IV

Len Mattern stayed with the _Perseus_ over three years. Gradually, from

things he observed himself, from things his shipmates told him, he

learned what little there was to be known about hyperspace. Everything

was different there from normspace; even the mechanical properties

of things changed. However, Jumping was safe enough, as long as the

spaceships didn't stop. As long as they were only passing through that

other universe, they were, in a sense, not actually there, so that the

elements of which they were composed would not change, although, to the

senses, they seemed to.

Unless, of course, the ship collided with something. Then everything

became very real. That was what the pact was for--to make sure they

didn't collide. Every spaceship had, locked in the captain's cabin,

charts of that other universe--charts which gave, in normspace terms,

the coordinates of the hyperspace worlds. That way, when a ship made

the Jump, there would be no danger of her materializing inside one

of the alien planets and destroying both. Even touching one of the

hyper-worlds could have a disastrous effect. Only the captains were

ever permitted to see these charts; they would be far too dangerous in

irresponsible hands.

Len might have grown old in the _Perseus'_ service, if the Hesperia

System hadn't been one of her stops, and if he hadn't seen Lyddy there.

Hesperia was a small, rose-pink sun surrounded by four planets and the

debris of what once was a fifth. Most solar systems in the Galaxy had

asteroid belts like that; some time later, Len found out why. Three of

Hesperia's four planets were barren rocks. The fourth, Erytheia, was

mostly water, calm water, sometimes blue, sometimes--when the sun was

high--violet-tinged. There was land, a small continent in the north,

where it was always spring, a slightly larger continent in the south,

where it was always summer, and that large island in the west which was

said to have a climate better than spring and summer combined.

The atmosphere of Erytheia was what they call Earth type--that is, Man

could breathe on it. A very inadequate description, though, because men

could breathe the atmosphere of Ziegler's Planet, too, only sometimes

it almost seemed worthwhile to stop living in order to stop having to

breathe Ziegler's air. Erytheia's atmosphere was gentler and purer

than the air of Earth. The native fruits were edible and the local

life-forms were small and amiable. But there wasn't enough land for the

establishment of a self-supporting colony; it would have bred itself

into poverty within a few generations.

What else could be done with a small paradise in a remote sector of

space but turn it into a high-class brothel and gambling casino? Only

the very rich could afford to travel so far to look at scenery, and by

the time they reached their destination, scenery wasn't enough. They

wanted some excitement.

Naturally, the _Perseus_ would stop at Hesperia. Naturally, Mattern

would see Lyddy, who was one of the seven wonders of that system. She

wasn't too many years out from Earth then, and he had never dreamed any

woman could be that beautiful.

* * * * *

She was long-necked and slender, unlike the women of the Far Planets,

who were mostly squat-built and bred for labor. It seemed to him he had

seen her before--in a vision, a dream, who knew where? Certainly never

in reality. But he could understand why men would travel light-years

for her.

The prices she charged were also astronomical. Still, if he put away

his money carefully, in a couple of years he ought to be able to save

up enough for a night with her. It was a goal, and he'd never had a

goal before, even such a small one; everything had been just aimless

drifting. He got a tridi of her and put it up inside the door of his

locker and was happy dreaming of her, even if it meant being kidded

about her by his shipmates.

When he made the next Jump, he knew for certain that the creatures of

hyperspace not only spoke to him through his mind, but could enter

it and read it if they chose. He felt very naked and vulnerable. Why

couldn't the others on his ship also see the creatures, so that he

would not be the sole focus of their attentions?

"Do what we ask," the hyperspacers--the xhindi, they called

themselves--said softly, "and you will have enough from just a single

voyage to have her for a week, a month, a year. Do what we ask and you

can have her for all eternity."

"But all I want is just one night!" he protested.

And they had laughed, and one with a honey-sweet mind had said, "Is

that _all_ you want, _really_ all?" Then they began naming the things a

man could want--and they certainly seemed to have a full knowledge of

humanity and its most secret desires.

