RESURRECTION DAY NUMBER TWO !

A hundred thousand years ago, there had been a planet named Earth. It had been a proud world ruling a thousand vassal stars. But its stellar empire had turned upon it, annihilated their conquerors, and wiped the name of Earth from the maps of space.

But Earthmen still survived ... a strange race of worldless men and women, by tradition advisers to rulers, but never ruling themselves. Wanderers through a myriad planets, their origin was a half-forgotten legend.

That was the situation when a strange quirk of fate sent Earthman Hallam Navarre on an interstellar wild goose chase. He had to bring back a strictly mythical treasure to his otherworld ruler—or die. But the prize he stumbled on was greater than any myth. It was a planet no one believed in and a real treasure no otherworld monarch could possess.

Turn this book over for second complete novel

CAST OF CHARACTERS

HALLAM NAVARRE

He sought an object that never existed—and found something even stranger.

JOROIRAN VII

All he wanted was eternal life.

KAUSIRN

This Lyrellan figured he could outfox any Earthman.

DOMRIK CARSO

Only half an Earthman, his loyalties were questionable and his integrity fragile.

HELNA WINSTIN

Her crowning beauty was her bald pate.

THE POLISARCH OF MORANKIMAR

He never set foot on the world he ruled.

LEST WE FORGET THEE, EARTH

CALVIN M. KNOX

ACE BOOKS, INC. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.

lest we forget thee, earth

To Isaac Asimov

people minus x

Printed in U.S.A.

It was midday on Jorus, and Hallam Navarre, Earthman to the Court, had overslept. He woke with an agonizing headache and a foul taste in his mouth. It had been a long night for the courtier, the night before—a night filled with strange golden out-system wines and less strange women of several worlds.

jf must have been drugged, Navarre thought. He had never overslept before. Who would do something like that? As the Overlord's Earthman, Navarre was due at the throne room by the hour when the blue rays of the sun first lit the dial in Central Plaza. Someone evidently wanted him to be late, this particular day.

. Wearily, he sprang from bed, washed, dabbed depilatory on his gleaming scalp to assure it the hairlessness that was the mark of his station, and caught the ramp heading downstairs. His head was still throbbing.

A jetcab lurked hopefully in the street. Navarre leaped in and snapped, "To the palace!" "Yes, sir."

The driver was a Dergonian, his coarse skin a gentle green in color. He jabbed down on the control stud and the cab sprang forward.

The Dergonian took a twisting, winding route through Jorus City—past the multitudinous stinks of the Street of the Fishmongers, where the warm blue sunlight filtered in everywhere, and racks of drying finfish lay spreadwinged in the sun, then down past the temple, through thronging swarms of midday worshippers, then a sharp right that brought the cab careening into Central Plaza.

The micronite dial in the heart of the plaza was blazing gold. Navarre cursed softly. He belonged at the Overlord's side, and he was late.

Earthmen were never late. Earthmen had a special reputation to uphold in the universe. Navarre's fertile mind set to work concocting a story to place before the Overlord when the inevitable query came.

"You have an audience with the Overlord?" the cabbie asked, breaking Navarre's train of thought.

"Not quite," Navarre said wryly. He slipped back his hood, revealing his bald dome. "Look."

The driver squinted flickeringly at the rear-view mirror and nodded at the sight of Navarre's shaven scalp. "Oh. The Earthman. Sorry I didn't recognize you, sir."

"Quite all right. But get this crate moving; I'm due at court."

"I'll do my best."

But the Dergonian's best wasn't quite good enough. He rounded the Plaza, turned down into the Street of the Lords, charged full throttle ahead-Smack into a parade.

The Legions of Torus were marching. The jetcab came to a screeching halt no more than ten paces from a regiment of tusked Daborians marching stiffly along, carrying their blue-and-red flag mounted just beneath the bright purple of Jorus, tootling on their thin, whining electronic bagpipes. There were thousands of them.

"Guess it's tough luck, Sir Earthman," the cabbie said philosophically. "The parade's going around the palace. It may take hours."

Navarre sat perfectly still, meditating on the precarious position of an Earthman in a royal court of the Cluster. Here he was, remnant of a wise race shrouded in antiquity, relict of the warrior-kings of old—and he sat sweating in a taxi while a legion of tusked barbarians delayed his passage.

The cabbie opaqued his windows.

'What's that for?"

"We might as well be cool while we wait. This can take hours. I'll be patient if you will."

"The hell you will," Navarre snapped, gesturing at the still-running meter. "At two demiunits per minute I can rent a fine seat on the reviewing stand up there. Let me out of here."

"But-"

"Out!"

Navarre leaned forward, slammed down the meter, cutting it short at thirty-six demiunits. He handed the driver a newly-minted semiunit piece.

"Keep the change. And thanks for the service."

"A pleasure." The driver made the formal farewell salute. "May I serve you again, Sir Earthman, and—"

"Sure," Navarre said, and slipped out of the cab. A moment later he had to jump to one side as the driver activated his side blowers, clearing debris from the turbo-jets and incidentally spraying the Earthman with a cloud of fine particles of filth.

Navarre turned angrily, clapping a hand to his blaster, but the grinning cabbie was already scooting away in reverse gear. Navarre scowled. Behind the superficial mask of respect for the Earthmen, there was always a certain lack of civility that irked him. He was conscious of his ambiguous position in the galazy, as an emissary from nowhere, as a native of a world long forgotten and which he himself had never seen.

Earth. It was not a planet any longer, but a frame of mind, a way of thinking. He was an Earthman, and thus valuable to the Overlord. But he could be replaced; there were other advisers nearly as shrewd.

Navarre fingered his bald scalp ruminatingly for a moment and flicked off his hood again. He started across the wide street.

The regiment of Daborians still stalked on—seven-foot humanoids with their jutting tusks polished brightly, their fierce beards combed. They marched in an unbreakable phalanx round and round the palace.

Damn parades anyway, Navarre thought. Foolish display, calculated to impress barbarians.

He reached the edge of the Daborian ranks. "Excuse me, please."

He started to force his way between two towering, haughty artillery men. Without breaking step, a huge Daborian grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and threw him back toward the street. An appreciative ripple of laughter went up from the onlookers as Navarre landed unsteadily on one leg, started to topple, and with a wild swing of his arms and three or four skipping steps, barely managed to remain upright.

"Let me through," he snapped again, as a corps of tusked musicians came by. The Daborians merely ignored him. Navarre waited until a bagpiper went past, one long valved chaunter thrust between his tusks and hands flying over the electronic keyboard. Navarre grabbed the base of the instrument with both hands and rammed upward.

The Daborian let out a howl of pain and took a step backward as the sharp mouthpiece cracked soundly against his palate. Navarre grinned, slipped through the gap in the formation and kept on running. Behind him, the bagpiping rose to an angry wail, but none of the Daborians dared break formation to pursue the insolent Earthman.

He reached the steps of the palace. There were fifty-two of them, each a little wider and higher than the next. He was better than an hour late at the court. The Overlord would be close to a tantrum, and in all probability Kausirn, that sly Lyrellan, had taken ample advantage of the opportunity to work mischief.

Navarre only hoped the order for his execution had not yet been signed. There was no telling what the Overlord was likely to do under Kausirn's influence.

He reached the long black-walled corridor that led to the throne room somewhat out of breath and gasping. The pair of unemotional Trizian monoptics who guarded access to the corridor recognized him and nodded disapprovingly as he scooted past.

Arriving at the penultimate turn in the hall, he ducked into a convenience at the left and slammed the door. He was so late already that a few moments more couldn't aggravate the offense, and he wanted to look his best when he finally did make his belated appearance.

A couple of seconds in front of the brisk molecular flow of the Vibron left him refreshed, and he stopped panting for breath. He splashed water on his face, dried off, straightened his tunic, tied back his hood.

Then, stiffly, walking with a dignity he had not displayed a moment before, he stalked out and headed for the throne room.

The annunciator said, "Hallam Navarre, Earthman to the Overlord."

Joroiran VII was on his throne, looking, as always, like a rather nervous butcher's apprentice elevated quite suddenly to galactic rank. He muttered a few words, and the micro-amplifier surgically implanted in his throat picked them up and tossed them at the kneeling Navarre.

"Enter, Earthman. You're late."

The throne room was filled to bursting. This was Threeday —audience day—and commoners of all sizes and shapes thronged before the Overlord, desperately hoping that the finger of fate would light on them and bring them forward to plead their cause. It was Navarre's customary job to select those who were to address the Overlord, but he observed that today Kausirn, the Lyrellan, had taken over the task in his absence.

Navarre advanced toward the throne and abased himself before the purple carpet.

"You may rise," Joroiran said in a casual tone. "The audience began more than an hour ago. You have been missed, Navarre."

"I've been employed in Your Majesty's service all the while," Navarre said. "I was pursuing that which may prove to be of great value to your Majesty—and to all of Jorus."

Joroiran looked .amused. "And what might that be?"

Navarre paused, drawing in breath, and prepared himself for the plunge. "I have discovered information that may lead to the Chalice of Life, my Overlord."

To his surprise, Joroiran did not react at all; his mousy face revealed not the slightest trace of animation. Navarre blinked; the whopper was not going over.

But it was the Lyrellan who saved him, in a way. Leaning over, Kausirn whispered harshly, "He means the Chalice of Death, Majesty."

"Death . . . ?"

"Eternal life for Joroiran VII," Navarre said ringingly. As long as he was going to make excuses for having overslept, he thought, he might as well make them good ones. "The Chalice holds death for some," he said, "but life for thee."

"Indeed," the Overlord said. "You must talk to me of this in my chambers. But now, the audience."

Navarre mounted the steps and took his customary position at the monarch's right; at least Kausim had not appropriated that. But the Earthman saw that the Lyrellan's tapering nest of fingers played idly over the short-beam generator by whicih the hand of fate was brought to fall upon commoners. That meant Kausirn, not Navarre, would be selecting those whose cases were to be pleaded this day.

Looking into the crowd, Navarre picked out the bleak, heavily-bearded face of Domrik Carso. Carso was staring reproachfully at him, and Navarre felt a sudden stinging burst of guilt. He had promised to get Carso a hearing today; the burly half-breed lay under a sentence of banishment, but Navarre had lightly assured him that revokement would be a simple matter.

But not now. Not with Kausirn wielding the blue beam. Kausirn had no desire to have an Earthman's kin plaguing him here on Jorus; Carso would rot in the crowd before the Lyrellan chose his case to be pleaded.

Navarre met Carso's eyes. Sorry, he tried to say. But Carso stared stiffly through him. Navarre knew he had failed him, and there was no gainsaying that.

"Proceed with your tale," Joroiran said.

Navarre looked down and saw a pale Joran in the pleader's square below, bathed in the blue light of chance. The man glanced upward at the command and said, "Shall I continue or begin over, Highness?"

"Begin over. The Earthman may be interested."

"May it please the Overlord and his advisers, my name is Lugfor of Zaigla Street, grocer and purveyor of food. I have been accused falsely of thinning my measure, but—"

Navarre sat hack while the man droned on. The time of audience was coming to its end; Carso would go unheard, and at twenty-fourth hour the half-breed would be banished. Well, there was no helping it, Navarre thought glumly. He knotted his hands together and tried to follow Lugfor's whining plea of innocence.

At the end of the session, Navarre turned quickly to the Overlord, but Kausirn was already speaking. "Majesty, may I talk to you alone?"

"And I?" Navarre put in hastily.

"Ill hear Kausirn first," Joroiran decided. "To my chambers. Navarre, attend me there later." "Certainly, Sire."

Navarre slipped from the dais and headed down into the dispersing throng. Carso was shuffling morosely toward the exit when Navarre reached him.

"Domrik! Wait!"

The half-breed turned. "It looks like you'll be the only Earthman on Jorus by nightfall, Hallam."

"I'm sorry. Believe me, I'm sorry. I just couldn't get here in time, and that damned Lyrellan grabbed control of the selections."

Carso shrugged moodily. "I understand." He tugged at his thick beard. "I be only half of Earth, anyway. You'll not miss me."

"Nonsense!" Navarre whispered harshly.

The half-breed nodded gravely. "My writ commands me to leave the cluster. I'll be heading for Kariad tonight, and then outward. You'll be able to reach me there if you can —I mean—111 be there a sevennight."

"Kariad? AH right," Navarre said. "Ill get in touch with you there if I can influence Joroiran to revoke the sentence. Damn it, Carso, you shouldn't have hit that innkeeper so hard."

"He made remarks," Carso said. "I had to." The half-breed bowed and turned away to leave.

The throne room was nearly empty; only a few stragglers remained, staring at the grandeur of the room and probably comparing it with their own squalid huts. Joroiran enjoyed living on a large scale, beyond doubt.

Navarre sprawled down broodingly on the edge of the royal purple carpet and stared at his jeweled fingers. Things were looking bad. His sway as Joroiran's adviser was definitely weakening, and the Lyrellan's star seemed to be the ascendant. Navarre's one foothold was the claim of tradition: all seven of the Joroiran Overlords had had an Earth-man as adviser, and the current Overlord, weak man that he was, would scarcely care to break with tradition.

Yet the Lyrellan Kausirn had wormed himself securely into the monarch's graces. The situation was definitely not promising.

Gloomily, Navarre wondered if there were any other local monarchs in the market for advisers. His stay on Jorus did not look to be long continuing.

After a while, a solemn Trizian glided toward him, stared down out of its one eye, and said, "The Overlord will see you now."

"Thanks." Navarre allowed the monoptic to guide him through the swinging panel that led to Joroiran's private chambers, handed the creature a coin, and entered.

The Overlord was alone, but the scent of the waxy-fleshed Lyrellan still lingered. Navarre took the indicated seat.

"Sire?"

Perspiration beaded Joroiran's upper lip; the monarch seemed dwarfed by the stiff strutwork that held his uniform out from his scrawny body. He glanced nervously at the Earthman, then said, "You spoke to me of a Chalice today, as your reason for being late to the audience. This Chalice ... is said to hold the secret of eternal life, is that not so? Its possessor need never die?"

Navarre nodded.

"And," Joroiran continued, "you tell me you have some knowledge of its whereabouts, eh?"

"I think I do," said Navarre hoarsely. "My informant said he knew somebody whose father had led an earlier expedition in search of it. An unsuccessful expedition, but a near miss." The statement was stricdy from whole cloth, but Navarre reeled it off smoothly.

Joroiran looked interested. "Indeed. Who is he?"

Sudden inspiration struck Navarre. "His name is Domrik Carso. His mother was an Earthman, and you know of course that the Chalice is connected in some legend-shrouded way with Earth."

"Of course. Produce this Carso."

"He was here today, Sire. He searched for pardon from an unfair sentence of banishment over some silly barroom squabble. Alas, the finger of fate did not fall on him, and he leaves for Kariad tonight. But perhaps if the sentence were revoked I could get further information from him concerning the Chalice, wjiich I would most dearly love to win for Your Majesty . . ."

Joroiran's fingers drummed the desktop. "Ah, yes—revoke-ment. It would be possible, perhaps. Can you reach the man?"

"I think so."

"Good. Tell him not to pay for his passage tickets, that the Royal Treasury will cover the cost of his travels from now on."

"But-"

"The same applies to you, of course.

Taken aback, Navarre lost a little of his composure. "Sire?"

"I've spoken to Kausirn. Navarre, I don't know if I can spare you, and Kausirn is uncertain as to whether he can handle the double load in your absence. But he is willing to try it, noble fellow that he is."

"I don't understand," Navarre stammered.

"You say you have a lead on the whereabouts of this Chalice—correct? Kausirn has refreshed my overburdened memory with some information on this Chalice, and I find myself longing for its promise of eternal life, Navarre. You say you have a lead; very well. I've arranged for an indefinite leave of absence for you. Find this man Carso and together you can search the galaxies at my expense. I don't care how long it takes, nor what it costs. But bring me the Chalice, Navarre!"

The Earthman nearly fell backward in astonishment. Bring Joroiran the Chalice? Dizzily, Navarre realized that this was the work of the clever Kausirn: he would send the annoying Earthman all over space on a fool's mission, while consolidating his own position securely at the side of the Overlord.

Navarre forced himself to meet Joroiran's eyes.

"I will not fail you, my Lord," he said in a strangled voice.

He had been weaving twisted strands, he thought later in the privacy of his rooms, and now he had spun himself a noose. Talk of tradition! Nothing could melt it faster than a king's desire to keep his throne eternally.

For seven generations there had been an Earthman adviser at the Overlord's side. Now, in a flash, the patient work of years was undone. Dejectedly, Navarre reviewed his mistakes.

One: He had allowed Kausirn to worm his way into a position of eminence on the Council. Allow a Lyrellan an inch and he'll grab a parsec. Navarre now saw—too late, of course —that he should have had the many-fingered one quiedy put away while he had had the chance.

Two: He had caroused the night before an audience day. Inexcusable. Someone—an agent of Kausirn's, no doubt—had slipped a sleep drug into one of his drinks. He should have been on guard. By hereditary right and by his own wits he had always chosen the cases to be heard, and in the space of a single hour the Lyrellan had done him out of that.

Three: He had lied too well. This was something he should have foreseen; he had aroused weak Joroiran's desire to such a pitch that Kausirn was easily able to plant the suggestion that the Overlord send the faithful Earthman out to find the Chalice.

Three mistakes. Now, he was on the outside and Kausirn in control.

Navarre tipped his glass and drained it. "You're a disgrace to your genes," he told the oddly distorted reflection on the wall of the glass. "A hundred thousand years of Earth-man labor to produce what? You? Fumblewit!"

Still, there was nothing to be done for it now. Joroiran had given the word, and here he was, assigned to chase a phantom, to pursue a will-o'-the-wisp. The Chalice! Chalice, in-deedl There was no such thing.

He tossed his empty glass aside and reached for the communicator. He punched the stud, quickly fed in four numbers and a letter.

A blank radiance filled the screen, and an impersonal dry voice said, "Citizen Carso is not at home. Citizen Carso is not at home. Citizen Car—"

Navarre cut the contact and dialed again. This time the screen lit, glowed, and revealed a tired-looking man in a stained white smock.

"Jublain Street Bar," the man said. "You want to see the manager?"

"No. Is there a man named Domrik Carso there? A heavy-set fellow, with a thick beard?"

"I'll look around," the barkeep grunted. A few moments later, Carso came to the screen; as Navarre had suspected, he was indulging in a few last swills of Joran beer before taking off for the outworlds.

"Navarre? What do you want?"

Navarre ignored the belligerent greeting. "Have you bought your ticket for Kariad yet?"

Carso blinked. "Not yet. What's it to you?"

"If you haven't bought the ticket yet, don't. How soon can you get over here?"

"Couple of centuries, maybe. What's going on, Navarre?"

"You've been pardoned."

"What? I'm not banished?"

"Not exactly," Navarre said. "Look, I don't want to talk about it at long range. How soon can you get yourself over here?"

"I'm due at the spaceport at twenty-one to pick up my tick-"

"Damn your ticket," Navarre snapped. "You don't have to leave yet. Come over, will you?"

Navarre peered across the table at Domrik Carso's heavy-shouldered figure. "That's the whole story," the Earthman said. "Joroiran wants the Chalice—and he wants it real hard."

Carso shook his head and exhaled a beery breath. "Your damnable glib tongue has ruined us both, Hallam. With but half an Earthman's mind I could have done better."

"It's done, and Kausirn has me,in a cleft stick. If nothing else, I've saved you from banishment."

"Only under condition that I help you find this nonexistent Chalice," Carso grunted. "Some improvement that is. Well, at least Joroiran will foot the bill. We can both see the universe at his expense, and when we come back—"

"We come back when we've found the Chalice," said Navarre. "This isn't going to be any pleasure jaunt."

Carso glared at him sourly. "Hallam, are you mad? There is no Chalice!"

"How do you know? Joroiran says there is. The least we can do is look for it."

"We'll wander space forever," Carso said, scowling. "As no doubt the Lyrellan intends for you to do. Well, there's nothing to do but accept. I'm no poorer for it than if I were banished. Chalice! Pah!"

"Have another drink," Navarre suggested. "It may make it easier for you to get the idea down your gullet."

"I doubt it," the half-breed said, but he accepted the drink anyway. He drained it, dien remarked, "A chalice is a drinking cup. Does this mean we seek a potion of immortality, or something of the like?"

"Your guess weighs as much as mine. I've given you all I know on the subject."

"Excellent; now we both know nothing! Do you at least have some idea where this Chalice is supposedly located?"

Navarre shrugged. "The legend's incomplete. The thing might be anywhere. Our job is to find a particular drinking cup on a particular world in a pretty near infinite universe. Unfortunately, we have only a finite length of time in which to do the job."

"The typical short-sightedness of kings," Carso muttered. "A sensible monarch would have sent a couple of immortals out in search of the Chalice."

"A sensible monarch would know when he's had enough, and not ask to rule his system forever. But Joroiran's not sensible."

They were silent for a moment, while the candle between them flickered palely. Then Carso grinned. 'What's so funny?"

"Listen, Hallam. Why don't we assume a location for the Chalice? At least it'll give us a first goal to crack at. And it ought to be easier to find a planet than a drinking cup, shouldn't it?"

Navarre's eyes narrowed. "I don't follow you. Just where will we assume the Chalice is?"

There was a mischievous twinkle in the half-breed's dark eyes. He gulped another drink, grinned broadly, and belched.

"Where? Why, Earth, of course!"

Ill

On more-or-less sober reflection the next morning, it seemed to Navarre that Carso had the right idea: finding Earth promised to be easier than finding the Chalice, if it made any sense to talk about relative degrees of ease in locating myths. Earth.

Navarre knew the stories that each Earthman told to his children, that few non-Earthmen knew. Even though he was a half-breed, Carso would be aware of them too.

Years ago—a hundred thousand, the legend said—man had sprung from Earth, an inconsequential world revolving around a small sun in an obscure galaxy. He had leaped forward to the stars, and carved out a mighty empire for himself. The glory of Earth was carried to the far galaxies, to the wide-flung nebulae of deepest space.

But no race, no matter how strong, could hold sway over an empire that spanned a billion parsecs. The centuries passed; Earth's grasp grew weaker. And, finally, the stars rebelled.

Navarre remembered his mother's vivid description. Earthmen had been outnumbered a billion to one, yet they kept the defensive screens up, and kept the home world untouched, had beaten back the invaders. But still the persistent starmen came, sweeping down on the small planet like angry beetles.

Earth drew back from the stars; its military forces came to the aid of the mother world, and the empire crumbled.

