reading

PIP
POLLINGER IN PRINT

Pollinger Limited
9 Staple Inn,
Holborn, LONDON
WC1V 7QH
www.pollingerltd.com

First published in the UK by Dobson Books Ltd 1957
This eBook edition published by Summersdale Publishers Ltd under license from Pollinger in Print in 2007

The moral right of the author has been asserted

A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library

eISBN 978-1-84839-320-2

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without prior written permission from Pollinger Limited

One

He ambled into the room, sat in the indicated chair, and said nothing. The baffled expression had been on his face for some time and he was getting a bit tired of wearing it.

The big fellow who had brought him all the way from Alaska now departed, silently closing the door and leaving him alone with the man contemplating him from behind the desk. A small plaque on the desk informed him that this character's name was William Wolf. It was inappropriate; the man looked more like a bull moose.

Wolf said in hard, even tones, 'Mr Mowry, you are entitled to an explanation.' There was a pause, followed by, 'You will get one.' Then Wolf stared unblinkingly at his listener.

For a long-drawn minute James Mowry suffered the intent scrutiny before he asked, 'When?'

'Soon.'

With that, Wolf went on staring. Mowry found the gaze unpleasantly piercing, analytical; and the face around it seemed to be as warm and expressive as a lump of hard rock.

'Mind standing up?'

Mowry stood up.

'Turn around.'

He rotated, looking bored.

'Walk to and fro across the room.'

He walked.

'Tsk-tsk!' grunted Wolf in a way that indicated neither pleasure nor pain. 'I assure you, Mr Mowry, that I am quite serious when I ask you to oblige by walking bow legged.'

Mowry stumped around as if riding an invisible horse. Then he resumed his chair and said pointedly, 'There had better be money in this. I don't come three thousand miles and perform like a clown for nothing.'

There's no money in it, not a cent,' said Wolf. 'If you're lucky, there is life.'

'And if I'm out of luck?'

'Death.'

'You're damnably frank about it,' Mowry commented.

'In this job I have to be.' Wolf stared at him again, long and penetratingly. 'You'll do. Yes, I'm sure you'll do.'

'Do for what?'

'I'll tell you in a moment.' Opening a drawer, Wolf extracted some papers and passed them over. 'These will enable you to understand the situation better. Read them through – they lead up to what follows.'

Mowry glanced at them. They were typed copies of press reports. Settling back in his chair, he perused them slowly.

The first told of a prankster in Roumania. This fellow had done nothing more than stand in the road and gaze fascinatedly at the sky, occasionally crying, 'Blue flames!' Curious people had joined him and gaped likewise. The group became a crowd; the crowd became a mob.

Soon the audience blocked the street and overflowed into side streets. Police tried to break it up, making matters worse. Some fool summoned the fire squads. Hysterics on the fringes swore they could see, or had seen, something weird above the clouds. Reporters and cameramen rushed to the scene; rumours raced around. The government sent up the air force for a closer look and panic spread over an area of two hundred square miles, from which the original cause had judiciously disappeared.

'Amusing if nothing else,' remarked Mowry.

'Read on.'

The second report concerned a daring escape from jail. Two notorious killers had stolen a car; they made six hundred miles before recapture, fourteen hours later.

The third report detailed an automobile accident: three killed, one seriously injured, the car a complete wreck. The sole survivor had died nine hours later.

Mowry handed back the papers. 'What's all this to me?'

'We'll take those reports in order, as read,' began Wolf. 'They prove something of which we've been long aware but which you may not have realized. Now, let's take the first one. That Roumanian did nothing, positively nothing, except stare at the sky and mumble. Yet he forced a government to start jumping around like fleas on a hot griddle. It shows that in given conditions, action and reaction can be ridiculously out of proportion. By doing insignificant things in suitable circumstances, one can obtain results monstrously in excess of the effort.'

'I'll grant you that,' Mowry conceded.

