 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Gambler's World by Keith Laumer. Ratif paused before a tall mirror to check the overlap of the four sets of lapels that ornamented the vermilion cutaway of a First Secretary and consul. "'Come along, Ratif,' Magnon said. The Ambassador has a word to say to the staff before we go in. "'I hope he isn't going to change the spontaneous speech he plans to make with the potentate impulsively suggests a trade agreement along the lines they've been discussing for the last two months. Your divisive attitude is uncalled for, Ratif,' Magnon said sharply. "'I think you realize it's delayed your promotion in the court.'" Ratif took a last glance in the mirror. "'I'm not sure I want a promotion,' he said. It would mean more lapels." Ambassador Crudfowler pursed his lips, waiting until Ratif and Magnon took places in the ring of terrestrial diplomats around him. "'A word of caution only, gentlemen,' he said. "'Keep always foremost in your minds the necessity for our identification with the nanny-cast. Even a hint of familiarity with lower echelons could mean the failure of the mission. Let us remember that the nanny represent authority here on Patriarch. Their traditions must be observed, whatever our personal preferences. Let's go along now. The potentate will be making his entrance any moment.'" Magnon came to Ratif's side as they moved toward the salon. The ambassador's remarks were addressed chiefly to you, Ratif. He said, "'Your laxness in these matters is notorious. Naturally I believe firmly in democratic principles myself. Have you a feeling, Mr. Magnon, that there's a lot going on here that we don't know about?' Magnon nodded. "'Quite so. Ambassador Crudfowler's point exactly. Matters which are not of concern to the nanny are of no concern to us. "'Another feeling I get is that the nanny aren't very bright. Now, suppose I'm not given to supposition, Ratif. We're here to implement the policies of the chief of mission. And I should dislike to be in the shoes of a member of the staff whose conduct jeopardized the agreement that will be concluded here tonight. A bearer with a tray of drinks, rounded a fluted column, shyed as he confronted the diplomats, fumbled the tray, grabbed and sent a glass crashing to the floor. Magnon leaped back, slapping at the purple cloth of his pants leg. Ratif's hand shot out to steady the tray. The servant rolled terrified eyes. "'I'll take one of these now that you're here,' Ratif said. He took a glass from the tray, winking at the servant. "'No harm done,' he said. Mr. Magnon's just warming up for the big dance.' A nanny-major domo bustled up, rubbing his hands politely. Some trouble here,' he said. "'What happened, Honourables? What—what—the blundering idiot!' Magnon spluttered. "'How dare—' "'You're quite an actor, Mr. Magnon,' Ratif said. "'If I didn't know about your democratic principles, I'd think you were really mad.' The servant ducked his head and scuttled away. "'Has this fellow—the major domo—eyed the retreating bearer?' "'I dropped my glass,' Ratif said. Mr. Magnon's upset because he hates to see liquor wasted. Ratif turned to find himself face to face with Ambassador Croddfaller. "'I witnessed that,' the Ambassador hissed. "'By the goodness of Providence, the potentate and his retinue haven't appeared yet. But I can assure you, the servant saw it. A more unnanny-like display, I would find it difficult to imagine.' Ratif arranged his features in an expression of deep interest. "'More unnanny-like, sir?' he said. "'I'm not sure—' "'Bah!' the Ambassador glared at Ratif. "'Your reputation has preceded you, sir. Your name is associated with a number of the most bizarre incidents in core history. I'm warning you, I'll tolerate nothing.' He turned and stalked away. "'Ambassador Bading is a dangerous sport, Ratif,' Magnon said. Ratif took a swallow of his drink. "'Still,' he said, "'it's better than no sport at all.' Your time would be better spent observing the nanny mannerisms. Frankly, Ratif, you're not fitting into the group at all well.' "'I'll be candid with you, Mr. Magnon. The group gives me the willies.' "'Oh, the nanny are a trifle frivolous, I'll concede,' Magnon said. "'But it's with them that we must deal, and you'd be making a contribution to the overall mission if you merely abandoned that rather arrogant manner of yours.' Magnon looked at Ratif critically. "'You can't help your height, of course. But couldn't you curve your back just a bit and possibly assume a more placating function? Just act a little more... girlish?' "'Exactly.' Magnon nodded, then looked sharply at Ratif. Ratif drained his glass and put it on a passing tray. "'I'm better at acting girlish when I'm well juiced,' he said. "'But I can't face another sorghum and soda. I suppose it would be unnanny like to slip the bearer of credit and ask for a scotch and water?' "'Decidedly.' Glanced toward a sound across the room. "'Ah, here's the potentate now.' He hurried off. Ratif watched the bearers coming and going, bringing trays laden with drinks, carrying off empties. There was a lull in the drinking now, as the diplomats gathered around the periwigged chief of state and his courtiers. Bearers loitered near the service-door, eyeing the notables. Ratif strolled over to the service-door, pushed through it into a narrow, white-tiled hall filled with the odors of the kitchen. Silent servants gaped as he passed, watching as he moved along to the kitchen door and stepped inside. PART II A dozen or more low-caste Petriacans, gathered around a long table in the center of the room, looked up, startled. A heap of long-bladed bread-knives, French knives, carving knives and cleavers lay in the center of the table. Their knives were thrust into belts or held in the hands of the men. A fat man and the yellow sarong of a cook stood frozen in the act of handing a knife to a tall, one-eyed sweeper. Ratif took one glance, then led his eyes wandered to a far corner of the room. Humming a careless little tune, he sauntered across to the open liquor-shells, selected a garish green bottle, and turned unhurriedly back toward the door. A group of servants watched him, transfixed. As Ratif reached the door, it swung inward. Magnan, lips pursed, stood in the doorway. "'I had a premonition,' he said. "'I'll bet it was a dandy,' Ratif said. "'You must tell me all about it in the salon.' "'We'll have this out right here,' Magnan snapped. "'I've warned you!' His voice trailed off as he took in the scene around the table. "'After you,' Ratif said, nudging Magnan toward the door. "'What's going on here?' Magnan barked. He stared at the men. Started around Ratif. A hand stopped him. "'Let's be going,' Ratif said, propelling Magnan toward the hall. "'Those knives!' Magnan yelled. "'Take your hands off me, Ratif. What are you men?' Ratif glanced back. The fat cook gestured suddenly, and the men faded back. The cook stood, arm cocked, a knife across his palm. "'Close the door and make no sound,' he said softly. Magnan pressed back against Ratif. "'Let's run,' he faltered. Ratif turned slowly, put his hands up. "'I don't run very well with a knife in my back,' he said. "'Stand very still, Magnan, and do just what he tells you.' "'Take them out through the back,' the cook said. "'What does he mean?' Magnan spluttered. "'Here, you, silence,' the cook said, almost casually. Magnan gaped at him, closed his mouth. Two of the men with knives came to Ratif's side and gestured, grinning broadly. "'Let's go, peacocks,' one said. Ratif and Magnan silently crossed the kitchen, went out the back door, stopped on command, and stood waiting. The sky was brilliant with stars. A gentle breeze stirred the treetops beyond the garden. Behind them the servants talked in low voices. "'You go too, Illy,' the cook was saying. "'Do it here,' another said. "'And carry their damned dead bodies down?' "'Pitch them behind the hedge.' "'I said the river. Three of you is plenty for a couple of nanny. We don't know if they want to—' "'They're foreigners, not nanny. We don't know. So their foreign nanny makes no difference. I've seen them. I need every man here. Now get going!' "'What about the big guy? He looks tough.' "'Him?' He waltzed into the room and didn't notice a thing, but watched the other one. At a prod from a knife-point, Ratif moved off down the walk, two of the escort behind him and Magnan, another going ahead to scout the way. Magnan moved closer to Ratif. "'Say,' he said in a whisper, "'that fellow in the lead, isn't he the one who spilled the drink, the one you took the blame for?' "'That's him all right. He doesn't seem nervous any more, I notice.' "'You saved him from serious punishment,' Magnan said. "'He'll be grateful. He'll let us go.' "'Better check with the fellows with the knives before you act on that.' "'Say something to him,' Magnan hissed. "'Remind him.'" The lead man fell back in line with Ratif and Magnan. "'These two are scared of you,' he said, grinning and jerking a thumb toward the knife-handlers. They haven't worked around the nanny like me. They don't know you.' "'Don't you recognize this gentleman?' Magnan said. "'He did me a favour,' the man said. "'I remember.' "'What's it all about?' Ratif asked. "'The revolution. We're taking over now. Who's we?' The people's anti-fascist Freedom League. What are all the knives for? For the nanny, and for all you foreigners. What do you mean?' Magnan gasped. "'We'll slit all the throats at one time. It saves a lot of running around. What time will that be?' Just at dawn, and dawn comes early, this time of year, by full daylight the pothole will be in charge.' "'You'll never succeed,' Magnan said. "'A few servants with knives you'll all be caught and killed.' "'By who, the nanny?' The man laughed. "'You, nanny, are a caution.' "'But we're not, nanny.' "'We've watched you. You're the same. You're part of the same blood-sucking class.' "'There are better ways to adjust differences,' Magnan said. "'This killing won't help you. I'll personally see to it that your grievances are heard in the core courts. I can assure you that the plight of the downtrodden workers will be alleviated, equal rights for all.' "'These threats won't work,' the man said. "'You