The K-Factor by Harry Harrison This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite The K-Factor by Harry Harrison We're losing a planet, Neil. I'm afraid that I can't understand it. The bald and wrinkled head wobbled a bit on the thin neck, and his eyes were moist. Abravanel was a very old man. Looking at him, Neil realized for the first time just how old and close to death he was. It was a profoundly shocking thought. Pardon me, sir, Neil broke in, but is it possible to lose a planet? I mean, if the readings are done correctly and the K-Factor equations worked to the tenth decimal place, then it's really a matter of adjustment, making the indicated corrections. After all, Societics is an exact science. Exact? Exact? Of course it's not.  Anger animated the old man, driving the shadow of death back a step or two. Neil hesitated, feeling his hands quiver ever so slightly groping for the right words. This was his faith and his teacher. Abravanel its only prophet. This man before him carefully preserved by the age-retarding drugs was unique in the galaxy, a living anachronism, a refugee from history books. Abravanel had single-handedly worked out the equations, spelled out his science of Societics. Then he had trained seven generations of students in its fundamentals. Hearing the articles of his faith, defamed by its creator, produced a negative feedback loop in Neil so strong his hands vibrated in tune with it. It took a jarring effort to crack out of the cycle. The laws that control Societics as postulated by you are as exact as any others in the unified field theory universe. No, they're not. And if any man I taught believes that nonsense, I'm retiring tomorrow and dropping dead the day after. My science, and it is really not logical to call it a science, is based on observation, experimentation, control groups, and corrected observations. And though we have made observations in the millions, we are dealing in units in the billions. And the interactions of these units are multiples of that. And let us never forget that our units are people who, when they operate as individuals, do so in a completely different manner. So you cannot truthfully call my theories exact. They fit the facts well enough, and produce results in practice. That has been empirically proven. So far. Someday I am sure we will run across a culture that doesn't fit my rules. At that time the rules will have to be revised. We may well have that situation now on himmel. There's trouble cooking there. They have always had a high activity count, sir. Neil put in, hopefully. High, yes, but always negative, until now. Now it is slightly positive, and nothing we can do seems to change it. That's why I've called you in. I want you to run a new basic survey, ignoring the old one still in operation, to reexamine the checkpoints of our graphs. The trouble may lie there. Neil thought before he answered, picking his words carefully. Wouldn't that be a little unethical, sir? After all, Hengley, who is operator there now, is a friend of mine. Going behind his back, you know, I know nothing of the sort, a bravnell snorted. We are not playing for poker chips or seeing who can get a paper published first. Have you forgotten what Societics is? Neil answered by rote. The applied study of the interaction of individuals in a culture, the interaction of the group generated by these individuals, the equations derived therefrom, and the application of these equations to control one or more factors of this same culture. And what is the one factor that we have tried to control in order to make all the other factors possible of existence? War, Neil said in a very small voice. Very good, then. There is no doubt what it is we are talking about. You are going to land quietly on Himmel. Do a survey as quickly as possible and transmit the data back here. There is no cause to think of it as sneaking behind Hengley's back, but as doing something to help him set the matter right. Is that understood? Yes, sir, Neil said firmly this time, straightening his back and letting his right hand rest reassuringly on the computer slung from his belt. Excellent. Then it is now time to meet your assistant. A bravnell touched a button on his desk. It was an unexpected development and Neil waited with interest as the door opened, but he turned away abruptly.  A bravnell introduced them. Will Sidorak? This is... Costa. I know him. He was in my class for six months. There wasn't the slightest touch of friendliness in Neil's voice now. A bravnell either ignored it or didn't hear it. He went on, as if the two cold distant young men were the best of friends. Classmates. Very good. Then there is no need to make introductions, though it might be best to make clear your separate areas of control. This is your project, Neil, and Adeo Costa will be your assistant, following your orders and doing whatever he can to help. You know he isn't a graduate societist, but he has done a lot of fieldwork for us and can help you greatly in that, and of course he will be acting as an observer for the UN in making his own reports in this connection. Neil's anger was hot and apparent. So he's a UN observer now. I wonder if he still holds his old job at the same time. I think it's only fair, sir, that you know he works for interpol. A bravnell's ancient and weary eyes looked at both men and he sighed. Wait outside, Costa, he said. Neil will be with you in a minute. Costa left without a word, and a bravnell waved Neil back to his chair. Listen to me now, he said, and stop playing tunes on that infernal buzzer. Neil snapped his hand away from the belt computer as if it had suddenly grown hot. A hesitant finger reached out to clear the figures he had nervously been setting up, then thought better of it. A bravnell sucked life into his ancient pipe and squinted at the younger man. Listen, he said, you have led a very sheltered life here at the university, and that is probably my fault. No, don't look angry. I don't mean about girls. In that matter, undergraduates have been the same for centuries. I'm talking about people in groups, individuals, politics, and all the complicated mess that makes up human life. This has been your area of study, and the program is carefully planned, so you can study it secondhand. The important thing is to develop the abstract viewpoint, since any attempt to prejudge results can only mean disaster, and it has been proven many times that a man with a certain interest will make many unwitting errors to shape an observation or experiment in favor of his interest. No, we could have none of that here. We are following the proper study of mankind, and we must do that by keeping personally on the outside, to preserve our perspective. When you understand that, you understand many small things about the university, why we give only resident student scholarships at a young age, and why the out-of-the-way location here in the Dolomites. You will also see the reason why the campus bookstore stocks all of the books published, but never has an adequate supply of newspapers. The agreed policy has been to see that you all mature with the long view. Then, hopefully, you will be immune to short-term political interests after you leave. This policy has worked well in turning out men with the correct attitude towards their work. It has also turned out a fair number of self-centered egocentric horrors. Neil flushed. Do you mean that I? No. I don't mean you. If I did, I wouldn't say so. Your worst fault, if you can call it a fault, since it is the very thing we have been trying to bring about, is that you have a very provincial attitude towards the universe. Now is the time to re-examine some of those ideas. Firstly, what do you think the attitude of the UN is towards societics? There was no easy answer. Neil could see traps ready for anything he said. His words were hesitant. I can't say I've really ever thought about it. I imagine the UN would be in favor of it since we make their job of world government that much easier. No such thing, Abravanel said, tempering the sharpness of his words with a smile. To put it in the simplest language, they hate our guts. They wish I had never formulated societics, and at the same time they are very glad that I did. They are in the position of the man who caught the tiger by the tail. The man enjoys watching the tiger eat all of his enemies, but as each one is consumed, his worry grows later. What will happen when the last one is gone? Will the tiger then turn and eat him? Well, we are the UN's tiger. Societics came along just at the time it was sorely needed. Earth had settled a number of planets and governed them. First as outposts, then as colonies. The most advanced planets very quickly outgrew the colony stage and flexed their independent muscles. The UN had no particular desire to rule an empire, but at the same time they had to ensure Earth's safety. I imagine they were considering all sorts of schemes, including outright military control when they came to me. Even in its early crude form, societics provided a stopcap that would give them some breathing time. They saw to it that my work was well endowed and aided me, unofficially of course, in setting up the first control experiments on different planets. We had results, some very good and the others not so bad that the local police couldn't get things back under control after a while. I was of course happy to