WASP by Eric Frank Russell

			Chapter I

HE AMBLED INTO the room, sat in the indicated chair and said
nothing. The baffled expression had been on his face quite
a time and he was getting a bit tired of wearing it.

The big fellow who had brought him all the way from
Alaska now departed, silently closing the door and leaving
him alone with the man contemplating him from behind the
desk. A small plaque informed that this character's name was
William Wolf. It was inappropriate: he looked more like a
bull moose.

Wolf said in hard, even tones, "Mr. Mowry, you are entitled
to an explanation." A pause, followed by, "You will get one."
Then he stared unblinkingly at his listener.

For a long-drawn minute James Mowry suffered the intent
scrutiny before he asked, "When?"

"Soon."

With that, Wolf went on staring at him. The gaze was
unpleasantly piercing, analytical, and the face around it
was about as warm and expressive as a lump of hard rock.

"Mind standing up?"

Mowry stood up.

"Turn around."

He rotated, looking bored.

"Walk to and fro across the room."

He walked.

"Tsk-tsk!" grunted Wolf in a way that indicated neither
pleasure nor pain. "I assure you, Mr. Mowry, that I am quite
serious when I ask you to oblige by walking bow-legged."

Splaying his knees as much as possible, Mowry stumped
around as if riding an invisible horse. Then he resumed his
chair and said pointedly. "There'd better be money in this.
I don't come three thousand miles and make like a clown for
nothing."

"There's no money in it, not a cent," informed Wolf. "If
lucky, there is life."

"And if out of luck?"

"Death."

"You're damnably frank about it," Mowry commented.

"In this job I have to be." Wolf stared at him again, long
and penetratingly. `You'll do. Yes, I'm sure you'll do."

"Do for what?"

"I'll tell you in a moment." Opening a drawer, he extracted
some papers, passed them across. "These will enable you
better to understand the position. Read them through - they
lead up to what follows."

Mowry glanced at them. They were typescript copies of
press reports. Settling back in his chair he perused them slowly
and with care.

The first told of a prankster in Roumania. This fellow had
done nothing more than stand in the road gazing fascinatedly
at the sky, occasionally uttering ejaculations and loud phrases
such as, `Blue flames!' Curious people had joined him and
gaped likewise. The group became a crowd, the crowd became
a mob, and the bigger the mob the faster it grew.

Soon the audience blocked the street, overflowed into
side-streets. Police tried to break it up, making matters worse.
Some fool summoned the fire squads. Hysterics on the fringes
swore they could see or had seen something weird above the
clouds. Reporters and cameramen rushed to the scene.
Rumours raced around. The government sent up the air force
for a closer look. Panic spread over an area of two hundred
square miles from which the original cause had judiciously
disappeared.

"Amusing if nothing else," remarked Mowry.

"Read on."

The second report concerned a daring escape from jail of
two notorious killers. They had stolen a car, made six hundred
miles before recapture. Their term of freedom had lasted
exactly fourteen hours.

The third detailed an automobile accident. Three killed,.
one seriously injured, the car a complete wreck, the sole
survivor had died nine hours later.

Handing back the papers, Mowry said, "What's all this to
me?"

"We'll take those reports in the order as read," began Wolf.
"They prove something of which we've long been aware but,
maybe you haven't realised yourself. For the first one, that
Roumanian did nothing, positively nothing save stare at the
sky and mumble. All the same, he persuaded a government
to start jumping around like fleas on a hot griddle. It shows
that in given conditions action and reaction can be hopelessly
out of proportion. Also that by doing insignificant things in
suitable circumstances one can obtain results monstrously in
excess of the effort."

"I'II give you that." Mowry conceded.

"Now the lamsters, They didn't do much either; climbed a
wall, grabbed a car, drove like mad until the petrol ran out,
got caught' He leaned forward, continued with added emphasis,
"But for most of fourteen hours they monopolised the
attention of six planes, ten helicopters, one hundred and
twenty patrol-cars, eighteen telephone exchanges, uncountable
phone lines and radio link-ups, not to mention police,
deputies, posses of volunteers, hunters, trackers, forest rangers
and National . Guardsmen to a grand total of twenty-seven
thousands scattered over three states."

"Phew!" Mowry raised his eyebrows.

"Finally, let's consider this auto smash. We know the cause;
the survivor was able to tell us before he died. He said the
driver lost control at high speed while swiping at a wasp
which had flown in through a window and started buzzing
around his face."

"It nearly happened to me once."

Ignoring that, Wolf went on, "The weight of a wasp is under
half an ounce. Compared with a human being its size is
minute, its strength negligible. Its sole armament is a tiny
syringe holding a drop of irritant, formic acid, and in this
case it didn't even use it. Nevertheless it killed four big men
and converted a large, powerful car into a heap of scrap."

"I see the point," agreed Mowry, "but where do I come in?"

"Right here," said Wolf. "We want you to become a wasp"

Leaning back, Mowry eyed the other contemplatively, then
commented, "The muscle-bound lug who brought me here was a
Secret Service agent who had satisfied me as to the genuineness
of his credentials. This is a government department.
You're a high-ranking official. But for those facts I'd say
you’re crazy."

"Maybe I am,' gave back Wolf, blank-faced, `but I don't
think so."

"You want me to do something?"

"Yes."

"Something extra-special?"

"Yes."

"At risk of death?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And for no reward?"

"Correct"

Mowry stood up, reached for his hat. "I'm not crazy either."

"You will be," said Wolf, in the same flat tones, "if you rest
content to let the Sirians kick us out of existence."

Letting go the hat, Mowry sat down again. "What d'you
mean?"

"There's a war on."

"I know. Everybody knows." He made a disparaging gesture.
"We've been fighting the Sirian Combine for ten months. The
newspapers say so. The radio says so. The video says so. The
government says so. I am credulous enough to believe the
lot of them."

"Then perhaps you're willing to stretch your credulity a bit
further and swallow a few more items," Wolf suggested.

"Such as?"

"The Terran public is complacent because to date nothing
has happened in this sector. They know that already the
enemy has launched two determined attacks against our solar
system and that both have been beaten off. The public has
great confidence in Terran defences. That confidence is
justified; no Sirian task force will ever penetrate this far."

"Well, what have we to worry about?"

"Wars must be won or lost and there's no third alternative.
We cannot win merely by keeping the foe at arm's length.
We can never gain victory solely by postponing defeat."
Suddenly and emphatically he slammed a heavy fist on his desk
and made a pen leap two feet into the air. "We've got to do
more than that. We've got to seize the initiative and get the
enemy fiat on his back while we beat the bejazus out of him."

"But we'll get around to that in due course, won't we?"

"Maybe," said Wolf. "Or maybe not. It depends."

"Depends upon what?"

"Whether we make full and intelligent use of our resources,
especially people - meaning people such as you."

"You could be more specific," Mowry suggested.

"Look, in technical matters we are ahead of the Sirian
Combine, a little ahead in some respects and far ahead in
others. That gives us the advantage of, better weapons, more
efficient armaments. But what the public does not know -
because nobody has seen fit to tell them - is that the Sirians
also have an advantage. They outnumber us by twelve to one
and outweigh us by material in the same proportion."

"Is that a fact?”

"Unfortunately it is, though our propagandists don't bother
to mention it. Our war-potential is superior qualitatively. The
Sirians have superiority quantitatively. That's a very serious
handicap to us. We've got to counter it in the best way we
know how. It won't be done by playing for time while we
make the effort to breed like flies."

"I see." Mowry gnawed his bottom lip, looked thoughtful.

"However," Wolf went on, "the problem becomes less formidable
than it looks if we bear in mind that one man can shake
a government, two men temporarily can put down an army
twenty-seven thousands strong, or one small wasp can slay
four comparative giants and destroy their huge machine into
the bargain." He paused, watching the other for effect,
continued, "Which means that by scrawling suitable words upon
a wall, the right man in the right place at the right time might
immobilise an armoured division with the aid of nothing more
than a piece of chalk."

"You're concocting a pretty unorthodox form of warfare."

"So much the better."

"I am sufficiently perverse to like such methods. They appeal
to me."

"We know," said Wolf. He took a file from his desk, thumbed
through it. "Upon your fourteenth birthday You were fined
one hundred Sirian guilders for expressing your opinion of
an official, upon a wall, in letters twenty inches high. Your
father apologised on your behalf and pleaded the impetuosity
of youth. The Sirians were annoyed but let the matter drop."

"Razaduth was a scheming, pot-bellied liar and I say it
again." Mowry eyed the file. "That my life-story you've got
there?"

"Yes."

"Nosey lot, aren't you?"

"We have to be. Regard it as part of the price to be paid
for survival" Shoving the file to one side, Wolf informed,
"We've a punched card for every Terran in existence. In no
time worth mentioning we can sort out electronically all those
who have false teeth, or wear size eleven shoes, or had red-
haired mothers, or can be relied upon to try dodge the draft.
Without trouble we can extract any specified type of sheep
from the general mass of sheep and goats."

"And I am a specified sheep?"

"Speaking metaphorically, of course. No insult is intend."

His face gave a craggy twitch that was the nearest it could
come to a smile. "We first dug out about sixteen thousand
completely fluent speakers of the several Sirian dialects.
Eliminating the females and children brought the number
down to nine thousand. Then, step by step, we cut out the
elderly, the infirm, the weak, the untrustworthy, the
temperamentally unsuitable, those too short, too tall, too fat,
too thin, too stupid, too rash, too cautious, and so forth.
We weren't left with many among whom to seek for wasps."

"What defines a wasp?"

"Several things - but mostly a shorty who can walk slightly
bandy-legged with his ears pinned back and his face dyed
purple. In other words, one who can play the part of a native-
born Sirian and do it well enough to fool the Sirians."

"Never!" exclaimed Mowry. "Never in a month of Sundays!
I'm pink, I've got wisdom teeth and my ears stick out."

"The surplus. teeth can be pulled. Surgical removal of a
sliver of cartilage will fasten your ears back good and tight,
leaving no visible evidence of the operation. Painless and easy,
with complete healing in two weeks. That is medical evidence;
so don't argue it." Again the craggy twitch. "As for the purple
complexion, its nothing startling: There are some Terrans a
good deal more purple-faced than any Sirian, they having
acquired the colour via many gallons of booze. We can fix
you up with a dye guaranteed firm for four months, also a
retinting kit that will enable you to carry on as much longer
as may be necessary."

"But -"

"Listen to me. You were born in Masham, capital city of
Diracta which is the Sirian home planet. Your father was a
trader there at the time. You lived on Diracta until age
seventeen when you returned with your parents to Terra. Luckily
you happen to be a half-pint of just about Sirian size and
build. You are now twenty-six and still speak perfect Sirian
with a decided Mashambi accent which, if anything, is an
advantage. It lends plausibility. About fifty million Sirians
speak with Mashambi accents. You're a natural for the job
we have in mind"

"What if I invite you to thrust the job right up the air-shaft?"
asked Mowry, with great interest.

"I would regret it," said Wolf, coldly, "because in time of
war it is an old, well-founded adage that one volunteer is
worth a thousand conscripts."

"Meaning I'd get my call-up papers?" Mowry made a gesture
of irritation. "Damn! - I'd rather walk into something
of my own accord than be frog marched into it"

"So it says here," informed Wolf, motioning toward the file.
"James Mowry, twenty-six, restless and pigheaded.- can be
trusted to do anything at all-provided the alternative is
worse."

"Sounds like my father. Did he tell you that."

"The Service does not reveal its sources of information."

"Humph!" He pondered a little while, asked "Suppose I
volunteer, what follows?"

"We'll send you to a school. It runs a special course that is
fast and tough ~ and takes six to eight weeks. 'You'll be
crammed to the gills with everything likely to be useful to
you: weapons, explosives, sabotage, psychological warfare,
map reading, compass reading, camouflage, judo, radio
techniques and maybe a dozen other subjects. By the time
they've finished with you, you'll be fully qualified
to function as a complete and absolute pain-in-the-neck."

"And after that?"

"You will be dropped surreptitiously upon a Sirian held
planet and be left to make yourself as awkward as possible."

There was a lengthy silence at the end of which Mowry gave
begrudgingly, "Once when my father was thoroughly aggravated
he said, "Son, you were born a fool and you'll die a
fool." He let go a long, deep sigh. "The old man was dead
right. I hereby volunteer."

"We knew you would," said Wolf, imperturbably.

He saw Wolf again, that being two days after he had
finished the arduous course and passed with satisfactory
marks. Wolf arrived at the school, visited him in his room.

"What was it like?"

"Sheer sadism,” said Mowry, pulling a face. "So almighty
tough that I'm beaten up in mind and body. I feel like a
half stunned cripple."

You'll have plenty of time to get over that. The journey
will take long enough. You're leaving Thursday."

"For where?"

"Sorry, I can't tell you. Your pilot carries sealed orders to
be opened only on the last lap. In case of accident or
successful interception he destroys them unread."

"What's the likelihood of us being grabbed on the way
there?"

"Not great. Your ship will be. considerably faster than
anything the enemy possesses. But even the best of vessels can
get into trouble once in a while. We're taking no chances. You
know the stinking reputation of the Sirian Security Police,
the Kaitempi. They can make a slab of granite grovel and
confess its sins. If they snatch you en route and learn your
intended destination they'll take counter-measures and try
to trap your successor on arrival."

"My successor? raises a question nobody here seems
to answer. you can tell me, huh?"

"What is it?"

"Will I be entirely on my own? Or will other Terrans be
operating on the same planet? If there will be others how
shall I make contact?"

"So far as you're concerned you'll be the only Terran for
a hundred million miles around," responded Wolf. "You will
have no contacts. By the same token, you won't be able to
betray anyone to the Kaitempi. Nothing they can do will
extract from you information that you don't possess. Maybe
you'll sweat and scream and invent stuff to make them lay
off, but it won't be genuine information."

"It would sound better if you didn't smack your lips over
the horrid prospect," reproved Mowry. "Anyway, it would be
some comfort and encouragement to know that other wasps
are similarly active even if only one to a planet."

"You didn't go through this course all on your ownsome,
did you? The others weren't here merely to provide company
for you." Wolf held out a hand: "Good hunting, be a curse to.
the foe - and come back."

"I shall return," assured Mowry; "though the way be flinty
and the road be long."

That, he thought as Wolf departed, was more of a pious
hope than a performable promise. To be dropped single-
handed upon a hostile planet was to be plunged neck-deep
into a genuinely menacing situation. Casualties could be
expected sooner or later. Indeed, Wolf's remark about 'your
successor' showed that losses had been anticipated and steps
taken to provide replacements..

It then occurred to him that perhaps his own status was
that of somebody else's successor. Maybe on the world to
which he was going some unlucky character had been trapped
and pulled apart very slowly. If so, it would be a world
fore-warned and ready for him. Right now the Kaitempi would
be watching the skies, licking their chops in anticipation of
their next victim, a dope named James Mowry, twenty-six,
restless and pigheaded.

Oh, well, he had committed himself and there was no backing
out. Looked like he was doomed to become a hero from
sheer lack of courage to be a coward. Slowly he developed a
philosophic resignation which still possessed him several
weeks later when the corvette's captain summoned him to
the mid-cabin.

"Sleep well?"

"Not in the last spell," Mowry admitted. "The propulsors
were noisier than usual, the whole ship shuddered and
creaked. I spent most of the time lying in my bunk and
inventing new cuss-words."

The captain gave a wry smile. "You didn't know it, but we
were being chased by four Sirian destroyers. We hit up top
speed and lost them"

"You sure they aren't still tracking us?"

"They've fallen behind range of our detectors, therefore
we're beyond range of theirs."

"Thank heavens for that," said Mowry.

"I've opened the orders. We're due to arrive in forty-eight
Earth-hours."

"Where?"

"On a planet called Jaimec. Ever heard of it?"

"Yes, the Sirian news-channels used to mention it every
once in a while. It's one of their outpost worlds if I remember
aright, under-populated and not half developed. I never met
anyone from there and so don't know much about it." He
registered mild annoyance. "This secretiveness is all very well,
but it would help a fellow some to let him know where he's
going and give him some useful information about the place
before he gets there. Ignorance could prove damn dangerous;
it might cost me my neck. Maybe I'm finicky but I value my
neck."

"You'll land with all the data we've got," soothed the captain.
"They've supplied a stack of stuff along with the orders."
He put a wad of papers on the table, also several maps and
a number of large photographs. Then he pointed to a cabinet
standing against a wall. "That's the stereoscopic viewer. Use
it to search these pics for a suitable landing place. The choice
is wholly yours. My job is to put you down safely wherever
you choose and get away undetected."

"How long have I got?"

"You must show me the selected spot not later than forty
hours from now."

"And how long can you allow for dumping me and my
equipment?"

"Twenty minutes maximum. Positively no more. I'm sorry
about that but it can't be helped. If we sit on the ground and
take it easy we'll leave unmistakable signs of our landing, a
whacking big rut that can soon be spotted by air patrols and
will get the hunt after you in full cry. So we'll have to use
the antigravs and move fast. The antigravs soak up power.
Twenty minutes output is the most we can afford."

"All right." Mowry gave a shrug of resignation, took up
the papers and started reading them as the captain went out.

Jaimec, ninety-fourth planet of the Sirian Empire. Mass
seven-eighths that of Terra. Land area about half that of
Terra's, the rest being ocean. First settled two and a half
centuries ago. Present population estimated at about eighty
millions. Jaimec had cities, railroads, spaceports and all the
other features of alien civilisation. Nevertheless, much of it
remained undeveloped, unexplored and in primitive condition.

He spent a good many hours making close, meticulous study
of the planet's surface as shown in the stereoscopic viewer,
meanwhile wondering how the big photos had been obtained.
Evidently someone had taken a considerable risk to play close
with an aerial camera. War had a hundred unsung heroes for
every one praised and draped with medals.

By the fortieth hour he had made his choice. It had not
been easy to reach a decision. Every seemingly suitable dropping
place had some kind of disadvantage, proving yet again
that the ideal hideout does not exist. One would be beautifully
positioned from the strategic viewpoint but lack adequate
cover. Another would have first-class natural concealment but
dangerous location.

The captain came in saying, "I hope you've picked a point
on the night-side, If it isn't, we'll have to dodge around until
dark and that's not good. The best technique is to go in and
get out before they've time to take alarm and organise a
counter-blow."

"This is it' Mowry indicated the place on a photo. "It's a
lot farther from a road than I'd have liked, about twenty miles
and all of it through virgin forest. Whenever I need something
out the cache it will take me a day's hard going to reach it,
maybe two days. But by the same token it should remain safe
from prying eyes and that's the prime consideration"

Sliding the photo into the viewer, the captain switched on
the interior lighting and looked into the rubber eyepiece. He
frowned with concentration.

"You mean that marked spot on the cliff?"

"No-it's at the cliff's base. See that outcrop of rock? What's
a fraction north of it?"

The captain stared again. "It's hard to tell for certain but it
looks mighty like a cave formation." He backed off, picked
up the intercom phone. "Hame, come here, will you?"

Hamerton, the chief navigator, arrived and studied the
photo, found the indicated point. He compared it with a two-
hemisphere map of Jaimec, made swift calculations.

"We'll catch it on the night-side but only by the skin of our
teeth"

"You sure of that?"

"If we went straight there we'd make it with a couple of
hours to spare. But we daren't go straight; their radar network
would plot the dropping-point to within half a mile. So we'll
have to dodge around below their radar horizon. Evasive
action takes time but with luck we can complete the drop
half an hour before sunrise."

"Let's go straight there," prompted Mowry. "It will cut your
risks and I'm willing to take a chance on being nabbed. I'm
taking the chance anyway, aren't I?"

"Nuts to that," retorted the captain. "We're so close that their
detectors are tracking us already. We're picking up their
identification-calls and we can't answer, not knowing their code.
Pretty soon it will sink into their heads that we're hostile.
They'll send up a shower of proximity-fused missiles, as usual
too late. The moment we dive below their radar horizon they'll
start a full-scale aerial search covering five hundred miles
around the point where we disappeared." He gave Mowry a
warning frown. "And you, chum, would be dead centre of that
circle."

"Looks like you've done this job a few times before."
prompted Mowry, hoping for a revealing response.

Refusing to take the bait, the captain continued, "Once
we're running just above tree-top level they can't track us
radar-wise. So we'll duck down a couple of thousand miles
from your dropping-point and make for there on a cockeyed.
course. It's my responsibility to dump you where you want
to be put without betraying you to the whole lousy world. If
I don't succeed the entire trip has been wasted. Leave this
to me, will you?"

"Sure," agreed Mowry, abashed. "Anything you say."

They went out, leaving him to brood. Presently the alarm-
gong clanged upon the cabin wall, he grabbed handholds and
hung on while the ship made a couple of violent swerves, first
one way, then the other. He could see nothing, hear nothing
save the dull moan of steering-jets, but his imagination
pictured a cluster of fifty ominous vapour-trails rising from
below, fifty long, explosive cylinders eagerly sniffing around
for the scent of alien metal.

Eleven more times the alarm sounded, followed at once by
aerial acrobatics. By now the ship resounded to the soft
whistle of passing atmosphere which built up to a faint howl
as it thickened.

Getting near now.

Mowry gazed absently at his fingers. They were steady but
sweaty. There were queer electric thrills running up and down
his spine. His knees felt weak and his stomach felt weaker.
He prayed for enough resolution to land without spewing in
plain sight of everybody. Hell of a hero he'd look if he did
that.

Far away across the void was a planet with a fully
comprehensive card-system and because of that he was about
to have his pointed head shoved into the lion's mouth.
Mentally he damned card-systems, those who'd invented them,
those who operated them. The cussing relieved his feelings
somewhat but did not restore strength to his knees.

With the arrival so close the philosophic resignation that
had sustained him had now evaporated. He fidgeted nervily
around, occasionally grabbing the handhold heartily wishing
the whole dirty business were done with and over.

By the time propulsion ceased and the ship stood silently
upon its antigravs above the selected spot he had generated
the fatalistic impatience of a man facing a major operation
that no longer can be avoided. He half-ran, half-slid down the
nylon ladder to ground. A dozen of the corvette's crew
followed, equally in a hurry but for different reasons. They
worked like maniacs, all the time keeping a wary eye upon
the sky.

			Chapter II


THE CLIFF WAS part of an upthrust plateau rising four hundred
feet above the forest. At bottom were two caves, one wide and
shallow, one narrow but deep. Before the caves stretched a
beach of tiny pebbles at the edge of which a small stream
swirled and bubbled.

Cylindrical duralumin containers, thirty in all, were lowered
from the ship's belly to the beach, seized and carried to the
back of the deep cave, stacked so that the code numbers on
their lids faced the light. That done, the twelve scrambled
monkeylike up the ladder which was promptly reeled in. An
officer waved a hand from the open lock, shouted a last word
of encouragement.

"Give 'em hell, Sonny."

The corvette's tail snorted and whumped, making trees
wave their tops in a mile-long lane of superheated air. That
in itself added to the list of possible risks; if the leaves got
scalded, withered and changed colour, a scouting aeroplane
would view the phenomenon as a gigantic arrow pointing to
the cave. But it was a chance that had to be taken. With
swiftly increasing speed the big vessel went away, keeping low
and turning in the distance to follow the valley northward.

Watching it depart, Mowry knew that it would not yet head
straight for home. First the crew would take added chances
for his sake by zooming in plain view over a number of cities
and military strongholds. With luck this tactic might persuade
the enemy to jump to the conclusion that it was engaged in
photographic reconnaissance, that no surreptitious landing of
personnel had been intended or performed.

The testing time would come during the long hours of daylight
and already dawn was breaking to one side. Systematic
aerial search in the vicinity would prove that the enemy's
suspicions had been aroused in spite of the corvette's
misleading antics. Lack of visible search would not prove the
contrary because for all he knew the hunt might be up
elsewhere, in the wrong place far beyond his sight and hearing.

Full light would be needed for his trek through the forest
the depths of which were dark enough even at midday. While
waiting for the sun to rise he sat on a boulder and gazed in
the direction in which the ship had gone. He wouldn't have
that captain's job, he decided, for a sack of diamonds. And
probably the captain wouldn't have his for two sacks.

After an hour he entered the cave, opened a container, drew
from it a well-worn leather case of indisputable Sirian
manufacture. There'd be no sharp eyes noting something foreign-
looking about that piece of luggage; it was his own property
purchased in Masham, on Diracta, many years ago.

Making an easy jump across the little stream he went into
the forest and headed westward, frequently checking his
direction with the aid of a pocket compass. The going proved
rough but not difficult. The forest was wholly a forest and
not a jungle. Trees grew large and close together, forming a
canopy that shut out all but occasional glimpses of the sky.
Luckily, undergrowth was sparse. One could walk with ease
and at fast pace providing one took care not to fall over
projecting roots. Also, as he soon realised, progress was
helped quite a piece by the fact that on Jaimec his weight
was down by most of twenty pounds while his luggage was
raduced in the same proportion.

Two hours before sunset he reached the road, having
covered twenty miles with one stop for a meal and many brief
pauses to consult the compass. Behind a roadside tree he 
upended the case, sat on it and enjoyed fifteen minutes rest
before making wary survey of the road. So far he'd heard no
planes or scout-ships snooping overhead in frantic search of
Terra's one-man task force. Neither was there any abnormal
activity upon the road; in fact during his wait nothing passed
along it in either direction.

Refreshed by the sit, he tidied himself, brushed dirt and
leaves from his shoes and pants,. reknotted his typical neck-
scarf as only a Sirian could knot it. Then he examined himself
in a steel mirror. His Earthmade copy of Sirian clothes would
pass muster, he had no doubt of that. His purple face, pinned-
back ears and Mashambi accent would be equally convincing.
But his greatest protection would be the mental block in every
Sirian's mind; they'd just naturally not think of an Earthman
masquerading as a Sirian because the idea was too ridiculous
to contemplate.

Satisfied that he fitted his role a hundred percent, he
emerged from the shelter of the trees, walked boldly across
the road and from the other side made careful study of his
exit from the forest. It was essential that he should be able
to remember it speedily and accurately. The forest was the
screen of camouflage around his bolt-hole and there was no
telling when he might need to dive into it in a deuce of a
hurry.

Fifty yards farther along the road stood an especially tall
tree with a peculiarly wrapped growth around its trunk and
a very gnarly branch formation. He fixed it firmiy in his mind
and for good measure lugged a tablet-shaped slab of stone
onto the grass verge and stood it upright beneath the tree.

The result resembled a lonely grave. He stared at the stone
and with no trouble at all could imagine words inscribed upon
it: James Mowry - Terran. Strangled by the Kaitempi. Could
be an omen, a forecast that already he had signed his own
death warrant. There was a compensatory comfort: he did not
believe in omens.

Dismissing ugly thoughts about the Kaitempi, he started
trudging along the road, his gait suggestive of a slight bow-
leggedness. From now on he must be wholly a Sirian,
physically and mentally, name of Shir Agavan, a forestry
surveyor employed by the Jaimec Ministry of Natural Resources,
therefore a government official and exempt from military service.
Or he could be anyone else so long as he remained plainly
and visibly a Sirian and could produce the papers to prove it.

He moved good and fast while slowly the sun sank toward
the horizon. He was going to thumb a lift, wanted one with
the minimum of delay but also wanted it as far as possible
from the point where he'd left tbe forest. It would be wise to
divert attention from the real scene of his appearance. Like
everyone else, Sirians had tongues. They talked. Others
listened. Some hard-faced characters had the full-time jobs
of listening, putting two and two together and without undue
strain arriving at four. His chief peril came not from guns
and garrotting-cords but from over-active tongues and alert
ears.

More than a mile had been covered before two dynocars
and one gas-truck passed him in quick succession all going
the opposite way. None of the occupants favoured him with
more than a perfunctory glance. Another mile went by before
anything came in his own direction. This was another gas-
truck, a big, dirty, lumbering monstrosity that wheezed and
grunted as it rolled along.

Standing by the verge, he waved it down, puttiug on an
air of arrogant authority that never failed to impress all
Sirians save those with more arrogance and authority. The truck
stopped jerkily and with a tailward boost of fumes. It was
loaded with about twenty tons of edible roots. Two Sirians
looked down at him from the cab. They were unkempt, their
clothes baggy and soiled.

"I am of the government," informed Mowry, giving the
staterment the right degree of importance. "I wish a ride into
town."

The nearest one opened the door, moved closer to the driver
and made room. Mowry climbed up, squeezed into the bench seat
which was a close fit for three. He held his case on his
knees. The truck emitted a loud bang and lurched forward
while the Sirian in the middle gazed dully at the case.

"You are a Mashamban, I think," ventured the driver,
conversationally.

"Correct. Seems we can't open our mouths without betraying
the fact"

"I have never been to Masham," continued the driver using
the sing-song accents peculiar to Jaimec. "I would like to go
there someday. It is a great place." He switched to his fellow
Sirian. "Isn't it, Snat?"

"Yar," said Snat, still mooning at the case.

"Besides, Masham or anywhere on Diracta should be a lot
safer than here. And perhaps I'd have better luck there. It
has been a bad day. It has been a stinking bad day. Hasn't
it, Snat?"

"Yar," said Snat.

"Why?" asked Mowry.

"This soko of a truck has broken down three times since
dawn. And it has stuck in the bog twice. The last time we
had to empty it to get it out, and then refill it. With the load
we've got that is work. Hard work." He spat out the window.
"Wasn't it, Snat?"

"Yar." said Snat, still half-dead from the effort.

"Too bad," Mowry sympathised.

"As for the rest, you know of it," said the driver, irefully.
"It has been a bad day."

"I know of what?" Mowry prompted.

"The news."

"I have been in the woods since sunup. One does not hear
news in the woods."

"The ten-time radio announced an increase in the war-tax.
As if we aren't paying enough. Then the twelve-time radio
said a Spakum ship had been zooming around. They had to
admit it because the ship was fired upon from a number of
places. We are not deaf when guns fire, nor blind when the
target is visible." He nudged his fellow. "Are we, Snat?"

"Nar," confirmed Snat.

"Just imagine that - a lousy Spakum ship sneaking around
over our very roof-tops. You know what that means: they
are seeking targets for bombing. Well, I hope none of them
get through. I hope every Spakum that heads this way runs
straight into a break-up barrage."

"So do I," said Mowry, squirting pseudo-patriotism out of
his ears. He gave his neighbour a dig in the ribs. "Don't you?"

"Yar," said Snat.

For the rest of the journey the driver maintained his paean
of anguish about the general lousiness of the day, the iniquity
of truck-builders, the menace and expense of war and the
blatant impudence of an enemy ship that had surveyed Jaimec
in broad daylight. All the time. Snat lolled in the middle of
the cab, gaped glassy-eyed at Mowry's leather case and
responded in monosyllables only when metaphorically beaten
over the head.

"This will do," announced Mowry as they trund1ed through
city suburbs and reached a wide crossroad. The truck stopped,
he got down. "Live long!"

"Live long!" responded the driver and tooled away.

He stood on the sidewalk and thoughtfully watched the
truck until it passed from sight. Well, he'd put himself to the
first minor test and got by without suspicion. Neither the
driver nor Snat had nursed the vaguest idea that he was what
they called a Spakum - literally a bed bug - an abusive term
for Terrans to which he'd listened with no resentment whatsoever.
Nor should he resent it: until further notice he was Shir
Agavan, a Sirian born and bred.

Holding tight to his case, he entered the city.

This was Pertane, capital of Jaimec, population a little more
than two millions. No other place on the planet approached

it in size. It was the centre of Jaimecan civil and military
administration, the very heart of the foe's planetary stronghold.
By the same token it was potentially the most dangerous
area in which a lone Terran could wander on the loose.

Reaching the downtown section, Mowry tramped around
until twilight, weighed up the location and external appearance
of several small hotels. Finally he picked one in a sidestreet
off the main stem. Quiet and modest-looking, it would
serve for a short time while he sought a better hideout. But
having reached a decision he did not go straight in.

First it was necessary to make up-to-the-minute check of
his papers lest anything wrong with them should put a noose
around his neck. The documents with which he had been
provided were microscopically accurate replicas of those valid
within the Sirian Empire nine or ten months ago. They might
have changed the format in the interim. To present for examination
papers obviously long out of date was to ask to be nabbed on
the spot.

He'd be trapped in an hotel, behind doors, with Sirians all
around. Better the open street where if it came to the worst
he could throw away his case along with his bandy-legged
gait and run like the devil in pursuit of a virgin. So he ambled
casually past the hotel, explored nearby streets until he found
a policeman. Glancing swiftly around, he marked his getaway
route and went up to the officer.

"Pardon, I am a newcomer." He said it stupidly, wearing an
expression of slight dopiness. "I arrived from Diracta a few
days ago."

"You are lost, hi?"

"No, officer, I am embarrassed." He fumbled in a pocket,
produced his identity-card, offered it for inspection. His leg
muscles were tensed in readiness for swift and effective flight
as he went on, "A Pertanian friend tells me that my card is
wrong because it must now bear a picture of my nude body.
This friend is a persistent prankster. I do not know whether
he is to be believed."

Frowning. the policeman examined the card's face, He
turned it over, studied its back. Then he returned it to Mowry.

"This card is quite in order. Your friend is a liar. There is
no such silly regulation. He would be wise to keep his mouth
shut." The frown grew deeper. "If he does not he will someday
regret it. The Kaitempi are rough with those who spread false
rumours."

"Yes, officer,' said Mowry, vastly relieved but looking suitably
frightened. `I shall warn him not to be a fool. May you
live long!"

"Live long!" said the policeman, curtly.

Hurrah! He went back to the hotel, walked in as though
he owned it, said to the clerk, "I wish a room with bath for
ten days."

"Your instrument of identity?"

He passed the card across.

The clerk wrote down its details, handed it back, reversed
the register on the counter and pointed to a line. "Sign here."

On taking the room his first act was to have a welcome
wash. Then he reviewed his position. He had reserved the
room for ten days but that was mere camouflage since he had
no intention of staying that long in a place so well surveyed
by official eyes. If Sirian habits held good for Jaimec he could
depend upon some snoop examining the hotel register and,
perhaps, asking awkward questions before the week was
through. He had all the answers ready - but the correct wasp-
tactic is not to be asked so long as it can be avoided.

He'd arrived too late in the day to seek and find better
sanctuary. Tomorrow would be well-spent hunting and finding
a rooming-house, preferably in a district where inhabitants
tended to mind their own business. Meanwhile he could put
in two or three hours before bedtime by exploring Pertane,
studying the lie of the land and estimating future possibilities.

Before starting out he treated himself to a hearty meal.
To a native-born Terran the food would have seemed strange
and somewhat obnoxious. But he ate it with gusto, its flavours
serving only to remind him of his childhood. It wasn't until
he had finished that it occurred to him to wonder whether
some other less well-equipped wasp had ever betrayed himself
by being sick at a Sirian table.

For the rest of the evening his exploration of Pertane was
not as haphazard as it looked. He wandered around with
seeming aimlessness, memorising all geographical features
that might prove useful to recall later on. But primarily he
was seeking to estimate the climate of public opinion with
particular reference to minority opinions.

In every war no matter how great a government's power
its rule is never absolute. In every war, no matter how
allegedly righteous the cause, the effort is never total. No
campaign has ever or will ever be fought with the leadership
united in favour of it and with the rank and file unitedly
behind them.

Always there is a disgruntled minority that opposes a war
for a multitude of reasons such as reluctance to make necessary
sacrifices, fear of personal loss or suffering, philosophical
and ethical objection to warfare as a method of settling disputes,
lack of confidence in the ability of the leadership, resentment
at being called upon to play a subordinate role, pessimistic
belief that victory is far from certain and defeat very
possible, egoistic satisfaction of refusing to run with the
herd, psychological opposition to being yelled at on any and
every petty pretext, a thousand and one other reasons.

No political or military dictatorship ever has been one hundred
percent successful in identifying and suppressing the
malcontents who, typically, conceal themselves behind a veil
of silence and bide their time. By sheer law of averages Jaimec
must have its share of such as these. And in addition to the
pacifists and quasi-pacifists were the criminal classes whose
sole concern in life was to snatch an easy profit while
dexterously avoiding involvement in anything deemed unpleasant
such as mass antics on a barrack square.

A wasp could make good use of all those who would not
heed the bugle-call nor follow the beat of the drum, Indeed,
even if it proved impossible to trace any of them and employ
them individually he could still exploit the fact of their very
existence. All that was necessary was first to satisfy himself
that there really was such a minority on Jaimec.

By midnight he was back at the hotel confident that in
Pertane there lived an adequate supply of scapegoats. On
buses and in bars he'd had fragmentary conversations with
about forty citizens and had overheard the talk of a hundred
more.

Not one had uttered a word definable as unpatriotic, much
less treacherous or subversive. Strong, deep-rooted fear of the
Kaitempi was more than enough to deter them from condemning
themselves out of their own mouths. But at least a tenth
of them had spoken with that vague, elusive air of having
more on their minds than they cared to state. In some cases
two of this type conversed together and when that happened
it was done with a sort of conspiratorial understanding that
any onlooker could recognise from fifty yards away but could
never produce as evidence before a military court

Yes, these - the objectors, the selfish, the greedy, the resentful,
the conceited, the moral cowards and the criminals -
could all be utilised for Terran purposes. When it isn't expedient
to use one's own strength, then is the time to exploit the
enemy's weakness.

