“Full vision. That’s the point. The speaker was described by several as being a young man of ‘aristocratic bearing,’ whatever that means.”

            The Autarch’s fist clenched slowly. “Really? And no photo-impression was taken of the face? That was a mistake.”

            “Unfortunately there was no reason for the mail captain to have anticipated the importance of doing so, If any importance exists! Does all this mean anything to you, sir?”

            The Autarch did not answer the question. “And this is the message?”

            “Exactly. A tremendous message of one word that we were supposed to bring directly to you; a thing we did not do, of course. It might have been a fission capsule, for instance. Men have been killed that way before.”

            “Yes, and Autarchs too,” said the Autarch. “Just the word ‘Gillbret.’ One word, ‘Gillbret.’ “

            The Autarch maintained his indifferent calm, but a certain lack of certainty was gathering, and he did not like to experience a lack of certainty. He liked nothing which made him aware of limitations. An Autarch should have no limitations, and on Lingane he had none that natural law did not impose.

            There had not always been an Autarch. In its earlier days Lingane had been ruled by dynasties of merchant princes. The families who had first established the subplanetary service stations were the aristocrats of the state. They were not rich in land, hence could not compete in social position with the Ranchers and Grangers of the neighboring worlds. But they were rich in negotiable currency and so could buy and sell those same Ranchers and Grangers; and, by way of high finance, they sometimes did.

            And Lingane suffered the usual fate of a planet ruled (or misruled) under such circumstances. The balance of power oscillated from one family to another. The various groups alternated in exile. Intrigues and palace revolutions were chronic, so that if the Directorship of Rhodia was the Sector’s prime example of stability and orderly development, Lingane was the example of restlessness and disorder. “As fickle as Lingane,” people said.

            The outcome was inevitable, if one judges by hindsight. As the neighboring planet states consolidated into group states and became powerful, civil struggles on Lingane became increasingly expensive and dangerous to the planet. The general population was quite willing, finally, to barter anything for general calm. So they exchanged a plutocracy for an autocracy, and lost little liberty in the exchange. The power of several was concentrated in one, but that one, frequently enough, was deliberately friendly to the populace he sought to use as a make-weight against the never-reconciled merchants.

            Under the Autarchy, Lingane increased its wealth and strength. Even the Tyranni, attacking thirty years earlier at the height of their power, had been fought to a standstill. They had not been defeated, but they had been stopped. The shock, even of that, had been permanent. Not a planet had been conquered by the Tyranni since the year they had attacked Lingane.

            Other planets of the Nebular Kingdoms were outright vassals of the Tyranni. Lingane, however, was an Associated State, theoretically the equal “ally” of Tyrann, with its rights guarded by the Articles of Association.

            The Autarch was not fooled by the situation. The chauvinistic of the planet might allow themselves the luxury of considering themselves free, but the Autarch knew that the Tyrannian danger had been held at arm’s length this past generation. Only that far. No farther.

            And now it might be moving in quickly for the final, long-delayed bear hug. Certainly, he had given it the opportunity it was waiting for. The organization he had built up, ineffectual though it was, was sufficient grounds for punitive action of any type the Tyranni might care to undertake. Legally, Lingane would be in the wrong.

            Was the cruiser the first reaching out for the final bear hug?

            The Autarch said, “Has a guard been placed on that ship?”

            “I said they were watched. Two of our freighters”--he smiled one-sidedly, “keep in massometer range.”

            “Well, what do you make of it?”

            “I don’t know. The only Gillbret I know whose name by itself would mean anything is Gillbret oth Hinriad of Rhodia. Have you had dealings with him?”

            The Autarch said, “I saw him on my last visit to Rhodia.”

            ”You told him nothing, of course.”

            “Of course.”

            Rizzett’s eyes narrowed. “I thought there might have been a certain lack of caution on your part; that the Tyranni had been the recipients of an equal lack of caution on the part of this Gillbret--the Hinriads are notable weaklings these days--and that this now was a device to trap you into final self-betrayal.”

            “I doubt it. It comes at a queer time, this business. I have been away from Lingane for a year or more. I arrived last week and I shall leave in a matter of days again. A message such as this reaches me just when I am in a position to be reached.”

            “You don’t think it is a coincidence?”

            “I don’t believe in coincidence. And there is one way in which all this would not be coincidence. I will therefore visit that ship. Alone.”

            “Impossible, sir.” Rizzett was startled. He had a small, uneven scar just above his right temple and it suddenly showed red.

            “You forbid me?” asked the Autarch dryly.

            And he was Autarch, after all, since Rizzett’s face fell, and he said, “As you please, sir.”

            Aboard the Remorseless, the wait was proving increasingly unpleasant. For two days they hadn’t budged from their orbit.

            Gillbret watched the controls with relentless concentration. His voice had an edge to it. “Wouldn’t you say they were moving?”

            Biron looked up briefly. He was shaving, and handling the Tyranni erosive spray with finicky care.

            “No,” he said, “they’re not moving. Why should they? They’re watching us, and they’ll keep on watching us.”

            He concentrated upon the difficult area of the upper lip, and frowned impatiently as he felt the slightly sour taste of the spray upon his tongue. A Tyrannian could handle the spray with a grace that was almost poetic. It was undoubtedly the quickest and closest non-permanent shaving method in existence, in the hands of an expert. In essence, it was an extremely fine air-blown abrasive that scoured off the hairs without harming the skin. Certainly the skin felt like nothing more than the gentle pressure of what might have been an air stream.

            However, Biron felt queasy about it. There was the well-known legend, or story, or fact (whatever it was), about the incidence of face cancer being higher among the Tyranni than among other cultural groups, and some attributed this to the Tyranni shave spray. Biron wondered for the first time if it might not be better to have his face completely depilated. It was done in some parts of the Galaxy, as a matter of course. He rejected the thought. Depilation was permanent. The fashion might always shift to mustaches or cheek curls.

            Biron was surveying his face in the mirror, wondering how he would look in sideburns down to the angle of the jaw, when Artemisia said from the doorway, “I thought you were going to sleep.”

            “I did,” he said. “Then I woke up.” He looked up at her and smiled.

            She patted his cheek, then stroked it gently with her fingers. “It’s smooth. You look about eighteen.”

            He carried her hand to his lips. “Don’t let that fool you,” he said.,

            She said, “They’re still watching?”

            “Still watching. Isn’t it annoying, these dull interludes that give you time to sit and worry?”

            “I don’t find this interlude dull.”

            “You’re talking about other aspects of it now, Arta.”

            She said, “Why don’t we cross them up and land on Lingane?”

            “We’ve thought of it. I don’t think we’re ready for that kind of risk. We can afford to wait till the water supply gets a bit lower.”

            Gillbret said loudly, “I tell you they are moving.”

            Biron crossed over to the control panel and considered the massometer readings. He looked at Gillbret and said, “You may be right.”

            He pecked away at the calculator for a moment or two and stared at its dials.

            “No, the two ships haven’t moved relative to us, Gillbret. What’s changed the massometer is that a third ship has joined them. As near as I can tell, it’s five thousand miles off, about 46 degrees ρ and 192 degrees φ from the ship-planet line, if I’ve got the clockwise and counterclockwise conventions straight. If ‘ I haven’t, the figures are, respectively, 314 and 168 degrees.”

            He paused to take another reading. “I think they’re approaching. It’s a small ship. Do you think you can get in touch with them, Gillbret?”

            “I can try,” said Gillbret.

            “All right. No vision. Let’s leave it at sound, till we get some notion of what’s coming.”

            It was amazing to watch Gillbret at the controls of the etheric radio. He was obviously the possessor of a native talent. Contacting an isolated point in space with a tight radio beam remains, after all, a task in which the ship’s control-panel information can participate only slightly. He had a notion of the distance of the ship which might be off by a hundred miles plus or minus. He had two angles, either or both of which might easily be wrong by five or six degrees in any direction.

            This left a volume of about ten million cubic miles within which the ship might be. The rest was left to the human operator, and a radio beam which was a probing finger not half a mile in cross section at the widest point of its receivable range. It was said that a skilled operator could tell by the feel of the controls how closely the beam missed the target. Scientifically, that theory was nonsense, of course, but it often seemed that no other explanation was possible.

            In less than ten minutes the activity gauge of the radio was jumping and the Remorseless was both sending and receiving.

            In another ten minutes Biron was able to lean back and say, “They’re going to send a man aboard.”

            “Ought we to let them?” asked Artemisia.

            “Why not? One man? We’re armed.”

            “But if we let their ship get too close?”

            “We’re a Tyrannian cruiser, Arta. We’ve got three to five times their power, even if they were the best warship Lingane had. They’re not allowed too much by their precious Articles of Association, and we’ve got five high-caliber blasters.”

            Artemisia said, “Do you know how to use the Tyrannian blasters? I didn’t know you did.”

            Biron hated to turn the admiration off, but he said, “Unfortunately, I don’t. At least, not yet. But then, the Linganian ship won’t know that, you see.”

            Half an hour later the visiplate showed a visible ship. It was a stubby little craft, fitted with two sets of four fins, as though it were frequently called upon to double for stratospheric flight.

            At its first appearance in the telescope, Gillbret shouted in delight. “That’s the Autarch’s yacht,” he cried, and his face wrinkled into a grin. “It’s his private yacht. I’m sure of it. I told you that the bare mention of my name was the surest way to get his attention.”

            There was the period of deceleration and adjustment of velocity on the part of the Linganian ship, until it hung motionless in the plate.

            A thin voice came from the receiver. “Ready for boarding?”

            “Ready!” clipped Biron. “One person only.”

            “One person,” came the response.

            It was like a snake uncoiling. The metal-mesh rope looped outward from the Linganian ship, shooting at them harpoon-fashion. It’s thickness expanded in the visiplate, and the magnestized cylinder that ended it approached and grew in size. As it grew closer, it edged toward the rim of the cone of vision, then veered off completely.

