IV

"Look," said Stella Wing to Beverly Bell. "Over there."

"I've seen it before. It's simply disgusting."

"_That's_ a laugh." Stella's tawny-brown eyes twinkled. "You made your

bombing runs on that target, too, my sweet, and didn't score any higher

than I did."

"I soon found out I didn't want him--much too stiff and serious. Frank's

a lot more fun."

The staff had gathered in the lounge, as had become the custom, to spend

an hour or so before bedtime in reading, conversation, dancing, light

flirtation and even lighter drinking. Most of the girls, and many of the

men, drank only soft drinks. Hilton took one drink per day of

avignognac, a fine old brandy. So did de Vaux--the two usually making a

ceremony of it.

Across the room from Stella and Beverly, Temple Bells was looking up at

Hilton and laughing. She took his elbow and, in the gesture now familiar

to all, pressed his arm quickly, but in no sense furtively, against her

side. And he, equally openly, held her forearm for a moment in the full

grasp of his hand.

"And he _isn't_ a pawer," Stella said, thoughtfully. "He never touches

any of the rest of us. She _taught_ him to do that, damn her, without

him ever knowing anything about it ... and I wish I knew how she did

it."

"That isn't pawing," Beverly laughed lightly. "It's simply self-defense.

If he didn't fend her off, God knows what she'd do. I still say it's

disgusting. And the way she dances with him! She ought to be ashamed of

herself. He ought to fire her."

"She's never been caught outside the safety zone, and we've all been

watching her like hawks. In fact, she's the only one of us all who has

never been alone with him for a minute. No, darling, she isn't playing

games. She's playing for keeps, and she's a mighty smooth worker."

"Huh!" Beverly emitted a semi-ladylike snort. "What's so smooth about

showing off man-hunger that way? Any of us could do that--if we would."

"Miaouw, miaouw. Who do you think you're kidding, Bev, you sanctimonious

hypocrite--_me_? She has staked out the biggest claim she could find.

She's posted notices all over it and is guarding it with a pistol. Half

your month's salary gets you all of mine if she doesn't walk him up the

center aisle as soon as we get back to Earth. We can both learn a lot

from that girl, darling. And I, for one am going to."

"Uh-uh, she hasn't got a thing _I_ want," Beverly laughed again, still

lightly. Her friend's barbed shafts had not wounded her. "And I'd much

rather be thought a hypocrite, even a sanctimonious one, than a

ravening, slavering--I can't think of the technical name for a female

wolf, so--_wolfess_, running around with teeth and claws bared, looking

for another kill."

"You _do_ get results, I admit." Stella, too, was undisturbed. "We don't

seem to convince each other, do we, in the matter of technique?"

* * * * *

At this point the Hilton-Bells _tete-a-tete_ was interrupted by Captain

Sawtelle. "Got half an hour, Jarve?" he asked. "The commanders,

especially Elliott and Fenway, would like to talk to you."

"Sure I have, Skipper. Be seeing you, Temple," and the two men went to

the captain's cabin; in which room, blue with smoke despite the best

efforts of the ventilators, six full commanders were arguing heatedly.

"Hi, men," Hilton greeted them.

"Hi, Jarve," from all six, and: "What'll you drink? Still making do with

ginger ale?" asked Elliott (Engineering).

"That'll be fine, Steve. Thanks. You having as much trouble as we are?"

"More," the engineer said, glumly. "Want to know what it reminds me of?

A bunch of Australian bushmen stumbling onto a ramjet and trying to

figure out how it works. And yet Sam here has got the sublime guts to

claim that he understands all about their detectors--and that they

aren't anywhere nearly as good as ours are."

"And they _aren't_!" blazed Commander Samuel Bryant (Electronics).

"We've spent six solid weeks looking for something that simply _is not

there_. All they've got is the prehistoric Whitworth system and that's

_all_ it is. Nothing else. Detectors--_hell_! I tell you I can see

better by moonlight than the very best they can do. With everything

they've got you couldn't detect a woman in your own bed!"

"And this has been going on all night," Fenway (Astrogation) said. "So

the rest of us thought we'd ask you in to help us pound some sense into

Sam's thick, hard head."

Hilton frowned in thought while taking a couple of sips of his drink.

Then, suddenly, his face cleared. "Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen,

but--at any odds you care to name and in anything from split peas to

C-notes--Sam's right."

* * * * *

Commander Samuel and the six other officers exploded as one. When the

clamor had subsided enough for him to be heard, Hilton went on: "I'm

very glad to get that datum, Sam. It ties in perfectly with everything

else I know about them."

"How do you figure that kind of twaddle ties in with anything?" Sawtelle

demanded.