While lying in bed and waiting for sleep to come, he mentally
enrolled the whole of this secret opposition in a mythical,
dreamed-up organisation called Dirac Angestun Gesept, the
Sirian Freedom Party. He then appointed himself the D.A.G.'s
president, secretary, treasurer and field-director for the
planetary district of Jaimec. The fact that the entire membership
was unaware of its status and had no hand in the election did
not matter a hoot. It was irrelevant.

Neither did it matter that sooner or later the aggravated
Kaitempi would start organising the collection of members
dues in the form of strangled necks, or that some members
might be so lacking in enthusiasm for the cause as to resist
payment. If some Sirians could be given the full-time job of
hunting down and garrotting other Sirians, and if other Sirians
could be given the full-time job of dodging or shooting down
the garrotters, then a distant and different lifeform would be
saved a few unpleasant chores.

With that happy thought James Mowry alias Shir Agavan
dozed off. His breathing was suspiciously slow and irregular
for the purple-faced lifeform he was supposed to be, his snores
were abnormally low-pitched and he snoozed flat on his back
instead of lying on his belly. But in the privacy of this room
there were none to hear and see a Terran with his defenses
momentarily down.

When one man is playing the part of an invading army the
essential thing is to move fast, make full use of any and every
opportunity, waste no effort. Mowry had to traipse around the
city to find a better hideout. It was equally necessary to go
hither and thither to make the first moves in his game. So
he combined the two purposes.

He unlocked his bag, opening it carefully with the aid of
a special non-conducting plastic key. Despite that he knew
exactly what he was doing a thin trickle of sweat ran down:
his spine while he did it. The lock was not as innocent as it
looked, n fact it was a veritable death-trap. He could never
quite get rid of the feeling that one of these days it might
forget that a plastic key is not a metal lock-pick. If ever it did
so blunder the resulting blast-area would have a radius of one
hundred yards.

Apart from the lethal can wired to the lock, the bag held
a dozen small parcels, a mass of printed paper and nothing
else. The paper was of two kinds: stickers and money. There
was plenty of the latter. In terms of Sirian guilders he was, a
millionaire. Or with the further supply in that distant cave he
was a multi-millionaire.

From the bag he took an inch-thick wad of printed stickers.
Not too many of them. Just enough for a day's fast work and,
at the same time, few enough to toss away unobserved should
the necessity arise. That done, he refastened the bag with the
same care, the same beading of perspiration.

It was a tricky business, this continual fiddling with a
potential explosion, but it had one great advantage. If any
official nosey-poke took it into his head to search the room and
check the luggage he would destroy the evidence along with himself.
Moreover, proof of what had happened would be widespread
enough to give clear warning to the homecomer: Mowry
would turn into the street, take one look at the mess and
discreetly fade from sight.

Departing, he caught a cross-town bus, planted the first
sticker on the front window of its upper deck at a moment
when all other seats were vacant. He dismounted at the next
stop, casually watched a dozen people boarding the bus. Half
of them went upstairs.

The sticker said in bold, easily readable print: War makes
wealth for the few, misery for the many. At the right time
Dirac Angestun Gesept will punish the former, bring aid and
comfort to the latter.

That would hit the readers much harder than it would have done
a month ago. It was sheer luck that he'd arrived coincidentally
with a big boost in the war-tax. It was likely they'd
feel sufficiently aggrieved not to tear the sticker down in a
patriotic fury. Chances were equally good that they'd spread
the news about this new, mysterious movement that had
emerged to challenge the government, the military caucus
and the Kaitempi. The tale would lose nothing in the telling:
gossip is the same any part of the mighty cosmos in that it
gains compound interest as it goes the rounds.

Within five and a half hours he'd got rid of eighty stickers
without once being caught in the act of fixing them. He'd
taken a few risks, had a few narrow squeaks, but never was
seen actually performing the dirty deed. What followed the
Planting of the fifty-sixth sticker gave him most satisfaction.

A minor collision on the street caused abusive shouts
between drivers and drew a mob of onlookers. Taking prompt
advantage of the situation, Mowry slapped number fifty-six
bang in the middle of a shop window while backed up against
it by the crowd all of whom were looking the other way. He
then wormed himself forward and got well into the mob before
somebody noticed the window's adornment and attracted
general attention to it. The audience turned around, Mowry
with them, and gaped at the discovery.

The finder, a gaunt, middle-aged Sirian with pop eyes,
pointed an incredulous finger and stuttered, "Just l-l-look at
that! They must be m-mad in that shop. The Kaitempi will
take them all to p-p-prison."

Mowry edged forward for a better look and read the sticker
aloud. "Those who stand upon the platform and openly
approve the war will stand upon the scaffold and weepingly
regret it. Dirac Angestun Gesept." He put on a frown. "The
people in the shop can't be responsible for this - they wouldn't
dare."

"S-somebody's dared," said Pop Eyes, quite reasonably.

"Yar." Mowry gave him the hard eye. "You saw it first. So
maybe it was you, hi?"

"Me?" Pop Eyes went a very pale mauve, that being the
nearest a Sirian could get to sheet-white. "I didn't put it there.
You think I'm c-crazy?"

"Well, as you said, somebody did."

"It wasn't me," denied Pop Eyes, angry and agitated. "It must
have been s-some crockpat"

"Crackpot," Mowry corrected.

"That's what I just s-said."

Another Sirian, younger and shrewder, chipped in with,
"That's not a looney's work. There's more to it than that."

"Why?" demanded Pop Eyes.

"A solitary nut would be more likely to scribbie things.
Silly ones too" He nodded indicatively toward the subject of
discussion. "That's a professional print job. It's also a plain.
straightforward threat. Somebody risked his neck to plaster
it up there but that didn't stop him. I'll bet there's an illegal
organisation back of that stunt"

"It says so, doesn't it?" interjected a voice. "The Sirian
Freedom Party."

"Never heard of it," commented another.

"You've heard of it now," said Mowry.

"S-s-somebody ought to do s-something about it," declared
Pop Eyes, waving his arms around.

S-s-somebody did, to wit, a cop. He muscled through the
crowd, looked on the pavement for the body, bent down and
felt around in case the victim happened to be invisible. Finding
nothing, he straightened up, glowered at the audience and
growled, "Now, what's all this?"

Pop Eyes pointed again, this time with the proprietary air
of one who has been granted a patent on the discovery. "S-see
what it s-says on the window."

The cop looked and saw. Being able to read, he perused
it twice while his face went several shades more purple. Then
he returned attention to the crowd.

"Who did this?"

Nobody knew.

"You've got eyes - don't you use them?"

Apparently they didn't.

"Who saw this first?"

"I did," said Pop Eyes proudly.

"But you didn't see anyone put it up?"

"No"

The cop stuck out his jaw. "You sure of that?"

"Yes, officer," admitted Pop Eyes, becoming nervous. "There
was an accident in the s-street. We were all watching the two
d-d-d-" He got himself into a vocal tangle and choked.

Waving him away, the cop addressed the crowd with considerable
menace. "If anyone knows the identity of the culprit
and refuses to reveal it, he will be deemed equally guilty and
will suffer equally when caught."

Those in front backed off a yard or two, those in the rear
suddenly discovered they had business elsewhere. A hard core
of thirty of the incurably curious stayed put, Mowry among
them.

Mowry said mildly, "Maybe they could tell you something
in the shop"

The cop scowled. "I know my job, Shortass."

With that, he gave a loud snort, marched into the shop and
bawled for the manager. In due course that worthy came out,
examined his window with horror and swiftly acquired all the
symptoms of a nervous wreck.

"We know nothing of this, officer. I assure you that it is no
work of ours. It isn't inside the window, officer. It is outside,
as you can see. Some passer-by must have done it. I cannot
imagine why he should have picked on this window. Our
patriotic devotion is unquestioned and ---"

"Won't take the Kaitempi five seconds to question it," said
the cop, cynically.

"But I myself am a reserve officer in the ----"

"Shut up!" He jerked a heavy thumb toward the offending
sticker. "Get it off."

"Yes, officer. Certainly, officer. I shall remove it immediately."

The manager started digging with his nails at the sticker's
corners in attempt to peel it off. He didn't do so good because
Terran technical superiority extended even to common adhesives.
After several futile efforts he threw the cop an apologetic
looks, went inside, came out with a knife and tried again.
This time he succeeded in tearing a small triangle from each
corner, leaving the message intact.

"Get hot water and soak it off," commanded the cop, rapidly
losing patience. He turned and shooed the audience. "Beat it.
Go on, get moving."

The crowd mooched reluctantly away. Mowry glanced back
from the far corner, saw the manager emerge with a steaming
bucket and get busy swabbing the notice. He grinned to himself,
knowing that hot water was just the thing to release and
activate the hydrofluoric base beneath the print.

Continuing on his way, Mowry disposed of two more
stickers where they'd best be seen and cause the most annoyance.
It would take twenty minutes for water to free number
fifty-six and at the end of that time he couldn't resist returning
to the scene. Going back on his tracks, he ambled past the
shop.

Sure enough the sticker had disappeared while in its place
the same message was etched deeply and milkily in the glass.
The cop and the manager were now arguing heatedly upon
the sidewalk with half a dozen citizens gaping alternately at
them and the window.

As Mowry loped past the cop bawled, "I don't care if the
window is valued at two thousand guilders. You've got to
board it up or replace the glass. One thing or the other and
no half-measures."

But, officer -"

"Do as you're told. To exhibit subversive propaganda is a
major offence whether intentional or not. There's a war on!"

Mowry wandered away, unnoticed, unsuspected, with
eighteen stickers yet to be used before the day was through.
By dusk he'd disposed of them all without mishap. He had
also found himself a suitable hideaway.

Chapter III


AT THE HOTEL he stopped by the desk and spoke to the clerk.
"This war, it makes things difficult. One can plan nothing with
certainty." He made the hand-splaying gesture that was the
Sirian equivalent of a shrug. "I must leave tomorrow and
may be away seven days. It is a great nuisance."

"You wish to cancel your room, Mr. Agavan?"

"No. I reserved it for ten days and will pay for ten." Dipping
into his pocket he extracted a wad of guilders. "I shall then be
able to claim it if I get back in time. If I don't, well; that'll
be my hard luck."

"As you wish, Mr. Agavan." Indifferent to the throwing away
of good money so long as it was somebody else's, the other
scribbled a receipt, handed it over.

"Thanks," said Mowry. "Live long!"

"May you live long." He gave the response in dead tones,
not caring if the customer expired on the spot.

Mowry went to the restaurant and ate. Then to his room
where he lay full length on the bed and gave his feet a much
needed rest while he waited for darkness to become complete.
When the last streamers of sunset had faded away he took
another pack of stickers from his case, also a piece of crayon,
and departed.

The task was lots easier this time. Poor illumination helped
cover his actions, he was now familiar, with the locality and
the places most deserving of his attentions, he was not diverted
by the need to find another and safer address. For more than
four hours he could concentrate single-mindedly upon the job
of defacing walls and making a mess of the largest, most
expensive sheets of plate glass that daytimes were prominently
in public view.

Between seven-thirty and midnight he slapped exactly one
hundred stickers on shops, offices and vehicles of the city
transport system, also inscribed swiftly, clearly and in large
size the letters D.A.G. upon twenty-four walls.

The latter feat was performed with Terran crayon, a deceitfully
chalk-like substance that made full use of the porosity
of brick when water was applied. In other words, the more
furiously it was washed the more stubbornly it became embedded.
There was only one sure way of obliterating the offensive
letters - to knock down the entire wall and rebuild it.

In the morning he breakfasted, walked out with his case,
ignored a line of waiting dynocars and caught a bus. He
changed buses nine times, switching routes one way or the
other and heading nowhere in particular. Five times he
travelled without his case which reposed awhile in a rented
locker. This tedious rigmarole may not have been necessary
but there was no way of telling; it was his duty not only to
avoid actual perils but also to anticipate hypothetical ones.

Such as this: "Kaitempi check. Let me see the hotel register.
H'm! - much the same as last time. Except for this Shir
Agavan. Who is he, hi?"

"A forestry surveyor."

"Did you get that from his identity-card?"

"Yes, officer. It was quite in order."

"By whom is he employed?"

"By the Ministry of Natural Resources."

"Was his card embossed with the Ministry's stamp?"

"I don't remember. Maybe it was. I can't say for sure."

"You should notice things like that. You know full well
that you'll be asked about them when the check is made."

"Sorry, officer, but I can't see and remember every item that
comes my way in a week."

"You could try harder. Oh. well, I suppose this Agavan
character is all right. But maybe I'd better get confirmation if
only to show I'm on the job. Give me your phone." A call, a
few questions, the phone slammed down, then in harsh tones,
"The Ministry has no Shir Agavan upon its roll. The fellow
is using a fake identity-card. When did he leave the hotel?
Did he look agitated when he went? Did he say anything to
indicate where he was going? Wake up, you fool, and answer!
Give me the key to his room - it must be searched at once:
Did he take a dynocar when he departed? Describe him to
me as fully as you can. So he was carrying a case? What sort
of a case, hi?"

That was the kind of chance that must be taken when one
holes up in known and regularly checked haunts. The risk
was not enormous, in fact it was small - but it was still there.
And when tried, sentenced and waiting for death it is no
consolation to know that what came off was a hundred to one
chance. To keep going and to maintain the one-man battle
the enemy had to be outwitted, if possible, all along the line
and all the time.

Satisfied that by now the most persistent of snoops could
not follow his tortuous trail through the city, Mowry retrieved
his case, lugged it up to the third floor of a crummy tenement
building, let himself into his suite of two sour-smelling rooms.
The rest of the day he spent cleaning the place up and making
it fit to live in.

He'd be lots harder to trace here. The shifty-eyed landlord
had not asked to see his identity-card, had accepted him
without question as Gast Hurkin, a low-grade railroad official,
honest, hard-working and stupid enough to pay his rent
regularly and on time. To the landlord's way of thinking the
unsavoury neighbours rated a higher I.Q. - in terms of that
environment - being able to get a crust with less effort and
remaining tight-mouthed about how they did it.

Housework finished, Mowry bought a paper, sought through
it from front to back for some mention of yesterday's activities,
There wasn't a word on the subject. At first he felt disappointed,
then on further reflection he became heartened.

Opposition to the war and open defiance of the government
definitely made news that justified a front-page spread. No
reporter, no editor would pass it up if he could help it.
Therefore the papers had passed it up because they could not help
it. They'd had no choice about the matter. Somebody high in
authority had clamped down upon them with the heavy hand
of censorship. Somebody with considerable power had been
driven into making a weak countermove.

That was a start, anyway. His first waspish buzzings had
forced authority to interfere with the press. What's more, the
countermove was feeble and ineffective. It wouldn't work. It
was doomed to failure, serving only as a stopgap while they
sat around and beat their brains for more decisive measures.

The more persistently a government maintains silence on a
given subject of discussion, the more the public talks about
it, thinks about it. The longer and more stubborn the silence
the guiltier it looks to the talkers and thinkers. In time of war
the most morale-lowering question that can be asked is,
`What are they hiding from us now?'

Some hundreds of citizens would be asking themselves that
same question tomorrow, the next day or the next week. The
potent words Dirac Angestun Gesept would be on a multitude
of lips, milling around in a like number of minds, merely
because the powers-that-be were afraid to talk.

And if a government fears to admit even the pettiest facts
of war, how much faith can the common man place in the
leadership's claim not to be afraid of anything? Hi?

A disease gains in menace when it spreads, popping up in
places far apart and taking on the characteristics of an
epidemic. For that reason Mowry's first outing from his new
abode was to Radine, a town two-forty miles south of Pertane.
Population three hundred thousand, hydro-electric power,
bauxite mines, aluminum extraction plants.

He caught an early morning train. It was overcrowded with
all those people compelled to move around by the various
needs of war: sullen workers, bored soldiers, self-satisfied
officials, colourless nonentities. The seat facing him was
occupied by a heavy-bellied character with bloated, porcine
features, a caricaturist's idea of the Jaimec Minister of Food.

The train set off, hit up a fast clip. People piled in and out
at intermediate stations. Pigface contemptuously ignored
Mowry, watched the passing landscape with lordly disdain,
finally fell asleep and let his mouth hang open. He was twice
as hoglike in his slumbers and would have attained near-
perfection with a lemon between his teeth.

Thirty miles from Radine the door from the coach ahead
slammed open, a civilian policeman entered. He was accompanied
by two burly, hard-faced characters in plain clothes.
This trio halted by the nearest passenger.

"Your ticket," demanded the cop.

The passenger handed it over, his expression scared. The
policeman examined it front and back, passed it to his
companions who studied it in turn.

"Your identity-card."

That got the same treatment, the cop looking it over as if
doing a routine chore, the other two surveying it more
critically and with concealed suspicion.

"Your movement permit."

It passed the triple scrutiny, was given back along with the
ticket and identity-card. The recipient's face showed vast
relief, The cop picked on the passenger sitting next to him.

"Your ticket,"

Mowry, seated two-thirds the way along the coach, observed
this performance with much curiosity and a little apprehension.
His feelings boosted to alarm when they reached the seventh
passenger.

For some reason best known to themselves the tough-looking
pair in plain clothes gazed longer and more intently at
this one's documents. Meanwhile, the passenger developed
visible signs of agitation. They stared at his strained face,
weighing him up. Their own features wore the hungry
expressions of predatory animals about to tear down a victim.

"Stand up!" barked one of them.

The passenger shot to his feet and stood quivering. He
swayed slightly and it was not due to the rocking of the train.
While the cop looked on, the two frisked the passenger with
speed and professional thoroughness. They took things out
of his pockets, pawed them around, shoved them back. They
patted his clothes all over, showing no respect for his person.

Finding nothing of significance, one of them muttered an
oath then yelled at the victim, "Well, what's giving you the
shakes?"

"I don't feel so good," said the passenger, feebly.

"Is that so? What's the matter with you?"

"Travel sickness. I always get this way in trains."

"It's a story, anyway." He glowered at the other, lost patience
and made a careless gesture. "All right, you can sit"

At that the passenger collapsed into his seat and breathed
heavily. He had the mottled complexion of one almost sick
from fear and relief. The cop eyed him a moment, let go a
sniff and turned attention to number eight.

"Ticket."

There were ten more to be chivvied before these inquisitors
reached Mowry. He was willing to take a chance on his documents
passing muster but he dared not risk a search. The cop was
just a plain, ordinary cop. The other two were members of
the all-powerful Kaitempi; if they dipped into his pockets
the balloon would go up once and for all. And in due time,
when on Terra it was realised that his silence was the silence
of the grave, a cold-blooded specimen named Wolf would give
with the sales talk to another sucker.

"Turn around. Walk bow-legged. We want you to become
a wasp."

By now most of the passengers were directing their full
attention along the aisle, watching what was going on and
meanwhile trying to ooze an aura of patriotic rectitude.
Mowry slid a surreptitious look at Pigface who was still lolling
opposite with head hanging on chest and mouth wide open.
Were those sunken little eyes really closed or were they watching
him between narrowed lids?

Short of pushing his face right up against the other's unpleasant
countenance he couldn't tell for certain. But it made no
difference, the trio were edging nearer every moment and he
had to take a risk. Furtively he felt behind him, found a tight
but deep gap in the upholstery where the bottom of the backrest
met the rear of the seat. Keeping his attention riveted
upon Pigface, he edged a pack of stickers and two crayons
out of his pocket, crammed them into the gap, poking them
well out of sight. The sleeper opposite did not stir or blink
an eyelid.

Two minutes later the cop gave Pigface an irritable shove
on the shoulder and that worthy woke up with a snort. He
glared at the cop, then at the pair in plain clothes.

"So! What is this?"

"Your ticket," said the cop.

"A traffic check, hi?" responded Pigface; showing sudden
understanding. "Oh, well -" Inserting fat fingers in a vest
pocket he took out an ornate card embedded in a slice of
transparent plastic. This he exhibited to the trio as if it were
the equivalent of the keys to the kingdom. The cop stared at
it and became servile. The two toughies stiffened like raw
recruits caught dozing on parade.

"Your pardon; Major," apologised the cop.

"It is granted," assured Pigface, showing a well-practised
mixture of arrogance and condescension. "You are only doing
your duty." He favoured the rest of the coach with a beam
of triumph born of petty power, openly enjoying the situation
and advertising himself as being several grades above
common herd.

Eyeing him with concealed dislike, Mowry became obsessed
with the notion that some buttocks have been designed by
Nature specifically to be kicked good and hard and that such
a target was within foot-reach right now. His right shoe got
the fidgets at the thought of it but he kept it firmly on the
floor.

Leery and embarrassed, the cop switched to Mowry, said,

"Ticket."

Mowry handed it over, striving to look innocent and bored.
Pseudo-nonchalance didn't come easy because now he was
the focal point of the coach's battery of eyes. Almost all the
other passengers were looking his way, Pigface was surveying
him speculatively and the two Kaitempi agents were giving
him the granite-hard stare.

"Identity-card."

That got passed across.

"Movement permit."

He surrendered it, braced himself for the half-expected
command of, "Stand up!"

It did not come. Anxious to get away from the fat Major's
cold, official gaze, the three examined the papers, handed them
back without comment and moved on. Mowry shoved the
documents into his pocket, tried to keep a great relief out of
his voice ras he spoke to the other.

"I wonder what they're after."

"It is no business of yours," said Pigface, as insultingly as
possible.

"No, of course not," agreed Mowry.

There was silence between them. Pigface sat mooning
through the window and showed no inclination to resume his
slumbers. Damn the fellow, thought Mowry, retrieving the
hidden stickers was going to prove difficult with that slob
awake and alert.

A door crashed shut as the cop and Kaitempi agents finished
with that coach and went through to the following one. A
minute later the train pulled up with such suddenness that a
couple of passengers were thrown from their seats. Outside
the train and farther back toward the rear end voices started
shouting.

Heaving himself to his feet, Pigface opened the window's
top half, stuck his head out and looked back toward the
source of the noise. Then with speed surprising in one so
cumbersome he whipped a gun from his pocket, ran along the
aisle and through the end door. Outside the bawling grew
louder.

Mowry got up and had a look through the window. Near
the tail of the train a small bunch of figures were running
alongside the track, the cop and the Kaitempi slightly in the
lead. As he watched, the latter swung up their right arms and
several sharp cracks rang through the morning air. It was
impossible to see at whom they were shooting.

Also beside the train, gun in hand, Pigface was pounding
heavily along in pursuit of the pursuers. Curious faces popped
out of windows all along the line of coaches. Mowry called
to the nearest face.

"What happened?"

"Those three came in to check papers. Some fellow saw
them, made a wild dash to the opposite door and jumped out.
They stopped the train and went after him."

"Was he hurt when he jumped?"

"Not by the looks of it. Last I saw of him he was diminishing
in the distance like a champion meika. He got a pretty.
good start. They'll be lucky to catch him."

"Who was he, anyway?"

"No idea. Some wanted criminal, I suppose."

"Well," offered Mowry; "if the Kaitempi came after me I'd
hotfoot it like a scared Spakum."

"Who wouldn't?" said the other.

Withdrawing, Mowry took his seat. All the other travellers
were at the windows, their full attention directed outside. This
was an opportune moment. He dug a hand into the hiding-
place, extracted the stickers and crayons, pocketed them.

The train stayed put for half an hour during which there
was no more excitement within hearing. Finally it jerked into
motion and at the same time Pigface reappeared and dumped
himself into his seat. His face was thunderous. He looked
sour enough to pickle his own hams.

"Did you catch him?" asked Mowry, lending his manner
all the politeness and respect he could muster.

Pigface bestowed a dirty look. "It is no business of yours."

"No, of course not," confirmed Mowry for the second time.

The previous silence came back and remained until the
train pulled into Radine. This being the terminus, everybody
got out. Mowry padded along with the mob through the
station exit but did not make a beeline for punishable
windows and walls.

Instead he followed Pigface.


Shadowing presented no great difficulty. Pigface behaved
as though the likelihood of being trailed would be the last
thing ever to enter his mind. He went his way with the arrogant
assurance of one who has the law in his pocket, all ordinary
persons being less than the dust beneath his chariot
wheel. In this respect his strength was his weakness, a fatal
weakness as he had yet to discover.

Immediately outside the station's arched entrance Pigface
turned right, plodded a hundred yards along the approach-
road to the car-park at the farther end. Here he stopped by
a long, green dynocar, felt in his pocket for keys.

Lingering in the shadow of a projecting buttress, Mowry
watched the quarry unlock the door and squeeze inside. He
hustled across the road to a taxi-stand, climbed into the
leading vehicle. The move was perfectly timed; he sank into
the seat just as the green dynocar whined past.

"Where to?" asked the taxi-driver.

"Can't tell you exactly," said Mowry, evasively. "I've been
here only once before and that was years ago. But I know the
way. Just follow my instructions"

The taxi's dynamo set up a rising hum as the machine sped
down the road while its passenger kept attention on the car
ahead and gave curt orders from time to time. It would have
been lots easier, he knew, to have pointed and said, "Follow
that green car." But that would have linked him in the driver's
mind with Pigface or at least with Pigface's green dyno. The
Kaitempi were experts at ferreting out such links and following
them to the bitter end. As it was, the taxi-driver had no
idea that he was shadowing anyone.

Swiftly the chaser and the chased threaded their way through
the centre of Radine until eventually the leader made a sharp
turn to the left and rolled down a ramp into the basement of
a large apartment building. Mowry let the taxi run
a couple of hundred yards farther on before he called a halt.

"This will do me." He got out, felt for money. "Nice to have
a good, dependable memory, isn't it?"

"Yar," said the driver. "One guilder six-tenths."

Mowry gave him two guilders, watched him cruise away.
Hastening back to the apartment building, he entered, took
an inconspicuous seat in its huge foyer, lay back and
pretended to be enjoying a semi-doze while waiting for
someone. There were several others sitting around none of
whom took the slightest notice of him.

Sure enough he'd not been there half a minute when Pigface
came into the other end of the foyer from a door leading to
the basement garage. Without so much as a glance around he
stepped into one of a bank of small automatic elevators. The
door slid shut. The illuminated telltale on the lintel winked a
succession of numbers, stopped at seven, held it awhile, then
winked downward to zero. The door glided open, showing
the box now empty.

After another five minutes Mowry yawned, stretched, consulted
his watch and went out. He paced along the street until
he found a phone booth. From it he called the apartment
building, got its switchboard operator.

"I was supposed to meet somebody in your foyer nearly an
hour ago," he explained. "I can't make it. If he's still waiting
I'd like him to be told I can't get along."

"Who is he?" asked the operator. "A resident?"

"Yes - but I've clean forgotten his name. Nobody is more
stupid than me about names. He is plump, got heavy features,
lives on the seventh floor. Major ... major ... what a soko
of a memory I've got!"

"That would be Major Sallana," the operator said.

"Correct," agreed Mowry. "Major Sallana - I had it at the
back of my mind all the time."

"Hold on. I'll see if he's still waiting." There followed a
minute's silence before the operator returned with, "No, he
isn't. I've just called his apartment and there's no reply. Do
you wish to leave a message for him?"

"It won't be necessary-he must have given me up. It's not
of great importance, anyway. Live long!"

"Live long!" said the operator.

So there was no reply from the apartment. Looked as if
Pigface had gone straight in and straight out again. Unless he
was lying in his bath and not inclined to answer the phone.
That didn't seem likely; he'd hardly had time to fill a tub,
undress and get into it. If he really was absent from his rooms
it meant that opportunity had presented itself so far as Mowry
was concerned and it was  up to him to grab it while it was
there.

Despite an inward sense of urgency, Mowry paused long
enough to cope with other work. He looked through the
booth's glass, found himself unobserved. Then he slapped a
sticker on the facing window exactly where tireless talkers
could contemplate it while holding the phone.

It said: Power lovers started this war. Dirac Angestun
Gesept will end it - and them!

Returning to the apartments he strolled with deceitful
confidence across the foyer, stepped into an unoccupied lift. He
turned to face the open front, became conscious of someone
hurrying toward the bank, glanced that way and was aghast to
find Pigface approaching.

The fellow was wearing a ruminative scowl, hadn't yet seen
him but undoubtedly would do so unless he moved fast. At
once Mowry slammed the door and prodded the third button
on the panel. The elevator glided up to the third floor, stopped.
He kept it there, the door still shut, until he heard the whine
of an adjoining box passing him and going higher. Then he
dropped back to ground-level, left the building. He felt
thwarted and short-tempered and cursed his luck in a steady
undertone.

Between then and mid-evening he worked off his ire by
running around like mad, decorating Radine with one hundred
and twenty stickers and fourteen chalked walls. On no
occasion did anyone catch him at it though, as usual, he had
several narrow escapes.

Deciding to call it a day for that kind of work, he dropped
the remaining half-stick of crayon down a grid and thereby
increased his safety margin to some degree. If stopped and
searched they'd now find nothing on him immediately
recognisable as subversive material.

At the ten-time hour he champed through an overdue meal,
having eaten nothing since breakfast. That finished, he looked
up Sallana's number, called it, got no reply. Now was the
time. Repeating his earlier tactic, he went to the building, took
a lift to the seventh floor, this time without mishap. He trod
silently along the heavy carpet of the corridor, looking at
doors until he found one bearing the name he sought.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, a fraction louder but not loud enough
to arouse others nearby.

Silence answered him.

This was where his hectic schooling came in. Taking from
his pocket a bunch of keys that looked quite ordinary but
weren't, he set to work on the lock, had the door open within
precisely thirty-five seconds. Speed was essential for that task
- if anyone had chosen that time to enter the corridor he'd
have been caught redhanded. Nobody did appear. He slipped
through the door, carefully closed it behind him.

His first act was to make swift survey of the rooms and
assure himself that nobody was lying around asleep or drunk.
There were four rooms, all vacant. Definitely Major Pigface
Sallana was not at home.

Returning to the first room, Mowry gave it a sharp examination,
spotted a gun lying atop a small filing cabinet. He
checked it, found it loaded, stuck it in his pocket.

Next, with expert technique he cracked open a big, heavy
desk and started raking through its drawers. The way he did
it had the sure, superfast touch of the professional criminal
but was in fact a tribute to his college training.

The contents of the fourth drawer on the left made his hair
stand on end. He had been seeking with the intention of
confiscating whatever it was that made cops servile and even
persuaded Kaitempi agents to stand to attention. Jerking open
the drawer, he found himself gazing at a neat stack of writing
paper bearing official print across its head.

This was more than he'd expected, more than he had hoped
for in his most optimistic moments. To his mind it proved
that despite his college lectures about caution, caution,
everlasting caution, it pays to play hunches and take chances.
What the paper's caption said was:

			DIRAC KAIMINA TEMPITI.
				Leshun Radine.

In other words: the Sirian Secret Police - District of
Radine. No wonder those thugs on the train had made ready
to grovel. Pigface was a Kaitempi brasshat and as such out-
ranked an army brigadier or even a space navy fleet leader.

This discovery upped the speed of his activity still further.
From the pile of luggage in the back room he seized a small
case, forced it open, tossed the clothing it contained onto the
floor. He dumped all the Kaitempi writing paper into the case.
A little later he found a small embossing machine, tested it,
found that it impressed the letters DKT surmounted by a
winged sword. That also went into the case.

Finishing with the desk he started on the adjacent filing
cabinet, his nostrils twitching with excitement as he worked
at its top drawer. A faint sound came to his ears, he stopped,
taut and listening. It was the scrape of a key in the door-lock.
The key failed to turn at the first attempt, tried again.

Mowry jumped toward the wall, flattened himself against
it where he'd be concealed by the opening door. The key
grated a second time, the lock responded, the door swung
across his field of vision as Pigface lumbered in.

Pigface took four paces into the room before his brain
accepted what his eyes could see. He came to a full stop, stared
incredulously and with mounting fury at the ransacked desk
while behind him the door drifted around and clicked shut.
Reaching a decision, he turned to go out and then saw the
invader.

"Good evening," greeted Mowry, flat-voiced.

"You?" Pigface glowered at him with outraged authority.
"What are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?"

"I'm here as a common thief. The meaning is that you've
been robbed."

"Then let me tell you -"

"When robbery is done," Mowry went on, "somebody has to
be the victim. This time it's your turn. No reason why you
should have all the luck all the time, is there?"

Pigface took a step forward.

"Sit down!" ordered Mowry, in sharp tones.

The other stopped but did not sit. He stood firm upon the
carpet, his small, crafty eyes taking on a stubborn glint, his
complexion dark. He spoke in manner suggesting that at any
moment he might go bang.

"Put down that gun."

"Who? - me?" said Mowry.

"You don't know what you're doing," declared Pigface,
conditioned by a lifetime of creating fear. "Because you don't
know who I am. But when you do you'll wish."

"As happens, I do know who you are," Mowry chipped in.
"You're one of the Kaitempi's fat rats. A professional torturer,
a paid strangler, a conscienceless soko who maims and kills
for money and for the sadistic pleasure of it. Sit down when
I tell you."

Still Pigface refused to sit. On the contrary, he refuted the
popular belief that all bullies are cowards. Like many of his
ilk he had brute courage. His eyes flared with hate, he took
a heavy but swift step to one side while his hand dived into a
pocket.

But the eyes that so often had calmly watched the death-
throes of others had now betrayed him to his own end. The
step had hardly been taken, the hand only just reached the
pocket, when Mowry's gun went br-r-r-rup! , not loudly but
effectively. For five or six seconds Pigface stood wearing a
stupid expression, then he teetered, fell backward with a thud
that shook the room, rolled onto his side.

Gently opening the door a few inches, Mowry gazed into
the corridor, remained listening awhile. There came no rush of
feet toward the apartment, nobody raced away yelling for
help. If anyone had heard the muffled burst of shots they
must have attributed the noise to the flow of traffic far below.

Satisfied that the alarm had not been raised, he shut the
door, bent over the body, had a close look at it. Pigface was
as dead as he could be, the brief spray from the machine
pistol having put seven slugs through his obese frame.

It was a pity, in a way, because Mowry would much have
liked to have hammered, kicked or otherwise got out of him
the answers to some cogent questions. Whether he could have
gained his purpose in this respect was highly doubtful but it
would have been worth the trying. There were many things
he wanted to know about the Kaitempi, in particular the
identities of its current victims, their physical condition and
where they were hidden. No wasp could find supporters more
loyal and enthusiastic than genuine natives of the planet
rescued from the strangler's noose.

But one cannot thump information from a corpse. That was his
sole regret. In all other respects he had cause for gratification.
For one thing, factual evidence of the methods of the Kaitempi
was of such a revolting nature that to remove any one of
them from the scheme of things was to do a favour to
Sirians and Terrans alike. For another, such a daring, killing
was an ideal touch in present circumstances: it lent murderous
support to stickers and wall-scrawls.

It was a broad hint to the powers-that-be that somebody
was willing and able to do more than talk. The wasp had done
plenty of buzzing around. Now it had demonstrated its sting.

He searched the body and got what he had coveted from
the moment that Pigface had basked in adulation upon the
train. The ornate card set in thin plastic. It bore signs, seals
and signatures, certified that the bearer held the rank of major
in the Secret Police. Better still, it did not give the bearer's
name and personal description, contenting itself with using a
code-number in lieu. The Secret Police, it seemed, could be
warily secret even between themselves, a habit of which others
could take full advantage.

Mowry now returned attention to the filing cabinet. Most
of the stuff within it proved to be worthless, revealing nothing
not already known to Terran Intelligence. But there were
three files containing case-histories of persons who had also
been made to conform to the Kaitempi habit of hiding identities
under code-numbers. Evidently Pigface had abstracted
them from local headquarters and taken them home to study
at leisure.

He scanned these papers rapidly. It soon became clear that
the three unknowns had earned the enmity of the government
by nursing political ambitions. They were potential rivals of
those already in power. The case-histories said nothing to
indicate whether they were now living or dead. The implication
was that they were still alive, with their fate yet to be decided,
otherwise it seemed hardly likely that Pigface would waste
time on such documents. Anyway, the disappearance of these
vital papers would aggravate the powers-that-be and possibly
scare a few of them.

So he put the files in the case along with the rest of the
loot. After that he made a swift hunt around for anything
previously overlooked, searched spare suits in the bedroom,
discovered, nothing more worth taking. The last chore was to
remove from the apartment all clues capable of linking him
with the existing situation.

With the case in one hand and the gun in his pocket, he
paused in the doorway, looked back at the body.

"Live long!"

Pigface did not deign to reply. He reposed in siience, his
podgy right hand clasping a paper on which was inscribed:

Executed by Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Whoever found the body would be sure to pass that message
on. It would be equally certain to go from hand to hand, up
the ascending scale or rank, right to the top brackets. With
any luck at all it would give a few of them the galloping gripes.