            The sound of its contact was hollow and reverberant. The magnetized weight was anchored, and the line was a spider thread that did not sag in a normal weighted curve but retained whatever kinks and loops it had possessed at the moment of contact, these moving slowly forward as units under the influence of inertia.

            Easily and carefully, the Linganian ship edged away and the line straightened. It hung there then, taut and fine, thinning into space until it was an almost invisible thing, glancing with incredible daintiness in the light of Lingane’s sun.

            Biron threw in the telescopic attachment, which bloated the ship monstrously in the field of vision, so that one could see the origin of the half-mile length of connecting line and the little figure that was beginning to swing hand over hand along it.

            It was not the usual form of boarding. Ordinarily, two ships would maneuver to near-contact, so that extensible air locks could meet and merge under intense magnetic fields. A tunnel through space would connect the ships, and a man could travel from one to the other with no further protection than he needed to wear aboard ship. Naturally, this form of boarding required mutual trust.

            By space line, one was dependent upon his space suit. The approaching Linganian was bloated in his, a fat thing of air-extended metal mesh, the joints of which required no small muscular effort to work. Even at the distance at which he was, Biron could see his arms flex with a snap as the joint gave and came to rest in a new groove.

            And the mutual velocities of the two ships had to be carefully adjusted. An inadvertent acceleration on the part of either would tear the line loose and send the traveler tumbling through space under the easy grip of the faraway sun and of the initial impulse of the snapping line--with nothing, neither friction nor obstruction, to stop him this side of eternity.

            The approaching Linganian moved on confidently and quickly. When he came closer it was easy to see that it was not a simple hand-over-hand procedure. Each time the forward hand flexed, pulling him on, he would let go and float onward some dozen feet before his other hand had reached forward for a new hold.

            It was a brachiation through space. The spaceman was a gleaming metal gibbon.

            Artemisia said, “What if he misses?”

            “He looks too expert to do that,” said Biron, “but if he does, he’d still shine in the sun. We’d pick him up again.”

            The Linganian was close now. He had passed out of the field of the visiplate. In another five seconds there was the clatter of feet on the ship’s hull.

            Biron yanked the lever that lit the signals which outlined the ship’s air lock. A moment later, in answer to an imperative series of raps, the outer door was opened. There was a thump just beyond a blank section of the pilot-room’s wall. The outer door closed, the section of wall slid away, and a man stepped through.

            His suit frosted over instantly, blanking the thick glass of his helmet and turning him into a mound of white. Cold radiated from him. Biron elevated the heaters and the gush of air that entered was warm and dry. For a moment the frost on the suit held its own, then began to thin and dissolve into a dew.

            The Linganian’s blunt metal fingers were fumbling at the clasps of the helmet as though he were impatient with his snowy blindness. It lifted off as a unit, the thick, soft insulation inside rumpling his hair as it passed.

            Gillbret said, “Your Excellency!” In glad triumph, he said, “Biron, it is the Autarch himself.”

            But Biron, in a voice that struggled vainly against stupefaction, could only say, “Jonti!”

THIRTEEN:

The Autarch Remains

The Autarch gently toed the suit to one side and appropriated the larger of the padded chairs.

            He said, “I haven’t had that sort of exercise in quite awhile. But they say it never leaves you once you’ve learned, and, apparently, it hasn’t in my case. Hello, Farrill! My Lord Gillbret, good day. And this, if I remember, is the Director’s daughter, the Lady Artemisia!”

            He placed a long cigarette carefully between his lips and brought it to life with a single intake of breath. The scented tobacco filled the air with its pleasant odor. “I did not expect to see you quite so soon, Farrill,” he said.

            “Or at all, perhaps?” said Biron acidly.

            “One never knows,” agreed the Autarch. “Of course, with a message that read only ‘Gillbret’; with the knowledge that Gillbret could not pilot a space ship; with the further knowledge that I had myself sent a young man to Rhodia who could pilot a space ship and who was quite capable of stealing a Tyrannian cruiser in his desperation to escape; and with the knowledge that one of the men on the cruiser was reported to be young and of aristocratic bearing, the conclusion was obvious. I am not surprised to see you.”

            “I think you are,” said Biron. “I think you’re as surprised as hell to see me. As an assassin, you should be. Do you think I am worse at deduction than you are?”

            “I think only highly of you, Farrill.”

            The Autarch was completely unperturbed, and Biron felt awkward and stupid in his resentment. He turned furiously to the others. “This man is Sander Jonti--the Sander Jonti I’ve told you of. He may be the Autarch of Lingane besides, or fifty Autarchs. It makes no difference. To me he is Sander Jonti.”

            Artemisia said, “He is the man who--”

            Gillbret put a thin and shaking hand to his brow. “Control yourself, Biron. Are you mad?”

            “This is the man! I am not mad!” shouted Biron. He controlled himself with an effort. “All right. There’s no point yelling, I suppose. Get off my ship, Jonti. Now that’s said quietly enough. Get off my ship.”

            “My dear Farrill. For what reason?”

            Gillbret made incoherent sounds in his throat, but Biron pushed him aside roughly and faced the seated Autarch. “You made one mistake, Jonti. Just one. You couldn’t tell in advance that when I got out of my dormitory room back on Earth I would leave my wrist watch inside. You see, my wrist-watch strap happened to be a radiation indicator.”

            The Autarch blew a smoke ring and smiled pleasantly.

            Biron said, “And that strap never turned blue, Jonti. There was no bomb in my room that night. There was only a deliberately planted dud! If you deny it, you are a liar, Jonti, or Autarch, or whatever you please to call yourself.

            “What is more, you planted that dud. You knocked me out with Hypnite and arranged the rest of that night’s comedy. It makes quite obvious sense, you know. If I had been left to myself, I would have slept through the night and would never have known that anything was out of the way. So who rang me on the visiphone until he was sure I had awakened? Awakened, that is, to discover the bomb, which had been deliberately placed near a counter so that I couldn’t miss it. Who blasted my door in so that I might leave the room before I found out that the bomb was only a dud after all? You must have enjoyed yourself that night, Jonti.”

            Biron waited for effect, but the Autarch merely nodded in polite interest. Biron felt the fury mount. It was like punching pillows, whipping water, kicking air.

            He said harshly, “My father was about to be executed. I would have learned of it soon enough. I would, have gone to Nephelos, or not gone. I would have followed my own good sense in the matter, confronted the Tyranni openly or not as I decided. I would have known my chances. I would have been prepared for eventualities.

            “But you wanted me to go to Rhodia, to see Hinrik. But, ordinarily, you couldn’t expect me to do what you wanted. I wasn’t likely to go to you for advice. Unless, that is, you could stage an appropriate situation. You did!

            “I thought I was being bombed and I could think of DO reason. You could. You seemed to have saved my life. You seemed to know everything; what I ought to do next, for instance. I was off balance, confused. I followed your advice.”

            Biron ran out of breath and waited for an answer. There was none. He shouted, “You did not explain that the ship on which I left Earth was a Rhodian ship and that you had seen to it that the captain had been informed of my true identity. You did not explain that you intended me to be in the hands of the’ Tyranni the instant I landed on Rhodia. Do you deny that?”

            There was a long pause. Jonti stubbed out his cigarette.

            Gillbret chafed one hand in the other. “Biron, you are being ridiculous. The Autarch wouldn’t--”

            Then Jonti looked up and said quietly, “But the Autarch would. I admit it all. You are quite right, Biron, and I congratulate you on your penetration. The bomb was a dud planted by myself, and I sent you to Rhodia with the intention of having you arrested by the Tyranni.”

            Biron’s face cleared. Some of the futility of life vanished. He said, “Someday, Jonti, I will settle that matter. At the moment, it seems you are Autarch of Lingane with three ships waiting for you out there. That hampers me a bit more than I would like. However, the Remorseless is my ship. I am its pilot. Put on your suit and get out. The space line is still in place.”

            “It is not your ship. You are a pirate rather than a pilot.”

            “Possession is all the law here. You have five minutes to get into your suit.”

            “Please. Let’s avoid dramatics. We need one another and I have no intention of leaving.”

            “I don’t need you. I wouldn’t need you if the Tyrannian home fleet were closing in right now and you could blast them out of space for me.”

            “Farrill,” said Jonti, “you are talking and acting like an adolescent. I’ve let you have your say. May I have mine?”

            “No. I see  no reason to listen to you.”

            “Do you see one now?”

            Artemisia screamed. Biron made one movement, then stopped. Red with frustration, he remained tense but helpless.

            Jonti said, “I do take certain precautions. I am sorry to be so crude as to use a weapon as a threat. But I imagine it will help me force you to hear me.”

            The weapon he held was a pocket blaster. It was not designed to pain or stun. It killed!

            He said, “For years I have been organizing Lingane against the Tyranni. Do you know what that means? It has not been easy. It has been almost impossible. The Inner Kingdoms will offer no help. We’ve known that from long experience. There is no salvation for the Nebular Kingdoms but what they work out for themselves. But to convince our native leaders of this is no friendly game. Your father was active in the matter and was killed. Not a friendly game at all. Remember that.

            “And your father’s capture was a crisis to us. It was life and horrible death to us. He was in our inner circles and the Tyranni were obviously not far behind us. They had to be thrown off stride. To do so, I could scarcely temper my dealings with honor and integrity. They fry no eggs.

            “I couldn’t come to you and say, ‘Farrill, we’ve got to put the Tyranni on a false scent. You’re the son of the Rancher and therefore suspicious. Get out there and be friendly with Hinrik of Rhodia so that the Tyranni may look in the wrong direction. Lead them away from Lingane. It may be dangerous; you may lose your life, but the ideals for which your father died come first.’

            “Maybe you would have done it, but I couldn’t afford to experiment. I maneuvered you into doing it without your knowledge. It was hard, I’ll grant you. Still, I had no choice. I thought you might not survive; I tell you that frankly. But you were expendable; and I tell you that frankly. As it turned out, you did survive, and I am pleased with that.

