SIX WORLDS YONDER
by Eric Frank Russell


THE PLANET MAPPERS
One thing's certain about the exploration of outer 
space - there's not going to be two worlds alike! In this 
new collection of interstellar explorers, the fertile and 
original mind of Eric Frank Russell presents a half- 
dozen of the more extraordinary possibilities.

There's the world where everything moves at a pace 
so different from ours that it would take a couple of 
lifetimes to establish communication. There's the planet 
of immortals, with all that that really signifies. There's 
the puzzling problem of keeping important messages 
secret when surrounded by truculent aliens. And there's
more. . .

Every story is different, every world is unique, and 
every adventure is science-fiction at its best.




Eric Frank Russell is one of the leading names in science-
fiction today. A writer of unusual ability, his stories 
are marked by a lightness of touch combined with an 
out-of-the-rut imagination that have made each of them 
stand out in whatever format they are published. An 
Englishman, his tales have appeared in all the leading 
science-fiction magazines both here and abroad and have 
been extensively translated, as well as rendered into 
Braille for the blind.



SIX WORLDS YONDER
Copyright (C), 1958, by Ace Books, Inc.
All Rights Reserved
All stories herein were previously published in Astounding 
Science Fiction and are copyright, 1954, 1955, 1956, by 
Street & Smith Publications, Inc.


TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Waitabits
Tieline
Top Secret
Nothing New
Into Your Tent I'll Creep
Diabologic



THE WAITABITS

HE STRODE toward the Assignment Office with quiet confi-
dence born of long service, much experience and high rank. 
Once upon a time a peremptory call to this department had 
made him slightly edgy, exactly as it unnerved the fresh- 
faced juniors today. But that had been long, long ago. He was 
gray-haired now, with wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, 
silver oak-leaves on his epaulettes. He had heard enough, seen 
enough and learned enough to have lost the capacity for 
surprise.
Markham was going to hand him a tough one. That was 
Markham's job: to rake through a mess of laconic, garbled, 
distorted or eccentric reports, pick out the obvious problems 
and dump them squarely in the laps of whoever happened to 
be hanging around and was considered suitable to solve them. 
One thing could be said in favor of this technique: its vic- 
tims often were bothered, bedeviled or busted, but at least 
they were never bored. The problems were not commonplace, 
the solutions sometimes fantastic.
The door detected his body-heat as he approached, swung 
open with silent efficiency. He went through, took a chair, 
gazed phlegmatically at the heavy man behind the desk.
"Ah, Commodore Leigh," said Markham pleasantly. He 
shuffled some papers, got them in order, surveyed the top 
one. "I am informed that the Thunderer's overhaul is com- 
plete, the crew has been recalled and everything is ready for 
flight."
"That is correct."
"Well now, I have a task for you." Markham put on the 
sinister smile that invariably accompanied such an announce- 
ment. After years of reading what had followed in due course,
he had conceived the notion that all tasks were funny except 
when they involved a massacre. "You are ready and eager for 
another trip, I trust?"
"I am always ready," said Commodore Leigh. He had out- 
grown the eagerness two decades back.
"I have here the latest consignment of scout reports," 
Markham went on. He made a disparaging gesture. "You 
know what they're like. Condensed to the minimum and in 
some instances slightly mad. Happy the day when we receive 
a report detailed with scientific thoroughness."
"You'll get that only from a trained mind," Leigh com- 
mented. "Scouts are not scientists. They are oddities who like 
roaming the loneliest reaches of space with no company but 
their own. Pilot-trained hobos willing to wander at large, take 
brief looks and tell what they've seen. Such men are useful 
and necessary. Their shortcomings can be made up by those 
who follow them."
"Precisely," agreed Markham with suspicious promptness. 
"So this is where we want you to do some following."
"What is it this time?"
"We have Boydell's latest report beamed through several 
relay-stations. He is way out in the wilds." Markham tapped 
the paper irritably. "This particular scout is known as Gabby 
Boydell because he is anything but that. He uses words as 
if they cost him fifty dollars apiece."
"Meaning he hasn't said enough?" asked Leigh, smiling.
"Enough? He's told us next to nothing!" He let go an 
emphatic snort. "Eighteen planets scattered all over the shop 
and not a dozen words about each. He discovers a grand 
total of eighteen planets in seven previously unexplored sys- 
tems and the result doesn't occupy half a page."
"Going at that speed, he wouldn't have time for much 
more," Leigh ventured. "You can't write a book about a 
world without taking up residence for a while."
"That may be. But these crackpot scouts could do better 
and it's time they were told as much." He pointed an accus- 
ing finger. "Look at this item. The eleventh planet he visited. 
He has named it Pulok for some reason that is probably crazy.
His report employs exactly four words: 'Take it and welcome.' 
What do you make of that?"
Leigh thought it over carefully. "It is inhabitable by hu- 
mankind. There is no native opposition, nothing to prevent 
us grabbing it. But in his opinion it isn't worth possessing."
"Why, man, why?"
"I don't know, not having been there."
"Boydell knows the reason." Markham fumed a bit and 
went on, "And he ought to state it in precise, understandable 
terms. He shouldn't leave a mystery hanging in mid-air like 
a bad smell from nowhere."
"Won't he explain it when he returns to his sector head- 
quarters?"
"That may be months hence, perhaps years, especially if 
he manages to pick up fuel and replacement tubes from dis- 
tant outposts. Those scouts keep to no schedule. They get 
there when they arrive, return when they come back. Galac- 
tic gypsies, that's how they like to think of themselves."
"They've chosen freedom," Leigh offered.
Ignoring that remark, Markham continued, "Anyway, the 
problem of Pulok is a relatively minor one to be handled by 
somebody else. I'll give it to one of the juniors; it will do 
something for his education. The more complicated and pos- 
sibly dangerous tangles are for older ones such as yourself."
"Tell me the worst."
"Planet fourteen on Boydell's list. He has given it the 
name of Eterna, and don't ask me why. The code formula 
he's registered against it reads O-1.1-D.7. That means we 
can live on it without special equipment, it's an Earth-type 
planet of one-tenth greater mass, and it's inhabited by an 
intelligent lifeform of different but theoretically equal mental 
power. He calls this lifeform the Waitabits. Apparently he 
tags everything and everybody with the first name that pops 
into his mind."
"What information does he offer concerning them?"
"Hah!" said Markham, pulling a face. "One word. Just one 
word." He paused, then voiced it. "Unconquerable."
"Eh?"
"Unconquerable," repeated Markham. "A word that should 
not exist in scout-language." At that point he became riled, 
jerked open a drawer, extracted a notebook and consulted it. 
"Up to last survey, four hundred twenty-one planets had been 
discovered, charted, recorded. One hundred thirty-seven 
found suitable for human life and large or small groups of set- 
tlers placed thereon. Sixty-two alien lifeforms mastered dur- 
ing the process." He shoved the book back. "And out there 
in the dark a wandering tramp picks a word like unconquer- 
able."
"I can think of only one reason that makes sense," sug- 
gested Leigh.
"What is that?"
"Perhaps they really are unconquerable."
Markham refused to credit his ears. "If that's a joke, Com- 
modore, it's in bad taste. Some might think it seditious."
"Well, can you think up a better reason?"
"I don't have to. I'm sending you there to find out. The 
Grand Council asked specifically that you be given this task. 
They feel that if any unknown aliens have enough to put the 
wind up one of our own scouts, then we must learn more 
about them. And the sooner the better."
"There's nothing to show that they actually frightened Boy- 
dell. If they had done so he'd have said more, much more. A 
genuine first-class menace is the one thing that would make 
him talk his head off."
"That's purely hypothetical," said Markham. "We don't 
want guesses. We want facts."
"All right."
"Consider a few other facts," Markham added. "So far, no 
other lifeform has been able to resist us. I don't see how any 
can. Any creatures with an atom of sense soon see on which 
side their bread is buttered - if they eat bread and like butter. 
If we step in and provide the brains while they furnish the 
labor, with mutual benefit to both parties, the aliens are soon 
doing too well for themselves to complain. If a bunch of 
Sirian Wimpots slave all day in our mines, then fly in their
own helicopters back to homes such as their forefathers never 
owned, what have they got to cry about?"
"I fail to see the purpose of the lecture," said Leigh, dryly. 
"I'm emphasizing that by force, ruthlessness, argument,
persuasion, precept and example, appeal to common sense, 
or any other tactic appropriate to the circumstances, we can 
master and exploit any lifeform in the cosmos. That's the 
theory we've been using for a thousand years - and it works. 
We've proved that it works. We've made it work. The first
time we let go of it and admit defeat, we're finished. We go
down and disappear along with all the other vanished
hordes." He swept his papers to one side. "A scout has ad- 
mitted defeat. He must be a lunatic. But lunatics can create 
alarm. The Grand Council is alarmed."
"So I am required to seek soothing syrup?"
"Yes. See Parrish in the charting department. He'll give 
you the coordinates of this Eterna dump." Standing up, he 
offered a plump hand. "A smooth trip and a safe landing, 
Commodore."
"Thanks."

The Thunderer hung in a balanced orbit while its officers 
examined the new world floating below. This was Eterna,
second planet of a sun very much like Sol. Altogether there
were four planets in this particular family, but only the sec-
ond harbored life in any detectable form.
Eterna was a pretty sight, a great blue-green ball shining
in the blaze of full day. Its land-masses were larger than 
Earth's, its oceans smaller. No vast mountain ranges were vis- 
ible, no snow-caps either, yet lakes and rivers were numerous. 
Watersheds lay in heavily forested hills that crinkled much 
of the surface and left few flat areas. Cloud-banks lay over 
the land like scatterings of cotton-wool, widely dispersed but 
thick, heavy and great in number.
Through powerful glasses towns and villages could be seen, 
most of them placed in clearings around which armies of trees 
marched down to the rivers. There were also narrow, wind- 
ing roads and thin, spidery bridges. Between the larger towns
ran vague lines that might be railroad tracks but lacked 
sufficient detail at such a distance to reveal their true pur- 
pose.
Pascoe, the sociologist, put down his binoculars and said, 
"Assuming that the night side is very similar, I estimate their 
total strength at no more than one hundred millions. I base 
that on other planetary surveys. When you've counted the 
number of peas per bottle in a large and varied collection, 
you develop the ability to make reasonably accurate guesses. 
One hundred millions at most."
"That's low for a planet of this size and fertility, isn't it?"
asked Commodore Leigh.
"Not necessarily. There were no more of us in the far past.
Look at us now."
"The implication is that these Waitabits are a comparative-
ly young species?"
"Could be. On the other hand, they may be old and se- 
nile and dying out fast. Or perhaps they're slow breeders and 
their natural increase isn't much."
"I don't go for the dying out theory," put in Walterson, 
the geophysicist. "If once they were far bigger than they are 
today, the planet should still show signs of it. A huge inheri- 
tance leaves its mark for centuries. Remember that city-site 
we found on Hercules? Even the natives didn't know of it, 
the markings being visible only from a considerable altitude."
They used their glasses again, sought for faint lines of or- 
derliness in wide tracts of forest. There were none to be seen.
"Short in history or slow to breed," declared Pascoe. 
"That's my opinion for what it's worth."
Frowning down at the blue-green ball, Leigh said heavily, 
"By our space-experienced standards a world of one hundred 
millions is weak. It's certainly not sufficiently formidable to 
turn a hair on a minor bureaucrat, much less worry the Coun- 
cil itself." He turned, lifted a questioning eyebrow as a sig- 
nals-runner came up to him. "Well?"
"Relay from Sector Nine, sir."
Unfolding the message, he found it duly decoded, read it 
aloud:
"'Nineteen-twelve, ex Terra. Defense H.Q. to C.O. battle- 
ship Thunderer. Light cruiser Flame, Lt. Mallory command- 
ing, assigned your area for Pulok check. Twentieth heavy 
cruiser squadron readied Arlington port, Sector Nine. This 
authorizes you to call upon and assume command of said 
forces in emergency only. Rathbone. Com. Op. Dep. D.H.Q. 
Terra.'"
He filed the message, shrugged and said, "Seems they're 
taking few chances."
"Yes," agreed Pascoe, a trifle sardonically. "So they've as- 
sembled reinforcements near enough to be summoned but
too far away to do us any good. The Flame could not get
here in less than seven weeks. The ships at Arlington couldn't 
make it in under nineteen or twenty weeks even at super-
drive. By then we could be cooked, eaten, burped and forgot- 
ten." 
"I don't see what all this jumpiness is about," complained 
Walterson. "That scout, Boydell, went in and came out, 
without losing his edible parts, didn't he? Where one can go 
a million can follow." 
Pascoe regarded him with pity. "A solitary invader rarely 
frightens anyone. That's where scouts have an advantage. 
Consider Remy II. Fellow name of James finds it, lands, 
makes friends, becomes a blood brother, finally takes off amid 
a burst of fond farewells. Next, down come three shiploads 
of men, uniforms and guns. That's too much for the locals
to stomach. In Remitan psychology the number represents 
critical mass. Result: the Remy war, which - if you remember 
your history - was long, costly and bitter." 
"I remember history well enough to recall that in those 
primitive days they used blockheaded space-troopers and had 
no specially trained contact-men," Walterson retorted. 
"Nevertheless, what has happened before can happen 
again."
"That's my problem right now," Leigh interjected. "Will
the sight of a battleship a mile in length cause them to start 
something that can't be finished without considerable slaugh- 
ter? Had I better risk the crew of a lifeboat in effort to
smooth the introduction? I wish Boydell had been a little 
more informative." He chewed his bottom lip with vexation, 
picked up the intercom phone, flipped the signals-room 
switch, "Any word from Boydell yet?"
"No, Commodore," responded a voice. "Sector Nine doesn't 
think there will be any, either. They've just contacted us to 
say he doesn't answer their calls. They believe he's now out 
of range. Last trace they got of him showed him to be run- 
ning beyond effective communication limits."
"All right." He dumped the phone, gazed through the port. 
"Seven hours we've waited. Nothing has come up to take a 
look at us. We can detect no signs of excitement down there. 
Therefore it's a safe bet that they have no ships, perhaps not 
even rudimentary aircraft. Neither do they keep organized 
watch on the sky. They're not advanced in our sense of the 
term."
"But they may be in some other sense," Pascoe observed.
"That is what I implied." Leigh made an impatient ges- 
ture. "We've hung within telescopic view long enough. If 
they are capable of formidable reaction we should be grimly 
aware of it by now. I don't feel inclined to test the Waitabits 
at the expense of a few men in an unarmed lifeboat. We'll 
take the Thunderer itself down and hope they're sane enough 
not to go nuts."
Hastening forward to the main control-cabin he issued the 
necessary orders.

The landing place was atop a treeless bluff nine miles 
south of a large town. It was as good a site as any that could 
have been chosen. The settling of great tonnage over a mile- 
long area damaged nobody's property or crops, the ground 
was solid enough not to furrow under the ship's weight, the 
slight elevation gave a strategic advantage to the Thunderer's 
guns.
Despite its nearness the town was out of sight, being hid- 
den by intervening hills. A narrow road ran through the 
valley but nothing moved thereon. Between the road and the 
base of the bluff lay double railroad tracks of about twenty-
inch gauge with flat-topped rails of silvery metal. The rails 
had no spikes or ties and appeared to be held firmly in posi- 
tion by being sunk into long, unbroken ridges of concrete or 
some similar rock-like substance.
The Thunderer reposed, a long, black, ominous shape with 
all locks closed and gun-turrets open, while Leigh stared 
speculatively at the railroad and waited for the usual call 
from the metering lab. It came within short time. The inter- 
com buzzed, he answered it, heard Shallom speaking.
"The air is breathable, Commodore."
"We knew that in advance. A scout sniffed it without 
dropping dead."
"Yes, Commodore," agreed Shallom, patiently. "But you 
asked for an analysis."
"Of course. We don't know how long Boydell was here - 
perhaps a day, perhaps a week. Whatever it was, it wasn't 
enough. He might have curled up his toes after a month or 
two. In his brief visit he'd have avoided any long-term ac- 
cumulative effect. What we want to know is whether this 
atmosphere is safe for keeps."
"Quite safe, Commodore. It's rather rich in ozone and ar- 
gon, but otherwise much like Earth's."
"Good. Well open up and let the men stretch their legs." 
"There's something else of interest," Shallom went on.
"Preliminary observation time occupied seven hours and 
twenty-two minutes. Over that period the longitudinal shift 
of a selected equatorial point amounted to approximately 
three-tenths of a degree. That means this planet's period of 
axial rotation is roughly equivalent to an Earth-year. Its days 
and nights are each about six months long."
"Thanks, Shallom." He cut off without surprise, switched 
the intercom, gave orders to Bentley in the main engine-room 
to operate the power-locks. Then he switched again to Lieu- 
tenant Harding, officer commanding ground forces, gave per- 
mission for one quarter of his men to be let out for exercise, 
providing they bore arms and did not stray beyond direct 
cover of the ship's guns.
That done, he swiveled his pneumatic chair to face the
port, put his feet up with heels resting on a wall-ridge, and 
quietly contemplated the alien landscape. Walterson and Pas-
coe mooched around the room in the restless manner of men 
waiting for a burning fuse to reach a gunpowder barrel.
Shallom phoned again, recited gravitational and magnetic- 
field readings, went off. A few minutes later he came through 
once more with details of atmospheric humidity, barometric 
variations and radioactivity. Apparently he cared nothing for 
what might be brewing beyond the hills, as long as it failed
to register on his meters and screens. To his mind, no real 
danger could exist without advertising itself through a needle 
waggling or a fluourescent blip.
Outside, two hundred men scrambled noisily down the 
edge of the bluff, reached soft green sward that was not grass
but something resembling short, heavily matted clover. There 
they kicked a ball around, wrestled, or were just content to
lie full length on the turf, look at the sky, enjoy the sun. A 
small group strolled half a mile to the silent railroad, in- 
spected it, trod precariously along its rails with extended arms 
jerking and swaying in imitation of tightrope walkers.
Four of Shallom's staff went down, two of them carrying 
buckets and spades like kids making for the seashore. A third 
bore a bug-trap. The fourth had a scintilloscope. The first
pair dug clover and dirt, hauled it up to the ship for analysis
and bacteria-count. Bug-trap dumped his box, went to sleep 
beside it. Scintilloscope marched in a careful zigzag around 
the base of the bluff. 
After two hours Harding's whistle recalled the outside 
lotus-eaters who responded with reluctance. They slouched 
back into the gigantic bottle that already had contained them 
so long. Another two hundred went out, played all the same 
tricks, including the tightrope act on the rails.
By the time that gang had enjoyed its ration of liberty,
the mess-bells announced the main meal. The crew ate, after 
which Number One Watch took to its berths and the deepest 
sleep within memory. A third freedom party cavorted on the 
turf. The indefatigable Shallom passed along the news that 
nine varieties of flea-sized bugs were awaiting introduction
to Garside, the entomologist, whenever that worthy deigned 
to crawl out of bed.
By the time the fourth and last section of the crew re- 
turned from its two-hour spree, Pascoe had had enough. He 
was baggy-eyed from lack of slumber, disappointed with hav- 
ing curiosity left unsatisfied.
"More than seven hours waiting in the sky," he complained 
to Leigh, "and another eight down here. That's over fifteen 
hours all told. Where has it got us?"
"It has given the men a badly needed break," Leigh re- 
proved. "The first rule of captaincy is to consider the men be- 
fore considering an exterior problem. There is no real solu- 
tion to any predicament unless there is also the means to 
apply it. The men are the means, and more so than the ship 
or any part of it. Men can build ships, but ships cannot man- 
ufacture men."
"All right. They've had their outing. They are refreshed 
and their morale is boosted, all in accordance with the best 
psychological advice. What next?"
"If nothing turns up it will enable them to catch up on 
their sleep. The first watch is snoring its collective head off 
right now. The other two watches are entitled to their turn."
"But that means sitting on our idle behinds for another 
eighteen hours," Pascoe protested.
"Not necessarily. The Waitabits may arrive at any time, in 
unguessable number, with unknown intentions and with un- 
known means of enforcing them. If so, everyone will have a 
rude awakening and you may get enough action to last you 
a lifetime." Leigh jerked a thumb toward the door. "Mean- 
while, go to bed while the going is good. If trouble starts 
it's likely to be days before you get another chance. Ex- 
hausted men are crippled men in a situation such as this."
"What about you?"
"I intend to slump into sweet dreams myself as soon as 
Harding is ready to take over."
Pascoe snorted with impatience, glanced at Walterson, 
gained no support from that quarter. Walterson was dozing
on his feet at mere mention of bed. Pascoe snorted again, 
more loudly this time, departed with the other following.
They returned within ten hours, found Leigh freshly 
shaved and spruced. A look through the port revealed the 
same landscape as before. Some two dozen of the crew were 
fooling around outside, beneath a sun that had not visibly 
changed position in the sky. The road still wound through the 
valley and over the hills without a soul upon it. The railroad 
track still reposed with all the impassive silence of a long- 
abandoned spur.
Pascoe said, thoughtfully, "This is a good example of how 
one can deduce something from nothing."
"Meaning what?" inquired Leigh, showing interest.
"The town is nine miles away. We could walk there in 
about two hours. They've had several times that long in 
which to sound the alarm, summon the troops, launch an 
assault." He gestured toward the peaceful scene. "Where are 
they?"
"You tell us," Walterson prompted.
"Any lifeform capable of constructing roads and rails ob- 
viously must have eyes and brains. Therefore it is pretty 
certain that they've seen us either hanging above or coming 
down. I don't believe that they remain unaware of our exist- 
ence." He studied his listeners, went on, "They haven't 
shown up because they're deliberately keeping away from 
us. That means they're afraid of us. And that in turn means 
they consider themselves far weaker, either as a result of 
what they've seen of us so far or maybe as a result of 
what they learned from contact with Boydell."
"I don't agree with that last bit," opined Leigh. 
"Why not?"
"If they saw us either up above or coming down, what did 
they actually see? A ship and nothing more. They observed 
nothing to indicate that we are of Boydell's own kind, though 
it would be reasonable to assume it. Factually, we're still a 
bunch of unknowns to them." 
"That doesn't make hay of my reasoning."
"It spoils it on two counts," Leigh insisted. "Firstly, not
having weighed and measured us, how can they tell that 
they're weaker? Secondly, Boydell himself called them un- 
conquerable. That suggests strength. And strength of a re- 
doubtable order."
"Look," said Pascoe. "It doesn't really matter whether 
they're stronger or weaker in their own estimation. In the 
long run they can't buck the power of the human race. The 
cogent point right now is that of whether they are friendly
or antagonistic." 
"Well?"
"If friendly, they'd have been around dickering with us 
hours ago. There's no sign of them, not a spit or a button. 
Ergo, they don't like us. They've crawled into a hole be- 
cause they lack the muscle to do something effective. They've 
ducked under cover hoping well go away and play some 
place else."
"An alternative theory," put in Walterson, "is that they're 
tough and formidable just as Boydell implied. They've kept 
their distance because they're wise enough to fight on ground 
of their own choosing and not on ours. If they refuse to come 
here, we've got to go there or accept stalemate. So they're 
making ready for us to walk into their parlor, after which" - 
he wiped a forefinger across his throat - "skzzt!"
"Bunk!" said Pascoe.
"Well soon learn where we stand one way or the other," 
Leigh stated. "I've ordered Williams to get the helicopter 
out. The Waitabits can't avoid seeing that thing whooshing
around. We'll learn plenty if they don't shoot it down." 
"And if they do shoot it down?" inquired Pascoe.
"That question will be answered if and when it arises," 
Leigh assured. "You know as well as I do the law that hostil- 
ity must not be accepted until demonstrated."
He went to the port, gazed across the scene to the tree- 
swathed hills beyond. After a while he reached for his binoc- 
ulars, focused them upon the mid-distance.
"Holy smoke!" he said.
Pascoe ran to his side. "What's the matter?"
"Something's coming at last. And it's a train, no less." He 
handed over the glasses. "Take a look for yourself."

