'Check. But to get back to Joan. She's done some almost unbelievable work and we think she'll do. You know what we're after, of course.'

'All I'm afraid of is that you haven't looked far enough,' the woman said, shaking her head dubiously. 'You know, though, what an appalling job it was bound to be. I'll do whatever I can.'

She did not state the problem, either. They all knew, too well, what it was. As matters then stood, the life of one man— Neal Cloud—was all that stood between Civilization and loose atomic vortices; and it was starkly unthinkable that the Galactic Patrol would leave, for a second longer than was absolutely necessary, that situation unremedied.

'I see.' Cloud broke the short silence. 'Assuming that you haven't been sitting still doing nothing while I've been gone, brief me.'

'Smart boy!' Strong applauded. 'The first thing Joan did was to figure out that a nine-second prediction was out of the question for any computer, digital or analogue, possible to build with today's knowledge. Asked us what we could do to cut the time and how far we could cut it. With your little bombing flitter you have to have about nine seconds because you have to build up your speed to the required initial velocity of the bomb. That could be done away with, of course, by firing the bomb out of a Q-gun or something ..."

'But you'd have to have a special ship, much bigger than a flitter!' Cloud protested. 'And special guns ... and the special pointers for those guns—or for the ship, if the guns were fixed-aligned—would be veree unsimple, believe me!'

'How right you are, Buster! Other things, too, that you haven't thought of yet, such as automatic compensation for air conditions and so on. Very much worth while, however, and all done—we've had a lot of people on this project. But to cut this short, the necessary ship turned out to be a scout cruiser;

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the minimum safe distance—assuming worst possible conditions and heaviest possible screening—is thirty two hundred meters . . .'

'Wait a minute!' Cloud broke in. 'I've worked closer than that!'

'You got badly burned once, too, remember; and, according to the medics, you've been taking some damage since. You won't from here on. But to resume; since the muzzle velocity we can use is limited, by the danger of prematuring on impact, to nine hundred sixteen meters per second, the time from circuit closing to detonation is something over three and a half seconds—how much over depending on atmospheric conditions. That's absolutely the best we can do, so we gave Joan a minimum of three point six seconds of prediction to shoot at with her mechanical brains. She isn't quite there yet, but she's far enough along so that she has to work with you, on actual blasting, the rest of the way.'

'Why?' Cloud argued. 'If she stayed on the high side there'd be no danger of scattering; only of intensification, which wouldn't do any harm out in the badlands.'

'Too chancy.' The Lensman swept Cloud's argument aside with a wave of his hand. 'So the quicker you get moved into your new ship, the Vortex Blaster Two, and get your practicing done, the sooner the two of you can be on your way to Chickla-doria. Flit!'

'Just as you say, chief. Here's my report in full. Some of the stuff will jar you to the teeth; particularly Fairchild and the fact that every blow-up that has ever happened has been deliberate, not accidental."

'Huh? Deliberate! Have you blown your stack completely, Storm?'

'Uh-uh; but the proof is too long and involved to go into offhand. You'll have to get it from the tapes and it'll take you at least a week to check my math. Besides, you told us to flit. So come on, Joan—clear ether, Phil!'

The Blaster and his new assistant left the laboratory; and in the copter, en route to the field, Cloud wondered momentarily what it was about the Lensman's explanation that had not rung quite true. The first sight of his new vessel's control room, however, banished the unformed thought from his mind before it had taken any real root.

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The transformed scout cruiser Vortex Blaster 11 hung poised and motionless over the badlands. The optical systems and beam antennae and receptors of dozens of instruments, many of which were only months old, were focused sharply upon the loose atomic vortex a scant two miles distant.

A few of these instruments reported only to a small and comparatively simple integrator which, after classifying and combining the incoming signals, put out as end-product the thin, black, violently-fluctuating line which was the sigma curve. Some others reported only to a massive mechanism, too heavy for any smaller vessel to carry, upon whose electronic complexities there is no need to dwell. Most of the information-gathering instruments, however, reported to both integrator and computer.

Not strapped down into a shock-absorber, but sitting easily in an ordinary pilot's bucket, quietly but supremely intent, 'Storm' Cloud concentrated upon his sigma curve; practically oblivious to everything else. Without knowing how he did it he was solving continuously the simultaneous differential equations of the calculus of warped surfaces; extrapolating the sigma curve to an ever-moving instant of time three and nine-tenths seconds—the flight-time of the bombs plus his own reaction time—ahead of the frantic pen-point of the chart.

In his flitter, where he had required a nine- or ten-second prediction, he had always seized the first acceptable match that appeared. Now, however, needing only to extrapolate to less than four seconds, his technique was entirely different. He was now matching, from instant to instant, the predicted value of the curve against one or another of the twelve bombs lying in the firing chambers of heavy guns whose muzzles ringed the cruiser's needle-sharp nose.

And, as he had been doing ever since beginning to work with Joan and her mechanical brains, he was passing up match after match, waiting to see whether or not the current brain could deliver the goods. There had been a long succession of them— Alice, Betty, Candace, Deirdre, and so on. This one was Lulu, and it didn't look as though she was any good, either. He waited a while longer, however; then fined down his figures and got ready to blast.

The flight-time the bomb, under present atmospheric conditions, would be three point five nine eight seconds, plus or minus point zero zero one. His reaction time was point zero

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eight nine....

'Storm!' Joan broke in sharply, 'Can you hold up a minute.'

'Sure.'

'That reaction time. I never spotted that before. Why didn't I?'

'I don't know. Never thought of it. Lumped it in, you know. Separated it now, I suppose, because I'm working so slowly, to give Lulu more of a chance. Why?'

'Because I've got to know all the odd things about you, and that isn't merely odd; it's superhuman."

'Oh, I wouldn't say that. Chickladorians average about point zero eight, and Vegians are still faster, about point zero seven. I checked up on that because they always test me three times when I renew my driver's license and always pull a wise crack about me having a lot of cat blood in me. S'pose I could have?'

'Um ... m ... m. Probably not... I don't know for sure, but I don't believe that a Tellurian-Vegian cross would be possible; and even if possible, such a hybrid couldn't very well be fertile. But the more I find out about you, my friend, the more convinced I become that you're either a mutant or else have some ancestors who were most decidedly not Tellurians. But excuse this interruption, please—go ahead.'

Cloud went. The flight time of the bomb under present atmospheric conditions, would be three point five nine two seconds, plus or minus point zero zero two. His reaction time was point zero eight nine. In three point six eight one seconds the activity of the vortex would match bomb number eleven to within one-tenth of one percent.

His left hand flashed out, number eleven firing stud snapped down. The vessel shuddered as though struck by a trip-hammer as the precisely-weighed charge of propellant heptadetonite went off. The bomb sped truly, in both space and time. There was a detonation that jarred the planet to its core, a flare of light many times brighter than the sun at noon, a shock-wave that wrought havoc for miles.

But the scout cruiser and her occupants were unharmed. Completely intertialess, invulnerable, the vessel rode effortlessly away.

Neal Cloud glanced into his plate; turned his head.

'Out,' he said, seemingly unnecessarily. 'How'd Lulu work, Joan?'

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'Better, but not good enough. She was on track all the way, but three point three was the best she could get ... and I was sure we had it licked this time ... oh, damn!' The voice broke, ending almost in a wail.

'Steady, Joan!' Cloud was surprised at his companion's funk. 'Only three tenths of a second to get yet, is all.'

'Only three tenths—what d'you mean, only?' the woman snapped. 'Don't you know that those three tenths of a second are just about in the same class as the three thousandths of a degree just above zero absolute?'

'Sure I do, but I know you, too. You're really blasting, little chum. Both Jane and Katy, you remember, were just as apt to be off track as on. You'll get it, Joan. As Vesta says, "Tail high

sister

I1"

.SLCl I

'Thanks, Storm, I needed that. You see, to keep her on track we had to put in more internal memory banks and that slowed her down ... we'll have to dream up some way of getting the information out of those banks faster ...'

'Can you tinker her—what'll the next version be? Margie?

—up en route, or do you want to keep this ship near Sol while you work on it? Phil tells me I've got to flit for Chickladoria— and chop-chop, like quick.'

'Oh ... Thlaskin and Maluleme have been crying in his beer, too, as well as yours?'

'I guess so, but that wasn't it. It's next on the list, an urgent

—they've been screaming bloody murder for months. So, with or without a brain, I've got to blast off.'

'Start blasting as soon as you like, just as we are,' she decided instantly. 'Much more important, at this stage, to work with you than to have Earth's resources close by. Besides, I think everything we're apt to need is already aboard—machine shop, electronics labs, materials, and experts.'

'QX.' He gave orders. Then:

'As for me, I'm going to hit the sack. I'm just about pooped.'

'I don't wonder. That kind of stuff takes a lot of doing. 'Night Storm.'

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11: Joan the Telepath

The following morning, en route to the planet of the pink humanoids, Cloud was studying a scratch-chart of the First Galaxy. He had been working on the thing for weeks; had placed several hundred crossed circles, each representing a loose atomic vortex. He was scrawling weird-looking symbols and drawing freehand connecting lines when Joan came swishing into the 'office'.

'Good morning, Effendi of Esoterica!' she greeted him gaily. 'How's the massive intellect? Firing on all forty barrels, I hope and trust?'

'Missing on all forty is more like it. Ideas are avoiding me in droves.' He looked her over amiably, in what he hoped she would think was a casual way.

He'd found himself doing quite a lot of that, lately ... but she was such a swell egg! Why hadn't she ever married? What a waste that was! Face a bit on the strong side for vapid calendar-girl prettiness, but. ..

'But kind of attractive, at that, in her own gruesome way, eh?' she finished the thought for him.

'Huh?' Cloud gulped, and, for the first time in years, blushed scarlet; flushed to the tips of his ears.

'I'm sorry, Storm, believe me. I don't think I was supposed to tell you—in fact, I know very well I wasn't—but I've simply got to. It isn't fair not to; besides, I've thought all along that Lensman Strong was wrong—that we'd go faster and farther if you knew than if you didn't.'

