Plus X
Astounding Science Fiction – June 1956
(1956)*
Eric Frank Russell

Naturally, he wanted to escape the Alien's prison. As it turned out, the Aliens would have been much better off if they'd just give him a few nuclear bombs, a spaceship, and let him go. He'd have done less damage that way ...

-

	ONE thing was certain: he was out of the war. Perhaps for a long time to come or possibly for keeps—dead, maimed or a prisoner. The next few seconds would decide the manner of his exit from the fray.

	The little ship made another crazy spin on its longitudinal axis. In the fore observation port the gray-green face of a planet swirled the opposite way. John Leeming's brains seemed to rotate in sympathy, causing momentary confusion. Behind the ship the distorted fire-trail shaped itself into an elongated spiral.

	Ground came up fast, mere crinkles expanding into hills and valleys, surface fuzz swelling into massed trees. His straining eyes saw a cluster of rooftops turn upside down then swing right way round.

	Choice needs time even if only the minimum required to make selection. When there's no time there's no choice. Leeming's sole concern was to land the ship any place, anywhere, even slap in the middle of the foe, so long as it hit belly-down with nothing to oppose its forward skidding.

	He made it either by sheer good luck or, more likely, happy absence of bad luck. A gentle upward slope magnified toward the nose at precisely the right moment. He maneuvered somehow, heaven alone knew how, dropped the damaged tail, cut power, struck dirt, slid halfway up the slope amid a twin spray of dust, sparks and grinding noises.

	For half a minute he sat still and sweated while feeling peculiarly cold. Then he glanced at the atmospheric analyzer. It said the local air had nothing wrong with it.

	Clambering through the lock, Leeming bolted to the tail end. He looked at the array of drivers and found them a mess. Five tubes lacked linings and had warped under resulting heat. Four more were on the point of going cockeyed. He'd come in on the remaining seven and that was a feat verging on the miraculous.

	Back home they'd warned him that the vessel might not stand up to the task imposed upon it. "We're giving you a special scout-boat with battleship tubes and improved linings. The ship is light and unarmed but fast and exceptionally long-ranged. Whether it will hold together over such a vast trip is something that can be determined only by actual test. Right now it's the best we can offer. In four or five years' time we may have one fifty times better. But we can't wait four or five years."

	"I understand."

	"So you'll be taking a risk, a big one. You may never return. All the same, we've got to learn what lies behind the enemy's spatial frontier, how deeply his authority extends, how far his hidden resources go. Somebody's got to stick out his neck to get that information. Somebody's got to wander loose behind the lines." 

	"I'm willing."

	They'd patted his shoulder, given him a heavily escorted send-off that had taken him through the area of battle. Then, on his own, he'd slipped through a hostile frontier, a tiny, unstoppable speck in the immensity of space.

	For weeks of which he'd lost count he had beamed data of all kinds, penetrating deeper and deeper into the starfield until the first tube blew a tormented and desiccated lining along the vapor-trail. Even as he turned belatedly for home the second one went. Then a third. After that, it was a matter of getting down in one piece on the nearest inhabitable hunk of plasma.

	At the bottom of the slope, a thousand yards away, lay a large village stirred to active life by his overhead thunder and nearby landing. Already its small garrison was charging out, weapons in hand heading for the ship.

	Diving back through the lock, Leeming jerked a lever in the tiny control room, got out fast, raced up the slope, counting to himself as he ran. Down at the bottom the enemy troops paused in their advance, let go hoarse yells but failed to open fire.

	"Sixty-nine, seventy!" gasped Leeming, and threw himself flat.

	The ship flew apart with a mighty roar that shook the hills. Wind pressed powerfully in all directions. Shrapnel rained from the sky. A seven-pound lump of metal thumped to ground a yard from Leeming's head and he could not recognize it as any part of what once had arrowed past strange suns and unknown planets.

	He stood up, saw that he now had the enemy on both sides. A thin line of armed figures had come over the crest of the slope. They had weapons pointed his way and were gazing awestruck at the great crater halfway down.

	At the bottom the troops from the village picked themselves up, having either thrown themselves flat or been blown flat. None appeared to be injured, none looked delighted either.

	Leeming raised his arms in universal token of surrender. He felt bitter as he did it. Good luck followed by bad luck. If only the ship had hit ten miles farther back or ten farther on, he could have taken to the woods and played hard to get for weeks, months or, if necessary, years.

	Anyway, this was the end of the trail.

-

	The enemy came up fast. They were two-legged, on the short side, tremendously broad and powerful. Their gait was the typical stumping of squat, heavy men. Close up, they were seen to have scaly skins, horn-covered eyes, no eyelids. The first one to arrive made Leeming think of a sidewinder that somehow had taken on monkeylike shape.

	Though obviously made jumpy by his forced landing and the big bang, they did not treat him with open antagonism. Their manner was suspicious and reserved. After a little reflection he guessed the reason for this. They'd seen nobody quite like him before, had no means of determining whether he was friend or foe, and temporarily were reserving judgment.

	This was excusable. On Leeming's side of the battle was a federation of eighteen life forms, four of them human and five more very humanlike. Against these was an uneasy, precarious union of at least twenty life forms of which two were also very humanlike. Pending examination, this particular bunch of quasireptilians just couldn't tell enemy from ally. Neither did they know whether the ship's spectacular destruction was accidental or a piece of deliberate naughtiness.

	Nevertheless they were taking no chances. Half a dozen kept him covered while an officer inspected the crater. The officer came back, favored Leeming with an unwinking stare, voiced an incomprehensible gabble. Leeming spread his hands and shrugged.

	Accepting this lack of understanding as something that proved nothing one way or the other, the officer shouted commands at his troops. They formed up, marched to the village with the suspect in their midst.

	Arriving, they shoved Leeming into the back room of a rock house with two guards for company, two more outside the door. He sat on a low, hard chair, sighed, stared blankly at the wall for two hours. The guards also sat, watched him as expressionlessly as a pair of snakes, and never said a word.

	At the end of that time a trooper brought food and water. The meal tasted strange but proved satisfying. Leeming ate and drank in silence, studied the wall for another two hours.

	He could imagine what was going on while they kept him waiting. The officer would grab the telephone—or whatever they used in lieu thereof—and call the nearest garrison town. The highest ranker there would promptly transfer responsibility to military headquarters. A ten-star panjandrum would pass the query to the main beam station. An operator would then ask the two humanlike allies whether they'd lost track of a scout in this region.

	If a signal came back saying, "No," the local toughies would realize that they'd caught a rare bird deep within their spatial empire and menacingly far from the area of conflict. If a thing can be either of two things, and it isn't one of them, it's got to be the other. Therefore if he wasn't a friend he had to be a foe despite his appearance where no foe had ever penetrated, before.

-

	When they learned the truth they weren't going to like it Holding-troops far behind the lines share all the glory and little of the grief. They're happy to let it stay that way. A sudden intrusion of the enemy where he's no right to be is an event disturbing to the even tenor of life and not to be greeted with cries of martial joy. Besides, where one can sneak in a host of armies can follow and it is disconcerting to be taken in force from the rear.

	What would they do to him when they identified him as a creature of the Federation? He was far from sure, never having seen or heard of this especial life form before. One thing was probable: they'd refrain from shooting him out of hand. If sufficiently civilized, they'd imprison him for the duration of the war and that might mean for the rest of his natural life. If uncivilized, they'd bring in an ally able to talk Earth language and proceed to milk the prisoner of every item of information he possessed, by methods ruthless and bloody.

	Back toward the dawn of history when conflicts had been Earth-wars there had existed a protective device known as the Geneva Convention. It had organized neutral inspection of prison camps, brought occasional letters from home, provided Red Cross parcels that had kept alive many a captive who otherwise would have died.

	There was nothing like that today. A prisoner now had only two forms of protection, those being his own resources and the power of his side to retaliate against the prisoners they'd got. And the latter was a threat more potential than real. There cannot be retaliation without actual knowledge of maltreatment.

	Leeming was still brooding over these matters when the guards were changed. Six hours had now dragged by. The one window showed that darkness was falling. He eyed the window furtively, decided that it would be suicidal to take a running jump at it under two guns. It was small and high.

	A prisoner's first duty is to escape. That means biding one's time with appalling patience until occurs a chance that may be seized and exploited to the utmost. Or if no opportunity appears, one must be created—by brawn and brains, mostly the latter.

	The prospect before him was tough indeed. And before long it was likely to look a deal tougher. The best moment in which to organize a successful getaway had come immediately after landing. If only he'd been able to talk the local language, he might have convinced them that black was white. With smooth, plausible words, unlimited self-assurance and just the right touch of arrogance he might have persuaded them to repair his boat and cheer him on his way, never suspecting that they had been argued into providing aid and comfort for the enemy.

	Lack of ability to communicate had balled up that prospect at the start. You can't chivvy a sucker into donating his pants merely by making noises at him. Some other chance must now be watched for and grabbed, swiftly and with both hands—providing they were fools enough to permit a chance.

	Which was most unlikely.

-

	He remained in the house four days, eating and drinking at regular intervals, sleeping night-times, cogitating for hours, occasionally glowering at the impassive guards. Mentally he concocted, examined and rejected a thousand ways of regaining freedom, most of them spectacular, fantastic and impossible.

	At one time he went so far as to try to stare the guards into an hypnotic trance, gazing intently at them until his own eyeballs felt locked for keeps. It did not faze them in the least. They had the lizardlike ability to remain motionless and outstare him until kingdom come.

	Mid-morning of the fourth day the officer strutted in, yelled, "Amash! Amash!" and gestured toward the door. His tone and attitude were both unfriendly. Evidently they'd received a signal defining the prisoner as a Federation space-louse.

	Leeming got up from his seat and walked out, two guards ahead, two behind, the officer following. A steel-sheathed car waited in the road. They shoved him into it, locked it. Two guards stood on the rear platform, one joined the driver at front. The journey took thirteen hours which the inmate spent jolting around in complete darkness.

	By the time the car halted Leeming had invented one new and exceedingly repulsive word. He used it as the rear doors opened.

	"Amash!" bawled a guard, unappreciative of alien contributions to the vocabulary of invective.

	With poor grace Leeming amashed. He glimpsed great walls rearing against the night and a zone of bright light high up before he was pushed through a metal portal into a large room. Here a reception committee of six thuglike samples awaited him. One of the six signed a paper presented by the escort. The guards withdrew, the door closed, the six eyed the visitor with lack of amiability.

	One of them said something in an authoritative voice, made motions illustrative of undressing.

	Leeming used the word.

	It did him no good. The six grabbed him, stripped him naked, searched every vestige of his clothing, paying special attention to seams and linings. None showed the slightest interest in his alien physique despite that it stood fully revealed in the raw.

	Everything he possessed was put to one side, pen, compass, knife, lighter, lucky piece, the whole lot. Then they shied his clothes back at him. He dressed himself while they pawed through the loot and grabbled together. They seemed slightly baffled and he guessed that they were surprised by his lack of anything resembling a lethal weapon.

	Amid the litter was a two-ounce matchbox-sized camera that any ignorant bunch would have regarded with suspicion. It took the searchers a couple of minutes to discover what it was and how it worked. Evidently they weren't too backward.

	Satisfied that the captive now owned nothing more dangerous than the somewhat bedraggled clothes in which he stood, they led him through the farther door, up a flight of thick stone stairs, along a stone corridor and into a cell. The door slammed shut with a sound like the crack of doom.

	In the dark of night four small stars winked and glittered through a heavily barred opening high up in one wall. Along the bottom of the gap shone a faint yellow glow from some outside illumination.

	He fumbled around in the gloom, found a wooden bench against one wall. It moved when he lugged at it. Dragging it beneath the opening, he stood on it but found himself a couple of feet too low to gain a view. Though heavy, he struggled with it until he got it upended against the wall. Then he clambered up it, had a look between the bars.

-

	Forty feet below lay a bare stone-floored space fifty yards wide and extending to the limited distance he could see in both directions. Beyond that, a smooth-surfaced stone wall rising to his own level. The top of the wall angled at about sixty degrees to form a sharp apex and ten inches above that ran a single line of taut wire, plain, without barbs.

