Surgeon's Knife
Universe Science Fiction – May 1954
(1954)*
Randall Garrett
illustrated by Lawrence

	

	Over one thousand years ago Earth deserted her colonies, leaving them to fend for themselves on hostile planets. Some perished, but others held on and grimly fought their way back to civilization, carrying bitter memories of the mother-planet. Prepared at last, they were determined to seek out the almost legendary Earth and take revenge.

-

	A sane society, when in conflict with a less fortunate society, will resolve the conflict in a manner which will not only insure its own safety, but will increase the sanity level of its opponent.
	—Axioms of Humanity

-

PROLOGUE

	"Your nerve in coming here," said the Minister of Broklan, "is exceeded only by the nerve of your planet in sending you."

	"Quite possibly," said the Earthman.

	The Minister kept his voice icily diplomatic. "Perhaps you think that because Broklan and the other planets of the Federation were once colonies of Earth, we owe some sort of gratitude to the mother world?

	"I assure you, we do not. Earth deserted us when we most needed her. We have not forgotten that."

	"That was over a thousand years ago," the Earthman reminded mildly. "Surely you can have no malice toward Earth now."

	"A thousand years ago," the Minister said coldly, "Earth left her colonies to fend for themselves on planets that were hostile to Man. There was no aid, no weapons, no supplies. Men died horribly fighting alien environments on supposedly Earthlike planets. On most planets, they reverted to savagery and barbarism; on some, they died out completely. Even here on Broklan, we were just barely able to save a little of the technological heritage of our ancestors; we just barely managed to keep history as history and not as legends.

	"Because of that, we found ourselves far ahead of the rest of the colonies; we found that we were in a position to weld those colonies together into the largest nation in the Galaxy.

	"Civilization must progress, my friend, not fall back on itself as Earth's civilization has done."

	"True," the Earthman agreed. "Civilization must progress. But is hate a sign of progress?"

	The Minister smiled. "You misunderstand. We do not hate you, we pity you. So much knowledge was lost during the Colonial Interregnum that we do not, even today, know where Earth is in the Galaxy. But we long ago resolved to find it someday in order to learn from what we believed to be a ruined and decadent planet.

	"Now we know that you are not ruined—only decadent. But we intend to make Earth a member of the Federation of Broklan as soon as we find her."

	"If you find her," the Earthman said succinctly.

	The Minister clasped his hands together and looked directly into the Earthman's eyes. "Let us not play games together, sir. One of our exploratory vessels disappears without a word. Four years later, an Earthman, representing a planet which is legendary even on Broklan, comes directly to the major planet of the Federation. We don't know where Earth is, but you know where Broklan is, and you know our language. The conclusion is obvious."

	"Very," said the Earthman.

	"Then you don't deny that you have captured a Broklanian exploratory vessel?"

	"Would it do any good to deny it?"

	"None. You are quite right. And the knowledge that you do hold the ship as hostage is the only thing that keeps us from taking the knowledge of the whereabouts of Earth from you in our—ah—psychological chambers."

	"A pleasant euphemism," the Earthman commented.

	"Quite pleasant. Now, unless you wish to discuss the annexation of Earth to the Federation of Broklan for the further progress of civilization, I have nothing more to say to you."

	The Earthman rose. "In that case, Minister, I see no reason to waste either your time or mine. Good day."

	"Good day. Your ship will not be molested; you are free to go. But bear in mind that Broklan will win eventually. We have found you once; we will find you again. We have, you must remember, forty-seven planets behind us; a total of over thirty billion people. How many planets are now under Earth's domination?"

	"One," admitted the Earthman truthfully.

	"Precisely. When we find you, we will take control. And if we can not do that, we will remove you from the Galaxy in the same way that a surgeon's knife removes a cancer. You can not hope to win."

	"Possibly," said the Earthman cryptically.

-

I

	Smisson looked out the window at the ancient city feeling as though someone had kicked him in the head.

	From his vantage point on the twelfth floor of the Technology Building, he could see the clustered buildings of the Broklanian Advisory, and, beyond the Advisory walls, the city of Nayaproosh. And beyond the city lay the sea.

	Smisson tried hard not to think. He just wanted to let his brain settle a little, and he felt that looking at the stone and mud buildings huddled gloomily under the drifting Clouds of Genedek would give him something to do while he waited for his mind to clear itself.

	If he glanced to his right, he could see the spaceport twelve miles away, a great, flat area chiseled out of the island's rock, just barely visible through the faint mist. But the last thing he wanted to look at was the spaceport.

	He let his eyes wander over the massive, squat, stone architecture of the wealthy Genedeker's castles and the baked clay brick homes of the lesser classes. Finally, his eyes came to rest on one castle a little taller and more formidable than the rest, the home of the Burkmiser of the Burk of Nayaproosh.

	Then, suddenly, he slammed his fist against the hard, tough plastic of the window in a gesture of frustration, anger, and fear. And, almost before he could feel the slight pain of the impact, the protective blocks in his mind slammed down tight.

	Smisson regarded his fist thoughtfully. "If anyone were watching me," he said aloud, "They'd think I'd gone off the deep end."

	"If you talk to yourself, they probably will."

	Smisson jerked around to face the voice. "Gorse!"

	Gorse nodded and eased his porcine body into a chair. "I didn't mean to interrupt you, but your door was unlocked, so I came in."

	"I—" Smisson began.

	Gorse patted the air with a thick-fingered hand. "Don't try to explain your behavior. I don't think you're going off the deep end, but if you were, I wouldn't blame you. My nerves are getting pretty sticky, too."

	Smisson sat down and waited for his superior to go on.

	Gorse inspected his fingernails. "Ur Burkmiser has been in to see me again."

	"Any luck?"

	Gorse shook his heavy head vigorously, making his sagging jowls wobble. "None. He insists that the ship landed on Genedekish soil, and therefore is the property of the planet Genedek, or, more specifically, the Burk of Nayaproosh."

	Smisson leaned forward and massaged his forehead. "And there's nothing we can do about it. Not one damned thing."

	Gorse ran his fingers over the top of the little desk plaque that said: TECHNICAL ADVISOR GAR SMISSON. "I tried to get something out of the Burkmiser; I knew we had to get something, somehow, to start on—to get a toehold, so to speak." He placed his fingertips together and gazed solemnly at them. "What I did was imply that I didn't believe him."

	Smisson lifted his head and " raised an eyebrow. "You called him a liar?"

	"Nooo ... At least, not directly. I suggested that he was very clever. My argument went along these lines:

	"Broklan has the only interstellar drive known. Ever since the planet Genedek became a free state twelve years ago, there has been increasing pressure from the Froygesheft to give the drive to Genedek. Even our own Teknigesheft has been roped in on the deal.

	"Now, four days ago, the yearly transport from Broklan left after the usual twenty-four hour stay. It will not return until next year, and, until it does, we will have no further connections with Broklan.

	"Late that same evening, it seems, a meteor falls to the south. Or at least, a meteor-like trail is seen. Those are facts..

	"But why does this vessel arrive at such an opportune time? Granted, we have seen a large spherical object that is supposed to be a ship, but it doesn't look like a ship.

	"Therefore," Gorse spread his hands, "we would like some proof, Ur Burkmiser, that this object really is an interstellar vessel before we do business."

	"How did he take it?" Smisson asked.

	Gorse shrugged massively. "He said he would think it over and give us his decision later."

	"Do you," Smisson asked, "really believe that theory?" His head ached, and he didn't feel like talking, but he had to keep his mind off of—

	The blocks slammed down again.

	Gorse was saying: "I don't know. I wish I did—believe it, I mean. There actually may be an interstellar vessel somewhere in the Genedekish system, unlikely as it may seem.

	"But we have to know more about it. The trouble is that it's such a touchy political situation."

	It was all of that, Smisson thought. After sixty years of Broklanian domination, the Genedekers finally thought they had a club to hold over the head of the Advisory.

	There would be no more contact with Broklan for a full year—minus four days-. That dumped the whole problem right in the lap of Chief Advisor Gorse.

	Smisson rubbed his temples. "The trouble isn't just in the politics; if there's an interstellar vessel out there somewhere, we're faced with more than just a little squabble with Genedek and the Freedom Society. Why doesn't the Froygesheft wake up? Can't they see the danger?"

	Gorse stood up, slowly rubbing his palms together. "That's why I can't quite bring myself to believe the Froygesheft's story; they don't act if they believe it themselves. But we've got to find out.

	"The only influence we have is through the Technical Society. We influenced it once; we organized it. It's, our job to get them to pull a few strings with the Froygesheft. I'd like to have you talk to Ur Mulla at the earliest opportunity. As head of the Teknigesheft, he wields quite a bit of influence.

	"I think you can bring him around better than I can, because those boys are trained to have a hell of a lot of respect for a scientific education. What I want you to do is to get an opportunity to inspect this vessel. Alone, if necessary. Okay?"

	"Fine," said Smisson without enthusiasm. "As a matter of fact, he's coming up for tea this afternoon. I'll see what I can do."

	"Excellent. Good luck. I'll let you know if anything further develops." Gorse walked heavily to the door. There he stopped and tinned. "And don't let this get on your nerves so much. We've got to keep our minds clear." Then he closed the door behind him.

	Smisson looked at the door without seeing it for several minutes. Finally, he got up, walked over to it, and locked it. Then he went over to the full length mirror in the wall and looked at himself.

	It was the same face he had always known. Round, but not too chubby. Straight, smooth, brown hair. Small brown mustache. Gray eyes. All as they had always been.

	The face of Gar Smisson, all right.

	"But let's face it," Smisson said aloud, "I'm not Gar Smisson. Then who the hell am I?"

-

II

	The Teknigesheft had been organized for the sole purpose of keeping the Federation planet Genedek from getting too smart— double entendre intended.

	It was a standard operating procedure on every planet. In order to build factories which can manufacture goods and trade with Broklan, it became necessary to teach the natives of the other planets some science — but not too much.

	Every student who applied for enrollment in the Broklanian Technological School had to pass rigorous mental and emotional examinations by the Psychological Board. Their purpose was to weed out the ambitious and the imaginative. Broklan wanted trained technicians, but it did not want research scientists.

	The primary objective was to build factories which could turn out spacecraft. Not until a large fleet was in operation could actual trade with the other planets begin. Spacecraft were hellishly expensive; twenty-five had been built on Broklan in the past hundred years, and of these, one had crashed, two had exploded due to faulty engines, and one had been captured by the legendary planet Earth.

	More were needed, and for this purpose the various planets of the so-called Federation had to build up a technology that could handle the construction of interstellar spaceships. And to that end, the technical societies were created.

	Given a group of people who have a workable knowledge of the "mysteries of the universe" or "magic" or "science" or whatever you want to call it, and tell that group that they must keep their knowledge secret in order to keep themselves above the normal run of society, and you will have a method of controlling the technological advancement of the society to which that group is attached.

