"I'll get it," said Williamson, and left. Maynard turned to Hamilton. "And you, Jack, get some of your heavies into action against sector A-13. You know the target we want destroyed."
"I sure do. And I'll get it!"
He turned to the commanding officer of the forces that arrived with the reinforcements. "Can you hold them to the north, south, and west? If so, can you advance to the east?"
"That's quite a job."
"Can you?" demanded Maynard.
The other man looked at Maynard's nebula and then down at his own rayed star. "I'll try," he said.
"No, Walter, say 'I'll do it!' and then try. We're counting on you."
There was a three-mile border around the hundred square miles of Terran-held Mephisto. It was a terrible border now. It was a solid mass of flame and fragment, and it was creeping inward slowly. Saturation destruction, it was called, and if successful, obliterated not only the enemy, but also his traces.
Above, the circling of tiny fighter ships darkened the sky, and the rain of broken ships became dangerous.
And then a wave of intense hatred filled Maynard. It was so violent that he found himself climbing the roof of his shelter to man one of the AutoMacMillans himself. He got control of himself, and saw that all the Terrans in the field of his sight were positively writhing in hatred. Shaking his head in wonder, Maynard returned to his scanning room and watched the luminous map of operations.
He was amazed to see that the sides of the square held by the Terrans were advancing, closing down that barrier of fire that bordered the square. The east side, which should have advanced slowly, was rocketing forward at a dizzy pace.
The wave of hatred diminished, and so did the swift advance. The battle settled down to a continuous roar.
Hamilton's group returned and as the sector commander landed to report, his command roared through the skies above the embattled defenders of the planet and poured destruction down upon them. Hamilton came in and told Guy: "We did it, but what a cost!"
"Bad?"
"Terrible. They hacked at us all the way there and all the way back—and when we got there, that place was defended like Sahara Base itself."
"But you got the target?"
"We did."
"Good. Can you get the target in sector L-14 now?"
"If my command holds out."
"Go ahead then—and we'll meet you at Area 2. Don't return here at all."
"I get it. You're going to abandon this place?"
"No. I'm going to hit F-67 with three quarters of the main fleet. That'll divide their defenses and we'll end up with two hundred-mile areas."
"You're going to leave enough here to hold this place?"
"Yes. It'll be tough going, but once they're divided, it'll be easier here. With three quarters of our fleet attacking another place, they'll be forced to follow. Look, Hamilton, some of their power is down! Ben must have got that power-conversion plant!"
"When are you leaving?"
"As soon as Ben returns. Hello," he said, turning to see four officers struggling with—a creature.
"We caught this one alive," offered the foremost. "Thought you'd like to see what we've been fighting!"
"Nice to know," said Maynard drily. "What now? Do you expect me to give it tea?"
The laugh was universal. But the creature straightened, and waved the tentacle on top of the shapeless collection of antennæ, tendrillike fronds of hair, and wide, flat appendages that must have passed for the head on Mephisto. It whipped the tentacle to the back of the head and found a curved case that fitted the back of the head. Another tentacle tore from the officer's grasp and found a similar box at the belt.
It turned a knob on top, and Maynard whipped his MacMillan from its holster and blasted the tentacle off at the "shoulder."
And then, in Maynard's mind there came a thought. It staggered the patrol marshal, and he blinked in unbelief. It rang in his mind: "You shouldn't have done that!"
"What?" asked Maynard aloud. "Why—?"
"You shouldn't have done that. I meant no harm with this. Now I may not retune it to your fellows."
"But—?"
"It is a development that will ultimately win for us," came the thought. "A thought-beam transmitter."
Maynard sat down suddenly. "No," he said. "I'm mad! I must be."
Hamilton said: "That I doubt, Guy. What's the matter, though. You look ill, but madness I doubt."
"He says that thing on his head and belt is a thought-beam transmitter."
"What? He says—?"
"That's his thought. But it can not be—"
"Or can it?"
"Your misbelief is amusing in the face of fact," came the amused thought. "Tell me aloud to perform some simple action."
"Can you sit down?" asked Maynard.
To the amazement of everyone, the creature bent in the middle and seated itself on a stool.
Hamilton smiled foolishly. "From here on in, Guy, that's a thought-beam transmitter. Take it from there and go on."
Guy smiled and nodded. "I'll accept it."
"It's the explanation for a lot of things," said Hamilton. "Their concentration of forces against selected targets, for instance. Their use of the barrier."
"Naturally," came the Mephistan's thought.
"I thought you couldn't tune to them," remarked Guy.
"They spoke to you—your mind followed their speech; I followed your mind. I can not talk to them direct."
"I see. It's logical. But why did you permit us to get this far?"
"You are alien; tuning the instrument to your very alien minds was a matter of hundreds of years. We have been trying, and only succeeded after the first horde of you came close—landed upon Ungre—and gave us a large thought-input to work on."
"But why did your kind fight us from the very beginning?"
"Because we know what manner of mind you have. We saw it in action before."
"Surely you knew that we would negotiate with you?"
"To our disadvantage."
"Not necessarily."
"Don't be ridiculous," came the thought. "You and I both know that the Solar System is not large enough for both our kinds."
"We have no desire to own your world."
"No? Then what are you fighting for?"
"For the right to negotiate with you—and to uphold our honor. After all, we were fired upon without provocation."
"You are the commander of the Terran forces here. Suppose a race came to Terra. Suppose this race was one you knew to be absolutely ruthless, grasping, ambitious, and proud. Suppose you knew this hypothetical race to be the one that used a minor race as subjects in vivisection; and because of valuable minerals on another planet, this race oppressed still another race and held them in ignorance so that the true value of the minerals was not known to the ignorant natives."
"You're speaking of the troglodytes of Titan—who haven't the power of reason. Why shouldn't we use their bodies as experimental subjects to aid our researches into the subject of medicine?"
"Because they, themselves, are life!" came the scathing thought. "Given the opportunity, they develop reasoning minds and are quite intelligent. Their environment holds them back. Titan is a poor place, destitute of minerals and unproductive of easy living, such as is necessary for civic advancement."
"That I do not follow."
"In order that a race advance, he must have time to think. That means leisure. His living must come easy enough to give this race time to think, and to dream, and to plan. When scratching a living out of nature becomes a full-time job, little civic advancement can prevail. Also, on Titan, he is already supreme as far as his native enemies go. There is nothing to drive the Titan to his fellows for mutual protection. Each Titan is alone because he has nothing to fear, not even his own kind.
