Panic Button

Illustrated by van Dongen

“The law of chance,” said Lagasta ponderously, “lays it down that one cannot remain dead out of luck for everlasting.” He had the fat oiliness typical of many Antareans; his voice was equally fat and oily. “Sooner or later the time must come when one finds a jewel in one’s hair instead of a bug.”

“Speak for yourself,” invited Kaznitz, not caring for the analogy.

“That time has arrived,” Lagasta went on. “Let us rejoice.”

“I am rejoicing,” Kaznitz responded with no visible enthusiasm.

“You look it,” said Lagasta. He plucked a stalk of grass and chewed it without caring what alien bacteria might be lurking thereon. “We have found a new and empty world suitable for settlement. Such worlds are plenty hard to discover in spite of somebody’s estimate that there must be at least a hundred million of them. The vastness of space.” He ate a bit more grass, finished, “But we have found one. It becomes the property of our species by right of first discovery. That makes us heroes worthy of rich reward. Yet I fail to see delirious happiness on what purports to be your face.”

“I take nothing for granted,” said Kaznitz.

“You mean you sit right here on an enormous lump of real estate and don’t believe it?”

“We have yet to make sure that nobody has prior title.”

“You know quite well that we subjected this planet to most careful examination as we approached. Intelligent life cannot help betraying its presence with unmistakable signs for which we sought thoroughly. What did we see? Nothing! Not a city, not a village, not a road, not a bridge, not one cultivated field. Absolutely nothing!”

“It was a long-range survey of the illuminated side only,” Kaznitz pointed out. “We need to take a much closer look—and at both sides.” Havarre lumbered over and sat beside them. “I have ordered the crew to get out the scout boats after they have finished their meal.”

“Good!” said Lagasta. “That should soothe Kaznitz. He refuses to believe that the planet is devoid of intelligent life.”

“It is not a matter of belief or disbelief,” Kaznitz gave back. “It is a matter of making sure.”

“We are soon to do that,” Havarre told him. “But I am not worried. The place looks completely uninhabited.”

“You can’t weigh up a world with one incoming stare no matter how long and hard you make it,” Kaznitz asserted. “The absence of people spread widely and in large numbers doesn’t necessarily mean no concentration of them in small number.”

“You mean Terrans?” queried Havarre, twitching his horsy ears.

“Yes.”

“He’s been obsessed with Terrans ever since Plaksted found them encamped on B417,” remarked Lagasta.

“And why shouldn’t I be? Plaksted had gone a long, long way merely to suffer a disappointment. The Terrans had got there first. We’ve been told that they’re running around doing the same as we’re doing, grabbing planets as fast as they can find them. We’ve been warned that in no circumstances must we clash with them. We’ve strict orders to recognize the principle of first come first served.”

“That makes sense,” opined Havarre. “In spite of years of haphazard contact we and the Terrans don’t really know what makes the other tick. Each side has carefully refrained from telling the other anything more than is necessary. They don’t know what we’ve got—but we don’t know what they’ve got. That situation is inevitable. It takes intelligence to conquer space and an intelligent species does not weaken itself by revealing its true strength. Neither does it start a fight with someone of unmeasured and immeasurable size, power and resources. What d’you think we ought to do with Terrans—knock off their heads?”

“Certainly not!” said Kaznitz. “But I shall feel far happier when I know for certain that a task force of one thousand Terrans is not snoring its collective head off somewhere on the dark side of this planet. Until then I don’t assume that the world is ours.”

“Always the pessimist,” jibed Lagasta.

“He who hopes for nothing will never be disappointed,” Kaznitz retorted.

“What a way to go through life,” Lagasta said. “Reveling in gloom.”

“I fail to see anything gloomy about recognizing the fact that someone must get here first.”

“How right you are. And this time it’s us. I am looking forward to seeing the glum faces of the Terrans when they arrive tomorrow or next month or next year and find us already here. What do you say, Havarre?”

“I don’t think the subject worthy of argument,” answered Havarre, refusing to take sides. “The scout boats will settle the issue before long.” He got to his feet, ambled toward the ship. “I’ll chase the crew into action.”

Lagasta frowned after him. “The company I keep. One has no opinions. The other wallows in defeat.”

“And you wag your tail while the door is still shut,” Kaznitz riposted.

Ignoring that, Lagasta gnawed more grass. They sat in silence until the first scout boat came out, watched it take off with a loud boom and a rising whine. A bit later a second boat bulleted into the sky. Then more of them at regular intervals until all ten had gone.