don't scare me.' "'Threats? I'm promising relief to the exploited classes of Petraic.' "'You must be nuts,' the man said. "'You trying to upset the system or something?' "'Isn't that the purpose of your revolution?' "'Look, nanny, we're tired of you, nanny, getting all the graft. We want our turn. What good would it do us to run Petraic if there's no loot? You mean you intend to oppress the people? But they're your own group.' "'Group, schmoop. We're taking all the chances. We're doing the work. We deserve the payoff. You think we're throwing up good jobs for the fun of it?' "'You're basing a revolt on these cynical premises?' "'Wise up, nanny. There never has been a revolution for any other reason.' "'Who's in charge of this?' The chief said. "'Shok'e, the head chef.' "'I mean the big boss. Who tells Shok'e what all to do?' "'Oh, that's Zorn. Look out. Here's where we start down the slope. It's slippery.' "'Look,' Magnan said. "'You.' "'My name's Illy.' "'Mr. Illy, this man showed you mercy when he could have had you beaten.' "'Keep moving. Yeah,' I said. I was grateful.' "'Yes,' Magnan said, swallowing hard. "'A noble emotion, gratitude. You won't regret it.' "'I always try to pay back a good turn,' Illy said. "'Watch your step now on this seawall.' "'You'll never regret it,' Magnan said. "'This is far enough,' Illy motioned to one of the knife-men. "'Give me your knife, Vug.' The man passed the knife to Illy. There was an odor of seamud and kelp. Small waves slapped against the stones of the seawall. The wind was stronger here.' "'I know a neat stroke,' Illy said. "'Practically painless. Who's first?' "'What do you mean?' Magnan quavered. "'I said I was grateful. I'll do it myself. Give you a nice, clean job. You know these amateurs. Watch it up and have a guy flopping around, yelling and spattering everybody up.' "'I'm first,' Ratif said. He pushed past Magnan, stopped suddenly, drove a straight punch at Illy's mouth. The long blade flickered harmlessly over Ratif's shoulder as Illy fell. Ratif whirled. Leaped past Magnan, took the unarmed servant by the throat and belt, lifted him and slammed him against the third man. Both scrambled, yelped and fell from the seawall into the water. Ratif turned back to Illy. He pulled off the man's belt and strapped his hands together. Magnan found his voice. "'You—we—they—' "'I know,' Ratif said. "'We've got to get back,' Magnan said. Warn them. We'd never get through the rebel cordon around the palace, and if we did, trying to give an alarm would only set the assassinations off early. We can't just—' "'We've got to go to the source, this fellow's zorn. Get him to call it off. We'd be killed. At least we're safe here.' Illy groaned and opened his eyes. He sat up. "'On your feet, Illy,' Ratif said. Illy looked around. "'I'm sick,' he said. "'The damp air is bad for you. Let's be going.' Ratif pulled the man to his feet. Where does Zorn stay when he's in town?' He demanded. "'What happened? Where's Vugh and—' "'They had an accident. Fell in the pond.' Illy gazed down at the restless black water. "'I guess I had you, Nenny, figured wrong.' "'Us, Nenny, have hidden qualities. Let's get moving before Vugh and Slug make it to shore and start it all over again.' "'No hurry,' Illy said. "'They can't swim,' he spat into the water. "'So long, Vugh, so long, Toscan. Take a pull at the hell-horn for me.' He started off along the seawall toward the sound of the surf. "'You want to see Zorn? I'll take you to see Zorn,' he said. "'I can't swim either.' Part 3 "'I take it,' Retief said, that the casino was affront for his political activities. He makes plenty off it. This paffle is a new kick. I never heard about it until a maybe a couple months ago.' Retief motioned toward a dark shed with an open door. "'We'll stop here,' he said, long enough to strip the gadgets off these uniforms. Illy, hands strapped up behind his back, stood by and watched as Retief and Magnon removed metals, ribbons, orders, and insignia from the formal diplomatic garments. "'This may help some,' Retief said. "'If the word is out, the two diplomats are loose.' "'It's a breeze,' Illy said. "'We see cats in purple and orange tailcoats all the time.' "'I hope you're right,' Retief said. "'But if we're called, you'll be the first to go, Illy.' "'You're a funny kind of nanny,' Illy said, eyeing Retief. "'Tossin' and Vug must be wondering what happened to him.' "'If you think I'm good at drowning people, you ought to see me with a knife. Let's get going.' "'It's only a little way now,' Illy said. "'But you'd better untie me. Somebody's liable to stick their nose in and get me killed.' "'I'll take the chance. How do we get to the casino?' "'We follow this street. It twists around and goes under a couple tunnels. When we get to the drunkard's stairs, we go up, and it's right in front of us—a pink front with a sign like a big luck-wheel.' "'Give me your belt, Magnan,' Retief said. Magnan handed it over. "'Lie down, Illy,' Retief said. The servant looked at Retief. "'Vug and Tossin' will be glad to see me,' he said. "'They'll never believe me.' He lay down. Retief strapped his feet together and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth. "'Why are you doing that?' Magnan asked. "'We need him.' "'We know the way, and we don't need anyone to announce our arrival. It's only on 3D that you can march a man through a gang of his pals with a finger in his back.' Magnan looked at the man. "'Maybe you'd better cut his throat,' he said. Illy rolled his eyes. "'That's a very unnanny-like suggestion, Mr. Magnan,' Retief said. "'If we have any trouble finding the casino, I'll give it serious thought.' "'There were a few people in the narrow street. Shops were shuttered, windows dark.' "'Maybe they heard about the coup,' Magnan said. "'They're lying low. More likely they're at the palace picking up their knives.' They rounded a corner, stepped over a man curled in the gutter snoring heavily, and found themselves at the foot of a long flight of littered stone steps. The drunkard's stairs are plainly marked. Magnan sniffed. "'I hear sounds up there,' Retief said. "'Sounds of merry-making.' "'Maybe we'd better go back.' "'Merry-making doesn't scare me,' Retief said. "'Come to think of it. I don't know what the word means.' He started up Magnan behind him. At the top of the long stair a dense throng milled in the alley-like street. A giant illuminated roulette-wheel revolved slowly above them. A loudspeaker blared the chant of the croupiers from the tables inside. Magnan and Retief moved through the crowd toward the wide open doors. Magnan plucked at Retief's sleeve. "'Are you sure we ought to push right in like this? Maybe we ought to wait a bit, look around.' "'When you're where you have no business being,' Retief said, always stride along purposefully. If you loiter, people begin to get curious.' Inside a mob packed the wide, low-sealing room, clustered about gambling devices in the form of towers, tables, and basins. "'What do we do now?' Magnan asked. "'We gamble. How much money do you have in your pockets?' "'Why, a few credits.' Magnan handed the money to Retief. "'But what about the man's zorn?' "'A purple cutaway is conspicuous enough without ignoring the tables,' Retief said. "'We've got a hundred credits between us. We'll get the zorn and do course. I hope.' "'Your pleasure, gents,' a bullet-headed man said, eyeing the colorful evening clothes of the diplomats. "'You'll be wanting to try your luck at the Zoop Tower, I guess. A game for real sporting, gents.' "'Why,' Magnan said. "'What's a Zoop Tower?' Retief asked. "'Out of towners, eh?' The bullet-headed man shifted his dope-stick to the other corner of his mouth. "'Zoop is a great little game. Two teams of players buy into the pot. Each player takes a lever. The object is to make the ball drop from the top of the tower into your net. OK?' "'What's the ante?' "'I've got a hundred credit pot working now, gents.' Retief nodded. "'We'll try it.' The shill led the way to an eight-foot tower mounted on gimbals. Two perspiring men and trade-class pullovers gripped two of the levers that controlled the tilt of the tower. A white ball lay in a hollow in the thick-glass platform at the top. From the center an intricate pattern of grooves led out to the edge of the glass. Retief and Magnan took chairs before the two free levers. "'When the light goes on, gents, work the lever to jack the tower. You've got three gears. Takes a good arm to work top gear. That's this button here. The little knob controls what way you're going. May the best team win. I'll take the hundred credits now.' Retief handed over the money. A red light flashed on, and Retief tried the lever. It moved easily with a ratcheting sound. The tower trembled, slowly tilted toward the two perspiring workmen pumping frantically at their levers. Magnan started slowly, accelerated as he saw the direction the tower was taking. "'Faster, Retief,' he said. They're winning.' "'This is against the clock, gents,' the bullet-headed man said. "'If nobody wins when the light goes off, the house takes all.' "'Crank it over to the left,' Retief said. "'I'm getting tired. Shift to a lower gear.' The tower leaned. The ball stirred, rolled into a concentric channel. Retief shifted to middle gear, worked the lever. The tower creaked to a stop, started back upright. "'There isn't any lower gear,' Magnan gasped. One of the two on the other side of the tower shifted to middle gear. The other followed suit. They worked harder now, heaving against the stiff levers. The tower quivered, moved slowly toward their side. "'I'm exhausted,' Magnan gasped. He dropped the lever, lulled back in the chair, gulping air. Retief shifted position, took Magnan's lever with his left hand. "'Shift it to middle gear,' Retief said. Magnan gulped, punched the button, and slumped back panting. "'My arm,' he said. "'I've injured myself.' The two men in pullovers conferred hurriedly as they cranked their levers. Then one punched the button, and the other reached a cross, using his left arm to help. "'They've shifted to high,' Magnan said. "'Give up, it's hopeless.' "'Shift me to high,' Retief said. "'Both buttons.' Magnan complied. Retief's shoulders bulged. He