Brute Farce
Astounding Science Fiction – February 1958
(1958)*
Eric Frank Russell

The difficult thing about dealing with a brilliant crackpot is, of course, that you can't possibly tell when something he does is too smart to be trusted, or too stupid to pay attention to. This makes life somewhat uncertain, and quite confusing ...

-

	TRUMBULL rumbled disgustedly, "You wouldn't think anyone could be advanced and primitive at one and the same time."

	"Who, for instance?" invited Viosca. 

	"The Drenes and Salamards."

	"Oh, are they at it again?"

	"Yeah. They make me sick." Letting go a deep sigh, Trumbull jerked his thumb toward a message-form lying on his desk. "This time it's a Drene raid on the Salamards. Purely retaliatory, of course. Done under great provocation. As usual, the other guy started it."

	Viosca gave a shrug of indifference. "They've been feuding ever since they invented rocketships and made contact. Mutual antipathy has been the result of technical progress. That's wholly their own fault. If they can't or won't adapt to each other, nobody else can make them do so. Darned if I can see why the Space Union worries about them. Why doesn't everyone just leave them to stew in their own juice?"

	"For several reasons," answered Trumbull, heavily.

	"Such as?"

	"Firstly, their ships are antiquated by our standards. It's as much as they can do to reach out and smack each other. Things won't stay that way forever. Their vessels will improve as time goes on. It's going to be awkward if their behavior doesn't improve as well. We can't tolerate general hooliganism all over the galaxy."

	"Fat chance they'd have to make nuisances of themselves," scoffed Viosca. "Any world in the Union could knock either of them silly without pausing for breath."

	"The prime function of the Union is to prevent that sort of thing happening, not to let it happen successfully," Trumbull pointed out. "It exists to maintain universal peace. In effect, the Space Union is a guarantee that no world need take independent action to avert defeat or gain victory over another. The Union's existence depends upon its ability to keep the peace and that in turn depends upon everybody's respect for authority." He paused, chewed his bottom lip while he stared at the message-form, finished, "The Salamards and Drenes are undermining that authority. They're making the Union look like a bunch of monkeys. Next thing you know, the rot will set in. It's got to start somewhere."

	"There may be something in what you say," Viosca conceded. "One or two Union members seem to have been getting pernickety of late."

	"Sure thing! They're not going to sit and do their sums while somebody else thumbs his nose at teacher."

	"Time teacher reached for the big stick."

	"Easier said than done," Trumbull gave back with unconcealed sourness. "Every member of the Union maintains a pious neutrality so long as no action is taken. But the moment someone suggests letting the navy handle the problem, what happens? They start lining up like opposing football teams. Half of them assert that if anyone's going to be larruped it had better be the Drenes because they're the rats who originated all the trouble. The other half proclaim that the Salamards should be mussed up because they're the stinkers who started the fighting."

	"I don't wonder there's a difference of opinion," Viosca offered. "I once looked into the so-called history of this feud. So many lies have been told by both sides that it's well-nigh impossible to say who's to blame."

	"Both are to blame," declared Trumbull, impatiently. "They're living in the past and they can't go on doing that forever. Which means that despite their technical progress the Drenes and Salamards are mentally and morally backward. What you might call scientifically enlightened savages. Much more of their nonsense and the Union will fall to pieces for sheer lack of ability to impose discipline where needed."

	"The only effective alternative to punishment is prevention," Viosca commented. "And it's an ancient law that prevention is better than cure."

	"Correct," agreed Trumbull. "The trouble is that it's beautiful in theory but won't work out in practice. At the last Union Assembly we suggested policing the area of conflict. Sanderson himself emphasized that the presence of Union warships would enable us to get unbiased evidence and name the real culprit once and for all. What reception did he get?"

	"I don't know. I haven't read the latest report."

-

	"All right, I'll tell you. Policing the Drene-Salamard sector means a lot of wasteful expenditure of ships, men and arms. So every world came up with fifty reasons why it should be exempt from contributing its share and offered fifty more reasons why others should do the dirty work. That, mister, leaves Terra to go it alone. You can imagine the Terran taxpayer's reaction if we tried to do so. There'd be one loud and united howl to get out of the Union. I told you the rot has to start somewhere."

	"It has been said that no problem is unsolvable," remarked Viosca, doubtfully. "The guy who said it ought to be handed this one."

	"He was a nut," opined Trumbull. He thought again, added, "Maybe he could do it at that. It takes a nut to crack something nutty."

	Viosca stared at him, asked, "Do you really mean that?"

	After further thought, Trumbull said, "I was merely shooting off. But having taken another look at it I think there might be something in it. A looney always has another angle and that's what we need right now."

	"Well, if it's of any help," said Viosca, "I can produce the whackhead."

	"Name of?"

	"Sebastian Snodgrass."

	"That's not funny," reproved Trumbull, frowning at him.

	"Personally, I think it's tragic," said Viosca.

	"You mean that really it his name?"

	"Believe it or not."