"But," continued the Mephistan, "give him the opportunity, and you will find that the Titan can evolve into intelligent life. Say three generations!"
Guy let this matter drop, and said: "And your other statement pertains to Pluto."
"Certainly. Valuable ores were found on Pluto. Also a race of semi-intelligent natives. They traded worthless bits of glass and glittering, chromium-plated jewelry for gray and shapeless masses of dirt—but the dirt must be excavated from certain locations, and in certain ways. To keep the ores moving, and at this ridiculous rate of exchange, no program of education was installed on your Pluto. Even your Men of God—missionaries—obscured the real value of those ores. What did you give them in exchange?"
"We gave them protection against a common enemy."
"An enemy of yours that would probably have treated them no worse than you did. The protection you prattle of was protection of your own mines against the enemy, not of the natives against this enemy. In either case, the natives would be no better off."
"You paint our race as black-hearted," said Guy.
"And what did you do?" came the cynical thought. "As soon as you discovered this barrier-screen, you raised it over Pluto, and the rise in temperature, good for Terrans, killed the Plutonians to the last one! A benign race? Bah!"
"We—"
"Nothing you say will convince me that your main desire is not for yourselves! And if you think for one moment that we will permit you to throw up a barrier around Mephisto and kill us off, you're mistaken."
"You're all convinced that we mean harm?"
"You do!" The creature tapped the thought-beam instrument.
"I presume that you speak for the entire race?"
"I do. You, with your so-called democratic government; with your populace swayed by orators; with your justice biased with bribery; with your elections purchased by the highest bidder, could not possibly understand how a race could hold an honest government. But we do," said the Mephistan proudly. Again he tapped the thought-beam instrument. "This instrument tells the truth! No silvery-tongued orator can sway the people; no biased judge can color the evidence; no public servant can buy an election, for problems of state are presented via thought-wave, and a liar is detected! When you first advanced into the planets, we saw your progress. And when we found you in our system, we knew your real thoughts at last! We broadcast your hidden purpose and to the last Mephistan, we decided to fight! To the last one of us we will fight, for we know that your purpose is to move in on us and run us to death. We have nothing to lose but our lives, and those we will lose if we permit your invasion."
"You hold us in deep contempt," said Maynard. "Therefore your statements themselves are biased."
"They are not. Perhaps, with this instrument, we know you better than you do yourselves. You are death for us—unless we become death for you!"
"But what can we do when you fire upon us without provocation?"
"Stop prattling about provocation," came the thought. "When a burglar pries his way into your living room, do you wait until he collects your valuables before you fire on him?"
"Now we're burglars?"
"Worse. A burglar knows that he is doing wrong."
Guy shook his head. How could he make this creature see that Terra meant no real harm until the Mephistans made the first aggressive move?
"You made the first aggressive move," said the Mephistan. "You made it when you first landed on Titan. You made the second on Pluto. What is your feeling toward Mars? You plan extermination for them—and they only desire to grow with you."
"They—"
"Only fought back when you fought them. Only this"—tapping the instrument at his belt—"will keep us from falling in death. You, yourself, brought home many new concepts from Ertene which will throw the balance of power for Terra."
Guy started, and then looked wildly around at the other officers in the room.
"I know of Ertene from your own mind," said the creature. "These others can not hear my mind. But I curse Ertene for the things she gave you; they will make our battle difficult."
"It will make your fight impossible," said Maynard, catching the brief flash of a hidden, fearsome thought in the Mephistan's mind. He turned to Hamilton and said: "Set up a barrier about the system, and focus the output of the screen on the center of Mephisto!"
The creature snarled audibly; it was the first sound ever heard that was made by a Mephistan. He drove forward, shaking the officers' grip from him as though the hold was nothing.
A darting tentacle lunged forward like a rapier; and like a rapier it impaled Hamilton through the throat. Withdrawn, it flattened and swung like a scimitar in and among the stunned officers.
They came to life and rushed the Mephistan. Crowding the creature close. The stool upon which he had been sitting was lifted high in another tentacle and it shattered to bits against the skull of the tallest officer in the room. The other three grappled with the Mephistan and bore him backward to the floor which may have seemed desirable to the Terrans. It was also desirable to the Mephistan, too, for it gave him a more solid basis for his slashing attack. He cut through one officer's midsection entirely, crushed the skull of the next against his own by driving that bullet head forward, and then picked the last from the floor in his tentacles and dashed him across the room against the wall. The body crunched, quivered, and fell to the floor.
Maynard lifted the MacMillan and drilled the Mephistan again and again. His eyes blazed with hatred for the alien creature, and his mouth curled in utter distaste. The room filled with the stench of—burning varnish!
"Naturally," came the thought, continuing as though nothing had happened, "I could not come to such a fearsome temperature as you maintain and hope to live. You seem to have destroyed my servant, but we shall destroy you!"
When the aides came to clean up Guy's office, they found him inspecting the little instrument that fitted head and waistline of the alien creature. It was off, now, and partly disassembled upon the patrol marshal's desk.
Williamson came at Maynard's call and raised an eyebrow at Maynard's action.
"I had to do something," said Guy in a flat voice. "I couldn't just sit here and contemplate those bodies."
"I know," said Ben softly. "Anything I can do?"
"Yes. Set up a barrier. Focus the screen's output on the center of Mephisto. And then maintain that barrier for your life—and it will be just that. It will be for your very life, for it will be against the lives of all Mephistans!"
"Good!" glowed Williamson. "That'll do it!"
"It may take months," said Maynard. "But from now on we're fighting a winning battle."
"What is that thing you're tinkering with?"
"A goldberg that was on the creature's body. Interesting thing, too. Look, Ben, this thing may have been a robot, but their psychology is such that they hate us completely. Issue orders that no more prisoners are to be taken. Extermination is the only way; their strength is such that three of them could wipe out a regiment. If we don't exterminate them, they'll exterminate us, and they can do it if we permit them one chance. We'll not give them that chance. Have the technicians figure out the estimated temperature rise of Mephisto with a full screen and full output directed at the center of the planet. I'd like to know when this affair can be considered over."
"Check. I'll do it, Guy. What you need is a rest."
"I know. But there'll be no rest for any of us until this fight is finished. Come on, Ben. Let's get moving. We've got a job to do."
XII.
Guy put the alien instrument in his personal locker and went to see how the battle was coming. Out across the face of Mephisto, he saw the battle machinery locked in mobile death with the huge, alien machines of Mephisto.
