with friends like these …

It is not necessarily true that the ideal friend is some strong entity who will fight effectively against your common enemy. That needs qualifications!

ALAN DEAN FOSTER

Illustrated by Leo Summers

As she commenced her first approach to the Go-type sun, the light cruiser Tpin’s velocity began to decrease from the impossible to the merely incredible. Her multidrive engines put forth the barely audible whine that signified slowdown, and she once more assumed a real mass that the normal universe could and would notice.

Visual observation at the organic level became possible as the great ship cut the orbit of the last gas giant. Those of the vessel’s complement took the never dull opportunity to rush the ports for a glimpse of a new solar system; those whose functions did not include the actual maneuvering of the craft. Curiosity was a fairly universal characteristic among space-going races. The crew of the Tpin, although a grim lot, were no exception.

Within the protected confines of the fore control room of the half-kilometer-long bubble of metal and plastic, Communicator First Phrnnx shifted his vestigial wings and asked Commander First Rappan for the millionth time what-the-hell-equivalent they hoped to find.

“Phrnnx,” Rappan sighed, “if you haven’t been sufficiently enlightened as to the content of the legends by now, I fail to see how I can aid you. Instead of repeating yourself for the sake of hearing yourself oralize, I suggest you bend a membrane to your detection apparatus and see if you can pick up any traces of that murfled Yop battleship!”

Phrnnx riffled his eyelids in a manner indicative of mild denial, with two degrees of respectful impatience. “We lost those inept yipdips five parsecs ago, sir. I am fully capable of performing my duties without any well-intentioned suggestions from the bureaucracy. Do I tell you how to fly the ship?”

“A task,” began Rappan heatedly, “so far beyond your level of comprehension that…!”

“Gentlebeings, gentlebeings, please!” said the Professor. Subordinate and commander alike quieted.

The “Professor”—his real title was unpronounceable to most of the crew—was both the guiding force and the real reason behind the whole insane expedition. It was he who rediscovered the secret of breaking the Terran Shield. He came from a modest three-system cluster nearly halfway to the Rim—far removed from their own worlds. Due to the distance from thing’s and to their own quiet, retiring nature, his folk took little part in the perpetual cataclysm of the Federation-Yop wars. What small—if important—role they did deign to play in the conflict was not determined by choice. Rather, it was engendered by the Yop policy of regarding all those peoples, who were not allies of the Yop, as mortal enemies of the Yop. There was room in neither Yop culture, nor Yop language, for the concept of a “neutral.” Yop temperament was such that their total complement of allies came to a grand total of zero. The members of the Federation had matured beyond prejudice, but it was admitted in most quarters that the Yops were not nice people. Possibly some of this attitude stemmed from the Yop habit of eating everything organic that moved, without regard for such minor inconveniences as, say, the intelligence of the diner, or his desire to be not-eaten.

Against them was allied the total remaining strength of the organized galaxy; some two hundred and twelve federated races.

However—due to diet, perhaps—there were a lot of Yops.

The avowed purpose of the expedition was to make that latter total two hundred and thirteen.

The Professor continued in a less stern tone. “If you must fight among yourselves, kindly do so at a civilized level. At least out of deference to me. I am an old being, and I possess a perhaps unreasonable allergy to loud and raucous noises.”

The others in the room immediately lowered their voices in respect. In the Federation age was a revered commodity, to be conserved as such. And there was the Professor’s age. His antennae drooped noticeably, his chiton was growing more and more translucent, losing its healthy purple iridescence, and his back plates were exfoliating in thin, shallow flakes. That he had held up as well as he had on this trip, with its sometimes strenuous dodging of Yop warships, was in itself remarkable. He seemed to grow stronger as they neared their objective, and now his eyes, at least, glowed with a semblance of vitality.

All eyes were trained on the great mottled sphere turning slowly and majestically below them.

“Planet Three,” intoned Navigator First. “Primary colors-blue, white, brown, green. Atmosphere…” and he dropped off to a low mumbling. At last, “It checks, sir.”

“And the gold overlay?” asked Communicator Phrnnx, for being among the youngest of the crew, his curiosity quotient was naturally among the highest.

“That, gentlebeings, means that the Shield is still up. After all these years I’d thought perhaps…” The Professor made what passed for a shrug among his people. He turned from the port to the others.

“As you all recall, I hope, the phenomenon below us, the Shield, is the direct result of the Old Empire-Terran Wars of ages ago. At that time, the inhabitants of this planet first broke free of their own system and started to come out to the stars.