'Now consider the two convicts. They didn't do much, either. They climbed a wall, seized a car, drove like mad until the gas ran out, then got caught.' Wolf leaned forward and continued with added emphasis, 'But for the better part of fourteen hours, they monopolized the attention of six planes, ten helicopters, one hundred and twenty patrol-cars. They tied up eighteen telephone exchanges, uncountable phone lines and radio link-ups, not to mention police, deputies, posses of volunteers, hunters, trackers, forest rangers and National Guardsmen. The total was twenty-seven thousand, scattered over three states.'

'Phew!' Mowry raised his eyebrows.

'Finally, let's consider this auto smash up. The survivor was able to tell us the cause before he died. He said the driver lost control at high speed while swiping at a wasp which had flown in through a window and was buzzing around his face.'

'It nearly happened to me once.'

Ignoring that, Wolf said, 'The weight of a wasp is under half an ounce. Compared with a human being, the wasp's size is minute, its strength negligible. Its sole armament is a tiny syringe holding a drop of irritant, formic acid. In this instance, the wasp didn't use it. Nevertheless, that wasp killed four big men and converted a large, powerful car into a heap of scrap.'

'I see the point, but where do I come in?'

'Right here,' said Wolf. 'We want you to become a wasp.'

Leaning back, James Mowry eyed the other man contemplatively. 'The muscle bound lug who brought me here was a Secret Service agent who had satisfied me as to the genuineness of his credentials. This is a government department. You're a high-ranking official. But for those facts, I'd say you're crazy.'

'Maybe I am,' replied Wolf, blank-faced, 'but I don't think so.'

'You want me to do something?'

'Yes.'

'Something extra-special?'

'Yes.'

'At risk of death?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'And for no reward?'

'Correct.'

Mowry stood up. 'I'm not crazy, either.'

'You will be,' said Wolf, in the same flat tones, 'if you rest content to let the Sirians kick us out of existence.'

Mowry sat down again. 'What d'you mean?'

'There's a war on.'

'I know. Everybody knows.' Mowry made a disparaging gesture. 'We've been fighting the Sirian Combine for ten months. The newspapers, radio, video and government all say so. I am credulous enough to believe the lot of them.'

'Then perhaps you're willing to stretch your credulity a bit further and swallow a few more items,' Wolf suggested.

'Such as?'

'The Terran public is complacent because, to date, nothing has happened in this sector. They know that the enemy has launched two determined attacks against our solar system and that both have been beaten off. The public has great confidence in, Terran defences. That confidence is justified. No Sirian task force will ever penetrate this far.'

'Well then – what have we to worry about?'

'Wars must be won or lost. There's no other alternative. We cannot win merely by keeping the foe at arm's length. We can never gain victory solely by postponing defeat.' Suddenly and emphatically, Wolf slammed a heavy fist on his desk and made a pen leap two feet into the air. 'We've got to do more than that. We've got to seize the initiative and get the enemy flat on his back while we beat the devil out of him.'

'But we'll get around to that in due course, won't we?'

'Maybe,' said Wolf, 'and maybe not. It depends.'

'Depends upon what?'

'Whether we make full and intelligent use of our resources, especially people – meaning people such as you.'

'You could be more specific,' Mowry suggested.

'Look . . . in technical matters we are ahead of the Sirian Combine – a little ahead in some respects and far ahead in others. That gives us the advantage of better weapons, and more efficient armaments. But what the public does not know – because nobody has seen fit to tell them – is that the Sirians also have an advantage. They outnumber us by twelve to one and outweigh us by material in the same proportion.'

'Is that a fact?'

'Unfortunately it is, though our propagandists don't bother to mention it. Our war-potential is superior qualitatively. The Sirians have superiority quantitatively. That's a very serious handicap to us. We've got to counter it in the best way we know how. It won't be done by playing for time while we make the effort to overtake and surpass their population.'

'I see.' James Mowry gnawed his bottom lip and looked thoughtful.

'However,' Wolf went on, 'the problem becomes less formidable than it looks if we bear in mind that one man can shake a government, two men temporarily can pin down an army twenty-seven thousand strong, or one small wasp can slay four comparative giants and destroy their huge machine into the bargain.' He paused, watching Mowry for effect, then continued, 'Which means that by scrawling suitable words upon a wall, the right man in the right place at the right time might immobilize an armoured division.'