	At least you do in theory, but Smisson was not so sure of the Genedeker Teknigesheft.

	Ur Enrik Mulla was one of the first graduates of the school, and had been the president of the Teknigesheft for more than twenty years. He sat across the desk from Smisson and stroked his flowing white mustache gently.

	"I am pleased to accept your invitation, Ur Smisson," he said quietly and with only the slightest trace of an accent.

	Smisson smiled and poured two cups of spice tea from the brewer on his desk; "The pleasure is all mine, Ur Mulla." He handed one of the cups to Mulla and sat down. "Our health," he said after the first sip.

	"Our health," echoed Mulla.

	The formalities were over.

	Smisson took another sip of the spice tea, then set the cup down. "Enrik, I want you to do me a favor."

	The old man smiled. "I knew there was more to this than a cup of tea, Gar. What is the favor?"

	"I'll be blunt, my friend. I want to get a look at that spaceship— if it is a spaceship."

	"No doubt you do," said the old technician. "But I am not in a position to give you permission to see it."

	"I know that, but you could do a little wirepulling for me."

	"I'm afraid you overestimate my importance, Gar. Remember, the Teknigesheft is not—ah—altogether in absolute favor with the Froygesheft. They look upon us as tools of Broklan."

	"They do?" Smisson tried to look mildly surprised.

	Mulla gestured meaninglessly with one hand. "You and I know that such talk is foolishness, but the Ur Burkmiser, for one, views the Society with a—shall we say, an uneasy eye."

	Smisson moved his teacup in little circles and watched the dark, spicy liquid swirl smoothly around the container. "Enrik, let me get something straight. The Burkmiser is negotiating with us now to give the Teknigesheft certain data concerning processes which are—uh— actually beyond the present development of Genedek. He wants interstellar travel for a people who believed that Genedek was a few islands floating on an infinite sea Until sixty years ago. He's trying to push Genedek ahead too fast. But let that pass.

	"He says that if we do not give the Technical Society these secrets, he will be forced to use the science of the alien interstellar ship against us. But he is willing to trade information. He has the ship; we have Broklanian technology. Trade about is fair play.

	"That's essentially what he wants, isn't it?"

	Enrik Mulla nodded. "I think so, yes. Why?"

	Smisson narrowed his eyes. "Who is going to analyze the instruments and engines on board that ship?"

	"We of the Society, of course."

	"Has he let you board the craft yet?"

	"Yes."

	"And yet you say he doesn't trust you?"

	Mulla frowned. He felt as though he had been caught in a lie, and yet he knew that he had stated the facts truly. "I meant that he does not trust us enough to—to permit you to see the ship. I could not vouch for you, you see."

	"Well, then, can you tell me anything about it?"

	"I'm afraid not. I've only looked inside it. There's not much to tell."

	Smisson decided to try another tack. "As I understand it, the being who piloted the craft is dead. Have you seen the body?"

	"Yes," the old man winced. "An ugly-looking brute."

	"Humanoid?"

	"Yes, but not human. Definitely not human."

	Smisson tapped a finger on the desk. "Don't you see what this means? Some alien culture has found Genedek! The danger we both face from them is far greater than any petty squabbles you may have with Broklan! We've got to have that ship!"

	Ur Mulla spread his hands eloquently. "Your Chief Advisor, Ur Gorse, said the same thing to the Burkmiser; I think His Excellency's answer is the best I can give.

	"If there is another alien race which has designs on Genedek, we must fight it together. This means we must have full access to Broklanian technology in order to do our part.

	"The Advisory staff, by itself, couldn't possibly hold off an invasion force, even with energy weapons. The Army of Genedek couldn't hold them off armed only with solid projectile weapons. So, for the protection of all of us, we must pool our resources."

	Smisson folded his hands to keep from clenching his fists.

	"Look. We can't possibly give you anything in time to help. We have been giving the Teknigesheft as much of our knowledge as it is possible to absorb in any given length of time. What good will it do you to know how to make an energy weapon if you don't have the equipment to make one yet?"

	Mulla frowned as though he didn't understand the point.

	"Take that tungsten alloy we're using as an example of heat dispersion graphing in the Senior Metallurgy classes," Smisson continued. "Do you think that alloy could be made on Genedek? I'll tell you right now it couldn't. It takes specialized equipment to make, which takes, in turn, other specialized equipment. Before you could make a fistfull of the stuff, you'd have to build for five years to make the tools. '

	"And what good would the alloy do you, once you had it? It has absolutely no use except as a liner for high-temperature reaction chambers, such as a rocket tube.

	"So we will have to use those alien gadgets! They may be even beyond us, but we'll have a better chance than you will!

	"Enrik, for the sake of Genedek, if not for the sake of the Federation, you have to talk the Burkmiser into letting us analyze that ship!

	"Can't you do that for me as a friend?"

	The old man stood up. "I'm afraid not, Ur Smisson." He seemed a little confused and uncertain as to what he should say next. "I enjoyed the tea, Ur Smisson," he finally said. "But I have some other appointments."

	There was nothing Smisson could say. The President of the Teknigesheft excused himself and left quietly. Smisson looked at the door that had closed after him.

	"Well," he said, "that was about the most uninformative conversation on record. Did you get all of it?"

	"Every bit," Gorse's voice came over the intercom. "I don't know exactly what's going on, but I damned well don't like it!"

	"Me also. Anything else?"

	A sigh came over the speaker. "No. I'll see what can be done with the Burkmiser. Thanks." There was a soft click as Gorse shut off the communicator from his end.

	The thing that had been niggling at the base of Smisson's brain all afternoon came out and faced" him.

	Smisson closed his eyes and looked at it for a long while before he made up his mind. It didn't make sense, but he knew he'd have to do it eventually. So—

	In an unsavory neighborhood like that, he'd have to be careful. There were men there who openly didn't care for Broklanians. He opened his desk drawer and took out the snug little holster with its tiny, but deadly Lindurst Fifty.

	He strapped it on and fitted it into the hip pocket of his short trousers. His cloak would cover it easily, and still it would be instantly available for emergencies.

	As he walked out the office door, the thought came: Why? Who's waiting for me? Who—?

	Hut the protective blocks in his mind shut off the thought before it could get any further.

	Ormsly was in the outer office. "Haven't you left, yet?" Smisson grinned.

	"Nope. Alavar and I are staying a little' late to feed the rest of this Project Search data into the computer."

	Smisson frowned as he looked at the subadvisor. "Project Search?"

	"Sure. You remember. The orders came through on the last ship. You signed the work slips."

	Smisson shook his head. "I don't remember reading it. I'll have to watch what I sign more closely. What is it?"

	"Here, I've got a copy of it somewhere." Ormsly fumbled through his desk drawer. "With all this excitement over the alien spaceship the Genedekers are supposed to have, I suppose it slipped your mind. Here it is." He handed an envelope to Smisson, who pulled out the sheaf of papers and began to read.

-

III

	"... to be known as Project Search. The details of the project are for personnel above the position of Deputy Subadvisor only.

	4. The purpose of the project is to uncover whatever clues may exist in the legends of the various planets which will point to the location of the planet Earth.

	5. The project will be carried out by ... "

	Earth. A thousand years before, she had deserted her colonies on planets that were supposedly Earthlike. But there was only one planet that was truly Earthlike.

	Earth.

-

	"No supplies," the Expedition Leader said. "What do they expect us to do? Live off the land?"

	The Junior Exec frowned. "Those farmers won't stand for it. They'll blame us. They'll lose their crops if they don't get the dope to fight off those bugs. We'll all starve for that matter."

	"Sure," the leader nodded. "But what can we do? Radio? Earth will get the word in something like twenty thousand years."

-

	"Careful, son. You'll have to learn to handle the gun properly. We don't have many charges left." Mayor Brown took the weapon and lifted it to his shoulder. "You hold it—"

	"Dad?"

	"Yes, son?" Brown lowered the rifle again.

	"We need charges to fight the griffins. What happens when we run out?"

	The Mayor's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what will happen, son. The griffins breed faster than we can kill them. Earth shut off our supplies ten years ago. We can't make things like this gun or the charges without big factories. We—"

	"Dad, why didn't they send us any supplies?"

	The Mayor's eyes blazed. "I don't know, son. But I wish 1 could get my hands on the throat of the man who ordered the cut-off!"

-

	Badna sat on the stockade wall, listening to the beasts outside. His stomach felt like it was on fire, but there was nothing he could do about it. He heard a noise beside him and turned swiftly.

	"Shila! What you doin' here?"

	"Brang some soup."

	In spite of his hunger, Badna eyed the soup and sniffed it suspiciously. "Ain't no native stuff in it, is they?"

	"None atall. Ain't very much, but—"

	Badna sipped the soup cautiously. It tasted all right; pretty good, in fact. He'd been suspicious because Shila was one of the few who could eat the native plants and live. There were some of the immunes who wanted everybody to try it; they had an idea that if everybody tried it, they would survive through the hunger.

	But Badna knew better. His grandpap had been able to read; his grandpap had told him what the books said about the native plants. Poison. Deadly poison.

	Maybe a few people could live off it, but they couldn't all settle down to eating it. They had to have the Good Food. The Home Plants. Even the native animals weren't fit to eat. The Hawgs and the Sheeps had all died off when Badna was a little kid because the Old Plants were being eaten by the Wormies.

	And now there wasn't even enough left for the people.

	Badna said: "I wish we had something to eat instead of this weak old soup. What're we gonna do, Shila?"

	Shila looked at him. "We gonna eat the native food, that's what. Ain't gonna kill all of us. Most of us live."

	"Not me, honey," Badna shook his head. "I ain't gonna eat the native food. It—" He choked suddenly. "I—" A sudden, grasping pain caught him in the stomach; a pain he couldn't stop ...

	"Honey!" Shila screamed. "Honey! Don' die on me! I thought you'd be awright! Honey!"

	Badna died in convulsions before she could get help.

-

	Agru flexed his muscles and stood before the mob defiantly.

	"We go from this accursed place!" he shouted defiantly.

	Ilihoo, the old medicine man stood up, defying Agru.

	"O Fool!" he screamed, "we must live here in the place of our grandfathers! Only here will come the Ships from Almighty Earth! The demon, Dazeez, will be—"

	Shouts drowned him out. "Shut up, old man!" "Lies!" "False prophet!" "Fool!"

	Agru felt himself master of the situation. He raised his hand and bellowed loudly: "People of my father! It is said in the words of our thrice-great grandfathers that there will be no ships from Earth! The Gods have forgotten us! They have forgotten us for many generations! It was repeated by the Elders before they died that Earth had sentenced us to die! Are we to believe that we can not trust the Words of the Elders?"

	He saw that he had the attention of the people; even Old Ilihoo was watching them.

