The Programmed Man -- Jean and Jeff Sutton -- (1968)

(Version 2004.02.06 -- Done)


For Chris and Gale


1

	HIS EYES held the slant of Achernar.
	The whites were not white, but were a muddy blue shade peculiar to the descendants of the Terrans who over a hundred generations before had colonized the three worlds of that bluish sun, which lay deep in the heart of the constellation Eridani. In all else Corden Hull, captain of the Empire destroyer Draco, seemed an ordinary Earthling. Stocky, grizzled, crowding fifty, he had the leathery skin of a man who'd experienced the radiations of a thousand suns.
	That was how he struck Daniel York at first glance. On the reasonable assumption that an outworlder would not command a destroyer of the line without unusual qualities, York looked closer and saw what he should have noticed earlier, were it not for the odd bluish light to which his own eyes had not yet become accustomed. If the rest of the ship -- or as much of it as he had seen -- were lighted normally, not so Hull's cabin. It was as if, in his own retreat, he maintained the glow of the sun under which he had been born. If Hull's eyes were muddy blue, they also were the most penetrating eyes York had ever seen. Sharp, hard, analytical, they gave no clue to the thoughts behind them. Neither did the square-set face. He noticed also Hull's speech. Algol, Denebola, Mirach -- the dialects of scores of sun-planets tinged his words, almost lost in the broader slur of Casserom, the Achernar world from whence, long ago, he had come.
	Hull was saying, "I am sorry, Mr. York, but Navy regulations prohibit the transport of civilians except under conditions of extreme emergency. I know you must appreciate that."
	York measured him in the deep bluish light, wondering how hard he would be to convince. Bluntly he said, "That's why I'm here -- an emergency." His ears caught the sounds of banging hatches and creaking winches as the Draco prepared to lift from Upi, the sole planet of the midge sun Blackett on which this far-flung military outpost stood -- a sentinel on the galactic rim.
	The captain watched him speculatively. It struck York that were Hull Earth-born, he undoubtedly would be commanding an N-ship instead of a destroyer at the ragged fringes of space. True, the Draco carried long-range lasers, cobalt warheads, nucleonic bolts -- all the conventional weapons -- but not the dread N-bomb. By unwritten Empire law, only a born Earthling could command an N-ship. In short, the Draco couldn't nova a sun.
	When the Draco's captain maintained his silence, York said, "My authorization's signed by Admiral Borenhall. Or isn't the Admiral of the Tenth Sector high enough?"
	Hull disregarded the sarcasm. "I've given you the regulations, Mr. York."
	"And I've shown you my authorization."
	"I've queried on your credentials," Hull admitted, "but we can't delay for an answer. We have our own emergency. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."
	York grimaced at the sound of a supply derrick rolling back. He had no intention of remaining on Upi. Keeping his face emotionless, he persisted. "My authorization from Admiral Borenhall is in the nature of an order."
	"Admiral Borenhall commands the Tenth Sector," replied Hull. "When in the Tenth Sector, I am under his command. At all other times I am subject only to the orders of the Admiral of the Galactic Seas." His voice turned glacial. "This is one of those times."
	"I am traveling on Empire business," York objected.
	"Not that I can see." Hull looked past him at the hulking figure lounging just inside the doorway. Lieutenant Tregaski -- the captain had introduced him earlier. "Lieutenant, would you kindly escort Mr. York from the ship?"
	"With pleasure," replied Tregaski.
	As Tregaski stepped forward, York said harshly, "You're forcing me." He saw the captain stiffen as he reached into an inner pocket, at the same time aware that Tregaski had stepped into position directly behind him. York didn't have to be psychic to know that Tregaski held a stun gun. Gingerly removing a card from his wallet, he held it out for Hull to read.
	"Empire Intelligence." Hull murmured the words quietly, yet somehow his voice betrayed doubt and wonder.
	"That is in confidence." York contemplated the captain calmly. If the Empire's galactic Navy were the instrument that kept over two thousand inhabited planets living in controlled harmony, it was the shadowy Empire Intelligence that nipped discord in the bud, kept the Empire intact. Without E.I., as it was called, the restless worlds of the Alphan suns would long since have challenged the Empire's yoke, N-bomb or no N-bomb. Prince Li-Hu of the Alphan world Shan-Hai, who traced his ancestry back in an unbroken line to the emperors of the ancient Earth nation of China, had both feet planted squarely in the middle of the captain's present emergency, even though Hull didn't know that.
	Hull glanced up from the credentials, remarking, "That doesn't change a thing."
	"Flaunting the authority of Empire Intelligence, to say nothing of your own commanding officer?" asked York wonderingly.
	"Authority that's residual in a card?" snapped Hull. "How do I know that you're Daniel York?"
	"By my knowledge."
	"What knowledge?"
	"Your rush to push the Draco into space," replied York. "You were slated to remain on Upi for another week. Now you're rushing under secret orders."
	"Keep talking, Mr. York, and you might wind up on a detention world."
	"No, thanks." York leaned forward and said deliberately, "The N-bomb cruiser Rigel is missing. First Level picked up a distress call from the region of Ophiucus. That was two days ago. Since then there hasn't been a word. Lost -- one N-cruiser. That's your emergency."
	"That knowledge is restricted to First Level -- "
	"And to the captain of the Draco because you happen to be nearest the scene," cut in York.
	"You know too much."
	"That should prove my credentials," countered York coldly. Despite the stakes, the bout with the Draco's captain was the kind of cat-and-mouse game he liked -- as long as he was the cat.
	Hull said pointedly, "So far you've produced two sets of credentials, Mr. York. You came aboard as Daniel York, inspector for the Empire Bureau of Colonial Planets and, for some reason, an order supposedly signed by Admiral Borenhall. Now suddenly you're E.I." He leaned slightly forward. "Tell me, Mr. York, just who are you?"
	York grinned and said, "E.I."
	"I don't know that."
	"You also don't know that the Rigel was sabotaged," York boldly challenged.
	"No..." Hull breathed the word slowly, a startled look crossing his face. Abruptly he straightened. "There hasn't been a case of sabotage in over three centuries."
	"The record just fell," declared York.
	"I can't believe that!"
	"The Rigel was sabotaged -- captured, if you will -- and forced to land somewhere in the Ophiucus region for the purpose of stealing the N-bomb. And Prince Li-Hu is in back of it, Captain. Make no mistake about that."
	"Impossible!"
	"I would have agreed with you last week," York said calmly, "but that's last week." He spread his hands. "The Empire is maintained only through sole possession of the N-bomb. Its existence -- monopoly, if you will -- is the Empire's guarantee of solidarity. No world is apt to rebel against a power which could nova its sun, Captain."
	"You don't sound particularly sympathetic."
	"Practical," answered York. "We live by the sword, but we don't want to perish by it."
	Hull retorted stiffly, "There's no danger of that."
	"No?" York regarded him bemusedly. "Would you care to be responsible for the bomb falling into Prince Li-Hu's hands?"
	"The Alphans are loyal," replied Hull brusquely. "I have several in my crew."
	"So did the Rigel."
	"What you say amounts to an accusation, York."
	"It does," he answered.
	"No planetary government would dare use the bomb. That's if they could steal it, which they couldn't."
	"Correct, but neither would the Empire use it -- not if the ability to retaliate existed." York heard the sound of closing hatches and restrained his impatience. "Once the bomb is out of Empire hands, its power is negated. You can see what that means, Captain. With that fear removed, you'd see a dozen revolts overnight."
	"I fail to see that, Mr. York."
	"You are a military man, Captain. To you war means laser beams, nucleonic bolts, the burst of cobalt bombs."
	Hull asked coldly, "What does it mean to you?"
	"Plotting, espionage, murder -- men in high places conniving for power." He held the captain's gaze. "A knife in the back can win or topple an empire as quickly as a cobalt bomb, and with far less mess. History's filled with such fallen empires," he finished.
	"You make a dramatic case of it," the captain observed.
	"Dramatic? Presto" -- York snapped his fingers -- "and one N-cruiser is gone. Yes, I believe you might call it dramatic."
	Hull leaned toward him. "There could be but three or four -- half a dozen at most -- Alphans aboard the Rigel. Do you believe that such a small group could take over an N-ship?"
	"I do."
	"And what would they do with the bomb?" Hull sat back, a faint gleam of triumph in his eyes. "No unfriendly ship could get within fifty light-years of the Ophiucus sector, York. The Navy would see to that. They couldn't return it."
	"It's not a matter of could but how," corrected York. "My job is to find the how and prevent it."
	Hull drummed his fingers on the desk. "You seem certain that this is an Alphan plot."
	"Most certain, Captain."
	"Yet all we know is that the ship sent a distress signal and disappeared. Have you ever considered that it might have suffered an explosion or is disabled? It appears quite probable to me."
	"The E.I. people are suspicious characters," replied York. "We lack the lofty ideals they dispense in your space academies."
	"No doubt." Hull glanced at the lieutenant before switching back his gaze, the mud-blue eyes resting on the agent's face. "You appear determined to make traitors of the Alphans."
	"Prince Li-Hu, to be specific."
	"You have proof?"
	"Not absolute," admitted York. He smiled disarmingly. "You might call him a good candidate. Excellent, in fact."
	"If what you say is true, I could name perhaps better candidates."
	"I'd be interested," York admitted.
	"The Zuman worlds."
	"The outcast worlds?" York shook his head slowly. "Not guilty, Captain."
	"Do you know my job, the job of this base?"
	"Of course. To seal off the Zuman worlds."
	"Yet you deny they're good candidates?" Hull's voice rose. "They're freaks, mutants, a race deformed by the light of its hellish sun. I wouldn't be here if they weren't a danger. Do you know they've put Out feelers to rejoin the Empire?"
	"I know that."
	"It's to their advantage to get the N-bomb, York. It would, as you say, negate the weapon, or at least give them good bargaining power. But I also happen to know that they'll never be accepted into the Empire. That makes them desperate."
	"Never is a long time, Captain." York returned his gaze, knowing the thoughts behind those mud-blue eyes. The Zuman sun, riding deep beyond the rim of the galaxy, was an outcast star. Flaring with a violet light that periodically turned scarlet, it was an anomaly among the billion stars of Terra's universe. Its planets colonized during the fifth migration less than seventy generations before, it had been cut off from all trade and travel once it was discovered that the violet radiation -- or was it scarlet? -- deformed and re-formed human genes. Freaks had walked its four planets, and geniuses. And then true mutants. Telepaths! No sane government or society could exist with telepaths in its midst, or so it was claimed. Since then destroyers of the Empire's Navy had sealed off the Zuman worlds from the rest of mankind as effectively as if they existed in another universe.
	"You sound sympathetic toward them," observed Hull. The mud-blue eyes probed York's face.
	"Not particularly," he answered. "The E.I. sees things differently."
	"How different?"
	"The E.I. shuttles agents there regularly."
	"You've been there?" Hull looked startled.
	"Several times. Mainly the planet Korth. I can't say that I find people there much different from people anywhere."
	"That's not the Empire's view," Hull returned stiffly.
	"Not officially."
	"The E.I. view, perhaps?"
	"Personal view," corrected York.
	"Freaks and mutants?" Hull raised his eyes.
	"The danger is in our minds," York said quietly.
	"I can't follow that reasoning, Mr. York. Not at all. If they're not dangerous now, it's because they're impotent. We've pulled their fangs by sealing them off. Would we have done that were it not necessary? It is, believe me."
	"You've been indoctrinated to that view, Captain."
	"Indoctrinated?" Hull straightened stiffly, his eyes narrowing.
	York said casually, "Don't let it bother you, Captain. We're all indoctrinated. It's part of the system."
	"You speak strangely for an E.I. agent," Hull accused.
	"Perhaps it's because I've been around."
	Hull leaned forward. "You say the Zumans are much like other people. Do you really believe that? We know that many of them are telepaths, and some perhaps worse -- "
	"Worse?" interrupted York.
	"We've had rumors of other twists."
	"Perhaps you mean the teleports." York nodded amiably. "It's not a rumor, Captain. It's a fact."
	"You know that?" demanded Hull.
	He nodded. "I've witnessed it."
	"How could you be there without their knowing, if they're telepaths?"
	"A trade secret, Captain, but I can tell you this: An agent destined for one of the Zuman worlds is trained a long time. Not many agents have the chance. I was fortunate."
	"I wouldn't say so," contradicted Hull. "I wouldn't venture into that snake pit for anything."
	"Your education suffers," returned York.
	"You believe so?" Hull gritted his teeth and said, "If I had my way, we'd use the N-bomb on them, York. We'd wipe out that damned violet sun and its four devilish planets. You know why? Because if we don't, they'll break out someday, break out and spread throughout the universe. Then where would the Empire be?"
	"The same place, but with a different set of rulers," York contended. "Who knows, we might even get some sense in government."
	"You talk dangerously," warned Hull.
	"Dangerously?" York smiled. "We're free men, Captain. The Empire's constitution proclaims it. Could I be free if I couldn't give vent to my thoughts?"
	"From thought to overtness is but a single step," Hull replied sternly.
	"A military maxim, Captain. And if you're dealing in maxims, you might try this: None is so blind as he who won't see."
	Hull leaned back and asked curiously, "Do your superiors subscribe to those beliefs, Mr. York? Does August Karsh?" Karsh, as longtime E.I. director, was the Empire's acknowledged spy-master.
	York didn't avoid the strange eyes. Looking Hull full in the face, he said, "I can't speak for another man's thoughts, but I do know that Karsh wants his agents informed. You get that by exposure, Captain. Every time I return from a strange world, I find myself with fresh viewpoints."
	"Informed!" Hull spat the word.
	As if he hadn't heard, York continued. "Some of the exposure affirms the Empire's justice, but much of it denies it. Does it make me suspect to say that? In your eyes, probably, yet the sum total is that I have a better understanding, am able to do better work. Your answer is the N-bomb. But the answer is a futile one because it will never come to pass. You can't hold the Empire together by dream solutions, you know."
	The captain reddened. "Please don't presume to tell me what to think, Mr. York."
	"I'm not," York declared cheerfully. "I'm merely answering your question."
	Hull lifted his head abruptly as a knock came at the door. He nodded, and Tregaski admitted a crewman, who saluted stiffly and said, "The watch officer reports all loading completed, sir."
	"Very well." Hull glanced at his watch. "Have him prepare for immediate lift-off."
	"Yes, sir." As the crewman wheeled and departed, Hull gazed thoughtfully at the agent. York returned his look without expression, wondering how much the captain believed of what he had told him. He smiled inwardly, thinking he believed most of it himself.
	Hull said slowly, "You've placed me in somewhat of a predicament, York."
	"Nothing you can't solve." He suppressed a quick jubilation, knowing that he'd won. He knew far too much for Hull to put him off the ship.
	"I have decided to allow you to remain aboard," Hull finally declared. "I must warn you that you will be restricted to the officers' living quarters except when under escort."
	"I won't abuse the privilege," returned York.
	Hull gauged him with keen eyes. "What do you expect to accomplish?"
	"The saboteurs wouldn't have risked disabling the Rigel in such a remote area as Ophiucus without means of getting the secret of the N-bomb to their masters," he explained. "My job is to prevent that."
	"If there are saboteurs, they will have short shrift," Hull promised bleakly.
	"Perhaps." York straightened, feeling the tautness drain from his body. "That should settle our immediate problem."
	Hull stared at him. "I don't mind saying, Mr. York, I have a number of questions in my mind."
	"If I can be of help -- "
	"No, thanks," answered Hull drily. He glanced at Tregaski. "Lieutenant, if you'd provide Mr. York with quarters..."


2

	IN THE dream he was being torn to shreds, not physically but in his mind, atom by atom, probed, plucked and dissected until every thought stood as bare as the bleached bones of a whale on a desert beach. A glaring light shone mercilessly into his eyes, masking the source of the voice that intoned, "You will...You will..."
	Dr. G's voice! He didn't have to see the roly-poly figure or the bland face to know that. They were alone in the chamber, all blackness except for the light that streamed down onto the table where he lay. "You will, will will..." He tossed and moaned feverishly, then abruptly awoke, covered with sweat and shaking with a strange chill. My God, the dream!
	"I am Myron Terle, Myron Terle..." The words rushed from his lips in a sobbing refrain before he could clamp them tight, cast a quick look around. "Don't mention your name except to duly authorized persons." The warning came into his mind from some obscure source; at the same time he realized that he had the names of such duly authorized persons, not in writing but indelibly engraved in his memory.
	"Commit everything to memory!" The voice behind the light had said that, also. And, "There's a reason for all this, Myron." The voice was gentler now, but Dr. G was a gentle man. Pushing himself erect, he looked at the bluish-white light streaming through the latticed windows, momentarily perplexed at its color.
	Heraska! The name formed in his mind. He was in a public lodging in the metropolis of Heraska, planet Zagar, fourth of the blue-white Vegan sun. He had come there when? Yesterday. He remembered the swift trip from Korth aboard a Zuman Intelligence blockade runner, the surreptitious landing on the city's outskirts. Everything rushed back, falling into place as neatly as the tumblers of a time lock. Heraska. He was to meet...
	He walked to the window and looked out. The sun, blue-white and strangely large, was high, and he guessed it was near noon. He must have slept the greater part of the day. The scene below was strange, yet vaguely familiar. People, stores, countless vehicles -- all worlds were the same, he concluded. All worlds, all governments, all people. The only variables were emotion, custom, gullibility, belief. His job was to maintain that pattern, assure the status quo. To do it he had to contact the agents of Prince Li-Hu. And run! Run, run, run...The word screamed in his mind. For an instant he sensed a deeper thought, a precautionary voice far back in some remote part of his mind that told him not to heed the voice, and then, like a fleeting shadow, it was gone. Run, run, run...The word pounding in his mind, he gazed over the avenue. He realized he was hungry. How long since he'd eaten? He couldn't remember. The past was lost in the glaring light which, focused on his eyes, had burned him to the core. The light and the voice. "Don't go out in public unless you have to." The admonition came unbidden, just as all his thoughts came unbidden.
	Looking around the room, he spotted a communicator and ordered breakfast. When it came he ate heartily, all the perturbations and strange feelings he had known earlier vanishing. He was Myron Terle -- the Myron Terle -- and he served Dr. G. Now he was on a mission of such utmost gravity that he was, for the time being, depersonalized, reacting only to the words that had come from behind the light. That was necessary, Dr. G said, to the success of his mission. Still, it left him with an empty feeling, as if some vital part of him were missing. A body without a soul, he thought. This is how such a body would feel.
	Finished eating, he showered and dressed, donning the odd, wide-brimmed headgear and colored sandals male Heraskans wore when the blue-white sun poured down its summer heat. Descending to the lobby, he went directly outside, turning to the left as his mind directed. He hadn't progressed a hundred yards before he came to an aircar-rental service. Turning in, he selected a model that was neither too fancy nor too old, an anonymous car, he thought. Even its color was anonymous in Heraska -- a brilliant blue.
	For a while he cruised slowly above the city's broad avenues and cluttered side streets, unhurried about the thing he had to do. He'd always enjoyed strange cities; Heraska was strange, and yet it wasn't. Although he'd never seen the planet Zagar before the preceding day, the scene below was like a haunting memory. For instance, he knew the direction of the sea without having seen it, knew the name of the mountain peak that rose off to his left -- Mt. Subi. That was right; the voice had mentioned it. When the city's geometry was embedded firmly in his mind, he cruised lower, seeking signs that identified the larger public lodgings.
	At the city's outskirts, bordering a shimmering blue sea -- the Sea of Aral; the name sang in his memory like the distant note of a flute -- he located a structure that fitted his specifications exactly. Rising more than a thousand feet above the shore, its sign identified it as the Empire Hotel, which memory told him was a well-known vacation resort.
	Returning, he surrendered the aircar and went directly to the space terminal, where he booked passage to the planet Anhaus, third from the giant sun Arcturus. He wasn't worried about his passport. It bore the name of Dorcus Antol and identified its bearer as a citizen of the small agricultural planet Varga, of the blue-white sun Regulus. Although he'd never been to Varga, he knew it well enough to answer any questions that might be asked. Just as he knew Zagar, he thought. It was odd to know and yet not know; at times it gave him a mental queasiness.
	Shortly before lift-off, he walked to a public communicator. Glancing around to make certain he wasn't observed, he draped a handkerchief over the instrument's small visiscreen and programmed the number of a man named Mather Shek, a secret agent of Prince Li-Hu. He wasn't perturbed; Shek was a double agent who'd sold his major allegiance to August Karsh, of Empire Intelligence. That, in Terle's mind, made him doubly valuable.
	Shek answered, his voice disclosing no surprise that his visiscreen showed only the white of a handkerchief. He did not identify himself by name.
	"Is this Mather Shek?" asked Terle.
	"Who is this, please?" The voice was sharp, decisive.
	"Myron Terle. I work for Golem Gregor," he answered. He heard a short exclamation and suppressed a laugh. Saying he worked for Golem Gregor was tantamount to saying he worked for Zuman Intelligence, for as the entire world of intelligence knew, Golem Gregor -- called Dr. G by both friends and enemies -- directed the violet sun's intelligence network.
	"You said Myron Terle?" Shek spoke sharply, as if he hadn't believed his ears.
	"Yes, from Dr. G."
	"This is Shek," the voice acknowledged hurriedly.
	"I'd like an appointment with you when you're free," stated Terle.
	"Yes, of course. I'm free now."
	"I'm tied up this afternoon," explained Terle. "How about tomorrow?"
	"Tonight, if you're free," Shek suggested.
	"Tomorrow," said Terle firmly. "Shall we say noon?"
	"Yes, of course." Terle caught the regret in Shek's voice. "Where are you staying, Mr. Terle?"
	"The Empire Hotel, with a friend," he informed. They chatted a few moments longer, a conversation which mainly consisted of Terle's dodging Shek's pointed questions. When finally he hung up, Terle removed the handkerchief from the visiscreen and, humming softly, walked back to the passenger ramp.
	Ten minutes later he was on his way to Arcturus.

	Ordinarily Mather Shek was a saturnine man who seldom gave vent to his emotions, even to himself. But this was an exception. Immediately upon hearing the click of Terle's communicator, he murmured a prayer that was half an expletive, and rubbing his hands gleefully, put a call through the subspace net to First Level E.I., an act which he would not have dreamed of the day before. Karsh himself would answer this one, he reflected. For a moment he was thankful that Terle hadn't agreed to an immediate appointment. The subspace communicator took time, and time was what he needed. Time to prepare a snare for Mr. Myron Terle, time to prepare a fitting report to August Karsh. He'd be rewarded handsomely for this one. Once he had Terle, he could hold him, name his own price. No! He rejected the thought with a shudder. No one played that game with August Karsh and lived. Karsh was as ruthless as Prince Li-Hu himself, and far more effective. More, his reach extended to the very end of the galaxy. No, he'd have to be content with whatever Karsh offered. But, he promised himself, it wouldn't be an inconsiderable amount. Karsh wasn't niggardly when it came to spending the Empire's money.
	Finished with his regular work, he made quiet arrangements with appropriate members of Heraska's police. That done, he withdrew a file containing photographs and dossiers on both E.I. and Zuman agents. He rustled through the pages until he found what he wanted.
	He studied the picture, etching the face in his mind. Tall, dark, gaunt, thirty-two years of age -- a graduate of the School of Public Information in Yuni, the administrative center of the Zuman planet of Korth. Information, he knew, meant intelligence; in short, the school was a cover for training agents. He scanned the dossier interestedly.
	Reputed teleport. The words leaped out, striking his eyes like a physical blow. Teleport! How could a man arrest a teleport? He felt a momentary panic, then forced himself to think more calmly. A stun gun, that was it; a man couldn't teleport himself if he were unconscious. And once unconscious, he'd keep him that way until he was delivered into the tender care of August Karsh. That decided, he called the police again to issue new orders.
	Shek's answer came earlier than he'd expected: Capture Terle alive at all costs. Included was the terse warning that Terle was a teleport. He was gratified to see it was signed with the initials A.K. This was his break, he thought jubilantly. This was what he'd waited for all these years. Mather Shek -- August Karsh wouldn't forget that name in a hurry. Neither would Dr. G.
	Several minutes before the appointed time, Shek strode confidently into the Empire Hotel and sat in the lobby to wait. Men, women, children -- he scrutinized them all, seeking a face to match the one engraved in his memory. Tall, gaunt, thirtyish -- a teleport! He banished the last thought, his eyes seeking and finding the plainclothed police spotted around him. To his trained eye, they were as obvious as beggars in a palace. For a moment he was gripped with the fear that they would be equally obvious to Terle, frighten him into teleporting. He let the word seep through his mind, imagining that it left a slimy wake. Shek forced himself to relax. Teleport or no teleport, once Terle entered the lobby, he was as good as caught. Each of the men around him carried a stun gun. The knowledge restored his confidence.
	When the appointed time came and passed, he began to fret. What was delaying Myron Terle? Frowning, he looked at his watch. Ten minutes sped by, then fifteen. When an hour had passed, he reasoned with dismay that Terle wouldn't appear.
	Glumly Shek ordered an immediate search of the entire hotel. When that failed, he mounted a search of all the public lodgings in the city, secure in the knowledge that August Karsh would pay for it. Sitting in his private office, he broodingly watched the reports come in. Evening Star Hotel, nothing; Seaview Hotel, nothing; Midtown Hotel...As evening drew on, he doggedly sent out a planetary alert and, at great risk to himself, had Terle's photo dispatched to cities over the world. If that ever came to Prince Li-Hu's attention...He shuddered.
	Belatedly he thought of space. Checking, he found that nine interstellar liners had departed from the Heraska terminal since Terle's call. Most of them already were in hypertime.
	As a last act, he dutifully recorded the names of all passengers and crew members, including them with a full report addressed to August Karsh, E.I. Shek felt gloomy. He knew he wouldn't be rewarded.
	Not as he had hoped.

	August Karsh, the Empire's spy-master, was tall and thin, with a narrow, austere face that gave him somewhat the expression of a saint until one saw the eyes. They were chill blue, penetrating, and disconcertingly direct. Many persons coming away from Karsh found they could remember little except the eyes, that and his mind, which was like a steel trap. Once he had laughed, and Clender, his assistant, had never forgotten it; that had been many years ago.
	Sitting in his office atop the 270-story Empire Intelligence Building, Karsh sat, his hands clasped in a steeple, staring out the window at the rays of the setting sun. These were yellow-golden rays, which fell warmly on the Northern Hemisphere of the planet called Earth, third of the Class G star Sol.
	Clender sat across from him, waiting patiently, sensing what was in the other's mind. The Myron Terle episode on Zagar didn't make sense, or did it? Mather Shek was a double agent; he had to remember that. Perhaps this was some plot on the part of Prince Li-Hu. No, that didn't make sense, either. But Myron Terle...
	Abruptly Karsh swung around. "Terle's actions have got to be connected with the Rigel coup," he declared. His voice was even and surprisingly soft, considering the hardness of his eyes. "There's no other answer."
	"But how?" Clender gestured helplessly.
	"Consider these facts, Clender. Right now Dr. G is faced with the crisis of his career -- the possibility that Prince Li-Hu will get the bomb. Do you know what would happen in that event? Li-Hu would wipe out that violet sun, and don't tell me it doesn't make sense."
	"Well..."
	"It makes good sense, Clender. The Zumans are a threat to Li-Hu as well as the Empire."
	"But this Mather Shek thing?" Clender shrugged helplessly.
	"A Zuman attempt to establish an alliance with Li-Hu," Karsh declared.
	"Zuma -- allied with Li-Hu?" asked Clender disbelievingly.
	"A marriage of necessity, Clender. I don't know what Dr. G's sales point is, but he's got one, you can rest assured of that. Look at the situation. Right in the middle of the Rigel crisis, G's agent shows up in Heraska and attempts to establish contact with Li-Hu's intelligence apparatus. His top agent, Clender. A teleport at that."
	"But why an agent? If the Zuman government's seeking an alliance, why not go through a diplomatic source?"
	"Diplomatic source?" Karsh arched his eyebrows.
	"I know the Zuman worlds are cut off," Clender said, "but Terle got through, and if they can sneak him through -- "
	"Dr. G could sneak anyone through, Clender. Let's not fool ourselves on that score." Karsh rubbed his hands thoughtfully. "G's as anxious as we are to keep that bomb out of Alphan hands. Not that Li-Hu will get it," he added.
	"He'd turn it against us, August."
	"Li-Hu? No," Karsh denied, "he would hold it as a weapon of deterrence, nullify the bomb to our use, but he wouldn't attack us. He wouldn't have to, Clender. He could fairly well hold his own in a conventional war, if it came to that. But I don't believe it would. Faced with the choice between war or peace, the Empire would grant the Alphan worlds autonomy."
	"So why would he vaporize Zuma?"
	"The people of the Zuman worlds are the big force of the future," Karsh replied slowly. He stared off into the distance, and something of sorrow tinged his voice. "Not the Empire, not the Alphan worlds, but the planets of Zuma. We might deny them, Clender, but I sense a tide rising from that violet star."
	"Not in our day," Clender whispered hoarsely.
	"Perhaps not." Karsh brought back his eyes. "But empires are transient, Clender. Even the greatest of them. We've passed our peak, perhaps long ago, and now we're decadent, and a new man is coming along. Does that frighten you?"
	"New man?" Clender cocked his head. "They're freaks, August."
	"Our flesh and blood, and for thousands of years part of the Empire until we put them out," Karsh said sadly. "Perhaps they're mutants, Clender, but not aliens."
	"They're dangerous," Clender objected.
	"Worthy successors," Karsh said musingly, as if he hadn't heard.
	"They'd better not get the bomb." Clender shook his head emphatically.
	"Why do you think Dr. G sent Myron Terle to Heraska?"
	"You appear to believe the Zumans are trying to form an alliance with the Alphan worlds before Li-Hu gets the bomb, hoping he wouldn't use it on them," Clender conjectured.
	"Not quite," Karsh corrected. "Li-Hu would use the bomb on his mother if it were to his advantage. Dr. G realizes that."
	"Yet you're talking of an alliance." Clender looked bewildered. "What could Li-Hu gain by that?"
	"It might get him the bomb."
	"How?" demanded Clender.
	"Consider the situation," Karsh suggested. "Li-Hu wouldn't have sabotaged the Rigel unless he knew he could retrieve the bomb secret. Retrieve implies returning it to the Alphan worlds. Yet how can he? He can't get within fifty light-years of the Ophiucus Sector; our admirals guarantee that. But he might retrieve it through Myron Terle. We can't forget that the man's a teleport, Clender. And if that is so, then perhaps Li-Hu initiated the meeting between Terle and the agent Shek."
	"Why would Dr. G go along with that?" demanded Clender. "He certainly doesn't want to see the bomb in Alphan hands."
	"Dr. G's playing for the bomb, too," Karsh answered. "If Terle got the secret, Li-Hu would never see the bomb."
	"Li-Hu would know that," Clender objected.
	"It seems so, doesn't it?" Karsh stared off into space before continuing. "But Terle is limited. He can't teleport between planets or between a planet and a ship beyond orbital space. Mentally he has to know exactly where his target is. That means he could teleport between a ship and a planetary surface once he was close enough to clearly distinguish the planet."
	"In other words, he could teleport from orbit?"
	"Exactly, and while that appears to limit his power, it's still a tremendous power, Clender. But it does have limits, and that's a consideration for Prince Li-Hu. He must feel certain that Terle can't move fast enough or far enough to escape him completely. Li-Hu's fortunate, and so are we, that Terle isn't a telepath as well as a teleport."
	"Are we certain that he's not?"
	"York says no, and he observed him for several months."
	"If York said no, I'll believe it," declared Clender. "He's the best agent in the galaxy."
	"The second best," Karsh corrected. "Myron Terle is the best. I'll have to give Dr. G credit for that."
	"I wouldn't bet on it, August." Clender shook his head. "I'd like to see them clash face-to-face on the same case."
	"Isn't that what they're doing?" asked Karsh. "If my surmise is right, that's exactly what's happening."
	"I never thought of that," Clender admitted.
	"Li-Hu has one other possibility," Karsh continued. "His saboteurs can't deliver the bomb secret, I'm certain, but they might pass it to another source for delivery."
	"How?" Clender challenged.
	"By smuggling it to an agent on the Draco," Karsh declared. "Suppose Hull -- he's the Draco's captain -- doesn't see it as sabotage, but believes it was an accident? In that case he'd rescue the survivors and bring them aboard. That would give the guilty ones a chance to pass on the information."
	"To a crew member? Are you hinting of a traitor aboard the Draco?"
	"Why so surprised, Clender? We have a detention world full of turncoats." He glanced away musingly. "Doesn't it strike you as strange that the distress signal from the Rigel was beamed to Upi, the Draco's base?"
	"Not necessarily, August. That is the closest base, you know. I'd take it for granted they would beam the signal there."
	"Don't take anything for granted," Karsh warned.
	"It still won't work," Clender denied flatly. "You're forgetting Daniel York."
	"No, I'm not forgetting York, and I know that it won't work, but Li-Hu doesn't know York's on the job. We were just lucky that York was close by when the story broke."
	"Very lucky, August."
	"Regardless of whether Dr. G or Li-Hu initiated the Heraskan overture, we're faced with the same thing," concluded Karsh. "Li-Hu and Dr. G are both after the bomb, and it's our job to prevent either from getting it."
	"Neither will get it," declared Clender.
	"Aside from that, we have a new factor." Karsh rubbed his slender hands together thoughtfully. "The admiral informs me that the N-cruiser Cetus, which was undergoing emergency repairs on one of the rim worlds, has been rushed back into space."
	"For Ophiucus?"
	Karsh nodded. "Possibly it'll reach the Gelhart system -- that's where the incident occurred -- before the Draco. The admiral would prefer that."
	"Because of the N-bomb?"
	"The Draco's captain is an outworlder. One of the Achernar planets," Karsh explained. "As such, they'd prefer he doesn't know too much about the bomb."
	"That would negate Daniel York, August."
	"Exactly, and that worries me. The problem isn't getting there with the most weapons, but getting there with the most know-how. This is a job for Intelligence, not the Navy."
	"Did you explain that to the admiral?"
	"I did, but he's still going to get the Cetus there, if at all possible."
	"I don't see how that changes our problems, at least not for the moment," observed Clender.
	"No, it doesn't," Karsh acceded. "If the Draco arrives there first, I'm confident that Daniel York can handle the situation. But I'm worried about Terle."
	"We'll grab him, August. We have a galaxywide alert."
	"I want more than that," Karsh stated. His eyes came up, cold and hard, riveting on his assistant's face. "I want every key agent on every world to drop whatever he's doing and concentrate on just one man -- Myron Terle. And I want every adult passenger named in Shek's list shadowed -- everyone who left Heraska or the planet Zagar that day. That's an order as of right now."
	"But, August -- "
	"I mean to get Myron Terle, Clender, and I'm going to get him, dead or alive." Abruptly he turned away, nodding dismissal.
	As Clender opened the door, Karsh's voice came softly. "Preferably alive," he said.


