IV

Dazedly, Lonnie was conscious of the public announcer's rhapsodizing:

"... Gov-Anth's ethnologists and linguistics experts are making some

progress toward deciphering the inscription carved on the plaque. Wait!

Here's a note from Gawley Worin. You remember Gawley Worin, our famous

leg-man, folks, don't you? Well, here's a note. It ... Listen to this,

folks! Listen! This is the beginning of the first rough translation of

the inscription. Listen ...

"'We, Wold, last of the Imperial Family of Wold who exercise our Power

from Wold, the Imperial City, throughout Wold, the Planet. We, last of

the line of Wold, who alone may wear the Tiara which is Our Power, and

our Symbol of Power, and the Symbol of Our Power throughout all the edos

of Raii's life-taking light, without fear, facing the fate--'"

Hissing, Lonnie cut the stereo switch. He'd seen enough. Darting across

the den, he opened his communico. "Get me Sykes in our Mars unit," he

ordered the operator. "Make sure what I say is scrambled. While you're

waiting, get through to Denisen at Gov-Forn, then Raikes at Gov-Planet,

then Butchwaeu in Gov-Int. And keep this line closed--that means you,

too--while I'm talking."

Lonnie--THE Launcelot Raichi--was going after what he wanted.

Just under a mile away, Jason turned from the public stereo in the

rotunda of Pol-Anx. Tapping the cold bit of his pipe against his teeth

as he walked, he sought the ease of his chair. In the privacy of his

office he began to ponder.

The months' developments gave him no surprise. Because it was the first

contact Humanity had had with a non-human race, the Mars discoveries

made an overwhelming impression on the man in the street. The result was

that for the first time in Post-Synthesis history all artifacts were

reserved for Earth Public!!!

Everyone Who Mattered screamed, except Lonnie. He evinced a biding

calmness while attending the ceremonies marking the installation of the

Tiara of Wold in the exact center of Government's own Fane of Artifacts;

even smiling benignly on certain Gov-Ficials who seemed to perspire more

than the coolness of the evening warranted.

Jason, loitering on the grass of Gov-Park, noted the smile and the

perspiration. The perspirers reminded him of small boys expecting a

whipping.

Once the dedication ceremonies were over, Lonnie never returned to the

Fane to examine the Tiara.

It was Jason the Tiara seemed to fascinate. He spent more and more time,

particularly evenings, crouching on the bench in Gov-Park across from

the Tiara, ignoring the constant stream of awed tourists silhouetted

against the blaze of light. He kept in constant touch with his desk

sergeant through his pocket communico, so Annex business didn't suffer.

And the summer was warm, to say the least, so that several Gov-Ficials

were almost regretful that the dignity of their positions forbade

following Jason's example.

But then, too, no mere cop had their responsibilities.

None of them was conscious of how habitually Jason frowned, scratched

his head, moved uneasily on the pleasant bench. Occasionally, he would

snap his fingers and the frown would relax. He'd switch on the

communico and speak briefly. Immediately thereafter, one or the other of

the hand-picked four in Jason's personal squad would raise his eyebrows

slightly--safely, since the pocket communico did not project video--and

take up a new position or new duties. Or, an equipment unit in Op-room

at Anx would be indifferently retuned by heedless techs.

Then for a while Jason would vent smoke pleasantly from his malodorous

pipe until the frown would settle back between his eyebrows and he'd

begin to squirm on the bench again, glancing warily at Executive Level,

feeling helpless about the inadequacy of his resources.

But Lonnie had gotten over feeling sad about _his_ resources months

earlier.

The night he'd returned from the Tiara ceremonies he'd locked himself in

his den and let the on-view smile his face was wearing lapse. He tweaked

Genghis Khan's nose viciously and slammed himself down in the Diamond

Throne without donning a single imperial trapping, pounding his fist on

the cool mineral facet and staring morosely at the grid suit hanging in

its place on the wall.

The grid suit wouldn't help him this time. The cover-alls that had

everything except the necessary invisibility to--

_Invisibility!_

Slowly, Lonnie began to grin. Very little later he had an obscure

biochemist hooked, and ended his instructions with: "... don't care if

it needs concentrated essence of chameleon juice. Invent it. And it

better work for there's going to be a total shortage of neo-hyperacth at

two-twenty-eight per cc for wifey!"

