RANDOM CHOICE
Fantastic Stories – March 1961
(1961)*
Randall Garrett
illustrated by BARR

	The plot against the Terran spaceship was getting thicker every minute. But Capt. Orselli remembered an old proverb: "If you have two enemies and one puts a bomb in your house, you don't have to decide which of them planted it—just figure out the mechanism and disable it!"

-

	THE interstellar ship Vesuvio was a passenger liner, not a warship. Moreover, as a vessel of the powerful, but still neutral, Terran Confederate Empire, it would seem foolhardy for either side in the Viran-Plochef War to show any hostility toward the Vesuvio. But nations at war often do foolish things—sometimes by accident, and sometimes by design. When that happens, it takes a very wise decision to counteract the foolish one.

	Baron Weissmann, of the Jovian Satellite League, was a round, pleasant-looking, balding man who had spent far too much time under low-gravity conditions to glide around the ballroom of the Vesuvio, even under the one-half Standard Gee conditions that prevailed aboard the vessel. His muscles were too flabby for that kind of exercise. Instead, he sat at a table with his equally round wife and watched the harder-muscled Earthmen and Odinians and others who were used to the gravities of full-sized planets show off their prowess.

	There was no envy in him. Let them live out their lives under those strenuous conditions; let them subject themselves to a gee-pull that made their insides sag and their blood as heavy as mercury, that gave them varicose veins and broken capillaries. What were strong muscles against such things as those?

	No, thanks, he thought, he would not trade his extra life expectancy for strength.

-

	The chair beside him moved, and he turned his head from the brightly-dressed figures on the floor to see who was sitting down.

	"Mind if I sit down, Baron? Frankly, I feel a little giddy." The squat, broad man with the bulging muscles didn't bother to wait for the baron's reply; he was already in his seat.

	"Not at all, Dr. Martin," said Baron Weissmann pleasantly. "Though I hope it's nothing serious."

	The squat man squinted one eye closed and looked at the baron with a grin. "If that was meant to be a pun, Baron, may I say you're looking pretty jovial tonight yourself?"

	"Pun?" The baron blinked. "Oh! Sirius." He chuckled. "No, no; I'm afraid I'm not much of a punster, Doctor. But you said you felt giddy, and I hoped—" He stopped in confusion as he saw that Dr. Martin was still grinning. From that face, with its thick, knotted muscles, the grin looked almost threatening. "I mean to say," he went on hurriedly, "I wasn't trying to make a joke on your home planet."

	'"S all right." The Sirian physician waved a thick-fingered hand in the air. "But I am giddy. When you're used to a gravity pull that's twice Earth Standard, this half-gee stuff makes you feel lightheaded."

	"I can quite understand," the baron said. "I have the same trouble myself, only the other way round, if you see what I mean."

	The Sirian nodded. "Tough to move around, I suppose, when you're used to low-gee. Still, I've seen some of your asteroid men who can do pretty well, even on Sirius IV. Exercise does it, I guess; those asteroid miners have to shove a lot of mass around, and that can build muscles as well as fighting a high gee-pull."

	The baron paused, wondering whether the remark had been intended personally or the doctor was just being outspoken.

	Before he could say anything, his wife squeezed his arm and said: "There he is, dear."

	The baron looked around in confusion. "Who?"

	"Captain Orselli," the baroness said in her soft voice. "I notice he's wearing a white uniform this evening. He's quite handsome, in a lean sort of way."

	"Mmph," said the baron, pursing his mouth. "I don't care for his manner, frankly. Too oily, if you ask me. And too much of a fop. I'll wager he spends an hour a day curling and oiling that beard." It did not occur to the baron that some might think that the time he spent keeping his own skin smooth and baby-pink belonged in the same class of foppery.

	Dr. Martin did, for instance. But, outspoken though he was, he didn't mention anything about skin-care to the baron. After all, he thought to himself, a physician is supposed to have some sort of tact.

-

	As a matter of fact, Captain Orselli had impressed him as a bit of a dandy, too—altogether too much of a ladies' man. He was lean and flat of abdomen, and he carried himself with an erectness that had none of the stiffness of the military. It was more like that of a superbly trained ballet dancer. But the captain had a little too much of the quick-smiling, overly courtly manner about him to suit Martin's taste. Still—

	"He must have something on the ball," Dr. Martin said aloud, "or he wouldn't be captain of an interstellar liner."

	"You don't know these Earth-men," the baron said. After all, he thought to himself, Dr. Martin came from a star system nine light-years from Sol, while he, Baron Weissmann, lived practically next door to Earth. "I'm not much of a traveler, you understand, but, from what I gather, the captain of a liner like this isn't really anything but a figurehead. He takes care of all the social contacts and the Executive Officer runs the ship."

	"Influence of the Imperium, I suppose," said Dr. Martin. "We seem to like to have a lot of noble figureheads around for pomp and ceremony."

	Baron Weissmann didn't quite know how to take that remark, either.

	Neither the baron and his wife nor the Sirian doctor noticed the bronze-skinned young officer sitting behind them who had overheard the last part of their conversation. With an amused smile, Third Officer Cavendish leaned over and whispered to the blonde girl sitting at the table with him:

	"Orselli a figurehead! I wonder what he'd say to that?"

-

	CAPTAIN Gaetano Orselli couldn't have cared less. He was fully conscious of his own abilities, duties, and efficiency, and he bore their burdens and privileges with equal aplomb. He knew perfectly well that the moment he had stepped into the music-and-voice-filled ballroom everyone had become aware of his presence. He knew it and accepted it in the same way he accepted the existence of the Universe.

	Orselli's personal pride was not of the Pooh-Bah kind; it was a conscious knowledge of his own ability and of his own relationship to the rest of mankind. His was not just the pride that marks the Earthman, since it went even deeper than that. He was aware that, genetically, his line went back through centuries of careful breeding. Although only in the last two centuries had there been anything scientific in that breeding, his forebears, long before that, had instinctively picked mates that would improve the line.

