 Section X of TWENTY SHORT SCIENCE FICTION STORIES BY VARIUS AUTHORS. THIS LIBERVOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. WIND by Charles L. Fontenay When you have an engine with no fuel, and fuel without an engine, and a life and death deadline to meet, you have a problem indeed. Unless you are a stubborn Dutchman, and Jan van Artveld was the stubbornest Dutchman on Venus. Jan Wilhelm van Artveld claimed descent from William of Orange. He had no genealogy to prove it, but on Venus there was no one who could disprove it either. Jan Wilhelm van Artveld smoked a clay pipe, which only a Dutchman can do properly, because the clay bit grates on less stubborn teeth. Jan needed all his Dutch stubbornness, and a good deal of pure physical strength besides, to maneuver the roach-flat ground car across the tumbled terrain of Delhorn into the teeth of the howling gale that swept from the west. Huge wheels twisted and jolted against the rocks outside, and Jan bounced against his seat belt, wrestled the steering wheel and puffed at his pipe. The mild aroma of here and by tobacco filled the airtight ground car. There came a new swan that was not the roughness of the terrain. Through the thick windshield Jan saw all the ground about him buckle and heave for a second or two before it settled to rugged quiescence again. This time he was really heaved about. Jan mentioned this to the ground car radio. That's about the third time in a half an hour, he commented. The place tosses like the Uselmeer on a rough day. You just don't forget it isn't the Zweedersie retorted Hemskerk from the other end. You sink there and you don't come up three times. Don't worry, said Jan. I'll be back on time with a broom at the masthead. This I shall want to see, chuckled Hemskerk, a logical reaction considering the scarcity of brooms on Venus. Two hours earlier the two men had sat across a small table playing chess, with little indication there would be anything else to occupy their time before blast off of the stubby gravity boat. It would be their last chess game for many months, for Jan was a member of the Dutch colony at Oostport in the northern hemisphere of Venus, while Hemskerk was the pilot of the G-bolt from the Dutch spaceship Van der Decken, scheduled to begin an earthward orbit in a few hours. It was near the dusk of the 485-hour Venerian day, and the Twilight Gale already had arisen, sweeping from the comparative chill Venerian nightside into the superheated dayside. Oostport, established near some outcroppings that contained Uranium ore, was protected from both the Don Gale and the Twilight Gale, for it was in a valley in the midst of a small range of mountains. Jan has just figured out a combination by which he hoped to cheat Hemskerk out of one of his nights, when Decker, the Bergamester of Oostport, entered the spaceport ready room. There's been an emergency radio message, said Decker. They've got a passenger for the earthship over a drathole. Rathole, repeated Hemskerk. What's that? I didn't know there was another colony within two thousand kilometers. This isn't a colony, in the sense Oostport is, explained Decker. The people are the families of a bunch of labors left behind when the colony folded several years ago. It's about eighty kilometers away, right across the horn, but they don't have any vehicles that can navigate when the wind's up. Hemskerk pushed his short-built cap back on his close cropped head, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his comfortable stomach. Then the passenger will have to wait for the next ship, he pronounced. The van der Decken has to blast off in thirty hours to catch earth at the right orbital spot, and the G-boat has to blast off in ten hours to catch the van der Decken. This passenger can't wait, said Decker. He needs to be evacuated to earth immediately. He's suffering from the Venus shadow. Jan whistled softly. He had seen the effects of that disease. Decker was right. Jan, you're the best driver in Oostport, said Decker. You'll have to take a ground car to Rathol and bring the fellow back. So now Jan gripped his clay pipe between his teeth and piloted the ground car into the teeth of the twilight gale. Dan Horn was a comparatively flat desert sweep that ran along the western side of the Oost Mountains, just over the mountain from Oostport. It was a thin, fault area of planet whose crust was particularly subject to earthquakes, particularly at the beginning and end of each long day when temperatures of the surface rocks changed. On the other side of it lay Rathol, a little settlement that eked out a precarious living from the venerian vegetation. Jan had never seen it. He had a little difficulty driving up and over the mountain, for the Dutch settlers had carved a rough road through the ravines. But even the two and a half meter wheels of the ground car had trouble amid the tumbled rocks of Denhorn. The wind hit the car in full strength here, and though the body of the ground car was suspended from the axles, there was constant danger of its being flipped over by a gust if not handled just right. The three earth shocks that had shaken Denhorn since he had been driving made his task no easier, but he was obviously lucky at that. Often he had to detour far from his course to skirt long, deep cracks in the surface, or steep breaks where the crust had been raised or dropped several meters by past quakes. The ground car zigzagged slowly westward. The tattered violet and indigo clouds boiled low above it, but the wind was as dry as the breath of an oven. Despite the heavy cloud cover, the afternoon was as bright as an earth day. The thermometer showed the outside temperature to have dropped to forty degrees centigrade in the west wind and was still going down. Jan reached the edge of a crack that made further progress seem impossible. A hundred meters wide, of unknown depth, it stretched out of sight in both directions. For the first time he entertained serious doubts that Denhorn could be crossed by land. After a moment's hesitation, he swung the ground car northward and raced along the edge of the chasm as fast as the car would negotiate the terrain. He looked anxiously at his watch. Nearly three hours had passed since he left Oostport. He had seven hours to go, and he was still at least sixteen kilometers from Rathol. His pipe was out, and he could not take his hands from the wheel to refill it. He had driven at least eight kilometers before he realized that the crack was narrowing. At least as far again, the two edges came together, but not at the same level. A sheer cliff three meters high now barred his passage. He drove on. Apparently it was the result of an old quake. He found a spot where rocks had tumbled down, making a steep, rough ramp up the break. He drove up it and turned back southwestward. He made it just in time. He had driven less than three hundred meters when a quake more severe than any of the others struck. Suddenly behind him the break reversed itself, so that where he had climbed up coming westward he would now have to climb a cliff of equal height returning eastward. The ground heaved and buckled like a tempestuous sea. Rocks rolled and leaped through the air, several large ones striking the ground car with ominous force. The car staggered forward on its giant wheels like a drunken man. The quake was so violent that at one time the vehicle was hurled several meters sideways, and almost overturned, and the wind smashed down on it unrelentingly. The quake lasted for several minutes, during which Jan was able to make no progress at all, and struggled only to keep the ground car upright. Then, in unison, both earthquake and wind died to absolute quiescence. Jan made use of this calm to step down on the accelerator and send the ground car speeding forward. The terrain was easier here, nearing the western edge of Denhorn, and he covered several kilometers before the wind struck again, cutting his speed down considerably. He judged he must be nearing Rathol. Not long thereafter he rounded an outcropping of rock and it lay before him. A wave of nostalgia swept over him. Back at Usport the power was nuclear, but this little settlement had made use of the cheapest, most obviously available power source. It was dotted with more than a dozen windmills. Windmills. Tears came to Jan's eyes. For a moment he was carried back to the flatlands around Gravenheg. For a moment he was a toe-headed, round-eyed boy again, clumping in wooden shoes along the edge