	"Holy cow!" said Trumbull.

	Viosca leaned forward, went on, "I'll tell you something: a fellow who grows up with a name like that soon learns to use his wits. He has to!"

	"And his fists, I'd say," Trumbull ventured.

	"I'm not so sure about that. He told me once that any kid can handle a school bully without raising a finger."

	"How?"

	"All he need do is wear spectacles and let go with a warning yell of, 'If you break my glasses, you'll have to pay for them!' It works every time. The biggest tough in the class doesn't relish the idea of being nicked for twenty bucks." Viosca grinned at him, finished, "As you remarked, there's always another angle."

	"It's got so I'll listen to anyone," said Trumbull. "Even a Snodgrass, may God forgive me. Go fetch me this character."

-

	Trumbull looked him over with some disfavor. He was a skinny individual with a thin, peaky face, a pointed nose that had a distinct tinge of ruby at its tip, and pale, watery eyes in which floated around a vague suggestion of low cunning. The latter feature made Trumbull peculiarly uneasy; it gave him the feeling of being about to try and make mental contact with a thing from another world.

	"Harumph!" began Trumbull importantly. "I have been examining your record, Snodgrass. To say the least it is rather odd."

	"Anything is odd that is not commonplace," said Snodgrass. "Which is obvious by definition."

	"We are not here to discuss the semantic aspects of everything I say," Trumbull reproved. He registered a scowl. "Take this item: it says you're the only man in the Space Service who insists on piloting a ship while wearing a derby hat. Where's the sense of that?"

	"People, especially those of other species, tend to accept one at one's own valuation," explained Snodgrass, patiently.

	"So what?"

	"They jump to the conclusion that a pilot in a derby hat is the sort of individual who can get away with anything, including murder. Such a conclusion gives me quite a head-start."

	"At that rate I might do better for myself wearing a pink turban," suggested Trumbull, sarcastically.

	"Very probably," agreed Snodgrass, "if you can jack yourself out of the nit."

	Trumbull went red, choked back a retort, gained control of himself. "We'll let your record ride—except for one item. Three years back you got Viosca out of a jam. I don't know the details and he won't tell me."

	"It was merely a matter of throwing routine methods overboard. When you become a creature of habit you become half-blind, and so—"

	"I don't want to know about it," said Trumbull. "It's no business of mine. All I'm interested in is the fact that Viosca thinks you might be able to help us solve a tough problem by taking it from an unorthodox viewpoint." He favored the other with a hairy stare. "So far as I'm concerned problems exist to be solved without regard for whether the methods are normal or abnormal."

	"You must be getting desperate," observed Snodgrass, giving the cunning a ten per cent boost.

	"Nothing of the sort," contradicted Trumbull, loudly. "I, personally, couldn't care less. However, others do care. Every time they get worried they start chivvying my department. I'm tired of being pushed around, see?"

	"Nobody pushes me," observed Snodgrass with irritating virtue. "If anyone tries it, I just fall flat and he takes a dive over the body. Trouble with most folk is that they're slaves of habit and—"

-

	"Shut up and listen to me. We've got a problem. I wouldn't dream of submitting it to a mere pilot, even a full-witted one. But I see from your record that you put in four years as Union Consul on Kastria. That was a minor post and a temporary one, but it does mean you've had diplomatic experience."

	"I was tossed out," said Snodgrass, reminiscently.

	Trumbull popped his eyes. "It doesn't say so in the official report."

	"It wouldn't. In the diplomatic service they put everything diplomatically. Expulsion is called withdrawal. They get well paid if not overpaid for mangling the language. It goes to prove that even the higher-ups are slaves of routine and, therefore, it's no wonder that—"

	"For the love of Mike," interrupted Trumbull, "will you cease propaganding and tell me exactly what happened?"

	"There was a ruling clique on Kastria, a greedy and arrogant bunch. They started bucking the Union and using resulting tension as a pretext to rearm. It wasn't that they were really warlike; it was just that they intended to make plenty for themselves out of a big armaments program."

	"So—?" Trumbull prompted.

	"You can't arm without spending lots of money. You can't splurge money without first taking it from someone. You can't put a wholesale snatch on people and expect them to love it. The Kastrian rank and file didn't enjoy being nicked but could not see any way out of it. The Union didn't like what was going on, made repeated protests that were ignored and found themselves stuck with the situation."

	"And then what happened?"

	"I grew weary of passing official notes to and fro. There's an ancient Kastrian law that says no power on earth can take legal action against anyone who is mentally deficient. So I brought it to the attention of Kastrian taxpayers and asked what they were waiting for."

	"You really did?"

	"Sure, why not? There's no law against mentioning laws. Besides, when you can't nail someone from the front the obvious tactic is to set fire to his rear."

	"Go on," urged Trumbull, impatiently.