            “And there was one more thing, a matter of a document--”

            Biron said, “What document?”

            “You jump quickly. I said your father was working for me. So I know what he knew. You were to obtain that document and you were a good choice, at first. You were on Earth legitimately. You were young and not likely to be suspected. I say, at first!

            “But then, with your father arrested, you became dangerous. You would be an object of prime suspicion to the Tyranni; and we could not allow the document to fall into your possession, since it would then almost inevitably fall into theirs. We had to get you off Earth before you could complete your mission. You see, it all hangs together.”

            “Then you have it now?” asked Biron.

            The Autarch said, “No, I have not. A document which might have been, the right one has been missing from Earth for years. If it is the right one, I don’t know who has it. May I put away the blaster now? It grows heavy.”

            Biron said, “Put it away.”

            The Autarch did so. He said, “What has your father told you about the document?”

            “Nothing that you don’t know, since he worked for you.”

            The Autarch smiled. “Quite so!” but the smile had little of real amusement in it.

            “Are you quite through with your explanation now?”

            “Quite through.”

            “Then,” said Biron, “get off the ship.”

            Gillbret said, “Now wait, Biron. There’s more than private pique to be considered here. There’s Artemisia and myself, too, you know. We have something to say. As far as I’m concerned, what the Autarch says makes sense. I’ll remind you that on Rhodia I saved your life, so I think my’ views are to be considered.”

            “All right. You saved my life,” shouted Biron. He pointed a finger towards the air lock. “Go with him, then. Go on. You get out of here too’. You wanted to find the Autarch. There he is! I agreed to pilot you to him, and my responsibility is over. Don’t try to tell me what to do.”

            He turned to Artemisia, some of his anger still brimming over. “And what about you? You saved my life too. Everyone went around saving my life. Do you want to go with him too?”

            She said calmly, “Don’t put words into my mouth, Biron. If I wanted to go with him, I’d say so.”

            “Don’t feel any obligations. You can leave any time.”

            She looked hurt and he turned away. As usual, some cooler part of himself knew that he was acting childishly. He had been made to look foolish by Jonti and he was helpless in the face of the resentment he felt. And besides, why should they all take so calmly the thesis that it was perfectly right to have Biron Farrill thrown to the Tyranni, like a bone to the dogs, in order to keep them off Jonti’s neck. Damn it, what did they think he was?

            He thought of the dud bomb, the Rhodian liner, the Tyranni, the wild night on Rhodia, and he could feel the stinging of self-pity inside himself.

            The Autarch said, “Well, Farrill?”

            And Gillbret said, “Well, Biron?”

            Biron turned to Artemisia. “What do you think?”

            Artemisia said calmly, “I think he has three ships out there still, and is Autarch of Lingane, besides. I don’t think you really have a choice.”

            The Autarch looked at her, and he nodded his admiration. “You are an intelligent girl, my lady. It is good that such a mind should be in such a pleasant exterior.” For a measurable moment his eyes lingered.

            Biron said, “What’s the deal?”

            “Lend me the use of your names and your abilities, and I will take you to what my Lord Gillbret called the rebellion world.”

            Biron said sourly, “You think there is one?”

            And Gillbret said simultaneously, “Then it is yours.”

            The Autarch smiled. “I think there is a world such as my lord described, but it is not mine.”

            “It’s not yours,” said Gillbret despondently. “Does that matter, if I can find it?”

            “How?” demanded Biron.

            The Autarch said, “It is not so difficult as you might think. If we accept the story as it has been told us, we must believe that there exists a world in rebellion against the Tyranni. We must believe that it is located somewhere in the Nebular Sector and that in twenty years it has remained undiscovered by the Tyranni. If such a situation is to remain possible, there is only one place in the Sector where such a planet can exist.”

            “And where is that?”

            “You do not find the solution obvious? Doesn’t it seem inevitable that the world could exist only within the Nebula itself?”

            “Inside the Nebula!”

            Gillbret said, “Great Galaxy, of course.”

            And, at the moment, the solution did indeed seem obvious and inescapable.

            Artemisia said timidly, “Can people live on worlds inside the Nebula?”

            “Why not?” said the Autarch. “Don’t mistake the Nebula. It is a dark mist in space, but it is not a poison gas. It is an incredibly attenuated mass of sodium, potassium, and calcium atoms that absorb and obscure the light of the stars within it, and, of course, those on the side directly opposite the observer. Otherwise, it is harmless, and, in the direct neighborhood of a star, virtually undetectable.

            “I apologize if I seem pedantic, but I have spent the last several months at the University of Earth collecting astronomical data on the Nebula.”

            “Why there?” said Biron. “It is a matter of little importance, but I met you there and I am curious.”

            “There’s no mystery to it. I left Lingane originally on my own business. The exact nature is of no importance. About six months ago I visited Rhodia. My agent, Widemos--your father, Biron--had been unsuccessful in his negotiations with the Director, whom we had hoped to swing to our side. I tried to improve matters and failed, since Hinrik, with apologies to the lady, is not the type of material for our sort of work.”

            “Hear, hear,” muttered Biron.

            The Autarch continued. “But I did meet Gillbret, as he may have told you. So I went to Earth, because Earth is the original home of humanity. It was from Earth that most of the original explorations of the Galaxy set out. It is upon Earth that most of the records exist. The Horsehead Nebula was explored quite thoroughly; at least, it was passed through a number of times. It was never settled, since the difficulties of traveling through a volume of space where stellar observations could not be made were too great. The explorations themselves, however, were all I needed.

            “Now listen carefully. The Tyrannian ship upon which my Lord Gillbret was marooned was struck by a meteor after its first Jump. Assuming that the trip from Tyrann to Rhodia was along the usual trade route--and there is no reason to suppose anything else--the point in space at which the ship left its route is established. It would scarcely have traveled more than half a million miles in ordinary space between the first two Jumps. We can consider such a length as a point in space.

            “It is possible to make another assumption. In damaging the control panels, it was quite possible that the meteor might have altered the direction of the Jumps, since that would require only an interference with the motion of the ship’s gyroscope. This would be difficult but not impossible. To change the power of the hyperatomic thrusts, however, would require complete smashing of the engines, which, of course, were not touched by the meteor.

            “With unchanged power of thrust, the length of the four remaining Jumps would not be changed, nor, for that matter, would their relative directions. It would be analogous to having a long, crooked wire bent at a single point in an unknown direction through an unknown angle. The final position of the ship would lie somewhere on the surface of an imaginary sphere, the center of which would be that point in space where the meteor struck, and the radius of which would be the vector sum of the remaining Jumps.

            “I plotted such a sphere, and that surface intersects a thick extension of the Horsehead Nebula. Some six thousand square degrees of the sphere’s surface, one fourth of the total surface, lies in the Nebula. It remains, therefore, only to find a star lying within the Nebula and within one million miles or so of the imaginary surface we are discussing. You will remember that when Gillbret’s ship came to rest, it was within reach of a star.

            “Now how many stars within the Nebula do you suppose we can find that close to the sphere’s surface? Remember there are one hundred billion radiating stars in the Galaxy.”

            Biron found himself absorbed in the matter almost against his will. “Hundreds, I suppose.”

            “Five!” replied the Autarch. “Just five. Don’t be fooled by the one hundred billion figure. The Galaxy is about seven trillion cubic light-years in volume, so that there are seventy cubic light-years per star on the average. It is a pity that I do not know which of those five have habitable planets. We might reduce the number of possibles to one. Unfortunately, the early explorers had no time for detailed observations. They plotted the positions of the stars, the proper motions, and the spectral types.”

            “So that in one of those five stellar system,” said Biron, “is located the rebellion world?”

            “Only that conclusion would fit the facts we know.”

            “Assuming Oil’s story can be accepted.”

            “I make that assumption.”

            “My story is true,” interrupted Gillbret intensely. “I swear it.”

            “I am about to leave,” said the Autarch, “to investigate each of the five worlds. My motives in doing so are obvious. As Autarch of Lingane I can take an equal part in their efforts.”

            “And with two Hinriads and a Widemos on your side, your bid for an equal part, and, presumably, a strong and secure position in the new, free worlds to come, would be so much the better,” said Biron.

            “Your cynicism doesn’t frighten me, Farrill. The answer is obviously yes. If there is to be a successful rebellion, it would, again obviously, be desirable to have your fist on the winning side.”

            “Otherwise some successful privateer or rebel captain might be rewarded with the Autarchy of Lingane.”

            “Or the Ranchy of Widemos. Exactly.”

            “And if the rebellion is not successful?”

            “There will be time to judge of that when we find what we look for.”

            Biron said slowly, “I’ll go with you.”

            “Good! Then suppose we make arrangements for your transfer from this ship.”

            “Why that?”

            “It would be better for you. This ship is a toy.”

            “It is a Tyrannian warship. We would be wrong in abandoning it.”

            “As a Tyrannian warship, it would be dangerously conspicuous.”

            “Not in the Nebula. I’m sorry, Jonti. I’m joining you out of expedience. I can be frank too. I want to find the rebellion world. But there’s no friendship between us. I stay at my own controls.”

            “Biron,” said Artemisia gently, “the ship is too small for the three of us.”

            “As it stands, yes, Arta. But it can be fitted with a trailer. Jonti knows that as well as I do. We’d have all the space we needed then, and still be masters at our own controls. And, for that matter, it would effectively disguise the nature of the ship.”

            The Autarch considered. “If there is to be neither friendship nor trust, Farrill, I must protect myself. You may have your own ship and a trailer to boot, outfitted as you may wish. But I must have some guarantee for your proper behavior. The Lady Artemisia, at least, must come with me.”

            “No!” said Biron.

            The Autarch lifted his eyebrows. “No? Let the lady speak.”

            He turned toward Artemisia, and his nostrils flared slightly. “I dare say you would find the situation very comfortable, my lady.”

            “You, at least, would not find it comfortable, my lord. Be assured of that,” she retorted. “I would spare you the discomfort and remain here.”

