IV

The chambers were crowded as the delegates, alternates and just plain

onlookers poured in for the afternoon session of the Central Worlds

Conference. Two hours before the meeting was due to begin, an astute

member of the press, long used to such functions, observed that there

would undoubtedly be a record broken before the day was over. And it

was easy to see why: all eyes were trained on the spot low in the tiers

with the Ehrlan pennant floating overhead.

As yet, the central figure of all the interest had not arrived,

although the rest of the Ehrlans were already in their seats and

looking anxiously up the aisles towards the bank of elevators. An

elevator would open from time to time, to disgorge a few late arrivals.

But the man they expected was not yet among them. Below, on the

chamber floor, the presiding secretary was mounting to the rostrum and

arranging his papers.

"Where the devil can he be!" said Citizen Evrett to Citizen Sterm, the

second ranking member of the delegation.

"God only knows! You don't suppose something has ... happened?"

"How could it, here in the heart of the city? He only had to come

one block from the hotel. You've been watching too many thrillers,

Citizen--I hope!"

"Well, we have to do _something_. The session will be starting in a

few minutes. If he isn't here, someone else will have to make the

presentation."

"Who?"

"I don't know. How about you, Citizen?"

"Now, wait a minute!" said Evrett. "What's the matter with you,

Citizen? You're the logical choice. You rank second in the group."

"I wouldn't dare," admitted Sterm. "What if I should bobble things? I'd

never be able to live it down. I wouldn't even dare go home. My wife is

Lund's half-sister, you know."

"I'd forgotten. But somebody has to do it, if he doesn't get here. This

is the only opportunity we'll have this decade. If we have to wait

another ten years, we may as well forget the matter altogether."

"We can't do that!" protested Sterm. "We've worked too long and too

hard on this plan. It's the only fair solution anyway. The other worlds

will never accept anything else."

"Some of them may not want to accept this one, when they hear all

of the details. You must admit, we haven't been too easy on some of

your fellow members. They.... Here comes Arko. Maybe he found out

something."

* * * * *

A junior member of the delegation came panting down the aisle, shaking

his head when he saw the others' eyes on him. "Sorry, Citizens," he

said, as soon as he was within the Ehrlan area. "He left the hotel over

an hour ago. No one has seen a sign of him since."

"Well, that tears it," said Evrett, just as the presiding secretary

struck his gavel on the little wooden block, announcing the opening of

the session. "Who has the copy of the plans?"

"Here," said Sterm, digging the papers from his case.

"I'll make the presentation myself...."

"Just a minute, Citizen!" said Arko. "Look! Here he comes now!"

They all turned and looked at the pudgy figure ambling slowly down the

aisle, nodding to greetings that came from all sides. The missing man

smiled and shook hands with a couple of the onlookers, before entering

the area and taking his seat at the head of the delegation.

"Citizen Lund!" cried Sterm, as though speaking to a wayward child.

"Where in the name of the Seven Suns have you been?"

"Why, it's a beautiful day, Citizens," explained Lund. "I thought I'd

take a stroll in the Park. There's quite a large Ehrlan section, you

know. Makes one quite homesick to hear the singing flowers serenading

the passerby. I can't wait to get back home again."

"If you hadn't shown up, none of us would have had the nerve to go

home!"

"Why, Citizen Sterm!" Lund seemed amused by some private joke.

"Whatever made you think I wouldn't be here? This is an important day

for Ehrla, remember?"

"How could we forget?" said Evrett.

The presiding secretary fiddled with his bank of microphones for a

moment, in the manner of presiding secretaries throughout history since

the invention of the public address system, then turned hopelessly to

the technicians. A man came forward, made a simple adjustment, then

retreated. The Secretary cleared his throat, sipped at a glass of water

and spoke.

"The fourth session of the Nineteenth Conference of the Central

Worlds is open for business. The afternoon session will be devoted to

the presentation and discussion of proposals by the membership. The

Recording Secretary will call the roll of delegations."

A short stubby man with five o'clock shadow came forward and leaned

into the bank of microphones, and yelled: "Accryllia!"

Across the chamber a man stood up, holding his delegation's microphone.