-

	"As usual with masses, there was doubt and a lot of hesitation until a few bolder spirits gave the lead, whereupon the rest followed like sheep. In no time at all the government's income shrank to nothing and there was a two-mile line-up outside the office of every mental specialist. The result was utter chaos. In less than ten days the Union had agreed to make a loan and withdraw me—on its own terms. I don't know what the terms were, but they'd be prize fools to give way without making plenty on the deal."

	"There's been no trouble with Kastria for seven years," said Trumbull. "Or none that I've heard about." He plucked thoughtfully at his bottom lip, went on, "All right. Now we've got the Drenes and Salamards on our hands. I doubt that they have any laws protecting the dotty. Even if they had it would be of no use. They don't need saving from themselves; they need saving from each other."

	"In that case, I'd say neither is worth saving," Snodgrass offered.

	"You must be telepathic," said Trumbull. "I wouldn't give a bad nickel for the Drenes or Salamards. Unfortunately they cannot be ignored any more than a foul stench can be ignored. They're setting a bad example and it's got to be stopped, somehow." He let go a grunt of disgust. "There are Union Consuls on both worlds, Martin and Premczyk. To judge by results, their diplomatic efficiency approaches zero. Maybe you know them, huh?"

	"I do. Martin is a bead-brain who does everything according to the book. If it doesn't work, he lets go the book and faints."

	"You don't say?" mouthed Trumbull.

	"I have just said it," Snodgrass pointed out. "As for Premczyk, he's less erudite than a co-pilot on a garbage truck. A typical slave of bureaucratic convention who—"

	Blinking rapidly, Trumbull ordered, "Say it again."

	Snodgrass repeated the shortcomings of Premczyk.

	In complete silence Trumbull devoted some time to careful contemplation of the ceiling, then remarked gloomily, "I don't know whether we should."

	"Should what?"

	"Give you this problem to handle."

	"Well," encouraged Snodgrass, "if one looks at it in the dim light of reason one would advise against it."

	"Yeah," said Trumbull. "Yeah."

	"On the other hand," Snodgrass went happily on, "it can be said in favor of a candidate who is not altogether with us that the opposition will be baffled by what wasn't there."

	"I'm not so sure it isn't there," said Trumbull. "I wouldn't be surprised if you've got it stashed some place else." He made a gesture of sudden decision. "Anyway, we've only two alternatives: do nothing, or take a chance. We can't sit around and do nothing."

	"Neither can you sit around and let the Drenes and Salamards continue doing something."

	"I know, I know. So I'm dumping this in your lap," Trumbull went on. "I'm appointing you a Union Special Investigator. The Union Council will approve. They'd approve of me appointing a horse providing it could neigh some sense into somebody."

	"A horse, not being inhibited by—"

	"Shut up!" ordered Trumbull. "As an Union Special Investigator you'll be sure of a welcome on the Drene and Salamard worlds. They've given the razz to about seventy of them so far. You might as well start the next seventy. If we keep it up long enough, we're bound to strike the lucky number some day. Eventually we'll send a guy whose name happens to be Bingo. After that, we can all sleep in peace." He waved a hand in dismissal. "Get going."

	"On one condition," said Snodgrass.

	"What condition?"

	"No repudiations."

	"What d'you mean?"

	"I mean what I said—a free hand and no repudiations. If I ask for the Drene leader to be presented with a steam calliope, he's to be given one pronto. If I send an urgent requisition for a hen battery, or for five hundred pairs of Persian slippers, or for six sundials and a crook-handled umbrella, you rush them, express. No quibbling, see?"

	"But I have to explain all expenditure," objected Trumbull, appalled by this list of possible demands.

	"That's your job, isn't it? You to yours and I to mine." Snodgrass donned his derby hat, gazed with sudden interest at Trumbull's right hand and exclaimed, "Oh, look, a thumb!"

	"Huh?" Trumbull jerked up the thumb and examined it with care. There was nothing truly remarkable about it that he could see. He raised ireful eyes and opened his mouth to say something but found nobody there. The other had gone.

	So he closed the mouth, had another long look at the thumb. He hadn't been so absorbed in it since he'd worn diapers. After a while he said, "Nuts!" but it didn't seem very satisfactory.

-

	Martin had a moon face, oyster eyes and had reduced life to three basic rules, namely, everything in triplicate, properly signed, and passed to the appropriate department. His reception of yet another Union Special Investigator was visibly pained and he viewed the derby hat as if it were a phenomenon extruded into his orderly existence from another dimension.

	"Now," began Snodgrass, twitching his nose, "the story goes that the Drenes love the Salamards and the Salamards adore the Drenes but somehow they can't make it. Do you believe in this miracle of mass innocence?"

	"I have no official opinions," said Martin, stiffly. "My duty is to report facts so far as they can reasonably be ascertained. That and no more."

	"It needn't stop you thinking," offered Snodgrass. "And even in government service it is permissible to think occasionally, providing one does it with circumspection and takes care not to overstrain oneself."

	"Are you suggesting that I am incapable of independent thought?" Martin demanded.

	"Not at all. I doubt whether you're that far gone—yet," said Snodgrass. "But I do suggest that you dare not voice a political opinion without first gaining the kind permission of somebody whom you slavishly view as a superior."