3

	The Programmed Man! The Programmed Man! Where was the Programmed Man? He was moving through the galaxy now! Everything depended on him! Everything, everything, everything...The Programmed Man! His arch enemy...
	A scream strangled in his throat.
	Daniel York awoke.
	He lay on the narrow cabin bunk, catching his breath, feeling the perspiration run and his heart thump as he fought to collect his thoughts. Oh, God, the Programmed Man! Then he heard it, a low, whispering rumble that came through the bulkheads, a vibration that was not quite a vibration. The Draco! He was on the Draco, speeding toward Ophiucus. He remembered then.
	He slumped back, feeling the cabin walls close around him, drawing something of comfort from the distant rumble of powerful nucleonic engines that pushed the Draco faster and faster, pushed it toward that fantastic moment when it would enter hypertime and the universe would collapse, or so it would seem. At that instant stars would disappear, whole galaxies would vanish. The universe would be blotted out. Blackness. Nothing but blackness. It had something to do with twisting the space-time coordinates, but just what, he was never quite certain. Few men were. But it didn't matter. At the end of hypertime he'd see the blue stars of Ophiucus. Somewhere there was the Rigel.
	The Rigel!
	He let his thoughts flow back. He'd been on Korth, the administrative planet of the Zuman system, when his superiors had caught wind of Prince Li-Hu's plan to steal the N-bomb. The source, a double agent high in the Alphan Intelligence apparatus, had known only the bare details. The attempt was to occur in a remote area -- the Ophiucus Sector, he thought. How? When? He hadn't known.
	York stirred restlessly. That agent had been shot. So had others. Apparently Li-Hu's double agents were as effective as their own.
	Assigned to the case immediately, he had concocted a daring plan. Now it was in operation. As a top agent constantly under the scrutiny of enemy agents, he'd made great attempts to mask his own movements. How well he'd succeeded he didn't know. But the plot had grown, blossomed. The Alphans wanted the bomb, the Zumans wanted the bomb, and the vast machinery of the Empire was being used to prevent either from getting it. But massiveness wasn't the answer. In the end it was a deadly game among three men -- August Karsh of the E.I., Prince Li-Hu of the Alphan worlds, Dr. G of the violet sun. No, it boiled down further. The players were Karsh's man, York, Dr. G's man, Myron Terle, and X and X and X. The X's were the saboteurs themselves, desperate men who already had seized one of the Empire's greatest ships. But he couldn't write them off as mere X's, he knew. Each was a trained agent, the best Li-Hu had to offer. He had scant doubt of that.
	Another thought struck him, coming to his mind with numbing force. He wasn't the master of his own fate! That trump was held by the Programmed Man! To beat it, he had to race against time, catch the saboteurs before they could spirit the bomb secret to the white-hot Alphan suns. Dr. G, Li-Hu, August Karsh -- and he was the man in the middle.
	Smiling ruefully, he slipped from the bunk and removed some toilet articles from a small kit he'd brought aboard. Applying a depilatory cream to his face, he washed in a corner basin, eyeing his reflection in the small mirror. Gaunt and strained, with lines of tiredness under his dark eyes, the face looked closer to forty than that of his actual thirty-two years, he reflected. The skin, like that of the captain's, had been seamed from strange suns.
	When he'd dressed, he peered into the kit. He had no doubt that it had been searched, but by amateurs. The small pen that in reality was a gas gun lay in plain sight. Touching a spring button in the lining, he removed a miniature blaster from a concealed compartment and dropped it into his pocket. A few feet away, a door opened into a passageway.
	He wasn't surprised to find a guard standing just outside. The man, a deckhand, he guessed, straightened as he stepped out, one hand automatically falling to the weapon at his side.
	York smiled and said, "Don't shoot. I'm a paying passenger."
	The guard grinned and let his hand dangle awkwardly. "Hope I don't have to, sir."
	"I hope so, too. I really do." York studied him without appearing to do so. The powerful, slope-shouldered body told him that Hull had picked no dub, despite the rather boyish face. The blue eyes, clear and watchful, weren't missing a move. He continued, "As long as we're going to be shipmates for a while, we should know each other's name. I'm Daniel York."
	"Les Osborn, sir." He added, "Deckhand first."
	"Glad to know you, Osborn." York glanced down the passageway. "Now, if you'll lead me to the wardroom -- "
	"You lead," Osborn said succinctly. "I'll follow." York grinned and started down the corridor.
	A single occupant was browsing through a magazine over breakfast when York entered the wardroom. Around fifty, he had close-cropped gray hair and a thin aquiline nose that appeared out of place in his square face. His skin told of long exposure to space.
	Glancing up, he caught sight of York and rose, extending a hand. "Welcome to the wardroom," he greeted. "You must be our new passenger. I'm Benbow, the ship's medical doctor."
	"Daniel York, a freeloader by courtesy of the Empire's Navy," York returned. He took the proffered hand.
	"Had breakfast?" Benbow asked.
	"Not in several days."
	"Good, join me." He glanced at Osborn. "You can leave Mr. York in my hands," he said.
	"I'll wait outside," Osborn answered uncertainly.
	York grinned. "He doesn't want to lose me."
	"Small chance in a ship this size." Benbow motioned to a seat across from him and sat down, pushing aside the magazine. As if on a signal, a white-jacketed steward appeared.
	"Wally, this is Mr. York," Benbow said casually. "He'll have breakfast. But coffee first, please."
	"We have Vegan steak today." The steward looked at York, his eyes curious. "Steak and eggs?"
	"That will be fine."
	Benbow tapped the magazine he'd been reading. "It has an interesting article on the peculiar architecture of Glover, one of the Pollux planets. Are you interested in architecture by any chance?"
	York recognized the question as a conversation piece to bridge an awkward moment and replied, "Not as an authority, but I'm always interested in seeing strange places."
	"I have the belief that architecture offers one of the best keys to a culture," observed Benbow.
	"I hadn't thought of it that way."
	"Few people do." Benbow slipped easily into a discourse on architecture in general, relating it to streams of culture. He believed that planetary environments often led to odd forms of building, which in turn shaped the cultures of the people who occupied them. "Architecture also reflects the subconscious of a people," he theorized. "In many respects, it is a mirror of the mind."
	"You're not a psychomedician by any chance, are you?"
	"That's my specialty, yes." The doctor paused as the steward returned with York's breakfast. When he withdrew, he continued. "The human mind is the great mystery of the universe, Mr. York. The more we probe it, the more we are baffled."
	"Yet you never cease to probe it," observed York.
	"How can we? It offers new facets every day. And no two minds are alike. No two streams of thought run parallel."
	"Yet motives often are alike," York offered.
	"Are they? I don't believe so. Not when it boils down to the final analysis of what motive is."
	"Is such analysis possible?"
	Benbow shrugged. "Only superficially."
	"What are you trying to diagnose when you have a patient with mental or emotional troubles -- his illness or the cause of his illness?"
	"Both," the doctor responded promptly. "The treatment -- I hesitate to use the word cure -- depends on causation as well as the actual illness present. But actually, it's the causative factor that I find most fascinating."
	"I imagine you have your hands full -- a single doctor on a destroyer." York eyed him quizzically.
	"Not as much as you might think," Benbow answered. "Someday they'll install an automatic pill machine, and I'll be out in the cold."
	"I'm surprised," York said. "I should imagine that the tensions of space -- prolonged living in such a closed environment -- would cause considerable stress."
	"To some extent," admitted Benbow, "but far less than you might expect. The rim crews are selected with great care."
	"Care or conditioning?"
	Benbow smiled. "Both," he admitted.
	As they talked, York found himself liking the doctor. He had a nimble mind that skipped from subject to subject with ease. His lack of curiosity about York's own role told him that the captain had cautioned his officers against quizzing him.
	During a pause, he asked, "You know why we're going to Ophiucus?"
	Benbow brought his eyes up slowly, and York saw the green held flecks of yellow. "I haven't been informed," he blandly stated.
	York told him of the Rigel and of the plot to steal the secret of the N-bomb. "The captain's a bit skeptical on that point," he finished.
	Benbow watched him silently before asking, "Why are you telling me this, Mr. York?"
	"Because I might need your help," he answered.
	"I would have to receive permission from Captain Hull," Benbow retorted flatly.
	York had expected that. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted his E.I. credentials and slid them across the table. Benbow didn't appear surprised. "I had expected something of the sort," he said, pushing them back.
	"Am I that apparent?"
	"Not a bit, but a civilian coming aboard -- just before an emergency run -- "
	"I thought you didn't know the nature of the mission?"
	"When you lift off in a rush a week early? It's the nature of the emergency I didn't know," explained Benbow.
	"Will you help me?" asked York.
	"What kind of help?"
	"Nothing at the moment." York smiled and subsided back in his chair. "When you have nothing to do, you might figure out how three or four men -- perhaps half a dozen at the most -- could take over a cruiser like the Rigel."
	"Impossible," Benbow retorted. "The crew would have to be unconscious."
	York lifted his head slowly. "Perhaps you have a point," he murmured.

	Standing with his back to the helm console, Captain Hull was gazing at the universe through the star window when Doctor Benbow led York to the bridge. Osborn followed doggedly in the rear. Looking at the captain's stocky figure, York realized he was shorter than he had supposed, and broader of shoulder. His hair, more white than gray, was cropped short, giving his head a bullet shape.
	Hull turned. "Good morning," he greeted cordially. "Sleep well?"
	"Fine, and breakfasted even better, thanks to the good doctor," York replied.
	Hull gestured toward the star window. "You've arrived just in time to see the last view of this sector of the universe."
	"I take it that we're near hypertime."
	"Within minutes." Hull nodded.
	"Always a disconcerting experience," the doctor counseled. "Personally, I find it a bit perturbing to see the universe suddenly blotted out before your eyes."
	"No different from turning out the lights," Hull answered.
	"Symbolically it is."
	"Ah, symbols." Hull drew out the words.
	"It's all right as long as you know the lights are coming back on," said York.
	"But how do we know?" The doctor gestured expressively. "Where are we when we're in hypertime? We don't even know."
	Hull interjected, "We're between two points on the clock. That's all the knowledge necessary." He looked at York. "Our good doctor is an imaginative man."
	"Someday the clock will stop," Benbow returned gravely. He glanced at his watch. "If you'll excuse me, it's time for my morning appearance at sick call. Not that I'll have any patients," he added.
	"Thank you for your kindness," York answered.
	"Not at all," Benbow responded. "I enjoyed our talk."
	When Benbow departed, Hull introduced York to Jan Galton, the navigator, and Borstad, a young officer who had the bridge watch. As they chatted, York sensed that his status had taken a definite change, a belief that was strengthened when Hull noticed Osborn hovering near the entrance and promptly dismissed him.
	Galton, a thin, graying man with quick, intelligent eyes, noticed York's glance toward the star window and said, "We're about here." He jabbed a finger in the center of a group of stars displayed on a video tube on the helm console.
	"Can't tell one from the other," York admitted.
	"That's Blackett." The finger moved to a faint star on the periphery of the tube. Galton continued, "The display's three-dimensional. Actually, this group of stars surrounds us. Blackett, as you know, lies far behind us."
	"O-seven-one-o," Borstad read from their rear.
	Galton glanced at his instruments, then exclaimed, "We're about to draw the curtain, gentlemen!"
	York swung toward the star window, conscious that the captain had moved alongside him. Hull's head barely topped his shoulder. York had watched ships pass into hypertime before, and yet, as the doctor had said, it always struck him as a bit eerie.

	The stars were a glory in the window -- blues, white-blues, reds, yellows -- almost every color conceivable. Except violet. Only one star held that particular sheen, and that star was far away.
	"Ten seconds," intoned Galton, his voice suddenly hushed.
	York fastened his eyes on a particularly brilliant red giant, so that the surrounding star field glowed and danced in the peripheries of his eyes. The stars appeared like little fireflies darting around the rims. The red giant gleamed alone, as if it had cut its own little cave in the sky and from it peered out into the vastness of the universe. One moment the red giant was there, flaming in its hole in the heavens, and then it blinked out. Simultaneously the myriad of lights dancing on the periphery of York's vision vanished, leaving him staring into inutterable blackness. The universe had become a gigantic, bottomless, black cave. The sight left him momentarily giddy.
	Hull mentioned casually, "This is the good time, for now we need neither captain nor navigator." He looked at York, and a smile touched his lips. "We're traveling through an un-universe that requires no human hand. Indeed, no human hand could affect our course until after we reach an appointed time on the clock."
	"Can't you reset the clock?"
	"During hypertime flight? Yes, but it's quite a navigational feat. I can't say that we've ever had occasion to attempt it."
	"Where we set the clock determines how far we go -- that and the direction we are heading when we enter into hypertime," explained Galton. "Right now the clock is set at a few minutes over fourteen hours. That time and our course will bring us into Ophiucus."
	"You're talking about a large area," York observed.
	"Ophiucus? I realize that. We speak of it as if it were a flat plain, but it's not. Far from it. Actually one of the stars, designated Seventy Ophiuci, lies twenty thousand light-years beyond the point where we will emerge."
	"Where will we emerge?" York asked. The navigator looked at the captain.
	"Near a star called Gelhart," Hull replied.
	"Any particular reason?"
	Hull nodded. "That's as closely as we could pin the Rigel's position at the time of the distress call. Fortunately Gelhart is quite isolated as stars go. It also has six planets, of which at least two could serve for emergency landings."
	"I can't imagine it being that easy," York commented.
	"Locating the ship? I'm not bothered too much on that score," said Hull. He glanced at Borstad, the watch officer. "Mr. York and I will be in my cabin."
	"Yes, sir," replied Borstad.
	Hull was straight and to the point. When they were seated in his cabin, he said, "I've just had a reply concerning my query on your credentials. I am instructed to extend you every facility and all aid short of actually endangering the Draco's safety."
	"Admiral Borenhall?" York murmured.
	"No." A baffled look came into Hull's eyes. "The Admiral of the Galactic Seas. Evidently Borenhall passed my query up the line."
	"Nice of the admiral, Captain."
	Hull said, "I've also received a similar message from August Karsh of E.I. However, the latter was in the form of a request." He raised his eyes, weighing York. "Karsh has no direct authority over naval operating units," he finished.
	"Of course not," York agreed.
	"I must admit, both the admiral and Karsh see this as sabotage -- an attempt to steal the N-bomb. Personally, I can't imagine that," Hull stated, "but I am bound to act on the premise." He paused, eyeing the agent musingly.
	"Did they suggest who was at the bottom of it?" York asked.
	Hull nodded reluctantly. "Prince Li-Hu. But that doesn't mean any of my own Alphan crew members are disloyal," he went on quickly.
	"You can't dismiss the possibility," York suggested tactfully.
	"Why? What has the Rigel to do with my ship?" Hull demanded.
	"Possibly everything."
	"I don't follow you."
	"Alphans stranded in some bleak sector of Ophiucus," mused York. "How could they possibly return the secret except through the Draco?"
	Hull looked startled. "You mean, passing it on through members of my crew?" he demanded.
	"Either that or taking over the Draco."
	"Never!" exclaimed Hull. "That would be impossible!"
	"I imagine the Rigel's captain felt the same way," York returned. He saw Hull's head jerk and knew the shot had gone home. "There is no such word as 'impossible.' Not to Intelligence," he ended.
	Hull eyed him steadily, then slumped back in his seat. "I have three or four Alphans at most," he said quietly, "none of them officers. How could such a few -- granting they were disloyal, which I strongly doubt -- take over a ship like this?"
	"That's what I intend to find out."
	"It's impossible, York."
	"How many Alphans would you say were aboard the Rigel, Captain? A dozen, twenty?"
	"Probably not," Hull admitted reluctantly.
	"Any Alphan officers?"
	"On an N-ship? Never."
	"And yet it was taken over," York said.
	"We don't know that, not for certain."
	"First Level believes so."
	"I'll have to act on the assumption," Hull replied heavily. "I'm certain that we'll find a quite different story, but I'm not about to take a chance. The admiral's message is binding on me, York."
	"And on me," York added.
	The reluctance returned to Hull's voice as he said, "I'll pass word to have them watched carefully."
	"I wouldn't do that," York cut in quickly.
	"Why not? You apparently believe there's danger."
	"It would be better not to alert them," he suggested.
	Hull said primly, "The safety of my ship is my first consideration."
	"How secure would you feel if you never knew for certain that your entire crew was loyal?" asked York. He shook his head. "The only way you'll know is to bait the trap -- bait it with opportunity. Scare them, and they'll lay off. But do you believe Prince Li-Hu would surrender that easily if this attempt falls through? No, Captain, you have to catch them now. Don't, and it might well cost the Empire another ship. Aside from that, the Rigel's sabotage might be difficult to prove, perhaps impossible unless the saboteurs are apprehended in an overt act."
	"Trying to relay the bomb secret?" Hull asked.
	"Exactly."
	"I hope you know what you're doing, York."
	"I have some ideas," York evaded.
	Hull stressed pointedly, "I don't want any actions taken that I'm not aware of, York. This is my ship, and I want to know what is going on at all times."
	"Certainly." York looked at him. "Needless to say, I don't want it known that I'm E.I. I'd prefer to use the cover of an inspector for the Bureau of Colonial Planets."
	"Those things have a way of getting around," Hull observed.
	"I know they do, but at least we can try to keep the knowledge within a restricted circle."
	"We'll try," Hull replied briefly. He leaned back, deep in thought. York waited, sensing that the captain was debating how far to trust him. Yet he had no choice, York decided. Not with the orders he'd received from the Admiral of the Galactic Seas. Finally Hull turned, lifting his eyes. "There's one more thing," he said.
	York waited.
	Hull continued slowly. "When you first came aboard, you were convinced that this was an Alphan plot -- on the part of Prince Li-Hu, to be exact."
	"I know nothing that would change that viewpoint," York returned calmly.
	"You also insisted that the Zuman government couldn't be involved." heads the Zuman
	"I believe that to be true."
	"The Admiral of the Galactic Seas also sent me a second message," Hull stated. The mud-blue eyes scrutinized York intently. "He warns that the Zuman government has attempted to establish contact with Prince Li-Hu through one of its agents."
	"I wouldn't rule out the possibility," York acceded.
	"I'm not."
	"Frankly, I have no comment," York went on. "You should check that out with August Karsh."
	"I imagine the admiral has done that," Hull observed wryly.
	"Probably. Did the message mention any names?"
	"The agent, yes. Myron Terle."
	York nodded. "He works for Dr. G."
	"Dr. G?"
	"Golem Gregor," explained York. "The intelligence network."
	"I take it that you know Terle?"
	"Know of him," he corrected. "As a matter of fact, I spent considerable time observing him."
	"Why that particular agent?" Hull asked curiously.
	York smiled inwardly. The captain wasn't missing a bet. "Terle's unique," he answered. "He's a teleport."
	"Oh..." Hull drew out the word.
	"Does the admiral believe that Terle's move is related to the Rigel?" asked York, knowing full well he did, else he would never have warned Hull.
	"He indicated that," Hull acceded.
	"But he didn't say how?"
	"No, just the warning."
	"Well, it's something to bear in mind," York commented cheerfully.
	"I'm bearing it in mind," Hull confessed. "Frankly, I'm far more worried over that possibility than I am of traitors in my crew. The spawn of that violet sun -- there is the danger. I feel it in my bones, even if the E.I. doesn't appear to believe so."
	York disregarded the jibe and asked, "Did the admiral say where this attempted contact was made?"
	The baffled look returned to Hull's eyes as he answered. "Heraska, of the planet Zagar. Fourth of the Vegan sun," he added.
	"Heraska?" York turned the name over in his mind. "That's almost the opposite direction from the Ophiucus Sector," he observed.
	"That puzzles me," Hull admitted. "However, if he's a teleport..." He left the sentence unfinished.
	York shook his head. "Terle hasn't that kind of power. He can't jump between planets, let alone star systems."
	"You know that?"
	"Positively."
	"What can he do?"
	"He can bridge any two points on a planetary surface, providing he has knowledge of his landing place. That much is essential. Or he could jump from an orbiting ship to a planetary surface."
	"Without knowing his exact landing point?"
	"If he considered the planet as his target." York nodded. "Of course, he might land in a dangerous area or a sea. But if he could see continental outlines, he could land within them."
	Hull considered it. "He's extremely dangerous," he finally ventured.
	"The most dangerous man in the universe, Captain. At least to the Empire."
	"You seem to know quite a bit about him?" Hull made it a question.
	York smiled disarmingly. "We've had him under observation for a long time, Captain, because he is a teleport. We know just about what he can and can't do."
	"You haven't got him under observation now," Hull said shrewdly.
	York grinned. "I'll have to admit that."
	"So you really don't know where he is?"
	"At the moment, no."
	"Then how does Karsh expect to catch him?"
	"By waiting."
	"Waiting?"
	York nodded. "If we wait, he'll come to us," he said. "I'm certain of that."


4

	YORK WAS having coffee in the wardroom when Lieutenant Tregaski entered, coming directly to his table. "Captain Hull suggested you might like to look over the ship," he boomed cordially. His beefy face appeared friendly enough. "If so, I'm your appointed guide."
	"Very thoughtful of the captain."
	"There's no hurry," Tregaski said. "Finish your coffee. On second thought, I'll have a cup with you."
	Watching him walk toward the galley with the quick, easy stride of a man who had mastered the variable gravities of space, York chuckled inwardly. Yesterday Tregaski had been willing and happy at the prospect of throwing him off the Draco; now he appeared equally ready to serve as escort. But, of course, the picture had changed drastically since the message from the Admiral of the Galactic Seas. Now he was somebody. He wondered when it would change again. Not too soon, he hoped.
	Tregaski returned and sat across from him. "Ever been on a destroyer before?" he asked.
	York admitted he had not.
	"I'll fill you in," he offered. "The Draco's fairly small but compact, what is designated as a GP Class -- that's Galactic Patrol. You'll find a lot of them out around the rim. She's outfitted for extended patrol and troubleshooting, the quelling of possible minor disturbances and things like that."
	"Long-range lasers, cobalt bombs, nucleonic bolts..." York eyed him musingly. "I should think you could quell quite a disturbance."
	Tregaski grinned broadly. "As a matter of fact, we can, everything but nova a sun," he confided. He went on describing the Draco. Its squat hull contained three decks, the upper of which largely was taken up by the officers' quarters, wardroom and galley. The bridge lay forward, slightly elevated above the same level, and was flanked by two weapons compartments. Other weapons rooms were aft. The second deck -- quite crowded, he emphasized -- contained the crew quarters, mess hall, galley, laundry and hospital, in addition to various weapons compartments and crew landers. The third deck roughly was divided between operational compartments and storage holds.
	Although Tregaski spoke in an offhand manner, York sensed the pride with which he described the ship, its officers and crew. Plainly he believed there was but one real fighting ship in the entire Empire Navy, and the Draco was it.
	"Captain Hull is a wonderful skipper. There's not a man aboard who wouldn't give his life for him," Tregaski proclaimed. He glanced up defiantly. "He should be an admiral."
	"Perhaps someday." When Tregaski didn't answer, he asked, "Where are you from?"
	"Pola, third of the sun Fomalhaut." A touch of bitterness crept into Tregaski's voice. "I suffer the same handicap."
	"Handicap?" York asked quizzically.
	"I'm an outworlder, like the skipper."
	"It's all part of the Empire," he observed.
	"Perhaps, but it reminds me of that old saw about some being more equal than others."
	"In what way?"
	"We have to work harder for promotion, spend more years between grades. And we're usually stuck out on the rim -- planets like Upi." Tregaski gestured with a wave. "This is the top, as high as the skipper can go. He can never command an N-ship or even a cruiser. They don't make admirals from the outworlds," he finished.
	"You have a point," York acceded.
	"Isn't it the same everywhere? How about the E.I.?"
	"I suppose," he assented, thinking that the lieutenant was exactly right. The top echelon of government, both military and civilian, was restricted to the Earth-born. Provincial and planetary governments held scant power, serving more as intermediaries between First Level and the local governments beneath them than as administrative decision makers. And First Level meant Earth. If Mother Earth were benevolent, as she was in many ways, she was also a greedy mistress when it came to the control of power. None knew that better than himself. And yet most of its people were happy, prosperous, contented; a man could go as far as his ambition and ability drove him. Or almost as far. All in all, the Empire was the most durable and stable government mankind ever had known. And yet -- York appraised the thought unhurriedly -- there was no denying that it also was a stagnant government; once a behemoth that reached avidly throughout the galaxy, it had come to what sociologists termed "the pause of centuries." But nothing paused for long, he reflected. The pause was but the prelude to a great retrogradation; the sociologists had said that, also. And it was true; he could see the signs on every side.
	Tregaski sighed and said, "Not that I can complain. The Navy's been pretty good to me."
	York changed the subject. "Does the Draco have provisions for landing parties?" He saw the question spring into Tregaski's eyes and explained, "I'm thinking of unusual planetary surfaces, the type we possibly might encounter."
	"We can land anywhere on anything but a sun itself," asserted Tregaski.
	"Your main duty is patrolling the Zuman system, isn't it?"
	A quick look of caution flooded Tregaski's face, and for a moment he didn't answer. "Did the captain say that?" he inquired noncommittally.
	"At our first meeting, if you recall."
	"I remember now."
	"It's not hard to figure," York pursued. "There's not much reason for a base at Upi other than Zuma."
	"There are a few scattered systems," Tregaski replied defensively.
	"But nothing to amount to much, eh? Personally, I believe it's a waste of effort. The Zuman government couldn't penetrate interstellar space if it wished."
	"They've got plenty of interplanetary ships," retorted Tregaski.
	"Certainly, but they're still locked to the Zuman system."
	"How do we know that?" Tregaski challenged. "How do we know what's happening on those damnable worlds? Those freaks might pull anything."
	York said, "It's the E.I.'s business to know."
	"I forgot, you've been there." Something akin to respect shown in Tregaski's eyes. "What would they do if they caught you?"
	York shrugged. "The trick is not to get caught."
	"In a nest of telepaths? I don't see how that is possible."
	"We have our own tricks."
	"We must have." Tregaski shook his head admiringly. "I still don't see why we don't use the N-bomb and settle the issue for good."
	"They're humans," York observed.
	"Humans?" Tregaski's face took on a caustic look.
	"Earth descendants," York said gravely, "and when you consider it, part of the Empire, even though we have quarantined them."
	Tregaski scowled and said, "We quarantined them because they're dangerous."
	York shook his head. "No, because we feared them," he corrected. He caught the lieutenant's eye. "Did you know that the great majority of people on the Zuman worlds aren't telepaths? Most of them are just like we are."
	"I've heard about those freaks," Tregaski rebutted.
	" 'Rumor is a wild wind,' " York quoted.
	"You can't sell them to me," Tregaski said heavily. He put down his cup. "We'd better get moving."
	As York followed the lieutenant from the lounge, he realized that Tregaski's strained attitude was due to his defense of the Zuma's, words that countered everything the lieutenant had heard and believed. His life had been dedicated to sealing off the violet sun. Hull's life, too, he thought. It made no difference that York knew better; his was but a single voice shouting against the implacable indoctrination of years. Yet someday the people of the Zuman worlds would go out from their violet sun, and the Empire would be the better for it -- a fact he suspected many First Level officials realized. But the surrender of power wasn't easy.
	Passing along the central corridor, York noticed several recessed cabinets marked EMERGENCY MASKS and asked about them.
	"They're mainly for entering compartments that have been deoxygenated, as in the case of a flash fire," Tregaski explained. "They also hold pressure suits with self-contained masks for landing on planets with low barometric pressure or insufficient oxygen. Ah, my favorite character -- " He broke off as he led York into the ship's hospital.
	Dr. Benbow looked up from a magazine and drawled, "Thought for a moment I was actually going to have a patient."
	"Not this trip, Doc. You've met Mr. York, I'm sure."
	"We've met," Benbow affirmed. He looked at York. "Taking the grand tour?"
	"It's a compact world," answered York. "I'm amazed."
	"Very compact, very efficient."
	"Men, instruments, machines -- it's like one unit."
	"That's the way it has to be," replied Benbow. "The only place we're charitable with space is in our own quarters." York wondered if he detected a note of bitterness but decided not.
	Tregaski winked at York. "The doc's quarters are almost as large as the skipper's. He should complain."
	"Merely an observation," Benbow returned smilingly. He led them into his surgical and dental room, displaying his equipment with relish. "Everything, or almost everything, that the base hospital has, except on a smaller scale." He waved toward a door. "I have a small office there, a small library, study -- "
	"The probe room," Tregaski broke in.
	"Probe room?" asked York.
	"The doc's a psychomedician. Didn't you know? Flip, and he puts you on the couch, wrings you out."
	"It's not quite that way," Benbow defended.
	The lieutenant looked at York. "Just stay out of there," he warned ominously.
	"Mr. York appears stable enough to me," Benbow observed.
	"Not too stable." York grinned. "If I were, I wouldn't be here."
	Benbow stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose that goes for all of us," he answered.
	From the hospital Tregaski led York through gleaming washrooms, sleeping quarters and into the crew's mess hall, which also served as a recreational lounge. En route, he introduced him to several officers as "Mr. York, an inspector for the Bureau of Colonial Planets."
	York saw the quick question that popped into their eyes. Tregaski noticed it, too, for later he explained, "They're wondering what you're doing on the Draco."
	"As long as they just wonder," York murmured. The lieutenant shook his head without answering.
	They descended a ladder and turned into a small compartment. A crewman rose at their entrance. "The air-purification and circulation room," Tregaski explained. "This is Jona Norden, our maintenance chief. How's the air today, Jona?"
	"Fine, Lieutenant. Pure for the pure of heart." He laughed, showing even rows of flashing teeth that appeared all the brighter for his narrow, sallow face.
	"I shouldn't be breathing," Tregaski grunted.
	"Is this the central distribution point for air for the entire ship?" asked York. He faced Norden, trying to discern his race. His eyes were dark, squinty, but that was common to spacemen. His slight body build and height revealed nothing.
	"It's distributed from here and returns here," answered Norden. His eyes searched York's face curiously. "We're continually taking in air, analyzing its content, purifying and recirculating it. It's a never-ending cycle."
	"Must require a crew," York commented.
	Norden agreed. "I have several men," he said.
	Passing through the engine compartment, York saw two Alphans huddled over a Krabacci board, a national game among the planets of the Alphan suns. "Beating him, Wong?" Tregaski called.
	The younger of the two, a dark, slender man with short-cropped black hair, glanced toward them with a bright smile. "No one beats Singkai, Lieutenant."
	"Just keep trying, Wong."
	"I have been, for two years," Wong remarked. As they passed from the room, York noted that the man called Singkai had never lifted his eyes from the board. He mentioned it.
	"He never does," Tregaski returned. "Krabacci's like a religion to him. The ship could burn around him, and he wouldn't look up -- not when he's playing that game."
	"You seem to know them fairly well."
	"That's my business. I know every man in the crew fairly well," Tregaski replied. He stopped suddenly and turned, his face flooded with suspicion. He said raspingly, "If you're thinking what I think you are, you're wrong. They might be Alphans, but they're loyal. I'd stake my life on that."
	"I'm the suspicious sort," York returned calmly.
	"Because they're Alphans?"
	"Yes." He eyed the lieutenant steadily.
	"That's not much to go on," Tregaski grated.
	"No," York answered, "it isn't."
	Tregaski shook his head. "I suppose it's your job. Perhaps I'd feel the same if I were in your place. But you're wrong, York, absolutely and completely wrong. You can take my word for that."
	"If I'm wrong, it won't be the first time," York replied. "But being suspicious in itself does no harm. It's sort of a warning system that keeps the mind on edge, a reminder that there is danger."
	"You can't be just suspicious," Tregaski said sourly. "You have to be suspicious of someone or something. And when you are, you're slanting the odds against them."
	"I'm suspicious of everyone," York admitted. "Not Wong and Singkai in particular, but everyone. I know it sounds unreasonable, but that's the way the game's played."
	Tregaski remarked disparagingly, "What a lousy job."
	York nodded in agreement. "It certainly is, Lieutenant. You don't know how lucky you are."

