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Part VIII:
Pandora's Galaxy

Once back at his headquarters, Horsip found it impossible to believe what he had seen with his own eyes. But his staff assured him that, as a matter of fact, Mikeril attacks were becoming common.

Moffis said moodily. The only bright spot in this mess is that Earth general we took on the Supreme Staff. Here's a report from Sark Glossip, on the teleports."

Horsip looked around blankly. "On the what?"

"Teleports. Glossip and his expedition were trapped by them, but Towers got them loose."

"What are teleports?"

Moffis handed him the report, and pointed out a line. Horsip read:

" . . . although obviously impossible, we were driven to the conclusion that these natives are teleports, and can go from one place to another instantaneously, regardless of intervening bars, walls, armor plate, or, as far as we could find out, anything else . . ."

Horsip looked up.

"Towers solved a thing like that?"

Moffis nodded. "He found a weak point in their abilities."

Horsip gave a low murmur.

"What is Towers doing now, Moffis?"

"The last report I read, he was enlarging his organization. He has it up to six divisions now, I think. Of course, using his theories of war, these are small divisions."

"Is he . . . ah . . . way off at the other end of the system?"

"No."

"This outfit is all Earthmen?"

"As far as I know. But they seem to be a special kind of Earthmen."

"They're loyal?"

"Absolutely."

"But would they fight against Earth?"

"I don't know."

Horsip thought a moment. All over his desk lay reports, and as he glanced at them, stray words and phrases sprang out at him:

 . . . chaos on this planet . . . upheaval . . . Snard landed another twenty divisions this morning . . . Control Commission voted 5-1 . . . another Snard army corps has been formed . . . now identified three flying-bomb squadrons of the Earthquake class . . . hopeless . . . ultimatum was delivered by Dictator Schmung . . . combined strength of Snard and Rogebar Soviets exceeds by a factor of four available Fleet strength in this region . . . NRPA appears to have a somewhat stronger central control, despite the still unexplained postponement of the attack on Columbia . . . local disorders continue to increase . . . Morality Index published by the Brotherhood now reached (minus) -19.2, which is lowest recorded since catastrophe of . . . 

Horsip's head whirled. He shoved back the reports.

"Send for Towers. We can use his whole six divisions right here."

"Wouldn't it be better to get the Supreme Staff to issue the order?"

"You're right, Moffis. And if they won't issue the order after I read them a few extracts from this mess, I'll be surprised."

The Supreme Staff, assembled at Horsip's request, listened in glum silence to the catalog of disasters. When Horsip got through, there was a lengthy silence. Then General Maklin looked sourly at General Argit, who looked stubbornly defiant, and then Maklin turned to Horsip.

"This is what comes of that plan that was to be of such great mutual benefit, and that was incidentally supposed to split up the Earthmen so they would be harmless."

Horsip nodded, but said nothing.

General Roffis glanced at Horsip.

"Well, General, you must have something in mind. What is it?"

Horsip said, "It's too late to end this mess by force. These dictators are stronger than we are. But they're divided. If we concentrate our full strength, we are still strong enough to be a factor in the situation. Moreover, there are planets that are loyal to us, or at least independent of them. I suggest that we send out the warning signal to the Fleet, bring in Able Hunter and his Special Effects Team, and try to work these two sides against each other."

General Roffis nodded. "We might salvage something, at least."

"If," said General Maklin, "the High Council doesn't countermand the order."

"Well, let's do it, and see what happens."

"All right. Let's put it to the vote."

There was at once a unanimous vote in favor of the suggestion.

"All right," said Roffis. "Now, we've got a sword. Who wields it?"

Maklin said, "Horsip has experience fighting these Earthmen."

Horsip said, "At getting beat by them, sir. No, the most capable man should be in charge."

Maklin bared his teeth in a grin. "You're more capable than you think, Horsip." Maklin looked around. "Put it to the vote. I nominate Horsip for Commander of the Fleet."

The motion passed, with Horsip abstaining and no one against it.

"Now," said Roffis, "let's not waste any time. Secretary, draw up the warning order at once, and also the designation of General Horsip as Supreme Commander of the Fleet, and—what's the phrase?—of the United Arms of Centra. Note in the body of the designation that the vote of the Supreme Staff was unanimous."

The secretary looked unhappy.

"General Horsip didn't vote for himself, sir, so . . . ah . . . the vote wasn't unanimous."

Roffis said in a no-nonsense voice, "I now ask General Horsip to so state if he wishes to not cast his vote for himself for Fleet Commander. The vote not being unanimous would convince our enemies there was disunion among us."

Horsip kept his mouth shut. The secretary began to write.

Ten minutes later, the warning signal went out to the Centran Fleet.

Fifteen minutes after that, Horsip was officially placed in command of all the armed forces of the Integral Union, exception being made for certain minor forces such as the guard forces for the Supreme Staff and the High Council.

Horsip's ship had apparently served many purposes in the past, and was now speedily made over as a "combined-fleets command ship," rooms being opened up that Horsip hadn't known were there. Meanwhile, he kept his information agency hard at work, and awaited a possible veto from the High Council.

Horsip soon was startled to receive a message reading:

By Command
The High Council

The High Council, by unanimous vote, approves the selection of General Klide Horsip to command the United Arms of Centra, including the Fleet of the Integral Union.

The High Council warns every Centran by race and birth to obey the commands of the Supreme Commander, General Klide Horsip, on pain of death. So long as General Klide Horsip's command shall last, his word is the word of the High Council, and from this word and this decision there is no appeal within the Integral Union.

J. Roggil
Chairman
The High Council
 

Horsip, slightly dazed, looked up to see a trim Earthman, with quiet, businesslike manner, wearing the uniform of a Centran general, grade III, and the insignia of the Supreme Staff, cross the room amidst the electrified staff. Horsip recognized John Towers, and got up at once. He handed Moffis the message from the High Council, and then saw, coming behind the Earthman, a well-built member of the Holy Brotherhood in black robes with purple collar. The Earthman, realizing from the stares of those nearby that someone was behind him, stepped aside to let the Brother pass ahead.

The Brother halted before Horsip's desk to raise his hands and bow his head in an awesome gesture toward Horsip.

"By the word of the Council of Brothers," he intoned, some resonant quality making the words seem to ring in the head after they were spoken, "the cause of the Brotherhood is placed in your hands. Use the trust wisely, nor fear that ye may not succeed. The word of the Brothers is behind you, and the Legions of the Brothers are rising, to consume the unrighteous in a flame that will burn them utterly and to the last. Until the task is complete, your authority is the authority of the Brothers so long as your command shall last . . . that there be no division in the ranks of the Union, the authority of the Council of Brothers is vested in you alone. This is the message which I am commanded to give, and to ask the blessing of the Great One on our united cause. I bow in reverent homage to the authority of the Council of Brothers, vested in you."

The Brother bowed deeply, and in a humble voice said, "I beg the permission of Your Excellency to report that my task is done, and the message delivered."

Horsip, with an effort, recovered the use of his voice.

"Thank you." The words came out with an echo of the brother's ringing tones. Horsip cleared his throat, and said in a carefully low voice, "Please give the Council of Brothers my thanks, and tell them that their message is delivered."

That time, he sounded more like himself, but he still had a disembodied sensation.

The Brother bowed low, backed away several paces facing Horsip, bowed again, backed another pace or two, then turned and strode with steady, measured pace to the door.

Moffis, with trembling hand, returned the message from the High Council to Horsip's desk.

Able Hunter watched the proceedings with a politely expressionless gaze.

Horsip sucked in a deep breath, and observed that his staff was looking on wide-eyed as if waiting for some spectacular manifestation.

Horsip cleared his throat.

"Back to work, men. Turn up the fans, there. Let's get a little air in here."

The trance seemed to evaporate, and a semblance of normality returned. Horsip loosened his collar and sat down. He still didn't feel like himself, but he didn't know what do about it.

Able Hunter now saluted. Horsip returned the salute, and cleared his throat.

"Pull up a chair—that pivot chair is comfortable—and tell me what you know about this mess."

Hunter eyed the pivot chair without enthusiasm, and pulled over a straight chair.

"I'll take this one, sir, if you don't mind. If I bump that lever, the whole works will go over backwards."

"Nonsense," said Horsip, absently bracing his tail against the floor as he adjusted his own chair. "All you do . . ." He paused abruptly.

Hunter said, "It takes two Earthmen to adjust one of these chairs . . . As for the situation, no one has told me anything. Obviously, there's a mess of some kind. Some bird calling himself the commander of the 'Shock Combat Legion of Space' tried to hold us up on the way here. I identified myself as a member of the Supreme Staff, and that didn't even slow him down. We had to slice his outfit into giblets to get through . . . The stars matched our charts, but a lot of the political units seemed new."

"You don't know anything about the situation?"

"Only what I've told you."

Horsip nodded. "Make yourself comfortable. This will take a while."

When Horsip finished describing the situation, Hunter looked bemused.

"This explains some comments made to me at different times. But I had no idea a thing like this was going on."

"We never thought it would turn out like this, either."

"What do you want me to do?"

"The first question," said Horsip, "is whether you are prepared to fight Earthmen."

One corner of Hunter's mouth curled slightly upward.

"This crew I'd cheerfully fight, whatever race they belonged to. Most Earthmen are either on Earth, or on planets like Columbia. This bunch that you're up against is the same kind that has always made trouble for us. Yes, I'll fight them."

