THE PLANET BUYER
                        a science-fiction novel by

               CORDWAINER SMITH


                                For Ted,
                        my own true wife, with love



  THE PLANET BUYER

  A PYRAMID BOOK-Published… October 1964

   A shorter version of this book appeared in Galaxy Science
fiction for April, 1964, under the title: "The Boy Who Bought
Old Earth"

  Copyright, © 1964 by Cordwainer Smith

  All Rights Reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  PYRAMID BOOKS are published by Pyramid Publications,
Inc. 444 Madison Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10022, U.S.A.




                    Table of Contents
THEME AND PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE: At the Gate of the Garden of Death
CHAPTER TWO: The Trial
CHAPTER THREE: Anger of the Onseck
CHAPTER FOUR: The Old Broken Treasures in the Gap
CHAPTER FIVE: The Quarrel at the Dinner Table
CHAPTER SIX: The Palace of the Governor of Night
CHAPTER SEVEN: The Eye Upon the Sparrow
CHAPTER EIGHT: FOE Money, SAD Money
CHAPTER NINE: Traps, Fortunes and Watchers
CHAPTER TEN: The Nearby Exile
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Hospitality and Entrapment
CHAPTER TWELVE: The High Sky Flying
EPILOGUE AND CODA



                   Theme and Prologue
  Story, place and time—these are the essentials.
                                     1
   The story is simple. There was a boy who bought the planet Earth. We
know that, to our cost. It only happened once, and we have taken pains
that it will never happen again. He came to Earth, got what he wanted,
and got away alive, in a series of very remarkable adventures. That's the
story.

                                    2
    The place? That's Old North Australia. What other place could it be?
Where else do the farmers pay ten million credits for a handkerchief, five
for a bottle of beer? Where else do people lead peaceful lives, untouched by
militarism, on a world which is booby-trapped with death and things
worse than death? Old North Australia has stroon—the santaclara
drug—and more than a thousand other planets clamor for it. But you can
get stroon only from Norstrilia—that's what they call it, for short—because
it is a virus which grows on enormous, misshapen sheep. The sheep were
taken from Earth to start a pastoral system; they ended up as the greatest
of imaginable treasures. The simple farmers became simple billionaires,
but they kept their farming ways. They started tough and they got
tougher. People get pretty mean if you rob them and hurt them for almost
three thousand years. They get obstinate. They avoid strangers, except for
sending out spies and a very occasional tourist. They don't mess with
other people, and they're death, death inside out and turned over twice, if
you mess with them.
   Then one of their kids showed up on Earth and bought it. The whole
place, lock, stock and underpeople.

  That was a real embarrassment for Earth.

  And for Norstrilia, too.

   If it had been the two governments, Norstrilia would have collected all
the eye-teeth on earth and sold them back at compound interest. That's
the way Norstrilians do business. Or they might have said, "Skip it,
cobber. You can keep your wet old ball. We've got a nice dry world of our
own." That's the temper they have. Unpredictable.

  But a kid had bought Earth, and it was his.

   Legally he had the right to pump up the Sunset Ocean, shoot it into
space, and sell water all over the inhabited galaxy.

  He didn't.

  He wanted something else.

   The Earth authorities thought it was girls, so they tried to throw girls
at him of all shapes, sizes, smells and ages— all the way from young ladies
of good family down to dog-derived undergirls who smelled of romance all
the time, except for the first five minutes after they had had hot antiseptic
showers. But he didn't want girls. He wanted postage stamps.

   That baffled both Earth and Norstrilia. The Norstrilians are a hard
people from a harsh planet, and they think highly of property. (Why
shouldn't they? They have most of it.) A story like this could only have
started in Norstrilia.

                                     3
  What's Norstrilia like?

  Somebody once singsonged it up, like this:

  "Gray lay the land, oh. Gray grass from sky to sky. Not near the weir,
dear. Not a mountain, low or high—only hills and gray gray. Watch the
dappled dimpled twinkles blooming on the star bar.
   "That is Norstrilia.

   "All the muddy glubbery is gone—all the poverty, the waiting and the
pain. People fought their way away, their way away from monstrous
forms. People fought for hands and noses, eyes and feet, man and woman.
They got it all back again. Back they came from daylight nightmares,
centuries when monstrous men, sucking the water around the pools,
dreamed of being men again. They found it. Men they were again, again,
far away from a horrid when.

   "The sheep, poor beasties, did not make it. Out of their sickness they
distilled immortality for man. Who says research could do it? Research,
besmirch! It was a pure accident. Smack up an accident, man, and you've
got it made.

   "Beige-brown sheep lie on blue-gray grass while the clouds rush past,
low overhead, like iron pipes ceilinging the world.

   "Take your pick of sick sheep, man, it's the sick that pays. Sneeze me a
planet, man, or cough me up a spot of life-forever. If it's barmy there,
where the noddies and trolls like you live, it's too right here.

   "That's the book, boy.

  "If you haven't seen it, you haven't seen Norstrilia. If you did see it, you
wouldn't believe it. If you got there, you wouldn't get off alive.

   "Mother Hilton's littul kittons wait for you down there. Little pets they
are, little little little pets. Cute little things, they say. Don't you believe it.
No man ever saw them and walked away alive. You won't either. That's the
final dash, flash. That's the utter clobber, cobber.

   "Charts call the place Old North Australia."

   We can suppose that that is what it is like.

                                        4
   Time: first century of the Rediscovery of Man.

   When C'mell lived.
   About the time they polished off Shayol, like wiping an apple on the
sleeve.

  Long deep into our own time. Fifteen thousand years after the bombs
went up and the boom came down on Old, Old Earth.

  Recent, see?

                                    5
  What happens in the story?

  Read it.

  Who's there?

   It starts with Rod McBan—who had the real name of Roderick
Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan. But you can't tell a
story if you call the main person by a name as long as Roderick Frederick
Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan. You have to do what his
neighbors did—call him Rod McBan. The old ladies always said, "Rod
McBan the hundred and fifty-first…" and then sighed. Flurp a squirt at
them, friends. We don't need numbers. We know his family was
distinguished. We know the poor kid was born to troubles.

  Why shouldn't he have troubles?

  He was born to inherit the Station of Doom.

  He almost failed the Garden of Death.

  The Onseck was after him.

   His father had died out in the dirty part of space, where people never
find nice clean deaths.

  When he got in trouble, he trusted his computer.

  The computer gambled, and it won Earth.

  He went to Earth.
  That was history itself—that and C'mell beside him.

  At long, long last he got his rights and he came home.

  That's the story. Except for the details.

  They follow.

       CHAPTER ONE: At the Gate of the Garden of
                                          Death

Rod McBan faced the day of days. He knew what it was all about, but he
could not really feel it. He wondered if they had tranquilized him with
half-refined stroon, a product so rare and precious that it was never, never
sold off-planet.

   He knew that by nightfall he would be laughing and giggling and
drooling in one of the Dying Rooms, where the unfit were put away to thin
out the human breed, or else he would stand forth as the oldest landholder
on the planet, Chief Heir to the Station of Doom. The farm had been
salvaged by his great 32-grandfather who had bought an ice-asteroid,
crashed it into the farm over the violent objections of his neighbors, and
learned clever tricks with artesian wells which kept his grass growing
while the neighbors' fields turned from gray-green to blowing dust. The
McBans had kept the sarcastic old name for their farming station, the
Station of Doom.

  By night, Rod knew, the station would be his.

  Or he would be dying, giggling his way to death in the killing place
where people laughed and grinned and rollicked about while they died.

  He found himself humming a bit of a rhyme that had always been a
part of the tradition of Old North Australia:

  We kill to live, and die to grow—

  That's the way the world must go!

  He'd been taught, bone-deep, that his own world was a very special
world—envied, loved, hated and dreaded across the galaxy. He knew that
he was part of a very special people. Other races and kinds of men farmed
crops, or raised food, or designed machines, and manufactured weapons.
Norstrilians did none of these things. From their dry fields, their sparse
wells, their enormous sick sheep, they refined immortality itself.

  And sold it for a high, high price.

   Rod McBan walked a little way into the yard. His home lay behind him.
It was a log cabin built out of Daimoni beams—beams uncuttable,
unchangeable, solid beyond all expectations of solidity. They had been
purchased as a matched set thirty-odd planet-hops away and brought to
Old North Australia by photosails. The cabin was a fort which could
withstand even major weapons, but it was still a cabin, simple inside and
with a front yard of scuffed dust. The last red bit of dawn was whitening
into day. Rod knew that he could not go far.

  He could hear the women out behind the house, the kinswomen who
had come to barber and groom him for the triumph—or the other.

    They never knew how much he knew. Because of his affliction, they had
thought around him for years, counting on his telepathic deafness to be
constant. Trouble was, it wasn't; lots of times he heard things which
nobody intended him to hear. He even remembered the sad little poem
they had about the young people who failed to pass the test for one reason
or another and had to go to the Dying House instead of coming forth as
Norstrilian citizens and fully recognized subjects of
Her-Majesty-the-Queen. (Norstrilians had not had a real queen for some
fifteen thousand years, but they were strong on tradition and did not let
mere facts boggle them.) How did the little poem run, "This is the house of
the long ago… "? In its own gloomy way it was cheerful.

  He erased his own footprint from the dust and suddenly he
remembered the whole thing. He chanted it softly to himself:

   This is the house of the long ago,
Where the old ones murmur an endless woe,
Where the pain of time is an actual pain,
At the Gate of the Garden of Death
And things once known always come again.
Out in the garden of death, our young
Have tasted the valiant taste of fear,
With muscular arm and reckless tongue,
They have won, and lost, and escaped us here.
This is the house of the long ago.
Those who die young do not enter here,
Those living on know that hell is near,
The old ones who suffer have willed it so.
Out in the garden of death, the old
Look with awe on the young and bold.

  It was all right to say that they looked with awe at the young and bold,
but he hadn't met a person yet who did not prefer life to death. He'd heard
about people who chose death—of course he had—who hadn't? But the
experience was third-hand, fourth-hand, fifth-hand.

  He knew that some people had said of him that he would be better off
dead, just because he had never learned to communicate telepathically
and had to use old spoken words like outworlders or barbarians.

  Rod himself certainly didn't think he would be better dead.

   Indeed, he sometimes looked at normal people and wondered how they
managed to go through life with the constant silly chatter of other people's
thoughts running through their minds. In the times that his mind lifted,
so that he could "hier" for a while, he knew that hundreds or thousands of
minds rattled in on him with unbearable clarity; he could even "hier" the
minds that thought they had their telepathic shields up. Then, in a little
while, the merciful cloud of his handicap came down on his mind again
and he had a deep unique privacy which everybody on Old North Australia
should have envied.

   His computer had said to him once, "The words hier and spiek are
corruptions of the words hear and speak. They are always pronounced in
the second rising tone of voice, as though you were asking a question
under the pressure of amusement and alarm, if you say the words with
your voice. They refer only to telepathic communications between persons
or between persons and underpeople."

  "What are underpeople?" he had asked.

   "Animals modified to speak, to understand, and usually to look like
men. They differ from cerebrocentered robots in that the robots are built
around an actual animal mind, but are mechanical and electronic relays,
while underpeople are composed entirely of Earth-derived living tissue."

  "Why haven't I ever seen one?"

   "They are not allowed on Norstrilia at all, unless they are in the service
of the defense establishments of the Commonwealth."

   "Why are we called a Commonwealth, when all the other places are
called worlds or planets?"

  "Because you people are subjects of the Queen of England."

  "Who is the Queen of England?"

   "She was an Earth ruler in the Most Ancient Days, more than fifteen
thousand years ago."

  "Where is she now?"

  "I said," said the computer, "that it was fifteen thousand years ago."

  "I know it," Rod had insisted, "but if there hasn't been any Queen of
England for fifteen thousand years, how can we be her subjects?"

   "I know the answer in human words," the reply had been from the
friendly red machine, "but since it makes no sense to me, I shall have to
quote it to you as people told it to me. 'She bloody well might turn up one
of these days. Who knows? This is Old North Australia out here among the
stars and we can dashed well wait for our own Queen.' She might have
been off on a trip when Old Earth went sour." The computer had clucked a
few times in its odd ancient voice and had then said hopefully, in its
toneless voice, "Could you restate that so that I could program it as part of
my memory-assembly?"

   "It doesn't mean much to me. Next time I can hier other minds
thinking I'll try to pick it out of somebody else's head."

  That had been about a year ago, and Rod had never run across the
answer.

  Last night he had asked the computer a more urgent question:

  "Will I die tomorrow?"
  "Question irrelevant. No answer available."

  "Computer!" he had shouted, "you know I love you."

  "You say so."

  "I started your historical assembly up after repairing you, when that
part had been thinkless for hundreds of years."

  "Correct."

   "I crawled down into this cave and found the personal controls, where
great 14 -grandfather had left them when they became obsolete."

  "Correct."

  "I'm going to die tomorrow and you won't even be sorry."

  "I did not say that," said the computer.

  "Don't you care?"

   "I was not programmed for emotion. Since you yourself repaired me,
Rod, you ought to know that I am the only all-mechanical computer
functioning in this part of the galaxy. I am sure that if I had emotions I
would be very sorry indeed. It is an extreme probability, since you are my
only companion. But I do not have emotions. I have numbers, facts,
language, and memory—that is all."

  "What is the probability, then, that I will die tomorrow in the Giggle
Room?"

  "That is not the right name. It is the Dying House."

  "All right, then, the Dying House."

  "The judgment on you will be a contemporary human judgment based
upon emotions. Since I do not know the individuals concerned, I cannot
make a prediction of any value at all."

  "What do you think is going to happen to me, computer?"

  "I do not really think, I respond. I have no input on that topic."
  "Do you know anything at all about my life and death tomorrow? I
know I can't spiek with my mind, but I have to make sounds with my
mouth instead. Why should they kill me for that?"

   "I do not know the people concerned and therefore I do not know the
reasons," the computer had replied, "but I know the history of Old North
Australia down to your great 14 -grandfather's time."

   "Tell me that, then," Rod had said. He had squatted in the cave which
he had discovered, listening to the forgotten set of computer controls
which he had repaired, and had heard again the story of Old North
Australia as his great 14 -grandfather had understood it. Stripped of
personal names and actual dates, it was a simple story.

  This morning his life hung on it.

   Norstrilia had to thin out its people if it were going to keep its Old Old
Earth character and be another Australia, out among the stars. Otherwise
the fields would fill up, the deserts turn into apartment houses, the sheep
die in cellars under endless kennels for crowded and useless people. No
Old North Australian wanted that to happen, when he could keep
character, immortality, and wealth—in that particular order of
importance. It would be contrary to the temperament of Norstrilia.

  The simple character of Norstrilia was immutable—as immutable as
anything out among the stars. This ancient Commonwealth was the only
human institution older than the Instrumentality.


  The story was simple, the way the computer's clear long-circuited brain
had sorted it out.

  Take a farmer culture straight off Old Old Earth—Manhome itself.

  Put the culture on a remote planet.

  Touch it with prosperity and blight it with drought.

   Teach it sickness, deformity, hardihood. Make it learn poverty so bad
that men sold one child to buy another child the drink of water which
would give it an extra day of life while the drills whirred deep into the dry
rock, looking for wetness.
  Teach that culture thrift, medicine, scholarship, pain, survival.

  Give those people the lessons of poverty, war, grief, greed,
magnanimity, piety, hope and despair by turn.

  Let the culture survive.

  Survive disease, deformity, despair, desolation, abandonment.

  Then give it the happiest accident in the history of time.

   Out of sheep-sickness came infinite riches, the santaclara drug or
"stroon" which prolonged human life indefinitely.

   Prolonged it—but with queer side-effects, so that most Norstrilians
preferred to die in a thousand years or so.

  Norstrilia was convulsed by the discovery.

  So was every other inhabited world.

  But the drug could not be synthesized, paralleled, duplicated. It was
something which could be obtained only from the sick sheep on the Old
North Australian plains.

   Robbers and governments tried to steal the drug. Now and then they
succeeded, long ago, but they hadn't made it since the time of Rod's great 19
-grandfather.

  They had tried to steal the sick sheep.

   Several had been taken off the planet. (The Fourth Battle of New Alice,
in which half the menfolk of Norstrilia had died beating off the Bright
Empire, had led to the loss of two of the sick sheep—one female and one
male. The Bright Empire thought it had won. It hadn't. The sheep got well,
produced healthy lambs, exuded no more stroon, and died. The Bright
Empire had paid four battle fleets for a coldbox full of mutton.) The
monopoly remained in Norstrilia.

   The Norstrilians exported the santaclara drug, and they put the export
on a systematic basis.

  They achieved almost infinite riches.
   The poorest man on Norstrilia was always richer than the richest man
anywhere else, emperors and conquerors included. Every farm hand
earned at least a hundred Earth megacredits a day—measured in real
money on Old Earth, not in paper which had to travel at a steep arbitrage.

  But the Norstrilians made their choice: the choice—

  To remain themselves.

  They taxed themselves back into simplicity.

   Luxury goods got a tax of 20,000,000%. For the price of fifty palaces
on Olympia, you could import a handkerchief into Norstrilia. A pair of
shoes, landed, cost the price of a hundred yachts in orbit. All machines
were prohibited, except for defense and the drug-gathering. Underpeople
were never made on Norstrilia, and imported only by the defense
authority for top secret reasons. Old North Australia remained simple,
pioneer, fierce, open.

  Many families emigrated to enjoy their wealth; they could not return.

   But the population problem remained, even with the taxation and
simplicity and hard work.

  Cutback, then—cut back people if you must.

   But how, whom, where? Birth control—beastly. Sterilization—inhuman,
unmanly, unBritish. (This last was an ancient word meaning "very bad
indeed.")

   By families, then. Let the families have the children. Let the
Commonwealth test them at sixteen. If they ran under the standards, send
them to a happy, happy death.

   But what about the families? You can't wipe a family out, not in a
conservative farmer society, when the neighbors are folk who have fought
and died beside you for a hundred generations. The Rule of Exceptions
came. Any family which reached the end of its line could have the last
surviving heir reprocessed—up to four times. If he failed, it was the Dying
House, and a designated adopted heir from another family took over the
name and the estate.
   Otherwise their survivors would have gone on, in this century a dozen,
in that century twenty. Soon Norstrilia would have been divided into two
classes, the sound ones and a privileged class of hereditary freaks. This
they could not stand, not while the space around them stank of danger,
not when men a hundred worlds away dreamed and died while thinking of
how to rob the stroon. They had to be fighters and chose not to be soldiers
or emperors. Therefore they had to be fit, alert, healthy, clever, simple and
moral. They had to be better than any possible enemy or any possible
combination of enemies.

  They made it.

   Old North Australia became the toughest, brightest, simplest world in
the galaxy. One by one, without weapons, Norstrilians could tour the other
world and kill almost anything which attacked them. Governments feared
them. Ordinary people hated them or worshipped them. Off-world men
eyed their women queerly. The Instrumentality left them alone, or
defended them without letting the Norstrilians know they had been
defended. (As in the case of Raumsog, who brought his whole world to a
death of cancer and volcanoes, because the Golden Ship struck once.)

   Norstrilian mothers learned to stand by with dry eyes when their
children, unexpectedly drugged if they failed the tests, drooled with
pleasure and went giggling away to their deaths.

   The space and subspace around Norstrilia became sticky, sparky with
the multiplicity of their defenses. Big outdoorsy men sailed tiny fighting
craft around the approaches to Old North Australia. When people met
them in outports, they always thought that Norstrilians looked simple; the
looks were a snare and a delusion. The Norstrilians had been conditioned
by thousands of years of unprovoked attack. They looked as simple as
sheep but their minds were as subtle as serpents.

  And now—Rod McBan.

    The last heir, the very last heir, of their proudest old family had been
found a half-freak. He was normal enough by Earth standards, but by
Norstrilian measure he was inadequate. He was a bad, bad telepath. He
could not be counted on to hier. Most of the time other people could not
transmit into his mind at all; they could not even read it. All they got was
a fiery bubble and a dull fuzz of meaningless sub-sememes, fractions of
thought which added up to less than nothing. And on spieking, he was
worse. He could not talk with his mind at all. Now and then he
transmitted. When he did, the neighbors ran for cover. If it was anger, a
bloody screaming roar almost blotted out their consciousnesses with a
rage as solid and red as meat hanging in a slaughterhouse. If he was
happy, it was worse. His happiness, which he transmitted without
knowing it, had the distractiveness of a speed-saw cutting into
diamond-grained rock. His happiness drilled into people with an initial
sense of pleasure, followed rapidly by acute discomfort and the sudden
wish that all their own teeth would fall out: the teeth had turned into
spuming whirls of raw, unqualified discomfort.

    They did not know his biggest personal secret. They suspected that he
could hier now and then without being able to control it. They did not
know that when he did hier, he could hier everything for miles around
with microscopic detail and telescopic range. His telepathic intake, when
it did work, went right through other people's mind-shields as though they
did not exist. (If some of the women in the farms around the Station of
Doom knew what he had accidentally peeped out of their minds, they
would have blushed the rest of their lives.) As a result, Rod McBan had a
frightful amount of unsorted knowledge which did not quite fit together.

   Previous committees had neither awarded him the Station of Doom nor
sent him off to the giggle death. They had appreciated his intelligence, his
quick wit, his enormous physical strength. But they remained worried
about his telepathic handicap. Three times before he had been judged.
Three times.

   And three times judgment had been suspended. They had chosen the
lesser cruelty and had sent him not to death, but to a new babyhood and a
fresh upbringing, hoping that the telepathic capacity of his mind would
naturally soar up to the Norstrilian normal. They had underestimated
him.

  He knew it.

   Thanks to the eavesdropping which he could not control, he understood
bits and pieces of what was happening, even though nobody had ever told
him the rational whys and hows of the process.

   It was a gloomy but composed big boy who gave the dust of his own
front yard one last useless kick, who turned back into the cabin, walking
right through to the main room to the rear door and the back yard, and
who greeted his kinswomen politely enough as they, hiding their aching
hearts, prepared to dress him up for his trial. They did not want the child
to be upset, even though he was as big as a man and showed more
composure than did most adult men. They wanted to hide the fearful truth
from him. How could they help it?

  He already knew.

  But he pretended he didn't.

  Cordially enough, just scared enough but not too much, he said:

   "What ho, auntie! Hello, cousin. Morning, Maribel. Here's your sheep.
Curry him up and trim him for the livestock competition. Do I get a ring
in my nose or a bow ribbon around my neck?"

   One or two of the young ones laughed, but his oldest "aunt"—actually a
fourth cousin, married into another family—pointed seriously and calmly
at a chair in the yard and said: "Do sit down, Roderick. This is a serious
occasion and we usually do not talk while preparations are going on."

   She bit her lower lip and then she added, not as though she wanted to
frighten him but because she wanted to impress him:

  "The Vice-chairman will be here today."

   "The Vice-chairman" was the head of the government; there had been
no Chairman of the Temporary Commonwealth Government for some
thousands of years. Norstrilians did not like posh and they thought that
"vice-chairman" was high enough for any one man to go. Besides, it kept
the offworlders guessing.

   (Rod was not impressed. He had seen the man. It was in one of his rare
moments of broad hiering, and he found that the mind of the
Vice-chairman was full of numbers and horses, the results of every horse
race for three hundred and twenty years, and the projection forward of six
probable horse races in the next two years.)

  "Yes, auntie," he said.

   "Don't bray all the time today. You don't have to use your voice for little
things like saying yes. Just nod your head. It will make a much better
impression."

  He started to answer, but gulped and nodded instead.

  She sank the comb into his thick yellow hair.

   Another one of the women, almost a girl, brought up a small table and
a basin. He could tell from her expression that she was spieking to him,
but this was one of the times in which he could not hier at all.

  The aunt gave his hair a particularly fierce tug just as the girl took his
hand. He did not know what she meant to do. He yanked his hand back.

  The basin fell off the small table. Only then did he realize that it was
merely soapy water for a manicure.

  "I am sorry," he said; even to him, his voice sounded like a bray. For a
moment he felt the fierce rush of humiliation and self-hate.

   They should kill me, he thought… By the time the sun goes down I'll be
in the Giggle Room, laughing and laughing before the medicine makes
my brains boil away.

  He had reproached himself.

  The two women had said nothing. The aunt had walked away to get
some shampoo, and the girl was returning with a pitcher, to refill the
basin.

  He looked directly into her eyes, and she into his.

   "I want you," she said, very clearly, very quietly, and with a smile which
seemed inexplicable to him.

  "What for?" said he, equally quietly.

  "Just you," she said. "I want you for myself. You're going to live."

    "You're Lavinia, my cousin," said he, as though discovering it for the
first time.

  "Sh-h-h," said the girl. "She's coming back."
   When the girl had settled down to getting his fingernails really clean,
and the aunt had rubbed something like sheep-dip into his hair, Rod
began to feel happy. His mood changed from the indifference which he
had been pretending to himself. It became a real indifference to his fate,
an easy acceptance of the gray sky above him, the dull rolling earth below.
He had a fear—a little tiny fear, so small that it might have seemed to be a
midget pet in a miniature cage—running around the inside of his
thinking. It was not the fear that he would die: somehow he suddenly
accepted his chances and remembered how many other people had had to
take the same play with fortune. This little fear was something else, the
dread that he might not behave himself properly if they did tell him to die.

  But then, he thought, I don't have to worry. Negative is never a
word—just a hypodermic, so that the first bad news the victim has is his
own excited, happy laugh.

  With this funny peace of mind, his hiering suddenly lifted.

   He could not see the Garden of Death, but he could look into the minds
tending it; it was a huge van hidden just beyond the next roll of hills,
where they used to keep Old Billy, the 1,800-ton ram. He could hear the
clatter of voices in the little town eighteen kilometers away. And he could
look right into Lavinia's mind.

   It was a picture of himself. But what a picture! So grown, so handsome,
so brave-looking. He had schooled himself not to move when he could hier,
so that other people would not realize that his rare telepathic gift had
come back to him.

   Auntie was speaking to Lavinia without noisy words, "We'll see this
pretty boy in his coffin tonight."

  Lavinia thought right back, without apology, "No, we won't."

   Rod sat impassive in his chair. The two women, their faces grave and
silent, went on spieking the argument at each other with their minds.

  "How would you know—you're not very old?" spieked auntie.

   "He has the oldest station in all of Old North Australia. He has one of
the very oldest names. He is—" and even in spieking her thoughts cluttered
up, like a stammer—"he is a very nice boy and he is going to be a
wonderful man."

   "Mark my thought," spieked the auntie again, "I'm telling you that we'll
see him in his coffin tonight and that by midnight he'll be in his
coffin-ride to the Long Way Out."

   Lavinia jumped to her feet. She almost knocked over the basin of water
a second time. She moved her throat and mouth to speak words but she
just croaked,

  "Sorry, Rod. Sorry."

   Rod McBan, his face guarded, gave a pleasant, stupid little nod, as
though he had no idea of what they had been spieking to each other.

   She turned and ran, shout-spieking the loud thought at auntie, "Get
somebody else to do his hands. You're heartless, hopeless. Get somebody
else to do your corpse-washing for you. Not me. Not me."

   "What's the matter with her?" said Rod to the auntie, just as though he
did not know.

  "She's just difficult, that's all. Just difficult. Nerves, I suppose," she
added in her croaking spoken words. She could not talk very well, since all
her family and friends could spiek and hier with privacy and grace. "We
were spieking with each other about what you would be doing tomorrow."

  "Where's a priest, auntie?" said Rod.

  "A what?"

    "A priest, like the old poem has, in the rough, rough days before our
people found this planet and got our sheep settled down. Everybody knows
it:


   Here is the place where the priest went mad,
Over there my mother burned,
I cannot show you the house we had,
We lost that slope where the mountain turned.


  There's more to it, but that's the part I remember. Isn't a priest a
specialist in how to die? Do we have any around here?"

  He watched her mind as she lied to him. As he had spoken, he had a
perfectly clear picture of one of their more distant neighbors, a man
named Tolliver, who had a very gentle manner; but her words were not
about Tolliver at all.

  "Some things are men's business," she said, cawing her words.
"Anyhow, that song isn't about Norstrilia at all. It's about Paradise VII
and why we left it. I didn't know you knew it."

  In her mind he read, "That boy knows too much."

  "Thanks, auntie," said he meekly.

  "Come along for the rinse," said she. "We're using an awful lot of real
water on you today."

   He followed her and he felt more kindly toward her when he saw her
think, Lavinia had the right feelings but she drew the wrong conclusion.
He's going to be dead tonight.

  That was too much.

   Rod hesitated for a moment, tempering the chords of his oddly-attuned
mind. Then he let out a tremendous howl of telepathic joy, just to bother
the lot of them. It did. They all stopped still. Then they stared at him.

  In words the auntie said, "What was that?"

  "What?" said he, innocently.

  "That noise you spieked. It wasn't meaning."

   "Just sort of a sneeze, I suppose. I didn't know I did it." Deep down
inside himself he chuckled. He might be on his way to the Hoohoo Garden,
but he would fritter their friskies for them while he did it.

  It was a dashed silly way to die, he thought all to himself.

  And then a strange, crazy, happy idea came to him:
  Perhaps they can't kill me. Perhaps I have powers. Powers of my own.
Well, we'll soon enough find out.

                                   CHAPTER TWO: The Trial

Rod walked across the dusty lot, took three steps up the folding staircase
which had been let down from the side of the trailer van, knocked on the
door once as he had been instructed to do, had a green light flash in his
face, opened the door, and entered.

  It was a garden.

   The moist, sweet, scent-laden air was like a narcotic. There were bright
green plants in profusion. The lights were clear but not bright; their
ceiling gave the effect of a penetrating blue, blue sky. He looked around. It
was a copy of Old Old Earth. The growths on the green plants were roses;
he remembered pictures which his computer had showed him. The
pictures had not gotten across the idea that they smelled nice at the same
time that they looked nice. He wondered if they did that all the time, and
then remembered the wet air: wet air always holds smells better than dry
air does. At last, almost shyly, he looked up at the three judges.