	Hunched over a small desk in his cabin, York slowly sorted through the Draco's personnel records. Hull had surrendered them only reluctantly and would have refused were it not for the message from the Admiral of the Galactic Seas. York had scant doubt of that. He quickly noted that the records were those of enlisted personnel only; none of the Draco's officers were represented in the small brown folders which Tregaski had delivered to his office. He debated challenging the captain on the point but decided to let it drop. For the time being, at least, he needed Hull's full cooperation. He also decided that the Draco's captain could make an implacable enemy, one that he didn't relish having. Tregaski was of the same caliber, a hulking, formidable man who blew hot and cold according to the captain's moods.
	Putting the folders back in order, he started through them again, studying each one methodically. Occasionally he moved a folder to one side -- those of Alphans or other racial members who had been born among the planets of Prince Li-Hu's hot, white suns.
	Dexter, Lambda, Wulf, Carson...The Draco's crew was composed of men from every quarter of the Empire. He wondered if it were deliberate to prevent too heavy a concentration from any one sun system. That made sense. He noted, too, that there were no Earth-born among the Draco's enlisted men. That also made sense. The rim was not for the Earth-born. When they ventured from the home planet, it was to relax, travel, or rule. Although they staffed the Empire's far-flung administrative bureaus and high military echelons, they were above such duty as the Draco had to offer.
	Finished, he turned to the folders he had put aside. Char Wong, engine technician: born in Chufeng on the planet Pehling, second of the Alphan sun Kang. He perused the record carefully. Wong was twenty-seven standard years old, had a technical education, had enlisted four years before. He had been on the Draco for slightly over two years. His merit ratings were high. Nothing suspicious that caught York's eye. He slid the record back into the pile and went on to the next.
	Jona Norden, chief of maintenance. Tregaski had introduced him in the air-purification compartment, a slender, dark man with flashing teeth and a ready smile. The record explained the racial characteristics which had puzzled York at the time. Norden's mother had been Alphan, his father a native of one of the minor planets of Spica, which indicated Caucasian origin. Education, service record, merit ratings -- nothing unusual.
	David Apgar, deckhand: born in Fengpu. Like Norden, he was a half-breed, but with scant education. Ten years' service without progressing much beyond the lowest rating. Nothing extraordinary, nothing incriminating.
	Lu Singkai, maintenance technician: born on Ling, fourth of the Alphan sun Wansu. York recalled the older, portly figure bent over the Krabacci board and getting the impression of stolidity, inscrutability. Could he have seen Singkai's face, he reflected, it would have been a dark mask. He read the record carefully. Like Wong, he'd had a technical education, but hadn't progressed far in the ranks -- not for twenty-two years' service. At forty-eight, he'd served on both cruisers and destroyers at stations throughout the Empire. His merit ratings were good.
	Sam Wee and George Sun -- both Alphans, both deck-hands, both with standard service records. Nothing that gave even a glimmering of suspicion.
	York pushed the records aside with the feeling that he was getting nowhere. Six men in all came from the Alphan suns, but all of them had quite ordinary records. Nothing in any of them suggested intelligence training or any special aptitude that might relate to the N-bomb. But that was the most dangerous kind, he thought -- men whose records told nothing. He wondered how Tregaski would answer that logic.
	Later, in the wardroom, he found the Draco's doctor browsing through a magazine. At Benbow's invitation, he drew a cup of coffee and joined him. For a while they talked desultorily. The doctor had come from Omar, fourth of the yellow sun Pollux, and for a while he spoke longingly of it.
	"A lovely world," he said. His eyes took on a distant look. "It's been a long time."
	"How long have you been away?"
	"Twenty-five years -- nearly half of my life."
	"Haven't you ever been back?"
	"Only in memory." The doctor set down his cup and looked at York. "I passed on your request to the captain."
	"Oh?" He cocked his head.
	"He has no objections. He instructed me to assist you in any way I could. Within reason," he added.
	"I appreciate that."
	"You might as well know, he's somewhat perturbed over your suspicions."
	"The nature of my work demands suspicion."
	"Because they are Alphans? You can't indict a man because of race, York."
	"Indict? Who said anything about indictment?"
	"Suspicion...indictment," Benbow mused. "You're drawing a narrow line."
	"Perhaps, but I never cross the line -- not until I know." York studied the doctor. "How well do you know them?"
	"The Alphan crew members? I've talked with them on and off, as I have most of the crew. They appear to be like spacemen anywhere -- steady and dependable on the job, sometimes wild and raffish when in port, if I'm to judge by the cuts and broken bones I tend when they return to the ship."
	"Are you talking about the Alphans or spacemen in general?"
	"Spacemen in general." The doctor lifted his eyes. "I'll have to admit, I often think the Alphans are more complicated than the others."
	"In what way?" asked York.
	"They're rather inscrutable," Benbow explained. "As a psychomedician, I realize they don't wear their emotions or thoughts as transparently as most of us. But that's a racial characteristic."
	"I've noted that...blandness."
	"Blandness? Yes, that's an apt word." Benbow smiled. "But that doesn't mean they're masking anything."
	"I didn't say that," he objected.
	"No, you didn't." Benbow glanced at his watch. "I'm going to turn in, catch an hour or so of sleep."
	"An hour or so?" He gazed curiously at him. "What's your hurry?"
	Benbow explained, "I hate to see the universe blink out. There's something terrifying about it. But I like to see it blink back on." He glanced at his watch. "In just over two hours we're emerging from hypertime."

	Back in his small stateroom, York scrutinized the crew records for the last time before stacking them neatly in their original order. He'd learned nothing, or almost nothing, he concluded ruefully. But he did know the names and duties of the six crew members who were Alphan by race or background. He didn't believe that Hull or Tregaski would place much value in that bit of information.
	Preparing for bed, he felt a sharp pain in his nostrils and chest and gasped, reeling for support. Instinctively he held his breath and groped for the door, aware that his eyes were wet and burning. His windpipe was a tube of fire. He found the knob, twisted it and staggered out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.
	"Gas," he croaked, "masks, masks." He leaned against the wall, pulling in great draughts of air as his mind registered the fact that it was pure. He heard feet in the corridor and saw Jan Galton, the navigator.
	"What's the difficulty?" Galton asked worriedly.
	"Gas," York gasped.
	"Gas?" Galton looked alarmed.
	"What's wrong, York?"
	He turned and saw the doctor in his nightclothes. "Gas -- my room's filled," he answered weakly. More figures came, and he recognized Hull and Tregaski.
	Benbow sniffed the air. "You must be mistaken."
	Hull broke in roughly. "What's going on, York?" His square face held suspicion.
	"Someone tried to gas me," he answered.
	"Gas?" Hull sniffed.
	"There's none in the corridor," Tregaski broke in, "and everything works off a central system."
	York drew in a deep breath, feeling his head clear. "Try my room," he suggested drily.
	Tregaski crossed the corridor, turned the knob and opened the door slightly, sniffing against the crack. He recoiled as if shot and slammed shut the door. "Flooded," he gasped. Benbow walked silently to a locker and drew out a face mask and portable oxygen tank. As he donned them, Tregaski wiped his eyes and followed suit.
	"Call maintenance," Hull instructed the person nearest him.
	"Stand back," Benbow warned in a muffled voice. Still adjusting the mask as he approached the door, he glanced back at Tregaski before turning the knob and entering. Tregaski followed at his heels, slamming the door behind him. A pungent odor filled the corridor.
	Hull looked grimly at York. "When did you notice it?"
	York said weakly, "Suddenly, as I was preparing for bed."
	"I don't see how it's possible."
	"You'll know in a moment," he promised. Hull didn't reply. They turned toward the door to watch. In the silence, York reflected that he knew just about what the doctor and Tregaski would find. But who? How? He hadn't long to wait. Tregaski came from the room first, followed by the doctor, who held something in his hand. He slammed the door behind him and pulled off his face mask.
	"Gas bomb," he told Hull. He held out his hand, displaying a small cylinder.
	Hull looked at it, his face expressionless. "But how?" he finally asked. "York was in there."
	"Some sort of a timer," Benbow answered. He studied the cylinder curiously. "There appears to be something like a gel around the cap, probably a material that melts when exposed to room temperature."
	"Why didn't it flood the system?" Galton asked.
	Benbow's voice was grim. "His vents were closed," he said. He turned to the captain. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take this to the lab, see if I can analyze the gas. I have a faint suspicion."
	"A cyanic gas," York broke in. "I recognize the odor."
	"Yes, I believe so."
	Hull turned to Tregaski. "Have maintenance decontaminate that room, and get me the name of every enlisted man who might have had access to this area tonight." He glanced at York. "We'll find the meaning of this," he promised.
	"I can tell you what it means." York eyed the captain steadily. "It means you have a murderer aboard."
	"Murder," Hull echoed. "That's difficult to believe."
	"Is it?" asked York. "You should take a whiff of that gas, Captain. It's very convincing."


5

	HE WAS being followed!
	The knowledge came to him with a slight sense of shock as he strolled down the main thoroughfare of Rhonda, industrial capital of the planet Anhaus, third of the orange-yellow sun Arcturus.
	I am Myron Terle, and I'm being followed, he thought. By whom? Instantly the answer came: an enemy agent. He never changed his pace nor gave any sign that he knew, but he knew! The unknown sense that had alerted him had served him too well in the past to mistake the sudden awareness for anything but fact.
	He felt the excitement mount, swirling through his body. He couldn't be captured. Not now! He had too much to do; his mission was far too important to allow that. Important enough that he had submitted to deep therapy, all but robbed of his identity while Dr. G's hypnotic probes drummed into his mind exactly what he had to do. Yet from moment to moment he scarcely knew; that was the damnable part of it.
	"A necessary precaution in case you're captured," Dr. G had explained. "We can't afford to let you know on this mission, Myron."
	Nor did he know. All he knew with clarity was that he was Myron Terle, and at such and such a time he had certain functions to perform. And even those remained unknown until the time came for him to perform them. At such times it was as if a small gate in his mind opened, allowing only the knowledge he needed to seep into his consciousness.
	Who was following him? The question repeated itself in his mind, over and over. An agent of Prince Li-Hu? No. He rejected the idea immediately. Li-Hu could never have traced his devious path, but August Karsh could. Karsh was a bloodhound without peer; even Dr. G conceded that. Moreover, his net was broad and deep, three-dimensional, extending throughout the entire galaxy. No place was too remote for Karsh's scrutiny; his agents were everywhere. It had to be Karsh!
	All his senses attuned, he paused from time to time to peer at the window displays, just as any tourist might. All the while the sense of danger drummed within his skull. Followed -- an agent of August Karsh. The surmise grew to certainty as the warning became a clamor in his mind.
	You can escape! The thought came, and his lips involuntarily formed the word "How?"
	Myron Terle -- teleport! That was it, he was a teleport. He could project himself into nowhere, vanish before his pursuer's eyes. He could make himself reappear in his hotel room, the spaceport, anywhere. Teleport! Teleport! Teleport! The word screamed in his mind.
	You can't teleport! The knowledge came like a voice speaking from inside his skull. You can't, you can't, you can't, can't, can't, can't...No, he couldn't, not even if he wanted to or had to. He knew that with certainty. The power had been taken away by the same hypnotic probes that had erased his memory, substituting in its place the milestones of his mission. Dr. G had explained that.
	"You can't teleport, Myron. Not on another world. It's too dangerous. We can't take a chance that August Karsh or Li-Hu might learn of that talent." No, he couldn't teleport. He could only walk, walk. He suppressed the desire to run.
	He came to a window that was set at an angle to the street and paused to gaze into it. Almost immediately he spotted his tracker, a short, portly, inconsequential-appearing figure who had stopped dutifully behind him, intent on another window. Short and portly, but a bloodhound, Terle knew. August Karsh didn't employ second-rate agents, not even on such an out-of-the-way planet as Anhaus. Regardless of his follower's shape, size or age, he was a formidable adversary; Terle had no doubt of that. He moved on again, considering how best he might dodge his shadow.
	He came to a small park and turned in, walking toward the central plaza while a plan formed in his mind. Slowing his pace, he turned up a side path and immediately stepped behind a screen of shrubbery. Bad, but he had to do it. There was no other way. Taking a stun gun from his pocket, he hefted it, waiting.
	He heard the footsteps first, suddenly quickening as his pursuer entered the wooded path. When the portly figure drew abreast of him, he pushed the weapon through the screen of foliage and fired.
	Pocketing the weapon, Terle walked past the fallen figure without even glancing down. He would be safe for a while, but he still had to hurry. As he turned back into the main thoroughfare, he heard shouts from the park and smiled; the drumming inside of his skull had left. He was safe now. Safe.
	At ten minutes before high noon, Terle entered the Rhonda spaceport and went directly to a communication booth. Opol. The name formed in his mind, followed by a number. With it came the knowledge that Opol also was a double agent. Like Mather Shek, he had only one real master, and that was money. He draped his handkerchief over the visiscreen and punched the number programmed in his mind.
	A woman's voice answered. "Rhonda Imports," she said. The name, he knew, was a cover for Prince Li-Hu's intelligence operations on the planet.
	"Mr. Opol," Terle requested.
	"May I ask who is calling?"
	He paused before saying, "You may not. It's confidential."
	"One moment, please." He heard a click, and moments later a man's voice came on. It was sharp and high.
	"Opol speaking."
	"My name is Terle, Myron Terle. I work for Dr. G."
	"Terle!" the other exclaimed. There was a startled silence before he asked, "Where are you at?" Terle translated the question to read: Where shall I send the police? He gave the name of a hotel.
	"Why didn't you keep your appointment with Mather Shek?" Opol asked.
	Terle had been expecting the question. "I learned he was a double agent. In the pay of August Karsh," he added.
	"Shek? Are you certain?"
	"Positive." Terle found himself enjoying the situation.
	"How did you discover that?" Opol shot back.
	"A third agent," Terle confided. "It was a case of the watcher being watched."
	"Where can I meet you?" Opol asked edgily.
	"This evening, at my hotel. Shall we say six?"
	"Not before?"
	"Business," he responded. Before Opol could answer, he replaced the instrument and, humming, walked out onto the passenger ramp. He felt good, as he always did when he shucked one identity for another. He was no longer Myron Terle, nor was he Dorcus Antol of Varga. He was now Dana Smithson of Marta, fourth of the sun Coulson. He grinned to himself; he had papers to prove it.
	Fifteen minutes later he was en route to Grydo, third of the green-white sun Geddes.

	Golem Gregor, better known as Dr. G, didn't resemble the popular conception of a spy-master, much less director of the ultrasecret intelligence apparatus that served the four planets of the violet Zuman sun. Short and plump, his round, jovial face and smooth features gave him a placid, innocuous appearance that was heightened by an upturned nose and mild blue eyes. At the moment he sat with his hands folded, listening as Zed Zarakov, his chief assistant, outlined the latest moves in Gregor's attempt to crack the secret of the N-bomb.
	As he spoke, Zarakov wondered if his superior really was listening. Caught by the violet light streaming through the windows, Gregor's face held an absent, faraway expression. He neither moved nor gave any sign that he was listening. But Zarakov really knew better; Dr. G always listened.
	Zarakov came to the end of his report and said, "I believe that sums it up. August Karsh has taken the bait nicely. He knows that Myron Terle tried to contact Alphan agents on both Zagar and Anhaus, and for what other reason if not for the bomb? There's nothing else he could think, Golem. If the Empire loses the bomb secret, it will be because of Terle; Karsh is convinced of that."
	"So am I." Gregor smiled placidly.
	"Terle can't escape Karsh's net very long," Zarakov warned.
	"Long enough, Zed. Does Gilmore know Karsh's next move?" Gilmore, a Zuman agent who had penetrated the Empire's intelligence apparatus nearly two decades before, had worked his way up until he was now a subdirector working in Karsh's central headquarters, a little drama that afforded Gregor much amusement. Gilmore would be caught eventually, but in the meantime.
	"He's instigated a total effort to snare Terle."
	"I know," Gregor said gently, "but what kind of effort? What action is he taking?"
	"The standard," Zarakov answered. "Watch, search, wait."
	Gregor shook his head. "He can't wait."
	"He hasn't much choice, Golem."
	"He still can't wait, Zed. Not August Karsh."
	"I've worried about that." Zarakov pulled his long face into an even gloomier expression than the one he habitually wore. "Gilmore might get a line on something," he ventured finally.
	"If Karsh believes Terle is the main threat, how does he account for Terle's movements away from Ophiucus rather than toward it?"
	"He knows Terle's a teleport."
	"Not that much of a teleport, Zed."
	"He probably doesn't assess it in terms of degrees," Zarakov ventured. "He probably believes the ability is all or none."
	Gregor moved his head in negation. "Karsh knows better than that. He had York spotting Terle for weeks before we caught on, and right in our own backyard. There was very little that York didn't discover. I'll wager that. A damned clever agent, Zed."
	"He worries me," Zarakov admitted.
	"Also, how does Karsh account for Terle's failure to keep the appointments on Zagar and Anhaus? Did Gilmore mention that?"
	Zarakov nodded. "Terle told the agent on Anhaus -- that's Opol -- that Shek was a double agent."
	"That wouldn't explain his not meeting Opol."
	"Gilmore didn't go into that point. I don't know how Karsh reacted."
	"Did Karsh ask how Terle discovered Shek was a double agent?"
	"He did. Gilmore says Terle claimed the information came from a third agent -- sort of a triple play," explained Zarakov.
	Gregor chuckled. "That'll give Karsh food for thought. He'll probably have every one of his agents under the probe before this one's finished."
	"I hope not, for Gilmore's sake."
	"The chances we take, Zed."
	"I'm glad I'm a headquarters man, Golem." Zarakov raised his head. "Gilmore says it's definite that the N-cruiser Cetus is en route to Ophiucus."
	"I expected that," Gregor said. "The Draco was dispatched as a dire emergency, but I considered that the Admiral of the Galactic Seas might have second thoughts about it. It's not Empire policy to allow an outworlder access to the bomb, even if he is a destroyer captain."
	"Doesn't that complicate matters for us?"
	"I don't believe the Cetus will ever reach Gelhart, at least during the critical time."
	"I don't follow you," said Zarakov. "The Cetus is in hypertime now."
	Gregor lifted his head. "And when Myron Terle pops up on Grydo, the heart of Ophiucus? That's where the action will be, Zed. The Cetus will be diverted to Grydo faster than you can snap a finger. Leave that to Karsh."
	"Why the Cetus?" asked Zarakov. "Why not the Draco? It seems to me that if the Empire can't trust the Draco's captain with the bomb secret -- "
	"The Draco can't nova a sun, Zed."
	"Nova a sun?" exclaimed Zarakov. His eyes grew startled. "What sun? I'm not tracking you."
	"Grydo's sun, Geddes."
	"Annihilate Grydo! An inhabited planet?"
	"It's an agricultural planet, Zed. It has little economic or military use to the Empire."
	"But one of their own planets," Zarakov said disbelievingly.
	Gregor looked across the desk. "Try this on the scales of expediency, Zed. Put one small, unimportant planet on one balance arm and the secret of the N-bomb on the other. Which would weigh more heavily?"
	"I still can't see them wiping out a planet, Golem."
	"Don't confuse justice with expediency," Gregor replied drily. "The Empire wasn't built on mercy."
	"But if Terle's going there?"
	"I wouldn't worry about Myron." Gregor glanced away uncomfortably. Inadvertently he had glimpsed Zarakov's mind, witnessing the uncertainty and worry that lay there. Not that he was surprised, but he recognized the peep as an invasion of his assistant's privacy.
	Apparently Zarakov hadn't witnessed his discomfiture, for he said, "Now I am confused."
	Gregor's expression was sober. "It's a dangerous gambit, I know, but a necessary one."
	"I still can't see how Terle hopes to get the bomb secret," Zarakov exclaimed wonderingly. "Even if the Alphans use him as a last resource, which I doubt, how do they expect to reach him on Grydo? And if the Cetus closes off the planet or annihilates it -- " He broke off, gazing perplexedly at his chief.
	"Myron's resourceful," Gregor answered mildly.
	"With that deep therapy he underwent?"
	"That was just to protect secrets in case of capture. It doesn't affect his ability to act, Zed."
	"That's something else I don't get -- all that therapy and probing. It seems to me -- "
	"I wouldn't worry about it," Gregor cut in. Changing the subject, he said, "The Draco should be fairly close to the Gelhart system by now."
	"I received word just before I came in," Zarakov replied. "Our man on Upi says she should be out of hypertime, closing with her nuclears."
	"With Daniel York aboard," Gregor supplied. "I wonder if Prince Li-Hu knows that."
	"I doubt it. York is clever."
	"Very clever, Zed. I'm still amazed that he was able to talk his way aboard the Draco. Have you read the dossier on her captain? Corden Hull's his name, and he's one tough character. Most of those destroyer men are."
	"I've read it," Zarakov admitted. "I imagine York had to fall back on his E.I. credentials."
	"Undoubtedly, Zed. Ordinarily the E.I. doesn't mean much to a Navy officer, but right now Karsh must have the Admiral of the Galactic Seas eating out of his hand."
	"In this crisis? I should imagine so."
	"He places a lot of faith in York."
	"Karsh? He certainly should."
	Gregor settled his bulky frame more comfortably. "No matter how this comes out, Prince Li-Hu hasn't a chance. Terle at one end of the play, York at the other. I wonder if he knows that?"
	"I wouldn't underestimate him, Golem. He's managed to take over an Empire N-ship, and no one's ever done that before."
	"It will be interesting to find how he accomplished it."
	"We may never know," Zarakov responded gloomily.
	"Daniel York will know."
	"How does that benefit us?"
	"You can never tell, Zed."
	Zarakov looked at his superior uneasily. "There's something strange about all this. I'm puzzled."
	"Why?" Gregor asked.
	"You speak of Daniel York like you speak of Myron Terle. You make it sound -- " He broke off suddenly, a glint of suspicion leaping into his face. "My God, is York a double agent?"
	"Absolutely not," Gregor denied. "I only wish he were, but he's August Karsh's man right down to the wire."
	"I don't know." Zarakov looked baffled. "There's something about this whole thing that doesn't add up, some piece that's missing. I've worked a thousand cases with you, Golem, but there's something about this one that I don't know."
	"You're right, Zed."
	Zarakov looked startled. "Something I don't know?"
	Gregor nodded and smiled pleasantly. "But don't feel badly, Zed. No one else knows, either."
	"Except you," Zarakov said.
	"And Myron Terle," Gregor amended. "He knows."
	August Karsh, his thin lips drawn wolfishly against his teeth, leaned forward to stare at his assistant. "A Dorcus Antol lands on Zagar, and Terle shows up. A Dorcus Antol lands on Anhaus, and Terle shows up. How do you account for that, Clender?" He tapped a lean finger against the desk. "That's our man -- Dorcus Antol."
	"You're possibly right," Clender answered worriedly.
	"Possibly? I don't believe in coincidences," Karsh snapped. "Not those kinds."
	"There's no record of a Dorcus Antol leaving Anhaus, August. We've checked every ship."
	"I expect he has a dozen passports," Karsh replied acidly.
	"We're trying to cover that contingency."
	"Does it strike you as odd that Terle should contact two of Li-Hu's agents and both times not appear?"
	"Well, if he learned they were double agents -- "
	"Great suns of Centauri!" Karsh exclaimed. "Is that coincidence, each time choosing a double agent?"
	"It is odd," Clender admitted.
	"Come, Clender, it's not odd, it's purposeful," Karsh stated.
	"I don't follow you, August."
	Karsh patiently explained. "If Terle knew Shek and Opol were double agents, he wouldn't have contacted them unless he wanted to draw attention to himself. If he hadn't known, how could he have determined the fact between the time he called and the time of the appointments? And why did he stall the appointments for overnight? To give him time to escape, Clender, and that's exactly what he did. The passenger records show he left Heraska within fifteen minutes after contacting Shek. Do you mean to tell me that within those few minutes he determined that Shek was a double agent and fled? Don't ask me to believe that, Clender. And can you imagine an agent as clever as Terle using the same passport twice? No, Clender, he had just one objective in mind -- to draw our attention."
	"But why?" asked Clender perplexedly.
	"To make us believe that the Zuman government's trying to establish some sort of alliance with Li-Hu," Karsh replied softly.
	"What's the sense of that, August?"
	"He's demonstrating that the attempts have failed, that no alliance has been effected."
	"You're losing me," declared Clender. "Why should he do that?"
	"To mask the fact that such an alliance has already been effected," Karsh answered. "It's logical."
	Clender asked, "What does Terle gain in either case?"
	"If we knew that such an alliance were in effect, we would link the Zuman government with Li-Hu's attempt to snatch the bomb secret. In effect, Terle is exempting his government from participation in the plot by demonstrating that no such alliance exists."
	Clender shook his head negatively. "That's farfetched, August."
	"It's a hypothesis," Karsh replied.
	"Why would they use Terle? Why not someone more expendable?"
	"Because Terle's accomplishing a double function," Karsh answered. "Do you notice that he's moving farther and farther from Ophiucus? Why? Because he knows that we'll be intent on watching him. In effect, he's trying to draw our attention from what is happening in Ophiucus. It's the only way I can reason this thing, Clender."
	"There must be a more simple reason, August. The Alphans might hold possession of the Rigel, but they can't return the bomb. You said that yourself. And they can't hold the Rigel very long," Clender declared grimly. "The N-cruiser Cetus is out of hypertime now, to say nothing of the Draco. Another few days and we'll have York there."
	"And probably Terle, too," Karsh replied drily. "Or very close by."
	"How do you figure that? Terle's moving in an almost opposite direction."
	"As long as we're watching him, yes." Karsh slapped the desk. "Perhaps that's it, Clender. How long would it take him to backtrack, get to Ophiucus? Not long. And in the meantime, we're supposed to be looking in the other direction. How do we know where he is now? We don't, and we might not know where he pops up next until it's too late."
	"By Jupiter, you might be right!" exclaimed Clender.
	"It's a hypothesis." Karsh pressed a button and leaned toward a desk mike. "What's the nearest inhabited planet to the star Gelhart, region of Ophiucus?" he asked.
	Within ten seconds a voice said, "The planet Grydo, third of the green-white sun Geddes. The distance is six hours and ten minutes hypertime, using the Mayfax drive, seven hours with the Oldex. Do you wish the planetary data?"
	"Type and value," Karsh responded.
	"Colonial planet of agricultural status; its economic index is point zero-zero-five."
	"That will be all," Karsh snapped. He closed the channel and looked at Clender. "I want you to check every space terminal on Anhaus, list any passenger that might have departed for Grydo."
	"Right away," Clender acknowledged.
	"I also want a wall of men placed around Grydo's spaceport," Karsh continued. "And agents in every hotel, every public place."
	"We're too late for that," Clender objected. "If Terle's en route to Grydo, he'll arrive before the order can be put into effect."
	Karsh said softly, "He might arrive there, Clender, but I want to make certain he doesn't get off."
	"A teleport, August?"
	"We can seal off the planet, isolate it completely."
	"You still might not catch him."
	Karsh smiled grimly. "A planet with an economic index of point zero-zero-five? We can reduce that to zero-zero period, if we must."
	"Annihilate Grydo!" exclaimed Clender.
	"If necessary." Karsh pressed the button and again spoke into the mike. "Get me the Admiral of the Galactic Seas immediately."