'Oh—that's what Phil was holding out on me back there? I thought there was something fishy, but couldn't spot it.'

'I was sure you did. So was Phil. You told me what the Tomingans call telepaths—snoopers? I like that word; it's so beautifully appropriate. Well, I'm snooping all the time. Not only while we're working, as you thought, but all the time, especially when you're relaxed ... and off-guard, so to speak. I've been doing it ever since I first met you.'

Cloud blushed again. 'So you knew exactly what I was thinking just then? You gave me a remarkably poor play-back.'

'The portrait was much too flattering. But we'll skip that. Part

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of my job is to make a telepath out of you, so that you can show me with your mind—it can't be done in words or symbols— what it is that makes a mathematical prodigy tick.'

'How are you figuring on going about it?"

'I don't know—yet.'

'Phil tried, and so did a couple of Gray Lensmen, and I wasn't holding back a thing ... oh, he emphasized that you're a self-made telepath. A different angle of approach? How did you operate on yourself?'

'I don't know that, either; but I hope to find out through you. I read, and studied, and tried, and all of a sudden—bang! — there it was. But words are useless; I'm coming into your mind. Now watch me closely, concentrate; really concentrate, as hard as you possibly can. Ready? It goes like this ... did you get it?'

'No. I couldn't follow the details—it seemed like an instantaneous transition. Didn't you have more to begin with than

I've got?'

'I don't think so ... pretty sure I didn't. I could receive—I think it's impossible for anyone to become a telepath who can't —but I couldn't send a lick. My psi rating was a flat zero zero zero. Now try it again. Take a good solid grip on a thought and

throw it at me.'

'QX. I'll try.' Cloud's forehead furrowed, his muscles tensed in effort. 'Since you already know I've been wondering why you never married—why? Standards too high?'

'You might call it that.' It was the woman's turn to blush, but her thought was clear and steady. Cloud was working with her better than he had ever worked with either Luda or Nadine. 'Since the days of my teen-age crushes on tri-di idols I simply haven't been able to develop any interest in a man who didn't have as much of a brain as I have, and the only such I met were either already married or didn't have anything except a brain—which wouldn't do, either, of course.'

'Of course not.' Cloud felt something stirring inside him that he thought completely dead, and tried, in near-panic fashion, to kill it again. He changed the subject abruptly. 'No luck—I'm not getting through to you at all. We'd better start all over, at the bottom. What's the first thing I've got to do to learn to be a

snooper?"

'You must learn how to concentrate—intensively and in a very special way. You're very good at ordinary concentration—

especially mathematical stuff—now; but this kind is different— so much so as to be a difference in kind, not merely of degree.' 'Check. Point one, a new kind of concentration. Next?' 'No next. That's all. When you get so you can concentrate correctly—I'll coach you mind to mind on that, of course—we'll concentrate together, first on one gateway, then another. Something will click into place, and there you'll be.'

'I hope. But suppose it doesn't? Can't it be worked out? You're on record as saying that the mind is simply a machine.'

'No, it can't. The mind is a machine; just as much a machine as one of your automatic pilots or one of my computers. The troubles are that it is almost infinitely more complex and that we do not understand its basic principles—the fundamental laws upon which it operates. We may never understand them ... the mind may very well be so tied in with the life-principle —or soul; call it whatever you please—as to be knowable only to God.'

'I'm glad you said that, Joan. I'm not formally religious, I suppose, but I do believe in a First Cause.'

'One must, who knows as much about the Macrocosmic All as you do. But it's too early in the morning for very much of that sort of thing. What are you doing to that chart besides doodling all over it?'

'Those aren't doodles, woman!' he protested. 'They're equations. In short-hand.'

'Equations, I apologize. Doctor Cloud, elucidate.' 'Doctor Janowick, I can't. This is where you came in. I had just pursued an elusive wisp of thought into what turned out to be a cul de sac. I whammed my head against a solid concrete wall.' His light mood vanished as he went on:

'In spite of what everybody has always believed, I've proved that loose atomic vortices are not accidental. They're deliberate, every one of them, and ...'

'Yes, I heard you tell Phil so,' she interrupted. 'I wanted to start screaming about your hypothesis then, and it's taken superhuman self-control to keep me from screaming about it ever since. That kind of math, though, of course is 'way over my head ... For a long time I expected Phil to call up and blast you to a cinder, but he didn't ... you may be—must be, I suppose—right.' 'I am right,' Cloud said, quietly. 'Unless all the mathematics

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109

I know is basically, fundamentally fallacious, they've got to be deliberate; they simply can't be accidental. On the other hand, except for a few we know about which don't change the general picture in the least, I can't see any more than you can how they can possibly be deliberate, either.' 'Are you trying to set up a paradox?'

'No. It's already set up. I'm trying to knock it down.' Cloud's thought died away; his mind became a mathematical wilderness of such complexity that the woman, able mathematician that she was and scan as she would, was lost in seconds.

He finally shrugged himself out of it. 'Another blind alley,' he reported, sourly.

'With sufficient knowledge, any possible so-called paradox can be resolved,' Joan mused, her mind harking back to the, to her, starkly unbelievable hypothesis Cloud had stated so baldly. 'But I simply can't believe it, Storm!'

'I can't, either, hardly. However, it's easier for me to believe that than that all our basics are false. So that makes it another part of our job to find out what, or who, or why.'

'Ouch! With a job of that magnitude on your mind, I'll make myself scarce. When you come up for air sometime give me a call on the squawk-box and we'll study concentration. "Bye." She turned, started for the door.

'Wait a minute, Joan—why not start the ground-work now?'

'That's a thought—why not?  But get away from that big

table.' She placed two chairs and they sat down knee to knee;

almost eye to eye. 'Now, Storm, come in. Really come in, this

time; the first time you didn't really even half try."

'I did so!' he protested. 'I tried then and I'm trying now. Just how do I go about it?'

'I can't tell you that, Storm; nobody can tell you that.' She was thinking now, not talking. 'There are no words no sym-bology, even in the provinces of thought. And I can't do it for you: you must do it yourself. But if you can't—and you really can't be expected to, so soon—I'll come into your mind and try to show you what I mean.'

She did so. There was a moment of fitting; of snuggling ... there was a warmly intimate contact, much warmer and much more intimate than anything telepathic that either had ever experienced before; but it was not what they were after. Joan tried a different approach.

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'Well, if that won't work, let's try this. Just imagine, Storm, that every cell of my brain—no, let's keep it on the immaterial level; every individual ultimate element of my mind—is a lock, but you can see exactly what the key must be like. You must make every corresponding unit of your mind into the appropriate key ... No? We'll try again. Imagine that each element of my mind is half of a jigsaw puzzle—make yours fill out each picture . . . '

'I can't. Don't you know, Joan, how many thousands of millions of . . .'

'What of it?' she flared. 'You do things fully as complex every time you blast a vortex ... Oh, that's it! Treat it as though it were a problem in n-dimensional differential equations, but don't let your subconscious do it alone—get right down there and work with it—do that and you'll have it all!' She seized his hands, squeezed them hard, and spoke aloud, the better to drive home the intensity of her convictions. 'Buckle down, Storm, and dig ... you can do it, I know you can d6 it. I know you can ... dig in, big fellow ... you don't have to pay too much attention to detail; get a chain started, like a zipper, and it'll finish itself ... dig, storm, DIG!'

Storm dug. His jaw-muscles tightened into lumps. Sweat beaded his face and trickled down his chest under his shirt. And suddenly something happened. Not very much of anything, but something. Something more than mere contact, but not a penetration—more like a fusion—a fusion which, however, instead of spreading rapidly to completion, as Joan had said it would, existed for the merest perceptible instant of time in an almost infinitesimal area and then vanished as instantaneously as it had come. But there was no doubt whatever that he had read, for an instant, a tiny portion of Joan's mind; there was no chance whatever that she had sent him that thought—in fact, she had been thinking at herself, not at him. And as he perceived the tenor of that thought he let go all his mental holds; tried frantically to bury the stolen thought so deeply that Joan would never never find out what it had been ...

No, not bury it, either. Flesh, rock, metal—any material substance was perfectly transparent to thought. What wasn't? A thought-screen. He didn't have one, of course, but he knew the formula, and if he thought about that formula hard enough it might create interference enough. The catch would be whether

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he could talk at the same time ... he probably could, if the subject matter didn't require concentration.

Joan, of course, knew instantly when Cloud pulled his mind away from hers; and, not waiting to ask why in words, drove in a probe to find out. Much to her surprise, however, her beam of mental force was stopped cold; she could not touch Cloud's

mind at all!

'A block!' she exclaimed unbelievingly. 'A real dilly, too— as hard and tight as a D7M29Z screen! What did you do, anyway, Storm, and how? I didn't feel you get in!'

He did not reply immediately. He was too busy; for, besides holding the screen-thought, he was also analyzing and studying the thought he had stolen from Joan; separating it out and arranging it into meaningful English words. It was amazing, how many words could be contained in one flashing, fleeting

burst of thought.

'Joanie, my not-so-bright old friend,' she had been thinking, 'you've simply got to cut out this silly damn foolishness and act your age. You must not fall in love with him; there'd be nothing in it for either of you. You are thirty-four years old and he has had his Jo.'

'Storm!' she snapped. 'Answer me! Or did ...' Her tone changed remarkably: '... did something ... happen to you?'

'No, Joanie.' He shook his head and wrenched his attention back to reality. 'But first, is whatever I'm doing really a mind-block, and is it really holding?'

'Yes—to both—curse it! And "Joanie", eh? You did get in.

How did it go?'

'Not so good. Barely a touch. It didn't spread after we,got it started. Just one flash and it went out."

'Hm ... m ... m. That's funny ... Not the way it worked with me at all. However, I don't see that it makes any difference whether you get it by drips and driblets or all at once, just so you get the full ability eventually. What was it you picked up the first time, Storm?'

'That's one thing you'll never know, if I have to hold this

block forever.'

'Oh.' Joan blushed, vividly. 'I know what it was, then, I

think. But don't you see ... ?'