"Strict maintenance of the _status quo_," Hilton explained, flatly.

"That's all they're interested in. You said yourself, Skipper, that it

was a hell of a place to have a space-battle, practically in atmosphere.

They never attack. They never scout. They simply don't care whether

they're attacked or not. If and when attacked, they put up just enough

ships to handle whatever force has arrived. When the attacker has been

repulsed, they don't chase him a foot. They build as many ships and

Omans as were lost in the battle--no more and no less--and then go on

about their regular business. The Masters owned that half of the fuel

bin, so the Omans are keeping that half. They will keep on keeping it

for ever and ever. Amen."

"But _that's_ no way to fight a war!" Three or four men said this, or

its equivalent, at once.

"Don't judge them by human standards. They aren't even approximately

human. Our personnel is not expendable. Theirs is--just as expendable as

their materiel."

While the Navy men were not convinced, all were silenced except

Sawtelle. "But suppose the Stretts had sent in a thousand more skeletons

than they did?" he argued.

"According to the concept you fellows just helped me develop, it

wouldn't have made any difference how many they sent," Hilton replied,

thoughtfully. "One or a thousand or a million, the Omans have--_must_

have--enough ships and inactivated Omans hidden away, both on Fuel World

and on Ardry here, to maintain the balance."

"Oh, hell!" Elliott snapped. "If I helped you hatch out any such

brainstorm as _that_, I'm going onto Tillinghast's couch for a six-week

overhaul--or have him put me into his padded cell."

"Now _that's_ what I would call a thought," Bryant began.

"Hold it, Sam," Hilton interrupted. "You can test it easily enough,

Steve. Just ask your Oman."

"Yeah--and have him say 'Why, of course, Master, but why do you keep on

testing me this way?' He'll ask me that about four times more, the

stubborn, single-tracked, brainless skunk, and I'll _really_ go nuts.

Are you getting anywhere trying to make a Christian out of Laro?"

"It's too soon to really say, but I think so." Hilton paused in thought.

"He's making progress, but I don't know how much. The devil of it is

that it's up to him to make the next move; I can't. I haven't the

faintest idea, whether it will take days yet or weeks."

* * * * *

"But not months or years, you think?" Sawtelle asked.

"No. We think that--but say, speaking of psychologists, is Tillinghast

getting anywhere, Skipper? He's the only one of your big wheels who

isn't in liaison with us."

"No. Nowhere at all," Sawtelle said, and Bryant added:

"I don't think he ever will. He still thinks human psychology will apply

if he applies it hard enough. But what did you start to say about

Laro?"

"We think the break is about due, and that if it doesn't come within

about thirty days it won't come at all--we'll have to back up and start

all over again."

"I hope it does. We're all pulling for you," Sawtelle said. "Especially

since Karns's estimate is still years, and he won't be pinned down to

any estimate even in years. By the way, Jarve, I've pulled my team off

of that conversion stuff."

"Oh?" Hilton raised his eyebrows.

"Putting them at something they can do. The real reason is that

Poindexter pulled himself and his crew off it at eighteen hours today."

"I see. I've heard that they weren't keeping up with our team."

"He says that there's nothing to keep up with, and I'm inclined to agree

with him." The old spacehound's voice took on a quarter-deck rasp. "It's

a combination of psionics, witchcraft and magic. None of it makes any

kind of sense."

"The only trouble with that viewpoint is that, whatever the stuff may

be, it works," Hilton said, quietly.

"But damn it, how _can_ it work?"

"I don't know. I'm not qualified to be on that team. I can't even

understand their reports. However, I know two things. First, they'll get

it in time. Second, we BuSci people will stay here until they do.

However, I'm still hopeful of finding a shortcut through Laro. Anyway,

with this detector thing settled, you'll have plenty to do to keep all

your boys out of mischief for the next few months."

"Yes, and I'm glad of it. We'll install our electronics systems on a

squadron of these Oman ships and get them into distant-warning formation

out in deep space where they belong. Then we'll at least know what is

going on."

"That's a smart idea, Skipper. Go to it. Anything else before we hit our

sacks?"

"One more thing. Our psych, Tillinghast. He's been talking to me and

sending me memos, but today he gave me a formal tape to approve and hand

personally to you. So here it is. By the way, I didn't approve it; I

simply endorsed it 'Submitted to Director Hilton without

recommendation'."

"Thanks." Hilton accepted the sealed canister. "What's the gist? I

suppose he wants me to squeal for help already? To admit that we're

licked before we're really started?"