A dozen crewmen were on the track, industriously filing 
from a rail sufficient metallic powder to be analyzed in the 
lab. They straightened up as the line conducted sounds of the 
newcomer's approach. Shading their eyes, they stood like 
men paralyzed while they gaped toward the east.
A couple of miles away the streamlined express came tear- 
ing around the base of a hill at nothing less than one and a 
half miles per hour. The men remained staring incredulously 
for ten minutes during which time the phenomenon covered 
a full quarter mile.
The Thunderer's siren wailed a warning, the sample-takers 
recovered their wits and without undue exertion made more 
speed up the forty degree bluff than the possible menace was 
doing on the flat. The last of them had sufficient presence of 
mind to bring with him an ounce of dust that Shallom later 
defined as titanium alloy.
Monstrous and imposing, the Thunderer sat waiting for 
first official contact. Every port held at least three expectant 
faces watching the track and the train. Every mind took it 
for granted that the oncoming machine would halt at the base 
of the bluff and things weird in shape emerge therefrom in 
readiness to parley. Nobody thought for a moment that it 
might pass on.
It did pass on.
The train consisted of four linked metal coaches and no 
locomotive, the source of power not being evident. The tiny 
cars, less than the height of a man, rolled by holding a score 
of crimson-faced, owl-eyed creatures, some of whom were 
looking absently at the floor, some at each other, anywhere 
but directly at the great invader atop the bluff.
From the time the train was first observed until realization 
dawned that it was not going to stop occupied precisely one 
hour and twenty four minutes. That was its speed record 
from the eastward hill to the bluff. 
Lowering his binoculars, Commodore Leigh said in baf-
fled tones to Pascoe, "Did you get a clear, sharp view of 
them?"
"Yes. Red-faced with beak noses and blinkless eyes. One 
had his hand resting on a window ledge and I noticed it was 
five-fingered like ours but with thinner digits."
"Far less than walking pace," commented Leigh. "That's 
what it's doing. I can amble faster even with corns on both 
feet." He had another puzzled look outside. The train had 
gained forty yards in the interval. "I wonder whether the 
power Boydell attributed to them is based on some obscure 
form of cunning."
"How do you mean?"
"If they can't cope with us while we hold the ship in 
force, they've got to entice us out of it."
"Well, we aren't out of it, are we?" Pascoe countered. 
"Nobody has developed a mad desire to catch that train. And
if anybody did he'd overtake it so fast he'd get wherever it's 
going before he had time to pull up. I don't see how they 
can bait us into being foolhardy merely by crawling around."
"The tactic would be according to their own logic, not 
ours," Leigh pointed out. "Perhaps on this world to crawl is
to invite attack. A wild-dog pack reacts that way: the animal 
that limps gets torn to pieces." He thought it over, continued, 
"I'm suspicious of this episode. I don't like the ostentatious 
way in which they all kept their eyes fixed on something else 
as they went past. It isn't natural." 
"Hah!" said Pascoe, prepared to argue. 
Leigh waved him down. "I know it's a childish blunder to
judge any species by the standards of our own. But I still 
say it isn't natural to have eyes and not use them."
"On Terra," Walterson chipped in seriously, "some folk 
have arms, legs, eyes and even brains that they don't use. 
That's because they have the misfortune to be incurably af- 
flicted, as you know." He went on, encouraged by the others' 
silence. "What if this track is a connecting link between the 
town and a sanatorium or hospital? Maybe its sole purpose is 
to carry sick people."
"We'll soon find out." Leigh resorted to the intercom. "Wil- 
liams, is the 'copter ready yet?"
"Assembled and now being fueled, Commodore. It can take 
off in ten minutes' time."
"Who is duty pilot?" 
"Ogilvy."
"Tell him to fly ahead of that train and report what's at 
the other end of the tracks. He's to do that before taking a 
look at the town." Turning to the others, he added, "Shallom 
has some aerial shots that were taken before we landed, but 
Ogilvy will be able to provide us with more details."
Pascoe, again standing at the port, asked. "How much 
slower is slower?"
"What?"
"When a thing is already creeping as though next year will 
do, how can you tell that it has decided to apply the brakes?" 
He elucidated further, "It may be my imagination but I fancy 
that train has reduced velocity by a few yards per hour. I 
hope none of its passengers suffered injury by being slung 
from one end to the other."
Leigh had a look. The train had now gone something less 
than half a mile from his observation point. The tedious 
speed and slight foreshortening made it impossible to decide 
whether or not Pascoe was correct. He had to keep watch a 
full fifteen minutes before he too agreed that the train was 
slowing down.
During that time the helicopter took off with a superfast 
whoosh-whoosh from whirling vanes. Soaring over the track, 
it fled ahead of the train, shrank into the hills until its plastic- 
egg cabin resembled a dewdrop dangling from a spinning 
sycamore seed.
Contacting the signals-room, Leigh said, "Put Ogilvy's re- 
ports through the speaker here." He returned to the port, 
continued watching the train. All the crew not asleep or on 
duty were similarly watching.
"Village six miles along line," blared the speaker. "A sec- 
ond four miles farther on. A third five miles beyond that. 
Eight thousand feet. Climbing,"
Five minutes later, "Six-coach train on tracks, headed east- 
ward. Appears stalled from this height but may be moving."
"Coming the other way and at a similar crawl," remarked 
Pascoe, glancing at Walterson. "Bang goes your sick people 
theory if that one also holds a bunch of zombies."
"Altitude twelve thousand," announced the loud-speaker. 
"Terminal city visible beyond hills. Distance from base 
twenty-seven miles. Will investigate unless recalled."
Leigh made no move to summon him back. There fol- 
lowed a long silence. By now the train was still less than a 
mile away and had cut progress down to about one yard per 
minute. Finally it stopped, remained motionless for a quarter 
of an hour, began to back up so gradually that it had inched 
twenty yards before watchers became certain that it had re- 
versed direction. Leigh leveled powerful glasses upon it. Defi- 
nitely it was returning to the base of the bluff.
"Funny thing here," bawled Ogilvy from the wall. "Streets 
full of people all struck stiff. It was the same in those villages 
now that I come to think of it. I went over them too fast for 
the fact to register."
"That's crazy," said Pascoe. "How can he tell from that 
height?"
"I'm hovering right over the main stem, a tree-lined aven- 
ue with crowded sidewalks," Ogilvy continued. "If anyone 
is moving I can't detect it. Request permission to examine 
from five hundred."
Using the auxiliary mike linked through the signals-room, 
Leigh asked, "Is there any evidence of opposition such as air-
craft, gun emplacements or rocket-pits?" 
"No, Commodore, not that I can see."
"Then you can go down but don't drop too fast. Sheer out 
immediately if fired upon."
There was silence during which Leigh had another look 
outside. The train was continuing to come back at velocity 
definable as chronic. He estimated that it would take most of 
an hour to reach the nearest point.
"Now at five hundred," the loud-speaker declared. "Great 
Jupiter, I've never seen anything like it. They're moving all
right. But they're so sluggish I have to look twice to make 
sure they really are alive and in action." A pause, then, "Be- 
lieve it or not, there's a sort of street-car system in operation. 
A baby could toddle after one of those vehicles and catch it."
"Come back," Leigh ordered sharply. "Come back and 
report on the nearby town."
"As you wish, Commodore," Ogilvy sounded as if he were 
obeying wtih reluctance.
"Where's the point of withdrawing him from there?" asked Pascoe, 
irritated by this abrupt cutting-off of data. "He's in 
no great danger. What will he learn from one place that he 
can't get from another?"
"He can confirm or deny the one thing that is all-impor- 
tant namely, that conditions are the same elsewhere and are 
not restricted to one locale. When he's had a look at the town 
I'll send him a thousand miles away for a third and final 
check." His gray eyes were thoughtful as he went on, "In 
olden times a Martian visitor could have made a major 
blunder if he'd judged Earth by one of its last remaining 
leper colonies. Today we'd make precisely the same mistake 
if this happens to be a quarantined area full of native para- 
lytics."
"Don't say it," put in Walterson, displaying some nervous- 
ness. "If we've sat down in a reservation for the diseased, 
we'd better get out mighty fast. I don't want to be smitten 
by any alien plague to which I've no natural resistance. I had 
a narrow enough escape when I missed that Hermes expe- 
dition six years ago. Remember it? Within three days of 
landing the entire complement was dead, their bodies grow- 
ing bundles of stinking strings later defined as a fungus."
"We'll see what Ogilvy says," Leigh decided. "If he re- 
ports what we consider more normal conditions elsewhere, 
we'll move there. If they prove the same, we'll stay."
"Stay," echoed Pascoe, his features expressing disgust. 
"Something tells me you picked the right word - stay." He 
gestured toward the port beyond which the train was a long 
time coming. "If what we've seen and what we've heard has 
any meaning at all, it means we're in a prize fix."
"Such as what?" prompted Walterson.
"We can stay a million years or go back home. For once 
in our triumphant history we're well and truly thwarted. We'll 
gain nothing whatever from this world for a good and unde- 
featable reason, namely, life's too short."
"I'm jumping to no hasty conclusions," said Leigh. "We'l1 
wait for Ogilvy."

In short time the loud-speaker informed with incredulity, 
"This town is full of creepers, too. And trolleys making the 
same speed, if you can call it speed. Want me to go down 
and tell you more?"
"No," said Leigh into the mike. "Make a full-range sweep 
eastward. Loop out as far as you can go with safety. Watch 
especially for any radical variation in phenomena and, if you 
find it, report at once." He racked the microphone, turned to 
the others. "All we can do now is wait a bit."
"You said it!" observed Pascoe pointedly. "I'11 lay odds of a 
thousand to one that Boydell did no more than sit futilely 
around picking his teeth until he got tired of it."
Walterson let go a sudden laugh that startled them.
"What's the matter with you?" demanded Pascoe, staring
at him.
"One develops the strangest ideas sometimes," said Walter-
son apologetically. "It just occurred to me that if horses were 
snails they'd never be compelled to wear harness. There's a 
moral somewhere but I can't be bothered with digging it out."
"City forty-two miles eastward from base," called Ogilvy. 
"Same as before. Two speeds: dead slow and slower than 
dead."
Pascoe glanced through the port. "That train is doing less 
than bug-rate. I reckon it intends to stop when it gets here." 
He thought a while, finished, "If so, we know one thing in 
advance: they aren't frightened of us." 
Making up his mind, Leigh phoned through to Shallom. 
"We're going outside. Make a record of Ogilvy's remarks 
while we're gone. Sound a brief yelp on the alarm siren if
he reports rapid movement any place." Then he switched 
to Nolan, Hoffnagle and Romero, the three communications 
experts. "Bring your Keen charts along in readiness for con- 
tact."
"It's conventional," reminded Pascoe, "for the ship's com- 
mander to remain in control of his vessel until contact has 
been made and the aliens found friendly or, at least, not hos- 
tile,"
"This is where convention gets dumped overboard for 
once," Leigh snapped, "I'm going to check on the load in 
that train, It's high time we made some progress, Please your- 
selves whether or not you come along,"
"Fourteen villages so far," chipped in Ogilvy from far away 
over the hills, "Everyone in them hustling around at the pace 
that kills - with boredom, Am heading for city visible on hori- 
zon,"
The communicators arrived bearing sheafs of colored 
charts, They were unarmed, being the only personnel for- 
bidden to wear guns, The theory behind this edict was that 
obvious helplessness established confidence. In most circum- 
stances the notion proved correct and communicators sur- 
vived, Once in a while it flopped and the victims gained no 
more than decent burial,
"What about us?" inquired Walterson, eyeing the new- 
comers. "Do we take weapons or don't we?"
"We'll chance it without any," Leigh decided, "A life- 
form sufficiently intelligent to ride around in trains should be 
plenty smart enough to guess what will happen if they try to 
take us, They'll be right under the ship's guns while we're 
parleying."
"I've no faith in their ability to see reason as we under- 
stand it," Pascoe put in, "For all their civilized veneer they 
may be the most treacherous characters this side of Sirius." 
Then he grinned and added, "But I've faith in my legs. By 
the time these aliens got into action, I'd be a small cloud of 
dust in the sunset,"
Leigh smiled, led them through the main lock, Every port
was filled with watching faces as they made their way down 
to the track.
Gun-teams stood ready in their turrets, grimly aware that 
they could not beat off an attempted snatch except at risk of 
killing friends along with foes. But if necessary they could 
thwart it by wrecking the rails behind and ahead of the 
train, isolating it in readiness for further treatment. For the 
time being their role was the static one of intimidation. De- 
spite this world's apparent lack of danger, there was a certain 
amount of apprehension among the older hands in the ship. 
A pacific atmosphere had fooled humans before and they 
were wary of it. 
The six reached the railroad a couple of hundred yards in 
advance of the train, walked toward it. They could see the 
driver sitting behind a glass-like panel in front. His big yellow 
eyes were staring straight ahead, his crimson face was with- 
out expression. Both his hands rested on knobbed levers and 
the sight of half a dozen other-worlders on the lines did not 
make him so much as twitch a finger.
Leigh was first to reach the cab door and stretch out a 
hand to grasp incurable difficulty number one. He took hold 
of the handle, swung the door open, put a pleasant smile 
upon his face and uttered a cordial, "Hello!"
The driver did not answer. Instead, his eyeballs began to 
edge around sidewise while the train continued to pelt along 
at such a rate that it started pulling away from Leigh's hand. 
Perforce, Leigh had to take a step to keep level. The eyes 
reached their corners by which time Leigh was compelled to 
take another step.
Then the driver's head started turning. Leigh took a step. 
More turn. Another step. Behind Leigh his five companions 
strove to stay with him. It wasn't easy. In fact it was tough 
going. They could not stand still and let the train creep away. 
They could not walk without getting ahead of it. The result 
was a ludicrous march based on a hop-pause rhythm, with 
the hops short and the pauses long.
By the time the driver's head was halfway around, the 
long fingers of his right hand had started uncurling from the
knob it was holding. At the same overstretched instant the 
knob commenced to rise on its lever. He was doing something 
no doubt of that. He was bursting into action to meet a sud- 
den emergency.
Still gripping the door, Leigh edged along with it. The 
others went hop-pause in unison. Pascoe wore the pained 
reverence of one attending the tedious funeral of a rich un- 
cle who has just cut him out of his will. Imagination told 
Leigh what ribald remarks were being tossed around among 
the audience in the ship.
He solved the problem, of reclaiming official dignity by 
simple process of stepping into the cab. That wasn't much 
better, though. He had avoided the limping procession but 
now had the choice of standing half-bent or kneeling on the 
floor.
Now the driver's head was right around, his eyes looking 
straight at the visitor. The knob had projected to its limit. 
Something that made hissing noises under the floor went 
silent and the train's progress was only that of its forward mo- 
mentum against the brakes. A creep measurable in inches or 
fractions of an inch.
"Hello!" repeated Leigh, feeling that he had never voiced 
a sillier word.
The driver's mouth opened to a pink oval, revealed long, 
narrow teeth but no tongue. He shaped the mouth and by 
the time he'd got it to his satisfaction the listener could have 
smoked half a cigarette. Leigh perked his ears for the ex- 
pected greeting. Nothing came out, not a sound, a note, a 
decibel. He waited awhile, hoping that the first word might 
emerge before next Thursday. The mouth made a couple of 
slight changes in form while pink palps at the back of it 
writhed like nearly dead worms. And that was all.
Walterson ceased his hop-pause routine and called, "It has 
stopped, Commodore."
Stepping backward from the cab, Leigh shoved his hands 
deep into his pockets and gazed defeatedly at the driver 
whose formerly blank face was now acquiring an expression 
of surprised interest. He could watch the features registering
with all the lackadaisical air of a chameleon changing color 
and at about the same rate.
"This is a hell of a note," complained Pascoe, nudging 
Leigh. He pointed at the row of door-handles projecting 
from the four cars. Most of them had tilted out of the hori- 
zontal and were moving a degree at a time toward the verti- 
cal. "They're falling all over themselves to get out."
"Open up for them," Leigh suggested.
Hoffnagle, who happened to be standing right by an exit, 
obligingly twisted a handle and lugged the door. Out it 
swung, complete with a clinging passenger who hadn't been 
able to let go. Dropping his contact-charts, Hoffnagle dex- 
terously caught the victim, planted him on his feet. It took 
forty-eight seconds by Romero's watch for this one to regis- 
ter facial reaction which was that of bafflement.
After this, doors had to be opened with all the caution 
of a tax collector coping with a mysterious parcel that ticks. 
Pascoe, impatient as usual, hastened the dismounting process 
by lifting aliens from open doorways and standing them on 
the green sward. The quickest witted one among the lot re- 
quired a mere twenty-eight seconds to start mulling the prob- 
lem of how he had passed from one point to another without 
crossing intervening space. He would solve that puzzle - 
given time.
With the train empty there were twenty-three Waitabits 
hanging around. None exceeded four feet in height or sixty 
pounds Eterna-weight. All were well-clothed in a manner 
that gave no clue to sex. Presumably all were adults, there 
being no tiny specimens among them. Not one bore anything 
remotely resembling a weapon.
Looking them over, Leigh readily conceded that no matter 
how sluggish they might be they were not dopy. Their out- 
landishly colored features held intelligence of a fairly high 
order. That was already self-evident from the tools they 
made and used, such as this train, but it showed on their 
faces, too.
The Grand Council, he decided, had good cause for alarm
- although for a reason not yet thought of by its members. If 
the bunch standing before him were truly representative of 
their planet, then they were completely innocuous. They em- 
bodied no danger whatsoever to Terran interests anywhere 
in the cosmos. Yet, at the same time, they implied a major 
menace of which he hated to think.
With their easily comprehensive charts laid out on the 
ground, the three communicators prepared to explain their 
origin, presence and purposes by an effective sign-and-gesture 
technique basic for all first contacts. The fidgety Pascoe 
speeded up the job by arranging the Waitabits in a circle 
around the charts, picking them up like so many lethargic 
dolls and placing them in position.
Leigh and Walterson went to have a look at the train. If 
any of its owners objected to this inspection they didn't have 
enough minutes in which to do something about it.
The roofs of all four cars were of pale yellow, transparent 
plastic extending down the sides to a line flush with the door 
tops. Beneath the plastic lay countless numbers of carefully 
arranged silicon wafers. Inside the cars, beneath plates form- 
ing the center aisles, were arrays of tiny cylinders rather like 
nickel-alloy cells. The motors could not be seen; they were 
hidden beneath small driving-cabs of which there was one 
to each car.
"Sun power," said Leigh. "The prime motive force is de- 
rived from those solar batteries built into the roofs." He paced 
out the length of a car, made an estimate. "Four feet by 
twenty apiece. Including the side-strips, that's six-forty square 
feet of pickup area."
"Nothing marvelous about it," ventured Walterson, unim- 
pressed. "They use better ones in the tropical zones of Earth 
and have similar gadgets on Dramonia and Werth."
"I know. But here the nighttime lasts six months. What sort 
of storage batteries will last that long without draining? How 
do they manage to get around on the night-side? Or does all 
transportation cease while they snore in bed?"
"Pascoe could make a better guess at their boudoir habits. 
For what it's worth, I'd say they sleep, six months being to
them no more than a night is to us. Anyway, why should we 
speculate on the matter? We'll be exploring the night-side 
sooner or later, won't we?" 
"Yes, sure. But I'd like to know whether this contraption 
is more advanced than anything we've got, in any single re- 
spect."
"To discover that much we'd have to pull it to pieces,"
Walterson objected. "Putting Shallom and his boys on that 
job would be a lousy way of fending off hostility. The Waita- 
bits won't like it even if they can't stop us."
"I'm not that ham-handed," Leigh reproved. "Apart from 
the fact that destruction of property belonging to non-hostile 
aliens could get me a court-martial, why should I invite trou- 
ble when we can get the information from them in exchange 
for other data? Did you ever hear of an intelligent lifeform 
that refused to swap knowledge?"
"No," said Walterson. "And neither did I ever hear of one 
that took five years to pay for what it got in five minutes." 
He grinned with malicious satisfaction, added, "We're finding 
out what Boydell discovered, namely, you've got to give in 
order to receive - and in order to receive you've got to wait a 
bit."
"I won't argue with you because something inside of me 
insists that you're dead right." Leigh made a gesture of dis- 
missal. "Anyway, that's the Council's worry. Let's get back 
to the ship. We can do no more until the contact men have 
made their report."
They mounted the bluff. Seeing them go, Pascoe hastened 
after them, leaving the trio of communicators to play with 
Keen charts and make snakes of their arms.
"How's it going?" Leigh inquired as they went through the 
lock.
"Not so good," said Pascoe. "You ought to try it yourself. It 
would drive you crazy."
"What's the trouble?"
"How can you synchronize two values when one of them 
is unknown? How can you make rhythm to a prolonged and 
completely silent beat? Every time Hoffnagle uses the orbit-
sign he is merely demonstrating that the quickness of the 
hand deceives the eye, so far as the audience is concerned. 
So he slows, does it again and it still fools them. He slows 
more." Pascoe sniffed with disgust. "It's going to take those 
three luckless characters all of today and maybe most of a 
week to find, practice, and perfect the quickest gestures that 
register effectively. They aren't teaching anybody anything - 
they're learning themselves. It's time-and-motion study with 
a vengeance."
"It has to be done," Leigh remarked. "Even if it takes a 
lifetime."
"Whose lifetime?" asked Pascoe, pointedly.
Leigh winced, sought a satisfactory retort, failed to find 
one.
At the corner of the passageway Garside met them. He was 
a small, excitable man whose eyes looked huge behind thick 
lenses. The great love of his life was bugs, any size, shape, 
color or origin, as long as they were bugs.
"Ah, Commodore," he exclaimed, bubbling with enthusi- 
asm. "A most remarkable discovery, most remarkable! Nine 
species of insect life, none really exuaordinary in structure, 
but all afflicted with an amazing lassitude. If this phenome- 
non is common to all native insects, it would appear that local 
metabolism is-"
"Write it down for the record," advised Leigh, patting him 
on the shoulder. He hastened to the signals-room. "Anything 
special from Ogilvy?"
"No, Commodore. All his messages have been repeats of 
his first ones. He is now most of the way back and due in 
about an hour."
"Send him to me as soon as he returns." 
"As you order, sir."
Ogilvy appeared in the promised time. He was a lanky, 
lean-faced individual given to irritating grins. Entering the 
room he held his hands behind his back, hung his head and 
spoke with mock shame.
"Commodore; I have a confesson to make."
"So I see from the act you're putting on. What is it?"
"I landed, without permission, right in the main square of 
the biggest city I could find."
Leigh raised his eyebrows. "And what happened?" 
"They gathered around and stared at me."
"Is that all?"
"Well, sir, it took them twenty minutes to see me and as- 
semble, by which time the ones farther away were still com- 
ing. I couldn't wait any longer to discover what they'd do 
next. I estimated that if they fetched some rope and tied 
down my landing-gear, they'd have the job finished about a 
year next Christmas."
"Humph! Were things the same everywhere else?"
"Yes, sir. I passed over more than two hundred towns and 
villages, reached extreme range of twelve-fifty miles. Condi- 
tions remained consistent." He gave his grin, continued, "I 
noticed a couple of items that might interest you."
"What were those?"
"The Waitabits converse with their mouths but make no 
detectable noises. The 'copter has a supersonic converter 
known as bat-ears which is used for blind flying. I tuned its 
receiver across its full range while I was in the middle of that 
crowd, but it didn't pick up a sqeak. So they're not talking 
high above us. I don't see how they can be subsonic, either. 
It must be something else."
"I've had a one-sided conversation with them myself," 
Leigh informed. "It may be that we're overlooking the ob- 
vious while seeking the obscure."
Ogilvy blinked and asked, "How do you mean, sir?"
"They're not necessarily employing some unique faculty 
such as we cannot imagine. It is quite possible that they com- 
municate visually. They gaze into each others' gullets and 
read the waggling palps. Something like you semaphoring 
with your tonsils." He dismissed the subject with a wave of 
his hand. "And what's your other item?"
"No birds," replied Ogilvy. "You'd think that where insects 
exist there would also be birds or at least things somewhat 
birdlike. The only airborne creature I saw was a kind of 
membrane-winged lizard that flaps just enough to launch it-
self, then glides to wherever it's going. On Earth it couldn't 
catch a weary gnat."
"Did you make a record of it?"
"No, sir. The last roll of film was in the camera and I 
didn't want to waste any of it. I didn't know what else more 
important might turn up."
"All right."
Leigh watched the other depart, picked up the intercom,
said to Shallom, "If those 'copter reels prove sharp enough
for long-range beaming, you'd better run off an extra copy
for the signals-room. Have them boost it to Sector Nine for 
relay to Earth."
As he put down the phone Romero entered, looking des- 
perate. "Commodore, could you get the instrument mechs to 
concoct a phenakistoscope with a revolution-counter at- 
tached?"
"We can make anything, positively anything," chimed 
Pascoe from near the port. "Given enough centuries in which
to do it."
Ignoring the interruption, Leigh asked, "What do you want 
it for?" 
"Hoffnagle and Nolan think we could use it to measure the 
precise optical register of those sluggards outside. If we
can find out at what minimum speed they see pictures merge
into motion, it would be a great help."
"Wouldn't the ship's movie projector serve the same pur- 
pose?"
"It isn't sufficiently variable," Romera objected. "Besides,
we can't operate it independently of our own power supply.
A phenakistoscope can be carried and cranked by hand."
"This becomes more fascinating every moment," Pascoe 
interjected. "It can be cranked. Add a few more details and
I'll start to get a hazy idea of what the darned thing is."
Taking no notice of that either, Leigh got through to 
Shallom again, put the matter to him.
"Holy Moses!" ejaculated Shallom. "The things we get 
requests for! Who thought up that one?" A pause, followed
by, "It will take two days."
"Two days," Leigh repeated to Romero.
The other looked aghast.
"What's eating you?" asked Pascoe. "Two days to get 
started on measuring visual retention is mighty fast in this 
world. You're on Eterna now. Adapt, boy, adapt!"
Leigh eyed Pascoe carefully and said, "Becoming rather 
snappy this last hour or two, aren't you?"
"Not yet. I have several dregs of patience left. When the 
last of them has trickled away you can lock me in the brig 
because I'll be nuts."
"Don't worry. We're about to have some action." 
"Ha-ha!" said Pascoe disrespectfully.
"We'll drag out the patrol wagon, go to town and have a 
look around in the middle of them."
"About time, too," Pascoe endorsed.

