
                        STRANGLERS' MOON

  

 Volume Two of The classic Family d'Alembert series

  

 By E.E. ‘Doc' Smith

 With Stephen Goldin

  

 CHAPTER 1

 Predators and Prey

  

 The Golden Crater Casino was unquestionably among the largest and plushest gaming

 palaces in the Galaxy. Its reputation for the exotic and the exciting was fully earned, as

 the briefest of walks down its crowded corridors and across its even more crowded

 rooms would reveal. People were jammed elbow-to-elbow in some places in their

 fanatical attempts to lose money to the House. Women in abbreviated costumes roamed

 the floor, ostensibly employed as photographers, waitresses and the like-though it was

 common knowledge that a fifty ruble bill would procure other services from them as well.

  

 The great and the near-great mingled at the tables, amid throngs of those who were

 merely wealthy but had aspirations toward greatness. Here a sensable star brushed

 against a countess; there a corporation president bumped into a famous news

 commentator. Rank and social distinction were of little importance in the casino; the only

 question of interest was how well could a person gamble and was luck on his side today.

  

 Yet even as notorious and plush as it was, the Golden Crater was considered merely

 routine by comparison to other "establishments" on Vesa, the moon that billed itself as

 the "Playground to the Galaxy"-and which cynics called a variety of other names.

  

 Nils Bjenden, a banker from the planet Lindstrom, stood to one side of a doorway looking

 with distaste across the crowded room. This chamber was so jammed with people that

 he had difficulty seeing the other side. The ceiling arched high above his head, and on it

 was projected a kaleidoscopic light show that continually changed colors with the

 changing noise level in the room. But he had not come here to look at the ceiling, he had

 come to gamble-and the mob on the floor was packed so densely that he could not see

 so much as a single gaming table.

  

 "I told you we should have gotten here earlier," he said to his wife Karen, who stood

 beside him and looked as bewildered as he felt. Nils found he had to yell to be heard

 above the room's din, even though his wife was only centimeters away. "But you wanted

 to stop and eat first. We should have left when I wanted to.

 "

 "I didn't know it would be this crowded," she apologized.

  

 A stranger who'd been standing behind them came to the woman's rescue. "Don't blame

 her, gospodin. The Golden Crater is like this around the clock. Vesa is `the moon that

 never sleeps,' you know; these casinos are ample proof of that.

  

 Nils grunted noncommittally and would have walked away, but Karen struck up a

 conversation with the man who'd saved her from a tongue-lashing. "You seem to know a

 lot about it. Do you live here on Vesa?"

  

 The stranger laughed. He was a tall, thin man with brooding eyes and a dark complexion.

 His clothing was almost as conservative as Nils's, comprising a lightweight brown jacket

 and flared pants, a stiff white shirt and a gold sash tied about his waist. "No, gospozha, I

 don't think I'd care to. It's all too hectic, too busy; I'd go crazy in two weeks. I do travel a

 lot, though, and I come here fairly often-every couple of months, at least.

  

 "This is our first time," Karen gushed. "I've been wanting to come for years and years-it's

 not as if we couldn't afford it. But Nils-my husband-is a banker, and he's always busy

 with one deal after another. You'd think the entire planet would fall apart without him

 there to look after it. I finally had to put my foot down and tell him that we were going to

 Vesa, now, or else.

  

 "Hmpf," snorted her husband as he craned his neck to look over the throng of gamblers

 on the floor. "Some vacation it's been, too. I haven't had a moment to relax since we got

 here. There's always people, people, people. What did you say your name was, again?"

  

 "Lessin," the stranger replied. "And if you think it's crowded here you should see what it's

 like down on Chandakha.

  

 It took a moment for Karen to realize what he was talking about. The moon Vesa was so

 famous that many people forgot there was a planet it circled. "Oh yes, I remember

 reading something about it on our trip out here. They've got an overpopulation problem,

 haven't they?.

  

 "That's putting it mildly." Lessin closed his eyes and shuddered, as though recalling some

 personal nightmare. "Things are so bad down there that the people are little more than

 animals sometimes.

  

 His tone made Karen shiver. "Then I'm just as glad I'm up here, among civilized people.

  

 "I'm not," Nils grumbled. "I should never have left Lindstrom, not with that big deal about

 to go through. I don't like the thought of having to fight my way through that mob just to

 get near a table and do a little gambling.

  

 "I quite agree," Lessin said amiably. "I much prefer the private clubs, myself. If I hadn't

 promised to meet a friend here, I'd be at one of them right now.

  

 "I didn't know there were any private clubs," Karen said.

  

 "Well, they certainly don't advertise-that's how they manage to stay private. They like to

 avoid crowd scenes like this one here.

  

 "What are these private clubs like?" Nils asked. "They're much smaller, more intimate

 places. Couple dozen people at most, and the atmosphere is more relaxed. The stakes

 can vary from moderate to high, depending on where you go, of course.

  

 "Would there be any chance of our going to one of those places?" Nils asked. "There

 sure as hell isn't going to be any action for us around here.

  

 The stranger hesitated. "Well, they are for members only.  .   .   . .

  

 "You're a member, aren't you?.

  

 "Nils! You have no right to impose on this man," Karen complained.

  

 "Oh, I don't mind. I was about to continue that the clubs are for members and their

 guests. I was going to be taking my friend to one, but," he looked at his ringwatch, "he's

 more than half an hour late right now. If I know him, he's probably picked up one of the

 floorgirls and has forgotten all about me. I hate going places by myself. In fact, I had just

 about decided to invite you two nice people to come along with me.

  

 "Yes, that's more the spirit," Nils said, rubbing his hands with gusto. It was obvious he

 preferred the thought of a quiet, dignified evening of gentlemanly gambling to the raucous

 atmosphere of the Golden Crater.

  

 "It sounds lovely," Karen added.

  

 "Fine, then it's all settled. Just give me a moment to get my cape from the checkroom

 and I'll be right back with you." Lessin smiled at them and moved off quickly toward one

 side of the chamber.

  

 "We were lucky to meet him," Karen whispered to her husband. Her low voice was just

 barely audible above the noise of the casino. "He certainly seems to know what he's

 about.

  

 "Very good sort," Nils agreed.

  

 Their newfound friend was back three minutes later, a full-length brown fur cape draped

 elegantly over his tall, handsome frame. "Shall we be off?" he suggested.

  

 As they left the casino and the door shut behind them, the drop in noise level was an

 immense relief. They faced one of the broad traffic corridors that carried the bulk of

 Vesa's public transportation. Being an airless satellite, all life on Vesa existed

 underground in the vast hollowed-out chambers and tunnels that honeycombed the moon.

 This tunnel was one of the major "arteries" and dozens of electric vehicles went past

 them each minute.

  

 "Thank goodness," Karen said in the comparative quiet of the corridor. "I thought I'd burst

 an eardrum in there." "It's not too long a ride to the club," Lessin said. "Let me see if I

 can flag down a jit." He stood on the curb and waved at a likely looking vehicle.

  

 A large shuttle lumbered in their direction. This was one of the buses, or "jits," that were

 the universal method of transportation on Vesa. Jits were privately owned and operated,

 acting as combinations of cabs and busses; they could pick up passengers at will and

 take them anywhere on Vesa, without regard to fixed schedules. Tiny computers built

 into the driver's controls calculated the fare from the point of pickup to the destination.

  

 This jit was obviously an old one, judging from all the paint peeling off its six-meter length.

 The glass in four of its windows had large cracks. As it pulled to a stop beside them, the

 group on the curb could see the vehicle's occupants-half a dozen seedy-looking men

 wearing dirty clothes. Most of them were in need of a shave. They leered out the

 windows at the well-dressed trio.

  

 Lessin waved the jit away. "That's a problem you'd better be warned about if this is your

 first trip here," he explained. "Very few people have private cars; nearly everybody uses

 the jits because they allow for more flexibility in the traffic patterns. But there's a certain

 outlaw element that takes advantage of that. They'd think nothing of picking up

 newcomers like you, beating you up and robbing you. Hardly a week goes by without

 some story in the newsrolls about some tourist getting mugged on a pirate jit.

  

 "Oh, dear," said Karen.

  

 "I have heard about them," Nils said slowly. "That's why I carry a small stunner in my

 pocket at all times." "A wise precaution," Lessin nodded. "However, sometimes a little

 prudence in one's choice of transportation can eliminate the need for that. Ah, there's a

 more likely candidate." He waved at another jit that was coming down the street.

  

 This one proved to be much more acceptable to all of them. Not only was it new and

 clean, but the six passengers already aboard were far more respectable types who paid

 no notice to the new arrivals. Lessin insisted on paying the fares for all three of them as

 he gave the driver an address. "It'll only be a few minutes' drive," he told the Bjendens.

 "Just relax.

  

 The couple from Lindstrom did so. There was little scenery to watch in these tunnels, but

 the shuttle's novelty intrigued them. Since it did not go faster than thirty kilometers an

 hour-and since the climate was perfectly controlled within these corridors-the jit was an

 open-air conveyance with no roof. The slight breeze was deliciously cool as they drove

 along.

  

 Two minutes later, the jit entered a solitary tunnel slightly darker than the main

 passageways. Lessin looked up and suddenly an expression of horror crossed his face.

 "Oh no!" he exclaimed.

  

 "What's the problem?" Nils demanded.

  

 "The ceiling's going to cave in! There's a crack in the roof right up there. See?" Both Nils

 and Karen craned their necks to see where the stranger was pointing.

  

 At that precise moment, the other six men on the jit exploded into action. Two of them

 grabbed the Bjendens' feet, holding them tightly together so that they could not run. Two

 more grabbed their arms, pinning them to the sides to prevent struggling. The remaining

 two whipped yellow scarves off from around their necks and, in one lightning-fast

 gesture, twisted them around the throats of the married couple. The upward-tilted necks

 were well exposed-an easy target.

  

 The two tourists were taken so much by surprise that they had no opportunity to

 struggle, even if the men holding their bodies had allowed such a thing. Their eyes

 bugged out of their sockets as the scarves tightened around their throats, squeezing shut

 the windpipes and cutting off their air supply. The only sound was the faintest guggling as

 Nils and Karen fought vainly to breathe.

  

 The last sight either of them ever saw was Lessin's imperturbable face staring at them

 with neither pity nor regret in his eyes.

  

 When both were quite dead, Lessin-as leader of the stranglers-had the duty of combing

 their bodies for loot. He did this efficiently and, within a minute, both bodies had yielded

 all that they had of value-wallets, jewelry and keys to a hotel room where more of their

 goods would be stored.

  

 The shuttle driver's timing was impeccable-just as the leader finished his search, the jit

 pulled up to a large white building. Driving into a private accessway, the driver tooted his

 horn sharply twice, and a side door opened. Four men dressed in white coveralls

 emerged from the building and boarded the jit. They looked down at the two dead bodies

 and, without comment, lifted them up and carried them back outside. Lessin gave them a

 curt nod as they disappeared inside the building with their burdens and the door slid shut

 once more.

  

 As the jit backed out into the main thoroughfare again, the leader of the strangler band

 sat down in a seat behind the driver. The Bjendens' hotel keys jingled idly in his hand.

 Tomorrow, after their rooms had been thoroughly picked over, the Bjendens would be

 "checked out" of their hotel and would simply vanish from the face of the Universe, as

 many thousands had done before them. Very simple, very routine.

  

 Lessin gave an involuntary yawn. The banker and his wife brought his daily total to six.

 He decided to see whether he could bring that number up to eight before calling it quits.

 Stifling a second yawn, he told the driver to head back to the Golden Crater; the pickings

 there seemed exceptionally good today.

  

 The man known as Garst was fuming silently as he strode down the marble-floored

 hallway. He made no effort to quiet the clacking sound of his boots made with each

 impatient step he took; he was angry, and he wanted his anger to show.

  

 Her tinning is lousy, he griped silently. Just when I finally had a chance to talk with the

 emissary of the Countess von Sternberg. It would have been my big opportunity to break

 out of my dependence on one little moon, a chance to reach for bigger things.

  

 But maybe that was precisely why she had called him. Maybe she didn't want him

 branching out beyond her grasp. Marchioness Gindri was a very possessive person, and

 the thought that her own personal lackey might have ambitions to something higher than

 her would be a very deep sting. But I'd tried so hard to keep this meeting secret.

  

 He stopped as he came to the giant doors that marked the entrance to her boudoir.

 These doors stood nearly three meters high, and were elaborately carved out of solid

 whitewood and gilded in ornate designs. The knobs were solid gold, sculpted in the

 shape of miniature birds flying with wings outstretched. The doors were meant to

 impress the visitor, but Garst had been here too many times before and they seemed

 just like doors to him.

  

 He paused outside the portals to catch his breath and curb his temper. Maybe her

 summoning him now was just a coincidence. She'd called for him before at odd times,

 this could be just another one. She was, after all, none too bright; it would do him no

 good to allow his guilty conscience-or what passed for a conscience in him-to ascribe to

 her a cunning she did not possess. Probably the biddy was just suffering from another of

 her incessant loneliness jags and needed his services.

  

 Garst shuddered. That was perhaps the most distasteful aspect of his entire

 operation-making love to her gross, overindulged body. Someday, he was afraid, his

 sensibilities would overcome his logical mind and leave him incapable of even performing

 the act.

  

 He sighed. The truth of the matter was that he needed her to make his strangling

 operation work. The Marcbioness controlled the entire moon, at least nominally. It was

 she who gave orders to the police force, the hotel employees and the casinos. True, he

 was the one telling her what orders to give, but without her authority and her title to back

 up those orders, he was lost.

  

 Once again, the delightful thought of killing her flashed through his mind. Many were the

 times he had fantasized the simple act of reaching his hands out to surround her fat,

 multi-chinned neck and squeeze the life out of her. But, though the personal satisfaction

 that act would give him would be enormous, the consequences would be disastrous.

 Gindri had no direct heirs to inherit her tide, and at her death Vesa would revert back to

 the Throne, allowing the Emperor to choose whomever he wished as the new Marquis.

 Knowing Stanley Ten's reputation for incorruptibility, the appointee would be someone

 Garst would never get a hold over.

  

 He sighed again. His success lay in keeping Gindri alive and happy, so that she would not

 interfere with the profitable setup he had established. Garst was, if nothing else, a

 realist.

  

 With his temper now well under restraint, Garst pulled down on the handles and opened

 the huge twin doors. Instantly the sickening stench of the Marchioness's perfume

 assailed his nostrils, and he had to fight down the impulse to gag. Instead, with his most

 obsequious smile plastered tightly onto his lips, he entered the room and snaked his way

 over to the side of the bed.

  

 Marchioness Gindri Lohlatt of Vesa looked like nothing so much as a beached whale in a

 white satin nightgown. She easily massed a hundred and fifty kilograms; Garst had never

 asked exactly how much, more out of fear of being revolted by the actual number than

 out of politeness. Her fat face was always red and jowly, her many chins overlapping and

 virtually hiding her neck in layers of blubber. Her body was as soft and pallid as a slug's.

 She would hardly even be able to move on any world with a normal gravity, Garst

 thought. Only the fact that the gravity on Vesa was a mere one-quarter Earth standard

 allowed her to survive without a heart attack.

  

 "You called for me, Your Excellency?" he asked as nicely as he could.

  

 "Yes," she said. Her voice was a throaty rasp, escaping from deep inside her throat. She

 reached out one ponderous arm to him and extended a hand as round as a balloon.

 Garst brought the hand to his lips and kissed it.

  

 He wanted to drop the hand after the kiss, but the Marchioness gripped his hand tightly

 with her own and pulled him closer to the side of her bed. The stench of her perfume

 grew ten times worse with each centimeter closer he came.

  

 A silence hung in the air for a long moment, until Garst's impatience got the better of him.

 "May I ask, Your Excellency, why you sent for me at this particular hour? Though the

 urgency of matters of state of course pales beside my desire to please you, there are

 still some details that are important and must be done at certain times.

  

 Marchioness Gindri looked up at him with great, rheumy eyes. "You haven't been to see

 me in three days.

  

 Her voice wavered, as though she were on the verge of tears. "I need to know that you

 still love me." Though his outward expression did not alter, Garst's inward fuming

 resumed at an increased level. This stupid sow called me all the way over here for that?

 he thought. Oh, how good it will be when I can get away from this moon and start out in

 business on my own. "Of course I still love you," he said aloud, seating himself on the

 little bit of edge next to the woman's enormous body. "What is there not to love about

 you? You're beautiful, intelligent, personable, wealthy and powerful, everything I admire

 most in a woman." And if you believe that, I deserve the Galaxy Award for acting.

  

 But the Marchioness saw no falseness in his words or eyes, and was reassured of his

 continuing affection. Spreading her arms apart to welcome him to her bosom, she said,

 "Come to me then, my lamb, and prove your love for me.

  

 With thoughts darker than the blackness of space, Garst crawled into her arms. I won't

 always be stuck on this miserable little rock-and when that day conies, I'll see that you

 get the rewards you've earned. Just wait.

  

 CHAPTER 2

 The Problem with Vesa

  

 As La Comete Cuivre drifted purposefully through the void of interplanetary space toward

 its rendezvous, its two occupants were keyed to the breaking point with eager

 anticipation. Yvette and Jules d'Alembert had been ,.on vacation" for three months-far

 longer than they would have liked-and they were itching for action.

  

 "I wonder what we'll be up against this time," Yvette speculated aloud. "Are there any

 more grand dukes plotting against the "Throne?.

  

 "Probably nothing so dramatic," her brother smiled. He spoke in the French-English

 patois that was their native tongue. "After all, it doesn't take a direct threat against the

 Emperor's life to endanger the peace. There's always a long, uphill battle against

 entropy.

  

 They stopped speaking as their radarscope indicated they were nearing their destination.

 Jules quickly computed the approach pattern and laid it into the ship's computer. The

 action was followed moments later by a flashing light on the control panel in front of them

 and, five seconds after that, a short blast from the retrorockets. La Comete, according

 to the numbers flashed on Jules' screen, would be docking with the other ship in four

 minutes, thirty-seven seconds.

  

 "Let's see what she's like out there," Yvette said, reaching for a different switch. Both

 turned their heads and watched a panel to the right of their seats as a vidscreen that had

 been dark suddenly jumped to life. Though they had known intellectually what to expect,

 they still could not stifle the gasps of awe as they gazed at the ship they were

 approaching.

  

 The Anna Liebling was easily the biggest private space going vessel they had ever seen.

 The d'Alemberts had grown up among circus ships that had to carry all the personnel and

 equipment of the Greatest Show in the Galaxy, monstrous fat freighters ranging up to a

 hundred meters long. That was considered the maximum size for any ship that had to

 maneuver through an atmosphere and land on the surface of a planet, and they had

 never thought they would behold anything bigger short of a battle cruiser. But now they

 did.

  

 The ship before them looked like a giant rectangular box a hundred and twenty-five

 meters long and perhaps fifty wide and deep. Its outer hull was dull and pitted from

 uncounted billions of encounters with micrometeoroids. It was a ship that could only have

 been constructed in space, and would never be able to land. The dartlike sliver of the

 ten-meter-long Comete seemed terribly insignificant beside the space behemoth.

  

 "Wow," Yvette whispered softly. "Rank certainly doth have its privileges.

  

 As they came closer to the enormous vessel, part of the hull slid open and, like modern

 Jonahs, the two d'Alemberts and their ships were swallowed intact by the space-going

 whale.

  

 The hull closed again behind them as their ship came to rest inside a giant hangar next to

 several other small shuttles that served to take the Anna Liebling's passengers to and

 from the ship. From one of the hangar's walls a long metal tube three meters in diameter

 snaked toward the d'Alembert vessel and attached itself firmly to their airlock hatch. This

 shuttle room was simply too big to use as an airlock; it would require too much time and

 energy to pump air into and out of it each time it was used. So it was left free of air, and

 these transit tubes allowed passengers to walk to and from the shuttles without donning

 spacesuits.

  

 "All right," Jules said as the tube wheezed its airtight connection onto their lock, "let's find

 out what the Head has in store for us.

  

 Dressed as they both were in the routine gray spacer's coveralls that fit them only

 loosely, neither Jules nor Yvette d'Alembert looked like what they truly were the two

 most capable, most highly trained secret agents in the Galaxy. Both were a trifle too

 short when compared to the standard Earther height these days-Jules stood at a

 hundred seventy-three centimeters while his sister was ten centimeters shorter-but that

 was because they weren't from Earth. Both were natives of DesPlaines, that harsh

 mining world with a surface gravity three times that of Earth normal. Over the course of

 the fourteen generations their family had lived on that planet, they had adapted well to

 life under extreme conditions.

  

 Under their loose-fitting outfits, their bodies were packed with solid muscle, tested to

 withstand the grueling pull of their world's gravity. Their reflexes were lightning fast, as

 they had to be-on a planet where objects fell at such an increased rate, even a slight

 stumble could be fatal. The d'Alemberts' bones were thicker and harder than an Earth

 person's, their sinews tougher, their muscles stronger.

  

 But there was more to their heritage than just tough bodies. For the d'Alembert family

 had, for the past two centuries, operated and starred in the Circus of the Galaxy, the

 number one attraction throughout human occupied space. Jules and Yvette had been the

 premier aerialists for the Circus for over a dozen years, their already perfect bodies

 honed to clinical precision by the intensive training and impossible demands of their art.

  

 Several months ago, though, Jules and Yvette had left the Circus. There was no outward

 sign that they had departed, for their younger cousins had stepped in to become the new

 "Jules and Yvette," while the old ones, as their predecessors had before them-moved up

 to their real jobs: undercover agents for the Service of the Empire.

  

 Almost from its inception, the Circus had provided SOTE with its top agents. The

 specialized skills its performers possessed were ideal for the jobs that the Service

 needed done. Added to that was the fact that the d'Alembert family, led by Duke Etienne

 d'Alembert, had always been extremely intelligent and unquestioningly loyal to the

 Throne, and that the Circus was able to travel all over the Galaxy without arousing

 suspicion. The Circus was SOTE's secret weapon against the forces of disorder, with

 the emphasis on the word secret. Only a handful of people knew about it-and since that

 handful comprised the Imperial family, the Head of the Service and his chief assistant,

 that secret was well-kept indeed.

  

 As Jules and Yvette emerged from the transit tube they found the chief assistant waiting

 for them. Duchess Helena von Wilmenhorst was obviously bred of Earth, tall, willowly and

 beautiful, with her long black hair tied into braids behind her so that it wouldn't be in her

 way on the ship. Apparently not all portions of the Anna Liebling were under ultragrav as

 this part was.

  

 Helena strode quickly toward them. Her brown- and peach-colored pants suit

 emphasized the beauty of her body quite nicely, Jules noticed with a smile. She came

 straight over to him, put her slender arms about his waist and gave him a warm hello

 kiss. "It's good to see you again," she said in Empirese, the Russian-English mixture that

 was the Galaxy's official language. "How's your leg, Jules?.

  

 Jules reached down and patted his left calf. "Almost as good as new. Those

 regeneratives the doctors have now are incredible. They tell me that in another month or

 two I'll never even know I was blaster-burned." He and his sister spoke Empirese as

 flawlessly as DesPlainian.

  

 "Glad to hear it. You fought too gallantly there to deserve a permanently gimpy leg."

 Helena turned her attentions to Yvette, embracing her as well and exchanging pecks on

 the cheek. "And how are you, my darling Evie?.

  

 "Fine physically, but impatient I'm afraid. Vacations are smooth for a while, but they can

 get boring too quickly if there's no work in between. I'm dying for some action.

  

 "You'll get it," Helena promised. "There's no shortage of work for any of us. Father just

 wanted to make sure you were all recovered from that last bout before sending you out

 again. You'd better follow me now; he's waiting for us.

  

 Helena led the way down the maze of corridors that honeycombed the ship. Jules and

 Yvette were astounded at just how luxurious a space yacht this size could be. Paintings

 by some of the Galaxy's most famous artists were set in niches along the hallways. One

 long corridor wall, extending more than fifteen meters, was a single mural depicting a

 breathtaking sunset across a plain on some alien world. Holobiles, those

 three-dimensional color laser images, hung from the ceiling, their abstract shapes

 revolving in an imaginary wind. The air smelled faintly of jasmine, though the scent was

 subtly different.

  

 But the surprising thing was that they encountered no other people along their path. The

 corridors had the feel of well-traveled routes, yet not a soul was anywhere to be seen.

 Their three pairs of footsteps echoed hollowly against the metal walls that lined the

 passages.

  

 When Jules remarked on their solitude, their guide nodded and summed up the situation

 in one word: "Security. The Anna has a crew of over three hundred, but we had these

 corridors sealed off for you. Remember, you're our secret weapons; even though

 everyone aboard is trustworthy plus, we don't want your faces even associated with

 SOTE if we can avoid it. The fewer people who know your connection, the safer you'll

 be. "Here we are now," she continued, leading the d'Alemberts up to a plain metal doer

 labeled simply "Room 10." "This is where everything comes together. Father thought we

 could talk here in the most secrecy.

  

 As the door slid open, it revealed to the two agents a room that awed them with both its

 size and its functional beauty. Cylindrical in shape, the chamber had a diameter of fifteen

 meters and extended upwards for ten. Along the walls a spiral rampway led from the

 floor to the ceiling, with banks of computer terminals and readout screens spaced closely

 together along the ramp. Doors at various levels led out to other parts of this immense

 spaceship, for this was obviously the nexus of all activity aboard.

  

 Seated at a small console in the center of the floor, looking dwarfed by the empty

 vastness of this nerve center, sat Grand Duke Zander von Wilmenhorst, the Head of the

 Service of the Empire. The conservative navy blue body-tunic he wore seemed to make

 him even more anachronistic in this overwhelming room of flashing lights and rampant

 technology. His basic humanity was out of place amid these machines.

  

 Physically he was rather ordinary in appearance, being of medium height and build, but

 his almost totally bald head gleamed in the bright lights. It was his eyes, though, that

 were his most outstanding feature, for they could not disguise, even to the most casual

 observer, the overwhelming intelligence that lay within that skull. Zander von Wilmenhorst

 was the master tactician of the Galaxy which was why he headed the Emperors most

 select group of agents.

  

 But at this moment the Head chose to be neither a grand duke nor a boss; he greeted

 Jules and Yvette almost as his own nephew and niece. "It's good to see you both again,

 and looking so healthy," he said after gallantly kissing Yvette's hand and shaking Jules'

 firmly. "I apologize for the sumptuous surroundings; I prefer doing business in my office,

 but this was the most secure spot on the ship and the two of you merit the best. I

 sometimes get to play admiral here.

  

 Yvette looked around and could indeed visualize the room as it might look during a crisis

 situation: hundreds of men and women bustling to and from their battle stations, the low

 buzz of continental conversation, the clacking of feet upon the metal flooring, the quiet

 chaos of a communications center. And in the very middle of it all, supervising every

 minute detail would be the Head himself, eyes gleaming as he snapped out each quick

 order.

  

 She blinked and the scene vanished. There were just the four of them here---four friends

 in casual conversation. The Head guided them over to some chairs and they sat down,

 Yvette and Jules in front of the console and Helena behind and a little to the left of her

 father.

  

 "I suppose you realize that I didn't call you here just for a social visit," the Head began.

 "Much as I like your, company, the Galaxy forces us to work. Have you ever heard of

 Vesa?.

  

 "Who hasn't?" Jules replied. "It's one of the top resorts in the Galaxy, the playground of

 the super-rich. It's a pretty wild place, from what I hear. Wide open; you can do almost

 anything there if you've got enough money or influence.

  

 "The Circus has never played there, though," Yvette added. "At least, not during our

 lifetimes. As soon as Vesa started getting a reputation it decided it could do without such

 `simple' entertainment as ours. We're not sophisticated enough for them, so they don't

 ask us to come.

  

 The Head nodded. "Yes, and that complicates my job a little. Ordinarily I'd send the

 Circus in there so that your whole family could find out what the problem is. But as things

 stand, it'll have to be just the two of you. Do you feel up to it?.

  

 "Do stars shine?" Yvette said. "We've been getting impatient for weeks. I feel ready to

 lick ten Banions single-handed.

  

 "Hopefully that won't be necessary. Banion the Bastard spent years developing that

 traitors' nest you smashed, covering most of the Galaxy. This is just a localized problem

 that I want to keep from getting out of hand.

  

 The Head drummed his fingers on the top of the console for a moment and looked at

 them, wondering where to begin. Finally he continued on, "As you're well aware, the

 Service is not a police agency. Our primary concern is the safety of the Empire and the

 Emperor, not the enforcement of local laws. The Stanley Doctrine laid down by Stanley

 Three clearly-and wisely, in my opinion delegates the responsibility for law enforcement

 to the local nobility, as representatives of the Emperor. We manage to hold the Empire

 together by the simple expedient of not getting involved in local matters. `That Emperor is

 best loved who stays away from his people's business,' to quote Milney.

  

 "On the other hand, we can't close our eyes to everything. The Empire runs on

 interstellar commerce. When the relationships between worlds are affected, it becomes

 the Emperor's business-and consequently the Service's as well. And that, I'm afraid, is

 where Vesa comes in.

  

 The Head stood up and paced around behind his desk. "The planet Lindstrom has

 recently been negotiating a big agricultural deal with Appeny, one that would involve

 trillions of rubles on both sides. I won't bore you with the details, they're quite extensive

 and beside the point. The matter was being negotiated largely through the auspices of

 one man, Nils Bjenden-Lindstrom's most influential banker. It was to be his bank that

 would guarantee the financial outcome; but more than that, it was his personal integrity

 that was keeping both sides interested.

  

 "Three weeks ago, Nils Bjenden and his wife disappeared. The deal between the two

 planets fell through, causing severe economic hardship to both worlds. I emphasize that

 no one stood to gain by their disappearance; it caused a disaster all around. This is the

 point where the Service got interested. After all, a fiasco of this size will have economic

 repercussions throughout the rest of the Galaxy as well, and we don't like that. So the

 chief of the Service on Lindstrom began investigating to find out why the deal had failed

 and what had happened to the Bjendens.

  

 The Head stopped his pacing and moved in front of the console. Planting his feet firmly in

 front of the table, he leaned back against it, looking directly at the d'Alemberts. "It turns

 out," he said, "that the Bjendens decided to take a short vacation just before closing the

 deal. Being very wealthy, they decided to go off-planet and, never having been there

 before, they decided to visit Vesa. They left a clear trail that far; any number of people

 saw them on the spaceliner to Vesa, and there is a record of their having checked into a

 hotel there. But from that point on, nothing is clear. Suddenly there is no further record of

 them at their hotel, or at any other. Their return trip tickets were cashed in, and there is

 no record of them buying new ones. All of a sudden, Vesa just swallowed them up,

 without a trace. That was all our man on Lindstrom could determine from where he was,

 so he referred the case-with a Class Four Priority-to the SOTS branch on Chandakha.

  

 "Chandakha?" Jules interrupted. "Where's that? I thought I'd heard of most of the

 planets, but that sounds like a new one.

  

 "It's interesting how these things work out," the Head said, smiling at Jules' confusion.

 "Everybody knows that Vesa is a moon, but it's become so famous that it has figuratively

 eclipsed the planet it circles. Chandakha is a planet slightly larger than Earth itself. It was

 settled some three hundred years ago mostly by people of Asian stock -particularly

 those from the Indian subcontinent. Chandakha has always been a relatively poor world;

 the people can raise enough food to feed themselves, but they've had little commerce

 with the rest of the Galaxy. Vesa is their big drawing card, and it gets all the attention.

  

 "At any rate, our SOTE chief on Chandakha, Marask Kantana by name, received the

 report from Lindstrom and, since it had a high priority, she got right to work on it.

 Because Chandakha has always been such a quiet world she had a very small staff, but

 she did what she could. She checked all the standard places, and came up with the

 same answers as the Lindstrom chief-namely that the Bjendens had simply vanished. The

 local Vesan police more or less shrugged their shoulders and told her there was nothing

 they could do-with so many transients coming and going all the time, it was impossible

 for them to account for any particular ones. They were very polite, but their total lack of

 cooperation infuriated Kantana and, shrewd woman that she is, she decided to look into

 matters a little further.

  

 "What she found simply astonished her. She double-check, cross-checked, practically

 wove herself into a plaid with all her checking. When she was positive her facts were

 irrefutable, she sent them back here to Earth -this time with a Class Eight Priority.

  

     Jules and Yvette cast each other startled glances. A Class Eight Priority was

 nothing short of a planet-wide catastrophe. Suddenly this case had taken on much more

 dire dimensions than just the disappearance of a banker and his wife.

  

 Reaching down onto the surface of the console, the Head picked up three book reels.

 "These are her findings," he said. "They came straight to Helena on arrival, and she

 brought them instantly to my attention. I'll give them to you before you leave; they'll

 probably shock you as much as they did us. There are a few more reels, also, because

 we correlated some data of our own. The total picture is frightening.

  

 He went back and sat down behind the console, never taking his eyes from the

 d'Alemberts' faces. "The disappearance of the Bjendens was no isolated phenomenon.

 Over the past twenty years more than two hundred and fifty thousand people have

 vanished on Vesa without a trace!.

  

 Jules sat bolt upright and Yvette's eyes widened in disbelief. "What?" the female agent

 exclaimed. "That's impossible!.

  

 "I don't believe it," Jules said, echoing his sister's sentiments. "chat many people can't

 simply disappear." "Nobody said it was `simple'," Helena spoke up from behind her

 father. "In fact, we suspect it's awfully complex-a full-fledged conspiracy.

  

 "There's no other explanation," the Head agreed. "It's so unexpected that no one ever

 looked for it before. But a simple check of spaceliner reservations tells a good deal of

 the story. Over the last two decades a certain number of tourists have come to Vesa and

 a certain number have left. The first number is quite larger than the second." "Maybe

 they stayed on Vesa," Yvette suggested.