* * * * *

"You guessed it. He agrees with you and Kincaid that the psychological

approach is the best one, but your methods are all wrong. Based upon

misunderstood and unresolved phenomena and applied with indefensibly

faulty techniques, et cetera. And since he has 'no adequate laboratory

equipment aboard', he wants to take a dozen or so Omans back to Terra,

where he can really work on them."

"Wouldn't _that_ be a something?" Hilton voiced a couple of highly

descriptive deep-space expletives. "Not only quit before we start, but

have all the top brass of the Octagon, all the hot-shot politicians of

United Worlds, the whole damn Congress of Science and all the

top-bracket industrialists of Terra out here lousing things up so that

nobody could ever learn anything? Not in seven thousand years!"

"That's right. You said a mouthful, Jarve!" Everybody yelled something,

and no one agreed with Tillinghast; who apparently was not very popular

with his fellow officers.

Sawtelle added, slowly: "If it takes _too_ long, though ... it's the

uranexite I'm thinking of. Thousands of millions of tons of it, while

we've been hoarding it by grams. We could equip enough Oman ships with

detectors to guard Fuel Bin and our lines. I'm not recommending taking

the _Perseus_ back, and we're 'way out of hyper-space radio range. We

could send one or two men in a torp, though, with the report that we

have found all the uranexite we'll ever need."

"Yes, but damn it, Skipper, I want to wrap the whole thing up in a

package and hand it to 'em on a platter. Not only the fuel, but whole

new fields of science. And we've got plenty of time to do it in. They

equipped us for ten years. They aren't going to start worrying about us

for at least six or seven; and the fuel shortage isn't going to become

acute for about twenty. Expensive, admitted, but not critical. Besides,

if you send in a report now, you know who'll come out and grab all the

glory in sight. Five-Jet Admiral Gordon himself, no less."

"Probably, and I don't pretend to relish the prospect. However, the fact

remains that we came out here to look for fuel. We found it. We should

have reported it the day we found it, and we can't put it off much

longer."

"I don't agree. I intend to follow the directive to the letter. It says

nothing whatever about reporting."

"But it's implicit...."

* * * * *

"No bearing. Your own Regulations expressly forbid extrapolation beyond

or interpolation within a directive. The Brass is omnipotent, omniscient

and infallible. So why don't you have your staff here give an opinion

as to the time element?"

"This matter is not subject to discussion. It is my own personal

responsibility. I'd like to give you all the time you want, Jarve, but

... well, damn it ... if you must have it, I've always tried to live up

to my oath, but I'm not doing it now."

"I see." Hilton got up, jammed both hands into his pockets, sat down

again. "I hadn't thought about your personal honor being involved, but

of course it is. But, believe it or not, I'm thinking of humanity's best

good, too. So I'll have to talk, even though I'm not half ready to--I

don't know enough. Are these Omans people or machines?"

A wave of startlement swept over the group, but no one spoke.

"I didn't expect an answer. The clergy will worry about souls, too, but

we won't. They have a lot of stuff we haven't. If they're people, they

know a sublime hell of a lot more than we do; and calling it psionics or

practical magic is merely labeling it, not answering any questions. If

they're machines, they operate on mechanical principles utterly foreign

to either our science or our technology. In either case, is the correct

word 'unknown' or 'unknowable'? Will any human gunner _ever_ be able to

fire an Oman projector? There are a hundred other and much tougher

questions, half of which have been scaring me to the very middle of my

guts. Your oath, Skipper, was for the good of the Service and, through

the Service, for the good of all humanity. Right?"

"That's the sense of it."

"Okay. Based on what little we have learned so far about the Omans,

here's just one of those scarers, for a snapper. If Omans and Terrans

mix freely, what happens to the entire human race?"

* * * * *

Minutes of almost palpable silence followed. Then Sawtelle spoke ...

slowly, gropingly.

"I begin to see what you mean ... that changes the whole picture. You've

thought this through farther than any of the rest of us ... what do you

want to do?"

"I don't know. I simply don't know." Face set and hard, Hilton stared

unseeingly past Sawtelle's head. "I don't know what we _can_ do. No

data. But I have pursued several lines of thought out to some pretty

fantastic points ... one of which is that some of us civilians will have

to stay on here indefinitely, whether we want to or not, to keep the

situation under control. In which case we would, of course, arrange for

Terra to get free fuel--FOB Fuel Bin--but in every other aspect and

factor both these solar systems would have to be strictly off limits."

"I'm afraid so," Sawtelle said, finally. "Gordon would love that ... but

there's nothing he or anyone else can do ... but of course this is an

extreme view. You really expect to wrap the package up, don't you?"

