cerebral breakthrough since his arrival; an epoch; a thought so
obvious that no one ever thought of it before, perhaps not even Tynar himself. According to
Pertra, it was marvellous. In Arkon's opinion, it was simply an idle thought over which the
Director was making far too much fuss and behaving out of character. Moreover, the
promulgation of Vitch's Corollary aroused a very real fear in the brain of its creator: that
Dizzy Derek might in one of his lucid spells realise what had prompted the Corollary, then
manifest displeasure at it in some un-predictable manner. 'Anyhow,' mused Arkon, 'there's a
greater Breakthrough imminent. Maybe.'
     'He's like Peace Planet, isn't he?' Silver's question took him off balance. He blinked and
she explained. 'Dizzy, I mean. Too much suppressed for too long.'
     'Hmmm, concisely put.' Sudden ardour came into Arkon's tone. 'Silver, he's in grave
danger. Derek. Including the x-factor, only five of us know, so keep your lips tight and . . . ' He
had to pull up, to swallow a bitterness of his own. His eyes avoided the mask. 'Someone
sent a bullet after him. It may have happened before. Remember how edgy he was when we
spoke to him after he'd gone crazy about someone's blocking Lundren? An imbecile the lad
might be, but I'll stand by him! How many people do you suppose possess guns in
Thoughtworld?'
    She laughed at the action-mood in his eyes. 'Don't be silly, Ark! That way, you'll narrow
the suspects down to probably a couple of hundred. Why, I own a gun myself!' He glanced a
question. She spoke an answer. 'I used to travel a lot before I qualified for this place.
Civilisation isn't civilised; I'm considered quite attractive. You never know...'
    'Yes, that makes sense. Obviously it's me that doesn't. Still, you're safe without it here. I
suggest you give it Dizzy.' Privately, Arkon thought: 'Or is that just handing him the means of
murder? Yes, but he has to defend himself, within the law or not. For which I'm certain he's
more than ade-quately equipped even with no weapon other than himself!' Then aloud: 'How
about it, Sil?'
    'I'm not sure.' She hesitated, then found decision. 'Fair enough, I'll give it him. But I don't
imagine he'll have the vaguest notion how to use it!'
    'Probably not, but you can explain which end is which. He should assimilate the data
nicely inside an hour. If he's on your wavelength at the time.'
    'Is he ever?'
    They laughed and a light flashed a summons. The visiplate warmed from blankness to an
image: a young face, a neat suit. 'Theeo?' The normal/abnormal acknowledgement was
conceded by Arkon. The face smiled. 'Thank you. Person-to-person from Prime Minister
Lundren, Attica, New Athens. Would you mind fetching your Director?' The eyes lowered, as
if checking a name. 'Oh, yes. Sciri Pertra, if you please!'

    In his office, Pertra thought: 'It'd be wiser if they'd sent a human instead of you.' But
diplomatically he kept his opinion quiet. There was nothing wrong with the Confed official.
Pertra simply didn't consider him the best choice.
    'Don't judge on externals,' he commanded himself.
    Strapped into a chair, the official looked an habitually sad type: a sallow, slightly porcine
individual, drably dressed. His close-set eyes were dull with the disillusioning experience of
several hundred worlds. He extended a double-thumbed hand and said plaintively, 'Erranlal.
Conf...'
    'Erranlal? Ah yes, the similarity had suggested itself!'
    'That's not unusual.' Erranlal glanced at the 2D of his brother Tynar, identical except for
the eyes. 'In the family we gave him the puberty-name of Mirror Brain. He stared inside
himself so much his introspection showed on the outside. Reflected. Not that his cerebration
itself showed, only the fact of its presence. Even he couldn't understand what he was
thinking about half the time!'
    'Then you're here not only on behalf of the Confed but also because you're Tynar's
brother?'
    'No, that's pure coincidence. I'm glad of it though; nice to see what the family achieved.
Part of it, that is. Me, I'm Slow Persistence.' He allowed himself a lip-twitch, a quarter-smile.
'I get results, but it takes longer. Parsecs of travel, loads of arduous headwork, rather than
the intuitive short-cuts of the More Renowned One.'
    'I see.' Pertra wondered if he'd been hasty in assuming a non-human to be the wrong
choice. With all the indicators pointing at Benlhaut, perhaps a human would have been the
wrong choice. He'd almost certainly concentrate on aliens, but if he were a xenophobe he
might pick out the first that happened along, just for spite. Another non-human ought to act
more warily, consider even humans as suspects, be more careful not to jump vindictively on
a random victim -unless he too were a xenophobe! Erranlal, with his family interest, could be
ideal. He'd do the job properly, for the sake of his brother's exalted memory. And with a
name like Slow Persistence, he'd definitely be as positive as possible before passing
judgement.
    'Though if he's as slow as all that,' thought Pertra, 'we might be out in the wretched
Empire before he passes judge-ment on Saril!' With peace of mind in mind, Pertra shied
away from the thought. 'He seems dependable, so let's de-pend on him.' The Director knew
he could forget the Thir-teen for the moment. They'd less distance to cover and more reason
to cover it: therefore they'd be way behind the Confed. That was the fashion in which they did
things, stupidly and sluggishly.
     'Confed Plenipotentiary,' said the Tuahi, prodding him-self. 'I don't use the title much; just
scare folks with it now and then, when I have to. I'm just an ordinary trouble-shooter. Trouble
is, making trouble lie still long enough so you can shoot it. A problem, that!' He touched a
thick folder he'd clipped to the desk. 'So's that! Your problem. Now mine, of course. I've
scanned the contents: a hundred-word problem, condensed to about ten-thousand.' Again
his lips twitched. I'd prefer the story as you tell it.'
     Pertra told him Theeo's story: sabotage, tractor beams, sabotage and grapplers. And an
endangered Dizzy Derek.
     Erranlal's ingrained frown deepened. 'Oh? I hadn't heard that. Shot at? Curious! Maybe
separate, maybe connected. We'll see. Anything abnormal about him?'
     'Anything abnormal? Void-Lords, you haven't met him! He eats, visits the lavatory, talks
when he feels like it. Thinks a bit - correction, thinks a lot! Doesn't reflect much on him
externally. He does his work well. Sleeps. Probably dreams. That far, he's normal. Otherwise
. . . ' Pertra let silence speak for a while. 'You'll see.'
     'It sounds as if he's an oddity. They mostly mean diffi-culties. Such as...'
     'Excuse me,' Pertra said into the door-buzz. 'Please enter!'
     Vitch did. 'Pardon me, Sciri, but you're wanted. Visiplate, Lundren.'
     'Indeed? What might he be chasing?' Termination already? It didn't worry the Director.
'Apologies, friend Erranlal; it seems one above me down on New Athens requires me. I
must leave you for some minutes. Or you wish to accom-pany me?'
     'For Lundren? Not worth the effort, thanks!' Erranlal spoke disparagingly and Pertra
wondered why. He didn't expect an answer to the question he hadn't asked, but he got one. 'I
have a surprise for a certain person high in a certain government. There are rumours.
Nothing definite, just whispers. They hint at a secret organisation on Peace Planet. Not the
ideological offspring of Lev Merrin, either. More sinister. I have to look into the matter. By the
proxy of a dozen ships under hand-picked commanders, tomorrow I shall do so. But,' a
finger touched down-curling lips as a caution, 'not a word of this. Nor of me. I can rely on
you?'
     'Absolutely. I wouldn't tell him his name if he forgot it.' Pertra risked a smile, but thought:
'There! I'm on record with the Confed as not being pro-Lundren. So what? There's no law
against it. Up here.' He had every confidence the Confed Plenipot shared his feelings. A
couple of quiet seconds and the smile was returned, Erranlal's most ener-getic lip-twitch yet.
     'He's not likely to forget it,' replied the official. 'He lives by it.'
     'Well put,' mused Pertra, and put himself outside his office, following Vitch. He wasn't
surprised to see Silver in Com-munications; he'd learned to expect her in the immediate
neighbourhood of Vitch during out-of-Think hours. What did surprise him was the image in
the plate: a young face, a neat suit. The young face glanced down, then glanced up. 'Director
Pertra?'
     'No other! I match my 2D?' A trace of anger couldn't be kept out of his tone. 'You're
suspicious? You suspect im-posters?'
     Arrogant eyes stared, then finally lowered before Pertra's. 'I'll connect you . . . ' the eyes
flickered defiance, ' . . . sir!'
     It took longer than was necessary. Pertra guessed this was a deliberate part of Lundren's
policy: make them wait, get them edgy, don't talk to them as equals. The policy suited the
personality, in Pertra's view. It stank.
     Lundren appeared, falsely jovial. 'Hello, Professor Pertra, I hope I find you well?'
     The Director was too perceptive to be fooled by a genial mask with hard eyes. Plainly
Lundren wanted something. Pertra didn't intend to help him ask. He waited.
     'A friendly call, Professor. Settling in all right?' He re-ceived no answer but swept on
regardless. 'Good. A happy worker is an efficient one.' The public smile shone, all teeth. 'Oh,
by the way, I knew there was something else .. . '
    'Here it comes,' thought Pertra, pursing his lips, deter-mined not to say much.
    'The Confed. I notice Squadron 17's pretty thickly clustered around Theeo. My
Meteorological Department hap-pened to see them; routine scan, of course. Probably
mistook them for high-flying 'clouds.' Lundren laughed. It sounded like an arctic gale
pretending to be a summer breeze. 'Noth-ing wrong up there, is there?'
    'No, not really,' Pertra said guardedly. 'Little touches of annoying sabotage, lately. Another
attempt at theft. I've notified the Thirteen officially, but in view of the larger issue I decided to
contact the Confed direct.' In silence he watched tight lips tighten.
    'You decided . . . ? Yes, yes, quite correct.' Visibly, an inner battle raged; it shifted
face-lines. 'Well, at least you'll be safe with such a military multitude round you.' A hoarse
noise rattled in Lundren's throat and emerged, masquerad-ing as a chuckle.
    'Indeed.' Pertra didn't need to force a smile. The words he wouldn't let himself say
amused him: 'We'll be okay, yes. Only tomorrow, Adamantine Employer, part of the
multi-tude peels off for New Athens. If you're hiding anything, you'd best get ready to hide
yourself. Deep.'
    'I'll leave it with you, then, Pertra.' Anxiety clamoured raucously in Lundren. Did the Confed
have any ulterior motive in being so close to New Athens? Was another re-bellion planned,
to follow the projected murder in two days? He mastered the internal uproar. 'That's all, I
think.'
    'Sure there's nothing else?' Pertra asked ingenuously, smil-ing inside.
    'No, nothing more. That's all for now.' Without a thank you, Lundren blanked. Without
sympathy, Pertra realised he'd been talking to a very worried man.