The armored, eight-seater car rumbled down the ramp on 
heavy caterpillars, squatted in the clover. Only a short, flared 
nozzle in its bonnet and another in its tail revealed the pres- 
ence of button-controlled snort-guns. The boxed lens on its 
roof belonged to an automatic camera. The metal whip atop 
the box was a radio antenna.
They could have used the helicopter, which was capable of 
carrying four men with equipment, but, once landed, that 
machine would have been of little good for touring the
streets.
Leigh shared the front seat with Lieutenant Harding and 
the duty driver. Behind him were two of Harding's troop and 
Pascoe. At back sat the radio operator and the snort-gunner. 
Walterson, Garside and all the other specialists remained with 
the ship.
Rolling forward, they passed the circle of Waitabits, who 
were now sitting cross-legged in the turf and staring at a 
Keen chart which Nolan was exhibiting with an air of com- 
plete frustration. Nearby, Hoffnagle was chewing his nails 
while trying to decide how much of the lesson was being ab- 
sorbed and how much missed. Not one of this bunch showed
slightest surprise when the car charged down the steep bluff 
and clattered by them.
With jerks and heaves the car crossed the lines behind the 
stalled train, gained the road. Here the surface proved excel- 
lent, the running smooth. The artery would have done justice 
to a Terran race-track. Before they had gone five miles they 
encountered an alien using it for exactly that.
This one half-sat, half-reclined in a long, narrow, low- 
slung single-seater that had 'hot-rod' written all over it. He 
came along like a maniac, face strained, eyes popping, hands 
clinging firmly to the wheel. According to the photoelectric 
telltale on the patrol wagon's instrument board, he roared 
past them at fifty-two and a quarter miles per hour. Since the 
speedometer on the same board recorded precisely fifty, it 
meant that the other was going all out at a harrowing two 
and a quarter.
Twisting his head to gaze through the rear window, Pascoe 
said, "As a sociologist I'll tell you something: some of this 
crowd are downright reckless. If that lunatic is headed for the 
city thirty miles away, he'll make it in as little as twelve 
hours." Then he frowned, became serious as he added, "See- 
ing that their reactions are in keeping with their motions, one 
being as tedious as the other, it wouldn't surprise me if they 
have traffic problems comparable with those of any other 
world."
Nobody got a chance to comment on that. The entire eight 
bowed in unison as the brakes went on. They were entering 
the suburbs with pedestrians, cars and trolleys littering the 
streets. After that it was strictly bottom-gear work; the driver 
had to learn a completely new technique and it wasn't easy.
Crimson-faced people in the same sexless attire ambled 
across the roads in a manner suggesting that for two pins 
they'd lie down and go to sleep. Some moved faster than 
others, but the most nimble ones among the lot were an ob- 
stacle for an inordinate while. Not one halted and gaped at 
the invading vehicle as it trundled by, but most of them 
stopped and took on a baffled expression by the time they'd 
been left a mile behind.
To Leigh and his companions there was a strong tempta- 
tion to correlate slowness with stupidity. They resisted it. 
Evidence to the contrary was strong enough not to be denied.
The streets were level, straight and well-made, complete 
with sidewalks, gullies and drains. No buildings rose higher 
than sixty feet, but all were solidly built and far from primi- 
tive. Cars were not numerous by Terran standards, but those 
that were in evidence had the appearance of engineering jobs 
of no mean order. The street-trolleys were small, sun-powered, 
languidly efficient, and bore two-dozen passengers apiece.
For a few minutes they halted near a building in the 
process of construction, maintained attention upon a worker 
laying a brick, estimated that the job required twenty minutes. 
Three bricks per hour.
Doing some fast figuring, Leigh said, "Taking their days 
and nights as six months apiece and assuming they put in the 
equivalent of an eight-hour day, that fellow is laying some- 
thing over a thousand bricks per hour." He pursed his lips, 
gave a brief whistle. "I know of no lifeform capable of build- 
ing half as fast. Even on Earth it would take a robot to equal
it."
The others considered that aspect of the matter in silence. 
The patrol wagon moved on, reached a square in which was a 
civic car-park containing some forty machines. The sight was 
irresistible. Driving straight in past two uniformed attendants 
they lined their vehicle neatly at the end of a row. The at- 
tendants' eyeballs started edging around.
Leigh spoke to the driver, radioman and gunner. "You three 
stay here. If anyone interferes, pick him up, put him down a 
hundred yards away and leave him to try all over again. If 
they show signs of getting organized to blow you sky-high, 
just move the wagon to the other end of the park. When they 
catch up with you, move back here."
"Where are you going?" inquired Harding.
"Over there." He pointed toward an official-looking build- 
ing. "To save time I'd like you, your men and Pascoe to try 
the other places. Take one apiece, go inside, see if you can 
learn anything worth picking up." He glanced at his watch.
"Be back promptly at three. No dallying. The laggard will 
be left to take a nine-mile walk."
Starting off, he found an attendant twenty yards away and 
moving toward him with owl-eyes wide. Going boldly up to 
him, he took the book of tickets from an unresisting hand, 
tore one off, pressed the book back into crimson fingers, 
added a silver coin by way of payment and passed on. He 
derived amused satisfaction from that honest gesture. By the 
time he'd crossed the square and entered the building the 
recipient had got around to examining the coin.
At three they returned to find chaos in the square and no 
sign of the patrol wagon in the park. A series of brief wails 
on its siren drew them to a side street where it was waiting 
by the curb.
"Slow as they may be, they can get places given long 
enough," said the driver. "They started creeping around us in
such numbers that it seemed like we were being hemmed in 
for keeps. We wouldn't have been able to get out without 
running over fifty of them. I beat it while there was still a 
gap to drive through." He pointed through the windshield. 
"Now they're making for here. The tortoise chasing the 
hare."
One of Harding's men, a grizzled veteran of several space- 
campaigns, remarked, "It's easier when you're up against gup- 
pies that are hostile and fighting mad. You just shoot your 
way out." He grunted a few times. "Here, if you sit around 
too long you've got to let yourself be trapped or else run 
over them in cold blood. That's not my idea of how to do 
things." Another grunt. "Hell of a planet. The fellow who 
found it ought to be made to live here."
"Find anything in your building?" Leigh asked him. 
"Yes, a dozen cops."
"What?"
"Cops," repeated the other. "It was a police station. I could 
tell because they all had the same uniforms, all carried dura- 
lumin bludgeons. And there were faces on the wall with 
queer printing beneath. I can't recognize one face from an- 
other - they are all alike to me. But something told me those
features hadn't been stuck to the wall to commemorate saint- 
liness."
"Did they show any antagonism toward you?"
"They didn't get the chance," he said with open contempt. 
"I just kept shifting around looking at things and that 
had them foxed. If any of those poor slouches had reached for me, 
I could have got behind him and jerked down his pants be- 
fore his arm was halfway out."
"My building was a honey," informed Pascoe. "A telephone 
exchange."
Leigh twisted around to stare at him. "So they are super- 
sonic speakers after all?"
"No. They use scanners and three-inch visiscreens. If I've 
looked down one squirming gizzard, I've looked down twenty. 
What's more, a speaker sometimes removes his palps from 
the screen and substitutes a sort of slow-motion display of 
deaf-and-dumb talk with his fingers. I have a vague idea 
that some of those digital acrobatics represented vitriolic 
cussing."
The driver put in nervously, "If we squat here much long- 
er the road will be blocked both ends."
"Then let's get out while there's time." 
"Back to the ship, sir?"
"Not yet. Wander around and see if you can find an indus- 
trial area."
The car rolled forward, went cautiously past a bunch of 
oncoming pedestrians, avoided the crowded square by trun- 
dling down another side street.
Lying back in comfort, Pascoe clasped his hands together 
over his stomach and inquired interestedly, "I suppose none 
of you happened to find himself in a fire station?"
Nobody had.
"That's what I'd give a thousand credits to see," he said. 
"A couple of pumps and a hook-and-ladder squad bursting 
out to deal with a conflagration a mile away. The speed of 
combustion is no less on this world than on our own. It's a 
wonder to me the town hasn't burned down a dozen times."
"Perhaps it has," offered Harding. "Perhaps they're used to 
it. You can get accustomed to anything in the long run."
"In the long run," agreed Pascoe. "Here it's long enough 
to vanish into the mists of time. And it's anything but a run." 
He glanced at Leigh. "What did you walk into?"
"A public library."
"That's the place to dig up information. How much did 
you get?"
"One item only," Leigh admitted with reluctance. "Their 
printed language is ideographic and employs at least three 
thousand characters."
"There's a big help," said Pascoe, casting an appealing 
glance heavenward. "Any competent linguist or trained com- 
municator should be able to learn it from them. Put Hoff- 
nagle on the job. He's the youngest among us and all he 
needs is a couple of thousand years."
The radio burped, winked its red eye, and the operator 
switched it on. Shallom's voice came through.
"Commodore, an important-looking specimen has just ar- 
rived in what he probably thinks of as a racing car. It may 
be that he's a bigwig appointed to make contact with us. 
That's only our guess, but we're trying to get confirmation 
of it. I thought you'd like to know."
"How's progress with him?"
"No better than with the others. Possibly he's the smartest 
boy in college. Nevertheless, Nolan estimates it will take most 
of a month to convince him that Mary had a little lamb."
"Well, keep trying. We'll be returning shortly." The re- 
ceiver cut off and Leigh added to the others, "Sounds like 
the road-hog we passed on the way here." He nudged the 
driver, pointed leftward. "That looks like a sizable factory. 
Stop outside while I inspect it."
He entered unopposed, came out after a few minutes, told 
them, "It's a combined flour-mill, processing and packaging 
plant. They're grinding up a mountain of nut-kernels, prob- 
ably from surrounding forests. They've a pair of big engines 
down in the basement that beat me. Never seen anything like
them. I think I'll get Bentley to come and look them over. 
He's the expert on power supplies."
"Big place for a mill, isn't it?" ventured Harding.
"They're converting the flour into about twenty forms. I 
sampled some of it."
"What did it taste like?"
"Paste." He nudged the driver again. "There's another 
joint." Then to Harding, "You come with me."
Five minutes later they returned and said, "Boots, shoes 
and slippers. And they're making them fast."
"Fast?" echoed Pascoe, twitching his eyebrows.
"Faster than they can follow the process themselves. The 
whole layout is fully automatic and self-arresting if anything 
goes wrong. Not quite as good as we've got on Earth, but not 
so far behind, either." Leigh sat with pursed lips, musing as 
he gazed through the windshiled. "I'm going back to the 
ship. You fellows can come for further exploration if you
wish."
None of them registered enthusiasm.
There was a signal waiting on the desk, decoded and typed. 
'C.O. FLAME to C.O. THUNDERER. Atmosphere Pulok ana-
lyzed good, in fact healthy. So instruments insist. Noses say 
has abominable stench beyond bearing. Should be named 
Puke. Proceeding Arlington Port 88.137 unless summoned by 
you. Mallory.'
Reading it over Leigh's shoulder, Pascoe commented, "That 
Boydell character has a flair for picking ugly ones right out 
of the sky. Why doesn't someone choke him to death?"
"Four hundred twenty-one recorded in there," reminded 
Leigh, tapping his big chart-book. "And about two-thirds of 
them come under the heading of ugly ones."
"It would save a lot of grief if the scouts ignored those 
and reported only the dumps worth having."
"Grief is the price of progress, you know that." Leigh hur- 
riedly left his desk, went to the port as something whirred out- 
side. He picked up the phone. "Where's the 'copter going?"
"Taking Garside and Walterson some place," replied a
voice. "The former wants more bugs and the latter wants 
rock samples."
"All right. Has that film been finished yet?"
"Yes, Commodore. It came out good and clear. Want me 
to set it up in the projection room?"
"You might as well. I'll be there right away. Have some- 
body get to work on the magazine in the patrol wagon. About 
half of it has been exposed."
"As you order, sir."
Summoning the rest of the specialist staff, of whom there 
were more than sixty, he accompanied them to the projection 
room, studied the record of Ogilvy's survey. When it had 
finished the audience sat in glum silence. Nobody had any- 
thing to say. No comment was adequate.
"A nice mess," griped Pascoe, after they had returned to 
the main cabin. "In the last one thousand years the human 
race has become wholly technological. Even the lowest rank- 
ing space-marine is considered a technician, especially by 
standards of olden times."
"I know." Leigh frowned futilely at the wall.
"We are the brains," Pascoe went on, determined to rub 
salt into the wounds. "And because we're the brains we nat- 
urally dislike providing the muscle as well. We're a cut above 
the mere hewing of wood and drawing of water."
"You're telling me nothing."
Determined to tell it anyway, Pascoe continued, "So we've 
planted settlers on umpteen planets. And what sort of settlers 
are they? Bosses, overseers, boys who inform, advise, and 
order while the less advanced do the doing."
Leigh offered no remark.
"Suppose Walterson and the others find this lousy world 
rich in the things we need," he persisted. "How are we going 
to get at the stuff short of excavating it ourselves? The Wait- 
abits form a big and probably willing labor force, but what's 
the use of them if the most rudimentary job gets completed 
ten, twenty or fifty years hence? Who's going to settle here 
and become a beast of burden as the only way of getting 
things done in jig time?"
"Ogilvy went over a big dam and what looked like a hy- 
droelectric plant," observed Leigh, thoughtfully. "On Earth 
the entire project might have cost two years at most. How 
long it required here is anyone's guess. Two hundred years 
perhaps. Or four hundred. Or more," He tapped fidgety fin- 
gers on his desk, "It worries me."
"We're not worried; we're frustrated. It's not the same 
thing."
"I tell you I'm worried. This planet is like a lighted fuse 
long ignored but now noticed. I don't know where it leads 
or how big a bang is waiting at the other end."
"That's frustration," insisted Pascoe, completely missing 
the point because he hadn't thought of it yet. "We're 
thwarted and don't like it. We're the irresistible force at long 
last meeting the immovable object. The bang is within our 
own minds. No real explosion big enough to shake us can 
ever come from this world's lifeform. They're too slow to 
catch cold."
"I'm not bothered about them in that respect. They worry 
me by their very existence."
"There always have been sluggards, even in our own world." 
"Precisely!" endorsed Leigh with emphasis. "And that's 
what's raising my hackles right now."
The loud-speaker interrupted with a polite cough and said, 
"Ogilvy here, sir. We've picked up granite chippings, quartz 
samples and other stuff. At the moment I'm at sixteen-thou- 
sand feet and can see the ship in the distance. I don't like 
the looks of things."
"What's the matter?"
"The town is emptying itself. So are nearby villages. 
They've taken to the road in huge numbers and started head-
ing your way. The vanguard should reach you in about three 
hours." A brief silence, then, "There's nothing to indicate 
hostile intentions, no sign of an organized advance. Just a rab- 
ble motivated by plain curiosity as far as I can tell. But if you 
get that mob gaping around the ship you won't be able to 
move without incinerating thousands of them."
Leigh though it over. The ship was a mile long. Its lifting 
blasts caromed half a mile on each side and its tail blast was 
equally long. He needed about two square miles of clear 
ground from which to take off without injury to others.
There were eleven-hundred men aboard the Thunderer.
Six hundred were needed to attend the boost. That left five 
hundred to stay grounded and keep the mob at bay around 
the perimeter of two square miles. And they'd have to be 
transferred by 'copter, a few at a time, to the new landing- 
place. Could it be done? It could - but it was hopelessly in- 
efficient.
"We'11 move a hundred miles before they get here," he in-
formed Ogilvy. "That should hold them for a couple of days." 
"Want me to come in, sir?" 
"Please yourself." 
"The passengers aren't satisfied and want to add to their 
collections. So I'1l stay out. If you drop out of sight, I'l1
home on your beacon."
"Very well." Leigh turned to the intercom. "Sound the 
siren and bring in those yaps outside. Check crew all present 
and correct. Prepare to lift."
"Rule Seven," said Pascoe, smirking. "Any action causing 
unnecessary suffering to non-hostile life will be deemed a 
major offense under the Contact Code." He made a derisive 
gesture. "So they amble toward us like a great army of sloths 
and we have to tuck in our tails and run."
"Any better solution?" Leigh asked irritably.
"No. Not one. That's the devil of it."
The siren yowled. Soon afterward the Thunderer began a 
faint but steady shuddering as combustion chambers and 
venturis warmed up. Hoffnagle rushed into the cabin. He had 
a roll of crumpled Keen charts in one fist and a wild look 
in his eyes.
"What's the idea?" he shouted, flourishing the charts and 
forgetting to say 'sir.' "Two successive watches we've spent 
on this, given up our off-duty time into the bargain, and have 
just got one of them to make the orbit-sign. Then you recall 
us." He waited, fuming.
"We're moving."
"Moving?" He looked as if he'd never heard of such a 
thing. "Where?"
"A hundred miles off."
Hoffnagle stared incredulously, swallowed hard, opened 
his mouth, closed it, opened it once more. "But that means 
we'll have to start over again with some other bunch."
"I'm afraid so," agreed Leigh. "The ones you've been try-
ing to talk to could come with us, but it would take far too 
long to make them understand what's wanted. There's nothing 
for it but to make a new start."
"No!" bawled Hoffnagle, becoming frenzied. "Oh, no! 
Anything but that!"
Behind him, Romero barged in and said, "Anything but 
what?" He was breathing heavily and near the end of his 
tether.
Trying to tell him the evil news, Hoffnagle found himself 
lost for words, managed no more than a few feeble gestures.
"A communicator unable to communicate with another 
communicator," observed Pascoe, showing academic inter- 
est.
"They're shifting the ship," Hoffnagle got out with con- 
siderable effort. He made it sound dastardly.
Releasing a violent, "What?" Romero went two shades 
redder than the Waitabits. In fact, for a moment he looked 
like one as he stood there pop-eyed and half-paralyzed.
"Get out," snapped Leigh. "Get out before Nolan comes 
in and makes it three to two. Go some place where you can 
cool down. Remember, you're not the only ones caught in this 
fix."
"No, maybe we aren't," said Hoffnagle, bitterly. "But we're 
the only ones carrying the entire onus of-"
"Everybody's carrying onuses of one sort or another," Leigh 
retorted. "And everybody's well and truly bollixed by them. 
Beat it before I lose my own temper and summon an escort 
for you."
They departed with unconcealed bad grace. Leigh sat at 
his desk, chewed his bottom lip while he tended to official
papers. Twenty minutes went by. Finally, he glanced at the 
wall chronometer, switched the intercom, spoke to Bentley.
"What's holding us up?"
"No signal from the control room, sir."
He re-switched to the control room. "What are we waiting 
for?"
"That bunch from the train is still lounging within burning 
distance, Commodore. Either nobody's told them to go back 
or, if they have been told, they haven't got around to it yet."
Leigh seldom swore but he did it this time, one potent 
word uttered with vigor. He switched a third time, got Hard- 
ing.
"Lieutenant, rush out two platoons of your men. They are 
to return all those alien passengers to their train. Pick them 
up, carry them there, tuck them into it and return as quickly 
as possible."
He resumed his paperwork while Pascoe sat in a corner 
nibbling his fingers and grinning to himself. After half an
hour Leigh voiced the word again and restorted to the inter- 
com.
"What is it now?"
"Still no signal, Commodore," said Bentley in tones of
complete resignation. 
On to the control room. "I gave the order to lift imme- 
diately there's clearance. Why haven't we done so?"
"One alien is still within the danger area, sir."
Next to Harding, "Didn't I tell you to get those aliens onto 
their train?"
"Yes, sir, you did. All passengers were restored to their 
seats fifteen minutes ago."
"Nonsense, man! They've left one of them hanging around
and he's holding up the entire vessel." 
"That one is not from the train, sir," said Harding, pa- 
tiently. "He arrived in a car. You gave no order concerning 
him." 
Leigh used both hands to scrabble the desk, then roared, 
"Get him the heck out of here. Plant him in his contraption 
and shove it down the road. At once." Then he lay back in 
his chair and muttered to himself.
"How'd you like to resign and buy a farm?" Pascoe asked.

The new landing-point was along the crest of the only bald 
hill for miles around. Charred stumps provided evidence of a 
bygone forest fire which had started on the top, spread down 
the sides until halted, probably by heavy rain.
Thickly wooded hills rolled away in every direction. No 
railroad tracks ran nearby, but there was a road in the valley 
and a winding river beyond it. Two villages were visible 
within four miles distance and a medium-sized town lay 
eleven miles to the north.
Experience with local conditions enabled a considerable 
speed-up in investigation. Earnshaw, the relief pilot, took out 
the 'copter with Walterson and four other experts crowded 
inside. The patrol wagon set off for town bearing a load of 
specialists, including Pascoe. Three botanists and an arbori- 
culturalist took to the woods accompanied by a dozen of 
Harding's men who were to bear their spoils.
Hoffnagle, Romero and Nolan traipsed cross-country to the 
nearest village, spread their explanatory charts in the small 
square, and prayed for a rural genius able to grasp the 
meaning of a basic gesture in less than a week. A bunch of 
ship's engineers set forth to examine lines strung on lattice 
masts across hills to the west and south. A piscatorial expert, 
said to have been conditioned from birth by the cognomen of 
Fish, sat for hours on the river bank dangling his lines with- 
out knowing what bait to use, what he might catch, or 
whether it could be caught in less than a lifetime.
Leigh stayed by the ship during this brief orgy of data 
gathering. He had a gloomy foreboding concerning the shape 
of things to come. Time proved him right. Within thirty 
hours Earnshaw had handed the 'copter over to Ogilvy twice 
and was flying for the third time. He was at fifteen-thousand 
above the Thunderer when he called.
"Commodore, I hate to tell you this, but they're coming
again. They seem to have caught on quicker. Maybe they 
were warned over that visiscreen system they've got."
"How long do you give them?"
"The villages will take about two hours. The mob from 
the town need five or six. I can see the patrol wagon heading 
back in front of them."
"You'd better bring in whoever you're carrying and go 
fetch those three communciators right away," said Leigh. 
"Then pick up anyone else on the loose."
"All right, sir."
The siren moaned eerily across the valleys. Over in the 
village Hoffnagle suddenly ceased his slow-motion gesturing 
and launched into an impassioned tirade that astonished the 
Waitabits two days later. Down in the woods the arboricul- 
turalist fell out of a tree and flattened a marine who also 
become vocal.
It was like the ripple effect of a stone cast into a pond. 
Somebody pressed an alarm-stud and a resulting wave of ad- 
jectives spread halfway to the horizon.
They moved yet again, this time to within short range of 
the terminator. At least it served to shift the sun which had 
hung stubbornly in mid-sky and changed position by no more 
than one degree per Earth-day.
The third watch took to bed, dog-tired. Data hunters went 
out feeling that, paradoxically, time was proving all too short 
on a planet with far too much of it. Ogilvy whirred away for 
first look at the night-side, discovered half a world buried 
in deep sleep with nothing stirring, not a soul, not a vehicle.
This situation lasted twenty-one hours, at the end of which 
all natives for miles around had set out for the circus. Once 
more the siren stimulated enrichment of Earth-language. The 
Thunderer went up, came down four hundred miles within 
the night-side.
That tactic, decided Leigh, represented a right smart piece 
of figuring. Aroused aliens on the day-side would now require 
about twelve days to reach them. And they'd make it only 
if some insomniac had spotted and phoned the ship's present 
location. Such betrayal was likely enough because the Thun-
derer's long rows of ports poured a brilliant blaze into the 
darkness and caused a great glow in the sky.
It wasn't long before he gained assurance that there was 
little danger of a giveaway. Nolan entered the cabin and 
stood with fingers twitching as if he yearned to strangle 
someone very, very slowly, much as a Waitabit would do it. 
His attitude was accentuated by possession of unfortunate 
features. Nobody aboard the Thunderer better resembled the 
popular notion of a murderer.
"You will appreciate, Commodore," he began, speaking 
with great restraint, "the extreme difficulty involved in mak- 
ing contact with creatures that think in hours rather than 
split-seconds."
"I know it's tough going," Leigh sympathized. He eyed the 
other carefully. "What's on your mind?"
"What is on my mind," informed Nolan in rising tones, "is 
the fact that there's one thing to be said in favor of previous 
subjects." He worked the fingers around. "At least they were 
awake."
"That is why we had to move," Leigh pointed out. "They're 
no nuisance to us while dead abed."
"Then," Nolan burst forth, "how the blue blazes do you 
expect us to make contact with them?"
"I don't. I've given it up. If you wish to continue trying, 
that's your affair. But you're under no compulsion to do so." 
Crossing the room, he said more gently, "I've sent a long 
signal to Earth giving full details of what we're against. The 
next move is up to them. Their reply should come in a few 
days' time. Meanwhile, well sit tight, dig out whatever in- 
formation we can, leave what we can't."
Nolan said morbidly, "Hoff and I went to a hamlet far 
down the road. Not only is everyone asleep but they can't 
be wakened. They can be handled like dolls without stirring 
in their dreams. The medics came and had a look at them 
after we'd told them about this wholesale catalepsy."
"What did they say?"
"They're of the opinion that the Waitabits are active only 
under stimulous of sunlight. When the sun goes down they
go down with it." He scowled at his predicament, suggested 
hopefuly, "But if you could run us a power-line out there and 
lend us a couple of sunray lamps, we could rouse a few of 
them and get to work."
"It isn't worth it," said Leigh. 
"Why not?"
"Chances are that well be ordered home before you can 
show any real progress."
"Look, sir," pleaded Nolan, making a final effort. "Everyone 
else is raking in results. Measurements, meterings, and so 
forth. They've got bugs, nuts, fruits, plants, barks, timber 
sections, rocks, pebbles, soil samples, photographs - every- 
thing but shrunken heads. The communicators are the only ones 
asked to accept defeat, and that's because we've not had 
a fair chance."
"All right," Leigh said, taking up the challenge. "You fel- 
lows are in the best position to make an accurate estimate. 
So tell me: how long would a fair chance be?"
That had him stumped. He shuffled around, glowered at
the wall, examined his fingers.
"Five years?" prompted Leigh.
No answer.
"Ten maybe?"
No reply.
"Perhaps twenty?"
Nolan growled, "You win," and walked out. His face still 
hankered to create a corpse.
You win, thought Leigh. Like heck he did. The winners 
were the Waitabits. They had a formidable weapon in the 
simple, incontrovertible fact that life can be too short.
Four days later Sector Nine relayed the message from 
Earth.
'37.14 ex Terra. Defense H.Q. to C.O. battleship THUN- 
DERER. Return route D9 calling Sector Four H.Q. Leave am- 
bassador if suitable candidate available. Position in perpetu- 
ity. Rathbone. Com. Gp. Dep. D.H.Q. Terra.'
He called a conference in the long room amidships. Con- 
siderable time was spent coordinating data ranging from
Walterson's findings on radioactive life to Mr. Fish's remarks 
about creeping shrimps. In the end three conclusions stood 
out clearly.
Eterna was very old as compared with Earth. Its people 
were equally old as compared with humankind, estimates of 
life-duration ranging from eight hundred to twelve hundred 
for the average Waitabit. Despite their chronic sluggishness, 
the Waitabits were intelligent, progressive, and had advanced 
to about the same stage as humankind had reached a century 
before the first jump into space.
There was considerable argument about whether the Wait- 
abits would ever be capable of a short rocket-flight, even with 
the aid of automatic, fast-functioning controls. Majority 
opinion was against it, but all agreed that in any event none 
would live to see it.
Then Leigh announced, "An Earth ambassador is to be left 
here if anyone wants the job." He looked them over, seeking 
signs of interest.
"There's little point in planting anybody on this planet," 
someone objected.
"Like most alien people, the Waitabits have not developed 
along paths identical with our own," Leigh explained. "We're 
way ahead of them, know thousands of things that they don't, 
including many they'll never learn. By the same token they've 
picked up a few secrets we've missed. For instance, they have 
types of engines and batteries we'd like to know more about. 
They may have further items not apparent in this first super- 
ficial look-over. And there's no telling what they've got 
worked out theoretically. If there's one lesson we've learned 
in the cosmos, it's that of never despising an alien culture. A 
species too big to learn soon goes small."
"So?"
"So somebody's got to take on the formidable task of sys- 
tematically milking them of everything worth a hoot. That's 
why we are where we are: the knowledge of creation is all 
around and we get it and apply it."
"It's been done time and again on other worlds," agreed 
the objector. "But this is Eterna, a zombie-inhabited sphere
where the clock ticks about once an hour. Any Earthman ma- 
rooned in this place wouldn't have enough time if he lived to 
be a hundred."
"You're right," Leigh told him. "Therefore this ambassa- 
dorial post will be strictly a hereditary one. Whoever takes 
it will have to import a bride, marry, raise kids, hand the 
grief to them upon his deathbed. It may last through six 
generations or more. There is no other way." He let them 
stew over that awhile before he asked, "Any takers?"
Silence.
"You'll be lonely except for company provided by occa- 
sional ships, but contact will be maintained and the power 
and strength of Terra will be behind you. Speak up! The
first applicant gets it." 
Nobody responded.
Leigh consulted his watch. "I'11 give you two hours to 
think it over. After that, we blow. Any candidate will find
me in the cabin."
At zero-hour the Thunderer flamed free leaving no repre- 
sentative on the world. Someday there would be one, no 
doubt of that. Someday a willing hermit would take up resi- 
dence for keeps. Among the men of Terra, an oddity or a 
martyr could always be found.
But the time wasn't yet.
On Eterna the time never was quite yet.