"Would you take part in an invasion of Earth?"

"No. But we'll take on this gang you describe anytime."

"You have to bear in mind," said Horsip, "these dictators are powerful."

"Our opponents are always powerful. There's just one thing that puzzles me. What are these Mikerils you've mentioned?"

"I'll have to refer you to the records. What they are is beyond me. What they do is clear enough. Whenever we make progress enough to think we can settle back a little and take things easy, they turn up, and knock us halfway back into barbarism. But it's impossible to believe it until you see it, so half the time we're under the impression they're a myth."

"Where do they come from?"

"If we knew that, we'd blow the place up."

"Do they attack in one spot at a time, or on a large front?"

"It depends. Sometimes, they hit only one planet. At other times, the records show they've hit many planets at once."

"How does it look this time?"

"Worse than anything recorded since what's called 'The Year of the Horde.' The experts have charted the outbreaks, and their projected curves go up off the top of the charts. It takes extra sheets of paper to show where these curves go to, and they haven't found the peak yet."

"H'm," Hunter shook his head. "I'll have to examine these records." He shoved back his chair. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"As far as I know, that's all of it."

As Hunter headed for the records section, Moffis said hesitantly, "Sir . . ."

Moffis' tone reminded Horsip of the awesome authority he had been given, now that the opposition was so strong, and the Integral Union so weak. . . . Well, he told himself, at least the Fleet was warned. Now, the thing to do was to keep every element of strength the Integral Union possessed lined up in mutual support of every other element of strength, and the first step was clear.

"Yes, Moffis?" said Horsip briskly.

"I . . . sir, I . . ."

Moffis appeared dazzled by Horsip's presence.

Horsip cleared his throat, to make sure no trace of that reverberating tone was left over.

"Now, Moffis," said Horsip, feeling his way cautiously, "we have to remember there was just one purpose to that message from the High Council, and that visit by the Holy Brother. The idea is to unite any wavering Centrans, and make it clear they have just one choice—obey or be condemned. Since you were never a waverer, Moffis, all that wasn't meant for you. And it has no effect on the situation, either. We are still in the same pickle we were in before. So, the thing to do is to forget these things among ourselves, and keep our minds strictly on the job."

Moffis intently followed this argument to the end, then nodded.

"Truth."

"Now," said Horsip, "what is it, Moffis?"

"I . . . ah . . . was looking at these reports while you were talking to Hunter, and there are several I thought you should look at."

Horsip was by now allergic to reports, but he nodded gamely. "If you think so, Moffis."

Moffis picked up two reports that each bulked as thick as the Centran casualty list after the invasion of Earth, and one considerably thinner than the average report.

Horsip glanced at the titles:

"The Peace Wagers on Earth-Controlled Planets"

"Statistical Analysis of Armaments and Production, Fifteenth Revision"

"The Masked Planet: Columbia"

Horsip skimmed through the statistical analysis of armaments, and unconsciously hunched in his chair. The dictator planets loomed up off the pages like giants. The Integral Union dwindled and shrank to a pathetic shadow.

Angrily, Horsip straightened up. The Fleet, regardless of its relative weakness, was still a factor. Everything, however small, was a factor until destroyed. He slapped the massive document on the desk, and settled back to read about the "peace movement."

This report turned out to have been written by someone with an exasperating turn of phrase. Horsip found himself bemusedly reading the summary:

These individuals detest the possibility of the dictator planets taking over their own planets, and hence they—the wagers of peace—violently attack their governments for not yielding faster to the dictators, in order to avoid angering the dictators, since anger might lead the dictators to take over non-cooperative planets. This is certainly a very reasonable argument. If a man gives the robber everything he has before the robber gets a chance to make his demands, then there can be no robbery. It is always possible to prevent murder, provided the victim can commit suicide fast enough . . . The situation is extremely dangerous and uncertain. The Peace Wagers, brilliant, ignorant, unwearied by the heaviest responsibility that anyone else may bear, are not bought traitors, but a phenomenon brought on by the Earthmen's creation of plenty beyond previous dreams of wealth, and their simultaneous minute dividing of experience into numerous parts, so that one man knows only the right paw of the animal, while another spends his life studying the root of its upper left long tooth—this, and the withholding of responsibility for long periods of time, act as a rot on the sources of judgment, and here we see the result . . . These people are no part of any plot; but the plotters rely on the unwitting help of these brave cowards, these moronic geniuses . . . 
 

Horsip became vaguely conscious of the sound of workmen in the background, but his attempt to unravel the meaning of the summary had his attention riveted. Momentarily, he would think he had it, then some new phrase would snap the thing into a different shape. Horsip scratched his head, reached out, and got hold of the thinnest of the three reports—the one titled "The Masked Planet: Columbia."

He opened this up with no great enthusiasm, read the first page, turned to the second, sat up, read on, and arrived at the summary:

Summary: The planet named "Columbia" has received little attention until recently, owing to its independent foreign policy and lack of aggressive designs on other planets. Also, it is a planet of a star somewhat removed from the usual routes, and even with the latest refinements of the stellar drive, distance remains a factor. Thus Columbia was largely ignored until the recent attempt by Dictator Ganfre to "protect" the planet against Snard by taking it over himself.

Ganfre's take-over began with a warning to Snard. Four hours later, an ultimatum was delivered to Columbia, giving the choice of "voluntarily" joining with Ganfre, or experiencing "precautionary occupation." Columbia at once rejected the ultimatum, and issued a general warning placing its solar system off-bounds to any ship without Columbian permission.

Ganfre's fleet was already approaching, and leading elements entered the Columbian System. From decoding of intercepted messages, what seems to have happened is as follows:

After passing the formal limits of the Columbian system, the leading ships of Ganfre's fleet began to accelerate. The fleet commander sent a signal ordering deceleration. The ships reported that they couldn't decelerate. They continued to speed up, headed directly for the Columbian sun. As following elements of Ganfre's fleet passed the formal boundary, they, too, accelerated. The fleet commander turned the main body of the fleet and notified Ganfre. Ganfre at once signaled Columbia, withdrawing the ultimatum, on the basis that he was now satisfied Columbia could protect itself against Snard. He requested permission for his scout ships to leave Columbian territory. The Columbians granted permission. The scout ships slowed, and simultaneously begin to spin, tumble end-for-end, and overheat. Their courses changed into an arc which carried them out of Columbian territory.

Ganfre now suggested an alliance with Columbia. Columbia declined, pointing out that it was important to have uncommitted neutrals in any war, to help provide food and supplies in case the combatants wrecked each other, and also to give political refugees some place to go in case the worst happened. Ganfre accepted this reasoning.
Since this experience, Columbia has received a great deal of study, and it develops that all that is definitely known is that the planet was first settled by Centrans, and received a large influx of "Americans" after the treaty with Earth. These Earthmen claimed they were going to "rebuild the planet on basic American principles," avoiding errors made on Earth. But since the planet aroused no interest earlier, no one knows what this means, and because of the off-limits decree, it is now impossible to visit the planet to find out.
Columbia therefore is indeed the "masked planet," formidable, aloof, and powerful, a mystery to adversaries who discounted her power until too late.
 

Horsip looked up exasperatedly.

"Moffis, what do we have on Columbia?"

Moffis had a few thin reports opened out on his desk. "I've got it right here—what there is of it."

"Let's see the ones you're not using. We're going to have to give that place some thought. It seems to me—"

He looked around then, a pounding noise catching his attention.

Across the room, workmen were carrying off a bulkhead. This disclosed a room on the far side, where they were carrying in big spools of cable that ended in a maze of many-colored wires bearing fastening attachments. Other workmen were carrying in odd-shaped sections of some kind of furniture that fitted into recessed parts of the floor, the various wires from the cables being snapped, clipped, screwed, or bolted to mating parts of corresponding colors in the sections themselves. Meanwhile, other workmen were stuffing the cables into channels in the floor or walls of the room, and putting metal covers in place over the channels. Since there were cables and wires being unwound all over the room at the same time, and sections of all sizes and shapes being carried in simultaneously, this room suddenly exposed to view gave the impression of a look through the wall into a madhouse.

Moffis looked up and stared speechlessly. Horsip got to his feet. An officer with colonel's insignia, wearing coveralls, and carrying a sheet of yellow paper in one hand, looked around, and suddenly spotted Horsip. He crossed the room briskly, and saluted. "At the command of the High Council, sir, we are activating the command's ship Master Control Center. The equipment has been thoroughly checked, parts replaced where needed, oiled, and refinished. It's all in first-grade condition, but if you have any trouble, just let us know, and—"

Horsip glanced from the colonel to the tangle of wires and dismantled sections of unrecognizable objects. He groped mentally for the meaning of the words "Master Control Center." Nothing came to him but vague associations.

Horsip cleared his throat.

"Colonel . . . ah . . . what is the 'Master Control Center?' "

The colonel looked blank.

"Well, sir, that's the Master Control Center. It's Sealed Section A-1. This room here is Open Section A-1. This work sheet says, 'Open communication between Sealed Section A-1 and Open Section A-1.' According to the work code, 'open communication between two sections' means 'knock out the wall between them.' That's what we're doing. Now, farther back, it says, 'Recondition all equipment and reconstitute full panoply of representation and control units.' Now, according to code—"

Horsip said, "But what does this Master Control Center do?"