"The grand and sovereign system of Accryllia, long known throughout

the galaxy for the excellence of its citrus fruit, the beauty of its

maidens, the virtue of its honorable young men ... the grand and

sovereign state of Accryllia passes."

"Antares!"

"Antares passes."

"Bodancer!"

"The system of Bodancer passes."

"Buddington!"

"Mr. Secretary, the proud system of Buddington yields to Ehrla!"

"Ehrla!"

* * * * *

Citizen Lund stood up, unclipped the mike from the railing, smiled

around at a few more wellwishers and launched into his speech. "Mr.

Secretary! Ehrla wishes to thank the proud and ancient system of

Buddington for relinquishing its rightful order in these proceedings,

so that Ehrla may present a plan that the citizens of Ehrla feel

certain will meet with the full approval of this meeting.

"For hundreds of years, the various peoples represented here today

have been rightly concerned with the problems of new star systems being

developed, new races being assimilated into the federation of free and

lawful worlds. These new worlds need guidance, a guidance that only

long experience can provide."

Evrett looked at Sterm, uneasily. "What is this?" he whispered. "He

isn't presenting the plan like this, I hope? He'll alienate half the

delegations."

"I don't know what he's doing," said Sterm. "I only hope _he_ knows."

"In the past," continued Lund, "the various and varied members of

this honored organization have provided the same guidance in wise

and infinitely proper manner. It is the hope of Ehrla that they will

continue to do so in the future. Therefore the ancient and honorable

system of Ehrla proposes, to this effect, that the members of this

organization continue as they have in the past."

Pandemonium was breaking out in scattered sections of the chamber as

various delegations realized that they were being snookered by the

Ehrlans. Voices rose up here and there, trying to drown out Lund's

words. Monitors moved up and down the aisles, trying to quell the

disturbances.

"Therefore," said Lund, "Ehrla, to the implementation of its plan,

announces to this organization that this day they have annexed the

systems of Phelimina, Trepidar and Scolatia."

He sat down and turned to the rest of his delegation. "Gentlemen,"

he said, smiling, as he handed a sealed envelope to Sterm, "my

resignation."

* * * * *

Reilly slumped in his chair with a sigh. The lecture had gone well, but

it had ended not a moment too soon to suit him.

"I'm growing old," he said, unaware he was speaking out loud.

"Pardon, sir?" The regular service Sergeant-Major closed the door and

brought over his cup of coffee. "Did you say something, sir?"

"What?" Reilly blinked. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all, Sergeant. Just an

old man muttering to himself."

"Begging the general's pardon, sir, I don't think you're an old man at

all. At least, no older than myself." He cocked his head. "Although,

to be perfectly honest with both of us, sir, there are times when I

just can't seem to keep up with these children they keep sending us

nowadays."

"We're both ready for retirement, Sergeant. Old work horses, ready to

be turned out to pasture. I guess this will be the last class I see

through these old doors. I've submitted my resignation, you know."

Reilly moodily regarded his coffee.

"Yessir, I knew. The rest of the faculty knows too. And if I might be

so bold as to say so, sir, we'll all be sorry to see you go. It won't

be the same Academy without General Reilly glarin' a bit at us all."

"Glaring a bit, is it, Sergeant?" He glared now, then broke down into

a smile. "I suppose I do at that. Do the cadets still call me Old

Stoneface?"

"Not within my hearing, sir." He grinned. "But you know cadets. You

were one yourself. I suppose it'd be as difficult to stop cadets

from tagging their teachers with nicknames as it'd be to ride a star

bareback."

Reilly sighed, and swiveled his chair until he could see through the

one cluttered window. The parade ground stretched away beneath, the

system pennant fluttered briskly in the stiff breeze. Into his view

marched a battalion of Cadets. Much the same scene had repeated itself

daily during the thirty years he had occupied the office. "The faces

change."

"Sir?"

"The faces change, Sergeant. How many thousands of boys have come

through these doors? The uniform never changes, though. And I suppose

that's really the most important thing, in its essence--the uniform

and the tradition."

"That it is, sir."