   The interruption irritated Derek. It was one thing to be side-tracked from Think by the
wanderings of his own mind, momentarily ripped out of contemplation by cerebral
digres-sions: thoughts of the enormity of the hoped-for Break-through tickling his brain
despite the near-ideal conditions in Theeo. Such mental meanderings were tolerable. What
he didn't like were unauthorised and physical interruptions.
   He didn't like people clumping into his room, disturbing Think.
   He heard the door open, and turned to see who to be angry at. But anger suffocated
under amazement when he thought he saw Tynar. Tynar was dead, so by rights he shouldn't
be walking anywhere, least of all into a Thinker's chamber when it was engaged. Probably
Tynar's shade, he concluded. Beneath Derek's gaze filed a glum procession: a glum
Erranlal and several glum attendants in uniform. Erranlal introduced himself, stating his
business. 'Your Dir-ector told me to familiarise myself with the place. Get the feel of it. It feels
awkward.'
   'What did the outside sign say?' Dizzy demanded incon-sequentially.
   Erranlal reflected before reciting. ' "In Think". In capitals.'
   'Exactly! "In Think",' Dizzy echoed. 'That means I'm in here, in Think. And you stay out
there until the sign goes out. Then you come in.' He astonished the other by standing on his
head, way above Erranlal's. 'So out you go while the sign's on. Then later, in you come while
the sign's off. Bye-bye.'
   Comprehension dawned. 'You wouldn't be Derek, would you?'
   'I would if that were my name. And since it is, I am.'
   'I guessed as much.' Tynar's brother realised Pertra cer-tainly hadn't understated Derek's
abnormality. 'Sorry about the infringement. We'll get the feel of the place elsewhere.'
Suddenly his tone hardened. 'But we've a serious job to do, remember! Cooperation would
help. Non-cooperation might be construed as standing in the way of a Confed
Plenipotentiary.'
   It was intended to intimidate and it might have worked with an ordinary person. It didn't
with Derek. 'Standing in your way? You're on the stripwalk; I'm in the air. I'm not impeding
you. Out!'
   Erranlal got out, with a poor opinion of Derek. The retinue followed. 'Here ends
tranquillity,' ruminated Derek, imagining Thoughtworld crawling with Confed agents. They'd
be checking all the sabotage sites, snooping, inter-viewing and generally getting underfoot.
He decided to remain airborne as much as possible, so they'd be farther underfoot and
therefore not underfoot so much. Then he thought: 'Tranquillity? Christ!' and remembered the
lack of it; grapplers, deaths, explosions and strangling cords. He backpedalled mentally and
amended the idea. It wouldn't be the end of calm; it would be an aggravation of existing
non-calm.
   He didn't envy the Confed their task, but he considered it could be made easier. Still,
Erranlal must have brains enough to sort it out for himself. With regard to the computerised
wobble-strike, there could only be sixteen people to choose from: the overriders, fifteen
Thinkers and Pertra. In his search for the perpetrator of that particular incident, Erran-lal
needn't go lower than B-block.
   'Thanks, Silver,' Dizzy muttered, feeling more confident on his own account as he thought
of the gun she'd given him. His confidence soared to a sense of invincibility, then plunged
down as he remembered where the gun was: in the cupboard in his quarters, out of reach.
He couldn't bring himself to carry it. The touch of cold lethal metal made something cold twist
painfully inside him. It triggered off a memory and knotted his mind. It flicked into him the
poignant recollection of a dead girl:

  'Arms of marble, eyes of sapphire,
  'Death-glaze filming over...'

   Crying, Derek thought of a small, locked-up, handwritten book. Sobbing, he recalled the
words inside it. He pictured her dead face. Spherical tear droplets drifted on air, moisture
globes containing terrible sorrow.
Chapter Nine
     The Thirteen! The thought drew Pertra's eyes to the date-panel: 13-4-245. Today Lundren
might develop a bad head-ache without physical pain. A dozen specially selected ships,
with orders from Erranlal, had left the vicinity of Theeo. Soon, they'd be on New Athens. If
Lundren had anything whose discovery he feared, Erranlal's subordinates wouldn't be long
in uprooting it. The Director made a wish: 'Best of luck to them. I hope they do unearth
something.' Knowing Lundren, it was more than possible.
     Troubles trickled in Pertra's mind, with attendant ques-tions. The tractor beam and
grappler assaults, did they originate where they seemed to, namely in the Empire? The
sabotage was so undramatic it was scarcely more than adult vandalism, but why such
pettiness, why not totally disabling acts? The bullet that had failed to catch up with Dizzy
Derek - in whose plans did Derek's death figure? For some reason, the last question
disturbed him more than the others; the least of Theeo's problems, yet it nagged him the
most. Why? Perhaps because he was fond of Dizzy. He didn't want him to come to any
harm. But indubitably somebody did. Who? Had Dizzy offended someone, even hurt
someone in his un-revealed past? Surely not! He was just a crazy man with a crazy name.
     'Ah, that name!' Pertra's hand slapped the desk as he got at the foundation of his
preoccupation with Derek: that crazy name. Dizzy? It was stupid. Who would call a child
Dizzy? Either his parents were fools or ... On impulse, Pertra left his desk and opened a
filing-cabinet. He took out Dizzy's folder, suppressing a shiver of strange uncomfortable
pre-science. Unsteadily he fluttered papers and located a name, then stared. Derek's name
actually was Derek - his first name, anyway. And his second... ?
     Merrin! There it was, unmistakable: Derek Merrin, birth-place New Athens. 'Ah, I begin to
see!' breathed Pertra. He remembered what Dizzy had insisted were his parents' names:
Bob and Rhoda. It was almost certainly true. 'Bob Merrin. Bob Merrin.' Pertra repeated it
until the association clicked. The trinity of revolutionary leaders killed in 238: Lev Merrin, Karl
Merrin, Robert Merrin; young Lev at the top, aided by his father Karl and his uncle Robert.
'Yes, yes, much is explained! Extinct Lev, I salute your remarkable cousin, that mystery we
know as Dizzy Derek!'

    This time the nightmare was worse. This time the nightmare was the regular one, the
recurrent sleep-haunter of the past seven years. If a month went by without it torturing him at
least ten times, Derek counted himself fortunate. He knew that if it got any more horrible, if it
came any more fre-quently, they'd find him some morning as empty of life as she'd been.
They'd discover a corpse swinging in its webbing, swinging still in no-grav from its final futile
threshing against the shadows in the shadow-land of awful dreams. A Derek no longer
Dizzy, a Derek no longer really Derek, a shrunken flesh-lump which had lost its slender hold
on sanity and its no-more-secure grip on life. Very dead! As she was! As she'd already
been when he'd found her!
    Frantically, Derek swam through the black dragging waters of a terrible sleep.
Desperately, he fought to surface from a sleep-sea that sought to drown him in nightmare.
His screams frozen silent in a parched throat, he lashed the clinging murk and scrambled
clear of the suffocating waves, awake. Cold sweat drenched him. Horror lay like an
anaes-thetic on his mind, numbed his body and his powers of thought. After twenty minutes
in a dark borderland, he realised he could move.
    'I'm not dead!' It was always his first rational thought, often thought with irrational regret.
Sometimes it seemed peaceful death would be preferable to the living torment of
nightmares about death and violence and her! In clumsy near-panic, he fumbled out of the
cocoon. He trod space for an apparent eternity as he settled to the floor. Mag-boots on, he
felt better - incomprehensibly, since he hated to wear them. He decided it must be because
they maintained the illusion of stability. While the boots held him down, fear couldn't whirl him
up and away in a vortex which could only take him to the gates of death and beyond.
   He clicked the light on and drowned willingly in a floor of bright illumination. Shadows
leapt in the room, but the shadows in his mind receded, dying. For the moment, he could
tolerate being alive. Remembering the real nightmare, he compared it with the one he'd
suffered after the first attempt on his life. An unsuccessful attempt had led to an awful dream.
A successful attempt - her strangulation, different yet indisputably no failure - led him time
and again into a more awful dream.
   There was only one way to exorcise her ghost temporarily: embrace it, admit its presence
and its existence, reach out for it, cling to it and swear dreadful vengeance on its behalf, on
her behalf. Then, for a while, it would vanish. She would vanish, until next time. So he spoke
to her: 'You'll sleep well inside my head when vengeance is accomplished. There-fore I'll
sleep well, too. And vengeance will be accomplished. I swear it!' Aloud, he committed
himself to a death for a death. 'We'll both sleep well someday!' He wondered when. Would it
be the slumber of grim satisfaction or the eternal rest of death? But how could death be
eternal rest? She was dead, yet she definitely wasn't resting! She lived on in his head, too
undeniable to be imaginary. She was reality. She wandered perpetually along the gloomy
corridors of his brain, a night-flitting movement that would be stilled by nothing but another
murder to avenge hers.
   Derek did what he had to do. He unlocked a drawer, withdrew the one possession which
really meant anything to him apart from his hate. It kept his hate at fever-pitch, gave him a
purpose in life. Once the purpose had been fulfilled, he could sleep unhaunted and
remember her as she must have been in life, vibrant and beautiful. Meanwhile, her shade,
appeased, could go ... where? He didn't know, but he was sure the ghost would benefit.
   Sitting down, he laid on his knees a small diary and strapped himself to the chair. Then
he read a neat evocative entry: 'This has been the most hideous day of my life. I've never
seen such atrocities, even in larger wars than this. Though perhaps it doesn't class as a
proper war, just a civil disturbance that's disturbed a whole planet - and me! The rebels say
they're fighting for freedom; the other New Athenians say they're free already. Who knows
the truth of it? All I know is, it's a shame people can't behave sensibly. The locals can curse
us all they want: "Interfering busy-bodies! We didn't ask you to come!" "Go home, you old
bitch!" Old? Me? At eighteen? But without the Confed Mobile Medical Arm, unasked or not,
they'd be in a bigger mess than they are. And God, they are in a mess! When I've written this
- as a lesson for my grandchildren, maybe - I'll sleep like the hundreds of dead I've seen
today. I saw the "loyals" catch the insurgents' leader, Merrin, and literally tear him to pieces.'
   Derek's hand tightened on the little book. Lev! The name screamed in his mind, another
reason for murder. He read on: 'He was a very handsome man and I just can't believe he
was the power-crazy maniac Lundren makes him out to be. Perhaps he was misguided, at
most. So were thousands of others all over the world. To rise up like that, simultaneously, in
every major city took planning and courage, or something. I know they'd got offworld arms; I
know the "loyals" had only tools and knives and things. But it simply can't be true that the
system's perfect and all the rebels are insane.' 'It isn't,' Derek said with feeling. Far from it.'
Then he con-tinued to read from the diary: 'They'd been screened, hadn't they? How about
re-screening the animals I saw rip Merrin to bits? And killed babies for the fun of it? And
stone poor Doctor Pol to death as he was helping the wounded? God! I can't bear to write
any more!'
   The entry was dated Day 14, Sevenmonth, 233. Derek had found her on the morning of
Day 15, a once-lovely girl in a nurse's uniform. Her clothes bore the bloodstains of people
she'd helped, perhaps saved. She'd been hanged from a lamp-post by a drunken mob. In
memory, he could still hear their voices as they drifted into the distance: liquor-slurred yells,
shouts of triumph at the end of the rebels.
   'The end?' thought Derek. 'That was just a beginning! In time ...' But he couldn't follow
through to the future. The past had hold of him too tightly: the rabble that had slaughtered the
nurse - plus God knew how many other innocent doctors and well-intentioned young women
-smashing everything in sight, destroying their own property as they set out on a wild
rampage.
   Attica had seen violence in those hectic days and so had many another city: unsteady
Lundren supporters, noisily celebrating victory over an outnumbered foe; the same so-called
conquerors, angrily turning against each other at a single wrong word; death and mutilation
even after Lev's rebellion had been crushed; long-suppressed aggression bursting out, with
Lev's anti-Lundren opinions touching flame to a powder-barrel which must soon have
exploded anyway, on some pretext. Peace Planet? 'Hardly,' Derek told himself, gently
closing the diary. 'They'd been sweet-talked by Lundren so much they believed it!'
   Without a shred of sympathy, he could see their specious reasoning as they tore into
Lev's tiny bands with a ferocity out of all proportion to the threat: 'We're citizens of Peace
Planet. Therefore we're peaceful. Therefore this killing is right.' At any rate, it would run
something like that. They'd been conditioned by Lundren, programmed to believe in the
myth of Peace Planet. Probably most of the population still did, but a minority must even
today cling to the aims and ideals of Lev Merrin, secretly plan insurrection and the
over-throw of Joab Lundren, and the removal of a megalomaniac whose original intentions
had been admirable but whose brain had twisted at some point in the time-path.
   Derek was out of touch with the rebels these days. He wasn't active any more and wasn't
part of the organisation. He operated alone - no, he merely hoped alone - motivated only by
the lust for personal revenge. His thoughts crawled back to the girl, to the empty street, the
lamp-post, the hang-ing body in a blood-splattered nurse's uniform. What could he use? He
had to cut her down, but he couldn't reach. 'Why did I have to cut her down?' He still didn't
know. Releasing her from the rope wouldn't release her from death.
   He couldn't just sever the rope and simultaneously sever the bonds that tied her to a
dimension beyond life. Nevertheless, he had to cut her down. She didn't deserve to twirl
rope-held, a butt for the abuse and hatred of other mobs which might pass.
   'If only I could give her a proper burial!' He spoke the words aloud now, strapped to the
chair, as he'd spoken them aloud in the street. Memory slithered back to Attica. He looked
up at her: soiled uniform, hair like a golden wind-rustled wheatfield. Death had transformed
the beauty of her face into horror. Her blue eyes seemed about to erupt from her head. A
limp foot brushed his cheek as she moved dead. A table! It lay discarded on its side against
a house. The 'loyals' must have used and dragged her up on to it, kicking, struggling. Then
they may have sent someone shinning up the post, to secure the rope and slip the noose
around her pretty neck. They may have jumped down, laughed, and pulled the table away
and...
   Derek fetched the table, positioning it next to the post, beneath her. Her feet flopped
along the polished surface. He climbed up and took a knife from his pocket. Marks on the
blade testified to his part in the insurgence. There were visible scars on his body, and scars
on his mind, invisible but more hurtful. Few people survived 238 unscathed. Thousands
didn't survive at all. He put a strong arm around her slender waist. She was warm with
sunglow, not life. He hugged her to him, to take the weight. In other circum-stances, it would
have been enjoyable. In these circumstances, it made him weep.
   Still squeezing her in a passionate embrace, he slashed the rope. She came free. Her
weight dropped, heavier than he'd expected. It snatched at his arm, streaking pain across
his shoulder. He couldn't hold her! The table crashed over and they tumbled to the hard
ground. It hurt Derek, although it couldn't hurt her. He hit the street first, finishing up on his
back on the bottom, under her. Breath slammed out of his lungs and her soft breasts pushed
at him, prodded down at him urgently with hideous prohibited sexuality.
   Her body draped him, lay heavy on his, desirable but dead. Her arms snaked around his
neck, moving as though alive. She seemed to be returning his passionate hug. Not yet stiff,
her fingers stroked his throat. They were so warm! They caressed him, fondled him, ran
along his flesh and chilled him despite their warmth. Then in dreadful slow-motion,
dream-like, her face settled firm, demanding, beauti-ful and awful on to his - a warm face, a
dead face, a face with eyes that bulged blue. And she kissed him. Dead lips glued
themselves to his. They pressed his mouth, stopped his scream and nearly stopped his
heart. He wriggled in blind unthinking panic beneath a lovely body which was dead. He
squirmed in red unthinking terror beneath full red lips which were dead. She kissed him with
dead ardour. She was crushing him as he writhed. Her mouth pushed at his mouth - a
corpse-kiss! It was then that his mind snapped.