The pale pink planet that held Sector Four H.Q. had 
grown to a large disc before Pascoe saw fit to remark on 
Leigh's meditative attitude.
"Seven weeks along the return run and you're still brood- 
ing. Anyone would think you hated to leave that lousy place. 
What's the matter with you?"
"I told you before. They make me feel apprehensive." 
"That's illogical," Pascoe declared. "Admittedly, we can't
handle the slowest crawlers in existence. But what of it? All 
we need do is drop them and forget them."
"We can drop them, as you say. Forgetting them is some- 
thing else. They have a special meaning that I don't like."
"Be more explicit," Pascoe suggested.
"All right, I will. Earth has had dozens of major wars in 
the far past. Some were caused by greed, ambition, fear, 
envy, desire to save face, Or downright stupidity. But there 
were some caused by sheer altruism."
"Huh?"
"Some," Leigh went doggedly on, "were brought about by 
the unhappy fact that the road to hell is paved with good 
intentions. Big, fast-moving nations tried to lug small, 
slower moving ones up to their own superior pace. Sometimes 
the slow-movers couldn't make it, resented being forced to try, 
started shooting to defend their right to mooch. See what I 
mean?"
"I see the lesson but not the point of it," said Pascoe. "The 
Waitabits couldn't kill a lame dog. Besides, nobody is both- 
ering them."
"I'm not considering that aspect at all." 
"Which one then?"
"Earth had a problem never properly recognized. If it had 
been recognized, it wouldn't have caused wars."
"What problem?"
"That of pace-rate," said Leigh. "Previously it has never 
loomed large enough for us to see it as it really is. The dif- 
ference between fast and slow was always sufficiently small 
to escape us." He pointed through the port at the reef of 
starts lying like sparkling dust against the darkness. "And 
now we know that out there is the same thing enormously 
magnified. We know that included among the numberless and 
everlasting problems of the cosmos is that of pace-rate boosted 
to formidable proportions."
Pascoe though it over. I'11 give you that. I couldn't argue 
it because it has become self-evident. Sooner or later we'll 
encounter it again and again. It's bound to happen some- 
where else eventually."
"Hence my heebies," said Leigh.
"You scare yourself to your heart's content," Pascoe ad- 
vised. "I'm not worrying. It's no hair off my chest. Why 
should I care if some loony scout discovers lifeforms even
slower than the Waitabits? They mean nothing whatever in 
my young life."
"Does he have to find them slower?" Leigh inquired. 
Pascoe stared at him. "What are you getting at?" 
"There's a pace-rate problem, as you've agreed. Turn it
upside down and take another look at it. What's going to 
happen if we come up against a lifeform twenty times faster 
than ourselves? A lifeform that views us much as we viewed 
the Waitabits?"
Giving it a couple of minutes, Pascoe wiped his forehead 
and said, unconvincingly, "Impossible!"
"Is it? Why?"
"Because we'd have met them long before now. They'd 
have got to us first."
"What if they've a hundred times farther to come? Or if 
they're a young species one-tenth our age but already nearly 
level with us?"
"Look here," said Pascoe, taking on the same expression 
as the other had worn for weeks, "there are troubles enough 
without you going out of your way to invent more."
Nevertheless, when the ship landed he was still mulling 
every possible aspect of the matter and liking it less every 
minute.
A Sector Four official entered the cabin bearing a wad of 
documents. He was a plump specimen exuding artificial cor- 
diality.
"Lieutenant Vaughan, at your service, Commodore," he 
enthused. "I trust you have had a pleasant and profitable 
run,"
"It could have been worse," Leigh responded.
Radiating good will, Vaughan went on, "We've had a signal 
from Markham at Assignment Office on Terra. He wants you 
to check equipment, refuel and go take a look at Binty. I've 
brought the coordinates with me."
"What name?" interjected Pascoe.
"Binty."
"Heaven preserve us! Binty!" He sat down hard, stared at 
the wall. "Binty!" He played with his fingers, voiced it a
third time. For some reason best known to himself he was 
hypnotized by Binty. Then in tones of deep suspicion he 
asked, "Who reported it?"
"Really, I don't know. But it ought to be here." Vaughan 
obligingly sought through his papers. "Yes, it does say. Fel- 
low named Archibald Boydell."
"I knew it," yelped Pascoe. "I resign. I resign forthwith." 
"You've resigned forthwith at least twenty times in the
last eight years," Leigh reminded him. "It's getting monoton- 
ous."
"I mean it this time."
"You've said that, too." Leigh sighed, added, "And if you 
run true to form, you'll soon invite me to go to hell."
Pascoe waved his hands around. "Now try to calm yourself 
and look at this sensibly. What space-outfit which is sane 
would take off for a dump with a name like Binty?"
"We would," said Leigh. He waited for blood pressure to 
lower, then finished, "Wouldn't we?"
Slumping into his seat Pascoe glowered at him for five 
minutes before he said, "I suppose so. God help me, I must 
be weak." A little glassy-eyed, he shifted his attention to 
Vaughan. "Name it again in case I didn't hear right."
"Binty," said Vaughan, unctuously apologetic. "He has 
coded it O-O.9-E5 which indicates the presence of an intelli- 
gent but backward lifeform."
"Does he make any remark about the place?"
"One word," informed Vaughan, consulting the papers again. "Ugh!"
Pascoe shuddered from head to feet.




TIELINE

HE WATCHED the needle of the output meter jump, wiggle 
and fall back. Thirty seconds later the same again, a rise, 
quiver and fall. Thirty seconds later the same again. It had 
been going on for weeks, months, years.
Outside the fused-stone building a lattice mast rose high 
into the air and pointed a huge cup at the stars. And from 
the cup, at half-minute intervals, there squirted a soundless, 
long-range voice.
"Bunda One. Eep-eep-bop! Bunda One. Eep-eep-bop!"
From eight synchronized repeater-stations on lonely islands 
around the planet's belly the same call went forth, radiating 
like the spokes of a wheel as slowly the world turned on its 
axis.
Out there, in the inter-nebular chasm where dark bodies 
lurked unaccompanied by revealing suns, an occasional ship 
would hear the voice, change course in its own horizontal or 
vertical plane and thunder steadily onward.
How often that happened, he'd no way of telling. He re- 
mained in awful solitude, pointing the way to those who 
never said, "Thanks!" Too small and fleeting ever to be seen, 
their flame-trails flickered briefly in the gap between star- 
whorls and then were gone. The ships that pass in the night.
Bunda One. A lighthouse of space. A world with Earthlike 
atmosphere but little land. A sphere of vast oceans dotted
with craggy islands on which lived nothing that was com- 
pany and comfort for anything in human form.
This very island was the largest solid foothold on a world 
of watery wastes. Twenty-two miles long by seven wide - a 
veritable continent in Bunda terms. No trees, no animals, no 
birds, no flowers. There were low, twisted shrubs, lichens 
and tiny fungi. There were fifty species of amphibious insects 
that maintained balance by warring upon each other. And 
nothing else.
Over all the planet lay a dreadful silence. That was the 
horror of it: the silence. The winds were gentle, consistent, 
never descending to a sigh or raising to a howl. The seas 
swelled lazily, crawled ten sluggish inches up the rocks, 
slid ten inches down without a thump, a splash, a rattle of 
flung spray. The insects were noiseless, without a chirp or 
squeak among the lot. The pale lichens and distorted shrubs 
stood unmoving, like bizarre entities paralyzed by eternal 
quiet.
Behind the building lay a garden. When the beacon con- 
structors first set up the place they had dessicated half an 
acre of hard rock, turning it into cultivatable dirt, planting 
Earthborn roots and seeds therein. No flowers had come up 
but some vegetables flourished. Beets, spinach and broccoli 
- he had fifty rows of those. And he had onions the size of 
footballs.
At no time did he eat an onion. He detested the things. 
But he kept them along with the rest, tending them care- 
fully for the sake of varying routine and for the pleasure 
of hearing the gritty thrust of a spade, the steady chink of a 
hoe.
The needle jumped, wiggled, fell back. If watched too often 
and too long it became hypnotic. There were times when he 
developed an insane desire to change its characteristic wiggle 
into something idiotic but refreshingly new, to tear out the 
great transmitter's key-code and substitute an imbecility that
the cup would squirt at astounded stars. 
"Wossop na bullwacka. Bammer-bam-whop! Wossop na
bullwacka. Bammer-bam-whop!"
It had happened before and someday would happen again. 
Wasn't so long since a light cruiser had bolted to a Wolf- 
group station after its beacon had lapsed into incoherencies. 
One man's madness had endangered a liner bearing two thou- 
sand. Put out the light and there is stumbling in the dark. 

To join the Beacon Service was to accept ten years of soli- 
tary confinement for very high pay and the satisfaction of
fulfilling a public need. The prospect looked enticing when
young, adaptable and still standing four-square upon good 
old Earth. The reality, was grim, forbidding, and had proved 
too much for some. Man was not meant to live alone.
'So you're from the Western Isles, eh? Just the sort of man 
we want! We've a station called Bunda One that's made to 
measure for you. You'll be able to tolerate it far better than 
most. City fellows aren't much use in a place like that; no 
matter how excellent their technical qualifications, sooner or 
later they tend to crack up from sheer lack of the bright 
lights. Yes, a man from the Western Isles is cut to size for 
Bunda One. You don't miss what you've never had. Bunda 
One's got all you're used to: rocky islands and great seas, just
like home. . . .'
Just like home.
Home.
Down there on the waveless beach were pebbles and pretty
shells and creeping things like tiny crabs. In the ocean swayed 
acres of seaweed through which darted vast shoals of fish, big 
and small, exactly like the fish of Earth. He knew, for he had 
cast lines from the shore, caught them, unhooked them and 
thrown them back to the freedom that he lacked.
But no worn stone jetty projected into the green waters, 
no rusty little steamers rolled across the bay, nobody on the 
beach busied themselves with tar-pots or mended nets. No 
barrels rolled and clattered from the cooperage, no shining 
blocks slithered out of the ice plant, no silver horde flopped 
and jerked under the hatches of full holds. And at eventide 
no voices in the chapel prayed for those in peril on the sea.
Back there on Earth the scientific big-brains were top 
notch when it came to dealing with purely technical prob- 
lems. The Bunda One master-station was semiautomatic, its 
eight slave-beacons fully automatic, and they drew power 
from atomic generators that could run untended for a century 
or more. The strength of the warning voice was enough to 
boost it across a mighty chasm between clusters of uncount- 
able suns. All that was needed to create one hundred percent 
efficiency was a watching eye backed by knowledge, ability
and initiative, an emergency mechanism that would make the 
beacon a self-servicing unit. In other words, one man.
That's where their ingenuity fell short. One man. A man is 
not a gadget. He cannot be assessed as a gadget, be treated 
like one, be made to function like one.
Somewhat belatedly they'd recognized the fact after the 
third lunatic had been removed from his post. Three mental 
breakdowns in an organization numbering four hundred iso- 
lated stations is not a large proportion. Less than one percent. 
But it was three too many. And the number might grow larger 
as time caught up with those slower to break. They'd cogi- 
tated the problem. Ah, they'd exclaimed, preconditioning is 
the answer.
So the next candidates had been put through a scientifi- 
cally designed mill, a formidable, long-term course calculated 
to break the breakable and leave a tough residue suitable for 
service. It hadn't worked out. The need for men was too 
great, the number of candidates too few, and they'd broken 
too many.
After that they'd tried half a dozen other theories with 
no better luck. Precept and practice don't always accord. 
The big-brains could have done with a taste of reality them- 
selves.
Their latest fad was the tieline theory. Man, they asserted, 
is born of Earth and needs a tieline to Earth. Give him that 
and he's fastened to sanity. He can hang on through ten 
years of solitary confinement.
What's a tieline?
Cherchez la femme, suggested one, looking worldly-wise 
over his spectacles. They'd discussed it, dismissed it on a
dozen counts. Imaginable complications ranged all the way 
from murder to babies. Besides, it would mean the periodic 
haul of supplies doubled in mass for the sake of a nontech- 
nical entity.
A dog, then? All right for those few worlds on which a 
dog can fend for itself. But what about other worlds, such 
as Bunda? Space-loads are estimated in ounces; not tons, and
the time is not yet for shipping dog-food around the cosmos
for the benefit of single, widely-scattered mutts.
The first attempted tieline was makeshift and wholly me- 
chanical and did have the virtue of countering the silence 
that was the curse of Bunda. The annual supply-ship dropped
its load of food along with a recorder and a dozen tapes.
For the next month he had noise, not only words and 
music, but also characteristic Earth-sounds: the roar of holi- 
day traffic along a turnpike, the rumble of trains, the chimes
of Sunday morning bells, the high-pitched chatter of children 
pouring out of school. The aural evidence of life far, far 
away. At the first hearing he was delighted. At the twentieth
he was bored. There was no thirtieth time.
The output needle jumped, wiggled, fell back. The re- 
corder stood abandoned in a comer. Out there in the star- 
mists were his lonely brothers. He could not talk even to 
them, or listen to them. They were out of radio-reach and 
their worlds turned like his. He sat and watched the needle 
and felt Bunda's awful hush.
Eight months ago, Earth-time, the supply-ship had brought 
evidence that they were still fooling with the tieline theory. 
Along with the annual stores it had dropped a little box and
a small book.
Detaching the box from its 'chute, he'd opened it, found 
himself confronted by a bug-eyed monster. The thing had 
turned its triangular head and stared at him with horrid cold- 
ness. Then it had moved long, awkward limbs to clamber 
out. He'd shut the box hurriedly and consulted the book.
This informed him that the new arrival's name was Jason, 
that it was a praying mantis, tame, harmless and fully capa- 
ble of looking after itself on Bunda. Jason, they said, had 
been diet-tested on several species of Bunda insects and had 
eaten them avidly. In some parts of Earth the mantis was a 
pet of children.
That showed how their stubbornly objective minds worked. 
They'd now decided that the tieline must be a living crea- 
ture, a natural-born Terran. Also that it must be capable of 
sustaining itself on an alien planet. But, being in armchairs
and not lost in the starfield, they'd overlooked the essential 
quality of familiarity. They'd have done better to have sent 
him an alley cat. He didn't like cats and there was no milk, 
but at least the seas were full of fish. Moreover, cats make 
noises. They purr and yowl. The thing in the box was menac- 
ing and silent.
Who in the Western Isles had ever encountered a praying 
mantis? He'd never seen one in his life before. It resembled 
the nightmare idea of a Martian.
He never once handled it. He kept it in its box where it 
stood on long legs, eerily turning its head, watching him icy- 
eyed and never uttering a sound. The first day he gave it a 
Bunda hopper caught among the lichens, and was sickened 
by the way it bit off the victim's head and chewed. A couple 
of times he dreamed of a gigantic Jason towering over him, 
mouth opening like a big, hungry trap.
After a couple of weeks he'd had enough. Taking the box 
six miles to the north, he opened it, tilted it, watched Jason 
scuttle into the shrubs and lichens. It favored him with one 
basilisk stare before it disappeared. There were two Terrans 
on Bunda and they were lost to each other.
"Bunda One. Eep-eep-bop!"
Jump, wiggle, fall. No word of acknowledgment from an 
assisted ship fleeing through the distant dark. No sounds of 
life save those impressed on a magnetic tape. No reality 
within an alien reality daily growing more dreamlike and 
elusive.
Might be worth sabotaging the station for the sake of re- 
pairing it and getting it back into action, thus creating pre- 
tended justification for one's own existence. But a thousand 
lifeforms on one ship might pay for it with death. The price 
of monotony-busting amusement was too dear.
Or he could spend off-duty hours making a northward 
search for the tiny monster, calling, calling and hoping not 
to find it.
Jason! Jason!
And somewhere among the crags and crevices a pointed, 
bulgy-eyed head turning toward his voice - and no reply
coming back. If Jason had been capable of chirruping like
a cricket, maybe he could have endured the creature, grown
to love it, known that the squeaks were mantis-talk. But
Jason was as grim and silent as the hushed, forbidding world 
of Bunda. 
He made a final check of the transmitter, monitored its 
eight slaves calling in the distance, went to bed, lay there 
wondering for the thousandth time whether he would see 
the ten years through, or whether he was doomed to crack 
before the end.
If ever he did go nuts the scientists on Earth would 
promptly use him as a guinea pig, a test case for them to 
work on in their efforts to determine cause and cure. Yes, they 
were clever, very clever. But there were some things about 
which they weren't so smart. With that thought he fell into 
uneasy sleep.

Seeming stupidity sometimes proves to be cleverness com- 
pelled to take its time. All problems can be worked out given 
weeks, months or years instead of seconds or minutes. The 
time for this one was now.
The tramp-ship Henderson rolled out of the starfield, de- 
scended on wheezy antigravs, hung momentarily two thou- 
sand feet above the beacon. It lacked power reserves to land, 
take off and still make its appointed rounds. It merely paused, 
dropped the latest tieline thought up by the big-brains and 
beat it back into the dark. The cargo swirled down into the 
Bunda-night like a flurry of big gray snowflakes.
At dawn he awoke unconscious of the visit. The supply 
ship was not due for another four months. He glanced 
bleary-eyed at his clock, frowned with baffiement over what 
had caused him to wake so early. Something, a vague some- 
thing that had intruded in his dreams.
What was it? A sound.
A noise!
He sat up, listened. There again, outside, muffied by dis-
tance. The wail of an abandoned cat. No, not that. More like 
the cry of a lost baby.
Imagination. The cracking process must be starting al- 
ready. He'd lasted four years. Some other hermit would put 
in the remaining six. He was hearing things and that was 
a sure sign of mental unbalance.
Again the sound.
Getting out of bed, he dressed himself, examined himself 
in the mirror. It wasn't an idiot face that looked back at him. 
A little strained, perhaps, but otherwise normal. He went to 
the control room, studied the instrument board. Jump, wiggle, 
fall. 
"Bunda One. Eep-eep-bop!" 
Everything all right there. He returned to his own room,
stretched his ears, listened. Somebody - some thing - was out 
there wailing in the dawnlight by the swelling waters. What? 
Unfastening the door with nervous fingers, he looked out. 
The sound boosted, poured around him, all over him, flooded 
through his soul. He stood there a long time, trembling. 
Then gathering himself together he raced to the storeroom, 
stuffed his pockets with biscuits, filled both hands.
He stumbled with sheer speed as he bolted out the door.
He ran headlong down to the shingly beach, loaded hands 
held out, his breath coming in glad gasps.
And there at the lazy ocean's edge he stood with shining 
eyes, arms held wide as seven-hundred sea gulls swirled 
around him, took biscuit from his fingers, strutted between 
his feet.
All the time they screamed the hymn of the islands, the 
song of the everlasting sea, the wild, wild music that was 
truly Earth's.




TOP SECRET

ASHMORE said, with irritating phlegmaticism, "The Zengs 
have everything to gain and nothing to lose by remaining 
friendly with us. I'm not worried about them."
"But I am," rasped General Railton. "I'm paid to worry. 
It's my job. If the Zeng empire launches a treacherous attack 
upon ours and gains some initial successes, who'll get the 
blame? Who'll be accused of military unpreparedness?" He 
tapped his two rows of medal ribbons. "I will!"
"Understanding your position, I cannot share your alarm," 
maintained Ashmore, refusing to budge. "The Zeng empire
is less than half the size of ours. The Zengs are an amiable 
and cooperative form of life and we've been on excellent 
terms with them since the first day of contact."
"I'11 grant you all that." General Railton tugged furiously
at his large and luxuriant mustache while he examined the 
great star-map that covered an entire wall. "But I have to 
consider things purely from the military viewpoint. It's my 
task to look to the future and expect the worst."
"Well, what's worrying you in particular?" Ashmore in- 
vited.
"Two things." Railton placed an authoritative finger on the 
star-map. "Right here we hold a fairly new planet called 
Motan. You can see where it is - out in the wilds, far beyond
our long-established frontiers. It's located in the middle of
a close-packed group of solar systems, a stellar array that 
represents an important junction in space."
"I know all that."
"At Motan we've got a foothold of immense strategic 
value. We're in ambush on the crossroads, so to speak. 
Twenty thousand Terrans are there, complete with two
spaceports and twenty-four light cruisers," He glanced at 
the other. "And what happens?" 
Ashmore offered no comment.
"The Zengs," said Railton, making a personal grievance of 
it, "move in and take over two nearby planets in the same 
group."
"With our agreement," Ashmore reminded. "We did not 
need those two planets. The Zengs did want them. They put 
in a polite and correct request for permission to take over. 
Greenwood told them to help themselves."
"Greenwood," exploded Railton, "is someone I could de- 
scribe in detail were it not for my oath of loyalty."
"Let it pass," suggested Ashmore, wearily. "If he blun- 
dered, he did so with the full approval of the World Council."
"The World Council," Railton snorted. "All they're inter- 
ested in is exploration, discovery trade. All they can think 
of is culture and cash. They're completely devoid of any sense 
of peril."
"Not being military officers," Ashmore pointed out, "they 
can hardly be expected to exist in a state of perpetual appre- 
hension."
"Mine's not without cause." Railton had another go at up- 
rooting his mustache. "The Zengs craftily position themselves 
adjacent to Motan." He swept spread fingers across the map 
in a wide arc. "And all over here are Zeng outposts mixed 
up with ours. No orderliness about it, no system. A mob, 
sir, a scattered mob."
"That's natural when two empires overlap," informed Ash- 
more. "And, after all, the mighty cosmos isn't a parade 
ground."
Ignoring that, Railton said pointedly, "Then a cipher book 
disappears."
"It was shipped back on the Laura Lindsay. She blew 
apart and was a total loss. You know that."
"I know only what they see fit to tell me. I don't know 
that the book was actually on the ship. If it was not, where 
is it? Who's got it? What's he doing with it?" He waited for 
comment that did not come; finished, "So I had to move 
heaven and earth to get that cipher canceled and have copies 
of a new one sent out."
"Accidents happen," said Ashmore.
"Today," - continued Railton, "I discover that Commander 
Hunter, on Motan, has been given the usual fat-headed emer- 
gency order. If war breaks out, he must fight a defensive 
action and hold the planet at all costs."
"What's wrong with that?"
Staring at him incredulously, Railton growled, "And him 
with twenty-four light cruisers. Not to mention two new bat- 
tleships soon to follow."
"I don't quite understand."
"Wars," explained Railton, as one would to a child, "cannot 
be fought without armed ships. Ships cannot function use- 
fully without instructions based on careful appraisal of tac- 
tical necessities. Somebody has to plan and give orders. The 
orders have to be received by those appointed to carry them 
out."
"So?"
"How can Zeng warships receive and obey orders if their 
planetary beam-stations have been destroyed?"
"You think that immediately war breaks out the forces on 
Motan should bomb every beam-station within reach?"
"Most certainly, man!" Railton looked pleased at long last. 
"The instant the Zengs attack we've got to retaliate against 
their beam-stations. That's tantamount to depriving them of 
their eyes and ears. Motan must be fully prepared to do its 
share. Commander Hunter's orders are out of date, behind 
the times, in fact plain stupid. The sooner they're rectified, 
the better."
"You're the boss," Ashmore reminded. "You've the authori-
ty to have them changed." 
"That's exactly what I intend to do. I am sending Hunter
appropriate instructions at once. And not by direct-beam 
either." He indicated the map again. "In this messy muddle 
there are fifty or more Zeng beam-stations lying on the 
straight line between here and there. How do we know how 
much stuff they're picking up and deciphering?"
"The only alternative is the tight-beam," Ashmore said. 
"And that takes ten times as long. It zigzags all over the star- 
field from one station to another."
"But it's a thousand times safer and surer," Railton re- 
torted. "Motan's station has just been completed and now's 
the time to make use of the fact. I'll send new instructions 
by tight-beam, in straight language, and leave no room for 
misunderstanding."
He spent twenty minutes composing a suitable message, 
finally got it to his satisfaction. Ashmore read it, could sug- 
gest no improvements. In due course it flashed out to Cen- 
tauri, the first staging-post across the galaxy.
'In event of hostile action in your sector the war must be 
fought to oustretch and rive all enemy's chief lines of commu- 
nication.'
"That," said Railton, "expresses it broadly enough to show 
Hunter what's wanted but still leave him with some initia-
tive."
At Centauri the message was unscrambled, read off in 
clear, read into another beam of different frequency, and 
boosted to the next nearest station. There it was sorted out, 
read off in clear, repeated into another beam and squirted 
onward.
It went leftward, rightward, upward, downward, and was 
dutifully recited eighteen times by voices ranging from Ter- 
ran-American deep-South-suh to Bootean-Ansanite far-North- 
yezzah. But it got there just the same.
Yes, it got there.