Afterward, Len had started to think. It _would_ be nice to have Lyddy

all to himself--for a while, anyway. It would be nice to be able

to buy her pretty dresses and jewelry. There were other things that

would also be nice. Maybe he could have his teeth fixed and his leg

straightened. His stepfather had broken it the night his mother died

and it had never set properly. With money, he could do a lot of things.

He hadn't realized there was so much in the universe to be wanted.

Now his wages began to look as picayune as once they had seemed

large. He could make more elsewhere, he told himself; he might not be

educated, but he had a good mind, plus rapidly dwindling principles.

He didn't need the hyperspacers, though. There were plenty of illegal

ways of making money within the framework of normspace activities. So

he left the secure monotony of the starship to seek an enterprise which

would bring in quick and copious profits.

* * * * *

His first step was to go see a rather disreputable acquaintance of his,

Captain Ludolf Schiemann. Schiemann was an ancient spaceman from Earth,

who owned and commanded a ramshackle craft of prehistoric design, held

together with spit and spells.

Schiemann operated out of Capella IV with cargoes of whatever he could

get. He was able to make a living with the _Valkyrie_ only because

he would take on jobs that no sane skipper would touch. Some were

dangerous; most were illegal into the bargain. The risks were out of

all proportion to the profit, which was why the only helper he'd been

able to get was Balas--a big, powerful man, not old but mad. He'd been

a deckhand on one of the big starships and had broken too early to be

entitled to a pension.

Mattern had met old Schiemann at a bar in Burdon, the capital of

Capella IV, and had had a few drinks with him whenever the _Perseus_

and the _Valkyrie_ had happened to hit port at the same time. Schiemann

had a favorite joke he kept repeating over and over: "If you ever get

sick of the _Perseus_, Lennie--sick of good food and hot water and

decent quarters--you can always come to the _Valkyrie_. I'll take care

of you."

Now Mattern went to him and said he'd like to take Schiemann up on that

offer.

The old man's pale green eyes protruded even further from his head.

"You want to leave the _Perseus_ for a berth on my ship! You're madder

than Balas!"

"Not a berth, Pop," Mattern told him. "A share of her--a half share."

Schiemann grinned. "Now you must think _I'm_ crazy, to hand over half

my ship just like that. Maybe you'd like me to sign her over to you

entirely." And he puffed savagely upon his Venuswood pipe.

"Look," Len said, "let's not kid ourselves. You're a crook, Pop, but

such a lousy crook that you make it look as if crime really doesn't

pay. And I'll tell you what's wrong with the way you operate. You

have no organization, no system, no imagination. I have 'em all. You

contribute the ship; I'll contribute my know-how. Together, we'll make

a fortune."

"Modest, aren't you?" the old man jeered. "What kind of know-how do you

get working as a deckhand on a starboat? All right, maybe you're the

universe's best metal polisher, but--"

"Look, Pop," Len interrupted, "I'll make a deal with you. We work

together for a year. If you don't pull in at least three times the

amount you got before, as just your share, my half of the ship reverts

to you. What could be fairer than that?"

Schiemann still wasn't convinced that he was not being played for a

sucker. Being what he was, he could never expose himself to a court

battle, no matter how much justice might be on his side in a particular

instance. But he didn't think Len could be so rotten as to figure on

something like that. Besides, the old captain couldn't help liking

the boy. So he agreed, saying as he did so, "I should have my head

examined." But before the fourth voyage was out, he realized that he

had never done a wiser thing in his life. Under Len's direction, the

_Valkyrie_ as a business enterprise was cleaning up.

Only in relative terms, of course. It took six months, over a dozen

voyages, before Len managed to save enough for that night with Lyddy.

And every time he made the Jump in the _Valkyrie_, the hyperspacers

told him, "One night won't be enough," and the honey-minded one had

insisted, "You must want more than that. You _must_. Who could be

satisfied with so little?"