“They found there a multiracial empire nominally ruled by a race known to us as the Veen. The Terrans were invited to join the empire, accruing the same rights and privileges as had historically been granted to all new space-going races for thousands and thousands of years.”

“And they refused,” put in Rappan.

“Yes, they refused. It became quickly apparent to the Veen that the Terrans intended to carve out a little pocket empire of their own in another sector of space. Since Terra was so far away from the center of things, so to speak, the Veen decided that for the sake of peace—and the Veen—this could not be allowed to take place. Accordingly, there was a war, or rather, a series of wars. These lasted for centuries, despite the overwhelming numerical superiority of the Veen. Gradually, the Terrans were pushed back to their own home world. A standoff ensued, as the Veen and their allies were unable to break the ultimate defenses of the Terrans.

“Then a great scientist of one of the allied races of the Veen discovered, quite by accident, the quasi-mathematical principle behind the Shield. The nature of the Shield forbade its use on anything smaller than a good-sized moon. It was thus useless for such obvious military applications as, for example, a ship defensive screen. Then someone got the bright idea of enveloping the entire planet of Terra in one huge Shield, making it into an impenetrable cage. At worst, it would provide the Empire with a breathing spell in which to marshal its sorely battered forces. At best it would restrict the Terrans to their own fortress until such time as the Veen saw fit to let them out. The chances of the Terrans accidentally stumbling onto the same principle was considered to be slight. As you can now see, this indeed has been the case.” The Professor sighed again, a high, whistling sound.

“However, the wars with Terra had also depleted the resources of the Veen tremendously. Those races which had been allied to them only by virtue of the Veen’s superior knowledge and strength saw an irresistible opportunity to supplant the Veen in the hierarchy of Empire. The result? The Time of Conflicts, which resulted in the breakdown of the Empire, the final elimination of the once-proud Veen, and after considerable bickering and fighting, the formation of our present Federation—in a much more primitive form, of course.”

He returned his gaze once again to the blue-white planet circling below, its land areas blurred in the shifting golden haze which was the by-product of the Shield. They had already locked in to the Shield station on the planet’s only satellite. “Unfortunately, the Ban still remains.”

Rappan broke away from his console for a moment. “Look, we’ve been through all that. The supposed rule states that the penalty for breaking the Shield either partially, or completely, is death, for all those concerned. But that murfled law is millennia old!”

“And still on the books,” retorted old Alo, the Commander Second.

“I know, I know!” said Rappan, adjusting a meter. “Which is one reason why every being on this ship is a volunteer. And if I thought we had a choice I’d never have commandeered the Tpin for this trip. But you know as well as I, Alo, we have no choice. We’ve been fighting the Yops now for nearly three hundred sestes, and been losing ever since we started. Oh, I know how it looks, but the signs are all there. One of these days we’ll turn around for the customary reinforcements and pifft, they won’t be there! That’s why it’s imperative we find new allies … even if we have to try Terra. When I was a cub, my den parents would scare us away from the Grininl-fruit groves by saying: ‘The Terrans will get you if you don’t watch out!’ “

” ‘Ginst the Edict,” murmured Alo, not to be put off.

Navigator First Zinin broke in, in the deep bass-rumbling of this heavy-planet civilization. “There will be no Edicts, old one, if the Yops crush the Federation. We must take some risks. If the Terrans are willing to aid us—and are still capable of it—I do believe that GalCen will agree to some slight modification of the rules. And, if these creatures have fallen back to the point where they can be of no help to us, then they will not be a threat to us either. GalCen will not be concerned.”

“And if by chance mebbe they should be a bit angry at us and decide to renew an ancient grudge?” put in the ever-pessimistic Alo.

“Then the inevitable,” put in Zinin, “will only be hastened.”

Philosophizing was of needs broken off. The Tpin was entering the Shield.

Green, thought Phrnnx. It is the greenest nontropical planet I have ever seen.

He was standing by the end of the ramp which led out from the belly of the cruiser. The rest of the First Contact party was nearby. They had landed near a great mountain range, in a lush section of foothills and gently rolling green. Tall growths of brown and emerald dominated two sides of their view. In front of them stretched low hillocks covered with what was obviously cultivated vegetation. Behind the ship, great silver-gray mountains thrust white-haloed crowns into the sky. Had the Tpin been an air vessel, the updrafts sweeping up the sides of those crags would have given them trouble. As it was, they merely added another touch to the records the meteorologists were assembling.

Somewhere in the tall growths—which they later learned were called trees—a brook of liquid H_2O made gurgling sounds. Overhead, orinthorphs circled lazily in the not unpleasant heat of morning. Phrnnx was meditating on how drastically the Shield might have affected the climate of this world when he became aware of Alo and Zinin strolling up behind him.