	Alone in his office, Karsh stared through the windows at Sol's soft golden rays. It was all a game, he mused. To the billions of citizens of the hundreds of planets the Zumans were freaks, mutants, the alien spawn of an ungodly star. That message had been drummed home in the public media until, in the course of repetition, propaganda had become gospel. But he knew better. Sitting back, he folded his hands and contemplated it.
	In truth the Zumans were Earth-descended -- a point the history books conveniently overlooked -- and as such were a very real part of the Empire, even though they were sealed off. Far from being the ogres the public media made them, most were just ordinary people. Only now and then did the mutations occur which produced telepaths and -- yes, he had to admit it -- teleports. Of course, the curve of genius was rather high...
	Dr. G -- he toyed with the name in his mind. The good doctor, contrary to much of the First Level belief, wasn't interested in conquest or power. His sole objective was to return his people to the Empire. In fact, from what Karsh had discerned through York's reports, the head of Zuman Intelligence was an extremely likable man. Likable and extremely intelligent, he corrected. In all honesty, Karsh thought, he'd like to see the Zumans take their rightful place in the stream of history. The Empire would be the better for it. He couldn't say that, of course, but he felt it, and as the Empire's chief intelligence officer, his task was to see that it never came to pass. Justice was on the side of Dr. G, he thought. But he held the power.
	He smiled frostily.


6

	GELHART HUNG alone in a black universe, a pale yellow sun that shone with a lusterless light yet was unbearable to the naked eye. The hundred thousand stars that gleamed around it were incredibly remote, forming little more than a backdrop to the eternal velvet night through which Gelhart sped, accompanied by six smaller pieces of matter. These were its planets -- "grotesque caricatures of worlds," as Jan Galton described them.
	Standing with York at the Draco's star window, the navigator observed, "For some reason this part of the rim is terribly empty, almost alien, you might say. The few inhabited planets are widely scattered, scarcely better than Gelhart's."
	"Empty?" York peered at the sweep of stars, thinking it resembled a field of diamonds.
	Galton smiled wryly. "I was speaking of the prevalence of life. It teems in some parts of the galaxy yet appears to avoid other parts. This is one of the avoided areas."
	"Has it to do with the nature of the planets?"
	"That would be my supposition," Galton admitted, "although I've seen civilization on worse worlds. The dwarf planets of the Struve sun, for example. Did you know that its light is purple? Can you imagine life on one of its worlds? And yet there is. They say that man is the most adaptable creature in the universe. I claim he has to be, judging from some of the places he's chosen to live on."
	"You used the word alien," York commented. "Were you thinking of Gelhart?"
	"In part," Galton confessed. "Look at it -- a yellow sun, much like Sol, and not too greatly different in size. Yet note its light -- dull, lifeless, as if it were a great mass painted yellow instead of a blazing inferno. A strange star, like many in this region."
	"Is it hot?"
	Galton nodded. "Hot enough to cinder Goa and Debro, its two inner planets, and make wastelands of the third and fourth. They're vast, burning deserts; no other words can describe them."
	"What about the outer two? You mentioned six."
	"Methane," said Galton, "methane giants, much like Jupiter and Saturn, if you're acquainted with them. They're frozen solid to their cores. This is an unhospitable part of the galaxy, York, and yet these planets will be claimed someday."
	York returned his attention to Gelhart. It did appear more like a yellow plate pasted against the sky than a sun. Although unbearable to the eye, its brightness was not a gleam, nor did it pulsate like so many stars. Lifeless was a good word, he thought. He glanced at the navigator and asked, "Where are we now?"
	Galton smiled slightly. "I've been working all night to come up with that answer."
	"Because of Gelhart's isolation?"
	"Locating Gelhart was no trick, but locating its planets was," he explained. "They are forgotten worlds, lost in time. I don't believe anyone's bothered with them in a thousand years."
	"But you did find them?" York interrupted.
	Galton nodded. "We emerged inside the orbits of Tennhauf and Geranda, the methane giants I mentioned. At the moment we're penetrating the orbit of Skyro, fourth from the sun."
	"Not stopping?"
	"Skyro's present position is opposite the sun," explained Galton. "I finally tracked that down. As it happens, we're much closer to Bonoplane, the third planet. She'll fill our star window before long."
	"When will we reach it?"
	"Almost one standard week," answered Galton. "Our navigation's not sufficiently refined to risk popping in much closer."
	York grinned. "It's close enough for me."
	"We'll spend far more time covering the last few millions of miles in conventional drive than we did skipping a tenth of the way across the galactic rim," Galton stated. "It's somewhat like planetary travel; you spend more time getting to and from the terminals than you do in flight."
	"What's Bonoplane like, aside from being a vast desert?"
	"Burning heat by day, bitter cold by night -- a dry, windless world without life. A sterile world, York." Galton shrugged.
	"I was thinking in terms of landing."
	"It has an oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere," replied Galton. "The oxygen content is low but breathable, at least according to the records. We'll have to test that. There's the usual scatter of other gases. Surface gravity and barometric pressure both are close to four-fifths standard."
	"Breathable oxygen and yet no life?" York cocked his head.
	"None," Galton replied flatly.
	"How large is it?"
	"Slightly over seven thousand miles in diameter." Galton smiled as York pursed his lips. "If you're worrying about locating the Rigel on what appears to be a limitless plain, don't. The Draco's sensors can cover every square inch of Bonoplane in two days, three at most."
	"The thought was perturbing," he admitted.
	"Actually our subspace interrogator is locked on the planet now," Galton went on. He caught the question in York's eyes and continued. "In case of any attempt to communicate."
	"Could anyone there detect our approach?"
	"It depends on the Rigel's condition -- if it's there," answered Galton. He eyed York curiously. "But we don't know that, don't even know if it ever reached a planetary surface, let alone Bonoplane's."
	York said drily, "I imagine it's there."
	"Are you expecting survivors?"
	"Definitely."
	Galton shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose there is a lot that I don't know."
	"A lot that none of us know," he corrected, "but we'll learn. What kind of landers did the Rigel carry?"
	"Cruiser standard, eight in number, plus the captain's spacer," the navigator answered. "They can't go between systems, if that's what you're asking."
	"But they have an interplanetary capability?"
	"Conventional drive." Galton nodded. "But it would require quite skillful navigation."
	"So if Skyro's on the opposite side of the sun, Bonoplane's about the only place they could have landed. Is that what you're saying?"
	"That would be my guess."
	"Let's hope you're right." York looked at the star window and asked, "What's the nearest inhabited world?"
	"Grydo, third of Geddes." Galton leveled a long finger at the star window. "That small green sun off to the right of Gelhart. It resembles an emerald."
	"That's close?" asked York. "It appears as distant as anything in the sky."
	"A bit over six hours through hypertime," answered Galton. "That's a long way if you're speaking of pure distance, which we seldom do. Distance is a measure of planetary surfaces; in space we speak only of time."
	York started to reply when Les Osborn came over from the communicator, where he had the watch, and stood stiffly until Galton said, "What is it, Osborn?"
	"The captain would like to see Mr. York in his cabin, sir."
	"In a few minutes," York told him. "I'm getting my astronomy lesson."
	"Yes, sir," Osborn returned dubiously.
	Galton observed York shrewdly as the deckhand wheeled to return to his post. "You haven't quite got the Navy spirit," he remarked. "It's customary to jump when the captain beckons."
	York smiled. "Perhaps he wants to swear me in. Think I'd make a good deckhand?"
	"Absolutely not," Galton declared. His eyes twinkled. "You're much too independent, York."
	Captain Hull was hunched over some papers when York came in. The bluish light gave his skin a ghostly hue. "Sit down," he invited.
	"Thank you." York seated himself in the chair at the side of the desk and waited for the captain to speak.
	Hull pushed the papers aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "We've been making a quiet investigation," he announced, "but I can't honestly say that it's produced much."
	"On the gas bomb?"
	Hull inclined his head. "We have the deluded belief that the officers' quarters are sacrosanct, but it's amazing how many enlisted personnel have access -- maintenance, mess attendants, cooks, men going to the weapons compartments. I'll have to confess, I was quite surprised."
	"You're used to seeing them," York ventured. "They become part of the scenery."
	"I suppose." Hull paused before continuing. "I'll also have to admit that several of the Alphan crew members were in this area about that time. Not that it's significant," he finished.
	"You know their names?"
	Hull said reluctantly, "Char Wong, an engine technician, and Lu Singkai, of maintenance. They came up to play Krabacci with Wally, our mess attendant. I don't say this in the belief that either of them is guilty of anything, but only to put it in the record."
	"Have they been up before?" asked York.
	"A number of times. The game's very popular."
	"Did they arrive and leave together?"
	"I can't say. I haven't wanted to cause too much of a disturbance," replied Hull. "If the point's important, I can have Tregaski ask Wally in confidence."
	"Perhaps it's better if you didn't make an issue of it," York suggested. "At least we're warned."
	"That's my feeling." Hull shifted back in his seat and folded his hands. "But that's not why I sent for you. It seems that your Myron Terle has made another appearance, this time in Rhonda."
	"Rhonda?" He turned over the name in his mind.
	"An industrial city on Anhaus, third of Arcturus. He tried to contact another of Li-Hu's agents."
	"Tried?" York arched his eyebrows. "I take it that he wasn't too successful."
	"He failed to keep the appointment," Hull acknowledged.
	"Another double agent?"
	Hull nodded. "However, First Level believes that the Zuman government already has effected some sort of alliance with Prince Li-Hu. His appearance in Rhonda appears to affirm that."
	"Who in First Level?" asked York.
	"The Admiral of the Galactic Seas and, I presume, August Karsh. I understand the E.I. is working closely with the Navy on this one." York suppressed a smile, thinking that Hull had everything turned around. If anything, the admiral was waiting on Karsh's doorstep, hoping for a few crumbs.
	He asked, "What's his reasoning?"
	"Terle's actions. He's used the same passport twice -- name of Dorcus Antol -- and he's fluffed both contact attempts. That doesn't sound like the Myron Terle you describe. The admiral feels that these maneuvers are deliberate attempts to draw attention to himself."
	"Does he give a reason?"
	"The one I mentioned -- to conceal the fact that such an alliance already exists. Terle's actions apparently are designed to make us believe otherwise."
	"That's a complicated picture you're drawing," York mused.
	Hull asked, "Aren't these intelligence maneuvers usually complicated?"
	"Very," he acknowledged.
	"If such an alliance does exist, it's related to our present problem, York. I see no reason to doubt that. I still consider Terle as the most dangerous threat."
	"It sounds reasonable," he acceded.
	"It is reasonable," Hull corrected. "At least that's the admiral's belief. And if we accept that, we have to accept the fact that Terle has some plan for getting the bomb secret. I shudder to think of a man like that loose."
	"Because he's a teleport?"
	Hull nodded. "How can you catch such a man?"
	"You couldn't on a crowded planet, say like Earth or Kalar. He could move from house to house, or city to city, within the blink of an eye."
	"So if he ever got aboard a ship headed toward such a world -- ?" Hull hunched forward, frowning.
	"You'd never catch him," York asserted.
	"And if he had the secret?"
	"He'd get it back to Dr. G."
	"How?" Hull asked bluntly.
	"If you're speaking of Earth, I imagine the good doctor has any number of agents scattered around."
	"On Earth -- First Level? That's hard to believe."
	"Nevertheless it's true." York smiled. "Karsh penetrates the Zuman worlds. Do you believe Dr. G is any less adroit?"
	"I couldn't say," Hull answered stiffly.
	"He isn't. Take it from me."
	"You forget, we keep those worlds sealed off, York. A gnat couldn't slip through."
	"Is Myron Terle smaller than a gnat?"
	Hull bit his lip vexedly. "I'll admit that he got through; how, I don't know."
	"Just like E.I. gets through."
	Hull raised his head angrily. "You're making us sound slipshod."
	"Not a bit," York denied, "but you can't catch them all. The Draco and destroyers like it serve to keep traffic to a minimum. But there is traffic. And once a ship gets into hypertime..."
	"That's the safest assumption, I suppose."
	"Quite the safest," he assured him.
	Hull sighed and sat back. "That's what worries me, the possibility that Terle might somehow get the secret and escape aboard a ship bound for a major planet. Believe me, I have nightmares over that possibility."
	"I imagine Karsh has, also," he replied drily.
	"No doubt. Nevertheless I'm fully confident that the admiral is taking all necessary precautions, York."
	"Such as?"
	"I couldn't say." Hull's voice was frosty. "But with First Level alerted to the danger, I have the definite feeling that Mr. Myron Terle is in for somewhat of a shock. Prince Li-Hu as well. They're challenging the power of the Empire, and I fancy the Empire's capable of answering it."
	"And the Draco's the answer, eh? That must give you a feeling of pride."
	Hull reddened and said, "It's beginning to look very much as if we won't be in on the kill, and that's too bad."
	"Why not?" York asked sharply.
	"The N-cruiser Cetus has been dispatched to the scene," Hull told him. "By a fortunate happenstance, it was undergoing emergency repairs on one of the nearby rim worlds. They rushed through the job."
	"It's spaceborne?"
	Hull nodded. "I've just received a report that it's already out of hypertime and somewhat closer to Gelhart than we are."
	"That shouldn't prevent our going in," he asserted.
	"I'm afraid it might. I wouldn't be at all surprised if we were ordered back to Upi."
	"As critical as this situation is?" asked York. "I can't believe that."
	"There are reasons, York."
	"Because the Draco isn't an N-ship?" he asked bluntly.
	Hull said coldly, "The Empire's policy is to restrict all N-bomb information to certain qualified ships. The Draco doesn't happen to be one of them. I don't mind saying, York, I regard it as good policy."
	"Really?" York grinned. "I'll bet you're boiling inside."
	"I would like to be in on the kill," Hull replied steadily. "I admit that. But that's personal vanity. From an operational point of view, I realize the Cetus is more than adequate for any emergency that might arise."
	"Was the Rigel?" York asked softly.
	Hull flushed. "I might point Out that if this proves to be sabotage, it will be the first case in over three centuries, and I can assure you that it won't happen again. We are warned now."
	York leaned back, eyeing the captain steadily. "How can you say that, in view of what just happened here? You have a potential murderer aboard, and you don't even know who he is, or what he might do, or how he might be linked up to what happened aboard the Rigel. You don't know any of those things, Captain, and yet you deny even the remote possibility of sabotage."
	"I'll take the responsibility for what happens aboard my ship," Hull snapped stiffly.
	"I'm pointing out that this isn't a matter of weapons and ship size," York replied. "It's a matter of intelligence, and that means E.I. Right now the Rigel happens to be my job."
	"You are taking a lot for granted, Mr. York."
	"Let's not be formal," he answered. "It was cozier the other way. You admitted that you'd like to be in on the kill, and I'm just trying to assure you that you will be. The Draco won't be ordered back to Upi. I can guarantee that."
	"What makes you so positive?"
	"August Karsh."
	Hull said pointedly, "August Karsh hasn't the slightest say where naval operations are concerned, York. He might advise, yes, but not give orders."
	"This situation isn't restricted to the Navy," York replied easily. "It's bigger than that. When you're talking about the N-bomb, you're talking about the Empire, its survival. This isn't a battle, Captain. It's a conspiracy, and that puts it right in August Karsh's lap. Those are the facts of life."
	"We'll see," Hull returned shortly.
	York grinned suddenly. "You should really be happy," he said. "Nothing ever happens on Upi, but out here..."

	Passing through the crew's quarters en route to the ship's hospital, York saw Osborn sitting alone at one of the mess tables, immersed in a magazine. He paused, looking at Osborn's bony profile as a plan formed in his mind. Osborn was tough, rugged, the kind of a man he might need. As if prescient, Osborn glanced up and abruptly sat straighter.
	"Catching up on your reading?" York asked.
	"Yes, sir, just waiting to go on watch." Osborn lowered the magazine, his eyes watchful.
	"Sir? I'm not Navy." York smiled and sat opposite him.
	"I didn't know." The blue eyes searched York's face candidly.
	"But you've heard rumors, eh?"
	"Some," he admitted cautiously.
	"Such as?"
	"That you are an inspector for the Bureau of Colonial Planets," replied Osborn. His voice doubted the information.
	"What else?" York prompted.
	"That you are a Navy officer."
	"But you don't believe it?"
	"No, sir," Osborn answered.
	"What else have you heard?" he prompted.
	Osborn added reluctantly, "There's talk that you're with Empire Intelligence."
	"Where'd you hear that?"
	"Just rumor. You know how those things float around."
	"It happens to be correct, Osborn."
	"Empire Intelligence?" Osborn asked wonderingly.
	York nodded and produced his credentials. "This is in absolute confidence," he warned.
	"Yes, sure."
	"I'm telling you because I might need your help."
	Osborn considered the statement, his eyes weighing the agent frankly. York saw the belief in his face, tinged with speculation and awe. Abruptly Osborn asked, "Does the captain know?"
	"He knows. Want him to vouch for me?"
	"I can just see me asking," Osborn snorted. A grin touched his lips. "I guess you're all right. When you first came aboard you were under guard, but now they seem to let you roam around. You must be in the clear."
	York grinned back. "For the time being."
	"What kind of help?" Osborn asked cautiously.
	"We've got a murderer aboard. You know that, don't you?"
	"Murderer? You mean that gas bomb thing?"
	York nodded. "Is that making the rounds?"
	"Heard something about it," Osborn confirmed non-committally. "Can't say that I believe it."
	"Why not?"
	"Well" -- he struggled for words -- "it would have to be someone in the crew. That's hard to believe."
	"Is it?" asked York. "Do you know what happened to the Rigel?"
	"Only hearsay," answered Osborn quickly, "but we're always hearing wild stories."
	"The same thing can happen to the Draco," warned York.
	"It's true?"
	"Very much so. That's why I need your help." York leaned back, watching him. The blue eyes were troubled, and he saw the indecision in his face; at the same time it was pale and shocked. He added, "When this is over, I'll see that it gets into your service record, and, of course, I'll mention it to the Admiral of the Galactic Seas."
	"The admiral?" Osborn blurted.
	"I'm sort of a special agent for him on this job," York confided. "And for August Karsh. That's why I came to you, Osborn. I sized you up for the rugged type, the kind who isn't afraid of danger, and I'm certain I'm right."
	"What do you want me to do?"
	"Help me to catch a killer before he kills."
	"But you don't know who he is!" exclaimed Osborn. "I wouldn't know how to go about something like that."
	"It's easy." York let the suspense build in the other's face before he continued. "He'll try again. And when he does, we'll have to be ready."
	"Try to kill you?" asked Osborn incredulously.
	York nodded. "Or the ship. That's the big danger. Did you know that a ship can be murdered like a man? That's what happened to the Rigel."
	"I never thought of it that way," Osborn confessed.
	"But we can prevent it," York observed. "I have an idea that our killer's smart, but not that smart. At least I don't believe he is. The odds are in our favor."
	"What odds?"
	"He's desperate, and desperate men get reckless."
	Osborn's face toughened. "What do I have to do?"
	"Nothing for the moment. Just watch, listen, let me know the rumors, particularly anything related to the Rigel. And be ready."
	"Just wait?" Osborn cocked his head questioningly.
	"For now," York agreed, "but when the time comes, you'll have to act fast, and you'll be on your own. Perhaps the fate of the Draco will be at stake, and there won't be time for questions or indecision. Think you can manage that?"
	"I can do it all right." Osborn's big hand crumpled the magazine as he set his jaw in a tight line.
	"I know I can bank on you," York said smoothly. "The main thing is secrecy. Not a word of this to anyone."
	"I won't say nothin'," Osborn promised.
	"That's what it takes to be a good agent," York affirmed, "absolute secrecy. And you're an agent now."
	"Me -- an agent?" he asked disbelievingly.
	"For this trip," York promised.
	Osborn stammered, "I'll do my best, Mr. York."
	"I know you will," he answered. "I have the fullest confidence in that."


7

	DR. BENBOW was coming from a side room, balancing a cup, as York entered the hospital. "Just in time," he greeted. "Sit down, and I'll bring you a drink."
	"Strong and black," said York. "I need it."
	When they were seated, the doctor asked, "What's the stress?"
	"Just had another session with your captain." York's face took on a rueful expression. "I don't believe he's overly fond of me at the moment."
	"Oh?" Benbow arched his eyebrows quizzically.
	York related parts of his conversation with Hull. "I tried to convince him that this was an intelligence operation, not a naval one."
	"No skipper likes to be told that his service is playing second fiddle," Benbow interrupted. "What makes you so certain that the Draco won't be ordered back to Upi?"
	"Because I'm aboard, and because this is an intelligence operation," responded York. "The captain's beliefs to the contrary, the Admiral of the Galactic Seas definitely is not in charge. I'd stake my reputation on that."
	"Heresy, York."
	"From the captain's viewpoint, yes." York grinned.
	Benbow pursed his lips thoughtfully. "There are good reasons why the Draco might be ordered to return, York. Have you considered that?"
	"Not good enough, Doc. Keeping the bomb restricted to the N-ships is good policy in fair weather, but this is foul."
	"You might have a point," the doctor acceded.
	"Do have a point," York corrected.
	Benbow lifted his cup, looking at York over the rim. "I can see the captain's perturbation. You came aboard as an inspector. Now you're an E.I. agent."
	"I didn't want to reveal that until we'd lifted from Upi," York returned. "The reason should be obvious."
	"It is now," Benbow agreed. "As I get it, you also discounted the idea that the Zuman government was involved." His tone was questioning.
	"The picture's changing, Doc."
	"In what way?"
	"Myron Terle wasn't on the loose then."
	"That bothers the skipper," Benbow reflected. "He's more perturbed over Terle than he is over a possible Li-Hu plot."
	"Has he mentioned it?"
	"He's picked my brains," Benbow admitted, "but I can appreciate his worry. Terle, a teleport, linked up with Li-Hu?" His eyes were inquiring.
	"An unproved assumption," York answered.
	"Do you believe they're working independently?"
	"They're both after the bomb, if that's what you mean."
	The doctor smiled. "I didn't quite mean that."
	"There could be an alliance." York shrugged.
	"But you don't believe so, eh?"
	He grimaced. "I'd better not make a statement. I'm notorious for wrong guesses."
	"I wouldn't suspect that," Benbow returned wryly. He took another sip of coffee before continuing. "Who do you believe is the more dangerous, Terle or Li-flu?"
	"Myron Terle. There's no doubt of that."
	"Why?"
	"He's running true to form."
	"You lost me on that one." The doctor's eyes held a puzzled look.
	"As the captain pointed out, he's giving himself away with every move," York explained. "He's leaving a path that a blind man could follow, openly attempting to establish contact with the prince's agents. He might as well be carrying a signpost."
	"That's certainly not subtle, York."
	"But extremely effective," he declared. "That's why I say he's running true to form. Right now his actions make him completely unpredictable. The admiral might not know it, or the captain, but Karsh does. And he's compelled to follow Terle. Has the alliance been established or hasn't it? That question must have First Level in a turmoil."
	"I can see that."
	"Understanding the situation and knowing the answer are two different things," York said, "and that's exactly the situation that Karsh is in, and the admiral. They don't know which way to jump."
	"So they jump in all directions. Is that it?"
	"Just about."
	Benbow tilted his head. "He's certainly taking the spotlight off of what is happening here."
	"That's part of it," York contended.
	"Yet Karsh must know that," Benbow remarked speculatively.
	"He knows, all right."
	"Karsh must have an extreme amount of confidence in you," the doctor commented.
	York's voice was earnest as he answered. "I would like to believe that, but I'm afraid it's a case where Karsh reasons like the captain. Terle is the eye of the storm. He can't lose by focusing on him."
	"Do you believe that?"
	"Curiously, I do," York asserted. "Right now the threads are far apart, strung throughout the galaxy, but they'll draw together. When they do, that's where you'll find Terle. And it will be the eye of the storm," he added.
	"I take it that you believe he's tied in with this Rigel plot?"
	"Absolutely," York declared.
	"Is he as fantastic as they say?"
	"The teleport bit?" He nodded. "He's that, all right."
	"I'd like to see that," Benbow said. "It must be quite a sight."
	"Not really. He's there, and then he's not there; it's as simple as that." York waved his hand lightly. "No puff of smoke or loud boom or anything. He just vanishes."
	"Where? Hypertime?"
	York shrugged. "Who knows? Where was the Draco when it was in hypertime? It's just a word, Doc, but it doesn't tell us anything."
	"A ship is powered into hypertime," Benbow countered.
	"What power has the mind?"
	"The normal mind can't conceive of that, York."
	"What's normal in this universe?" he challenged. "On Klengo the worms float through the air -- big ones, up to five feet long."
	"That's not vanishing."
	"Try floating sometime," he returned.
	"You don't appear worried."
	"I'm not the worrying type."
	"I can see that," Benbow assented.
	"The worrying agent doesn't last long," York said.
	"How about the nonworriers?"
	"Luck, it's all a matter of luck." York scrunched forward in his chair and dropped his voice. "Making any headway in your little investigation?"
	"Frankly, I'm puzzled," admitted Benbow. "The gas was cyanic. I've determined that, and I've also determined that we don't use it aboard ship, don't store it. Nor do we store the type of canister that was used. Everything was spirited aboard."
	"Doesn't surprise me," York murmured.
	"No?" the doctor asked sharply. "Look at the questions that raises. If the gas bomb were brought aboard, as apparently it was, it presupposes a knowledge of what was to happen, how it was to be used. That's damning, York, especially if the incident were related to our mission -- to the Rigel."
	"Which it is," he retorted calmly.
	The doctor studied him. "Are you certain? How could anyone, even the captain, have known that the Draco would be assigned to the investigation? No one could have known that."
	"Logic," he answered, "and good intelligence. Remember, the Draco was by far the closest available ship, or was supposed to be until they uncovered the Cetus. That was a fluke the saboteurs couldn't have anticipated."
	"That still doesn't clarify things," the doctor persisted. "The saboteurs -- if there were saboteurs -- certainly would have hesitated if they'd anticipated the Draco's intervention, yet bringing the bomb aboard indicates they did anticipate it."
	"Not only anticipated it, but encouraged it," York pointed out.
	"That doesn't make sense," the doctor asserted.
	"Very little does, on the surface," he admitted.
	"What's your logic?" Benbow challenged.
	"Saboteurs clever enough to take over an N-cruiser would be clever enough to prevent the dispatch of a distress signal," he explained. "But they didn't. The signal came through loud and clear. Where does that leave us? I have scant doubt but that the saboteurs sent it."
	"You're talking riddles, York."
	"Am I?" he asked. "Consider these facts. The Rigel was sabotaged -- taken over -- in a region easy to pinpoint. Gelhart, a lone sun, just happens to have a planetary system that restricts our search to a single planet. I have Galton's word for that. Would they have made it so easy if they'd wanted to remain hidden? They could have picked the region of packed suns, or a sun with a ten- or twelve-planet system, to say nothing of a score of moons. The Rigel's sweep covers such areas. But they didn't. They chose Gelhart, a sun that stands like a signpost in the sky. All very convenient. They want us to find them," York positively declared.
	Benbow shook his head slowly. "It still doesn't make sense."
	"It would if the Draco were part of the plan."
	"You said that before," the doctor stated searchingly.
	"And I say it again."
	"I don't suppose you'd care to go into it?"
	York shook his head negatively. "Not yet."
	Benbow's square face took on a speculative look. "There's still an unanswered question," he said. "Assuming your premises are true, how could the saboteurs have known you'd show up aboard the Draco?"
	"I don't believe they did."
	"Then why the bomb?"
	"I was the unpredictable. There's always an unpredictable, you know." York paused reflectively. "My arrival panicked someone, and he lost his head, decided to get rid of me. By doing so, he tipped his hand, perhaps gave the whole plot away. At least I'm beginning to get a picture. A rather fantastic one, to be sure, and yet quite simple."
	The doctor sighed and said plaintively, "It's too abstruse for me."
	"Not really," York rejoined. "As a psychomedician, you can certainly appreciate how the mind works, how devious it can be."
	"The mind, yes, but this?" The doctor's hands fluttered helplessly.
	"A product of the mind," York stated, "with all the twists of which the mind is capable. Quite clever twists, I might add. No novice worked out this one."
	As York finished his coffee and rose to leave, Benbow caught his eye. "You still haven't accounted for the presence of the bomb aboard the Draco," he observed pointedly.
	He grinned. "Part of the plan, Doc."
	Leaving the hospital, York felt curiously invigorated. If Benbow played the devil's advocate, York found the role stimulating. Hull's worries over Myron Terle reflected the admiral's attitude, which in turn reflected August Karsh's; he had scant doubt of that. And from their attitudes, he could almost predict the next step, and the step beyond that, for attitude -- at least when applied to Karsh -- was the inevitable prelude to action. He wondered how Benbow and Hull would react if they knew the true situation. Well, they'd know soon enough. He only hoped it wasn't too soon.
	He felt a sudden impatience. For days time had seemed endless, the mission remote, but now they were deep in the Gelhart system, speeding toward the planet where almost certainly the Rigel had landed. It was the familiar feeling of climax, the moment when plot and plan and action would boil together, when the devious machinations of Dr. G and August Karsh and Prince Li-flu would be put to test.
	And the stakes? Contemplating them, he felt a quick awe. If August Karsh won, the Empire would go on as before -- sprawling, benevolent, a placid kingdom in which all men were equal or nearly equal; an Empire which in its benevolence had spawned an authoritarian class which ruled justly and without harshness; an Empire which grew slowly, expanding down the long galactic corridor toward the magnificent spiral nebula in the constellation Andromeda; an Empire which grew more through the inertia of thousands of years than through plan.
	If Prince Li-flu won, the Empire would be split. The restless hordes of the Alphan suns, fretting and impatient, would burst forth undeterred by the terror of the N-bomb, carving new niches in the endless sea of planets. Such a split would end the Empire as the ages had known it; like all empires of the past, it would slide into slow decline and eventual oblivion. Or it would be torn by wars too horrible to contemplate as the Alphans sought to tear off the yoke, assert their mastery. That was the thing which must be avoided above all else.
	And if Dr. G won? A new race, a new form of mankind would spread through the stars. Few in number, they would infiltrate the seats of power, infuse the Empire with new blood. But they'd do it slowly, over a long period, so that mankind, per se, would never realize that he had been supplanted; he would never know that a new being was rising from the ashes of the old.
	Those were the stakes. And the outcome, as often happened, would depend on a small action in a remote corner of the galaxy. Hull was wrong; the might of the Empire meant nothing. All its vast star cruisers were for nought, for the ultimate decision rested with a few men -- August Karsh's Daniel York, Prince Li-flu's mere handful of saboteurs, Dr. G's Myron Terle. They were meeting to determine the fate of the Empire. He wondered if Hull could appreciate that. Or Benbow.
	He'd nearly reached the end of the passageway when he felt his scalp prickle, and a warning screamed in his mind. Almost without thought he hurled himself sideways to the deck, simultaneously feeling a wave of heat brush his cheek. His feet hit the wall, and instantly he propelled himself backward through a doorway he'd glimpsed opposite him. Another heat wave seared the calf of his leg. As his hand dived to the small blaster in his pocket, a burnt odor assailed his nostrils.
	Shouts came from the passageway as he scrambled to his feet, clasping the weapon. Stepping through the doorway, he saw several crewmen milling around. One of them caught sight of his blaster and stepped back, exclaiming, "It's Mr. York!"
	With scarcely a glance at them, he wheeled and raced back through the corridor. He found the crew's mess hall empty and crossed it quickly, descending the ladder that led toward the maintenance and engine compartments. Bursting through a doorway, he stopped abruptly at the sight of half a dozen crewmen gathered around a Krabacci game.
	Jona Norden, the slender maintenance chief, glanced around at his entrance and flashed a bright smile. "Ah, Mr. York. What brings you here?"
	York looked at his sallow face. The eyes above the toothy smile were small, as expressionless as polished obsidian, yet held a wariness that he was unable to decipher. He remembered that Norden was Alphan-born.
	"Visiting," he answered noncommittally. He moved his gaze to the players. Singkai, stolid and still as a statue, sat at one side of the board facing a slender younger man whose soiled clothes marked him as a member of the engine-room crew. "Game been going on long?" he asked.
	"Several hours, but Singkai will win." Norden kept his eyes riveted on York's face. "You've been hurt."
	"Scraped it," York replied, conscious for the first time that his cheek stung.
	Norden said drily, "Also scraped your leg, I see."
	He looked down, noticing that his pants leg was burned away at the calf, revealing the seared flesh. "Must have got that in the fall," he observed.
	"Life in space can be dangerous," Norden commented. York couldn't decide whether or not he sensed anything behind the words. The maintenance chief's thin face was as inscrutable as his eyes. York glanced back at the game.
	"Do you play?" Norden asked.
	"No." He shook his head.
	"It's a real game of wits."
	York smiled. "Then I'm certain it's not for me."
	"I believe you'd be very good at it," the other murmured. Singkai suddenly lifted his head, appearing to see York for the first time. Unlike Norden's eyes, his were large, slanted, with a dark, luminous quality that suggested untold depths. For some reason they reminded him of gazing through the star window at the great voids between the galaxies; they were eyes like that, utterly without message, as fathomless as bottomless pools. And yet they weren't. York had the incredible thought that they were looking right through him, probing every facet of his mind and body, looking at the atoms of which he was made.
	Abruptly Singkai looked down again, hunching his ponderous body before he settled back into immobility.
	York eyed the onlookers without appearing to, aware of their covert glances. Char Wong, the engine technician who came from the planet Pehling, second of the Alphan sun Kang; David Apgar, deckhand, born on Fengpu...He fitted the faces with the photographs in the record books and the facts they contained. Like Norden, Apgar was a half-breed, a man of scant education. Paulson, Coulter, White..
	Finished with his inspection, he turned abruptly and started back up the ladder. Four of the eight men present had been Alphan or Alphan-born. Yet why not? Krabacci was an Alphan game. And one thing of which he was certain: Lu Singkai hadn't wielded the heat gun which had almost cut him down. The Alphan could never have gotten below so quickly nor composed himself so completely. And four of the onlookers were non-Alphans; he couldn't disregard that.
	Did that exempt Lu Singkai? Only from the actual attempt, he realized. How about Char Wong or David Apgar? Or Norden? There was nothing to say that one of them couldn't have been involved. He felt his cheek and leg burning again and turned toward the hospital.
	What would Benbow have to say to this one?