of the tulip fields. But there were no canals here. The flatland, stretching into the darkening west, was spotted with patches of cactus and leather-leaved venerian plants. Amid the windmills low domes protruded from the earth, indicating that the dwellings of Rathol were, appropriately, partly underground. He drove into the place. There were no streets as such, but there were avenues between lines of heavy chains strung to short iron posts, evidently as hand-holds against the wind. The savage gale piled dust and sand in drifts against the domes, then shifting slightly, swept them clean again. There was no one moving abroad. Just inside the community, Jan found half a dozen men in a group, clinging to one of the chains and waving to him. He pulled the ground car to a stop beside them, stuck his pipe into a pocket of his plastic Venus suit, donned his helmet and got out. The wind almost took him away before one of them grabbed him, and he was able to grasp the chain himself. They gathered round him. They were swarthy, black-eyed men with curly hair. One of them grasped his hand. Benvenido, señor, said the man. Jan recoiled and dropped the man's hand. All the orange-men blood he claimed protested in outrage. Spaniards! All these men were spaniards! Jan recovered himself at once. He had been reading too much ancient history during his leisure hours. The hot monotony of Venus was beginning to affect his brain. It had been five hundred years since the Netherlands revolted against Spanish rule. A lot of water over the dam since then. A look at the men around him, the sound of their chatter, convinced him that he need not try German or Holandish here. He fell back on the international language. Do you speak English? he asked. The man brightened but shook his head. No hablu ingles, he said. Pero el medico lo habla. Benga conmigo! He gestured for iron to follow him and started off, pulling his way against the wind along the chain. Jan followed, and the other men fell in behind in single file. A hundred meters farther on they turned, descended some steps, and entered one of the half-buried domes. A gray-haired, bearded man was in the well-lighted room, apparently the living room of a home, with a young woman. El medico, said the man who had greeted Jan gesturing, el hablu ingles. He went out, shutting the air-locked door behind him. You must be the man from Ostport, said the bearded man, holding out his hand. I am Dr. Sanchez. We are very grateful you have come. I thought for a while I wouldn't make it, said Jan roofily, removing his Venus helmet. This is Miss Murillo, said Sanchez. The woman was a Spanish blonde, full-lipped and beautiful, with golden hair and dark liquid eyes. She smiled at Jan, and cantada de conciero, senor, she greeted him. This is the patient, doctor, asked Jan, astonished. She looked in the best of health. No, the patient is in the next room, answered Sanchez. Well, as much as I'd like to stop for a pipe, we'd better start at once, said Jan. It's a hard drive back, and blast-off can't be delayed. The woman seemed to sense his meaning. She turned and called, Diego. A boy appeared in the door, a dark-scanned, sleepy-eyed boy of about eight. He yawned. Then catching sight of the big Dutchman, he opened his eyes wide and smiled. The boy was healthy-looking, alert, but the mark of the Venus shadow was on his face. There was a faint mottling, a criss-cross of dead white lines. Mrs. Murillo spoke to him rapidly in Spanish, and he nodded. She zipped him into a Venus suit and fitted a small helmet on his head. Good luck, amigo, said Sanchez, shaking Jan's hand again. Thanks, replied Jan. He donned his own helmet. I'll need it if the trip over was any indication. Jan and Diego made their way back down the chain to the ground-car. There was a score of men there now, and a few women. They let the pair go through, waved farewell as Jan swung the ground-car around and headed back eastward. It was easier driving with the wind behind him, and Jan hit a hundred kilometers an hour several times before striking the rougher ground of Denhorn. Now, if he could only find a way over the bluff raised by that last quake, the ground of Denhorn was still shivering. Jan did not realize this until he had to break the ground-car almost to a stop at one point, because it was not shaking in severe, periodic shocks as it had earlier. It quivered constantly, like the surface of quicksand. The ground far ahead of him had a strange color to it. Jan watched for the cliff he had to skirt and scale, had picked up speed over some fairly even terrain, but now he slowed again, puzzled. There was something wrong ahead. He couldn't quite figure it out. Diego, beside him, sat quietly so far, peering eagerly through the windshield, not saying a word. Now suddenly he cried out in a high-thin tenor. QUIDOTO, QUIDOTO, UNOBISMO! Jan saw it at the same time and hit the brake so hard the ground-car would have stood on its nose had its wheels been smaller. They skidded to a stop. The chasm that had caused him such a long detour before had widened, evidently in the big quake that had hit earlier. Now it was a canyon, half a kilometer wide. Five meters from the edge he looked out over blank space at the far wall and could not see the bottom. Cursing choice Dutch profanity, Jan wheeled the ground-car northward and drove along the edge of the abyss as fast as he could. He wasted half an hour before realizing that it was getting no narrower. There was no point in going back southward. It might be a hundred kilometers long or a thousand, but he never could reach the end of it and thread the tumbled rocks of Denhorn to Uspurt before the G-boat blast off. There was nothing to do but turn back to Rathol and see if some other way could not be found. Jan sat in the half-buried room and enjoyed the luxury of a pipe filled with some of Theodora's neemire's mild tobacco. Before him, Dr. Sanchez sat with crossed legs, cleaning his fingernails with a scalpel. Diego's mother talked to the boy in low, liquid tones in a corner of the room. Jan was at a loss to know how people whose technical knowledge was as skimpy as it obviously was in Rathol were able to build these semi-underground domes to resist the earth shocks that came from Denhorn. But this one showed no signs of stress. A religious print and a small pencil sketch of Signora Meridio, probably done by the boy, were arry on the inward curving walls, but that was all. Jan felt justifiably exasperated at the Spanish-speaking people. If some effort had been made to take the boy to Uspurt from here, instead of calling on us to send a car, Denhorn could have been crossed before the crack opened, he pointed out. An effort was made, replied Sanchez quietly. Perhaps you do not fully realize our position here. We have no engines except the stationery generators that give us current for our air conditioning and our utilities. They are powered by the wind mills. We do not have gasoline engines for vehicles, so our vehicles are operated by hand. You push them? demanded Jan incredulously. No, you've seen pictures of the pump cars that once were used on terrestrial railroads? Ours are powered like that, but we cannot operate them when the veterinarian wind is blowing. By the time I diagnosed the Venus shadow in Diego, the wind was coming up and we had no way to get him to Uspurt. Hmm! grunted Jan. He shifted uncomfortably and looked at the pair in the corner. Jan's head was bent over the boy, protecting Lee, and over his mother's shoulder Diego's black eyes returned Jan's glance. If the disease has just started, the boy could wait for the next earthship, couldn't he? asked Jan. I said I had just diagnosed it, not that it had just started, senor, corrected Sanchez. As you know, the trip to earth takes one hundred and forty-five days, and it can be started only when the two planets are at the right position in their orbits. Have you ever seen any one die of the Venus shadow? Yes, I have, replied Jan in a low voice. He had seen two people die of it, and it had not been pleasant. Medical men thought it was a deficiency disease, but they had not traced down the deficiency responsible. Treatment by vitamins, diet, antibiotics, infrared and ultraviolet rays, all were useless. The only thing that could arrest and cure the disease was removal from the dry, cloud-hunged surface of Venus and return to a moist, sunny climate on earth. Without that treatment, once the typical mottles' texture of the skin appeared, the flesh