“A peaceful world, certainly,” said Zinin. “Rather light on the oxygen and argon, and all that nitrogen gives it a bit of odor, but on the whole a most pleasant ball of dirt.”

“Humph! From one who burns almost as much fuel as the ship I wouldn’t have expected compliments,” grumbled Alo. “Still, I’ll grant you, ‘tis a quiet locale we’ve chosen to search out allies. I wonder if such a world did indeed spawn such a warlike race, or were they perhaps immigrants from elsewhere?”

“They weren’t, and it didn’t,” interposed the Professor. He had relinquished the high place to the commander and his military advisers, as then1 conversation had bored him.

“Mind explaining that a mite, Professor?” asked Alo.

The Professor bent suddenly and dug gently in the soft earth with a claw. He came up with a small wiggling thing. This he proceeded to pop into his mouth and chew with vigor.

“Hmmm. A bit bitter, but intriguing. I believe there is at least one basis for trade here.”

“Be intriguing if it poisons you,” said Phrnnx with some relish.

The Professor moved his antennae in a gesture indicative of negativity, with one degree of mild reproach. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint you, youngster, but Bio has already pronounced most of the organics on this planet nontoxic. Watch out for the vegetation, though. Full of acids and things. As to your question, Alo. When the Terrans …”

“Speaking of Terrans,” put hi Zinin, “I’d like to see one of these mythical creatures. I don’t recall seeing any cities on our descent.”

“Neither did Survey. Oh, don’t look so smug. Navigator. Survey reports their presence—Terrans, not cities—but they estimate no more than a hundred million of them on the planet. The only signs of any really large clusterings are vague outlines that could be the sites of ancient ruins. Might have expected something of the sort. People change in a few Ipas, you know.”

“My question,” prompted Alo once more.

“Well, when the Terrans went out into extrasolar space and began setting up their own empire, the Veen decided at first to leave them alone. Not only was there no precedent for a space-faring race not accepting citizenship in the empire, but the Terrans weren’t bothering anyone. They were also willing to sign all kinds of trade agreements and such. Anything of a nonrestrictive and nonmilitary nature.”

“Why’d the Veen change their minds, then?” asked the now interested Phrnnx.

“Some bright lad in the Veen government made a few computer readings, extrapolating from what was known of Terran scientific developments, rate of expansion, galactic acclimatization, and so on.”

“And the result?”

“According to the machines—and the Veen had good ones—in only one hundred Ipas the Veen would have to start becoming acclimatized to Terra.”

Zinin was the only one of the three listeners who expressed his reaction audibly. Surprisingly, it was by means of a long, drawn-out whistle.

“Yes, that’s about how the Veen took it. So they decided to cut the Terrans down to where they would no longer be even an indirect threat.”

“Seems they did,” said Alo, gazing up at the gold-flecked Shield sky.

The Professor spared a glance the same way. “Yes, it would seem so.” He stared off in the direction of the commander’s post where a force-lift was depositing a ground car. “But it’s enlightening to keep one other little thing in mind.”

“Which is?” said Alo belligerently.

“There are no more Veen.”

Survey had detected what appeared to be a small dip between the foothills. It was, therefore, decided that a party consisting of Commander Rappan, Navigator Zinin, Communicator Phrnnx, a philologist, a xenologist, and, of course, the Professor would take a ground car down to the structure and attempt a First Contact. Despite vigorous protests, Commander Second Alo was restricted to acting captain.

“Give the crew land leave,” instructed Rappan. “Shifts of the usual six. Maintain a semialert guard at all times until further-notice. I know this place looks about as dangerous as a mufti-bug after stuffing, but I intend to take no chances. At first sign of hostilities, raise ship and get out. That is a first-degree order. You have others on board who can operate the remote Shield equipment. In the event that all is not what it seems, I don’t want to leave these creatures a way out.”

“Noted and integrated, sir,” replied Alo stiffly. And then in a lower voice, “Watch yourself, sir. This place smells funny to me, and I am not referring to the nitro in the atmosphere, either!”

Rappan essayed a third-level smile, with two degrees of mild affection, nonsexual. “You’ve said that now on … let’s see, thirty-nine planet-falls to date. But rest assured I will take no chances. We know too little of this place, the Professor included.”

“Anyway, legends are notoriously nonfactual.”