“Waste of time, patience and fuel,” declared Lagasta. “There’s nobody here but us first-comers.”

Kaznitz refused to take the bait. He gazed at the ragged horizon towards which a red sun sank slowly. “The dark side will become the light side pretty soon. Those boats won’t get back much before dawn. Think I’ll go and enjoy my bunk. A good sleep is long overdue.”

“It’s a wonder you can enjoy anything with all the worries you’ve got,” observed Lagasta with sarcasm.

“I shall slumber with the peace of the fatalistic. I shall not sit up all night eating weeds while tormented with the desire to be proved right and the fear of being proved wrong.” So saying, he went to the ship conscious of the other scowling after him. Like all of the crew he was sufficiently weary to fall asleep quickly. Soon after dark he was awakened by die switching on of the radio beacon and the faint but hearable sound of the subsequent bip-bip-yidder-bip. Much later he was disturbed by Havarre going to bed and, later still, by Lagasta.

By dawn they were so deep in their dreams that none heard the return of the scout boats despite the outside uproar ten times repeated. They grunted and snuffled in unconscious unison while nine pilots emerged from their vessels looking exhausted and bored. The tenth came out kicking the grass and jerking his ears with temper.

One of the nine stared curiously at the tenth and asked, “What’s nibbling your offal, Yaksid?”

“Terrans,” spat Yaksid. “The snit-gobbers!”

Which was a very vulgar word indeed.

“Now,” said Lagasta, displaying his bile, “tell us exactly what you saw.”

“He saw Terrans,” put in Kaznitz. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I want no interference from you,”

Lagasta shouted. “Go squat in a thorny tree.” He switched attention back to Yaksid and repeated, “Tell us exactly what you saw.”

“I spotted a building in a valley, swept down and circled it several times. It was a very small house, square in shape, neatly built of rock slabs and cement. A Terran came out of the door, presumably attracted by the noise of my boat. He stood watching me zoom round and round and as I shot past the front he waved to me.”

“Whereupon you waved back,” suggested Lagasta in his most unpleasant manner.

“I made muck-face at him,” said Yaksid indignantly, “but I don’t think he saw me. I was going too fast.”

“There was only this one house ia the valley?”

“Yes.”

“A very small house?”

“Yes.”

“How small?”

“It could be described as little better than a stone hut.”

“And only one Terran came out?”

“That’s right. If any more were inside, they didn’t bother to show themselves.”

“There couldn’t have been many within if the dump was almost a hut,” Lagasta suggested.

“Correct. Six at the most.”

“Did you see a ship or a scout boat lying nearby?”

“No, not a sign of one. There was just this house and nothing more,” said Yaksid.

“What did you do next?”

“I decided that this lonely building must be an outpost belonging to a Terran encampment somewhere in the vicinity. So I made a close search of the district. I circled wider and wider until I’d examined an area covering twenty horizons. I found nothing.”

“You’re quite certain of that?”

“I’m positive. I went plenty low enough to detect a camp half-buried or well camouflaged. I couldn’t find even the smell of a Terran.”

Lagasta stared at him in silence a while and then said, “There is something wrong about this. A Terran garrison could not cram itself into one hut.”

“That’s what I think,” Yaksid agreed.

“And since it cannot be within the building it must be some place else.”

“Correct. But there was no sign of it anywhere within the area I covered. Perhaps one of the other scout boats passed over it and failed to see it.”

“If it did, the pilot must have been stone-blind or asleep at his controls.”

Kaznitz interjected, “That wouldn’t surprise me. We landed short of sleep and the pilots haven’t been given a chance to catch up. You can’t expect them to be in full possession of their wits when they’re mentally whirly.”

“It was necessary to make a check with the minimum of delay,” said Lagasta defensively.

“That’s news to me.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You gave me clearly to understand that the check was a waste of time, patience and fuel.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

Havarre chipped in with, “What was said or not said is entirely beside the point. The point is that we have to deal with the situation as it exists. We have landed in expectation of claiming a planet. Yaksid has since found Terrans. Therefore the Terrans were here first. What are we going to do about it?”

“There is no problem to be solved,” said Kaznitz before Lagasta had time to answer. “We have been given orders simple enough for a fool to understand. If we arrive first, we claim the planet, sit tight and invite any later Terrans to take a high dive onto solid rock. If the Terrans arrive first, we admit their claim without argument, shoot back into space and waste no time beating them to the next planet.”