perfect my theories in practice. After a hundred years I had all the rough spots evened down and we were in business. The UN has never come up with a workable alternative plan, so they have settled down to the uncomfortable business of holding the tiger's tail. They worry and spend vast sums of money keeping an eye on our work. But why Neil broke in? Why, Abravanel gave a quick smile. Thank you for your fine character rating. I imagine it is inconceivable to you that I might want to be emperor of the universe. I could be, you know. The same forces that holds the lid on the planets could just as easily blow them off. Neil was speechless at the awful enormity of the thought. Abravanel rose from behind his desk with an effort and shambled over to lay a thin and feather-light arm on the younger man's shoulders. Those are the facts of life, my boy, and since we cannot escape them we must live with them. Kosta is just a man doing his duty, so try to put up with him. For my sake, if not for your own. Of course, Neil agreed quickly. The whole thing takes a bit of getting used to, but I think I can manage. We'll do as good a job on him as is possible to do. Don't worry about me, sir. Kosta was waiting in the next room, puffing quietly on a long cigarette. They left together, walking down the hall in silence. Neil glanced sideways at the wiry, dark-skinned Brazilian, and wondered what he could say to smooth things out. He still had his reservations about Kosta, but he'd keep them to himself now. Abravanel had ordered peace between them, and what the old man said was the law. It was Kosta who spoke first. Can you brief me on Himmel? What will find there and be expected to do? Run the basic survey first, of course, Neil told him. Chances are that that will be enough to straighten things out. Since the completion last year of the refining equations of De Beers postulate, all Sigma-110 and Alpha-142 graph points are suspect. Just stop there, please, and run the flag back down the pole, Kosta interrupted. I had a six-month survey of Societics seven years ago to give me the general idea of the field. I've worked with survey teams since then, but I have only the vaguest idea of the application of the information we got. Could you cover the ground again, only a bit slower? Neil controlled his anger successfully and started again in his best classroom manner. Well, I'm sure you realize that a good survey is half the problem. It must be impartial and exact. If it is accurately done, application of the K-factor equations is almost mechanical. You've lost me again. Everyone always talks about the K-factor, but no one has ever explained just what it is. Neil was warming to his topic now. It's a term borrowed from nucleonics and best understood in that context. Look, you know how an atomic pile works? Essentially just like an atomic bomb. The difference is just a matter of degree and control. In both of them, you have neutrons tearing around, some of them hitting nuclei and starting new neutrons going. These in turn hit and start others. This goes on faster and faster and bam, a few milliseconds later you have an atomic bomb. This is what happens if you don't attempt to control the reaction. However, if you have something like heavy water or a graphite that will slow down neutrons and an absorber like cadmium, you can alter the speed of the reaction. Too much dampening material will absorb too many neutrons and the reaction will stop. Not enough and the reaction will build up to an explosion. Neither of these extremes is wanted in an atomic pile. What is needed is a happy balance where you are soaking up just as many neutrons as are being generated all the time. This will give you a constant temperature inside the reactor. The net neutron reproduction constant is then 1. This balance of neutron generation and absorption is the k factor of the reactor, ideally 1.000000. That's the ideal, though impossible to attain in a dynamic system like a reactor. All you need is a few more neutrons around giving you a k factor of 1.0000001 and you are headed for trouble. Each extra neutron produces two and your production rate soars geometrically towards bang. On the other hand, a k factor of 0.999999999 is just as bad. Your reaction is spiraling down in the other direction. To control a pile, you watch your k factor and make constant adjustments. All this I follow, Costa said, but where's the connection with societics? We'll get to that just as soon as you realize and admit that a minute difference of degree can produce a marked difference of kind. You might say that a single impossibly tiny neutron is the difference between an atom bomb and a slowly cooling pile of inert uranium isotopes. Does that make sense? I'm staggering but still with you. Then try to go along with the analogy that a human society is like an atomic pile. At one extreme, you will have a dying decadent culture, the remains of a highly mechanized society, living off its capital, using up resources it can't replace because of the lost technology. When the last machine breaks and the final food synthesizer collapses, the people will die. This is the cooled down atomic pile. At the other extreme is complete and violent anarchy, every man thinking only of himself, killing and destroying anything that gets in his way, the atomic explosion. Midway between the two is a vital act of producing society. This is a generalization and you must look at it that way. In reality, society is infinitely complex and the ramifications and possibilities are endless. It can do a lot more things than fizzle or go boom. Pressure of population, war or persecution patterns can cause waves of immigration. Plant and animal species can be wiped out by momentary needs or fashions. Remember the fate of the passenger pigeon and the American bison? All the pressures, cross relationships, hungers, needs, hatreds, desires of people are reflected in their interrelationships. One man standing by himself tells us nothing, but as soon as he says something, passes on information in an altered form or merely expresses an attitude, he becomes a reference point. He can be marked, measured and entered on a graph. His actions can be grouped with others in the action of the group measured. Man and his society then becomes a systems problem that can be fed into a computer. We've cut the Gordian knot of the three L's and are on our way towards a solution. Stop, Costa said raising his hand. I was with you as far as the three L's. What are they? A private code? Not a code, abbreviation, linear logic language, the pitfall of all the old researchers. All of them, historians, sociologists, political analysts, anthropologists, were licked before they started. They had to know all about A and B before they could find C. Facts to them were always hooked up in a series, whereas in truth they had to be analyzed as a complex circuit complete with elements like positive and negative feedback and crossover switching. With the whole thing being stirred up constantly by continual homeostasis correction, it's little wonder they did so badly. You can't really say that Adeo Costa protested. I'll admit that Societics has carried the art tremendously far ahead, but there were many basics that had already been discovered. If you are postulating a linear progression from the old social sciences, forget it, Neil said. There is the same relationship here that alchemy holds to physics.  They passed the lounge, and Adeo waved Neil in after him. Dropping into a chair, he rummaged through his pockets for a cigarette, organizing his thoughts. I'm still with you, he said, but how do we work this back to the K-factor? Simple, Neil told him. Once you've gotten rid of the three L's and their false conclusions. Remember, politics in the old days was all, we are angels and they are devils. This was literally believed in. In the history of mankind there has yet to be a war that wasn't backed by the official clergy on each side, and each declared that God was on their side, which leaves, you know who, as prime supporter of the enemy. This theory is no more valid than the one that a single man can lead a country into war, followed by the inference that a well-timed assassination can save the peace. That doesn't sound too unreasonable, Costa said. Of course not. All of the old ideas sound good. They have a simple-minded simplicity that anyone can understand. That doesn't make them true.  