The little car hummed softly to itself as it buzzed over the dark soil. A cleared path is unmistakable on any planet, and this one ran straight as an Opsith through the fields of low, irrigated plants. Phrnnx had wondered idly what they were, and if they would appeal to his palate. The Professor had replied by reminding him of Bio’s warning about plant acids and added that stealing the native’s food would be a poor way to open friendly negotiations. Phrnnx discarded the notion. Besides, the vegetation of this area appeared to be disgustingly heavy in cellulose content—doubtless bland in flavor, if any. And there had been no sign of domesticated food animals. Was it possible these people existed solely on wood fibers? It was a discouraging thought.

He had no chance to elaborate on it, for as the car rounded the turn they had come to, they were confronted by the sight of their first native. The car slowed and settled to the earth with a faint sigh.

In the nearby field a shortish biped was walking smoothly behind a large brown quadruped. Together they were engaged in driving a wedge of some bright metal through the soft soil, turning it over on itself in big loamy chunks. The name of this particular biped happened to be Jones, Alexis. The name of the quadruped was Dobbin, period.

The two natives apparently caught sight of the visitors. Both paused in their work to stare solemnly at the outlandish collection of aliens in the groundcar. The aliens, pop-eyed, stared back. The biped wore some kind of animal-skin shirt. This was partly hidden by some form of artificial fabric coveralls and boots. Seeing this, it occurred to Phrnnx that they must have some kind of manufacturing facilities somewhere. The quadruped wore only a harness, again artificial, which was attached to the metal wedge. It soon grew bored in its survey of the aliens and dropped its head to crop patiently at the few sparse bits of grass that had so far managed to avoid the plow.

Commander Rappan’s instinctive reaction to this first move was to reach for his pistol. He was momentarily abashed to find it missing from its customary place in his shell. The Professor had insisted that contact was to be open and trusting from the first. Consequently, all weapons had been left back on the ship. The Professor had also looked longingly at the bristling gunports of the Tpin, but the commander and his advisers had adamantly refused to leave the ship unprotected. The Professor had patiently explained that if the Terrans were going to be any real help against the Yops, then the guns of the Tpin would hardly be effective against them. And if they weren’t going to be, then the guns weren’t needed. As might be expected, this argument went far over the heads of the soldiers.

But Rappan still felt naked, somehow.

The native made no threatening gestures. In fact, he made no gestures at all, but instead continued to stare placidly at the petrified load of explorers. After several minutes of this, Rappan decided it was time things got moving. Besides, the native’s unbroken stare was beginning to make him feel a bit fidgety, not to mention silly.

“You, philologist! Can you talk to that thing?” Commander Rappan asked.

The philologist, a meter-tall being from a Ko star near Cen-Cluster, essayed a nervous reply. “It remains to be seen, sir. We have no records of their speech patterns, and there were few broadcasts to monitor the computers to as we descended.” His voice was faintly disapproving. “I am not even sure which of the two creatures is the dominant form.”

“The large one in the lead, certainly,” said the xenologist.

“I believe the Terrans are described in the legends, when not as hundred-foomp-high fire-breathing monsters, as bipeds,” said the Professor quietly. “Although it also has four limbs, two are obviously manipulative. I suggest that one.”

“I shall have to work from next to nothing,” protested the philologist.

“I don’t care if you do it holding your breath, but get out there and do something! I feel like an idiot sitting here.”

“Yes, sir,”

“Yes, sir—what?”

The philologist decided that this would be an auspicious tune to essay a First Contact. He hurried out the door. At least, he thought, the native couldn’t be much more difficult to communicate with than the commander. He wished fervently that he was back in the community nest.

Trailing the philologist, the party made its way to the two natives.

“Uh,” began the philologist, straining over the guttural syllables, “we come in peace, Terran. Friends. Buddies. Comrades. Blut-bruderhood. We good-guys. You comprende?”

“Me, Tarzan; you Jane,” said the Terran.

The philologist turned worriedly to Rappan. “I’m afraid I can’t place his answer, sir. The reference is obscure. Shall I try again?”

“Skip it,” said the Terran, in fluent, if archaic Galactico. “Ancient humorism. Surprising how old jokes stand time better than most monuments.” He seemed to sigh a little.

“You speak!” blurted the xenologist.

“An unfortunate malady of which I seem incapable of breaking myself. Sic transit gloryoski. Up the Veen. But come on down to the house. Maria’s making some ice cream—I hope you like chocolate—you’re welcome to try it, although I don’t think we’d have enough for King Kong, here.”

Zinin decided to regard this unfamiliar aphorism as a neutral compliment. There wasn’t much else he could do. He tried to hunch his three-meter bulk lower, gave it up when he realized that he didn’t know whether the promised ice cream was a food, a paint, or a mild corrosive for cleaning out reluctant teeth.