'That's a pretty unorthodox form of warfare.'

'So much the better.'

'I am sufficiently perverse to like such methods. They appeal to me.'

'We know,' said Wolf. He took a file from his desk, and thumbed through it. 'Upon your fourteenth birthday you were fined one hundred Sirian guilders for expressing your opinion of an official, upon a wall, in letters twenty inches high. Your father apologized on your behalf and pleaded the impetuosity of youth. The Sirians were annoyed, but let the matter drop.'

'Razaduth was a scheming, potbellied liar and I say it again.' Mowry eyed the file. 'Is that my life story there?'

'Yes.'

'Nosy lot aren't you?'

'We have to be. We regard it as part of the price to be paid for survival.' Shoving the file to one side, Wolf informed him, 'We've a punched card for every Terran in existence. In no time worth mentioning, we can sort out electronically all those who have false teeth, or wear size eleven shoes, or had red haired mothers, or can be relied upon to try to dodge the draft. Without trouble we can extract any specified type of sheep from the general mass of sheep and goats.'

'And I am a specified sheep?'

'Speaking metaphorically, of course. No insult is intended.' Wolf's face made a craggy twitch, apparently the nearest it could come to a smile. 'We first dug out about sixteen thousand fluent speakers of the several Sirian dialects. Eliminating the females and children brought the number down to nine thousand. Then, step by step, we cut out the elderly, the infirm, the weak, the untrustworthy, and the temperamentally unsuitable. We weeded out those too short, too tall, too fat, too thin, too stupid, too rash, too cautious, and so forth. We weren't left with many among whom to seek for wasps.'

'What defines a wasp?'

'Several things – but mostly a short man who can walk slightly bandy-legged, with his ears pinned back, and his face dyed purple. In other words, one who can play the part of a native-born Sirian and do it well enough to fool the Sirians.'

'Never!' exclaimed Mowry. 'Never in a month of Sundays! I'm pink, I've got wisdom teeth, and my ears stick out.'

'The surplus teeth can be pulled. Surgical removal of a sliver of cartilage will fasten your ears back good and tight, leaving no visible evidence of the operation. It's painless and easy, and will heal completely in two weeks. That is medical evidence, so don't argue it.' Again the craggy twitch. 'As for the purple complexion, it's nothing startling. There are some Terrans who are a good deal more purple-faced than any Sirian, having acquired the colour via many gallons of booze. We have a dye guaranteed for four months, and a retinting kit that will enable you to carry on as much longer as may be necessary.'

'But . . .'

'Listen to me. You were born in Masham, capital city of Diracta – the Sirian home planet. Your father was a trader there at the time. You lived on Diracta until the age of seventeen, when you returned with your parents to Terra. Luckily you happen to be just about Sirian size and build. You are now twenty-six and still speak perfect Sirian, with a decided Mashambi accent – which, if anything, is an advantage. It lends plausibility. About fifty million Sirians speak with Mashambi accents. You're a natural for the job we have in mind.'

'What if I invite you to thrust the job right up the air shaft?' asked Mowry, with great interest.

'I would regret it,' said Wolf coldly, 'because in time of war it is an old, well founded adage that one volunteer is worth a thousand conscripts.'

'Meaning I'd get my call-up papers?' Mowry made a gesture of irritation. 'Damn! – I'd rather walk into something of my own accord than be frogmarched into it.'

'So it says here in the file. James Mowry, twenty-six, restless and pigheaded. Can be trusted to do anything at all – provided the alternative is worse.'

'You sound like my father. Did he tell you that?'

'The Service does not reveal its sources of information.'

'Humph!' Mowry pondered a little while, then asked, 'Suppose I volunteer? What follows?'

