 Part One of UltimaFool This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Karen Savage. UltimaFool by Mac Reynolds. Part One At least he'd got far enough to wind up with a personal interview. It's one thing doing up an application and seeing it go on to an endless tape and be fed into the mava machine and then to receive, in a matter of moments, a neatly printed rejection. It's another thing to receive an appointment to be interviewed by a placement officer in the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, Department of Personnel. Ronnie Bronston was under no illusions. Nine out of ten men of his age annually made the same application. Almost all were annually rejected. Statistically speaking, practically nobody ever got an interplanetary position. But he'd made step one along the path of a lifetime ambition. He stood at easy attention immediately inside the door. At the desk, at the far side of the room, the placement officer was going through a sheaf of papers. He looked up and said, Ronel Bronston, sit down. You'd like an interplanetary assignment, eh? So would I. Ronnie took the chair. For a moment he'd tried to appear alert, earnest, ambitious, but not too ambitious, fearless, devoted to the cause and indispensable. For a moment. Then he gave it up and looked like Ronnie Bronston. The other looked up and took him in. The personnel official saw a man of averages. In the late twenties, average height, weight, and breadth, pleasant face in an average sort of way, but not handsome. Less than sharp in dress, hair inclined to be on the undisciplined side, brown of hair, dark of eye, in a crowd inconspicuous. In short, Ronnie Bronston. The personnel officer grunted. He pushed a button, said something into his order box. A card slid into the slot, and he took it out and stared gloomily at it. What are your politics? he said. Politics? Ronnie Bronston said. I haven't any politics. My father and grandfather before me have been citizens of United Planets. There hasn't been any politics in our family for three generations. Family? None. The other grunted and marked the card. Racial prejudices. I beg your pardon? Do you have any racial prejudices? Any at all? No. The personnel officer said. Most people answer that way at first, these days. But some don't at second. For instance, suppose you had to have a blood transfusion. Would you have any objection to it being blood donated by, say, a Negro, or Chinese, or, say, a Jew? Ronnie ticked it off on his fingers. One of my great-grandfathers was a French colon, who married a Moroccan girl. The Moors are a blend of Berber, Arab, Jew, and Negro. Another of my great-grandfathers was a Hawaiian. They're largely a blend of Polynesians, Japanese, Chinese, and Caucasians, especially Portuguese. Another of my great-grandfathers was Irish, English, and Scotch. He married a girl who was half Latvian, half Russian. Ronnie wound it up. Believe me, if I had a blood transfusion from just anybody at all, the blood would feel right at home. The interviewer snorted, even as he marked the card. That accounts for three great-grandfathers, he said lightly. You seem to have made a study of your family tree. What was the other one? Ronnie said expressionlessly, a Texan. The secretary shrugged and looked at the card again. Religion? Reform diagnostic, Ronnie said. This one was possibly where he ran into a brick wall. Many of the planets had strong religious beliefs of one sort or another. Some of them had state religions, and you either belonged or else. Is there any such church? The personnel officer frowned. No. I'm a one-man member. I'm of the opinion that if there are any greater powers that be, they're keeping the fact from us. And if that's the way they want it, it's their business. If and when they want to contact me, one of their puppets dangling from a string, then I suppose they'll do it. Meanwhile, I'll wait. The other said, interestingly, you think that if there is a higher power and if it ever wants to get in touch with you it will? Hmm, in its own good time. Sort of a don't-call-me thing, I'll call you. The personnel officer said, there have been a few revealed religions, you know? So they said, so they said, none of them have made much sense to me. If a superpower wanted to contact man, it seems unlikely to me that it'd be all wrapped up in a lot of complicated gobbledygook. It would all be very clear indeed. The personnel officer sighed. He marked the card, stuck it back into the slot in his order-box, and it disappeared. He looked up at Ronnie Bronston. All right, that's all. Ronnie came to his feet. Well, what happened? The other grinned at him sourly. Darn to find out, he said. By the time he get to the outer office you'll probably find out. He scratched the end of his nose and said, I sometimes wonder what I'm doing here. Ronnie thanked him, told him good-bye, and left. In the outer office a girl looked up from a card she just pulled out of her own order-box. Ronald Bronston? That's right. She handed the card to him. You're to go to the office of Ross Metaxa in the Octagon, Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation, Section G. In a lifetime spent in first preparing for United Planet's employment, and then in working for the organization, Ronnie Bronston had never been in the Octagon building. He'd seen photographs, tridy broadcasts, and he'd heard several thousand jokes on various levels from pun to obscenity about getting around in the building. But he'd never been there. For that matter, he'd never been in greater Washington before, other than a long-ago tourist trip. Population statistics, his department, had its main offices in New Copenhagen. His card was evidently all that he needed for entry. At the sixth gate he dismissed his car and let it shoot back into the traffic mess. He went up to one of the guard guides and presented the card. The guide inspected it. Section G of the Bureau of Investigation, he muttered, every day something new. I never heard of it. It's probably some outfit in charge of cleaning the heads on space liners, Ronnie said unhappily. He'd never heard of it either. Well, it's no problem, the guard guide said. He summoned a three-wheel, fed the coordinates into it from Ronnie's card, handed the card back, and flipped an easy salute. You'll soon know. The scooters slid into the Octagon's hall traffic and proceeded up one corridor, down another, twice taking to ascending ramps. Ronnie had read somewhere the total miles of corridors in the Octagon. He hadn't believed the figures at the time. Now he believed them. He must have traversed several miles before they got to the Department of Justice alone. It was another quarter-mile to the Bureau of Investigation. The scooter eventually came to a halt, waited long enough for Ronnie to dismount, and then hurried back into the traffic. He entered the office. A neatly uniformed reception girl with a harassed and cynical eye looked up from her desk. Ronald Bronston, she said. That's right. Where have you been? She had a snappy cuteness. The Commissioner has been awaiting you. Go through that door and to your left. Ronnie went through that door and to the left. There was another door, inconspicuously lettered, Ross Metaxa, Commissioner, Section G. Ronnie knocked and the door opened. Ross Metaxa was going through a wad of papers. He looked up, a man in the middle years, sour of expression, moist of eye, as though he either drank too much or slept too little. Sit down, he said. You're Ronald Bronston, eh? What do they call you, Ronnie? It says here you've got a sense of humour, as one of the first requirements in this lunatic department. Ronnie sat down and tried to form some opinions of the other by his appearance. He was reminded of nothing so much as the stereotyped city editor you saw in the historical romance tri-Ds. All that was needed was for Metaxa to start banging on buttons and yelling something about tearing down the front page, whatever that meant. Metaxa said, it also says you have some queer hobbies. Judo, small weapons, target shooting, mountain climbing? He looked up from the reports. Why does anybody climb mountains? Ronnie said, nobody's ever figured out. That didn't seem to be enough, especially since Ross Metaxa was staring at him, so he added, possibly we devotees keep doing it in hopes that some day somebody'll find out. Ross Metaxa said sourly, not too much humour, please. You don't act as though getting this position means much to you. Ronnie said slowly, I figured out some time ago that every young man on earth yearns for a job that will send him shuttling from one planet to another. To achieve it they study, they sweat, they make all-out efforts to meet and suck up to anybody they think might help. Finally, when and if they get an interview for one of the few openings, they spruce up in their best clothes, put on their best party manners, present themselves as the sincere, high IQ ambitious young men that they are, and then flunk their chance. I decided I might as well be what I am. Ross Metaxa looked at him. Okay, he said finally. We'll give you a try. Ronnie said blankly, you mean I've got the job? That's right. I'll be damned. Probably, Metaxa said. He yawned. Do you know what Section G handles? Well, no. But as for me, just so I get off earth and see some of the galaxy. End of Part 1 Part 2 of Ultima Fool This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Karen Savage. Ultima Fool by Mac Reynolds. Part 2 Metaxa had been sitting with his heels on his desk. Now he put them down and reached a hand into a drawer to emerge with a brown bottle and two glasses. Do you drink? he said. Of course. Even during working hours, Metaxa scowled. One occasion calls. Good, Metaxa said. He poured two drinks. You'll get your fill of seeing the galaxy, he said. Not that there's much to see. Man can settle lonely earth-type planets. And after you've seen a couple of hundred, you've seen them all. Ronnie sifted his drink, then blinked reproachfully down into the glass. Metaxa said, good day. A kind of tequila they make on Denibate. A bunch of Mexicans settled there. What? said Ronnie Horsley. Do they make it out of? Hort only knows, Metaxa said. To get back to Section G. We're into planetary security. In short, Department Cloak and Dagger. Would you be willing to die for the United Planets, Bronston? That curve had come too fast. Ronnie blinked again. Only an emergency, he said. Who'd want to kill me? Metaxa poured another drink. Many of the people you'll be working with, he said. Well, why? What will I be doing? You'll be representing United Planets, Metaxa explained. In United Planets, in cases where the local situation is such that the folks you're working among will be teed off at the organization. Well, why are they members if they don't like the U.P.? That's a good question, Metaxa said. He yawned. I guess I'll have to go into my speech. He finished his drink. Now shut up till I give you some background. You're probably full of a lot of nonsense you picked up in school. Ronnie shut up. He'd expected more of an air of dedication in the octagon, and in such ethereal departments as that of interplanetary justice. However, he was in now and not adverse to picking up some sophistication beyond the can of the earth-bound employees of U.P. The other's voice took on a faraway, albeit bored tone. It seems that most of the times man gets a really big idea he goes off half-cocked. Just one example. Remember when the ancient Hellenys exploded into the Mediterranean? A scorer of different city-states began sending out colonies, which in turn sprouted colonies of their own. Like Syracuse on Sicily. Hardly was she established than Bingo. She sent off colonists to southern Italy, and they in turn to southern France, Corsica, and the Balearics. Greeks were exploding all over the place, largely without adequate plans, without rhyme or reason. Take Alexander. Roamed off all the way to India, founding cities and colonies of Greeks all along the way. The older man shifted in his chair. You wonder what I'm getting at, eh? Well, much the same thing is happening in man's explosion into space, now that he has the ability to leave the solar system behind. Dashing off half-cocked in all directions, he's flowing out over this section of the galaxy without plan, without rhyme or reason. I take that last back. He has reasons, all right, some of the scruriest. Religious reasons, racial reasons, idealistic reasons, political reasons, altruistic reasons, and mercenary reasons. Inadequate ships, manned by small numbers of inadequate people, setting out to find their own planets to establish themselves on one of the numberless, uninhabited worlds that offer themselves to colonization and exploitation. Ronnie cleared his throat. Well, isn't that a good thing, sir? Ross Metaxa looked at him and grunted. What difference does it make if it's good or not? It's happening. We're spreading our race out over tens of hundreds of new worlds, in the most haphazard fashion. As a result, we of United Planets now have a chaotic mishmash on our hands. How we manage to keep as many planets in the organization as we do sometimes baffles me. I suppose most of them are afraid to drop out, conscious of the protection UP gives against each other. He picked up a report. Here's Monet, originally colonized by a bunch of painters, writers, musicians and such. They had dreams of starting a new race, Metaxa snorted, with everybody artists. They were all so impractical that they even managed to crash their ship on landing. For three hundred years they were uncontacted. What did they have in the way of government by that time? A military theocracy, something like the Aztecs of pre-conquest Mexico, a matriarchy at that. And what's their religion based on? That of ancient Phoenicia, including plenty of