            “I think you might reconsider if--” began the Autarch, as two little wrinkles at the bridge of his nose marred the serenity of his expression.

            “I think not,” interrupted Biron. “The Lady Artemisia has made her choice.”

            “And you back her choice then, Farrill?” The Autarch was smiling again.

            “Entirely! All three of us will remain on the Remorseless. There will be no compromise on that.”

            “You choose your company oddly.”

            “Do I?”

            “I think so.” The Autarch seemed idly absorbed in his fingernails. “You seem so annoyed with me because I deceived you and placed your life in danger. It is strange, then, is it not, that you should seem on such friendly terms with the daughter of a man such as Hinrik, who in deception is certainly my master.”

            “I know Hinrik. Your opinions of him change nothing.”

            “You know everything about Hinrik?”

            “I know enough.”

            “Do you know that he killed your father?” The Autarch’s finger stabbed toward Artemisia. “Do you know that the girl you are so deeply concerned to keep under your protection is the daughter of your father’s murderer?”

FOURTEEN:

The Autarch Leaves

The tableau remained unbroken for a moment. The Autarch had lit another cigarette. He was quite relaxed, his face untroubled. Gillbret had folded into the pilot’s seat, his face screwed up as though he were going to burst into tears. The limp straps of the pilot’s stress-absorbing outfit dangled about him and increased the lugubrious effect.

            Biron, paper-white, fists clenched, faced the Autarch. Artemisia, her thin nostrils flaring, kept her eyes not on the Autarch, but on Biron only.

            The radio signaled, the soft clickings crashing with the effect of cymbals in the small pilot room.

            Gillbret jerked upright, then whirled on the seat.

            The Autarch said lazily, “I’m afraid we’ve been more talkative than I’d anticipated. I told Rizzett to come get me if I had not returned in an hour.”

            The visual screen was alive now with Rizzett’s grizzled head.

            And then Gillbret said to the Autarch, “He would like to speak to you.” He made room.

            The Autarch rose from his chair and advanced so that his own head was within the zone of visual transmission.

            He said, “I am perfectly safe, Rizzett.”

            The other’s question was heard clearly: “Who are the crew members on the cruiser, sir?”

            And suddenly Biron stood next to the Autarch. “I am Rancher of Widemos,” he said proudly.

            Rizzett smiled gladly and broadly. A hand appeared on the screen in sharp salute. “Greetings, sir.”

            The Autarch interrupted. “I will be returning soon with a young lady. Prepare to maneuver for contact air locks.” And he broke the visual connection between the two ships.

            He turned to Biron.”I assured them it was you on board ship. There was some objection to my coming here alone otherwise. Your father was extremely popular with my men.”

            “Which is why you can use my name.”

            The Autarch shrugged.

            Biron said, “It is all you can use. Your last statement to your officer was inaccurate.”

            “In what way?”

            “Artemisia oth Hinriad stays with me.”

            “Still? After what I have told you?”

            Biron said sharply, “You have told me nothing. You have made a bare statement, but I am not likely to take your unsupported word for anything. I tell you this without any attempt at tact. I hope you understand me.”

            “Is your knowledge of Hinrik such that my statement seems inherently implausible to you?”

            Biron was staggered. Visibly and apparently, the remark had struck home. He made no answer.

            Artemisia said, “I say it’s not so. Do you have proof?”

            “No direct proof, of course. I was not present at any conferences between your father and the Tyranni. But I can present certain known facts and allow you to make your own inferences. First, the old Rancher of Widemos visited Hinrik six months ago. I’ve said that already. I can add here that he was somewhat overenthusiastic in his efforts, or perhaps he overestimated Hinrik’s discretion. At any rate, he talked more than he should have. My Lord Gillbret can verify that.”

            Gillbret nodded miserably. He turned to Artemisia, who had turned to him with moist and angry eyes. “I’m sorry, Arta, but it’s true. I’ve told you this. It was from Widemos that I heard about the Autarch.”

            The Autarch said, “And it was fortunate for myself that my lord had developed such long mechanical ears with which to sate his lively curiosity concerning the Director’s meetings of state. I was warned of the danger, quite unwittingly, by Gillbret when he first approached me. I left as soon as I could, but the damage, of course, had been done.

            “Now, to our knowledge, it was Widemos’s only slip, and Hinrik, certainly, has no enviable reputation as a man of any great independence and courage. Your father, Farrill, was arrested within half a year. If not through Hinrik, through this girl’s father, then how?”

            Biron said, “You did not warn him?”

            “In our business we take our chances, Farrill, but he was warned. After that he made no contact, however indirect, with any of us, and destroyed whatever proof he had of connection with us. Some among us believed that he should leave the Sector, or, at the very least, go into hiding. He refused to do this.

            “I think I can understand why. To alter his way of life would prove the truth of what the Tyranni must have learned, endanger the entire movement. He decided to risk his own life only. He remained in the open.

            “For nearly half a year the Tyranni waited for a betraying gesture. They are patient, the Tyranni. None came, so that when they could wait no longer, they found nothing in their net but him.”

            “It’s a lie,” cried Artemisia. “It’s all a lie. It’s a smug, sanctimonious, lying story with no truth in it. If all you said were true, they would be watching you too. You would be in danger yourself. You wouldn’t be sitting here, smiling and wasting time.”

            “My lady, I do not waste my time. I have already tried to do what I could toward discrediting your father as a source of information. I think I have succeeded somewhat. The Tyranni will wonder if they ought to listen further to a man whose daughter and cousin are obvious traitors. And then again, if they are still disposed to believe him, why, I am on the point of vanishing into the Nebula where they will not find me. I should think my actions tend to prove my story rather than otherwise.”

            Biron drew a deep breath and said, “Let us consider the interview at an end, Jonti. We have agreed to the extent that we will accompany you and that you will grant us needed supplies. That is enough. Granting that all you have just said is truth, it is still beside the point. The crimes of the Director of Rhodia are not inherited by his daughter. Artemisia oth Hinriad stays here with me, provided she herself agrees.”

            “I do,” said Artemisia.

            “Good. I think that covers everything. I warn you, by the way. You are armed; so am I. Your ships are fighters, perhaps; mine is a Tyrannian cruiser.”

            “Don’t be silly, Farrill. My intentions are quite friendly. You wish to keep the girl here? So be it. May I leave by contact air lock?”

            Biron nodded. “We will trust you so far.”

            The two ships maneuvered ever closer, until the flexible airlock extensions pouted outward toward one another. Carefully, they edged about, trying for the perfect fit. Gillbret hung upon the radio.

            “They’ll be trying for contact again in two minutes,” he said.

            Three times already the magnetic field had been triggered, and each time the extending tubes had stretched toward one another and met off-center, gaping crescents of space between them.

            “Two minutes,” repeated Biron, and waited tensely.

            The second hand moved and the magnetic field clicked into existence a fourth time, the lights dimming as the motors adjusted to the sudden drain of power. Again the airlock extensions reached out, hovered on the brink of instability, and then, with a noiseless jar, the vibration of which hummed its way into the pilot room, settled into place properly, clamps automatically locking in position. An air-tight seal had been formed.

            Biron drew the back of his hand slowly across his forehead and some of the tension oozed out of him.

            “There it is,” he said.

            The Autarch lifted his space suit. There was still a thin film of moisture under it.

            “Thanks,” he said pleasantly. “An officer of mine will be right back. You will arrange the details of the supplies necessary with him.”

            The Autarch left.

            Biron said, “Take care of Jonti’s officer for me for a while, will you, Oil. When he comes in, break the air-lock contact. All you’ll have to do is remove the magnetic field. This is the photonic switch you’ll flash.”

            He turned and stepped out of the pilot room. Right now he needed time for himself. Time to think, mostly.

            But there was the hurried footstep behind him, and the soft voice. He stopped.

            “Biron,” said Artemisia, “I want to speak to you. “ He faced her. “Later, if you don’t mind, Arta.”

            She was looking up at him intently. “No, now.”

            Her arms were poised as though she would have liked to embrace him but was not sure of her reception. She said, “You didn’t believe what he said about my father?”

            “It has no bearing,” said Biron. “Biron,” she began, and stopped. It was hard for her to say it. She tried again, “Biron, I know that part of what has been going on between us has been because we’ve been alone and together and in danger, but--” She stopped again.

            Biron said, “If you’re trying to say you’re a Hinriad, Arta, there’s no need. I know it. I won’t hold you to anything afterward.”

            “No. Oh no.” She caught his arm and placed her cheek against his hard shoulder. She was speaking rapidly. “That’s not it at all. It doesn’t matter about Hinriad and Widemos at all. I--I love you, Biron.”

            Her eyes went up, meeting his. “I think you love me too. I think you would admit it if you could forget that I am a Hinriad. Maybe you will now that I’ve said it first. You told the Autarch you would not hold my father’s deeds against me. Don’t hold his rank against me, either.”

            Her arms were around his neck now. Biron could feel the softness of her breasts against him and the warmth of her breath on his lips. Slowly his own hands went upward and gently grasped her forearms. As gently, he disengaged her arms and, still as gently, stepped back from her.

            He said, “I am not quits with the Hinriads, my lady.”

            She was startled. “You told the Autarch that--”

            He looked away. “Sorry, Arta. Don’t go by what I told the Autarch.”

            She wanted to cry out that it wasn’t true, that her father had not done this thing, that in any case--

            But he turned into the cabin and left her standing in the corridor, her eyes filling with hurt and shame.

FIFTEEN:

The Hole in Space

Tedor Rizzett turned as Biron entered the pilot room again. His hair was gray, but his body was still vigorous and his face was broad, red, and smiling.

            He covered the distance between himself and Biron in a stride and seized the young man’s hand heartily.

            “By the stars,” he said, “I’d need no word from you to tell me that you are your father’s son. It is the old Rancher alive again.”

            “I wish it were,” said Biron, somberly.