The ground was strewn with smoking ruin, and Guy saw with horrified gratification that the ruined machinery was all on the Terran side of the battleground—which meant that his ring of offense was advancing. The energy bombs were bursting above the planethead, and the sky was filled with blinding light. Sub-ships fell as their drive was burned by the entrapped energy within the barriers, and Guy wondered how many men were getting energy burns from the terrific radiation from the energy bombs.
Orionad, standing in the circle of planeted ships, was dealing power blows from the turrets, and beams of energy—just energy—were roving the sky to saturate the barrier-protected sub-ships. Now and then a MacMillan beam would touch one of the sub-ships unawares, and there would be a terrific blast as the entire ship exploded instantly.
Then Guy saw his forces waver slightly, fall back, and then go down in a terrible wave of destruction from massed sub-ships.
Again they retreated, and as the next wave dropped, they expended their energy on nothing but the bald surface of Mephisto. The solid ice of Mephisto boiled into great clouds of vapor and liquid water ran across Mephisto's face for the first time.
The vapor clouded operations—for both.
One sub-ship scraped Mephisto—broke the barrier, and slid through a crashing pile of accumulating rubble to a destructive stop.
And on one upthrust plate, torn and almost obliterated, was the device of the Martian Space Guard!
"Martian!" breathed Guy.
"Right!" agreed Ben.
"Check that wreck!" exploded Guy. "What's running it!"
His order was passed: fifty Terran machines raced forward and encircled the smoking ruin; and seven of the planeted constellation ships blasted a pathway back to safety for the carry-alls.
The ruined Martian ship was dropped in a clear area, opened by brute force, and through the torn plates streamed a group of cautious Terrans. They emerged immediately.
"Martians!"
"The devil! They've made a pact!"
Maynard looked understandingly at the broken ship. "Naturally," he said sourly. "What would you do?"
Williamson looked up and nodded. "Right. Well, does this change anything?"
"No—unless it is to apply what we know about fighting Martians to the present situation. We didn't consider this possibility."
As Maynard turned to re-enter theOrionad, eighteen of Hamilton's raiding horde returned in a screaming landing. Hamilton came out, white-faced, and said, dully: "It was sheer hell—both ways. We got 'em—but they hit us with the book. Sixty percent lost!"
"How do you feel?" asked Maynard.
"I don't know."
"Take your command out again and hit Sector F-67."
Hamilton looked up in surprise, and then anger crossed his face. He saluted and said: "Yes sir!"
As he turned to go, Maynard called softly: "Hamilton! We're fighting Martians now—they've made a pact!"
Hamilton turned, looked at Maynard, and muttered something that Guy could not hear over the roar of battle. Then he returned, and faced Guy.
"The stinking, rotten devils—!" His face cleared, and he left.
Behind the embattled lines of the Mephistans, Martian craft landed. Martian sluggers, Martian power-craft, Martian constellation class super battlecraft. And as they were landing, and getting set for an open battle, the Terran forces lined up behind the thin line that flankedOrionad.
It was a situation that made Maynard start. For years, no real action had ever been fought between the two forces. Sorties, scrapes, incidents; these had been the sum total of the trouble between the denizens of two worlds. Ream upon ream had been written concerning theoretical battle-plans for war against Mars, and in the Martian pictographs, equally large quantities of ink and paper went into the libraries on how to fight Terra.
Guy realized:Here it is!
The power ships of the two forces faced one another across ten miles of plain. Above the heads of each roved the tiny fighters, and above this cover, reaching up far into the realm of space, were rising the battlecraft.
Planet forces began to move against one another, right through the unseen death that roved from the MacMillans on the tractors and the moving pillboxes. Space above the battleground filled with a continuously exploding roar, and sheets of released energy flares at the meeting points of crossed MacMillans.
The constellation ships fenced momentarily, and then roared forward into full battle. The sluggers stood back and threw the might of their energy from long range. Tiny fighters raced forward, depending upon speed, mobility, and minuteness to escape the wary detector-coupled AutoMacs.
Sight became impossible. The flaring of explosive and raw energy seared the eye that dared to look, and when the flaring light stopped by chance, the rising wreaths of smoke, steam, and incandescent vapor obscured the vision. Lightnings flashed in and through this cloud, and the instruments became wabbly.
Fire ceased briefly, and both sides waited for the veil to clear. Technicians put the cancel plugs on ruined targets to clear them from further destruction, and turretmen served the heating projectors.
A wave of sub-ships zoomed in and spread flaming death among the Terran forces, and the energy bombs poured up, and among the barrier-protected ships. A group of Martians holding disperser screens zoomed over, spreading energy in wide-aperture releases from their turrets. Bombs and torpedoes raced in through the disperser screens, and the blind crews died without knowing whether they had hit anything. Terran sub-ships crossed beneath the first wave of Martians, and hit the enemy. A veritable fence of exploding ships barred the view as sub-ships collided. Their indetectability was mutual, too.
Like twin tornadoes, the ships of both worlds spun upwards in a vast, whirling spiral. Bits of dust, smoke, and vapor intermingled with the ships, giving them a definitely tornadolike appearance as they swept the surface of Mephisto towards each other.
The volume between the twin vortices was torn and blasted. Slowly and ponderously they moved together, and as they intermingled in a whirling eddy of battle, the ground of Mephisto was scoured clean of life.
The weight of Terra's forces carried the most momentum, and the spout moved across the territory formerly held by Mars.
Reinforcements swooped in from space, and the whirling mass expanded. And with gathering speed, the vortex moved in an irregular path across Mephisto, sterilizing the planet as it went. Mephistans went before the tornado of huge battlecraft as straws go before a hurricane.
The path of the storm was strewn with smoking, ruined ships. The luckless were forced inside of the whirling cylinder and gunned there. They fell down that chimney of death to the ground that awaited them at the bottom, or crashed against uprising sub-ships that swooped upward through the vortex and fired on all sides, relying on the identifier-couplers that stopped their aim against their fellows.
The vortex broke, and the Terran ships opened from circle to crescent to straight line to closing crescent and strove to encircle the Martians. Outnumbered now, the latter fled slowly and kept up a killing fire of retreat.
Across the face of Mephisto arrowed the embattled fleets. A wall ten miles high and fifty miles long and thirty miles from front to back accelerated and swept everything before it. Between the two walls of fighting ships was a constant flare of death. Cities caught in the conflagration died; their buildings seared, blasted, and broken.
In full rout, the Martian forces raced to converge upon a large city.
In a tight circle, the Martians braced themselves. Power beams came from the city to feed them, and as Terra came before them they lashed out with the power of planet-supported fire. Terra englobed the city, but it was a questionable success.
