Dark Benediction

BLOOD BANK

The colonel’s secretary heard clomping footsteps in the corridor and looked up from her typing. The footsteps stopped in the doorway. A pair of jet-black eyes bored through her once, then looked away. A tall, thin joker in a space commander’s uniform stalked into the reception room, sat in the corner, and folded his hands stiffly in his lap. The secretary arched her plucked brows. It had been six months since a visitor had done that—walked in without saying boo to the girl behind the rail.

“You have an appointment, sir?” she asked with a professional smile.

The man nodded curtly but said nothing. His eyes flickered toward her briefly, then returned to the wall. She tried to decide whether he was angry or in pain. The black eyes burned with cold fire. She checked the list of appointments. Her smile disappeared, to be replaced by a tight-lipped expression of scorn.

“You’re Space Commander Eli Roki?” she asked in an icy tone.

Again the curt nod. She gazed at him steadily for several seconds. “Colonel Beth will see you in a few minutes.” Then her typewriter began clattering with sharp sounds of hate.

The man sat quietly, motionlessly. The colonel passed through the reception room once and gave him a brief nod. Two majors came in from the corridor and entered the colonel’s office without looking at him. A few moments later, the intercom crackled, “Send Roki in, Dela. Bring your pad and come with him.”

The girl looked at Roki, but he was already on his feet, striding toward the door. Evidently he came from an unchivalrous planet; he opened the door without looking at her and let her catch in when it started to slam.

Chubby, elderly Colonel Beth sat waiting behind his desk, flanked by the pair of majors. Roki’s bearing as he approached and saluted was that of the professional soldier, trained from birth for the military.

“Sit down, Roki.”

The tall space commander sat at attention and waited, his face expressionless, his eyes coolly upon the colonel’s forehead. Beth shuffled some papers on his desk, then spoke slowly.

“Before we begin, I want you to understand something, commander.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are not being tried. This is not a court-martial. There are no charges against you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel’s pale eyes managed to look at Roki’s face without showing any contempt. “This investigation is for the record, and for the public. The incident has already been investigated, as you know. But the people are aroused, and we have to make a show of some kind.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Then let’s begin. Dela, take notes, please.” The colonel glanced at the papers before him. “Space Commander Roki, will you please tell us in your own words what happened during patrol flight Sixty-one on fourday sixmonth, year eighty-seven?”

There was a brief silence. The girl was staring at the back of Roki’s neck as if she longed to attack it with a hatchet. Roki’s thin face was a waxen mask as he framed his words. His voice came calm as a bell and clear.

“The flight was a random patrol. We blasted off Jod VII at thirteen hours, Universal Patrol Time, switched on the high-C drive, and penetrated to the ten-thousandth level of the C’th component. We re-entered the continuum on the outer patrol radius at thirty-six degrees theta and two-hundred degrees psi. My navigator threw the dice to select a random course. We were to proceed to a point on the same co-ordinate shell at thirty theta and one-fifty psi. We began—”

The colonel interrupted. “Were you aware at the time that your course would intersect that of the mercy ship?”

The girl looked up again. Roki failed to wince at the question. “I was aware of it, sir.”

“Go on.”

“We proceeded along the randomly selected course until the warp detectors warned us of a ship. When we came in range, I told the engineer to jockey into a parallel course and to lock the automatics to keep us parallel. When that was accomplished, I called the unknown freighter with the standard challenge.”

“You saw its insignia?”

“Yes, sir. The yellow mercy star.”

“Go on. Did they answer your challenge?”

“Yes, sir. The reply, decoded, was: Mercy liner Sol-G-6, departure Sol III, destination Jod VI, cargo emergency surgi-bank supplies, Cluster Request A-4-J.”

Beth nodded and watched Roki with clinical curiosity. “You knew about the Jod VI disaster? That twenty thousand casualties were waiting in Suspendfreeze lockers for those supplies?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry they died.”

“Go on with your account.”

“I ordered the navigator to throw the dice again, to determine whether or not the freighter should be boarded for random cargo inspection. He threw a twelve, the yes-number. I called the freighter again, ordered the outer locks opened. It failed to answer, or respond in any way.”

“One moment. You explained the reason for boarding? Sol is on the outer rim of the galaxy. It doesn’t belong to any cluster system. Primitive place—or regressed. They wouldn’t understand our ways.”

“I allowed for that, sir,” continued the cold-faced Roki. “I explained the situation, even read them extracts of our patrol regs. They failed to acknowledge. I thought perhaps they were out of contact, so I had the message repeated to them by blinker. I know they got it, because the blinker-operator acknowledged the message. Evidently carried it to his superiors. Apparently they told him to ignore us, because when we blinked again, he failed to acknowledge. I then attempted to pull alongside and attach to their hull by magnetic grapples.”

“They resisted?”

“Yes, sir. They tried to break away by driving to a higher C-level. Our warp was already at six-thousand C’s. The mass-components of our star cluster at that level were just a collapsing gas cloud. Of course, with our automatic trackers, they just dragged us with them, stalled, and plunged the other way. They pulled us down to the quarter-C level; most of the galaxy was at the red-dwarf stage. I suppose they realized then that they couldn’t get away from us like that. They came back to a sensible warp and continued on their previous course.”

“And you did what?”

“We warned them by every means of communication at our disposal, read them the standard warning.”

“They acknowledge?”

“Once, sir. They came back to say: This is an emergency shipment. We have orders not to stop. We are continuing on course, and will report you to authority upon arrival.” Roki paused, eyeing the colonel doubtfully. “May I make a personal observation, sir?”

Beth nodded tolerantly. “Go ahead.”

“They wasted more time dodging about in the C’th component than they would have lost if they had allowed us to board them. I regarded this behavior as highly suspicious.”

“Did it occur to you that it might be due to some peculiarity in Sol III’s culture? Some stubbornness, or resentment of authority?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you ask opinions of your crew?”

A slight frown creased Roki’s high forehead. “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Regulation does not require it, sir. My personal reason—the cultural peculiarities of my planet.”

The barb struck home. Colonel Beth knew the military culture of Roki’s world—Coph IV. Military rank was inherited. On his own planet, Roki was a nobleman and an officer of the war-college. He had been taught to rely upon his own decisions and to expect crisp, quick obedience. The colonel frowned at his desk.

“Let’s put it this way: Did you know the opinions of the crew?”

“Yes, sir. They thought that we should abandon the pursuit and allow the freighter to continue. I was forced to confine two of them to the brig for insubordination and attempted mutiny.” He stopped and glanced at one of the majors. “All due apologies to you, sir.”

The major flushed. He ranked Roki, but he had been with the patrol as an observer, and despite his higher rank, he was subject to the ship commander’s authority while in space. He had also been tossed in the brig. Now he glared at the Cophian space commander without speaking.

“All right, commander, when they refused to halt, what did you do?”

“I withdrew to a safe range and fired a warning charge ahead of them. It exploded in full view of their scopes, dead ahead. They ignored the warning and tried to flee again.”

“Go on.”

Roki’s shoulders lifted in the suggestion of a shrug. “In accordance with Article Thirty of the Code; I shot them out of space.”

The girl made a choking sound. “And over ten thousand people died on Jod VI because you—”

“That will do, Dala!” snapped Colonel Beth.

There was a long silence. Roki waited calmly for further questioning. He seemed unaware of the girl’s outburst. The colonel’s voice came again with a forced softness.

“You examined the debris of the destroyed vessel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you find?”

“Fragments of quick-frozen bone, blood plasma, various bodily organs and tissues in cultured or frozen form, prepared for surgical use in transplanting operations; in other words, a complete stock of surgibank supplies, as was anticipated. We gathered up samples, but we had no facilities for preserving what was left.”

The colonel drummed his fingers. “You said ‘anticipated.’ Then you knew full well the nature of the cargo, and you did not suspect contraband material of any kind?”

Roki paused. “I suspected contraband, colonel,” he said quietly.

Beth lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “You didn’t say that before.”

“I was never asked.”

“Why didn’t you say it anyway?”

“I had no proof.”

“Ah, yes,” murmured the colonel. “The culture of Coph IV again. Very well, but in examining the debris, you found no evidence of contraband?” The colonel’s distasteful expression told the room that he knew the answer, but only wanted it on the record.

But Roki paused a long time. Finally, he said, “No evidence, sir.”

“Why do you hesitate?”

“Because I still suspect an illegality—without proof, I’m afraid.”

This time, the colonel’s personal feelings betrayed him in a snort of disgust. He shuffled his papers for a long time, then looked at the major who had accompanied the patrol. “Will you confirm Roki’s testimony, major? Is it essentially truthful, as far as you know?”

The embarrassed officer glared at Roki in undisguised hatred. “For the record, sir—I think the commander behaved disgracefully and insensibly. The results of the stoppage of vitally needed supplies prove—”

“I didn’t ask for a moral judgment!” Beth snapped. “I asked you to confirm what he has said here. Were the incidents as he described them?”

The major swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

The colonel nodded. “Very well. I’ll ask your opinions, gentlemen. Was there an infraction of regulations? Did Commander Roki behave as required by Space Code, or did he not? Yes or no, please. Major Tuli?”

“No direct infraction, sir, but—”

“No buts! Major Go’an?”

“Uh—no infraction, sir.”

“I find myself in agreement.” The colonel spoke directly at Dela’s note pad. “The ultimate results of the incident were disastrous, indeed. And, Roki’s action was unfortunate, ill-advised, and not as the Sixty Star Patrol would approve. Laws, codes, regulations are made for men, not men for regulations. Roki observed the letter of the law, but was perhaps forgetful of its spirit. However, no charge can be found against him. This investigating body recommends that he be temporarily grounded without prejudice, and given thorough physical and mental examinations before being returned to duty. That brings us to an end, gentlemen. Dela, you may go.”

With another glare at the haughty Cophian, the girl stalked out of the room. Beth leaned back in his chair, while the majors saluted and excused themselves. His eyes kept Roki locked in his chair. When they were alone, Beth said:

“You have anything to say to me off the record?”

Roki nodded. “I can submit my resignation from the patrol through your office, can’t I, sir?”

Beth smiled coldly. “I thought you’d do that, Roki.” He opened a desk drawer and brought out a single sheet of paper. “I took the liberty of having it prepared for your signature. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not urging you to resign, but we’re prepared to accept it if you choose to do so. If you don’t like this standard from, you may prepare your own.”

The jet-eyed commander took the paper quickly and slashed his name quickly across the bottom. “Is this effective immediately, sir?”

“In this case, we can make it so.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t regard it as a favor.” The colonel witnessed the signature.

The Cophian could not be stung. “May I go now?”

Beth looked up, noticing with amusement that Roki—now a civilian—had suddenly dropped the “sir.” And his eyes were no longer cold. They were angry, hurt, despairing.

“What makes you Cophians tick anyway?” he murmured thoughtfully.

Roki stood up. “I don’t care to discuss it with you, colonel. I’ll be going now.”