'We'll send you to a school. It runs a special course that is fast and tough, and takes six to eight weeks. You'll be crammed to the gills with everything likely to be useful to you: weapons, explosives, sabotage, propaganda, psychological warfare, map reading, compass reading, camouflage, judo, radio techniques, and maybe a dozen other subjects. By the time they've finished with you, you'll be fully qualified to function as a complete and absolute pain-in-the-neck.'

'And after that?'

'You will be dropped surreptitiously upon a Sirian-held planet and be left to make yourself as irritating as possible.'

There was a lengthy silence, at the end of which Mowry admitted grudgingly, 'Once when my father was thoroughly irritated, he said, "Son, you were born a fool and you'll die a fool." ' He released a long, deep sigh. 'The old man was dead right. I hereby volunteer.'

'We knew you would,' said Wolf imperturbably.

He saw Wolf again two days after he had finished the arduous course and passed with satisfactory marks. Wolf arrived at the school and visited James Mowry in his room.

'What was it like?'

'Sheer sadism,' said Mowry, making a face. 'I'm beaten up in mind and body. I feel like a half-stunned cripple.'

'You'll have plenty of time to get over that. The journey will take long enough. You're leaving Thursday.'

'For where?'

'Sorry – I can't tell you. Your pilot carries sealed orders, to be opened only on the last lap. In case of accident or successful interception, he destroys them unread.'

'What's the likelihood of our being captured on the way there?'

'Not great. Your ship will be considerably faster than anything the enemy possesses. But even the best of vessels can get into trouble once in a while, so we're taking no chances. You know the reputation of the Sirian Security Police, the Kaitempi. They can make a slab of granite confess its crimes. Should they snatch you en route and learn your intended destination, they'd take counter measures to trap your successor on arrival.'

'My successor? That raises a question nobody here seems willing to answer. Maybe you can tell me, huh?'

'What is it?' asked Wolf.

'Will I be entirely on my own, or will other Terrans be operating on the same planet? If there will be others, how shall I make contact?'

'So far as you're concerned, you'll be the only Terran for a hundred million miles around,' replied Wolf. 'You will have no contacts, so you won't be able to betray anyone to the Kaitempi. Nothing they can do will extract from you information that you don't possess.'

'That would sound better if you didn't smack your lips over the horrid prospect,' reproved Mowry. 'Anyway, it would be some comfort and encouragement to know that other wasps are similarly active, even if there's only one to a planet.'

'You didn't go through this course alone, did you? The others weren't here merely to provide company for you.' Wolf held out a hand. 'Good hunting, be a curse to the foe – and come back.'

'I shall return,' sighed Mowry, 'though the way be flinty and the road be long.'

That, he thought as Wolf departed, was more of a pious hope than a perform able promise. Indeed, the remark about 'your successor' showed that losses had been anticipated and steps taken to provide replacements.

It occurred to Mowry then that perhaps his own status was that of somebody else's successor. Maybe on the world to which he was going, some unlucky wasp had been trapped and pulled apart very slowly. If so, the Kaitempi might be watching the skies right now, licking their chops in anticipation of their next victim – one James Mowry, twenty-six, restless and pigheaded.

Oh, well, he had committed himself and there was no backing out. It looked as if he was doomed to become a hero from sheer lack of courage to be a coward. Slowly he developed a philosophic resignation which still possessed him, several weeks later, when the corvette's captain summoned him to the mid-cabin.

'Sleep well?'

'Not in the last spell,' Mowry admitted. 'The propulsors were noisier than usual; the whole ship shuddered and creaked.'

The captain gave a wry smile. 'You didn't know it, but we were being chased by four Sirian destroyers. We hit up top speed and lost them.'

'You sure they aren't still tracking us?'

'They've fallen behind range of our detectors; therefore we're beyond range of theirs.'

'Thank heavens for that,' said Mowry.

'I've opened the orders. We're due to arrive in forty-eight Earth-hours.'

'Where?'

'On a planet called Jaimec. Ever heard of it?'

'Yes, the Sirian news channels used to mention it every once in a while. It's one of their outpost worlds, if I remember rightly – underpopulated and not half-developed. I never met anyone from there and so I don't know much about it.' He registered mild annoyance. 'This secretiveness is all very well, but it would help a fellow some to let him know where he's going, and give him some useful information about the place before he gets there.'