human sacrifice to good old Moloch. What can United Planets do about it now that they've become a member? Work away very delicately, trying to get them to at least eliminate the child sacrifice phase of their culture. Will they do it? Hell no, not if they could help it. The head priestess and her clique are afraid that if they don't have the threat of sacrifice to hold over their people, they'll be overthrown. Ronnie was surprised. I've never heard of a member-planet like that. Monet? Metaxa sighed. No, of course not. You got a lot to learn, Ronnie my lad. First of all, what are articles one and two of the Planets' United Charter? That was easy, Ronnie recited. Article 1. The United Planets' organization shall take no steps to interfere with the internal, political, socioeconomic or religious institutions of its member-planets. Article 2. No member-planets of United Planets shall interfere with the internal, political, socioeconomic or religious institutions of any other member-planet. He looked at the department head. But what's that got to do with the fact that I was unfamiliar with even the existence of Monet? Suppose one of the advanced Planets, or even Earth itself, Metaxa growled, openly discussed in magazines on newscasts or wherever, the religious system of Monet. A howl would go up among the liberals, the progressives, the do-gooders, and the howl would be heard on the other advanced Planets. Eventually the citizen in the street on Monet would hear about it, and be affected. And before you knew it, a howl would go up from Monet's government. Why? Because the other Planets would be interfering with her internal affairs simply by discussing them. So what you mean is, Ronnie said, part of our job is to keep information about Monet's government and religion from being discussed at all on other member-planets. That's right, Metaxa nodded. And that's just one of our dirty little jobs. One of many. Section G, believe me, gets them all. Which brings us to your first assignment. Ronnie inched forward in his chair. It takes me into space? It takes you into space all right, Metaxa snorted. At least it will after a few months of indoctrination. I'm sending you out after a legend, Ronnie. You're fresh. Possibly you'll get some ideas older men in the game haven't thought of. A legend. I'm sending you to look for Tommy Payne. Some members of the department don't think he exists. I do. Tommy Payne? A pseudonym that somebody hung on him way back before even my memory in this section. Did you ever hear of Tommy Payne in American history? He wrote a pamphlet during the Revolutionary War, didn't he? Common sense, Metaxa nodded. But he was more than that. He was born in England, but went to America as a young man, and his writings probably did as much as anything to put over the revolt against the British. But that wasn't enough. When that revolution was successful, he went back to England and tried to start one there. The government almost caught him, but he escaped and got to France, where he participated in the French Revolution. He seemed to get around, Ronnie Bronston said. And so does this namesake of his. We've been trying to catch up with him for some twenty years. How long before that he was active we have no way of knowing. It was some time before we became aware of the fact that half the revolts, rebellions, revolutions, and such that occur in the United Planets have his dirty fingers stirring around in them. But you said some department members don't believe in his resistance. Metaxa grunted. They're working on the theory that no one man could do all that Tommy Payne has laid to him. Possibly it's true that he sometimes gets the blame for accomplishments not his. Or for that matter, possibly he's more than one person. I don't know. Well, Ronnie said hesitantly, what's an example of his activity? Metaxa picked up another report from the confusion of his desk. Here's one only a month old. Dictator on the planet Megas. Kidnapped and forced to resign. There's still confusion, but it looks as though a new type of government will be formed now. But how do they know it wasn't just some dissatisfied citizens of Megas? It seems as though the kidnap vehicle was an old-fashioned earth-type helicopter. There were no such on Megas. So Section G suspects it's a possible Tommy Payne case. Well, he could be wrong, of course. That's why I say the man's in the way of being a legend. Perhaps the others are right and he doesn't even exist. I think he does. And if so, it's our job to get him and put him out of circulation. Ronnie said slowly, but why would that come under our jurisdiction? It seems to me that it would be up to the police of whatever planet he was on. Ross Metaxa looked thoughtfully at his brown bottle, shook his head, and returned it to its drawer. He looked at a desk watch. Don't read into the United Planets organization more than there is. It's a fragile institution with practically no independent powers to wield. Every member planet is jealous of its prerogatives, which is understandable. It's no mistake that articles one and two are the basic foundation of the charter. No member planet wants to be interfered with by any other or by United Planets as an organization. They want to be left alone. Within our ranks we have planets with every religion known to man throughout the ages. Everything ranging from primitive animism to the most advanced philosophic ethic. We have every political system ever dreamed of and every socioeconomic system. It can all be blamed on the crackpot manner in which we're colonizing. Any minority, no matter how small, religious, political, racial, or whatever, if it can collect the funds to buy or rent a spacecraft, can dash off on its own, find a new earth type planet and set up in business. Fine. One of the prime jobs of Section G is to carry out, to enforce, articles one and two of the charter. A planet with Buddhism as its state religion doesn't want some die-hard Baptist missionaries stirring up controversy. A planet with a feudalistic socioeconomic system doesn't want some hot-shot interplanetary businessmen coming in with some big deal that would eventually cause the feudalistic nobility to be tossed onto the ash heap. A planet with a dictatorship doesn't want subversives from some democracy trying to undermine their institutions and vice versa. And it's our job to enforce all this, eh? Ronny said. That's right. Metaxa told him sourly. It's not always the nicest job in the system. However, if you believe in United Planets, an organization attempting to coordinate in such manner as it can the efforts of its member planets, for the betterment of all, then you must accept Section G and interplanetary security. Ronny Bronston thought about it. Metaxa added, That's why one of the requirements of this job is that you yourself be a citizen of United Planets, rather than of any individual planet, have no religious affiliations, no political beliefs, and no racial prejudices. You've got to be able to stand aloof. Yeah, Ronny said thoughtfully. Ross Metaxa looked at his watch again and sighed wearily. I'll turn you over to one of my assistants, he said. I'll see you again, though, before you leave. Before I leave, Ronny said, coming to his feet, But where do I start looking for this tommy pain? How the hell would I know? Ross Metaxa growled. End of Part 2 Part 3 of Ultima Thule. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Karen Savage. Ultima Thule by Mac Reynolds. Part 3 In the outer office, Ronny said to the receptionist, Commissioner Metaxa said for me to get in touch with Sid Jakes. She said, I'm Irene Kazanski. Are you with us? Ronny said, I beg your pardon? She said impatiently. Are you going to be with a section? If you are, I've got to clear you with your old job. You were in statistics over a new Copenhagen, weren't you? Somehow it seemed far away now, the job he'd held for more than five years. Oh, yes, he said. Yes, Commissioner Metaxa has given me an appointment. She looked up at him. Probably to look for tommy pain. He was taken aback. That's right. How did you know? There was talk. This section is pretty well integrated. She grimaced, but on her it looked good. One big happy family, high in her departmental morale, that sort of jetsome. She flicked some switches. You'll find Supervisor Jakes through that door. One to your left, two to your right. He could have asked one what to his left, and two what to his right. But evidently Irene Kazanski thought he had enough information to get him to his destination. She'd gone back to her work. It was one turn to his left, and two turns to his right. The door was lettered simply, Sydney Jakes. He knocked, and a voice shouted happily, It's open. It's always open. Supervisor Jakes was as informal as his superior. His attire was on the happy-go-lucky side, more suited for sportswear than a fairly high-ranking job in the ultra-stayed octagon. He couldn't have been much older than Ronnie Bronston, but he had a nervous vitality about him that would have worn out the other in a few hours. He jumped up and shook hands. You must be Bronston. Call me Sid. He waved a hand at a typed report he'd been reading. Now I've seen them all. They've just applied for entry to United Planets. Republic. What a name, eh? What? Ronnie said. Sit down, sit down. He rushed Ronnie to a chair, saw him seated, returned to the desk, and flipped an order-box switch. Irene, he said, do up a batch for Ronnie, will you? You've got his code, haven't you? Good. Send it over. Bronze, of course. Sid Jakes turned back to Ronnie and grinned at him. He motioned to the report again. What a name for a planet. Republic. Bunch of screwballs again. Out in the vicinity of Sirius. Base their system on Plato's Republic. Have to go the whole way. Don't even speak basic. Certainly not. They speak ancient Greek. That's going to be a neat trick, finding interpreters. How do you like the old man? Ronnie said, dazed at the conversational barrage. Old man? Oh, you mean Commissioner Metaxa. Sure, sure, said grinned, perching himself on the edge of the desk. Did he give you that drink of tequila during work hours routine? He'd like to poison every new agent we get. What a character. The grinned was infectious. Ronnie said carefully. Well, I did think his method of hiring a new man was a little… cavalier. Cavalier yet! said Jakes, chortled. Look, don't get the old man wrong. He knows what he's doing. He always knows what he's doing. But he took me on after only two or three minutes' conversation. Jakes cocked his head to one side. Oh, you think so. When did you first apply for interplanetary assignment, Ronnie? I don't know. About three years ago. Jakes nodded. Well, depend upon it. You've been under observation for that length of time. At any one period Section G is investigating possibly a thousand potential agents. We need men, but qualifications are high. He hopped down from his position, sped around to the other side of the desk, and lowered himself into his chair. Don't get the wrong idea, though. You're not in. You're on probation. Whatever the assignment the old man gave you, you've got to carry it out successfully before you're full-fledged. He flicked the order box switch and said, Irene, where the devil's Ronnie's badge? Ronnie Bronston heard the office girl's voice answer snappishly. All right, all right. Jakes said, I love you, too. Send it in when it comes. He turned to Ronnie. What is your assignment? He wants me to go looking for some firebrand nicknamed Tommy Payne. I'm supposed to arrest him. The Commissioner said you'd give me details. Sid Jakes' face went serious. He puckered his lips. Wow! That'll be a neat trick to pull off, he said. He flicked the order box switch again. Irene's voice snapped something before he could say anything, and Sid Jakes grinned and said, OK, OK, darlin', but if this is the way you're going to be, I won't marry you. Then what will the children say? Besides, that's not what I called about. Have ballistics do up a Model H gun for Ronnie, will ya? Be sure it's adjusted to his coat. He flicked off the order box and turned back to Ronnie. I understand you're familiar with handguns. It's in this report on you. Ronnie nodded. He was just beginning to adjust to this free wheeling character. What will I need a gun for? Jakes laughed. Heavens to Betsy, you babe in the woods! Do you realize this Tommy Payne character has supposedly stirred up a couple of score wars, revolutions, and revolts? Not to speak of having laid in his lamp two or three dozen assassinations. He's a quick lad with a gun, a regular nihilist. Nihilist? Jakes chuckled. When you've been in the section for a while, you'll be familiar with every screwball outfit man has ever dreamed up. The nihilists were a European group, mostly Russian, back in the 19th century. They believed that by bumping off a few Grand Dukes at a Tsar or so they could force the ruling class to grant reforms. Sometimes they were pretty ingenious, blew up trains, that sort of thing. Look here, Ronnie said. What motivates this Payne fellow? What's he get out of all this trouble he stirs up? Search me. Nobody seems to know. Some think he's a mental case. For one thing he's not consistent. How do you mean? Well, he'll go to one planet and break his back trying to overthrow, say, feudalism. Then possibly after being successful he goes to another planet and devotes his energies to establishing the same socioeconomic system. Ronnie assimilated that. You're one of those who believes he exists. Oh, he exists all right, all right, said Jakes said happily. Matter of fact, I almost ran into him a few years ago. Ronnie leaned forward. I guess I ought to know about it. The more information I have, the better. Sure, sure, Jakes said. This deal of mine was on one of the Aldebaran planets. A bunch of nature