	"I resent that," informed Martin, bugging the oysters. 

	"So do I," said Snodgrass, resignedly. "I fear that nothing whatever can be done about it. Slowly but surely the entire universe is going to the dogs and much good may it do them." 

	"Going to who?"

	"The dogs. You need a hearing-aid?"

	"No I don't," denied Martin, showing ire. "Neither do I require any lessons in diplomacy from you."

	"How mad can we get?" asked Snodgrass of the blank wall. "I come six weeks as the crow flies to sup at the fount of his wisdom. I beg of him a candid opinion which he refuses. Finally, he says he wants no lessons from me. I don't wonder things are—"

	"Look," chipped in Martin, "just exactly what do you want to know?"

	"Now we're getting somewhere at last," said Snodgrass. "All I ask is your private opinion of who is to blame in this long-standing fracas. You're one of the two Union representatives on the spot and you've been here a long time. You must have a few secret ideas of some kind, probably based on unofficial evidence that has never been reported."

	"I have no opinion," confessed Martin, simmering down, "except that it's quite impossible to decide who was the original culprit. And there's only one thing I can tell you strictly off the record."

	"What's that?"

	"Neither the Drenes or the Salamards ever invented rocketships. They're credited with having done so simultaneously, but that's the bunk. In the long, long ago some member of what is now a Union nation sold them the designs of out-of-date ships. Maybe he also got them tangling with each other so that he could cash in on the situation. We don't know for certain and there's no way of finding out."

	"And you don't know who he was, either?"

	"No. He could have been a Terran, Martian, Centaurian, Sirian, most anybody. Anyway, he was a slick customer with no scruples." Martin made a gesture of futility. "The official history of the trouble makes no mention of this fact because the Union cannot admit any responsibility in the matter."

	"The usual tactic," commented Snodgrass. "Grab all the credit and brush-off the blame. Somebody could make a million selling artificial haloes to government departments."

	"Well, I'd rather look like a saint than a nut," said Martin, eyeing the derby hat.

-

	"I don't doubt it," Snodgrass gave back, "sainthood being strictly according to the book." He thought a while, went on, "Obviously we can't put a stop to this business by beating up both combatants because that means punishing the innocent along with the guilty and because Union members cannot agree which is which."

	"Nor ever will agree," contributed Martin, positively, "seeing that the beginning of the squabble is hidden in the mists of the past."

	"Therefore the only solution is to identify the guilty party without reference to the past."

	Martin popped his eyes again. "You can't do that. You can't make an arbitrary statement and base Union justice upon it. The members would never stand for that. They'd recognize it as a dangerous precedent and damn it on sight."

	"Not" said Snodgrass, "if the culprit is compelled to name himself."

	"Haha!" said Martin, sourly.

	"Haha to you, too," retorted Snodgrass. "This Kazhim, the Drene leader, what sort of a character is he?"

	"Kazhim is an autocrat with no holes in his head. Secretly he's one hundred per cent in favor of unending trouble with the Salamards."

	"Why?"

	"Because he could not pose as a great war leader without a war, he couldn't be the Lord Protector to people who need no protection. He is maintained in power by public fear of the Salamards and he knows it."

	"In other words, you think I've little chance of crawling up his spine and getting a strangle hold on his conscience?"

	"None whatever." Martin hesitated, looked doubtful, continued with sudden resolution, "I'll tell you something else. This is in confidence, mind you. It is not an official statement. Not a word to anyone else!"

	"Say what's on your mind, man. Nobody can hang you for it."

	"Zubigar, the Salamard dictator, is just such another as Kazhim. His position is bolstered by general fear of the Drenes. In that respect he and Kazhim might be blood-brothers. Sometimes I suspect them of playing each other's game, by mutual consent. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours."

	"A pretty setup," said Snodgrass, sniffing. "One worthy of political idiocy at its best." He grabbed his hat. "Oh, well—"

	"Where're you going?" Martin demanded.

	"To see Premczyk. The time has come to pass on to the next thought." He waved the hat. "Shoot the talcum to me, Malcolm."

	"I beg your pardon."

	"You heard," said Snodgrass.

-

	Premczyk resembled the reincarnation of a brown bear. He had the stupid eyes, the barrel chest, the ungainly shuffle, the shaggy hair, but fortunately lacked the smell.

	"Any ideas on who started it?"

	"You ask me that?" complained Premczyk. "You think I am clairvoyant perhaps?"

	"I'm not demanding facts, official or unofficial. I only want your private opinion."

	"That is easy," said Premczyk. "The Drenes started it. The Drenes keep it up. But the Salamards will finish it."

	"You really think so?"

	"Yes."

	"Why?"

	"Because," explained Premczyk, blank-faced, "this is the Salamard world and I happen to be the Union Consul here. Sometimes one is asked unexpected questions and lacks the time to think up an unctuous reply. But if I believe what the Salamards believe, then I do not need time for thought—I automatically say what pleases them." Bending forward, he tapped the other on the knee with a forefinger that felt like a hammer. "That is diplomacy. I am a diplomat and a good one."