“Where is the next one?” inquired Lagasta with mock pleasantness. “And how long is it going to take us to find it? Inhabitable worlds don’t cluster like ripe fruit, do they?”

“Certainly not. But what alternative do you suggest?”

“I think we’d do well to discover this missing garrison and estimate its strength.”

“That would make sense if we were at war or permitted to start a war,” said Kaznitz. “We are not permitted. We are under strict instructions to avoid a clash.”

“I should think so, too,” contributed Havarre. “Before we enter a war we must know exactly what we’re fighting.”

“There is nothing to stop us gathering useful information,” Lagasta insisted.

“It’s impossible for us to collect military data worth the effort of writing it down,” Kaznitz gave back. “For the obvious reason that it will be years out of date by the time we get back home.”

“So you think we should surrender a hard-earned world for the sake of one crummy Terran in a vermin-infested hut?”

“You know quite well there must be more of them somewhere around.”

“I don’t know it. I know only what I’ve been told. And I’ve been told that Yaksid has found one Terran in a hut. Nobody has seen a trace of any others. We should make further and closer search for others and satisfy ourselves that they really are here.”

“Why?”

“It’s possible that these others don’t exist.”

“Possible but highly improbable,” Kaznitz opined. “I can’t see Terran explorers contenting themselves with placing one man on a world.”

“Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps he placed himself. The lone survivor of a space disaster who managed to get here in a lifeboat. What would be the worth of a Terran claim in those circumstances? We could easily remove every trace of the man and the hut and deny all knowledge of either. It couldn’t be called a clash. One Terran just wouldn’t get the chance to clash with a crew six hundred strong.”

“That may be, but—”

“If we make more systematic search and find other Terrans in garrison strength, that will settle the matter and we’ll take off. But if it proves that there are no others—” He let his voice tail off to add significance, finished, “All that stands between us and a world is one hunk of alien meat.”

Kaznitz thought it over. “I dislike giving up a new planet fully as much as you do. But I’d dislike it even more if we were saddled with the blame for starting something that can’t be finished. I think we’d like death and love it rather than endure the prolonged pain.”

“Blame cannot be laid without someone to do the blaming,” said Lagasta, “and a dead Terran positively refuses to talk. You worry too much. If you had nothing else with which to occupy your mind you’d grieve over the shape of your feet.” He turned to Havarre. “You’ve had little enough to say. Have you no opinion about this?”

Immediately leery, Havarre replied, “If we stay put while we look around, I think we should be careful.”

“Have you any reason to suppose that I intend to be rash?”

“No, no, not at all.”

“Then why the advice?”

“You asked my opinion and I gave it. I don’t trust these Terrans.”

“Who does?” said Lagasta, He made a gesture indicative of ending the subject. “All right. We’ll allow the pilots a good, long sleep. After their brains have been thoroughly rested we’ll send them out again. Our next step will depend upon whether more Terrans have been found and, if so, whether they have been discovered in strength.”

“What do you mean by strength?” Kaznitz asked.

“Any number in possession of a ship or a long-range transmitter. Or any number too large for us to remove without leaving evidence of it.”

“Have it your own way,” said Kaznitz.

“I intend to,” Lagasta assured.

The first boat returned with the same news as before, namely, no Terrans, no sign that a Terran had ever been within a million miles of the planet. Eight more boats came back at varying intervals and made identical reports vouching for a total lack of Terrans in their respective sectors. One pilot added that he became so convinced that Yaksid must have suffered a delusion that on his return he had gone out of his way to cut through that worthy’s sector. Yes, he had seen the stone house with his own two eyes. No, he had not observed any sign of life around the place.

Yaksid appeared last.

“I went straight to the house and circled it as before. Again a Terran came out and watched me. He also waved to me.”

“It was the same Terran?” demanded Lagasta.

“He may have been. I don’t know. One cannot study a face on the ground when flying a scout boat. Besides, all Terrans look alike to me, I can’t tell one from another.”

“Well, what happened after that?”

“I made low-level inspection of a surrounding area ten times larger than last time. In fact I overlapped by quite a piece the search lines of boats seven and eight. There was not another house or even a tent, much less an encampment.”

Lagasta brooded over this information, eventually said, “The occupants of that house are by themselves in a strange world. That’s a form of loneliness sufficiently appalling to guarantee that they’d rush out headlong for a look at a ship. If six, ten or twelve Terrans were crammed in that hut, they’d get stuck in the doorway in their haste to see Yaksid’s boat. But only one showed himself the first time. Only one showed himself the second time. I think there’s not more than one in that hut.”