  

 "Unfortunately the answer is not that simple," said the master tactician, shaking his head.

 "The population of that moon is well accounted for. We have records on births, deaths,

 immigrations and emigrations for that entire timespan, and they entirely explain the

 present population level.

  

 "But why wasn't this noticed earlier?" Jules asked. "Didn't the spaceship companies think

 anything was odd when so many people canceled their return reservations?.

  

 "Apparently not. The customer is always right, and it's not polite to pry into his reasons

 for canceling. Perhaps he's decided to stay longer, perhaps he's decided to book

 passage with another company. Remember, this was happening gradually, and the effect

 was spread out over all sixty-two companies that run ships to Vesa. They just never

 compared notes among themselves. It wasn't until we compared all their records

 together that we noticed the discrepancy.

  

 Yvette found herself shaking her head. "But how can such a huge number of people just

 disappear without an alarm being raised? Some of them must have had family and

 friends who would miss them. Why weren't the police notified?.

  

 "Ah , but they were. Our Central Computer Facility has the records of every police

 department on every planet, and we cross-checked their missing persons files. They're

 simply bulging with cases of people who went off to visit Vesa and never returned home.

  

 "But if that's the case. . . ." Jules began.

  

 "I know; it looks like incompetence on someone's part not to have spotted the pattern

 long ago. But really, what reason was there to cross-check before? Look at it this way:

 there are at present one thousand, three hundred and forty-three planets in the Empire.

 If we assume randomness, that equal numbers of people from each planet disappeared

 on Vesa, that leaves us with an average of two hundred people per planet. Now average

 that over twenty years, and you find that only ten people per planet per year are

 disappearing there. Not an extraordinary number at all. The ordinary planetary police

 force handles thousands of missing person calls in a year. I assume that, when they

 trace a missing person to Vesa, they put in a routine call to the police there for

 assistance. The Vesan police give them the same polite brush-off they gave Kantana.

 The planetary police have neither the time nor the resources to follow up on these cases,

 so they mark them unsolved and stick them away. Ten unsolved cases per year is a drop

 in the bucket compared to the volume they're used to handling.

  

 Yvette and Jules sat in stunned silence as they contemplated what the Head had told

 them. A quarter of a million people had gone to Vesa and vanished. Furthermore, they

 were disappearing at a rate of better than twelve thousand a year-or thirty-five a day!

 What could be happening to them all.

  

 "You're implying," Jules said slowly, "that the Vesan police are in on whatever conspiracy

 is occurring there." The Head folded his hands on the table in front of him. "There's

 simply not enough information to say. It's extremely likely that they know something.

 After all, no matter how many tourists they say they get-and I will concede it's an awfully

 large number-it's hard to imagine them not noticing something of this magnitude. But it's

 rather obvious that they're choosing to ignore it.

  

 "And if they're doing that," Yvette mused aloud, "then they must be taking orders from

 someone. The most likely suspect is the person in charge. Let's see, Vesa is a moon, so

 it would have to be a marquis-correct?.

  

 "A marchioness, in this case," the Head nodded. "Marchioness Gindri Lohlatt, a spineless

 sort at best. Our personality profile shows her to be incapable of any sustained

 conspiracy like this; she's simply too weak-willed. She may be someone else's tool, but

 it's doubtful she's the brains.

  

 "A duke, then," Yvette persisted. "The Duke of Chandakha, perhaps?.

  

 "The Duke of Chandakha is thirteen years old," the Head informed her. "His mother has

 served as Regent since he assumed the title two years ago. The former Duke was

 assassinated by a disgruntled peasant after a reign of thirty-four undistinguished years.

  

 "In other words," Jules said, "since this activity on Vesa has continued unabated for

 twenty years, it's probably unconnected to the Dukes of Chandakha.

  

 The Head nodded. "There's a basic lack of continuity in the two regimes, yet the records

 indicate that the disappearances didn't even slow down at the Duke's death.

  

 "Then the answer is definitely on Vesa." Yvette's words were more a statement than a

 question.

  

 "Yes. Since the resorts on Vesa account for well over ninety percent of Chandakha's

 wealth, the Dukes of Chandakha have always been subservient to the marquisate of

 Vesa. They need the tax revenues too badly for their own survival.

  

 "At the risk of stating the obvious then," Yvette said, "I gather our assignment is to find

 out what's happening to all these missing persons and put a stop to the operation.

  

 "Exactly." The Head set his jaw, and fire gleamed in his eyes. "'The thought that this vast

 a conspiracy could be going on right under our noses for so long without our even being

 aware of it is galling. At least with Banion we knew he existed, even if we couldn't track

 him down. But this-" he spread his hands "-this is like them painting over our eyes and

 daring us to do something. I don't like being blinded while somebody makes a fool of

 me." The Head stood up, determination written in every line of his face.

  

 "That's why I want you, my two best agents, to handle the case. I want this menace

 smashed, and I want it done quickly!.

  

 Back in their own ship again and floating free in orbit around Mother Earth, the two

 d'Alemberts studied the reels their boss bad given them. Document after document

 reiterated what they had already been told that somehow, thousands of people were

 simply ceasing to exist.

  

 The supersiblings had found from long experience that talking the case out aloud

 between them helped clarify their thoughts. "Let's look at a typical case," Jules was

 saying. "Say Ivan and Tatyana Gregorov go to Vesa. Their spaceship reservations are all

 paid for, round trip. They check into their hotel and spend a few days gambling and

 seeing some of the shows. Then, before their vacation is supposed to be over, they

 abruptly check out of their hotel, taking all their belongings with them. They cancel their

 return reservations, getting cash for the tickets. And that's it, they're never heard from

 again.

  

 "Where are they all going?" Yvette mused. "Something must happen to them. They're not

 staying on Vesa, unless there's a secret underground city we don't know about. Maybe

 they're all being taken into slavery in the deep, dark pits of some treasure mine.

  

 "Vesa's got all the treasure mines it needs right at its gambling tables," her brother

 pointed out. "More money changes hands here than on the Galactic Stock Exchange.

 Your imagination is running a little overtime, sis.

  

 "But if the people aren't staying on Vesa, then they must be leaving-and the outgoing logs

 of all the ships departing from there indicate no such thing.

  

 "Which leaves us in an impossible situation. The people aren't staying and they aren't

 leaving. They're simply vanishing.

  

 "They could be dead, I suppose.

  

 "Yes, it's a lot easier to hide a dead body than a live one. But even so, where do you

 stash a quarter of a million corpses so that they won't be noticed?.

  

 "They must have some system to it. Vesa's an airless moon; maybe they bury them all in

 some crater on the surface where no one ever goes. Maybe they have a catapult that

 launches the bodies directly into their sun." "You're beginning to sound desperate.

  

 "Sorry; having brain cells chasing themselves around in circles inside my skull tends to

 make me dizzy.

  

 "We're talking about thirty-five bodies a day," Jules said. "Disposing of them in any way

 like that would be a major industry, and terribly wasteful of energy. There has to be a

 simpler, more efficient method of going about it. But I'm damned if I can think of what it

 could be.

  

 "Let's put that problem aside for the moment, before our brains turn to pink jelly. The one

 thing we know about this operation is that it's systematized. Anything with that rapid a

 turnover of business has to be. And wherever there's a system, there's a way to crack it;

 Papa's told us that often enough. We begin looking for common links. Is there anything

 the victims have in common?.

  

 "Not a thing," Jules said shaking his head. "The victims are totally random. They come

 from all over the Galaxy. They're men, women, old, young, famous, obscure, all races,

 all religions. They have nothing whatsoever in common.

  

 "One thing," Yvette said thoughtfully. "They all came to Vesa from somewhere else.

  

 Jules floated in the middle of the cabin, staring at his sister in open-mouthed amazement.

 "Evie, you have the, rare gift of spotting the obvious. Of course, they all had to be rich.

 Only the super-affluent can afford to go someplace like Vesa. And that means. . . .

  

 "That money has something to do with it," Yvette said, completing her brother's thought.

 "These people are being killed and robbed of whatever they brought with them, then

 disposed of somehow.

  

 "Yes!" Jules exclaimed, but then his expression changed. "No, wait a minute. That

 doesn't make sense. Vesa has no need to rob and murder people. The casinos gross so

 much money that they don't know what to do with it all-not to mention all the hotels, bars,

 theaters and brothels that have their own rakeoff. What's the percentage in killing people

 for their money when they're determined to give it to you legally?.

  

 "How many casinos, hotels, bars, theaters and brothels are there on Vesa, mon frere?

 Two hundred? Three hundred? Four? Maybe even a thousand. What's the permanent

 resident population of Vesa? Fifty-some thousand, according to the most recent tape I

 saw. The legitimate operations probably earn a bundle for the minority of the people who

 own them- and the larger majority who work for them. That still leaves an awful lot of the

 people wanting a slice of that pie. And it's such a rich pie that none of the fatcats minds

 them taking a small share. After all, there are about seven hundred tourists arriving on

 Vesa every day; who will miss a small fraction?.

  

 "Tu as raison, as always. The percentage murdered is nowhere near high enough to

 adversely affect the take in the casinos, so they won't complain. The police are obviously

 getting paid off to remain stupid. The murderers get fat off their booty. Everybody wins,

 nobody loses except, of course, for the poor victims who wander into the trap.

  

 Yvette smiled weakly. "I'm not feeling nearly so dizzy anymore. It's good to know that

 this whole mess can be thought out logically.

  

 "But just knowing what they're doing is a long way from smashing it," Jules said. "We still

 need to know how and who.

  

 "A two-fold problem," Yvette nodded. "It seems tailor-made for a two-pronged attack.

 The `how' appeals to me, I think. I could travel to Vesa in style, set myself up as a victim

 and see what I catch with my bait.

  

 "That leaves me the 'who.' It has to be done by the ordinary people living on Vesa, that

 much seems obvious. I'll have to get a job there, join their ranks and see what I can

 learn. But what sort of job should it be?.

  

 "Well, what are your qualifications? You're strong, athletic, agile, not too quick-witted . . .

  

 "I beg your pardon!.

  

 ". . . and obviously suited to manual labor," Yvette finished with a smile. "Not very well

 educated, but eager to make a lot of money without having to work hard at it. Just the

 sort of man who would turn into a thief and a murderer.

  

 "With sisters like you," Jules muttered good-naturedly under his breath, "who needs

 enemies?.

  

 CHAPTER 3

 Locker Room Brawl

  

 Spaceports on airless worlds all look pretty much the same. Such worlds are invariably

 pitted with craters from meteoroid impacts, and one of these craters is widened out and

 deepened to accommodate the landing of ships. Long airtight boarding tubes, similar to

 the one in the Anna Liebling's hangar, allow the passengers to disembark down a sloping

 ramp to the interior of the spaceport without having to go through the inconvenience of

 donning cumbersome spacesuits.

  

 The loading and unloading of cargo, however, is a much different matter, since freight will

 rarely walk down a ramp of its own accord. The procedure here is to have all cargo

 packed in airtight modular sections, usually stored in the lower portion of the ship. Upon

 landing, a large section of the ship's hull slides open, exposing the cargo to the vacuum

 of the planet's surface. Special cargo tractors emerge from the walls of the

 crater-enormous flatbed carriers equipped with their own cranes, winches and other

 apparatus. When the tractors reach the ship they disgorge dozens of spacesuited figures

 who begin transferring the cargo modules from the hold to the carriers, which then drive

 back to their hangars and unload the freight into airlock chambers. From this point,

 distribution of the materials can proceed normally. The entire operation is reversed, of

 course, for loading cargo onto an outbound spaceship.

  

 The men who work the spacedocks are a breed apart. Strong, tough and hardworking,

 they nevertheless are quick and agile. They have to be-working in a spacesuit is

 awkward at best, hazardous at worst. They are usually a close-knit group, out of a

 sense for survival; working in a vacuum makes you very dependent on your comrades.

 Even the most trivial accidents can be fatal in an airless environment.

  

 When Jules d'Alembert-working now under the name Georges duChamps-arrived on

 Vesa, one of the first places he applied for a job was the Vesa Spaceport. His

 references-all faked, of course-were impeccable, and impressed the personnel manager.

 Two days later, Georges duChamps received a call at the cheap hotel room where he

 was staying, telling him to report for work at 1730 the next day.

  

 There were the usual preliminary forms to be filled out, and Jules was measured for a

 spacesuit. Fortunately, another DesPlainian had worked here several years before, and

 there was already a suit in stock that would accommodate the slight but important

 peculiarities of the DesPlainian body form. Once those tedious necessities were taken

 care of, the personnel secretary led Jules down a corridor to the office of his new boss.

  

 The gang foreman was a hulking bear of a man named Laz Fizcono. He stood over two

 meters tall and massed a hundred and ten kilos, with a body that had never shirked a

 day of work in its life. His leonine mane of red hair topped a round, full face with bushy

 red eyebrows and a mangy beard. His eyes glittered with life as he looked Jules over

 appraisingly.

  

 "Well, what have we here?" his voice boomed out as the personnel secretary brought

 Jules into his office. "A dwarf?" He extended a meaty hand in the direction of his new

 helper.

  

 Jules calmly stood his ground as the bigger man approached. He correctly read the insult

 as a good-natured challenge to determine his personality. As foreman, Fizcono wanted

 to find out quickly just what sort of man this new fellow was, whether he had a quick

 temper, whether he would blow under pressure. A good boss knew the capabilities of all

 the people under him.

  

 So instead of reacting to the epithet, Jules just smiled. "DesPlaines is a planet of big,

 blustery mountains," he said evenly. "We mine them anyhow. It'll take more than a giant

 to make me feel small.

  

 He took the foreman's proffered hand firmly in his own. Fizcono squeezed it with all the

 massive strength his bearlike paw could muster. Jules accepted it without a wince and,

 when the foreman had finished with his best shot, Jules began squeezing back. Fizcono's

 eyebrows lifted in surprise as the smaller man's strength was more than a match for his

 own. Jules just continued to stare up at the man a full thirty centimeters above him and

 smiled nonchalantly.

  

 Then Fizcono did something unexpected-he laughed, a giant bellow that shook the walls

 of the tiny office. "By Fross, I like you, little man," he said. "You don't give in a millimeter,

 do you? Yes, he'll do nicely," he added to the personnel secretary, who left Jules' forms

 on the desk, smiled and returned to her own office.

  

 Jules found himself liking Fizcono as well. The big man had an unforced affability that

 would make him a good and loyal companion. He would be a stern boss, but there was

 not a malicious bone in his body.

  

 "Come on," said the foreman, leading Jules out of the office. "It's almost time for the shift

 to begin, and you'll want to meet the rest of your mates.

  

 They moved down a maze of corridors, which Fizcono assured Jules he'd learn in a day

 or two, and eventually arrived at the suit-up room. There were ten men there already,

 and within the next few minutes twelve more arrived. Without exception the men were

 taller than Jules, and he took some good-natured ribbing from all of them when Fizcono

 introduced him as "my trained midget." But Fizcono's respect for him was also apparent,

 and the men took their cue from that. If the boss respected him, he must be good.

  

 In general the men seemed to be from planets all over the Galaxy-a fact which was not

 too surprising, since Vesa was such a cosmopolitan center. It was a magnet drawing

 people from all over. But Jules very quickly noticed that one group of seven men kept

 very much to themselves. Their complexions were swarthy, their eyes darker and more

 brooding. There was a suspicion lurking in them against their coworkers, perhaps a

 smoldering resentment. The emotion was hard for Jules to read, but it was obvious that

 something was there.

  

 One of the other men, a clean-shaven fellow named Rask, noticed Jules eyeing the

 separatist group. "Haven't you ever seen Chandies before?" he asked.

  

 "What are Chandies?" Jules didn't like the man's smug, superior tones. They gave

 evidence that all was not smooth within this work crew.

  

 A third man joined them. It was obvious from his breezy familiarity that he was a crony of

 Rask's. Jules searched his memory and recalled that the man's name was Brownsend.

 "Chandakhari," explained the newcomer. "They're from that hick planet we're circling.

 Farmers, peasants. They stick together because they're afraid of real men.

  

 The group of Chandakhari, having already suited up except for their helmets, walked past

 without a word, even though Brownsend's voice had been loud enough to carry to them.

 Jules was not sure bow he should respond to this bigotry, but he was saved from having

 to by Fizcono, who came over as soon as he heard what was going on. "That's enough

 from you, both of you," the foreman said, glaring at Rask and Brownsend. "You'll work

 together or you won't work for me, it's that simple. I've told you that before. I hope," he

 added to Jules, "you won't pick up any bad habits from these two. They're good

 workers, but opinionated.

  

 "I'm quite capable of forming my own opinions, sir," Jules replied. "I don't have to borrow

 anyone else's." Fizcono gave an ursine grunt of satisfaction and moved on.

  

 Despite the fact that Jules was in peak physical condition, he found the work that first

 day out on the sunfried surface of Vesa grueling. He was quite familiar with the loading

 and unloading of ships; after all, the Circus was constantly on the move, visiting a new

 world on the average of once every three weeks. When the circus gear was being

 packed or unpacked, everyone was expected to lend a hand-even the star aerialists.

  

 But Jules was still on the mend from a serious blaster burn that had carved a large chunk

 out of his left calf. Grafts and regeneratives had restored the area so that only the

 closest of looks would show that there ever had been a wound there. But strength and

 agility were other matters. Jules had spent months conditioning the muscles, using all the

 knowledge of physical therapy at his disposal to bring them back to their original abilities.

 For the most part he had been successful, but occasionally under severe stress-there

 were slight twinges.

  

 The work was made easier by the fact that Vesa's surface gravity was only twenty-five

 percent of Earth normal-less than ten percent of what he was accustomed to on his

 home world. His movements in the bulky spacesuit were a poetry of fluid motion; he

 could have been born in a spacesuit for all the natural agility he displayed. There were a

 few times when he felt his bad leg about to give out unexpectedly under him, but Jules

 was able to shift his weight to the other leg in time so that nothing happened. Fizcono, he

 noticed, was watching his performance extra carefully, but if the foreman spotted any of

 these slight lapses he did not choose to mention them.

  

 The real trouble started almost the instant the shift was over. Rask and Brownsend had

 spent most of the day hovering near Jules, despite his growing distaste for the two men.

 Every time one of the Chandakhari slipped up or made the slightest error, they would dig

 each other or Jules in the ribs and cast significant glances through their helmets, as if to

 say, "See how inept those Chandies really are?.

  

 As soon as they were back in the changing room and had removed their helmets, Rask

 and Brownsend continued their jibes. Fizcono cast them a warning glance as he left to

 work on his reports, but they refused to acknowledge it. "Those Chandies sure are lucky

 Fizcono protects them," Rask sniped. "They wouldn't be able to find jobs anywhere else.

  

 "Except maybe as stokers in the recycling plant," Brownsend agreed. "There they'd be

 reaching their natural level. But you can't expect really skilled work from a bunch of

 farmers and peasants.

  

 Jules was watching the group of Chandakhari carefully. They were tense and doing their

 best to ignore the taunts -it was obvious they were used to them by now-but there was

 one among them who was tenser than the rest. He was quite young, not yet twenty Earth

 years by the look of him. His long, straight black hair hung down over his forehead almost

 into his eyes, and he had tried to grow a mustache that struggled to exist on his upper lip

 as a skinny black smudge. For the life of him, Jules could not remember the lad's

 name-but that was not important. More significant was the fact that the boy was about to

 explode with anger at the two persecutors.

  

 Hoping to avoid a scene, Jules stepped up to Rask and Brownsend. "Farming is a lot

 more demanding a skill than you think it is," he began in a conciliatory tone. "I tried it

 once when I was younger, and had to give it up. It's a lot simpler to tote boxes than run a

 farm, believe me.

  

 Brownsend looked Jules up and down, wondering what to make of this change in tack.

 Finally, deciding that he was bigger than the newcomer, he thought he would include him

 in the litany of abuse. "I'm not surprised you found it hard," he said. "Leave it to the runt

 of the litter to defend the honor of those ignorant yokels.

  

 Jules was struggling so hard to keep his own temper at an even level that he did not

 notice the young Chandakhar launching himself angrily across the room at Brownsend,

 murder in his eyes. The lower gravity did, however, allow him time to realize what was

 happening and get set for action while the youth was still in the air. To Jules, the young

 man's body floated with excruciating slowness while the SOTE agent eyed the rest of the

 figures in the room and prepared for the coming battle.

  

 Brownsend, his reflexes not as fast as Jules's, was caught by surprise at the sudden

 attack. He barely had time to fling his arms up in defense as the seventy-five-kilogram

 body crashed squarely into him, knocking him backward onto the floor. He hit with a thud

 that knocked the wind from his lungs, and found that the Chandakhar had a grip on his

 throat that was intended to keep air out of them permanently.

  

 The other Chandakhari were as startled by their fellow's attack as Brownsend was, and

 they exhibited a split second of hesitation. Not so Rask, who looked as though he'd been

 all set for a fight. There was a wrench in his belt, one of the many tools that dangled

 there for the cargoman's use. Instantly it was in his hand, and his arm was upraised to

 deliver a blow that would smash the young man's skull.

  

 It was at this point that Jules chose to interfere. As Rask's arm came up, Jules grabbed

 the wrist in an unbreakable grip and pulled down hard from the rear. Rask, his body

 unprepared for an attack from this new direction, flipped over backward. So slowly did

 he spin in the air as he came down that Jules had plenty of time to turn around, bring up

 his knee and deliver a staggering blow just under the man's ribs. Rask was unconscious

 before he even hit the floor.

  

 Without pausing to check the results of his action, Jules turned his attention to the pair of

 bodies struggling on the floor. Brownsend was writhing about, trying to dislodge the

 young man who clung tenaciously to his throat. Spinning once more, Jules faced the two

 combatants and swung his right arm downward in a wide, graceful motion. Despite the

 fact that his movement looked casual, there was a loud smack as his fist connected with

 the side of the Chandakhar's head. The force of the impact knocked the youngster aside

 and made him release his hold on Brownsend's throat. The older man lay quietly on the

 floor, gulping in huge breaths of air to his oxygen starved lungs, while the younger knelt

 stunned, shaking his head to clear it after the mind-numbing blow it had been dealt.

  

 The fight should have ended there, with the three hot bloods incapacitated. But just out of

 the comer of his eye Jules caught a flash of movement, and be whirled to face the

 oncoming charge of the six remaining Chandakhari. They had seen him attack their young

 friend and, notwithstanding the fact that he had also prevented the lad's head from

 getting bashed in by Rask's wrench, they felt obliged to protect their countryman from his

 assault.

  

 Jules had fought six men at a time before, and in circumstances much more harrowing

 than this. But the fact that registered the strongest in his brain as he watched the half

 dozen opponents charging him was that they moved as a precision unit. By all rights, six

 men in a spontaneous situation like this should have been an uncoordinated mob; even

 with a common purpose, some of them should be duplicating their efforts while leaving

 several other openings free'.

  

 Instead, these Chandakhari behaved like a military drill team going through its paces.

 Two of them snatched at Jules' ankles, pinning them solidly together and anchoring him

 to the spot. Two more grabbed at his wrists, holding them straight out to the sides. A

 fifth grabbed Jules by the waist and, with the help of the other four, lifted the startled

 DesPlainian bodily off the ground. The sixth man locked the crook of his elbow tightly

 about Jules' neck, pulling the head back sharply and exposing his gullet.

  

 Being held at all points as he was, Jules was totally deprived of a leverage point to use in

 his struggles. Had he been even the slightest bit less powerful he might have been killed

 on the spot. As it was, it took every iota of his supernormal strength to wrench free his

 right wrist from the grip of the man holding it. That breaking free unbalanced the hold his

 attackers had, and he dipped suddenly toward the floor.

  

 With the speed of reflexes unique to the d'Alembert clan, Jules reached down with his

 now free right hand and grasped the legs of the man holding his waist. One mighty heave

 was sufficient to pull the man off his feet, and the entire configuration caved in. Jules

 lashed out with hands and feet as he found himself on the floor amid a tangle of bodies.

  

 "What's going on here?" boomed the loud voice of Laz Fizcono from across the room.

  

 All action ceased as the big man's words penetrated the brains of those present. The

 anger, the frustration, the tension that had been so explosively released was now just as

 quickly quelled. Every man in the room was suddenly aware that his job was on the line,

 and that he'd better play it cautiously.

  

 When no one answered his question-which had been largely rhetorical, anyway-Fizcono

 put his hands to his hips and glared into the faces of all present. "It looks to me like a

 fight," he went on, "and I hate fights among people who have to work together in

 dangerous situations.

  

 I want you all to hate fights, too. And just to make sure that you'll all hate fights, I'm

 docking everyone who was in it a full week's pay.

  

 "But I didn't . . ." Brownsend began to rasp.

  

 "You were in it," Fizcono said sternly, "and you couldn't have been doing it all by yourself.

 Nor could anyone else. We have to stop this kind of crap before someone ends up dead

 outside." He stopped and looked particularly at Jules. "This was a bad way to start a

 new job, duChamps. I expected a little better of you; frankly, I'm disappointed.

  

 As the foreman disappeared into the corridor again, an awkward silence fell upon the

 changing room. Men averted their eyes guiltily, not quite daring to look at each other. As

 for Jules, he sat on the floor for a moment, stretching his neck and thinking about the

 way the Chandakhari had attacked.

  

 CHAPTER 4

 The Resurrection of Carmen Velasquez

  

 While Jules was investigating Vesa's society from the bottom up, both d'Alemberts bad

 agreed that Yvette should investigate it from the top down. Setting herself up as a target

 was potentially more dangerous, but the life she would be leading in the meantime would

 have its compensations. Thus, while her brother took the fastest flight possible to Vesa,

 Yvette d'Alembert devoted some time to building a good disguise and arranging luxury

 accommodations for herself on the plushest starliner heading for her destination.

  

 "Carmen Velasquez would be perfect for this assignment, don't you think?" she'd asked

 her brother as they planned their respective modes of attack.

  

 "I think all that rich living went to your bead," Jules retorted. "Carmen was exactly the

 sort of person who would be missed-not a good prospective victim at all:.

  

 Yvette pondered her brother's words for a moment. On their last assignment-that of

 tracking down and destroying the Galaxy-wide treasonous network of Banion the

 Bastard, pretender to the throne-the two of them bad posed as Carlos and Carmen

 Velasquez, two nouveau riche ex-Puritans. The Velasquezes had actually been a parody

 of wealth, wearing outlandish costumes and throwing hundred-ruble bills around as

 though they'd been kopeks. Amid the subdued richness of the planet Algonia they had

 stood out like a supernova in a bathtub.

  

 There had been a good reason at the time for such a broad burlesque. Banion's forces

 were getting closer to the day of their unleashing, and a tempting target had to be

 offered. With no leads at all, the d'Alemberts had had to make absolutely certain that

 they would be noticed. They were, of course, and the comparative small fry they caught

 with that net had enabled them eventually to trace down the entire organization.

  

 But Jules was right-the old Carmen would not be the sort of victim the Vesan murderers

 were looking for. As flashy and funky as she was, she would make an impression even

 on that flashy, funky moon. Her sudden disappearance would be noticed-something the

 crooks were obviously trying to avoid. "Well," Yvette admitted aloud, "there will have to

 be some changes made. . . .

  

 And indeed there were. The old Carmen had been a madcap wife; the new was a

 sedate, rational widow. The old Carmen had dressed in outfits that showed as much

 bare skin as the local law allowed; the new wore clothes that were elegant and

 moderate, neither brassy nor matronly, but designed to show tastefully that there was

 still a beautiful woman inside them. The old Carmen had glittered from head to toe with

 expensive jewelry; the new, while not shunning such displays of opulence, wore her

 jewels one or two at a time in such a manner as to tastefully enhance, rather than clash

 with, her outfit.

  

 The Empress Irene was one of the newest and most luxurious starliners cruising the

 spacelanes-the natural vehicle for a person like Carmen Velasquez to utilize on her

 vacation trip to Vesa. Her suite was spacious, with plush carpeting and drapes, a

 king-size bed and a bathtub longer than she was. For her particular convenience, the

 rooms had even been specially rigged for ultra-grav. While the entire ship, except for

 certain recreation areas, was under one gee of artificial gravity, her own suite had been

 raised to three at her request. Since Carmen was ostensibly from Purity-a heavy-grav

 world settled in part by religious fanatics who broke away from DesPlaines-her request

 for the higher gravity was in no way surprising.

  

 The voyage from Earth to Vesa was to take ten days, but from the very first Yvette

 established herself as one of the people aboard. As lovely and wealthy as she was, she

 was constantly invited to dine at the captain's table. When word got around that she was

 single as well, men were lining up outside her door to escort her to dances or to offer to

 be her partner in some of the many shipboard activities and sports. Yvette reveled in the

 attention. After all, there was no law that a dangerous assignment had to be boring as

 well.

  

 On the fifth day out, Yvette met up with a very charming man from the planet Largo. His

 name was Dak Lehman, he was an industrialist on vacation, and he was most girls' idea

 of a dream man. In his early thirties, he was a blend of mature sophistication and boyish

 enthusiasm. He knew all the social graces, and could converse with both wit and

 intelligence. Even more important, he knew the value of good listening. When he was with

 a woman she felt she had his entire attention; a flattering quality that made him the

 delight of all the females aboard ship.

  

 It was only natural, then, that the two most attractive people aboard the liner should find

 one another and become instantly attracted. Dak took Yvette to the dinner dance that

 fifth night, and the beautiful SOTE agent knew she was in for a delightful evening. Dak let

 her do most of the talking during the meal, which Yvette didn't mind -it gave her a good

 opportunity to practice her background story and polish it up for Vesa. She let her date

 know that she was a widow at twenty-nine, but that her husband had left her exceedingly

 wealthy. The mining operations that they had started together were now in the hands of

 an efficient and honest business manager, so poor Carmen had nothing else to do but

 travel around and enjoy herself. It was a carefully crafted story, designed to let would-be

 murderers know that her disappearance would cause few ripples in the stream of life.

  

 Dak listened sympathetically as she talked. "You look awfully young to be a widow," he

 said when she'd finished. "I didn't know they'd set an age limit. Poor Carlos was buried

 under a rockfall in one of our mines. His body was never recovered." Yvette allowed

 herself a languid sigh.

  

 "I still find it hard to believe that someone as worldly and sophisticated as you could have

 come from Purity. Pd always heard that they were . . . well. . . .

  

 "Try, 'stuffy,' 'provincial' or `boring.' Most fanatics are. I was raised that way myself, and

 I still surprise myself with the traces every so often. Fortunately, money can teach you a

 lot of things in a hurry-or at least buy you the teachers. Carlos and I decided we enjoyed

 life too much to coop ourselves up with that Puritanical existence, so we left for Earth

 seven years ago." She sniffed. "Poor Carlos. To have died so young, without knowing so

 many of the pleasures.

  

 At this point the orchestra began to play. Dak invited her out onto the dance floor, and

 Yvette accepted happily. Both of them, it turned out, were superb dancers, their bodies

 melding into one smooth movement that swayed with the rhythm of the music. Yvette's

 body tingled as it pressed ever closer to Dak's. This was certainly one charming man,

 the sort a woman could easily fall in love with.

  

 When the dance ended, Dak guided Yvette out of the ballroom and into the adjoining

 chamber known as the Cosmos Room. This was an open room twenty meters across

 with a domed ceiling that rose ten meters up over the heads of the people inside. The

 room was kept permanently darkened while a kaleidoscope of pinpoint lights played

 across the dome, giving it the appearance of a psychedelic planetarium. Occasionally the

 magnified picture of a nebula or foreign galaxy would appear, swooping downwards onto

 the populace like a descending hawk.

  

 Ostensibly the Cosmos Room was designed for meditation on the vastness of the

 Universe; in point of fact, it served to spur the development of shipboard liaisons that

 were part of a starliner's legendary appeal to romantics of both sexes.

  

 Dak led Yvette to the hand railing along one wall and together they watched the light

 show play across the dome for several minutes. It was Yvette who broke the silence.

 "I've spent the entire evening so far talking about myself," she said. "How about letting

 me know a little bit about you? Who is this fascinating fellow named Dak Lehman?.

  

 Her date was strangely silent for a long moment, which Yvette found quite

 uncharacteristic. Dak was never pressed for an answer in conversation. Yvette was

 about to comment jokingly on his hesitation when she felt a strange prickly sensation on

 the back of her neck. Someone was watching her; her agent's instinct was definite on

 that point. Casually she shifted her body around so that she could look in the direction of

 the stare without appearing to notice it. As her eyes peered through the darkness of the

 room she could make out the shapes of two men. One was of normal height but slightly

 portly, the other was tall and lanky. She couldn't make out much else in this poor light,

 but they were definitely watching her. That was all they seemed interested in for now, so

 Yvette filed the information away in her mind for later evaluation and turned her attention

 back to Dak. She kept checking the watchers every few minutes, though, to make sure

 they weren't up to something.

  

 Dak had finally gotten around to answering her question. Yvette laid a hand gently over

 his wrist as he spoke. "Oh, I'm not anybody too important, really. My father ran a small

 voice writer manufacturing company on Largo. When I inherited it I expanded the

 operation until we became the largest business machine company in that sector of

 space. We've recently branched out still further into computers, and were doing

 fantastically well there, too. I decided to get away from home for a while, before too

 much success did me in. It can be pretty heady wine, but the social atmosphere was

 getting rather stifling. I'm hoping Vesa will change that; I hear very few people ever win

 anything there. It'll be a refreshing difference." "And there aren't any women in your life?.

  

 Again, that slight pause. "No, no, not at present. I've always been too busy to let

 anything really permanent develop. Sort of married to my work, you might say.