The colonel shook his head.

"Sir, that's not my department. If we stopped to figure out what all this stuff does, we'd never get the sequence checks finished." He brightened, and shouted to a workman holding a clipboard in one thickly furred hand. The workman cupped a hand to his ear, and the colonel bellowed across the room.

Horsip glanced around, to observe that work had come to a stop among almost all his own staff. He picked up a pad, and duly noted who was still working. Then he waited until one of those not working glanced in his direction. Horsip fixed a ferocious glower on his face. The offender fairly sprang out of his skin. At once he began to bustle around. This hurricane of activity startled his neighbors, one or two of whom glanced at Horsip. In a flash, everyone was attending to his business.

The colonel nodded to his workman, and turned back to Horsip.

"Sir, the manual is in the right upper drawer in front of the Master Control Seat—that's that thing they're setting up now."

Horsip looked at a thing like a big pivot chair just being lugged in, and nodded.

The colonel saluted, and hurried back to work.

Horsip turned to Moffis. "Where were we?"

"Talking about Columbia," said Moffis. "Do you want the reports I've finished?"

Horsip nodded, and glanced again at the chaos in the next room.

"I wonder if the Earthmen ever have a thing like this? I suppose not."

He took the first report Moffis handed over, and sat back to read about Columbia. From time to time he reached out for others, and at last he had read them all. He sat back, baffled. These told him that the Columbians "rely on a highly developed system of rail transportation, with great care paid to the road grade, and continuous improvement of their unusually wide-gauge system . . . Highway transportation on this planet is restricted to the original Centran road network, traveled by animal-drawn transportation, plus a limited network of roads elevated above the ground surface, and requiring little winter maintenance, as the wind ordinarily sweeps these roads clear of snow . . . Production of ground-cars is limited, but the ground-cars are exceptionally well made and durable, as are nearly all Columbian manufactures . . ."

Horsip looked up. What did all this tell him? " . . . rumors are that the Columbian electrical underground rail transport system is to be further extended, but little is known about this development, as the Columbians rarely talk about their plans in advance . . ."

Exasperatedly, he skimmed through reports he had already read once, trying to piece together some picture that would explain the planet to him. He read, " . . . raising of farm crops has not been interfered with as on other planets. The Earthmen apparently do nothing except to introduce some of their own farmers, these being unusual only for their manner of dress and their exceptional skill. Like Centran farmers, they do not use complicated highly powered equipment, but rely on animals to draw the equipment. . . . The Earthmen, apart from their heavily equipped factories, seem to have a great number of research facilities . . . Notable is the fact that schooling, by Earthmen's standards, is finished quickly, formal education usually being completed by the eighteenth year . . . There is said to be a large armed force. All the Earthmen serve without complaint, certain picked Centran volunteers also being allowed to serve, it is rumored . . ."

Horsip shook his head, and sent for a list of the uncommitted planets, and those still loyal to Centra. The lists showed that there were still a considerable number of planets loyal to Centra; but they were all either awkwardly located, barren, small, or otherwise undesirable, with the sole exception of Centra itself, the Centran solar system, from its experience of numerous attacks, remaining a fortress. Here the Holy Brotherhood was so strong, and the sense of imperial loyalty so great, that the Earthmen had made no noticeable dent at all. Examining the list of uncommitted planets, Horsip found that here the Holy Brotherhood again had been active, and some of these planets were even armed. But nearly all suffered from some degree of the dictators' influence or intimidation.

Looking over these lists, Horsip wondered if it might prove possible to make anything out of this wreck. He longed for the ancient days, when in times of trouble the central authority imposed the clokal detonak, and wielded its invincible Fleet like a sword. Studying the lists and charts, Horsip searched for a reasonable strategy—and found that the Earthmen had been there before him. Without a powerful fleet, it was impossible to piece together anything out of this scatter of bits and pieces—unless he could get the Columbians to cooperate.

Horsip glanced up at the Master Control Center, where some kind of order was starting to show through the chaos, then he turned to Moffis.

Moffis, with an expression of moody hopelessness, was skimming through reports, and shifting them from one pile to another.

Horsip cleared his throat.

"Moffis, what do you know about diplomacy?"

Moffis looked blank.

"About what?"

"Diplomacy."

"Sir, I don't know anything about it. Why?"

"That's what I know about it, too," said Horsip. "But that's what we're going to have to rely on. We can't rely on force. We have to use diplomacy."

To begin with, Horsip sent envoys to the wavering planets, to urge their leaders to stand by the Integral Union. It quickly developed that most of leaders could not have cared less for the Integral Union, it being only the power of the Holy Brotherhood and popular sentiment that kept the planets from joining the dictators.

Horsip quietly initiated military training on a number of the planets most loyal to the Integral Union. He at once ran into shortages of all kinds. While Horsip had squads practicing with pitchforks, the dictators stood with upraised arms on reviewing platforms while troops thundered past forty and fifty abreast.

Horsip scraped together all of the Fleet that had yet trickled in, reinforced it with his own crack squadron, and sent it as a quiet show of strength to planets wavering on the edge of submission to the dictators. The dictators got word of this, and sent their own fleets around, creating unfavorable comparisons.

Horsip quietly hinted to the Columbians that they would find a warm welcome in the Integral Union. The Columbians politely explained that they preferred independence.

Horsip labored to solve the aggravating problems of infant or decrepit armaments industries on the few industrial planets under his control. Meanwhile, the dictators turned out battle fleets by mass production, and had the crews ready to board the ships as they came off the production lines.

Horsip struggled to create the impression of a quiet powerful force that might at its choice intervene decisively in the situation. The impression that came across was of a collection of antique relics manned by a team of amateur cheerleaders.

As one day succeeded the next, Horsip could sense that the tide, so far from turning, was gathering momentum in the other direction.

Meanwhile, the reports came in, more and more frequently, of Mikeril raids, and the raids were growing larger.

And now the swaggering envoys of the dictators began dropping in on diplomatic "courtesy calls," to urge Horsip with none too subtle arguments to stop trying to kid anybody, and pick out which side could do him the most good. Horsip was very polite. Next, the representatives of half-lunatic revolutionary organizations started coming around, to put forth grandiose plans that Horsip, trying to get enough straws together to make a raft, was in no position to reject. On the other hand, when he tried to combine these tiny organizations, to make something useful, he at once ran into a little difficulty: Each revolutionary wanted only his own revolution.

As time went, the revolutionaries grew shriller, the Mikerils more numerous and bolder, and the dictators' envoys more smilingly suggestive.

As his position wavered on the edge of disaster, with his weakness daily more plain for all to see, the governing body of Horsip's largest industrial planet met to decide which dictators to join. Horsip examined the latest reports from the Holy Brotherhood on the planet, sent iron-clad instructions on his authority from the Council of Brothers, then sent an order on his authority from the High Council, stripping the planet's governing body of all authority, and placing its troops under command of a loyal Centran officer. Horsip's ships, approaching the planet on a courtesy call, received new orders. As dawn broke over the capital, the Brotherhood, with threats of fire and damnation, sent mobs of the faithful surging through the streets, the warships of the Integral Union appeared in the skies, and Horsip's crack bodyguard massed on the steps of the government buildings, to raise the Centran flag to the roll of drums and the delirious roar of the crowd.

As the shock from this event momentarily immobilized the dictators, Horsip summoned their envoys to a specially built audience chamber. Here, seated in an elaborate chair with the Supreme Staff in a curving row behind and above him, and with sixteen of Able Hunter's men seated in a curving row behind and above the Staff, Horsip met the envoys. The envoys, incredulous and angry, glanced from Horsip to the Staff, sneered, and then saw the Earthmen. Horsip spoke quietly. "Gentlemen, the situation is not what you may think. The basis of power has changed fundamentally, and I request that you notify your principals that any attempt to interfere with the proper exercise of Centran authority may lead to serious consequences. This is all that I am free to say. I ask that you consider it carefully."

As Horsip spoke, more of Able Hunter's Earthmen came and went, conferring briefly with this or that impressively uniformed Earthman in the top row of the dais, looking down coldly on the perspiring envoys.

Swallowing nervously, the envoys bowed low to Horsip, and left the room.

No one interfered with Horsip's occupation of the planet.

No one said a public word against it.

No one was at all disrespectful.

And when Horsip moved his command ship forward, to set it down in the planetary capital and make the planet the formal site of his headquarters, no one objected to that, either. The dictators said nothing at all. Only Moffis had his doubts.

"Look," said Moffis, "what happened is that the sight of Hunter's Earthmen, dressed in those uniforms, convinced the envoys that we were being backed by Earth, isn't that right?"

"Moffis," Horsip protested, "I didn't say that. All I said was that the basis of power had changed fundamentally—and it had, hadn't it? And I suggested that the situation was not what they might think. How can I be blamed if they jumped to the wrong conclusion?"

"What happens if they reach the right conclusion?"

"Let's hope," said Horsip, "that they don't."

On the days following Horsip's forward move, there followed a momentary suspension of action on the part of the dictators, as if they were waiting cautiously to see what might happen next.

Horsip used this pause to renew his offer to Columbia, to strengthen his grip on the planets that were loyal, and to bring as many of the waverers as possible into line. To reinforce the bluff, Able Hunter's Special Effects Team labored overtime to create a fleet of imitation warships realistic to the last welded seam. As the dictators, cautiously probing Horsip's position, sent little unmarked scout ships to check on what Horsip might have, this fleet was briefly exposed, lurking in the asteroid belt that ringed the planet's sun.