brought one lever down, then the other, alternately, slowly at first, then faster. The tower jerked, tilted toward him farther. The ball rolled in the channel, found an outlet. Uproply, both Retief's levers froze. The tower trembled, wavered, and moved back. Retief heaved. One lever folded at the base, bent down, and snapped off short. Retief braced his feet, took the other lever with both hands, and pulled. There was a rasp of metal friction, and a loud twang. The lever came free, a length of broken cable flopping into view. The tower fell over as the two on the other side scrambled aside. "'Hey!' Bullethead yelled. "'You wrecked my equipment.' Retief got up and faced him. "'Does Zor know you've got your tower rigged for suckers?' "'You trying to call me a cheat or something?' The crowd had fallen back, ringing the two men. Bullethead glanced around, with a lightning motion he plucked a knife from somewhere. "'That'll be five hundred credits for the equipment,' he said. "'Nobody calls Kippy a cheat.' Retief picked up the broken lever. "'Don't make me hit you with this, you cheap chisler.' Kippy looked at the bar. "'Comin' in here,' he said indignantly, looking to the crowd for support, bustin' up my rig, callin' names. "'I want a hundred credits,' Retief said. "'Now!' "'Highway robbery!' Kippy yelled. "'Better pay up,' somebody called. "'Hit him, mister,' someone else said. A broad-shouldered man with graying hair pushed through the crowd and looked around. "'You heard him, Kippy. Give,' he said. The shill growled but tucked his knife away. Reluctantly he peeled a bill from a fat roll and handed it over. The newcomer looked from Retief to Magnan. "'Tick another game, strangers,' he said. Kippy made a little mistake. "'This is small-time stuff,' Retief said. "'I'm interested in something big.' The broad-shouldered man lit a perfumed dope-stick. "'What would you call big?' He said softly. "'What's the biggest you've got?' The man narrowed his eyes, smiling. "'Maybe you'd like to try Slam.' "'Tell me about it!' Over here.' The crowd opened up, made a path. Retief and Magnan followed across the room to a brightly-lit glass-walled box. There was an arms-sized opening at waist-height. Inside was a hand-grip. A two-foot plastic globe, a quarter full of chips, hung in the center. Apparatus was mounted at the top of the box. "'Slam pays good odds,' the man said. "'You can go as high as you like. Chips cost you a hundred credits. You start it up by dropping a chip in here,' he indicated a slot. "'You take the hand-grip. When you squeeze, it unlocks. The globe starts to turn. You can see it's full of chips. There's a hole at the top. As long as you hold the grip, the bowl turns. The harder you squeeze, the faster it turns. Eventually it'll turn over to where the hole is down, and the chips fall out. On the other hand, there's contact plates spotted around the bowl. When one of them lines up with a live contact, you get quite a little jolt, guaranteed non-lethal. All you've got to do is hold on long enough and you'll get the payoff. How often does this random pattern put the hole down? Anywhere from three minutes to fifteen, with the average run of players. Oh, by the way, one more thing. That lead block up there. The band motioned with his head toward a one-foot cube, suspended by a thick cable. It's rigged to drop every now and again. Average is five minutes. A warning light flashes first. You can take a chance. Sometimes the light's a bluff. You can set the clock back on it by dropping another chip. Or you can let go the grip. Retief looked at the massive block of metal. That would mess up a man's dealing hand, wouldn't it? The last two jokers who were too cheap to feed the machine had to have them off. Their arms, I mean. That lead's heavy stuff. I don't suppose your machine has a habit of getting stuck, like kippies. The broad-shouldered man frowned. You're a stranger, he said. You don't know any better. It's a fair game, mister, someone called. Where do I buy the chips? The man smiled. I'll fix you up, how many? One. A big spender, eh? The man snickered but handed over a large plastic chip. Part four. Retief stepped to the machine, dropped the coin. If you want to change your mind, the man said, you can back out now. All it'll cost you is the chip you dropped. Retief reached through the hole, took the grip. It was leather-padded hand-filling. He squeezed it. There was a click and bright lights sprang up. The crowd awed. The globe began to twirl lazily. The four-inch hole at its top was plainly visible. If ever the hole gets in position, it will empty very quickly. Magnan said, hopefully. Suddenly a brilliant white light flooded the glass cage. A sound went up from the spectators. Quick, drop a chip, someone called. You've only got ten seconds. Let go, Magnan yelped. Retief sat silent, holding the grip, frowning up at the weight. The globe twirled faster now than the bright white light winked off. A bluff, Magnan gasped. That's risky, stranger, the gray-tampled man said. The globe was turning rapidly now, oscillating from side to side. The hole seemed to travel in a wavering loop, dipping lower, swinging up high, then down again. It has to move to the bottom soon, Magnan said. Slow it down. The slower it goes, the longer it takes to get to the bottom, someone said. There was a crackle and Retief stiffened. Magnan heard a sharp intake of breath. The globe slowed and Retief shook his head, blinking. The broad-shouldered man glanced at a meter. You took pretty near a full jolt that time, he said. The hole in the globe was tracing an oblique course now, swinging to the center, then below. A little longer, Magnan said. That's the best speed I ever seen on the slam-ball, someone said. How much longer can he hold it? Magnan looked at Retief's knuckles. They showed white against the grip. The globe tilted farther, swung around, then down. Two chips fell out, clattered down a chute and into a box. We're ahead, Magnan said. Let's quit. Retief shook his head. The globe rotated, dipped again. Three chips fell. She's ready, someone called. It's bound to hit soon. Another voice added excitedly. Come on, mister. Slow down, Magnan said, so it won't move past too quickly. Speed it up before that lead block gets you, someone called. The hole swung wide over the top, then down the side. Chips rained out of the hole. Six, eight. Next pass, a voice called. The white light flooded the cage. The globe whirled. The hole slid over the top, down, down. A chip fell. Two more. Retief half-rose clamped his jaw and crushed the grip. Sparks flew. The globe slowed, chips spewing. It stopped, swung back, weighted by the massive chips at the bottom, and stopped again with the hole centered. Chips cascaded down the chute, filled the box before Retief, spilled on the floor. The crowd yelled. Retief released the grip and withdrew his arm at the same instant that the lead block slammed down. Good Lord! Magnan said, I felt that through the floor. Retief turned to the broad-shouldered man. This game's all right for beginners, he said, but I'd like to talk a really big gamble. Why don't we go to your office, Mr. Zorn? Your proposition interests me." Zorn said, grinding out the stump of his dope-stick in a brash-ass tray. But there's some angles to this I haven't mentioned yet. You're a gambler, Zorn, not a suicide, Retief said. Take what I've offered. The other idea was fancier, I agree, but it won't work. How do I know you birds aren't lying? Zorn snarled. He stood up, strode up and down the room. You walk in here and tell me I'll have a task force on my neck, that the Corps won't recognize my regime. Maybe you're right, but I've got other contacts, they say different. He whirled, stared at Retief. I have pretty good assurance that once I put it over, the Corps will have to recognize me as the legal government of Petraic. They won't meddle in internal affairs. Nonsense, Magnan spoke up. The Corps will never deal with a pack of criminals calling themselves, watch your language, you, Zorn rasped. I admit Mr. Magnan's point is little weak, Retief said. But you're overlooking something. You plan to murder a dozen or so officers of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne along with the local wheels. The Corps won't overlook that, it can't. They're tough luck, they're in the middle, Zorn muttered. Our offer is extremely generous, Mr. Zorn. Magnan said, the post you'll get will pay you very well indeed, as against the certain failure of your planned coup, the choice should be simple. Zorn eyed Magnan, offering me a job. It sounds phony as hell. I thought you birds were goody-goody diplomats. It's time you knew, Retief said. There's no phony or business in the galaxy than diplomacy. You'd better take it, Mr. Zorn, Magnan said. Don't push me, Junior, Zorn said. You two walk into my headquarters empty-handed in big mouth. I don't know what I'm talking to you for. The answer is no, N-I-X, no. Who are you afraid of? Retief said softly. Zorn glared at him. Where do you get that afraid routine? I'm top man here. Don't kid around, Zorn. Somebody's got you under their thumb. I can see you squirming from here. What if I let your boys alone? Zorn said suddenly. The Corps won't have anything to say, then, huh? The Corps has plans for patric, Zorn. You aren't part of them. A revolution right now isn't part of them. Having the potentate and the whole Nenny caste slaughtered isn't part of them. Do I make myself clear? Listen, Zorn said urgently, pulling a chair around. I'll tell you guys a few things. You ever heard of a world they call rotune? Certainly, Magnan said. It's a near neighbor of yours, another backward that is emergent. Okay, Zorn said. You guys think I'm a piker, do you? Well, let me wise you up. The Federal junta on rotune is backing my play. I'll be recognized by rotune, and the rotune fleet will stand by in case I need any help. I'll present the CDT with what you call a feta complet. What does rotune get out of this? I thought they were your traditional enemies. Don't get me wrong. I've got no use for rotune, but our interests happen to coincide right now. Do they? Retief smiled grimly. You can spot a sucker as soon as he comes through that door out