* * * * *

Finally, the night came. It was wonderful, it was ecstasy, it was

everything he had dreamed of--but it was too short. "Good-by, honey,"

Lyddy said as he left, "come back and see me again."

"When you have some more money," she meant. And it was all over.

For her, not for him. He found he couldn't get her out of his mind. One

night was not enough. The xhindi had been right. Now he wanted her for

his own, for the rest of his life if not for all eternity.

He had no romantic fancies that she would be willing to go off with him

for the sake of true love and himself alone. He had seen himself too

often in the mirror panel on the door of his tiny cabin, and he looked

there now, with a chill objectivity. Undersized, crippled, pallid with

the unhealthy color that comes from spending too little time in any

kind of sunlight, Len Mattern was twenty-four and looked forty. Not

even an ordinary woman of the planets could love him, let alone a love

goddess.

But a love goddess who loved money could be bought. However, in

order to win her, he'd need to have really big money. No matter how

efficiently he organized the _Valkyrie's_ operations, the ship was

just a battered old hulk and, in her sphere, could never be more than

small-time. There was only one answer--hyperspace.

He found Schiemann puffing contentedly at his pipe in the _Valkyrie's_

control room. "Look, Pop," he said, "we've been wasting our time on

stardust. We have to aim for something big."

Schiemann looked trustfully at the young man. He had no relatives, so

he had come to think of Len as his son, and, in fact, had made him his

heir. "Whatever you say, Lennie. Figure on breaking out of this sector

and moving in closer to Earth, do you?"

"Not exactly. We're going into hyperspace."

"Sure," Schiemann said, blowing a smoke ring. "Can't leave the sector

without passing through hyperspace; that stands to reason. But where

are we Jumping to?"

Len tried to keep the tautening of his body from becoming apparent.

"We're not Jumping anywhere. We're _stopping_ in hyperspace."

The pipe dropped from the old man's mouth. He caught it in his hand and

gave a muffled exclamation as the heat burned his palm. Then he looked

at his partner. "Of course you're joking, Lennie." And he arranged his

face for laughter.

Len shook his head. "No joke, Pop; I'm dead serious. We're going to

take a cargo into hyperspace. To the mem--the mem--oh, hell, I can't

pronounce it--the queen, I guess, of Ferr. That's one of their planets.

She wants Earth stuff, she says, and she promises to do right by us if

we bring it to her. Sounds like a good deal."

* * * * *

The silence thickened as the two men face each other. At last Schiemann

got up. "Look, Lennie, I don't make out I'm a saint. I've smuggled

and cheated and stolen. But this I will not do. For the laws of the

Federation, I don't give a damn--men made 'em and men can break

'em--but to go against the laws of nature, that is a different thing."

He turned on his heel and went out of the control room.

Len went to his cabin and began to pack his gear. As he had expected,

Schiemann interrupted him when he was halfway through. "What do you

think you're doing?"

"Leaving," Len said. "I'm sick of small-time operations."

"Leaving me? Just like that? Does our friendship mean nothing at all to

you?"

"Sure it does," Len told him. "When I get a chance, I'll write."

The old man's face crumpled. "Look, Lennie, if we did move into one of

the more important sectors, maybe--"

"You know we wouldn't have a chance there," Len said harshly, to

conceal his true emotions. "The sectors closer in to Earth have bigger,

faster ships, and bigger, tougher men to run 'em. And they wouldn't

like us trying to jet in!"

"I'd rather take a chance on that than--"

"We wouldn't _have_ a chance; it'd just be a massacre, with us on the

receiving end. The only way we can break into the big time ourselves is

through hyperspace. We've got to do what's never been done before."

That wasn't quite true, from what the xhindi had told him, but near

enough. It had been done before, but not very often, and not very

recently. However, it had been done, so it was possible to do.

Otherwise he wouldn't think of chancing it ... or would he?