“So do I,” offered Yaksid.

Kaznitz said to Yaksid, “He waved to you on both occasions. Did he appear to be waving for help?”

“No.”

“Does it matter?” Lagasta asked.

“If he were a marooned survivor, one would expect him to jump at a chance of rescue.”

“Not at our hands. He could see at a glance that the scout boat was not a Terran one. He’d take no chance with another species.”

“Then why did he show himself? Why didn’t he hide and leave us in sweet ignorance of his existence?”

’Because he couldn’t conceal the hut,” replied Lagasta, showing lack of patience.

“He wouldn’t need to,” Kaznitz persisted. “When you seek cover from a prospective enemy you don’t take your house with you.”

Kaznitz, there are times when you irritate me beyond measure. Just what have you got on your mind ?”

“Look, you believe that in that building is the only Terran upon this world. Right?”

“Right!”

“He can have got here in only one of two ways, namely, by accident or by design. Right?”

“Right!”

“If he doesn’t want help, he’s not here by accident. He’s here by design Right?”

Lagasta evaded the point. “I don’t care if he’s here by a miracle. It will take more than the presence of one lousy alien to make me give up a new world.”

“I suspect there is more-more to it than meets the eye.”

“That may be so. I am no fool, Kaznitz. Your suspicion of Terrans is no greater than mine. But I refuse to flee at first sight of one of them.”

“Then what do you think we should do?”

“There are eight of us with enough knowledge of Terran gabble to limp through a conversation. We should have a talk with this character. If he’s here for a purpose, we must discover what it is.”

“And afterward?”

“It may prove expedient to make him disappear. A deplorable necessity. But, as you never cease to remind me, Kaznitz, life is full of deplorable things. And, like everyone else, this Terran must expect to have an unlucky day sooner or later. When he and his hut have vanished from the face of creation we can defy anyone to prove that we were not here first.”

“Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as that,” opined Kaznitz.

“You wouldn’t. You were alarmed at birth and the feeling has never worn off.”

Havarre put in uneasily, “As I said before, we should be very careful. But I see no harm in having a talk with this Terran. Neither his authorities nor ours can object to that. Nothing in our orders forbids us to speak.”

“Thanks be to the suns for at least one bit of half-hearted support,” said Lagasta piously. “We’ll move the ship to where this stone hut is located. No need to load the scout boats on board. Let them fly with us. They’ll help to make us look more imposing.”

“Want me to order the crew to make ready right now’?” inquired Havarre.

“Yes, you do that. We’ll invite our prospective victim to dinner. Some of his kind are said to be fond of strong drink. We’ll feed him plenty, sufficient to loosen his tongue. If he talks enough, he may save his neck. If he talks too much, he may get his throat cut. It all depends. We’ll see.”

“Bet you ten days’ pay you’re wasting your time,” offered Kaznitz.

“Taken,” agreed Lagasta with alacrity. “It will be a pleasant change to have you go moody over your losses and my gains.”

As the ship came down Lagasta stood by a port and studied the rising house. “Neat and solid. He could possibly have built it himself. The door and windows could have come from a dismantled lifeboat. The rock slabs are local material and what looks like cement is probably hard mud.”

“Still clinging to the theory of a lone survivor from some cosmic wreck?” asked Kaznitz.

“It’s a likely explanation of why there is one Terran and only one.” Lagasta glanced at the other. “Can you offer a better solution?”

“Yes. They’ve isolated a plague carrier.”

“What?”

“Could be. What do we know of their diseases?”

“Kaznitz, why do you persist in producing the most unpleasant ideas?”

“Somebody has to consider the possibilities. When one knows almost nothing about another species what can one do but speculate? The only available substitutes for facts are guesses.”

“They don’t have to be repulsive guesses.”

“They do—if your main purpose is to take no risks.”

“If this character is bulging with alien bacteria to which we have no resistance, he could wipe out the lot of us without straining a muscle.”

“That could happen,” agreed Kaznitz cheerfully.

“Look here, Kaznitz, your morbid mind has put us in a fix. Therefore it is for you to get us out of it.”

“How?”

“I am appointing you to go to that house and find out why that Terran is here. It’s your job to make sure that he’s safe and sanitary before we allow him aboard.”

“He may refuse to come aboard. It could seem much like walking into a trap.”

“If he won’t come to us, we’ll go to him. All you need do, Kaznitz, is first make sure that he is not loaded with death and corruption. I’ve no wish to expire as the result of breathing in bad company.”