From horizon to zenith, the Terrans poured their power into the Martian hemisphere. The ground about the city ran hot, and the grounded ring tilted and mired down, but they continued to fire back. Stalemate set in; Terra could not breach that close-knit hemisphere and Mars could not fight off the pressing Terrans. Destroyed torpedoes filled the annular gap with explosions, and crossed MacMillans flared to sear the eye.
Then a mile inside of the Martian ring, the ground heaved upward, and the ugly snouts of underground raiders appeared. Their protected turrets lifted out of the blisters and began to pour energy into the Martians from behind. The Martians swept downward from their hemisphere and fought back against the pincer-movement. The topmost Terrans pressed downward as a second ring of underground raiders appeared to bolster the first wave.
The city erupted in tiny areas as Terran undergrounds broke the surface, blasted the interfering building away with torpedoes, and lifted to add to the ever-increasing energy of the battle.
The Martians hopped backwards over the ring of undergrounds and set up an inner line. At point-blank range, and almost plate to plate, the Terrans massed their energy in a flaming wall of destruction, fighting the Martians back, foot by foot.
The circle tightened upon a tiny, central park. Spacesuited figures worked furiously under a disperser screen; they were putting the last touches upon an alien projector. No light came to them from without, but they could be seen by the light of their own working floods. Outside of the projector and the disperser, a ring of large detector-coupled MacMillans were dancing from point to point and dropping Terran ships with each point.
"Ben!" snapped Maynard. "We'd best get that thing before they finish!"
"Right. We'll hit 'em with AutoMacs and keep 'em under constant fire."
"No good."
"We can't hit 'em through that disperser, but they can't see to hit us."
"I know. But there's one thing they don't need sight to hit."
"Huh?"
"Mephisto III, you idiot. Could you hit Luna from Terra without aim?"
"If I had an ephemeris."
"What do you suppose they call theirs?"
"I—"
"Break out a ground force," ordered Maynard. "We're going to take that projector!"
The Terran fire tripled as the ground force moved ponderously across the intervening yards. A salient point was made, and the sides began to widen. Back and forth the individual sorties went, and as men and machines went up in flaring puffs of fire, the salient moved forward toward the projector.
Inside the disperser, the combined Martians and Mephistans worked furiously, though they seemed oblivious to their danger. No signals would enter this barrier, and no living thing could step outside and hope to re-enter.
They stepped back from the thirty-foot parabola, and one of them thrust down upon a plunger.
Above the parabolic reflector, a thick haze formed. A torpedo succeeded in passing the coupled AutoMacs and raced inside of the disperser and into the haze. It exploded, and its energy added to the forming vortex.
The haze thickened, became toroidal, and spread out. Up from a dun color it went, into cherry-red incandescence. Up through the red past yellow into blue and then into flaming white went the color-temperature. Like a close-knit toroid of flaming, white-hot metal, it poised above the projector, moved slightly, and then raced upwards. It passed the disperser, and the screen went up in a flare of white.
Into the sky above Mephisto went the toroid, and below it, Terrans swarmed over the projector, fought off the remaining enemy, and held the projector as their objective. The last floods of resistance died as the toroid went into the far sky above.
"Orionad!" bellowed Maynard. His ship lifted, swooped over him, and lifted him on a tractor. Upward they raced, catching the slow-moving vortex.
Turret-mounted AutoMacs vomited energy into the vortex—and back-thrusting power burned out the feedlines. Torpedoes entered the flaming mass and just disappeared. Tractor beams slid from the coruscating surface and pressor beams found nothing against which to push. A sub-ship plunged against the vortex. It was stripped of its barrier and it floated down, inert, and started the long fall to the hard ground below.
Fighting against the vortex with weapons that did no good, and cursing the foul thing all the way, Maynard and theOrionadfollowed its ponderous course out and out and out to Mephisto III.
It spread as it went, and by the time it wrapped its tenuousness about the tiny moon, it was almost gone. But it contained strength enough to blow out the barrier-generator that held Mephisto III invisible from without.
The toroid disappeared, and Guy, with misgivings, made inward to land at the base.
His fears grew as time went on, for he was not challenged. A swift report gave him some hope, but it came from Mephisto itself, telling him that resistance was at an end in the sector he had just left, and that the fleet, victorious and supreme on Mephisto, was returning to the outer moon.
Guy worried. Returning to what?
Inspection showed that nothing was harmed—save life. Dead men sat in their places operating instruments, dead men patrolled unseen areas, dead men manned the landing ports. It was a moon of the dead—with every instrument operable.
Not a machine was damaged—but no living things remained on Mephisto III.
Broken with grief, Guy Maynard looked down on the silent face of Senior Aide Joan Forbes. He felt wooden, and it all seemed dreamlike and unreal, but he knew that this was no dream, but cruel reality. Hat in hand, he stood there as if frozen and searched the girl's face as though expecting the closed lips to part in a smile, and the closed eyelids to open before a pair of twinkling eyes. His men knew of the affection there, and they pitied him silently.
In neat, geometrically precise rows; seven billion, four hundred million miles from home; on a tiny, almost airless moonlet of an alien planet the hundreds upon hundreds of physically perfect bodies were buried. Not a scar or burn marred them, yet—
The chaplain said: "—from the earth thou camest, and to the earth thou hast returned. And though this earth is far removed from the earth which bore thee and thine, it is thy resting place and home, for in the eyes of God Almighty all places and all planets are His Domain. And though ye travel to the farthest star, yet you will find Him there before thee, and this we know and believe for His Only Begotten Son hath said: 'My Father hath other worlds beside thine.'
"And so we consign these erstwhile friends of ours to the depths of the earth, knowing that time and space knows no deterrent to Our Father Almighty; We shall all meet again some day—"
Guy Maynard plodded away from the scene. His eyes were dry, and in his heart was nothing. Shock had taken control of Maynard. Through the rows of mounds he walked, back to theOrionad, and his entry into the super ship failed to give him that lift he always felt.
He sat in his scanning room and stared at the blank wall. Nothing aroused him. Nothing caused him to think; his mind was almost a blank, and it raced with futile rapidity from scene to scene with no plan, no reason.
An hour he sat, and the shock began to wear off. It left him with heartbreaking grief, and Maynard put his hands over his face and wept bitter, honest tears.
A phrase crept into his mind: "—the fortunes of war—!"
Maynard hated it. He hated the unknown who first said it. And then his hatred changed to the creatures that had created this ill fortune. He arose, his eyes blazing; and he thought:
Am I mad?
How could any man with such hatred be anything but mad?