"Why do you want money so much, Lennie?" Schiemann asked. "What do

we need the big-time stuff for? It's nice and quiet and practically

secure the way you've got things running for us, almost like we were

honest businessmen. So why go looking for trouble?"

"If I'd wanted a quiet life," Len said, "I'd have stuck with the

_Perseus_. So don't sing me security."

The hand that held the pipe was trembling. "Look, Lennie, at least give

me time to think."

"Okay," Len said. He was, in his way, fond of the old man, but there

were bigger things at stake. He had to have Lyddy; he had to have

money; he had to have ... something he couldn't put a name to, but

desperately important nonetheless. "I'll give you six months."

* * * * *

At the end of half a year, Schiemann said no, he positively wouldn't

do it. Len said "Good-by." Schiemann said, "All right, but you'll be

sorry; we'll all be sorry," and gave in.

So they took the _Valkyrie_, the two of them--and Balas, of course, but

naturally nobody would consult a madman--and headed for hyperspace.

Len knew exactly where to go, even though he had no charts. The

breakthrough he wanted was in their own sector and it had been

carefully marked for him in his mind.

Schiemann left all the details to him, even the selection of cargo.

Len chose coal. He knew that what the xhindi wanted was normspace

materials, but not precisely what materials. Their normspace value

did not matter, because normspace matter changed to another form of

itself when it got to hyperspace, and that was where the possibility

of enormous profit came in. Something cheap in normspace could become

something quite rare and expensive in hyperspace, and vice versa. The

distribution of elements was different between the two universes; each

one essentially complemented the other.

There was one hitch: a stable form in normspace could become an

unstable one in hyperspace. Without empiric knowledge, it was

impossible for anyone going from one universe into the other to tell

whether any substance he was carrying or wearing or _was_ would remain

stable. If unstable, it could turn into liquid or gas; it could turn

into energy and blow up; it could cease to be a solid in any one of a

number of ways.

As if that weren't bad enough, it could also happen that even a stuff

previously proven to be stable in both universes could become unstable,

if there was even the trace of a potentially unstable element, or

if something that, stable in itself, combined with it in unstable

fashion. Such an admixture could be accidental, which was what made

the whole business especially tricky, and what made the reason for the

inter-universe ban necessary.

The reason why that first load of the _Valkyrie's_ had been coal was

a simple one. Somewhere, Len had read that coal and diamonds were

different forms of the same normspace element, and he'd thought that

might carry over into the other continuum. However, even an education

wouldn't have helped him know what a right first cargo to take would

have been. The xhindi had told him what they did know, but their

terminology was not clear. They spoke his language with outward

correctness but with imperfect conceptualization; he spoke theirs not

at all. Much of what they did know, they appeared to have forgotten, or

only half-learned.

They managed to make him understand that certain stuffs would be

definitely unsafe; they could not make it clear which stuffs would

be safe, or which they would find most desirable as trade goods. He

gathered that they would be satisfied with anything that came through.

So he chose coal, hoping to make a splendid initial impression.

* * * * *

The _Valkyrie_ reached hyperspace. It slowed down. The throbbing of

its creaky engines ebbed to a hum. And it stopped and hung there in

the quiet darkness of utterly alien time and place. Schiemann and

Balas, expectedly, changed their appearance, but he had seen them in

their monster guises before. The coal changed to something pale and

glittering, but not diamonds. Everything remained quiet. The ship's

instruments recorded no temperature change, but it seemed to grow

colder and colder inside her.

Suddenly, Mattern knew the truth. A trap had been laid for him, and he

had tumbled neatly into it. And the most shameful part was that his own

desires and yearnings--deliberately fostered by the xhindi--had been

the bait.

He wanted to turn to the horrible thing that Schiemann had become to

scream, "Let's go back!" But he couldn't. Something held tight grip of

his mind. And, looking out the portholes, he saw that the xhindi had

begun to swarm.