	Even the name was old. Many centuries before, a Gaetano Orselli had been a shining example of Renaissance Man, a man whose ability with both sword and pen were equally renowned in his native Florence. '

	Five centuries later, another Gaetano Orselli had fought gallantly as a naval officer in the Great War of 1914 and had filially been murdered, just before the second Great War, because of his underground fight against the Facisti.

	And those weren't even all the Gaetano's, much less all the Orselli's. It was an often brilliant and always capable line.

	Captain Gaetano Orselli was so aware of all these things that he rarely thought of them; they were simply a part of him, like his face or his heart or his brain, and were infinitely more durable.

	It did not displease him to act the part of the perfect host aboard his own ship; it was one of the enjoyable parts of a many-faceted life. He had dressed with care, wearing his uniform with just the proper shade of jauntiness. Other officers who took such care about their dress tended to look a little stiff; Orselli merely managed to look perfect.

	"You look wonderful, as usual, Captain Orselli," said Lady Susan Feng. There was a hint of amusement in her almond-shaped eyes as she looked up at him from a height scarcely two inches below his own six feet. "Tell me: how do you always manage to look so beautiful?"

	Orselli smiled. "I think beautiful thoughts, Lady Susan; I've always heard that thinking beautiful thoughts will make the exterior beautiful as well."

	"Beautiful thoughts? Such as ...?"

	"Thoughts about beautiful ladies, such as yourself."

	The gaunt-faced man standing next to Lady Susan chuckled.

	"Neatly turned, Captain. But I'm afraid your philosophy falls through. I often think about Lady Susan, but I'm afraid it doesn't make me beautiful; it doesn't show on the outside."

	Lady Susan turned to him, "Oh, but it does, Jerrol; your face betrays the fact that your thoughts about me are far from beautiful."

	Jerrol's smile faded by the barest trifle. "I dare say the captain entertains the same thoughts."

	"He may contemplate the same actions," Lady Susan said, "but his motivations are those of a poet in love, while yours are those of a bull ape in rut."

	"Come, come, Lady Susan," Orselli interjected smoothly. "I assure you that you're far too complimentary to me. I may give the impression of being a deep thinker, but, way down inside, I'm quite shallow."

	Jerrol regained his smile and his chuckle blended with the tinkling laughter of Lady Susan Feng.

	Captain Orselli touched his right eyebrow in a casual salute. "And now, if you'll excuse me, having already spoken to the most beautiful woman here, I must continue with what must now be a boring job—tending to the rest of my guests." He moved away gracefully.

-

	He had no intention of getting involved in any argument between Lady Susan Feng and Jerrol Vane-Seljak, Jerrol had been pursuing Lady Susan for some time now—he had even made two trips on the Vesuvio with her, /under conditions that the Feng heiress had made sure were well-chaperoned. But, even though she quite obviously detested him, the political situation on Odin was such that she couldn't flatly turn him down any more than he could afford to be too forward in his attentions. Jerrol had evidently allowed himself to think that the girl's actions were merely a case of "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," that she was concealing a deep affection beneath a thin guise of loathing. And Lady Susan was content to let him think so.

	The two were at cross purposes, and Captain Orselli had no intention of becoming the hypotenuse to that triangle.

	"Ah, Gaetano, old friend. Are you as distracted as all that?"

	Orselli smiled at the tall, graying man in the scarlet jacket and midnight blue trousers. "Sorry, Esteban; my mind was a bit preoccupied, but don't think I'd have ignored an old friend."

	"I know, I know," said Cardinal Esteban, dismissing the whole thing with a slight wave of his left hand. "Captain Orselli, I'd like to introduce my secretarial assistant. Father Fermi, and his wife."

	The priest was almost as tall as the Cardinal, and dressed similarly, although his jacket was, the same midnight blue as his trousers, with only a tab of scarlet on his left shoulder to show that he was a Cardinal's secretary. He was younger and rather better looking than the older prelate, but there was a similarity of expression around the eyes—a serenity of expression that even the shy and pretty Mrs. Fermi seemed to share. But there was a toughness there, too, the hardness of unshakable faith and determination.

	At least, Orselli thought, Father Fermi wasn't one of these wishy-washy, holier-than-thou, small-minded, fussy men who were too often found in the Church these days.

	Orselli was not a particularly religious man, but he felt that, no matter what a man professed, he should at least do his job well. Still, there were always slackers in any outfit; one had to take them into account in any organization.

	Briefly—as he always did when he talked with Cardinal Esteban—Orselli wished faintly that he had lived in the Second Age of Faith, during and immediately after the Great Communist Persecutions, when the Christian Church had been driven underground and only those who still held to the Faith remained loyal to the Church, when all differences in dogma and ceremony and ritual had dissolved, when the Second Reformation had fused Catholic and Protestant and Orthodox together again. The Church had emerged, cleansed by fire and sword, as a unified body which would probably have appeared heretical to any one of the Christian sects that had existed before that time. A hierarchy that combined the best elements of the Roman Communion with those of the Salvation Army would have shocked both groups before the Persecutions.

	But the Second Age of Faith had passed, and now there were signs of another breakup. Hume had been rebuilt over the slag of the old city, and now there were those who insisted that the bishop of that city should be Heavenly Vicar, regardless of who had been elected by the Episcopate.

	Another hundred years, and who knew what might happen?

	"What is bothering you, Gaetano?" Cardinal Esteban's voice was soft in his ear.

	Orselli knew that no one else had heard.

	He gave Esteban a quick, noncommittal smile. Mrs. Fermi was speaking:

	"Isn't it terrible about the war, Captain? So many people losing their lives."

	Orselli nodded automatically. "Terrible, indeed, Mrs. Fermi," he said, wondering why the woman had brought the subject up. It wasn't considered a fit topic of conversation among genteel people of the Empire, although it was certainly lurking in the back of every mind.