	" 'Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?' " recited Snodgrass.

	"You think maybe you could be a better one, eh?" challenged Premczyk.

	"Not at all. I merely think I stand higher in my own category. For your interest, I am supposed to be a crackpot—and a good one."

	"How I envy you," said Premczyk. "All of us would like to let ourselves go, but most of us cannot. Anxious parents, or rigid teachers, or adverse circumstances, have us tied down hand and foot."

	Snodgrass took a long, careful look at him. "Back on Terra I assured Trumbull in good faith that you were a low-grade moron. It was a grossly unfair estimate. I withdraw it with apologies."

	Premczyk grinned, showing big teeth. "There is no need to. I am flattered. Men like Zubigar have a pathetic craving for superiority. He is fond of me because he considers me witless. I play my proper part, you understand? It pleases me that you should think I play it well."

	"I'm beginning to wonder whether I've similarly underrated Martin," said Snodgrass. "I described him as one who lives wholly by the book of words. Does he?"

	"Yes, I'm afraid so." Premczyk let go a sigh. "But you must forgive him. He is seventy-seven years old and one is not very supple at that age. Put it to his credit that so far he has resisted all attempts to make him retire."

	"I will." Snodgrass studied him speculatively, went on, "Martin said that Zubigar and Kazhim are two of a kind, namely, dictators exploiting the fears of the masses and possibly working in unarranged collusion. Do you agree?"

	"Yes, it's a fair estimate."

	"All right. Now suppose the Union concocts some effective method of removing Zubigar and Kazhim from their worlds, what d'you think would happen?"

	"They'd be succeeded immediately by any of the horde of ambitious underlings who're waiting for such an opportunity."

	"And the war would continue?"

	"You can bet on that. The new dictators would be in precisely the same circumstances and motivated in the same way for the same reasons." 1

	"Bang goes a minor idea," said Snodgrass, ruefully. "At least it had the virtue of being easy and inexpensive."

	"Something effective will have to be done in the near future," opined Premczyk. "The Union is worried about this blatant challenge to its authority and about the possibility of both sides spreading trouble by developing bigger, better and faster ships. But there are other dangerous prospects, too."

	"Such as?"

	"So far the most they've managed on each raid has been to scatter a few dozen two-hundred-pound bombs around, all of ancient type loaded with little better than gunpowder. Result is that the damage hasn't been great, casualties have been low in number and the raids have served mostly to keep the pot on the boil." He paused, eyed his listener, said, "But in the long ago somebody sold them the secret of rocketships. We can never tell when another fool will come along and sell the secrets of better weapons, perhaps of nuclear weapons. If that ever happens, the balloon really will go up."

	"Yes, you've got something there. It means two things. Firstly, action must be taken before it's too late. Secondly, the action must be effective."

	"Correct," agreed Premczyk.

	"Which in turn means that the Union has got to show its teeth in a manner on which all members can agree or at least in a manner that no member will oppose."

	"You've summed it up in all respects save one," Premczyk pointed out. "The method."

	"I know."

	"To get complete agreement you'll have to find a way of placing the blame beyond all argument or dispute. You'll have to prove the guilt of one party or the other because the Union will never agree to the policy of beating up both of them. How're you going to do it?"

	"I don't propose to try," Snodgrass informed. "I reckon it's sheer waste of time to exonerate Zubigar by damning Kazhim, or vice versa. The evidence is that they're equally culpable. We've got to find another way out of the mess."

	"There isn't one," said Premczyk, moodily.

	"There wasn't a cellar in our house until my Uncle Silas fell into it," said Snodgrass. "Life is full of little surprises." He took his hat, crammed it down over his ears. "The thing to do is to seek a little surprise, as the hart panteth after the waterbrook." He waved a hand. "See you at the altar, Walter."

	"Pardon?"

	"You heard,'" said Snodgrass.

-

	His next appearance was on the great industrial world of Telethene, sector of Sirius, and the nearest fully developed outpost to the Drene-Salamard area. He strolled through a huge university as if he owned it, traced the room he wanted, went inside. It was occupied by a wizened little Terran with white hair and shrewd blue eyes.

	"Professor Langdale?"

	"Yes. What can I do for you?"

	"I'm given to understand that you're a leading authority on astrophysics and astromathematics and that what you don't know about this neck of the galaxy isn't worth knowing."

	"Oh, I wouldn't say that," disclaimed Langdale, modestly.

	"Of course you wouldn't. It would be unbecoming of you. Be gratified that I have said it." Snodgrass grabbed a chair unasked, sat down. "I want to know whether you can prepare some accurate and essential data concerning the Drene-Salamard area." He went on to explain in lengthy detail, finished, "As you can see, it's an official job and an urgent one. Your fee will be paid by the Union Security Department on Terra."