boys had settled there. Nature boys? Mm, back to nature. The trouble with the human race is that it's got too far away from nature. So a whole flock of them landed on this planet. They call it mother of all things. They landed and set up a primitive society. Absolute stone age. No metals. Lived by the chase and by picking berries, wild fruit, that sort of thing. Not even any agriculture. Worse skins. Bows and arrows were the nearest thing they allowed themselves in the way of mechanical devices. Good grief, Ronnie said. It was a laugh, Jakes told him. I was assigned there as Section G. Representative with the U.P. Organization. Picture it. We had to wear skins for clothes. We had to confine ourselves to two or three longhouses. Something like the American Iroquois lived in before Columbus. Their society on mother was based on primitive communism. The Klan, the Freitree, the tribe. Their religion was mostly a matter of knocking into everybody's head that any progress was taboo. I was great. Well, were they happy? What's happiness? I suppose they were as happy as anybody ever averages. Frankly, I didn't mind the assignment. Lots of fishing, lots of hunting. Ronnie said, Well, where does Tommy Payne come in? He snuck up on us. Started way back in the boondocks away from any of the larger primitive settlements. One around putting himself over as a holy man, cured people of various things from gangrene to eye diseases. Given antibiotics and such, you can imagine how successful he was. Well, what harm did he do? I didn't say he did any harm. But in that manner he made himself awfully popular. They need to pull some trick like showing them how to smelt iron and distribute some corn and wheat seed around and plant the idea of agriculture. The local witch doctors would try to give him a hard time, but the people figured he was a holy man. Well, what happened finally? Ronnie wasn't following too well. Communications being what they were before he'd been discovered by the Central Organization. They had a kind of council of tribes which met once a year. He'd planted so many ideas that they couldn't be stopped. The young people would never go back to flint knives once introduced to iron. We went looking for friend Tommy Payne, but he got wind of it and took off. We even found where he'd hidden his little space cruiser. Oh, it was pain all right, all right. But what harm did he do? I don't understand, Ronnie scowled. He threw the whole shebang on its ear. Last I heard the planet had broken up into three main camps. They were wailing away at each other like the Assyrians and Egyptians. Iron weapons, chariots, domesticated horses. Agriculture was sweeping the planet. Population was exploding. Men were making slaves out of each other to put them to work. Oh, it was a mess from the viewpoint of the original nature boys. A red light flickered on his desk and Sid Jakes opened a delivery drawer and dipped his hand into it. It emerged with a flat wallet. He tossed it to Ronnie Bronston. Here you are, your badge. Ronnie opened the wallet and examined it. He'd never seen one before. But for that matter, he'd never heard of Section G before that morning. It was a simple enough bronze badge. It said on it merely Ronald Bronston, Section G, Bureau of Investigation, United Planets. Sid Jakes explained, You'll get cooperation with that through the Justice Department anywhere you go. We'll brief you further on procedure during indoctrination. You in turn, of course, are to cooperate with any other agent of Section G. You're under orders of any one with his hand snaked into a pocket and emerged with a wallet similar to Ronnie's. A silver badge, carried by a first grade agent, or a gold one of supervisor rank. Ronnie noted that his badge wasn't really bronze. It had a certain sheen, a brightness. Jakes said, Here, look at this. He tossed his own badge to the new man. Ronnie looked down at it in surprise. The gold had gone dull. Jakes laughed. Now give me yours. Ronnie got up and walked over to him and handed it over. As soon as the other man's hand touched it, the bronze lost it sheen. Jakes handed it back. See, it's tuned to you alone, he said, and mine is tuned to my code. Nobody can swipe a Section G badge and impersonate an agent. If anybody ever shows you a badge that doesn't have its sheen, you know he's a fake. Neat trick, eh? Very neat, Ronnie admitted. He returned the other's gold badge. Look, to get back to this tommy pain. But the red light flickered again, and Jakes brought forth from the delivery drawer a handgun, complete with shoulder harness. Nasty weapon, he said. But we'd better go on down to the armory and show you its workings. He stood up. Oh yes, don't let me forget to give you a communicator, a real gizmo, about as big as a woman's vanity case, puts you in immediate contact with the nearest Section G office, no matter how near or far away it is, or if you wish, in contact with our offices here in the octagon. Very neat trick. He led Ronnie from his office and down the corridors beyond to an elevator. He said happily, this is a crazy outfit, this Section G. He'll probably love it. Everybody does. End of Part Three. Part Four of Ultima Fool. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Karen Savage. Ultima Fool by Mac Reynolds. Part Four. Ronnie learned to love Section G. In moderation. He was initially taken aback by the existence of the organization at all. He'd known, of course, of the Department of Justice, and even of the Bureau of Investigation, but Section G was hush-hush and not even United Planets Publications ever mentioned it. The problems involved in remaining hush-hush weren't as great as all that. The very magnitude of the U.P., which involved more than two thousand member planets, allowed of departments and bureaus hidden away in the endless stretches of red tape. In fact, although Ronnie Bronston had spent the better part of his life thus far in studying for a place in the organization, and then working in the Population Statistics Department for some years, he was only now beginning to get the overall picture of the workings of the mushrooming, chaotic United Planets organization. It was Earth's largest industry by far. In fact, for all practical purposes, it was her only major industry. Tourism, yes, but even that in a way was related to the United Planets organization. Millions of visitors whose ancestors had once emigrated from the Mother Planet streamed back in racial nostalgia. Streamed back to see the continents and oceans, the Arctic and the Antarctic, the Amazon River and Mount Everest, the Sahara and New York City, the ruins of Rome and Athens, the Vatican, the Louvre, and the Hermitage. But the populace of Earth, in its hundreds of millions, were largely citizens of United Planets, and worked in the organization and with its auxiliaries such as the Space Forces. Section G. To his surprise, Rani found that Rosma Taksa's small section of the Bureau of Investigation seemed almost as great a secret within the Bureau as it was to the man in the street. At one period, Rani wondered if it were possible that this was a department which had been lost to the wilderness of boondogling that goes on in any great bureaucracy. Had Section G been set up a century or so ago and then forgotten by those who had originally thought there was a need for it? In the same way that it is usually more difficult to get a statute off the law books than it was originally to pass it, in the same manner eliminating an office with its employees, can prove more difficult than originally establishing it. But that wasn't it. In spite of the informality, the unconventional brashness of its personnel on all levels, and the seeming chaos in which its tasks were done, Section G. was no make-work project set up to provide juicy jobs for the relatives of high-ranking officials. To the contrary, it didn't take long in the section before anybody with open eyes could see that Rasmataxa was privy to the decisions made by the upper echelons of UP. Rani Bronston came to the conclusion that the appointment he'd received was putting him in a higher bracket of the UP hierarchy than he'd at first imagined. His indoctrination course was a strain such as he'd never known in school years. Rasmataxa was evidently of the opinion that a man could assimilate concentrated information at a rate several times faster than any professional educator ever dreamed possible. No threats were made, but Rani realized that he could be dropped even more quickly than it seemed to have been taken on. There were no classes to either push or retard the rate of study. He worked with a series of tutors and pushed himself. The tutors were almost invariably Section G. agents, temporarily in Greater Washington between assignments, or for briefing on this phase or that of their work. Even as he studied, Rani Bronston kept the eventual assignment at which he was to prove himself in mind. He made a point of inquiring of each agent he met about Tommy Payne. The name was known to all, but no two reacted in the same manner. Several of them even brushed the whole matter aside as pure legend. Nobody could accomplish all the trouble that Tommy Payne had supposedly stirred up. To one of these Rani said plaintively, See here, the old man believes in him, Sid Jakes believes in him, my final appointment depends on arresting him. How can I ever secure this job if I'm chasing a myth? The other shrugged. Don't ask me. I've got my own problems. Okay, now, let's run over this question of Napoleonic law. There are at least two hundred planets that base their legal system on it. But the majority of his fellow employees in Section G had strong enough opinions on the interplanetary fire-brand. Three or four even claimed to have seen him fleetingly, though no two descriptions jibed. That, of course, could be explained. The man could resort to plastic surgery and other disguise. Theories there were in plenty, some of them going back long years, and some of them pure fable. Look, Rani said in disgust, one day after a particularly unbelievable siege with two agents recently returned from a trouble spot in a planetary system that involved three aggressive worlds which revolved about the same sun. Look, it's impossible for one man to accomplish all this. He's blamed for half the coup d'état, revolts and upheavals that have taken place for the past quarter-century. It's obvious nonsense. Why a revolutionist usually spends the greater part of his life toppling a government. Then, once it's toppled, he spends the rest of his life trying to set up a new government. And he's usually unsuccessful. One of the others was shaking his head negatively. You don't understand this Tommy Payne system, Bronston. You sure don't, the other agent, an Igerian, grinned widely. I've been on planets where he'd operated. Rani leaned forward. The three of them were having a beer in a part of the city once called Baltimore. You have? he said. Tell me about it, eh? The more background I get on this guy, the better. Sure. And this will give you an idea of how he operates, how he can get so much trouble done. While I was on this planet Goshen, understand? He had a kind of strange history. A bunch of colonists went out their rope four or five centuries ago. Pretty healthy expedition as such outfits go. Bright young people. Lots of equipment. Lots of know-how and books. Well, through sheer bad luck everything went wrong from the beginning. Everything. Before they got set up at all they had an explosion that killed off all their communications technicians. They lost contact with the outside. Okay. Within a couple of centuries they'd gotten into a state of chattel slavery. Pretty well organized, but static. Kind of an Athenian democracy on top. A hierarchy. But nineteen people out of twenty were slaves. And I mean real slaves, like animals. They were at this stage when a scout ship from the UP space forces discovered them, and of course they joined up. Where does Tommy Payne come in? Ronnie said. He signaled to a waiter for more beer. He comes in a few years later. I was the Section G agent on Goshen, understand? No planet was keen or about articles one and two of the UP Charter. The hierarchy understood well enough that if their people ever came to know about more advanced socioeconomic systems it'd be the end of Goshen's golden age. So they allowed practically no intercourse. No contact whatsoever between UP personnel and anyone outside the upper class, understand? All right. That's where Tommy Payne came in. It couldn't have taken him more than a couple of months at most. Ronnie Bronston was fascinated. What did he do? He introduced the steam engine and then left. Ronnie was looking at him blankly. Steam engine? That and the fly shuttle and the spinning genny, the Nigerian said. That Goshen hierarchy never knew what hit them. Ronnie was still blank. The waiter came up with the steins of beer and Ronnie took one and drained half of it without taking his eyes from the storyteller. The other agent took it up. Don't you see? Their system was based on chattel slavery, hand labor, given machinery and it collapses. Chattel slavery isn't practical in a mechanized society. Too expensive a labor force for one thing. Besides, they need an educated man and one with some initiative, qualities that few slaves possess to run an industrial society. Ronnie finished his beer. Smart cookie, isn't he? He's smart all right, but I've still got a better example of his fouling up a whole planetary socioeconomic system in a matter of weeks. A friend of mine was working on a planet with a highly developed feudalism. Barons, lords, dukes, counts, and no accounts, all stashed safely away in castles and fortresses up on the top of hills. The serfs down below did all the work in the fields, provided servants, artisans, and foot soldiers for the continual fighting that the aristocracy carried on, very similar to Europe in the Dark Ages. So, Ronnie said, I'd think that it'd be a deal that would take centuries to change. The Section G agent laughed. Tommy Payne stayed just long enough to introduce gunpowder. That was the end of those impregnable castles up on the hills. What gets me, Ronnie said slowly, is his motivation. The other two both grunted agreement of that. END OF PART FOUR Part V of Ultima Thule. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Karen Savage. Ultima Thule by Mack Reynolds. PART FIVE Toward the end of his indoctrination studies, Ronnie appeared one morning at the Octagon Section G offices in before Irene Kazanski. Watching her fingers fly, listening to her voice, rapping and snapping, okaying and rejecting, he came to the conclusion that automation could go just so far in office work, and then you were thrown back on the hands of the efficient secretary. Irene was a one-woman office staff. She looked up at him. Hello, Ronnie. Thought you'd be off on your assignment by now. Got any clues on Tommy Payne? No, he said. That's why I'm here. I wanted to see the commissioner. About what? She flicked a switch. When a light flickered on one of her order-boxes, she said into it, no, emphatically, and turned back to him. He said he wanted to see me again before I took off. She fiddled some more, finally said, All right, Ronnie, tell him he's got time for five minutes with you. Five minutes? Then he's got an appointment with the commissioner of interplanetary culture, she said. You'd better hurry along. Ronnie Bronston retraced the route of his first visit here. How long ago? It already seemed ages since his probationary appointment. Your life changed fast when you were in Section G. Ross Metaxa's brown bottle, or its twin, was sitting on his desk, and he was staring at it glumly. He looked up and scowled. Ronald Bronston, Ronnie said. I wrink his anski told me to say I could have five minutes with you. Then you have an appointment with the commissioner of interplanetary culture. I remember you, Metaxa said. Have a drink. Interplanetary culture. Ha! The Zanadu folk dance troupe. They dance nude. They've been touring the whole U.P. Roaring success everywhere, lately. Now they're assigned to Virtue, a planet settled by a bunch of fundamentalists. They want the troupe to wear mother-hubberts. The Zanadu outfit isn't a tizzy. They've been insulted. They claim they're the most modest members of U.P. that nudity has nothing to do with modesty. The government of Virtue said that's fine, but they wear mother-hubberts or they don't dance. Zanadu says it'll withdraw from United Planets. Ronnie Bronston said painfully, Why not let them? Because Metaxa poured himself a denibian tequila, offered his subordinate a drink again with the motion of the bottle. Ronnie shook his head. Metaxa said, If we didn't take steps to soothe these things over, there wouldn't be any United Planets. In any given century every member in the organization threatens to resign at least once, even Earth. And then what'd it happen? You'd have interplanetary war before you knew it. What do you want, Ronnie? I'm about set to take up my search for this tommy pain. Ah, yes, tommy pain. If you catch him there are a dozen planets where he'd be eligible for the death sentence. Ronnie cleared his throat. There must be. What I wanted was the file on him, sir. File? Yes, sir. I've got to the point where I want to cram up on everything we have on him. So far all I've got is verbal information from individual agents and from Supervisor Jake's. Don't be silly, Ronnie. There isn't any file on tommy pain. Ronnie just looked at the other. Dismantax is said impatiently. The very knowledge of the existence of the man is top secret. Isn't that obvious? Suppose some reporter got the story imprinted. If our member planets knew there was such a man and that we hadn't been able to scotch him, why they'd drop out a UP so fast the computers couldn't keep up with it. There's not one planet in ten that feels secure enough to lay itself open to subversion. Why some of our planets are so far down the ladder of social evolution they live under primitive tribal society. Their leaders, their wise men and witch-doctors and whatever you call them, are scared someone will come along and establish chattel slavery. Those planets that have a system based on slavery are scared to death of developing feudalism, and those that have feudalism are afraid of creeping capitalism. Those with an anarchistic basis, and we have several, are afraid of being subverted to statism, and those who have a highly developed government are afraid of anarchism. The socioeconomic system is based on private ownership of property, hate the very idea of socialism or communism, and vice versa, and those planets with state capitalism hate them both. He glared at Ronnie. What do you think the purpose of this section is, Bronston? Our job is to keep our member planets from being afraid of each other. If they found that Tommy Payne and his group, if he's got a group, were buzzing through the system subverting everything they can foul up, they'd drop out a UP and set up quarantines that a space might couldn't get through. No, sir, there is no file on Tommy Payne and there never will be, and if any news of him spreads to the outside, this section will emphatically deny he exists. I hope that's clear. Well, yes, sir, Ronnie said. The commissioner had been all but roaring toward the end. The order box clicked on Ross Metax's desk, and he said loudly, What? Don't yell at me, Irene snapped back. Ronnie's five minutes are up. You've got an appointment. I'm getting tired of this job. It's a madhouse. I'm going to quit and get a job with interplanetary finance. Oh, yeah, Ross snalled back. That's what you think. I've taken measures. Top security. I've warned off every commissioner in UP. You can't get away from me until you reach retirement age. Although I don't know why I care. I hate nasty tempered women. She snorted and clicked off. There's a woman for you. Ross Metax had growled at Ronnie. It's too bad she's indispensable. I love to fire her. Look, you go in and see Sid Jakes. Seems to me said something about Tommy Payne this morning. Maybe it's a lead. He came to his feet. So long and good luck, Ronnie. I feel optimistic about you. I think you'll get this pain, troublemaker. Which was more than Ronnie Bronston thought. Sid Jakes already had a visitor in his office, which didn't prevent him from yelling, It's open. When Ronnie Bronston knocked, he bounced from his chair, came around the desk and shook hands enthusiastically. Ronnie, he said, his tone implying they were favorite brothers for long years parted. You're just in time. Ronnie took in the office's other occupant appreciatively. She was a small girl, almost tiny. He estimated her to be at least half Chinese, or maybe Indo Chinese, the rest probably European or North American. She evidently favored her Asiatic blood. Her dress was traditional Chinese, slit almost to the thigh Shanghai style. Sid Jakes said, Togli Chengchu Ronnie Bronston, you'll be working together. Blood hounding old Tommy Payne. I need trick if you can pull it off. Well, are y'all set to go? Ronnie mumbled something to the girl in the way of amenity, then looked back at the supervisor. Working together, he said. That's right. Lucky you, eh? Togli Chengchu said to merely possibly Mr. Bronston objects to having a female assistant. Sid Jakes snorted and hurried around his desk to resume his seat. Does he look crazy? Who would object to having a cutie like you around day in and day out? Call him Ronnie. Might as well get used to it. Two of you'll be closer than man and wife. Assistant? Ronnie said bewildered. What do I need an assistant for? He turned his eyes to the girl. No reflection on you, Miss, uh, Tog. Sid Jakes laughed easily. Section G operatives always work in pairs, Ronnie, especially new agents. The advantages will come home to you as you go along. Look on Togli Chengchu as a secretary. A man Friday. This isn't her first assignment, of course. You'll find her invaluable. The supervisor plucked a card from an order box. Now here's the dope. Can you leave within four hours? There's a UP Space Forces cruiser going to Merlini. They can drop you off at New Delos. Fastest way you could possibly get there. The cruiser takes off from Nové Albuquerque in, let's see, three hours and forty-five minutes. New Delos? Ronnie said, taking his eyes from the girl and trying to catch up with the grasshopper-like conversation of a superior. New Delos it is, Jakes said happily. With luck you might catch him before he can get off the planet. He chuckled at the other's expression. Like alive, Ronnie! The quarry is flushed and on the run. Tommy Payne's just assassinated the immortal god-king of New Delos. A neat trick, eh? End of Part Five Part Six of Ultima Fool. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Karen Savage. Ultima Fool by Mac Reynolds. Part Six The following hours were chaotic. There was no indication of how long a period he'd be gone. For all he knew it might be years. For that matter he might never return to Earth. This Ronnie Bronston had realized before he ever applied for an interplanetary appointment. Mankind was exploding through this spiral arm of the galaxy. There was a racial enthusiasm about it all. Man's destiny lay out in the stars, only a laggard stayed home of his own accord. It was the ambition of every youth to join the snowballing avalanche of man into the neighboring stars. It took absolute severity by Earth authorities to prevent the depopulation of the planet. But someone had to stay to administer the ever more complicated racial destiny. Earth became a clearing-house for a thousand cultures attempting, with only moderate success, to coordinate her widely spreading children. She couldn't afford to let her best seed depart. Few there were any more allowed to emigrate from Earth. New colonies drew their immigrants from older ones. Lucky was the earthling able to find service in interplanetary affairs in any of the thousands of tasks that involved journey between member planets of UP. Possibly one hundredth of the population at one time or another and for varying lengths of time managed it. Ronnie Bronston was lucky and knew it. The thing now was to pull off this assignment and cinch the appointment for good. He packed in a swirl of confusion. He phoned a relative who lived in the part of town once known as Richmond, explained the situation, and asked that the others store his things and dispose of the apartment he'd been occupying. Luckily the roof of his apartment building was a copter cab pickup-point, and he was able to hustle over to the shuttle-port in a matter of a few minutes. He banged into the Reservation's office, hurried up to one of the windows, and said into the screen, I've got to get to Nové Albuquerque immediately. The expressionless voice said, The next rocket leaves at sixteen hours. Sixteen hours? I've got to be at the spaceport by that time. The voice said dispassionately, We are sorry. The bottom fell out of everything. Ronnie said desperately, Look, if I miss my ship to Nové Albuquerque, what is the next space liner leaving from there to New Delos? A moment, citizen. There was an agonized wait. Then the voice said, There is a liner leaving for New Delos on the fourteenth of next month. It arrives in New Delos on the thirty-first basic earth calendar. The thirty-first? Tommy Payne could be halfway across the galaxy by that time. A gentle voice next to him said, Could I help, Ronnie? He looked around at her. Evidently nobody can, he said disgustedly. There's no way of getting to Nové Albuquerque in time to get that cruiser to New Delos. Tog Lee Chang Chu fished in her bag and came up with a wallet similar to the one in which Ronnie carried his section G badge. She held it up to the screen. Bureau of Investigation Section G. She said calmly, It will be necessary that Agent Bronston and myself be in Nové Albuquerque within the hour. The metallic voice said, Of course. Proceed to your right and through Corridor K. to exit four. Your rocket will be there. Identify yourself to Lieutenant Iconomu who will be at the desk at exit four. Tog turned to Ronnie Bronston. Shall we go? She said demurely. He cleared his throat, feeling foolish. Thanks, Tog, he said. Not at all, Ronnie. Why, this is my job. Was there the faintest sarcasm in her voice? It hadn't been more than a couple of hours ago that he had been hinting rather heavily to Sid Jakes that he needed no assistance. She even knew the layout of the West Greater Washington Shuttleport. Her small body swiveled through the hurrying passengers, her small feet a twinkle as she led him to and down Corridor K. and then to the desk at exit four. Ronnie anticipated her here. He flashed his own badge at the chair-born Space Forces Lieutenant there. Lieutenant Iconomu, he said, Ronald Bronston of the Bureau of Investigation Section G. We've got to get to Nové Albuquerque soonest. The Lieutenant, only mildly impressed, said, We can have you in the air in ten minutes, citizen. Just a moment and I'll guide you myself. In the rocket Ronnie had time to appraise her at greater length. She was a delicately pretty thing, although her expression was inclined to the over-serious. There was only a touch of the Mongolian fold at the corner of her eyes. On her it looked unusually good. Her complexion was that which only the blend of Chinese and Caucasian can give. Her figure, thanks to her European blood, was fuller than Eastern Asia usually boasts. Tiny, but full. Let's admit it, he decided. My assistant is the cutest trick this side of a Tridy movie queen, and we're going to be thrown in the closeness of juxtaposition