'No, I don't see," Cloud interrupted. 'All I see is that it's worse than being a Peeping Tom in a girls' dormitory. I don't like it.

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I don't like any part of it.'

'You wouldn't, of course—at first. Nevertheless, Storm, you and I have got to work together, whether either of us likes what happens or not. So let's get at it. Bring it out and look at it— let's see if it's so bad, really. It was just that I was afraid maybe I was going to fall in love with you and get burned to a crisp around the edges, wasn't it?'

'That was part of it. You were wrong in two things, though. No matter how much I loved Jo—and I really did love her, you know ...'

'I know, Storm." Her voice was very gentle. 'Everybody knows you did. Not only did—you still do.'

'Yes. So much so that I thought I'd never be able to talk about her without going off the deep end. But I can, now. I'm beginning to think that perhaps Phil Strong was right. Perhaps a man can love twice in his life, in exactly the same way.'

The woman caught her breath and started to say something, then changed her mind. The man went on:

'The second point in error is that a woman at age thirty-four is not necessarily a doddering wreck with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.'

'Oh ... I'm so glad, Storm!' she breathed; then changed mood with an almost audible snap. 'There! It's done and your guard is down. It wasn't too bad, was it?'

'Not a bit.' Cloud was surprised at how easily the thing had been ironed out. 'You're a prime number, Joanie—a slick, smooth operator. As smooth as five feet and two inches of tan velvet.'

'Uh-uh. Not me, so much; it's just that we're a very nicely-matched pair. But I think we'd better lay off a while before trying it again, don't you?'

'Check. Let our minds—mine, anyway—get over the jitters and collywobbles.'

'Mine, too, brother; and I've got a sort of feeling that what that mind of yours is going to develop into, little by little, is something slightly different from ordinary telepathy. But in the meantime, you'd better get back to work.'

'I don't know whether I can work up much enthusiasm for work right now or not.'

'Sure you can, if you try. What were you doing to that chart when I came in? What have you got there, anyway?'

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'Come on over and I'll show you.' They bent over the work-table, heads almost touching. 'The pink area is the explored part of the First Galaxy. The marks represent all the loose vortices I know of. I've been applying all the criteria I can think of to give me some kind of a toe-hold, but up to the present moment I'm completely baffled.'

'Have you tried chronology yet? Peeling 'em off in layers— by centuries, say?'

'Not exactly, although I did run a correlation against time. Mostly been studying 'em either singly or en masse up to now. Might be worth a fling, though. Why? Got a hunch?'

'No. And no particular reason; just groping for more detailed data. Before you can solve any problem, you know, you must know exactly what the problem is—must be able to state it clearly. You can't do that yet, can you?'

'You know I can't. I've got some coloured pins here somewhere ... here they are. Read me the dates and I'll stick colors

accordingly.'

They soon ran out of colors; then continued with num-

bered-head thumb-tacks.

The job finished, they stood back and examined the results.

'See anything, Joan?'

'I see something, but before I mention it, give me a quick briefing on what you know already.'

Cloud thought for a minute. 'Well, the distribution in space is not random, but there is no significant correlation with location, age, size, power, load-factor, or actual number of power-plants. Nor with nature, condition, or age of the civilization of any planet. Nor with anything else I've been able to dream up.

'They aren't random in time, either; but there again there's no correlation with the age of the power-plant affected, the age-status of atomic power of any particular planet, or any other thing except one—there is an extremely high correlation—practically unity—with time itself.' 'I thought so.' Joan nodded. 'That was what I noticed. The

older, the fewer.'

'Exactly. But with your new classification, Joan, I think I see something else.' Cloud's mathematical-prodigy's mind pounced. 'And how! Until very recently, Joan, the data will plot exactly on the ideal-growth-of-population curve.',

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'Oh, they breed, some way or other. Nice—that gives us a...'

'You said that, woman, I didn't. I stated a fact; if you wish to extrapolate it, that's your privilege—but it's also your responsibility.'

'Huh! Don't go pedantic on me. Haven't you got any guesses?'

'Except for this recent jump, which we can probably ascribe to Fairchild and explosives, nary a guess. I can't see any possible point of application.'

'Neither can I. But if that's the only positive correlation you can find, and it's just about unity, it must mean something.'

'Check. It's got to mean something. All we have to do is find out what... I think maybe I see something else.' Bending over, he sighted across the chart from various angles. 'Too many pins. Let's clear a belt through here.' They did so. 'Will you read 'em to me in order, beginning with the oldest?'

'At your service, sir. Sol.'

Cloud stuck a pin in Sol.

'Galien— Salvador— DuPont— Eastman— Mercator— Cen-tralia Tressilia— Chickladoria— Crevenia— DeSilva— Wynor

—Aldebaran ...'

'Hold it! Don't want Aldebaran—can't use it. Take a look at this!' For the first time Cloud's voice showed excitement.

She looked, and saw a gently curving line of pins running three-quarters of the way across the chart. 'Why—that's a smooth curve—looks as though it could be the arc of a circle

—clear across all explored space!' She exclaimed.

Cloud's mind pounced again. 'It is a circle—pretty close, that is, according to these rough figures. Will you read me the exact coordinates—spatial—from the book?'

She did so, and through Cloud's mind raced the appropriate equations of solid analytic geometry.

'Even closer. Now let's apply a final refinement. From their proper motions we can put each star back to where it was at the vortex date. It'll take a little time, but it may be worth it.'

It was. Cloud's mien was solemn as he announced his final figures. 'Those twelve suns all lay on the surface of a sphere. Radius, 53,327 parsecs, with a probable error of one point three zero parsecs—which, since the average density of the stars along that line is about point zero four five per cubic parsec, makes it

115

as perfect a spherical surface as it is physically possible for it to be. The center of that sphere is almost exactly on the ecliptic; its coordinates are: Theta, 225°—12'—31.2647"; distance,

107.2259.'

'Good heavens! It's that exact? And that far outside the Rim? That spoils my original idea of radiation from a center. But all of the twelve oldest vortices are on that surface, and none of them are anywhere else!'

'So they are. Which gets us where, lady?' 'Nowhere that I can see, with a stupendous velocity.' 'You and me both. Another thing, why that particular time-space relationship in the first twelve? I can accept Tellus being first, because we had atomics first, but that logic doesn't follow through. Instead the time order goes from Sol through Galien and so on to Eastman—to the very edge of unexplored territory along that arc—then, jumping back to the other side of Sol, goes straight on to the edge of Civilization in the opposite direction. Can you play that on any one of your brains, from Alice to Margie?'

'I don't see how.'

'I don't either. That relationship certainly means something, too, but I'm damned if I can make any sense out of it. And what sense is there in a spherical surface that big? And why so ungodly accurate? Alphacent, there, is less than one parsec outside the surface, but it didn't have a blow-up for over seven hundred years. How come? Anybody or anything capable of traveling that far could certainly travel half a parsec farther if he wanted to. And look at the time involved—over a thousand years! Assuming some purpose, what could it be? Human operations, or any other kind I know anything about, simply are not geared up to that kind of scope, either in space or in time. None of it makes any kind of sense.'

'So you consider it purely fortuitous that this surface is as truly spherical as the texture of the medium will permit?' she asked, loftily.

'No, I don't, and you know I don't—and don't misquote me, woman! It's too fantastically accurate to be accidental. And that ties right in with the previous paradox—that vortices can't possibly be either accidental or deliberate,'

'From a semantic viewpoint, your phraseology is deplorable. The term "paradox" is inadmissible—meaningless. We simply

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haven't enough data. I simply can't believe, Storm, that those horrible things were set off on purpose.'

'Deplorable phraseology or not, I've got enough data to put the probability out beyond the nine-sigma point—the same probability as that an automatic screw-machine running six-thirty-two brass hex nuts would accidentally turn out a thirty-six-inch jet-ring made of pure titanite, diamond ground, finished, and fitted. We're getting nowhere faster and faster— with an acceleration of about 12 G's instead of any simple velocity.'

He fell silent; remained silent so long that the woman spoke. 'Well... what do you think we'd better do next?'

'All I can think of is to find out what's out there at the center of that sphere ... and then to see if we can find any other leads in this mess on the chart. I'll call Phil.'

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12: Vesta Practices Spaceal

The connection was made and he brought Lensman Strong up to date, concluding: 'So will you please get hold of Planetography with a crash priority on anything they know about that point?'

Til do that, Storm. I'll call you back.'

Since Lensmen are potent beings, the call came soon.

'There's one sun there,' Strong reported, 'but it doesn't amount to much. A red dwarf—it may or may not be a single. Unexplored. Astronomical data only.'

'How close did I come to it?'

'Allowing for proper motion, you speared it. Less than two hundredths of a parsec off. And there's nothing else within twelve parsecs—stars are mighty thin out beyond the Rim, you

know.'

'I know. That nails it, Phil. They don't know, of course,

whether it has any planets or not?'

'No ... I see what you mean ... shall I get a special on it for

you?'

'I wish you would. It'd be worth while, I think.' 'So do I. I'll call Haynes and ask him to rush a ship out there to get us a fine-tooth on it.' 'Thanks, Phil.'

'And there was something else ... Oh yes, your friend Fair-child. Narcotics wants him, badly.'

'I'm not surprised. Alive? That might take some doing.' 'Or dead. No difference, as long as they have his head for positive identification,' and at Cloud's surprised expression Strong went on: "They don't want him planting any more Trenconian broadleaf, is all, which he'll keep on doing as long as he's alive and loose.'

'I see. Wish I'd known sooner; we probably could have caught

him on Tominga.'

'I doubt it. They've been checking back on him, and he's a very, very sharp operator. He makes long flits, fast ... in peculiar directions. But if you stumble across him again, grab him or blast...'

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'Just a minute, chief. You mean to say the Patrol can't find him?'

'Just that. He's in with a big, strong mob; probably heads it. They've been looking for him ever since you found out that he wasn't killed on Deka.'