The biochemist delivered. Lonnie didn't stop to question if it really

was essence of chameleon juice. He hurried with the beaker of viscous

fluid to his throne room, drenched every square centimeter of the grid

suit with it and watched breathlessly through the hours while it dried.

In the glowing, shadowless illumination, the suit gradually disappeared.

First, the wall against which it hung shone mistily through it. Then

there was wall, slightly outlined by a greyish cast. And at last, only

an indescribable fuzziness that had to be sensed rather than seen.

V

He took the fuzziness off its hanger and threw it up in the air toward

the center light. The light was undimmed. The fuzziness was air. It

sprawled down across the Throne and became diamond, except for the

sleeve that dangled; part air, part intricately patterned Persian

carpet. It wasn't a fuzziness, exactly, it was more of a faint tone of

difference in the color-texture feel. It was as though what was behind

the suit was miraculously translated to its facing surface and then

reflected to the eye within the nth of utter fidelity.

Grinning, slowly Lonnie's lower lip crept out and up to squeeze its

mate. Then, because it was always better to be sure, he donned the suit

to try it against a variety of experimental backgrounds, indoors and

out.

Over at Pol-Anx, the servo-tracer went to sleep; the desk sergeant

yanked the creaking joints of his bunioned feet down off Jason's desk;

on the bench in Gov-Park, Jason's communico squeaked briefly and Jason

and his four men rose to emergency alert.

Two hours later, the Wold Tiara still coruscating in the Fane's blaze of

light, the servo-tracer picked up its placid humming. Jason's communico

squeaked again and Jason's men relaxed while Jason himself clutched his

head with both hands and whispered bitter things.

At the same time, Lonnie, whistling cheerfully, drew his legs out of the

suit, shook it straight and hung it back on the wall. He was sure now.

As sure as he was that the little biochemist and his wife and quintet of

daughters would not want for neo-hyperacth or anything else any longer.

He giggled a little, thinking of Jason crouched on the bench, glaring

vacantly, utterly unconscious of Lonnie passing across the grass so

close beside him.

At his own convenience, Lonnie selected his night; a full-moon night

because his now-invisible grid suit didn't require dark. He picked a

fairly early hour, too, because what matter if a few yawps gawked as the

Tiara vanished? And that one of those yawps would be Jason, stodgily on

his bench, gave Lonnie an extra fillip. Perhaps it was just for this

he'd let Jason plug along on a cold trail all these years.

So that night, wearily from his bench in Gov-Park, Jason looked up at

Friday the 13th's full moon swimming amiably through its own reflected

night-brightness. His brain, tired of its everlasting shuttle between

worries, presented him with a disconnected memory-fact: "As cited by

Zollner," Jason found himself quoting a forgotten textbook, "the Moon's

reflectivity is point one seven four ... Nuts!" Angrily, he broke off,

thumbed the button of his communico, growled into the microphone on his

lapel, "Report."

"Adams," came promptly back. "West Entry. Nothing."

"McGillis. Patrolling rear wall. All clear in both directions as far as

I can see. An' I can see both ends of the Fane in all this moonlight,

Chief."

"Holland. At Raichi House. Nothing."

"Johnson. East Entry. More of the same." Then, "Say, Jase, how about it?

These double shifts are getting me."

"What's the matter with you, now?"

"My feet hurt, Jase. Neither one of us is as young as we used to be,

remember. How about knocking off?"

"Hmphf ..." Johnson, Jason thought, was getting old. He'd been a good

man in his day but-- Hey, he was still a good man! It was Jason's own

stubbornness that was wearing Johnson down. Jason's useless

stubbornness. After all, without the backing of Anx or Gov, without

results from the equipment he had filched to use on Lonnie, what was the

use of everlastingly sticking around the Tiara like a fly buzzing

molasso-saccharine anyway? Jason opened his mouth to send them all home,

pressed the communico button and--shelved the relieving order

temporarily. Instead, he blasted into the microphone: "Sergeant!

SERGEANT!"

From the communico, an intermittent drone became a gasping gulp; changed

into a violent yawn and only then turned into startled speech. "Yeah?