	From unseeable sources to the right and left poured powerful beams of light which flooded the entire area between cell and wall, also a similar area beyond the wall. Nothing moved. There was no sign of life. There was only the wall, the flares of light, the overhanging night and the distant stars.

	"So I'm in the jug," he said. "That's torn it!"

	He jumped to the invisible floor and the slight thrust of his feet made the bench fall with a resounding crash. Feet raced along the outer passage, light poured through a suddenly opened spyhole in the heavy metal door. An eye appeared in the hole.

	"Sach invigia, faplap!" shouted the guard.

	Leeming used the word again and added six more, older, time-worn but still potent. The spyhole slammed shut. He lay on the bench and tried to sleep.

	An hour later he kicked hell out of the door and when the spyhole opened he said, "Faplap yourself!" After that, he did sleep.

	Breakfast consisted of one lukewarm bowl of stewed grain resembling millet, and a mug of water. Both were served with disdain. Soon afterward a thin-lipped specimen arrived accompanied by two guards. With a long series of complicated gestures the newcomer explained that the prisoner was to learn a civilized language and, what was more, would learn it fast, by order. Education would commence forthwith.

	In businesslike manner the tutor produced a stack of juvenile picture books and started the imparting process while the guards lounged against the wall and looked bored. Leeming co-operated as one does with the enemy, namely, by misunderstanding everything mispronouncing everything, overlooking nothing that would prove him a linguistic moron.

	The lesson ended at noon and was celebrated by the arrival of another bowl of gruel containing a hunk of stringy, rubberish substance resembling the hind end of a rat. He ate the gruel, sucked the portion of animal, shoved the bowl aside.

	Then he pondered the significance of their decision to teach him how to talk. Firstly, it meant that they'd got nothing resembling Earth's electronic brain-pryers and could extract information only by question-and-answer methods aided by unknown forms of persuasion. Secondly, they wanted to know things and intended to learn them if possible. Thirdly, the slower he was to gain fluency the longer it would be before they put him on the rack, if that was their intention.

	His speculations ended when guards opened the door and called him out. Along the passage, down long stairs, into a great yard filled with figures mooching around under a sickly sun.

	He halted in surprise. Rigellians! About two thousand of them. These were allies, members of the Federation. He looked them over with mounting excitement, seeking a few more familiar shapes amid the mob. Perhaps an Earthman or two. Or even a few humanlike Centaurians.

	But there were none. Only rubber-limbed, pop-eyed Rigellians shuffling around in the aimless manner of those confronted with many wasted years and no perceivable future.

-

	Even as he looked at them he sensed something peculiar. They could see him just as well as he could see them and, being the only Earthman, he was a legitimate object of attention. He was a friend from another star. They should have been crowding up to him, full of talk, seeking the latest news of the war, asking questions, offering information.

	They took no notice of him. He walked slowly and deliberately right across the yard and they got out of his way. A few eyed him furtively, the majority pretended to be unaware of his existence. Nobody offered him a word. They were giving him the conspicuous brush-off.

	He trapped a small bunch of them in a corner of the wall and said, "Any of you speak Terran?"

	They looked at the sky, the wall, the ground, or at each other, and remained silent.

	"Anyone know Centaurian?"

	No answer.

	"Well, how about Cosmoglotta?" 

	No answer.

	He walked away feeling riled, tried another bunch. No luck. And another bunch. No luck. Within an hour he had questioned five hundred without getting a single response.

	Giving up, he sat on a stone step and watched them irefully until a shrill whistle signaled that exercise time was over. The Rigellians formed up in long lines in readiness to march back to their quarters. Leeming's guards gave him a kick in the pants and chivvied him to his cell.

	Temporarily he dismissed the problem of unsociable allies. After dark was the time for thinking: he wanted to use remaining hours of light to study the picture books and get well ahead with the local lingo while appearing to lag far behind. Fluency might prove an advantage some day. Too bad he'd never learned Rigellian, for instance.

	So he applied himself fully to the task until print and pictures ceased to be visible. He ate his evening portion of mush. After that he lay on the bench, closed his eyes, set his brains to work.

	In all his life he'd met no more than a couple of dozen Rigellians. Never once had he visited their systems. What little he knew of them was hearsay evidence. It was said their standard of intelligence was good, they were technologically efficient, they had been consistently friendly toward men of Earth since first contact. Fifty per cent of them spoke Cosmoglotta, maybe one per cent knew the Terran tongue.

	Therefore, if the average held up, several hundreds of those met in the yard should have been able to converse with him in one language or another. Why had they remained silent? And why had they been so unanimous about it?

	He invented, examined and discarded a dozen theories. It was two hours before he hit upon the obvious solution.

	These Rigellians were prisoners, deprived of liberty perhaps for years to come. Some of them must have seen an Earthman at one time or another. But all of them knew that in the ranks of the foe were two races superficially humanlike. Therefore they suspected him of being a stooge, an ear of the enemy listening for plots.

	That in turn meant something else. When a big mob of prisoners become excessively wary of a spy in their midst it's because they have something to hide. Yes, that was it! He slapped his knee in delight. The Rigellians had an escape plot in process of hatching and meanwhile were taking no chances.

	How to get in on it?

	Next day, at the end of exercise time, a guard administered the usual kick. Leeming upped and punched him clean on the snout. Four guards jumped in and gave the culprit a going over. They did it good and proper, in a way that no onlooking Rigellian could mistake for an act. It was an object lesson and intended as such. The limp body was carried upstairs with its face a mess of blood.

	It was a week before Lemming was fit enough to reappear in the yard. His features were still an ugly sight. He strolled through the crowd, ignored as before, chose a spot in the sun and sat.

	Soon afterward a prisoner sprawled tiredly on the ground a couple of yards away, watched distant guards and spoke in little more than a whisper

	"How'd you get here?"

	Leeming told him.

	"How's the war going on?"

	"We're pushing them back slowly but surely. But it'll take time—a long time.

	"How long do you suppose?"	

	"I don't know. It's anyone's guess." Leeming eyed him curiously. "What brought this crowd here?"

	"Were colonists. We were advance parties, all male, planted on four new planets that were ours by right of discovery. Twelve thousand of us altogether. The Rigellian went silent a moment, looked carefully around. "They descended on us in force. That was two years ago. It was easy. We weren't prepared. We didn't even know a war was on."

	"They grabbed the planets?"

	"You bet they did. And laughed in our faces."

	Leeming nodded understanding. Claim-jumping had been the original cause of the fracas now extending across a sizable slice of a galaxy. On one planet a colony had put up an heroic resistance and died to the last man. The sacrifice had fired a blaze of fury, the Federation had struck back and the war was on.

	"Twelve thousand you said. Where are the others?"

	"Scattered around in prisons like this one. You picked a choice dump in which to sit out the war. The enemy has made this his chief penal planet. It's far from the fighting front, unlikely ever to be discovered. The local life form isn't much good for space battles but plenty good enough to hold what others have captured. They're throwing up big jails all over the world. If the war goes on long enough, the planet will get solid with Federation prisoners."

	"So your mob has been here most of two years?" 

	"Yes."

	"And done nothing about it?"

	"Nothing much," agreed the Rigellian. "Just enough to get forty of us shot for trying." 

	"Sorry," said Leeming, sincerely.

	"Don't let it bother you. I know how you feel. The first few weeks are the worst." He pointed surreptitiously toward a heavily built guard across the yard. "Few days ago that lying swine boasted that there are already two hundred thousand Federation prisoners on this planet. He said that by this time next year there'll be two million. I hope he never lives to see it."

	"I'm getting out of here," said Leeming.

	"How?"

	"I don't know yet. But I'm getting out. I'm not going to just squat and rot." He waited expectantly, hoping for some comment about others feeling the same way he did, maybe some evasive mention of a coming break, a hint that he might be invited to join in.

	The Rigellian stood up, murmured, "Well, I wish you luck. You'll need it aplenty!"

	He ambled off. A whistle blew and the guards shouted, "Merse, faplaps! Amash!" And that was that.

	Over the next four weeks he had frequent conversations with the same Rigellian and about twenty others, picking up odd items of information but finding them peculiarly evasive whenever the subject of freedom came up.

	He was having a concealed chat with one of them and asked, "Why does everyone insist on talking to me secretively and in whispers? The guards don't seem to care how much you yap to one another."

	"You haven't been cross-examined yet. If in the meantime they notice we've had plenty to say to you, they will try to get out of you everything we've said—with particular reference to ideas on escape."

	Leeming pounced on the lovely word. "Escape, that's all there is to live for right now. If anyone's thinking of making a bid, maybe I can help them and they can help me. I'm a competent space pilot and that fact is worth something."

	The other cooled off at once. "Nothing doing." 

	"Why not?"

	"We've been behind walls a long time. We've learned at bitter cost that escape attempts fail when too many know what is going on. Some planted spy betrays us. Or some selfish fool messes things up by pushing in at the wrong moment."

	"I see."

	"Imprisonment creates its own especial conventions," the Rigellian went on. "And one we've established here is that an escape-plot is the exclusive property of those who thought it up and only they can make the attempt. Nobody else is told. Nobody else knows until the resulting hullabaloo starts going."

	"So I'm strictly on my own?"

	"Afraid so. You're on your own in any case. We're in dormitories, fifty to a room. You're in a cell all by yourself. You're in no position to help anyone with anything."

	"I can darned well help myself," he retorted angrily.

	And it was his turn to walk away.

	He'd been there just thirteen weeks when the tutor handed him a metaphorical firecracker. Finishing a lesson, the tutor compressed thin lips, looked at him with severity.

	"You are pleased to wear the cloak of idiocy. But I am not deceived. You are far more fluent than you pretend. I shall report to the Commandant that you will be ready for examination in seven days' time."

	"How's that again?" asked Leeming, putting on a baffled frown.

	"You heard what I said and you understand me."

	Slam went the door. Came the gruel and a jaundiced lump of something unchewable. Exercise time followed.

	"They're going to put me through the mill a week hence."

	"Don't let them scare you," advised the Rigellian. "They'd as soon kill you as spit in the sink. But one thing keeps them in check."

	"What's that?"

	"The Federation is holding prisoners too."

	"Yes, but what the Federation doesn't know it can't grieve over."

	"There'll be more than grief for somebody if eventually the victor finds himself expected to exchange live prisoners for corpses."

	"You've got a point there," agreed Leeming. "I could do with nine feet of rope to dangle suggestively in front of the Commandant."

	"I could do with a very large bottle of vitz and a female to ruffle my hair," sighed the Rigellian.

	The whistle again. More intensive study while daylight lasted. Another bowl of ersatz porridge. Darkness and four small stars peeping through the barred slot high up.

	He lay on the bench and produced thoughts like bubbles from a fountain. No place, positively no place is absolutely impregnable. Given brawn and brains and enough time there's always a way in or out. Escapees shot down as they bolted had chosen the wrong time and wrong place, or the right time and wrong place, or the right place at the wrong time. Or they'd neglected brawn in favor of brains, a common fault of the impatient. Or they'd neglected brains in favor of brawn, a fault of the reckless.

	With eyes closed he carefully reviewed the situation. He was in a cell with rock walls of granite hardness at least four feet thick. The only openings were a narrow gap blocked by five thick steel bars, also an armor-plated door in constant view of patrolling guards.

	On his person he had no hacksaw, no lock pick, no implement of any sort, nothing but the clothes in which he lay. If he pulled the bench to pieces, and somehow succeeded in doing it unheard, he'd acquire several large lumps of wood, a dozen six-inch nails and a couple of steel bolts. None of that junk would serve to open the door or cut the window bars before morning. And there was no other material available.

	Outside was a brilliantly illuminated gap fifty yards wide that must be crossed to gain freedom. Then a smooth stone wall, forty feet high, devoid of handholds. Atop the wall an apex much too sharp to give grip to the feet while stepping over an alarm wire that would set the sirens going if touched or cut.

