1

The mortar fire was nearer.

Rick Galloway heard the sharp crump! of at least five mortars. Then there was silence for a moment. It was just twilight, and twilight does not last in the tropics. Night came fast, and with it the sound of the African tropic highlands: birds, crickets, unidentifiable creatures calling each other in the sudden dark. A warm breeze rustled the dry grass on the hilltop.

There was a rattle of distant machine-gun fire. It sounded much too close.

“I think the roadblock has gone,” Lieutenant Parsons said. His voice was surprisingly calm. “They will be here within the hour.”

“Yeah.” Captain Galloway swept his night glasses along the southern slope of the hill, down toward the crossroad where he had left Major Hendrix with the wounded. There was nothing to see. He turned carefully, letting the glasses sweep the perimeter of the hill that for the moment was his entire world. He saw nothing at all except the tiny remnant of his command. The men were digging in and had done a good job with the little they had.

“Where the hell are those choppers?” Galloway demanded. He felt sweat drip from his forehead despite the cooling breeze that sprang up after sundown. “Elliot.”

“Sir.” Sergeant Elliot was at the other end of the trench where Galloway stood. The trench had not been bunkered, but there was no time to construct better defenses for the command post.

“Can’t you raise headquarters?” Galloway demanded.

“No, sir. Warner’s trying.” The big sergeant turned back to the radio.

“Perhaps we should let the men run for it,” Parsons suggested. “Some may escape.”

Rick shook his head. “What’s to run to?” he asked. Parsons shrugged. “We sell our lives to no purpose—”

“We’re giving our employers another hour,” Galloway said. His voice was as bitter as he felt, although he had tried to hide his feelings. “There’s no point, André,” Galloway said. “We don’t speak the language, we’re the wrong color, and we’re surrounded. I expect half the troops have run anyway. They know the score. Elliot!”

“Sir.”

“How many effectives do we have?”

“Maybe fifty, Captain.”

“So there you are,” Rick said. “About half the number we brought up this silly hill. The rest have run.” He knew he was talking too much, saying too many words; but he was young and inexperienced and afraid.

Parsons nodded in the darkness. He took a plastic bottle from his belt. “Wine?”

“Sure.” Rick took the liter bottle and drank a couple of swallows of the cheap local wine. Parsons always carried a bottle. Rick was certain that “Parsons” wasn’t the lieutenant’s real name. Parsons spoke French and German and sometimes let slip a few words about Legion experience.

It hardly mattered. Rick wasn’t a real captain, either. The operation was CIA, and the Agency had borrowed men from anywhere they could get them.

Galloway handed the bottle back to Parsons, who raised it in a mock toast. “Here’s to us. There are damned few left.”

“They’re taking their own sweet time about coming,” Rick said.

“Afraid of us.” Parson’s voice was a mocking lilt in the dark.

“Sure,” Galloway said. But they well might be, he thought. We’ve broken more than one Cuban mercenary outfit. With any help at all from the politicians who put us out here in Sainte Marie, we’d have won. At that it was a near thing. What was it Wellington said about Waterloo? A near-run thing—as near a thing as you’d ever hope to see. Well so was this, but the difference is it’s us who lost it.

Officially they were volunteers, and received no direct support from the United States at all; but most of the men were veterans of the US Army, and the CIA had brought them in. The Cubans and Russians had made no secret at all of their aid to the other side.

“I got headquarters,” Sergeant Elliot announced.

“Mirabile dictu” Parsons muttered.

Rick crawled over to the radio. Perhaps prayers are answered after all, he thought. There was more automatic weapon fire from the south, and a mortar bomb dropped in fifty yards downhill. Rick estimated the enemy at less than a mile. It wouldn’t be long now.

“Galloway here,” he told the microphone. “Can you get us the hell out of here?”

“Negative.”

The single word was a death sentence. Rick started to say that, then thought better of it. They knew. “Why not?”

“I’m sorry, Rick.” Galloway recognized Colonel Blumfeld’s voice. Blumfeld was one of the men who’d talked him into volunteering for this mission. “Washington has canceled all support. Highest level. I’d send the choppers anyway and to hell with my career, but I don’t have any to send. They came and took them away.”

“They?”

“Higher command.” Blumfeld sounded unhappy. Rick thought he damned well ought to be unhappy. “Your orders are to surrender,” Blumfeld said.

“Bat puckey. The Cubans will have us in a show trial as mercenaries,” Rick said. “Then they’ll shoot us.”

“They say they won’t.”

“Sure. Colonel, are you sending me any support? Anything at all?”

“No.”

“Then go to hell.” Galloway handed the mike to Sergeant Elliot, then went back to where Parsons stood.

Parsons listened with a half-smile that barely showed in starlight. Then he took out his wine bottle. “We had a good run,” he said.

Rick reached for the bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

“And now what?”

Rick shrugged. There were few choices. They were white men in a black country. Rick had always been quick to learn languages, but even he hadn’t enough of the local patois to do more than buy groceries. They would be spotted easily wherever they went.

Major Jefferson had taken all the black troops on an infiltration raid. Rick hoped they’d escape, but without the black troops, there wasn’t even the pretense of an integrated army. No blacks to speak and front for them. Rick wondered if that would matter. It might, depending on who captured them.

It was his first command, and very likely the only one he’d ever have. He wasn’t experienced. He’d begun as a junior lieutenant, just out of ROTC from the state university, and his promotion to brevet captain was due to being in the right place and time; he knew better than to think it meant more.

Rick thought it didn’t mean very much at all. Parsons was a career man, but the military wasn’t Galloway’s career. ROTC had been an easy way to pay for the college education he couldn’t afford.

The other alternative was football. Rick was quick and wiry. Had he gone out for football, he could have got a scholarship, with all the other perquisites of a star. But he didn’t like the game. It required too much commitment.

Instead, he had joined the track team and won his letter. Track didn’t have the glamour of football; the football jocks got first choice of the girls. On the other hand, they often couldn’t enjoy their opportunities because of injuries or training rules. Being a runner was definitely superior in Rick Galloway’s view. He told himself that quite often. But track hadn’t been important enough to the alumni; there weren’t all those easy jobs available. ROTC had provided Rick’s spending money.

When he graduated, Rick realized that he’d never committed himself to anything. He had neither joined a fraternity nor opposed them. He had few political opinions. He was a professional neutral, and he wasn’t sure he liked the image.

A classmate, John Henry Carter, had been a career military man and had volunteered for the CIA operation in Africa. He had talked Rick into coming along; an adventure, something to do while he was young before he settled into a dull job and duller life. He’d known there was a possibility of being killed, but he’d never been seriously threatened in his life. He could outrun any danger.

Carter was the only black man Rick had ever known well, and the only friend he’d had in the outfit. Now Carter was off with Major Jefferson. Major Hendrix was missing a leg and had stayed behind to hold the roadblock south of them. Parsons and Galloway were the only officers left.