	Chapter IV


LUCK HELD. Mowry did not have to wait long for a train to
Pertane. He was more than glad of this because the bored
station police tended to become inquisitive about travellers
who sat around too long. True, if accosted he could show his
documents or, strictly as a last resort, arrogantly use the stolen
Kaitempi card to browbeat his way out of a possible trap: But
it was better and safer not to become an object of attention
in this place at this time.

The train came in and he managed to get aboard without
having been noticed by one of several restlessly roaming cops.
After a short time it pulled out again, rumbled into pitch
darkness. The lateness of the hour meant that passengers were few
and the coach he had chosen had plenty of vacant seats. It
was easy to select a place where he'd not be pestered by a
garrulous neighbour or studied for the fall length of the
journey by someone with sharp eyes and a long memory. He lolled
back, tired and heavy-eyed, and hoped to heaven that if there
should be another police check en route his papers, or the
Kaitempi card, or his gun would get him out of a jam.

One thing was certain: if Pigface's body were found within
the next three or four hours the resulting hullabaloo would
spread fast enough and far enough to ensure a thorough end-
to-end search of the train. The searchers would have no suspect's
description to go upon but they'd take a look into all
luggage and recognise stolen property when they found it.
Anyone of relatively low brain-power would have the sense
to grab the owner of said luggage and disregard all
protestations of innocence.

He dozed uneasily to the hypnotic thrum-tiddy-thrum of
the train. Every time a door slammed or a window rattled
he awoke, nerves stretched, body tense. A couple of times he
wondered whether a top priority radio-call was beating the
train to its destination.

`Halt and search all passengers and luggage on the 11.20
from Radine.`

There was no check on the way. The train slowed, clanked
through the points and switches of a large grid system, rolled
into Pertane. Its passengers dismounted, all of them sleepy
and a few looking half-dead as they straggled untidily toward
the exit. Mowry timed himself to be in the rear of the bunch,
lagging behind with half a dozen bandy-legged moochers. His
full attention was directed straight ahead, watching for
evidence of a grim-faced bunch waiting at the barrier.

If they were really there, in ambush for him, there'd be only
two courses open to him. He could drop the case and with it
the valuable loot, shoot first and fastest, make a bolt and hope
to get away in the ensuing confusion. As a tactic it would give
him the advantage of surprise. But failure meant immediate
death and even success might be dearly bought with a couple
of bullets in the body.

Alternatively he could try to bluff by marching straight up
to the biggest and ugliest of them, shoving the case into his
hands and saying with dopey eagerness, `Pardon, officer, but
one of those fellows who just went through dropped this in
front of me. I can't imagine why he abandoned his luggage.`
Then somewhere in the resulting chaos should occur the
chance for him to amble around a corner and run as if jet-
propelled.

He was sweaty with reaction when he found his fears were
not confirmed. It had been his first murder and it was a
murder because they would define it as such. So he'd been
paying for it in his own imagination, fancying himself hunted
before the hunt was up. Beyond the barrier lounged two
station police eyeing the emerging stream with total lack of
interest and yawning from time to time. He went past practically
under their noses and they could not have cared less about him.

But he wasn't yet out of the bag. Police on the station expected
to see people carrying luggage any time of day or night.
Cops in the city streets were different, being more inclined to
question the reason at such an indecent hour. They were nasty-
minded about burdened walkers in the night.

That problem could be solved by the easy expedient of
taking a taxi only to create another problem. Taxis have to
be driven. Drivers have mouths and memories. The most taciturn
of them could become positively gabby when questioned by the
Kaitempi.

"You take anyone off the 11.20 from Radine?"

"Yar. Young fellow with a case."

"Notice anything suspicious about him? He act tough or
behave warily, for instance?"

`Not that I noticed. Seemed all right to me. Wasn't a native
Jaimecan though. Spoke with a real Mashambi growl."

"Remember where you took him, hi?"

"Yar, I do. I can show you."

There was an escape from this predicament; he took it by
dumping the case in a rented locker on the station and walking
away free of the betraying burden. In theory the case should
be safe enough for one full Jaimecan day. In ominous fact
there was a slight chance of it being discovered and used as
bait.

On a world where nothing was sacrosanct from their prying
fingers the Kaitempi had master-keys to everything. They
weren't above opening and searching every bank of lockers
within a thousand miles of the scene of the crime if by any
quirk of thought they took it into their heads that to do so
would be a smart move. So when he returned in daytime to
collect the case he'd have to approach the lockers with
considerable caution, making sure that a watch was not being
kept upon them by a ring of hard characters.

Pacing rapidly home, he was within half a mile of his 
destination when two cops stepped from a dark doorway the 
other side of the street.

"Hey, you!"

Mowry stopped. They came across, stared at him in grim
silence. Then one made a gesture to indicate the high-shining
stars, the deserted street.

"Wandering around pretty late, aren't you?"

"Nothing wrong with that, is there?" he answered, making
his tone slightly apologetic.

"We are asking the questions," retorted the cop. "Where've
you been to this hour?"

"On a train."

"From where?"

"Khamasta."

"And where're you going now?"

"Home."

"You'd have made it quicker in a taxi, wouldn't you?"

"Sure would," Mowry agreed. "Unfortunately I happened to
be last out. Someone always has to be last out. By that time
every taxi had been grabbed."

"Well, it's a story."

At this point the other cop chipped in. He adopted
Technique Number Seven, namely, a narrowing of the eyes, an
out-thrusting of the jaw and a harshening of the voice. Once
in a while Number Seven would be rewarded with a guilty look
or at least a hopelessly exaggerated expression of innocence.
He was very good at it, having practised it assiduously
upon his wife and the bedroom mirror.

"You wouldn't perhaps have been nowhere near Khamasta,
hi? You wouldn't perhaps have been spending the night taking
a nice, easy stroll around Pertane and sort of absentmindedly
messing around with walls and windows, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't," said Mowry. "For the reason that nobody
would pay me a bad guilder for my trouble. Do I look crazy?"

"Not enough to be noticed," admitted the cop. "But somebody's
doing it, crazy or not."

"Well, I can't blame you fellows for wanting to nab him.
I don't like loonies myself. They give me the creeps." He made
an impatient gesture. "If you're going to search me how about
getting the job done? I've had a long day, I'm dog-tired and
I want to get home."

"I don't think we'll bother," said the cop. "You show us your
identity-card."

Mowry dug it out. The cop gave it no more than a perfunctory
glance while his companion ignored it altogether.

"All right, on your way. If you insist on walking the streets
at this hour you must expect to be stopped and questioned.
There's a war on, see?"

"Yes, officer;' said Mowry, meekly.

He pushed off at his best pace, thanking heaven he had
got rid of his luggage. If he'd been holding that case tbey'd
have regarded it, rightly enough, as probable evidence of evil-
doing. To prevent them from opening it and inspecting the
contents he'd have had to subdue them with the Kaitempi
card. He didn't want to make use of that tactic if he could
help it until sometime after Pigface's killing had been
discovered and the resulting uproar had died down. Say in at
least one month's time.

Reaching his apartment, he undressed but did not go immediately
to sleep. He lay in bed and examined the precious card again
and again. Now that he had more time to ponder its full
significance and obvious potentialities he found himself
torn two ways - should he keep it or not?

The socio-political system of the Sirian Empire being what
it was, a Kaitempi card was the prime scare-device on any
Sirian-held planet. The mere sight of this dreaded totem was
enough to make ninety-nine percent of civilians get down on
their knees and salaam, their faces in the dust. That fact made
a Kaitempi card of tremendous value to any wasp. Yet Terra
had not provided him with such a weapon. He'd had to grab
it for himself. The obvious conclusion was that Terran
Intelligence lacked an original copy.

Out there amid the mist of stars, on the green-blue world
called Earth, they could duplicate anything save a living.
entity - and could produce a very close imitation even of that.
Maybe they needed this card. Given the chance, maybe they'd
arm every wasp in existence with a mock-majorship in the
Kaitempi and by the same token give life to some otherwise
doomed to death.

For himself, to surrender the card to Terran authority would
be like voluntarily sacrificing his queen while playing a hard-
fought and bitter game of chess. All the same, before going
to sleep he reached his conclusion: on his first return to the
cave he would beam a detailed report of what had happened,
the prize he had won and what it was worth. Terra could then
decide whether or not to deprive him of it in the interest of
the greater number.

The wasp buzzed alone, unaided, but was loyal to the swarm.

At noon he made cautious return to the station, hung
around for twenty minutes as if waiting to meet an incoming
traveller. He kept sharp, careful watch in all directions while
appearing bored and interested in nothing save occasional
streams of arrivals. Some fifty or sixty other people were
idling about in unconscious imitation of himself, among them
he could detect nobody maintaining a sly eye upon the lockers.
There were about a dozen who looked overmuscled and wore
the deadpan hardness of officials but these were solely
interested in people coming through the barriers.

Finally he took the chance, ambled casually up to his locker,
stuck his key in its door while wishing to God that he had
a third eye located in the back of his neck. Opening the door
he took out the case and had a bad moment as he stood with
the damning evidence in his hand. If ever it was going to
occur, now was the time for a shout of triumph, a sudden grip
on his shoulder, a bunch of callous faces all around.

Still nothing happened. He strolled away looking blandly
innocent but deep inside as leery as a fox who hears the dim,
distant baying of the hounds. Outside the station he jumped
a crosstown bus, maintained a wary watch for followers.

Chances were very high that nobody had noticed him, nobody
was interested in him, because in Radine the Kaitempi
were still running around in circles without the vaguest notion
of where to probe first. But he could not take that for granted
nor dare he underestimate their craftiness. There was one
chance in a thousand that by some item he'd overlooked or
hadn't thought of he'd given them a lead straight to the lockers
and that they had decided not to nab him on the spot, hoping
that if left to run loose he'd take them to the rest of the
presumed mob.

So during the ride he peered repeatedly backward, observed
passengers getting on and off, tried to see if he could spot a
loaded dynocar tagging along somewhere behind. He changed
buses five times, lugged the case along two squalid alleys,
walked into the fronts and out the backs of three department
stores.

Satisfied at last that there was no surreptitious pursuit he
made for his apartment, kicked the case under the bed, let go
a deep sigh. They'd warned him that this kind of life would
prove a continual strain on the nerves. It sure was!

Going out again, he bought a box of envelopes and a cheap
typewriter. Then using the Kaitempi paper he spent the rest
of the day and part of the next one typing with forceful
brevity. He didn't have to bother about leaving his prints all
over this correspondence; Terran fingerprint treatment had
turned his impressions into vague, unclassifiable blotches.

When he had finished that task he devoted the following
day to patient research in the city library. He made copious
notes, went home, addressed a stack of envelopes, stamped
the lot.

In the early evening he mailed more than two hundred
letters to newspaper editors, radio announcers, military
leaders, senior civil servants, police chiefs, prominent
politicians and key-members of the government. Defiantly
positioned under the Kaitempi heading and supported by the
embossed seal of its winged sword, the message was short
but said plenty.

Sallana is the first.
There are plenty more to come.
The list is long.
Dirac Angestun Gesept.

That done, he burned the envelope-box and dropped the
typewriter in the river where it ran deep. If he had occasion
to write any more letters he'd buy another one and afterward
get rid of it the same way. He could well afford to buy and
scrap a hundred typewriters if he thought it necessary. The
more the merrier. If the Kaitempi analysed the type on
threatening correspondence and found a number of untraceable
machines being used, they'd get the idea that a gigantic
organisation was at work. Furthermore, every purchase helped
inflate the Jaimecan economy with worthless paper.

His next step was to visit a drive-yourself agency and rent
a dynocar for a week, using the name of Shir Agavan and the
address of the hotel where first he'd holed-up. By its means
he got rid of five hundred stickers distributed over six small
towns and thirty villages. The job was a lot riskier than it
had been in Radine or Pertane.

The villages were by far the worst to handle, the smaller
in size the more troublesome they proved. In a city of a quarter
million to two million population a stranger is an insignificant
nonentity; in a dump of less than one thousand inhabitants he
is noticed, remarked upon, his every move watched.

On many occasions a bunch of yokels gave him the chance
to slap up a sticker by switching attention from him to his
car. Twice somebody took down the car's number just for
the ducks of it. It was a good thing he'd given a blind-alley
lead when hiring it because police inquiries about the
widespread rash of subversive stickers would almost certainly
make them relate the phenomenon to the laconic, fast-moving
stranger driving dyno XC 17978.

He had been on Jaimec exactly four weeks when he disposed of
the last of the stickers from his bag and thus reached
the end of phase one. It was at this point he began to feel
despondent.

In the papers and over the air officialdom still maintained
complete silence about traitorous activities. Not a word had
been said about the slaughter of Pigface Sallana. All the
outward evidence suggested that the government remained
bliss-fully unaware of waspish buzzings and was totally
uncon-cerned about the existence of an imaginery Dirac Angestun
Gesept.

Thus deprived of visible reactions Mowry had no way of
telling what results he had achieved, if any. In retrospect this
paper-war looked pretty futile in spite of all Wolf's glib talk
about pinning down an army with little more than gestures.
He, Mowry, had been lashing out in the dark and the other'
fellow wasn't even bothering to hit back.

That made it difficult to maintain enthusiasm at the first
feverish pitch. Just one public squeal of pain from the
opposition or a howl of fury or a tirade of threats would have
given him a big boost by showing him that at last he had landed
a real wallop on something solid. But they wouldn't give him
the petty satisfaction of hearing them breathing hard.

He was paying the psychological penalty of working alone.
There was no companion-in-arms with whom to share
stimulating speculations about the enemy's hidden countermoves.
Nobody to encourage or from whom to receive encouragement.
Nobody sharing the conspiracy and the danger and - as is
usual among two or more - the laughs. In his waspish
role he was thrown wholly upon his own moral resources
which needed feeding with factual evidence that so far had
not been forthcoming.

Swiftly he built up a blue spell so dismal and depressing
that for two days he hung around the apartment and did
nothing but mope. On the third day pessimism evaporated
and was replaced with a growing sense of alarm. He did not
ignore the new feeling. At training college they'd warned him
times without number always to heed it.

"The fact that one is hunted in deadly earnest can cause an
abnormal sharpening of the mental perceptions almost to the
point of developing a sixth sense. That's what makes hardened
criminals difficult to catch. They get hunches and play them.
Many a badly wanted crook has moved out one jump ahead
of the police with such timeliness that they've suspected a
tip-off. All that had really happened was that the fellow
suddenly got the jitters and took off good and fast. For the sake
of your skin you do the same. If ever you feel they're getting
close don't hang around and try check on it - just beat it
someplace else !"

Yes, that's what they'd said to him. He remembered now
that he had wondered whether this ability to smell danger
might be quasi-telepathic. The police rarely pulled a raid
without a stakeout or some sort of preliminary observation.
A hound hanging around a hole, sharp-eyed, sharp-toothed
and unable to avoid thinking of what he was doing, might
give the one in hiding his mental scent that would register not
in clear thought-forms but rather as the inward shrilling of an
alarm-bell.

On the strength of that he grabbed his bags and bolted out
the back way. Nobody was loafing around at that moment,
nobody saw him go, nobody tracked him as he went.

Four beefy characters stationed themselves within watching
and shooting distance of the back a little before midnight. Two
carloads of similar specimens drew up at the front, bashed
open the door, charged upstairs. They were there three hours
and half-killed the landlord before they became convinced
of his ignorance.

Mowry knew nothihg of this. It was the much-needed boost
he was lucky to miss.

His new sanctuary a mile and a half distant was one long,
narrow room at top of a dilapidated building in Pertane's
toughest quarter, a district where slatterns kept house by
kicking the dirt around until it got lost. Here he'd not been asked
for any name or identity-card, it being one of the more delightful
customs of the country to mind one's own goddam business. All
that proved necessary was to exhibit a fifty guilder note.
The money had been snatched, a cheap and well-worn
key given in exchange.

Promptly he made the key useless by buying a cruciform
multiward lock and fitting it to the door. He also fixed a
couple of recessed bolts to the window despite that it was
forty feet above ground and well-nigh unreachable. Finally
he built a small hidden trap in the roof, this being his intended
escape route if ever the stairs became solidly blocked with
enemy carcases.

For the time being, he reckoned, he stood chiefly in danger
of the locality's small-time thieves - the big ones wouldn't
bother to cut their way into one room in a slum. The locks
and bolts should be plenty good enough to keep out the pikers.
He trusted his unsavoury neighbours as much as they trusted
their own mothers which was as far as said mothers could
be thrown with one hand against a strong wind.

Again he had to spend some time cleaning the joint and
making it fit for Terran habitation. If ever he was caught by
the Kaitempi he'd roll in the deep, stinking filth of a death-
cell, naked, manacled and half-starved until they led him to
tbe strangling-post. Dirt would then have to be endured
because there'd be no choice about it. But so long as he
remained free he insisted on his right to be fastidious. By
the time he'd finished his housework the room was brighter and
sweeter than ever it had been since the builders moved out
and the proletariat moved in.

By now he'd recovered from both his depression and his
sense of impending disaster. In better spirits he went outdoors,
walked along the road until he reached a vacant lot littered
with junk. When nobody was looking he dropped Pigface's
gun on the lot at a point near the sidewalk where it could
easily be seen.

Ambling onward with hands in pockets, his gait a bow-
legged slouch, he reached a doorway, lounged in it and
assumed the look of bored cunning of one who sows not
neither doth he reap. This was the fashionable expression in
that area. Mostly his gaze was aimed across the street but all
the time he was keeping surreptitious watch upon the gun
lying seventy yards away.

What followed proved yet again that not one person in ten
uses his eyes. Within short time thirty people had passed close
by the gun without seeing it. Six of these walked within a
few inches of it, one actually stepped over it.

Finally someone spotted it. He was a shrivel-chested, spindly-
legged youth with splotches of darker purple on his face.
Halting by the gun, he stared at it, bent over for a closer look
but did not touch it. Then he glanced hurriedly and, failed
to see the watching Mowry who had retreated farther into the
doorway. Again he bent toward the gun, put out a hand as if
to grab it. At the last moment he changed his mind, hastened
away. He crossed right in front of Mowry, his face wearing wearing
a mixture of frustrated cupidity and fear.

"Wanted it but too. scared to take it," Mowry decided.

Twenty more pedestrians passed. Of these, two noticed the
gun and pretended they'd not seen it. Neither came back to
claim it when nobody was near. Probably they viewed the
weapon as dangerous evidence that someone had seen fit to
dump - and they weren't going to be chumps enough to be
caught with it. The one who eventually confiscated it was an
artist in his own right.

This character, a heavily built individual with hanging jowls
and a rolling gait, went by the gun and noted its existence
without batting an eyelid or changing pace. Continuing onward,
he stopped at the next corner fifty yards away, looked
around with the air of a stranger uncertain of his whereabouts,
dug a notebook from his pocket and put on a great play of
consulting it. All the time his sharp little eyes were darting
this way and that but failed to find the watcher in the doorway.

After a while he retraced his steps, crossed the vacant lot,
dropped the notebook on top of the gun, scooped up both in
one swift snatch and ambled casually onward. The way the
book remained prominently in his hand while the gun
disappeared was a wonder to behold.

Letting the, fellow get a good lead, Mowry emerged from
the doorway and followed. He hoped the other had only a
short way to go. This, obviously, was a smart customer likely
to notice and throw off a shadower if chased too long. He
didn't want to lose him after the trouble he'd taken to find
a willing gun-grabber.

Floppy Jowls continued along the road, turned right into
a narrower and dirtier street, headed over a crossroad, turned
left. At no time did he behave suspiciously, take evasive tactics
or show any awareness of being followed.

Near the end of the street he entered a cheap restaurant
with dusty windows and a cracked, unreadable sign above it
door. A few moments later Mowry mooched past, gave the
place a swift once-over. It had an ominous look about it, a
typical rat-hole where underworld characters took refuge from
the sunshine while they waited for the night. But. nothing
ventured, nothing gained. Boldly he shoved open the door and
walked in.

The place stank of unwashed bodies, stale food and drippings
of zith. Behind the bar a sallow-faced attendant eyed
him with the hostile expression reserved for any and every
unfamiliar face. A dozen customers sat in the half-light by
the stained and paintless wall and glowered at him on general
principles. They looked a choice bunch of apaches.

Mowry leaned on the bar and spoke to Sallow Face, making
his tones sound tough. "I'll have a mug of coffee."

"Coffee?" The other jumped as if rammed with a needle.
"Blood of Jaime, that's a Spakum drink."

"Yar," said Mowry. "I want to spit it all over the floor."
He let go a harsh, grating laugh. "Wake up and give me a
zith."

The attendant scowled, snatched a none too clean glassite
mug from a shelf, pumped it full of low-grade zith and slid
it across. "Six-tenths."

Paying him, Mowry took the drink across to a small table
in the darkest corner, a dozen pairs of eyes following his every
move. He sat down, looked idly around and ignored the grim
silence. His manner was that of one thoroughly at home when
slumming. His questing gaze found Floppy Jowls just as that
worthy left his seat, came across mug in hand and joined him
at the table.

The latter's move in apparently welcoming the newcomer
caused a sudden relaxation in the place. Tension disappeared,
toughies lost interest in Mowry, the bar attendant lounged
back, general conversation was resumed. That showed Floppy
Jowls was sufficiently well-known among the hard-faced
clientele for them to take on trust anyone known to him.

Meanwhile, he had squatted face to face with Mowry and
introduced himself with, "My name is Arhava, Butin Arhava."
He paused, waiting for a response that did not come; then
went on, "You're a stranger. From Diracta. Specifically from
Masham. I can tell by your accent."

"Clever of you," Mowry encouraged.

"One has to be clever to get by. The stupid don't. They choke
in a rope." He took a swig of zith. "You wouldn't walk into
this place unless you were a genuine stranger - or one of the
Kaitempi."

"No?"

"No, I don't think so. And the Kaitempi wouldn't dare send
just one man in here. They'd send six. Maybe more. The
Kaitempi would expect trouble aplenty in the Cafe Susun."

"That," said Mowry, "suits me very well."

"It suits me even better." Butin Arhava showed the snout
of Pigface's gun pver the edge of the table. It was pointed
straight at the other's middle. "I do not like being followed.
If this gun went off nobody in here would give a damn. You
wouldn't worry either, not for long. So you'd better talk. Why
have you been following me, hi?"

"You knew I was behind you all the time?"

"I did. What's the big idea?"

"You'll hardly believe it when I tell you." Leaning across the
table, Mowry grinned straight into his scowling face. "I want
to give you a thousand guilders."

"That's nice," said Arhava, unimpressed. "That's very nice."
His eyes narrowed. "And you're all set to reach into your
pocket and give it me, hi?"

Mowry nodded, still grinning. "Yes - unless you're so lily-
livered that you prefer to reach into it yourself."

"You won't bait me that way," retorted Arhava. "I've got
control of the situation and I'm keeping it, see? Now get busy
dipping - but if what comes out of that pocket is a gun it's
you and not me who'll be at the wrong end of the bang. Go
ahead and dip. I'm watching."

With the weapon steadily aimed at him over the table's rim,
Mowry felt in his right-hand pocket, drew out a neat wad of
twenty-guilder notes, poked them across. "There you are.
They're all yours."

For a moment Arhava gaped with complete incredulity,
then he made a swift pass and the notes vanished. The gun
also disappeared. He lay back in his seat and studied Mowry
with a mixture of bafflement and suspicion. "Now show
the string."

"No string," Mowry assured. "Just a gift from an admirer."

"Meaning who?"

"Me."

"But you don't know me from the Statue of Jaime."

"I hope to," said Mowry. "I hope to know you well enough
to convince you of something mightily important"

"And what is that?"

"There's lots more money where that came from."

"Is that so?" Arhava gave a knowing smirk. "Well, where
did it come from?"

"I just told you - an admirer."

"Don't give me that.

"All right. The conversation is over. It's been nice knowing
you. Now get back to your own seat"

"Don't be silly." Licking his lips, Arhava glanced cautiously
around the room, reduced his voice almost to a whisper. "How
much?"

"Twenty thousand guilders."

The other fanned his hands as if beating off an annoying
fly. "Sh-h-h! Don't say it so loud!" Another leery look around
the room. "Did you actually say twenty thousand?"

"Yar."

Arhava took a deep breath. "Who d'you want killed?"

"One - for a start."

"Are you serious?"

"I've just given you a thousand guilders and that's not funny.
Besides, you can put the matter to the test. Cut a throat and
collect it's as easy as that."

"Just for a start, you said?"

"I did. By that is meant that if I like your work I'll offer
further employment. I've got a list of names and will pay
twenty thousand per body." Watching him for effect, Mowry
put a note of warning into his voice. "The Kaitempi will
reward you with ten thousand for delivering me into their
hands. That's money for the taking and with no risk attached.
But to get it you'll have to sacrifice all chance at a far bigger
sum, maybe a million or more." He paused, finished with
pointed sarcasm, "One does not flood one's own goldmine,
does one?"

"Nar, not unless one is cracked." Arhava became slightly
unnerved as his thoughts milled around. "And what makes
you think I'm a professional killer?"

"I don't think anything of the sort. But I know you're a
shady character, probably with a police record, otherwise you
wouldn't have swiped that gun and neither would you dive
into a crummy joint like this. That means you're just the type
who'll do some dirty work for me or, alternatively, can
intro-duce me to someone who is willing to do it. Personally, I
don't care a hoot who performs the task, you or your Uncle
Smatsy. I reek of money. You love the scent of it. If you want
to go on, sniffing it you've got to do something about it."

Arhava nodded slowly, stuck a hand in his pocket and
fondled the thousand guilders. There was a queer fire in his
eyes. "I don't do that kind of work, it's not quite in my line.
And it needs more than one, but -"

"But what?"

"Not saying. I've got to have time to think this over. I want
to discuss it with a couple of friends."

Mowry stood up. `I'll give you four days to find them and
chew the fat. By then you'd better have made up your mind
one way or the other. I'll be here again in four days time at
this hour." Then he gave the other a light but imperative shove
in the shoulder. "I don't like being followed either. Lay off if
you want to grow old and get rich."

With that; he departed: Arhava remained obediently seated
and gazed dreamily at the door. After a time he called for,
another zith. His voice was strangely hoarse.

The barman dumped the drink at his elbow, said with no
great interest, "Friend of yours, Butin?"

"Yar Datham Hain."

Datham Hain being the Sirian version of Santa Claus.


Chapter V


IN THE EARLY morning Mowry went to another and different
agency, rented a dynocar under the name of Morfid Payth
with an address in Radine. He couldn't risk using the same
agency twice in succession; it was highly likely that already
the police had visited the first one and asked pointed
questions. There they'd recognise him as the subject of official
investigation, detain him on some pretext while they used the
telephone.

He drove out the town carefully, with circumspection, not
wanting to draw the attention of any patrol-cars lurking
around. Eventually he reached the tree with the abnormal
branch formation and the mock-tombstone beneath it. For a
few minutes he stopped nearby pretending to tinker with the
dynamo until the road became completely clear of traffic in
both directions. Then swiftly he drove the car over the grass
verge and in between the trees for as far as he could get it.

After that he went back on foot and satisfied himself that
it could not be seen from the road. With his feet he scuffed
the grass and thus concealed the tyre-tracks entering the
forest. That done, he headed for the distant cave, moving as
fast as he could make it.

He got there in the late afternoon. When still deep among
the trees and eight hundred yards from his destination the
ornamental ring on the middle finger of his left hand started
tingling. The sensation grew progressively stronger as he
neared. This caused him to make a straight and confident
approach with no preliminary skirmishing around. The ring
would not have tingled if Container-22 had ceased to radiate
and that would happen only on the breaking of its beam by
the invasion of the cave by something man-sized.

Yes, if accidentally or otherwise the enemy had found the
hidden dump and made a trap of it, the quarry would have
faded away with a half-mile running start. And they'd have
been left to sit on their butts and wait for him who never
arrives.

Also in the cave was something more spectacular than an
invisible warning system. Probably the discoverers' curiosity
would have got the better of them and they'd start prying open
the stacked duralumin cylinders including Container-30. When
they interfered with that one the resulting bang would be
heard and felt in faraway Pertane.

Once in the cave he opened Container-2, got busy while
daylight lasted and treated himself to a real Earth-meal
concocted of real Earth-food. He was far from being a guzzle-
guts but shared with exiles a delight in the flavours of home.
A small can of pineapple seemed like a taste of heaven, he
lingered over every drop of juice and made it last twenty
minutes. The feed gave quite a lift to his morale, made the
growing forces out there among the stars seem not so far
away.

Upon the fall of darkness he rolled Container-5 out the
cave's mouth, upended it on the tiny beach. It was now a tall
silver-gray cylinder pointed at the stars. From its side he
unclipped a small handle, stuck it into a hole in the slight
blister near the base, wound vigorously. Something inside began
to murmur a smooth and steady zuum-zuum.

He now took the top cap off the cylinder, having to stand
on tiptoe to get at it. Then he sat on a nearby rock and waited.
After the cylinder had warmed up it emitted a sharp click and
the zuum-zuum struck a deeper note. He knew that it was
now shouting into space, using soundless words far stronger
and more penetrating than those of any spoken language.

Whirrup-dzzt-pam! Whirrup-dzzt-pam!

"Jaimec calling! Jaimec calling!"

Now he could do nothing more save bide his time in
patience. The call was not being directed straight to Terra
which was much too far away to permit a conversation with
brief time-lags. It was being squirted at a spatial listening-post
and field headquarters near enough to be on or perhaps actually
within the rim of the Sirian Empire. He did not know its
precise location and, as Wolf had remarked, what he didn't
know he couldn't tell.

A prompt response was unlikely. Out there in the dark
they'd be listening for a hundred calls on a hundred
frequencies and be held on some of them while messages
passed to and fro. He'd have to wait his turn.

Nearly three hours crawled by while the cylinder stood on
the pebble beach and gave forth its scarcely hearable zuum-
zuum. Then suddenly a tiny red eye glowed bright and winked
steadily near its top.

Again he strained on tiptoe, cursing his shortness, felt into
the cylinder's open top and took out what looked exactly like
an ordinary telephone. Holding it to his ear, he said into the
mouthpiece, "JM on Jaimec."

It was a few minutes before the response came back in the
shape of a voice that sounded as though speaking through a
load of gravel. But it was a Terran voice speaking the
wel-come-sounding Terran language. It said, "Ready to tape your
report. Fire away."

Mowry tried to sit down while he talked but found the connecting
cord too short. So he had to stand. In this position
he recited as fast as he could. The Tale of a Wasp by Samuel
Sucker, he thought wryly. He gave it in full detail and again
had to wait quite a while for the come-back.

Then the voice rasped, “Good! You're doing fine!”

"Am I? Can't see any signs of it so far. I've been plastering
paper all over the planet and nothing is happening."

"Plenty is happening," contradicted the Voice. It came
through with a rhythmic variation in amplitude as it fooled
Sirian detection devices by switching five times per second
through a chain of differently positioned transmitters. "You
just can't see the full picture from where you're standing."

"How about giving me a glimpse?"

"The pot is coming slowly but surely to the boil. Their fleets
are being widely dispersed, there are vast troop movements
from their overcrowded home-system to the outer planets of
their empire. They're gradually being chivvied into a fix. They
can't hold what they've got without spreading all over it. The
wider they spread the thinner they get. The thinner they get
the easier it is to bite lumps out of them. Hold it a bit while
I check your planet" He went off, came back after a time.
"Yes, position there is that they daren't take any strength away
from Jaimec no matter how greatly needed elsewhere. In fact
they may yet have to add to it at the expense of Diracta.
You're the cause of that."

"Sweet of you to say so," said Mowry. A thought struck him
and he said eagerly, "Hey, who gave you that information?"

"Monitoring and Decoding Service. They dig a lot out of
enemy broadcasts."

"Oh." He felt disappointed, having hoped for news of a
Terran Intelligence agent somewhere on Jaimec. But of course
even if there was one they wouldn't tell him. They'd lie about
it. They'd give him no information that Kaitempi persuasion
might force out of him. "How about this Kaitempi card and
embossing machine? Do I leave them here to be collected or
do I keep them for myself?"

"Stand by and I'll find out." The voice went away for more
than an hour, returned with, "Sorry about the delay. Distance
takes time in any terms. You can keep that stuff and use it
as you think best. T.I. got a card recently. An agent bought
one for them."

"Bought one?" He waggled his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes - with his life. What did yours cost?"

"Major Sallana's life, as I told you."

!Tsk-tsk! Those cards come mighty dear." There was a
pause, then, "Closing down. Best of luck!"

"Thanks!"

With some reluctance Mowry replaced the receiver, switched
off the zuum-zuum, capped the cylinder and rolled it back
into the cave. He'd have liked to listen until dawn to anything
that maintained the invisible tie between him and that faraway
lifeform. `Best of luck!' the voice had said, not knowing
how much more it meant than the alien, `Live long!'
From yet another container he took several packets and
small parcels, distributed them about his person, put others
into a canvas shoulder-bag of the kind favoured by the Sirian
peasantry. Impatience prevented him from waiting for the
full light of day. Being now more familiar with the forest lie
felt sure he could fumble his way through it even in the dark.
The going would be tougher, the journey would take longer,
but he could not resist the urge to get back to the car as soon
as possible.

Before leaving his last act was to press the hidden button
on Container-22 which had ceased to radiate the moment he'd
entered the cave and remained dead ever since. After a one-
minute delay it would again set up the invisible barrier that
could not be passed without betrayal.

He got out the cave fast, the parcels heavy around him,
and had made thirty yards into the trees when his finger-ring
started its tingling. Slowly he moved on, feeling his way from
time to time. The tingling gradually weakened with distance,
faded out after eight hundred yards.

From then on he consulted his luminous compass at least
a hundred times. It led him back to the road at a point half
a mile from the car, a pardonable margin of error in a twenty-
mile journey two-thirds of which had been covered in darkness.
At two hours after dawn he arrived with tired eyes and
aching feet, clambered thankfully into the car, edged it unseen
from the forest and purred along the highroad to the dump
called home.

The day of the appointment kicked off with a highly significant
start. Over the radio and video, through the public-
address system and in all the newspapers the government came
out with the same announcement. Mowry heard the miserably
muffled bellowings of a loudspeaker two streets away, the
shrill cries of newsvendors. He bought a paper, read it over
his breakfast.

`Under the War Emergency Powers Act, by order of the
Jaimec Ministry of Defence: AII organisations, societies,
parties and other corporate bodies will be registered at the
Central Bureau of Records, Pertane, not later than the twentieth
of this month. Secretaries will state in full the objects
and purposes of their respective organisations, societies;
parties or other corporate bodies, give the address of habitual
meeting places and provide a complete list of members.'

`Under the War Emergency Powers Act, by order of the
Jaimec Ministry of Defence: After the twentieth of this month,
any organisation, society, party or other corporate body will
be deemed an illegal movement if not registered in accordance
with the above order. Membership of an illegal movement or
the giving of aid and comfort to uny member of an illegal
movement will constitute a treacherous offence punishable by
death.'

So at last they'd made a countermove. Dirac Angestun Gesept
must kneel at the confessional or at the strangling-post.
By a simple, easy legislative trick they'd got D.A.G. where
they wanted it, coming and going. It was a kill-or-cure tactic
full of psychological menace and well calculated to scare all
the weaklings right out of D.A.G.'s ranks.

Weaklings are blabs.

They talk. They betray their fellows, one by one, right
through the chain of command to the top. They represent the
rot that spreads through a system and brings it to total
collapse. In theory, anyway.

Mowry read it again, grinning to himself and enjoying every
word. The government was going to have a tough time enticing
informers from the D.A.G. Fat lot of talking can be
done by a membership completely unaware of its status. There
are no traitors in a phantom army.

For instance, Butin Arhava was a fully paid up member in
good standing - and didn't know it. Nobody had bothered to
tell him. The Kaitempi could trap him and draw out his
bowels very, very slowly without gaining one worthwhile word
about the Sirian Freedom Party.

Around mid-day Mowry looked in at the Central Bureau
of Records. Sure enough a queue stretched from the door to
the counter where a couple of disdainful officials were dishing
out forms. The line slowly edged forward, composed of
secretaries or other officers of trade guilds; zith-drinking
societies, video fan clubs and every other conceivable kind of
organisation. The skinny oldster moping in the rear was Area
Supervisor of the Pan-Sirian Association of Lizard Watchers. The
podgy specimen one step ahead of him represented the Pertane
Model Rocket Builders Club. There wasn't one in the entire
stting who looked capable of spitting in a Spakum eye much
less overthrowing his own government.

Joining the queue, Mowry said conversationally to Skinny,
"Nuisance this, isn't it?"

"Yar. Only the Statue of Jaime knows why it is considered
necessary."

"Maybe they're trying to round up people with special
talents," Mowry offered. "Radio experts, photographers and
fo& like those. They can use all sorts of technicians in
wartime."

"They could have said so in plain words," opined Skinny
impatiently. "They could have published list of them and
ordered them to report in."

"Yar, that's right."

"My group watches lizards. Of what special use is a lizard-
watcher, hi?

"I can't imagine. Why watch lizards, anyway?"

