 PART 1 OF LAST ENEMY by H. B. Piper, read by Mark Nelson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. LAST ENEMY The last enemy was the toughest of all, and conquering him was in itself almost as dangerous as not conquering. For a strange pattern of beliefs can make assassination an honorable profession. Along the U-shaped table the subdued clatter of dinnerware and the buzz of conversation was dying out. The soft music that drifted down from the overhead sound outlets seemed louder as the competing noises diminished. The feast was drawing to a close, and Delona of Hadron fidgeted nervously with the stem of her wine-glass as last moment doubts assailed her. The old man at whose right she sat noticed, and reached out to lay his hand on hers. "'My dear, you're worried,' he said softly. "'You, of all people, shouldn't be, you know?' "'The theory isn't complete,' she replied. "'And I could wish for more positive verification. I'd hate to think I'd got you into this.' Garnon of Roxord laughed. "'No, no,' he assured her. "'I'd decided upon this long before you announced the results of your experiments. Ask Gearson. He'll bear me out.' "'That's true,' the young man who sat at Garnon's left said, leaning forward. "'Father has meant to take this step for a long time. He was waiting until after the election, and then he decided to do it now, to give you an opportunity to make experimental use of it.' The man on Delona's right added his voice. Like the others at the table he was of medium stature, brown skinned and dark eyed, with a wide mouth, prominent cheekbones, and a short square jaw. Unlike the others he was armed, with a knife and pistol on his belt and on the breast of his black tunic he wore a scarlet oval patch on which a pair of black wings, with a tapering silver object between them, had been superimposed. "'Yes, Lady Delona, the Lord Garnon and I discussed this, oh, two years ago at the least. Really, I'm surprised that you seem to shrink from it now. Of course, your Venus-born, and customs there may be different, but with your scientific knowledge.' "'That may be the trouble, dear Zid,' Delona told him. A scientist gets in the way of doubting, and one doubts one's own theories most of all.' "'That's the scientific attitude, I'm told,' dear Zid replied, smiling. Somehow I cannot think of you as a scientist.' His eyes traveled over her in a way that would have made most women, scientists or otherwise, blush. It gave Delona of Hadron a feeling of pleasure. Men often looked at her that way, especially here at Darsh. Novelty had something to do with it. Her skin was considerably lighter than usual, and there was a pleasing oddness about the structure of her face. Her alleged Venusian origin was probably accepted as the explanation of that as of so many other things. As she was about to reply, a man in dark gray, one of the upper servants who were accepted as social equals by the acorn-neb-nobles approached the table. He nodded respectfully to Garnon of Roxor. "'I hate to seem to hurry, sir, but the boy's ready. He's in a trance state now,' he reported, pointing to the pair of visi-plates at the end of the room. Both of the ten-foot square-plates were activated. One was a solid, luminous white. On the other was the image of a boy of twelve or fourteen, seated at a big writing-machine. Even allowing for the fact that the boy was in a hypnotic trance, there was an expression of idiocy on his loose-lipped, slack-jawed face, a pervading dullness. One of our best sensitives, a man with a beard, several places down the table on Delona's right, said. You remember him, Delona? He produced that communication from the discarnate assassin, Searsham. Normally, he's a low-grade imbecile, but in trance state he's wonderful, and there can be no argument that the communications he produces originates in his own mind. He doesn't have mind enough of his own to operate that machine." One of Roxor rose to his feet, the others rising with him. He unfastened a jewel from the front of his tunic and handed it to Delona. Here, my lady Delona, I want you to have this, he said. It's been in the family of Roxor for six generations, but I know that you will appreciate and cherish it. He twisted a heavy ring from his left hand and gave it to his son. He unstrapped his wrist-watch and passed it across the table to the gray-clad upper-servant. He gave a pocket-case containing writing-tools, slide-rule, and magnifier to the bearded man on the other side of Delona. Something you can use, Dr. Harnush, he said. Then he took a belt with a knife and holstered pistol from a servant who had brought it to him and gave it to the man with the red badge. And something for you, dear Zid, the pistols by far north of Yand, and the knife was forged and tempered on Luna. The man with the winged bullet badge took the weapons, exclaiming in appreciation. Then he removed his own belt and buckled on the gift. The pistols fully loaded, Garnon told him. Dears had drew it and checked. A man of his craft took no statement about weapons without verification, then slipped it back into the holster. Shall I use it? He asked. By all means! I had that in mind when I selected it for you. Another man to the left of Gearson received a cigarette case and a lighter. He and Garnon hooked fingers and clapped shoulders. Our views haven't been the same, Garnon, he said, but I've always valued your friendship. I'm sorry you're doing this now. I believe you'll be disappointed. Garnon chuckled. Would you care to make a small wager on that, near Zav? He asked. You know what I'm putting up. If I'm proven right, will you accept the volitionalist theory as verified? Near Zav chewed his mustache for a moment. Yes, Garnon, I will. He pointed toward the blankly white screen. If we get anything conclusive on that, I'll have no other choice. All right, friends, Garnon said to those around him. Will you walk with me to the end of the room? Servants removed a section from the table in front of him to allow him and a few others to pass through. The rest of the guests remained standing at the table, facing toward the inside of the room. Garnon's son, Gierson, and the gray, mustached, near Zav of Shona walked on his left, the loner of Hadron and Dr. Harnash of Hosh on his right. The gray clad upper servant and two or three ladies and a nobleman with a small chin beard and several others joined them. Of those who had sat close to Garnon, only the man in the black tunic with the scarlet badge hung back. He stood still, by the break in the table, watching Garnon of Raksor walk away from him. Then, dear Zid, the assassin, drew the pistol he had lately received as a gift, hefted it in his hand, thumbed off the safety, and aimed at the back of Garnon's head. They had nearly reached the end of the room when the pistol cracked. The loner of Hadron started almost as though the bullet had crashed into her own body, then caught herself and kept on walking. She closed her eyes and laid a hand on Dr. Harnash's arm for guidance, concentrating her mind upon a single question. The others went on as though Garnon of Raksor were still walking among them. Look! Harnash of Hosh cried, pointing to the image in the visa-plate ahead. He's under control! They all stopped short. And dear Zid, holstering his pistol, hurried forward to join them. Behind a couple of servants had approached with a stretcher and were gathering up the crumpled figure that had, a moment ago, been Garnon. A change had come over the boy at the writing machine. His eyes were still glazed with the stupor of the hypnotic trance, but the slack jaw had stiffened, and the loose mouth was compressed in a purposeful line. As they watched, his hands went out to the keyboard in front of him and began to move over it, and as they did, letters appeared on the white screen on the left. Garnon of Raksor, discarnate, communicating, they read. The machine stopped for a moment, then began again. To Dalona of Hadron, the quest in you asked, after I discarnated, was, What was the last book I read before the feast? While waiting for my valet to prepare my bath, I read the first ten verses of the fourth canto of Splendour of Space, by Larnov of Horka, in my bedroom. When the bath was ready, I marked the page with a strip of message tape, containing a message from the bailiff of my estate on the Cheva River concerning a breakdown at the power-plant, and laid the book on the ivory inlay table beside the big red chair. Garnon of Hosh looked at Dalona inquiringly. She nodded. I rejected the question I had in my mind, and substituted that one after the shot, she said. He turned quickly to the upper servant. Check on that right away, Kyrzon, he directed. As the upper servant hurried out, the writing machine started again. And to my son, Gyrzon. I will not use your son, Garnon, as a reincarnation vehicle. I will remain discarnate until he is grown and has a son of his own. If he has no male child, I will reincarnate in the first available male child of the family of Roxor, or of some family allied to us by marriage. In any case, I will communicate before reincarnating. To Nirzav of Shona. Ten days ago, when I dined at your home, I took a small knife and cut three notches, two close together and one a little apart from the others, on the underside of the table. As I remember, I sat two places down on the left. If you find them, you will know that I have won that wager that I spoke of a few minutes ago. I'll have my butler check on that right away, Nirzav said. His eyes were wide with amazement, and he had begun to sweat. A man does not casually watch the beliefs of a lifetime invalidated in a few moments. To Nirzav the assassin, the machine continued. You have served me faithfully in the last ten years, never more so than with the last shot you fired in my service. After you fired, the thought was in your mind that you would like to take service with the Lady Dolona of Hadron, whom you believe will need the protection of a member of the Society of Assassins. I advise you to do so, and I advise her to accept your offer. Her work, since she has come to Darsh, has not made her popular in some quarters. No doubt Nirzav of Shona can bear me out on that. I won't betray things told me in confidence, or said at the councils of the statisticalists, but he's right, Nirzav said. You need a good assassin, and there are few better than Deershead. I see that this sensitive is growing weary, the letters on the screen spelled out. His body is not strong enough for prolonged communication. I bid you all farewell for the time. I will communicate again. Good evening, my friends, and I thank you for your presence at the feast. The boy, on the other screen, slumped back in his chair, his face relaxing