	"Do you think we shall be involved, Captain?" she asked, her pretty eyes looking at him with a touch of worry behind their innocence.

	Before Orselli could answer, Father Fermi said: "My dear, how could anyone—even the astute Captain Orselli—know the answer to that?"

	"Oh!" She suddenly seemed to realize that she'd committed a slight faux pas. "I'm sorry."

	"Will you excuse me, Captain?" the priest asked; "I promised my wife I'd dance one darusha with her, and it looks as though this is our chance."

	Orselli touched his right eyebrow again, and the couple moved out to the floor.

	Odd, Orselli thought. Does she have that touch of prescience, too?

	For he suddenly knew what it had been that had been distracting him for the past several minutes. Every time something dangerous approached, his mind reacted quickly—unless it was something that still had time to build.

	He looked around—wondering.

	"Trouble again," said Cardinal Esteban.

	Orselli gave him a knowing smile. "I can't fool you, can I? Yes, old friend; trouble." Not close, nor near—not yet. Not something that would happen within seconds, no—but within minutes, yes—within the hour, certainly.

	It was something that waa building within him—building, building, building. And when it had finished building, when the fine structure was done, he would be ready for it.

	Now the distraction was gone; the early warning signal had made itself known, and now he was alert and alive, watching, feeling, hearing, knowing, waiting.

	It was as if the whole ballroom had taken on new color and new life.

	"That smile of yours," said Cardinal Esteban, "always gives me the feeling that you should be carrying a rapier at your side. What is it this time, do you know? The war, perhaps?"

	"Let me ask you a question, Esteban," Orselli said quietly. "Your secretary's wife—is she a Sensitive?"

	"Hilda Fermi?" The Cardinal frowned. "She has done some work for the Church, yes," he said cautiously. "Tests fairly high, I understand."

	Orselli nodded. "In that case, my dear Cardinal, it almost certainly has something to do with the Viran-Plochef war. I hope you'll keep that under that scarlet zucchetto of yours."

	"Of course, Gaetano."

	The tiny communicator in Captain Orselli's ear suddenly came to life, and a voice inaudible to all but him said: "Captain, there's a ship on our tail. Came within detection range thirty-five seconds ago and is approaching."

	"Excuse me, Esteban," Orselli said smoothly, "but there are things to be attended to." The look that passed between them obviated any further words.

-

	THE TRIP to Command and Control took another thirty-five seconds through the lift chute. Orselli stepped through the door of C&C and snapped: "Any communication from her?"

	First Officer Waldemar, a fleshy, rather red-faced man, was scowling at a pip on the screen before him. "Not a word, sir," he said without turning.

	Orselli went over and stood beside Waldemar. He stroked his beard thoughtfully as he looked at the pip, then glanced at the integrator figures that changed rapidly along the sides of the screen.

	"Coming in fast," Waldemar said. "Only a battle cruiser would be that big and have that much oomph behind her."

	If anything ever kept Waldemar from commanding his own ship, Orselli thought, it would be his propensity for verbalizing the obvious.

	Orselli began to speak, calmly but rapidly. "Prepare a message torpedo; put a switch on her to give her full overload. Jury-rig it in, and do it fast. I want it fired out within three minutes. Thirty seconds after that, we're stopping."

	First Officer Waldemar didn't bother asking questions or giving orders. There wasn't another man aboard who could do that kind of work as rapidly as he could. The message torpedo was fired off fifteen seconds before the three minutes were up. The pursuing warship still wasn't close enough to be identified, nor had they signalled the Vesuvio in any way.

	"Full deceleration!" Orselli snapped. "Get us below light velocity! Dead stop!"

	"Dead stop" simply meant any velocity less than a quarter-light with reference to the nearest star.

	As the Vesuvio slowed, the warship ballooned nearer in the screen.

	"We're not in a war zone," Waldemar said, scowling with his whole beefy face. "What right have they to come—"

	The speaker of the communicator came on as a message was received: "Battle cruiser Yormath to Vesuvio! Stand by to receive official party! Request you come to dead stop!"

	"Inform the Yormath," Orselli said sweetly, "that we have already begun deceleration."

	While the Communications Officer relayed the message, Orselli glanced at Waldemar. The shorter man's beefy face looked as though he were utterly confused and wanted to punch someone's nose to relieve his feelings.

	"It is always better to anticipate the inevitable, Waldemar," Orselli said. "That not only confuses your opponent, but gets him to wondering just how many jumps ahead of him you're thinking."

	"How many jumps ahead are you?" Waldemar asked.

	"Right now, none," Orselli admitted candidly. "From here on-in, we play it by ear. We have already fired our big gun, so to speak; now we'll have to wait and see if we can hit anything with it."

	"What shall I tell the passengers?"

	"Nothing, just yet. Most of them won't even know we're slowing. Oh, some of them will, of course; anyone who's done any traveling will recognize the effects of the pseudo-Coriolis forces if they're moving around, but it takes a lot of experience to know how much and in which direction the ship's accelerating."

	Their eyes were still on the screen, watching. The warship, too, was slowing, somewhat erratically as it tried to match velocity with the Vesuvio and catch up to it at the same time.

	"I wonder," said Orselli quietly, "just what the Republic of Viran has in mind? If it is the Viranese."

	"The Yormath's a Viranese ship," Waldemar pointed out unnecessarily.

	"True," said Orselli, in an oddly noncommittal voice.

-

	IN the ballroom, Dr. Judd Martin was holding forth to Baroness Weissmann. The Baron had excused himself a minute or so before and had gone plodding away in a manner that the doctor privately thought highly ludicrous under half-gee conditions, but the baroness had asked a question of the doctor.