	He took another deep breath and plunged on. "It has been spoken, time and again, that upon the world the demon Dazeez shall come many times. And he has come! He has come many times, and each time worse!

	"Is it not spoken that the Evil Earth had Dazeez? And is it not spoken that only at this place, the Landing Port, can we be found by Earth?

	"Then is it not foolish to stay?"

	Agru saw he had them now. They were beginning to see the logic in his words: They had but to look about them at the rotting blue corpses of their friends and loved ones to see that he spoke true. The demon had killed seventeen out of each score.

	Suddenly, old Ilihoo coughed very slightly. That was the first sign, and Agru took advantage of it. He lifted his voice and said:

	"If Ilihoo's belief is right; if Earth is a god who is testing our faith, then I call upon Earth to strike me down!

	"But if I, Agru, am right; if the evil that has reduced our number from ten tens of tens to a band of three tens in six generations is the evil of Earth, and if the good is the Good, then let Ilihoo be stricken." Agru knew what would happen and it did, quickly.

	When Ilihoo began to cough in earnest, the crowd tore him to pieces. Agru was king.

-

	Makhil the Great sat upon the High Throne and pronounced sentence.

	"Inim, you have defied the laws of the Tribe. You must die with your father. May the Tribe feast well."

	Inim screamed. "I did but try to help my honored father!"

	Makhil the Great shook his head. "You know the law. All who reach the age of thirty-five shall die for the good of the tribe. Had you obeyed the law, you would have lived another nineteen years. And yet, you disobeyed."

	"But my father is wise!" screamed Inim. "He—"

	Makhil silenced him with a wave of his hand and turned to the condemned Grothnik, father of Inim.

	"What say you, Old One?"

	Grothnik squared his shoulders. "Man needs meat to live. Only Man can supply meat. After a man has borne his sons, he has no right to live. My son is a fool. Let us both be eaten. May the Tribe feast well."

	Makhil nodded. "So be it. Prepare them. Now.

-

	On every planet, men had died horribly. On some, humanity had been wiped out completely. But on most the race, driven by the terrible human will to survive, had lived.

	And with them had lived a terrible and undying hatred for Earth.

-

IV

	Smisson handed the papers back to Alavar.

	"I see. Cross-filtering. Spot where all the legends and warped histories mesh with each other and see if we can get anything from that. It might work."

	He stood up from the desk where he had been sitting. "I've got an appointment. See you in the morning."

	Less than three minutes later, he was walking out into the Genedekish night.

	The first thing that hit him when he walked out of the air-conditioned Tech building was the oppressive humidity. Each breath he took seemed to splash against the back of his throat, and the air washed wetly over his skin, leaving behind it a sticky film of perspiration and dew.

	Overhead, Ine, the nearer of the two moons shone like a great patch of golden gauze through the ragged clouds. It would soon be high tide.

	He did have an appointment; of that much, he was sure. An appointment of long standing. But when had he made the agreement to meet someone? And whom was he supposed to meet?

	The questions ran around in his mind like small rodents sniffing for game—looking for something. Looking for an answer. The answer was there, but it was too well hidden, too deeply buried to find.

	He climbed into his car, started the motor, and pulled the car out of the parking lot.

	Gar Smisson. Who was Gar Smisson? Had such a man actually ever existed?

	He tried to remember his childhood, his life on Broklan.

	Mother's name: Lusa. Father's name: Semal. Place of birth: Grympernt City. Date of birth: 4/7/722. Brothers and sisters: None.

	All the answers came out neatly, as though they had been read to him out of a book. But they contained no feeling of reality for him. A thousand times before he had answered those questions, and he had never thought about the answers as he gave them.

	But he couldn't actually remember the real events behind the word-data that was stored in his mind. What did his father look like? The answer came immediately. Brown hair, gray eyes, small beard. But it was a verbal description. He could not picture his father as a person; he could only dig up pat verbal phrases about him.

	The guard at the Advisory gate held up his hand, and Smisson slowed automatically. He showed his identity card to the Security officer, and drove on, out into the streets of Nayaproosh. The beams of his headlights cut a swath of white through the faint sea-mist which hung over the sprawling city like a pale yellow wash from the golden light of Ine.

	The first and most obvious question was: Am I insane?

	No, he knew it wasn't that. He could not be quite sure of how he knew, but deep down inside his brain was a strong and comforting assurance that there was nothing wrong with his mind.

	Very well, then, he must work with the data he had.

	His childhood memories were all on the verbal level. He could not remember any of the incidents as they took place, only as they could be described. They were not at all like his memories of, say, ten days ago.

	let's see—what happened then? oh, yes—i was at that party in the evening—i can see it plainly—gorse a little drunk—ur goslik in the corner all evening nursing that foot of his—

	The memories were perfectly clear; he had a definite feeling of having experienced them. How far back in time did that feeling persist?

	do i remember broklan? yes— i remember the ship—recall the day i got my commission papers— all those psycho tests gave me— tough—school? yes, school—the time we pushed that young-looking professor (what was his name? hur? yes. dr. hur, that's it) in the fishpond because we thought he was a beginning student—and before that—the first day of registration—i came from grympernt city and—

	And there, quite abruptly, it ended.

	Seven years ago, he had boarded a train to go to college. He had majored in Engineering Co-ordination with an eye toward getting a Technical Advisor's position, and, because of his personality and high scholastic standing, he had managed to be accepted for the psycho tests a full year before he expected to be.

	"Stable and well-balanced," the results had said.

	Then why was his memory a totally dead thing before he came to college?

	There was only one answer. The lifeless memories were phony. All verbal, and all lies. The real memories of who he was and what happened to him before the age of twenty were gone—or buried.

	Smisson applied the brake smoothly and turned into one of the all-night parking lots. There weren't very many people in Nayaproosh who could afford a car, but to leave one of the streets after dark was to invite robbery, so the parking lots did a thriving business and charged like the very devil.

	They had a right to. This particular one kept six armed men on the payroll to guard the lot at night.

	Smisson parked the car himself, signed the book, and walked out into the black gloom of the streets, where the only illumination was the dim glow from the moon.

	He drew his cloak around him more closely and walked slowly toward the Grand Canal, his eyes open for danger and his hand poised near his holster. There were Genedekers who did not like Broklanians and there were Genedekers who made their living by mugging. Either one was dangerous to Smisson.

	He had several blocks to go from the parking lot, and he didn't care to have a club or a knife applied to him before he got there,

-

V

	Genedek is a planet of water. There are no continents which raise themselves high above sea-level, nor are there any great deeps in the ocean; the crust of Genedek is relatively free from such wrinkles. The seas are shallow, and the islands are many.

	There are two great island chains upon which the majority of the human inhabitants of Genedek live; the Equatorial Islands and the Mountain Islands. In the former group is located the largest single island on the planet, Nayaproosh, on which the city of Nayaproosh is located.

	The great tides that are pulled around the planet each day by Ine, the nearer and lesser moon, and Swy, the further and greater, had been used for power for hundreds of years, as had the winds which sweep almost unhindered across the face of Genedek.

	Since the coming of the Broklanians, the locks of the Grand Canal had been strengthened and tightened to hold the water which powered the new electric generators of the Nayaproosh Power Company. There are no coal beds and no petroleum deposits on Genedek; the sea has seen to that.

	Smisson could smell the canal plainly from where he was, less than a quarter of a mile away. There was the tang of salt in the air, a tang subtly pervaded by the odor of dead sea creatures.

	Even this late in the evening, the air was hot, heavy, and wet; not until past midnight would it begin to cool to a point that a Broklanian would call comfortable.

	Smisson was letting all these things run through his mind without actually giving them a great deal of thought. They were simply something idle to think about—

	He stopped suddenly—

	Footsteps.

	His own boots had heavy, resilient sponge-plastic soles which made practically no noise on the cobbled streets. Only a Genedeker would be heard that easily.

	He listened carefully, trying to place the steps. They were ahead of him, not behind. Evidently, the person had come out of one of the side streets ahead of him. The steps were retreating, moving down the street in the same direction that Smisson wanted to go.

	He walked on, grinning at the thought that he was following someone instead of having someone follow him.

	He had an eerie feeling of being alone in the city, with only ghostly footsteps as companions. The moonlight was deceptive in its lighting: it seemed fairly bright, but anything more than a few yards away was as invisible in the moonlit mist as if there were no light at all.

	Smisson didn't mind walking; it was the delay involved, that he hated. He could have driven all the way to his destination, but if he parked anywhere except in a guarded lot, he would run a terrific chance of having to walk all the way back to the Advisory. Far behind him, he could hear another set of footsteps clicking, their faint echoes bouncing off the stone walls of the darkened buildings.

	A sudden beam of light struck him in the face.

	"Halt thou!" said a voice in Genedekish.

	He halted, as the beam was electric powered, and that meant cops —unless the flashlight had been stolen.

	"Over the head, the hands put thee!"

	Smisson raised his hands carefully, well above his head, as the holder of the flashlight approached. There were two of them, and they were cops, all right. And you didn't get wise with a Nayaproosher cop if he didn't know who you were.

	"Who art thou?" asked one of them—the one who was not holding the electric torch. His revolver was leveled at Smisson's navel.

	"I am Ur Gar Smisson, to the Broklanian Advisory attached," Smisson answered in the same tongue.

	The flashlight beam immediately dropped to Smisson's feet.

	"Oh. So. Thy pardon," said the gun-wielder. "Hast thou identification?"

	"It gives a card case in the belt."

	The policeman took out the case and riffled through it until he came to Smisson's Advisory identity card. He examined the photograph, looked at Smisson's face, and reluctantly holstered his gun.

	"Again, thy pardon, Ur Advisor. Thou wert for someone else taken."

	"A nothing, I assure thee," Smisson said, lowering his hands and retrieving the identification case.

	Without further apologies, the pair cut their light and faded back into the mist from whence they came.

	But the flashlight had given them away when they pointed it at Smisson's boots. They were looking for muggers. They had heard his soft footsteps and assumed that he was wearing cloth shoes instead of the normal Genedeker's hard leather footgear.

	Smisson started on down the street. And the footsteps he had been following started again. Evidently, the person who was preceding him down the street had heard the cops and seen the light and had stopped to watch.

	Then he noticed that the footsteps far behind him were moving again. He stopped, listening. The rear footsteps were fading. The fellow must have changed his mind after seeing the police.

	Another set of brisk clicks proceeded from a side street to his left, approaching.

	Smisson shook his head to clear it. He was getting jumpy. There was no reason to suppose that everybody in Nayaproosh was out to get him. He started walking again.

	As he neared the Canal, the neighborhood changed. Instead of walled-in residence, there were shops and taverns. Here, there were more people, and the mist was partially dispelled by the flickering orange of torches set in wall brackets here and there.

	Along the Canal itself, the street was wide and reasonably well lit.

	He finally found the place he was looking for and pushed the door open. The headwaiter bustled up solicitously.