“Wait, Roki.” Beth frowned ominously to cover whatever he felt.

“I’m waiting.”

“Up until this incident, I liked you, Roki. In fact, I told the general that you were the most promising young officer in my force.”

“Kind of you,” he replied tonelessly.

“And you could have been sitting at this desk, in a few years. You hoped to, I believe.”

A curt nod, and a quick glance at Beth’s shoulder insignia.

“You chose your career, and now you don’t have it. I know what it means to you.”

A tightening of the Cophian’s jaw told the colonel that he wanted no sympathy, but Beth continued.

“Since this is the oldest, most established, most static planet in the Cluster, you’re out of a job in a place where there’s no work.”

“That’s none of your business, colonel,” Roki said quietly.

“According to my culture’s ethics it is my business,” he bellowed. “Of course you Cophians think differently. But we’re not quite so cold. Now you listen: I’m prepared to help you a little, although you’re probably too pig-headed to accept. God knows, you don’t deserve it anyway.”

“Go on.”

“I’m prepared to have a patrol ship take you to any planet in the galaxy. Name it, and we’ll take you there.” He paused. “All right, go ahead and refuse. Then get out.”

Roki’s thin face twitched for a moment. Then he nodded. “I’ll accept. Take me to Sol III.”

The colonel got his breath again slowly. He reddened and chewed his lip. “I did say galaxy, didn’t I? I meant… well… you know we can’t send a military ship outside the Sixty-Star Cluster.”

Roki waited impassively, his dark eyes measuring the colonel.

“Why do you want to go there?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Connected with the mercy ship incident?”

“The investigation is over.”

Beth pounded his desk. “It’s crazy, man! Nobody’s been to Sol for a thousand years. No reason to go. Sloppy, decadent place. I never suspected they’d answer Jod VI’s plea for surgibank supplies!”

“Why not? They were selling them.”

“Of course. But I doubted that Sol still had ships, especially C-drive ships. Only contribution Sol ever made to the galaxy was to spawn the race of Man—if you believe that story. It’s way out of contact with any interstellar nation. I just don’t get it.”

“Then you restrict your offer, colonel?” Roki’s eyes mocked him.

Beth sighed. “No, no—I said it. I’ll do it. But I can’t send a patrol ship that far. I’ll have to pay your way on a private vessel. We can find some excuse—exploration maybe.”

Roki’s eyes flickered sardonically. “Why not send a diplomatic delegation—to apologize to Sol for the blasting of their mercy ship.”

“Uk! With YOU aboard?”

“Certainly. They won’t know me.

Beth just stared at Roki as if he were of a strange species.

“You’ll do it?” urged Roki.

“I’ll think it over. I’ll see that you get there, if you insist on going. Now get out of here. I’ve had enough of you, Roki.”

The Cophian was not offended. He turned on his heel and left the office. The girl looked up from her filing cabinets as he came out. She darted ahead of him and blocked the doorway with her small tense body. Her face was a white mask of disgust, and she spoke between her teeth.

“How does it feel to murder ten thousand people and get away with it?” she hissed.

Roki looked at her face more closely and saw the racial characteristics of Jod VI—the slightly oversized irises of her yellow-brown eyes, the thin nose with flaring nostrils, the pointed jaw. Evidently some of her relatives had died in the disaster and she held him personally responsible. He had destroyed the help that was on its way to casualties.

“How does it feel?” she demanded, her voice going higher, and her hands clenching into weapons.

“Would you step aside please, Miss?”

A quick hand slashed out to rake his cheek with sharp nails. Pain seared his face. He did not move. Two bright stripes of blood appeared from his eye to the corner of his mouth. A drop trickled to the point of his chin and splattered down upon the girl’s shoe.

“On my planet,” he said, in a not unkindly tone, “when a woman insists on behaving like an animal, we assist her—by having her flogged naked in the public square. I see personal dignity is not so highly prized here. You do not regard it as a crime to behave like an alley cat?”

Her breath gushed out of her in a sound of rage, and she tore at the wounds again. Then, when he did nothing but look at her coldly, she fled.

Eli Roki, born to the nobility of Coph, dedicated to the service of the Sixty-Star Cluster, suddenly found himself something of an outcast. As he strode down the corridor away from Beth’s office, he seemed to be walking into a thickening fog of desolation. He had no home now; for he had abdicated his hereditary rights on Coph in order to accept a commission with the SSC Patrol. That, too, was gone; and with it his career.

He had known from the moment he pressed the firing stud to blast the mercy freighter that unless the freighter proved to be a smuggler, his career would be forfeit. He was still morally certain that he had made no mistake. Had the freighter been carrying any other cargo, he would have been disciplined for not blasting it. And, if they had had nothing to hide, they would have stopped for inspection. Somewhere among Sol’s planets lay the answer to the question—“What else was aboard besides the cargo of mercy?”

Roki shivered and stiffened his shoulders as he rode homeward in a heliocab. If the answer to the question were “Nothing,” then according to the code of his planet, there was only one course left to follow. “The Sword of Apology” it was called.

He waited in his quarters for the colonel to fulfill his promise. On the following day, Beth called.

“I’ve found a Dalethian ship, Roki. Privately owned. Pilot’s willing to fly you out of the Cluster. It’s going as an observation mission—gather data on the Sol System. The commissioners vetoed the idea of sending a diplomatic delegation until we try to contact Solarians by high-C radio.”

“When do I leave?”

“Be at the spaceport tonight. And good luck, son. I’m sorry all this happened, and I hope—”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Well—”

“Well?”

The colonel grunted and hung up. Ex-Commander Roki gathered up his uniforms and went looking for a pawn shop. “Hock ’em, or sell ’em?” asked a bald man behind the counter. Then he peered more closely at Roki’s face, and paused to glance at a picture on the front page of the paper. “Oh,” he grunted, “you. You wanta sell ’em.” With a slight sneer, he pulled two bills from his pocket and slapped them on the counter with a contemptuous take-it-or-leave-it stare. The clothing was worth at least twice as much. Roki took it after a moment’s hesitation. The money just matched the price tag on a sleek, snub-nosed Multin automatic that lay in the display case.

“And three hundred rounds of ammunition,” he said quietly as he pocketed the weapon.

The dealer sniffed. “It only takes one shot, bud—for what you need to do.”

Roki thanked him for the advice and took his three hundred rounds.

He arrived at the spaceport before his pilot, and went out to inspect the small Dalethian freighter that would bear him to the rim of the galaxy. His face clouded as he saw the pitted hull and the glaze of fusion around the lips of the jet tubes. Some of the ground personnel had left a Geiger hanging on the stern, to warn wanderers to keep away. Its dial indicator was fluttering in the red. He carried it into the ship. The needle dropped to a safe reading in the control cabin, but there were dangerous spots in the reactor room. Angrily he went to look over the controls.

His irritation grew. The ship—aptly named the Idiot—was of ancient vintage, without the standard warning systems or safety devices, and with no armament other than its ion guns. The fifth dial of its position-indicator was calibrated only to one hundred thousand C’s, and was redlined at ninety thousand. A modern service-ship, on the other hand, could have penetrated to a segment of five-space where light’s velocity was constant at one hundred fifty thousand C’s and could reach Sol in two months. The Idiot would need five or six, if it could make the trip at all. Roki dobted it. Under normal circumstances, he would hesitate to use the vessel even within the volume of the Sixty-Star Cluster.

He thought of protesting to Beth, but realized that the colonel had fulfilled his promise, and would do nothing more. Grumbling, he stowed his gear in the cargo hold, and settled down in the control room to doze in wait for the pilot.

A sharp whack across the soles of his hoots brought him painfully awake. “Get your feet off the controls!” snapped an angry voice.

Roki winced and blinked at a narrow frowning face with a cigar clenched in its teeth. “And get out of that chair!” the face growled around its cigar.

His feet stung with pain. He hissed a snarl and bounded to his feet; grabbing a handful of the intruder’s shirt-front, he aimed a punch at the cigar—then stayed the fist in midair. Something felt wrong about the shirt. Aghast, he realized there was a woman inside it. He let go and reddened. “I… I thought you were the pilot.”

She eyed him contemptuously as she tucked in her shirt. “I am, Doc.” She tossed her bat on the navigation desk, revealing a close-cropped head of dark hair. She removed the cigar from her face, neatly pinched out the fire, and filed the butt in the pocket of her dungarees for a rainy day. She had a nice mouth, with the cigar gone, but it was tight with anger.

“Stay out of my seat,” she told him crisply, “and out of my hair. Let’s get that straight before we start.”

“This… this is your tub?” he gasped.

She stalked to a panel and began punching settings into the courser. “That’s right. I’m Daleth Shipping Incorporated. Any comments?”

“You expect this wreck to make it to Sol?” he growled.

She snapped him a sharp, green-eyed glance. “Well listen to the free ride! Make your complaints to the colonel, fellow. I don’t expect anything, except my pay. I’m willing to chance it. Why shouldn’t you?”

“The existence of a fool is not necessarily a proof of the existence of two fools,” he said sourly.

“If you don’t like it, go elsewhere.” She straightened and swept him with a clinical glance. “But as I understand it, you can’t be too particular.”

He frowned. “Are you planning to make that your business?”

“Uh-uh! You’re nothing to me, fellow. I don’t care who I haul, as long as it’s legal. Now do you want a ride, or don’t you?”

He nodded curtly and stalked back to find quarters. “Stay outa my cabin,” she bellowed after him.

Roki grunted disgustedly. The pilot was typical of Daleth civilization. It was still a rough, uncouth planet with a thinly scattered population, a wild frontier, and growing pains. The girl was the product of a wildly expanding tough-fisted culture with little respect for authority. It occurred to him immediately that she might be thinking of selling him to the Solarian officials—as the man who blasted the mercy ship.

“Prepare to lift,” came the voice of the intercom. “Two minutes before blast-off.”

Roki suppressed an urge to scramble out of the ship and call the whole thing off. The rockets belched, coughed, and then hissed faintly, idling in wait for a command. Roki stretched out on his bunk, for some of these older ships were rather rough on blast-off. The hiss became a thunder, and the Idiot moved skyward—first slowly, then with a spurt of speed. When it cleared the atmosphere, there was a sudden lurch as it shed the now empty booster burners. There was a moment of dead silence, as the ship hovered without power. Then the faint shriek of the ion streams came to his ears—as the ion drive became useful in the vacuum of space. He glanced out the port to watch the faint streak of luminescence focus into a slender needle of high-speed particles, pushing the Idiot ever higher in a rush of acceleration.

He punched the intercom button. “Not bad, for a Dalethian,” he called admiringly.

“Keep your opinions to yourself,” growled Daleth Incorporated.

The penetration to higher C-levels came without subjective sensation. Roki knew it was happening when the purr from the reactor room went deep-throated and when the cabin lights went dimmer. He stared calmly out the port, for the phenomenon of penetration never ceased to thrill him.

