Test to Destruction
By Keith Laumer
The late October wind drove icy rain against Mallory’s face above his turned-up collar where he stood concealed in the shadows at the mouth of the narrow alley.
“It’s ironic, Johnny,” the small, grim-faced man beside him muttered. “You—the man who should have been World Premier tonight—skulking in the back streets while Koslo and his bully boys drink champagne in the Executive Palace.”
“That’s all right, Paul,” Mallory said. “Maybe he’ll be too busy with his victory celebration to concern himself with me.”
“And maybe he won’t,” the small man said. “He won’t rest easy as long as he knows you’re alive to oppose him.”
“It will only be a few more hours, Paul. By breakfast time, Koslo will know his rigged election didn’t take.”
“But if he takes you first, that’s the end, Johnny. Without you the coup will collapse like a soap bubble.”
“I’m not leaving the city,” Mallory said flatly. “Yes, there’s a certain risk involved; but you don’t bring down a dictator without taking a few chances.”
“You didn’t have to take this one, meeting Crandall yourself.”
“It will help if he sees me, knows I’m in this all the way.”
In silence, the two men waited the arrival of their fellow conspirator.
* * *
Aboard the interstellar dreadnought cruising half a parsec from Earth, the compound Ree mind surveyed the distant solar system.
Radiation on many wavelengths from the third body, the Perceptor cells directed the impulse to the sixty-nine hundred and thirty-four units comprising the segmented brain which guided the ship. Modulations over the forty-ninth through the ninety-first spectra of mentation. 
A portion of the pattern is characteristic of exocosmic manipulatory intelligence, the Analyzers extrapolated from the data. Other indications range in complexity from levels one through twenty-six. 
This is an anomalous situation, the Recollectors mused. It is the essential nature of a Prime Intelligence to destroy all lesser competing mind-forms, just as I/we have systematically annihilated those I/we have encountered on my/our exploration of the Galactic Arm. 
Before action is taken, clarification of the phenomenon is essential, the Interpretors pointed out. Closure to a range not exceeding one radiation/second will be required for extraction and analysis of a representative mind-unit. 
In this event, the risk level rises to Category Ultimate, the Analyzers announced dispassionately.
RISK LEVELS NO LONGER APPLY, the powerful thought-impulse of the Egon put an end to the discussion. NOW OUR SHIPS RANGE INTO NEW SPACE, SEEKING EXPANSION ROOM FOR THE GREAT RACE. THE UNALTERABLE COMMAND OF THAT WHICH IS GREAT REQUIRES THAT MY/OUR PROBE BE PROSECUTED TO THE LIMIT OF REE CAPABILITY, TESTING MY/OUR ABILITY FOR SURVIVAL AND DOMINANCE. THERE CAN BE NO TIMIDITY, NO EXCUSE FOR FAILURE. LET ME/US NOW ASSUME A CLOSE SURVEILLANCE ORBIT!
In utter silence, and at a velocity a fraction of a kilometer/sec below that of light, the Ree dreadnought flashed toward Earth.
* * *
Mallory tensed as a dark figure appeared a block away under the harsh radiance of a polyarc.
“There’s Crandall now,” the small man hissed. “I’m glad—” He broke off as the roar of a powerful turbine engine sounded suddenly along the empty avenue. A police car exploded from a side street, rounded the corner amid a shriek of overstressed gyros. The man under the light turned to run—and the vivid blue glare of a SURF-gun winked and stuttered from the car. The burst of slugs caught the runner, slammed him against the brick wall, kicked him from his feet, rolled him, before the crash of the guns reached Mallory’s ears.
“My God! They’ve killed Tony!” the small man blurted. “We’ve got to get out!”
Mallory took half a dozen steps back into the alley, froze as lights sprang up at the far end. He heard booted feet hit pavement, a hoarse voice that barked a command.
“We’re cut off,” he snapped. There was a rough wooden door six feet away. He jumped to it, threw his weight against it. It held. He stepped back, kicked it in, shoved his companion ahead of him into a dark room smelling of moldy burlap and rat droppings. Stumbling, groping in the dark, Mallory led the way across a stretch of littered floor, felt along the wall, found a door that hung by one hinge. He pushed past it, was in a passage floored with curled linoleum, visible in the feeble gleam filtered through a fanlight above a massive, barred door. He turned the other way, ran for the smaller door at the far end of the passage. He was ten feet from it when the center panel burst inward in a hail of wood splinters that grazed him, ripped at his coat like raking talons. Behind him, the small man made a choking noise; Mallory whirled in time to see him fall back against the wall and go down, his chest and stomach torn away by the full impact of a thousand rounds from the police SURF-gun.
An arm came through the broached door, groping for the latch. Mallory took a step, seized the wrist, wrenched backward with all his weight, felt the elbow joint shatter. The scream of the injured policeman was drowned in a second burst from the rapid-fire weapon—but Mallory had already leaped, caught the railing of the stair, pulled himself up and over. He took the steps five at a time, passed a landing littered with broken glass and empty bottles, kept going, emerged in a corridor of sagging doors and cobwebs. Feet crashed below, furious voices yelled. Mallory stepped inside the nearest door, stood with his back to the wall beside it. Heavy feet banged on the stairs, paused, came his way . . . 
Mallory tensed and as the policeman passed the door, he stepped out, brought his hand over and down in a side-handed blow to the base of the neck that had every ounce of power in his shoulders behind it. The man seemed to dive forward, and Mallory caught the gun before it struck the floor. He took three steps, poured a full magazine into the stairwell. As he turned to sprint for the far end of the passage, return fire boomed from below.
A club, swung by a giant, struck him in the side, knocked the breath from his lungs, sent him spinning against the wall. He recovered, ran on; his hand, exploring, found a deep gouge that bled freely. The bullet had barely grazed him.
He reached the door to the service stair, recoiled violently as a dirty-gray shape sprang at him with a yowl from the darkness—in the instant before a gun flashed and racketed in the narrow space, scattering plaster dust from the wall above his head. A thick-set man in the dark uniform of the Security Police, advancing up the stair at a run, checked momentarily as he saw the gun in Mallory’s hands—and before he recovered himself, Mallory had swung the empty weapon, knocked him spinning back down onto the landing. The cat that had saved his life—an immense, battle-scarred Tom—lay on the floor, half its head blown away by the blast it had intercepted. Its lone yellow eye was fixed on him; its claws raked the floor, as, even in death, it advanced to the attack. Mallory jumped over the stricken beast, went up the stairs.
Three flights higher, the stair ended in a loft stacked with bundled newspapers and rotting cartons from which mice scuttled as he approached. There was a single window, opaque with grime. Mallory tossed aside the useless gun, scanned the ceiling for evidence of an escape hatch, saw nothing. His side ached abominably.
Relentless feet sounded beyond the door. Mallory backed to a corner of the room—and again, the deafening shriek of the SURF-gun sounded, and the flimsy door bucked, disintegrated. For a moment, there was total silence. Then:
“Walk out with your hands up, Mallory!” a brassy voice snarled. In the gloom, pale flames were licking over the bundled papers, set afire by the torrent of steel-jacketed slugs. Smoke rose, thickened.
“Come out before you fry,” the voice called.
“Let’s get out of here,” another man bawled. “This dump will go like tinder!”
“Last chance, Mallory!” the first man shouted, and now the flames, feeding on the dry paper, were reaching for the ceiling, roaring as they grew. Mallory went along the wall to the window, ripped aside the torn roller shade, tugged at the sash. It didn’t move. He kicked out the glass, threw a leg over the sill, and stepped out onto a rusted fire escape. Five stories down, light puddled on grimy concrete, the white dots of upturned faces—and half a dozen police cars blocking the rain-wet street. He put his back to the railing, looked up. The fire escape extended three, perhaps four stories higher. He threw his arm across his face to shield it from the billowing flames, forced his legs to carry him up the iron treads three at a time.
The topmost landing was six feet below an overhanging cornice. Mallory stepped up on the rail, caught the edge of the carved stone trim with both hands, swung himself out. For a moment he dangled, ninety feet above the street; then he pulled himself up, got a knee over the coping, and rolled onto the roof.
Lying flat, he scanned the darkness around him. The level was broken only by a ventilator stack and a shack housing a stair or elevator head.
He reconnoitered, found that the hotel occupied a corner, with a parking lot behind it. On the alley side, the adjoining roof was at a level ten feet lower, separated by a sixteen-foot gap. As Mallory stared across at it, a heavy rumbling shook the deck under his feet: one of the floors of the ancient building, collapsing as the fire ate through its supports.
Smoke was rising all around him now. On the parking lot side, dusky flames soared thirty feet above him, trailing an inverted cascade of sparks into the wet night sky. He went to the stairhead, found the metal door locked. A rusty ladder was clamped to the side of the structure. He wrenched it free, carried it to the alley side. It took all his strength to force the corroded catches free, pull the ladder out to its full extension. Twenty feet, he estimated. Enough—maybe.
He shoved the end of the ladder out, wrestled it across to rest on the roof below. The flimsy bridge sagged under his weight as he crawled up on it. He moved carefully out, ignoring the swaying of the fragile support. He was six feet from the far roof when he felt the rotten metal crumble under him; with a frantic lunge, he threw himself forward. Only the fact that the roof was at a lower level saved him. He clawed his way over the sheet-metal gutter, hearing shouts ring out below as the ladder crashed to the bricks of the alley.
A bad break, he thought. Now they know where I am . . . 
There was a heavy trap-door set in the roof. He lifted it, descended an iron ladder into darkness, found his way to a corridor, along it to a stair. Faint sounds rose from below. He went down.
At the fourth floor, lights showed below, voices sounded, the clump of feet. He left the stair at the third floor, prowled along a hall, entered an abandoned office. Searchlights in the street below threw oblique shadows across the discolored walls.
He went on, turned a corner, went into a room on the alley side. A cold draft, reeking of smoke, blew in through a glassless window. Below, the narrow way appeared to be deserted. Paul’s body was gone. The broken ladder lay where it had fallen. It was, he estimated, a twenty-foot drop to the bricks; even if he let himself down to arm’s length and dropped, a leg-breaker . . . 
Something moved below him. A uniformed policeman was standing at a spot directly beneath the window, his back against the wall. A wolf smile drew Mallory’s face tight. In a single motion, he slid his body out over the sill, chest down, held on for an instant, seeing the startled face below turn upward, the mouth open for a yell—
He dropped; his feet struck the man’s back, breaking his fall. He rolled clear, sat up, half-dazed. The policeman sprawled on his face, his spine twisted at an awkward angle.
Mallory got to his feet—and almost fell at the stab of pain from his right ankle. Sprained, or broken. His teeth set against the pain, he moved along the wall. Icy rainwater, sluicing from the downspout ahead, swirled about his ankles. He slipped, almost went down on the slimy bricks. The lesser darkness of the parking lot behind the building showed ahead. If he could reach it, cross it—then he might still have a chance. He had to succeed—for Monica, for the child, for the future of a world.
Another step, and another. It was as though there were a vast ache that caught at him with every breath. His blood-soaked shirt and pants leg hung against him, icy cold. Ten feet more, and he could make his run for it—
Two men in the black uniform of the State Security Police stepped out into his path, stood with blast-guns leveled at his chest. Mallory pushed away from the wall, braced himself for the burst of slugs that would end his life. Instead, a beam of light speared out through the misty rain, dazzling his eyes.