The violence-oriented society, the factors that produced it, the military party that represents it, none of these are changed. The K-factor remains the same. There's that word again. Do I get a definition yet? Neil smiled. Of course, the K-factor is one of the many factors that interrelate a society. Abstractly it is no more important than the other odd thousand we work with, but in practice it is the only one we try to alter. The K-factor is the war factor, Adeo Costa said. All the humor was gone now. That's a good enough name for it, Neil said, grinding out his half-smoked cigarette. If a society has a positive K-factor, even a slight one that stays positive, then you're going to have a war. Our planetary operators have two jobs. First, to gather and interpret data. Secondly, to keep the K-factor negative. They were both on their feet now, moved by the same emotion. And Himmel has a positive one that stays positive, Costa said. Neil Sitter nodded agreement. Then let's get into the ship and get going, he said. It was a fast trip and a faster landing. The UN cruiser cut its engines and dropped like a rock in freefall. Night rain washed the ports and the computer cut in the maximum permissible blast for the minimum time that would reduce their speed to zero at zero altitude. Deceleration sat on their chests and squeezed their bones to rubber. Something crunched heavily under their stern at the exact instant the drive cut out. Costa was unbelted and out the door while Neil was still feeling his inside shiver back into shape. The unloading had an organized rhythm that rejected Neil. He finally realized he could help best by standing back out of the way while the crewman grav lifted the heavy cases out through the cargo port into the blackness of the rain-lashed woods. Adeo Costa supervised this and seemed to know what he was doing. A signal rating wearing earphones stood to one side of the lock chanting numbers that sounded like detector fixes. There was apparently enough time to unload everything, but none to spare. Things got close towards the end. Neil was suddenly bustled out into the rain and the last two crates were literally thrown out after him. He plowed through the mud to the edge of the clearing and had just enough time to cover his face before the takeoff blast burst out like a new sun. Sit down and relax, Costa told him. Everything is in the green so far. The ship wasn't spotted on the way down. Now all we have to do is wait for transportation. In theory, at least, Adeo Costa was Neil's assistant. In practice, he took complete charge of moving their equipment and getting it undercover in the capital city of Cates. Men in trucks appeared to help them and vanished as soon as their work was done. Within twenty hours they were installed in a large loft, all of the machines uncrated and plugged in. Neil took a no-sleep and began tuning checks on all the circuits glad of something to do. Costa locked the heavy door behind their last silent helper, then dropped gratefully into one of the bedding rolls. How did the gadgets hold up, he asked? I'm finding out now. They're built to take punishment, but being dropped twelve feet into mud soup then getting baked by rockets isn't in the original specs. They creaked things well these days, Costa said, unworriedly sucking on a bottle of the famous Himalayan beer. When do you go to work? We're working right now, Neil told him, pulling a folder of papers out of a file. Before we left, I drew up a list of current magazines and newspapers I would need. You can start on these. I'll have a sampling program planned by the time you get back. Costa groaned hollily and reached for the papers. Once the survey was in operation, it went ahead of its own momentum. Both men grabbed what food and sleep they could. The computers gulped down Neil's figures and spat out tape reels of answers that demanded even more facts. Costa and his unseen helpers were kept busy supplying the material. Only one thing broke the ordered labors of the week. Neil blinked twice at Costa before his equation-fogged brain assimilated an immediate and personal factor. You've a bandage on your head, he said. A blood-stained bandage. Uh, little trouble in the streets, mobs. And that's an incredible feat of observation, Costa marveled. I had the feeling that if I came in here stark-naked, you wouldn't notice it. I-I-I'd get involved, Neil said, dropping the papers on the table and kneading a tired ferro between his eyes. I get wrapped up in the computation. Sorry, I tend to forget about people. Don't feel sorry for me, Costa said. You're right. Doing the job. I'm supposed to help you. Not pose for the before picture in a home hospital ad. Anyway, how are we doing? Is there going to be a war? Certainly seems like one brewing outside. I've seen two people lynched who were only suspected of being earthies. Looks don't mean a thing, Neil said, opening two beers. Remember the analogy of the pile? It boils liquid metal and cooks out energy from the infrared through to hard radiation. Yet it keeps on generating power at a nice steady rate. But your A-bomb at 0 minus 1 second looks as harmless as a fallen log. It's the K factor that counts, not surface appearances. This planet may look like a dictator's dream of glory, but as long as we're reading in the negative, things are fine. And how are things? How's our little K factor? Coming out soon, Neil said, pointing at the humming computer. Can't tell about it yet. You never can until the computation is complete. There's a temptation to try and guess from the first figures, but they're meaningless. Like trying to predict the winner of a horse race by looking at the starters lined up at the gate. Lots of people think they can. Let them. There are few enough pleasures in this life without taking away all delusions. Behind them the computer thunked and was suddenly still. This is it, Neil said, and pulled out the tape. He ran it quickly through his fingers mumbling under his breath, just once he stopped and set some figures into his hand computer. The result flashed in the window and he stared at it, unmoving. Good, bad? What is it?  Positive. Bad. Much worse than it was when we left earth. How much time do we have? Don't know for certain, Neil shrugged. I can set it up and get an approximation, but there is no definite point on the scale where war has to break out. Just a going and going until somewhere along the line. I know. Gone, Kosta said, reaching for his gun. He slid it into his side pocket. Now it's time to stop looking and start doing. What do I do? Going to kill war marshal Lomiord, Neil asked distastefully. I thought we had settled that you can't stop a war by assassinating the top man. We also settled that something can be done to change the K factor. The gun is for my own protection. While your radioing results back to earth and they're feeling bad about it, I'm going to be doing something. Now you tell me what that something is. This was a different man from the relaxed and quietly efficient Adeo Kosta of the past week. All of his muscles were hard with the restrained energy of an animal crouching to leap. The gun, ready in his pocket, had a suddenly new significance. Neil looked away, reaching around for words. This was all very alien to him and suddenly a little frightening. It was one thing to work out a K problem in class and discuss the theory of correction. It was something entirely different to direct the operation. Well, Kosta's voice knifed through his thoughts. You can, well, it's possible to change one of the peak population curves, isolate individuals in groups, and then affect status and location changes. You mean get a lot of guys to take jobs in other towns through the commercial agents? Neil nodded. Too slow Kosta withered the idea with his voice. Fine in the long run, but of absolutely no value in an emergency. He began to pace back and forth. Too quickly. It was more of a bubbling over than a relaxation. Can't you isolate some recent key events that can be reversed? It's possible, Neil thought about it quickly. It wouldn't be a final answer, just a delaying action. That's good enough. Tell me what to do. Neil flipped through his books of notes checking off the Beta Thirteen's. These were the reinforcers, the individuals in groups who were K-factor amplifiers. It was a long list, which he cut down quickly by crossing off the low-increment additions of multiple groups. Even while the list was incomplete, Neil began to notice a pattern. It was an unlikely one, but it was there. He isolated the motivator and did a frequency check, then sat back and whistled softly. We have a powerhouse here, he said, flipping the paper across the table. Take this organization out of the equations, and you might even knock us negative. Society for the protection of the native-born Kosta Red. Doesn't sound like they're very important. Who or what are they? Proof positive of the law of averages. It's possible to be Delta Royal Flush in a hand of cards, but it isn't very common. It's just as possible for a bunch of simpletons to set up an organization for one purpose, and have it turn out to be a supercharged, high-frequency K-factor amplifier. That's what's happened with this infernal SPNB, a seedy little social club dedicated to jingoists with low IQs. With the war scare, they have managed to get a hold of a few credits. They have probably been telling the same inflated stories for years about the discrimination against natives of this fair planet, but no one really cared. Now they have a chance to get their news releases and faked picks out in quality. Just at a time when the public is ripe for their brand of nonsense. Putting this bunch out of business will be a good day's work. Won't there be repercussions, Kosta asked? If they are this important and throw so much weight around, won't it look suspicious if they are suddenly shut up like an obvious move by the enemy? Not at all. That might be true if, for instance, you blew up the headquarters of the war party. It would certainly be taken as an aggressive move. But no one really knows or cares about this society of the half-baked native born. There might be reaction and interest if attention was drawn to them, but if some accident or act of nature were to put them out of business, that would be the end of it. Kosta was snapping his lighter on an off as he listened to Neil staring at the flame. He closed it and held it up. I believe in accidents. I believe that even in our fireproof age, fires still occur. Buildings still burn down, and if a burnt building just happens to be occupied by the SPNB, just one tenant of many, and their offices and records were destroyed, that would be a very little interest to anyone except the fire brigade.  