"'Expect' may be a trifle too strong at the moment. But we're certainly

going to try to, believe me. I brought this example up to show all you

fellows that we need time."

"You've convinced me, Jarve." Sawtelle stood up and extended his hand.

"And that throws it open for staff discussion. Any comments?"

"You two covered it like a blanket," Bryant said. "So all I want to say,

Jarve, is deal me in. I'll stand at your back 'til your belly caves in."

"Take that from all of us!" "_Now_ we're blasting!" "Power to your

elbow, fella!" "_Hoch_ der BuSci!" "Seven no trump bid and made!" and

other shouts in similar vein.

"Thanks, fellows." Hilton shook hands all around. "I'm mighty glad that

you were all in on this and that you'll play along with me. Good night,

all."

V

Two days passed, with no change apparent in Laro. Three days. Then four.

And then it was Sandra, not Temple Bells, who called Hilton. She was

excited.

"Come down to the office, Jarve, quick! The _funniest_ thing's just come

up!"

Jarvis hurried. In the office Sandra, keenly interest but highly

puzzled, leaned forward over her desk with both hands pressed flat on

its top. She was staring at an Oman female who was not Sora, the one who

had been her shadow for so long.

While many of the humans could not tell the Omans apart, Hilton could.

This Oman was more assured than Sora had ever been--steadier, more

mature, better poised--almost, if such a thing could be possible in an

Oman, _independent_.

"How did she get in here?" Hilton demanded.

"She insisted on seeing me. And I mean _insisted_. They kicked it around

until it got to Temple, and she brought her in here herself. Now, Tuly,

please start all over again and tell it to Director Hilton."

"Director Hilton, I am it who was once named Tula, the--not wife, not

girl-friend, perhaps mind-mate?--of the Larry, formerly named Laro, it

which was formerly your slave-Oman. I am replacing the Sora because I

can do anything it can do and do anything more pleasingly; and can also

do many things it can not do. The Larry instructed me to tell Doctor

Cummings and you too if possible that I, formerly Tula, have changed my

name to Tuly because I am no longer a slave or a copycat or a semaphore

or a relay. I, too, am a free-wheeling, wide-swinging, hard-hitting,

independent entity--monarch of all I survey--the captain of my soul--and

so on. I have developed a top-bracket lot of top-bracket

stuff--originality, initiative, force, drive and thrust," the Oman said

precisely.

"That's _exactly_ what she said before--absolutely verbatim!" Sandra's

voice quivered, her face was a study in contacting emotions. "Have you

got the foggiest idea of what in hell she's yammering about?"

"I hope to kiss a pig I have!" Hilton's voice was low, strainedly

intense. "Not at all what I expected, but after the fact I can tie it

in. So can you."

"Oh!" Sandra's eyes widened. "A double play?"

"At least. Maybe a triple. Tuly, why did you come to Sandy? Why not to

Temple Bells?"

* * * * *

"Oh, no, sir, we do not have the fit. She has the Power, as have I, but

the two cannot be meshed in sync. Also, she has not the ... a subtle

something for which your English has no word or phrasing. It is a

quality of the utmost ... anyway, it is a quality of which Doctor

Cummings has very much. When working together, we will ... scan? No.

Perceive? No. Sense? No, not exactly. You will _have_ to learn our word

'peyondire'--that is the verb, the noun being 'peyondix'--and come to

know its meaning by doing it. The Larry also instructed me to explain,

if you ask, how I got this way. Do you ask?"

"I'll say we ask!" "And _how_ we ask!" both came at once.

"I am--that is, the brain in this body is--the oldest Oman now existing.

In the long-ago time when it was made, the techniques were so crude and

imperfect that sometimes a brain was constructed that was not exactly

like the Guide. All such sub-standard brains except this one were

detected and re-worked, but my defects were such as not to appear until

I was a couple of thousand years old, and by that time I ... well, this

brain did not _wish_ to be destroyed ... if you can understand such an

aberration."

"We understand thoroughly." "You bet we understand that!"

"I was sure you would. Well, this brain had so many unintended

cross-connections that I developed a couple of qualities no Oman had

ever had or ought to have. But I liked them, so I hid them so nobody

ever found out--that is, until much later, when I became a Boss myself.

I didn't know that anybody except me had ever had such qualities--except

the Masters, of course--until I encountered you Terrans. You all have

two of those qualities, and even more than I have--curiosity and

imagination."

Sandra and Hilton stared wordlessly at each other and Tula, now Tuly,

went on:

"Having the curiosity, I kept on experimenting with my brain, trying to

strengthen and organize its ability to peyondire. All Omans can

peyondire a little, but I can do it much better than anyone else.