	Langdale thought it over, his features holding a hint of amusement. "It could be done, I can assure you of that right now. But working it out will take time. I suppose you want these charts as soon as possible?"

	"They'll be of no use until everything else is ready. The important thing is to learn the minimum number. I can't take my plan much further until I know that."

	"Well, preparing the charts will require thirty to fifty days. It's a tedious task, I'm afraid. But I can let you know the minimum number within ten days."

	"Good!" He stood up, noticed the other staring fascinatedly at the hat in his hand. "You like it?"

	"Frankly, I wouldn't be seen dead in it," said Langdale.

	"Neither shall I, if I can help it," agreed Snodgrass. "The black color accentuates the whiteness of the face and the result is horrid."

	"Really?"

	"Yes." He slammed the derby on his nut, went to the door. "Therefore I intend to abandon it at my last gasp." With that he went out, stuck his head inside and added by way of afterthought, "But not before."

	After that he hung around for ten days, he phoned the university.

	Langdale said, "Four hundred twenty?"

	"That's the absolute minimum?"

	"It is. What's more, it would have been more than a thousand except that we found it possible to devise an attenuated ellipse."

	"Four-fifty would be better, eh?"

	"Certainly," Langdale confirmed. "The more, the merrier. But you asked for the minimum number."

	"I know I did. But I'll have to increase it to provide some sort of safety margin. You think four-fifty should cover it adequately?"

	"Sure thing," said Langdale. 

	"Thanks!"

	He spent the next fortnight running sweatily around twenty big engineering plants, arguing, persuading, cajoling and occasionally drawing lurid pictures of all those gold ingots stacked high in the Union's vaults.

	There followed a waiting period of four months. It was tedious but not without events. Halfway through the Drenes came out with more ships, dumped a double load on the Salamards and virtuously announced a future policy of giving two bombs for each one received. The Salamards countered with the boast that they were about to produce bigger bangers and that in the near future one Salamard bomb would equal twenty Drene ones.

	Trumbull sent an urgent signal: Security Department reports you active on Telethene. What goes?

	He sent back the succinct reply: Money.

	There came no answer to that. Perhaps Trumbull had subsided in disgust or possibly Viosca had reassured him. More likely, though, that the Union's Secret Service had made discreet inquiries and confirmed that the cash was not being splurged on wine, women and song.

	In due time he collected the charts from Langdale, had a number of copies made. He paid a last visit to each of the engineering plants, finally went to see several of the biggest shipping and freighting outfits of which Telethene had more than a hundred.

	His next tactic was to sit tight on Telethene and do nothing whatever until eventually the freighting outfits phoned him one by one. After the last had called, he packed, took a fast mail-boat to the Salamard world, had a conference with Premczyk. That done, a Union scout conveyed him to the Drene world where he walked in unannounced on Martin.

	Martin said, with no enthusiasm, "You again?"

	"Yes, and about time, too. Kazhim's getting uppish with his bigger fleet."

	"So is Zubigar with his bigger bombs. There's nothing we can do about it."

	"On the contrary," announced Snodgrass, "the time has come to act. Premczyk will tend to Zubigar. You will introduce me to Kazhim so that I can perform a similar service."

	"Don't be silly," said Martin.

	"I may be crazy but I am not silly," Snodgrass reproved. "There's quite a difference in effectiveness. We are about to let Kazhim experience a moment of truth."

	"Look," invited Martin, making a great show of patience, "whatever stunt you intend to pull on Kazhim or Zubigar will make not a darned bit of difference. A hundred others are waiting to jump on their thrones and sit while they're still warm. The political scene can't tolerate a vacuum. Immediately you get rid of one pair you'll have to cope with another pair and so ad infinitum."

	"We do not propose to get rid," said Snodgrass. "We intend only to make them sit still. Are you going to take me to Kazhim, or do I have to tell Trumbull that you lacked the strength to totter with me to the palace?"

	"It isn't necessary to jeer at my years," Martin told him.

	"I didn't intend it that way. But if that's the way it looks, I'm sorry. I'm only trying to sting you into action."

	"I don't have to be stung. One just can't be precipitate about such matters. Certain things must be considered."

	"Such as what?"

	"I can't rush in on Kazhim without an appointment. It's irregular. It's contrary to protocol."

	Snodgrass pointed to the desk. "There's the phone. Tell him the Union is mobilizing in readiness to attack. He'll say, 'Attack who?' You say, 'I don't know any more than that. But a Union Special Investigator is here. He wishes to see you personally and at once.' Curiosity and a guilty conscience will do the rest. We won't be able to get there fast enough to please him."

	"But is the Union mobilizing?" asked Martin.

	"What do you care? You tend strictly to the diplomatic side and leave me to tell all the lies."

	"My orders are to co-operate as far as possible with Union Special Investigators," Martin informed, with unconcealed distaste. "So I've no choice about the matter. However, while I shall do as you wish I must disclaim all responsibility for the results."

	"Disclaim what you please. It's the tune the old cow died of. But for heaven's sake use that phone and let's get an armlock on Kazhim." Snodgrass glanced impatiently at his watch, added, "Premczyk will have Zubigar across the barrel within an hour."