The withdrawal was to no avail. The hordes from the stars won the war of attrition, sacrificing men ten thousand to one and still not showing signs of defeat. The mother world yielded; the proud name of Earth was humbled and stricken from the roll call of worlds.

What became of the armies of Earth no one knew. Those who survived were scattered about the galaxies, seeded here and there, a world of one cluster, a planet of another.

Fiercely the Earthmen clung to their name. They shaved their heads to distinguish themselves from humanoids of a million star-systems—and death it was to the alien who offered himself as counterfeit Earthman!

The centuries rolled by in their never-ending sweep, and Earth herself was forgotten. Yet the Earthmen remained, a thin band scattered through the heavens, proud of their heritage, guarding jealously their genetic traits. Carso was rare; it was but infrequently that an Earthwoman could be persuaded to mate with an alien. Yet Carso regarded himself as an Earthman, and never spoke of his father.

Where was Earth? No on could name the sector of space,
but Earth was in the hearts of the men who lived among
the stars. Earthmen were sought out by kings; the bald-
heads could not rule themselves, but they could advise those
less fitted than they to command. '

Then would come a fool like Joroiran, who held his throne because his father seven times removed had hewed an empire for him—and Joroiran would succumb to a Lyrellan's wiles and order his Earthman off on a madman's quest.

Navarre's fists stiffened. Send me for the Chalice? Aye, I'll find something for him!

The Chalice was an idiot's dream; immortal life was a filmy bubble. But Earth was real; Earth merely awaited finding. Somewhere it bobbed in the heavens, forgotten symbol of an empire that had been.

Smiling coldly, Navarre thought, I'll find Earth for him.

Unlimited funds were at his disposal. He would bring Joroiran a potion too powerful to swallow at a gulp.

Later that day he and Carso were aboard a liner of the Royal Fleet, bearing tickets paid for by Royal frank, and feeling against their thighs the thick bulge of Imperial scrip received with glee from the Royal Treasury.

"Ready for blasting," came the stewardess's voice. "We depart for Kariad in fifteen seconds. I hope you'll relax and enjoy your trip."

Navarre slumped back in the acceleration cradle and closed his eyes. In a few seconds the liner would spring into space. The two hunters for the Chalice would have begun their quest.

His heart ticked the seconds off impatienüy. Twelve. Eleven.

Nine. Six.

Two. One.

Acceleration took him, thrust him sharply downward as the liner left ground. Within seconds, they were high above the afternoon sky, plunging outward into the brightly dotted blackness speckled with the hard points of a billion suns.

One of those suns was Sol, Navarre thought. And one of the planets of Sol was Earth.

Chalice of Life, he thought scornfully. As Jorus dwindled behind him, Navarre wondered how long it would be before he would again see the simpering face of the Overlord Joroiran VII

Kariad, the planet nearest to the Joran Empire in their cluster, was the lone world of a double sun. This arrangement, economical as it was in terms of cosmic engineering, provided some spectacular views and made the planet a much-visited pleasure place.

As Navarre and Carso alighted from the liner they could see that Primus, the massive red giant that was the heart of the system, hung high overhead, intersecting a huge arc of the sky, while Secundus, the smaller main-sequence yellow sun, flickered palely near the horizon. Kariad was moving between the two stars in its complex and eccentric hourglass orbit, and, in the light of the two suns, all objects acquired a strange purple shimmer.

Those who had disembarked from the liner were standing in a tight knot on the field while Kariadi customs officials moved among them. Navarre stood with arms folded, waiting for his turn to come.

The official wore a gilt-encrusted surplice and a bright red sash that seemed almost brown in the light of the double suns. He yanked forth a metal-bound notebook and began to scribble things.

"Name and planet of origin?"

"Hallam Navarre. Planet of origin, Earth."

The customs man glared impatiently at Navarre's shaven scalp and snapped, "You know what I mean. What planet are you from?"

"Jorus," Navarre said.

"Purpose of visiting Kariad?"

"I'm a special emissary from Overlord Joroiran VII; intent peaceful, mission confidential."

"Are you the Earthman to the Court?" Navarre nodded. "And this man?"

"Domrik Carso," the half-breed growled. "Planet of origin, Jorus."

The official indicated Carso's stubbly scalp. "I wish you

Earthmen would show some consistency. One says he's from Earth, the other—or are you not an Earthman, but merely prematurely bald?"

"I'm of Earth descent," Carso said stolidly. "But I'm from Jorus, and you can put it down. I'm Navarre's traveling companion."

The customs officer riffled perfunctorily through their papers a moment, then handed them back. "Very well. You may both pass."

Navarre and Carso moved off the field and into the spaceport itself.

"I could use a beer," Carso said.

"I guess you've never been on Kariad, then. They must brew their beer from sewer-flushings here."

"I'll drink sewer-flushings when I must," Carso said. He pointed to a glowing tricolored sign. "There's a bar. Shall we go in?"

As Navarre had expected, the beer was vile. He stared unhappily at the mug of green, brackish liquid, stirring it with a quiver of his wrist and watching the oily patterns forming and re-forming on its surface.

Across the table, Carso was showing no such qualms. The half-breed tilted the bottle into his mug, raised the big mug to his lips, drank. Navarre shuddered.

Grinning, Carso crashed the mug down and wiped his beard clean.

"It's not the best I've ever had," he commented finally. "But it'll do in a pinch." Shrugging cheerfully, he filled his mug a second time.

Very quietly, Navarre said, "Do you see those men sitting at the far table?"

Carso squinted and looked at them without seeming to do so. "Aye. They were on board the ship with us."

"Exacdy."

"But so were at least five of the other people in this barl Surely you don't think—"

"I don't intend to take any chances," Navarre said flatly. "Finish your drink. I want to make a tour of the spaceport."

"Well enough, if you say so." Carso drained' the drink and left one of Overlord Joroiran's bills on the table to pay for it. Casually, the pair left the bar.

Their first stop was a tape shop. There, Navarre made a great business over ordering a symphony.

The effusive, apologetic proprietor did his best. "The Anvils of Juno? I don't think I have that number in stock. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever heard of it. Could it be The Hammer of Drolon you seek?"

"I'm fairly sure it was the Juno," said Navarre, who had invented the work a moment before. "But perhaps I'm wrong. Is there any place here I can listen to the Drolon?"

"Surely; we have a booth back here where you can experience full audiovisual effect. If you'd step this way, please . . ."

They spent fifteen minutes sampling the tape, Carso with a prevailing expression of utter boredom, Navarre with a scowl for the work's total inspidity. The symphony was banal and obvious—a typical Kariadi hack product, churned out by some weary tone-artist to meet the popular demand. At the end of the first fifteen-minute movement Navarre snapped off the playback and rose.

The proprietor came bustling up to the booth. "Well?"

"Sorry," Navarre said. "This isn't the one I want."

Gathering his cloak about him, he swept out of the shop, followed by Carso. As they re-entered the main concourse of the terminal arcade, Navarre saw two figures glide swiftly into the shadows—but not swiftly enough.

"I do believe you're right," Carso muttered. "We're being followed."

"Kausirn's men, no doubt. The Lyrellan must be curious to see which way we're heading. Or possibly he's ordered my assassination, now that I'm away from the Court. But let's give it one more test before we take steps."

"No more music!" Carso said hastily.

"No. The next stop will be a more practical one."

Navarre led the way down the arcade until they reached a shop whose front display said simply, Weapons. They went in.

The proprietor here was of a different stamp than the man in the music shop; he was a rangy Kariadi, his light blue skin glowing in color-harmony with the électroluminescents in the shop's walls.

"Can I help you?"

"Possibly you can," Navarre said. He swept back his hood, revealing his Earthman's scalp. "We're from Jorus. There are assassins on our trail, and we want to shake them. Have you a back exit?"

"Over there," the armorer said. "Are you armed?"

"We are, but we could do with some spare charges. Say, five apiece." Navarre placed a bill on the counter and slid the wrapped packages into his tunic pocket.

"Are those the men?" the proprietor asked.

Two shadowy figures were visible through the one-way glass of the window. They peered in uneasily.

"I think they're coming in here," Navarre said.

"All right. You two go out the back way; I'll chat with them for a while."

Navarre flashed the man an appreciative smile and he and Carso slipped through the indicated door, just as their pursuers entered the weapons shop.

"Double around the arcade and wait at the end of the corridor, eh?" Carso suggested.

"Right. We'll catch them as they come out."

Some hasty running brought them to a strategic position. "Keep your eyes open," Navarre said. "That shopkeeper may have told them where we are."

"I doubt it. He looked honest."

"You never can tell," Navarre said. "Hush, nowl"

The door of the gun shop was opening.

The followers emerged, edging out into the corridor again, squeezing themselves against the wall and peering in all directions. They looked acutely uncomfortable now that they had lost sight of their quarry.

Navarre drew his "blaster and hefted it thoughtfully. After a moment's pause he shouted, "Stand still and raise your hands," and squirted a bolt of energy almost at their feet.

One of the pair yelled in fear, but the other, responding instandy, drew and fired. His bolt, deliberately aimed high, brought down a section of the arcade roofing; the drifting dust and plaster obscured vision.

"They're getting away!" Carso snapped. "Let's go after them fast!"

They leaped from hiding and raced through the rubble; dimly they could see the retreating pair heading for the main waiting room. Navarre cursed; if they got in there, there would be no chance of bringing them down.

As he ran, he leveled his blaster and emitted a single short burst. One of the two toppled and fell; the other continued running, and vanished abruptly into the crowded waiting room.

"I'll go in after him," Navarre said. "You look at the dead one and see if there's any sort of identification on him,"

Navarre pushed his way through the photon-beam and into the spaceport's crowded waiting-room. He caught sight of his man up ahead, jostling desperately toward the cabstand. Navarre holstered his blaster; he would never be able to use it in here.

"Stop that man!" he roared. "Stop him!"

Perhaps it was the authority in his tone, perhaps it was his baldness, but to his surprise a foot stretched out and sent the fleeing spy sprawling. Navarre reached him in an instant, and knocked the useless blaster from his hand. He tugged the quivering man to his feet.

"All right, who are you?"

He punctuated the question with a slap. The man sputtered and turned his face away without replying, and Navarre hit him again.

This time the man cursed and tried fruitlessly to break away.

"Did Kausirn send you?" Navarre demanded, gripping him tightly.

"I don't know anything. Leave me alone."

"You'd better start knowing," Navarre said. He drew his blaster with his free hand. "I'll give you five to tell me why you were following us, and if you don't speak up I'll bum you right here. One . . . two . . ."

On the count of three Navarre suddenly felt hands go round his waist, other hands grabbing at his wrist to immobilize the blaster. He was pulled away from his prisoner and the blaster wrenched from his hand.

"Let go of him, Earthman," a rough voice said. "What's going on here, anyway?"

"This man's an assassin," Navarre said. "He and a companion were sent here to kill me. Luckily my friend and I detected the plot, and—"

"That's enough," the burly Kariadi said. "You'd all better come with me."

Navarre turned and saw several other officers approaching. One bore the blaster-charred body of the dead assassin; the other two pinioned the figure of the furiously struggling Domrik Carso.

"Come along, now," the Kariadi said.

"A good beginning to our quest," Carso said bitterly. "A noble start!"

"Quiet," Navarre told him. "I think someone's coming to see us."

They were in a dungeon somewhere in the heart of Kariad City, having been taken there from the spaceport. The surviving assassin had been placed in another cell.

But someone was coming. The door of the cell was opening, and a yellow beam of light began to crawl diagonally across the concrete floor.

A slim figure entered the cell. Light glinted off a bald skull; the visitor was an Earthman, then.

"Hello. Which of you is Navarre?" I am.

"I'm Helna Winstin, Earthman to the Court of Lord Mar-haill, Oligocrat of Kariad. Sorry our men had to throw you down here in this cell, but they weren't in any position to take chances."

"We understand," Navarre said. He was still staring without believing. "No one told me that on Kariad the Earthman to the Court was a woman."

Helna Winstin smiled. "The appointment was but recent. My father held the post until last month."

"And you succeeded him?"

"After a brief struggle. Milord was much taken by a Ly-rellan who had served as Astronomer Royal, but I'm happy to say he did not choose to break the tradition of an Earth-man adviser."

Navarre stared at the slim female Earthman with sharp respect. Evidently there had been a fierce battle for power— a battle in which she had bested a Lyrellan. That was more than I managed to do, he thought.

"Come," she said. "The order for your release has been signed, and I find cells unpleasant. Shall we go to my rooms?"

"I don't see why not," Navarre replied. He glanced at Carso, who looked utterly thunderstruck. "Come along, Domrik."

They were led through the corridor to a liftshaft and upward; it was evident to Navarre now that the dungeon had been in the depths of the royal palace itself.

Helna Winstin's rooms were warm and inviting looking; the decor was brighter than Navarre was accustomed to, but beneath the apartment's obvious femininity lay a core of surprising toughness that seemed repeated in the girl herself.

"Now then," she said, making herself comfortable and motioning for the men to do the same. "What have you two done that brings you to Kariad with a pair of assassins on your trail?"

"Has the man confessed?"

"He—ah—revealed all," Helna Winstin said. "He told us he was sent here by one Kausirn, a Lyrellan attached to the Joran court, with orders to make away with you, specifically, and your companion, too, if possible."

Navarre nodded. "I suspected as much. Can I see the man?"

"Unfortunately, he died under interrogation. The job was clumsily handled."

She's tough, all right, Navarre thought appreciatively. She wore her head shaved, though it was not stricdy required of female Earthmen; she wore a man's costume and did a man's job, and only the rise of her bosom and the slightness of her figure indicated her sex.

She leaned forward. "Now, may I ask what brings the Earthman of Joroiran's court here to Kariad?"

"We travel on a mission from Joroiran," Navarre said. "We seek the Chalice of Life for him."

A tapering eyebrow rose. "How interesting! Joroiran has become a student of mythology, then! Or does the Chalice really exist?"

"'It might," Navarre said. "But our target is only indirectly the Chalice." In terse, clipped sentences he told her the whole story of their search for Earth. A strange look crossed her face when he finished.

"Lord Marhaill is all too likely to side with your friend Kausirn in this matter," she said. "And if I help you it may mean the loss of my post here—if not all our lives. But the prize is great—Earth herself!"

"You'll help us, then?"

She smiled slowly. "Of course."

The main library .of Kariad City was a building fifty-stories high and as many more deep below the ground, and still it could not begin to store the accumulated outpourings of a hundred thousand years of civilization on uncountable worlds.

"The open files go back only about five hundred years," Helna said, as she and Navarre entered the vast doorway, followed by Carso. "Everything else is stored away somewhere, and hardly anyone but antiquarians ever bothers with it."

Navarre frowned. "We may have some trouble finding what we want, then."

An efficient-looking Dergonian met them at the door. "Good day, Sir Earthman," he said to Helna. Catching sight of Navarre and Carso, he added, "And to you as well."

"We seek the main index," Helna said.

"Through that archway," said the librarian. "May I help you find your information?"

"We can manage by ourselves, thanks," Navarre said.

The main index occupied one enormous room from floor to ceiling. Navarre blinked dizzily at the immensity of it. He watched as Helna coolly walked to a screen mounted on a table in the center of the index room and punched out the letters E-A-R-T-H. She twisted a dial and the screen lit.

A card appeared in the center of the screen. Navarre squinted to read its fine print:

EARTH: legendary planet of Sol system (?)

considered in myth as home of mankind See: D80009.1643, Smednal, Creation Myths of the Galaxy D80009.1644, Snodgras, Legends of the First Empire.

Helna looked up doubtfully. "Shall I try the next card? Should I order these books?"

"I don't think there's any point to it," said Navarre. "These works look fairly recent; they won't tell us anything we don't know. We'll have to dig a little deeper. How do we get to the closed shelves?"

"I'll have to pull rank, I guess."

"Let's go, then. The real location of Earth is somewhere in these libraries, I'm sure; you just can't lose a world completely. If we go back far enough we're sure to find out where Earth was."

"Unless such information was carefully deleted when Earth fell," Carso pointed out.

Navarre shook his head. "Impossible. The library system is too vast, too decentralized. There's bound to have been a slip-up somewhere—and we can find it!"

"I hope so," the half-breed said moodily, as they left the index room and headed for the library's administration office to ask for a closed-file permit.

Track fifty-seven of the closed shelves was as cold and as desolate as a sunless planet, Navarre thought bleakly, as he and his companions stepped out of the dropshaft.

A Genobonian serpent-man came slithering toward them, and the chittering echo of his body sliding across the dark floor went shivering down the long dust-laden aisles. At the sight of the reptile, Carso reached for his blaster; Geno-bonians entered this system infrequently, and they were fearsome sights to anyone not prepared for them.

"What's this worm coming from the books?" Carso asked loudly. His voice rang tiirough the corridors.

"Peace, friends. I am but an old and desiccated librarian left to molder in these forgotten stacks." The Genobonian chuckled. "A bookworm in truth, Earthman. But you are the first to visit here in a year or more; what do you seek?"

"Books about Earth," Navarre said. "Is there a catalog down here?"

"There is, but it shan't be needed. I'll show you what we have, if you'll be careful with it."

The serpent slithered away, leaving a foot-wide track in the dust on the floor. Hesitantly, the three followed. He led them down to the end of a corridor, through a passageway dank-smelling with the odor of dying books, and into an even mustier alcove.

"Here we are," the dry voice croaked. The Genobonian extended a skinny arm and yanked a book from a shelf. It was an actual book, not a tape.

"Handle it with care, friends. The budget does not allow for taping it, so we must preserve the original—until the day comes when this track must be cleaned. The library peels away its oldest layer like an onion shedding its skin; when the weight of new words is too great—whisht! and track fifty-seven vanishes into the outworlds."

"And you with it?"

"No," said the serpent sadly. "I stay here, and endeavor to learn my way around the new volumes that descend from above. The time of changing is always melancholy."

"Enough talk," Navarre said brusquely, when it seemed the old serpent would maunder on endlessly. "Let's look at this book."

It was a history of the galaxy, arranged alphabetically by subject matter. Navarre stared at the title page and felt a strange chill when he saw that the book was more than thirteen thousand years old.

Thirteen thousand years. And yet Earth had fallen millenia before the time of the printing of this book.

Navarre frowned. "This is only the volume from Fenelon to Fenris," he said. "Where's Earth?"

"Earth is in an earlier volume," the Genobonian said. "A volume which we no longer have in this library. But look at this book; perhaps it may give you some information."

Navarre stared at the librarian for a long moment, then asked, "Have you read all these books?"

"Many of them. There is so little work for me to do down here."

"Very well, then. This is a question no Earthman has ever asked of an alien before, and if I suspect you give me a lying answer, I'll kill you here among your books and your dust."

"Ask away, Earthman," the serpent replied. He sounded unafraid.

Navarre moistened his lips. "This we should know before we pursue our search further. Tell me, did Earth ever exist?"

There was silence, broken only by the prolonged echoes of Navarre's voice whispering the harsh question over and over down the aisles. The serpent's bright eyes glittered. "You do not know yourselves?"

"No, damn you," Carso growled. "If we did, why would we come to you?"

"Strange," the serpent mused. "But yes—yes, Earth existed. You may read of Earth in this book I have given you. Soon they will send the book far away, and it will no longer be possible for us on Kariad to prove Earth's existence. But till then—yes, there was an Earth."

"Where?"

"I knew once, but I have forgotten. It is in that volume, that earlier volume that was sent away. But look, Earthmen. Read there, under Fendobar."

Navarre opened the ancient History with trembling fingers and found his way through the graying pages to Fendobar. He read aloud:

FENDOBAR. The larger of a double-star system in Galaxy RGC18347, giving its name to the entire system. It is ringed by eight planets, only one inhabited and likewise known as Fendobar.

Because of its strategic location, just eleven light-years from the Earth system, Fendobar was of extreme importance in the attack on Earth (which see). Starships were customarily refueled on Fendobar before . . .

. . . coordinates . . .

. . . the inhabitants of . . .

"Most of it's illegible," Navarre said, looking up. "But there's enough here to prove that there was an Earth—and it was only eleven light-years from Fendobar."

"Wherever Fendobar was," Helna said.

There was silence in the vault for a moment. Navarre said to the librarian finally, "There's no way you can recall the volume dealing with Earth, is there? In it we could find Earth's coordinates and everything else. Our quest would be shortened if—"

He stopped. The Genobonian looked at him slyly. "Do you plan to visit your homeland, Earthmen?" "Possibly. None of your business."

"As you wish. But the answer is no; the volume cannot be recalled. It was shipped out with others of its era last year, sometime before the great eclipse, I believe—or was it the year before? Well, no matter; I remember not where the book was sent. We scatter our excess over every eager library within a thousand fight-years."

"And there's no way you could remember?" Carso demanded. "Not even if we refreshed your memory?" The half-breed's thick hands shot around the Genobonian's scaly neck, but Navarre slapped him away.

"He's probably telling the truth, Domrik. And even if he isn't, there's no way we can force him to find the volume for us."

Helna brightened suddenly. "Navarre, if we could find this Fendobar, do you think it would help us in the quest for Earth?"

"It would bring us within eleven light-years," Navarre said. "That's a goodly jump toward finding Earth. But how? The coordinates are illegible!"

"The Oligocrat's scientists are shrewd about restoring faded books," the girl said. She turned to the Genobonian. "Librarian, may we borrow this book a while?" .

"Impossible! No book may be withdrawn from a closed track at any time!"

Helna scowled prettily. "But if they only rot here and eventually are shipped off at random, why make such a to-do about them? Come; let us have this book."

"It is against all rules."

Helna shrugged and nodded to Navarre, who said, "Step on him, Carso. Here's a case where violence is justified."

The half-breed advanced menacingly toward the Genobonian, who scuttled away.

"Should I kill him?" Carso asked.

"Yes," said Helna instantly. "He's dangerous. He can report us."

"No," Navarre said. "The serpent's a gentle old creature who lives by his rules and loves his books. Just tie him up, Carso, and hide him behind a pile of rotting books. He won't be found till tonight—or next year, perhaps. By which time, we'll be safely on our way."

He handed the book to Helna. "Let's go. Well see what the Oligocrat's scientists can do with these faded pages."

The small ship spiraled to a graceful landing on the massive planet.

"This might well be Kariad," Helna said. "I am used to the sight of double stars in the skies."

Direcdy overhead, the massive orb that was Fendobar bumed brightly; further away, a dim dab of light indicated the location of the huge star's companion.

"Even this far away," Navarre said, "it seems like home. The universe remains constant."

"And somewhere eleven light-years ahead of us lies Earth," grunted Carso.