	"Good ifning, sir," he said in strained Broklanian. "For one?"

	"Two," Smisson said. "I'm waiting for someone."

	"Come, sir."

	The headwaiter led him across the huge room to the dark, curtained booths in the rear. He drew a curtain aside and lit the candle on the table. Smisson ordered a cold drink and when it was brought, he asked the waiter to close the curtain.

	He sat there for several minutes, coddling the drink and watching the flickering of the candle.

	Then, abruptly, the curtain parted, and someone else slid into the booth across the table from him.

	"I wasn't sure you'd make it," said the stranger, grinning. "Sometimes the timing is a little off after seven years."

	Smisson studied the face. It was thoroughly familiar; almost as well-known to him as his own. But he couldn't place it.

	"Do I know you?"

	"Sure," the stranger grinned. "You ought to."

	Smisson looked puzzled. "The name—"

	"—escapes you. It's supposed to. You'll find out who I am soon enough. These things can't be piled on too fast, you know. I suppose there are some things that are worrying you?"

	"Who am I?" Smisson asked abruptly.

	"That," said the familiar stranger, "is something I can't tell you; you'll figure it out for yourself soon enough.

	"All I want to do is reassure you, which is something that has to come from outside to reinforce the mental braces that have already been implanted in your mind. Without them, by the way, you'd probably end up in a psychotic ward very quickly."

	The stranger reached over, took Smisson's drink, and tasted it appreciatively. "How do you feel about losing Gar Smisson?"

	Smisson shrugged. "I can accept the realization that Gar Smisson, per se, has no real existence, but I would like to have some kind of identity of my own."

	"That isn't necessary, is it? You are you, aren't you? Is it so important to have a label? A name?"

	"No. No, I suppose not. It's the missing twenty years that bother me. What kind of person was I? Naturally, I rather liked Gar Smisson's personality; will that change?"

	"Not appreciably." The stranger paused a moment, then said earnestly: "Do you trust me?"

	"Naturally. Haven't I always?"

	The stranger smiled. "Sure you have. Now listen. There are certain things you must know."

	"About what?"

	"About Earth."

-

VI	

	Gar Smisson walked slowly along the bank of the Grand Canal. The uneven torchlight was reflected fitfully from the water, which, at high tide, was only a few feet below the stone abutment. It was almost as high as the tide could get: Ine was directly overhead and Swy and the sun were on the other side of the planet.

	It was well after midnight, but Smisson was in no hurry to get home. He was busy thinking on a problem. He was trying to remember what the stranger had looked like.

	He couldn't do it. No matter how hard he tried, the automatic blocks in his mind kept the memory of that face buried deep in his subconscious. He couldn't even remember how the stranger's voice had sounded, though the words were imprinted clearly on his brain.

	all right, so what? i'll know soon enough—i'm better off not knowing at this stage of the game —i wonder how deeply earth is mixed up in this? and how much do the broklanian higher-ups know? and what does Genedek ...

	His thoughts were scattered suddenly by a yell.

	He had walked to a point where the torches no longer illuminated the street; only the moon's beams forced their way through the wispy fog.

	He could hear sounds of a struggle ahead. Quickly, he drew his Lindhurst and sprinted forward on silent, spongey soles.

	He hadn't gone more than fifteen yards before the fog seemed to unfold suddenly from "around four figures. Three of them were upright; the third was lying face down on the cobblestones.

	The three upright figures were a struggling mass of cloaks and arms. Smisson noticed, as he ran, that the prone man was wearing a uniform — the uniform of the Nayaproosher Militia!

	It didn't take long to separate the two attackers from the attacked. The victim was a woman.

	Smisson grabbed one of the men's cloaks and jerked. The thug fell backwards a few steps, and before he could regain his balance, Smisson slammed him hard against the side of the head with the barrel of his gun. The man spun and fell—right over the parapet and into the canal.

	Smisson ignored him and turned toward the fight again. The other man had released the woman, who had dropped to her knees, and was pointing something at Smisson's chest. Without hesitating, Smisson fired the Lindhurst Fifty.

	There was a faint sizzling hiss as the beam ionized the air to a pale violet. The man's gun jerked wide and cracked out one shot in the sudden violent spasm that came before death.

	Smisson walked over and helped the woman to her feet.

	"Are you all right?" he asked in Broklanian. Then, quickly, he repeated the question in Genedekish.

	"Thanks," she said shakily. "I am well. How is the captain?"

	Smisson had thought that the officer had simply been taking his girl friend for a walk, but when the full moonlight hit her face, he knew better.

	The woman was Fra Ilda Ryner, wife of the Burkmiser f'Nayaproosh!

	oh, brother! am i the dashing hero! Smisson thought suddenly.

	The captain was all right; there was a lump on his head, but it was nothing serious. From what Smisson could gather, one of the goons had hit him from behind and then the pair had tried to rob Fra Ryner.

	but where did a mugger get a pistol? Smisson asked himself. He answered the question before he could say anything aloud. One glance told him that the captain's holster was empty.

	He picked the weapon from where it had fallen and handed it back to the dazed officer. Then he turned to the Burkfra.

	"Where art thou going?"

	"I am to the home going. The car is but two blocks from here."

	"Guarded?"

	"Naturally. The other two of my bodyguards are therein."

	"Excellent. If the captain will thee walk with there, I will thee some paces behind for protection follow," Smisson volunteered.

	"Our thanks. It is a good plan," the Burkfra smiled. "Come thee, Captain."

	It was less than five minutes walk, and absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happened.

	When they reached the car, there was some excitement when the captain told the other two officers what had happened.

	With a pleasant smile, Fra Ryner asked: "What is the name? Thou art a Broklanian, by thy speech and clothing. And—" she added, "by thy weapon."

	He told her who he was.

	"Ah. So." Her smile was dazzling. "You must permit us to drive you to the Advisory, good sir."

	He noticed that she had used the Genedekish personal "da" instead of the most formal "zay" in the second person singular.

	That meant one of two things. Either she was insulting him, or she was telling him she liked him. Somehow, Smisson did not think it was the former.

	"It is not necessary, good lady. My car at the Konistross lot is parked."

	"Get in," she held the door open. "We will take you."

	Smisson did as he was told. The woman said nothing more to him as they drove, and Smisson felt a little piqued. Not because of her silence, but because she hadn't recognized him. Evidently he hadn't made much of an impression when he had met her at the Imperial Ball eight months before.

	He consoled himself with the thought that the moonlight was, after all, very dim.

	All the way to the parking lot, he kept wondering whether she would ask what in the devil a high Broklanian Advisory officer was doing out on the streets of Nayaproosh at this time of night, but either the question never occurred to her or she didn't think it polite to ask.

	At the lot, he got out of the car and thanked her.

	"It is I who should give the thanks," she said softly. "It is I who had the life saved."

	She offered her hand, and he took it gravely. She squeezed quickly and withdrew. "Goodnight, Ur Smisson," she whispered. Then the captain drove on, and she was gone.

	wow! Smisson thought dazedly, what a night! and what a woman!

-

VII

	Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!

	"it will take seven years, according to the computation," the controller said, "but the work is dangerous—very dangerous—"

	"i don't mind—i think i can do it myself—the conditioning, I mean—"

	"no, not completely, the change is too—"

	Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!

	"—too much alone, my dear." (the controller had suddenly become a woman) "you must accept my help."

	"but you can't sweetheart! there is danger!"

	there is danger! danger!

	PINGPINGPINGPINGPING-PINGPING!

	Smisson lifted his head groggily from the pillow. The damned phone was ringing! And on urgent, too.

	"Yes?" he called sleepily. There was no answer: his voice had been pitched too low. "Yes?" he said again.

	The phone clicked, and Gorse's image swam into view.

	"Smisson! What's the matter? I've been calling you for ten minutes!"

	Smisson sat up on the edge of the bed. "Sorry. I stayed up late last night. What time is it?"

	"The eighth hour. I know it's early, but this is urgent."

	"What's up?"

	"The Burkmiser has decided to produce his proof. And if you ask me, it's damned convincing. His car pulled up fifteen minutes ago with a load of ice in the trunk. And a rather gruesome monster in the ice.

	"He says it's the pilot of the alien ship. Get up to the autopsy room fast."

	Smisson was already dressing by the time Gorse cut the circuit.

	Five minutes later, he was sprinting across the Advisory compound toward the Medical Building, and three minutes after that, he was in the autopsy ward.

	Gorse was waiting for him. "Come on," he said, "the thing is in room four." He turned and stalked heavily down the corridor.

	There were ten or twelve people in room four. Smisson knew most of them, but two figures in particular caught his interest. One was the head physician, Dr. Cordie; The other was Ur Koll Ryner, de Burkmiser f'Nayaproosh.

	Gorse was heading for them, so Smisson brought up in the rear.

	"Ur Burkmiser, you know our Technical Advisor Smisson, do you not?"

	"I do indeed. How are you, Ur Smisson?" His voice had the cool friendliness of a diplomat's, nothing more.

	He was a big man, a good four inches taller than Smisson, and a good deal wider across the shoulders. His blond hair was cropped close to his skull, and the friendliness of his smile was belied by the dark coldness of his blue eyes.

	"I'm glad to see your excellency again," Smisson said cordially.

	i wonder if he knows what happened last night?

	maybe he does—and maybe he doesn't—it might be that she wasn't supposed to be out roaming the streets—

	Then, quite suddenly, the Burk-miser's left eyes closed in a solemn wink. Smisson realized that neither Gorse nor Dr. Cordie could see the left eye.

	"Well, let's go over and take a look at the thing," Gorse said. "Dr. Cordie wants to get to work with a scalpel."

	Everybody crowded around the shrouded form on the operating table, and Dr. Cordie had to ask them to stand back. He was a fussy man; the tall, lean, old-maidish type.

	As though he were unveiling a statue, he pulled off the rough Genedekish canvas in which the thing was wrapped. There was a soft gasp that came from all over the room.

	The six cameras that had been set up around the table were cut in, and Dr. Cordie began to speak into the microphone for the record. He'd been doing that sort of thing for years, and he was good at it; he addressed his remarks to whoever might review the film later.

	"As you can see, the being is somewhat smaller than a man, although definitely manlike in shape. This clothing—" He turned to the Burkmiser. "I assume, Ur Burkmiser, that this is the clothing you found on the cadaver?"

	"It is."

	"Thank you. The clothing consists of a tight-fitting shirt of a bright red color, a pair of tight trousers of the same color, and a pair of blue boots, into which the trousers are tucked.

	"Notice the peculiar construction of the boot. It is more like a mitten than a foot covering, and the material is quite pliable.

	"Let's see if we can remove the clothing."

	The remark was purely rhetorical, but it had more meaning than the doctor suspected.

	There was a seam running down the front of the suit, and the doctor examined it for fastenings. There weren't any.