	"You hope," said Martin, skeptically.

	He picked up the phone.

	They reached the palace in twenty minutes. Kazhim had the long, pointed ears and the peculiar flexible pig-snout of his kind, only more so. His eyes were hard and cold. His teeth seemed to have been made with a do-it-yourself kit.

	"Now," he began, in gritty tones, "what's all this about the Union mobilizing for war?"

	"Preparing might be a better word," said Snodgrass. "We don't need to mobilize to settle what is really a minor issue."

	"Be more specific," ordered Kazhim.

	"The position is critical. The Union has decided that it is fed up with the Drene-Salamard squabble. It has got to stop and they're taking drastic action to stop it."

	"How?"

	"They're going to beat the living daylights out of the aggressor. No mercy will be shown. The guilty side will be blasted into submission, deprived of all ships and weapons and reduced to primitive status as an object lesson to the rest of the planetary confederation."

	"That makes sense," approved Kazhim, his snout working around. "I've never been able to understand why the Union hasn't enforced discipline before now. The Salamards have been asking for trouble long enough."

	"According to the Salamards, you Drenes are to blame."

	"You could expect them to say that," shouted Kazhim, his eyes full of ire. "They are and always have been hopeless liars. Are you trying to tell me that the Union believes them?"

	"No, we don't," soothed Snodgrass. "You say one thing, the Salamards say another and we have no means of deciding who is telling the truth."

	"Then," Kazhim demanded, "how are you going to determine which is the guilty party?"

	"By ignoring the past and considering only the future. As from today, and by Union definition, the aggressor will be the first one to make a raid on the other."

	"But—"

	"That puts you in a sweet position," Snodgrass went on. "All you need do is sit around and wait for Zubigar and his Salamards to put their heads in the noose. Immediately they do so they'll wish they'd never been born."

	A strange series of expressions crossed Kazhim's face before he said, "Does Zubigar know about this?"

	"Of course. We had to warn both sides, hadn't we?"

	"Then I can tell you what he will do," offered Kazhim with malicious satisfaction. "He will carefully refrain from all further attack and wait for us to fall foul of the Union."

	"In which case the war will have ended."

	"No, it won't," Kazhim denied. "The Salamards cannot tolerate the idea of perpetual peace. If we keep them waiting until their patience runs out, they will do something about it, something typically treacherous."

	"For example?"

	"They'll blow up a couple of blocks of old property, claim that we made a sneak raid on them and then raid us by way of pretended retaliation. I've told the Union more times than I'd care to count that the Salamards are unscrupulous liars."

	"Let 'em try—they won't get away with it," assured Snodgrass. He watched Kazhim interestedly, knowing full well what was churning in the dictator's mind, namely, that if Zubigar couldn't get away with it neither could he.

	"I wish I could be sure of that," probed Kazhim, striving to look virtuous.

	Snodgrass got to his feet, picked up his hat, said cryptically, "Neither you nor the Salamards can raid another planet without using ships. Remember that!"

	Outside, Martin muttered gloomily, "I hope you know what you're doing."

	"So do I," said Snodgrass. "Bet your life on that." Martin stopped dead in his tracks, gazed at him wide-eyed. "You mean you don't really know?"

	"This game is not based on what I think I can do but on what Kazhim and Zubigar think they can't do. That's clear, isn't it?"

	"Like mud," said Martin.

	"Try wearing a hat," Snodgrass advised. "It warms and stimulates the brain."

	It was a year before he returned to Terra and found Trumbull sitting behind his desk and looking as if only a week had passed.

	Trumbull let go a deep grunt and said, "About time, too. You've been gone long enough."

	"I've been piloting around. When one job finishes I start on another. I have to eat and that's one rut I can't escape."

	"It's taken quite a time to get a rough idea of what you've been doing," Trumbull complained. "A comprehensive report from you would have saved a lot of trouble."

	"You didn't ask for a report. You asked for results. You're got them, haven't you?"

	"Yes, it looks that way. All has been quiet in the Drene-Salamard sector for some time."' "Then what have you got to gripe about?"

	"We didn't ask for a stack of bills, either," said Trumbull. "The Union has paid them without quibble in view of the fact that the expenditure has proved effective."

	"The whole lot don't amount to the cost of one space-corvette," Snodgrass pointed out.

	"That may be. But we're entitled to know what we've bought and exactly why we've bought it." Jerking open a drawer, he extracted a wad of papers, thumbed through them. "Bill for professional services from the Sci-Art University of Deansburg on Telethene. Bill for haulage from the Transolar Shipping Company. Another from the Cosmic Tug and Towing Company."

	"Yes, but—"

	"Bills from a dozen other shipping outfits who've been lugging your junk all over the sky," continued Trumbull, doggedly. "And finally bills from various plants for a total of four hundred fifty snoderoos." He brushed the papers aside, leaned forward, said with emphasis, "It would be most gratifying to know what exactly is a snoderoo."