The flickering terror of their appearance became more awesome to him

than it had been at the beginning, when he'd been only a transitory

shadow in hyperspace. Now, although he had no doubt that they were

friendly--indeed, almost ardent in their welcoming--horror chilled him

all over again. He could almost feel the molecules inside his body slow

down as his viscera quivered faintly and then froze into stillness.

He looked at Schiemann and Balas. Neither of them could, he knew, see

the hyperspacers. Their conditioning back on Earth's space schools

had ensured this. That was the real reason for the schools; any actual

training was incidental. But Schiemann knew the creatures were there,

and so he could sense them. And Balas, too, certainly seemed to sense

something as he stood there, tense and wary and almost _understanding_.

It must be even worse, Len thought, to _know_ the hyperspacers were out

there and not be able to see them.

"We--we can still go back," Schiemann said in a cracked voice;

apparently the minds outside had not touched his. "Please, Lennie...."

"No, it's too late!" Mattern cried. Once he went back, he would never

dare return, and all hope of--Lyddy would fade into fog. The thought of

not being able to have her was unbearable. "We can't go back now!"

The hideous mask that was Schiemann's hyperspace visage contorted, and

drops of liquid flowed where his withered cheeks would have been in

normspace. "Please, Lennie...."

"I can't," Len said. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. It's too late,

now that we've stopped."

He forced out the words, against objections that seemed to come from

outside him--not objections to Schiemann's knowing the truth, but to

his own admission of it.

"They're in control," he said.

V

"We bid you welcome to our universe, Mattern," the xhindi said in his

mind. "Come, follow us. We will lead you to the port on Ferr that we

have made ready for you."

"Will the ship be safe there?" Mattern asked, remembering the further

danger of touching alien substance.

"As safe as she could be anywhere in this space." And then the

mellifluous one added, "Remember, whatever risks there are, now we

share them with you."

A point of livid light that danced so Mattern knew it must be alive

led them to the gleaming purple-dark ovoid that was Ferr, then to the

place that had been set aside for the _Valkyrie_. The xhindi had been

right about the port so far as the ship herself was concerned. Probably

they'd had a fair idea of what materials she and her contents were

composed of from the ships that had passed fleetingly through their

space, never pausing to become real. What they could not allow for were

the random factors.

The ship set down on the "safe" port at Ferr. It made contact with the

glossy alien ground. And, as it did so, Captain Schiemann very quietly

disintegrated. No explosion, no sound. He simply crumbled into a white

powder which slowly drifted away, and then was gone.

"Coal into diamonds," Mattern found himself saying as he stared at

Schiemann's pipe rolling on the empty corridor floor, "dust unto dust."

When the pipe quivered to a stop, he began to laugh hysterically.

"So you think it's funny, do you?" a gentle voice said behind him.

Mattern turned. Balas stood there.

"I'm afraid that I don't agree," Balas went on with that frightening

softness. "He was good to me, and to you too, Lennie. He was damned

good to the both of us. And this is the way you repay him. It wasn't a

nice thing to do, Lennie."

Mattern opened his mouth to deny intent, but all that came out was the

bubbling laughter.

"I know you didn't mean for him to disappear like that," Balas said,

almost kindly. "It's just that I guess you don't care what happens to

anybody but yourself. No, you don't care for yourself even, just the

things you want. You're awful greedy, Lennie--awful greedy."

His voice was very reasonable. "If I don't do something to stop you,

you'll do the same thing to our whole universe that you did to the

captain. It would be wrong for me to let that happen. So, you see, I

_have_ to kill you. I'm sorry, Lennie, because I like you, but I know

you'll understand."

And he lunged for Mattern, reaching out the four monstrous arms that

were his in hyperspace, the eye in his forehead brilliant with that

hideous sanity.

Mattern backed away, still laughing. _If Balas has gone sane_, he

thought, _then perhaps I have gone mad. Only I am still conscious of

everything that's going on: the danger I am in, the way I am behaving.