	Captain Corden Hull's weathered face was set and stern. His mud-blue eyes glinted angrily as he declared, "We never had things like this happen before you came aboard, Mr. York."
	"Did you ever have an N-cruiser stolen before?"
	"I'm speaking of the Draco," Hull replied stiffly.
	"The Draco, the Rigel" -- York shrugged -- "it's the same story."
	"I fully intend to get to the bottom of this, York." Hull raised his eyes to Lieutenant Tregaski, who had taken his customary position by the door. "I want every inch of this ship searched immediately, Lieutenant. I won't countenance illegal weapons."
	"Yes, sir," replied Tregaski.
	"I'd prefer you didn't," interrupted York.
	"You prefer?" Hull flushed. "I can't see where you enter into this, Mr. York."
	York caught and held his eyes. "You either solve this case or you don't. And if you don't, it could cost you the N-bomb."
	"Explain that," Hull ordered coldly.
	"The key to the Rigel plot lies aboard the Draco," he answered calmly. "I'm convinced of that. If you search the ship, you'll undoubtedly find weapons, but you won't know who intended to use them, or how. It won't tell you who the killers are in your crew, or how they are linked with the Rigel's saboteurs."
	"And just how do you expect to find them?" demanded Hull.
	"By waiting until they get ready to use the weapons," he replied.
	"By waiting!" Hull slapped the desk. "Why not nip their opportunity before they can put it into effect? Why take that risk, York?"
	"Right now you could never prove a thing," York pointed out. "Anything less than absolute proof is failure."
	"So I'm supposed to risk my ship?"
	"If necessary, yes." York leaned back, adding, "I'm certain the Admiral of the Galactic Seas would agree with me."
	"What would the admiral say if I reported a passenger killed because I didn't take adequate precautions?" asked Hull.
	York grinned. "What would he say if Prince Li-flu turned up with the N-bomb? He'd say plenty, Captain, and so would August Karsh. We'd both be out inspecting meteors." He saw a flicker of uncertainty cross Hull's face and continued. "Believe me, everything is going along fine, just as is. But we can't shake the ship now. It isn't the time."
	Hull gritted his teeth. "I certainly wish I had your confidence, York."
	"Why shouldn't I be confident with August Karsh and the admiral backing me?"
	"Do I detect a note of sarcasm?" demanded Hull.
	"Not at all," he denied. "It's a factual statement. You might refer back to the original memo regarding me."
	"I know the memo," Hull said shortly. He looked penetratingly at York. "I understand you rushed away from the scene. Why?"
	"To see where some of your crewmen might be." York told him what he had found and who was present at the Krabacci game. "But that doesn't exempt the onlookers or even the players," he finished.
	"With six witnesses?" Hull lifted his brow incredulously.
	"One of the players could have directed the operation," York pointed out. "Or the game could have been set up to provide an alibi. I have a suspicious mind."
	"You have indeed," Hull snorted.
	"On the other hand, it could be someone quite unsuspected. Even Tregaski there." He jerked a thumb toward the lieutenant.
	"Me?" Tregaski bellowed.
	"It's possible," he murmured.
	"Enough of this nonsense," Hull cut in icily.
	"Conspiracies are born and empires toppled out of such so-called nonsense," he retorted. "Nothing is nonsense in intelligence, Captain. Nothing."
	"That may be, but I don't like these wild accusations."
	"Observation, not accusation," he corrected. "There's a difference. And the fact remains, you don't know who's running around with gas bombs and heat guns, Captain, and you can't tell me differently. Believe me, I know."
	Hull raised his eyes, weighing him. "I don't intend to let you get killed, York. Not on my ship. Henceforth your movements will be restricted to the officers' quarters and the bridge."
	"You can't do that," York protested.
	"Except when under escort," he finished.
	York considered it and said. "That's agreeable. Only please don't give me an Alphan."
	Hull didn't smile.


8

	AUGUST KARSH glanced up from his work as Clender burst into his office, his mouth agape so that his lower jaw hung pendulously, a certain sign of his perturbation. Karsh's own immediate reaction was one of relief; his assistant's expression told him all he wanted to know. Nevertheless he asked sharply, "What is it?"
	"We just got word," answered Clender, fighting to suppress his excitement. "A passenger named Dana Smithson of Marta -- that's fourth of the sun Coulson -- booked passage for Grydo the day before Terle contacted Opol. And sure enough, he left Anhaus within fifteen minutes of the time Terle called."
	"That's our man, Clender." Karsh slapped the desk with finality, sensing a deep satisfaction. Events were moving just as he had predicted. Myron Terle had doubled back, was racing to rendezvous with Li-Hu's agents on Grydo. The parts were falling into place. There was an alliance, all right. Well, they'd both fall, Dr. G and the prince alike. And Myron Terle. Not that it would be easy. Terle was not the easy type.
	He said musingly, "Myron Terle alias Dorcus Antol alias Dana Smithson, alias X. You won't find him under the name of Smithson, Clender. Have you checked with the Marta authorities?"
	"We have a check underway, August. It'll take time."
	"You'll find there is no Dana Smithson," Karsh predicted. "Or if there is, you'll find the passport was taken out falsely in his name."
	"He won't slip away," Clender replied confidently.
	"He'd better not," Karsh warned. "Have you notified our Grydo office?"
	"I did that immediately," Clender confirmed, "but Terle -- if it is Terle -- will get there first. We can't stop him."
	Karsh pulled thoughtfully at his chin. "We don't want to stop him. Once he touches Grydo, we have him pinned to a planet, and this time he'll stay pinned. Grydo's a trap, a planet-sized trap, Clender. Myron Terle's coming to the end of his journey."
	"I -- I can't feel that confident, August."
	"Can't you, Clender? I can guarantee it."
	"By the time we get through an order to isolate the planet, he could arrive there and be gone. Like that, August." Clender snapped his fingers. "The man's magic."
	"Nonsense, nothing's magic." Karsh leaned back, wondering at his assistant's lack of perception. And yet Clender was sharper than most. It was the teleport business, he reflected. The idea of a man making himself vanish panicked him. He continued, "The order is given; I gave it myself. No ship will be allowed to lift from any part of Grydo, not even local traffic. The blockade is already effective. Grydo's sealed off as completely as the Zuman sun, Clender."
	"So he is trapped?" murmured Clender.
	"Completely," Karsh agreed, "and on a small agricultural planet. He can't hide long in that environment. The admiral has diverted the Cetus."
	"From Gelhart?" asked Clender, startled.
	Karsh nodded. "York can take care of that end."
	"The Draco's not an N-ship," Clender reminded.
	"I don't feel we're running a risk. Not with York aboard," Karsh stated. The curious smile came again. "I've endowed him with new powers which practically give him command of the Draco."
	"Command? Great Jupiter, would the admiral buy that?"
	"He wasn't particularly happy," Karsh admitted, "but he had no choice. The Cetus can't be in two places at once, and as you say, we're dealing with the N-bomb. The admiral could see the logic of that."
	"The Draco's captain is not going to like that."
	"Corden Hull? No, he won't, but I'm certain the admiral couched his orders to lessen the sting," Karsh reflected.
	"You mentioned a blockade of outgoing traffic." Clender paused speculatively. "How about incoming ships?"
	"You're thinking of Zuman or Alphan agents going in to contact him?" Karsh shook his head. "Consider the situation, Clender. Grydo is the focal point of this plot, not the Gelhart system. Terle had no hope of getting to Bonoplane, the planet on which the saboteurs apparently landed. We know that for the simple reason that there is no commerce with Bonoplane or any planet in the Gelhart system. They are sterile worlds, little more than wastelands. Where does that leave us? The saboteurs had some plan for reaching Grydo. That's the only possible explanation."
	"The Draco," Clender breathed. "That's the only way."
	"Exactly."
	"You mean take it over, like they did the Rigel?"
	"That would be my surmise," Karsh agreed.
	"But August, suppose they succeed?"
	"It's York's job to see that they don't," he answered. "But if they do, they'll undoubtedly try to establish contact with Terle. That presupposes a landing somewhere on Grydo, Clender. That's why I'm not blockading incoming ships. We'll get them all in one net."
	"That's risky," his assistant warned. "What's to prevent them from putting the Draco into hypertime, setting a course directly for one of the Alphan worlds? It's logical, August. If they have the Draco, they don't need Terle."
	"Good reasoning," Karsh admitted, "but why didn't they put the Rigel into hypertime? They haven't the navigator, Clender. That's evident."
	"Perhaps not," he murmured.
	"Aside from that, do you believe Dr. G would have missed that possibility? He would not, and neither would Li-Hu, but it just so happens that it won't work. I saw to that."
	"Oh?" Clender cocked his head.
	"Our first move was to blockade the Alphan worlds," he explained. "Most of the Empire's Navy is there now. A one-man lander couldn't get through the net we've thrown around Li-Hu's empire. Any ship that lifts off gets caught before it can get into hypertime."
	"You're blockading commercial liners?"
	"Everything," Karsh declared. "That forces Li-Hu to rely on Terle, just as Dr. G reasoned. G's no fool, you know."
	"Far from it," admitted Clender. "How did Li-Hu react?"
	"What can he do? Nothing at this stage of the game. To protest the blockade would cause a loss of face." Karsh shook his head. "He's caught, Clender, fair and square. His little plot is finished. I have scant doubt but that he'll wash his hands of the whole affair, pretend it never happened."
	"Will we let him?"
	"Diplomacy demands it," Karsh answered. "The king is sacrosanct."
	"King?"
	"A phrase from history," he explained.
	Clender said sourly, "I suppose that holds for the Zuman government."
	"Unfortunately, yes."
	Clender leaned forward. "How could Terle hope to get through, get the secret from Grydo to Dr. G? He can't teleport between planets, let alone between star systems. He certainly must have some plan in mind for returning the information."
	"Undoubtedly."
	"But what, August? That point perturbs me."
	"This plot needn't involve mere days or weeks; it could involve years, decades," Karsh reflected. "From Dr. G's standpoint, once Terle gets the secret, he can hop from place to place on the same planet, keep hidden. Eventually, when enough time passes, we'll relieve our vigilance, or so G hopes. And that's when Terle would make his break. G could well be thinking in terms of decades, Clender. What's fifty years in the life of a government? Practically nothing."
	"Well, that's reasonable." Clender pursed his lips dubiously.
	"Or perhaps he has a second teleport under wraps. Who knows? If that were the case, he might try to maneuver him onto Grydo; a fast intelligence runner could accomplish that. If such were the case, he could establish contact with Terle, and we'd never be the wiser -- not until G sent us a little message saying, 'We've got the bomb!' "
	"By the moons of Jupiter, August, you frighten me."
	"By the idea of a second teleport?" The faint smile touched Karsh's lips again. "Do you believe that such a mutation is a one-time thing? I have scant doubt but that there is a second, and a third and a fourth. Perhaps they have clairvoyants; perhaps we're being peeped at this very instant, who knows? As I mentioned before, that violet sun is the star of the future, Clender, and the shape of the future is being fashioned there right now. We can't allow our thinking to obscure reality."
	"I'd hate to whisper that outside these walls," breathed Clender. "The thought of those freaks is frightening."
	"Do you ever read prehistory?" asked Karsh. "Once there was a dumb brute called Neanderthal, but he owned a world. He was lord, god and master. Then one rosy dawn he came face to face with another brute, but a smarter one, Clender. He made stone weapons. This brute was Cro-Magnon, and from him we came. But we've done all we can with our genetics; we've had our little time, marched our brief step, and now the evening comes. This time we are the brute looking at our successors, only we won't acknowledge it. Prehistory tells us that the Neanderthals fought, Clender. They waged bloody battles across continents, but they lost. That was part of the plan."
	"We'll fight," whispered Clender hoarsely.
	"That's exactly what we are doing," answered Karsh. "Our job is to hold this new man down, preserve the status quo, the Empire. We don't act in justice, Clender, but from a position of power. Yet we are but monkeys in the cage of the universe, denying what our eyes see, what our senses tell us. We can't imagine what is coming out of that violet star, what shape or power is being bred there. And yet we will take our spears and hurl them against the tide."
	"Spears?" asked Clender.
	"A figure of speech."
	"If we know that and can't trap Terle, we can keep Grydo isolated forever," declared Clender. "We can make it his prison, cut it off as completely as we've sealed the Zuman sun."
	"That won't be necessary," answered Karsh.
	"You mean -- ?"
	"We'll try to trap him, yes. He must have weaknesses," Karsh said broodingly. "He can't teleport when he's unconscious; York was certain of that, and it's certainly logical that he can't. Nor can he teleport when he's dead. But we want him alive, Clender. We want a chance to put him under therapy, bleed his brain, and maybe through that we can learn something about our Dr. G and what is being spawned on the worlds of that violet star. Yes, we'll try."
	"And if we can't trap him, August?" Clender's voice was pleading. "What then?"
	"We'll annihilate Grydo." Karsh's voice rose to a harsh pitch. "We'll destroy it completely, Clender, blot it from the face of the universe. The Cetus has orders to that effect already."
	"Nova its sun?" breathed Clender.
	"That won't be necessary." The faint smile touched Karsh's lips once again. "A few cobalt bombs, nuclear bolts -- it's just a small planet, Clender."

	He was tall, gaunt-faced, thirtyish, and he walked with a slight limp as he came from the spaceport in Nahoo, a small city that nonetheless was the largest on Grydo, third of the green-white sun Geddes. He really wasn't lame; the limp affected his walk and stance and thus his personality, at least as viewed by others. His battered bag and weary countenance gave him the appearance of a man who had traveled long and hard, as indeed he had. He'd bought the bag new on the star liner to replace the one he'd abandoned in Rhonda but since had scuffed it to give a battered appearance he believed less eye-catching.
	Reaching the street, he paused to look at Nahoo's green and yellow buildings, mostly single-story; he noted the simple, sturdy lines that bespoke utility rather than beauty. Typical of the agricultural planets, he thought. So small was the city that he could see across it from the slight eminence on which the spaceport stood, a cluster of brightly colored structures filling a saucerlike depression; beyond, the farm hills appeared a pale green under the Geddes sun. The antiquated vehicles crawling along the street were surprisingly few in number, considering that the terminal lay adjacent to the town's business district. Sighing, he glanced around.
	Nahoo Inn. A gate unlocked in his mind and the name came into his consciousness, just as other names and facts had come to him during his hurried journey back and forth through the galaxy. Names and facts and directives. Just now the name Nahoo Inn pushed insistently at his mind, urging him to action.
	He didn't question why, yet instinctively knew that he was near the end of his ordained path. And then? He didn't know; the future was blotted out as effectively as the past. For the moment he existed in a narrow corridor of time in which past and future held the nothingness of gray. But still be had things to do. What things? He struggled with his thoughts, desperately trying to break through a barrier that he suspected rather than knew. If he could only...If he could only...Finally he gave up; he was weary, and the attempt was too much.
	There were no rental aircars on Grydo. He discovered that immediately. Nothing but the ancient vehicles that crept along the narrow streets with such appalling slowness. Finally he saw a public conveyance and flagged it down.
	"The Nahoo Inn," he ordered.
	"Yes, sir." The driver put the car in motion and asked, "New in the city?"
	"First visit," he acknowledged. Piqued by curiosity, he asked, "Why?"
	"The inn's just half a block away; in fact, we're there now," the driver replied cheerfully. He pulled to the curb and stopped in front of a low building. "That'll be five ducals, please."
	He paid the bill but watched the vehicle chug off before turning toward the entrance. So the programming hadn't been perfect after all. The driver would remember a man who paid five ducals to travel half a block. The thought disturbed him.
	A wizened desk clerk looked up with a toothy smile as he entered the musty lobby. He dropped his bag to the floor and sighed again. "A single, please. Not too expensive."
	The desk clerk bobbed his head, his pencil poised. "Name?"
	"Dana Smithson. Of Marta," he added.
	The clerk scribbled in his ledger before looking up. "Be staying long?"
	"Just overnight."
	The room was small and shabby, but it held the essentials. Smithson dropped his bag to the floor and sprawled across the bed, relaxing, letting the small gates of his mind open so that the directives flowed into his consciousness. Do this and this and that. Occasionally, as if through a haze, he caught a vision of Dr. G's round face and mild blue eyes, caught the sound of his lulling voice as it came from behind the harsh light that shone down on his couch. Everything depends on you, Myron. Well, he wouldn't fail.
	After a while he slept.
	He was Dana Smithson of Marta, fourth of the sun Coulson; now he was on Grydo, third of the green-white sun Geddes. Hunted! He was being hunted! The dragnet thrown across the galaxy was closing in on Grydo -- on him! Karsh! August Karsh was his enemy! Karsh! Karsh! Run, run, run, run.
	He awoke, sweating, shaking, bewildered at his strange surroundings until he remembered: he was Dana Smithson, and he had a job to do. Now, now, now...The word screamed in his mind. And he knew what he had to do.
	Crossing the room, he switched on the old-fashioned video and pushed the news button. He watched until the agricultural news came on.
	Tusk berries were wholesaling for five ducals a crate; a scene showed a truckload of them being unloaded at a local market. The conabar orchards were plagued with swarms of circ bugs; dallup milk was up one ducal per half barga; the glop melon crop was coming in late, leaving a shortage of glupa pickers in the Logo Valley. When the item ended, he got up and snapped off the screen. His future was becoming clearer.
	The Nahoo Public Library, like most buildings in the city, was green with a yellow trim, a small structure that sat back from the main street in a pleasant wooded glen. Entering, he consulted the old-fashioned card file before going to the bookracks. It took him but a moment to find what he wanted.
	Returning to one of the tables, he sat down to read. Glu pa: an edible fruit of the family glupule, which forms a main staple of diet...He read quickly, absorbing the words at fantastic speed, then for a while rested, closing his eyes.
	On his way back from the library, Smithson stopped to buy some special items of clothes and cosmetics and eat a hearty meal before going to his room. Bathing and shaving, he went to bed, hoping that the gates wouldn't open; he needed a good night's rest.
	Next morning he rose early, applied the cosmetics and donned the clothing he had purchased the previous day. Finished, he studied himself in the mirror. The pants and shirt were coarse and baggy, the boots heavy on his feet, and he looked much older than his years. With the new flop-brimmed hat, he looked older yet. Satisfied with his appearance, he gathered up his bag and left the inn by a side door.
	A block away, he withdrew the passport from his pocket, shredded it into small pieces and dropped them into a public receptacle. Dana Smithson was dead. Now he was Oak Carter, an itinerant, and he couldn't answer many questions; Oak Carter was not a smart man.
	Two hours later he got off the public bus in the Logo Valley and looked around. Aside from endless fields and the dirt roads that crossed where he had been put off, there wasn't much to see. But it was a pleasant world. Pleasant and quiet.
	As the bus disappeared in a cloud of dust, he pulled the brim of his hat lower to shut out the green-white sun and started walking down the dirt road.

	"So Myron's on Grydo," Golem Gregor observed. "He's right on schedule, Zed."
	"Yes, but August Karsh knows he's there!" Zarakov exclaimed worriedly.
	"I expected that."
	"You did?" Zarakov sucked his long underlip vexedly.
	"August is a difficult man to fool, Zed."
	"Did you know that the Admiral of the Galactic Seas has ordered the Cetus to Grydo?" asked Zarakov.
	"More like August," answered Gregor. "I expected he would. The admiral's a pawn in this game, Zed."
	"I don't know what to say, Golem. Terle's in trouble, deep trouble. He can't escape Karsh for long, not on a small planet like Grydo. We've put him into a trap."
	"He'll do all right," Gregor said complacently.
	"All right? Do you know what Karsh contemplates if he can't trap Terle? He's going to destroy the planet, Golem, blast it from the skies."
	"Did Gilmore say that?"
	"He did." Zarakov nodded vigorously. "An order to that effect already has been dispatched to the Cetus."
	"You have to consider that as a last desperate measure, Zed. August will make every attempt to catch Myron first. He'd give ten planets to have him in his therapy room," he said confidently. "I'd stake my reputation on that. That gives us time, and time is what we need -- the coin that buys the bomb."
	"Karsh knows that, Golem. He'll destroy the planet before he'll risk losing the bomb. I feel certain of that."
	"It's in Myron's hands, Zed."
	"In Myron's hands? What can he do?" demanded Zarakov. "He can't even escape. Grydo's been sealed off completely."
	"Then how could we help him?" Gregor asked softly.
	"How? I don't know." Zarakov looked at his superior perplexedly. "There must be some way."
	"None at all, Zed."
	"But what about his mission?"
	"He has to complete it."
	"How? He's on a doomed planet, Golem." Zarakov shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't understand this."
	Gregor's voice was mild. "We agreed before that you didn't know the whole story, Zed. I realize your feelings, but I wouldn't worry. Myron's extremely resourceful."
	"How can you be resourceful on a planet that's doomed to annihilation?" asked Zarakov bitterly.
	"That's quite a problem," admitted Gregor. "I wonder how he will solve it?"
	"You wonder?" blurted Zarakov.
	"No one has all the answers, Zed. But you have to admit, this certainly changes the picture."
	"What picture?"
	"The Cetus being withdrawn from the Gelhart system. That means Karsh has to depend on the Draco and on York. That's exactly what we want."
	"You haven't told me that part of the story," Zarakov replied stiffly.
	"No, I haven't." Gregor stared thoughtfully at the violet light streaming through the window. He knew exactly how Zarakov felt. Normally his assistant controlled every mission, subject to his own orders, of course. But not this time. He couldn't take the slightest chance of the wrong word being dropped. Karsh had too many double agents to risk that, and too many spies. Witness how Daniel York had penetrated their defenses in the role of a maintenance worker. How many Yorks were there? More than one, he'd wager.
	Finally he stirred. "This brings Daniel York face-to-face with Prince Li-Hu's men, Zed. If Li-Hu got the bomb, he'd wipe us out as his first order of business. Make no mistake about that. And we couldn't stop him, but York can. York's the best agent in the business -- next to Myron, of course. As I see it, this is a guarantee that Li-Hu won't get the bomb. You can't use what you haven't got, Zed."
	"That part makes sense," Zarakov grudgingly admitted, "but it doesn't give us the bomb. What is this mission of Terle's all about, if not the bomb? It seems to me we've sacrificed him. I can't follow your reasoning, can't follow it at all."
	"It's really not complicated," replied Gregor. "Not when you know the facts."
	"Facts? The only fact I know is that we've doomed Terle. Even if he escapes -- and I don't know how he can -- he couldn't get the bomb secret. You've practically admitted that."
	"Practically? There's a lot of latitude in that word, Zed. I've admitted nothing, and we will get the bomb secret. I have the utmost confidence in Myron." Gregor gazed toward the violet light again, letting his body relax. "I grow more certain with every report."
	"If only I knew," Zarakov murmured despairingly.
	"Patience," he counseled. "Everything will be all right."
	"I hope so, Golem."
	"So do I, Zed. I really do."


9

	DANIEL YORK was gazing at the blue-white suns of Ophiucus through the Draco's star window when Lieutenant Tregaski came to the bridge. "The captain would like to speak with you in his stateroom," he announced.
	"Thank you." York caught the deference in the lieutenant's voice and thought it a good omen; Tregaski was a certain barometer of the captain's moods. He found Hull sitting at his desk under the familiar blue light, his square face as stern and set as ever, but with something else in it which he couldn't define. Uncertainty? Perhaps, and a touch of bitterness, he decided. It was there in the lines of his jaw.
	"Myron Terle has shown up in the Geddes system," said Hull bluntly. "We just received word."
	"Grydo, eh?"
	"You know the planet?" Hull's eyes narrowed.
	"Suspected he might be there," York acknowledged. "It's the nearest inhabited world. What's the admiral doing about it?"
	Hull said reluctantly, "He's dispatched the Cetus to the scene."
	"Isolating the planet? That's a good move."
	"You seem to know more about this than I do," Hull answered bitterly.
	"Only by deduction," he countered. "There's a certain predictability that springs from almost any situation. The trick is to see it."
	"You've been right on most counts." Hull raised his head. "Myron Terle is trapped, York. For all his false trails and clues, he's gotten himself into a situation from which he can't extricate himself. Grydo is sealed off. At least that part of the plot has failed. It's just a matter of finding him."
	"That could be quite a job," York observed.
	A faint worry nagged at Hull's face. "He can't teleport from a planet, can he?"
	"Definitely not between worlds," York assured him.
	"Could he teleport to one of the blockading ships and hide away? If he could do that, he could prove quite troublesome."
	York shook his head. "He definitely can't. A teleport has to know his target in an exact space-time continuum. You can't do that with a ship hurtling through orbit. But he could teleport from an orbiting ship to a planetary surface. That makes a good-sized target."
	"But if he can't get aboard a ship?"
	"Then you have no worries."
	"It's a relief to know that," admitted Hull, "although I'm certain the admiral is aware of the fact."
	York nodded. "Karsh would have told him."
	"And Karsh got it from you," murmured Hull. "Everything stems back to you."
	"That's all an agent is, an information gatherer."
	"I wouldn't quite reduce it to that level."
	York added sardonically, "We also make good targets."
	"We're trying to prevent that," Hull answered stiffly. He looked away, oddly hesitant, before he brought back his gaze. When he did, his set face was totally devoid of expression, his mud-blue eyes blank. "I've also received instructions from the admiral to place my ship at your disposal," he said.
	York returned his gaze. "I won't abuse the privilege."
	"I'm certain of that. I am also instructed to give you a free hand in the investigation, once we locate the Rigel."
	"I'll be largely dependent on you."
	"Anything I can do, of course." Hull appeared relieved. "If you have any suggestions -- ?"
	"Only that I'd like to have the landing party screened." He smiled. "No Alphans."
	"I'm very much aware of what we might find," returned Hull.
	"I'd also like to have Doc Benbow along."
	"Certainly."
	"And Les Osborn."
	"Osborn?"
	"I had a good chance to observe him while he was escorting me," explained York. "He's tough and smart, the kind of a man who'd be handy in a pinch. I'm really surprised that he's just a deckhand."
	"I'll bear that in mind," answered Hull.
	"I'd also like to suggest not letting the survivors know we suspect anything."
	"If there are survivors."
	"There will be," he said, "perhaps a number of innocent ones."
	"I don't want guilty men roaming my ship," Hull protested.
	"You can provide covert safeguards," he suggested. "It should be just for a few hours -- a day or two at most."
	"You believe that necessary?"
	"Absolutely, if we're to find out just how Li-Hu did manage this stunt," he declared. "It's also essential if we're to find the Alphan link in your own crew."
	"That point worries me, York. Do you have any specific suspicions?"
	"None whatsoever."
	"I suppose that makes it more difficult." Hull glanced away, his face thoughtful. "It's damnable to suspect a member of my own crew, York."
	"You've seen some of the evidence."
	"Yes, and it's weighed heavily." Hull's face hardened. "I'll correct that situation, at least with regard to the Draco."
	York said, "I'd also like to suggest keeping the Grydo story secret, at least for the time being."
	"From the Rigel survivors?"
	"From everyone."
	Hull sighed. "I don't pretend to understand the ramifications of your work, but I respect the admiral's opinion. I'm certain he knows many things that we don't."
	"In essence, we're both extensions of his thinking."
	"A captain always realizes that, York."
	"So does an agent." York grinned. "A useful tool, but highly expendable."
	"We'll try not to expend you," Hull replied drily.
	"Thank you," he answered. "I'm all in favor of that."