rapidly deteriorated and fell away in chunks. The victim remained unfeavored and agonizingly conscious until the deterioration reached a vital spot. If you have, said Sanchez, you must realize that Diego cannot wait for a later ship, if his life is to be saved. He must get to earth at once. Jan puffed at the hit-and-buy tobacco and cogitated. The place was aptly named. It was a ratty community. The boy was a dark-skinned little Spaniard of Mexican origin, perhaps, but he was a boy and a human being. A thought occurred to him. From what he had seen and heard, the entire economy of Rathol could not support the tremendous expense of sending the boy across the millions of miles to earth by spaceship. Whose pain is passage, he asked. The Dutch Central Venus Company is an exactly a charitable institution. Your senior decker said that it would be taken care of, replied Sanchez. Jan relid his pipe silently, making a mental resolution that decker wouldn't take care of it alone. Salaries for the Venerian service were high, and many of the men at Oostport would contribute readily to such a cause. Who is Diego's father, he asked. He was Ramon Marillo, a very good mechanic, answered Sanchez, with a sliding side-long glance at Jan's face. He has been dead for three years. Jan grunted. The copters at Oostport can't buck this wind, he said thoughtfully, or I'd come in one of those in the first place, instead of trying to cross Denhorn by land. If you have any sort of aircraft here, it might make it downwind, if it isn't wrecked on take-off. I'm afraid not, said Sanchez. Too bad, there's nothing we can do then. The nearest settlement west of here is more than a thousand kilometers away, and I happen to know they have no planes either. Just copters, so that's no help. Wait, said Sanchez, lifting the scalpel and tilting his head. I believe there is something, though we cannot use it. This was once an American naval base, and the people here were civilian employees who refused to move north with it. There was a flying machine they used for short-range work, and one was left behind, probably with a little help from the people of the settlement. But what kind of machine, copter or plane? They call it a flying platform. It carries two men, I believe, but senor, I know them. I've operated them before I left earth. Man, you don't expect me to try to fly one of those things in this wind. They're tricky as they can be, and the passengers are absolutely unprotected. Senor, I have asked you to do nothing. No, you haven't, muttered Jan, but you know I'll do it. Sanchez looked into his face, smiling faintly and a little sadly. I was sure you would be willing, he said. He turned and spoke in Spanish to Mrs. Morillo. The woman rose to her feet and came to them. As Jan arose, she looked up at him, tears in her eyes. Gracias, she murmured, un millón de gracias. She lifted his hands in hers and kissed them. Jan disengaged himself gently, embarrassed. But it occurred to him, looking down on the bowed head of the beautiful young widow, that he might make some flying trips back over here in his leisure time. Language barriers were not impassable, and feminine companionship might cure his neurotic, history-born distaste for Spaniards, for more than one reason. Sanchez was tugging at his elbow. Senor, I've been trying to tell you, he said. It is generous and good of you, and I wanted Senor Morillo to know what a brave man you are. But have you forgotten that we have no gasoline engines here? There is no fuel for the flying platform. The platform was in a warehouse which, like the rest of the structures in Rat Hole, was a half-buried dome. The platform's ring-shaped base was less than a meter thick, standing on four metal legs. On top of it, in the center, was a railed circle that would hold two men, but would crowd them. Two small gasoline engines sat on each side of this railed circle, and between them on a third side was the fuel tank. The passengers entered it on the fourth side. The machine was dusty and spotted with rust. Yan, surrounded by Sanchez, Diego, and a dozen men inspected it thoughtfully. The letters USN, SES, were painted in white on the platform itself, and each engine bore the label Hiller. Yan peered over the edge of the platform at the twin-ducted fans in their plastic shrouds. They appeared in good shape. Each was powered by one of the engines, transmitted to it by heavy rubber belts. Yan sighed. It was an unhappy situation. As far as he could determine, without making tests, the engines were in perfect condition. Two perfectly good engines, and no fuel for them. You're sure there's no gasoline anywhere on Rathol? He asked Sanchez. Sanchez smiled ruefully, as he had once before, at Jen's Appalachian for the community. The inhabitants' term for it was simply Lothiudad Neustra, our town. But he made no protest. He turned to one of the other men and talked rapidly for a few moments in Spanish. None senior, he said, turning back to Yan. The Americans, of course, kept much of it when they were here, but the few things we take to Ostport to trade could not buy precious gasoline. We have electricity in plenty, if you can power the platform with it. Yan thought that over, trying to find a way. No, it wouldn't work, he said. We could rig batteries on the platform and electric motors to turn the propellers. But batteries big enough to power it all the way to Ostport would be so heavy the machine couldn't lift them off the ground. If there were some way to carry a power line all the way to Ostport or to broadcast the power to it. But it's a light load machine, and must have an engine that gives the necessary power from very little weight. Wild schemes ran through his head. If they were on water instead of land he could rig up a sail. He could still rig up a sail for a ground car except for the chasm out on Den Horn. The ground car, Yan straightened and snapped his fingers. Doctor, he exclaimed, send a couple of men to drain the rest of the fuel from my ground car. And let's get this platform above ground and tie it down until we can get it started. Sanchez gave rapid orders in Spanish. Two of the men left at a run, carrying five gallon cans with them. Three others picked up the platform and carried it up a ramp outside. As soon as they reached ground level the wind hit them. They dropped the platform to the ground where it shuttered and swayed momentarily, and two of the men fell successfully on their stomachs. The wind caught the third and some resulted him half a dozen times before he skidded to a stop on his back without stretched arms and legs. He turned over cautiously and crawled back to them. Yan, his head just above ground level, surveyed the terrain. There was flat ground to the east, clear in a fairly broad valley for at least half a kilometer before any of the domes protruded up into it. This is as good a spot for take-off as we'll find," he said to Sanchez. The men put three heavy ropes on the platform's windward rail and secured it by them to the heavy chain that ran by the dome. The platform quivered and shuttered in the heavy wind, but its base was too low for it to overturn. Shortly the two men returned with the fuel from the ground car, struggling along the chain. Yan got above ground in a crouch, clinging to the rail of the platform, and helped them fill the fuel tank with it. He primed the carburetors and spun the engines. Nothing happened. He turned the engines over again, one of them coughed, and a cloud of blue smoke burst from its exhaust, but they did not catch. What is the matter, senor?" asked Sanchez from the dome entrance. I don't know," replied Yan. Maybe it's that the engines haven't been used in so long. I'm afraid I'm not a good enough mechanic to tell. Some of these men were good mechanics when the navy was here, said Sanchez. Wait! He turned and spoke to someone in the dome. One of the men of Rathol came to Yan's side and tried the engines. They refused to catch. The man made carburetor adjustments and tried again. No success. He sniffed, took the cap from the fuel tank and stuck his finger inside. He withdrew it, wet and oily, examined it. He turned and spoke to Sanchez. He says your ground car must have a diesel engine. Sanchez interpreted to Yan. Is that correct? Why yes, that's true. He says the fuel will not work, then. Senor! He says it is low-grade fuel and the platform must have high octane gasoline. Yan threw up his hands and went back into the house. I should have known that, he said