  

 Yvette had put her hand on his wrist for a reason. As sensitive as she was she could act

 as a human lie detector, picking up the small changes in pulse rate, the minute tensions in

 the muscles that occurred when a person was ill at ease with what he was saying. It was

 a trick she had learned years ago from her Uncle Marcel, the Circus' magician, to whom

 it was an indispensable part of his mentalist act.

  

 What she'd learned from "reading" Dak's wrist annoyed her. He did not seem to be

 directly lying, but at the same time he was steering his way very carefully between the

 pillars of -the truth. Not a single thing he'd said had been completely accurate. This

 disturbed her, for she'd begun to find herself caring for him quite a bit.

  

 From back in the ballroom the orchestra had struck up another dance tune. Yvette

 suddenly found herself impatient with this time and place. "Let's go back and dance some

 more," she said, taking her date firmly by the hand and leading him in the direction of the

 dance floor. He offered no resistance whatsoever.

  

 The two watchers vanished into the shadows as she moved back toward the ballroom,

 and that disturbed her even more. Why were they watching me? she wondered. Do they

 have anything to do with this case? But they couldn't have broken my cover this quickly.

  

 Questions swarmed around her mind all evening, refusing to let her simply enjoy herself.

  

 The next five days went by rapidly. For the most part they were very relaxing, with

 Yvette spending most of her time in Dak's company. They conversed in trivial matters,

 childhood experiences and gossip about the activities of their fellow passengers. They

 played at the shipboard sports, and Yvette had to be supercareful not to let her physical

 talents show too much. Their favorite pastime was "free-swimming" in the zero gee

 room, a sport far superior to water swimming for several reasons: it could be done in

 three dimensions without the heavy resistance of water, there was no drying off to do

 afterwards, no special clothing to wear-in fact, free-swimming was usually done

 nude-and there was absolutely no fear of drowning.

  

 Yvette was used to freefall, having been traveling through space with the Circus since

 she was a baby, but she rarely had the pleasure of enjoying it in a large room where she

 could be free to soar and do acrobatics to her heart's content. She really came alive

 while free-swimming, and her exuberance infected all those around her. She twisted and

 spun and somersaulted in the air to the applause of her fellow passengers-who had no

 idea they were watching the premiere aerialiste in the Galaxy.

  

 "You certainly do that well," Dak remarked one time as his eyes admiringly tracked over

 Yvette's lovely, svelte body.

  

 Yvette flashed him her warmest smile. "Physical fitness has always been a passion of

 mine. My body is my home and I have only the one-I want to take care of it as best I

 can." She spent the rest of that day teaching Dak the basics of her art. He was an apt

 pupil, and after only a couple of hours they were performing together in an acceptable, if

 not totally polished, manner.

  

 The only thing that marred the blissful perfection of those last few days was the

 continued presence of those two shadowy watchers. At first, Yvette noticed them only

 when she was together with Dak-a pair of indistinct forms observing them discreetly from

 a vantage point where they themselves could only barely be seen. But after a while, as

 her relationship with Dak deepened, one or the other of them was with her almost

 constantly.

  

 For convenience' sake, she named the tall one Gaspard and the fat one Murgatroyd, and

 tried every trick she knew to bring them out into the open-to no avail. She tried ducking

 around corners and doubling back on them, but they were wise to that trick and refused

 to be caught. She tried mingling in large crowds and open rooms, but they were equally

 adept at mingling and remained hidden while watching her. She was able to shake them

 off her trail temporarily several times, but on a closed ship there were only so many

 places she could go and they always picked her up again within a couple of hours.

  

 Who are they? she found herself wondering more and more. They're damned good, I'll

 give them credit for that. Could they be a part of the conspiracy I'm here to investigate?

 There's no evidence to suggest that the mob has advance scouts on the ships coming

 into Vesa-but that doesn't mean they don't. Whoever they are, they give me purple fits.

  

 It was now the last night of the voyage. Tomorrow the Empress Irene would be docking

 on Vesa and Yvette's real work would begin; but as for tonight, she just wanted to relax

 and enjoy herself. She and Dak had a marvelous dinner and their conversation was freer

 than any they'd had before. A couple of times Yvette saw a dark thought pass behind her

 date's eyes and he almost came out and told her what it was. But something made him

 hold back, and he would change the subject abruptly. Yvette, feeling it was not her place

 to pry, said nothing.

  

 After dinner they walked slowly about the ship, arms around each other's waists, not

 saying much of anything. When they came to the elevator tube where they would have to

 part to go to their respective suites, Dak invited her to come to his for the night instead.

 Yvette hesitated, then turned him down politely, citing her recent widowhood as an

 excuse. "As I said, occasionally my Puritan upbringing comes through and surprises even

 me. Your offer is tempting, but Carlos' death was so recent. . . :' She let her voice trail

 off wistfully.

  

 "I understand," Dak said softly. He turned toward her, gazing down into her beautiful

 face, and both his arms wrapped around her. Their bodies were pressed together for a

 silent sensual minute before he spoke again. "I'm usually so well spoken that when a

 genuine emotion comes my way I sometimes get choked up. This is one of those times. I

 know there's a mystique about shipboard romances, and it's something I've been

 consciously fighting -but I've lost. Carmen, I think I'm in love with you. Will you marry

 me?.

  

 Yvette found herself suddenly with tears in her eyes. "Your speechlessness must be

 contagious," she stammered. "The only thing that comes to my mind is the old cliche that

 this is all so sudden. I don't know what to think. You deserve a better answer than that, I

 know, but that's all I can give you at the moment.

  

 Dak shrugged. "I'm not expecting an answer tonight. Maybe in the cold light of morning

 on Vesa we'll think how silly we were to mistake desire for love. Let's both just think

 about it for a while, shall we?.

  

 "I can't think of a pleasanter subject to think about," Yvette replied.

  

 The two stood by the elevator tube for a long minute with their bodies held closely

 together, luxuriating in the feel of one another's warmth. Then Dak bent his head down to

 hers and their lips met in a passionate kiss.

  

 Yvette's whole body was still tingling from that kiss as she went up the tube and then

 made her way down the long corridor to her suite. Her mind was in a pleasant haze of

 confusion brought on by a conflict between her emotions and her rational mind. Her

 feelings were telling her that here at last was a man she could love. She was twenty-nine

 years old and still single; among the prolific d'Alembert clan that was considered slightly

 unusual. She had had her share of romantic entanglements, but never before had the

 magic spark burned so brightly as now: Dak Lehman was handsome, intelligent,

 charming, pleasant, wealthy, available, and in love with her. The combination couldn't get

 more perfect than that. It didn't matter that her father, besides managing the Circus, was

 also the Duke of the entire planet of DesPlaines and that she herself was a Lady of the

 Realm. There was no stigma attached to marrying a commoner; in some circles, in fact,

 it was actively encouraged.

  

 The one fact she could not ignore, however, was that Dak Lehman was not a

 DesPlainian. It was not chauvinism but practicality that made that point so important.

 Dak's home planet of Largo had a surface gravity approximately equal to Earth's, while

 Yvette came from a world three times as strong. He could never live comfortably on her

 home world; even in peak physical condition as he was now, he would be largely

 incapacitated. In ten, twenty, thirty years he would become a hopeless cripple.

  

 Yvette would be able to tolerate the low gravity of other worlds much better, but there

 would still be complications. People from high-grav worlds tended to develop bone

 diseases when they moved permanently to smaller ones. She herself could wind up an

 arthritic cripple-a fate she didn't relish. Plus, she would have to go into a self-imposed

 exile from all the friends and family she felt closest to.

  

 There was the question, too, of relative strength. She had had to be very careful thus far

 in their relationship not to use her full strength. Even in the midst of their most passionate

 embrace she had had to hold off using her power, for fear of cracking several of his ribs.

 If they were to be married she would be living with that fear constantly, afraid to let

 herself go completely because she might hurt or even kill him. It was this collection of

 doubts that tempered her ecstasy as she fished in her purse to find her key.

  

 But I do love him, she realized.

  

 As she pulled the magnetic key from her purse and was about to run it over the surface

 of the door's lock, she noticed a light shining out from under the doorframe. She distinctly

 remembered turning out the lights as she'd left her room four hours ago . . . and these

 lights were not automatically timed to go on by themselves.

  

 Instantly all thoughts of Dak Lehman were banished from her mind and she was once

 again Yvette d'Alembert, top agent for the Service of the Empire. Business was at hand.

 Some person or persons had broken into her room, had turned on a light and had left it

 on. It could be a simple burglary and the thief may have departed hours ago, but she

 could not afford to take that chance. Searching back through her memory, she suddenly

 realized one reason why this evening had seemed so carefree--her two menacing

 shadows had not been following her. It had perplexed her slightly at first, but she had

 forgotten it in the delightful evening that followed. Now it was all suddenly clear. They had

 not followed her because they were setting an ambush in her own room. Yvette was glad

 she had not accepted Dak's proposition. She'd been getting very nervous about these

 two faceless ones for some time now but had been unable to initiate action. Now it was

 finally they who were starting something, and Yvette resolved to be the one to finish it.

  

 Her analytical mind raced, deciding what strategy she should take. The hall was normally

 quiet and she had made no attempt to silence her footsteps, so Gaspard and

 Murgatroyd would know she was presently standing outside the door. They would be

 taking no chances-their guns would be trained on the door to shoot her the instant she

 opened it. Blasters or stunners, it would make no difference; they would be trying to

 incapacitate her somehow.

  

 But they would be aiming at a target standing in the doorway, because that was the

 normal way people entered a room. They would probably aim fairly low, waist height or

 lower-to ensure a hit. But there might be another way to enter a room. . . .

  

 Looking quickly around, Yvette spotted what she wanted. All starliners were equipped

 with series of handholds for emergency use in case their artificial gravity failed. These

 had been made to blend in with the decor, but they were there and would be sturdy

 enough for what she had in mind. She fixed in her mind the position of the one just above

 her door and braced herself for action.

  

 She rubbed the magnetic key across the surface of the lock, but did not stick around to

 await the results. Instead, she leaped for the handhold above her door. As the door slid

 silently open, she could hear the low buzzing of stun-guns discharging, firing at the spot

 where she should by all rights have been standing. Instead, the beams passed

 harmlessly through the air and vibrated against the opposite wall of the corridor.

  

 Yvette grabbed the handhold firmly and used it as a pivot point. Taking advantage of the

 forward momentum of her leap, she swung her legs forward and to the side, through the

 upper half of the portal, and landed out of the line of fire next to a chair. As she was

 descending, she noted that her ambushers had turned the gravity in her room back down

 to one gee, obviously for their own convenience. What they did not realize was that the

 lower gravity would also make it easier for her to fight them.

  

 The two men had stationed themselves three meters apart against the far wall and were

 aiming at the doorway to catch her in a vee crossfire. Yvette's brain assimilated that

 knowledge in a fraction of a second and plotted her next move accordingly. She did not

 pause as she landed, but instead bent her legs under her as springs, using the force of

 her impact as the impetus for another leap. She flew across the room toward the man

 she'd name Murgatroyd, twisting catlike in midair as she did so; by the time she reached

 him, her feet were in front of her to cushion her landing. At the same time her right hand

 lashed out sideways and the edge of it delivered a vicious blow to the side of the man's

 neck. Had she not deliberately pulled the punch at the last second the neck would have

 snapped; as it was, Murgatroyd reeled and fell unconscious to the floor while Yvette, in

 one fluid motion, spun herself around and launched herself at the other gunman.

  

 This fellow was the one she'd called Gaspard, and his reflexes were good. Yvette's

 attack on his companion had given him the split second he needed to recover from the

 surprise of her entrance and begin to turn in her direction. Even so, his reflexes were no

 match for those of a DesPlainian in peak condition.

  

 Just as he swiveled and brought his gun up level to fire, Yvette was on top of him,

 seventy kilograms of infuriated mass. The impact of her body knocked them both to the

 ground, and a quick jab of her stiffened fingers just under his ribcage knocked the air out

 of his lungs and the fight out of his spirit.

  

 As the second man went limp, Yvette breathed a small sigh of relief and got to her feet.

 A sudden motion caught her eye at the very limit of her peripheral vision, but before she

 could turn to see what it was she heard the buzzing of a stun-gun. Paralysis numbed her

 body and she fell, limp-boned, face forward onto the carpeting. The hidden gunman must

 have used a number one setting on his stunner, the minimum possible, because Yvette

 did not lose consciousness. All that happened was that her voluntary muscles refused to

 obey her strenuous demands to act, leaving her lying helpless in the middle of the floor.

 The fact that her assailant had used so low a setting was encouraging-he could just as

 easily have killed her-but it was little consolation to her at this particular moment.

  

 Yvette was furious at herself for having been so stupid. Just because she had only seen

 two followers before didn't mean that there only were two. She had allowed her own

 self-confidence to lure her into a false assumption; she should never have relaxed her

 guard until she'd checked the room thoroughly to make sure there were no other

 attackers hiding in it. In the deadly game of espionage, a player was usually allowed only

 one mistake, because one was usually fatal. Yvette was praying that would not be the

 case this time, and 'she swore she would never make such a stupid blunder again.

  

 As she lay there she could hear the approaching footsteps of the person who'd shot her.

 She could not turn her head to see, but soon a pair of men's shoes stepped into her field

 of vision. "You are to be congratulated, Gospozha Velasquez; you fought better than

 anyone would have expected. We underestimated you, and that's something I hate to do.

 Rest assured, that will not happen again.

  

 "I should begin, I suppose, by telling you that we mean you no harm personally. That

 sounds ludicrous in view of our ambush, I know, but all our stunners were set on one. We

 merely wanted to have a talk with you without your interrupting or objecting. We are

 reasonable men.

  

 The voice paused as the stranger took one step backwards and sat down on the edge of

 her bed. "We've noticed, in the last couple of days, that you've taken an inordinate

 interest in Gospodin Lehman. As it turns out, we also have an interest in Gospodin

 Lehman, and we become-how shall I say it?-jealous when other people enter the picture.

 We would strongly prefer it, Gospozha Velasquez, if you would refrain from seeing

 Gospodin Lehman again. We know how these shipboard romances can happen-as I

 said, we are reasonable men-and if you never see Gospodin Lehman again you will

 never see us again, either.

  

 "You are about to vacation on Vesa, one of the Galaxy's greatest playgrounds. There will

 be more than ample opportunity to forget all about Gospodin Lehman. You are a very

 attractive woman, Gospozha Velasquez, and I have no doubt there will be scores of

 handsome men throwing themselves at your feet to compensate for the one you must

 give up. You are also an intelligent woman, which is why I will not belabor the point of

 how upset my friends and I would be if you should disregard our suggestions.

  

 The man stood up again and came over to Gaspard. The tall man had not been knocked

 completely unconscious by Yvette's blow-she had been meaning to question him about

 his reasons for following her-and had been quietly retching while his comrade was

 speaking. Now he was slowly picking himself up, aided by his friend. Together, the two

 of them went over and inspected Murgatroyd, who was still out cold.

  

 Picking up their fallen companion, the two men headed for the door. As they stopped on

 the threshold, the one who had done all the talking said, "Again, I offer our apologies for

 the disturbance, Gospozha Velasquez. We hope you have a pleasant vacation on Vesa.

  

 By the time the effects of the stunner wore off some ten minutes later it would be

 impossible to track down the men. Yvette had to settle for lying awake in her bed all

 night, staring up at the darkened ceiling and planning exactly what she would do to that

 trio the next time she ran into them.

  

 CHAPTER 5

 Accidents

  

 Jules' second day at work on Vesa was much calmer than the first. The air was very

 quiet; even people who hadn't participated in the previous day's brawl were walking on

 eggshells, afraid to set off the dynamite that they knew instinctively was still buried in the

 personalities of the men involved. A fragile tension buzzed through the air like a noisy fly

 uncertain where to light.

  

 Adding to the problem was the fact that the crew was shorthanded today. Brownsend

 did not show up for work, and a quick call to his apartment by Fizcono yielded no results.

 "Probably nursing his wounds," the big man muttered. "He didn't look so good when he

 went home yesterday. He'd better be back tomorrow, though, or he's fired. I won't

 tolerate jackdandles around here.

  

 Rask went around sullenly, not speaking more than a couple of words to anyone as he

 suited up. It was obvious he felt unfairly punished for the fracas-after all, it had been the

 Chandakhari who had attacked first; he'd just tried to protect his friend, and had been

 docked a week's pay for it. The injustice of it all grated harshly on his ego.

  

 The Chandakhari, in turn, were even more stand-offish, more clique-ish, more withdrawn

 from the other workers. The young man who'd begun the actual fighting-Jules

 remembered now that his name was Radapur-stood aloof and proud, glaring

 occasionally across at Rask with a semi-sneer across his lips.

  

 Jules was in the worst position of all, because nobody was quite sure where he stood on

 the matter. During the fight he had come to the aid of both sides, and had earned enmity

 each way. No one could bring himself to completely trust this newcomer, and so he

 became the outcast for the day.

  

 That was all just as well as far as he was concerned, because he had a good deal of

 thinking to do. He had gone out yesterday after work, checking out the bars in the

 shadier portions of the underground city. He had not been able to cover 'it all in one night,

 of course; the settlement that was Vesa comprised millions of square kilometers of

 caverns and corridors, with more being added all the time as the moon's wealth grew.

 But even though he'd just seen a tiny fraction of the life here, a picture was beginning to

 emerge that puzzled him greatly.

  

 Vesa had quite a scandalous reputation throughout the Galaxy as a gambler's haven, a

 world of iniquity, where anything goes as long as the customer has enough rubles to pay

 the price. Based on this reputation, Jules had expected to find the private life on Vesa

 equally lascivious and wild. Instead, he found it just the reverse. The permanent

 inhabitants of Vesa were, on the whole, a clean-living bunch. The handful of bars he

 visited were orderly and sedate, with little raucous laughter and no fights breaking out at

 an instant's notice. There were the usual drunks and dyevkas, but they seemed

 somehow set apart from the run of the ordinary people.

  

 Jules saw little evidence, on that quick skim, of any major corruption, let alone an

 enormous conspiracy to kill tourists. How could so quiet and civilized a people be

 responsible for what all the evidence indicated was happening.

  

 On the other hand, there was still the fascinating development of what happened during

 the fight. Those Chandakhari had reacted like a well-rehearsed fighting unit. Each man

 had known exactly where to go and what to do when the trouble started. That was not

 the sort of thing he would expect of a group of farm peasants, or even dockmen used to

 barroom brawls. There was a military precision to their actions that was frightening. The

 Chandakhari would, Jules decided, bear closer inspection.

  

 The first part of the day went evenly enough, even if the tension among the work crew

 was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. Shortly after the lunch break, though, a minor

 explosion occurred. One of the Chandakhari was using his crane to swing a cargo

 section out of a ship's hold and onto the flatbed carrier. It was Rask's assignment to

 clear the space for the section and guide it home, while others of the workers helped

 steady the box. Somehow a signal was missed on one side or another, and the box went

 tumbling out of control from the crane. It landed with a noiseless thud that jarred the

 soles of everyone's feet, not on the carrier but on the floor of the crater itself. The impact

 was more than the container was built to withstand, and it smashed open, scattering its

 contents all over the airless surface.

  

 Rask's anger flared like a supernova. "You filthy little kulyak!" he screamed over the

 radio circuits for all the men to hear. "You missed my mark on purpose!.

  

 The Chandakhar crane operator, a man named Forakhi, did not take kindly to being

 compared with one of the least sanitary animals of the Galaxy, and yelled something

 back in his own native tongue. It must have been pretty vile, because the other

 Chandakhari seemed to wither at its usage. Then the crane man continued, "I didn't miss

 your mark-you deliberately gave me the wrong one so that I would drop the box." "Are

 you calling me a liar?" Rask roared.

  

 Suddenly the presence of Laz Fizcono had insinuated itself between the two arguing

 men, and that was a presence to be reckoned with. "I don't want to hear any more talk

 of things being done intentionally," the big man bellowed, drowning out the noises Forakhi

 and Rask were making. "I was watching it all very closely, and it was an accident pure

 and simple. We're all tense today; we'll have to try harder to avoid mistakes.

  

 He turned to look at the cargo that had spilled over the floor of the crater. The ruined

 container had been filled with lettuce, tens of thousands of heads that now lay ruined all

 around the carrier. Since lettuce is composed mostly of water, the harsh glare of Vesa's

 sunlight and the open vacuum combined to sizzle all the juices out of the scattered heads

 and turn them almost instantly into disgusting lumps of brownish green slime.

  

 "What we need to do right now," the forman continued, "is get this mess cleaned up so

 that we can get on with our work." He turned to Jules. "DuChamps, I want you, Hastings,

 Ktobu and Hassahman to clear out the area. Get rid of this stuff before it gets fried

 completely to the ground. Me, I've got to go fill out the insurance forms on this, and that

 always gives me a headache. The rest of you men can continue with what you were

 doing; an accident is no excuse to stop working.

  

 Jules and his there designated coworkers set about their new task at once. Racing back

 to the hangar where equipment was stored, they located the special unit they needed

 and drove it out to the site of the mishap. This machine, called the "scraper," was

 essentially a tractor with a sharp edged flattened front that acted as a huge dustpan. As

 it drove forward it scraped the frying lettuce heads off the smooth ground and, when

 enough had been collected, it lifted them over the heads of the crew and deposited them

 in a large bin. Jules and Ktobu went ahead of the machine, helping to guide the refuse

 into it while Hassahman drove and Hastings tamped down the bin after every filling.

  

 "What do we do with all this garbage once we pick it up?" Jules wondered aloud. "Does

 it just get burned, or what?.

  

 Ktobu shook his head. "Can't afford to waste it like that. The recycling center comes and

 picks up the bin." Once Ktobu pointed out the obvious, the solution made eminent sense

 to Jules. Vesa, as an airless moon, was a closed society. There were probably small

 hydroponic gardens scattered about growing a small percentage of the food consumed

 here, but most of it had to be imported from Chandakha and elsewhere. All organic

 matter was potentially edible, and none could be allowed to be wasted. In order to cut

 down on the amount of importation, there would have to be a recycling plant to sort

 through the organic refuse and salvage as much of it as possible for future use. All

 airless worlds had such systems, but Jules had not visited too many and had never given

 the matter close consideration before now.

  

 It took the rest of that work shift and a half hour of overtime besides to clean up the

 mess that had been made. Fizcono, efficient as ever, had put in an order for a truck from

 the recycling plant, and it arrived just at the time Jules and his crew brought the scraper

 with its bin filled to overflowing back to the hangar. The white-clad recycler attendants

 went silently about their business of transferring the refuse from the bin to their truck,

 then drove off with hardly a word. "Are they always that brusque?" Jules asked Fizcono.

  

 The big man nodded. "It's almost a caste situation," he explained. "The caste system

 was officially ended long before Chandakha was settled, but social taboos sometimes

 take a very long time to die, especially among such traditionalist people. Because the

 workers at the recycling plant handle wastes and dead matter, they're ritually unclean

 and are shunned by most of the rest of society. People just prefer not to have too much

 to do with them." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Can't say I blame 'em much,

 either. It's a pretty disgusting occupation, once you think about it.

  

 As soon as Jules clocked out he went back to his cheap hotel room, changed his clothes

 and went out for another night of barhopping. The situation was much as he had found it

 the night before-entirely too quiet. He did overhear a few conversations indicating that

 there was some criminal activity on the moon, but it was of a routine sort: drugs, theft,

 prostitution and extortion. The local police were-or should be-able to keep that under

 control; Jules was looking for bigger game. And it was nowhere to be found.

  

 I'll have to try a new direction, he thought wearily as he came home and climbed into his

 bed. There's got to be a hook to this affair somehow. Thirty-five people a day are

 vanishing. There's got to be an organization around doing it-and if there is, they'll have to

 surface somewhere.

  

 He fell asleep quickly, but got little rest that night; dreams of indeterminate murders

 tossed him all about the bed.

  

 It was a chore just to drag himself to work the next day. His lack of success at finding

 clues about the conspiracy was depressing him, and the thought of another eight hours

 on the job sandwiched between two warring factions only added to the feeling of

 malaise. He toyed with the idea of dropping the job and spending all his time

 investigating; he certainly didn't need the money, and the hours spent at the dock were

 detracting from both his time and his stamina for his real work. But, attractive as that

 idea was, he let it go past with only a sigh of regret. Being a secret agent, he knew, was

 ninety-nine percent legwork. He needed a basic identity in case he got into trouble, and

 he shouldn't be letting the glamor of the field go to his head. This dull job, too, came with

 the territory.

  

 He arrived five minutes late, and almost everyone else was suited up. As he quickly

 scurried into his own spacesuit, he looked around and noticed that they were two hands

 short today-not only was Brownsend still absent, but so was Rask. "Where is

 everybody?" he asked.

  

 "There's still no word from Brownsend," Fizcono growled. Clearly he was not happy at

 having to work shorthanded. "I'm putting him on suspension for now and requisitioning a

 new hand from one of the other teams until he either comes back or we replace him

 permanently." The tone of his voice made it plain that he considered the latter possibility

 preferable.

  

 "As for Rask," the foreman went on, "I don't know exactly where he is. His suit's gone

 from his locker, which means he might have gone outside early. That's not like him at all;

 he's competent, but doesn't have that much initiative. I've tried raising him on the radio,

 but he doesn't answer, so your guess is as good as mine as to where he is." The big

 man shook his head. "Don't you go temperamental on me too, duChamps, or I'll have a

 nervous breakdown.

  

 The new man that Fizcono had requisitioned would not be able to join them until later in

 the shift, so the work crew went out onto the field two short. As usual, the Chandakhari

 stayed in a group by themselves, talking but little and being very introspective. They

 walked to the mobile crane that was their particular specialty and set out across the

 open crater toward the ship they were currently working on. Jules, Fizcono and the rest

 followed slightly behind in the flatbed carrier that was to hold the unloaded cargo.

  

 Jules had let his mind go pleasantly blank as a relaxation technique during the mildly

 jostling ride, but suddenly a movement from the right brought his attention back to full

 alert. From behind two nearby ships, the small scraper suddenly darted out at full speed

 and launched itself toward the mobile crane. It was only traveling at twenty kilometers an

 hour, hardly a breakneck pace, but even so it was lighter and more maneuverable than

 the vehicle it was approaching.

  

 Fizcono spotted the scraper at almost the same instant Jules did. "What in hell's going on

 out there?" he exclaimed.

  

 Jules' sharp eyes had focused on the driver of the vehicle. "It's Rask," he said curtly. "I

 think he's going to ram the crane.

  

 The words that burst from Fizcono's lips were in a slang peculiar to spacemen and

 dockworkers, and they expressed his displeasure in particularly graphic terms that would

 have burned the ears off more sensitive listeners. Jules was familiar with this brand of

 swearing, so it wouldn't have bothered him even if he'd been listening -which he wasn't.

 He was never one who could sit idly by and watch something happen; even as he was

 telling Fizcono what Rask was intending, he had started into action.

  

 The crane was about ten meters ahead of the carrier on which the SOTE agent had

 been riding. With a slight running start, Jules leaped from the front edge of his vehicle

 toward the crane. His spring had been carefully gauged to utilize Vesa's low gravity to

 the fullest extent. The arc of his flight was a low, flat one, because he knew that the

 higher he went, the longer it would take him to come down and the further the crane

 would have traveled in the meantime. Even so, it seemed to take forever to his

 speeded-up senses before he approached the crane; objects fell much more slowly on

 Vesa.

  

 While still along his arc he called out over the radio, "Everybody off the crane! Rask

 means business." At the same time, he twisted his body around in a quick acrobatic

 maneuver so that he would land on the crane feet first. And, while his attention was on

 his landing spot, he nonetheless had time to give a couple of quick glances to see what

 the scraper was doing.

  

 Rask was driving the smaller vehicle in a most uneven manner. While there was no

 question of what its target was, the course it was taking weaved along the floor of the

 crater as though the driver had only partial control. Its motion was also slightly uneven,

 accelerating in a series of rapid jerks rather than a smooth pace.

  

 That didn't matter. The scraper would still strike the crane with an impact that would

 cause major damage. And in the vacuum on the surface of Vesa, any accident could be

 fatal.

  

 The crane stopped moving shortly before Jules reached it, as the Chandakhari aboard

 realized what was happening. After an initial moment of surprise, they reacted in

 accordance with Jules' suggestion, clambering off the crane as quickly as they could.

 Being in suits made it both difficult and dangerous, for quick movement around machinery

 could easily lead to a tear in the material, which in turn led to instant death. Still, Jules

 was encouraged and relieved to see just how fast they could move.

  

 Jules landed with his knees bent to cushion the impact and grabbed at a nearby strut to

 stabilize himself. Then, with the momentum of his leap dispersed, he ran forward to the

 crane's cab and took the controls.

  

 Rask was coming broadside at the crane for maximum impact. There was no way a

 crash could be avoided the crane moved entirely too slow to dodge-but it was Jules' plan

 to try to turn the big crane through as large an angle as possible. The collision with the

 scraper would not be as catastrophic if the angle of impact were less than ninety

 degrees.

  

 There was no sound on the airless surface of Vesa, but the noise of the gears grinding

 was very strong in Jules' imagination as he pushed hard at the controls. Rask's scraper

 was only a couple dozen meters away and closing the distance rapidly. The caterpillar

 treads of the crane shuddered as Jules forced them beyond their level of tolerance. Five,

 ten degrees the crane turned, and then it was too late. The scraper struck the side of the

 crane with the full force of its twenty-metric-ton mass.

  

 Jules abandoned his position the instant before the crash occurred-he had no intention of

 being tossed around inside the cab and possibly having his spacesuit ripped. He was out

 the open door and standing on the side of the crane when the impact happened. The

 force of the collision transmitted itself through his feet and jarred his whole body. His

 head was so badly shaken that his teeth threatened to break loose and roll around in his

 mouth like dice on a gaming table. A sudden stab of pain lanced through his left leg just

 below the knee, where it was still recovering from its previous injury; Jules winced as the

 leg buckled slightly under him, and he grabbed a nearby strut for support.

  

 As Rask's vehicle had hit the crane, he had activated the lift mechanism of the scraper

 blade, hoping to be able to overturn the larger machine. The crane rocked and trembled,

 and Jules was afraid for one instant that Rask might actually accomplish his goal; but the

 crane was simply too massive, and after a couple of seconds Rask abandoned that

 effort in favor of new mayhem.

  

 Radapur, the young Chandakhar who had started the fight two days ago, had jumped

 away from the crane with the rest of his colleagues, and was now by himself on foot

 some fifteen meters away. Rask saw this and, backing away from the crane, he

 propelled his scraper in the direction of the lone Chandakhar.

  

 Judging from the relative positions, Jules realized that there was no way anyone else

 could reach Radapur before Rask's scraper did. He would have to act on his own to save

 the lad. He tried to yell out a warning, but by this time the radio band was so full of

 yelling and epithets that no individual voices could be heard. Giving his left leg a quick

 test, he decided it was ready enough for action, so he braced himself to move once

 more.

  

 Above and in front of him, some twenty-five meters off the ground, dangled the sky hook

 of the crane. Jules took a slight running start and, with legs curled under him like tightly

 coiled springs, he leaped upward for it.

  

 Even considering Vesa's light gravity it would have been an impossible feat for anyone

 from an Earthlike world but Jules was a DesPlainian and trained in the expert use of his

 physical abilities. Centuries of genetic adaptation and a lifetime of physical conditioning

 were implied in the force of his leap, and he made it with energy to spare.

  

 He grabbed at the hook as he would a trapeze, and his forward momentum caused it to

 sway a bit. By leaning his body in the proper direction he was able to increase the swing

 slightly, although the hook was far more massive than any trapeze he'd even worked

 with. Slowly, very slowly, his pendulum was making longer and longer swings, building up

 the momentum he would need for one more leap.

  

 Down on the ground, the scraper was closing in on Radapur. Slow as that vehicle was, it

 could still outrun a man. The young Chandakhar was using a stall tactic of leaping high

 into the air to get out of the machine's path, but that tactic could only be used for so long,

 because he would come down so slowly that Rask bad time to position himself closer to

 the landing spot. It would only be a matter of a few seconds before the maddened driver

 flattened his quarry.

  

 The hook he was riding was now swinging to Jules' satisfaction. Holding his timing until

 just the proper moment on the downswing, Jules let go of his perch and soared out over

 the empty crater toward the moving scraper. His aim bad to be exceedingly accurate,

 since be was not working in an atmosphere that would let him make minor course

 corrections by adjusting his body position for variable air resistance.

  

 Rask was apparently tiring of his hit-and-run game with Radapur, now, for he had

 stopped his vehicle and was standing up, pulling a blaster from his belt. He fired off a

 couple of bolts in Radapur's direction, but missed by wide margins. This erratic firing,

 coupled with Rask's earlier insane driving, led Jules to the inescapable conclusion that

 the man was either drunk or drugged.

  

 Rask's stopping the scraper threw off Jules' calculations slightly, and his downward

 descent was a little forward of the mark. As he came down over Rask's head, though,

 the SOTS agent managed to kick out with his right foot and knock the blaster from the

 man's hand. The gun went sailing through the airless sky to land harmlessly on the

 ground some fifteen meters away.

  

 Jules came down two meters in front of the scraper and rolled, being extremely careful

 to take the brunt of the shock on the tough parts of his suit-gloves and boots. Springing

 once more to his feet, he spun lightly around to face his antagonist.

  

 Most of the yelling over the communications band had died down now, and Jules could

 make out Rask's voice. The man was ranting away at the top of his lungs. ". . .

 murderers, all of them. You must be one, too. You all killed Brownsend." Then he

 launched himself at Jules.

  

 The circus star easily sidestepped the oncoming body and grabbed it as it went by.

 Flinging it around with one hand like a rag doll, he pulled back with his other hand and

 landed a closed-fist blow right under Rask's ribs. The man's eyes bugged out inside his

 helmet and air was forced from his lungs. His body went limp as all the fight apparently

 drained out of him.