    With real startlement, he saw that one of them was not a Norstrilian at
all, but the local commissioner of the Instrumentality, the Lord Redlady—a
thin man with a sharp, inquiring face. The other two were Old Taggart
and John Beasley. He knew them, but not well.

   "Welcome," said the Lord Redlady, speaking in the funning singsong of
a man from Manhome.

  "Thank you," said Rod.

  "You are Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur
McBan, the one hundred and fifty-first?" said Taggart, knowing perfectly
well that Rod was that person.

   Lord love-a-duck and lucky me! thought Rod, I've got my hiering, even
in this place!

  "Yes," said the Lord Redlady.
  There was silence.

   The other two judges looked at the Manhome man; the stranger looked
at Rod; Rod stared, and then began to feel sick at the bottom of his
stomach.

   For the first time in his life, he had met somebody who could penetrate
his peculiar perceptual abilities.

  At last he thought, "I understand."

  The Lord Redlady looked sharply and impatiently at him, as though
waiting for a response to that single word "yes."

  Rod had already answered—telepathically.

  At last Old Taggart broke the silence: "Aren't you going to talk? I asked
you your name."

   The Lord Redlady held up his hand in a gesture for patience; it was not
a gesture which Rod had ever seen before, but he understood it
immediately.

  He thought telepathically at Rod, "You are watching my thoughts."

  "Indeed I am," thought Rod, back at him.

  The Lord Redlady clapped a hand to his forehead. "You are hurting me.
Did you think you said something?"

  With his voice Rod said, "I told you that I was reading your mind."

  The Lord Redlady turned to the other two men and spieked to them:
"Did either of you hier what he tried to spiek?"

  "No."

  "No." They both thought back at him. "Just noise, loud noise."

  "He is a broadbander like myself. And I have been disgraced for it. You
know that I am the only Lord of the Instrumentality who has been
degraded from the status of Lord to that of Commissioner—"
   "Yes," they spieked.

   "You know that they could not cure me of shouting and suggested I
die?"

   "No," they answered.

  "You know that the Instrumentality thought I could not bother you here
and sent me to your planet on this miserable job, just to get me out of the
way?"

   "Yes," they answered.

   "Then, what do you want to do about him? Don't try to fool him. He
knows all about this place already." The Lord Redlady glanced quickly,
sympathetically up at Rod, giving him a little phantom smile of
encouragement. "Do you want to kill him? To exile him? To turn him
loose?"

   The other two men fussed around in their minds. Rod could see that
they were troubled at the idea he could watch them thinking, when they
had thought him a telepathic deaf-mute; they also resisted the Lord
Redlady's unmannerly precipitation of the decision. Rod almost felt that
he was swimming in the thick wet air, with the smell of roses cloying his
nostrils so much that he would never smell anything but roses again, when
he became aware of a massive consciousness very near him—a fifth person
in the room, whom he had not noticed at all before.

   It was an earth soldier, complete with uniform. The soldier was
handsome, erect, tall, formal with a rigid military decorum. He was,
furthermore, not human and he had a strange weapon in his left hand.

  "What is that?" spieked Rod to the Earthman. The man saw his face,
not the thought.

  "An underman. A snakeman. The only one on this planet. He will carry
you out of here if the decision goes against you."

   Beasley cut in, almost angrily. "Here, cut it out. This is a hearing, not a
blossoming tea-party. Don't clutter all that futt into the air. Keep it
formal."
   "You want a formal hearing?" said the Lord Redlady. "A formal hearing
for a man who knows everything that all of us are thinking? It's foolish."

   "In Old North Australia, we always have formal hearing," said Old
Taggart. With an acuteness of insight born of his own personal danger,
Rod saw Taggart all over again for the first time—a careworn poor old
man, who had worked a poor farm hard for a thousand years; a farmer,
like his ancestors before him; a man rich only in the millions of
megacredits which he would never take time to spend; a man of the soil,
honorable, careful, formal, righteous, and very just. Such men did not
yield to innovation, ever. They fought change.

    "Have the hearing then," said the Lord Redlady, "have the hearing if it
is your custom, my mister and owner Taggart, my mister and owner
Beasley."

  The Norstrilians, appeased, bowed their heads briefly.

   Almost shyly, Beasley looked over at the Lord Redlady. "Sir and
Commissioner, will you say the words? The good old words. The ones that
will help us to find our duty and to do it."

   Rod saw a quick flare of red anger go through the Lord Redlady's mind
as the Earth commissioner thought fiercely to himself, "Why all this fuss
about killing one poor boy? Let him go, you dull clutts, or kill him." But
the Earthman had not directed the thoughts outward and the two
Norstrilians were unaware of his private view of them.

  On the outside, the Lord Redlady remained calm. He used his voice, as
Norstrilians did on occasion of great ceremony:

  "We are here to hear a man."

  "We are here to hear him," they responded.

  "We are not to judge or to kill, though this may follow," said he.

  "Though this may follow," they responded.

  "And where, on Old Old Earth, does man come from?"

  They knew the answer by rote and said it heavily together: "This is the
way it was on Old Old Earth, and this is the way it shall be among the
stars, no matter how far we men may wander:

    "The seed of wheat is planted in dark, moist earth; the seed of man in
dark, moist flesh. The seed of wheat fights upward to air, sun and space;
the stalk, leaves, blossom and grain flourish under the open glare of
heaven. The seed of man grows in the salty private ocean of the womb, the
sea-darkness remembered by the bodies of his race. The harvest of wheat
is collected by the hands of men; the harvest of men is collected by the
tenderness of eternity."

  "And what does this mean?" chanted the Lord Redlady.

  "To look with mercy, to decide with mercy, to kill with mercy, but to
make the harvest of man strong and true and good, the way that the
harvest of wheat stood high and proud on Old Old Earth."

  "And who is here?" he asked.

  They both recited Rod's full name.

   When they had finished, the Lord Redlady turned to Rod and said, "I
am about to utter the ceremonial words, but I promise you that you will
not be surprised, no matter what happens. Take it easy, therefore; easy,
easy." Rod was watching the Earthman's mind and the mind of the two
Norstrilians. He could see that Beasley and Taggart were befuddled with
the ritual of the words, the wetness and scent of the air, and the false blue
sky in the top of the van; they did not know what they were going to do.
But Rod could also see a sharp, keen triumphant thought forming in the
bottom of the Lord Redlady's mind, I'll get this boy off! He almost smiled,
despite the presence of the snake man with the rigid smile and the
immovable glaring eyes standing just three paces beside him and a little
to his rear, so that Rod could only look at him through the corner of his
eye.

  "Misters and owners!" said the Lord Redlady.

  "Mister chairman!" they answered.

  "Shall I inform the man who is being heard?"

  "Inform him!" they chanted.
  "Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan to the
one hundred and fifty-first."

  "Yes sir," said Rod.

  "Heir-in-trust of the Station of Doom!"

  "That's me," said Rod.

  "Hear him!" said the other two.

   "You have not come here, child and citizen Roderick, for us to judge
you or to punish you. If these things are to be done, they must be done in
another place or time, and they must be done by men other than
ourselves. The only concern before this board is the following: should you
or should you not be allowed to leave this room safe and free and well,
taking into no account your innocence or guilt of matters which might be
decided elsewhere, but having regard only for the survival and the safety
and the welfare of this given planet? We are not punishing and we are not
judging, but we are deciding, and what we are deciding is your life. Do
you understand? Do you agree?"

   Rod nodded mutely, drinking in the wet-rose-scented air and stilling
his sudden thirst with the dampness of the atmosphere. If things went
wrong now, they did not have very far to go. Not far to go, not with the
motionless snake-man standing just beyond his reach. He tried to look at
the snake-brain but got nothing out of it except for an unexpected glitter
of recognition and defiance.

   The Lord Redlady went on, Taggart and Beasley hanging on his words
as though they had never heard them before.

   "Child and citizen, you know the rules. We are not to find you wrong or
right. No crime is judged here, no offense. Neither is innocence. We are
only judging the single question. Should you live or should you not? Do
you understand? Do you agree?"

  Said Rod, "Yes, sir."

  "And how stand you, child and citizen?"

  "What do you mean?"
  "This board is asking you. What is your opinion? Should you live or
should you not?"

   "I'd like to," said Rod, "but I'm tired of all these childhoods."

  "That is not what the board is asking you, child and citizen," said the
Lord Redlady. "We are asking you, what do you think? Should you live or
should you not live?"

   "You want me to judge myself?"

  "That's it, boy," said Beasley, "you know the rules. Tell them, boy. I said
we could count on you."

   The sharp friendly neighborly face unexpectedly took on great
importance for Rod. He looked at Beasley as though he had never seen the
man before. This man was trying to judge him, Rod; and he, Rod, had to
help decide on what was to be done with himself. The medicine from the
snake-man and the giggle-giggle death—or a walk out into freedom. Rod
started to speak and checked himself; he was to speak for Old North
Australia. Old North Australia was a tough world, proud of its tough men.
No wonder the board gave him a tough decision. Rod made up his mind
and he spoke clearly and deliberately:

  "I'd say no. Do not let me live. I don't fit. I can't spiek and hier. Nobody
knows what my children would be like, but the odds are against them.
Except for one thing…"

  "And what, child and citizen, is that?" asked the Lord Redlady, while
Beasley and Taggart watched as though they were staring at the last five
meters of a horse race.

   "Look at me carefully, citizens and members of the board," said Rod,
finding that in this milieu it was easy to fall into a ceremonious way of
talking. "Look at me carefully and do not consider my own happiness,
because you are not allowed, by law, to judge that anyhow. Look at my
talent— the way I can hier, the big thunderstorm way I can spiek." Rod
gathered his mind for a final gamble and as his lips got through talking,
he spat his whole mind at them: —anger-anger, rage-red,

   —blood-red,
  —fire-fury,

  —noise, stench, glare, roughness, sourness and hate hate hate,

  —all the anxiety of a bitter day,

  —crutts, whelps, pups!

   It all poured out at once. The Lord Redlady turned pale and compressed
his lips, Old Taggart put his hands over his face, Beasley looked
bewildered and nauseated. Beasley then started to belch as calm
descended on the room.

  In a slightly shaky voice, the Lord Redlady asked:

  "And what was that supposed to show, child and citizen?"

  "In grown-up form, sir, could it be a useful weapon?"

  The Lord Redlady looked at the other two. They talked with the tiny
expressions on their faces; if they were spieking, Rod could not read it.
This last effort had cost him all telepathic input.

  "Let's go on," said Taggart.

  "Are you ready?" said the Lord Redlady to Rod.

  "Yes, sir," said Rod.

   "I continue," said the Lord Redlady. "If you understand your own case
as we see it, we shall proceed to make a decision and, upon making the
decision, to kill you immediately or to set you free no less immediately.
Should the latter prove the case, we shall also present you with a small but
precious gift, so as to reward you for the courtesy which you will have
shown this board, for without courtesy there could be no proper hearing,
without the hearing no appropriate decision, and without an appropriate
decision there could be neither justice nor safety in the years to come. Do
you understand? Do you agree?"

  "I suppose so," said Rod.

   "Do you really understand? Do you really agree? It is your life which we
are talking about," said the Lord Redlady.
  "Cover us," said the Lord Redlady.

   Rod started to ask how when he understood that the command was not
directed at him in the least.

   The snake-man had come to life and was breathing heavily. He spoke in
clear old words, with an odd dropping cadence in each syllable:

  "High, my lord, or utter maximum?"

   For answer, the Lord Redlady pointed his right arm straight up with
the index finger straight at the ceiling. The snake-man hissed and
gathered his emotions for an attack. Rod felt his skin go goose-pimply all
over, then he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, finally he felt
nothing but an unbearable alertness. If these were the thoughts which the
snake-man was sending out of the trailer van, no passerby could possibly
eavesdrop on the decision. The startling pressure of raw menace would
take care of that instead.

  The three members of the board held hands and seemed to be asleep.

  The Lord Redlady opened his eyes and shook his head, almost
imperceptibly, at the snake-soldier.

   The feeling of snake-threat went off. The soldier returned to his
immobile position, eyes forward. The members of the board slumped over
their table. They did not seem to be able or ready to speak. They looked
out of breath. At last Taggart dragged himself to his feet, gasping his
message to Rod:

  "There's the door, boy. Go. You're a citizen. Free."

  Rod started to thank him but the old man held up his right hand:

  "Don't thank me. Duty. But remember—not one word, ever. Not one
word, ever, about this hearing. Go along."

   Rod plunged for the door, lurched through, and was in his own yard.
Free.

  For a moment he stood in the yard, stunned.

  The dear gray sky of Old North Australia rolled low overhead; this was
no longer the eerie light of Old Earth, where the heavens were supposed to
shine perpetually blue. He sneezed as the dry air caught the tissue of his
nostrils. He felt his clothing chill as the moisture evaporated out of it; he
did not think whether it was the wetness of the trailer-van or his own
sweat which had made his shirt so wet. There were a lot of people there,
and a lot of light. And the smell of roses was as far away as another life
might be.

  Lavinia stood near him, weeping.

  He started to turn to her, when a collective gasp from the crowd caused
him to turn around.

   The snake-man had come out of the van. (It was just an old
theater-van, he realized at last, the kind which he himself had entered a
hundred times.) His earth uniform looked like the acme of wealth and
decadence among the dusty coveralls of the men and the poplin dresses of
the women. His green complexion looked bright among the tanned faces
of the Norstrilians. He saluted Rod.

  Rod did not return the salute. He just stared.

   Perhaps they had changed their minds and had sent the giggle of death
after him.

   The soldier held out his hand. There was a wallet of what seemed to be
leather, finely chased, of offworld manufacture.

  Rod stammered, "It's not mine."

  "It— is— not— yours," said the snake-man, "but— it— is— the— gift—
which— the— people— promised— you— inside.—Take— it— because— I—
am—too— dry— out— here."

  Rod took it and stuffed it in his pocket. What did a present matter
when they had given him life, eyes, daylight, the wind itself?

   The snake-soldier watched with flickering eyes. He made no comment,
but he saluted and went stiffly back to the van. At the door he turned and
looked over the crowd as though he were appraising the easiest way to kill
them all. He said nothing, threatened nothing. He opened the door and
put himself into the van. There was no sign of who the human inhabitants
of the van might be. There must be, thought Rod, some way of getting
them in and out of the Garden of Death very secretly and very quietly,
because he had lived around the neighborhood a long time and had never
had the faintest idea that his own neighbors might sit on a board.

   The people were funny. They stood quietly in the yard, waiting for him
to make the first move.

  He turned stiffly and looked around more deliberately.

  Why, it was his neighbors and kinfolk, all of them—McBans,
MacArthurs, Passarellis, Schmidts, even the Sanders!

  He lifted his hand in greeting to all of them.

  Pandemonium broke loose.

   They rushed toward him. The women kissed him, the men patted him
on the back and shook his hand, the small children began a piping little
song about the Station of Doom. He had become the center of a mob
which led him to his own kitchen.

  Many of the people had begun to cry.

  He wondered why. Almost immediately, he understood—

  They liked him.

   For unfathomable people reasons, mixed-up non-logical human reasons
they had wished him well. Even the auntie who had predicted a coffin for
him was sniveling without shame, using a corner of her apron to wipe her
eyes and nose.

   He had gotten tired of people, being a freak himself, but in this
moment of trial their goodness, though capricious, flowed over him like a
great wave. He let them sit him down in his own kitchen. Among the
babble, the weeps, the laughter, the hearty and falsely cheerful relief, he
heard a single fugue being repeated again and again: they liked him. He
had come back from death: he was their Rod McBan.

   Without liquor, it made him drunk. "I can't stand it," he shouted, "I
like you all so dashed bloomed crutting much that I could beat the
sentimental brains out of the whole crook lot of you…"

  "Isn't that a sweet speech?" murmured an old farm wife nearby.

  A policeman, in full uniform, agreed.

   The party had started. It lasted three full days, and when it was over
there was not a dry eye or a full bottle on the whole Station of Doom.

   From time to time he cleared up enough to enjoy his miraculous gift of
hiering. He looked through all their minds while they chatted and sang
and drank and ate and were as happy as Larry; there was not one of them
who had come along vainly. They were truly rejoicing. They loved him.
They wished him well. He had his doubts about how long that kind of love
would last, but he enjoyed it while it lasted.

   Lavinia stayed out of his way the first day; on the second and third days
she was gone. They gave him real Norstrilian beer to drink, which they
had brought up to 108 proof by the simple addition of raw spirits. With
this, he forgot the Garden of Death, the sweet wet smells, the precise
off-world voice of the Lord Redlady, the pretentious blue sky in the ceiling.

   He looked in their minds and over and over again he saw the same
thing,

   "You're our boy. You made it. You're alive. Good luck, Rod, good luck to
you, fellow. We didn't have to see you stagger off, giggling and happy, to
the house that you would die in."

  Had he made it, thought Rod, or was it chance which had done it for
him?

               CHAPTER THREE: Anger of the Onseck

By the end of the week, the celebration was over. The assorted aunts and
cousins had gone back to their farms. The Station of Doom was quiet, and
Rod spent the morning making sure that the fieldhands had not neglected
the sheep too much during the prolonged party. He found that Daisy, a
young 300-ton ewe, had not been turned for two days and had to be
relanolinized on her ground side before earth canker set in; then, he
discovered that the nutrient tubes for Tanner, his 1000-ton ram, had
become jammed and that the poor sheep was getting a bad case of edema
in his gigantic legs. Otherwise things were quiet. Even when he saw
Beasley's red pony tethered in his own yard, he had no premonition of
trouble.

   He went cheerfully into the house, greeting Beasley with an irreverent
"Have a drink on me, Mister and Owner Beasley! Oh, you have one
already! Have the next one then, sir!"

  "Thanks for the drink, lad, but I came to see you. On business."

  "Yes sir," said Rod, "you're one of my trustees, aren't you?"

  "That I am," said Beasley, "but you're in trouble, lad. Real trouble."

   Rod smiled at him evenly and calmly. He knew that the older man had
to make a big effort to talk with his voice instead of just spieking with his
mind; he appreciated the fact that Beasley had come to him personally,
instead of talking to the other trustees about him. It was a sign that he,
Rod had passed his ordeal. With genuine composure, Rod declared:

  "I've been thinking, sir, this week, that I'd gotten out of trouble."

  "What do you mean, Owner McBan?"

   "You remember…" Rod did not dare mention the Garden of Death, nor
his memory that Beasley had been one of the secret board who had passed
him as being fit to live.

  Beasley took the cue. "Some things we don't mention, lad, and I see that
you have been well taught."

   He stopped there and stared at Rod with the expression of a man
looking at an unfamiliar corpse before turning it over to identify it. Rod
became uneasy with the stare.

  "Sit, lad, sit down," said Beasley, commanding Rod in his own house.

  Rod sat down on the bench, since Beasley occupied the only
chair—Rod's grandfather's huge carved off-world throne. He sat. He did
not like being ordered about, but he was sure that Beasley meant him well
and was probably strained by the unfamiliar effort of talking with his
throat and mouth.

  Beasley looked at him again with that peculiar expression, a mixture of
sympathy and distaste.

  "Get up again, lad, and look round your house to see if there's anybody
about."

  "There isn't," said Rod. "My aunt Doris left after I was cleared, the
workwoman Eleanor borrowed a cart and went off to market, and I have
only two station hands. They're both out reinfecting Baby. She ran low on
her santaclara count."

   Normally, the wealth-producing sicknesses of their gigantic
half-paralyzed sheep would have engrossed the full attention of any two
Norstrilian farmers, without respect to differences in age and grade.

  This time, no.

   Beasley had something serious and unpleasant on his mind. He looked
so pruney and unquiet that Rod felt a real sympathy for the man.

  Beasley repeated, "Go have a look, anyhow."

   Rod did not argue. Dutifully he went out the back door, looked around
the south side of the house, saw no one, walked around the house on the
north side, saw no one there either, and re-entered the house from the
front door. Beasley had not stirred, except to pour a little more bitter ale
from his bottle to his glass. Rod met his eyes. Without another word, Rod
sat down. If the man was seriously concerned about him (which Rod
thought he was), and if the man was reasonably intelligent (which Rod
knew he was), the communication was worth waiting for and listening to.
Rod was still sustained by the pleasant feeling that his neighbors liked
him, a feeling which had come plainly to the surface of their honest
Norstrilian faces when he walked back into his own back yard from the
van of the Garden of Death.

   Beasley said, as though he were speaking of an unfamiliar food or a rare
drink. "Boy, this talking has some advantages. If a man doesn't put his ear
into it, he can't just pick it up with his mind, can he, now?"
   Rod thought for a moment. Candidly he spoke, "I'm too young to know
for sure, but I never heard of somebody picking up spoken words by
hiering them with his mind. It seems to be one or the other. You never talk
while you are spieking, do you?"

   Beasley nodded. "That's it, then. I have something to tell you which I
shouldn't tell you, and yet I have got to tell you, so if I keep my voice
blooming low, nobody else will pick it up, will they?"

  Rod nodded. "What is it, sir? Is there something wrong with the title to
my property?"

  Beasley took a drink but kept staring at Rod over the top of the mug
while he drank, "You've got trouble there too, lad, but even though it's
bad, it's something I can talk over with you and with the other trustees.
This is more personal, in a way. And worse."

  "Please, sir! What is it?" cried Rod, almost exasperated by all this
mystification.

  "The Onseck is after you."

  "What's an Onseck?" said Rod, "I have never heard of it."

   "It's not an it," said Beasley gloomily, "it's a him. Onseck, you know, the
chap in the Commonwealth government. The man who keeps the books for
the Vice-chairman. It was Hon. Sec., meaning Honorary Secretary or
something else prehistoric, when we first came to this planet, but by now
everybody just says Onseck and writes it just the way it sounds. He knows
that he can't reverse your hearing in the Garden of Death."

   "Nobody could," cried Rod, "it's never been done; everybody knows
that."

  "They may know it, but there's civil trial."

  "How can they give me a civil trial when I haven't had time to change?
You yourself know—"

   "Never, laddie, never say what Beasley knows or doesn't know. Just say
what you think." Even in private, between just the two of them, Beasley
did not want to violate the fundamental secrecy of the hearing in the
Garden of Death.

   "I'm just going to say, Mister and Owner Beasley," said Rod very
heatedly, "that a civil trial for general incompetence is something which is
applied to an owner only after the neighbors have been complaining for a
long time about him. They haven't had the time or the right to complain
about me, have they now?"

   Beasley kept his hand on the handle of his mug. The use of spoken
words tired him. A crown of sweat began to show around the top of his
forehead.

   "Suppose, lad," said he very solemnly, "that I knew through proper
channels something about how you were judged in that van—there! I've
said it, me that shouldn't have—and suppose that I knew the Onseck hated
a foreign gentleman that might have been in a van like that—"

  "The Lord Redlady?" whispered Rod, shocked at last by the fact that
Beasley forced himself to talk about the unmentionable.

    "Aye," nodded Beasley, his honest face close to breaking into tears, "and
suppose that I knew that the Onseck knew you and felt the rule was wrong,
all wrong, that you were a freak who would hurt all Norstrilia, what would
I do?"

  "I don't know," said Rod. "Tell me, perhaps?"

  "Never," said Beasley. "I'm an honest man. Get me another drink."

   Rod walked over to the cupboard, brought out another bottle of bitter
ale, wondering where or when He might have known the Onseck. He had
never had much of anything to do with government; his family—first his
grandfather, while he lived, and then his aunts and cousins—had taken
care of all the official papers and permits and things.

   Beasley drank deeply of the ale. "Good ale, this. Hard work, talking,
even though it's a fine way to keep a secret, if you're pretty sure nobody
can peep our minds."

  "I don't know him," said Rod.

  "Who?" asked Beasley, momentarily off his trail of thought.
  "The Onseck. I don't know any Onseck. I've never been to New
Canberra. I've never seen an official, no, nor an offworlder neither, not
until I met that foreign gentleman we were talking about. How can the
Onseck know me if I don't know him?"

  "But you did, laddie. He wasn't Onseck then."

  "For sheep's sake, sir," said Rod, "tell me who it is!"

  "Never use the Lord's name unless you are talking to the Lord," said
Beasley glumly.

  "I'm sorry, sir. I apologize. Who was it?"

  "Hougaton Syme to the-hundred-and-forty-ninth," said Beasley.

  "We have no neighbor of that name, sir."

   "No, we don't," said Beasley hoarsely, as though he had come to the end
of his road in imparting secrets.

  Rod stared at him, still puzzled.

  In the far, far distance, way beyond Pillow Hills, his giant sheep baa'd.
That probably meant that Hopper was hoisting her into a new position on
her platform, so that she could reach fresh grass.

   Beasley brought his face close to Rod's. He whispered, and it was funny
to see the hash a normal man made out of whispering when he hadn't even
talked with his voice for half a year.

  His words had a low, dirty tone to them, as though he were going to tell
Rod an extremely filthy story or ask him some personal and most
improper question.

   "Your life, laddie," he gasped, "I know you've had a rum one. I hate to
ask you, but I must. How much do you know of your own life?"

    "Oh, that," said Rod easily, "that. I don't mind being asked that, even if
it is a little wrong-o. I have had four childhoods, zero to sixteen each time.
My family kept hoping that I would grow up to spiek and hier like
everybody else, but I just stayed me. Of course, I wasn't a real baby on the
three times they started me over, just sort of an educated idiot the size of
a boy sixteen."

   "That's it, lad. But can you remember them, those other lives?"

   "Bits and pieces, sir, Pieces and bits. It didn't hold together—" He
checked himself and gasped, "Houghton Syme! Houghton Syme! Old Hot
and Simple. Of course I know him. The one-shot boy. I knew him in my
first prepper, in my first childhood. We were pretty good friends, but we
hated each other anyhow. I was a freak and he was too. I couldn't spiek or
hier, and he couldn't take stroon. That meant that I would never get
through the Garden of Death— just the giggle room and fine owner's coffin
for me. And him —he was worse. He would just get an Old Earth lifetime—
a hundred and sixty years or so and then blotto. He must be an oldish man
now. Poor chap! How did he get to be Onseck? What power does an
Onseck have?"

   "Now you have it, laddie. He says he's your friend and that he hates to
do it, but he's got to see to it that you are killed. For the good of Norstrilia.
He says it's his duty. He got to be Onseck because he was always jawing
about his duty and people were a little sorry for him because he was going
to die so soon, just one Old Earth lifetime with all the stroon in the
universe produced around his feet and him unable to take it—"

   "They never cured him, then?"

   "Never," said Beasley. "He's an old man now, and bitter. And he's sworn
to see you die."

   "Can he do it? Being Onseck, I mean."

   "He might. He hates that foreign gentleman we were talking about
because that offworlder told him he was a provincial fool. He hates you
because you will live and he will not. What was it you called him in
school?"

   "Old Hot and Simple. A boy's joke on his name."

  "He's not hot and he's not simple. He's cold and complicated and cruel
and unhappy. If we didn't all of us think that he was going to die in a little
while, ten or a hundred years or so, we might vote him into a giggle room
ourselves. For misery and incompetence. But he is Onseck and he's after
you. I've said it now. I shouldn't have. But when I saw that sly cold face
talking about you and trying to declare your board incompetent right
while you, laddie, were having an honest binge with your family and
neighbors at having gotten through at last—when I saw that white sly face
creeping around where you couldn't even see him for a fair fight—then I
said to myself, Rod McBan may not be a man officially, but the poor
clodding crutt has paid the full price for being a man, so I've told you. I
may have taken a chance, and I may have hurt my honor." Beasley sighed.
His honest red face was troubled indeed. "I may have hurt my honor, and
that's a sore thing here in Norstrilia where a man can live as long as he
wants. But I'm glad I did. Besides, my throat is sore with all this talking.
Get me another bottle of bitter ale, lad, before I go and get my horse."

  Wordlessly Rod got him the ale, and poured it for him with a pleasant
nod.

   Beasley, uninclined to do any more talking, sipped at the ale. Perhaps,
thought Rod, he is hiering around carefully to see if there have been any
human minds nearby which might have picked up the telepathic leakage
from the conversation.

   As Beasley handed back the mug and started to leave with a wordless
neighborly nod, Rod could not restrain himself from asking one last
question, which he spoke in a hissed whisper. Beasley had gotten his mind
so far off the subject of sound talk that he merely stared at Rod. Perhaps,
Rod thought, he is asking me to spiek plainly because he has forgotten
that I cannot spiek at all. That was the case, because Beasley croaked in a
very hoarse voice:

  "What is it, lad? Don't make me talk much. My voice is scratching me
and my honor is sore within me."

  "What should I do, sir? What should I do?"

  "Mister and Owner McBan, that's your problem. I'm not you. I wouldn't
know."

  "But what would you do, sir? Suppose you were me."

   Beasley's blue eyes looked over at Pillow Hill for a moment,
abstractedly. "Get offplanet. Get off. Go away. For a hundred years or so.
Then that man—him—he'll be dead in due time and you can come back,
fresh as a new-blossomed twinkle."
  "But how, sir? How can I do it?"

  Beasley patted him on his shoulder, gave him a broad wordless smile,
put his foot in his stirrup, sprang into his saddle, and looked down at Rod.

  "I wouldn't know, neighbor. But good luck to you, just the same. I've
done more than I should. Good-bye."

   He slapped his horse gently with his open hand trotted out of the yard.
At the edge of the yard the changed to a canter.

  Rod stood in his own doorway, utterly alone.