Lounging behind his desk, Commander Hunter glanced 
idly at the Motan thirty-hour clock, gave a wide yawn, won- 
dered for the hundredth time whether it was something in the 
alien atmosphere that gave him the gapes. A knock sounded 
on his office door.
"Come in!"
Tyler entered, red-nosed and sniffy as usual. He saluted, 
dumped a signal-form on the desk. "Message from Terra, 
sir." He saluted again and marched out, sniffing as he went.
Picking it up, Hunter yawned again as he looked at it. 
Then his mouth clapped shut with an audible crack of jaw-
bones. He sat bolt upright, eyes popping, read it a second 
time.
'Ex Terra Space Control. Tight-Beam, Straight. Top Se- 
cret. To Motan. An event of hospitality your section the fore- 
most when forty-two ostriches arrive on any cheap line of 
communication.'
Holding it in one hand he walked three times round the 
room, but it made no difference. The message still said what 
it said.
So he reseated himself, reached for the phone and bawled, 
"Maxwell? Is Maxwell there? Send him in at once!"
Maxwell appeared within a couple of minutes. He was a 
long, lean character who constantly maintained an expression 
of chronic disillusionment. Sighing deeply, he sat down.
"What's it this time, Felix?"
"Now," said Hunter, in the manner of a dentist about to 
reach for the big one at the back, "you're this planet's chief 
equipment officer. What you don't know about stores, sup- 
plies, and equipment isn't worth knowing, eh?"
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that. I-"
"You know 'everything' about equipment," insisted Hunter, 
"else you've no right being here and taking money for it. 
You're skinning the Terran taxpayers by false pretenses."
"Calm down, Felix," urged Maxwell. "I've enough troubles 
of my own." His questing eyes found the paper in the other's 
hand. "I take it that something's been requisitioned of which 
you don't approve. What is it?"
"Forty-two ostriches," informed Hunter.
Maxwell gave a violent jerk, fell off his chair, regained it 
and said, "Ha-ha! That's good. Best I've heard in years."
"You can see the joke all right?" asked Hunter, with arti- 
ficial pleasantness. "You think it a winner?" .
"Sure," enthused Maxwell. "It's really rich." He added an- 
other ha-ha by way of support.
"Then," said Hunter, a trifle viciously, "maybe you'll ex- 
plain it to me; I'm too dumb to get it on my own." He leaned 
forward, arms akimbo. "Why do we require forty-two os- 
triches, eh? Tell me that!"
"Are you serious?" asked Maxwell, a little dazed.
For answer, Hunter shoved the signal-form at him. Max- 
well read it, stood up, sat down, read it again, turned it over 
and carefully examined the blank back.
"Well?" prompted Hunter.
"I've had nothing to do with this," assured Maxwell, hur- 
riedly. He handed back the signal-form as though anxious to 
be rid of it. "It's a Terran-authorized shipment made without 
demand from this end."
"My limited intelligence enabled me to deduce that 
much," said Hunter. "But as I have pointed out, you know 
all about equipment required for given conditions on any 
given world. All I want from you is information on why Mo- 
tan needs forty-two ostriches - and what we're supposed to do 
with them when they come."
"I don't know," Maxwell admitted.
"You don't know?"
"No."
"That's a help." Hunter glowered at the signal. "A very 
big help."
"How about it being in code?" inquired Maxwell, desperate 
enough to fish around.
"It says here it's in straight." 
"That could be an error."
"All right. We can soon check." Unlocking a big wall safe, 
Hunter extracted a brass-bound book, scrabbled through its 
pages. Then he gave it to Maxwell. "See if you can find a 
reference to ostriches or any reasonable resemblance thereto."
After five minutes Maxwell voiced a dismal, "No."
"Well," persisted Hunter, "have you sent a demand for 
forty-two of anything that might be misread as ostriches?"
"Not a thing." He meditated a bit, added glumly, "I did 
order a one-pint blowtorch."
Taking a tight grip on the rim of the desk, Hunter said, 
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Nothing. I was just thinking. That's what I ordered. You 
ought to see what I got." He gestured toward the door. "It's
right out there in the yard. I had it dragged there for your 
benefit."
"Let's have a look at it."

Hunter followed him outside, inspected the object of the 
other's discontent. It had a body slightly bigger than a gar- 
bage can, and a nozzle five inches in diameter by three feet 
in length. Though empty, it was as much as the two could 
manage to lift it.
"What the deuce is it, anyway?" demanded Hunter, scowl- 
ing.
"A one-pint blowtorch. The consignment note says so." 
"Never seen anything like it. We'd better check the stores
catalogue." Returning to the office, he dug the tome out of 
the safe, thumbed through it rapidly, found what he wanted 
somewhere among the middle pages.
19112. Blowtorch, butane, 0.5 pint capacity.
19112A. Blowtorch, butane, 1 pint capacity.
19112B. Blowtorch (tar-boiler pattern), kerosene, 15 gal- 
lons capacity.
19112B(a). Portable trolley for 1912B.
"You've got B in lieu of A," Hunter diagnosed.
"That's right. I order A and I get B."
"Without the trolley?"
"Correct."
"Some moron is doing his best." He returned the catalogue 
to the safe. "You'll have to ship it back. It's a fat lot of use 
to us without the trolley even if we do find need to boil some 
tar."
"Oh, I don't know," Maxwell said. "We can handle it by 
sheer muscle when the two hundred left-legged men get 
here."
Hunter plonked himself in his chair, gave the other the 
hard eye. "Quit beating about the bush. What's on your 
mind?"
"The last ship," said Maxwell, moodily, "brought two hun- 
dred pairs of left-legged rubber thigh-boots."
"The next ship may bring two hundred pairs of right-
legged ones to match up," said Hunter. "Plus forty-two os- 
triches. When that's done we'll be ready for anything. We can 
defy the cosmos." He suddenly went purple in the face, 
snatched up the phone and yelled, "Tyler! Tyler."
When that worthy appeared he said, "Blow your nose and 
tight-beam this message: 'Why forty-two ostriches?'"
It went out, scrambled and unscrambled and rescrambled, 
upward, downward, rightward, leftward, recited in Sirian- 
Kham lowlands accents and Terran-Scottish highlands accents 
and many more. But it got there just the same.
Yes, it got there.

General Railton glanced up from a thick wad of docu- 
ments and rapped impatiently. "What is it?"
"Top secret message from Motan, sir."
Taking it. Railton looked it over.
'We've fought two ostriches.'
"Ashmore!" he yelled. "Pennington! Whittaker!"
They came on the run, lined up before his desk, assumed 
habitual expressions of innocence. He eyed them as though 
each was personally responsible for something dastardly.
"What," he demanded, "is the meaning of this?"
He tossed the signal-form at Pennington, who gave it the 
glassy eye and passed it to Whittaker, who examined it fear- 
fully and got rid of it on Ashmore. The latter scanned it, 
dumped it back on the desk. Nobody said anything.
"Well," said Railton, "isn't there a useful thought among 
the three of you?"
Picking up courage, Pennington ventured, "It must be 
in code, sir."
"It is clearly and plainly captioned as being in straight." 
"That may be so, sir. But it doesn't make sense in straight." 
"Do you think I'd have summoned you here if it did?"
Railton let go a snort that quivered his mustaches. "Bring 
me the current code-book. Well see if we can get to the
bottom of this." 
They fetched him the volume then in use, the sixth of
Series B. He sought through it at length. So did they, each 
in turn. No ostriches.
"Try the earlier books," Railton ordered. "Some fool on 
Motan may have picked up an obsolete issue."
So they staggered in with a stack of thirty volumes, worked 
back to BA. No ostriches. After that, they commenced on AZ 
and laboriously headed toward AA.
Pennington, thumbing through AK, let go a yelp of tri- 
umph. "Here it is, sir. An ostrich is a food supply and ra- 
tioning code-word located in the quartermaster section."
"What does it mean?" inquired Railton, raising expectant 
eyebrows.

"One gross of fresh eggs," said Pennington, in the manner 
of one who sweeps aside the veil of mystery.
"Ah!" said Railton, in tones of exaggerated satisfaction. 
"So at last we know where we stand, don't we? Everything 
has become clear. On Motan they've beaten off an attack by 
three hundred fresh eggs, eh?"
Pennington looked crushed.
"Fresh eggs," echoed Ashmore. "That may be a clue!" 
"What sort of clue?" demanded Railton, turning attention
his way.
"In olden times," explained Ashmore, "the word fresh 
meant impudent, bold, brazen. And an egg was a person. 
Also, a hoodlum or thug was known as a hard egg or a 
tough egg."
"If you're right, that means Motan has resisted a raid by 
three hundred impertinent crooks."
"Offhand, I just can't think of any more plausible solu- 
tion," Ashmore confessed.
"It's not credible," decided Railton. "There are no pirates 
out that way. The only potential menace is the Zengs. If a 
new and previously unsuspected lifeform has appeared out 
there, the message would have said so."
"Maybe they meant they've had trouble with Zengs," sug- 
gested Whittaker.
"I doubt it," Railton said. "In the first place, the Zengs 
would not be so dopy as to start a war by launching a futile
attack with a force a mere three hundred strong. In the sec- 
ond place, if the culprits were Zengs the fact could have 
been stated. On the tight-beam system there's no need for 
Motan to be obscure."
"That's reasonable enough," Ashmore agreed.
Railton thought things over, said at last, "The message 
looks like a routine report. It doesn't call for aid or demand 
fast action. I think we'd better check back. Beam them ask- 
ing which book they're quoting."
Out it went, up, down and around, via a mixture of voices. 
'Which code-book are you using?'

Tyler sniffed, handed it over, saluted, sniffed again and 
ambled out. Commander Hunter picked it up.
'Which goad-hook are you using?'
"Maxwell! Maxwell!" When the other arrived, he said, 
"There'll never be an end to this. What's a goad-hook?"
"I'd have to look it up in the catalogue."
"Meaning that you don't know?"
"There's about fifty kinds of hooks," informed Maxwell, 
defensively. "And for many of them there are technical names 
considerably different from space-navy names or even stores 
equipment names. A tension-hook, for instance, is better 
known as a tightener."
"Then let's consult the book." Getting it from the safe, 
Hunter opened it on the desk while Maxwell positioned him- 
self to look over the other's shoulder. "What'll it be listed
under?" Hunter asked. "Goad-hooks or hooks, goad? G or H?"
"Might be either."
They sought through both. After checking item by item 
over half a dozen pages, Maxwell stabbed a finger at a 
middle column.
"There it is."
Hunter looked closer. "That's guard-hooks: things for fixing 
wire fence to steel posts. Where's goad-hooks?"
"Doesn't seem to be any," Maxwell admitted. Sudden sus- 
picion flooded his features and he went on, "Say, do you sup- 
pose this has anything to do with those ostriches?"
"Darned if I know. But it's highly probable."
"Then," announced Maxwell, "I know what a goad-hook 
is. And you won't find it in that catalogue."
Slamming the book shut, Hunter said wearily, "All right. 
Proceed to enlighten me."
"I saw a couple of them in use," informed Maxwell. "Years 
ago, in the movies."
"The movies?"
"Yes. They were showing an ostrich farm in South Africa. 
When the farmer wanted to extract a particular bird from the 
flock, he used a pole about eight to ten feet long. It had a 
sort of metal prod on one end and a wide hook at the other. 
He'd use the sharp end to poke other birds out of the way, 
then use the hook end to snake the bird he wanted around the
bottom of its neck and drag it out." 
"Oh," said Hunter, staring at him.
"It's a thing like bishops carry for lugging sinners into the 
path of righteousness," Maxwell finished.
"Is it really?" said Hunter, blinking a couple of times. 
"Well, it checks up with that signal about the ostriches." He 
brooded a bit, went on, "But it implies that there is more 
than one kind of goad-hook. Also, that we are presumed to 
have one particular pattern in stores here. They want to know 
which one we've got. What are we going to tell them?"
"We haven't got any," Maxwell pointed out. "What do we 
need goad-hooks for?"
"Ostriches," said Hunter. "Forty-two of them."
Maxwell thought it over: "We've no goad-hooks, not one. 
But they think we have. What's the answer to that?"
"You tell me," Hunter invited.
"That first message warned us that the ostriches were com- 
ing on any cheap line of communication, obviously meaning 
a chartered tramp-ship. So they won't get here for quite a 
time. Meanwhile, somebody has realized that we'll need goad- 
hooks to handle them and shipped a consignment by fast 
service-boat. Then he's discovered that he can't remember 
which pattern he's sent us. He can't fill out the necessary
forms until he knows. He's asking you to give with the in- 
formation."
"If that's so," commented Hunter, "some folk have a nerve 
to tight-beam such a request and mark it top secret."
"Back at Terran H.Q.," said Maxwell, "one is not shot at 
dawn for sabotage, treachery, assassination or any other 
equally trifling misdeed. One is blindfolded and stood against 
the wall for not filling out forms, or for filling out the wrong 
ones, or for filling out the right ones with the wrong details."
"Nuts to that!" snapped Hunter, fed up. "I'm wasting no 
time getting a headquarters dope out of a jam. We're sup- 
posed to have a consignment of goad-hooks. We haven't got 
it. I'm going to say so - in plan language." He boosted his 
voice a few decibels. "Tyler! Tyler!"
Half an hour later the signal squirted out, brief, to the 
point, lacking only its original note of indignation.
'No goad hyphen hooks. Motan.'

Holding it near the light, Railton examined it right way up 
and upside down. His mustache jittered. His eyes squinted 
slightly. His complexion assumed a touch of magenta.
"Pennington!" he bellowed. "Saunders! Ashmore! Whit- 
taker!"
Lining up, they looked at the signal form. They shifted 
edgily around, eyed each other, the floor, the ceiling, the 
walls. Finally they settled for the uninteresting scene outside 
the window.
'Oh God how I hate mutton.'
"Well?" prompted Railton, poking this beamed revelation 
around his desk.
Nobody responded.
"First," Railton pointed out, "they're fighting it out with 
a pair of ostriches. Now they've developed an aversion to 
mutton. If there's a connection, I fail to see it. There's got to 
be an explanation somewhere. What is it?"
Nobody knew.
"We might as well invite the Zengs to accept everything as 
a gift," said Railton. "It'll save a lot of bloodshed."
Stung by that, Whittaker protested, "Motan is trying to tell 
us something, sir. They must have cause to express them- 
selves the way they are doing."
"Perhaps they have good reason to think that the tight- 
beam is no longer tight. Maybe a Zeng interceptor station 
has opened right on one of the lines. So Motan is hinting 
that it's time to stop beaming in straight."
"They could have said so in code, clearly and unmistak- 
ably. There's no need to afflict us with all this mysterious 
stuff about ostriches and mutton."
Up spoke Saunders, upon whom the gift of tongues had 
descended. "Isn't it possible, sir, that ostrich flesh is referred 
to as mutton by those who eat it? Or that, perhaps, it bears 
close resemblance to mutton?"
"Anything is possible," shouted Railton, "including the 
likelihood that everyone on Motan is a few cents short in his 
mental cash." He fumed a bit, added acidly, "Let us assume 
that ostrich flesh is identical with mutton. Where does that 
get us?"
"It could be, sir," persisted Saunders, temporarily drunk 
with words, "that thev've discovered a new and valuable 
source of food supply in the form of some large, birdlike 
creature which they call ostriches. Its flesh tastes like mutton. 
So they've signaled us a broad hint that they're less de- 
pendent upon supplementary supplies from here. Maybe in a 
pinch they can feed themselves for months or years. That, in 
turn, means the Zengs can't starve them into submission by 
blasting all supply ships to Motan. So-"
"Shut up!" Railton bawled, slightly frenzied. He snorted 
hard enough to make the signal form float off his desk. Then 
he reached for the phone. "Get me the Zoological Depart- 
ment. . . . Yes, that's what I said." He waited a while, 
growled into the mouthpiece, "Is ostrich flesh edible and, if 
so, what does it taste like?" Then he listened, slammed the 
phone down and glowered at his audience. "Leather," he 
said.
"That doesn't necessarily apply to the Motan breed," 
Saunders pointed out. "You can't judge an alien species by-"
"For the last time, keep quiet!" He shifted his glare to 
Ashmore. "We can't go any further until we know which 
code they're using out there."
"It should be the current one, sir. They had strict orders 
to destroy each preceding copy."
"I know what it should be. But is it? We've asked them 
about this and they haven't replied. Ask them again, by di- 
rect-beam. I don't care if the Zengs do pick up the question 
and answer. They can't make use of the information. They've 
known for years that we use code as an elementary precau- 
tion."
"I'11 have it beamed right away, sir."
"Do that. And let me have the reply the minute it arrives." 
Then, to the four of them, "Get out of my sight."
The signal shot straight to Motan without any juggling 
around.
'Identify your code forthwith. Urgent.'
Two days later the answer squirted back and got placed 
on Railton's desk pending his return from lunch. In due 
course he paraded along the corridor and into his office. His 
thoughts were actively occupied with the manpower crisis 
in the Sirian sector and nothing was further from his mind 
than the antics of Motan. Sitting at his desk, he glanced at 
the paper.
All it said was, BF.
He went straight up and came down hard.
"Ashmore!" he roared. "Pennington! Saunders! Whittaker!"

'Ex Terra Space Control. Direct-Beam, Straight. To Motan. 
Commander Hunter recalled forthwith. Captain Maxwell suc- 
ceeds with rank of commander as from date of receipt.'
Putting on a broad grin of satisfaction, Hunter reached for 
the phone. "Send Maxwell here at once." When the other 
arrived, he announced, "A direct-beam recall has just come 
in. I'm going home."
"Oh," said Maxwell without enthusiasm. He looked more 
disillusioned than ever.
"I'm going back to H.Q. You know what that means."
"Yes," agreed Maxwell, a mite enviously. "A nice, soft job, 
better conditions, high pay, quicker promotion."
"Dead right. It is only proper that virtue should be reward- 
ed." He eyed the other, holding back the rest of the news. 
"Well, aren't you happy about it?"
"No," said Maxwell flatly. 
"Why not?"
"I've become hardened to you. Now I'll have to start all 
over again and adjust myself to some other nut."
"No you won't, chum. You're taking charge." He poked 
the signal form across the desk. "Congratulations, Com- 
mander!"
"Thanks," said Maxwell. "For nothing. Now I'll have to 
handle your grief. Ostriches. Forty-two of them."
At midnight Hunter stepped aboard the destroyer D1O and 
waved good-by. He did it with all the gratified assurance of 
one who's going to get what's coming to him. The prospect 
lay many weeks away but was worth waiting for.
The ship snored into the night until its flame trail faded 
out to the left of Motan's fourth moon. High above the oppo- 
site horizon glowed the Zeng's two planets of Korima and 
Koroma, one blue, the other green. Maxwell eyed the shining 
firmament, felt the weight of new responsibility pressing hard 
upon his shoulders.
He spent the next two weeks checking back on his prede- 
cessor's correspondence, familiarizing himself with all the 
various problems of planetary governorship. At the end of 
that time he was still baffied and bothered.
"Tyler!" Then when the other came in, "Man, can't you stop 
perpetually snuffling? Send this message out at once."
Taking it, Tyler asked, "Tight- or straight-beam, sir?"
"Don't send it direct-beam. It had better go by tight. The 
subject is tagged top secret by H.Q. and we've got to accept 
their definition."
"Very well, sir." Giving an unusually loud sniff, Tyler de- 
parted and squirted the query to the first repeater station.
'Why are we getting ostriches?'
It never reached Railton or any other brass hat. It fell into
the hands of a new Terran operator who'd become the victim 
of three successive technical gags. He had no intention what- 
soever of being made a chump a fourth time. So he read it 
with eyebrows waggling.
'When are we getting ostriches?'
With no hesitation he destroyed the signal and smacked 
back at the smarty on Motan.
'Will emus do?'
In due course Maxwell got it, read it twice, walked 
around the room with it and found himself right back where 
he'd started.
'Will amuse you.'

For the thirtieth time in four months Maxwell went to meet 
a ship at the spaceport. So far there had arrived not a goad- 
hook, not a feather, not even a caged parrot.
It was a distasteful task because every time he asked a cap- 
tain whether he'd brought the ostriches, he got a look that 
pronounced him definitely teched in the head.
Anyway, this one was not a tramp-boat. He recognized its 
type even before it sat down and cut power - a four-man 
Zeng scout. He also recognized the first Zeng to scramble 
down the ladder. It was Tormin, the chief military officer on 
Koroma.
"Ah, Mr. Maxwell," said Tormin, his yellow eyes worried. 
"I wish to see the commander at once."
"Hunter's gone home. I'm the commander now. What's 
your trouble?"
"Plenty," Tormin informed. "As you know, we placed ordi- 
nary settlers on Korima. But on the sister planet of Koroma 
we placed settlers and a large number of criminals. The 
criminals have broken out and seized arms. Civil war is rag- 
ing on Koroma. We need help."
"Sorry, but I can't give it," said Maxwell. "We have strict 
orders that in no circumstances whatever may we interfere in 
Zeng affairs."
"I know, I know," Tormin gestured excitedly with long, 
skinny arms. "We do not ask for your ships and guns. We
are only too willing to do our own dirty work. Besides, the 
matter is serious but not urgent. Even if the criminals con- 
quer the planet they cannot escape from it. We have removed 
all ships to Korima."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"Send a call for help. We can't do it - our beam-station is 
only half built."
"I am not permitted to make direct contact with the Zeng 
authorities," said Maxwell.
"You can tell your own H.Q. on Terra. They'll inform our 
ambassador there. He'll inform our nearest forces."
"That'll mean some delay."
"Right now there's no other way," urged Tormin. "Will you 
please oblige us? In the same circumstances we'd do as much 
for you."
"All right" agreed Maxwell, unable to resist this appeal. 
"The responsibility for getting action will rest with H.Q., 
anyway." Bolting to his office, he gave Tyler the message, 
adding, "Better send it tight-beam, just in case some Zeng 
stickler for regulations picks it up and accuses us of poking 
our noses in."
Out it went, to and fro, up and down, in one tone or an- 
other, this accent or that.
'Civil war is taking place among local Zengs. They are ask- 
ing for assistance.'
It got there a few minutes behind Hunter, who walked into 
Railton's office, reached the desk, came smartly to attention.
"Commander Hunter, sir, reporting from Motan."
"About time, too," snapped Railton, obviously in no mood 
to give with a couple of medals. "As commander of Motan 
you accepted full responsibility for the text of all messages 
beamed therefrom, did you not?"
"Yes, sir," agreed Hunter, sensing a queer coldness in his 
back hairs.
Jerking open a drawer, Railton extracted a bunch of sig- 
nal forms, slapped them on the desk.
"This," he informed, mustache quivering, "is the appalling 
twaddle with which I have been afflicted since Motan's sta-
tion came into operation. I can find only one explanation for 
all this incoherent rubbish about ostriches and mutton, that 
being that you're overdue for mental treatment. After all, it 
is not unknown for men on alien planets to go off the rails."
"Permit me to say, sir-" began Hunter.
"I don't permit you," shouted Railton. "Wait until I have 
finished. And don't flare your nostrils at me. I have replaced 
you with Maxwell. The proof of your imbecility will be the 
nature of the next signals from Motan."
"But, sir-"
"Shut up! I will let you see Maxwell's messages and com- 
pare them with your own irrational nonsense. If that doesn't 
convince-"
He ceased his tirade as Ashmore appeared and dumped a 
signal-form on his desk.
"Urgent message from Motan, sir."
Railton snatched it up and read it while Ashmore watched 
and Hunter fidgeted uneasily.
'Sibyl Ward is making faces among local Zengs. They are 
asking for her sister.'
The resulting explosion will remain a space legend for all 
time.