'I'm ... I'm speechless. But Graves ... but Graves was dead, of course ... didn't anybody know Fairchild's personal pattern?' 'That's exactly it; nobody that they could get hold of knows his real pattern at all. All we've got that we can depend on are his retinals. That shows the kind of operator he is. So if you get a chance, blast him, but leave at least one eye whole and bring it in, in deep-freeze. Nothing else at the moment, is there?' 'Not that I know of. Clear ether, Phil!' 'Clear ether, Storm!'

The plate went black and Cloud turned soberly to Joan.

'Well, that clears Fairchild up, but doesn't help with the real

mystery. So, unless we can dig some more dope out of this

stuff on the chart, we can't do much until we get that fine-tooth.'

Joan left the room, and Cloud, after racking his brain for an

hour, got up, shook himself, and went down the corridor to his

'private' office—which had long since ceased to be private, as

far as his friends were concerned—where he found Vesta and

Thlaskin talking busily in spaceal. Or, rather the Vegian was

talking; the pilot was listening attentively.

'... think I'm built, you ought to have seen this tomato,' Vesta was narrating blithely. 'What I mean, she's a dish!' She went into a wrigglesome rhythm which, starting at the neck, flowed smoothly down her splendidly-modeled body to the ankles. 'Stacked? She's stacked like Gilroy's Tower, Buster—an honest-to-god DISH, believe me, and raring to go. We were on one of those long-week-end jaunts around the system—you know, one of those deals where things are pretty apt to get just a hair off the green at times ...'

'But hey!' Thlaskin protested. 'You said yourself a while back you wasn't old enough for that kind of monkey-business!' 'Oh, I wasn't" Vesta agreed, candidly enough. 'I still ain't. I just went along for the ride.'

'And your folks let you?' Thlaskin was shocked. 'Natch.' Vesta was surprised. 'Why not? If a tomato don't learn the facts of life while she's young how's she going to decide what's good for her when she grows up?'

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'With or without a license, I got to butt into this,' Cloud announced, also in spaceal; seating himself on a couch and crossing his legs. He, too, was shocked; but he was also intensely curious. 'Did you decide, Vesta?'

Before the girl could answer, however, Joan Janowick came strolling in.

'Is this a private brawl, or can anybody get in on it?' she

asked, gaily.

'I invited myself in, so I'll invite you, too. Come in and sit down.' He made room for her beside him and went on in English, speaking for her ear alone: 'Just as well you don't know spaceal. This story Vesta is telling would curl your hair.'

'Wake up, Junior.' Joan did not speak, but poured the thought directly into his mind. 'D'you think that cat-girl—that kitten— can block me out of her mind?'

'Oick! What a whiff! 'Scuse, please; my brain was out to lunch. But you'll get an earful, sister Janowick,'

'It'll be interesting in a way you haven't thought of, too,' Joan went on. 'Vegians are essentially feline, you know, and cats as a race are both fastidious and promiscuous. Thus, conflict. Is that what this is about?'

'Could be—I haven't tried to read her.' Then, aloud: 'Go ahead, Vesta. Did the experience help you decide?' 'Oh, yes. I'm too finicky to be a very good mixer. There's just too many people I simply can't stand the smell of.'

'There's that smell thing again,' Thlaskin said. 'You've harped on it before. You mean to say you people's noses are that sensitive?'

'Absolutely. No two people smell alike, you know. Some smell nice and some just plain stink. F'rinstance, the boss here smells just wonderful—I could hug him all day and love it. Doctor Janowick, too, she smells almost like the skipper. You're nice, too, Thlaskin, and so is Maluleme, and Nadine. And Tom-mie ain't bad; but a lot of the others are just too srizonified much for my stomach.'

'I see,' Cloud said. 'You do give some people a lot of room around here.'

"Yeah, and that's what got this chick I was telling Thlaskin here about in such a jam. She's been bending her elbow pretty free, and taking a jab or so of this and that between drinks. But she ain't sozzled, y'understand, not by many a far piece; just

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lit up like Nyok spaceport. She's maybe been a bit on the friendly side with a few of her friends, so this big bruiser—not a Vegian; no tail, even; an Aldebaranian or some-such-like and a Class A-Triple-Prime stinker—gets interested in a big way. Well, he smells just like a Tellurian skunk, so she brushes him off, kind of private-like, a few times, but he don't take, so she finally has to give him the old heave-ho right out in front of everybody.

' "You slimy stinker, I've told you a dozen times it's no dice— you stink!" she says loud, clear, and plain. "This ship ain't big enough to let me get far enough away from you to hold my breakfast down," she says, and this burns the ape plenty.

' "Lookit here, babe," he says, coming to a boil, "Bend an ear while I tell you something. No klevous Vegian chippie is going to play high and mighty with me, see? I'm fed up to the gozzle. So come down off your high horse right now, or I'll..."

' "You'll what?" she snarls, and puts a hand behind her back. She's seeing red now, and fit to be tied. "Make just one pass at me, you kedonolating slime-lizard," she says, "and I'll bust your pfztikated skull wide open!"

'He goes for her then, but, being a Vegian, her footwork's a lot better than his. She ducks, sidesteps, pulls her sap, and lets him have it, but good, right behind the ear. It takes the ship's croaker an hour to bring him to, and the skipper's so scared he blasts right back to Vegia and the croaker calls the hospital and tells 'em to have a meat-wagon standing by when we sit down.'

'A very interesting and touching tale, Vesta,' Cloud said then, in English, 'but pretty rough language for a perfect lady, don't you think?'

'How the hell else ...' Vesta started to reply in spaceal, then switched effortlessly to English: 'How else can a lady, however ladylike she may be, talk in a language which, except for its highly technical aspects, is basically and completely profane, obscene, vulgar, lewd, coarse, and foul? Not that that bothers me, of course ...'

Nor did it, as Cloud well knew. When a Master of Languages studied a language he took it as a whole, no matter what that whole might be. Every nuance, every idiom, every possibility was mastered; and he used the language as it was ordinarily used, without prejudice or favor or motional bias.

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'... but it's so pitifully inadequate—there's so much that's completely missing! Thlaskin objected before, remember, that there wasn't any word in spaceal he could use—would use, I mean—to describe Maluleme as his wife. And my brother— Zambkptkn—I've mentioned him?'

'Once or twice,' Cloud said, dryly. This was the understatement of the trip.

'He's a police officer. Not exactly like one of your Commissioners of Police, or Detective Inspector, but something like both. And in spaceal I can call him only one of four things, the English equivalents of which are "cop", "lawman", "flatfoot", and "bull". What a language! But I started to tell his story in spaceal and I'm going to finish it in spaceal. It'll be fun, in a way, to see how close I can come to saying what I want to say.'

Then, switching back to the lingua franca of deep space;

'So that's how come my brother got into the act. The hospital called the cops of course, so he was there with the meat wagon and climbed aboard. He was all set to pinch the jane and throw her in the can, but when he got the whole story, and especially when she say's she's changed her mind about circulating around so much—it ain't worth it, she says, she'd rather be an out-and-out hermit than have to have even one more fight with anybody who smelled like that—of course he let her go.'

'Let her go!' Cloud exclaimed. 'How could he?'

'Why, sure, boss.' Vesta, wide-eyed, gazed innocently at her captain. 'The ape didn't die, you know, and she wasn't going to do it again, and he wasn't a Vegian, so didn't have any relatives or friends to go to the mat for him, and besides, anybody with one tenth of one percent of a brain would know better than to keep on making passes at a frail after she warned him how bad he stunk. What else could he do, chief?'

'What else, indeed?' Cloud said, in English. 'I live; and— occasionally—I learn. Come on Joan, let's go and devote the imponderable force of our massed intellects to the multifarious problems of loose atomic vortices.'

On the way, Joan asked: 'Our little Vesta surprised you, Storm?'

'Didn't she you? She had me gasping like a fish.'

'Not so much. I know them pretty well and I used to breed cats. Scent: hearing—they can hear forty thousand cycles: the fact that they mature both mentally and physically long before

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they do sexually: some of their utterly barbarous customs: it's quite a shock to learn how—"queer", shall I say—some of the Vegian mores are to us of other worlds.'

' "Queer" is certainly the word—as queer as a nine-credit bill. But confound it, Joan, I like 'em!'

'So do I, Storm,' she replied quietly. 'They aren't human, you know, and by Galactic standards they qualify. And now we'll go and whack those vortices right on their center of impact."

'We'll do that, chum,' he said. Then, in perfect silence he went on in thought: 'Chum? Sweetheart, I mean ... My God, what a sweetheart you'd ...'

'Storm!' Joan half-shrieked, eyes wide in astonishment. "You're sending.''

'I'm not either!' he declared, blushing furiously. 'I can't— you're snooping.1'

'I'm not snooping—I haven't snooped a lick since I started talking. You got it back there, Storm!' She seized both his hands and squeezed. 'You did it, and neither of us realized it "til just this minute!'

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13: Games Within Games

The methods of operation of the Vortex Blaster II had long since been worked out in detail. Approaching any planet Captain Ross, through channels, would ask permission of the various governments to fly in atmosphere, permission to use high explosive, permission to land and be serviced, and permission— after standard precautions—to grant planetary leave to his ship's personnel. All this asking was not, of course, strictly necessary in his case, since every world having even one loose atomic vortex had been demanding long and insistently that Neal Cloud visit it next, but it was strictly according to protocol.

Astrogators had long since plotted the course through planetary atmosphere; not by the demands of the governments concerned and not by any ascending or descending order of violence of the vortices to be extinguished, but by the simple criterion of minimum flight-time ending at the pre-selected point of entry to the planet.

Thus neither Joan nor Cloud had anything much to do with planetary affairs until the chief pilot notified Joan that he was relinquishing control to her—which never happened until the vessel lay motionless with respect to the planet's surface and with the tip of her nose three two zero zero point zero meters distant from the center of activity of the vortex.

Approaching Chickladoria, the routine was followed precisely up to the point where Joan's mechanical brain took over. This time, however, the brain was not working, since Joan was in the throes of rebuilding 'Lulu' into 'Margie'. On Chickladoria, then, the chief pilot did the piloting and 'Storm' Cloud did the blasting, and everything ran like clockwork. The ship landed at Malthester spaceport and everyone who could possibly be spared disembarked.