	"There are some worlds, Baroness, that will remain frontier worlds for a long time to come. Sirius IV is just such a world. Even though I was born and raised under a steady pull of one point nine eight Standard Gees, I am not and can never be really acclimated to it. I don't have the genetic inheritance. Now, under those conditions—"

	"Excuse me." The baron was back, and he looked definitely green about the gills. He held on to the back of the chair as though he were afraid to sit down.

	Dr. Martin peered up at him. "What's the matter? Gravity too much for you?"

	The baron started to shake his head, winced, and stopped. "No," he said in a strained voice, "no, it's not the gravity. That only makes me feel tired. But now, every time I move, I feel nauseous."

	"Sort of seasick, you mean?"

	"I wouldn't know," Baron Weissmann said solemnly, "I've never been on a seagoing vessel. It's something like the way I feel when the ship's accelerating or decelerating, but much worse."

	"The Baron is so susceptible to these things," said the baroness, looking sympathetically at her husband. "That's why he hates to travel in ultralight ships."

	"But this is worse," said the baron. "Doctor! Don't do that! You're turning my stomach!"

	Dr. Martin, who had been rocking gently back and forth in his chair with his eyes closed, opened his eyes and stopped rocking.

	"Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you. Just checking." His bright blue eyes peered all around the ballroom. "Have you noticed? There's not a ship's officer in the place."

	"What's that got to do with my nausea?" the Baron wanted to know. There was self-pity in his weakened voice.

	"Oh, the ship is definitely slowing down," said the Sirian. "Full deceleration, I'd say. Something's up, and I wish I knew what it was."

	Within minutes, the question was all over the room.

-

	THE HUGE warship hung in space half a million miles from the Vesuvio, but in the screen it looked as though it were no more than a few hundred meters distant. It looked beautiful and ugly at the same time, like a desirable woman holding a loaded gun, Orselli thought. And the gun was pointed right at his midsection.

	To the right of the big screen, a smaller communicator screen glowed with the image of a man wearing the uniform of the Viranese Spatial Navy. Orselli looked at him, his face blandly expressionless.

	"May I ask the meaning of this?" he asked in a conversational tone. "It happens to be a violation of interstellar law to threaten an unarmed non-belligerent."

	The officer, who had introduced himself as Commander Thorne, raised his eyebrows in mild astonishment. "I wasn't aware that we had threatened you, Captain Orselli. We merely requested that you receive an official party. No reprisals were threatened if you did not."

	"Suppose we had chosen to ignore you, Commander?" Orselli asked. His tone of voice implied that it was merely a friendly question, nothing more.

	Thorne smiled. "Since that did not occur, Captain, I see no need in discussing hypothetical worlds of if."

	Orselli sighed. "Very well. Now, to get back to my original question: What is the meaning of this unlawful act?"

	Thorne's smile remained, but his eyes grew colder. "I have already said that there is nothing illegal—"

	Orselli's voice, still smoothly conversational, cut across the other's words. "Very well, then, I'll put it this way: What the hell do you want?"

	Thorne blinked, then said: "We're sending over a flitterboat with two officers and a civilian aboard—all unarmed, I assure you. They will explain everything when they get there."

	"No explanations from you?"

	Commander Thorne shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm not at liberty to discuss it with you over a communicator."

	"I see. Very well, then; I'll wait for your flitterboat."

	"Uh ... Captain Orselli ...?" Thorne looked as though he were unsure of himself for the first time.

	"Yes?" Orselli kept his voice even.

	"Captain, what was that ultralight blip we picked up just as we came within range?"

	Orselli's beard-wreathed smile showed bright white teeth. "What did it appear to be?"

	"Frankly, it looked as though you'd tried to send a message torpedo, but it had blown all its power in one jump."

	Orselli's smile became broader. "Excellent, Commander! That's just exactly what it was!"

-

	Thorne was still looking doubtful when Orselli cut him off.

	Waldemar's broad, beefy face was redder than usual; it had a faint wine tinge,

	"Don't strangle yourself, Waldemar," Orselli said. "What's the trouble?"

	The First Officer swallowed forcefully, but his color did not abate. "Captain," he said in a somewhat forced voice, "I do not understand you at all. I thought you had something up your sleeve when you sent that torp, but now you've given the whole thing away. I don't get it at all, now."

	That's because you work by the book, from the memory, and not from the imagination, Orselli thought a little sadly.

	Aloud, he said: "Wally, what happened when all the power went through that torp's circuits?"

	"Why ... why, it tried to accelerate at an infinite acceleration. It couldn't, so it was merely dissipated as ultralight energy."

	"Exactly. Could that happen accidentally?"

	"Not likely." The First Officer's face had come almost back to its normal redness. "I had to jerk out three safety devices and put in an extra relay to do the job."

	"If it couldn't happen by accident, then it must have been done on purpose, right? And why would anyone want to do that on purpose?"

	"I—I don't know," Waldemar admitted. "But I figured you had a reason."

	"Very good. Now, attend: That cruiser was just within detector range when we fired the torpedo. They were too far away to be sure of exactly what did happen. They can't figure out a reason for what I did, any more than yovi could, but, like you, they figure I must have had a reason. So they asked, you see. And I gave them an answer that doesn't make sense—to them."

	A smile came over the First Officer's face for the first time. "I see. You did it just to confuse them."

	"Partly. But I've got a hunch it may be more useful than that. We'll have to wait and see what this boarding party wants."

-

	The Communications Officer's voice in his ear said: "One of the passengers wants to talk to you, sir."

	For an instant, Orselli wanted to blast the Comm Officer verbally for even thinking that he'd want to talk to a passenger at a time like this, then he. realized that the man wasn't as incompetent as that.

	"It's Cardinal Esteban, sir," the voice went on.

	"I'll take the call here," Orselli said, reaching for a phone. "Yes, Esteban?"

	"Gaetano," came the old prelate's voice, "I think you'd better know that there are all sorts of nasty rumors going on all over the ship."

	"Oh? I'd rather suspected there would be rumors, but why do you say 'nasty'?"