Reilly chuckled. "You know, Sergeant, I never considered myself a

particularly sentimental man. Still, the faster the years fly by, the

dearer old memories become. The clearer, too. I can recall things that

happened when I was a boy much easier than I can remember what I had

for breakfast this morning. And I know that's a sign of old age."

He picked up his coffee and made a face when he found it cold.

"Sergeant, as two old men sharing the past, how about having a cup of

something a bit stronger than this watery brew with me?"

"Sir! I really don't think...."

"Oh, bother regulations, Sergeant! I'm speaking as a man now, not as a

general. I'd deem it an honor."

"Then I'd be proud to, sir."

* * * * *

He sat down in the visitor's chair while Reilly opened the bottom

drawer of his desk and drew out a bottle and two very dusty glasses. He

blew into them, set them on the edge of the desk and poured generous

measures of the amber liquid. The sergeant accepted his with a bow of

his head. They raised their glasses.

"To yesterday, Sergeant."

"To yesterday, sir. And may these days be as memorable to those who

will be remembering fifty years from now."

"And those days fifty years further." They touched glasses, then tossed

off the contents, wincing as the whiskey cut its way down. A soft ball

of fire exploded in Reilly's midsection. He sighed, capped the bottle

and stowed it and the glasses away.

A short rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the door; the Cadet Sergeant-Major

opened it and stuck his head through. "Sir?"

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"Six gentlemen to see you, sir."

"What?" He glanced at his memo pad. A notation warned him six

prospective cadets were due to come in. It was not standard procedure

for him to interview candidates, but all six were the sons of Academy

graduates killed in the line of duty. "Give me five minutes, Sergeant,

then show them in."

"Very good, sir." He withdrew and closed the door.

"Well, Sergeant," said Reilly, turning to the regular service man.

"Perhaps these are the lads who will be doing that reminiscing fifty

years from now."

"Quite possible, sir." He stood up and came to attention. "Do I have

the general's permission, sir?"

"Dismissed, Sergeant."

Sighing, Reilly swiveled his chair again and watched the drillers on

the parade ground until the short rat-a-tat-tat sounded again. He

turned around in time to face the gangling teenagers trooping through

the door.

"Messrs. Whyte, Phillips, Garrett, Gordon, Kaslov and Poirot, sir,"

announced the Cadet Sergeant-Major before withdrawing again.

"Come in, gentlemen, come in." Reilly stood up. "Find yourselves a

seat. Just pile those magazines on the chair, sir. I think three of you

will fit admirably on that couch. You others can draw up those chairs

by the water cooler. Yes, that's it." He shook hands all around, and

then sat down again.

"Now then, your names once more, please?" He fixed them firmly in

his mind as each boy introduced himself in turn. "Ah, yes. And I, of

course, am General Reilly, Commandant of the Academy."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Kaslov?"

"Would that be _the_ General Reilly? Of the Deneb Crisis?"

"I see my fame has preceded me, gentlemen. Yes, I am that Reilly.

Please, don't let the fact scare you. I assure you, I don't bite off

the head of a boy until he is in uniform. Then, gentlemen, you are

fair game from then on.

"Now, then," he said. "Are there any other questions before I give you

my sales pitch? Yes, Mr. Kaslov?"

"Sir," the boy said, hesitantly, "I believe you knew my grandfather.

Sub-Colonel Kaslov? He served with you during the Deneb Crisis."

"Of course!" said Reilly. "Martin Kaslov; I should have recognized the

name immediately. He was my Team leader. And his son was fresh out of

the Academy; I remember very well. So you might become third generation

Academy material, eh? Good, good. We're always glad to have someone

whose roots are deep in Academy tradition. That's why I'm particularly

happy to have all six of you gentlemen here this afternoon. I

understand you attended my lecture?"

* * * * *

All six nodded; one raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Whyte?"

"Sir, I heard your lecture, but, frankly, I didn't get very much out

of it. I mean, you talked a great deal about the service and so forth,

but it just didn't make much sense to me. It was just like Pop--my dad

used to talk when I was a kid. I don't suppose it made much sense then,

but kids don't understand anyway. But now I'm old enough to enter the

Academy myself. I think I should know more about it, what it means,

what it stands for. Uh, do I make myself clear?"