  

 Jules lowered Rask's body gently to the ground and sat straddling him. "What's gotten

 into you, anyhow?" he asked angrily. "I want an explanation for this.

  

 The defeated man gasped several times like a fish out of water before he could speak

 again. Finally he got enough air in his lungs to say, "They killed him! Those damned

 Chandies killed him!.

  

 "Killed who?.

  

 "Brownsend. I went to his apartment last night. There was no trace of him or his things.

 Landlord said he just left a note saying he was leaving, but I know better. Those

 drapping Chandies killed him and cleaned him out to cover it up. They never did like him.

 I'll kill them all, every last drapping one of them!" Rask started struggling again, but Jules

 held the man's arms tightly to his sides and thought.

  

 Rask's hypothesis struck a very surprising note. What he was describing seemed to be

 the modus operandi of the very gang Jules had been sent here to investigate.

  

 Could it be that he'd stumbled on the gang totally by accident.

  

 But even as he thought that, he could see that it was not the whole picture. The seven

 Chandakhari worked an eight-hour shift here. Assuming they spent another eight hours

 on such necessities as eating and sleeping, that meant they would have to be killing the

 average thirty-five people a day in only another eight hours. A rampage of death like that

 could not be missed even by the tourists, let alone the police. No, the seven Chandakhari

 working here were not the entire group he was after.

  

 On the other hand, any doubts he had about their being involved were rapidly

 evaporating. He remembered back to the fight that had taken place two days ago and

 recalled how impressed he had been with their coordination. That they were a well-drilled

 team he had no doubts at all. They had almost been able to kill him, despite his

 considerable skills. These were not innocent farmers and dockhands-not at all.

  

 So intent was Jules in his thoughts that Rask was able to catch him by surprise. With a

 burst of strength that only a madman could muster, he gave one violent jerk that bucked

 Jules off his body, scrambled to his feet and began racing off in the direction of his fallen

 blaster. The SOTE agent recovered his balance quickly and started after him, but was

 too late to avert the tragedy that was coming up.

  

 The Chandakhari had formed as a group by now and interposed themselves between

 Rask and his gun. He hit their lines like a maniac, arms waving madly in all directions.

 They withstood his assault, grabbing for his limbs and immobilizing them by pinning them

 to his body. Then, even as he struggled furiously against their grip on him, the

 Chandakhari picked him up bodily and ran him over toward the scraper. With cold fury

 they rammed him solidly into the machine.

  

 Rask howled, a scream that would have curdled molten lead, as a large section was

 ripped away from his spacesuit. Jules instinctively brought his hands up to cover his ears,

 even though his head was solidly encased inside his helmet. The dying man's shriek

 pierced like an arrow through Jules' brain. It vanished quickly, though, and was replaced

 by a few sucking sounds as the air whooshed out of Rask's suit. Then silence.

  

 As Jules reached them, the Chandakhari slowly lowered Rask's lifeless body to the

 ground. Jules looked around the group at the faces within the helmets, and saw not the

 slightest trace of remorse in any of them.

  

 CHAPTER 6

 Vesa Vice

  

 When the Empress Irene docked on Vesa, Yvette was too busy packing up her luggage

 and supervising its removal from the ship to look for Dak Lehman. She had gotten little

 sleep that night, intent as she was on thinking about the attack in her suite. She was able

 to come to no conclusion whatsoever about the men who'd ambushed her. There was the

 possibility that they were some sort of advance scouts for the murderous conspiracy she

 was here to investigate, selecting their target before he even arrived on Vesa. If that

 were so, it would imply an even larger organization than anyone suspected, one with

 Galaxy-wide connections. Such scouts would perhaps try to chase away anyone who got

 involved with their target, since it would add a complication to their plans-as well as

 someone who. might raise a hue and cry if the victim turned up missing.

  

 That solution was farfetched, but possible. Yvette wondered at the logistics, though.

 After all, the expense of sending out teams of scouts to line up targets in that way would

 not be a paying venture. So many rich people visited Vesa anyhow that it would seem

 much more feasible to pick and choose among potential victims once they were

 on-planet.

  

 What seemed more likely to her was that she happened to stumble into the middle of a

 situation that was independent of the Vesa problem. Those three blasterbats had not

 really been interested in her at all, but merely in the fact that she was becoming involved

 with Dak Lehman. They had not started following her until after she'd begun dating Dak,

 and even then they'd taken no active role until they'd established that something might

 come of the relationship. And at that, their warning to her had been extremely gentle, all

 things considered. They could just as easily have killed her, she knew. And they wanted

 her to know that.

  

 She spent a good deal of that night wondering how to respond to the warning. Her

 d'Alembert pride had been injured, and that clan was known as particularly stiffnecked.

 She did not like being threatened, and she did not like appearing as though she were

 giving in. Yvette had a strong contempt for weak-willed women who pretended to be at

 the mercy of big, strong men; she was living proof of equality between the sexes and

 hated having to subordinate herself.

  

 Dak was obviously in some kind of trouble. Three expert men wouldn't suddenly start

 following him around just for the hell of it. Dak himself seemed to know something; Yvette

 recalled all the times when he'd started to tell her something, only to shy away and go

 silent at the last moment. What could be the matter with this seemingly ideal man? She

 cared a great deal about him, and was caring more every day; she couldn't just stand by

 while he was in danger and not make a move to help him.

  

 But yet, she had a job of her own to do. Dak's problem could very well be independent of

 hers-and if that were the case, it would be unwise of her to get mixed up in it. Fighting on

 two fronts at once was not terribly smart, if it could be avoided.

  

 Finally she just decided to take a wait-and-see attitude. She would not seek out Dak and

 his problems-but if he should come to her, she would not avoid them. The d'Alembert

 family did not believe in dodging responsibility.

  

 After the usual hectic debarking procedures and a short wait going through customs,

 Yvette had her luggage sent to the Hotel Regulus where she had booked her

 reservations in advance. The Regulus was one of the hundreds of plush hotels on Vesa

 that specialized in catering to rich tourists visiting this gambler's paradise, and they knew

 how to treat a guest well-particularly one as wealthy as Carmen Velasquez. In no time at

 all, after crossing a number of palms with ten-ruble tips, Yvette found herself installed in

 her twelfth level suite. Looking around at the large group of rooms, including a living

 room, bedroom with imperial-sized bed, and spacious bathroom, she felt the slightest

 tinge of a letdown. Traveling on a first-class liner like the Empress Irene must have really

 spoiled me, she mused.

  

 She was here to work, though, not luxuriate, and she'd better set about it. Enough time

 had already been wasted on the trip here. For all she knew, her brother might have

 wrapped up the case already.

  

 The first thing she did was phone down to the desk and ask them to send up a newsroll.

 It arrived while she was still unpacking, and she sat down to read it at once. She glanced

 avidly through the personal ads, but there was nothing there yet. If Jules had wanted to

 contact her, be would have placed an ad signed "Frenchie." No such ad existed, which

 meant that he had not yet reached any conclusions strong enough to tell her about-either

 that or he was in no condition to place any ads in the paper. She dismissed that thought

 from her mind almost the instant it came up. Jules could take care of himself.

  

 As soon as she'd finished her unpacking chores, Yvette decided to go out and

 immediately taste some of the pleasures that Vesa had to offer. The stack of guidebooks

 she had brought along told her of some of the better casinos in the area near her hotel,

 and she checked off three that interested her the most. Then she changed her clothes

 preparatory to making her debut in Vesan society.

  

 Her basic outfit was a jumpsuit made from a patterned brocade fabric of deep rose and

 gold. Gold boots covered her feet and a belt of gold squares set with pearls circled her

 waist, holding up a red velvet purse. The turtleneck collar of her jumpsuit was also

 lavishly adorned with pearls. Her dark brown hair was swept up and crowned by a

 coronet braid of red velvet dotted with pearls.

  

 Over the jumpsuit she wore a ruby-red velvet houppelande, with dagged sleeves that

 reached to the ground and a high collar that came up well past her ears. The

 houppelande was fastened at the throat with an enormous golden pin, in the center of

 which reposed a fist-sized ruby. A golden string of matched pearls -each the size of a

 walnut-draped loosely around her neck.

  

 Yvette eyed herself critically in the mirror. It screams rich, she told herself. Rich, but

 tasteful. Ready at last, she left her rooms to face the rigors of Vesa.

  

 It didn't take her long to realize that Vesa was a strange place. She bad known

 intellectually that all life on this moon existed in underground caverns carved from the

 naked rock; but knowing that fact and actually experiencing it were two different things.

 The subterranean aspects could be ignored when one was inside a building; after all,

 people are used to having ceilings over their heads when they're in a room.

  

 What was not so usual was to have a roof over you when you were "outside." The broad

 transportation corridors, with their constant streams of busy traffic flowing by, were

 exactly like streets on any civilized world in the Galaxy, except for the fact that there was

 a ceiling of solid stone overhead. This was not so bad at the major intersections, where

 the ceiling was a dome that rose perhaps fifteen or twenty meters over the ground level;

 but in the tunnels that linked the major caverns, the roof would come down to less than a

 meter in spots over the tops of the vehicles traversing the roads. It was a situation that

 could produce claustrophobia in even the stoutest of hearts, and Yvette found that, for

 the first couple of days, she had to fight down the incipient fear that the ceiling would

 cave in on her head at any moment.

  

 Adding to the underground nature of the environment was the fact that Vesa was a maze

 that sometimes defied the best analytical minds. A labyrinth of tunnels, some of them

 running for kilometers in length, connected a series of large and small caverns in a

 seemingly random pattern that only longtime residents were able to decipher. Yvette

 became lost almost the instant she drove away from her hotel in one of the ubiquitous ]its

 that served as Vesa's mass transportation system. The driver had never heard of the

 casino she wanted to visit, and so he took her to another. "They're all pretty much the

 same," was his philosophical comment. "You can lose your money just as fast at one as

 at another." She never did find the one she had originally set out for.

  

 After two days of traveling around, though, she came to the conclusion that the driver

 had been wrong. True, to the casual eye all the casinos did look alike-flashy rooms filled

 with flashy people, bright lights glaring from all directions, loud music pumped through the

 atmosphere intermingling with the brash spiels of barkers trying to lure people to this or

 that area that was less crowded at the moment. The smells of incense, dopesticks,

 cigarettes and a thousand and one individual perfumes assaulted the nostrils. Several

 times Yvette found herself feeling terribly nostalgic, for the flavor was almost like that of

 the midway of her beloved Circus-though the midway had always been far less frantic

 and far more innocent.

  

 The more careful observer, though, could see slight differences between the different

 gambling spots. Some of them were cheaper, appealing to the tourists with only

 moderate amounts of money to squander, while others were ultraposh and almost

 flaunted their exclusivity. Some places tended to be the preserve of older married

 couples, while others were definitely the hangout of young singles out for a good time.

 Some casinos were brash and garish while others were-for Vesa-almost reserved and

 dignified. Each casino had a character and clientele uniquely its own. But no matter

 where she went, from the plushest clubs to the lowest dives, there were crowds.

 Hundred upon thousands of people jammed into spaces that would have been cramped

 with half that many present. Gambling fever was almost a tangible commodity, a

 madness infecting everyone around her. It was as though people, having spent so much

 of their money just in getting here, felt a desperate desire to lose the rest of it at the

 gambling tables. Some of the more intense gamblers went without foo d or sleep for a

 day or more at a time.

  

 The magnitude of her problem was beginning to hit home to her. In this faceless mass of

 human bodies, it was quite easy to see how thirty-five a day could disappear without

 anyone even noticing. They would be replaced as quickly as they vanished by equally

 faceless bodies awaiting the slaughter. Yvette had spent a goodly amount of time on

 Earth, one of the most highly populated planets in the Empire, and thought she had

 known what crowding was like, but this made humanity's mother planet look like the wide

 open spaces. The effect of these surging masses was to dehumanize everyone

 involved-a result that left Yvette terribly depressed, despite the showy glamor of the

 moon.

  

 It took her only the initial two days of exploration to establish a pattern for herself. In

 keeping with the character of Carmen Velasquez, she narrowed her field down to a

 handful of casinos that catered to the younger, richer, hipper crowd. The general age

 level of the customers at these places was under forty; the clothing was all sharp and in

 accordance to the latest fashions from the various sectors of the Empire. Dopesticks

 were more common in this crowd than either cigarettes or alcohol, though hardly de

 rigeur. The talk was a bit louder, the conversations more intense, the laughter more

 spontaneous and natural.

  

 There was a certain repetition of clientele at these places, and after a couple of days of

 regular attendance Yvette learned most of the regulars by sight, and a couple by name.

 She struck up casual conversations with them and managed to get her story across. It

 was impossible to tell who might be an agent of the conspiracy, so Yvette was ready to

 talk to anyone who showed even a casual interest in her.

  

 Her gambling habits were quite simple-she stuck to card games exclusively. Her father

 and uncle were both masters at cards and she had sat in on many a hand late at night

 after the Circus had closed to the rubes, absorbing their knowledge and tricks. She knew

 any number of methods of cheating, but did not try them here; the house dealers were

 too sharp and Carmen Velasquez was not supposed to be a professional. She did,

 however, manage to come out a good distance ahead in the long run, and quickly earned

 a joking reputation among her newfound friends as a cardsharp.

  

 "Where'd you ever learn to play like that?" one guy asked after she'd cleaned out his

 pockets one afternoon two weeks later.

  

 "It sure as hell wasn't on Purity," said another fellow who had managed to retain at least

 some of his chips. Yvette allowed herself a demure blush. "After my late husband and I

 made our fortune and got ourselves kicked off Purity for being too concerned with

 matters temporal instead of spiritual, we resolved to learn all about the pleasant vices.

 Gambling was Carlos' particular passion and he kept insisting that I play cards with him.

 Unfortunately I was always better than he was, and it infuriated him when I won. He

 swore off gambling once for three whole weeks, he was so mad. I could take it or leave

 it alone, which only made him feel worse. I suppose. . . .

  

 "Carmen!" The call of a familiar voice rang out across the room, and Yvette looked up, a

 curious mixture of emotions churning through her system.

  

 Card games usually took place in side rooms off the main gambling hall. These rooms

 were smaller and a bit less cramped, since most of the tourists preferred to lose their

 money quickly and impersonally at the machines and gaming tables. Cards were a

 comparatively slow and more involved method of gambling, and appealed only to a

 minority of the crowd.

  

 Across this smaller room, hazy though it was with smoke, Yvette could see Dak Lehman

 making his way through the press of people towards her table. He must have spotted her

 from the doorway, she reasoned. The expression on his face as be came over to her

 was a combination of delight and concern.

  

 "I thought for a while I'd never find you," he said as he finally reached her side. "I've been

 looking everywhere for you ever since we landed here. I was almost beginning to give up

 hope. It was as if Vesa had just swallowed you up or something.

  

 Yvette cast him a startled glance. Does he know something about the disappearances?

 she wondered, scrutinizing his expression carefully. But no, there was nothing menacing

 or secretive there. It had obviously been a chance remark that meant more to her than it

 did to him. Recovering, she said offhandedly, "This is just such an incredible place it's

 easy to get lost. I'm sorry you had to go through such a hassle to find me.

  

 "The only thing that matters is that I have found you," Dak replied earnestly. Then,

 looking around at the other people seated at Yvette's table, he continued in a lower

 voice, "Can we go somewhere to talk privately?.

  

 "I don't really think there's anyplace private on this entire moon," Yvette said, standing up

 and sweeping her winnings into her purse with one confident motion. "It's all so crowded I

 sometimes feel selfish when I shower by myself. But if we walk around the casino I don't

 think anyone'll overhear what we say.

  

 Dak took her arm and escorted her out into the main casino area. The din out here was

 so loud that they practically had to shout in each other's ear to make themselves

 understood, but Yvette was right-the nearest thing to private was being in the middle of a

 noisy, uncaring crowd.

  

 "You left me last time with an unanswered question between us," he said. "You told me

 you'd think about it, and that was several weeks ago. Have you come to any

 conclusions,.

  

 Yvette looked away from him and took a long deep sigh before answering. "I don't want

 you to think I've been avoiding you these past weeks, because I haven't. I just haven't

 had the time to go actively looking for you." "That's an evasion, not an answer.

  

 "I know. I can't give you the answer you want, I'm afraid. I find you a most attractive

 man, Dak, and there are more odd moments than rd care to mention when I have to

 snap myself out of a daydream about what it would be like married to you. But I just can't

 convince myself it would work. Putting aside all the romantic clichés about love

 conquering all, there are too many barriers in our way.

  

 She explained about the physical problems stemming from their different planetary

 backgrounds, problems that would lead to either him being a cripple or her an exile. She

 could not, of course, tell him the real story about her family and her job; instead, she

 leaned heavily on her love for her dear departed Carlos and how she could not bring

 herself to "betray" him so soon after his-death. Dak's expression was grim as he listened

 to her speak, but he did not interrupt even once. She tried to finish with as soft a cushion

 as she could. "I love you, I really do. That goodnight kiss you gave me last time had me

 floating through the air on my way back to my suite, even in one gee. I'm not just saying

 this to make you feel better; it's the way I feel. But for all the reasons I've told you, plus

 a few personal ones, I don't think we could sustain a long-term relationship. We'll both be

 much better off if we break apart now, before our emotions get totally out of hand.

  

 Dak scowled, and an angry gleam appeared in his eyes. He was not apparently used to

 being turned down in something he wanted. "I still love you, Carmen," he said evenly.

 "Being apart from you these past few weeks has made my longing stronger, not weaker.

 You say you love me, too. But your reasons for not wanting to marry me just don't hold

 air. We can overcome any problems we set our minds to. We both have a good deal of

 money, we can go back and forth between a heavy gravity world and a lighter one. I can

 buy machines to help me withstand your stronger gravity. I . . .

  

 His voice had been rising with each sentence, until it took on an almost hysterical tone.

 She raised a hand to silence him. "Dak, please, this is getting us nowhere.

  

 He stopped, caught his breath, and then continued in a more reasonable tone, "Look I've

 been invited to a really swank party tonight. It's being given by one of the big shots on

 Vesa, a man named Garst. Why don't you come along with me and we can talk about

 this some more then? I'd be delighted to have your company, and. . . .

  

 "I don't think I'm getting through to you. It will not work between us, and all the talking

 you do will not make it work. No, I won't go with you tonight; there would be no point to

 it.

  

 The anger dropped suddenly out of Dak, and he looked instead like a frightened little

 boy. "Don't drop me forever," he begged. There was a hint of tears in his eyes. "I really

 don't think I could take that, Carmen; you've be come too special to me. Please-if you

 won't come to the party then at least say you'll meet me tomorrow and we can visit some

 casinos together.

  

 There was such an air of desperation to his voice that Yvette had to relent. She did love

 him, and it tore her up inside to see him so affected. "All right," she said softly, "I'll meet

 you tomorrow, but only for a little while. I have things to do myself, you know. Where and

 when do you want to meet?.

  

 "Right here at, say, eleven hundred." Dak's face bad brightened perceptibly at her

 sudden capitulation.

  

 "All right," Yvette nodded. "But I have to be going for now; there are things I must do."

 She stood on her toes to reach up and kiss him, intending to give him only a slight peck.

 But suddenly his arms were around her and the simple kiss was turning into far more

 passionate a thing than she had planned.

  

 When finally they did part, she was feeling a little wobbly on her feet. "Whew. See you

 tomorrow," she said as she started to walk off.

  

 "Don't be late," he called after her. As an afterthought, he added, "If you should need to

 get in touch with me for any reason, I'm staying at the Soyuz Hotel.

  

 Yvette just barely heard him, for her keen senses were trained elsewhere at the

 moment. She had picked up a tail again-Murgatroyd. Apparently even this chance runin

 with Dak had been enough to set off the curiosity of that band that was so interested in

 Gospodin Lehman's welfare.

  

 Yvette did not go straight back to her hotel as she'd intended. She had no way of

 knowing whether the trio who had ambushed her knew where she was staying on

 Vesa-but if they didn't know, she certainly didn't want to show them. In a concerted effort

 to lose her tail, Yvette went through the main halls of the three most crowded casinos

 she knew, changed jits repeatedly as she drove all over the tourist district of Vesa, and

 ducked into a ladies' room for over an hour before emerging with her houppelande over

 her arm to give her an entirely different appearance. There was no sign of Murgatroyd

 following her by this time so, realizing that she couldn't just keep wandering the moon all

 night, she decided to risk going back to her room.

  

 Once inside, she bolted the door and pulled up a chair to sit facing it, just in case the

 shadows were to try another attack. She kept herself awake until early in the morning.

  

 CHAPTER 7

 A Meeting at the Warehouse

  

 As he stared at the men from Chandakha, Jules realized that he was the only other

 person in the crew who had witnessed their deliberate murder of Rask. Everyone else

 was coming from the other side of the spacefield, and the body of the scraper machine

 had been interposed between them and the Chandakhari. As the rest of the group, led by

 Fizcono, now pulled up to the scene, all they would see was the dead body of their

 former comrade lying at the feet of the coterie of Chandakhari.

  

 Jules thought quickly. He was the only one who knew the Chandakhari had murdered

 Rask with deliberate efficiency. But if they thought he knew that, he might become their

 next target. All in all, he decided to feign ignorance of exactly what happened. They must

 know he had seen them do it, but by pretending not to know he could plant some doubt in

 their minds.

  

 So, just as Fizcono and the rest of the crew came around the corner of the scraper, he

 asked, "What happened to him?.

  

 Forakhi, the unofficial leader of the Chandakhari group, locked his gaze with that of

 Jules, as though trying to read the SOTE agent's soul. "We tried to hold him, but be was

 like a madman," Forakhi said slowly, his eyes never wavering. "We backed him up

 against the scraper, but he was squirming so much that he tore his suit on it." He was

 defying Jules to contradict him; Jules said nothing.

  

 Fizcono knelt beside Rask's body and verified for himself that the man was dead. "More

 drapping reports to fill out!" he muttered savagely under his breath. Then, standing up

 and looking at the Chandakhari for a long moment, he said aloud, "I guess you men did

 the best you could, under the circumstances. You'll all have to write up your versions of

 what happened, of course; insurance companies are fussy about that sort of thing.

  

 Then he turned specifically to Jules. "Nice work, duChamps. I can't recall ever seeing

 anyone move so fast and so well. Where did you learn all that, anyhow?.

  

 "I was on the gymnastics team in school," Jules lied smoothly. "Guess I've always kept

 myself pretty much in shape.

  

 Fizcono accepted that story with a grunt and began issuing orders to have Rask's body

 taken back inside to the infirmary. The rest of the men he told to go back to work, though

 even he did not expect them to be able to accomplish much-not after the work day had

 started like this. Still, they were getting paid to do a job and it was his responsibility to

 see that they did it. He resigned himself to having his crew fall even farther behind in their

 work than they already were, and followed Rask's body back inside to answer the

 questions he knew the front office would ask.

  

 To no one's surprise, the work that day went very lackadaisically. They loaded less than

 half of what they should have onto a departing freighter, much to the chagrin of the

 captain who bawled them out over the radio for dawdling when he had a schedule to

 keep. The men ignored his rantings and went on at their own speed, still stunned by what

 happened earlier.

  

 Every so often, Jules would look up from his job to see one of the Chandakhari-notably

 Radapur or Forakhi -staring at him, as though trying to figure out what sort of a game he

 was playing. Jules pretended not to notice their attention and kept on with his work.

  

 When the shift was finally over and everyone was unsuiting back in the locker room,

 Jules was surprised when Radapur, the young Chandakhar, actually came over to talk to

 him. "You saved my life out there," the lad said.

  

 "Rask was going to kill me, and you were the only one who acted quickly enough to stop

 him.

  

 "Somebody had to," Jules shrugged. Open displays of gratitude embarrassed him, and

 he hoped Radapur would not be too flowery about it.

  

 "Nevertheless, it was you who did it." The youth held out his hand and Jules shook it

 vigorously. "I won't forget what you did for me. Maybe someday I'll have the chance to

 do a favor for you.

  

 Jules was about to reply that such a thing was not necessary and that he would have

 done the same for anyone, but he didn't get the chance. Forakhi, with a whistle and a

 sharp look, called Radapur back to the Chandakhari group. As Jules watched, Forakhi

 spoke a few sharp words in the youth's ear, obviously admonishing him not to speak with

 anyone from outside their little clique. The lad cast one long look back over his shoulder

 at Jules, then returned to his group.

  

 Everyone who was involved in the scuffle had to stay a little late in order to tape-record

 their versions of the story for the administration personnel. Forakhi and the rest of the

 Chandakhari were visibly chafing at this delay, as though they had some appointment to

 go to and were being kept from it. At last everyone was released and told to go home;

 but instead of following that advice, Jules chose to follow the Chandakhari instead.

  

 They left the port building as a group and flagged down one of the roving jits. Jules

 cursed the haphazard transportation system of Vesa under his breath; he didn't want to

 let his quarries get away from him that simply. Fortunately, he was able to commandeer

 a jit directly behind theirs and, using the excuse that he and his friends bad gotten

 separated and he didn't have the address of where they were supposed to be going, he

 convinced the driver to follow the other jit. The large tip he handed the man probably did

 not hurt his cause, either.

  

 They drove through a confusing maze of tunnels, changing direction so many times that

 Jules began to get worried that they knew he was following them. But they made no

 attempt to speed up or lose him on sharp turns, so he relaxed and guessed that they

 were only taking a precautionary route to their destination.

  

 Finally the other jit stopped and the Chandakhari got out. Jules' driver had done such a

 good job of staying with them that he arrived almost right behind them, and Jules had to

 dawdle about getting out of the jit for fear that his quarries would spot him.

  

 Actually, despite the long and complicated route they had taken, the Chandakhari had

 ended up at a point not too far distant from where they'd started. They were in the

 warehouse district where the goods unloaded from the incoming ships were stored

 before being distributed to the rest of Vesa. Jules emerged from his jit as the group he

 was following entered the front door of one warehouse.

  

 Jules looked quickly around for another way into the building. He couldn't go in the same

 way the Chandakhari had, or he'd be spotted for sure. His sharp eyes instantly detected

 what he was looking for-a freight elevator tube beside the building. Structures on Vesa

 were built down rather than up, into the bedrock of the moon for sturdier support. Jules

 did not want to activate the elevator itself, for it might make some noise that would alarm

 the group he was pursuing; but the tube did have a series of handholds along its length

 for the use of repair crews, and Jules descended this ladder until he came to a service

 door in the wall. The door was locked, and he had to stand on a small ledge for two

 minutes experimenting with the various master keys he always carried with him before he

 could get it to open.

  

 He found himself on the third level of the warehouse. The large room was dimly-lit and

 filled with row upon row of the large airtight crates that he was becoming all too familiar

 with. Apparently this was a section for storing goods that had not yet been unpacked.

  

 Jules strained his ears, but could hear no sounds around him. Moving with a silence that

 would put a cat to shame, he eased his way into the warehouse, using the large

 containers as cover while he explored the aisles at this level. No one was here.

  

 Now there was a choice to make. Should be go upward in search of his group and check

 out the top two levels, or should he go even further down? He decided down would be

 best; a group of conspirators would want to be as far from the front door as possible, to

 avoid being overheard by casual passersby.

  

 Gently sloping ramps led from level to level, broad corridors for lift trucks and dollies to

 carry their loads. The ramps were possible points of exposure, since there was no place

 for him to hide on them, but short of chancing the elevator tube again they were his only

 method of getting from one level to the next. Stealthily he crept downward to the fourth

 level, only to find it, too, deserted. On the fifth level, however, he struck paydirt.

  

 He could hear the low muttering of voices when he was halfway down the ramp, and he

 slowed his pace at once. Hugging tightly to the wall he slithered down to the floor level

 and behind the protective cover of some half-opened crates. From here, he was able to

 pick his way slowly forward until he had a clear view of the entire scene.

  

 The lighting on this level was as dim as throughout the rest of the warehouse, but Jules'

 eyes were by this time accustomed to the weak light. A large space had been cleared

 throughout the center of the floor, and along one semicircular section of the area sat a

 group of perhaps thirty men. The first thing Jules noticed was that they all seemed to be

 Chandakhari; all of them had the swarthy complexion and straight black hair that marked

 the racial type, although some of the men were old enough that their hair was

 predominantly gray. Jules was startled to see men in their fifties and possibly even

 sixties sitting in that group, though the majority of the people were late thirties to early

 forties. Radapur, the lad from Jules' work crew, was the youngest one there.

  

 Before this group, like a teacher in front of a class, was a tall, thin, well-dressed man

 with a narrow face and harsh eyes. He sat at ease with his legs dangling casually over

 the edges of a pair of packing boxes placed end to end for his convenience. He had a

 clipboard on his lap and he was reading casually from it: ". . . Group Three, weekly

 intake of five thousand, seven hundred and sixtytwo rubles, which means Group Two's

 area seems to be the richest at the moment. I think we'll leave Three where it is for now

 and move in One to back Two up. Group Four, I don't have your numbers yet; where are

 they?.

  

 A man at one side of the semicircle spoke up. "Pakkan was delayed at the last moment;

 he'll try to be here shortly.

  

 The man in front grimaced. "This has been a bad week for obstacles and delays. All the

 other sectors may get ahead of us." He stared directly at the group of Jules' coworkers.

 "Your little unofficial forays have been noted and will count against you. You have

 repeatedly been told that we act for money only, not vengeance. We must not allow

 ourselves to get personally involved in our calling. Any emotion, even vengeance, will lead

 eventually to a weakening of will and infirmity of purpose. We must keep our minds and

 souls pure if we are to succeed.

  

 "Back to business. I can't make final assignments for the week until I hear how Group

 Four has done, but assuming they have maintained their average I think I can tentatively

 shift them over to pick up the area being vacated by One. Group One then will operate

 near Twosay, around the Lucky Streak Casino. Two and Three will stay as they are for

 now. . . .

  

 Jules heard footsteps coming down the ramp behind him. This would probably be the

 member of Group Four who was late-and if so, Jules' position would be exposed. He

 looked quickly around for a spot that could not be seen from either the back or the front

 and, the instant he spotted it, he dove in that direction.

  

 But his motion was far too late. The tardy murderer was at the point on the ramp where

 he could just see into the fifth level, and Jules' rapid movement attracted his attention.

 For a second he froze, then realized that his mates had not known they were being spied

 upon. "Hey, there's somebody else in here!" he called out.

  

 The other Chandakhari jumped to attention at his cry. They were paranoid about

 outsiders anyway, and this alarm set off their worst fears. Several of the men had been

 wearing small jeweled daggers at their belts, and their hands went automatically to their

 waists to remove the weapons. All of them looked around to see if they could spot the

 intruder, but Jules' chosen spot did provide him with a maximum amount of coverage.

  

 The newcomer, who saw where Jules had gone, noted the confusion of his fellows.

 "Down there!" he pointed. "Behind those boxes!.

  

 All stealth was useless now, Jules knew. He was up against better than thirty men who

 knew precisely where he was. Speed, strength and agility were the tools he would have

 to use if he wanted to survive beyond the next few minutes. Bracing his back against a

 row of heavy crates, he lifted his legs and kicked out at the series of boxes stacked in

 front of him. Two of the stacks teetered ominously for a moment; then, as he gave them

 a second kick, they toppled over onto the crowd of men that had started after him.

  

 The effects of Vesa's gravity made the spectacle almost ludicrous, as the boxes fell in

 slow motion towards their targets and the men strained to get out of the path of the

 falling objects. Finally, after what seemed like ages, the boxes hit the floor and

 shattered, scattering their contents-small metal machine parts-all over the floor and

 making the footing treacherous.

  

 But Jules had not stayed put to watch the results of his action. Survival depended on

 movement, and Jules was a veritable blur. The low gravity both hampered and helped;

 hampered because it took so long for objects to reach ground once they were in the air,

 and helped because his reflexes, attuned to gravitational pulls twelve times as strong,

 were like lightning compared to those of his adversaries. In fact, he had to be constantly

 adjusting his strengths downward, or be would have ended up overshooting each goal.

  

 A knife flew by his head, but not too close. So slowly was it going that he could have

 snatched it out of midair and thrown it back at its owner had he desired. Instead, he let it

 continue along its flight path and bury itself two centimeters deep into a wood crate. He

 was not too worried about the knives these murderers were carrying; he had given them

 a good scan and realized that they were not properly balanced for throwing. Jules'

 cousin, lean d'Alembert, was an expert knife thrower, and Jules knew most of the

 fundamentals of that art just from observing a professional in action. The blades in

 evidence here were all intended for stabbing; if Jules let any of these men get that close

 to him the game would be up anyhow-and he knew it.

  

 Jules quickly ducked down a cross row of crates, hoping to win access to the ramp and

 freedom. His way was blocked, though, by half a dozen of the crooks advancing on him

 with murder in their eyes. Gauging the distances, Jules decided against trying to leap

 over their heads; a strategic retreat would be a better tactic right here. With a quick turn,

 he fled back in the direction from which he'd come.

  

 Two thugs leaped at him from atop a packing crate on his right. One of them gripped

 Jules' wrist while the other tried to get hold of the SOTS agent's waist. With the sheer

 force of his strength, Jules whipped his right hand around, pulling the attached attacker

 with it and banging the man's head solidly against a steel container. With a dull groan that

 was barely audible over the clang of the collision, the man released his grip on Jules'

 hand and fell unconscious to the floor.

  

 With an athlete's disdain for wasted motion, Jules continued with the follow-through on

 his toss. His body spun around counterclockwise, and the crook who bad been grasping

 for his waist slipped away and started falling to the floor. Jules did not allow that fall to

 continue unassisted, though; as he spun, he jerked his left foot backwards and clipped

 the murderer under the chin with his heel. The man was out cold before touching ground.