The transition to high-C began as a blue-shift in the starlight. Distant, dull-red stars came slowly brighter, whiter—until they burned like myriad welding arcs in the black vault. They were not identical with the stars of the home continuum, but rather, projections of the same star-masses at higher C-levels of five-space, where the velocity of light was gradually increasing as the Idiot climbed higher in the C-component.

At last he had to close the port, for the starlight was becoming unbearable as its wave-length moved into the ultra-violet and the X-ray bands. He watched on a fluorescent viewing screen. The projective star-masses were flaring into supernovae, and the changing continuums seemed to be collapsing toward the ship in the blue-shift of the cosmos. As the radiant energy increased, the cabin became warmer, and the pilot set up a partial radiation screen.

At last the penetration stopped. Roki punched the intercom again. “What level are we on, Daleth?”

“Ninety thousand,” she replied curtly.

Roki made a wry mouth. She had pushed it up to the red line without a blink. It was O.K.—if the radiation screens held out. If they failed to hold it, the ship would be blistered into a drifting dust cloud.

“Want me to navigate for you?” he called.

“I’m capable of handling my own ship,” she barked.

“I’m aware of that. But I have nothing else to do. You might as well put me to work.”

She paused, then softened a little. “O.K., come on forward.”

She swung around in her chair as he entered the cabin, and for the first time, he noticed that, despite the close-cropped hair and the dungarees and the cigar-smoking, she was quite a handsome girl—handsome, proud, and highly capable. Daleth, the frontier planet, bred a healthy if somewhat unscrupulous species.

“The C-maps are in that case,” she said, jerking her thumb toward a filing cabinet. “Work out a course for maximum radiant thrust.”

Roki frowned. “Why not a least-time course?”

She shook her head. “My reactors aren’t too efficient. We need all the boost we can get from external energy. Otherwise we’ll have to dive back down for fuel.”

Worse and worse!—Roki thought as he dragged out the C-maps. Flying this boat to Sol would have been a feat of daring two centuries ago. Now, in an age of finer ships, it was a feat of idiocy.

Half an hour later, he handed her a course plan that would allow the Idiot to derive about half of its thrust from the variations in radiation pressure from the roaring inferno of the high-level cosmos. She looked it over without change of expression, then glanced at him curiously, after noting the time.

“You’re pretty quick,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“You’re hardly stupid. Why did you pull such a stupid boner?”

Roki stiffened. “I thought you planned to regard that as none of your business.”

She shrugged and began punching course-settings into the courser. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Still angry, he said, “I don’t regard it as a boner. I’d do it again.”

She shrugged again and pretended a lack of interest.

“Space-smuggling could be the death of the galaxy,” he went on. “That’s been proven. A billion people once died on Tau II because somebody smuggled in a load of non-Tauian animals—for house pets. I did only what history has proven best.”

“I’m trying to mind my own business,” she growled, eyeing him sourly.

Roki fell silent and watched her reshape the radiation screen to catch a maximum of force from the flare of energy that blazed behind them. Roki was not sure that he wanted her to mind her own business. They would have to bear each other’s presence for several months, and it would be nice to know how things stood.

“So you think it was a stupid boner,” he continued at last. “So does everyone else. It hasn’t been very pleasant.”

She snorted scornfully as she worked. “Where I come from, we don’t condemn fools. We don’t need to. They just don’t live very long, not on Daleth.”

“And I am a fool, by your code?”

“How should I know? If you live to a ripe old age and get what you want, you probably aren’t a fool.”

And that, thought Roki, was the Dalethian golden rule. If the universe lets you live, then you’re doing all right. And there was truth in it, perhaps. Man was born with only one right—the right to a chance at proving his fitness. And that right was the foundation of every culture, even though most civilized worlds tried to define “fitness” in terms of cultural values. Where life was rough, it was rated in terms of survival.

“I really don’t mind talking about it,” he said with some embarrassment. “I have nothing to hide.”

“That’s nice.”

“Do you have a name—other than your firm name?”

“As far as you’re concerned, I’m Daleth Incorporated.” She gave him a suspicious look that lingered a while and became contemplative. “There’s only one thing I’m curious about—why are you going to Sol?”

He smiled wryly. “If I told a Dalethian that, she would indeed think me a fool.”

Slowly the girl nodded. “I see. I know of Cophian ethics. If an officer’s blunder results in someone’s death, he either proves that it was not a blunder or he cuts his throat—ceremonially, I believe. Will you do that?”

Roki shrugged. He had been away from Coph a long time. He didn’t know.

“A stupid custom,” she said.

“It manages to drain off the fools, doesn’t it? It’s better than having society try them and execute them forcibly for their crimes. On Coph, a man doesn’t need to be afraid of society. He needs only to be afraid of his own weakness. Society’s function is to protect individuals against unfortunate accidents, but not against their own blunders. And when a man blunders, Coph simply excludes him from the protectorate. As an outcast, he sacrifices himself. It’s not too bad a system.”

“You can have it.”

“Dalethian?”

“Yeah?”

“You have no personal anger against what I did?”

She frowned at him contemptuously. “Uh-uh! I judge no one. I judge no one unless I’m personally involved. Why are you worried about what others think?”

“In our more highly developed society,” he said stiffly, “a man inevitably grows a set of thinking-habits called ‘conscience’.”

“Oh—yeah.” Her dull tone indicated a complete lack of interest.

Again Roki wondered if she would think of making a quick bit of cash by informing Solarian officials of his identity. He began a mental search for a plan to avoid such possible treachery.

They ate and slept by the ship’s clock. On the tenth day, Roki noticed a deviation in the readings of the radiation-screen instruments. The shape of the screen shell was gradually trying to drift toward minimum torsion, and assume a spherical shape. He pointed it out to Daleth, and she quickly made the necessary readjustments. But the output of the reactors crept a notch higher as a result of the added drain. Roki wore an apprehensive frown as the flight progressed.

Two days later, the screen began creeping again. Once more the additional power was applied. And the reactor output needle hung in the yellow band of warning. The field-generators were groaning and shivering with threatening overload. Roki worked furiously to locate the trouble, and at last he found it. He returned to the control cabin in a cold fury.

“Did you have this ship pre-flighted before blast-off?” he demanded.

Her mouth fluttered with amusement as she watched his anger. “Certainly, commander.”

He flushed at the worthless title. “May I see the papers?”

For a moment she hesitated, then fumbled in her pocket and displayed a folded pink paper.

“Pink!” he roared. “You had no business taking off!”

Haughtily, she read him the first line of the pre-flight report. “‘Base personnel disclaim any responsibility for accidents resulting from flight of Daleth Ship—’ It doesn’t say I can’t take off.”

“I’ll see you banned from space!” he growled.

She gave him a look that reminded him of his current status. It was a tolerant, amused stare. “What’s wrong, commander?”

“The synchronizers are out, that’s all,” he fumed. “Screen’s getting farther and farther from resonance.”

“So?”

“So the overload’ll get worse, and the screen’ll break down. You’ll have to drop back down out of the C-component and get it repaired.”

She shook her head. “We’ll chance it like it is. I’ve always wanted to find out how much overload the reactor’ll take.”

Roki choked. There wasn’t a chance of making it. “Are you a graduate space engineer?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then you’d better take one’s advice.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“No! We’re going on.”

“Suppose I refuse to let you?”

She whirled quickly, eyes flashing. “I’m in command of my ship. I’m also armed. I suggest you return to your quarters, passenger.”

Roki sized up the situation, measured the determination in the girl’s eyes, and decided that there was only one thing to do. He shrugged and looked away, as if admitting her authority. She glared at him for a moment, but did not press her demand that he leave the control room. As soon as she glanced back at the instruments, Roki padded his rough knuckles with a handkerchief, selected a target at the back of her short crop of dark hair, and removed her objections with a short chopping blow to the head. “Sorry, friend,” he murmured as he lifted her limp body out of the seat.

He carried her to her quarters and placed her on the bunk. After removing a small needle gun from her pocket, he left a box of headache tablets in easy reach, locked her inside, and went back to the controls. His fist was numb, and he felt like a heel, but there was no use arguing with a Dalethian. Clubbing her to sleep was the only way to avoid bloodier mayhem in which she might have emerged the victor—until the screen gave way.

The power-indication was threateningly high as Roki activated the C-drive and began piloting the ship downward through the fifth component. But with proper adjustments, he made the process analogous to freefall, and the power reading fell off slowly. A glance at the C-maps told him that the Idiot would emerge far beyond the limits of Sixty-Star Cluster. When it re-entered the continuum, it would be in the general volume of space controlled by another interstellar organization called The Viggern Federation. He knew little of its culture, but certainly it should have facilities for repairing a set of screen-synchronizers. He looked up its capitol planet, and began jetting toward it while the ship drifted downward in C. As he reached lower energy-levels, he cut out the screen altogether and went to look in on Daleth Incorporated who had made no sound for two hours.

He was surprised to see her awake and sitting up on the bunk. She gave him a cold and deadly stare, but displayed no rage. “I should’ve known better than to turn my back on you.”

“Sorry. You were going to—”

“Save it. Where are we?”

“Corning in on Tragor III.”

“I’ll have you jailed on Tragor III, then.”

He nodded. “You could do that, but then you might have trouble collecting my fare from Beth.”

“That’s all right.”

“Suit yourself. I’d rather be jailed on your trumped-up charges than be a wisp of gas at ninety-thousand C’s.”

“Trumped up?”

“Sure, the pink pre-flight. Any court will say that whatever happened was your own fault. You lose your authority if you fly pink, unless your crew signs a release.”

“You a lawyer?”

“I’ve had a few courses in space law. But if you don’t believe me, check with the Interfed Service on Tragor III.”

“I will. Now how about opening the door. I want out.”

“Behave?”

She paused, then: “My promise wouldn’t mean anything, Roki. I don’t share your system of ethics.”

He watched her cool green eyes for a moment, then chuckled. “In a sense you do—or you wouldn’t have said that.” He unlocked the cabin and released her, not trusting her, but realizing that the synchronizers were so bad by now that she couldn’t attempt to go on without repairs. She could have no motive for turning on him—except anger perhaps.

“My gun?” she said.

Again Roki hesitated. Then, smiling faintly, he handed it to her. She took the weapon, sniffed scornfully, and cocked it.

“Turn around, fool!” she barked.

Roki folded his arms across his chest, and remained facing her. “Go to the devil,” he said quietly.

Her fingers whitened on the trigger. Still the Cophian failed to flinch, lose his smile, or move. Daleth Incorporated arched her eyebrows, uncocked the pistol, and returned it to her belt. Then she patted his cheek and chuckled nastily. “Just watch yourself, commander. I don’t like you.”

And he noticed, as she turned away, that she had a bump on her head to prove it. He wondered how much the bump would cost him before it was over. Treachery on Sol, perhaps.

The pilot called Tragor III and received instructions to set an orbital course to await inspection. All foreign ships were boarded before being permitted to land. A few hours later, a small patrol ship winged close and grappled to the hull. Roki went to manipulate the locks.