They had traveled more than a billion light-years, an immensity so vast that even Helna's personal cruiser, a warp-ship which was virtually instantaneous on stellar distances of a few thousand light-years, had required a solid week to make the journey.

And now, where were they? Fendobar—a world left far behind out of the main currents of galactic history, a world orbiting a bright star in a galaxy known only as RGC18347. A world eleven light-years from Earth.

The Oligocrat's scientists had restored the missing coordinates as Helna had anticipated, and the three of them had said an abrupt good-bye to Kariad. They had swept out into space, into the subwarp and across the tideless seas of a billion light-years. They were driving back, back into humanity's past, into Galaxy RGC 18347—the obscure galaxy from which mankind had sprung.

They had narrowed the field. Navarre had never thought they would get this far.

"We seek Earth, friend," Navarre told the aged chieftain who came out supported by two young children to greet the arriving ship.

"Earth? Earth? What be this?"

The old man's accents were strange and barely understandable. Navarre fumed. "This is Fendobar, isn't it?"

"Fendobar? The name of this world is Mundahl. I know no place called Fendobar."

Carso looked worried. "You don't think we made some mistake, do you, Hallam? The coordinates in that old book-maybe they weren't interpreted right. Maybe—"

"We'll see. Names change in thirty thousand years, don't forget." Navarre leaned close to the oldster. "Do you study the stars, old man?"

"Not I. But there is a man in our village who does. He knows many strange things."

"Will you take us to him?" asked Navarre.

The astronomer proved to be a withered old man who might have been the twin of the chieftain. The Earthmen entered his thatched hut and were surprised to see many shelves of books, tapes, and an unexpected, efficient-looking telescope.

He tottered forward to greet them.

"Yes?"

"Bremoir, these people search for Earth. Know you the place?"

A slow frown spread over the astronomer's wrinkled face. "The name has a familiar sound to it. Let me search my charts." He unrolled a thin, terribly fragile-looking sheet of paper covered with tiny marks.

"Earth is the name of the planet," Navarre said. "It revolves around a sun called Sol. We know that the system is some eleven light-years from here."

The ancient astronomer pored over his charts, scowling in concentration and scratching his leathery neck. After a while he glanced up.

"There is indeed a sun-system at the distance you give. Nine planets revolve about a small yellow sun. But those names . . . ?"

"Earth was the planet's name. Sol was the sun."

"Earth? Sol? There are no such names on my charts. The star's name is Dubihsar."

"And the third planet?"

"Velidoon."

Navarre looked away. Dubihsar. Velidoon. In thirty thousand years, names change.

But could Earth forget its own name so soon?

There was a yellow sun ahead. Navarre stared at it hungrily through the fore viewplate, letting its brightness burn into his eyes.

"There it is," he said. "Dubihsar. Sol."

"And the planets?" Carso asked.

"There are nine." Navarre peered at the crumbling book the old astronomer had found for him finally, after long hours of search and thought. The book with the forgotten names of the worlds. Navarre counted off: "Pluto, Neptune, Uranus, Jupiter, Saturn, Mars, Venus, Mercury. And Earth."

"Earth," Helna said. "Soon we'll be on Earth."

Navarre frowned broodingly. "I'm not so sure I actually want to land, now that we've found it. I know what Earth's going to be like—just like Fendobar. It's a dreadful thing when a world forgets its own name."

"Nonsense, Hallaml" Carso was jovial. "Earth is Earth, whether its people know it or not. We've come this far; let's land, at least, before turning back. Who knows? We may even find the Chalicel"

"The Chalice," Navarre repeated quietly. "I had almost forgotten the Chalice." Chuckling, he said, "Poor Joroiran will never forgive me if I return without it."

Nine planets. One spun in an eccentric orbit billions of miles from the small yellow star; three others were giant worlds, unlivable; a fifth, ringed with cosmic debris, was not yet solidified. A sixth was virtually lost in the blazing heat of the sun.

There were three remaining worlds—Mars, Venus and Earth, according to the book. The small craft fixed its sights on the green world. Earth.

Navarre was first from the ship; he sprang down the catwalk and stood in the bright warm sunlight, feet planted firmly in sprouting green shoots nudging up from brown soil. Carso and Helna followed, leaving the ship a moment later.

"This is Earth," Navarre said. "We're probably the first from the main stream of galactic worlds to set foot here in thousands of years." He squinted off into the dense thicket of trees that ringed them. Creatures were appearing.

They looked like men—dwarfed, shrunken, twisted little men. They stood about four and a half feet tall, their feet bare, their middles swathed in hides. Yet despite their primitive appearance, in their faces could be- seen the unmistakable light of intelligence.

"Behold our cousins," Navarre murmured. "While we in the stars scrupulously kept our genes intact, they have become this."

Unafraid, the little men filed toward them, grouping themselves around the trio and their ship.

"Where be you from, strangers?" asked a flaxen-haired dwarf, evidently the leader.

"We are from the stars," Carso said. "From the world of Torus, he and I, and the girl from Kariad. But this planet is our homeworld. Our remote ancestors were born on Earth."

"Earth? You mistake, strangers. This world be Velidoon, and we be its people. You look naught like us, unless ye be in enchantment."

"No enchantment," Navarre said. "Our fathers lived on Velidoon when it was called Earth, many thousands of years past."

How can I tell them that we once ruled the universe? Navarre wondered. How can it he that these dwarfs are the sons of Earth?

The flaxen-haired little man grinned and said, "What would you on Velidoon, then?"

"We came merely to visit. We wished to see the world of our long-gone ancestors."

"Strange, to cross the sky merely to see a world. But come; let us take you to the village."

"In a mere hundred thousand years," Helna murmured, as they walked through the forest's dark glades. "From rulers of the universe to scrubby little dwarfs living in thatched huts."

"And they don't even remember the name of Earth," Carso added.

"It isn't surprising," said Navarre. "Don't forget that most of Earth's best men were killed defending the planet, and the rest—our ancestors—were "scattered all over the universe. Evidently the conquerors just left the dregs on Earth itself, and this is what they've become."

They turned past a clear, fast-flowing brook and emerged into an open dell, in which could be seen a group of huts not unlike those on Fendobar.

The yellow sun shone brightly and warmly; overhead, an arbor of colorful birds sang, and the forest looked fertile and young.

"This is a pleasant world," Helna said.

"Yes. Life here has none of the strain and stress of our system. Perhaps," Navarre suggested, "it's best to live on a forgotten planet."

"Look," Carso said. "Someone important is coming."

A procession advanced toward them, led by the little group who had found them in the forest. A wrinkled gray-beard, more twisted and bent than the rest, strode gravely toward them.

"You be the men from the stars?"

"I am Hallam Navarre, and these are Helna Winstin and Domrik Carso. We trace our ancestry from this world, many thousands of years ago."

"Hmm. Could be. I be Gluihn, leader of this tribe." Gluihn stepped back and scrutinized the trio. "It might well be," he said, studying them. "Yes, it could indeed. You say your remote fathers lived here?"

"When the planet was called Earth, and ruled all the worlds of the skies."

"I know nothing of that. But you look much like the Sleepers, and perhaps you be of that breed. They have lain here many a year themselves."

"What Sleepers?" Navarre asked.

"All in good time," said Gluihn. He squinted at the sky. "It was a nice day for your coming here. The sky is good."

"What of these Sleepers?" Navarre demanded again.

The old man shrugged. "They look to be of your size, though they lie down and are not easy to see behind their cloudy fluid. But they have slept for ages untold, and perhaps . . ."

Gluihn's voice trailed off. Navarre exchanged a sharp glance with his companions.

"Tell us about these Sleepers," Carso growled threateningly.

Now the old man seemed frightened. "I know nothing more. Boys, playing, stumbled over them not long ago, buried in their place of rest. We think they be alive."

"Can you take us there?"

"I suppose so," Gluihn sighed. He gestured to the flaxen-haired one. "Llean, take these three to look at the Sleepers."

"Here we are," the dwarf said.

A stubby hill jutted up from the green-carpeted plain before them, and Navarre saw that a great rock had been rolled to one side, baring a cave-mouth.

"Will we need lights?"

"No," said Llean. "It is lit inside. Go ahead in; 111 wait here. I care little to have a second look to see what lies in there."

Helna touched Navarre's arm. "Should we trust him?"

"Not completely. Domrik, stay here with this Llean and keep an eye on him. In case you hear us cry out, come running, and bring him with you."

Carso grinned. "Right."

Navarre took Helna's hand and hesitantly they stepped within the cave-mouth. It was like entering the gateway to some other world.

The cave's walls were bright with some form of electroluminescence, glowing lambently despite the fact that there was no visible light-source. The path of the light continued straight for some twenty yards, then snaked away at a sharp angle beyond which nothing could be seen.

Navarre and Helna reached the bend in the corridor and turned. A metal plaque of some sort was the first object their eyes met.

"Can you read it?" she asked.

"It's in an ancient language—no, it isn't at all. It's Galactic, but a terribly archaic form." He blew away the dust and rapidly scanned the inscription. He whistled.

"What does it say?"

"Listen:

" Within this crypt lie ten thousand men and women, placed here to sleep in the two thousandth year of Earth's galactic supremacy and the last year of that supremacy.

" 'Each of the ten thousand is a volunteer. Each has been chosen from the group of more than ten million volunteers for this project on a basis of physical condition, genetic background, intelligence, and adaptability to a varying environment.

" 'Earth's empire has fallen, and within weeks Earth herself will go under. But, regardless of what fate befalls us, the ten thousand sealed in this crypt will slumber on into the years to come, until such time as it will be possible for them to be awakened.

" 'To the finder of this crypt: the chambers may be opened simply by pulling the lever at the left of each sleeper. None of the crypts will open before ten thousand years have elapsed. The sleepers will lie here in this tunnel until the time for their release, and then will come spilling out as wine from a chalice, to restore the ways of doomed Earth and bring glory to the sons of tomorrow.'"

Navarre and Helna remained frozen for an instant after the final echoing words died away. In a hushed whisper he said, "Do you know what this is?"

She nodded. " As wine from a chalice . . .* " . "Beneath all the legends, beneath the shroud of myth-there was a Chalice," Navarre said fiercely. "A Chalice holding immortal life—sleepers who would sleep for all eternity if no one woke them. And when they were awakened—eternal life for doomed Earth.'"

"Shall we wake them now?" Helna asked.

"Let's get Carso. Let him be with us."

The half-breed responded to Navarre's call and appeared, dragging the protesting Llean with him.

"Let the dwarf go," Navarre said. "Then read this plaque."

Carso released the squealing Llean, who promptly dashed for freedom. When the half-breed had read the plaque, he turned gravely to Navarre.

"It seems we've found the Chalice after alll"

"It seems that way," Navarre said.

He led the way and they penetrated deeper into the crypt. After about a hundred yards he stopped. "Look."

A wall had been cut in one side of the cave and a sheet of some massively thick plastic inserted as a window. And behind the window, floating easily in a cloudy solution of some gray-blue liquid, was a sleeping woman. Her eyes were closed, but her breasts rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Her hair was long and flowing; otherwise, she was similar to any of the three watchers.

A lever of some gleaming metal projected about half a foot from the wall near her head. Carso reached for it, fingering the smooth metal questioningly. "Should we wake her up?"

"Not yet. There are more down this way."

The next chamber was that of a man, strong and powerful, his muscles swelling along his relaxed arms and his heavy thighs. Beyond him, another woman; then another man, stiff and determined-looking even in sleep.

"It goes on for miles," Helna murmured. "Ten thousand of them."

"What an army!" Carso said. He seemed to be staring down the long bright corridor as if peering ahead into the years to come. "A legacy from our ancestors: the Chalice holds life indeed. Ten thousand Earthmen ready to spring to life." His eyes brightened. "They could be the nucleus of the Second Galactic Empire."

"A bold idea," Helna said. "I like it."

"We could begin with Earth itself," Carso went on. "With these couples we could repopulate the planet with warriors. Then, conquer Kariad, Jorus—and that would be just the beginning!"

"No," Navarre broke in, quietly but firmly. "We are forgetting the experience of the old days. We—you—talk of building a Second Empire in a riotous suicidal mushroom of expansion. It's fool's talk to think of an Empire."

"What do you mean?" Carso asked in surprise.

"Earth carved out a galactic empire once," Navarre said. "You see the result. No; no Empire-building for us. We should be content to rebuild Earth alone, to have her take her place as a free and independent member of the galaxy. No more than that." Navarre grinned broadly. "Enough of this. Domrik, Joroiran will be proud of us! He sent us to find the Chalice, and we succeeded!"

Coming home to a planet that wasn't home was a bleak, painful business, Hallam Navarre thought. The Earthman stood alone in the midst of the crowd at the Jorus City Spaceport, letting the familiar colors and smells of Jorus become part of him again. He wondered just how much had changed in his year's absence.

One thing was certain: Kausirn had solidified his position with Joroiran. Perhaps, thought Navarre, the Lyrellan had been making ready against the eventual return of Navarre from his wild quest. He would soon find out.

He hailed a jetcab.

"To the palace," he said.

The driver shot off toward the main district of Jorus City. They took the chief highway as far as the Street of the Lords, swung round into Central Plaza, and halted outside the palace.

"One unit and six," the driver said. Navarre handed the man a bill and two coins and sprang out. He paused for a moment at the approach to the palace, looking up.

A year had gone by since the scheming Lyrellan had contrived to send him off on the fool's errand of searching for the Chalice. It had been a busy year.

Eight thousand of the reborn Earthmen from the Chalice Navarre had left on Earth, instructing them to marry and bring forth children. The remaining two thousand he had transported to the neighbor system of Procyon.

His plan was that the years would pass, and children would be born, and children's children. And a restored race of Earthmen would spring up to reunite their shattered home-world of thirty thousand years before.

Navarre smiled. If only he could keep his plan a secret for a few years, until they were ready . . .

Well, he thought, he would manage. But he was apprehensive about the sort of reception he would get in the Overlord's palace, where once he had been the power behind the man on the throne.

The place hadn't changed much, physically. There were still the accursed fifty-two steps to climb, still the black-walled corridor guarded by bland monoptics from Triz. But he became conscious of the first change when he reached the Trizians.

He chucked back the hood that covered his scalp, and, his status thus revealed, he started to go past. But one of the Trizians thrust out a horny palm and said, in a dull monotone voice, "Stop."

Navarre glared up angrily. "Have I been forgotten so quickly?"

"State your name and purpose here, Earthman."

"I'm Hallam Navarre, Earthman to the Court. I've just returned from a long mission on behalf of His Majesty. I want to see him."

"Wait here," the Trizian said. "I'll check within."

He waited impatiently. After a few moments the Trizian returned, followed by two armed members of the Overlord's personal guards—Daborians, tusked, vicious-looking seven-footers.

"Well?" Navarre demanded.

"I was unable to reach His Majesty. But the Lord Adviser wishes you brought to him for interrogation."

Navarre tensed. The Lord Adviser, eh? That undoubtedly meant Kausirn; the Lyrellan seemed to have coined a shiny new title for himself in Navarre's absence.

"Very well," he said resignedly. "Take me to the Lord Adviser."

Kausirn was sitting behind a desk about ten feet wide, in a luxuriously-appointed office one level beneath the main throne room. His pale, ascetic face looked waxier than ever —a sign of health among the Lyrellans, Navarre knew.

The Daborian guards at either side of Navarre nudged him roughly.

"Kneel in the presence of the Lord Adviser, Earthman!"

"That'll be all right," Kausirn said stiffly. He gestured dismissal to the guards with one dizzying wave of a ten-fingered hand. "Hello, Navarre. I hadn't expected to be seeing you so soon."

"Nor I you, Kausirn. Or is it Milord I should address you as?"

The Lyrellan smiled apologetically. "In your absence, Navarre, we thought it wise—the Overlord did, I mean—to consolidate your post and mine into one more lofty rank, and so the office of the Lord Adviser was created. Joroiran handles little of the tiresome routine of state now, by the way. He spends his days in contemplation and profound study."

That was a flat lie, Navarre thought. If ever a man had been born less fitted for a life of contemplation and profound study, that man was Joroiran VII, Overlord of Jorus.

Aloud he said, "I suppose you'll be happy to have some of the governmental burden lifted from your shoulders, Kausirn. I mean, now that I'm back."

The Lyrellan sighed and inspected his multitude of fingers. "This must yet be decided, Navarre."

"What?"

"The workings of our government have been quite smooth in the time you have not been with us. Perhaps His Majesty will not see his way clear to restoring you to your past eminence, inasmuch as you've failed to bring him that which he sent you forth to find. I speak of the Chalice, of course, and the immortality he so greatly desires."

"And what makes you so sure I failed to find the Chalice?" Navarre demanded bluntly. "How do you know?"

A faint smile crossed Kausirn's cold face. "Obviously you were not successful. The Chalice is a myth—as both you and I knew before you undertook your little pleasure cruise around the universe." He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Besides, if you had found the Chalice, would you bring it back for Joroiran, Earthman? No! You'd keep it for yourself!"

Navarre shrugged. "As you say, Kausirn. I found no Chalices for His Majesty. Still, I don't doubt but that he'll welcome me back to his service. The Overlords of Jorus have always found the advice of an Earthman useful to them."

Stern frigidity replaced the mocking warmth in Kausirn's eyes. "He has no need of you, Navarre."

"Let him tell me that. I demand to see him!"

"Today is Fourday," Kausirn said quietiy. "His Majesty holds public audiences on Threeday, as you should be well aware . . . unless you've forgotten. I suggest you return next week. If fate should fall upon you, you'll have ample chance to plead your case before His Majesty and myself at that time."

Unbelievingly, Navarre said, "You forbid me to see him? You want me to come like a commoner to seek his ear at a public audience? You must be mad, Kausirn!"

The Lyrellan shrugged humbly. "Mis Majesty is deep in meditation. I wouldn't dare break in on his contemplations— particularly since he made a point of telling me only last week that government was much simpler for him, now that he had but one adviser. You seem to be superfluous, Navarre."

The alien had done his job well, Navarre thought grimly. He started forward. "I'll see Joroiran with or without your word, Lyrellan! I don't need—"

Kausirn's fingers flickered almost imperceptibly. Suddenly Navarre felt thick Daborian fingers clutch each of his arms. He was drawn backward, away from the Lyrellan.

"Take the Earthman out of the palace," Kausirn commanded. "And don't let him back in."

There was nothing to be gained by resisting; these Da-borians would cheerfully break his arms at the first sign of struggle. Navarre scowled darkly at the Lyrellan and let himself be hustled out of the Lord Adviser's office, up the stairs, and out into the open.

End of plan one, Navarre thought bitterly, as he sat on a broad bench in the plaza facing the Palace.

He had hoped to regain his old position as Joroiran's right-hand adviser, with the eventual intention of making use of the Joran fleet as the nucleus of the reborn Terran space navy.

But Kausirn had moved swiftly and well, pushing Navarre completely out of influence.

He had to gain the ear of the Overlord. But how, if Kausirn governed all approaches?

Navarre looked up as a vendor came by, hawking confections.

"One for you, Sir Earthman? A sweet puff, perhaps? A lemon tart?"

Navarre shook his head. "Sorry, old one. I don't crave sweets now."

He glanced down at his shoes, but the old vendor did not go away. He remained before the Earthman, peering intently at him as if deeply interested.

Navarre sat patiently for a moment or two, and then, exasperated, said, "I told you, I don't want anything. Will you go away, now?"

"You are Hallam Navarre," the old man said softly, ignoring the Earthman's impatient outburst. "Returned at last!" The vendor dropped down on the bench alongside Navarre. "For weeks I have tried to see the Lyrellan, Kausirn, to plead my case. I have always been turned away. But now you have come back to Jorus—and justice with you!"

Navarre eyed the old man curiously. "You have a suit to place before the Overlord?"

"Nine weeks I have come to the Palace on Threeday, and nine times I have been pased over. I try—"

Navarre held up one hand and said sadly, "I'm afraid my help would be doubtful at the moment. I have my own troubles with the Lyrellan."

"No!" The old man was pop-eyed with astonishment. "Even you! The many-fingered one weaves a tight web, then. I fear for Jorus, Earthman. I had hoped, seeing you . . ." His voice trailed off hopelessly.

"Not a word of this to anyone," Navarre cautioned. "But I have a private audience arranged with Joroiran for later this day. Perhaps things will improve after that."

"I hope so," the vendor said fervently. "And then will you hear my suit? My name is Molko of Dorvil Street. Will you remember me?"

"Of course."

Navarre rose and began to stroll back toward the palace. So, he thought, even the people were discontented and unhappy over the role the Lyrellan played in governing Jorus? Perhaps, Navarre reflected, I could turn that to some advantage.

And as for the "private audience with Joroiran" he had just invented, possibly that could be brought about after all. Navarre pulled up his hood to shield his bald scalp from view, and walked more briskly toward the palace.

VII

Seven generations of Navarres had served seven generations of the Joroiran Overlords of Jorus. The relationship could be traced back three hundred years, to brave Joroiran I, who, with Voight Navarre at his side, had cut his empire from the decaying carcass of the festering Starkings' League which had succeeded Earth's galactic empire.

The Joroiran strain had weakened, evidently; the seventh of the line had allowed himself to be persuaded by an opportunistic Lyrellan to do without an Earthman's advice. And so Navarre had been sent forth on the quest of the Chalice. But he knew he could use his seventh-generation familiarity with the palace surroundings to find his way back in.

Hooded, cowled, deliberately rounding his shoulders, Navarre shuffled forward down the flowered path to the service entrance of the Overlord's palace.

Bowed diffidently, Navarre touched the entrance buzzer, then drew back his hand in mock fright. A televisor system within was, he knew, spying on him; he had put the practice into operation himself to ward off would-be assassins.

A window in the door pivoted upward; a cold Joran face appeared—an unfamiliar face.

"Yes?"

"I am expected within." Navarre constricted his throat so his voice would be little more than a choked whisper. "I am Molko of Dorvil Street, vendor of sweets to His Majesty. I wish to see the Royal Purchase Officer."

"Hmm. Well enough," the guard grunted. "You can come in."

The burnished door hoisted. Navarre groaned complain-ingly and moved forward step by step, as if his legs were rotted by extreme age.

"Get a move on, old man!"

"I'm coming . . . patience, please! Patience!"

The door clanged down hard behind him. He pulled his cowl down tighter around his ears. The Purchasing Office was on the third level, two flights upward, and the liftshaft was not far ahead.

"I know the way," he said to the guard. "You needn't help me."

He tottered along the corridor until he reached the lift-shaft, stepped in, and quickly pressed the stud labeled 2. A moment later he nudged the adjoining stud, the one marked 3.