   CHAPTER FOUR: The Old Broken Treasures in
                                    the Gap

After Beasley left, Rod loped miserably around his farm. He missed his
grandfather, who had been living during his first three childhoods but
who had died while Rod was going through a fourth simulated infancy in
an attempt to cure his telepathic handicap. He even missed his Aunt
Margot, who had voluntarily gone into Withdrawal at the age of nine
hundred and two. There were plenty of cousins and kinsmen from whom
he could ask advice; there were the two hands on the farm; there was even
the chance that he could go see Mother Hitton herself, because she had
once been, married to one of his great 11 -uncles. But this time he did not
want companionship. There was nothing he could do with people. The
Onseck was people too—imagine "old hot and simple" becoming a power
in the hand! Rod knew that this was his own fight.

  His own.

  What had ever been his own before?

   Not even his life. He could remember bits about the different boyhoods
he'd had. He even had vague uncomfortable glimpses of seasons of
pain—the times they had sent him back to babyhood while leaving him
large. That hadn't been his choice. The old man had ordered it or the
Vice-chairman had approved it or Aunt Margot had begged for it. Nobody
had asked him much, except to say, "You will agree…"
  He had agreed.

   He had been good—so good that he hated them all at times and
wondered if they knew he hated them. The hate never lasted, because the
real people involved were too well-meaning, too kind, too ambitious for his
own sake. He had to love them back.

  Trying to think these things over, he loped around his estate on foot.

   The big sheep lay on their platforms, forever sick, forever gigantic.
Perhaps some of them remembered when they had been lambs, free to run
through the sparse grass, free to push their heads through the pliofilm
covers of the canals and to help themselves to water when they wanted to
drink. Now they weighed hundreds of tons and were fed by feeding
machines, watched by guard machines, checked by automatic doctors.
They were fed and watered a little through the mouth only because
pastoral experience showed that they stayed fatter and lived longer if a
semblance of normality was left to them.

  His aunt Doris, who kept house for him, was still away.

  His workwoman Eleanor, whom he paid an annual sum larger than
many planets paid for their entire armed forces, had delayed her time at
market.

  The two sheephands, Bill and Hopper, were still out.

  And he did not want to talk to them, anyhow.

   He wished that he could see the Lord Redlady, that strange offworld
man whom he had met in the Garden of Death. The Lord Redlady just
looked as though he knew more things than Norstrilians did, as though he
came from sharper, crueler, wiser societies than most people in Old North
Australia had ever seen.

  But you can't ask for a Lord. Particularly not when you have met him
only in a secret hearing.

  Rod had gotten to the final limits of his own land.

  Humphrey's Lawsuit lay beyond— a broad strip of poor land,
completely untended, the building-high ribs of long-dead sheep-skeletons
making weird shadows as the sun began to set. The Humphrey family had
been lawing over that land for hundreds of years. Meanwhile it lay waste
except for the few authorized public animals which the Commonwealth
was allowed to put on any land, public or private.

  Rod knew that freedom was only two steps away.

   All he had to do was to step over the line and shout with his mind for
people. He could do that even though he could not really spiek. A
telepathic garble of alarm would bring the orbiting guards down to him in
seven or eight minutes. Then he would need only to say:

    "I swear off title. I give up mistership and ownership. I demand my
living from the Commonwealth. Watch me, people, while I repeat."

   Three repetitions of this would make him an Official Pauper, with not a
care left—no meetings, no land to tend, no accounting to do, nothing but
to wander around Old North Australia picking up any job he wanted and
quitting it whenever he wanted. It was a good life, a free life, the best the
Commonwealth could offer to squatters and owners who otherwise lived
long centuries of care, responsibility, and honor. It was a fine life—

  But no McBan had ever taken it, not even a cousin. Nor could he.

    He went back to the house, miserable. He listened to Eleanor talking
with Bill and Hopper while dinner was served—a huge plate of boiled
mutton, potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, Station-brewed beer out of the keg.
(There were planets, he knew, where people never tasted such food from
birth to death. There they lived on impregnated pasteboard which was
salvaged from the latrines, reimpregnated with nutrients and vitamins,
deodorized and sterilized, and issued again the next day.) He knew it was
a fine dinner, but he did not care. How could he talk about the Onseck to
these people? Their faces still glowed with pleasure at his having come out
the right side of the Garden of Death. They thought he was lucky to be
alive, even more lucky to be the most honored heir on the whole planet.
Doom was a good place, even if it wasn't the biggest.

   Right in the middle of dinner he remembered the gift the snake-soldier
had given him. He had put it on the top shelf of his bedroom wall and with
the party and Beasley's visit, he had never opened it.

  He bolted down his food and muttered, "I'll be back." The wallet was
there, in his bedroom. The case was beautiful. He took it, opened it.

  Inside there was a flat metal disc.

  A ticket?

  Where to?

   He turned it this way and that. It had been telepathically engraved and
was probably shouting its entire itinerary into his mind, but he could not
hier it.

    He held it close to the oil lamp. Sometimes discs like this had
old-writing on them, which at least showed the general limits. It would be
a private ornithopter up to Menzies Lake at the best, or an airbus fare to
New Melbourne and return. He caught the sheen of old writing. One more
tilt, angled to the light, and he had it. "Manhome and return."

  Manhome!

  Lord have mercy, that was Old Earth itself!

   "But then," thought Rod, "I'd be running away from the Onseck, and I'd
live the rest of my life with all my friends knowing I had run away from
Old Hot and Simple. I can't. Somehow I've got to beat Houghton Syme. In
his own way. And my own way."

   He went back to the table, dropped the rest of the dinner into his
stomach as though it were sheep-food pellets, and went to his bedroom
early.

  For the first time in his life, he slept badly.

  And out of the bad sleep, the answer came: "Ask Hamlet."

   Hamlet was not even a man. He was just a talking picture in a cave, but
he was wise, he was from Old Earth Itself, and he had no friends to whom
to give Rod's secrets.

   With this idea, Rod turned on his sleeping shelf and went into a deep
sleep.
  In the morning his aunt Doris was still not back, so he told the
workwoman Eleanor, "I'll be gone all day. Don't look for me or worry about
me."

   "What about your lunch, mister and owner? You can't run around the
station with no tucker."

  "Wrap some up, then."

   "Where're you going, mister and owner, sir, if you can tell me?" There
was an unpleasant searching edge in her voice, as though—being the only
adult woman present—she had to check on him as though he were still a
child. He didn't like it, but he replied with a frank enough air:

  "I'm not leaving the station. Just rambling around. I need to think."

   More kindly she said, "You think, then, Rod. Just go right ahead and
think. If you ask me, you ought to go live with a family—"

  "I know what you've said," he interrupted her. "I'm not making any big
decisions today, Eleanor. Just rambling and thinking."

   "All right then, mister and owner. Ramble around and worry about the
ground you're walking on. It's you that get the worries for it. I'm glad my
daddy took the official pauper words. We used to be rich." Unexpectedly
she brightened and laughed at herself, "Now that, you've heard that too,
Rod. Here's your food. Do you have your water?"

  "I'll steal from the sheep," he said irreverently. She knew he was joking
and she waved him a friendly good-bye.

   The old, old gap was to the rear of the house, so he left by the front. He
wanted to go the long wrong way around, so that neither human eyes nor
human minds would stumble on the secret he had found fifty-six years
before, the first time he was eight years old. Through all the pain and the
troubles he had remembered this one vivid bright secret—the deep cave
full of ruined and prohibited treasures. To these he must go.


   The sun was high in the sky, spreading its patch of brighter gray above
the gray clouds, when he slid into what looked like a dry irrigation ditch.

  He walked a few steps along the ditch. Then he stopped and listened
carefully, very carefully.

   There was no sound except for the snoring of a young hundred-ton ram
a mile or so away.

   Rod then stared around.

   In the far distance, a police ornithopter soared as lazy as a sated hawk.

   Rod tried desperately much to hier.

  He hiered nothing with his mind, but with his ears he heard the slow
heavy pulsing of his own blood pounding through his head.

   He took a chance.

   The trap door was there, just inside the edge of the culvert.

  He lifted it and, leaving it open, dove in confidently as a swimmer
knifing his way into a familiar pool.

   He knew his way.

   His clothes ripped a little, but the weight of his body dragged him past
the narrowness of the doorframe.

   His hands reached out and like the hands of an acrobat they caught the
inner bar. The door behind snapped shut.

   How frightening this had been when he was little and tried the trip for
the first time! He had let himself down with a rope and a torch, never
realizing the importance of the trap door at the edge of the culvert!

   Now it was easy.

   With a thud, he landed on his feet. The bright old illegal lights went on.
The dehumidifier began to purr, lest the wetness of his breath spoil the
treasures in the room.

   There were drama-cubes by the score, with two different sizes of
projectors. There were heaps of clothing, for both men and women, left
over from forgotten ages. In a chest, in the corner, there was even a small
machine from before the Age of Space, a crude but beautiful mechanical
chronograph, completely without resonance compensation, and the
ancient name "Jaeger Le Coultre" written across its face. It still kept earth
time after fifteen thousand years.

   Rod sat down in an utterly impermissible chair—one which seemed to
be a complex of pillows built on an interlocking frame. The touch enough
was a medicine for his worries. One chair leg was broken, but that was the
way his grandfather to-the-nineteenth had violated the Clean Sweep.

   The Clean Sweep had been Old North Australia's last political crisis,
many centuries before, when the last under-people were hunted down and
driven off the planet and when all damaging luxuries had to be turned in
to the Commonwealth authorities, to be repurchased by their owners only
at a revaluation twenty thousand times higher than their assessed worth.
It was the final effort to keep Norstrilians simple, healthy and well. Every
citizen had to swear that he had turned in every single item, and the oath
had been taken with thousands of telepaths watching. It was a testimony
to the high mental power and adept deceitfulness of grandfather
to-the-nineteenth that Rod McBan CXXX had inflicted only symbolic
breakage on his favorite treasures, some of which were not even in the
categories allowed for repurchase, like offworld drama-cubes, and had
been able to hide his things in an unimportant corner of his fields—hide
them so well that neither robbers nor police had thought of them for the
hundreds of years that followed.

   Rod picked up his favorite: Hamlet, by William Shakespeare. Without a
viewer, the cube was designed to act when touched by a true human
being. The top of the cube became a little stage, the actors appeared as
bright miniatures speaking Ancient Inglish, a language very close to Old
North Australian, and the telepathic commentary, cued to the Old
Common Tongue, rounded out the story. Since Rod was not dependably
telepathic, he had learned a great deal of the Ancient Inglish by trying to
understand the drama without commentary. He did not like what he first
saw and he shook the cube until the play approached its end. At last he
heard the dear high familiar voice speaking in Hamlet's last scene:


  I am dead, Horatio. Wretched queen, adieu!
You that look pale and tremble at this chance.
That are but mutes or audience to this act.
Had I but time— as this fell sergeant, death,
Is strict in his arrest— O! I could tell you—
But let it be, Horatio, I am dead.


  Rod shook the cube very gently and the scene sped down a few lines.
Hamlet was still talking:

    … what a wounded name,
Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me.
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
Absent thee from felicity a while,
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain
To tell my story.


  Rod put down the cube very gently.

  The bright little figures disappeared.

  The room was silent.

   But he had the answer and it was wisdom. And wisdom, coeval with
man, comes unannounced, unbidden, and unwelcome into every life; Rod
found that he had discovered the answer to a basic problem.

   But not his own problem. The answer was Houghton Syme, old Hot and
Simple. It was the Hon. Sec. who was already dying of a wounded name.
Hence the persecution. It was the Onseck who had the "fell sergeant,
death" acting strictly in his arrest, even if the arrest were only a few
decades off instead of a few minutes. He, Rod McBan, was to live; his old
acquaintance was to die; and the dying—oh, the dying, always,
always!—could not help resenting the survivors, even if they were loved
ones, at least for a little bit.

  Hence the Onseck.

  But what of himself?

   Rod brushed a pile of priceless, illegal manuscripts out of the way and
picked up a small book marked Reconstituted Late Inglish Language
Verse. At each page, as it was opened, a young man or woman seven
centimeters high stood up brightly on the page and recited the text. Rod
ruffled the pages of the old book so that the little figures appeared and
trembled and fled like weak flames seen on a bright day. One caught his
eye and he stopped the page at mid-poem. The figure was saying:


   The challenge holds, I cannot now retract
The boast I made to that relentless court,
The hostile justice of my self-contempt.
If now the ordeal is prepared, my act
Must soon be shown. I pray that it is short,
And never dream that I shall be exempt.


   He glanced at the foot of the page and saw the name, Casimir
Colegrove. Of course, he had seen that name before. An old poet—a good
one. But what did the words mean to him, Rod McBan, sitting in a hidden
hole within the limits of his own land? He was a Mister and Owner, in all
except final title, and he was running from an enemy he could not define.

  "The hostile justice of my self-contempt…"

   That was the key of it! He had not run from the Onseck. He had run
from himself. He took justice itself as hostile because it corresponded with
his sixty-odd years of boyhood, his endless disappointment, his
compliance with things which would never, till all worlds burned, be
complied with. How could he hier and spiek like other people if
somewhere a dominant feature had turned recessive? Hadn't real justice
already vindicated him and cleared him?

  It was himself who was cruel.

  Other people were kind. (Shrewdness made him add "sometimes.")

   He had taken his own inner sense of trouble and had made it fit the
outside world, like the morbid little poem he had read a long time ago. It
was somewhere right in this room, and when he had first read it, he felt
that the long-dead writer had put it down for himself alone. But it wasn't
really so. Other people had had their troubles too and the poem had
expressed something older than Rod McBan. It went:


  The wheels of fate are spinning around.
Between them the souls of men are ground
The Old Broken Treasures in the Gap
Who strive for throats to make some sound
Of protest out of the mad profound
Trap of the godmachine!


    "Godmachine," thought Rod, "now that's a clue. I've got the only
all-mechanical computer on this planet. I'll play it on the stroon crop, win
all or lose all."

  The boy stood up in the forbidden room.

  "Fight it is," he said to the cubes on the floor, "and a good thanks to
you, grandfather-to-the-nineteenth. You met the law and did not lose. And
now it is my turn to be Rod McBan."

  He turned and shouted to himself, "To earth!"

   The call embarrassed him. He felt unseen eyes staring at him. He
almost blushed and would have hated himself if he had.

   He stood on the top of a treasure chest turned on its side. Two more
gold coins, worthless as money but priceless as curios, fell noiselessly on
the thick old rugs. He thought a good-bye again to his secret room and he
jumped upward for the bar. He caught it, chinned himself, raised himself
higher, swung a leg on it but not over it, got his other foot on the bar, and
then, very carefully but with the power of all his muscles, pushed himself
into the black opening above. The lights suddenly went off, the
dehumidifier hummed louder, and the daylight dazzled him as the trap
door, touched, flung itself open.

   He thrust his head into the culvert. The daylight seemed deep gray after
the brilliance of the treasure room.

  All silent, All clear. He rolled into the ditch.

  The door, with silence and power, closed itself behind him. He was
never to know it, but it had been cued to the genetic code of the
descendants of Rod McBan. Had any other person touched it, it would
have withstood them for a long time—almost forever.

  You see, it was not really his door. He was its boy.
   "This land has made me," said Rod aloud, as he clambered out of the
ditch and looked around. The young ram had apparently wakened; his
snoring had stopped and over the quiet hill there came the sound of his
panting. Thirsty again! The Station of Doom was not so rich that it could
afford unlimited water to its giant sheep. They lived all right. He would
have asked the trustees to sell even the sheep for water, if a real drought
set in. But never the land.

  Never the land.

  No land for sale.

   It didn't even really belong to him: he belonged to it—the rolling dry
fields, the covered rivers and canals, the sly catchments which caught
every drop which might otherwise have gone to his neighbors. That was
the pastoral business— its product immortality and its price water. The
Commonwealth could have flooded the planet and could have created
small oceans, with the financial resources it had at command, but the
planet and the people were regarded as one ecological entity. Old
Australia—that fabulous continent of old Earth now covered by the ruins
of the abandoned Chinesian city-world of Nanbien—had in its prime been
broad, dry, open, beautiful; the planet of Old North Australia, by the dead
weight of its own tradition, had to remain the same.

   Imagine trees. Imagine leaves—vegetation dropping uneaten to the
ground. Imagine water pouring by the thousands of tons, no one greeting
it with tears of relief or happy laughter! Imagine Earth. Old Earth.
Manhome itself. Rod had tried to think of a whole planet inhabited by
Hamlets, drenched with music and poetry, knee-deep in blood and drama.
It was unimaginable, really, though he had tried to think it through.

  Like a chill, a drill, a thrill cutting into his very nerves he thought:

  Imagine Earth women!

   What terrifying beautiful things they must be! Dedicated to ancient
and corruptive arts, surrounded by the objects which Norstrilia had
forbidden long ago, stimulated by experiences which the very law of his
own world had expunged from the books! He would meet them; he
couldn't help it; what, what would he do when he met a genuine Earth
woman?
   He would have to ask his computer, even though the neighbors laughed
at him for having the only pure computer left on the planet.

   They didn't know what grandfather to-the-nineteenth had done. He had
taught the computer to lie. It stored all the forbidden things which the
Law of the Clean Sweep had brushed out of Norstrilian experience. It
could lie like a trooper. Rod wondered whether "a trooper" might be some
archaic Earth official who did nothing but tell the untruth, day in and day
out, for his living. But the computer usually did not lie to him.

  If grandfather 19 had behaved as saucily and unconventionally with the
computer as he had with everything else, that particular computer would
know all about women. Even things which they did not themselves
know—or wish to know.

   Good computer! thought Rod as he trotted around the long, long fields
to his house. Eleanor would have the tucker on. Doris might be back. Bill
and Hopper would be angry if they had to wait for the mister before they
ate. To speed up his trip, he headed straight for the little cliff behind the
house, hoping no one would see him jump down it. He was much stronger
than most of the men he knew, but he was anxious, for some private
inexpressible reason, for them not to know it.

   The route was clear.

   He found the cliff.

   No observers.

   He dropped over it, feet first, his heels kicking up the scree as he
tobogganed through loose rock to the foot of the slope.

   And aunt Doris was there.

   "Where have you been?" said she.

   "Walking, mum," said he.

  She gave him a quizzical look, but knew better than to ask more.
Talking always fussed her, anyhow. She hated the sound of her own voice,
which she considered much too high. The matter passed.
  Inside the house, they ate. Beyond the door and the oil lamp, a gray
world became moonless, starless, black. This was night, his own night.

         CHAPTER FIVE: The Quarrel at the Dinner
                                           Table
   At the end of the meal he waited for Doris to say grace to the Queen.
She did, but under her thick eyebrows her eyes expressed something,
other than thanks.

  "You're going out," she said right after the prayer. It was an accusation,
not a question.

  The two hired men looked at him with quiet doubt. A week ago he had
been a boy. Now he was the same person, but legally a man.

   Workwoman Eleanor looked at him too. She smiled unobtrusively to
herself. She was on his side whenever any other person came into the
picture; when they were alone, she nagged him as much as she dared. She
had known his parents before they went off world for a long-overdue
honeymoon and were chewed into molecules by a battle between raiders
and police. That gave her a proprietary feeling about him.

  He tried to spiek to Doris with his mind, just to see if it would work.

   It didn't. The two men bounded from their seats and ran for the yard,
Eleanor sat in her chair holding tight to the table but saying nothing, and
aunt Doris screeched so loud that he could not make out the words.

  He knew she meant "Stop it!" so he did, and looked at her friendlily.

  That started a fight.

   Quarrels were common in Norstrilian life, because the Fathers had
taught that they were therapeutic. Children could quarrel until adults told
them to stop, freemen could quarrel as long as misters were not involved,
misters could quarrel as long as an owner was not present, and owners
could quarrel if, at the very end, they were willing to fight it out. No one
could quarrel in the presence of an offworlder, nor during an alert, nor
with a member of the defense or police on active duty.
   Rod McBan was a mister and owner, but he was under trusteeship; he
was a man, but he had not been given clear papers; he was a handicapped
person. The rules got all mixed up.

   When Hopper came back to the table he muttered, "Do that again,
laddie, and I'll clout you one that you won't forget!" Considering how
rarely he used his voice, it was a beautiful man's voice—resonant,
baritone, full-bodied, hearty and sincere in the way the individual words
came out.

   Bill didn't say a word, but from the contortions of his face Rod gathered
that he was spieking to the others at a great rate and working off his
grievance that way.

  "If you're spieking about me, Bill," said Rod with a touch of arrogance
which he did not really feel, "you'll do me the pleasure of using words or
you'll get off my land!"

   When Bill spoke, his voice was as rusty as an old machine. "I'll have you
know, you clutty little pommy, that I have more money in my name on
Sidney 'Change than you and your whole glubby land are worth. Don't you
tell me twice to get off the land, you silly half of a mister, or I will get. So
shut up!"

   Rod felt his stomach knot with anger. His anger became fiercer when
he felt Eleanor's restraining hand on his arm. He didn't want another
person, not one more damned useless normal person, to tell him what to
do about spieking and hiering. Aunt Doris' face was still hidden in her
apron; she had escaped, as she always did, into weeping.

   Just as he was about to speak again, perhaps to lose Bill from the farm
forever, his mind lifted in the mysterious way that it did sometimes; he
could hier for miles. The people around him did not notice the difference.
He saw the proud rage of Bill, with his money in the Sidney Exchange,
bigger than many station owners had, waiting his time to buy back on the
land which his father had left; he saw the honest annoyance of Hopper and
was a little abashed to see that Hopper was watching him proudly and
with amused affection; in Eleanor he saw nothing but wordless worry, a
fear that she might lose him as she had lost so many homes for
hnnnhnnn-hnn dzzmmmmm, a queer meaningless reference which had a
shape in her mind, but took no form in his; and in aunt Doris he caught
her inner voice calling, "Rod, Rod, Rod, come back! This may be your boy
and I'm a McBan to the death, but I'll never know what to do with a
cripple like him."

   Bill was still waiting for him to answer when another thought came into
his mind:

   "You fool—go to your computer!"

   "Who said that?" he thought, not trying to spiek again, but just
thinking it with his mind.

   "Your computer," said the faraway thinkvoice.

   "You can't spiek," said Rod, "you're a pure machine with not an animal
brain in you."

   "When you call me, Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William
MacArthur McBan to-the-hundred-and-fifty-first, I can spiek across space
itself. I'm cued to you and you shouted just now with your spiekmind. I
can feel you hiering me."

   "But—" said Rod in words.

   "Take it easy, lad," said Bill, right in the room with him. "Take it easy. I
didn't mean it."

   "You're having one of your spells," said Aunt Doris, emerging red-nosed
from behind her apron.

   Rod stood up.

   Said he to all of them, "I'm sorry. I'm going out for a bit. Out into the
night."

   "You're going to that bloody computer," said Bill.

   "Don't go, Mister McBan," said Hopper, "don't let us anger you into
going. It's bad enough being around that computer in daylight, but at
night it must be horrible."

   "How would you know?" retorted Rod, "You've never been there at
night. And I have. Lots of times…"
   "There are dead people in it," said Hopper. "It's an old war computer.
Your family should never have bought it in the first place. It doesn't belong
on a farm. A thing like that should be hung out in space and orbited."

   "All right, Eleanor," said Rod, "you tell me what to do. Everybody else
has," he added with the last bit of his remaining anger, as his hiering
closed down and he saw the usual opaque faces around him.

  "It's no use, Rod. Go along to your computer. You've got a strange life
and you're the one who will live it, Mister McBan, and not these other
people around here." Her words made sense.

  He stood up. "I'm sorry," said he, again, in lieu of goodbye.

   He stood in the doorway, hesitant. He would have liked to say good-bye
in a better way, but he did not know how to express it. Anyhow, he
couldn't spiek, not so they could hier it with their minds; speaking with a
voice was so crude, so flat for the fine little things that needed expression
in life. They looked at him, and he at them.

  "Ngahh!" said he, in a raw cry of self-derision and fond disgust.

    Their expression showed that they had gotten his meaning, though the
word carried nothing with it. Bill nodded, Hopper looked friendly and a
little worried, Aunt Doris stopped sniveling and began to stretch out one
hand, only to stop it in mid-gesture, and Eleanor sat immobile at the
table, upset by wordless troubles of her own. He turned.

   The cube of lamplight, the cabin room, was behind him; ahead the
darkness of all Norstrilian nights, except for the weird rare times that they
were cut up by traceries of lightness. He started off for a house which only
a few but he could see, and which none but he could enter. It was a
forgotten, invisible temple; it housed the MacArthur family computer, to
which the older McBan computer was linked; and it was called the Palace
of the Governor of Night.

     CHAPTER SIX: The Palace of the Governor of
                                         Night

Rod loped across the rolling land, his land.
   Other Norstrilians, telepathically normal, would have taken fixes by
hiering the words in nearby houses. Rod could not walk by telepathy, so he
whistled to himself in an odd off-key, with lots of flats. The echoes came
back to his unconscious mind through the overdeveloped ear-hearing
which he had worked out to compensate for not being able to hier with his
mind. He sensed a slope ahead of him, and jogged up it; he avoided a
clump of brush; he heard his youngest ram, Sweet William, snoring the
gigantic snore of a santaclara-infected sheep two hills over.

   Soon he would see it.

   The Palace of the Governor of Night.

   The most useless building in all Old North Australia.

  Solider than steel and yet invisible to normal eyes except for its ghostly
outline traced in the dust which had fallen lightly on it.

   The Palace had really been a palace once, on Khufu II, which rotated
with one pole always facing its star. The people there had made fortunes
which at one time were compared with the wealth of Old North Australia.
They had discovered the Furry Mountains, range after range of alpine
configurations on which a tenacious non-Earth lichen had grown. The
lichen was silky, shimmering, warm, strong, and beautiful beyond belief.
The people gained their wealth by cutting it carefully from the mountains
so that it would regrow and selling it to the richer worlds, where a luxury
fabric could be sold at fabulous prices. They had even had two
governments on Khufu II, one of the day-dwelling people who did most of
the trading and brokering, since the hot sunlight made their crop of lichen
poor, and the other for the night-dwellers, who ranged deep into the frigid
areas in search of stunted lichen—fine, tenacious and delicately beautiful.

   The Daimoni had come to Khufu II, just as they came to many other
planets, including Old Earth, Manhome itself. They had come out of
nowhere and they went back to the same place. Some people thought that
they were human beings who had acclimated themselves to live in the
subspace which planoforming involved; others thought that they had an
artificial planet on the inside of which they lived; still others thought that
they had solved the jump out of our galaxy; a few insisted that there were
no such things as Daimoni. This last position was hard to maintain,
because the Daimoni paid in architecture of a very spectacular kind
—buildings which resisted corrosion, erosion, age, heat, cold, stress and
weapons. On Earth itself, Earthport was their biggest wonder—a sort of
wine-glass twenty-five kilometers high, with an enormous rocket-field
built into the top of it. On Norstrilia they had left nothing; perhaps they
had not even wanted to meet the Old North Australians, who had a
reputation for being rough and gruff with strangers who came to their
own home planet. It was evident that the Daimoni had solved the problem
of immortality on their own terms and in their own way; they were bigger
than most of the races of mankind, uniform in size, height and beauty;
they bore no sign of youth or age; they showed no vulnerability to sickness;
they spoke with mellifluent gravity; and they purchased treasures for their
own immediate collective use, not for retrade or profit. They had never
tried to get stroon or the raw santaclara virus from which it was refined,
even though the Daimoni trading ships had passed the tracks of armed
and convoyed Old North Australian freight fleets. There was even one
picture which showed the two races meeting each other in the chief port
of Olympia, the planet of the blind receivers: Norstrilians tall, outspoken,
lively, crude and immensely rich; Daimoni equally rich, reserved,
beautiful, polished and pale. There was awe (and with awe, resentment)
on the part of the Norstrilians toward the Daimoni; there was elegance
and condescension on the part of the Daimoni toward everyone else,
including the Norstrilians. The meeting had been no success at all. The
Norstrilians were not used to meeting people who did not care about
immortality, even at a penny a bushel; the Daimoni were disdainful
toward a race which not only did not appreciate architecture, but which
tried to keep architects off its planet, except for defense purposes, and
which desired to lead a rough, simple, pastoral life to the end of time.
Thus it was not until the Daimoni had left, never to return, that the
Norstrilians realized that they had passed up some of the greatest
bargains of all time—the wonderful buildings which the Daimoni so
generously scattered over the planets which they had visited for trade or
for visits. On Khufu II, the Governor of Night had brought out an ancient
book and had said: "I want that."

   The Daimoni, who had a neat eye for proportions and figures, said, "We
have that picture on our world too. It is an Ancient Earth building. It was
once called the great temple of Diana of the Ephesians, but it fell even
before the age of space began."

  "That's what I want," said the Governor of Night. "Easy enough," said
one of the Daimoni, all of whom looked like princes. "We'll run it up for
you by tomorrow night."
   "Hold on," said the Governor of Night. "I don't want the whole thing.
Just the front—to decorate my palace. I have a perfectly good palace all
right, and my defenses are built right into it."

  "If you let us build you a house," said one of the Daimoni gently, "you
would never need defenses, ever. Just a robot to close the windows against
megaton bombs."

   "You're good architects, gentlemen," said the Governor of Night,
smacking his lips over the model city they had shown him, "but I'll stick
with the defenses I know. So I just want your front. Like that picture.
Furthermore, I want it invisible."

   The Daimoni lapsed back into their language, which sounded as though
it were of Earth origin, but which has never been deciphered from the few
recordings of their visits which survived.

  "All right," said one of them, "invisible it is. You still want the great
temple of Diana at Ephesus on Old Earth?"

   "Yes," said the Governor of Night.

   "Why—if you can't see it?" said the Daimoni.

  "That's the third specification, gentlemen. I want it so that I can see it,
and my heirs, but nobody else."

  "If it's solid but invisible, everybody is going to see it when your fine
snow hits it."

  "I'll take care of that," said the Governor of Night. "I'll pay what we
were talking about—forty thousand select pieces of Furry Mountain Fur.
But you make that palace invisible to everybody except me, and my heirs."

   "We're architects, not magicians!" said the Daimoni with the longest
cloak, who might have been the leader.