into its customary expression of vacancy. Will you accept my offer of service, Lady Delona, Deershead asked? It's as Garnon said, you've made enemies." Delona smiled at him. I've not been too deep in my work to know that. I'm glad to accept your offer, Deershead. Nirzav of Shona had already turned away from the group and was hurrying from the room to call his home for a confirmation on the notches made on the underside of his dining-table. As he went out the door he almost collided with the upper servant, who was rushing in with a book in his hand. Here it is, the latter exclaimed, holding up the book. Larnov's splendor of space, just where he said it would be. I had a couple of servants with me as witnesses. I can call them in now, if you wish." He handed the book to Harnash of Hosh. See, a strip of message tape in it, at the tenth verse of the fourth canto. Nirzav of Shona re-entered the room. He was chewing his mustache and muttering to himself. As he rejoined the group in front of the now-dark visa-plates he raised his voice, addressing them all generally. My butler found the notches, just as the communication described, he said. This settles it. Garnon, if you're where you can hear me, you've won. I can't believe in the statisticalist doctrines after this, or in the political program based upon them. I'll announce my change of attitude at the next meeting of the Executive Council and resign my seat. I was elected by statisticalist votes and I cannot hold office as a volitionalist. You'll need a couple of assassins, too, the nobleman with the chinbeer told him. Your former colleagues and fellow party members are regrettably given to the forcible discarnation of those who differ with them. I've never employed personal assassins before," Nerzov replied. But I think you're right. As soon as I get home I'll call Assassin's Hall and make the necessary arrangements. Better do it now, Gearson of Rocksor told him, lowering his voice. There are over a hundred guests here and I can't vouch for all of them. The statisticalists would be sure to have a spy planted among them. My father was one of their most dangerous opponents when he was on the Council. They've always been afraid he'd come out of retirement and stand for reelection. They'd want to make sure he was really discarnate. And if that's the case you can be sure your change of attitude is known to old Mirzakov Barshad by this time. He won't dare allow you to make a public renunciation of statisticalism. He turned to the other nobleman. Miss Gearson, why don't you call the volitionalist headquarters and have a couple of our assassins sent over here to escort Lord Nerzov home? I'll do that immediately," Gearson of Starfa said. It's as Lord Gearson says, we can be pretty sure there was a spy among the guests, and now that you've come over to our way of thinking we are responsible for your safety. He left the room to make the necessary vis-a-phone call. Melona, accompanied by Deersod, returned to her place at the table, where she was joined by Harnash of Hosh and some of the others. There's no question about the results," Harnash was exulting. I'll grant that the boy might have picked up some of that stuff telepathically from the carnate mines present here, even from the mine of Garnon before he was discarnated, but he could not have picked up enough data in that way to make a connected and coherent communication. It takes a sensitive with a powerful mind of his own to practice Telasthesia and that boy's almost an idiot. He turned to Delona. You asked a question, mentally, after Garnon was discarnate and got an answer that could have been contained only in Garnon's mind. I think it's conclusive proof that the discarnate Garnon was fully conscious and communicating. Deersod also asked a question, mentally, after the discarnation and got an answer. Dr. Harnash, we can state positively that the surviving individuality is fully conscious in the discarnate state, is telepathically sensitive and is capable of telepathic communication with other mines," Delona agreed. And in view of our earlier work with memory recalls, we're justified in stating positively that the individual is capable of exercising choice in reincarnation vehicles. "'My father has been considering voluntary discarnation for a long time,' Gearson of Roxor said. "'Ever since the discarnation of my mother.' He deferred that step because he was unwilling to deprive the volitionalist party of his support. Now it would seem that he has done more to combat statisticalism by discarnating than he ever did in his discarnate existence.' "'I don't know, Gearson,' Gearson of Starfa said, as he joined the group. The statisticalist will denounce the whole thing as a pre-arranged fraud. And if they can discarnate the Lady Delona before she can record her testimony under truth hypnosis or on a lie detector, we're no better off than we were before. Deersod, you have a great responsibility in guarding the Lady Delona. Some extraordinary security precautions will be needed. In his office, in the first-level city of Jurgabar, Tortha Karf, chief of paratime police, leaned forward in his chair to hold his lighter for his special assistant, Verkan Vahl, then lit his own cigarette. He was a man of middle age, his three hundredth birthday was only a decade or so off, and he had begun to acquire a double chin and a bulge at his waistline. His hair, once black, had turned a uniform iron gray and was beginning to thin in front. "'What do you know about the second-level acorn neb-sector Vahl?' he inquired. "'Ever work in that paratime area?' Verkan Vahl's handsome features became even more immobile than usual as he mentally pronounced the verbal trigger symbols which should bring the hypnotically acquired knowledge into his conscious mind. Then he shook his head. "'Must be a singularly well-behaved sector, sir,' he said. "'Or else we've been lucky so far. I never was on an acorn neb operation. Don't even have a hypnomec for that sector. All I know is from general reading.'" Like all on the second-level, its timelines descend from the probability of one or more shiploads of colonists having come to terror from Mars about seventy-five to a hundred thousand years ago, and then having been cut off from the home planet and forced to develop a civilization of their own here. The acorn neb civilization is of a fairly high culture order, even for second-level. An atomic power, interplanetary culture, gravity counteraction, direct conversion of nuclear energy to electrical power, that sort of thing. We buy fine synthetic plastics and fabrics from them. He fingered the material of his smartly cut green police uniform. "'I think this cloth is acorn neb. We sell a lot of Venusian surfa leaf. They smoke it, straight, and mixed with tobacco. They have a single system-wide government, a single race, and a universal language. There a dark brown race, which evolved in its present form about fifty thousand years ago. The present civilization is about ten thousand years old, developed out of the wreckage of several earlier civilizations, which decayed or fell through wars, exhaustion of resources, etc. They have legends, maybe historical records, of their extraterrestrial origin." Torthacarf nodded. "'Pretty good for consciously acquired knowledge,' he commented. "'Well, our luck's run out on that sector. We have troubles there now. I want you to go iron them out.' I know you've been going pretty hard lately. That night-hound business on the fourth-level Europa-American sector wasn't any picnic. But the fact is that a lot of my ordinary and deputy assistants have a little too much regard for the alleged sanctity of human life. And this is something that may need some pretty drastic action.' "'Some of our people getting out of line,' Ricken Vall asked. "'Well, the data isn't too complete. But one of our people has run into trouble on that sector and needs rescuing. A psychic science researcher. A young lady named Hadron Dalla. I believe you know her, don't you?' Torthacarf asked, innocently. "'Slightly,' Verken Vall deadpanned. I enjoyed a brief but rather hectic, companionate marriage with her about twenty years ago. What sort of a jam's little Dalla got herself into now?' "'Well, frankly, we don't know. I hope she's still alive, but I'm not unduly optimistic. It seems that about a year ago Dr. Hadron transposed to the second level to study alleged proof of reincarnation which the Acorn Neve people were reported to possess. She went to Gindrabar on Venus and transposed to the second paratime level, to a station maintained by Outtime Import and Export Trading Corporation, a Zerfa plantation just each of the high-ridge country. There she assumed an identity as the daughter of a planter, and took the name of Delona of Hadron. Paranthetically all Acorn Neve family names are prepositional. Family names were originally place names. I believe that ancient Acorn Neve marital relations were too complicated to permit exact establishment of paternity, and all Acorn Neve men's personal names have ears or arn inserted in the middle, and women's names end in Itra or Ona. You could call yourself Virzala Virkin, for instance. Anyhow, she made the second-level Venus terror trip on a regular passenger liner and landed at the Acorn Neve city of Gama on the upper Nile. There she established contact with the Outtime Trading Corporation representative, Zortan Brand, locally known as Brarnend of Zorda. He couldn't call himself Brarnend of Zortan. In the Acorn Neve language, Zortan is a particularly nasty dirty word. Hadron Dala spent a few weeks at his residence briefing herself on local conditions. Then she went to the capital city, Darsh, in Eastern Europe, and enrolled as a student at something called the Independent Institute for Reincarnation Research, having secured a letter of introduction to its director, a doctor Harnash of Hosh. Almost at once she began sending in reports to her home organization, the Rogam Memorial Foundation of Psychic Science, here at Jurgabar, through Zortan Brand. The people there were wildly enthusiastic. I don't have more than the average intelligent, I hope, layman's knowledge of psychics, but Dr. Vozhar V. Darv, the director of Rogam Foundation, tells me that even in the present incomplete form her reports have opened whole new horizons in the science. It seems that these Acorn Neve people have actually demonstrated as a scientific fact that the human individuality reincarnates after physical death, that your personality and mine have existed as such for ages, and will exist for ages to come. More, they have means of recovering from almost anybody, memories of past reincarnations. Well, after about a month the people at this reincarnation institute