The liftshaft door slid noiselessly shut; the tube rose and stopped at the second level. Navarre stepped out, stepped back in, and pressed 7.

Knowing the system was an immeasurable advantage to him. The stops of the liftshaft could be monitored from the first level; thus, if the old vendor were to claim to be going to 3 and should go to 7 instead—the Overlord's floor—there would be cause for immediate suspicion. But he had carefully thrown confusion behind him, now. There was no certain way of knowing who it was who had seemed to enter the liftshaft on the second level.

He waited patiently while the door opened and shut on the third level; then it went up to the seventh.

Navarre emerged, shuffling wearily along the character of the old vendor. He knew precisely where Joroiran's private study was located, and, more, he knew precisely how to get there. He counted his steps . . . eleven, twelve, thirteen. He paused thirteen steps from the liftshaft, leaned against the wall, waited.

Counterweighted balances sighed softly and the wall swung open, offering a crevice perhaps wide enough for a cat to pass through. Navarre was taking no chances. He squeezed through and kicked the counterweight, sealing the corridor wall again.

Now he found himself in an inner corridor. A televisor screen cast an invisible defensive web across the hall, but again Navarre had the considerable benefit of having devised the system himself. He neatly extracted a fuse from a concealed panel in the dark stone of the corridor wall, and walked ahead in confidence.

Joroiran's study door was unmarked by letter or number. Again, Navarre's doing. He huddled deep into his robes, listened carefully for any sound of conversation coming from within, and, hearing none, knocked three times, then once, then once again. It was a signal he had used with the Overlord for years.

Silence for a moment. Then: "Who's there?" in the hesitant, high-pitched voice of the Overlord. "Are you alone, Majesty?"

Through the door came the petulant reply: "Who are you to ask questions of me? Speak up or I'll summon the guards to deal with you!"

It was Joroiran in his most typically blustery mood. Speaking in his natural voice Navarre said, "Have you forgotten this knock, Majesty?"

He knocked again.

Suspiciously, from within: "Is this a joke?"

"No, Majesty. I have come back." He threw back his hood and let Joroiran's televisors pick up his face and shaven scalp.

After a moment the door opened perhaps half an inch.

"Navarre!" came the whisper from within. The opening widened, and Navarre found himself face to face with his sovereign, Joroiran VII of Torus.

The year had changed Joroiran, Navarre saw. The Overlord wore a shabby gray lounging-robe instead of his garments of state; without the elaborate strutwork that puffed out his frame when he appeared in public, he looked vaguely rat-like, a little bit of a man who had been thrust into a vast job by some ironic accident of birth.

His eyes were ringed with dark shadows; his cheeks were hollower than Navarre remembered them to have been. He said, "Hello, Navarre," in a tired, husky voice that had none of the one-time splendor of an Overlord.

"I'm happy to be back, Sire. My journey was a long and tiring one. I hope I didn't disturb your meditations by coming to you this way . . ."

"Of course not."

"Oh. Kausirn said you were too busy to be seen just now." Navarre chose his words carefully. "He told me you had recently said I was superfluous."

Joroiran frowned. "I don't recall your name having come up in discussion between us for the better part of a year," he said. "I recall no such decision. You've always been a valuable adjunct to the Court." The sudden pose of regality slipped away abruptly, and in a tired voice the Overlord said, "But then what I recall doesn't matter. Navarre, I should never have sent you away from the court."

Despite himself Navarre felt a sense of pity for the de-feated-looking monarch. Evidently Kausim had usurped more of the Overlord's power than Navarre had suspected.

"A year has passed since I was last here," Navarre said. "In that time—"

"In that time," Joroiran said mournfully, "Kausirn has taken increasing responsibility upon himself. About my only remaining official duty is to 'hold the Threeday audiences—and if he didn't fear the force of public opinion he'd soon be doing that himself."

Navarre's face took on an expression of shock. "You mean that while I've been gone he's seized some of the regal power?"

"I'm little more than a prisoner in the palace these days, Navarre."

"He said you spent your time meditating, in serious contemplation," Navarre began.

"I?" Joroiran pointed to the endless rows of books lining the walls. "You know as well as I, Navarre, that I never touch these books. I stare at them day after day. They haunt me with their memories of the past—of Overlords who ruled, instead of being ruled themselves." Joroiran flushed. "But I talk on too much. I sent you on a mission. What of it?"

Anticipation gleamed in the Overlord's sallow face.

"Failed," Navarre said bluntly, at once.

"Failed?"

"The Chalice is a hoax, a legend, a will-o'-the-wisp. For a year I pursued it, searching trail after trail, always finding nothing but dreams and phantasms at the end. After a year of such pursuit I decided I could be of better use to Your Majesty back here on Jorus. I returned—and found this."

Joroiran's face was bleak. Disappointment was evident. "I had hoped you might find the Chalice. But to five forever? Why? For what, now that—" He shook his head. "But you have come back. Perhaps things will change."

Impulsively Navarre seized the Overlord's hand. "I feared Kausirn's encroachments, but there was no way of pointing out the pattern of things to Your Majesty a year ago. Now that I have returned—and the shape of events is clearer to all—I can help you. You let Kausirn poison your mind against me.

"A fool's error," Joroiran said bitterly.

"But not of permanent harm. The Lyrellan will certainly not be able to defy you openly once you restore me—"

The sudden sound of clicking relays made the Earthman whirl. He spun to see the Overlord's door fly open. Kausirn stepped into the chamber.

"Away from that traitor, Sire!"

Navarre stared into the snout of a sturdy blaster held firmly in the Lyrellan's polydactyl hand.

Kausirn strode swiftly to the center of the room and ordered Navarre to one side with a brusque gesture. The Earthman obeyed; it was obvious that Kausirn would relish an opportunity to use that blaster.

Suddenly Joroiran drew himself up with a pale semblance of regality and said, "Why the gun, Kausirn? This is most unseemly. I have reinstated Navarre. As of this moment he is your fellow Adviser. I won't tolerate your uncivil behavior in here."

Good for him, Navarre thought, smiling inwardly. At least he had succeeded in winning Joroiran over, then. But would it matter, with Kausirn armed?

Turning, the Lyrellan chuckled gravely. "I mean no disrespect, Sire, but I took the liberty of listening outside Your Majesty's door for some moments. He told you, did he not, that he had failed to find the Chalice?"

"He told me that," the Overlord admitted. "What of it? The Chalice is only a legend. It was foolish of me to send him chasing it. If I hadn't listened to you—"

"The Chalice exists," the Lyrellan said tightly. "And Navarre would use it as a weapon against youl"

"He's insane," Navarre snapped. "I spent a year tracing the Chalice and found nothing but false trails. It was all a trick of his to get me from Jorus, Sire, but—"

"Silence," Kausirn ordered. "Majesty, the Chalice is a crypt, located on the ancient planet Earth. It contained ten thousand sleepers—men and women of Earth, suspended since the days of Earth's empire. I tell you Navarre has wakened these sleepers and plans to make them the nucleus of a reestablished Terran empire. He intends the destruction of Jorus and all other worlds that stand in his way."

Dumbstruck, Navarre had to fight to keep his mouth from sagging open in astonishment. How could Kausirn possibly know?

"This is incredible," Navarre protested. "Sleepers, indeed! Sire, I ask you—"

"There is no need for discussion," said Kausirn. "I have the proof with me."

He drew a gleaming plastic message-cube from his tunic pocket and handed it to the Overlord. "Play this, Sire. Then judge' which one of us betrays you and which seeks your welfare."

Taking the cube, Joroiran stepped to one side and converted it to playback. Navarre strained his ears but was unable to pick up more than faint murmurs. When the message had run its course, the ruler returned, glaring bitterly at Navarre.

"I hardly know which of you to trust less," he said somberly. "You, Kausirn, who has made a figurehead of me—or you, Navarre." He scowled. "Earthman, you came in here with sweet words, but this cube tells me that every word was a lie. You would help overthrow Kausirn only to place yourself in command. I never expected treachery from you, Navarre."

He turned to Kausirn. "Take him away," he ordered. "Have him killed. And do something about these ten thousand awakened Earthmen. Send a fleet to Earth to destroy them." Joroiran sounded near tears; he seemed to be choking back bitter sobs before each words. "And leave me alone. I don't want to see you any more today, Kausirn. Go run Jorus, and let me weep."

The little monarch looked from Kausirn to the stunned Earthman. "You are both betrayers. But at least Kausirn will allow me the pretense of ruling. Go. Away!"

"At once, Sire," said the Lyrellan unctuously.

He jabbed the blaster in Navarre's ribs. "Come with me, Earthman. The Overlord wishes privacy."

VIII

The lower depths of the Overlord's palace were damp and musty—intentionally so, to increase a prisoner's discomfort. Navarre huddled moodily in a cell crusted with wall-lichens, hstening to the steady pacing of the bulky Daborian guard outside.

Not even Kausirn had cared to kill him in cold blood. Navarre had not expected mercy from the Lyrellan, but evidently Kausirn was anxious to observe the legal formalities. There would be a public trial, its outcome carefully predetermined and its course well rehearsed, followed by Navarre's degradation and execution.

It made sense. A less devious planner than Kausirn might have gunned Navarre down in a dark alcove of the palace and thereby rid himself of one dangerous enemy. But by the public exposure of Navarre's infamy, Kausirn would not only achieve the same end but would also cast discredit on the entire line of Earthmen.

Navarre cradled his head in his hands, feeling the tiny stubbles of upshooting hair. For a year, he had let his hair grow; the year he had spent in the distant galaxy that held Earth and Procyon. But at the end of the year, when the seeding of Procyon was done and already half a thousand new Earthmen had been born, Helna and Domrik Carso and Navarre had come together, and they had decided the time had come for them to return to the main starways.

"It's best," Carso had growled. "You stay away too long and it's possible Joroiran may decide to trace you. You never can tell. If we remain here, we may draw susupicion to the project. I yote that we go back."

Helna had agreed. "I'll return to Kariad, you to Jorus," she told Navarre. "We can enter once again the confidences of our masters. Perhaps we can turn that to some use in the days to come."

Now, trapped in a cell, Navarre wondered how Kausirn had found out his plans, how the Lyrellan had known that a new race of Earthmen was rising in Galaxy RGC18347. It was too accurate to be a mere guess. Had they been followed this past year?

Navarre frowned. Somehow his defenseless ten thousand would have to be warned. But first—escape.

He squinted through the murk at the Daborian guard who paced without. Daborians were fierce warriors, thought Navarre, but the species was not overlong on brains. He eyed the tusked one's seven-foot bulk appreciatively.

"Holla, old one, your teeth rot in your head!"

"Quiet, Sir Earthman. You are not to speak."

"Am I to take orders from a moldering corpse of a warrior?" Navarre snapped waspishly. "Fie, old one. You frighten me not."

"I am ordered not to speak with you."

"For fear I'd befuddle your slender brain and escape, eh? Milord Kausirn has a low opinion of your kind, I fear. I remember him saying of old that a Daborian's usefulness begins below the neck. Not so, moldy one?"

The Daborian whirled and peered angrily into Navarre's cell. His polished tusks glinted brightly. Navarre put a hand between the bars and tugged at the alien's painstakingly combed beard. The Daborian howled.

"It surprises me the beard did not come off in my hand," Navarre said.

The Daborian grunted a curse and jabbed his fist through the bars; Navarre laughed, dancing lightly back. Mockingly he offered three choice oaths, from the safety of the rear of his cell.

The Daborian, he knew, could rend him into four quivering chunks if he ever got close enough. But that was not going to happen. Navarre stationed himself perhaps a yard from the bars and continued to rail at the guard.

Maddened, the Daborian reversed his gun and hammered at Navarre with the butt. The first wild swing came within an inch of laying open the Earthman's skull; on the second, Navarre managed to seize the slashing butt. He tugged with sudden strength. He dragged the rifle halfway from the guard's grasp, just enough to get his own hands on the firing stud.

The bewildered Daborian yelled just once before Navarre dissolved his face. A second blast finished off the electronic lock that sealed shut the cell.

Fifteen minutes later Navarre returned to the warm sunlight, a free man, in the garb of a Daborian guard.

Verru, the wigmaker of Dombril Street, was a pale, wizened little old Joran who blinked seven or eight times as the stranger slipped into his shop, locking the door behind him and holding a finger to his Hps for silence.

Wordlessly, Navarre slipped behind the counter, grasped the wigmaker's scrawny arm, and drew him back through the arras into his stockroom. There he said, "Sorry for the mystery, wigmaker. I feel the need for your services."

"You are not a Daborian!"

"The face belies the uniform," Navarre said. He grinned, showing neat, even teeth. "My tusks don't quite meet the qualifications. Nor my scalp." He lifted his borrowed cap.

Verru's eyes widened. "An EarthmanF'

"Indeed. I'm looking for a wig for—ah—a masquerade. Have you anything in Kariadi style?"

The trembling wigmaker said, "One moment."

He bustled through a score or more of boxes before producing a glossy black headpiece. "Here I"

"Affix it for me," Navarre said.

Sighing, the wigmaker led him to a mirrored alcove and sealed the wig to his scalp. Navarre examined his reflection approvingly. In all but color, he might pass for a man of Kariad.

"Well done," he said. Reaching below his uniform for his money-pouch, he produced two green bills of Imperial scrip. One he handed-to the wigmaker, saying, "This is for you. As for the other—go into the street and wait there until a Kariadi about my size comes past. Then somehow manage to entice him into your store, making use of the money."

"This is very irregular. Why must I do these things, Sir Earthman?"

"Because otherwise I'll have you flayed. Now go!" The wigmaker went.

Navarre took up a station behind the shopkeeper's door, clutching his gun tightly, and waited. Five minutes passed.

Then he heard the wigmaker's voice outside, tremulous, unhappy.

"I beg you, friend. Step within my shop a while."

"Sorry, wigmaker. No need for your trade have I."

"Good sir, I ask it as a favor. I have an order for a wig styled in your fashion. No, don't leave. I can make it worth your while. Here. This will be yours if you'll let me sketch your hair style. It will be but a moment's work . . ."

Navarre grinned. The wigmaker was shrewd.

"Well, if it's only a moment, then. I guess it's worth a hundred units to me if you like my hair style."

The door opened. Navarre drew back and let the wigmaker enter. Behind him came a Kariadi of about Navarre's general size and build.

Navarre brought his gun butt down with stunning force on the back of the Kariadi's head, and caught him as he fell.

"These crimes in my shop, Sir Earthman—"

"Are in the name of the Overlord," Navarre told the quivering wigmaker. He knelt over the unconscious Kariadi and began to strip away his clothing.

"Lock your door," he ordered. "And get out your blue dyes. I have more work for you."

The job was done in thirty minutes. The Kariadi, by this time awake and furious, lay bound and gagged in the wig-maker's stockroom, clad in the oversize uniform of Joroiran's Daborian guard. Navarre, a fine Kariadi blue in color from forehead to toes, and topped with a shining mop of black Kariadi hair, grinned at the grunting prisoner.

"You serve a noble cause, my friend. It was too bad you had to be treated so basely."

"Mmph! Mgggl!"

"Hush," Navarre whispered. He examined his image in the wigmaker's mirror. Resplendent in a tight-fitting Kariadi tunic, he scarcely recognized himself. He drew forth the Kariadi's wallet and extracted his money, including the hundred-unit Joran note the wigmaker had given him.

"Here," he said, stuffing the wad of bills under the Kariadi's leg. "I seek only your identity, not your cash." He added another hundred-unit note to the wad, gave yet another to the wigmaker, and said, "You'll be watched. If you free him before an hour has elapsed, I'll have you flayed in Central Plaza."

"I'll keep him a month, Sir Earthman, if you command it." The wigmaker was green with fright.

"An hour will be sufficient, Verru. And a thousand thanks for your help in this matter." Giving the panicky old man a noble salute, Navarre adjusted his cape, unlocked the shop door, and stepped out into the street.

He hailed a passing jetcab.

"Take me to the spaceport," he said, in a guttural Kariadi accent.

As he had suspected, Kausirn had posted guards at the spaceport. He was stopped by a pair of sleek Joran secret-service men—he recognized the tiny emblem at their throats, having designed it himself at a time when he was more in favor on Jorus—and was* asked to produce his papers.

He offered the passport he had taken from the Kariadi. They gave it a routine look-through and handed it back.

"How come the look-through?" he asked. "Somebody back there said you were looking for a prisoner who escaped from the Overlord's jail. There any truth in that?"

"Where'd you hear that story?"

Navarre shrugged innocently. "He was standing near the refreshment dials. Curious-looking fellow—he wore a hood, and kept his face turned away from me. Said the Overlord had captured some hot-shot criminal, or maybe it was an assassin. But he got away. Say, are Jorus' dungeons so easily unsealed?"

The secret-service men exchanged troubled glances. "What color was this fellow?"

"Why, he was pink—like you Jorans. Or maybe he was an Earthman. I couldn't see under that hood, of course, but he might very well have been shaven, y'know. And I couldn't see his eyes. But he may still be there, if you're interested."

"We are. Thanks."

Navarre grinned wryly and moved on toward the ticket booths as the secret-service men dashed down toward the direction of the refreshment dials. He hoped they would have a merry time searching through the crowd.

But the fact that he was effecting a successful escape afforded him little actual joy. The Lyrellan knew of his plans, now, and the fledgling colonies of Earthmen in Galaxy RGC18347 were in great danger.

He boarded the liner, cradled in, and awaited blast-off impatiently, consuming time by silently parsing the irregular Kariadi verbs.

Customs-check was swift and simple on Kariad. The Kariadi customs officers paid little attention to their own nationals; it was outworlders they kept watch for. Navarre merely handed over his passport, made out in the name of Melwod Finst, and nodded to the customs official's two or three brief questions. Since he had no baggage, he obviously had nothing to declare.

He moved on, into the spaceport. The money-changing booths lay straight ahead and he joined the line, reaching the slot twenty minutes later. He drew forth his remaining Joran money, some six hundred units in all, and fed it to the machine.

Conversion was automatic; the changer clicked twice and sprewed eight hundred and three Kariadi credit-bills back at him. He folded them into his pocket and continued on. There was no sign of pursuit, this time.

Deliberately he walked on through the crowded arcades for ten minutes more. Then, all seeming clear, he stepped into a public communicator booth, inserted a coin, and requested Information.

The directory-robot grinned impersonally at him. "Yours to serve, good sir."

"I want the number of Helna Winstin, Earthman to the Court of Lord Marhaill."

His coins came clicking back. The robot said, after the moment's pause necessary to fish the data from its sponge-platinum memory banks, "Four-oh-three-oh-six K Red."

Quickly Navarre punched out the number. On the screen appeared a diamond-shaped insignia framing an elaborate scrollwork M. A female voice said, "Lord Marhaill's. With whom would you speak?"

"Helna Winstin. The Earthman to the Court."

"And who calls her?"

"Melwod Finst. I'm but newly returned from Jorus."

After a pause the Oligocrat's emblem dissolved, and Helna Winstin's head and shoulders took their place on the screen. She looked outward at Navarre cautiously; her face seemed paler than ever, the cheekbones more pronounced. She had shaved her scalp not long before, he noticed.

"Milady, I am Melwod Finst of Kariad West. I crave a private audience with you at once."

"You'll have to make regular application, Freeholder Finst. I'm very busy just now. You—"

Her eyes went wide as the supposed Finst tugged at his frontmost lock of hair, yanking it away from his scalp sufficiently far enough to show where the blue skin color ended and where the pale white began. He replaced the lock, pressing it down to rebind it to his scalp, and grinned. The grin was unmistakable.

"I have serious matters to discuss with you, Milady," Navarre said. "My seedling farm is in serious danger. The crop is threatened by hostile forces. This concerns you, I believe."

She nodded. "I believe it does. Let us arrange an immediate meeting, Melwod Finst."

They met at the Two Suns, a refreshment place not too far from the spaceport. Navarre, who was unfamiliar with Kariad, was not anxious to travel any great distance to meet Helna; since he was posing as an ostensible Kariadi, an undue lack of familiarity on his part with his native world might seem suspicious.

He arrived at the place long before she did. They had arranged that he was to find her, not she him; not seeing her at any of the tables, he took a seat at the bar.

"Rum," he said. He knew better than to order the vile Kariadi beer.

He sat alone, nursing his drink, grunting noncommitally any time a local barfly attempted to engage him in conversation. Thirty minutes and three rums later, Helna arrived. She paused just inside the door of the place, standing regally erect as she looked around for him.

Navarre slipped away from the bar and went up to her.

"Milady?"

She glanced inquisitively at him.

"I am Melwod Finst," he told her gravely. "Newly come from Jorus."

He led her to a table in the back, drew a coin from his pocket, and purchased thirty minutes of privacy. The dull blue of the force-screen sprang up around them. During the next half hour they could carouse undisturbed, or make love, or plot the destruction of the galaxy.

Helna said, "Why the disguise? Where have you been? What-"

"One question at a time, Helna. The disguise I needed in order to get off Jorus. My old rival Kausirn has laid me under sentence of death."

"How can he?"

"Because he knows our plan. Kausirn's spies are more ingenious than we think. I heard him tell the Overlord everything—where we were, the secret of the Chalice, our eventual hope of rebuilding the civilization of Earth."

"You denied it, naturally."

"I said it was madness. But he had some sort of documentary evidence he gave the Overlord, and Joroiran was immediately convinced. Just after I had won him over, too." Navarre scowled. "I managed to escape and flee here in this guise, but we'll have to block them before they send a fleet out to eradicate the settlements on Earth and Procyon. Where's Carso?"

Helna shrugged. "He's taken cheap lodgings somewhere in the heart of the city while he waits for word from you that his banishment is revoked. I don't see much of him these days."

"Small chance he'll get unbanished now," Navarre said.

"Let's find him. The three of us will have to decide what's to be done."

He rose. Helna caught him by one wrist and gendy tugged him back into his seat.

"Is the emergency that pressing?" she asked. "Well ..."

"We've got twenty minutes more of privacy paid for— should we waste it? I haven't seen you for a month, Hallam."

"I guess twenty minutes won't matter much," he said, grinning.

They found Carso later that day, sitting in a bar in downtown Kariad City, clutching a mug of Kariadi beer in his hand. The half-breed looked soiled and puffy-faced; his scalp was dark with several days' growth of hair, his bushy beard untrimmed and unkempt.

He looked up in sudden alarm as Helna's hand brushed lightly along his shoulder. "Hello," he grunted. Then, seeing Navarre, he added, "Who's your friend?"

"His name is Melwod Finst. I thought you'd be interested in meeting him."

Carso extended a grimy hand. "Pleased."