Huh?... Yeah, Chief!"

"Sergeant, if I ever catch you asleep again, you won't ever get your

pension."

"Chief, I wasn't asleep! Honest! I--"

"All right. What's happening up there?"

"Nothin' ... nothin' ... I wasn't asleep, Chief. I'd'a called you 'f

anything--"

* * * * *

Something bright, or was it dull, plucked at the edge of Jason's vision.

Inside the Fane, far down at one end. A thin, vertical bar of difference

in the blaze of light. Chin half turned, Jason stared. What?...

"_Chief!_ That tracer's asleep--I mean--that there tracer's just GONE

t'sleep! I mean--Chief! It's--"

"Shut up!" Jason hissed. "Holland! If you've let anyone slip past you

out of that house--"

"Nobody did. You know me better than that, Chief."

"Adams! McGillis! Johnson! What's happening?"

"Nothing ..."

"Not a thing ..."

"_Johnson!_" Jason licked suddenly dry lips. "Dammit, Johnson,

report!... _Johnson!_"

Silence.

Grimly, Jason watched the vertical bar of different brightness edge back

to the Fane's East wall and disappear into the even dazzle of the

marble. He had a feeling it wasn't any use calling Johnson again. Ever.

"Chief, what's up? What do we do?"

"Huh? Oh ... You, Holland, get over to the East Entry as fast as your

legs'll stretch."

"There in three minutes flat!"

"You, too, McGillis."

"On my way!"

"Adams, you stick at that West Entry. If anything gets past you, I'll--"

"Don't worry, Chief. I've got Johnson to even up for."

Not watching how he ran, Jason hurled himself toward the East Entry; his

eyes following, in the opposite direction, a dullness moving in the

blaze inside the Fane. A smoothly moving, white on white, unfaced ghost

of whiteness within, a part of, the blazing radionic light. Just as he

rounded the East end of the Fane, he glimpsed the vertical bar of

whiteness again--the edge of the marble slab that was the entry door,

reflecting the blazing light at a different angle. Behind it, McGillis's

tightly grinning face. Under McGillis's face, the stab of blue-white

light reflected a glancing ray from the old-fashioned solid-missile

service pistol that Jason had insisted all four men arm themselves with

for this assignment.

Over the sound of his own labored breathing as he plunged through the

East Entry, Jason heard panting behind him. Holland. Holland bettering

his promised three minutes--and with a forbidden disarmer in his hand.

Guiltily, Jason felt the weight of the disarmer he had himself secreted

under his armpit.

Then there wasn't time for thinking or feeling, only for running down

the dazzling half-mile inside the Fane to the Tiara. Up ahead, the

different-white shape was motionless in front of it. Oddly, a dark,

vertical line appeared from the top to what would be the waist of the

shape. And for the instant it took the Tiara to vanish inside, Jason saw

clearly in the radiant light the profile of Lonnie's unmistakable face.

Saw Lonnie's eyes swivel in the direction of the thundering echoes of

their footfalls in the silence of the Fane. Saw Lonnie turn toward them,

the dark line disappearing from waist to top as if it had never been.

Once more the different-whiteness moved. Toward them. Edging for the

back wall to skirt around them; one limb-shape fumbling in the palm of

the other.

"No you don't!" McGillis, ahead of Jason, yelled, his howl drowned in

the smacking crack of his pistol.

There seemed to be a waver in the different-whiteness. A small black dot

appeared against it; hung briefly, apparently unsupported, in the air;

then the undistorted bullet dropped inertly to the floor.

"You _still_ won't!" McGillis hurled himself, shoulders low and legs

driving, at the shape. Two feet from it, he rebounded sharply, trod on

the rolling bullet, went down, his head splatting dully against the

marble floor.

Holland grunted. Crouched to leap. Thrust his disarmer high, ready to

snap into line.

"Hold it!" Jason commanded. Silently, eyelids barely separated to endure

the dazzle, he stared at the different-whiteness that confronted him. "I

made it this time, Lonnie," he called. "Caught up with you-- No!" His

arm flung out, startling him with the feel of his disarmer now oddly in

his hand.

"Don't move!"