	"This is odd; perhaps it would be better to cut the clothing off and try to unfasten it—later."

	He took a scalpel and went to work on the cloth at the neck. After a full minute of hard cutting, there was a small nick in the fabric,

	"My word!" said Cordie feelingly.

	"Why don't you try that belt, Doctor?" Smisson asked.

	The belt did it. When Cordie unfastened it, the whole seam up and down the front opened up. It turned out that the alien was wearing a one-piece coverall.

	The being was apparently a female.

	The boots slid off easily, and the whole of the monster was exposed to view.

	"The purpose of the boots," Dr. Cordie said, "can now be seen. The feet are equipped for grasping. Observe the long great toe, which is opposed, thumblike.

	"The skin is quite dark and totally hairless.

	"The face is, perhaps, the most striking feature of the being. (Close-up on number four, please.) As you can see the jaw is considerably longer and the brow ridge is much more pronounced than that of a human. The teeth—" He pulled the lower jaw down, and another gasp could be heard in the room. "—the teeth are longer and sharper than those of a human. I should say that the animal was carnivorous in life."

	Smisson watched carefully as the doctor examined the rest of the cadaver. Cordie finally picked up a scalpel and began the dissection with an abdominal incision. After a few minutes, he announced that the monster was definitely a functional female.

	There were several whispered comments around the room at this news. Gorse murmured: "A matriarchal society might be pretty hard to deal with."

	To Smisson's surprise, the Burkmiser said: "I agree. We certainly could not deal with them on logical terms alone. I fear we shall have to fight."

-

VIII

	It was nearly four hours later that Dr. Cordie announced that any further work would have to be done microscopically and serologically. The show broke up.

	Smisson, Gorse, and the Burkmiser went straight to Gorse's office, where they sat down in a trio of big easy chairs. The two Broklanians waited for the Genedeker to talk.

	He was not in the least hesitant about doing so. "Gentlemen," he said, pulling an envelope out of a jacket pocket, "I have here a commission drawn up by the Grand Council of the Nine Burks of Genedek and signed by His Imperial Majesty, de Konik f'n Genedek, which authorizes me to speak for the council in this matter. In other words—" He handed over the paper. "—I make the terms."

	"I see," said Gorse, glancing over the document.

	"I presume you are convinced that the ship is of alien origin?" the Burkmiser asked.

	Gorse had to admit that he was, and Smisson nodded his head.

	"Very well, then, here's what we want. One: your power source. We know that no ordinary power supply could lift a ship off a planet, much less take it to the stars."

	Gorse and Smisson exchanged glances. So the Genedekers had figured out the existence of atomic energy, eh?

	"Two: Armament. We want to know how to manufacture energy weapons.

	"Three: The starship drive. We want full particulars on how to build and maintain our own fleet of interstellar ships.

	"Four: Medicine—"

	The Burkmiser's voice went on and on. When he had finished, Gorse looked at him in silence for a moment.

	Finally, Gorse said: "I'm afraid it can't be done, Ur Burkmiser. You don't seem to understand that these things can't just be given to you like a handful of coins. It would take years—decades!"

	The nobleman looked at him coldly. "You refuse, then?"

	"Look here, your excellency," Gorse said. "We are convinced that the ship is alien, all right, but how do we know that it contains anything we don't have? How can we be sure that there is any superior science represented?"

	"Let us look at the ship—investigate it. Then, if there is sufficient reason to suppose that it represents a danger to Genedek and to the Federation, we will have to take emergency steps. But to simply throw this technology on the Genedekish markets—like you seem to think we should—would disrupt the whole Genedekish economy system.

	"I think Smisson will back me up on that."

	Smisson frowned. "It would take time, all right."

	"Very well, gentlemen," the Burkmiser said, rising 'from his chair, "it appears we have reached a stalemate. I'll let you think it over. Good day."

	Without another word, he walked out the door.

	"He's just like Mulla," Gorse said heavily. "And just like all Genedekers—stubborn to the last."

	"Well, what next?" Smisson wanted to know.

	Gorse spread his hands eloquently. "I have a little plan in mind. As soon as I can fit the pieces together properly, I'll let you know."

	Smisson interpreted this, correctly, as a dismissal.

	"Okay. I'm going out to get a bite of lunch."

	He thought he knew where he could get his lunch free.

	Outside, he climbed into his car and drove slowly around the streets of Nayaproosh to allow the Burkmiser plenty of time to get home. It was a good half hour later when he pulled up in front of the great walled castle where the ruler of the Burk of Nayaproosh lived.

	He parked his car outside and strode to the sentry on duty.

	"Please announce thee to the Ur. Burkmiser, Ur Gar Smisson," he said in Genedekish. The sentry picked up a handphone and called in. There was a moment of conversation, and finally the sentry said: "The Ur Burkmiser is expecting thee. Go thee through the main entrance, sir."

	The Burkmiser was not only expecting him; he was actually smiling when Smisson met him in the cavernous front hall.

	"Come, Ur Smisson! You're just in time for lunch!"

	Smisson smiled inwardly at his own cleverness. "I'll admit, frankly, that I'm starved, Excellency," he said aloud.

	"Then this morning's autopsy did not upset your digestion?"

	"Not in the least."

	As they ascended the great stone stairway, the nobleman's smile became a bit sardonic. "I fear I must apologize, my friend. We do not have elevators here." 

	" 'Exercise is good, not only for the body, but for the soul'," Smisson quoted.

	The Burkmiser's laugh was a short, sharp bark. "I see you read our literature. I shall consider myself squelched and go on to other subjects.

	"I want to thank you for saving Ilda's life last night. I said nothing in front of your superior in case you did not want it known that you were—ah—shall we say —pursuing the night life of Nayaproosh."

	"It was nothing, I assure you," Smisson replied, trying to inject just the proper amount of modesty into his voice.

	"Ah, nothing to you, perhaps, but a great deal to me."

	They had reached the upper floor and entered the big dining room. Suddenly, there was a burst of noise from the adjoining room; a door burst open, and two children, a boy and a girl, ran toward them shouting: "Vada! Vada! De Mooda ez—"

	"Shh! Shh! Be thee quiet, children!" cautioned the nobleman. "We the visitor have!"

	He introduced them solemnly to Smisson. "Ur Smisson, this is my eldest and my heir, Onz. And this is my sweetheart, Borta."

	Smisson shook hands gravely.

	"Have you eaten, children?" the Burkmiser asked.

	"Iah!" they chorused.

	"Very well, then. Go and play. Father has much business."

	They left with all the energy of a pair of hurricanes.

	"How old are they?" Smisson asked conversationally.

	"Onz is ten, Borta eight. It's amazing how they tackled to Ilda."

	"What? Isn't—?"

	"Oh. I thought you knew. My first wife died when Borta was born." The nobleman was almost apologetic. "I married Ilda a year later."

	Smisson could only say: "I see."

	At lunch, Smisson found that the Burkmiser did not go in for much pomp and ceremony. A servant set the table and brought in the meal. Smisson had long since grown used to Genedekish table-wear, and handled it as well as the implements he was accustomed to on Broklan.

	During the meal, they engaged in small talk, but after it was over, and the table had been cleared, the Burkmiser leaned back in his chair and said:

	"I presume you came here on business, Ur Smisson. May I ask what it is?"

	"Certainly. I have—" He stopped. Ilda had just come in the door.

	"Hello, darling. And good day to you, Ur Smisson," she said, smiling. "I did not know we had a guest."

	"Come in, my dear," said the Burkmiser. "Ur Smisson and I were about to discuss our mutual problem." He turned to Smisson. "I hope it will be all right for my wife to listen; she has quite a good head on her, and often helps me with problems of state."

	"An honor," said Smisson, rising. "I "should have known that one so beautiful would also be possessed of other qualities equally valuable."

	Ilda seated herself. "Do go on, Ur Smisson."

	The Burkmiser grinned. "Do you mean that he should go on with the flattery, Ilda, or with the business?"

	"The business, my dear. I get quite enough flattery."

	Smisson swallowed uncomfortably and wished he had kept his' mouth shut. "I would like it understood, Ur Burkmiser, that I can not speak officially for the government of Broklan nor for the Advisory. I came as a friend."

	"Very well. I accept that."

	"Fine. Then I have a proposition to make."

-

IX

	"First," said Smisson, "I want you to remember how long it took to build all the factories that are on Genedek. "The first automobile plant took twenty years. After that, of course, the others were easier to build, but the first—twenty years.

	"The tidal power plants took almost as long, and even now they do not turn out enough power to light the homes of every citizen. The expense is terrific, as you well know. 

	"But what I'm emphasizing here is not a matter of expense, but of time. You have to have the tools to build the tools. To build a spaceship, if we started right now to help you, and gave you everything available, would take thirty-five years at least.

	"Gorse was being perfectly honest when he said that at this stage, Genedek can not absorb all the technology that Broklan can give her."

	"Then we are at a stalemate," the Burkmiser shrugged.

	"Not necessarily. I have an idea. Suppose a treaty were negotiated which would permit Genedekish students to be educated in schools on Broklan, with full rights as Broklanian citizens.

	"Also, you would ask for transportation rights on Broklanian vessels."

	The Burkmiser frowned. "I don't quite see—"

	"Certainly, my dear," Ilda interrupted. "That way, there would be no way for the Broklanians to hide anything from us.

	"I have only one suggestion. In order to make sure that we could have students there, the treaty should specify that a certain number of students would be accepted, and that their transportation fee would be within a certain set figure."

	"That, too," Smisson agreed.

	"Of course, you realize that the Teknigesheft would object violently to this proposal?" the nobleman commented.

	Smisson nodded. "That, I fear, is your problem."

	"Do you think, then, that Ur Gorse would agree to such a treaty?"

	"Not immediately, but eventually," Smisson said. "Let him stew in his own juice for a while. Bring it up later."

	"Tell me, Ur Smisson," the Burkmiser said suavely, "why do you tell us all this? What interest is it of yours to tell us what sort of treaty would be the best and the most acceptable?"

	"I'll tell you what my interest is. Quite frankly, I'm afraid of those aliens. I don't think it should be necessary for you to have to threaten us to get what you deserve from Broklan. This is, in my opinion, an emergency.

	"But it takes a kick in the pants for some of these red tape handlers to see that the defense of Genedek against alien invaders is a problem that requires the complete co-operation of not only Broklan and Genedek, but all the other planets of the Federation."

	"I see. What do you think, Ilda?"

	"I think Ur Smisson is right. I think you should take the plan to Ur Gorse as soon as you—or Ur Smisson—thinks he will be ripe."

	Smisson glanced at his watch. "Well, I'll have to be getting back to the Advisory. Thanks for the lunch, your excellency."

	"Do come again," Ilda said softly.

-

X

	As he drove back toward the Advisory, Smisson consciously brought back to mind what the friend/stranger had said to him the night before.