In fact, I have control over all of myself except my laughter. I know

where we are--Balas and I are locked inside the ship alone together,

and only one of us is coming out alive._

* * * * *

Undoubtedly the xhindi could have passed through the hull or opened the

airlocks in some way, if they had wanted to. But they made no move to

try, merely remained outside, watching. The two humans, in that space

and time, were alone in a small private war of their own. Mattern could

not tell whether the xhindi outside were enjoying themselves, as a

group of humans would have under like circumstances, but he seemed to

sense anxiety for the outcome--not only of that battle but of another,

inner one. _Why, I'm beginning to read their thoughts, too_, he

realized, in the middle of his fear and hysteria. _I am growing closer

to them by the minute._

And Balas was getting closer to him. Mattern had a blaster, of course,

but he was afraid to use it. A bolt of alien energy might produce a

reaction that could rip both universes. Yet, bare-handed, he was no

match for the bigger, stronger man. Fortunately, he had never pretended

to be a hero, not even to himself in the saneness of normspace, so

he was able to turn and run. Balas pursued him through the desolate

corridors of the _Valkyrie_, Mattern's laughter echoing crazily in the

emptiness.

His only hope was to find a hand weapon--or something that could be

used as a hand weapon. And, as he rounded a bend, Mattern saw the

primitive fire axe hanging against a bulkhead, the traditional relic

that all spaceships, large and small, carried and kept burnished and

ready for a use that would never come. But there was another use it

could be put to.

Instinct made Mattern seize the axe from its hooks on the wall.

Instinct surged up from the handle to fill him with the power and joy

and knowledge to use it. He turned to face Balas' onrush, and his

laughter no longer sounded insane in his ears; it had the triumphant

energy of a primeval war cry.

The madman's charge was lightning fast, but Mattern was the younger

man by at least a decade. He told himself that he meant only to stun

Balas, but he was conscious all the time that, if Balas were merely

stunned, the problem would be merely postponed. He lifted the axe and

brought it down. And then Mattern was alone, the only human being in an

alien space and an alien time, locked in this ship with the drifting

white dust that had been his friend, and the bleeding corpse that had

been--no, not his enemy, but his friend also, and who had, only minutes

after death, already begun to haunt him. It was then that Mattern

remembered the other man he had killed in the same way.

Karl Brodek had never haunted him, but that was because Len knew the

killing was justified--it was retribution, not murder. For Len had

seen Brodek kill his mother, not all at once, but little by little. It

was her face that stayed with him always, her blue eyes and her sweet

voice. She'd been the only one he ever had, really--the brother had

been nothing but a wailing blob of protoplasm--and then Schiemann, a

little. Now he was more alone than he'd been in all of his solitary

life.

He knew that the eerie creatures outside meant him no harm, but would

have liked to comfort him if they could. That made it worse rather than

better. If only there were some tangible enemy to attack, to beat his

fists against ... but the only enemy he could find was the monstrous

form reflected in the mirror of his own cabin.

He was no longer laughing, he noticed; the fit was over. And so, he

sensed, was the anxiety outside. In some way, he had passed a test.

* * * * *

It was then that the xhindi began to speak to him through the hull of

the ship, urging him to come out. "You have come so far," they said,

"and time is a precious and a dangerous commodity. We cannot afford to

waste it, either of us."

He did not--could not--respond.

They could have forced him out, but they were kind--or perhaps only

wise. They simply coaxed and waited. After a while, moving stiffly,

as if he had cogs instead of a heart, he opened the airlock and went

outside. He set foot on the dark polished surface of Ferr. But there

was no thrill of strangeness or of triumph or anticipation. There

was ... nothing. His physical senses were all operating. He knew

there was neither gravity nor lack of it. He knew there was no

atmosphere--and he accepted that, not because he accepted the xhindi's

word that he would not need to breathe in this continuum, but because

he didn't care whether or not he breathed; he didn't care about

anything.