	The Draco was two days out of Bonoplane when a distress signal was received from the planet. Alerted by Tregaski, York hurried to the bridge, finding the captain huddled with Galton.
	Hull turned, briefly explaining the situation. "The message was terse but clear, repeated three times," he said. "No details were given, only the fact that they were down."
	"Did you acknowledge it?" asked York.
	"Not yet." Hull hesitated. "I thought you might like to know first."
	"I wouldn't answer it," he advised.
	"But why the message?" Hull eyed him quizzically. "I can't exactly see them welcoming us."
	"How else could they get off Bonoplane?"
	"You've mentioned that before." Hull's face grew pensive. "If you're right, it's all the more reason for not letting them roam my ship, York. I should clap them all under lock. Let First Level determine the guilt."
	York said succinctly, "That could cost you the Draco, to say nothing of the bomb secret."
	"All right," Hull replied heavily, "I'll do it your way, but I want you to know my thinking."
	"I appreciate your feelings. I promise you they won't be free long, if we're lucky." He glanced at the navigator. "Does the message give any clue to their location?"
	"None except hemisphere," answered Galton, "but that shouldn't be much more of a problem than finding a bug on an apple."
	"I hope it's that simple." He walked over to the star window and gazed at the planet. With the remote Gelhart sun lying at a right angle, Bonoplane had grown to a pale yellow half-disk that appeared pasted against the purple-black of space -- a lonely world. His eyes sought to discover any surface markings that might indicate heights or depths or give some clue to its nature. A vast desert, Galton had termed it -- vast and dry and almost featureless. A null world.
	He wondered again that the fate of the Empire should be decided in such a remote corner of the galaxy and by so few men. For all the Empire's proud banners and far-flung might, it was nearing the end of the clock of its history, he reflected. Few men knew that. And yet the signs were indisputable, drawn in the ink of boredom and apathy. August Karsh was battling gamely and desperately, using every means at his command to keep the Empire intact, yet Karsh must know that he was waging a delaying action. The banners were dusty. Why? The adventure was gone, he mused, and with it the spirit of man. When had the change come? A decade ago? A century? A thousand years? Whenever it had happened, the Empire had embarked on a new course, moving sluggishly into the twilight of its time. Perhaps it was fortunate for the human race that a second force was emerging. The violet star...
	The search ended three days later.
	Because Bonoplane was barren and uninhabitable, all records of its survey had been lost in time -- "If there ever was a survey," Galton said. The loss of records didn't deter him. By arbitrarily gridding the planet into degrees of latitude and longitude, he enabled the Draco to probe it systematically from a low-level polar orbit. His navigation tools were the clock and knowledge of the planet's rate of rotation.
	"The almost complete lack of mountains and valleys will speed the search," he told the agent.
	York nodded, thinking that any one inch of Bonoplane was much like any other inch; it was a planet on which there was no place to hide.
	Contemplating his own role, he sensed a sudden stillness inside, coupled with a humility that was new to him. He had been on other assignments, many of them, but none which carried such an awesome burden or with stakes so high. Yet in truth he had been enjoying it, this matching of wits, this walking the narrow edge. And oddly enough -- he'd sensed it before -- he felt a certain camaraderie for both those who must win and those who must lose. August Karsh, Dr. G, Hull and Tregaski were of a breed -- and the Programmed Man, who even now must be battling for his life on the small planet Grydo. But not Li-Hu's agents. The saboteurs were of another stripe, wanton killers who played outside the game. Contemplating them, he felt cold inside.
	He was watching the yellowish desert below when the break came. It came in the form of a beeping signal, a flashing light, dancing needles on the bridge readout console. As Hull stepped quickly to the board, Galton explained the alert. An infrared laser beam, sweeping the path ahead, had detected a distant heat source on the desert floor. This had activated two radars, causing them to rivet on the spot and send forth signals.
	"Analysis of the echoes from one scan will determine the nature of the object in terms of metallic content," said Galton. He explained that the second scan returned a signal which displayed the shape of the object on a tube the captain was watching. As he spoke, the fragmentary forms began to appear, as if a hand itt back of the tube were drawing crude cylindrical shapes.
	"That's it," exclaimed Hull. "It's the Rigel and what appears to be three of its landers."
	"That could mean quite a few survivors," observed York.
	Hull turned, rubbing his hands. "I'll warrant you that it won't be long now."
	He felt a sudden impatience and asked, "How soon before we can go down?"
	"As soon as you're ready, Mr. York." Since the admiral's last directive, Hull had been reserved and polite, his attitude reflecting York's new status.
	"I've been ready for days," he answered.
	Hull nodded and swung toward the watch on the communicator. "Order the landing party to stand by, and inform Lieutenant Tregaski," he instructed. He glanced back at York. "We'll deship in fifteen minutes."
	"Yes, sir." York grinned. "Never thought you'd see this planet, did you?"
	Hull's face relaxed somewhat. "In truth, I didn't. I only hope I don't find reason to regret the opportunity."
	"We hope," he corrected. "You're not alone."
	York made a hurried trip to the hospital to talk with the doctor before going to his own quarters to prepare for descent. He found Benbow busily packing a satchel and briefly told him what he wanted.
	"Good idea." Benbow nodded without stopping his work. His ready acquiescence told York that Hull had briefed his senior officers on the admiral's latest order and that henceforth any suggestion of his was to be construed as a mandate. He grinned, wondering if a civilian ever before had commanded an Empire destroyer of the line. It didn't appear likely.
	Returning to the starboard lander assigned to the mission, he bumped into Les Osborn. Osborn smiled proudly and tapped a gold sunburst on his sleeve. "Been promoted," he announced. "I'm armament third."
	"Good, you're on your way," York exclaimed.
	"I'm going down with you, did you know?"
	"Glad to have you along," he assented. "Remember, if I give you an order -- "
	"I'll remember," promised Osborn. "Depend on me."
	"I'll do that," York promised. "We'd better hurry."
	Tregaski and a lieutenant named Wexby were waiting with an eight-man party when he reached the lander area, with Osborn trailing behind. Tregaski straightened his big body as if uncertain whether or not to come to full attention, then barked, "Osborn, fall into ranks."
	"Yes, sir." The new armament third moved with alacrity to join the enlisted men. York suppressed a smile, noting with satisfaction that everyone was heavily armed. From initial skepticism, it was clear that Hull had come to believe in the saboteur theory.
	Tregaski glanced at his wrist piece and said, "We'll deship in three minutes, Mr. York."
	"Thank you," York answered. He glanced around. Captain Hull and the doctor came into view down the corridor. Tregaski started to bark an order when Hull waved him to silence.
	"Let's dispense with the formalities," he said. "We're running late."
	"Yes, sir."
	Hull looked at York, his face a study. "I've done many things in my time," he said, "but I've never met saboteurs before. This should be interesting."
	"I can promise you it will be," York said.

	Lieutenant Tregaski, as York had discovered, was a man of many talents. Although he appeared to have no fixed duties or responsibilities aboard the Draco and was not by rank a senior officer, he served as the captain's aide and listening post and was the main medium through which Hull's orders were transmitted and effected. Thus York was not greatly surprised when Tregaski went forward to the pilot's compartment and shut the door behind him.
	York sat with Hull and Benbow in a small compartment immediately above the forward armament wells. It held several small ports which, at the moment, looked into the interior of the starboard dock in which the lander was nestled.
	Wexby, a dark giant with the massively ridged facial bones and cupped earlobes of an inhabitant of the Sartan worlds, sat aft with the crewmen in a compartment which easily could have held an additional twenty men.
	Hull shut the door to block off the rear compartment and spoke into a seat mike. "You may get underway, Lieutenant."
	"Yes, sir." The lieutenant's muffled voice came through a speaker embedded in the forward bulkhead. A muted roaring came to York's ears, followed by a slight lurch. Miraculously, it seemed, he saw the Draco through the side port, floating like a great whale in the depths of space. With the pale yellow light of Gelhart glinting on its snoutlike bridge, it presented a formidable appearance. As he watched, it began to recede overhead, and he realized they were already falling from orbit.
	Hull looked at York and continued conversationally. "I believe we should restrict the number of men who view the Rigel. Or what remains of it," he added.
	"I've thought of that," York admitted. "We might need a man or two to escort survivors back to the lander. If we need more, we can always send for them."
	Hull glanced at Galton and back at York. "Let's speak bluntly," he said. "The N-bomb compartment on the Rigel lies forward, immediately under the navigation bridge, and is accessible only from the bridge. I don't want any unnecessary eyes in that part of the ship."
	Benbow didn't take offense. "I don't want to know any part of that secret," he said.
	"Nor I," Hull answered solemnly. "I hope it's not thrust on me."
	"Doc will have to see the ship -- the dead," York declared.
	Hull's face tightened. "There's plenty of ship behind the navigation bridge. If there is a bridge," he added.
	"Of course," murmured Benbow.
	"I want to see the bomb compartment regardless of condition," declared York, "even if we have to cut our way in with torches."
	"I suppose," Hull answered. He flicked a button on the seat mike. "Wexby?"
	"Yes, sir." The lieutenant's voice came through like a bullhorn.
	"The landing party will remain aboard after touchdown," he instructed. "The sole exceptions are yourself and one other man -- make it Osborn. Leave Chief Harriman in charge."
	"Yes, sir," the lieutenant repeated.
	Hull closed the switch and leaned back, his eyes on York's face. "We might talk about the interrogation," he suggested.
	York shook his head. "I wouldn't hold one, not right away. I'd get the survivors back to the lander, give us a chance to look around."
	"That's reasonable," he assented.
	"I'd also allow them normal conversation with the crew."
	Hull's head came up. "The survivors? Isn't that dangerous?"
	"I don't want them to suspect that they're under arrest. You might make arrangements to have them watched. Nothing obvious, of course."
	Hull nodded stiffly, his face showing his distaste.
	York watched the desert flatten out as the lander swooped lower. The yellowish color of the planet's face darkened, broken here and there by occasional ocher streaks which later he identified as low rock outcrops. But essentially the surface was flat -- a stark, unending desert that stretched from horizon to horizon in all directions. He thought he'd never seen such utter desolation.
	He let his thoughts wander. The bold plan concocted by Li-Hu on the distant Alphan world of Shan-Hai was bearing fruit that even the prince hadn't anticipated. Or had he? York stirred uneasily at the question. But even the best-laid plans go awry, he reflected. It was his business to see that they did. As always, word of the prince's attempted coup had seeped out. August Karsh had gotten it through his grapevine, and Dr. G through his. Now the great powers were embroiled in a three-way battle that could change the future of the galaxy.
	What were his own chances? Excellent, he thought. The saboteurs' plan of action was, by its very nature, inflexible, and because it was, it must end in failure. If he assumed that, the conflict reduced itself to a battle of wits between the Empire and the awesome violet sun, which rode with its four planets in lone splendor beyond the confines of the galactic rim.
	He frowned, thinking that there was but one flaw in his reasoning. Whether he won or lost depended not on him but on what happened on another world. Grydo. The Programmed Man. How could he escape the dragnet Karsh would have launched? He couldn't, not on such a small planet. But that wasn't the question. For how long could he escape the dragnet?
	That was the real question.
	He glanced uneasily out the port, surprised to see that they were skimming the bleak surface, and realized it was to preserve the element of surprise until the last possible moment.
	"Makes you wonder why a world like this was ever created," Benbow murmured.
	"Does there have to be a purpose?" York asked.
	"There usually is, although often we fail to see it."
	"It's odd that a planet should have oxygen, a breathable atmosphere, yet be so bleak," York mused. "It must rain."
	"Probably, but without mountains, valleys, or seas, the atmosphere must be relatively stable," Benbow speculated. "There are no highlands to set the course of rivers, no basins for the waters to gather. It's a planet that has reached equilibrium, so that what rain falls is uniform. It must be much like the Sark plains of Traska or the Gobi of Earth."
	Tregaski's voice broke from the speaker. "Five minutes to touchdown," he announced.
	Hull brought his gaze back from the port. "Very good. Allow several hundred yards' landing distance from the nearest craft." Without waiting for a response, he pushed another button. "This is the captain speaking. Prepare number two nuclear turret for action."
	"Turret two standing by," a muted voice answered.
	Hull glanced toward York as he continued. "Should the landing party be attacked in any way, you are ordered to immediately incinerate the Rigel and all landers and personnel present, without regard for friend or foe. Acknowledge."
	"Turret Master Carmichael, sir."
	"Carry on, Carmichael." Hull flicked off the switch without removing his eyes from York's face. They were hard, speculative eyes.
	"I agree," York answered easily. He turned to look out the port again. He hoped none of the survivors were temperamental.
	"Stand by for retro," Tregaski cautioned. York braced himself. As the exhaust was rechanneled through forward-pointing tubes, he felt the force come, a steady push that caused him to lean toward the bulkhead separating him from the pilot's compartment. At the same time he saw that the desert was receding at an even slower pace. Moments later Tregaski said, "I have her on the scope."
	"How many blips?" asked Hull.
	"Four. Must be the Rigel and three landers," he said. There was a brief silence during which the desert floor came to a virtual standstill. "Stand by for touchdown," Tregaski barked.
	York stared through the port, realizing there was nothing to see on either side. Shortly afterward he felt a slight jar, and Tregaski announced, "We're down, about two hundred yards from the nearest lander. The Rigel -- what's left of it -- is just beyond."
	"Very good," Hull answered. He turned to York. "Shall we go?"


10

	YORK EMERGED from the lander behind the captain, conscious of the thinness of the atmosphere. It cast the desert's face in stark clarity and gave a bite to his lungs. It held not the faintest breath of wind. Nor was there anything to blow, for as far as his eye could see, there was not a single tree or shrub, nor even a blade of grass. He thought he had never felt such utter calm.
	Doctor Benbow followed, carrying his medical satchel. Setting it on the ground, he stood next to the captain, blinking owlishly in the yellow light. Next came Tregaski, followed by Wexby and Osborn, the latter remaining unobtrusively in the rear.
	For a moment they were silent, all eyes strained toward the fallen cruiser. Looming beyond the three gray landers, its graceful lines were oddly askew, as if it had been crunched to one side. The scene held the unreality of a painting. York searched for signs of life but saw none.
	Tregaski broke the silence. "She doesn't look as if she smacked in at too high a speed or too steep an angle," he commented. "She's badly damaged, but not that badly."
	"I'd noticed," Hull replied noncommittally.
	York had reached the same conclusion. If the Rigel had plunged down out of control, it would have been smashed flat, half buried in a crater; had it struck at a grazing angle, it would have been strewn for miles across the desert's face. But it was neither. Cracked, broken, its bottom smashed, it still was recognizable for what it had been -- a great ship of the line.
	"Here they come," someone murmured.
	York switched his gaze and saw movement on one of the landers. Three men straggled from it and started toward them, walking lethargically, as if the burning yellow sun had drained every ounce of energy from their bodies. Their legs pumped in a curious, disjointed manner.
	"Slow to make an appearance," remarked Tregaski.
	"I'd noticed," Hull repeated. "Remain with the lander, Lieutenant. You know the orders."
	"Yes, sir," Tregaski answered smartly.
	Hull nodded at the agent and started ahead, walking at a pace no greater than that of the oncoming men. York and the doctor fell in on either side of him, followed by Wexby. Osborn trailed in the rear.
	Glancing at Hull, York noted that his square face was totally devoid of expression, as if he had erased every emotion within him. Could he see the mud-blue eyes, they would be equally blank, he supposed. Only his jaw muscles gave him away; they were corded and set. Towering a full head over the captain, Benbow walked with a short, mincing step as he attempted to hold down his stride. His face, yellow-colored under Gelhart's sun, held a sorrowful expression, as if he already were contemplating the death he knew he was to encounter. York didn't envy him.
	As the gap between the approaching figures narrowed, the foremost drew his body up straighter and quickened his pace, holding his head high. York saw that he was somewhat taller than the others, leanly built, with the graceful movements of a veteran spaceman. He barked something under his breath, and his companions straightened, attempting some semblance of military bearing. York saw that the rearmost man was an Alphan.
	The leading figure halted several paces from the captain, stood at attention and saluted briskly. "Quartermaster Chief Albert Barngate reporting, sir."
	Hull didn't return the salute; neither did he identify himself. "The senior petty officer surviving?" he asked bleakly.
	"Yes, sir," answered Barngate. He shot a curious glance at York before motioning toward his companions. "Lee Chun, maintenance first, and Jarrett Shumway, maintenance second," he continued.
	"How many survivors?" asked Hull crisply.
	"Nine, sir. It was quite a tragedy."
	"Later," the captain cut in harshly. "Where are the others?"
	"Sleeping. They're dead tired." Barngate gestured to the plain off to one side of the Rigel's bridge, and York saw several lines of small mounds. The quartermaster chief continued. "We buried the captain and ten other officers -- all the men we could find. We did the best we could."
	As he spoke, York studied his companions covertly. Lee Chun was slender, poised, almost dapper despite his soiled clothes and grimy hands. His face held the inscrutability common to his race. Around forty, he reminded him of Char Wong. In contrast, Jarrett Shumway was burly, with a heavy, sullen face and dark eyes that he kept averted. He plainly was more than willing to let Barngate do the talking.
	Hull jerked his head toward Wexby. "Lieutenant, awaken the remaining men and escort them to the lander. Have Osborn return with these men."
	"Yes, sir." As Wexby sprang to obey, Hull gave Barngate a piercing glance and walked past him, continuing silently toward the Rigel. York glanced at the quartermaster chief and his two companions before following. They looked as if they had come straight from the fires of hell, he thought. Their clothing was rumpled, dirty, and lines of strain and fatigue marked their faces. Whatever their roles had been, their lot hadn't been easy.
	Hull paused several times, scrutinizing the ship critically before going on. As they drew closer, York saw that it was smashed even worse than he had first believed. The lower half was buckled and crumpled, and midway down its length its back was broken so that the aft end jutted away at a crazy angle, leaving a great gaping wound amidship. But the bridge, riding high on the armament snout, appeared fairly intact.
	Benbow, who had been studying a meter, said, "No sign of radiation. They must have thrown the pile safety switch."
	If Hull heard, he didn't answer.
	"Could anyone have lived through that?" asked York.
	"I very much doubt it," replied Benbow solemnly. "The impact force must have been tremendous."
	"The human animal is tough, Doc."
	Benbow shook his head, "Not that tough."
	Hull halted a dozen yards from the ship and ran his eyes over its length, studying the deep gashes and rents. Finally he said, "We'll have to pick our way to the bridge."
	"I'll prowl the after end," Benbow said.
	"Very well," Hull answered absently. Benbow glanced at the radiation meter again and started toward the ship's stern, walking with a gangling stride. Hull moved to a large gash in the ship's side, almost directly under the bridge. Peering inside, he extracted a small flashlight from his pocket and entered, vanishing in the gloom. York followed, walking gingerly to avoid the jagged edges of metal and debris while attempting to follow the captain's light. Hull walked with a light, quick step, picking his way unerringly through the wreckage to the central passageway, where he waited for York to catch up.
	"You're too fast for me," York said when he reached his side.
	"I've lived in such ships for thirty years," Hull explained solemnly. He flicked his light along the passageway to survey the buckled walls. "This is a hellish thing, York. A ship was not meant to die like this."
	"Murdered," he corrected.
	"If it was, they'll pay."
	"Yes, they'll pay."
	Passing through a small compartment less damaged than the others, York caught a whiff of something that held the odor of peach kernels, a tantalizing scent that scarcely touched his nostrils before it was gone. Hull apparently hadn't noticed. Something clicked in York's mind; he grimly noted the fact and went on, hurrying to keep up. Several times he glimpsed bodies half buried under the wreckage, but didn't stop. That was Benbow's province; the doctor would earn his keep this day, he thought.
	Hull came to a ladder and moved up agilely. "Looks clear to the bridge," he called back. When York reached the top, he was waiting. "The number two lander was launched," he said noncommittally. He flicked the beam into the empty lander bubble.
	"What does that indicate?" York asked.
	"Perhaps nothing." He hesitated. "Short of a sudden, violent explosion, the bridge personnel could certainly have reached it."
	"But there wasn't an explosion," York remonstrated.
	"No." Hull gestured around him. "This is all impact damage. There's no question of that."
	"Would you say that the Rigel was in the Gelhart system when the emergency occurred, Captain?"
	Hull worked his lips thoughtfully before a startled look came to his eyes. "I can't understand why the Rigel was in this system, York. It's certainly no part of the operational sweep."
	"Then the emergency must have occurred while it was in hypertime. Is that correct?"
	"It would seem so," Hull returned dubiously, "but it doesn't make sense."
	"Why not?" he challenged.
	"In such an event, the captain most certainly wouldn't have chosen Bonoplane for an emergency landing. He could have reached any of several inhabited planets as quickly. Grydo for one."
	"But he didn't," York said.
	"No, he didn't."
	"That means the Rigel was operational for several days at least, following this so-called emergency," York observed.
	"Good God!" Hull exclaimed.
	York nodded. "It looks like the captain didn't have much choice."
	"You're saying -- ?"
	"Later, when the pieces fall together," he replied. He felt a quiet satisfaction, almost certain that his earlier suspicions had been right. Trapping the saboteurs could be easy, but his own mission? He dismissed the perturbing thought and asked, "Wouldn't locating a planet like Bonoplane from hypertime require considerable navigational knowledge?"
	"Certainly," Hull snapped. "I wish I knew what you are driving at."
	"Just an observation."
	"I very much doubt that," Hull rejoined sourly. He flicked the beam around again and started across the lander deck.
	The bridge was a wreck. The great star window was smashed, and the instrument consoles were twisted and torn, exposing their intricate innards. Dial faces gaped emptily, no longer filled with the life that had flowed through their wires. York found the scene depressing.
	Hull went directly to the officer of the deck's watch post, sorting through the rubble until he came up with the logbook. York waited while he scanned it, almost certain of what he would find.
	Finally Hull looked up, his eyes vaguely puzzled. "There's no mention of trouble," he said speculatively.
	"Were they in hypertime?"
	"On the last entry, yes."
	"That indicates that whatever happened, happened suddenly," York observed.
	"Very suddenly." Hull's face tightened. "What does this mean, York?"
	"I'm not certain," he answered honestly, "but I think I know. The crime is fairly stark in its broad details, Captain, but there are little odds and ends. The tracks are too big to be covered. I feel certain of that."
	"It won't go unpunished, York. I can promise you that."
	"No, it won't go unpunished." He glanced around. "Shall we unveil the pet?"
	"Pet?"
	"The N-bomb," he explained. "That's what we came for, isn't it?"
	Hull nodded reluctantly, letting his gaze wander around the wrecked bridge. Finally he moved toward a ladder located immediately behind the captain's chair and paused, eyeing the agent quizzically.
	York looked down into a black well. "After you," he said. Hull descended slowly, waiting at the bottom until York reached him before switching on his light. York didn't see the wrecked console or the debris in the room. Instead, his eyes riveted on the great steel door which hung twisted and awry, swinging half open, revealing a dark cylindrical compartment beyond. For a moment they stared silently at it.
	While Hull stood riveted to the spot, he walked to the door, examining it curiously. No impact had caused that damage; more damning, the door was bent outward toward the stern of the ship, the opposite of what would have occurred had the damage resulted from the G forces of impact. He wondered if Hull had noticed.
	"The light," he said softly.
	Hull moved forward, hesitating before he flashed the beam through the opening. "Empty!" The word sprang savagely to his lips. York looked past him, seeing that the compartment contained exactly nothing. It was little more than a tube with a port at the opposite end, which, when opened, would look out into galactic space. "Empty," Hull repeated. He stared perplexedly into the empty chamber.
	York eyed him curiously. "They couldn't steal an N-bomb, Captain." He made it a statement.
	Hull pursed his lips. "No, of course not." Sudden relief flooded his face as he looked at the agent. "By whatever gods favored us, the Rigel was traveling unarmed, York. It wasn't carrying the bomb. They chose an unarmed ship to sabotage!"
	York gazed around the small compartment, his mind grappling with the captain's assertion. Sailors knew when a ship was armed or unarmed. Despite the secrecy shrouding the bomb, it could not have been removed without some rumors flying among the crew -- not from the size of the weapon, if he were to judge by the cylindrical compartment which housed it. By the same token, it couldn't have been removed since the emergency. Where did that leave him?
	He looked back at Hull. "The Rigel's mission was operational." He made it a statement.
	"She wasn't carrying the bomb," asserted Hull. He gestured toward the compartment. "The evidence is there."
	"Would she be on an operational mission without the bomb?"
	"I couldn't say. I know very little about it, York."
	"Would the log state whether the mission was a usual one? That is, whether it was operational?"
	Hull nodded. "Certainly."
	"Let's determine that," York said abruptly. Feeling a surge of impatience, he swung toward the ladder, waiting at the bottom for the captain to precede him.
	While Hull went to the logbook, York sat in a broken chair and rested his head in his hands, an enormous suspicion growing in his mind. It seemed so unbelievable that he wanted to reject it, and yet it wasn't so unbelievable at all, he thought. Nothing was unbelievable, not in this universe or the next or the next. He let the thought grow and flower, examining every aspect of it.
	Hull's voice floated over from the log desk. "The mission was operational. That's definite."
	"I thought so," York said.
	"I don't understand what you're driving at," Hull persisted. "As far as I'm concerned, the bomb secret is safe. They've destroyed the ship for nothing, York, but they didn't get what they were after."
	"Would the admiral have rushed you here if the Rigel were unarmed?" York asked quietly.
	"My God!" Hull stood as if transfixed.
	"Would they divert the Cetus to Grydo, blockade the Alphan worlds? I think not."
	"I don't understand this at all." Hull raised his eyes. "What does it mean? Tell me that, York, what does it mean?"
	"If it means what I think it means, you've just made rear admiral," he answered.
	"What nonsense is that?" demanded Hull.
	"Nonsense?" York gazed thoughtfully at him. "I think not, Captain, but let's wait and see."

	York stood on the plain in the yellow light, watching the lander that was bringing the burial party from the Draco let down from the sky. It came like a graceful bird, its engines pulsing in the thin atmosphere as it slid lower and lower, finally hanging just above the surface before settling down a scant fifty yards away. Tregaski went to meet it.
	With Gelhart plummeting below the horizon, the first chill already was in the air, bringing promise of a bitter night. York looked toward the Rigel. A landing party under Wexby was ringing the ship with floodlights, not so much to aid the burial party, he knew, as to keep anyone from approaching the bridge. York had been adamant on that point, and although Hull had wondered why, he had passed the necessary orders. But Hull couldn't know the reason, he reflected, except deep in his subconscious. And that was the thing -- his subconscious -- that made the captain dangerous to the Empire, hence undoubtedly would result in his quick promotion. Hull couldn't guess that, either.
	From York's standpoint, his position was as precarious as ever. He had scant doubt but that the Rigel case was just about wrapped up as far as the saboteurs were concerned; they had practically hanged themselves. It was just a matter of absolute identification, clearing up small details, and unmasking the Li-Ru agents aboard the Draco, he thought grimly. They also would pay the price.
	But none of that had a bearing on him, his fate. The thought sobered him. He needed time. Time and luck, neither of which he could control. Grydo. The planet's name formed in his mind. Grydo of the green-white sun Geddes. Success or failure -- everything depended on what happened on Grydo.
	His own fate hung in the balance.
	Night comes swiftly on Bonoplane. It comes as the light of the pale yellow sun deepens, dusk steals over the plain, and then blackness, all in the space of less than half an hour. And night is strange. The stars through the thin atmosphere glow almost as gloriously as from space itself. They twinkle and dance as their rays pass through the turbulence of high, fast-moving jet streams that Galton had described as "nitrogen rivers." And to all sides they reach a flat, unbroken horizon.
	After supper York walked out to the plain with Benbow to watch the work under the distant floodlights. Benbow's brief examination had confirmed his own suspicions on how the Rigel had been taken over. More, he believed he knew who one of the saboteurs had been. At least he hoped he knew. Give him one name, he reflected, and the rest would come easily. He didn't doubt that.
	Standing with Benbow, he watched the occasional figures emerge from the ship, plodding slowly as they bore their burdens toward the burial ground Barngate had started. They moved equally slowly as they returned, as if reluctant to take up another such burden. Now and then he saw the violet, dancing shadows of cutting torches, an eerie sight on the black plain. And occasionally there was Lieutenant Wexby's gaunt, towering figure stalking in the glare of the floodlights as he commanded the operation.
	"A hellish place to remain for an eternity," Benbow murmured.
	"We usually can't choose the time of our death or where it might be," York answered.
	"No, but I hold to the belief that a man should be buried under his own sun," Benbow commented.
	York asked wonderingly, "Does it really matter?"
	"We have an instinct that demands it, or most of us do," replied Benbow. "Even many animals have it."
	"I've heard that," he acknowledged.
	"But don't feel it?" Benbow eyed him inquisitively.
	"Perhaps, if I had a choice." York shrugged. "Choice is not a common thing in my business, Doc."
	"I can see that," Benbow replied gravely.
	York looked up, searching the sky until his eyes found Geddes. Glowing like an emerald, it seemed scarcely more than a speck in the vault of the heavens. Somewhere around Geddes was Grydo, and on it was the Programmed Man.
	York wondered what he was doing.
	In the dawn light of the yellow sun, Captain Hull emerged from the lander, followed by York, Benbow, and Tregaski. After them came the Rigel survivors and a few of the crewmen who could be spared. If the men from the Rigel noted that the crewmen flanked them and were armed, they gave no indication. Once Barngate caught York's eye and nodded.
	No one spoke as they walked slowly toward the graveyard that had grown during the night on the planet's dun-colored face. It was a silence born of solemnity, so deep that the crunching of boots in the gritty sand was clearly audible. Shivering in the cold, York wondered if ever before a human had been buried under this yellow sun.
	Lieutenant Wexby, working throughout the night, had built a small monument on which was displayed the Rigel's plaque; on it he had engraved the names of the dead. Below it he had placed the captain's chair, a custom which symbolized his watch over the dead.
	Wexby snapped the burial detail to attention as the captain arrived.
	Standing before the monument, Hull removed his cap and raised his face to the sky. In the dead silence that followed, he said solemnly, "We are gathered here to bury our comrades in the name of the Empire." His words began the age-old rite for men who had given their lives in the service.
	York was moved by the compassion he sensed in Hull's voice and realized that here was yet another facet of the Draco's gruff master. Hull was a stickler for naval etiquette, a strong believer in the disparity of man when it came to rank, but they were all comrades in death. That was the essence of his belief.
	As he spoke, York glanced at the Rigel survivors. They stood off to one side in a tight group, their faces set and expressionless, their bodies as rigid as the small stakes Wexby had set out to mark the area. Barngate, towering above the others, moved his lips silently as if following the captain's words.
	"No man who gives his life to the glory of the Empire will have died in vain," the captain intoned, "for he will become part of the Empire for all time to come."
	York moved his eyes. Wexby stood absolutely immobile, the black eyes in his ridged face staring out over the even rows of mounds. Benbow held himself erect, his head back, his expression somber in contrast to Tregaski, who plainly was waiting for the captain to finish. Tregaski is a man who has not lived, York thought, for he has not felt. Perhaps, in some future time, Tregaski would stand as Doctor Benbow was now standing, sensing the greatness that lay beneath the word and the deed.
	A man should die under his own sun. Benbow's words came back, and looking at the bleak plain on which they stood, he felt he better understood them. The dead of the Rigel, now buried, in short time would be utterly forgotten; perhaps no human eye ever again would see their graves, nor would life stir around them. No wind would blow or rain fall; they would be the forgotten ones.
	The captain said, "The glory of the Empire shall never diminish, even to the day when the ultimate matter of nature shall collapse and flare anew into a proto-future; then shall the Empire rise in greater glory than ever. Long live Terra."
	When the sermon was finished, the captain ordered Wexby to move the Rigel's landers to a safe location for future retrieval, then instructed Tregaski to destroy the cruiser.
	"Obliterate it from the face of the planet," he commanded. "I don't want a single identifiable fragment to remain."
	"Nuclear fire?" Tregaski asked.
	"Nuclear fire," he affirmed. He turned and walked in lonely silence back to the lander.
	As the pale yellow sun rose higher, the Rigel exploded into a ball of weird greenish flame; within seconds it collapsed into a molten mass which, converted into a gas, rose to merge with the nitrogen rivers in Bonoplane's yellow sky.
	With the strange fire still burning, the landers climbed upward from the dun-colored desert to rendezvous with the Draco.