   Outside the door there was furtive movement. The work had to be done quietly and
quickly. A tool-bag hung. Imple-ments were extracted, used and put back. Once, a clumsily
wielded screwdriver clattered against the wall of Derek's room. A heartbeat increased in
sudden horror. Would it wake him? Would he hear? Silence. It wasn't a long job. It didn't
require much mechanical knowledge. It was as easy as killing a fly. Fingers curled around
the tool-bag and pulled it away down the corridor. Very shortly, Derek should be dead.

    Most memories blurred in Dizzy's mind, but the memory of her wouldn't blur. It stayed
large and close, a part of him. He wasn't sure he could live without it. Often he wasn't sure he
could live with it. He returned the diary to its drawer, beside Silver's gun. The drawer closed,
yet no drawer closed on memory. It remained open, vivid and clamorous. It hurt almost
unbearably, but he had to bear it. A glance at the cocoon and he wondered whether to get
back into it. Would he be able to sleep now? He thought so, but there was no guarantee that
the nightmare wouldn't come back. Even if he slept, the night still had ghosts with which to
torment him. There was danger outside his skull and danger inside it. He asked himself
which was the greater. No answer came.
    A tear glistened in each eye, unashamed and unshed. A lump quivered in his throat and
caught. Breath caught in his throat, too. He thought it must be reaction. It wasn't. The tears
touched his cheeks. He felt dampness. The lump stayed in his throat. And he still couldn't
breathe. He gulped for oxygen. There wasn't any.
    Panicky hands slapped the straps free and fought the mag-boots off. Fire blazed in his
chest. An inferno raged in each air-empty lung. It was similar to being strangled. The pain of
it merged with the pain of memory. Physical and mental anguish tore at him. He hadn't
breathed for twenty seconds. He might never breathe again. Because somebody had killed
the fans! Incredulously, he stared at them all in turn. None of them were moving. An
immobility like the immobility of death lay on them, but he had to get out.
    'Some bastard means me!' he thought. 'Some bastard's been busy!' The odds against
the fans stopping on their own were immense. Presumably somebody had also cut out the
automatic alarm pulse which would have brought along a repair squad. Well, he'd just have
to call the robots himself, later - if later existed for him. At the door, breathless, he cursed the
hermetic sealing. Without it, oxygen could have leaked through from outside. Or was the
corridor airless, too? Doubtful. Somebody had expected him to be tucked up snug in his
cocoon and expire there in a cubic capsule of carbon-dioxide.
    Somebody was going to have to be murdered. The door opened. Derek flopped out,
clinging to a hold. Oxygen flooded in, great gasps of it. It tasted marvellous. It tasted of life
itself. He thought: 'Third time unlucky, again.' His smile was a predatory leer, the precursor of
someone's violent death. He didn't know whose death, but he had his suspicions and
intuitions. He reminded himself that Tynar's Hypothesis had been a touch of intuition, later
backed up by research into the early days of rocketry on a thousand worlds. If Tynar could
follow up a guess, so could Derek. But it wouldn't culminate in the creation of a planet. It
would culminate in the destruction of a person.
    For the first time ever, he was thankful for the agonising memory. The dead girl had
saved his life. If the nightmare hadn't awakened him when it did, he'd never have awoken
again. He arranged a repair team, then spent hours sweeping through the air of
Thoughtworld. He flew with a fantastic pleasure in life, thinking death. When the exercise had
tired him, he set off at a leisurely pace and visited every block down as far as F. He stopped
everyone he saw, watching for their reaction as he shouted, 'Look! I'm still alive!' Nobody
reacted properly.
Chapter Ten
    'You incompetent, fool! Can't you do anything right?' Lundren's voice was a roar. The
report of a third failure had outraged him. He couldn't tolerate the idea of a Merrin still being
alive. Nor was Derek merely a Merrin. A father-son relationship linked him to one of the
insurrection's two seconds-in-command. Derek was Robert Merrin's son, Karl's nephew,
Lev's cousin; in all probability the nearest kin of the Triad to have survived 238. Lundren took
his survival almost as a personal insult. 'I tell you, he's got to be wiped out!' he shouted into
the visiplate.
    'I've tried, but — ' In Thoughtworld, in Communications, speech froze.
    'Don't I know it! Tried three times. Bungled it three times. God, he's only human! He can
be killed. So kill him!' 'Like the decent citizens of Attica executed his criminal cousin,'
thought the Prime Minister. Lundren always viewed Lev Merrin's death as a well-deserved
execution. No court had condemned him, but Lundren considered the mob had saved a lot
of legal fuss. He pondered on Merrin's career. Merrin had been a promising young
politician, until he went rene-gade, left public service, quit the Thirteen and turned rebel.
Lundren could forgive him for the events of 238 more easily than he could forgive him for
what he'd done whilst em-ployed in a responsible position by the Thirteen when he had
stubbornly and implacably opposed Lundren's efforts to achieve Thinker status. Even now,
Merrin was a barrier. Even dead, he lived on as an influential name. His memory kept
ablaze a monstrous fire of resistance, a fire which, given luck and skill, would in a few hours
burn its chief enemy into oblivion.
    Lundren noted the message of the calendar clock: four and a half hours to live. It was a
frightening message, a burden made heavier by the inability of a bungling fool in Theeo.
Inwardly, Lundren swore. His stern unsmiling features glared from the plate, lips tightly
compressed, eyes pale and unwavering - a frightening face, inspiring hatred as well as fear;
a face that brought recollection of a barbed couplet it had evoked years ago.

  I rate the man a hateful man. I urge you not to trust his Adamantine face and his
Rhadamantine justice.

   'Only words,' thought the communicant, 'but not empty words!' You had to use words. How
else could you attack the man? With conventional weapons? Yes, if you could get near him.
Through the law? Not a chance, because for every legal gun you could swing at him, he
could swing a hundred bigger ones. He could hide behind legal barriers, untouch-able,
invulnerable and mocking.
   Which left words, and words, moulded skilfully, really could hurt him. Lundren proved it by
his furious reaction to JL: An Attack!

                    He holds inside him, hot as fever, many an olden grudge;
                     Moves swiftly to forgive himself, leaps angrily to judge -
                      When judgement is against another, and can be thrust
                                                                 home where
                      It maims a foe. Trade blow for blow!' he cries. 'Come -
                                                                  if you dare!'

