TWO

Castor P. Smith sat at the head of a steel and plastic table in

the conference room, whistling thoughtfully as he waited for his

assistants. Next door in the communications room, the tortured tune his

lips emitted would have been treated as deliberate jamming. Simonetta

Diorio entered carrying a recorder, and he roused himself for a smile

of appreciation.

"You won't forget to turn it on when you start, Mr. Smith?" she pleaded.

"I'll keep my finger on the switch until then," he grinned. "Thanks,

Si."

Left alone again, he told himself he would have to do something

about the reputation he was acquiring--quite without foundation, he

believed--for being absent minded. After all, he was hardly likely to

forget to record a conference when it had been his own idea. So many

ideas were tossed around on a good day that some were bound to be lost,

unless they were down on tape. Even a good steno like Simonetta could

not guarantee to keep up with it all when two or three got to talking

at once.

Generally, he admitted to himself, he erased the tape without the

necessity of filing some brilliant solution. Still, the one in a

thousand that did turn up made the precaution worthwhile.

He stared morosely at the volume of the _Galatlas_ he had brought from

the communications room. Sometimes, in this job, he lost his sense of

galactic direction. Calls were likely to come in from stars of which he

had never heard.

_Wish I could get a little more help from the D.I.R._, he thought.

_It's more than having one secretary on vacation just now; we're always

short-handed. They never brought us up to strength since old Murphy

blew himself up in the lab with that little redhead. Maybe Willie will

grow into something. That will take years, though. We ought to have

some kind of training school._

In Smith's opinion, he should have had a larger force of full time

agents in the field, but he recognized the difficulties inherent

in the immensity of Terran-influenced space. Even recruiting was a

hit-or-miss process. He had made various working arrangements out of

chance contacts with independent spacers--he supposed that it was

unofficially expected of him--and most had worked out well. About a

dozen routine cases were currently being handled out there somewhere

by a motley group of his own men and piratical temporary help. In

addition, there were three hot cases that had required supervision from

headquarters.

_I wonder if we should stay a little late tonight?_ he asked himself.

_I hate to ask them again, but who knows what will break with this new

skull-cracker?_

He looked up as Pete Parrish entered. His dapper assistant walked

around the other end of the table and took a seat on the window side.

"I hear you have another one," he greeted Smith.

Parrish was a trim man of thirty-six or thirty-seven, just about

average in height but slim enough to seem taller. Smith was aware that

the other took considerable pains to maintain that slimness. By his own

account, he rode well and played a fast game of squash.

The wave in his dark hair was somewhat suppressed by careful grooming.

He smiled frequently, or at least made a show of gleaming teeth; but at

other times his neat, regular features were disciplined into a perfect

mask.

_Thank God that he doesn't wear a mustache!_ thought Smith. _That would

put him over the brink._

He was reasonably certain that Parrish had given the idea careful

calculation and stopped just short of the brink. That would be typical

of the man. He had been at one time a publicist, then a salesman, on

Terra and in space. Actually, he should have been a confidence man. It

was not until the Department had stumbled across him that he had found

opportunity to exercise his real talents. He was expert at estimating

alien psychology and constructing rationalizations with which to thwart

it.

Smith realized, self-consciously, that he had been staring through

Parrish. He passed one hand down the back of his neck, reminding

himself that he must get a haircut. He could not imagine why he kept

forgetting; it occurred to him every time he faced Parrish. He decided

further to wear a freshly pressed suit the next day.

Lydman padded in, glanced about the room, and sat down as near to the

door as he could without leaving an obvious gap between himself and the

others. He eyed Parrish briefly, and raised one hand to check the scarf

at his throat. Lydman dressed unobtrusively, and probably would have

preferred an old-fashioned tie to the bright neck scarves favored by

current fashion.

_I wonder why I get all the nuts?_ Smith asked himself, avoiding

the beautiful eyes by looking squarely between them. _Even the

girls--people with romantic ideas of cloak and dagger work, or the ones

that owe us favors, keep sending us peaches. Then they marry off, or go

around acting so secretive that they draw attention to us._

Sometimes, he had to admit, he would have preferred having a babe marry

and leave the department. Parrish was often helpful in such situations,

which was only fair since he created most of them. Twice divorced, the

assistant had lost none of his interest in women. He was as clever at

feminine psychology as at alien.

"Well, I suppose you've heard something of the new squawk," Smith said

to break the silence. "I just don't see how we're going to reach this

one. The damned fool got himself taken on an ocean bottom."

He proceeded to outline the facts so far reported. Parrish received

them impassively; Lydman began to scowl. The ex-spacer developed

special grudges against aliens who attempted to conceal the detention

of Terrans.

"First, let's see where we are before we tackle this," suggested Smith.

"I've given you enough on Harris to let it percolate through your minds

while we review the other cases. It looks like something we should all

be in on."