for an indefinite time. This comes under the head of work? He said, Look here, Tog. You were with Sid Jake's longer than I was. What's the full story? She folded her slim hands in her lap, looking like a schoolgirl about to recite. Do you know anything about the socioeconomic system on you, Delos? Well, no, he admitted. She said severely, I'd think that they would have given you more background before an assignment of this type. Ronnie said impatiently, In the past three months I've been filled in on the economic systems, the religious beliefs, the political forms of a thousand planets, I just happened to miss New Delos. Her mouth expressed disapproval by rucking down on the sides, which was all very attractive, but also irritating. She said, There are 2,436 member planets in the U.P. I'd think an agent of Section G would be up on the basic situation on each. He had her there. He said snidely, Hate to contradict you, Tog, but the number is 2,434. Then she nodded agreeably. Membership has changed since this morning when Menelaus and Aldebaran III were admitted. Have two planets dropped out? Look, he said, Let's stop bickering. What's the word on New Delos? Did you ever read Fraser's golden bow? She said. No. You should. At any rate, New Delos is a theocracy. A priesthood elite rules it. A god-king, who is immortal, holds absolute authority. The strongest of superstition plus an efficient inquisition keeps the people under control. Sounds terrible, Ronnie growled. Why? Possibly the government is extremely efficient and under it the planet progressing at a rate in advance of U.P. averages. He stared at her in surprise. She said, Would you rather be ruled by the personal, arbitrary whims of supremely wise men or by laws formulated by a mob? It stopped him momentarily. In all his adult years he couldn't remember ever meeting an intelligent, educated person who had been opposed to the democratic theory. Wait a minute now, he said. Who decides that they are supremely wise men who are doing this arbitrary ruling? Let any group come to power by whatever means and they'll soon tell you they're an elite. But let's get back to New Delos. For what you've said so far, the people are held in a condition of slavery. What's wrong with slavery? Tog said mildly. He all but glared at her. Are you kidding? I seldom jest, Tog said primely. Under the proper conditions, slavery can be the most suitable system for a people. Under what conditions? Have you forgotten your earth history to the point where Egypt, Greece, and Rome mean nothing to you? Man made some of his outstanding progress under slavery. And do you contend that man's lot is necessarily miserable given slavery? As far back as Esop we know of slaves who have reached the heights in their society. Slaves sometimes could and did become the virtual leaders in ancient countries. She shrugged pritally. The prejudices which you hold today on earth did not necessarily apply to all time nor to all places. He said impatiently, Look, Tog, we can go into this further later. Let's get back to New Delos. What happened? Tog said, The very foundation of their theocracy is the belief on the part of the populace that the God-king is immortal. No man conspires against his deity. Supervisor Jakes informed me that it is understood by UP Intelligence that about once every twenty years the priesthood secretly puts in a new God-king. Plastic surgery would guarantee facial resemblance, and of course the rank and file citizen would probably never be allowed close enough to discover that their God-king seemed different every couple of decades. At any rate, it's been working for some time. And there's been no revolt against this religious aristocracy? She shook her head. Evidently not. It takes a brave man to revolt against both his king and his god at the same time. But what happened now? Ronnie pursued. Evidently, right in the midst of a particularly important religious ceremony with practically the whole planet watching on TV, the God-king was killed with a bomb. No doubt about it, definitely killed. There are going to be a lot of people on New Delos wondering how it can be that an immortal God-king can die. And Sid thinks it's Tommy Payne's work. She shifted dainty shoulders in a shrug. It's the sort of thing he does. I suppose we'll learn when we get there. CHAPTER VI Even on the fast, space-forces cruiser the trip was going to take a week, and there was precious little Ronnie Bronston could do until arrival. He spent most of his time meeting up on New Delos and the several other planets in the UP organization which had fairly similar regimes. More than a few theocracies had come and gone during the history of man's development into the stars. He also spent considerable time playing battle-chests or talking with Tog and with the ship's officers. These latter were a dedicated group, high in morale, enthusiastic about their work, which evidently involved the combined duties of a navy, a coastguard, and a coast and geodetic survey system, if we use the ocean-going services of an earlier age for analogy. They all had the dream, the enthusiasm of men participating in a race's expansion to glory. There was the feeling, even stronger here in space than back on earth, of man's destiny being fulfilled, that humanity had finally emerged from its infancy, that the fledgling had finally found its wings and got off the ground. After one of his studying binges Ronnie Bronston had spent an hour or so once with the captain of the craft while that officer stood an easy watch on the ship's bridge. There was little enough to do in space, practically nothing, but there was always an officer on watch. They leaned back in the acceleration chairs before the ship's controls, and Ronnie listened to the other's space lore, stories of far-off planets as yet untouched, stories of planets that had seemingly been suitable for colonization but had proved disastrous for man for this reason or that. Ronnie said, and never in all this time have we run into a life-form that has proved intelligent. Captain Moisky said, No, not that I know of. There was an animal on Shangri-La about the mental level of the chimpanzee, so far as I know that's the nearest to it. Shangri-La, Ronnie said, that's a new one. There was an affectionate gleam in the captain's eye. Yes, he said, if and when I retire I think that'd be the planet of my choice, if I could get permission to leave earth, of course. Ronnie scowled in attempted memory. Now that you mention it, I think I did see it listed the other day among planets with a theocratic government. The captain grunted protest. If you're comparing it to this new Delos you're going to, you're wrong. There can be theocracy and theocracy, I suppose. Actually, I imagine Shangri-La has the most, well, gentle government in the system. Ronnie was interested. His recent studies hadn't led him to much respect for a priesthood in political power. What's the particular feature that seemed to have gained your regard? Moderation, Wojcicki chuckled. They carried almost to the point of immoderation. But not quite. Briefly it worked something like this. They have a limited number of monks, I suppose you'd call them, who spend their time at whatever moves them. At the arts, at scientific research, at religious contemplation, any religion will do, as students of anything and everything, and at the governing of Shangri-La. They make a point of enjoying the luxuries in moderation and aren't a severe drain on the rank and file citizens of the planet. Ronnie said, I have a growing distrust of hierarchies. Who decides who is to become a monk and who remain a member of the rank and file? The captain said, a series of the best tests they can devise to determine a person's intelligence and aptitudes. From earliest youth the whole populace is checked and rechecked. At the age of thirty, when it is considered that a person has become adult and has finished his basic education, a limited number are offered monkhood. Not all wanted. Ronnie thought about it. Why not? What are the shortcomings? The captain shrugged. Responsibility, I suppose. The monks aren't allowed sex, booze, that sort of thing, I imagine. Good heavens, why not? In moderation, of course. And they live on a higher scale? No, no, not at all. Don't misunderstand. The planet is a prosperous one, exceedingly prosperous. There is everything needed for comfortable existence for everyone. Shangri-La is one planet where the pursuit of happiness is pursuable by all. Captain Wojcicki chuckled again. Ronnie said, It sounds good enough, although I am leery of benevolent dictatorships. The trouble with them is that it's up to the dictators to decide what's benevolent, and almost always nepotism rears its head, favoritism of one sort or another. How long will it be before one of your moderate monks decides he'll moderately tinker with the tests or whatever just to be sure his favorite nephew makes the grade? A high IQ is no guarantee of integrity. The captain didn't disagree. It's always possible, I suppose. One guard against it in this case is the matter of motive. The privilege of being a monk isn't as great as all that. Materially you aren't particularly better off than anyone else. You have more leisure, that's true, but actually most of them are so caught up in their studies or research that they put in more hours of endeavor than does the farmer or industrial worker on Shangri-La. Well, Ronnie said, let's just hope that Tommy Payne never hears of this place. Who? the captain said. Ronnie Bronston reversed his engines. Oh, nobody important. A guy I know of. Captain Wojcicki scowled. Seems to me I've heard the name. At first Ronnie leaned forward with quick interest. Perhaps the cruiser skipper had a lead. But no, he sank back into his chair. That name was strictly a Section G pseudonym. No one used it outside the department. And he'd already said too much by using the term at all. Ronnie said idly. Probably two different people. I think I'll go on back and see how Togg is doing. Togg was at her communicator when he entered the tiny ship's lounge. Ronnie could see in the brilliant little screen of the compact device the grinning face of Sid Jake's. Togg looked up at Ronnie and smiled, then clicked the device off. What's new? Ronnie said. She moved graceful shoulders. I just called Supervisor Jake's. Evidently there's complete confusion on New Delos. Mobs are storming the temples. In the capital the priests tried to present a new god-king, and he was laughed out of town. Ronnie snorted cynically. Sounds good to me. The more I read about New Delos and its god-king and his priesthood, the more I think the best thing that ever happened to the planet was this showing them up. Togg looked at him, the sides of her mouth tucking down as usual when she was going to contradict something he said. It sounds bad to me, she said. Tommy Payne's work is done. He'll be off to some other place and we won't get there in time to snare him. Ronnie considered that. It was probably true. I wonder, he said slowly, if it's possible for us to get a list of all ships that have blasted off since the assassination, all ships and their destination from New Delos. The idea grew in him. Look, it's possible that a dictatorial government such as theirs would immediately quarantine every spaceport on the planet. Togg said, there's only one spaceport on New Delos. The priesthood didn't encourage trade or even communication with the outside. Didn't want its people contaminated. Holy smokes! Ronnie blurted. It's possible that Tommy Payne's on that planet and can't get off. Look, Togg, see if he can raise the Section G representative on New Delos and— Togg said to Mirli, I already have taken that step, Ronnie, knowing that you'd want me to. Agent Mouly Hassan has promised to get the name and destination of every passenger that leaves New Delos. Ronnie sat down at a table and dialed himself a mug of stout. Drink! he said to Togg. Possibly we've got something to celebrate. She shook her head disapprovingly. I don't use depressants. There was nothing more to be discussed about New Delos. They simply would have to wait until their arrival. Ronnie switched subjects. Ever hear of the planet Shangri-La? he asked her. He took a sip of his brew. Of course, she said, a rather small planet, earth type within four degrees, noted for its near-perfect climate and its scenic beauty. Captain was talking about it, Ronnie said. Sounds like a regular paradise. Togg made a negative sound. Well, what's wrong with Shangri-La? Ronnie said impatiently. Static, she said briefly. He looked at her. It sounds to me as though it's developed a near-perfect socioeconomic system. What do you mean, static? No push, no drive, Togg said definitely. Everyone—what is the old term? Everyone has it made. The place is stagnating. I wouldn't be surprised to see Tommy Payne show up there sooner or later. Ronnie said, Look, since we've known each other, have I ever said anything you agree with? Togg raised her delicate eyebrows. Why, Ronnie, you know perfectly well we both agreed that the eggs for breakfast were quite inedible. Ronnie came to his feet again. Considering her size, she certainly was an irritating baggage. I think I'll go to my room and see if I can get any inspirations on tracking down our quarry. Good night, Ronnie, she said demurely. End of Part 7. Part 8 of Ultima Fool. They ran into a minor difficulty upon arrival at New Delos. The captain called both Ronnie Bronston and Togg Lee Chang Chu to the bridge. He nodded in the direction of the communication screen. A bald-headed, robed character—obviously a priest—scowled at them. Captain Wojcicki said, The sub-bishop informs me that the provisional government has ruled that any spacecraft landing on New Delos cannot take off again without permission, and that every