At that point the ship grounded with crunching sounds under the keel. The ten scout boats circled overhead, came down one by one and positioned themselves in a neat row. Lagasta had another look at the house now two hundred yards away. The alien occupant could be seen standing in the doorway gazing at the arrivals but his face was hidden in deep shadow. “On your way, Kaznitz.”

With a shrug of resignation, Kaznitz got going. While many pairs of eyes looked on he went down the gangway, trudged to the house, halted at the door. For a short while he and the Terran chatted. Then they went inside, remained for twenty minutes before they reappeared. They headed for the ship. Lagasta met them at the mid air lock.

“This,” introduced Kaznitz, “is Leonard Nash. He says we should call him Len.”

“Glad to know you,” responded Lagasta with false cordiality. It’s all too seldom we meet your kind.” He studied the Terran carefully. The fellow was short, broad and swarthy with restless eyes that seemed to be trying to look six ways at once. There was something peculiar about him that Lagasta could not place; a vague, indefinable air of being more different than was warranted even in an alien. Lagasta went on, “I don’t think I’ve spoken to more than twenty Terrans in all my life. And then only very briefly.”

“Is that so?” said Len.

“Yes,” Lagasta assured.

“Too bad,” said Len. His eyes flickered around. “Where do we eat?”

Slightly disconcerted, Lagasta took the lead. “This way to the officers’ mess. We are honored to have you as our guest.”

“That’s nice,” responded Len, following.

At the table Lagasta seated the newcomer on his right, said to Havarre, “You speak some Terran so you sit on his other side.” Then surreptitiously to Kaznitz, “You sit on my left—I want a word with you soon.”

The ship’s officers filed in, took their places. Lagasta made formal introductions while Len favored each in turn with a blank stare and a curt nod. Dinner was served. The Terran tasted the first dish with suspicion, pulled a face and pushed it away. The next course was much to his liking and he started scooping it up with single-minded concentration. He was an unashamed guzzle-guts and didn’t cure who knew it.

Lagasta grabbed the opportunity to lean sidewise and question Kaznitz in his own language. “You sure he’s not full of disease?”

“Yes.”

“How d’you know?”

“Because he’s expecting to be picked up and taken home before long. In fact he has recorded the date of his return.”

“Ah! So the Terrans do know he’s here?” Lagasta suppressed a scowl.

“Yes. They dumped him here in the first place.”

“Alone?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t know.”

After digesting this information, Lagasta growled, “It doesn’t make sense. I think he’s lying.”

“Could be,” said Kaznitz.

Stewards brought bottles. Len’s reaction to drink was the same as that to food: a wary and suspicious sip followed by lip-smacking approval and greedy swallowing. Whenever a new course was brought in his active eyes examined all the other plates as if to check that they didn’t hold more than was on his own. Frequently he signed for his glass to be filled. His general manner was that of one cashing in on a free feed. Perhaps, thought Lagasta, it was excusable in one who’d had an entire world to himself and may have gone hungry most of the time. All the same, he, Lagasta, didn’t like Terrans and liked this one even less.

With the long meal over and the officers gone, Lagasta, Kaznitz and Havarre settled down to more drinking and an informative conversation with their guest. By this time Len was feeling good, sprawling in his chair, a full glass in one hand, his face flushed with an inward glow. Obviously he was mellow and in the mood to talk.

Lagasta began politely with, “Company, even strange company, must be more than welcome to one leading such a lonely life as yours.”

“Sure is,” said Len. “There’ve been times when I’ve talked to myself for hours. Too much of that can send a fellow off his head.” He took an appreciative swig from the glass. “Thank God I’ve a date marked on the wall.”

“You mean you’re here for a limited time?”

“I was dumped for four years maximum. Most of it’s now behind me. I’ve only seven more months to go—then it’s home, sweet home.”

Seeing no satisfactory way of getting to the point obliquely, Lagasta decided to approach it on the straight. “How did you come to be put here in the first place?”

“Well, it was like this: I was a three-time loser and—”

“A what?”

“I’d done two stretches in prison when I qualified for a third. The judge gave me fifteen to twenty years, that being mandatory. So I was slung into the jug.” He sipped his drink reminiscently. “Hadn’t been there a week when I was called to the warden’s office. Two fellows there waiting for me. Don’t know who they were. Said to me, ‘We’ve been taking a look at you. You’re in good physical condition. You’re also in a jam and plenty young enough to have regrets. How’d you like to do four years in solitary?’ ”

“Go on,” urged Lagasta, managing to understand about three-quarters of it.