"Have you ever watched them?"

"No," admitted Mowry, without shame.

"Then you don't know the fascination of it."

Podgy turned round and said with a superior air, "My group
builds model rockets."

"Kid stuff," defined Skinny.

"That's what you think. I'll have you know every member
is a potential rocket-engineer and in time of war a rocket-
engineer is a valuable -"

"Move up," said Skinny, nudging him. They shuffled forward,
stopped. Skinny said to Mowry, "What's your crowd do?"

"We etch glass."

"Well, that's a high form of art. I have seen some very
attractive examples of it myself. They were luxury articles
though. A bit beyond the common purse." He let go a loud
sniff. "What good are glass-etchers for winning battles?"

"You guess," Mowry invited.

"Now take rockets," put in Podgy. "The rocket is essential
to space-war and -"

"Move up," ordered Skinny again.

They reached the stack of forms, were each given one off
the top. The group dispersed, going their various ways while
a long line of later comers edged toward the counter. Mowry
went to the main post office, sat at a vacant table, filled up
the form carefully and neatly. He got some satisfaction out
of doing it with a government pen and government ink.

Title of organisation : Dirac Angestun Gesept.
Purpose of organisation : Destruction of present government
and termination of war against Terra.
Customary meeting place : Wherever Kaitempi can't find us
Names and addresses of elected officers : You'll find out
when it's too late.
Attach hereto complete list of members : Nar.
Signature : Jaime Shallapurta.

That last touch would get someone hopping mad. It was
calculated insult to the much revered Statue of Jaime.
loosely translated it meant James Stoneybottom.

He bought an envelope, was about to mail it back to the
bureau when it occurred to him to hot it up still more.
Forthwith he took the form to his room, shoved it into the
embossing machine and impressed it with the Kaitempi cartouche.
Then he posted it.

This performance pleased him immensely. A month ago it
would have been too childish to bother with and the recipients
would have dismissed it as the work of someone feeble-
minded. But today the circumstances were vastly different.
The powers-that-be had revealed themselves as annoyed if
not frightened. They were in poor mood to relish a raspberry.
With moderate luck the sardonic registration-form would
boost their anger and that would be all to the good because a
mind filled with fury cannot think in cool, logical manner.

When one is fighting a paper-war one uses paper-war tactics
that in the long run can be just as lethal as high explosive.
And the tactics are not limited in scope by use of one material.
The said material is very variable in form. Paper can convey
a private warning, a public threat, secret temptation, open
defiance; wall-bills, window-stickers, leaflets dropped by the
thousands from the roof-tops, cards left on seats or slipped
into pockets and purses...money.

Yes, money.

With paper money he could buy a lot of the deeds needed
to back up the words. With paper money he could persuade
the Sirian foe to kick himself good and hard in the pants and
thereby save the Terrans a tedious chore.

At the proper hour he set out for the Cafe Susun.

Not having yet received the D.A.G.'s thumb-on-nose registration
the Jaimecan authorities were still able to think in a
calculating and menacing way. Their countermoves had not
been confined to that morning's new law. They had taken
matters further by concocting a dangerous technique, namely,
that of the snap-search.

It almost caught Mowry at the first grab. He did not
congratulate. himself on his escape, realising that to avoid one
trap might be merely to fall into another. The risk was great,
the trick being of such a type that none could tell when or
where the next blow would fall.

He was heading for his rendezvous when suddenly a line
of uniformed police extended itself across the street. A second
line simultaneously did likewise four hundred yards farther
on. From the dumbfounded mob trapped between the lines
appeared a number of plainclothes members of the Kaitempi.
These at once commenced a swift and expert search of everyone
thus halted in the street. Meanwhile both lines of police
kept their full attention inward, watching to see that nobody
ducked into a doorway and bolted through a house to escape
the mass-frisk.

Thanking his lucky stars that he was outside the trap and
being ignored, Mowry faded into the background as
inconspicuously as possible and beat it home fast. In his
room he burned all documents relating to Shir Agavan, crumbled
the ashes into fine dust. That identity was now dead for ever
and ever, amen. It would never be used again.

From one of his packages he took a new set of papers
swearing before all and sundry that he was Krag Wulkin,
special-correspondent of a leading news agency, with a home
address on Diracta. In some ways it was a better camoufiage
than the former one. It lent added plausibility to his
Mashambi accent. Moreover a complete check on it would
involve wasting a month referring back to the Sirian home
planet.

Thus armed he started out again. Though better fitted to
face awkward questions the risk of being asked them had been
greatly boosted by this latest technique and he took to the
streets with the queezy feeling that somehow or other the hunt
at last had picked up the scent.

There was no way of telling exactly what the snap-searchers
were seeking. Maybe they were trying to catch people carrying
subversive propaganda on their persons. Or perhaps they were
looking for treacherous sokos with D.A.G. membership cards.
Or could be they were haphazardly groping around for a
dynocar renter named Shir Agavan. Whatever their reasons,
the tactic proved that someone among Jaimec's big shots had
become aggravated.

Luckily no more traps opened in his path before he reached
the Cafe Susun. He went in, found Arhava and two others
seated at the far table where they were half-concealed in dim
light and could keep watch on the door.

"You're late," greeted Arhava. "We thought you weren't
coming."

"I got delayed by a police raid on the street. The cops looked
surly. You fellows just robbed a bank or something?"

"No, we haven't" Arhava made a casual gesture toward his
companions. "Meet Gurd and Skriva."

Mowry acknowledged them with a curt nod, looked them
over. They were much alike, obviously brothers. Flat-faced,
hard-eyed with pinned-back ears that came up to sharp points.
Each looked capable of selling the other into slavery provided
there was no comeback with a knife.

"We haven't heard your name," said Gurd, speaking between
long, narrow teeth.

"You aren't going to, either," responded Mowry.

Gurd bristled. "Why not?"

"Because you don't really care what my name is," Mowry
told him. "If the thing atop your neck has a steady tick it's a
matter of total indifference to you who gives you a load of
guilders."

"Yar, that's right," chipped in Skriva, his eyes glittering.

"Money is money regardless of who hands it over. Shut up, Gurd."

"I only wanted to know." mumbled Gurd, subdued.

Arhava took over with the mouth-watering eagerness of one
on the make. "I've given these boys your proposition. They're
interested." He turned to them. "Aren't you?"

"Yar," said Skriva. He concentrated attention upon Mowry.

"You want someone in his box. That right?"

"I want someone stone cold and I don't give a hoot whether
or not he is boxed."

"We can tend to that." He fixed his toughest expression
which told all and sundry that he'd kilt him a b'ar when he
wuz only three. Then he said, "For fifty thousand."

Emitting a deep sigh, Mowry stood up, ambled toward the
door. "Live long!"

"Come back!" Skriva shot to his feet, waved urgently.

Arhava had the appalled look of someone suddenly cut out
of a rich uncle's will. Gurd sucked his teeth with visible
agitation.

Pausing at the door, Mowry held it open. "You stupes ready
to talk sense?"

"Sure," pleaded Skriva. "I was only joking. Come back and
sit down."

"Bring us four ziths," said Mowry to the attendant who was
blearing behind the counter. He returned to the table, resumed
his seat. "No more bad jokes. I don't appreciate them."

"Forget it," advised Skriva. "We've got a couple of questions
for you."

"You may voice them," agreed Mowry, He accepted a mug
of zith from the attendant, paid him, took a swig; eyed Skriva
with becoming lordliness.

Skriva said, "Who d'you want us to slap down? And how
do we know we're going to get our money?"

"For the first, the victim is Colonel Hage-Ridarta." He
scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper, gave it to the other.
"That is his address."

"I see." Skriva stared at the slip, went on, "And the money?"

"I'll pay you five thousand right now as an act of faith,
fifteen thousand when the job is done." He stopped, gave the
three of them the cold, forbidding eye. "I don't take your word
for the doing. It's got to be squawked on the news-channels
before I part with another one-tenth guilder."

"You trust us a lot, don't you?" said Skriva, scowling.

"No more than I have to."

"Same applies on this side."

"Look," Mowry urged, "we've got to play ball with each
other whether we like it or not. Here's how. I've got a list.
If you do the first job for me and I renege you're not going
to do the others, are you?"

"No."

"What's more, you'll take it out of my hide first chance you
get, won't you?"

"You can bet on that," assured Gurd.

"Similarly, if you pull a fast one on me you will cut off the
flow of money, big money. You'll deprive yourselves of far
more than the Kaitempi would pay for betraying me and a
dozen others. I'm outbidding the Kaitempi by a large margin,
see? Don't you fellows want to get rich?"

"I hate the idea of it," said Skriva. "Let's see that five
thousand."

Mowry slipped him the package under the table. The three
checked it in their laps. After a while Skriva looked up, his
face slightly flushed.

"We're sold. Who is this Hage-Ridarta soko?"

"Just a brasshat who has lived too long"

That was a half-truth. Hage-Ridarta was listed in the city
directory as officer commanding an outfit of space marines.
But his name had been appended to an authoritative letter
in Pigface's files. The tone of the letter had been that of a
boss to an underling. Hage-Ridarta was an officially disguised
occupant of the Kaitempi top bracket and therefore would
make a most satisfactory corpse.

"Why d'you want him out of the way? demanded Gurd,
still sullen and suspicious.

Before Mowry could reply, Skriva said fiercely. “I told you
before to shut up. I'll handle this. Can't you button your trap
even for twenty thousand?"

"We haven't got it yet," persisted Gurd.

"You will get it" Mowry soothed. "And more, lots more.
The day the news of Hage-Ridarta's death is given in the
papers or on the radio I'll be here at the same time in the
evening complete with fifteen thousand guilders and the next
name. If by any chance I'm held up and can't make it, I'll
be here at the same time the following evening."

"You'd better be!" informed Gurd, glowering.

Arhava had a question of his own. "What's my percentage
for introducing the boys?"

"I don't know.” Mowry turned to Skriva. “How much do
you intend to give him?"

`Who? - me?" 5kriva was taken aback.

"Yes, you. The gentleman thirsts far a rakeoff. You don't
expect me to pay him, do you? Think I'm made of money?"

"Somebody had better fork out," declared Arhava, making
the mistake of his life. "Or-"

Skriva shoved scowling features up against him and
breathed over his face. "Or what?"

"Nothing," said Arhava, nervously leaning away. "Nothing
at all."

"That's better," Skriva approved in grating tones. "That's a
whole lot better. Just sit around and be a good boy, Butin,
and we'll feed you crumbs from our table. Get fidgety and
you'll soon find yourself in no condition to eat them. In fact
you won't be able to swallow. It's tough when a fellow can't
swallow. You wouldn't like that, would you, Butin?"

Saying nothing, Arhava sat still. His complexion was slightly
mottled.

Repeating the face-shoving act. Skriva shouted, "I just asked
you a civil question. I said you wouldn't like it, would you?"

"No," admitted Arhava, tilting back his chair to get away
from the face.

Mowry decided the time had come to leave this happy scene.
He took his daring far enough to say to Skriva, "Don't get
tough ideas about me - if you want to stay in business."

With that; he went. He did not worry about the possibility
of any of them following him. They wouldn't dare, being too
afraid of offending the best customer they'd had since crime
came to Pertane.

As he walked rapidly along he pondered the evening's work,
decided it had been a wise move to insist that money did not
grow on trees. They'd have shown no respect whatsoever if
he'd been willing to shovel it out regardless as, in fact, he
could afford to do should the necessity arise. They'd have put
on maximum pressure to gain the most in return for the least
and that would have produced more arguments than results.

It was also a good thing that he'd refused a cut to Arhava
and left them to fight it out between themselves. The reaction
had been revealing. A mob, even a small mob, is only as
strong as its weakest link. Anyone capable of ratting to the
Kaitempi. could blow the whole bunch sky-high. It was
important to discover a prospective squealer before it was too
late and, if one existed, to be warned accordingly. In this
respect Butin Arhava hadn't shown up so good.

`Somebody had better fork out or-'

The testing-time would come soon after he'd paid over
fifteen thousand guilders for a job well done and those concerned
divided the loot. Well, if the situation seemed to justify
it, that's when he'd give the Gurd-Skriva brothers the next
name - that of Butin Arhava. He felt no compunctions about
this decision, no qualms of conscience. So far as he was
involved, all Sirians were enemies, any one of them being no
more or less a foe than any other.

He continued homeward, deep in thought and not looking
where he was going while he settled this matter in his mind.
He had just reached the final conclusion that Arhava's throat
would have to be slit sooner or later when a heavy hand
clamped on his shoulder and a voice rasped in his ear.

"Lift them up, Dreamy, and let's see what you've got in
your pockets. Come on, you're not deaf, lift 'em I said!"

With a sense of sudden shock he raised his arms, felt fingers
start prying into his clothes. Nearby forty or fifty equally
surprised walkers were holding the same pose. A line of
phlegmatic police stood across the street a hundred yards away.
In the opposite direction a second line looked on with the
same indifference. Yet again the random trap had sprung.


Chapter VI


A flood of superfast thoughts raced through his startled
brain as he stood with arms extended above his head. Thank
heavens he'd got rid of that money; they'd have been unpleasantly
inquisitive about so large a sum being carried in one
lump. If they were looking for Shir Agavan they were dead
out of luck. In any case, he wasn't going to let them take him
in, even for questioning. Not if he could help it. Most people
who  survived a Kaitempi interrogation did so as physical
wrecks. It would be better at the last resort to break this
searcher's neck and run like blazes.

`If the cops shoot me down it'll be a quicker and easier end.
When Terra gets no more signals from me, Wolf will choose
my successor and feed the poor sap the same -'

"Hi?" The Kaitempi agent broke his train of thought by
holding Mowry's wallet open and gazing with surprise at
Pigface's card reposing therein. The tough expression faded
from his heavy features as if wiped away with a cloth. "One
of us? An officer?" He took a closer look at the other. "But I
do not recognise you."

"You wouldn't," informed Mowry, showing just the right
degree of arrogance. "I arrived only today from H.Q. on
Diracta." He pulled a face. "And this is the reception I get."

"It cannot be helped," apologised the agent. "The revolutionary
movement must be suppressed at all costs and it's as big
a menace here as on any other planet. You know how things
are on Directa well, they're not one whit better on Jaimec."

"It won't last," Mowry responded, speaking with authority.
"On Diracta we expect to make a complete clean-up in the
near future. After that you won't have much trouble here.
The movement will collapse from sheer lack of leadership.
When you cut off the head, the body dies."

"I hope you're right. The Spakum war is enough without
an army of traitors sniping in the rear." He closed the wallet,
gave it back. His other hand held the Krag Wulkin documents
at which he had not yet looked. Waiting for Mowry to pocket
the wallet, he returned the remaining material and. said
jocularly, "Here are your false papers."

"Nothing is false that has been officially issued," said Mowry,
frowning disapproval.

"No, I suppose not. I hadn't thought of it in that light" The
agent backed off, anxious to end the talk. "Sorry to have
troubled you. I suggest you call at local headquarters as soon
as possible and have them circulate your photo so that you'll
be known to us. Otherwise you may be stopped and searched
repeatedly."

"I'll do that," promised Mowry, unable to imagine anything
he'd less intention of doing.

"You'll excuse me - I must tend to these others." So saying,
the agent attracted the attention of the nearest police, pointed
to Mowry. Then he made for a sour-faced civilian wha was
standing nearby waiting to be searched. Reluctantly the
civilian lifted his arms and permitted the agent to dip into
his pockets.

Mowry walked toward the line of police which opened and
let him pass through. At such moments, he thought, one is
supposed to be cool, calm and collected, radiating supreme
self-confidence in all directions. He wasn't like that at all.
On the contrary he was weak in the knees and had a vague
feeling of sickness in the stomach. He had to force himself to
continue steadily onward with what appeared to be absolute
nonchalance.

He made six hundred yards, reached the next corner before
some warning instinct made him look back. Police were still
blocking the road but beyond them four of the Kaitempi had
clustered together in conversation. One of them, the agent who
had released him, pointed his way. The other three shot a
glance in the same direction, resumed talking with vehement
gestures. There followed what appeared to be ten seconds of
heated argument before they reached a decision.

"Stop him!"

The nearest police turned round startled, their eyes seeking
a fleeing quarry. Mowry's legs became filled with an almost
irresistible urge to get going twenty to the dozen. He forced
them by an effort of will to maintain their steady pace.

There were a lot of people in the street, some merely hanging
around and gaping at the trap, others walking the same
way as himself. Most of the latter wanted no part of what
was going on higher up the road and considered it expedient
to amble someplace else. Mowry kept with them, showing no
great hurry. That baffled the police; for a few valuable seconds
they stayed put, hands on weapons, while they sought in vain
for visible evidence of guilt.

It provided sufficient delay to enable him to get round the
corner and out of sight. At that point the shouting Kaitempi
realised that the police were stalled. They lost patience, broke
into a furious sprint. Half a dozen clumping cops immediately
raced with them, still without knowing who was being chased
or why.

Overtaking a youth who was sauntering dozily along,
Mowry gave him an urgent shove in the back. "Quick! -
they're after you! The Kaitempi!"

"I've done nothing. I-"

"How long will it take to convince them of that? Run, you
fool!"

The other used up a few moments gaping sceptically before
he heard the oncoming rush of heavy feet, the raucous shouts
of pursuers nearing the corner. He lost colour, tore down the
road at velocity that paid tribute to his innocence. He'd have
overtaken and passed a bolting jackrabbit with no trouble at
all.

Unhurriedly entering an adjacent shop, Mowry - threw a
swift look around to e what it sold, said casually, "I wish
ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut tops and-"

The arm of the law thundered round the corner fifty strong.
The hunt roared past the shop, its leaders baying with triumph
as they spotted the distant figure of him who had done nothing.
Mowry stared at the window in dumb amazement. The corpulent
Sirian behind the counter eyed the window with sad resignation.

"Whatever is happening?" asked Mowry.

"They're after someone," diagnosed Fatty. He sighed, rubbed
his protruding belly. "Always they are after someone. What a
world! What a war!"

"Makes you tired, hi?"

"Aie, yar! Every day, every minute there is something. Last
night, according to the news-channels, they destroyed the main
Spakum space-fleet for the tenth time. Today they are pursuing
the remnants of what is said to have been destroyed. For
months we have been making triumphant retreats before a
demoralised enemy who is advancing in utter disorder." He
made a sweeping motion with a podgy hand. It indicated
disgust. `I am fat, as you can see. That makes me an idiot. You
wish-?"

"Ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut -"

A belated cop pounded past the window. He was two hundred
yards behind the pack and breathless but plain stubborn.
As he thudded along he let go a couple of shots into the air
just for the heck of it.

"See what I mean?" said Fatso. "You wish-?"

"Ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut tops. I also
wish to order a special celebration-cake to be supplied five
days hence. Perhaps you can show me some examples or help
me with suggestions, hi?"

He managed to waste twenty minutes within the shop and
the time was well worth the few guilders it cost. If he'd wanted
he could have stayed longer. Twenty minutes, he estimated,
would be just enough to permit local excitement to die down
while the pursuit continued elsewhere. But the longer he 
extended the time the greater the risk of falling into the hands
of frustrated huntsmen who'd returned to comb out the area.

Halfway home he was tempted to donate the cakes to a
mournful looking cop, but refrained. The time for having fun
had gone by and some restraint was called for. The more he
had to dodge authority's frantic fly-swattings the harder it
was to play like a wasp and get a laugh out of it.

Within his room he flopped fully dressed on the bed and
summarised the day's doings. He had escaped a trap but only
by the skin of his teeth. It proved that such traps were
escap-able - but not for ever. What had caused them to take after
him he did not know, could only guess at. Probably the
intervention of an officious character who had noticed him
walking through the cordon.

"Who's that you've let go?"

"An officer, Captain."

"What d'you mean, an officer?"

"A Kaitempi officer, Captain. I do not know him but he had
a correct card. He said that he had just been drafted from
Diracta."

"A card, hi? Did you notice its serial number?"

"I had no particular reason to try remember it, Captain.
It was obviously genuine. But let me see ... yar ... it was
SXB80313. Or perhaps SXB80131. I am not sure which."

"Major Sallana's card was SXB80131. You half-witted soko,
you may have had his killer in your hands!"

"STOP HIM!"

Now, by virtue of the fact that he had evaded capture, plus
the fact that he had failed to turn up at headquarters to gain
photographic identification, they'd assume that Sallana's slayer
really had been in the net. Previously they had not known
where to start looking other than within the ranks of the
mysteriously elusive D.A.G. But they had gained three welcome
advantages. They knew the killer was in Pertane. They
had a description of him. One Kaitempi agent could be relied
upon to recognise him on sight.

In other words, the heat was on with every likelihood of
getting hotter. Numberless eyes would be keeping watch for
anyone bearing close resemblance to himself. The snap-search
technique would be intensified, the net spread wider and with
greater frequency. In these conditions he'd have to go around
daytimes carrying stuff guaranteed to make the Kaitempi lick
their chops like hungry tigers. Some evenings he'd have to go
to the Cafe Susun bearing a load of money that no searcher
in his right mind would regard as a beggar's alms.

Henceforth, in Pertane at least, the going would be tougher
with the pressure-cell and the strangling-post looming ever
nearer. He groaned to himself as he thought of it. He had .
never asked much of life and would have been quite satisfied
merely to sprawl on a golden throne and be fawned upon by
sycophants. To be dropped down a Sirian-dug hole, dead cold
and dyed purple, was to take things too much to the opposite
extreme.

But to counterbalance this dismal prospect there was
something heartening - a snatch of conversation.

`The revolutionary movement ... as big a menace here as
on any other planet. You know how things are on Diracta -
well, they're not one whit better on Jaimec.'

That told him plenty; it revealed that Dirac Angestun
Gesept was not merely a Wolf-concocted nightmare designed
to disturb the sleep of Jaimecan politicos. It was empire-wide,
covering more than a hundred planets, its strength or rather
its pseudo-strength greatest on the home-world of Diracta,
the nerve-centre and beating heart of the entire Sirian species.
It was more than a hundred times greater than had appeared
to him in his purely localised endeavours.

To the Sirian powers-that-be it was a major peril hacking
down the back door while the Terrans were busily bashing
in the front one.

Cheers! Blow the bugle, beat the drum! Other wasps were
at work, separated in space but united in purpose. And in
this sense he was not alone.

Somebody in the Sirian High Command - a psychologist or
a cynic - worked it out that the more one chivvied the civilian
population the lower sank its morale. The constant stream of
new emergency orders, regulations, restrictions, the constant
police and Kaitempi activity, stoppings, searchings,
questionings all tended to create that dull, pessimistic
resignation demonstrated by Fatty . in the cake shop. An
antidote was needed. The citizens had bread. They lacked the
circus.

Accordingly a show was put on. The radio, video and newspapers
combined to strike up the band and draw the crowds.

GREAT VICTORY IN CENTAURI SECTOR.
Yesterday powerful Terran space-forces became trapped in
the region of A. Centauri and a fierce battle raged as they
tried to break out. The Sirian fourth, sixth and seventh fleets,
manoeuvring in masterly manner, frustrated all their efforts
to get free and escape. Many casualties were inflicted upon
the enemy. Precise figures are not yet available but the latest
report from the area of conflict states that we have lost four
battleships and one light cruizer, the crews of which havc all
been rescued. More than seventy Terran warships have been
destroyed.

And so the story went on for minutes of time and columns
of print, complete with pictures of the battleship Hashim, the
heavy cruizer Jaimec, some members of their crews when
home on leave a year ago, Rear-Admiral Pent-Gurhana saluting
a prosperous navy contractor, the Statue of Jaime casting
its shadow across a carefully positioned Terran banner and -
loveliest touch of all - a five centuries old photograph of a
scowling, bedraggled bunch of Mongolian bandits authoritatively
described as `Terran space-troops whom we snatched
from death as their stricken ship plunged sunward.'

One columnist, graciously admitting lack of facts and
substituting so-called expert knowledge, devoted half a page to
a lurid description of how heroic space-marines had performed
the snatch-from-death in vacuo. How fortunate were the lousy
Terrans, he proclaimed, in finding themselves opposed by so
daring and gallant a foe.

Mowry absorbed all this guff, found himself unable to decide
whether casualty figures had bcen reversed or whether a fight
had taken place at all. Dismissing it with a sniff of disdain,
he sought through the rest of the paper without really expecting
to find anything worthy of note. But there was a small
item on the back page.

Colonel Hage-Ridarta, officer commanding 77 Company
S.M. was found dead in his car at midnight last night. He had
been shot through the head. A gun was lying nearby. Suicide
is not suspected and police investigations are continuing.

So the Gurd-Skriva combination worked mighty fast; they'd
done the job within a few hours of taking it on. Yar, money
was a wonderful thing especially when Terran engravers and
presses could produce it in unlimited supply with little trouble
and at small cost. Money was a formidable weapon in its own
right, a paper totem that could cause losses in the enemy's
ranks millions of miles behind the fighting front.

This unexpected promptitude set him a new problem. To
get more such action he'd have to pay up and thereby risk
falling into another trap while on the way to the rendezvous.
Right now he dare not show Pigface's card in Pertane though
it might prove useful elsewhere. His documents for Krag
Wulkin, special correspondent, might possibly get him out of
a jam provided the trappers didn't search further, find him
loaded with guilders and ask difficult questions about so
suspiciously large a wad.

Within an hour the High Command solved the problem for
him. They put on the circus in the form of a victory parade.
To the beat and blare of a dozen bands a great column of
troops, tanks, guns, mobile radar units, flame-throwers, rocket-
batteries and gas-projectors, tracked recovery vehicles and
other paraphenalia crawled into Pertane from the west,
tramped and rumbled toward the east.

Helicopters and jetplanes swooped at low level, a small
number of nimble space-scouts thundered at great altitude.
Citizens assembled in their thousands, lined the streets and
cheered more from habit than from genuine enthusiasm.

This, Mowry realised, was his heaven-sent opportunity.
Snap-searches might continue down the side streets and in
the city's tough quarters but they'd be wellnigh impossible
on the east-west artery with all that military traffic passing
through. lf he could reach the crosstown route he could head
clean out of Pertane with safety. After that he could dance
around elsewhere until the time was ripe to return attention
to the capital.

He paid his miserly landlord two months rent in advance
without creating more than joyful surprise. Then he checked
his false identity papers. Hurriedly he packed his bag with
guilders, a fresh supply of stickers, a couple of small packages
and got out.

No sudden traps opened out between there and the city
centre; even if they ran around like mad the police could not
be everywhere at once. On the east-west road he carried his
bag unnoticed, being of less significance than a grain of sand
amid the great mob of spectators that had assembled. By the
same token progress was difficult and slow. The route was
crowded almost to the walls. Time and again he had to shove
his way past the backs of an audience which had its full
attention on the road.

Many of the shops he passed had boarded-up windows as
evidence that they had been favoured by his propaganda.
Others displayed new glass and on twenty-seven of these he
slapped more stickers while a horde of potential witnesses
stood on tiptoe, stared over their fellows at the military 
procession. One sticker he plastered on a policeman's back, the
broad, inviting stretch of black cloth proving irresistible. The
cop gaped forward along with the crowd, ignored pressure
behind him and got decorated from shoulder to shoulder.

Who will pay for this war?
Those who started it will pay.
With their money - and their lives.
Dirac Angestun Gesept.

After three hours of edging, pushing and some surreptitious
sticker-planting he arrived at the city's outskirts. Here the
tail-end of the parade was still trundling noisily along.
Standing spectators had thinned out but a straggling group of
goon-fanciers were walking in pace with the troops.

Around stood houses of a suburb too snooty to deserve the
attentions of the police and Kaitempi. Ahead stretched the
open country and the road to Radine. He carried straight on,
following the rearmost troops until the procession turned
leftward and headed for the great military stronghold of
Khamasta. Here the accompanying civilians halted and
watched them go before mooching back to Pertane. Bag in
hand, Mowry continued along the Radine road.

Moodiness afflicted him as he walked. He became obsessed
with the notion that he had been chased out of the city even
if only temporarily and he didn't like it. Every step he took
seemed like another triumph for the foe, another defeat for
himself. Given the free choice he'd have stayed put, accepting
increasing risks as they came, glorying in meeting and beating
them. He didn't have a free choice, not really.

At the training college they had lectured him again and
again to the same effect. `Maybe you like having a mulish
character. Well, in some circumstances it's called courage, in
others it's downright stupidity. You've got to resist the
temptation to indulge unprofitable heroics. Never abandon caution
merely because you think it looks like cowardice. It requires
guts to sacrifice one's ego for the sake of the job. Those are
the sort of guts we want and must have. A dead hero is of no
earthly use to us.'

Humph! easy for them to talk, hard for those who have to
listen and obey. He was still aggrieved when he reached a
permasteel plaque standing by the roadside. It said: Radine -
33 den. He looked in both directions, found nobody in sight.
Opening his bag he took out a package and buried it at the
base of the plaque.

That evening he checked in at Radine's best and most expensive 
hotel. If the Jaimecan authorities succeeded in following
his tortuous trail around Pertane they'd notice his penchant
for hiding out in overcrowded, slummy areas and tend
to seek him in the planet's rat-holes. With luck a high-priced
hotel would be the last place in which they'd look for him
if the search spread wider afield. All the same he'd have to
be wary of the routine check of hotel registers which the
Kaitempi made every now and again regardless.

Dumping his bag he left the room at once. Time was pressing.
He hurried along the road, unworried about snap-searches
which for unknown reasons were confined to the capital, and
had not yet been applied to other cities. Reaching a bank of
public phone booths a mile from the hotel, he made a call to
Pertane. A sour voice answered while the booth's tiny screen
remained blank.

"Cafe Susun."

"Skriva there?"

"Who wants him?"

"Me."

"That tells me a lot. Why've you got that scanner switched
off?"

"Listen who's talking," growled Mowry, eyeing his faceless
screen. "You fetch Skriva and let him cope with his own
troubles. You aren't his paid secretary, are you?"

There came a loud snort, a long silence, then Skriva's voice
sounded. "Who's this?'

"Give me your pic and I'll give you mine."

"I know who it is-I recognise the tones" said Skriva. He
switched his scanner, his unpleasing features gradually
bloomed into the screen. Mowry switched likewise. Skriva
frowned at him with dark suspicion. "Thought you were going
to meet us here. Why are you phoning?"

"I've been called out of town and can't get back for a piece."

"Is thar so?"

"Yar, that is so!" snapped Mowry. "And don't get hard with
me because I won't stand for it, see?" He paused to let it sink
in, went on, "You got a dyno?"

"Maybe," said Skriva, evasively.

"Can you leave right away?"

"Maybe."

"If you want the goods you can cut out the maybes and move
fast." Mowry held his phone before the scanner, tapped it
suggestively, pointed to his ears to indicate that one never
knew who was listening-in these days and might perhaps have
to be beaten to it. "Get onto the Radine road and look under
marker 33-den. Don't take Arhava with you."

"Hey, when will you -"

He slammed down the phone, cutting off the other's irate
query. Next he sought the local Kaitempi H.Q. the address
of which had been revealed in Pigface's secret correspondence.
In short time he passed the buildings, keeping as far from
it as possible on the other side of the street. He did not give
close attention to the building itself, his gaze being
concentrated above it. For the next hour he wandered around
Radine with seeming aimlessness, still studying the areas above
the rooftops.

Eventually satisfied he looked for the city hall, found it,
repeated the process. More erratic mooching from street to
street while apparently admiring the stars. Finally He returned
to the hotel.

Next morning he took a small package from his bag,
pocketed it, made straight for a large business block noted
the previous evening. With a convincing air of self-assurance
he entered the building, took the automatic elevator to the
top floor. Here he found a dusty, seldom-used passage with
a drop-ladder at one end.

There was nobody around. Even if somebody had come
along they might not have been unduly curious. Anyway, he
had all his answers ready. Pulling down the ladder he climbed
it swiftly, got through the trap-door at top and onto the roof.
From his package he took a tiny inductance-coil fitted with
clips and attached to a long, hair-thin cable with plug-in
terminals at its other end.

Climbing a short trellis mast, he counted the wires on the
telephone junction at its top, checked the direction in which
the seventh one ran. To this he carefully fastened the coil.
Then he descended, led the cable to the roof's edge, gently
paid it out until it was .dangling full length into the road
below. Its plug-in terminals were now swinging in the air at
a point about four feet above the pavement.

Even as he looked down from the roof half a dozen pedestrians
passed the hanging cable and showed no interest in it.
A couple of them glanced idly upward, saw somebody above
and wandered onward without remark. Nobody questions the
activities of a man who clambers over roofs or disappears
down grids in the street providing he does it openly and with
quiet confidence.

He got down and out without mishap. Within an hour he
had performed the same feat atop another building and again
got away unchallenged. His next move was to purchase another
typewriter, paper, envelopes, a small hand-printing set.
It was still only mid-day when he returned to his room and
set to work as fast as he could go. The task continued without
abate all that day and most of the next day. When he had
finished the hand-printer and typewriter slid silently into the
lake.

The result was the placing in his case of two hundred and
twenty letters for future use and the immediate mailing of
another two hundred and twenty to those who had received
his first warning. The recipients, he hoped, would be far from
charmed by the arrival of a second letter with a third yet to
come.

Hage-Ridarta was the second.
The list is long.
Dirac Angestnn Gesept.

After lunch he consulted yesterday's and today's newspapers
at which he'd been too busy to look before now. The
item he sought was not there: not a word about the late
lamented Butin Arhava. Momentarily he wondered whether
anything had gone wrong, whether the Gurd-Skriva brothers
had jibbed at his choice of a victim or whether they were
merely being slow on the uptake.

The general news was much as usual. Victory still loomed
nearer and nearer. Casualties in the real or mythical A.
Centauri battle were now officially confirmed at eleven Sirian
warships, ninety-four Terran ones. That data was given a
front-page spread and a double column of editorial hallelujahs.

On an inner page, in an inconspicuous corner, it was
announced that Sirian forces had abandoned the twin worlds
of Fedira and Fedora, the forty-seventh and forty-eighth
planets of the empire, `for strategic reasons.' It was also hinted
that Gooma, the sixty-second planet, might soon be given up
also, `in order to enable us to strengthen our positions
elsewhere.'

So they were admitting something that could no longer be
denied, namely, that two planets had gone down the drain
with a third soon to follow. Although they had not said so it
was pretty certain that what they had given up the Terrans
had grabbed. Mowry grinned to himself as words uttered in
the cake-shop came back to his mind.

`For months we have been making triumphant retreats
before a demoralised enemy advancing in utter disorder.'
He went along the road, called the Cafe Susun. "Did you
collect?"

"We did," said Skriva, "and the next consignment is overdue."

"I've read nothing about it"

"You wouldn't nothing having been written"

"Well, I told you before that I pay when I've had proof.
Until I get it, nothing doing. No proof, no dough."

"We've got the evidence. It's up to you to take a look at it."

Mowry thought swiftly. "Still got the dyno handy?"

"Yar."

"Maybe you'd better meet me. Make it the ten-time hour.
same road, Marker den-8"

The car arrived dead on time. Mowry stood by the marker,
a dim figure in the darkness of night with only fields and trees
around. The car rolled up, headlights glaring. Skriva got out,
took a small sack from the trunk, opened its top and exhibited
its contents in the blaze of the lights.

"God in heaven!" said Mowry, his stomach jumping.

"It's a ragged job," admitted Skriva. "He had a tough neck,
the knife was blunt and Gurd was in a hurry. What's the
matter? You squeamish or something?"

"I'd have liked it less messy. A bullet would have been
neater."

"You're not paying for neatness. If you want it done sweet
and clean and tidy say so and jack up the offer."

"I'm not complaining"

"You bet you're not. Butin's the boy who's entitled to gripe."
He kicked the sack. "Aren't you, Butin?"

"Get rid of it," ordered Mowry. "It's spoiling my appetite."

Letting go a grim chuckle, Skriva tossed the sack into an
adjacent ditch, put out a hand. "The money."

Giving him the package, Mowry waited in silence while
the other checked the contents inside the car with the help
of Gurd. They thumbed the neat stack of notes lovingly, with
much licking of lips and mutual congratulations.

When they had finished Skriva chuckled again. "That was
twenty thousand for nothing. We couldn't have got it easier."

"What d'you mean, for nothing?" Mowry asked.

"We'd have done it anyway, whether you'd named him or
not. Butin was making ready to talk. You could see it in the
slimy soko's eyes. What d'you say, Gurd?"

Gurd contented himself with a neck-wringing gesture.

Leaning on the car's door, Mowry said, "I've got another
and different kind of job for you. Feel like taking it on?"

Without waiting for response he exhibited another package.

"In here are ten small gadgets. They're fitted with clips and
have thin lengths of cable attached. I want these contraptions
fastening, to telephone lines in or near the centre of Pertane.
They've got to be set in place to that they aren't visible from
the street but the cables can be seen hanging down."

"But," objected Skriva, "if the cables can be seen it's only a
matter of time before somebody traces them up to the gadgets.
Where's the sense of hiding what is sure to be found?'"