Sometimes he would put a case in the charge of one of them, but they

were accustomed to exchanging information and advice.

"This business of the two spacers who were nailed for unauthorized

entry in the Syssokan system seems about ripe," he reminded them.

"Taranto and Meyers, you remember."

"Oh, yes," said Lydman in a withdrawn tone. "The dope."

"That's right. There was no trouble getting information about them,

just in comprehending the idiot reasoning that would maintain a law

that makes it a crime to crash-land on that planet. Terra, like any

other stellar government, is permitted one official resident there.

Fortunately, we got the D.I.R. to slip him a little memo about us

before he was sent out, and this is the outcome. They may even be on

the loose right now."

"Let me see," mused Parrish. "Bob gave you the formula for something

that practically suspends animation, didn't he?"

"Yeah," said Lydman. "We figured on the bastards to carry the bodies

out and dump them. A bunch of tramp spacers is standing by to pick them

up."

"No reason why it shouldn't work," said Smith. "Variations of it have

been keeping us in business. Some day we'll slip up just by relying on

it too much, but this looks okay. How is your Greenhaven case coming,

Pete?"

Parrish hesitated before answering. He stroked the edge of the table

with well manicured fingertips as he considered.

"Maria Ringstad," he said thoughtfully. "These reporters should be more

careful, should have some knowledge of the cultures they poke into.

Greenhaven is hardly a colony to swash a buckle through. I suppose she

never thought they would bother a newswoman."

"Did you ever get the answer to what she was after on Greenhaven?"

"Nothing, just passing through!" Parrish snapped his fingers in

contempt. "She was on a space liner enroute to Altair VII to gather

material for a book. It stopped on Greenhaven to deliver a consignment

of laboratory instruments."

"Those Greenies," Lydman put in, "are as crazy as bems. What a way to

live!"

"They _have_ been described as the bluest colony ever derived from

Terra," agreed Smith. "I shudder to think of the life Pete would lead

there."

Parrish smiled, but not very deeply.

"Miss Ringstad's mistake was fairly simple-minded," he said. "They

had official prices posted in that shop she visited for souvenirs.

When they claimed to be out of the article she fancied, she had the

bad taste to offer a bonus price. On Greenhaven, this is regarded as

bribery, immorality, and economic subversion, to touch merely upon the

highlights."

Smith sighed.

"Why will these young girls run around doing--"

"I don't believe you could call her a girl, exactly," Parrish

interrupted.

"Well, this lady, then...."

"I wouldn't guarantee that either."

Smith shrugged and pursed his lips. "You'd be a better judge than I,"

he admitted innocently. "I yield to superior qualifications."

Lydman grinned. Parrish maintained his mask.

"I suppose that might make it even more dangerous for her," Smith went

on. "I forget what you said the sentence was, but suppose she starts to

get smart in jail. Would any snappy Terran humor pass there?"

"By no means!" said Parrish emphatically. "I would not expect them to

burn her at the stake in this day and age, but they _would_ talk about

it as being one of the good old ways. Fortunately, their speaking and

writing Terran makes this easy. Terrans are all black sinners, but

plenty of Terrans are necessary around the spaceports. We keep a few

agents among them. One of them is going to pull the paper trick to

spring her."

"I'd rather leave them a bomb," said Lydman, almost to himself.

Smith frequently wondered that such a rugged man should speak in so

quiet a voice. At times, Lydman used a monotone that was barely audible.

"We hope to destroy all evidence," added Parrish. "Otherwise, it will

lead to the usual diplomatic notes, and the D.I.R. will be telling us

we never were authorized to do any such thing."

"Yes," said Smith, nodding wearily. "Actually, you couldn't find our

specific duties written down anywhere; and there is _nothing_ we are

forbidden to do either--as long as it succeeds. Well, none of us will

see the day when the D.I.R. will publicly recognize us to the extent

of chopping our heads into the basket. They _have_ been yapping at me,

though, for drawing complaints in the Gerson case."

Lydman had been sitting with his gaze narrowed upon a pencil gripped in

his big fists. Now he raised his head, scenting interference in his own

project.

"How can the Yoleenites complain? They claim they don't even have

Gerson!"

"Easy!" Smith soothed him. "We have an embassy and spaceport there,

remember, that you've been relying on. You had them make some

inquiries, didn't you?"

"Had to confirm the report somehow. All we had was the story of a

kidnapping from the captain of that freighter. It might not have been

true."

"I realize that," said Smith.

"It wouldn't have been the first time a spacer got left behind because

he didn't make countdown--or because they didn't want him around at

payoff."

"Sure," Parrish agreed smoothly. "You could tell us about that."

Lydman turned to look at him, so suddenly that a silence fell among

them. Parrish averted his gaze uncomfortably, and reached into the

breast pocket of his maroon jacket for a box of cigarettes. He busied

himself puffing one alight from the chemical lighter set in the bottom

of the box.