there, but you go for a deal like this. What do you mean? Zorn looked angrily at Retief. It's foolproof. After you get in power you'll be fast friends with rotune, is that it? Friends, hell. Just give me time to get sad and I'll square a few things with that. Exactly. And what do you suppose they have in mind for you? What are you getting at? Why is rotune interested in your takeover? Zorn studied Retief's face. I'll tell you why, he said. It's you birds, you and your trade agreement. You're here to type a trick into some kind of trade combine. That cuts rotune out. Well, we're doing all right out here. We don't need any commitments to a lot of fancy pants on the other side of the galaxy. That's what rotune has sold you, eh? Retief said, smiling. Sold nothing. Zorn ground out his dope stick, lit another. He snorted angrily. Okay, what's your idea? He asked after a moment. You know what Petraic is getting in the way of imports as a result of the agreement? Sure, a lot of junk. To be specific, Retief said, there'll be 50,000 Tatone B3 dry washers, 100,000 Glow Float Motile Lamps, 100,000 Earthworm Miner Garden Cultivators, 25,000 Vacose Space Heaters, and 75,000 Replacement Elements for Ford Monomeg Drives. Like I said, a lot of junk. Retief leaned back, looking sardonically at Zorn. Here's the gimmick, Zorn, he said. The corps is getting a little tired of Petraic and Rotune carrying on their two-penny war out here. Your privateers have a nasty habit of picking on innocent bystanders. After studying both sides, the corps has decided Petraic would be a little easier to do business with. So this trade agreement was worked out. The corps can't openly sponsor an arms shipment to a belligerent, but personal appliances are another story. So what do we do? Plow them under with backyard cultivators. Zorn looked at Retief puzzled. What's the point? You take the sealed monitor unit from the washer, the repeller field generator from the lamp, the converter control from the cultivator, et cetera, et cetera. You fit these together according to some very simple instructions. Presto, you have 100,000 standard class Y handblasters. Just the thing to turn the tide in a stalemated war fought with obsolete arms. Good Lord! Magnus said, Retief, are you? I have to tell him. Retief said, he has to know what he's putting his neck into. Weapons, hey? Zorn said, and Rotun knows about it? Sure they know about it. It's not too hard to figure out. And there's more. They want the CDT delegation included in the massacre for a reason. It will put Petraic out of the picture. The trade agreement will go to Rotun, and you and your new regime will find yourselves looking down the muzzles of your own blasters. Zorn threw his dope stick to the floor with a snarl. I should have smelled something when that Rotun smoothie made his pitch. Zorn looked at his watch. I've got 200 armed men in the palace. We've got about 40 minutes to get over there before the rocket goes up. Part five. You better stay here on this terrace out of the way until I've spread the word, Zorn said. Just in case. Let me caution you against any slip-ups, Mr. Zorn. Magnan said, the nanny are not to be molested. Zorn looked at Ratif. Your friend talks too much, he said. I'll keep my end of it. He'd better keep his. Nothing's happened yet, you're sure, Magnan said. I'm sure, Zorn said, 10 minutes to go. Plenty of time. I'll just step into the salon to assure myself that all is well, Magnan said. Suit yourself, Zorn said. Just stay clear of the kitchen or you'll get your throat cut. He sniffed at his dope stick. What's keeping Shokay? He muttered. Magnan stepped to a tall glass door, eased it open and poked his head through the heavy draperies. As he moved to draw back, a voice was faintly audible. Magnan paused, head still through the drapes. What's going on there? Zorn rapsed. He and Ratif stepped up behind Magnan. Breath of air, ha-ha! Magnan was saying. Well, come along, Magnan. Ambassador Croddfoller's voice snapped. Magnan shifted from one foot to the other, then pushed through the drapes. Where have you been, Mr. Magnan? The Ambassador's voice was sharp. Oh, a slight accident, you Mr. Ambassador. What's happened to your shoes? Where are your insignia and decorations? I spilled a drink on them. Sir, listen. The sound of an orchestra came up suddenly, blaring a fanfare. Zorn shifted restlessly, ear against the glass. What's your friend pulling? He rasped. I don't like this. Keep cool, Zorn, Ratif said. Mr. Magnan is doing a little emergency salvage on his career. The music died away with a clatter. My God! Ambassador Croddfoller's voice was faint. Magnan, you'll be knighted for this. Thank God you reach me. Thank God it's not too late. I'll find some excuse. I'll get a gram off at once. But you— It's all right, Magnan. You were in time. Another ten minutes and the agreement would have been signed and transmitted. The wheels would have been put in motion. My career ruined. Ratif fell to prod at his back. He turned. Double crossed, Zorn said softly. So much for the word of a diplomat. Ratif looked at the short-barreled needler in Zorn's hand. I see you hedge your bets, Zorn, he said. We'll wait here, Zorn said, until the excitement's over inside. I wouldn't want to attract any attention right now. Your politics are still lousy, Zorn. The picture hasn't changed. Your coup hasn't got a chance. Skip it. I'll take up one problem at a time. Magnan's mouth has a habit of falling open at the wrong time. That's my good luck that I heard it. So there'll be no agreement, no guns, no fat job for Tammany's Zorn, hey. Well, I can still play it the other way. What have I got to lose? With a movement too quick to follow, Ratif's hand chopped down across Zorn's wrist. The needler clattered as Zorn reeled and then Ratif's hand clamped Zorn's arm and rolled him around. In answer to your last question, Ratif said, your neck. You haven't got a chance, double-crosser, Zorn gasped. Shokey will be here in a minute, Ratif said. Tell him it's all off. Twist harder, mister, Zorn said. Bring it off at the shoulder. I'm telling him nothing. The kidding's over, Zorn, Ratif said. Call it off or I'll kill you. I believe you, Zorn said. But you won't have long to remember it. All the killing will be for nothing, Ratif said. You'll be dead and the Rotunes will step into the power vacuum. So what? When I die, the world ends. Suppose I make you another offer, Zorn. Why would it be any better than the last one, Chisler? Ratif released Zorn's arm, pushed him away, stooped and picked up the needler. I could kill you, Zorn, you know that. Go ahead. Ratif reversed the needler, held it out. I'm a gambler too, Zorn. I'm gambling you'll listen to what I have to say. Zorn snatched the gun, stepped back. He looked at Ratif. That wasn't the smartest bet you ever made, mister. But go ahead, you've got maybe 10 seconds. Nobody double-crossed you, Zorn. Magnum, put his foot in it. Too bad. Is that a reason to kill yourself and a lot of other people who've bet their lives on you? They gambled and lost. Tough. Maybe you haven't lost yet. If you don't quit, get to the point. Ratif spoke earnestly for a minute and a half. Zorn stood, gun aimed, listening. Then both men turned as footsteps approached along the terrace. A fat man and a yellow sarong patted up to Zorn. Zorn tucked the needler in his wave-span. Hold everything, Shokay, he said. Tell the boys to put the knives away. Spread the word fast. It's all off. I want to commend you, Ratif, Ambassador Crudfowler said expansively. You mixed very well at last night's affair. Actually, I was hardly aware of your presence. I've been studying Mr. Magnum's work, Ratif said. A good man, Magnum, in a crowd he's virtually invisible. He knows when to disappear all right. This has been, in many ways, a model operation, Ratif. The Ambassador patted his punch contentedly by observing local social customs and blending harmoniously with the court. I've succeeded in establishing a fine, friendly working relationship with the potentate. I understand the agreement has been postponed. The Ambassador chuckled. The potentate's a crafty one. Through a special study I have been conducting, I learned last night that he had hoped to, shall I say, put one over on the core. Great heavens, Ratif said. Naturally this placed me in a difficult position. It was my task to quash this gambit without giving any indication that I was aware of its existence. A hairy position, indeed, Ratif said. Quite casually I informed the potentate that certain items which had been included in the terms of the agreement had been deleted and other substituted. I admired him at that moment, Ratif. He took it coolly, appearing completely indifferent, perfectly dissembling his very serious disappointment. I noticed him dancing with three girls wearing a bunch of grapes apiece. He's very agile for a man of his bulk. He mustn't discount the potentate. Remember, beneath that mask of frivolity he had absorbed a bitter blow. He had me fooled, Ratif said. Don't feel badly. I confess at first I failed to sense his shrewdness. The ambassador nodded and moved off along the quarter. Ratif turned and went into an office. Magnin looked up from his desk. Ah, he said, Ratif, I've been meaning to ask you about the blasters, are you? Ratif leaned on Magnin's desk, looked at him. I thought that was to be our little secret. Well, naturally I, Magnin closed his mouth, swallowed. How is it, Ratif, he said sharply, that you were aware of this blaster business when the ambassador himself wasn't? Easy, Ratif said. I made it up. You, what? Magnin looked wild. But the agreement, it's been revised. Ambassador Crudfowler has gone on record. Too bad. Glad I didn't tell him about it. Magnin leaned back and closed his eyes. It was big of you to take all the blame, Ratif said, when the ambassador was talking about nighting people. Magnin opened his eyes. What about that gambler Zorn? Won't he be upset? It's all right, Ratif said. I made another arrangement. The business about making blasters out of common components wasn't completely imaginary. You can actually do it, using parts from an old-fashioned disposal unit. What good will that do him? Magnin whispered, looking nervous. We're not shipping in any old-fashioned disposal units. We don't need to, Ratif said. They're already installed in the palace kitchen. And in a few thousand other places, Zorn tells me. If this ever leaks, Magnin put a hand to his forehead. I have his word on it that the nanny slaughter is out. This place is ripe for a change. Maybe Zorn is what it needs. But how can we know, Magnin yelped? How can we be sure? We can't, Ratif said. But it's not up to the cores to meddle in Petraic's internal affairs. He leaned over, picked up Magnin's desk lighter and lit a cigar. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. Right? Magnin looked at him and nodded weakly. Right. I'd better be getting along to my desk, Ratif said. Now that the ambassador feels that I'm settling down at last. Ratif, Magnin said, tonight I implore you stay out of the kitchen, no matter what. Ratif raised his eyebrows. I know, Magnin said, if you hadn't interfered, we'd all have had our throats cut. But at least, he added, we'd have died in accordance with regulations and of story. An incident on Route 12 by James H. Schmitz. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Craig S. Warner of Tidewater, Virginia. An incident on Route 12 by James H. Schmitz. He was already a thief, prepared to steal again. He didn't know that he himself was only booty. Phil Garfield was 30 miles south of the little town of Redmond on Route 12 when he was startled by a series of sharp clanking noises. They came from under the Packard's hood. The car immediately began to lose speed. Garfield jammed down the accelerator, had a sense of sick helplessness at the complete lack of response from the motor. The Packard rolled on, getting rid of its momentum and came to a stop. Phil Garfield swore shakily. He checked his watch, switched off the headlights and climbed out into the dark road. A delay of even half an hour here might be disastrous. It was past midnight and he had another 110 miles to cover to reach the small private airfield where Maj waited for him and the $30,000 in the suitcase on the Packard's front seat. If he didn't make it before daylight, he thought of the bank guard. The man had made a clumsy play at being a hero and that had set off the fool woman who'd run screaming into their line of fire. One dead, perhaps two. Garfield hadn't stopped to look at an evening paper, but he knew they were hunting for him. He glanced up and down the road. No other headlights inside at the moment, no light from a building showing on the forested hills. He reached back into the car and brought out the suitcase, his gun, a big flashlight, and the box of shells which had been standing beside the suitcase. He broke the box open, shoved a handful of shells and the 38 into his coat pocket, then took the suitcase and flashlight over to the shoulder of the road and set them down. There was no point in groping about under the Packard's hood. When it came to mechanics, Phil Garfield was a moron and well aware of it. The car was useless to him now, except as bait. But as bait, it might be very useful. Should he leave it standing where it was? No, Garfield decided to anybody driving past who would merely suggest a necking party or a drunk sleeping off his load before continuing home. He might have to wait an hour or more before someone decided to stop. He didn't have the time. He reached in through the window, hauled the top of the steering wheel towards him and put his weight against the rear window frame. The Packard began to move slowly backwards at a slant across the road. In a minute or two, he had it in position, not blocking the road entirely, which would arouse immediate suspicion, but angled across it, empty, both front doors open and inviting a passerby's investigation. Garfield carried the suitcase and flashlight across the right hand shoulder of the road and moved up among the trees and undergrowth of the slope above the shoulder. Placing the suitcase between the bushes, he brought out the 38, clicked the safety off and stood waiting. Some 10 minutes later, a set of headlights appeared speeding up Route 12 from the direction of Redmond. Phil Garfield went down on one knee before he came within range of the lights. Now he was completely concealed by the vegetation. The car slowed as it approached, breaking nearly to a stop 60 feet from the stalled Packard. There were several people inside it. Garfield heard voices, then a woman's loud laugh. The driver tapped his horn inquiringly twice, moved the car slowly forward. As the headlights went past him, Garfield got to his feet among the bushes, took a step down towards the road, raising the gun. Then he caught the distant gleam of a second set of headlights approaching from Redmond. He swore under his breath and dropped back out of sight. The car below him reached the Packard, edged cautiously around it, rolled on with a sudden roar of acceleration. The second car stopped when still 100 yards away. The Packard caught in the motionless glare of its lights. Garfield heard the steady purring of a powerful motor. For almost a minute, nothing else happened. Then the car came gliding smoothly on, stopped again, no more than 30 feet to Garfield's left. He could see it now through the screening bushes. A big job, a long, low four-door sedan. The motor continued to purr. After a moment, a door on the far side of the car opened and slams shut. A man walked quickly out into the beam of the headlights and started toward the Packard. Phil Garfield rose from his crouching position. The 38 in his right hand, flesh lightened his left. If the driver was alone, the thing was now cinched. But if there was somebody else in the car, somebody capable of fast, decisive action, a slip in the next 10 seconds might cost him the sedan and quite probably his freedom and life. Garfield lined up the 38 sights steadily on the center of the approaching man's head. He let his breath out slowly as the fellow came level with him in the road and squeezed off one shot. Instantly, he went bounding down the slope to the road. The bullet had flung the man sideways to the pavement. Garfield darted past him to the left, crossed the beam of the headlights and was in darkness again on the far side of the road, snapping on his flashlight as he sprinted up to the car. The motor hummed quietly on. The flashlight showed the seats empty. Garfield dropped the light, jerk both doors open and turn, gun pointing into the car's interior. Then he stood still for a moment, weak and almost dizzy with relief. There was no one inside, the sedan was his. The man he had shot through the head lay face down on the road. His hat flung a dozen feet away from him. Route 12 still stretched out in dark silence to east and west. There should be time enough to clean up the job before anyone else came along. Garfield brought the suitcase down and put it on the front seat of the sedan. Then started back to get his victim off the road and out of sight. He scaled the man's hat into the bushes, bent down, grasped the ankles and started to haul him towards the left side of the road where the ground dropped off sharply beyond the shoulder. The body made a high squealing sound and began to writhe violently. Shocked, Garfield dropped the legs and hurriedly took the gun from his pocket, moving back a step. The squealing noise rose in intensity as the wounded man quickly flopped over twice like a struggling fish, arms and legs sawing about with startling energy. Garfield clicked off the safety, pumped three shots into his victim's back. The grisly squeals ended abruptly. The body continued to jerk for another second or two, then lay still. Garfield shoved the gun back into his pocket. The unexpected interruption had unnerved him. His hands shook as he reached down again for the stranger's ankles. Then he jerked his hands back and straightened up, staring. From the side of the man's chest, a few inches below the right arm, something like a thick black stick, three feet long, protruded now through the material of the coat. It shone gleaming wetly in the light from the car, even in that first uncomprehending instant, something in its appearance brought a surge of sick disgust to Garfield's throat. Then the stick bent slowly, halfway down its length, forming a sharp angle, and its tip opened into what could have been three blunt black claws, which scrambled clumsily against the pavement. Very faintly, the squealing began again, and the body's back arched up as if another stick-like arm were pushing desperately against the ground beneath it. Garfield acted in a blur of horror. He emptied the 38 into the thing at his feet almost without realizing he was doing it. Then, dropping the gun, he seized one of the ankles, ran backwards to the shoulder of the road, dragging the body behind him. In the darkness at the edge of the shoulder, he let go of it, stepped around to the other side, and with two frantically savage kicks sent the body plunging over the shoulder and down the steep slope beyond. He heard it crash through the brushes for some seconds, then stop. He turned and ran back to the sedan, scooping up his gun as he went past. He scrambled into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut behind him. His hands shook violently on the steering wheel as he pressed down the accelerator. The motor roared into life and the big car surged forward. He edged it past the packard, cursing aloud in horrified shock. He jammed down the accelerator and went flashing up Route 12, darkness racing beside and behind him. What had it been? Something that wore what seemed to be a man's body like a suit of clothes, moving the body as a man moves, driving a man's car. Roach armed, Roach legged itself. Garfield drew a long, shuddering breath. Then, as he slowed for a curve, there was a spark of reddish light in the rear view mirror. He stared at the spark for an instant, breaking the car to a stop. Rolled down the window and looked back. Far behind him along Route 12, the fire burned, approximately at the point where the packard had stalled out, where something had gone rolling off the road into the bushes. Something Garfield added mentally that found fiery automatic destruction when death came to it, so