unhappily. I would have known if I had thought of it. What is to be done, then? asked Sanchez. There's nothing that can be done, answered Yan. They may as well put the fuel back in my ground car. Sanchez called orders to the men at the platform. While they worked, Yan stared out at the furiously spinning windmills that dotted Rat Hall. There's nothing that can be done, he repeated. We can't make the trip over land because of the chasm out there in Denhorn, and we can't fly the platform because we have no power for it. Windmills. Again, Yan could imagine the flat land around them as his native Holland, with the sweeter sea sparkling to the west where here the desert stretched under darkling clouds. Yan looked at his watch, a little more than two hours before the G-bolts blast off time, and it couldn't wait for them. It was nearly eight hours since he had left Hustport and the afternoon was getting noticeably darker. Yan was sorry. He had done his best, but Venus had beaten him. He looked around for Diego. The boy was not in the dome. He was outside, crouched in the lee of the dome, playing with some sticks. Diego must know of his ailment, and why he had to go to Hustport. If Yan was any judge of character, Sanchez would have told him that. Whether Diego knew it was a lie for death matter for him to be aboard the Vanderdeck and when a blasted off for Earth, Yan did not know. But the boy was around eight years old, and he was bright, and he must realize the seriousness involved in a decision to send him all the way to Earth. Yan felt ashamed of the exuberant foolishness which had led him to spout ancient history and claim descent from William of Orange. It had been a hobby, an artificial topic for conversation that amused him and his companions, in defense against the monotony of Venus that had begun to affect his personality perhaps a bit more than he realized. He did not dislike Spaniards. He had no reason to dislike them. They were all humans, the Spanish, the Dutch, the Germans, the Americans, even the Russians, fighting a hostile planet together. He could not understand a word Diego said when the boy spoke to him, but he liked Diego and wished desperately he could do something. Outside the windmills of Rathol spun merrily. There was power, the power that lighted an air-conditioned Rathol, power in the air all round them. If he could only use it, but to turn the platform on his side and let the wind spin the propellers was pointless. He turned to Sanchez. Asked them in if there are any spare parts for the platform, he said. Some of those legs it stands on, transmission belts, spare propellers. Sanchez asked. Yes, he said, many spare parts, but no fuel. Yan smiled a tight smile. Tell them to take the engines out, he said. Since we have no fuel, we may as well have no engines. Peter Hemskerk stood by the ramp to the stubby G-bolt and checked his watch. It was X minus fifteen, fifteen minutes before blast-off time. Hemskerk wore a space suit. Everything was ready, except climbing aboard, closing the airlock and pressing the firing pin. What on Venus could have happened to Van Ardveldt? The last radio message they had received more than an hour ago had said he and the patient took off successfully in an aircraft. What sort of aircraft could he be flying that would require an hour to cover eighty kilometers with the wind? Hemskerk could only draw the conclusion that the aircraft had been wrecked somewhere in Denhorn. As a matter of fact, he knew that preparations were being made now to send a couple of ground-cars out to search for it. This, of course, would be too late to help the patient Van Ardveldt was bringing. But Hemskerk had no personal interest in the patient. His worry was all for his friend. The two of them had enjoyed chess and a good beer together on his last three trips to Venus, and Hemskerk hoped very sincerely that the big blond man wasn't hurt. He glanced at his watch again, X minus twelve. In two minutes it would be time for him to walk up the ramp into the G-bolt. In seven minutes the backward count before Blastoff would start over the area loudspeakers. Hemskerk shook his head sadly, and Van Ardveldt had promised to come back triumphant with a broom at his masthead. It was a high thin wine borne on the wind, carrying even through the walls of his space helmet that attracted Hemskerk's attention and caused him to pause with his foot on the ramp. Around him the rocket mechanics were staring up at the sky, trying to pinpoint the noise. Hemskerk looked westward. At first he could see nothing. Then there was a moving dot above the mountain, against the indigo umbrella of clouds. It grew, it swooped, it approached and became a strange little flying disk with two people standing on it, and something sticking up from its deck in front of them. How, broom? No. The platform hovered and began to settle nearby, and there was Van Ardveldt leaning over its rail and fiddling frantically with whatever it was that stuck up on it, a weird, angled contraption of pipes and belts topped by a whirling blade. A boy stood at his shoulder and tried to help him. As the platform descended to a few meters above ground, the Dutchman slashed at the contraption. The cut ends of belts whipped out wildly and the platform slid to the ground with a rush. It hit with a clatter and its two passengers tumbled prone to the ground. Jan, boomed Hemskerk, forcing his voice through the helmet diaphragm and rushing over to his friend. I was afraid you were lost. Jan struggled to his feet and leaned down to help the boy up. Be patient, Pieter," he said. Hope you have a spacesuit in his size. I can find one, and will have to hurry for Blastoff. But first, what happened? Even that damn thing ought to get here from Rathol faster than that. Had no fuel, replied Jan briefly. My engines were all right, but I had no power to run them, so I had to pull the engines and rig up a power source. Hemskerk stared at the platform. On its railing was rigged a tripod of battered metal pipes, a top which, a big four-blade propeller spun slowly in what wind was left after it came over the western mountain. Over the edges of the platform, running from the two propellers in its base, hung a series of tattered transmission belts. Power source, repeated Hemskerk. That? Certainly, replied Jan with dignity. The power source any good Dutchman turns to in an emergency. A windmill. There was no returning, only the bitterness of respect and justice. The Depocton student, whose blue robe in George Kenton's opinion clashed with the dull purple of his scales, twiddled a three-clod hand for attention. Kenton nodded to him from his place on the dais before the group. Then can you give us no precise count of the stars in the galaxy, George? Kenton smiled riley, and ran a wrinkled hand through his grain there. In the clicking Depocton's speech, his name came out more like George. Questions like this had been put to him often during the ten years since his rocket had hurtled through the meteorite belt and down to the surface of Depoct, leaving him the only survivor. Barred off as they were from venturing into space, the highly civilized Depoctons constantly displayed the curiosity of dreamers in matters related to the universe. The veil of meteorites and satellite fragments whirling about their planet, their astronomers had acquired torturous skills but only scraps of real knowledge. As I believe I mentioned in some of my recorded lectures, Kenton answered in their language, the number is actually as vast as it seems to those of you peering through the dome of eyes. The scientists of my race have not yet encountered any beings capable of estimating the total. He leaned back and scanned the faces of his interviewers, faces that would have been oddly humanoid were it not for the elongated snouts and pointed, sharp-toothed jaws. The average Depocton was slightly under Kenton's height of five feet ten, with a long, supple trunk. Under the robes their scholars affected. The shortness of their two bold legs was not obvious, but the sight of the short, thick arms carried high before their chest still left Kenton with a feeling of misproportion. He should be used to it after ten years, he thought, but even the reds or purples of the scales or the big teeth seemed more natural. I sympathize with your curiosity, he added. It's a marvel that your scientists have managed to measure the distance of so many stars. He could tell that they were pleased by his admiration and wondered yet