The plan had been for Galloway to take the hilltop and hold it until the helicopters came; then they could go back for the wounded. Rick hadn’t like the idea, but Hendrix made it an order. Someone had to hold the roadblock and someone else had to capture a landing area; Hendrix couldn’t move, which left the hilltop to Galloway.

But Hendrix hadn’t held the roadblock very long—and now there wouldn’t be any helicopters.

And that’s that, Rick thought. He had no choices left. For the first time, he couldn’t even run.

Something caught his attention. Rick looked up. “What the hell?” He pointed toward the ink-black sky. A bright light moved among the stars. It seemed to come closer, and it made no sound at all.

“Where did Labon get aircraft?” Rick demanded.

Parsons shrugged. “From the Cubans, I suppose—Rick, that is no aircraft.”

He was right. The silent light moved closer, and in strange patterns like no airplane Rick had ever seen before. There was only the one light; it was impossible to make out the size or shape of the craft, but it blotted out stars. Too many stars. He realized with a shiver that it was big. It moved too fast and turned in weird patterns, and it moved in total silence. He felt the hair rising on the back of his neck.

It came lower, and a bright light stabbed down to illuminate the crest of the hill. There was enough light reflected upward to show what the tropical night had hidden.

“A goddamn flying saucer!” one of the troops shouted. There was a shot.

“Hold your fire!” Rick screamed.

Parsons looked at him curiously.

“That’s nothing of Labon’s. Why shoot at it? And—I’m not sure we can hurt it. . .

“It is landing,” Parsons said.

“Of course.” Rick felt an inane urge to giggle. Why not? he thought. We’re defeated, surrounded, every one of us marked for a firing squad within the week, so why not flying saucers too? He felt lightheaded, and it was not just the wine. He was glad that he hadn’t tried the local equivalent of pot.

Flying saucers weren’t real. They weren’t even science fiction. The girl he liked to think of as his mistress—he knew she’d have resented the label, and he’d never used it in her hearing, but he liked to think of himself as a man who’d once had a mistress—had been interested in science fiction, and had got Rick to read some of the classics; but neither she nor her friends “believed in” flying saucers.

The thing settled on the hilltop. It was very large, as big as a 707, and it wasn’t precisely saucer-shaped, although seen edge on at a distance it might give that appearance. It was more like half a football sliced lengthwise, nearly flat at the bottom. It did nothing for a moment. Then a bright orange rectangle opened in the center of one side.

Sergeant Elliot caught up to him. Other troopers crawled into the CP trench. “What do we do, Captain?” Elliot demanded.

“Keep the men at their posts. There are still a thousand Cubans out there,” Rick said. He studied the bright opening. Nothing happened. The only sounds were mutters from his own troops, and no one—or no thing—came out. “Take over,” he told Parsons. “I’m going to have a look.”

Parsons spread his hands in a wide gesture, a typical French shrug. “You are mad. But I will go with you—”

“No.” Rick stared at the ship again. For a moment he felt rising hope. Could this be an experimental plane, something kept secret by the CIA and sent to get him out? The Agency had got them into this mess and would be embarrassed if they were captured. “Elliot, get headquarters.”

“Can’t, sir. Radio stopped working about the time we saw that thing.”

“Flying saucer,” someone muttered.

Rick had heard the stories. When people saw flying saucers, electrical gear stopped working. Ignition, radios, TV—anything electrical. But so what? He willed himself to believe that the Agency had sent this craft to rescue him. It made sense, even to risk a secret craft, in order to save the embarrassment of political trials and— There was no point in just looking at it. He didn’t want to go alone, but Parsons would have to remain in command, and Elliot would be needed to control the troops. He looked at the others who’d crawled into his CP. “Mason, come with me.”

“Right.” Mason was a corporal; a short, stocky man with a lot of self-confidence and a phlegmatic temperament. He’d do.

Rick slung his rifle and started forward. Mason carried his at the ready, walking just behind Rick. “I never believed in flying saucers,” Mason said.

“Neither did I. Not sure I do now,” Rick told him. “Could be the Agency coming for us.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Mason said.

Rick could guess how the man felt. Rick Galloway didn’t believe it either. This was no illusion, no swamp gas. It wasn’t the planet Venus or a weather balloon. This was a real ship which had silently landed on his hill, and it was too damned advanced to be anyone’s secret weapon. Anyone with a fleet of ships like that could dictate terms to the whole world. The way it had come in, zipping along in silence and changing direction in random ways, it would be unstoppable by any missile or interceptor Rick had ever heard of.

He reached the lighted square. He could feel the troops behind staring at his back. The sounds of gunfire started up again off to the south, and probably half his troops had left their posts to come look at the ship. Others, though, were dug in, grimly waiting. They’d make the Cubans pay for the hill. But how long could they hold? Rick looked inside the ship.

The lighted square was a doorway into a small chamber about three meters on a side. There was no one inside, and there were few features to see except for what appeared to be sliding doors, closed, on three of the walls. The opening was less than two meters high, a bit low for Rick’s six feet and a fraction. He stood outside looking in until he felt silly. Finally he shouted. “Anybody home?”

“Come in, Captain Galloway,” a voice said. It was a perfectly ordinary male voice, nothing unearthly about it. “You have very little time, Captain. Come aboard.”

“My God, maybe it is the Agency,” Rick muttered. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been an ordinary human voice with an accent he couldn’t place.

It spoke again. “You may leave your weapons outside. You will not need them, and they might tempt you to rash actions. If we wished you harm, Captain Galloway, you would be dead now.”

That, Rick thought, was for sure. This thing— whatever it was—couldn’t be worse than the Cubans. He unslung his rifle and laid it on the ground. Mason did the same, but threw him a significant look. Rick nodded. They both had knives, and Rick had his .45 automatic pistol under his jacket. He was certain that Mason had another.

The opening was inconveniently high off the ground, above waist level. “No gangplank for us,” Rick told Mason. He put his hand on the sill. It felt like metal, but was slightly warm to the touch. “Here goes,” he muttered, and vaulted in. Mason followed closely.

He had half-expected the opening to close once he was inside, but it did nothing. The doorway to his left slid open silently, revealing a short corridor. Rick gestured to Mason to follow and went down that. Another door slid open at the far end. The room beyond was very brightly lit.

He went in gingerly, feeling very much alone. Corporal Mason hadn’t hesitated to lead an infantry attack on a Cuban tank two days before, and had himself crept up to it and blown off a tread with a satchel charge; he looked far more nervous now than when he went off to attack the tank. Rick wondered if he were as shaky as the corporal, tried to straighten up and get control of his face. It wouldn’t do to let the troops see their officer shaken.

His eyes adjusted to the bright light. There were —beings—in the compartment. Three of them, and they were not human.

2

They were shaped like humans. They had two arms and two legs and two eyes, but the proportions were wrong. The shoulders were too high, almost as if they didn’t have necks, and their heads rose from too-thick bodies. They wore clothing, coveralls of a shining metallic appearance, one dull grey, the other two in brighter colors that shimmered when they moved.