  

 Leaping nimbly over his two fallen foes, Jules continued along his chosen path, even

 though each step took him that much further away from the ramp. Over to his left, a

 group of four men were cutting diagonally across the floor in an attempt to intercept his

 path. Running at top speed, Jules deliberately rammed his body into another stack of

 boxes, which fell slowly but hard into the middle of that group. The men had all been

 running too fast to be able to stop and dodge. Most of them were able to lift up their

 arms to fend off the falling boxes, but the sharp edge of one container caught one of the

 Chandakhari squarely across the top of his head, cutting open a large gash. The man fell

 to the floor under the weight of the box, blood oozing slowly from the cut.

  

 His intentional collision with the stack of boxes had also affected Jules' balance. He

 staggered a bit from the impact and was just about to recover when his foot slipped on

 one of the metal pieces from the first stack of boxes he'd knocked over. Trying

 desperately to recover his balance, he stumbled into another stack of boxes and got the

 wind knocked out of his lungs. He had to stand still for a second to recover from the

 blow.

  

 As he stood there for a moment, three more of the thugs came charging at him. He was

 able to sidestep one completely, and the man went running right past him into the same

 stack of crates Jules had just hit. The second man received a karate chop down on the

 back of his neck, and it snapped his spine; Jules was fighting for his life, now, and had no

 time to pull his punches. When be hit, it was with the full power of an angry DesPlainian.

  

 The third man just happened to tackle Jules' bad left leg, sending a stab of pain through

 the agent's body. The two men fell hard to the floor, but Jules quickly recovered from the

 initial shock of the encounter. Bringing up his right knee, he clipped his assailant under

 the chin and the man fell backwards. Jules rolled over and got quickly to his feet again,

 ready for more action.

  

 Although he had significantly reduced his opposition, he was still vastly outnumbered.

 Now that the initial surprise of his presence was wearing off, these Chandakhari were

 beginning to react as fighting units once more. Jules had had one taste already of how

 efficient they could be; he bad no desire for further demonstrations. They were traveling

 in packs now, circling in slowly and hoping to get the chance to use their special

 techniques on him. He bad to keep away from them as much as possible, for each

 second they slowed him down gave the mob that much more time to close in. He would

 never be able to escape from twenty determined stranglers if they all got their hands on

 him at once.

  

 The killers were coming toward him from three sides now-from the direction of the ramp

 and the direction exactly opposite it, and from the front where the group had been

 seated. That left him only the back wall to retreat to-a move which the enemy obviously

 expected. Not wishing to disappoint them, Jules made his way through the aisles of

 boxes to the back wall, then turned to face the attackers.

  

 They were moving toward him a bit more slowly now, confident of the final outcome and

 not wanting to spoil things by tipping their hand too quickly. Overreaction could be

 disastrous; they had their quarry boxed in and could afford to take the time to do it right.

  

 Jules faced slightly to his right, away from the direction of the ramp, and seemed to be

 giving that third of his attackers the majority of his attention. With his peripheral vision,

 however, he was keeping close tabs on the advancement of the group in front of him and

 to the left. Suddenly, when the positions were exactly right, he made his move.

  

 From a standing start, he began running straight at the group coming from his left. They

 were a bit startled at this direct assault, but they held their line firm and prepared to

 meet the onslaught. Jules built up as much speed as he could and, when he came within

 five meters of the killers, suddenly bent his legs under him and leaped through the air in a

 low arc over the heads of the startled group. One of the killers, a bit faster on the uptake

 than the rest, tried to jump up as Jules passed overhead and grab some part of his

 clothing to at least slow him up; all he received for his efforts, though, was a kick in the

 face as Jules used his aerialist's skills to twist about in midleap. The jumper fell violently

 back into the midst of his fellows, creating more pandemonium.

  

 The powerful muscles of Jules' legs acted as springs when he landed again, absorbing

 much of the shock of impact. He rolled over forward once to absorb most of the rest of

 the momentum, then, in one continuous motion, sprang to his feet and began running

 toward the ramp. There was no one to block his way now, no obstacles to overcome;

 Jules could concentrate purely on speed.

  

 And speed he did. On DesPlaines, Jules in his best form would have been considered a

 fast runner, though perhaps not a record holder. The recent injury to his leg slowed him

 down more. But on worlds with lower gravities, there was just no comparison. Jules was

 far and away the fastest man these crooks ever had or ever would see, a blur in human

 form. He had reached the ramp before any of the Chandakhari could even think to pursue

 him in that direction.

  

 They did try to give chase, of course. To a man they raced in the direction of the ramp

 and upward to the next level. But Jules had had too much of a jump on them and was

 moving far too fast, tired though he was from all the fighting. By the time the first ones

 reached the fourth level, the only trace left of Jules d'Alembert was the sound of his

 receding footsteps as he raced upward and out of the building.

  

 Garst was not pleased. Lessin, the man who had been Conducting the briefing in the

 warehouse before the interruption occurred, had gone straight to his boss with the news

 of the intruder. Now he was not so sure it was the safest thing he could have done.

  

 "To be spied on is one thing, but to have discovered the spy and let him get away is rank

 incompetence!" Garst's short, corpulent body was trembling with rage. Lessin knew

 those rages-in fact, had seen them directed at other people. The results were never

 pleasant, and he mentally braced himself for the punishment he knew would come.

  

 "We all tried," he began to apologize. "I've never seen a man move like that before. He

 was like a wild animal . .   .   . .

  

 "And you only outnumbered him thirty-three to one," Garst sneered. "Panna-cats have

 been caught barehanded at smaller odds than those. Your men are all well-trained and

 good at their jobs; most of them have been with us for years, yet you could not catch one

 simple person." He banged his palm with his fist in frustration.

  

 Lessin waited in silence for Garst's rage to blow over. Anything he could say would only

 add to the fury the other felt.

  

 At length, Garst's temper subsided a little. He turned his back on Lessin and walked

 around behind his large desk. "The question now is, who was that man? What kind of

 threat does he represent? Was he acting on his own, or are there others with him?.

  

 "The men from my Group Two know him. He started working at the docks with them a

 couple of days ago. He calls himself Georges duChamps and he's originally from

 DesPlaines. They had a bit of a problem with other workers in their outfit and this

 duChamps intervened a couple of times-both for and against them. They can't figure him

 out.

  

 "A DesPlainian, eh?" Garst settled himself behind his desk and drummed his fingers

 impatiently across the top. "Well, that may excuse some of your bungling; I've heard

 some pretty impressive things about them. But still-thirtythree to one. . . ." His voice

 trailed off and he shot Lessin a meaningful glance.

  

 The subordinate decided to leap into the conversational breach before Garst had much

 chance to contemplate further on the mishap. "I think he was just working on his own.

 He'd had a few brush-ups with my men, and was curious about them, that's all. After all,

 he couldn't be with the police    they wouldn't dare interfere with us. . . .

  

 "But we can't be sure!" Garst banged a fist down hard on the solid wood desktop. "In

 this business, Lessin, we can't afford to take any chances at all. Take nothing for

 granted. There are other constabularies than our own, you know. So far, I grant you,

 they have not seen fit to intercede in our business, because we've been careful not to be

 too greedy. A little trickle diverted from a wide stream is never missed. But there is

 always the possibility that we slipped up somewhere and alerted someone. We must

 take great pains to find out the truth and, if that is the case, to rectify our error as quickly

 as possible.

  

 Garst stood up once more and came around the desk to face his minion. "We must

 capture this duChamps fellow-alive. We have to question him to find out how much is

 known about us, so that we can assess the danger. If he is just a man on his own, well

 and good; he can be eliminated with no one being any the wiser. But if he is part of a

 larger force, more drastic measures will have to be taken. I hate to even think about that,

 but I know I'll have to.

  

 He glowered sternly at Lessin. "Since it was you who bungled this matter, I'll let you be

 the one to straighten it up. You will direct the search operations. I want every single man

 we've got to have a description of duChamps. I want every single hiding place searched

 beginning, of course, with his hotel room, though I doubt he'd be fool enough to return

 there. We'!! scour every centimeter of Vesa if we have to, but I want that duChamps

 found and brought to me alive. Is that understood?.

  

 It was indeed understood. Lessin was actually glad Garst had put him in charge of the

 search. It had been duChamps' fault that he'd had to come to Garst with this problem in

 the first place, and he had that debt of honor to pay off. He would find the DesPlainian,

 all right-and when he was finished, the spy would wish Garst had allowed Lessin to kill

 him right away.

  

 CHAPTER 8

 Vanished.

  

 Yvette got only about three hours' sleep following her chance meeting with Dak Lehman,

 and even that was spent fitfully sitting up in a chair, facing the door and starting at the

 slightest noise in the hall that might herald the return of the three men who had ambushed

 her on the starliner. They had caught her by surprise once, and she vowed that would

 never happen again. But this night was a false alarm; nothing untoward occurred.

  

 At 0930 she finally dragged herself out of the chair to get ready for her rendezvous with

 Dak. She had neglected to wipe off the makeup from last night and it bad gone gritty on

 her face. Added to that were the dark circles under her eyes and flyaway hair from

 sleeping in an awkward position. Taking a good look at herself in a mirror, she said, "Dak

 must be crazy; nobody in his right mind would ever want to marry someone who looks

 like that.

  

 She gave serious consideration to calling him at his hotel and breaking off the date, or

 even just standing him up without telling him anything. She hadn't told him where she was

 staying; he might never be able to find her again, and all their mutual problems would be

 solved. But, with a sigh, she realized she could never do that. She had promised to meet

 him, and promises were sacred things to a d'Alembert. Her family pride would not permit

 her the luxury of breaking this one.

  

 She spent an extra amount of care in making up her face this morning, and by the time

 she was finished much of the depression bad left her. The face that stared back at her in

 the mirror was no longer haggard, and she declared herself satisfied with the results; a

 less modest person would have realized that she was devastatingly beautiful. A quick

 look at the clock beside her bed told her that she'd spent entirely too much time on her

 makeup, though-it was just past 1030. Dressing quickly, she hurried out to the elevator

 tube and up to the lobby level to grab a jit. There would be no breakfast for her this

 morning, though perhaps Dak and she could go for lunch somewhere.

  

 She arrived at the appointed spot five minutes late, cursing her own tardiness and the

 complexity of Vesa's traffic. Yvette hated to be late for anything; it made her feel vaguely

 incompetent. She dashed out of her jit and into the crowded casino, where she began

 her search for Dak.

  

 She did not see him immediately, and began to pray that he would be late, too, so that

 he wouldn't notice her own tardiness. Even at this hour, though, the casino was quite

 crowded; Vesa, being an underground settlement, did not depend on the arbitrary

 rhythms of daylight and darkness, and was in bloom around the clock. Dak might have

 been here, saw that she wasn't here, and decided to mingle in the mob for a few minutes

 until she showed up.

  

 Yvette waited. One minute turned into five, then ten. Still there was no sign of Dak.

 Impatience began to play on her nerves, taking the form alternatively of anger and

 concern. How dare he keep me waiting? He was the one who wanted this meeting so

 badly. But what if he's hurt? What if he slipped in his bathtub and got a concussion.

  

 She began to feel very conspicuous standing there alone in the entranceway while people

 milled around her intent on their gambling. Finally deciding to take matters into her own

 bands, she walked over to a public telephone, inserted a twenty-kopek piece in the slot

 and called the Soyuz Hotel where Dak had told her he was staying. "Connect me with

 Gospodin Lehman's room, please," she said when the hotel operator answered.

  

 There was a momentary silence at the other end, then the voice came back, "I'm sorry,

 Gospodin Lehman has left.

  

 Yvette sighed with relief. "You mean he's on his way to an appointment.

  

 "I wouldn't know, gospozha.

  

 "Khorosho. Thank you." She rang off and went back to the casino to continue her waiting.

  

 She waited for half an hour longer, growing increasingly puzzled with each passing

 second. She knew it shouldn't take him more than fifteen minutes to get from his hotel to

 here. What could be keeping him.

  

 Could some other business have come up so pressing that he had to stand her up

 without notifying her? She was modest enough to think that a lot of other things could be

 more important to him than she was, but she remembered the pleading, desperate tone

 he had used yesterday while begging her to meet him. He had sincerely meant that, and

 it was hard to imagine anything coming between him and this so-desired date.

  

 But he wasn't here, and his hotel said he had left. Could there have been a traffic

 accident along the way? She looked outside and as far into the traffic tunnels as she

 could; there seemed to be no impediments to the flow of vehicles approaching the

 high-domed intersection out side the casino. For the moment she ruled out accident. But

 what was there left to explain his absence? Where was he? He couldn't have just

 vanished without a trace. . . .   `

  

 Suddenly, Yvette froze with horror. "Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed under her breath. "It can't

 be. It just can't!" But her logical mind told her that it all too easily could. What exactly had

 the hotel operator meant by saying he'd left? Suddenly, nothing was more important in

 the Universe to Yvette than finding out the, answer. Racing outside to the sidewalk, she

 flagged down a jit. "Soyuz Hotel," she told the driver breathlessly. The woman nodded

 and calculated the rate from here to there. Yvette stuffed a wad of bills into the driver's

 hand without even bothering to count them and went to the back of the jit to sit by herself

 and think.

  

 She found, though, that thinking was a difficult process at the moment. Her normally

 crisp, clear mind was drifting hopelessly in a sea of confusion, circling the problem

 without ever stopping to focus on it. She did not want to face the issue, even though she

 knew she'd have to in the immediate future. Her body was numb with fear, normally an

 alien emotion to her. Fear for herself was almost an unknown quantity, but fear for

 someone she cared about was a chilling thing.

  

 After seven eternities the jit pulled up in front of the Soyuz Hotel. Yvette prodded her

 shocked body into action. Running out of the jit and into the lobby, she raced up to the

 desk clerk on duty. "Do you have a Gospodin Lehman registered here?.

  

 The man checked his records. "We did. He checked out last night.

  

 "Gospodin Dak Lehman?" "That's correct.

  

 "What time last night?.

  

 The clerk consulted his records once more. "About 0130 hours.

  

 "Isn't that rather a strange time to be checking out?" "Not on Vesa," the clerk shrugged.

 "Time is meaningless here.

  

 "Did he leave any forwarding address?" Yvette asked, grasping at straws.

  

 "Sorry, none.

  

 The realization of what must have happened was worse than a physical kick in the

 stomach. This was not some meaningless statistic in a musty old police file; this was a

 flesh-and-blood man whom she happened to love very much. It couldn't be true.

  

 In desperation she ran to a public phone in the lobby and invested a small fortune in

 twenty-kopek pieces. She learned from Empress Spaceways, the company that owned

 the Empress Irene, that Dak Lehman had cashed in his return ticket and no, he had not

 bought one for a different date. Calls to every other transportation company servicing

 Vesa brought only negative results-Dak Lehman had not booked passage with any of

 them.

  

 Like hundreds of thousand of people before him, Dak Lehman had vanished from the

 surface of Vesa without a trace.

  

 When the conclusion was at last inescapable, Yvette sat down on the seat in the phone

 booth, turned her face toward the wall and cried. Damn it, it was supposed to be me,

 Dak, not you. I was the target. I could have fought them back. Why did they take you

 and not me.

  

 Her brain felt as though it would burst, and the wall she was facing held no answers for

 her. She sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes, letting the emotion wash over her.

 When her grief had been expended, she lifted her head and the tears stopped flowing.

 Once again she was the cold, calculating supersecret agent, dedicated to the Service of

 the Empire. But the icy fury lurking behind her eyes would give warning to all that she

 was no longer a lady to tangle with casually. Yvette d'Alembert was out for blood.

  

 She had started out of the booth when something across the hotel lobby caught her

 attention. Ducking back inside, she peered out through the crack in the door opening and

 watched the tall man she'd called Gaspard walk up to the desk and start a conversation

 with the clerk. From the way the clerk was shaking his head, it was a cinch that Gaspard

 was asking much the same thing Yvette had asked-and was getting much the same

 answer. Yvette hoped that the clerk wouldn't mention the woman who bad asked these

 same questions just a short while ago.

  

 Apparently he didn't; from her own conversation, Yvette recalled that the man

 volunteered no information if he could possibly avoid it. At any rate, Gaspard grimaced at

 the clerk's answers and walked abruptly away from the counter out of Yvette's viewing

 range. The SOTE operative gave him a fifteen-second count, then opened the door and

 stepped out of the booth.

  

 Gaspard was nowhere to be seen, so she surmised that be had left through the front

 door. Without a moment's indecision she went after him. He and his friends were her only

 lead right now; they knew more about Dak than they were telling. Perhaps her initial

 hunch was correct, that they were advance men for the conspiracy. But then why had

 this tall one been so upset that Dak was no longer at his hotel.

  

 At any rate, there were no other clues to follow. Even if her ambushing trio were not

 personally responsible for Dak's fate (she could not bring herself, even now, to think

 "death"), they had been following him around much more closely than she had. They must

 have seen something that could help her in her further search.

  

 Besides, she bad a debt to repay them . . . and a d'Alembert debts are always paid.

  

 Gaspard got on a lit driving eastward through one of the tunnels. Yvette was able to flag

 down an empty jit whose driver was more than delighted to take Yvette' s generous tip in

 return for following another shuttle. Yvette sat right behind her driver, her sharp eyes

 watching for any sign that her quarry was aware he was being followed, but the main

 was obviously too engrossed in his own thoughts for that.

  

 The ride was short and straight, only half a kilometer to the next domed intersection.

 There Gaspard got off and went into a sidewalk café. He emerged a few seconds later

 with a cup of hot liquid and a small tray of food. Finding a table all to himself, he sat and

 slowly nibbled at his lunch, with apparent unconcern for the passing of time. Yvette, who

 had gotten off her jit and walked across the street from the café, watched his actions

 through the mirror of her compact while she pretended to be making up her face. She

 decided he must be waiting for someone, probably one or both of his partners.

  

 Her guess was confirmed several minutes later when Murgatroyd joined him. By this

 time, Yvette had put away her compact and was observing the action across the street

 by watching the reflections in a shop window. The two men across the way did not say

 anything at first, and then began talking in low tones. As Gaspard explained his findings,

 Murgatroyd became slightly more agitated. By the time the third man-a nondescript

 fellow with gray-brown hair and a pencil-thin mustache-joined them, they were both

 pretty upset.

  

 The newcomer scowled when he was told the story. Abruptly, all three men stood up and

 walked out of the café. To Yvette's great relief they did not take a jit-it was too damned

 awkward trying to follow those infernal things each time-but walked instead down the

 street to the entrance of a small, inexpensive hotel called the Vesa Arms. Yvette, across

 the street, followed them, then crossed back to their side as they went into the hotel.

 She waited outside the door for ten seconds, then followed them inside.

  

 She came through the door just in time to see the three of them disappearing down an

 elevator tube, apparently going to one of the hotel's sleeping rooms. She had no way of

 knowing which level they were going to or what their room number was, but she knew

 how to find out.

  

 Think slut, she told herself. Unfastening the front of her jumpsuit almost down to the waist

 and draping the houppelande casually over her shoulder, she sauntered over to the hotel

 desk with a suggestive swing to her hips. She was perhaps a little overdressed to be a

 common dyevka, but she doubted the clerk would pay much attention to that detail.

  

 "You see them three guys that just walked through here?" she asked in as slangy an

 accent as she could muster, "Yeah," the clerk responded. "What about 'em?" "I gotta

 know their room number.

  

 "Why?" The clerk's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "It's business.

  

 "What kind of business would you have with them?" "Very personal business," Yvette

 winked. "If you know what I mean.

  

 The clerk knew very well what she meant. "If they wanted you with them, how come they

 didn't take you themselves?.

  

 Yvette winked again. "They, uh, didn't want to be seen with me in the lobby." Her voice

 took on a more desperate whine. "Look, tovarishch, you gotta help me out. Gospodin

 Ivanov and his two friends. . . .

  

 "His name's not Ivanov," the clerk said curtly. "They're all Ivanov to me. Anyway, he and

 his two friends asked me down to his room for a little while, only they left and forgot to

 tell me the number. It's dumb, I know, but some guys are like that. They'll be really mad

 if I don't get down there soon, and if they learn that you wouldn't give me their room

 number. . . ." Her tone of voice implied that dire things might happen. "Twenty rubles,"

 the clerk said.

  

 "You're crazy!" Yvette exclaimed. "I'm only gettin' a hundred myself. I ain't givin' no

 drappin' twenty percent commission to no drappin' hotel clerk! Ten roobs is it!" Actually,

 Yvette could have paid the twenty and considered it a bargain; but she had to stay

 believably in character, and the clerk might have been suspicious if she hadn't argued.

  

 The man behind the desk paused, then nodded. "Smooth, ten. In advance." His palm

 snaked out toward her across the counter.

  

 "Muttering something about "drappin' blackmail," Yvette fished deep into her purse and

 pulled out a ten-ruble bill. The desk clerk accepted it with an oily grin and said, "Room

 412. Have a good time.

  

 "Go bite yourself," Yvette retorted as she swiveled her hips over to the down elevator

 tube. As she dropped on a cushion of air to the fourth level she did allow herself a tight

 little smile for an act well done. The professional in her was pleased with her

 performance, though the woman part had little to be happy about at the moment.

  

 The hallway on the fourth level was narrow, but deserted. Dim overhead lighting did little

 to illuminate the faded red carpet underfoot or the paint that was peeling off the wall in

 large chunks. The dead smell of old dopesticks lingered through the corridor, causing

 Yvette's sensitive nostrils to wrinkle in disgust. Somehow, the place just seemed to fit the

 characters of the three men she was after.

  

 Room 412 was down the hall to her left as she emerged from the tube. Sneaking silently

 up to it, she put her ear to the door and listened. The sound of three male voices in

 conversation was plain; though she couldn't make out too many individual words, the fact

 that they were arguing about something was readily apparent.

  

 After placing her houppelande on the floor and backing off from the door as far as the

 narrow hallway would allow, Yvette charged the portal at top speed. She hit the door

 with the full strength of her seventy-kilogram DesPlainian body and the door, made only

 of cheap rikwood, gave way. As it burst inward, Yvette d'Alembert blew like a whirlwind

 into the room.

  

 The three men inside never had a chance. Gaspard and Murgatroyd were seated on the

 bed, while the third -who appeared to be their boss-sat on a chair facing them. Surprised

 as they were by Yvette's sudden entrance, they had no time to move before she was on

 top of them. Murgatroyd was dispatched immediately with a sharp blow at the base of

 his neck. Gaspard turned his bead toward her just in time to get a knee jerked savagely

 into his face. As he doubled over with the pain, Yvette grabbed the back of his shirt and

 used it to fling him against the wall, where he hit his head and slumped to the floor,

 unconscious.

  

 The third man had a moment to rise from his chair and reach into his jacket, fishing for a

 gun. Yvette was over to him in a flash, grabbed his wrist before he could withdraw his

 weapon and smashed it down hard against her knee. The man howled with pain as his

 wrist bone cracked, but Yvette's store of mercy was all used up. Grasping her opponent

 tightly by the front of his jacket, she hauled him into the room's tiny bathroom and shut

 the door behind her.

  

 "Things are a little different than the last time we met," she said harshly, pulling the man's

 stun-gun out of his jacket. "This time I can say a few things, too, although you like talking

 so much that I think IT !et you do most of it.

  

 Taking off her left shoe, she pulled the heel off and took a small hyposprayer from a

 secret compartment. "I'm going to ask you a few questions now," Yvette continued

 coldly, "and I'm in no mood for funny answers. I presume you know what I've got in this

 sprayer?.

  

 The man trembled as he eyed the clear fluid. "N-nitrobarb," he guessed. It had to be.

 Nitrobarb was the number-one most effective truth serum known to man. It was

 impossible for anyone to lie under its influence. It also had a fifty percent mortality rate,

 which was why it was on the proscribed list. Mere possession of it was a capital offense.

  

 Yvette gave him a frozen smile. "I'm glad you said that; I dislike admitting to a felony.

 Now then, I can administer what I have in this hyposprayer to you, or you can talk

 voluntarily. The choice is entirely up to you. Which will it be?.

  

 "You can put it away. I'll talk," the man said, cradling his right wrist tenderly with his other

 hand. "I never wanted any trouble, honest. I'm just trying to do a job.

  

 "Is attacking innocent women in their staterooms part of your job?" Yvette sneered. "Let

 me have the whole story. Who are you and what's your connection with Dak Lehman?.

  

 "My name's Myerson. My partners and I are with Cosmos Investigations.

  

 "A detective?" This unexpected news made Yvette knit her brow in perplexity. "Can you

 prove that?.

  

 "My ID card's in my jacket pocket." He started to reach for it with his left hand, but

 Yvette waved his gun at him and he froze in mid-motion.

  

 "I'll get it," she said, and reached into his pocket for his wallet. Sure enough, she found

 the identification card, together with photo and retinal pattern, stating that Rolf Myerson

 was a licensed investigative agent under the laws of the planet Largo. This was a

 development she did not like at all.

  

 "I still don't see where it says you have the right to break and enter.

  

 "Do you have that right?" Myerson glared at her.

  

 "I have the gun," Yvette said coolly, "which at the moment gives me the right. I'm not

 here to argue ethics. I want to know why you were after Dak Lehman.

  

 "His wife hired us to look after him. She . . ." "Wife? He said nothing to me about any

 wife." "Some married men neglect details like that. They were going to be divorced

 anyway. The two of them own equal shares in the computer firm, though he was the

 nominal head of the corporation. Gospozha Lehman heard a few rumors that her

 husband was coming to Vesa to have a secret meeting with someone and sell corporate

 secrets that would have made her stock in the company worthless. So she hired us to

 keep an eye on her husband and make sure that no such deals took place.

  

 "But wouldn't he have been cutting his own throat? If the corporate stock became

 worthless, wouldn't that ruin him as well?.

  

 "He had managed to accumulate, under a variety of other names, a large portfolio of

 holdings. We thought he felt he could afford to make this spiteful gesture." "Does he hate

 his wife that much?.

  

 "In the initial divorce proceedings he's accused her of numerous infidelities. She hasn't

 denied any of them, so far as I know." Myerson's voice was fiat; Gospozha Lehman may

 have bought his time and services, but not his loyalty.

  

 Yvette considered this latest development. Despite the fact that she'd been unprepared

 for it, it did seem to make a good deal of sense. Myerson's men had always been

 primarily concerned with Dak; they had not paid any attention to Yvette until she started

 seeing the man they were following. Even then, they followed a very cautious approach,

 trying merely to scare her off when they were afraid she might be getting too close to

 Dak. She remembered how easily they could have killed her in her suite if they had

 wanted to do so.

  

 And she remembered all the little discrepancies in Dak's behavior. When she had asked

 him about other women in his life he had skated neatly around the question-and she had

 known then he was covering something up. Again, all the little false starts and hesitations

 in their conversations, as though there were some secret he wanted to tell her but was

 afraid to reveal. Having a wife -a mean, vindictive, unfaithful woman-back on Largo could

 very well have been preying on his conscience as he charmed a lovely widow aboard the

 Empress Irene.

  

 The more she thought about it, the more she realized that Myerson's story was probably

 the truth. Damn! she thought. I was so hoping he'd turn out to be one of the killers. I

 would have loved to bash his brains out against a wall.

  

 "What's happened to Gospodin Lehman now?" she asked, trying to keep her voice as

 even and emotionless as before. "Why did he leave his hotel?.

  

 "You know as much about that as I do. The last we know, Lansky saw him boarding a jit

 with a friend he met in one of the casinos. Lansky overheard something about a private

 party, but he didn't know where it was. He tried following, but these damned jits are so

 elusive that he lost him. Then this morning we find that he vanished last night completely,

 taking all his worldly possessions with him-which means I'll lose out on my fee for this

 deal. Gospozha Lehman'll never pay us for losing him.

  

 He looked straight into Yvette's face. "If you ask me, I think we've both been bummed. I

 think he made his contact and vanished into the night, literally, leaving you and me both

 holding the bag.

  

 "Yeah," Yvette said cynically. "But I think you and your two friends had better get off

 Vesa fast, on the next ship to anywhere. I have your stunner, now, and I know how to

 use it. Next time I see any of your ugly faces, I will. You can take that as a promise."

 She tucked the hyposprayer back into the heel of her shoe, turned and walked out of the

 hotel room. Within seconds she was in an elevator tube going down to the seventh level.

 If Myerson should decide to come looking for her, be would expect her to go up to the

 lobby.

  

 The hallway on the seventh floor was an exact duplicate of that on the fourth. Tucking the

 detective's stungun inside her purse, Yvette paced up and down the carpeted hall, much

 as she'd seen her brother do any number of times in the past. Jules always said he

 thought better on his feet, but after trying it for a while Yvette came to the conclusion that

 it only tired out the legs without aiding the brain. Finally she sat crosslegged on the floor

 and leaned back against the wall.

  

 Myerson's theory would have been a logical one, if that was all there was to the

 situation. But Yvette knew there was more than that. Dak's disappearance fit too closely

 into the pattern that had already been established over the past twenty years. A person

 comes to Vesa, then suddenly vanishes without leaving. All worldly possessions vanish

 with him. Of course, Dak Lehman could have bought a ticket under an assumed name if

 he felt that he was being followed . . . but again, this disappearance matched too well

 with all the others. They couldn't all have been selling corporate secrets.

  

 Yvette sighed. She bad been hoping so much that Myerson and company had been with

 the killers; it would have solved a lot of problems and given her new leads. She would tell

 the Head about Myerson when she got back and his license would be revoked for

 unethical conduct, but for now she was right back at the start again. Dak was gone, she

 was untouched, and there was not the faintest clue as to who was responsible for what

 was happening.

  

 Absolutely nothing.

  

 CHAPTER 9

 The Not-So-Great Escape

  

 Jules did not return to his hotel room following his narrow escape from the warehouse.

 To do so, he knew, would be tantamount to suicide. The Chandakhari he had worked

 with would have recognized him in the melee, and it would be a simple matter for them to

 check his work records and discover his address. He mentally wrote off that room as a

 loss; nothing of any great importance was kept there, and they would find no clues to his

 real identity if they searched it. All his crucial supplies were kept in a public locker at the

 spaceport terminal.

  

 He was able to hail a passing jit as he raced out of the warehouse, and vanished into one

 of the traffic tunnels before any of the people chasing him had even emerged from the

 building. For the moment he was safe, but he could continue to be so only as long as he

 kept a couple of jumps ahead of the opposition. Leaning back in his seat, he let the

 gentle swaying motion of the jit relax his body, which was still tense from the surges of

 adrenalin. Once he had calmed the physical part of him he turned to the mental.

  

 Georges duChamps would have to disappear, there was no question about it. He hated

 having to desert Laz Fizcono when the foreman was already shorthanded, but his duty to

 the Empire came first. Certainly he could not show up for work without inviting the same

 kind of "accident" that had befallen Rask.

  

 It was equally certain that he would have to leave Vesa. These killers obviously had a

 widespread conspiracy that enveloped the whole moon, and they would not take kindly to

 being spied upon. They would turn Vesa upside down in their efforts to find him and, with

 his distinctive DesPlainian body, he couldn't disguise himself well enough to ensure

 anonymity.

  

 He toyed with the thought of joining forces with Yvette, now that his cover in the lower

 part of Vesa's society was broken. He knew where she was supposed to be staying, and

 it would be easy enough to get in touch with her. The thought of working together with

 her was a warming one; they had always been very close, and they worked at their best

 as a team when they could bounce ideas off one another. And with the killers now

 looking for him so avidly, the two of them could set a trap and catch some of them. A

 quick shot of nitrobarb would then help them track down the rest of the mob.

  

 But after some thought he vetoed that idea. Yvette was in the middle of her own

 investigation; she had her own goals and her own cover identity. It would not be fair of

 him to interrupt her work just because he'd messed up his own assignment. They had

 agreed to try a twopronged attack on the problem in the hopes of solving it that much

 faster. It still was a sound strategy, if he worked it right.

  

 Besides, he had learned something crucial in the warehouse. Every single one of the

 murderers assembled there had been a Chandakhar male. Some of them were rather

 old, and a few, like Radapur, were quite young. Obviously there was some way killers

 were recruited into this conspiracy, and just as obviously the recruitment was occurring

 down on the surface of Chandakha. Clearing out all the murders on Vesa would do no

 good if the factory for producing more of them was left untouched. Chandakha, then,

 would have to be his next stop. But he would need some help.

  

 He went to the spaceport, got his things from the locker and checked into a nearby hotel.

 The instant he was alone be activated his room's vidphone and placed an intrasystem call

 down to a very private number on Chandakha.

  

 After a minute the connection was made, and the screen lit up with the face of a very

 attractive lady. She also appeared to be a native of Cbandakha; she had a dark

 complexion, brown eyes and long black hair that had just the slightest tipping of gray to

 it. There were a few lines of responsibility and worry to her face, but they enhanced

 rather than subtracted from her beauty. Her age could be anywhere from thirty-five to

 sixty, it was impossible to tell. This would be Marask Kantana, the Service's chief for

 Chandakha and Vesa.

  

 "Who's there?" she asked peering into her screen, for Jules had kept the video part of

 his transmission turned off. "What do you want?"

  

 Jules said only one word: "Wombat.

  

 The effect of that word on Kantana was startling. She had been given prior warning that

 agents Wombat and Periwinkle would be conducting investigations in her area, and that

 she was to give them all the assistance they required. Even had she not been told in

 advance, however, the effect would have been the same; those two code names were

 legendary in the Service, and commanded instant obedience. From a proud woman used

 to issuing orders, Kantana's visage shifted to one of complete subservience. "What can I

 do for you?" she asked.

  

 "I'm on Vesa at the moment and I need to get down to Chandakha without being seen.

 The spaceport will be watched. What do you suggest?.

  

 "There's my private ship," Kantana replied without hesitation. "I could fly up to Vesa for

 the day, and you could come back packed in my trunk-at least until we got you inside the

 ship.