that its secrets would remain unrevealed. But for him, the fire meant the end of a nightmare. He rolled the window up, took out a cigarette, lit it, and pressed the accelerator. In incredulous fright, he felt the nose of the car tilt upwards, headlights sweeping up from the road into the trees. Then the headlights winked out. Beyond the windshield, dark tree branches floated down towards him, the night sky beyond. He reached frantically for the door handle. A steel wrench clamped silently about each of his arms, drawing them in against his sides, immobilizing them there. Garfield gasped, looked up at the mirror and saw a pair of faintly gleaming red eyes watching him from the rear of the car. Two of the things, the second one stood behind him out of sight, holding him. They'd been in what had seemed to be the trunk apartment, and they had come out. The eyes in the mirror vanished. A moist black roach arm reached over the back of the seat beside Garfield, picked up the cigarette he had dropped, extinguished it with rather horribly human motions, and took up Garfield's gun and drew back out of sight. He expected a shot, but none came. One doesn't fire a bullet through the suit one intends to wear. It wasn't until that thought occurred to him that tough Phil Garfield began to scream. He was still screaming minutes later when, beyond the windshield, the spaceship floated into view among the stars. End of an incident on Route 12 by James H. Schmitz, recording by Craig S. Warner of Tidewater, Virginia. The Repairman. This is a LeapRevox recording. All LeapRevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit leaprevox.org, recording by Taras Schupper. The Repairman by Harry Harrison. Being an interstellar troubleshooter wouldn't be so bad if I could shoot the trouble. The old man had that look of intense glee on his face, the man someone was in for a very rough time. Since we were alone, it took no great feat of intelligence to figure out it would be me. I talked first, bold attack being the best defense and so forth. I quit. Don't bother telling me what dirty job you have cooked up because I have already quit and you do not want to reveal company secrets to me. The grin was even wider now and he actually chortled as he thumbed a button on his console. A thick legal document slid out of the delivery slot onto his desk. This is your contract, he said. It tells how and when you'll work. A steel and van diem bound contract that you couldn't crack with a molecular disrupter. I leaned out quickly, grabbed it and threw it in the air with a single motion. Before it could fall, I had my solar out. With a wide angle shot, burned the contract to ashes. The old man pressed the button again and another contract slid out on his desk. If possible, the smile was still wider. I should have said a duplicate of your contract like this one here. He made a quick note on his secretary plate. I have deducted 13 credits from your salary for the cost of the duplicate as well as 100 credit fine for firing a solar inside a building. I slumped, defeated, waited for the blow to land. The old man fondled my contract. According to this document, you can't quit, ever. Therefore, I have a little job I know you'll enjoy. Repair job. The Centauri beacon has shut down. It's a Mark III beacon. What kind of beacon, I asked him? I've repaired hyperspace beacons from one arm of the galaxy to the other and was sure I had worked on all types and models. But I had never heard of this kind. Mark III, the old man repeated, practically shortling. I had never heard of it either until records dug up the specs. They found them buried in the back of their oldest warehouse. This was the earliest type of beacon ever built. By Earth, no less. Considering its location on one of the Proxima Centauri planets, it might very well be the first beacon. I looked at the blueprints he handed me and felt my eyes glaze with horror. It's a monstrosity. It looks more like a distillery than a beacon. Must be at least a few hundred meters high. I'm a repairman, not an archeologist. This pile of junk is over 2,000 years old. Just forget about it and build a new one. The old man leaned over his desk and breathed into my face. It would take a year to install a new beacon, besides being too expensive. And this relic is on one of the main routes. We have ships making 15 late year detours now. He leaned back, wiped his hands on his handkerchief and gave me lecture 44 on company duty and my troubles. This department is officially called Maintenance and Repair when it really should be called troubleshooting. Hyperspace beacons are the last forever or damn close to it. When one of them breaks down, it's never an accident. And repairing the thing is never just a matter of plugging in a new part. He was telling me, the guy who did the job while he sat back on his fat paycheck in an air conditioned office. He rambled on. How I wish that were all it took. I would have a fleet of parts ships and junior mechanics to install them. But it's not like that at all. I have a fleet of expensive ships that are equipped to do almost anything. Men by a bunch of irresponsibles like you. I nodded moodily at his pointing finger. How I wish I could fire you all. Combination space jockeys, mechanics, engineers, soldiers, con men and anything else it takes to do the repairs. I have to browbeat, bribe, blackmail and bulldoze you thugs into doing a simple job. If you think you're fed up, just think how I feel. But the ships must go through, the beacons must operate. I recognized his deathless line as the curtain speech and crawled to my feet. He threw the mark three file at me and went back to scratching in his papers. Just as I reached the door, he looked up and impaled me on his finger again. And don't get any fancy ideas about jumping your contract. We can attach that bank account of yours on Algal to Lund before you could draw the money out. I smiled a little weakly, I'm afraid, as if I had never meant to keep that account a secret. His spies were getting more efficient every day. Walking down the hall, I tried to figure out a way to transfer the money without his catching on and knew at the same time he was figuring a way to out figure me. It was all very depressing, so I stopped for a drink, then went to the spaceport. By the time the ship was serviced, I had a course charted. The nearest beacon to the broken down Proxima Centauri beacon was on one of the planets of Beta Circanus and I headed there first, a short trip of only nine days in hyperspace. To understand the importance of the beacons, you have to understand hyperspace. Not that many people do, but it is easy enough to understand that in this non-space, the regular rules don't apply. Speed and measurements are a matter of relationship and not constant facts like the fixed universe. The first ships to enter hyperspace had no place to go and no way to even know if they had moved. The beacon solved that problem and opened the entire universe. They are built on planets and generate tremendous amounts of power. This power is turned into radiation that is punched through into hyperspace. Every beacon has a code signal as part of its radiation and represents a measurable point in hyperspace. Triangulation and quadrature of the beacons works for navigation. Only it follows its own rules. The rules are complex and variable, but they are still rules that a navigator can follow. For a hyperspace jump, you need at least four beacons for an accurate fix. For long jumps, navigators use as many as seven or eight. So every beacon is important and every one has to keep operating. That is where I and the other troubleshooters come in. We travel in well-stocked ships that carry a little bit of everything, only one man to a ship because that is all it takes to operate the overly efficient repair machinery. Due to the very nature of our job, we spend most of our time just rocketing through normal space. After all, when a beacon breaks down, how do you find it? Not through hyperspace, all you can do is approach as close as you can by using other beacons then finish the trip in normal space. This can take months and often does. This job didn't turn out to be quite that bad. I zeroed in on the beta-circuitous beacon and ran a complicated eight-point problem through the navigator. Using every beacon, I could get an accurate fix on. The computer gave me a course with an estimated point of arrival, as well as a built-in safety factor I never could eliminate from the machine. I would much rather take a chance of breaking through near some star than spend time just barreling through normal space. But apparently, tech knows this too. They have a safety factor built into the computer, so you can't just end up inside a star no matter how hard you tried. I'm sure there was no humanness in this decision. They just didn't want to lose their ship. It was a 20-hour jump, ship's time, and I came through in the middle of nowhere. The robot analyzer chuckled to itself and scanned all the stars, comparing them to the spectra of Proxima Centauri. It finally rang a bell and blinked a light. I peeped through the eyepiece. A fast reading with the photo cell gave me the apparent magnitude, and a comparison with its absolute magnitude showed its distance. Not as bad as I had thought. A six-week run, give or take a few days. After feeding a coarse tape into the robot pilot, I strapped into the acceleration tank and went to sleep. The time went fast. I rebuilt my camera for about the 20th time, and just about finished a correspondence course in nucleonics. Most repairmen take these courses. Besides, they're always coming in handy. The company grades your pay by the number of specialties you handle. All this with some oil painting and freefall workouts in the gym past the time. I was asleep when the alarm went off that announced the planetary distance. Planet two, where the beacon was situated according to the old charts, was a mushy-looking, wet kind of globe. I tried to make sense of the old ancient directions and finally located the right area. Staying outside of the atmosphere, I set a flying eye down to look things over. In this business, you learn early when and where to risk your own skin. The