again why any little show of approval by him was so eagerly received. Even though he was the first stellar visitor in their recorded history, Kenton remained conscious of the fact that in many fields he was unable to offer the Depoctons any new ideas. In one or two ways, he believed, no Taren could teach their experts anything. Then will you tell us, George, more about the problems of your first space explorers, came another question. Before Kenton had formed his answer, the golden curtains at the rear of the austerely simple chamber parted. Claft, the Depocton, serving the current year as Kenton's chief aide, hurried toward the dais. The twenty-odd members of the group fell silent on their polished stone benches, turning their pointed visages to follow Claft's progress. The aide reached Kenton and bent to hiss and clock into the latter's ear, in what he presumably considered an undertone. The Taren laborsly spelled out the message and scribed on the limp, satiny paper held before his eyes. Then he rolls and took one step toward the waiting group. I regret, I shall have to conclude this discussion," he announced. I am informed that another ship from space has reached the surface of Depoct. My presence is requested in case the crew are of my own planet. Claft excitedly skipped down to lead the way up the isle, but Kenton hesitated. Those in the audience were scholars or officials to whom attendance at one of Kenton's limited number of personal lectures was awarded as an honour. They would hardly learn anything from him directly that was not available in recordings made over the course of years. The Depocton scientists, historians, and philosophers had respectfully but eagerly gathered every crumb of information Kenton knowingly had to offer, and some he thought he had forgotten. Still he sensed the disappointment at his announcement. I shall arrange for you to await my return here in town," Kenton said, and there were murmurs of pleasure. Later aboard the jet helicopter that was basically like those Kenton remembered using on Terra twenty light years away he shook his head at Claft's respectful protest. But George, it was enough that they were present when you received the news. They can talk about that the rest of their lives. You must not waste your strength on these people who come out of curiosity. Kenton smiled at his aide's earnest concern. Then he turned to look out the window as he recalled the shadow that underlay such remonstrances. He estimated he was about forty-eight now, as nearly as he could tell from the somewhat longer revolutions of Depocton. The time would come when he would age and die, whose wishes would then prevail. Maybe he was wrong, he thought. Maybe he shouldn't stand in the way of their biologists and surgeons. But he'd rather be buried, even if that left them with only what he could tell them about the human body. To help himself forget the rather preoccupied manner in which some of the Depocton scientists occasionally eyed him, he peered down at the big dam of the hydroelectric project being completed to Kenton's design. Power from this would soon light the town built to house the staff of scientists, students, and workers assigned to the institute, organized about the person of Kenton. Now there was an example of their willingness to repay him for whatever help he had been, he reflected. They hadn't needed that for themselves. In some ways, compared to those of Tara, the industries of Depocton were underdeveloped. In the first place, the population was smaller and had different standards of luxury. In the second, a certain lack of drive resulted from the inability to break out into interplanetary space. Kenton had been inexplicably lucky to have reached the surface even in a battered hulk. The shell of the meteorites was at least a hundred miles thick and constantly shifting. We do not know if they have always been meteorites, the Depoctons had told Kenton, or whether part of them come from a destroyed satellite, but our observers have proven mathematically that no direct path through them may be predicted more than a very short while in advance. Kenton turned away from the window as he caught the glint of Depocton's son on the hull of the spaceship they also had built for him. Perhaps, would it be fair to encourage the newcomer to attempt the barrier? For ten years Kenton had failed to work up any strong desire to try it. The Depoctons called the ever-shifting lights of the dome-eyes after a myth in which each tiny satellite bright enough to be visible was supposed to watch over a single individual on the surface. Like their brothers on Terra, the native astronomers could trace their science back to a form of astrology, and Kenton often told them jokingly that he felt no urge to risk a physical encounter with his own personal eye. The helicopter started to descend, and Kenton remembered that the city named in his message was only about twenty miles from his home. The brief twilight of Depoct was passing by the time he set foot on the landing-field, and he paused to look up. The brighter stars visible from this part of the planet twinkled back at him, and he knew that each was being scrutinized by some amateur or professional astronomer. Before an hour had elapsed, most of them would be obscured by the tiny moonlets, some of which could already be seen. These could easily be mistaken for stars or the other five planets of the system, but in a short while the tinier ones in groups would cause a celestial haze resembling a miniature Milky Way. Claft, who had descended first, leaving the pilot to bring up the rear, noticed Kenton's pause. Glory glitters tell it is known for a curse, he remarked, quoting a Tipoctan proverb often applied by the disgruntled scientist to the dome of eyes. Kenton observed, however, that his aid also stared upward for a long moment. The Tipoctans loved speculating about the unsolvable. They had even found clubs to argue whether two satellites had been destroyed or only one. Half a dozen officials hastened up to escort the party to the vehicle-awaiting Kenton. Claft succeeded in quieting the lesser members of the delegation, so that Kenton was able to learn a few facts about the new arrival. The crash had been several hundred miles away, but someone had thought of the hospital in this city to have a doctor rating as an expert in human physiology. The survivor, only one occupant of the wreck, alive or dead, had been discovered, had accordingly been flown here. With a clanging of bells, the little convoy of ground cars drew up in front of the hospital. A way was made through the chittering crowd around the entrance. Within a few minutes Kenton found himself looking down at a pallet upon which lay another Terran. A man, he thought, then curled a lip wryly at the sudden, unexpected pang of disappointment. Well, he hadn't realized until then what he was really hoping for. The spaceman had been cleaned up and banished by the native medicos. Kenton saw that his left thigh was probably broken. Other dressings suggested cracked ribs and lacerations on the head and shoulders. The man was dark-haired but pale of skin, with a jutting chin and a nose that had been flattened in some earlier mishap. The flaring set of his ears somehow emphasized an overall leanness. Even in sleep his mouth was thin and hard. Thrown across the controls after his belt broke loose, Kenton guessed. I bow to your wisdom, George, said the plump, teapocked-in doctor who appeared to be in charge. Kenton could not remember him, but everyone on the planet addressed the Terran by the sound they fondly thought to be his first name. This is Dr. Chuckslkey, murmured, clapped. Kenton made the accepted gesture of greeting with one hand and said, You seem to have treated him very expertly. Chuckslkey ruffled the scales around his neck with pleasure. I have studied Terran physiology, he admitted complacently. From your records and drawings, of course, George, for I have not yet had the good fortune to visit you. We must arrange a visit soon, said Kenton. Clapped well. He broke off at the sound from the patient. A Terran, mumbled the injured man. He shook his head daisily, tried to sit up, and subsided with a groan. Why, he looked scared when he saw me, thought Kenton. You're all right now, he said soothingly. It's all over and you're in good hands. I gather there were no other survivors of the crash. The man stared curiously. Kenton realized that his own language sputtered clumsily from his lips