Navarre stared unhappily at his erstwhile comrade, Filthy, drunken, ragged-looking, there was little of the Earthman left about Carso. True enough, Carso was a half-breed, his mother an Earthwoman—but now he seemed to have brought to the fore the worst characteristics of his nameless, drunken Joran father. He was a sad. sight.

Navarre slipped in beside the half-breed and gestured at the bowl of foul Kariadi beer. "I've never understood how you could drink that stuff, Domrik."

Carso wheeled heavily in his seat to look at Navarre. "I didn't know we were on first-name terms, friend. But—wait! Speak again!"

"You're a bleary-eyed sot of a half-breed," Navarre said in his natural voice.

Carso frowned. "That voice—your face—you remind me of someone. But he was not of Kariad."

"Nor am I," said Navarre. "Blue skin's a trapping easily acquired. As is a Kariadi wig."

Carso started to chuckle, hending low over the beer. At length he said, "You devil, you fooled me!"-

"And many another. There's a price on my head back on Torus."

"Eh?" Carso was abruptly sober; the merriment drained from his coarse-featured face. "What's that you say? Are you out of favor with the Overlord? I was counting on you to have that foolish sentence of banishment revoked and—"

"Kausirn knows our plans. I barely got off Jorus alive; even Joroiran is against me. He ordered Kausirn to send a fleet to destroy the settlement on Earth."

Carso bowed his head. "Does he know where Earth is? After all, it wasn't easy for us to find it in the first place."

"I don't know," Navarre said. He glanced at Helna. "Well have to find the old librarian who gave us the lead. Keep him from helping anyone else."

Carso said, "That's useless. If Kausirn knows about the Chalice and its contents, he also knows where the crypt was located and how to get there. At this moment the Jorus fleets are probably blasting our settlements. Here. Have a drink. It was a fine planet while it lasted, wasn't it?" _r

"No Joran spacefleet has left the Cluster in the last month," Helna said quietly.

Navarre looked up. "How do you know?"

"Oligocrat Marhaill has reason to suspect the doings on Jorus. He keeps careful watch over the Joran military installations, and whenever a Joran battlefleet departs on maneuvers we are apprised of it. This information is routed through me on its way to Marhaill. And I tell you that the Joran fleet has been absolutely quiet all this past month."

Reddening, Navarre asked, "How long has this sort of observation been going on?"

"Four years, at least."

Navarre slammed the flat of his hand against the stained table top. "Four years! That means you penetrated my alleged defensive network with ease . . . and all the time I was trying to set up a spy-system on Kariad, and failing!" He eyed the girl with new respect. "How did you do it?"

She smiled. "Secret, Navarre, secret! Let's maintain the pretense—I'm Earthman to Marhaill's C6urt, you to Joroiran's. It wouldn't be ethical for me to speak of such matters to you."

"WelJ enough. But if the fleet's not left yet, that means one of two things—either they're about to leave, or else they don't know where to go!"

"I lean toward the latter," said Carso. "Earth's a misty place. I expect they're desperately combing the old legends now for some hint."

"If we were to obtain three Kariadi battlecruisers, and ambush the Joran fleet as it came down on Earth . . ." Helna mused aloud.

"Could we?" Navarre asked.

"You're in Kariadi garb. What if I obtained an appointment in our space navy for you, Navarre? And then ordered you out with a secondary fleet on—ah—maneuvers? Say, to the vicinity of Earth?"

"And then I tell my crewmen that war has been declared between Jorus and Kariad, and set them to destroying the unsuspecting Joran fleet!" Navarre went on.

"Not destroying," said Helna. "Capturing! We make sure your battle wagons are equipped with tractor-beams—and that way we add the Joran ships to our growing Terran navy."

Carso gave his approval with a quick nod. "It's the only way to save Earth. If you can handle the appointments, Helna."

"Marhaill is a busy man. I can take care of him. Why, he was so delighted to see me return after a year's time that he didn't even ask me where I had been!"

Navarre frowned. "One problem. Suppose Kausirn doesn't know where^/Earth is? What if no Joran fleet shows up? I can't keep your Kariadron maneuvers forever out there, waiting for the enemy."

"Suppose," said Helna, "we make sure Kausirn knows. Suppose we tell him."

Carso gasped. "I may have been drinking, but I can't be that drunk. Did you say you'd tell Kausirn where our settlements are?"

"I did. It'll take the suspense out of the pressure of his threat. And it'll add a Joran fleet to a Kariadi one to form a nucleus of the new Terran navy—if the space battle comes out properly."

"And what if Kausim sends the entire Joran armada out against your puny three ships? What then?"

"He won't," said Navarre. "It wouldn't be a logical thing to do. Earth is known to be defenseless. Kausim wouldn't needlessly leave Jorus unguarded by sending out any more ships than he needs for the job."

"I still don't like the idea," Carso insisted, peering moodily at the oily surface of his beer. "I don't like the idea at all."

Foun days later Navarre, registered as Melwod Finst at the Hotel of the Red Sun, received an engraved summons to the Oligocrat's court, borne by a haughty Kariadi messenger in red wig and costly livery.

Navarre accepted the envelope and absently handed the courier a tip; insulted, the messenger drew back, sniffed at Navarre, and bowed stiffly. He left, looking deeply wounded.

Grinning, the Earthman opened the summons. It said:

By These Presents Be It Known

That Marhaill, Oligocrat of Kariad, does on behalf of himself and his fellow members of the Governing Council invite

MELWOD FINST of Kariad City to Court on the seventh instant of the current month.

The said Finst is therein to be installed in the Admiralty of the Navy of Kariad, by grace of private petition received and honored.

The invitation was signed only with the Oligocrat's monogram, the scrollwork M within the diamond. But to the right of that, in light pencil, were the initials H. W., scrawled in Helna's hand.

Navarre mounted the document on the mantel of his hotel room and mockingly bowed before it. "All hail, Admiral Finst! Melwod Finst of the Kariadi navy!"

Court was crowded the following day when Navarre, in a rented court costume, appeared to claim his Admiralty. The long throne room was lined on both sides with courtiers, members of the government, curious onlookers who had wangled admission, and those about to be honored.

Marhaill, Oligocrat of Kariad, sat enthroned at the far end of the hall, sprawled awkwardly with his long legs jutting in different directions. At his right sat Helna, befitting her rank as Earthman to the Court and chief adviser of Marhaill. On lesser thrones to both sides sat the eight members of the Governing Council, looking gloomy, dispirited, and bored. Their functions had atrophied; Kariad, once an authentic oligarchy, had retained the forms but not the manner of the ancient government. The Governing Council's only value was decorative.

It was an imposing tableau.

Navarre stood impatiently at attention for fifteen minutes, sweating under his court costume—and praying fervently that his dye would not run—until the swelling sound of an electronic trumpet called the assemblage to order.

Marhaill rose and made a brief but highly-charged speech, welcoming all and sundry to "court. Then Helna surreptitiously slipped a scroll into his hands, and he began to read, in a deep, magnificently resonant voice which Navarre suspected was his own, and not simply an artificially magnified tone produced by a microamplifier embedded in his larynx.

Navarre counted. His name was the sixty-third to be called; preceding him came three other new admirals, four generals, seven ministers plenipotentiary, and assorted knights of the realm. Evidently Marhaill believed in maintaining a goodly number of flashily-titled noble gentry on Kariad. It was a method for insuring loyalty and service, thought Navarre.

Finally:

, "Melwod Finst. For meritorious service to the realm of Kariad, for abiding and long-standing loyalty to our throne, for generous and warm-hearted qualities of person, and for skill in the arts of space. We show our deep gratitude by bestowing upon him the rank of Admiral in our space navy, with command of three vessels of war."

Navarre had been carefully coached in the procedure by Helna. When Marhaill concluded the citation, Navarre clicked his heels briskly, stepped out of the audience, and advanced toward the throne, head back, shoulders high.

He gave a crisp military salute. "Thanks to Your Grace," he said, kneeling.

Marhaill leaned forward and draped a red-and-yellow sash over Navarre's shoulders.

"Rise, Admiral Melwod Finst."

Rising, Navarre's eyes met those of Marhaill's. The Oligo-crat's eyes were deep, searching—but were they, he wondered, searching enough to discover that the new admiral was a shaven Earthman, renegade from Jorus? It didn't seem that way.

The shadow of a smile flickered across Navarre's face as he made the expected genuflection and backed away from the Oligocrat's throne. It was a strange destiny for an Earth-man: an admiral of Kariad. But Navarre had long since learned to take the strange in stride.

He knelt again before Helna, thus showing the gratitude due his sponsor, and melted back into the crowd, standing now in the colorfully-sashed line of those who had been honored. Marhaill called the next name. Navarre adjusted his admiral's sash proudly, and, standing erect, watched the remainder of the ceremony with deep and abiding interest.

The military spaceport closest to Kariad City was the home base of the Fifth Navy, and it was to this group that Helna had had Navarre assigned.

He reported early the following morning, introducing himself rather bluntly to the commanding officer of the base and requesting his ships. He was eyed somewhat askance; evidently such prompt action was not expected of a political appointee in the history of the Kariadi navy. In any event, a sullen-looking enlisted man drove Navarre out to the spaceport itself, where three massive first-class battle cruisers stood gleaming in the bright morning rays of Secundus, the yellow sun.

Navarre nearly whistled in surprise; he hadn't expected ships of this order of tonnage. He watched, delighted, as Kariadi spacemen swarmed over the three ships, getting them into shape for the forthcoming battle maneuvers. They weren't expecting an actual battle, but from their enthusiasm and vigor Navarre knew they would be grateful for the unexpected opportunity of experiencing actual combat.

"Very nice," he commented, whenever any of the base officers asked his opinion of his command ships. "Excellent ships. Excellent."

He met his staff of under-officers, none of whom seemed particularly impressed by their new commander. He shook hands coldly, rather flabbily. Since they all knew he was a political appointee, he was determined to act the part fully.

At noon he ate in the officers' supply room. He was in the midst of discussing his wholly fictitious background of tactical skills when a frightened young orderly came bursting in.

"What's the meaning of this disturbance?" Navarre demanded in a gruff voice.

"Are you Admiral Finst? Urgent message for Admiral Finst, sir. Came in over ton-priority wires from the palace just now."

"Hand it over, boy."

"Finst" took the sealed message, slid it open, read it. It said, Come back to palace at once. Treachery. Serious danger threatens. Helna.

"You look pale, Admiral," remarked an officer nearby.

"I've been summoned back to the palace," Navarre said brusquely. "Urgent conference. Looks very serious, I'm afraid. They need me in a hurry."

Suddenly all eyes swung toward the political appointee, who had in a moment revealed that he was actually a person of some importance.

"What is it, Finst? Has war been declared?"

"Sorry, I'm not at liberty to say anything now. Would you have a jet brought down for me? I must get to the palace at once."

Helna was pale and as close to tears as Navarre had ever seen her. She paced nervously through her private apartments in the palace as she told the story to him.

"It came in through my spy-web," she said. "We were monitoring all calls from Kariad to Jorus, and they taped— this!"

She held out a tape. Navarre stared 'at it. "Was it always standard practice to tape every call that goes through?"

"Hardly. But I suspected, and—here! Listen to it!"

She slipped the tape into a playback and activated the machine. The voice of an operator was heard, arranging a subspace call from Kariad to Jorus, collect.

Then came the go-ahead. A voice Navarre recognized instantly as that of the Lyrellan Kausirn said, "Well? This call is expensive. Speak up!"

"Kausirn? Carso here. I'm on Kariad. Got some news for you, Kausirn."

Navarre paled. Carso? Why was the half-breed calling Kausirn? Suspicion gnawed numbly at him as he listened to the unfolding conversation.

"What do you have to tell me?" came the Lyrellan's icy voice.

"Two things. The location of Earth, and something else. The first will cost you twenty thousand units, the second thirty thousand."

"You drive a hard bargain, Carso. We have our own clues about the whereabouts of Earth. Fifty thousand credits is no small amount for such information."

"You've heard the price, Kausirn. I don't really care, you know. I can manage. But you'll feel awful foolish when Navarre pulls what he's going to pull."

"Explain yourself."

"Fifty thousand credits, Kausirn."

A moment's silence. Then: "Very well. I'll meet your terms. Give me what you have to tell me."

Carso's heavy chuckle was heard, deep-throated, confident. "Cash first, talk later. Wire the money to the usual place. When it reaches me, Lord Adviser, I'll call back—collect."

The Lyrellan's angry scowl was easy to imagine. "You'll get your filthy money!"

Clickl

Helna said, "That's all we transcribed. The conversation took place at about 100 this morning. It-takes approximately two hours to wire money from Jorus to Kariad. That means Carso won't be calling back for a half hour yet."

"I can't believe it," Navarre muttered. He clenched his blue-stained fists. "But yet I heard it. Carso—selling us out!"

"He was only a half-breed," Helna said. "He didn't have the pure Terran blood. You heard him: he didn't care. It was just a chance to get money. All the time he journeyed with us to Earth, he was doing it simply as a lark, a playful voyage. The man has the morals of a worm!" ,

Broodingly Navarre said, "He was banished for killing an innkeeper in a fit of drunken rage. And if we hadn't stopped him he surely would have killed the old Genobonian librarian. Everything in his character was sullen and drunken and murderous, and we let him fool us! We thought he was a sort of noble savage, didn't we? And now he's sold us out to the Lyrellan!"

"Not yet. We can still stop him."

"I know. But obviously he's the one who betrayed us to Kausirn while I was on my way back to Jorus last month; heaven knows why he didn't give Kausirn the coordinates for Earth while he was at it. I guess he was holding out for a higher price—that's the only sensible explanation. Well, now Kausirn's met his price."

Navarre glanced at the clock. "Order a jetcab for me, Helna. I'm going to pay Carso a visit."

Carso's lodgings were close to the center of Kariad City, in a dilapidated old hotel that might have seen its best days during the long-gone time of the Starkings' League. There was something oppressively ancient about the street; it bore the numbing weight of thousands of years.

Navarre kept careful check on the passage of time. Hel-na's astonishingly efficient spy system was now monitoring the influx of wired cash from Jorus to Kariad. She would arrange that the fifty thousand units en route from Kausirn would be delayed in reaching Carso at least until 1300. The time was 1250 now.

Navarre left the cab half a block from Carso's lodging house, and covered the rest of the distance on foot. A tired-looking Brontallian porter slouched behind the desk in the lobby, huddled over a tattered yellow 'fax-sheet. When Navarre entered, still imposingly clad in his admiral's uniform, the porter came to immediate attention.

Navarre laid a blue five-credit note on the desk. "Is there a Domrik Carso registered here?"

The porter squinted uncertainly, pocketed the five, and nodded obsequiously. "Yes, Admiral."

"His room?"

Another five. "Seven-oh-six, Admiral."

Navarre smiled mildly. "Very good. Now give me the pass-key to his room."

Bristling, the porter protested, "Why, I can't do that, Admiral! It's against the law! It's—"

A third time Navarre's hand entered his pocket. The porter awaited a third five-credit note, but this time a deadly little blaster appeared. The Brontallian, dismayed, cowered back, clasping his webbed, gray-skinned hands tightly in fear.

"Give me the key," Navarre said.

Nodding profusely, the porter handed Navarre a square planchet of copper with the Kariadi numerals 706 stamped on it. Navarre smiled and gave the terrified Brontallian the third five. Turning, he moved silently toward the elevator.

If anything, the residence floors of the building were seedier and less reputable-looking than the lobby. Evidently, luminopanels had been installed in the corridor ceilings some time in the past century, but they were dull and flickering things now, giving little fight. The air-conditioning system was defective. It was a dismal place.

Navarre waited, poised outside Room 706, blaster cupped innocently in the hollow of his palm. He had, it seemed, arrived at just the proper moment. He could hear Carso's voice. The half-breed was in the act of trying to put through a collect call to Kausim.

Minutes passed; Navarre heard the operator's voice through the door, but the sound was barely audible. Once a drunk came out of "703, stared inquisitively at Navarre, and reeled toward him with flustered determination and a fierce expression.

"Eavesdropper, eh? You know what we do—"

Navarre took three quick steps forward and caught the man by the throat, shutting him up. He tightened his grip; the drunk's pockmarked face went bright red. Navarre let go of him, tapped him sharply in the stomach, caught him as he toppled, and dragged him back into his room. The entire encounter had taken but a few seconds. Carso was still expostulating hotly with the operator when Navarre returned to his post outside the door.

More than a minute passed, and then Navarre heard the distinct syllables, "Go ahead, Kariad. We have the hookup."

"Carso here."

A familiar thin voice responded, "I take it you've received the money."

"It came," Carso rumbled. "And I'm delivering my end of the deal. Listen, now: Navarre planted settlements on Earth-now called Velidoon by its inhabitants, by the way—and on Procyon IV, which used to be called Fendobar and is now called Mundahl. These worlds are located in Galaxy RGC-18347. The coordinates are—"

Navarre listened as Carso offered a full and detailed set of instructions that would enable the Joran 'fleet to reach Earth. He tensed; timing now would be of the utmost importance. The bait had been cast. He had to stop Carso before the half-breed told Kausim how to avoid the hook.

Navarre touched his borrowed key to the plate-stud of the door, and it swung back, revealing Carso squatting before the televisor.

"Now, as to this second bit of information, Kausirn. It's simply this: Navarre and—"

Navarre threw the door open with a noisy slam. Carso was taken totally by surprise. He sprang up, muttering. But Navarre raised his blaster and put a quick bolt through the televisor, cutting off an impatient expostulation on the part of Kausirn.

Hefting the blaster speculatively, Navarre looked at Carso. "You've greatly disillusioned me, Domrik. I clung to certain outmoded beliefs that Earthmen had a certain higher loyalty, even half-breeds. Even the insignificant drop of Terran blood in their veins would—"

"What the devil are you talking about, Navarre? And what's the idea of busting in here and wrecking the Visor. I'll have to pay—"

Navarre tightened his grip on the gun. "Don't try to bluff out of it. I listened to your whole conversation with Kausirn. I also overheard your earlier talk with him this morning. You sold us out, Domrik. For a stinking fifty thousand credits you were willing to hand Earth and ProCyon over to Kausirn's butchers."

Carso's eyes were angrily bloodshot. He had obviously been drinking heavily—to soothe his troubled conscience, perhaps.

He said, "I wondered how long it would take you to find out about me. Damn you and your pure blood lines, Navarre! You and all your Earthmen!"

He came barreling heavily forward.

Navarre swung the blaster to one side and met Carso's charge with his shoulder. Carso grunted and kept on coming; he was a stocky man, easily fifty or sixty pounds heavier than Navarre.

Navarre stepped back out of the way and jabbed the blaster sharply into the pit of Carso' stomach.

"Hold it, Domrik. Stand where you are or I'll burn you open!"

Carso ignored him and swung a wild roundhouse aimed at Navarre's chin; the Earthman jumped back and fired in the same instant. For a moment, Carso stood frozen in the middle of the room, knees sagging slightly. He glared at Navarre as if in reproach, and dropped.

"I still don't believe it," Navarre said quietly. He tossed a blanket over Carso's body, slipped the blaster back into its holster, and left, locking the door behind him.

In the control cabin of the Kariadi grand flagship, Pride of Kariad, lurking just off the spectacularly ringed world that was Sol VI, Admiral Melwod Finst, otherwise the Earthman Hallam Navarre, sat behind a coruscating sweep of bright screens.

"Any sign of the Joran ships yet?" he asked. From Rear Observation Channel came the reply: "Not yet, sir. We're looking." "Good."

He switched over to Master Communications and ordered a direct-channel hookup with his number two ship, Jewel of the Cluster, lying in wait just off the ecliptic orbit of Pro-cyon VII.

"Jewel to Pride. What goes?"

"Admiral Finst speaking. Any sign of a Joran offensive yet?"

"Not a one, sir. We're keeping the channel open to notify you of any attack." "Right."

Navarre paced the length of the cabin and back. The constant inaction, now that they were actually here in the Sol system, was preying on his nerves.

They were eight days out from Kariad. Navarre had taken his fleet out on the hop in due order, two days after the killing of Carso; even the mighty field generators of the three battle cruisers had required six days to bring the ships across the billion-light-year gulf through hyperspace.

He had stationed one ship off the Procyon system, and his other two remained -in the Sol group, waiting for the Joran fleet to appear. The men knew they were to fight Jorus; they were primed for battle, keen for it. The communications network was kept open round the clock. Whenever the ships of Jorus chose to make their appearance, Navarre and his fleet would be ready.

Helna had remained on Kariad, controlling operations from that end. Her spies had reliably reported that Kausirn had sent a fleet out to Earth. Navarre awaited it.

On the fifth day, the radar operator reported activity. "They're emerging from hyperspace at the very edge of the Sol system, Sir. Four billion miles out, intersecting the orbit of Sol IX."

"Order battle stations," Navarre snapped to his Kariadi aides. Flipping the master channel, he sent an order riffling along subspace to the Jewel: "Get here at once—or faster!"

The Jewel hopped. A passage of a mere eleven light-years was virtually instantaneous; within minutes a compact wedge of three Kariadi ships waited off ringed Sol VI for the oncoming Jorans.

"We're looking to capture, not to destroy," Navarre repeated. "Our defensive screens are to be mounted and in use at all times. No shots are to be fired unless a direct order to do so comes from Control Center."

Two of Navarre's aides exchanged silent glances as he delivered this order. Navarre knew what they were thinking. But they would never dare to. question his order, no matter how absurd it appeared; they were men of discipline, and he was their commanding officer.

The fleet shifted into defensive position.

Navarre ran a final check on the network of tractor-beams. All reported in working order at maximum intensity.

"Okay," he said. "The Jorans are heading inward toward us on standard ion-drive. Formation A, at once."

Formation A was a basket arrangement, the three ships swinging high into a synchronized triangular interlock and moving downward on the -unsuspecting Joran ships. At that angle, the tractor-beam network would be at its greatest efficiency.

Navarre himself remained at the master communications screens. He leaned forward intently, watching the dull black shapes of the three—only three!—Joran ships moving forward through space like a trio of blunt-snouted sharks homing in on their prey.

"Now!" he cried.

The bleak night of space was suddenly lit with the flaring tumult of tractor-beams; golden shafts of light lanced across the black of the voice, crashing down on the Joran ships, locking them instantly in a frozen grip.

The Jorans retaliated: their heavy-cycle guns swung into action, splashing forth megawatts of energy. But Navarre had ordered out full defensive screens; the Joran guns were futile.

Navarre directed -that contact be made with the Joran flagship. After some minutes of negotiation the link came through. Joran Admiral Drulk, eyes blazing with rage, appeared on the screen.