“Naturally, I asked who was crazy. I’d been plastered with fifteen to twenty and that was suffering enough. So they said they weren’t trying to pin something more on me. They didn’t mean four years in addition to—they meant four instead of. If I wanted it I could have it and, what’s more, I’d crane out with a clean sheet.”

“You accepted?”

“After crawling all over them with a magnifying glass looking for the gag. There had to be one somewhere. The law doesn’t suddenly ease up and go soft without good reason.”

“What did they tell you?”

“Wanted me to take a ride in a spaceship. Said it might plant me on an empty world. They weren’t sure about that but thought it likely. Said if I did get dumped all I had to do was sit tight for four years and behave myself. At the end of that time I’d be picked up and brought home and my prison records would be destroyed.”

“So you’re a criminal?”

“Was once. Not now. Officially I’m a solid citizen. Or soon will be.”

Kaznitz put in with mild interest, “Do you intend to remain a solid citizen after your return?”

Giving a short laugh, Len said, “Depends.”

Staring at him as if seeing him for the first time, Lagasta remarked, “If it were possible to make a person acquire respect for society by depriving him of the company of his fellows, it could be done in jail. There would be no need to go to the enormous trouble and expense of putting him on some faraway uninhabited planet. So there must be some motive other than the reformation of a criminal. There must be an obscure but worthwhile purpose in placing you here.”

“Search me,” said Len indifferently. “So long as I get the benefit, why should I care?”

“You say you’ve been here about three and a half Earth-years?”

“Correct.”

“And nobody has visited you in all that time?”

“Not a soul,” declared Len. “Yours are the first voices I’ve heard.”

“Then,” persisted Lagasta, “how have you managed to live?”

“No trouble at all. When the ship landed the crew prospected for water. After they’d found it they put down a bore and built the shack over it. They fixed a small atomic engine in the basement; it pumps water, heats it, warms and lights the place. They also swamped me with food, books, games, tape-recordings and whatever. I’ve got all the comforts of the Ritz, or most of them.”

“Then they’left you to do nothing for four years?”

“That’s right. Just eat, sleep, amuse myself.” Then he added by way of afterthought, “And keep watch.”

“Ah!” Lagasta’s long ears twitched as he pounced on that remark. “Keep watch for what?”

“Anyone coming here.”

Leaning back in his seat, Lagasta eyed the other with ill-concealed contempt. Under clever questioning and the influence of drink the fellow’s evasions had been driven from the sublime to the ridiculous. Persistent liars usually gave themselves away by not knowing when to stop.

“Quite a job,” commented Lagasta, dangerously oily, “keeping watch over an entire planet.”

“Didn’t give me any gray hairs,” assured Len. He exhibited an empty glass and Havarre promptly filled it for him.

“In fact,” Lagasta went on, “seeing that you have to eat and sleep, it would be a major task merely to keep watch on the relatively tiny area within your own horizon.”

“Sure would,” Len agreed.

“Then how is it possible fpr one man to stand guard over a planet?”

“I asked them about that. I said, ‘Hey, d’you chumps think I’m clairvoyant?’ ”

“And what was their reply?”

“They said, ‘Don’t worry your head, boy. If anyone lands north pole or south pole, your side or the other side, by day or by night, you don’t have to go looking for them. They’ll come looking for you!’ ” A smirk, lopsided and peculiarly irritating, came into Len’s face. “Seems they were dead right, eh?”

Lagasta’s temporary sensation of impending triumph faded away and was replaced by vague alarm. He slid a glance at Kaznitz and Havarre, found their expressions studiously blank.

“One can hardly describe it as keeping watch if one waits for people to knock on the door,” he suggested.

“Oh, there was more to it than that,” informed Len. “When they knock, I press the button.”

“What button ?”

“The one in the wall. Got a blue lens above it. If anyone comes, I press the button and make sure the blue lens lights up. If the lens fails to shine, it shows I’ve not pressed hard enough. I ram the button deep enough to get the blue light. That’s all there is to it.”

“In view of our arrival I presume the button has been pressed?” asked Lagasta.

“Yeah, couple of days ago. Something came snoring around the roof. I looked out the window, saw your bubble boat, recognized the pilot as non-Terran. So I did my chore with the button. Then I went outside and waved to him. Fat lot of notice he took. Did he think I was thumbing a lift or something?”

Ignoring that question, Lagasta said, “What happens when the button is pressed?”