"As lucid as a mountain spring on a bright morning, Mr. Whyte. I only

regret my own words were not as concise." He smiled. The other boys

laughed while Whyte flushed.

"But you have expressed a very important point," continued Reilly.

"I don't want a man coming in here who doesn't know what the Academy

stands for. We have a long tradition, but we mean more than just words

carved over a marble arch. 'The Greater Good for the Greater Number.'

There are hundreds of years and hundreds of thousands of lives lived

and died behind those seven words. From Earth's first colony in the

Centauri system to the latest native intelligence charted in the Crab

Nebula, those seven words have wrapped up an entire philosophy and

dictated the means of living by it.

"But what do the words actually mean? I think, Mr. Whyte, that is the

crux of your question. Indeed, that is the crux of the structure on

which the Academy is founded. Oh, it's easy to say that the words mean

what they say, because they do. That and no more. But how to explain

them so that someone who doesn't _know_ will know? In a sense, I've

been trying to do that ever since my first girl friend threw me over

as an incurable romantic when she learned that I intended to enter the

Academy. For many people, I'm afraid there is no explanation. They are

incapable of understanding, no matter how hard we try. But I don't

think you gentlemen are in that class. Otherwise you would not be here

at all.

"The obvious place to begin is the beginning. 'The greater good.'

Not the greatest, mind you--the greater. There are those who quibble

over words; they are responsible for this particular delineation. It

would be idealistic to try for the greatest in all things. Despite his

thousands of years of development, man is still a long ways from being

an ideal creature. There are certain things that remain beyond his

capabilities. In certain isolated incidents, the course we follow does

produce the greatest good possible. But they are isolated.

"The same reasoning follows the choice of 'The Greater Number.' Only

our limitations prevent us from seeing to it that every world in the

galaxy is the best of all possible worlds, insofar as the peculiarities

of a particular world permit. We do our best, and take pride in the

fact that that best is better than anyone else's.

"But so much for numerical values. You most want to hear what we _do_.

And that can best be summed up in one word: everything. Everything,

and yet that, too, has its limitations. Impossibilities are beyond

even us. Improbabilities are given a fair chance. We are constantly

seeking out courses of action that will benefit not the individual

but the race. And in some instances, not even a race, when there are

many races involved in a particular manner. The methods we follow, the

actions we take in a particular instance, may sometimes seem cruel and

unreasoning...."

V

The families were on the move, away from their comfortable homes under

the everlasting warmth of the sun. Luke Royceton shifted his weight in

the copter and trained the glasses on a column of dust rising three

miles to the west and ten thousand feet below.

"It's okay, Harry," he said to the pilot. "They've swung back north

again."

"Right, Luke," the pilot replied. "Scout report just in says there's a

real big outfit about eighty miles settling down around a lake. Shall

we hit them?"

"We the closest?"

"Singer's forty miles the other side of them, but he's tied up chasing

some mavericks."

"Let's go then."

Luke holstered his glasses and slid down into the cargo hold. The rest

of the team were taking advantage of the lull in activity to catch

up on their relaxation. They had been constantly on the go since the

migrations had begun in earnest two months earlier. Luke kibitzed a

card game for a few minutes, then announced: "Action coming up in about

twenty minutes. Grab something to eat and run a check on your costumes."

The copter dropped to treetop level five miles from the lake and came

to ground four miles further on. The team piled out, stretched the

tensions of the long ride out of their bodies, then started out through

head-high dwarf trees that separated their landing spot from the lake.

They wound through the trees and over a low, rolling series of hills.

The cover stopped suddenly, two hundred yards from the beach.

"Big family is right!" said Luke softly, gripping his axe.

There were nearly fifty huts in various stages of construction along

the beach. Twice that number of adult males were working on them,

while the women were bringing in armloads of grass for thatching. The

children were waist-deep in the lake with fishing spears. A still

wriggling pile on the beach testified to their prowess.

Luke glanced over the dozen members of his team, shaking his head. "I

don't know," he said. "Those are pretty hefty odds."