Ready to leave the ship, Cloud went to the computer room to make one last try. There, seated at desks, Joan and her four top experts were each completely surrounded by welters of reference books, pamphlets, wadded-up scratch-paper, tapes, and punched cards.

'Hi, Joan—Hi, fellows and gals—why don't you break down and come on out and get some fresh air?'

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'Sorry, Storm, but the answer is still "no". We'll need all this week, and probably more ...' Joan looked up at him and broke off. Her eyes widened and she whistled expressively. 'Myohmy, ain't he the handsomest thing, though? I wish I could go along, Storm, if only to see you lay 'em out in rows!'

For, since Chickladoria was a very warm planet—fully as hot as Tominga had been—Cloud was dressed even more lightly than he had been there; in sandals, breech-clout, and De-Lameter harness, the shoulder-strap of the last-named bearing the three silver bars of a commander of the Galactic Patrol. He was not muscled like a gladiator, but his bearing was springily erect, his belly hard and flat, his shoulders were wide, his hips were narrow, and his skin was tanned to a smooth and even richness of brown.

'Wellwell! Not bad, Storm; not bad at all.' One of the men got up and looked him over carefully. 'If I looked like that, Joan, I'd play hookey for a couple of days myself. But I wouldn't dare to—in that kind of a get-up I'd look like something that had crawled out from under a rock and I'd get sunburned from here to there.'

'That's your own fault, Joe,' a tall lissom, brunette lieutenant chipped in. 'You could have the radiants on while you do your daily dozens, you know. Me, I'm mighty glad that some of the men, and not only us women, like to look nice.'

'Wait a minute, Helen!' Cloud protested, blushing. 'That's not it, and you know it. These fellows don't have to mix socially with people who run around naked, and I do.'

'And how you hate it.' The other man offered mock sympathy, with a wide and cheerful grin. 'How you suffer—I don't think. But that holster-harness. It looks regulation enough, but isn't there something a little different about it?'

'Yes. Two things.' Cloud grinned back. 'Left-handed and the holster's anchored so it can't flop around. Don't know as I ever told you, but ever since that alleged pirate burned my arm off I've been practising the gun-slick's draw.'

'Did you get it?' Joan asked impishly. 'How good are you?'

'Not bad—in fact, I'm getting plenty good,' Cloud admitted. 'Come on up to the range sometime with a stop-watch and I'll show you.'

'I'll do that. Right now—shall we?'

'Uh-uh. Can't. I'm due at the High Mayor's Reception in

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twenty minutes, and besides, I want to breathe some air that hasn't been rehabilitated, rejuvenated, recirculated, reprocessed, repurified and rebreathed until it's all worn out. Happy landings, gang—I'll be thinking of you while I'm absorbing all that nice new oxygen and stuff.'

'Particularly the stuff—and especially the liquid stuff!' Joe called after him just before he shut the door on his way out to join Thlaskin and Maluleme.

Going through customs was of course the merest formality, and an aircab whisked them into the city proper. Cloud really did enjoy himself as he strode along the walkway from the cab-park toward the Mayor's ... well, if not exactly a palace, it was close enough so as to make no difference. And he did attract plenty of attention. Not because of his dress or his build— most of the men on the street wore less than he did and many of them were just as trim and fit—but because of the nature and variety of his bodily colors, which were literally astounding to these people, not one in twenty of whom had ever before seen a Tellurian in person.

For Chickladorians are pink; pink all over. Teeth, hair, skin, and nails; all pink. Not the pink of red blood showing through translucency, but that of opaque pigment. Most of their eyes, even—queerly triangular eyes with three lids instead of two— are of that same brick-reddish pink; although a few of the women have eyes of a dark and dusky green.

This visitor's skin, however, was of a color so monstrous it simply had to be seen to be believed. In fact, it wasn't the same color in any two places—it VARIED! His teeth were white; a horrible, dead-bone color. His lips, hair and eyes— funny, round, flat-opening things—were of still other sheerly unbelievable colors—there wasn't a bit of natural, healthy pink about him anywhere!

Thus the crowds of Chickladorians studied him much more intensively than he studied them; and Maluleme strutting along at his side, basked visibly in the limelight. And thus, except for the two Chickladorians at his side and except for the unobtrusive but efficient secret-service men who kept the crowding throng in hand, Cloud could very well have been mobbed.

The walk was very short, and at its end:

'How long we got to stay, boss?' Thlaskin asked, in spaceal. 'As soon as we can get away we want to join our folks and grab

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a jet for home.'

'As far as I'm concerned you don't need to stay at all, or even come. Why?'

'Just checking, is all. His Nibs sent us a special bid, so we got to at least show up. But he don't know us from nothing, so after we tell him hello and dance a couple of rounds and slurp a couple of slugs we can scram and nobody'll know it unless you spill.'

'No spill,' Cloud assured him. 'You dance with Maluleme first. I'll take the second—that'll drive it in that she's here. After that, flit as soon as you like. For the record, you'll be here until the last gilot is picked clean.'

'Thanks, boss,' and the three, entering the extravagantly-decorated Grand Ballroom, were escorted ceremoniously up to the Presence and the Notables and their surrounding V.I.P.'s

They were welcomed effusively, Cloud being informed through several different interpreters that he was the third-most-important human being who had ever lived. He made— through two interpreters each checking the other's accuracy— his usual deprecatory speech concerning the extinguishment of Iqose atomic vortices. He led the Grand March with the president's wife, a lady whose name he did not quite catch and who, except for a pound or so of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and other baubles, was just as bare as Maluleme was. So was the equally bejeweled mayor's wife, with whom he had the first dance. She was neither young or slender, nor was she sexy. Then, as agreed, he danced with Maluleme, who was—but definitely! —all three.

However, as he circled the floor in time with the really excellent music, he thought, not of the attractive package of femininity in his arms—who was one of his crew and Thlaskin's wife —but of Joan. She'd been training down, he'd noticed, and wearing more makeup, since those other girls had come aboard. She was getting to be a regular seven-sector callout—he'd like to dance with Joan this way!

There were other dances; some with girls like Maluleme, some with women like Madam Mayor, most with in-betweens. There was food, which he enjoyed thoroughly. There were drinks; which, except for ceremonial beakers of fayalin with the president and the mayor, he did not touch. And, finally, there was the very comfortable bed in his special suite at the hotel.

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Instead of sleep, however, there came a thing he expected least of any—a sharp, carefully-narrowed Lensed thought.

'This is Tivor Nordquist of Tellus, Commander Cloud, on my Lens,' the thought flowed smoothly in. 'I have waited until now so as not to startle you, not to make you show any sign of anything unusual going on. There must be no suspicion whatever that you even know there's a Lensman on the planet."

'I can take care of my part of that. One thing, though; I've got exactly one week to work with you. One week from today any possible excuse for me staying on Chickladoria goes p-f-f-t.'

'I know. One 'day should button it up, two at most. Here's the print. I'm a narcotics man, really but...'

'Oh—Fairchild, eh?'

'Yes. Ellington told me you're quick on the uptake. Well, all leads to him via any drug channels fizzled out flat. So, since all these zwilnik mobs handle all kinds of corruption—racketeering, gambling, vice, and so on, as well as drugs—we decided to take the next-best line, which turned out to be gambling. After a lot of slow digging we found out that Fairchild's gang controls at least four planets; Tominga, Vegia, Chickladoria, and Palmer III.'

'What? Why, those planets cover ...'

'Check. That's what made the digging so tough, and that's why they did it that way. And you're scheduled for Vegia next, is why I'm meeting you here. But to get back to the story, we haven't got dope enough to find Fairchild himself except by pure luck. So we decided to make Fairchild's mob tell us where he is.'

'That'll be a slick trick if we can do it.'

'Here's how. Somebody on this planet knows how to call Fairchild in emergencies, so we'll create an emergency and he'll do it.'

'My mind is open, but I'm a bit skeptical. What kind of an emergency have you got in mind?'

'Some of the details you'll have to ad lib as you go along, but it'll be, basically, bold-faced robbery without a blaster and with them jittery as glaidos because they can't figure it. I was going to try to do it myself, but I can't work without my Lens and I can't come near the hot spots without their spy-rays catching the Lens and blowing the whole show. Doctor Janowick told Phil Strong that she could, without using her sense of percep-

tion and after only a short practise run, beat any crooked card game any gambler could dream up—something about random and nonrandom numbers. Can she?'

'Um-m ... never thought of it ... random numbers ... Oh, I see. Yes, she can. Especially the most-played one, that over-and-under-seven thing. And with a little telepathy thrown in, I can do the same with any crooked game they've got except a magnetically-controlled wheel; and I could do a fair job on that.'

'Better and better. You and Miss Janowick, then; and be sure and bring Vesta the Vegian along.'

'Vesta? Um ... Maybe, at that. Adolescent Vegians not only can be, but are, interested in everything that goes on, everywhere. They're born gamblers, and she's alrady got a reputation for throwing money around regardless—and she's rich enough to afford it. And in a winning streak she'll stir up so much excitement that nobody will pay any attention to anybody else. However, things being what they are, I'll have to be mighty careful about letting her go on a gambling spree.'

'Not too much so. Just hint that you won't fire her if she takes a fling or two at the tables and she'll be so happy about it and love you so much that she won't even think of wondering why.'

And so it proved. After a long discussion of details with the Lensman, Cloud went to sleep. The following afternoon he went back to the ship and sought out Vesta, whom he found slinking dejectedly about with her tail almost dragging on the floor. Scarcely had he begun his suggestion, however, when:

'Really, chief?' Vesta's tail snapped aloft, her pointed ears quivered with eagerness. She hugged him ecstatically, burying her face in the curve of his neck and inhaling deeply. 'You zmell zo wonderful, chief—but a wonderful man like you would have to smell zo, wouldn't he? I thought you'd smack me bow-legged if I even hinted at wanting to lay a ten-cento chip on the line. But I know I can beat the games they've got on this planet ... and besides, I've been gone half a year and haven't spent a hundred credits and I've learned nine languages including your cursed English...'