“You’ll come with us, Mr. Mallory.”
* * *
Still no contact, the Perceptors reported.
The prime-level minds below lack cohesion; they flicker and dart away even as I/we touch them.
The Initiators made a proposal: By the use of appropriate harmonics a resonance field can be set up which will reinforce any native mind functioning in an analogous rhythm. 
I/we find that a pattern of the following character will be most suitable . . . A complex symbolism was displayed.
PERSEVERE IN THE FASHION DESCRIBED, the Egon commanded. ALL EXTRANEOUS FUNCTIONS WILL BE DISCONTINUED UNTIL SUCCESS IS ACHIEVED.
With total singleness of purpose, the Ree sensors probed across space from the dark and silent ship, searching for a receptive human mind.
* * *
The Interrogation Room was a totally bare cube of white enamel. At its geometric center, under a blinding white glare panel, sat a massive chair constructed of polished steel, casting an ink-black shadow.
A silent minute ticked past; then heels clicked in the corridor. A tall man in a plain, dark military tunic came through the open door, halted, studying his prisoner. His wide, sagging face was as gray and bleak as a tombstone.
“I warned you, Mallory,” he said in a deep growling tone.
“You’re making a mistake, Koslo,” Mallory said.
“Openly arresting the people’s hero, eh?” Koslo curved his wide, gray lips in a death’s head smile. “Don’t delude yourself. The malcontents will do nothing without their leader.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to put your regime to the test so soon?”
“It’s that or wait, while your party gains strength. I chose the quicker course. I was never as good at waiting as you, Mallory.”
“Well—you’ll know by morning.”
“That close, eh?” Koslo’s heavy-lidded eyes pinched down on glints of light. He grunted. “I’ll know many things by morning. You realize that your personal position is hopeless?” His eyes went to the chair.
“In other words, I should sell out to you now in return for—what? Another of your promises?”
“The alternative is the chair,” Koslo said flatly.
“You have great confidence in machinery, Koslo—more than in men. That’s your great weakness.”
Koslo’s hand went out, caressing the rectilinear metal of the chair. “This is a scientific apparatus designed to accomplish a specific task with the least possible difficulty to me. It creates conditions within the subject’s neural system conducive to total recall, and at the same time amplifies the subvocalizations that accompany all highly cerebral activity. The subject is also rendered amenable to verbal cueing.” He paused. “If you resist, it will destroy your mind—but not before you’ve told me everything: names, locations, dates, organization, operational plans—everything. It will be simpler for us both if you acknowledge the inevitable and tell me freely what I require to know.”
“And after you’ve got the information?”
“You know my regime can’t tolerate opposition. The more complete my information, the less bloodshed will be necessary.”
Mallory shook his head. “No,” he said bluntly.
“Don’t be a fool, Mallory! This isn’t a test of your manhood!”
“Perhaps it is, Koslo: man against machine.”
Koslo’s eyes probed at him. He made a quick gesture with one hand.
“Strap him in.”
Seated in the chair, Mallory felt the cold metal suck the heat from his body. Bands restrained his arms, legs, torso. A wide ring of woven wire and plastic clamped his skull firmly to the formed headrest. Across the room, Fey Koslo watched.
“Ready, Excellency,” a technician said.
“Proceed.”
Mallory tensed. An unwholesome excitement churned his stomach. He’d heard of the chair, of its power to scour a man’s mind clean and leave him a gibbering hulk.
Only a free society, he thought, can produce the technology that makes tyranny possible . . . 
He watched as a white-smocked technician approached, reached for the control panel. There was only one hope left: if he could fight the power of the machine, drag out the interrogation, delay Koslo until dawn . . . 
A needle-studded vise clamped down against Mallory’s temples. Instantly his mind was filled with whirling fever images. He felt his throat tighten in an aborted scream. Fingers of pure force struck into his brain, dislodging old memories, ripping open the healed wounds of time. From somewhere, he was aware of a voice, questioning. Words trembled in his throat, yearning to be shouted aloud.
I’ve got to resist! The thought flashed through his mind and was gone, borne away on a tide of probing impulses that swept through his brain like a millrace. I’ve got to hold out . . . long enough . . . to give the others a chance . . . 
* * *
Aboard the Ree ship, dim lights glowed and winked on the panel that encircled the control center.
I/we sense a new mind—a transmitter of great power, the Perceptors announced suddenly. But the images are confused. I/we sense struggle, resistance . . . 
IMPOSE CLOSE CONTROL, the Egon ordered. NARROW FOCUS AND EXTRACT A REPRESENTATIVE PERSONALITY FRACTION!
It is difficult; I/we sense powerful neural currents, at odds with the basic brain rhythms.
COMBAT THEM!
Again the Ree mind reached out, insinuated itself into the complex field-matrix that was Mallory’s mind, and began, painstakingly, to trace out and reinforce its native symmetries, permitting the natural egomosaic to emerge, free from distracting counter-impulses.
* * *
The technician’s face went chalk-white as Mallory’s body went rigid against the restraining bands.
“You fool!” Koslo’s voice cut at him like a whipping rod. “If he dies before he talks—”
“He . . . he fights strongly, Excellency.” The man’s eyes scanned instrument faces. “Alpha through delta rhythms normal, though exaggerated,” he muttered. “Metabolic index .99 . . .”
Mallory’s body jerked. His eyes opened, shut. His mouth worked.
“Why doesn’t he speak?” Koslo barked.
“It may require a few moments, Excellency, to adjust the power flows to ten-point resonance—”
“Then get on with it, man! I risked too much in arresting this man to lose him now!”
White-hot fingers of pure force lanced from the chair along the neural pathways within Mallory’s brain—and met the adamantine resistance of the Ree probe. In the resultant confrontation, Mallory’s battered self-awareness was tossed like a leaf in a gale.
Fight! The remaining wisp of his conscious intellect gathered itself—
—and was grasped, encapsulated, swept up and away. He was aware of spinning through a whirling fog of white light shot through with flashes and streamers of red, blue, violet. There was a sensation of great forces that pressed at him, flung him to and fro, drew his mind out like a ductile wire until it spanned the Galaxy. The filament grew broad, expanded into a diaphragm that bisected the universe. The plane assumed thickness, swelled out to encompass all space-time. Faint and far away, he sensed the tumultuous coursing of the energies that ravened just beyond the impenetrable membrane of force—
The imprisoning sphere shrank, pressed in, forcing his awareness into needle-sharp focus. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that he was locked in a sealed and airless chamber, constricting, claustrophobic, all sound and sensation cut off. He drew breath to scream—
No breath came. Only a weak pulse of terror, quickly fading, as if damped by an inhibiting hand. Alone in the dark, Mallory waited, every sense tuned, monitoring the surrounding blankness . . . 
I/we have him! The Perceptors pulsed, and fell away. At the center of the chamber, the mind trap pulsed with the flowing energies that confined and controlled the captive brain pattern.
TESTING WILL COMMENCE AT ONCE. The Egon brushed aside the interrogatory impulses from the mind-segments concerned with speculation. INITIAL STIMULI WILL BE APPLIED AND RESULTS NOTED. NOW!
 . . . and was aware of a faint glimmer of light across the room: the outline of a window. He blinked, raised himself on one elbow. Bedsprings creaked under him. He sniffed. An acid odor of smoke hung in the stifling air. He seemed to be in a cheap hotel room. He had no memory of how he came to be there. He threw back the coarse blanket and felt warped floor boards under his bare feet—
The boards were hot.
He jumped up, went to the door, grasped the knob—and jerked his hand back. The metal had blistered his palm.
He ran to the window, ripped aside the dirt-stiff gauze curtains, snapped open the latch, tugged at the sash. It didn’t budge. He stepped back, kicked out the glass. Instantly a coil of smoke whipped in through the broken pane. Using the curtain to protect his hand, he knocked out the shards, swung a leg over the sill, stumbled onto the fire escape. The rusted metal cut at his bare feet. Groping, he made his way down half a dozen steps—and fell back as a sheet of red flame billowed from below.
Over the rail he saw the street, lights puddled on grimy concrete ten stories down, white faces, like pale dots, upturned. A hundred feet away, an extension ladder swayed, approaching another wing of the flaming building, not concerned with him. He was lost, abandoned. Nothing could save him. For forty feet below, the iron ladder was an inferno.
It would be easier, quicker, to go over the rail, escape the pain, die cleanly, the thought came into his mind with dreadful clarity.
There was a tinkling crash and a window above blew out. Scalding embers rained down on his back. The iron was hot underfoot. He drew a breath, shielded his face with one arm, and plunged downward through the whipping flames . . . 
He was crawling, falling down the cruel metal treads and risers. The pain across his face, his back, his shoulder, his arm, was like a red-hot iron, applied and forgotten. He caught a glimpse of his arm, flayed, oozing, black-edged . . . 
His hands and feet were no longer his own. He used his knees and elbows, tumbled himself over yet another edge, sliding down to the next landing. The faces were closer now; hands were reaching up. He groped, got to his feet, felt the last section swing down as his weight went on it. His vision was a blur of red. He sensed the blistered skin sloughing from his thighs. A woman screamed.
“ . . . my God, burned alive and still walking!” a thin voice cawed.
“ . . . his hands . . . no fingers . . .”
Something rose, smashed at him, a ghostly blow as blackness closed in . . . 
* * *
The response of the entity was anomalous, the Analyzers reported. Its life tenacity is enormous! Confronted with apparent imminent physical destruction, it chose agony and mutilation merely to extend survival for a brief period. 
The possibility exists that such a response represents a mere instinctive mechanism of unusual form, the Analyzers pointed out.
If so, it might prove dangerous. More data on the point is required.
I/WE WILL RESTIMULATE THE SUBJECT, the Egon ordered. THE PARAMETERS OF THE SURVIVAL DRIVE MUST BE ESTABLISHED WITH PRECISION, RESUME TESTING!
* * *
In the chair, Mallory writhed, went limp.
“Is he . . . ?”
“He’s alive, Excellency. But something’s wrong! I can’t get through to a vocalization level. He’s fighting me with some sort of fantasy-complex of his own!”
“Bring him out of it!”
“Excellency, I tried. I can’t reach him. It’s as though he’d tapped the chair’s energy sources, and were using them to reinforce his own defense mechanism!”
“Override him!”
“I’ll try—but his power is fantastic.”
“Then we’ll use more power!”
“It’s . . . dangerous, Excellency.”
“Not more dangerous than failure!”
Grim-faced, the technician reset the panel to step up the energy flow through Mallory’s brain.
* * *
The subject stirs! The Perceptors burst out. Massive new energies flow in the mind-field! My/our grip loosens . . . 
HOLD THE SUBJECT! RESTIMULATE AT ONCE, WITH MAXIMUM EMERGENCY FORCE!
While the captive surged and fought against the restraint, the segmented mind of the alien concentrated its forces, hurled a new stimulus into the rolling captive mind-field.
* * *
 . . . Hot sun beat down on his back. A light wind ruffled the tall grass growing up the slope where the wounded lion had taken cover. Telltale drops of dark purple blood clinging to the tall stems marked the big cat’s route. It would be up there, flattened to the earth under the clump of thorn trees, its yellow eyes narrowed against the agony of the .375 bullet in his chest, waiting, hoping for its tormentor to come to it . . . 