"What does this mean? You Kariadi have no jurisdiction in this sector of space—or are you looking to touch off a war between Jorus and Kariad?" He paused. "Or is there such a war already in progress—one that we don't know about?"

"Jorus and Kariad are at peace, Admiral."

"Well, then? I demand you release us from traction at once!"

"Impossible. We need your ships for purposes of our own. We'll require your immediate surrender." Drulk stared at him. "Who are you?" "Admiral Melwod Finst of Kariad." Grinning, the Earthman added, "You knew me at the court of Joroiran as Hallam Navarre."

"The Earthman! But-"

"No buts, Admiral. Will you surrender—or do we have to tow your ships into the sun?"

XII

Hallam Navakre stood at the edge of the city—the busy, humming, growing city they called Phoenix.

It was hardly a city yet, by Galactic standards. On Johis^ he thought, a settlement of this size would hardly rate the designation of a village. But city it was, and like the phoenix of old it rose from its own ashes.

The city rested between two upsweeping chains of hills; it lay in a fertile valley that split the heart of the great continent where the Chalice had been. All around him, Navarre saw signs of activity—the rising buildings, the clack of carpenters' tools, the buzz of the paving machines as they extended the reach of the city's streets yet a few hundred yards farther.

Women, big with child; men busy, impatient for the time when Earthmen would cover their own planet again. The six great captured spaceships stood in the sun, nucleus of the Terran navy-to-be. He saw Jorans and blue Kariadi working alongside the Earthmen—the captive crews of the spaceships, men to whom Navarre had given the choice of remaining on Earth as free men and workers, or of dying on the spot. The people of the old-young world had no time to waste in guarding prisoners.

It was slow work, Navarre thought, this rebuilding of a
planet. It took time. /

And there were so many enemies in the stars.

He began to walk through the city, heading for the Administration Building at its center. They greeted him as he passed—everyone knew Hallam Navarre, of course. But despite the warmth of their greetings he felt curiously ill-at-ease in their presence.

They were the true Earthmen, sleepers for thirty thousand years, untouched by the three hundred decades that intervened between the time of the beginning of their sleep and the time of Navarre's birth. They were full of the old glories of Earth, the cities and nations and the billions of people.

All gone, now; all swallowed by the forest.

Navarre recognized the difference between himself and the real Earthmen. He was as alien to them as the dwarfish, stunted beings who had come to inherit the Earth after the downfall of the empire, the little creatures who watched with awe as their awakened ancestors rebuilt their city. .

Navarre was the product of an older culture than that of these sleepers from the crypt, and an alien culture as well. Earth blood was in his veins, but his mind was a mind of Jorus, and he knew he could never truly be a part of the race that was springing up anew on Earth and around Pro-cyon.

But that did not mean he would not devote his life to their safety.

He entered his office—bare, hardly furnished—and nudged open the communicator stud. The robot operator asked for his number, and Navarre said, "I want to talk to Mikel An-trok."

A moment later he heard Antrok's deep voice say, "You want me, Hallam?"

"Yes. Would you stop off at my office?"

Antrok arrived ten minutes later. He was a tall, wide-shouldered Terran with unruly blond hair and warm blue eyes; he had served as leader of the Terran settlement during Navarre's absence on Jorus and Kariad.

He entered the office and slouched informally against the door. Navarre noticed that Antrok was covered with mud and sweat.

"Working?"

"Extending the trunk lines on the central communicator circuit," Antrok said. "That's how you reached me so fast. I was tapping into the lines when your call came along. Sweaty work it is, too—but we have to keep pace with the expansion of the city. What's on your mind?"

"I'm leaving. For Jorus and Kariad. And I probably won't be back."

Antrok blinked suddenly and straightened up. "Leaving, Hallam? But we're in the midst of everything now—and you've helped us so much. I thought you were staying here for good."

Navarre shook his head. "I can't, Mikel. Earth's not safe yet."

"But we have six ships—" "Suppose Jorus sends sixty?"

"You don't expect a further attack, do you? I thought you said—"

"Whatever I might have said at the Council meetings," Navarre interrupted, "was strictly for the sake of morale. Look here, Mikel: it's seven months since the time we captured those three Joran ships. That's more than enough time for Jorus to start wondering what happened out here. And Kariad may wonder whatever became of their phony Admiral Finst and his three.ships."

"But we're building more ships, Hallam."

"It takes two years to build a starship, and you know it. We have three in progress. That's still not enough. If Kausirn succeeds in working up enough imperial wrath against us, we'll have the whole Joran fleet down on our necks. So I'm going back to Jorus. Maybe I can handle the situation at close range."

"We'll miss you here," Antrok said.

Navarre shrugged. "Thanks. But you know it's not really true. You can manage without me. By the Cosmos, you have to manage without me! The day Earth finds that just one particular man is absolutely indispensable to its existence is the day you all might as well crawl back into the Chalice and go back to sleep."

Antrok nodded. "When are you leaving?"

"Tonight. I waited this long only because I wanted to get things shaped up."

"Then you won't even stay for the election?"

"There's no need of that. You'll win. And I've prepared a memorandum of suggestions for your use after you officially take over again."

Antrok looked doubtful. He said, "Of course I'm expecting to win the election, Hallam. But I'll admit I was counting on you to be here, to—"

"Well, I won't be. Ill be doing more important work elsewhere. But you know my general plans. As soon as the settlement's population reaches twelve thousand, detach two thousand and start building the second city—as far from this one as possible. That's the important thing to push right now—spreading out over Earth. Keep the starship factory intact, of course—and have the new city set to work building ships as soon as it's practical. You know the rest. Constant expansion, strengthening of government, close contact with the outfit on Procyon.", Navarre grinned. "You can get along without me, Mikel. And if I'm lucky, 111 be back."

"And if you're not lucky?"

Navarre's expression darkened. "Then you'll know about it, Mikel. When the galactic fleet gets here to blast the settlement to atoms."

He left that night, in the small Joran ship that had originally carried him across space on the quest for the Chalice, more than two years before. Just before blasting off he sent a subradio message to Helna, at the court of Marhaill, to warn her that he was on his way back.

Even by hyperdrive, the trip took days, so great was the gulf separating Earth and its island universe from the starcluster containing the Joran and Kariadi solar systems. Navarre was stale and weary by the time the mass indicator told him that Kariad, his destination, wa,s in range.

He dropped down toward the Kariadi system, rapidly setting up the coordinates on the autopilot as the warpship lurched back into normal space; the journey would be completed on ion-drive.

Navarre fed in the coordinates for a landing at the main spaceport. He was aware that the Kariadi detector-net was too accurate for a craft such as his. He would never be able to slip unnoticed onto the planet's surface.

But he expected no trouble. It was seven months since he had last been in this galaxy, and he had let his hair grow; instead of an Earthman's traditional shaven scalp, he now presented a crop of wavy dark-brown hair. Anyway, he hoped that the search for Hallam Navarre had died down, on Kariad at least if not on Jorus.

He brought the ship down lightly on the broad concrete landing-apron of the spaceport and radioed Main Control for his clearance. It came promptly enough. He left the ship and joined the long line passing through the customs building.

He handed over his passport—a fraudulent one that had been drawn up for him on Earth. The document declared that he was one Nolliwar Strumo, a manufacturer of interplanetary space-vessels who was vacationing on Kariad.

The customs official was a weary-looking little Kariadi whose dark blue skin was streaked with bright rivulets of sweat; he had been passing people perfunctorily, without bothering to ask them more than the routine few questions. Waiting, Navarre scanned the line; he saw plenty of Kariadi, of course, and also the usual scattering of alien beings.

But no Jorahs. That was queer.

Why, he wondered?

The customs man took his passport, scanned it boredly, and recited the standard question: "Name and planet of origin?"

"Nolliwar Strumo," Navarre said. He started to add, Of Jorus, but the words died lamely as he saw the cold expression on the official's facerThe man had come suddenly awake.

"Is this a joke?" the official asked hoarsely.

"Of course not. My name is Nolliwar Strumo of Jorus. My papers are in order, aren't they?"

What's happened while I was away? he wondered. What mistake could I have made?

"In order?" the man repeated sardonically. He chuckled harshly and gestured to several nearby spaceport guards. Navarre tensed himself for a breakaway, but realized he'd never make it. "Your papers in order? Well, not exactly. You just brought a small ship down on Kariad and thought you could march in with a passport like this?"

"I've been traveling quite a while," Navarre said. "Is there some change in the procedure? Is there a visa required now?"

"Visa! Friend, this passport's dated five weeks ago. I don't know where you got it or who you are, but the passport's obviously fake and so are you."

"I_"

The little man glared triumphandy at Navarre. "You may or may not be aware of it, but Kariad and Jorus severed diplomatic relations six months ago. We'll probably be at war with them within a month. This is a hell of a time for you to decide to take your vacation on Kariad, Mr. Nolliwar Strumo of Jorus—or whoever you are!"

He signaled to the guards. "Take him away and shut him up until Security can investigate his background. I wonder if he thought I was a fool? Next, please!"

Navarre sat in a windowless box of a room far below the surface level of the spaceport, breathing shallowly to keep the foul taste of the exhausted air from reaching the depths of his lungs, where it would linger for hours. He wondered what had gone wrong.

A state of war imminent between Jorus and Kariad, after hundreds of years of peace. And he had picked just this time to try to masquerade as a Joran citizen visiting Kariad! Why, it would have been safer to attempt to bluff his way through under his own identity, he realized. Or perhaps even to assume his false Kariadi guise and become, once again, Melwod Finst, Admiral of the Navy of Kariad.

He heard footsteps and straightened up. The interrogators were coming at last.

The positronic relays of the cell-door lock whirred momentarily; the door swung smoothly back into its niche, and Navarre blinked at the sudden bright stream of light that came bursting in. When he could see clearly again, he found himself confronted by the stout, stubby bore of a Kariadi blaster.

There were two interrogators, a large fat one and a small wizened one. Security interrogators always worked in teams of somatic opposites; it was part of the vast body of technique accumulated for the purpose of keeping the prisoner off-balance.

"Come with us," said the small one with the blaster, and gestured.

Navarre pushed himself up off the cot and followed. He knew resistance was out of the question now.

They led him up a long dreary cell-block, past a double door, and into a glass-doored room somewhat larger than his cell, brightly lit, with glowing luminescent panels casting a soft, pleasant radiance over everything.

Pointing to a large chair in the center of "the room, the small one said, "Sit there." Navarre sat.

The interrogators took seats against the walls, at opposite sides of him. He glanced from one to the other. They were dark blue in color, but odierwise they had little in common. The small man was dried and wrinkled like a prune; glittering, fast-moving eyes glinted at Navarre out of a mousy face. As for the other, he must have weighed nearly four hundred pounds; he slumped relievedly in his chair, a mountain of blue flesh, and dabbed futilely at the rivulets of sweat that came dribbling down from his forehead and bushy eyebrows and lost themselves in the wilderness of his many successive chins.

"Very well," the fat one began, in a patient, friendly voice. "You say you are Nolliwar Strumo of Jorus. Your passport says so also. Who are you?"

"Nolliwar Strumo, of Jorus," Navarre said.

"Highly doubtful," the heavy man remarked. "I must remind you that it's within our designated authority to make use of any forms of interrogation we may deem necessary in order to obtain information from you. We are nearly in a time of war. You claim to be a representative of a planet with whom we do not currently have diplomatic relations." He smiled coldly. "Now, this may or may not be true. But if you persist in claiming to be from Jorus, we'll have to treat i you as if such is actually the case—until we find out otherwise."

While he was speaking, the character of the luminescent panels had been changing steadily. The pastel greens and gentle oranges had faded, and were gradually replaced by harsher tones, more somber ones, blues, violets. It was part of the psychological approach to interrogation, Navarre knew; the room color would get less friendly as the interview went on.

The small man said, in a dry rasping voice, "Your passport is obviously a forgery. We have laboratory confirmation on that. Who are you?"

"Nolliwar Strumo of Jorus." Navarre was determined to be stubborn as long as possible.

The fat man scowled mildly. "You have the virtue of consistency, at least. But tell us this: if you're from Jorus, as you insist, why are you here on Kariad? And why did you foolishly take no precautions to conceal your planet of origin when you must have been aware that traffic between Jorus and Kariad is currently prohibited? No, it doesn't stand up. What's your game?"

"I sell spaceships," Navarre said blandly.

"Another lie. No Nolliwar Strumo is listed in the most recent munitions directory published on Jorus."

Navarre smiled. "You've been very clever, both of you. And busy."

"Thank you. The identity of Nolliwar Strumo is obviously false. Will you tell us who you are?" "No."

"Very well, then. Place your hands on the armrests of your chair, please," the fat man ordered. "If I don't?"

"We'll place them there for you. If you want to keep all your fingers, do it yourself."

Navarre shrugged and grasped the armrests. The fat man jabbed a button on a remote-control panel in his hands, and immediately metal clamps sprang out of the Earthman's chair and pinioned him firmly.

The fat man touched another knob. A shudder of pain rippled through Navarre's body, making him wince.

"Your pain threshold is abnormally high," the fat one remarked conversationally. "Eight-one-point-three on the scale. No other Joran we've tested has run higher than sixty-six. Would you say he was a Joran, Ruiil?"

The small Kariadi shook his head. "On the basis of that, highly doubtful."

"You've had a sample, Nolliwar Strumo. That was just a test. The chair is capable of producing pain more than eighteen degrees above even your extraordinary threshold—and I can guarantee you won't enjoy it." He touched his hands lovingly to the control-panel. "You understand the consequences. Now, tell us your name, stranger."

A bolt of pain shot up Navarre's left leg; it felt as if his calf muscle had been ripped from his living leg. He waited until some of the pain had receded, and forced a smile.

"I am not Nolliwar Strumo," he said. "The passport is forged."

"Ah! A fact at last! But who are you, then?"

Another lancing burst of pain racked him—this time, as if fleshy fingers had grasped the delicate chambers of his heart and squeezed, gently enough, but numbingly. Navarre felt torrents of sweat come dribbling down his face.

"Who I am is not for your ears," he said.

"Eh? And for whose, then?"

"Marhaill's. And the Oligocrat will roast both of you when he learns what you've done."

"We simply carry out a job," remarked the smaller man. "If you have business with Marhaill, you should have spoken up about it earlier."

"My business is secret. But I'd be of no use to him dead or mad from torture, which is why I'm letting you know this now."

The interrogators glanced at each other uncertainly. Navarre held his breath, waiting, trying to blot out the lingering after-effects of the pain. Interrogators were probably accustomed to this sort of wild bluffing, he thought.

"You are not from Jorus?"

"I'm an Earthman," Navarre said. "With my hair worn long." Cautiously he asked, "Is Helna Winstin still adviser to Lord Marhaill?"

"She is."

Navarre nodded. He had got into trouble once, by making incorrect assumptions about the status quo; from now on he was going to verify every point.

"Tell Helna Winstin that a long-haired Earthman is in the interrogation chambers, and would speak to her on urgent business. Then see if she allows your quiz game to continue any further "

The interrogators looked doubtful. "If we waste her time, stranger—"

"If you fail to call her, and somehow I survive your gentle handling," Navarre promised, "I'll see to it that your fat is stripped away layer by layer, blubbery one, and that your tiny companion is smothered in it!"

There was a moment's pause. Finally the^small man, >the one named Ruiil, stood up and said, "There's no harm checking. I'll call upstairs. Okay?"

"Okay."

Ruiil disappeared. He returned five minutes later, looking pale and shaken.

"Well? What's the word?"

"We're to free him," he said. "There's been some sort of mistake. The Earthman wants to see him in her chambers immediately "

With consummate punctiliousness, the two interrogators helped Navarre out of the torture chair—he was a little wobbly of footing on the left leg, which had borne the force of the chair's neural bolt—and paused a moment as he straightened up.

They led him back down the corridor, into a large and well-furnished room complete with a lavish bar. The interrogators live well down here, Navarre thought, as they drew a pale amber drink for him.

He gulped it. "Your hospitality is overwhelming. I'm impressed."

"Please don't hold this against us," the fat man said. The resonance was gone from his voice, now. He was whining. "We do our jobs. You must admit we had cause to interrogate you—and you said nothing! If you had, only spoken up earlier . . ."

"I'll spare you," Navafre declared magnanimously. "Take me to Earthman Winstin, now."

They escorted him to a glide-channel furnished in clinging soft brown damask and shot upward with him toward the surface. A dull blue landcar waited there, and the fat interrogator scribbled an order on a stylopad and handed it to the waiting driver.

"Take him to the palace. The Earthman wants to see him quickly."

Navarre glanced back once and saw the tense, anxious faces of the interrogators staring at him; then he turned his head, and promptly forgot them. The day was warm, and both suns were in the sky, the red and the yellow.

Fifteen minutes later he was at the sumptuous palace of the Oligocrat, and just five minutes after that he was being shown through a widening sphincter into the private chambers of Helna Winstin, Earthman to the Court of Lord Mar-haill.

She was waiting for him, a slim, wiry figure in glittering platinum-cloth and red tights, looking graceful and delicate and as resilient as neofoam webwork. Her scalp was bare, in Earthmah fashion

"I was worried about you," she said.

"I ran into some snags when I landed. How was I supposed to know there was feuding going on between Jorus and Kariad? I posed as a Joran, and naturally the customs men collared me."

"I sent you a message about it," she said. "As soon as I received yours. But there are lags in subspace communication; you must have left too soon. Still, no damage has been done; you've arrived."

No damage, thought Navarre wryly, except for one throbbing leg and an uneasy ache in the area of the chest. He dropped down wearily on a richly upholstered divan and felt

-the faint soothing caress of the massage-cells as they went to work on his fatigued thighs and back.

"How is it on Earth?" she asked.

"Everything is fine."

Briefly, he described the status of the settlement as of the time he had left. She nodded approvingly when he was finished.

"It sounds encouraging. Do you think Antrok will win the election?"

"He's a logical choice. The boy's a natural leader. But what's this little storm brewing up between Jorus and Kariad?"

She smiled secretively. "You may remember that Admiral Melwod Finst left Kariad seven months ago on maneuvers, with three first-line ships at his command."

"And a Joran fleet of the same size, departed about that time for points unknown, under the command of the excellent Admiral Hannimon Drulk."

"Exactly. Now, it became necessary in time for me to account for the whereabouts of Admiral Finst and his fleet. I could hardly reply that Admiral Finst was in reality an Earthman named Navarre, whose appointment to the Kariadi Admiralty I had obtained by coldly bamboozling my good Oligocrat Marhaill. So I took the alternate path of action and caused thejnaneuver of a subspace dispatch from the noted Admiral Finst saying he had been set upon in deep space by three unidentifiable starships, and was in the midst of a fierce battle."

Grinning, Navarre said, "I begin to see."

"Likewise," she went on, "I caused to be filtered into the hands of my tame Joran spy a report that Admiral Drulk's fleet had been destroyed in action somewhere in deep space. Then it was a simple matter to let Jorus accidentally find out about the similar fate that befell Admiral Finst."

"And so both Marhaill and Joroiran concluded that there had been a pitched battle between fleets of Kariad and

Jorus in some distant sector of space," Navarre said. "Which led each of them to suspect that the other had some nefarious designs on him. And which kept both of them from guessing that their ships were perfectly safe, and were now serving as the main line" of defense for the hated enemy Earth!"

Navarre leaned forward, suddenly serious. "So Jorus and Kariad are at the edge of war over six ships that they think were destroyed. Do you think it's a wise move to let such a war take place."

Helna said, "Of course not. But if I can keep them at the verge of war—if I can foment constant uneasy friction between the two systems—it'll keep their minds off Earth. Mar-haill's a weak man; he'll listen to me. And he fears Jorus more than he does Earth. I knew I had to drive a wedge between him and Kausirn, and I succeeded."

"Kausirn's in charge, then?"

"Evidently. Joroiran is hardly seen in public any more. He's still alive, but completely in the power of the Lyrellan. Marhaill's aware of this."

Navarre clenched his fists angrily. He still had a mild liking for Overlord Joroiran, spineless, incompetent ruler that he was. And he disliked the Lyrellan intensely.

"Why did you came back, now?" Helna asked.

"I was afraid Kausirn might be stirring things up to send a Joran fleet to Earth. Six ships couldn't hold off the full force of the Joran navy any better than six sheep could. But if Jorus and Kariad are going to go to war with each other—"

Helna shook her head quickly, an expression of inward doubt appearing on her face. "Don't be too confident of that."

"What do you mean? I thought—"

"The public attitude is an unhealthy one. But I think Kausirn suspects that he's being hoaxed. I know he's been negotiating with Marhaill for top-level talks, face to face."

"Well? Can't you take advantage of your rank to head such talks off?"

"I don't know. I've warned Marhaill against a possible Joran assassination plot, but on this one thing he doesn't seem to listen to me. I think itr's inevitable that he and Kausirn will get together and compare notes despite me. And then—"

"And then what?"

"And then Jorus and Kariad will undoubtedly sign a treaty of mutual harmony," Helna said. "And send a combined fleet out to crush Earth."

XIV

Two weeks later, Navarre left Kariad at night, in a small ship bearing the arms of the Oligocrat Marhaill. His pilot was a member of Marhaill's Secret Service, hand-picked by Helna herself. No one had been on hand to see him' off; no one checked to see his passport, no one asked where he was going.

His flight clearance papers bore the code inscription XX-1413, signed by Marhaill, countersigned by Helna. That was enough to get him past any bureaucrat on Kariad; the translation of the double-X was, Special Secret Ambassador for the Oligocrat, do not interfere.

Navarre chuckled every time he had occasion to glance at at his image in the ship's mirror, during the brief journey between the worlds. He could hardly recognize himself, after the job Helna had done.

His youthful crop of brown hair had been shaven once again; to his bald scalp had been affixed a wig of glossy black Kariadi-type hair, thick-stranded and oily. His normally high cheekbones had been lowered by .an overlay of molding plastic; his eyebrows had been thickened, his lips built up into fleshiness and his jaw-contour altered, his ears drawn back and up by a simple and easily repairable bit of surgery.

He weighed twenty pounds more than he had the week before. His skin-color was bright blue.

He was Loggon Domell, Ambassador from the Court of the Oligocrat Marhaill to the Court of Joroiran VII, and only a skilled morphologist could have detected the -fact that behind the outer layer that called itself Loggon Domell was one Hallam Navarre, Earthman.

This was the second time he had masqueraded as a Kari-adi, but Helna and her technicians had done an infinitely more painstaking job than he had, earlier, when he had passed himself off as Melwod Finst. "Finst" had simply looked like Navarre with his skin died blue and his scalp wigged; Domell was an entirely different person.