   "That's what I want."

   The Daimoni gabbled among themselves, discussing some technical
problem. Finally one of them came over to the Governor of Night and said:

   "I'm the ship's surgeon. May I examine you?"
  "Why?" said the Governor of Night.

   "To see if we can possibly fit the building to you. Otherwise we can't
even guess at the specifications we need."

  "Go ahead," said the Governor. "Examine me."

   "Here? Now?" said the Daimoni doctor. "Wouldn't you prefer a quiet
place or a private room? Or you can come aboard our ship? That would be
very convenient."

    "For you," said the Governor of Night. "Not for me. Here my men have
guns trained on you. You would never get back to your ship alive if you
tried to rob me of my Furry Mountain Furs or kidnap me so that you could
trade me back for my treasures. You examine me here and now or not at
all."

   "You are a rough, tough man, Governor," said another one of the
elegant Daimoni. "Perhaps you had better tell your guards that you are
asking us to examine you. Otherwise they might get excited with us and
persons might become damaged," said the Daimoni with a faint
condescending smile.

    "Go ahead, foreigners," said the Governor of Night. "My men have been
listening to everything through the microphone in my top button."

   He regretted his words two seconds later, but it was already too late.
Four Daimoni had picked him up and spun him so deftly that the guards
never understood how their Governor lost all his clothes in a trice. One of
the Daimoni must have stunned him or hypnotized him; he could not cry
out. Indeed, afterward, he could not even remember much of what they
did.

   The guards themselves had gasped when they saw the Daimoni pull
endless needles out of their boss's eyeballs without having noticed the
needles go in. They had lifted their weapons when the Governor of Night
turned a violent fluorescent green in color, only to gape, writhe and vomit
when the Daimoni poured enormous bottles of medicine into him. In less
than half an hour they stood back.

  The Governor, naked and blotched, sat on the ground and vomited.
   One of the Daimoni said quietly to the guards, "He's not hurt, but he
and his heirs will see part of the ultraviolet band for many generations to
come. Put him to bed for the night. He will feel all right by morning. And,
by the way, keep everybody away from the front of the palace tonight.
We're putting in the building which he asked for. The great temple of
Diana of the Ephesians."

   The senior guard officer spoke up, "We can't take the guards off the
palace. That's our defense headquarters and no one, not even the Governor
of Night, has the right to strip it bare of sentries. The Day People might
attack us again."

   The Daimoni spokesman smiled gently: "Make a good note of their
names, then, and ask them for their last words. We shall not fight them,
officer, but if they are in the way of our work tonight, we shall build them
right into the new palace. Their widows and children can admire them as
statues tomorrow."

   The guards officer looked down at his chief, who now lay flat on the
ground with his head in his hands, coughing out the words,
"Leave—me—alone!" The officer looked back at the cool, aloof Daimoni
spokesman. He said, "I'll do what I can, sir."

  The temple of Ephesus was there in the morning.

   The columns were the Doric columns of ancient earth; the frieze was a
master of gods, votaries and horses; the building was exquisite in its
proportions.

  The Governor of Night could see it.

  His followers could not.

  The forty thousand lengths of Furry Mountain Fur were paid.

  The Daimoni left.

   The Governor died, and he had heirs who could see the building too. It
was visible only in the ultraviolet and ordinary men beheld it on Khufu II
only when the powdery hard snow outlined it in a particularly harsh
storm.
  But now it belonged to Rod McBan and it was on Old North Australia,
not on Khufu II any more.

  How had that happened?

  Who would want to buy an invisible temple, anyhow?

   William the Wild would, that's who. Wild William MacArthur, who
delighted, annoyed, disgraced and amused whole generations of
Norstrilians with his fantastic pranks, his gigantic whims, his
world-girdling caprices.

   William MacArthur was a grandfather to-the-twenty-second in a
matrilineal line to Rod McBan. He had been a man in his time, a real man.
Happy as Larry, drunk with wit when dead sober, sober with charm when
dead drunk. He could talk the legs off a sheep when he put his mind on it;
he could talk the laws off the Commonwealth. He did.

  He had.

   The Commonwealth had been purchasing all the Daimoni houses it
could find, using them as defense outposts. Pretty little Victorian cottages
were sent into orbit as far-range forts. Theaters were bought on other
worlds and dragged through space to Old North Australia, where they
became bomb shelters or veterinary centers for the forever-sick,
wealth-producing sheep. Nobody could take a Daimoni building apart,
once it had been built, so the only thing to do was to cut the building loose
from its non-Daimoni foundation, lift it by rockets or planoform, and then
warp it through space to the new location. The Norstrilians did not have
to worry about landing them; they just dropped them. It didn't hurt the
buildings any. Sometimes simple Daimoni buildings came apart, because
the Daimoni had been asked to make them demountable, but when they
were solid, they stayed solid.

   Wild William heard about the temple. Khufu II was a ruin. The lichen
had gotten a plant infection and had died off. The few Khufuans who were
left were beggars, asking the Instrumentality for refugee status and
emigration. The Commonwealth had bought their little buildings, but
even the Commonwealth of Old North Australia did not know what to do
with an invisible and surpassingly beautiful Greek temple.

  Wild William visited it. He soberly inspected it, in complete visibility,
by using sniper eyes set into the ultraviolet. He persuaded the government
to let him spend half of his immense fortune putting it into a valley just
next to the Station of Doom. Then, having enjoyed it a little while, he fell
and broke his neck while gloriously drunk and his inconsolable daughter
had married a handsome and practical McBan.

  And now it belonged to Rod McBan. And housed his computer. His own
computer.

   He could speak to it at the extension which reached into the gap of
hidden treasures. He talked to it, other times, at the talkpoint in the field,
where the polished red-and-black metal of the old computer was
reproduced in exquisite miniature. Or he could come to this strange
building, the Palace of the Governor of Night, and stand as the worshipers
of Diana had once stood, crying, "Great is Diana of the Ephesians!" When
he came in this way, he had the full console in front of him, automatically
unlocked by his presence, just as his grandfather had showed him, three
childhoods before, when the old McBan still had high hopes that Rod
would turn into a normal Old North Australian boy. The grandfather,
using his personal code in turn, had unlocked the access controls and had
invited the computer to make its own foolproof recording of Rod, so that
Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan CLI would
be forever known to the machine, no matter what age he attained, no
matter how maimed or disguised he might be, no matter how sick or
forlorn he might return to the machine of his forefathers. The old man did
not even ask the machine how the identification was obtained. He trusted
the computer.

   Rod climbed the steps of the Palace. The columns stood with their
ancient carving, bright in his second sight; he never quite knew how he
could see with the ultraviolet, since he noticed no difference between
himself and other people in the matter of eyesight except that he more
often got headaches from sustained open runs on clean-cloudy days. At a
time like this, the effect was spectacular. It was his time, his temple, his
own place. He could see, in the reflected light from the Palace, that many
of his cousins must have been out to see the Palace during the nights.
They too could see it, as it was a family inheritance to be able to watch the
invisible temple which one's friends could not see; but they did not have
access.

  He alone had that.
  "Computer," he cried, "admit me."

   "Message unnecessary," said the computer. "You are always clear to
enter." The voice was a male Norstrilian voice, with a touch of the
theatrical in it. Rod was never quite sure that it was the voice of his own
ancestor; when challenged directly as to whose voice it was using, the
machine had told him, "Input on that topic has been erased in me. I do
not know. Historical evidence suggests that it was male, contemporary
with my installation here, and past middle age when coded by me."

  Rod would have felt lively and smart except for the feelings of awe
which the Palace of the Governor of Night, standing bright and visible
under the dark clouds of Norstrilia, had upon him. He wanted to say
something light-hearted but at first he could only mutter, "Here I am."

  "Observed and respected," stated the computer-voice. "If I were a
person I would say 'congratulations, since you are alive.' As a computer I
have no opinion on the subject. I note the fact."

  "What do I do now?" said Rod.

  "Question too general," said the computer. "Do you want a drink of
water or a rest-room? I can tell you where those are. Do you wish to play
chess with me? I shall win just as many games as you tell me to."

  "Shut up, you fool!" cried Rod. "That's not what I mean."

  "Computers are fools only if they malfunction. I am not malfunctioning.
The reference to me as a fool is therefore nonreferential and I shall
expunge it from my memory system. Repeat the question, please."

  "What do I do with my life?"

  "You will work, you will marry, you will be the father of Rod McBan the
hundred and fifty-second and several other children, you will die, your
body will be sent into the endless orbit with great honor. You will do this
well."

  "Suppose I break my neck this very night?" argued Rod. "Then you
would be wrong, wouldn't you?"

  "I would be wrong, but I still have the probabilities with me."
      "What do I do about the Onseck?"

      "Repeat."

      Rod had to tell the story several times before the computer understood
it.

   "I do not," said the computer, "find myself equipped with data
concerning this one man whom you so confusingly allude to as Houghton
Syme sometimes and as 'Old Hot and Simple' at other times. His personal
history is unknown to me. The odds against your killing him undetected
are 11,713 to one against effectiveness, because too many people know you
and know what you look like. I must let you solve your own problem
concerning the Hon. Sec."

      "Don't you have any ideas?"

      "I have answers, not ideas."

      "Give me a piece of fruit cake and a glass of fresh milk then."

   "It will cost you twelve credits and by walking to your cabin you can get
these things free. Otherwise I will have to buy them from Emergency
Central."

      "I said get them," said Rod.

   The machine whirred. Extra lights appeared on the console.
"Emergency Central has authorized my own use of sheltered supplies. You
will pay for the replacement tomorrow." A door opened. A tray slid out,
with a luscious piece of fruitcake and a glass of foaming fresh milk.

      Rod sat on the steps of his own palace and ate.

  Conversationally, he said to the computer, "You must know what to do
about Old Hot and Simple. It's a terrible thing for me to go through the
Garden of Death and then have a dull tool like that pester the life out of
me."

      "He cannot pester the life out of you. You are too strong."

      "Recognize an idiom, you silly ass!" said Rod.
  The machine paused. "Idiom identified. Correction made. Apologies are
herewith given to you, Child McBan."

  "Another mistake. I'm not Child McBan any more. I'm Mister and
Owner McBan."

   "I will check central," said the computer. There was another long pause
as the lights danced. Finally the computer answered. "Your status is
mixed. You are both. In an emergency you are already the Mister and
Owner of the Station of Doom, including me. Without an emergency, you
are still Child McBan until your trustees release the papers to do it."

  "When will they do that?"

   "Voluntary action. Human. Timing uncertain. In four or five days, it
would seem. When they release you, the Hon. Sec. will have the legal right
to move for your arrest as an incompetent and dangerous owner. From
your point of view, it will be very sad."

  "And what do you think?" said Rod.

  "I shall think that it is a disturbing factor. I speak the truth to you."

  "And that is all?"

  "All," said the computer.

  "You can't stop the Hon. Sec.?"

  "Not without stopping everybody else."

   "What do you think people are, anyhow? Look here, computer, you have
been talking to people for hundreds and hundreds of years. You know our
names. You know my family. Don't you know anything about us? Can't you
help me? What do you think I am?"

  "Which question first?" said the computer.

   Rod angrily threw the empty plate and glass on the floor of the temple.
Robot arms flicked out and pulled them into the trash bin. He stared at
the old polished metal of the computer. It ought to be polished. He had
spent hundreds of hours polishing its case, all sixty-six panels of it, just
because the machine was something which he could love.
  "Don't you know me? Don't you know what I am?"

   "You are Rod McBan the-hundred-and-fifty-first. Specifically, you are a
spinal column with a small bone box at one end, the head, and with
reproductive equipment at the other end. Inside the bone box you have a
small portion of material which resembles stiff, bloody lard. With that you
think—you think better than I do, even though I have over five hundred
million synaptic connections. You are a wonderful object, Rod McBan. I
can understand what you are made of. I cannot share your human, animal
side of life."

  "But you know I'm in danger."

  "I know it."

   "What did you say, a while back, about not being able to stop Old Hot
and Simple without stopping everybody else too? Could you stop
everybody else?"

   "Permission requested to correct error. I could not stop everyone. If I
tried to use violence, the war computers at Commonwealth Defense would
destroy me before I even started programming my own actions."

  "You're partly a war computer."

  "Admittedly," said the unwearied unhurried voice of the computer,
"but the Commonwealth made me safe before they let your forefathers
have me."

  "What can you do?"

  "Rod McBan the-hundred-and-fortieth told me to tell no one, ever."

  "I override. Overridden."

  "It's not enough to do that. Your great 8-grandfather has a warning to
which you must listen."

  "Go ahead," said Rod.

   There was a silence, and Rod thought that the machine was searching
through ancient archives for a drama-cube. He stood on the peristyle of
the Palace of the Governor of Night and tried to see the Norstrilian clouds
crawling across the sky near overhead; it felt like that kind of night. But it
was very dark away from the illuminated temple porch and he could see
nothing.

   "Do you still command?" asked the computer.

   "I didn't hear any warning," said Rod.

   "He spieked it from a memory cube."

   "Did you hier it?"

   "I was not coded to it. It was human-to-human, McBan family only."

   "Then," said Rod, "I override it."

   "Overridden," said the computer.

   "What can I do to stop everybody!"

   "You can bankrupt Norstrilia temporarily, buy Old Earth Itself, and
then negotiate on human terms for anything you want."

   "Oh, lord!" said Rod, "you've gone logical again, computer! This is one
of your as-if situations."

   The computer voice did not change its tone. It could not. The sequence
of the words held a reproach, however. "This is not an imaginary
situation. I am a war computer, and I was designed to include economic
warfare. If you did exactly what I told you to do, you could take over all
Old North Australia by legal means."

  "How long would we need? Two hundred years? Old Hot and Simple
would have me in my grave by then."

   The computer could not laugh, but it could pause. It paused. "I have
just checked the time on the New Melbourne Exchange. The 'Change
signal says they will open in seventeen minutes. I will need four hours for
your voice to say what it must. That means you will need four hours and
seventeen minutes, give or take five minutes."

   "What makes you think you can do it?"
   "I am a pure computer, obsolete model. All the others have animal
brains built into them, to allow for error. I do not. Furthermore, your
great 12 -grandfather hooked me into the defense net."

  "Didn't the Commonwealth cut you out?"

  "I am the only computer which was built to tell lies, except to the
families of MacArthur and McBan. I lied to the Commonwealth when they
checked on what I was getting. I am obliged to tell the truth only to you
and to your designated descendants."

  "I know that, but what does it have to do with it?"

   "I predict my own space weather, ahead of the Commonwealth." The
accent was not in the pleasant, even-toned voice; Rod himself began to
believe it.

  "You've tried this out?"

   "I have war-gamed it more than a hundred million times. I had nothing
else to do while I waited for you."

  "You never failed?"

  "I failed most of the time, when I first began. But I have not failed a
war-game from real data for the last thousand years."

  "What would happen if you failed now?"

   "You would be disgraced and bankrupt. I would be sold and
disassembled."

  "Is that all?" said Rod cheerfully.

  "Yes," said the computer.

  "I could stop Old Hot and Simple if I owned Old Earth Itself. Let's go."

  "I do not go anywhere," said the computer.

  "I mean, let's start."

  "You mean, to buy Earth, as we discussed?"
  "What else?" yelled Rod. "What else have we been talking about?"

  "You must have some soup, hot soup and a tranquilizer first. I cannot
work at optimum if I have a human being who gets excited."

  "All right," said Rod.

  "You must authorize me to buy them."

  "I authorize you."

  "That will be three credits."

  "In the name of the seven healthy sheep, what does it matter? How
much will Earth cost?"

  "Seven thousand million million megacredits."

  "Deduct three credits for the soup and the pill then," shouted Rod, "if it
won't spoil your calculations."

  "Deducted," said the computer. The tray with the soup appeared, a
white pill beside it.

  "Now let's buy Earth," said Rod.

  "Drink your soup and take your pill first," said the computer.

  Rod gulped down his soup, washing the pill down with it.

  "Now, let's go, cobber."

   "Repeat after me," said the computer, "I herewith mortgage the whole
body of the said sheep Sweet William for the sum of five hundred
thousand credits to the New Melbourne Exchange on the open board…"

  Rod repeated it.

  And repeated it.

  The hours became a nightmare of repetition.

  The computer lowered his voice to a low murmur, almost a whisper.
When Rod stumbled in the messages, the computer prompted him and
corrected him.

    Forward purchase… sell short… option to buy… pre-emptive margin…
offer to sell… offer temporarily reserved… first collateral… second
collateral… deposit to drawing account… convert to FOE credits . . hold in
SAD credits… twelve thousand tons of stroon… mortgage forward…
promise to buy… promise to sell… hold… margin… collateral guaranteed
by previous deposit… promise to pay against the pledged land…
guarantor… McBan land… MacArthur land… this computer itself…
conditional legality… buy… sell… guarantee… pledge… withhold… offer
confirmed… offer canceled… four thousand million megacredits… rate
accepted… rate refused… forward purchase… deposit against interest…
collateral previously pledged… conditional appreciation… guarantee…
accept title… refuse delivery… solar weather… buy… sell… pledge…
withdraw from market… withdraw from sale… not available…no
collections now... dependent on radiation… corner market… buy… buy…
buy… buy… buy… firm title… reconfirm title… transactions completed...
reopen… register… reregister… confirm at Earth central… message fees…
fifteen thousand megacredits....

  Rod's voice became a whisper, but the computer was stire, the
computer was untiring, the computer answered all questions from the
outside.

   Many times Rod and the computer both had to listen to telepathic
warnings built into the markets communications net. The computer was
cut out and Rod could not hier them. The warnings went unheard.

   … buy… sell… hold… confirm… deposit… convert… guarantee…
arbitrage… message... Commonwealth tax... commission… buy… sell…
buy… buy…buy… buy… deposit title! deposit title! deposit title!

  The process of buying Earth had begun.

  By the time that the first pretty parts of silver-gray dawn had begun, it
was done. Rod was dizzy with fatigue and confusion.

   "Go home and sleep," said the computer. "When people find out what
you have done with me, many of them will probably be excited and will
wish to talk to you at great length. I suggest you say nothing."
    CHAPTER SEVEN: The Eye Upon the Sparrow

Drunk with fatigue, Rod stumbled across his own land back to his cabin.

  He could not believe that anything had happened.

  If the Palace of the Governor of Night—

  If the Palace —

   If the computer spoke the truth, he was already the wealthiest human
being who had ever lived. He had gambled and won, not for a few tons of
stroon or a planet or two, but credits enough to shake the Commonwealth
to its foundation. He owned the Earth, on the system that any overdeposit
could be called due at a certain very high margin. He owned planets,
countries, mines, palaces, prisons, police-systems, fleets, border-guards,
restaurants, pharmaceuticals, textiles, night clubs, treasures, royalties,
licenses, sheep, land, stroon, more sheep, more land, more stroon. He had
won.

   Only in Old North Australia could a man have done this without being
besieged by soldiers, reporters, guards, police, investigators,
tax-collectors, fortune-seekers, doctors, publicity hounds, the sick, the
inquisitive, the compassionate, the angry,

  Old North Australia kept calm.

    Privacy, simplicity, frugality — these virtues had carried them through
the hell-world of Paradise VII, where the mountains ate people, the
volcanoes poisoned sheep, the delirious oxygen made men rave with bliss
as they pranced into their own deaths. The Norstrilians had survived
many things, including sickness and deformity. If Rod McBan had caused
a financial crisis, there were no newspapers to print it, no viewboxes to
report it, nothing to excite the people. The Commonwealth authorities
would pick the crisis out of their "in" baskets sometime after tucker and
tea the next morning, and by afternoon he, his crisis and the computer
would be in the "out" baskets. If the deal had worked, the whole thing
would be paid off honestly and literally. If the deal had not worked out the
way that computer had said, his lands would be up for auction and he
himself would be led gently away.
  But that's what the Onseck was going to do to him anyway—Old Hot
and Simple, a tiring dwarf-lifed man, driven by the boyhood hatred of
many long years ago!

   Rod stopped for a minute. Around him stretched the rolling plains of
his own land. Far ahead, to his left, there gleamed the glassy worm of a
river-cover, the humped long barrel-like line which kept the precious
water from evaporating—that too was his.

  Maybe. After the night now passed.

  He thought of flinging himself to the ground and sleeping right there.
He had done it before.

  But not this morning.

  Not when he might be the person he might be—the man who made the
worlds reel with his wealth.

   The computer had started easy. He could not take control of his
property except for an emergency. The computer had made him create the
emergency by selling his next three years' production of santaclara at the
market price. That was a serious enough emergency from any pastoralist
to be in deep sure trouble.

  From that the rest had followed.

  Rod sat down.

   He was not trying to remember. The remembering was crowding into
his mind. He wanted just to get his breath, to get on home, to sleep.

   A tree was near him, with a thermostatically controlled cover which
domed it in whenever the winds were too strong or too dry, and an
underground sprinkler which kept it alive when surface moisture was not
sufficient. It was one of the old MacArthur extravagances which his
McBan ancestor had inherited and had added to the Station of Doom. It
was a modified Earth oak, very big, a full thirteen meters high. Rod was
proud of it although he did not like it much, but he had relatives who were
obsessed by it and would make a three-hour ride just to sit in the
shade—dim and diffuse as it was—of a genuine tree from Earth.
  When he looked at the tree, a violent noise assailed him.

  Mad frantic laughter.

  Laughter beyond all jokes.

  Laughter sick wild drunk dizzy.

   He started to be angry and was then puzzled. Who could be laughing at
him already? As a matter of nearer fact, who could be trespassing on his
land? Anyhow, what was there to laugh about?

   (All Norstrilians know that humor was "pleasurable corrigible
malfunction." It was in the Book of Rhetoric which their Appointed
Relatives had to get them through if they were even to qualify for the tests
of the Garden of Death. There were no schools, no classes, no teachers, no
libraries except for private ones. There were just the seven liberal arts, the
six practical sciences, and the five collections of police and defense
studies. Specialists were trained off-world, but they were trained only
from among the survivors of the Garden, and nobody could get as far as
the Garden unless the sponsors—who staked their lives along with that of
the student, so far as the question of aptness was concerned—guaranteed
that the entrant knew the eighteen kinds of Norstrilian knowledge. The
Book of Rhetoric came second, right after the Book of Sheep and
Numbers, so that all Norstrilians knew why they laughed and what there
was to laugh about.)

  But this laughter!

  Aagh, who could it be?

  A sick man? Impossible. Hostile hallucinations brought on by the Hon.
Sec. in his own Onseckish way with unusual telepathic powers? Scarcely.

  Rod began to laugh himself.

   It was somewhat rare and beautiful, a kookaburra bird, the same kind
of bird which had laughed in Original Australia on Old Old Earth. A very
few had reached this new planet and they had not multiplied well, even
though the Norstrilians respected them and loved them and wished them
health.
   Good luck came with their wild birdish laughter. A man could feel he
had a fine day ahead. Lucky in love, thumb in an enemy's eye, new ale in
the fridge, or a ruddy good chance on the market.

  Laugh, bird, laugh! thought Rod.

   Perhaps the bird understood him. The laughter increased and reached
manic, hilarious proportions. The bird sounded as though it was watching
the most comical bird-comedy which any bird-audience had ever been
invited to, as though the bird-jokes were side-splitting, convulsive,
gutpopping, unbelievable, racy, daring, and overwhelming. The
bird-laughter became hysterical and a note of fear, of warning crept in.

  Rod stepped toward the tree.

  In all this time he had not seen the kookaburra.

  He squinted into the tree, peering against the brighter side of the sky
which showed that morning had arrived well.

   To him, the tree was blindingly green, since it kept most of its earth
color, not turning beige or gray as the earth grasses had done when they
had been adapted and planted in Norstrilian soil.

  To be sure, the bird was there, a tiny slender laughing impudent shape.

  Suddenly the bird cawed: this was no laugh.

  Startled, Rod stepped back and started to look around for danger.

  The step saved his life.

   The sky whistled at him, the wind hit him, a dark shape shot past him
with the speed of a projectile and was gone. As it leveled out just above the
ground, Rod saw what it was.

  A mad sparrow.

   Sparrows had reached twenty kilos' weight, with straight sword-like
beaks almost a meter in length. Most of the time the Commonwealth left
them alone, because they preyed on the giant lice, the size of footballs,
which had grown with the sick sheep. Now and then one went mad and
attacked people.
  Rod turned, watching the sparrow as it walked around, about a
hundred meters away.

   Some mad sparrows, it was rumored, were not mad at all, but were
tame sparrows sent on evil missions of revenge or death by Norstrilian
men whose minds had been twisted into crime. This was rare, this was
crime, but this was possible.

  Could the Onseck already be attacking?

   Rod slapped his belt for weapons as the sparrow took to the air again,
flapping upward with the pretense of innocence. He had nothing except
his belt-light and a canister. This would not hold out long unless
somebody came along. What could a tired man do, using bare hands,
against a sword which burst through the air with a monomaniac
bird-brain behind it?

   Rod braced himself for the bird's next power-dive, holding the canister
like a shield.

  The canister was not much of a shield.

  Down came the bird, preceded by the whistle of air against its head and
beak. Rod watched for the eyes and when he saw them, he jumped.

   The dust roared up as the giant sparrow twisted its spear-like beak out
of the line of the ground, opened its wings, beat the air against gravity,
caught itself centimeters from the surface and flapped away with powerful
strokes; Rod stood and watched quietly, glad that he had escaped.

  His left arm was wet.

  Rain was so rare in the Norstrilian plains that he did not see how he
could have gotten wet. He glanced down idly.

  Blood it was, and his own.

   The kill-bird had missed him with its beak but had touched him with
the razor-like wing-feathers, which had mutated into weapons; both the
rhachis and the vane in the large feathers were tremendously reinforced,
with the development of a bitterly sharp hyporhachis in the case of the
wing-tips. The bird had cut him so fast he had not felt it or noticed it.
  Like any good Norstrilian, he thought in terms of first aid.

   The flow of blood was not very rapid. Should he try to tie up his arm
first or to hide from the next diving attack?

  The bird answered his question for him.

  The ominous whistle sounded again.

   Rod flung himself along the ground, trying to get to the base of the tree
trunk, where the bird could not dive on him.

    The bird, making a serious mental mistake, thought it had disabled
him. With a flutter of wings it landed calmly, stood on its feet, and cocked
its head to look him over. When the bird moved its head, the sword-beak
gleamed evilly in the weak sunshine.

  Rod reached the tree and started to lift himself up by seizing the trunk.

  Doing this, he almost lost his life.

  He had forgotten how fast the sparrows could run on the ground.

   In one second, the bird was standing, comical and evil, studying him
with its sharp, bright eyes; the next second, the knife-beak was into him,
just below the bony part of the shoulder.

   He felt the eerie wet pull of the beak being drawn out of his body, the
ache in his surprised flesh which would precede the gripping pain. He hit
at the bird with his belt-light. He missed.

   By now he was weakened from his two wounds. The arm was still
dripping blood steadily and he felt his shirt get wet as blood poured out of
his shoulder.

   The bird, backing off, was again studying him by cocking its head. Rod
tried to guess his chances. One square blow from his hand, and the bird
was dead. The bird had thought him disabled, but now he really was
partially disabled.

   If his blow did not land… score one Mister for the bird, mark a credit
for the Hon. Sec., give Old Hot and Simple the victory!
   By now Rod had not the least doubt that Houghton Syme was behind
the attack.

  The bird rushed.

  Rod forgot to fight the way he had planned.

  He kicked instead and caught the bird right in its heavy, coarse body.

  It felt like a very big football filled with sand.

  The kick hurt his foot but the bird was flung a good six or seven meters
away. Rod rushed behind the tree and looked back at the bird.

  The blood was pulsing fast out of his shoulder at this point

   The kill-bird had gotten to his feet and was walking firmly and securely
around the tree. One of the wings trailed a little; the kick seemed to have
hurt a wing, but not the legs or that horribly strong neck.

   Once again the bird cocked its comical head. It was his own blood
which dripped from the long beak, now red, which had gleamed silver gray
at the beginning of the fight. Rod wished he had studied more about these
birds. He had never been this close to a mutated sparrow before and he
had no idea of how to fight one. All he had known was that they attacked
people on very rare occasions and that sometimes the people died in the
encounters.

   He tried to spiek, to let out a scream which would bring the
neighborhood and the police flying and running toward him. He found he
had no telepathy at all, not when he had to concentrate his whole mind
and attention on the bird, knowing that its very next move could bring
him irretrievable death. This was no temporary death with the rescue
squads nearby. There was no one in the neighborhood, no one at all,
except for the excited and sympathetic kookaburras haha-ing madly in the
tree above.

  He shouted at the bird, hoping to frighten it.

   The kill-bird paid him no more attention than if it had been a deaf
reptile.
   The foolish head tipped this way and that. The little bright eyes
watched him. The red sword-beak, rapidly turning brown in the dry air,
probed abstract dimensions for a way to his brain or heart. Rod even
wondered how the bird solved its problems in solid geometry—the angle of
approach, the line of thrust, the movement of the beak, the weight and
direction of the fleeing object—himself.

   He jumped back a few centimeters, intending to look at the bird from
the other side of the tree-trunk.

  There was a hiss in the air, like the helpless hiss of a gentle little snake.

  The bird, when he saw it, looked odd—suddenly it seemed to have two
beaks.

  Rod marveled.

   He did not really understand what was happening until the bird leaned
over suddenly, fell on its side, and lay—plainly dead—on the dry cool
ground. The eyes were still open but they looked blank; the bird's body
twitched a little. The wings opened out in a dying spasm. One of the wings
almost struck the trunk of the tree, but the tree-guarding-device raised a
plastic shaft to ward off the blow; a pity the device had not been designed
as a people-guard as well.

   Only then did Rod see that the second "beak" was no beak at all, but a
javelin, its point biting cleanly and tightly right through the bird's skull
into its brain.

  No wonder the bird had dropped dead quickly!