            Rizzett’s smile faltered. “So do we all. Every one of us. I’m Tedor Rizzett, by the way. I’m a colonel in the regular Linganian forces, but we don’t use titles in our own little game. We even say ‘sir’ to the Autarch. That reminds me!” He looked grave. “We don’t have lords and ladies or even Ranchers on Lingane. I hope I won’t offend if I forget to throw in the proper title sometimes.”

            Biron shrugged.” As you said, no titles in our little game. But what about the trailer? I’m to make arrangements with you, I take it.”

            For a flickering moment he looked across the room. Gillbret was seated, quietly listening. Artemisia had her back to him. Her slim, pale fingers wove an abstracted pattern on the photocontacts of the computer. Rizzett’s voice brought him back.

            The Linganian had cast an all-inclusive glance about the room. “First time I’ve ever seen a Tyrannian vessel from the inside. Don’t care much for it. Now you’ve got the emergency air lock due stern, haven’t you? It seems to me the power thrusters girdle the midsection.”

            “That’s right.”

            “Good. Then there won’t be any trouble. Some of the old model ships had power thrusters due stern, so that trailers had to be set off at an angle. This makes the gravity adjustment difficult and the maneuverability in atmospheres just about nil.”

            “How long will it take, Rizzett?”

            “Not long. How big would you want it?”

            “How big could you get it?”

            “Super deluxe? Sure. If the Autarch says so, there’s no higher priority. We can get one that’s practically a space ship in itself. It would even have auxiliary motors.”

            “It would have living quarters, I suppose.”

            “For Miss Hinriad? It would be considerably better than you have here--” He stopped abruptly.

            At the mention of her name, Artemisia had drifted past coldly and slowly, moving out of the pilot room. Biron’s eyes followed her.

            Rizzett said, “I shouldn’t have said Miss Hinriad, I suppose.”

            “No, no. It’s nothing. Pay no attention. You were saying?”

            “Oh, about the rooms. At least two sizable ones, with a

            communicating shower. It’s got the usual closet room and plumbing arrangements of the big liners. She would be comfortable.”

            “Good. We’ll need food and water.”

            “Sure. Water tank will hold a two months’ supply; a little less if you want to arrange for a swimming pool aboard ship. And you would have frozen whole meats. You’re eating Tyrannian concentrate now, aren’t you?”

            Biron nodded and Rizzett grimaced.

            “It tastes like chopped sawdust, doesn’t it? What else?”

            “A supply of clothes for the lady,” said Biron.

            Rizzett wrinkled his forehead. “Yes, of course. Well, that will be her job.”

            “No, sir, it won’t. We’ll supply you with all the necessary measurements and you can supply us with whatever we ask for in whatever the current styles happen to be.”

            Rizzett laughed shortly and shook his head. “Rancher, she won’t like that. She wouldn’t be satisfied with any clothes she didn’t pi«k. Not even if they were the identical items she would have picked if she had been given the chance. This isn’t a guess, now. I’ve had experience with the creatures.”

            Biron said, “I’m sure you’re right, Rizzett. But that’s the way it will have to be.”

            “All right, but I’ve warned you. It will be your argument. What else?”

            “Little things. Little things. A supply of detergents. Oh yes, cosmetics, perfume--the things women need. We’ll make the arrangements in time. Let’s get the trailer started.”

            And now Gillbret was leaving without speaking. Biron’s eyes followed him, too, and he felt his jaw muscles tighten. Hinriads! They were Hinriads! There was nothing he could do about it. They were Hinriads! Gillbret was one and she was another.

            He said, “And, of course, there’ll be clothes for Mr. Hinriad and myself. That won’t be very important.”

            “Right. Mind if I use your radio? I’d better stay on this ship till the adjustments are made.”

            Biron waited while the initial orders went out. Then Rizzett turned on the seat and said, “I can’t get used to seeing you here, moving, talking, alive. You’re so like him. The Rancher used to speak about you every once in a while. You went to school on Earth, didn’t you?”

            “I did. I would have graduated a little over a week ago, if things hadn’t been interrupted.”

            Rizzett looked uncomfortable. “Look, about your being sent to Rhodia the way you were. You mustn’t hold it against us. We didn’t like it. I mean, this is strictly between us, but some of the boys didn’t like it at all. The Autarch didn’t consult us, of course. Naturally, he wouldn’t. Frankly, it was a risk on his part. Some of us--I’m not mentioning names--even wondered if we shouldn’t stop the liner you were on and pull you off. Naturally that would have been the worst thing we could possibly have done. Still, we might have done it, except that in the last analysis, we knew that the Autarch must have known what he was doing.”

            “It’s nice to be able to inspire that kind of confidence.”

            “We know him. There’s no denying it. He’s got it here.” A finger slowly tapped his forehead. “Nobody knows exactly what makes him take a certain course sometimes. But it always seems the right one. At least he’s outsmarted the Tyranni so far and others don’t.”

            “Like my father, for instance.”

            “I wasn’t thinking of him, exactly, but in a sense, you’re right. Even the Rancher was caught. But then he was a different kind of man. His way of thinking was straight. He would never allow for crookedness. He would always underestimate the worthlessness of the next man. But then again, that was what we liked best, somehow. He was the same to everyone, you know.

            “I’m a commoner for all I’m a colonel. My father was a metalworker, you see. It didn’t make any difference to him. And it wasn’t that I was a colonel, either. If he met the engineer’s ‘prentice walking down the corridor, he’d step aside and say a pleasant word or two, and for the rest of the day, the ‘prentice would feel like a master engineman. It was the way he had.

            “Not that he was soft. If you needed disciplining, you got it, but no more than your share. What you got, you deserved, and you knew it. When he was through, he was through. He didn’t keep throwing it at you at odd moments for a week or so. That was the Rancher.

            “Now the Autarch, he’s different. He’s just brains. You can’t get next to him, no matter who you are. For instance. He doesn’t really have a sense of humor. I can’t speak to him the way I’m speaking to you right now. Right now, I’m just talking. I’m relaxed. It’s almost free association. With him, you say exactly what’s on your mind with no spare words. And you use formal phraseology, or he’ll tell you you’re slovenly. But then, the Autarch’s the Autarch, and that’s that.”

            Biron said, “I’ll have to agree with you as far as the Autarch’s brains are concerned. Did you know that he had deduced my presence aboard this ship before he ever got on?”

            “He did? We didn’t know that. Now, there, that’s what I mean. He was going to go aboard the Tyrannian cruiser alone. To us, it seemed suicide. We didn’t like it. But we assumed he knew what he was doing, and he did. He could have told us you were probably aboard ship. He must have known it would be great news that the Rancher’s son had escaped. But it’s typical. He wouldn’t.”

            Artemisia sat on one of the lower bunks in the cabin. She had to bend into an uncomfortable position to avoid having the frame of the second bunk pry into her first thoracic vertebra, but that was a small item to her at the moment.

            Almost automatically, she kept passing the palms of her hands down the side of her dress. She felt frayed and dirty, and very tired.

            She was tired of dabbing at her hands and face with damp napkins. She was tired of wearing the same clothes for a week. She was tired of hair which seemed dank and stringy by now.

            And then she was almost on her feet again, ready to turn about sharply; she wasn’t going to see him; she wouldn’t look at him.

            But it was only Gillbret. She sank down again. “Hello, Uncle Oil.”

            Gillbret sat down opposite her. For a moment his thin face seemed anxious and then it started wrinkling into a smile. “I think a week of this ship is very unamusing too. I was hoping you could cheer me up.”

            But she said, “Now, Uncle Oil, don’t start using psychology on me. If you think you’re going to cajole me into feeling a responsibility for you, you’re wrong. I’m much more likely to hit you.”

            “If it will make you feel better--”

            “I warn you again. If you hold out your arm for me to hit, I’ll do it, and if you say ‘Does that make you feel better?’ I’ll do it again.”

            “In any case, it’s obvious you’ve quarreled with Biron. What about?”

            “I don’t see why there’s any necessity for discussion. Just leave me alone.” Then, after a pause, “He thinks Father did what the Autarch said he did. I hate him for that.”

            “Your father?”

            “No! That stupid, childish, sanctimonious fool!”

            “Presumably Biron. Good. You hate him. You couldn’t put a knife edge between the kind of hate that has you sitting here like this and something that would seem to my own bachelor mind to be a rather ridiculous excess of love.”

            “Uncle oil,” she said, “could he really have done it?”

            “Biron? Done what?”

            “No! Father. Could Father have done it? Could he have informed against the Rancher?”

            Gillbret looked thoughtful and very sober. “I don’t know.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “You know, he did give Biron up to the Tyranni.”

            “Because he knew it was a trap,” she said vehemently. “And it was. That horrible Autarch meant it as such. He said so. The Tyranni knew who Biron was and sent him to Father on purpose. Father did the only thing he could do. That should be obvious to anybody.”

            “Even if we accept that”--and again that sideways look --”he did try to argue you into a rather unamusing kind of marriage. If Hinrik could bring himself to do that--”

            She interrupted. “He had no way out there, either.”

            “My dear, if you’re going to excuse every act of subservience to the Tyranni as something he had to do, why, then, how do you know he didn’t have to hint something about the Rancher to the Tyranni?”

            “Because I’m sure he wouldn’t. You don’t know Father the way I do. He hates the Tyranni. He does. I know it. He wouldn’t go out of his way to help them. I admit that he’s afraid of them and doesn’t dare oppose them openly, but if he could avoid it somehow, he would never help them.”,

            “How do you know he could avoid it?”

            But she shook her head violently, so that her hair tumbled about and hid her eyes. It hid the tears a bit too.

            Gillbret watched a moment, then spread his hands helplessly and left.

            The trailer was joined to the Remorseless by a waspwaist corridor attached to the emergency air lock in the rear of the ship. It was several dozen times larger than the Tyranni vessel in capacity, almost humorously outsized.

            The Autarch joined Biron in a last inspection. He said, “Do you find anything lacking?”

            Biron said, “No. I think we’ll be quite comfortable.”