	The wall completely encircled the entire prison. It was octagonal in shape and topped at each angle by a watchtower containing guards, machine guns, floodlights. To get out, the wall would have to be surmounted right under the noses of itchy-fingered watchers, in bright light, without touching the wire. That wouldn't be the end of it either; outside the wall was another illuminated fifty-yard area also to be crossed.

	Yes, the whole set-up had the professional touch of those who knew what to do to keep them in for keeps. Escape over the wall was well-nigh impossible though not completely so. If somebody got out of his cell or dormitory armed with a fifty-foot rope and grapnel, and if he had a confederate who could break into the prison's power room and switch off everything at exactly the right moment, he might make it. Over the dead, unresponsive alarm wire in total darkness.

	In a solitary cell there is no fifty-foot rope, no grapnel, nothing capable of being adapted as either. There is no desperate and trustworthy confederate.

	If he considered once the most remote possibilities and took stock of the minimum resources needed, he considered them a hundred times. By two o'clock in the morning he'd been beating his brains sufficiently hard to make them come up with anything, including ideas that were slightly mad.

	For example: he could pull a plastic button from his jacket, swallow it and hope the result would get him a transfer to the hospital. True, the hospital was within the prison's confines but it might offer better opportunity for escape. Then he thought a second time, decided that a plastic blockage would not guarantee his removal elsewhere. There was a chance that they might be content to force a powerful purgative down his neck and thus add to his present discomforts.

	As dawn broke he arrived at a final conclusion. Thirty, forty or fifty Rigellians, working in a patient, determined group, might tunnel under the watched areas and the wall and get away. But he had one resource and one only. That was guile. There was nothing else he could employ.

	He groaned to himself and complained. "So I'll have to use both my heads."

	A couple of minutes later he sat up startled, gazed at the brightening sky and exclaimed, "Yes, sure, that's it! Both heads!"

	By exercise time Leeming had decided that it would be helpful to have a gadget. A crucifix or a crystal ball provides psychological advantages. His gadget could be of any shape, size or design, made of any material, so long as it was obviously a contraption. Moreover, its potency would be greater if not made from items obtainable within his cell, such as parts of his clothing or pieces of the bench. Preferably it should be constructed of stuff from somewhere else.

	He doubted whether the Rigellians could help. Six hours per day they slaved in the prison's workshops, a fate that he would share after he'd been questioned and his aptitudes defined. The Rigellians made military pants and jackets, harness and boots, a small range of engineering and electrical components. They detested producing for the enemy but their choice was a simple one: work or starve.

	According to what he'd been told they had remote chance of smuggling out of the workshops anything really useful such as a knife, chisel, hammer or hacksaw blade. At the end of each work period the slaves were paraded and none allowed to break ranks until every machine had been checked, every loose tool accounted for and locked away.

	The first fifteen minutes of the midday break he spent searching the yard for any loose item that might be turned to advantage. He wandered around with his gaze on the ground like a worried kid seeking a lost coin. The only things he found were a couple of pieces of wood four inches square by one inch thick. He slipped them into his pocket without having the vaguest notion of what he was going to do with them.

	After that, he squatted by the wall, had a whispered chat with a couple of Rigellians. His mind wasn't on the conversation and the pair moved away when a patrolling guard came near. Later, another Rigellian mooched up.

	"Earthman, you still going to get out of here?" 

	"You bet I am."

	The Rigellian chuckled, scratched an ear, an action that his race used to express polite skepticism. "I think we've a better chance than you." 

	"Why?" Leeming shot him a sharp glance.

	"There are more of us," evaded the other, as though realizing that he'd been on the point of saying too much. "What can one do on one's own?"

	"Scoot like blazes first chance," said Leeming.

	His eyes suddenly noticed the ring on the other's ear-scratching finger and became fascinated by it. He'd seen the modest ornament before, and dozens like it. A number of Rigellians were wearing similar objects. So were some of the guards. The rings were neat affairs consisting of four or five turns of thin wire with the ends shaped and soldered to form the owner's initials.

	"Where'd you dig up the jewelry?" he asked.

	"Eh?"

	"The ring."

	"Oh, that." The Rigellian lowered his hand, eyed the ring with satisfaction. "Make them ourselves in the workshops. It breaks the monotony." 

	"Mean to say the guards don't stop you?"

	"They don't interfere. There's no harm in it. Anyway, we've made quite a number for the guards themselves. We've made them some automatic lighters as well. Could have turned out a few hundred for ourselves except that we've no use for them." He paused reflectively. "We think the guards have been selling rings and lighters outside. At least we hope so."

	"Why?"

	"Maybe they'll build up a nice trade. Then, when they are comfortably settled in it, we'll cut supplies and demand a rake-off in the form of extra rations and a few unofficial privileges."

	"That's smart of you," said Leeming. "It would help all concerned to have a salesman traveling around the planet. Put me down for that job."

	The Rigellian gave a faint smile, went on, "Hand-made junk doesn't matter. But let the guards find that one small screwdriver is missing and there's hell to pay. Everyone is stripped naked on the spot and the culprit suffers."

	"They wouldn't miss a small coil of that wire, would they?"

	"I doubt it. They don't bother to check the stuff. What can anyone do with a piece of wire?"

	"Heaven knows," admitted Leeming. "But I want some."

	"You'll never pick a lock with it in a million moons," warned the other. "It's too thin and too soft."

	"I want enough to make a set of Zulu bangles," Leeming told him. "I sort of fancy myself in Zulu bangles."

	"You can steal some wire yourself in the near future. After you've been questioned they'll send you to the workshops."

	"I want it before then, I want it just as soon as I can get it."

	Going silent, the Rigellian thought it over, finally said, "If you've a plan in your mind, keep it to yourself. Don't give a hint of it to anyone. Let anything slip and somebody will try to beat you to it"

	"Thanks for the advice, friend," said Leeming. "How about a bit of wire?"

	"See you this time tomorrow."

	The Rigellian left him, wandered into the crowd.

	The wire proved to be a small pocket-sized coil of tinned copper. When unrolled in the darkness of the cell it measured his own length, namely, six feet.

	Leeming doubled it waggled it to and fro until it broke, hid one half under the bottom of the bench. Then he spent more than an hour worrying a loose nail out of the bench's end.

	Finding one of the pieces of wood, he approximated its center, stamped the nail into it with his boot. Footsteps approached, he shoved the stuff out of sight, lay down just before the spyhole opened. The light flashed on, an eye looked in, somebody grunted. The light cut off, the spyhole shut.

	Leeming resumed his task, twisting the nail one way and the other, pressing it with his boot from time to time, persevering until he had drilled a neat hole two-thirds the way through the wood.

	Next, he took his half-length of wire, broke it into two unequal parts, shaped the shorter piece to form a loop with two legs three or four inches long. He tried to make the circle as nearly perfect as possible. The longer piece of wire he wound tightly around the loop so that it formed a close-fitting coil with legs matching those of the loop.

	Climbing the bench to the window, he examined his handiwork in the glow from the outside floodlights, made a few minor adjustments and felt satisfied. After that, he used the nail to make on the edge of the bench two small nicks representing the exact diameter of the loop. He counted the number of turns the coil made around the loop. There were twenty-seven.

	It was important to have these details because it was highly likely that he'd have to make a second gadget. If so, he must make it precisely the same. Once they noticed it, that very similarity might get the enemy bothered. When a plotter makes two things practically identical it's hard to resist the notion that he's up to something definite.

	To complete his preparations, he chivvied the nail back into the place where it belonged. Sometime he'd need it again. He then forced the four legs of the coiled loop into the hole that he'd drilled, thus making the small piece of wood function as a stand. He now had a gadget, a doodad, a means to an end. He was the original inventor and sole owner of the Leeming Something-or-Other.

	Certain chemical reactions take place only in the presence of a catalyst, like marriages legalized by the presence of a justice of the peace. Some equations can be solved only by the inclusion of an unknown quantity called X. If you haven't enough on the ball, you've got to add what's needed. If you require outside help that doesn't exist, you've got to invent it.

	Whenever Man was unable to master environment with his bare hands, thought Leeming, the said environment got bullied or coerced into submission by Man plus X. That had been so from the beginning of time— Man plus a tool or a weapon.

	But X did not have to be anything concrete or solid, it did not have to be lethal or even visible. It could be a dream, an idea, an illusion, a bloody big thundering lie, just anything.

	There was only one true test—whether it worked.

	If it did, it was efficient

	Now to see.

-

	There was no sense in using Terran except perhaps as an incantation when one was necessary. Nobody here understood it; to them it was just an alien gabble. Besides, his delaying tactic of pretending to be slow to learn was no longer effective. They now knew he could speak the local lingo almost as well as they could themselves.

	Holding the loop assembly in his left hand, he went to the door, applied his ear to the closed spyhole, listened for the sound of patrolling feet. It was twenty minutes before he heard the approaching squeak of military boots.

	"Are you there?" he called, not too loudly but enough to be heard. "Are you there?"

	Backing off, he lay on his belly on the floor and stood the loop six inches in front of his face. 

	"Are you there?"

	The spyhole clicked open, the light came on, a sour eye looked through. Completely ignoring the watcher, and behaving with the air of one totally absorbed in his task, Leeming spoke through the coiled loop. 

	"Are you there?"

	"What are you doing?" demanded the guard.

	Leeming recognized the voice, decided that for once luck must be turning his way. This character, a chump named Marsin, knew enough to point a gun and fire it or, if unable to do so, yell for help. In all other matters he was not of the elite. In fact Marsin would have to think twice to pass muster as a half-wit.

	"What are you doing there?" demanded Marsin, more loudly.

	"Calling," said Leeming apparently just waking up to the other's existence.	,

	"Who are you calling?"

	"Mind your own business," ordered Leeming, giving a nice display of impatience. He turned the loop another two degrees. "Are you there?" 

	"It is forbidden," insisted Marsin.

	Leeming let go the loud sigh of one compelled to bear fools gladly. "What is forbidden?" 

	"To call."

	"Don't be so flaming ignorant!" Leeming reproved. "My kind is always allowed to call. Where'd we be if we couldn't, eh?"

	That got Marsin badly tangled. He knew nothing about Earthmen or what peculiar privileges they considered essential to life. Neither could he give a guess as to where they'd be without them.

	Moreover, he dared not bust into the cell and put a stop to whatever was going on. An armed guard was prohibited from entering a cell by himself and that rule had been strict ever since a Rigellian had bopped one, snatched his gun and killed six while trying to make a break.

	If he wanted to interfere, he'd have to go see the sergeant of the guard and demand that something be done to stop aliens making noises through loops. The sergeant was an unlovely character with a tendency to advertise personal histories all over the landscape. It was four o'clock in the morning, a time when the sergeant's liver malfunctioned most audibly. And lastly, he, Marsin, had proved himself a misbegotten faplap far too often.

	"You will cease calling and go to sleep," said Marsin, with a touch of desperation, "or in the morning I shall report this matter to the officer of the day."

	"Go ride a camel," Leeming invited. He turned the loop in the manner of one making careful adjustment. "Are you there?"

	"I have warned you," Marsin persisted, his only visible eye popping at the loop.

	"Fibble off!" roared Leeming.

	Marsin shut the spyhole and fibbled off.

-

	Leeming overslept as was inevitable after being up most of the night. His awakening was rude. The door opened with a crash, three guards plunged in followed by an officer.

	Without ceremony the prisoner was jerked off the bench, stripped and shoved into the corridor stark naked. The guards hunted thoroughly through the clothing while the officer minced around them watching.

	Finding nothing in the clothes they started searching the cell. Right off one of them found the loop assembly and gave it to the officer who held it gingerly as though it were a bouquet suspected of being a bomb.

	Another guard found the second piece of wood with his boot, kicked it aside and ignored it. They tapped the floor and the walls, seeking hollow sounds. They dragged the bench from the wall and looked over the other side of it. Then they were about to turn the bench upside-down when Leeming decided that now was the time to take a walk. He started along the corridor, a picture of nonchalant nudity.