11

	AUGUST KARSH gripped the arms of his chair and exclaimed disbelievingly, "Myron Terle captured!" He stared at Clender's excited face, knowing it to be true.
	Clender nodded vigorously. "The message just came through. Got him with a stun gun before he could teleport."
	"Are you positive?"
	"Absolutely, August. There's no doubt about it. He was hiding under the name of Oak Carter. I've dispatched some of the photos York sneaked of him and have ordered a full identification, but you can rest assured that we have him, all right. I think a few questions under therapy -- "
	"Not on Grydo," Karsh snapped. "I don't want anyone to interrogate him in any way. Not till we have him here."
	"Yes, of course," Clender answered hurriedly.
	"I expect that will be soon." He rubbed his hands together confidently.
	"We'll rush him, August. It's the end of the road for that boy."
	"I can't imagine it," Karsh murmured.
	"They all stumble. Just give them time."
	Terle captured. Dr. G's top man. Karsh subsided back in his seat, sensing a flush of victory. He'd scarcely expected it to come so easily. And catching him alive! That was the real victory. Despite his vast dragnet, he'd fully reconciled himself to the necessity of destroying Grydo. But now. He leaned forward impatiently.
	"Tell me about it," he ordered.
	"He landed under the name of Dana Smithson, just as you predicted," explained Clender. "Our agents picked up the trail within a day or two of his arrival. It was no great trick, really."
	"Was he that obvious?" Karsh asked sharply.
	"Not really," Clender hastened to say, "but he stumbled rather badly."
	"How?"
	"He paid a public driver five ducals to haul him half a block. The driver remembered him, all right, and his destination. He checked in at a place called the Nahoo Inn."
	"Did he try to make any contacts?"
	"None of record," asserted Clender.
	"Catch him asleep?"
	Clender shook his head. "He checked out almost immediately, but we picked up his trail. He made a few purchases, mainly clothes. That's what tipped us."
	"Go on," urged Karsh.
	"It took a while, but we located a bus driver who remembered dropping off a stranger in an isolated farm area called Logo Valley. He seemed to fit the description, so we blanketed the countryside."
	"A strange trail," Karsh mused.
	Clender explained, "He was picking glupas."
	"Glupas?"
	"A small berry or melon or something. It's one of the local crops."
	"Terle a glupa picker?" Karsh slapped the desk. "There's irony in that."
	"We staked him out, didn't take a chance, stunned him while he was in the field," Clender said. "He never knew what happened."
	"I still can't believe it." Karsh shook his head wonderingly.
	"It's true, all right," Clender assured him.
	"Have you informed Captain Hull? I want York to know of this development immediately."
	"I'll do it right away, August."
	"Have our man on Grydo keep York posted on the situation," Karsh instructed. "It's essential that he know, Clender."
	"Without coming through this office?"
	"It's too much of a time taker," he explained. "York needs a direct line to Grydo, perhaps more now than ever. I believe that's imperative, Clender. We don't know what kind of an intelligence apparatus Dr. G might have set up there or how he intended contacting Li-Hu's men."
	"It won't do him much good without Terle."
	"Don't bank on that," Karsh warned. "Terle was the key man, yes, but we still don't know how he intended to get the bomb secret. That knowledge is essential."
	"We'll wring it out of him," Clender replied confidently.
	"Perhaps." Karsh swung around in his chair, gazing out at the golden sun as Clender waited silently. It didn't make sense, none of it. Or did it? It certainly wasn't like Terle to walk into a trap, however cleverly it was laid. And picking glupas! Could his contact have been another picker? He shook his head, thinking that he couldn't remember a time when he'd been as baffled. After a while he turned back.
	"I can't fathom his plan," he admitted. "I really can't."
	"Dr. G's?"
	"And Terle's." He nodded. "The only thing of which I'm certain is that it's well laid."
	"You seem to have it figured, August."
	"Have I? I've based everything on certain assumptions, and if they don't prove out -- " He frowned.
	"We have Terle."
	"We still can't take a chance, Clender. That's why I want York apprised of every move." Karsh leaned back reflectively. "This certainly takes the pressure off York. Without Terle to contend with, he can concentrate on Li-Hu's apparatus, clean that up. It shouldn't be much of a job."
	"York should be face-to-face with that situation now, August."
	"And undoubtedly is. Do you see what we've accomplished? This leaves Prince Li-Hu stranded, hanging in midair. It's ironical when you consider it. He managed to steal an Empire cruiser, and that's quite a feat, Clender. And along with it, he managed to steal the Empire's best-kept secret. But he has no way of getting his hands on that secret. He must find it terribly frustrating."
	"Dr. G, too."
	"Especially Dr. G."
	"I'd like to see his reaction when he hears of it."
	"Terle's capture? So would I." Karsh nodded smugly. "But do you see what this means? It gives us fresh hope. We're not finished yet. I'd allowed myself to get into a state of mind where I was beginning to believe that the people of the violet star really were invincible."
	"I never believed they were," declared Clender.
	"I still don't underestimate them," Karsh observed. "I won't rest peacefully until we have that entire crew here in the therapy chamber. When we do, we'll learn the whole story. I'll dissect Terle's mind atom by atom, learn what's brewing on that violet star, Clender. And along with it, we'll learn a bit about our good Prince Li-Hu."
	"Will the Draco return them direct?"
	Karsh nodded. "The admiral's dispatched orders to that effect."
	"It will be good to see Daniel again."
	"It certainly will," Karsh agreed. "I can't wait to hear the whole story. It should be extremely interesting."
	"I imagine," Clender replied drily.
	Karsh leaned back and closed his eyes, deep in thought. When he opened them again, he said, "From a purely psychological standpoint, I want to inform Dr. G that his agent has been apprehended in the commission of a crime against the Empire -- his top agent."
	"Tell G that!" exclaimed Clender.
	"So he won't get to believing his own invincibility," Karsh said.
	"Or so he'll recognize ours," Clender amended.
	"That, too, but I want him to know. Perhaps he'll think twice, next time, before joining Li-Hu in an act of piracy."
	"How will I send it? Through diplomatic channels?"
	Karsh shook his head. "I want this for his eyes only."
	"Then how?" asked Clender perplexedly.
	"Give it to Gilmore."
	"Gilmore?"
	"He's one of Dr. G's agents, Clender."
	"Gilmore a Zuman agent?" asked Clender, startled. "By the stars of Eridani, August, when did you learn that?"
	"Twenty some years ago."
	"Twenty some!" Clender gaped at him. "And he's risen to subdirector in your own headquarters?" he blurted.
	Karsh nodded complacently. "Easier to keep an eye on him," he explained.
	"But, August -- "
	"He has served a purpose, Clender. It has given me a direct pipeline to G that I otherwise might not have had."
	"With all our secrets?" Clender asked bitterly.
	"We've been careful of that," Karsh said. "On the other hand, it's allowed us to feed Dr. G a lot of misinformation, and that can be valuable at times. I imagine Gilmore's picked up morsels here and there, rumors, but nothing major, Clender. I can assure you of that."
	"A double agent," Clender said wonderingly. "A double agent for twenty years, and I never knew, never even suspected."
	"It's been a well-kept secret," Karsh agreed.
	"How does he get his stuff through?"
	"He has a tie-in with another of G's agents in our sub-space communication net," Karsh explained. His lips twisted in an odd grimace. "Also a twenty-year man."
	"In heaven's name, August -- "
	"It's paid good dividends," Karsh interrupted. "If it hadn't, they would have been gone like that -- presto!" He snapped his fingers.
	"If I give him the message, he'll know."
	"Yes, he'll know. But he must have been expecting this for years, Clender."
	"Perhaps he won't send it; perhaps he'll just bolt."
	"He'll send it," Karsh assured him. "He's too good an agent not to. He'll bolt afterward."
	"He won't have a chance." Clender clenched his hands fiercely. "He won't have a chance, August."
	Karsh smiled curiously. "No, he won't have a chance."
	After Clender left, Karsh sat for a long while, staring out at the golden rays of Sol spilling over the gleaming buildings and parapets of Nyork, the capital city of both Earth and the Empire. The view soothed him, especially the ragged clouds trailing across the blue sky.
	So the story was nearly at an end. For a while the secret of the bomb had lain unmasked, in dire peril of getting into the hands of Prince Li-Hu or Dr. G. But that danger was past. The saboteurs would get short shrift, York would come home, everything would go on as before. With one exception, he thought. The Draco's captain knew the secret of the bomb also, and he was an outworlder. But he was completely trustworthy; his service record was excellent. Well, he could take care of that easily enough. He'd pass the word to the admiral. Sighing, he turned back from the window. It would have been nice to see Gilmore's face when Clender gave him the message.
	And Golem Gregor's face when he received it.

	"So Myron's been captured." Standing on the balcony outside his office, where he had been admiring the violet sunset when Zarakov brought him the news, Golem Gregor felt a quick perturbation.
	"Gilmore, also," Zarakov added bitterly.
	"Gilmore?"
	"Karsh's assistant brought in the message, plunked it on his desk and instructed him to send it via your agent on the subspace communication net. Doesn't that sound like he's caught?"
	"Karsh wanted me to know," Gregor murmured.
	"Yes, but why?"
	"To prove that his agency is invulnerable, Zed. That and a touch of pride."
	Zarakov said glumly, "There goes our future. It'll be a long winter before we get another chance at that bomb."
	"Perhaps not, Zed."
	"With Myron captured? They've probably got him under therapy on Grydo right now, Golem. They'll bleed every secret he ever knew."
	"August Karsh wouldn't allow that on Grydo," Gregor declared. "He'll have him brought to First Level for probing. He wouldn't take a chance on what Myron might know."
	"What good does that do us, Golem?"
	"It gives us time."
	"By the great violet sun, Golem, time for what?"
	"To get the secret of the N-bomb, Zed."
	"But how? Li-Hu's plot is smashed. Daniel York will see to that."
	"Fortunately for us," Gregor observed. He continued grimly, "If Li-Hu got the bomb, we'd be finished."
	Zarakov demanded, "What chance have we without Terle? Tell me that, Golem. Karsh will have a ring of steel around that planet and around Li-Hu's men as well. If you think you can spirit the secret from one of them -- " He stopped, eyeing his superior perplexedly.
	"I don't imagine we'll have the opportunity of interrogating any of Li-Hu's men," Gregor commented, "but then, neither will the prince. I imagine they'll soon disappear from the face of the universe, Zed, except for their atoms."
	"And poor Myron?"
	"I still have confidence that he will come through, Zed."
	"Escape August Karsh? Never!" declared Zarakov.
	"Patience, Zed."
	"You've said that before, Golem, but I feel that I should be doing something."
	"There's nothing you can do."
	"Nothing at all, Golem?"
	"Nothing." Golem Gregor turned, staring out again toward the violet sunset, and after a moment heard Zarakov's footsteps receding. He knew exactly how Zed felt, how he himself felt, but he had told him the truth; there was absolutely nothing he could do. Now everything was in the hands of chance, and chance, he knew, was an uncertain mistress.
	What more could he have done? Nothing, he concluded, for his own actions largely had been dictated through necessity rather than choice. From the moment he'd learned of Li-Hu's plot, he'd been guided by the principle that the plot must be smashed; the safety of the Zuman civilization demanded that. Only secondarily had he moved to get the bomb secret, free the Zuman people so that they could pursue their destiny throughout the galaxy and beyond.
	Well, the prince had lost; he would place a fair wager on that one. But he hadn't. Not yet. Despite Zarakov's bleak pessimism, the bomb plot was very much alive and just coming into its critical phase. What Zarakov couldn't know was that Myron Terle hadn't failed; he was merely buying time. But had he bought enough?
	That was the question.

	The hands of the chronometer pointed to high noon, standard time, when the Draco got underway from Bonoplane's orbit, beginning the long acceleration which would push it into hypertime. When it emerged, it would be somewhere in the solar system of the Class G sun Sol; within days it would let down in the great port of Nyork. Those had been the admiral's orders.
	Watching the planet through the star window, York became aware of a score of sounds -- murmured pulsations of the great engines coming through the bulkheads, the hum of air conditioners, whirring fans, clicking noises from within the bridge consoles; the Draco was girding itself for the big leap.
	Off to one side, Hull and Galton were bent over the star maps, plotting the intricate geometry of acceleration, time and distance. If the captain were concerned with the presence of saboteurs aboard, he didn't show it. Although his manner with York had been reserved since their inspection of the Rigel, much of the suppressed agitation York had sensed earlier seemed to have vanished.
	York moved over to Osborn, who had the watch on the communicator, and asked, "Can you stop by my cabin when you're free?"
	Osborn glanced around guardedly before answering. "I'm not allowed in that area unless on duty."
	"Wear your duty belt," he prompted. "I'll clear it with the captain if anyone asks questions."
	"Yes, sir, I'll be there," he said.
	York was waiting when his knock came at the door. York admitted him and gestured toward a chair, glancing up and down the empty passageway before closing the door behind him. Sitting on the edge of the bunk opposite Osborn, he asked, "Do you know how many were aboard the Rigel?"
	Osborn shook his head, his eyes speculative.
	"One hundred and forty-four," he said slowly. "All murdered but nine."
	"Murdered!" Osborn exclaimed. His face showed shock.
	"Murdered," he repeated, "and one or more of those nine men did it. The ship and its crew were murdered in cold blood, Osborn."
	"That's hard to believe," Osborn murmured.
	"Murder is always hard to believe," he answered grimly, "and mass murder is harder to believe. And it could happen here, Osborn, on the Draco."
	Osborn's eyes widened. "Does the captain know?"
	"We're going to show him, but I need your help."
	"Sure!" Osborn exclaimed huskily. His face hardened. "Just lead me to them, Mr. York."
	"It won't be quite that simple."
	"Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it," Osborn declared.
	York told him. He told him in clear, stark terms, without concealing any of his suspicions. Because everything might depend on Osborn, he described how the Rigel must have been taken over and how the Draco could fall victim the same way. He described everything except his visit to the N-bomb compartment and the torn-open door. He saw the anger flare in Osborn's eyes, the jaw muscles grow taut and corded. "So there it is," he finished. "Think you can do it?"
	Osborn gritted his teeth. "I can do it, Mr. York."
	"Remember the timing."
	"I'll remember."
	When Osborn left, he sat staring at the wall, letting the pieces fall into shape. With any luck, he'd prove the sabotage -- no, he'd prove murder! -- and reveal the killers' identities to Hull's complete satisfaction. To do it he'd have to risk the Draco, but that burden would lie with Benbow and Osborn. Considering them, he thought that he couldn't have picked better men. And afterward? He closed his eyes, wondering at the value of a day, an hour, a second, and at the vagaries of chance. The confrontation with the Rigel survivors was but the beginning.
	Afterward his own trial would begin.
	York was having coffee with Tregaski and Wexby in the wardroom when he was summoned to the bridge. He found the captain standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing through the star window at the great glowing bowl of the galaxy.
	"You wished to see me?" York asked.
	Hull turned slowly and glanced around to assure their privacy. When he turned back, his face held an expression which York couldn't quite decipher. The hard lines of his jaw were as set as ever, but something akin to relief shone in the mud-blue eyes now firmly fixed on York's face.
	"Myron Terle was captured on Grydo," Hull announced.
	"Terle?" York felt a distinct shock.
	"Caught him with a stun gun."

	"Terle captured," he murmured. In the silence that followed his own voice, he heard the low whisper of an air fan, the sounds of life transmitted through the bulkheads. So, the Programmed Man had run out of time. He raised his head, meeting the captain's eyes directly. "Did Karsh say so?"
	"The message came from Grydo," Hull explained. "The admiral has ordered them to keep us apprised of all developments."
	"Then it's undoubtedly true."
	"This should prove quite a shock to the Zuman government, York."
	"It's quite a shock, all right." York's face was a mask. "Did the message give any details?"
	"None beyond what I mentioned." Hull shook his head. "But I don't mind saying, this takes a burden from my mind. I always felt that Terle represented the greatest danger, and apparently the admiral did, also."
	"I wouldn't discount the danger," York observed.
	"From Grydo?"
	He nodded. "Terle had some plan for contacting Li-Hu's men. At least Karsh believed so. We can't overlook that."
	"I imagine some of his alarm has subsided, York."
	"Because of Terle's capture?" He shook his head. "Don't you believe it. Would Dr. G stake everything on one man? That's not good practice, Captain. He most certainly has an alternative plan."
	"I've considered that, but I also know that Grydo is sealed off completely and absolutely," returned Hull. "Whatever intelligence apparatus he might have has been isolated, and I have scant doubt but that it soon will fall into the admiral's hands."
	"The hopeless situation is often best," York answered.
	Hull cocked his head. "I don't follow that."
	"Just a saying," he explained.
	"Well, it's hopeless, all right, at least as far as Myron Terle is concerned, and I'm not too greatly worried over the rest of it. That's in the admiral's hands."
	"Nevertheless I'd keep in close contact with Grydo," York warned.
	"I intend to. The admiral was explicit on that point."
	York eyed him candidly. "I believe it's time we unmasked the saboteurs."
	"You believe you can?"
	"It's almost a certainty."
	Hull hesitated briefly, cocking his head. "How about the traitors on the Draco?" His voice was hard and flat.
	"We might flush them out," York said.
	"You have a plan?"
	York nodded and commenced speaking. He told Hull exactly what he wanted. He didn't disclose the roles he had assigned to Dr. Benbow or Osborn or touch on what he believed might happen for fear the captain would rebel; Hull wouldn't fancy gambling with the Draco. All in all, he made it sound quite innocuous.
	York couldn't hope that it would be.


12

	THE NINE Rigel survivors were waiting in the crew's mess hall when York arrived. Tregaski had placed them at one of the long tables, facing the front of the compartment, and had taken his own place off to one side, next to Doctor Benbow. Neither was armed.
	York proceeded to the front of the room and sat down, wondering what had detained Hull; it was not like him to be late. He ran his eyes over the assemblage. Cleaned up and rested, the survivors appeared in considerably better shape than they had a few days before. Albert Barngate, the quartermaster chief, had a round, open face with brown, speculative eyes and a way of holding his head that suggested alertness. He caught York's glance and nodded pleasantly.
	Jarrett Shumway sat next to him with his body hunched forward and his huge hands knotted on the table in front of him. His face was set in a tight scowl, and York wondered why. Searching his mind, he placed Shumway as maintenance second. He let his gaze rest briefly on Lee Chun, the maintenance first, and the young Alphan who sat next to him, who he knew must be Hing Poy, another maintenance worker. Both faces were lean, dark, absolutely devoid of expression.
	A stir ran through the group as Captain Hull entered. Some of the men started scrambling to their feet, but he waved them down, proceeding to the head of the room.
	Glancing around, Hull cleared his throat and said, "The purpose of this gathering is to ascertain what happened to cause the disaster aboard the Rigel. I might add that this hearing is unofficial and purely preliminary." His eyes swung to the agent. "Mr. York, who is representing the Admiral or the Galactic Seas, will conduct the questioning."
	York rose and took the captain's place at the podium, conscious of several startled looks. But not on the faces of Lee Chun or Hing Poy. And not on Jarrett Shumway's face. His scowl deepened, giving him a menacing look. Albert Barngate watched him peculiarly, his eyes guarded.
	"Before we begin, I would like to fill in on some background information, verify the facts as I know them," York said. "I understand the Rigel was en route from Pelicide to the Gorman system when the emergency occurred. Is that correct?" He looked at Barngate.
	"Yes, sir," the chief answered.
	"Not 'sir,' I'm a civilian," York said. "I take it that the emergency occurred when the Rigel was in hypertime."
	"That is correct," Barngate answered.
	"Who brought the Rigel out of hypertime?" he asked.
	"I did."
	"You?" York raised his eyes.
	"In the Navy a quartermaster serves as an assistant to the navigator," explained Barngate. "I've passed many years on the bridge and am as familiar with the controls as I am with navigation. Most quartermaster chiefs are," he added.
	"I wasn't aware of that." York smiled pleasantly. "Was the situation such that you had to take the Rigel out of hypertime? I'm wondering why you couldn't have gone on to the Gorman system."
	"You can't launch a lander in hypertime, Mr. York."
	"In other words, the situation was that serious at the outset?" he asked.
	"Definitely."
	"How did you happen to choose the Gelhart system, Chief?"
	"It was closest," explained Barngate.
	"And Bonoplane was the closest planet?"
	"The closest habitable planet, yes." Barngate nodded. "Skyro was on the opposite leg of its orbit."
	"Weren't there other planets which could have been reached almost as quickly? For example, Grydo, in the Geddes system? I understand it's only six hours away."
	"We didn't have six hours, Mr. York."
	"Then it was quick?"
	"Very quick." Barngate nodded. "I had to make a decision, and I made it. Perhaps if there'd been time..." He shrugged.
	"I can appreciate that," York answered. "What was the nature of the emergency, Chief?"
	"Gas. A deadly poison gas," Barngate returned solemnly.
	"Gas?" York felt a slight shock. He'd known that since Benbow's inspection of the Rigel, but he hadn't expected the answer. It was as if Barngate had pulled a prop from under his reasoning.
	"The ship was suddenly flooded," Barngate explained.
	"That sudden?" asked York wonderingly.
	Barngate nodded. "It came through the central air-distribution system."
	"What kind of gas?"
	"I have no idea." Barngate turned, looking toward the Alphans. "You'll have to ask Hing Poy. He had the maintenance watch on the system at the time."
	"Hing?" York gazed at the lean, dark face.
	Hing Poy shook his head. "I wasn't on it at the time."
	"Why not?" he shot back.
	"Joe Peterson took the watch for me," he replied earnestly. "I was entered for the ship's Krabacci championship and was playing some practice games."
	"Krabacci, eh?" York nodded understandingly. "I hear they have a champion aboard the Draco here. Singkai, one of the maintenance technicians. You might like to challenge him."
	Hing Poy flashed a gleaming smile. "I know of Lu Singkai, Mr. York. Every Krabacci player in the fleet does. I would like very much to play him."
	"Perhaps that can be arranged," York said. "What are the duties of the man on watch?"
	"Just to check the system, take periodic readings and make certain everything's working. There's seldom any trouble."
	"That sounds easy enough," York assented. "Who were you playing with, Hing?"
	"Lee Chun." He gestured to the Alphan next to him.
	"Was anyone else present?"
	"Yes, sir. Wooten there." He indicated a slender young man with a thin, pale face and receding hairline.
	"Wooten?"
	"George Wooten, communication technician," Wooten answered in a clear, bell-like voice. "I was there."
	"Thank you," York acknowledged. He turned back to Hing Poy. "What kind of gas was it, Hing?"
	"I don't know. It was nothing I could identify."
	"Then you don't store it?"
	"No, sir."
	"Chun?" He switched his eyes to the second Alphan.
	"I have no idea, Mr. York."
	York looked at Captain Hull. "Do you know of any dangerous gas that a ship like the Rigel might store?"
	"None of that nature," Hull responded.
	"Thank you." He turned back to Barngate. "Where were you when the emergency occurred, Chief?"
	"I was coming through the central corridor, headed toward the bridge," Barngate answered. "I was slated to go on watch."
	"What happened, in your words?"
	"Well, I was near the ladder when I caught a whiff of something that stung my throat, then burned all the way down. I gasped once -- I remember that -- then caught my breath and headed for the closest mask locker. I got one on and ran for the bridge. When I got there, the captain, navigator and man on the communication watch -- that was Jerry Dakart -- already were down, gasping. The captain was struggling to reach the general-alarm button."
	"Didn't you think to take masks to the bridge?"
	"No, sir, they have a mask locker there," Barngate replied. "Aside from that, everything happened so suddenly that I didn't have time to think; at least I didn't think very clearly."
	"What did you do next?"
	"I ran to the mask locker."
	"The one on the bridge?"
	"Yes, sir, but I was too late. By the time I got a mask on the captain, he was gone. So were the others." He gestured helplessly. "There was nothing I could do."
	"That's understandable," York said. "Did you see any other men during that time?"
	"Jarrett ran to the bridge about that time." He nodded toward Shumway. "He looked in pretty bad shape. He'd caught a few whifls before he managed to get a mask."
	York glanced at Shumway. "How much did you breathe?"
	"Just a breath or two," answered Shumway surlily. "I was close to the locker when it happened."
	"Which locker?"
	"The one in the central corridor. That's at the foot of the ladder leading to the bridge."
	"The same one Barngate used?"
	"Yes, sir. I was right behind him."
	"What did you do after you got the mask?"
	"I followed the chief to the bridge."
	"But you were too late, eh?"
	"They were dead," said Shumway flatly. "Except the chief?"
	"He was trying to put a mask on the captain."
	"Did you see any other men during this time?"
	"None," declared Shumway.
	York switched his glance to Barngate. "What happened next, Chief?"
	"I sounded the gas alarm."
	"And then?"
	"I ordered Jarrett to run down to the air-distribution room to see what the trouble was," Barngate answered. "I knew we were in bad shape. The captain and navigator were dead, and the only thing I could think of was to find a safe landing spot. As nearly as I could figure, the Gelhart system was it."
	"When did you take the Rigel out of hypertime?"
	"Almost immediately. We were extremely close to the system, at least by the clock."
	"Quick thinking," York observed. "Did you see or hear anything unusual while all this was going on?"
	"I don't quite follow your meaning," Barngate replied. He cocked his head inquisitively.
	"Noises, voices, explosions, or anything like that?"
	"I heard a few shouts, but that was earlier, before I got back to the bridge."
	"You remained on the bridge during this time?"
	"Yes, sir. I'd just taken the Rigel out of hypertime and was trying to chart our course. I'm afraid it was a pretty confused period," he added.
	"Did you see anyone else during this time?"
	"On the bridge?" Barngate frowned. "Wooten came up about that time, followed by Hing Poy. I can't recall the exact time sequence."
	"Wooten and Hing Poy?" York glanced inquiringly at the communication technician.
	"That was a few minutes after the gas hit," Wooten explained. "When I realized what was happening, I grabbed a mask, ran to the communication room and sent out a distress signal."
	"Wasn't anyone there?"
	"The man on watch was dead, sir."
	"How soon was that after you sensed the gas?"
	"It seems like only a few moments." Wooten shook his head. "I really couldn't say. I guess I was too excited."
	York smiled. "I can understand that. Wasn't the ship in hypertime?"
	"I didn't think of that."
	"What did you do next?"
	"I got to thinking about sending the distress signal on my own; that's when I ran up to the bridge. The chief chased me back down."
	"Why?" York raised his eyes.
	"To send another signal. That's when I first realized the message hadn't gone through. We can't send or receive in hypertime," he added.
	"I'm aware of that," York commented. "Now think carefully, Wooten. Who suggested the second message, you or the chief?"
	"The chief," he promptly answered. York saw Barngate's eyes narrow slightly, and a shadow flitted across his face.
	York glanced at the captain, noticing the intentness in the mud-blue eyes before switching his gaze to Shumway. "What did you find in the air-distribution room?" he asked.
	Shumway raised his head and stared at the Alphans. "I saw Hing Poy running from the room."
	"Hing Poy?" York turned his eyes sharply.
	"That's my normal duty station," Poy explained calmly. "I ran there as soon as I got a mask."
	"What did you find?"
	"Peterson. He was lying on the floor."
	"Did you check him?"
	"No sir, I didn't think to. My first thought was the air system. I realized the trouble had to be there. I know it was," he added.
	"How?"
	"There were several gas-pressure cylinders scattered around."
	"Oh, could you identify them?"
	"No," Poy admitted, "but most pressure cylinders are much the same. We keep similar ones for the storage of oxygen and nitrogen."
	"What did you do?"
	"I switched on the emergency air-exchange system."
	"Perhaps you'd better explain that," York suggested.
	"It's an emergency backup system," Poy explained. "If the carbon dioxide content gets dangerously high or the main system breaks down, we switch to that system."
	"Can it clear the air if the purifiers break down?"
	"Yes, sir. It's costly, but that's what it does. It sucks Out all the old air and dumps it into space while it pumps back a fresh supply from the standby tanks."
	"That would require quite a bit of oxygen," York observed.
	"Oxygen and nitrogen," Poy corrected. "The gases are automatically mixed to the right proportion before they get into the system. The total atmospheric exchange is computed at just under ten minutes."
	"So that's what you did, changed the atmosphere?"
	"Yes, sir."
	"Without orders?"
	"Yes, sir," Hing Poy repeated steadily.
	"What happened next, Hing?"
	"I got to thinking I'd better report what I'd done. I was running out to find my chief -- that's Chief Patterson -- when I bumped into Shumway."
	"That sounds like fast thinking," York commented. "What happened next?"
	"Shumway told me to find Patterson. Said if I couldn't find him, I should report to the bridge."
	"What then?"
	"I found Patterson dead by the mask locker," Poy answered. "He wasn't alone. There were quite a few dead. As soon as I saw that, I ran to the bridge. Then Barngate sent me to see if I could find any of the officers alive."
	"And you didn't?" asked York gently.
	"No, sir, they were all dead."
	York looked at Lee Chun. "You're maintenance first, as I recall."
	"Yes, sir," Chun responded. His voice was polite and steady.
	"What did you do when Hing ran to the air-distribution room?"
	"I hurried to damage control," Chun replied. "That's my duty station."
	"Where is that?"
	"Forward on the second deck, next to the ship's hospital."
	"Go on," York urged.
	"I didn't see anyone alive. I ran to the hospital, but it was the same there. Then I thought of the bridge. I was running toward it when I met Hing. I went with him to see if we could find one of the officers," he finished.
	"I'm beginning to get the picture," York observed. He glanced around the room. Captain Hull was leaning forward, his lips pursed and eyebrows arched, giving him a somewhat perplexed expression. Tregaski appeared chiseled from granite, so hard and unmoving were his features. Benbow wore a curiously expectant look. Most of the Rigel survivors were hunched forward, watching him intently. Shumway's scowl had deepened, and he kept his eyes averted.
	York continued, "We have several more men to hear from." He indicated a fat-faced man with a bald crown. "Your name?"
	"Sam Gordon, engine technician," the man responded nervously.
	"Where were you when the emergency occurred?"
	"In the crew's galley. I was with Ival, Mason and Bagby." He gestured toward his companions.
	"You were together?"
	"Yes, sir."
	"What doing?"
	"Well, I -- " He floundered, struggling for words.
	"Speak up," York ordered sharply.
	Gordon brought his head up. "We were playing a game."
	"Krabacci?"
	"No, sir, gambling," one of the other men said. He looked directly at York. "My name's Jack Ival, armament apprentice."
	"Thank you, Ival." York nodded. "What did you do?"
	"The gas didn't seem to strike so fast," Ival said. "We caught a whiff of it, and I yelled for the masks. Then we all made a break for the lander."
	"The lander?" York raised his voice.
	"Number two starboard lander," explained Ival. "It's docked just off the crew's galley. Someone -- I guess maybe it was me -- remembered that the landers are equipped with masks. Number two was nearer than the lockers."
	"That makes sense."
	"Aside from that, we could shut it off from the rest of the ship, at least until we knew what was happening."
	York nodded understandingly. "You said the gas didn't come in so fast?"
	"We caught just a whiff at first. I realized what was happening when my lungs began to burn."
	"What happened next?"
	"We sealed off the lander and broke out the masks. Then I got on the communicator to sound an alert. I couldn't raise anyone," he ended.
	"So you stayed in the lander?"
	"No, sir, I slipped out and made a break for the port laser compartment. That's my duty station."
	"Go on," York said.
	"I passed a lot of men who looked dead, and that was the way I found things in the laser compartment," Ival continued. "I tried to contact the hospital, couldn't get an answer, and was starting toward the officers' quarters when I ran into Gordon. After that we met Poy and Chun and helped them in the search."
	"That leaves you two," York said, looking at Mason and Bagby.
	"Yes, sir," one of them answered.
	"Your name?"
	"Carl Mason, apprentice cook."
	"What did you do after Ival and Gordon left?"
	"Went back to the galley. That's my duty station. So did Joe. We stayed together."
	"Joe Bagby?"
	"Yes, sir, I'm also a cook apprentice," Bagby put in. He started to add something but changed his mind.
	"Keep talking," York instructed.
	"Well, later I got wondering why the gas was so much worse outside and started looking around -- "
	"Worse outside the galley?" York interrupted.
	"Yes, sir, it seemed to come into the galley a lot more slowly. When I found out that most of the others were dead, I got curious. That's when I started searching."
	"And you found -- ?" York waited expectantly.
	"The galley air vents were shut."
	"Shut?"
	"Yes, sir, you can do it manually from the inside."
	"Do you often shut them?"
	Bagby shook his head. "I never have."
	"Mason?"
	"I shut them before the game," Mason explained lamely. "It keeps the voices from traveling."
	York said grimly, "You seem to have chosen a fortunate time, Mason."
	"Yes, sir."
	York looked back at Barngate, letting his eyes dwell on him for several minutes before asking, "When did you set the course for Bonoplane?"
	"Almost immediately after coming out of hypertime," he explained.
	"Why not Skyro, or did you mention that?"
	"Yes, I did." A cloud shadowed Barngate's eyes. "That's right, I believe you said Skyro was on the opposite leg of its orbit."
	"That is correct."
	"How long did it take you to reach Bonoplane?"
	"A trifle over five days." A note of caution crept into the quartermaster's voice. "You can't chance coming out too close."
	"No, you can't," York agreed. "Were you on the bridge all that time?"
	Barngate shook his head. "I broke it into two watches. I stood one with Jarrett; Chun stood the other with Hing Poy."
	York saw a frown cross Hull's face and asked, "Any particular reason for that selection?"
	"Chun was the next senior petty officer present," Barngate explained.
	"Very good," York assented. "What were the others doing?"
	"I had the other men move the dead into the after compartments, both to improve our living conditions and to expedite future burial," answered Barngate.
	"An unpleasant job but a necessary one," York commented. "As I understand it, you and Shumway had the bridge half the time, and Chun and Poy the other half."
	"That is correct."
	"All during that time?"
	"Until the last day," Barngate affirmed.
	"What happened on the last day?"
	"I began to realize that I couldn't land the Rigel by myself," Barngate explained. "That's quite a technical operation. When we reached Bonoplane's orbit, I ordered Gordon, Ival, Mason and Bagby to abandon ship in one of the landers."
	"Why that selection?"
	"Gordon's an engine technician, knew how to handle the lander. The others didn't."
	"And then?"
	"Chun and Poy left next, probably an hour or so later. Chun can handle a lander."
	"That left you and Shumway aboard, right?"
	"For a few hours," Barngate assented. "I'd hoped to land the ship but changed my mind."
	"Why?"
	"She wasn't responding right, or at least I couldn't make her respond right, not with the lack of the engine crew. I had the feeling that she was ready to go out of control."
	"So you and Shumway abandoned her?"
	Barngate shook his head. "I brought her into reentry first and set the controls for a steady, low-speed letdown. We didn't abandon her until the last possible moment. It was the best we could do, Mr. York."
	"At any time did you go down into the bomb well? I'm speaking of the N-bomb compartment."
	"No, sir, that's not permitted," Barngate replied sharply.
	"Shumway?"
	"Didn't get near it," Shumway answered defensively.
	"I ordered everyone to stay away from it," explained Barngate.
	"And you're certain they did?"
	"On my watch, yes."
	"How about you?" York asked, switching his gaze to the Alphans.
	"Neither of us went down," Chun answered evenly.
	"At any time did you hear any strange sounds?"
	"No, sir."
	"You asked that before," Barngate snapped testily.
	"I'm trying to refresh my memory."
	"What kind of sounds?"
	"Explosions, anything that might indicate trouble."
	"Not a thing."
	"Shumway?" York snapped.
	"Nothing," Shumway said sullenly.
	"Hing Poy?"
	"Nothing, Mr. York."
	"Did any of the rest of you hear anything?"
	When no one answered, Barngate said, "Perhaps if you'd give us a clue to what you're after -- "
	"I'm just trying to ascertain what did go wrong."
	"Well, the gas..." The chief shrugged.
	York looked slowly around the assemblage, letting his gaze rest on Hull's troubled face before he continued. "Perhaps I should reintroduce myself. I am here not only as a representative of the Admiral of the Galactic Seas, but I am here as an agent of Empire Intelligence. That latter, incidentally, is my major job."
	"Empire Intelligence," someone murmured.
	"Empire Intelligence." York nodded. He shot a look along the table. Bagby's mouth hung agape; so did Mason's. Gordon had lifted his head in shocked surprise; Ival and Wooten appeared to have taken the announcement in stride. They watched him steadily. Lee Chun and Hing Poy appeared as inscrutable as ever, except perhaps for their sharpened gaze. Shumway scowled at his hands. Barngate sat straighter, his eyes weighing.
	York continued, "I am here on a case of murder."
	"Murder?" Barngate snapped.
	"The murder of one hundred and thirty-five men," York stated calmly. "They were murdered, weren't they?"
	"Murder," Barngate repeated. He clenched his hands and gazed around.
	York saw expressions of shocked incredulity and disbelief, the stunned look on George Wooten's face. Ival jutted his jaw tightly, staring ahead.
	"Needless to say, the murderer is sitting among us, or perhaps I should say murderers," York continued. His eyes riveted on the Alphans. "Wouldn't you say so, Chun?"
	"I don't know." Chun breathed slowly. "I'd thought it was an accident."
	"But a strange gas, eh?"
	"That puzzled me," Chun admitted.
	"How about you, Shumway?"
	"How should I know?" he growled without looking up.
	"Wooten?"
	"It's plausible, sir."
	"Chief?"
	"Yes, I can see it," Barngate agreed heavily. "I hadn't thought so before, but I can see it."
	"See what?"
	"That it must have been murder -- murder and sabotage."
	"Well, we seem to agree on that." York glanced casually around, feeling the tension in the room. Everyone was sitting on edge, scarcely breathing. He glanced at Hull. The captain's eyes were watchful, his face expectant. Tregaski looked as if he were ready to spring. Benbow had pursed his lips, waiting.
	York continued, "It's just a matter of naming the killers."
	Barngate turned his head slowly, gazing first at Chun and then at Hing Poy. "Our good Alphans," he grated.
	"Why Alphans?" asked York.
	"Everyone knows that Li-Hu's been plotting."
	"Do they?"
	"We've heard rumors," Barngate confirmed. "The captain was discussing it with the navigator one day on the bridge."
	"I'll have to agree with you, Chief. Li-Hu's been plotting," York said, "and out of it the Empire has lost one N-cruiser and one hundred and thirty-five men."
	"They'll pay," George Wooten said in a clear voice.
	"Yes, they'll pay."
	"Hing Poy was in the air-distribution room," a voice exclaimed querulously. York glanced up sharply and saw that it was Gordon.
	"Not till after the gas hit," Wooten rebuked.
	"Shumway was there also," Ival cut in calmly. "As far as I'm concerned, Lee Chun and Hing Poy are citizens of the Empire as much as anyone." He gazed contemptuously at the chief.
	"This is really preamble," York said slowly. "I know the killers."
	Hull came half out of his seat. "Name them," he spat.
	"Albert Barngate and Jarrett Shumway are your killers, Captain."
	"You're crazy," snarled Shumway. Barngate said nothing but stared at him with fixed intensity. His jaw muscles worked furiously. The others appeared stunned, shocked by the enormity of the charge.
	York said softly, "You made a number of mistakes, Chief."
	"Name them," Hull snapped.
	York swung toward him, aware of the tension in the room. He could almost feel it running through him like an electric current. "Gelhart's planets are forgotten worlds," he declared. "Galton said they probably haven't been charted in a thousand years; there's been no need to."
	"Go on," Hull instructed.
	"How long did it take Galton to determine the orbital positions of Skyro and Bonoplane?" he asked. "Many hours, but Barngate determined that immediately. Is he a better navigator than Galton? I'd guess not. He knew their positions exactly because he'd already charted them. There's no other answer."
	"Jarrett's right," Barngate broke in icily, "you're crazy."
	"Perhaps, but that doesn't explain your knowledge of Skyro's location, or Bonoplane's, either."
	"Is that the sum of your proof?" asked Hull curiously.
	"Point one," returned York. "Point two is that none of you heard the noise of an explosion, but there was an explosion -- the explosion when the door of the N-bomb chamber was blasted open. You know why no one else heard it, Barngate?" As the chief continued to stare at him, he went on. "Because no one else was aboard. No one but you and Jarrett."
	"You can't make that stick," snarled Shumway.
	"By your own admission, only four of you were on the bridge," York snapped back. "If Chun and Hing Poy had blasted it, you would have heard it."
	"You don't know what you're talking about," gritted Shumway.
	"You couldn't blast it while the others were aboard," York continued. "That's why Barngate ordered them to abandon the Rigel first and why you and Barngate remained aboard for such a long time. It's also why you crashed the Rigel -- an attempt to conceal the blast. But you couldn't afford to destroy it completely; you were dependent on it for food and supplies. You didn't know how long you might be stranded."
	Barngate straightened, seeming to regain his composure. "Guesswork," he said calmly.
	"I prefer to call it logic," York answered. "However, it will all come out under therapy, because that's where you're going, both of you -- right into August Karsh's therapy room."
	"I believe you're wrong, Mr. York."