	"The rumor is that we have come to dead stop—"

	"True," admitted Orselli.

	"—And that we are being covered by a Viranese warship."

	For a moment, Orselli was stunned into silence. Someone had talked! But who?

	"Have you any idea who started such a rumor?" he asked cautiously.

	, "No. I haven't attempted to trace it. The thing is, Father Fermi's wife insists that it's true. She hasn't spoken to anyone but me and her husband, however. I can assure you that she is not the one who started the rumor."

	After a moment, Orselli said: "I believe you, Esteban." He tugged thoughtfully at his oiled and perfumed beard; then a wolfish grin came to his lips. "Where are you now, Esteban?"

	"In my suite. So are Father Fermi and his wife. I thought it would be best to get away from the rest of the passengers."

	"Wait there," Orselli said. "I'll be right with you."

	As he put down the phone, First Officer Waldemar said: "How long will you be gone?"

	"As long as it takes to do what has to be done."

	"But—what shall I tell the boarding party when they come, if you're not here?"

	"Tell them you can't do a thing till I get back. Make them comfortable, let them wait, and don't bother me except to notify me when they arrive."

	"But—"

	"Don't turn purple on me again, Waldemar. Let them stew for a while. It won't hurt them any."

	"It might hurt us!" said Waldemar.

	"That's the chance we have to take, my friend. But I don't think there's much risk."

-

	THE SITUATION is beginning to make sense, you see," said Captain Orselli, settling himself comfortably in a chair. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

	"Go right ahead," said Cardinal Esteban. Father Fermi and his wife, seated on the couch near the Cardinal's chair, gave their unspoken permission.

	Orselli took a long, thin cigar from a pocket case, clipped the end with fine white teeth, and puffed it alight before he went on. "Someone is being subtle. The trouble is, we have no way of penetrating the depths of their subtlety."

	They looked at him, patient but Uncomprehending.

	"I'll be frank with you," he went on, "I wouldn't burden the three of you with this information except that I have known Cardinal Esteban for many years, and I also may have need of Mrs. Fermi as a Sensitive. In order for her mind to properly form an intuition, she should have as much information as possible. Unless—" He looked directly at her. "—you would rather not attempt it."

	"I'll do what I can, Captain," she said calmly.

	"Good. Let's take a look at the situation, then.

	"There is a warship out there—" He pointed with the cigar, a gesture that indicated the vast emptiness beyond the outer hull of the ship. "—a warship that claims to be the Yormath, of the Spatial Navy of the Republic of Viran. Now, no one knew that except myself and my officers. I know none of them has mentioned it—and yet all the passengers know it. How?" He looked at Mrs. Fermi again.

	"Couldn't there be another Sensitive aboard?" Father Fermi asked defensively.

	"Please, Father," Orselli said. "That's not the question I'm asking. Mrs. Fermi, you knew there was a ship out there, threatening us. Did you know the nationality of that ship?"

	She shook her head, quickly. "No. No."

	"Do you think any other Sensitive could?"

	"No. They've screened against that, whoever they are. They have their own Sensitives aboard."

	Orselli nodded in satisfaction and blew out a cloud of blue-gray smoke. "Precisely. Every military warship carries Sensitives for just that purpose—to shield the interior of the ship from outsiders. Therefore, the rumor that is going around this ship was not started by a Sensitive, but by someone who knew in advance that we would be met by that ship!"

	Father Fermi looked pleased for a moment, then puzzled. "But why would he spread the rumor around?"

	"Ah, that's where we get into the subtlety, Father. They—whoever 'they' are—want the passengers to know that the ship is Viranese. Yes, Esteban?"

	The old prelate looked grim. "It's so simple, isn't it, Gaetano? The Republic of Viran and the Commune of Plochef have been at war for three years now. We have managed to stay neutral. If the Terran Empire comes into the war, whichever group we side with will win. Both sides have been trying to get us involved; all that's needed is an 'incident', one that will sway our sympathies in one direction or another."

	"And this is the 'incident'," said Father Fermi.

	"In that case," Orselli said with deceptive quietness, "to whom does that ship really belong?"

	"Obviously it's Plochevian," said Father Fermi. "By claiming that they're Viranese, and by pulling this illegal act, they intend to inflame Terran sentiment against the Viranese so that we'll come into the war on the Plochevian side."

	Orselli smiled, looked directly into the priest's eyes, and said: "Obviously."

	Cardinal Esteban chuckled. "Yes, Father—a little too obviously. It would be too easy that way. We would all see through that trick, just as you have. The Viranese want us to come in with them against Plochef so badly that they would never pull a foolish maneuver like this. Therefore it is obvious that it must be a Plochevian trick, eh? So obvious, in fact, that one might be led to suspect that it really is the Viranese."

-

	Father Fermi frowned. "Yes, but if you can reason that far, then it becomes obvious that—" He stopped.

	"Exactly," Orselli said. "You can carry that line of reasoning on until Doomsday and arrive at nothing. It's an ancient puzzle that has no ending."

	"Then what's the point of the whole thing?" asked Father Fermi. "If it can't be figured out—"

	"I didn't say it couldn't be," Orselli said. "But I do say that we haven't enough information to solve it—at least not yet.

	"This little game isn't just being played for us, Father; it's being played for the whole civilized Galaxy. This is merely the focal point—or it may not even be that. We don't know what's going on elsewhere; we have no idea what other 'proofs' are being concocted to put the blame for this on one side or the other. But you can rest assured that it is certainly being done. Long before we reach our destination—if we do—the rest of the Galaxy will be absolutely certain where the guilt lies.

	"The point I'm trying to make is that we don't know. We don't know what they intend to do, and we don't know who they are.

	"But there is one thing we do know."

	Cardinal Esteban smiled a little. "And what's that, Gaetano?"

	"That they have an agent aboard this ship."