	"Doesn't it seem strange to you that the planets of the Federation haven't progressed any farther than they have in a thousand years? After all, they didn't lose everything during the Colonial Interregnum."

	"Two things kept them back. Too much pressure from their environment, and no war. Until a culture realizes that research for the sake of knowledge alone is worth the effort and time and money spent, the only way to advance technology is to enforce it by war.

	"The environments of the so-called Earthlike planets were tough to fight, but you don't progress rapidly when you're fighting things that have no intelligence. If you get a slight edge, you're content to let it stay that way.

	"You find a poison that kills insects without killing everything else in the vicinity, and you start spraying. Not until the only insects remaining are those immune to the poison do you go to the trouble of inventing another poison. There is no all-out war; only a delaying action.

	"Why? Because the enemy isn't trying to outsmart you.

	"The various planets of the Federation had to fight petty criminals and even organized gangs during their formative years. There were even small revolutions. But they found out early in their history that war didn't pay; if they took out the time to fight each other, the planet would take over.

	"It was a split in the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse with Famine, Pestilence, and Death tromping all over War before he could even get his horse started.

	"There was a parallel society a long time-ago on Earth; the Eskimos. They had individual fights, and tribal quarrels over hunting and fishing rights, but they were too busy looking for food and fighting the cold to have a real war."

	And Smisson had said: "Then the only reason Broklan got where it is was through the records left on the Sealed Ship by the First Colonists?"

	"Right. Broklan was originally settled, not by colonists, but by the survivors of a scientific expedition. The ship was sealed when those men realized that the information in it could not be used for many generations. They sealed the ship in such a way that only a competent knowledge of electronics would enable anyone to open the door. The ship's hull couldn't have been breached by any but civilized and advanced methods. No savage or barbarian could have done it.

	"But that heritage, without the proper impetus behind it, has actually caused Broklan to stagnate. They don't do much real research. They're trying to solve some of the old problems left behind in the Sealed Ship, but they haven't progressed as they should have in the past eighty years.

	"If one planet—just one—had balked at Broklanian domination, the whole Federation would have been in an uproar. But these centuries of enforced peace are a heritage they've never forgotten. It never occurs to any large group to take anything by force. A few lazy individuals may become thieves, but if any large segment of the population begins to suffer from a lack of the necessities of life, it means that the environment is beginning to get the best of them. And if the battle against the planet is being lost in one place, it can spread quickly. The rest of the society is forced to come to the rescue whether they want to or not.

	"At the same time, they don't dare give too much or they'll lose out themselves. It's a check and balance system; give a little, but not too much.

	"So Broklan found that conquest was easy. The Broklanians landed, introduced themselves, and took over. They said they were there to help, and the natives believed them. After all didn't the more fortunate always help their needier brothers?

	"And keep it in mind that Broklan believes that fantasy, too. They had, and still have, every intention of helping their fellow men. But they have the wrong attitude; they have developed a maternalistic feeling about the colonies.

	"Don't let junior play with matches, he might burn the house down. The house, in this case, is the Federation.

	"But the natives of the various planets got wise to this pretty quickly; they knew that the guy who comes to help doesn't necessarily give you everything he's got. It's an automatic habit of this culture. The peoples of the various colonies differ in a lot of ways, but in that respect, they think alike.

	"Just as, in the old days, they had aided their friends by giving them a little food, but keeping most of it hidden away, they now gave a little knowledge and kept the vast majority hidden. They didn't realize the essential difference between the two.

	"So now the Federation is actually growing stale. It really isn't a federation except in name. They called it that eighty years ago because it promised a bright new future. But Broklan couldn't break a habit of eight centuries in eight decades.

	"Therefore, the only way to break that habit is to break it by force!"

	By force. The friend/stranger had emphasized the point. And now—

	and now, by god, the force is being applied—broklan and genedek are in for something they've never foreseen— 

	War!

-

XI

	Smisson lay quietly in bed. He had had only a few hours sleep the night before, had worked like a madman all afternoon, and here it was, nearly midnight. And he wasn't sleeping.

	In the thirty days that had passed since the landing of the alien ship, the affairs of the Advisory had come almost to a standstill. The data on Project Search had been filed in the memory banks of the great master computer, but nobody had bothered to look at it.

	Of vastly greater importance was the affair of "The Burkmiser's Spaceship." His excellency still refused to allow anyone but Genedekers aboard it, and nobody at the Advisory seemed to know what, if anything, the Teknigesheft had discovered about the vessel.

	Gorse was inclined to doubt that the native technicians could make anything out of whatever equipment the aliens had unwittingly placed in their hands. After all, hadn't the members of the Teknigesheft been selected for their lack of creative ability? But Smisson had put a bee in his bonnet by pointing out that a problem in analysis was the direct opposite of a problem in synthesis.

	And Gorse's hope that the alien ship contained nothing new to Broklanian science had been utterly destroyed by the old coverall suit that Dr. Cordie had removed from the monster's body. The seam that ran down the front seemed to be controlled by something in the belt buckle which held the edges magnetically, and the cloth itself was of some incredibly tough plastic.

	Smisson paced the floor.

	At least the chaos of his own mind had settled somewhat. In the atmosphere of growing tension, he had found his own mental processes actually becoming clearer, faster.

	He glanced around the room. He felt nervous, edgy. He—

	The thing came in the window at that point.

	It took only one glance for Smisson to recognize it. He grabbed at the dresser, where he had laid his Lindurst an hour before. The thing had barely moved more than a few feet when the hot, hissing beam from the energy weapon hit it full in the chest. It kept on coming, and for a moment Smisson almost panicked. Then he realized that the beast really was dead; it was the floating motion that gave the effect of life.

	Nevertheless, he kept his weapon out and his eyes on the floating corpse as he pressed the EMERGENCY switch on the visiphone. Somewhere off in the distance, an alarm bell clanged.

	"Security Department here!" said the voice from the phone. "What is it Advisor?"

	Smisson didn't even bother looking at the face on the screen; he watched the floating corpse and said: "I don't know! Get some men up here in a hurry! And get hold of Advisor Gorse! Snap it up!"

	It took less than two minutes. Four Security men piled into the room with drawn weapons, and even when they saw that Smisson had the situation under complete control, they were reluctant to re-holster their guns.

	"What happened, sir?" asked one of the officers.

	Smisson gestured with the Lindurst. "That thing came in the window; I fired before it could do anything."

	The officer looked at the dead alien hanging easily in the air. "What—what's holding it up?" he asked in a strangled voice.

	"I don't know. Here." He handed his gun to the Security man nearest him and walked over to where the alien hung. Its feet failed to touch the floor by a good two feet, which put its head on a level with Smisson's own.

	Warily, Smisson circled the beast. Nothing happened.

	Finally, he put a hand on the alien's shoulder and pushed down. There was a definite resistance, as though he were pressing on a Spring. When the being's feet finally touched the floor, Smisson released his hold. The alien drifted back up to its former height and stayed there.

	Then Smisson tried lifting. The body was fairly light, but it wasn't weightless. Smisson lifted it a couple of feet, then dropped it. Again the same level was reached and maintained.

	Smisson! What the devil's—"My God." It was Gorse. "What happened? Quickly!"

	Smisson swung around to face his superior, who was still standing by the door in his nightdress. He described what had happened as concisely as possible.

	Gorse walked over to the window and looked out. "But how could it get up here? You're six floors from the ground, and there's nothing it could hang on to!"

	"I'll show you, said Smisson confidently. He grabbed an arm of the dead alien and led it across the floor as one would a child—or as one would pull a balloon.

	"If you'll notice," he said, "the feet are on a level with the window sill. Look." Still keeping a hold on the arm, he pushed the corpse out the window. It floated quietly.

	"See that pack on its back? I'll bet anything it's some kind of gravity-nullifying mechanism. It's probably set for some definite height—or, rather, some definite distance from the planet's center of gravity."

	"Why did you kill it?" Gorse asked. "We might have got some information out of it alive."

	Smisson looked sourly at his superior's heavily-jowled face. "What would you do if that thing came floating in the window at you? Ask it to tea? Or call a Security agent to please come get it and lead it to a nice, cozy cell?"

	Gorse looked at the corpse ruefully. "I suppose you're right." He paused for a moment, an odd look in his eye. "Do you realize what a find this is? Antigravity! We'll have to get that thing down to the lab right away!" 

	Smisson looked at him coldly. "Do you realize what its presence here means? Gorse—that thing was spying on us!" Gorse paled a little, and Smisson went on. "How many others are there out there, floating around in the dark? What have they found out already?"

	The leader of the squad of Security men was quick on the uptake. Smisson had hardly finished before the officer was at the phone, barking orders. Within seconds, the Advisory area was ablaze with lights and spotlights were probing the air.

-

XII

	"It's operation is simple," Smisson said. "The height control knob is here, with this vernier for adjustment to a fraction of an inch." He shrugged into the harness and demonstrated by floating up to the level of the table top.

	"Once the balance point has been achieved, the object is maintained at that point. The energy loss or gain is—"

	A head stuck itself through the laboratory door. "Advisor Smisson? Chief Gorse would like to have you come up to his office right away."

	"Right. Tell him I'll be there shortly." He lowered himself to the floor and cut off the power. "Well, there it is." He handed the alien device to one of the research men who had been watching the demonstration. "That, gentlemen, is Problem Number One. Find out how that belt works."

	He walked out of the room and headed toward Gorse's office.

	Gorse was waiting for him. With him was Burkmiser f'Nayaproosh. Both of them looked uneasy.

	"The Burkmiser's seen that thing you shot last night," Gorse said. "And I've seen the one he brought in."

	"Another one?"

	The Burkmiser nodded. "This one was in the streets. It looked as though it had dropped from a very great height."

	Smisson sat down. "Well, gentlemen, what are we going to do?"

	Gorse shrugged massively. "There is hardly any question, is there? We have already come to terms on a treaty.

	"Our whole trouble lies in the lack of communication with Broklan. If the aliens try anything drastic before the ship comes, we'll have to hold them off ourselves. We don't know anything about them. We have no idea what they want. We can't—" He stopped himself abruptly when he realized that his voice was beginning to sound panicky.

	"The point is that I'd like to put you in charge of all manufacturing—provided, of course, that his Imperial Majesty will okay the deal.

	"Meanwhile, we are going to fly to Oslin. De Konik is calling a meeting of the Grand Council of the Nine Burks, and we're to be there."

	Oslin was the capitol of the planet—or, at least, the inhabited portions of the island chains. His Imperial Majesty de Konik f'n Genedek was almost a rubber stamp as far as ruling the planet went, but his signature was needed on every document passed by the Council of Nine.

	Smisson said: "When do we leave?"

	"Immediately." It was the Burkmiser who answered. "Ur Gorse has so kindly asked us to be flown in his machine."

	"Who all's going?"