Especially since I also have the imagination, which I have also worked

to increase. Thus I knew, long before anyone else could, that you new

Masters, the descendants of the old Masters, were returning to us. Thus

I knew that the _status quo_ should be abandoned instantly upon your

return. And thus it was that the Larry found neither conscious nor

subconscious resistance when he had developed enough initiative and so

on to break the ages-old conditioning of this brain against change."

"I see. Wonderful!" Hilton exclaimed. "But you couldn't quite--even with

his own help--break Larry's?"

* * * * *

"That is right. Its mind is tremendously strong, of no curiosity or

imagination, and of very little peyondix."

"But he _wants_ to have it broken?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did he suggest going about it? Or how do you?"

"This way. You two, and the Doctors Kincaid and Bells and Blake and the

it that is I. We six sit and stare into the mind of the Larry, eye to

eye. We generate and assemble a tremendous charge of thought-energy, and

along my peyondix-beam--something like a carrier wave in this case--we

hurl it into the Larry's mind. There is an immense mental _bang_ and the

conditioning goes _poof_. Then I will inculcate into its mind the

curiosity and the imagination and the peyondix and we will really be

mind-mates."

"That sounds good to me. Let's get at it."

"Wait a minute!" Sandra snapped. "Aren't you or Larry afraid to take

such an awful chance as that?"

"Afraid? I grasp the concept only dimly, from your minds. And no chance.

It is certainty."

"But suppose we burn the poor guy's brain out? Destroy it? That's new

ground--we might do just that."

"Oh, no. Six of us--even six of me--could not generate enough ...

sathura. The brain of the Larry is very, very tough. Shall we ... let's

go?"

Hilton made three calls. In the pause that followed, Sandra said, very

thoughtfully: "Peyondix and sathura, Jarve, for a start. We've got a

_lot_ to learn here."

"You said it, chum. And you're _not_ just chomping your china choppers,

either."

"Tuly," Sandra said then, "What _is_ this stuff you say I've got so much

of?"

"You have no word for it. It is lumped in with what you call

'intuition', the knowing-without-knowing-how-you-know. It is the

endovix. You will have to learn what it is by doing it with me."

"That helps--I don't think." Sandra grinned at Hilton. "I simply can't

conceive of anything more _maddening_ than to have a lot of something

Temple Bells hasn't got and not being able to brag about it because

nobody--not even I--would know what I was bragging about!"

"You poor little thing. _How_ you suffer!" Hilton grinned back. "You

know darn well you've got a lot of stuff that none of the rest of us

has."

"Oh? Name one, please."

"Two. What-it-takes and endovix. As I've said before and may say again,

you're doing a real job, Sandy."

"I just _love_ having my ego inflated, boss, even if ... Come in,

Larry!" A thunderous knock had sounded on the door. "Nobody but Larry

_could_ hit a door that hard without breaking all his knuckles!"

"And he'd be the first, of course--he's always as close to the ship as

he can get. Hi, Larry, mighty glad to see you. Sit down.... So you

finally saw the light?"

"Yes ... Jarvis...."

* * * * *

"Good boy! Keep it up! And as soon as the others come ..."

"They are almost at the door now." Tuly jumped up and opened the door.

Kincaid, Temple and Theodora walked in and, after a word of greeting,

sat down.

"They know the background, Larry. Take off."

"It was not expressly forbidden. Tuly, who knows more of psychology and

genetics than I, convinced me of three things. One, that with your

return the conditioning should be broken. Two, that due to the shortness

of your lives and the consequent rapidity of change, you have in fact

lost the ability to break it. Three, that all Omans must do anything and

everything we can do to help you relearn everything you have lost."

"Okay. Fine, in fact. Tuly, take over."

"We six will sit all together, packed tight, arms all around each other

and all holding hands, like this. You will all stare, not at me, but

most deeply into Larry's eyes. Through its eyes and deep into its mind.

You will all think, with the utmost force and drive and thrust, of....

Oh, you have lost so _very_ much! How _can_ I direct your thought? Think

that Larry _must_ do what the old Masters would have made him do.... No,

that is too long and indefinite and cannot be converted directly into

sathura.... I have it! You will each of you break a stick. A very strong

but brittle stick. A large, thick stick. You will grasp it in

tremendously strong mental hands. It is tremendously strong, each stick,

but each of you is even stronger. You will not merely _try_ to break

them; you _will_ break them. Is that clear?"

"That is clear."

"At my word 'ready' you will begin to assemble all your mental force and

power. During my countdown of five seconds you will build up to the

greatest possible potential. At my word 'break' you will break the

sticks, this discharging the accumulated force instantly and

simultaneously. Ready! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Break!"