	The officer let go an outraged howl and pointed. The guards erupted from the cell, bawled orders to halt. A fourth guard appeared at the bend of the corridor, aimed his gun and scowled. Leeming turned and ambled back.

	He stopped as he reached the officer who was now outside the cell and fuming with temper. Striking a modest pose, he said. "Look, September Morn."

	It meant nothing to the other who held the loop under his nose and yelled, "What is this thing?"

	"My property," said Leeming with naked dignity.

	"You are not supposed to possess it. As a prisoner of war you are not allowed to have anything."

	"Who says so?"

	"I say so!" declared the officer, somewhat violently. 

	"Who're you?" inquired Leeming.

	"By the Sword of Lamissim," swore the other, "I'll show you who I am! Guards, take him inside and—"

	"You're not the boss," put in Leeming, impressively cocksure. "The Commandant is the boss here. I say so and he says so. If you want to dispute it, let's go ask him."

	The guards hesitated, assumed expressions of chronic uncertainty. The officer was taken aback.

	"Are you asserting that the Commandant has given permission for you to have this object?"

	"I'm telling you he hasn't refused permission. Also that it isn't for you to give it or refuse it."

	"I shall consult the Commandant about this," the officer decided, deflated and a little unsure of himself. He turned to the guards. "Put the prisoner back in the cell and give him his breakfast as usual."

	"How about returning my property?" Leeming prompted.

	"Not until I have seen the Commandant."

	They hustled him into the cell. He got dressed. Breakfast came, the inevitable bowl of slop. He cussed the guards for not making it bacon and eggs. That was deliberate. A display of self-assurance and some aggressiveness was necessary to push the game along.

	The tutor did not appear, so he spent the morning furbishing his fluency with the aid of the books. At midday they let him into the yard and there was no evidence of an especial watch being kept upon him while there.

	The Rigellian whispered, "I got the opportunity to swipe another coil. So I took it in case you wanted more." He slipped it across, saw it vanish into a pocket. "That's all I intend to take. Don't ask me again."

	"What's up? Is it getting risky? Are they suspicious of you?"

	"Everything is all right so far." He glanced warily around. "If some of the other prisoners get to know I'm taking it, they'll start grabbing it, too. They'll steal it in the hope of discovering what I'm going to use it for, so that they can use it for the same purpose. Everybody's always on the lookout for an advantage, real or imaginary, which he can share. This prison life brings out the-worst as well as the best."

	"I see."

	"A couple of small coils will never be missed," the other went on. "But once the rush starts the stuff will evaporate in wholesale quantities. That's when all hell will break loose. I daren't chance starting anything like that."

	"Meaning you fellows can't risk detailed search just now?" suggested Leeming pointedly.

	The Rigellian shied like a frightened horse. "I didn't say that."

	"I can put two and two together same as anyone else." Leeming favored him with a reassuring wink. "I can also keep my trap shut."

	He explored the yard seeking more pieces of wood but failed to find any. Oh, well, no matter. At a pinch he could do without. Come to that, he'd darned well have to do without.

	The afternoon was given over to further studies. When light became too poor for that, and first faint flickers of starlight showed through the barred opening in the wall, he kicked the door until the sound of it thundered all over the block.

	Feet came running and the spyhole opened. It was Marsin again.

	"So it's you," greeted Leeming. He let go a snort. "You had to blab, of course. You had to curry favor by telling the officer." He drew himself up to full height. "Well, I am sorry for you. I'd fifty times rather be me than you."

	"Sorry for me?" Marsin registered confusion. "Why?"

	"You are going to suffer. Not yet, or course. It is necessary for you to undergo the normal period of horrid anticipation. But eventually you are going to suffer."

	"It was my duty," explained Marsin, semiapologetically.

	"That fact will be considered in mitigation," Leeming assured, "and your agonies will be modified in due proportion."

	"I don't understand," said Marsin, developing a node of worry somewhere within the solid bone.

	"You will—some dire day. So also will those four stinking faplaps who beat me up. You can inform them from me that their quota of pain is being arranged."

	"I am not supposed to talk to you," said Marsin, dimly perceiving that the longer he stood there the bigger fix he got into. He made to close the spyhole.

	"All right. But I want something." 

	"What is it?"

	"I want my bopamagilvie—that thing the officer took away."

	"You cannot have it until the Commandant gives permission. He is absent today and will not return before tomorrow morning."

	"That's no use. I want it now." He gave an airy wave of his hand. "Never mind. Forget it. I will summon another one."

	"It is forbidden," reminded Marsin, very feebly.

	"Ha-ha!" said Leeming, venting a hearty laugh.

	Waiting for darkness to grow complete, he got the wire from under the bench and manufactured a second whatzit to all intents and purposes identical with the first one. Twice he was interrupted but not caught.

	That job finished, he upended the bench and climbed it. Taking the new coil of wire from his pocket, he tied one end tightly around the bottom of the middle bar, hung the coil outside the window gap.

	With spit and dust he camouflaged the bright tin surface of the one visible strand, made sure it could not be seen at farther than nose-tip distance. He got down, replaced the bench. The window gap was so high that all of its ledge and the bottom three inches of its bar could not be viewed from below.

	Going to the door, he listened and at the right time called, "Are you there?"

	When the light came on and the spyhole was in use he got an instinctive feeling that there was a bunch of them clustered outside, also that the eye in the hole was not Marsin's.

	Ignoring everything, he rotated the loop slowly and carefully, meanwhile calling, "Are you there?"

	After traversing about forty degrees he paused gave his voice a tone of intense satisfaction, said, "So you are there at last! Why the devil don't you keep within easy reach so's we can talk without me having to summon you with a loop?"

	He went silent, put on the expression of one who listens intently. The eye in the hole widened, got shoved away, was replaced by another.

	"Well," said Leeming, settling himself down for a cozy gossip, "I'll point them out to you first chance I get and leave you to deal with them as you think fit. Let's switch to our own language—there are too many big ears around for my liking." He took a long deep breath, rattled off at top pace and without pause, "Out sprang the web and opened wide the mirror cracked from side to side the curse has come upon me cried the Lady of—"

	Out sprang the door and opened wide and two guards almost fell headlong into the cell in their eagerness to make a quick snatch. Two more posed outside with the officer between them. Marsin mooned fearfully in the background.

	A guard grabbed up the loop assembly, yelled, "I've got it!" and rushed out. His companion followed. Both seemed hysterical with excitement.

-

	There was a ten second pause before the door shut. Leeming exploited the fact. He stood up, pointed at the group by making horizontal stabbing motions with his two middle fingers. Giving 'em the Devil's Horns they'd called it when he was a kid. The classic gesture of donating the evil eye.

	"Those," he declaimed dramatically, addressing what wasn't there, "are the scaly-skinned bums who've asked for trouble. See that they get plenty."

	The whole bunch of them managed to look alarmed before the door cut them from sight with a vicious slam. He listened at the spyhole, heard them go away muttering steadily between themselves.

	Within ten minutes he had broken a length of the coil hanging from the window bars, restored the spit and dust disguise of the holding strand. Half an hour later he had another bopamagilvie. Practice was making him an expert in the swift and accurate manufacture of these things.

	Lacking wood for a stand, he used the loose nail to bore a hole in the dirt between the big stone slabs composing the floor of his cell. He rammed the legs of the loop into the hole, twisted the contraption this way and that to make ceremonial rotation easy.

	When the right moment arrived he lay on his belly and commenced reciting through the loop the third paragraph of Rule 27, subsection B, of Space Regulation. He chose it because it was a gem of bureaucratic phraseology, a single sentence one thousand words long meaning something known only to God.

	"Where refueling must be carried out as an emergency measure at a station not officially listed as a home station or definable for special purposes as a home station under Section A (5) amendment A (5) B the said station shall be treated as if it were definable as a home station under Section A (5) amendment A (5) B providing that the emergency falls within the authorized list of technical necessities as given in Section J (29-33) with addenda subsequent thereto as applicable to home stations where such are—"

	The spyhole flipped open and shut. Somebody scooted away. A minute afterward the corridor shook to what sounded like a cavalry charge. The spyhole again opened and shut. The door crashed inward.

	This time they reduced him to his bare pelt, searched his clothes, raked the cell from end to end. Their manner was that of those singularly lacking in brotherly love. They turned the bench upside-down, knocked it, tapped it, kicked it, did everything but run a large magnifying glass over it.

	Watching this operation, Leeming encouraged them by giving a sinister snigger. Was a time when he could not have produced a sinister snigger even to win a fifty-credit bet. But he could do it now. The ways in which a man can rise to the occasion are without limit.

	Giving him a look of sudden death and total destruction, a guard went out, brought back a ladder, mounted it, surveyed the window gap. It was a perfunctory glance, his mind being mostly concerned with the solidity of the bars. He grasped each bar with both hands, shook vigorously. Satisfied, he got down, took the ladder away.

	They departed. Lemming dressed himself, listened at the spyhole. Just a very faint hiss of breath and occasional rustle of clothes nearby. He sat on the bench and waited. In short time the lights flashed and the spyhole opened. He stabbed two fingers toward the inlooking eye.

	The hole closed. Feet moved away stamping much too loudly. He waited. After half an hour of complete silence the eye offered itself again and for its pains received another two-fingered hex. Five minutes later it had another bestowed upon it. If it was the same eye all the time, it was a glutton for punishment.

	This game continued for three hours before the eye had had enough. Then he made another loop, gabbled through it in a loud voice and precipitated another raid. They did not strip him or search the cell this time. They contented themselves with confiscating the gadget. And they showed signs of being more than somewhat fed up.

	There was just enough wire left for one more. He decided to keep that against a future need and get some sleep. Inadequate food and not enough slumber were combining to make inroads on his reserves.

	He flopped on the bench and closed red-rimmed eyes. In due time he started snoring fit to saw through the bars. That caused a panic in the passage, brought the crowd along in yet another rush.

	Waking up he dammed them to perdition. He lay down again. He was plain bone-tuckered—but so were they.

	He slept solidly until midday without a break except for the usual lousy breakfast. Soon after awakening came the usual lousy dinner. At exercise time they kept him locked in. He hammered on the door, demanded to know why he wasn't being allowed to walk in the yard. They took no notice.

	So he sat on the bench and thought things over. Perhaps this denial of his only freedom was a form of retaliation for making them hop around like fleas in the middle of the night. Or perhaps the Rigellian was under suspicion and they'd decided to prevent contact.

	Anyway, he'd got the enemy worried. He was bollixing them about, single-handed, far behind the lines. That was something. The fact that a combatant is a prisoner doesn't mean he's out of the battle. Even behind thick wire and high walls he can still harass the foe, absorbing his time and energy, undermining his morale, pinning down at least a few of his forces.

	The next step, he decided, was to widen the hex. He must do it as comprehensively as possible. The more he spread it and the more ambiguous the terms in which he expressed it, the more plausibly he could grab the credit for any and every misfortune that was certain to occur sooner or later.

	It was the technique of the gypsy's warning. People tend to attach specific meanings to ambiguities when circumstances arise and suggest a given meaning. People don't have to be especially credulous, either. It is sufficient for them to be made expectant, with a tendency to wonder—after the event.

	"In the near future a dark, tall man will cross your path."

	After which any male above average height, and not a blond, fits the picture. And any time from five minutes to a full year is accepted as the near future.

	"Mamma, when the insurance man called he really smiled at me. D'you remember what the gypsy said?"

	Leeming grinned to himself as his brain assembled facts and theories and analyzed the possibilities. Somewhere not so far away a bunch of Rigellians—or several bunches for all he knew—were deep in the earth and burrowing slowly, without tools. A few pitiful handfuls at a time. Progress at the rate of a couple of pathetic inches per night. Dirt taken out in mere pocketloads and sprinkled through the yard. A constant never-ending risk of discovery, entrapment and perhaps some insane shooting. A year-long project that could be terminated by a shout and the chatter of guns.