“We appreciate your hospitality, sir. We’ve come to discuss a very urgent matter with your superiors. It involves perhaps more than you can comprehend.” Here the Professor peered hard at the native, who looked back at him with placid assurance. “Although I have a hunch you might have some idea what I mean.”

If the Terran noticed a change in the Professor’s glance he gave no sign, but instead smiled apologetically.

“Ice cream first.”

The Terran’s residence, when seen from close up, was a utilitarian yet not unbeautiful structure. It appeared to be made mostly from native woods with a hint of metal only here and there. A small quadruped was lying on its entrance step. It raised its head to gaze mournfully at the arrivals, with wise eyes, before returning it to its former position on its forepaws. Had the Professor known anything about the history of Terran canines, this quiet greeting would have been interesting indeed.

The building proved to admit more light and air than had seemed probable from the outside. Furniture appeared to be mostly of the handmade variety, with here and there an occasional hint of something machine-turned. Bright colors predominated but did not clash, not that the Terran color scheme meant anything to the visitors anyway. At least the place was big enough to hold all.

The Jones’s mate was a sprightly little dark woman of indeterminate age, much like her husband. A single male sibling by the name of Flip stared solemnly from a window seat at the grouping of guests assembled in his parents’ den. He had a twig, or stick, which he would sometimes tap on the floor.

“Now, Alex …” said the woman, fussing with a large wooden ice-cream maker, “you didn’t tell me we were having visitors. How am I supposed to prepare for these things if you don’t tell me about them in advance?”

The native smiled. “Sorry, hon, but these, um, gentlemen, just sort of dropped in on us. I promised them some ice cream.”

“I hope they like chocolate,” she said.

When they had been seated around the room, each being curling up according to the style fitting to its own physiognomy, Commander Rappan decided to break into the cheerful dialogue and get down to business. Fraternizing with the natives was all very well and good. No doubt the Xeno Department would approve. However, he was not so sure that his colleagues, hard-pressed to hold oft” the Yop waves, would see things hi the same way.

Unfortunately, this thing called ice cream got quite a grip on one’s attention.

Zinin was one of the few present to whom the concoction had pfoved unappealing. He leaned over and whispered to Phrnnx, “These are the deadly fighters we are supposed to enlist? Conquerors of the Veen fleets? Stuff of horror tales? Why, they look positively soft! I could crush that male under one paw. He hardly comes up to my eyes!”

“Few of us do, oh hulking one,” replied Phrnnx, adding a gesture indicative of second-degree ironic humor. “But that is hardly an indication one way or the other. Although I admit they do seem a bit on the pastoral side.”

Zinin snorted.

“What star system are you folks from?’ Not all from the same, surelyl”

“Indeed,” said the Professor. It occurred to him what had troubled his thoughts ever since they had met these natives. For a race that had not had extra-planetary contact for umpti-thousand Ipas they were treating the crew of the Tpin like next-door neighbors who popped over for a visit every time-period. Even the sibling—where had he disappeared to?—had been fully self-possessed when confronted by what must be to him utterly strange beings. It was just a touch unnerving. “You might be interested to know that the Veen have been extinct for some 450,000 of your time-revolutions.”

The biped nodded understandingly. “We guessed as much. When so much time passed and nothing happened, one way or the other, friendly or hostile … we assumed that we’d been forgotten and filed away somewhere.”

“Not forgotten,” said the Professor. “Legends persist longer than their creators, sometimes. There was a period of … confusion … at the end of the Veen-Terran wars.” Was that a twitch of reaction in the native’s face? Yes? No? “When the bureaucracy set up by the Veen was submerged by a wave of would-be empire-builders, interstellar government pretty well collapsed. It took a while for things to straighten themselves out. Which is why we have not contacted you till now.” Could he read the lie? “Another problem has arisen.”

The biped sighed again. “I was afraid this mightn’t be a social call. What is your problem, Professor?”

Backed at certain intervals by succinct comments from Rappan, he began to outline the present desperate situation with respect to the Yops, ending with a plea to forget any past differences and come to the aid of the Federation.

The Terran had listened quietly to their arguments, unmoving. Now he sat in an attitude of intense concentration, seeming to listen to voices and thoughts outside their ken. When he at last raised his face to them again he wore a serious smile.

“I must, of course, consult with and deliver your message to my … ‘superiors.’ Such a decision would be difficult for us to make. As you can see for yourselves”—he made an all-encompassing gesture—”we have changed our mode of existence somewhat since we fought the Veen. We are no longer geared to the production of war materiel. Incidentally, we bold no grudge against any of you. I have no idea if my ancestors and yours ever met, let alone battled with one another. We never even really held animosity toward the Veen. In fact, I’d give a lot to know exactly why they went to war with us in the first place.”