            “Good. And by the way, Rizzett tells me the Lady Artemisia is not well, or at least that she looks unwell. If she requires medical attention, it might be wise to send her to my ship.”

            “She is quite well,” said Biron curtly.

            “If you say so. Would you be ready to leave in twelve hours?”

            “In two hours, if you wish.”

            Biron passed through the connecting corridor (he had to stoop a little) into the Remorseless proper.

            He said with a careful evenness of tone, “You’ve got a private suite back there, Artemisia. I won’t bother you. I’ll stay here most of the time.”

            And she replied coldly, “You don’t bother me, Rancher. It doesn’t matter to me where you are.”

            And then the ships blasted off, and after a single Jump they found themselves at the edge of the Nebula. They waited for a few hours while the final calculations were made on Jonti’s ship. Inside the Nebula it would be almost blind navigation.

            Biron stared glumly at the visiplate. There was nothing there! One entire half of the celestial sphere was taken up with blackness, unrelieved by a spark of light. For the first time, Biron realized how warm and friendly the stars were, how they filled space.

            “It’s like dropping through a hole in space,” he muttered to Gillbret.

            And then they Jumped again, into the Nebula.

            Almost simultaneously Simok Aratap, Commissioner of the Great Khan, at the head of ten armed cruisers, listened to his navigator and said, “That doesn’t matter. Follow them anyway.”

            And not one light-year from the point at which the Remorseless  entered the Nebula, ten Tyranni vessels did likewise.

SIXTEEN:

Hounds!

Simok Aratap was a little uncomfortable in his uniform. Tyrannian uniforms were made of moderately coarse materials and fit only indifferently well. It was not soldier-like to complain of such inconveniences. In fact, it was part of the Tyrannian military tradition that a little discomfort on the part of the soldier was good for discipline.

            But still Aratap could bring himself to rebel against that tradition to the extent of saying, ruefully, “The tight collar irritates my neck.”

            Major Andros, whose collar was as tight, and who had been seen in no other than military dress in the memory of man, said, “When alone, it would be quite within regulations to open it. Before any of the officers or men, any deviation from regulation dress would be disturbing influence.”

            Aratap sniffed. It was the second change induced by the quasi-military nature of the expedition. In addition to being forced into uniform, he had to listen to an increasingly self-assertive military aide. That had begun even before they left Rhodia.

            Andros had put it to him baldly.

            He had said, “Commissioner, we will need ten ships.”

            Aratap had looked up, definitely annoyed. At the moment he was getting ready to follow the young Widemos in a single vessel. He laid aside the capsules in which he was preparing his report for the Khan’s Colonial Bureau, to be forwarded in the unhappy case that he did not return from the expedition.

            “Ten ships, Major?”

            “Yes, sir. Less will not do.”

            “Why not?”

            “I intend to maintain a reasonable security. The young man is going somewhere. You say there is a well-developed conspiracy in existence. Presumably, the two fit together.”

            “And therefore?”

            “And therefore we must be prepared for a possibly well-developed conspiracy. One that might be able to handle a single ship.”

            “Or ten. Or a hundred. Where does security cease?”

            “One must make a decision. In cases of military action, it is my responsibility. I suggest ten.”

            Aratap’s contact lenses gleamed unnaturally in the wall light as he raised his eyebrows. The military carried weight. Theoretically, in times of peace, the civilian made the decisions, but here again, military tradition was a difficult thing to set aside.

            He said cautiously, “I will consider the matter.”

            “Thank you. If you do not choose to accept my recommendations, and my suggestions have only been advanced as such, I assure you”--the major’s heels clicked sharply, but the ceremonial deference was rather empty, and Aratap knew it--”that would be your privilege. You would leave me, however, no choice but to resign my commission.”

            It was up to Aratap to retrieve what he could from that position. He said, “It is not my intention to hamper you in any decision you may make on a purely military question, Major. I wonder if you might be as amenable to my decisions in matters of purely political importance.”

            “What matters are these?”

            “There is the problem of Hinrik. You objected yesterday to my suggestion that he accompany us.”

            The major said dryly, “I consider it unnecessary. With our forces in action, the presence of outlanders would be bad for morale.”

            Aratap sighed softly, just below the limits of hearing. Yet Andros was a competent man in his way. There would be no use in displaying impatience.

            He said, “Again, I agree with you. I merely ask you to consider the political aspects of the situation. As you know, the execution of the old Rancher of Widemos was politically uncomfortable. It stirred up the Kingdoms unnecessarily. However necessary the execution was, it makes it desirable to refrain from having the death of the son attributed to us. As far as the people of Rhodia know, the young Widemos has kidnapped the daughter of the Director, the girl, by the way, being a popular and much publicized member of the Hinriads. It would be quite fitting, quite understandable, to have the Director head the punitive expedition.

            “It would be a dramatic move, very gratifying to Rhodian patriotism. Naturally, he would ask for Tyrannian assistance, and receive it, but that can be played down. It would be easy, and necessary, to fix this expedition in the popular mind as a Rhodian one. If the inner workings of the conspiracy are uncovered, it will have been a Rhodian discovery. If the young Widemos is executed, it would be a Rhodian execution, as far as the other Kingdoms are concerned.”

            The major said, “It would still be a bad precedent to allow Rhodian vessels to accompany a Tyrannian military expedition. They would hamper us in a fight. In that way, the question becomes a military one.”

            “I did not say, my dear Major, that Hinrik would command a ship. Surely you know him better than to think him capable of commanding or even anxious to try. He will stay with us. There will be no other Rhodian aboard ship.”

            “In that case, I waive my objection, Commissioner,” said the major.

            The Tyrannian fleet had maintained their position two light-years off Lingane for the better part of a week and the situation was becoming increasingly unstable.

            Major Andros advocated an immediate landing on Lingane. “The Autarch of Lingane,” he said, “has gone to considerable lengths to have us think him a friend of the Khan, but I do not trust these men who travel abroad. They gain unsettling notions. It is strange that just as he returns, the young Widemos travels to meet him.”

            “He has not tried to hide either his travels or his return, Major. And we do not know that Widemos goes to meet him. He maintains an orbit about Lingane. Why does he not land?”

            “Why does he maintain an orbit? Let us question what he does and not what he does not do.”

            “I can propose something which will fit the pattern.”

            “I would be glad to hear it.”

            Aratap placed a finger inside his collar and tried futilely to stretch it. He said, “Since the young man is waiting, we can presume he is waiting for something or somebody. It would be ridiculous to think that, having gone to Lingane by so direct and rapid a route--a single Jump, in fact that he is merely waiting out of indecision. I say, then, that he is waiting for a friend or friends to reach him. Thus reinforced, he will proceed elsewhere. The fact that he is not landing on Lingane directly would indicate that he does not consider such an action safe. That would indicate that Lingane in general--the Autarch in particular--is not concerned in the conspiracy, although individual Linganians may be.”

            “I don’t know if we can always trust the obvious solution to be the correct one.”

            “My dear Major, this is not merely an obvious solution. It is a logical one. It fits a pattern,”

            “Maybe it does. But just the same, if there are no further developments in twenty-four hours, I will have no choice but to order an advance Linganeward.”

            Aratap frowned at the door through which the major had left. It was disturbing to have to control at once the restless conquered and the short-sighted conquerors. Twenty-four hours. Something might happen; otherwise he might have to find some way of stopping Andros.

            The door signal sounded and Aratap looked up with irritation. Surely it could not be Andros returning. It wasn’t. The tall, stooped form of Hinrik of Rhodia was in the doorway, behind him a glimpse of the guard who accompanied him everywhere on the ship. Theoretically, Hinrik had complete freedom of movement. Probably he himself thought he had. At least, he never paid any attention to the guard at his elbow.

            Hinrik smiled mistily. “Am I disturbing you, Commissioner?”

            “Not at all. Take a seat, Director.” Aratap remained standing. Hinrik seemed not to notice that.

            Hinrik said, “I have something of importance to discuss with you.” He paused, and some of the intentness passed out of his eyes. He added in quite a different tone, “What a large, fine ship this is!”

            “Thank you, Director.” Aratap smiled tightly. The nine accompanying ships were typically minute in size, but the flagship on which they stood was an outsized model adapted from the designs of the defunct Rhodian navy. It was perhaps the first sign of the gradual softening of the Tyrannian military spirit that more and more of such ships were being added to the navy. The fighting unit was still the tiny two-to-three-man cruiser, but increasing the top brass found reasons for requiring large ships for their own headquarters.

            It did not bother Aratap. To some of the older soldiers such increasing softness seemed a degeneration; to himself it seemed increasing civilization. In the end--in centuries, perhaps--it might even happen that the Tyranni would melt away as a single people, fusing with the present conquered societies of the Nebular Kingdoms--and perhaps even that might be a good thing.

            Naturally, he never expressed such an opinion aloud.

            “I came to tell you something,” said Hinrik. He puzzled over it awhile, then added, “I have sent a message home today to my people. I have told them I am well and that the criminal will be shortly seized and my daughter returned to safety.”

            “Good,” said Aratap. It was not news to him. He himself had written the message, though it was not impossible that Hinrik by now had persuaded himself that he was the writer, or even that he actually headed the expedition. Aratap felt a twinge of pity. The man was disintegrating visibly.

            Hinrik said, “My people, I believe, are quite disturbed over this daring raid upon the Palace by these well-organized bandits. I think they will be proud of their Director now that I have taken such rapid action in response, eh, Commissioner? They will see that there is still force among the Hinriads.” He seemed filled with a feeble triumph.

            “I think they will,” said Aratap.

            “Are we within range of the enemy yet?”

            “No, Director, the enemy remains where he was, just off Lingane.”

            “Still? I remember what I came to tell you.” He grew excited, so that the words tumbled out. “It is very important, Commissioner. I have something to tell you. There is treachery on board. I have discovered it. We must take quick action. Treachery--” He was whispering.

            Aratap felt impatient. It was necessary to humor the poor idiot of course, but this was becoming a waste of time. At this rate he would become so obviously mad that he would be useless even as a puppet, which would be a pity.