I'm glad we're on the same side. That's your department, and I'll leave it to you. I'll just listen for the news flashes. Meanwhile, I have one little errand to take care of. The words stopped Kosta, who was almost out the door. He turned stiffly to look at Neil putting papers into an envelope, yet Kosta spoke naturally, letting none of his feelings through into his voice. Where are you going? To see Hengley, the planetary operator here, Abravanel told me to stay away from him, to run an entirely new basic survey. Well, we've done that now, and pinpointed some of the trouble areas as well. I can stop feeling guilty about poaching another man's territory and let him know what's going on. No, stay away from Hengley, Kosta said. That's the last thing in the world we want to do, is to be seen near him. There's a chance that he, well, might be compromised. What do you mean, Neil snapped? Hengley's a friend of mine, a graduate. He might also be surrounded ten deep by the secret police. Did you stop to think about that? Neil hadn't thought about it, and his anger vanished when he did. Kosta drove the point home. Societics has been a well-kept secret for over two centuries. It may still be a secret, or bits of it might have leaked out. And even if the Himalians know nothing about Societics, they have certainly heard of espionage. They know the UN has agents on their world. They might think Hengley is one of them. This is all speculation, of course, but we do have one fact.  We had no trouble finding them. If Hengley had reliable fieldmen, he should know about them too. The only reason he hasn't is because he isn't getting the information, which means he's compromised. Reaching back for a chair, Neil fell heavily into it. You're right, of course. I never realized. Good, Kosta said. We'll do something to help Hengley tomorrow. But this operation comes first. Sit tight, get some rest, and don't open the door for anyone except me. It had been a long job, and a tiring one. But it was almost over. Neil allowed himself the luxury of a long yawn. Then shuffled over to the case of rations they had brought. He stripped the seal from something optimistically labeled chicken dinner. It tasted just like the algae it had been made of, and boiled some coffee while it was heating. All the time he was doing these prosaic tasks, his mind was turning an indigestible fact over and over. It wasn't a conscious process, but it was nevertheless going on. The automatic mechanism of his brain ran it back and forth like a half-herd tune searching for its name. Neil was tired, or he would have reacted sooner. The idea finally penetrated. One fact he had taken for granted was an obvious impossibility. The coffee splashed to the floor as he jumped to his feet. It's wrong. It has to be wrong, he said aloud, grabbing up the papers. Computations and graphs dropped and were trampled into the spilled coffee. When he finally found the one he wanted, his hands were shaking as he flipped through it. The synopsis of Hangley's reports for the past five years, the gradual rise and fall of the K-factor from month to month. There were no sharp breaks in the curve or gaps in the supporting equations. Societics isn't an exact science, but it's exact enough to know when it is working with incomplete or false information. If Hangley had been kept in the dark about the SPNB, he would also have been misinformed about other factors. This kind of alteration of survey would have to show in the equations. It didn't. Time was running out and Neil had to act, but what to do? He must warn Adeo Costa, and the records here had to be protected, or better yet destroyed. There was a power in these machines and charts that couldn't be allowed to fall into nationalist hands. But what could be done about it? In all the welter of equipment and containers, there was one solid heavy box that he had never opened. It belonged to Costa, and the UN man had never unlocked it in his presence. Neil looked at the heavy clasps on it and felt defeat. But when he pulled at the lid wondering what to do next, it fell open. It hadn't been sealed. Costa wasn't the kind of man who did things by accident. He had looked forward to the time when Neil might need what was in the box and had it ready. Inside was just what Neil expected. Grenades, guns, some smoothly polished devices that held an aura of violence. Looking at them, Neil had an overwhelming sensation of defeat. His life was dedicated to peace and the furthering of peace. He hated the violence that seemed inborn in man, and detested all the hypocritical rationalizations, such as the ends justifying the means. All of his training and personal inclinations were against it. And he reached down and removed the blunt black gun. There was another thing he recognized in the compact arsenal, a time bomb. There had been lectures on this mechanism in school, since the fact was clearly recognized that a time might come when equipment had to be destroyed rather than fall into the wrong hands. He had never seen one since, but he had learned the lesson well. Neil pushed the open chest nearer to his instruments and set the bomb dial for fifteen minutes. He slipped the gun into his pocket, started the fuse, and carefully locked the door when he left. The bridges were burned. Now he had to find a de-ocosta. This entire operation was outside of his experience and knowledge. He could think of no plan that could possibly make things easier or safer. All he could do was head for the offices of the Society of the Protection of the Native Born and hope he could catch a de-o before he ran into any trouble. Two blocks away from the address, he heard the sirens. Trying to act as natural as the other pedestrians, he turned to look as the armored cars and trucks hurtled by. Hacked with armed police, their sirens and revolving lights cleared a path through the dark streets. Neil kept walking, following the cars now. The street he wanted to go into was cordoned off. Showing more than a normal interest would have been a giveaway, he let himself be hurried past with no more than a glance down the block with the other pedestrians. Cars and men were clustered around the doorway that Neil felt sure was number 265, his destination. Something was very wrong. Had Costa walked into a trap or tripped an alarm, it didn't really matter which either way the balloon had gone up. Neil walked on slowly, painfully aware of his own inadequacy in dealing with the situation. It was a time for action. But what action? He hadn't the slightest idea where Costa was or how he could be of help to him. Halfway down the block there was a dark mouth of an alleyway, unguarded. Without stopping to think, Neil turned into it. It would bring him closer to the building. Perhaps Costa was still trapped in there. He could get in, help him. The back of 265 was quiet, with no hint of the activity on the other side of the building. Neil had counted carefully and was sure he had the right one. It was completely dark in the unlit alley, but he found a recessed door by touch. The chances were it was locked, but he moved into the alcove and leaned his weight against it, pulling at the handle, just in case. Nothing moved. An inch behind his back, the alley filled with light, washed with it, eye burning and strong. His eyes snapped shut, but he forced them open again, blinking against the pain. There were searchlights at each end of the alley, sealing it off. He couldn't get out. In the instant before the fear hit him, he saw the blood spots on the ground. There were three of them, large and glistening, redly wet. They extended in a straight line away from him, pointing towards the gaping entrance of a cellar. When the lights went out, Neil dived headlong towards the cracked and filthy pavement. The darkness meant that the police were moving slowly towards him from both ends of the alley, trapping him in between. There was nothing doubtful about the fate of an armed earthman caught here. He didn't care. Neil's fear was gone. He just didn't have time to think about it. His long shot had paid off, and there was still a chance he could get Costa out of the trap he had let him walk into. The lights had burned an after-image into his retina. Before it faded, he reached out and felt his fingers slide across the dusty ground into a patch of wetness. He scrubbed at it with his sleeve soaking up the blood.  As soon as he was sure the stain was covered, he slid forward, groping for the second tell-tale splash. Time was his enemy, and he had no way to measure it. He could have been lying in the rubble of that alley for an hour or a second. What was to be done had to be done at once, without a sound. There were silent, deadly men coming towards him through the darkness. After the second smear was covered there was a drawn-out moment of fear when he couldn't find the third and last. His fingers touched it finally much farther on than he had expected. Time had certainly run out, yet he forced himself to do as good a job here as he had with the other two. Only when it was dried and covered did he allow himself to slide forward into the cellar entrance. Everything was going too fast. He had time for a single deep breath before the shriek of a whistle paralyzed him again. Footsteps slapped towards him, and one of the searchlights burned with light. The footsteps speeded up, and the man ran by, close enough for Neil to touch if he had reached out a hand.  