It had all been remarkably simple. Helna had persuaded Marhaill that it would be well to send an ambassador to Jorus to discuss the galactic situation with Joroiran and with Kausirn; Marhaill, busy with his draft-hunting and his mistresses, had agreed, and asked Helna to suggest a man capable of handling the job.

"I have just the man," she had said. "One Loggon Domell, of this city. A wise and prudent man who will serve Your Majesty well."

Marhaill had nodded in agreement. "You always are so helpful, Helna. Send this Domell to Jorus!"

The little ship landed in midday at the Jorus City spaceport. By prior arrangement, a government car was there to meet him at the edge of the landing apron. A high-ranking Joran named Dilbar Loodig had been chosen as the official greeter.

Navarre knew this Loodig: a hanger-on at court, a man with a high hereditary title and little else to commend him. Loodig's boast was that he knew everyone at court by the slope of their shoulders and the angle at which they held their necks; Navarre wondered whether Loodig's ability would stand him in good stead now. It would cost the courtier his life if unhappily he were to recognize Navarre.

But Loodig gave no outward sign of recognition, and the Earthman knew he was not clever enough to have masked his true feelings had he detected Navarre behind the person of "Domell." Navarre presented his papers to the courtier; Loodig riffled through them, smiled ingratiatingly, and said, 'Welcome to Jorus. Is this your first visit to our planet?"

"Hardly," Navarre replied smoothly. "In the old days before the present difficulties I spent many happy holidays here. I once had a summer cottage in the highlands of Velsk, overlooking the river." The microscopic distorter in his throat did curious things to the sound of his voice, making it lighter in texture, supplying a deep gravelly rasp as well. He spoke in pure Joran, but with a slight lilting inflection and a distinctly alien shift of the full vowel values.

"Indeed?" Loodig said, as they entered the car. "The highland country is some of our most beautiful. You must have enjoyed your stay there."

"I did," Navarre said gravely, and repressed a snicker. The car threaded its way rapidly through the city, onwatd to the palace. He noticed an escort evidently following; they were taking good care of the alleged Kariadi ambassador, it seemed.

At the palace, Navarre was ushered speedily through the outer rooms.

"Will I be able to see the Overlord shortly?" he asked.

"I've notified him that you're here," Loodig said. "The Overlord is not a well man, these days. He may not be able to see you immediately."

"Oh. How sadl"

"He's been in poor health quite some length of time now," said the courtier. "We here are all extremely worried about him."

I'll bet you are, Navarre thought. If something should happen to Joroiran, Kausirn would jump at the chance to name himself regent for the heir apparent. The hoy is only eight, now.

Loodig excused himself, disappeared for a moment, and returned shortly after, smiling.

"The Overlord will see you, I'm happy to report. Please come this way."

Loodig led him down the narrow winding passages toward the smaller throne room Joroiran customarily used for private audiences. It was not nearly as magnificent a hall as the main throne room, of course, but it did serve amply well to awe visitors. Periscopic viewers allowed Security men to observe the course of the Overlord's audiences and protect him from harm.

They reached the door. Loodig knelt, making ceremonial gestures, while Navarre remained erect as befitted his rank as ambassador.

"Hi? Excellency, Loggon Domell, Ambassador Plenipotentiary from Kariad," Loodig announced.

"Let him enter," Joroiran responded, in a pale, almost tmid voice.

Navarre entered.

The Overlord was plainly showing the effects of his virtual captivity. A small, ineffectual man to begin with, he had hardly bothered to take the steps he once took to cover his deficiencies; instead of the magnificent framework-robe that provided him with his regal public stature, he wore only an embroidered cloth robe that added little to his appearance. He had looked poorly the last time Navarre had seen him, nearly a year before; now, if anything, he looked worse.

Navarre made the ambassadorial bow, unfolded the charter of credentials Marhaill had given him, and offered them to Joroiran. The Overlord scanned them briefly and put them aside. Navarre' heard the door slide gently closed behind him, leavihg'hinr alone with Joroiran.

There was no indication that the Overlord recognized him; instead, Joroiran fixed his gentle, washed-out eyes on a point somewhere above Navarre's left shoulder and said, "ft pleases me that I can speak with someone from Kariad. This present friction has long distressed me."

"No more so than it has troubled the sleep of Marhaill," Navarre said. "It seems that groundless enmity has sprung up between our worlds. I hope my visit will aid in restoring harmony."

Joroiran smiled feebly. "Yes. Indeed." He seemed to be at a loss for his next words. Finally he burst out, "My adviser— Kausirn—he should be here, now. We really should wait for him. He's made a much closer study of the situation than I have."

It was pathetic, Navarre thought. Kausirn had so puppet-ized the Overlord that Joroiran seemed totally incapable of conducting the business of the realm without the Lyrellan. But it was just as well. Navarre knew it was necessary to have Kausirn on hand when he made his play.

"The Lord Adviser is a man I've heard much about," Navarre remarked. "He seems to be a gifted administrator. He must take much of the burden of government from Your Majesty's weary shoulders."

Joroiran seemed to flinch at the telling thrust. He nodded tiredly. "Yes, he is a great help to me. A ruler has so much to think about—and Kausirn is indispensable to fne."

"I've often heard Lord Marhaill say the same about his adviser—an Earthman. He finds her an absolute necessity in the operation of the government."

"I had an Earthman adviser once," said Joroiran distantly. "I thought he was loyal and trustworthy, but he betrayed me. I sent him on a mission . . . but he failed me. His name was Navarre."

"I often dealt with him when he served Your Majesty," Navarre said. "He seemed to me to be utterly loyal to Jorus. This comes as a great surprise to me."

"It was a blow to me, too. But luckily, when Navarre left me I had one such as Kausirn to take his place. Ah, he comes now!"

The door opened. Kausirn entered, smiling coldly. The deathly pallor that stamped his race lent contrast to the richness of his robes. Indeed, he was more finely dressed than Joroiran himself; the Lyrellan bore himself confidently, as if he and not the other sat on the throne.

"Your pardon, Majesty. I was unavoidably detained." Kausirn turned to Navarre and said, "You are Marhaill's ambassador? I give you welcome. I am Kausirn, Adviser to the Overlord."

"Greetings, Kausirn."

The Lyrelan's twenty fingers curled and uncurled tensely; his eyes seemed to be boring through the layers of plastic that masked Navarre, to expose the Earthman who skulked beneath.

"Let us go to the Council room," Kausirn suggested. "There we- three may talk."

It took them perhaps ten minutes of uneasy verbal fencing in the small, well-lit room before they actually came to grips with the subject at hand. For first they were obliged to exchange pleasantries in true diplomatic fashion, approaching the topic circuitously, leading up to it in gradual and gentle manner.

Navarre let the Lyrellan control the flow of discussion; he had learned never to underestimate Kausirn, and he feared he might give himself away if he ventured to steer the conversation in some direction that might appear characteristic of Hallam Navarre.

He toyed with the drink-flask at his right hand, parried Kausirn skillfully, replied with grace to the inane questions of Joroiran. Neither of them seemed to suspect his true identity.

At length the Lyrellan leaned forward, spreading his ten-fingered hands wide on the burnished cupralloy meetingtable. With the tiny flicker of his eyelids that told Navarre he was choosing' his words with particular care, Kausirn said, "Of course, the chief item of curiosity is the encounter that presumably took place between three Joran ships and three of Kariad, some eight months ago. Until the vaguer aspects of this matter are satisfactorily resolved, I hardly see how we can discuss any reaffirmation of ties between Jorus and Kariad."

"Of course," added Joroiran.

Navarre frowned thoughtfully. "You imply, then, that your three ships and three ships of Kariad fought a battle in

space?"

Kausirn quickly shook his head. "I draw no such implications! But there are persistent rumors."

"May I ask just where the three Joran ships were supposedly stationed at the time of their alleged destruction, Lord Adviser?"

The Lyrellan nibbled a thin hp. "This infringes on highly secret information, Ambassador Domell."

Navarre rose swiftly from his seat, saying, "In that case, Adviser Kausirn, I fear we haven't much else to talk about today. If on this essential matter secrecy is to be maintained between our worlds, I hardly see how we can come to agree on any other major topics of current dispute. OL course—"

Smoothly, Kausirn said, "Again you seem to have drawn an unwarranted implication, Ambassador Domell. True, these matters are highly secret, but when did I say I would withhold knowledge of them from you? On the contrary: I summoned an ambassador from Kariad for the very purpose of revealing them."

He's falling into the trap, Navarre thought joyfully. He took his seat once again and glanced expectantly at the Ly-rellan.

Kausirn said, "To begin with, there was a traitorous Earth-man in this court'once, a man called Hallam Navarre. This

Navarre has been absent from this court for several years. He's a dangerous man, Milord, and a clever one. And he has rediscovered Earth!"

Navarre's eyes widened in mock astonishment. "No!"

"Unfortunately, yes. He has found Earth and established a belligerent settlement there. His intention is to conquer the galaxy—beginning with Jorus and Kariad!"

"And why, then, were we not informed of this?"

"Patience, good sir. When we of Jorus learned of this, we immediately dispatched a punitive mission to Earth—three, ships, under the command of our Admiral Drulk. A preventive measure, you might say. We intended to wipe out the Terran settlement before they could make their attack on our systems." ""A wise move."

"But," said Kausirn, "our ships vanished. So far as we know, they reached the region of Earth, but that's the last we know of them."

"No dispatches whatsoever from them?"

"None."

"Strange," Navarre mused.

"Now," Kausirn went on, "we learn that the Grand Fleet of Kariad suffered an oddly similar loss—three ships vanished without trace while on maneuvers."

"And how was this fact learned?" Navarre asked, a trifle coldly.

Kausirn shrugged apologetically. "Let us cast diplomacy aside, shall we? I'll tell you quite frankly: our spy network brought us the word."

"I appreciate frankness," Navarre said.

"Very well, then. Jorus sends three ships out to destroy Earth; the same month, Kariad sends three ships out on maneuvers to points unknown. By some coincidence none of these ships is ever heard from again. The natural conclusion is that there was a battle between them, and all six ships were destroyed. Now, Milord, Jorus has no hostile intent against Kariad. Our fleet was on its way to Earth when the incident occurred. I can only conclude that, for reasons beyond us, Kariad has committed an unprovoked act of war against Jorus."

"Your logic is impeccable," Navarre said, looking at Joro-iran, who had been following the interchange like a bemused spectator at a kinetics match. "But faulty, nonetheless. Why should Kariad attack Jorus?"

"Exactly the question that troubles us. Now, the rumor is rife that such an attack was made on our ships by Kariad. To be frank, again—our spy network can find no possible motive for the attack. We have no reason to suspect Kariad.'* Kausirn paused and drew a deep breath. "Let me present my real conclusion, now. The Joran ships were not destroyed by your fleet. Instead, both fleets were destroyed by Earth! The Earthmen have concealed strengths; we sent a ridiculously small contingent and it met destruction. Perhaps your fleet on maneuvers blundered accidentally into Terran territory and was destroyed as well."

Navarre said nothing, but stared with deep interest at the Lyrellan.

Kausirn continued, "I prefer this theory to the other, less tenable one of unprovoked assault on our fleet by yours. Therefore, I wish to propose that we end quickly the animosity developing between our' worlds—an animosity engendered by baseless rumor—and join instead in an alliance against Earth, which obviously is stronger than we suspected."

Navarre smiled blandly. "It is an interesting suggestion." "You agree, then?" "I believe not." "What?'

"Such an alliance," Navarre said, "would involve the necessity of our denying that our fleet had attacked yours. Thisi we are not in a position to do."

Kausirn looked genuinely startled. "You admit the attack, then? It was Kariad and not Earth who destroyed our ships?"

Smiling, Navarre said, "Now you draw the unwarranted implications. We neither affirm nor deny that our fleet and yours had an armed conflict provoked by us."

"Your silence on the subject amounts to an admission of guilt," Kausirn said stonily.

"This does not concern me. I act under instructions from Oligocrat Marhaill. I am not empowered to enter into any sort of alliance with Jorus."

For the second time, he rose from the table. "We seem to have reached an impasse. You boast of your spy system, Adviser Kausirn; let it discover our motives, if it can. I feel that I would not accomplish anything further by remaining on Jorus. Would you see that I am conveyed to the spaceport?"

Kausirn was glaring at him in glassy-eyed bewilderment. It was the first time Navarre had ever seen the Lyrellan truly off balance. And small wonder, he thought: Kausirn had hardly been expecting the Kariadi ambassador to reject the chance of an alliance in favor of what amounted to a declaration of war by implication.

'We offer you alliance against Earth," Kausirn said. "Earth, who may be the deadliest enemy your planet or mine will ever have. And you refuse? You prefer to let the cloud of War hover over Jorus and Kariad?"

Navarre shrugged. "We have no choice. Good day, Your Majesty. Adviser Kausirn, will you arrange transportation for me?"

With sudden shock he realized he had spoken the last words in his natural voice, not the false one of Loggon Do-mell. The throat-distorter had failed!

He froze for an instant, seeing the surprise on Kausirn's face give way to abrupt recognition.

"That voice," the Lyrellan said. "I know that voice. You're Navarre,!"

He fumbled at his belt for a weapon, but the Earthman had already dashed through the opening doors of the Council room and was racing down the long corridor that led to an exit from the palace.

It had almost worked, he thought bleakly, as he sped down the corridor If only the distorter hadn't conked out, he could have passed himself off as the Kariadi ambassador and prevented any alliance from forming between Jorus and Kariad by the puzzling, noncommital character of his responses. Well, he thought resignedly, it had been a good idea, anyway

The splat of an energy-gun brought down mortar over his head. He heard Kausirn's angry voice shouting, "Catch that man! He's a spy! A traitor!"

Navarre whirled round a corner and came face-to-face with a surprised Daborian guard. The huge being took a moment to consider the phenomenon that had materialized before him, and that moment was too long. Navarre jabbed a fist into his stomach, kicked him as he fell, and kept running. The skirt of his ambassadorial garb was hindering him, but he made a good pace anyway. And he knew his way around the palace.

He crossed the narrow passageway that led to the kitchen quarters, spiraled down a helical staircase, jumped across a low railing, and found himself outside the palace. Behind him came the sound of confused yelling; there would be a fine manhunt under way any minute.

The car was waiting, though. He forced himself to adopt a calm pace and walked toward it.

"Back to the spaceport," he ordered. Turbos thrummed and the car glided rapidly into the streets.

The trip to the spaceport seemed to last forever; Navarre fretted impatiently as they passed through crowded streets in the center of Jorus City, finally emerging on the highway that led to the port. Once at the spaceport, he thanked the driver, got out, flashed his credentials, and hastily made his way to the waiting Kariadi spaceship.

For the first tune since the beginning of his flight, he paused for breath He was safe, now Kausirn would never, dare to fire publicly on a vessel bearing the royal arms of Kariad.

Once the ship was in space, he called Helna via subradio and signaled for' her to scramble. After a moment the transmitter emitted the bleeping sound-pattern that told him the scrambler was on

"Well?" she asked How'd it go?"

"Finé—right up until the end I had everything wrapped up until the distorter went dead and Kausirn recognized me by my voice."

"Oh!"

"I was on my way out by then Kausirn woke up too late, I'm in space and not being pursued, as far as I can tell He can't very well attack me now "

"But the mission's a failure, then?"

"I'm not so sure of that." Navarre said "I had him fooled into thinking Kariad had actually destroyed those ships, and not Earth. Now. of course, he knows it was all a hoax There'll probably be an alliance between Jorus and Kariad after all, once Kausirn contacts Marhaill and lets him know the real identity of his ambassador "

"Will he do that?''

"I don't doubt it. Kausim's deathly afraid of Earth. He doesn't want to tackle the job of destroying the settlement himself; he wants to rope Kariad in, just in case Earth turns out to be too much for Jorus' fleet alone. So naturally he'll do his best to avoid a war with Kariad. He'll get in touch with Marhaill. You'd better not be on Kariad when that happens."

There was silence for a moment. Then, Helna said, "You're right. It isn't going to be easy to explain to Marhaill just how I accidentally happened to send a disguised Earthman out as his special ambassador to Jorus. We'd better go to Earth."

"Not me, Helna. You."

"And where will you go?"

"I've got a new idea," Navarre told her. "One that can make use of the fact that Jorus and Kariad are going to ally. Tell me, can you think of a third world that's likely to be scared by such an alliance?"

"Morank, of course!"

"Right. So I go to Morank and offer the Polisarch some advance information on the coming alliance. If I handle it right this time, the Moranki ought to fall right in line. Meantime you go to Earth and explain the shape of things to An-trok. I'll keep you posted on what happens to me."

"Good luck," she said simply.

He forced an uneasy laugh. "It'll take more than luck. We're sitting ducks if Kausirn ever launches the Grand Fleet against our six ships."

Navarre broke the contact and turned away from the myriad dials and vernier controls of the subradio set. Behind him was a mirror, and he stared at his false Kariadi face.

That would have to be changed. From now on, he would sail under his own colors; there was nothing to be gained by further masquerade.

He moved down the companionway to the washroom of
the little ship, nudged the control pod that widened the
sphincter, and stepped in, sealing the room behind him. A,
bottle of neohexathyl was in the drug cabinet; he broke the
seal, poured a handful of the cool green liquid over his
face and shoulders, and stepped under the radiating field
of the Vibron. ■

He felt the plastic layers covering his face sag; with a quick twisting gesture he ripped them away, and his own features, strangely pale, appeared. He had grown, accustomed to the face of Loggon Domell; seeing Hallam Navarre burst forth suddenly was startling.

A second treatment with the dissolving fluid and the Kari-adi wig came off—painfully, for his own hair had grown somewhat underneath it. He stripped and rubbed neo-hexathyl over his body, seeing the blue stain loosen and come away under the molecular flow of the Vibron. Within minutes, all that remained of Loggon Domell, Kariadi Ambassador, was a messy heap of blue-stained plastic lying on the washroom floor.

Navarre cleaned himself, depilated his scalp, and dressed again. He grinned at himself in the mirror, and scooping up the lumps of plastic, Jumped them cheerfully in the disposal unit.

So much for Ambassador Domell, he thought. He drew the blaster at his hip, squinted into the charge-chamber for an instant to assure himself that the weapon was functioning. The tiny yellow indicator light within was glowing steadily and evenly.

He reholstered the weapon and left the washroom, feeling clean and fresh now that he was able to wear his own identity again.

Up ahead, the ship's pilot was lounging in his cabin; the ship was on hyperdrive, now, and no human hand could serve any purpose in guiding it. The silent ultronic generators would bring the ship unerringly through the nothingness of hyperspace; the pilot's job was strictly that of emergency stand-by, once the ship had entered warp.

Navarre returned to his own cabin, switched off the visual projector on his communicator, and buzzed the pilot. There was a pause; then the screen lit, and Navarre saw the man, dressed in off-duty fatigues, trying to conceal a look of sour impatience.

"Yes, Ambassador?"

"Pilot, are you busy just now? I'd like you to come to my cabin for a moment if you're not."

The pilot's square-cut blue face showed a trace of annoyance, but he said evenly, "Of course, Ambassador. I'll be right there. Is anything wrong."

"Not exactly," Navarre said.

Navarre waited. A moment later the annunciator-light atop his door flashed briefly. The Earthman depressed the enameled door-control and thé door pivoted inward and away. The pilot stood there, arms folded, just outside in the corridor.

"You called me, Ambassador? I—who are you?"

Navarre's hand tightened on the butt of his blaster. "Hal-lam Navarre is my name."

"You're—you're an Earthman," the pilot muttered, backing away. "What happened to the Ambassador? How did you get aboard the ship? And what are you going to do?"

"Much too many questions for one man to answer at once," Navarre returned lightly. "The Ambassador, I regret to inform you, is dead. And I fear I'll need the use of your ship."

The Kariadi was wobbly-legged with fear. He half-fell into Navarre's cabin, but the Earthman, suspecting a trick, moved forward swiftly, caught the man by the throat, and propped him up against the left-hand bulkhead.

Through a constricted throat, the man asked, "What are you going to do to me?"

"Put you to sleep and drop you overboard in one of the escape capsules," Navarre told him. "And then I'll pursue a journey of my own."

He drew a dark violet ampoule of perredrin from his jacket pocket and flicked the safety off the spray-point with his thumb. Quickly he touched the tip of the ampoule to the man's arm and squeezed; the subsonic spray forced ten cubic centimeters of narcotic liquid into the pilot's blood stream instandy.

He turned gray-faced and crumpled forward within the space of three heartbeats; Navarre caught him and slung him over one shoulder. The pilot's mouth hung slackly open, and his chest rose and fell in a steady, slow rhythm, one breath-intake every fifteen seconds.

The escape-capsules—there were two of them aboard the ship—were situated aft, just above the drive compartment, in a womb-like alcove of their own. They were miniature spaceships, eleven feet long, equipped with their own precision-made drive unit. Navarre stuffed the slumbering Kariadi in head-first, making sure he was caught securely in the foam webwork that guarded against landing shock, and peered at the navigating dial.

For the convenience of laymen who might need to use the escape capsules in a hurry, and who had no notion of how to astrogate, the engineers of Kariad had developed a shortcut; a number of possible orbits were pre-plotted, and the computer was equipped to select the most effective one and fit it to whatever destination the escaping passenger chose.

Navarre tapped out K-A-R-I-A-D on the dial, and the computer unit signaled acknowledgement and began clicking out the instructions for the drive. Navarre stepped back, slammed shut the automatically-locking hood of the capsule, and yanked down on the release lever.

The capsule quivered momentarily in its moorings; then the ship's cybernetic governor responded to the impulse and cut off the magnetic field that held the capsule in place. Slowly, it glided down the passageway toward the outer skin of the ship. Photonic relays opened an airlock for it as it approached; Navarre watched the capsule with its sleeping voyager vanish through the lock and out of the ship, bound on an orbit of its own.

Some days later, the slumbering pilot would be awakened by a gentle bump. He would discover he had made a perfect landing somewhere on Kariad.

Navarre turned away and made his course frontward, to the ship's control center. Altering the ship's course was not so simple as merely punching out a destination on an escape-capsule's computer.

He dropped into what had been the pilot's chair, and, lifting stylus and slide rule, addressed himself to the considerable task of determining the quickest and most efficient orbit to the planet of Morank.

Morank was the fourth world of a red super-giant sun located eight light-years from Kariad, ten light-years from Jorus. Morank itself was a large and well-populated world, a busy commercial center, and, in the old days of the Star-kings' League, Morank had fought a bitter three-cornered struggle with Jorus and Kariad for trade rights in their cluster.