A captain and two assistants came through. The inspector was a young man with glasses and oversized ears. His eyebrows were ridiculously bushy and extended down on each side to his cheekbones. The ears were also filled with yellow brush. Roki recognized the peculiarities as local evolutionary tendencies; for they were shared also by the assistants. Tragor III evidently had an exceedingly dusty atmosphere.

The captain nodded a greeting and requested the ship’s flight papers. He glanced at the pink pre-flight, clucked to himself, and read every word in the dispatcher’s forms. “Observation flight? To Sol?” He addressed himself to Roki, using the interstellar Esperanto.

The girl answered. “That’s right. Let’s get this over with.”

The captain gave her a searing, head-to-toe glance. “Are you the ship’s owner, woman?”

Daleth Incorporated contained her anger with an effort. “I am.”

The captain told her what a Tragorian thought of it by turning aside from her, and continuing to address Roki as if he were ship’s skipper. “Please leave the ship while we fumigate and inspect. Wohr will make you comfortable in the patrol vessel. You will have to submit to physical examination—a contagion precaution.”

Roki nodded, and they started out after the assistant. As they entered the corridor, he grinned at Daleth, and received a savage kick in the shin for his trouble.

“Oops, sorry!” she muttered.

“Oh—one moment, sir,” the captain called after them. “May I speak to you a moment—”

They both stopped and turned.

“Privately,” the captain added.

The girl marched angrily on. Roki stepped back in the cabin and nodded.

“You are a well-traveled man, E Roki?” the bushybrowed man asked politely.

“Space has been my business.”

“Then you need no warning about local customs.” The captain bowed.

“I know enough to respect them and conform to them,” Roki assured him. “That’s a general rule. But I’m not familiar with Tragor III. Is there anything special I should know before we start out?”

“Your woman, E Roki. You might do well to inform her that she will have to wear a veil, speak to no man, and be escorted upon the streets at all times. Otherwise, she will be wise to remain on the ship, in her quarters.”

Roki suppressed a grin. “I shall try to insure her good behavior.”

The captain looked defensive. “You regard our customs as primitive?”

“Every society to its own tastes, captain. The wisdom of one society would be folly for another. Who is qualified to judge? Only the universe, which passes the judgment of survival on all peoples.”

“Thank you. You are a wise traveler. I might explain that our purdah is the result of an evolutionary peculiarity. You will see for yourself, however.”

“I can’t guarantee my companion’s behavior,” Roki said before he went to join Daleth. “But I’ll try my best to influence her.”

Roki was grinning broadly as he went to the patrol vessel to wait. One thing was certain: the girl would have a rough time on Tragor if she tried to have him jailed for mutiny.

Her face reddened to forge-heat as he relayed the captain’s warning.

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” she said stiffly.

Roki shrugged. “You know enough to respect local customs.”

“Not when they’re personally humiliating!” She curled up on a padded seat in the visitor’s room and began to pout. He decided to drop the subject.

Repairing the synchronizers promised to be a week-long job, according to the Tragorian inspector who accompanied the Idiot upon landing. “Our replacements are standardized, of course—within our own system. But parts for SSC ships aren’t carried in stock. The synchronizers will have to be specially tailored.”

“Any chance of rushing the job?”

“A week is rushing it.”

“All right, we’ll have to wait.” Roki nudged the controls a bit, guiding the ship toward the landing site pointed out by the captain. Daleth was in her cabin, alone, to save herself embarrassment.

“May I ask a question about your mission, E Roki, or is it confidential in nature?”

Roki paused to think before answering. He would have to lie, of course, but he had to make it safe. Suddenly he chuckled. “I forgot for a moment that you weren’t with Sixty-Star Cluster. So I’ll tell you the truth. This is supposed to be an observation mission, officially—but actually, our superior sent us to buy him a holdful of a certain scarce commodity.”

The captain grinned. Graft and corruption were apparently not entirely foreign to Tragor III. But then his grin faded into thoughtfulness. “On Sol’s planets?”

Roki nodded.

“This scarce commodity—if I’m not too curious—is it surgibank supplies?”

Roki felt his face twitch with surprise. But he recovered from his shock in an instant. “Perhaps,” he said calmly. He wanted to grab the man by the shoulders and shout a thousand questions, but he said nothing else.

The official squirmed in his seat for a time. “Does your federation buy many mercy cargoes from Sol?”

Roki glanced at him curiously. The captain was brimming with ill-concealed curiosity. Why?

“Occasionally, yes.”

The captain chewed his lip for a moment. “Tell me,” he blurted, “will the Solarian ships stop for your patrol inspections?”

Roki hesitated for a long time. Then he said, “I suppose that you and I could get together and share what we know about Sol without revealing any secrets of our own governments. Frankly, I, too, am curious about Sol.”

The official, whose name was WeJan, was eager to accept. He scrawled a peculiar series of lines on a scrap of paper and gave it to Roki. “Show this to a heliocab driver. He will take you to my apartment. Would dinner be convenient?”

Roki said that it would.

The girl remained in her quarters when they landed. Roki knocked at the door, but she was either stubborn or asleep. He left the ship and stood for a moment on the ramp, staring at the hazy violet sky. Fine grit sifted against his face and stung his eyes.

“You will be provided goggles, suitable clothing, and an interpreter to accompany you during your stay,” said WeJan as they started toward a low building.

But Roki was scarcely listening as he stared across the ramp. A thousand yards away was a yellow-starred mercy ship, bearing Solar markings. The most peculiar thing about it was the ring of guards that surrounded it. They apparently belonged to the ship, for their uniforms were different from those of the base personnel.

WeJan saw him looking. “Strange creatures, aren’t they?” he whispered confidentially.

Roki had decided that in the long run he could gain more information by pretending to know more than he did. So he nodded wisely and said nothing. The mercy ship was too far away for him to decide whether the guards were human. He could make out only that they were bipeds. “Sometimes one meets strange ones all right. Do you know the Quinjori—from the other side of the galaxy?”

“No—no, I believe not, E Roki. Quinjori?”

“Yes. A very curious folk. Very curious indeed.” He smiled to himself and fell silent. Perhaps, before his visit was over, he could trade fictions about the fictitious Quinjori for facts about the Solarians.

Roki met his interpreter in the spaceport offices, donned the loose garb of Tragor, and went to quibble with repair service. Still he could not shorten the promised time on the new synchros. They were obviously stuck for a week on Tragor. He thought of trying to approach the Solarian ship, but decided that it would be better to avoid suspicion.

Accompanied by the bandy-legged interpreter, whose mannerisms were those of a dog who had received too many beatings, Roki set out for Polarin, the Tragorian capital, a few miles away. His companion was a small middle-aged man with a piping voice and flaring ears; Roki decided that his real job was to watch his alien charge for suspicious activities, for the little man was no expert linguist. He spoke two or three of the tongues used in the Sixty-Star Cluster, but not fluently. The Cophian decided to rely on the Esperanto of space, and let the interpreter translate it into native Tragorian wherever necessary.

“How would E Roki care to amuse himself?” the little man asked. “A drink? A pretty girl? A museum?”

Roki chuckled. “What do most of your visitors do while they’re here?” He wondered quietly what, in particular, the Solarian visitors did. But it might not be safe to ask.

“Uh—that would depend on nationality, sir,” murmured Pok. “The true-human foreigners often like to visit the Wanderer, an establishment which caters to their business. The evolved-human and the nonhuman visitors like to frequent The Court of Kings—a rather, uh, peculiar place.” He looked at Roki, doubtfully, as if wondering about his biological status.

“Which is most expensive?” he asked, although he really didn’t care. Because of the phony “observation mission papers,” he could make Colonel Beth foot the bill.

“The Court of Kings is rather high,” Pok said. “But so is the Wanderer.”

“Such impartiality deserves a return. We will visit them both, E Pok. If it suits you.”

“I am your servant, E Roki.”

How to identify a Solarian without asking?—Roki wondered as they sat sipping a sticky, yeasty drink in the lounge of the Wanderer. The dimly lighted room was filled with men of all races—pygmies, giants, black, red, and brown. All appeared human, or nearly so. There were a few women among the crewmen, and most of them removed their borrowed veils while in the tolerant sanctuary of the Wanderer. The Tragorian staff kept stealing furtive glances at these out-system females, and the Cophian wondered about their covetousness.

“Why do you keep watching the strange women, E Pok?” he asked the interpreter a few minutes later.

The small man sighed. “Evidently you have not yet seen Tragorian women.”

Roki had seen a few heavily draped figures on the street outside, clinging tightly to the arms of men, but there hadn’t been much to look at. Still, Pok’s hint was enough to give him an idea.

“You don’t mean Tragor III is one of those places where evolution has pushed the sexes further apart?”

“I do,” Pok said sadly. “The feminine I.Q. is seldom higher than sixty, the height is seldom taller than your jacket pocket, and the weight is usually greater than your own. As one traveler put it: ‘short, dumpy, and dumb’. Hence, the Purdah.”

“Because you don’t like looking at them?”

“Not at all. Theirs is our standard of beauty. The purdah is because they are frequently too stupid to remember which man is their husband.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Not at all,” said Pok, whose tongue was being loosened by the yeasty brew. “It is our tragedy. We can bear it.”

“Well, you’ve got it better than some planets. On Jevah, for instance, the men evolved into sluggish spidery little fellows, and the women are big husky brawlers.”

“Ah yes. But Sol is the most peculiar of all, is it not?” said Pok.

“How do you mean?” Roki carefully controlled his voice and tried to look bored.

“Why, the Vamir, of course.”

Because of the fact that Pok’s eyes failed to move toward any particular part of the room, Roki concluded that there were no Solarians in the place. “Shall we visit the Court of Kings now, E Pok?” he suggested.

The small man was obviously not anxious to go. He murmured about ugly brutes, lingered over his drink, and gazed wistfully at a big dusky Sanbe woman. “Do you suppose she would notice me if I spoke to her?” the small interpreter asked.

“Probably. So would her five husbands. Let’s go.” Pok sighed mournfully and came with him.

The Court of Kings catered to a peculiar clientele indeed; but not a one, so far as Roki could see, was completely inhuman. There seemed to be at least one common denominator to all intelligent life: it was bipedal and bimanual. Four legs was the most practical number for any animal on any planet, and it seemed that nature had nothing else to work with. When she decided to give intelligence to a species, she taught him to stand on his hind legs, freeing his forefeet to become tools of his intellect. And she usually taught him by making him use his hands to climb. As a Cophian biologist had said, “Life first tries to climb a tree to get to the stars. When it fails, it comes down and invents the high-C drive.”

Again, Roki looked around for something that might he a Solarian. He saw several familiar species, some horned, some tailed, scaled, or heavily furred. Some stumbled and drooped as if Tragorian gravity weighted them down. Others bounced about as if floating free in space. One small creature, the native of a planet with an eight-hour rotational period, curled up on the table and fell asleep. Roki guessed that ninety per cent of the customers were of human ancestry, for at one time during the history of the galaxy, Man had sprung forth like a sudden blossom to inherit most of space. Some said they came from Sol III, but there was no positive evidence.