   Yes, that had stung him! 'As it stung my pocket,' flashed the thought, 'stung it absolutely
empty.' But money didn't count much. It had been worth it just to fashion loathing around
prosody, to know several thousand copies had escaped the court's destruction order.
Writing the verse -even paying financially for the crime of having written it - had been a
pleasure to set against the pain of what followed.
   As though from a distance not only of space, Lundren was still speaking. He received
perfunctory affirmatives, negatives, short answers, only partial attention. It was difficult to
concentrate on both Lundren and the hatred, the memory, the resolve to finally break free of
his influence and risk the consequences. One fraction of the brain made pretence of full
attention. The remainder determined to throw off the fear-shackles, to atone for past wrongs
by confession and exposure.
    'Hell, I wish I'd never let him coerce me into this! I actually like Derek; I don't want to harm
him. Thank God I failed! I've got to shake off that rock-faced bastard's stranglehold!' Yet
always there lingered his threat - no, not merely a threat! Like Pertra's warning during the
grappler assault, it had been much more than a threat. It had been a solemn promise.
    "Financial ruin last time, eh? Oh, I believe I can manage far worse things that that!" He'd
actually laughed, a real happy laugh. "It would help me to have someone up in the heavens,
where you came from." In the heavens? Why didn't I stay in the heavens? What diabolical
fate made our paths cross? A vacation elsewhere, or a day later . .. "You under-stand, I
hope? Far worse things! Imprisonment, perhaps? Five years? Ten, fifteen? Life?"
    'What a futile protest I put up! "You've nothing on me now, so ..." "Good Lord, do I need
anything! I've an imagination. You've a past. Let's see ... attempted murder, with a motive
easily unearthed? Sounds nice."
    'Murder? It does sound nice. If I could get at him. Did he let me get close that day? Did he
search me out specially? Does it matter? "Believe me, I can make any charge stick.
Whether with the glue of true guilt or with an artificial adhesive. I have contacts. And power."'
    Then there followed reluctant acceptance and submission, because of pure fear. Lundren
had acquired someone up in the heavens. And he'd added bitingly, 'You're not really cut out
to be a Thinker, you know.'
    'Which makes two of us! The other's staring at me right now.' Joab Lundren still glared
from the visiplate, issuing orders.
    Something floated from under a table. Lundren gaped. 'God!,'
    'No,' said Derek, 'it's only me. Hello, Cleo.'
    She whirled, turning a furious face on him. Beauty blurred, buried beneath shock, terror
and sudden hate. All recent thoughts of regret died, killed by the dread of being killed.
Self-reproach melted into abomination. She trembled before a more immediate threat than
Lundren's. Derek clung to the table, held down by it, airborne vengeance. His face was pale
and expressionless, frightening in its utter lack of visible emotion. He nodded to Cleo Rosa.
'Weapon.' He glanced at Lundren. 'Finger on the trigger.'
    She tensed, ready to spring in search of escape. 'What... '
    'A lovely day to kill,' Dizzy finished, grinning.
    'Isn't it?' Defiance showed itself as a flush of hot blood rushing to her cheeks. She knew
she'd be forced to kill him now, if he didn't kill her first. The door seemed a million miles
away.
    'Cleo of Theeo. Disruptive flower.' An expression ap-peared: amusement, cold and hard.
Then his features .firmed into thoughtfulness. 'I should have guessed straight away, from the
weapon. The strangling cord, Asia-Terra. A natural choice. Still...'
    She dived head-first for the door, slapped the release. Then she was through and Derek
was cursing his intro-spection. He waved gaily to the stupefied image of Lundren and
dashed in pursuit. He hadn't trailed her here just to have his suspicions confirmed and then
lose her. This had to be the last round, for one of them. As she flew from pursuing revenge,
Cleo Rosa recalled Lundren's icy words: 'You're not really cut out to be a Thinker.' They'd
seemed foolish at the time, but she knew he'd appraised her correctly. Per-spicacity or a
shot in the dark? It didn't matter. The weight of space crushed and oppressed her, and her
hideous agora-phobia had worsened since she came to Theeo. Did that bear out Vitch's
Corollary? Probably. Anyway, she definitely wasn't cut out to be a Thinker. Through
bitterness at the net of circumstance in which fate's intrigue had enmeshed her, she thought
dejectedly: 'I'm not cut out to be a murderess either!' But evidently she'd got to be one, or
die.
    Derek was gaining. There was no one about. He wondered if it were fortunate or
unfortunate and finally decided it was a good thing. Although a bypasser's intervention would
possibly delay her, the absence of any bypassers kept it a private duel. 'Now,' he thought,
'make a grab and . . . ' He got a tight grip on her ankle with a flying tackle. The tug of his arm
slowed her. They drifted together, a picture of apparent serenity. Hate seethed inside them
both, like loath-some grubs gnawing beneath a bed of coloured peaceful flowers.
   Derek tried to twist towards the floor, to drag her down. She was too supple and slippery
in air. Somehow he had to get grounded. He didn't like boots, but he needed to struggle into
a pair. If he could reach a walkway without letting go of her, then rely solely on his superior
strength...
   Her free foot smacked him hard in the mouth. Blackness smothered his brain long
enough for her to shrug off his grip. She was loose in air. Teeth were loose in his gums. A
shower of blood globules misted around him as he shook his head to clear it. It half-cleared.
To his surprise, she didn't flee. She dropped and scrambled into boots. It looked like a
mistake, but it wasn't. Derek hesitated, unsure. Should he land away from her and boot-up,
then close in for a fight he couldn't lose? Or had she some devious plan, some reason for
handing him the chance he wanted? Maybe as soon as he'd put on a pair of boots, she'd
unboot and fly, gaining a few precious seconds. The question of where she could possibly
go to find safety never occurred to him.
   He decided to take the advantage she'd given him. Forget superior strength. Use his
skills in no-grav while she was pinned down. It was too good an opportunity to miss. He
swerved for her and dived down fast. Her hands came up to meet him and he grabbed
them. Then suddenly she dipped her body slightly, turned his momentum against him, and
he was hurtling across the room without the smallest hope of controlling his horizontal
plunge. The wall hit him and again came the blackness.
   When he climbed out of it there was pain: a throbbing in his head, shrieking streaks of
agony in his shoulder. And another surprise: she was still in view. He could only have been
out for an instant. He thought frantically: 'What now?'
   Would she seize the chance to finish him. Derek realised she could do it. He hadn't fully
recovered. The tiniest movement brought increased pain to his head. Even thinking seemed
to hurt. One arm hung useless at his side. He knew he couldn't fight her off if she closed in
for the last act. How would she do it? Had she a weapon? A little knife would be big enough.
Crack his skull against the wall a couple of times and his feeble resistance would cease.
Then she could continue cracking at her leisure until unconsciousness changed into
something more permanent.
   'Come on! Get it over if you're going to!' Panic surged in his stomach. Subjectively, time
was crawling. He'd managed so many thoughts in such a short space. He tried to push off
from the wall, but it was a weak effort and he barely moved. He just waited, watching.
   Cleo Rosa arose from the boots. Indecision danced across her beautiful but frightened
face. To kill or to run? The question was clear in her expression. She stared at Derek,
appraised his position and shrugged. She couldn't assess how bad his injuries were. He
could be feigning some of the distress. He could even be feigning all of it. To kill or to run?
   She ran. Haste fluttered a flurry of poemed papers behind her and she ran. Personal fear
conquered Lundren's com-mands and she ran. Her legs stamped down on nothing as she
channelled the impetus of boot-release and vanished from the room. She left in a graceful
fast-float, heading somewhere or anywhere or nowhere. She didn't know. For the moment, a
hiding-place would suffice. She needed time to think.
   Derek's gaze followed her as she went. Again he pushed at the wall, more successfully.
He drifted, his mind awaken-ing a little. With his good hand he snatched a hold, dragging
himself forward. By degrees his speed increased and he took up the pursuit in pain. He
knew he'd find her. It seemed wrong to kill a woman, somehow. And it seemed absolutely
right to kill a would-be murderer. To allow her to live would be gallantry - and stupidity. To
destroy her would be murder - and self-preservation. It didn't take him long to sort the
problem out.
    He knew he'd kill her.
    He left the brief interlude of misplaced casuistry behind him and went after Cleo Rosa.
Scattered raindrops of pity splashed on the fire of his determination, dampening his blazing
resolve. An inner conflict raged. He had to squash it He squashed it.
    There could be no mercy, no handing her over to authority. This was a battle he had to win
alone. He viewed it as being above the law. Or below it. At any rate, outside it. 'I am a law
unto myself. I kill or I am killed.' He recognised the fabrication of specious reasoning to cloak
bloodlust, but he deliberately overlooked it. He went after Cleo Rosa, to forestall eventual
murder by immediate murder. Out of the room painfully, into a corridor and there she was!
    She spotted him, darting away grip-launched. Her dark head twisted, left, right, left.
Where to hide, even momen-tarily? There didn't seem to be anywhere. There was nowhere.
Wherever she went, he'd follow. They both had equal reason to keep going, but she knew
who had the greater stamina. She was emotionally and physically drained. Where could she
hide? In desperation she thumbed the release of the nearest door. Somewhere to go. Even
a second's respite. A body-shrug, a fluttering of legs and she'd gone. Her feet disappeared,
kicking, and the door closed.
    Derek stopped outside, resting. Musingly, he said, 'I wonder if Silver's at home?'
Apparently not, or she'd be helping out the stricken Cleo Rosa by now. Cleo wouldn't be
able to help herself. The slam of initial gas-shock wouldn't let her. He sang a nursery rhyme
and thought a chain-thought: 'Methane, ammonia, lung-step, insalubrious for human life,
choke. You've escaped me, Cleo,' he sighed, 'but you won't escape the other.' Obviously
she wouldn't be going anywhere, except the longest journey of all, with a one-way ticket.
Relaxed, he waited a minute or so, whistling, while Cleo Rosa died.
    He thought: 'Well, I didn't kill her, did I? She just made a mistake.' If caused him
disappointment rather than relief. He'd wanted to kill her. He still did. It was difficult to accept
the fact that he couldn't. She was no longer alive to be killed. Anyway, what ought to be done
about the body? Nothing, be decided. It would give Silver a shock, but she was tough
enough to take it. Forget Cleo Rosa, then. But don't forget the power behind her!
    Derek went to Communications, retrieving the poemed papers. He knew he couldn't get
through to Lundren himself, so he punched digits and obtained the lowest level of
govern-ment in Attica. The plate presently revealed a lowly clerk, 'Who is this? Can I help
you?'
    'It doesn't matter. And yes, I want a message pushing up as far as the top, to Lundren.
See it reaches him; it's important.'
    'This is highly irregular. I should at least have your name and...'
    'It wouldn't suit you. Also I'm not parting. Tell him this: "She's dead. His hands in
Thoughtworld. They're dead." Got it?'
    'I think so, yes. But assuming this gibberish reaches Mr Lundren...'
    'He'll understand.'
    Lundren understood. His face paled as he thought of Derek's audacity; typical Merrin
behaviour. He wondered what contact Lev's cousin had with Lev's spiritual descend-ants.
Had the girl been murdered this morning according to a plan, to coincide with . . . ?
Voicelessly, the clock said, 'You have less than four hours to live!'
    A pen snapped like a rifle-shot in Lundren's shaking hands. The minutes seemed to be
slipping by unusually rapidly. Words took form on the wall, projected by a fright-ened mind:
'You've Had a Long Day, Lundren. Prepare for Night.'
    Night was scheduled to arrive this morning. 'On 14-4-245, at exactly six and seven-tenths
hours after dawn, the death occurred under violent circumstances of... ' Joab Lundren flung
aside the two pieces of the pen. He felt edgy. Surely the rebels couldn't penetrate so far?
And then he amended it: surely they could! They'd already proved it. They could kill him, all
right.
    'Four hours,' he thought desperately. 'Less!' He had four hours in which to save himself, to
hide, to escape, to survive. Meanwhile, troubles piled up in the crumbling State of New
Athens.
    Rebel activity right now must be frenzied. Confed ships had touched down in twelve
cities. Confed authorities were following up leads, sniffing at a trail. Lundren knew the trail
had an end - his end! If he was alive to be ended.
    And Derek Merrin still lived. 'There's a circle closing in,' thought Lundren. 'I'm in the
middle of it.' He couldn't do anything to halt the shrinking ring. All he could do was get out of
the centre. Or could he? Wouldn't it simply be step-ping out of a hot centre into a cooler one,
whose heat would increase when he stumbled into it?
    He didn't know. He had to chance it. If nothing else, he might be able to terminate the
insufferable existence of Dizzy Derek. At any rate, it was a decision. He hoped it proved
correct and thought: 'It's bound to. I won't be here when the clock tolls!' Finally he concluded
that he'd no choice. Safety might not lie in Theeo, but it certainly didn't lie in Attica.
    He felt better for the decision. How could it be wrong? It would save his life. That was the
only criterion. It would save his life.
Chapter Eleven
    He arrived unannounced, a distinguished visitor undistin-guished by the usual trappings
of travel and reception. For Lundren, the lift-off from Attica had been abnormally quiet and
informal; an almost furtive affair, with few observers -several trusted officials, the chief
officers of the ship which had brought him. It waited outside Theeo, insignificant against the
powerful array of Squadron 17. The rebels should soon be attempting the life of a man who
wasn't there. Lundren wished them good fortune. He made straight for Pertra and found him
moodily prowling walkways. The Director was in an unused Think chamber, pensively
scrutin-ising the walls as if they held the answers to a million questions. Lundren, clumsy in
mag-boots, broke into his thought-world. 'Pertra!'
    'Huh?' Startled, Pertra turned. More startled, he said, 'Lundren?'
    'Prime Minister Lundren, actually,' the newcomer re-turned smoothly. 'One should never
forget respect for those who hold one's career in their hands.' Lundren showed his hand
palm-upwards, smacking a fist into it. 'A career is smashed, thus!' A sly smile appeared.
    Pertra was out of patience. He thought: 'You've changed your tone, haven't you?' He
remembered the spurious cor-diality over the visiplate, the anxious face belying it. Now, the
anxiety had gained supremacy; Lundren's attitude was proof. Craftily, Lundren changed his
expression. He forced himself to relax, forcing his voice to become ingratiating. 'Well,
Professor, can I be of help? You seem to have diffi-culties up here.'
    'Nothing insurmountable. The Confed have their eyes on things.'
    'Over the heads of the Thirteen? Is that advisable? Your position...'
    'Is unimportant,' Pertra said heatedly, refusing to be threatened. 'And yes, it is advisable!
Not to mention its being the correct procedure.' He returned Lundren's glare with equal
firmness. 'After all, the Confed quite obviously is over the heads of the Thirteen! Or would
you disagree?' He knew he was virtually sacrificing his Directorship, but somehow it didn't
seem to matter.
    'Yes, I'd disagree so far as Theeo is concerned! The Thirteen created this installation.
They take the decisions regarding it.'
    'In other words, I take the decisions regarding it. I am the person on the spot,
Thirteen-appointed. And I decided to call in the Confed, because events of this magnitude
are their responsibility, not ours... yours!'
    'I'm glad you see the distinction, Pertra.'
    'I do. I recognise the writing when it's on the wall.'
    For some reason Pertra couldn't grasp, Lundren stiffened. Fear tied a painful knot in
Lundren's belly. Perhaps Theeo could transpire to be every bit as perilous as Attica?
    Pertra saw the fear and enjoyed it. 'Rest assured, no sabotage or attempted theft will be
unpunished. The Confed have . . . ' He stopped as the door hissed open. Erranlal entered
quietly, behind Lundren. 'Nice sense of drama,' thought Pertra, then resumed. 'The Confed
have sent us themselves, embodied in a single...'
    'Tuahi,' said the Tuahi. The word momentarily immobi-lised Lundren. His cheeks
crimsoned, then coloured through pallor to a sickly grey. Fighting for control, he turned
around slowly and awkwardly. His eyes widened with shock. 'Tynar!'
    'Not so. Erranlal. Merely a brother. Merely, too, a repre-sentative of the Confed with
absolute discretion and absolute powers.' The effort at intimidation succeeded with Lundren
where it had failed with Derek. 'It occurs to me that I must uncover everything amiss in
Theeo. Then, of course, act accordingly. According to my own initiative. With...
    Erranlal paused, piercing Lundren with a sharp stare that made him wriggle, 'absolute
powers!'
    Gradually Lundren mastered himself, shrugging off the shock. 'I see. Our interests
coincide, then. These crimes by the Empire must cease. You and I, between us, will bring it
about.'
    'An excellent idea! Although who mentioned the Empire, pray?' Erranlal spoke softly and
carefully, baiting the other. 'The Empire?' he prompted.
    'Naturally! Who else? It's common knowledge that Ben-Ihaut does all it can to antagonise
the Confed. Any fool can see it's Saril who's responsible for both the sabotage and the more
serious crimes!'
    'This fool can't see it.' The Tuahi smiled a very small smile, concealing a very large
amusement. 'They may want Theeo, yes; I concede it. But Saril, in my estimation, is hardly
warped enough to decree the theft of Theeo and its partial disablement, The former, yes,
possibly. The latter, no, no.'
    'Oh, nonsense!' rapped Lundren. 'I'll personally ensure that the Confed sends a strongly
worded note to Benlhaut. This intolerable mistreatment of Theeo must end! I possess
influence, remember. The Emperor - whether or not you can perceive his culpability - has to
be warned off. Scared off, if necessary! If it needs a commencement of hostili-ties
    'You'll ensure it?' Erranlal asked with dangerous calm. 'Even I couldn't do it. Nor would I,
having retained a little sanity in my head. Have you considered the implications of full-scale
war?' Lundren considered them, but they scarcely registered.
    Erranlal allowed a long deliberate silence to unnerve Lundren before he spoke again. 'On
the question of culpa-bility for attempted theft, I reserve judgement. On the question of
sabotage, however, I pass judgement! On you, ex-Prime Minister, on you!'
    'You're out of your mind!'
    'Not at all, although I suspect you are! May I disrespect-fully suggest Erranlal's
Hypothesis? Not so brilliant as my brother's, but much easier to verify. It reads like this: That
one Joab Lundren, disappointed would-be Thinker, resent-ful of another's renown as Father
of Thoughtworld, sadly and badly overestimated his own powers and his supposed influence
with Confed Central...'
    'You're raving!'
    '... and dreamed up a plan whereby he could appear as, shall we say, Saviour of
Thoughtworld? by relying on imaginary influence in order to persuade the Confed to act on
an unsubstantiated accusation against the Empire, to Thoughtworld's presumed benefit.'
    Lundren laughed. It sounded off-key, harsh and forced. 'I've never heard...'
    'Truth stated so bluntly? No, perhaps not. I further suggest that your plan is as unsound as
your brain. On New Athens, you're supreme. Within the Thirteen, you're probably also
supreme. But when it comes to the Confed, ex-Prime Minis-ter, you're a silent voice yelling
into ears your voice can't reach.'
    'Congratulations on your imagination, Erranlal! I fancy it wouldn't stretch to imaginary
evidence, would it?'
    'I confess it wouldn't. Neither does it need to. Allow me to present someone.'
    On cue, Derek swam in. He circled Lundren fast, like a troublesome insect. 'I've been
promoted. I now hold the title of Evidence, Finger on the Trigger, although the weapon's not
functioning too well now.' He came to horizontal attention by Lundren's shoulder and hurt his
own forehead with a crisp sarcastic salute. Then he hurtled ceilingwards and clung on it,
quiet.
    'My evidence,' observed Erranlal. 'He tells an interesting tale.'
    'That idiot? His word against mine?' Again Lundren laughed harshly.
    'Why not? He's a Thinker, you aren't. That carries weight.'
    'This carries more!' Suddenly there was a pistol in Lun-dren's hand. It cracked as he
leaned backwards to fire up at Derek. He missed, but the bullet embarked upon the whin-ing
and unpredictable trajectory Dizzy knew only too well. Lundren's abrupt gasp proved he
hadn't expected to loose random death, with odds of only three-to-one against it finding the
person who'd released it. He began to fumble along the walkway towards a door, Erranlal
and Pertra following, not chasing him but just trying to escape a bullet that was impartially
chasing anybody. It whistled in air, clattered on steel, a murderous mote.