His heart was thudding under the damp khaki shirt. The heavy rifle felt like a toy in his hands—a useless plaything against the primitive fury of the beast. He took a step; his mouth twisted in an ironic grimace. What was he proving? There was no one here to know if he chose to walk back and sit under a tree and take a leisurely swig from his flask, let an hour or two crawl by—while the cat bled to death—and then go in to find the body. He took another step. And now he was walking steadily forward. The breeze was cool on his forehead. His legs felt light, strong. He drew a deep breath, smelled the sweetness of the spring air. Life had never seemed more precious—
There was a deep, asthmatic cough, and the great beast broke from the shadows, yellow fangs bared, muscles pumping under the dun hide, dark blood shining black along the flank—
He planted his feet, brought the gun up, socketed it against his shoulder as the lion charged down the slope. By the book, he thought sardonically. Take him just above the sternum, hold on him until you’re sure . . . At a hundred feet he fired—just as the animal veered left. The bullet smacked home far back along the ribs. The cat broke stride, recovered. The gun bucked and roared again, and the snarling face exploded in a mask of red— And still the dying carnivore came on. He blinked sweat from his eyes, centered the sights on the point of the shoulder—
The trigger jammed hard. A glance showed him the spent cartridge lodged in the action. He raked at it vainly, standing his ground. At the last instant, he stepped aside, and the hurtling monster skidded past him, dead in the dust. And the thought that struck him then was that if Monica had been watching from the car at the foot of the hill she would not have laughed at him this time . . . 
* * *
Again the reaction syndrome is inharmonious with any concept of rationality in my/our experience, the Recollector cells expressed the paradox with which the captive mind had presented the Ree intelligence. Here is an entity which clings to personality survival with a ferocity unparalleled—yet faces Category Ultimate risks needlessly, in response to an abstract code of behavioral symmetry. 
I/we postulate that the personality segment selected does not represent the true Egon-analogue of the subject, the Speculators offered. It is obviously incomplete, nonviable. 
Let me/us attempt a selective withdrawal of control over peripheral regions of the mind-field, the Perceptors proposed. Thus permitting greater concentration of stimulus to the central matrix. 
By matching energies with the captive mind, it will be possible to monitor its rhythms and deduce the key to its total control, the Calculators determined quickly.
This course offers the risk of rupturing the matrix and the destruction of the specimen. 
THE RISK MUST BE TAKEN.
With infinite precision, the Ree mind narrowed the scope of its probe, fitting its shape to the contours of Mallory’s embattled brain, matching itself in a one-to-one correspondence to the massive energy flows from the Interrogation chair.
Equilibrium, the Perceptors reported at last. However, the balance is precarious. 
The next test must be designed to expose new aspects of the subject’s survival syndrome, the Analyzers pointed out. A stimulus pattern was proposed and accepted. Aboard the ship in its sub-lunar orbit, the Ree mindbeam again lanced out to touch Mallory’s receptive brain . . . 
* * *
Blackness gave way to misty light. A deep rumbling shook the rocks under his feet. Through the whirling spray, he saw the raft, the small figure that clung to it: a child, a little girl perhaps nine years old, crouched on hands and knees, looking toward him.
“Daddy!” A high, thin cry of pure terror. The raft bucked and tossed in the wild current. He took a step, slipped, almost went down on the slimy rocks. The icy water swirled about his knees. A hundred feet downstream, the river curved in a gray-metal sheen, over and down, veiled by the mists of its own thunderous descent. He turned, scrambled back up, ran along the bank. There, ahead, a point of rock jutted. Perhaps . . . 
The raft bobbed, whirled, fifty feet away. Too far. He saw the pale, small face, the pleading eyes. Fear welled in him, greasy and sickening.
Visions of death rose up, of his broken body bobbing below the falls, lying wax-white on a slab, sleeping, powdered and false in a satin-lined box, corrupting in the close darkness under the indifferent sod . . . 
He took a trembling step back.
For an instant, a curious sensation of unreality swept over him. He remembered darkness, a sense of utter claustrophobia—and a white room, a face that leaned close . . . 
He blinked—and through the spray of the rapids, his eyes met those of the doomed child. Compassion struck him like a club. He grunted, felt the clean white flame of anger at himself, of disgust at his fear. He closed his eyes and leaped far out, struck the water and went under, came up gasping. His strokes took him toward the raft. He felt a heavy blow as the current tossed him against a rock, choked as chopping spray whipped in his face. The thought came that broken ribs didn’t matter now, nor air for breathing. Only to reach the raft before it reached the edge, that the small, frightened soul might not go down alone—into the great darkness . . . 
His hands clawed the rough wood. He pulled himself up, caught the small body to him as the world dropped away and the thunder rose deafeningly to meet him . . . 
* * *
“Excellency! I need help!” The technician appealed to the grim-faced dictator. “I’m pouring enough power through his brain to kill two ordinary men—and he still fights back! For a second there, a moment ago, I’d swear he opened his eyes and looked right through me! I can’t take the responsibility—”
“Then cut the power, you blundering idiot!”
“I don’t dare, the backlash will kill him!”
“He . . . must . . . talk!” Koslo grated. “Hold him! Break him! Or I promise you a slow and terrible death!”
Trembling, the technician adjusted his controls. In the chair, Mallory sat tense, no longer fighting the straps. He looked like a man lost in thought. Perspiration broke from his hairline, trickled down his face.
Again new currents stir in the captive, the Perceptors announced in alarm. The resources of this mind are staggering!
MATCH IT! The Egon directed.
My/our power resources are already overextended! The Calculators interjected.
WITHDRAW ENERGIES FROM ALL PERIPHERAL FUNCTIONS! LOWER SHIELDING! THE MOMENT OF THE ULTIMATE TEST IS UPON ME/US!
Swiftly the Ree mind complied.
The captive is held, the Calculator announced. But I/we must point out that this linkage now presents a channel of vulnerability to assault. 
THE RISK MUST BE TAKEN.
Even now the mind stirs against my/our control.
HOLD IT FAST!
Grimly, the Ree mind fought to retain its control of Mallory’s brain.
In one instant, he was not. Then, abruptly, he existed. Mallory, he thought. That symbol represents I/we . . . 
The alien thought faded. He caught at it, held the symbol. Mallory. He remembered the shape of his body, the feel of his skull enclosing his brain, the sensations of light, sound, heat—but here there was no sound, no light. Only the enclosing blackness, impenetrable, eternal, changeless . . . 
But where was here?
He remembered the white room, the harsh voice of Koslo, the steel chair—
And the mighty roar of the waters rushing up at him—
And the reaching talons of a giant cat—
And the searing agony of flames that licked around his body . . . 
But there was no pain, now, no discomfort—no sensation of any kind. Was this death, then? At once, he rejected the idea as nonsense.
Cogito ergo sum. I am a prisoner—where?
His senses stirred, questing against emptiness, sensationlessness. He strained outward—and heard sound; voices, pleading, demanding. They grew louder, echoing in the vastness:
“ . . . talk, damn you! Who are your chief accomplices? What support do you expect from the Armed Forces? Which of the generals are with you? Armaments . . . ? Organization . . . ? Initial attack points . . . ?”
Blinding static sleeted across the words, filled the universe, grew dim. For an instant, Mallory was aware of straps cutting into the tensed muscles of his forearms, the pain of the band clamped around his head, the ache of cramping muscles . . . 
 . . . was aware of floating, gravityless, in a sea of winking, flashing energies. Vertigo rose up; frantically he fought for stability in a world of chaos. Through spinning darkness he reached, found a matrix of pure direction, intangible, but, against the background of shifting energy flows, providing an orienting grid. He seized on it, held . . . 
* * *
Full emergency discharge! The Receptors blasted the command through all the sixty-nine hundred and thirty-four units of the Ree mind—and recoiled in shock. The captive mind clings to the contact! We cannot break free!
Pulsating with the enormous shock of the prisoner’s sudden outlashing, the alien rested for the fractional nanosecond required to reestablish intersegmental balance.
The power of the enemy, though unprecedentedly great, is not sufficient to broach the integrity of my/our entity-field, the Analyzers stated, tensely. But I/we must retreat at once!
NO! I/WE LACK SUFFICIENT DATA TO JUSTIFY WITHDRAWAL OF PHASE ONE, the Egon countermanded. HERE IS A MIND RULED BY CONFLICTING DRIVES OF GREAT POWER. WHICH IS PARAMOUNT? THEREIN LIES THE KEY TO ITS DEFEAT.
I/WE MUST DEVISE A STIMULATION COMPLEX WHICH WILL EVOKE BOTH DRIVES IN LETHAL OPPOSITION.
Precious microseconds passed while the compound mind hastily scanned Mallory’s mind for symbols from which to assemble the necessary gestalt-form.
Ready, the Perceptors announced. But it must be pointed out that no mind can long survive intact the direct confrontation of these antagonistic imperatives. Is the stimulus to be carried to the point of nonretrieval?
AFFIRMATIVE. The Egon’s tone was one of utter finality. TEST TO DESTRUCTION.
* * *
Illusion, Mallory told himself. I’m being bombarded by illusions . . . He sensed the approach of a massive new wave front, descending on him like a breaking Pacific comber. Grimly, he clung to his tenuous orientation—but the smashing impact whirled him into darkness. Far away, a masked inquisitor faced him.
“Pain has availed nothing against you,” the muffled voice said. “The threat of death does not move you. And yet there is a way . . .” A curtain fell aside, and Monica stood there, tall, slim, vibrantly alive, as beautiful as a roe-deer. And beside her, the child.
He said “No!” and started forward, but the chains held him. He watched, helpless, while brutal hands seized the woman, moved casually, intimately, over her body. Other hands gripped the child. He saw the terror on the small face, the fear in her eyes—
Fear that he had seen before . . . 
But of course he had seen her before. The child was his daughter, the precious offspring of himself and the slender female—
Monica, he corrected himself
—had seen those eyes, through swirling mist, poised above a cataract—
No. That was a dream. A dream in which he had died, violently. And there had been another dream of facing a wounded lion as it charged down on him—
“You will not be harmed,” the Inquisitor’s voice seemed to come from a remote distance. “But you will carry with you forever the memory of their living dismemberment . . .”
With a jerk, his attention returned to the woman and the child. He saw them strip Monica’s slender, tawny body. Naked, she stood before them, refusing to cower. But of what use was courage now? The manacles at her wrists were linked to a hook set in the damp stone wall. The glowing iron moved closer to her white flesh. He saw the skin darken and blister. The iron plunged home. She stiffened, screamed . . . 
A woman screamed.
“My God, burned alive,” a thin voice cawed. “And still walking!”
He looked down. There was no wound, no scar. The skin was unbroken. But a fleeting almost-recollection came of crackling flames that seared with a white agony as he drew them into his lungs . . . 
“A dream,” he said aloud. “I’m dreaming. I have to wake up!” He closed his eyes and shook his head . . . 
* * *
“He shook his head!” the technician choked. “Excellency, it’s impossible—but I swear the man is throwing off the machine’s control!”