As if echoing his thoughts, Pok suddenly grunted, “I will never believe we are descended from those surly creatures.”

Roki looked up quickly, wondering if the small interpreter was telepathic. But Pok was sneering toward the doorway. The Cophian followed his tipsy gaze and saw a man enter. The man was distinguished only by his height and by the fact that he appeared more human, in the classical sense, than most of the other customers. He wore a uniform—maroon jacket and gray trousers—and it matched the ones Roki had seen from a distance at the spaceport.

So this was a Solarian. He stared hard, trying to take in much at once. The man wore a short beard, but there seemed to be something peculiar about the jaw. It was—predatory, perhaps. The skull was massive, but plump and rounded like a baby’s, and covered with sparse yellow fur. The eyes were quick and sharp, and seemed almost to leap about the room. He was at least seven feet tall, and there was a look of savagery about him that caused the Cophian to tense, as if sensing an adversary.

“What is it you don’t like about them?” he asked, without taking his eyes from the Solarian.

“Their sharp ears for one thing,” whispered Pok as the Solarian whirled to stare toward their table. “Their nasty tempers for another.”

“Ah? Rage reactions show biologic weakness,” said the Cophian in a mild tone, but as loud as the first time.

The Solarian, who had been waiting for a seat at tip bar, turned and stalked straight toward them. Pok whimpered. Roki stared at him cooly. The Solarian loomed over them and glared from one to the other. He seemed to decide that Pok was properly cowed, and he turned his fierce eyes on the ex-patrolman.

“Would you like to discuss biology, manthing?” he growled like distant thunder. His speaking exposed his teeth—huge white chisels of heavy ivory. They were not regressed toward the fanged stage, but they suggested, together with the massive jaw, that nature might be working toward an efficient bone-crusher.

Roki swirled his drink thoughtfully. “I don’t know you, Bristleface,” he murmured. “But if your biology bothers you, I’d be glad to discuss it with you.”

He watched carefully for the reaction. The Solarian went gray-purple. His eyes danced with fire, and his slit mouth quivered as if to bare the strong teeth. Just as he seemed about to explode, the anger faded—or rather, settled in upon itself to brood. “This is beneath me,” the eyes seemed to be saying. Then he laughed cordially.

“My apologies. I thought to share a table with you.”

“Help yourself.”

The Solarian paused. “Where are you from, manthing?”

Roki also paused. They might have heard that a Cophian commander blasted one of their ships. Still he didn’t care to be caught in a lie. “Sixty-Star Cluster,” he grunted.

“Which sun?” The Solarian’s voice suggested that he was accustomed to being answered instantly.

Roki glowered at him. “Information for information, fellow. And I don’t talk to people who stand over me.” He pointedly turned to Pok. “As we were saying—”

“I am of Sol,” growled the big one.

“Fair enough. I am of Coph.”

The giant’s brows lifted slightly. “Ah, yes.” He inspected Roki curiously and sat down. The chair creaked a warning. “Perhaps that explains it.”

“Explains what?” Roki frowned ominously. He disliked overbearing men, and his hackles were rising. There was something about this fellow—

“I understand that Cophians are given to a certain ruthlessness.”

Roki pretended to ponder the statement while he eyed the big man coldly. “True, perhaps. It would he dangerous for you to go to Coph, I think. You would probably be killed rather quickly.”

The angry color reappeared, but the man smiled politely. “A nation of duelists, I believe, military in character, highly disciplined. Yes? They sometimes serve in the Sixty-Star Forces, eh?”

The words left no doubt in Roki’s mind that the Solarian knew who had blasted their ship and why. But he doubted that the man had guessed his identity.

“I know less of your world, Solarian.”

“Such ignorance is common. We are regarded as the galactic rurals, so to speak. We are too far from your dense star cluster.” He paused. “You knew us once. We planted you here. And I feel sure you will know us again.” He smiled to himself, finished his drink, and arose. “May we meet again, Cophian?”

Roki nodded and watched the giant stride away. Pok was breathing asthmatically and picking nervously at his nails. He let out a sigh of relief with the Solarian’s departure.

Roki offered the frightened interpreter a stiff drink, and then another. After two more, Pok swayed dizzily, then fell asleep across the table. Roki left him there. If Pok were an informer, it would be better to keep him out of the meeting with the patrol officer, Captain WeJan.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver the scrap of paper. A few minutes later, he arrived before a small building in the suburbs. WeJan’s name was on the door—written in the space-tongue—but the officer was not at home. Frowning, he tried the door; locked. Then, glancing back toward the street, he caught a glimpse of a man standing in the shadows. It was a Solarian.

Slowly, Roki walked across the street. “Got a match, Bristleface?” he grunted.

In the light of triple-moons, he saw the giant figure swell with rage. The man looked quickly up and down the street. No one was watching. He emitted a low animal-growl, exposing the brutal teeth. His arms shot out to grasp the Cophian’s shoulders, dragging him close.

Roki gripped the Multin automatic in his pocket and struggled to slip free. The Solarian jerked him up toward the bared teeth.

His throat about to be crushed, Roki pulled the trigger. There was a dull chug. The Solarian looked surprised. He released Roki and felt of his chest. There was no visible wound. Then, within his chest, the incendiary needle flared to incandescent heat. The Solarian sat down in the street. He breathed a frying sound. He crumpled. Roki left hastily before the needle burned its way out of the body.

He hadn’t meant to kill the man, and it had been in self-defense, but he might have a hard time proving it. He hurried along back alleys toward the spaceport. If only they could leave Tragor immediately!

What had happened to WeJan? Bribed, beaten, or frightened away. Then the Solarians did know who he was and where he was going. There were half a dozen men around the spaceport who knew—and the information would he easy to buy. Pok had known that he was to meet with WeJan, and the Solarian had evidently been sent to watch the captain’s quarters. It wasn’t going to be easy now—getting to Sol III and landing.

What manner of creatures were these, he wondered. Men who supplied mercy cargoes to the galactic nations—as if charity were the theme and purpose of their culture—yet who seemed as arrogant as the warriors of some primitive culture whose central value was brutal power? What did they really want here? The Solarian had called him “manthing” as if he regarded the Cophian as a member of some lesser species.

The Solarians were definitely different. Roki could see it. Their heads were plump and soft like a baby’s, hinting of some new evolutionary trend—a brain that could continue growing, perhaps. But the jaws, the teeth, the quick tempers, and the hypersensitive ears—what sort of animal developed such traits? There was only one answer: a nocturnal predator with the instincts of a lion. “You shall get to know us again,” the man had said.

It spelled politico-galactic ambitions. And it hinted at something else—something that made the Cophian shiver, and shy away from dark shadows as he hurried shipward.

Daleth Incorporated was either asleep or out. He checked at the ship, then went to the Administration Building to inquire about her. The clerk seemed embarrassed.

“Uh… E Roki, she departed from the port about five.”

“You’ve heard nothing of her since?”

“Well… there was a call from the police agency, I understand.” He looked apologetic. “I assure you I had nothing to do with the matter.”

“Police! What… what’s wrong, man?”

“I hear she went unescorted and unveiled. The police are holding her.”

“How long will they keep her?”

“Until some gentleman signs for her custody.”

“You mean I have to sign for her?”

“Yes, sir.”

Roki smiled thoughtfully. “Tell me, young man—are Tragorian jails particularly uncomfortable?”

“I wouldn’t know, personally,” the clerk said stiffly. “I understand they conform to the intergalactic ‘Code of Humanity’ however.”

“Good enough,” Roki grunted. “I’ll leave her there till we’re ready to go.”

“Not a bad idea,” murmured the clerk, who had evidently encountered the cigar-chewing lady from Daleth.

Roki was not amused by the reversal of positions, but it seemed as good a place as any to leave her for safekeeping. If the Solarians became interested in him, they might also notice his pilot.

He spent the following day watching the Sol ship, and waiting fatalistically for the police to come and question him about the Solarian’s death. But the police failed to come. A check with the news agencies revealed that the man’s body had not even been found. Roki was puzzled. He had left the giant lying in plain sight where he had fallen. At noon, the Solarian crew came bearing several lead cases slung from the centers of carrying poles. They wore metal gauntlets and handled the cases cautiously. Roki knew they contained radioactive materials. So that was what they purchased with their surgibank supplies—nuclear fuels.

Toward nightfall, they loaded two large crates aboard. He noted the shape of the crates, and decided that one of them contained the body of the man he had killed. Why didn’t they want the police to know? Was it possible that they wanted him free to follow them?

The Sol-ship blasted-off during the night. He was surprised to find it gone, and himself still unmolested by morning. Wandering around the spaceport, be saw WeJan, but the man had developed a sudden lapse of memory. He failed to recognize the Cophian visitor. With the Solarians gone, Roki grew bolder in his questioning.

“How often do the Solarians visit you?” he inquired of a desk clerk at Administration.

“Whenever a hospital places an order, sir. Not often. Every six months perhaps.”

“That’s all the traffic they have with Tragor?”

“Yes, sir. This is our only interstellar port.”

“Do the supplies pass through your government channels?”

The clerk looked around nervously. “Uh, no sir. They refuse to deal through our government. They contact their customers directly. The government lets them because the supplies are badly needed.”

Roki stabbed out bluntly. “What do you think of the Solarians?”

The clerk looked blank for a moment, then chuckled. “I don’t know, myself. But if you want a low opinion, ask at the spaceport cafe.”

“Why? Do they cause trouble there?”

“No, sir. They bring their own lunches, so to speak. They eat and sleep aboard ship, and won’t spend a thin galak around town.”

Roki turned away and went back to the Idiot. Somewhere in his mind, an idea was refusing to let itself be believed. A mercy ship visited Tragor every six months. Roki had seen the scattered, ruined cargo of such a ship, and he had estimated it at about four thousand pints of blood, six thousand pounds of frozen bone, and seven thousand pounds of various replaceable organs and tissues. That tonnage in itself was not so startling, but if Sol III supplied an equal amount twice annually to even a third of the twenty-eight thousand civilized worlds in the galaxy, a numbing question arose: where did they get their raw material? Surgibank supplies were normally obtained by contributions from accident victims who lived long enough to voluntarily contribute their undamaged organs to a good cause.

Charitable organizations tried to secure pledges from men in dangerous jobs, donating their bodies to the planet’s surgibank in the event of death. But no man felt easy about signing over his kidneys or his liver to the bank, and such recruiters were less popular than hangmen or life insurance agents. Mercy supplies were quite understandably scarce.

The grim question lingered in Roki’s mind: where did the Sol III traders find between three and five million healthy accident victims annually? Perhaps they made the accidents themselves, accidents very similar to those occurring at the end of the chute in the slaughterhouse. He shook his head, refusing to believe it. No planet’s population, however terrorized by its rulers, could endure such a thing without generating a sociological explosion that would make the world quiver in its orbit. There was a limit to the endurance of tyranny.