Their hands had only three fingers, but there were two thumbs—one on each side of a thick palm. They had no hair that Rick could see. Their lips were thin—far too thin to be human—and their mouths were too high on their strangely flat faces. Mouth too high, eyes too low, nose—not really a nose at all, Rick decided. Instead there was a fleshy snout-slit like a vertical second mouth. It rose until it almost reached the line joining the eyes.

It took an effort to look away from them and inspect the compartment. The room was nearly bare. All around the upper parts of the compartment there were screens, like TV sets but very thin. Some showed images: Rick’s troops standing outside, Lieutenant Parsons and Sergeant Elliot talking and pointing, the machine-gun emplacements. The aliens seemed to have most of his defenses spotted, and their TV gave bright images although outside it was nearly pitch-dark.

The creatures sat at a long table placed crosswise to the door he had entered. It was too high—at least a foot higher than a table for humans would have been—and was transparent, but without the shimmer of glass, so that it was almost invisible. A small box with lights and colored squares rested on the table.

Rick had the impression of controls below some of the screens; at least there were flat plates about an inch square, some lit in bright colors, and others colored but dark. They might have been pushbuttons or touch-sensitive plates, but they might have been anything else. The room was as alien as the creatures.

Despite a strong desire to curl up in a corner and gibber, Rick studied the room carefully, trying to categorize and file the new information. He kept trying to convince himself this was a dream, but he knew better. Finally he was able to speak. “Hello.” When the aliens spoke, both the mouth and nose slits moved. “You have very little time, Captain Galloway,” the grey-clad alien said. The voice was very matter-of-fact. It sounded masculine, but Rick reminded himself that he didn’t know the creature’s sex. Or, he thought, if they even had sexes. “Perhaps too little. We may have waited too long. We are here to rescue you and your men.”

“Who the hell—”

“Later. There is no time.”

Sure, Rick thought. Later. But the alien was right. The Cubans were approaching rapidly. He tried to organize his thoughts, but it was difficult to accept what he was doing, that he was talking with— things. The spokesman—man? No. Not a man. Not a spokesman, either, his mind gibbered. He had no concepts to use. Finally he found his voice. “What do you want with us?”

“For you to get your men aboard. Quickly, before you have none left.” The alien spread its hands, palm down, in a gesture that meant nothing to Rick. The tone of his voice had not changed, but it was not difficult to guess that the alien was impatient. “As we have said before and doubtless must say many times again, if we wished you harm, you would be dead. What can we do to you that the Cubans will not accomplish within a few hours?” The alien was obviously right, but that didn’t make Rick feel much better. The “rescue” was not very appealing. “How do you know my name?” he demanded.

“From your radio. You have no more time for questions.” This came from one of the creatures in bright coveralls. “You must act. Now.”

“What about our weapons?”

“Bring them. Bring all of your equipment,” Grey-coveralls said. “But quickly. When the Cubans are close enough to see us clearly, we must be gone. With or without you and your men.”

“That’s no choice at all, Cap’n,” Corporal Mason said. “Better them than the Cubans.” The trooper’s voice was flat and without emotion.

“I’d thought of that,” Rick said. He stood another moment in indecision, but he had made up his mind. “All right.”

“Quickly,” the alien urged.

“Sure. Come on, Mason—”

“You will leave him here,” Grey-coveralls said. “As an earnest of your good intentions.”

“Now, wait just a damned minute—”

“It’s okay, Captain,” Mason said. “I’m as safe here as out there.”

“All right.” Rick went back to the doorway. It opened for him. When he reached the entry chamber, another door opened on the side opposite the entrance to the chamber where the aliens sat. He saw a large empty compartment, more than fifty feet long and perhaps fifteen wide.

“Have the men go in there with their weapons,” a voice said. It seemed to speak from the walls, but there was no sign of a speaker grille.

Rick jumped out of the ship and ran to his command post. Half the troops—perhaps more—had gathered there to stare at the ship. They stood clutching rifles and grenades for what comfort weapons could give.

“I did not entirely expect to see you again,” Lieutenant Parsons said. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks. We’ve got no time at all. Get the men aboard. Men, weapons; food, equipment, everything. Fast.”

“But—” Sergeant Elliot was stammering. Rick had never seen the big sergeant confused before.

“That’s a CIA ship,” Rick said. He spoke loudly so that many of the troops could hear him. “Secret stuff. They’ve come to get us out, but they don’t want the Cubans to see the ship, so we’ve got to load up quickly. Now move it.”

“Sir!” Elliot ran over to the mortar emplacement, and some of the other troops gathered their gear and headed for the ship. Rick didn’t know if he had fooled them or not, but the “CIA ship” explanation seemed the easiest and fastest way to handle the situation.

Parsons looked at him with raised eyebrows. His expression said clearly that he knew Rick was a liar. Then he shrugged and began urging the men onto the ship. Sergeant Elliot rounded up more.

Good troops, Rick thought. And each one had probably made the same decision: they knew what the Cubans could do. This was at least a chance.

The mortar team ran by with their tube, followed by others with the base and packs of mortar bombs. Men grabbed boxes and bandoliers of ammunition, stuffed their pockets with grenades. They were going aboard well armed.

Not, Rick thought, that it will do a hell of a lot of good. Weapons won’t make us safer. But they do make us feel safer, and that’s important.

“What is this nonsense?” Parsons demanded in a low voice. “You know that is not—”

“Can it. Hold onto the questions.” Rick held up his hand and gestured toward the south. There was sporadic firing down there, some of it much closer than Hendrix could possibly be. The Cubans were mopping up the last pockets of resistance before coming up the hill. “Hendrix has had it,” Rick said. “His last orders were to get as many men out as we could. Got a better way?”

“No. But—”

“But nothing. That ship won’t wait, and we can’t do anything for Hendrix and his people.” Fear and a sense of guilt at abandoning their wounded made Rick speak more sharply than he had intended. “Shut up and get the men aboard. There’s no time for talk.”

André Parsons shrugged. “As you say. But there are questions you will answer.”

“Don’t I know it. Christ, André, don’t argue. Just do it. Please.”

“Very well.” He went out to assist in dismounting the light machine-gun.

More troopers ran past. They carried packs, sleeping bags, helmets, ammo boxes, mess gear; the usual impedimentia of a marching army. They were not making much noise, and there was surprisingly little confusion.

Good troops, Rick thought. We did damned well, considering how little support we had. Not our fault we were beaten. For a collection of soldiers who had never served together before, we did damned well.

“That’s the last,” Elliot shouted.

Rick had been counting. “Only thirty-four went aboard.”

Elliot looked ashamed. “I can’t find any more, Captain.”

They’ve run, Rick thought. Well, I can understand that. I thought of it myself. “Get aboard, then,” he ordered. After Elliot climbed in, Rick followed. They were the last.

As soon as Rick cleared the entryway, the outer door slid closed. When he went through into the compartment with the troops, that entryway closed also. They were blocked off from the outside and from the control room—or whatever that room was, Rick thought. Mason was still in there with the aliens.

There was a loud musical tone, and a voice said, “Everyone will please sit on the floor. Quickly.”