  As Rod looked around to see who his rescuer might be, the ground rose
up and struck him.

  He had fallen.

  The loss of blood was faster than he had allowed for.

   He looked around, almost like a child in his bewilderment and
dizziness.

  There was a shimmer of turquoise and the girl Lavinia was standing
over him. She had a medical pack open and was spraying his wounds with
cryptoderm—the living bandage which was so expensive that only on
Norstrilia, the exporter of Stroon, could it be carried around in emergency
cans.

   "Keep quiet," she said with her voice, "keep quiet, Rod. We've got to
stop the blood first of all. Lands of mercy, but you're a crashing mess!"

  "Who…?" said Rod weakly.

  "The Hon. Sec.," said she immediately.

   "You know?" he asked, amazed that she should understand everything
so very quickly indeed.

   "Don't talk, and I'll tell you." She had taken her field-knife and was
cutting the sticky shirt off him, so that she could tilt the bottle and spray
right into the wound. "I just suspected you were in trouble, when Bill rode
by the house and said something crazy, that you had bought half the
galaxy by gambling all night with a crazy machine which paid off. I did
not know where you were, but I thought that you might be in that old
temple of yours that the rest of them can't see. I didn't know what kind of
danger to look for, so I brought this." She slapped her hip. Rod's eyes
widened. She had stolen her father's one-kiloton grenade, which was to be
removed from its rack only in the event of an off-world attack. She
answered his question before he asked her. "It's all right. I made a dummy
to take its place before I touched it. Then, as I took it out, the Defense
monitor came on and I just explained that I had hit it with my new
broom, which was longer than usual. Do you think I would let Old Hot and
Simple kill you, Rod, without a fight from me? I'm your cousin, your kith
and kin. As a matter of fact, I'm number twelve after you when it comes to
inheriting Doom and all the wonderful things there are on this station."

   Rod said, "Give me water." He suspected she was chattering to keep his
attention off what she was doing to his shoulder and arm. The arm glowed
once when she sprayed the cryptoderm on it; then it settled down to mere
aching. The shoulder had exploded from time to time as she probed it. She
thrust a diagnostic needle into it and was reading the tiny bright picture
on the end of the needle. He knew it had both analgesics and antiseptics as
well as an ultraminiatured X ray, but he did not think that anyone would
be willing to use it unaided in the field.
   She answered this question, too before he asked it. She was a very
perceptive girl.

   "We don't know what the Onseck is going to do next. He may have
corrupted people as well as animals. I don't dare call for help, not until you
have your friends around you. Certainly not, if you have bought half the
worlds."

  Rod dragged out the words. He seemed short of breath. "How did you
know it was him?"

   "I saw his face—I hiered it when I looked in the bird's own brain. I
could see Houghton Syme, talking to the bird in some kind of an odd way,
and I could see your dead body through the bird's eyes, and I could feel a
big wave of love and approval, happiness and reward, going through the
bird when the job was to have been finished. I think that man is evil, evil!"

  "You know him, yourself?"

   "What girl around here doesn't? He's a nasty man. He had a boyhood
that was all rotten from the time that he realized he was a short-lifer. He
has never gotten over it. Some people are sorry for him and don't mind his
getting the job of Hon. Sec. If I'd my way, I'd have sent him to the Giggle
Room long ago!" Lavinia's face was set in prudish hate, an expression so
unlike herself, who usually was bright and gay, that Rod wondered what
deep bitterness might have been stirred within her.

  "Why do you hate him?"

  "For what he did."

  "What did he do?"

   "He looked at me," she said, "he looked at me in a way that no girl can
like. Then he crawled all over my mind, trying to show me all the silly,
dirty, useless things he wanted to do."

  "But he didn't do anything—?" said Rod.

  "Yes, he did," she snapped. "Not with his hands. I could have reported
him. I would have. It's what he did with his mind, the things he spieked to
me."
   "You can report those, too," said Rod, very tired of talking, but
nevertheless mysteriously elated to discover that he was not the only
enemy which the Onseck had made. "Not what he did, I couldn't," said
Lavinia, her face set in anger, but dissolving into grief. Grief was tenderer,
softer, but deeper and more real than anger. For the first time Rod sensed
a feeling of concern about Lavinia. What might be wrong with her?

   She looked past him and spoke to the open fields and the big dead bird.
"Houghton Syme was the worst man I've ever known. I hope he dies. He
never got over that rotten boyhood of his. The old sick boy is the enemy of
the man. We'll never know what he might have been. And if you hadn't
been so wrapped up in your own troubles, Mister Rod
to-the-hundred-and-fifty-first, you'd have remembered who I am."

  "Who are you?" said Rod, naturally.

  "I'm the Father's Daughter."

  "So what?" said Rod. "All girls are."

   "Then you never have found out about me. I'm the Father's Daughter
from 'The Father's Daughter's Song.' "

  "Never heard it."

    She looked at him and her eyes were close to tears. "Listen, then, and
I'll sing it to you now. And it's true, true, true:


  You do not know what the world is like,
And I hope that you never will.
My heart was once much full of hope,
But now it is very still.
My wife went mad.

  She was my love and wore my ring
When both of us were young.
She bore my babes, but then, but then…
And now there isn't anything.
My wife went mad.

  Now she lives in another place,
Half sick, half well, and never young.
I am her dread, who was her love,
Each of us has another face.
My wife went mad.

  You do not know what the world is like,
War is never the worst of it.
The stars within your eyes can drop,
The lightning in your brain can strike.
My wife went mad.


    "And I see you have heard it, too," she sighed. "Just as my father wrote
it. About my mother. My own mother."

  "Oh, Lavinia," said Rod, "I'm sorry. I never thought it was you. And you
my own cousin only three or four times removed. But Lavinia, there's
something wrong. How can your mother be mad if she was looking fine at
my house last week?"

   "She was never mad," said Lavinia. "My father was. He made up that
cruel song about my mother so that the neighbors complained. He had his
choice of the Giggle Room to die in, or the sick place, to be immortal and
insane. He's there now. And the Onseck, the Onseck threatened to bring
him back to our own neighborhood if I didn't do what he asked. Do you
think I could forgive that? Ever? After people have sung that hateful song
at me ever since I was a baby? Do you wonder that I know it myself?"

  Rod nodded.

  Lavinia's troubles impressed him, but he had troubles of his own.

   The sun was never hot on Norstrilia, but he suddenly felt thirsty and
hot. He wanted to sleep, but he wondered about the dangers which
surrounded him.

  She knelt beside him.

   "Close your eyes a bit, Rod. I will spiek very quietly and maybe nobody
will notice it except your station hands, Bill and Hopper. When they come
we'll hide out for the day and tonight we can go back to your computer
and hide. I'll tell them to bring food."

  She hesitated, "And Rod?"
  "Yes?" he said.

  "Forgive me."

  "For what?"

  "For my troubles," she said contritely.

  "Now you have more troubles. Me," he said. "Let's not blame ourselves,
but for sheep's sake, girl, let me sleep."

   He drifted off to sleep as she sat beside him, whistling a loud clear tune
with long, long notes which never added up. He knew some people, usually
women, did that when they tried to concentrate on their telepathic
spieking.

   Once he glanced up at her before he finally slept. He noticed that her
eyes were a deep, strange blue. Like the mad wild faraway skies of Old
Earth Itself.

  He slept, and in his sleep he knew that he was being carried…

  The hands which carried him felt friendly, though, and he curled
himself back into deep, deeper dreamless sleep.

        CHAPTER EIGHT: FOE Money, SAD Money

When Rod finally awakened, it was to feel his shoulder tightly bound and
his arm throbbing. He had fought waking up because the pain had
increased as his mind moved toward consciousness, but the pain and the
murmur of voices caused him to come all the way to the hard bright
surface of consciousness.

  The murmur of voices?

   There was no place on all Old North Australia where voices murmured.
People sat around and spieked to each other and hiered the answers
without the clatter of vocal cords. Telepathy made for brilliant and quick
conversation, the participants darting their thoughts this way and that,
soaring with their shields so as to produce the effect of a confidential
whisper.
  But here there were voices. Voices. Many voices. Not possible.

  And the smell was wrong. The air was wet—luxuriously, extravagantly
wet, like a miser trying to catch a rainstorm in his cabin!

  It was almost like the van of the Garden of Death.

   Just as he woke, he recognized Lavinia singing an odd little song. It was
one which Rod knew, because it had a sharp catchy, poignant little melody
to it which sounded like nothing on this world. She was singing, and it
sounded like one of the weird sadnesses which his people had brought
from their horrible group-experience on the abandoned planet of Paradise
VII:

   Is there anybody here or is everybody dead
at the gray green blue black lake?
The sky was blue and now it is red
over old tall green brown trees.
The house was big but now it looks small
at the gray green blue black lake
And the girl that I knew isn't there any more
at the old flat dark torn place.

   His eyes opened and it was indeed Lavinia whom he saw at the edge of
vision. This was no house. It was a box, a hospital, a prison, a ship, a cave
or a fort. The furnishings were machined and luxurious. The light was
artificial and almost the color of peaches. A strange hum in the
background sounded like alien engines dispensing power for purposes
which Norstrilian law never permitted to private persons. The Lord
Redlady leaned over Rod; the fantastic man broke into song himself,
chanting:


   Light a lantern—
Light a lantern—
Light a lantern,
Here we come!


   When he saw the obvious signs of Rod's perplexity, he burst into a
laugh.

  "That's the oldest song you ever heard, my boy. It's pre-Space and it
used to be called 'general quarters' when ships like big iron houses floated
on the waters of earth and fought each other. We've been waiting for you
to wake up."

  "Water," said Rod, "please give me water. Why are you talking?"

   "Water!" cried the Lord Redlady to someone behind him. His sharp
thin face was alight with excitement as he turned back to Rod. "And we're
talking because I have my buzzer on. If people want to talk to each other,
they jolly well better use their voices in this ship."

  "Ship?" said Rod, reaching for the mug of cold, cold water which a
hand had reached out to him.

   "This is my ship, Mister and Owner Rod McBan
to-the-hundred-and-fifty-first! An earth ship. I pulled it out of orbit and
grounded it with the permission of the Commonwealth. They don't know
you're on it, yet. They can't find out right now because my
Humanoid-robot Brainwave Dephasing Device is on. Nobody can think in
or out through that, and anybody who tries telepathy on this boat is going
to get himself a headache here."

  "Why you?" said Rod. "What for?"

    "In due time," said the Lord Redlady. "Let me introduce you first. You
know these people." He waved at a group. Lavinia sat with his hands, Bill
and Hopper, with his workwoman Eleanor, with his aunt Doris. They
looked odd, sitting on the low, soft, luxurious earth furniture. They were
all sipping some earth drink of a color which Rod had never seen before.
Their expressions were diverse: Bill looked truculent, Hopper looked
greedy, Aunt Doris looked utterly embarrassed and Lavinia looked as
though she were enjoying herself.

   "And then here…" said the Lord Redlady. The man he pointed to might
not have been a man. He was the Norstrilian type all right, but he was a
giant, of the kind which were always killed in the Garden of Death.

   "At your service," said the giant, who was almost three meters tall and
who had to watch his head, lest it hit the ceiling. "I am Donald Dumfrie
Hordern Anthony Garwood Gaines Wentworth to the fourteenth
generation, Mister and Owner McBan. A military surgeon, at your service,
sir!"
  "But this is private. Surgeons aren't allowed to work for anybody but
government."

   "I am on loan to the Earth Government," said Wentworth, the giant, his
face in a broad grin.

  "And I," said the Lord Redlady, "am both the Instrumentality and the
Earth Government for diplomatic purposes. I borrowed him. He's under
Earth rules. You will be well in two or three hours."

   The doctor, Wentworth, looked at his hand as though he saw a
chronograph there: "Two hours and seventeen minutes more."

  "Let it be," said the Lord Redlady, "here's our last guest."

   A short angry man stood up and came over. He glared out at Rod and
held forth an angry hand: "John Fisher to-the-hundredth. You know me."

  "Do I?" said Rod, not impolitely. He was just dazed.

  "Station of the Good Fresh Joey," said Fisher.

  "I haven't been there," said Rod, "but I've heard of it."

   "You needn't have," snapped the angry Fisher. "I met you at your
grandfather's."

   "Oh, yes, Mister and Owner Fisher," said Rod, not really remembering
anything at all, but wondering why the short red-faced man was so angry
with him.

   "You don't know who I am?" said Fisher. "I handle the books and the
credits for the government."

  "Wonderful work," said Rod. "I'm sure it's complicated. Could I have
something to eat?"

   The Lord Redlady interrupted: "Would you like French pheasant with
Chinesian sauce steeped in the thieves' wine from Viola Siderea? It would
only cost you six thousand tons of refined gold, orbited near earth, if I
ordered it sent to you by special courier."

  For some inexplicable reason the entire room howled with laughter.
The men put their glasses down so as not to spill them. Hopper seized the
opportunity to refill his own glass. Aunt Doris looked hilarious and
secretly proud, as though she herself had laid a diamond egg or done some
equal marvel. Only Lavinia, though laughing, managed to look
sympathetically at Rod to make sure that he did not feel mocked. The Lord
Redlady laughed as loudly as the rest and even the short, angry John
Fisher allowed himself a wan smile, while holding out his hand for a refill
on his drink. An animal, a little one which looked very much like an
extremely small person, lifted up the bottle and filled the glass for him;
Rod suspected that it was a "monkey" from Old Old Earth, from the
stories he had heard.

   Rod didn't even say, "What's the joke?" though he realized plainly that
he was himself in the middle of it. He just smiled weakly back at them,
feeling the hunger grow within him.

  "My robot is cooking you an Earth dish. French toast with maple syrup.
You could live ten thousand years on this planet and never get it. Rod,
don't you know why we're laughing? Don't you know what you've done?"

  "The Onseck tried to kill me, I think," said Rod.

  Lavinia clapped her hand to her mouth, but it was too late.

   "So that's who it was," said the doctor, Wentworth, with a voice as
gigantic as himself.

   "But you wouldn't laugh at me for that—" Rod started to say. Then he
stopped himself.

  An awful thought had come to him.

  "You mean, it really worked—that stuff with my family's old
computer?"

   The laughter broke out again. It was kind laughter, but it was always
the laughter of a peasant people, driven by boredom, who greet the
unfamiliar with attack or with laughter.

  "You did it," said Hopper. "You've bought a billion worlds."

  John Fisher snapped at him, "Let's not exaggerate. He's gotten about
one point six stroon years. You couldn't buy any billion worlds for that. In
the first place, there aren't a billion settled worlds, not even a million. In
the second place there aren't many worlds for sale. I doubt that he could
buy thirty or forty."

   The little animal, prompted by some imperceptible sign from the Lord
Redlady, went out of the room and returned with a tray. The odor from
the tray made all the people in the room sniff appreciatively. The food was
unfamiliar, but it combined pungency and sweetness. The monkey fitted
the tray into an artfully concealed slot at the head of Rod's couch, took off
an imaginary monkey cap, saluted, and went back to his own basket
behind the Lord Redlady's chair.

   The Lord Redlady nodded, "Go ahead and eat, boy. It's on me."

   "That's an odd sight, I must say," said the huge doctor Wentworth.
"There's the richest man in many worlds, and he hasn't the price of a new
pair of overalls."

   "What's odd about that? We've always charged an import fee of twenty
million per cent of the orbit price of goods," snapped angry John Fisher.
"Have you ever realized what other people have swung into orbit around
our sun, just waiting for us to change our minds so they could sell us half
the rubbish in the universe? This would be knee-deep in junk if we ever
dropped our tariff. I'm surprised at you, Doctor, forgetting the
fundamental rules of Old North Australia."

   "He's not complaining," said aunt Doris, whom the drink had made
loquacious. "He's just thinking. We all think."

   "Of course we all think. Or daydream. Some of us leave and go offplanet
to be rich people on other worlds. A few of us even manage to get back
here on severe probation when we realize what the offworlds are like. I'm
just saying," said the doctor, "that Rod's situation would be very funny to
everybody except us Norstrilians. We're all rich with the stroon imports,
but we kept ourselves poor in order to survive."

   "Who's poor?" snapped the fieldhand Hopper, apparently touched at a
sensitive point. "I can match you with mega-credits, Doc, any time you
care to gamble. Or I'll meet you with throwing knives, if you want them
better. I'm as good as the next man!"
   "That's exactly what I mean," said John Fisher. "Hopper here can argue
with anybody on the planet. We're still equals, we're still free, we're not the
victims of our own wealth— that's Norstrilia for you!"

   Rod looked up from his food and said, "Mister and Owner Secretary
Fisher, you talk awfully well for somebody who is not a freak like me. How
do you do it?"

   Fisher started looking angry again, though he was not really angry: "Do
you think that financial records can be dictated telepathically? I'm
spending centuries out of my life, just dictating into my blasted
microphone. Yesterday I spent most of the day dictating the mess which
you have made of the Commonwealth's money for the next eight years.
And you know what I'm going to do at the next meeting of the
Commonwealth Council?"

   "What?" said Rod.

  "I'm going to move the condemnation of that computer of yours. It's too
good to be in private hands."

   "You can't do that!" shrieked aunt Doris, somewhat mellowed by the
earth beverage she was drinking, "it's MacArthur and McBan family
property."

   "You can keep the temple," said Fisher with a snort, "but no bloody
family is going to outguess the whole planet again. Do you know that boy
sitting there has four mega-credits on Earth at this moment?"

   Bill hiccupped, "I got more than that myself."

   Fisher snarled at him, "On earth? FOE money?"

   A silence hit the room.

  "FOE money. Four megacredits? He can buy Old Australia and ship it
out here to us!" Bill sobered fast.

   Said Lavinia mildly, "What's Foe money?"

   "Do you know, Mister and Owner McBan?" said Fisher, in a peremptory
tone. "You had better know, because you have more of it than any man has
ever had before."

   "I don't want to talk about money," said Rod. "I want to find out what
the Onseck is up to."

   "Don't worry about him!" laughed the Lord Redlady, prancing to his
feet and pointing at himself with a dramatic forefinger. "As the
representative of Earth, I filed six hundred and eighty-five lawsuits
against him simultaneously, in the name of your Earth debtors, who fear
that some harm might befall you…"

  "Do they really?" said Rod. "Already?"

   "Of course not. All they know is your name and the fact that you bought
them out. But they would worry if they did know, so as your agent I tied
up the Hon. Sec. Houghton Syme with more law cases than this planet has
ever seen before."

   The big doctor chuckled. "Dashed clever of you, my lord and mister.
You know us Norstrilians pretty well, I must say. If we charge a man with
murder, we're so freedom-minded that he has time to commit a few more
before being tried for the first one. But civil suits! Hot sheep! He'll never
get out of those, as long as he lives."

  "Is he Onsecking any more?" said Rod.

  "What do you mean?" asked Fisher.

  "Does he still have his job—Onseck?"

   "Oh, yes," said Fisher, "but we put him on two hundred years' leave and
he has only about a hundred and twenty years to live, poor fellow. Most of
that time he will be defending himself in civil suits."

   Rod finally exhaled. He had finished the food. The small polished room
with its machined elegance, the wet air, the bray of voices all over the
place—these made him feel dreamlike. Here grown men were standing,
talking as though he really did own Old Earth. They were concerned with
his affairs, not because he was Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William
MacArthur McBan the hundred-and-fifty-first, but because he was Rod, a
boy among them who had stumbled upon danger and fortune. He looked
around the room. The conversations had accidentally stopped. They were
looking at him, and he saw in their faces something which he had seen
before. What was it? It was not love. It was a rapt attentiveness, combined
with a sort of pleasurable and indulgent interest. He then realized what
the looks signified.

   They were giving him the adoration which they usually reserved only
for cricket players, tennis players, and great track performers—like that
fabulous Hopkins Harvey fellow who had gone offworld and had won a
wrestling match with a "heavy man" from Wereld Schemering. He was not
just Rod any more. He was their boy.

  As their boy, he smiled at them vaguely and felt like crying.

  The breathlessness broke when the large doctor, Mister and Owner
Wentworth, threw in the stark comment: "Time to tell him, Mister and
Owner Fisher. He won't have his property long if we don't get moving. No,
nor his life, either."

  Lavinia jumped up and cried out, "You can't kill Rod—"

  Doctor Wentworth stopped her: "Sit down. We're not going to kill him.
And you there, stop acting foolish! We're his friends here."

   Rod followed the line of the doctor's glance and saw that Hopper had
snaked his hand back to the big knife he wore in his belt. He was getting
ready to fight anyone who attacked Rod.

  "Sit, sit down, all of you, please," said the Lord Redlady, speaking
somewhat fussily with his singsong Earth accent. "I'm host here. Sit down.
Nobody's killing Rod tonight. Doctor, you take my table. Sit down yourself.
You will stop threatening my ceiling or your head. You, ma'am and
owner," said he to aunt Doris, "move over there to that other chair. Now
we can all see the doctor."

   "Can't we wait?" asked Rod. "I need to sleep. Are you going to ask me to
make decisions now? I'm not up to decisions, not after what I've just been
through. All night with the computer. The long walk. The bird from the
Onseck—"

   "You'll have no decisions to make if you don't make them tonight," said
the doctor firmly and pleasantly. "You'll be a dead man."
  "Who's going to kill me?" asked Rod.

  "Anybody who wants money. Or wants power. Or who would like
unlimited life. Or who needs these things to get something else. Revenge.
A woman. An obsession. A drug. You're not just a person now, Rod. You're
Norstrilia incarnate. You're Mister Money himself! Don't ask who'd kill
you! Ask who wouldn't? We wouldn't… I think. But don't tempt us."

  "How much money have I got?" said Rod.

   Angry John Fisher cut in: "So much that the computers are clotted up,
just counting it. About one and a half stroon years. Perhaps three hundred
years of Old Earth's total income. You sent more Instant Messages last
night than the Commonwealth government itself has sent in the last
twelve years. These messages are expensive. One kilocredit in FOE
money."

  "I asked a long time ago what this 'foe money' was," said Lavinia, "and
nobody has got around to telling me."

   The Lord Redlady took the middle of the floor. He stood there with a
stance which none of the Old North Australians had ever seen before. It
was actually the posture of a master of ceremonies opening the evening at
a large night club, but to people who had never seen those particular
gestures his movements were eerie, self-explanatory and queerly beautiful.

   "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, using a phrase which most of them
had only read in books, "I will serve drinks while the others speak. I will
ask each in turn. Doctor, will you be good enough to wait while the
financial secretary speaks?"

   "I should think," said the doctor irritably, "that the lad would be
wanting to think over his choice. Does he want me to cut him in two, here,
tonight, or doesn't he? I should think that would take priority, wouldn't
you?"

  "Ladies and gentlemen," said the Lord Redlady, "the Mister and Doctor
Wentworth has a very good point indeed. But there is no sense in asking
Rod about being cut in two unless he knows why. Mister Financial
Secretary, will you tell us all what happened last night?"

  John Fisher stood up. He was so chubby that it did not matter. His
brown, suspicious, intelligent eyes looked over the lot of them.

   "There are as many kinds of money as there are worlds with people on
them. We here on Norstrilia don't carry the tokens around, but in some
places they have bits of paper or metal which they use to keep count. We
talk our money into the central computers which even out all our
transactions for us. Now what would happen if I wanted a pair of shoes?"

   Nobody answered. He didn't expect them to. "I would," he went on, "go
to a shop, look in the screen at the shoes which the offworld merchants
keep in orbit. I would pick out the shoes I wanted. What's a good price for
a pair of shoes in orbit?"

   Hopper was getting tired of these theoretical questions so he answered
promptly,

   "Six bob."

   "That's right. Six minicredits."

   "But that's orbit money. You're leaving out the tariff," said Hopper.

   "Exactly. And what's the tariff?" asked John Fisher, snapping.

   Hopper snapped back, "Two hundred thousand times, what you bloody
fools always make it in the Commonwealth council."

   "Hopper, can you buy shoes?" said Fisher.

   "Of course I can!" The station hand looked belligerent again but the
Lord Redlady was filling his glass. He sniffed the aroma, calmed down and
said, "All right, what's your point?"

    "The point is that the money in orbit is SAD money—S for secure, A for
and, D for delivered. That's any kind of good money with backing behind
it. Stroon is the best backing there is, but gold is all right, rare metals, fine
manufactures, and so on. That's just the money off the planet, in the
hands of the recipient. Now how many times would a ship have to hop to
get to Old Old Earth Itself?"

   "Fifty or sixty," said aunt Doris unexpectedly. "Even I know that."

   "And how many ships get through?"
  "They all do," said she.

  "Oh, no," cried several of the men in unison.

   "About one ship is lost every sixty or eighty trips, depending on the
solar weather, on the skills of the pinlighters, and go-captains, on the
landing accidents. Did any of you ever see a really old captain?"

  "Yes," said Hopper with gloomy humor, "a dead one in his coffin."

   "So if you have something you want to get to Earth, you have to pay
your share of the costly ships, your share of the go-captain's wages and the
fees of his staff, your share of the insurance for their families. Do you know
what it could cost to get this chair back to earth?" said Fisher.

  "Three hundred times the cost of the chair," said Doctor Wentworth.

  "Mighty close. It's two hundred and eighty-seven times."

  "How do you know so mucking much?" said Bill, speaking up. "And why
waste our time with all this crutting glubb?"

   "Watch your language, man," said John Fisher. "There are some
mucking ladies present. I'm telling you this because we have to get Rod off
to Earth tonight, if he wants to be alive and rich—"

   "That's what you say!" cried Bill. "Let him go to his house. We can load
up on little bombs and hold up against anybody who could get through the
Norstrilian defenses. What are we paying these mucking taxes for, if it's
not for the likes of you to make sure we're safe? Shut up, man, and let's
take the boy home. Come along, Hopper."

   The Lord Redlady leaped to the middle of his own floor. He was no
prancing Earthman putting on a show. He was the old Instrumentality
itself, surviving with raw weapons and raw brains. In his hand he held
something which none of them could see clearly.

   "Murder," he said, "will be done this moment if anybody moves. I will
commit it. I will, people. Move, and try me. And if I do commit murder, I
will arrest myself, hold a trial, and acquit myself. I have strange powers,
people. Don't make me use them. Don't even make me show them." The
shimmering thing in his hand disappeared. "Mister and Doctor
Wentworth, you are under my command, by loan. Other people, you are
my guests. Be warned. Don't touch that boy. This is Earth territory, this
cabin we're in." He stood a little to one side and looked at them brightly
out of his strange Earth eyes.

  Hopper deliberately spat on the floor. "I suppose I would be a puddle of
mucking glue if I helped old Bill?"

   "Something like it," said the Lord Redlady. "Want to try?" The things
that were hard to see were now in each of his hands. His eyes darted
between Bill and Hopper.

   "Shut up, Hopper. Well take Rod if he tells us to go. But if he doesn't—it
crudding well doesn't matter. Eh, Mister and Owner McBan?"

   Rod looked around for his grandfather, dead long ago: then he knew
they were looking at him instead.

  Torn between sleepiness and anxiety he answered, "I don't want to go
now, fellows. Thank you for standing by. Go on, Mister Secretary, with the
Foe money and the Sad money."

   The weapons disappeared from the Lord Redlady's hands.

   "I don't like Earth weapons," said Hopper, speaking very loudly and
plainly to no one at all, "and I don't like Earth people. They're duty. There's
nothing in them that's good honest crook."

   "Have a drink, lads," said the Lord Redlady with a democratic
heartiness which was so false that the workwoman Eleanor, silent all the
evening, let out one wild caw of a laugh, like a kookaburra beginning to
whoop in a tree. He looked at her sharply, picked up his serving jug, and
nodded to the financial secretary, John Fisher, that he should resume
speaking.

   Fisher was flustered. He obviously did not like this Earth practice of
quick threats and weapons indoors, but the Lord Redlady—disgraced and
remote from Old Earth as he was— was nevertheless the accredited
diplomat of the Instrumentality, and even Old North Australia did not
push the Instrumentality too far. There were things supposed about
worlds which had done so.
   Soberly and huffily he went on,

    "There's not much to it. If the money is discounted thirty-three and one
third per cent per trip and if it is fifty-five trips to get to Old Earth, it
takes a heap of money to pay up in orbit right here before you have a
minicredit on earth. Sometimes the odds are better. Your Commonwealth
government waits for months and years to get a really favorable rate of
exchange and of course we send our freight by armed sailships, which
don't go below the surface of space at all. They just take hundreds or
thousands of years to get there, while our cruisers dart in and out around
them, just to make sure that nobody robs them in transit. There are things
about Norstrilian robots which none of you know, and which not even the
Instrumentality knows"—he darted a quick look at the Lord Redlady, who
said nothing to this, and went on—"which make it well worth while not to
muck around with one of our perishing ships. We don't get robbed much.
And we have other things that are even worse than Mother Hitton and her
littul kittons. But the money and the stroon which finally reaches Old
Earth is FOE money. F, O, E. F is for Free, O is for On, E is for Earth."
F,O,E— free on Earth. That's the best kind of money there is, right on Old
Old Earth Itself. And Earth has the final exchange computer. Or had it."

   "Had it?" said the Lord Redlady.

   "It broke down last night. Rod broke it. Overload."

   "Impossible!" cried Redlady. "I'll check."

  He went to the wall, pulled down a desk. A console, incredibly
miniature, gleamed out at them. In less than three seconds it glowed.
Redlady spoke into it, his voice as clear and cold as the ice they had all
heard about:

   "Priority. Instrumentality. Short of War. Instant. Instant Redlady
calling. Earthport."

   "Confirmed," said a Norstrilian voice, "confirmed and charged."

   "Earthport," said the console in a whistling whisper which filled the
room.

   "Redlady - instrumentality - official - centputer - all - right-question -
cargo - approved - question - out."
    "Centputer - all - right - cargo - approved - out," said the whisper and
fell silent.