	But to get out of clink you don't have to escape. If sufficiently patient, determined, glib and cunning you can talk the foe into opening the doors and pushing you out. You can use the wits that God gave you.

	By law of probability various things must happen in jail and out, and not all of them pleasing to the enemy. Some officer must get the galloping gripes right under his body-belt, or a guard must fall down a watchtower ladder and break a leg, somebody must lose a wad of money or his pants or his senses. Farther afield a bridge must collapse, or a train get derailed, or a spaceship crash at take-off, or there'd be an explosion in a munitions factory, or a military leader would drop dead.

	He'd be playing a trump card if he could establish his claim to be the author of all misery. The essential thing was to stake it in such a way that they could not effectively combat it, neither could they exact retribution in a torture chamber.

	The ideal strategy was to convince them of his malevolence in a manner that would equally convince them of their own impotence. If he succeeded, they'd come to the logical conclusion—that the only way to get rid of trouble was to get rid of Leeming, alive and in one piece.

	It was a jumbo problem that would have appalled him way back home. But by now he'd had three months in which to incubate a solution—and the brain becomes stimulated by grim necessity. A good thing he had an idea in mind; he had a mere ten minutes before the time came to apply it.

	The door opened, a trio of guards glowered at him and one of them rasped, "The Commandant wishes to see you at once. Amash!"

-

	The Commandant squatted behind a desk with a lower-ranking officer on either side. He was a heavily built specimen. His horn-covered lidless eyes gave him a dead-pan look as he studied the prisoner.

	Leeming calmly sat himself in a handy chair and the officer on the right immediately bawled, "Federation garbage! You will stand in the presence of the Commandant."

	"Let him sit," contradicted the Commandant.

	A concession at the start, thought Leeming. He eyed the pile of papers on the desk. Ten to one the Commandant had read a complete report of his misdeeds and decided to reserve judgment until he'd got to the bottom of whatever was going on.

	That attitude was natural enough. The Federation knew nothing of this local life form. By the same token the inquisitors knew nothing of several Federation forms, those of Earth in particular. From their viewpoint they were about to cope with an unknown quantity.

	Man, how right they were! A quantity doubled by plus X.

	"I am given to understand that you now speak our language," began the Commandant.

	"No use denying it," Leeming confessed.

	"Very well. You will first give some information concerning yourself." He positioned an official form on his desk, held a pen in readiness. "Name of planet of origin?"

	"Earth."

	The other wrote it phonetically in his own script, continued, "Name of race?" 

	"Terran." 

	"Name of species?"

	"Homo nosipaca," said Leeming keeping his face straight. 

	The Commandant wrote it down, looked doubtful, asked, "What does that mean?" 

	"Space-traversing Man," Leeming informed.

	"Hm-m-m!" The other was impressed despite himself, inquired "Your personal name?" 

	"John Leeming."

	"John Leeming," repeated the Commandant, putting it down on the form.

	"And Eustace Phenackertiban," added Leeming airily.

	That got written too, though the Commandant had some difficulty in finding hooks and curlicues to express Phenackertiban. Twice he asked Leeming to repeat it and that worthy obliged.

	Studying the result, which resembled a Chinese recipe for rotten egg gumbo, the Commandant said, "It is your custom to have two names?"

	"Most certainly," Leeming assured. "We can't avoid it seeing that there are two of us."

	The listener twitched the eyebrows he lacked and showed mild surprise. "You mean that you are always conceived and born in pairs? Two identical males or females every time?"

	"No, not at all," Leeming adopted the air of one about to state the obvious. "Whenever one of us is born he immediately acquires a Eustace." 

	"A Eustace?" 

	"Yes."

	The Commandant frowned, picked his teeth, glanced at the other officers. They assumed the blank expressions of fellows who've come along merely to keep company.

	"What," asked the Commandant at long last, "is a Eustace?"

	Registering surprise at such ignorance, Leeming said, "An invisibility that is part of one's self."

	Understanding dawned on the Commandant's scaly face. "Ah, you mean a soul? You give your soul a separate name?"

	"Nothing of the sort," Leeming denied. "I have a soul and Eustace has a soul of his own." Then, as an afterthought, "At least, I hope we have."

	The Commandant lay back and stared at him. There was quite a long silence.

	Finally, he admitted, "I do not understand."

	"In that case," announced Leeming, irritatingly triumphant, "it's evident that you have no alien equivalent of Eustaces yourselves. You're all on your own. Just single-lifers. That's your hard luck."

-

	Slamming a hand on the desk, the Commandant gave his voice a bit more military whoof and demanded, "Exactly what is a Eustace? Explain to me as clearly as possible."

	"I'm in poor position to refuse the information," Leeming conceded with hypocritical reluctance. "Not that it matters much. Even if you gain perfect understanding there is nothing you can do."

	"We'll see about that," the Commandant promised. "Tell me all about these Eustaces."

	"Every Earthling lives a double-life from birth to death," said Leeming. "He exists in association with an entity which always calls himself Eustace something-or-other. Mine happens to be Eustace Phenackertiban."

	"You can see this entity?"

	"No, never at any time. You cannot see him, smell him or feel him."

	"Then how do you know that this is not a racial delusion?"

	"Firstly, because every man can hear his own Eustace. I can hold long conversations with mine, providing that he happens to be within reach, and I can hear him speaking clearly and logically within the depths of my mind."

	"You cannot hear him with the ears?"

	"No, only with the mind." Leeming took a deep breath and went on. "Secondly, he has the power to do certain things after which there is visible evidence that such things have been done." His attention shifted to the absorbed officer on the left. "For example, if Eustace had a grudge against this officer and advised me of his intention to make him fall downstairs, and if before long the officer fell downstairs and broke his neck—"

	"It could be mere coincidence," the Commandant suggested.

	"It could," Leeming agreed, "but there can be far too many coincidences. When a Eustace says he's going to do twenty or fifty things in succession and all of them happen, he's either doing them as promised or he is a most -astounding prophet. Eustaces don't claim to be prophets. I don't believe in them either. Nobody, visible or invisible, can read the future with such detailed accuracy."

	"That is true enough," admitted the Commandant.

	"Do you accept the fact that you have a father and mother?"

	"Of course."

	"You don't consider it strange or abnormal?"

	"Certainly not. It is inconceivable that one should be born without parents."

	"Similarly we accept the fact that we have Eustaces and we cannot conceive being without them."

	The Commandant thought it over, said to the right-hand officer, "This smacks of mutual parasitism. It would be interesting to learn what benefit they derive from each other."

	Leeming chipped in with, "I can't tell you what my Eustace gets out of me. I can't tell you because I don't know."

	"You expect me to believe that?" asked the Commandant, making like nobody's fool. He showed his teeth. "On your own evidence you can talk with him. Why have you never asked him?"

	"We got tired of asking long, long ago. The subject has been dropped and the situation accepted."

	"Why?"

	"The answer was always the same. Eustaces readily admit that we are essential to their existence but cannot explain how because there's no way of making us understand."

	"That could be a. self-preservative evasion," the Commandant offered. "They won't tell you because they don't want you to know."

	"Well, what do you suggest we do about it?"

	Evading that one, the Commandant went on, "What benefit do you get out of the association? What good is your Eustace to you?" 

	"He provides company, comfort, information, advice and—" 

	"And what?"

	Bending forward, hands on knees, Leeming practically spat it at him. "If necessary, vengeance!"

-

	That shook them. The Commandant rocked back. The under-officers registered disciplined apprehension. It's a hell of a war when one can be chopped down by a ghost.

	Pulling himself together, the Commandant forced a grim smile into his face. "You're a prisoner. You've been here a good many days. Your Eustace doesn't seem to have done much about it."

	"That's what you think. He's been doing plenty. And he'll do plenty more in his own time, in his own way."

	"Such as what?"

	"Wait and see," Leeming advised, formidably confident. 

	That did not fill them with delight, either.

	"Nobody can imprison more than half a Terran," he went on. "The tangible half. The other half cannot be pinned down by any method whatsoever. It is beyond control. It wanders loose collecting information of military value, indulging a little sabotage, doing just as it pleases. You've created that situation and you're stuck with it."

	"Not if we kill you," said the Commandant, in nasty tones. 

	Leeming gave a hearty laugh. "That would make matters fifty times worse."

	"In what way?"

	"The life span of a Eustace is longer than that of a Terran. When a man dies his Eustace takes five to ten years to disappear. We have an ancient song to the effect that old Eustaces never die, they only fade away. Our world holds thousands of lonely, disconnected Eustaces gradually fading."

	"What of it?"

	"Kill me and you'll isolate my Eustace on a hostile world with no man or other Eustace for company. His days are numbered and he knows it. He has nothing to lose, he is no longer restricted by considerations of my safety. He can eliminate me from his plans because I've gone for keeps." He eyed the listeners as he finished. "He'll run amok, indulging an orgy of destruction. Remember, you're an alien life form to him. He has no feelings and no compunctions with regard to you."

	The Commandant reflected in silence. It was difficult to believe all this. But before space-conquest it had been even more difficult to believe things now accepted as commonplace. He could not dismiss it as nonsense. The stupid believe things because they are credulous. The intelligent do not blindly accept but, when aware of their own ignorance, neither do they reject. Right now the Commandant was acutely aware of general ignorance concerning this life form known as Terran.

-

	"All this is not impossible," he said after a while, "but it appears to me somewhat improbable. There are twenty-seven life forms in alliance with us. I do not know of one that exists in natural copartnership with another form."

	"The Lathians do," Leeming told him, nonchalantly mentioning the leaders of the foe, the chief source of the opposition.

	"You mean they have Eustaces, too?" The Commandant looked startled.

	"No. Each Lathian is unconsciously controlled by a thing that calls itself Willy something-or-other. They don't know it and we wouldn't know it except that our Eustaces told us."

	"And how did they learn it?"

	"As you know, the biggest battles so far have been fought in the Lathian. sector. Both sides have taken prisoners. Our Eustaces told us that each Lathian prisoner had a controlling Willy but was unaware of it." He grinned, added, "And a Eustace doesn't think much of a Willy. Apparently a Willy is a lower form of associated life."

	The Commandant frowned, said, "This is something definite, something we should be able to check. But how're we going to do it if Lathian allies themselves are ignorant of the real state of affairs.

	"Easy as pie," Leeming offered. "They're holding a bunch of Terran prisoners. Get someone to ask those prisoners whether the Lathians have got the Willies."

	"We'll do just that," approved the Commandant, in the manner of one about to call a bluff. He turned to the right-hand officer. "Bamashim, go beam a signal to our chief liaison officer at Lathian H.Q., and get him to question those prisoners."

	"You can check further still," Leeming interjected, "just to make doubly sure. To us, anyone who shares his life with an invisible being is known as a Nut. Ask the prisoners whether the Lathians are all Nuts."

	"Take note of that and have it asked as well," the Commandant ordered the officer. He returned attention to Leeming. "Since you could not anticipate your forced landing and capture, and since you've been closely confined, there is no possibility of collusion between you and Terran prisoners far away."

	"That's right," Leeming agreed.

	"Therefore I shall weigh your evidence in the light of what replies come to my signal." He stared hard at the other. "If those replies fail to confirm your statements, I will know that you are a liar in some respects and probably a liar in all respects. Here, we have special and very effective methods of dealing with liars."

	"That's to be expected. But if the replies do confirm me, you'll know I've told the truth, won't you?"

	"No?" snapped the Commandant.

	It was Leeming's turn to be shocked. "Why not?"

	Thinning his lips, the Commandant said, "Because I know full well that there cannot have been direct communication between you and the other Terran prisoners. However, that means nothing. There may have been collusion between your Eustace and their Eustaces."

	Then he bent sidewise, jerked open a drawer, placed a loop assembly on the desk. Then another and another. A bunch of them.

	"Well," he invited, "what have you to say to that?"

	Leeming beat his brains around fast. He could see what the other meant. He could talk to his Eustace. His Eustace could talk to other Eustaces. The other Eustaces could talk to their imprisoned partners.

	Get yourself out of that!