Moffis objected, "But they will be able to find out, from the Earthmen, that we aren't allied with Earth."

"Truth. We never said we were."

"The idea is to make them uncertain what we have?"

"Yes," said Horsip, "because anything they might imagine is better than what we do have."

Moffis looked serious, but said nothing.

Horsip, however, stayed determinedly optimistic.

The dictators, baffled by Horsip's arrangements, avoided any direct clash, but went to work to undermine him indirectly, each side bringing over to it those planets that were the most subject to coercion or bribery. Each time, they took pains to have heavy forces on hand as the planet 'voluntarily' proclaimed its change of loyalty.

Each time, Horsip, seeing the hopelessness of intervening, did nothing, but continued to study his charts and maps, and the reports of his agents on planets in and out of the dictator's worlds. Particularly, he studied the reports from one small planet where popular dissatisfaction with the local Snard ruler was combined with relative closeness to Horsip's worlds, and where the Holy Brotherhood had gone underground but remained powerful.

As the dictators' power surged ahead, and their confidence revived, one fine day Able Hunter's Special Effects Team swamped the planet's primitive detection system, the populace rose in wrath and raised the Centran flag, the new president, elected on the spot, appealed to Centra for protection, and Horsip's elite guard came down on the planet to overawe the local soldiery. Officers in the local detection center reported a gigantic fleet standing off the planet, with monster transports ready to land hundreds of thousands of troops. The local sub-dictator blasted off in his escape ship, and poured on the fuel for far places.

The news of the event was broadcast and rebroadcast on the Centran planets, and combined in various ways with Horsip's take-over of the first planet, one report emphasizing the huge fleet, another bearing down hard on the weakness of the dictators under stress, another pointing out the popular rejoicing at the event, in such a way that suddenly the Integral Union appeared the new force in the universe, and the dictators seemed almost feeble by comparison. As ringing sermons proclaimed the victory of the Old Ways, there was an outburst of popular enthusiasm for the new rise of the almost forgotten power. Abruptly, the reports from Horsip's agents began to turn optimistic, while the agents of the gigantic dictatorships began reporting a disastrous shift in public opinion.

As cheering events occupied the public eye, however, Horsip was just starting to replace new recruits' pitchforks with rifles, waves of Mikeril attacks were devastating the planet he had made his headquarters, and the latest confidential comparison of fleet strengths put him a tenth of the way up from the bottom of the page, while Snard and Ganfre were off the top of the chart.

The Columbians now again replied to Horsip, this time stating their sympathy with certain standards of the Integral Union, but again stating that they preferred to remain independent, and would not join the Integral Union under the present circumstances; but they would join no one else, either, under the present circumstances.

Moffis looked impressed. "They are more friendly than they were."

Horsip nodded, and looked confident.

Moffis said, "But the Fleet still isn't here . . . Whatever there may be of it."

Horsip looked quietly cheerful.

"It will be, Moffis. Don't worry. Remember, the High Council itself is behind us."

Moffis said uneasily, "But I wonder if—"

Horsip cleared his throat.

"No need to be concerned, Moffis. After all—"

From the corridor came a muffled tramp of feet, then a heavy rap on the door. As Horsip and Moffis looked up, a scared junior officer reported, "Sir, there's a . . . a bunch of officers and Earthmen, and some guards in strange uniforms. They want to see you right away. They're from Snard, sir!"

Horsip told himself this could not be an invasion; it could be the local Snard ambassador, who had a guard like a small army.

"How many guards?" said Horsip.

"A lot of them, sir. The corridor is full of them."

Horsip turned to Moffis, but Moffis already had the phone marked "Provost" off its hook. " . . . every guard you can lay your hands on down here on the run, and bring them in through the Master Control Center. Shut the automatic doors between here and the corridors, and be ready to flood the corridors with dead-gas. But don't sound any alarm—notify the sections by phone."

Horsip loosened his service pistol in its holster, and turned to his frightened junior officer.

"Tell them to leave the guards outside—but the officers can come in."

The officers of Snard came in like a conquering host, thrust Horsip's people out of the way, brushed the papers off the desks as they passed, and reached out to shove over a cooler of mineral water, which smashed to bits on the floor. Right behind them came the armed guards. Horsip, watching them stream in the door, felt a wave of relief as the last one came in.

Horsip eyed them alertly. They all had a well-drilled look.

Horsip adjusted his uniform, stood up behind his desk, and looked directly into the eyes of the leading Snard officer, a broad-chested general whose muscles stretched the cloth of his bemedaled jacket as he strode down the aisle. This general's eyes were fixed in contempt on Horsip, and looked Horsip over like some peculiar form of insect.

Moffis, bent over back of his desk, was getting something out of a crate, but Horsip had no time for that. He watched the Snard officers approach, waited until they were almost at the end of the aisle, then abruptly inflated his chest to the limit, and intoned at the top of his lungs:

"Detaaiil HALT!!!"

The entire Snard military contingent, generals, officers, and guards, looked blank and came to an abrupt stop. Half a dozen civilians, trailing along behind, slammed into the backs of the soldiers and were knocked off their feet.

Horsip, unhesitating, stepped in front of the burly Snard general, and bellowed:

"Abouut FACE!!!"

"Forwaaard MARCH!!!"

Knocking the civilians out of the way, the Snard armed guards leading, the whole outfit, with the exception of three or four Earthmen, who looked around blankly, started for the door.

Horsip judged the moment, sucked in a deep breath, and intoned:

"Column riiight MARCH!!!"

The Snard guards, feet striking in unison, trailed out into the hall, turned the corner with precision, and disappeared.

The Earthmen from Snard looked incredulously at them, grabbed at the glassy-eyed Snard officers going past, and got them headed back toward Horsip.

Horsip drew his gun and aimed it at the officers.

The officers stopped, and glanced in confusion at the Earthmen, themselves speechless.

Horsip, listening for the arrival of his own guards, had yet to hear anything. The door to the hall was still open, and there was nothing to prevent anyone from coming in.

Horsip spotted a young Snard lieutenant, who looked more confused than anyone else in sight. Horsip snapped, "Lieutenant!"

The lieutenant swallowed at the tone of command and snapped to attention.

"Sir?"

"What the devil are you standing there for? Get out in that hall, and get those guards turned around. Lead them back this way, and halt them outside the door. They aren't to come in. They are to halt outside. Now, get out there, turn them around and halt them outside that door! Move!"

The lieutenant saluted, and ran out. His bawled orders echoed down the hall.

The Earthmen looked at Horsip, then at the Snard officers as if they had never seen them before.

Horsip ignored the Earthmen, and focused on the burly general in front of him. From the stupefied expression on the general's face, it was clear to Horsip that the general's assurance had been momentarily pulverized. Horsip spoke in kindly tones.

"Stand at attention, General. I am the Supreme Commander of the Integral Union, and you are inside my staff headquarters. I have only to say one word. and you and all your party will be struck dead where you stand. Protocol requires that you salute."

The burly general glanced around, looked toward Moffis, and beads of sweat took form on his forehead. He glanced back at Horsip, stood straighter, and his hand came up in salute.

A quick glance showed Moffis behind a well-oiled stitching-gun, the snout aimed at the general's stomach.

Horsip returned the general's salute.

From somewhere came the sound of running feet, and the snap of safeties clicking off on a considerable number of guns.

The Snard general shook his head, and appeared to come out of some kind of trance. His jaw set.

"All right. You're the Supreme Head of the Integral Union, but the Integral Union amounts to nothing. Your so-called fleet, hidden in the asteroid belt, has been checked by these Earth experts, with the latest equipment, and we know it's no fleet at all. It's a set of dummies, with just a few real ships mixed in. We aren't certain what you used in this latest attack, but we've checked all the likely routes, and no such fleet passed any of them. We formally checked with Earth itself, and they acknowledge no alliance with you at all. Your whole position is hollow. I doubt that you have over a thousand armed men of your own on this planet, which is your capital. Our fleet is on the way. Nothing will stop us. We'll wipe you up, and after you the whole Integral Union, which is nothing but a memory propped up with cardboard. I call on you to surrender!"

From the corridor came the low rumble of automatic doors sliding shut. Horsip, in a quick glance, saw that where the open door to the room had been, there was now a solid sheet of polished steel, which reflected the room like a slightly wavy mirror. That was a relief, but he still had the general to contend with.

Horsip said, still gently, "If what you say were true, General, would I ever have taken a planet belonging to Snard?"

"You had to, to pull your own people together."

"To pull your people off-balance."

"What does that mean?"

"Think it over," said Horsip, with quiet confidence. "You are sending a fleet here, where in your own words I don't have a thousand men committed."

Horsip looked at the general quietly, as, inside his own mind, Horsip called up charts of space.

The Snard general was staring at him. "You mean this is bait?"

"What do you suppose will happen to Snard while it throws its weight against shadows?"

The general stared at the corner of the room, then shook his head. "We aren't that weak. Yes, if you cut in behind—if you had the strength—but we can shift the reserve fleets to block you. You could never get all the way in."

Horsip looked disappointed. "Think."

The general looked baffled.

Horsip nodded. "It's as I thought. You don't have the information."

"What information?"