'You'll land with all the data we've got,' soothed the captain. 'They've supplied a stack of information with the orders.' He put a wad of, papers on the table, along with several maps and a number of large photographs. Then he pointed to a cabinet standing against a wall. 'That's the stereoscopic viewer. Use it to search these pics for a suitable landing place. The choice is wholly yours. My job is to put you down safely wherever you choose and get away undetected.'

'How long have I got?'

'You must show me the selected spot not later than forty hours from now.'

'And how long can you allow for dumping me and my equipment?'

'Twenty minutes maximum. Positively no more. I'm sorry about that, but it can't be helped. If we sit on the ground, and take it easy, we'll leave unmistakable signs of our landing – a whacking big rut that can soon be spotted by air patrols and will get the hunt after you in full cry. So we'll have to use the antigravs and move fast. The antigravs soak up power. Twenty minutes' output is the most we can afford.'

'All right.' Mowry shrugged in resignation, took up the papers, and started reading them as the captain went out.

Jaimec, ninety-fourth planet of the Sirian Empire. Mass seven-eighths that of Terra. Land area about half that of Terra's, the rest being ocean. First settled two and a half centuries ago. Present population estimated at about eighty millions. Jaimec had cities, railroads, spaceports, and all the other features of alien civilization. Nevertheless, much of it remained undeveloped, unexplored, and in primitive condition.

James Mowry plunged into a meticulous study of the planet's surface as shown in the stereoscopic viewer. By the fortieth hour, he had made his choice. It had not been easy to reach a decision; every seemingly suitable landing place had some kind of disadvantage, proving that the ideal hide-out does not exist. One would be beautifully positioned from the strategic viewpoint, but would lack adequate cover. Another would have first class natural concealment but dangerous location.

The captain came in saying, 'I hope you've picked a point on the night-side. If it isn't, we'll have to dodge around until dark and that's not good. The best technique is to go in and get out before they've time to take alarm and organize a counterblow.'

'This is it.' Mowry indicated the place on a photo. 'It's a lot farther from a road than I'd have liked – about twenty miles, and all of it through virgin forest. Whenever I need something out of the cache it will take me a day's hard going to reach it, maybe two days. But by the same token it should remain safe from prying eyes, and that's the prime consideration.'

Sliding the photo into the viewer, the captain switched on the interior lighting and looked into the rubber eyepiece. He frowned with concentration. 'You mean that marked spot on the cliff?'

'No – it's at the cliff's base. See that outcrop of rock? What's a fraction north of it?'

The captain stared again. 'It's hard to tell for certain, but it looks mighty like a cave formation.' He backed off, picked up the intercom phone. 'Hame, come here, will you?'

Hamerton, the chief navigator, arrived, studied the photo, and found the indicated point. He compared it with a two-hemisphere map of Jaimec and made swift calculations. 'We'll catch it on the night-side, but only by the skin of our teeth.'

'You sure of that?' asked the captain.

'If we went straight there, we'd make it with a couple of hours to spare. But we daren't go straight – their radar network would plot the dropping point to within half a mile. So we'll have to dodge around below their radar horizon. Evasive action takes time, but with luck we can complete the drop half an hour before sunrise.'

'Let's go straight there,' prompted Mowry. 'It will cut your risks and I'm willing to take a chance on being nabbed. I'm taking the chance, anyway, am I not?'

'Nuts to that,' retorted the captain. 'We're so close that their detectors are tracking us already. We're picking up their identification calls and we can't answer, not knowing their code. Pretty soon it will sink into their heads that we're hostile. They'll send up a shower of proximity-fused missiles, as usual too late. The moment we dive below their radar horizon, they'll start a full-scale aerial search covering five hundred miles around the point where we disappeared.' He frowned at Mowry. 'And you, chum, would be dead centre of that circle.'

'It looks as if you've done this job a few times before,' prompted Mowry, hoping for a revealing answer.