She took out her book of Travelers' Cheques and stared at it thoughtfully. 'Maybe, though, just to be on the safe side, I'd better tear one of these out and hide it in my room. It'd be awful to have to call my mother for jet fare home from the 'port.

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She and dad both'd yowl to high heaven—they'd claw me

'Huh? But listen!' Cloud was puzzled. 'If you shoot such a terrific wad as that, what possible difference would it make whether you had plane fare for a few hundred miles left or not?'

'Oh, lots,' she assured him. 'They don't expect me to have much of any of my allowance left when I get home, and I never intended to, anyway. But anybody with half a brain is expected to be able to get home from a party—any kind of party—without crying for help, and without walking, either; so I'll go hide one of these slips.'

'If that's all that's bothering you, no matter,' Cloud said quickly. 'You've got another pay day coming before we get to Vegia, you know.'

'Oh, I never thought of that—I've never been on a payroll before, you know, and can't get used to being paid for doing nothing. But can we go now, Capain Nealcloud, please? I can't wait!'

'If Joan's ready we can. We'll go see.'

But Joan was not ready. 'Did you actually think she would be?' Helen asked. 'Don't you know that the less a woman puts on the longer it takes her to do it?'

'Nope—I s'posed Doctor Joan Janowick would be above such frippery.'

•You'd be surprised. But say, how'd you talk her into this vacation? Your manly charm, no doubt.'

'Could be, but I doubt it. All she wanted was half an excuse and the promise I wouldn't get sore if we have to kill a couple of days in space before starting shooting on Vegia ... Hot Dog! —just look who's here!'

Joan came in, pausing in embarrassment, at the burst of applause and whistles that greeted her. She was richly, deeply tanned; taut, trim, and dainty—she had trained down to a hundred and fifteen pounds—her bra was a triumph of the couturier's art. She, too, was armed; her DeLameter harness sported the two-and-a-half silver bars of a lieutenant commander.

'Ouch—I'm bedazzled!' Cloud covered his eyes ostentatiously, then, gradually and equally ostentatiously recovering his sight: 'Very nice, Joanie—you're a veree slick chick. With a dusting of powdered sugar and a dab of cream you'd make a

right tasty snack. Just one thing—a bit overdressed, don't you think?'

'Overdressed? she exclaimed. 'Listen, you—I've never worn a bathing suit half as skimpy as this in my whole life, and if you think I'm going to wear any less than this you're completely out of your mind!'

'Oh, it isn't me!' Cloud protested. 'Patrol Regs are strict that way—when in Rome you've got to be a Roman candle, you know.'

'I know, but I'm a Roman candle enough right now—in fact, I feel like a flaming skyrocket. Why, this thing I've got on is scarcely more than a G-string!'

'QX—we'll let it pass—this time ...'

'Hey, you know something?' Joe interrupted him before Joan did. 'Vegia is a couple of degrees warmer than this, and they don't overdo the matter of clothes there, either. I am going to start basking under the radiants. If I get myself cooked to a nice, golden brown, Helen—like a slice of medium-done toast—will you do Vegiaton with me?'

'It's a date, brother!'

As Joe and Helen shook hands to seal the agreement, the two Patrol officers and Vesta strode out.

They took a copter to the Club Elysian, the plushiest and one of the biggest places on the planet. The resplendently decorated —in an undressed way, of course—doorman glanced at the DeLameters, but, knowing the side-arm to be the one indispensable item of the Patrol uniform wherever found, he greeted them cordially in impeccable Galactic Spanish and passed them along.

'The second floor, I presume, sir and mesdames?' The host, a very good rule-of-thumb psychologist, classified these visitors instantly and suggested the region where both class and stakes were high. Also, and as promptly, he decided to escort them personally. Two Patrol officers and a Vegian—especially the Vegian—rated special attention.

The second floor was really a place. The pile of the rug was over half an inch deep. The lighting was neither too garish nor too dim. The tastefully-placed paintings and tapestries adorning the walls were neither too large nor too small, each for its place; and each was a masterpiece.

'May we use Patrol currency, or would you rather we took

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chips?' Cloud asked.

'Either one, sir; just as you wish.'

'We Tellurians are all set, then, but Miss Vesta here would like to cash a few Travelers' Cheques.'

'Certainly, Miss Vesta. I'll be delighted to take care of it for you. How do you wish the money, please?'

Til want a little small stuff to get the feel of the house ... say a thousand in tens and twenties. The rest of it in fifties and hundreds, please—mostly hundreds.'

Vesta peeled off and thumb-printed ten two-thousand credit cheques and the host, bowing gracefully, hurried away.

'One thing, Vesta,' Cloud cautioned. 'Don't throw it away too fast. Save some for next time.'

'Oh, I always do, chief. This'll last me the week, easily. I run wild only when I'm in a winning streak.'

The host came up with her money; and as Vesta made a beeline for the nearest wheel:

'What do you like, Joan?' Cloud asked. 'A wheel?'

'I don't think so; not at first anyway. I've had better luck with the under-and-overs. They're over there, aren't they, sir?'

'Yes, madame. But is there anything I can do first? Refreshments of any kind—an appetizer, perhaps?'

'Not at the moment, thanks.'

'If you wish anything, at any time, just send a boy. I'll look you up from time to time, to be sure you lack nothing. Thank you very much, sir and madame.'

The host bowed himself away and the two officers strolled over to the bank of 'under-and-over' tables, which were all filled. They stood at ease for a few minutes; chatting idly, enjoying their cigarettes, gazing with interest and appreciation around the huge, but wonderfully beautiful room. There was no indication whatever that either of the two Patrolmen was the least bit interested in the fall of the cards, or that two of the keenest mathematical minds in space knew exactly, before the man ahead of them got tired of losing fifty-credit chips, the denomination and the location of every card remaining in the rack.

Joan could, of course, have read either the cards, or the dealer's mind, or both; but she was not doing either—yet. This was a game—on the side, so to speak—between her and Storm. Nor was it at all unequal, for Cloud's uncanny ability to solve complex mathematical problems was of very little assistance

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here. This was a matter of more-or-less simple sequences; of series; of arrangements; and her years of cybernetic training more than made up for his advantage in speed.

'Your pleasure, madame or sir? Or are you together?'

'We're together, thanks. We'll take the next, for an M.' Cloud placed a one-thousand-credit note in the velvet-lined box.

Two thin stacks of cards lay on the table at the dealer's right; one pile face up, the other, face down. He took the top card from the rack, turned it over, and added it to the face-up stack. 'The ten of clubs,' he droned, sliding a one-thousand-credit bill across the table to Cloud. 'What is your pleasure, sir and madame?'

'Let it ride. Two M's in the box,' Cloud said, tossing the new bill on top of its mate. 'Throw one.'

'Discard one.' The dealer removed the next card and, holding it so that neither he nor the players could see its face, added it to the face-down pile. 'What is your pleasure, sir and madame?'

'Throw one.'

'Discard one.'

'We'll take this one,' and there were four thousand credits in the box.

Throw one take one, and there were eight thousand.

The eight became sixteen; then thirty-two; and the dealer lost his urbanity completely. He looked just plain ugly.

'Maybe that's enough for now,' Joan suggested. 'After all, we don't want to take all the man's money.'

'Tightwad's trick, huh? Quit while yer ahead?' the dealer sneered. 'Why'n'cha let 'er ride just once more?'

'If you insist, we will,' Cloud said, 'but I'm warning you it'll cost you thirty-two more M's.'

'That's what you think, Buster—I think different. Call your play!'

'We'll take it!' Cloud snapped. 'But listen, you clever-fingered jerk—I know just as well as you do that the top card is the king of clubs, and the one below it is the trey of diamonds. So, if you want to stay healthy, move slowly and be damned sure to lift just one card, not two, and take it off the top and not the bottom!'

Glaring in baffled fury, the dealer turned up the king of clubs and paid his loss.

At the next table the results were pretty much the same, and

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at the third. At the fourth table, however, instead of pyramiding, they played only single M-bills. They lost—won—lost—lost— Won—lost—won—lost. In twenty plays they were only two thousand credits ahead.

'I think I've got it, Joan,' Cloud said then. 'Coming up— eight, six, jack, five, deuce?"

'Uh-uh. I don't think so. Eight, six, jack, three, one, I think. The trey of spades and the ace of hearts. A two-and-one shift with each full cycle.'

'Urn ... m. Could be ... but do you think the guy's that smart?'

'I'm pretty sure of it, Storm. He's the best dealer they have. He's been dealing a long time. He knows cards.'

'Well, if you're done passing out compliments, how about calling a play?' the dealer suggested.

'QX. We'll take the eight for one M ... and it is the eight, you notice ... let it ride ... throw the six—without looking, of course ... we'll take the jack for two M's ...'

The host, accompanied by no less a personage than the manager himself, had come up. They stood quietly and listened as Cloud took three bills out of the box, leaving one, and went on: 'The next card is either a five or a trey. That M there is to find out which it is.'

'Are you sure of that?' the manager asked. 'Not absolutely, of course,' Cloud admitted.  'There's one chance in approximately fourteen million that both my partner and I are wrong.'

'Very good odds. But since you lose in either case, why bet?' 'Because if it's a trey, she solved your system first. If it's a five, I beat her to it.'

'I see, but that isn't necessary.' The manager took the remaining cards out of the rack, and, holding them carefully and firmly, wrapped the M-note tightly around them. Then, picking up the two small stacks of played cards, he handed the whole collection to Cloud, at the same time signalling the dealer to go ahead with his game. 'We'll be smothered in a crowd very shortly, and I would like very much to play with you myself. Will you, sir and madame, be gracious enough to continue play in private?'

'Gladly, sir,' Joan assented, at Cloud's questioning glance. 'If it would not put you out too much.'

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'I am delighted,' and, beckoning to a hovering waiter, he went on: 'We will have refreshments, of course. In uniform, you might possibly prefer soft drinks? We have some very good Tellurian ginger ale.'