NOTHING NEW

THE SHIP fled through sparkling darkness. There were orbs of 
flame and whorls of light and glittering spirals that told of 
multimillion suns and hidden planets stretching onward, ever 
onward through infinity. And through these streaked the ship, 
a superfast mote smaller in the vastness than a bulleting 
speck of dust, a speck that none the less bore its full quota 
of life.
At such pace went the vessel that nearer stars in its line 
of flight appeared gradually to drift apart hour by hour 
rather than month by month. It was a mote with a new power 
undreamed of in long bygone days when one dead satellite 
had been claimed with a triumphant shout. A mote whose 
years were less than days and whose space-reach was enor- 
mously long.
The man in its nose was not amazed by the near-visible 
phenomenon of star-drift. It was a normal feature of his day 
and age, an accepted marvel often depicted on the telere- 
ceivers of stodgy stay-at-homes.
Olaf Redfern, the pilot, sat at his controls and gazed into 
the shining heavens with the calm, phlegmatic air of one to 
whom is given the task of finding very small pinheads in very 
large haystacks. With the aid of charts, instruments, calculat- 
ing machines the size of cigarette packs, the abilities of Navi- 
gator Paul Gildea and the luck of a Terran garnet in his finger 
ring, he had done it fifty times in the past, was confident of 
doing it a hundred times in the future.
Readjusting the controls, which were complicated enough 
to make a major chore of creating a minor shift in flight- 
angle, he locked them on the fractionally altered course, re- 
mained staring broodingly into expanding space. In short time 
Simkin, the archaeologist, joined him, took the adjacent seat 
and studied the view.
"Someone once said," he remarked, "that it is better to trav- 
el than to arrive. I don't agree. One can become tired of 
living one jump ahead of a low-pitched whistle while a multi- 
tude of candles float around in the night."
"That's because you have little to do before you get there," 
Redfern offered. "Try piloting for a change. You'll find it 
more interesting."
"I'm too old to start afresh, too much in love with my 
chosen field." He threw Redfern an apologetic smile. "The 
kick you get out of finding a new world is no greater than 
the kick I get out of digging up an ancient artifact, whole and 
unscratched."
"Frankly, I don't see the fascination of your job," said Red- 
fern. "It's rooted in the far past, which is finished and done 
with, whereas mine probes the future into which we're mov- 
ing every minute. The future is controllable within limits. 
You can't do a darned thing about the past."
"I agree. Nevertheless, we have our surprises and our tri- 
umphs. After all, it was a bunch of hole-diggers who proved 
conclusively that highly intelligent life once existed on those 
twin worlds near Arcturus."
"But they're still dead worlds to me," Redfern commented. 
"Maybe so. They're digging deeper, all the same. They
want to know why life departed. Did it die out and, if so, of 
what cause? Or did it depart elsewhere and, if so, by what 
means and whence? Answers to those questions may tell us 
things well worth knowing. We're never too big to learn."
"There's that about it," Redfern conceded.

Falderson, the mass-sociologist, lumbered into the room, 
flopped on a seat. He was a paunchy man with a nervous 
twitch in his left eyebrow. The twitch often served to fasci- 
nate alien lifeforms while under cross-examination.
"We should land in about fourteen hours' time, according 
to Gildea's latest estimate," he announced. "And I hope to 
goodness they won't prove to be a gang of howling barbarians 
who'll throw things at us on sight. I hate to admit it, but this 
incarceration has loaded me with too much fat for primitive 
battles."
"You'll lose the grease," promised Redfern. "It'll all boil 
out in the cooking pot."
"I can't imagine immortals being unlettered savages," Sim- 
kin replied.
"Immortals?" Redfern eyed him incredulously. "What are 
you talking about?"
Simkin registered equal surprise. "Didn't you know that 
the planet we're seeking is rumored to be populated by im- 
mortals?"
"First I've heard of it. I get flight instructions, same as 
Gildea. We lug loads of experts all over space, but we sel- 
dom know or ask the reason why." He frowned to himself, 
added, "I just can't believe that anyone has discovered the 
secret of eternal life. I take that idea with a heavy cargo of 
salt."
"So do we," Simkin gave back. "But legends often prove 
to be grossly distorted versions of original truths. Our present 
purpose is to determine the degree of distortion by discover- 
ing how much truth existed and, with luck, still exists."
"Where do legends come into this?"
"You tell him - it's your pet subject," Simkin suggested to 
Falderson. 
The mass-sociologist said, "You've heard of the Alpedes, 
that seven-planet group beyond Rigel?"
"I ought to. I've been there twice. Come to that, we're not 
so far from them right now."
"Then you'll know that all are populated by intelligent life- 
forms more or less civilized but not sufficiently advanced to 
be capable of constructing even an antiquated rocketship. 
Therefore, they could not have had any contact with each 
other until some Terrans arrived two centuries ago and set up 
a small inter-system mail service." 
"Yes, a friend of mine is piloting for that outfit."
"Well," continued Falderson heavily, "what with political, 
strategical and commercial considerations coming first - not to 
mention the strong pull of other more urgent interests in a 
thousand other directions - it was quite a time before anyone 
got down to serious study of the seven-fold Alpedian cultural
mores. A certain Professor Wade eventually buried himself in 
that task and after a couple of years came up with a hair- 
raiser."
"I view that as an understatement," put in Simkin.
Taking no notice, Falderson continued, "All seven planets 
had recorded histories available for study. And before the 
histories all seven had the usual mess of legends. Naturally, 
since they lacked contact the histories and legends had noth- 
ing in common other than minor items explainable by for- 
tuitous circumstance. But there was one most remarkable ex- 
ception: all seven planets nursed a fairy tale about a world 
of immortals."
"But that suggests contact of some sort," Redfern objected. 
"Precisely! Nevertheless, their histories make no mention
of it. Therefore, if ever contact was made it was by proxy, 
it was done by others exactly as it is today. It was done in the 
far past before history began to be written and in the misty 
days when legends were born. The logical guess is that they 
were visited by these immortals and now remember little 
more than their most striking attribute, namely, immortality."
"Hm-m-m," mused Redfern. "Twice can be coincidence, 
three times can be coincidence - but seven times needs ex- 
plaining."
"That's what Professor Wade thought. He dug deeper into 
the seven mythologies, came up with a couple more items. 
First, the immortals had never visited the Alpedes them- 
selves. That plays havoc with our logical guess, and the only 
alternative we can think up is that the yarn originated with 
some third party, some other visitors from space who picked 
it up and passed it along. Second, all seven legends agreed 
that the immortals lived on a very big world, while four ver- 
sions asserted that this world is the only planet of a blue sun."
"So?"
"So Wade shot his findings back to Terra without delay. 
The cosmographologists and other big-brains. were imme- 
diately interested, seeing that several times we've extracted 
information from new finds that has led us straight to others."
"Thanks in part to archaeology," Simkin put in, nudging 
Redfern.
"The Rigel sector is only a quarter explored to date," Fal- 
derson went on. "All the same, we've got some pretty good 
spectra charts of that locality. Analysis of them revealed a 
definite blue-type sun not a devil of a long way from the Al- 
pedes group. Astrophysicists agreed that it's by far the like- 
liest primary in the whole area, and calculated that it could 
have one large planet of rather low mass."
"And that's where we're making for right now?" said Red- 
fern.
"Yes, my boy." Falderson stood up, ruefully patted his
paunch. "If we're lucky enough to lay our hands on the secret 
of life eternal, you may be roaming the spaceways forever 
and ever, amen. As for me, I'1l have to get rid of this meaty 
front before it holds me flat on my face."

He departed, leaving them to their thoughts while the ship 
sped on and the starfield widened. After a bit Simkin spoke.
"Well, now do you see the fascination of probing the past?" 
"Yes, I think I do," Redfern admitted.
"It holds good for any one world without ever seeing an-
other," assured Simkin. "Take Terra, for example. We know 
more about our own planet than any in Creation. Yet there's 
an appalling amount we don't know."
"Such as?"
"Terra's most widespread and well-established legend is 
that of a Great Flood. Without doubt it has real basis. Some- 
thing happened to the planet, something of catastrophic pro- 
portions. It knocked humanity an unknown distance down the 
ladder - but from what height?"
"We couldn't have dropped far," Redfern opined. "Before 
the Flood we were scratching in trees."
"If ever we scratched in trees, which is highly debatable, 
it was umpteen millennia before the Flood. How far have we 
climbed in our present recorded history, which covers no 
more than a fragment of time? Where were we and what
were we doing when the oceans roared over the land and 
brought us to near-extinction?"
"Darned if I know. It's sheer guesswork."
"Olaf, maybe we've been around longer than we think," 
said Simkin seriously "And for that reason I'd give my right 
hand to achieve the impossible."
"Meaning what?"
"I'd give it for a good long look at whatever may be lying 
whole and undamaged beneath hundreds of fathoms of salt 
water and great layers of ooze. I'd give it to see what, if any- 
thing, was in existence before the valleys were raised and 
the hills made low, before small, hungry, bewildered bands of 
semi-savage survivors roamed the water-wrecked land."
"Well," commented Redfern, grinning, "it would be nice to 
see your face if you dug out of the slime a ship twice as good 
as this one."
"And it would be equally nice to see yours," answered 
Simkin, "when you realized that we have not yet regained 
the heights from which we fell."
Redfern let that pass without argument. He was a pilot, 
a practical man trained to cope with immediate problems, 
and not much given to long-term speculation.

The astrophysicists proved one hundred percent correct. 
The blue sun had one large planet of relatively low mass. It 
was not gaseous, it was not liquid. Thick vegetation covered 
its surface of loamy earth in which lurked sparse deposits of 
light metals, none whatever of heavy ones.
Everything favored a landing. Tests proved the primary's 
radiations to be innocuous so far as humankind was con- 
cerned. The atmosphere was on the thin side but had ade- 
quate oxygen content. Finally, the world most obviously was 
inhabited.
One low-altitude circumnavigation revealed much about its 
dominant lifeform before a specimen had been encountered. 
Intelligence and vegetarianism were outstanding characteris- 
tics of the planetary scene. Sprawling towns of size and sub-
stance showed the former; great cultivated areas devoid of 
herds evidenced the latter.
Lying awkwardly in the nose and peering down, Falderson 
said after a while, "Wholly agrarian. Note the lack of heavy 
industry. And the cities are small from the population view- 
point. They look big merely because of their lavish spread. 
Every house has a two-acre garden or bigger."
"Not a lot of traffic either," remarked Gildea. "No railroads, 
no airplanes, no crowded auto-tracks."
"Even if you have the brains to theorize locomotives, 
planes and autos, you cannot do a thing about them if there's 
a complete lack of natural resources," said Falderson. "It's a 
safe bet that this crowd has never boosted into space and 
never will. They're earthbound because the stuff isn't there. 
Hm-m-m! It's going to be mighty interesting to see how many 
social problems have been created and how many solved by 
sheer lack of what most inhabitable planets have got."
"Take her down, Olaf," ordered Gildea, pointing. "Plant 
her by that city near the river. The place looks as important 
as any we've seen."
"I'll go wake Taylor," said Simkin, hurrying out.
Entering the mid-cabin he roused the linguist from his 
drug-induced slumber. Taylor, a chronic sufferer from space- 
migrain, emerged from unconsciousness, sat up, felt himself, 
blinked blearily. 
"Mean to say we're there already?"
"We are. Your time-sense is cockeyed with sleep. Get busy 
sharpening your wits because you'll have to pick up new 
words, gestures, smoke-signals or whatever mighty fast."
"I'll manage. That's my job, isn't it?" Taylor yawned, 
stretched his arms, relaxed again and sighed deeply. "Let's 
hope this isn't another Comina. It took me eight weeks to pick 
up that jaw-cracking speech and then I still limped at it. One 
soft, wet tongue can't reproduce the rhythmic smacking of 
horn-tipped palps."
He reeled sidewise on his bunk as the room tilted. Simkin 
staggered, snatched a handgrip on the wall and hung on.
They stayed that way until the ship leveled again and slowed 
with grinding noises on its belly-skids. It stopped.
"Thank the Lord," said Taylor, fervently. "Solid earth at 
last."
Leaving him, Simkin hastened to the nose. Falderson, Gil- 
dea and Redfern were there staring silently through the 
armor-glass. An approaching native was the object of their 
united attention.

The oncomer had emerged from the nearest house which 
was long, low, and built of ornamentally carved stone-blocks. 
He was making along his garden path toward the ship. His 
thoroughly alien appearance was nothing startling to space- 
sophisticated eyes long accustomed to forms far more bizarre. 
The surprising thing about him was his manner.
He made for the ship without awe, alarm, curiosity or any 
other visible symptom usually accompanying first meetings on 
new-found worlds. On the contrary, he had only the stolidly 
helpful air of a rural farmer about to see whether a stalled 
motorist needed hauling out of a hole.
If assistance was in his mind, it would be a long time com- 
ing because the best pace he could muster approximated to a 
crawl. He was a biped a fraction under man-height but wide 
and bulky. Two brilliant yellow eyes shone deep amid the 
lavish wrinkles covering his gray-skinned face. He wore neat 
clothing from which protruded a pair of columnar, flexible 
legs as gray and wrinkled as his face. The legs terminated 
in feet-pads resembling those of an elephant.
"Superficially humanoid," decided Falderson. "Notice his 
hands, just like mine only longer and narrower. But I'll bet 
that basically he's reptilian. A lizard-type that learned to walk 
on its hind legs and battle the enviromnent with its brains 
and forepaws."
"He hasn't got a tail," Redfern objected.
"Neither have you - today," Gildea pointed out.
"He makes me think of someone I read about once," mused 
Simkin. He racked his brains for the memory, found it. "An 
ancient character named Chief Taumoto or something similar.
He was revered in the Tonga Islands for a couple of cen- 
turies. Geratologists took a great interest in him because he 
was Terra's oldest living creature."
"How old?" asked Redfern.
"Nobody knew for certain. He'd gone well past two hun- 
dred when he died. He was a giant turtle holding a chieftain's 
rank."
"This fellow has a turtle's neck if ever I saw one," Red- 
fern said, continuing to watch the visitor's laborious progress. 
"And the mad velocity to go with it."
"Where's Taylor?" inquired Falderson. "Open the trap and 
drop the ladder, Olaf. If we don't go to meet this character, 
we'll sit here most of a month before he arrives."
Scrambling down the metal rungs they made toward the 
native. Seeing this, he promptly conserved energy by halting 
and waiting for them. Close up he looked decidedly less hu- 
man-like. The two parties stood and examined each other, the 
Terrans' attitude being one of frank and friendly interest 
while the gray-skinned one showed no more than patient sub- 
mission to it.
Pointing to his own mouth, Taylor voiced a few random 
words with careful pronunciation and on a rising note of 
inquiry. The other responded with three or four liquid sylla- 
bles spoken in little more than a whisper.
"Well, they communicate vocally," said Taylor with satis- 
faction. "And I can pick it up without rupturing my epi- 
glottis. Give me two or three days and I1l have enough of the 
local lingo to get us by."
Listening to this without change of expression the native 
waited until he had finished, then made a sluggish gesture to- 
ward the house and spoke invitingly.
"Varm!"
"Word number one," Taylor remarked. Varm - come!"

They went. The going was the most difficult task with 
which they had to cope in many years. The stupendous prob- 
lem of how to annihilate distance by some means even faster
than light now seemed less than that of how to walk at the 
steady pace of half a mile per hour.
With the other in the lead they mooched around the end of
the house, stopped before a pair of wooden doors hand-
carved from top to bottom. Opening these, Grayface re- 
vealed a machine lurking within.
"Blazing suns!" snorted Redfern.
His exclamation was understandable. The contraption was 
a light framework of aluminum tubes mounted on four can- 
vas-tired wheels and propelled by six sets of pedals. Three 
pairs of seats topped the assembly and provided accommoda- 
tion for the source of motive power.
Drawing this out of its garage they got it onto a narrow 
road which had the smooth hardness of frosted glass. Gray- 
face got into the right-hand front seat, put an expert hand 
on the steering wheel. With the other hand he signed the 
Terrans to climb aboard.
"You take the other front seat," Gildea suggested to Red- 
fern.
Settling themselves in the seats, they put feet on pedals 
which were shaped like small plates and located a couple 
of inches too high. Grayface raised an authoritative hand to 
signal readiness to boost.
The multicycle moved, gathered speed and shot down the 
road at a splendid twelve miles per hour while a dozen legs 
pumped in perfect rhythm. Reaching a small crossroad, the 
captain of the crew jerked a thin cord alongside his steering 
wheel and something in a box at the back let go with a shrill 
"Wee-e-eek! Wee-e-eek!"
An answering "Wee-e-eek!" came from a side road where
a similar machine slowed for them to pass.
Falderson, puffing in a rear seat beside Simkin, said, "This 
will remove some of the adipose tissue from my midriff."
"I'm baffled," confessed Simkin, gazing around. "Look at 
those richly decorated houses and well-tended gardens. Every 
one a picture. You'd think people capable of building high- 
grade homes could do better for themselves in the matter of 
transportation."
"With what?" asked Falderson. "You can't make pies with- 
out pastry. You can't build cars of soft metals or run them 
without gas. By the looks of it they don't have electric power 
either." He breathed heavily, wiped his forehead, added, "I'll 
bet they're a thoroughly frustrated species."
"Why?"
"They're no more immortal than Mrs. Murphy's dog - but 
the myth of immortality was born of something. Probably 
they're exceptionally long-lived. If so, they've time on their 
hands as is suggested by the way they've dolled-up every- 
thing in sight. That in turn means time to accumulate wis- 
dom, much of which cannot be applied. Maybe they've in- 
vented half the things we've thought up, but in blueprint 
form only. It's as far as they can go."
"I'd like to stay a year and dig into their past," said Simkin. 
"If there's another ten miles to go," informed Falderson,
"I'll stay for keeps by reason of having dropped dead."
At that point the machine turned to the right, trundled 
across a great square in which half a dozen fountains sent 
feathery sprays skyward. Braking to a stop before the ornate 
doors of a large, important building, Grayface dismounted, 
led them inside, signaled to them to wait outside an inner 
room. He entered the room, leaving them to examine the 
murals on the corridor walls.

Elder Citizen Karfin attended to the papers on his desk 
with the slow, meticulous care of the aged. He was feeling 
the immense weight of his fourteen thousand years, knew that 
he was becoming a little feeble and had no more than two 
centuries to go. He looked up as someone opened the door 
and came in. His yellow eyes remained fixed upon the new- 
comer, steady and unwinking like those of a basking lizard.
In due time the other arrested his crawl and whispered 
respectfully, "Honored Elder, I am named Balaine."
"Yes, Balaine, what is it that you wish?"
"Honored Elder, at a little past hour nine a sky-ship of the 
pink-faced bipeds landed beyond my garden. There were
five therein. I have brought them hither knowing that you 
would wish to meet them."
Karfin sighed and said, "They came in my extreme youth. 
If I remember aright, they remained for two or three orbits. 
I cannot be sure because my memory is fading fast."
"Yes, Honored Elder," said Balaine.
"They were so clever and had so much. I thought perhaps 
they found us beneath their notice." He sighed again. "Oh, 
well, it cannot be said that they pester us. Please show them 
in."
"Very well, Honored Elder." Balaine crawled away, 
brought them back.
The five Terrans stood before him, eyed him with the 
bold, far-ranging adventurousness of their kind.
And not one of them knew that this was the second time.



INTO YOUR TENT I'LL CREEP

MORFAD sat in the midship cabin and gloomed at the wall. 
He was worried and couldn't conceal the fact. The present 
situation had the frustrating qualities of a gigantic rattrap. 
One could escape it only with the combined help of all the 
other rats.
But the others weren't likely to lift a finger either on his 
or their own behalf. He felt sure of that. How can you per- 
suade people to try to escape a jam when you can't convince 
them that they're in it, right up to the neck?
A rat runs around a trap only because he is grimly aware 
of its existence. So long as he remains blissfully ignorant of 
it, he does nothing. On this very world a horde of intelligent 
aliens had done nothing about it through the whole of their 
history. Fifty skeptical Altairans weren't likely to step in 
where three thousand million Terrans had failed.
He was still sitting there when Haraka came in and an- 
nounced, "We leave at sunset."
Morfad said nothing.
"I'll be sorry to go," added Haraka. He was the ship's cap- 
tain, a big, burly sample of Altairan life. Rubbing flexible 
fingers together, he went on, "We've been lucky to discover 
this planet, exceedingly lucky. We've become blood brothers 
of a lifeform fully up to our own standard of intelligence, 
space-traversing like ourselves, friendly and cooperative."
Morfad said nothing.
"Their reception of us has been most cordial," Haraka con- 
tinued enthusiastically. "Our people will be greatly heartened 
when they hear our report. A great future lies before us, no
doubt of that. A Terran-Altairan combine will be invincible. 
Between us we can explore and exploit the entire galaxy."
Morfad said nothing.
Cooling down, Haraka frowned at him. "What's the matter 
with you, Misery?"
"I am not overjoyed."
"I can see that much. Your face resembles a very sour 
shamsid on an aged and withered bush. And at a time of 
triumph, too! Are you ill?"
"No." Turning slowly, Morfad looked him straight in the 
eyes. "Do you believe in psionic faculties?"
Haraka reacted as if caught on one foot. "Well, I don't 
know. I am a captain, a trained engineer-navigator, and as 
such I cannot pretend to be an expert upon extraordinary abil- 
ities. You ask me something I am not qualified to answer. 
How about you? Do you believe in them?"
"I do - now."
"Now? Why now?"
"The belief has been thrust upon me." Morfad hesitated, 
went on with a touch of desperation. "I have discovered that 
I am telepathic."