Then I am mad!
He stormed out of the scanning room and went to the upper turret. He strode in, and saw that the super-projector was being installed there. Williamson turned and his face softened.
"Well, Guy?" he asked quietly.
"It's not well!" snapped Guy. Then his voice cleared and he said: "Sorry, Ben. When?" he asked, meaning the vortex projector.
"Now, I think. We lifted it wholesale, generators and all."
"Then blast the accursed planet until it writhes!"
The vortex formed and hurtled down upon Mephisto. Again it formed and went down, following the first. Rings of violent energy, the vortices flew from the snout of the projector one after the other, time and time again until Ben stopped because the power was running low. Lines were thrown in from adjoining ships and the everlasting barrage continued. Hour after hour it went on, and each vortex laid waste to a section of Mephisto.
And long after the last Mephistan was dead, the Terran torpedoes dropped on the planet. His men wondered, but still there came no order to cease fire. Moonlet-mounted AutoMacs crossed the void and scored Mephisto, and when the final blast was fired and the Patrol landed upon Mephisto, no complete article of Mephistan life was anything but a smoking, charred mass.
The taking of Mephisto was finished.
And Guy's hatred had passed through the saturation point, and all that was left to him was a dull ache. Shock had taken him again; it was with a dull, toneless voice that Guy issued orders to return theOrionadtoSahara Base.
XIII.
Guy Maynard inspected his image in the mirror and swore at it. He hated what he saw. His glance went from the mirror to the surroundings, and the face in the mirror, he felt, did not seem in keeping with the ornate suite of rooms at the Officers' Club. The rooms were rich, formal, and sedate. The face that looked back at Guy from the mirror was a composite between care and foolishness.
Lines had come between his eyes, and the frown of worry marked him, too. His face about the eyes and nose seemed old. An honest observer would have said that Guy's face had character there. But the lower piece of face was the idea of frivolity. That mustache! It was the sign of a youth trying to be grown up. It was an admission of immaturity that the face behind it was not enough front in itself; that foliage was needed to conceal the lineless face of youth.
It was there for beauty's sake! Beauty, he repeated in his mind. He snorted aloud. From now on they'd take him as he felt; as he was. In the face of his sorrow and self-hatred, Maynard was eschewing all signs of youth and self-indulgence.
He smiled slowly. They'd accept him, all right. They'd taken him wholeheartedly when he landed at Sahara after the completion of the Mephistan campaign. He'd had a three-day beard then and it hadn't mattered.
He entered the bathroom and when he emerged, his face was clean-shaven for the first time since he was twenty.
The bell rang, and from somewhere a junior aide came to open the door. Kane stepped in, and greeted Guy with surprise. "Well, young man, where's that face-fern of yours?"
"Shaved it off," grinned Maynard.
"You look better, I must say."
"I feel as though I've dropped a lot of foolishness since I did it," admitted Maynard.
"Why did you grow it in the first place?"
"Laura Greggor said she liked men with mustaches."
"And now you don't like Laura Greggor?"
"That isn't it. She'll take me for what I'm worth from now on."
"Them's harsh words, podner," drawled Kane. "Whatisyour feeling for Laura?"
"I don't know," said Maynard honestly. "We've both been a little rough on one another, you know. She treated me slightly coldish the last time I saw her—though she was indeed warmer than the incident after theOrionadgot painted. Then, too, the last time I saw her was the day before I headed for Pluto with theOrionad. Because she has been so snippy once before, I gave nebulae to Joan Forbes to pin on, remember?"
"That was a cold thing to do," said Kane.
"Laura told me not to annoy her until I could give her the insignia of a patrol marshal—when I became sector marshal. So when I was raised last time, I did as she demanded."
"Sometimes women don't expect to have their snapped words taken to the letter."
"Are you carrying her banner?" asked Guy.
"Not exactly. I'm trying to be honest. And I think that Laura Greggor would make a good wife for you."
"Why?"
"Laura has background, money, friends. She has social standing. Also, I have a feeling that she has been sort of waiting for you. After all, she is a very desirable woman, and I doubt that she has been friendless all these years."
"She's twenty-six," said Guy absently. "Maybe you're right. It'll depend upon how she greets me."
"Any woman in her right mind would greet you affectionately," smiled Kane. "You're the Man of the Hour for fair. The Man Who. You're famous, Guy. Wealth is yours for the taking. Fame is yours already. They're talking about hitting Mars, and they're naming you as supreme commander. How do you like that?"
Guy shook his head. "I've had enough killing for one lifetime."
"You'll change that opinion," said Kane. "What you need is rest and relaxation."
"I'd like to get away from the whole business," said Maynard. "I'm beginning to hate the whole shebang."
"You'll forget that. Did you know that they're going to present you with your starred nebulae tonight?"
"Are they?"
"Yes. Laura Greggor will be there, too. Are you going to offer her the chance?"
"Might as well," said Guy.
Kane looked at the younger man sharply. "You lost more than friendship out there on Mephisto," said Kane. "You lost more than your fellow men."
"You mean Joan Forbes?"
"Yes."
Guy nodded slowly. "I curse myself that I didn't realize her affection sooner. I'd have had her now if I'd not been so accursedly blind."
"No, you're wrong," said Kane. "Forbes would have followed you out there anyway. Nothing would have changed, excepting that Joan could have eased your worry some. Call her Joan Forbes or Mrs. Guy Maynard, and you would have found her out there on Mephisto III."
"I called her Forbes and ignored her affection," said Maynard with a groan.
"It's done now," said Kane. "In all of our lives, there are mistakes which cause us regret for the rest of our lives. Not one of us is immune. But, Guy, the successful ones of us forget our regrets and look forward instead of backward. Living in the past is death in the future."
"It's hard to forget," said Guy.
"And yet," said Kane, "out there you will find an entire planet ready to give you their acclaim. They'll make you forget. Unless, of course, you prefer to remember, in which case you'll retreat within yourself and become an embittered man. But if you'll go out there among the people who want you to be the hero they think you are, you'll find yourself being so busy living up to their belief that there'll be no time for regret.
"But above all, Guy, don't take the other road. You can go anywhere from here, now. If you become embittered because of your regret, you'll end up a wizened old man with nothing but sorrow to recall for all your lifetime. Life is too short and too interesting to spend it in the past. Guy, what would Forbes tell you to do?"
Guy turned. "She'd probably laugh and tell me not to be a fool. She'd probably admit in that laughing way of hers that she was the best—but second best becomes top when the best is gone."