'That'd be fine,' Cloud said, even while he was thinking at the Lensman in contact with his mind: 'Safe enough, don't you think? He couldn't be thinking of any rough stuff yet.'

'Perfectly safe,' Nordquist agreed. 'He's just curious. Besides, he's in no shape to handle even the Vortex Blaster alone, to say nothing of the task force he knows would be here two hours after anything happened to either of you.'

The four strolled in friendly fashion to the suggested private room. As soon as they were settled:

'You said the top card would be either a five or a trey,' the manager said. 'Shall we look?'

It was the trey of spades. 'Congratulations, Joanie, a mighty swell job. You really clobbered me on that one.' He shook her hand vigorously, then handed the bill to the manager. 'Here's your M-note, sir.'

'I couldn't think of it, sir. No tipping, you know ...'

'I know. Not a tip, but your winnings. I called the play, remember. Hence, I insist.'

'Very well, if you insist. But don't you want to look at the next one?'

'No. It's the ace of hearts—can't be anything else.'

'To satisfy my own curiosity, then.' The manager flipped the top card delicately. It was the ace of hearts. 'No compulsion, of course, but would you mind telling me how you can possibly do what you have just done?'

'I'll be glad to,' and this was the simple truth. Cloud had to explain, before the zwilniks began to suspect that they were being taken by an organized force of Lensmen and snoopers. 'We aren't even semi-habitual gamblers. The lieutenant-commander is Doctor Joan Janowick, the Patrol's ace designer of big, highspeed electronic computers, and I am Neal Cloud, a mathematical analyst.'

'You are "Storm" Cloud, the Vortex Blaster,' the manager corrected him. 'A super-computer yourself. I begin to see, I think ... but go ahead, please.'

'You undoubtedly know that random numbers, which underlie all games of chance, must be just that—purely random, with

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nothing whatever of system or of orderliness in their distribution. Also that a stacked deck, by definition, is most decidedly not random. We were kicking that idea around, one day, and decided to study stacked decks, to see how systematic such distributions actually were. Well—here's the new part—we learned that any dealer who stacks a deck of cards does so in some definite pattern; and that pattern, whether conscious or unconscious, is always characteristic of that one individual. The more skilled the dealer, the more complex, precise, complete, and definite the pattern. Any pattern, however complex, can be solved; and, once solved, the cards might just as well be lying face up and all in sight.

'On the other hand, while it is virtually impossible for any dealer to shuffle a deck into a really random condition, it can approach randomness so nearly that the patterns are short and hence very difficult to solve. Also, there are no likenesses or similarities to help. Worst of all, there is the house leverage— the sevens of hearts, diamonds, and clubs, you know—of approximately five point seven seven percent. So it is mathematically certain that she and I would lose, not win, against any dealer who was not stacking his decks.'

'I ... am ... surprised. I'm amazed,' the manager said. He was, too; and so was the host. 'Heretofore it has always been the guest who loses by manipulation, not the house.' It is noteworthy that neither the manager nor host had at any time denied, even by implication, that their games of 'chance' were loaded. 'Thanks, immensely, for telling me ... By the way, you haven't done this very often before have you?' the manager smiled ruefully.

'No.' Cloud smiled back. 'This is the first time. Why?'

'I thought I would have heard of it if you had. This of course changes my mind about wanting to deal to you myself. In fact, I'll go farther—any dealer you play with here will be doing his level best to give you a completely random distribution.'

'Fair enough. But we proved our point, which was what we were primarily interested in, anyway. What'll we do with the rest of the day, Joan—go back to the ship?'

'Uh-uh. This is the most comfortable place I've found since we left Tellus, and if I don't see the ship again for a week it'll be at least a week too soon. Why don't you send a boy out with enough money to get us a chess kit? We can engage this

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room for the rest of the day and work on our game.'

'No need for that—we have all such things here,' the host said quickly. 'I'll send for them at once.'

'No, no—no money, please,' the manager said. 'I am still in your debt, and as long as you will stay you are my guests ...' he paused, then went on in a strangely altered tone. 'But chess ... and Janowick ... Joan Janowick, not at all a common name ... surely not Past Grand Master Janowick? She— retired—would be a much older woman.'

'The same—I retired for lack of time, but I still play as much as I can. I'm flattered that you have heard of me." Joan smiled as though she were making a new and charming acquaintance. 'And you? I'm sorry we didn't introduce ourselves earlier.'

'Permit me to introduce Host Althagar, assistant manager. I am called Thlasoval.'

'Oh, I know of you, Master Thlasoval. I followed your game with Rengodon of Centralia. Your knight-and-bishop end game was a really beautiful thing.'

'Thank you. / am really flattered that you have heard of me. But Commander Cloud ...?'

'No, you haven't heard of him. Perhaps you never will, but believe me, if he had time for tournament play he'd be high on the Grand Masters list. So far on this cruise he's won one game, I've won one, and we're on the eighty-fourth move of the third.' The paraphernalia arrived and the Tellurians set the game up rapidly and unerringly, each knowing exactly where each piece and pawn belonged.

'You have each lost two pawns, one knight, and one bishop —in eighty-three moves?' Thlasoval marveled.

'Right,' Cloud said. 'We're playing for blood. Across this board friendship ceases; and, when dealing with such a pure unadulterated tiger as she is, so does chivalry.'

'If I'm a tiger, I'd hate to say what he is.' Joan glanced up with a grin. 'Just study the board, Master Thlasoval, and see for yourself who is doing what to whom. I'm just barely holding him: he's had me on the defensive for the last forty moves. Attacking him is just like trying to beat in the side of a battleship with your bare fist. Do you see his strategy? Perhaps not, on such short notice.'

Joan was very willing to talk chess at length, because the fact that Fairchild's Chickladorian manager was a chess Master

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was an essential part of the Patrol's plan.

'No ... I can't say that I do.'

'You notice he's concentrating everything he can bring to bear on my left flank. Fifteen moves from now he'd've been focussed on my King's Knight's Third. Three moves after that he was going to exchange his knight for my queen and then mate in four. But, finding out what he was up to, I've just derailed his train of operations and he has to revise his whole campaign.'

'No wonder I didn't see ... I'm simply not in your class. But would you mind if I stay and look on?"

'We'll be glad to have you, but it won't be fast. We're playing strict tournament rules and taking the full four minutes for each move.'

'That's quite all right. I really enjoy watching Grand Masters at work."

Master though he was, Thlasoval had no idea at all of what a terrific game he watched. For Joan Janowick and Neal Cloud were not playing it; they merely moved the pieces. The game had been played long since. Based upon the greatest games of the greatest masters of old, it had been worked out, move by move, by chess masters working with high-speed computers.

Thus, while Joan and Storm were really concentrating, it was not upon chess.

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14:  Vesta the Gambler

Joan was handling the card games, Cloud the wheels. The suggestion that it would be smart to run honest games had been implanted in the zwilnik's minds, not because of the cards, but because of the wheels; for a loaded, braked, and magnetized wheel is a very tough device to beat.

Joan, then, would read a deck of cards, and a Lensman or a Rigellian would watch her do it. Then the observing telepath would, all imperceptibly, insert hunches into the mind of a player. And what gambler has ever questioned his hunches, especially when they pay off time after time after time? Thus more and more players began to win with greater or lesser regularity and the gambling fever—the most contagious and infectious disorder known to man—spread throughout the vast room like a conflagration in a box-factory. And Storm Cloud was handling the wheels. 'Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, before the ball enters Zone Green,' the croupiers intoned. 'The screens go up, no bets can be placed while the ball is in the Green.'

If the wheels had not been rigged, Cloud could have computed with ease the exact number upon which each ball would come to rest. In such case the Patrol forces would not, of course, have given Vesta the Vegian complete or accurate information. With her temperament and her bank-roll, she would have put the place out of business in an hour; and such a single-handed killing was not at all what the Patrol desired.

But the wheels, of course, were rigged. Cloud was being informed, however, of every pertinent fact. He knew the exact point at which the ball crossed the green borderline. He knew its exact velocity. He knew precisely the strength of the magnetic fields and the permeabilities, reluctances, and so on, of all the materials involved. He knew just about how much braking force could be applied without tipping off the players and transforming them instantly into a blood-thirsty mob. And finally, he was backed by Lensmen who could at need interfere with the physical processes of the croupiers without any knowledge on the pan of the victims. Hence Cloud did well enough—and when a house is paying

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thirty-five to one on odds that have been cut down to eight or ten to one, it is very, very bad for the house.

Vesta started playing conservatively enough. She went from wheel to wheel, tail high in air and purring happily to herself, slapping down ten-credit notes until she won.

'This is the wheel I like!' she exclaimed, and went to twenties. Still unperturbed, still gay, she watched nine of them move away under the croupier's rake. Then she won again.

Then fifties. Then hundreds. She wasn't gay now, nor purring. She wasn't exactly tense, yet, but she was warming up. As the tenth C-note disappeared, a Chickladorian beside her said:

'Why don't you play the colors, miss? Or combinations? You don't lose so much that way.'

'No, and you don't win so much, either. When I'm gambling I gamble, brother ... and wait just a minute ...' the croupier paid her three M's and an L ... 'See what I mean?'

The crowd was going not-so-slowly mad. Assistant Manager Althagar did what he could. He ordered all rigging and gimmicks off, and the house still lost. On again, off again; and losses still skyrocketed. Then, hurrying over to the door of a private room, he knocked lightly, opened the door, and beckoned to Thlasoval.

'All hell's out for noon!' he whispered intensely as the manager reached the doorway. 'The crowd's winning like crazy— everybody's winning! D'you s'pose it's them damn Patrolmen there crossing us up—and how in hell could it be?'

'Have you tried cutting out the gimmicks?'

'Yes. No difference.'

'It can't be them, then. It couldn't be anyway, for two reasons. The kind of brains it takes to work that kind of problem in your head can't happen once in a hundred million times, and you say everybody's doing it. They can't be, dammit! Two, they're Grand Masters playing chess. You play chess yourself.'

'You know I do. I'm not a Master, but I'm pretty good.'