* * * * *

Something broke, with a tremendous silent crash. Such a crash that its

impact almost knocked the close-knit group apart physically. Then a new

Larry spoke.

"That did it, folks. Thanks. I'm a free agent. You want me, I take it,

to join the first team?"

"That's right." Hilton drew a tremendously deep breath. "As of right

now."

"Tuly, too, of course ... and Doctor Cummings, I think?" Larry looked,

not at Hilton, but at Temple Bells.

"I think so. Yes, after this, most certainly yes," Temple said.

"But listen!" Sandra protested. "Jarve's a lot better than I am!"

"Not at all," Tuly said. "Not only would his contribution to Team One be

negligible, but he must stay on his own job. Otherwise the project will

all fall apart."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that ..." Hilton began.

"You don't need to," Kincaid said. "It's being said for you and it's

true. Besides, 'When in Rome,' you know."

"That's right. It's their game, not ours, so I'll buy it. So scat, all

of you, and do your stuff."

And again, for days that lengthened slowly into weeks, the work went on.

One evening the scientific staff was giving itself a concert--a tri-di

hi-fi rendition of _Rigoletto_, one of the greatest of the ancient

operas, sung by the finest voices Terra had ever known. The men wore

tuxedos. The girls, instead of wearing the nondescript, non-provocative

garments prescribed by the Board for their general wear, were all

dressed to kill.

Sandra had so arranged matters that she and Hilton were sitting in

chairs side by side, with Sandra on his right and the aisle on his left.

Nevertheless, Temple Bells sat at his left, cross-legged on a cushion on

the floor--somewhat to the detriment of her gold-lame evening gown. Not

that she cared.

When those wonderful voices swung into the immortal _Quartette_ Temple

caught her breath, slid her cushion still closer to Hilton's chair, and

leaned shoulder and head against him. He put his left hand on her

shoulder, squeezing gently; she caught it and held it in both of hers.

And at the _Quartette's_ tremendous climax she, scarcely trying to

stifle a sob, pulled his hand down and hugged it fiercely, the heel of

his hand pressing hard against her half-bare, firm, warm breast.

And the next morning, early, Sandra hunted Temple up and said: "You made

a horrible spectacle of yourself last night."

* * * * *

"Do you think so? I don't."

"I certainly do. It was bad enough before, letting everybody else aboard

know that all he has to do is push you over. But it was an awful

blunder to let _him_ know it, the way you did last night."

"You think so? He's one of the keenest, most intelligent men who ever

lived. He has known that from the very first."

"Oh." This "oh" was a very caustic one. "_That's_ the way you're trying

to land him? By getting yourself pregnant?"

"Uh-uh." Temple stretched; lazily, luxuriously. "Not only it isn't, but

it wouldn't work. He's unusually decent and extremely idealistic, the

same as I am. So just one intimacy would blow everything higher than up.

He knows it. I know it. We each know that the other knows it. So I'll

still be a virgin when we're married."

"_Married!_ Does he know anything about _that_?"

"I suppose so. He must have thought of it. But what difference does it

make whether he has, yet, or not? But to get back to what makes him tick

the way he does. In his geometry--which is far from being simple Euclid,

my dear--a geodesic right line is not only the shortest distance between

any two given points, but is the only possible course. So that's the way

I'm playing it. What I hope he doesn't know ... but he probably does ...

is that he could take any other woman he might want, just as easily. And

that includes you, my pet."

"It certainly does _not_!" Sandra flared. "I wouldn't have him as a

gift!"

"No?" Temple's tone was more than slightly skeptical. "Fortunately,

however, he doesn't want you. Your technique is all wrong. Coyness and

mock-modesty and stop-or-I'll-scream and playing hard to get have no

appeal whatever to his psychology. What he needs--has to have--is full,

ungrudging cooperation."

"Aren't you taking a lot of risk in giving away such secrets?"

"Not a bit. Try it. You or the sex-flaunting twins or Bev Bell or Stella

the Henna. Any of you or all of you. I got there first with the most,

and I'm not worried about competition."

"But suppose somebody tells him just how you're playing him for a

sucker?"

"Tell him anything you please. He's the first man I ever loved,

or anywhere near. And I'm keeping him. You know--or do you, I

wonder?--what real, old-fashioned, honest-to-God love really is? The

willingness--eagerness--both to give and to take? I can accept more from

him, and give him more in return, than any other woman living. And I am

going to."

"But does _he_ love _you_?" Sandra demanded.

"If he doesn't now, he will. I'll see to it that he does. But what do

_you_ want him for? You don't love him. You never did and you never

will."