  The door opened and Lundren stumbled through. Erranlal got out next. Pertra was a yard
short of the door when the bullet stopped with a sickening sound: the squelch of ripped flesh,
the crackle of snapped bone. Pertra screamed and Erranlal turned back. The Director
irascibly waved off his attentions. 'My wrist, that's all. Catch that maniac. I'm okay.'
    Clutching his wrist and trailing bloodmist, Pertra brought up the rear of a bizarre
procession in the corridor: Lundren in the lead, shrewdly firing as he staggered, patterning
the air behind him with a singing spray of potential extinction; Erranlal not far off,
walkway-bound, dodging automatically although the bullet couldn't be dodged; Derek
zigzagging just above floor-level, capable of catching up but sensibly holding back.
    Eventually Lundren halted his grounded flight. He placed himself solidly against a wall and
menaced the others with the gun. Behind them, death shrieked as though with dis-pleasure
at finding nowhere to settle. Bullets twanged, too far away now to be dangerous. Blood
surrounded Pertra. Erranlal's clothes showed several lacerations. Derek was unhurt.
    'Give yourself up,' the Tuahi urged. There's no escape and leniency might be considered.
Diminished responsi-bility ...' An oath from Lundren cut off the plea. Dizzy and Pertra
exchanged scared glances. Next to Lundren was a door. They knew where it led and
doubtless he did, too. He'd most likely halted here deliberately, by design rather than by
accident. If he went through in his demented and desperate state he could cause disaster.
    They didn't realise how large a disaster until he told them. 'You know what's through
here?' They nodded. 'You know that a handful of commands to those computers can blow
Theeo way out of position? A stabiliser used for purposes the exact opposite of stability?'
    Pained, Pertra thought: 'He's crazy! He'd really whip us out of true, probably to fall into a
star. Himself as well.' Aloud he shouted: 'Think of yourself, man! Do you want to die?'
    'No, but I don't intend to live in disgrace. I believe I'd rather die than that. Taking Theeo
with me, of course!' Lundren wet his lips. 'Then there's no one to sully my name. Only a
terrible accident. Theeo ...'
    'Swept into the heart of a star,' interrupted Pertra.
    'You ignorant fool! I mean something more positive than that. Space contains plenty of
emptiness; we might drift forever without getting drawn into starheart. I mean some-thing
more immediate. Something total and instant. If I give commands to the computers...'
    'You can't,' Erranlal stated calmly. 'They respond to six-teen voice patterns, no more.'
    'Seventeen. You forget I was here, and influential, when Theeo was constructed.' Briefly,
Lundren regretted the neces-sity of having to destroy the planetoid. He'd foreseen the
possibility and arranged for it, but it should have been an Unsuspecting Cleo Rosa, not
himself, who did it. By rights, he should have been safe on New Athens, except he couldn't
be safe on New Athens today. And perhaps never again.
    Agony lanced Pertra's arm. 'They'll respond to you?'
    'Of course! To A-block, B-block, the Director. And me. You know what happens when I
speak a pre-set eleven-figure sequence into the master comp?' Apprehensive silence met
him and he shattered it with a shout. 'Bang! Up she goes! The lot! Theeo and everybody in
it. Vaporised, just like that!' He snapped a finger and thumb. 'A rather cunningly concealed
device. Utter destruction.' He was shaking now, his voice approaching hysteria. 'Me too, but
so what?'
    Erranlal said, 'I don't believe you.'
    'As you wish. Maybe you won't believe you're dead, but I assure you it'll make no
difference. You're as good as dead now. We all are.'
    'Lundren, suppose I let you free? Out of Thoughtworld, into your ship, out of the area
altogether. No pursuit, I promise you. You helped to create this place; does that mean
nothing? Have you no pride in it? Could you annihilate the greatest advance in centuries? I
give you my pledge and that of the Confed: no pursuit, if we can have the chance to take
those computers to pieces and nullify your device.'
    At Erranlal's humility and desperation, Lundren smiled with genuine pleasure. 'Oh, a
lovely speech! But I don't trust you. Once I'm on my way, all I'll get for my generosity is a
concentrated burst of firepower from Squadron 17.'
    He moved towards the door, but the gun and his eyes remained steady. 'The numbers of
death,' he chuckled. 'The figures of destruction.' In the dream-haze of madness and
imminent suicide, he began to giggle. The numbers squeezed out amid a stream of chilly
laughter. '9-2-8-3-7-4-6-5-5-0-1. The key to Kingdom Come! The inward-facing blast whose
heat detonates a crust-hidden Armageddon!'
    His cachinnation rang out and Derek swooped. Pertra saw his chance, his last chance,
and moved as quickly as he could, a pain-crippled boot-hobble. Erranlal was slightly more
agile as he came in at the no-gun side. In air, Derek dived down, shrieking a crazy terrifying
noise which tem-porarily disconcerted the man he had to kill. Lundren tried to cover them all
at once while struggling with the door release. The pistol splashed fire twice and Pertra took
both shots. He stayed erect, boot-held, swaying. He was uncon-scious, flesh-torn at left
wrist, right shoulder and right side. A brisk glance and Erranlal thought: 'He'll live. Someone
else won't.'
    The gun sailed off fast, released from Lundren's grasp by an expert chop from Dizzy. It
numbed the arm. A straight-fingered jab to the throat drew a choking gasp from Lundren. A
fist to the jaw rattled his head back into the wall. His gaze filmed over with fading awareness
and Dizzy kept going. By the time he stopped, Joab Lundren, bloody-faced but alive, had
been unconscious for five minutes. Erranlal didn't interfere. Partly satisfied, Derek retrieved
the gun. The touch of it flooded his mind with memories: Lev, Karl, Robert, 238, a dead
nurse, bulging eyes, a kiss that was horror from a beautiful girl. Through it all, he knew
exactly what he was doing. Despite it all, he knew exactly what he was going to do. He
clutched Lundren's collar and put the gun to his lined head. Erranlal used his absolute
discretion and looked the other way. When he turned round, he asked Derek to call medical
attention for Pertra. Similar treatment for Lundren would have been a superfluity. Robots
came along and gently bore the Director away. Elsewhere, others were summoning
qualified physicians among the Thinkers. Pertra would be taken care of. Erranlal watched
more robots arrive to fetch the corpse.
    'I misjudged you, Dizzy, on our first meeting. I apologise. That done, we'll bring in
electronics experts from 17 out there. They should manage to get at the trouble, irrespective
of our not remembering the sequence. A day or two and...'
    'Why bother?' broke in Derek. 'It's quicker simply to locate the device, the bomb or
whatever, and then have heavy tackle brought in from 17 to dig it up.' Humming, he went
through the door. 'I'll see to it.'
    'How?' Beset by sudden doubts, the Tuahi followed.
    'Easy.' Dizzy wrapped one leg round part of the master computer, for anchorage. 'It's in
the crust. We find out where. We dig. Easy.' He finished the tune he was hum-ming, then
recited, '9-2-8-3-7-4-6-5-5-0-1.'
    'You remember it?'
    'Obviously.' He seemed surprised that Erranlal hadn't. 'Begin with the highest single
number, 9, then decrease it by one, skipping a place each time, as far as the ninth digit, 5.
The second number is the lowest that'll allow you to climb upwards by one each time,
alternating, and match the ninth digit, 5, with an eighth digit of 5. See? Then cap it off with
the two you haven't used so far, 0 and 1. It's easy.'
    'Oh,' said Erranlal faintly. 'Only how do we locate the device?'
    'Easy. Like this.' Derek picked up the computer mike and to Erranlal's horror began to
rapidly spit out numbers: '9-2-8-3-7-4-6-5-5-0...'
    'Derek!'
    '10,' said Derek, and put the mike back. 'What's wrong?'
    'Nothing, apparently.' The Tuahi looked around. Every-thing was fine. 'What didn't you
do?' He gave a sickly grin. 'And what did you do?'
    'I didn't say the final number - 1. If I had...' Dizzy gestured eloquently. 'And I did locate
Joab's pet. Look!' He pointed to a map on the wall, showing all Thoughtworld's external blast
tubes and other surface features. A red light burned steadily. 'That's the tube I activated with
the first nine digits. And that,' his finger dropped, indicating green letters below the
projection, 'gives force and duration of blast; in this case, a string of noughts. No force, no
duration, no blast. It's controlled by the tenth digit, the 0. A blast of force 0, for 0 seconds.
That's no blast at all.'
   'Very wise,' commented Erranlal drily. 'It nearly makes sense.'
   'Oh, it's perfectly clear. You see, the comps won't accept a sequence with eleven
numbers, except for that one specially rigged death-series conjured up by somebody who
needn't concern us any more.'
   'Hmmm. They won't accept eleven, save in the Lundren series? So you couldn't previously
have blown yourselves up accidentally unless you'd fallen into a millions-to-one tragic error
and used the special eleven?'
   'Which is improbable. I mean, under what other circum-stances would any of us have
ordered a force-0 blast for no time flat, a nought for the tenth digit? Four numbers to select
the tube; the next five to align it; the next to control the blast potency - force 1 to force 9.
Never force 0.'
   'I concede. Only why the 10 you spoke into the mike?'
   'No reason. It could have been 10, 11, 12 or upwards. The comps only understand 0 to 9.
Anything above 9 is meaningless. The 10 was appropriate, though. Thirty-two years of
Thoughtworld, twenty-one Directors. Thirty-two minus twenty-one leaves eleven. Take away
another one for Lundren, who's been subtracted anyway. That leaves ten. See?'
   'Almost.' Erranlal decided never to try and fathom Dizzy's brain.
   Derek touched the red light. Well, we know where the bomb is.'
   'We do indeed. Under the plaque.'
                                                     *
   Out on the surface, Erranlal thought angrily: 'I should have guessed!' Self-reproach scored
his mind: 'I should have known, I should have seen! I was here, for God's sake! The bastard
did it right under my insensitive nose!' The fact that guessing wasn't part of his cautious
nature offered no mitiga-tion. He still cursed himself for not guessing. He remem-bered the
funeral, the service and the gathered dignitaries. He'd been present on behalf of his late
brother, Tynar, Father of Thoughtworld. He remembered meeting Lundren and thought that
his brain must have folded some time since 212. A few hours ago, Lundren had been
shocked to see an unexpected Tuahi. Irrationally, he'd associated the sight with the dead
Tynar rather than the living Erranlal.
   Soundlessly, a sturdy mechanism drilled holes in Thoughtworld.
   The thought of a bomb somewhere beneath his feet cooled Erranlal's flesh. It was all very
well to remind himself that a heat-detonated device shouldn't explode because of vibra-tion.
The fact remained that it might.
   Squadron 17 formed an unnecessary show of power, in motionless formation close by.
Lundren's ship was still wait-ing, dwarfed, because nobody had bothered to inform the pilot
about his passenger's decease.
   A detail from 17 manned the drill, moving it to and fro. Shafts dotted the vicinity of the
plaque, ready for excavators to stick steel tongues in and flick out rock and rubble. Among
the rubbish, a deadly device ought to be lurking. Disbelief touched the Tuahi. Surely Lundren
had been bluffing? After the incredulity came an inner command, to test the veracity of his
claim: 'Get Derek to go and warble eleven digits!' Disbelief vanished, put to flight by an
in-creased cooling of Erranlal's flesh. He shivered inside the suit and glanced around.
   Thinkers were everywhere, watching. Those from A-block and B-block seemed filled with
a gleeful excitement incom-patible with the presence of a device capable of vaporising
Theeo. Erranlal decided it must be because a guilt-shadow had lifted from them as he'd
released the news of the saboteur's capture and execution. The survivors now knew they
weren't suspects.
   Characteristically, Erranlal worried about his lifeline as he watched Thoughtworlders
watching the workers from 17. He also worried in case the drills sliced too deep and holed
Theeo. He could only hope the drillers knew what they were doing. They ought to. He'd told
them often enough.
    Derek seemed the happiest Thinker of all - laughing, help-ing, grip-skipping like a child,
as if another's death had torn a burden from his brain. Hands touching, Arkon Vitch and
Silver kept up a constant intercom conversation. Occasion-ally their helmets touched, their
eyes met. And Vitch frowned, thinking of unkissable lips. The single exception to the
near-delirium of relief was Gormal, a gigantic lone-liness, aloof. Withdrawn physically and
mentally, he stood apart, subdued, quiet and remembering.
    Erranlal wondered about the Empire. He felt safer when he stared at Squadron 17, and
felt terribly insecure when he glanced at the ground. With twisted logic, he blamed himself
for Lundren's having planted the device so many years ago, before the shovels sealed the
tomb supposedly for all time.
    Squadron 17 was a mighty metal proximity, invincible. Lundren's ship waited, a miniature
uselessness. Black space stared with unwavering star-eyes.
    The Tuahi ordered the diggers in. 'Take it easy. One hole at once. You've all year if you
need it.' Excavators lumbered noiselessly forward. Improvised claws held them to
Thought-world, a multiplicity of jointed legs and talons embedded deep into rock. Erranlal
considered his engineers had done a quick praiseworthy job - only it wasn't finished yet. The
chancy part was just starting.
    Surrounding the work area, ten small gadgets held out extensible magno-grabs. Erranlal
worried. 'When it comes, don't miss it. Catch it!' He realised it might be no hazard even if it
escaped. It could drift innocuously forever, or explode harmlessly in starheart. Or it could get
tangled up near the heat-source of an unsuspecting vessel, or tumble into a planet's
gravitational field and obliterate a city. He knew the odds were long, but he still didn't like
them.
    Carefully, a scoop probed the first hole, slashing up tons of rubble, It dwindled towards
infinity, a muck-scatter, a rock-mess. Nobody troubled to try and stop it. Erranlal breathed
slightly.
    The second hole produced more debris, nothing of note. Erranlal breathed more
confidently. Holes three, four and five yielded similar rubbish. The Tuahi began to feel
com-placent.
    The plaque went spinning. One of the grab-handlers made a quick, instinctive snatch,
then realised his mistake. The grab retracted. Ten grabs waited. Erranlal heard unruffled
conversations and quiet comments. The spectators made him less anxious because of their
own lack of anxiety.
    Silver screamed when the first corpse leapt out. A mute mummy, it grimaced with bared
teeth. Open eyes gazed at nobody and startled everybody. Perfectly preserved, it swam into
space without strokes. Its limbs were set into fantastic attitudes, right-angled, wrong-angled,
impossible in life, ghastly yet possible in death - a mortal erstwhile plasticity, rock-moulded.
Several more cadavers followed, grinning hideously and then mercifully vanished. Only Dizzy
Derek counted them: six. Not that it mattered. Squadron 17 hung frozen in void, a tableau of
technological skill, silent and still.
    Corpses eight and nine wobbled outwards into darkness, escorted by equally lifeless
waste. The work area was a hole that gaped like a strangled dead mouth. Erranlal
wondered whether the whole exercise was doomed to discover nothing, since nothing had
been hidden. He didn't know what to think. Temptation hammered him: 'Derek and his
eleven digits. You'll learn the truth then. If it doesn't kill you.'
    When the tenth body was exhumed, Gormal groaned. His legs buckled, but he remained
upright. Derek stared in dumb amazement at a dead face: dark, oval, black-eyed and
topped by ebon hair - the features of Cleo Rosa, but arranged differently into masculinity
and middle age, rearranged into death.
    Dizzy felt cold and thought: 'You poor kid! What was he? grandfather, uncle? Too long
ago to be your father.' The reason for JL: An Attack! became clear - if he made allow-ance
for the distorted ratiocination of an off-balance brain. One of Cleo's relatives had been killed
working on Thoughtworld - killed accidentally, but that might not alter the viewpoint of
diseased thinking; killed at least ten years before her birth, but that might not alter anything
either. And not killed personally by Lundren, although Derek could make out the cerebral
pattern she must have woven. With Tynar dead, Lundren typified Theeo. Theeo had taken
one of her family. Therefore, by convoluted false reasoning, Lundren had been responsible
for the death.
    It made a crazy sort of sense. Dizzy couldn't imagine what hold Lundren must have had on
her. Enough to make her into a potential assassin. Enough to scare her into the attempts at
murder. Enough to get her killed!
    The last corpse came up riding a bomb. In a tangle of debris, it looped skywards on a
metal case. All ten grabs lashed out magnetic hands. Magnoplates slammed into the corpse
and cut it viciously. Pieces of undecayed dead flesh splashed across the void.
    Derek hardly saw them. He was still watching the dimin-ishing dot of a dark man with
ebon hair. He knew he hadn't accounted for Cleo Rosa's crimes completely. Perhaps she'd
worsened since arriving in Thoughtworld. Perhaps Vitch's Corollary bore a good deal of
truth. An unanswerable ques-tion. The dark corpse disappeared into the unanswerable
question which was the universe.
    A grab whisked to within inches of the bomb and Theeo stood still. It was like the
stoppage of time, or the end. It was like abrupt entropy. It stopped all sentient movement not
by bodily paralysis but by psychological shock. Some-thing had happened - something bad!
    Erranlal thought: 'Tractor beam!' He looked up and saw seven ships low over Theeo. Too
lethal to be doubted, the blunt snouts of scores of cannons held steady on the planet-oid.
They maintained a close looming threat while the beam maintained a grip Squadron 17
didn't dare break. Any missile a fraction of a degree adrift would knock Thought-world into
early eternity. If they tried to snip the beam, the cannons would snip Thoughtworld in the
same instant.
    The Tuahi could sympathise with his commanders' dilemma: unidentified vessels moving
in, whether or not to fire? They could be friends, they could be enemies. It was a nasty
situation. Throw in the additional complication of Theeo's nearness and he couldn't blame
them for just hold-ing fire and hoping. 'Benlhaut?' he asked himself, thinking aloud.
    'No.' It was Derek, beside Erranlal, surprising him. Dizzy's expression revealed strange,
hurtful and inexplicable emo-tions. He stared in astonishment at the blacked-out markings of
the seven ships. 'I recognise them. I know them. I...' Then his words broke down into a
muffled gasp and silence.
    Erranlal said uncertainly, 'Not Benlhaut?'
    'No. Rebels.'
Chapter Twelve
    'Rebels?' echoed the Tuahi.
    'That's right. From New Athens. Lev's successors.' Troubled, Derek recalled his last view
of three of the ships: camouflaged, hidden in a jungle against the day when it might become
necessary to flee the planet. He thought: 'Well, it became necessary. We just didn't get the
breaks.' He could imagine the post-238 insurrectionists regrouping, growing and stealing
more ships. Sadly, it seemed their ambitions had grown, too.
    Above Theeo, everything hung in dread stasis: the seven rebels, the ineffectual
invincibility of Squadron 17 and im-partial space. On the surface, Erranlal snapped his mind
into activity and sorted out his priorities. Let stalemate endure; he couldn't change it. At the
moment it was vitally im-portant to capture Lundren's device. If it escaped now, it would
almost certainly find some means of detonating amongst the rebel vessels; not in itself a
bad thing, but it wouldn't be too good for Thoughtworld.
    He yelled into the intercom, 'Get that bomb! Forget the rest!' Incredibly, it was still within
reach. Mere seconds had passed since the tractor beam first appeared, agonisingly long
seconds. The nearest magno-grab jabbed for the bomb, missed and extended itself
upwards after fleeing metal. It skimmed it, captured it, then another grab clashed with it. The
second one snatched the device securely while the first, knocked out of control, began to rip
itself loose of the rock. Claws came free and the plate-tipped arm swung wildly. Erranlal
heard the machine's handler shriek in sudden panic. Eventually, somewhere out in the void,
the panic would die slowly and the handler would die more slowly.
    The machine lifted into emptiness on its final journey and Erranlal noticed further tragedy.
A group of nearby specta-tors swung dead or injured on slender lifelines. He felt sickened
by the awful wounds caused by the swinging arm. Then he saw the two healthy, uninjured,
living people the machine had killed.
    Severed lines trailed stiffly as Arkon Vitch and Silver departed in life to death. Already
they were beyond the limit of the extensible grabs. They couldn't be magnetically brought
back. They were so close, yet so lost.
    Arkon's arms hugged Silver to him, suit to suit. Helmets met. Simultaneously, both visors
slid open, opened deliber-ately. Erranlal couldn't understand it. Then all at once he could.
Arkon Vitch kissed Silver - their first kiss and their last. Her arms clung and his arms clung.
Inextricably, they tumbled upwards. Their lips also clung with desperate dying desire.
Erranlal watched with dampness in his eyes as the two bodies dwindled; floating, twisting,
curling, swirling, embracing, together, dead.
    It was a first/last kiss that might last forever.