"It's a question of timing, General. The Integral Union has long experience with timing. We have had to let Snard and Ganfre become large, because of the difficulty with—but you don't know about that. Well, I certainly won't explain it. But we don't need you or Ganfre any longer to defend this region. One or the other of you is bound to attack first, and make the necessary opening. It's immaterial to us which one we clean up. It's only reasonable that we ally ourselves with one side to finish the other . . . You see, General, you still don't realize who is with us, do you?"

The Snard's general's eyes darted this way and that, as if trying to follow elusive objects that flitted just out of his range of vision. He swallowed, and took a hard look at Horsip, who looked back at him with quiet confidence. For an instant, the general looked shocked, and said, "Ganfre wouldn't . . ." then stared at Horsip in horror.

Horsip smiled, and said, "General, I don't need you any longer." He glanced around, to see a line of his own armed guards, with General Maklin beside them. The guards looked all business. Maklin had a look of wondering awe on his face. Horsip stepped aside, to give the guards a clear line of fire, if necessary. The Snard general thrust out his jaw and faced the guards.

Horsip shook his head. "Relax, General. I need good men. It should be possible to find quite a few after Snard is smashed up."

"Ganfre will turn on you afterward!"

"If Snard attacks here, the chain of events can't be stopped."

"You can't trust Ganfre! He has no principles!"

Horsip shrugged. "It's too bad it has worked out this way, but you don't think we can permit an attack without striking back? You can understand this. It is exactly what you would do, isn't it?"

Horsip glanced at Moffis.

"There is no reason for us to hold the general prisoner."

Moffis looked agreeable.

Horsip looked back at the Snard officer.

"How many armed men do you have with you here, all told?"

The general was staring straight ahead, beyond the line of Centran guards, at the big screens of the Master Control Center. He had a look of fascinated attention, but turned with a shake of the head to face Horsip.

"How many? About two hundred and fifty—the staff of our embassy, plus the guards." He looked apologetic. "It seemed like enough."

Horsip nodded. "Just get them all together, and get them back to your embassy." His manner was open and generous. "We will overlook all this." Horsip glanced at Moffis. "Instruct the provost to open up the doors one at a time, to let the general and his men out." Horsip glanced at the general. "You agree, of course, to get all your men back to your embassy, without delay?"

"Yes, as soon as I can. I thank Your Excellency for your kindness."

Moffis got busy on the phone, the automatic door at the end of the room slid open, the Snard general saluted, and marched out with his officers.

There was a silence in the room.

Horsip let his breath out slowly.

He groped around, felt the edge of his desk, and found his chair. He sat down slowly.

Moffis said soberly, "What happens when the Snard fleet gets here?"

Horsip took a deep breath. "If he can get a message off fast enough, maybe it won't. When does Hunter get back here with his Special Effects Team?"

"He was due the day after tomorrow. I sent a message through the Communications Section as soon as this started, to speed him up. He should be here tomorrow."

"Good." Horsip glanced at the stitching-gun beside Moffis' desk. "I appreciate your forethought, Moffis."

Moffis nodded, but he had the expression of someone adding up figures and not liking the total.

"What happens," he said, "if there is an attack? Hunter can't stop them. We don't have time to get our own guard back here soon enough. And practically every man we've got here is in the next room. We can no more stop Snard than tissue paper can stop an avalanche."

Horsip tried to think. The trouble was, he had next to nothing to work with. It was reaching the point where it took strokes of genius and special dispensations to keep going from day to day. The only sensible thing to do was to assemble the strength he did have in one place, so that he could at least act with decision. But, as soon as he did that, the dictators would take over the rest of the Integral Union. The only place Horsip could hope to hold was the planet of Centra itself. But once he let the dictators know his real weakness, even Centra wouldn't be able to hold out for long.

Moffis was saying, "At least we could go down fighting. This way—"

"Sir," said the lieutenant who had announced the arrival of the Snard general, "the emissary from the NRPA is outside, and demands to see you. He says he has orders from Guide Ganfre himself."

Horsip sucked in a deep breath. "How many guards does he have with him?"

"None, sir. He has three officers."

"Send him in."

Moffis said, "What do you want me to do?"

"Ignore the whole thing. It's beneath your notice."

"I suppose I should put this gun away? But with Ganfre . . ."

Horsip looked at the stitching-gun, its ugly snout pointing at the spot where Ganfre's emissary would have to stand.

"Leave it there, Moffis. I hope you have the safety off?"

Moffis reached over, and there was a dull click.

"It's ready to fire. You only have to touch the trigger."

Horsip nodded, pulled out a report at random, and a chart showing the strength of Ganfre's fleet looked up at him.

As he shoved this back into the pile, he heard the rap of heels striking the floor in unison. He glanced up to see four gray-uniformed officers, their caps at jaunty angles, approaching down the long aisle. Their uniforms were pressed into knife-like creases. Small emblems glittered on their chests. Their heads were tilted back, their expressions arrogant. Horsip ignored them.

With a click of the heels, they halted before his desk.

Horsip swiveled his chair, and bumped the gun.

There was a little gasp. Horsip looked up.

One of the lesser officers was eyeing the gun nervously. The other three ignored it.

Ganfre's emissary stood radiating contempt, then raised his hand in a formally correct salute.

Horsip looked him over without enthusiasm, then returned the salute.

Ganfre's emissary took one step forward, slapped an envelope on Horsip's desk, stepped back, and snapped his hand up again to salute, as if about to leave the room, his whole manner contemptuous.

Horsip rested his left hand on the gun, and said coldly, "I'd appreciate it if you would stay here while I read this. There may be an answer."

The emissary glanced from the gun to Horsip, and snapped his arm down. When he spoke, his voice carried:

"For that, I will have you hanged by your feet in the market place, to be ripped to pieces by wild dogs."

Horsip had a sheet of crisp paper out of the envelope, and had got it pried open enough to see what it was—an ultimatum with a half-day limit. He was balancing how to convert this colossal disaster into something useful when there was a harsh rap of heels. General Maklin, his uniform spotless, leather and medals glittering, stepped out, jerked the NRPA emissary around, and smashed him across the face. As the emissary went down, Maklin yanked him to his feet again.

Maklin's voice rang with confident good cheer:

"You piece of stinking garbage! You will have the elect of Centra hanged! That statement gives me the pleasure of doing what I've wanted to do since the first time I saw you! General Horsip, by your leave . . ."

Horsip, still absently trying to calculate what to make out of this mess, said, "Do anything you want with him, General, it's all the same to me."

Maklin booted the emissary down the aisle. Then he threw him out the door.

Horsip dropped the ultimatum in the waste basket, and looked up at the three paralyzed officers, still opposite the desk.

From the corridor, Maklin's voice carried loud and clear:

"Guards, take this subhuman garbage, carry it outside, and dump it beside the main steps. Careful, or you'll soil your uniforms."

The three NRPA officers stirred, as if struggling to come out of shock.

Horsip, still trying to make something out of the mess, concluded it was so far beyond hopelessness that maybe he could do something with it, after all. He spoke irritably.

"Well, what are you standing there for? Isn't there any sense in the whole NRPA? Get out there and help your molk of a commanding officer back to his quarters before I change my mind and have the lot of you shot."

The highest ranking of the three drew himself up stiffly, and tried to speak. But the shock of this treatment caused his words to get jammed up in a general congestion:

"You cannot . . . we . . . the insult . . . our mighty fleet . . ."

"Does it ever occur to you," said Horsip irritably, "that we can get tired of trying to save you from yourselves? We could smash your fleet anytime. Unfortunately, things are not that simple. Now, we have had about enough for one day. Get out there, and take care of your emissary. Believe me, he is in better shape than your fleet will be in if we attack it. Now get out. Move!"

The officers, shocked and incredulous, saluted and started out, the highest ranking one first, the other two behind. Though they walked stiffly, there was a jerking quality to their stride so that they appeared to be tiptoeing.

Meanwhile, General Maklin came back in. Maklin did not move an inch out of his path, so the NRPA officers had to jump aside.

Moffis watched their departure with pursed lips, then put the safety on his stitching-gun. He aimed the snout of the gun steeply upward, but kept it handy.

Horsip settled back in his chair, and tried to sort things out. There were now two fleets on the way. Ganfre and the Snard Soviet were both coming to wipe him out. All he had was a handful of troops, his own command ship, an imitation fleet that was already known to be imitation—plus the Earthman Hunter, and his imitation fleet, which was already suspected to be imitation. That should get here sometime tomorrow. Horsip shook his head.

General Maklin, with a look of grim satisfaction, strode up the aisle.

Maklin beamed.

"A great day, General Horsip."

Horsip looked around to see who might be in hearing distance that Maklin might want to bluff, turned back, and thought again of the approaching enemy fleets, which for all he knew might be acting together.

Horsip said politely, "Why?"

Maklin looked intently at Horsip. Suddenly Maklin burst out, "Great hairy master of sin! Was that all bluff?"

"Would you tell me what else there is around here to work with?"

Maklin clapped Horsip on the shoulder, and pointed toward the Master Control Center.

"The Fleet's coming in!"

Horsip crossed quickly to the screens of the Master Control Center, and stopped in his tracks. Staring down at him was a huge array of ships stretching across the screen, with enigmatic symbols above and beside the screen, to give details of distance, fleet strength, and direction.

Horsip dazedly feasted his eyes on the mighty ships, emblazoned with the emblems of Centra. The array seemed endless. The symbols detailing the numbers of the Fleet staggered the imagination.