"Where's the sense of me giving you good money to do it?"
Mowry riposted.

"How much?"

"Five thousand guilders apiece. That's fifty thousand for
the lot"

Skriva pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

"I can check whether you've actually fixed them," Mowry
went on, "so don't try kidding me, see? We're in business
to-gether. Better not kiss the partnership goodbye."

Grabbing the package, Skriva rasped, "I think you're crazy
but who am I to complain?"

Headlights brightened, the car set up a shrill whine and
rocked away. Mowry watched until it had gone from sight,
then he tramped back into Radine, made for the public booths
and phoned Kaitempi H.Q. He was careful to keep his scanner
switched off and try give his voice the singsong tones of a
native Jaimecan.

"Somebody's been decapitated."

"Hi?"

"There's a head in a sack near Marker 8-den on the road
to Pertane."

"Whos' that talking? Who-"

He cut off, leaving the voice to gargle futilely. They'd follow
up the tip, no doubt of that. It was essential to his plans that
authority should find the head and identify it. In this respect
he was persuading the Kaitempi to help play his game and he
got quite a bit of malicious satisfaction out of it. He went to
his hotel, came out, mailed two hundred and twenty letters.

Butin Arhava was the third.
The list is long.
Dirac Angestun Gesept.

That done, he enjoyed an hour's stroll before bedtime,
pacing the streets and as usual pondering the day's work. It
would not be long, he thought, before someone became curious
about hanging cables and an electrician or telephone engineer
was called in to investigate. The inevitable result would be
a hurried examination of Jaimec's entire telephone system and
the discovery of several more taps.

Authority would then find itself confronted with three
unanswerable questions, all of them ominous: who's been
listening, for how long, and how much have they learned?

He did not envy those in precarious power who were being
subjected to this mock build-up of treachery while elsewhere
the allegedly defeated Terrans were gaining sanctuary by
taking over Sirian planets one after another. Uneasy lies the
head that wears a crown - but infinitely more so when a wasp
crawls into bed with it.

A little before the twelve-time hour he turned into the road
where his high-class hideout was located, came to an abrupt
halt. Outside the hotel stood a line of official cars, a fire-pump
and an ambulance. A number of uniformed cops were meandering
around the vehicles. Tough looking characters in plain
clothes were all over the scene.

Two of the latter appeared out of nowhere and confronted
him hard-eyed.

"What's happened?" asked Mowry, behaving like a Sunday
school superintendent.

"Never mind what's happened. Show us your documents.
Come on, what are you waiting for?"

Chapter VII


CAREFULLY MOWRY SLID a hand into his inner pocket. They
were tense, fully alert, watching his movement and ready to
react if what he produced was not paper. He drew out his
identity-card, handed it over knowing that it bore the proper
cachet of Diracta and the overstamp of Jaimec. Then he gave
them his personal card and movement permit. Inwardly he
hoped with all his heart that they would be easily convinced.

They weren't. They displayed the dogged determination of
those under strict orders to make someone pay dearly for
something or other. Evidently whatever had occurred was
serious enough to have stirred up a hornet's nest.

"A special correspondent," said the larger of the two
mouthing the words with contempt. He looked up from the
identity-card. `What is special about a correspondent?"

"I've been sent here to cover war news specifically from the
Jaimec angle. I do not bother with civilian matters. Those
are for ordinary reporters."

"I see: He gave Mowry a long, sharp, penetrating look. His
eyes had the beady coldness of a sidewinder's. `From where
do you get your news about the war?"

"From official handouts - mostly from the Office of War
Information in Pertane."

"You have no other sources?"

"Yes, of course. I keep my ears open for gossip and
rumours."

"And what do you do with that stuff?"

"I try draw reasonable conclusions from it, write it up and
submit the script to the Board of Censorship. If they approve
it, I'm lucky. If they kill it, well" - he spread his hands with
an air of helplessness - "I just put up with it."

"Therefore," said the Kaitempi agent, cunningly, "you should
be well-known to officials of the Office of War Information
and the Board of Censorship, hi? They will vouch for you if
requested to do so, hi?"

"Without a doubt," assured Mowry, praying for a break.

"Good! You will name the ones you know best and we will
check with them immediately."

" What, at this time of night?"

"Why should you care what time it is? It is your neck-"

That did it. Mowry punched him on the snout, swiftly,
fiercely, putting every ounce of weight behind the blow. The
recipient went down good and hard and stayed down. The
other fellow was no slouch. Wasting no time in dumbfoundment,
he took a bow-legged but quick step forward, shoved a
gun into Mowry's face.

"Raise them high, you soko, or I'll -"

With the speed and recklessness of one who is desperate,
Mowry ducked under the gun, seized the other's extended arm;
got it over his shoulder and yanked. The agent let out a thin,
piercing yelp and flew through the air with the greatest of
ease. His gun dropped to ground. Mowry scooped it up and
started the sprint of his life.

Round the corner, along the street and into an alley This
took him by the back of his hotel and as he tore past he noted
out the corner of one eye a window missing and a great ragged
hole in the wall. Hurdling a pile of smashed bricks and
splintered timber, he reached the alley's end, shot across the next
street.

So that was it. Somehow they had smelled him out, possibly
as a result of one of those infernal registration checks. They
had searched his room and tried to open his bag with a metal
master-key. Then had come the big bang. If the room had
been crowded at the time the explosion would have enough
force to kill at least a dozen of them. It would be a blow
sufficient to get their blood up for a month. If ever they laid
hands on him ...

He kept going as fast as he could make it, the gun in his
grip, his ears straining for sounds of pursuit. Pretty soon the
radio alarm would be going over the air, they'd close every
exit from the town, blocking trains, buses, roads, everything.
At all costs he must beat them to it by getting outside the
cordon before it was formed-if it could be done.

As far as possible he tried to race through lanes and alleys,
avoiding main roads on which patrol-cars would be running
to and fro loaded with guns and eyes. At this late hour there
were few people about, no crowds in which to hide. The streets
were almost empty with most folk abed and an armed man
sprinting through the night was mighty conspicuous. But
nothing could be done about that. To mooch with an air of
innocence was to give time for the trap to close about him.

Darkness was his only help, not counting his legs. He
pounded through alley after alley, bolted across six streets,
halted in deep shadow as he was about to jump the seventh.
A car bulging with uniformed cops and plainclothes Kaitempi
slid past, its windows full of faces trying to look everywhere
at once.

For a short time he stood silent and unmoving in the
shadow, heart thumping, chest heaving, a trickle of sweat
creeping down his spine. Immediately the hunters had gone
he was across the street, into the opposite alley and racing
onward. Five times he paused in concealment, mentally
cursing the delay, while prowl-cars, snooped around.

The sixth stop was different. He lurked in the alley's corner
as headlights came up the street. A mud-spattered dyno rolled
into view, stopped within twenty yards of him. The next
moment a solitary civilian got out, went to a nearby door and
shoved a key into its lock. Mowry came out the alley like a.
quick-moving cat.

The door opened just as the car shot away with a shrill
scream from its dynamo. Struck with surprise, the civilian
wasted half a minute gaping after his vanishing property. Then
he let go an oath, ran indoors and snatched up the telephone.

Luck has got to be mixed decided Mowry as he gripped
the wheel. There must be good to compensate for bad, a turn
for the better to balance a change for the worse. Swinging
the car into a broad, well-lit avenue, he slowed it to a more
sedate pace.

Two overloaded patrol-cars passed him going in the opposite
direction, another overtook him and rocked ahead. They
weren't interested in a dirty dyno trundling home late; they
were hunting a breathless fugitive assumed to be still galloping
around on two feet. He estimated that it would be no more
than another ten minutes before the radio made them change
their minds. It might have been better if he had shot the car's
owner and thus gained himself extra valuable minutes. But
he hadn't. Too late to regret the omission now.

After seven minutes he passed the last houses of Radine
and headed into open country along an unfamiliar road. At
once he hit up top speed to make maximum distance while
the going was good. The car howled along, headlight beams
dipping and swaying, the den-needle creeping close to its
limit.

Twenty more minutes and he shot like a rocket through a
long, straggling village buried deep in slumber. One mile
farther on he rounded a bend, got a brief glimpse of a white
pole across the road, the glitter of buttons and shine of metal
helmets grouped at each end. He set his teeth, aimed straight
at the middle without reducing speed by a fraction. The car
hit the pole, flung the broken halves aside and raced on.
Something struck five sharp blows on the back, two neat holes
appeared in the rear window, a third where the windshield .
joined the roof.

That showed the radio-alarm had been given, that forces
had been alerted over a wide area. His crashing of the road-
block was a giveaway. They now knew in which direction he
was fleeing and could concentrate ahead of him. Just where
he was going was more than he knew himself. He'd never
been on this road before, the locale was strange and he had
no map to consult. Worse, he had little money and no documents
of any kind. The loss of his case had deprived him of
everything save what was upon his person, plus a hot car and
a stolen gun.

Soon he reached a crossroad with a marker dimly visible
on each corner. Braking violently, he jumped out, peered at
the nearest one in the poor light of night. It said Radine-27
den. The opposite marker said Valapan-92 den. So that's
where he'd been heading-to Valapan. Doubtless the police
there were out in full strength, a reception committee too well
prepared to permit another crash-through.

The marker on the left-hand road read Pertane-51 den.
He clambered back into the car, turned left. Still no signs of
close pursuit were visible but that meant nothing. Somebody
with radio contact and a big map would be moving cars
around to head him off as reports of his position filtered in.
At the marker indicating 9 den he found another crossroad
which he recognised. The sky-glow of Pertane now shone
straight ahead while on his right was the road leading to the
cave in the forest. He took an added risk of interception by
driving the car a couple of miles nearer Pertane before
abandoning it. When they found it there they'd probably jump to
the conclusion that he'd sought refuge somewhere in the big
city. It would be all to the good if they wasted time and
manpower scouring Pertane from end to end.

Walking back, he reached the forest and continued along
its fringe. It took him two hours to arrive at the tree and the
tombstone. During that period he dived into the woods eleven
times and watched carloads of hunters whine past. Looked
like he'd got a veritable army to chasing around in the night
and that was a worthwhile result if Wolf was to be believed.

Entering the forest, he made for the cave.

At the cave he found everything intact, undisturbed. He
arrived thankfully, feeling that he was as safe here as he could
be anywhere upon a hostile world. It was hardly likely that
the hunt would succeed in tracking him through twenty miles
of virgin forest even if it occurred to them to try.

For a short time he sat on a container and let his mind indulge
a wrestling match between duty and desire, Orders were
that on each visit to the cave he must use the transmitter and
send an up-to-the-minute report. There was no need to guess
what might happen if he were to do so this time. They'd order
him to stay put and indulge no further activities. Later they'd
send a ship, pick him up and dump him on some other Sirian
planet where he could start all over again. On Jaimec they'd
leave his successor.

The idea of it riled him. All very well them talking about
the tactical advantages of replacing a known operator with
an unknown one. To the man who suffered replacement it
smacked of incompetence and defeat. He flatly refused to
consider himself either inefficient or beaten. Hell with 'em!
Maybe the Kaitempi had gained a smell at his whiskers but
that didn't make him as good as theirs.

Besides, he had carried out phase one and part of phase
two. There was yet phase three, the build-up of pressure to
the point where the foe would be so busy defending the back
door that he'd be in no condition to hold the front one.

Phase three involved strategic bombing both by himself and
by anyone he could pay to do it. He had the necessary material
for the former and the money for the latter. In yet unopened
containers lay enough money to buy a dozen battleships and
give every man of their crews a large box of cigars. Also forty
different kinds of infernal machines, not one of them
recognisable for what it was, and all guaranteed to go whump in
the right place, at the right moment.

He was not supposed to start offensive action of the phase
three type until ordered to do so because usually it preceded
full-scale attack by Terran space-forces. But in the meantime
he could work his way up to it by keeping Dirac Angestun
Gesept in the public eye, arranging a few more executions
and in general performing his proper function of being a pain
in the neck.

No, he would not signal them just yet. He would play
around a bit longer, long enough to establish his right to
re-main to the bitter end regardless of whether or not the
Kaitempi had him taped. He'd been run out of Radine but
he wasn't going to be chased right off the planet. That would
be too much for his self-esteem.

Opening a couple of containers, he undressed, put on a
wide belly-belt that made him corpulent with guilders. Then
he donned ill-cut, heavy clothes typical of the Sirian farmer.
A couple of cheek-pads widened and rounded his face. He
plucked his eyebrows into slight raggedness, trimmed his hair
to comply with the current agricultural fashion.

With purple dye he gave his face the peculiar mottling of
a bad complexion. The final touch was to give himself an
injection alongside his right nostril; within two hours it would
create that faint orange-coloured blemish occasionally seen
on Sirian features.

He was now a middle-aged, coarse looking and somewhat
overfed Sirian farmer and again he had documents to match.
This time he was Rathan Gusulkin, a grain-grower. His papers
showed that he had emigrated from Diracta five years ago.
This served to explain his Mashambi accent which was the
only thing he could not successfully conceal.

Before setting out in his new role he enjoyed another real
Earth-meal and four hours of much-needed sleep. When two
miles from the outskirts of Pertane he buried a package holding
fifty thousand guilders at the base of the southernmost
left-hand buttress of the bridge across the river. Not far from
that point, beneath deep water, a typewriter lay in the mud.

From the first booth in Pertane he called the Cafe Susun.
The answer was prompt, the voice strange and curt, the
distant scanner not operating.

"That the Cafe Susun?" Mowry asked.

"Yar."

"Skriva there?"

A brief silence followed by, "He's somewhere around.
Upstairs or out back. Who wants him?"

"His mother."

"Don't give me that!" rasped the voice. "I can tell by your-"

"What's it got to do with you?" Mowry shouted. "Is Skriva
there or not?"

The voice became suddenly subdued and sounded completely
out of character as it cajoled. "Hold on a piece. I'll go
find him for you."

"You needn't bother. Is Gurd there?"

"No, he hasn't been in today. Hold on, I tell you. I'll go find
Skriva. He's upstairs or -"

"Listen !" ordered Mowry. He stuck his tongue between his
lips and blew hard.

Then he dropped the phone, scrambled out the booth and
beat it at the fastest pace that would not attract attention.
Nearby a bored shopkeeper lounged in his doorway and idly
watched him go. So also did four people gossiping outside
the shop. That meant five witnesses, five descriptions of the
fellow who had just used the booth.

`Hold on!' the strange voice had urged, striving but failing
to conceal its normal note of arrogant authority. It wasn't the
voice of the barkeep nor the careless, slangy tones of any
frequenter of the Cafe Susun. It had the characteristic
bossiness of a plainclothes cop or a Kaitempi agent. Yar, hold on,
Stupid, while we trace the call and pick you up.

Three hundred yards along the road he jumped a bus,
looked backward, could not discern whether the shopkeeper
and the gossips had noticed what he had done. The bus lumbered
forward. A police car rocked past it and braked by the
booth. The bus turned a corner. Mowry wondered just how
close a close shave can be.

The Cafe Susun was staked, no doubt of that. The cops'
prompt arrival at the booth proved it. How they had got a
line on the place and what had induced them to raid it was
a matter of sheer speculation. Perhaps they'd been led to it by
their investigations of the bloody head in a sack.

Or perhaps Gurd and Skriva had been nabbed while tramping
heavy-footed all over a roof and waving cables across a
street. He could readily imagine them fixing a mock telephone
tap with a thumping noisiness fit to arouse the street. On a
rooftop, blinded by easy money, they were liable to make
themselves as conspicuous as a pair of drunken elephants.

If they had been caught they'd talk, tough as they were.
The Kaitempi would make them talk. When fingernails are
peeled off one by one with a pair of pliers, or when
intermittent voltage from a battery is applied to the corners
of the eyeballs, the most granite-hard character becomes
positively garrulous.

Yes, they'd talk all right but they couldn't say much. Only
a weird tale about a crackpot with a Mashambi accent and an
inexhaustible supply of guilders. Not a word about Dirac
Angestun Gesept. Not a syllable about Terran intervention
on Jaimec.

But there were others who could talk and to better effect.

"You see anyone leave this booth just now?"

"Yar. A fat yokel. Seemed in a hurry"

"Where'd he go?"

"Down the road. Got an a 42 bus."

"What did he look like? Describe him as accurately as you
can. Come on, be quick about it!"

"Medium height, middle-aged, round-faced, got a bad complexion.
Quite a belly on him, too. Had a red falkin alongside
his nose. Wearing a fur jacket, brown cord pants, heavy brown
boots. Looked the farmer type if you get what I mean."

That's enough for us. Jalek, let's get after that bus. Where's
the mike - I'd better broadcast this description. We'll nail him
if we move fast"

"He's a cunning one. Didn't take him long to smell a trap
when Lathin answered his call. He blew a dirty noise and ran.
Bet you the bus-jump is a blind-he's got a car parked someplace."

"Save your breath and catch up with that bus. Two callers
have escaped us already. We'll have a lot of explaining to do
if we lose a third."

"Yar, I know."

Mowry got off the bus before anyone had time to overtake
it. He caught another one running on a transverse route. But
he did not play tag all over the city as he had done in the past.
Right now things were a lot livelier, the pursuers almost
certainly had a description. of him and it looked like he'd got
most of Jaimec on the hop.

His third change put him on an express bus heading out
of town. It dropped him a mile beyond the bridge where he
had hidden fifty thousand guilders for the benefit of those
who, for all he knew, might not have another fifty hours to
live. Once again he was heading back to the forest and the
cave.

To retrace his steps to the bridge and try unearth the money
would be stupid and dangerous. Police cars would be heading
this way before long. The hunt for a pot-bellied farmer would
not be confined to Pertane. Anytime now they'd start probing
the rural areas immediately outside the city limits. So long
as daylight remained the best thing for him to do was to get
out of sight and stay out until such time as he could assume
yet another new guise.

Moving fast he reached the edge of the forest without being
stopped and questioned. For a short time he continued to use
the road, seeking shelter among the trees whenever a car
approached. But traffic increased and vehicles appeared with
such frequency that eventually he gave up hope of further
progress before dark. He was pretty tired too, his eyelids were
heavy, his feet had taken a beating.

Penetrating farther into the woods he found a comfortable,
well-concealed spot, lay on a thick bed of moss and let go a
sigh of satisfaction. For a while he reposed in thoughtful
silence while his eyes idly surveyed small patches of sky
visible through leafy gaps.

Wolf had asserted that one man could pin down an army.
He wondered how large a number he'd fastened and what
real good it had done, if any. The most frustrating thing about
this solitary wasp-life was that he had no way of obtaining a
glimpse behind the scenes, of looking into the enemy's
head-quarters and measuring his multiple reactions, of seeing for
oneself how widespread and crippled they became.

How many precious man-hours had his presence cost the
foe? Thousands, tens of thousands, millions? To what forms
of war service would those man-hours have been devoted if
he had not compelled the enemy to waste them in other
directions? Ah, in the answer to that hypothetical question
lay the true measure of a wasp's efficiency.

Gradually he gave up these unprofitable musings and drifted
into sleep. Night was upon him when he awoke refreshed and
energetic. He was also less soured with events. Things could
have been worse, lots worse. For example, he could have gone
straight to the Cafe Susun and walked into the arms of the
trappers like a prize chump. The Kaitempi wouldn't know
what they had grabbed but they'd hold him on general
principles and in their own effective way they'd squeeze him of
every item of information he possessed. Thinking it over, he
doubted his ability to hold out once they really got to work
on him. About the only captives from whom the Kaitempi
had extracted nothing were those who had managed to commit
suicide before questioning.

As he trudged steadily through the dark toward the cave
he blessed his luck, wisdom or intuition in making a phone
call. Then his thoughts became occupied with Gurd and
Skriva. H they had been caught, as seemed likely, it meant
he'd been deprived of valuable allies and once again was
strictly on his own. He'd have to find some way of replacing
them and that wouldn't be easy.

But if, like himself, they had escaped the trap, how was he
going to find them? The crummy cafe had been their only
recognised point of contact. He didn't know where they lived
and it would be foolhardy to go around asking. They didn't
know his address, either. They'd want to meet him fully as
much as he wanted to meet them. Both sides could waste
weeks or months fumbling at random for each other in a city
as big as Pertane. Somehow the problem had to be solved.

Arriving at the cave as dawn was breaking, he took off his
shoes, sat on the pebble beach and soaked his aching feet in
the stream. Still his mind chewed unceasingly at the question
of how to find Gurd and Skriva, if they were still free.
Eventually the Kaitempi would remove the stakeout from the Cafe
Susun either because they were satisfied that they had exploited
it to the limit, or because their patience had run out, or
because of pressure of other business. It would then be possible
to visit the place and find someone able to give all the
information he needed. But heaven alone knew when that
would be; perhaps as far off as a year next Christmas.

In new and radically changed disguise he could mooch
around the neighbourhood of the cafe until he found one of
its regular customers and used him as a lead to Gurd and
Skriva. It would be a risky' tactic, a highly dangerous one.
Chances were high that, for the time being, the Cafe Susun
was the focal point of Kaitempi activity over the entire district
with plainclothesmen keeping watch for suspicious looking
characters lounging around anywhere within a mile of the
place.

After an hour's meditation he decided that there was one
possibility of regaining contact with the brothers. It depended
not only on them being on the loose but also having their
fair share of brains and imagination. It might work. They
were crude and ruthless but not stupid and a steady flow of
guilders must have greatly stimulated their natural cunning.

He could leave them a message where he'd left one before,
hoping they'd have the sense to think of the same thing
them-selves and go take a look. On the Radine road under Marker
33 den: If they had successfully completed their last job they
had fifty thousand guilders owing to them. That should be
more than enough to sharpen their wits.

The sun came up, spreading its warmth through the trees
and into the cave. It was one of those days that beguiles a
man into lying around and doing nothing. Succumbing to 
temptation he gave himself a holiday and postponed further action
until the morrow. It was just as well: constant chasing around,
uneasy sleeps and much nervous tension had combined to
thin him down and tax his resources.

All that day he loafed in or near the cave, enjoying peace
and quietness, freedom from pursuit, cooking himself large
and succulent Earth-meals. No prowlers came sneaking
through the forest, no scout-planes snooped low overhead.

Evidently the enemy was obsessed with the notion that the
quarry sought sanctuary only in heavily populated places; it
just hadn't occurred to them that anyone would take to the
wilds. This was logical enough from their viewpoint, they
having accepted Dirac Angestun Gesept as a large, well-
organised opposition too big and widespread to lurk in a cave.
The wasp had magnified himself to such elephantine proportions
that they weren't going to waste time looking down
rabbit-holes for him.

That night he slept like a child, soundly and solidly, right
around the clock. He spent the next morning in total idleness,
had a bathe in the stream during the heat of noon. Toward
evening he cropped his hair in military fashion, leaving himself
with no more than a stiff bristle covering his skull. Another
injection obliterated the falkin. He retinted himself all over,
making his colour a fresher and slightly deeper purple. Dental
plates filled the gaps where his wisdom teeth had been and
made his face appear wider, heavier, with squarer jaw-line.

A complete change of clothing followed. The shoes he donned
were of military type, the civilian suit was of expensive
cut, the neck-scarf was knotted in space-marine fashion.
To this ensemble he added a platinum watch-fob and a platinum
wrist-bangle holding an ornamental identity-disc.

He now looked like somebody several cuts above the Sirian
average. The new set of documents he pocketed confirmed
this impression. They vouched for the fact that he was Colonel
Krasna Halopti of the Military Intelligence Service and as
such entitled to claim the assistance of all Sirian authorities
anytime, anywhere.

They could execute him out of hand for masquerading as
a high-ranking officer. But what matter? - they'd strangle him
anyway. A man cannot die twice.

Satisfied that he now looked the part one hundred percent
and that he bore little resemblance to any of his previous
appearances, he sat on a container and wrote a brief letter.

`I tried to get in touch with you at the cafe and found the
place full of K-sokos. The money had been buried in readiness
for you at the base of the southernmost left-hand buttress of
the Asako Bridge. If you are free, and if you are able and
willing to take on more work, leave a message here saying
when and where I can find you.'

Leaving it unsigned, he folded it, slipped it into a damp proof
cellophane envelope. Into his pocket he dropped a small,
silent automatic. The gun was of Sirian manufacture and he
had a fake permit to carry it.

This new role was more daring and dangerous than the
others had been, but had its compensations. A check with
official records would expose and damn him in double-quick
time. Against this was the average Sirian's respect for
authority and reluctance to challenge it. Providing he conducted
himself with enough self-assurance and sufficient arrogance
even the Kaitempi might be tempted to accept him at face
value.

Two hours after the fall of darkness he switched Container-22
and set forth through the forest bearing a new case larger
and heavier than before. Yet again he found himself regretting
the distance of his hideout from the nearest road. A twenty
mile march each way was tedious and tiring. But it was a
cheap price to pay for the security of his supplies.

The walk was longer this time because he did not cut
straight through to the road and thumb a lift. To beg a ride
in his new guise would have been sufficiently out of character
to draw unwelcome attention to himself. So he followed the
fringe of the forest to the point where two other roads joined
on. Here, in the early morning, he waited between the trees
until an express bus appeared in the distance. He stepped out
onto the road, caught it and was carried into the centre of
Pertane.

Within half an hour he had acquired a car. This time he
did not bother to rent one; it wasn't worth the trouble for
the short period he needed it. Ambling around until he found
a parked dyno that suited his purpose, he got in and drove
away. Nobody ran after him yelling bloody murder. The theft
had gone unobserved.

Making it out to the Radine road, he stopped, waited for
the artery to clear in both directions, buried his letter under
the marker. Then he returned to Pertane and put the car back
where he had found it. He had been away a little over an hour
and it was probable that the owner had not missed his
machine, would never know that it had been borrowed.
Next, he went to the crowded main post office, took half
a dozen small but heavy parcels from his case, addressed them
and mailed them. Each held an airtight can containing a cheap
clock-movement and a piece of paper, nothing else. The clock-
movement emitted a sinister tick just loud enough to be heard
if a suspicious-minded person listened closely. The paper bore
a message short and to the point.

This package could have killed you.
Two different packages brought together at the right time
and place could kill a hundred thousand.
End this war before we end you!
Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Paper threats, that was all. But effective enough to eat still
further into the enemy's war effort. They'd alarm the
recipients and give their forces something more to worry about.
Doubtless the military would provide a personal bodyguard
for every big wheel on Jaimec and that alone would pin down
a regiment.

Mail would be examined and all suspicious parcels would
be taken apart in a blast-proof room. There'd be a city-wide
search with radiation-detectors for the component parts of a
fission-bomb. Civil defence would be alerted in readiness to
cope with a mammoth explosion that might or might not take
place. Anyone on the streets who walked with a secretive air
and wore a slightly mad expression. would be arrested and
hauled in for questioning.

Yes, after three murders with the promise of more to come
authority dare not dismiss D.A.G.'s threats as the idle talk
of some crackpot on the loose. For safety's sake they'd have
to assume that fake bombs might soon be followed by real
ones and act accordingly.

As he strolled along the road he amused himself by picturing
the scene when the receiver of a parcel rushed to dump it
in a bucket of water while someone else frantically phoned
for the bomb squad. He was so engrossed with these thoughts
that it was some time before he became conscious of a shrill
whistling sound rising and falling over Pertane. He stopped,
looked around, gazed at the sky, saw nothing out of the
ordinary. Quite a lot of people seemed to have disappeared from
the street but a few, like himself, were standing and staring
around bewilderedly.

Chapter VIII


THE NEXT MOMENT a cop shoved him in the shoulder. "Get
down, you fool"

"Down?" Mowry eyed him without understanding. "Down
where? What's the matter?"

"Into the cellars," shouted the cop, making waving motions.
"Don't you recognise a raid-alarm when you hear it?" Without
waiting for a reply he ran forward, bawling at other people,
"Get down! Get down!"

Turning, Mowry scrambled after the rest down a long,
steep flight of steps and into the basement of a business block.
He was surprised to find the place already crowded. Several
hundred people had taken refuge without having to be told.
They were standing around, or sitting on wooden benches or
leaning against the wall. Upending his case, Mowry sat on it.

Nearby an irate oldster looked him over with rheumy gaze
and said, "A raid-alarm. What d'you think of that?"

"Nothing," answered Mowry. "What's the use of thinking?
There's nothing we can do about it"

"But the Spakum fleets have been destroyed," shrilled the
oldster, making Mowry the focal point of an address to everyone.
"They've said so time and again, on the radio and in the
papers. The Spakum fleets have been wiped out. So what has
set off an alarm, hi? What can raid us, hi? Tell me that!"

"Maybe it's just a practice alarm," Mowry soothed.

"Practice?" He spluttered with senile fury. "Why do we need
practice and who says so? If the Spakum forces are beaten
we've no need to hide. There's nothing to hide from. We don't
want any practice."

"Don't pick on me." advised Mowry, bored with the other's
whines. "I didn't sound the alarm."

"Some stinking idiot sounded it," persisted the oldster. "Some
lying soko who wants us to believe the war is as good as over
when it isn't. How do we know how much truth there is in
what they're telling us?" He spat on the floor, doing it viciously.
"A great victory in the Centauri sector-then the raid-
alarm is sounded. They must think we're a lot of-"

A squat, heavily built character stepped close to him and
snapped, "Shut up!"

The oldster was too absorbed in his woes to cower, too
pigheaded to recognise the voice of authority. "I won't shut
up. I was walking home when somebody pushed me down
here just because a whistle blows and -"

The squat man opened his jacket, displayed a badge and
repeated in harsher tones, "I said shut up!"

"Who d'you think you are? At my time of life I'm not going
to be --"

With a swift movement the squat man whipped out a rubber
truncheon, larruped the oldster over the head with all the
force he could muster. The victim went down like a shot steer.
A voice at the back of the crowd shouted, "Shame!" Several
others murmured, fidgeted but did nothing.

Grinning, the squat man showed what he thought of this
disapproval by kicking the oldster in the face and again in
the belly. Glancing up, he met Mowry's gaze and promptly
challenged, "Well?"

Mowry said evenly, "Are you of the Kaitempi?"

"Yar. What's it to you?"

"Nothing. I was only curious."

"Then don't be. Keep your dirty nose out of this."

The crowd muttered and fidgeted again. Two cops came
down from the street, sat on the bottom step and mopped
their foreheads. They looked nervous and jumpy. The
Kaitempi agent joined them, took a gun out of his pocket and
nursed it in his lap. Mowry smiled at him enigmatically. The
oldster still lay unconscious on the floor and breathed with
bubbling sounds.

Now the silence of the city crept into the cellar. The crowd
became peculiarly tense as everyone listened. After half an
hour there sounded in the distance a series of hisses that
started on a loud, strong note and swiftly faded into the sky.

Tenseness immediately increased with the knowledge that
guided missiles weren't being expended for the fun of it.
Somewhere overhead and within theoretical range must be a
Spakum ship, perhaps bearing a lethal load that might drop
at any moment.

Another volley of hisses. The silence returned. The cops
and the agent got to their feet, edged farther into the basement
and turned to watch the steps. Individual breathing could be
heard, some respirating spasmodically as if finding difficulty
in using their lungs. All faces betrayed an inward strain and
there was an acrid smell of sweat. Mowry's only thought was
that to be disintegrated in a bomb-blast from his own side
was a hell of a way to die.

Ten minutes later the floor quivered. The walls vibrated.
The entire building shook. From the street came the brittle
crash of breaking glass as windows fell out. Still theis was
no other sound, no roar of a great explosion, no dull rumbling
of propulsors in the stratosphere. The quietness was eerie in
the extreme.

It was three hours before the same whistling on a lower
note proclaimed the all-clear. The crowd hurried out, vastly
relieved. They stepped over the oldster, left him lying there.
The two cops headed together up the street while the Kaitempi
agent strode the opposite way. Mowry caught up with the
agent, spoke pleasantly.

"Shock damage only. They must have dropped it a good
distance away."

The other grunted,

"I wanted to speak to you but couldn't very well do so in
front of all those people."

"Yar? Why not?"

For answer, Mowry produced his identity-card and his
warrant, showed them to the agent.

"Colonel Halopti, Military Intelligence: Returning the card,
the agent lost some of his belligerence, made an effort to be
polite. "What did you want to say-something about that
garrulous old fool?"

"No. He deserved all he got. You're to be commended for
the way you handled him." He noted the other's look of
gratification, added, "An ancient gab like him could have made
the whole crowd hysterical."

"Yar, that's right. The way to control a mob is to cut out
and beat up its spokesmen."

"When the alarm sounded I was on my way to Kaitempi
H.Q. to borrow a dependable agent," explained Mowry. "When
I saw you in action I felt you'd save me the trouble. You're
just the fellow I want: one who's quick on the uptake and
will stand no nonsense: What's your name?"

"Sagramatholou."

"Ah, you're from the K17 system, hi? They all use
compound names there, don't they?"

"Yar. And you're from Diracta. Halopti is a Diractan name
and you've got a Mashambi accent"

Mowry laughed. "Can't hide much from each other, can
we?"

"Nar." He looked Mowry over with open curiosity, asked,
"What d'you want me for?"

"I hope to nab the leader of a D.A.G. cell. It's got to be
done quickly and quietly. If the Kaitempi put fifty on the job
and make a major operation of it they'll scare away the rest
for miles around. One at a time is the best technique. As the
Spakums say, "Softly, softly, catchee monkey."

"Yar, that's the best way," agreed Sagramatholou.

"I'm confident that I could take this character single-handed
without frightening away the others. But while I'm going in,
the front he may beat it out the back. So it needs two of
us." He paused to let it sink in, finished, "I want a reliable
man to grab him if he bolts; you'll get full credit for the
capture."

The other's eyes narrowed and gained an eager light. "I'll
be glad to come along if it's all right with H.Q. I'd better
phone and ask them."

"Please yourself," said Mowry with a studied carelessness
he was far from feeling. "But you know what will happen for
sure?"

"What d'you think?"

"They'll take you off it and give me an officer of equivalent
rank." Mowry made a disparaging gesture. "Although I
shouldn't say it, being a colonel myself, I'd rather have a
tough, experienced man of my own choice."

The other swelled his chest. "You may have something.
There are officers and officers."

"Precisely! Well, are you in this with me or not?"

"Do you accept full responsibility if my superiors gripe
about it?"

"Of course."

"That's good enough for me. When do we start?"

"At once."

"All right," said Sagramatholou, making up his mind. "I'm
on duty another three hours anyway."

"Good! You got a civilian-type dyno?"

"AII our dynos are ordinary looking ones - they have to be."

"Mine bears military insignia,' lied Mowry. `We'd better
use yours."

The other accepted this statement without question. He
was completely hooked by his own eagerness to get credit for
an important capture. Being what they were, the Kaitempi
suffered from their own peculiar form of cupidity; the prospect
of finding another victim for the strangling-post was something
difficult to resist.

Reaching the car-park around the corner, Sagramatholou
took his seat behind the wheel of a big black dyno. Tossing
his case into the back, Mowry got in beside him. The car
snored onto the street.

"Where to?"

"South end, back of the Rida Engine Plant. I'll show you
from there."

Theatrically the agent made a chopping motion with one
hand as he said, "This D.A.G. business is sending us crazy.
High time we put an end to it. How did you get a lead on
them?"

"We picked it up on Diracta. One of them fell into our
hands and talked."

"In great pain?" suggested Sagramatholou, chuckling.

"That's the way to handle them." He turned a corner, let
go another chuckle. "They all blab when the suffering gets too
cruel to endure. After which they die just the same."

"Yar," repeated Mowry with becoming gusto.

"We snatched a dozen from a cafe in the Laksin quarter,"
informed Sagramatholou. "They're talking, too. But they aren't
talking sense-yet. They've admitted every crime in the calendar
except membership of D.A.G. About that organisation they know
nothing, so they say."

"What took you to the cafe?"

"Somebody got his stupid head knocked off. He was a regular
frequenter of the joint. We identified him after a lot of
trouble, traced him back and grabbed a bunch of his ever-
loving friends. About six of them have confessed to the
killing."

"Six?" Mowry frowned.

"Yar. They did it at six different times, in six different

places, for six different reasons. The dirty sokos are lying to
make us ease up. But we'll get the truth out of them yet."

"Sounds like a mere hoodlum squabble to me. Where's the
political angle, if any?"

"I don't know. The higher-ups keep things to themselves.
They say they know for a fact that it was a D.A.G. execution
and therefore whoever did it is a D.A.G. killer."

"Maybe somebody tipped them," offered Mowry.

"Maybe somebody did. And he could be a liar too." He let
go a snort of disgust. "This war is enough without traitors and
liars making things worse. We're being run ragged, see? It
can't go on for ever."

"Any luck with the snap-searches?"

"There was at first. Then the luck petered out because everyone
became wary. We've stopped making them for ten days.
The lull will give the dodgers a sense of false security. When
they're ripe for the taking, we'll take them."

"That's a good idea. One has to use one's wits these days,
hi?"

"Yar."

"Here we are. Turn left and then first right"

The car shot past the rear of the engine plant, entered a
narrow, rutted road, switched into another little better than a
lane. All around was an unsavoury, semi-deserted area full of
old buildings, vacant lots and garbage dumps. They stopped,
got out.