Koslo brushed the other roughly aside. He seized the control lever, pushed it forward. Mallory stiffened. His breathing became hoarse, ragged.
“Excellency, the man will die . . . !”
“Let him die! No one defies me with impunity!”
Narrow focus! The Perceptors flashed the command to the sixty-nine hundred and thirty-four energy-producing segments of the Ree mind. The contest cannot continue long! Almost we lost the captive then . . . !
The probe beam narrowed, knifing into the living heart of Mallory’s brain, imposing its chosen patterns . . . 
* * *
 . . . the child whimpered as the foot-long blade approached her fragile breast. The gnarled fist holding the knife stroked it almost lovingly across the blue-veined skin. Crimson blood washed down from the shallow wound.
“If you reveal the secrets of the Brotherhood to me, truly your comrades in arms will die,” the Inquisitor’s faceless voice droned. “But if you stubbornly refuse, your woman and your infant will suffer all that my ingenuity can devise.”
He strained against his chains. “I can’t tell you,” he croaked. “Don’t you understand, nothing is worth this horror! Nothing . . .”
Nothing he could have done would have saved her. She crouched on the raft, doomed. But he could join her—
But not this time. This time chains of steel kept him from her. He hurled himself against them, and tears blinded his eyes . . . 
Smoke blinded his eyes. He looked down, saw the faces upturned below. Surely, easy death was preferable to living immolation. But he covered his face with his arms and started down . . . 
Never betray your trust! The woman’s voice rang clear as a trumpet across the narrow dungeon.
Daddy! the child screamed.
We can die only once! the woman called.
The raft plunged downward into boiling chaos . . . 
“Speak, damn you!” The Inquisitor’s voice had taken on a new note. “I want the names, the places! Who are your accomplices? What are your plans? When will the rising begin? What signal are they waiting for? Where . . . ? When . . . ?”
Mallory opened his eyes. Blinding white light, a twisted face that loomed before him, goggling.
“Excellency! He’s awake! He’s broken through . . .”
“Pour full power into him! Force, man! Force him to speak!”
“I—I’m afraid, Excellency! We’re tampering with the mightiest instrument in the universe: a human brain! Who knows what we may be creating—”
Koslo struck the man aside, threw the control lever full against the stop.
* * *
 . . . The darkness burst into a coruscating brilliance that became the outlines of a room. A transparent man whom he recognized as Koslo stood before him. He watched as the dictator turned to him, his face contorted.
“Now talk, damn you!”
His voice had a curious, ghostly quality, as though it represented only one level of reality.
“Yes,” Mallory said distinctly. “I’ll talk.”
“And if you lie—” Koslo jerked an ugly automatic pistol from the pocket of his plain tunic. “I’ll put a bullet in your brain myself!”
“My chief associates in the plot,” Mallory began, “are . . .” As he spoke, he gently disengaged himself—that was the word that came to his mind—from the scene around him. He was aware at one level of his voice speaking on, reeling off the facts for which the other man hungered so nakedly. And he reached out, channeling the power pouring into him from the chair . . . spanning across vast distances compressed now to a dimensionless plane. Delicately, he quested farther, entered a curious, flickering net of living energies. He pressed, found points of weakness, poured in more power—
A circular room leaped into eerie visibility. Ranged around it were lights that winked and glowed. From ranked thousands of cells, white wormforms poked blunt, eyeless heads . . . 
HE IS HERE! The Egon shrieked the warning, and hurled a bolt of pure mind-force along the channel of contact and met a counter-bolt of energy that seared through him, blackened and charred the intricate organic circuitry of his cerebrum, left a smoking pocket in the rank of cells. For a moment, Mallory rested, sensing the shock and bewilderment sweeping through the leaderless Ree mind-segments. He felt the automatic death-urge that gripped them as the realization reached them that the guiding over-power of the Egon was gone. As he watched, a unit crumpled inward and expired. And another—
“Stop!” Mallory commanded. “I assume control of the mind-complex! Let the segments link in with me!”
Obediently, the will-less fragments of the Ree mind obeyed.
“Change course,” Mallory ordered. He gave the necessary instructions, then withdrew along the channel of contact.
* * *
“So . . . the great Mallory broke.” Koslo rocked on his heels before the captive body of his enemy. He laughed. “You were slow to start, but once begun you sang like a turtledove. I’ll give you my orders now, and by dawn your futile revolt will be a heap of charred corpses stacked in the plaza as an example to others!” He raised the gun.
“I’m not through yet,” Mallory said. “The plot runs deeper than you think, Koslo.”
The dictator ran a hand over his gray face. His eyes showed the terrible strain of the last hours.
“Talk, then,” he growled. “Talk fast!”
As he spoke on, Mallory again shifted his primary awareness, settled into resonance with the subjugated Ree intelligence. Through the ship’s sensors, he saw the white planet swelling ahead. He slowed the vessel, brought it in on a long parabolic course which skimmed the stratosphere. Seventy miles above the Atlantic, he entered a high haze layer, slowed again as he sensed the heating of the hull.
Below the clouds, he sent the ship hurtling across the coast. He dropped to treetop level, scanned the scene through sensitive hull-plates—
For a long moment he studied the landscape below. Then suddenly he understood . . . 
* * *
“Why do you smile, Mallory?” Koslo’s voice was harsh; the gun pointed at the other’s head. “Tell me the joke that makes a man laugh in the condemned seat reserved for traitors.”
“You’ll know in just a moment . . .” He broke off as a crashing sound came from beyond the room. The floor shook and trembled, rocking Koslo on his feet. A dull boom echoed. The door burst wide.
“Excellency! The capital is under attack!” The man fell forward, exposing a great wound on his back. Koslo whirled on Mallory—
With a thunderous crash, one side of the room bulged and fell inward. Through the broached wall, a glittering torpedo-shape appeared, a polished intricacy of burnished metal floating lightly on pencils of blue-white light. The gun in the hand of the dictator came up, crashed deafeningly in the enclosed space. From the prow of the invader, pink light winked. Koslo spun, fell heavily on his face.
The twenty-eight-inch Ree dreadnought came to rest before Mallory. A beam speared out, burned through the chair control panel. The shackles fell away.
I/we await your/our next command. The Ree mind spoke soundlessly in the awesome silence.
* * *
Three months had passed since the referendum which had swept John Mallory into office as Premier of the First Planetary Republic. He stood in a room of his spacious apartment in the Executive Palace, frowning at the slender black-haired woman as she spoke earnestly to him.
“John—I’m afraid of that—that infernal machine, eternally hovering, waiting for your orders.”
“But why, Monica? That infernal machine, as you call it, was the thing that made a free election possible—and even now it’s all that holds Koslo’s old organization in check.”
“John—” Her hand gripped his arm. “With that—thing—always at your beck and call, you can control anyone, anything on Earth! No opposition can stand before you!”
She looked directly at him. “It isn’t right for anyone to have such power, John. Not even you. No human being should be put to such a test!”
His face tightened. “Have I misused it?”
“Not yet. That’s why . . .”
“You imply that I will?”
“You’re a man, with the failings of a man.”
“I propose only what’s good for the people of Earth,” he said sharply. “Would you have me voluntarily throw away the one weapon that can protect our hard-won freedom?”
“But, John—who are you to be the sole arbiter of what’s good for the people of Earth?”
“I’m Chairman of the Republic—”
“You’re still human. Stop—while you’re still human!”
He studied her face. “You resent my success, don’t you? What would you have me do? Resign?”
“I want you to send the machine away—back to wherever it came from.”
He laughed shortly. “Are you out of your mind? I haven’t begun to extract the technological secrets the Ree ship represents.”
“We’re not ready for those secrets, John. The race isn’t ready. It’s already changed you. In the end it can only destroy you as a man.”
“Nonsense. I control it utterly. It’s like an extension of my own mind—”
“John—please. If not for my sake or your own, for Dian’s.”
“What’s the child got to do with this?”
“She’s your daughter. She hardly sees you once a week.”
“That’s the price she pays for being the heir to the greatest man—I mean—damn it, Monica, my responsibilities don’t permit me to indulge in all the suburban customs.”
“John—” Her voice was a whisper, painful in its intensity. “Send it away.”
“No. I won’t send it away.”
Her face was pale. “Very well, John. As you wish.”
“Yes. As I wish.”
After she left the room, Mallory stood for a long time staring out through the high window at the tiny craft, hovering in the blue air fifty feet away, silent, ready.
Then: Ree mind, he sent out the call. Probe the apartments of the woman, Monica. I have reason to suspect she plots treason against the state . . .  
 
The Star-Sent Knaves
1
Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied, with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shouldered in a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane’s travel-stained six-foot-one.
“Kelly here tells me you’ve been demanding to see me.” He nodded toward the florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like something that needed oiling. “Something about important information regarding my paintings.”
“That’s right, Mr. Snithian,” Dan said. “I believe I can be of great help to you.”
“Help how? If you’ve got ideas of bilking me . . .” The red eyes bored into Dan like hot pokers.
“Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guards here—the papers are full of it—”
“Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn’t for the press, I’d have no concern for my paintings today!”
“Yes, sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been left unguarded.”
“Now, wait a minute—” Kelly started.
“What’s that?” Snithian cut in.
“You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds day and night—”
“Two hundred and twenty-five,” Kelly snapped.
“—but no one at all in the vault with the paintings,” Slane finished.
“Of course not,” Snithian shrilled. “Why should I post a man in the vault? It’s under constant surveillance from the corridor outside.”
“The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault,” Dan said. “There was a special seal on the door. It wasn’t broken.”
“By the saints, he’s right,” Kelly exclaimed. “Maybe we ought to have a man in that vault.”
“Another idiotic scheme to waste my money,” Snithian snapped. “I’ve made you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let’s have no more nonsense. And throw this nincompoop out!” Snithian turned and stalked away, his cloak flapping at his knees.
“I’ll work cheap,” Dan called after the tycoon as Kelly took his arm. “I’m an art lover.”
“Never mind that,” Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. He turned in at an office and closed the door.
“Now, as the old buzzard said, I’m responsible for security here. If those pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea’s not bad. Just how cheap would you work?”
“A hundred dollars a week,” Dan said promptly. “Plus expenses,” he added.
Kelly nodded. “I’ll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. If you’re clean, I’ll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet.”
* * *
Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the low ceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed a white glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk, an armchair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates, plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly’s order. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami, liverwurst, cheese and beer. He took out a loaf of bread, built up a well-filled sandwich, opened a can of beer.
It wasn’t fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone off without a hitch.
Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearing from closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It was obvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of large canvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the lock undamaged.
Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—someone who hadn’t entered in the usual way.
Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. The Snithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. With such a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in the vault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how they operated.
He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one of the brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, he slid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-air café, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gathered at a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in a magazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardly seemed worth all the effort . . . 
He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glow of the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from the nightlight over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give a momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He groped his way to the bunk.
So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up, he’d have to handle everything just right. If he scared them off there’d be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whatever his discovery might mean to him.
But he was ready. Let them come.
* * *
Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenly from a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowded shelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air.
The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of an outhouse minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figures were visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs. They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework.
A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cage moved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long pink sparks jumped, crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cage settled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostly switches . . . 
The glow died.
Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouth was dry. This was the moment he’d been planning for, but now that it was here—
Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he had prepared for the occasion:
Greetings, visitors from the future . . . 