“Darned if I know. They didn’t bother to tell me and I didn’t bother to ask. What’s it to me, anyway?”

“There is no antenna on your roof,” Lagasta pointed out.

“Should there be?” Len held his drink up to the light and studied it with approval. “Say, this stuff varies quite a lot. We’re on a bottle much better than the last one.”

“For the button to transmit a signal there’d have to be an antenna.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Therefore,” Lagasta baited, “it does not transmit a signal. It does something else.”

“I told you what it does—it makes the blue lens light up.”

“What good does that do?”

“Does me lots of good. Earns me a remission. I get out in four instead of fifteen to twenty.” Strumming an invisible guitar, Len sang a discordant line about his little gray cell in the west. Then he struggled to his feet and teetered slightly. “Great stuff that varnish of yours. The longer you hold it the stronger it works. Either I go now under my own steam or I stay another hour and you carry me home.”

The three stood up and Lagasta said, “Perhaps you’d like to take a bottle with you. After we’ve gone you can drink a toast to absent friends.”

Len clutched it gratefully. “Friends is right. You’ve made my life. Don’t know what I’d do without you. So far as I’m concerned you’re welcome to stick around for keeps.” Rather unsteadily he followed Kaznitz out, turned in the doorway and added, “Remember asking ’em, ‘Where am I if some outlandish bunch want to play rough with me?’ And they said, ‘They won’t—because there’ll be no dividends in it.’ ” He put on the same smirk as before but it was more distorted by drink. “Real prophets, those guys. Hit the nail smack-bang on the head every time.”

He went, nursing his bottle. Lagasta flopped into a chair and stared at the wall. So did Havarre. Neither stirred until Kaznitz came back.

Lagasta said viciously, “I’d lop off his fool head without the slightest compunction if it weren’t for that button business.”

“And that may be a lie,” offered Havarre.

“It isn’t,” Kaznitz contradicted. “He told the truth. I saw the button and the lens for myself. I also heard the faint whine of a power plant somewhere in the foundations.” He mused a moment, went on, “As for the lack of an antenna, all we know is that in similar circumstances we’d need one. But do they? We can’t assume that in all respects their science is identical with our own.”

“Logic’s the same everywhere, though,” Lagasta gave back. “So let’s try and look at this logically. It’s obvious that this Len character is no intellectual. I think it’s safe to accept that he is what he purports to be, namely, a criminal, an antisocial type of less than average intelligence. That raises three questions. Firstly, why have the Terrans put only one man on this planet instead of a proper garrison? Secondly, why did they choose a person of poor mentality? Thirdly, why did they select a criminal?”

“For the first, I have no idea,” responded Kaznitz. “But I can give a guess at the others.”

“Well?”

“They used someone none too bright because it is impossible to coax, drug, hypnotize, torture or otherwise extract valuable information from an empty head. The Terrans don’t know what we’ve got but one thing they do know: no power in creation can force out of a skull anything that isn’t in it in the first place.”

“I’ll give you that,” Lagasta conceded.

“As for picking on a criminal rather than any ordinary dope, seems to me that such a person could be given a very strong inducement to follow instructions to the letter. He’d be meticulous about pressing a button because he had everything to gain and nothing to lose.”

“All fight,” said Lagasta, accepting this reasoning without argument. “Now let’s consider the button itself. One thing is certain: it wasn’t installed for nothing. Therefore it was fixed up for something. It has a purpose that makes sense even if it’s alien sense. The mere pressing of it would be meaningless unless it produced a result of some kind. What’s your guess on that?”

Havarre interjected, “The only possible conclusion is that it sounds an alarm somehow, somewhere.”

“That’s what I think,” Kaznitz supported.

“Me, too,” said Lagasta. “But it does more than just that. By sending the alarm it vouches for the fact that this watchman Len was still alive and in possession of his wits when we landed. And if we put him down a deep hole it will also vouch for the fact that he disappeared immediately after our arrival. Therefore it may provide proof of claim-jumping should such proof be necessary.” He breathed deeply and angrily, finished, “It’s highly likely that a fast Terran squadron is already bulleting this way. How soon it gets here depends upon how near its base happens to be.”

“Doesn’t matter if they catch us sitting on their world,” Kaznitz pointed out. “We’ve done nothing wrong. We’ve shown hospitality to their sentinel and we’ve made no claim to the planet.”

“I want to claim the planet,” shouted Lagasta. “How’m I going to to do it now?”

“You can’t,” said Kaznitz. “Its far too risky.”