That was all Neil had time to see before the guns roared and burned the life from the runner. Some derelict, sleeping in the alley, who had paid with his life for being in the wrong spot at the wrong time. But his death had brought Neil a little more time. He turned and looked into the barrel of a gun. Shock after shock had destroyed his capacity for fear. There was nothing left that could move him, even his own death. He looked quietly, dullly, at the muzzle of the gun.  It's me a day, oh, he whispered. You'll be all right now. Ah, it is you, the voice came softly out of the darkness. The gun barrel wavered and sank. Lift me up so I can get at this door. Can't seem to stand too well any more. Neil reached down, found Costa's shoulders and slowly dragged him to his feet. His eyes were adjusting to the glare above them now, and he could make out the gleam of reflected light on the metal in Costa's fingers. The UN man's other hand was clutched tightly to his waist. The gun had vanished. The metal device wasn't a key, but Costa used it like one. It turned in the lock and the door swung open under their weight. Neil, half carried, half dragged the other man's dead weight through it, dropping him to the floor inside. Before he closed the door he reached down and felt a great pool of blood outside. There was no time to do a perfect job. The hard footsteps were coming just a few yards away. His sleeves were sodden with blood as he blotted, then pushed rubble into the stain. He pulled back inside and the door closed with only the slightest click. I don't know how you managed it, but I'm glad you found me, Costa said. There was weakness as well as silence in his whisper. It was only chance I found you, Neil said bitterly.  Don't worry about it. I knew what I was getting into, but I still had to go, spring the trap, to see if it was a trap. You suspected then that Hangley was— Neil couldn't finish the sentence. He knew what he wanted to say, but the idea was too unbearable to put into words. Costa had no such compunction. Yes, dear Hangley, graduate of the University and Practitioner of Societics, a traitor, a warmonger, worse than any of his predecessors, because he knew just what to sell and how to sell it. It's never happened before, but there was always the chance the weight of responsibility was too much. He gave in. Costa's voice had died away almost to a whisper. Then it was suddenly loud again, no louder than normal speaking volume, but sounding like a shout in the secret basement. Neil, it's all right. Take it easy. Nothing is all right. Don't you realize that? I've been sending my reports back, so the UN and your Societics people will know how to straighten this mess out, but Hangley can turn this world upside down, and might even get a shooting war going before they get here. I'm out of it, but I can tell you who to contact. People who will help hold down the K-factor. That wouldn't do any good, Neil said quietly. The whole thing is past the patch and polished stage now. Besides, I blew the whole works up.  For the first time there was pain in Costa's voice. No, I was before, but not anymore. As long as I thought it was a normal problem, I was being outguessed at every turn. You must understand the ramifications of Societics. To a good operator, there is no interrelationship that cannot be uncovered. Hangley would be certain to keep his eyes open for another field check. Our kind of operation is very easy to spot if you know where and how to look. The act of getting information implies contact of some kind. That contact can be detected. He's had our location marked and has been sitting tight, buying time. But our time ran out when you showed them we were ready to fight back. That's why I destroyed our setup and cut our trail. But then we're defenseless. What can we possibly do? Neil knew the answer, but he hesitated to put it into words. It would be final then. He suddenly realized he had forgotten about Kosta's wound. I'm sorry, I forgot about you being hurt. What can I do? Nothing, Kosta snapped. I put a field dressing on. That'll do. Answer my question. What is there left? What can be done now?  That will set things right until the team gets here. But what good will that accomplish, Kosta asked, trying to see the other man in the darkness of the cellar. You told me yourself that a war couldn't be averted by assassination. No one individual means that much. Only in a normal situation, Neil explained, you must look at the power struggle between planets as a kind of celestial chess game. It has its own rules. When I talked about individuals earlier, I was talking about pieces on this chessboard. What I'm proposing now is a little more dramatic. I'm going to win the chess game in a slightly more unorthodox way. I'm going to shoot the other chess player. There was silence for a long moment, broken only by the soft sigh of their breathing. Then Kosta stirred, and there was the sound of metal clinking slightly on the door. It's really my job, Kosta said, but I'm no good for it. You're right. You'll have to go. But I can help you. Plan it so you'll be able to get to Hangley.  Now, listen carefully, because we haven't much time. Neil didn't argue. He knew what needed doing, but Kosta could tell him how best to go about it. The instructions were easy to memorize, and he put the weapons away as he was told. Once you're clear of this building, you'll have to get cleaned up, Kosta said. But that's the only thing you should stop for. Get to Hangley while he is still rattled. Catch him off guard as much as possible. Then, after you finish with him, dig yourself in. Stay hidden at least three days before you try to make any contacts. Things should have quieted down a bit by then. I don't like leaving you here, Neil said. It's the best way, as well as being the only way. I'll be safe enough. I have a nice little puncture in me, but there's enough medication to see me through.  I'll be back to take care of you. Kosta didn't answer him. There was nothing more to say. They shook hands in the darkness, and Neil crawled away. There was little difficulty in finding the front door of the building, but Neil hesitated before he opened it. Kosta had been sure Neil could get away without being noticed, but he didn't feel so sure of himself. There certainly would be plenty of police in the streets, even here. Only as he eased the door did he understand why Kosta had been so positive about this. Gunfire hammered somewhere behind him. Other guns answered. Kosta must have had another gun. He had planned it this way, and the best thing Neil could do was not think about it and go ahead with the plan. A car whined by in the roadway. As soon as it had passed, Neil slipped out and crossed the empty street to the nearest Mono sub-entrance. Most of the stations had valet machines. It was less than an hour later when he reached Hengley's apartment. Washed, shaved, and with his clothes cleaned. Neil felt a little more sure of himself. No one had stopped him or even noticed him. The lobby had been empty and the automatic elevator left him off at the right floor when he gave it Hengley's name. Now facing the featureless door he had a sharp knife of fear. It was too easy. He reached out slowly and tried the handle. The door was unlocked. Taking a deep breath he opened it and stepped inside. It was a large room, but unlit. An open door at the other end had a dim light shining through it. Neil started that way and pain burst in his head spinning him down face forward. He never quite lost consciousness, but details were vague in his memory. When full awareness returned, he realized that the lights were on in the room. He was lying on his back, looking up at them. Two men stood next to him, staring down at him from above the perspective columns of their legs. One held a short metal bar that he kept slapping into his open palm. The other man was Hengley. Not very friendly for an old classmate, he said, holding out Neil's gun. Now get inside. I want to talk to you. Neil rolled over painfully and crawled to his feet. His head throbbed with pain, but he tried to ignore it. As he stood up, his hand brushed his ankle. The tiny gun Costa had given him was still in the top of his shoe. Perhaps Hengley wasn't being as smart as he should. I can take care of him, Hengley said to the man with the metal rod. He's the only one left now, so you can get some sleep. See you early in the morning, though. The man nodded agreement and left. Slouched in the chair, Neil looked forward to a certain pleasure in killing Hengley. Costa was dead and this man was responsible for his death. It wouldn't even be like killing a friend. Hengley was very different from the man he had known. He had put on a lot of weight and affected a thick beard and flowing mustache. There was something jovial and paternal about him, until you looked into his eyes. Neil slumped forward worn out, letting his fingers fall naturally next to the gun in his shoe. Hengley couldn't see his hand. The desk was in the way. All Neil had to do was draw and fire. You can pull out the gun, Hengley said with a grim smile, but don't try to shoot it. He had his own gun now aimed directly at Neil. Leaning forward he watched as Neil carefully pulled out the tiny weapon and threw it across the room. That's better, he said, placing his own gun on the desk where he could reach it easily. Now we can talk. There's nothing I have to say to you, Hengley. Neil leaned back in the chair, exhausted.   