realized that this Dallona of Hadron wasn't any ordinary student. She probably had trouble keeping down to the local level of psychic knowledge. So, as soon as she'd learned their techniques, she was allowed to undertake experimental work of her own. I imagine she'd let herself out on that. As soon as she'd mastered the standard Acorn Neve methods of recovering memories of past reincarnations, she began refining and developing them more than the local yokels had been able to do in the past thousand years. I can't tell you just what she did, because I don't know the subject, but she must have lit things up properly. She got quite a lot of local publicity, not only scientific journals, but general newscast. Then four days ago she disappeared, and her disappearance seemed to have been coincident with an unsuccessful attempt on her life. We don't know as much about this as we should. All we have is Zortan Brand's account. It seems that on the evening of her disappearance she had been attending a voluntary Discarnation Feast, Suicide Party, of a prominent nobleman named Garnon of Roxor. Evidently, when the Acorn Neve people get tired of their current reincarnation, they invite in their friends, throw a big party, and then do themselves in, in an atmosphere of general conviviality. Frequently they take poison or inhale lethal gas. This fellow had his personal trigger-man shooting through the head. Dala was one of the guests of honor, along with this Harnash of Hosh. They made rather elaborate preparations, and after the shooting they got a detailed and apparent authentic spirit communication from the late Garnon. The voluntary Discarnation was just a routine social event, it seems, but the communication caused quite an uproar, and raided top place on the system-wide newscasts and started a storm of controversy. After the shooting and the communication, Dala took the officiating gun-artist, one Deir Zed, into her own service. This Deir Zed was spoken of as a generally respected member of something called the Society of Assassins, and that'll give you an idea of what things are like on that sector, and why I don't want to send anybody who might develop trigger-finger crap at the wrong moment. She and Deir Zed left the home of the gentleman who had just had himself discarded, presumably for Dala's apartment about a hundred miles away. That's the last that's been heard of either of them. This attempt on Dala's life occurred while the pre-mortem rebels were still going on. She lived in a six-room apartment with three servants on one of the upper floors of a three-thousand-foot tower. Acorn Neb cities are built vertically with considerable interval between units, and while she was at this feast, a package was delivered at the apartment, ostensibly from the reincarnation institute and made up to look as though it contained record tapes. One of the servants accepted it from the service employee of the apartments. The next morning, a little before noon, Dr. Harnash of Hush called her on the visophone and got no answer. He then called the apartment manager who entered the apartment. He found all three of the servants dead, from a lethal gas bomb which had exploded when one of them had opened this package. However, Hadron Dala had never returned to the apartment the night before. Verkan Vall was sitting motionless, his face expressionless, as he ran toward the carves narrative through the intricate semantic and psychological processes of the first-level mentality. The fact that Hadron Dala had been a former wife of his had been relegated to one corner of his consciousness and contained there. It was not a fact that would, at the moment, contribute to the problem or to his treatment of it. The package was delivered while she was at this suicide party, he considered. It must, therefore, have been sent by somebody who either did not know she would be out of the apartment or did not expect it to function until after her return. On the other hand, if her disappearance was due to hostile action, it was the work of somebody who knew she was at the feast and did not want her to reach her apartment again. This would seem to exclude the sender of the package bomb. Torthakarf nodded. He had reached that conclusion himself. Thus, Verkan Vall continued, if her disappearance was the work of an enemy, she must have two enemies, each working in ignorance of the other's plans. What do you think she did to provoke such enmity? Well, of course, it just might be that Dala's normally complicated love life had got a little more complicated than usual and short-circuited on her, Verkan Vall said, out of the fullness of personal knowledge. But I doubt that at the moment. I would think that this affair has political implications. Don't you see, Chief? The Special Assistant asked. We find a belief in reincarnation on many timelines, as a religious doctrine, but these people accept it as a scientific fact. Such acceptance would carry much more conviction. It would influence a people's entire thinking. We see it reflected in their disregard for death, suicide as a social function, this society of assassins and the like. It would naturally color their political thinking, because politics is nothing but common action to secure more favorable living conditions, and to these people the term living conditions includes not only the present life, but also an indefinite number of future lives as well. I find this title, Independent Institute Suggestive. Independent of what? Possibly of partisan affiliation. But wouldn't these people be grateful to her for her new discoveries, which would enable them to plan their future reincarnations more intelligently? Torthakar fast. Oh, Chief, Verkan Vall reproached. You know better than that. How many times have our people got in trouble on other timelines because they devolved some useful scientific fact that conflicted with the locally revered nonsense? You show me 10 men who cherish some religious doctrine or political ideology, and I'll show you nine men whose minds are utterly impervious to any factual evidence which contradicts their beliefs, and who regard the producer of such evidence as a criminal who ought to be suppressed. For instance, on the fourth-level Europa-American sector, where I was just working, there is a political sect, the communists, who, in the territory under their control, forbid the teaching of certain well-established facts of genetics and heredity, because those facts do not fit the world picture demanded by their political doctrines. On the same sector, a religious sect recently tried, in some section successfully, to outlaw the teaching of evolution by natural selection. Torthekarf nodded. I remember some stories my grandfather told me about his narrow escapes from an organization called the Holy Inquisition, when he was a paratime trader on the fourth level, about 400 years ago. I believe that thing's still operating on the Europa-American sector under the name of NKVD, so you think Dalla may have proven something that conflicted with local reincarnation theories, and somebody who had a vested interest in maintaining those theories is trying to stop her? You spoke of a controversy over the communication alleged to have originated with this voluntarily discarnated nobleman. That would suggest a difference of opinion on the manner of nature of reincarnation or the discarnate state. This difference may mark the dividing line between the different political parties. Now, to get to this Darsh place, do I have to go to Venus as Dalla did? No. The Out-Time Trading Corporation has transposition facilities at Ravanan on the Nile, which is spatially coexistent with the city of Gamma on the Acor-Neb sector, where Zortan-Brend is. You transpose through there, and Zortan-Brend will furnish you transportation to Darsh. It'll take you about two days here, getting your hypnomec indoctrinations and having your skin pigmented and your hair turned black. I'll notify Zortan-Brend at once that you're coming through. Is there anything special you want? Why, I'll want an abstract of the reports Dalla sent back to Rogam Foundation. It's likely that there is some clue among them as to whom her discoveries may have antagonized. I'm going to be a Venusian Xerfa-planter, a friend of her father's. I'll want full hypnomec indoctrination to enable me to play that part. And I'll want to familiarize myself with Acor-Neb weapons and combat techniques. I think that will be all, Chief. End of Part 1. Part 2 of Last Enemy by H. B. Piper, read by Mark Nelson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Last Enemy. The last of the tall city units of Gamma were sliding out of sight as the ship passed over them, shaft-like buildings that rose two or three thousand feet above the ground, in clumps of three or four or six, one at each corner of the landing stages set in series between them. Each of these units stood in the middle of a wooded park some five miles square. No unit was much more or less than twenty miles from its nearest neighbor, and the land between was the uniform golden brown of ripening grain, crisscrossed with the threads of irrigation canals, and dotted here and there with sturdy, farm-village buildings and tall, stack-like granaries. There were a few other ships in the air at the fifty thousand foot level, and below swarms of small air-boats darted back and forth on different levels, depending on speed and direction. Far ahead to the northeast was the shimmer of the Red Sea and the hazy bulk of Asia Minor beyond. Verkinvall, the lord-versal of Verkin temporarily, stood at the glass front of the observation deck looking down. He was a different Verkinvall from the man who had talked with Torthacarff in the latter's office two days before. The first-level cosmeticists had worked miracles upon him with their art. His skin was a soft chocolate brown now, his hair was jet black, and so were his eyes, and in his subconscious mind, instantly available to consciousness, was a vast body of knowledge about conditions on the acorn neb sector, as well as a complete command of the local language, all hypnotically acquired. He knew that he was looking down upon one of the minor provincial cities of a very respectively advanced civilization, a civilization which built its cities vertically, since it had learned to counteract gravitation, a civilization which still depended upon natural cereals for food, but one which had learned to make the most efficient use of its soil, the network of dams and irrigation canals which he saw were as good as anything on his own paratime level. The wide dispersal of buildings, he knew, was a heritage of a series of disastrous atomic wars of several thousand years before. The acorn neb people had