individual who lands, even United Planet's personnel, will need an exit visa before being allowed to depart. Ronnie said, Then you can't land? The captain said reasonably, My destination is Merlini. I've gone out of my way slightly to drop you off here, but I can't afford to take the chance of having my ship tied up for what might be an indefinite period. Evidently there's considerable civil disorder down there. From the screen the priest snapped, That is an inaccurate manner of describing the situation. Sorry, the captain said dryly. Ronnie Bronston said desperately, But captain, Miss Togg and I simply have to land. He reached for his badge. High priority, Bureau of Investigation. The captain shrugged his hefty shoulders. Sorry. I have no instructions that allow me to risk tying up my ship. Here's a possibility. Can you pilot a landing craft? I could spare you one. Then you and your assistant would be the only ones involved. You could turn it over to whatever space-forces base we have here. Ronnie said miserably, No, I'm not a space pilot. I am, Togg said softly. The idea sounds excellent. We shall expect you, the sub-bishop said. The screen went blank. Toggly Chang Chu piloted a landing craft with the same verb that she seemed to be able to handle any other responsibility. As he sat in the seat next to her, Ronnie Bronston took in her practiced flicking of the controls from the side of his eyes. He wondered vaguely at the efficiency of such Section G officials as Metaxa and Jakes that they would assign an unknown quality such as himself to a task as important as running down Tommy Payne, and then as an assistant provide him with an experienced operative such as Togg. The bureaucratic mind can be a dilly, he decided. Was the fact that she was a rather delicately constructed girl a factor? He felt the weight of the Model H gun nestled under his left armpit. Perhaps in the clutch Section G preferred men as agents. They swooped into a landing that brought them as close to the control tower as was practical. In a matter of moments there was a guard of twenty or more sloppily uniformed men about their small craft. Togg made a move. Welcome in committee, she said. They climbed out the circular port and flashed their United Planets Bureau of Investigation badges to the youngish-looking soldier who seemed in command. He was indecisive. United Planets? He said. All I know is I'm supposed to arrest anybody landing. Ronnie snapped. We were to be taken immediately to United Planets headquarters. Well, I don't know about that. I don't take orders from foreigners. One of his men was nervously fingering the trigger of his submachine gun. Ronnie's mouth went dry. He had the feeling of being high, high on a rock face, inadequately belayed from above. Togg said smoothly, but Major, I'm sure whoever issued your orders had no expectation of a special delegation from the United Planets coming to congratulate your new authorities on their success. Of course, it's unknown to arrest a delegation from United Planets. It is—he frowned at her. I mean, you are? Yes, Togg said sweetly. Ronnie took the hint. Where can we find a vehicle, Major, to get us to the capital and to United Planets headquarters? Evidently we arrived before we were expected. There should have been a big welcoming committee here. Oh! The obviously recently promoted lad said hesitantly. Well, I suppose we can make arrangements. This way, please. He grinned at Togg as they walked toward the administration building. Do all girls dress like you on earth? Well, no, she said demurely. That's too bad, he said gallantly. Why, Major, Togg said, keeping her eyes on the tarmac. At the administration building there was little of order, but eventually they managed to arrange for their transportation. Luckily they were supplied with a chauffeur-driven heliocar. Luckily, because without the chauffeur to help them run the gauntlet, they would have been held up by parades, demonstrations, and monstrous street meetings a dozen times before they ever reached their destination. Twice Ronnie stopped short of drawing his gun only by a fraction when half-drunken demonstrator stopped them. The driver, a wispy, sad-looking type, shook his head. There's no going back now, he told them over his shoulder. No going back. Last week I was all with the rest. I never did believe David the One was really immortal, but he was just used to the idea, see? It had always been that way, with the priests running everything and we was used to it. Now I wish we was still that way. At least you knew how you stood, see? Now it's going to happen. That's an interesting question, Tog, said politely. Ronnie said, possibly you'll have the chance to build a better world now. The driver shot a contemptuous look over his shoulder. Better world? What do I want with a better world? I just don't want to be bothered. I've been getting my three squares a day, got a nice little flat for my family. How do I know it's not going to be a worse world? That's always a possibility, Tog told him. Do most people seem to feel the same? Practically everybody I know does, he said glumly. But the fat's in the fire now. The priests are trying to hold on, but their government is falling apart all over the place. Well, Ronnie said, at least you can figure just about anything in the way of a new government will be better than one based on superstition and inquisition. It couldn't get worse. Things can always get worse, the other contradicted him sadly. They left the cab before an impressively tall, many-windowed building in city-center. As they mounted the steps Ronnie frowned at her. You seemed to be encouraging that man in his pessimism. So far as I can see the best thing that ever happened to this planet was toppling that phony priesthood. Perhaps, she said agreeably. However, the man's mind was an ossified one. A surprisingly large percentage of people have them, especially when it comes to institutions such as religion and government. We weren't going to be able to teach him anything, but it was possible to learn from him. Ronnie grunted his disgust. What could we possibly learn from him? Tog said mildly. We could learn what people of the street were thinking. It might give us some ideas about what direction the new government will take. They approached the portals of the building and were halted by an armed space-forces guard of half a dozen men. Their sergeant saluted, taking in their obvious other-planet clothing. Identifications, please, he said briskly. They showed their badges and were passed on through. Ronnie said to him, Much trouble, Sergeant? The other shrugged. No. Just precaution, sir. We've only been here three or four weeks. Civil disturbance. We're used to it. We're over on Montezuma two basic months ago. Now, there was real trouble. Had to shoot our way out. Tog called. Coming, Ronnie. I have this elevator waiting. Ronnie followed her, scowling. An idea was trying to work its way through. Somehow he had missed getting it. Headquarters of the Department of Justice were on the eighth floor. A receptionist clerk led them through three or four doors to the single office which housed Section G. A red-eyed, exhausted agent looked up from the sole desk and snarled a question at them. Ronnie didn't get it, but Tog said mildly, probationary agent Ronald Bronston and Tog Lee Chang Chu on special assignment. She flicked open her badge so that the other could see it. His manner changed. Sorry, he said, getting up to shake hands. I'm Moli Hassan in charge of Section G on New Delos. We've just had a crisis here as you can imagine. The worst of it's now over, he added sourly. I hope. All my assistants have already taken off for Avalon. He was a short, statured, dark-complected man, his features betraying his Semitic background. Ronnie shook hands with him and said, Sorry to bother you at a time like this. They found chairs and Moli Hassan flicked a key on his order-box and said to them, How about a drink? They make a wonderful sparkling wine on this planet. Trust any theocracy to have top potables. Ronnie accepted the offer. Tog refused it politely. She sat demurely, her hands in her lap. Moli Hassan ran a weary hand through already must-hair. What's this special assignment, Ron? Ronnie said, Commissioner Metaxa has sent me looking for Tommy Payne. Tommy Payne, the other blurted, at a time like this when I haven't had three nights' sleep in the last three basic weeks you'll come around looking for Tommy Payne? Ronnie was taken aback. Sid Jake seemed to think this might be one of Payne's jobs. Tog said mildly, What better place to look for Tommy Payne than in a situation like this, Agent Hassan? Her eyebrows went up. Or don't you think the quest for Payne is an important one? The other subsided somewhat. I suppose you're right, he said. I'm deathly tired. Do whatever you want, but don't expect much from me. Tog said, just a trifle tartly, Ronnie thought. We'll have to call on you as usual, Agent Hassan. There's probably no single job in Section G more important than the pursuit of Tommy Payne. All right, all right, Moli Hassan admitted. I'll cooperate. How long have you been away from earth, he said to Ronnie? About one basic week. Oh, he grunted. This is your first stop, eh? Well, I don't envy you, your job. He brought a cool bottle from a delivery door in the desk along with two glasses. Here's the wine. Ronnie leaned forward to accept the glass. This situation here, he said, do you think it can be laid to Payne? Moli Hassan shrugged wearily. I don't know. Ronnie sipped the drink looking at the tired Agent over the glass rim. From what we understand, Chek has been kept on all persons leaving the planet since the bombing. Chek is right. There's only one ship that took off, and it carried nobody except my assistants. If you ask me, I still needed them. But some brass hat back on earth decided they were more necessary over on Avalon. He was disgusted. Ronnie put the glass down. You mean only one ship's left this planet since the God King was killed? That's right. It was like pulling teeth to get the visas. How many men aboard? Moli Hassan looked at him speculatively. Four-man crew and six Section G operatives. Tog said brightly, Why, that means then that either Tommy Payne is still on this planet, or he's one of the passengers or crew members of that ship, she added. That is, of course, unless he had a private craft hidden away somewhere. Ronnie slumped back into his chair as some of the ramifications came home to him. If it was Tommy Payne at all, he said. Moli Hassan nodded. That's always a point. He finished his glass and looked pleadingly at Tog. Look, I have work. If I can finish some of it, I might have some time for sleep. Couldn't we postpone the search for Tommy Payne? Tog said nothing to him. Ronnie came to his feet. We'll get along. A couple of ideas occurred to me. I'll check with you later. Fine, the agent said. He shook hands with them again. He said, somehow more to Tog than to Ronnie. I know how important your job is. It's just that I've been pushed to the point where I can't operate efficiently. She smiled her understanding, gave him her small, delicate hand. In the elevator Ronnie said to her, Why should this sort of thing particularly affect Section G? Tog said, It's times like this that planets drop out of the UP, or possibly get into the hands of some jingoistic military group and start off half-cocked to provoke a war with some other planet or to missionarize or propagandize it. She thought about it a moment. A new revolution in government or religion seems almost invariably to want to spread the light. An absolute compulsion to bring to others the new truths that they've found. She added, her boys holding a trace of mockery. Usually the new truths are rather hoary ones, and there are few interested in hearing them. Part 9 They spent their first day in getting accommodations in a centrally located hotel, in making arrangements through the Department of Justice for the local means of exchange, it turned out to be coinage based on gold, and getting the feel of their surroundings. Evidently Delos, the capital city of the planet New Delos, was but slowly emerging from the chaos that had taken over on the assassination. A provisional government composed of representatives of half a dozen different organizations which had sprung up like mushrooms following the collapse of the regime had assumed power. Elections had been promised and were to be brought off when arrangements could be made. Meanwhile the actual government was still largely in the hands of the lower echelons of the priesthood. A nervous priesthood it was, seemingly desirous of getting out from under while the going was good, afraid of being held responsible for former excesses. Ronnie Bronston, high hopes still in his head, looked up the sub-bishop who had given them landing orders while they were still aboard the Space Forces cruiser. Tog was off making arrangements for various details involved in their being in Delos in its time of crisis. A dozen times on his way over to keep his appointment with the official, Ronnie had to step into doorways or in otherwise make himself inconspicuous. Gangs of demonstrators roamed the street, some of them drunken, looking for trouble, and scornful of police or the military. Twice, when it looked as though he might be roughed up, Ronnie drew his gun and held it in open sight, ready for use, but not threateningly. The demonstrators made off. His throat was dry by the time he reached his destination. The life of a Section G agent on interplanetary assignment had its drawbacks. The sub-bishop had formerly been in charge of interplanetary communications which involved commerce as well as intercourse with the United Planets. It must have been an ultra-responsible position only a month ago. Now his offices