“Get down!” Rick shouted. “Hit the deck!” He sat heavily, just in time. There was a feeling of far too much weight, and some of the troops who hadn’t obeyed quickly enough fell heavily. Loose equipment fell and rolled around the compartment.

There were sideways accelerations. The feeling of motion went on for a long time. Then it stopped and they had normal weight again.

“Medic!” someone shouted. One of the troopers was holding his wrist, broken in a fall to the deck. Sergeant McCleve went to the downed man. McCleve was an older trooper, a career soldier rumored to have graduated from a Mexican medical school and unable to obtain a license to practice in the United States due to heavy drinking. Rick didn’t know, but McCleve had always seemed very competent.

The troops were all talking at once. Some swore, and one or two prayed. Others got up and roamed around the compartment. There was nothing to see.

They were in a large rectangular metal room, and very little more could be said about it. Rick couldn’t even tell where the light came from; it was just there, and although there were multiple shadows, they were very faint.

“I think we got away,” Rick shouted. “Let the Cubans figure that one out!”

There was a cheer that sounded artificial. Rick smiled grimly. He didn’t feel much like cheering himself.

“Level with us, sir,” Corporal Gengrich said. “How’d the CIA get a thing like this? And why the hell did they need us if they’ve got—” he waved expressively—“these?”

It was a good question, and Rick had no idea of how to answer.

“All in good time,” Lieutenant Parsons said. “All in good time. Count your blessings.”

“But—” Gengrich began.

“Shut up.” Sergeant Elliot was nervous and fell back on military tradition as something familiar and understood. An officer had spoken, and that was that.

It won’t last, Rick thought. Elliot had strong views about officers: he assumed they were competent, wanted them to be, demanded that they be. He knew that there were plenty of incompetents with bars and leaves, but he was proud enough of his Army that he’d kill himself trying to cover for them. But Rick suspected that Elliot would not hesitate to frag a bad officer for the honor of the corps.

There were more accelerations, this time not so violent. The ship was turning. Rick felt trapped, but he tried to keep his expression calm and unworried. He didn’t know how successful he was at that, but he thought it was important that the troops think he was confident.

We are, he thought, thirty-six armed men and some heavy weapons, in a ship controlled by aliens—aliens! I don’t have the faintest notion of where I am, where we’re going, or what those creatures want with us.

He was certain they were in space. That decided one thing: they certainly didn’t need any shooting. Not that there was anything to shoot at, but there were a lot of weapons available, and some might punch holes in the ship. The metal walls didn’t seem too thick, and Rick had no idea of how strong they might be. Even supposing they could blow open a door and found air beyond it, and that they could go through the ship and kill or capture every alien in it—what then? They couldn’t fly it; they couldn’t land it; they couldn’t even operate the food and water and air system.

And so far no one had threatened them.

Two hours later they were all certain they were in space. There was a brief warning tone, and a voice said, “There will be a period of no-weight. Please secure all equipment and secure yourselves.”

The only thing they could secure themselves to was a low bar a bit above waist height that ran around two sides of the compartment like the rails ballet dancers use for exercise. Rick managed to get most of the troops over to those walls. They tied lines to as much of the gear as they could. They were just finishing when there was another musical tone.

They had no weight at all. Loose objects drifted slowly. Several men looked sick, and one was. The vomit floated around in large pools. Other men turned green.

“Jesus, we got to get out of here!” one soldier yelled.

“Shut up!” Elliot didn’t look too good himself. “Captain—”

He didn’t finish the question. The ship went through more gyrations, none very severe. Then, slowly, everything drifting in the air began to settle toward the deck. They felt increasing weight, building up to what seemed almost—but not quite— normal again.

This time it was much harder to calm the troops. They hung onto their weapons and stared around the compartment looking for someone to fight, something they could do. Rick thought he could literally smell the fear in the compartment, and it was contagious. He felt like a caged animal.

“For God’s sake, where are we going?” Gengrich demanded.

“The journey will last two more hours,” the voice said. It spoke from nowhere at all.

“So they can listen to us,” Parsons said. He lowered his voice to an undertone. “Are you certain there is nothing else you wish to tell me?”

“Not just now.”

Parsons shrugged. “As you will. But I hope this does not last much more than a few hours. It will be difficult to control the men if it goes on much longer.” He made a wry face. “It will be difficult to control me.”

      “Yeah,” Rick said. He knew exactly how André Parsons felt.

The voice’s time estimate was accurate. Rick’s watch said they had been aboard for four hours and five minutes when the warning tones sounded again and they were told to secure themselves.

This time they never had a period of no-weight, but the accelerations were short and sharp, in little spurts. There were periods of varying gravity between spurts. Finally they felt a slight impact, no more than they might have felt jumping from a chair to the floor. The accelerations ceased.

They didn’t weigh enough. Nowhere near enough, and this was steady. Rick looked around in surprise, a wild suspicion coming to his mind. Some of the troops were muttering. Corporal Gengrich thoughtfully took a cartridge from his pocket and dropped it, watched it fall slowly.

About one-sixth gravity, Rick thought. There was no hiding that, and no hiding what it meant.

Gengrich shouted it first. “God Almighty, we’re on the friggin’ Moon!”

3

The troopers had little time to-react to Gengrich. The compartment door opened, and Corporal Mason came in. His face looked like grey ashes, and he held his right arm against his chest. The compartment door remained open to the entry chamber, but all the other doors were closed.

“Mason—”

“Where the hell you been?”

“What’s wrong, Art? What in hell did they do to you?”

The men were all shouting at once. Sergeant McCleve went over with his medical kit.

“At ease!” Rick shouted. Sergeant Elliot repeated the order more loudly. There were mutters, but the shouting stopped.

Rick joined Mason and McCleve. “What happened?”

“Jesus, Captain, we’re on the Moon,” Mason said. “The bastards brought us to the Moon!”

“Yes,” Rick said.

“I saw it all,” Mason said. The troops crowded around to listen.

Rick nodded to himself. It was time the men found out what had happened. He thought he should have told them before.

“Those screen things,” Mason was saying. “It was like TV. We lifted off, straight up, it seemed like, and the world kept getting further and further away until I could see all of it, just like on TV during a space mission.”

“What happened to your arm?” McCleve asked. He slit Mason’s field-jacket sleeve and examined the wound. It looked like a neat round hole, thinner than a pencil, and it went through the jacket, the arm, and out the sleeve on the other side. There was no blood.

“They wouldn’t talk to me,” Mason said.

“Who?” “Who wouldn’t talk?” the troops demanded. Elliot glared at them, but he didn’t try to keep them quiet. He wanted to know too.

“Those critters,” Mason said. “The — Captain, you saw ‘em. I don’t know what they are. Not men. Look something like men, but they’re not.”

Now there was a lot of excited babble. “Shut up,” Rick said. “Let Mason tell his story.”