   'What now?' thought Erranlal. There were plenty of possi-bilities, none of them pleasant.
Squadron 17 could take a chance. Result: probable rebel losses from nought to seven,
certain total loss of Theeo. The rebels could fire. Result: certain loss of seven ships, certain
loss of Theeo. Again, the rebels could simply drag Thoughtworld away and defy 17 to shoot.
Result: probable successful theft of Theeo, definite extinction for everyone on the surface,
who would be swept off. Whichever way he looked, it looked grim.
   Derek's certainty of the rectitude of rebellion was failing. By all means turn against a
tyrant like Lundren. But why perpetrate such monstrous crimes as the abduction of
Thoughtworld and its Thinkers? Why attack and kill? Obvi-ously the aims had changed since
Lev was in charge.
   Derek glanced at the carnage and glanced at the seven ships. It hurt to connect the two,
but he couldn't avoid the association. A faction with whom he'd fought in 238 was now
fighting against him and against innocent Thoughtworlders. He couldn't think of any reason
to bring a New Athenian problem, a local war, out into space. Involving Theeo must
inevitably involve the Confed. And if the rebels thought they could beat the Confed, they'd
lost touch with reality.
    While Squadron 17 and the seven enemy vessels stayed immobile, frenzied work went
on below, on Theeo. Corpses were being collected, cut free of lifelines and carried down the
hole. Gradually the dead were being separated from the dying and the injured. Little by little,
some people in the injured category would slip through into the dying. Some of the dying
would slip through into the dead.
    Derek looked for Gormal, but couldn't find him any-where. He grip-walked moodily to the
spot where he'd last seen him, a large quiet sorrow. Derek knew something had been
shaping between Gormal and Cleo, something that couldn't be prevented by racial
differences. It was dead now, because Cleo was. It couldn't shape into anything but solitary
grief. He'd noted the grief in Gormal's attitude. noted the shock when the tenth body had
come up out of the hole. He had more than a suspicion of what he'd find where Gormal
should be, but where Gormal quite clearly wasn't. Stunned despite the expectation, he found
it: an empty lifeline, not severed, simply unfastened. Of his own volition, Gormal had followed
Cleo Rosa into death, fol-lowed the corpse of a dark man out into darkness, left behind the
emptiness of life and chosen the emptiness of the universe.
    Sadness descended on Derek; Gormal's suicide, Arkon and Silver grab-killed, Cleo
killed by accident whilst rushing from murder - A-block depleted, reduced to one Thinker:
himself.
    Apprehensively, Erranlal watched annihilation come to-wards him. Stuck to a
magno-plate, Lundren's bomb was lowered to the ground, lashed down to grips. He'd feel
safer when experts up in 17 had rendered it harmless. It sat beside him like encased doom,
tied by bonds it could burst into vapour. He didn't like it. He wished it were as dead as
Lundren. Through his fear, an irony amused him: Lundren had intended to 'save' Theeo from
the Empire, never realising that the threat had been from outside the Empire, from his own
hated foe, no less. If he were still alive, he'd be facing old enemies on a new battleground.
    'That's enough wandering,' the Tuahi told himself, 'more urgent matters press!' Such as
getting out of what appeared to be an insoluble predicament; such as persuading the rebels
to stop being naughty and give Thoughtworld back; such as contacting 17 and telling
everybody for God's sake not to do anything rash or supposedly heroic; such as think-ing his
way out of a mind-maze whose entrances and exits seemed to have all been blocked up.
    'Absolute powers' he thought despondently. It was a nice phrase, but his powers didn't
feel very absolute just now. They felt negligible. He prayed for guidance but couldn't be
altogether sure where he wanted guiding, except out! Some-how, in some fashion, by
someone.
    Unfortunately, everybody else would be relying on him! The tractor beam never relaxed.
The seven ships did nothing. The fabulous armament concentration of Squadron 17 was
worthless. It looked like a deadlock with no key to undo it. Erranlal thought round and round
in circles, getting no-where. Then he saw the flitter arcing down from 17. Obvi-ously
somebody, somewhere, had done something.