  

 "Smooth." Jules decided instantly that he liked this woman. She thought quickly, and had

 a no-nonsense approach to her job. No wonder the Head spoke so highly of her, he

 thought.

  

 They arranged the details of the pickup in code, though Jules strongly doubted whether

 the murderers had the capacity to intercept or interpret this call. They had shown no

 previous inclination to get involved on a political level, preferring to commit their crimes in

 as quiet and businesslike a manner as possible. Then, when the call was over, Jules

 leaned back on his bed to rest and think.

  

 Six hours later, Gospozha Kantana's personal spacecraft docked on Vesa. She took her

 luggage, which consisted of a small briefcase and a large trunk, to a hotel room that was

 customarily set aside for her periodic trips to the moon. She left her things in the room

 and went out for a couple of hours' recreation at the casino.

  

 When she returned to her room, Jules was waiting for her. She gave him a polite nod of

 the head and sat down in a chair in one corner of the room. It would be up to Jules to

 speak first.

  

 "I've been going over these," he began. holding up a couple of spools of tape. He had

 requested that she bring up what files the Service had on the seven Chandakhari he had

 worked with. "I think I've discovered a common pattern to them, and I'd like your advice

 on the matter.

  

 "My office is at your complete disposal, as you know." Jules shifted his weight on the

 bed where he sat. "Each of these men had a criminal record before coming to Vesa.

 Each came from a large family, of which he was either the sole or principal support-even

 Radapur, who was only about twenty Earth years old.

  

 "None of those facts is at all unusual on Chandakha," Kantana said matter-of-factly. "It is

 not a pleasant place to live. It's a tropical world, and only one of its five continents is

 habitable by humans; the rest are hellholes and breeding grounds for insects and

 plagues. Even the one continent where we can live is ravaged periodically by rainstorms,

 droughts, floods and insect swarms.

  

 "Whichever bureaucrat came up with the idea of colonizing Chandakha decided that it

 could best be done by using people who were already accustomed to these problems.

 As a result, most of the colonists-my ancestors included-were recruited from the Indian

 subcontinent of Earth and transplanted here. Some of our customs were brought over,

 some were dropped and new ones were created. The caste system, which lingered on in

 India even after it was officially abolished, is almost nonexistent here, though you still find

 traces every so often. But one problem that took root here was overpopulation, which we

 nearly had licked by the twenty-second century. We have it worse now than it's ever

 been.

  

 "It's not uncommon for a married couple here to have twenty or twenty-five children

 during their lifetime. With modern medicine; most of those survive. At first, there was

 plenty of land to go around, but we've been here three centuries now. Family parcels are

 being whittled down, until now the average family is hard-pressed to support itself.

  

 "Many people, fed up with farm life, move into the cities. But it's even worse there. We

 have little heavy industry, since all the resorces of this continent are used to feed

 ourselves, and the other continents can't be mined. Jobs are scarce, but people have to

 live. Crime is the one profession they can turn to. It's been estimated that at least one

 person in ten on Chandakha makes most of his living by illegal means. In the cities, that

 ratio can be as high as four in ten.

  

 Jules was flabbergasted by this revelation. "But who do they steal from?.

  

 "The honest people. Each other. Anyone and everyone." Though Kantana's voice was

 even, the look behind her eyes showed her true feelings. This was a sympathetic woman

 who had long borne the burden of these people's problems even though, in her exalted

 position as chief of the local SOTE office, she could have ignored them.

  

 Jules was shaking his head. "I find it hard to believe that conditions like these could exist

 in the Empire today. The Emperor can't condone these things." He remembered his one

 meeting with His Imperial Majesty Stanley Ten-an old man, yes, but sharp-witted and

 deeply caring for the people be ruled.

  

 Kantana's voice was without bitterness. "The Emperor is very busy and very far away.

 Chandakha is very peaceful, no threat to him or the Empire. When a man rules over

 thirteen hundred planets he has to govern by crisis; the quiet problems get overlooked.

 Besides, the problem has only really begun to emerge in the last fifty years; we've had a

 string of undistinguished dukes who've fumbled around without accomplishing anything.

 The present duke is only thirteen, and. . . ." She stopped abruptly. "I'm terribly sorry. You

 didn't come here to listen to my problems or Chandakha's. You've . . . we've got a case

 to solve, and the sooner we get onto that, the better.

  

 Jules put his shock at the conditions on Chandakha to the back of his mind. Kantana was

 right; they bad work to do. "What I'm thinking," he said, "is that there is a regular

 program of recruitment going on. This conspiracy picks out people who already have

 criminal tendencies and who have large families to support-men who are desperate

 enough to do anything for money. They can be trained to be callous about anything, even

 wholesale murder, if the incentive's right.

  

 "If ever there was a recruiter's paradise for that sort of thing," Kantana agreed,

 "Chandakha is it. In fact, as far as I can see, the hardest part of a recruiter's job would

 be choosing from an almost limitless number of candidates.

  

 Jules brooded on that for a bit. "Then what we have to do," he said at last, "is to make

 sure I'm an irresistible candidate for them.

  

 Before leaving Vesa, Jules phoned and bad an ad placed in the personal column of the

 major newsroll: Chandakha sings a siren song. The natives are restless. Frenchie Yvette

 would know from that that her brother had gone down to the planet's surface, and that

 Chandakhari were somehow involved. He hated being so mysterious, but she had her

 own independent investigation to perform, -and he didn't want to prejudice her findings.

 At least she would know he was all right; if she had any further questions she could

 contact Kantana, just as he did.

  

 The transfer to Kantana's ship was accomplished smoothly, with Jules riding inside her

 capacious trunk. The trunk was carried aboard ship through the passenger ramp; Jules

 was jarred a bit, but he got past any possible spies at the spaceport without detection.

 As Kantana piloted them down on the short flight to Chandakha, she and Jules discussed

 his upcoming transformation into a leading criminal of the planet.

  

 The physical part would be the hardest. Jules' light brown hair, fair skin and gray eyes

 would never pass muster but Kantana assured him she had makeup experts at her

 disposal who could administer skin and hair dyes that would last for several weeks.

 Service opthalmologists could also dye his eyes temporarily to a more passable brown.

 As for his distinctively DesPlainian physique, Kantana assured him that the standard garb

 on Chandakha was a loosefitting garment cut like a caftan. By taking certain pills to

 promote water retention, Jules could make most of his musculature look like just plain

 flab. Sleep tapes helped him learn the local dialect in six nights.

  

 Being more familiar with the culture of the planet, Kantana invented Jules' background.

 He would be Har Koosman, twenty-eight, a family man with a wife and nine children to

 support. He had lived all his life in Calpuna, the second largest city on the planet, and had

 been in and out of jails since he was sixteen-she could fake the records for that easily

 enough, and the local police would cooperate with her fully. Two months ago, he had

 gotten into his most serious trouble by trying to break into the estate of the Baron of

 Calpuna and steal his jewels. He was discovered and captured-but not before he had

 killed two of the Baron's guards attempting to escape. He was imprisoned in solitary

 confinement in Calpuna for a while, but managed to escape. He had just been recaptured

 and the Service, acting at the request of the Baron, had stepped in to assist the local

 police. Koosman was now being transferred to the Imperial prison at Bhangora,

 Chandakha's largest city, where security would be a lot stricter. "And," as Kantana

 pointed out, "where no one would be expected to know a criminal from Calpuna.

  

 Har Koosman paced his small cell impatiently. He had been locked in with a man named

 Passar, a tiny man about forty years old with the face of a weasel and eyes permanently

 hardened to criminal activities. "Passar has connections all through the underworld,"

 Kantana had told Jules. "If he doesn't know how to get you through to the recruiters, no

 one will.

  

 "I've got to get out of here," Jules muttered as he paced. He turned to look at Passar.

 "You know this area better than I do, you must know a way out.

  

 The older man chuckled grimly. "If I knew, would I still be here?.

  

 "There must be a way out. No prison is escape proof." "True enough, tovarishch. Men

 have escaped from here before. But they thought up their plans over the course of

 months. You just got here this morning, what can you expect?.

  

 Jules shook his head. "I've got a wife and nine kids, two aged parents and a

 brother-in-law, none of whom can support themselves. I'm alone in a strange city, without

 a friend to my name, being held on a charge of murder. What am I going to do?" Jules

 sat down on the edge of the crude bunk he'd been provided and buried his face in his

 hands.

  

 "I'll tell you what you won't do," said Passar, becoming annoyed. "You won't bore me any

 more with the tearful story of your problems. I've been in and out of jails for thirty years,

 and I've had so many people sob on my shoulder that it's permanently soggy. Every cell

 in this building has men who, by their own admission, shouldn't be there, and each has a

 tale as pitiful as yours. This cell is three meters wide and four long; if you intend to share

 it peacefully with me, you will keep your damned mouth shut and stop your wail of

 self-pity.

  

 "Why you miserable little bastard," Jules let his anger flare. "How dare you talk to me like

 that? I'll kill you!" And with that, he surged off his cot and over to where his cellmate was

 seated.

  

 His large powerful hands closed over the smaller man's throat. To Passar it felt as

 though the newcomer was using all his strength in a murderous rage, though in truth

 Jules was using but a tenth of what he could have. He certainly didn't want to kill Passar,

 though the other had to think he would.

  

 Passar had just enough warning and enough air left in his lungs to yell for the guard. He

 tried beating Jules off, but his blows were very light and struck uselessly on the

 attacker's toughened bide. Jules shifted position slightly, in what looked like an attempt

 to gain a better grip but what was actually a chance to let Passar get more air in his

 lungs to scream. The weaselly little criminal did so with gratifying volume.

  

 "What's going on here?" came a voice from outside the cell. A large, burly guard stood

 there, his stun-gun drawn and aimed at the participants in the struggle. He was trying to

 get a clear shot at Jules, but in another second he would fire at both men, on the theory

 that stunning both of them would ease the problem and allow him time to sort out the

 bodies in peace afterwards.

  

 Before he could fire, through, Jules suddenly dropped Passar and lunged with his arm

 through the bars at the guard. He caught the man's unhand and, with a vicious yank,

 pulled the guard towards him. The man hit his bead hard against the metal bars and was

 knocked unconscious. He would have slumped to the. floor had not Jules held his body

 upright. The stun-gun dropped from the guard's limp hand onto the floor of the cell, but

 Jules was much more interested in the other gun the guard had carried-a Mark Twenty

 blaster. Stretching his other hand between the bars, he pulled the heavy weapon out of

 the guard's holster. Then he let the man's body fall to the ground.

  

 Wasting no time, Jules turned the blaster's sizzling beam on the lock mechanism of the

 cell. Within three seconds the lock had been burned away. The DesPlainian kicked open

 the door, picked up the stun-gun as well and turned back to the startled Passar, who had

 watched the action while cowering in his bunk. "Thanks," Jules told him. "I needed a

 commotion to draw the guard's attention, and it bad to seem realistic." He stepped out of

 the cell. "Be seeing you.

  

 "What about me?" Passar called after him.

  

 Jules shrugged. "Door's open. You're free to try a break, too, if you want.

  

 Passar's weasel brain was working overtime. "You'll never be able to get out of here

 alone, and neither will I. You don't know the layout and I don't have a gun. Together,

 though, we stand a chance.

  

 Though Jules pretended to consider that, it was actually exactly what he'd hoped for. The

 entire escape scene had been choreographed for Passar's benefit, with the guard being

 part of the drama. Ordinarily the man would never have stood within arm's length of the

 prisoners like that, and he would have stunned first and asked questions later. But the

 breakout had to look realistic enough so that Passar wouldn't smell a trap. Jules needed

 Passar, all right. Not to help him escape, as the old man thought Jules could have walked

 unmolested out of the prison, and he'd memorized its floor plan; instead, he needed

 Passar as a passport to whoever was recruiting the murderers.

  

 "Khorosho, but hurry it up," he snarled. "The alarms must have gone off in the front office

 by now.

  

 "Of course they have, the instant that door was opened," Passar said, racing out of the

 cell. "Let's go this way." "But the front entrance is that way," Jules protested, pointing in

 the opposite direction. "I remember that much from when they brought me in.

  

 "Sure-and that's exactly the direction they'll expect us to go. This way's the laundry

 chute; they won't look for us in there right away." He pulled at Jules' sleeve. "Come on.

  

 Jules followed the older man down the narrow corridors of cells. They passed plenty of

 other prisoners who watched them go by silently. Some of the men gave Jules the high

 sign as he went by, wishing him luck and wishing they could be along. None of them

 would utter a sound or do anything to ruin his chances of escape. Such was the

 camaraderie of prison life.

  

 The sound of running footsteps came from the hall ahead of them. Passar found them a

 small side door and they turned into it just as a group of guards appeared at the far end

 of the hallway. While Jules and his partner scarcely dared breathe, the squad ran past

 their hiding place and back down the corridor the pair had just come from. Passar waited

 several seconds to make sure they'd all be gone, then burst out of the room and

 continued on his way. Jules was right behind him, brandishing his weapons menacingly.

  

 They came to the laundry chute. Passar opened it up and slid down it without hesitation;

 again, Jules was right on his tai!. Together the two men tumbled down the metal slide

 and landed with a soft whoosh amid a pile of smelly old prison uniforms. Climbing quickly

 out of the bin, they looked around.

  

 It was Passar who found what they needed-some guard's uniforms that had been stained

 and were sent here for quick cleaning. Jules found one his size and was starting to get

 into it when an inmate-a trusty, no doubt-came around the corner. Before he could do

 much more than register his surprise, Jules had given him a light stun. As he fell to the

 floor, Jules continued dressing.

  

 There were no uniforms in Passar's size, so they hastily devised a plan. "I'll be a guard

 transporting you to another cell block," Jules said. "If we play it right, no one'll give us a

 second glance. Which way do we go?.

  

 "'That way's out." Passar pointed to a small locked door that led out the side of the

 laundry area. A short blast from Jules' gun and the door was no longer a barrier. The two

 men walked out into the yard, Passar a little ahead with Jules holding the stun-gun on

 him.

  

 There was great confusion in the yard as guards rats around everywhere, trying to look

 as though they did not know exactly what was going on. Actually, Jules' and Passar's

 actions had been monitored each step of the way, and all the guards had been told that

 the breakout was scheduled. Their major concern was to see that none of the other

 prisoners took advantage of the situation and tried any breaks on their own.

  

 A number of guard cars had been scattered about the yard. Jules and Passar took the

 one that looked the fastest and got in. "We'll never get out the gates, though," Passar

 was muttering. "They close automatically at an escape attempt, and can only be opened

 from a guard station.

  

 "Stop sniveling," Jules snapped at him. "I'm a guard now myself, remember? And I've got

 a couple of guns." As he drove up to the gate, he said, "Get down on the floor where

 they can't see you. I've got an idea." Passar did as he was told, and Jules stopped in

 front of the closed steel gate. A guard came over to him and recognized him instantly as

 the man he was supposed to let escape. Nevertheless, he had to make it look good.

 "Where are you going?" he asked.

  

 "The warden wants me to patrol the perimeter," Jules said. "He thinks they may have

 found a way to get outside the walls, and he wants me driving around to see if I can spot

 anything." He also winked at the guard, a gesture Passar could not see from his position

 on the floor.

  

 The guard gave an imperceptible nod and said, "Khorosho, pass through." With a wave

 of his hand he signaled his companion in the booth to open the gate. As the monstrous

 steel doors swung wide, Jules gave him a wave of his hand and drove quickly outside.

 He started around the wall until he was out of sight of the sentry, then tore off across the

 open countryside in the direction of Bhangora.

  

 Passar climbed up off the floor to sit beside Jules again. "I didn't think it'd work," he said.

 "I thought you had to have special papers or something to get out.

  

 "Aah, we got them so confused right now they don't know what they're doing," Jules

 excused.

  

 "In any event, we won't have more than a couple of minutes before they realize we're

 gone," Passar said. "Better gun it to Bhangora. That way." He pointed, and Jules drove

 obediently in the indicated direction. From here on, he'd have to let Passar lead him if he

 intended to get where he wanted to go.

  

 Three minutes later, Passar, who'd been checking out the window behind them, said,

 "They're on our tail." Indeed they were. At least a dozen police cruisers were chasing

 them, making a pretense at trying to recapture them. Jules hit the accelerator as hard as

 he could and the escapees' car zoomed ahead at maximum speed. Jules' reflexes were

 superb, and he drove the car like an extension of himself. On the seat beside him, he

 knew that Passar was sitting white-knuckled at the recklessness of his driving. All part of

 the atmosphere, Jules thought, smiling inwardly.

  

 If this were a real jailbreak, of course, there would be roadblocks ahead of them as well

 as pursuit from behind. There would be copters and personal flyers spotting them from

 the air, possibly even dropping small gas bombs. But this break was programmed to

 succeed, and it couldn't be made too difficult. At the same time, those cars to their rear

 had to be used so that it wouldn't look too easy to the suspicious Passar. The main point

 was that events had to move so fast that he wouldn't have time to think; he would have to

 accept events at their face value. For five minutes they zipped along country roads and

 through open fields where families of peasants were tending their crops. After that,

 though, they reached the edges of the city. Houses became bigger and more closely

 spaced; other types of buildings-factories, shops, grocery stores-began to make their

 appearance. People were more prevalent, too, walking along the sides of the road,

 carrying bundles, engaging in commerce. Despite his desire to hurry, Jules had to slow

 down to avoid hitting any of the pedestrians.

  

 "We'll have to ditch the car soon," Passar said. "They'll have tracers on us in a little while.

 We're getting into a neighborhood I know, though, so we'll be able to find hiding spots

 until some of the heat's off." He began directing Jules along the proper course.

  

 They were definitely within the city now, and Jules' speed had been reduced practically

 to a crawl. The houses to either side were dirty and ill-kept. Windows were shattered

 more often than not. Children played naked in the streets, their shouts and squeals

 echoing down the canyons of buildings. Wash hung from lines that were strung across

 the streets themselves, sometimes only a meter or two above the tops of passing

 vehicles. The clothes could not get completely clean that way, but no one seemed to

 care very much.

  

 The people living in the houses, though, were the lucky ones. The sidewalks were

 jammed sometimes two or three deep with people and their belongings. Tattered old

 blankets stretched out on the ground served some people as mattresses. Others lay

 down just in the hard-packed dirt or mud. Small fires were set right out at the edge of the

 street, where soup kettles seemed to be constantly boiling. Everywhere was the look of

 starvation and apathy. Jules shuddered to think of it, but kept his disgust hidden; as Har

 Koosman, such sights should be as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror.

  

 At length they came to a spot where the street was frankly impassable. The press of

 people had become so great that they simply overflowed the sidewalks into the

 thoroughfare, and no vehicle could hope to get through. Jules looked at Passar for

 advice, but the latter only shrugged. "We'd've had to go on foot from here, anyhow," the

 older man said.

  

 Jules stripped off his guard uniform to the caftan beneath it and the two escapees

 jumped from their car, leaving it stopped in the middle of the street to be stolen by

 anyone passing by. Passar started running through the crowd, slipping between the

 people who jammed the path as though he were a boneless figure. There obviously was

 an art to dodging through crowds like this, but it was one that Jules had not mastered.

 Try though he did to follow Passar's motions exactly, be found himself knocking people

 over or stepping on their feet as he raced along after his companion. Every few meters

 he would have to leap over the body of someone sleeping or, possibly, dead on the

 sidewalk. How he managed to keep Passar in sight while maneuvering through the throng

 he was never sure afterwards; somehow, though, desperation gave him the extra edge

 he needed.

  

 Passar never looked back to see whether Jules was following him or not. He assumed,

 probably, that Jules was as adept at street running as he was, and consequently didn't

 see how clumsy his partner really was. That might have broken Jules' cover right there.

 But Passar's attention was focused on two things-first, to get them lost in the crowd as

 thoroughly as possible so that the police following them would not be able to find them;

 and second, to take them to a place of refuge.

  

 At last, Passar turned off the main streets and into a back alley that ran between two

 rows of buildings. He raced about a third of the way down the row, then descended a

 short flight of stairs to a basement door. Jules broke free of the crowd in the streets and,

 with an extra burst of speed, managed to catch up with the older man enough to make

 him think he'd been right behind all the time.

  

 Passar gave two quick raps on the door, paused, gave another rap, paused again, then

 gave one more rap. The door swung inward, and Passar and Jules slid inside into a

 darkened room. At first, Jules could not see a thing, his eyes being accustomed to the

 glare of the light outside; but as his eyes became adjusted to the gloom he could see

 that they were in a storage cellar. Racks of bottles ran the length of the room, with large

 stacks of boxes scattered in the aisles between the racks.

  

 "Where are we?" Jules asked.

  

 "Safe," Passar said ambiguously. "It don't pay you to know more than that.

  

 Jules took the hint and shut up. The place must be a bar or cocktail lounge, judging from

 all the bottles piled around. It was also a hiding place of some repute, because the door

 had opened immediately at Passar's knocks, indicating it was constantly manned. On a

 planet where crime was as rife as on Chandakha, criminals would have systems of

 hideouts. It was also likely, Jules thought, that they would have to pay a price for their

 sanctuary.

  

 "Oh, it's you, Passar," said the man who'd opened the door-a large, burly fellow with a

 face that had suffered through a thousand barroom brawls. "Funny; I didn't think we'd be

 seeing you for quite some time. We'd heard you'd found another hangout, eh?" He

 laughed at his own small joke.

  

 Passar joined him in the laughter. "Well, it seems they didn't like my company, so they let

 me out a little early me and my friend here." He hesitated a moment, then added, "Ah,

 the only trouble is that we packed in such a hurry that we neglected to bring our wallets.

  

 "That is a shame," the doorman agreed solemnly. "Gospodin Tuhlman will have to be

 apprized of this." "Of course," Passar said as the other man pressed an intercom button.

 Turning to Jules, Passar said, "Don't worry, I know Tuhlman pretty well. He won't turn us

 out. There's always little odd jobs that need doing. We can trade services for our keep.

 Everything'll be all right." And he winked at Jules.

  

 CHAPTER 10

 Games

  

 Yvette spent most of the day after her talk with Myerson wandering aimlessly around

 Vesa, trying to get her thoughts in order. Think, girl, she commanded herself. You're

 behaving like a schoolchild. Don't let your brain turn to jelly. Think.

  

 There was one weak link in the chain of killings, one spot where the killers would have to

 surface-the victim's hotel. Spaceship tickets could be cashed in over the phone and the

 money deposited to a blind bank account, but somebody would have to go to the hotel

 and remove the victim's belongings personally. The killers would have to have the

 compliance of some person or persons on the hotel staff to be able to clean out a room

 so thoroughly and so quickly. And they would need the assistance of someone to arrange

 all the checkouts. Which meant widespread corruption throughout the staffs of each

 tourist hotel on the moon.

  

 At 0130 hours that night she walked calmly into the lobby of the Soyuz Hotel, where Dak

 had been staying. Even at this hour there were large numbers of people crossing the

 lobby or sitting around in chairs reading the local newsrolls. The nightclerk was on duty

 behind the desk, sorting some incoming mail.

  

 Yvette strode confidently up to the desk, her bouppelande swirling as she moved. "Were

 you on duty here last night?" she asked.

  

 "Yes, I was," the man replied without looking up from his task.

  

 "I'm told that a man named Dak Lehman checked out exactly twenty-four hours ago.

  

 "It's possible.

  

 "I'd like to know some more of the details about his departure.

  

 "Gospozha, so many people check in and out that I. . . ." He stopped suddenly as he

 looked up from his work. Yvette was holding the stun-gun she had taken from Myerson,

 and the muzzle was only ten centimeters from the clerk's face. The bulk of her body hid

 the gun from the view of the rest of the people in the lobby. "What is this, a robbery?.

  

 "No, as I said, I only want some information, and I think you can give it to me. Is there

 somewhere private we can go?.

  

 "Th-there's the office back here," the clerk said, never taking his eyes off the barrel of

 the gun.

  

 "Good; I suggest we go there at once. I also suggest you make no sudden movements. I

 am, by nature, a very nervous person, and this stun-gun is set on eight. It would paralyze

 you for days at least, with the possibility of permanent crippling. I'm sure you wouldn't

 like that, would you?.

  

 "No, gospozha, not at all," the man assured her. "Follow me, please.

  

 He led her into a small, well-appointed office behind the front desk. She closed the door

 behind them and motioned for him to sit down in the easy chair. When he'd done so, she

 took a length of rope out of her purse and proceeded to tie him up quite securely.

  

 "Now that we've got the preliminaries out of the way I can explain the rules of the game,"

 Yvette said coolly. "I'll ask you questions and you'll provide me with answers. You have

 three alternatives-you can either lie, remain silent or tell the truth. I also have three

 alternatives-I can either accept what you've said, kick you where it hurts most or use my

 gun. Very simple rules, don't you agree?.

  

 The clerk was sweating profusely, and could only nod his head in reply.

  

 Yvette had a fourth alternative, namely the nitrobarb that was still concealed in her shoe;

 but using it on so insignificant a cog in the killers' machine would be pointless. One

 doesn't use a blaster to kill gnats.

  

 "All right, then, we'll begin. Did Dak Lehman actually check out last night?.

  

 The man wet his lips with his tongue. "I can show you on the records that. . . .

  

 "I saw the records yesterday afternoon. They don't prove a damn thing. You were there,

 gospodin. Did Dak Lehman personally check out of this hotel?.

  

 The clerk was on a spot and he knew it. This ferocious young lady meant business. "Not

 personally, no. A friend of his checked out for him.

  

 "A friend, eh? Did this friend also go up to the room and clear out all of Gospodin

 Lehman's belongings?" "Yes, and he also paid the bill. Look, he had a key so I thought it

 would be all right.

  

 "Yes, I'm sure you did. This friend-had you ever seen him before?.

  

 "What do you mean?.

  

 "I'm asking the questions here. I would think my meaning was perfectly clear; I used only

 two words with more than one syllable." She began limbering up her foot as though

 preparing to kick him in a very sensitive area. The man watched her nervously.

  

 "Uh, yes, I had seen him before.

  

 Yvette cocked her head. "Talking to you, tovarishch, is like pulling teeth. I think we'll add

 a new rule to the game. It's called completeness of answer, and the way it works is that

 you try to answer each question as fully as you can, without making me ask a dozen to

 get the whole story. Each time your answer is not as full as I'd like it, I break one of your

 fingers. That's known as incentive. Now, would you like to try that last answer one more

 time?.

  

 The poor clerk was sweating blood now. "Yes, I'd seen him before. He comes in here

 fairly regularly-two, three, sometimes four times a week. I don't know his name, though,

 honest.

  

 "And does he always check other people out of their rooms?.

  

 "Always," the man nodded. "The first thing I know about it is when he comes down to the

 desk with all their luggage packed. He hands in the key and pays the bill in cash. The

 hotel doesn't care who checks out as long as the bill's paid.

  

 "No, I don't suppose it does. He must be a remarkably friendly fellow to have so many

 people trusting him with their belongings, don't you think? No need to answer that, it was

 just rhetorical. Tell me, though, don't you think it's strange that he does this so often?.

  

 "Yes, I do. But I don't think it's any of my business." "How much is this friend paying you

 to think it's none of your business?.

  

 "Fifty rubles each time. But listen, I've got a wife and kids to support, I need. . . .

  

 "That answer is getting a little too full thank you. I'm not interested in your personal

 problems, although I am interested in your morality." She stared straight into the man's

 eyes. "You know what's happening to all these guests of yours, don't you? The ones who

 never check out for themselves?.

  

 The clerk took a long, deep breath. There was no point holding any more back-this

 woman obviously knew most of the story anyway. She was toying with him, seeming to

 enjoy every little twist of the psychological knife she had stuck in him. "Yes," he sighed.

 "They're being murdered. It's a fact of life here on Vesa, and most people accept it. It's

 only tourists who are killed, never us natives. We accept it.

  

 "Accepting it is one thing, but you're actually helping it. How does that make you feel?

 How can you go home to a wife and kids you supposedly love and yet know that you

 have a hand in killing innocent people? How can you face them?.

  

 The man shrugged as best he could while tied up. "If I didn't do it, somebody else would.

 Why shouldn't I get the money out of it?.

  

 Yvette sighed with exasperation. That rationalization had been in existence as long as

 moral cowardice itself. There was probably at least one corrupt desk clerk in every hotel

 on Vesa. There was no point arguing this matter further; to the best of this man's limited

 moral vision he had done no wrong. She decided to change her tack. "Don't the police

 ever bother you about these disappearances?.

  

 "No, why should they? They're under orders not to interfere.

  

 Under orders? That brought Yvette right back to the point that had initially been brought

 up in the Head's office. "There's only one person who can give the police an order like

 that, isn't there? The Marchioness.

  

 "That's what I understand. Look, I'm not really a part of this whole thing, I'm only paid to

 look the other way. I'm no murderer, I don't know anything about them. All I do know is

 what I hear gossiped around, and people say that the Marchioness has given 'hands off'

 orders. That's all I can tell you, honest. I don't know anything else.

  

 Yvette was inclined to believe him. This clerk was just a minor part of the operation; he

 wouldn't be privy to the conspiracy's inner secrets. He had given her several leads and

 confirmed a lot of what she'd already suspected. She shouldn't press him for more.

  

 "All right," she said aloud. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Because you've been so

 good at playing this game, I won't hurt you." The man's body visibly sagged with relief. "I

 will, however, have to keep you out of the way for a while, so that you don't tell anyone

 about my visit here. I'm turning the setting on this stunner down to seven; you'll be out for

 approximately thirty-six hours and groggy for a little bit after that, but there'll be no

 permanent effects. I'd suggest, though, that you move to some other planet and find a

 new job at once, if you know what's good for you-preferably an honest job.

  

 The man started to protest, but to no avail. Yvette was already squeezing the trigger.

 The clerk slumped bonelessly in his chair and Yvette stood up, put the gun back into her

 purse and walked casually out of the office.

  

 Looks like I'll have to go right to the top, she thought. Flagging down a jit, she headed

 back for her hotel so that she could get some sleep before paying a call tomorrow on

 Marchioness Gindri.

  

 In most places, the social calendar of someone as high ranking as a marchioness would

 have made it impossible for Yvette to get an appointment sooner than two or three days

 away. In the hierarchy of nobility, marquises ranked just below dukes, who ruled

 individual planets. A marquis was the lord of a continent-or, in the case of Vesa, a

 moon-and had a vast territory to oversee. The responsibility was enormous, and the

 amount of time available for private audiences was therefore limited.

  

 Yvette knew well enough the weight of such nobility. Her father, Etienne d'Alembert, was

 the Duke of DesPlaines; because he was usually busy managing the Circus-and its

 clandestine activities for the Emperor the planet was usually run by Yvette's older brother

 Robert who, as heir to the title of DesPlaines, went by the honorific of the next lower

 rank, marquis. Robert was an anomaly among d'Alemberts-a man who preferred the

 quiet harassment of running a world to the excitement of traveling with the Circus-and the

 Duke was glad of the opportunity to dump the responsibility on the shoulders of his heir.

 Yvette knew bow strenuous the governing of a planet could be from having seen her

 brother in action, and she fully expected Marchioness Gindri to be as busy.

  

 Instead, she found that-with the offer of a small bribe -she could convince the

 Marchioness's appointments secretary to schedule her for that very afternoon. She was

 a little surprised, but pleased with the fast action. She told the secretary that she was

 interested in investing some of her considerable fortune on Vesa, and was informed that

 the Marchioness would be eager to hear her plans.

  

 When she arrived, Yvette found the palace gaudy and pretentious-but she had expected

 as much. Vesa itself was like that, so why should its ruler be any different? Precious

 metals, expensive woods and exquisite marbles comprised the setting, with gems inlaid

 into even the most trivial of objects. The display of opulence and bad taste offended the

 SOTE agent, but she kept her feelings strictly in line. Not everyone was raised in a tent,

 she reflected. Tastes differ.

  

 She found it harder to keep her emotions in check when she was finally ushered into the

 Marchioness's presence. The meeting took place in the salon, a coo as ostentatious as

 any Yvette had seen. The floor was an abstract pattern of inlaid tiles, the walls were of

 brown marble and the high-vaulted ceiling was painted in an almost surrealistic design of

 a spaceship battle that had never taken place. The arched entranceways were

 supported by pillars a full four meters tall. The room was cluttered with furniture, all of it

 upholstered in silver embroidered rose satin and wildly overstuffed.

  

 In the center of the room, draped in pearls, sat the Marchioness Gindri, all one hundred

 and fifty kilograms of her. Her pasty skin shook whenever she made the slightest

 movement, like a tubful of jelly. Her eyes were deep-set and piggy, her nose large and

 set flatly against her face. Her mouth seemed intrinsically incapable of closing

 completely.

  

 Beside and slightly behind the Marchioness's chair stood a man whose face impressed

 Yvette immediately. His mouth was ringed by a full brown beard and mustache, his eyes

 were sharp and missed no details as their gaze continually darted about the room. There

 was a feral intelligence lurking behind those eyes, Yvette decided. The man was dressed

 in a white tunic-jacket and slacks, with a fist-sized emerald hanging from a gold chain

 about his neck. In other contexts Yvette would have thought him overweight, but standing

 beside the Marchioness he looked positively emaciated.

  

 No wonder she's got an empty calendar, Yvette thought. No one wants anything to do

 with her.

  

 Keeping a firm mask over her true feelings, Yvette curtsied and approached to within two

 meters. As the daughter of a duke and sister of a marquis, she had been schooled in all

 the courtly graces and could outpoint anyone on etiquette. But Carmen Velasquez was

 supposed to be a commoner and, despite having a lot of money, was inexperienced at

 dealing with nobility. Deliberately she made her curtsy awkward and projected a

 nervousness at being in the Marchioness's presence that' she certainly did not feel. "Your

 Highness she began fumblingly.