“They wouldn’t talk to me. We kept getting further and further away from the Earth, until I could see it—all of it—up to where I could see daylight and clouds over the ocean, just like on TV from Skylab. And they wouldn’t talk. So I took out my pistol and pointed it at one—the one in the grey suit—and told him if he didn’t tell me where we were going, I’d shoot him.”

“Stupid,” Lieutenant Parsons muttered.

“Yes, sir, it was stupid,” Mason said. “The critter didn’t do anything. Just waved his hand, kind of, and some kind of beam, like a laser beam, came out of the wall. Right out of the wall. I never saw any opening. Just this green light and it burned a hole right through. I dropped the gun and the critter came around and picked it up, and he said I should sit there and I should tell him if I needed medical attention—he talked that way, like a professor. Then he gave me a pill. I thought about it and then I took it, and after that it stopped hurting. And then we came on straight to the Moon. I saw us land. We’re on the back side, Captain. The back side of the Moon. There’s a big cave, and two other ships like this one.”

When Mason stopped talking, the men began again. “You didn’t tell us it was a goddamn flying saucer!” Gengrich shouted. His voice was hostile and accusing. “You said it was a CIA ship!”

“They were in a hurry,” Rick said. “Would you rather be back on the hill waiting for the Cubans? Would any of you?”

They didn’t know what to make of that. Nobody spoke of going back.

“We can always die,” Rick said. “At least we can find out what these—people—want with us.”

“Good advice.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. “You will know very soon. The exit port will open and you will please carry all your equipment and weapons out of the ship. You will be told what to do after that. Please be careful. You are, as you have been told, on your planet’s Moon. The air pressure will be lower than you are accustomed to, but there is more than enough air and oxygen for your species if you do nothing violent. Now please gather your equipment.”

Rick felt totally drained of emotion. “Let’s get with it,” he said.

Elliot stood a moment in indecision, then evidently made up his mind. “Get that gear together. Move!” he shouted.

There was a cave beyond the door. Heavy material that looked like thick rubber sealed the door to the cave. The seal, which reminded Rick of the materials wet suits are made of, stretched for twenty meters or so into the cave. Beyond that the tunnel walls were made of rock, but shiny, as if it had been varnished. Rick felt it; the stuff was very hard, and he thought it had been sprayed on—probably to keep the air from leaking out through the rock walls.

When they had unloaded the ship, the entryway door closed, and they had no choice but to go down the tunnel. It went inward and down. They had no difficulty with equipment; everything weighed only a sixth of what it would on Earth, and one man could carry ten mortar bombs without great effort.

The tunnel was lighted, not with glowing walls as the ship had been, but with ordinary fluorescent lights. Rick examined one of the fixtures; it was stamped “Westinghouse.” Common house wire ran from light to light.

As they went deeper into the cave, doors closed behind them. They seemed to be made from the same wet-suit material as the passage from the ship to the cave, and they appeared from the walls in circles that closed together so tightly that it was difficult to see they weren’t solid.

They reached the bottom of the ramp. Rick estimated that they had come nearly a kilometer. At the ramp’s end was a big cavern, as large as a basketball gymnasium, and furniture. Rick saw tables, chairs bookcases with books and magazines. Beds and army cots were clustered at one end of the area. A table held a coffee urn and bags of styrofoam cups, and a can of Yuban coffee stood next to the urn. On another table he saw loaves of bread of various American brands; jars of Jiffy peanut butter; cans of Campbell’s soup. Paper plates and cheap plastic forks. Canned milk. Bricks of cheese; Vienna sausage; tins of sardines. There were no signs of fresh foods, meats or vegetables, but Rick was certain they wouldn’t starve.

At the far end of the cavern was a TV set. It looked strange. Rick saw no maker’s marks, unless some curious squiggles on a plate at the bottom meant something. It had no controls at all. A man’s face looked out at them, and from the way his eyes and head moved, Rick thought the man was watching him.

Man. Rick stood staring at the TV. The face on the screen was human. He was certain of it.

“You are in charge?” The figure on the screen spoke without warning. The phrase wasn’t precisely a question, but it did not sound positive either. The voice held a slight accent, but Rick was certain he had never heard anything like it before.

“As much as anyone is,” Rick said.

“Then you are Captain Galloway. I must have information. First, is it true that you voluntarily boarded the ship that brought you here? There was no coercion from the Shalnuksis?”

“Shalnuksis?”

“The beings who brought you here. Were you forced to board their ship?”

“Not by them. There were some Cubans who didn’t leave us many choices—”

“That is my second question.” The man’s expression did not change at all. Rick got closer to the set and examined the image carefully.

He saw a man who appeared to be in his forties. He wore a rust-colored upper garment that resembled a tunic, no buttons, a V-neck lined with blue and studded with decorations: a stylized comet and sunburst. The man’s hair was short, and his complexion was darker than Rick’s; about the same hue as an American Indian, but not quite so dark.

“Is it true that you would now be dead if the Shalnuksi ship had not taken you aboard?” the man asked.

“It’s likely,” Rick answered.

“One of your men was injured by the Shalnuksis. They have said they were merely defending themselves and did the least damage possible to the man. Is this true?”

“Yes—”

“Thank you. We regret that we do not have better accommodations. You are welcome to whatever you find there. You may eat now. We will have more to talk of later.”

“Hey—damn it, what’s going on?” Rick demanded. He was talking to a blank screen.

They examined their prison. There was a hot plate and an electrical outlet on a long cord. The wire ran into the wall, and the hole it came out of was sealed with the wet-suit material. The hot plate had been made by General Electric. The coffeepot was Japanese, with Japanese labels. Everything in the compartment had come from Earth. Most had come from the United States, but there were articles from many other places. Some of the gear was new, much still in packing cases. Other equipment and stores had been used. There were radios and television sets, but they produced nothing beyond a few random hisses and howls.

After half an hour, they settled in to cook dinner. There was plenty to eat; soup and canned bacon and ham, canned vegetables, and pudding for dessert. André Parsons found a water tap—Kohler of Kohler—near the coffee urn. There was a drain beneath it. Other troops found cases of warm beer and several jugs of wine, enough so that everyone had a beer and a full cup of California red. There was plenty of coffee.

When they had eaten, they all felt better. The troops prowled about restlessly, but eventually began making themselves comfortable, using what was in their packs and whatever else they could find to bed down. Elliot pulled two of the single beds off to one side for Parsons and Rick Galloway. No one had eaten or slept for more than twenty-four hours, and soon most of the troops were sprawled onto beds and cots, or onto air mattresses on the floor.

The floor, Rick found, was uneven at the edges near the walls, but away from the walls it was artificially smooth and flat. It felt warm to the touch.

Rick sat with Parsons at a table near the TV set. They ate in silence. Finally Parsons said, “I see why you did not explain earlier.”

“Yeah. Not that I could have,” Rick said.

Parsons shrugged. “Five hours ago, I was prepared to be killed on that hilltop. Now I have eaten, I have a cup of wine and coffee to follow, and it is warm. No one is shooting me, and there is a comfortable bed. We have been lucky.”

“Maybe.”