He spent the rest of the week asking innocent questions here and there about the city. He learned nearly nothing. The Solarians came bearing their peculiar cargo, sold it quickly at a good price, purchased fissionable materials, and blasted-off without a civil word to anyone. Most men seemed nervous in their presence, perhaps because of their bulk and their native arrogance.

When the base personnel finished installing the synchronizers, he decided the time had come to secure Daleth Incorporated from the local jail. Sometimes he had chided himself for leaving her there after the Solarians had blasted-off, but it seemed to be the best place to keep the willful wench out of trouble. Belatedly, as he rode toward the police station, he wondered what sort of mayhem she would attempt to commit on his person for leaving her to fume in a cell. His smile was rueful as he marched in to pay her fine. The man behind the desk frowned sharply.

“Who did you say?” he grunted.

“The foreign woman from the Dalethian Ship.”

The officer studied his records. “Ah, yes—Talewa Walkeka the name?”

Roki realized he didn’t know her name. She was still Daleth Incorporated. “From the Daleth Ship,” he insisted.

“Yes. Talewa Walkeka—she was released into the custody of Eli Roki on twoday of last spaceweek.”

“That’s imposs—” Roki choked and whitened. “I am Eli Roki. Was the man a Solarian?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Why don’t you? Didn’t you ask him for identification?”

“Stop bellowing, please,” said the official coldly. “And get your fists off my desk.”

The Cophian closed his eyes and tried to control himself. “Who is responsible for this?”

The officer failed to answer.

“You are responsible!”

“I cannot look out for all the problems of all the foreigners who—”

“Stop! You have let her die.”

“She is only a female.”

Roki straightened. “Meet me at any secluded place of your choice and I will kill you with any weapon of your choice.”

The official eyed him coldly, then turned to call over his shoulder. “Sergeant, escort this barbarian to his ship and see that he remains aboard for the rest of his visit.”

The Cophian went peacefully, realizing that violence would gain him nothing but the iron hospitality of a cell. Besides, he had only himself to blame for leaving her there. It was obvious to him now—the contents of the second crate the Solarians had carried aboard consisted of Talewa Walkeka, lately of Daleth and high-C. Undoubtedly they had taken her alive. Undoubtedly she was additional bait to bring him on to Sol. Why did they want him to come? I’ll oblige them and find out for myself, he thought.

The ship was ready. The bill would be sent back to Beth. He signed the papers, and blasted off as soon as possible. The lonely old freighter crept upward into the fifth component like a struggling old vulture, too ancient to leave its sunny lair. But the snychros were working perfectly, and the screen held its shape when the ascent ceased just below red-line level. He chose an evasive course toward Sol and began gathering velocity.

Then he fed a message into the coder, to be broadcast back toward the Sixty-Star Cluster: Pilot abducted by Solarians; evidence secured to indicate that Solarian mercy-merchandise is obtained through genocide. He recorded the coded message on tape and let it feed continuously into the transmitters, knowing that the carrier made him a perfect target for homing devices, if anyone chose to silence him.

And he knew it was a rather poor bluff. The message might or might not be picked up. A listening ship would have to be at the same C-level to catch the signal. Few ships, save the old freighters, lingered long at ninety-thousand C’s. But if the Solarians let him live long enough, the message would eventually be picked up—but not necessarily believed. The most he could hope for was to arouse curiosity about Sol. No one would care much about the girl’s abduction, or about his own death. Interstellar federations never tried to protect their citizens beyond the limits of their own volume of space. It would be an impossible task.

Unless the Solarians were looking for him however, they themselves would probably not intercept the call. Their ships would be on higher C. And since they knew he was coming, they had no reason to search for him. At his present velocity and energy-level, he was four months from Sol. The mercy ship on a higher level, would probably reach Sol within three weeks. He was a sparrow chasing a smug hawk.

But now there was more at stake than pride or reputation. He had set out to clear himself of a bad name, but now his name mattered little. If what he suspected were true, then Sol III was a potential threat to every world in the galaxy. Again he remembered the Solarian’s form of address—“manthing”—as if a new race had arisen to inherit the places of their ancestors. If so, the new race had a right to bid for survival. And the old race called Man had a right to crush it if he could. Such was the dialectic of life.

Four months in the solitary confinement of a space-ship was enough to unnerve any man, however well-conditioned to it. He paced restlessly in his cell, from quarters to control to reactor room, reading everything that was aboard to read and devouring it several times. Sometimes he stopped to stare in Daleth’s doorway. Her gear was still in the compartment, gathering dust. A pair of boots in the corner, a box of Dalethia cigars on the shelf.

“Maybe she has a book or two,” he said once, and entered. He opened the closet and chuckled at the rough masculine clothing that hung there. But among the coarse fabrics was a wisp of pale green silk. He parted the dungarees to stare at the frail feminine frock, nestled toward the end and half-hidden like a suppressed desire. For a moment he saw her in it, strolling along the cool avenues of a Cophian city. But quickly he let the dungarees fall back, slammed the door, and stalked outside, feeling ashamed. He never entered again.

The loneliness was overpowering. After three months, he shut off the transmitters and listened on the space-frequencies for the sound of a human voice. There was nothing except the occasional twittering of a coded message. Some of them came from the direction of Sol.

Why were they letting him come without interference? Why had they allowed him to transmit the message freely? Perhaps they wanted him as a man who knew a great deal about the military and economic resources of the Sixty-Star Cluster, information they would need if they had high ambitions in space. And perhaps the message no longer mattered, if they had already acquired enough nuclear materials for their plans.

Alter a logical analysis of the situation, he hit upon a better answer. Their ships didn’t have the warp-locking devices that permitted one ship to slip into a parallel C with an enemy and stay with that enemy while it maneuvered in the fifth component. The Solarians had proven that deficiency when the “mercy ship” had tried to escape him by evasive coursing. If their own ships were equipped with the warp lockers, they would have known better than to try. They wanted such equipment. Perhaps they thought that the Idiot possessed it, or that he could furnish them with enough information to let them build it.

After several days of correlating such facts as he already knew, Roki cut on his transmitters, fanned the beam down to a narrow pencil, and directed it toward Sol. “Blind Stab from Cluster-Ship Idiot,” he called. “Any Sol Ship from Idiot. I have information to sell in exchange for the person of Talewa Walkeka. Acknowledge, please.”

He repeated the message several times, and expected to wait a few days for an answer. But the reply came within three hours, indicating that a ship had been hovering just ahead of him, beyond the range of his own outmoded detectors.

“Cluster-Ship from Sol Seven,” crackled the loud-speaker. “Do you wish to land on our planet? If so, please prepare to be boarded. One of our pilots will take you in. You are approaching our outer patrol zone. If you refuse to be boarded, you will have to turn back. Noncooperative vessels are destroyed upon attempting to land. Over.”

There was a note of amusement in the voice. They knew he wouldn’t turn back. They had a hostage. They were inviting him to surrender but phrasing the invitation politely.

Roki hesitated. Why had the man said—“destroyed upon attempting to land?” After a moment’s thought, he realized that it was because they could not destroy a ship while manuevering in the fifth component. They could not even stay in the same continuum with it, unless they had the warp-locking devices. A vague plan began forming in his mind.

“I agree conditionally. Do you have Talewa Walkeka aboard? If so, prove it by asking her to answer the following request in her own voice: ‘List the garments contained in the closet of her quarters aboard this ship.’ If this is accomplished satisfactorily, then I’ll tentatively assume intentions are not hostile. Let me remind you, however, that while we are grappled together, I can rip half your hull off by hitting my C-drive—unless you’re equipped with warp-locking devices.”

That should do it, he thought. With such a warning, they would make certain that they had him aboard their own ship as a captive before they made any other move. And he would do his best to make it easy for them. Two or three hours would pass before he could expect an answer, so he began work immediately, preparing to use every means at his disposal to make a booby trap of the Idiot, and to set the trap so that only his continued well-being would keep it from springing.

The Idiot’s stock of spare parts was strictly limited, as he had discovered previously. There were a few spare selsyns, replacement units for the calculator and courser, radio and radar parts, control-mechanisms for the reactors, and an assortment of spare instruments and detectors. He augmented this stock by ruthlessly tearing into the calculator and taking what he needed.

He was hard at work when the answer came from the Sol ship. It was Daleth’s voice, crisp and angry, saying, “Six pair of dungarees, a jacket, a robe, and a silk frock. Drop dead, Roki.”

The Solarian operator took over. “Expect a meeting in six hours. In view of your threat, we must ask that you stand in the outer lock with the hatch open, so that we may see you as we grapple together. Please acknowledge willingness to co-operate.”

Roki grinned. They wanted to make certain that he was nowhere near the controls. He gave them a grumbling acknowledgment and returned to his work, tearing into the electronic control-circuits, the radio equipment, the reaction-rate limiters, and the controls of the C-drive. He wove a network of inter-dependency throughout the ship, running linking-circuits from the air-lock mechanisms to the reactors, and from the communication equipment to the C-drive. Gradually the ship became useless as a means of transportation. The jets were silent. He set time clocks to activate some of the apparatus, and keyed other equipment by relays set to trip upon the occurrence of various events.

It was not a difficult task, nor a long one. He added nothing really new. For example, it was easy to remove the wires from the air lock indicator lamp and feed their signal into a relay section removed from the calculator, a section which would send a control pulse to the reactors if the air locks were opened twice. The control pulse, if it came, would push the units past the red line. The relay sections were like single-task robots, set to obey the command: “If this happens, then push that switch.”

When he was finished, the six hours were nearly gone. Pacing restlessly, he waited for them to come. Then, noticing a sudden flutter on the instruments, he glanced out to see the dark hulk slipping through his radiation screen. It came to a stop a short distance away.

Roki started the timers he had set, then donned a pressure suit. Carrying a circuit diagram of the changes he had wrought, he went to stand in the outer lock. He held open the outer hatch. The beam of a searchlight stabbed out to hold him while the Sol Ship eased closer. He could see another suited figure in its lock, calling guidance to the pilot. Roki glanced up at his own grapples; they were already energized and waiting for something to which they could cling.

The ships came together with a rocking jerk as both sets of grapples caught and clung. Roki swung himself across a gravityless space, then stood facing the burly figure of the Solarian. The man pushed him into the next lock and stepped after him.

“Search him for weapons,” growled a harsh voice as Roki removed his helmet. “And get the boarding party through the locks.”

“If you do that, you’ll blow both ships to hell,” the Cophian commented quietly. “The hatches are rigged to throw the reactors past red line.”

The commander, a sharp-eyed oldster with a massive bald skull, gave him a cold stare that slowly became a sneer. “Very well, we can cut through the hull.”

Roki nodded. “You can, but don’t let any pressure escape. The throttles are also keyed to the pressure gauge.”

The commander reddened slightly. “Is there anything else?”

“Several things.” Roki handed him the circuit diagram. “Have your engineer study this. Until he gets the idea, anything you do may be dangerous, like trying to pull away from my grapples. I assure you we’re either permanently grappled together, or permanently dead.”