	York spun around at the sound of the voice. Jona Norden, the Draco's maintenance chief, stood just inside the door, a blaster cradled in his hand. He held it nonchalantly pointed toward Tregaski, who had sprung from his chair.
	"Sit down," Norden hissed softly. The flashing smile still marked his slender face, but his eyes didn't smile; they were cold as death.
	As Tregaski hesitated, Hull said calmly, "Sit down, Lieutenant."
	"Yes, sir," Tregaski answered stiffly. He subsided slowly into his seat, his eyes riveted on Norden.
	"Ah, that's better." As Norden moved farther into the room, David Apgar, the half-breed deckhand, stepped through the doorway. His blaster appeared equally big.
	"Now, as you were saying..." Norden moved his eyes to York, waiting.


13

	"VERY GOOD, Commander." Albert Barngate rose from the mess table and nodded approvingly as he moved to join Norden. Shumway lurched from his seat more slowly.
	"Commander?" Hull rose, his face flushed with anger. "What nonsense is that?"
	"No nonsense," Norden answered easily. He reached inside his jacket and brought forth another blaster, handing it to Barngate before continuing. "I happen to be a commander in the navy of Prince Li-Hu."
	"You're crazy," Tregaski bellowed. "Li-Hu's got no navy."
	"But a very fine fleet of interstellar liners, each built for immediate conversion into a cruiser of the line," Norden put in. "I might also add that they are well armed. And now with your precious bomb secret -- "
	"Bomb secret!" Hull ejaculated.
	York waved him to silence, eyeing Norden stonily. "If you have the secret, you'll never carry it back."
	"We have it," Barngate interjected, "and we will carry it back."
	In the silence that followed, York studied Norden and Apgar curiously. The latter wore a foolish smile that told him he was little more than a pawn in the power game being played. But not Norden. His flashing smile was deadly.
	York riveted his eyes on the latter and said, "So you've been a traitor all the while."
	"Traitor?" Norden contemplated the word. Returning York's gaze unflinchingly, he said, "A man is true to his empire, and mine is the empire of Prince Li-Hu. I was born on Yenchi, fourth of the Alphan sun Kang."
	"Traitors and killers," York said quietly.
	"Killers?" Barngate leaped forward angrily and slashed the agent across the face with his blaster, sending him reeling backward. "You are speaking to a man with the rank of captain, and don't you forget it," he roared.
	York straightened slowly and brushed his cheek, staring at the blood on his hand before looking at Norden. "You can't deny that you tried to kill me," he charged.
	"Unfortunately I can't take the credit," Norden denied. He winked at Apgar. "Dave was a bit pressed for time."
	The deckhand grinned. "I was working under a handicap."
	"You won't get away with it," York warned.
	"Won't?" Norden laughed mirthlessly.
	"He's right, you won't," Hull broke in. Disregarding York's gesture to silence, he continued. "Myron Terle's been captured. You didn't expect that, did you?"
	"Myron Terle?" Barngate arched his eyebrows.
	"Captured," Hull repeated, "and Grydo's sealed off. You're trapped, all of you. The best thing you can do is surrender."
	"He's crazy," Shumway snarled. "What does he mean, that about Terle and Grydo? I never heard of them."
	"He means you can't get the bomb secret back to Li-Hu," York broke in.
	"And why not?" Barngate laughed nastily.
	"Because the Alphan worlds, every Alphan world, is blockaded by the Empire's Navy," he returned coolly.
	"So?" Barngate raised his eyes.
	"Don't you believe the prince anticipated that?" interrupted Norden. "It just so happens that he has an interstellar ship waiting in deep space, coordinates unknown -- except to us," he added.
	"You'll wind up under the atomizer," snapped Hull.
	"Let me handle this," York cut in. He stared coldly at Norden. "You couldn't manage a deep-space rendezvous, not without a first-rate navigator, which you haven't got. If you had one, you wouldn't have landed the Rigel on Bonoplane."
	Norden laughed, enjoying himself. "You don't understand the intricacies of the plot," he said. "The Draco's supplying the navigator, a graduate of the Wansu school. I fancy we won't have difficulty on that score."
	"Another traitor," rasped Hull.
	"Another Alphan loyal to his prince," Norden corrected.
	"I'd thought it would be Barngate," York reflected.
	"I can't claim the honor," Barngate answered. "My navigation is very modest, although quite sufficient to locate a planet. Essentially, you see, I'm an intelligence officer."
	"Intelligence officer?" York arched his brows.
	"Correct." Barngate's eyes drilled into him. "You're supposed to be an E.I. agent, York. Small wonder we won so easily. Can't August Karsh do better than that?"
	"You're not off the Draco yet," York warned. He shot a glance at Benbow, praying that he had fulfilled his role. The doctor's face, cold and stiff, told him nothing. If Benbow had failed, or Osborn...He suppressed a quiet shudder.
	"Enough of the talk," snapped Barngate. "Let's get on with the job."
	Norden stiffened, moving his weapon ominously. "The first false move from anyone and you all get cut down," he warned.
	"We get a choice?" York asked.
	"Certainly, if you prefer to die now." The weapon moved toward him.
	York grinned. "I'll take my chances on a short reprieve."
	"May I put in a word?" a voice from the rear asked.
	Norden stiffened, moving his eyes. It was Hing Poy.
	"As an Alphan, I disown you," Hing Poy said. "Your ancestors must shudder in their graves."
	"I disown you, also," Chun said steadily.
	Norden stared impassively at them. "You'll have a chance to talk it over with your own ancestors very soon," he promised.
	"What's all this about?" Hull demanded. His face flushed angrily.
	"You'll learn."
	"We all have something to learn," York put in calmly.
	Barngate stared at him, sudden suspicion clouding his face. "You don't appear very worried," he observed.
	"I don't believe you can pull it off," York challenged.
	"No?" Barngate's blaster centered on York's chest. "You don't know when you've lost, do you, York? You're an incompetent fool, you and your August Karsh and all of First Level. You don't even know that the sun has set on your Empire. You're done, York, you and all your kind. A stupid race," he sneered.
	"Words," York said.
	Barngate laughed, a nasty grating sound, and nodded toward Apgar. The deckhand slipped through the doorway and returned a moment later with four masks, handing one to each of his companions.
	"Gas?" a voice half-whispered.
	"That's how they took over the Rigel," York said.
	"You're guessing late for an E.I. man," Barngate grated.
	"As a matter of fact, I can't take full credit for the honor," York answered. He nodded toward Benbow. "Our good doctor surmised that the crew had to be unconscious or dead. The rest was simple deduction."
	"You guessed that?" demanded Hull. "You didn't mention it."
	"No reason to," York acknowledged.
	"And so you die," Barngate rasped.
	"Just stand here?" snarled Tregaski. He lowered his head, hunching his shoulders as if to charge. Norden's weapon swung around.
	"Hold it," York barked. "That's a command." Tregaski stiffened, staring at the blaster in Norden's hand, then slowly exhaled, standing straighter.
	"That's better," Norden said.
	Hull looked disdainfully at York. "August Karsh will have to take the credit for this," he said icily.
	"Karsh!" Barngate spat the name.
	Norden walked over to a wall communicator, keeping one eye on York as he punched the selector button. He said into the tube, "This is Commander Norden speaking. You may proceed."
	"We just die?" a voice from the rear exclaimed incredulously.
	"That's right," answered Norden. He looked at his companions. "Time to mask, Captain."
	"Don masks," Barngate ordered.
	York saw a tension run through the room and barked, "Hold it. Wait."
	"Hold it," Tregaski snarled.
	"Don't budge," York rasped. He swung back, waiting for a long suspense-filled moment, scarcely daring to breathe as the Alphans scrambled into their masks. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the uncertainty on Tregaski's face, the impassive look on Hull's. Hing Poy's eyes were blank pools.
	Suddenly Norden's weapon wavered, and he took a faltering step forward. At that instant York lowered his body and lunged toward Barngate, who was reaching desperately for his mask. York struck him low, sending him reeling backward, and was on him instantly, yanking away his blaster. As he rose and whirled, he saw the other Alphans clawing at their masks.
	Tregaski came to life with a roar. Lunging forward, he wrenched the blaster from Norden's hand and fell on Apgar, smashing him to the deck. York whirled toward Shumway, surprised to see Hull standing over him, blaster in hand. Hull looked around slowly, his eyes resting on York.
	"Their masks were filled with a nice, soothing sleeping gas," York explained.
	"Gas?"
	"A quick-acting mixture the doc drummed up." He nodded toward Benbow.
	"But how -- ?" Hull glanced uncertainly from Benbow to York.
	"We figured they'd try it this way," York continued. "The attempt on my life was the tip-off."
	"How'd he know which masks to fill?"
	York grinned. "He filled them all, every mask on the ship. Take your pick and go to sleep."
	Hull started to answer, then jerked up his head sharply. "My God, we're forgetting about the gas in the system!"
	"Wait," York counseled. As Benbow bent over Barngate to examine his pulse, they waited silently. Moments later they heard a clumping noise in the corridor, and Osborn came through the doorway, bent under the weight of a body.
	"Char Wong!" exclaimed Hull. York felt a stab of surprise. He'd felt positive it had to be either Char Wong or Lu Singkai, but he'd placed his money on the older man. Between the two, Singkai had appeared the better candidate. Well, he'd guessed wrong.
	Osborn deposited his burden none too gently on the floor and straightened, looking at the agent. "It was just like you said it would be, Mr. York," he said.
	"What was?" snapped Hull. "What happened?"

	Osborn stood straighter. "Mr. York had me hide in the air-distribution room. Told me to make certain no one put anything in the air system."
	"Who had the watch?" Hull barked.
	"Lu Singkai. While I was hiding, Wong here" -- he indicated the unconscious man -- "came in. He pushed some kind of a needle in Singkai, and he keeled over. Then Wong locked the door."
	"You were watching all this?" Hull asked sharply.
	"Yes, sir. Mr. York told me not to do anything unless someone tried to put something into the system."
	"And he did?"
	"Yes, sir, he tried. He got some pressure containers that were hidden behind the indicator panel and placed them near the air ducts. After a while someone gave him an order over the communicator. When Wong put on a mask, I got ready to let him have it -- "
	"Let him have it?"
	Osborn dug into his pocket and brought out a stun gun. "Mr. York gave it to me," he explained.
	"I see." Hull nodded gravely.
	Osborn looked puzzled. "But something happened. Wong keeled over before I could use it. That's when I grabbed him."
	"You did fine, Osborn." Hull nodded approvingly. Pursing his lips, he looked at York. "It seems to me I could have been acquainted with some of this," he remarked.
	York subdued a smile. "Not really, Captain."
	"And why not?"
	"You probably wouldn't have gone along with it," York answered coolly. "Or you might not have let it go this far."
	Hull stared at him. "Perhaps you're right," he admitted finally.
	"It was the only way we could catch the traitors aboard the Draco," York pursued.
	"Traitors!" Hull's eyes blazed. "I'll see them under the atomizer."
	"When August Karsh finishes with them," he agreed.
	Hull swung toward Tregaski. "Lock these men up, Lieutenant, and I don't want to see anyone talking with them. No one."
	"With pleasure," Tregaski returned.
	Hull looked at York. "If you would come to my cabin -- "
	"Certainly," he responded. Hull turned wordlessly and left the mess hall, nor did he speak until they were seated under the blue lights. Then he weighed the agent speculatively.
	"Several things puzzle me," he mused.
	"Understandable," York murmured.
	"Just before I went to the mess hall, I received a message from the Admiral of the Galactic Seas," the captain continued. York stiffened, waiting. "Notice of promotion to the rank of rear admiral, effective immediately. I'm assigned to duty at First Level," he added.
	York exhaled slowly, feeling a brief reprieve. "Congratulations!" he exclaimed. "You've earned it."
	"But why?" Hull cocked his head speculatively. "Let's drop all pretense, York. I'm an outworlder, and outworlders don't make rear admiral. I don't have to tell you that."
	York studied him, seeing the puzzlement in his face which had prompted him to step beyond his pride. No, he thought, the captain didn't know, but he would soon enough. He said quietly, "You're privy to a secret, Admiral. That makes you eligible."
	"The bomb secret?" Hull asked wonderingly. At his nod, Hull said, "But the Rigel was unarmed. You saw that yourself."
	"That's the secret."
	"You're saying -- ?"
	"There is no bomb, never has been."
	"I -- I can't believe that."
	"Nevertheless, it's true. The bomb is a giant hoax created to keep peace in the Empire, to assure the eminence of the Empire."
	"But all the N-cruisers," Hull broke in disbelievingly.
	"Are traveling unarmed except for conventional weapons," York supplied. "Those empty compartments have kept the Empire unchallenged for centuries, Admiral."
	"Barngate guessed?"
	"As a crew member it was easy. He knew they hadn't unloaded anything."
	"But I didn't guess."
	"Subconsciously you did," York answered. "Sooner or later it would have come to you. Meanwhile, knowledge of the empty chamber was dangerous."
	"So that made me a rear admiral," Hull said bitterly. "Is that so they can keep an eye on me?"
	"Don't feel bad," York encouraged. "They keep an eye on everyone, and that includes the Admiral of the Galactic Seas and August Karsh. It's part of the system; the Empire couldn't survive without it."
	"I wasn't aware of that."
	York saw some of the strain leave his face. "You learn to live with it," he counseled.
	Hull looked wonderingly at him. "Will I -- ever?"
	"In time, until someday the secret is out," York said. "After that we can all relax."
	"It'll never get Out, York. It can't." Hull clenched his fist.
	"Yes, it will," he corrected. He looked Hull squarely in the eyes. "No secret can be kept forever, Admiral."

	One hour to Earth orbit.
	One hour to Earth's teeming cities.
	One hour to safety.
	Daniel York sat in his small stateroom, his eyes on the clock, watching the slow sweep of the minute hand. With high navigational skill, Galton had brought the Draco from hypertime well inside the orbit of Mars, and for the last three days the destroyer had been hurtling toward Earth on conventional drive. Now, from well inside the lunar orbit, Earth filled the sky, an immense bluish-yellow planet that lay in half phase, with the sun a gleaming disk off to one side.
	In one hour -- less now -- the Draco would come into Earth orbit, and the mission would end. Success or failure -- everything hung on minutes. Listening, he heard the rumble of the Draco's power drive in retro-fire, transmitted through the bulkheads as a faint whisper. The minute G force set up by the destroyer's constant deceleration tugged gently at his body.
	And then it was fifty minutes.
	He let his thoughts wander. Admiral Hull would be on the bridge with Galton, scanning the maps of local space while he watched the great bluish-yellow planet swim toward him out of the velvet night. Admiral -- the rank he'd never hoped to attain. Instead of the bleak planet Upi, he'd have a cozy office in Naval Center, replete with all the benefits that came with high rank. He'd never again travel the rim or watch the midge sun Blackett rise above Upi's craggy peaks. For him the story was ended.
	And down in the hold, under lock and heavy guard, were Barngate, Shumway, Norden, Apgar, and Wong, who must apprehensively be awaiting the moment when they would be escorted into August Karsh's therapy room. For them, too, the story had ended.
	But not for him.
	Everything depended on time -- the Draco's speed, its rate of deceleration, its instant of entry into orbit. And on what was happening on Grydo. More specifically, what was happening -- or had happened -- to the Programmed Man.
	What of the others?
	He smiled at the thought. Prince Li-Hu probably was fretting in his palace on Shan-Hai, wondering why he hadn't heard from his agents, why the Draco hadn't appeared at X spot in space. Did he suspect that he had lost the bomb secret? Probably, he thought, for although the prince was ambitious, power-mad and reckless, he certainly was no fool. Perhaps he was already spinning a second plot.
	What of Dr. G? He probably was standing in his balcony, watching the huge violet sun, contemplating the possibilities pro and con, all absolutely without emotion. For him the mission had been a thing of mathematics in which action had been geared to number; certain things happened at certain times. And if the numbers were correct, he had won. And he most certainly must be contemplating the Programmed Man, on whom so much of his bet had been placed.
	And August Karsh? Karsh undoubtedly would be at the space terminal, and equally undoubtedly would be accompanied by the Admiral of the Galactic Seas. But Karsh would not be speaking of victory. Not yet, for he was a cautious man. Despite his renown as an intelligence chief almost without peer, he would be fully cognizant that he was pitted against Dr. G. No, he would not speak of victory, not until he had it in his hand.
	What of himself?
	York smiled grimly. The mission had been audacious, complex, so dependent upon an unending stream of factors beyond his control that it had seemed doomed from the start, and yet its very audacity had given him a degree of assurance. In the past, he'd found, it had been the audacious enterprises that had succeeded best, and yet the death rolls were filled with the names of agents who had died on far lesser missions.
	He returned his eyes to the clock.
	Twenty minutes to Earth orbit.
	He was sitting, leaned back, eyes closed, when he heard the footsteps in the corridor, Tregaski's heavy footfalls masking the lighter ones.
	York straightened with a sigh. The ship would be alerted; there would be armed men in every corridor, every compartment. Hull would have seen to that. When he heard them pause at the door, he called, "Come in."
	The door burst open and the admiral stood there, his face bleak and suspicious, his mud-blue eyes narrowed into tight slits. Tregaski towered at his side, his face a mask of hostility, one hand on his blaster.
	York looked surprised. "Well, this is pleasant. I thought you'd be on the bridge."
	Hull took two swift strides into the room and halted, leaving Tregaski at the door. "I've just received a message from Grydo," he said sharply. "The man they captured isn't Myron Terle."
	York smiled and said, "I'm not surprised."
	"Not surprised?" Hull blurted. He took another step forward. "His name happens to be Daniel York."
	"York, eh? Have you heard from August Karsh?"
	Hull appeared taken aback. "Not yet," he admitted.
	"I expect you will, Admiral." The agent glanced at the clock: three minutes to orbit.
	"I don't know what your game is," grated Hull, "but you'd better start explaining."
	"I think I'd better." The agent sighed and gazed musingly at the admiral. "You weren't supposed to know this part of the secret."
	"Start talking," Hull snapped.
	"Very well." The agent leaned toward him. "August Karsh was never fooled. He knew from the start that both Prince Li-Hu and Golem Gregor -- that's Dr. G -- were after the bomb. Between the two, Dr. G was the greater threat. You can understand that, and of course Dr. G realized that."
	"Realized what?" demanded Hull. "You're talking in a circle."
	"Realized that Karsh would act on the assumption that Zuma offered a greater threat than the Alphan suns. Dr. G didn't underestimate his own reputation."
	"Facts, I want facts," Hull interrupted.
	"The background is essential to understanding the facts," the agent explained. "Dr. G also realized that his only hope in obtaining the bomb secret lay through his agent, Myron Terle. His problem, then, was how to get Terle on the scene without Karsh's knowledge." He paused, glancing at the clock: seconds from orbit.
	"Keep talking," Hull said edgily.
	"I believe the rest is clear," the agent replied amiably. "To accomplish his end, Dr. G created an impersonation of Myron Terle and sent him through the galaxy to lead August Karsh astray."
	"Sent Daniel York?" Hull exclaimed incredulously.
	"York was on a Zuman world at the time. I mentioned that."
	"What has that got to do with it?"
	"Dr. G knew it. While York was watching Terle, he was being watched by Dr. G, but of course he didn't know that. When Dr. G learned of Prince Li-Hu's plot, he seized York, put him in the therapy chamber and programmed his mind."
	"Programmed?"
	He nodded. "In Daniel York's mind, he was Myron Terle, carrying out Dr. G's orders. It's all a matter of multiple hypnosis," he explained.
	"Terle was York? My God, then you're -- "
	"Myron Terle, of course."
	"Teleport!" The warning came in a strangled cry from Hull's lips. Before Tregaski's hand could grasp his blaster, Terle laughed...
	And vanished.


The Authors

	JEAN AND JEFF SUTTON are a man-and-wife writing team who make their home in San Diego, California. This is their second novel for Putnam's, the first being The Beyond. Jeff Sutton is also the author of Apollo at Go and Beyond Apollo, both science fiction. An ex-newspaperman and the author of many novels, Mr. Sutton is an editorial consultant in the aerospace field. Mrs. Sutton teaches high school social studies in San Diego, California.