Gazing about him, the Kaitempi agent remarked, "A typical
vermin-run. A couple of years ago we smoked a gang of god-
worshippers out of an old warehouse in this district"

Mowry put on a look of revulsion, "You mean a bunch
infected with Terran religion?"

"Yar, true believers. When the noose tightened their praying
tongues stuck out and went black the same as any sinners."
He laughed at the recollection of it, glanced at the other.
"Where now?"

"Along this alley."

Mowry led the way into the alley which was long, dirty and
had a dead end. They reached the twelve-foot wall that
blocked further progress. There was nobody in sight, nothing
could be heard save a distant hum of traffic and the nearer
squeak of a hanging sign, old and rusty.

Pointing to the door set in the wall, Mowry said, This is
the bolt-hole. It will take me two or three minutes to get round
the front and go in. After that you can expect anything." He
tried the door. It refused to budge. "Locked."

"Better unlock it so he can make a clear run;" suggested
Sagramatholou. "If he finds himself balked he's liable to try
shoot it out with you and I'll be in no position to take part.
These sokos can become dangerous when desperate." He felt
in a pocket, produced a bunch of master-keys. Grinning, he
added, "The easiest way is to let him rush straight into my
arms."

With that, he faced the door, turning his back on Mowry
while he meddled with the lock. Mowry looked back along
the alley. Still nobody in sight.

Taking out his gun, he said in calm, unhurried tones, "You
kicked the old geezer when he was down."

"Sure did," enthused the agent, still trying the lock. "I hope
he dies slowly, the half-witted -" His voice broke off as the
incongruity of Mowry's remark sank into his mind. He turned
round, one hand braced upon the door, and looked straight
into the gun's muzzle. "What's this? What are you -"

The gun gave a phut no louder than that of an air-pistol.
Sagramatholou remained standing, a blue hole in his forehead.
His mouth hung open in an idiotic gape. Then his knees gave
way and he plunged forward face first.

Pocketing the gun, Mowry bent over the body. Working
fast, he searched it, replaced the wallet after a swift look
through it but confiscated the official badge. Hastening out
the alley, he got into the car, drove it downtown to within
a short distance of a used car lot.
Walking the rest of the way he looked over the big assembly
of badly beaten-up dynos. A thin, hard-faced Sirian
immediately sidled up to him, his crafty eyes noting the well-cut
suit, the platinum fob and wrist-band. This, obviously, was
harvest time.

"Lucky you!" announced the Sirian, greasily. "You have
found the best place on Jaimec for a genuine bargain. Every
car a real sacrifice. There's a war on, prices are going to jump
and you just can't go wrong. Now take a look at this beauty
right here. A gift, a positive gift. It's a -"

"I've got eyes," said Mowry.

"Yar, sure. I'm pointing out -"

"I've got a mind of my own," Mowry informed. "And I
wouldn't drive around in any of these relics unless I was in
a hurry to be struck dead."

"But -"

"Like everyone else, I know there's a war on. before long
it's going to be mighty tough getting bits and pieces. I'm
in-terested in something I can strip down for parts." He pointed.

"That one, for instance. How much?"

"She's a good runner," expostulated the salesman, donning a
look of horror. "Purrs along like brand new. Got current
plates -"

"I can see it's got current plates."

"... and is good and solid from front to back. I'm giving
it away, just giving it"

"How much?"

"Nine-ninety," said the other, again eyeing the suit and the
platinum.

"Robbery," said Mowry.

They haggled for half an hour at the end of which Mowry
got it for eight-twenty. He paid and drove it away. It creaked,
groaned and lurched in a manner that showed he'd still been
soaked for at least two hundred, but he wasn't resentful about
that.

On a lot littered with scrap-iron a mile away, with nobody
watching, he parked the car, smashed its windshield and
lamps, removed its wheels and number plates, took all
detach-able parts from the motor and effectively converted the
machine into what any passer-by could see was an abandoned
wreck. He walked off, returned in short time with the dead
agent's car, loaded the loose parts into it.

Half an hour later he slung the wheels and other items into
the river. With them went Sagramatholou's plates. He drove
away bearing the plates taken from the wreck; the exchange
had cost him eight-twenty in counterfeit money and was cheap
at the price. A police patrol or another Kaitempi car could
now follow him for miles without spotting the number for
which undoubtedly they'd be seeking.

Assured of no more snap-searches for the time being he
idled around town until the sky went dark. Dumping the car
in an underground garage, he bought a paper and perused it
during a meal.

According to this news-sheet a lone Terran destroyer -
described as `a cowardly sneak-raider' - had managed to make a
desperate dash through formidable space defences and drop
one bomb upon the great national armaments. complex at
Shugruma. Little damage had been done. The invader had
been blown apart soon afterward.

The story had been written up to give the impression that
a sly dog had got in a harmless bite and been shot for its
pains. He wondered how many readers believed it. Shugruma
was more than three hundred miles away - yet Pertane had
shuddered to the shock-waves of the distant explosion. If that
was anything to go by, the target area must now be represented
by a crater a couple of miles in diameter.

The second page stated that forty-eight members of the
traitorous Sirian Freedom Party had been seized by forces of
law and order and would be dealt with appropriately. No
details offered, no names given, no charges stated.

This was normal among a species with a secret judicial
system, on worlds where any suspect could be snatched from
the street and never seen again. There were no judges and
juries holding public trials anywhere within the Sirian Empire.
If lucky, the arrested one eventually was released, physically
enfeebled, without apology or compensation. If out of luck,
his next of kin did not so much as receive a jar containing
his ashes.

The forty-eight were doomed, whoever they were or whoever
they were thought to be. Alternatively, the whole yarn
could be an officially concocted lie. The powers-that-be were
quite capable of venting their fury on half a dozen common
crooks and, for public consumption, defining them as D.A.G.
members while multiplying their number by eight. Authority
is maintained and wars are fought by propaganda, a cover word
for cynical perversion of the facts.

One of the back pages devoted a few lines to the modest
statement that Sirian forces had now been withdrawn from
the planet Gooma "so that they can be deployed more effectively
in the actual area of combat." This implied that Gooma
was far outside the area of combat, a transparent piece of
nonsense to any reader capable of independent thought. But
ninety percent of the readership could not endure the awful
strain of thinking: they were content to look and listen and
swallow whatever guff got dished out.

Far and away the most significant item was the leader-
writer's contribution. This was a pompous sermon based on
the thesis that total war should end only in total victory which
could and must be gained only by total effort. There was no
room for political division within the Sirian ranks. Everyone
without exception must be solidly behind the leadership in
its determination to fight the war to a successful conclusion.
Doubters and waverers, dodgers and complainers, the lazy
and the shiftless were as much traitors to the cause as any
spy or saboteur. They should be dealt with swiftly, once and
for all. They should be slaughtered without mercy.

Clearly it was a yelp of agony although Dirac Angestun
Gesept was not mentioned in plain words. Since in time of
war all such lectures were officially inspired, it was reasonable
to assume that the brasshats were experiencing acute pains
in the buttocks. In effect they were shouting out loud that a
wasp could sting. Perhaps some of them had received little
parcels that ticked and did not approve of this switch from
the general to the personal.

Now that night had fallen Mowry lugged his case to his
room. He made the approach warily. Any hideout could
become a trap at any time, without warning. Apart from the
possibility of the police or Kaitempi lying in wait after having
got a line on him, there was also the chance of encountering
a landlord who'd become curious about the use of the room
by another and more prosperous Iooking character. True, the
landlord was a tightmouth typical of slumdom but even he
would curry favour with the Kaitempi if he thought it necessary
to save his own neck. The landlord was not to be trusted.
On a hostile world nobody was to be trusted.

The building wasn't watched, the room was not staked. He
managed to sneak in unobserved. Everything proved to be
exactly as he had left it, showing that nobody yet had found
reason to come nosing around. Thankfully he sprawled on the
bed and gave his feet a rest while he considered the situation.
It was evident that as far as possible he would have to enter
and leave the room only during hours of darkness. The alternative
was to seek another hideout, preferably in a better-class
area more in keeping with his present character. He didn't
want to start another time-wasting search for a rat-hole unless
he was driven to it.

The following day he regretted the destruction of his first
case and all its contents in Radine. This loss piled up the
work, made it tedious and boring. But it had to be done. As
a result he spent all morning in the public library compiling
a list of names and addresses to replace the previous one.
Then with plain paper, envelopes and a small hand-printer

he used another two days preparing a stack of letters. It was
a relief when they were finished and mailed.

Sagramatholou was the fourth.
The list is long.
Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Thus he had killed several birds with one stone. He had
avenged the oldster, a motive that gave him a good deal of
satisfaction. He had struck another blow at the Kaitempi.
He'd acquired a car not traceable through renting agencies
or usual sales channels. Finally he had given authority further
proof of D.A.G.'s willingness to kill, maim or otherwise
muscle its way to power.

To boost this situation he mailed at the same time another
six parcels. Outwardly these were identical with the former
ones. They emitted the same subdued tick. There the resemblance
ended. At periods varying between six and twenty hours
after sending, or at any moment that someone tried pry
them open, they were due to go off with a bang sufficiently
forceful to plaster a body against the wall.

On the fourth day after his return to the roam he slipped
out unseen, collected the car and visited Marker 33-den on
the Radine road. Several patrol cars passed him on the way
but none betrayed the slightest interest in him. Reaching the
marker, he dug at its base, found his own cellophane envelope
now containing a small card. All it said was: Asako 19-1713.
The trick had come off.

Forthwith he drove back to the first booth he could find,
switched off its scanner and called the number. A strange voice
answered while the visiscreen remained blank. Evidently there
was similar caution at the other end.

"19-1713," it said.

"Gurd or Skriva there?" asked Mowry.

"Wait," ordered the voice.

"One moment and no more," retorted Mowry. "After that
goodbye!"

The only answer was a grunt. Mowry hung on, watching
the road, ready to drop the phone and beat it immediately
his intuition told him to get away fast. The college had told
him times without number never to disregard the strange, in-
definable smell of an ambush. There must be something in
it seeing he was still alive and fancy free.

He was nearing the point of taking alarm when Skriva's
voice came through and growled, "Who's that?"

"Your benefactor."

"Oh, you. I'm not getting your pic."

"I'm not getting yours either. What's the matter - are you
windy?"

"This is no place to talk," said Skriva. "We'd better meet.
Where are you?"

A swift series of thoughts flashed through Mowry's mind.
Where are you? Was Skriva allowing himself to be used as
bait? If he'd been caught and given a preliminary taste of
rough treatment it was just the sort of crafty trick the
Kaitempi would play. They'd get Skriva's full co-operation
after showing him the consequences of refusal.

On the other hand it wasn't likely in such circumstances
that Skriva would bother asking for his location. The Kaitempi
would know it already, having traced the call. Moreover they'd
want the conversation prolonging as much as possible to hold
Mowry there. Skriva was trying to cut it short. Yes, the betting
was against a trap.

"You struck dumb?" shouted Skriva, impatient and suspicious.

That settled the matter from Mowry's viewpoint and he
replied, "I was thinking. How about meeting me where you
left your phone number?"

"That's as good as anywhere."

"By yourself," warned Mowry. "Nobody else with you excepting
Gurd. Nobody following and nobody hanging around."

"Who's windy now?" said Skriva. "I'm coming right away."

Driving back to the marker, Mowry parked his car on the
verge and waited. Twenty minutes afterward Skriva's dyno
rolled up, parked behind. Skriva got out, approached him,
halted in mid-step, scowled uncertainly, slid a hand into a
pocket and looked hurriedly up and down the road. There
were no other cars in sight.

Mowry grinned at him. "What's eating you? Got a guilty
conscience or something?"

Coming closer, Skriva eyed him with slight incredulity, then
commented, "So it is you. What have you been doing to yourself?"

Without waiting for a reply he walked around the bonnet,
climbed in, took the other seat. "You don't look the same.
It was hard to recognise you."

"That's the idea. A change for the better wouldn't do you
any harm, either. Make it harder for the cops to get you."

"Maybe." Skriva was silent for a moment, then, "They got
Gurd."

Mowry sat up. "How? When was this?"

"The damn fool came down from a roof straight into the
arms of two of them. Not satisfied with that he gave them
some lip and went for his gun."

"If he'd behaved like he'd every right to be up there he
could have talked his way out of it."

"Gurd couldn't talk his way out of an old sack," opined
Skriva. "He's not made like that. I spend a lot of time keeping
him out of trouble."

"How come you weren't collared too?"

"I was on another roof halfway down the street. They didn't
see me. It was all over before I could get down to help Gurd."

"What happened to him?"

"What you'd expect. The cops were already beating him
over the head before he got his hand in his pocket. Last I
saw of him was when they flung him into the wagon."

"Tough luck!” sympathised Mowry. He meditated a while,
asked, `And what happened at the Cafe Susun?"

"Don't know exactly. Gurd and I weren't there at the time
and a fellow tipped us to stay clear. All I know is that the

Kaitempi rushed the place twenty strong, grabbed everyone
in sight and staked it. I've not shown my face near there since.
Some soko must have talked too much."

"Butin Arhava, for instance?"

"How could he?" scoffed Skriva. "Gurd took his head off
before he'd a chance to blab."

"Maybe he talked after Gurd had tended to him,' Mowry
suggested. "Sort of lost his head about it."

Skriva narrowed his eyes: "What d'you mean?"

"Oh, forget it. Did you collect that roll from the bridge?"

"Yar."

"Want any more - or are you now too rich to care?"

Studying him calculatingly, Skriva asked, "How much
money have you got altogether?"

"Enough to pay for all the jobs I want done."

"That tells me nothing."

"It isn't intended to," Mowry assured. "What's on your
mind?"

"I like money."

"That fact is more than apparent," said Mowry.

"I'm really fond of it," Skriva went on, as if speaking in
parables.

"Who isn't?"

"Yar, who isn't? Gurd loves it too. Most everybody does."

Skriva stopped, added, "In fact the chump who doesn't love
it is either daft or dead."

"If you're leading up to something, say so," Mowry urged.
"Cut out the song and dance act. We've not got all day."

"I know a fellow who loves money."

"So what?"

"He's a jailer," said Skriva pointedly.

Twisting sidewise in his seat, Mowry eyed him carefully.

"Let's get down to brass tacks. What's he willing to do and
how much does he want?"

"He says Gurd's in a cell along with a couple of old pals
of ours. So far none of them have been put through the mill
though they'll be worked over sooner or later. Fellows in clink
usually are given plenty of time to think over what's coming
to them and let their imaginations operate. It helps them
break down quicker."

"That's the usual technique," Mowry agreed. "Let them
become nervous wrecks before making them physical wrecks."

"Yar, the stinking sokos." Skriva spat out the window before
he continued, "Whenever a prisoner's number comes up the
Kaitempi call at the jail, present an official demand for him
and take him to their H.Q. for treatment. Sometimes they
bring him back several days later, by which time he's a cripple.
Sometimes they don't return him at all. In the latter event
they file a death warrant to keep the prison records straight."

"Go on."

"This fellow who loves money will give me the number and
location of Gurd's cell. Also the timing of Kaitempi visits
and full details of the routine they follow. Finally he'll
pro-vide a copy of the official form used for demanding release."
He let that sink in, finished, "He wants a hundred thousand."

Mowry pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "You think we
should try get Gurd out?"

"Yar."

"Didn't know you were so fond of him."

"He could stay there and rot for all I care," said Skriva.

"He's paying the price of his own stupidity. Why should I
worry about him, hi?"

"All right, let him stay and rot. We'll save a hundred
thousand that way."

"Yar," Skriva approved. "But -"

"But what?"

"I could use the dope and the two with him. So could you
if you've more work in mind. Furthermore, if Gurd's kept in
he'll talk. They'll make him talk - and he knows too much.
But if he escapes they won't be able to force him to say
anything. And what's a hundred thousand to you?"

"Too much to throw away on a glib story." Mowry told him
bluntly. "Prize fool I'd be to hand you a huge, wad just because
you say Gurd's in the clink."

Skriva's face darkened with anger. "You don't believe me, hi?"

"I've got to be shown," said Mowry, undisturbed.

"Maybe you'd like a specially conducted tour through the
jail and have Gurd pointed out to you?"

"The sarcasm is wasted. You seem to forget that while Gurd
may be able to put the finger on you for fifty or more major
crimes, he can do nothing whatsoever about me. He can talk
himself black in the face without saying anything worth a hoot
so far as I am concerned. No, when I spend money it'll be
my money and it'll be spent for my reasons, not yours."

"So you won't splurge a guilder on Gurd?" demanded Skriva,
still thunderous.

"I don't say that. What I do say is that I won't throw money
away for nothing. But I'm willing to pay for full value
received."

"Meaning what?"

"Tell this greedy screw that we'll give him twenty thousand
for a genuine Kaitempi requisition-form - after he has handed
it over. Also that we'll pay him a further eighty thousand
after Gurd and his two companions have got away."

A mixture of expressions crossed Skriva's unlovely features,
surprise, gratification, doubt and puzzlement. "What if he
refuses to play on these terms?"

"He stays poor."

"Well, what if he agrees but refuses to believe I can find the
money? How am I going to convince him?"

"Don't bother to try," Mowry advised. "He has to speculate
in order to accumulate, same as everyone else. If he won't do
it let him remain content with grinding poverty."

"Maybe he'd rather stay poor than take the risk."

"He won't. He's running no real risk and he knows it.

There's only one chance he could take and he'll avoid it like
the plague."

"Such as?"

"Suppose we arrive to make the rescue and are jumped on
before we can open our mouths or show the requisition-form,
what will it prove? It'll show that this fellow fooled you for
the sake of the reward. The Kaitempi will pay him five
thousand apiece for laying the trap and tipping them off. He'll
make an easy and legal ten thousand on top of the twenty
thousand we've already paid him. Correct?"

"Yar," said Skriva, uneasily.

"`But he'll lose the eighty thousand yet to come. The difference
is plenty big enough to ensure his absolute loyalty up
to the moment he gets it in his hot little hands."

"Yar," repeated Skriva, brightening considerably.

"After that - zunk!" said Mowry. "Immediately he's got his
claws on the lot we'd better run like hell."

"Hell?" Skriva stared at him. "That's a Spakum curse-word."

Mowry sweated a bit as he replied offhandedly, "Sure it is.
One picks up all sorts of bad language in wartime, especially
on Diracta."

"Ah, yes, on Diracta." echoed Skriva, mollified. He got out
the car. "I'll go see this jailer. We'll have to move fast. Phone
me this time tomorrow, hi?"

"All right."

Mowry remained where he was until the other's dyno had
gone from sight. Then he jockeyed his own off the verge and
drove into Pertane.


Chapter IX


THE NEXT DAY'S work was the easiest to date though not
devoid of danger. All he had to do was gossip to anyone
willing to listen. This was in accordance with the step-by-step
technique taught him by the college.

`First of all you must establish the existence of an internal
opposition. Doesn't matter whether it is real or imaginary so
long as the enemy becomes convinced of its actuality.'

He had done that much.

`Secondly, you must create fear of that opposition and
provoke the enemy into striking back at it as best he can.`

He'd done that too.

`Thirdly, you must answer the enemy's blows with enough
defiance to force him into the open, to bring his reaction to
public attention and to create the general impression that the
opposition has confidence in its own power.`

That also had been achieved.

`The fourth move is ours and not yours. We'll take enough
military action to make hay of the enemy's claims of
invincibility. After that the morale of the public should be
shaky.`

One bomb on Shugruma had done the shaking.

`You then take the fifth step by sowing rumours. Listeners
will be ripe to absorb them and whisper them around - and
the stories will lose nothing in the telling. A good rumour well
planted and thoroughly disseminated can spread alarm and
despondency over a wide area. But be careful in your choice
of victims. If you pick on a fanatical patriot it may be the
end of you!`

In any city in any part of the cosmos the public park is a
natural haunt of idlers and gossips. That is where Mowry went
in the morning. The benches were occupied almost entirely
by elderly people. Young folk tended to keep clear of such
places lest inquisitive cops ask why they were not at work.

Selecting a seat next to a gloomy looking oldster with a
perpetual sniff, Mowry contemplated a bed of tattered flowers
until the other turned. toward him and said conversationally,

"Two more gardeners have gone."

"So? Gone where?"

"Into the armed forces. If they draft the rest of them I don't
know what will happen to this park. It needs someone to look
after it."

"There's a lot of work involved," agreed Mowry. "But I
sup-pose the war comes first"

"Yar. Always the war comes first" Sniffy said it with
cautious disapproval. "It should have been over by now. But
it drags on and drags on. Sometimes I wonder when it will
end."

"That's the big question," responded Mowry, making himself
a fellow spirit.

"Things can't be going as well as they're said to be,"
continued Sniffy, morbidly. "Else the war would be over. It
wouldn't drag on the way it does."

"Personally, I think things are darned bad." Mowry hesitated,
went on confidingly, "In fact I know they are."

"You do? Why?"

"Maybe I oughtn't tell you-but it's bound to come out
sooner or later."

"What is?" insisted Sniffy, consumed with curiosity.

"The terrible state of affairs at Shugruma. My brother came
home this morning and told me."

"Go on-what did he say?"

"He tried to go there for business reasons. but couldn't get
to the place. A ring of troops turned him back forty den from
the town. Nobody except the military, or salvage and medical
services, is being allowed to enter the area."

"That so?" said Sniffy.

"My brother says he met a fellow who'd escaped the disaster
with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. This fellow told
him that Shugruma was practically wiped off the map. Not
one stone left upon another. Three hundred thousand dead.
The stench of bodies would turn your stomach. He said the
scene is so awful that the news-sheets daren't describe it, in
fact they refuse to mention it."

Staring straight ahead, Sniffy said nothing but looked
appalled.

Mowry added a few more lurid touches, brooded with him
for a short time, took his departure. All that he'd said would
be repeated, he could be sure of that. Bad news travels fast.
A little later and half a mile away he had another on the hook,
a beady-eyed, mean-faced character only too willing to hear
the worst.

"Even the papers dare not talk about it," Mowry ended.
Beady-eyes swallowed hard. "If a Spakum ship can dive in
and drop a big one so can a dozen others."

"Yar, that's right"

"In fact they could have dropped more than one while they
were at it. Why didn't they?"

"Maybe they were making a test-run. Now they know how
easy it is they'll come along with a real load. If that happens
there won't be much left of Pertane." He pulled his right ear
and made a tzzk! sound between his teeth, that being the
Sirian equivalent of showing thumbs down.

"Somebody ought to do something about it," declared Beady.
unnerved.

"I'm going to do something myself," informed Mowry. "I'm
going to dig me a deep hole way out in the fields."

He left the other half-paralysed with fright, took a short
walk, picked on a cadaverous individual who looked like a
mortician on vacation.

"Close friend of mine - he's a fieet leader in the space-navy
- told me confidentially that a Spakum onslaught has made
Gooma completely uninhabitable. He thinks the only reason
why they've not given Jaimec the same treatment is because
they're planning to grab the place and naturally don't want
to rob themselves of the fruits of victory."

"Do you believe all that?" demanded the Embalmer.

"One doesn't know what to believe when the government
tells you one thing and grim experience tells you another. It's
only his personal opinion anyway. But he's in the space-navy
and knows a few things that we don't."

"It has been stated authoritatively that the Spakum fleets
have been destroyed."

"Yar, they were still saying so when that bomb fell on
Shugruma," Mowry reminded.

"True, true - I felt it land. In my own house two windows
collapsed and a bottle of zith jumped off the table."

By mid-afternoon thirty people had been fed the tale of the
Shugruma and Gooma disasters, plus allegedly first-hand
warnings of bacteriological warfare and worse horrors to
come. They could no more keep it to themselves than a man
can keep a tornado to himself. By early evening a thousand
would have the depressing news. At midnight ten thousand
would be passing it around. In the morning a hundred thousand -
and so on until the whole city was discussing it.

At the arranged time he called Skriva. "What luck?"

"I've got the form. Have you got the money?"

"Yar."

"It's to be paid before tomorrow. Shall we meet same place
as last?"

"No." said Mowry. "It's not wise to create a habit. Let's make
it someplace else."

"Where?"

"There's a certain bridge where you collected once before.
How about the fifth marker past it going south?"

"That's as good as anywhere. Can you go there at once!"

"I've got to pick up my car. It'll take a little time. You be
there at the seven-time hour."

He reached the marker on time, found Skriva already waiting.
Handing over the money, he took the requisition-form
and examined it carefully. One good look told him that the
thing was well-nigh impossible for him to copy. It was an
ornate document as lavishly engraved as a banknote of high
denomination. They could cope with it on Terra but it was
beyond his ability to duplicate even with the help of various
instruments of forgery lying in the cave.

The form was a used one dated three weeks ago and
obviously had been purloined from the jail's filing system. It
called for the release to the Kaitempi of one prisoner named
Mabin Garud but had enough blank spaces for ten names.
The date, the prisoner's name and number had been typed.
The authorizing signature was in ink.

"Now we've got it," prompted Skriva, "what are we going
to do with it?"

"We can't imitate it," Mowry informed. "The job is too tough
and will take too long."

"You mean it's no use to us?" He registered angry
disappointment.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Well, what do you say? Am I to give this stinker his twenty
thousand or do I cram the form down his gullet?"

"You can pay him." Mowry studied the form again. "I think
that if I work on it tonight I can erase the date, name and
number. The signature can be left intact."

"That's risky. It's easy to spot erasures."

"Not the way I do them. I know how to gloss the surface
afterward. The really difficult task will be that of restoring
the broken lines of engraving." He pondered a moment, went
on, "But that may not be necessary. There's a good chance
the new typing will fill in the blanks. It's hardly likely that
they'll put the form under a microscope."

"If they were that suspicious they'd grab us first," 5kriva
pointed out.

"I need a typewriter. I'll have to buy one in the morning."

"I can get you a typewriter for tonight," offered Skriva.

"You can? How soon?"

"By the eight-time hour."

"Is it in good condition?"

"Yar, it's practically new."

Mowry eyed him and said, "I suppose it's no business of
mine but I can't help wondering what use a typewriter is to
you."

"I can sell it. I sell all sorts of things."

"Things you just happened to find lying in your hands?"

"That's right," agreed Skriva, unabashed.

"Oh well, who am I to quibble? You get it. Meet me here
at eight."

Skriva pushed off. When he'd gone from sight Mowry
followed into the city. He had a feed, drove back to the
marker. Soon afterward Skriva reappeared, gave him the
type-writer.

Mowry said, "I want Gurd's full name and those of his two
companions. Somehow or other you'll have to discover their
prison numbers too. Can you do that?"

"I've got them already." Taking a slip of paper from his
pocket, Skriva read them out while the other made a note of
them.

"Did you also learn at what times the Kaitempi make their
calls to collect?"

"Yar. Always between the three and four-time hours. Never
earlier, rarely later."

"Can you find out about noon tomorrow whether Gurd and
the others are still in the jail? We've got to know that - we'll
get ourselves in a fix if we arrive and demand prisoners who
were taken away this afternoon."

"I can check on it tomorrow," Skriva assured. Then his face
tautened. "Are you planning to get them away tomorrow?"

"We've got to do it sometime or not at all. The longer we
leave it the bigger the risk of the Kaitempi beating us to the
draw. What's wrong with tomorrow, hi?"

"Nothing except that I wasn't counting on it being so soon."

"Why?"

"I thought it'd take longer to work things. out."

"There's little to work out," declared Mowry. "We've swiped
a requisition-form. We alter it and use it to demand release
of three prisoners. Either we get away with it or we don't.
If we do, well and good. If we don't, we shoot first and run
fast."

"You make it sound too easy," Skriva objected. "All we've
got is this form. It isn't enough -"

"It won't be enough, I can tell you that now. Chances are
ten to one they'll expect familiar faces and be surprised by
strange ones. We'll have to compensate for that somehow."

"How?"

"Don't worry, we'll cope. Can you dig up a couple more
helpers? All they need do is sit in the cars, keep their traps
shut and look tough. I'll pay them five thousand apiece just
for that"

"Five thousand each? I could recruit a regiment for that
money. Yar, I can find two. But I don't know how good they'd
be in a fight."

"Doesn't matter so long as they can look like plug-uglies.
By that I don't mean the Cafe Susun kind of roughneck, see?
They've got to resemble Kaitempi agents." He gave the other
an imperative nudge. "The same applies to you. When it's time
to start the job I want to see all three of you clean and tidy,
with well-pressed suits and neatly knotted neck-scarves. I want
to see you looking as if about to attend a wedding. If you let
me down in that respect the deal is off so far as I'm concerned.

You can count me out and go pull the stunt on your own. I
don't intend to try kid some hard-faced, gimlet-eyed warden
with the aid of three scruffy looking bums."

"Maybe you'd like us decked out in fashionable jewellery,"
suggested Skriva sarcastically.

"A diamond on the hand is better than a smear of dirt,"
Mowry retorted. "I'd rather you overdid the dolling-up than
mooched along like hoboes. You'd get away with a splurge
because some of these agents are flashy types." He waited for
comment but the other said nothing, so he continued, "What's
more, these two helpers had better be characters you can trust
not to talk afterward - else they may take my five thousand
and then get another five thousand from the Kaitempi for
betraying you."

Skriva was on firm ground here. He gave an ugly grin and
promised, "One thing I can guarantee is that neither of them
will say a word."

This assurance and the way it was made bore a sinister
meaning but Mowry let it pass and said, "Lastly, we'll need
a couple of dynos. We can't use our own unless we change
the plates. Any ideas on that?"

"Pinching a pair of dynos is as easy as taking a mug of zith.
The trouble is keeping them for any length of time. The longer
we use them the bigger the chance of being picked up by some
lousy patrol with nothing better to do."

"We'll have to cut the use of them to the minimum." Mowry
told him. "Take them as late as you can. We'll park our own
cars on that lot the other side of the Asako Bridge. When we
leave the jail we'll beat it straight there and switch over to
them."

"Yar, that is best," Skriva agreed.

"All right. I'll be waiting outside the east gate of the
municipal park at the two-time hour tomorrow. You come along
with two cars and two helpers and pick me up."

At that point Skriva became strangely restless and showed
suspicion. He fidgeted around, opened his mouth, shut it.
Watching him curiously, Mowry invited, "Well, what's the
matter? You want to call the whole thing off?"

Skriva mustered his thoughts and burst out with, "Look,
Gurd means nothing to you. The others mean even less. But
you're paying good money and taking a big risk to get them
out of clink. It doesn't make sense."

"A lot of things don't make sense. This war doesn't make
sense - but we're in it up to the neck."

"Curses on the war. That is nothing to do with the matter."

"It has everything to do with the matter," Mowry contradicted.
"I don't like it. A lot of people don't like it. If we kick
the government in the rumps often enough and hard enough,
they won't like it either."

"Oh, so that's what you're up to?" Skriva stared at him in
frank surprise, thoughts of purely political reasons never
having entered his mind. "You're chivvying the authorities?"

"Any objections?"

"I couldn't care less," informed Skriva, and added virtuously,
"Politics is a dirty game. Anyone who plays around in it is
crazy. All it gets him in the end is a free burial."

"It'll be my burial, not yours."

"Yar, that's why I don't care." Obviously relieved at having
got to the bottom of the other's motives; Skriva finished, "Meet
you at the park tomorrow."

"On time. If you're late I won't be there."

As before, he waited until the other had gone from sight
before driving to town. It was a good thing, he thought, that
Skriva had a criminal mentality. The fellow just wasn't interested
in politics, ethics, patriotism or anything similar except
insofar as it provided opportunity to snatch easy money. It
was highly probable that he viewed his recent activities as
profitably illegal but not as treacherous. It simply wouldn't
occur to him that there are criminals and there are traitors.

Any one of Skriva's bunch would surrender his own mother
to the Kaitempi, not as a duty to the nation but solely for five
thousand guilders. Similarly, they'd hand Mowry over and
pocket the cash with a hearty laugh. All that prevented them
from selling him body and soul was the fact they'd freely
admitted, namely, that one does not flood one's goldmine.

Providing the cars and helpers could be obtained Skriva
would be there on time tomorrow. He felt sure of that.


Exactly at the two-time hour a big, black dyno paused at
the east gate, picked up Mowry and whined onward. Another
dyno, older and slightly battered, followed a short distance
behind.

Sitting four-square at the wheel of the first car, Skriva
looked neater and more respectable than he had done for
years. He exuded a faint smell of scented lotion and seemed
self conscious about it. With his gaze fixed firmly ahead, he
jerked a manicured thumb over his shoulder to indicate a
similarly washed and scented character lounging beetle-
browed in the back seat.

"Meet Lithar. He's the sharpest wert on Jaimec."

Mowry twisted his head round and gave a polite nod. Lithar
rewarded him with a blank stare. Returning attention to the
windshield, Mowry wondered what on earth a wert might be.
He'd never heard the word before and dared not ask its
meaning. It might be more than an item of local jargon, perhaps
a slang word added to the Sirian language during the years
he had been away. It wouldn't be wise to admit ignorance of
it.

"The fellow in the other car is Brank," informed Skriva.
"He's a red-hot wert too. Lithar's right-hand man. That so,
Lithar?"

The sharpest wert on Jaimec responded with a grunt. To
give him his due, he fitted the part of an agent of the typically
surly type. In that respect Skriva had chosen well.

Threading their way through a series of side-streets they
reached a main road, found themselves held up by a long,
noisy convoy of half-tracked vehicles crammed with troops.
Perforce they stopped and waited. The convoy rolled on and
on like a never ending stream. Skriva began to curse under '
his breath.

"They're gaping around like newcomers," observed Mowry,
watching the passing soldiery. "Must have just arrived from
somewhere."

"Yar, from Diracta," Skriva told him. "Six shiploads landed
this morning. There's a story going the rounds that ten set
out but only six got here."

"That so? It doesn't look so good if they're rushing additional
forces to Jaimec despite heavy losses en route"

"Nothing looks good except a stack of guilders twice my
height," opined Skriva. He scowled at the rumbling half-tracks.
"If they delay us long enough we'll still be here when a couple
of boobs start bawling about their missing cars. The cops will
find us just waiting to be grabbed."

"So what?" said Mowry. "Your conscience is clear, isn't it?"
Skriva answered that with a look of disgust. At last the
procession of military vehicles came to an end. The car jolted
forward as he rushed it impatiently into the road and built
up speed.

"Take it easy" Mowry advised. "We don't want to be nailed
for ignoring some petty regulation."

At a point a short distance from the jail Skriva pulled in
to the kerb and parked. The other dyno stopped close behind.
He turned toward Mowry.

"Before we go any farther let's have a look at that form."

Extracting it from a pocket, Mowry gave it to him. He pored
over it, seemed satisfied, handed it to Lithar.

"Looks all right to me. What d'you think?"

Lithar eyed it impassively, gave it back. "It's good enough
or it isn't. You'll find out pretty soon."

Sensing something sinister in this remark, Skriva became
afflicted with new doubts. He said to Mowry, "The idea is
that a couple of us walk in, present this form and wait for
them to fetch us the prisoners, hi?"

"Correct."

"What if this form isn't enough and they ask for proof of
our identities?"

"I can prove mine."

"Yar? What sort of proof?"

"Who cares so long as it convinces them?" Mowry evaded.

"As for you, fix this inside your jacket and flash it if necessary."

He gave the other Sagramatholou's badge.

Fingering it in open surprise, Skriva demanded; "Where'd
you get this?"

"An agent gave it me. I've influence, see?"

"You expect me to believe that? No Kaitempi soko would
dream of -"

"It so happened that he had expired," Mowry put in. "Dead
agents are very co-operative, as perhaps you've noticed."

"You killed him?"

"Don't be nosey."

"Yar, what's it to us?" interjected Lithar from the back seat.
"You're wasting time. Put a move on and let's get the whole
thing over - or let's throw it up and go back home."

Thus urged Skriva started up and drove forward. Now that
he was rapidly coming to the point of committing himself his
edginess was obvious. He knew that if the rescue failed and
he was caught he'd certainly pay for the attempt with bulging
eyes and protruding tongue. If it succeeded there would follow
a hue and cry that would make all of them cower in their
rat-holes for a month and all he'd have gained would be three
henchmen who, for the time being, would be more nuisance
than asset.

Inwardly he regretted the idea that had made him suggest
this stunt in the first place, namely, that there is safety in
numbers. Perhaps he'd be better off without Gurd and his
fellow jailbirds. Sure, four heads are better than one, four
guns are better than one, but he could do without the official
hullabaloo that the escapees would drag behind them like the
tail of a meteor.

It was too late to retreat. The jail was now in sight, its great
steel doors set in high stone walls. Rolling toward the doors,
the two cars stopped. Mowry got out. Skriva followed suit,
thin-lipped and resigned.

Mowry thumbed the bell-button set in the wall. A small
door which formed a section of the bigger one emitted metallic
clankings and opened. Through it an armed guard eyed them
questioningly.

"Kaitempi call for three prisoners," announced Mowry with
becoming arrogance.