For an instant, Horsip was carried back to the days of his youth, when Centra ruled the universe, when the Old Ways were backed by unyielding might, when the power had all been taken for granted, because it was always there. Tears came to his eyes. An instant later, he was alert, sentiment blasted like pretty flowers in a frost. He glanced at the figures beside the screen, then at Maklin.

"Do I read this correctly? These ships will get here tomorrow?"

"That's right, General Horsip." Tears were streaming down Maklin's cheeks. He banged one fist into the other. "No one beats the High Council! That's where the corruption stops!"

Horsip glanced around at Moffis. Moffis was carefully oiling his stitching-gun.

Horsip took a deep breath, went back to his desk, and sat down. In a low voice, he murmured, "What do you think, Moffis?"

"About what?"

"That fleet on that screen."

Moffis kept his voice quiet.

"Able Hunter is supposed to get here tomorrow."

Horsip nodded.

"At least, it looks convincing."

"So did the fleet in the asteroid belt—until the Earth experts went to work on it."

Horsip tried to think of some way to back up Hunter's bluff. Unfortunately, he could find nothing to work with.

Maklin spoke from the Control Center.

"General Horsip, the Fleet Commander wishes to talk to you."

Horsip got up. The "Fleet Commander," under whatever guise he appeared on the screen would almost certainly be Able Hunter. And very possibly the conversation might be intercepted and monitored by Snard or Ganfre. That might even be the purpose of the call.

Horsip straightened his uniform, and strode to the screen, where a tough-looking Centran general in battle dress snapped to attention, and brought his arm up in a stiff salute, after the fashion of years gone by.

Horsip, impressed with Hunter's realism, returned the salute stiffly.

The Centran on the screen barked, "Nock Sarlin, Commander Battle Fleet V, reporting to United Forces Command Headquarters. Where is the enemy?"

Horsip thought fast. This must be a request for information.

Horsip gave a quick resume of what had taken place that day, with his best opinion of the likely location of the approaching fleets of Snard and Ganfre, and their probable strength.

"Sarlin" saluted, made a quarter turn, and barked, "Fleet course: lock-on Target B. Close at maximum fleet maneuver acceleration, opening out by divisions to depth 3 plus 1. Heavy bombardment squadrons numbers 1 through 40 to the right wing, angular concentration plus 20 to minus 20; heavy bombardment squadrons numbers 40 through 50 to the left wing by groups; numbers 51 through 100 to Fleet Reserve. Fleet conform by squadrons. Number 99 heavy bombardment squadron will detach from Fleet Reserve with accompanying medium and light squadrons as escort for Landing Force Ships, which will remain in this system under direct control of the Supreme Commander. Numbers 1 through 4 ships of the guard will land near the United Forces Command Headquarters subject to approval of the Supreme Commander, to act as the Supreme Commander's guard. Execute!"

Horsip, dazed as "Sarlin" turned to face him, returned his salute. Horsip's imagination was still catching up with the "Fleet Commander's" orders. Everything seemed technically correct, but it implied an even more gigantic force than appeared on the screen. Snard or Ganfre might easily have concentrated such a force. But would they believe he, Horsip, could do it?

With "Sarlin's" salute, the screen went blank, and before Horsip had time to recover there flashed on the screen the image of a younger officer, who saluted briskly.

"Nar Doppig, Guard Force Commander, reporting to the Supreme Commander for landing permission."

"Granted," said Horsip automatically, and an instant later, while returning Doppig's salute, it occurred to Horsip that he should have refused. How could Hunter land nonexistent troops?

Horsip stood looking blankly at the screen, then, there being nothing else he could do, went back to work. He seemed hardly to have gotten started when Moffis' voice reached him.

"Sir," said Moffis dryly, "the emissaries from Snard and Ganfre want to see you again. Now they're here together."

"Send them in," snarled Horsip.

"One at a time?"

"However they want to come."

Moffis spoke into the phone.

A minute or two later, there was a sound of heels and the two emissaries, one broad and burly, the other tall, haughty, and heavily bandaged, started down the aisle toward Horsip's desk. They halted before the desk, glanced at Moffis' stitching-gun, which Moffis had again lowered, so that they were looking down its muzzle. They cleared their throats, looked at Horsip, and, as if remembering something, saluted.

Horsip returned the salute.

They stood looking at him, but said nothing.

Horsip said, "Gentlemen, if you have something to say, I am listening."

The burly Snard emissary looked faintly regretful.

"You can't get away with it."

Horsip smiled.

The emissary from Ganfre spoke almost reluctantly.

"After what you have done to me, I should hate you. But, I have to admit, you almost convinced me. Let me extend to you the compliment of my professional admiration. I never saw nothing made into such a convincing appearance of might."

The Snard emissary spoke almost sadly.

"You overdid it."

Horsip shook his head regretfully. His voice was assured.

"You have been warned. There is nothing else I can do for you."

"It is impossible," said the Snard emissary, "for the Integral Union to have such strength. It is therefore obviously a clever trick. With a third or a half the number, you might have convinced us."

Horsip sat back and looked confident. There must have been some reason for Hunter to use that number of decoys.

Horsip said, "And what do your trained Earth specialists have to say this time?"

"Only that your technique of mass production of dummy ships is highly advanced, and that this batch might have fooled them, except for the excessive and uneconomical use of what reads out on the detectors as belt armor on the ships."

Horsip looked blank.

Belt armor was one of those things that the Centran Fleet had always made abundant use of—until the Earth specialists had proved by statistics that it was not economical.

But Hunter was as familiar with the present lack of armor belts as Horsip was.

Horsip spoke carefully.

"Let me be sure of what you just said. Except for the belt armor—"

"The appearance of belt armor—as our detectors, and data analysis, show it."

Horsip nodded. "Except for this appearance, you would now be here offering peace instead of threats?"

Ganfre's emissary said condescendingly, "And the numbers, General. But the point is, we are separately prepared to offer you considerable benefits if you join us willingly."

"Why?"

The emissary cleared his throat.

"We have agreed to unite with each other—our leaders, that is, have so agreed—in order to finish off . . . ah . . . Columbia—in an economical way. We are stronger even than you realize, but in dealing with the Columbians—who have peculiar weapons—our wise leaders choose to apply the maximum force. With your realistic dummy fleets, General, we believe we can deceive the Columbians as to our actual intentions. We propose to open the psychological attack against Columbia by the total defeat of the Integral Union. We will not reveal your actual weakness, but will give out reports of a great battle, which we have won by better leadership, in order . . ."

Horsip could feel the loathing rise up inside him, but kept his face expressionless until the emissary was through. As the emissary went into rapturous detail over the particulars, it took him time to finish. Then he looked expectantly at Horsip.

"Well, General, you see you have no choice, and Columbia has no chance, correct?"

Horsip's voice came out in an ugly tone.

"If my fleets were made of tinfoil, I would fight." He smiled, and the smile was such that the emissaries looked jarred. "But," said Horsip, "they aren't." He leaned forward. "I advise you to get in touch with your leaders, and explain that the true fleets of the Integral Union have always used heavy armor, and have crushed their enemy in every war throughout recorded history. That you should be outnumbered is exactly what you should expect. You have challenged the Integral Union! Now, get out of here. There's work to be done."

For a moment, the emissaries stood paralyzed, but then they relaxed. They glanced at each other with tolerant smiles.

The emissary from Snard said, "You will hear from us again, General. Soon."

On the way out, Horsip could hear Ganfre's emissary say wonderingly, "Amazing. He almost did it again!"

As the door shut behind them, Moffis said, frowning, "Could it be?"

Horsip said stubbornly, "We always used armor belts until these Earthmen proved it was a waste. But it wasn't a waste! I never saw a ship yet where the men weren't happier behind a good solid shield. And if you have to go down into the atmosphere to get somebody out of a pickle, that armor backs up the meteor guards when they go to work on you with the artillery."

"But the numbers!"

"Maybe it is part bluff. But . . ." Horsip shook his head.

Moffis said, "Could we use the Control Center to get in touch with them?"

"And what if it is all bluff, and the transmission is picked up?"

"Truth," said Moffis.

Horsip said exasperatedly, "There's nothing to do but hang on tight and hope for the best. But if that fleet is fake, and these dictators punch right through it, then there isn't any good we can do here. We'll have to get out."

"At least, we can do that without too much trouble."

Horsip, who had had the command ship set down in the big courtyard of the planet's main administration building, said, "All we have to do is blast loose the connecting corridor, cut the auxiliary power cables, and leave." He paused, thinking that over.

Moffis said, "And . . . if the enemy fleet is closing in when we leave?"

"That's not good."

"Suppose we left now? Then, if the dictators turn away, we can come back."

"If we leave, that news will be broadcast to them, so they will see through the bluff. We have to stay here until we're sure, one way or another."

Horsip, none too hopeful as to what the morning would bring, took a hot bath, and went to bed early. During the first part of the night, he was awakened by the provost marshal, who explained that there was rioting in the streets, and the local police were calling for help, but the provost marshal was afraid that, if he sent any of the few men he had, the command ship couldn't be protected.

"Tell them," said Horsip, "that there will be all the troops on the planet tomorrow that they can ask for. But they will have to get through the night on their own."

The provost marshal beamed. "I heard the Fleet was coming in."