	They were waiting for him, watching his face, counting the seconds needed to produce an answer. The longer he took to find one the weaker it would be. The quicker he came up with something good the more plausible its effect.

	He was inwardly frantic by the time he saw an opening and grabbed at it. "You're wrong on two counts." 

	"State them."

	"Firstly, one Eustace cannot communicate unaided with another over a distance so enormous. His mind won't reach that far. To do it he has to use a Terran who, in his turn, must have radio equipment available."

	"We've only your word for it," the Commandant pointed out. "If a Eustace can communicate without limit, it would be your, policy to try to conceal the fact."

	"I can do no more than give you my word regardless of whether or not you credit it."

	"I do not credit it—yet. Proceed to your second count. It had better be convincing."

	"It is," Leeming assured. "On this one we don't have my word for it. We have yours."

	"Nonsense!" exclaimed the Commandant. "I have made no statements concerning Eustaces."

	"On the contrary, you have said that there could be collusion between them."

	"What of it?"

	"There can be collusion only if Eustaces genuinely exist, in which case my evidence is true. But if my evidence is false, then Eustaces do not exist and there cannot possibly be a conspiracy between nonexistent things."

	The Commandant sat perfectly still while his face took on a faint shade of purple. He looked and felt like the trapper trapped. Left-hand officer wore the expression of one struggling hard to suppress a disrespectful snicker.

	"If," continued Leeming, piling it on for good measure, "you don't believe in Eustaces then you cannot logically believe in conspiracy between them. Contrariwise, if you believe in the possibility of collusion then you've got to believe in Eustaces. That is, of course, if you're in bright green britches and your right mind."

	"Guard!" roared the Commandant. He pointed an angry finger. "Take him back to the cell." They were hustling the prisoner through the door when he changed tactics and bawled, "Halt!" He snatched up a loop assembly, gesticulated with it at Leeming. "Where did you get the material to manufacture this?"

	"Eustace brought it for me. Who else?"

	"Get out of my sight!"

	"Merse, faplap!" urged the guards, prodding with their guns. "Amash! Amash!"

-

	He spent the rest of that day and all the next one sitting or lying on the bench reviewing what had happened, planning his next moves and, in lighter moments, admiring his own ability as a whacking great liar.

	Now and again he wondered how his efforts to dig himself free with his tongue compared with Rigellian attempts to do it with bare hands. Who was making the most progress and—of the greatest importance—who once out, would stay out? One thing was certain: his method was less tiring to the body though more exhausting to the nerves.

	Another advantage was that for the time being he had sidetracked their intention of squeezing him for military information. Or had he? Possibly from their viewpoint his revelations concerning the dual nature of Terrans were infinitely more important than details of armaments, which data might be false anyway. Nevertheless he had dodged what otherwise might have been a rough and painful interrogation.

	Next time the spyhole opened he got down on his knees and said in very loud tones, "Thank you, Eustace! Oh, thank you!" and left the jumpy Marsin to wonder who had arrived at the crossroads in time for some of Eustace's dirty work.

	Near midnight, just before sleep came on, it occurred to him that there was no point in doing things by halves. Why rest content to smile knowingly whenever the enemy suffered a petty misfortune?

	He could extend it farther than that. No form of life was secure from the vagaries of chance. Good fortune came along as well as bad. There was no reason why Eustace should not get credit for both, no reason why he, Leeming, should not take to himself the implied power to reward as well as to punish.

	That wasn't the limit, either. Bad luck and good luck are positive phases. He could cross the neutral zone and confiscate the negative phases. Through Eustace he could assign to himself not only the credit for things done, good or bad, but also for things not done. He could exploit not only the things that happened but also those that did not happen.

	The itch to make a start right now was irresistible. Rolling off the bench, he belted the door from top to bottom. The guard had just been changed, for the eye that peered in was that of Kolum, a character who had bestowed a kick in the ribs not so long ago. Kolum was a cut above Marsin, being able to count upon all twelve fingers if given time to concentrate.

	"So it's you," said Leeming, showing vast relief. "I begged him to lay off you, to leave you alone at least a little while. He is impetuous and much too drastic. I can see you are more intelligent than the others and, therefore, able to change for the better. Nobody with brains is beyond hope."

	"Huh?" said Kolum, half scared, half flattered.

	"So he's left you alone," Leeming pointed out. "He's done nothing to you—yet." He increased the gratification. "I do hope I can continue to control him. Only the stupidly brutal deserve slow death."

	"That is true," agreed Kolum, eagerly. "But what—?"

	"Now," continued Leeming with firmness, "it is up to you to prove that my confidence is justified. All I want you to do is give a message to the Commandant."

	"I dare not disturb him at this hour. It is impossible. The sergeant of the guard will not permit it. He will—"

	"It is to be given to him personally when he awakes first thing in the morning."

	"That is different," said Kolum, sweating slightly. "But if the Commandant disapproves of the message he will punish you and not me." 

	"Write," ordered Leeming.

	Kolum leaned his gun against the opposite wall, dug pencil and paper out of a pocket.

	"To the Most Exalted Lousy Screw," began Leeming.

	"What does 'lousy screw' mean?" asked Kolum, struggling with the two Terran words.

	"It's a title. It means 'your highness.' Boy, how high he is!" Leeming pinched his nose while the other pored over the paper. He continued to dictate. "The food is very poor and insufficient. I have lost much weight and my ribs are beginning to show. My Eustace does not like it. I cannot be held responsible for his actions. Therefore I beg Your Most Exalted Lousy Screwship to give serious consideration to this matter."

	"There are many words," complained Kolum, martyred, "and I shall have to rewrite them more readably when I go off duty."

	"I know. And I appreciate the trouble you're taking on my behalf." Leeming gave him a look of fraternal fondness. "That's why I feel sure that you'll live long enough to do it."

	"I must live longer than that," insisted Kolum, bugging his eyes. "I have the right to live, haven't I?"

	"That's exactly my own argument" said Leeming, in the manner of one who has striven all night to establish the irrefutable but cannot yet guarantee success.

	He returned to the bench. The light went off, the spyhole shut. Four stars peeped through the window slot—and they were not unattainable.

-

	In the morning breakfast came half an hour late but consisted of one full bowl of lukewarm pap, two thick slices of brown bread heavily smeared with grease, and a large cup of stuff vaguely resembling paralyzed coffee. He ate the lot with mounting triumph.

	No interview that day or the next. No summons for a week. Evidently His Lousy Screwship was still awaiting a reply from the Lathian sector and didn't feel inclined to make another move before he got it. However, meals remained more substantial, a fact that Leeming viewed as positive evidence that someone was insuring himself against disaster.

	Then one morning the Rigellians acted up. From the cell they could be heard but not seen. Every day at an hour after dawn the tramp of their two thousand pairs of feet sounded somewhere out of sight and died away toward the workshops.

	This morning they came out singing, their voices holding a touch of defiance. Something about Asta Zangasta's a dirty old man, got fleas on his chest and sores on his pan. Guards yelled at them. Singing rose higher, the defiance increased. Leeming got below the window, listened intently, wondered who the blazes was this much-abused Asta Zangasta. Probably the local life form's largest cheese, the big boss of this world.

	The bawling of two thousand voices rose crescendo. Guards shouted frenziedly and were drowned out A warning shot was fired. Guards in the watchtowers edged their guns around.

	Next came the sound of blows, shots, scuffling sounds, yells of fury. A bunch of twenty guards raced flat-footed past Leeming's window, heading for the fracas. The uproar continued for twenty minutes, died away. Resulting silence could almost be felt

	Exercise time, Leeming had the yard to himself. Not a soul there. He mooched around gloomily, found Marsin on yard patrol. 

	"What's happened?"

	"They misbehaved. They are being kept in the workshops to make up loss of production. It is their own fault. They started work late to slow down output. We didn't even have time to count them."

	Leeming grinned in his face. "And some guards were hurt. Not severely. Just enough to give them a taste of what's to come. Think it over."

	"Eh?"

	"But you were not hurt. Think that over, too!"

	He ambled off, leaving Marsin bewildered. Then a thought struck him. "We had not time even to count them." He returned, said, "To-morrow some of you will wish you'd never been born."

	"You are threatening us?"

	"No—I'm making a promise. Tell your officer. Tell the Commandant. It will help you escape the consequences." 

	"I will tell them," said Marsin, relieved and grateful.

-

	His guess was dead on the beam. The Rigellians were too shrewd to invite thick ears and black eyes without good reason. It took the foe a full day to arrive at the same conclusion.

	One hour after dawn the Rigellians were marched out dormitory by dormitory, in batches of fifty instead of the usual steady stream. They were counted in fifties, the easy way. This simple arithmetic got thrown out of kilter when one dormitory gave up only twelve prisoners, all of them sick, weak, wounded or otherwise handicapped.

	Infuriated guards rushed indoors to drag out the nonattending thirty-eight. They weren't there. The door was firm and solid, the window bars intact. It took considerable galumphing around to detect a hollow spot in the floor, and under that a deep shaft from which ran a tunnel. The said tunnel was empty.

	Sirens wailed, guards pounded all over the shop, officers shouted, the entire place began to resemble a madhouse. The Rigellians got it good and hard for spoiling the previous morning's count and thus giving the escapees an extra day's lead. Boots and gun butts were freely used, bodies dragged aside unconscious.

	The surviving top-ranker of the offending dormitory, a lieutenant with a bad limp, was put against a wall and shot. Leeming could see nothing but heard the hoarse commands of, "Present... aim ... fire!" and the following volley.

	He prowled round and round his cell, clenching and unclenching his fists, swearing mightily to himself. The spyhole opened but hastily shut before he could spit right in somebody's eye.

	The upset continued as inflamed guards searched all dormitories one by one, tested doors, bars, floors and walls. Officers screamed threats at groups of Rigellians who were slow to respond to orders.

	At twilight outside forces brought in seven tired, bedraggled escapees caught on the run. "Present... aim ... fire!" Leeming battered his door but the spyhole remained shut and none answered. Two hours later he'd made another coiled loop with the last of his wire. He spent half the night talking into it, menacingly, at the top of his voice. Nobody took the slightest notice.

	A feeling of deep frustration had come over him by noon next day. He estimated that the Rigellian escape must have taken at least a year to prepare. Result: eight dead, thirty-one still loose but planet-bound and probably fated to ultimate recapture, most of two thousand getting it rough in consequence, his own efforts balled up. He did not resent the break, not one little bit. Good luck to them. But if only it had occurred a couple of months earlier or later.

	Immediately after dinner four guards came for him. "The Commandant wants you at once." Their manner was surly, somewhat on edge. One wore a narrow bandage around his scaly pate, another had a badly swollen eye.

	Just about the worst moment to choose, thought Leeming, gloomily. The Commandant would be in the mood to go up like a rocket. You cannot reason with a person who is in a purple rage. Emotion comes uppermost, words are disregarded, arguments are dismissed. He was going to have a tough job on his hands.

	As before, the Commandant sat behind his desk but there were no accompanying officers. At his side posed an elderly civilian. The latter studied the prisoner curiously as he entered and took a seat

	"This is Pallam," introduced the Commandant, displaying unexpected amiability that dumfounded the hearer. "He has been sent along by no less a person than Zangasta himself."

	"A mental specialist?" guessed Leeming, frowning at the oldster.

	"Nothing like that," assured Pallam quietly. "I am particularly interested in all aspects of symbiosis."

	Leeming's back hairs stirred. He didn't like the idea of being cross-examined by an expert. They had unmilitary minds and a pernicious habit of digging up contradictions in a story.

	"Pallam wishes to ask you a few questions," informed the Commandant "But those will come later." He leaned back, put on a self-satisfied expression. "For a start, let me say that I am indebted to you for the information you gave me last time you were here."

	"You mean it has proved useful to you?" inquired Leeming, hardly believing his ears.

	"Very much so. The guards responsible for Dormitory Fourteen are to be drafted to the battle area where they will be stationed at spaceports liable to attack. That is their punishment for gross neglect of duty." He gazed thoughtfully at the other, went on, "The big escape would have made that my fate also had not Zangasta considered it a minor matter when compared with what I have discovered through you."