Is that peaceful? Where are the ethos of humanism now? You were very fond of them when we were in the university. Neil didn't want to listen to the words. He thought instead of how right Costa had been. He was dead, but this was still his operation. It was going according to plan. Walk right in there, Costa had said.  He's the loneliest man in the universe because he's given up one world for another that he hasn't gained yet. There will be no one he can confide in.  Particularly if you make it easy for him to defeat you. Not too easy. He must feel he is out thinking you. You'll have a gun for him to take away, but that will be too obvious. This small gun will be hidden as well. And when he finds that too, he should be taken off his guard. Not much, but enough for you to kill him. Don't wait. Do it at the first opportunity. Out of the corner of his eye, Neil could see the radio phone clipped to the front of his jacket. It was slightly tarnished, looking like any one of 10,000 in daily use. Almost a duplicate of the one Hengli war. A universal symbol of the age, like the keys and small change in his pockets. Only Neil's phone was a deadly weapon. Product of a research into sudden death that he had never been aware of before. All he had to do was get it near Hengli. The mechanism had been armed when he put it on. It had a range of two feet. As soon as it was that far from any part of Hengli's body, it would be actuated. Can I ask you a question, Hengli? His words cut loudly through the run of the other man's speech. Hengli frowned at the interruption, then nodded permission. Go ahead, he said. What would you like to know? The obvious. Why did you do it? Change sides, I mean. Give up a positive work for this negative corruption. That's how much you know about it, Hengli was shouting now. Positive, negative, war, peace. Those are just words, and it took me years to find it out. What could be more positive than making something of my life and of this planet at the same time? It's in my power to do it. And I've done it. Power. Perhaps that's the key word, Neil said, suddenly very tired. We have the stars now, but we have carried with us our little personal lusts and emotions. There's nothing wrong with that, I suppose, as long as we keep them personal. It's when we start inflicting them on others the trouble starts. Well, it's over now, at least this time. With a single easy motion he unclipped the radio phone and flipped it across the desk towards Hengli. Good-bye, he said. The tiny mechanism clattered onto the desk and Hengli leapt back, shouting hoarsely. He pulled the gun up and tried to aim at the radio phone, and it kneeled at the same time. It was too late to do either. There was a brief humming noise from the phone. Neil jerked in his chair. It felt as if a slight electric shock had passed through him. He had felt only a microscopic percentage of the radiation. Hengli got it all. The actuated field of the device had scanned his nervous system, measured and tested it precisely, then adjusted itself to the exact micro frequency that carried the message in his efferent nerve system. Once the adjustment had been made, the charged condensers had released their full blasts of energy on that frequency. The results were horribly dramatic. Every efferent neuron in his system carried the message full power. Every muscle in his body responded with a contraction of full intensity. Neil closed his eyes, covered them, turned away gasping. It couldn't be watched. An epileptic in his seizure can break the bones in a leg or arm by simultaneous contraction of opposing muscles. When all the opposed muscles of Hengli's body did this, the results were horrible beyond imagining. When Neil recovered a measure of sanity, he was in the street running. He slowed to a walk and looked around. It was just dawn and the streets were empty. The head was the glowing entrance of a monotube, and he headed for it. The danger was over now, as long as he was careful. Pausing on the top step, he breathed the fresh air of the new morning. There was a sighing below as an early train pulled into the station. The dawn-lit sky was the color of blood. Blood, he said aloud. Then, do we have to keep killing? Is there another way? He started guiltily as his voice echoed in the empty street, but no one had heard him. Quickly, two at a time, he ran down the steps. End of The K Factor, by Harry Harrison.  When Muldoon asked them why, their answer was entirely logical. Because we live here. It was the lack of sense in the ad that made him go back to it again. He was having his breakfast coffee in the cafeteria, next to the Midtown Hotel where he lived. The classified section of the New York Times was spread before him. Wanted. Live wire, real estate broker. No selling, 30 to 40. Room 657, Silver's Building, 9 to 12 Monday morning. The ad made no sense for several reasons. One, you just don't go around advertising for brokers with four pages of them in the classified phone book. Two, how can one be a live wire broker without having to sell? Kevin Muldoon shook his head. Just no damn sense. The Silver's Building. Not too far off. He looked at his strap watch, 15 minutes and 9. He could walk it in about that time. Don't be a fool, he said to himself. It's obviously a come on of some kind. He got up, paid the check, and went out. It wasn't till he was on 3rd Avenue that he was conscious he had started to go across town when it's in the opposite direction. He smiled riley. Might as well investigate, he thought. Can't do any harm and it won't take long. There were four others waiting in the small landing room. The Outer Door bore no legend other than the room number and the Inner Door was blank altogether. Muldoon made a quick appraisal of those waiting. Three were obviously past middle age. The fourth about Muldoon's age. The Inner Door opened and Muldoon looked up. A tall man came out first, a man in his early 60s perhaps. Immediately behind him came a slightly shorter man, but very heavy and with a head that was as bald as a billiard ball. The older man marched straight to the door, opened it, and went out without a second look back.  And now who's next? Yes. The one who was about Muldoon's age stepped forward. The fat man motioned for the other to precede him. The door closed. Not more than a minute went by, and the door opened again, and the same act as before with the older man was gone through. And now who's next? The fat man asked. Muldoon noted even the inflection was the same. So it went, with the three who were left until it was Muldoon's turn. And now there were six others beside himself also waiting to be interviewed. It was a squarish room, simply furnished with a couple of desks set side by side with a narrow space between them. A chair was set up facing the desk, obviously meant for the one to be interviewed. Seated behind one of the desks was the twin of the man now coming to see himself at the other desk. Their smiles were identical as they waited for Muldoon to make himself comfortable. For a moment there was a blank silence. Muldoon studied them, and they, smiling still, studied him. Muldoon broke the silence. You know, Muldoon said, your ad didn't make sense to me. The twins hunched forward slightly at their desks. Their eyes brightened in anticipation. No, said the one who had been waiting for Muldoon. Why? With some four pages of brokers in the classified directory, you don't have to advertise for one, and a live wire broker gets that reputation as a salesman. Without selling, the wire is dead. The twins beamed at each other. Evan, said the one to the left, I think we found our man. Will you go out and tell those waiting? They waited for the twin to return. I am Robert Rieger, my brother Evan, said the first twin. Muldoon introduced himself. There was no handshaking. You are right about the ad, Robert Rieger said. We worded it that way for a reason. We wanted a man of quick intelligence. Mind you, now we do want a broker. And the one who will do no selling, the live wire part was my brother Evan's thought. He does sometimes have clever ideas. Robert stopped to beam at his twin. Just now, Robert returned to Muldoon. I won't go into full discussion of our plans. Briefly, however, we are buyers. Fires, we hope, of a particular area. Because of what we have in mind to do, we would rather it was done quietly and without any publicity. Had we engaged the services of a large agency, this would not be possible. For, if I make coin a phrase, the trumpet must blow strongly to announce the coming of genius. He smiled, stroked his chin, looked up the ceiling, and his lips moved silently as if he enjoyed repeating the phrase. I like that, Robert, Evan said. Yes, I thought it was good, Robert said. They both looked to Muldoon. Muldoon said nothing. The twins sighed audibly in unison. Robert's lips came forward in a pout. The look of a pouting cherub, Muldoon thought, one trying to look stern and only succeeding in