eye would be good enough for the preliminary survey. The old boys had enough brains to choose a traceable site for the beacon, equidistant on a line between the two of the most prominent mountain peaks. I located the peaks easily enough and started the eye out from the first peak and kept it on a course directly towards the second. There was a nose and tail radar in the eye and I fed the signal into a scope as an amplitude curve. When the peaks conjoined, I spun the eye controls and dived the thing down. I cut out the radar and cut in the nose orthicon and sat back to watch the beacon appear on the screen. The image blinked, focused and a great damn pyramid swam into view. I cursed and wheeled the eye in circles, scanning the surrounding country. It was flat, marshy bottom land, without a bump. The only thing in a 10 mile circle was this pyramid and that definitely wasn't my beacon. Or was it? I dived the eye lower. The pyramid was a crude looking thing of undressed stone without carvings or decorations. There was a shimmer of light at the top and I took a closer look at it. On the peak of the pyramid was a hollow basin filled with water. When I saw that, something clicked in my mind. Locking the eye in a circular course, I dug through the Mark III plans and there it was. The beacon had a precipitating field and a basin on top of it for water. This was used to cool the reactor that powered the monstrosity. If the water was still there, the beacon was still there inside the pyramid. The natives, who of course weren't even mentioned by the idiots who constructed the thing, had built a nice heavy thick stone pyramid around the beacon. I took another look at the screen and realized that I had locked the eye into a circular orbit, about 20 feet above the pyramid. The summit of the stone pile was now covered with lizards of some type, apparently the local life form. They had what looked like throwing sticks and arbalas and were trying to shoot down the eye, a cloud of arrows and rocks flying in every direction. I pulled the eye straight up and away and threw in the control circuit that would return it automatically to the ship. Then I went to the galley for a long, strong drink. My beacon was not only locked inside a mountain of handmade stone, but I had managed to irritate the things who built the pyramid. A great beginning for a job and one clearly designed to drive a stronger man than me to the bottle. Normally, a repairman stays away from native cultures. They are poison. Anthropologists may not mind being dissected for their science, but a repairman wants to make no sacrifice of any kind for his job. For this reason, most beacons are built on uninhabited planets. If a beacon has to be on a planet with a culture, it is usually built in some inaccessible place. Why this beacon had been built within reach of the local claws I had yet to find out, but that would come in time. The first thing to do was to make contact. To make contact, you have to know the local language. And for that, I had long before worked out a system that was foolproof. I had a pry eye of my own construction. It looked like a piece of rock about a foot long. Once on the ground, it would never be noticed, though it was a little disconcerting to see it float by. I located a lizard town about a thousand kilometers from the pyramid and dropped the eye. It switched down and landed at night in the bank of the local mud wallow. This was a favorite spot that drew a good crowd during the day. In the morning, when the first wallowers arrived, I flipped on the recorder. After about five of the local days, I had a sea of native conversation in the memory bank of the machine translator and tagged a few expressions. This is fairly easy to do when you have a machine memory to work with. One of the lizards gargled at another one and the second one turned around. I tagged this expression with the phrase, hey George, and waited for my chance to use it. Later the same day, I caught one of them alone and shouted, hey George at him. I giggled out through the speaker in the local tongue and he turned around. When you get enough reference phrases like this in the memory bank, the MT brain takes over and starts feeling in the missing pieces. As soon as the MT could give a running translation of any conversation it heard, I figured it was time to make a contact. I found him easily enough. He was a Centaurian version of a goat boy. He heard it a particularly lozem form of local life in the swamps outside the town. I had one of the working eyes to get cave in and outcropping of rock and wait for him. When he passed by the next day, I whispered into the mic, welcome old goat boy grandson. This is your grandfather's spirit speaking from paradise. This fitted in with what I could make out of the local religion. Goat boy stopped as if he'd been shot. Before he could move, I pushed a switch and a handful of local currency, wampum type shells, rolled out of the cave and landed at his feet. Here is some money from paradise because you've been a good boy. Not really from paradise. I lifted it from the treasury the night before. Come back tomorrow and we will talk some more. I called after the fleeing figure. I was pleased to notice that he took the cash before taking off. After that grandpa in paradise had many heart to heart talks with grandson who found the heavenly loot more than he could resist. Grandpa had been out of touch with things since his death and goat boy happily filled him in. I learned all I needed to know of the history past and recent and it wasn't nice. In addition to the pyramid being around the beacon, there was nice little religious war going on around the pyramid. It all began with the land bridge. Apparently the local lizards had been living in the swamps when the beacon was built but the builders didn't think much of them. They were a low type and confined to a distant continent. The idea that the race would develop and might reach this continent never occurred to the beacon mechanics which is of course what happened. A little geological turnover, a swampy land bridge forming in the right spot and the lizards began to wander up the beacon valley and found religion. A shiny metal temple out of which poured a constant stream of magic water. The reactor cooling water pumped down from the atmosphere condensed around the roof. The radioactivity in the water didn't hurt the natives. It caused mutations that bred true. A city was built around the temple and through the centuries the pyramid was put up around the beacon. A special branch of the priesthood served the temple. All went well until one of the priests violated the temple and destroyed the holy waters. There had been revolt, strife, murder and destruction since then. But still the holy waters would not flow. Now armed mobs fought around the temple each day and a new band of priests guarded the sacred fount and I had to walk into the middle of that mess and repair the thing. It would have been easy enough if we were allowed a little mayhem. I could have a lizard fry, fix the beacon and taken off. Only native life forms were quite well protected. There were spy cells on my ship all of which I hadn't found and would cheerfully wrap me out when I got back. Diplomacy was called for. I sighed and dragged out the plastic flesh equipment. Working from 3D snaps of Granson, I modeled a passable reptile head over my own features. It was a little short in the jaw, me not having one of their toothy mandibles, but that was all right. I didn't have to look exactly like them. Just something close to soothe the native mind. It's logical. If I were ignorant aborigine of earth and I ran into a spy can who looks like a two foot gob of dried shellac, I would immediately leave the scene. However, if the spy can was wearing a suit of plastic flesh that looked remotely humanoid, I would at least stay and talk to him. This was what I was aiming to do with the Centaurians. I peeled it off and attached it to an attractive suit of green plastic, complete with tail. I was really glad they had tails. The lizards didn't wear clothes and I wanted to take along a lot of electronic equipment. I built a tail over a metal frame that anchored around my waist. I filled the frame with all the equipment I would need and began to wire the suit. When it was done, I tried it in front of a full length mirror. It was horrible, but effective. The tail dragged me down in the rear and gave me a duck waddle, but that only helped the resemblance. That night, I took the ship down into the hills nearest the pyramid and out of the way dry spot where the amphibious natives would never go. A little before dawn, the eye hooked onto my shoulders and we sailed straight up. We hovered above the temple at about 2000 meters until it was light, then dropped straight down. It must have been a grand sight. The eye was camouflaged to look like a flying lizard. Sort of a cardboard pterodactyl and the slowly flapping wings obviously had nothing to do with our flight, but it was impressive enough for the natives. The first one that spotted me screamed and dropped onto his back. The others came running. They milled and mobbed and piled on top of one another. And by that time, I had landed in the plaza fronting the temple. The priesthood arrived. I folded my arms in a regal stance. Greetings, old noble servers of the great God, I said. Of course, I didn't say it out loud. I just whispered loud enough for the throat mic to catch. This was radioed back to the MT and the translation shot back to a speaker in my jaws. The natives chomped and rattled and the translation rolled out almost instantly. I had the volume termed up and the whole square echoed. Some of the more credulous natives prostrated themselves and others fled screaming. One doubtful type raised a spear, but no one else tried that after the pterodactyl I picked him up and dropped him in the swamp. The priests were a hard-headed lot and weren't buying any lizards in a poke. They just stood and muttered. I had to take the offensive again. Begone, oh faithful steed, I said to the eye and pressed the control in my palm at the same time. It took off straight up, a bit faster than I wanted. Little pieces of wind-torn