	"Certainly," agreed the Cardinal. "What do you propose to do? Find him—or her—and find out who is behind this plot that way?"

	Orselli shook his head. "Even if he'd talk—even if he told what he believed to be the truth—we still couldn't rely on his information.

	"No, the point is that we have an enemy—an unknown enemy aboard this ship. I don't object to enemies; they make life interesting. But I do object to an enemy masquerading as a friend or as a neutral without my knowing it.

	"And that's what I want you to find out for me, Mrs. Fermi."

	The priest's wife looked worried and uncertain. "Among all those people? It would take days."

	"Agreed. And we don't have more than an hour. But I think we can narrow the list down. After all, you can't book passage aboard an interstellar liner without a passport—which means that I do know something about these people.

-

	"I know, for instance, that none of them is either a Viranese or a Plochevian; they're all Imperial citizens. And that means that we're looking for a sympathizer or else someone who would benefit by having the Terran Confederate Empire enter the war." He held up his hand and displayed three fingers. "To begin with, Mrs. Fermi, you can check these three.

	"One: The Lady Susan Feng. Her family owns large holdings in Viran; if the Plochevians win, she'll lose them all.

	"Two: Jerrol Vane-Seljak. Not only does he have connections in Plochef, but he would like to see Lady Susan lose her Viranese holdings—both for political and personal reasons.

	"I know both of those people, but not well. Lady Susan can be charming, but she's like a cat—the claws are sharp when she wants to use them. Jerrol is brilliant, but petty; not a bad sort, really, but touchy about this so-called pride."

	Mrs. Fermi nodded. "And the third?"

	"I've never seen him before this trip, although I've heard of him. Baron Weissmann, of the Jovian Satellite League.

	"He stands to make a great deal of money if the Empire goes to war. Since it's a war that we stand a very small chance of losing, he just might be greedy enough to get us into it. The Jovian League owns and operates the Great Planets Atmospheric Mining Corporations, the Solar System's main source of ammonia, methane, and hydrogen—in other words, they control the synthetic food market. They could make a lot of money out of a war."

	He paused for a moment, thinking. Then he went on: "Of course, these are the obvious ones—to me, at least. It could be anyone. But—as Cardinal Esteban will tell you—I'm somewhat of a Sensitive, myself.

	"Will you see what you can find out, Mrs. Fermi?"

	"I'll do what I can, Captain."

	"Fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have to go back to Command and Control. I have visitors waiting."

-

	WHEN he stepped into C & C, he saw immediately that Waldemar was worried. When the First Officer was merely puzzled, he seemed to fidget, but real worry, real concern, simply hardened that beefy face into granite. The worse things got, the more resolute he became.

	And thank God for that, Orselli thought fervently.

	"They're in the officers' lounge," Waldemar said flatly, jerking a thumb in the direction of the closed door.

	"Have they made any fuss because I wasn't here as they came aboard?"

	"No. Calm as oysters, and just as close-mouthed. Whatever they want, they're in no hurry to get it."

	Orselli grinned. "Of course not. They want everything set up very nicely, and they're going to take the time to see that it's done properly."

	Waldemar grunted. "And there isn't a damned thing we can do with those guns trained on us."

	"Don't be too sure of that, my friend," said Orselli. "Until the Yormath actually fires those guns, they haven't committed themselves. Which means we Still have a chance to do some fancy talking."

	The First Officer merely looked grimmer and more determined. "You don't even know what they're up to, and you're going to try to talk them out of it. More power to you."

	"Thanks; I'll need it. Let's go in and see what they want."

	There were three of them in the officers' lounge—two dressed on Viranese uniforms and the third dressed in civilian clothing of unmistakably Viranese cut. They all rose politely as Orselli entered.

	"Pardon the delay, gentlemen," Orselli said, with equal politeness. "I had to quiet my passengers. I am Captain Gaetano Orselli, commanding the Vesuvio, at your service."

	The older of the two officers, a gray-haired man with a sharp chin and a long, pointed nose, said: "I am Commander Fell, Viranese Naval Intelligence. This is Lieutenant Bonnick, also of the Intelligence Corps. And Mr. Harl Lovrin, of the Bureau of Counterespionage."

	All very formal. Very genteel. Very polite.

	Very.

	"What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

	Commander Fell came right to the point. "Do you have a passenger aboard named Martin—Dr. Rufus Martin?"

	Orselli thought of the squat, thick-muscled Sirian. "I'm not acquainted with every passenger aboard," he said carefully. "I'd have to check the passenger list. Why?"

	"Mr. Lovrin wants to talk to him," the commander said.

	Mr. Harl Lovrin nodded in silent agreement.

	Orselli took the half-smoked cigar out of his mouth and raised an eyebrow. "You stopped us just to talk to a passenger?"

	"This is very much more important than a mere conversation, Captain," said Commander Fell.

	"We have reason to believe," Lovrin chimed in, "that this man is an agent of the Plochevian government. An agent provocateur who is attempting to drag the Terran Confederate Empire into an alliance with Plochef."

	"I see. And you Want to talk to him, eh?"

	"That's right," said the commander. "Mr. Lovrin can make positive identification."

-

	"I see," Orselli repeated. He looked the men over. Viranese—or Plochevian? Which? Their speech certainly bore every mark of the Viranese dialects. The uniforms were correct in every detail. Naturally they would be; things like that would never be sloppily done. Even if one of them were to use a typically Plochevian gesture or idiom, it would mean nothing; these men were supposed to be counterintelligence agents, and would naturally know things like that.

	"Would you mind bringing him up here?" Mr. Lovrin asked.

	Orselli smiled apologetically. "Now, gentlemen—really. If you don't have positive identification, how can I ask one of my passengers to come up here to answer questions? Especially since he probably wouldn't answer them, anyway."

	There was a tenseness in the room.

	"However," he went on with hardly a break, "I see no reason why you couldn't come down to the ballroom—where I am quite certain he will be at the moment—and speak to him there."