"What's to worry about, Luke?" asked one of the men. "You don't expect

those characters to put up a fight, do you?"

"God only knows. They just might take it in their heads to do that.

From looks of things, either this outfit has been traveling far or

else several villages have combined forces. If it's the last, then I'm

plenty worried."

"So what do we do? Go back and yell for reinforcements?"

"Not yet. Not until we try these babies ourselves. Everybody got his

courage screwed up?" There were soft murmurs of assent from each man.

"Make torches." Two men faded away and returned a moment later with

arms full of the same grass the villagers were using. Half the team

set to work, twisting them into torches and tying them with short

lengths of a twine-like vine they had brought along from the equatorial

jungles. The torches were passed out, and Luke took a deep breath:

"Let's go!"

* * * * *

The team leaped to their feet and broke from the cover, screaming their

banshee cry. The natives dropped what they were doing and wheeled

around, then froze in their tracks at the sight of the wildly painted

devils tearing down the beach. The two hundred yards separating them

halved, then halved again before the natives broke out of their stupor.

One of the workers placed his fingers between his teeth and whistled.

The children ran in from the lake, tossing their spears to the nearest

adult, man or woman.

By the time the team was among them, axes whistling through the air and

smashing the walls of the huts, the villagers were armed and fighting

back.

"We've got troubles!" yelled Luke, bringing his axe down to break

several spears being jabbed at him. The spears were too short to make

good throwing weapons, so the natives were using them just as they

would in going after fish. One got through Luke's guard; he choked

back a cry of pain as the broad stone head went into his flesh and was

twisted. He pulled away, yanking the shaft out of the native's hand.

Two of the team had managed to get close enough to the cooking fires

to light their torches. They used them now as shields, until the grass

burned down to the handles. One then tossed his into the large pile

of thatching material, while the other stuck his into the unplastered

wall of the nearest hut. The thatching blazed up quickly, forcing the

natives away from the heat. Most of the team now had their backs to

the nearest wall; none had escaped the jabbing spears. One man was

completely encircled by the natives. Suddenly his axe was wrenched from

his grasp. They picked him up, legs flailing wildly in the air, carried

him over and threw him onto the fire.

"Let's get out of here!" screamed Luke, surprising those around him

by suddenly leaping forward and grabbing two of them, forcing them

off balance. He called on every ounce of strength he possessed to run

through the gauntlet of spears. From the corner of his eye, he could

see one other man break loose, only to be recaptured a dozen feet

farther on.

By some miracle, Luke outdistanced those pursuing him, crashing into

the cover. The natives followed a few yards, then gave up the chase,

heading back to the easier sport on the beach.

Luke tripped over an exposed root and crashed to the ground. He tried

to get up again, but his injured arm refused to support him. Closing

his eyes, he waited for the fatal blow to fall.

Several minutes passed, during which Luke recited every prayer he had

ever heard, to every conceivable deity in the pantheon. At the end of

that time, he realized that he wasn't going to die after all--at least,

not here and now. Rolling over onto his good arm, he sat up and got his

back against a tree. From the beach came screams of terror, growing

fainter as he listened and finally dying away altogether. Bracing his

good arm against a tree, he worked himself up, got himself oriented and

started back towards the copter.

The pilot threw away his cigarette and dropped out of the door to the

cargo hold when Luke came limping into view.

"My God, man! What happened?"

"I ... made a mistake." He let himself be helped into the copter and

took the mike, reporting the disaster on the beach to the Commandant

back at Base. Then he let the pilot bandage his wounds.

* * * * *

"Eleven men dead," he said bitterly.

"Don't take it so hard, Luke," said Andy Singer. The team Commanders

were back in the debriefing room again. All had commiserated with Luke

on the tragedy; none had been able to convince him that it had not been

his fault.

"Eleven men dead," he repeated, no matter what they said.

The commandant came in and they rose. "At ease, gentlemen," he said, as

he mounted the platform. He stared at them for a thirty-second eternity.

"Ours is not an easy task." His words broke the tension; all sighed.