come to love the wide intervistas of open country and forest, and had continued to scatter their buildings even after the necessity had passed. But the slim, towering buildings could only have been reared by a people who had banished nationalism, and with it the threat of total war. He contrasted them with the ground-hugging dome-cities of the Kyftian civilization only a few thousand parayers distant. Three men came out of the lounge behind him and joined him. One was, like himself, a disguised paratimer from the first level, the out-time-export-and-import-man Zortan brand, here known as Brarnand of Zorda. The other two were acorn neb people, and both wore the black tunics and the winged bullet badges of the Society of Assassins. Unlike Verkenvald and Zortan Brand, who wore shoulder holsters under their short tunics, the assassins openly displayed pistols and knives on their belts. "'We heard that you were coming two days ago, Lord Virzl,' Zortan Brand said. "'We delayed the take-off of this ship so that you could travel to Darsh as inconspicuously as possible. I also booked a suite for you at the solar hotel at Darsh. And these are your assassins, Older Zahn and Marnik.' Verkenvald hooked fingers and clapped shoulders with them. "'Virzen of Verken,' he identified himself, "'I am satisfied to entrust myself to you.' "'We'll do our best for you, Lord Virzl,' the older of the pair, Older Zahn said. He hesitated for a moment, then continued. "'Understand, Lord Virzl. I only ask for information useful in serving and protecting you. But is this of the Lady Delona a political matter?' "'Not from our side,' Verkenvald told him. "'The Lady Delona is a scientist, entirely non-political. The Honorable Brarnand is a businessman. He doesn't meddle with politics as long as the politicians leave him alone. And I'm a planter on Venus. I have enough troubles with the natives and the weather and blue rod-in-the-zerfa plants and poison roaches and javelin bugs without getting into politics. But psychic science is inextricably mixed with politics, and the Lady Delona's work had evidently tended to discredit the theory of statistical reincarnation.' "'Do you often make understatements like that, Lord Virzl?' Older Zahn grinned. In the last six months she's knocked statistical reincarnation to splinters. "'Well, I'm not a psychic scientist, and as I said, I don't know much about Terran politics,' Verkenvald replied. "'I know that the statisticalists favor complete socialization and political control of the whole economy, because they want everybody to have the same opportunities in every reincarnation. And the volitionalists believe that everybody reincarnates as he pleases, and so they favor continuance of the present system of private ownership of wealth and private profit under a system of free competition. And that's about all I do know. Naturally, as a landowner and the holder of a title of nobility, I'm a volitionalist in politics, but the socialization issue isn't important on Venus. There is still too much unceded land there and too many personal opportunities to make socialism attractive to anybody.' "'Well, that's about it,' Zorten Brenne told him. "'I'm not enough of a psychicist to know what the Lady D'Lona's been doing, but she's knocked the theoretical basis from under statistical reincarnation, and that's the basis, in turn, of statistical socialism. I think we'll find that the statisticalist party is responsible for whatever happened to her.' Marnick, the younger of the two assassins, hesitated for a moment then addressed Verkan Vahl. "'Lord Virzal, I know none of the personalities involved in this matter, and I speak without wishing to give offence. But is it not possible that the Lady D'Lona and the assassin Deir Zid may have gone somewhere together voluntarily? I have met Deir Zid, and he has many qualities which women find attractive, and he is by no means indifferent to the opposite sex. Do you understand, Lord Virzal? I understand all too perfectly, Marnick,' Verkan Vahl replied, out of the fullness of experience. The Lady D'Lona has had affairs with a number of men, myself among them, but under the circumstances I find that explanation unthinkable.' Marnick looked at him in open skepticism. Evidently, in his book, where an attractive man and a beautiful woman were concerned, that explanation was never unthinkable. "'The Lady D'Lona is a scientist,' Verkan Vahl elaborated. She is not above diverting herself with love affairs, but that's all they are, a not-too-important form of diversion, and if you recall she had just participated in a most significant experiment. You can be sure that she had other things on her mind at the time than pleasure-johns with good-looking assassins.' The ship was passing around the Caucasus Mountains, with the Caspian Sea in sight ahead, when several of the crew appeared on the observation deck and began preparing the shielding to protect the deck from gunfire. Zorten Brand inquired of the petty officer in charge of the work as to the necessity. "'We've been getting reports of trouble at Dar, sir,' the man said. News cast bulletins every couple of minutes, rioting in different parts of the city. Started yesterday afternoon, when a couple of statisticalist members of the Executive Council resigned and went over to the volitionalists. Lord Nierzav of Shona, the only nobleman of any importance in the statisticalist party, was one of them. He was shot immediately afterward while leaving the council chambers, along with a couple of assassins who were with him. Some people in an airboat sprayed them with a machine-rifle as they came out onto the landing-stage. The two assassins exclaimed in horrified anger over this. That wasn't the work of members of the Society of Assassins," Oler Zahn declared. Even after he'd resigned, the Lord Nierzav was still immune till he left the government building. There's two blasted much illegal assassination going on. What happened next, Verkonval wanted to know? About what you'd expect, sir. The volitionalists weren't going to take that quietly. In the past eighteen hours four prominent statisticalists were forcibly discarnated, and there was even a fight in Mirzak of Bashat's house, when volitionalist assassins broke in. Three of them and four of Mirzak's assassins were discarnated. You know, something is going to have to be done about that, too," Oler Zahn said to Marnik. It's getting to a point where these political faction fights are being carried on entirely between members of the Society. In Gamma alone last year, thirty or forty of our members were discarnated that way. Plugging a newscast's visit plate, Carnell, Zortan Brin told the petty officer, let's see what's going on in Darsh now. In Darsh it seemed an uneasy peace was being established. Birkenvall watched heavily armed airboats and light combat ships patrolling among the high towers of the city. He saw a couple of minor riots being broken up by the blue uniformed constabulary, with considerable shooting and a ruthless disregard for who might get shot. It wasn't exactly the sort of policing that would have been tolerated in the first-level civil order section, but it seemed to suit a-court-neb conditions. And he listened to a series of angry recriminations and contradictory statements by different politicians, all of whom blamed the disorders on their opponents. The volitionalists spoke of the statisticalists as insane criminals and underminers of social stability, and the statisticalists called the volitionalists reactionary criminals and enemies of social progress. Politicians he had observed differed little in their vocabularies from one timeline to another. This kept up all the while the ship was passing over the Caspian Sea. As they were turning up the Volga Valley, one of the ship's officers came down from the control-deck above. "'We're coming into Darsh now,' he said, and as Birkenvall turned from the visa-plate to the forward windows, he could see the white and pastel-tinted towers of the city rising above the hardwood forests that covered the whole Volga basin on this sector. The luggage has been put into the airboat, Lord Virzal, and honourable assassins, and it's ready for launching whenever you are.' The officer glanced at his watch. "'We dock at Commercial Centre in twenty minutes. We'll be passing the solar hotel in ten.' The all-rose and Birkenvall hooked fingers and clapped shoulders with the Zortan brand. "'Good luck, Lady Virzal,' the latter said. "'I hope you find the Lady Delona safe and carnate. If you need help, I'll be at the mercantile house for the next day or so. If you get back to Gama before I do, you know who to ask for there.' A number of assassins loitered in the hallways and offices of the independent institute of reincarnation research, when Virkenvall, accompanied by Marnik, called there that afternoon. Some of them carried submachine guns or sleep gas projectors, and they were stopping people and questioning them. Marnik needed only to give them a quick gesture in the words, ''Assassin's truce,' and he and his client were allowed to pass. They entered a lifter tube and floated up to the office of Dr. Harnash of Hosh, with whom Virkenvall had made an appointment. "'I'm sorry, Lord Virzal,' the director of the institute told him, ''but I have no idea what has befallen the Lady Delona, or even if she is still carnate. I am quite worried. I admired her extremely, both as an individual and as a scientist. I do hope she hasn't been discarnated. That would be a serious blow to science. It is fortunate that she accomplished as much as she did while she was with us. You think she is no longer carnate, then? I'm afraid so. The political effects of her discoveries,' Harnash of Hosh shrugged sadly, ''she was devoted to a rare degree to her work. I am sure that nothing but her discarnation could have taken her away from us at this time, with so many important experiments still uncompleted. Marnik nodded to Virkenvall, as much as to say, ''You are right.'' ''Well, I intend acting upon the assumption that she is still carnate and in need of help, until I am positive to the contrary,' Virkenvall said, ''and in the latter case I intend finding out who discarnated her and send him to apologize for it in person. People don't forcibly discarnate my friends with impunity.'' ''Sound attitude,' Dr. Harnash commented. ''There's certainly no positive evidence that she isn't still carnate. I'll gladly give you all the assistance I can, if you'll only tell me what you want.'' ''Well, in the first place,' Virkenvall began, ''just what sort of work was she doing?'' He already knew the answer to that from the report she had sent back to the first level, but he wanted to hear Dr. Harnash's