looking naughty childish. Muldoon suddenly knew of whom the twins reminded him. Twin Charles Lawtons, without hair. You are free to work for us, Robert asked. With you, Muldoon said. I have the license. He gave them a quick smile as if to lessen the sharpness of the tone they had used. A broker acts for a client in the purchase or sale of property. He can't be employed by them. Of course, Robert said quickly. I did not mean to imply any other action. Now, suppose you tell us briefly about yourself. Muldoon gave them a thumbnail sketch of his career. He noted their pleased look that he was a one-man agency. At the conclusion, Robert stood up and came around the desk. He thrust a hand at Muldoon. Like shaking hands with a piece of warm dough, Muldoon thought. I do believe, Robert said, as he placed a heavy arm around Muldoon's shoulder and walked into the door, that we shall have a mutually happy relationship. You will not be unrewarded money-wise. He opened the door, paused, still with his arm around Muldoon, and looked steadily into Muldoon's eyes. Yes, I think there will be mutual benefits in our relationship. Now, in conclusion, will you pick us up at this office tomorrow morning at nine? Muldoon nodded. Good. Then, by now, Mr. Muldoon, and thanks so much for coming by in answer to our ad. The answer to an irritating thought came to Muldoon while he was waiting for an elevator to take him to the ground floor. He knew where he had seen the same kind of look as was in Robert Rieger's eyes when they had parted. In the eyes of a cat, Muldoon had once seen toying with a mouse the cat had caught. Dina's savory was a redhead, a green-eyed redhead with a kind of patrician look about her face that came off very well in the photographs they took of her. Dina was a model and made three times the money Kevin Muldoon made. It had always been a sore point between them and more than once the reason for their worst quarrels. She was also the worst cook in New York. Monday evenings were spent in Dina's small apartment on East 56th Street and she usually cooked dinner for Muldoon. Invariably, it was steak. Dina had no imagination when it came to food. Even in restaurants, she ordered one or another kind of steak. They were together on the couch.  He was telling her about the Rieger twins and what had happened that morning. His hands caressed her lightly as she spoke, now across her cheeks, now more intimately. I don't dig them, honey, he said, as if in recapitulation. The Robert Twin, for instance, you will not be unrewarded money-wise. Madison Avenue and 19th century English. She gently took his hand from where he seemed to find most comfort and put it to her cheek. What's the difference, she asked, so long as there's money in it? Brokers commissioned, he said. No more or less. You've been getting so much of that lately? No. Okay then, stop fighting it. What do you care what kind of English they use, or whether they use sign language? The buck, kid, the buck. Dina, Muldoon said gravely, you have the grubbing soul of a pawnbroker, or real estate broker, he added. He bent his head and kissed her lips. Her lips opened to his with that familiar warmth, a hunger for him which never failed the thrill. This time she did not remove his hand when it returned. Kebby, baby, darling, oh my darling, she whispered. Strange, he thought, that at a moment like this I should be thinking of those fat twins. Muldoon hated the pirate prices of midtown parking lots, and so was late. It had taken him ten minutes to find parking space for the Plymouth. As he started to open the door of room 657, he heard the voice of one of the twins. The words or sounds were in a language completely foreign to him. He thought to knock, but changed his mind. To knock would have made it obvious he had been listening. He barged right in. The twins were in the ante-room. Muldoon got the impression that they knew he had heard them, an even stronger impression that the fact was of no importance. That bothered him for some reason. Ah, there you are, the twin to the left said. Evan was wondering whether you would show up, but I told him he was putting himself to useless aggravation. A damned mixed up phrasing again, Muldoon thought. Took a little time to find parking space, he said. Shall we be off then? Robert asked. All right with me, Muldoon replied. There was another odd thing. Evan Rieger seemed to have so very little to say. Their destination was a place halfway down the island. Muldoon's brow had lifted when they gave him the area, so far as he knew there hadn't been any development in the area. It was just a bit too far off the highways and rail lines for housing developments, and even more badly located for industrial requirements. He wondered what the devil they had in mind out there. Traffic was light, and the drive took a little more than an hour and a half on the main highway, and another fifteen minutes of blacktop side road before Evan told him to turn left here, onto a rutted path off the blacktop. The path led through some scrub growth that ended on the edge of an acre or so of dump heat. Rusted heaps of broken cars were scattered about. A foul odor came from the left as though garbage too had then dumped and left to rutt. It was a flat one storied wooden shack close by to which Evan directed him to drive up to. Evan produced a key and opened the door to the shack. There was a partition separating the place neatly into two sections. There were a couple of straight back wooden chairs and a leather sofa in the near room. The door to the other room was closed. Sit down Muldoon, Robert Rieger said. He waited for Muldoon to make himself comfortable on the sofa, then continued. First time we've ever been out here during the day, but Evan's sense of direction is unfailing. He shook his head smile brightly. Ah, well, we must each have some factor to make for validity of existence, eh? I don't follow, Muldoon said. No matter. Now to the business at hand, I wanted you to see the area involved. Evan, the plot plan, please. To Muldoon's surprise, Evan Rieger went into the next room and returned after a moment with a plot plan of the lower third of the island. He gave it to Muldoon who spread it at his feet. That red pencil area I've marked off, Robert Rieger said, is what we'll be concerned with. As you notice, the dump and this shack are at the approximate center. What I have in mind to do is buy all the land in this marked off area. Buy it! You seem surprised. Shocked would be the better word. Have you any idea what this could cost? You've marked off an area of approximately a square mile. Even out here that would run into millions, and once news got around that someone was buying parcels this size, well, you'd have more publicity than you might want. About the cost, we won't worry. There will be enough money, but the attendant publicity could mean not being able to get the land we want. Is that correct? Could be. Suppose we get options or leases on these pieces. That was a good phrase, Evan broken unexpectedly. Don't you think so, Robert? Yes, Robert said sharply. He seemed to have suddenly lost his smile. He gave Evan a hard look from under down-drawn brows. He turned to Muldoon. We are renting this, this tumble-down structure, a two-year lease. I see your point. Spending millions in a sudden buying move would make unneeded difficulties. No. Options to buy. But lease for the present. Evan, the list of names, please. Evan didn't have to go anywhere for the list. He had it with him. Muldoon looked it over. There were 33 names, including the county and state. Well, Robert said, I'll have to know what you want to lease it for. The name or names of corporations and so forth. Will my own name do? It will. But you can go into county court and register a business name under your own, what they call a DBA, name-doing business as name. Register as many as you wish. Doesn't cost a great deal. Or form a corporation, you and your brother. Now, let the leases come under my own name. As for what I intend doing, well, I intend to concrete surface the entire area. A square mile of concrete? Yes. There's a government plan to use this and of the island for a huge missile depot. They will have to come to me. Rick T. Shrewd, Muldoon thought. That is, if it's true. All right, Muldoon said, when do you want me to start? Right now. That was one reason for bringing you out here. Evan, will you get the briefcase, please? Once more, Evan Rieger went into the other room and closed the door carefully behind him when he came out. He handed the briefcase to Muldoon. You may open it, Robert said. Muldoon's fingers became suddenly nervous and he dropped the briefcase. It was crammed with money, packets of $100 bills. There are 50 packets of $100 bills totaling a million dollars, Robert said.  