Horsip grunted noncommittally. "Meanwhile, double the guard in the connecting corridor, disconnect the auxiliary power cables, and be ready to get your men in the ship on a moment's notice."

"Yes, sir. Ah . . . sir, if the Fleet is coming in . . . ah . . . why would we want to get out of here?"

"Because," snarled Horsip, "we don't know whose fleet it is."

Horsip fell asleep, was awakened by the sound of shouting and the rattle of stitching-guns, then fell back into a fitful doze interspersed with nightmares in which various dictators, ten times normal size, swaggered around a room in which Horsip had to jump and run to avoid getting squashed underfoot. The dictators were arguing over who was to get this or that piece out of what was left of the Integral Union. By morning, Horsip, who had gone to bed early to get a good rest, was worn out. He got up, washed all over in cold water, and was just rubbing himself dry when a thundering roar passed overhead.

Feeling that the day could not be worse than night had been, Horsip buckled himself into his uniform, and went into his office.

Moffis was already there, cleaning and oiling his gun. The provost marshal, a portable stitching-gun under one arm, was directing Horsip's staff as they turned their desks into a barricade. Wounded men were lying on folded blankets, with medical aides taking care of them. In the corner, behind a white cloth, a surgeon was working.

Horsip paused by each of the wounded to say a few words, turned his holster-flap under his belt so he could get his gun out in a hurry, opened up the locker behind his desk, got out a thick emergency ration bar, sat down, and spoke on the phone to the officers in charge of the ship's engines and navigation. They could leave anytime, but space off the planet was filled with ships, and one of them had just landed. As Horsip was talking, there was a roar overhead, and another one came down.

Moffis said, "We might as well fight it out on the ground. If we take off, we'll never get past them. But suppose we started out as if we were taking off, then landed and dispersed in rough country? They could have trouble getting us out of there."

Horsip shook his head. "We can't abandon the command ship. Centra needs every ship."

"We couldn't get through."

"Some way may turn up."

The provost marshal came over.

"Sir, request permission to abandon the administration building, down to the connecting corridor."

"Granted. Who are we fighting?"

"Up to the second watch it was vandals, then the Mikerils took over till halfway through the third watch, and we got three men out with pretty bad bites. Since then, it's been something called the Ahaj Revolutionary Army."

"What side are they on?"

"I don't know, sir, but it isn't ours."

Horsip nodded, and the provost marshal went off to direct his men.

Horsip glanced at Moffis, who was talking on the phone. Moffis glanced up inquiringly, and Horsip said, "Moffis, is there an armor belt on this pot, or isn't there?"

Moffis put his hand over the mouthpiece. "I think there is. I think it was made over from one of the old Warrior class. Sir, there's the Snard emissary on the wire. He wants to speak to you."

Horsip got out of the way of two men carrying a flame-thrower from an exhibition case of weapons used in the war with Earth, held the phone to his mouth, looked confident, and said cheerfully, "Good morning, General."

"Good morning, General. I call on you to surrender. Our troopships are landing in the capital. Our fleet is overhead."

"I've warned you of the consequences, General."

"Are you insane? I am calling on you to surrender."

Horsip put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Has anyone seen the markings on these ships?"

"No, sir. The men had to be taken off the detectors to hold the corridors."

Horsip spoke confidently into the phone.

"I advise you to pass my message on to your rulers. You are in grave danger."

Two more wounded were set down gently across from the white sheet in the corner of the room.

There was a harsh rasp from the phone. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Your situation is hopeless!"

"Nonsense. We are in no trouble here."

"I hear the firing in the background."

"Reinforcements have arrived."

A huge black creature bristling with hair burst in the doorway. There was no one in sight there, and Horsip's staff were still heaving desks into place. Horsip held the phone in one hand, his palm covering the mouthpiece, and aimed with his other hand. The Mikeril jumped over the desks. The gun leaped in Horsip's hand. The Mikeril went down, then staggered up. Horsip fired again.

Just then, half a dozen grim-looking guards came out from the direction of the display case of Earth weapons, wheeling a squat gray object on a heavy cart. Across the room, the Mikeril was getting up. The phone was shrill:

"I call on you to surrender! You have no chance! My troops are marching on you at this moment!"

Horsip hung up, eyed the lettering on a placard stuck at an angle to the thing on the cart, tilted his head, and the lettering suddenly was clear:

A-Bomb, circa 1955 (Earth-style) U.S.A. manufacture.

Across the room, the Mikeril got up and headed for the wounded.

Horsip swore, fired again, the Mikeril went down, and Horsip jumped over the desk, grabbed the arm of the nearest soldier, and pointed across the room.

"Get that thing out of here. How the devil would you like to be over there by the butcher's tent and have that take a bite out of you?"

"Sir, we want to blow up the Glops with this."

"You can't use it on the Glops. It's too strong. It will blow us all up. Get that Mikeril. . . . Who's guarding that door? There's another one!"

Moffis put that one down with a short burst from his stitching-gun.

Horsip got a phone down, but at once a little flag on a different phone popped up. He took it off its hook, and the voice of the Snard emissary sprang out. Just then, Horsip spotted another Mikeril and hung up.

The provost marshal appeared in the doorway, looked around incredulously as the soldiers chased the Mikeril around the room, stepped back into the corridor, looked up and roared, "Who left the hatch open?" He aimed his portable stitching-gun straight up, and opened fire.

Horsip heard a thud from the direction of the Master Control Center.

A Mikeril appeared in the doorway.

Horsip shot it, then shook the empty shells out of the gun, and worked in fresh bullets. The provost marshal approached.

"Sir," said the provost marshal, "request permission to arm the staff and put them on guard duty."

"Granted."

The Mikeril, red eyes glaring, black fur weirdly on end, rose to its feet, clawed hands lifting out.

Horsip aimed carefully and shot it between the eyes.

The provost marshal glanced around, put a short burst into its neck, looked back, and said, "When they disconnected the power cables, they didn't lock the hatch. All that saved us is, a bunch of them tried to come through all at once, and got jammed in the hole."

The Mikeril struggled to its feet.

Another appeared in the doorway.

Horsip shot the first Mikeril in the head, and the provost marshal stepped aside to get a shot at the next without hitting the Control Center.

Horsip reloaded, scooped some bullets out of the top drawer of his desk, and looked around.

Across the room, weapons were being issued to the staff. Smoke was drifting in from the corridor. Several guards ran in, holding cloths to their faces, and set up a stitching-gun just inside the doorway.

Another Mikeril appeared in the Master Control Center.

Horsip aimed carefully, and shot it.

Moffis was speaking into one of the phones: " . . . the last automatic doors. Get ready to pull in the boom of the communications and control cables. Don't go out after them—it's thick with Mikerils out there. Be ready to start the take-off as soon as I give the word."

More guards came in, dragged out the Mikerils, then there was a rumble and the smoke from the corridor abruptly stopped coming in. Horsip looked around, saw no immediate trouble, crossed the room to the Master Control Center, to work the viewer controls.

In quick succession, there sprang onto the screen a view of an empty control room, then a gangway crowded with troops, then a view down a broad avenue that Horsip at once recognized as the capital's main thoroughfare. The scene shifted.

Now Horsip was looking at big grayish-brown traveling forts, even larger than those he had seen on Earth, moving slowly down the wide avenue. Behind them came full-tracked armored troop carriers with troops in battle dress standing on the tops of the vehicles holding small microphones, and glancing watchfully around. Abruptly there came into view several soldiers carrying automatic rifles, then a solitary drummer whose steady, slow monotonous beat suddenly filled the room, then an officer in battle dress with a trumpeter to his right and a sergeant carrying a portable communicator to his left.

Immediately behind these three came a soldier carrying the flag of Centra.

Behind the flag, strictly aligned in rank and file, twelve abreast, moving in unison to the beat of the solitary drum, marched six ranks of silent drummers, drumsticks turned back under their arms.

Abruptly, there was the piercing blast of a Centran trumpet. The tone changed swiftly, to end on a single high note.

The massed drummers brought down their drumsticks. The crash of the drums filled the room.

Horsip snapped off the volume control.

From outside came the roll of massed drums.

On the screen, dense formations of heavily armed Centran troops filled the avenue, sunlight glinting on their guns, helmets, and the interlocked plates of their battle tunics. Overhead flew small ships, similar to spacecraft in appearance, but apparently built around one large gun or rocket-launcher that protruded from the front of the ships like the tip of a sword thrust out from behind a shield. In the background, at the far end of the avenue, out in the distance beyond the limits of the city itself, could be seen a looming tower, and behind it another and another, lined up at the city's spaceport. Climbing steeply from this distant spaceport came slim needle shapes that glinted in the morning sun.

From overhead came the roar of another huge ship passing over toward the spaceport.

There was a flashing yellow light to Horsip's right. Horsip snapped on the communications screen.

The same general who had reported to Horsip the day before saluted.

"Nock Sarlin, Commander Battle Fleet V, reporting to United Forces Command Headquarters. Sir, the enemy is destroyed as a fleet. Isolated enemy units are drawing away from us with acceleration slightly superior to our fleet maximum. Our detectors show the second fleet on our plot yesterday is withdrawing at high speed on a diverging course. A third fleet, approximately 20 percent superior in numbers to our own, is appearing on our remote pick-ups, approaching at high superlight velocities, beaming the command code of Able Hunter, and the identification of a Battle Fleet 46. We have Able Hunter on our books, but no Battle Fleet 46. These ships show characteristics contrary to Centran standard construction, but have beamed the correct recognition signal. Shall we maintain concentration and block Fleet 46? Or shall we continue the pursuit?"