    The people in the room had seen an immense fortune squandered. Even
by Norstrilian standards, the faster-than-light messages were things
which a family might not use twice in a thousand years. They looked at
Redlady as though he were an evil-worker with strange powers. Earth's
prompt answer to the skinny man made them all remember that though
Old North Australia produced the wealth, Earth still distributed much of
it and that the supergovernment of the Instrumentality reached into far
places where no Norstrilian would even wish to venture.

   The Lord Redlady spoke mildly, "The central computer seems to be
going again, if your government wishes to consult it. The 'cargo' is this boy
here."

  "You've told Earth about me?" said Rod.

  "Why not? We want to get you there alive."

  "But message security—?" said the doctor.

   "I have references which no outside mind will know," said the Lord
Redlady. "Finish up, Mister Financial Secretary. Tell the young man what
he has on Earth."

   "Your computer outcomputed the government," said John Fisher
to-the-hundredth, "and it mortgaged all your lands, all your sheep, all your
trading rights, all your family treasures, the right to the MacArthur name,
the right to the McBan name, and itself. Then it bought futures. Of
course, it didn't do it. You did, Rod McBan."

   Startled into full awakeness, Rod found his right hand up at his mouth,
so surprised was he. "I did?"

   "Then you bought futures in stroon, but you offered them for sale. You
held back the sales, shifting titles and changing prices, so that not even
the central computer knew what you were doing. You bought almost all of
the eighth year from now, most of the seventh year from now, and some of
the sixth. You mortgaged each purchase as you went along, in order to buy
more. Then you suddenly tore the market wide open by offering fantastic
bargains, trading the six-year rights for seventh-year and eighth-year.
Your computer made such lavish use of Instant Messages that the
Commonwealth defense office had people buzzing around in the middle of
the night. By the time they figured out what might happen, it had
happened. You registered a monopoly of two year's export, far beyond the
predicted amount. The government rushed for a weather recomputation,
but while they were doing that you were registering your holdings on
Earth and remortgaging them in FOE money. With the FOE money you
began to buy up all the imports around Old North Australia, and when the
government finally declared an emergency, you had secured final title to
one and a half stroon years and to more megacredits, FOE money
megacredits, than the Earth computers could handle. You're the richest
man that ever was. Or ever will be. We changed all the rules this morning
and I myself signed a new treaty with the Earth authorities, ratified by the
Instrumentality. Meanwhile, you're the richest of the rich men who ever
lived on this world and you're also rich enough to buy all of Old Earth. In
fact, you have put in a reservation to buy it, unless the Instrumentality
outbids you."

   "Why should we?" said the Lord Redlady. "Let him have it. We'll watch
what he does with the Earth after he buys it, and if it is something bad, we
will kill him."

  "You'd kill me, Lord Redlady?" said Rod. "I thought you were saving
me?"

   "Both," said the doctor, standing up. "The Commonwealth government
has not tried to take your property away from you, though they have their
doubts as to what you will do with Earth if you do buy it. They are not
going to let you stay on this planet and endanger it by being the richest
kidnap victim who ever lived. Tomorrow they will strip you of your
property, unless you want to take a chance on running for it. Earth
government is the same way. If you can figure out your own defenses, you
can come on in. Of course the police will protect you, but would that be
enough? I'm a doctor, and I'm here to ship you out if you want to go."

   "And I'm an officer of government, and I will arrest you if you do not
go," said John Fisher.

   "And I represent the Instrumentality, which does not declare its policy
to anyone, least of all to outsiders. But it is my personal policy," said the
Lord Redlady, holding out his hands and twisting his thumbs in a
meaningless, grotesque, but somehow very threatening way, "to see that
this boy gets a safe trip to Earth and a fair deal when he comes back
here!"

  "You'll protect him all the way!" cried Lavinia, looking very happy.

  "All the way. As far as I can. As long as I live."

   "That's pretty long," muttered Hopper, "conceited little pommy
cockahoop."

  "Watch your language, Hopper," said the Lord Redlady. "Rod?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Your answer?" The Lord Redlady was peremptory.

  "I'm going," said Rod.

  "What on Earth do you want?" said the Lord Redlady ceremoniously.

  "A genuine Cape triangle."

  "A what?" cried the Lord Redlady.

  "A Cape triangle. A postage stamp."

  "What's postage?" said the Lord Redlady, really puzzled.

  "Payments on messages."

  "But you do that with thumbprints or eyeprints!"

  "No," said Rod, "I mean paper ones."

   "Paper messages?" said the Lord Redlady, looking as though someone
had mentioned grass battleships, hairless sheep, solid cast-iron women, or
something else equally improbable. "Paper messages?" he repeated, and
then he laughed, quite charmingly. "Oh!" he said, with a tone of secret
discovery. "You mean antiquities…?"

  "Of course," said Rod. "Even before Space itself."

  "Earth has a lot of antiquities, and I am sure you will be welcome to
study them or to collect them. That will be perfectly all right. Just don't do
any of the wrong things, or you will be in real trouble."

  "What are the wrong things?" said Rod.

  "Buying real people, or trying to. Shipping religion from one planet to
another. Smuggling underpeople."

  "What's religion?" said Rod.

  "Later, later," said the Lord Redlady. "You'll learn everything later.
Doctor, you take over."

   Wentworth stood very carefully so that his head did not touch the
ceiling. He had to bend his neck a little. "We have two boxes, Rod."

   When he spoke, the door whirred in its tracks and showed them a small
room beyond. There was a large box like a coffin and a very small box, like
the kind that women have around the house to keep a single party-going
bonnet in.

    "There will be criminals, and wild governments, and conspirators, and
adventurers, and just plain good people gone wrong at the thought of your
wealth—there will be all these waiting for you to kidnap you or rob or even
kill you—"

  "Why kill me?"

   "To impersonate you and to try to get your money," said the doctor.
"Now look. This is your big choice. If you take the big box, we can put you
in a sailship convoy and you will get there in several hundred or thousand
years. But you will get there, ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent. Or we
can send the big box on the regular planoforming ships, and somebody
will steal you. Or we scun you down and put you in the little box."

  "That little box?" cried Rod.

  "Scunned. You've scunned sheep, haven't you?"

  "I've heard of it. But a man, no. Dehydrate my body, pickle my head,
and freeze the whole mucking mess?" cried Rod.

  "That's it. Too bloody right!" cried the doctor cheerfully. "That'll give
you a real chance of getting there alive."

  "But who'll put me together? I'd need my own doctor—?" His voice
quavered at the unnaturalness of the risk, not at the mere chanciness and
danger of it.

   "Here," said the Lord Redlady, "is your doctor, already trained."

  "I am at your service," said the little Earth-animal, the 'monkey,' with a
small bow to the assembled company. "My name is A'gentur and I have
been conditioned as a physician, a surgeon and a barber."

  The women had gasped. Hopper and Bill stared at the little animal in
horror.

   "You're an underperson!" yelled Hopper. "We've never let the crutting
things loose on Norstrilia."

   "I'm not an underperson. I'm an animal. Conditioned to—" The monkey
jumped. Hopper's heavy knife twanged like a musical instrument as it
clung to the softer steel of the wall. Hopper's other hand held a long thin
knife, ready to reach Redlady's heart.

   The left hand of the Lord Redlady flashed straight forward. Something
in his hand glowed silently, terribly. There was a hiss in the air.

  Where Hopper had been, a cloud of oily thick smoke, stinking of
burning meat, coiled slowly toward the ventilators. Hopper's clothing and
personal belongings, including one false tooth, lay on the chair in which he
had been sitting. They were undamaged. His drink stood on the floor
beside the chair, forever to remain unfinished.

   The doctor's eyes gleamed as he stared strangely at Redlady.

   "Noted and reported to the Old North Australian Navy."

   "I'll report it too," said the Lord Redlady, "as the use of weapons on
diplomatic grounds."

   "Never mind," said John Fisher to-the-hundredth, not angry at all, but
just pale and looking a little ill. Violence did not frighten him, but decision
did. "Let's get on with it. Which box, big or little, boy?"
   The workwoman Eleanor stood up. She had said nothing, but now she
dominated the scene. "Take him in there, girls," she said, "and wash him
like you would for the Garden of Death. I'll wash myself in there. You see,"
she added, "I've always wanted to see the blue skies on earth, and wanted
to swim in a house that ran around on the big, big waters. I'll take your
big box, Rod, and if I get through alive, you will owe me some treats on
Earth. You take the little box, Roddy, take the little box. And that little
tiny doctor with the fur on him. Rod, I trust him." Rod stood up.

  Everybody was looking at him and at Eleanor. "You agree?" said the
Lord Redlady.

  He nodded.

   "You agree to be scunned and put in the little box for instant shipment
to Earth?"

  He nodded again.

  "You will pay all the extra expenses?"

  He nodded again.

   The doctor said, "You authorize me to cut you up and reduce you down,
in the hope that you may be reconstituted on Earth?"

  Rod nodded to him, too.

   "Shaking your head isn't enough," said the doctor. "You have to agree
for the record."

  "I agree," said Rod quietly.

   Aunt Doris and Lavinia came forward to lead him into the dressing
room and shower room. Just as they reached for his arms, the doctor
patted Rod on the back with a quick strange motion. Rod jumped a little.

   "Deep hypnotic," said the doctor. "You can manage his body all right,
but the next words he utters will be said, luck willing, on Old Old Earth
Itself."

   The women were wide-eyed but they led Rod forward to be cleaned for
the operations and the voyage.
   The doctor turned to the Lord Redlady and to John Fisher, the financial
secretary.

   "A good night's work," he said. "Pity about that man, though."

   Bill sat still, frozen with grief in his chair, staring at Hopper's empty
clothing in the chair next to him.

  The console tinkled, "Twelve hours, Greenwich Mean Time. No adverse
weather reports from the channel coast or from Meeya Meefla or
Earthport building. All's well!"

  The Lord Redlady served drinks to the misters. He did not even offer
one to Bill. It would have been of no use, at this point.

   From beyond the door, where they were cleaning the body, clothes and
hair of the deeply hypnotized Rod, Lavinia and aunt Doris unconsciously
reverted to the ceremony of the Garden of Death and lifted their voices in
a sort of plainsong chant:


  Out in the Garden of Death, our young
Have tasted the valiant taste of fear.
With muscular arm and reckless tongue,
They have won, and lost, and escaped us here.


  The three men listened for a few moments, attentively. From the other
washroom there came the sounds of the workwoman Eleanor, washing
herself, alone and unattended, for a long voyage and a possible death.

   The Lord Redlady heaved a sigh, "Have a drink, Bill. Hopper brought it
on himself."

   Bill refused to speak to them but he held forth his glass.

   The Lord Redlady filled that and the others. He turned to John
Fisher-to-the-hundredth and said, "You're shipping him?"

   "Who?"

   "The boy."
  "I thought so."

  "Better not," said the Lord Redlady.

  "You mean—danger?"

   "That's only half the word for it," said the Lord Redlady. "You can't
possibly plan to offload him at Earthport. Put him into a good medical
station. There's an old one, still good, on Mars, if they haven't closed it
down. I know Earth. Half the people of Earth will be waiting to greet him
and the other half will be waiting to rob him."

  "You represent the Earth government, Sir and Commissioner," said
John Fisher, "that's a rum way to talk about your own people."

   "They are not that way all the time," laughed Redlady. "Just when
they're in heat. Sex hasn't a chance to compare with money when it comes
to the human race on Earth. They all think that they want power and
freedom and six other impossible things. I'm not speaking for the Earth
government when I say this. Just for myself."

  "If we don't ship him, who will?" demanded Fisher.

  "The Instrumentality."

  "The Instrumentality? You don't conduct commerce. How can you?"

  "We don't conduct commerce, but we do meet emergencies. I can flag
down a long-jump cruiser and he'll be there months before anybody
expects him."

  "Those are warships. You can't use one for passengers!"

  "Can't I?" said the Lord Redlady, with a smile.

   "The Instrumentality would?" said Fisher, with a puzzled smile. "The
cost would be tremendous. How will you pay for it? It'd be hard to justify."

  "He will pay for it. Special donation from him for special service. One
megacredit for the trip."

  The financial secretary whistled. "That's a fearful price for a single trip.
You'd want SAD money and not surface money, I suppose?"
  "No. FOE money."

  "Hot buttered moonbeams, man! That's a thousand times the most
expensive trip that any person has ever had."

  The big doctor had been listening to the two of them. "Mister and
Owner Fisher," he said, "I recommend it."

   "You?" cried John Fisher angrily. "You're a Norstrilian and you want to
rob this poor boy?"

  "Poor boy?" snorted the doctor. "It's not that. The trip's no good if he's
not alive. Our friend here is extravagant, but his ideas are sound. I suggest
one amendment."

  "What's that?" said the Lord Redlady quickly.

  "One and a half megacredits for the round trip—if he is well and alive
and with the same personality, apart from natural causes. But note this.
One kilocredit only if you deliver him on Earth dead."

  John Fisher rubbed his chin. His suspicious eyes looked down at
Redlady, who had taken a seat, and up at the doctor, whose head was still
bumping the ceiling.

   A voice behind him spoke: "Take it, Mister Financial Secretary. The boy
won't use money if he's dead. You can't fight the Instrumentality, you can't
be reasonable with the Instrumentality, and you can't buy the
Instrumentality. With what they've been taking off us all these thousands
of years, they've got more stroon than we do. Hidden away somewhere.
You, there!" said Bill rudely to the Lord Redlady, "do you have any idea
what the Instrumentality is worth?"

   The Lord Redlady creased his brow. "Never thought of it. I suppose it
must have a limit. But I never thought of it. We do have accountants,
though."

   "See," said Bill. "Even the Instrumentality would hate to lose money.
Take the doctor's bid, Redlady. Take him up on it, Fisher." His use of their
surnames was an extreme incivility, but the two men were convinced.

  "I'll do it," said Redlady. "It's awfully close to writing insurance, which
we are not chartered to do. I'll write it in as his emergency clause."

  "I'll take it," said John Fisher. "It's to be thousands of years until
another Norstrilian financial secretary pays money for a ticket like this,
but it's worth it—to him. I'll square it in his accounts. To our planet."

  "I'll witness it," said the doctor.

  "No, you won't," said Bill savagely. "The boy has one friend here. That's
me. Let me do it"

  They stared at him, all three.

  He stared back.

  He broke. "Sirs and Misters, please let me be the witness."

  The Lord Redlady nodded and opened the console. He and John Fisher
spoke the contract into it. At the end Bill shouted his full name as witness.

  The two women brought Rod McBan, mother-naked, into the room. He
was immaculately clean and he stared ahead as though he were in an
endless dream.

   "That's the operating room," said the Lord Redlady. "I'll spray us all
with antiseptic, if you don't mind."

  "Of course," said the doctor. "You must."

  "You're going to cut him up and boil him down—here and now?" cried
aunt Doris.

   "Here and now," said the Lord Redlady, "if the doctor approves. The
sooner he goes the better chance he has of coming through the whole
thing alive."

  "I consent," said the doctor. "I approve."

   He started to take Rod by the hand, leading him toward the room with
the long coffin and the small box. At some sign from Redlady, the walls
had opened up to show a complete surgical theater.

  "Wait a moment," said the Lord Redlady. "Take your colleague."
  "Of course," said the doctor.

  The monkey had jumped out of his basket when he heard his name
mentioned.

   Together, the giant and the monkey led Ron into the little gleaming
room. They closed the door behind them.

  The ones who were left behind sat down nervously.

  "Mister and Owner Redlady," said Bill, "since I'm staying, could I have
some more of that drink?"

   "Of course, Sir and Mister," said the Lord Redlady, not having any idea
of what Bill's title might be.

    There were no screams from Rod, no thuds, no protest. There was the
cloying sweet horror of unknown medicines creeping through the airvents.
The two women said nothing as the group of people sat around. Eleanor,
wrapped in an enormous towel, came and sat with them. In the second
hour of the operations on Rod, Lavinia began sobbing. She couldn't help
it.

 CHAPTER NINE: Traps, Fortunes and Watchers

We all know that no communications systems are leak-proof. Even inside
the far-reaching communications patterns of the Instrumentality, there
were soft spots, rotten points, garrulous men. The MacArthur-McBan
computer, sheltered in the Palace of the Governor of Night, had had time
to work out abstract economics and weather patterns, but the computer
had not tasted human love or human wickedness. All the messages
concerning Rod's speculation in the forward santaclara crop and stroon
export had been sent in the clear. It was no wonder that on many worlds,
people saw Rod as a chance, an opportunity, a victim, a benefactor, or an
enemy. For we all know the old poem:


  Luck is hot and people funny,
Everybody's fond of money.
Lose a chance and sell your mother,
Win the pot and buy another.
Other people fall and crash:
You may get the ton of cash!


  It applied in this case too. People ran hot and cold with the news.


  On Earth, same day, within Earthport Itself

  Commissioner Teadrinker tapped his teeth with a pencil. Four
megacredits FOE money already and more, much more to come.

   Teadrinker lived in a fever of perpetual humiliation. He had chosen it.
It was called "the honorable disgrace" and it applied to ex-Lords of the
Instrumentality who chose long life instead of service and honor. He was a
thousandmorer, meaning that he had traded his career, his reputation,
and his authority for a long life of one thousand or more years. (The
Instrumentality had learned, long ago, that the best way to protect its
members from temptation was to tempt them itself. By offering
"honorable disgrace" and low, secure jobs within the Instrumentality to
those Lords who might be tempted to trade long life for their secrets, it
kept its own potential defectors. Teadrinker was one of these.)

   He saw the news and he was a skilled wise man. He could not do
anything to the Instrumentality with money, but money worked wonders
on Earth. He could buy a modicum of honor. Perhaps he could even have
the records falsified and get married again. He flushed slightly, even after
hundreds of years, when he remembered his first wife blazing at him when
she saw his petition for long life and honorable disgrace: "Go ahead and
live, you fool. Live and watch me die without you, inside the decent four
hundred years which everybody has, if they work for it and want it. Watch
your children die, watch your friends die, watch all your hobbies and ideas
get out of date. Go along, you horrible little man, and let me die like a
human being!"

  A few megacredits could help that.

   Teadrinker was in charge of incoming visitors. His underman, the
cattle-derived B'dank, was custodian of the scavenger spiders—half-tame
one-ton insects which stood by for emergency work if the services of the
tower failed. He wouldn't need to have this Norstrilian merchant very
long— just long enough for a recorded order and a short murder.

   Perhaps not. If the Instrumentality caught him, it would be
dream-punishments, things worse than Shayol itself.

  Perhaps yes. If he succeeded, he would escape a near immortality of
boredom and could have a few decades of juicy fun instead.

  He tapped his teeth again.

  "Do nothing, Teadrinker," he said to himself, "but think, think, think.
Those spiders look as though they might have possibilities."


  On Viola Siderea, at the Council of the Guild of Thieves

   "Put two converted police cruisers in orbit around the sun. Mark them
for charter or sale, so that we won't run into the police.

   "Put an agent into every liner which is Earthbound within the time
stated.

   "Remember, we don't want the man. Just his luggage. He's sure to be
carrying a half-ton or so of stroon. With that kind of fortune, he could pay
off all the debts we gathered with that Bozart business. Funny we never
heard from Bozart. Nothing.

   "Put three senior thieves in Earthport itself. Make sure that they have
fake stroon, diluted down to about one-thousandth, so that they can work
the luggage switch if they have the chance…

  "I know all this costs money, but you have to spend money to get it.
Agreed, gentlemen of the larcenical arts?"

   There was a chorus of agreement around the table, except for one old,
wise thief who said, "You know my views."

   "Yes," said the chairman, with toneless polite hatred, "we know your
views. Rob corpses. Clean out wrecks. Become human hyenas instead of
human wolves."

   With unexpected humor the old man said, "Crudely put but
correct—and safer."
  "Do we need to vote?" said the chairman, looking around the table.

  There was a chorus of noes.

  "Carried, then," said the presiding chief. "Hit hard, and hit for the
small target, not the big one."


  Ten kilometers below the surface of the Earth

  "He is coming, father! He is coming."

  "Who is coming?" said the voice, like a great drum resounding.

   E'lamelanie said it as though it were a prayer: "The blessed one, the
appointed one, the guarantor of our people, the new messenger on whom
the robot, rat and Copt agreed. With money he is coming, to help us, to
save us, to open to us the light of day and the vaults of heaven."

  "You are blasphemous," said the E-telekeli.

    The girl fell into a hush. She not only respected her father. She
worshiped him as her personal religious leader. His great eyes blazed as
though they could see through thousands of meters of dirt and rock and
still see beyond into the deep of space. Perhaps he could see that far…
Even his own people were never sure of the limits of his power. His white
face and white feathers gave his penetrating eyes a miraculously piercing
capacity.

   Calmly, rather kindlily, he added, "My darling, you are wrong. We
simply do not know who this man McBan really is."

   "Couldn't it be written?" she pleaded. "Couldn't it be promised? That's
the direction of Space from which the robot, the rat and the Copt sent
back our very special message, 'From the uttermost deeps one shall come,
bringing uncountable treasure and a sure delivery.' So it might be now!
Mightn't it?"

   "My dear," he responded, "you still have a crude idea of real treasure if
you think it is measured in megacredits. Go read The Scrap of the Book,
then think, and then tell me what you have thought. But meanwhile—no
more chatter. We must not excite our poor oppressed people."
   The temporary Council of the Commonwealth of Old North Australia

    "All the riffraff of all the worlds. They're all going to make a run for that
silly boy of ours."

   "Right."

   "If he stays here, they'll come here."

   "Right."

  "Let's let him go to Earth. I have a feeling that little rascal Redlady will
smuggle him out tonight and save us the trouble."

   "Right."

  "After a while it will be all right for him to come back. He won't spoil
our hereditary defense of looking stupid. I'm afraid he's bright but by
Earth standards he's just a yokel."

   "Right."

   "Should we send along twenty or thirty more Rod McBans and get the
attackers really loused up?"

   "No."

   "Why not, Sir and Owner?"

   "Because it would look clever. We rely on never looking clever. I have
the next best answer."

   "What's that?"

    "Suggest to all the really rum worlds we know that a good impersonator
could put his hands on the McBan money. Make the suggestion so that
they would not know that we had originated it. The starlanes will be full of
Rod McBans, complete with phony Norstrilian accents, for the next couple
of hundred years. And no one will suspect that we will set them up to it.
Stupid's the word, mate, stupid. If they ever think we're clever, we're in for
it!" The speaker sighed: "How do the bloody fools suppose our forefathers
got off Paradise VII if they weren't clever? How can they think we'd hold
this sharp little monopoly for thousands of years? They're stupid not to
think about it, but let's not make them think. Right?"

  "Right."

                        CHAPTER TEN: The Nearby Exile

Rod awoke with a strange feeling of well-being. In a corner of his mind
there were memories of pandemonium—knives, blood, medicine, a
monkey working as surgeon. Rum dreams! He glanced around and
immediately tried to jump out of bed.

  The whole world was on fire!

  Bright blazing intolerable fire, like a blowtorch.

   But the bed held him. He realized that a loose comfortable jacket ended
in tapes and that the tapes were anchored in some way to the bed.

  "Eleanor!" he shouted, "Come here."

   He remembered the mad bird attacking him, Lavinia transporting him
to the cabin of the sharp Earthman, Lord Redlady. He remembered
medicines and fuss. But this— what was this?

   When the door opened, more of the intolerable light poured in. It was
as though every cloud had been stripped from the sky of Old North
Australia, leaving only the blazing heavens and the fiery sun. There were
people who had seen that happen, when the weather machines
occasionally broke down and let a hurricane cut a hole in the clouds, but it
had certainly not happened in his time, or in his grandfather's time.

   The man who entered was pleasant, but he was no Norstrilian. His
shoulders were slight, he did not look as though he could lift a cow, and
his face had been washed so long and so steadily that it looked like a
baby's face. He had an odd medical-looking suit on, all white, and his face
combined the smile and the ready professional sympathy of a good
physician.

  "We're feeling better, I see," said he.

  "Where on earth am I?" asked Rod. "In a satellite. It feels odd."
   "You're not on Earth, man."

   "I know I'm not. I've never been there. Where's this place?"

   "Mars. The Old Star Station. I'm Jeanjacques Vomact." Rod mumbled
the name so badly that the other man had to spell it out for him. When
that was straightened out, Rod came back to the subject.

   "Where's Mars? Can you untie me? When's that light going to go off?"

   "I'll untie you right now," said Doctor Vomact, "but stay in bed and
take it easy until we've given you some food and taken some tests. The
light—that's sunshine. I'd say it's about seven hours, local time, before it
goes off. This is late morning. Don't you know what Mars is? It's a planet."

  "New Mars, you mean," said Rod proudly, "the one with the enormous
shops and the zoological gardens."

   "The only shops we have here are the cafeteria and the PX. New Mars?
I've heard of that place somewhere. It does have big shops and some kind
of an animal show. Elephants you can hold in your hand. They've got those
too. This isn't that place at all. Wait a sec, I'll roll your bed to the window."

   Rod looked eagerly out of the window. It was frightening. A naked, dark
sky did not have a cloud in sight. A few holes showed in it here and there.
They almost looked like the "stars" which people saw when they were in
spaceship transit from one cloudy planet to another. Dominating
everything was a single explosive horrible light, which hung high and
steady in the sky without ever going off. He found himself cringing for the
explosion, but he could tell, from the posture of the doctor next to him,
that the doctor was not in the least afraid of that chronic hydrogen bomb,
whatever it might turn out to be.

  Keeping his voice level and trying not to sound like a boy he said,
"What's that?"

   "The sun."

   "Don't cook my book, mate. Give me the straight truth. Everybody calls
his star a sun. What's this one?"

   "The sun. The original sun. The sun of Old Earth Itself.
  Just as this is plain Mars. Not even Old Mars. Certainly not New Mars.
This Earth's neighbor."

  "That thing never goes off, goes up—boom!—or goes down?"

   "The sun, you mean?" said doctor Vomact. "No, I should think not. I
suppose it looked that way to your ancestors and mine half a million years
ago, when we were all running around naked on Earth." The doctor busied
himself as he talked. He chopped the air with a strange-looking little key,
and the tapes fell loose. The mittens dropped off Rod's hands. Rod looked
at his own hands in the intense light and saw that they seemed strange.
They looked smooth and naked and clean, like the doctor's own hands.
Weird memories began to come back to him, but his handicap about
spieking and hiering telepathically had made him cautious and sensitive,
so he did not give himself away.

  "If this is Old Mars, what are you doing, talking the Old North
Australian language to me? I thought my people were the only ones in the
universe who still spoke Ancient Inglish." He shifted proudly but clumsily
over to the Old Common Tongue: "You see, the Appointed Ones of my
family taught me this language as well. I've never been offworld before."

    "I speak your language," said the doctor, "because I learned it. I learned
it because you paid me, very generously, to learn it. In the months that we
have been reassembling you, it's come in handy. We just let down the
portal of memory and identity today, but I've talked to you for hundreds of
hours already."

  Rod tried to speak.

  He could not utter a word. His throat was dry and he was afraid that he
might throw up his food—if he had eaten any.

  The doctor put a friendly hand on his arm. "Easy, Mister and Owner
McBan, easy now. We all do that when we come out."

  Rod croaked, "I've been dead? Dead. Me?"

  "Not exactly dead," said the doctor, "but close to it."

  "The box—that little box!" cried Rod.
  "What little box?"

  "Please, Doctor—the one I came in?"

   "That box wasn't so little," said Doctor Vomact. He squared his hands
in the air and made a shape about the size of the little ladies' bonnet-box
which Rod had seen in the Lord Redlady's private operating room. "It was
this big. Your head was full natural size. That's why it's been so easy and
so successful to bring you back to normality in such a hurry."

  "And Eleanor?"

  "Your companion? She made it, too. Nobody intercepted the ship."

   "You mean the rest is true, too. I'm still the richest man in the
universe? And I'm gone, gone from home?" Rod would have liked to beat
the bedspread, but did not.

    "I am glad," said Doctor Vomact, "to see you express so much feeling
about your situation. You showed a great deal when you were under the
sedatives and hypnotics, but I was beginning to wonder how we could help
you realize your true position when you came back, as you have, to normal
life. Forgive me for talking this way. I sound like a medical journal. It's
hard to be friends with a patient, even when one really likes him…"

   Vomact was a small man, a full head shorter than Rod himself, but so
gracefully proportioned that he did not look stunted or little. His face was
thin, with a mop of ungovernable black hair which fell in all directions.
Among Norstrilians, this fashion would have been deemed eccentric; to
judge by the fact that other Earthmen let their hair grow wild and long, it
must have been an Earth fashion. Rod found it foolish but not repulsive.

   It was not Vomact's appearance which caused the impression. It was
the personality which tingled out of every pore. Vomact could become
calm when he knew, from his medical wisdom, that kindness and
tranquility were in order, but these qualities were not usual to him. He
was vivacious, moody, lively, talkative to an extreme, but he was sensitive
enough to the person to whom he was talking: he never became a bore.
Even among Norstrilian women, Rod had never seen a person who
expressed so much so fluently. When Vomact talked, his hands were in
constant motion—outlining, describing, clarifying the points which he
described. When he talked he smiled, scowled, raised his eyebrows in
questioning, stared with amazement, looked aside in wonder. Rod was
used to the sight of two Norstrilians having a long telepathic conversation,
spieking and hiering one another as their bodies reposed, comfortable and
immobile, while their minds worked directly on one another. To do all this
with the speaking voice—that, to a Norstrilian, was a marvel to hear and
behold. There was something graceful and pleasant about the animation
of this Earth doctor which stood in complete contrast to the quick
dangerous decisiveness of the Lord Redlady. Rod began to think that if
Earth were full of people, all of them like Vomact, it must be a delightful
but confusing place. Vomact once hinted that his family was unusual, so
that even in the long weary years of perfection, when everyone else had
numbers, they kept their family name secret but remembered.