Surveying him with slight incredulity, Haraka said, "You've
discovered it? You mean it has come upon you recently?"
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"Since we arrived on Terra."
"I don't understand this at all," confessed Haraka, baffled. 
"Do you assert that some peculiarity in Terra's conditions has 
suddenly enabled you to read my thoughts?"
"No, I cannot read your thoughts."
"But you've just said that you have become telepathic." 
"So I have. I can hear thoughts as clearly as if the words
were being shouted aloud. But not your thoughts nor those 
of any member of our crew."
Haraka leaned forward, his features intent. "Ah, you have 
been hearing Terran thoughts, eh? And what you've heard has 
got you bothered? Morfad, I am your captain, your comman- 
der. It is your bounden duty to tell me of anything suspicious 
about these Terrans." He waited a bit, urged impatiently, 
"Come on, speak up!"
"I know no more about these humanoids than you do,"
said Morfad. "I have every reason to believe them genuinely 
friendly, but I don't know what they think."
"But by the stars, man, you-"
"We are talking at cross-purposes," Morfad interrupted.
"Whether I do or do not overhear Terran thoughts depends
upon what one means by Terran."
"Look," said Haraka, "whose thoughts do you hear?" 
Steeling himself, Morfad said flatly, "Those of Terran 
dogs."
"Dogs?" Haraka lay back and stared at him. "Dogs? Are
you serious?"
"I have never been more so. I can hear dogs and no others. 
Don't ask me why because I don't know. It is a freak of cir-
cumstance."
"And you have listened to their minds ever since we
jumped to Earth?"
"Yes."
"What sort of things have you heard?"
"I have had pearls of alien wisdom cast before me," de-
clared Morfad, "and the longer I look at them the more they
scare the hell out of me."
"Get busy frightening me with a few examples," invited 
Haraka, suppressing a smile.
"Quote: the supreme test of intelligence is the ability to
live as one pleases without working," recited Morfad. "Quote:
the art of retribution is that of concealing it beyond all sus- 
picion. Quote: the sharpest, most subtle, most effective weap-
on in the cosmos is flattery."
"Huh?"
"Quote: if a thing can think, it likes to think that it is
God; treat it as God and it becomes your willing slave."
"Oh, no!" denied Haraka.
"Oh, yes," insisted Morfad. He waved a hand toward the 
nearest port. "Out there are three thousand million petty gods. 
They are eagerly panted after, fawned upon, gazed upon
with worshiping eyes. Gods are very gracious toward those
who love them." He made a spitting sound that lent emphasis
to what followed. "The lovers know it - and love comes 
cheap,"
Haraka said, uneasily, "I think you're crazy."
"Quote: to rule successfully the ruled must be unconscious 
of it," Again the spitting sound. "Is that crazy? I don't think 
so. It makes sense. It works. It's working out there right
now."
"But-"
"Take a look at this." He tossed a small object into Haraka's 
lap. "Recognize it?"
"Yes, it's what they call a cracker."
"Correct. To make it some Terrans plowed fields in all 
kinds of weather, rain, wind and sunshine, sowed wheat, 
reaped it with the aid of machinery other Terrans had sweat- 
ed to build. They transported the wheat, stored it, milled it, 
enriched the flour by various processes, baked it, packaged 
it, shipped it all over the world. When humanoid Terrans want 
crackers, they've got to put in man-hours to get them."
"So?"
"When a dog wants one he sits up, waves his forepaws and 
admires his god. That's all. Just that."
"But, darn it, man, dogs are relatively stupid."
"So it seems," said Morfad, dryly.
"They can't really do anything effective."
"They haven't got hands."
"And don't need them - having brains."
"Now see here," declaimed Haraka, openly irritated, "we 
Altairans invented and constructed ships capable of roaming 
the spaces between the stars. The Terrans have done the 
same. Terran dogs have not done it and won't do it in the 
next million years. When one dog has the brains and ability 
to get to another planet, I'll eat my cap."
"You can do that right now," Morfad suggested. "We have 
two dogs on board."
Haraka let go a grunt of disdain. "The Terrans have given 
us those as a memento."
"Sure they gave them to us - but at whose behest?"
"It was wholly a spontaneous gesture."
"Was it?"
"Are you suggesting that dogs put the idea into their 
heads?" Haraka demanded.
"I know they did," retorted Morfad, looking grim. "And 
we've not been given two males or two females. Oh no, sir, 
not on your life. One male and one female. The givers said 
we could breed them. Thus in due course our own worlds can 
become illuminated with the undying love of man's best
friend."
"Nuts!" said Haraka.
Morfad gave back, "You're obsessed with the old, out-of- 
date idea that conquest must be preceded by aggression. 
Can't you understand that a wholly alien species just natu- 
rally uses wholly alien methods? Dogs employ their own tac- 
tics, not ours. It isn't within their nature or abilities to take 
us over with the aid of ships, guns and a great hullabaloo. 
It is within their nature and abilities to creep in upon us, 
their eyes shining with hero worship. If we don't watch out, 
we'll be mastered by a horde of loving creepers."
"I can invent a word for your mental condition," said 
Haraka. "You're suffering from caniphobia."
"With good reasons."
"Imaginary ones."
"Yesterday I looked into a dogs' beauty shop. Who was 
doing the bathing, scenting, powdering, primping? Other 
dogs? Hah! Humanoid females were busy dolling 'em up. 
Was that imaginary?"
"You can call it a Terran eccentricity. It means nothing 
whatever. Besides, we've quite a few funny habits of our 
own."
"You're dead right there," Morfad agreed. "And I know 
one of yours. So does the entire crew."
Haraka narrowed his eyes. "You might as well name it. I 
am not afraid to see myself as others see me."
"All right. You've asked for it. You think a lot of Kashim. 
He always has your ear; you will listen to nobody else. 
Everything he says makes sound sense - to you."
"So you're jealous of Kashim, eh?"
"Not in the least," assured Morfad, making a disparaging 
gesture. "I merely despise him for the same reason that every- 
one else holds him in contempt. He is a professional toady. 
He spends most of his time fawning upon you, flattering you, 
pandering to your ego. He is a natural-born creeper who gives
you the Terradog treatment. You like it. You bask in it. It
affects you like an irresistible drug. It works - and don't tell 
me that it doesn't because all of us know that it does."
"I am not a fool. I have Kashim sized up. He does not in- 
fluence me to the extent you believe."
"Three thousand million Terrans have four hundred million 
dogs sized up and are equally convinced that no dog has a 
say in anything worth a hoot."
"I don't believe it."
"Of course you don't. I had little hope that you would. 
Morfad is telling you these things and Morfad is either crazy 
or a liar. But if Kashim were to tell you while prostrate at the 
foot of your throne, you would swallow his story hook, line 
and sinker. Kashim has a Terradog mind and uses Terradog 
logic, see?"
"My disbelief has better basis than that." 
"For instance?" Morfad invited.
"Some Terrans are telepathic. Therefore, if this myth of 
subtle mastery by dogs were a fact, they'd know of it. Not a 
dog would be left alive on this world." Haraka paused, fin- 
ished pointedly, "They don't know of it."
"Terran telepaths hear the minds of their own kind but not 
those of dogs. I hear the minds of dogs but not those of any 
other kind. As I said before, I don't know why this should 
be. I know only that it is."
"It seems nonsensical to me."
"It would. I suppose you can't be blamed for taking that 
viewpoint. My position is difficult; I'm like the only one with 
ears in a world that is stone-deaf."
Haraka thought it over, said after a while, "Suppose I 
were to accept everything you've said at face value - what do 
you think I should do about it?"
"Refuse to take the dogs," responded Morfad, promptly.
"That's more easily said than done. Good relations with 
the Terrans are vitally important. How can I reject a warm- 
hearted gift without offending the givers?"
"All right, don't reject it. Modify it instead. Ask for two 
male or two female dogs. Make it plausible by quoting an 
Altairan law against the importation of alien animals that are 
capable of natural increase."
"I can't do that. It's far too late. We've already accepted 
the animals and expressed our gratitude for them. Besides, 
their ability to breed is an essential part of the gift, the basic 
intention of the givers. They've presented us with a new 
species, an entire race of dogs."
"You said it!" confirmed Morfad.
"For the same reason we can't very well prevent them from 
breeding when we get back home," Haraka pointed out. 
"From now on we and the Terrans are going to do a lot of 
visiting. As soon as they discovered that our dogs failed to 
multiply, they'd become generous and sentimental and dump 
another dozen on us. Or maybe a hundred. We'd then be 
worse off than we were before."
"All right, all right," Morfad shrugged with weary resigna- 
tion. "If you're going to concoct a major objection to every 
possible solution, we may as well surrender without a fight. 
Let's abandon ourselves to becoming yet another dog-domi- 
nated species. Requote: to rule successfully the ruled must be 
unconscious of it." He gave Haraka the sour eye. "If I had 
my way, I'd wait until we were far out in free space and 
then give those two dogs the hearty heave-ho out the hatch."
Haraka grinned in the manner of one about to nail down 
a cockeyed tale once and for all. "And if you did that 
it would be proof positive beyond all argument that you're 
afflicted with a delusion."
Emitting a deep sigh, Morfad asked, "Why would it?"
"You'd be slinging out two prime members of the master 
race. Some domination, eh?" Haraka grinned again. "Listen, 
Morfad, according to your own story you know something 
never before known or suspected and you're the only one 
who does know it. That should make you a mighty menace to
the entire species of dogs. They wouldn't let you live long 
enough to thwart them or even to go around advertising the 
truth. You'd soon be deader than a low-strata fossil." He 
walked to the door, held it open while he made his parting 
shot. "You look healthy enough to me."
Morfad shouted at the closing door, "It doesn't follow that 
because I can hear their thoughts they must necessarily hear 
mine. I doubt that they can because it's just a freakish-"
The door clicked shut. He scowled at it, walked twenty 
times up and down the cabin, finally resumed his chair and 
sat in silence while he beat his brains around in search of a 
satisfactory solution.
'The sharpest, most subtle, most effective weapon in the 
cosmos is flattery.'
Yes, he was seeking a means of coping with four-footed 
warriors incredibly skilled in the use of Creation's sharpest 
weapon. Professional fawners, creepers, worshipers, man-lovers, 
ego-boosters, trained to near-perfection through countless gen- 
erations in an art against which there seemed no decisive de- 
fense.
How to beat off the coming attack, contain it, counter it? 
'Yes, God!'
'Certainly, God!'
'Anything you say, God!'
How to protect oneself against this insidious technique, 
how quarantine it or-
By the stars! that was it - quarantine them! On Pladamine, 
the useless world, the planet nobody wanted. They could 
breed there to their limits and meanwhile dominate the herbs 
and bugs. And a soothing reply would be ready for any nosy 
Terran tourist.
'The dogs? Oh, sure, we've still got them, lots of them. 
They're doing fine. Got a nice world of their very own. Place 
called Pladamine. If you wish to go see them, it can be ar- 
ranged.'
A wonderful idea. It would solve the problem while creat- 
ing no hard feelings among the Terrans. It would prove use- 
ful in the future and to the end of time. Once planted on
Pladamine no dog could ever escape by its own efforts. Any 
tourists from Terra who brought dogs along could be per- 
suaded to leave them in the canine heaven specially created 
by Altair. There the dogs would find themselves unable to 
boss anything higher than other dogs, and, if they didn't like 
it, they could lump it.
No use putting the scheme to Haraka, who was obviously 
prejudiced. He'd save it for the authorities back home. Even 
if they found it hard to credit his story, they'd still take the 
necessary action on the principle that it is better to be safe 
than sorry. Yes, they'd play it safe and give Pladamine to the 
dogs.
Standing on a cabin seat, he gazed out and down through 
the port. A great mob of Terrans, far below, waited to witness 
the coming take-off and cheer them on their way. He noticed 
beyond the back of the crowd a small, absurdly groomed dog 
dragging a Terran female at the end of a thin, light chain. 
Poor girl, he thought. The dog leads, she follows yet believes 
she is taking it some place.
Finding his color camera, he checked its controls, walked 
along the corridor and into the open air lock. It would be nice 
to have a picture of the big send-off audience. Reaching the 
rim of the lock he tripped headlong over something four- 
legged and stubby-tailed that suddenly intruded itself be- 
tween his feet. He dived outward, the camera still in his 
grip, and went down fast through the whistling wind while 
shrill feminine screams came from among the watching 
crowd.

Haraka said, "The funeral has delayed us two days. We'll 
have to make up the time as best we can." He brooded a 
moment, added, "I'm very sorry about Morfad. He had a bril- 
liant mind but it was breaking up toward the end. Oh well, 
it's a comfort that the expedition has suffered only one fatal- 
ity" 
"It could have been worse, sir," responded Kashim. "It 
could have been you. Praise the heavens that it was not."
"Yes, it could have been me." Haraka regarded him curi- 
ously. "And would it have grieved you, Kashim?"
"Very much indeed, sir. I don't think anyone aboard would 
feel the loss more deeply. My respect and admiration are 
such that-"
He ceased as something padded softly into the cabin, laid 
its head in Haraka's lap, gazed soulfully up at the captain. 
Kashim frowned with annoyance.
"Good boy!" approved Haraka, scratching the newcomer's
ears.
"My respect and admiration," repeated Kashim in louder 
tones, "are such that-"
"Good boy!" said Haraka again. He gently pulled one ear, 
then the other, observed with pleasure the vibrating tail.
"As I was saying, sir, my respect-"
"Good boy!" Deaf to all else, Haraka slid a hand down 
from the ears and massaged under the jaw.
Kashim favored Good Boy with a glare of inutterable ha- 
tred. The dog rolled a brown eye sidewise and looked at 
him without expression. From that moment, Kashim's fate was 
sealed.



DIABOLOGIC

HE MADE one circumnavigation to put the matter beyond 
doubt. That was, standard space-scout technique; look once 
on the approach, look again all the way around. It often hap- 
pened that second and closer impressions contradicted first 
and more distant ones. Some perverse factor in the proba- 
bility sequence frequently caused the laugh to appear on the 
other side of a planetary face.
Not this time, though. What he'd observed coming in 
remained visible right around the belly. This world was oc- 
cupied by intelligent life of a high order. The unmistakable 
markings were there in the form of dockyards, railroad mar- 
shaling grids, power stations, spaceports, quarries, factories, 
mines, housing projects, bridges, canals, and a hundred and
one other signs of a life that spawns fast and vigorously.
The spaceports in particular were highly significant. He 
counted three of them. None held a flightworthy ship at the 
moment he flamed high above them, but in one was a tube- 
less vessel undergoing repair. A long, black, snouty thing 
about the size and shape of an Earth-Mars tramp. Certainly 
not as big and racy-looking as a Sol-Sirius liner.
As he gazed down through his tiny control-cabin's armor- 
glass, he knew that this was to be contact with a vengeance. 
During long, long centuries of human expansion, more than 
seven hundred inhabitable worlds had been found, charted, 
explored and, in some cases, exploited. All contained life. A 
minority held intelligent life. But up to this moment nobody 
had found one other lifeform sufficiently advanced to cavort 
among the stars.
Of course, such a discovery had been theorized. Human 
adventuring created an exploratory sphere that swelled into 
the cosmos. Sooner or later, it was assumed, that sphere must 
touch another one at some point within the heavenly host. 
What would happen then was anybody's guess. Perhaps
they'd fuse, making a bigger, shinier biform bubble. Or per- 
haps both bubbles would burst. Anyway, by the looks of it 
the touching-time was now.
If he'd been within reach of a frontier listening-post, he'd 
have beamed a signal detailing this find. Even now it wasn't 
too late to drive back for seventeen weeks and get within 
receptive range. But that would mean seeking a refueling 
dump while he was at it. The ship just hadn't enough for 
such a double run plus the return trip home. Down there 
they had fuel. Maybe they'd give him some and maybe it 
would suit his engines. And just as possibly it would prove 
useless.
Right now he had adequate power reserves to land here 
and eventually get back to base. A bird in the hand is worth 
two in the bush. So he tilted the vessel and plunged into the 
alien atmosphere, heading for the largest spaceport of the 
three.
What might be awaiting him at ground level did not bother 
him at all. The Terrans of today were not the nervy, appre- 
hensive Terrans of the earthbound and lurid past. They had 
become space-sophisticated. They had learned to lounge 
around with a carefree smile and let the other lifeforms do 
the worrying. It lent an air of authority and always worked. 
Nothing is more intimidating than an idiotic grin worn by a 
manifest non-idiot.
Quite a useful weapon in the diabological armory was the 
knowing smirk.

His landing created a most satisfactory sensation. The 
planet's point-nine Earth-mass permitted a little extra dex- 
terity in handling the ship. He swooped it down, curved it up, 
dropped tail-first, stood straddle-legged on the tail-fins, cut 
the braking blast and would not have missed centering on a 
spread handkerchief by more than ten inches.
They seemed to spring out of the ground the way people 
do when cars collide on a deserted road. Dozens of them, 
hundreds. They were on the short side, the tallest not exceed- 
ing five feet. Otherwise they differed from his own pink
faced, blue-eyed type no more than would a Chinese covered 
in fine gray fur.
Massing in a circle beyond range of his jet-rebound, they 
stared at the ship, gabbled, gesticulated, nudged each other, 
argued, and generally behaved in the manner of a curious 
mob that has discovered a deep, dark hole with strange noises 
issuing therefrom. The noteworthy feature about their be- 
havior was that none were scared, none attempted to get out
of reach, either openly or surreptitiously. The only thing
about which they were wary was the chance of a sudden 
blast from the silent jets.
He did not emerge at once. That would have been an error 
- and blunderers are not chosen to pilot scout-vessels. Pre- 
exit rule number one is that air must be tested. What suited 
that crowd outside would not necessarily agree with him. 
Anyway, he'd have checked air even if his own mother had 
been smoking a cigar in the front row of the audience.
The Schrieber analyzer required four minutes in which to 
suck a sample through the Pitot tube, take it apart, sneer at 
the bits, make a bacteria count and say whether its lord and 
master could condescend to breathe the stuff.
He sat patiently while it made up its mind. Finally the 
needle on its half-red, half-white dial crawled reluctantly to 
mid-white. A fast shift would have pronounced the atmos- 
phere socially acceptable. Slowness was the Schrieber's way of 
saying that his lungs were about to go slumming. The ana- 
lyzer was and always had been a robotic snob that graded 
alien atmospheres on the caste system. The best and cleanest 
air was Brahman, pure Brahman. The worst was Untouch- 
able.
Switching it off, he opened the inner and outer air-lock 
doors, sat in the rim with his feet dangling eighty yards above 
ground level. From this vantage-point he calmly surveyed 
the mob, his expression that of one who can spit but not be 
spat upon. The sixth diabological law states that the higher, 
the fewer. Proof: the sea gull's tactical advantage over man.
Being intelligent, those placed by unfortunate circum- 
stances eighty yards deeper in the gravitational field soon ap-
preciated their state of vertical disadvantage. Short of top- 
pling the ship or climbing a polished surface, they were im- 
potent to get at him. Not that any wanted to in any inimical 
way. But desire grows strongest when there is the least possi- 
bility of satisfaction. So they wanted him down there, face to 
face, merely because he was out of reach.
To make matters worse, he turned sidewise and lay within 
the rim, one leg hitched up and hands linked around the 
knee, then continued looking at them in obvious comfort. 
They had to stand. And they had to stare upward at the cost 
of a crick in the neck. Alternatively, they could adjust their 
heads and eyes to a crickless level and endure being looked 
at while not looking. Altogether, it was a hell of a situation.
The longer it lasted the less pleasing it became. Some of 
them shouted at him in squeaky voices. Upon those he be- 
stowed a benign smile. Others gesticulated. He gestured back
and the sharpest among them weren't happy about it. For
some strange reason that no scientist had ever bothered to 
investigate, certain digital motions stimulate especial glands 
in any part of the cosmos. Basic diabological training included 
a course in what was known as signal-deflation, whereby the 
yolk could be removed from an alien ego with one wave of 
the hand.
For a while the crowd surged restlessly around, nibbling 
the gray fur on the backs of their fingers, muttering to each 
other, and occasionally throwing sour looks upward. They still 
kept clear of the danger zone, apparently assuming that the 
specimen reclining in the lock-rim might have a companion at 
the controls. Next, they became moody, content to do no 
more than scowl futilely at the tail-fins.
That state of affairs lasted until a convoy of heavy vehicles 
arrived and unloaded troops. The newcomers bore riot sticks 
and handguns, and wore uniforms the color of the stuff hogs 
roll in. Forming themselves into three ranks, they turned 
right at a barked command, marched forward. The crowd 
opened to make way.
Expertly, they stationed themselves in an armed circle 
separating the ship from the horde of onlookers. A trio of
officers paraded around and examined the tail-fins without 
going nearer than was necessary. Then they backed off, stared 
up at the air-lock rim. The subject of their attention gazed 
back with academic interest.
The senior of the three officers patted his chest where his 
heart was located, bent and patted the ground, forced pacific 
innocence into his face as again he stared at the arrival high 
above. The tilt of his head made his hat fall off, and in turn- 
ing to pick it up he trod on it.
This petty incident seemed to gratify the one eighty yards 
higher because he chuckled, let go the leg he was nursing, 
leaned out for a better look at the victim. Red-faced under 
his furry complexion, the officer once more performed the 
belly and ground massage. The other understood this time. 
He gave a nod of gracious assent, disappeared into the lock. 
A few seconds later a nylon ladder snaked down the ship's 
side and the invader descended with monkey-like agility.
Three things struck the troops and the audience imme- 
diately he stood before them, namely, the nakedness of his 
face and hands, his greater size and weight, and the fact 
that he carried no visible weapons. Strangeness of shape and 
form was to be expected. After all, they had done some space- 
roaming themselves and knew of lifeforms more outlandish. 
But what sort of creature has the brains to build a ship and 
not the sense to carry means of defense?
They were essentially a logical people. 
The poor saps.

The officers made no attempt to converse with this speci- 
men from the great unknown. They were not telepathic, and 
space-experience had taught them that mere mouth-noises 
are useless until one side or the other has learned the mean- 
ings thereof. So by signs they conveyed to him their wish to 
take him to town where he would meet others of their kind 
more competent to establish contact. They were pretty good 
at explaining with their hands, as was natural for the only 
other lifeform that had found new worlds.
He agreed to this with the same air of a lord consorting
with the lower orders that had been apparent from the start. 
Perhaps he had been unduly influenced by the Schrieber. 
Again the crowd made way while the guard conducted him 
to the trucks. He passed through under a thousand eyes, 
favored them with deflatory gesture number seventeen, this 
being a nod that acknowledged their existence and tolerated 
their vulgar interest in him.
The trucks trundled away leaving the ship with air-lock 
open, ladder dangling and the rest of the troops still standing 
guard around the fins. Nobody failed to notice that touch, 
either. He hadn't bothered to prevent access to the vessel. 
There was nothing to prevent experts looking through it and 
stealing ideas from another space-going race.
Nobody of that caliber could be so criminally careless. 
Therefore, it would not be carelessness. Pure logic said the 
ship's designs were not worth protecting from the stranger's 
viewpoint because they were long out of date. Or else they 
were unstealable because they were beyond the comprehen- 
sion of a lesser people. Who the heck did he think they were? 
By the Black World of Khas, they'd show him!
A junior officer climbed the ladder, explored the ship's 
interior, came down, reported no more aliens within, not 
even a pet lansim, not a pretzel. The stranger had come alone. 
This item of information circulated through the crowd. They 
didn't care for it too much. A visit by a fleet of battleships 
bearing ten thousand they could understand. It would be a 
show of force worthy of their stature. But the casual arrival 
of one, and only one, smacked somewhat of the dumping of a 
missionary among the heathens of the twin worlds of Mo- 
rantia.
Meanwhile, the trucks rolled clear of the spaceport, speed- 
ed up through twenty miles of country, entered a city. Here, 
the leading vehicle parted company from the rest, made for 
the western suburbs, arrived at a fortress surrounded by huge
walls. The stranger dismounted and promptly got tossed into 
the clink.
The result of that was odd, too. He should have resented 
incarceration, seeing that nobody had yet explained the pur-
pose of it. But he didn't. Treating the well-clothed bed in his 
cell as if it were a luxury provided as recognition of his rights, 
he sprawled on it full length, boots and all, gave a sigh of 
deep satisfaction and went to sleep. His watch hung close 
by his ear and compensated for the constant ticking of the 
auto-pilot, without which slumber in space was never com- 
plete.
During the next few hours guards came frequently to look 
at him and make sure that he wasn't finagling the locks or 
disintegrating the bars by means of some alien technique. 
They had not searched him and accordingly were cautious. 
But he snored on, dead to the world, oblivious to the ripples 
of alarm spread through a spatial empire.
He was still asleep when Parmith arrived bearing a load of 
picture books. Parmith, elderly and myopic, sat by the bed- 
side and waited until his own eyes became heavy in sym- 
pathy and he found himself considering the comfort of the 
carpet. At that point he decided he must either get to work 
or lie flat. He prodded the other into wakefulness.
They started on the books. Ah is for ahmud that plays in 
the grass. Ay is for aysid that's kept under glass. Oom is 
for Oom-tuck that's found in the moon. Uhm is for uhmlak, 
a clown or buffoon. And so on.
Stopping only for meals, they were at it the full day and 
progress was fast. Parmith was a first-class tutor, the other
an excellent pupil able to learn with remarkable speed. At 
the end of the first long session they were able to indulge in a
brief and simple conversation. 
"I am called Parmith. What are you called?"
"Wayne Hillder." 
"Two callings?"
"Yes."
"What are many of you called?"
"Terrans."
"We are called Vards."
Talk ceased for lack of enough words and Parmith left. 
Within nine hours he was back accompanied by Gerka, a 
younger specimen who specialized in reciting words and 
phrases again and again until the listener could echo them 
to perfection. They carried on for another four days, work- 
ing into late evening.
"You are not a prisoner."
"I know," said Wayne Hillder, blandly self-assured. 
Parmith looked uncertain. "How do you know?"
"You would not dare to make me one."
"Why not?"
"You do not know enough. Therefore you seek common 
speech. You must learn from me - and quickly."
This being too obvious to contradict, Parmith let it go by 
and said, "I estimated it would take about ninety days to 
make you fluent. It looks as if twenty will be sufficient."
"I wouldn't be here if my kind weren't smart," Hillder 
pointed out.
Gerka registered uneasiness; Parmith was disconcerted. 
"No Vard is being taught by us," he added for good meas-
ure. "Not having got to us yet."
Parmith said hurriedly, "We must get on with this task. 
An important commission is waiting to interview you as soon 
as you can converse with ease and clarity. Well try again 
this fth-prefix that you haven't got quite right. Here's a 
tongue-twister to practice on. Listen to Gerka."
"Fthon deas fthleman fathangafth," recited Gerka, punish- 
ing his bottom lip.
"Futhong deas-"
"Fthon," corrected Gerka. "Fthon deas fthleman fthan- 
gafth."
"It's better in a civilized tongue. Wet evenings are gnat- 
less futhong-"
"Fthon!" insisted Gerka, playing catapults with his mouth.