	The tension broke. None of the three men quite smiled, but it was apparent from their manner that such a course of action was even better than what they had planned.

	"Well, Captain," said the commander, "if you think that would be better—"

	"Come along, then," said Captain Orselli.

-

	THE BALLROOM was not as crowded as it had been. The music was still going, but no one was dancing; the passengers were sitting at the tables, talking in low voices. Many of them were trying to see if a few drinks would either dispel their worry or tell them what was going on, neither of which powers were inherent in the alcohol.

	There was a sudden silence as Captain Orselli entered the room followed by the two men in Viranese uniforms and the civilian. Then the silence was filled again as everyone tried to pretend that there was nothing unusual going on.

	Orselli looked around, but he couldn't see the squat, muscular figure of Dr. Rufus Martin anywhere. He had noticed the Sirian earlier, sitting with Baron and Baroness Weissmann, who were still at their table. He led his "guests" toward the Weissmanns.

	Waldemar's voice whispered in his ear: "Cardinal Esteban wants to talk to you. What shall I tell him?"

	Orselli's voice was the barest of sibilances, and his lips moved not at all, but the personal microphone picked it up and de-hashed it perfectly: "Tell him to come to the ballroom as soon as Mrs. Fermi has any information."

	"He. says she already has it. Vane-Seljak."

	"Good." He whispered further orders. The faint whisper of his voice went unheard in the noise of the room.

	Baron Weissmann and his wife were watching the four men approach with curious eyes.

	"Your pardon, Baron," Orselli said with a slight bow, "but have you seen Dr. Martin?"

	"Not for several minutes," said the baron. "I think I saw him leaving with your Third Officer."

	Orselli winced inwardly. He had hoped the baron hadn't noticed that. Still, it wasn't a fatal slip, by a long shot.

	Orselli turned to Commander Fell, smiling. "My Third Officer is off duty just now; he's probably having a drink with Dr. Martin. Sit down, and I'll get him." He looked down at the baron. "Do you mind, Baron?"

	"Not at all," said the somewhat flustered Jovian, not knowing what else to say.

	Commander Fell started to say something,. thought better of it, and sat down in silence.

	At that moment, Second Officer Gisser came in—with Jerrol Vane-Seljak.

-

	Orselli thought: Waldemar worked faster than I wanted. Oh well, nothing's "perfect. Aloud, he said: "Ah, there they are. Is that your man, Mr. Lovrin?"

	"Of course not!" Lovrin snapped. "That's—that's someone else."

	So they knew Vane-Seljak. That practically clinched it.

	Jerrol had spotted the group from across the room. He stopped, then turned away as if he hadn't noticed a thing.

	"What kind of runaround is this, Captain Orselli?" Commander Fell whispered tightly. "We demand to see Rufus Martin!"

	Every eye in the ballroom was on the group at Baron Weissmann's table, shifting away now and then only for the sake of appearing uninterested.

	"Sure you wouldn't care for a drink?" Orselli asked innocently.

	Fell moved his lips, but no words came.

	Waldemar's voice whispered in Orselli's ear: "Cardinal Esteban says that Mrs. Fermi gives Martin a clean slate."

	Orselli breathed a deep sigh of relief. He saw the whole trap now. He could almost predict the answer to his next question.

	"Would you like to sit here and wait, gentlemen? I'm sure Dr. Martin will be along in a few minutes."

	Fell's voice was low and harsh. "Captain Orselli, we have come to arrest a man for espionage, not dilly dally around. I suggest you hand him over to us immediately."

	Orselli's face hardened. I don't like your attitude, Fell. Now do you want to make a fool of yourself here, or shall we go back to the officers' lounge, where we can haggle in private? It's your move."

	Fell's blood pressure seemed to rise another ten points. "You have an almighty gall to—" He braked himself to a halt. "All right! We'll discuss this in private!"

-

	DR. RUFUS MARTIN, a puzzled look on his blocky face, was waiting for them in the officers' lounge.

	"Well," said Fell under his breath, "This is more like it."

	"Is this your man?" Orselli asked.

	"Are you Dr. Rufus Martin, of Sirius IV?" asked the civilian, Lovrin.

	Martin nodded, still puzzled. "I am. What about it?"

	"You're under arrest. The charge—"

	"Now, wait just one moment!" Orselli turned to face the three. "Just what right have you to arrest anyone aboard this ship?" Before the surprised Lovrin could answer, Orselli swung around again to Dr. Martin.

	"Dr. Martin, these men accuse you of being an agent of the Plochevian Government. Are you?"

	"Of course not!" Martin said angrily. "That's ridiculous!"

	Orselli walked over to a chair and sat down. "There you are, gentlemen. You say he is; he says he isn't. How am I to judge?"

	"I'm arresting him I" Lovrin said in a hard .voice.

	"You have no legal authority to do so," Orselli said. "I'm the only one who can arrest anyone aboard this ship."

	"You can arrest him, then," Lovrin said harshly, "and turn him over to us."

	"I have no reason to arrest him. I've seen no evidence that he's anything but what he says he is."

	"Do I understand," said Commander Fell coldly, "that you refuse to hand this man over to us?"

	"You understand very well," said Orselli.

	Fell smiled grimly. "Isn't that rather foolish, considering the fact that your ship, at this moment, happens to be under the guns of the Yormath?"

	"No. You won't shoot."

	Fell's smile didn't change. "You think you can keep us prisoners here, and by doing so keep the Yormath from firing?"

	"It won't work," said Lovrin. "The Yormath will simply smash your engines. Then an armed party of Space Marines will come aboard and ..."

	"Oh, no," Orselli said. He took another cigar from his case, lit it. "You gentlemen are free to take your flitterboat back to the Yormath any time you want to. As soon as you leave, I'm going to get underway again, and many thanks to you."

	"We'll blow you out of the ether!" Fell snapped.