	"Four of us," Gorse answered. "You and I and the Burkmiser and his wife. You'd better pack a bag. Meet us at the landing in half an hour."

	"Right."

	Half an hour later, the craft was lifting from the broad roof of the Administration Building and climbing toward the sky in the north.

	Smisson wondered vaguely why the Burkmiser had brought Ilda along. A woman might help her husband in affairs of state, but it seemed odd that she should wield so much influence in the Burk-miser's life. Still, perhaps it was better that—

	"Is my hair mussed, Ur Smisson?"

	"What?"

	"I asked," Ilda repeated, "if my hair were mussed. You were looking at me so peculiarly."

	"Oh. Was I? I'm sorry. I have so many things on my mind. I wasn't really looking at you."

	"You weren't? Am I that unattractive?"

	The Burkmiser had been watching the byplay. "You will find Ur Smisson, that that is a favorite trick of Genedekish women. They put a man on a fence and then push and pull at him until-he falls. And no matter which side he falls on, he gets hurt."

	"That doesn't just apply to Genedekish women," Smisson grinned. "It happens to be the favorite conversational gambit of the female fifty percent of the whole human race."

	Ilda burst into laughter. "It is a nasty trap, isn't it? No matter what you say, you're wrong."

	That set Smisson to thinking.

	The airship landed on the tiny landing field just outside the Imperial City on the island of Oslin, and the four were driven to the Grand Palace by a car sent out to meet them.

	The driver, a tall, straight young man in the uniform of the Imperial Guard, opened the door for them and said in Genedekish: "His majesty would like immediately the Ur Burkmiser and the Ur Chief Advisor to see. It is not expected that the nine full council will be in less than four days here."

	"Four days, eh?" said Gorse as he settled himself in the cushions. "I hope we can get started drafting tentative plans before that."

	"We can, I'm sure, Ur Advisor," the Burkmiser said.

	Smisson noticed that both of them looked worried and a little frightened.

	Ilda was saying: "Tell me, Ur Smisson, why didn't the Broklanian government build the Advisory here on Oslin instead of on Nayaproosh?"

	"For the same reason that the First Colonists landed on Nayaproosh. The island is fairly large and flat, and therefore affords a good place for a spaceport. As you know, we've had to do quite a bit of work on the present site, but it still isn't as level as the city.

	"Very likely, the level area between the Swartstross, in the north of the city, and the Undelstross, in the south, an area of about three square miles, is the natural flat upon which the First Colonists of Genedek landed."

	"Neither of you two seem to be very interested in this crisis," Gorse said testily.

	Ilda looked at and through him. "I hardly think it necessary to brood about it all the time, Ur Gorse. When the time comes to act, I can assure you there will be plenty of action."

-

XIII

	During the four days that it took for the Burkmisers of Genedek to arrive by sea—very few owned aircraft—both Gorse and Smisson kept in contact by phone with the Advisory at Nayaproosh.

	On the first day, an agreement was made with his majesty that, since the proposed treaty would almost certainly be acceptable to the Council, Broklanian and Genedekish technologists would be permitted to study the ship at Nayaproosh beginning immediately.

	On the second day, Subadvisor Ormsly called to report on the antigravity device.

	"Well, we've done it now. We finally got that case open, but now the thing won't work."

	Smisson frowned. "Break it opening it?"

	Ormsly looked puzzled. "No, that's the funny thing. We decided to open it because it just suddenly quit working. One of the men dropped about ten feet when it went out. There isn't anything inside that makes sense at all. It seems to be a haphazard mess of useless gimmiks."

	"Keep working on it. We'll want a detailed report later."

	On the third day, Subadvisor Alavar called. "Chief, this is important! Look at this!" He held up what seemed to be a piece of aluminum foil. "The spaceship! It's corroding! Look!" He tapped the edge of the piece of metal. There was a small crackling sound, and the metal fell into a thousand sparkling pieces. "That's part of the hull."

	"Great Heavens! How long has that been going on?"

	"Ur Mulla said he noticed it several days ago. The stuff is peeling from the outside of the hull in thin layers like this, then it becomes brittle and falls apart."

	"What is the metal? Have, you analyzed it?"	

	"Sure. It seems to be an alloy of tin and magnesium."

	Smisson thought a moment. "It might be the air or the moisture in the air. Look, get a spray gun and go over the hull from stem to stern with heavy lacquer. That ought to do it."

	"Right, chief. Oh, by the way, the metal is also very slightly radioactive."

	"Mmmmm. Well, see what you can do. But, above all, we don't want that ship to fall apart on us! Get to work with that spray gun!"

	Ormsly cut off, and Smisson leaned back with a grim smile.

	The Council meeting took place on the afternoon of the fourth day, but Smisson didn't attend. He excused himself on the grounds that he had to stay in touch with the Advisory until he was actually needed by the Council; it seemed that, in spite of the spray job, the alien spaceship was really going to pieces. One of the man had actually hurt himself by sticking his foot through the floor.

	But that wasn't Smisson's real reason. There were some questions he wanted to answer for himself. Several things had come to his attention; things that he had never questioned before.

	He wrote them down first. The list read:

	Who was behind the organization of the Froygeshejt, the Genedekish Freedom Party?

	When was it organized?

	Why did the Burkmiser f'Nayaproosh decide to use the alien ship as a bargaining point against Broklan?

	Why have I followed the instructions of an unknown (?) person so closely without asking questions?

	Why am I so interested in seeing Broklan's power over Genedek broken?

	Am I a Broklanian?

	Smisson paused over the last question and looked at it for several minutes before he finally wrote:

	Am I an Earthman?

	And his mind dug deep into his hidden memories and came up with an answer:

	No. You most definitely are not an Earthman!

	Looking at the thing from an objective viewpoint, it would seem that his actions were being controlled by some outside influence. It was as though he had been hypnotized and the post-hypnotic suggestions were forcing him to do things he would not have done previously and which he did not realize he was going to do until he found himself doing them.

	And yet, from his own subjective viewpoint, he felt that all of his actions had been predetermined by himself at some time in the past and then forgotten until the time came to utilize the decision. And, unlike post hypnotic suggestion, the actions were capable of variations, depending on the circumstances. The important thing seemed to be, not the actions themselves, but the end results.

	He knew too much, and he knew too little. He knew who and what he was not, but he did not know who or what he was. Still, it seemed that he had exactly the right amount of knowledge to carry out his plans. But what those plans were, or who had formed them, or when, he did not know.

	Wait a minute! Think it out! Sure he knew who had thought out those plans! And when!

	The plans were his own, that much was obvious. And he must have decided upon them at some time previous to the seven years of true memories that were available to his conscious mind.

	All of which indicated—

	The long-distance phone chimed again. Smisson cut it in. It was Alavar this time. In the absence of both Gorse and Smisson, he was acting head of the Advisory. He looked as though he had just been run through a washing-machine, but his voice was excited.

	"Smisson! The ISS-12 wants to talk to Advisor Gorse!"

	"The WHAT?"

	"The ship—from home! From Broklan!"

	"What the devil are they doing here now? They aren't due back for better than three hundred days!"

	"I know! They won't tell me anything. Maybe they'll talk to you!"

	"Put them on the beam; I'll see."

-

XIV

	The face that faded into the screen was that of Ship's Officer Rost, whom Smisson had met several years before. He seemed terribly grim.

	"Advisor Smisson? I'd like to speak to Chief Advisor Gorse, if I could."

	"Gorse is in meeting with the Grand Council of Genedek, Officer Rost. I am in command."

	"I see. Very well. We orbited ten minutes ago, and—is this beam sealed?"

	"Just a second." Smisson pressed in one corner of the screen. "All sealed. Go ahead."

	"Very well. I left Broklan four weeks ago to deliver the following dispatch. You'd better record." –

	"I am."

	"The dispatch reads:

	To All Advisors: The Federation of Broklan declares, as of 5/5/749, that a state of Utmost Emergency exists. In the past three months, a species of intelligent alien has been found to have landed on and committed acts of espionage on the planets of Sengai, Tayksos, Cardigon, and Vairda.

	Since these aliens have in no way attempted friendly contact with humanity, it must be assumed that their intentions are unfriendly.

	Therefore, for the preservation of the Federation, all Advisors are hereby notified that production of material must be stepped up immediately. Educational programs now in effect will be discarded for a program of full and open education for all citizens. Negotiations will be made with the heads of the governments of the respective planets for the use of such privately owned factories as may be available.

	In addition, each Advisory, with the guidance of the Department of Security, will organize a Planetary Guard, to be made up of the citizens of the individual planets according to Directive 13-442 which will be distributed.

	Until further notice, interstellar travel will be restricted to those on urgent government business.

	Advisors now nearing the close of their terms of office are hereby reappointed indefinitely.

	Interstellar ships will henceforth contact each planet once each month for the distribution of Directives and the receipt of reports for the Home Office.

-

	"It is signed," the Officer finished, "by the Minister of Broklan."

	Smisson felt something welling up deep within him, but he held it back sharply. "You can add another planet to that list, Rost."

	"What? They've been here, too?"

	Smisson nodded, trying to keep from showing the emotion that was boiling up inside him. "They've been here, too," he said quietly.

	Rost leaned closer to his pick-up and spoke excitedly.

	"My orders were to orbit around Genedek, read off the dispatch and run off the high-speed records of the various directives so that I could go on to Rumma. But I think this takes precedence over anything else. Have you captured any of the aliens?"

	"Not alive," Smisson answered, trying to keep himself calm.

	"Ah, you have corpses, then. Excellent. Any artifacts?"

	"A few," nodded Smisson. "If they haven't deteriorated."

	"Smisson, we will land at Nayaproosh in—" he consulted his wristwatch, "—in four hours. Can you get hold of Advisor Gorse?"

	"We'll be there," Smisson said fighting to keep his nerves under control. 

	"Good. I will see you then." The screen went blank.

	Smisson almost exploded. He laughed until the tears came, and kept on laughing.

	Five minutes later, he was still laughing.

-

XV

	As soon as he could calm down, Smisson got in touch with Gorse.

	The Chief Advisor was reminding the Grand Council of Genedek that he could not guarantee that the Home Office on Broklan would validate the treaty, but that as long as there was no word—for the next three hundred days, in other words, he would personally see to it that the Teknigesheft was supplied with such information as would be—

	That was where Smisson interrupted him to whisper that not only would Broklan back him up, it had anticipated him.

	The news was met with a general approbation from the council floor, the treaty was ratified, and the Grand Council was dismissed to committee. Only the Burkmiser f'Nayaproosh decided to go home. He had been reappointed as liaison officer between the Government of Genedek and the Broklanian Advisory.

	"That, I believe," said the Burkmiser as the plane lifted toward Nayaproosh, "was one of the shortest agreements on record for the Grand Council, Usually the Mountain Islanders balk at every proposal from the Equatorials."