No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs to Dan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it now looked like nothing more than a rough box built of steel pipe, with a cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieves looked ordinary enough: two men in gray coveralls, one slender and balding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticed Dan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on the table, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked at the stacked shelves.
“Looks like the old boy’s been doing all right,” the shorter man said. “Fathead’s gonna be pleased.”
“A very gratifying consignment,” his companion said. “However, we’d best hurry, Percy. How much time have we left on the dial?”
“Plenty,” Percy grunted. “Fifteen minutes anyway.”
The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting.
“Ah, a Plotz. Magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period.”
Percy shuffled through the other pictures in the stack.
“Like always,” he grumbled. “No nood dames. I like nood dames.”
“Look at this, Percy! The textures alone—”
Percy looked. “Yeah, nice use of values,” he conceded. “But I still prefer nood dames, Fiorello.”
“And this!” Fiorello lifted the next painting. “Look at that gay play of rich browns!”
“I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street,” Percy said. “They was popular with the sparrows.”
“Percy, sometimes I think your aspirations—”
“Whatta ya talkin’? I use a roll-on.” Percy, turning to place a painting in the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The painting clattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. “Uh . . .”
“Oh-oh,” Percy said. “A double-cross.”
“I’ve—ah—been expecting you gentlemen,” Dan said. “I—”
“I told you we couldn’t trust a guy with nine fingers on each hand,” Fiorello whispered hoarsely. He moved toward Percy. “Let’s blow, Percy,” he muttered.
“Wait a minute,” Dan said. “Before you do anything hasty—”
“Don’t start nothing, Buster,” Percy said cautiously. “We’re plenty tough guys when aroused.”
“I want to talk to you,” Dan insisted, ignoring the medium-weight menace. “You see, these paintings—”
“Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was the gents’ room—”
“Never mind, Percy,” Fiorello cut in. “It appears there’s been a leak.”
Dan shook his head. “No leak. I simply deduced—”
“Look, Fiorello,” Percy said. “You chin if you want to; I’m doing a fast fade.”
“Don’t act hastily, Percy. You know where you’ll end.”
“Wait a minute!” Dan shouted. “I’d like to make a deal with you fellows.”
“Ah-hah!” Kelly’s voice blared from somewhere. “I knew it! Slane, you crook!”
* * *
Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a speaker. It appeared Kelly hedged his bets.
“Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything!” Dan called. He turned back to Fiorello. “Listen, I figured out—”
“Pretty clever!” Kelly’s voice barked. “Inside job. But it takes more than the likes of you to outfox a old-timer like Ed Kelly.”
“Perhaps you were right, Percy,” Fiorello said. “Complications are arising. We’d best depart with all deliberate haste.” He edged toward the cage.
“What about this ginzo?” Percy jerked a thumb toward Dan. “He’s onto us.”
“Can’t be helped.”
“Look—I want to go with you!” Dan shouted.
“I’ll bet you do!” Kelly’s voice roared. “One more minute and I’ll have the door open and collar the lot of you! Come up through a tunnel, did you?”
“You can’t go, my dear fellow,” Fiorello said. “Room for two, no more.”
Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. He aimed it at Percy. “You stay here, Percy! I’m going with Fiorello in the time machine.”
“Are you nuts?” Percy demanded.
“I’m flattered, dear boy,” Fiorello said, “but—”
“Let’s get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute.”
“You can’t leave me here!” Percy spluttered, watching Dan crowd into the cage beside Fiorello.
“We’ll send for you,” Dan said. “Let’s go, Fiorello.”
The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with him. The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into the far corner of the vault. Percy charged, reaching for Dan as he twisted aside; Fiorello’s elbow caught him in the mouth. Percy staggered back into the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the vault.
“Percy!” Fiorello wailed and, releasing his grip on Dan, lunged to aid his companion. Kelly passed Percy to one of three cops crowding in on his heels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly. A cop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the pinch. Dan grabbed a lever at random and pulled.
Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectral Kelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Dan swallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like an elevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides.
Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was tricky business. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezing in among brick and mortar particles . . . 
But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn’t turned out just the way he’d planned, but after all, this was what he’d wanted—in a way. The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawled back into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and try to pin every art theft of the past decade on him.
It couldn’t be too hard. He’d take it slowly, figure out the controls . . . 
* * *
Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently, in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan gritted his teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage. Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cook waddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowly from the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated a second ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall.
Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest an inch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn’t traveled so much as a minute into the past or future.
He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled “Forward” and another labeled “Back,” but all the levers were plain, unadorned black. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker type knife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance of something thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, it worked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in the usual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be here somewhere . . . 
Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall.
A girl’s head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. In another second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan needed a few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls. He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced through the wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the lever back. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, a four-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table—
The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Not over eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the blue light playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon, and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennis racquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan and the cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple, and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt.
Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another; he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid the zipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot toward the outer wall as the girl reached behind her back . . . 
Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hovering twenty feet above a clipped lawn.
He looked at the levers. Wasn’t it the first one in line that moved the cage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man stepped out on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his face up—
Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in a plain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planter filled with glowing blue plants.
The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as she took a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-square sunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside, seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled—
With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, the cage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off with an acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for the controls, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushed on, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town on the horizon, approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared up fifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it—
He covered his ears, braced himself—
With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of the cage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop. Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud click! and the glow faded.
With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around at a simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered through elaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a potted plant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the far side of the room a desk. And behind the desk—something.
2
Dan gaped at a head the size of a beach ball, mounted on a torso like a hundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him from points eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfolded and reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss three peanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened just above the brown eyes.
“Who’re you?” a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor.
“I’m . . . I’m . . . Dan Slane . . . your honor.”
“What happened to Percy and Fiorello?”
“They—I—There was this cop, Kelly—”
“Oh-oh.” The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The too-many-fingered hands closed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer.
“Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted,” the basso voice said. “A pity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still . . .” A noise like an amplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth.
“How . . . what . . . ?”
“The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below a critical value,” the voice said. “A necessary measure to discourage big ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how you happen to be aboard the carrier, by the way?”
“I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police . . . I went for help,” Dan finished lamely.
“Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one’s anonymity, you’ll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps at present. Ah, I don’t suppose you brought any paintings?”
Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes, accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make out the vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headed giraffe rearing up above foliage. The next poster showed a face similar to the beach ball behind the desk, with red circles painted around the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fire into a black sky.
“Too bad.” The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted, caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked up to catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busily at work studying the ceiling.
“I hope,” the voice said, “that you ain’t harboring no reactionary racial prejudices.”
* * *
“Gosh, no,” Dan reassured the eye. “I’m crazy about—uh—”
“Vorplischers,” the voice said. “From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you locals call it.” The Bronx cheer sounded again. “How I long to glimpse once more my native fens! Wherever one wanders, there’s no pad like home.”
“That reminds me,” Dan said. “I have to be running along now.” He sidled toward the door.
“Stick around, Dan,” the voice rumbled. “How about a drink? I can offer you Chateau Neuf du Pape ‘59, Romany Conte ‘32, goat’s milk, Pepsi—”
“No, thanks.”
“If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll have a Big Orange.” The Vorplischer swiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted with a nipple and turned back to Dan. “Now, I got a proposition which may be of some interest to you. The loss of Percy and Fiorello is a serious blow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a most opportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of the picture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might fill. How does that grab you?”
“You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine?”
“Time machine?” The brown eyes blinked alternately. “I fear some confusion exists. I don’t quite dig the significance of the term.”
“That thing,” Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. “The machine I came here in. You want me—”
“Time machine,” the voice repeated. “Some sort of chronometer, perhaps?”
“Huh?”
“I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess the implied concept snows me.” The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk. The beach-ball head leaned forward interestedly. “Clue me, Dan. What’s a time machine?”
“Well, it’s what you use to travel through time.”
The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. “Apparently I’ve loused up my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no idea you were capable of that sort of thing.” The immense head leaned back, the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. “And to think I’ve been spinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art!”
“But—don’t you have a time machine? I mean, isn’t that one?”
“That? That’s merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your time machines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted at this development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet as Endsville.”
* * *
“Your superiors?” Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe he could reach the machine and try a getaway—
“I hope you’re not thinking of leaving suddenly,” the beach ball said, following Dan’s glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inch yellow cylinder lying on the desk. “Until the carrier is fueled, I’m afraid it’s quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I’d best introduce myself and explain my mission here. I’m Blote, Trader Fourth Class, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to develop new sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporia of the entire Secondary Quadrant.”
“But the way Percy and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could just materialize out of thin air like that.”
“You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan,” Blote chided. “You shouldn’t assume, just because you people have developed time travel, that everyone has. Now”—Blote’s voice sank to a bass whisper—”I’ll make a deal with you, Dan. You’ll secure a small time machine in good condition for me. And in return—”
“I’m supposed to supply you with a time machine?”
Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. “I dislike pointing it out, Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegal entry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless some embarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr. Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself would deal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.” The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under the desk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan.
“Whereas, on the other hand,” Blote’s bass voice went on, “you and me got the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you up with an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, I should say. What about it, Dan?”
“Ah, let me see,” Dan temporized. “Time machine. Time machine—”
“Don’t attempt to weasel on me, Dan,” Blote rumbled ominously.
“I’d better look in the phone book,” Dan suggested.
Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it.
“Time, time. Let’s see . . .” He brightened. “Time, Incorporated; local branch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street.”
“A sales center?” Blote inquired. “Or a manufacturing complex?”
“Both,” Dan said. “I’ll just nip over and—”
“That won’t be necessary, Dan,” Blote said. “I’ll accompany you.” He took the directory, studied it.
“Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to notice it. Still, a ripe bope-nut can fall from a small tree as well as from a large.” He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuel cells. “Now off to gather in the time machine.” He took his place in the carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. “Come, Dan. Get a wiggle on.”
* * *
Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to a point—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat. Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. “Kindly direct me, Dan,” Blote demanded. “Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe you said.”
“I don’t know the town very well,” Dan said, “but Maple’s over that way.”
Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky. Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Dan looked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure.
“Over there,” he said. Blote directed the machine as it swooped smoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated.
“Better let me take over now,” Dan suggested. “I want to be sure to get us to the right place.”
“Very well, Dan.”
Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimly seen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cage grew even fainter. “Best we remain unnoticed,” he explained.
The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifying landmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barely visible corridor. Blote’s eyes rolled, studying the small chambers along both sides of the passage at once.
“Ah, this must be the assembly area,” he exclaimed. “I see the machines employ a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers.”
“That’s right,” Dan said, staring through the haziness. “This is where they do time . . .” He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veered left, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulous figured loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he’d guessed wrong—
The scene fluoresced, pink sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus. Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swiveling to take in the concrete walls, the barred door and—
“You!” a hoarse voice bellowed.
“Grab him!” someone yelled.
Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attempt to regain the carrier as Percy and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at a lever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figures as the carrier shot away through the cell wall.
* * *
Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in the clear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was no telling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hide the carrier, then—
A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume. Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction.
The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign of mechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulous landscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against the deafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once. If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan worked the controls, dropping toward the distant earth.
The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, brought the carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last few inches and cut the switch.
As the glow died, the siren faded into silence.
Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noise was, it hadn’t attracted any attention from the scattered pedestrians in the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, why hadn’t it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or no sound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to a secluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in, reached for the controls—
There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dials before him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a giant flashbulb exploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectangle which hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, faded to blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in a tight-fitting white uniform stepped through.
Dan gaped at the small round head, the dark-skinned, long-nosed face, the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curly red-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neat pillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-set yellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened in a smile which showed square yellowish teeth.
“Alors, monsieur,” the newcomer said, bending his knees and back in a quick bow. “Vous été une indigine, n’est ce pas?”
“No compree,” Dan choked out. “Uh . . . juh no parlay Fransay . . .”
“My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn’t it? Stupid of me. Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Class Five, Interdimensional Monitor Service.”
“That siren,” Dan said. “Was that you?”
Dzhackoon nodded. “For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined to stop. I’m glad you decided to be reasonable.”
“What outfit did you say you were with?” Dan asked.
“The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service.”
“Inter-what?”
“Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it’s the best our language coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary.”
“What do you want with me?”
* * *
Dzhackoon smiled reprovingly. “You know the penalty for operation of an unauthorized reversed-phase vehicle in Interdicted territory. I’m afraid you’ll have to come along with me to Headquarters.”
“Wait a minute! You mean you’re arresting me?”
“That’s a harsh term, but I suppose it amounts to that.”
“Look here, uh—Dzhackoon. I just wandered in off the street. I don’t know anything about Interdicts and reversed-whoozis vehicles. Just let me out of here.”
Dzhackoon shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell it to the Inspector.” He smiled amiably, gestured toward the shimmering rectangle through which he had arrived. From the edge, it was completely invisible. It looked, Dan thought, like a hole snipped in reality. He glanced at Dzhackoon. If he stepped in fast and threw a left to the head and followed up with a right to the short ribs—
“I’m armed, of course,” the Agent said apologetically.
“Okay,” Dan sighed. “But I’m going under protest.”
“Don’t be nervous,” Dzhackoon said cheerfully. “Just step through quickly.”
Dan edged up to the glimmering surface. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and took a step. There was a momentary sensation of searing heat . . . 
His eyes flew open. He was in a long, narrow room with walls finished in bright green tile. Hot yellow light flooded down from the high ceiling. Along the wall, a series of cubicles were arranged. Tall, white-uniformed creatures moved briskly about. Nearby stood a group of short, immensely burly individuals in yellow. Lounging against the wall at the far end of the room, Dan glimpsed a round-shouldered figure in red, with great bushes of hair fringing a bright blue face. An arm even longer than Dzhackoon’s wielded a toothpick on a row of great white fangs.
“This way,” Dzhackoon said. Dan followed him to a cubicle, curious eyes following him. A creature indistinguishable from the Field Agent except for a twist of red braid on each wrist looked up from a desk.
“I’ve picked up that reversed-phase violator, Ghunt,” Dzhackoon said. “Anglic Sector, Locus C 922A4.”
Ghunt rose. “Let me see; Anglic Sector . . . Oh, yes.” He extended a hand. Dan took it gingerly; it was a strange hand—hot, dry and coarse-skinned, like a dog’s paw. He pumped it twice and let it go.
“Wonderfully expressive,” Ghunt said. “Empty hand, no weapon. The implied savagery . . .” He eyed Dan curiously.
“Remarkable. I’ve studied your branch, of course, but I’ve never had the pleasure of actually seeing one of you chaps before. That skin; amazing. Ah . . . may I look at your hands?”
Dan extended a hand. The other took it in bony fingers, studied it, turned it over, examined the nails. Stepping closer, he peered at Dan’s eyes and hair.
“Would you mind opening your mouth, please?” Dan complied. Ghunt clucked, eyeing the teeth. He walked around Dan, murmuring his wonderment.
“Uh . . . pardon my asking,” Dan said, “but are you what—uh—people are going to look like in the future?”
“Eh?” the round yellowish eyes blinked; the wide mouth curved in a grin. “I doubt that very much, old chap.” He chuckled. “Can’t undo half a million years of divergent evolution, you know.”
* * *
“You mean you’re from the past?” Dan croaked.
“The past? I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“You don’t mean—we’re all going to die out and monkeys are going to take over?” Dan blurted.
“Monkeys? Let me see. I’ve heard of them. Some sort of small primate, like a miniature Anthropos. You have them at home, do you? Fascinating!” He shook his head regretfully. “I certainly wish regulations allowed me to pay your sector a visit.”
“But you are time travelers,” Dan insisted.
“Time travelers?” Ghunt laughed aloud.
“An exploded theory,” Dzhackoon said. “Superstition.”
“Then how did you get to the park from here?”
“A simple focused portal. Merely a matter of elementary stressed-field mechanics.”
“That doesn’t tell me much,” Dan said. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Explanations are in order, of course,” Ghunt said. “Have a chair. Now, if I remember correctly, in your locus, there are only a few species of Anthropos extant—”
“Just the one,” Dzhackoon put in. “These fellows look fragile, but oh, brother!”
“Oh yes; I recall. This was the locus where the hairless variant systemically hunted down other varieties.” He clucked at Dan reprovingly. “Don’t you find it lonely?”
“Of course, there are a couple of rather curious retarded forms there,” Dzhackoon said. “Actual living fossils; sub-intellectual Anthropos. There’s one called the gorilla, and the chimpanzee, the orangutan, the gibbon—and, of course, a whole spectrum of the miniature forms.”
“I suppose that when the ferocious mutation established its supremacy, the others retreated to the less competitive ecological niches and expanded at that level,” Ghunt mused. “Pity. I assume the gorilla and the others are degenerate forms?”
“Possibly.”
“Excuse me,” Dan said. “But about that explanation . . .”
“Oh, sorry. Well, to begin with, Dzhackoon and I are—ah—Australopithecines, I believe your term is. We’re one of the many varieties of Anthropos native to normal loci. The workers in yellow, whom you may have noticed, are akin to your extinct Neanderthals. Then there are the Pekin derivatives—the blue-faced chaps—and the Rhodesians—”
“What are these loci you keep talking about? And how can cavemen still be alive?”
Ghunt’s eyes wandered past Dan. He jumped to his feet. “Ah, good day, Inspector!” Dan turned. A grizzled Australopithecine with a tangle of red braid at collar and wrists stared at him glumly.
“Harrumph!” the Inspector said. “Albinism and alopecia. Not catching, I hope?”
“A genetic deficiency, Excellency,” Dzhackoon said. “This is a Homo sapiens, a naturally bald form from a rather curious locus.”
“Sapiens? Sapiens? Now, that seems to ring a bell.” The oldster blinked at Dan. “You’re not—” He waggled fingers in instinctive digital-mnemonic stimulus. Abruptly he stiffened. “Why, this is one of those fratricidal deviants!” He backed off. “He should be under restraint, Ghunt! Constable! Get a strong-arm squad in here! This creature is dangerous!”
* * *
“Inspector. I’m sure—” Ghunt started.
“That’s an order!” the Inspector barked. He switched to an incomprehensible language, bellowed more commands. Several of the thick-set Neanderthal types appeared, moving in to seize Dan’s arms. He looked around at chinless, wide-mouthed brown faces with incongruous blue eyes and lank blond hair.
“What’s this all about?” he demanded. “I want a lawyer!”
“Never mind that!” the Inspector shouted. “I know how to deal with miscreants of your stripe!” He stared distastefully at Dan. “Hairless! Putty-colored! Revolting! Planning more mayhem, are you? Preparing to branch out into the civilized loci to wipe out all competitive life, is that it?”
“I brought him here, Inspector,” Dzhackoon put in. “It was a routine traffic violation.”
“I’ll decide what’s routine here! Now, Sapiens! What fiendish scheme have you up your sleeve, eh?”
“Daniel Slane, civilian, Social Security number 456-7329-988,” Dan said.
“Eh?”
“Name, rank, and serial number,” Dan explained. “I’m not answering any other questions.”
“This means penal relocation, Sapiens! Unlawful departure from native locus, willful obstruction of justice—”
“You forgot being born without permission, and unauthorized breathing.”
“Insolence!” the Inspector snarled. “I’m warning you, Sapiens, it’s in my power to make things miserable for you. Now, how did you induce Agent Dzhackoon to bring you here?”
“Well, a good fairy came and gave me three wishes—”
“Take him away,” the Inspector screeched. “Sector 97; an unoccupied locus.”
“Unoccupied? That seems pretty extreme, doesn’t it?” one of the guards commented, wrinkling his heavily ridged brow.
“Unoccupied! If it bothers you, perhaps I can arrange for you to join him there!”
The Neanderthaloid guard yawned widely, showing white teeth. He nodded to Dan, motioned him ahead. “Don’t mind Spoghodo,” he said loudly. “He’s getting old.”
“Sorry about all this,” a voice hissed near Dan’s ear. Dzhackoon—Ghunt, he couldn’t say which—leaned near. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go along to the penal area, but I’ll try to straighten things out later.”
Back in the concourse, Dan’s guard escorted him past cubicles where busy IDMS agents reported to harassed seniors, through an archway into a room lined with narrow gray panels. It looked like a gym locker room.
“Ninety-seven,” the guard said. He went to a wall chart, studied the fine print with the aid of a blunt, hairy finger, then set a dial on the wall. “Here we go,” he said. He pushed a button beside one of the lockers. Its surface clouded and became iridescent.
“Just step through fast. Happy landings.”
“Thanks.” Dan ducked his head and pushed through the opening in a puff of frost.
3
He was standing on a steep hillside, looking down across a sweep of meadows to a plain far below. There were clumps of trees, and a river. In the distance a herd of animals grazed among low shrubbery. No road wound along the valley floor; no boats dotted the river; no village nestled at its bend. The far hills were innocent of trails, fences, houses, the rectangles of plowed acres. There were no contrails in the wide blue sky. No vagrant aroma of exhaust fumes, no mutter of internal combustion, no tin cans, no pop bottles—
In short, no people.
Dan turned. The portal still shimmered faintly in the bright air. He thrust his head through, found himself staring into the locker room. The yellow-clad Neanderthaloid glanced at him.
“Say,” Dan said, ignoring the sensation of a hot wire around his neck, “can’t we talk this thing over?”
“Better get your head out of there before it shuts down,” the guard said cheerfully. “Otherwise—ssskkkttt!”
“What about some reading matter? And look, I get these head colds. Does the temperature drop here at night? Any dangerous animals? What do I eat?”
“Here.” The guard reached into a hopper, took out a handful of pamphlets. “These are supposed to be for guys that are relocated without prejudice. You know, poor slobs that just happened to see too much, but I’ll let you have one. Let’s see . . . Anglic, Anglic . . .” He selected one, handed it to Dan.
“Thanks.”
“Better get clear.”
Dan withdrew his head. He sat down on the grass and looked over the booklet. It was handsomely printed in bright colors. WELCOME TO RELOCATION CENTER NO. 23 said the cover. Below the heading was a photo of a group of sullen-looking creatures of varying heights and degrees of hairiness wearing paper hats. The caption read: Newcomers Are Welcomed Into a Gay Round of Social Activity. Hi, Newcomer! 