The Solarian was apparently his own engineer. He stared at the schematic while another relieved Roki of his weapon. There were four of them in the cabin. Three were armed and watching him carefully. He knew by their expressions that they considered him to be of a lesser species. And he watched them communicate silently among themselves by a soundless language of facial twitches and peculiar nods. Once the commander looked up to ask a question.

“When will this timer activate this network?”

Roki glanced at his watch. “In about ten minutes. If the transmitter’s periodic signals aren’t answered in the correct code, the signals serve to activate C-drive.”

“I see that,” he snapped. He glanced at a burly assistant. “Take him out. Skin him—from the feet up. He’ll give you the code.”

“I’ll give it to you now,” Roki offered calmly.

The commander showed faint surprise. “Do so then.”

“The Cophian multiplication tables is the code. My transmitter will send a pair of Cophian numbers every two minutes. If you fail to supply the product within one second, a relay starts the C-drive. Since you can’t guarantee an exactly simultaneous thrust, there should be quite a crash.”

“Very well, give us your Cophian number symbols.”

“Gladly. But they won’t help you.”

“Why not?”

“Our numbers are to the base eighteen instead of base ten. You couldn’t react quickly enough unless you’ve been using them since childhood.”

The Solarian’s lips pulled back from his heavy teeth and his jaw muscles began twitching. Roki looked at his watch.

“You have seven minutes to get your transmitter set up, with me at the key. We’ll talk while I keep us intact.”

The commander hesitated, then nodded to one of the guards who promptly left the room.

“Very well, manthing, we will set it up temporarily.” He paused to smile arrogantly. “You have much to learn about our race. But you have little time in which to learn it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just this. This transmitter—and the whole apparatus—will be shut down after a certain period of time.”

Roki stiffened. “Just how do you propose to do it?”

“Fool! By waiting until the signals stop. You obviously must have set a time limit on it. I would guess a few hours at the most.”

It was true, but he had hoped to avoid mentioning it. The power to the control circuits would be interrupted after four hours, and the booby trap would be deactivated. For if he hadn’t achieved his goal by then, he meant to neglect a signal during the last half-hour and let the C-ward lurch tear them apart. He nodded slowly.

“You’re quiet right. You have four hours in which to surrender your ship into my control. Maybe. I’ll send the signals until I decide you don’t mean to co-operate. Then—” He shrugged.

The Solarian gave a command to his aides. They departed in different directions. Roki guessed that they had been sent to check for some way to enter the Idiot that would not energize a booby circuit.

His host waved him through a doorway, and he found himself in their control room. A glance told him that their science still fell short of the most modern cultures. They had the earmarks of a new race, and yet Sol’s civilization was supposedly the oldest in the galaxy.

“There are the transmitters,” the commander barked. “Say what you have to say, and we shall see who is best at waiting.”

Roki sat down, fingered the key, and watched his adversary closely. The commander fell into a seat opposite him and gazed coolly through narrowed lids. He wore a fixed smile of amusement. “Your name is Eli Roki, I believe. I am Space Commander Hulgruv.”

A blare of sound suddenly came from the receiver. Hulgruv frowned and lowered the volume. The sound came forth as a steady musical tone. He questioned the Cophian with his eyes.

“When the tone ceases, the signals will begin.”

“I see.”

“I warn you, I may get bored rather quickly. I’ll keep the signals going only until I think you’ve had time to assure yourselves that this is not a bluff I am trying to put over on you.”

“I’m sure it’s not. It’s merely an inconvenience.”

“You know little of my home planet then.”

“I know a little.”

“Then you’ve heard of the ‘Sword of Apology.’”

“How does that—” Hulgruv paused and lost his smirk for an instant. “I see. If you blunder, your code demands that you die anyway. So you think you wouldn’t hesitate to neglect a signal.”

“Try me.”

“It may not be necessary. Tell me, why did you space them two minutes apart? Why not one signal every hour?”

“You can answer that.”

“Ah yes. You think the short period insures you against any painful method of persuasion, eh?”

“Uh-huh. And it gives me a chance to decide frequently whether it’s worth it.”

“What is it you want, Cophian? Suppose we give you the girl and release you.”

“She is a mere incidental,” he growled, fearful of choking on the words. “The price is surrender.”

Hulgruv laughed heartily. It was obvious he had other plans. “Why do you deem us your enemy?”

“You heard the accusation I beamed back to my Cluster.”

“Certainly. We ignored it, directly. Indirectly we made a fool of you by launching another, uh, mercy ship to your system. The cargo was labeled as to source, and the ship made a point of meeting one of your patrol vessels. It stopped for inspection. You’re less popular at home than ever.” He grinned. “I suggest you return to Sol with us. Help us develop the warp locks.”

Roki hesitated. “You say the ship stopped for inspection?”

“Certainly.”

“Wasn’t it inconvenient? Changing your diet, leaving your ‘livestock’ at home—so our people wouldn’t know you for what you really are.”

Hulgruv stiffened slightly, then nodded. “Good guess.”

“Cannibal!”

“Not at all. I am not a man.”

They stared fixedly at one another. The Cophian felt the clammy cloak of hate creeping about him. The tone from the speaker suddenly stopped. A moment of dead silence. Roki leaned back in his chair.

“I’m not going to answer the first signal.”

The commander glanced through the doorway and jerked his head. A moment later, Talcwa Walkeka stepped proudly into the room, escorted by a burly guard. She gave him an icy glance and said nothing.

“Daleth—”

She made a noise like an angry cat and sat where the guard pushed her. They waited. The first signal suddenly screeched from the receiver: two series of short bleats of three different notes.

Involuntarily his hand leaped to the key. He bleated back the answering signal.

Daleth wore a puzzled frown. “Ilgen times ufneg is hork-segan,” she muttered in translation.

A slow grin spread across Hulgruv’s heavy face. He turned to look at the girl. “You’re trained in the Cophian number system?”

“Don’t answer that!” Roki bellowed.

“She has answered it, manthing. Are you aware of what your friend is doing, female?”

She shook her head. Hulgruv told her briefly. She frowned at Roki, shook her head, and stared impassively at the floor. Apparently she was either drugged or had learned nothing about the Solarians to convince her that they were enemies of the galaxy.

“Tell me, Daleth. Have they been feeding you well?”

She hissed at him again. “Are you crazy—”

Hulgruv chuckled. “He is trying to tell you that we are cannibals. Do you believe it?”

Fright appeared in her face for an instant, then disbelief. She stared at the commander, saw no guilt in his expression. She looked scorn at Roki.

“Listen, Daleth! That’s why they wouldn’t stop. Human livestock aboard. One look in their holds and we would have known, seen through their guise of mercy, recognized them as self-styled supermen, guessed their plans for galactic conquest. They breed their human cattle on their home planet and make a business of selling the parts. Their first weapon is infiltration into our confidence. They knew that if we gained an insight into their bloodthirsty culture, we would crush them.”

“You’re insane, Roki!” she snapped.

“No! Why else would they refuse to stop? Technical secrets? Baloney! Their technology is still inferior to ours. They carried a cargo of hate, our hate, riding with them unrecognized. They couldn’t afford to reveal it.”

Hulgruv laughed uproariously. The girl shook her head slowly at Roki, as if pitying him.

“It’s true, I tell you! I guessed, sure. But it was pretty obvious they were taking their surgibank supplies by murder. And they contend they’re not men. They guard their ships so closely, live around them while in port. And he admitted it to me.”

The second signal came. Roki answered it, then began ignoring the girl. She didn’t believe him. Hulgruv appeared amused. He hummed the signals over to himself—without mistake.

“You’re using polytonal code for challenge, monotonal for reply. That makes it harder to learn.”

The Cophian caught his breath. He glanced at the Solarian’s huge, bald braincase. “You hope to learn some three or four hundred sounds—and sound-combinations within the time I allow you?”

“We’ll see.”

Some note of contempt in Hulgruv’s voice gave Roki warning.

“I shorten my ultimatum to one hour! Decide by then. Surrender, or I stop answering. Learn it, if you can.”

“He can, Roki,” muttered Daleth. “They can memorize a whole page at a glance.”

Roki keyed another answer. “I’ll cut it off if he tries it.”

The commander was enduring the tension of the stalemate superbly. “Ask yourself, Cophian,” he grunted with a smile, “what would you gain by destroying the ship—and yourself? We are not important. If we’re destroyed, our planet loses another gnat in space, nothing more. Do you imagine we are incapable of self-sacrifice?”

Roki found no answer. He set his jaw in silence and answered the signals as they came. He hoped the bluff would win, but now he saw that Hulgruv would let him destroy the ship. And—if the situation were reversed, Roki knew that he would do the same. He had mistakenly refused to concede honor to an enemy. The commander seemed to sense his quiet dismay, and he leaned forward to speak softly.

“We are a new race, Roki—grown out of man. We have abilities of which you know nothing. It’s useless to fight us. Ultimately, your people will pass away. Or become stagnant. Already it has happened to man on Earth.”

“Then—there are two races on Earth.”

“Yes, of course. Did apes pass away when man appeared? The new does not replace the old. It adds to it, builds above it. The old species is the root of the new tree.”

“Feeding it,” the Cophian grunted bitterly.

He noticed that Talewa was becoming disturbed. Her eyes fluttered from one to the other of them.

“That was inevitable, manthing. There are no other animal foodstuffs on Earth. Man exhausted his planet, overpopulated it, drove lesser species into extinction. He spent the world’s resources getting your ancestors to the denser star-clusters. He saw his own approaching stagnation on Earth. And, since Sol is near the rim of the galaxy, with no close star-neighbors, he realized he could never achieve a mass-exodus into space. He didn’t have the C-drive in its present form. The best he could do was a field-cancellation drive.”

“But that’s the heart of the C-drive.”

“True. But he was too stupid to realize what he had. He penetrated the fifth component and failed to realize what he had done. His ships went up to five-hundred C’s or so, spent a few hours there by the ship’s clock, and came down to find several years had passed on Earth. They never got around that time-lag.”

“But that’s hardly more than a problem in five-space navigation!”

“True again. But they still thought of it in terms of field-cancellation. They didn’t realize they’d actually left the four-space continuum. They failed to see the blue-shift as anything more than a field-phenomenon. Even in high-C, you measure light’s velocity as the same constant—because your measuring instruments have changed proportionally. It’s different, relative to the home continuum, but you can’t know it except by pure reasoning. They never found out.

“Using what they had, they saw that they could send a few of their numbers to the denser star-clusters, if they wanted to wait twenty thousand years for them to arrive. Of course, only a few years would pass aboard ship. They knew they could do it, but they procrastinated. Society was egalitarian at the time. Who would go? And why should the planet’s industry exhaust itself to launch a handful of ships that no one would ever see again? Who wanted to make a twenty thousand year investment that would impoverish the world? Sol’s atomic resources were never plentiful.”

“How did it come about then?”