_One day I'll have to pull them apart_, thought Smith, _and I'm not big

enough. Where does my wife get the nerve to say the neighbors don't

know what to make of an average guy like me, just because I can't talk

about my work?_

"At any rate," he said quietly, "they took the attitude that even to

ask them about the incident was insulting. It seemed to rock the top

brass."

"What do _they_ know about Yoleen?" growled Lydman, giving up his

scrutiny of Parrish.

"Not a thing, probably. They make decisions on the basis of how many

toes they've stubbed lately. Right now, it sounds like only routine

panic. That reminds me--I meant to check with Emil Starke about that."

He shoved back his chair and stepped over to a phone table nearby.

Switching on both screen and sound, he waited until the cute little

blonde at the board came on.

"Pauline, get me Emil Starke at the D.I.R., please. Extension 1563."

"Yes, Mr. Smith," said Pauline and disappeared from the screen.

In a few moments, Smith was greeting a man of about fifty, gray at the

temples to the point of appearing over-distinguished.

"Listen, Emil," he said, getting down to business after the amenities

about families and children had been observed. "I have a case on my

hands concerning a planet named Yoleen--"

The man on the screen was already nodding.

"Yes, I heard they were chewing you about that this morning," he said,

smiling. "I trust you preserved some sort of sang-froid?"

"What's in their minds?" asked Smith.

"Oh ... it seems that the Space Force is nervous over the Yoleenites.

They are unable to evaluate the culture comfortably. To cover

themselves, I imagine, they send a warning now and then on the

possibilities of hostile relations."

"Anything to it?"

Starke grimaced briefly.

"Unlikely. Some of the lads upstairs let it make them nervous."

Smith chuckled. "Upstairs," they came and went, but Starke and men like

him ran things and knew what went on.

"Then I can go ahead without covering my tracks too deeply?" he asked.

"I mean, I won't have to lie openly to my boss?"

"Give him a few days to see the other side," Starke assured him, "and

he will be demanding to know why you have not taken steps. Have them

taken by then!"

Smith thanked him for the advice, switched off, and returned to his

place at the table. Nods from the others confirmed that they had heard.

"I have a feeling about those Yoleenites," grumbled Lydman.

Smith waited for elucidation, but the big man had sunk into

contemplation. The other two eyed him, then each other. Parrish

shrugged ever so slightly. Smith gnawed at his lower lip.

"Well, then, you'll be going ahead with what you planned," he reminded

Lydman.

"Oh, sure!" answered the ex-spacer, snapping out of it. "Can't help it.

I've already sent him something useful."

The others smiled. "Something useful" was Lydman's term for a cleverly

designed break-out instrument. Smith hoped that in this case it would

not turn out to be a bomb.

"We dug a little mechanical crawler out of the files," Lydman went

on. "The Yoleenites seem to build their cities like a conglomeration

of pueblos, very intricate and with hardly any open streets. There

would probably be a hundred routes in to Gerson, even if we knew

exactly where he is. This gadget is adjusted to home on certain body

temperatures which it can detect at some distance."

"And Gerson would be the only living thing there at ninety-eight point

six."

"Exactly. Of course, the thing has a general direction and search

pattern micro-taped in. That's the best they could do, because the boys

have only a rough idea of where the cell would be."

"It sounds too easy to intercept," objected Parrish.

"That worries me a little," admitted Lydman. "It would be worse to fly

something in, and it's impossible to send anyone in because they say

they haven't got him. The gadget is set to have an affinity for dark

corners, at least."

"And how does it get him out?" pursued Parrish.

"It carries a little pocket music player with micro-tapes that will

actually play for a couple of hours. They can't tell for sure that

Gerson didn't have it with him--if they spot it at all. When he opens

the back as a little jingle in the first tune will instruct him to do,

he has a miniature torch hot enough to cut the guts out of any lock

between him and the outside."

"Someone will be watching for him, I suppose?" asked Smith.

"Sure. Once he's out of the place, the Yoleenites can hardly demand

that we give back what they say they never had. Off to the embassy with

him and onto the first ship! And I hope he kills a few of the bastards

on the way out--they won't even have grounds for an official complaint!"

The other two avoided looking at him for a moment. Parrish stirred

uneasily.

"I hope it--What I mean is, these Yoleenites give me an uneasy feeling

the same as they do you, Bob. Experience tells me that some of these

hive-like cultures think along peculiar lines. No wonder the Space

Force finds them hard to understand! I recommend that we open a general

file on them."

"It might be just as well," Smith agreed, considering. "They may give

us more business in the future."

He pushed back his chair and rose.

"Let's take a break while I see if any new reports have come in. Then

maybe we can work out something on the new mess."