The captain continued, 'Once we're running just above treetop level, they can't track us with radar. So we'll duck down a couple of thousand miles from your drop ping point and make for there on a cock eyed course. It's my responsibility to dump you where you want to be put, without betraying you to the whole world. If I don't succeed, the entire trip has been wasted. Leave this to me, will you?'

'Sure,' agreed Mowry, abashed. 'Anything you say.'

They went out, leaving him to brood. Presently the alarm gong clanged upon the cabin wall. He grabbed handholds and hung on while the ship made a couple of violent swerves, first one way, then the other. He could see nothing and hear nothing save the dull moan of steering jets; but his imagination pictured a cluster of fifty ominous vapour-trails rising from below – fifty long, explosive cylinders eagerly sniffing around for the scent of alien metal.

Eleven more times the alarm sounded, followed at once by aerial acrobatics. By now, the ship resounded to the soft whistle of passing atmosphere which built up to a faint howl as it thickened.

Getting near now.

Mowry gazed absently at his fingers. They were steady, but sweaty. There were queer electric thrills running up and down his spine. His knees felt weak, and his stomach felt weaker.

Far across the void was a planet with a fully comprehensive card-system; and because of that, James Mowry was about to have his pointed head shoved into the lion's mouth. Mentally he damned card-systems, and those who'd invented them, and those who operated them.

By the time propulsion ceased, and the ship stood silently upon its antigravs above the selected spot, he had generated the fatalistic impatience of a man facing a major operation that no longer can be avoided. He half-ran, half-slid down the nylon ladder to the ground. A dozen of the corvette's crew followed, equally in a hurry but for different reasons. They worked like maniacs, all the time, keeping a wary eye upon the sky.

Two

The cliff was part of a plateau rising four hundred feet above the forest. At its bottom were two caves, one wide and shallow, one narrow but deep. Before the caves stretched a beach of tiny pebbles; at its edge a small stream swirled and bubbled.

Cylindrical duralumin containers, thirty in all, were lowered from the ship's belly to the beach, seized and carried to the back of the deep cave, stacked so that the code numbers on their lids faced the light. That done, the twelve crewmen scrambled monkeylike up the ladder, which was promptly reeled in. An officer waved a hand from the open lock and shouted, 'Give 'em hell, Sonny.'

The corvette's tail snorted, making trees wave their tops in a mile-long lane of superheated air. That added to the list of possible risks; if the leaves were scalded – if they withered and changed colour – a scouting airplane would see a gigantic arrow pointing to the cave. But this was a chance that had to be taken. With swiftly increasing speed, the big vessel went away, keeping low and turning to follow the valley northward.

Watching the ship depart, James Mowry knew that it would not head straight for home. First the crew would take added chances for his sake by zooming in plain view over a number of cities and military strongholds. With luck, this tactic might persuade the enemy that the ship was engaged in photographic reconnaissance, rather than surreptitious landing of personnel.

The testing time would come during the long hours of daylight, and already dawn was breaking to one side. Systematic aerial search in the vicinity would prove that the enemy's suspicions had been aroused in spite of the corvette's misleading antics. The absence of a visible search would not prove the contrary, because, for all Mowry knew, the hunt might be going on elsewhere.

Full light would be needed for his trek through the forest, the depths of which were dark even at midday. While waiting for the sun to rise, he sat on a boulder and gazed in the direction in which the ship had gone. He wouldn't have that captain's job, he decided, for a sack of diamonds. And probably the captain wouldn't have Mowry's for two sacks.

After an hour he entered the cave, opened a container and drew from it a well worn leather case of indisputable Sirian manufacture. There'd be no sharp eyes noting something foreign-looking about that piece of luggage; it was his own property, purchased in Masham, on Diracta, many years ago.