The white-within-white's limb-shapes moved up, the hand-ends one over

the other. Through the minute spaces the overlapping fingers left,

glimpses of a thin dark line appeared. The hood was open a trifle at

mouth level, and from the opening Lonnie's voice emerged, sifting

through the protecting screen of gloves. "You can't see me! You

_can't_!"

"No? Take one step sideways. Just _one_! Stop!"

The different-whiteness had moved, and Holland had moved with it;

crouching now, alertly motionless, in his new position. Jason changed

the angle of his own facing. "Now do you think we can't see you?"

"But ... but how!"

"Your albedo is showing," Jason chuckled harshly. "You never would take

the trouble to learn the _how_ of anything, Lonnie. Sure, your damned

disguise is the same color as the marble. Maybe even exactly the same.

But the material is different, and the surface texture; it doesn't have

the same degree or quality of reflectivity to incident light that marble

does!

"Eighty years ago, even the commercial photographers knew about

albedo--one of 'em made a picture of a cat, white on white. I told you

about the reflectivity in your stereo cube. But you wouldn't listen,

Lonnie, would you?" Jason let out a bursting peal of laughter. "_So you

tripped over your own albedo!_"

Through the dying echoes of his own laughter, Jason caught Lonnie's

harsh whisper. "You haven't got me, copper!"

* * * * *

The black line marking the opening in the grid suit disappeared. The

barely-discernible limb-shapes dropped, one hand-end again fumbling at

the rheostat in the palm of the other.

"I'll get him, Chief!" Holland was in action, his disarmer snapping down

into aim.

"No!" Jason roared. "Holland, don't!"

Too late. Under the pressure of Holland's finger, the disarmer's

invisible ion-stream tightened to the thread-thin lethal intensity,

leaped out against the suit's grid. Then the disarmer was luminous even

in the dazzle; even through the flesh of Holland's fist. Holland

screamed and squirmed and dropped. Part of him--the part that wasn't

burned away--reached the floor.

The stench of carbonized flesh scoured Jason's nostrils. Stupidly, he

stared down at the headless, shoulderless, armless torso; black ...

sooty ... against the snowy gleam of the floor; conscious of the

sidelong, round-about approach of the different-white figure. He'd

failed again. Lonnie, in that damned suit, was impervious.

Slowly, he raised his eyes from the thing on the floor to the thing

approaching. One consolation, he himself wouldn't go on living after

this. With grim frustration, he raised his arm in a final, fruitless

gesture and hurled the useless disarmer at the shape of Lonnie.

It halted, dead, in mid-air, a yard away from the shape-thing. Dropped

straight down, clanging against the floor.

A quiver as of mirth appeared to shake the different-whiteness. It

stooped. One hand-end fumbled at the palmed rheostat, then dropped to

pick up the disarmer. Fumbled again at the rheostat while the figure

straightened up to point the glistening projector at Jason's belly.

The dark opening in the hood appeared again.

Lonnie's voice chortled, "Told you I'd use whatever you tried to smear

you with. Goodbye, Jasey ..."

The dark line was gone. The disarmer, turned to lethal potential,

settled in the shape's hand-end and began to spout. Jason went stiff.

Every muscle of his body clenching to withstand obliteration.

He waited for it. Tight ... except his eyes that, in spite of

themselves, opened.

Caught within the field, the full power of the disarmer poured itself

into the suit. The suit's capacity absorbed it. Almost. Then turned the

combined energies on itself.

With the smell of frying organic matter, slowly the grid-coveralls

appeared in dazzling radiance within the dazzle of the Fane's lights;

glowed in it; red--then white--hot. Whiter than the light itself--far,

far lighter than any reflected rays could make it.

Inside the all-encompassing, roasting grid of the melting suit,

Lonnie writhed. Faintly, as the suit failed, his screams came

through--momentarily. Then they were gone as the fused, molten heap

subsided lower ... lower ... began to trickle across the dazzling,

ice-white marble of the floor.

Afterward, had Jason known anything at all about Lonnie's Philosophy,

he'd have immediately supplied another "rule"; making a foursome out of

the "Triple Ethic": "If you do it yourself, make sure you know _what_

you're doing."

Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from _Planet Stories_ September 1952.

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.

copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and

typographical errors have been corrected without note.