With a brief glance at the waiting cars and their wert occupants
the guard motioned the two inside, closed the door, slid
home its locking-bar. "You're a little early today."

"Yar, we've got a lot to do. We're in a hurry."

"This way."

They tramped after the guard in single file, Skivra last with
a hand in a pocket. Taking them into the administration building,
along a corridor and past a heavily barred sliding gate,
the guard led them into a small room in which a burly, grim-
faced Sirian was sitting behind a desk. Upon the desk stood
a small plaque reading: Commandant Tornik.

"Three prisoners are required for immediate interrogation,"
said Mowry officiously. "Here is the requisition-form,
Commandant. We are pressed for time and would be obliged if
you'd produce them as quickly as possible."

Tornik frowned over the form but did not examine it closely.
Dialling an intercom phone he ordered somebody to bring
the three to his office. Then he lay back in his chair and
regarded the visitors with complete lack of expression.

"You are new to me."

"Of course, Commandant, There is a reason."

"Indeed? What reason?"

"It is believed that these prisoners may be more than ordinary
criminals. We have reason to suspect them of being members of
a revolutionary army, namely, Dirac Angestun Gesept.
Therefore they are to be questioned by Military Intelligence
as well as by the Kaitempi. I am the M.I. representative."

"Is that so?" said Tornik, still blank-faced. "We have never
had the M.I. here before. May I have evidence of your
identity?"

Producing his documents, Mowry handed them over. This
wasn't going so swiftly and smoothly as hoped for. Mentally
he prayed for the prisoners to appear and put a quick end to
the matter. It was obvious that Tornik was the type to fill in
time so long as everyone was kept waiting.

After a brief scrutiny Tornik returned the papers and commented,
"Colonel Halopti, this is somewhat irregular. The
requisition-form is quite in order but I am supposed to hand
prisoners over only to a Kaitempi escort. That is a very strict
rule that cannot be disobeyed even for some other branch of
the security forces."

"The escort is of the Kaitempi," answered Mowry. He threw
an expectant look at Skriva who was standing like one in a
dream. Skriva came awake, opened his jacket and displayed
the badge. Mowry added, "They provided me with three agents
saying their attendance was necessary."

"Yar, that is correct," Pulling open a drawer in his desk,
Tornik produced a receipt-form, filled it in by copying details
from the requisition. When he had finished he studied it
doubt-fully, complained, "I'm afraid I cannot accept your signature,
Colonel. Only a Kaitempi official may sign a receipt for
prisoners."

"I'll sign it," offered Skriva, sweating over the delay.

"But you have a badge and not a plastic card." Tornik
objected. "You are only an agent and not an officer."

Mentally abusing this infernal insistence upon rigmarole,
Mowry interjected, "He is of the Kaitempi and temporarily
under my conmmand. I am an officer although not of the
Kaitempi."

"That is so, but -"

"A receipt for prisoners must be given by the Kaitempi and
by an officer. Therefore the proper conditions will be fulfilled
if both of us sign."

Tornik considered this, decided that it agreed with the letter
of the law. "Yar, the regulations must be observed. You will
both sign."

Just then the door opened, Gurd and his companions
shuffled in with a rattle of wrist-chains. A guard followed,
produced a key, unlocked the manacles and took them away.
Gurd, now worn and haggard, kept his gaze on the floor and
maintained a surly expression. One of the others, a competent
actor, glowered at Tornik, Mowry and Skriva in turn. The
third, who was subject to attacks of delight, beamed around
in happy surprise until Skriva bared his teeth at him. The
smile then vanished. Luckily neither Tornik nor the attendant
guard noticed this by-play.

Mowry signed the receipt with a confident flourish; Skriva
appended his hurried scrawl beneath. The three prisoners
silently stood by, Gurd still moping, the second scowling, the
third wearing the grossly exaggerated expression of one in
mourning for a rich aunt. Number three, Mowry decided, was
definitely a dope who'd ham his way to an early grave.

"Thank you Commandant" Mowry turned toward the door.

"Let's go."

In shocked tones Tornik exclaimed, "What, without wrist-
chains, Colonel? Have you brought no manacles with you?"

Gurd stiffened, number two bunched his fists, number three
made ready to faint. Skriva stuck his hand back in his pocket
and kept full attention on the guard.

Glancing back at the other, Mowry said, "We have steel
anklets fixed to the floors of the cars. That is the M.I. way,
Commandant" He smiled with the air of one who knows. "A
prisoner runs with his feet and not with his hands."

"Yar, that is true," Tornik conceded.

They went out, led by the guard who had brought them
there. The prisoners followed with Skriva and Mowry bringing
up the rear. Through the corridor, past the barred gate, out
the main door and across the yard. Armed guards patrolling
the wall-top sauntered along and eyed them indifferently.
pairs of ears strained for a yell of fury and a rush of feet from
the administration building, five bodies were tensed in readiness
to slug the guide and make a dash for the exit door.

Reaching the wall, the guard grasped the locking-bar in
the small door and just then the bell was rung from outside.
This sudden, unexpected sound jolted their nerves, Skriva's
gun came halfway out of his pocket. Gurd took a step toward
the guard, his, expression vicious. The actor jumped as if
stung. Dopey opened his mouth to emit a yelp of fright,
converted it into a gargle as Mowry rammed a heel on his foot.

Only the guard remained undisturbed. With his back to
the others and therefore unable to see their reactions he lugged
the locking-bar. to one side, turned the handle, opened the
door. Beyond stood four sour-faced characters in plain clothes.

One of them said curtly, "Kaitempi call for one prisoner."

For some reason best known to himself the guard found
nothing extraordinary about two collecting parties turning up
in close succession. He motioned the four inside, held the door
open while the first arrivals went out. The newcomers did not
head straight across the yard toward the administration block.
They took a few steps in that direction, stopped as if by 
common consent, stared at Mowry and the others as they passed
into the road. It was the dishevelled look of the prisoners and
the chronic alarm on the face of Dopey that attracted their
attention.

Just as the door shut Mowry, who was last out, heard an
agent rasp at the guard, "Who are those, hi?"

The reply wasn't audible but the question was more than
enough.

"Jump to it!" he urged. "Run!"

They sprinted to the cars, spurred on by expectation of
immediate trouble. A third machine now stood behind their own
two, a big ugly dyno with nobody at the wheel. Lithar and
Brank watched them anxiously, opened the doors in readiness.
Scrambling into the leading dyno, Skriva started its motor
while Gurd went through the back door and practically flung
himself into Lithar's lap. Behind, the other two piled into the
rear of Brank's car.

Mowry gasped at Skriva, "Wait a moment while I see if I
can grab theirs - it'll delay the chase."

So saying he raced to the third car, frantically tugged at its
handle. It refused to budge. Just then the jail's door opened
and somebody roared, "Halt! Halt or we --" Brank promptly
stuck an arm out his open window, flicked four quick shots
toward the door-gap and missed each time. But it was sufficient
to make the shouter dive for cover. Mowry pelted back
to the leading dyno and fell in beside Skriva.

"The cursed thing is locked. Let's get out of here."

The car surged forward, tore down the road, Brank accelerated
after them. Watching through the rear window, Mowry
saw several figures bolt out the jail and waste precious
moments fumbling by their dyno before they got in.

"They're after us," he told Skriva. "And they'll be bawling
their heads off over the radio."

"Yar, but they haven't got us yet."


Chapter X


GURD SAID, "Did nobody think to bring a spare gun?"

"Take mine," responded Lithar, handing it over.

Cuddling it in an eager fist, Gurd grinned at him unpleasantly.

"Don't want to be caught with it on you, hi? Rather it
was me than you, hi? Typical wert, aren't you?"

"Shut up!" snarled Lithar.

"Look who's telling me to shut up," Gurd invited. He was
talking thickly, as if something had gone wrong with his
palate. "He's making a stack of money out of me else he
wouldn't be here at all. He'd be safe at home checking his
stocks of illegal zith while the Kaitempi belted me over the
gullet. And he tells me to shut up." Leaning forward, he tapped
Mowry on the shoulder with the barrel of the gun. "How much
is he making out of this, Mashambigab? How much are you
giving-"

He swayed wildly and clutched for a hold as the car rocked
around a corner, raced down a narrower road, turned sharp
right and then sharp left. Brank's car took the same corner
at the same speed, made the right turn but not the left one.
It rushed straight on and vanished from sight. They turned
again into a one-way alley, cut through to the next road. There
was now no sign of pursuit.

"We've lost Brank," Mowry told Skriva. "Looks like we've
dropped the Kaitempi too."

"It's a safe bet they're chasing Brank. They were closer to
him and they had to follow someone when we split up. Suits
us, doesn't it.?"

Mowry said nothing.

"A lousy wert tells me to shut up," mumbled Gurd.
Swiftly they zig-zagged through a dozen side-streets, still
without encountering a radio alarmed patrol-car. As they
squealed around the last corner near to where their own cars
were parked there sounded a sharp, hard crack in the rear.
Mowry looked back expecting to find a loaded cruizer closing
up on them. There was no car behind. Lithar was lying on
his side apparently asleep. He had a neat hole above his
right ear. A thin trickle of purplish blood was seeping out of
it.

Gurd smirked at Mowry and said, "I've shut him up, for
keeps."

"Now we're carrying a corpse," complained Mowry. "As if
we haven't trouble enough. Where's the sense-"

Skriva intertupted with, "Crack shots, the Kaitempi. Pity
they got Lithar - he was just the sweetest wert on Jaimec."

He braked hard, jumped out, ran across the lot and
clambered into his own dyno. Gurd followed, the gun openly
in his hand and not caring who noticed it. Mowry stopped by
the window as the machine started up.

"What about Brank?"

"What about him?" echoed Skriva.

"If we both beat it he'll get here and find no chance to
switch over."

"What, in a city crammed with dynos?" He let the car edge
forward. "Brank's not here. That's his woe. Let him cope with
his own troubles. We're beating it someplace safe while the
going is good. You follow us."

With that he drove off. Mowry gave him a four hundred
yards lead, droned along behind while the distance between
them slowly increased. Should he let Skriva lead him to a
hideout or not? There seemed little point in following to yet
another rat-hole. The jail job had been done and he'd achieved
his purpose of stirring up a greater ruckus. There were no
werts to pay off; Brank had got himself lost and Lithar was
dead. If he wanted to regain contact with Gurd and Skriva
he could use that telephone number or if, as was likely, it
was no longer valid he could employ their secret post-office
under the marker.

Other considerations also decided him to drop the brothers
for the time being. For one, the Colonel Halopti identity
wouldn't be worth a hoot after they'd wasted a few hours
checking through official channels to establish its falsity. That
would be by nightfall at latest. Once again Pertane was becoming
too hot to hold him. He'd better get out before it was too
late.

For another, he was overdue to beam a report and his conscience
was pricking him about his refusal to do so last time.
If he didn't send one soon he might never be able to transmit
one at all. And Terra was entitled to be kept informed.

By this time the other car had shrunk with distance. Turning
off to the right, he circled back into the city. At once he
noticed a great change of atmosphere. There were far more
police on the streets and now their number had been augmented
by fully armed troops. Patrol-cars swarmed like flies
though none saw fit to stop and question him. On the pavements
were less pedestrians than usual and these hurried along
looking furtive, fearful, grim or bewildered.

Stopping by the kerb outside a business block he lolled in
his seat as if waiting for someone while he watched what was
taking place on the street. The police, some uniformed and
some in plain clothes, were all in pairs. The troops were in
groups of six. Their sole occupation appeared to be that of
staring accusatively at everyone who passed by, holding up
any individual whose looks they didn't like, questioning and
searching him: They also took particular note of cars,
studying the occupants and eyeing the plate-numbers.

In the time that Mowry sat there he and his car were given
the sharp lookover at least twenty times. He endured it with
an air of complete boredom and evidently passed muster
because nobody took it further and questioned him. But that
couldn't go on for ever. Somebody more officious than the
rest would pick on him merely because the others had not
done so. He was tempting fate by staying there.

So he moved off, driving carefully to avoid the attention of
numerous cruizers. Something had broken loose, no doubt of
that. It was written on the moody faces of the public. He
wondered whether the government had been driven to admit
a series of reverses in the space-war. Or perhaps the rumours
he'd spread about Shugruma had come close enough to the
truth to make authority concede the facts. Or maybe a couple
of exceedingly important bureaucrats had tried to open mailed
packages and splattered themselves over the ceiling, thus
creating a tremendous wave of panic among the powers-that-
be. One thing was certain: the recent jailbreak could not be
solely responsible for the present state of affairs though
possibly it may have triggered it into existence.

Slowly he made his way into the crummy quarter where his
room was located, determined to pick up his belongings and
clear out as quickly as possible. The car nosed its way into his
street. As always, a bunch of idlers loafed upon the corner
and stared at him as he went by. There was something not
quite right about them. Their ill-kept clothes and careless
postures gave them the superficial appearance of lazy bums
but they were a little too well-fed, their gaze a little too
haughty.

With hairs itching on the back of his neck and a peculiar
thrill down his spine, he kept going, trying to look as if this
street were only part of a tiresome drive and meant nothing
to him whatsoever. Against a lamp-post leaned two brawny
specimens without jackets or scarves. Nearby four more were
shoring a wall. Six were gossiping around an ancient, decrepit
truck parked right opposite the house in which his room was
at top. Three more were in the doorway of the house. Every
one of these gave him the long, hard look as he rolled by with
an air of total indifference.

The entire street was staked, though it didn't look as if they
had a detailed description of him. He could be wrong in this
belief, perhaps fooled by an over-active imagination. But his
instinct told him that the street was covered from end to end,
that his only chance of escape lay in driving on non-stop and
displaying absolute lack of interest. He did not dare look at
his house for evidence of a Radine-type explosion. Just that
small touch of curiosity might have been enough to bring the
whole lot into action.

Altogether he counted more than forty beefy strangers hanging
around the road and doing their best to look shiftless. As
he neared the street's end four of them came out of a doorway
and walked to the kerb. Their attention was his way, their
manner that of those about to stop him on general principles.
Promptly he braked and pulled in near two others who were
squatting on a doorstep. He lowered the window, stuck his
head out. One of the sitters got to his feet, came toward him.
"Pardon," said Mowry, apologetically, "I was told first right
and second left for Asako Road. It has got me here. I must
have gone wrong somewhere."

"Where were you told?"

"Outside the military barracks."

"Some people don't know one hand from the other," opined
this character. "It should have been first right, second left, turn
right again after going through the archway."

"Thanks. One can lose a lot of time in a city this size."

"Yar, especially when dopes point with the wrong hand."

The informant returned to his doorstep, sat down. He had not
nursed even a dim suspicion.

Evidently they were not on the watch for someone easily
recognisable, or, at any rate, not for somebody who looked
exactly like Colonel Halopti. Could be that they were in
ambush for another badly wanted specimen who happened to
live in this street. But he dared not put the matter to the test
by returning to the house and going up to his room. If wrong,
he would be finally and conclusively wrong to the last choke
of breath.

Ahead, the four who'd waited at the kerb had now resumed
their leaning against the wall, lulled by Mowry's open
conversation with their fellows. They ignored him as he drove
past. Turning right, he thankfully speeded up. However, he did
not congratulate himself. He had still a good way to go and the
entire city had become one gigantic trap.

When nearing the city's outskirts a patrol-car waved him
down. For a couple of seconds he debated whether to obey or
try outrace it. He decided in favour of the former. Bluff had
worked before, might do so again. Besides, to run for it would
be a complete giveaway and every cruizer in the area would
take up the chase. So he braked and hoped for the best.
The car drew alongside, the co-driver dropped his window.

"Where are you heading for?"

"Palmare," answered Mowry, naming a village twenty den
south of Pertane.

"That's what you think. Don't you listen to the news?"

"I haven't heard it since early this morning. Been too busy
even to get a square meal. What's happened?"

"All exits barred. Nobody allowed out the city except with
a permit from the military. You'd better go back and get
yourself informed. Or buy an evening paper."

The window went up, the patrol-car whined into top speed.
Mowry watched it go with mixed emotions. Yet again he was
sharing all the sensations of a hunted animal. Nobody could
stop him or even show undue interest in him without giving
him a nervy this-is-it feeling. If it kept up long enough a time
must inevitably come when this would be it.

He stooged around in the car until he found a news-stand
carrying the latest editions still damp from the press. Then he
parked a few minutes while he scanned the headlines. They
were big enough and likely to give the readership a few
unpleasant jolts.

PERTANE UNDER MARTTAL LAW.
TRAVEL BAN - MAYOR DECLARES POPULATION WILL STAND FIRM.
DRASTIC ACTION AGAINST DIRAC ANGESTUN GESEPT.
POLICE ON TRAIL OF MAIL BOMBERS.
TWO KILLED, TWO CAPTURED IN DARING JAIL-BREAK.

Rapidly he read the brief report under the last heading.
Lathin's body had been found and the Kaitempi had grabbed
the credit for the kill. That made Skriva something of a
prophet. Dopey had been shot to death, Brank and the other
had been taken alive. These two survivors already had
confessed to membership of a revolutionary force. There was no
mention of any others having got away. and not a single word
about the mock Colonel Halopti.

Probably authority had clamped down on some items in
the hope of giving the escapees a sense of false security. Well,
he'd better not fall into that trap; from now on he must not
show his documents to any cop or Kaitempi agent. Neither
could he substitute any other papers. The only ones near to
hand were locked in his case and surrounded by a horde of
agents: The only others were in the forest cave with a ring of
troops between here and there.

A ring of troops? Yes, that could be the weak point that
he might break through if he put a move on. It was highly
likely that the numerically strong armed forces were not yet
as well-primed as were the police and Kaitempi. And the
average trooper is not inclined to argue with a colonel, even
one in plain clothes. The chance of being cross-examined and
bullied came only from an individual of equal or higher rank.
He could not imagine any colonels or major-generals manning
the road-blocks. Anyone outranking a junior lieutenant was
more likely to be warming an office chair or boozing and
boasting in the nearest zith-parlour. At once he decided that
here lay his best opportunity to break out of the net. It wasn't
a decision difficult to reach. He'd little choice about the
matter. He must find freedom in the open country or remain
in the city until caught.

About sixty routes radiated from the perimeter of Pertane.
The main ones - such as the wide, well-used roads to Shugruma
and Radine - were likely to be more heavily guarded
than the secondary roads or potholed lanes leading to villages
or isolated factories. It was also possible that the biggest,
most important road-blocks would have a few police or agents
in company with the troops.

Many of the lesser and sneakier outlets were quite unknown
to him; a random choice might take him out of the frying-pan
and into the fire. But not far away lay a little-used side road
to Palmare with which he was familiar. It twisted and wound
in direction more or less parallel with the big main road but
it got there just the same. Once on it he could not get off it
for another forty den. He'd have to continue all the way to
Palmare, turn there onto a rutted cross-country lane that
would take him to the Valapan road. At that point he'd be
about half an hour's drive from where he usually entered the
forest.

Cutting through the suburbs he headed outward toward this
lesser road. Houses gradually thinned away and ceased. As
he drove through a market-gardening area a police cruizer
whined toward him, passed without pause. He let go a sigh of
relief as it disappeared. Presumably it had been in too great
a hurry to bother with him or perhaps its occupants had taken
it for granted that he possessed a military permit.

Five minutes later he rounded a blind corner and found a
road-block awaiting him two hundred yards beyond. A couple
of army trucks stood side-on across the road in such a position
that a car could pass provided it slowed to less than walking
pace. In front of the trucks a dozen soldiers stood in line,
coddling their automatic weapons and looking bored. There
was no cop or agent anywhere in sight.

Mowry slowed, stopped, but kept his dynomotor rotating.
The soldiers eyed him with bovine curiosity. From behind the
nearest truck a broad, squat sergeant appeared, marched up
to the car.

"Have you got an exit permit?"

"Don't need one," responded Mowry, speaking with the
authority of a four-star general. Opening his wallet, he
displayed his identity-card and prayed to God that the sight of
it would not produce a howl of triumph.

It didn't. The sergeant looked at it, stiffened, saluted.
Noticing this, the nearby troops straightened themselves and
assumed expressions of military alertness.

In apologetic tones the sergeant said, "I regret that I must
ask you to wait a moment, Colonel. My orders are to report
to the officer in charge if anyone claims the right to go through
without a permit"

"Even the Military Intelligence?"

"It has been emphasised that this order covers everyone
without exception, sir. I have no choice but to obey."

"Of course, Sergeant," agreed Mowry, condescendingly. "I
will wait"

Saluting again, the sergeant went at the double behind the
trucks. Meanwhile the twelve troopers posed with the rigid
self consciousness of those aware of a brasshat in the vicinity.
In short time the sergeant came back bringing with him a very
young and worried looking lieutenant.

This officer marched precisely up to the car, saluted, opened
his mouth just as Mowry beat him to the draw by saying,
"You may stand easy, Lieutenant"

The other gulped, let his legs relax, fumbled for words,
finally got out, "The sergeant tells me you have no exit permit
-- Colonel."

"That's right. Have you got one?"

Taken aback, the lieutenant floundered a bit, said, "No sir."

"Why not?"

"We are on duty outside the city."

"So am I," informed Mowry.

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant pulled himself together. He seemed
unhappy about something. "Will you be good enough to let
me see your identity-card, sir? It is just a formality. I'm sure
that everything will be all right"

"I know that everything will be all right," said Mowry, as
though giving fatherly warning to the young and inexperienced.
Again he displayed the card.

The lieutenant gave it no more than a hurried glance. "Thank
you, Colonel. Orders are orders, as you will appreciate." Then
he curried favour by demonstrating his efficiency. He took one
step backward and gave a classy salute which Mowry acknowledged
with a vague wave. Jerking himself round like an automaton,
the lieutenant brought his right foot down with a hard
thump and screamed at the top of his voice, "Pass one!"

Opening out, the troops obediently passed one. Mowry
crawled through the block, curving around the tail of the first
truck, twisting the opposite way around the second. Once
through he hit up maximum speed. It was a temptation to
feel gleeful but he didn't. He was sorry for that young lieutenant
who, before long, would be taking a prize lambasting. It
was easy to picture the scene when a senior officer arrived
at the post to check up.

`Anything to report, Lieutenant?1

`Not much, sir. No trouble of any sort. It has been very
quiet. I let one through without a permit.`

`You did? Why was that?`

`He was Colonel Halopti, sir.`

`Halopti? That name seems familiar. I'm sure I heard it
mentioned as I left the other post.`

Helpfully, `He is in the M.I., sir.`

`Yar. yar. But that name means something. Why don't they
keep us properly informed? Have you a short-wave set?

`Not here, sir. There is one at the next main road block.
We have a field telephone.`

`All right, I'll use that` A little later, `You hopeless
imbecile! This Halopti is wanted all over the planet! And you
let him slip through your hands - you ought to be shot! How
long has he been gone? Did he have anyone with him? Will
he have passed through Palmare yet? Sharpen your wits, fool,
and answer me! Did you note the number of his car? No,
you did not - that would be too much to expect.`

And so on and so on. Yes, the balloon would go up most
anytime. Perhaps in three or four hours, perhaps within ten
minutes. The thought of it made Mowry maintain what was
a reckless speed on such a twisting and badly surfaced road.

He shot through small and sleepy Palmare half expecting
to be fired upon by local vigilantes. Nothing happened except
that a few faces glanced out of windows as he went by.
Nobody saw him turn off the road a little beyond the village
and take to the crude track that led to the Pertane-Valapan
artery.

Now he was compelled to slow down whether he liked it
or not. Over the terrible surface the car bumped and rolled
at quarter speed. If anything came the other way he'd be in
a jam because there was no room to pull aside or turn. Two
jetplanes moaned through the gathering dusk but carried
straight on, indifferent to what was taking place below. Soon
afterward a 'copter came low over the horizon, followed it
a short distance, dropped back and disappeared. Its course
showed that it was circling around Pertane, possibly checking
the completeness of military positions.

Eventually he reached the Pertane-Valapan route without
having encountered anything on the track. Accelerating, he
made for the forest entry-point. A number of army vehicles
trundled heavily along but there was no civilian traffic to or
from distant Pertane. Those inside the city could not get out,
those outside did not want to go in lest they be detained there
for weeks.

At the moment he reached the identifying tree and tombstone
the road was clear in both directions. Taking full advantage
of the opportunity he drove straight over the verge and
into the forest as far as the car could go. Jumping out, he
went back and repeated his former performance of carefully
eliminating all tyre tracks where they entered the forest and
checking that the car was invisible from the road.

The dark of night now was halfway across the sky. That
meant he had to face another badly slowed-down traipse to
the cave. Alternatively he could sleep overnight in the car
and start his journey with the dawn. The latter was preferable;
even a wasp needs rest and slumber. On the other hand the
cave was more peaceful, more comfortable and a good deal
safer than the car. There he could enjoy a real Terran
breakfast, after which he could lie full length and snooze like
a child instead of rolled up with one ear and one eye open. He
started for the cave at once, trying to make the most use of
the fading light while it lasted.

With the first streaks of morning he came wearily and red-eyed
through the last of the trees. His finger-ring had been
tingling for fifteen minutes so that he made his approach with
confidence. Clumping along the pebble beach he went into
the cave, fixed himself a hearty meal. Then he crawled into a
sleeping-bag and surrendered consciousness. The transmission
of his report could wait. It would have to wait: communication
might bring instructions impossible to carry out before
he'd had a good spell of slumber.

He must have needed it because he lay without stirring
through the entire day. Dusk again was creeping in when he
awoke. Setting up another feed, he ate it, felt on top of the
world, expressed it by flexing his muscles and whistling badly
off-tune.

For a short while he studied the massed containers and
nursed a few regrets. In one of them reposed material for
repeated changes of appearance plus documents to cover no
less than thirty more fake identities. The situation being what
it was he'd be darned lucky to get through three of them.
Another container held publicity stuff including the means to
print and mail more letters.

Ait Lithar was the fifth.
The list is Iong.
Dirac Angestun Gesept.

But what was the use? The Kaitempi had claimed that kill.
Moreover he needed to know the names of any mail-bomb
victims so that D.A.G. could exploit those too. He lacked this
information. Anyway, the time for that kind of propaganda
had now gone past. The entire world was on the jump,
reinforcements had been poured in from Diracta, battle-stations
had been taken up against a revolutionary army that did not
exist. In such circumstances threatening letters had become
mere fleabites.

Dragging out Container-5 he set it up, wound it into action
and let it run. For two and a half hours it operated silently.

Whirrup-dzzt-pam! Whirrup-dzzt-pam!
        
"Jaimec calling ! Jaimec calling !"

Contact was established when the gravelly voice said, "Come
in. Ready to tape."

Mowry responded, "JM on Jaimec," then babbled on as fast
as he could go and to considerable length. He finished,
"Pertane isn't tenable until things quieten down and I don't
know how long that will take. Personally, I think the panic
will spread to other towns. When they can't find what they're
seeking in one place they'll start raking systematically through
all the others."

There was a long silence before the faraway voice came
back with, "We don't want things to quieten down. We want
them to spread. Get working at once on phase nine."

"Nine?" he ejaculated, "I'm only on four. What about five,
six, seven and eight?"

"Forget them. Time is running short. There's a ship getting
near to you with another wasp on board. We sent him to tend
phase nine thinking you'd been nabbed. Anyway, we'll beam
instructions that he's to stay on the ship while we pick him
another planet. Meanwhile you get busy."

"But phase nine is strictly a pre-invasion tactic."

"That's right," said the voice, drily. "I just told you time is
running short."

It cut off. Communication had ended. Mowry stacked the
cylinder back in the cave. Then he went outside and gazed at
the stars.

Phase nine was designed to bring about a further dispersal
of the enemy's overstretched resources and to place yet another
great strain upon his creaking war-machine. It was, so to
speak, one of several possible last straws.

The idea was to make panic truly planet-wide by spreading
it from land to water. Jaimec was peculiarly susceptible to
this kind of blow. On a colonial world populated by only one
race of only one species there had been no national or
inter-national rivalries, no local wars, no development of navies.
The nearest that Jaimec could produce to a sea-going force
consisted of a number of fast motor-boats, lightly armed and
used solely for coastal patrol work.

Even the merchant fleet was small by Terran standards.
Jaimec was under-developed and no more than six hundred
ships sailed the planet's seas on about twenty well-defined
routes. There wasn't a vessel larger than fifteen thousand tons.
Nevertheless the local war effort was critically dependent upon
the unhampered coming and going of these ships. To delay
their journeys or ruin their schedules or bottle them up in
port would play considerable hob with the entire Jaimecan
economy.

This sudden switch from phase four to nine meant that the
oncoming Terran spaceship must be carrying a load of periboobs
which it would scatter in the world's oceans before
making a quick getaway. Almost certainly the dropping would
be done by night and along the known sea-lanes.

At college Mowry had been given full instruction about

this tactic and the part he was expected to play. The stunt.
had a lot in common with his previous activities, being
designed to make a thoroughly aggravated foe hit out left and
right at what wasn't there.

He'd been shown a sectionalised periboob. This deceitful
contraption resembled an ordinary oil-drum with a twenty-
foot tube projecting from its top. At the uppermost end of
the tube was fixed a flared nozzle. The drum portion held a
simple magneto-sensitive mechanism. The whole thing could
be mass produced at low cost.

When in the sea a periboob floated so that its nozzle and
four to six feet of tube stood above the surface. If a mass of
steel or iron approached to within four hundred yards of it,
the mechanism operated and the whole gadget sank from
sight. If the metal mass receded, the periboob promptly arose
until again its tube poked above the waves.

To function efficiently this gadget needed a prepared stage
and a spotlight. The former had been arranged at the outbreak
of war by permitting the enemy to get hold of top secret plans
of a three-man midget submarine small enough and light
enough for an entire flotilla to be transported in one space-
ship. Mowry now had to provide the spotlight by causing a
couple of merchant vessels to sink at sea after a convincing
bang.

Jaimecans were as capable as anyone else of adding two
and nothing together and making it four. If everything went
as planned the mere sight of a periboob would cause any ship
to race for safety while filling the ether with yells for help.
Other ships, hearing the alarm, would make wide, time-wasting
detours or tie up in port. The dockyards would frantically
switch from the building and repair of cargo vessels
to the construction of useless destroyers. Numberless jetplanes,
copters and even space-scouts would take over the futile task
of patrolling the oceans and bombing, periboobs wherever
they might be found.

The chief beauty of this form of naughtiness was that it
did not matter in the least if the enemy discovered he was
being kidded. He could trawl a periboob from the depths,
take it apart, demonstrate how it worked to every ship's master
on the planet and it would make no difference. If two ships
had been sunk, two hundred more might go down. A periscope
is a periscope, there's no swift way of telling the false
from the real and no captain in his right mind will invite a
torpedo while trying to find out.

Alapertane (little Pertane) was the biggest and nearest port
on Jaimec. It lay forty den west of the capital, seventy den
north-west of the cave. Population a quarter million. It was
highly likely that Alapertane had escaped most of the official
hysteria pervading elsewhere, that its police and Kaitempi
were less suspicious, less active. Mowry had never visited the
place and therefore neither had Dirac Angestun Gesept. So
far as Alapertane was concerned he had little grief to inherit.

Well, Terra knew what it was doing and orders must be
carried out. He would have to make a trip to Alapertane and
get the job done as soon as possible. On his own, without the
dubious help of Gurd and Skriva who - so long as the hunt
was on - remained dangerous liabilities.

Opening a container, Mowry took out a thick wad of documents,
thumbed through them and carefully considered the
thirty identities available. All of them had been devised to
suit specific tasks. There were half a dozen that established
his right to roam around the docks and peer at shipping. He
chose a set of papers that depicted him as a minor official of
the Planetary Board of Maritime Affairs.

Next he made himself up for the part. It took him more
than an hour. In the end he was an elderly, bookish bureaucrat
peering through steel-rimmed spectacles. That done, he
amused himself blinking at his image in a metal mirror and
talking nonsense in characteristically querulous tones.
Long hair would have perfected his appearance since he
still had the short military crop of Halopti. A wig was out of
the question; except for spectacles, the strict rule of facial
disguise was to wear nothing that could be knocked, blown
or taken off. So he shaved a patch of cranium to suggest
approaching baldness and left it at that.

Finally he found himself another case, inserted its plastic
key and opened it. Despite all the risks he had taken and might
again take this was the action he detested most. He could
never get rid of the notion that explosive luggage was highly
temperamental, that many a wasp had been blown to the
nether regions with a phantom key in his hand and that Terran
authorities had kept silent about it.

From yet another container he took three limpet mines,
two for use and one as a spare. These were hemispherical
objects with a heavy magnetic ring projecting from the fiat
side, a timing-switch on the opposite, curved side. They
weighed eleven pounds apiece and together made a load he'd
rather have been without. Putting these in the case, he stuffed
a pocket with new money, checked his gun. Switching Container-22
he set forth, again through the dark.

By now he was becoming more than fed up with the long,
trying journey from the cave to the road. It hadn't looked
much on an aerial photograph when seen through a stereoscopic 
viewer but the actual doing of it was tough. Especially
when trudging through the dark and carrying a load.
Repeatedly he cursed his choice of a hideout while reluctantly
admitting that his cache had been protected by its very
remoteness.

He reached the car in broad daylight, thankfully dumped
the case on the back seat, checked the road for passing
vehicles. The coast was clear. Racing back to the car he got
it out fast, parked it while he scuffed tire-tracks from the
verge. There he headed for Alapertane, choosing a route that
kept him as far as possible from the angry capital.

Fifteen minutes later he was compelled to pull up. The road
was filled with a convoy of army vehicles that were bucking
and rocking as they reversed one by one into a treeless space.
Troops who had dismounted were filtering in ragged lines
between the trees on both sides of the road. A dozen glum
civilians were sitting in one truck with four soldiers to guard
them.

As Mowry sat watching a captain came alongside the car
and asked, "Where're you from?"

"Valapan"

"Where d'you live?"

"Kiestra, just outside Valapan"

"Where're you going?"

"Alapertane."

This seemed to satisfy the other. He made to move off.

Mowry called, "What's happening here, Captain?"

"A round-up. We're collecting the windy and taking them
back where they belong."

"The windy?" Mowry looked baffled.

"Yar. The night before last a lot of yellow-bellied sokos
bolted out of Pertane and took to the woods. They were
worried about their skins, see? More followed early yesterday
morning. By now half the city would be gone if we hadn't
pinned them in. Civilians make me sick."

"What got them on the run?"

"Talk," He gave a sniff of contempt. "Just a lot of talk."

"Well, there's no rush from Valapan," offered Mowry.

"Not yet," the captain gave back. He walked away, bawled
out a slow-moving squad.

The last trucks got off the road and Mowry forged ahead.
Evidently the jailbreak had coincided with strong governmental
action against a jittery populace as well as against subversive
forces. The city would have been ringed in any event,
whether Gurd had been wangled out the jug or not.

Speculations about the fate of Gurd and Skriva occupied
his mind as he drove along. Had they been caught or were
they lying low somewhere within the ring? As he passed
through a village he was tempted momentarily to stop, call
their telephone number and see what response he got. He
resisted the notion as profitless but he did pause long enough
to buy a morning paper.

The news was little different, the usual mixture of boastings,
threats, promises, directives and warnings. One paragraph
stated categorically that more than eighty members of Dirac
Angestun Gesept had been hauled in `including one of their
so-called generals.` He wondered how this could be and which
unfortunate character had been burdened with the status of
a revolutionary general. There was nothing about Gurd and
Skriva, no mention of Colonel Halopti.

Throwing the paper away, he continued his journey. Shortly
before noon he reached the centre of Alapertane and asked a
pedestrian the way to the docks. Though hungry once more
he did not take time off for a meal. Alapertane was not
surrounded, no snap searches were taking place, no patrol-car
had halted and quizzed him. He felt it wise to cash in on a
favourable situation that might soon change for the worse.
So without bothering about a feed he made straight for the
waterfront.

Planting the dyno in the private car-park of a shipping
company, he approached the gates of the first dock on foot,
blinked through his spectacles at the policeman standing by
the entrance and asked, "Which way to the harbour-master's
office?"

The cop pointed. "Right opposite the third set of gates."
Going there, Mowry entered the office, tapped on the
counter with the impatience of an oldster in a hurry. A junior
pen-pusher responded.

"You wish?"

Showing him his papers, Mowry said, "I wish to know which
ships will depart before dawn tomorrow and from which docks
they will leave."

Obediently the other dug out a long, narrow book and
sought through its pages. It did not occur to him to question
the reason for this request. A piece of paper headed Planetary
Board of Maritime Affairs was more than enough to satisfy
him and, as any fool knew, neither Alapertane nor its ships
were menaced by the Spakum forces.

"Destinations as well?" asked the youth.

"No, those don't matter. I wish only the names, the times
of departure and the dock numbers." Mowry produced a stub
of pencil, a sheet of paper and peered fussily over his glasses.