	"That's easy. A snoderoo is a model spaceship of Snodgrass design. About thirty feet long by eight in diameter. Its outside bears Union insignia and a serial number, also ports, lenses, VHF antenna and various other contraptions of curious or sinister appearance according to the state of your conscience."

	"Is that so?" said Trumbull. "Then all I can say is that we got a fleet of miniature ships dirt cheap."

	"So you should—seeing they're not altogether with us."

	"What d'you mean?"

	"They're empty. There's nothing inside them."

-

	Trumbull flopped back in his chair, stared with open incredulity. "You mean to say we've paid for a large batch of dolled-up empty cans?"

	"Just that," agreed Snodgrass, seeing nothing extraordinary in the purchase. "And you're lucky it wasn't a thousand or more."

	"Come on—get busy explaining."

	"I asked Langdale of Sci-Art whether it was possible to work out a permanent satellite orbit between the Drene and Salamard solar systems. He concocted a suitable ellipse. It's not permanent. For some reason I don't understand it slowly lengthens itself. But according to Langdale it's good for nearly four thousand years before it breaks into something big enough to get lost."

	"And then?"

	"Langdale also worked out the minimum number of satellites that would have to occupy that orbit so spaced that one would always be traveling within detector-range of anything crossing between the Drene and Salamard systems. The ellipse cut the .number quite a piece because as soon as a snoderoo shoots out of range on one arm another comes into range on the other arm."

	"And the total came to four-fifty?"

	"Four-twenty. I added thirty and had them spaced a bit closer. It provided a safety factor and allowed for the orbit's gradual elongation."

	"Yes, that makes sense," approved Trumbull.

	"Why shouldn't it? Orthodoxy doesn't have the monopoly of sense," Snodgrass retorted. He carried on, "When the snoderoos had been positioned I told Kazhim we were all set to knock somebody's block off. Premczyk—to whom I humbly apologized for calling him a moron—similarly warned Zubigar."

	"According to the latest reports, Kazhim is planning to retire with his loot and Zubigar is surly with Premczyk."

	"I'm not surprised. You can see what has happened. At that time neither of them cared a hoot about the Union threat because they were confident that we couldn't name the aggressor. Sometime later each has tried to sneak across and paste the other only to find a permanent string of snoderoos keeping continual watch. Each hasn't liked the situation, each has decided to play safe and let the other boob fall into the trap."

	"That's all very nice—except for one thing," Trumbull objected. "The trap isn't a trap. If either of them discovers that those satellites are so many empty cans, we're sunk."

	"They can't find out without pulling one apart. And they can't do that without approaching it and grabbing it. The one who does that is the aggressor."

	"How the devil can we tell who grabbed it?"

	"The snoderoo signals the information. That's what it's for, isn't it."

	"But it can't do so if it's just an empty shell."

	"Sh-h-h.'" Snodgrass put a finger to his lips, gazed around with exaggerated anxiety. "We know that—but they don't. Think they dare take the risk?"

	Trumbull breathed heavily and said, "You've got a nerve!"

	"Not so," denied Snodgrass. "I merely figured that what has worked before can work again."

	"How d'you mean?"

	"When I was a kid down on the farm my old man bought a prize hog, put it in a pen. A little later he bought another, dumped it in the same pen. Those hogs behaved themselves daytimes but fought like mad nights. The old man got mighty worried about them damaging each other, decided there was nothing for it but to build another pen."

	"Don't leave it at that," urged Trumbull. "He built another pen—and then what?"

	"He didn't build another pen," Snodgrass contradicted. "He called in Uncle Silas to help build one. Uncle Silas allowed as how he could fix them critters with less bother. He hung a chain from the middle of the room so that its end dangled about four inches above the floor. After that, those hogs made no more trouble."

	"But why?" demanded Trumbull. "Why?"

	"I don't know. All I can think of is that every time they made a pass at each other the chain started swinging around, slid coldly and snakily across their backs and disconcerted them so much that they couldn't concentrate on bloody murder. Maybe a hog has an irresistible built-in reaction to snaky feelings across its back."

	"Could be."

	"So I thought it might be worthwhile giving the Drenes and Salamards a similar chain-reaction. I hung in space a chain of snoderoos and the mere sight of it gives them a funny feeling down the spine." Snodgrass stood up, stretched his arms, yawned. "Well, how's the sermon, Herman?"

	"Eh?"

	"You heard."

	He went out, came back a moment later, dumped a parcel on the desk. "I nearly forgot. I brought you back a souvenir."

	Trumbull picked at the string, tore aside the paper, opened the box, took out a pink silk turban. Its front was tastefully decorated with a large osprey feather.

	He held it in one hand, eyeing it morbidly, then remarked, "I'll be candid with you—I haven't got the nerve."

	"If one can't jump out of the rut, one can crawl," advised Snodgrass. "So keep it by and work up to it slowly."

	"Yeah." promised Trumbull. "Yeah."

The End