Making an easy jump across the little stream, he went into the forest and headed westward, frequently checking his direction with the aid of a pocket compass. The going proved rough – but not difficult; the forest was not a jungle. Trees grew large and close together, forming a canopy that shut out all but occasional glimpses of the sky. Luckily, the undergrowth was sparse; one could walk with ease and at a fast pace, provided one took care not to fall over projecting roots. In addition, as he soon realized, progress was helped quite a bit by the fact that, on Jaimec, James Mowry's weight was reduced by nearly twenty pounds, his luggage lighter in the same proportion.

Two hours before sunset he reached the road, having covered twenty miles. He'd made one stop for a meal, and many brief pauses to consult the compass. Behind a roadside tree he upended the case, sat on it, and enjoyed fifteen minutes' rest before making a wary survey of the road. So far, he'd heard no planes or scout-ships snooping overhead, nor was there any abnormal activity upon the road. In fact, during his wait nothing passed along the road in either direction.

Refreshed by the pause, he brushed dirt and leaves from his shoes and trousers, reknotted his typical neck-scarf as only a Sirian could knot it, then examined himself in a steel mirror. His Earth-made copy of Sirian clothes would pass muster; he had no doubt of that. His purple face, pinned back ears, and Mashambi accent would be equally convincing. But his greatest protection would be the mental block in every Sirian's mind: they wouldn't suspect that an Earthman was masquerading as a Sirian because the idea was too ridiculous to contemplate.

Satisfied that he fitted his role, Mowry emerged from the shelter of the trees, walked boldly across the road, and from the other side made a careful study of his exit from the forest. It was essential that he be able to remember it speedily and accurately. The forest was the screen of camouflage around his bolt-hole and there was no telling when he might need to dive into it in a hurry.

Fifty yards farther along the road stood an especially tall tree with a peculiarly wrapped growth around its trunk, and a very gnarly branch formation. He fixed it firmly in his mind; and for good measure, he carried a tablet-shaped slab of stone onto the grass verge and stood it upright beneath the tree.

The result suggested a lonely grave. He stared at the stone and with no trouble at all could imagine words inscribed upon it: James Mowry – Terran. Strangled by the Kaitempi.

Dismissing ugly thoughts about the Kaitempi, he started trudging along the road, his gait suggesting a slight bowlegged ness. From now on, he must be wholly a Sirian named Shir Agavan. Agavan was a forestry surveyor employed by the Jaimec Ministry of Natural Resources, therefore a government official and exempt from military service. Or he could be anyone else, so long as he remained plainly and visibly a Sirian and could produce the papers to prove it.

He moved quickly while the sun sank toward the horizon. He was going to thumb a ride; he wanted one with the minimum of delay, but also he wanted to pick it up as far as possible from the point where he'd left the forest. Like everyone else, Sirians had tongues; they talked. Others listened, and some hard-faced characters had full time jobs of listening, putting two and two together, and without undue strain arriving at four. His chief peril came from overactive tongues and alert ears.

More than a mile had been covered before two dynocars and one gas truck passed him in quick succession, all going the opposite way. None of the occupants favoured him with more than a perfunctory glance. Another mile went by before any thing came in his own direction. This was another gas truck, a big dirty, lumbering monstrosity that wheezed and grunted as it rolled along.

He waved it down, putting on an air of arrogant authority that never failed to impress all Sirians except those with more arrogance and authority. The truck stopped jerkily and with a tail-ward boost of fumes; it was loaded with about twenty tons of edible roots. Two Sirians looked down at the pedestrian from the cab. They were unkempt, their clothes baggy and soiled.

'I am of the government,' declared Mowry, with the right degree of importance. 'I wish a ride into town.'

The nearest one opened the door, moved closer to the driver, and made room. Mowry climbed up and squeezed into the seat; it was a close fit for three. He held his case on his knees. The truck emitted a loud bang and lurched forward while the Sirian in the middle gazed dully at the case.

'You are a Mashamban, I think,' ventured the driver.

'Correct. Seems we can't open our mouths without betraying the fact.'

'I have never been to Masham,' continued the driver, using the singsong accents peculiar to Jaimec. 'I would like to go there someday. It is a great place.' He switched to his fellow Sirian. 'Isn't it, Snat?'

'Yar,' said Snat, still mooning at the case.