"There are four," informed the other. "The Kitsi at eight-
time, dock three. The Anthus at eight-time, dock one. The
Su-cattra at nineteen-time, dock seven. The Su-limane at
nine-teen-time, also dock seven." He flipped a page, added
informatively, "The Melami was due to leave at nineteen-time but is
held up with some kind of trouble in the engine-room. It is
likely to be delayed several days."

"That one doesn't matter."

Leaving, he returned to the car, got out the case and went
to dock seven. The policeman on duty took one look at his
documents and let him through the gates without argument.
Once inside he walked quickly toward the long shed behind
which towered a line of cranes and a couple of funnels.
Rounding the end of the shed he found himself facing the
stern of the Su-cattra.

One glance told him that at the present time he had not the
slightest hope of fixing a limpet-mine unseen. The vessel lay
against the dockside, its hatches battened down, its winches
silent, but many workers were hand-loading late cargo by
luggug it up the gangways from waiting trucks and a small
mob of officials stood around watching. Across the basin lay
the Su-limane also taking cargo aboard.

For a short time he debated within himself whether to go
after the Anthus and Kitsi. There was the disadvantage that
they were in different docks a fair distance apart. Here, he had
two suitable ships within easy reach of each other. And it was
probable that the other vessels also were loading, thus being
no easier to victimise.

It seemed that in his haste he had arrived too early. The
best thing for him to do would be to go away and come back
later after workers and officials had gone home. But if the cop
on the gate or a waterfront patrol became nosey it would be
hard to explain his need to enter the deserted dock area after
all work had ceased. A hundred excuses could turn into a
hundred self-betrayals.

`I have a personal message for the captain of the Su-cattra.'

`Yar? What is his name?'

Or, `I have a corrected cargo manifest to deliver to the
Su-limane.'

`Yar? Let me see it. What's the matter-can't you find it?
How can you deliver it if you haven't got it? If it's not in
your pockets it may be in that bag. Why don't you look in
the bag? You afraid to open it, hi?'

Leaving the dockside he walked past the end of the huge
shed which stretched the entire length of the dock. Its sliding
doors stood three feet ajar. He went through without hesitation.
The side farthest from the dock was stacked roof-high
with packing-cases of every conceivable shape and size. The
opposite side was part full. Near the main quayside doors
halfway up the shed stood an array of cardboard cartons and
bulging sacks which workers were taking out to the Su-cattra.

Seeing the name Melami stencilled all over the nearest stack
of cargo, Mowry looked swiftly toward the distant loaders,
assured himself that he had not been observed, dodged behind
a big crate. Though no longer visible from inside the shed he
could easily be seen by anyone passing the sliding doors
through which he had entered. Holding his case endwise ahead
of him, he inched through the narrow gap between two more
crates, climbed over a big coffin-shaped box, squirmed into a
dark alcove between the stack and the shed's outer wall.

It was far from comfortable here. He could not sit, neither
could he stand erect. He had to remain half-bent until, tired
of that, he knelt on his case. But at least he was safe. The
Melami was held up and nobody was likely to heave its cargo
around for the fun of it.
He stayed there for what seemed a full day. The time came
when whistles blew and sounds of outside activity ceased.
Through the shed's wall sounded a muffled tramp of many
feet as workers left for home. Nobody had bothered to close
the shed's doors and he couldn't make up his mind whether
that was a good thing or not. Locked doors would suggest an
abandoned dockside guarded by none save the cop on the
gate. Open doors implied the arrival of a night-shift or
per-haps the protection of roving patrols.

Edging out of the alcove he sat on a crate and rubbed his
aching knee-caps: He waited two more hours to let overtime
workers and other eager beavers get clear. When his patience
ran out he walked through the deserted shed, stopped behind
its quayside doors that were directly opposite the middle of
the Su-cattra.

From the case he took a limpet-mine, set its timing-switch
to give a twenty-hour delay, threaded a length of thin cord
through the holding loop. He peeped out the door. There was
not a soul on the dockside but a few sailors were busy on
the ship's top deck.

Boldly he stepped out of the shed, crossed the intervening
ten yards and dropped the mine into the narrow stretch of
water between ship and dockside. It hit with a dull plop and
a slight splash, sank rapidly to the limit of its cord. It was
now about eight feet below the surface and did not immediately
take hold. He waggled the cord to turn the magnetic,
face toward the ship. The mine promptly attached itself with
a clang loud enough to resound all over the big vessel. Quickly
he let go one end of the cord, pulled on the other and reeled
it in through the holding-loop.

High above him a sailor came to the deckrail, leaned on it
and looked down. By that time Mowry had his back toward
him and was strolling casually toward the shed: The sailor
watched him go inside, glanced at the stars, spat in the water
and went back to his chore.

Soon afterward he repeated the performance with the

Su-limane, sticking the mine amidships and eight feet down
That one also had a twenty-hour delay. Again the clang
aroused careless attention, bringing three curious sailors to
the side. But they took their time about it, saw nobody,
shrugged it off and forgot it.

Mowry made for the exit gates. On the way he passed two
officers returning to their ship. Engrossed in conversation,
they did not so much as glance at him. If only they'd known
of the long swim in store, he thought, they'd willingly have
beaten out his brains.

A different policeman was on duty by the gates as he went
through.

"Live long!"

"Live long!" echoed the cop, and turned his attention elsewhere.

Trudging a long way down the road and rounding the corner near
to the gates of dock three, Mowry saw the car-park and came
to a halt. A hundred yards away his car was standing exactly
where he had left it but had become the subject of unwelcome
interest. Its hood was raised and a couple of uniformed
police were prying around the exposed dynomotor.

They must have unlocked the car with a master-key in order
to operate the hood's release-catch. To go to that length meant
they were not amusing themselves by being officious. They
were on a definite trail.

Retreating behind the corner, Mowry gave swift thought to
the matter. Obviously those cops were looking for the
dynomotor's serial number. In another minute one of them would
be crawling under the car to check the chassis number. This
suggested that at last authority had realised that Sagramatholou's
car. had changed its plates. So the order had gone out to
inspect all cars of that particular date and type.

Right in front of him, hidden from the car-park, stood the
unoccupied cruizer belonging to those nosey-pokes. They must
have left it there intending to edge it forward a few feet and
use it as a watching-post if necessary. Once they'd satisfied
themselves that the suspected dyno was indeed a hot one,
they'd come back on the run to set a stakeout.

Cautiously he took a peep around the corner. One was talking
excitedly while the other scribbled in a notebook. It would
be another minute before they returned because they would
close the hood and relock the dyno in order to bait the trap.

Certain that no passer-by would question something done
with casual confidence, he tried the cruizer's door-handle. It
was locked. He had no key with which to open it, no time to
pick it, and that put an end to any thought of taking one car
in lieu of the other. Opening his case, he took out the spare
limpet-mine, set it for a one-hour delay. He lay in the road,
rapidly inched himself under the cruizer and stuck the bomb
to the centre of its steel framework. Wriggling out, he brushed
himself down with his hands. Seven people had seen him go
under and emerge. Not one viewed his actions as extraordinary.

He snatched up his case and departed at a pace that was
little short of a shambling run. At the next corner he looked
back. One cop was now sitting in the cruizer and using its
short-wave radio: The other was out of sight, presumably
concealed where he could watch the dyno. Evidently they were
transmitting the news that the missing car had been found and
were summoning help to surround it.

Yet again adverse circumstances were chivvying him into
a tight corner. He had lost the car on which he had relied so
much and which had stood him in such good stead. All that
he now possessed were his gun, a set of false documents, a
large wad of counterfeit money and a case that was empty
save for what was wired to its lock
.
The case he got rid of by placing it in the entrance to the
main post-office. That action would not help to cool things
down. Discovery of his dyno had warned Alapertane that
Sagiamatholou's killer was somewhere within its bounds.
While they were squatting around it in readiness to snare him
a police cruizer would shower itself all over the scene. Then
somebody would dutifully take a lost case to the nearest
precinct station, a cop would try key it open and make an awful
mess of the place.

Alapertane already was half-awake. Two big bangs were
going to bring it fully awake and on its toes. Somehow he'd
have to get out before they copied the Pertane tactic and
ringed the town with troops.

Chapter XI


THIS WAS A time when he regretted the destruction of Pigface's
card in that explosion at Radine. He could do with it now.
Equally he was sorry that he'd given Sagramatholou's badge
to Skriva. Despite looking as much like a Kaitempi agent as
a purple porcupine, either the card or badge would have
enabled him to commandeer any civilian car in town simply by
ordering its driver to take him wherever he wished to go, shut
up and do as you're told.

He had one advantage: the hunters had no real description
of Sagramatholou's killer. Possibly they were shooting in the
dark by seeking the elusive Colonel Halopti. Or perhaps they
were chasing a purely imaginary description which the
Kaitempi had tormented out of its captives. It wasn't likely
that they'd be eagerly sniffing around for an elderly, slightly
befuddled civilian who wore glasses and was too daft to know
one end of a gun from the other.

All the same, they would quiz anyone they caught leaving
town in a hurry at this particular time, even if he looked the
soul of innocence. They might take it further by searching
every outward traveller in which event he'd be damned by
possession of a gun and a large sum of money. They might
also hold any and every suspect pending a thorough check of
identities. That also would get the noose round his neck. The
Board of Maritime Affairs had never heard of him.

Therefore escape by train was out of the question. The same
applied to long-distance buses. They'd all be watched Ten to
one the entire police network was ready to take up the
relent-less pursuit of any car reported stolen; they would assume
that the culprit might have dumped one dyno intending to
steal another. It was too late in the day to acquire another
car by buying it outright. But... hah, he could do what he'd
done before. He could rent one.

It took him quite a while to find a hire-and-drive agency.
The evening was drawing in, many businesses already had
shut for the night, others were near their closing time. In one
way that might be a help: maybe the lateness of the hour
would cover his haste and get him prompt service.

"I wish to rent that bullnozed sportster for four days. Is it
available at once?"

"Yar."

"How much?"

"Thirty guilders a day. That's one-twenty."

"I'll take it.”

`You want it right away?"

"Yar, I do."

"I'll have it made ready for you and get you the bill. Take
a seat. Won't keep you more than a few minutes." The salesman
went into a small office at back. The door swung slowly
and had not quite closed when his voice penetrated the gap,
saying, "A renter in a hurry, Siskra. He looks all right to me.
But you'd better call and tell them."

Mowry was out the front, down the street and around two
corners before the unseen Siskra had time to finish dialling.
He'd been out-thought. The hunt was a move ahead of him.
All renting agencies had been warned to report every applicant
for a car. Only a narrow door-gap had saved him. If it
had closed and silenced the voice he'd still have been sitting
there when a carload of agents burst in.

`Why d'you want this dyno, hi? Where d'you plan to go
with it? Wbere d'you live? Who are you, anyway? Hold your
arms up while we have a look at your pockets.`
His back was sticky with sweat as he put plenty of distance
between him and the dyno-dump. He threw away his glasses
and was mighty glad to be rid of them. A bus came along
bearing the sign: Airport. Now he remembered that he'd
passed an airport on the road coming in. Wasn't likely that
Alapertane had more than one of them. Undoubtedly the port
itself would be staked right, left and centre, but he did not
intend to ride that far. This bus would take him to the outer
suburbs and in the direction he wanted to go. Without
hesitation he jumped aboard.

Although his knowledge of the town was small his inward
journey had given him a shrewd idea of how far he could go
without reaching the fringes. A police check was likeliest
immediately outside the town where the road left the built-up
area and took to the country. At that point all those aboard '
could be regarded as leaving Alapertane and therefore fit
subjects for questioning. He must get off the bus before then.

Dismounting in good time, he continued walking outward
in the hope that on foot he could avoid the checking-post by
sneaking past unobserved, say by taking to the fields. Day
was almost done; the sun was half under the horizon and
light was dimming fast.

He slowed his pace, decided that he'd stand a better chance
of getting through in darkness. But he dared not draw
attention to himself by mooching up and down the road or sitting
on the kerb until nightfall. It was essential that he should
look like a local citizen homeward bound. Turning off the
main road he detoured at set pace through a long series of
side-roads, circled back, regained the main one when the sky
was black.

Continuing outward, he concentrated attention straight
ahead. After a while the road-lights ended, the shine from
many house windows ceased and in the distance he could see
the sky-glow of the airport. It would be anytime now. He had
a strong urge to walk through the darkness on tiptoe.
A bus overtook him, hummed into the heavy gloom, stopped
with a brief blaze of braking lights. Cautiously Mowry
advanced; got to within twenty yards of the bus. It was fully
loaded with passengers and luggage. Three policemen were
on board, two of them checking faces and documents while
the third blocked the exit door.

On the verge and right alongside Mowry stood a cruizer, its
doors wide open and its lights extinguished. It would have
been almost invisible but for the glow from the nearby bus.
But for the present hold-up he might have sneaked to within
grabbing distance before seeing it; they'd have sat in silence,
listening to the faint scuffle of his feet, and jumped him as
he came abreast of them.

Calmly he got into the cruizer, sat behind its wheel, closed
the doors and started the dynomotor. On the bus an irate cop
was yelling at a frightened passenger while his two fellows
looked on with cynical amusement. The click of door-locks
and the low whine of a motor went unheard during this stream
of abuse. Rolling the cruizer off the verge and onto the road,
Mowry switched on the powerful headlights. Twin beams
pierced the night, bathed a long stretch of road in shining
amber, filled the bus with their glare. He accelerated past the
bus, saw the three cops and a dozen passengers staring out
at him.

He bulleted ahead feeling that the fates had been kind and
compensated for recent ill fortune. It was going to be some
time before the alarm went out and the pursuit commenced.
By the looks on the faces of those police they had not realised
that it was their own car shooting past. Perhaps they thought
he was a motorist who'd taken advantage of their preoccupation
to slip by unquestioned.

But it was likely they'd take action to prevent a repetition.
Two of them would continue to browbeat the bus passengers
while the thixd went out to catch any more sneakers. In that
event the third could hardly fail to notice the absence of the
cruizer.

That's when the fun would start. He'd give a lot to see
their faces. No cruizer meant no radio either. They'd have to
rush the bus to the far-off airport, or stir their lazy legs and
run like mad to the nearest house with a telephone. Better
still, they'd have to make a humiliating confession over the
line and take a verbal beating-up from the other end.

This mental reminder that in seizing the car he had also
acquired a police radio caused Mowry to switch it on. At
once it came to life.

"Car Ten. Suspect claims he was examining parked cars
because he's completely forgotten where he's left his own. He
is unsteady, his speech is slurred and he smells of zith-but
he may be putting on an act."

"Bring him in, Car Ten," ordered Alapertane H.Q.

Soon afterward Car Nineteen asked for help in ringing a
waterfront warehouse, reason not stated. Three cars were
ordered to rush there at once.

Mowry turned the two-way switch to get the other channel.
It was silent a long time before it said, "K-car. Waltagan
calling. A seventh has now entered house."

A voice rasped back, "You'd better wait. The other two
may turn up yet."

That sounded as if some unfortunate household was going
to suffer a late-night raid by the Kaitempi. The motive was
anyone's guess but it did not necessarily have anything to do
with the finding of Sagramatholou's dyno. The Kaitempi could
and would snatch anyone for reasons known only to themselves;
they could draft any citizen into the ranks of D.A.G.
merely by declaring him in. The Kaitempi could do anything
they pleased - except smack down a wasp, push away a
Spakum space-fleet or win a war.

He switched back to the police channel because over that
would come the howl of fury about a missing cruizer. The
radio continued to mutter about suspects, fugitives, this, that
or the other car, go here, go there and soforth. Mowry ignored
the gab while he gave his full attention to driving at the best
speed he could make.

When twenty-five den from Alapertane the radio yelped as
the big long-range transmitter in Pertane itself let go with a
powerful bellow.

"General call. Car Four stolen from Alapertane police. Last
seen racing south on main road to Valapan. May now be
passing through area P6-P7."

Replies came promptly from all cruizers within or near the
designated area. There were eleven. The Pertane transmitter
started moving them around like pieces on a chess-board, using
coded map-references that meant nothing to the listener.
One thing seemed certain: if he kept to the main Valapan
road it wouldn't be long before a cruizer spotted him and
caused every car within range to converge upon him. To take
to minor roads and tracks wouldn't help any; they'd expect
a trick like that and perhaps even now were taking steps to
counter it.

He could dump the car on the other side of a field, all its
lights out, and take to foot - in which case they would not
find it before daylight tomorrow. But unless he could grab
another car he'd be faced with a walk that would last all night
and all next day, perhaps longer if he was forced to take cover
frequently.

Listening to the calls still coming over the air, and irritated
by the mysterious map-references, it struck him that this
systematic concentration of the search was based on the
supposition that if a suspect flees in a given direction at a given
average speed he must be within a given area at a given time.
This area had a radius plenty large enough to allow for turnoffs
and detours. All they needed to do was bottle all the exits
and then run along every road within the trap.

Suppose they did just that and found nothing? Ten to one
they'd jump to a couple of alternative conclusions: the fugitive
had never entered the area because he had reversed direction
and now was racing northward, or else he had made far
better speed than expected, had got right through the district
before the trap closed and now was southward of it. Either

way they'd remove the local pressure, switch the chase nearer
to Valapan or northward of Alapertane.

He whizzed past a sideroad before he saw it, braked,
reversed, went forward into it. A faint glow strengthened
above a rise farther along the road he'd just left. Tearing along
the badly rutted sideroad while the distant glow sharpened
in brilliance, he waited until the last moment before stopping
and switching off his own lights.

In total darkness he sat there while a pair of blazing head-
lamps came over the hill. Automatically his hand opened the
door and he made ready to bolt if the lamps should slow
down and enter his own road.

The oncomer approached the junction, stopped.

Mowry got out, stood by his car with gun held ready and
legs tensed. The next moment the other car surged forward
along its own road, dimmed into the distance and was gone.
There was no way of telling whether it had been a hesitant
civilian or a police patrol on the rampage. If the latter, they
must have looked up the gloom-wrapped sideroad and seen
nothing to tempt them into it. They'd get round to that in
due time. Finding nothing on the major roads they'd eventually
take to the minor ones.

Breathing heavily, Mowry got back behind the wheel,
switched on his lights, made good pace onward. Before long
he reached a farm, paused to look it over. Its yard and out-
buildings adjoined the farmhouse in which thin gleams of light
showed the occupants to be still awake. Leaving the place,
he pushed on.

He checked two more farms before finding one suitable for
his purpose. The house stood in complete darkness and its
barn was some distance from it. With dimmed lights, moving
slowly and quietly, he drove through the muddy yard, along
a narrow lane, stopped under the open end of the barn.
Leaving the car he climbed atop the hay and lay there.

Over the next four hours the shine of distant headlights

swept repeatedly all around. Twice a car rocked and plunged
along the sideroad, passed the farm without stopping. Both
times he sat up in the hay, took out his gun. Evidently it did
not occur to the hunters that he might park within the trap.
On Jaimec fugitives from the police or Kaitempi did ~not
behave like that - given a headstart they kept running good
and hard.

Gradually surrounding activity died down and ceased.
Mowry got back into the cruizer, resumed his run. It was now
three hours to dawn. If all went well he'd make it to the rim
of the forest before daybreak.

The Pertane transmitter was still broadcasting orders made
incomprehensible by use of symbols but responses from
various cruizers now came through with much less strength.
He couldn't decide whether or not this fading of radio signals
was an encouraging sign. It was certain that the transmitting
cars were a good distance away but there was no knowing how
many might be nearer and maintaining silence. Knowing full
well that he was able to listen-in to their calls, the enemy was
crafty enough to let some cars play possum.

Whether or not some cruizers were hanging around and
saying nothing, he managed to get undetected to within nine
den of his destination before the car gave up. It was tearing
through a cutting that led to the last, dangerous stretch of
main road when the green telltale light amid the instruments
faded and went out. At the same time the headlamps extinguished
and the radio died. The car rolled a short distance
under its own momentum and stopped.

Examining the switch, he could find nothing wrong with it.
The emergency switch on the floorboard didn't work either.
After a good deal of fumbling in the dark he managed to
detach one of the intake leads and tried shorting it to the
earth terminal. This should have produced a thin thread of
blue light. It didn't.

It signified only one thing: the power broadcast from the
capital had been cut off. Every car within considerable radius
of Pertane had been halted, police and Kaitempi cruizers
included. Only vehicles within potency range of other, faraway
power transmitters could continue running - unless those also
had ceased to radiate.

Leaving the car, he started to trudge the rest of the way.
He reached the main road; moved along it at fast pace while
keeping his eyes skinned for armed figures waiting ahead to
challenge any walker in the night.

After half an hour a string of lights bloomed far behind
him and to his ears came the muffled whine of many motors.
Scrambling off the road, he fell into an unseen ditch, climbed
out of it, sought refuge amid a bunch of low but thick bushes.
The lights came nearer, shot past.

It was a military scout-patrol, twelve in number, mounted
on dynocycles independently powered by long-term batteries.
In his plastic suit, with night-goggles and duralumin helmet,
each rider looked more like a deep-sea diver than a soldier.
Across the back of every trooper hung a riot-gun with a big
pan-shaped magazine.

Those in authority, he decided, must be more than aggravated
to stall all cars and let the army take over the hunt for
the missing patrol-car and its occupant. Still, from their view-
point they had good reason to go to such lengths. Dirac
Angestun Gesept had claimed the execution of Sagramatholou
and whoever had collared the agent's machine must be a real
genuine member of D.A.G. They wanted a real member in
their hands at any cost.

He speeded up, running short stretches, reverting to a fast
walk, running again. Once he lay flat on his face in tall, fish-
scented stuff that passed for grass on Jaimec. A patrol of six
went by. Later he got behind a tree to avoid four more. To
one side the sky had turned from black to gray and visibility
was improving every minute.

The last lap to the forest was the worst. In ten minutes he
leaped for cover ten times, each time uncertain whether he
had been seen because now it was possible to observe movement
over a considerable distance. This sudden increase in
local activity suggested that at last the Alapertane patrol-car
had been found. If so, they'd soon start seeking a fugitive
doing it the hard way, namely, on his feet.

Chances were good that they would not concentrate on the
immediate neighbourhood. Having no means of telling how
long the car had been abandoned they'd credit him with being
four hours ahead of where he really was and probably they'd
look for him farther afield.

Thankfully he entered the forest, made good time in growing
daylight. Tired and hungry, he was compelled to rest ten
minutes in every hour but got along as fast as he could
between times. By mid-day, when about an hour from the
cave, he had to lie down awhile in a leafy glade and snatch a
short sleep. Up to that point he had walked a total of thirty-
seven Earth-miles helped by desperation, a sense of urgency
and Jaimec's lesser gravitation.

Little refreshed, he resumed his journey and had reduced
pace to a listless mooch when he reached the point where his
finger-ring invariably began to tingle. This time it gave no
response. He halted at once, looked all around, studied the
branches of big trees ahead. The forest was a maze of light
and shadow. A silent, motionless sentinel could remain high
up in a tree for hours and not be seen by anyone approaching.

What he'd been told at college echoed in his mind. `The
ring is a warning, a reliable alarm. Heed it!`

All very well them saying that. It's one thing to give advice,
something else again to take it. The choice was not the simple
one of going ahead or going back; it was that of finding
shelter, food, comfort and necessary equipment or abandoning
everything that enabled him to operate as a wasp. It was
the choice between continuing as a solitary fighter or becoming
a useless bum. He hesitated, sorely tempted to sneak near
enough at least to get a good, long look at the cave.

Finally he compromised by moving cautiously forward,
edging from tree to tree and taking full advantage of all
available cover. In this way he advanced another hundred yards.
Still no response from the ring. Removing it from his finger
he examined its sensitive crystal, cleaned the back of it, put
it on again. Not an itch, not a twitch.

Half-hidden behind an enormous tree-root, he again considered
the position. Had there really been intruders in the cave
and, if so, were they in ambush around it? Or had Container-22
ceased to function because of some internal defect?

While he stood there in an agony of indecision a sound came
from twenty yards ahead. Low and faint, he would never have
heard it had his senses not been primed by peril. It was like a
suppressed sneeze or a muffled cough. That was enough for
him. Someone was hanging around and striving to keep quiet
about it. The cave and its contents had been discovered and
the finders were lying in wait for the owner to come along.
Trying to keep full attention on the trees, he backed away
almost at a crawl. After that it took him an hour to make a
mile, he moved so slowly and warily. Considering himself
now at a safe distance he broke into a steady walk, not
knowing where to go or what to do.

Though speculation was futile he could not help wondering
how the cache had been found. Low flying scout-planes fitted
with super-sensitive metal detectors could have pinpointed its
exact location if they'd had reason to suspect it existence in
that area. But they'd had no such cause so far as he was
aware.

Most likely the cave had been stumbled upon by some of
those who'd fled from Pertane and taken to the woods - they'd
certainly curry favour with authority by excitedly reporting
the find. Or perhaps the likely-looking hideout had been
probed by an army patrol trying to round up refugees.

Anyway, it no longer mattered a hoot. He had lost the cache
as well as further contact with Terra. All that he possessed
were the clothes in which he stood; a gun and twenty thousand
guilders. He was a rich man who owned nothing but his life
and that not worth much.

It was obvious that he must keep going away from the cave
for as long as he retained strength to move. Realizing that
they had found a Terran war-dump the powers-that-be
wouldn't long rest content with a mere ambush around it. Just
as soon as they could collect the troops they'd convert a large
section of the forest into a gigantic trap. That process would
start most anytime.

So with stumbling legs and empty guts he kept going,
steering himself by sun and shadow, maintaining his direction
steadily south-east. By dusk he'd had as much as he could
take. Flopping into a patch of reeds, he closed his eyes and
slept.

It was still dark when he awoke. He lay there until sunrise,
dozing and wakihg at intervals. Then he started out with
stronger legs, a fresher mind but weaker insides. His belly kept
appealing to his gullet but there was nothing he could do
about it yet.

Air activity was endless that day. Scout-planes and 'copters
zoomed around within hearing distance all the time. The
reason for all this display was a mystery since they'd little
hope of spotting one man in that immense forest. Perhaps the
presence and size of the cache had misled them into thinking
that a Spakum task-force had landed.

It was, easy to imagine the state of wild alarm in the capital,
with brasshats running to and fro while messages flashed back
and forth between Jaimec and Diracta. The two lamsters Wolf
had talked about had accomplished nothing like this. They'd
tied up twenty-seven thousands for fourteen hours. By the
looks of it he would preoccupy the entire planet for the next
fourteen weeks.

At nightfall all that his belly had received was water and
his sleep was made restless with hunger. In the morning he
continued, still through thick forest that stretched all the way
to the equator.

After five hours he struck a narrow lane, followed it to a
clearing in which were a small sawmill and a dozen cottages.
Before the mill stood two big, powerful trucks. From the
shelter of the trees he regarded them enviously. Nobody was
near them at the moment, he could jump into either of them
and tear away with no trouble at all. But the news of the
theft would get the entire hunt on his tail. Right now they'd
no idea of where he'd got to or where he was heading. It was
better to let their ignorance remain his bliss.

Snooping carefully between the trees, he bided his time,
bolted into a nearby garden, hurriedly filled his pockets with
vegetables, his arms with fruit. Back among the trees he ate
the fruit as he went along. Later, as twilight fell, he risked a
small fire, baked the vegetables, ate half of them and saved
the rest for the morrow.

Next day he saw not a living soul, had no food except that
reserved from yesterday. The day after was worse: just trees,
trees and still more trees with not an edible nut or berry among
the lot, no sign of habitation, nothing at all to eat. From far
to the north still came the faint humming of aircraft and that
was the only thing to suggest the presence of life on the planet.

Four days afterward he reached the sideroad to Elvera, a
village south of Valapan. Still keeping to the trees he followed
it until houses came in sight. The amount of traffic on the road
wasn't abnormal and there were no signs of a special watch
being kept.

By now he was in a bad way, haggard with lack of food,
his clothing dirty and rumpled. It was fortunate, he thought,
that he had darkened his complexion, that depilatory treatment
had long abolished the need to shave, and that his last
haircut had been the Halopti crop followed by imitation
balding. Otherwise he'd now look like nothing this side of
Aldebaran.

He spent some time brushing his clothes with his hands
and tidying himself as best he could. That done, he walked
boldly into the village. If the price of a feed was a noose
around the neck he was willing to pay it providing the meal
was a good one and that he was given time to lug out his gun.
There were a dozen shops in the village including a cafe--bar
of the kind favoured by truckers. Entering, he went
straight through to the washroom, had a wash and saw himself
in a mirror for the first time in many days. He looked
sufficiently harassed to make a nosey cop give him the long, hard
stare but at least he wasn't an obvious hobo.

Returning to the front, he sat at the counter, found it difficult
to stop his mouth from drooling. The only other customers
in the place were two ancient Sirians guzzling at one table
and too intent to bother with the newcomer. A burly character
in a white coat appeared behind the counter and eyed Mowry
with faint curiosity.

"You wish?"

Mowry told him, got it, almost dribbled on it when it
arrived. He set to, forcing himself to eat slowly because the
other was watching. Finishing, he ordered the next item and
disposed of it in the same bored manner. This play-acting was
sheer hell; he could have bolted two more complete servings
and asked the fellow to wrap up another six for him to take
out.

As he shoved across the final drink, the burly one said,

"Come far?"

"Only from Valapan."

"Walk it, hi?"

"Nar, the dyno stalled two den back. I'll fix it after."

The other stared at him. "You came in a dyno? How'd you
get out of Valapan?"

"What d'you mean?" countered Mowry, not liking the trend
of conversation.

"No cars allowed into or out of Valapan today. A cop told
me so himself."

"When was this?"

"Around the nine-time hour."

"I was away before seven," Mowry said. "I'd a lot of calls to
make and got out early. Good thing I did, hi?"

"Yar," agreed the other, doubtfully. "But how're you going
to get in again?"

"I don't know. They've got to lift the ban sometime. They
can't maintain it for ever." He paid the bill, made for the door.

"Live long."

He sensed that he'd got out of there in good time. The burly
one was vaguely suspicious but not sufficiently so to bawl for
help, being the type who'd hesitate lest he make a fool of
himself.

The next call was at a nearby grocery store. He bought J,
enough of the most concentrated foods to make a package not s
too heavy to carry for miles. Here he was served without
especial interest and the conversation was brief.

"Bad about Valapan, isn't it?"

"Yar." said Mowry, yearning to hear the news.

"Hope they nab every stinking Spakum in the place."

"Yar." Mowry repeated.

"Damn the Spakums!" the other finished. "That will be
sixteen and six-tenths."

Going out with the package, he glanced along the road. The
fellow at the cafe-bar was standing by his door looking at
him. Mowry nodded familiarly, ambled from the village, shot
another glance back as he passed the last house. Noseypoke
was still standing there watching him.

With careful rationing the food lasted him ten days as he
continued through the forest and saw nobody other than
occasional lumberjacks whom he avoided. His direction was a
now a westward circle that should bring him not far south
of Radine. Despite any risks entailed, he was keeping to that
part of Jaimec of which he had some knowledge.

He'd made up his mind that when he got near to Radine
he was going to use his gun to acquire another car and a set
of genuine documents at the cost of burying a corpse in the
woods. After that he'd check the lie of the land and if things
weren't too hot in Radine maybe he could hole-up there.
Something drastic had to be done because he could not roam
the forests for ever. If he'd acquired the status of a lone outlaw
he might as well become enough of a thug to prosper.

He did not know it but bigger and wider events were overtaking
him and he was no longer a pawn in the cosmic game or the
master of his destiny.


Two hours after sunset on his last day of wandering he
reached the main Radine-Khamasta road, paralleled it through
the forest as he continued toward Radine. At precisely the
eleven-time hour a tremendous flash of light yellowed the sky
in the direction of the stronghold Khamasta. Beneath his feet
the ground gave a distinct quiver. The trees creaked while their
tops swayed. A bit later a prolonged, faraway growl came over
the horizon.

Traffic on the road swiftly thinned out and finally ceased
altogether. A thousand crimson serpents hissed up from
darkened Radine and hungrily bored into the night sky. Came
another great flash from the region of Khamasta. Something
long, black and noisy bulleted low over the forest, momentarily
blanking out the stars and sending down a blast of heat.

In the distance sounded faint, muffled rumblings, cracklings,
thumps and thuds plus a vague, indefinable babble like the
shoutings of a multitude. Mowry went into the empty road
and stared up at the sky. The stars vanished wholesale as the
thrice-wrecked and ten times decimated Terran fleets
thundered overhead four thousand strong.

Below, Mowry danced like a maniac in the middle of the
road. He shouted at the sky. He yelled and screamed and
bawled tuneless songs with meaningless words. He waved his
arms around, tossed twenty thousand guilders into the air so
that it floated around like confetti.

As the black, snouty warships roared above a veritable
torrent of stuff sailed down, seeking ground with the pale,

lemon-coloured legs of antigrav beams. He stood fascinated
while not far away a huge, cumbersome shape with enormous
caterpillar tracks fell featherlike atop twenty columnar rays,
landed with squeaks of protest from big springs.

Heart pounding, he tore southward along the road, on and
on until he bolted full-tilt into a waiting group of forty figures.
They were looking his way, ready for him, having been alerted
by the frantic clomping of his feet. The entire bunch topped
him by head and shoulders, wore dark green uniforms and
were holding things that gleamed in the starlight.

"Take it easy, Blowfly," advised a Terran voice.

Mowry panted for breath. He did not resent this rude counterthrust
to the Spakum tag. Every Sirian was a blowfly by virtue of
his purple backside.

He pawed at the speaker's sleeve. "My name is James
Mowry. I'm not what I seem - I'm a Terran."

The other, a big, lean-faced and cynical sergeant, said, "My
name's Napoleon. I'm not what I seem - I'm an emperor." He
gestured with a hand holding a whop-gun ,that looked like a
cannon. "Take him to the cage, Rogan."

"But I am a Terran," yelped Mowry, flapping his hands.

"Yeah, you look it," said the sergeant.

"I'm speaking Terran, aren't I?"

"Sure are. A hundred thousand Blowflies can speak it. They
think it gives them a certain something." He waved the cannon
again. "The cage, Rogan."

Rogan took him.

For twelve days he mooched around the prisoner-of-war
compound. The dump was very big, very full and swiftly
became fuller. Prisoners were fed regularly, guarded constantly
and that was all.

Of his fellows behind the wire at least fifty sly-eyed specimens
boasted of their confidence in the future when the sheep
would be sorted from the goats and justice would be done.
The reason, they asserted, was that for a long time they'd been
secret leaders of Dirac Angestun Gesept and undoubtedly
would be raised to power when Terran conquerors got around
to it. Then, they warned, friends would be rewarded as surely
as foes would be punished. This bragging ceased only when
three of them somehow got strangled in their sleep.

At least a dozen times Mowry seized the chance to attract
the attention of a patrolling sentry when no Sirian happened
to be nearby. "Psst! My name's Mowry - I'm a Terran."

Ten times he received confessions of faith such as, "You
look it!" or "Is zat so?"

A lanky character said, "Don't give me that!"

"It's true-I swear it!"

"You really are a Terran-hi?"

"Yar," said Mowry, forgetting himself.

"Yar to you, too."

Once he spelled it so there'd be no possibility of
misunderstanding. "See here, Buster, I'm a T-E-R-R-A-N."

To which the sentry replied, "Says Y-O-U" and hefted his
gun and continued his patrol.

Came the day when prisoners were paraded in serried ranks,
a captain stood on a crate, held a loud-hailer before his mouth
and roared all over the camp, "Anyone here named James
Mowry?"

Mowry galloped eagerly forward, bow-legged from force of
habit. "I am." He scratched himself, a performance that the
captain viewed with unconcealed disfavour.
Glowering at him, the captain demanded, "Why the heck
haven't you said so before now? We've been searching all
Jaimec for you. Let me tell you, Mister, we've got better things
to do. You struck dumb or something?"

"I-"

"Shut up! Military Intelligence wants you. Follow me."

So saying, he led the other through heavily guarded gates,
along a path toward a prefab hut.

Mowry ventured, "Captain, again and again I tried to tell
the sentries that."

"Prisoners are forbidden to talk to sentries," the captain
snapped.

"But I wasn't a prisoner."

"Then what the blazes were you doing in there?" Without
waiting for a reply he pushed open the door of the prefab
hut and introduced him with, "This is the crummy bum."

The Intelligence officer glanced up from a wad of papers.
"So you're Mowry, James Mowry?"

"Correct."

"Well now," said the officer, "we've been primed by beam-
radio and we know all about you."

"Do you really?" responded Mowry, pleased and gratified.
He braced himself for the coming citation, the paean of praise,
the ceremonial stroking of a hero's hair.

"Another mug like you was on Artishain, their tenth planet,"
the officer went on. "Feller named Kingsley. They say he hasn't
sent a signal for quite a piece. Looks like he's got himself
nabbed. Chances are he's been stepped on and squashed flat."

Mowry said suspiciously, "What's this to me?"

"We're dropping you in his place. You leave tomorrow."

"Hi? Tomorrow?"

"Sure thing. We want you to become a wasp. Nothing wrong
with you, is there?"

"No," said Mowry, very feebly. "Only my head"