plastic rained down. While the crowd was ogling its ascent, I walked through the temple doors. I would talk with you, oh noble priests, I said. Before they could think up a good answer, I was inside. The temple was a small one built against the base of the pyramid. I hoped I wasn't breaking too many taboos by going in. I wasn't stopped, so it looked all right. The temple was a single room with a murky-looking pool at one end. Sloshing in the pool was an ancient reptile who clearly was one of the leaders. I waddled toward him and he gave me a cold and fishy eye, then growled something. The MT whispered into my ear, just what in the name of the 13th Synaryu and what are you doing here? I drew up my scaly figure in a noble gesture and pointed towards the ceiling. I have come from your ancestors to help you. I'm here to restore the holy waters. This raised a buzz of conversation behind me but got no rise out of the chief. He sank slowly into the water until only his eyes were showing. I could almost hear the wheels turning behind that moss-covered forehead. Then he lunged up and pointed a dripping finger at me. You are a liar. You are no ancestor of ours. We will stop. I thundered before he got so far in that he couldn't back out. I said your ancestors sent me as an emissary. I am not one of your ancestors. Do not try and harm me or the wrath of those who have passed on will turn against you. When I said this, I turned and jabbed a claw at the other priests using the motion to cover my flicking a coin grenade towards them. It blew a nice hole in the floor with a great show of noise and smoke. The first lizard knew I was talking sense and then immediately called the meeting of the shaman. It of course took place in the public bathtub and I had joined them there. We jawed and gurgled for about an hour and settled all the major points. I found out that they were new priests. The previous ones had been boiled for letting the holy waters cease. They found out I was there only to help them restore the flow of the waters. They bought this tentatively and we all heaved out of the tub and trickled muddy paths across the floor. There was a bolted and guarded door that led into the pyramid proper. While it was being opened, the first lizard turned to me. Undoubtedly, you know the rule, he said. Because the old priest did pry and peer, it was ruled henceforth that only the blind could enter the holy of holies. I swear he was smiling if 30 teeth peaking out of what looked like a crack in an old suitcase can be called smiling. He was also signaling to an under priest who carried a brassiere of charcoal complete with red hot irons. All I could do was stand and watch as he stirred up the coals, pulled out the ruddiest iron and turned towards me. He was just drawing a bead on my right eye when my brain got back into gear. Of course, I said, blinding is only right, but in my case, you'll have to blind me before I leave the holy of holies, not now. I need my eyes to see and mend the fount of holy waters. Once the waters flow again, I will laugh as I hurl myself on the burning iron. He took a good 30 seconds to think it over and had to agree with me. The local torturer sniffled a bit and threw a bit more charcoal on the fire. The gate crashed open and I stalked through. Then it banged to behind me and I was alone in the dark. But not for long. There was a shuffling nearby and I took a chance and turned on my flash. Three priests were groping towards me. Their eye sockets red pits of burned flesh. They knew what I wanted and led the way without a word. A crumbling and cracked stone stairway brought us up to a solid middle doorway labeled in archaic script. Mark III Beacon, authorized personnel only. The trustee builders counted on the sign to do the whole job, for there wasn't a trace of a lock on the door. One lizard merely turned the handle and we were inside the beacon. I unzipped the front of my camouflage suit and pulled out the blueprints. With a faithful priest stumbling after me, I located the control room and turned on the lights. There was a residue of charge in the emergency batteries just enough to give a dim light. The meters and indicators looked to be in good shape, if anything, unexpectedly bright from constant polishing. I checked the readings carefully and found just what I had suspected. One of the eager lizards had managed to open a circuit box and had polished the switches inside. While doing this, he had thrown one of the switches that had caused the trouble. Rather, he had started the trouble. It wasn't going to be ended by just reversing the water valve switch. This valve was supposed to be used only for repairs after the pile was damped. When the water was cut off while the pile was in operation, it had started to overheat and the automatic safeties had dumped the charge down the pit. I could start the water again easily enough, but there was no fuel left in the reactor. I wasn't going to play with the fuel problem at all. It would be far easier to install a new power plant. I had one in the ship that was about a tenth of the size of the ancient bucket of bolts and produced at least four times the power. Before I sent for it, I checked over the rest of the beacon. In 2000 years, there should be some sign of wear. The old boys had built it well. I'll give them credit for that. 90% of the machinery had no moving parts and had suffered no wear whatsoever. Other parts, they had beefed up, figuring they would wear, but slowly. The water feed pipe from the roof, for example. The pipe walls were at least three meters thick and the pipe opening itself no bigger than my head. There were some things I could do, though, and I made a list of parts. The parts, the new power plant, and a few other odds and ends were suited into a neat pile on the ship. I checked all the parts by screen before they were loaded into a metal crate. In the darkest hour before dawn, the heavy duty eye dropped off the crate outside of the temple and darted away without being seen. I watched the priest through the pry eye while they tried to open it. When they had given up, I boomed orders at them through the speaker in the crate. They spent most of the day sweating the heavy box up through the narrow temple stairs, and I enjoyed a good sleep. It was resting inside the beacon door when I woke up. The repairs didn't take long, though there were plenty of groans from the blind lizards when they heard me ripping the wall open to get out of the power leads. I even hooked the gadget to the water pipe so their holy waters would have the usual refreshing radioactivity when they started flowing again. The moment this was all finished, I did the job they were waiting for. I threw the switch and started the water flowing again. There were a few minutes while the water began to gurgle down through the pipe. Then a roar came from outside the pyramid that must have shaken its stone walls. Shaking my hands once over my head, I went down for the eye-burning ceremony. The blind lizards were waiting for me by the door and looked even unhappier than usual. When I tried the door, I found out why. It was bolted and barred from the other side. It has been decided, a lizard said, that you shall remain here forever and tend the holy waters. We will stay with you and serve your every need. A delightful prospect, eternity spent in a locked beacon with three blind lizards. In spite of their hospitality, I couldn't accept. What? You dare interfere with the messenger of your ancestors? I had the speaker on full volume and the vibrations almost shook my head off. The lizards cringed and I set my solar for a narrow beam and ran it around the door jam. There was a great crunching and banging from the junk piled against it and then the door swung free. I threw it open. Before they could protest, I had pushed the priests through it. The rest of their clan showed up at the foot of the steps and made a great ruckus while I finished welding the door shut. Running through the crowd, I faced up to the first lizard in his tub. He sank slowly beneath the surface. What lack of courtesy I shouted. He made little bubbles in the water. The ancestors are annoyed and I have decided to forbid entrance to the inner temple forever. Though out of kindness, they will let the waters flow. Now I must return on with the ceremony. The torture master was too frightened to move. So I grabbed out his hot iron. A touch on the side of my face dropped a steel plate over my eyes under the plastic skin. Then I jammed the iron hard into my phony eye sockets and the plastic gave off an authentic odor. I cry went up from the crowd as I dropped the iron and staggered in blind circles. I must admit, it went off pretty well. Before they could get any more bright ideas, I threw the switch and my plastic pterodactyl sailed in through the door. I couldn't see it, of course, but I knew it had arrived when the grapples in the claws latched into the steel plates on my shoulders. I had got turned around after the eye burning and my flying beast hooked into me backwards. I was meant to sail out bravely, blind eyes facing into the sunset. Instead, I faced the crowd as I soared away. So I made the most of a bad situation and threw them a snappy military salute. Then I was out in the fresh air and away. When I lifted the plate and poked holes in the seared plastic, I could see the pyramid growing smaller behind me, water gushing out of the base and a happy crowd of reptiles sporting in its radioactive rush. I counted off on my talons to see if I had forgotten anything. One, the beacon was repaired. Two, the door was sealed so there was no more sabotage, accidental or deliberate. Three, the priest should be satisfied. The water was running again, my eyes had been duly burned out and they were back in business, which added up to four, the fact that they would probably let another repairman in under the same conditions if the beacon conked out again. At least I had done nothing like butchering a few of them that would make them antagonistic towards future ancestral messengers. I stripped off my tattered lizard suit back in the ship. Very glad it would be some other repairman who'd get the job. End of The Repairman by Harry Harrison.