version. ''And what exactly are the political effects you mentioned? Understand, Dr. Harnash, I am really quite ignorant of any scientific subject unrelated to Zerfa culture, and equally so of Terran politics. Politics on Venus is mainly a question of who gets how much graft out of what.'' Dr. Harnash smiled. Evidently, he had heard about Venusian politics. ''Ah, yes, of course. But you are familiar with the main differences between statistical and volitional reincarnation theories?'' In a general way, the volitionalists hold that the discarnate individuality is fully conscious, and is capable of something analogous to sense perception, and is also capable of exercising choice in the matter of reincarnation vehicles, and can reincarnate or remain in the discarnate state as it chooses. They also believe that discarnate individualities can communicate with one another, and with at least some carnate individualities by telepathy,' he said. The statisticalists deny all this. Their opinion is that the discarnate individuality is in a more or less somnambulistic state, that it is drawn by a process akin to tropism to the nearest available reincarnation vehicle, and that it must reincarnate in and only in that vehicle. They are labeled statisticalists because they believe that the process of reincarnation is purely at random, or governed by unknown and uncontrollable causes, and is unpredictable except as to aggregates. "'That's a fairly good generalized summary,' Dr. Harnash of Hosh grudged, unwilling to give a mere layman too much credit. He dipped a spoon into a tobacco-humidor, dusted the tobacco lightly with dried zirfa, and rammed it into his pipe. "'You must understand that our modern statisticalists are the intellectual heirs of those ancient materialistic thinkers who denied the possibility of any discarnate existence, or of any extra-physical mind, or even of extra-sensory perception. Since all these things have been demonstrated to be facts, the materialist dogma has been broadened to include them, but always strictly within the frame of materialism. We have proven, for instance, that the human individuality can exist in a discarnate state, and that it reincarnates into the body of an infant shortly after birth. But the statisticalists cannot accept the idea of discarnate consciousness, since they conceive of consciousness purely as a function of the physical brain. So they postulate an unconscious discarnate personality, or as you put it, one in a somnambulistic state. They have to concede memory to this discarnate personality since it was by recovery of memories of previous reincarnations that discarnate existence and reincarnation were proven to be facts. So they picture the discarnate individuality as a material object, or physical event of negligible but actual mass, in which an indefinite number of memories can be stored as electronic charges, and they picture it as being drawn irresistibly to the body of the nearest non-incarnated infant. Curiously enough, the reincarnation vehicle chosen is almost always of the same sex as the vehicle of the previous reincarnation, the exceptions being cases of persons who had a previous history of psychological sex inversion. Dr. Harnash remembered the unlighted pipiness hand thrust it into his mouth and lit it. For a moment he sat with it jutting out of his black beard until it was drawing to his satisfaction. This belief in immediate reincarnation leaves the statisticalists, when they fight duels or perform voluntary discarnation, to do so in the neighborhood of maternity hospitals, he added. I know personally of one reincarnation memory recall in which the subject, a statisticalist, voluntarily discarnated by lethal gas inhaler in a private room at one of our local maternity hospitals, and reincarnated twenty years later in the city of Jettle, three thousand miles away. The square black beard jiggled as the scientists laughed. Now, as to the political implications of these contradictory theories. Since the statisticalists believe that they will reincarnate entirely at random, their aim is to create an utterly classless social and economic order, in which, theoretically, each individuality will reincarnate into a condition of equality with everybody else. Their political program, therefore, is one of complete socialization of all means of production and distribution, abolition of hereditary titles and inherited wealth, eventually all private wealth, and total government control of all economic, social, and cultural activities. Of course, Dr. Harnash apologized, politics isn't my subject. I wouldn't presume to judge how that would function in practice. I would, Verkenvall said shortly, thinking of all the different timelines on which he had seen systems like that in operation. You wouldn't like it, doctor. And the volitionalists? Well, since they believe that they are able to choose the circumstances of their next reincarnation for themselves, they are the party of the status quo. Naturally, almost all the nobles, almost all the wealthy trading and manufacturing families, and almost all the professional people are volitionalists. Most of the workers and peasants are statisticalists. Or at least they were, for the most part, before we began announcing the results of the Lady Delona's experimental work. Ah, now we come to it, Verkenvall said, as the story clarified. Yes, in somewhat oversimplified form, the situation is rather like this, Dr. Harnash of Haar said. The Lady Delona introduced a number of refinements and some outright innovations into our technique of recovering memories of past reincarnations. Previously, it was necessary to keep the subject in an hypnotic trance, during which he or she would narrate what was remembered of past reincarnations, and this would be recorded. On emerging from the trance, the subject would remember nothing. The tape recording would be all that would be left. But the Lady Delona devised a technique by which these memories would remain in what might be called the four part of the subject's subconscious mind, so that they would be brought to the level of consciousness at will. More, she was able to recover memories of past discarnate existences, something we had never been able to do here to for. Dr. Harnash shook his head. And to think, when I first met her, I thought she was just another sensation-seeking young lady of wealth, and was almost about to refuse her enrolment. He wasn't the only one whom Little Dala had surprised, Verkanvall thought. At least, he had been pleasantly surprised. You see, this entirely disproves the statistical theory of reincarnation. For example, we got a fine set of memory recalls from one subject for four previous reincarnations and four inter-carnations. In the first of these, the subject had been a peasant on the estate of a wealthy noble. Unlike most of his fellows who reincarnated into other peasant families almost immediately after discarnation, this man waited for fifty years in the discarnate state for an opportunity to reincarnate as the son of an over-servant. In his next reincarnation he was the son of a technician and received a technical education. He became a physics researcher. For his next reincarnation he chose the son of a nobleman by a concubine as his vehicle. In his present reincarnation he is a member of a wealthy manufacturing family and married into a family of the nobility. In five reincarnations he has climbed from the lowest to the next to highest rung of the social ladder. Few individuals of this class from whence he began this ascent possessed so much persistence or determination. Then of course there was the case of Lord Garnon of Roxor. He went on to describe the last experiment in which Hadron Dalla had participated. Well, that all sounds pretty conclusive, Verkenvall commented. I take it the leaders of the volitionless party here are pleased with the result of the Lady Dolona's work. Pleased! My dear Lord Verzel, they're fairly bursting with glee over it!" Harnash of Hosh declared. As I pointed out, the statisticalist program of socialization is based entirely on the proposition that no one can choose the circumstances of his next reincarnation, and that's been demonstrated to be utter nonsense. Until the Lady Dolona's discoveries were announced they were the dominant party, controlling a majority of the seats in the parliament and on the executive council. Only the Constitution kept them from enacting their entire socialization program long ago, and they were about to legislate constitutional changes which would remove that barrier. They had expected to be able to do so after the forthcoming general elections. But now social inequality has become desirable. It gives people something to look forward to in the next reincarnation. Instead of wanting to abolish wealth and privilege and nobility, the proletariat want to reincarnate into them. Harnash of Hosh laughed happily. So you can see how furious the statisticalist party organization is. There's a catch to this somewhere, Marnak the assassin speaking for the first time declared. They can't all reincarnate as princes. There aren't enough vacancies to go round, and no noble is going to reincarnate as a tractor-driver to make room for a tractor-driver who wants to reincarnate as a noble. That's correct, Dr. Harnash replied. There is a catch to it. A catch most people would never admit, even to themselves. Very few individuals possess the will-power, the intelligence, or the capacity for mental effort displayed by the subject of the case I just quoted. The average man's interests are almost entirely on the physical side. He actually finds mental effort painful, and makes as little of it as possible. And that is the only sort of effort a discarnate individuality can exert. So unable to endure the fifty or so years needed to make a really good reincarnation, he reincarnates in a year or so out of pure boredom into the first vehicle he can find, usually one nobody else wants. Dr. Harnash dug out the heel of his pipe and blew through the stem. But nobody will admit his own mental inferiority, even to himself. Now every machine operator and fieldhand on the planet thinks he can reincarnate as a prince or a millionaire. Politics isn't my subject, but I'm willing to bet that since statistical reincarnation is an exploded psychic theory, statisticalist socialism has been caught in the blast area and destroyed along with it. Olirzan was in the drawing-room of the hotel suite when they returned, sitting on the middle of his spinal column in reclining chair smoking a pipe, dressing the edge of his knife with a pocket hone, and gazing ledgerously at a young woman in the visa-plate. She was an extremely well-designed young woman in a rather fragmentary