after ten years. He tried again. My name is George Kenton. I don't blame you if I'm hard to understand. You see, I've been here ten years without ever having another Terran to speak to. The spaceman considered that for a few breaths, then seemed to relax. Al Birken, he introduced himself leconically. Ten years? A little over, confirmed Kenton. It's extremely unusual that anything gets through to the surface, let alone a spaceship. What happened to you? Birken's stare was suspicious. Then you ain't heard about the new colonies. Nah, you must have come here when all the planets were open. We had a small settlement on the second planet, Kenton told him. You mean there are new Terran colonies? Yeah, jet hoppers spreadin' all over the other five. None of the land-hungry poops figured a way to set down here, though, or they'd be creepin' around this planet, too. How did you happen to do it, run out of fuel? The other item for a few seconds before dropping his gaze. Kenton was struck with sudden doubt. The outposts of civilization were followed by less desirable developments as a general rule, prisons, for instance. He resolved to be wary of the visitor. You might say I was exploring, Birken replied, at last. That's why I come alone. Didn't want anybody else hurt if I didn't make it. Say, how bad am I banged up? Kenton realized guiltily that the man should be resting. He lost track of the moments he had wasted in talk while the others with him stood attentively about. He questioned the doctor briefly and relayed the information that Birken's leg was broken, but that the other injuries were not serious. They'll fix you up, he assured the spaceman. They're quite good at it, even if the sight of one does not make you think a little of an iguana. Rest up now, and I'll come back again when you're feeling better. For the next three weeks Kenton flew back and forth from his own town nearly every day. He felt that he should not neglect the few meetings which were the only way he could repay the depoctons for all they did for him. On the other hand, the chance to see and talk with one of his own kind drew him like a magnet to the hospital. The doctors operated upon Birken's leg, inserting a metal rod inside the bone by a method they had known before Kenton described it. The new arrival expected to be able to walk, with care, almost any day, although the pin would have to be removed after the bone had healed. Meanwhile, Birken seemed eager to learn all Kenton could tell him about the planet, teapocked. About himself, he was remarkably reticent. Kenton worried about this. I think we should not expect too much of this Terran. He warned Klaft uneasily. You too have citizens who do not always obey your laws, who sometimes, that is, who are born to die under the axe, as we say, interrupted Klaft, as if to ease the concern plain on Kenton's face. In other words, criminals. You suspect this Al Birken is such a one, George? It is not impossible, admitted Kenton unhappily. He will tell me little about himself. It may be that he was caught in teapock's gravity while fleeing from justice. To himself, he wished he had not told Birken about the spaceship. He didn't think the man exactly believed his explanation of why there was no use taking off in it. Yet he continued to spend as much time as he could visiting the other man. Then, as his helicopter landed at the city-port one-grade dawn, the news reached him. The other Terran has gone, Klaft reported, turning from the breathless messenger as Kenton followed him from the machine. Gone! Where'd they take him? Klaft looked uneasy, embarrassed. Kenton repeated his question, wondering about the group of armed police on hand. In the night, Klaft hissed and clucked. When none would think to watch him. They'd tell me, and quite rightly, I think. Get on with it, Klaft, please! In the night, then, Al Birken left the chamber in which he lay. He can walk some now, you know, because of Dr. Chuck Solkey's metal pin. He stole a ground car and is gone. He did? Kenton had an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Is it known where he went? I mean, he has been curious to see some of teapocked. Perhaps, he stopped, his own words braying in his ears. Klaft was clicking two claws together, a sign of emphatic disagreement. Al Birken, he said, was soon followed by three police constables in another vehicle. They found him heading in the direction of our town. Why did he say he was travelling that way? Asked Kenton, thinking to himself of the spaceship. Was the man crazy? He did not say, answered Klaft expressionlessly. Taking them by surprise, he killed two of the constables and injured the third before fleeing with one of their spears. Kenton felt his eyes bulging with dismay. Yes, for they carried only the short spears of their authority, not expecting to need fire weapons. Kenton looked from him to the messenger, noticing for the first time that the latter was an under-officer of police. He shook his head distractedly. It appeared that his suspicions concerning Birken had been only too accurate. Why was it one like him who got through, he asked himself in silent anguish? After ten years. The Tupoktans had been thinking well of Terrans, but now he did not worry about his own position. That was well enough established. Whether or not he could again hold up his head before the purple-scaled people who had been so generous to him. Even if they had been aroused to a rage by the killing, Kenton told himself he would not have been concerned about himself. He had reached a fairly ripe age for a spaceman. In fact, he had already enjoyed a decade of borrowed time. But they were more civilized than that wanton murderer he realized. He straightened up, forcing back his early morning awareness. We must get into the air immediately, he told Claft. Perhaps we may see him before he reaches. He broke off at the word spaceship, but he noticed a reserved expression on Claft's pointed face. His aide had probably reached a conclusion similar to his own. They climbed back into the cabin and Claft gave brisk orders to the lean young pilot. A moment later Kenton saw the ground outside drop away. Only upon turning around did he realize that two armed tepoctons had materialized in time to follow Claft inside. One was a constable, but the other he recognized for an officer of some rank. Both wore slung across their chests, weapons resembling long-barreled pistols with large, oddly indented butts to fit tepocton claws. The constable, in addition, carried a contraption with a quadruple tube for launching tiny rockets, no thicker than Kenton's thumb. These, he knew, were loaded with an explosive worthy of respect on any planet he had heard of. To protect him, he wondered, or to get Birken. The pilot headed the craft back toward Kenton's town in the brightening sky of early day. Long before the buildings of Kenton's institute came into view, they received a radio message about Birken. He has just been seen on the road passing the dam. Claft reported soberly after having been called to the pilot's compartment. He stopped to demand fuel from some maintenance workers, but they had been warned and fled. Couldn't they have seized him? demanded Kenton, his tone sharp with the worry he endeavored to control. He has that spear, I suppose, but he is only one and injured. Claft hesitated. Well, couldn't they? The aid looked away, out one of the windows at some sun-died clouds ranging from pink to orange. He grimaced and clicked his showy teeth uncomfortably. Perhaps they thought you might be offended, George, he answered at last. Kenton settled back in the seat especially padded to fit the contours of his terren body, and stared silently at the partition behind the pilot. In other words he thought he was responsible for Birken, who was a terren, one of his own kind. Maybe they really didn't want to risk hurting his feelings, but that was only part of it. They were leaving it up to him to handle what they considered his private affair. He wondered what to do. He had no actual faith in the idea that Birken was delirious, or acting under any influence but that of a criminally self-centered nature. I shouldn't have told him about the ship, Kenton muttered, nying the knuckle of his left thumb. He's on the run, all right. Probably scared the colonial authorities will trail him right down through the dome-eyes. Wonder what he did. He caught himself and looked around to see if he had been overheard. Claft and the police officers peered