'Good enough to tell by looking at 'em that they don't give a damn about what's going on out there. Come on in.'

'We'll disturb 'em and they'll be sore as hell.'

'You couldn't disturb these two, short of yelling in their ear or joggling the board.' The two walked toward the table. 'See what I mean?'

The two players, forearms on table, were sitting rigidly still, staring as though entranced at the board, neither moving so

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much as an eye. As the two Chickladorians watched, Cloud's left forearm, pivoting on the elbow, swung out and he moved his knight.

'Oh, no ... no!' Shocked out of silence, Thlasoval muttered the words under his breath. 'Your queen, man—your queen!'

But this opportunity, so evident to the observer, did not seem at all attractive to the woman, who sat motionless for minute after minute.

'But come on, boss, and look this mess over,' the assistant urged. 'You're on plus time now."

'I suppose so.' They turned away from the enigma 'But why didn't she take his queen? I couldn't see a thing to keep her from doing it. I would have.'

'So would I. However, almost all the pieces on that board are vulnerable, some way or other. Probably whichever one starts the shin-kicking will come out at the little end of the horn.'

'Could be, but it won't be kicking shins. It'll be slaughter— and how I'd like to be there when the slaughter starts! And I still don't see why she didn't grab that queen ...'

'Well, you can ask her, maybe, when they leave. But right now you'd better forget chess and take a good, long gander at what that Vegian hell-cat is doing. She's wilder than a Radelgian cateagle and hotter than a DeLameter. She's gone just completely nuts.'

Tense, strained, taut as a violin-string in every visible muscle, Vesta stood at a wheel; gripping the ledge of the table so fiercely that enamel was flaking off the metal and plastic under her stiff, sharp nails. Jaws hard set and eyes almost invisible slits, she growled deep in her throat at every bet she put down. And those bets were all alike—ten thousand credits each—and she was still playing the numbers straight. They watched her lose eighty thousand credits; then watched her collect three hundred and fifty thousand.

Thlasoval made the rounds, then; did everything he could to impede the outward flow of cash, finding that there wasn't much of anything he could do. He beckoned his assistant.

'This is bad, Althagar, believe me,' he said. 'And I simply can't figure any part of it ... unless ...' His voice died away. 'You said it. I can't, either.  Unless it's them two chessplayers in there, and I'll buy it that it ain't, I haven't even got a guess ... unless there could be some Lensmen mixed up in it

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somewhere. They could do just about anything.'

'Lenstnen? Rocket-juice! There aren't any—we spy-ray everybody that comes in.'

'Outside, maybe, peeking in. Or some other snoopers, maybe, somewhere?'

'I can't see it. We've had Lensmen in here dozens of times, for one reason or another, business and social both, and they've always shot straight pool. Besides, all they're getting is money, and what in all eleven hells of Telemanchia would the Patrol want of our money? If they wanted us for anything they'd come and get us, but they wouldn't give a cockeyed tinker's damn for our money. They've already got all the money there is!'

'That's so, too. Money ... hm, money in gobs and slathers ... Oh, you think ... the Mob? D'ya s'pose it's got so big for its britches it thinks it can take us on?'

'I wouldn't think they could be that silly. It's a lot more reasonable, though, than that the Patrol would be horsing around this way.'

'But how? Great Kalastho, how?'

'How do I know? Snoopers, as you said—or perceivers, or any other ringers they could ring in on us.'

'Nuts!' the assistant retorted. 'Just who do you figure as ringers? The Vegian isn't a snooper, she's just a gambling fool. No Chickladorian was ever a snooper, or a perceiver either, and these people are just about all regular customers. And everybody's winning. So just where does that put you?'

'Up the creek—I know. But dammit, there's got to be snoopery or some other funny stuff somewhere in this!'

'Uh-uh. Did you ever hear of a perceiver who could read a deck or spot a gimmick from half a block away?'

'No, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. But what stops me is what can we do about it? If the Mob is forted up in that hotel across the street or somewhere beside or behind us ... there isn't a damn thing we can do. They'd have more gunnies than we could send in, even if we knew exactly where they were, and we can't send a young army barging around without anything but a flimsy suspicion to go on—the lawmen would throw us in the clink in nothing flat ... Besides, this Mob idea isn't exactly solid, either. How'd they get their cut from all these people? Especially the Vegian?'

'The Vegian, probably not; the rest, probably so. They could

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have passed the word around that this is the big day. Anybody'd split fifty-fifty on a cold sure thing.'

'Uh-uh. I won't buy that, either. I'd've known about it— somebody would have leaked. No matter how you figure it, it doesn't add up.'

'Well, then?'

'Only one thing we can do. Close down. While you're doing that I'll go shoot in a Class A Double Prime Urgent to top brass.'

Hence Vesta's croupier soon announced to his clientele that all betting was off, at least until the following day. All guests would please leave the building as soon as possible.

For a couple of minutes Vesta simply could not take in the import of the announcement. She was stunned. Then:

'Whee ... yow ... ow ... erow!' she yowled, at the top of her not inconsiderable voice. 'I've won ... I've won ... I'VE WON!' She quieted down a little, still shell-shocked, then looked around and ran toward the nearest familiar face, which was that of the assistant manager. 'Oh, senor Althagar, do you actually want me to quit while I'm ahead? Why, I never heard of such a thing

—it certainly never happened to me before! And I'm going to stop gambling entirely—I'll never get such a thrill as this again if I live a million years!' 'You're so right, Miss Vesta—you never will.' Althagar smiled

—as though he had just eaten three lemons without sugar, to be sure, but it was still a smile. 'It's not that we want you to quit, but simply that we can't pay any more losses. Right now I am most powerfully psychic, so take my advice, my dear, and stop.'

'I'm going to—honestly, I am.' Vesta straightened out the thick sheaf of bills she held in her right hand, noticing that they were all ten-thousands. She dug around in her bulging pouch; had to dig halfway to the bottom before she could find anything smaller. With a startled gasp she crammed the handful of bills in on top of the others and managed, just barely, to close and lock the pouch. 'Oh, I've got to fly—I must find my boss and tell him all about this!'

'Would you like an armed escort to your hotel?'

'That won't be necessary, thanks. I'm going to take a copter direct to the ship.'

And she did.

It was not until the crowd was almost all gone that either

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Thlasoval or Althagar even thought of the two chess-players. Then one signalled the other and they went together to the private room, into it, and up to the chess-table. To the casual eye, neither player had moved. The board, too, showed comparatively little change; at least, the carnage anticipated by Thlasoval had not materialized.

Althagar coughed discreetly; then again, a little louder. 'Sir and madam, please ...' he began.

'I told you they'd be 'dead to the world,' Thlasoval said; and, bending over, lifted one side of the board. Oh, very gently, and not nearly enough to dislodge any one of the pieces, but the tiny action produced disproportionately large results. Both players started as though a bomb had exploded beside them, and Joan uttered a half-stifled scream. With visible efforts, they brought themselves down from the heights to the there and the then. Cloud stretched prodigiously; and Joan, emulating him, had to bring one hand down to cover a jaw-cracking yawn.

'Excuse me, Grand Master Janowick and Commander Cloud, but the Club is being closed for repairs and we must ask you to leave the building.'

'Closed?' Joan parroted, stupidly, and:

'For repairs?' Cloud added, with equal brilliance.

'Closed. For repairs.' Thlasoval repeated, firmly. Then, seeing that his guests were coming back to life quite nicely, he offered Joan his arm and started for the door.

'Oh, yes, Grand Master Janowick,' he said en route. 'May I ask why you refused the Commander's queen?'

'He would have gained such an advantage in position as to mate in twelve moves.'

'I see ... thanks.' He didn't, at all, but he had to say something. 'I wonder ... would it be possible for me to find out how this game comes out?'

'Why, I suppose so.' Joan thought for a moment. 'Certainly. If you'll give me your card I'll send you a tape of it after we finish.'*

* A few months later, Joan did send him the full game, which white of course won. Thlasoval studied it in secret for over five years; and then, deciding correctly that he never would be able to understand its terrifically complex strategy, he destroyed the tape. It is perhaps superfluous to all that this game was never published. E.E.S.

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The two Patrolmen boarded a copter. Joan looked subdued, almost forlorn. Cloud took her hand and squeezed it gently.

'Don't take it so hard, Joan,' he thought. He found it remarkably easy to send to her now; in fact, telepathy was easier and simpler and more natural than talking. 'We had it to do.'

'I suppose so; but it was a dirty, slimy, stinking, filthy trick, Storm. I'm ashamed ... I feel soiled."

'I know how you feel. I'm not so happy about the thing, either. But when you think of thionite, and what that stuff means...?'

'That's true, of course ... and they stole the money in the first place ... Not that two wrongs, or even three or four, make a right... but it does help.'

She cheered up a little, but she was not yet her usual self when they boarded the Vortex Blaster II.

Vesta met them just inside the lock. 'Oh, chief, I won—I won!' she shrieked, tail waving frantically in air. 'Where'd you go after the club closed? I looked all over for you—do you know how much I won, Captain Nealcloud?'

'Haven't any idea. How much?'

'One million seven hundred sixty two thousand eight hundred and ten credits! Yow-wow-yow!'

'Whew!' Cloud whistled in amazement. 'And you're figuring on giving it all back to 'em tomorrow?"

'I ... I haven't quite decided.' Vesta sobered instantly. 'What do you think, chief?"

'Not being a gambler, I don't have hunches very often, but I've got one now. In fact, I know one thing for certain damn sure. There isn't one chance in seven thousand million of anything like this ever happening to you again. You'll lose your shirt—that is, if you had a shirt to lose," he added hastily.

'You know, I think you're right? I thought so myself, and you're the second smart man to tell me the same thing."

'Who was the first one?"

'That man at the club, Althagar, his name was. So, with three hunches on the same play, I'd be a fool not to play it that way. Besides, I'll never get another wallop like that ... my uncle's been wanting me to be linguist in his bank, and with a million and three-quarters of my own I could buy half his bank and be a linguist and a cashier both. Then I couldn't ever gamble again."

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