That had been more than five hundred years before. The Starking's League had endured ten thousand years, but it was dying, and its aggressive component worlds were beginning to thrust up their own noisy claims for independence. Morank, Jorus, and Kariad—the three most powerful worlds of their cluster, the richest, the best-situated—were foremost in the fast-rising revolt against the powerless Starkings.

Still nominally federated into the League, the three worlds jockeyed for position like so many racing animals readying themselves for a break from the post. After two hundred years, the long-overdue break finally came; Joroiran I and his bold Earthman cohort, Voight Navarre, rebelled from the dying League and declared the eternal independence of the Jorus system. Morank had come right after, and then Kariad.

Three hundred years—but for the last hundred of that time, an uneasy friendship had existed among the three powerful planets, each watching the other two warily, none making any too-overt motions toward extending its sphere of control.

Navarre smiled. An alliance between Jorus and Kariad was sure to open some eyes on Morank.

His little ship blinked back into space within landing distance of the planet. In the sky the vast bulk of Morank's feeble red sun, Draximoor, spread like an untidy octopus, tendrils of flame extending thread-like in all directions.

Navarre fed the landing coordinates into the computer. The ship plunged planetward.

And this is Earth's last chance, he thought. If Morank allows itself to be pushed in the right direction, we may yet survive. If not, there'll be no withstanding the combined fleets of Jorus and Kariad.

A landing field loomed below. The ship radio sputtered and came to life; a voice spoke, in crisp syllables of the local lingua spacia.

"This is Central Traffic Control speaking from the city of Ogyglan. If you intend to effect a landing on Moranki territory, please respond."

Navarre flashed the answering signal. A moment later there came the okay, and with it was relayed a set of field coordinates, supplementing those he had already computed. He acknowledged, punched the new figures into his tape, and sat back, tensely awaiting the landing.

XVI

The Grand Spaceport at Ogyglan was a dazzling sight: to offset the dimness of the vast, pale red sun, batteries of photo-flood illuminoscreens had been ranked along the areaway that led from the spaceport buildings to the land field itself. To Navarre it seemed as if the entire planet was glowing, but it was a muted radiance that brightened without interfering with vision.

Three burly chisel-faced Morankimar waited for him as he clambered down the catwalk of his spaceship and strode across the field.

The Morankimar were humanoid aliens, cut to the general biological pattern of the humanoid type, but approximating it not quite so closely as did the Jorans and the Kariadi. They were heavy-set creatures, nearly as broad as they were wide, with dish-like oval eyes set lemur-like in independent orbital sockets, rotating with utter disregard for each other. Their skins were coarse-*grained and pebbly, a dark muddy yellow in color and unpleasant of texture. Fleshy protuberances dangled beard-fashion from their extremely sharp chins. They were sturdy, durable, long-lived creatures, quick-witted and strong.

As Navarre approached them he observed much anguished rotating of eyes. Finally, the foremost of the aliens, a bleak-visaged oldster whose skin had long since faded to a pale chartreuse, rumbled in lingua spacia, "Your ship bears the royal arms of Kariad. Are you perhaps the Oligocrat's Earth-man?"

"Hardly," Navarre replied, in Joran. He understood the Morankimar tongue, but it was a jawbreaking agglutinating language for which he held little fondness; only a lifelong speaker of it could hope to handle its maddening irregularities with success.

"I'm Hallam Navarre, formerly Earthman to the Court of Overlord Joroiran of Jorus. I've come to Morank bearing an important message for the Polisarch." ,

"A message from Joroiran?" asked the alien, in a thickly accented version of Joran.

"No," said Navarre. "A message about Joroiran. And about Oligocrat Marhaill. I think the Polisarch would be interested in what I have to say."

"We will take you to him."

A car was summoned; they left the spaceport and drove at a steady unflagging clip through the enormous metropolis of Ogyglan, toward the local residence of the Polisarch of Morank.

At length they came to a building that seemed to have ho foundation; it drifted ten feet above the ground, terminating in a smooth glassy undersurface, mirror-bright, jetblack. The building itself was a square untapering tower, a solid block of masonry.

"This is the residence of the Polisarch," Navarre was told.

The Earthman looked upward at the shining rectangle that hovered before him. Slee"k, handsome, its Sides icy blue and gleaming, it was a handsome sight.

He frowned. "What holds it up?"

"A hundred million cubic feet of graviton repulsors. The Polisarch must never touch Morankimar soil—nor may his residence."

Navarre nodded. It was a fact he had forgotten.

A/drawbridge descended from the lip of the building and they rose, the bridge rising behind them and tucking itself invisibly into place.

Navarre found himself in a wide, cream-colored marble anteroom. The shining floor was a solid slab of milky obsidian.

Two Morankimar clad in violet robes appeared from a concealed alcove and requested Navarre's blaster. Without protest he handed it over, and also, upon request, the slim curved blade beneath his vest. The palace guards evidently had monitored him by fluoroscreen.

Finally he was ushered into a vestibule that opened on an extensive drape-hung hall.

Navarre felt a curious tremor of anticipation as he crossed the threshold of the Grand Throne Room—not only because the fate of Earth hung on the skill of his powers of persuasion at this interview, but because the Morankimar Polisarch was one of the legendary figures of the galaxy and of the universe.

Rel Dominoor was his name, and he had held sway a hundred and eight years, having taken the Morankimar throne while Joroiran IV reigned in Jorus. During his years on Jorus, Navarre had learned to his sorrow the strength of this man Dominoor; nearly every attempt of his to plant a network of spies on Morank had been frustrated, and in the end he had simply abandoned hope of monitoring Morankimar activities jhe way he did those of Kariad and other worlds of the cluster. Old Dominoor was entirely too shrewd.

Navarre bowed deeply at the entrance to the throne room; a dry deep voice said, "You may rise," and the Earthman rose, looking about in some surprise for the Polisarch.

He found him, finally—eight feet above his head, a withered little figure clad in glistening querlon sheaths, sitting cross-legged on nothing in the air. The floor of the throne room, Navarre realized in astonishment, must be one gigantic graviton-repulsor plate, and the Polisarch's clothes equipped with the necessary resistile coils.

Navarre took three hesitant steps inward and the Polisarch drifted downward until his crossed feet were but three feet off the ground and his eyes level with Navarre's. "You're Navarre, Joroiran's man?" he said.

"I was Joroiran's man. It's two years since I left the Overlord's service."

One of the Polisarch's eyes swiveled disconcertingly upward. "You Earthmen exchange loyalties as other men exchange greetings. Have you come now to sell your services to me, Navarre? I stand in little need of new advisers at this late date . . . though I'm always willing to receive information."

The Polisarch's jewel-studded hand swept idly across his chest, gently touching a control stud; he began to rise, moving upward some eight feet. Navarre craned his neck, squinted up at the ruler, and said, "I bring you information, but there's a price for it."

Dominoor scowled expressively. "Earthmen haggle well. Let's hear the price, first; the information may come after, if I care to have it."

"Very well. The price is a fleet of Morankimar battleships —twelve of them, first-class, fully armed and manned, to be placed entirely under my command with ne restrictions whatever as to their use."

Abruptly the Polisarch touched his controls again and dropped rapidly until he was Navarre's level. His expression was grave, almost fierce.

"I had heard Earthmen were bold, but boldness carried too far becomes insolence." "There was no anger in his voice, merely a sort of didactic peevishness. "You'll sell your information for a mere twelve battleships, eh? I could flay you and get it for a less dear outlay."

Navarre met his gaze unflinchingly. "You could flay me, agreed. But then you'd be faced with solving the problem yourself. I offer a speedy and simple resolution. Your own spies will tell you what I have to tell you, soon enough— but that will hardly handle the situation adequately."

Dominoor smiled slowly. "I could like you, Earthman. Twelve battleships? All right. The terms are met. Now tell me what you came here to tell me, and see if you can save your skin from the hand of the flayer."

"Very well. Briefly, it's this: Jorus and Kariad plan to form an alliance. The balance of power in this cluster will be upset."

The Polisarch's pale, almost white skin began to deepen in color, passing through several subtle gradations of chartreuse and becoming finally an angry lemon-color that faded rapidly as the flood-tide of excitement receded.

Navarre waited patiently; he saw that his words had made their intended effect. Victory was almost in his grasp now.

Finally Dominoor said, "Do you have proof?"

"My word as an Earthman is all I can offer."

"Hmm. Let that matter pass, then. Tell me, why is this alliance coming about?"

Navarre took a deep breath. It was useless to lie to the old Polisarch; he was too wise, too keen-witted, to be easily fooled. Choosing his words with care, Navarre said, "There is a settlement on Earth. Ten thousand Earthmen live there."

"I know."

Navarre smiled. "Morank has its spies too, then."

"We have sharp ears here," said the Polisarch gravely. "But continue."

"These ten thousand of Earth desire nothing but peaceful existence. But Kausirn the Lyrellan, the Overlord Joroiran's adviser, fears them. He thinks Earth is much stronger than it actually is. He is afraid to send a Joran fleet against Earth unaided. Hence his pact with Marhaill; together Jorus and Kariad will dispatch fleets to crush ten thousand unarmed Earthmen."

"I see the picture. Mutual deception, leading to an alliance of cowards. But go on."

"Naturally, Earth will be destroyed by the fleet—but the link between Jorus and Kariad will have been forged. This Kausirn is unscrupulous. And Marhaill is a weak man. Before too many months have passed, you'll see Jorus and Kariad under one rule."

"This would violate a treaty even older than I," Dominoor mused. "The three worlds are to remain separate and un-allied, perpetually outstretched at the vertices of a triangle. This to ensure safety in our galaxy. An alliance of this sort would collapse the triangle. It would break the treaty."

"Treaties are scraps of paper, my Lord."

"So they are. But important scraps. We would have to go to war to protect our rights. It would be painful and costly for all of us. Our cities might be destroyed."

"War between Morank and the allied worlds could be avoided," Navarre said.

"By giving you twelve of our ships?"

"Yes. My plan is this: your ships shall be unmarked, unidentified in every way. No one will know they originate on Morank. I'll undertake to repel the Jorus-Kariad fleet that is converging on Earth, driving them off in such a way that they think Earth is incalculably powerful. With luck, it'll smash the Jorus-Kariad axis. It'll incidentally save Earth. But also Morank will be untouched by war."

The Polisarch was smiling again.

"At worst, it would cost me twelve ships. Such a, loss I could bear, if necessary. At best, I avoid a war in this cluster." "You agree to the terms, then?"

"The twelve ships are yours. Take them, Navarre, and use them well. Keep Jorus and Kariad apart. Keep war from touching Morank. Save your Earthmen from destruction. And, perhaps, thank an old man who has become a coward."

Navarre flushed. "Sire—"

"Don't try to contradict me. You see me humbled before you, Earthman. I give you the ships; play your little ruse. I .want only to die in peace. Let those who follow after worry ,about checking the rising tide that will eventually pour forth from Earth. I worry only about today; at my age, tomorrow is too distant."

There was nothing Navarre could say. He had achieved his goal; at least, in doing it, he had not deceived old Domi-noor.

XVII

There were fifty ships in the armada: fifty great golden-hulled vessels, sleek and powerful, advancing at a steady pace across the galaxies.

The flagship was a mighty gleaming ship that led the pack, a shark among sharks, a giant battleship of the realm of Jorus. The armada radiated confidence. They seemed to be saying, Here we are, twenty-five ships of Jorus and twenty-five of Kariad, crossing the universe to wipe out once and for all the pestilence of the Earthmen. ,

Hallam Navarre sat in his own flagship, a vessel that once had borne the name Pride of Kariad, but now carried no designation whatever. He watched the steady advance of the alien armada.

Fifty ships, he thought. Against eighteen.

But we know how many they have. They can't measure our" numbers.

He sat poised behind his viewscreens, biding his time, thinking, waiting. They were fifty thousand light-years from Earth, now, and he had no intention of letting Kausirn's fleet come any closer than five thousand. If even one ship eluded the inner fine of defense and got through to Earth . . .

Helna appeared and -slipped into the seat next to his. She said, "It'll all be decided now, won't it? All the thousands of years of planning, ever since the Chalice was sealed and the sleepers put to rest."

Navarre nodded tighdy. Thousands of years of planning, all dependent upon this one day, on these eighteen ships, ultimately on the mind of one man. He stared at his un-quivering hands. He was steady, now; so much was at stake that his mind failed to encompass it, and apprehension was impossible.

He jacked in the main communication line and studied the deployment of his eighteen ships.

Four of them remained in close orbit around Earth, in constant radio contact with each other, ready to move rapidly when needed. He hoped they would not be needed; they were the last line of defense, the desperation blockaders, and it would be dark indeed if they had to be called into play.

The smaller colony on Procyon had two ships guarding it. Six more were deployed at the farthest edges of the sphere of conflict, forming a border for the coming battle. That was his second line of defense.

The remaining six ships formed a solid phalanx ten light-years across, turned outward toward the advancing combined armada. Navarre's flagship was among this group. These would make the initial attack.

The twelve ships given him by the Polisarch had been carefully recoated; their hulls no longer glowed in bright Morankimar colors, but now were an anonymous gray, all planetary designations concealed. Each of the ships had a small complement of Earthmen aboard, aiding the Moranki-mar captain. The aliens knew only that they were to take orders from the Earthmen; the Polisarch had made that amply clear in his instructions to the Grand Admiral.

It might work, Navarre thought. If not, well, it had been a game try—and perhaps there might be another Chalice on some other world. Earth was not that easily defeated, he told himself.

Time was drawing near. All the efforts, all the countless schemes, all Navarre's many identities and many journeys, all converged into one moment now.

He opened the all-fleet communicator and waited a moment until all the twenty-two bulbs at the side of the central monitor-board lit up.

Then, in a quiet voice, he said, "Attention, Unit A—low-intensity defense screens are to be replaced with full screens immediately.

"Unit B—stand by until called into action as previously instructed.

"Unit C—remain at your posts in orbit round the planets, and under no circumstances leave formation. "Unit D—stand by for emergency use. "The battle is about to begin."

There was a moment of silence. Quickly, Navarre reached up to shut off the all-fleet communicator; what he had to say now was directed at the armada. He signaled for a wide-beam subspace hookup.

"All right," he muttered. "Now it starts."

He drew the microphone toward him and said, in a ringing voice, "Attention invaders! Attention invaders! This is Hallam Navarre, Admiral of the Grand Fleet of Earth. Come in, invader flagship!"

He repeated the message three times in Joran and three times in Kariadi. Then he sat back, staring at the complex network of machinery that was the communicator panel,

waiting for some reply.

Less than a thousand light-years separated the two fleets.

The time-lag in communication should have been virtually

nil. But a minute went by, and another, with no response.

Navarre grew cold; were they simply going to ignore him

and move right on into their midst?

But after four minutes the speaker crackled into life, "This is Flagship calling Admiral Navarre." The inflection

was savagely sardonic* "Come in, Admiral Navarre. What do

you want?"

Navarre's heart leaped. He hadn't expected him to be commanding the armada in person! "Kausirn?"

"Indeed. What troubles you, Navarre?"

"You infringe on Terran domains, Kausirn. State the purpose of your invasion."

"I don't think we need to explain to you, Navarre. The Terran Empire passed out of existence thirty thousand years before; you have no claim to any domain as such. And we're here to see that no ghosts walk the starways."

"An invasion fleet?"

"Call it that, if you will."

"Very well," Navarre said sharply. "In that case I call on you to surrender or be destroyed. The full might of the Grand Fleet of Earth is waiting to hurl you back shattered to your own system."

Kausirn- laughed harshly. "The full might! Six stolen ships! Six against fifty! You deceived me once, Ambassador Domell —you won't a second time!"

A moment later a bright energy flare licked out across space toward the Terran flagship. Navarre's screens easily deflected the thrust.

"I warn you, Kausirn. Your fleet is outnumbered six to one. Terra's resources are greater than you could have dreamed. Will you surrender?"

"Ridiculous!" But' it seemed to Navarre there was false bravado in Kausirn's outburst; the Lyrellan appeared to be uncertain.

"We of Earth hate needless bloodshed," Navarre said. "I call upon the captains of the invading fleet to head their ships back to home. Kausirn is an alien; he hardly cares how many Joran or Kariadi lives he throws away."

"Don't listen!" came the Lyrellan's shout over the phones. "He's bluffing! He has to be bluffing!" It sounded a trifle panicky.

"All right," Navarre said. "Here we come."

He gave the prearranged signal, and the culminating bat-de that had been planned so long entered into existence. The six ships that comprised his fighting wedge moved forward, charging across hyperspace toward the evenly spaced invading fleet.

"You see!" Kausirn shouted triumphantly. "They have but six ships! We can crush them!"

Navarre's ship shook as the first heavy barrage crashed into it; the screens deflected the energy and a bright blue nimbus sprang into being around the ship as the overload was dissipated.

Six ships against fifty—but six rebuilt ships, six ships so laden with defense screens that they were no faster than snails. They moved steadily into the heart of the armada, shaking off the alien barrage and counterattacking with thrusts of their own.

They were unstoppable, those six ships—but difficult to maneuver, slow at returning fire. In time, the alien fleet could wear down their screens by continued assault, and that would end the battle.

"Six outmoded crawlers," Kausirn exulted. "And you ask us to surrender."

"The offer still goes," Navarre said curtly.

He gave the signal for the second third of the fleet to enter the fray.

They came down from six directions at once, their heavy-cycle guns spouting flame. They converged inward on the Joran-Kariadi fleet, six light Morankimar vessels equipped for massive offensive thrusts.

The invaders were caught unaware; four Joran ships crumbled and died in the first shock of the unsuspected attack.

Kausirn was silent. Navarre knew, or hoped he knew, what the Lyrellan was thinking: I haß expected only six defending ships. If the Earthmen have these additional six, how many more may they have?

The radar screen was crisscrossed with light. Navarre's original six plowed steadily forward, drawing the heaviest fire of the aliens and controlling it easily, while the six new ships plunged and swerved in daring leaps, weaving in and out of the alien lines so fast they could not even be counted.

Navarre gave another signal. And suddenly three of his offensive platoon leaped from view, blanked out like extinguished candles, and reappeared at the far end of the battlefield. They drove downward from their new angle of attack, while the remaining trio likewise jumped out of warp and back in again. Navarre picked up bitter curses coming from the harassed aliens.

Three more ships had perished. The odds were narrowing —forty-three against eighteen, now. And the aliens were definitely bewildered.

The tactic was unheard-of; it was suicide to leave and reenter hyperspace in a confined area barely a thousand fight-years on a side. There was the ever-present consideration that one ship might re-materialize in an area already occupied; the detonation would be awesome.

There was always the chance. But Navarre had computed it, and in actuality the chance was infinitesimal that two ships would re-enter the same space in such an area. It was worth the risk. Like leaping silver-bellied fish, his ships flicked in and out of space-time. And now the alien vessels moved in confused circles. Flick!

Two astonished Kariadi vessels thundered headlong into each other to avoid a Terran vessel that had appeared less than a light-minute away from them. The proximity strained the framework of hyperspace; the hapless ships were sucked downward, out of control, into a wild vortex.

Flick!

Navarre's checkboard showed eleven invader losses already, and not one Terran ship touched. He grinned cheerfully as one of his six original attackers speared through the screens of a bedeviled Joran destroyer and sent it reeling apart.

"Kausirn? Are you convinced?" No answer came this time.

Navarre frowned speculatively. So far the battle was going all Earth's way; but eventually the shattered and confused invader lines would re-group, and eventually they would realize that only twelve Earth ships opposed them, not hundreds.

Navarre gave one final signal. Suddenly, four more Terran ships warped into the area.

They were dummies, half-finished ships manned by skeleton crews. They carried no arms, only rudimentary defense-screens; Navarre had ordered them held in check for just this moment. And here they were.

At the same time the six warp-jumping ships stabilized themselves. Now sixteen Terran ships menaced the alien fleet at once, and there was no telling for the aliens how many more lurked in hidden reaches.

The armada milled hesitantly. Ships changed course almost at random.

Navarre's vessels formed into a tight wheel and spun round the confused aliens. He opened the communicator channels wide and said, "We have already destroyed thirteen of your number at no cost to ourselves. Will you surrender now, or do we have to pick you all off, one by one? Speak up, Kausirnl"

Garbled noise came from the communicator—sure sign that more than one ship's captain was trying to speak at the same time. Navarre joyfully sensed indecision; he flashed one last-ditch signal along his communication channel, ordering the six defensive ships stationed round the planets to leave their base and join the fray. It was a rash move, but he knew the time had come to gamble all on the chance of success.

He heard Kausim's cold steely voice saying insistently, "No! He's bluffing us! He has to be bluffing!"

The last six Terran ships winked into being, spitting death. The invader fleet rippled outward in disorganized retreat. Suddenly Navarre's subradio phones brought over the sound of a single agonized scream.

The sky was full of ships, now—twenty-two Terran ships, of which four were mere shells, and six more were so weighted with defense-screens that they were practically useless on offense.

"Well, Kausirn? Do we have to bring out the real fleet, now?"

No response.

Navarre wondered about the scream he had heard. "Kausirn?"

A new voice said suddenly, "The Lyrellan is dead. This is Admiral Garsignol of Kariad. By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Oligocrat Marhaill, I surrender to you the eighteen surviving Kariadi ships."

A moment later another voice broke into the channel, speaking in Joran. The nineteen Joran ships were likewise surrendering. They saw resistance was futile.

It was over at last, Navarre thought, as he stared from the window of his office in the city of Phoenix, on Earth, looking outward at the thirty-seven alien vessels the battle had yielded.

Victory was sweet.

Earth now had forty-three ships of first-class tonnage, plus four more half-finished ones, and twelve more belonging to the -Polisarch of Morank. The Polisarch would never miss his ships, Navarre thought. And Earth needed them.

Fifty-nine ships. That comprised a major armada in itself; hardly a hundred worlds in the universe could muster fleets of such size. Earth would be safe during the time of rebuilding. There would be no Second Empire, merely the free world of Earth.

Earth numbered barely twelve thousand, now. But time would remedy that. The ancient legend had spoken truth: the Chalice indeed held the key to immortal life. Earth, reborn phoenix-like from its ashes of old, had once again won its place in the roll of worlds.

Navarre looked out the broad window at the brightening hillside. The sun was rising; the city was stirring busily with the coming of day. He opened the window and let the air of Earth wash through the room, bright, clean, fresh. It was a time for beginning, he thought. In the days to come, a thousand million worlds would have cause to remember the name of the planet they had once forgotten.

Earth.