Dan opened the book. A photo showed a scene identical to the one before him, except that in place of the meadow, there was a parklike expanse of lawn, dotted with rambling buildings with long porches lined with rockers. There were picnic tables under spreading trees, and beyond, on the river, a yacht basin crowded with canoes and rowboats.
* * *
“Life in a Community Center is Grand Fun!” Dan read. “Activities! Brownies, Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Sea Scouts, Tree Scouts, Cave Scouts, PTA, Shriners, Bear Cult, Rotary, Daughters of the Eastern Star, Mothers of the Big Banana, Dianetics—you name it! A Group for Everyone, and Everyone in a Group!
“Classes in conversational Urdu, Sprotch, Yiddish, Gaelic, Fundu, etc; knot-tying, rug-hooking, leatherwork, Greek Dancing, finger-painting and many, many others!
Little Theatre!
Indian Dance Pageants!
Round Table Discussions!
Town Meetings!
* * *
Dan thumbed on through the pages of emphatic print, stopped at a double-page spread labeled A Few Do’s and Don’ts. 
All of us want to make a GO of relocation. So—let’s remember the Uranium Rule: Don’t Do It! The Other Guy May Be Bigger!
Remember the other fellow’s taboos!
What to you might be merely a wholesome picnic or mating bee may offend others. What some are used to doing in groups, others consider a solitary activity. Most taboos have to do with eating, sex, elimination, or gods; so remember, look before you sit down, lie down, squat down or kneel down!
Ladies With Beards Please Note:
Friend husband may be on the crew clearing clogged drains—so watch that shedding in the lavatories, eh, girls? And you fellas, too! Sure, good grooming pays—but groom each other out in the open, okay?
NOTE: There has been some agitation for “separate but equal” facilities. Now, honestly, folks; is that in the spirit of Center No. 23? Males and females will continue to use the same johns as always. No sexual chauvinism will be tolerated.
A Word to The Kiddies!
No brachiating will be permitted in the Social Center area. After all, a lot of the Dads sleep up there. There are plenty of other trees!
Daintiness Pays!
In these more-active-than-ever days, Personal Effluvium can get away from us almost before we notice. And that hearty scent may not be as satisfying to others as it is to ourselves! So remember, fellas: watch that P.E.! (Lye soap, eau de Cologne, flea powder and other beauty aids available at supply shed!)
* * *
Dan tossed the book aside. There were worse things than solitude. It looked like a pretty nice world—and it was all his—so far.
The entire North American continent, all of South America, Europe, Asia, Africa—the works. He could cut down trees, build a hut, furnish it. There’d be hunting—he could make a bow and arrows—and the skins would do to make clothes. He could start a little farming, fish the streams, sun bathe—all the things he’d never had time to do back home. It wouldn’t be so bad. And eventually Dzhackoon would arrange for his release. It might be just the kind of vacation—
“Ah, Dan, my boy!” a bass voice boomed. Dan jumped and spun around.
Blote’s immense face blinked at him from the portal. There was a large green bruise over one eye. He wagged a finger reproachfully.
“That was a dirty trick, Dan. My former employees were somewhat disgruntled, I’m sorry to say. But we’d best be off now. There’s no time to waste.”
“How did you get here?” Dan demanded.
“I employed a pocket signaler to recall my carrier—and none too soon.” He touched his bruised eye gingerly. “A glance at the instruments showed me that you had visited the park. I followed and observed a IDMS Portal. Being of an adventurous turn, and, of course, concerned for your welfare, I stepped through—”
“Why didn’t they arrest you? I was picked up for operating the carrier.”
“They had some such notion. A whiff of stun gas served to discourage them. Now let’s hurry along before the management revives.”
“Wait a minute, Blote. I’m not sure I want to be rescued by you—in spite of your concern for my welfare.”
“Rubbish, Dan! Come along.” Blote looked around. “Frightful place! No population! No commerce! No deals!”
“It has its compensations; I think I’ll stay. You run along.”
“Abandon a colleague? Never!”
“If you’re still expecting me to deliver a time machine, you’re out of luck. I don’t have one.”
“No? Ah, well, in a way I’m relieved. Such a device would upset accepted hyper-physical theory. Now, Dan, you mustn’t imagine I harbor ulterior motives—but I believe our association will yet prove fruitful.”
Dan rubbed a finger across his lower lip thoughtfully. “Look, Blote, you need my help. Maybe you can help me at the same time. If I come along, I want it understood that we work together. I have an idea—”
“But of course, Dan! Now shake a leg!”
Dan sighed and stepped through the portal. The yellow-clad guard lay on the floor, snoring. Blote led the way back into the great hall. IDMS officials were scattered across the floor, slumped over desks, or lying limp in chairs. Blote stopped before one of a row of shimmering portals.
“After you, Dan.”
“Are you sure this is the right one?”
“Quite.”
Dan stepped through in the now familiar chill and found himself back in the park. A small dog sniffing at the carrier caught sight of Blote, lowered his leg and fled.
“I want to pay Mr. Snithian a visit,” Dan said, climbing into a seat.
“My idea exactly,” Blote agreed, lowering his bulk into place.
“Don’t get the idea I’m going to help you steal anything.”
“Dan! A most unkind remark. I merely wish to look into certain matters.”
“Just so you don’t start looking into the safe.”
Blote tsk!ed, moved a lever. The carrier climbed over a row of blue trees and headed west.
4
Blote brought the carrier in high over the Snithian Estate, dropped lower and descended gently through the roof. The pale, spectral servants moving about their duties in the upper hall failed to notice the wraithlike cage passing soundlessly among them.
In the dining room, Dan caught sight of the girl—Snithian’s daughter, perhaps—arranging shadowy flowers on a sideboard.
“Let me take it,” Dan whispered. Blote nodded. Dan steered for the kitchen, guided the carrier to the spot on which he had first emerged from the vault, then edged down through the floor. He brought the carrier to rest and neutralized all switches in a shower of sparks and blue light.
The vault door stood open. There were pictures stacked on the bunk now, against the wall, on the floor. Dan stepped from the carrier, went to the nearest heap of paintings. They had been dumped hastily, it seemed. They weren’t even wrapped. He examined the topmost canvas, still in a heavy frame; as though, he reflected, it had just been removed from a gallery wall—
“Let’s look around for Snithian,” Dan said. “I want to talk to him.”
“I suggest we investigate the upper floors, Dan. Doubtless his personal pad is there.”
“You use the carrier; I’ll go up and look the house over.”
“As you wish, Dan.” Blote and the carrier flickered and faded from view.
Dan stooped, picked up the pistol he had dropped half an hour earlier in the scuffle with Fiorello and stepped out into the hall. All was silent. He climbed stairs, looked into rooms. The house seemed deserted. On the third floor he went along a corridor, checking each room. The last room on the west side was fitted as a study. There was a stack of paintings on a table near the door. Dan went to them, examined the top one.
It looked familiar. Wasn’t it one that Look said was in the Art Institute at Chicago?
There was a creak as of an unoiled hinge. Dan spun around. A door stood open at the far side of the room—a connecting door to a bedroom, probably.
“Keep well away from the carrier, Mr. Slane,” a high, thin voice said from the shadows. The tall, cloaked figure of Clyde W. Snithian stepped into view, a needle-barreled pistol in his hand.
“I thought you’d be back,” he piped. “It makes my problem much simpler. If you hadn’t appeared soon, it would have been necessary for me to shift the scene of my operations. That would have been a nuisance.”
* * *
Dan eyed the gun. “There are a lot more paintings downstairs than there were when I left,” he said. “I don’t know much about art, but I recognize a few of them.”
“Copies,” Snithian snapped.
“This is no copy,” Dan tapped the top painting on the stack. “It’s an original. You can feel the brushwork.”
“Not prints, of course. Copies,” Snithian whinnied. “Exact copies.”
“These paintings are stolen, Mr. Snithian. Why would a wealthy man like you take to stealing art?”
“I’m not here to answer questions, Mr. Slane!” The weapon in Snithian’s hand buzzed. A wave of pain swept over Dan. Snithian cackled, lowering the gun. “You’ll soon learn better manners.”
Dan’s hand went to his pocket, came out holding the automatic. He aimed it at Snithian’s face. The industrialist froze, eyes on Dan’s gun.
“Drop the gun,” Dan snapped. Snithian’s weapon clattered to the floor. “Now let’s go and find Kelly,” Dan ordered.
“Wait!” Snithian shrilled. “I can make you a rich man, Slane.”
“Not by stealing paintings.”
“You don’t understand. This is more than petty larceny!!”
“That’s right. It’s grand larceny. These pictures are worth millions.”
“I can show you things that will completely change your attitude. Actually, I’ve acted throughout in the best interests of humanity!”
Dan gestured with the gun. “Don’t plan anything clever. I’m not used to guns. This thing will go off at the least excuse, and then I’d have a murder to explain.”
“That would be an inexcusable blunder on your part!” Snithian keened. “I’m a very important figure, Slane.” He crossed the deep-pile rug to a glass-doored cabinet. “This,” he said, taking out a flat black box, “contains a fortune in precious stones.” He lifted the lid. Dan stepped closer. A row of brilliant red gems nestled in a bed of cotton.
“Rubies?”
“Flawless—and perfectly matched.” Snithian whinnied. “Perfectly matched. Worth a fortune. They’re yours, if you cooperate.”
“You said you were going to change my attitude. Better get started.”
* * *
“Listen to me, Slane. I’m not operating independently. I’m employed by the Ivroy, whose power is incalculable. My assignment had been to rescue from destruction irreplaceable works of art fated to be consumed in atomic fire.”
“What do you mean—fated?”
“The Ivroy knows these things. These paintings—all your art—are unique in the Galaxy. Others admire but they cannot emulate. In the cosmos of the far future, the few surviving treasures of your dawn art will be valued beyond all other wealth. They alone will give a renewed glimpse of the universe as it appeared to the eyes of your strange race in its glory.”
“My strange race?”
Snithian drew himself up. “I am not of your race.” He threw his cloak aside and straightened.
Dan gaped as Snithian’s body unfolded, rising up, long, three-jointed arms flexing, stretching out. The bald head ducked now under the beamed ceiling. Snithian chuckled shrilly.
“What about that inflexible attitude of yours, now, Mister Slane?” he piped. “Have I made my point?”
“Yes, but—” Dan squeaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “But I’ve still got the gun.”
“Oh, that.” An eight-foot arm snaked out, flicked the gun aside. “I’ve only temporized with you because you can be useful to me, Mister Slane. I dislike running about, and I therefore employ locals to do my running for me. Accept my offer of employment, and you’ll be richly rewarded.”
“Why me?”
“You already know of my presence here. If I can enlist your loyalty, there will be no need to dispose of you, with the attendant annoyance from police, relatives and busybodies. I’d like you to act as my agent in the collection of the works.”
“Nuts to you!” Dan said. “I’m not helping any bunch of skinheads commit robbery.”
“This is for the Ivroy, you fool!” Snithian said. “The mightiest power in the cosmos!”
“This Ivroy doesn’t sound so hot to me—robbing art galleries—”
“To be adult is to be disillusioned. Only realities count. But no matter. The question remains: Will you serve me loyally?”
“Hell, no!” Dan snapped.
“Too bad. I see you mean what you say. It’s to be expected, I suppose. Even an infant fire-cat has fangs.”