   One afternoon Vomact suggested that they walk across the Martian
plain a few kilometers to the ruins of the first human settlement on Mars.
"We have to talk," said he, "but it is easy enough to talk through these soft
helmets. The exercise will do you good. You're young and you will take a
lot of conditioning."

  Rod agreed.

  Friends they became in the ensuing days.

   Rod found that the doctor was by no means as young as he looked, just
ten years or so older than himself. The doctor was a hundred and ten years
old, and had gone through his first rejuvenation just ten years before. He
had two more and then death, at the age of four hundred, if the present
schedule were kept for Mars.

   "You may think, Mister McBan, that you are an upset, wild type
yourself. I can promise you, young bucko, that Old Earth is such a happy
mess these days that they will never notice you. Haven't you heard about
the Rediscovery of Man?"

    Rod hesitated. He had paid no attention to the news himself, but he did
not want to discredit his home planet by making it seem more ignorant
than it really was. "Something about language, wasn't it? And length of
life, too? I never paid much attention to offplanet news, unless it was
technical inventions or big battles. I think some people in Old North
Australia have a keen interest in Old Earth Itself. What was it, anyhow?"

  "The Instrumentality finally took on a big plan. Earth had no dangers,
no hopes, no rewards, no future except endlessness. Everybody stood a
thousand-to-one chance of living the four hundred years which was
allotted for persons who earned the full period by keeping busy—"

   "Why didn't everybody do it?" interrupted Rod. "The Instrumentality
took care of the shorties in a very fair way. It offered them wonderfully
delicious and exciting vices when they got to be about seventy. Things that
combined electronics, drugs and sex in the subjective mind. Anybody who
didn't have a lot of work to do ended up getting 'the blissfuls' and
eventually died of sheer fun. Who wants to take time for mere
hundred-years' renewals when they can have five or six thousand years of
orgies and adventures every single night?"

   "Sounds horrible to me," said Rod. "We have our Giggle Rooms, but
people die in them right away. They don't mess around, dying among their
neighbors. Think of the awful interaction you must get with the normals."

    Doctor Vomact's face clouded over with anger and grief. He turned
away and looked over the endless Martian plains. Dear blue Earth hung
friendlily in the sky. He looked up at the star of Earth as though he hated
it and he said to Rod, his face still turned away:

   "You may have a point there, Mister McBan. My mother was a shortie
and after she gave up, my father went too. And I'm a normal. I don't
suppose I'll get over what it did to me. They weren't my real parents, of
course—there was nothing that dirty in my family—but they were my final
adopters. I've always thought that you Old North Australians were crazy,
rich barbarians for killing off your teenagers if they didn't jump enough or
something crude like that, but I'll admit that you're clean barbarians. You
don't make yourselves live with the sweet sick stink of death inside your
own apartments…"

  "What's an apartment?"

  "What we live in."

  "You mean a house," said Rod.

  "No, an apartment is a part of a house. Two hundred thousand of them
sometimes make up one big house."

  "You mean," said Rod, "there are two hundred thousand families all in
one enormous living room? The room must be kilometers long!"

   "No, no, no!" said the doctor, laughing a little. "Each apartment has a
separate living room with sleep sections that come out of the walls, an
eating section, a washroom for yourself and your visitors that might come
to have a bath with you, a garden room, a study room, and a personality
room."

  "What's a personality room?"

  "That," said the doctor, "is a little room where we do things that we
don't want our own families to watch."

  "We call that a bathroom," said Rod.

  The doctor stopped in their walk. "That's what makes it so hard to
explain to you what Earth is doing. You're fossils, that's what you are.
You've had the old language of Inglish, you keep your family system and
your names, you've had unlimited life—"

   "Not unlimited," said Rod, "just long. We have to work for it and pay
for it with tests."

   The doctor looked sorry. "I didn't mean to criticize you. You're
different. Very different from what Earth has been. You would have found
Earth inhuman. Those apartments we were talking about, for example.
Two-thirds of them empty. Underpeople moving into the basements.
Records lost; jobs forgotten. If we didn't make such good robots,
everything would have fallen to pieces at the same time." He looked at
Rod's face. "I can see you don't understand me. Let's take a practical case.
Can you imagine killing me?"

  "No," said Rod, "I like you."

  "I don't mean that. Not the real us. Suppose you didn't know who I was
and you found me intruding on your sheep or stealing your stroon."

  "You couldn't steal my stroon. My government processes it for me and
you couldn't get near it."

   "All right, all right, not stroon. Just suppose I came from off your planet
without a permit. How would you kill me?"
  "I wouldn't kill you. I'd report it to the police."

  "Suppose I drew a weapon on you?"

  "Then," said Rod, "you'd get your neck broken. Or a knife in your heart.
Or a minibomb somewhere near you."

  "There!" said the doctor, with a broad grin.

  "There what?" said Rod.

  "You know how to kill people, should the need arise."

  "All citizens know how," said Rod, "but that doesn't mean they do it.
We're not bushwhacking each other all the time, the way I heard some
Earthpeople thought we did."

   "Precisely," said Vomact. "And that's what the Instrumentality is trying
to do for all mankind today. To make life dangerous enough and
interesting enough to be real again. We have diseases, dangers, fights,
chances. It's been wonderful."

   Rod looked back at the group of sheds they had left. "I don't see any
signs of it here on Mars."

   "This is a military establishment. It's been left out of the Rediscovery of
Man until the effects have been studied better. We're still living perfect
lives of four hundred years here on Mars. No danger, no change, no risk."

  "How do you have a name, then?"

   "My father gave it to me. He was an official Hero of the Frontier Worlds
who came home and died a shortie. The Instrumentality let people like
that have names before they gave the privilege to everybody."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Working." The doctor started to resume their walk. Rod did not feel
much awe of him. He was such a shamelessly talkative person, the way
most Earthmen seemed to be, that it was hard not to be at ease with him.
Rod took Vomact's arm, gently. "There's more to it—"

  "You know it," said Vomact. "You have good perceptions. Should I tell
you?"

  "Why not?" said Rod.

  "You're my patient. It might not be fair to you."

  "Go ahead," said Rod, "you ought to know I'm tough."

  "I'm a criminal," said the doctor.

   "But you're alive," said Rod. "In my world we kill criminals or we send
them offplanet."

   "I'm offplanet," said Vomact. "This isn't my world. For most of us here
on Mars, this is a prison, not a home."

  "What did you do?"

   "It's too awful…" said the Doctor. "I'm ashamed of it myself. They have
sentenced me to conditional conditional."

   Rod looked at him quickly. Momentarily he wondered whether he
might be the victim of some outrageous deadpan joke. The doctor was
serious; his face expressed bewilderment and grief.

   "I revolted," said the doctor, "without knowing it. People can say
anything they want on earth, and they can print up to twenty copies of
anything they need to print, but beyond that it's mass communications.
Against the law. When the Rediscovery of Man came, they gave me the
Spanish language to work on. I used a lot of research to get out La Prensa,
Jokes, dialogues, imaginary advertisements, reports of what had
happened in the ancient world. But then I got a bright idea. I went down
to Earthport and got the news from incoming ships. What was happening
here. What was happening there. You have no idea, Rod, how interesting
mankind is! And the things we do… so strange, so comical, so pitiable. The
news even comes in on machines, all marked 'official use only." I
disregarded that and I printed up one issue with nothing but truth in it—a
real issue, all facts.

  "I printed real news.

  "Rod, the roof fell in. All persons who had been reconditioned for
Spanish were given stability tests. I was asked, did I know the law?
Certainly, said I, I knew the law. No mass communications except within
government. News is the mother of opinion, opinion the cause of mass
delusion, delusion the source of war. The law was plain and I thought it
did not matter. I thought it was just an old law.

   "I was wrong, Rod, wrong. They did not charge me with violating the
news laws. They charged me with revolt— against the Instrumentality.
They sentenced me to death, immediately. Then they made it conditional,
conditional on my going off-planet and behaving well. When I got here,
they made it double conditional. If my act has no bad results. But I can't
find out. I can go back to Earth any time. That part is no trouble. If they
think my misdeed still has effect, they will give me the dream punishments
or send me off to that awful planet somewhere. If they think it doesn't
matter, they will restore my citizenship with a laugh. But they don't know
the worst of it. My underman learned Spanish and the underpeople are
keeping the newspaper going very secretly. I can't even imagine what they
will do to me if they ever find out what has gone wrong and know that it
was me who started it all. Do you think I'm wrong, Rod?"

   Rod stared at him. He was not used to judging adults, particularly not
at their own request. In Old North Australia, people kept their distance.
There were fitting ways for doing everything, and one of the most fitting
things was to deal only with people of your own age group.

   He tried to be fair, to think in an adult way, and he said, "Of course I
think you're wrong, Mister and Doctor Vomact. But you're not very wrong.
None of us should trifle with war."

  Vomact seized Rod's arm. The gesture was hysterical, almost ugly.
"Rod," he whispered, very urgently, "you're rich. You come from an
important family. Could you get me into Old North Australia?"

  "Why not?" said Rod. "I can pay for all the visitors I want."

   "No, Rod, I don't mean that. As an immigrant." It was Rod's turn to
become tense. "Immigrant?" he said. "The penalty for immigration is
death. We're killing our own people right now, just to keep the population
down. How do you think we could let outsiders settle with us? And the
stroon. What about that?"

  "Never mind, Rod," said Vomact. "I won't bother you again. I won't
mention it again. It's a weary thing, to live many years with death ready to
open the next door, ring the next bell, be on the next page of the message
file. I haven't married. How could I?" With a whimsical turn of his
vivacious mind and face, he was oft on a cheerful track. "I have a
medicine, Rod, a medicine for doctors, even for rebels. Do you know what
it is?"

  "A tranquilizer?" Rod was still shocked at the indecency of anyone
mentioning immigration to a Norstrilian. He could not think straight.

  "Work," said the little doctor, "that's my medicine."

  "Work is always good," said Rod, feeling pompous at the generalization.
The magic had gone out of the afternoon.

   The doctor felt it too. He sighed. "I'll show you the old sheds which men
from Earth first built. And then I'll go to work. Do you know what my
main work is?"

  "No," said Rod, politely.

    "You," said doctor Vomact, with one of his sad-gay mischievous smiles.
"You're well, but I've got to make you more than well. I've got to make you
kill-proof."

  They had reached the sheds.

  The ruins might be old, but they were not very impressive. They looked
something like the homes on the more modest stations back on Norstrilia.

  On their way back Rod said, very casually, "What are you going to do to
me, sir and doctor?"

  "Anything you want," said Vomact lightly.

  "Really, now. What?"

   "Well," said Vomact, "the Lord Redlady sent along a whole cube of
suggestions. Keep your personality. Keep your retinal and brain images.
Change your appearance. Change your workwoman into a young man who
looks just like your description."

  "You can't do that to Eleanor. She's a citizen."
  "Not here, not on Mars, she isn't. She's your baggage."

  "But her legal rights!"

   "This is Mars, Rod, but it's Earth territory. Under Earth law. Under the
direct control of the Instrumentality. We can do these things all right. The
hard thing is this. Would you consent to passing for an underman?"

  "I never saw one. How would I know?" said Rod.

  "Could you stand the shame of it?"

  Rod laughed, by way of an answer.

   Vomact sighed. "You're funny people, you Norstrilians. I'd rather die
than be mistaken for an underman. The disgrace of it, the contempt! But
the Lord Redlady said that you could walk into Earth as free as a breeze if
we made you pass for a cat-man. I might as well tell you, Rod. Your wife is
already here."

  Rod stopped walking. "My wife? I have no wife."

   "Your cat-wife," said the doctor. "Of course it isn't real marriage.
Underpeople aren't allowed to have it. But they have a companion which
looks something like marriage and we sometimes slip and call them
husband and wife. The Instrumentality has already sent a cat-girl out to
be your 'wife.' She'll travel back to Earth with you from Mars, You'll just be
a pair of lucky cats who've been doing dances and acrobatics for the bored
station personnel here."

  "And Eleanor?"

   "I suppose somebody will kill her, thinking it's you. That's what you
brought her for, isn't it? Aren't you rich enough?"

  "No, no, no," said Rod, "nobody is that rich. We have to think of
something else."

   They spent the entire walk back making new plans which would protect
Eleanor and Rod both.

   As they entered the shedport and took off their helmets, Rod said, "This
wife of mine, when can I see her?"
   "You won't overlook her," said Vomact. "She's as wild as fire and twice
as beautiful."

  "Does she have a name?"

  "Of course she does," said the doctor. "They all do."

  "What is it, then?"

  "C'mell."

                   CHAPTER ELEVEN: Hospitality and
                                      Entrapment

People waited, here and there. If there had been world-wide news
coverage, the population would have converged on Earthport with
curiosity, passion, or greed. But news had been forbidden long before",
people could know only know the things which concerned them personally;
the centers of Earth remained undisturbed. Here and there, as Rod made
his trip from Mars to Earth, there were anticipations of the event.
Over-all, the world of Old Old Earth remained quiet, except for the
perennial bubble of its inward problems.


  On Earth, the day of Rod's flight, within Earthport itself

   "They shut me out of the meeting this morning, when I'm in charge of
visitors. That means that something is in the air," said Commissioner
Teadrinker to his underman, B'dank.

   B'dank, expecting a dull day, had been chewing his cud while sitting on
his stool in the corner. He knew far more about the case than did his
master, and he had learned his additional information from the secret
sources of the under-people, but he was resolved to betray nothing, to
express nothing. Hastily he swallowed his cud and said, in his reassuring,
calm bull voice:

  "There might be some other reason, sir and master. If they were
considering a promotion for you, they would leave you out of the meeting.
You certainly deserve a promotion, sir and master."
  "Are the spiders ready?" asked Teadrinker crossly.

   "Who can tell the mind of a giant spider?" said B'dank calmly. "I talked
to the foreman-spider for three hours yesterday with sign language. He
wants twelve cases of beer. I told him I would give him more—he could
have ten. The poor devil can't count, though he thinks he can, so he was
pleased at having out-bargained me. They will take the person you
designate to the steeple of Earthport and they will hide that person so that
the human being cannot be found for many hours. When I appear with the
cases of beer, they will give me the person. I will then jump out of a
window, holding the person in my arms. There are so few people who go
down the outside of Earthport that they may not notice me at all. I will
take the person to the ruined palace directly under Alpha Ralpha
Boulevard, the one which you showed me, sir and master, and there I will
keep the person in good order until you come and do the things which you
have to do."

   Teadrinker looked across the room. The big, florid, handsome face was
so exasperatingly calm that it annoyed him. Teadrinker had heard that
bull-men, because of their cattle origin, were sometimes subject to fits of
uncontrollable frantic rage, but he had never seen the least sign of any
such phenomenon in B'dank.

  He snapped, "Aren't you worried?"

  "Why should I worry, sir and master? You are doing the worrying for
both of us."

  "Go fry yourself!"

   "That is not an operational instruction," said B'dank. "I suggest that
the master eat something. That will calm his nerves. Nothing at all may
happen today, and it is very hard for true men to wait for nothing at all. I
have seen many of them get upset."

  Teadrinker gritted his teeth at this extreme reasonableness.
Nevertheless, he took a dehydrated banana out of his desk drawer and
began chewing on it.

  He looked sharply across at B'dank. "Do you want one of these things?"

  B'dank slid off his chair with surprisingly smooth agility; he was at the
desk, his enormous ham-sized hand held out, before he said, "Yes, indeed,
sir. I love bananas."

   Teadrinker gave him one and then said, fretfully, "Are you sure of the
fact you never met the Lord Redlady?"

   "Sure as any underman can be," said B'dank, munching the banana.
"We never really know what has been put into our original conditioning,
or who put it there. We're inferior and we're not supposed to know. It is
forbidden even to inquire."

  "So you admit that you might be a spy or agent of the Lord Redlady?"

  "I might be, sir, but I do not feel like it."

  "Do you know who Redlady is?"

   "You have told me, sir, that he is the most dangerous human being in
the whole galaxy."

    "That's right," said Teadrinker, "and if I am running into something
which the Lord Redlady has set up, I might as well cut up my throat before
I start."

   "It would be simpler, sir," said B'dank, "not to kidnap this Rod McBan
at all. That is the only element of danger. If you did nothing, things would
go on as they always have gone on—quietly, calmly."

   "That's the horror and anxiety of it! They do always go on. Don't you
think I want to get out of here, to taste power and freedom again?"

  "You may so, sir," said B'dank, hoping that Teadrinker would offer him
one more of those delicious dried bananas.

  Teadrinker, distracted, did not.

  He just walked up and down his room, desperate with the torment of
hope, danger and delay.


  Antechamber of the Bell and Bank

  The Lady Johanna Gnade was there first. She was clean, well-dressed,
alert. The Lord Jestocost, who followed her in, wondered if she had any
personal life at all. It was bad manners, among the Chiefs of the
Instrumentality, to inquire into another Chiefs personal affairs, even
though the complete personal histories of each of them, kept up to the day
and minute, was recorded in the computer cabinet in the corner. Jestocost
knew, because he had peeped at his own record, using another Chiefs
name, just so that he could see whether several minor illegalities of his
had been recorded; they had been, all except for the biggest one—his deal
with the cat-girl C'mell—which he had successfully kept off the recording
screens. (The record simply showed him having a nap at the time.) If the
Lady Johanna had any secrets, she kept them well.

   "My sir and colleague," said she, "I suspect you of sheer
inquisitiveness—a vice most commonly attributed to women."

   "When we get as old as this, my lady, the differences in character
between men and women become imperceptible. If, indeed, they ever
existed in the first place. You and I are bright people and we each have a
good nose for danger or disturbance. Isn't it likely we would both look up
somebody with the impossible name of Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold
William MacArthur McBan to the hundred-and-fifty-first generation.
See—I memorized all of it! Don't you think that was rather clever of me?"

  "Rather," said she, in a tone which implied she didn't.

  "I'm expecting him this morning."

  "You are?" she asked, on a rising note which implied that there was
something improper about his knowledge. "There's nothing about it in the
messages."

   "That's it," said the Lord Jestocost, smiling, "I arranged for Mars solar
radiation to be carried two extra decimals until he left. This morning it's
back down to three decimals. That means he's coming. Clever of me, isn't
it?"

   "Too clever," she said. "Why ask me?" I never thought you valued my
opinion. Anyhow, why are you taking all these pains with the case? Why
don't you just ship him out so far that it would take him a long lifetime,
even with stroon, to get back here again?"

  He looked at her evenly until she flushed. He said nothing.
  "My—my comment was improper, I suppose." she stammered. "You
and your sense of justice. You're always putting the rest of us in the
wrong."

  "I didn't mean to," he said mildly, "because I am just thinking of Earth.
Did you know he owns this tower?"

  "Earthport?" she cried. "Impossible."

   "Not at all," said Jestocost. "I myself sold it to his agent ten days ago.
For forty megacredits FOE money. That's more than we happen to have on
Earth right now. When he deposited it, we began paying him
3-percent-a-year interest. And that wasn't all he bought from me. I sold
him that ocean too, right there, the one the ancients called Atlantic. And I
sold him three hundred thousand attractive under-women trained in
various tasks, together with the dower rights of seven hundred human
women of appropriate ages."

   "You mean you did all this to save the Earth treasury three megacredits
a year?"

    "Wouldn't you? Remember, this is FOE money." She pursed her lips.
Then she burst into a smile. "I never saw anyone else like you, my Lord
Jestocost. You're the fairest man I ever knew and yet you never forget a
little bit more in the way of earnings!"

   "That's not the end of it," said he with a very crafty, pleased smile. "Did
you read Amended (Reversionary) Schedule seven hundred and
eleven—nineteen—thirteen P which you yourself voted for eleven days
ago?"

   "I looked at it," she said defensively. "We all did. It was something to do
with Earth funds and Instrumentality funds. The Earth representative
didn't complain. We all passed it because we trusted you."

  "Do you know what it means?"

  "Frankly, not at all. Does it have anything to do with this rich old man,
McBan?"

  "Don't be sure," said the Lord Jestocost, "that he's old. He might be
young. Anyhow, the tax schedule raises taxes on kilocredits very slightly.
Megacredit taxes are divided evenly between Earth and the
Instrumentality, provided that the owner is not personally operating the
property. It comes to one per cent a month. That's the very small type in
the footnote at the bottom of the seventh page of rates."

   "You—you mean—" she gasped with laughter, "that by selling the poor
man the Earth you are not only cutting him out of three percent interest a
year, but you're charging him twelve percent taxes. Blessed rockets, man,
you're weird. I love you. You're the cleverest, most ridiculous person we
ever had as a Chief of the Instrumentality!" From the Lady Johanna
Gnade, this was lurid language indeed. Jestocost did not know whether to
be offended or pleased.

   Since she was in a rare good humor, he dared to mention his half-secret
project to her:

  "Do you think, my lady, that if we have all this unexpected credit, we
could waste a little of our stroon imports?"

  Her laugh stopped. "On what?" she said sharply.

  "On the underpeople. For the best of them."

   "Oh, no. Oh, no! Not for the animals, while there are still people who
suffer. You're mad to think of it, my lord."

  "I'm mad," he said. "I'm mad all right. Mad—for justice.

  And this strikes me as simple justice. I'm not asking for equal rights.
Merely for a little more justice for them."

   "They're underpeople," she said blankly. "They're animals"—as though
this comment settled the matter altogether.

  "You never heard, did you, my Lady, of the dog named Joan?" His
question held a wealth of allusion.

   She saw no depth to it, said flatly "No," and went back to studying the
agenda for the day.


  Ten kilometers below the surface of the Earth
   The old engines turned like tides. The smell of hot oil was on them.
Down here there were no luxuries. Life and flesh were cheaper than
transistors; besides, they had much less radiation to be detected. In the
groaning depths, the hidden and forgotten underpeople lived. They
thought their chief, the E-telekeli, to be magical. Sometimes he thought so
himself.

   His white handsome face staring like a marble bust of immortality, his
crumpled wings hugged close to him in fatigue, he called to his first-egg
child, the girl E-lamelanie:

    "He comes, my darling."

    "That one, father? The promised one."

    "The rich one."

  Her eyes widened. She was his daughter, but she did not always
understand his powers. "How do you know, father?"

   "If I tell you the truth, will you agree to let me erase it from your mind
right away, so there will be no danger of betrayal?"

    "Of course, father."

    "No," said the marble-faced bird-man, "you must say the right words…
"

   "I promise, father, that if you fill my heart with the truth, and if my joy
at the truth is full, that I will yield to you my mind, my whole mind
without fear, hope, or reservation, and that I will ask you to take from my
mind whatever truth or parts of the truth might hurt our kind of people,
in the name of the First Forgotten One, in the Name of the Second
Forgotten One, in the Name of the Third Forgotten One, and for the sake
of D'joan whom we all love and remember!"

   He stood. He was a tall man. His legs ended in the enormous feet of a
bird, with white talons shimmering like mother of pearl. His humanoid
hands stood forth from the joints of his wings; with them he extended the
prehistoric gesture of blessing over her head, while he chanted the truth in
a ringing hypnotic voice:
   "Let the truth be yours, my daughter, that you may be whole and happy
with the truth. Knowing the truth, my daughter, know freedom and the
right to forget!

  "The child, my child, who was your brother, the little boy you loved…"

  "Yeekasoose!" she said, her voice trance-like and childish.

   "E'ikasus, whom you remember, was changed by me, his father, into
the form of a small ape-man, so that the true people mistook him for an
animal, not an underperson. They trained him as a surgeon and sent him
to the Lord Redlady. He came with this young man McBan to Mars, where
he met C'mell, whom I recommended to the Lord Jestocost for
confidential errands. They are coming back with this man today. He has
already bought the Earth, or most of it. Perhaps he will do us good. Do you
know what you should know, my daughter?"

  "Tell me, father, tell me. How do you know?"

   "Remember the truth, girl, and then lose it! The messages come from
Mars. We cannot touch the Big Blink or the message-coding machines,
but each recorder has his own style. By a shift in the pace of his work, a
friend can relay moods, emotions, ideas, and sometimes names. They have
sent me words like 'riches, monkey, small, cat, girl, everything, good' by
the pitch and speed of their recording. The human messages carry ours
and no cryptographer in world can find them.

  "Now you know, and you will now now now now forget!"

  He raised his hands again.

  E-lamelanie looked at him normally with a happy smile: "It's so sweet
and funny, daddy, but I know I've just forgotten something good and
wonderful!"

  Ceremonially he said, "Do not forget Joan."

  Formally she responded, "I shall never forget Joan."

           CHAPTER TWELVE: The High Sky Flying
Rod walked to the edge of the little park. This was utterly unlike any ship
he had ever seen or heard about in Norstrilia. There was no noise, no
cramping, no sign of weapons —just a pretty little cabin which housed the
controls, the Go-Captain, the Pinlighters, and the Stop-Captain, and then
a stretch of incredible green grass. He had walked on this grass from the
dusty ground of Mars. There was a purr and a whisper. A false blue sky,
very beautiful, covered him like a canopy.

   He felt strange. He had whiskers like a cat, forty centimeters long,
growing out of his upper lip, about twelve whiskers to each side. The
doctor had colored his eyes with bright green irises. His ears reached up
to a point. He looked like a cat-man and he wore the professional clothing
of an acrobat; C'mell did too.

  He had not gotten over C'mell.

   She made every woman in Old North Australia look like a sack of lard.
She was lean, limber, smooth, menacing and beautiful; she was soft to the
touch, hard in her motions, quick, alert, and cuddlesome. Her red hair
blazed with the silkiness of animal fire. She spoke with a soprano which
tinkled like wild bells. Her ancestors and ancestresses had been bred to
produce the most seductive girl on Earth. The task had succeeded. Even in
repose, she was voluptuous. Her wide hips and sharp eyes invited the
masculine passions. Her cat-like dangerousness challenged every man
whom she met. The true men who looked at her knew that she was a cat,
and still could not keep their eyes off her. Human women treated her as
though she were something disgraceful. She traveled as an acrobat, but
she had already told Rod McBan confidentially that she was by profession
a "girlygirl," a female animal, shaped and trained like a person to serve as
hostess to off-world visitors, required by law and custom to invite their
love, while promised the penalty of death if she accepted it.

   Rod liked her, though he had been painfully shy with her at first. There
was no side to her, no posh, no swank. Once she got down to business, her
incredible body faded partway into the background, though with the sides
of his eyes he could never quite forget it, and it was her mind, her
intelligence, her humor and good humor, which carried them across the
hours and days they spent together. He found himself trying to impress
her that he was a grown man, only to discover that in the spontaneous,
sincere affections of her quick cat-heart, she did not care in the least what
his status was. He was simply her partner and they had work to do
together. It was his job to stay alive and it was her job to keep him alive.

   The doctor Vomact had told him not to speak to the other passengers,
not to say anything to each other, and to call for silence if any of them
spoke.

  There were ten other passengers who stared at one another in
uncomfortable amazement. Ten in number, they were. All ten of them
were Rod McBan.

   Ten identified Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur
McBans to-the-one-hundred-and-fifty-first, all exactly alike. Apart from
C'mell herself and the little monkey-doctor, A'gentur, the only person on
the ship who was not Rod McBan was Rod McBan himself. He had become
the cat-man. The others seemed, each by himself, to be persuaded that he
alone was Rod McBan and that the other nine were parodies. They
watched each other with a mixture of gloom and suspicion mixed with
amusement, just as the real Rod McBan would have done, had he been in
their place. "One of them," said Doctor Vomact in parting, "is your
companion Eleanor from Norstrilia. The other nine are mouse-powered
robots. They're all copied from you. Good, eh?" He could not conceal his
professional satisfaction.

  And now they were all about to see Earth together.

   C'mell took Rod to the edge of the little world and said gently, "I want
to sing The Tower Song' to you, just before we shut down on the top of
Earthport." And in her wonderful voice she sang the little old song:

  And oh! my love, for you.
High birds crying, and a
High sky flying, and a
High wind driving, and a
High heart striving, and a
High brave place for you!

   Rod felt a little funny, standing there, looking at nothing, but he also
felt pleasant with the girl's head against his shoulder and his arm
enfolding her. She seemed not only to need him, but to trust him very
deeply. She did not feel adult—not self-important and full of unexplained
business. She was merely a girl, and for the time his girl. It was pleasant
and it gave him a strange foretaste of the future.
   The day might come when he would have a permanent girl of his own,
facing not a day, but life, not a danger, but destiny. He hoped that he
could be as relaxed and fond with that future girl as he was with C'mell.

   C'mell squeezed his hand, as though in warning.

   He turned to look at her, but she stared ahead and nodded with her
chin.

   "Keep watching," she said, "straight ahead. Earth."

   He looked back at the blank artificial sky of the ship's force-field. It was
a monotonous but pleasant blue, conveying depths which were not really
there.

   The change was so fast that he wondered whether he had really seen it.

   In one moment the clear flat blue.

   Then the false sky splashed apart as though it had literally been slashed
into enormous ribbons, ribbons in their turn becoming blue spots and
disappearing.

   Another blue sky was there—Earth's.

   Manhome.

   Rod breathed deeply. It was hard to believe. The sky itself was not so
different from the false "sky" which had surrounded the ship on its trip
from Mars, but there was an aliveness and wetness to it, unlike any other
sky he had ever heard about.

   It was not the sight of the Earth which surprised him— it was the smell.
He suddenly realized that Old North Australia must smell dull, flat, dusty
to Earthmen. This Earth air smelled alive. There were the odors of plants,
of water, of things which he could not even guess. The air was coded with
a million years of memory. In this air his people had swum to manhood,
before they conquered the stars. The wetness was not the cherished damp
of one of his covered canals. It was wild free moisture which came laden
with the indications of things living, dying, sprawling, squirming, loving
with an abundance which no Norstrilian could understand. No wonder the
descriptions of Earth had always seemed fierce and exaggerated! What
was stroon that men would pay water for it—water, the giver and carrier
of life. This was his home, no matter how many generations his people
had lived in the twisted hells of Paradise VII or among the dry treasures of
Old North Australia. He took a deep breath, feeling the plasma of earth
pour into him, the quick effluvium which had made man. He smelled
Earth again—it would take a long lifetime, even with stroon, before a man
could understand all these odors which came all the way up to the ship,
which hovered, as planoforming ships usually did not, twenty-odd
kilometers above the surface of the planet.