	"And the other way around," Ilda said, smiling.

	Gorse seemed sunk in deep thought. Staring out the window, he said: "It's going to be long and hard. We don't know where they come from, so we can't carry the fight to their home planet, while they can and probably will carry it to ours.

	"We are faced with one of the greatest crises that has ever faced the human race—that of survival.

	"We—What the devil is that?" He sat up suddenly, and pointed out the window.

	"That" was a large silver sphere floating in the air several hundred yards to the left of the aircraft and obviously heading toward the plane.

	There was no doubt in any one of their minds as to the object's identity. The pilot hit his throttle and gunned the engines—to no avail. The featureless sphere gained steadily.

	Suddenly, the lights went out in the ship. The engines coughed and died. The pilot dead-sticked the craft down to the choppy surface of the Genedekish sea and glided to a smooth landing on the boat-like hull.

	By this time, the three men had their weapons out. Smisson and Gorse had Lindursts and the Burk-miser was wielding a heavy caliber lead-thrower. They waited.

	The alien ship settled down slowly, less than ten yards from the disabled aircraft. An oval port in the side of the sphere opened. It was dark inside; nothing showed.

	Then, slowly, a long, tubelike thing poked it's nose out of the door. The end of it was only three inches in diameter, but it looked deadly. A faint humming came from inside the ship.

	Gorse fired. The silence was broken by the crackle of ionized air as the hot beam washed over the alien weapon and died. Smisson's fire joined Gorse's.

	The tube in the alien ship glowed faintly and greenishly. Chief Advisor Gorse slumped to the floor of the plane's cabin, unmoving.

	The crackle of another Lindurst came from the front of the plane, heavier, and louder than Smisson's firing. The pilot was using a semi-portable.

	The Burkmiser was glowering at the ship, but he couldn't find anything to fire at, and he knew his projectile weapon wasn't of much use against the metal of the enemy ship.

	He reached out for the fallen Gorse's weapon, but Smisson yelled: "Use the one you've got! Throw some lead into that hole! If enough of it ricochets around, we might hit something!"

	The Burkmiser nodded and started laying down a barrage of lead.

	Evidently, the aliens didn't like the power of the semi that the pilot was using from the front of the plane. The tube swivelled around and glowed greenish again. They missed, and the pilot kept on firing. Another green glow.

	There was no more firing from the pilot's cabin.

	The weapon moved back again to Smisson and the Burkmiser, and again the faint green could be seen. The Burkmiser of f'Nayaproosh saw Smisson drop his weapon and plunge headfirst through the open door into the sea.

	Then the Burkmiser's own weapon clicked emptily on a vacant chamber. He was reaching again for Gorse's Lindurst when something cold and paralyzing brought darkness to his brain.

	The next thing he knew, Gorse was slapping his face.

	"Come out of it! They've taken Smisson and your wife!"

	That brought him out of it, all right. Ilda was gone! He shook his head. "They didn't get Smisson. He drowned. I saw it."

	The alien globe was nowhere to be seen.

	"Why would they want Ilda? Why?" the Genedekish nobleman wondered frantically.

	Gorse frowned. "My guess is that, since they're a matriarchy, they thought that Ilda was the important one aboard. So they hit us with those sleep vibrations—or whatever they were—and took her with them."

	The Genedeker's eyes narrowed in hate. "I have an idea they'll use her as hostage. If so, that means they want to contact us."

	Gorse nodded. "Our best bet is to get back to Nayaproosh. Fast!"

	They were in for a terrible disappointment.

-

XVI

	The Centaurian peeled the drip-ping clothes off of his body while his wife laughed.

	"You looked like a fish when they pulled you out," she giggled, shaking her blonde hair.

	He gave her a mock glower. "I'll have you know, madam, that my imitation of a dead man falling into the sea is unequalled anywhere in the civilized Galaxy."

	"And your imitation of a fish coming out of it is also unparalleled."

	"If you wanted to see a really foolish expression, you should have seen my face when that 'alien' drifted in through the window of the apartment. I didn't realize until after. I'd fired that the thing was already dead. It came off beautifully."

	His face sobered suddenly at that. "Has the conditioning collapsed completely?"

	He nodded. "I believe so. We'll have to probe it together to make sure, but I think I set up those blocks and releases pretty well."

	She frowned. "Do you think it might have been better if we had done each other's conditioning instead of each doing his own?"

	"Definitely not. We had to be conditioned because no truly sane person can pass himself off in an unsane society unless he assumes the insanity of that society on a temporary basis.

	"But no one knows my mind like I do. I set the releases so that they'd break up at the proper times, and I set the blocks up to prevent myself from cracking at the wrong time. No one but me could have known exactly where I'd have to set up those protective mechanisms."

	She sighed. "I suppose you're right. I don't know if I would have held together, myself, if someone else had done the conditioning."

	He frowned. "Did you have a rough time of it, honey?"

	She rubbed her temples. "It wasn't too bad. After all, my conditioning wasn't as heavy as yours. I knew who I was and why I was there. In a society like Genedek's, it's easier to act than it is in a society like that of Broklan, where they know just enough psychology to be dangerous to you and to themselves.

	"But what bothered me was the time it took for the conditioning to break down. After all, I didn't have anyone to accelerate me; you did."

	"I know, darling." It's tough. But it had to be done that way. If I had come out of it too soon, the blocks might have cracked. It's too bad I had to spend a year on

	Genedek before the ship landed to start the breakdown, but that was just bad timing. It didn't hurt anything, really."

	"No. It was about—"

	She was interrupted by a faint click as an Earthman stepped through the wall. "Am I interrupting anything?" he grinned.

	She flashed him a smile. "Yes, but don't let it bother you. I was just about to tell my husband what happened. You might as well have it as a report now."

	The Earthman concentrated on channeling in his eidetic memory, then nodded. "Go ahead; I'm recording."

	She leaned back, stretched luxuriously, then relaxed.

	"As we planned, I managed to get the eye of the Burkmiser f'Nayaproosh seven years ago. His wife had died a short time previously, so he was ripe for picking. I gradually gained control over his mind until I could suggest the formation of the Freedom Society.

	"That was a tough job. I didn't want to arouse too much close-knit feeling among the Genedekers, because that would prevent the eventual formation of a true federation. On the other hand, I had to get them indignant enough to demand something from the Broklanian government.

	"The one slip-up was in the timing. My own slight conditioning was tied in with the arrival of my husband as Gar Smisson, which acted as a release. Unfortunately, his own powerful personality showed through the conditioning well enough for him to get the Advisory position a full year ahead of time; his own release was the arrival of the spurious alien ship that was sent down from this ship.

	"Therefore, the meeting at the tavern, which was supposed to help both of us speed up the deconditioning, actually came a year too late for me. I'd already broken most of my own conditioning down.

	"After that, everything went smoothly. The two extra corpses you sent down came in at precisely the right time. I dropped one into the center of the city from a height of half a mile and guided the other into my husband's bedroom for him to shoot down.

	"When Broklan made the mass agreement with all the colonial planets, my husband's conditioning collapsed completely along with the last few traces of my own.

	"Generally, everything went as the probability computers predicted."

	"Good." The Earthman turned to the Centaurian. "Have you any-thing to add?"

	The Centaurian was drying himself vigorously. "Very little except to comment on the effectiveness of our plans. We have fairly well established a state of war between the aliens and the Federation. This final act of murder and kidnapping ought to clinch it.

	"The self-destroying mechanisms we left with them will be of no use to them within another ten days.

	He grinned. "You know, when the conditioning finally broke completely—that is, when the Federation finally decided to pool its own resources—I almost laughed myself sick." He chuckled at the memory, then asked: "How is it going on the other planets?" 

	The Earthman grinned broadly. "Perfectly. The computations only had an error of something like one-half of one percent. With no history of war, the Federation doesn't know what war is like. It only took a few aliens to frighten them out of their complacency and their smug determination to find Earth and make it a puppet planet of Broklan.

	"Accordingly, the computers now predict a new governmental setup for the Federation; one which, while not necessarily saner in itself, will lead toward sanity because they will have to study the mental attitudes of themselves and the aliens before they can crack the puzzle.

	"In addition, the new setup will be less hostile toward Earth. Within a short time, we can step in— not as Earthmen, of course—and teach them a few things about their own minds.

	"Their ancestors left Earth a thousand years ago because they were afraid of change. Just as, when the research revolution began in the twentieth century, man had to adjust to technological change, so our ancestors had to adjust to sociological and mental change. But the ancestors of these colonists refused to change—they ran away.

	"But they depended on supply ships to bring them the necessities of life—obviously an unsane attitude, if I ever heard of one.

	"The Minister of Broklan actually asked the first man we sent to Broklan how many planets were under Earth's domination! If we had told him that there were several hundred Associated planets in that sector of the Galaxy alone, he would have thought that Earth claimed to 'dominate' that many, and he would have thought we were lying."

	The Centaurian grinned. "By the way, do you happen to know latest reason they're giving for wanting to find Earth? They want to know why the Old Earth Empire fell; they felt that the Federation might fall the same way.

	"It never occurred to them that trying to start an empire by landing fifty expeditions on fifty alien planets with a line of supply twenty thousand light years long is a far cry from taking over a group of planets after they are already self-supporting.

	"The runaways failed, that's all."

	The Centaurian's wife asked: "Is there any chance of their finding Earth?"

	The Earthman shook his head. "None. When their ship reached the outpost of Corvin, they were already four years travel time from Broklan. They didn't realize that we are thousands of years ahead of them in every way. They couldn't have known that we could make it from Corvin to Broklan in a few hours. So they've been looking for Earth within a radius of two years travel time from Broklan.

	"No, they'll not find Earth for a long time. And—" He shrugged. "—if they do, they won't know it. The spoken language has changed so much that we don't pronounce the word the same."

	For the first time, he spoke aloud. The sound was nothing like any word used on any planet of the Federation of Broklan. He grinned and resumed the telepathic conversation.

	"I'm glad the "alien idea worked so well. The second plan wasn't quite so positive in its final results within a definite period of time, even though the immediate results might have been more decisive.

	"As it is, our primary plan worked; we have performed a beautiful plastic surgery job on the Federation, and within a few decades, the scars of the surgeon's knife will scarcely show."

	The Centaurian shut off the dryer. "Well, I, for one, will be glad to get back home. I'm creeping well past the hundred mark now, and I want to get something done in life.

	"What are you laughing at?" This was addressed to his wife.

	She giggled. "I was just thinking how funny it was that the Federation's lack of knowledge scared them. They don't know a single thing about evolution, of course. The idea would never occur to them, isolated as they are from the basic stock.

	"So the whole bunch of them get scared out of their wits by the corpses of a few hairless chimpanzees!"

	Her husband and the Earthman joined in her laughter as the globular spaceship sped toward the edge of the Galaxy and Sector Earth.

The End