            He said, “No treachery, Director. Our men are stanch and true. Someone has been misleading you. You are tired.”

            “No, no.” Hinrik put aside Aratap’s arm which, for a moment, had rested upon his shoulder. “Where are we?”

            “Why, here!”

            “The ship, I mean. I have watched the visiplate. We are near no star. We are in deep space. Did you know that?”

            “Why, certainly.”

            “Lingane is nowhere near. Did you know that?”

            “It is two light-years off.”

            “Ah! Ah! Ah! Commissioner, no one is listening? Are you sure?” He leaned closely, while Aratap allowed his ear to be approached. “Then how do we know the enemy is near Lingane? He is too far to detect. We are being misinformed, and this signifies treachery.”

            Well, the man might be mad, but the point was a good one. Aratap said, “This is something fit for technical men, Director, and not for men of rank to concern themselves with. I scarcely know myself.”

            “But as head of the expedition I should know. I am head, am I not?” He looked about carefully. “Actually, I have a feeling that Major Andros does not always carry out my orders. Is he trustworthy? Of course, I rarely give him orders. It would seem strange to order a Tyrannian officer. But then, I must find my daughter. My daughter’s name is Artemisia. She has been taken from me, and I am taking all this fleet to get her back. So you see, I must know. I mean, I must know how it is known the enemy is at Lingane. My daughter would be there too. Do you know my daughter? Her name is Artemisia.”

            His eyes looked up at the Tyranni Commissioner in appeal. Then he covered them with his hand and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m sorry.”

            Aratap felt his jaw muscles clench. It was difficult to remember that the man before him was a bereaved father and that even the idiot Director of Rhodia might have a father’s feelings. He could not let the man suffer.

            He said gently, “I will try to explain. You know there is such a thing as a massometer which will detect ships in space.”

            “Yes, yes.”

            “It is sensitive to gravitational effects. You know what I mean?”

            “Oh yes. Everything has gravity.” Hinrik was leaning toward Aratap, his hands gripping one another nervously.

            “That’s good enough. Now naturally the massometer can only be used when the ship is close, you know. Less than a million miles away or so. Also, it has to be a reasonable distance from any planet, because if it isn’t, all you can detect is the planet, which is much bigger.”

            “And has much more gravity.”

            “Exactly,” said Aratap, and Hinrik looked pleased.

            Aratap went on. “We Tyranni have another device. It is a transmitter which radiates through hyperspace in all directions, and what it radiates is a particular type of distortion of the space fabric which is not electromagnetic in character. In other words, it isn’t like light or radio or even sub-etheric radio. See?”

            Hinrik didn’t answer. He looked confused.

            Aratap proceeded quickly. “Well, it’s different. It doesn’t matter how. We can detect that something which is radiated, so that we can always know where any Tyrannian ship is, even if it’s halfway across the Galaxy, or on the other side of a star.”

            Hinrik nodded solemnly.

            “Now,” said Aratap, “if the young Widemos had escaped in an ordinary ship, it would have been very difficult to locate him. As it is, since he took a Tyrannian cruiser, we know where he is at all times, although he doesn’t realize that. That is how we know he is near Lingane, you see. And, what’s more, he can’t get away, so that we will certainly rescue your daughter.”

            Hinrik smiled. “That is well done. I congratulate you, Commissioner. A very clever ruse.”

            Aratap did not delude himself. Hinrik understood very little of what he had said, but that did not matter. It had ended with the assurance of his daughter’s rescue, and somewhere in his dim understanding there must be the realization that this, somehow, was made possible by Tyrannian science.

            He told himself that he had not gone to this trouble entirely because the Rhodian appealed to his sense of the pathetic. He had to keep the man from breaking down altogether for obvious political reasons. Perhaps the return of his daughter would improve matters. He hoped so.

            There was the door signal again and this time it was Major Andros who entered. Hinrik’s arm stiffened on the armrest of his chair and his face assumed a hunted expression. He lifted himself and began, “Major Andro--”

            But Andros was already speaking quickly, disregarding the Rhodian.

            “Commissioner,” he said, “the Remorseless has changed position.”

            “Surely he has not landed on Lingane,” said Aratap sharply.

            “No,” said the major. “He has Jumped quite away from Lingane.”

            “Ah. Good. He has been joined by another ship, perhaps.”

            “By many ships, perhaps. We can detect only his, as you are quite aware.”

            “In any case, we follow again.”

            “The order has already been given. I would merely like to point out that his Jump has taken him to the edge of the Horsehead Nebula.”

            “What?”

            “No major planetary system exists in the indicated direction. There is only one logical conclusion.”

            Aratap moistened his lips and left hurriedly for the pilot room, the major with him.

            Hinrik remained standing in the middle of the suddenly empty room, looking at the door for a minute or so. Then, with a little shrug of the shoulders, he sat down again. His expression was blank, and for a long while he simply sat.

            The navigator said, “The space co-ordinates of the Remorseless have been checked, sir. They are definitely inside the Nebula.”

            “That doesn’t matter,” said Aratap. “Follow them anyway.”

            He turned to Major Andros. “So you see the virtues of waiting. There is a good deal that is obvious now. Wherever else could the conspirators’ headquarters be but in the Nebula itself? Where else could we have failed to locate them? A very pretty pattern.”

            And so the squadron entered the Nebula.

            For the twentieth time Aratap glanced automatically at the visiplate. Actually, the glances were useless, since the visiplate remained quite black. There was no star in sight.

            Andros said, “That’s their third stop without landing. I don’t understand it. What is their purpose? What are they after? Each stop of theirs is several days long. Yet they do not land.”

            “It may take them that long,” said Aratap, “to calculate their next Jump. Visibility is nonexistent.”

            “You think so?”

            “No. Their Jumps are too good. Each time they land very near a star. They couldn’t do as well by massometer data alone, unless they actually knew the locations of the stars in advance.”

            “Then why don’t they land?”

            “I think,” said Aratap, “they must be looking for habitable planets. Maybe they themselves do not know the location of the center of conspiracy. Or, at least, not entirely.” He smiled. “We need only follow.”

            The navigator clicked heels. “Sir!”

            “Yes?” Aratap looked up.

            “The enemy has landed on a planet.”

            Aratap signaled for Major Andros.

            “Andros,” said Aratap, as the major entered, “have you been told?”

            “Yes. I’ve ordered a descent and pursuit.”

            “Wait. You may be again premature, as when you wanted to lunge toward Lingane. I think this ship only ought to go.”

            “Your reasoning?”

            “If we need reinforcements, you will be there, in command of the cruisers. If it is indeed a powerful rebel center, they may think only one ship has stumbled upon them. I will get word to you somehow and you can retire to Tyrann.”

            “Retire!”

            “And return with a full fleet.”

            Andros considered. “Very well. This is our least useful ship in any case. Too large.”

            The planet filled the visiplate as they spiraled down.

            “The surface seems quite barren, sir,” said the navigator.

            “Have you determined the exact location of the Remorseless?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Then land as closely as you can without being sighted.”

            They were entering the atmosphere now. The sky as they flashed along the day half of the planet was tinged with a brightening purple. Aratap watched the nearing surface. The long chase was almost over!

SEVENTEEN:

And Hares!

To those who have not actually been in space, the investigation of a stellar system and the search for habitable planets may seem rather exciting, at the least, interesting. To the spaceman, it is the most boring of jobs.

            Locating a star, which is a huge glowing mass of hydrogen fusing into helium, is almost too easy. It advertises itself. Even in the blackness of the Nebula, it is only a question of distance. Approach within five billion miles, and it will still advertise itself.

            But a planet, a relatively small mass of rock, shining only by reflected light, is another matter. One could pass through a stellar system a hundred thousand times at all sorts of odd angles without ever coming close enough to a planet to see it for what it is, barring the oddest of coincidences.

            Rather, one adopts a system. A position is taken up in space at a distance from the star being investigated of some ten thousand times the star’s diameter. From Galactic statistics it is known that not one time in fifty thousand is a planet located farther from its primary than that. Furthermore, practically never is a habitable planet located farther from its primary than one thousand times its sun’s diameter.

            This means that from the position in space assumed by the ship, any habitable planet must be located within six degrees of the star. This represents an area only 1/3600th of the entire sky. That area can be handled in detail with relatively few observations.

            The movement of the tele-camera can be so adjusted as to counteract the motion of the ship in its orbit. Under those conditions a time exposure will pinpoint the constellations in the star’s neighborhood; provided, of course, that the blaze of the sun itself is blocked out, which is easily done. Planets, however, will have perceptible proper motions and therefore show up as tiny streaks on the film.

            When no streaks appear, there is always the possibility that the planets are behind their primary. The maneuver is therefore repeated from another position in space and, usually, at a point closer to the star.

            It is a very dull procedure indeed, and when it has been repeated three times for three different stars, each time with completely negative results, a certain depression of morale is bound to occur.

            Gillbret’s morale, for instance, had been suffering for quite a while. Longer and longer intervals took place between the moments when he found something “amusing.”

            They were readying for the Jump to the fourth star on the Autarch’s list, and Biron said, “We hit a star each time, anyway. At least Jonti’s figures are correct.”

            Gillbret said, “Statistics show that one out of three stars has a planetary system.”

            Biron nodded. It was a well-worn statistic. Every child was taught that in elementary Galactography.

            Gillbret went on, “That means that the chances of finding three stars at random without a single planet--without one single planet--is two thirds cubed, which is eight twenty-sevenths, or less than one in three.”

            “So?”

            “And we haven’t found any. There must be a mistake.”

            “You saw the plates yourself. And, besides, what price statistics? For all we know, conditions are different inside a Nebula. Maybe the particle fog prevents planets from forming, or maybe the fog is the result of planets that didn’t coalesce.”

            “You don’t mean that?” said Gillbret, stricken.