  

 The man standing beside the Marchioness corrected her. "Your Excellency," he

 prompted.

  

 "Yes, oh, sorry, Your Excellency. I'm sorry, I've never met anyone of your exalted rank

 before. My name is Carmen Velasquez and I asked to see you because I was wanting to

 invest a great deal of my money on Vesa and I wanted to discuss various plans.

  

 "Do you like Vesa?" the Marchioness asked. Her voice was quite raspy and seemed to

 escape from rather than be uttered by, that large mouth and multiple chins.

  

 "Oh, very much, Your Excellency. I've been here a couple of weeks now and I find it

 fascinating. My husband died recently, leaving me with a considerable fortune, and your

 moon looks like a good breeding ground for cash. A smart person could make a killing

 here.

  

 She scrutinized the faces of both people opposite her, but neither reacted to the word

 "killing." She hadn't expected them to, but anything was worth a try.

  

 "Many fortunes have indeed been made here, gospozha," said the man, "and small ones

 have been enlarged. There is always room for capital investment. How much were you

 thinking of investing?.

  

 "Please pardon me, gospodin, but I don't recall having been told your name," Yvette

 excused. "I don't mean to be rude, but my husband always told me to find out

 beforehand who you're dealing with.

  

 "Of course, dear lady; the apologies are all mine for not having spoken up sooner. My

 name is Garst, and I am Her Excellency's First Advisor.

  

 Though her face remained placid, her mind was spinning as she tried to place that name.

 Garst. I know I've heard it somewhere before. But where? "Thank you, Gospodin Garst.

 I was considering a modest sum to start out with-say, seven or eight million rubles?.

  

 The way Garst's eyes lit up, she could tell he considered that sum to be slightly better

 than modest. He began eyeing her in much greater detail now, trying to peek behind the

 figurative mask she was wearing to discover more about this mysterious rich widow. She

 could almost hear the gears clicking in his brain. Then suddenly, as his eyes were

 traveling over her body, he froze for the slightest of instants. A scowl flew quickly across

 his face and disappeared. "That's a very attractive offer from a very attractive

 DesPlainian," he said. Did she detect an ever-so-slight emphasis on that last word.

  

 "I'm not a DesPlainian, though you're close," she hastened to point out. "I'm originally

 from Purity, though I saw the error of those ways early enough to leave before becoming

 thoroughly conditioned. The gravities of the two planets are remarkably similar, though,

 and lead to similar body structures, so I can understand the confusion.

  

 "My mistake, gospozha. Please forgive the error." His voice was now carefully neutral,

 giving not the slightest clue to his feelings.

  

 Suddenly Yvette remembered where she'd heard Garst's name before. Dak had

 mentioned it. He'd said he was going to a private party at the home of someone named

 Garst, a local VIP. It was the last thing on his agenda the day he . . . disappeared.

 Myerson had confirmed that Dak had set out to Garst's party, and that was the last

 anyone had ever seen of him. Suddenly this fellow Garst took on a strange new

 fascination for Yvette.

  

 He doesn't leave the Marchioness's side, she noticed. It was as though Vesa's ruler

 depended on him for more than just advice. "I'm glad you find my offer attractive," she

 said casually. "I know you have plenty of hotels and casinos here already, but you also

 have so many tourists that I thought one more could always help. To be a little different, I

 was thinking of subsidizing the construction of a transparent dome up on the actual

 surface of the moon-with, naturally, transportation tunnels linking it to the rest of Vesa

 underground. It would be something unique here, and I think the tourists would go for it in

 a big way.

  

 "The thought of a surface dome has been brought up before," Garst said. "There are, of

 course, numerous problems to overcome, such as the threat of meteor damage. So far

 there hasn't been anyone with sufficient capita! and incentive to follow through on the

 idea. Perhaps you will be the first.

  

 They continued to talk for another fifteen minutes, but the conversation quickly became a

 verbal sparring match between Yvette and the First Advisor. While the Marchioness sat

 idly by and listened only to what was said, the other two antagonists were carefully

 measuring each other's words, tones and inflections for hidden meanings and possible

 weaknesses. It was a serious verbal game of cat-and-mouse, with neither side willing to

 concede a point to the other. Yvette detailed her "plans" for the dome and Garst

 promised the Marchioness's support of the project; but below that level, nothing was

 accomplished other than a suspicious circling.

  

 By the time she had to leave, Yvette had firmed up several of her suspicions.

 Marchioness Gindri was not the brains behind this conspiracy of murder, that much was

 certain; Yvette saw her as a silly-and very sadwoman. She might well know what was

 going on, would almost have to, in fact, to give the police their "hands off" orders; they

 wouldn't take such orders from anyone less, even the First Advisor, lest they be

 discovered. But Gindri had neither the cunning to set up such an organization nor the

 drive to keep it going. That would take someone with a lot more guile and a lot fewer

 weaknesses.

  

 Garst fit that description perfectly. There was an innate craftiness about him that would

 allow him to conceive of such a scheme; a coldness that would brush aside all moral

 inhibitions; and a high position that would allow him to act virtually unchecked.

  

 She was definitely going to have to learn more about this Gospodin Garst-and as quickly

 as possible.

  

 As soon as the Velasquez woman had left the palace, Garst excused himself from the

 Marchioness's presence and went to ca!! his lieutenant, Lessin. "Is there any word yet on

 duChamps?" he asked.

  

 "None," Lessin reported, "but it shouldn't be much longer. I've had an artist do up a

 composite sketch on his face, and every man we've got here has seen it. I've even sent a

 copy down to the school, on the off chance he'll show up there.

  

 "Good. There's someone else we may have to check out, a woman named Carmen

 Velasquez. She also looks to be a DesPlainian, which is what made me suspicious. She

 came in here with too good an offer, and I think she's fishing for something. She claims

 to be an ex-Puritan, but I've known a few of them and they're not at all like her. Whoever

 she Is, she's awfully shrewd-too shrewd to be just what she appears.

  

 "Do you want her eliminated?.

  

 Garst shook his head. "No, not yet. There's still the chance that she might be legitimate,

 and her business deal would be a very good one if we could swing it. But I do want to

 keep a check on her. She said she's staying at the Hotel Regulus. I want her watched all

 the time. I want to know where she goes, what she does and who she talks to." And

 particularly, he thought, whether she contacts a DesPlainian calling himself Georges

 duChamps. She could be the key to cracking that mystery.

  

 CHAPTER 11

 School for Stranglers

  

 As Passar had told him, everything turned out all right better than all right, in fact. Jules

 had not dared hope to be so successful so quickly.

  

 Passar took Jules upstairs and introduced him to Tuhlman, a short, oily man built like a

 barrel and smelling like a locker room. Tuhlman was full of pointed questions about their

 escape, which he viewed as nothing short of miraculous. Jules let Passar do most of the

 talking. Tuhlman would believe the story more if it came from someone he knew-and

 besides, Passar did such a good job of embellishing it that Jules could hardly recognize

 their escapades himself. Any slipups he might have made were covered nicely by

 Passar's exaggerations.

  

 Then came the matter of paying for their sanctuary. Passar was no problem-he had

 plenty of contacts and could line himself up with a lot of work in no time. But Jules was

 another matter. Tuhlman questioned him in depth about his past, and Jules answered

 carefully from the background Chief Kantana had prepared for him. The picture that

 resulted was that of a man who would be hunted down like an animal if he stayed on

 Chandakha, who had a large family that he wanted desperately to support, and who

 would do anything-including killing to get money. The portrait, Jules hoped, of an ideal

 recruit for the Vesan conspiracy.

  

 Tuhlman took the bait. He asked Passar to leave the room for a few minutes, and talked

 to Jules privately about an organization that might help him get off world and at the same

 time look after his family. The work they would require of him would be both easy and

 safe, though Tuhlman was careful not to go too deeply into specifics. He spoke in such

 glowing terms that Jules was convinced the man got a commission for each recruit he

 gathered. It was a hard sales pitch to resist, and Jules did not want to. He told Tuhlman

 he'd be delighted to sign up, and the two men shook hands on the deal. Tuhlman then

 had Passar and Jules shown to a small room where they had a good hot meal and spent

 the night.

  

 Bright and early the next morning, two men came and awakened Jules brusquely,

 rousting him out of bed and telling him to dress quickly. He got only a fast cup of tepid

 tea as he was rushed out to a waiting copier that took off as soon as he and the men

 were aboard. The men put a blindfold on him and circled around the city for a while until

 they were sure his sense of direction had been scrambled, then set off for their

 destination. Jules asked where they were going and was told bluntly to shut up and mind

 his own business. The rest of the trip was conducted in silence.

  

 The quiet was just as well. Jules, not having a watch or any artificial method of gauging

 the time, took advantage of the lack of conversation to count his own heartbeats. He had

 to find out how far away from Bhangora the training center was; and that biological

 rhythm would be his only clue.

  

 About an hour and a half elapsed, according to his estimate, before the copier touched

 ground again. The blindfold was taken off and Jules looked around, blinking at the harsh

 daylight after so long a period of darkness.

  

 The copier was in the middle of a large open courtyard, with dirt underfoot. Around them

 were clumps of men going through various drilling exercises in groups of six or seven. A

 stone wall six meters high enclosed the yard on three sides, while on the fourth were a

 series of barracks-like buildings. It's a regular army camp, Jules thought, impressed.

 They've certainly got organization, if nothing else.

  

 Jules' guards led him to the nearest of the buildings, which had a slightly more official

 look to it than the others. Inside, he was escorted to a small anteroom and told to wait.

 Two minutes later, he was ushered into the inner office.

  

 The room was Spartan in its simplicity. A battered wooden desk, a swivel chair, a table,

 two straight-backed wooden chairs and a chalkboard were the only furnishings. The

 window glasses had been partially opaqued to cut down on the glare from outside, and

 Jules-whose eyes had just gotten used to the brightness-now had to adjust to the lower

 level of lighting once again.

  

 The man standing behind the desk had an impressive military bearing. He was one of the

 tallest Chandakhari Jules had ever seen, easily two meters tall, His posture was

 frighteningly erect, and his face bore the scars of countless street fights and melees. He

 was dressed in a simple brown caftan that went all the way to the floor.

  

 "Welcome, Gospodin Koosman, to our little school." The man made no offer to shake

 hands, and instead pointed to a chair. Jules crossed the room and sat down; after he

 was seated, the other sat down as well. "My name is Jakherdi, and we will be getting to

 know each other quite well over the next few weeks.

  

 "I'm sure I'll enjoy that, sir," Jules said politely.

  

 The other man sneered. "I doubt that very much. I'm told that in your past experience you

 have killed men before. Is that correct?.

  

 "Sure, it's hard to avoid it out on the streets." "How many?.

  

 "I never counted. Maybe a dozen, I don't know. There were two guards in the palace of

 the Baron of Calpuna, I do know that.

  

 Jakherdi gave a small snort. "You'll have to become accustomed to perhaps three times

 that number in a week if you work for us. And you will not kill them in a haphazard,

 streetfighter's style, either. Your kills will be neat, trim and businesslike. We will train you

 until it becomes routine, and you'll be working with others who've been as thoroughly

 trained as you. You will without emotion, for one motive only-profit. Killing out of passion

 weakens the soul, and we do not employ weak souls. Do I make myself clear?.

  

 "Yes, very. But the police are looking for me. . . ." "They won't be looking for you on

 Vesa, which is where we will take you when you've finished your training. Nor will they be

 looking for you here, since they don't know this place exists. Let us worry about the

 risks, Koosman; your sole concern is to learn what we teach and to perform well. If you

 do those two things, you will be rewarded far beyond your expectations. That's all I have

 to say to you now; someone will show you to your barracks and get you the supplies

 you'll need, then you'll join a novice training group. Good luck.

  

 "Thank you, sir.

  

 Jules was escorted to a building toward the back of the camp and assigned a bunk of his

 own. Since he had escaped from the prison without any belongings, he had no unpacking

 to do. Clothes were found that were approximately his size; he changed into them and

 was led outside to be introduced to the other new recruits.

  

 That day was spent mostly in classroom activity. Jules received the basic indoctrination

 on what the group was like, what its motivation was and how it operated. He learned that

 victims were chosen at random by an advance member of the team who specialized in

 this kind of contact. This lead man would approach the victim or victims, strike up a

 casual conversation and determine whether they were worth killing. If they were, he

 would quickly work his way into their confidence and find some way of isolating them

 from everyone except his own people. They would be killed by strangulation, a team

 maneuver that made the victim helpless and made the kill most efficient. Their bodies

 would be stripped of valuables and then disposed of while one or two members of the

 team would go to the victim's hotel room and clean it out, leaving no trace. Return

 spaceship tickets were then cashed in, and the person ceased to be.

  

 "There must be no doors left open behind us," the teacher emphasized. "This operation

 has lasted for twenty years because we carefully close off each possible lead to

 ourselves. There is no handle on us to grab. We are like the wind, sweeping what we

 can before us and then vanishing without trace.

  

 "Excuse me, sir," Jules said, raising his hand. "May I be permitted a question?.

  

 "You're here to learn, and questions help.

  

 "You mentioned disposing of the bodies. If there are as many as you say, how can we

 dispose of them all without someone spotting them?" This had been the major puzzle he

 and Yvette had been unable to decipher. He hoped to get an answer now.

  

 "Very intelligent point. We utilize the nature of Vesa itself. It is a closed, airless moon and

 has to recycle as much of its material as it can. Vesa had an admirably efficient recycling

 plant. We simply send the bodies there and they help maintain the balance of life on

 Vesa.

  

 Once the explanation was given, the simplicity of it washed over Jules like a wave

 coming in to shore. Of course that was the answer! There would be no recognizable

 traces of the victims left, just a few centiliters of metallic wastes at the bottom of the

 recycling bin. Whoever had thought of this scheme had been thorough and brilliant in

 carrying it through.

  

 After the classes they had a small lunch, then spent the rest of the afternoon out in the

 yard doing exercises and team drills, learning how to react to situations as a group and

 how to work together to achieve their objectives. The workout was easy to Jules, after

 the regimen he'd had to undergo as a circus performer, but it seemed grueling to his

 fellow students and so he pretended to be as tired as any of them when the day was

 through and they were fed their dinner. In the evening, there were classes in philosophy

 and meditation, to help them reach a state of peace within themselves so that the idea of

 mass murder would not seem so horrible. By 2200 hours, everyone was more than

 eager to get into bed and sleep.

  

 Jules waited until he was sure everyone else in his barracks was asleep. then stole

 outside into the courtyard. He had to discover the location of this place if the Service was

 to make a clean sweep of the operation. Earlier in the day, while he'd been exercising. a

 breeze had wafted by, carrying with it a slight scent of the sea. He could hear no

 breakers, though, so he knew they must be some distance inland. The birds that perched

 on the wall were unfamiliar to him, but did not appear to have webbed feet; that wasn't

 much of an indication one way or another, though.

  

 The night was clear, which was a blessing because he could see the stars. He had no

 instruments handy and no watch, so he could not even attempt to guess his longitude, but

 he could make a rough stab at latitude. He did not know the local constellations, but he

 could memorize the configurations of stars closest to the northern and southern horizons.

 When he was able to check some star charts at a later time, he'd be able to guess his

 approximate latitude-and with that information, plus the knowledge of the flying time in a

 copier from Bhangora, plus the knowledge that a seacoast was nearby, SOTE should be

 able to track down where this school was. It might take a little bit of effort, but the

 Service could muster a lot of resources if it needed them.

  

 His observations completed, Jules started back to the barracks. He heard a noise and

 slipped into the deeper shadows as a sentry walked past. The man continued on his way

 without seeing anything and, as soon as he was gone, Jules returned to his bunk. With

 no indication that anything was amiss or that his absence had been noted, Jules slipped

 between the covers and went right to sleep.

  

 The next day started as an exact copy of the one before. After a communal breakfast,

 Jules and his barracks mates were taken to a classroom and more instruction was begun

 on the philosophy of killing and the techniques the stranglers were to use. Films were

 shown depicting actual kills, with the instructor commenting on good and bad points of

 the killer's performances. To Jules, the idea of watching such a film was hideous, but he

 sat stony faced along with the others in the class and watched the action unfold before

 him.

  

 Halfway through the film, though, there was an interruption as a messenger came into the

 room to tell the teacher that Jules was wanted in Jakherdi's office at once. Wondering

 what this obvious change in procedure could mean, Jules accompanied the messenger

 back to the administration building.

  

 The secretary who had been in the outer office building yesterday was not there at

 present, leaving that room strangely quiet. Jules was instantly on guard against

 treachery. The messenger told Jules to go right into the inner office, that he was

 expected. Maybe a little too expected, Jules thought as he reached for the doorknob.

  

 He opened the door, but made no immediate move to enter the room; instead, he looked

 around inside. Standing directly before him, silhouetted against the window, was

 Jakherdi, looking as impressively military as yesterday. On the desk in front of Jakherdi

 was a piece of paper that looked like a sketch of a face. Jules didn't need much intuition

 to tell him who the sketch represented.

  

 They certainly work fast up on Vesa, he thought with a mental sigh. Faster than I'd

 hoped.

  

 "Come in, Koosman," Jakherdi said crisply.

  

 There were only two ways to go, forward or back. Even as he ticked off those options,

 Jules could feel the rear exit being closed. Some sixth sense told him of the presence of

 several people in the corridor outside the anteroom. Any attempt to go out that way

 would get him shot before he even reached the door.

  

 Going into the office was the only alternative, and even that had to be a trap. Jules was

 sure the camp's superintendent would have at least one armed man on each side of the

 doorway out of view, just waiting for him to step inside. He didn't know whether the men

 had orders to stun or kill, but it made little difference; even if they only captured him now,

 they were certain to kill him later-after a shot of nitrobarb, more than likely.

  

 He dared not hesitate. To do so was to reveal that he suspected the trap, in which case

 the gunmen would simply step out into view and shoot him instantly. He had no choice but

 to enter the trap; the method of entry, however, would be distinctly his own.

  

 "Yes, sir," he answered aloud, taking the first step inside. "May I ask what the matter

 is?.

  

 Then, before any more could be said, Jules acted. As his left foot came down from that

 first step, he bent it quickly under him and leaped forward. It was an off balance leap and

 he wasn't able to get as much strength into it as he would have liked-but, coming as a

 surprise to the men inside the office, it was effective enough.

  

 Jules landed just in front of the desk on his right leg, still off balance. He used that fact to

 advantage, spinning counterclockwise backwards on his right foot quickly off to the right

 side of the room. As he spun, he noticed that there were indeed two other men in the

 room, one on each side of the doorway, but they were caught flatfooted by his dramatic

 entrance. Before they could re-aim their weapons, Jules had braced his feet squarely;

 bent the knees and used his superpowerful leg muscles to propel him directly at the

 standing form of Jakherdi.

  

 The camp master ducked, which was what Jules had been hoping he'd do. Curling

 himself into a ball, Jules tucked his head down and braced himself. His body hit the glass

 window like a hundred-kilo cannon ball. The shattering sound threatened to engulf the

 entire universe as Jules passed through the shards into the courtyard beyond.

  

 There were a thousand little stings from the glass cuts, but they were mostly on his

 hands, the top of his head and the back of his neck-nonlethal places. His face and eyes

 had been securely tucked inside. He tumbled as he flew through the air toward the

 ground, but it was the controlled tumbling of a skilled aerialist. When he hit ground, he

 used the momentum of his flight to roll forward and spring to his feet, preparatory to

 running. A quick look around, however, was very discouraging.

  

 The yard was filled with men, all armed with stunners.

  

 They were surprised to see him come hurtling through the superintendent's window, but

 the time it took Jules to come to his feet gave them enough opportunity to overcome their

 surprise. They glared at him without emotion, but determination was written in their

 stances.

  

 Even though he knew there was no chance against this number, Jules' spirit did not sag. I

 can at least show them that a d'Alembert goes out fighting, he thought, and charged at

 the nearest cluster of men.

  

 A number five stunbeam lanced out and dropped him where he stood, and he fell to the

 ground in black oblivion.

  

 Jakherdi looked out the hole in his window and gave a tight little smile upon seeing Jules'

 unconscious body. "Is he still alive?" he asked his men.

  

 "Yes, sir. He'll be out for hours, though.

  

 "Good. Tie him up securely. Remember, he's a DesPlainian and can break out of

 ordinary ropes. Make sure he has barely enough room to breathe, then bring him in here

 to me. We have to ship him alive up to Vesa for questioning.

  

 I pity you, Koosman or duChamps or whoever you are, the superintendent added silently

 to himself. I know Garst and his methods. By the time he's finished with you you'll be

 begging him for death-only by that time it'll be far too late.

  

 CHAPTER 12

 Secret Assaults

  

 By the time she reached her hotel after her interview with the Marchioness, Yvette

 realized that there were several pairs of eyes watching her intently. Ignoring the stares,

 she strolled casually across the lobby and took the elevator tube down to her room.

 Garst had obviously decided to keep tabs on her, but it was a move she'd been

 expecting--she'd have done the same thing in his position.

  

 She stayed in her room for half an hour, freshening up and making phone calls, then went

 out and spent the rest of the afternoon in innocuous activities like gambling and a

 sensable show. She took great pains to be obvious about what she was doing-she didn't

 want to lose those tails. At least, not yet.

  

 In the early evening she returned to her hotel and ate a leisurely dinner in the dining

 room, then made no attempt to stifle a huge yawn as she descended the elevator tube to

 her room once more. It should be readily apparent to anyone watching that she was

 worn out and would be retiring for the night. Of course, that was not her intention at all.

  

 Once safely inside the suite, there was no hint of fatigue as she set about her real

 purpose with determination. Forty-five minutes in front of a mirror with her makeup kit

 completely changed her face from that of the demure widow who had entered the room

 such a short while before. A long blonde wig in a carefully planned state of divine

 disarray added to her change in look. A skin-tight black leather jumpsuit-striking

 contrasted to the more moderate outfits worn by Carmen Velasquez completed the

 disguise. Only the shrewdest of observers would recognize her as the same woman who

 had spent the day in such casual pursuits.

  

 After a quick check to make sure she had all her equipment with her, she opened the

 door and walked out of her suite. One of the men Garst had assigned to follow her was

 seated on a bench by the elevator tubes at the end of the hallway. He looked up when

 her door opened and stared for a moment at her disguise, not believing it. Then his

 trained instincts came to the fore and he looked back at his newsroll, pretending not to

 notice.

  

 Yvette sauntered up to him, noticing as she did so that there was no one else in the

 hallway at the moment. That would simplify things. As she reached into her bag, she

 said, "Good evening," then drew out Myerson's stunner and casually shot the man at

 point blank range before he could react. The number four stun would knock him out for at

 least two hours-plenty of time for her to get away without anyone being the wiser.

  

 She took the up tube to the lobby and strolled through it. Every male eye in the place

 was on her as she swiveled her hips in sexy gyrations. Sometimes, she knew, the best

 disguise was to be blatant. The men who'd been assigned to follow her were watching,

 too, but they were seeing her as a sexual object, not as an assignment. She had an

 impish urge to walk directly up to one of them and wink at him broadly, but managed to

 resist the impulse. After all, there was no point in tempting fate.

  

 Garst's men made no attempt to tail her as she left the lobby and hailed a jit on the

 street outside. They would have liked to, of course, but for entirely different reasons than

 before.

  

 She had had no trouble earlier that day finding out where Garst lived; a few discreet

 phone calls from her room before she'd gone out gambling had gained her that

 information. She had checked the location on a map and formulated a plan of attack from

 that. Now she directed the driver of her jit to take her to the dome intersection that

 contained the entrance to Garst's house.

  

 The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that Garst had to be the

 man behind this whole conspiracy. It had been obvious from the meeting this afternoon

 that he could wrap the Marchioness around his little finger and make her do anything he

 wanted. He had the intelligence, the cunning and the coldness to set up an organization

 like this and keep it running for two decades without detection.

  

 As one of the top agents for the Service of the Empire, it was well within her authority to

 declare him a traitor just on the basis of what she already knew and execute him on the

 spot. Without his genius for organization, the conspiracy he had fostered so carefully

 would struggle along and eventually break up into small cliques that could be dealt with

 more efficiently by local agencies. Her assignment would be considered accomplished

 and no one, not even the Head himself, would be able to criticize her handling of the

 affair.

  

 But that was not the way Yvette d'Alembert liked to work. She was well aware of the

 responsibility that went with her authority over matters of life and death. She had to have

 irrefutable proof that Garst was indeed behind this before she would act-and it was to

 obtain such proof that she was now paying a visit to his house. Besides, she was hoping

 to get enough information to crack the whole gang wide open immediately, rather than

 waiting for it to fall apart on its own after Garst's demise.

  

 The jit reached her destination and Yvette got off and surveyed the area. The job would

 be a little harder than she'd anticipated, as she realized that breaking and entering was a

 much more hazardous occupation on Vesa than anywhere else in the Empire. Nearly all

 houses were built underground, below street level, meaning that there were no windows

 or upper stories to enter through. Also, being an underground settlement, the lights were

 kept on round the clock, making it most difficult to skulk about in shadows.

  

 The only way to break in, Yvette decided, would be to confront the problem directly. The

 hour she bad chosen for her break-in was technically nighttime, though that meant little

 on Vesa. People could be-and were-awake at all hours, but she was hoping that Garst

 would not be at home. Walking boldly up to the door, she tried pushing down the latch. It

 would not move, indicating the door was locked. That usually meant either no one was

 home or the occupants were asleep, and that was an encouraging sign.

  

 Reaching into her purse, Yvette pulled out a small passkey kit. The door lock was a

 standard one that could be opened by the right combination of electronic impulses. The

 passkey device she held was an extremely intricate and expensive piece of equipment.

 An ultra miniature computer, it systematically ran through billions of possible

 combinations in a matter of seconds, making an almost untamperable lock passable. In

 less than a minute, Yvette heard the click informing her that the lock mechanism had

 been turned off and the door could be opened.

  

 She replaced the passkey in her purse and removed now the current detector. Far and

 away the most common burglar alarm in use was one that would go off if an electrical

 circuit were broken-by, for instance, opening the door while the alarm was turned on.

 Sure enough, a quick check with her sensor revealed that Garst's door was wired with

 just such a system. The detector allowed Yvette to trace the circuit around the door

 frame; then, with a pinpoint laser drill, she bored through the wooden frame at specific

 sites and was able to jump the system with some cables she had brought herself. Then,

 after another check to make sure there were no other alarms attached, she quietly

 opened the door and slipped inside.

  

 The interior of the house was dark, but Yvette had come prepared for that eventuality.

 She slipped on a pair of specially treated goggles and pulled a small infrared flashlight

 out of her purse. The glow it gave the house was an eerie one, but it was good enough

 for Yvette to see by without alarming anyone who might be inside. Thus equipped, she

 set off to explore Garst's mansion.

  

 The long hallway contained just a few chairs, a small table and a clock hanging on the

 wall. The closet was just that, a place to hang cloaks and hats; she rapped lightly on the

 walls, floor and ceiling, but could detect no hiding places within it.

  

 She moved on to the first room, which was a living room. Yvette noticed that Garst had

 top-quality furniture, better than the Marchioness's though less flashy; obviously, he was

 a man of some taste. There were a lot of places for her to check, particularly two rows

 of bookcases against the far wall, but she went through them with the efficiency of the

 professional that she was. The next room, the dining room, was more sparsely furnished,

 and it too checked out clean.

  

 One door led out of the dining room to what she presumed would be the kitchen;

 another, smaller door stood on the other side locked and defiant. A quick check showed

 her that the room was locked mechanically rather than electronically, but that there were

 no alarms attached to the door. Using her laser drill in a slightly different fashion, she

 quickly burned out the lock mechanism and opened the door.

  

 She found herself in a room that was smaller than either the living room or dining room. It

 appeared to be a study of some sort, probably very comfortable but at the same time

 there was something about it that seemed menacing. A small wooden desk stood in one

 corner, its top littered with papers and bookreels. The residue receptacle was crammed

 with the butts of stale cigarettes and dopesticks.

  

 Yvette went quickly over and examined some of the papers. The writing did not show up

 very well under her infrared light, but it did seem to be strings of numbers. Of course, it

 was only natural that the Marchioness's First Advisor would be doing paperwork involving

 figures, but Yvette wondered whether these numbers might not represent other interests

 as well. Taking her minicam out of her purse, she proceeded to photograph the pages so

 that they could be studied in more detail at her leisure.

  

 When she'd finished with the papers on the top of the desk she tried the drawers to see

 what she would discover in there. The drawers were locked, but she was able to force

 them open with nothing more elaborate than her pocketknife. There seemed to be the

 usual office supplies and stationery in most of the drawers, but in the bottom one she

 detected a false backing. Prying it out, she discovered a set of bookreels. I wonder why

 he's hiding these. Could they contain the records for his criminal organization.

  

 Her sharp ears detected a slight sound behind her and she whirled around, her hand

 simultaneously reaching into her purse for Myerson's stunner. But at that same instant

 the lights in the room were switched on abruptly, blinding her through the goggles with

 their sudden intensity. Blinking back tears, she strained to see who had surprised her.

  

 "Easy, gospozha," came a cool voice. "There are four guns trained on you this instant. I'd

 suggest you take your hands out of the purse very slowly.

  

 As her eyes rapidly adjusted to the light she could make out that the speaker was not

 Garst, but a short, stubby man. He had spoken the truth, though; behind him were three

 other men, and all of them were armed with stunners.

  

 Yvette did as the man suggested, looking for the precise moment when their guards

 would relax enough for her to make her move. The one thing that was working in her

 favor was that they probably would not be expecting a woman to be as fast and tough as

 she was.

  

 When he could see that her hand was empty of weapons, the man relaxed a bit. "That's

 better. Now, toss your purse over in the corner there." Again, Yvette complied. "Garst

 was expecting something on this order, and when we found you'd slipped our noose back

 at your hotel we came straight here." He stepped to within a meter of her, the muzzle of

 his gun dropping ever so slightly. "Please hand over that bookreel, if you don't mind.

  

 In a casual gesture, Yvette raised her left hand to brush the long blonde hair of her wig

 out of her eyes. The wig was held onto her head by a special glue that would come off at

 a sharp tug without pulling her real hair with it. "Since you asked so politely, all right," she

 said evenly, picking the bookreel up off the desktop with her right hand and extending it

 toward the leader of her captors.

  

 As he reached out to take it from her, Yvette acted. Whipping the wig off her head with

 the left hand, she flung it directly into the man's face. Her captor instinctively lifted both

 arms to protect his eyes from the flying object and Yvette took advantage of the opening.

 Lunging forward, she drove her powerful right fist-still clutching the reel-into his solar

 plexus. The man gave a dismal whoosh, dropped his gun and fell to the floor doubled

 over with the pain. He would be in no condition to oppose her for several minutes at

 least.

  

 There were three other armed men to contend with; but Yvette was in motion while they

 were starting from a standstill. All three had been backed up against the wall behind their

 leader, which left them little room to maneuver. Yvette swung around to their sides, so

 that only the first of them would have a chance to shoot her; his body would block the

 shots of the other two.

  

 In a movement so fast it looked like a streak, Yvette slapped the gun out of his hand.

 The stunner crashed against the wall and then fell to the ground. Long before it reached

 the floor under the slow pull of Vesa's gravity, however, Yvette had brought up her right

 foot and kicked the gunman squarely in the gut. The man fell backwards into his two

 companions, and the trio toppled groundward.

  

 Yvette recovered her balance from the kick and dived after them. She landed on top of

 the unholy heap, grabbed each of the men in turn by his hair and banged his skull hard

 against the floor. All three were out cold and the fight was over within fifteen seconds of

 her first move with the wig.

  

 Going over to the stumpy man who'd done al! the talking, she picked up his stunner and

 sat waiting, poised on the edge of Garst's desk with the muzzle pointed directly at him.

 He choked and gasped for several minutes: when she felt he was ready to converse

 again she nudged him with the toe of her boot. "Where's Garst?.

  

 The man shook his head. "Don't . . . don't know." "He is the head of this murderer's guild

 of yours, isn't he?.

  

 "Y-yes, but . . , out. He's out.

  

 Yvette grimaced. She had the confirmation she wanted, but not the man. "Where's his

 appointment calendar?" "Top drawer.

  

 Yvette found what she was looking for quickly and checked today's date. According to

 his schedule, Garst was supposed to be meeting now with Marchioness Gindri at her

 palace. "Thanks for the help," she said, then squeezed the trigger stud on the stunner.

 The man collapsed from the number four bolt, and Yvette knew he'd be safely

 unconscious for at least a couple of hours.

  

 Moving over to the desk phone, she put in a call to the private number she'd been given

 for Marask Kantana. When the SOTE chief answered, Yvette identified herself quickly

 and told her to get every available agent she could up to Vesa immediately. She was to

 dispatch one person to Garst's mansion to pick up the four men who would be waiting

 there unconscious; the rest were to meet her at the Marchioness's palace.

  

 Kantana nodded assent. When agent Periwinkle gave an order, any SOTS chief who

 valued her job would obey without question. She informed Yvette that it would take two

 hours to get from Cbandakha, where she was based, up to Vesa, but that she would be

 there in not one second more. Yvette accepted the explanation and signed off. She still

 had some work to do.

  

 After seeing to it that all four of her would-be captors received stuns that would keep

 them here until the next SOTE agent arrived to arrest them, Yvette retrieved her purse

 from the corner where she'd tossed it and, making no pretense at silence or caution,

 raced out of the house to the street. Hailing a jit after two minutes, she directed it to the

 Marchioness's palace. The driver was startled by Yvette's appearance--after all, one did

 not normally visit the Marchioness at this hour in a black leather jumpsuit and disheveled

 hair-but offered no objections when Yvette gave her a twenty-ruble tip to hurry.