	"But when I asked, you saw to it that I had better food. Surely you expected some reward?"

	"Eh?" The Commandant registered surprise followed by slow understanding. "I did not think of that."

	"So much the better," said Leeming, with hearty approval. "A good deed is doubly good when done with no ulterior motive. Eustace will take note of that"

	"You mean," put in Pallam, "that his code of ethics is identical with your own?"

	Why did that fellow have to put his spoke in? Be careful now!

-

	"Similar in some respects but not identical." 

	"What is the most outstanding difference?"

	"Well," said Leeming, playing for time, "it's hard to decide." He rubbed his brow while his mind whizzed dizzily. "I'd say in the matter of vengeance."

	"Define the difference," invited Pallam, sniffing along the trail like a bloodhound.

	"From my viewpoint," said Leeming, carefully, "he is unnecessarily sadistic."

	There, that gave the needed coverage for my widespread claims it might be desirable to make later. 

	"In what way?" Pallam persisted.

	"My instinct is to take prompt action, get things over and done with. His tendency is to prolong the agony."

	"Explain further," pressed Pallam, making a thorough nuisance of himself.

	"If you and I were deadly enemies, and I had a gun, I would shoot you and kill you. But if Eustace had you marked for death he'd make it slower, more gradual."

	"Describe his method."

	"First he'd make you know that you were marked. Then he'd do nothing until at last you got the notion that nothing ever would be done. Then he'd remind you with a minor blow. When resulting alarm had worn off he'd strike a harder one. And so on and so on, with increasing intensity spread if necessary over months and years. That would continue until your doom became plain and too much to bear any longer." He thought again, added, "No Eustace has ever killed anyone. If anyone dies because of him, it is by his own hand."

	"He drives a victim to suicide?"

	"Yes."

	"And there is no way of avoiding such a fate?"

	"Yes there is," Leeming contradicted. "At any time the victim can gain freedom from fear by redressing the wrong he had done to that Eustace's partner."

	"Such redress immediately terminates the vendetta?" pursued Pallam. 

	"That's right."

	"Whether or not you approve personally?"

	"Yes. If my grievance ceases to be real and becomes only imaginary, my Eustace refuses to recognize it or do anything about it."

	"So what it boils down to," said Pallam, pointedly, "is that his method provides motive and opportunity for repentance while yours does not?"

	"I suppose so."

	"Which means that he has a more balanced sense of justice?"

	"He can be darned ruthless," said Leeming, momentarily unable to think of anything less feeble.

	"That is beside the point." Pallam lapsed into meditative silence, then remarked to the Commandant, "It seems that the association is not between equals. The invisible component is also the superior one."

	Cunning old hog, Leeming thought to himself. But if he was trying to tempt the prisoner into a heated denial he was going to be disappointed.

	So he sat and said nothing but carefully wore the look of one whose status has been accurately weighed in the balance and found wanting. Come to that, there's no shame in being defined as inferior to one's own mind.

	Pallam took on an expression of sharpness as he continued, "I assume that when your Eustace takes upon himself the responsibility for wreaking vengeance he does so because circumstances prevent punishment being administered either by yourself or the community?"

	"That's pretty well correct," admitted Leeming, warily.

	"In other words, he functions only when both you and the law are impotent?"

	"He takes over when need arises," informed Leeming, striving to give the point some ambiguity.

	"That is substantially what I said," declared Pallam, a little coldly. He bent forward, watched the other keen-eyed and managed to make his attitude intimidating. "Now let us suppose your Eustace finds excellent reason to punish another Terran. What does the victim's Eustace do about it?"

-

	Leeming's mouth opened and the words, "Not much," popped out of their own accord. For a mad moment he felt that Eustace had actually arrived and joined the party.

	"Why not?"

	"I have told you before and I am telling you again that no Eustace will concern himself for one moment with an imaginary grievance. A guilty Terran has no genuine cause for complaint. He brought vengeance on himself and the cure lies in his own hands. If he doesn't enjoy suffering, he need only get busy and undo whatever wrong he has done."

	"Will his Eustace urge him or influence him to take action necessary to avoid punishment?"

	"Never having been a victim myself," said Leeming, fairly oozing virtue, "I am unable to tell you. I suppose it would be near the truth to say that Terrans behave because association with Eustaces makes them behave. They've little choice about the matter."

	"All that is acceptable," conceded Pallam, "because it is consistent— as far as it goes."

	"What d'you mean?"

	"Let's take it to the bitter end. I do not see any rational reason why any victim's Eustace should allow his partner to be driven to suicide. It is contrary to the basic law of survival."

	"Nobody commits suicide until after he's gone off his rocker."

	"What of it?"

	"An insane person is of no avail to any Eustace. To a Eustace, he's already dead, no longer worth defending or protecting. Eustaces associate only with the sane."

	Pouncing on that, Pallam exclaimed, "So the benefit they derive is rooted somewhere in Terran minds, it is a mental sustenance?"

	"I don't know."

	"Does your Eustace ever make you feel tired, exhausted, perhaps a little stupefied?"

	"Yes," said Leeming. And how, brother! Right now he could choke Eustace to death.

	"I would much like to continue this for months," Pallam observed to the Commandant. "It is an absorbing subject. There are no records of symbiotic association in anything higher than plants and six species of the lower elames. To find it among sentient forms, and one of them intangible, is remarkable, truly remarkable!"

	The Commandant looked awed.

	"Give him your report," urged Pallam.

	"Our liaison officer, Colonel Shomuth, has replied from the Lathian sector," the Commandant told Leeming. "He is fluent in Cosmoglotta and, therefore, was able to question many Terran prisoners. We sent him a little more information and the result is significant."

	"What else did you expect?" asked Leeming.

	Ignoring that, the Commandant went on, "He said that most of the prisoners refused to make comment or admit anything. That is understandable. Nothing could shake their belief that they were being tempted to surrender information of military value. So they remained silent." He glanced at his listener. "But some talked."

	"There are always a few willing to blab," remarked Leeming, looking resigned.

	"Certain officers talked, including Cruiser Captain Tompass ... Tompus—"

	"Thomas?"

	"Yes, that's the word." Turning round in his chair the Commandant pressed a wall switch. "This is the beamed interview, unscrarnbled and recorded on tape."

-

	A crackling hiss poured out of a perforated grid in the wall. It grew louder, died down to a background wash. Voices came out of the grid.

	Shomuth: "Captain Thomas, I have been ordered to check certain information already in our possession. You have nothing to lose by giving answers, nothing to gain by refusing them. There are no Lathians present, only the two of us. You may speak freely and what you say will be treated in confidence."

	Thomas: "What d'you want to know?"

	Shomuth: "Whether our Lathian allies really are Nuts."

	Thomas, after a pause: "You want the blunt truth?"

	Shomuth: "We do."

	Thomas: "All right, they are nuts."

	Shomuth: "And they have the Willies?"

	Thomas: "Where did you dig up this information?"

	Shomuth: "That's our business. Please answer the question."

	Thomas belligerently: "Not only have they got the willies but they'll have a darned sight more of them before we're through."

	Shomuth, puzzled: "How can that be? We have learned that each Lathian is unconsciously controlled by a Willy. Therefore the total number of Willies is limited. It cannot be increased except by birth of more Lathians."

	Thomas quickly: "You got me wrong. What I meant was that as Lathian casualties mount up the number of loose Willies will increase. There will be lots more of them in proportion to the number of Lathian survivors."

	Shomuth: "Yes, I see what you mean. And it will create a psychic problem." Pause. "Now Captain Thomas, have you any reason to suppose that many unattached Willies might be able to seize control of another and different life form? Such as my own species, for example?"

	Thomas, with enough menace to deserve a space medal: "I wouldn't be surprised."

	Shomuth: "You don't know for sure?"

	Thomas: "No."

	Shomuth: "It is true, is it not, that you are aware of the real Lathian nature only because you have been informed of it by your Eustace?" 

	Thomas startled: "My what?"

	Shomuth: "Your Eustace. Why should that surprise you?"

	Thomas, recovering swiftly enough to earn a bar to the medal: "I thought you said Useless. Ha-ha! Silly of me. Yes, my Eustace, you're dead right there."

	Shomuth, in lower tones: "There are four hundred twenty Terran prisoners here. That means four hundred twenty Eustaces wandering loose on the planet. Correct?"

	Thomas: "I am unable to deny it."

	Shomuth: "The Lathian heavy cruiser Veder crashed on landing and was a total loss. The Lathians attributed it to an error of judgment on the part of the crew. But that was just three days after you prisoners were brought here. Was it a mere coincidence?"

	Thomas, oh, good, but good: "Work it out for yourself."

	Shomuth: "All right. Here's something else. The biggest fuel dump in this part of the galaxy is located sixty miles south of here. A week ago it blew up to total destruction. The loss was very severe and will handicap our allied fleets for some time to come. Technicians theorize that a static spark caused one tank to explode and that set off the rest. We can always trust technicians to come up with a plausible explanation."

	Thomas: "Well, what's wrong with it?"

	Shomuth: "That dump has been there more than four years. There's been no static sparks during that time." 

	Thomas: "What are you getting at?"

	Shomuth, pointedly: "You have admitted yourself that there are four hundred twenty Eustaces free to do as they like."

	Thomas, in tones of stern patriotism: "I am admitting nothing. I refuse to answer any more questions."

	Shomuth: "Has your Eustace prompted you to say that?"

-

	Reversing the switch, the Commandant said, "There you are. Eight other Terran officers gave more or less the same evidence. Zangasta himself has listened to the records and is deeply concerned about the situation."

	"Tell him he needn't bother nursing his pate," Leeming airily suggested. "It's all a lot of bunk, a put-up job. There was collusion between my Eustace and theirs."

	Turning a faint purple, the Commandant retorted, "As you emphasized at our last meeting, there cannot be collusion without Eustaces. So it makes no difference either way."

	"I'm glad you can see it at last."

	"Let it pass," chipped in Pallam, impatiently. "It is of no consequence. The confirmatory evidence is adequate no matter how we look at it,"

	Thus prompted, the Commandant continued, "I have been doing some investigating myself. Eight of my guards earned your enmity by assaulting you. Of these, four are now in hospital badly injured, two more are to be drafted to the fighting front."

	"The other two," said Leeming, "gained forgiveness. Nothing has happened to them."

	"No. Nothing has happened."

	"I cannot give the same guarantee with respect to the firing squad, the officer in charge of it, or the higher-up who issued the order that helpless prisoners be shot. It all depends on how my Eustace feels about it."

	"Why should he care?" put in Pallam. "They were only Rigellians."

	"They were allies. And allies are friends. I feel bad about the needless slaughtering of them. Eustace is sensitive to my emotions."

	"But not necessarily obedient to them?"

	"No."	;

	"In fact," pressed Pallam, "if there is any question of one serving the other, it is you who obeys him?"

	"Most times, anyway."

	"Well, it confirms what you've already told us." He ventured a thin smile. "The chief difference between Terrans and Lathians is that you know you're controlled whereas the Lathians are ignorant of it."

	"We are not controlled consciously or unconsciously," Leeming insisted. "We exist in mutual partnership, same as you do with your wife. It's mastery by neither party."

	"I wouldn't know, never having been mated," said Pallam. He transferred his attention to one side. "Carry on, Commandant."

	"You may as well be told that this has been set aside as a penal planet," informed the Commandant. "We are already holding a large number of prisoners, most Rigellians."

	"What of it?" Leeming prompted.

	"There are more to come. Two thousand Centaurians and six hundred Thetans are due to arrive and fill a new jail next week. Our allied forces will transfer more Federation life forms as soon as ships are available." He eyed the other speculatively. "It's only a matter of time before they start dumping Terrans upon us as well."

	"Is it bothering you?"

	"Zangasta has decided not to accept Terrans."

	"That's up to him," said Leeming, blandly indifferent.