“Have you thought of the implications of your television conversation?” André asked. “A human. A human who asks interesting questions. Are we volunteers? How was Corporal Mason injured? Would we be alive if we had not boarded the alien ship? All asked by a human in a voice of authority, as if he had every right to the answers.”

Rick nodded. “I thought of that. It means somebody cares what happens to us. Maybe not a lot, but somebody cares. I keep hoping that’s a good sign.”

“It cannot be a bad one,” André said.

“Dammit, you’re calm enough—”

Parsons laughed. “I would have said the same of you. Rick, I am terrified, but it would do no good to let the men see that. Obviously you must feel the same way.”

“Yeah. But I sure wish they’d let us know what they want with us.”

“Perhaps nothing,” Parsons said. He shrugged again in his expansive French manner. “Perhaps they rescued us for humanitarian reasons. Are we not worth it?” His smile was broad.

“Captain! Cap’n, that TV’s going again. They want you.”

Rick struggled to wakefulness. His watch showed that he had slept five hours. It seemed longer, and he felt far better rested than he would have expected from five hours’ sleep.

A dozen men were crowded around the TV. They were trying to talk to the man—as near as Rick could tell, it was the same one who had spoken to him before—but they had no success. It was only when Rick stood in front of the set that the man responded.

“It is time to discuss your situation,” the screen figure said. “You will not require weapons. Leave them all, and any other large metal objects, and enter the doorway which will open in the wall behind this screen.”

As he spoke a steel plate set in the wall swung away. A rubberlike airtight door stood behind it. “Alone, please,” the screen, said. “You will not be harmed.”

“Maybe a couple of us ought to come anyway,” Sergeant Elliot said.

“Thanks, Sarge, but I guess not,” Rick said. “If they really want us dead, they’ll let the air out of this compartment. And don’t forget that. Elliot, for God’s sake, don’t let the troops do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“No, sir. But when will you be back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cap’n, if you’re not back in four hours, we can blow that door open—”

“No. Wake up Lieutenant Parsons and tell him he’s in charge. I’ll be back.” Rick sounded a lot more confident than he felt as he went through the doorway. It closed behind him before the airtight in front of him dilated.

There was another corridor, and no one in sight. Rick followed that for a hundred meters until it bent sharply left, then led through two more rubberized pressure doors. He emerged in another cavern, one much smaller than the one he had left. It was well lighted, and there were at least a dozen of the TV screens of the kind he had seen in the ship and in the cavern.

There were both people and aliens in the cavern, perhaps a dozen of each. Several were studying the TV-like screens. An alien in grey coveralls, possibly the one who had spoken to him in the ship, came over to him.

The alien was six inches taller than Rick, but the extra height seemed to be all in the legs. The torso was not much longer than Rick’s. The arms were longer than a human’s, but not so much longer as were the legs. “There,” the alien said. He indicated a door. “You would—do well—to be—careful—of what you say.”

Rick nodded. “I understand.” If this were the same alien, and Rick thought it was, it no longer spoke as easily and confidently as it had aboard the ship. Why? he wondered.

The door opened into an office. A desk faced the door. There were papers on the desk, along with two keyboards that Rick thought must connect to a computer. The desk held two of the flat TV screens, and there were other screens higher up. All were blank. The office had metallic square walls and floor and ceiling; a room built into the cavern. There was a rug on the floor which Rick thought was Persian; it had that pattern and look to it. There were other art objects that appeared to be from Earth: seascape paintings, a color photograph of the Golden Gate bridge, a Kalliroscope with its swirling shock-wave patterns.

The man he had seen on the TV screen sat behind the desk. The desk itself looked Danish modern and was probably from Earth. The man stood as Rick entered, but he did not offer to shake hands.

He was perhaps five feet ten, two inches shorter than Rick, and looked thoroughly human. He was a bit darker than Rick, face rounder, but he would not have attracted attention on any street in the United States or Europe. His expression was not unfriendly, but he looked harried, very busy and preoccupied.

The man spoke. It sounded to Rick more like the twittering of a bird than any human speech. “A parrot in a cageful of cats,” Rick told André Parsons later. The alien answered in the same language, and the human nodded.

“Excuse me, Captain,” he said. “Please be seated.” He indicated chairs, both of aluminum and plastic, one a normal-height chair, the other like a highchair for an adult. “Doubtless you have many

questions.”

Now there’s an understatement, Rick thought. “Yes. Beginning with, who are you?”

The man nodded, tight-lipped, again his expression more of impatience and mild annoyance than anything else. “You would find my name hard to pronounce. Try ‘Agzaral,’ which is close enough not to offend me. I am—you do not have the occupation. Think of me as a police inspector. It is close enough for our purposes. And do be seated.”

Rick took the normal chair. The alien went to the highchair. It fitted perfectly. “And my—rescuer?” Rick asked. It was difficult to know how to speak. There were no referents, and Rick had no idea of what would offend ejther the human or the alien. Obviously he should avoid terms like “this critter” or “stretchy here,” but what could he call the creature?

“His name translates as ‘Goldsmith,’” Agzaral said. “Many Shalnuksi names derive from ancient occupations. That seems a nearly universal cultural trait among industrializing peoples. If you prefer his own language, it is ‘Karreeel.’ “The last was said with a twitter that Rick couldn’t possibly pronounce.

“Pleased to meet you,” Rick said. “An expression that we don’t always mean, but given the way we met, I certainly do. Only—”

“Only you would like to know why he made the effort,” Agzaral said. “I listened to part of your conversation with the other officer.” He switched to the twitter-and-snarl language again and spoke briefly.

“We have need of you,” Karreeel said. His facial slits flared briefly. “We have need of human soldiers, and we went to great expense and difficulty to locate you.”

“But why us?” Rick demanded.

“Because you would not be missed,” Agzaral said. “And you could be taken aboard his ship without anyone seeing it. There are severe regulations against allowing the ships to be seen.”

      “Flying saucers,” Rick said. “But you have been seen—”

“Some have,” Agzaral corrected. “Not Karreeel. The ships that have been seen were employed by students. Fortunately, none of those sightings can be proved.” He sighed. It seemed to Rick a very human sigh. “It is my unpleasant task to investigate every instance in which a ship has been seen and reported.”

“I see,” Rick said. “And then what?”

“We have agents on Earth,” Agzaral said. “They discredit the sighting reports.”

“They’ve done a good job,” Rick said. He remembered what he had thought of UFO stories, and the people who ‘believed in flying saucers.’ Brass-plated nuts. “The”—he hesitated at the unfamiliar word —“Shalnuksis —are studying us?”

Agzaral’s lips curled in what Rick thought might be a thin smile. “No. Others study Earth. Including other humans. But the—” He paused. “I will not in future stop myself when I require a term that you will not quite understand. I will simply use the nearest equivalent. There is a High Commission which regulates trade with primitive worlds, particularly with Earth, and protects primitive peoples from crude exploitation. The Commission forbids trade or other intercourse with your planet.”