	"No, Commander Fell. No, you won't." Orselli's voice was cold, hard, and controlled, but a smile still played around his lips. "You forget what repercussions such an act would have. The message I sent would tie you up in knots if you did that."

	"Message? You mean that malfunctioning torpedo?" Fell snorted.

	"You'd better recheck your instrument readings," Orselli said mildly. "That torpedo is somewhat of an improvement over the old-fashioned kind. It's for emergencies. Ultrafast communication."

	"And this is an emergency? You sent a message before you even knew what we wanted? That's hard to believe." Fell looked skeptical.

	"Certainly." Orselli blew out a plume of smoke. "I sent the torpedo to Kandoris, our destination. I simply said that our engines were malfunctioning, and we had to stop.

	"But I added that a Viranese warship was within subradio range, and had offered to help us. And that's what I shall tell our passengers, too.

	"As I said, gentlemen, it was very kind of you to lend us some of your engineering staff for the short time required to repair our engines. Now we'll excuse you and go on our way."

-

	Fell said nothing for a long minute. When he did speak, it was to say: "Thank you for your hospitality, Captain."

-

	CAPTAIN ORSELLI poured two glasses of the pale violet Odinian wine and handed one to Cardinal Esteban. "I'm afraid," he said, easing himself into a chair, "that I have committed the sin of lying."

	"In a good cause, I think," said the prelate, smiling. "I doubt that the sin was mortal. The question that arises in my mind is: Why did they believe you at all?"

	Orselli glanced around the Cardinal's room as if to make sure that there were no spies hidden in the walls. "Now that we are alone, Esteban," he said in a mock-conspiratorial voice, "I shall confess all."

	The Cardinal chuckled. "Te absolvo. Go ahead."

	"Well, in reference' to the torpedo," Orselli said, "it wasn't a matter of whether they believed me or not. It was simply that they couldn't afford to act on any other assumption. They couldn't be absolutely sure that I hadn't sent off some new kind of message torp, and, in this business, they needed near-absolute certainty."

	"Mmmmm. And the same thing applies to the message you allegedly sent."

	"Certainly. They were probably almost certain that I was bluffing. But almost wasn't good enough." Cardinal Esteban took a sip of his wine. "What's your opinion, Gaetano? Were they Viranese or Plochevian?"

	"I suspect they were Plochevian, but it doesn't matter. We'll know as soon as we get to Kandoris. Then we can see what the rest of the story is, what other incidents took place to tie in with this one.

	"One of these days, someone will figure out a method of contacting an interstellar ship, but as things stand now, a subradio tight beam can't be aimed at anything smaller than a planet, so we're effectively isolated out here. We can't carry enough power to send a beam more than a light-year or so, and a planet can't even find us, except by accident."

-

	The Cardinal frowned a little. "I still don't quite see how you could be sure they'd react that way—especially since you didn't know which side they were in and didn't know what their plot was. It seems to me it was a random choice. What did you do? Flip a coin?"

	Orselli shook his head. "Not at all, my dear Esteban. I didn't need to know which side they were on at all.

	"Consider: What was their plot—as much as we could see of it?

	"They were going to stop us—illegally, I might add—and then try to arrest Dr. Martin. Which was even more blatantly illegal. If that had succeeded, if I had allowed them to take Martin, under threat of their guns, there would have been one hell of a fuss, if you'll pardon the expression.

	"In all likelihood, Martin is innocent, but even if he's as guilty as sin it doesn't matter. The crime would be in taking him.

	"If that didn't work, in the off chance that I would be so stupid as to refuse, they would cripple the Vesuvio and send a boarding party to take Martin, which would make the crime even worse.

	"Suppose, as is most likely, they were Plochevian. This incident, plus whatever others have been engineered to tie in with it, would make the Viranese out to be villains, and the Empire would have to fight on the side of Plochef.

	"On the other hand, if they really were Viranese, the other incidents will be so arranged that it looks as though Plochef were trying to frame Viran. Clear?"

	"Clear."

	"But, in either case, the whole plot depended on making the Viranese warship Yormath look villainous! That ship had to look bad."

	"Ummhmm. I see. So when you told them you'd sent a message that made them look good, you scrambled the whole plot." 

	"Exactly."

	"But wait a minute!" the Cardinal said suddenly. "Suppose you had sent such a message. Why couldn't they have fired on us anyway? Wouldn't that make them all the more villainous? To offer help to a ship in distress and then fire on it would be the height of villainy, it seems to me."

	"And the height of stupidity, my most reverend friend," Orselli said gently. "Why should they fire on a helpless ship? They'd have a hard time explaining why they hadn't just sent over their Space Marines while we were disabled, made the arrest, and then sent us on our way.

	"No. Firing on us when we were disabled would be too villainous. It would still disrupt their carefully thought out plans. It wouldn't fit in with the rest of their pattern. It would backfire."

	"And now, of course," said Cardinal Esteban, "their plot has a missing piece. A hole in it."

	"Of course. But it's a hole they don't dare fill. They're very likely hightailing it to their nearest base right now to see if they can't stop the rest of the operation from going into play. Maybe they can; I don't know. In any case, the whole project has failed."

-

	"What are you going to do about Jerrol Vane-Seljak?" the prelate asked.

	"Include him in my report when we get to Kandoris. He'll be watched very carefully from now on. He has evidently been able to block detection by Sensitives up to now, but he was a little too tense to hide from your estimable Mrs. Fermi. And now that we have him spotted, official Sensitives will be able to keep an eye on him—if 'eye' is the proper word."

	"It probably isn't," Cardinal Esteban said. He took the last swallow from his wineglass and held it out for more. "At least I'm glad to hear that you didn't just guess at which side had instigated this incident."

	Gaetano refilled the glasses. "Esteban, if you have two enemies and one of them plants a bomb in your house, you don't have to decide which of them put it there—all you have to do is figure out how the bomb works and disable it."

The End