"There has been a tragic accident, gentlemen. Good men have died. Men

just as good have died on a thousand planets in a thousand different

ways. Sometimes they died because of an error; sometimes the death was

unavoidable. But for whatever reason, they did not die in vain!

"This is a young planet," he continued. "In many ways, it's as near to

paradise as any of us will ever see. Man is a young race here--young

in development. Yet almost before he has a chance to prove himself,

he has found himself in a backwater, stymied as it were by the very

paradise qualities which attract us. Life is easy here, too easy. He

doesn't have to exert himself. He lives much like his ancestors did,

ten thousand years ago.

"There is no future in standing still. Whether he likes it or not,

man must develop, must give the future generations a chance for their

place in the sun. Despite sentimentality, anything that gives them that

chance is good. Therefore, I repeat: eleven men died here yesterday.

_They did not die in vain!_"

* * * * *

"Time for a break, I think," said Reilly, pressing a button. The door

opened and the cadet Sergeant-Major stuck his head in.

"Sir?"

"Coffee, Sergeant. That will be suitable, gentlemen?" The boys nodded

and the cadet withdrew.

"While we're waiting, are there any more questions?"

One of the boys hesitantly raised his hand.

"Mr. Phillips?"

"Sir, why is so much of the activity by the agents carried out in

secrecy? It all seems rather underhanded to me."

"By the very nature of themselves, what we do must be carried out

secretly. Even when we act openly, it is in secret...."

* * * * *

In the distance a bell tolled the supper hour. In the palace,

pageboys wandered the corridors, knocking on apartment doors rousing

the occupants. Carter combed out his beard, frowning at the liberal

sprinkling of gray hairs in it, donned his cloak and set out for

the dining hall. He shivered as a chill wind swept down the drafty

corridors, and reminded himself to speak to Kahl again about returning

to the capital city. Anything would be better than this.

The dining hall was crowded, as usual, with supplicants who had bribed

their way to the royal tables. Most of them had wasted their money.

The chamberlain had stuck them away in far corners where they would be

able to do nothing but stare at the man they wanted to see. Not that

it would have done them any good to speak to the king. Kahl found the

petty details of his office tiring. More and more he had been shoving

them onto the willing shoulders of Carter.

The chamberlain met him at the door with a copy of the seating

arrangements. Carter read down the list, pausing here and there at

familiar names--most of them pests who had long ago worn out his

patience. He pursed his lips and touched a name with his finger.

"This Ivra. Fisherman, it says. He the one with the daughter Kahl

wants?"

"Yes." Like most of the royal retinue, the chamberlain was

uncomfortable in Carter's presence. The man had no title, no office.

But he was undeniably the most powerful person in the realm after the

king himself--some placed his eminence even ahead of the king's. "Shall

I place him at the royal table?"

"No. It wouldn't do any good. But tell him to come see me

tomorrow--no. Make that three days from now. He can't have his daughter

unviolated, but I think we can make him happy to have her at all."

He handed the list back and made his way to the royal table, nodding to

acquaintances and enemies. The problem of the fisherman bothered him.

Carter was unaware of the fact, but he carried a strong puritanical

conscience, the legacy of unknown forebears of years back. He

disapproved of Kahl's unrestrained love life and did whatever he could

to ease the disruptions it caused in the normal flow of subject-ruler

relations.

He stopped at the royal table and clapped a uniformed officer on the

shoulder. "Marshal Zants! A pleasure to see you back at court. I read

your report. I know His Most Graciousness will be pleased at your

eastern successes."

"Thank you, sir." The marshal inclined his head. "And I see you have

had your own successes. Much has changed during the two years of my

campaign."

"We all live, Marshal," said Carter. "We all grow a little older. It's

the natural course of life. A man who stands still in one position all

the time wouldn't make a good runner, now would he?"

"Indeed not. I suppose you wouldn't be interested in a commission

under me? What things we could do together!"

"I'm honored that you think of me so kindly, but I'm afraid my peculiar

talents don't run in the military manner, Marshal."

"Ah, but what a strategist you would make, sir."

"Oh?" He grinned. "Then our enemies should be happy to have me in the

capital, not on the field."