Phrnnx had heard the Professor’s explanation and looked expectantly in his direction, but that worthy remained silent.

“Of course,” continued the Terran after a while, “as a gesture of your goodwill we would naturally expect you to lower the Shield. Despite a hell of a lot of scribbling and figuring, that’s one thing we could never quite do.”

“Of course,” said Rappan determinedly.

The biped stood. “It will take me a while to convey your message to my superiors. In the meantime, do feel free to enjoy the countryside and my poor home.” He turned and walked into another room.

The female eyed them speculatively,

“I don’t suppose any of you gentlemen play bridge?”

Phrnnx was wandering through the nearby forest, following the path made by a cheerful stream. He had quickly grown bored with studying the simple native household, and, unlike the Professor or Commander Rappan, the intricacies of Terran “bridge” were a touch more intellectual a pastime than he wished for. The two scientists had found plenty to keep them occupied profitably, but after reporting to the ship their accumulated data and the word that things seemed to be progressing satisfactorily, there had remained little for a communicator to do.

The dense undergrowth led away from the house at a right angle. With the sense of direction his kind possessed he was not afraid of getting lost, and the damp coolness of the place was the closest thing he’d found to the rain forests of home. It was full of interesting sounds and new smells. The native female had assured him that no dangerous creatures lurked within its inviting shadows. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Orinthorphs and small invertebrates—”insects,” they were called—flitted rapidly from growth to growth. He could have snatched them easily in midair with his long suckers, but was mindful of strange foods despite the Professor’s assurance that the native organics were edible. Besides, he was not hungry. He strode on in high spirits.

The hike was about to come to an unpleasant end.

The trees appeared to cease abruptly off to one side. Espying what seemed to be a glint of sunlight on water, he turned in that direction. His supposition was correct. In front of him was a large clearing which bordered on a good-sized lake. In the foreground stood the diminutive figure of Flip, the native’s offspring. He was gazing at a pair of massive, glowering figures in space armor. These did not fit into the picture.

Yops!

Phrnnx stood paralyzed with shock. The Yop battleship that he thought they had lost near that red dwarf sat half-in, half-out of the blue-green lake. He assumed it was the same one. Its gunports were wide , open. Troops were clustering around a landing portal on one side of the kilometer-and-a-half-long monster. Dirt had been gouged out on all sides by the sheer mass of the huge vessel. These two figures in the foreground were doubtlessly scouts.

How in the central chaos had they slipped in past the cruiser’s screens? Unless they, too, had found a way to negate the Shield—and this seemed unlikely—then they must have entered by way of the temporary hole made by the Tpin. A quick glance at the sky showed the now familiar gold tinge still strong. So they hadn’t destroyed the generating equipment on the planet’s satellite, then. Yop invisibility screens were known to be good, but this good? … His speculations were interrupted by what happened next.

The nearest Yop reached down and lifted the Rip in one massive, knobby claw. It held it like that, steady, while it examined the youngster along with its partner. The boy, in turn, appeared to be examining them with its wide, deep-gray eyes. Both were making the motions and gestures which Phrnnx knew indicated Yop laughter.

What followed occurred so rapidly that Phmnx, afterward, had difficulty in reconstructing the incident.

The Yop raised the youngster over its horned head and swung it toward the ground with every intention of smashing the child’s brains out. But the boy abruptly slowed in midair, turned, and landed gently on its feet. The Yop was staring at its now empty hand in surprise. The expression of placid innocence, which had heretofore been the child’s sole visage, shifted all at once into a strong frown that was somehow more terrifying than any contortion of rage could have been. It said, in a very unchildlike tone of voice, two words:

“Bad mans!”

And gestured with the twig.

The two Yops glowed briefly an intolerable silver-white, shading to blue. It was the color of nova—a chrome nova. The two scouts “popped” loudly, once, and disappeared. In their places two clouds of fine gray ash sifted slowly to the ground. The boy pointed his stick at the multiton Yop warship. “More bad mans,” he said. The ship abruptly glowed with the same intolerable radiance. It “popped” with a considerably louder and much more satisfying bang. The boy then turned and went over to the brook. He began slowly stirring the water with his stick.

Phrnnx found he could breathe again. The feathers on his back, however, did not lie down. All that remained of the invincible Yop battlewagon was the faint smell of ozone and a very large pile of fine multicolored ash. This was patiently being removed by a small breeze.

The boy suddenly looked up, turned, and stared straight at where Phrnnx was crouching behind the bole of a large pine. He started to stroll over.