     The inside of the rebel ship was a shambles. Erranlal con-trasted it with the tidy efficiency
of military vessels. These were plainly desperate creatures fighting a desperate
against-the-odds action with anything they could lay their thieving hands on. Still, they had at
least taken the initiative by contacting the Squadron, demanding to speak to the highest
official obtainable in one of their own ships, on their own terms. They were in a strong
position to demand. Erranlal was acutely conscious of his single link with 17: the flitter. It
wasn't much. If the rebels took it into their heads to kidnap him, they'd very likely get away
with it. And with him. And with Theeo. He knew he'd need every atom of negotiating skill he
could raise. He'd have to think swiftly, talk well, concede where necessary, risk turning tough
if it seemed advisable.
     Faces stared at him: stern, determined, keen-eyed. No weapons were in evidence here,
but he was alone with about three dozen rebels. They'd manage him bare-handed if they
had to. He realised he was in a serious spot not only for himself personally, but also for
Theeo, the Confed, the very concept of an authority which would tolerate no recalci-trance.
The rebels stared, waiting for him to make the first move.
     He pulled out papers and waved them. 'Erranlal. Confed Plenipotentiary. Tynar's brother,
if that counts for anything.' Apparently it didn't. 'Now, shall we get to business?' 'Be brisk,' he
thought. 'Pretend you're in control of the situation. And of yourself. Even if you're not. Be firm
until the time comes to bend.' Mentally, he added a caution: 'But not too firm!' He must
speak to them on equal terms, treat them as equals not as inferiors. A quick glance showed
him exactly who was superior to whom at the moment.
     'You're Erranlal,' said one of the rebels, a tall, scarred, red-faced human. He looked a
no-nonsense type, clearly the leader. 'I've seen pictures. You're no imposter.' He gazed
around at his colleagues. 'Hard but fair. A shrewd customer. He'll be okay.' The summary
over, he fell silent, waiting.
     The Tuahi felt awkward, vulnerable and out of his depth. It seemed he'd got to play all the
opening shots, but he wasn't certain what the game was. He might make the right moves but
in the wrong game. 'Well, I'm here. At your mercy, as it were. I'll grant you were sensible to
initiate some form of action. We couldn't have stayed deadlocked forever. Please state your
requests. Feel free to ask.'
     'We're not asking,' said the red-faced man. 'We want you here to tell you something. To
tell you what you're going to do. What the Confed's going to do.'
     'To tell me? Have you the power?'
     'You know damned well we have! We've got Theeo. Okay, there's a lot of opposition on
the doorstep, but we've still got Theeo. Anything happens to us, Thoughtworld exits.'
     'I see that,' Erranlal admitted. 'Although before you tell me what I'm going to do, how about
imparting your plans? Where do you intend to take Thoughtworld?'
     'Nowhere. It's fine for us exactly where it is, so long as we're driving! It's our hostage; the
Confed'll pay ransom. Then you can have it back. Simple.'
     'Simple? You must be!' Erranlal saw the rebel's lips tighten, a quick anger that faded
quickly. 'You honestly think Confed Central will dig into its pockets and set a precedent for
any bunch of mercenary clowns with a few ships and a nerve? They'd sacrifice Theeo rather
than . . . '
     'Shut your bloody mouth! Nobody mentioned money.' To Erranlal's surprise, there was no
rancour in the man's tone. He sounded genuinely upset to have been labelled wrongly.
'Some things money won't buy. Like freedom. The end of oppression. The disclosure of
another side of life on Peace Planet. Most of all, the removal of that despot Lundren!'
     'Lundren's dead,' Erranlal stated quietly.
     'If you're trying to use lies to get out of...'
     'I said Lundren's dead. He did need removing, I agree. He doesn't now - except in so far
as he's a somewhat offensive-looking corpse.' Several low chuckles escaped - a good sign.
'A gun popped whilst being held against his forehead. He owns very little head now. In fact
he's a bloody mess. If you want to remove him, help yourself. He's in Theeo; he won't run
away.'
     Laughter came from the background, but the spokesman didn't join in. Across his face,
disbelief chased the wish to believe. The wish vanished and disbelief remained. 'Could you
prove it?'
     'Definitely. Send down any of your people. Go yourself. Verify what I've told you. Naturally
I'll stay here, as surety. You'll discover the truth: a rather old human body, more or less
terminating at the neck.'
     More laughter echoed, louder. Even the leader smiled. 'We'll check.'
     'Please do. You'll find Lundren every bit as dead as you could possibly hope him to be.'
Erranlal paused, stretched out a shrewdly timed silence, then played his main shot. With
luck, it should start the game swinging his way. 'A man called Merrin killed him.'
     'Merrin?' It was a startled chorus.
     'Merrin, yes. A close relative of the Merrin. A man named Derek.'
    'God! Derek got through, did he? I'm glad of that. Was he hurt?'
    'Not where it shows,' said Erranlal, and thought: 'Lord, he's talking to me like an old friend
discussing another old friend.' Aloud, he continued: 'Would it help in any way if I had him
brought up? A word or two with 17 and it's done.'
    'Do it.'
    Erranlal did it. 'He's coming. Now ...' Again he dropped a silence over the company. 'I
hate to do this, but serious crimes have been committed and they can't be overlooked.' Into
the silence he snapped suddenly, 'You idiots! You utter morons! You could have saved
yourselves so much distress! You kill in the effort to snatch Theeo. And why? Because you
want...'
    'Justice, that's all.'
    'Justice, all right. But injustice isn't the road that leads to it!'
    'Sometimes it is,' insisted the rebel, and Erranlal recog-nised truth. 'I'm telling you, we've
had it rough under Lundren; him and his secret killers. We aren't willing mur-derers; we're
decent people trying to make a decent life for posterity on what could become a
more-than-decent planet, and being forced to do it the lousy way! Desperate situations
demand desperate measures.'
    'I accept that. Yes, sometimes injustice is the only road. Nevertheless, murder's still
murder. Expediency, even neces-sity, can't justify...'
    'Oh, but it can! We reckon it like this: for every life we take in trying to capture the ear of
the universe, we're saving a hundred. They're the ones who have to die to keep Lun-dren
where he is. Was.'
    'Hell,' thought Erranlal, 'in their position I'd be taking exactly the same stand.' His job hurt
all of a sudden. It stabbed his conscience, and stranded him between view-points. The ear
of the universe? You realise, of course, that you won't win public sympathy by acts of
terrorism?'
    'We're not after sympathy, just attention. The knowledge throughout the Confed that we
exist. That evil exists. By what you call terrorism we want to draw attention to our-selves and
point the finger at New Athens and shout, "There lies wickedness cloaked as Utopia."
Perhaps I'm babbling, but you have to feel it to understand it. There aren't words.'
    'I feel it,' the Tuahi said sincerely. 'I understand it.'
    'I believe you do. Thanks. Anyway, that's what our aims have been: a spectacular hijack to
spotlight a neglected prob-lem. We're resolved to hold out for a high-powered Confed
investigation of New Athens, its corrupt government, Lundren's unconstitutional Enforcement
Agency and - well, the removal of the man himself. Only he's already gone. That's progress,
eh?'
    Erranlal matched the rebel's smile. 'It's a first step. Also, New Athens is being
investigated at this moment. The in-stant I'm free to go, I promise a stiffer investigation; I'll
press the right buttons and you'll have a Confed Enquiry as comprehensive as I can make it.
And, not being overly modest, I'll add this: I can make the enquiry big!'
    'I'm sure you can, but ...' The pain of saying what he didn't want to say, of saying what he
had to say, tortured the rebel's face. 'Can we trust you?'
    'Can you trust Derek?'
    'Yes.'
    'I think he'll vouch for me. Furthermore, I believe if you bring him up to date with everything
we've said; if you tell him what I've promised; if you apprise him of how much my doing what
I've promised means to Lev's type of people and Peace Planet generally; and lastly, if you
set him on me with orders to kill me if I go back on things, why, if I don't push those right
buttons, I'm as dead as Lundren!'
    'You're straight. Although you realise we won't be re-leasing Theeo until things are on the
move?'
    'I wouldn't expect you to. But you must realise that there are certain ... unpleasantries ... to
be gone through now? If there are discrepancies on New Athens, the Confed will get at
them, yet it can't condone murder, even with what may be reasonable motives.' Erranlal
gathered his energies for the sentence which could disrupt all the progress he'd made.
'You'll have to stand trial; you leaders, at least. It can't be avoided.'
    'It can,' the red-faced man said bluntly. He'd recognised truth, too.
    'Hold it!' Another rebel came forward. 'We're being dealt with fairly. Our hands aren't
clean. Dirt means washing.'
    Erranlal felt the bitter thrill of imminent victory. 'Thank you.' He'd almost won and he was
almost sorry for it. 'I don't say murder's a good thing, but there are definitely circumstances
here which could conduce to leniency. Also anything shady on New Athens is positive to
count in your favour. I can't take you by force; I'm the entire strength of the Confed, but I can't
take you if you don't want to come. And believe me, I appreciate your not wanting to come.
Only...'
    'Sacrifice,' the second speaker muttered. 'We were pre-pared to die to beat Lundren.
Well, the bastard's dead, but we haven't beaten him yet. So we must smash all the filth he's
left. By showing courage? I don't know. At any rate, by giving ourselves up. Letting the whole
bloody universe see we aren't afraid to stand by our beliefs and what they forced us into
doing. If we weren't scared of an EA chatter-gun, why fear a court? If we were ready to give
up a life-time, why be scared to risk part of it? Hiding on Lundren's world was imprisonment
of sorts.'
    The rebel leader looked pensive, watching a number of his colleagues grouping around
the one who'd spoken. 'The leaders, you said? I suppose that's how it should be. Although
these seven ships stay here, adequately crewed by the not-so-guilty, if there are degrees in
this thing.' With an effort, he managed to grin. 'And the beam stops locked on Theeo. Not
that I don't trust you, but...' He shrugged, 'insurance.'
    'I'd insist on it myself,' said Erranlal. 'Insurance.'
    'Right, then! Sacrifice. That's what it's all about.'
    'Yes, I believe it possibly is,' Erranlal said with sympathy.