“Through a small group of men who didn’t care about the cost. They seized power during a ‘population rebellion’—when the sterilizers were fighting the euthanasiasts and the do-nothings. The small clique came into power by the fantastic promise of draining off the population-surplus into space. Enough of the stupid believed it to furnish them with a strong backing. They clamped censorship on the news agencies and imprisoned everyone who said it couldn’t be done. They put the planet to work building ships. Their fanatic personal philosophy was: ‘We are giving the galaxy to Man. What does it matter if he perishes on Earth?’ They put about twelve hundred ships into space before their slave-structure collapsed. Man never developed another technology on Sol III. He was sick of it.”

“And your people?”

Hulgruv smiled. “A natural outgrowth of the situation. If a planet were glutted with rabbits who ate all the grass, a species of rabbits who learned to exploit other rabbits would have the best chance for survival. We are predators, Cophian. Nature raised us up to be a check on your race.”

“You pompous fool!” Roki snapped. “Predators are specialists. What abilities do you have—besides the ability to prey on man?”

“I’ll show you in a few minutes,” the commander muttered darkly.

Daleth had lost color slowly as she listened to the Solarian’s roundabout admission of Roki’s charge. She suddenly moaned and slumped in a sick heap. Hulgruv spoke to the guard in the soundless facial language. The guard carried her away quickly.

“If you were an advanced species, Hulgruv—you would not have let yourself be tricked so easily, by me. And a highly intelligent race would discover the warp locks for themselves.”

Hulgruv flushed. “We underestimated you, manthing. It was a natural mistake. Your race has sunk to the level of cattle on earth. As for the warp locks, we know their principles. We have experimental models. But we could short-circuit needless research by using your design. We are a new race, new to space. Naturally we cannot do in a few years what you needed centuries to accomplish.”

“You’ll have to look for help elsewhere. In ten minutes, I’m quitting the key—unless you change your mind.”

Hulgruv shrugged. While Roki answered the signals, he listened for sounds of activity throughout the ship. He heard nothing except the occasional clump of boots, the brief mutter of a voice in the corridor, the intermittent rattling of small tools. There seemed to be no excitement or anxiety. The Solarians conducted themselves with quiet self-assurance.

“Is your crew aware of what is happening?”

“Certainly.”

As the deadline approached, his fingers grew nervous on the key. He steeled himself, and waited, clutching at each second as it marched past. What good would it do to sacrifice Daleth and himself? He would succeed only in destroying one ship and one crew. But it was a good trade—two pawns for several knights and a rook. And, when the Solarians began their march across space, there would be many such sacrifices.

For the last time, he answered a signal, then leaned back to stare at Hulgruv. “Two minutes, Solarian. There’s still time to change your mind.”

Hulgruv only smiled. Roki shrugged and stood up. A pistol flashed into the commander’s hand, warning him back. Roki laughed contemptuously.

“Afraid I’ll try to take your last two minutes away?” He strolled away from the table toward the door. “Stop!” Hulgruv barked.

“Why? I want to see the girl.”

“Very touching. But she’s busy at the moment.”

“What?” He turned slowly, and glanced at his watch. “You don’t seem to realize that in fifty seconds—”

“We’ll see. Stay where you are.”

The Cophian felt a sudden coldness in his face. Could they have found a flaw in his net of death?—a way to circumvent the sudden application of the Idiot’s C-drive, with its consequent ruinous stresses to both ships? Or had they truly memorized the Cophian symbols to a one second reaction time?

He shrugged agreeably and moved in the general direction of the transmitter tuning units. There was one way to test the possibility. He stopped several feet away and turned to face Hulgruv’s suspicious eyes. “You are braver than I thought,” he growled.

The admission had the desired effect. Hulgruv tossed his head and laughed arrogantly. There was an instant of relaxation. The heavy automatic wavered slightly. Roki backed against the transmitters and cut the power switch. The hum died.

“Ten seconds, Hulgruv! Toss me your weapon. Shoot and you shatter the set. Wait and the tubes get cold. Toss it!”

Hulgruv bellowed, and raised the weapon to fire. Roki grinned. The gun quivered. Then with a choking sound, the Solarian threw it to him. “Get it on!” he howled. “Get it on!”

As Roki tripped the switch again, the signals were already chirping in the loud-speaker. He darted aside, out of view from the corridor. Footsteps were already racing toward the control room.

The signals stopped. Then the bleat of an answer! Another key had been set up in the adjoining room! With Daleth answering the challenges?

The pistol exploded in his hand as the first crewman came racing through the doorway. The others backed out of sight into the corridor as the projectile-weapon knocked their comrade back in a bleeding sprawl. Hulgruv made a dash for the door. Roki cut him down with a shot at the knee.

“The next one takes the transmitter,” he bellowed. “Stay back.”

Hulgruv roared a command. “Take him! If you can’t, let the trap spring!”

Roki stooped over him and brought the pistol butt crashing against his skull, meaning only to silence him. It was a mistake; he had forgotten about the structure of the Solarian skull. He put his foot on Hulgruv’s neck and jerked. The butt came free with a wet cluck. He raced to the doorway and pressed himself against the wall to listen. The crewmen were apparently having a parley at the far end of the corridor. He waited for the next signal.

When it came, he dropped to the floor—to furnish an unexpected sort of target—and snaked into view. He shot twice at three figures a dozen yards away. The answering fire did something to the side of his face, blurring his vision. Another shot sprayed him with flakes from the deck. One crewman was down. The others backed through a door at the end of the corridor. They slammed it and a pressure seal tightened with a rubbery sound.

Roki climbed to his feet and slipped toward a doorway from which he heard the click of the auxiliary key. He felt certain someone was there besides Daleth. But when he risked a quick glance around the corner, he saw only the girl. She sat at a small desk, her hand frozen to the key, her eyes staring dazedly at nothing. He started to speak, then realized what was wrong. Hypnosis! Or a hypnotic drug. She sensed nothing but the key beneath her fingers, waiting for the next challenge.

The door was only half-open. He could see no one, but there had been another man; of that he was certain. Thoughtfully he took aim at the plastic door panel and fired. A gun skidded toward Daleth’s desk. A heavy body sprawled across the floor.

The girl started. The dull daze left her face, to be re-placed with wide-eyed shock. She clasped her hands to her cheeks and whimpered. A challenge bleated from the radio.

“Answer!” he bellowed.

Her hand shot to the key and just in time. But she seemed about to faint.

“Stay on it!” he barked, and dashed back to the control room. The crewmen had locked themselves aft of the bulkhead, and had started the ventilator fans. Roki heard their whine, then caught the faint odor of gas. His eyes were burning and he sneezed spasmodically.

“Surrender immediately, manthing!” blared the intercom.

Roki looked around, then darted toward the controls. He threw a damping voltage on the drive tubes, defocused the ion streams, and threw the reactors to full emission. The random shower of high-speed particles would spray toward the focusing coils, scatter like deflected buckshot, and loose a blast of hard X-radiation as they peppered the walls of the reaction chambers. Within a few seconds, if the walls failed to melt, the crewmen back of the bulkhead should recognize the possibility of being quickly fried by the radiant inferno.

The tear gas was choking him. From the next compartment, he could hear Daleth coughing and moaning. How could she hear the signals for her own weeping? He tried to watch the corridor and the reaction-chamber temperature at the same time. The needle crept toward the danger-point. An explosion could result, if the walls failed to melt.

Suddenly the voice of the intercom again: “Shut it off, you fool! You’ll destroy the ship!”

He said nothing, but waited in tense silence, watching the other end of the corridor. Suddenly the ventilator fans died. Then the bulkhead door opened a crack, and paused.

“Throw out your weapon first!” he barked.

A gun fell through the crack and to the floor. A Solarian slipped through, sneezed, and rubbed his eyes. “Turn around and back down the corridor.”

The crewman obeyed slowly. Roki stood a few feet behind him, using him for a shield while the others emerged. The fight was gone out of them. It was strange, he thought; they were willing to risk the danger of the Idiot’s C-drive, but they couldn’t stand being locked up with a runaway reactor. They could see death coming then. He throttled back the reactors, and prodded the men toward the storage rooms. There was only one door that suggested a lockup. He halted the prisoners in the hallway and tried the bolt.

“Not in there, manthing!” growled one of the Solarians.

“Why not?”

“There are—”

A muffled wail from within the compartment interrupted the explanation. It was the cry of a child. His hand trembled on the bolt.

“They are wild, and we are weaponless,” pleaded the Solarian.

“How many are in there?”

“Four adults, three children.”

Roki paused. “There’s nowhere else to put you. One of you—you there—go inside, and we’ll see what happens.”

The man shook his head stubbornly in refusal. Roki repeated the order. Again the man refused. The predator, unarmed, was afraid of its prey. The Cophian aimed low and calmly shot him through the leg.

“Throw him inside,” he ordered tonelessly.

With ill-concealed fright for their own safety, the other two lifted their screaming comrade. Roki swung open the door and caught a brief glimpse of several human shadows in the gloom. Then the Solarian was thrown through the doorway and the bolt snapped closed.

At first there was silence, then a bull-roar from some angry throat. Stamping feet—then the Solarian’s shriek—and a body was being dashed against the inside walls while several savage voices roared approval. The two remaining crewmen stood in stunned silence.

“Doesn’t work so well, does it?” Roki murmured with ruthless unconcern.

After a brief search, he found a closet to lock them in, and went to relieve Daleth at the key. When the last signal came, at the end of the four hours, she was asleep from exhaustion. And curled up on the floor, she looked less like a tough little frontier urchin than a frightened bedraggled kitten. He grinned at her for a moment, then went back to inspect the damage to the briefly overloaded reactors. It was not as bad as it might have been. He worked for two hours, replacing fused focusing sections. The jets would carry them home.

The Idiot was left drifting in space to await the coming of a repair ship. And Daleth was not anxious to fly it back alone. Roki set the Solarian vessel on a course with a variable C-level, so that no Sol ship could track them without warp lockers. As far as Roki was concerned the job was done. He had a shipful of evidence and two live Solarians who could be forced to confirm it.

“What will they do about it?” Daleth asked as the captured ship jetted them back toward the Sixty-Star Cluster.

“Crush the Solarian race immediately.”

“I thought we were supposed to keep hands-off non-human races?”

“We are, unless they try to exploit human beings. That is automatically an act of war. But I imagine an Ultimatum will bring a surrender. They can’t fight without warp lockers.”

“What will happen on Earth when they do surrender?” Roki turned to grin. “Go ask the human Earthers. Climb in their cage.”

She shuddered, and murmured, “Some day—they’ll be a civilized race again, won’t they?”

He sobered, and stared thoughtfully at the star-lanced cosmos. “Theirs is the past, Daleth. Theirs is the glory of having founded the race of man. They sent us into space. They gave the galaxy to man—in the beginning. We would do well to let them alone.”

He watched her for a moment. She had lost cockiness, temporarily.

“Stop grinning at me like that!” she snapped.

Roki went to feed the Solarian captives: canned cabbage.

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