“But why?” Rick demanded. He was surprised at how calm he felt. One part of his mind wanted him to scream and run in circles, flapping his arms, but instead he found it easy enough to sit calmly and politely conversing with a human who was not from Earth and an alien who resembled a stretched-out chimpanzee with a single nostril and no neck. It was all so completely ordinary; the conversational tones, the gestures— “Your planet is in an interesting stage of development,” Agzaral said. “Trade will not be allowed until it is decided what — until the studies are completed.”

“What the hell do you want with me, then?” Rick demanded.

“I want nothing,” Agzaral said. “You are, for me, a great annoyance. Karreeel has an offer which I believe you should consider.”

“Shoot—uh, go ahead. What’s the offer?”

“My—colleagues—and I are merchants. More correct would be ‘merchant-adventurers,’” Karreeel said. When he spoke, he paused frequently, and Rick wondered if he had some kind of translating machine, so that he could think of what he wanted to say and get the English. There was no sign of wires or a hearing aid, but that wasn’t decisive.

“‘Merchant-adventurers,’” Rick repeated. He couldn’t help remembering that the Gentleman Adventurers of the Honourable East India Company had gone out and conquered India for England, and he wondered if the aliens had a similar fate in mind for Earth.

“Yes,” said Karreeel. “We now have a need for human soldiers. The price of mercenaries has become—excessively high. We gambled that we could find soldiers here and yet not violate— Inspector—Agzaral’s regulations. If you will agree, we will have succeeded.”

“If we agree,” Rick said.

Agzaral wagged his head in a manner that Rick thought strange; when he saw Rick’s reaction, he checked himself and nodded. “You are under no compulsion to accept,” he said. “When he has made his offer, I will tell you what alternatives are permitted for you.”

“There is a planet, far from here,” Karreeel said. “It has a primitive society, much more primitive than yours. The planet can support a highly valuable crop, one that cannot be grown easily anywhere else. We need assistance in getting those crops planted and harvested.”

Rick shook his head. This didn’t make sense. “Why don’t you grow your own?”

The alien made a gesture with his left hand, and both his facial slits flared wide. “Why should one of us be condemned to live on a primitive world?”

“But we’re not farmers—”

“We do not expect you to do any farming. There is a local population. Unfortunately, the planet is very primitive, in a state of—feudalism. Our need is not farmers, but soldiers to impose a government which will wish to plant our required crops, harvest them, and deliver the harvest to us.”

“And what makes you think we’ll be interested in living on a primitive world?” Rick demanded.

“Your reward should be obvious. You will rule as you will, without interference. You will have wealth and power, and you will have only to see that our crops are grown. We will supply you with luxuries and comforts in trade.”

“This sounds like a long-term project,” Rick said.

“Of course,” Karreeel said.

Before Agzaral spoke, Rick knew what he was going to say.

“The task will last your lifetime,” Agzaral said. “Captain Galloway, surely it must be obvious to you that you and your men will never return to Earth.”

4

“Just a damn minute!” Rick exploded. “You kidnap us, and then-”

“Rescued,” Agzaral said. “I asked you about it. I have taken the trouble to check the story. It is obvious to me that you would be dead if Karreeel had not taken you aboard his ship. Do you dispute that?”

Rick felt the anger drain out to be replaced by fear. “No. I can’t dispute that. But why can’t we go home?”

“Because you would be believed,” Agzaral said. “Too many witnesses. Karreeel planned on that, of course. By deliberately taking aboard such a large number, he made it certain that someone would take you seriously if you returned to Earth.”

“You mentioned alternatives,” Rick said. Agzaral nodded. “You have few enough. None include going back to your own world. You would have to stay here, in that chamber where you are now, until transport could be arranged to another planet. Some of you could probably find positions as experimental subjects for the university. Others might—find different work. I do not know what would happen to the majority. The High Commission would have to decide. I would have to report that you have been offered employment and refused it. Humans unwilling to work do not always have a pleasant life on most of our worlds. And it may be several years before transport could be found—at least for all of you.”

“That’s not much choice at all.”

“Or you may commit suicide,” Agzaral said.

“That’s even less.” Rick touched the grenade through his pocket. It was a new variety; a small grenade not much larger than a golf ball, made mostly of plastic. It would explode into thousands of tiny fragments, surely enough to kill everyone in the room—including himself. It didn’t seem a very useful weapon at the moment. “May I smoke?” he asked.

“I prefer that you do not,” Agzaral said.

“Okay. Look, how the hell do you expect thirty men to take over an entire planet?”

“Not an entire planet.” Karreeel’s tone didn’t change; it remained matter-of-fact, calm, unworried. “Most of”—he twittered something incomprehensible—”is of no interest or value. Only one region will be worth controlling. Surely your men with firearms and other military equipment will have no difficulty dominating primitives with lances, bows, and swords?”

That seemed possible. Rick didn’t care much for the idea. If the planet were that primitive in weapons, it would also be primitive in hygiene and medical science. Living there would not be much fun.

He wondered what it would be like to be on welfare in one of Agzaral’s cultures. It hadn’t sounded pleasant, but Agzaral was undoubtedly used to more luxuries than Rick was. But then there was that phrase “experimental subjects,” and that didn’t sound good at all.

There was another problem that would be even worse. “We’re all men,” Rick said. “And you’ll be sending us to another planet for the rest of our lives—”

“Ah,” Karreeel said. “I understand. Permit me to explain that there will be human females.”

“You’ve kidnapped women?” Rick demanded.

“No. Providing a sufficient number might be difficult without —violating — the regulations. The planet—let us call it Paradise. That is a good name for a planet. Paradise is inhabited by humans.”

“Bull puckey,” said Rick.

There was silence for a moment. Rick wondered if he had offended the alien.

“It is quite true,”Agzaral said. “There are humans in many parts of the galaxy.”

“How?” Rick demanded.

Agzaral smiled thinly. “Don’t your own scientists suggest that humans are not native to Earth?”

“I never heard of that theory being taken seriously. If people—humans—are spread all over the galaxy, how’d they get that way?”

“I doubt that you will ever find that out,” Agzaral said. His voice had become very serious, with no trace of warmth at all. Then he shrugged. “There are no English translations of galactic history, and I have no time to give you lessons. For the moment, believe it.”

Rick frowned. He wondered if it could be true. There were legends of early astronauts: Ezekiel and the wheel, cherubim, the biblical four-faced flying creatures; even the so-called evidence of commercial writers. Genesis could be interpreted as the transplantation of a very small number of people— the story said only two—onto a world where they hadn’t evolved.

It was beyond Rick. He had never been a brilliant student. One reason he had worked hard in ROTC classes was that he had thought he might need the army for a job. The only subject he had consistently done well in was military history, and that hadn’t promised a very good living.

Paradise. He smiled lopsidedly as he remembered a lump of uninhabitable ice had been named “Greenland” in the hopes of attracting suckers who might go there to settle. “Real people,” he said. “Homo sapiens.”

“How sapient is debatable. Not merely for those on Paradise, but everywhere,” Agzaral said. “But depend upon it; union with females there will be fertile.”