from their respective windows, incalculated withdrawal. Kenton, disturbed, tried to remember whether he had spoken in Terren or Tipocton. Would Birken listen if he tried reasoning, he asked himself. Maybe if he showed the man how they had proved the unpredictability of the openings through the shifting dome-eyes. An exclamation from the constable drew his attention. He rose and room was made for him at the opposite window. In the distance, beyond the town landing-field they were now approaching, Kenton saw a halted ground car. Across the plane, which was colored a yellowish tan by short, grass-like growth, a lone figure plotted toward the upthrust bulk of the spaceship that had never flown. Never mind landing at the town, snapped Kenton, go directly out to the ship. Claft relayed the command to the pilot. The helicopter swept a descending curve across the plane toward the gleaming hall. As they passed the man below, Birken looked up. He continued to limp along at a brisk pace with the aid of what looked like a short spear. Go down, Kenton ordered. The pilot landed about a hundred yards from the spaceship. By the time his passengers had alighted, however, Birken had drawn level with them, about fifty feet away. Birken shouted Kenton, where do you think you're going? Seeing that no one ran after him, Birken slowed his pace, but kept walking toward the ship. He watched them over his shoulder. Sorry, Kenton, he shouted, with no noticeable tone of regret. I figure I better travel on for my health. It's not so damn healthy up there, called Kenton. I told you how there's no clear path. Yeah, yeah, you told me. That don't mean I gotta believe it. Wait, don't you think they tried sending unmanned rockets up? Everyone was struck and exploded. Birken showed no more change of expression than if the other had commented on the weather. Kenton had stepped forward six or eight paces, irritated despite his anxiety at the way Birken persisted in drifting before him. Kenton couldn't just grab him, bad leg or not. He could probably break the older man in two. He glanced back at the topoktons beside the helicopter, claffed the pilot, the officer, the constable with the rocket weapon. They stood silently, looking back at him. The call for help that had arisen to his lips died there. Not their party, he muttered. He turned again to Birken, who still retreated toward the ship. But he'll only get himself killed and destroy the ship. Or if some miracle gets him through, that's worse. He's nothing to turn loose on a civilized colony again. A twinge of shame tugged down the corners of his mouth as he realized that keeping Birken here would expose a highly cultured people to an unscrupulous criminal who had already committed murder the very first time he had been crossed. Birken, he shouted, for the last time. Do you want me to send them to drag you back here? Birken stopped at that. He regarded the motionless topoktons with the divisive sneer. They don't look too eager to me, he taunted. Kenton growled a topokton expression the meaning of which he had deduced after hearing it used by the dam workers. He whirled to run toward the helicopter. Hardly had he taken two steps, however, when he saw startled changes in the carefully blank looks of his escort. The constable half-raised his heavy weapon and claffed sprang forward with a hissing cry. By the time Kenton's aging muscles obeyed his impulse to sidestep, the spear had already hurtled past. It had missed him by an error of over six feet. He felt his face flushing with sudden anger. Birken was running as best he could toward the spaceship and had covered nearly half the distance. Kenton ran at the topoktons, brushing aside the concerned claffed. He snatched the heavy weapon from the surprised constable. He turned and raised it to his chest. Because of the shortness of topokton arms, the launcher was constructed so that the butt rested against the chest with the sighting loops before the eyes. The little rocket tubes were above head height to prevent the handlers catching the blast. The circles of the sights weaved and danced about the running figure. Kenton realized to his surprise that the effort of seizing the weapon had him panting. Or was it the fright at having a spear thrown at him? He decided that Birken had not come close enough for that and wondered if he was afraid of his own impending action. It wasn't fear, he complained to himself. The poor slob only had a spear and a man couldn't blame him for wanting to get back to his own sort. He was limping, hurt. How could they expect him to realize? Then, abruptly, his lips tightened to a thin line. The sights steadied on Birken as the latter approached the foot of the ladders leading to the entrance port of the spaceship. Kenton pressed the firing stud. Across the hundred yard space streaked four flaring little projectiles. Kenton, without exactly seeing each, was aware of the general lines of flight diverging gradually to bracket the figure of Birken. One struck the ground beside the man just as he set one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder and skittered away past one fin of the ship before exploding. The others burst against the hull, scattering metal fragments, another puffed on the upright of the ladder just above Birken's head. The spaceman was thrown back from the ladder. He balanced on his heels for a moment without stretch fingers reaching toward the grips from which they had been torn. Then he crumpled into a limp huddle on the yellowing turf. Kenton sighed. The constable took the weapon from him, reloaded deftly, and profited again. When the Terran had not reached for it, the officer held out a claw hand to receive it. He gestured silently, and the constable trodded across the intervening ground to bend over Birken. He is dead, said Claft, when the constable straightened up with a curt wave. Well, will you have some one see to him, please?" Kenton requested, turning toward the helicopter. Yes, George, said Claft. George? Well... It would be very instructive. That is, I believe Dr. Schachselke would like to... All right, yielded Kenton, surprised at the harshness of his own voice. Just tell him not to bring around any sketches of the various organs for a few months. He climbed into the helicopter and slumped into his seat. Presently he was aware of Claft edging into the seat across the aisle. He looked up. The police will stay until cars from town arrive. They are coming now, said his aide. Kenton stared at his hands, wondering of the fact that they were not shaking. He was ejected, empty, not like a man who had just been at a high pitch of excitement. Why did you not let him go, George? What? Why? Why he would have destroyed the ship you worked so hard to build. There is no safe path through the dome of eyes. No predictable path, Claft corrected. But what then? We should have built you another ship, George, for it was you who showed us how. Kenton flexed his finger slowly. He was just so good. You know the murder he did there. We can only guess what he did among my own, among Terrans. Should he have a chance to go back and commit more crimes? I understand, George, the logic of it, said Claft. I meant, it's not my place to say this, but you seem unhappy. Possibly grunted Kenton Riley. We too have criminals, said the aide, as gently as was possible, in his clicking language. We do not think it necessary to grieve for the pain they bring upon themselves. No, I suppose not, sighed Kenton. I—it's just— He looked up at the pointed visage, at the strange eyes regarding him sympathetically from beneath the sloping, purple-scaled forehead. It's just that now I'm lonely. Again, he said. End of Section 11. Section 12 of 20 short science fiction stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Outbreak of Peace by H.B. Fife When properly conducted, a diplomatic mission can turn the most mashing of battle successes into a fabulous parric victory. It was a great pity. Space-martial Wilbur Hennings reflected, as he gazed through the one-way glass of the balcony door, that the local citizens had insisted upon decorating the square before their capital with the hulk of the first spaceship ever to have landed on Pollux 5. A hundred and fifty years probably seemed impressive to them, amid the explosive spread of Terran colonies and Federations. Actually, in the Marshal's opinion, it was merely long enough that such symbols as more than antiquated but less than historically precious. I presume you have a plan