  

 The time for all pussyfooting was over, a fact that made Yvette feel very, very good. The

 surges of adrenalin through her body were being matched by feelings of vengeance as

 she conjured up a mental image of Dak's handsome face. Now IT get them for you, Dak,

 she thought as the jit rolled along through the tunnels of Vesa. Her hands clenched in

 anticipation.

  

 When the shuttle arrived at the palace, Yvette leaped out and ran up to the massive front

 gates. There was a doorman on either side, but Yvette did not have the time to

 determine whether they were just honest servants or possible spies in the employ of

 Garst; to make sure, she gave them each a number four jolt from her stunner. She had

 made sure Myerson's gun was fully charged before she left her hotel room, meaning that

 she still had nearly fifty shots left. There wouldn't be nearly that many staff on duty

 tonight, which meant she could take out everyone inside. She blessed the fact that the

 stun-gun was such a humane weapon-she could use it indiscriminately, without having to

 make instant decisions about guilt or innocence, and there would be no permanent

 after-effects if her move was wrong.

  

 She passed through the gates without stopping and moved into the palace itself. Racing

 down the long, cold hallways she shot at everyone she met with pinpoint accuracy,

 leaving a trail of unconscious bodies in her wake.

  

 She stormed through every room in the enormous palace, clearing it of potential foes,

 until at last she came to the Marchioness's boudoir.

  

 The hereditary ruler oh Vesa was lying in her enormous plush bed eating what must have

 been for her a light snack-a small capon, a plate of vegetables and a goblet of white

 wine. So quickly and quietly had Yvette moved through the palace that the Marchioness

 had had no warning of this invasion. She looked up, startled, then belatedly recognized

 Yvette as the woman she'd spoken to earlier that day. "You!" she exclaimed. "What are

 you doing here? What gave you the audacity. . . ?.

  

 Yvette at first had ignored the fat woman. This was the last room of the palace, and as

 yet she had seen no sign of Garst. Her eyes quickly swept the room, but there was no

 trace of the First Advisor here, either. She turned to the Marchioness Gindri, gun pointed,

 and cut off the diatribe. "Where's Garst?" she demanded.

  

 The Marchioness was quite flustered to have a weapon aimed at her. Nothing like that

 had ever happened before. "Why should I tell you?.

  

 "Because if you don't I'll give you a shot of nitrobarb that could kill you, and you'll tell me

 anyhow. There's no use calling for help, I've neutralized everyone in the palace. It's just

 you and me." She gestured menacingly with the stunner. "Now talk.

  

 "He . . . he was here until just a little while ago," Gindri stammered nervously. "Then he

 got a call and he left.

  

 "What was the call about?.

  

 "I don't . . . don't know, exactly. Something about a DesPlainian spy being caught or

 something. He had to go question him.

  

 Yvette's heart skipped a beat. That "DesPlainian spy" could only be Jules! She had seen

 his message in the newsroll a week ago that he was going down to Chandakha; when

 had he returned, and how had he been captured? She had to know. Grabbing the fat,

 ugly woman by the shoulders and digging her fingers deeply into the mealy flesh, she

 said, "Where did he go to meet them?.

  

 "I don't . . . wait, I think he said something about the recycling plant. That way, they

 wouldn't have far to go to get rid of the body afterwards, he said.

  

 "How long ago was that?" "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.

  

 There may still be time, Yvette thought. Looking at her watch, she saw that it would be

 more than an hour yet before Kantana arrived With her people. I can't wait that long, she

 decided. Jules' life may be at stake.

  

 Aloud, she said, "Thanks for your help, even if it was involuntary." Then she gave the

 Marchioness a number four stun, the same as everyone else.

  

 Taking a stylus and pad from her purse, she quickly encoded a message explaining the

 situation and where to meet her, then posted the note where Kantana could not miss it

 as she entered the palace.

  

 I only hope I won't be too late, she thought as she waited impatiently for a jit to come by

 that she could commandeer to take her to the recycling plant.

  

 CHAPTER 13

 The Battle of the Recycling Plant

  

 Consciousness returned slowly to Jules. The first thing he was definitely aware of was a

 constriction in his chest, a difficulty in breathing. By reflex he began gasping, but there

 was something preventing him from expanding his chest as far as he needed for comfort.

 The inside of his mouth was exceedingly dry, as though it had been washed out with

 desert sand. His throat was sore, and swallowing was difficult. He winced involuntarily as

 he tried gulping the small amount of saliva his glands had produced.

  

 He felt light-headed and dizzy. In fact, his entire body felt light, as though he were

 floating in a sea of jelly. As his consciousness drifted in and out, he realized slowly that

 he must be either out in space or back on Vesa, where the gravity was far less than on

 Chandakha. But for the moment the fact was only of academic interest; his mind was still

 too fuzzed over to care about such things.

  

 He tried to open his eyes, but the lids felt glued together. There was light -around him,

 though; he could tell from the redness penetrating the membranes. There were sounds

 around him, too, voices drifting in and out of some auditory fog, but individual words

 utterly failed to register on his brain. He floated in this state of apathy for an

 indeterminate time, not caring what happened to him.

  

 He was jolted out of the dreamy state by a band slapping him hard across the right

 cheek. The shock was enough to open his eyes and stir up the thought processes in his

 brain once more. His vision was blurred and doubled, and it took all the power of his

 still-numbed mind to concentrate and focus on his surroundings.

  

 Standing before him was a lanky man whom he belatedly recognized as the man who'd

 been lecturing at the warehouse the night he'd spied on them. Behind him were two

 dozen other men, equally threatening. There was a tight grin of vengeance on the man's

 face as he stared down at Jules, who found that he was seated on a chair, bound tightly

 hand and foot. "Well," the man's voice boomed in Jules' ears, "so you've finally come out

 of it, have you?.

  

 Jules was still too dazed to reply. His tongue lay like a lump of lead in his mouth, refusing

 to move. As the fog began to lift from his senses, he became aware of the foul odor in

 the air. It seemed a mixture of every disgusting smell known to man, from the aroma of

 fecal matter through the stench of decaying meat. Jules tried closing his nostrils, an

 impossible feat, and finally had to settle for breathing through his mouth as much as

 possible.

  

 The man stood over Jules and slapped him again, this time with the other hand. He hit

 with such force that it literally made Jules' teeth rattle inside his mouth. Jules found his

 temper rising and had to force himself to keep it under control. "It's not for nothing that

 the phrase `losing your head' is equivalent to 'losing your temper'," he remembered his

 father telling him. A man blinded by rage could miss an opportunity that a calmer man

 would spot. I should be thankful he's hitting me, Jules thought. He's bringing me out of the

 stupor a lot faster, and that's to my advantage.

  

 He tried to maintain the glazed look on his face a little while longer, though, as he stared

 about the rest of the room. It was big, easily one of the largest chambers he'd ever

 seen. The ceiling was literally covered with pipes of various diameters, some of which

 went out through holes in the wall to other rooms, and others of which were connected to

 the enormous vats that stood like giant sentinels scattered about the floor. The smallest

 of the vats was easily five meters tall and eight meters in diameter, and there were

 others that absolutely dwarfed it in size. Metal ladders ran up and down the lengths of

 these vats, and catwalks encircled the tops. And everywhere was the disgusting stench

 of death and decay.

  

 "You've got a lot to answer for, you know," the man in front of Jules said, forcing the

 DesPlainian to return his attention to immediate concerns. "We've had to waste a lot of

 our time and energy trying to find you. We didn't like that.

  

 Jules' tongue was feeling less fuzzy now, and he could attempt to talk. "If I'd known," he

 slurred, "I'd have left my business card.

  

 His inquisitor hit him again, but this time Jules was expecting it and was able to turn his

 head with the blow to minimize its effect. "Insolence will not be excused," the man said

 harshly. "I will give you your due, however. You fought quite well. And no one has ever

 been able to infiltrate our training camp before. You must have had help-very highly

 placed help.

  

 Jules had to get his questioner off that train of thought. If that idea were followed to its

 logical conclusion, it would be obvious that Jules was working for SOTE. Only the

 Service of the Empire would have been able to concoct his phony prison record, get him

 into the prison and help him bust out so convincingly. And if these crooks ever got even

 the faintest suspicion that SOTE was on to them, they'd vanish into the night and the

 Service would never be able to track them all down. Not to mention the fact that Jules

 would be dead the instant after they came to that realization.

  

 To forestall the man's thinking the problem out to the inevitable conclusion, Jules said,

 "Nah, it wasn't any problem at all. Your people'd take a cross-eyed nangabat if it flew in

 and asked for a job.

  

 The man raised his arm to strike once more, then stopped. "No, I think there's been

 enough- of that for now," he decided. "We'll have to think of some other way to entertain

 you. . . .

  

 There was a knocking at the door to one side. "Get that," the man called to some of the

 other men in the room. Then, thinking better of it, he said, "No, I'll get it. It's probably

 Garst.

  

 As he walked away, the eyes of the others all went with him. All, that is, except for those

 of one young man who silently detached himself from a group of his fellows and edged

 between the vats to stand beside Jules. The SOTE agent recognized the lad as

 Radapur, the Chandakhar he'd saved from Rask's mad attack out on the spaceport field.

  

 No one else in the room saw Radapur approach or stand beside him. The youth bad a

 sharp knife clutched firmly in his hand. There was an expression on the lad's face that

 was impossible for Jules to fathom, so twisted was it with conflicting emotions. Is he

 coming to kill the or free me? he wondered.

  

 Radapur was behind him now and, with several quick slashes, cut the bonds that held

 Jules in place. "The debt is paid," the youth said tersely. "I can do no more." And he

 moved away again so quickly that Jules would hardly have believed he'd ever been there,

 were it not for the slashed ropes behind him.

  

 He had no chance to make any break now, however, as the door opened and closed

 quickly and attention was turning back in his direction. The ropes were hanging more

 slackly on him, and Jules hoped fervently that no one would notice until he had an

 opportunity to make his move.

  

 "Whew," said the newcomer, "I'd forgotten the stench of this place. I'm glad I don't have

 to come down here much anymore. Where's the spy?.

  

 "Over this way." The tail man led the newcomer over to where Jules was seated. It was

 obvious from the deference in his attitude that the late arrival was a man of importance in

 this organization-perhaps the big boss himself. Jules stared at the face, but the man was

 no one he had met. There was a craftiness to that face, though, and an evil glint behind

 the eyes.

  

 As Jules was studying his face, the boss-Garst, he had been called-was studying Jules.

 "DesPlainian, all right," be mused aloud. "The skin's dyed of course, now, but even so . .

 . there's more than a superficial resemblance to that girl.

  

 Yvete! Had she already tangled with this man? If so, what had happened? Why was he

 still free to walk around, and what had become of his sister? Those questions and a

 thousand others flooded Jules' mind. It was only with a great force of will that he put

 them aside and concentrated on his position of the moment. He could worry about Yvette

 sometime later, when he was less worried about himself.

  

 Garst gave him no more clues. Instead, he turned to his lieutenant and asked, "All right,

 Lessin, what have you learned from him so far?.

  

 "Nothing yet. He's only just come out of stun. I wanted to wait until you got here before

 giving him the juice. You would know better what questions to ask him." Garst nodded.

 "Okay, get on with it.

  

 Lessin reached into a leather pouch at his belt and pulled out a hyposprayer filled with a

 clear fluid. The "juice," as he had called it, could only be nitrobarb, which would knock its

 victim into a coma for twenty minutes, after which he would have to answer any and all

 questions put to him. For Jules, it would be the death knell; even if the drug itself did not

 kill him, Garst and his men were certain to once they learned what he knew. His life was

 on the line, and he'd have to make his move now.

  

 As Lessin approached him with the sprayer, Jules suddenly lifted one leg and kicked the

 strangler squarely amidship. The man let out a grunt of surprise and pain, and fell

 backwards. The hyposprayer flew from his hand and landed across the room, shattering

 on impact with the floor and spilling its lethal contents harmlessly on the concrete

 surface.

  

 Long before that happened, however, the rest of the room had exploded into action.

 Garst, his reflexes faster than Jules would have given him credit for, backed away from

 the DesPlainian the instant his foot lashed out at Lessin, and began reaching for the gun

 be had tucked away in his jacket pocket. The rest of the gang, two dozen of them, were

 all armed as well-they'd seen Jules in action before and had come prepared for anything.

 Even Radapur was reaching for his gun. Apparently the young man felt that cutting the

 bonds and giving Jules a chance to fight for his freedom was ample enough repayment;

 from now on it would be no quarter asked or given. Jules accepted that as an unhappy

 fact of life and planned accordingly.

  

 He had been hoping to grab Garst and hold him in front as a hostage to ensure safe

 passage out of here, but the man had jumped out of reach too quickly for him to

 accomplish that. Besides, with a group like this there was always the possibility of one of

 the lesser murderers taking it into his head to shoot the boss as well and take over for

 himself. While in the long run that might lead to the group's unity dissolving in internal

 rivalries, in the short run it would do Jules no good whatsoever.

  

 The SOTE agent sized up the situation quickly. Al! his opponents were armed; while

 some of the weapons they had were stunners, most were equipped with bigger stuff

 -blasters, and heavy-duty ones at that. This game was being played for keeps, and Jules

 could afford no mistakes. One slip here and he was dead.

  

 Getting quickly to his feet Jules bounded abruptly in the direction opposite to Garst. The

 long high leap left him in a vulnerable position momentarily as it took several seconds for

 Vesa's light gravity to pull him back to the ground again; but his aerialist training came to

 his assistance once more as he curled, himself into a small ball and spun through the air,

 offering a minimal target surface for the killers to aim at. He felt the scorching heat as

 several bolts passed by within half a meter of him, but fortunately these killers were used

 to strangling their victims and were not as adept with guns as they might be.

  

 Jules had gauged his leap to take him behind one of the nearby vats. He straightened out

 as he approached ground level, noticing as he did so that there were no more bolts going

 past his immediate vicinity. He was out of direct, straight-line range, and therefore

 safe-for the moment.

  

 "Watch those blasters in here!" Garst called out. "We can't afford to damage anything, or

 we might all be flooded out. Stunners only, unless you've got an absolutely clear shot.

 Don't move too quickly, don't overcommit yourself. Remember, there's only one way out

 and we're guarding it. He's trapped in here and we outnumber him, so it's only a matter

 of time.

  

 Garst is right, Jules grimaced. As long as he was weaponless and there were armed

 men at the door his chances of escape were virtually nil. He could bounce around for

 hours, gradually wearing himself out, while they could move at their leisure and hunt him

 down. Getting possession of a weapon of his own would be a big help, but in the

 meantime he would have to stay in motion and avoid letting the enemy get any clear

 shots at him.

  

 As he touched ground he jumped again, this time for the ladder that went up the side of

 the vat next to him. Using the handrails he pulled himself up five rungs at a time until he

 was almost to the top. The sounds of running footsteps told him that his pursuers were

 coming around after him, closing in on the spot where he'd disappeared from their view.

 Turning around and bracing himself against the ladder, he leaped through the air towards

 the top of the next vat some five meters away. Again, his leap seemed agonizingly slow

 to him as Vesa's low gravity worked lazily to pull him down. One of the men below him

 spotted him during his leap and fired a blaster bolt up at him, but it passed harmlessly a

 meter away as Jules finally came down on the catwalk around the rim of the vat he'd

 aimed for.

  

 As he landed, the forward momentum of his leap almost carried him headfirst into the

 vat, but he managed to grab the railing and stop his motion. As he was leaning over the

 vat, though, he got a good strong whiff of its contents-hundreds of thousands of liters of

 human waste products. Though efforts had been taken to neutralize the odor they were

 never a hundred percent successful. The fumes were so overpowering that Jules sank to

 his knees, gagging and retching. This is obviously the recycling plant, he thought as he

 knelt there helplessly for a moment. And if I don't want to get recycled myself, I'd better

 get moving again.

  

 Still choking, he pulled himself to his feet and raced around the perimeter of the vat.

 Shots were fired up at him, but none of them came close. One shot did hit one of the

 overhead pipes, however, burning a hole in it and showering the entire area with a

 steamy, salted liquid. Keeping his head bowed down so that none of the fluid would get

 in his eyes, Jules continued running. Below him, he heard Garst chewing out his men and

 telling them to be more careful about how they shot.

  

 From his lofty vantage point, Jules could see one man off to one side, separated from

 the rest of his fellows and out of their sight. With an outward leap, Jules plunged off the

 catwalk toward the ground, falling much faster than the normal gravity would allow

 because he had given himself a push in the right direction. In midair he twisted his body

 around like a cat so that he was falling feet first. A fall from such a height under Earth

 gravity could be fatal to an untrained person, and even on Vesa it could have serious

 consequences, but Jules knew precisely what he was doing.

  

 His feet hit the lone gangster squarely in the chest just under the chin. The man crumpled

 to the floor with his ribs caved in, but his body broke Jules' fall and cushioned the landing

 impact. The DesPlainian rolled to his feet, grabbed the man's gun-only a stunner,

 unfortunately-and began running. He reached another vat and began climbing the ladder.

 making it halfway up before he was spotted again. The man who saw him gave cry, but it

 was the last thing he ever did; Jules mowed him down with one perfectly placed shot,

 and his stunner was set on ten-instantly lethal.

  

 He made it to the top of the vat and looked around. The contents of this tank was

 garbage of various sorts, but the odor was no more pleasant than the last one. From this

 spot, though, Jules could get a clear look at the door and the two men standing guard in

 front of it. Since they weren't part of the chase, they had no definite idea as to where he

 was. Their eyes scanned the room nervously, waiting for him to make a break in their

 direction so that they could gun him down.

  

 Two quick shots were all Jules needed to fell that pair in their tracks. He had hoped that,

 in the excitement, no one would notice that he had gotten them and he would be able to

 slip out the door. But Garst's sharp eyes spotted their deaths immediately. Barking crisp

 orders, the leader of the murderers sent another pair of his men to guard the egress, but

 this time he told them not to stand immediately in front of the door unprotected. Instead,

 he bad them take up positions behind the vats with their guns trained on the door.

 Anyone trying to get out would be instantly killed in the crossfire.

  

 A blaster bolt struck the handrail just centimeters from Jules' hand, turning the rail to

 molten slag in that spot and making it too hot for Jules to hold onto. He backed away and

 aimed a fast shot at the man who'd fired at him, but the other had ducked back under

 cover too quickly.

  

 There are just too many of them, Jules thought as he recovered his breath and prepared

 to move to a new perch. I can't keep hopping around like this indefinitely. Sooner or later,

 one of them's bound to get lucky and hit me. But he knew there was no choice he had to

 try.

  

 Just as he was preparing for another leap, though, the doors to the plant burst open

 inward and Yvette raced in, stunner in hand. She stopped for a moment to evaluate the

 wild scene before her, and everyone else stopped as well, startled by this unexpected

 development. The guards watching the door also hesitated; they were expecting to shoot

 someone trying to get out, not trying to get in, and they were undecided what to do.

 Their indecision would only last a second, though, and Yvette was a sitting duck in her

 exposed position unless she could be warned.

  

 The age-old circus danger call of "Hey, Rube!" had survived through the centuries, albeit

 in an abbreviated form. So Jules' cry of "Rube!" evoked an instant response from his

 sister. She dived forward, low to the ground, just as two blaster bolts criss-crossed

 through the space where her head had been a split second earlier. She hit the deck,

 rolled, and came up ready for action.

  

 Yvette's sudden appearance made Jules feel reborn. The odds of twenty to one had

 seemed almost hopeless, but now they were down to ten to one. Why, that was

 practically child's play.

  

 With renewed spirits, he suddenly changed role from hunted to hunter. Each opponent be

 could pick off would reduce the odds that much more, and each of the men on the ground

 knew that they no longer had only one quarry to contend with. They had to watch from all

 angles at once, lest they be picked off by Jules' new ally. They sensed immediately a

 change in the atmosphere, and switched to a defensive posture.

  

 Yvette was a hurricane on legs as she raced about the vast chamber in a cold fury. She

 seemed to have no fear at all as she ran at top speed between the vats, sometimes

 straight at groups of the killers. At one point she felled four of the men in half as many

 seconds by coming on them by surprise, before they had a chance to react. She was

 driving the stranglers frantic with her relentless assaults on their positions-and if any of

 them was careless enough to move too quickly out of her way, Jules was usually

 perched right above to pick him off from that direction. Steadily the number of opponents

 dwindled until, after only a couple of minutes, it was they who were on the defensive

 totally, just trying to stay live between this Scylla and Charybdis of DesPlainian fury.

  

 Jules had never seen his sister so worked up, so absolutely coldblooded about her

 business. She took risks some of them quite unnecessary, in his opinion-as though she

 had no fear of death. She's a demon today, he thought as he watched her flit like a black

 shadow across the floor. I wonder what's gotten into her. But he was kept too busy

 shooting it the murderers to spend much time thinking about it. He recovered his breath

 and his strength as he concentrated on his target practice.

  

 Soon the number of the enemy had been whittled down until only Garst was left alone.

 He had taken to hiding at the far corner of the room, protected by machinery on several

 sides. But now, with the attention of both DesPlainians focused solely on him, he knew

 he would never be able to hold out. In desperation he bolted from the spot, running along

 the back wall of the plant in an effort to reach the door before the two SOTE agents

 could get to him.

  

 Jules found he was entirely out of position to try to capture Garst, and the crime boss

 was out of stunner range. Instead, the DesPlainian started leaping from vat to vat,

 working his way across the room in an attempt to reach the door before Garst could.

 Yvette, who was already down on the floor, would have a better chance of confronting

 Garst directly.

  

 Garst had a good lead on her, but Yvette was moving at superhuman speed at the

 moment and closed the gap between them rapidly. Stopping in front of a large opened

 door marked "Chemical Reprocessing," the First Advisor took careful aim with his blaster

 and directed a bolt straight at Yvette. The female d'Alembert made a minute swerve and

 the deadly beam touched ground only centimeters from her feet, scorching the concrete

 flooring. Yvette didn't even slow down.

  

 A look of terror now crossed the face of the man whose organization had so callously

 doomed hundreds of thousands of people to death. This was more a machine than a

 person coming at him, a black-clad juggernaut bent solely on his destruction. He tried to

 start running again, but his foot slipped on the ground that was now covered by the liquid

 spewing from the leaking pipe above. He spread out his arms to regain his balance, but

 to no avail. With a cry of doomed anguish he fell through the opened door and

 disappeared from view.

  

 As she came to the wet spot, Yvette slowed her own charge so that she wouldn't suffer

 the same fate. Walking carefully up to the edge of the door, she peered inside.

  

 Below her, surrounded by a narrow walkway, steamed a vat of chemicals whose

 purpose was to reduce organic materials to their basic molecular components. These

 components would then be filtered out into separate tanks and recombined in more

 acceptable form for human consumption. There was no chance that any living thing could

 fall in there and survive.

  

 As she stared into the greenish liquid her hands clenched and unclenched several times in

 frustration. She had wanted to take Garst apart personally, piece by piece, but consoled

 herself with the thought that his death had not been a particularly pleasant one. She

 found that her lower jaw was trembling, and stopped it with an act of will. "He's gone,"

 she announced simply.

  

 Her brother came racing up to her and put his arms around her. Suddenly all the tensions

 of the last two days hit Yvette at once and she leaned, trembling, in his embrace. Jules

 held her tightly and said nothing. He wanted very much to ask her what the matter was,

 but he knew his sister too well for that. He didn't want to hurt her pride. When she was

 ready to tell him the story, she would do so. In the meantime he would offer her all the

 aid he could without invading her privacy.

  

 After a couple of minutes Yvette pulled herself together and smiled up at her brother.

 "This affected me a little more strongly than I thought.

  

 He nodded. "You know, I've discovered I don't like working on my own nearly as well. It

 gets awfully lonely sometimes.

  

 "Yes." She continued to smile weakly, then looked down at her feet. "Yes, it does." After

 a moment she looked back up at him, her face back to its normal composure. "Chief

 Kantana and her agents should be arriving soon at the Marchioness's palace. I asked

 them to meet me there, since that was where I thought Garst would be. Gindri was in

 collusion with Garst, but he was the brains. As soon as I learned he would be here, I left

 a note for them to follow me." She looked around at the devastation the evening's

 activities had wrought at the plant. "There's nothing really for them to do here. Why don't

 you go back to the palace and help them sort out the pieces there?.

  

 "What about you?.

  

 "I'll be along in a little bit. I just have a private goodbye to say here, that's all. Don't

 worry, I'll be all right." Jules gave her a quizzical glance, but said nothing. As he walked

 out the door, he turned to look back. Yvette was standing beside the opening to the

 chemical processing vat, staring blankly into it. There were tears in her eyes, though

 whether they were from the chemical fumes or some inner grief he could not tell. With a

 shrug of the shoulders, Jules turned and left his sister to work out her emotions for

 herself.

  

 CHAPTER 14

 The Chandakha Solution

  

  

 They sent a coded report directly to the Head the next day, and received an answer

 within two hours. They were ordered to return on the next available ship, and to leave the

 mopping-up operations in the capable hands of Chief Kantana. They were both a little

 sorry not to be able to finish completely what they'd started, but they realized the

 wisdom of their superior's decision. After all, they were his top agents and their talents

 shouldn't be wasted on trivia. There were plenty of other people to handle the routine

 work.

  

 Despite their own impatience, the Head suggested that they take their time getting back.

 The ship on which they booked passage took a leisurely ten days to make the trip to

 Earth-time they used well for both emotional and physical healing. Yvette told her brother

 all about Dak and her feelings for him, and he comforted her to the best of his ability. By

 the time they reached Earth, Yvette was reconciled to Dak's death. He was only a dull

 ache in the back of her mind-if not forgotten, at least put aside for other matters.

  

 They came down at the Canaveral Spaceport in Florida and drove in their own jet-car to

 the Hall of State building for Sector Four, located in Miami. Landing on the rooftop, they

 took the private elevator tube down to the Head's office, where Duchess Helena showed

 them in with great ceremony.

  

 Grand Duke Zander von Wilmenhorst was seated behind his large desk which was, as

 usual, buried beneath a mass of paperwork. He looked much more at home in these

 surroundings than he did in his spaceship; the milieu was suited to his basic personality.

 He waved them casually into chairs and Helena went automatically to the bar. Knowing

 the d'Alemberts' preference for nonalcoholic beverages, she fixed them both orange juice

 freezes.

  

 "Once again I have to commend you two on a superlative job," he said when everyone

 had gotten comfortably settled. "It threatens to become a habit. Of course it's a pleasant

 habit to acquire, considering the alternatives.

  

 "You're no doubt wondering how the mop-up operations went. I got a report in just

 yesterday from Kantana, and her work has been perfect. The ledger reel you found,

 Yvette, did indeed contain some of Garst's records, as well as some notes that let

 Kantana discover where he'd hidden the rest of his files. They went right back to the

 beginning of his organization, more than two decades ago. The wealth that flowed

 through that group was greater than the Gross Planetary Products of many smaller

 worlds! It was an incredible system. Garst was an organizational genius, and I'm glad

 he's dead. I'd hate to know he's still out there plotting. It was only an accident that led us

 to him at all.

  

 "So many criminals slip up by getting too greedy, but Garst kept a tight rein on that. He

 preyed on only small numbers of tourists-comparatively, of course-where a lesser man

 might have tried for bigger scores. By keeping at a low level continuously, he was able to

 get away with his crimes far longer than he should have.

  

 The Head absently shifted papers from one stack to another as he spoke. "Once we had

 the records, of course, it was a simple matter for Kantana to round up all the members

 of the gang on Vesa, including the corrupt police and hotel and recycling plant

 employees. And from the information you gave her, Jules, she was able to track down

 their training school. There wasn't much left of it Jakherdi had burned it down and

 scattered his personnel the moment word reached him about Garst's death-but Garst's

 records were complete enough that she knew who she was looking for. A few of the

 small fry have escaped detection in Chandakha's crowds, but all the major officers in the

 conspiracy have been captured.

  

 Shifting uneasily in his chair, Jules sipped at his drink and looked thoughtful. When he

 was certain that his boss had finished speaking for the moment, he began, "On the way

 back to Earth I did a bit of thinking. We've smashed the conspiracy on Vesa for now, but

 I really don't think we've solved the problem.

  

 The Head raised an eyebrow speculatively. "Oh? How do you mean?.

  

 "Well, the real menace is Chandakha. Garst could never have set up the system he did if

 he didn't have a steady supply of people to commit his murders. He needed hundreds of

 men who were so desperate for money and so calloused about the value of human life

 that they could kill automatically, like machines. Chandakha is a breeding ground for

 exactly that sort of person. Life is the cheapest commodity they have there. People are

 so crammed together, crime is so rampant, that recruiting for a strangler's guild is

 simplicity itself. Transport a man from the slums of Bhangora to the flashy casinos of

 Vesa and he's bound to feel resentment against the rich. Why shouldn't he take what

 they have if he can? They have more than enough, and his family is starving.

  

 The Head nodded gravely. "Everything you're saying is right. What do you propose be

 done about it?" "The people have to be dispersed," Jules said with determination. "They

 can't go on living jammed together like that. Garst was actually providing Chandakha with

 a safety valve, though I doubt whether he thought of it in those terms. By perpetually

 bleeding off the worst members of Chandakha's society, he kept the planet from erupting

 into uncontrolled violence. Now there is no such outlet. If we want to avoid having

 Chandakha blow up in our faces, we'll have to disperse the population, reduce its

 density.

  

 "But the other continents on the planet are uninhabitable.

  

 Yvette now felt it was her turn to speak. "There are other planets, some very sparsely

 settled as yet, where the Chandakhari's knowledge of agriculture could be invaluable. I

 would suggest sponsoring a series of cash grants to encourage the citizens of

 Chandakha to move elsewhere. Many of them are desperate enough to accept such an

 offer.

  

 "Ah yes," the Head smiled, "but now we run into a question of money-money to

 encourage them to leave Chandakha, money to transport them elsewhere, money to help

 the emigres relocate on their new planet. Where, pray tell, is all this money going to

 come from?.

  

 "Simple," Yvette explained. "Vesa has more than enough coming in; they scarcely know

 what to do with it all. And now that the murderers are out of the way, there'll be more

 money there than ever. The Emperor could authorize the Duke of Chandakha to levy a

 special tax for the purpose, to be paid by all the merchants of Vesa. In the long run it

 would be a small price for them to pay for security.

  

 The Head's smile broadened immensely. "I really do like the way you two think-especially

 since your thoughts parallel my own so nicely. Just yesterday morning I sent the Emperor

 a note detailing a plan almost identical to the one you just suggested.

  

 Jules looked startled. "You did?.

  

 "Yes, occasionally this old man has an idea or two himself," laughed the Head with a

 twinkle in his eye. "After all, it's not enough for us to detect trouble after it's brewing. The

 Service is ultimately responsible for the total security of the Empire, and that includes

 finding the danger zones before they flare up; that way, remedying the problem is usually

 much simpler. I admit we failed the first time on Chandakha, which is why I'm doubly

 anxious to avoid repeating the mistake.

  

 "Do you think the Emperor will follow your advice?" Yvette asked.

  

 "Bill knows me pretty well by now, and he knows I don't make such recommendations

 lightly. I can almost guarantee he'll act as we suggest. He was already agreeing to my

 suggestion for the new Marchioness of Vesa.

  

 "Yes, that was something I was wondering myself. What about Gindri?" Jules asked.

  

 The Head sighed. "Gindri Lohlatt was a very weak woman, completely dominated by

 Garst. She knew what was going on, but had no inclination to stop it as long as she got

 everything she wanted. She'll be hauled up before a High Court of Justice, and

 condemnation by her peers is inevitable. I suspect they'll vote to banish her to Gastonia

 rather than have her executed-it's a sentence equivalent to death in any case, since her

 heart will never be able to stand the strain of an Earth-normal gravity like Gastonia's. In

 any event, that leaves the title open, since she has no heirs. I recommended to His

 Majesty that he appoint Marask Kantana as the new Marchioness of Vesa, and he

 agreed.

  

 "Of course," Yvette smiled. "She's the perfect choice." "Yes," said the Grand Duke of

 Sector Four, "I thought so, too. But she turned it down.

  

 "What?" Jules and Yvette exclaimed, practically in unison.

  

 "She thought she could be of more use to the Empire by continuing in SOTE-and I have

 to admit, I was sorry at the thought of losing her. Since she felt so strongly about the

 subject, the Emperor agreed to grant her request. He's now studying the various other

 political nominees who have come forward.

  

 "Kantana's damned good," Jules commented. "I think it's a shame for her to get stuck on

 a backwater planet like Chandakha.

  

 "So do I, so I dug out her records. Do you know she'd never been given the

 thousand-point test? She rose to her position as Chief entirely through the ranks, starting

 out as an ordinary field agent-and since Chandakha is such a comparatively minor world,

 nobody paid her any attention. I ordered the situation rectified immediately and

 discovered, not much to my surprise, that her score is nine ninety-six.

  

 Jules gave out a low whistle. The thousand-point test was an examination of the total

 person, both physically and mentally. Currently Jules was the only thousand pointer alive,

 with his sister only a point below him. For Kantana to rank so highly was a considerable

 compliment.

  

 "Yes indeed." The Head was amused by Jules' reaction. "As soon as her wrap-up on

 Vesa is complete, I'm having her reassigned as a special executive assistant to myself.

 She's going to be in charge of visiting as many planets as she can and spotting potential

 trouble zones like Chandakha before they ignite.

  

 "I know she'll do an outstanding job," Yvette said. "She may even eliminate the need for

 us altogether." Their boss shook his head. "There are some thirteen hundred planets in

 our Empire. Good as Kantana is, she can't be everywhere at once. No, my friends, as

 long as there is human greed and corruption, there will always be a need of your very

 special services.

  

 And, as usual, he was right.