Phrnnx ran. He ran hard, fast, and unthinkingly. He was not sure what a “bad mans” was, but he had no wish to be included in that category—none whatsoever. No sirree. He ran in a blind panic with all four legs and a great sorrow that his ancestors had traded their wings for intelligence. Ahead, a dark, cavelike depression appeared in the ground. Without breaking stride, he instinctively threw himself into the protective opening.

And into the closet of the world.

Phrnnx awoke with the equivalent of a throbbing headache. He almost panicked again when he remembered that last moment before blacking out. A touch of the hard, unresisting metal underneath reassured and calmed him. He had thrown himself in a cave— only it hadn’t been a cave. It had been a hole. A hole filled with machinery. Yes, that’s right! He remembered falling past machinery—levels and levels and levels of it. He did not know it, but he had fallen only a mile before the first of the automatic safety devices had analyzed his alien body chemistry, pronounced him organic, alive, and reasonably worth saving, and brought him to a comfortable resting place at the fifty-third level.

He staggered to his feet, becoming aware of a faint susurration around him. Warm air, and the faint sounds of the almost silent machines. A slow look around confirmed the evidence of his other senses … and he almost wished it hadn’t. Machines. Machine upon machine. Massive and unnoticing, they throbbed with life and power all around him. He could not see the end of the broad aisle he stood on. He turned and staggered over to the edge of the shaft he had obviously fallen into, following the current of fresh air.

A quick look over the side made him draw back involuntarily. His race was not subject to vertigo, but there are situations and occasions where the reality transcends the experience. There is too much relativity in a cavern, even an artificial one.

Above stretched over a mile of levels, seemingly much like this one. Very faintly and far away he could just make out the tiny circle of light that marked the surface and his entranceway to this frighteningly silent metal world.

He could not see the bottom.

He found himself giggling. Oh yes, pastoral indeed! Quite. Not prepared to turn out war materiel. Certainly not. No capability whatsoever. No cities, remember? Handmade furniture. Quaint way to live. Didn’t say by what kind of hands, though. Poor, degenerated natives! Cannon fodder, he’d seen it in Commander Rappan’s eyes.

But the commander hadn’t peeked in the basement.

When the hysteria had worked itself out, he took several deep gulps of the fresh air. There had to be a manual way out. Stairs, a lift, something! He had to get back and warn the others. He tried his pocket communicator, suspecting that it wouldn’t work. It didn’t. A communicator who couldn’t communicate. He almost started giggling again, but caught himself this time. He began to search for a way out. He did not know it, and probably would not have cared anyway, but his situation was remarkably analogous to that of a very ancient and very imaginary Terran female named Alice.

“I am pleased to say,” began the native known as Alexis Jones, “that the committee … government … ruling body? I forget the relevant term. Anyway, we have agreed to do what we can to aid your Federation. These Yops …” and he paused momentarily, “do not sound like very nice people—”

“They’re not!” interrupted Zinin fervently.

“And even if we only add a bit of manpower to your gallant effort, we will ‘be happy to be of assistance. We are a bit,” he added apologetically, “out of practice.”

“That’s all right,” beamed the commander. At first he had regarded these disgustingly peaceful and soft-seeming bipeds more of a liability than an asset. Then it occurred to him that the Yops, too, were familiar with the Terran legends. Could be the materialization of a real legend might disconcert them a bit. Of course these peaceful mammals would have to be thoroughly instructed, or their appearance would merely make the Yops go into fits of laughter, but … “We appreciate your desire to aid in this great crusade. I am certain this historic arrangement will go down in history as one of exceptional benefit to all the races concerned. As a prelude to further discussion, I have ordered …”

He paused, open-mouthed, concentration broken. The Terran was staring upward. His face had … changed. It was brightening, expanding, opening hitherto unsuspecting vistas to their startled gaze, like a night-blooming flower. Within those two small oculars, previously so gray and limpid, there now glowed a deep-down fire that seemed to pierce upward and spread over all present like a nerve-deadening drug. It made the commander draw back and Zinin hiss involuntarily.

“The Shield Is Down!” shouted the native, flinging its arms wide.

“The Shield Is Down!” answered his wife.

And all over the planet, among all the members, large and small, of the Brotherhood of Warmblood; the dogs, the mice; the cats and orcas, birds and shrews; ungulates, carnivores, herbivores, and omni-vores, the great telepathic shout went up:

“THE SHIELD IS DOWN!”

And in the field Dobbin and the small brown dog began to discuss the ramifications at length.

The man turned to face his visitors, who were silent.