were all but deserted. He looked at Ronnie's badge only vaguely interested. Section G of the Bureau of Investigation, he said, I don't believe I am aware of your responsibilities. However, he nodded with sour courtesy, please be seated. You must forgive my lack of ability to offer refreshment. Isn't there an old tradition about rats deserting a sinking ship? I am afraid my former assistants had rodent-like instincts. Ronnie said, Section G deals with interplanetary security, sir. I am addressed as holiness, the other said. Ronnie looked at him. Sorry, he said. I am a citizen of the United Planets, not any one planet, even Earth. UP's citizens have complete religious freedom. In my case I am unaffiliated with any church. The sub-bishop let it pass. He said sourly. I am afraid that even here on New Delos I am seldom honoured by my title any more. Go on, you say you deal with interplanetary security. That's correct. In cases like this we're interested in checking to see if there is any possibility that citizens of planets other than New Delos are involved in your internal affairs. The other's eyes were suddenly slits. He said heavily, you suspect that David the One was assassinated by an alien? Ronnie had to tread carefully here. I make no such suggestion. I am merely here to check on the possibility. If such was the case my duty would be to arrest the man or men. If we got hold of him you'd have small chance of asserting your authority, the priest growled. What did you want to know? I understand that no interplanetary craft have left New Delos since the assassination. None except a United Planets ship which was carefully inspected, Ronnie said tightly. But what facilities do you have to check on secret spaceports, possibly located in some remote desert or mountain area? The Nodellian laughed sourly. There is no other planet in all the United Planets with our degree of security. We even imported the most recent developments in artificial satellites equipped with the most delicate of detection devices. I assure you, it is utterly impossible for a spacecraft to land or take off from New Delos without our knowledge. Ronnie bronzed and's eyes lit with excitement. These security measures of yours, to what extent do you keep under observation all aliens on the planet? The priest's chuckle had a nasty quality. You are quite ignorant of our institutions, evidently. Every person on New Delos in every way of life was under constant survey from the cradle to the grave. Aliens were highly discouraged. When they appeared on New Delos at all, they were restricted in their movements to this, our capital city. Ronnie let air whistle from his lungs. Then, he said triumphantly, if any alien had anything to do with this, he is still on the planet. Can you get me a list of all aliens? The other laughed again still sourly. But there are none. None except you employees of United Planets. I'm afraid you're on a wild goose chase. Ronnie stared at him blankly. But commercial representatives, cultural exchange, the priest said flatly, no. None at all. All commerce was handled through UP. We encouraged no cultural exchanges. We wished to keep our people uncorrupted. United Planets alone had the right to land on our one spaceport. The Section G agent came to his feet. This was much simpler than he could ever have hoped for. He thanked the other but avoided the necessity of shaking hands and left. He found a heliocab and dialed it to the UP building, finding strange the necessity of slipping coins into the vehicle's slots until the correct amount for his destination had been deposited. Coinage was no longer in use on earth. At the UP building he retraced his steps of the day before to the single office of Section G. To his surprise, not only Moli Hasan was there but Tog as well. Hasan had evidently had at least a few hours of sleep. He was in better shape. They exchanged the usual amenities and took their chairs again. Hasan said, We were just gossiping. It's been years since I've been in greater Washington. Li Chang tells me that Sid Jakes is now a supervisor. I worked with him for a while when I first joined Section G. How about a glass of wine? Ronnie said, Look, if Tommy Payne was connected with this, and it's almost positive he was, we've got him. The others looked at him. You've evidently been busy, Tog said mildly. He turned to her. He's trapped, Tog. He can't get off the planet. Moli Hasan rubbed a hand through his hair. It'd be hard, all right? They've got the people under rain here such as you've never seen before, or they did until this blew up. Ronnie sketched the situation to Tog, winding up with, The only thing that makes sense is that it's a Tommy Payne job. The local citizens would never have been able to get their hands on such a bomb or been able to have made the arrangements for its delivery. They're under too much surveillance. Tog said thoughtfully, But how did he escape all this surveillance? Don't you understand? He's working here in this building as an employee of UP. There's no other alternative. They stared at him. I think perhaps you're right, Tog said, finally. Ronnie turned to Moli Hasan. Can you get a list of all UP employees? Of course. He flicked his order box, sparked a command into it. Ronnie said, It's going to be a matter of eliminating the impossible. For instance, what is the earliest known case of Tommy Payne's activity? Tog thought back. So far as we know definitely about twenty-two years ago. Fine, Ronnie said, increasingly excited. That will eliminate all persons less than, say, forty years of age. We can assume he was at least twenty when he began. Hasan said, Can we eliminate all women employees? Ronnie said, I'd think so. The few times he's been seen all reports are of a man. In that case on the planet Mother where he put himself over as a holy man, he could hardly have been a woman in disguise in a stone-aged culture such as that. Hasan said, And this Tommy Payne has been flitting around this part of the galaxy for years, so anyone who has been here steadily for a period of even a couple of years or so can't be suspect. Moli Hasan thrust his hand into a delivery drawer and brought forth a handful of punched cards, possibly fifty in all. Surely there's more people than that working in this building, he protested. Moli Hasan said, No. I've eliminated already every one who is a citizen of New Delos. Obviously Tommy Payne is an alien. We have only forty-eight earthlings and other united planet citizens working here. He carried the cards to a small coalator and worked for a moment on its controls, as Tog and Ronnie watched him with mounting tension. Let's see, he muttered. We eliminate all women, all those less than forty, all who haven't done a great deal of travel, those who have been here for several years. The end of it was that they eliminated every one employed in the UP building. The cards were stacked back on Moli Hasan's desk again, and the three of them sat around and looked glumly at them. Ronnie said, He stinkered with the files. He counterfeited fake papers for himself or something. Possibly he pulled his own card, and it isn't in this stack you have. Moli Hasan said, We'll double-check all the possibilities, but you're wrong. Possibly a few hundred years ago, but not today. Forgery and counterfeiting are things of the past. And believe me, the Bureau of Investigation, and especially Section G, may look on the slip-shot side. But they aren't. We're not going to find anything wrong with those cards. Tommy Payne simply is not working for UP on New Delos. Then, Ronnie said, There's only one alternative. He's on this UP ship going to—what was the name of its destination? Avalon, Moli Hasan said, his face thoughtful. Tog said, Do you have any ideas on the men aboard? Moli Hasan said, There were four crewmen and six of our agents. Tog said, Unless one of them has faked papers, the six agents are eliminated. That leaves the crew members. Do you know anything about them? Hasan shook his head. Ronnie said, Let's communicate with Avalon. Tell our representatives there to be sure that none of the occupants of that ship leaves Avalon until we get there. Moli Hasan said, Good idea. He turned to his screen and said into it, Section G, Bureau of Investigation on the planet Avalon. In a moment the screen lit up. An elderly agent, as Section G agent seemed to go, looked up at them. Moli Hasan held his silver badge so the other could see it, and on the Avalon agent's nod said, I'm Hasan from New Delos. We've just had a crisis here, and there seems to be a chance that it's a Tommy Payne job. Agent Bronston here is on an assignment tracking him down. I'll turn it over to Bronston. The Avalon agent nodded again and looked at Ronnie. Ronnie said urgently, We haven't the time to give you details, but every indication is that Payne is on a UP spacecraft with Avalon as its destination. There are only ten men aboard, and six of them are Section G operatives. The other pursed his lips. I see. You think you have the old fox corner, eh? Possibly, Ronnie said. There are various ifs. Miss Tog and I can double-check here. Then as soon as we can clear exit visas we'll make immediate way for Avalon. The Avalon Section G agent said, I haven't the authority to control the movements of other agents. They have as high rank as I have. He added expressionlessly, and probably higher than yours. Ronnie said. But the four-man crew? The other said. These men are coming to Avalon to work on a job that will take at least six months. We'll make a routine check, and I'll try and make sure the whole ten will still be on Avalon when and if you arrive. They had to be satisfied with that. They checked always from the middle, nor did it take long. There was no doubt. If this was a Tommy Payne job, and it almost surely was, then there was only one way in which you could have escaped from the planet, and that was by the single spacecraft that had left, destination Avalon. He was not on the planet. That was definite, Ronnie felt. A stranger on New Delos was as conspicuous as a walrus in a goldfish bowl. There simply were no such. They spent most of their time checking and rechecking United Planet's personnel. But there was no question there, either. Moli Hassan and others of UP personnel helped cut the red tape involved in getting exit visas from New Delos. It wasn't as complicated as it might have been a week or two before. No one seemed to be so confident of his authority in the new provisional government that he dared veto a United Planet's request. Moli Hassan was able to arrange for a small space yacht, slower than a military craft, but capable of getting them to Avalon in a few days' time. A one-man crew was sufficient. Ronnie and especially Tog could spell him on the watches. Time aboard was spent largely in studying up on Avalon, going over and over again anything known about the elusive Tommy Payne, and playing battle chess and bickering with Tong Li Chang Chu. If it hadn't been for this ability to argue against just about anything Ronnie managed to say he could have been attracted to her to the detriment of the job. She was a good traveller, few people are. She was an ultra-efficient assistant, she was a joy to look at, and she never intruded. But great guns the woman could bicker! The two of them were studying in the ship's luxurious lounge when Ronnie looked up and said, Do you have any idea why those six agents were sent to Avalon? No, she said. He indicated the booklet he was reading. From what I can see here it sounds like one of the most advanced planets in the U.P. They've made some of the most useful advances in industrial techniques of the past century. Oh, I don't know, Tog mused. I haven't much regard for industrial feudalism myself. It starts off with a bang but tends to go sterile. Industrial feudalism, he said indignantly, what do you mean? The government is a constitutional monarchy with the king merely a powerless symbol. The standard of living is high, elections are honest and democratic, they've got a three-party system, which is largely phony, Tog interrupted. You've got to do some reading between the lines, especially when the books you're reading are turned out by the industrial feudalistic publishing companies in Avalon. What's this industrial feudalism you keep talking about? Avalon has a system of free enterprise. A gobbledygook term, Tog said, irritatingly. Industrial feudalism is a socioeconomic system that develops when industrial wealth is concentrated into the hands of a comparatively few families. It finally gets to the point of a closed circle, all but impossible to break into. These industrial feudalistic families become so powerful that only in rare instances can anyone lift himself into their society. They dominate every field, including the so called labor unions, which amount to one of the biggest businesses of all. With their unlimited resources, they even own every means of dispensing information. You mean, Ronnie argued, that on Avalon you can't start up a newspaper of your own and say whatever you wish? Certainly you can, theoretically, if you have the resources. Unfortunately, such enterprises become increasingly expensive to start. Or you could start a radio, TV, or tri-D station if you had the resources. However, even if you overcame all your handicaps and your newspaper or broadcasting station became a success, the industrial feudalistic families in control of Avalon's publishing and broadcasting fields have the endless resources to buy you out, or squeeze you out, by one nasty means or another. Ronnie snorted. Well, the people must be satisfied or they'd vote some fundamental changes. Tog nodded. They're satisfied, and no wonder. Since childhood every means of forming their opinions have been in the hands of industrial feudalistic families, including the schools. You mean the schools are private? No, they don't have to be. The government is completely dominated by the fifty or so families which, for all practical purposes, own Avalon. That includes the schools. Some of the higher institutions of learning are private, but they too are largely dependent upon grants from the families. End of part nine. Part ten of Ultima Fool. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Karen Savage. Ultima Fool by Mac Reynolds. Part ten. Ronnie was irritated by her no-all air. He tapped the book he'd been reading with a finger. They don't control the government. Avalon's got a three-party system. Any time the people don't like the government they can vote in an alternative. That's an optical illusion. There are three parties, but each is dominated by the fifty families, and election laws are such that, for all practical purposes, it's impossible to start another party. Theoretically it's possible. Actually, it isn't. The voters can vary back and forth between the three political parties, but it doesn't make any difference which one they elect. They all stand for the same thing, a continuation of the status quo. Then you claim it isn't democracy at all. Tog sighed. That's a much abused word. Actually, pure democracy is seldom seen. They pretty well had it in primitive society where government was based on the family. You voted for one of your relatives in your clan to represent you in the tribal councils. Everyone in the tribe was equal so far as apportionments of the necessities of life were concerned. No one, even the tribal chiefs, ate better than anyone else. No one had a better home. Ron said snappishly, and if man had remained at that level, we'd never have gotten anywhere. That's right, she said. For progress, man needed a leisure class, somebody with the time to study, to experiment, to work things out. He said, We're getting away from the point. You said in spite of appearances they don't have democracy on Avalon. They have a pretense of it. But only free men can practice democracy. So long as your food, clothing, and shelter are controlled by someone else, you aren't free. Wait until I think of an example. She put her right forefinger to her chin, thoughtfully. Holy smokes, she was a cute trick. If only she wasn't so confounded irritating. Tog said, Do you remember the state of California in earth history? I think so. On the west coast of North America. That's right. Well, back in the 20th century Christian calendar, they had an economic depression. During it, a crackpot organization called $30 every Thursday managed to get itself on the ballot. Times were bad enough. But had this particular bunch got into power, it would have become chaotic. At first, no thinking person took them seriously. However, a majority of people in California at that time had little to lose. And in the final week or so of the election campaign, the polls showed that $30 every Thursday was going to win. So a few days before voting, many of the larger industries and businesses in the state ran full page ads in the newspapers. They said substantially the same thing. If $30 every Thursday wins this election, our concern will close its doors. Do not bother to come back to work Monday. Ronnie was scowling at her. What's your point? She shrugged delicate shoulders. The crackpots were defeated, of course, which was actually good for California. But my point is that the voters of California were not actually free since their livelihoods were controlled by others. This is an extreme case, of course, but the fact always applies. A thought suddenly hit Ronnie Bronston. Look, he said, Tommy Payne, do you think he's merely escaping from New Delos? Or is it possible that Avalon is his next destination? Is he going to try and overthrow the government there? She was shaking her head, but frowning. I don't think so. Things are quite stable on Avalon. Stable? He scowled at her. From what you've been saying, they're pretty bad. She continued to shake her head. Don't misunderstand, Ronnie. On an assignment like this, it's easy to get the impression that all the United Planets are in a state of socio-political confusion. But it isn't so. A small minority of Planets are ripe for the sort of trouble Tommy Payne stirs up. Most are working away, developing, making progress, slowly evolving. Avalon is one of these. The way things are there, Tommy Payne couldn't make a dent on changing things, even if he wanted to. And there's no particular reason to believe he does. Ronnie growled. From what I can learn of the guy he's anxious to stir up trouble wherever he goes. I don't know. If there's any pattern at all in his activities, it seems to be that he picks spots where things are ripe to boil over on their own. He acts as a catalyst. In a place like Avalon he wouldn't get to first base. Possibly fifty years from now things will have developed on Avalon to the point where there is dissatisfaction. By that time, she said dryly, we'll assume Tommy Payne will no longer be a problem to the commissariat of interplanetary affairs for one reason or another. Ronnie took up his book again. He growled. I can't figure out his motivation if I could just put my finger on that. For once she agreed with him. I've got an idea, Ronnie, that once you have that you'll have Tommy Payne. They drew blank on Avalon. Or at least it was drawn for them before they ever arrived. The Section G agent permanently assigned to that planet had already checked and double checked the possibilities. None of the four man crew of the UP spacecraft had been on New Delos at the time of the assassination of the God-King. They and their craft had been light years away on another job. Ronnie Bronston couldn't believe it. He simply couldn't believe it. The older agent, his name was Jeru Bulchand, was definite. He went over it with Ronnie and Tog in a bar adjoining UP headquarters. He had dossiers on each of the ten men, detailed dossiers. On the face of it, none of them could be Payne. But one of them has to be, Ronnie pleaded. He explained their method of eliminating the forty-eight employees of UP on New Delos. Bulchand shrugged. You've got holes in that method of elimination. You're assuming Tommy Payne is an individual, and you have no reason to. My own theory is that it's an organization. Ronnie said unhappily. Then you're of the opinion that there is a Tommy Payne? The older agent was puffing comfortably on an old-style briar pipe. He nodded definitely. I believe Tommy Payne exists as an organization. Possibly once originally it was a single person. But now it's a group. How large I wouldn't know. Probably not too large, or by this time somebody would have betrayed it, or somebody would have cracked, and we would have caught them. Catch one, and you've got the whole organization, what with our modern means of interrogation. I've heard the opinion before. Jeru Bulchand pointed at Ronnie with his pipe-stem. If it's an organization, then none of that eliminating you did is valid. Your assassin could have been one of the women. He could have been one of the men you eliminated as too young, someone recently admitted to the Tommy Payne organization. Ronnie checked the last of his theories. Why did Section G send six of its agents here? Nothing to do with Tommy Payne, Bulchand said. It's a different sort of crisis. Just for my own satisfaction, what kind of crisis? Bulchand sketched it quickly. There are two earth-type planets in this solar system. Avalon was the first to be colonized and developed rapidly. After a couple of centuries Avalonians went over and settled on Catalina. They eventually set up a government of their own. Now Avalon has a surplus of industrial products. Her economic system is such that she produces more than she can sell back to her own people. There's a glut. Avalon said demurely. So of course they want to dump it in Catalina. Bulchand nodded. In fact they're willing to give it away. They've offered to build railroads, turn over ships and aircraft, donate whole factories to Catalina's slowly developing economy. Ronnie said, Well, how does that call for Section G agents? Catalina has evoked Article II of the UP Charter. No member planet of UP is to interfere with the internal political, socioeconomic, or religious affairs of another member planet. Avalon claims the Charter doesn't apply since Catalina belongs to the same solar system and since she's a former colony. We're trying to smooth the whole thing over before Avalon dreams up some excuse for military action. Ronnie stared at him. I get the feeling every other sentence is being left out of your explanation. It just doesn't make sense. In the first place, why is Avalon as anxious as all that to give away what sounds like a fantastic amount of goods? I told you, they have a glut. They've overproduced, and as a result they've got a king-sized depression on their hands, or will unless they find markets. Well, why not trade with some of the planets that want her products? Toggs said, as though reasoning with a youngster, planets outside her own solar system are too far away for it to be practical, even if she had commodities they didn't. She needs a nearby planet more backward than herself, a planet like Catalina. Well, that brings us to the more fantastic question. Why in the world doesn't Catalina accept? It sounds to me like pure philanthropy on the part of Avalon. Balgund was wagging his pipe-stem in a negative gesture. Bronston, governments are never motivated by idealistic reasons. Individuals might be, and even small groups, but governments never. Governments, including that of Avalon, exist for the benefit of the class or classes that control them. The only things that motivate them are the interests of that class. Well, this sounds like an exception, Ronnie said argumentatively. How can Catalina lose if the Avalonians grant them railroads, factories and all the rest of it? Toggs said, don't you see, Ronnie, it gives Avalon a foothold in the Catalina economy. When the locomotives wear out on the railroad, new engines, new parts must be purchased. They won't be available on Catalina because there will be no railroad industry because numb will have ever grown up. Catalina manufacturers couldn't compete with that initial free gift. They'll be dependent on Avalon for future equipment. In the factories, when machines wear out, they will be replaceable only with the products of Avalon's industry. Balchin said, There's an analogy in the early history of the United States. When its fledgling steel industry began, they set up a high tariff to protect it against British competition. The British were amazed and indignant, pointing out that they could sell American steel products at one-third the local prices, if only allowed to do so. The United States said no thanks. It didn't want to be tied industrially to Great Britain's apron strings. And in a couple of decades, American steel production passed England's. In a couple of more decades, American steel production was many times that of England's, and she was taking British markets away from her all over the globe. At any rate, Ronnie said, It's not a Tommy pain matter. Just for luck, though, Ronnie and Toggs double-checked all over again on Balchin's efforts. They interviewed all six of the Section G agents, each of them carried a silver badge that gleamed only for the individual who possessed it, all of which eliminated the possibility that pain had assumed the identity of a Section G operative, so that was out. They checked the four crew members, but there was no doubt there, either. The craft had been far away at the time of the assassination on New Delos. On the third day, Ronnie Bronston disgusted, knocked on the door of Toggs hotel room. The door screen lit up, and Togg looking out at him said, Oh, come on in, Ronnie. I was just talking to Earth. He entered. Toggs had set up her Section G Communicator on a desktop, and said Jake's grinning face was in the tiny, brilliant screen. Ronnie approached close enough for the other to take him in. Jake said happily, Hi, Ronnie, no luck, eh? Ronnie shook his head, trying not to let his face portray his feelings of defeat. This, after all, was a probationary assignment, and the supervisor had the power to send Ronnie Bronston back to the drudgery of his office job at population statistics. Still working on it. I suppose it's a matter of returning to New Delos and grinding away at the forty-eight employees of the U.P. there. Sid Jake's pursed his lips. I don't know. Possibly this whole thing was a false alarm. At any rate, there seems to be a hotter case on the fire. If our local agents have it straight, Payne is about to pull one of his coups on Krepotkin. This is a top-top secret, of course, one of the few times we've ever detected him before the act. Ronnie was suddenly alert, his fatigue of disgust of but a moment ago completely forgotten. Where? he said. Krepotkin, Jake said, one of the most backward planets in U.P. and seemingly a setup for Payne's sort of troublemaking. The authorities, if he can use the term applied to Krepotkin, are already complaining, threatening to invoke article one of the Charter or to resign from U.P. Jake looked at Togg again. Do you know Krepotkinly, Chang? She shook her head. I've heard of it, rather vaguely, named after some old anarchist, I believe. That's the place. One of the few anarchist societies in U.P. You don't hear much from them. He turned to Ronnie again. I think that's your bet. Hop to it, boy. We're going to catch this Tommy-paying guy or organization or whatever soon or United Planets is going to know it. We can't keep the lid on indefinitely. If word gets around of his activities then we'll lose member planets like Christmas trees shedding needles after New Year's. He grinned widely. That sounds like a neat trick, eh? End of part.