“You’re damn right I mean it. How did you get Percy and Fiorello on your payroll? I’m surprised even a couple of bums would go to work for a scavenger like you.”
“I suppose you refer to the precious pair recruited by Blote. That was a mistake, I fear. It seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. Tell me, how did you overcome the Vegan? They’re a very capable race, generally speaking.”
“You and he work together, eh?” Dan said. “That makes things a little clearer. This is the collection station and Blote is the fence.”
“Enough of your conjectures. You leave me no choice but to dispose of you. It’s a nuisance, but it can’t be helped. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to accompany me down to the vault.”
Dan eyed the door; if he were going to make a break, now was the time—
The whine of the carrier sounded. The ghostly cage glided through the wall and settled gently between Dan and Snithian. The glow died.
Blote waved cheerfully to Dan as he eased his grotesque bulk from the seat.
“Good day to you, Snithian,” Blote boomed. “I see you’ve met Dan. An enterprising fellow.”
“What brings you here, Gom Blote?” Snithian shrilled. “I thought you’d be well on your way to Vorplisch by now.”
“I was tempted, Snithian. But I don’t spook easy. There is the matter of some unfinished business.”
“Excellent!” Snithian exclaimed. “I’ll have another consignment ready for you by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! How is it possible, with Percy and Fiorello lodged in the hoosegow?” Blote looked around; his eye fell on the stacked paintings. He moved across to them, lifted one, glanced at the next, then shuffled rapidly through the stack. He turned.
“What duplicity is this, Snithian?” he rumbled. “All identical! Our agreement called for limited editions, not mass production! My principals will be furious! My reputation—”
“Shrivel your reputation!” Snithian keened. “I have more serious problems at the moment! My entire position’s been compromised. I’m faced with the necessity of disposing of this blundering fool!”
“Dan? Why, I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Snithian.” Blote moved to the carrier, dumped an armful of duplicate paintings in the cage. “Evidence,” he said. “The Confederation has methods for dealing with sharp practice. Come, Dan, if you’re ready . . .”
“You dare to cross me?” Snithian hissed. “I, who act for the Ivroy?”
Blote motioned to the carrier. “Get in, Dan. We’ll be going now.” He rolled both eyes to bear on Snithian. “And I’ll deal with you later,” he rumbled. “No one pulls a fast one on Gom Blote, Trader Fourth Class—or on the Vegan Federation.”
Snithian moved suddenly, flicking out a spidery arm to seize the weapon he had dropped, aim and trigger. Dan, in a wash of pain, felt his knees fold. He fell slackly to the floor. Beside him, Blote sagged, his tentacles limp.
“I credited you with more intelligence,” Snithian cackled. “Now I have an extra ton of protoplasm to dispose of. The carrier will be useful in that connection.”
5
Dan felt a familiar chill in the air. A Portal appeared. In a puff of icy mist, a tall figure stepped through.
Gone was the tight uniform. In its place, the lanky Australopithecine wore skin-tight blue jeans and a loose sweatshirt. An oversized beret clung to the small round head. Immense dark glasses covered the yellowish eyes, and sandals flapped on the bare, long-toed feet. Dzhackoon waved a long cigarette holder at the group.
“Ah, a stroke of luck! How nice to find you standing by. I had expected to have to conduct an intensive search within the locus. Thus the native dress. However—” Dzhackoon’s eyes fell on Snithian standing stiffly by, the gun out of sight.
“You’re of a race unfamiliar to me,” he said. “Still, I assume you’re aware of the Interdict on all Anthropoid-populated loci?”
“And who might you be?” Snithian inquired loftily.
“I’m a Field Agent of the Interdimensional Monitor Service.”
“Ah, yes. Well, your Interdict means nothing to me. I’m operating directly under Ivroy auspices.” Snithian touched a glittering pin on his drab cloak.
Dzhackoon sighed. “There goes the old arrest record.”
“He’s a crook!” Dan cut in. “He’s been robbing art galleries!”
“Keep calm, Dan,” Blote murmured. “No need to be overly explicit.”
The Agent turned to look the Trader over.
“Vegan, aren’t you? I imagine you’re the fellow I’ve been chasing.”
“Who, me?” the bass voice rumbled. “Look, officer, I’m a home-loving family man, just passing through. As a matter of fact—”
The uniformed creature nodded toward the paintings in the carrier. “Gathered a few souvenirs, I see.”
“For the wives and kiddie. Just a little something to brighten up the hive.”
“The penalty for exploitation of a sub-cultural Anthropoid-occupied body is stasis for a period not to exceed one reproductive cycle. If I recall my Vegan biology, that’s quite a stretch.”
“Why, officer! Surely you’re not putting the arm on a respectable, law-abiding being like me? Why, I lost a tentacle fighting in defense of peace—” As he talked, Blote moved toward the carrier.
“—your name, my dear fellow,” he went on. “I’ll mention it to the Commissioner, a very close friend of mine.” Abruptly the Vegan reached for a lever—
The long arms in the tight white jacket reached to haul him back effortlessly. “That was unwise, sir. Now I’ll be forced to recommend subliminal reorientation during stasis.” He clamped stout handcuffs on Blote’s broad wrists.
“You Vegans,” he said, dusting his hands briskly. “Will you never learn?”
“Now, officer,” Blote said, “you’re acting hastily. Actually, I’m working in the interest of this little world, as my associate Dan will gladly confirm. I have information which will be of considerable interest to you. Snithian has stated that he is in the employ of the Ivroy—”
“If the Ivroy’s so powerful, why was it necessary to hire Snithian to steal pictures?” Dan interrupted.
“Perish the thought, Dan. Snithian’s assignment was merely to duplicate works of art and transmit them to the Ivroy.”
“Here,” Snithian cut in. “Restrain that obscene mouth!”
Dzhackoon raised a hand. “Kindly remain silent, sir. Permit my prisoners their little chat.”
“You may release them to my custody,” Snithian snapped.
Dzhackoon shook his head. “Hardly, sir. A most improper suggestion—even from an agent of the Ivroy.” He nodded at Dan. “You may continue.”
“How do you duplicate works of art?” Dan demanded.
“With a matter duplicator. But, as I was saying, Snithian saw an opportunity to make extra profits by retaining the works for repeated duplications and sale to other customers—such as myself.”
“You mean there are other—customers—around?”
“I have dozens of competitors, Dan, all busy exporting your artifacts. You are an industrious and talented race, you know.”
“What do they buy?”
“A little of everything, Dan. It’s had an influence on your designs already, I’m sorry to say. The work is losing its native purity.”
Dan nodded. “I have had the feeling some of this modern furniture was designed for Martians.”
“Ganymedans, mostly. The Martians are graphic arts fans, while your automobiles are designed for the Plutonian trade. They have a baroque sense of humor.”
“What will the Ivroy do when he finds out Snithian’s been double-crossing him?”
“He’ll think of something, I daresay. I blame myself for his defection, in a way. You see, it was my carrier which made it possible for Snithian to carry out his thefts. Originally, he would simply enter a gallery, inconspicuously scan a picture, return home and process the recording through the duplicator. The carrier gave him the idea of removing works en masse, duplicating them and returning them the next day. Alas, I agreed to join forces with him. He grew greedy. He retained the paintings here and proceeded to produce vast numbers of copies—which he doubtless sold to my competitors, the crook!”
Dzhackoon had whipped out a notebook and was jotting rapidly.
“Now, let’s have those names and addresses,” he said. “This will be the biggest round-up in IDMS history.”
“And the pinch will be yours, dear sir,” Blote said. “I foresee early promotion for you.” He held out his shackled wrists. “Would you mind?”
“Well . . .” Dzhackoon hesitated, but unlocked the cuffs. “I think I’m on firm ground. Just don’t mention it to Inspector Spoghodo.”
“You can’t do that!” Snithian snapped. “These persons are dangerous!”
“That is my decision. Now—”
Snithian brought out the pistol with a sudden movement. “I’ll brook no interference from meddlers—”
* * *
There was a sound from the door. All heads turned. The girl Dan had seen in the house stood in the doorway, glancing calmly from Snithian to Blote to Dzhackoon. When her eyes met Dan’s she smiled. Dan thought he had never seen such a beautiful face—and the figure matched.
“Get out, you fool!” Snithian snapped. “No; come inside, and shut the door.”
“Leave the girl out of this, Snithian,” Dan croaked.
“Now I’ll have to destroy all of you,” Snithian keened. “You first of all, ugly native!” He aimed the gun at Dan.
“Put the gun down, Mr. Snithian,” the girl said in a warm, melodious voice. She seemed completely unworried by the grotesque aliens, Dan noted abstractedly.
Snithian swiveled on her. “You dare—!”
“Oh, yes, I dare, Snithian.” Her voice had a firm ring now.
Snithian stared at her. “Who . . . are you . . . ?”
“I am the Ivroy.”
Snithian wilted. The gun fell to the floor. His fantastically tall figure drooped, his face suddenly gray.
“Return to your home, Snithian,” the girl said sadly. “I will deal with you later.”
“But . . . but . . .” His voice was a thin squeak.
“Did you think you could conceal your betrayal from the Ivroy?” she said softly.
Snithian turned and blundered from the room, ducking under the low door. The Ivroy turned to Dzhackoon.
“You and your Service are to be commended,” she said. “I leave the apprehension of the culprits to you.” She nodded at Blote. “I will rely on you to assist in the task—and to limit your operations thereafter to non-interdicted areas.”
“But of course, your worship. You have my word as a Vegan. Do visit me on Vorplisch some day. I’d love the wives and kiddie to meet you.” He blinked rapidly. “So long, Dan. It’s been crazy cool.”
Dzhackoon and Blote stepped through the Portal. It shimmered and winked out. The Ivroy faced Dan. He swallowed hard, watching the play of light in the shoulder-length hair, golden, fine as spun glass . . . 
“Your name is Dan?” Her musical voice interrupted his survey.
“Dan Slane,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Are you really the Ivroy?”
“I am of the Ivroy, who are many and one.”
“But you look like—just a beautiful girl.”
* * *
The Ivroy smiled. Her teeth were as even as matched pearls, Dan thought, and as white as—
“I am a girl, Dan. We are cousins, you and I—separated by the long mystery of time.”
“Blote—and Dzhackoon and Snithian, too—seemed to think the Ivroy ran the Universe. But—”
The Ivroy put her hand on Dan’s. It was as soft as a flower petal.
“Don’t trouble yourself over this just now, Dan. Would you like to become my agent? I need a trustworthy friend to help me in my work here.”
“Doing what?” Dan heard himself say.
“Watching over the race which will one day become the Ivroy.”
“I don’t understand all this—but I’m willing to try.”
“There will be much to learn, Dan. The full use of the mind, control of aging and disease . . . Our work will require many centuries.”
“Centuries? But—”
“I’ll teach you, Dan.”
“It sounds great,” Dan said. “Too good to be true. But how do you know I’m the man for the job? Don’t I have to take some kind of test?”
She looked up at him, smiling, her lips slightly parted. On impulse, Dan put a hand under her chin, drew her face close and kissed her on the mouth . . . 
A full minute later, the Ivroy, nestled in Dan’s arms, looked up at him again.
“You passed the test,” she said.
 The End