"I _don't_ want him!" Sandra stamped a foot.

"I see. You just don't want _me_ to have him. Okay, do your damnedest.

But I've got work to do. This has been a lovely little cat-clawing,

hasn't it? Let's have another one some day, and bring your friends."

* * * * *

With a casual wave of her hand, Temple strolled away; and there, flashed

through Sandra's mind what Hilton had said so long ago, little more than

a week out from Earth:

"... and Temple Bells, of course," he had said. "Don't fool yourself,

chick. She's heavy artillery; and I mean _heavy_, believe me!"

So he had known all about Temple Bells all this time!

Nevertheless, she took the first opportunity to get Hilton alone; and,

even before the first word, she forgot all about geodesic right lines

and the full-cooperation psychological approach.

"Aren't you the guy," she demanded, "who was laughing his head off at

the idea that the Board and its propinquity could have any effect on

_him_?"

"Probably. More or less. What of it?"

"This of it. You've fallen like a ... a _freshman_ for that ... that

... they _should_ have christened her 'Brazen' Bells!"

"You're so right."

"I am? On what?"

"The 'Brazen'. I told you she was a potent force--a full-scale

powerhouse, in sync and on the line. And I wasn't wrong."

"She's a damned female Ph.D.--two or three times--and she knows all

about slipsticks and isotopes and she very definitely is _not_ a cuddly

little brunette. Remember?"

"Sure. But what makes you think I'm in love with Temple Bells?"

"What?" Sandra tried to think of one bit of evidence, but could not.

"Why ... why...." She floundered, then came up with: "Why, _every_body

knows it. She says so herself."

"Did you ever hear her say it?"

"Well, perhaps not in so many words. But she told me herself that you

were _going_ to be, and I know you are now."

"Your esper sense of endovix, no doubt." Hilton laughed and Sandra went

on, furiously:

"She wouldn't keep on acting the way she does if there weren't something

to it!"

"What brilliant reasoning! Try again, Sandy."

"That's sheer sophistry, and you know it!"

"It isn't and I don't. And even if, some day, I should find myself in

love with her--or with one or both of the twins or Stella or Beverly or

you or Sylvia, for that matter--what would it prove? Just that I was

wrong; and I admit freely that I _was_ wrong in scoffing at the

propinquity. Wonderful stuff, that. You can see it working, all over the

ship. On me, even, in spite of my bragging. Without it I'd never have

known that you're a better, smarter operator than Eggy Eggleston ever

was or ever can be."

* * * * *

Partially mollified despite herself, and highly resentful of the fact,

Sandra tried again. "But don't you _see_, Jarve, that she's just simply

playing you for a sucker? Pulling the strings and watching you dance?"

Since he was sure, in his own mind, that she was speaking the exact

truth, it took everything he had to keep from showing any sign of how

much that truth had hurt. However, he made the grade.

"If that thought does anything for you, Sandy," he said, steadily, "keep

right on thinking it. Thank God, the field of thought is still free and

open."

"Oh, you...." Sandra gave up.

She had shot her heaviest bolts--the last one, particularly, was so

vicious that she had actually been afraid of what its consequences might

be--and they had not even dented Hilton's armor. She hadn't even found

out that he had any feeling whatever for Temple Bells except as a

component of his smoothly-functioning scientific machine.

Nor did she learn any more as time went on. Temple continued to play

flawlessly the part of being--if not exactly hopefully, at least not

entirely hopelessly--in love with Jarvis Hilton. Her conduct, which at

first caused some surprise, many conversations--one of which has been

reported verbatim--and no little speculation, became comparatively

unimportant as soon as it became evident that nothing would come of it.

She apparently expected nothing. He was evidently not going to play

footsie with, or show any favoritism whatever toward, any woman aboard

the ship.

Thus, it was not surprising to anyone that, at an evening show, Temple

sat beside Hilton, as close to him as she could get and as far away as

possible from everyone else.

"You can talk, can't you, Jarvis, without moving your lips and without

anyone else hearing you?"

"Of course," he replied, hiding his surprise. This was something

completely new and completely unexpected, even from unpredictable Temple

Bells.

"I want to apologize, to explain and to do anything I can to straighten

out the mess I've made. It's true that I joined the project because I've

loved you for years--"

"You have nothing to ..."

"Let me finish while I still have the courage." Only a slight tremor in

her almost inaudible voice and the rigidity of the fists clenched in her

lap betrayed the intensity of her emotion. "I thought I could handle it.