"You're bitter," said Kane. "The remedy is people, noise, music, excitement, and forgetfulness. Come on, Guy, we'll go out now and find it!"
"I don't think I care to."
"Don't be an idiot. Must I tell the world that their hero does not come to his own functions because of grief? And Guy, why do you now fall grief-stricken? I know and you know. But frankly it was because you didn't know until too late. Now, snap out of it and come with me."
Maynard viewed the banquet with distaste. Yet it was exactly like one of those same functions that he would have given his life to attend five years ago. He thought of that and tried to forget. The reception room was filled with glitter, and the sound of talk and light laughter assailed his ears, and in part, Maynard forgot his feelings. He became eager for the laughter. Kane noticed the change, however slight its appearance, and he smiled inwardly.
"Good boy, Guy," he said. He led Guy to the center of the larger group and without a word shouldered into the circle.
It was enough. They knew Kane and accepted him easily. Then they saw Guy, and accepted him immediately; while they did not know him, they recognized him. Guy became the center of a smaller circle and one of the men growled cheerfully in Kane's ear:
"I don't know whether I like you any more or not. That young cub has collected all our women."
Kane laughed. "Call him a young cub to his face, Tony, and he'll collect your scalp."
"I know it. He's quite a fellow, I hear."
"He's the finest. Get Bill over there and we'll find a drink. And don't worry, your women will be here when you find time to take 'em home."
"I know that, too. And for nine weeks afterward they'll be yelling at me to show some get. Darn him, he even looks like a swashbuckler."
"I doubt that any piratical thoughts run through Maynard's mind," said Kane, motioning to the man called Bill. "And as far as women go, he's been a very busy boy for a long time."
"That's the trouble right now. If I'd been isolated as long as he has, I'd be howling at the moon. And look at 'em flock around! A mutual admiration society if I ever saw one."
Bill came up smiling. "It looks as though your protégé is doing well in all fields of endeavor, Kane. Right now he's fighting the battle of Amazonia."
Tony growled again. "Don't you call my wife an Amazon!"
Bill laughed. "I meant mine. Come on, let's haunt the bar where we can excel in our own fields."
The lightness of the talk was doing Maynard a world of good. There was nothing said at all; nothing of the slightest importance. It was all done by inference and by double-talk, and each of the women seemed to be doing her best to entice him. In the back of Maynard's mind something kept telling him that it was all sort of silly; that he had nothing in common with these frivolous women, but the fore portion of his mind enjoyed it.
And the stiffness went out of him, and absently he began to look over their heads for Laura Greggor. When he saw her arrive, he wondered how he should greet her, but she took the problem in her own way and came over to the group.
"Hello, Guy," she said, offering him her hand.
"I'm glad to see you," he told her.
One of the other women smiled wryly. "An eligible, girls. That's about all, now."
"We've experience," returned another. "And what has she got that we haven't?"
"His hand," said the first. "And from here, it looks as though she intends to keep it."
The orchestra broke into dance music, and as though prearranged, Guy led Laura through the crowd to the dance floor.
"How've you been?" he asked quietly.
She looked up at him and smiled. "Fine," she said. "I'm glad you're here."
"So am I—now. An hour ago I didn't think I would."
"So?"
"I was feeling low. Reaction, I guess."
"What you need is relaxation," she told him. "A drink, perhaps?"
"Could be," he agreed.
"If I were you, I'd get good and fried. You must have been through everything."
"It seems like everything," he smiled. "But I can't get stinkeroo. I'm supposed to be the guest of honor."
Laura laughed lightly, and led him to the bar where she prescribed a healthy drink. Guy downed it, gulped, and wiped tears from his eyes. "Whoooooo!" he squealed, hugging his midsection.
"Sissy," giggled Laura.
"Feels like a MacMillian going off down there. Is there a fire extinguisher in the place?"
They both laughed. Then Laura led the way to the opened French doors and out into the fragrant garden. It was warm and pleasant there, and with one thought they went to the far, darker end of the garden and sat down.
"Did you think of me?" asked Laura.
"Always," lied Maynard. Then he said truthfully: "I've been working toward this moment for a long time. You wanted a set of patrol marshal's nebulae. You may have mine, now."
Laura took the box, and looked at the starred nebulae of the sector marshal.
"I shouldn't do this," she teased.
It rubbed Maynard the wrong way, that teasing. He knew it was just coquetry, but still it went against the grain. It was probably because he knew what was in her mind.
"Why not?" he asked. "In some circles it is considered an honor."
"Huh," gibed Laura, "perhaps in some circles. But remember it is no great novelty to the daughter of a space marshal."
"The thrill of giving some bird the royal send-off is gone, hey?" asked Guy, stubbornly. "How many other officers have you done the honor for?"
"Quite a number," she told him. "Quite a few more than any one man can boast of having women do it for him. After all, one man only gets eight new insignia during the course of his life."
"You must have quite a collection," said Guy. "Which collection includes some of mine."
"Some," answered Laura sharply. "Most of my officers are true, though, and do not go off letting other girls pin their insignia on."
Guy shrugged. This was not going according to plan at all. But best have it out. If he could get the upper hand in this argument with Laura, he'd feel better. Always before he had come off second best in disagreements with Laura Greggor. But he felt that he was dead right in this affair, and he was not going to back down now that she had flung his actions into his teeth.
"Well," he said with an expansive wave of the hand, "you told me not to annoy you with petty trifles, and that you'd be glad to accept the patrol marshal's nebulae when I became sector marshal. I merely followed your wishes. To the letter, in fact."
"You didn't have to make a public show of yourself with that little waitress!"
"You mean Senior Aide Forbes?" asked Maynard, feeling the back of his neck bristle. If he'd been possessed of any kind of mane, it would have stood up in anger.
"Senior aide? How did she get that rank?" scorned Laura.
"She worked for it. And hard."
"Slinging hash?"
"No, you little twirp. She went to a school for Patrol Nurse Corps and paid for her tuition by working nights."
"She could have made a better night-living than working in a beanery," snapped Laura.
Slap!
Maynard had been raised as a normal youngster. His mother had done her best to instill the instincts of a gentleman in her son Guy, and at an early age he discovered that little girls are not to be beaten over the skull with a toy truck, and that beebee guns make little round bruises when they hit little girls' legs, and that produced bad evidence. Little girls, he learned, had no such restriction upon their action, but could let him have a few quick blows without suffering the consequences. On the other hand, he soon discovered that at best their blows didn't count for much, and so he learned that hitting women was taking an unfair advantage.