    Pertra lay webbed uncomfortably in his cocoon. His left arm stuck out at a right-angle.
Analgesic spray spurted in a regular pulse inside the sheath covering his arm and
dead-ening the pain that informed him he was alive. Dressings were pressed against the
throbbing at his right shoulder and side.
    For want of something to do, he was thinking. Mental clarity came much easier here in
Theeo, even for an un-trained non-Thinker. He decided he'd done his job ad-equately during
his short term in office. With Lundren gone, the Thirteen might be less inflexible. Perhaps his
tenure wouldn't be terminated so abruptly, after all. He knew his true future was in Theeo.
    Despite the strange situation, there was still a lot to do. For a start, somebody must
definitely follow up the Corol-lary, Arkon Vitch's extension of Tynar's Hypothesis. If the
Corollary were correct, as all the evidence indicated, safe-guards would be needed. Sick
brains couldn't be allowed to increase in misdirected potency, or Theeo's unique
intellect-expanding conditions might be used for grim purposes rather than beneficial.
    Pertra thought: 'Lords of Void, what if Lundren had made it as a Thinker?' It didn't bear
thinking about, but he exercised his sense of communal responsibility and thought about it
until he'd concluded that the Thirteen must be persuaded to tighten up their processing of
aspirant Thought-worlders. He explored the Corollary thoroughly and dis-covered he could
formulate further corollaries, theories, offshoots and ideas. An experiment with possible
far-reaching consequences suggested itself: ship out to Theeo a load of so-called freaks,
the people with bizarre gifts, the abnormal, the unusual - clairvoyants, telepathists,
faith-healers, tele-kineticists, and so on.
    The latter classification seemed to bear potential beyond the scope of his mind. Scour
the universe for those who could manipulate matter without physical touch. Let their
incomprehensible gifts grow more fantastic by introducing them to a long period of no-grav.
What was to stop them moving ever larger objects, ever farther?
   Suddenly, the limit was infinity. They could put Theeo into the Void Regions,
instantaneously! Infinity might not be the limit, even though it wasn't a limit at all. Infinity is only
a word. We don't even know what it means. All we know is what we've made it mean. And
we've been wrong before!' Shocked at the implications of his cerebration, Pertra began to
wonder what lay beyond infinity - a question which was manifestly absurd, contradictory and
paradoxical by current standards. Which meant current standards had better be modified!
And fast!
   Lesser possibilities hit him in an amazing flood. Let the artists come to Theeo to increase
the magic and magnificence of their creations beyond imagination. Let people with
mar-vellous imaginations come to Theeo, to imagine future things beyond modern
imagination. Let the talented inven-tors come. In fact, let everybody come who possessed a
healthy mind - to dream, to wonder, to speculate, to juggle transcendent unrestrained ideas,
to cast out unwanted mind-murmurs, to exorcise cerebral sensory-screams. In short, to
Think!
   Pertra felt sleep lowering a soothing peace over him. He wasn't uncomfortable any more.
The pain had gone, swirled up and momentarily thrown away by the brain-energy he'd
burned. His outer vision closed, but his inner vision kept seeing sights of incredible wonder.
The possibilities seemed endless. The endless universe beckoned with an infinity of
staggering possibilities. Cosmic mystery appeared as a closed book which was gradually
opening. Pertra floated into slumber with a stupendous knowledge: properly managed,
Thoughtworld should be the path to a glorious future.

   'And then there was one,' mused Derek dejectedly. He was A-block, all by himself. It
seemed very large, very empty and very lonely. There'd be no more booming humour or
poetry from huge faithful Gormal, gone now on a self-willed voyage to prove the ultimate in
loyalty.
   Cleo Rosa's beautiful face would never again radiate the dark splendour Lundren's evil
errands had failed to erase. No one could ever bask in the alien loveliness of Silver, the
scaly glitter, the iridescent hair, the twin gems of her eyes. Communications would have to
get along without stalwart Arkon, who'd communicated his unquestioned love for Silver in a
suicidal unquestioning lip-passion that could take them both together on the eternal ride
towards eternity.
   Derek missed them all: Gormal, Silver, Arkon, and, sur-prisingly, more than anyone else,
Cleo Rosa. He couldn't understand it, but it wouldn't be denied, 'Sorry, God, you'll just have
to wait.' Where was the point of The Breakthrough now? Where were the Thinkers who'd
been working on it? 'Dead, dead, dead!' thought Derek bitterly - except for one, who, by
murder, had in his own eyes vindicated his exist-ence. From now on, it would be a lonely
existence.
   He couldn't be bothered to project his mind towards possible Breakthrough. 'Where's the
reason? When we've attained the ultimate, where do we go from there?' The continued
unreachable nature of the ultimate justified Thoughtworld's continued operation - at least on
a non-political and higher level. When sentience reached the end of the road, it would have
no choice but to stop. That seemed an ideal reason not to be in too big a hurry to reach it.
Perhaps.
   In an agony of solitude, Dizzy made a scene of summer: gay leaves, blue sky and bright
flowers. He hovered in mid-air. Then he suddenly tired of it, wearied of it and saw its futility. It
annoyed him.
   Above Theeo, seven rebel ships aimed cannons against the necessity of a vengeful
last-gasp cannonade. The tractor beam didn't waver. Squadron 17 guarded nothing, in
nothing, from nothing. There was uneasy balance.
   Inside Thoughtworld, Dizzy Derek changed summer into winter.