costume, and she was heaving her bosom at the invisible audience in anger, sorrow, scorn, entreaty, and numerous other emotions. This revolting crime she was declaiming in a husky contralto as Verkanvall and Marnick entered, foul even for the criminal beasts who conceived and perpetrated it, she pointed an accusing finger. This murder of the beautiful Lady Dolona of Hadron! Verkanvall stopped short, considering the possibility of something having been discovered lately of which he was ignorant. Olirzan must have guessed his thought, he grinned reassuringly. Thick nothing of it, Lord Virzol, he said, waving his knife at the visa-plate. Just political propaganda, strictly for the sparrows. His propagandist, though. And now the woman with the magnificent natural resources lowered her voice reverently. We bring you the last image of the Lady Dolona, and of Deir Zid, her faithful assassin, taken just before they vanished, never to be seen again. The plate darkened, and there were strains of slow, dirge-like music. Then it lighted again, presenting a view of a broad hallway, bound with men and women in bright, very colored costumes. In the foreground, wearing a tight skirt of deep blue and a short red jacket, was Hadrendala, just as she had looked in the solidographs taken in Jurgabar, after her alteration by the first level cosmeticians, to conform to the appearance of the Malayoite Akkorneb people. She was holding the arm of a man who wore the black tunic and red badge of an assassin, a handsome specimen of the Akkorneb race. Trust little Dala for that, Verkanval thought. The figures were moving with exaggerated slowness, as though a very fleeting picture were being stretched out as far as possible. Having already memorized his former wife's changed appearance, Verkanval concentrated on the man beside her until the picture faded. All right, Olyrzen, what did you get? He asked. Well, first of all, at Assassin's Hall. Olyrzen said, rolling up his left sleeve, holding his bare forearm to the light, and shaving a few fine hairs from it to test the edge of his knife. Of course, they never tell one assassin anything about the client of another assassin, that standard practice. But I was in the large secretary's office, where nobody but assassins are ever admitted. They have a big panel in there, with the names of all the lodge members on it in light letters. That's standard in all lodges. If an assassin is unattached and free to accept a client, his names in white light. If he has a client, the lights change to blue, and the name of the client goes up under his. If his whereabouts are unknown, the lights change to amber. If he's discarnated, his names removed entirely, unless the circumstances of his discarnation are such as to constitute an injury to the society. In that case, the names in red light until he's been properly avenged, or, as we say, till his blood's been mopped up. Well, the name of Deerzid is up in blue light, with the name of Delona of Hadron under it. I found out that the light had been amber for two days after the disappearance, and then had been changed back to blue. Did it, Lord Virzal? Verkanvall nodded. I think so. I've been considering that as a possibility from the first. Then what? Then I was about and around for a couple of hours, buying drinks for people, unattached assassins, constabulary detectives, political workers, newscast people. You owe me fifteen system monetary units for that, Lord Virzal. What I got, when it's all sorted out, I taped it in detail as soon as I got back, reduces to this. The volitionalists are moving mountains to find out who was the spy at Garnet of Roxor's Discarnation Feast, but are doing nothing but nothing at all to find the Lady Delona or Deerzid. The statisticalists are making all sorts of secret efforts to find out what happened to her. The constabulary blamed the statisticians for the package bomb. They're interested in that because of the Discarnation of the Three Servants by an illegal weapon of indiscriminate effect. They claim that the disappearance of Deerzid and the Lady Delona was a publicity hoax. The volitionalists are preparing a line of publicity to deny this. Verkan Vahl nodded. That ties in with what you learned at Assassin's Hall, he said. They're hiding out somewhere. Is there any chance of reaching Deerzid through the Society of Assassins? O'Learson shook his head. If you're right, and that's the way it looks to me, too, he's probably just called in and notified the Society that he's still Garnet, and so is the Lady Delona, and called off any search the Society might be making for him. And I've got to find the Lady Delona as soon as I can. Well, if I can't reach her, maybe I can get her to send word to me, Verkan Vahl said. That's going to take some doing, too. But did you find out, Lord Verzal, O'Learson asked? He had a piece of soft leather now and was polishing his blade lovingly. The reincarnation research people don't know anything, Verkan Vahl replied. Dr. Harnash of Hosh thinks she's Garnet. I did find out that the experimental work she's done so far has absolutely disproved the theory of statistical reincarnation. The volitionalist theory is solidly established. Yes, what do you think, O'Learson, Marnick added? They have a case on record of a man who worked up from fieldhand to millionaire in five reincarnations, deliberately that is. He went on to repeat what Harnash of Hosh had said. He must have possessed an almost idetic memory, for he gave the bearded psych-assist's words verbatim, and threw in the gestures and voice inflections. O'Learson grinned. You know, there's a chance for the easy money-boys, he considered. You too can reincarnate as a millionaire. Let Dr. Nierzatz of Futspots help you. Only forty-nine ninety-eight system-monetary units for the secret infallible auto-suggestive formula. And it would sell. He put away the hone and the bit of leather and slipped his knife back into its sheath. If I weren't a respectable assassin, I'd give it a try myself. Verkan Vahl looked at his watch. We'd better get something to eat, he said. We'll go down to the main dining-room, the Martian room, I think they call it. I've got to think of some way to let the Lady Delona know I'm looking for her. End of Part II. Part III of Last Enemy by H. Beam Piper, read by Mark Nelson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Martian room, fifteen stories down, was a big place, occupying almost half of the floor space of one corner tower. It had been fitted to resemble one of the ruined buildings of the ancient and vanished race of Mars, who were the ancestors of Terran humanity. One whole side of the room was a gigantic, synosyllitograph screen, on which the gully desolation of Martian landscape was projected. In the course of about two hours the scene changed from sunrise through daylight and night to sunrise again. It was high noon when they entered and found a table. By the time they had finished their dinner the night was ending and the first glow of dawn was tinting the distant hills. They sat for a while, watching the light grow stronger, then got up and left the table. There were five men at a table near them. They had come in before the stars had grown dim and the waiters were just bringing their first dishes. Two were assassins, and the other three were of a breed Verkanvall had learned to recognize on any timeline. The arrogant, cocksure, ambitious, leftist politician, who knows what is best for everybody better than anybody else does, and who is convinced that he is inescapably right and that whoever differs with him is not only an ignoramus, but a venal scoundrel as well. Man was a beefy man in a gold-laced cream-colored dress tunic. He had thick lips and a two-ready laugh. Another was a rather monkish-looking young man who spoke earnestly and rolled his eyes upward, as though at some celestial vision. The third had the faint powdering of grey in his black hair, which was, among the acorned people, almost the only indication of advanced age. Of course it is, the whole thing is a fraud, the monkish young man was saying angrily, but we can't prove it. Oh, Zirzab here can prove anything if you give him time, the beefy one laughed. The trouble is, there isn't too much time. We know that that communication was a fake, prearranged by the volitionalists, with Dr. Harnash and this Delona of Hadron as their tools. They fed the whole thing to that idiot boy hypnotically, in advance, and then, on a signal, he began typing out his spurious communication. And then, of course, Delona and this assassin of hers run off somewhere together, so that we'd be blamed with discarnating or abducting them, and so that they wouldn't be able to testify about the communication on a lie detector. A sudden, happy smile touched Verkan Vol's eyes. He caught each of his assassins by an arm. Marnik, cover my back, he ordered. Old Erzen, cover everybody at the table. Come on. Then he stepped forward, halting between the chairs of the young man and the man with the gray hair and facing the beefy man in the light tunic. You, he barked. I mean you! The beefy man stopped laughing and stared at him, then sprang to his feet. His hand, streaking toward his left armpit, stopped and dropped to his side as Old Erzen aimed a pistol at him. The others sat motionless. You, Verkan Vol continued, are a complete, deliberate, malicious, and unmitigated liar. The Lady Delona of Hadron is a scientist of integrity, incapable of falsifying her experimental work. What's more, her father is one of my best friends. In his name, and in hers, I demand a full retraction of the slanderous statements you have just made. Do you know who I am, the beefy one shouted? I know what you are, Verkan Vol shouted back. Like most ancient languages, the acorn neb speech included an elaborate, delicately shaded and utterly vile vocabulary of abuse. Verkan Vol culled from it judiciously and at length. And if I don't make myself understood verbally, we'll go down to the object level, he added, snatching a bowl of soup from in front of the monkish-looking young man and throwing it across the table. The soup was a dark brown, almost black. It contained bits of meat and mushrooms and slices of hard-boiled egg and yellow Martian rock lichen. It produced, on the light tunic, a most spectacular effect. For a moment Verkan Vol was afraid the fellow would have an apoplectic stroke, or an epileptic fit, mastering himself, however, he bowed jerkily. Marnark of Bashad, he identified himself. When and where can my friends consult yours? Lord Virzal of Verkan, the paratimer bowed back. Your friends can negotiate with mine here and now. I am represented by these gentlemen assassins. I won't submit my friends to the indignity