But hitting with the tongue had never been explained to Maynard's satisfaction. Laura Greggor was being just too open with her scorn. And so Maynard, who never had hit a lady before, slapped Laura Greggor across the face.
"You hit me," she said in absolute surprise and equally absolute anger.
"You talk too rotten about someone far above you," snapped Maynard.
"Don't you call me rotten," snarled Laura. "Go on back to that little trollop you prefer."
"Can't," said Guy shortly. "She died up there!"
It made no impression on Laura. "And so now you come running back to me? Sorry, Guy. I don't play second fiddle—even to a corpse!"
"You don't have to," he said evenly. He took the box from her hand. Then as she watched in amazement, Guy removed his own insignia and placed the starred nebulae on his own lapel. With that finished, he arose from the bench; flung the plain nebulae into the little lagoon, and left Laura sitting there.
Guy entered the room through the same door, and went immediately into the bar where he downed four drinks in rapid succession.
He felt as though he needed that alcoholic sterilization of his mouth. Maynard's stomach was unused to liquor in such undilution. It reacted; got rid of the alcohol as soon as it could by filtering it into the blood stream. In other words, Guy became slightly drunk on a total of five drinks. Unevenly, Guy went to the main room, where he was immediately taken in tow by two women.
"Now," said the one on his right, "we have you to ourselves. Tell us about Mephisto."
"How did you find it?"
I found it cold and forbidding.
"To think that it was undiscovered for all of these years!"
Too bad I did find it.
"You found it, and you conquered it. That makes it almost your own planet, Guy."
I'll trade it for a chance to seek it again.
They prattled on, not noticing his silence. They wouldn't have heard him if he had spoken, for they poured the questions at him without waiting for an answer.
"Was it exciting to go all the way out there?"
It was deadly. They hit us with all they had.
"Tell us about the battle. We want to hear the final words on the finish of the fight. Tell us how you captured the weapon that destroyed all Mephisto. Was that thrilling?"
Thrilling?Maynard saw a white face with closed eyes, neatly placed in endless rows of other faces. He heard the voice of the chaplain saying again: "—vast though the universe be, and though you travel it endlessly, there you will find His work—"
How could death be thrilling?
"You make me sick," said Maynard uncertainly.
"He's drunk."
"Yes, I'm drunk," he roared. "And you'd be dead or worse than drunk if you'd seen what I had to live with. What do you know of death and of war?Thrilling? Exciting? Wonderful?Bah. It was rotten, as sordid, and as ungodly as running opium! Sending men to their death. Fighting a war against an enemy that knows it is fighting for its right to live.
"Fighting for what? So that you and your kind can sit here and praise the unlucky man who is destined to return for these medals.
"Fighting to make the Solar System bend to Terra's will, that's what it is. What did we want of Mephisto? Nothing except tribute. I'm sick and tired of people telling me that I did a wonderful job. A brilliant job of butchering, that's what they mean!"
"Guy, take it easy. They mean no harm," interposed Kane.
"If they want to see how thrilling war is," blazed Guy, "let 'em go out and see!"
"Take it easy!"
"Let 'em help cut the leg from a corpse so that it can be grafted onto a lad with his leg shot off!" stormed Guy. "Let 'em watch a ship fall ten thousand miles into a planet, and watch it blaze as it hits the air."
"It's all over," Kane told him. He turned to the rapidly collecting group and said: "Permit me to apologize. Guy has been through hell, and shock still claims him."
"It's over?" asked Guy. "It'll never be over. It'll go on and on and on until the last Terran is dead and forgotten."
"Well," said Kane, "you'd better make the best of it, Guy. You're Terran, and there's no place else to go."
"I'd like to find a planet that hasn't seen war for a thousand years," said Guy uncertainly. The alcohol-concentration was reaching new levels in Guy's system, and his brain was feeling more and more the effects.
"We'd all like that," said Kane. "Now break it up, Guy, and simmer down."
The storm passed, then, and Kane walked Guy into the dining room and seated him at the speakers' table.
The room hazed before Guy's eyes as he sat down. The echo of his voice resounded in his brain: "A thousand years—"
What was it that Charalas said? A thousand years—no, it was more than that. Thousands of years since they had war. That was a planet! Ertene. The nomad world that wanted no part of Sol's warfare and strife; killing and death. They knew—they knew from the things he said—that Terra was a planet of self-aggrandizement and that Terrans were proud, haughty, and belligerent.
Maynard laughed wildly.
His hand felt the clean-shaven face.
He'd go there!
"No strife for thousands of years," he said aloud.
Space Marshal Mantley, at his side, turned in puzzlement and asked: "What was that?"
Maynard saw the other as a sheer maze of white; no features were visible to his befuddled mind.
"They haven't had war for thousands of years," he said.
"Who? What kind of dead, sterile place is that?"
"Ertene—and never call Ertene dead!" exploded Guy.
"What's Ertene?"
"Ertene—the nomad planet. The wanderers."
"I do not follow?"
"They came and saw us. They decided not to have any."
Mantley turned to Kane and said: "What is this young man talking about?"
"I should know?" asked Kane with a shrug. "He's drunk—and though it is deplorable that he should pick this time to get that way, I, for one, don't blame him."
"Well, after the circumstances, neither do I," agreed Mantley with a sympathetic smile. "Those female predators would drive any man to murder with their thoughtless questions. But look, Kane, this tale of a nomad planet that preferred peace to association with Terra sounds too complicated to be the figment of a drunken imagination."
"How could it be anything but?"
"Not a drunken figment," blurted Guy. "I was there, I should know."
"It must be a wonderful place," said Mantley soothingly.
"It is a paradise," insisted Guy.
"And you were there?"
"How would I know about it otherwise?"
"All right," laughed Kane. "Prove it!"
"How can I? They destroyed every shred of evidence."
"Who did?"
"You did—you and your kind. Didn't want Mars to know aboutMardinex—shot up the lifeship. Made me mem'rise forged log—forged by Ertinians to fool you—and then burned log. Ha!" and Guy went into a paroxysm of laughter. "You forged a log from a forged log."
"When was this visit?"
"When—right after capture by Martians. Came home to Terra."
"Kane," said Mantley, "there may be nothing to this wild yarn. But to stop any wild talk on the part of observers here, I'm going to investigate thoroughly."
"Please do. I'm certain that it will kill any rumors. Guy went through part of the Martian idea of torture, I think, and it may have deranged his mind somewhat."
"I'll look into it," said Mantley.
"We can permit no ugly rumor to mar the record of Guy Maynard," insisted Kane. "He is too high a figure now to permit rumors—and there are those who would spread such rumors."