to have me march past that heap, he complained, tugging at the extremely historical sword that completed the effect of his dazzling white and gold uniform. Commodore Miller is aid, stiffened nervously. Around to the right of it, sir, he gestured. As you see, the local military are already keeping the route clear of onlookers. We thought it would be most impressive if your party were to descend the outer stairway from the palace balcony here, to heighten the importance of, to draw out the pomp and circumstance of opening the conference? Well, sir, and then across the square to the conference hall of the capital, outside which you will pause for a few gracious words to the crowd. And that will probably be my last opportunity to enjoy the morning sunlight. Oh well, it seems much too bright here in any case. The Commodore absently reached out to adjust a fold in his chief sky-blue sash, and the Marshal as absently parried the gesture. I shall be hardly less than half an hour crossing the square, he predicted sourly. With the cheering throngs they have undoubtedly arranged, and the sunlight reflecting from all that imitation marble, it will be no place to collect one's thoughts. He turned back to the huge chamber, constituting the office of the suites supplied him by his Paluxian hosts. The skeleton staff of men and women remaining occupied chairs and benches along only one wall, since the bulk of the delegation had been sent out to make themselves popular with the local populace. Hennings presumed the bulk of the local populace to be consisted of Paluxians, assigned to making themselves popular with his Urson Federation delegation. His people would be listening politely to myriad reasons why the Paluxians had a natural right to occupy all the star systems from here to Castor, a dozen light-years farther from Terra. No one would mention the true motive, their illogical choice in naming themselves the Twin Empire. Well now, he said crisply, once more over the main points of the situation. No Commodore, not the schedule of experts that will accompany me to the table. I rely upon you to have perfected that. But have there been any unforeseen developments in the actual fighting? A cluster of aides, mostly in uniform but including a few in discreetly elegant civilian attire. Move forward. Each one was somehow followed within arms-reach by an aid of his own, so that the advance presented overtones of a small sortie. Henning's first nodded to the first, a youngish man whose air suggested technical competence more than the assurance of great authority. The officer placed his briefcase upon the glistening surface of a large table and touched a switch on the flap. It's as well to be sure, sir, the Commodore approved. Our men have been unable to detect any devices, but the walls may have ears. They won't scan through this scrambler, sir, asserted the young officer. Henning's accepted a seat at the table and looked up to one of the others. Mirelli's star, an older officer reported briskly. The same situation prevailed, with both sides having landed surface troops in force upon Mirelli II, Mirelli III, and Mirelli V, the fourth planet being inhabited by a partly civilized non-human race protected under the Terran Convention. Recent engagements? No, sir. Maneuvering continues, but actual encounters have declined in frequency. Casualties are modest and evenly matched. General Nielsen, on Mirelli III, continues to receive Paluxian agents seeking his defection. I never thought to ask, murmured Henning's. Is he really a distant connection of the Paluxian Nielsen family? It is improbable, sir, but they are polite enough to accept the pretense. Of course he rejects every offer in a very high-minded manner, and seems to be making an adequate impression of chivalry. He stepped back at Henning's nod to be replaced by another officer. One minor space skirmish in the Agoki system to report, sir. The Adrenaline Command appears to have recouped after the error of two days ago, when that Paluxian detachment was so badly mauled. He arranged the capture of three of our cruisers. Was that not a trifle rash, demanded Henning's. Intelligence is inclined to think not, sir. The ships were armed only with weapons listed as general knowledge items. The crews were not only trained in prisoner-of-war tactics, but also well supplied with small luxuries. The Paluxian fleet in that system is known to have been in space for several months, so a friendly effect is anticipated. Henning's considered the condensed report proffered for his perusal. He noted that the Paluxians had been quite gentlemanly about notifying Ursun headquarters of the capture and of the complete lack of casualties. He also saw that while the message was ostensibly directed to the Federation flagship, it had been beamed in such a fashion as to be conveniently intercepted by the secret Ursun Federation headquarters on Agoki 7. That was a bit rude of them, he commented. We have never dragged their secrets into the open. On the other hand, sir, the Commodore suggested, it may be an almost sophisticated method of permitting us to enjoy our superior finesse. I am just as pleased to have the reminder, said Henning's. It will serve to alert us all the more when we sit down with them over there. An elegant civilian, a large man with patient drooping features, stated that nothing had occurred to change the economic situation. Another reported that unofficial channels of information were holding up as well as could be expected. A uniformed officer summarized the battle situation in two more star systems. Those are positions we actually desire to hold, are they not, Henning's asked. Is action to be taken there? Plans call for local civilian riots at the height of the conference, sir. But can we lay no groundwork sooner than that? Sometime in the foreseeable future, at least. Take it up with propaganda. Blauvelt. It seems to me that the briefing mentioned an indigenous race on one of these planets. Blauvelt dropped his eyes momentarily, equivalent in that gathering to a blush of intense embarrassment. Henning's coughed apologetically. Well now, I should not pry into arrangements I must later be able to deny convincingly with a clear conscience. I can only plead, my dear Blauvelt, the tenseness of the past several days. The officer murmured inaudibly, fumbled with his papers and edged to the rear rank. Someone, at Commodore Miller's fluttering, obtained a vacuum jug of ice water and a glass for the marshal, but Henning's chose instead to produce a long cigar from a pocket concealed beneath his resplendent collection of metals. My apologies to all of you, he said thoughtfully. I fear that any of you who may expect contact with the local population had better see Dr. Ibn Talal about the hypnosis necessary to counteract my little indiscretion. And now, what remains? Nothing but the prisoner exchange, sir. Commodore Miller announced after collecting the eyes of the principal officers. Henning's got his cigar going. He listened to confirmation of a previous report that had massive exchange of sick and wounded prisoners had been accomplished, and learned that the Urssans now suspected that they had accepted unknowingly about as many secret agents as they had sent the Paluxians. Oh, well, he sighed, as long as the amenities were preserved. We must be as friendly as possible about that sort of thing, or run the risk of antagonizing them. Seeing that the Commodore was tense with impatience, the Marshal rolls to his feet. An aide deftly received the cigar for disposal, and the party drifted expectantly toward the balcony doors. From among that part of the staff which would remain to man headquarters, an officer was dispatched to alert the Paluxian Honor Guard. One more touch before the die is cast, thought the Marshal, as two young officers opened the balcony doors to admit the Blair of Trumpets. Chairs rolled successively across the square, rising like distant waves from somewhere beneath the gigantic banner that draped the capital opposite with fiery letters spelling out Peace Conference. With a dramatic gesture, Hennings held up the chief of reports they had just reviewed. Smiles disappeared in response to his own serious mean. So much for the hostiles, he snapped. He tossed the reports to the officer who would remain in charge, now for the actual war. Pivoting on his heel, he led them smartly out to the ornate balcony stairway that curved down into the sea of cheering Paluxians. End of section 12