“It’d be asking for trouble in very large lumps,” opined Havarre. “I know what I’d do if it were left to me.”

“You’d do what?”

“I’d beat it at top speed. With luck we might get to the next new world an hour ahead of the Terrans. If we do we’ll be more than glad that we didn’t waste that hour en this world.”

“I hate giving up a discovery,” Lagasta declared.

“I hate giving up two of them in rapid succession,” retorted Havarre with considerable point.

Lagasta growled, “You win. Order the crew to bring the scout boats aboard and prepare for take-off.” He watched Havarre hasten out, turned to Kaznitz and rasped, “Curse them!”

“Who? The crew?”

“No, the Terrans.” Then he stamped a couple of times around the cabin and added, “Snitgobbers!”

The vessel that swooped from the sky and made a descending curve toward the rock house was not a warship. It was pencil-thin, ultra-fast, had a small crew and was known as a courier boat. Landing lightly and easily, it put forth a gangway.

Two technicians emerged and hurried to the house, intent on checking the atomic engine and the power circuits. The relief watchman appeared, scuffed grass with his feet, stared curiously around. He was built like a bear, had an underslung jaw, small, sunken eyes. His arms were thick, hairy and lavishly tattooed.

Moving fast, the crew manhandled crates and cartons out of the ship and into the house. The bulkiest item consisted of forty thousand cigarettes in air-tight cans. The beneficiary of this forethought, a thug able to spell simple words, was a heavy smoker.

Leonard Nash went on board the ship, gave his successor a sardonic smirk in passing. The crew finished their task. The technicians returned. Leaning from the air-lock door, an officer bawled final injunctions at the lone spectator.

“Remember, you must press until the blue lens lights up. Keep away from the local gin-traps and girlie shows—they’ll ruin your constitution. See you in four years.”

The metal disk clanged shut and screwed itself inward. With a boom the ship went up while the man with a world to himself became a midget, a dot, nothing.

Navigator Reece sat in the fore cabin gazing meditatively at the star-held when Copilot McKechnie arrived to keep him company. Dumping himself in a pneumatic chair, McKechnie stretched out long legs.

“Been gabbing with that bum we picked up. He’s not delirious with happiness. Got as much emotion as a lump of rock. And as many brains. It’s a safe bet his clean sheet means nothing whatever; he won’t be back a year before the cops are after him again.”

“Did he have any trouble on that last world?”

“None at all. Says a bunch of weirdies landed six or seven months ago. They pushed a hunk of brotherly love at him and then scooted. He says they seemed to be in a hurry.”

“Probably had a nice grab in prospect somewhere.”

“Or perhaps we’ve got them on the run. Maybe they’ve discovered at long last that we’re outgrabbing them in the ratio of seven to one. Those Antareans are still staking claims by the old method. Ship finds a planet, beams the news home, sits tight on the claim until a garrison arrives. That might take five, ten or twenty years, during which time the ship is out of commission. Meanwhile, a ship of ours discovers A, dumps one man, pushes on to B, dumps another man, and with any luck at all has nailed down C and D by the time we’ve transported a garrison to A. The time problem is a tough one and the only way to cope is to hustle.”

“Dead right,” agreed Reece. “It’s bound to dawn on them sooner or later. It’s a wonder they didn’t knock that fellow on the head.”

“They wouldn’t do that, seeing he’d pressed the button,” McKechnie observed.

“Button? What button?”

“There’s a button in that house. Pressing it switches on a blue light.”

“Is that so?” said Reece. “And what else?”

“Nothing else. Just that. A blue light.”

Reece frowned heavily to himself while he thought it over. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do unwanted visitors. That’s why they scoot.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“See here, to get into space a species must have a high standard of intelligence. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Unlike lunatics, the intelligent arc predictable in that they can be depended upon always to do the intelligent thing. They never, never, never do things that are pointless and mean nothing. Therefore a button and a blue light must have purpose, intelligent purpose.”

“You mean we’re kidding the Antareans with a phony setup, a rigmarole that is fundamentally stupid?”

“No, boy, not at all. We’ve fooling them by exploiting a way of thinking that you are demonstrating right now.”

“Me?” Reece was indignant.

“Don’t get mad about it. The outlook is natural enough. You’re a spaceman in the space age. Therefore you have a great reverence for physics, astronautics and everything else that created the space age. You’re so full of respect for the cogent sciences that you’re apt to forget something.”

“Forget what?”

McKechnie said, “That psychology is also a science.”