Mantley nodded. "Some of them are here, and they have heard."
"You don't mind a bit of scorn?"
"Of what kind?"
"My publications will break this, of course. We'll do it in the light of an investigation made over the statements made in jest by Sector Marshal Maynard. You may find yourself an object of some scorn since you are willing to accept the prattlings of a slightly-drunken man, suffering from battle-shock, as basis for a formal investigation."
"If you'll paint me as an unwilling investigator, I'll take it."
"Well," smiled Kane, "you are unwilling, I know. You'll be portrayed as a friend of Maynard's who is forced to investigate and is doing so only because your duty to the Patrol insists that you do. Correct?"
"Yes. But let's get it over with. I wouldn't want this dragged out too far."
XIV.
Guy Maynard faced the President of the Court, who said to him: "Maynard, your story is absurd. That you spent a year on an unknown planet sounds impossible. But—there is one bit of evidence which, if you can explain, will be discarded. Early medical records claim that you have a MacMillan burn beneath your right arm. It is further stated that if this scar is not removed, it will turn into cancer. No record can be found of its removal—yet it is gone. To clear yourself, name the surgeon that removed the dangerous scar."
Maynard blinked. He'd forgotten the scar entirely. It had been a minute speck that had never given him a bit of trouble.
"The record states that you got that scar at age twenty-two. You were a junior aide at the time, and you received the burn in a fight with the Martians during the Martio-Terran Incident."
He'd gotten it before he went to Ertene!
"Can you recall the name of the doctor?"
Guy shook his head.
"I can not believe that you would visit a disreputable doctor for such treatment when the Base doctor is available—and the expense is no answer. Having received the wound in service, its treatment is a responsibility of the government. Yet we have searched the records of all reputable doctors and find no mention."
Guy shook his head again.
"Maynard, I am beginning to assume that there is truth in your drunken story. Your developments—your inventions—were so startling and so brilliant. Memorized details of a civilization's best efforts. The barrier-screen. Used, no doubt, to keep Ertene hidden as it passes from start to finish through the universe. A brilliant bit of adaptation, Maynard."
"That's a little harsh, Mantley," said Kane.
"Are you in this with him?" asked Mantley sharply. "If I were you, Kane, I'd look to my own past and see if there are any loose ends. We may decide that you know about this, too."
"You're being overharsh to a man that should have the entire world at his feet."
"Maynard, will you swear upon your honor that no such planet exists?" demanded Mantley.
Maynard remained silent, convicting himself.
"Ha! Then it was not drunkenness entirely. Look, Maynard. Your high position as sector marshal will not help you in the face of this. The entire situation will be overlooked if you do your duty and lead us to Ertene now."
Maynard made a soundless "No".
"You are a valuable man," insisted Mantley. "Copies though the originals may have been, your work at adaptation is nothing short of genius. To take an alien concept and reduce it to practice is no small feat, Guy. Do not fling your future into the drink. Lead us to Ertene, and we will consider your job well done."
"They saved my life," said Guy. "They gave me knowledge. I strived and worked enthusiastically in an effort to convince Ertene that Terra and Sol would ever be friendly, and offered her a place near Sol. I assured Ertene of our undying alliance and protection. They preferred eternal loneliness to joining a militant system such as ours. Since they felt that entering Sol's system would bring about the death of Ertinian integrity, they offered me life in exchange for silence."
"A fine bargain," sneered Mantley.
"I swore to keep their secret. I shall."
"Your honor is rooted in dishonor—"
"That I deny. I had no other alternative. I could bring their secrets to you only by swearing silence. If I had not sworn silence, I would have been executed. Alive, but silent, I brought to Terra the science by which she will gain mastery over the Solar System. Dead, I would have been able to do nothing, and Terra would not have the benefit of the things I brought. Give me that credit, at least!"
"You should have sworn silence," said Mantley coldly. "And then taken us to them."
"You would prefer an officer whose word means nothing?"
"False oaths. The only oath that is worth the breath of life is your oath to the Patrol."
"I see. Dishonesty extends in only one direction? Be rotten to the core—for the Terran Space Patrol! Even a Martian spy has more honor than that!"
"Enough. We find you guilty of treasonable acts, Maynard. You will be removed from command, relieved of any connection with the Terran Space Patrol, and your citizenship in the Terran and Colonial Alliance destroyed. We'll see how popular you are, Maynard. No matter how big a man may get, he still is less than the world itself. We'll find out whether you can find friends who trust you when you've been dishonorably discharged from the Patrol.
"There is this fact. To remove the Act of Treason from your record, you must remove the charge. By leading us to Ertene you will remove any cause for action, and by doing so you will regain your position. Understand?"
Maynard's lips curled in a sneer. He said nothing because there was nothing to say. The President of the Court approached him and harshly ripped the insignia from his uniform.
"Thus I remove the sacred shields of honor from a man of dishonor. He has defiled them."
The insignia were dropped into a small box, which was then burned so that no trace of the original shapes remained. During the firing of the insignia, Guy stood woodenly. His former friends looked past him, through him, ignoring him. They arose and filed out of the room, leaving Guy standing alone.
Completely alone.
He stood on the edge of the great spaceport and watched the activity. It was hard to realize that he was no longer a part of it; he knew that he could return as soon as he grew tired of going hungry, of finding no work, of being without a single friend. But before he did that—well, he was not reduced to starvation yet. Perhaps something would turn up.
He heard a footstep beside him, and found it was Kane.
"Sorry," he said to the publisher.
"So am I, Guy. But I believe with you. You should have been permitted your little secret. Would they have preferred another Mephisto? A planet such as you describe ruined and sterilized because of pride? No—and believing that I know the mettle of the people on that mysterious planet, I know that they'd die before they'd permit invasion. Right?"
"Absolutely. That's why I did nothing. They were human, Kane, as you and I are human. A dead specimen is no good in a zoo."
"I know. What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"Don't take it too hard. I'm still the big publisher. I'll see that your case reaches the public in the proper light. You'll be a victim of Patrol politics, thrown out because of personal pettiness over practical action."
"That may help."
"They'll never stand for it."
"You should know."
"I do. Now look, Guy. Will you take theLokiand head for Pluto? Get lost there on Pluto; hire out as a workman. When the time is ripe, you'll know and can come back. I'm not going to see my friend broken because of their high-handed methods."
"That's offering a lot."
"Not at all. I can pick theLokiup there. Right at the present time you'd get nowhere if you stay on Terra; your face is known to every man, woman, and child on the planet."