"Come," the xhindi said, in audible words now, and their spoken voices

were as sweet as their mind voices.

He found himself moving as through a nightmare, as he proceeded

according to their directions, and the xhindi themselves, with their

monstrous grace and musical voices, were a logical part of the black

ballet in which he found himself participating.

The dignitaries of Ferr, a fantasy procession in the moonlit colors of

hell--smoke and flame and shadow--came to greet him and to lead him

to the mbretersha. She glittered splendidly upon her throne of alien

substance--a monster, of course, in human terms, and yet also a great

lady, as a queen should be in any terms. Through the fog of his own

immediate perception, she reached out and touched him with her dignity

and compassion.

"I am very sorry," she said, "that such a thing should have happened. I

know you are full of grief for your comrades, and I wish that I could

have postponed our interview. However, I must press you, for the longer

you stay on this world, the greater the risk is for my people."

Somewhere before, it seemed to him, he had heard her voice--sensed her

mind pattern, anyway. If he had not known that she was the mbretersha,

he would have fancied that hers had been one of the minds that had

spoken to him, the most persuasive of the cajoling creatures that had

sung him their siren songs as he flashed transitorily through their

universe. But, he thought dully, that was impossible. She was the

mbretersha, the queen.

She read his thoughts, and the pattern of her appearance altered

subtly. It was a warm and kind expression of herself; it was a smile.

"You must learn, Mattern, that the concept of a ruler in this universe

differs from the concept in yours. Here a ruler is the servant of her

people, not their master. It is her obligation to take care of them,

protect them, watch over them--in whatever way seems most fitting to

her. She can have no pride in herself, only in them. They are more than

her children."

* * * * *

It was funny, Mattern thought, that she should so easily plan to break

the rules of her universe. A space rat like him--that was one thing; it

was to be expected. But a queen? Now that he was coming back to life a

little, he began to wonder about this again.

Deftly, she picked the wonder out of his mind and answered it. "Our

Federation, like yours, is an artificial creation. Its laws are no more

than arbitrary regulations, devised by the various peoples of each

universe with regard to the greatest good of the majority, and thrust

upon majority and minority alike."

Mattern began to understand, or thought he did. "A queen isn't likely

to hold with democracy," he said--though perhaps not aloud.

She was a little impatient. "It's not a question of absolute power or

divine right--simply that my people come first, even before myself; my

own world is part of me, and I am part of it by nature and instinct.

Its needs are my needs. When my people are hungry, I feel the pangs."

_Most rulers justify themselves like that_, he thought, keeping his

lips pressed firmly together. _But they all do the same things._

But he couldn't keep her out of his mind. "No," she said, "you're

wrong. I was not speaking metaphorically. My nervous system is attuned

to my people's; it is a hereditary trait bred into my family. So being

the ruler is not a pleasant station to occupy."

It certainly wouldn't be, he thought, if she was telling the truth--to

suffer every pang that was suffered on the planet, and, if the attuning

were psychic also, every sorrow. He expected her to pick the disbelief

out of his mind, but she smiled and went on to tell him about her

planet.

Ferr was not a large world. Moreover, it was essentially a barren one.

It had been rich only because it had previously engaged in sub-rosa

commerce with Mattern's universe. "And the last traffic was long, long

ago," she told Mattern. "In a day much before mine, when my mother

ruled."

"What happened? What stopped the traffic?"

"Our captain died of old age, and we have had trouble finding a

successor to him."

"Why is it so hard to get somebody else?" Mattern asked bluntly.

She paused. When she spoke again, it was so obliquely that he did not

realize immediately that it was an answer. "Time was when we had more

contact with your people. There were many who knew of the xhindi,

although few had actually encountered us. It was not difficult for us

to get humans to work with us then. But the barbarians took over your

world and your people lost the knowledge of how to get through to us.

And when they regained it, we were not why they wished to get through.

Much of the problem is in making people believe that we exist."