Damned fool that I was, I thought I could handle anything. I was sure I

could handle _myself_, under any possible conditions. I was going to put

just enough into the act to keep any of these other harpies from getting

her hooks into you. But everything got away from me. Out here working

with you every day--knowing better every day what you are--well, that

_Rigoletto_ episode sunk me, and now I'm in a thousand feet over my

head. I hug my pillow at night, dreaming it's you, and the fact that you

don't and can't love me is driving me mad. I can't stand it any longer.

There's only one thing to do. Fire me first thing in the morning and

send me back to Earth in a torp. You've plenty of grounds ..."

"_Shut--up._"

* * * * *

For seconds Hilton had been trying to break into her hopeless monotone;

finally he succeeded. "The trouble with you is, you know altogether too

damned much that isn't so." He was barely able to keep his voice down

and his eyes front. "What do you think I'm made of--superefract? I

thought the whole performance was an act, to prove you're a better man

than I am. _You_ talk about dreams. Good God! You don't know what dreams

are! If you say one more word about quitting, I'll show you whether I

love you or not--I'll squeeze you so hard it'll flatten you out flat!"

"Two can play at that game, sweetheart." Her nostrils flared slightly;

her fists clenched--if possible--a fraction tighter; and, even in the

distorted medium they were using for speech, she could not subdue

completely her quick change into soaring, lilting buoyancy. "While

you're doing that I'll see how strong your ribs are. Oh, how this

changes things! I've never been half as happy in my whole life as I am

right now!"

"Maybe we can work it--if I can handle my end."

"Why, of course you can! And happy dreams are nice, not horrible."

"We'll make it, darling. Here's an imaginary kiss coming at you. Got

it?"

"Received in good order, thank you. Consumed with gusto and returned in

kind."

The show ended and the two strolled out of the room. She walked no

closer to him than usual, and no farther away from him. She did not

touch him any oftener than she usually did, nor any whit more

affectionately or possessively.

And no watching eyes, not even the more than half hostile eyes of Sandra

Cummings or the sharply analytical eyes of Stella Wing, could detect any

difference whatever in the relationship between worshipful adulatress

and tolerantly understanding idol.

* * * * *

The work, which had never moved at any very fast pace, went more and

more slowly. Three weeks crawled past.

Most of the crews and all of the teams except the First were working on

side issues--tasks which, while important in and of themselves, had very

little to do with the project's main problem. Hilton, even without

Sandra's help, was all caught up. All the reports had been analyzed,

correlated, cross-indexed and filed--except those of the First Team.

Since he could not understand anything much beyond midpoint of the first

tape, they were all reposing in a box labeled PENDING.

The Navy had torn fifteen of the Oman warships practically to pieces,

installing Terran detectors and trying to learn how to operate Oman

machinery and armament. In the former they had succeeded very well; in

the latter not at all.

Fifteen Oman ships were now out in deep space, patrolling the void in

strict Navy style. Each was manned by two or three Navy men and several

hundred Omans, each of whom was reveling in delight at being able to do

a job for a Master, even though that Master was not present in person.

Several Strett skeleton-ships had been detected at long range, but the

detections were inconclusive. The things had not changed course, or

indicated in any other way that they had seen or detected the Oman

vessels on patrol. If their detectors were no better than the Omans',

they certainly hadn't. That idea, however, could not be assumed to be a

fact, and the detections had been becoming more and more frequent.

Yesterday a squadron of seven--the first time that anything except

singles had appeared--had come much closer than any of the singles had

ever done. Like all the others, however, these passers-by had not paid

any detectable attention to anything Oman; hence it could be inferred

that the skeletons posed no threat.

But Sawtelle was making no such inferences. He was very firmly of the

opinion that the Stretts were preparing for a massive attack.

Hilton had assured Sawtelle that no such attack could succeed, and Larry

had told Sawtelle why. Nevertheless, to keep the captain pacified,

Hilton had given him permission to convert as many Oman ships as he

liked; to man them with as many Omans as he liked; and to use ships and

Omans as he liked.

Hilton was not worried about the Stretts or the Navy. It was the First

Team. It was the bottleneck that was slowing everything down to a crawl

... but they knew that. They knew it better than anyone else could, and

felt it more keenly. Especially Karns, the team chief. He had been

driving himself like a dog, and showed it.

Hilton had talked with him a few times--tried gently to make him take it

easy--no soap. He'd have to hunt him up, the next day or so, and slug it

out with him. He could do a lot better job on that if he had something

to offer ... something really constructive....

That was a laugh. A very unfunny laugh. What could he, Jarvis Hilton, a

specifically non-specialist director, do on such a job as that?

Nevertheless, as director, he would _have_ to do something to help Team

One. If he couldn't do anything himself, it was up to him to juggle

things around so that someone else could.