Something else nagged at Rick. “You’re a policeman,” he said. “I get the idea that you’re here to protect the people of Earth. All those regulations. Can’t kidnap people who aren’t going to die anyway. Yet you’re sending us off to conquer this primitive place you call Paradise. Why aren’t you concerned about the people there?”

      Agzaral frowned. Rick wondered if he’d hit a sore spot.

      “Paradise—you may as well know the place’s real name,” Agzaral said. “In the dominant language it is called ‘Tran.’ Tran is not covered by the same regulations as Earth.” He stopped and pressed his lips grimly together. “Besides, you can’t do anything to the people there that they haven’t been doing to themselves. You may save them much misery.”

There was some mystery here, Rick thought. Agzaral’s expression did not match his words. But what? “If it’s that easy, why don’t you do it yourselves?”

“We can’t.” Agzaral pointed to Karreeel. “Discoverers, colonizers, and developers have their rights, too. But when you arrive on Tran with your weapons, you might recall that the people there are as human as you or I. Captain Galloway, you must make a decision.”

“How much time do I have?”

Agzaral looked to Karreeel.

“There is no vital hurry,” the alien said. “Shall we say twenty-four hours?”

Rick put the proposition to the troops. He wasn’t surprised when there was a long silence, then babble. He knew how they felt; he’d wanted to babble himself when he left the interview with Karreeel and Agzaral.

Then a loud voice cut through the chatter. “Another planet? That’s not possible.”

Private Larry Warner, called “Professor” by the other troops, had a voice that could be heard in the middle of a battle. He was a college graduate, and Rick had no idea why the man had volunteered for the army, still less why he had volunteered a second time for a CIA operation. He argued with everyone: officers, noncoms, anyone who would listen. Only threats of severe punishment could shut him up. For all that, he was an educated man, and Rick had found his knowledge valuable in the past.

“Faster-than-light travel is impossible,” Warner said. “We can’t get to another star system—and there sure aren’t any inhabited planets in the solar system. They must be lying to you.”

“It seems a pointless deception,” André Parsons said.

Sergeant Elliot had a simpler way. “Shut up, Warner.”

“Where did the aliens come from?” Jack Campbell shouted. “Not this solar system. You said so yourself, Professor.” Campbell was a college dropout who’d joined the army for lack of something better to do. He enjoyed teasing Warner. “Hey, I like it! Captain, I take it there’ll be some changes in our status. Most of us can hope for something more than twenty years in the army and retirement—”

Rick shrugged. “I hadn’t much thought about it, but I guess so. They talked like we could do pretty well what we wanted to.”

“I have always fancied myself as a king,” André Parsons said. “I see no reason why we cannot all become kings—or at least dukes and barons. Presuming we succeed, of course.”

“We have to get out of here,” someone shouted.

Babble broke out.

“Where to?”

“I’ve got a wife and two kids—I got to get back home!”

“Ten—hut!” Elliot’s command quieted them for a moment.

Before they could speak again, Rick said, “We aren’t going home. They made that clear, and I don’t see any way to get there. They can let the pressure out of here anytime they want to. Anybody know how to breathe vacuum?”

“So what do we do, Captain?” Campbell asked.

“Stick together. Do what they want,” Rick said. “Lieutenant Parsons is right. We can all get rich out of this. We can’t go home, but we can be rich. If we stick together.”

“Fight a whole planet?” Campbell asked.

“Not quite,” Rick said. “But we could. We have the edge in weapons and tactics. There’ll be a lot of people down there, though. A lot. If we don’t stay together—well, when does anyone sleep?”

“First we need a new contract,” Warner said. His voice had a smug quality that instantly irritated Rick. “A new contract. We can begin by electing a chairman—”

Sergeant Elliot looked as if he were having a stroke. “Elect! We’ve got officers—”

“Who have no authority over us under the circumstances,” Warner said. “Their commissions are from the United States, and we don’t live there any longer. Why do we take orders from them?”

“Warner, one more goddamn word out of you and I’ll break your neck.” Elliot moved to stand near Private Warner.

“He has a point,” André Parsons said. “Those who volunteer to go are also volunteering to accept Captain Galloway and myself as leaders.” He turned to Rick and said, very formally, “Sir, I accept you as leader and captain of this expedition.” Then he saluted.

Parsons had turned away from the troops, so that only Rick could see his face. His eyes showed sly amusement, and as Rick returned the salute, Parsons gave an exaggerated wink.

Rick had told Parsons that the aliens—and the human “police,” who in some ways seemed as alien as the Shalnuksis —were. probably listening to all their conversations; after that they were guarded, saying nothing they did not want their employers to hear. It made Rick lonelier than ever. He was losing Earth and everyone he knew, and he couldn’t talk about it without risk of being overheard.

And yet, he thought, it might be fun. As Parsons had said, everyone at one time or another dreams of getting a chance to become a knight or baron or duke. Even a king. That didn’t happen on Earth anymore, but it might happen to Rick Galloway on Paradise.

He had other fantasies. He knew enough of Earth’s history to know of the mistakes made in going from the Middle Ages to an industrial society. He had seen pictures of Bombay and Calcutta. Perhaps, he told himself, he could help this new world avoid some of the mistakes. For Karreeel and his merchant-adventurers, this was a routine operation to make some money—or whatever passed for money in their culture—but for Rick it was a chance at adventure.

It was also inevitable, and he was uncomfortably aware that many of the arguments he used with himself and the men were born of necessity. They had no other choices.

The first task was preparation. They would need supplies and equipment. Agzaral had told him that a reasonable amount of equipment could be obtained from Earth. He hadn’t said what would be reasonable.

Rick set the troops to making lists. Weapons, ammunition, special equipment, communications, survival gear, medical supplies, soap; luxuries and conveniences that couldn’t be manufactured on Tran even with all the help Rick and his people could supply. The lists became endless, and they began to cut them back.

They had very little information about Tran. Karreeel was certain there was no petroleum industry there, but neither knew nor cared whether there was petroleum at all: thus no internal-combustion gear. The other decision information was just as sketchy.

Rick asked the television set for an interview. Eventually Karreeel came on the screen.

“We need more data,” Rick said. “How big is this planet? How much water? Are there hurricanes? How can I prepare when I don’t know what to prepare for?”

“Your questions are reasonable. Unfortunately, we have not translated the data you require. That will be done later.”

“Can you get the equipment I’ve asked for?”

“Some. Most.”

“How?” Rick asked.

“It can be bought. Or stolen,” Karreeel said. “I have little time for you. You will later meet someone who does. Until then, please do not annoy me further.”

“Who is this—”

“A human. If you give me your list, I will see what can be obtained.”

The screen went blank. Rick and André looked at each other. “They must have agents on Earth,” Parsons said. “They spoke of purchases—”

“Yeah.” Rick thought about that for a moment, then laughed. “Aliens among us. Agents of the Galactic Confederacy move about studying us. We read about it for years, and it’s all true.”

André Parsons laughed also, but neither of them thought it was really very funny.