* * * * *

He reached his seat just in time to touch trousers to it and rise again

when Kahl came in, whispering something in the ear of a courtesan. The

girl laughed hysterically, then went to the woman's table as servants

started bringing in the first course. Kahl grunted as he sat down and

rubbed his belly. He leaned over towards Carter.

"I'm getting fat, southerner. Fat and old."

"A little exercise would do us all good."

Kahl laughed. "That's what I like about you, Carter. Not for you the

mealy-mouthed compliments. When you think something, you come right out

and say it. I wish more of my ministers had your courage."

"A few tried it," said Carter. "As I remember it, you had their ears

cut off and made them eat them."

"Yes, but I gave them a choice as to how they were prepared, didn't I?"

He roared, and the rest of the room roared with him, although no one

more than six feet from the head of the royal table could possibly have

known the jest.

Kahl fell to slurping his soup, while Carter did his best to hide his

distaste at the man's table manners. For that matter, there was not a

person in the hall he would have invited to the most informal dinner

in his own apartments. Table manners were something else he had been

trying to introduce, but as yet they were his most notorious failure.

"Ahhh!" The king wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. While one

servant removed the soup and another brought up the platter of meats

and fish, he leaned over again. "Now, then, Carter. I've been meaning

to speak to you all day. Been busy, though. Inhuman the number of

demands on my time. Not that I mind of course. The penalties of the

crown, and all that. But I really have been meaning to talk to you.

How's that pet tinkerer of yours coming along."

"Which one would that be? I've got most of the college working, you

know."

"The one working on that steam gadget you've been telling me about. You

know, the one to make work easier. Not that I can see why a man should

have his work made easy. Does the people good to sweat a bit."

"Economically, though, to have one man able to do the work of half a

dozen is very good. Just think of how it'll enrich the treasuries.

Besides, the work isn't any easier on them: they just produce more."

"Yes, yes. You've explained that all before. But how is it going?"

"Quite well. I think another few weeks will bring very promising

results. Some of the others are coming along well, too. The armory is

turning out a hundred of the improved crossbows a day, now. I took

Marshal Zants through the armory and his eyes positively glowed with

excitement. He promises new and greater victories in his next campaign."

* * * * *

"Oh?" Kahl was chewing on the leg of a bird. "He's been doing pretty

good as it is, hasn't he?"

"Much better than I would have thought," Carter admitted. "The problems

of waging a war completely off from contact with home are great.

Lines of supply, communication--these are all vital to the successful

campaign. I've got a few ideas on these subjects, too. After all, there

is a limit to how much may be withdrawn from an occupied area--if you

still want to have that area useful to you in the future. A very wise

man in my country once said that an army travels on its stomach. The

plans Zants has been discussing with me for his next campaign call for

a very large army."

"You know," said Kahl, "at the rate we're going, it won't be long

before your country is part of my country."

"I'm afraid that'll take a while yet." He laughed. "Although there has

never been a nation in history with so much territory under its direct

rule. Your name will live as the monarch of this country alone, no

matter what you might do on your own."

Events were moving fast on the planet--almost faster than Carter

wanted. Already the lands under Kahl's rule amounted to nearly fifty

per cent of the known areas of the world. At the rate things were

snowballing, it wouldn't be long before his primary objective of

planetary unification were achieved--thousands of years ahead of time,

if events had been permitted to follow their natural course.

Of course, there would be delays and setbacks all along the way.

Subsidiary objectives would always be getting in the way, must always

be considered along with other plans. But even so, things were off to

a good start. Although he might not live to see the complete fruition

of all of his plans, Carter knew that this world was well on its way

towards galactic citizenship.

* * * * *

"There's a great deal of satisfaction in being a power behind the

throne." Reilly grinned. "However, if any of you have a particular yen

toward such power, it's only fair to tell you now that our screening is

the most thorough ever devised. And it is constantly being improved. No

man is ever placed in a position where his weaknesses might prove the

better of him.

"This is not to say that a man might not find himself in a position

where he will be called on to do more than his utmost. It's surprising

just how much a man can do, when he finds out he has no other

choice...."