of negotiating with them, Marnark retorted. I insist that you be represented by persons of your own quality and mine. Oh, you do, old ears and broken. Well, is your objection personal to me or to assassins as a class? In the first case, I'll remember to make a private project of you, as soon as I'm through with my present employment. If it's the latter, I'll report your attitude to the society. I'll see what Clarnud, our president general, thinks of your views. A crowd had begun to accumulate around the table. Some of them were persons in evening dress, some were assassins on the hotel payroll, and some were unattached assassins. Well, you won't have far to look for him, one of the latter said, pushing through the crowd to the table. He was a man of middle-age, inclined to stoutness. He made Verkanval think of a chocolate figure of Torthacarf. The red badge on his breast was surrounded with gold lace, and instead of black wings and a silver bullet it bore silver wings and a golden dagger. He bowed contemptuously at Marnark of Bashad. Clarnud, president general of the Society of Assassins, he announced. Marnark of Bashad, did I hear you say that you considered members of the Society as unworthy to negotiate an affair of honour with your friends, on behalf of this nobleman who has been courteous enough to accept your challenge? He demanded. Marnark of Bashad's arrogance suffered considerable evaporation loss. His tone became almost servile. Not at all, honourable assassin president, he protested. But as I was going to ask these gentlemen to represent me, I thought it would be more fitting for the other gentlemen to be represented by personal friends also. In that way, sorry, Marnark, the grey-haired man at the table said. I can't second you. I have a quarrel with Lord Virzal, too. He rose and bowed. Sirezab of Ebo, inasmuch as the honourable Marnark is a guest at my table, an affront to him is an affront to me. In my quality as his host I must demand satisfaction from you, Lord Virzal. Why, gladly, honourable Sirezab, Verkanvall replied. This was getting better and better every moment. Of course your friend, the honourable Marnark, enjoys priority of challenge. I'll take care of you as soon as I have, shall we say, satisfied him. The earnest and rather consecrated-looking young man rose also, bowing to Verkanvall. Years-all of Narva. I, too, have a quarrel with you, Lord Virzal. I cannot submit to the indignity of having my food snatched from in front of me, as you just did. I also demand satisfaction. And quite rightly, honourable Years-all, Verkanvall approved. It looks like such a good soup, too, he sorrowed, inspecting the front of Marnark's tunic. My seconds will negotiate with yours immediately. Your satisfaction, of course, must come after that of honourable Sirezab. If I may intrude, Clarnud put in smoothly, may I suggest that as the Lord Virzal is represented by his assassins, yours can represent all three of you at the same time. I will gladly offer my own good offices as impartial supervisor. Verkanvall turned and bowed as to royalty. An honour, assassin-president. I am sure no one would act in that capacity more satisfactorily. Well, when would it be most convenient to arrange the details, Carnud inquired. I am completely at your disposal, gentlemen. Why, here and now, while we're all together, Verkanvall replied. I object to that, Marnark of Baishad vociferated. We can't make arrangements here. Why, all these hotel people, from the manager down, are nothing but tipsters for the newscast services. Well, what's wrong with that? Verkanvall demanded. You knew that when you slandered the Lady Dolona in their hearing. The Lord Virzal of Verkan is correct, Clarnud ruled, and the offences for which you have challenged him are also committed in public. By all means, let's discuss the arrangements now. He turned to Verkanvall. As the challenged party, you have the choice of weapons. Your opponents, then, have the right to name the conditions under which they are to be used. Marnark of Baishad raised another outcry over that. The assault upon him by the Lord Virzal of Verkan was deliberately provocative, and therefore tant him out to a challenge. He himself had the right to name the weapons. Clarnud upheld him. Do the other gentlemen make the same claim? Verkanvall wanted to know. If they do, I won't allow it, Clarnud replied. You deliberately provoked Honorable Marnark, but the offences of provoking him at Honorable Sirsabh's table and of throwing Honorable Yerzov's soup at him were not given with intent to provoke. These gentlemen have a right to challenge, but not to consider themselves provoked. Well, I choose knives, then, Marnark hastened to say. Verkanvall smiled thinly. He had learned knife play among the greatest masters of that art in all paratime, the third-level Kanga pirates of the Caribbean islands. And we fight barefoot, stripped to the waist, and without any paring weapon in the left hand, Verkanvall stipulated. The beefy Marnark fairly licked his chops in anticipation. He outweighed Verkanvall by forty pounds. He saw an easy victory ahead. Verkanvall's own confidence increased at these signs of his opponent's assurance. And as for Honorable Sirsabh and Honorable Yerzov, I chose pistols, he added. Sirsabh and Yerzov held a hasty, whispered conference. Speaking both for Honorable Yerzov and for myself, Sirsabh announced, we stipulate that the distance shall be twenty meters, that the pistol shall be fully loaded, and that fire shall be at will after the command. Twenty rounds, fire at will at twenty meters, O'Lhearson hooded, you must think our principles as bad a shot as you are. The four assassins stepped aside and held a long discussion about something, with considerable argument and gesticulation. Clarnud, observing Verkanvall's impatience, leaned close to him and whispered, This is highly irregular. We must pretend ignorance and be patient. They're laying bets on the outcome. You must do your best, Lord Verzal. You don't want your supporters to lose money. He said it quite seriously, as though the outcome were otherwise a matter of indifference to Verkanvall. Marnark wanted to discuss time and place, and proposed that all three duels be fought at dawn on the fourth landing stage of Darsh Central Hospital. That was closest to the maternity wards, and statistics showed that most births occurred just before that hour. Certainly not, Verkanvall vetoed. We'll fight here and now. I don't propose going a couple of hundred miles to meet you at any such unholy hour. We'll fight in the nearest hallway that provides 20 meter shooting distance. Marnark, Sirzab and Yerzal all clamored in protest. Verkanvall shouted them down, drawing on his hypnotically acquired knowledge of Acorneb dueling customs. The code explicitly states that satisfaction shall be rendered as promptly as possible, and I insist on a literal interpretation. I'm not going to inconvenience myself and assassin President Clarnute and these four gentlemen assassins just to humor statisticalist superstitions. The manager of the hotel, drawn to the Martian room by the uproar, offered a hallway connecting the kitchens with the refrigerator rooms. It was fifty meters long by five in width, was well lighted and soundproof, and had a bay in which the seconds and others could stand during the firing. They repaired thither in a body, Clarnute gathering up several hotel servants on the way through the kitchen. Verkanvall stripped to the waist, pulled off his ankle boots, and examined Olirzan's knife. Its tapering eight-inch blade was double-edged at the point, and its handle was covered with black velvet to afford a good grip, and wound with gold wire. He knotted approvingly, gripped it with his index finger and crooked around the cross-guard and advanced to meet Marnark of Bashad. As he had expected, the burly politician was depending upon his greater brawn to overpower his antagonist. He advanced with a sideling, spread-legged gait, his knife hand against his right hip, and his left hand extended in front. Verkanvall knotted with plea satisfaction, a wrist grabber. Then he blinked. Why, the fellow was actually holding his knife reversed, his little finger to the guard, and his thumb on the pommel. Verkanvall went briskly to meet him, made a faint at his knife hand with his own left, and then sidestepped quickly to the right. As Marnark's left hand grabbed at his right wrist, his left hand brushed against it and closed into a fist, with Marnark's left thumb inside of it. He gave a quick downward twist with his wrist, pulling Marnark off balance. Caught by surprise, Marnark stumbled, his knife flailing wildly away from Verkanvall. As he stumbled forward, Verkanvall pivoted on his left heel and drove the point of his knife into the back of Marnark's neck, twisting it as he jerked it free. At the same time, he released Marnark's thumb. The politician continued his stumble and fell forward on his face, blood spurting from his neck. He gave a twitch or so, and was still. Verkanvall stooped and wiped the blood on the dead man's clothes, another Khangap pirate gesture, and then returned it to Alirzen. "'Nice weapon, Alirzen,' he said. It fitted my hand as though I'd been born holding it. You used it as though you had, Lord Virzal,' the assassin replied. "'Only eight seconds from the time you closed with him.'" The function of the hotel servants whom Clarnut had gathered up now became apparent. They advanced, took the body of Marnark by the heels, and dragged it out of the way. The others watched this removal with mixed emotions. The two remaining principles were impassive and frozen-faced. Their two assassins, who had probably bet heavily on Marnark, were chagrined. And Clarnut was looking at Verkanvall with a considerable accretion of respect. Verkanvall pulled on his boots and resumed his clothing. There followed some argument about the pistols. It was finally decided that each combatant should use his own shoulder-holster weapon. All three were nearly enough alike. Small weapons, rather heavier than they looked, firing a tiny ten-grain bullet at ten thousand foot-seconds. On impact such a bullet would almost disintegrate. A man hid anywhere in the body with one would be killed instantly. His nervous system paralyzed, and his heart stopped by internal pressure. Each of the pistols carried twenty rounds in the magazine. Verkanvall and Sirzabavabo took their places, their pistols lowered at their sides, facing each other across a measured twenty metres. "'Are you ready, gentlemen?' Clarnut asked. "'You will not raise your pistols until the command to fire. You may fire at will after it.' "'Ready?' "'Fire!' Both pistols swung up to level. Verkanvall found Sirzab's