   There was something strange in this air, something sweet-clear to the
nostrils, refreshing to the spirit. One great beautiful odor overrode all the
others. What could it be?

  He sniffed and then said, very clearly, to himself, "Salt!"

  C'mell reminded him that he was beside her.

  "Do you like it, C'rod?"

   "Yes, yes, it's better than—" Words failed him. He looked at her. Her
eager, pretty, comradely smile made him feel that she was sharing every
milligram of his delight. "But why," he asked, "do you waste salt on the
air? What good does it do?"

  "Salt?"

  "Yes—in the air. So rich, so wet, so salty. Is it to clean the ship some
way that I do not understand?"

  "Ship? We're not on the ship, C'rod. This is the landing roof of
Earthport."

  He gasped.

    No ship? There was not a mountain on Old North Australia more than
six kilometers above MGL—mean ground level—and these mountains were
all smooth, worn, old, folded by immense eons of wind into a gentle
blanketing that covered his whole home world.

  He looked around.
  The platform was about two hundred meters long by one hundred wide.

   The ten "Rod McBans" were talking to some men in uniform. Far at the
other side a steeple rose into eye-catching height—perhaps a whole
half-kilometer. He looked down.

  There it was—Old Old Earth.

   The treasure of water reached before his very eyes—water by the
millions of tons, enough to feed a galaxy of sheep, to wash an infinity of
men. The water was broken by a few islands on the far horizon to the
right.

  "Hesperides," said C'mell, following the direction of his gaze. "They
came up from the sea when the Daimoni built this for us. For people, I
mean. I shouldn't say 'us'."

  He did not notice the correction. He stared at the sea. Little specks
were moving in it, very slowly.

  He pointed at one of them with his finger and asked C'mell, "Are those
wethouses?"

  "What did you call them?"

   "Houses which are wet. Houses which sit on water. Are those some of
them?"

   "Ships," she said, not spoiling his fun with a direct contradiction. "Yes,
those are ships."

   "Ships?" he cried. "You'd never get one of those into space. Why call
them ships then?"

   Very gently C'mell explained, "People had ships for water before they
had ships for space. I think the Old Common Tongue takes the word for
space vessel from the things you are looking at."

  "I want to see a city," said Rod, "Show me a city."

   "It won't look like much from here. We're too high up. Nothing looks
like much from the top of Earthport. But I can show you, anyhow. Come
over here, dear." When they walked away from the edge, Rod realized that
the little monkey was still with them. "What are you doing here with us?"
asked Rod, not unkindly.

   The monkey's preposterous little face wrinkled into a knowing smile.
The face was the same as it had been before, but the expression was
different—more assured, more clear, more purposive than ever before.
There was even humor and cordiality in the monkey's voice.

   "We animals are waiting for the people to finish their entrance."

   We animals? thought Rod. He remembered his furry head, his pointed
ears, his cat-whiskers. No wonder he felt at ease with this girl and she
with him.

   The ten Rod McBans were walking down a ramp, so that the floor
seemed to be swallowing them slowly from the feet up. They were walking
in single file, so that the head of the leading one seemed to sit bodiless on
the floor, while the last one in line had lost nothing more than his feet. It
was odd indeed.

   Rod looked at C'mell and A'gentur and asked them frankly, "When
people have such a wide, wet, beautiful world, all full of life, why should
they kill me?"

   A'gentur shook his monkey head sadly, as though he knew full well, but
found the telling of it inexpressibly wearisome and sad.

  C'mell answered, "You are who you are. You hold immense power. Do
you know that this tower is yours?"

   "Mine!" he cried.

    "You've bought it, or somebody bought it for you. Most of that water is
yours, too. When you have things that big, people ask you for things. Or
they take them from you. Earth is a beautiful place, but I think it is a
dangerous place, too, for offworlders like you who are used to just one way
of life. You have not caused all the crime and meanness in the world, but
it's been sleeping and now wakes up for you."

   "Why for me?"

   "Because," said A'gentur, "you're the richest person who has ever
touched this planet. You own most of it already. Millions of human lives
depend on your thoughts and your decisions."

   They had reached the opposite side of the top platform. Here, on the
land side, the rivers were all leaking badly. Most of the land was covered
with steam-clouds, such as they saw on Norstrilia when a covered canal
burst out of its covering. These clouds represented incalculable treasures
of rain. He saw that they parted at the foot of the tower.

  "Weather machines," said C'mell. "The cities are all covered with
weather machines. Don't you have weather machines in Old North
Australia?"

   "Of course we do," said Rod, "but we don't waste water by letting it
float around in the open air like that. It's pretty, though. I guess the
extravagance of it makes me feel critical. Don't you earth people have
anything better to do with your water than to leave it lying on the ground
or having it float over open land?"

   "We're not Earth people," said C'mell. "We're under-people. I'm a
cat-person and he's made from apes. Don't call us people. It's not decent."

  "Fudge!" said Rod. "I was just asking a question about Earth, not
pestering your feelings when—"

  He stopped short.

  They all three spun around.

   Out of the ramp there came something like a mowing machine. A
human voice, a man's voice, screamed from within it, expressing rage and
fear.

  Rod started to move forward.

  C'mell started to move forward.

  C'mell held his arm, dragging back with all her weight.

  "No! Rod, no! No!"

  A'gentur slowed him down better by jumping into his face, so that Rod
suddenly saw nothing but a universe of brown belly-fur and felt tiny hands
gripping his hair and pulling it. He stopped and reached for the monkey.
A'gentur anticipated him and dropped to the ground before Rod could hit
him.

   The machine was racing up the outside of the steeple and almost
disappearing into the sky above. The voice had become thin.

  Rod looked at C'mell, "All right. What was it? What's happening?"

  "That's a spider, a giant spider. It's kidnaping or killing Rod McBan."

  "Me?" keened Rod. "It'd better not touch me. I'll tear it apart."

  "Sh-h-h!" said C'mell.

  "Quiet!" said the monkey.

   "Don't 'sh-h-h' me and don't 'quiet' me," said Rod. "I'm not going to let
that poor blighter suffer on my account. Tell that thing to come down.
What is it, anyhow, this spider? A robot?"

  "No," said C'mell, "an insect."

   Rod was narrowing his eyes, watching the mowing machine which
hung on the outside of the tower. He could barely see the man within its
grip. When C'mell said "insect," it triggered something in his mind. Hate.
Revulsion. Resistance to dirt. Insects on Old North Australia were small,
serially numbered and licensed. Even at that, he felt them to be his
hereditary enemies. (Somebody had told him that Earth insects had done
terrible things to the Norstrilians when they lived on Paradise VII.)

  Rod yelled at the spider, making his voice as loud as possible,
"You—come—down!"

   The filthy thing on the tower quivered with sheer smugness and seemed
to bring its machine-like legs closer together, settling down to be
comfortable.

   Rod forgot he was supposed to be a cat. He gasped for air. Earth air
was wet, but thin. He closed his eyes for a moment or two. He thought
hate, hate, hate for the insect. Then he shrieked telepathically, louder than
he had ever shrieked at home:
   hate-spit-spit-vomit!
dirt, dirt, dirt,
explode!
crush:
ruin:
stink, collapse, putrefy, disappear!
hate-hate-hate!

   The fierce red roar of his inarticulate spieking hurt even him. He saw
the little monkey fall to the ground in a dead faint. C'mell was pale and
looked as though she might throw up her food.

  He looked away from them and up at the "spider." Had he reached it?
He had.

   Slowly, slowly, the long legs moved out in spasm, releasing the man,
whose body flashed downward. Rod's eyes followed the movement of "Rod
McBan" and he cringed when a wet crunch let him know that the
duplicate of his own body had been splashed all over the hard deck of the
tower, a hundred meters away. He glanced back up at the "spider." It
scrambled for purchase on the tower and then cartwheeled downward. It
too hit the deck hard and lay there dying, its legs twitching as its
personality slipped into its private, everlasting night.

   Rod gasped. "Eleanor. Oh, maybe that's Eleanor!" His voice wailed. He
started to run to the facsimile of his human body, forgetting that he was a
cat-man.

  C'mell's voice was as sharp as a howl, though low in tone. "Shut up!
Shut up! Stand still! Close your mind! Shut up! We're dead if you don't
shut up!"

   He stopped, stared at her stupidly. Then he saw she was in mortal
earnest. He complied. He stopped moving. He did not try to talk. He
capped his mind, closing himself against telepathy until his brainbox
began to ache. The little monkey, A'gentur, was crawling up off the floor,
looking shaken and sick. C'mell was still pale.

  Men came running up the ramp, saw them and headed toward them.

  There was the beat of wings in the air.
   An enormous bird—no, it was an ornithopter—landed with its claws
scratching the deck. A uniformed man jumped out and cried, "Where is
he?"

  "He jumped over!" C'mell shouted.

  The man started to follow the direction of her gesture and then cut
sharply back to her,

   "Fool!" he said. "People can't jump off here. The barrier would hold
ships in place. What did you see?"

   C'mell was a good actress. She pretended to be getting over shock and
gasping for words. The uniformed man looked at her haughtily.

  "Cats," he said, "and a monkey. What are you doing here? Who are
you?"

   "Name C'mell, profession, girlygirl, Earthport staff, commanded by
Commissioner Teadrinker. This—boyfriend, no status, name C'roderick,
cashier in night bank down below. Him?" She nodded at A'gentur. "I don't
know much about him."

   "Name A'gentur. Profession, supplementary surgeon. Status, animal.
I'm not an underperson. Just an animal. I came in on the ship from Mars
with the dead man there and some other true men who looked like him,
and they went down first—"

   "Shut up," said the uniformed man. He turned to the approaching men
and said, "Honored subchief, Sergeant 587 reporting. The user of the
telepathic weapon has disappeared. The only things here are these two
cat-people, not very bright, and a small monkey. They can talk. The girl
says she saw somebody get off the tower."

   The subchief was a tall redhead with a uniform even handsomer than
the sergeant's. He snapped at C'mell, "How did he do it?"

   Rod knew C'mell well enough by now to recognize the artfulness of her
becoming confused, feminine and incoherent—in appearance. Actually,
she was in full control of the situation. Said she, babbling:

  "He jumped, I think. I don't know how."
  "That's impossible," said the subchief. "Did you see where he went?" he
barked at Rod McBan.

   Rod gasped at the suddenness of the question—besides, C'mell had told
him to keep quiet. Between these two peremptories, he said,
"Er—ah—oh—you see—"

   The little monkey-surgeon interrupted drily, "Sir and master subchief,
that cat-man is not very bright. I do not think you will get much out of
him. Handsome, but stupid. Strictly breeding stock—"

   Rod gagged and turned a little red at these remarks, but he could tell
from the hooded quick glare which C'mell shot him that she wanted him
to go on being quiet.

  She cut in. "I did notice one thing, master. It might matter."

  "By the Bell and Bank, animal! Tell me," cried the sub-chief. "Stop
deciding what I ought to know!"

  "The strange man's skin was lightly tinged with blue."

  The subchief took a step back. His soldiers and the sergeant stared at
him. In a serious, direct way he said to C'mell, "Are you sure?"

  "No, my master. I just thought so."

  "You saw just one?" barked the subchief.

  Rod, overacting the stupidity, held up four fingers.

  "That idiot," cried the subchief, "thinks he saw four of them. Can he
count?" he asked C'mell.

   C'mell looked at Rod as though he were a handsome beast with not a
brain in his head. Rod looked back at her, deliberately letting himself feel
stupid. This was something which he did very well, since by neither
hiering nor spieking at home, he had had to sit through interminable
hours of other people's conversation when he was little, never getting the
faintest idea of what it was all about. He had discovered very early that if
he sat still and looked stupid, people did not bother him by trying to bring
him into the conversation, turning their voices on and braying at him as
though he were deaf. He tried to simulate the familiar old posture and was
rather pleased that he could make such a good showing with C'mell
watching him. Even when she was serious, fighting for their freedom and
playing girl all at once, her corona of blazing hair made her shine forth
like the sun of Earth itself; among all these people on the platform, her
beauty and her intelligence made her stand out—cat though she was. Rod
was not at all surprised that he was overlooked, with such a vivid
personality next to him; he just wished that he could be overlooked a little
more, so that he could wander over idly and see whether the body was
Eleanor's or one of the robot's. If Eleanor had already died for him, in her
first few minutes of the big treat of seeing Earth, he felt that he would
never forgive himself as long as he lived.

   The talk about the blue men amused him deeply. They existed in
Norstrilian folklore, as a race of faraway magicians who, through science
or hypnotism, could render themselves invisible to other men whenever
they wished. Rod had never talked with an Old North Australian security
officer about the problem of guarding the stroon treasure from attacks by
invisible men, but he gathered, from the way people told stories of blue
men, that they had either failed to show up in Norstrilia or that the
Norstrilian authorities did not take them very seriously. He was amazed
that the earth people did not bring in a couple of first-class telepaths and
have them sweep the deck of the tower for every living thing, but to judge
by the chatter of voices that was going on, and the peering with eyes
which occurred, Earth people had fairly weak senses and did not get
things done promptly and efficiently.

   The question about Eleanor was answered for him. One of the soldiers
joined the group, waited after saluting, and was finally allowed to
interrupt C'mell's and A'gentur's endless guessing as to how many blue
men there might have been on the tower, if there had been any at all. The
subchief nodded at the soldier, who said, "Beg to report, sir and subchief,
the body is not a body. It is just a robot which looks like a person."

  The day brightened immeasurably within Rod's heart. Eleanor was safe,
somewhere further down in this immense tower.

   The comment seemed to decide the young officer. "Get a sweeping
machine and a looking dog," he commanded the sergeant, "and see to it
that this whole area is swept and looked down to the last square
millimeter."
  "It is done," said the soldier.

   Rod thought this an odd remark, because nothing at all had been done
yet.

   The subchief issued another command: "Turn on the kill-spotters
before we go down the ramp. Any identity which is not perfectly clear
must be killed automatically by the scanning device. Including us," he
added to his men. "We don't want any blue men walking right down into
the tower among us."

   C'mell suddenly and rather boldly stepped up to the officer and
whispered in his ear. His eyes rolled as he listened, he blushed a little, and
then he changed his orders: "Cancel the kill-spotters. I want this whole
squad to stand body-to-body. I'm sorry, men, but you're going to have to
touch these underpeople for several minutes. I want them to stand so close
to us that we can be sure there is nobody extra sneaking into our group."

   (C'mell later told Rod that she had confessed to the young officer that
she might be a mixed type, part human and part animal, and that she was
the special girlygirl of two Off-earth magnates of the Instrumentality. She
said she thought that she had a definite identity but was not sure, and
that the kill-spotters might destroy her if she did not yield a correct image
as she went past them. They would, she told Rod later, have caught any
underman passing as a man, or any man passing as an underman, and
would have killed the victim by intensifying the magnetic lay-out of his
own organic body. These machines were dangerous things to pass, since
they occasionally killed normal, legitimate people and underpeople who
merely failed to provide a clear focus.)

   The officer took the left forward corner of the living rectangle of people
and underpeople. They formed tight ranks. Rod felt the two soldiers next
to him shudder as they came into contact with his "cat" body. They kept
their faces averted from him as though he smelled bad for them. Rod said
nothing; he just looked forward and kept his impression pleasantly stupid.

    What followed next was surprising. The men walked in a strange way,
all of them moving their left legs in unison, and then their right legs.
A'gentur could not possibly do this, so with a nod of the sergeant's
approval, C'mell picked him up and carried him close to her bosom.
Suddenly, weapons flared.
   These, thought Rod, must be cousins of the weapons which the Lord
Redlady carried a few weeks ago, when he landed his ship on my property.
(He remembered Hopper, his knife quivering like the head of a snake,
threatening the life of the Lord Redlady; and he remembered the sudden
silent burst, the black oily smoke, and the gloomy Bill looking at the chair
where his pal had existed a moment ago.)

   These weapons showed a little light, just a little, but their force was
betrayed by the buzzing of the floor and the agitation of the dust.

   "Close in, men! Right up to your own feet! Don't let a blue man
through!" shouted the subchief.

   The men complied.

   The air began to smell funny and burned.

   The ramp was clear of life except for their own.

   When the ramp swung around a corner, Rod gasped.

   This was the most enormous room he had ever seen. It covered the
entire top of Earthport. He could not even begin to guess how many
hectares it was, but a small farm could have been accommodated on it.
There were few people there. The men broke ranks at a command of the
subchief. The officer glared at the cat-man Rod, the cat-girl C'mell and the
ape A'gentur:

   "You stand right where you are till I come back!"

   They stood, saying nothing.

   C'mell and A'gentur took the place for granted.

   Rod stared as though he would drink up the world with his eyes. In this
one enormous room, there was more antiquity and wealth than all Old
North Australia possessed. Curtains of an incredibly rich material
shimmered down from the thirty-meter ceiling; some of them seemed to
be dirty and in bad repair, but a single one of them, after paying the
20,000,000% import duty, would cost more than any Old North
Australian could afford to pay. There were chairs and tables here and
there, some of them good enough to deserve a place in the Museum of
Man on New Mars. Here they were merely used. The people did not seem
any the happier for having all this wealth around them. For the first time,
Rod got a glimpse of what spartan self-imposed poverty had done to make
life worthwhile at home. His people did not have much, when they could
have chartered endless argosies of treasure, inbound from all worlds to
their own planet, in exchange for the life-prolonging stroon. But if they
had been heaped with treasure they would have appreciated nothing and
would have ended up possessing nothing. He thought of his own little
collection of hidden antiquities. Here on Earth it would not have filled a
dustbin, but in the Station of Doom it could afford him connoisseurship as
long as he lived.

   The thought of his home made him wonder what Old Hot and Simple,
the Hon. Sec., might be doing with his adversary on Earth. "It's a long,
long way to reach herel" he thought to himself.

  C'mell drew his attention by plucking at his arm.

  "Hold me," commanded she, "because I am afraid I might fall down
and Yeekasoose is not strong enough to hold me."

   Rod wondered who Yeekasoose might be, when only the little monkey
A'gentur was with them; he also wondered why C'mell should need to be
held. Norstrilian discipline had taught him not to question orders in an
emergency. He held her.

   She suddenly slumped as though she had fainted or had gone to sleep.
He held her with one arm and with his free hand he tipped her head
against his shoulder so that she would look as though she were weary and
affectionate, not unconscious. It was pleasant to hold her little female
body, which felt fragile and delicate beyond belief. Her hair, disarrayed
and wind-blown, still carried the smell of the salty sea air which had so
surprised him an hour ago. She herself, he thought, was the greatest
treasure of Earth which he had yet seen. But suppose he did have her?
What could he do with her in Old North Australia? Underpeople were
completely forbidden, except for military uses under the exclusive control
of the Commonwealth government. He could not imagine C'mell directing
a mowing machine as she walked across a giant sheep, shearing it. The
idea of her sitting up all night with a lonely or frightened sheep-monster
was itself ridiculous. She was a playgirl, an ornament in human form; for
such as her, there was no place under the comfortable gray skies of home.
Her beauty would fade in the dry air; her intricate mind would turn sour
with the weary endlessness of a farm culture: property, responsibility,
defense, self-reliance, sobriety. New Melbourne would look like a collection
of rude shacks to her.

   He realized that his feet were getting cold. Up on the deck they had had
sunlight to keep them warm, even though the chill salty wet air of Earth's
marvelous "seas" was blowing against them. Here, inside, it was merely
high and cold, while still wet; he had never encountered wet cold before,
and it was a strangely uncomfortable experience.

   C'mell came to and shook herself to wakefulness just as they saw the
officer walking toward them from the other end of the immense room.

  (Later, she told him what she had experienced when she lapsed into
unconsciousness.

  First, she had had a call which she could not explain. This had made
her warn Rod. "Yeekasoose" was, of course E-ikasus, the real name of the
"monkey" which he called A'gentur.

    Then, as she felt herself swimming away into half-sleep with Rod's
strong arm around her, she had heard trumpets playing, just two or three
of them, playing different parts to the same intricate, lovely piece of
music, sometimes in solos, sometimes together. If a human or robot
telepath had peeped her mind while she listened to the music, the
impression would have been that of a perceptive c'girl who had linked
herself with one of the many telepathic entertainment channels which
filled the space of Earth Itself.

   Last, there came the messages. They were not encoded in the music in
any way whatever. The music caused the images to form in her mind
because she was C'mell, herself, unique, individual. Particular fugues, or
even individual notes reached into her memory and emotions, causing her
mind to bring up old, half-forgotten associations. First she thought of
"High birds flying…" as in the song which she had sung to Rod. Then she
saw eyes, piercing eyes which blazed with knowledge while they stayed
moist with humility. Then she smelled the strange odors of
Downdeep-downdeep, the work-city where the underpeople maintained
the civilization on the surface and where some illegal underpeople lurked,
overlooked by the authority of man. Finally she saw Rod himself, striding
off the deck with his loping Norstrilian walk. It added up simply. She was
to bring Rod to the forgotten, forlorn, forbidden chambers of the
Nameless One, and to do so promptly. The music in her head stopped, and
she woke up.) The officer arrived.

   He looked at them inquisitively and angrily. "This whole business is
funny. The acting Commissioner does not believe that there are any blue
men. We've all heard of them. And yet we know somebody set off a
telepathic emotion-bomb. That rage! Half the people in this room fell
down when it went off. Those weapons are completely prohibited for use
inside the Earth's atmosphere."

  He cocked his head at them.

   C'mell remained prudently silent, Rod practiced looking thoroughly
stupid, and A'gentur looked like a bright, helpless little monkey.

    "Funnier still," said the officer. "The Acting Commissioner got orders to
let you go. He got them while he was chewing me out. How does anybody
know that you underpeople are here? Who are you, anyhow?"

   He looked at them with curiosity for a minute, but then the curiosity
faded with the pressure of his lifelong habits.

  He snapped, "Who cares? Get along. Get out. You're underpeople and
you're not allowed to stand in this room, anyhow."

  He turned his back on them and walked away.

  "Where are we going?" whispered Rod, hoping C'mell would say that he
could go down to the surface and see Old Earth Itself.

   "Down to the bottom of the world, and then—" She bit her lip. "… and
then, much further down. I have instructions."

   "Can't I take an hour and look at Earth?" asked Rod. "You stay with me,
of course."

  "When death is jumping around us like wild sparks? Of course not.
Come along, Rod. You'll get your freedom some time soon, if somebody
doesn't kill you first. Yeekasoose, you lead the way!"

  They walked only a few steps, then stopped short.

  He stopped short.
  They all three spun around.

   A man faced them—a tall man, clad in formal garments, his face
gleaming with intelligence, courage, wisdom and a very special kind of
elegance.

  "I am projecting," said he.

  "You know me," he said to C'mell.

  "My lord Jestocost!"

   "You will sleep," he commanded A'gentur, and the little monkey
crumpled into a heap of fur on the deck of the tower.

  "I am the Lord Jestocost, one of the Instrumentality," said the strange
man, "and I am going to speak to you at very high speed. It will seem like
many minutes, but it will only take seconds. It is necessary for you to know
your fate."

  "You mean my future?" said Rod McBan. "I thought that you, or
somebody else, had it all arranged."

  "We can dispose, but we cannot arrange. I have talked to the Lord
Redlady. I have plans for you. Perhaps they will work out."

   A slight frowning smile crossed the face of the distinguished man. With
his left hand he warned C'mell to do nothing. The beautiful cat-girl started
to step forward and then obeyed the imperious gesture, stopped, and
merely watched.

   The Lord Jestocost dropped to one knee. He bowed proudly and freely,
with his head held high and his face tilted upward while he stared directly
at Rod McBan.

   Still kneeling, he said ceremoniously, "Some day, young man, you will
understand what you are now seeing. The Lord Jestocost, which is myself,
has bowed to no man or woman since the day of his initiation. That was
more time ago than I like to remember. But I bow freely to the man who
has bought Earth. I offer you my friendship and my help. I offer both of
these without mental reservation. Now I stand up and I greet you as my
younger comrade."
    He stood erect and reached for Rod's hand. Rod shook hands with him,
still bewildered.

    "You have seen the work of some of the people who want you dead. I
have had a hand in getting you through that (and I might tell you that the
man who sent the spider will regret very deeply and very long that he did
it). Other people will try to hunt you down for what you have done or for
what you are. I am willing for you to save some of your property and all of
your life. You will have experiences which you will treasure—if you live
through them.

  "You have no chance at all without me. I'll correct that. You have one
chance in ten thousand of coming out alive.

   "With me, if you obey me through C'mell, your chances are very good
indeed. More than one thousand to one in your favor. You will live—"

  "But my money!" Rod spieked wildly without knowing that he did it.

   "Your money is on Earth. It is Earth," smiled the wise, powerful old
official. "It is being taxed at enormous rates. This is your fate, young man.
Remember it, and be ready to obey it. When I lift my hand, repeat after
me. Do you understand?"

  Rod nodded. He was not afraid, exactly, but some unknown core within
him had begun to radiate animal terror. He was not afraid of what might
happen to himself; he was afraid of the strange, wild fierceness of it all. He
had never known that man or boy could be so utterly alone.

   The loneliness of the open outback at home was physical. This
loneliness had millions of people around him. He felt the past crowding up
as though it were alive in its own right. The cat-girl beside him comforted
him a little; he had met her through Doctor Vomact; to Vomact he had
been sent by Redlady; and Redlady knew his own dear home. The linkage
was there, though it was remote.

  In front of him there was no linkage at all.

   He stood, in his own mind, on a precipice of the present, staring down
at the complex inexplicable immensity of Earth's past. This was the place
that all people were from. In those oceans they had crawled in the slime;
from those salt, rich seas they had climbed to that land far below him; on
that land they had changed from animals into men before they had seized
the stars. This was home itself, the home of all men, and it could swallow
him up.

   The word-thoughts came fast out of the Lord Jestocost's mind, directly
into his own. It was as though Jestocost had found some way around his
impediment and had then disregarded it.

   "This is Old Earth Itself, from which you were bred and to which all
men return in their thoughts if not in their bodies. This is still the richest
of the worlds, though its wealth is measured in treasures and memories,
not in stroon.

    "Many men have tried to rule this world. A very few have done it for a
little while."

  Unexpectedly, the Lord Jestocost lifted his right hand. Without
knowing why he did it, Rod repeated the last sentence.

   "A very few men have governed the world for a little while."

   "The Instrumentality has made that impossible."

   The right hand was still in the commanding "up" position, so Rod
repeated, "The Instrumentality has made that impossible."

    "And now you, Rod McBan of Old North Australia, are the first to own
it."

   The hand was still raised.

    "And now I, Rod McBan, of Old North Australia, am the first to own
it."

   The hand dropped, but the Lord spieked on.

   "Go forward, then, with death around you.

   "Go forward, then, to your heart's desire.

   "Go forward, with the love you will win and lose.

   "Go forward, to the world, and to that other world under the world.
  "Go forward, to wild adventures and a safe return.

  "Be watchful of C'mell. She will be my eyes upon you, my arm around
your shoulders, my authority upon your person; but go.

  "Go." Up went the hand.

  "Go…" said Rod.

  The Lord vanished.

   C'mell plucked at his sleeve. "Your trip is over, my husband. Now we
take Earth itself."

  Softly and quickly they ran to the steps which went to unimaginable
Earth below them.

   Rod McBan had come to the fulfilment of his chance and his
inheritance.

                                        EPILOGUE AND CODA

How Rod McBan CLI took his chance and enjoyed his inheritance is, of
course, implicit in all that he had done and had been done to him up to
his meeting with the Lord Jestocost. The details of how it all worked out
are doubtless fascinating (and will doubtless be told later), but the reason
for this chronicle ends now that the players have made the moves that will
determine the outcome.

  One piece remains to be removed from the board first, though.


  Old North Australia, Adm. Offices of the Commonwealth

   "You, former Hon. Sec. of this government, are charged with going
outside the limits of your Onseckish duties and of attempting to commit
mayhem or murder upon the person of one of Her Absent Majesty's
subjects, the said subject being Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold
William MacArthur McBan to the one-hundred-and-fifty-first generation;
and you are further charged with the abuse of an official instrument of
this Commonwealth government in designing and encompassing the said
unlawful purpose, to wit, one mutated sparrow, serial number 0919487,
specialty number 2328525, weighing forty-one kilograms and having a
monetary value of 685 minicredits. What say you?"

  Houghton Syme CXLIX buried his face in his hands and sobbed.




  The Prediction Machine at the Abba Dingo

   Jestocost was the only Lord of the Instrumentality who had bothered to
put through a direct line to the prediction machine at the Abba Dingo,
halfway up the immense column which supported Earthport. Most of the
time the machine did not work at all; much of the rest was unintelligible,
but Jestocost liked trying it anyhow.

  The night of Rod's arrival he asked, "What is happening in the world?"

  Said the machine, "What? What? Be clear."

   "Has anything started happening in the world today?" shouted
Jestocost.

   There was a long delay. Jestocost thought of disconnecting, but finally
the machine spoke, in the accents of ages past, "This-machine is cold,
cold. This-machine is old, old. It is hard to tell. It is hard to know. But
something has begun to happen. Something strange, like the first few
drops of an immense rainstorm, like the tiny glow of an approaching
comet. Change is coming to this world. It is not change which weapons
can stop. This change whispers in like a forgotten dream. Maybe it will be
good. Change, change… at the center of it all, there is a boy. One boy.
This-machine cannot see him…"

   There was a long silence. Jestocost finally knew that the machine had
nothing more to say. He cut the connection. And then, very deeply, he
sighed.