From outside came muted sounds of a tramp and rumble, and of the shrill blast of whistles signaling orders.

Horsip fought his way out of his daze.

"Fleet 46 is a special unit and their ships are of nonstandard construction. This is normal for this unit. Continue the pursuit, but don't get too spread out."

On the screen, Sarlin saluted, made a quarter turn, and spoke briskly, "Slow units form on the axis of flight. Pursuit units to the front by flotillas, wings, and squadrons. Unit star with wreath to the outfit that brings down the most ships!"

The screen went blank. Horsip turned to find Moffis listening wide-eyed and staring at the screen.

"These are our men?"

Horsip said warily, "If not, Able Hunter has tricks I never heard of. But we'd better take a look before we count on it."

Surrounded by guards, they reopened the door to the corridor.

Amidst dead Mikerils and the corpses of the Ahaj Revolutionary Army, heavily armed Centran troops saluted. From outside came the deafening roll of drums.

From a window of the building, Horsip looked out on massive columns marching through heavy clouds of dust, followed by traveling forts, launchers, troop transports, and motorized cannon.

Moffis looked down in choked silence, then turned to Horsip.

"The High Council has come through!"

Horsip nodded. The High Council must have drawn on the resources of the huge Sealed Zone, and now put forth its concealed strength.

But Horsip, thinking of the charts he had seen of the two monster dictatorships, drew a mental comparison. Although victorious here, the Integral Union was in fact still not the equal of either of the two dictatorships.

Moffis said, "This will change things."

"Not enough. They're still stronger."

"What about Hunter's fleet?"

"If that were real, we'd be stronger than either alone, but not both together."

"As far as they know, it is real."

"And that gives us our chance. Well, Moffis, let's see if we can dig these dictators a hole and shove them into it."

During the next few days, Horsip, like an accident victim after a gigantic transfusion and the most expert treatment, found himself in better shape than he would have dared believe possible. The loyal planets were swept by waves of enthusiasm. The uncertain hastened to his banner. The disloyal trembled. Dictator Ganfre earnestly talked peace, while the Snard Soviet and its allies were gushingly friendly.

Horsip, calculating the odds, and observing that Ganfre was now noticeably diminished by the outcome of the battle, was very agreeable to the heavily bandaged and crestfallen NRPA emissary. Horsip explained that the Integral Union had had to protect itself, that everything he could have done to warn of the danger had been done, that really it wasn't Ganfre that he wanted to fight, but certain "degenerate elements." The emissary, listening alertly, at once identified Snard. If, Horsip suggested, Ganfre and the Integral Union could get together, it might be possible to do something about these degenerates. The emissary swallowed the bait, and at once went off to get in touch with his master.

"Ganfre," Moffis objected, "is as bad as Snard—and Ganfre attacked us!"

"Yes," said Horsip, "but if Ganfre will go along with the idea, we should be able to beat Snard. With Snard out of the way, the threat that holds Ganfre's pack together will vanish. Then if we can get a few of Ganfre's people to go along, we can eliminate Ganfre."

Moffis followed this line of reasoning.

"Truth."

"Meanwhile," said Horsip, "we have to get Columbia allied with us. Somehow, Moffis, we have to get more of these Earth-controlled planets on our side. We aren't strong enough to win by ourselves, and the worst of it is, while we have a good-sized fleet now, these dictators have a big production to fall back on. We need to beat them quick."

Unfortunately, Ganfre sent a new emissary to make a pact with Horsip, by which Ganfre and Horsip could finish Snard after Snard and Ganfre, now secretly allied, polished off Columbia.

Horsip hid his disappointment. "Columbia is a minor power. We should finish the source of the trouble first. Columbia would be easy later."

"I am inclined to agree with Your Excellency," said the emissary, looking sincere. "If only your offer of alliance had arrived sooner! But the end of hostilities left us in temporary disarray, and it seemed wise to unite momentarily with the common enemy of both of us. We did not at that time realize, of course, how you felt . . . Now"—he looked pious—"we must honor our commitment."

"How," asked Horsip politely, "does this attack on Columbia enter into the commitment?"

"It was Snard's price for agreeing to hit you from behind if . . . ah . . . that is, for agreeing to stand by us in our hour of crisis."

"I see."

"But once we have fulfilled that sacred pledge, then your forces and ours may combine to eliminate the common enemy." The emissary looked earnest.

Horsip looked agreeable, but regretful.

"It may be that there will be nothing left for us to be allied with."

"But I thought Your Excellency was of the opinion that Columbia is a minor, if somewhat dangerous, power?"

"It is not your enemy that gives me concern, but your ally. In such an attack, there could be many opportunities for"—he searched for the word—"errors."

The emissary looked moody.

"I think we have thought of all of them. But, it is true—with such friends as that, there is no telling."

Horsip said, "If you come out of it with a whole hide, then offer us this agreement."

After the emissary had left, Moffis said, "Once they finish Columbia, then what?"

"Then," he said, "they finish us. After that, they eat each other up."

"Then we should help Columbia."

Horsip nodded, and sent for Hunter, who had come after sending the bulk of his mysterious fleet on "maneuvers."

Hunter entered the room looking faintly dazed.

Horsip, who had never seen Hunter like this, sat up in alarm.

"What's wrong?"

"I've just been in your Records Section, studying reports on Mikerils."

"Bad as they are, we have a worse problem. If we don't help Columbia, Snard is likely to win this war."

"Not Snard. The Centrans will win."

Horsip, knowing the way Earthmen used the word "Centrans" to mean anyone of Centran descent, considered the various dictatorships, revolutionaries, maniac faddists of all manner of cults, and said, "Which Centrans?"

Hunter glanced toward a rugged guardsman recently arrived with the Fleet.

"That's the kind. It won't be long before there won't be any other kind."

"Why?"

Hunter started to speak, then shook his head.

"To explain that would be complicated, sir."

Horsip shrugged. "Snard and Ganfre have ganged up against Columbia. Unless we help, I think Columbia will get beaten. But we aren't strong enough to intervene openly."

"If we waited until they are right in the middle of the attack—"

Horsip shook his head.

"The commander of Fleet V tells me that there are other 'fleets,' so-called, which I think must be mostly for deception purposes—like your 'fleet'—but they must have some real strength, and, as I calculate it, the united real parts of these fleets would make us much stronger than we are now."

Hunter said, "You want to gather your strength, so you need time for these units to come in?"

"Yes."

Hunter looked thoughtful.

"There are a few stunts we've worked out that we'd like to try on these birds. Sir, if we could have permission to operate completely on our own—"

"Granted," said Horsip promptly.

Hunter saluted, and went out with a look of creative enjoyment.

Moffis put down a phone, and turned to Horsip.

"Another Mikeril attack! The commander of the guard says ten thousand have hit the outskirts of the capital in the last hour. They avoid the troops and hit the populace. Fifteen thousand more went by overhead, to attack the outlying districts."

"Overhead?"

Moffis said, "It's impossible, but they do it."

Chills ran up and down Horsip's spine. A verse from school days went through his head:

By day, by night,
In eerie flight,
Their shadows pass across the sky.
They stoop, they dive,
Their numbers thrive.
Through air and space in hosts they fly,
Drawn by unseen cords that tie
Sinners to the Mikeril hive.
 

Moffis said, "If it gets any worse, we're going to have an invasion on our hands. You can't call it anything else, when they start coming in like this."

"Where do they come from? Moffis, you know that poem . . . ah . . . 'Through air and space in hosts . . .' "

Moffis shivered. "I know it."

"That part about 'space'—that, at least, should be impossible."

Moffis nodded. "It should be. But how do they fly through air?"

Horsip considered it. How did they fly through air? It was impossible. The Mikerils were big, hairy, clawed creatures, as large as a man, hideous to look at, and according to legend they could tie a man up in invisible strands. He had seen at least part of it confirmed. But . . . the creatures had no wings.

Horsip shook his head. They had troubles enough without this complication.

In the following weeks, the Mikeril attacks didn't slacken. They got worse. They swept over the planet like a hurricane. As the reports flooded in, Horsip found it impossible to separate fact from panic, chose a newly arrived brilliant staff officer, and let him read the Mikeril reports. Horsip went out with Moffis to visit the troops.

"Here they come, sir," roared a sergeant in charge of a squad with a big splat-stitcher.

Straight ahead, low over the trees, came a thin grayish blur. Swiftly it enlarged into countless black dots.

The sergeant shouted, "Ready! Here they come!"

Somewhere there was a blast of a whistle.

The sergeant shouted, "Loaders back! Aim high and sweep! Fiiire!"

The gunner shook in his seat, the numerous belts of ammunition fed up to their separate guns, the frame blurred, streams of glowing tracers arced out. All around Horsip was a hammer and rattle that deafened him. Then the nearest gun ceased fire, and the loaders ran up with fresh belts of ammunition.

In the distance, the dark cloud sheared off.

The sergeant bellowed, "Ceeease fire!"

Horsip and Moffis went up with the colonel in charge of the unit to look over the slaughter. The Mikerils were strewn in grisly heaps . . . And not one had wings.

Horsip returned from his inspection tour t