	"Zangasta has a clever mind," the Commandant opined. "He is of the firm opinion that to assemble a formidable army of prisoners all on one planet, and then put some thousands of Terrans among them, is to create a potentially dangerous situation. He foresees trouble on a vaster scale than we could handle. Indeed, we might lose this world, ^strategically placed in the rear, and become subject to the violent attacks of our own allies."

	"That's the angle he puts out for publication. He's got a private one too."

	"Eh?"

	Looking grim, Leeming continued, "Zangasta himself first gave orders that escaped prisoners were to be shot immediately after capture. He must have done, otherwise nobody would dare shoot them. Now he's jumpy because of one Eustace. He thinks a few thousand Eustaces will be a greater menace to him. But he's wrong."

	"Why is he wrong?" inquired the Commandant.

	"Because it isn't only the repentant who have no cause to fear. The dead haven't either. He'd better countermand that order if he wants to keep on living."

	"I shall inform him of your remarks. However, such cancellation of orders may not be necessary. As I have told you, he is clever. He has devised a subtle strategy that will put all your evidence to the final, conclusive test and at the same time may solve his problems."

	Feeling vague alarm, Leeming asked, "Am I permitted to know what he intends to do?"

	"He has given instructions that you be told. And he has started doing it." The Commandant waited for the sake of extra effect. "He has beamed the Federation a proposal to exchange prisoners."

	Leeming fidgeted around in his seat. Holy smoke, the plot was thickening with a vengeance. His sole purpose from the beginning had been to talk himself out of jail and into some other situation from which he could scoot at top speed. Now they were taking up his story and plastering it all over the galaxy. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.

	"What's more," the Commandant went on, 'the Federation has accepted providing only that we exchange rank for rank. That is to say, captains for captains, navigators for navigators and so forth."

	"That's reasonable."

	"Zangasta," said the Commandant, grinning like a wolf, "has agreed in his turn—providing that the Federation accepts all Terran prisoners first and makes exchange on a basis of two for one. He is now awaiting their reply."

	"Two for one?" echoed laming. "You want them to surrender two prisoners for one Terran?"

	"No, of course not." Leaning forward, he increased the grin and showed the roots of his teeth. "Two of ours for one Terran and his Eustace. That's fair enough, isn't it?"

	"It's not for me to say. The Federation is the judge." Leeming swallowed hard.

	"Until a reply arrives and the matter is settled, Zangasta wishes you to have better treatment. You will be transferred to the officers' quarters outside the walls and you will share their meals. Temporarily you'll be treated as a noncombatant and you'll be very comfortable. It is necessary that you give me your parole not to escape."

	Ye gods, that was another stinker. The entire fiction was shaped toward ultimate escape. He couldn't abandon it now. Neither was he willing to give his word of honor with the cynical intention of breaking it.

	"Parole refused," he said, firmly.

	The Commandant registered incredulity. "You are not serious?"

	"I am. I've no choice. Terran military law doesn't allow a prisoner to give such a promise."

	"Why not?"

	"Because no Terran can accept responsibility for his Eustace. How can we swear not to get out when all the time we're already half out?"

	"Guard!" called the Commandant, visibly disappointed.

-

	He mooched uneasily around the cell for a full week, occasionally chatting with Eustace night-times for the benefit of ears outside the door. The food remained better. The guards treated him with diffidence. Four more recaptured Rigellians were brought back but not shot. All the signs and portents were that he'd still got a grip on the foe.

	Nevertheless, he was badly bothered. The Federation in general and Earth in particular knew nothing whatsoever about Eustaces and therefore were likely to view a two-for-one proposition with the contempt it deserved. A blank refusal on their part might cause him to be plied with awkward questions impossible to answer.

	Sooner or later it would occur to them that they were afflicted with the biggest liar in cosmic history. They'd then devise tests of fiendish ingenuity. When he flunked them, the balloon would go up.

	He wasn't inclined to give himself overmuch credit for kidding them along so far. The books he'd been reading had shown that the local religion was based upon reverence for ancestral spirits. They were also familiar with what is known as poltergeist phenomena. The ground had been prepared for him in advance. He'd merely ploughed it and sown the crop. When a victim believes in two kinds of invisible beings it isn't too hard to make him swallow a third.

	But when the Federation beamed a curt invitation to go jump, it was possible that the third type would be regurgitated with violence. Unless by fast talk he could cram it back down their gullets when it was already halfway out. How to do that?

	He was still stewing it over and over when they came for him again. The Commandant was there but Pallam was not. Instead a dozen civilians eyed him curiously. That made a total of thirteen, a very suitable number to pronounce him ready for the chopper.

	Feeling as much the center of attention as a six-tailed wombat at the zoo, he sat down and four civilians started chivvying him at once, taking it in relays. They were interested in only one subject, namely, bopamagilvies. It seemed they'd been playing with them for hours and achieved nothing except some practice of acting daft.

	On what principle did they work? Did they focus mental output into a narrow beam? At what distance did his Eustace get beyond straight conversation and need to be called with a loop? Why was it necessary to make directional search before getting a reply? How did he know how to make a loop in the first place?

	"I can't explain. How does a bird know how to make a nest? The knowledge seems instinctive. I've known how to call Eustace ever since I was old enough to shape a piece of wire."

	"Will any kind of wire do?"

	"So long as it's nonferrous."

	"Are all Terran loops of exactly the same construction and dimensions?"

	"No. They vary with the individual.

	Somehow he beat them off, feeling hot in the forehead and cold in the belly. Then the Commandant took over.

	"The Federation has refused to accept Terran prisoners ahead of other species, or to exchange them two for one, or to discuss the matter any further. They accuse Zangasta of bad faith. What have you to say to that?"

	Steeling himself, Leeming commented, "On your side there are twenty-seven life forms of which the Lathians and the Zebs are by far the most powerful. Now if the Federation wanted to give priority of exchange to one species do you think the others would agree? If the favoured species happened to be the Tansites, would the Lathians and Zebs vote for them to head the line-up?"

	A civilian chipped in, a tall authoritative specimen. "I am Daverd, personal aide to Zangasta. He is of your own opinion. He believes the Terrans have been outvoted. Therefore I am commanded to ask you one question."

	"What is it?"

	"Do your Federation allies know about your Eustaces?"

	"No."

	"You have succeeded in hiding the facts from them?"

	"There's no question of hiding facts. With friends the facts just don't become apparent. Eustaces take action only against enemies and that's something that can't be concealed.

	"Very well. Daverd came closer while the others looked on. "The Lathians started this war and the Zebs went with them by reason of military alliance. The rest of us got dragged in for one cause or another. The Lathians are powerful. But, as we now know, they're not responsible for their actions.

	"What's this to me?"

	"Separately, we numerically weaker life forms cannot stand against the Lathians or the Zebs. But together we are strong enough to step out of the war and maintain our right to remain neutral. So Zangasta has consulted the others."

	Jumping jiminy, what you can do with a few feet of copper wire!

	"He has received their replies to-day," Daverd continued. "They are willing to make a common front and get out of the war providing that the Federation is equally willing to exchange prisoners and recognize neutrality."

	"Such sudden unanimity among minors tells me something pretty good," observed Leeming, displaying satisfaction.

	"It tells you what?"

	"Federation forces have won a major battle lately. Somebody's been scalped."

	Daverd refused to confirm or deny it. "At the moment you're the only Terran we hold on this planet. Zangasta thinks you could well be spared."

	"Meaning what?"

	"He has decided to send you to the Federation. It is your job to persuade them to agree to our plans. If you fail—a couple of hundred thousand hostages may suffer."

	"For which the Federation may retaliate."

	"They won't know. There'll be no Terrans or Eustaces here to inform them by any underhanded method. We're keeping Terran out. The Federation cannot use knowledge it doesn't possess."

	"No," agreed Leeming. "It's impossible to use what you haven't got."

	They provided a light destroyer crewed by ten Zangastans and that took him to a servicing planet right on the fringe of the battle area. It was a Lathian outpost but those worthies showed no interest in what their smaller allies were up to. They got to work refining the destroyer's tubes while Leeming was transferred to a one-man Lathian scoutship. The ten Zangastans officiously saluted before they left him.

	From that point he was strictly on his own. Take-off was a heller. The seat was awkwardly shaped and too big, the controls in the wrong places and too far apart. The little ship was fast and powerful but responded differently from his own. How he got up he never knew, but he made it.

	After that, there was the constant risk of being tracked by Federation detecting devices and blown apart in full flight.

	He arrowed straight for Terra. His sleeps were uneasy and restless. The tubes were not to be trusted despite that flight-duration would be only one-third of that done in his own vessel. The strange autopilot was not to be trusted merely because it was of alien design. The ship itself wasn't to be trusted for the same reason. The forces of his own side were not to be trusted because they'd tend to shoot first and ask questions afterward.

	In due time he came in fast on Terra's night side and plonked it down in a field a couple of miles west of the main spaceport.

	The moon was shining bright along the Wabash when he approached the front gate afoot and a sentry yelled, "Halt! Who goes there?"

	"Lieutenant Leeming and Eustace Phenackertiban."

	"Advance and be recognized."

	He walked forward, thinking to himself that such an order was somewhat dunderheaded. Be recognised. The sentry had never seen him in his life and wouldn't know him from Myrtle McTurtle.

	At the gate a powerful cone of light shot down upon him. Somebody with three chevrons on his sleeve emerged from a nearby hut bearing a scanner on the end of a black cable. The scanner got waved over the arrival from head to feet, concentrating mostly upon the face.

	A loud-speaker in the hut said, "Bring him in to Intelligence H.Q." 

	They started walking.

	The sentry let go an agitated yelp of, "Hey, where's the other guy?"

	"What guy?" asked the escorting sergeant, looking around. 

	"He's nuts," Leeming confided.

	"You gave me two names," asserted the sentry, slightly bellicose.

	"Well, if you ask the sergeant nicely he'll give you two more," said Leeming.

	"Let's get going," suggested the sergeant, showing impatience.

	They reached Intelligence H.Q. The duty officer was Colonel Farmer, a florid character Leeming had met many times before. Farmer gazed at him incredulously and said, "Well!" He said it seven times.

	Without preamble, Leeming growled, "What's all this about us refusing to make a two-for-one swap for Terran prisoners?"

	Farmer started visibly. "You know about it?"

	"How could I ask if I didn't?"

	"All right. Why should we accept such a cockeyed proposition?" 

	Bending over the desk, hands splayed upon it, Leeming said, "All we need do is agree—upon one condition."

	"What condition?"

	"That they make a similar agreement with respect to Lathians. Two Federation prisoners for one Lathian and one Willy."

	"One what?"

	"One Willy. The Lathians will take it like birds. They've been propaganding all over the shop that one Lathian is worth two of anything else. They're too conceited to refuse such an offer. They'll advertise it as proof that even an enemy knows how good they are."

	"But—" began Farmer, a little dazed.

	"Their allies will agree also, but from different motives that don't matter to us anyway. Try it for size. Two Federation prisoners for one Lathian and his Willy."

	Farmer protruded his belly and roared, "What the blue blazes is a Willy?"

	"You can easily find out," assured Leeming. "Consult your Eustace."

	Showing alarm, Farmer lowered his tones to a soothing pitch and said as gently as possible, "You were reported missing and believed killed."

	"I crash-landed and got taken prisoner in the back of beyond. They slung me in the jug."

	"Yes, yes," said Colonel Farmer, making pacifying gestures. "But how on earth did you get away?"

	"Farmer, I cannot tell a lie. I hexed them with my bopamagilvie."

	"Huh?"

	"So I left by rail," informed Leeming, "and there were ten faplaps carrying it."

	Catching the other unaware he let go a vicious kick at the desk and made a spurt of ink leap across the blotter.

	"Now let's see some of the intelligence they're supposed to have in Intelligence. Beam the offer. Two for a Lathian and a Willy Terwilliger." He stared wildly around. "And find me a bed. I'm dead beat."

	Holding himself in enormous restraint, Farmer said, "Lieutenant, do you realize that you are talking to a colonel?"

	Leeming used the word.

The End