The commission sat in an ornate hall containing semi- 
circular rows of seats rising in ten tiers. There were four 
hundred present. The way in which attendants and minor 
officials fawned around them showed that this was an assem- 
bly of great importance.
It was, too. The four hundred represented the political
and military power of a world that had created a space- 
empire extending through a score of solar systems and control- 
ling twice as many planets. Up to a short time ago they had 
been, to the best of their knowledge and belief, the lords of 
creation. Now there was some doubt about it. They had a 
serious problem to settle, one that a later Terran historian 
irreverently described as 'a moot point.'
They ceased talking among themselves when a pair of 
guards arrived in charge of Hillder, led him to a seat facing 
the tiers. Four hundred pairs of eyes examined the stranger, 
some curiously, some doubtfully, some challengingly, many 
with unconcealed antagonism.
Sitting down, Hillder looked them over much as one looks 
into one of the more odorous cages at the zoo. That is to 
say, with faint distaste. Gently, he rubbed the side of his 
nose with a forefinger and sniffed. Deflatory gesture number 
twenty-two, suitable for use in the presence of massed au- 
thority. It brought its carefully calculated reward. Half a 
dozen of the most bellicose characters glared at him. 
A frowning, furry-faced oldster stood up, spoke to Hillder 
as if reciting a well-rehearsed speech. "None but a highly 
intelligent and completely logical species can conquer space. 
It being self-evident that you are of suoh a kind, you will 
appreciate our position. Your very presence compels us to 
consider the ultimate alternatives of cooperation or competi- 
tion, peace or war."
"There are no two alternatives to anything," Hillder as- 
serted. "There is black and white and a thousand intermediate 
shades. There is yes and no and a thousand ifs, buts or may- 
bes. For example: you could move farther out of reach."
Being tidy-minded, they didn't enjoy watching the thread 
of their logic being tangled. Neither did they like the resul- 
tant knot in the shape of the final suggestion. The oldster's 
frown grew deeper, his voice sharper.
"You should also appreciate your own position. You are 
one among countless millions. Regardless of whatever may 
be the strength of your kind, you, personally, are helpless. 
Therefore, it is for us to question and for you to answer. If
our respective positions were reversed, the contrary would 
be true. That is logical. Are you ready to answer our ques- 
tions?" 
"I am ready."
Some showed surprise at that. Others looked resigned, 
taking it for granted that he would give all the information 
he saw fit and suppress the rest.
Resuming his seat, the oldster signaled to the Vard on his 
left, who stood. up and asked, "Where is your base-world?"
"At the moment I don't know."
"You don't know?" His expression showed that he had ex- 
pected awkwardness from the start. "How can you return to 
it if you don't know where it is?"
"When within its radio-sweep I pick up its beacon. I fol-
low that." .
"Aren't your space-charts sufficient to enable you to find
it?" 
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because," said Hillder, "it isn't tied to a primary. It 
wanders around."
Registering incredulity, the other said, "Do you mean that 
it is a planet broken loose from a solar system?"
"Not at all. It's a scout-base. Surely you know what that 
is?"
"I do not," snapped the interrogator. "What is it?"
"A tiny, compact world equipped with all the necessary 
contraptions. An artificial sphere that functions as a frontier 
outpost."
There was a deal of fidgeting and murmuring among the 
audience as individuals tried to weigh the implications of this 
news.
Hiding his thoughts, the questioner continued, "You define 
it as a frontier outpost. That does not tell us where your 
home-world is located."
"You did not ask about my home-world. You asked about 
my base-world. I heard you with my own two ears."
"Then where is your home-world?"
"I cannot show you without a chart. Do you have charts 
of unknown regions?"
"Yes." The other smiled like a satisfied cat. With a dra- 
matic flourish he produced them, unrolled them. "We ob- 
tained them from your ship."
"That was thoughtful of you," said Hillder, disappointingly 
pleased. Leaving his seat he placed a fingertip on the top- 
most chart and said, "There! Good old Earth!" Then he re- 
turned and sat down.
The Vard stared at the designated point, glanced around at 
his fellows as if about to make some remark, changed his 
mind and said nothing. Producing a pen he marked the chart, 
rolled it up with the others.
"This world you call Earth is the origin and center of your 
empire?"
"Yes."
"The mother-planet of your species?"
"Yes."
"Now," he went on, firmly, "how many of your kind are 
there?"
"Nobody knows."
"Don't you check your own numbers?"
"We did once upon a time. These days we're too scattered 
around," Hillder pondered a moment, added helpfully, "I
can tell you that there are four billions of us spread over 
three planets in our own solar system. Outside of those the 
number is a guess. We can be divided into the rooted and the 
rootless and the latter can't be counted. They won't let them- 
selves be counted because somebody might want to tax them. 
Take the grand total as four billions plus."
"That tells us nothing," the other objected. "We don't know 
the size of the plus." 
"Neither do we," said Hillder, visibly awed at the thought 
of it. "Sometimes it frightens us," He surveyed the audience.
"If nobody's ever been scared by a plus, now's the time." 
Scowling, the questioner tried to get at it another way.
"You say you are scattered. Over how many worlds?"
"Seven hundred fourteen at last report. That's already 
out of date. Every report is eight to ten planets behind the
times."
"And you have mastery of that huge number?"
"Whoever mastered a planet? Why, we haven't yet dug into 
the heart of our own, and I doubt that we ever shall." He 
shrugged, finished, "No, we just amble around and maul them 
a bit. Same as you do."
"You mean you exploit them?"
"Put it that way if it makes you happy."
"Have you encountered no opposition at any time?" 
"Feeble, friend, feeble," said Hillder.
"What did you do about it?"
"That depended upon circumstances. Some folk we ig- 
nored, some we smacked, some we led toward the light."
"What light?" asked the other, baffled. 
"That of seemg things our way." 
It was too much for a paunchy specimen in the third row.
Coming to his feet he spoke in acidulated tones. "Do you ex-
pect us to see things your way?" 
"Not immediately," Hillder said. 
"Perhaps you consider us incapable of-" 
The oldster who had first spoken now arose and inter-
jected, "We must proceed with this inquisition logically or 
not at all. That means one line of questioning at a time and 
one questioner at a time." He gestured authoritatively toward 
the Vard with the charts. "Carry on, Thormin." 

Thormin carried on for two solid hours. Apparently he was
an astronomical expert, because all his questions bore more 
or less on that subject. He wanted details of distances, ve-
locities, solar classifications, planetary conditions, and a host 
of similar items. Willingly, Hillder answered all that he could, 
pleaded ignorance with regard to the rest.
Eventually Thormin sat down and concentrated on his 
notes in the manner of one absorbed in fundamental truth. He 
was succeeded by a hard-eyed individual named Grasud, who 
for the last half-hour had been fidgeting with impatience. 
"Is your vessel the most recent example of its type?" 
"No."
"There are better models?"
"Yes," agreed Hillder.
"Very much better?"
"I wouldn't know, not having been assigned one yet." 
"Strange, is it not," said Grasud pointedly, "that an old-
type ship should discover us while superior ones have failed 
to do so?"
"Not at all. It was sheer luck. I happened to head this 
way. Other scouts, in old or new ships, boosted other ways. 
How many directions are there in deep space? How many 
radii can be extended from a sphere?"
"Not being a mathematician, I-"
"If you were a mathematician," Hillder interrupted, "you 
would know that the number works out at 2n." He glanced 
over the audience, added in tutorial manner, "The factor of two 
being determined by the demonstrable fact that a radius 
is half a diameter and 2n being defined as the smallest num- 
ber that makes one boggle."
Grasud boggled as he tried to conceive it, gave it up, said, 
"Therefore, tbe total number of your exploring vessels is of 
equal magnitude?"
"No. We don't have to probe in every direction. It is 
necessary only to make for visible stars."
"Well, aren't there stars in every direction?"
"If distance is disregarded, yes. But one does not dis- 
regard distance. One makes for the nearest yet-unexplored 
solar systems and thus cuts down repeated jaunts to a rea- 
sonable number."
"You are evading the issue," said Grasud. "How many 
ships of your type are in actual operation?"
"Twenty."
"Twenty?" He made it sound anticlimactic. "Is that all?" 
"It's enough, isn't it. How long do you expect us to keep
antiquated models in service?"
"I am not asking about out-of-date vessels. How many 
scout-ships of all types are functioning?"
"I don't really know. I doubt whether anyone knows. In
addition to Earth's fleets, some of the most advanced colonies 
are running expeditions of their own. What's more, a couple 
of allied lifeforms have learned things from us, caught the 
fever and started poking around. We can no more take a com- 
plete census of ships than we can of people."
Accepting that without argument, Grasud went on, "Your 
vessel is not large by our standards. Doubtless you have 
others of greater mass." He leaned forward, gazed fixedly. 
"What is the comparative size of your biggest ship?"
"The largest I've seen was the battleship Lance. Forty 
times the mass of my boat."
"How many people does it carry?"
"It has a crew numbering more than six hundred but in a 
pinch it can transport three times that."
"So you know of at least one ship with an emergency ca- 
pacity of about two thousands?"
"Yes."
More murmurings and fidgetings among the audience. Dis- 
regarding them, Grasud carried on with the air of one deter- 
mined to learn the worst.
"You have other battleships of equal size?"
"Yes."
"How many?" 
"I don't know. If I did, I'd tell you. Sorry." 
"You may have some even bigger?"
"That is quite possible," Hillder conceded. "If so, I haven't 
seen one yet. But that means nothing. One can go through 
a lifetime and not see everything. If you calculate the number 
of seeable things in existence, deduct the number already 
viewed, the remainder represents the number yet to be 
seen. And if you study them at the rate of one per second it 
would require-"
"I am not interested," snapped Grasud, refusing to be 
bollixed by alien argument.
"You should be," said Hillder. "Because infinity minus ump- 
teen millions leaves infinity. Which means that you can take 
the part from the whole and leave the whole still intact. You 
can eat your cake and have it. Can't you?"
Grasud flopped into his seat, spoke moodily to the oldster. 
"I seek information, not a blatant denial of logic. His talk 
confuses me. Let Shahding have him."
Coming up warily, Shahding started on the subject of 
weapons, their design, mode of operation, range and effective- 
ness. He stuck with determination to this single line of in- 
quiry and avoided all temptations to be side-tracked. His 
questions were astute and penetrating. Hillder answered all 
he could, freely, without hesitation.
"So," commented Shahding, toward the finish, "it seems 
that you put your trust in force-fields, certain rays that para- 
lyze the nervous system, bacteriological techniques, demon- 
strations of number and strength, and a good deal of per- 
suasiveness. Your science of ballistics cannot be advanced 
after so much neglect."
"It could never advance," said Hillder. "That's why we 
abandoned it. We dropped fiddling around with bows and 
arrows for the same reason. No initial thrust can outpace a 
continuous and prolonged one. Thus far and no farther shalt 
thou go." Then he added by way of speculative afterthought, 
"Anyway, it can be shown that no bullet can overtake a run- 
ning man!."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Shahding, having once ducked a 
couple of slugs himself.
"By the time the bullet has reached the man's point of de- 
parture, the man has retreated," said Hillder. "The bullet 
then has to cover that extra distance but finds the man has 
retreated farther. It covers that, too, only to find that again 
the man is not there. And so on and so on."
"The lead is reduced each successive time until it ceases 
to exist," Shahding scoffed.
"Each successive advance occupies a finite length of time, 
no matter how small," Hillder pointed out. "You cannot 
divide and subdivide a fraction to produce zero. The series is 
infinite. An infinite series of finite time-periods totals an in-
finite time. Work it out for yourself. The bullet does not hit 
the man because it cannot get to him."
The reaction showed that the audience had never en-
countered this argument before or concocted anything like it 
of their own accord. None were stupid enough to accept it 
as serious assertion of fact. All were sufficiently intelligent 
to recognize it as logical or pseudo-logical denial of some- 
thing self-evident and demonstrably true.
Forthwith they started hunting for the flaw in this alien 
reasoning, discussing it between themselves so noisily that 
Shahding stood in silence waiting for a break. He posed like 
a dummy for ten minutes while the clamor rose to a cre- 
scendo. A group in the front semicircle left their seats, knelt 
and commenced drawing diagrams on the floor while arguing 
vociferously and with some heat. A couple of Vards in the 
back tier showed signs of coming to blows.
Finally the oldster, Shahding and two others bellowed a
united, "Quiet!" 
The investigatory commission settled down with reluctance, 
still muttering, gesturing, showing each other sketches on 
pieces of paper. Shahding fixed ireful attention on Hillder, 
opened his mouth in readiness to resume.
Beating him to it, Hillder said casually, "It sounds silly, 
doesn't it? But anything is possible, anything at all. A man 
can marry his widow's sister."
"Impossible," declared Shahding, able to dispose of that 
without abstruse calculations. "He must be dead for her to 
have the status of a widow."
"A man married a woman who died. He then married her 
sister. He died. Wasn't his first wife his widow's sister?" 
Shahding shouted, "I am not here to be tricked by the tor- 
tuous squirmings of an alien mind." He sat down hard, fumed 
a bit, said to his neighbor, "All right, Kadina, you can have 
him and welcome." 
Confident and self-assured, Kadina stood up, gazed au- 
thoritatively around. He was tall for a Vard, and wore a 
well-cut uniform with crimson epaulettes and crimson-banded 
sleeves. For the first time in a while there was silence. Satis- 
fied with the effect he had produced, he faced Hillder, 
spoke in tones deeper, less squeaky than any heard so far.
"Apart from the petty problems with which it has amused
you to baffle my compatriots," he began in an oily manner, 
"you have given candid, unhesitating answers to our ques- 
tions. You have provided much information that is useful 
from the military viewpoint."
"I am glad you appreciate it," said Hillder.
"We do. Very much so," Kadina bestowed a craggy smile 
that looked sinister. "However, there is one matter that needs 
clarifying."
"What is that?"
"If the present situation were reversed, if a lone Vard- 
scout was subject to intensive cross-examination by an assem- 
bly of your lifeform, and if he surrendered information as 
willingly as you have done. . ." He let it die out while his 
eyes hardened, then growled, "We would consider him a trai- 
tor to his kind! The penalty would be death."
"How fortunate I am not to be a Vard," said Hillder.
"Do not congratulate yourself too early," Kadina retorted. 
"A death sentence is meaningless only to those already under 
such a sentence."
"What are you getting at?"
"I am wondering whether you are a major criminal seek- 
ing sanctuary among us. There may be some other reason. 
Whatever it is, you do not hesitate to betray your own kind." 
He put on the same smile again. "It would be nice to know 
why you have been so cooperative."
"That's an easy one," Hillder said, smiling back in a way 
that Kadina did not like. "I am a consistent liar."
With that, he left his seat and walked boldly to the exit. 
The guards led him to his cell.

He was there three days, eating regular meals and enjoy- 
ing them with irritating gusto, amusing himself writing figures 
in a little notebook, as happy as a legendary space-scout 
named Larry. At the end of that time a ruminative Vard paid 
a visit.
"I am Bulak. Perhaps you remember me. I was seated at 
the end of the second row when you were before the com- 
mission."
"Four hundred were there," Hillder reminded. "I cannot 
recall all of them. Only the ones who suffered." He pushed 
forward a chair. "But never mind. Sit down and put your 
feet up - if you do have feet inside those funny-looking boots. 
What can I do for you?"
"I don't know." 
"You must have come for some reason, surely?"
Bulak looked mournful. "I'm a refugee from the fog." 
"What fog?"
"The one you've spread all over the place." He rubbed a 
fur-coated ear, examined his fingers, stared at the wall. "The 
commission's main purpose was to determine relative stan- 
dards of intelligence, to settle the prime question of whether 
your kind's cleverness is less than, greater than, or equal to 
our own. Upon that and that alone depends our reaction to 
contact with another space-conqueror."
"I did my best to help, didn't I?"
"Help?" echoed Bulak as if it were a new and strange 
word. "Help? Do you call it that? The true test should be 
that of whether your logic has been extended farther than has 
ours, whether your premises have been developed to more ad- 
vanced conclusions."
"Well?"
"You ended up by trampling all over the laws of logic. A 
bullet cannot kill anybody. After three days fifty of them 
are still arguing about it, and this morning one of them 
proved that a person cannot climb a ladder. Friends have 
fallen out, relatives are starting to hate the sight of each 
other. The remaining three hundred fifty are in little better 
state."
"What's troubling them?" inquired Hillder with interest. 
"They are debating veracity with everything but brick-
bats," Bulak informed, somewhat as if compelled to mention 
an obscene subject. "You are a consistent liar. Therefore the 
statement itself must be a lie. Therefore you are not a con- 
sistent liar. The conclusion is that you can be a consistent 
liar only by not being a consistent liar. Yet you cannot be a 
consistent liar without being consistent."
"That's bad," Hillder sympathized.
"It's worse," Bulak gave back. "Because if you really are 
a consistent liar - which logically is a self-contradiction - none 
of your evidence is worth a sack of rotten muna-seeds. If you 
have told us the truth all the way through, then your final 
claim to be a liar must also be true. But if you are a consis- 
tent liar then none of it is true."
"Take a deep breath," advised Hillder.
"But," continued Bulak, taking a deep breath, "since that 
final statement must be untrue, all the rest may be true." 
A wild look came into his eyes and he started waving his 
arms around. "But the claim to consistency makes it impos- 
sible for any statement to be assessed as either true or untrue 
because, on analysis, there is an unresolvable contradiction 
that-"
"Now, now," said Hillder, patting his shoulder. "It is only 
natural that the lower should be confused by the higher.
The trouble is that you've not yet advanced for enough. Your 
thinking remains a little primitive." He hesitated, added with 
the air of making a daring guess, "In fact it wouldn't surprise 
me if you still think logically."
"In the name of the Big Sun," exclaimed Bulak, "how else 
can we think?"
"Like us," said Hillder. "But only when you're mentally de- 
veloped." He strolled twice around the cell, said by way of 
musing afterthought, "Right now you couldn't cope with the 
problem of why a mouse when it spins."
"Why a mouse when it spins?" parroted Bulak, letting his
jaw hang down. 
"Or let's try an easier one, a problem any Earth-child 
could tackle."
"Such as what?"
"By definition an island is a body of land entirely sur- 
rounded by water?"
"Yes, that is correct."
"Then let us suppose that the whole of this planet's nor- 
thern hemisphere is land and all the southern hemisphere is
water. Is the northern half an island? Or is the southern half 
a lake?"
Bulak gave it five minutes' thought. Then he drew a circle 
on a sheet of paper, divided it, shaded the top half and con- 
templated the result. In the end he pocketed the paper and 
got to his feet.
"Some of them would gladly cut your throat but for the 
possibility that your kind may have a shrewd idea where you 
are and be capable of retribution. Others would send you 
home with honors but for the risk of bowing to inferiors."
"Theyll have to make up their minds someday," Hillder 
commented, refusing to show concern about which way it 
went.
"Meanwhile," Bulak continued morbidly, "we've had a look 
over your ship, which may be old or new according to 
whether or not you have lied about it. We can see everything 
but the engines and remote controls, everything but the 
things that matter. To determine whether they're superior to 
ours we'd have to pull the vessel apart, ruining it and making 
you a prisoner."
"Well, what's stopping you?"
"The fact that you may be bait. If your kind has great 
power and is looking for trouble, theyll need a pretext. Our 
victimization of you would provide it. The spark that fires the 
powder-barrel." He made a gesture of futility. "What can 
one do when working utterly in the dark?"
"One could try settling the question of whether a green 
leaf remains a green leaf in complete absence of light."
"I have had enough," declared Bulak, making for the door. 
"I have had more than enough. An island or a lake? Who 
cares? I am going to see Mordafa."
With that he departed, working his fingers around while 
the fur quivered on his face. A couple of guards peered 
through the bars in the uneasy manner of those assigned to 
keep watch upon a dangerous maniac.

Mordafa turned up next day in the mid-afternoon. He was 
a thin, elderly, and somewhat wizened specimen with in-
congruously youthful eyes. Accepting a seat, he studied Hill- 
der, spoke with smooth deliberation.
"From what I have heard, from all that I have been told, 
I deduce a basic rule applying to lifeforms deemed intelli- 
gent."
"You deduce it?"
"I have to. There is no choice about the matter. All the 
lifeforms we have discovered so far have not been truly 
intelligent. Some have been superficially so, but not genuinely 
so. It is obvious that you have had experiences that may 
come to us sooner or later but have not arrived yet. In that 
respect we may have been fortunate seeing that the results 
of such contact are highly speculative. There's just no way of 
telling."
"And what is this rule?"
"That the governing body of any lifeform such as ours 
will be composed of power-lovers rather than of specialists."
"Well, isn't it?"
"Unfortunately, it is. Government falls into the hands of 
those who desire authority and escapes those with other in- 
terests." He paused, went on, "That is not to say that those 
who govern us are stupid. They are quite clever in their 
own particular field of mass-organization. But by the same 
token they are pathetically ignorant of other fields. Knowing 
this, your tactic is to take advantage of their ignorance. The 
weakness of authority is that it cannot be diminished and 
retain strength. To play upon ignorance is to dull the voice 
of command."
"Hm!" Hillder surveyed him with mounting respect. 
"You're the first one I've encountered who can see beyond 
the end of his nose."
"Thank you," said Mordafa. "Now the very fact that you 
have taken the risk of landing here alone, and followed it up 
by confusing our leaders, proves that your kind has devel- 
oped a technique for a given set of conditions and, in all 
probability, a series of techniques for various conditions."
"Go on," urged Hillder.
"Such techniques must be created empirically rather than
theoretically," Mordafa continued. "In other words, they re- 
sult from many experiences, the correcting of many errors, 
the search for workability, the effort to gain maximum results 
from minimum output." He glanced at the other. "Am I cor- 
rect so far?"
"You're doing fine."
"To date we have established foothold on forty-two planets 
without ever having to combat other than primitive life. We 
may find foes worthy of our strength on the forty-third world, 
whenever that is discovered. Who knows? Let us assume for 
the sake of argument that intelligent life exists on one in 
every forty-three inhabitable planets."
"Where does that get us?" Hillder prompted.
"I would imagine," said Mordafa thoughtfully, "that the 
experience of making contact with at least six intelligent life- 
forms would be necessary to enable you to evolve techniques 
for dealing with their like eleswhere. Therefore your kind 
must have discovered and explored not less than two hundred 
fifty worlds. That is an estimate in minimum terms. The 
correct figure may well be that stated by you."
"And I am not a consistent liar?" asked Hillder, grinning.
"That is beside the point, if only our leaders would hold 
on to their sanity long enough to see it. You may have dis- 
torted or exaggerated for purposes of your own. If so, there 
is nothing we can do about it. The prime fact holds fast, 
namely, that your space-venturings must be far more exten- 
sive than ours. Hence you must be older, more advanced, 
and numerically stronger."
"That's logical enough," conceded Hillder, broadening his 
grin.
"Now don't start on me," pleaded Mordafa. "If you fool me 
with an intriguing fallacy I won't rest until I get it straight. 
And that will do neither of us any good."
"Ah, so your intention is to do me good?"
"Somebody has to make a decision, seeing that the top 
brass is no longer capable of it. I am going to suggest that 
they set you free with our best wishes and assurances of 
friendship."
"Think they'll take any notice?"
"You know quite well they will. You've been counting on 
it all along." Mordafa eyed him shrewdly. "They'll grab at 
the advice to restore their self-esteem. If it works, they'll take 
the credit. If it doesn't, I'1l get the blame." He brooded a 
few seconds, asked with open curiosity, "Do you find it the 
same elsewhere, among other peoples?"
"Exactly the same," Hillder assured him. "And there is 
always a Mordafa to settle the issue in the same way. Power 
and scapegoats go together like husband and wife."
"I'd like to meet my alien counterparts someday." Getting 
up, he moved to the door. "If I had not come along, how 
long would you have waited for your psychological mixture to
congeal?" 
"Until another of your type chipped in. If one doesn't 
arrive of his own accord, the powers-that-be lose patience 
and drag one in. The catalyst mined from its own kind. Au- 
thority lives by eating its vitals."
"That is putting it paradoxically," Mordafa observed, mak-
ing it sound like a mild reproof. He went away.
Hillder stood behind the door and gazed through the bars 
in its top half. The pair of guards leaned against the oppo-
site wall and stared back.
With amiable pleasantness, he said to them, "No cat has 
eight tails. Every cat has one tail more than no cat. There- 
fore every cat has nine tails."
They screwed up their eyes and scowled.

Quite an impressive deputation took him back to the ship.
All the four hundred were there, about a quarter of them 
resplendent in uniforms, the rest in their Sunday best. An 
armed guard juggled guns at barked command. Kadina made
an unctuous speech full of brotherly love and the glorious 
shape of things to come. Somebody presented a bouquet of 
evil-smelling weeds and Hillder made mental note of the dif- 
ference in olfactory senses.
Climbing eighty yards to the lock, Hillder looked down. 
Kadina waved an officious farewell. The crowd chanted,
"Hurrah!"in conducted rhythm. He blew his nose on a hand- 
kerchief, that being deflatory gesture number nine, closed 
the lock, sat at the control board.
The tubes fired into a low roar. A cloud of vapor climbed 
around and sprinkled ground-dirt over the mob. That touch 
was involuntary and not recorded in the book. A pity, he 
thought. Everything ought to be listed. We should be syste- 
matic about such things. The showering of dirt should be 
duly noted under the heading of the spaceman's farewell.
The ship snored into the sky, left the Vard-world far be- 
hind. Hillder remained at the controls until free of the entire 
system's gravitational field. Then he headed for the beacon 
area and locked the auto-pilot on that course.
For a while he sat gazing meditatively into star-spangled 
darkness. After a while he sighed, made notes in his log-book.
'Cube K49, Sector 10, solar-grade D7, third planet. Name: 
Vard. Lifeform named Vards, cosmic intelligence rating BB, 
space-going, forty-two colonies. Comment: softened up.'
He glanced over his tiny library fastened to a steel bulk- 
head. Two tomes were missing. They had swiped the two that 
were replete with diagrams and illustrations. They had left 
the rest, having no Rosetta Stone with which to translate 
cold print. They hadn't touched the nearest volume titled: 
'Diabologic, the Science of Driving People Nuts.'
Sighing again, he took paper from a drawer, commenced 
his hundredth, two hundredth or maybe three-hundredth 
try at concocting an Aleph number higher than A, but lower 
than C. He mauled his hair until it stuck out in spikes, and 
although he didn't know it, he did not look especially well- 
balanced himself.


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Scanned and proofed by Kronos
Proofing corrected OCR errors - other errors left as published.
Line breaks are exactly as in 1958 Ace paperback edition.
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