            “You’re right. I’m just talking to hear myself. I don’t know anything about cosmogony. Why the hell are planets formed, anyway? Never heard of one that wasn’t filled with trouble.” Biron looked haggard himself. He was still printing and pasting up little stickers on the control panels.

            He said, “Anyway, we’ve got the blasters all worked out, range finders, power control--all that.”

            It was very difficult not to look at the visiplate. They’d be Jumping again soon, through that ink.

            Biron said absently, “You know why they call it the Horsehead Nebula, Gil?”

            “The first man to enter it was Horace Hedd. Are you going to tell me that’s wrong?”

            “It may be. They have a different explanation on Earth.”

            “Oh?”

            “They claim it’s called that because it looks like a horse’s head.”

            “What’s a horse?”

            “It’s an animal on Earth.”

            “It’s an amusing thought, but the Nebula doesn’t look like any animal to me, Biron.”

            “It depends on the angle you look at it. Now from Nephelos it looks like a man’s arm with three fingers, but I looked at it once from the observatory at the University of Earth. It does look a little like a horse’s head. Maybe that is how the name started. Maybe there never was any Horace Hedd. Who knows?” Biron felt bored with the matter, already. He was still talking simply to hear himself talk.

            There was a pause, a pause that lasted too long, because it gave Gillbret a chance to bring up a subject which Biron did not wish to discuss and could not force himself to stop thinking about.

            Gillbret said, “Where’s Arta?”

            Biron looked at him quickly and said, “Somewhere in the trailer. I don’t follow her about.”

            “The Autarch does. He might as well be living here.”

            “How lucky for her.”

            Gillbret’s wrinkles became more pronounced and his small features seemed to screw together. “Oh, don’t be a fool, Biron. Artemisia is a Hinriad. She can’t take what you’ve been giving her.”

            Biron said, “Drop it.”

            “I won’t. I’ve been spoiling to say this. Why are you doing this to her? Because Hinrik might have been responsible for your father’s death? Hinrik is my cousin! You haven’t changed toward me.”

            “All right,” Biron said. “I haven’t changed toward you. I speak to you as I always have. I speak to Artemisia as well.”

            “As you always have?”

            Biron was silent.

            Gillbret said, “You’re throwing her at the Autarch. “

            “It’s her choice.”

            “It isn’t. It’s your choice. Listen, Biron”--Gillbret grew confidential; he put a hand on Biron’s knee--”this isn’t a thing I like to interfere with, you understand. It’s just that she’s the only good thing in the Hinriad family just ROW. Would you be amused if I said I loved her? I have no children of my own.”

            “I don’t question your love.”

            “Then I advise you for her good. Stop the Autarch, Biron.”

            “I thought you trusted him, Oil.”

            “As the Autarch, yes. As an anti-Tyrannian leader, yes. But as a man for a woman, as a man for Artemisia, no.”

            “Tell her that.”

            “She wouldn’t listen.”

            “Do you think she would listen if I told her?”

            “If you told her properly.”

            For a moment Biron seemed to hesitate, his tongue dabbing slightly at dry lips. Then he turned away, saying harshly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

            Gillbret said sadly, “You’ll regret this.”

            Biron said nothing. Why didn’t Gillbret leave him alone? It had occurred to him many times that he might regret all this. It wasn’t easy. But what could he do? There was no safe way of backing out.

            He tried breathing through his mouth to get rid, somehow, of the choking sensation in his chest.

            The outlook was different after the next Jump. Biron had set the controls in accordance with the instructions from the Autarch’s pilot, and left the manuals to Gillbret. He was going to sleep through this one. And then Gillbret was shaking his shoulder.

            “Biron! Biron!”

            Biron rolled over in his bunk and out, landing in a crouch, fists balled. “What is it?”

            Gillbret stepped back hastily. “Now, take it easy. We’ve got an F-2 this time.”

            It sank in. Gillbret drew a deep breath and relaxed. “Don’t ever wake me that way, Gillbret. An F-2, you say? I suppose you’re referring to the new star.”

            “I surely am. It looks most amusing, I think.”

            In a way, it did. Approximately 95 per cent of habitable planets in the Galaxy circled stars of spectral types F or G; diameter from 750 to 1500 thousand miles, surface temperature from five to ten thousand centigrade. Earth’s sun was G-0, Rhodia’s F-8, Lingane’s G-2, as was that of Nephelos. F-2 was a little warm, but not too warm.

            The first three stars they had stopped at were of spectral type K, rather small and ruddy. Planets would probably not have been decent even if they had had any.

            A good star is a good star! In the first day of photography, five planets were located, the nearest being one hundred and fifty million miles from the primary.

            Tedor Rizzett brought the news personally. He visited the Remorseless as frequently as the Autarch, lighting the ship with his heartiness. He was whoofing and panting this time from the hand-over-hand exercises along the metal line.

            He said, “I don’t know how the Autarch does it. He never seems to mind. Comes from being younger, I guess.” He added abruptly, “Five planets!”

            Gillbret said, “For this star? You’re sure?”

            “It’s definite. Four of them are J-type, though.”

            “And the fifth?”

            “The fifth may be all right. Oxygen in the atmosphere, anyway.”

            Gillbret set up a thin sort of yell of triumph, but Biron said, “Four are J-type. Oh well, we only need one.”

            He realized it was a reasonable distribution. The large majority of sizable planets in the Galaxy possessed hydrogenated atmospheres. After all, stars are mostly hydrogen, and they are the source material of planetary building blocks. J-type planets had atmospheres of methane or ammonia, with molecular hydrogen in addition sometimes, and also considerable helium. Such atmospheres were usually deep and extremely dense. The planets themselves were almost invariably thirty thousand miles in diameter and up, with a mean temperature of rarely more than fifty below zero, centigrade. They were quite uninhabitable.

            Back on Earth they used to tell him that these planets were called J-type because the J stood for Jupiter, the planet in Earth’s solar system which was the best example of the type. Maybe they were right. Certainly, the other planet classification was the E-type and E did stand for Earth. E-types were usually small, comparatively, and their weaker gravity could not retain hydrogen or the hydrogen-containing gases, particularly since they were usually closer to the sun and warmer. Their atmospheres were thin and contained oxygen and nitrogen usually, with, occasionally, an admixture of chlorine, which would be bad.

            “Any chorine?” asked Biron. “How well have they gone over the atmosphere?”

            Rizzett shrugged. “We can only judge the upper reaches from out in space. If there were any chlorine, it would concentrate toward ground level. We’ll see.”

            He clapped a hand on Biron’s large shoulder. “How about inviting me to a small drink in your room, boy?”

            Gillbret looked after them uneasily. With the Autarch courting Artemisia, and his right-hand man becoming a drinking companion of Biron, the Remorseless was becoming more Linganian than not. He wondered if Biron knew what he was doing, then thought of the new planet and let the rest go.

            Artemisia was in the pilot room when they penetrated the atmosphere. There was a little smile on her face and she seemed quite contented. Biron looked in her direction occasionally. He had said, “Good day, Artemisia,” when she came in (she hardly ever did come in; he had been caught by surprise), but she hadn’t answered.

            She had merely said, “Uncle Oil,” very brightly; then, “Is it true we’re landing?”

            And Oil had rubbed his hands. “It seems so, my dear. We may be getting out of the ship in a few hours, walking on solid surface. How’s that for an amusing thought?”

            “I hope it’s the right planet. If it isn’t, it won’t be so amusing.”

            “There’s still another star,” said Oil, but his brow furrowed and contracted as he said so.

            And then Artemisia turned to Biron and said, coolly, “Did you speak, Mr. Farrill?”

            Biron, caught by surprise again, started and said, “No, not really.”

            “I beg your pardon, then. I thought you had.”

            She passed by him so closely that the plastic flair of her dress brushed his knee and her perfume momentarily surrounded him. His jaw muscles knotted.

            Rizzett was still with them. One of the advantages of the trailer was that they could put up a guest overnight. He said, “They’re getting details on the atmosphere now. Lots of oxygen, almost 30 per cent, and nitrogen and inert gases. It’s quite normal. No chlorine.” Then he paused and said, “Hmm.”

            Gillbret said, “What’s the matter?”

            “No carbon dioxide. That’s not so good.”

            “Why not?” demanded Artemisia from her vantage point near the visiplate, where she watched the distant surface of the planet blur past at two thousand miles an hour.

            Biron said curtly, “No carbon dioxide--no plant life.”

            “Oh?” She looked at him, and smiled warmly.

            Biron, against his will, smiled back, and somehow, with scarcely a visible change in her countenance, she was smiling through him, past him, obviously unaware of his existence; and he was left there, caught in a foolish smile. He let it fade.

            It was just as well he avoided her. Certainly, when he was with her, he couldn’t keep it up. When he could actually see her, the anesthetic of his will didn’t work. It began hurting.

            Gillbret was doleful. They were coasting now. In the thick lower reaches of the atmosphere, the Remorseless, with its aerodynamically undesirable addition of a trailer, was difficult to handle. Biron fought the bucking controls stubbornly.

            He said, “Cheer up, Gil!”

            He felt not exactly jubilant himself. Radio signals had brought no response as yet, and if this were not the rebellion world, there would be no point in waiting longer. His line of action was set!

            Gillbret said, “It doesn’t look like the rebellion world. It’s rocky and dead, and not much water, either.” He turned. “Did they try for carbon dioxide again, Rizzett?”

            Rizzett’s ruddy face was long. “Yes. Just a trace. About a thousandth of a per cent or so.”

            Biron said, “You can’t tell. They might pick a world like this, just because it would look so hopeless.”

            “But I saw farms,” said Gillbret.

            “All right. How much do you suppose we can see of a planet this size by circling it a few times? You know damn well, Oil, that whoever they are, they can’t have enough people to fill a whole planet. They may have picked themselves a valley somewhere where the carbon dioxide of the air has been built up, say, by volcanic action, and where there’s plenty of nearby water. We could whiz within twenty miles of them and never know it. Naturally, they wouldn’t be ready to answer radio calls without considerable investigation.”