head in his sights and squeezed. The pistol kicked back in his hand, and he saw a lance of blue flame jump from the muzzle of Sirzab's. Both weapons barked together, and with the double report came the whip-cracking sound of Sirzab's bullet passing Verkanvall's head. Then Sirzab's face altered its appearance unpleasantly, and he pitched forward. Verkanvall thumbed on his safety and stood motionless, while the servants advanced, took Sirzab's body by the heels, and dragged it over beside Marnark's. "'All right, honorable Yerzal, you're next,' Verkanvall called out. "'The Lord Virzal has fired one shot,' one of the opposing seconds objected, and the honorable Yerzal has a full magazine. The Lord Virzal should put in another magazine.' "'I grant him the advantage. Let's get on with it,' Verkanvall said. Yerzal of Narva advanced to the firing point. He was not afraid of death. None of the Acornib people were. Their language contained no word to express the concept of total and final extinction, and discarnation by gunshot was almost entirely painless. But he was beginning to suspect that he had made a fool of himself by getting into this affair. He had work in his present reincarnation which he wanted to finish, and his political party would suffer loss, both of his services and of prestige. "'Are you ready, gentlemen?' Clar'nude entained ritualistically. "'You will not raise your pistols until the command to fire. You may fire at will after it.' "'Ready?' "'Fire!' Verkanvall shot Yerzal of Narva through the head before the latter had his pistol half raised. Yerzal fell forward on the splash of blood Seerzab had made, and the servants came forward and dragged his body over with the others. It reminded Verkanvall of some sort of industrial assembly line operation. He replaced the two expended rounds in his magazine with fresh ones and slid the pistol back into its holster. The two assassins, whose principles had been so expeditiously massacred, were beginning to count up their losses and pay off the winners. Clar'nude, the President General of the Society of Assassins, came over, hooking fingers and clapping shoulders with Verkanvall. "'Lord Verzal, I've seen quite a few duels, but nothing quite like that,' he said. "'You should have been an assassin!' That was a considerable compliment. Verkanvall thanked him modestly. "'I'd like to talk to you privately,' the assassin, President continued. "'I think it'll be worth your while if we have a few words together.'" Verkanvall nodded. "'My suite is on the fifteenth floor above. Will that be all right?' He waited until the losers had finished settling their bets, then motioned to his own pair of assassins. As they emerged into the Martian Room again, the manager was waiting. He looked as though he were about to demand that Verkanvall vacate his suite. However, when he saw the arm of the President General of the Society of Assassins draped amically over his guest's shoulder, he came forward, bowing and smiling. "'Larnor, I want you to put five of your best assassins to guarding the approaches to the Lord Verzal's suite,' Clarnud told him. "'I'll send five more from Assassin's Hall to replace them at their ordinary duties. And I'll hold you responsible with your car-need existence for the Lord Verzal's safety in this hotel. Understand?' "'Oh, yes, Honorable Assassin President, you may trust me. The Lord Verzal will be perfectly safe.'" In Verkanvall's suite above, Clarnud sat down and got out his pipe, filling it with tobacco lightly mixed with Zerfa. To his surprise, he saw his host light a plain tobacco cigarette. "'Don't you use Zerfa?' he asked. "'Very little,' Verkanvall replied. "'I grow it. If you'd see the bums who hang around our drying sheds on Venus, caging rejected leaves and smoking themselves into a stupor, you'd be frugal in using it, too.'" Clarnud nodded. "'You know, most men would want a pipe of fifty percent or a straight Zerfa cigarette, after what you've been through,' he said. "'I'd need something like that to deaden my conscience, if I had one to deaden,' Verkanvall said. As it is, I feel like a murderer of babes. That overgrown fool, Marnark, handled his knife like a cow-butcher. The young fellow couldn't handle a pistol at all. I suppose the old fellow, Zerzab, was a fair shot, but dropping him wasn't any great feat of arms, either." Clarnud looked at him curiously for a moment. "'You know,' he said at length, "'I believe you actually mean that. Well, until he met you, Marnark of Bashad was raided as the best knife-fighter in Darsh. Zerzab had ten dueling victories to his credit, and young Geerzal four.' He puffed slowly on his pipe. "'I like you, Lord Verzal. A great assassin was lost when you decided to reincarnate as a Venusian landowner. I'd hate to see you discarnated without proper warning. I take it you're ignorant of the intricacies of Terran politics. To a large extent, yes. Well, do you know who those three men were?' When Verkanvall shook his head, Clarnud continued. "'Marnark was the son and right-hand associate of old Mirzark of Bashad, the statisticalist party leader. Zerzab of Ebo was their propaganda director. And Geerzal of Narva was their leading socio-economic theorist, and their candidate for executive chairman. In six minutes, and with one knife thrust in two shots, you did the statisticalist party an injury second only to that done them by the young lady in whose name you were fighting. In two weeks there will be a planet-wide general election. As it stands, the statisticalists have a majority of the seats in parliament and on the executive council. As a result of your work and the Lady Delonas, they'll lose that majority and more when the votes are tallied.'" Is that another reason why you like me, Verkanvall asked? "'Unofficially, yes. As President General of the Society of Assassins, I must be non-political. The society is rigidly so. If we let ourselves become involved as an organization in politics, we could control the system government inside of five years, and we'd be wiped out of existence in fifty years by the very forces we sought to control," Clarnud said. "'But personally, I would like to see the statisticalist party destroyed. If they succeed in their program of socialization, the society would be finished. A socialist state is, in its final development, an absolute total state. No total state can tolerate extra-legal and paraggovernmental organizations. So we have adopted the policy of giving a little inconspicuous aid, here and there, to people who are dangerous to the statisticalists. The Lady Delona of Hadron and Dr. Hanash of Hosh are such persons. You appear to be another. That's why I ordered that fellow Lorneorm to make sure you are safe in his hotel." "'Where is the Lady Delona?' Verkanvall asked. "'From your use of the present tense, I assume you believe her to be still carnate.'" Clarnud looked at Verkanvall keenly. "'That's a pretty blunt question, Lord Verzal,' he said. "'I wish I knew a little more about you. When you and your assassin started inquiring about the Lady Delona, I tried to check up on you. I found out that you had come to Darge from Gama on a ship of the family of Zorda, accompanied by Brarnand of Zorda himself. And that's all I could find out. You claim to be a Venusian planter, and you might be. Any Terran who can handle weapons as you can would have come to my notice long ago. But you have no more ascertainable history than if you'd stepped out of another dimension. That was getting uncomfortably close to the truth. In fact, it was the truth.' Verkanvall laughed. "'Well, confidentially,' he said, "'I'm from the Arcturus system. I followed the Lady Delona here from our home planet, and when I have rescued her from among Eusolarians I shall, according to our customs, receive her hand in marriage. As she is the daughter of the Emperor of Arcturus, that'll be quite a good thing for me.' Clarnud chuckled. "'You know, you'd only have to tell me that about three or four times, and I'd start believing it,' he said. And Dr. Harnash of Hosh would believe it the first time. He's been talking to himself ever since the Lady Delona started her experimental work here. Lord Verzal, I'm going to take a chance on you. The Lady Delona is still Carnate, or was, four days ago, and the same for Derzid. They both went into hiding after the Discarnation Feast of Garnon of Roxor to escape the enmity of the statisticalists. Two days after they disappeared Derzid called Assassin's Hall and reported this, but told us nothing more. I suppose, in about three or four days, I could re-establish contact with him. We want the public to think that the statisticalists made away with the Lady Delona at least until the election's over." Verkan Vahl nodded. "'I was pretty sure that was the situation,' he said. "'It may well be that they will get in touch with me. If they don't, I'll need your help in reaching them.' Why do you think the Lady Delona will try to reach you?' She needs all the help she can get. She knows she can get plenty from me. Why do you think I interrupted my search for her and risked my Carnate existence to fight those people over a matter of verbalisms and political propaganda?' Verkan Vahl went to the newscast visit-plate and snapped it on. "'We'll see if I'm getting results yet.' The plate lighted, and a handsome young man in a gold-laced green suit was speaking out of it. Where he is heavily guarded by assassins. However, in an exclusive interview with representatives of this service, the assassin Hirzif, one of the two who seconded the men the Lords Virzell fought, said that in his opinion all of the three were so outclassed as to have had no chance whatever, and that he had already refused an offer of ten thousand system monetary units to discarnate the Lord Virzell for the statisticalist party. When I want to discarnate, Hirzif the assassin said, I'll invite in my friends and do it properly. Until I do, I wouldn't go up against the Lord Virzell of Verkan for ten million SMU." Verkan Vahl snapped off the visit-plate. "'See what I mean?' he asked. "'I fought those politicians just for the advertising. If Delona and Deerzut are anywhere nearer visit-plate, they'll know how to reach me.' "'Hirzif shouldn't have talked about refusing that retainer,' Clarnud frowned. "'That isn't good assassin ethics. Why, yes, Lord Virzell, that was cleverly planned. It ought to get results. But I wish you'd get the Lady Delona out of Darsh and preferably off Tara as soon as you can. We've benefited by this so far, but I shouldn't like to see things go much further. A real civil war could develop out of this situation, and I don't want that. Call on me for help. I'll give you a codeword to use at Assassin's Hall." End of Part 3