“You have done us a very large favor, gentlebeings, and we are oh, so grateful! How many years we labored to find the answer to the Shield, how many years, only to discover that it could only be applied, or retracted, from an outside source. Now that it is down, we will not make the error of allowing it to be put up again. Once again, gentlebeings, we are in your debt. Our agreement still holds. If you will return to your ship we will … commence preparations to follow in ours.” The native smiled, and it was at once a lovely and terrible thing to see. (Among the known creatures of the universe, only the Terran human bares its fangs to express friendship.)

“It has been so long,” the Jones sighed wistfully, “since we have had a decent war!”

Back on the Tpin it was a thoughtful yet jubilant Rappan who confronted a very bedraggled Communicator First.

“Commander,” panted Phrnnx, “listen! You mustn’t drop the Shield! This whole world … it’s a sham, sir! A fake. We’ve been fooled, and badly. These natives aren’t as primitive as they’d like us to think. I saw, sir! Machines, automatic factories, synthetic food-processing plants—the whole planet, Commander—it’s filled with their machines! I fell into it—accident—the machines down there are programmed to answer questions … I asked …” He paused for breath, became aware then that no one hi the happy control cabin was paying any attention to him. Most of the crew were telling jokes, patting each other contently on their back-equivalents, and preparing for a lift-off. Only the Professor seemed unaffected by the otherwise universal giddiness. Phrnnx turned to the elder.

“Professor, I’m telling the truth! Tell them, make them listen, we’ve got to … !”

The Professor turned a spare eye on him. “Oh, I believe you. If those muftils could control their glee long enough to listen to you, they’d no doubt believe you, too.” He paused. “Have you looked at the sky recently?”

Phrnnx ran to a port and stared wildly upward.

“The Shield’s gone!”

The Professor favored his announcement with a first-degree nod, indicating positive acknowledgment. “Indeed it is. Commander Rappan had left orders with Commander Second Alo to drop it as a sign of good faith the moment the Terrans agreed to sign the mutual-defense-pact edicts with us.” He looked thoughtfully at the port. “The Jones and his mate seemed to know exactly when the generating machinery on the satellite cut off. Even the annuals were acting in a most peculiar fashion as we returned to the ship.” He shivered slightly.

“I, for one, shall be less unhappy than I first thought at the prospect of leaving this place.”

“What makes you think that, now with the Shield off, they’ll hold to their agreement to help us?”

“Two reasons, youngster. First of all, the Jones said that they would, and I have a hunch that they are the kind of folk who put much store by their word. And also, I kind of think they could have turned it off anytime they wanted to, after our initial penetration.”

Phrnnx did not answer. He was watching the sky grow darker outside the port as the ship rose beyond the atmosphere, watching the stars come out, remembering a picture … a little boy, two Yop scouts, and a battleship. Then a little boy and a battleship. Then just a little boy. And the machine that had soothed his traumas, deep under the crust of the planet.

“Sir,” began Zinin to the commander, and his great voice was strangely muffled, “they’re coming … in their ship, like they said they would.”

Phrnnx yanked himself back to reality—if such it still could be called—and joined the others who were now occupied at the fore port.

Below, great masses of puffy white clouds. Brown and green land masses, unchanged. Blue oceans, unchanged.

Except one.

In the middle of the planet’s second ocean, great, impossible masses of thick columnar crystals began to leap upward from the waters. Translucent at first, the chalcedony towers began to pulse with deep inner fires: blue, purple, gold, carmine, and finally a strange, yet familiar silver-gray. The ionosphere, tickled, began to surround the flashing needles with auroras, clothing them in blankets of coruscating radiance.

Following, the planet began to move after the Tpin.

On board the cruiser it was very quiet.

“I see,” whispered Rappan idly, “that they are bringing their moon along also.”

“You get accustomed to something like that,” breathed an engineer. “A moon, I mean.”

Old Alo was making mystic signs with his tentacles. “Egg of the Code, I almost feel sorry for the Yops!”

The crew picked up this thread of awed enthusiasm as they began to relate the impossible sight to their own personal views of the war. In no time the mood of jubilation was back again, stronger than ever. Stimulants were broken out and passed among those who indulged in them. The communicators—excepting one Phrnnx—began to ply the spacewaves with brazen, challenging messages, daring the Yops to locate them.

“Poor old Yops,” whispered Phrnnx. “I can almost see Alo’s point.”

“Yes,” replied the Professor. “There is only one thing that is worrying me.”

“What is worrying you?” asked Phrnnx.

The Professor turned old eyes on him. They held irony, and they held musing.

“What,” he said, “are we going to do with them when there are no more Yops?”