Carry the case around with me, Muldoon asked. No, it will remain here. I merely wanted to show you I will be able to stand behind any price you may have to meet. From now on, report here, no matter what time. And since time has a definite value in this matter, do not stand upon it. I like that, Evan said suddenly. That was good, Robert. Muldoon nodded. Evan had a value too, the same value any yes man has. But it bothered Muldoon. This just wasn't the way of twins, at least none he knew. Well, one thing was certain, the Riegers had the ready cash. This may take some time, Muldoon said, weeks, certainly, maybe months. The county and state alone, we don't have that much time, Robert broken. Evan must return in 10 days. Return? Where? Muldoon asked. It was as if Robert hadn't heard. The state and county properties are small areas, and on the very edge, suppose we forget about them for the time being. Work on the private parties. Anything you say, but it may still take weeks. Then don't quibble. At least at any price, if a show of cash is necessary, let me know. Now I think you'd better start. Good luck, Muldoon. It was Wednesday night before Muldoon saw Dina savory again. Nor had he seen the Rieger twins since leaving them Monday morning. Dina and Muldoon seldom saw each other during the middle of the week. They were her busy days, and she needed the nights for complete rest. But he had called her and asked to see her. They were at dinner in a small Italian place close to her apartment. He had briefly brought her up to date on what had happened since she had seen him last, and was at the moment finishing the last of the lasagna he had ordered. They're phonies, honey. Real phonies, he said. I'll bet my last buck on that. She was looking at the last piece of steak on her plate. With an almost defiant gesture, she speared it and put it in her mouth. At a girl, he said. Like your own business, she said. How do you mean they're phonies? I spent all Monday investigating him. A fine way to make a dollar, she said. What do you care who they are? He gave her a knowing smile. That's my fat-headed girl. Like to visit me in a nice jail, wouldn't you? One with a prestige address, of course. Let me tell you, they'd rented that shack and the dump heap next to it for a pretty fancy figure. Robert Rieger said they were going to do printing in that shack. They paid in full for the two-year's rental. In nice, crisp, hundred-dollar bills. I get it. They were phony, she exiled it. How can you be so stupid? I know. For you, it's easy. Of course, the bills were genuine. But the printing business, what were they going to print? With typewriters? Another thing. There's no business record I could find of them. They're not listed. So how did they get a million dollars? And Robert said more. Report here. No matter what the time. I don't get it. I drove them out. There was no garage, no car I could see, and the place is miles from food. How did they live out there? Maybe they have friends who picked them up, Dina said. Maybe. Robert said there was a rumor or something about the government going to use the area for a missile depot. I tried to run it down. Nothing. Which proves nothing, she said. True, but I couldn't even smell smoke. No, the whole thing just smells bad. So I think I'm going back there and tell them to forget it.   I won't get into anything. Crook it, his voice rose. The way you're thinking you couldn't follow a straight line, they can't draw a straight line. Well, you do what you want. Only the next time I have to pay for a dinner, don't give me that murdered look. Okay, okay, what do you want for dessert? Spamoni? After this, bicarbonate. Very funny. And for the first time in several years, she did not kiss him good night when they parted. He turned off the black top and started down the rutted path. He switched the headlights off about halfway to the shack and parked it a hundred or so yards away from it and walked the rest. The shack was dark. Instead of knocking, Muldoon walked around to the back and peered through the single window at the rear. He could see nothing. Now isn't this just dandy, he thought? Drive all the way out here and nobody's at home. Damn. He went around to the front and started back to the car. His attention was caught by a greenish glow of light from the far end of the dump heap. His curiosity aroused. Muldoon warily made his way through the metal litter until he was close enough to make out the source of the light. It came from the center of a shallow area that had been cleared of rubble. A rusted, misshapen mass of metal lay in the center of the cleared space. The greenish glow was coming from an opening in the mass. Muldoon crept closer until he was able to make out details. Not too many, but enough to give him an idea of the size and general shape of the thing. But what really held him were the figures of Robert and Evan Rieger. He saw them quite distinctly. One of the twins was bent over a machine of some sort. There were levers, gears, and rollers mounted on a web platform no larger than a rather oversized typewriter. Muldoon's eyes went wide at the side of the green backs coming in a steady stream from the interior of the machine and falling into a box at the side. He could see very little else that was in the room other than the brother of the twin at the machine. He was on the far side of it, fiddling with something hidden. Muldoon stared in fascination for another minute, then carefully made his way back to the car. He had parked it within the growth of scrubbed trees and bushes. He started it, turned the headlights on, and drove slowly out into the open and up to the shack. He hunked his horn loudly a couple of times and got out of the car and walked up to the shack and tried the door. It was closed. Presently, the figures of Evan and Robert Rieger came into view from the direction of the dump heap. Muldoon's figure was outlined in the glow of the headlights. Muldoon noticed the briefcase one of them was carrying. Ah, there are Muldoon! Muldoon had recognized Robert's voice. Hello, Mr. Rieger. Thought I'd come by and let you know how I've been doing. Evan, who was carrying the briefcase, unlocked the door and switched on the light. The other two followed him into the room. Robert Rieger motioned for Muldoon to take the sofa. Evan went into the other room. Well, my boy, Robert said heartily, how is it going? Slowly, Muldoon said casually. But the first of this sort of operation has to go that way. Kind of feel things out if you know what I mean. Of course, how does it look? I think it's going to go all right. I've got plans. Splendid. Do you need money? Yes, about ten thousand. Evan, do bring the case out. Robert called loudly. In a couple of seconds, Evan Rieger appeared. He brought the briefcase to his brother, turned, and went back into the other room without saying anything. He walked slowly and stiffly, his feet slapping heavily on the bare floors. What's wrong with him? Muldoon asked. Robert Rieger was pulling money from the briefcase. He looked up with an expressionless face. Nothing. You said ten thousand? Yes. Rieger passed two of the packets to Muldoon. Sure you won't need more? Muldoon put the money away, got up from the sofa, and started to the door. No, just what I need. I'll see you Friday night. Fine, and don't forget, we must get all this done quickly. I won't forget. Robert Rieger waited till the sound of the Plymouth was no longer heard. Then he went into the other room. Other than, for two army cuts, the room was empty. Evan was stretched full length on one of the cuts. You're certain he knows, Heaven asked. Yes, I saw him on the Vizio. But he could see all the interior. No, just a duplicating machine. We must get rid of it tonight. What do you think he will do? What can he do? He knows nothing. The money is genuine, and with the destruction of the machine, he can't prove anything. Nevertheless, it might be the wisest course to get rid of him. We might have been too clever with that advertisement. Possibly, but we must move quickly then. I must leave this planet in seven days now, and we must have this area under release by then. Three musts. Robert smiled thinly. We will. If not through Muldoon, then through another means. When you return in a year with the space fleet, you will find the landing area we need. And after that, they smiled at each other. We said we would not fail. This planet will fall to our weapons like ripe fruit from a tree. But first, I must return to tell them, Evan said, and if I do not return, they will know we have failed, and will seek another planet. We won't fail, Robert reiterated. Right now, let's get back to the spaceship and the duplicating machine. Muldoon spent a busy Thursday. A news brief in the Times Financial Section, which told of a public utility wanting island property, gave him an idea for one thing. He spent all morning bringing the idea to a head, after he had verified the truth of the item. Then, after a late lunch, he went to the Treasury Department's headquarters and spent a couple of hours with the head of the local investigation department. He was quite pleased with himself by nightfall, as he headed out to the island. This time, he parked the car at a considerable distance from the shack. There were lights on this night. He walked boldly up and knocked at the door. It opened wide and the thick figure of one of the twins darkened the opening. Well, Mr. Muldoon, I did not think to see you till Friday. I thought I'd come and see you tonight, Muldoon said as he stepped into the room. I didn't hear the call. Oh, parked it back a bit, Muldoon said. He turned toward the other twin as the inner door opened. Hello. Hello.  We might as well conclude our business with him now. An excellent idea, Robert. Excellent. What do you mean, Muldoon asked? I no longer am acting for you? Not for us, for yourself. I'm afraid your services in any capacity will no longer be needed. Muldoon caught the undercurrent of menace in Robert's voice. It told them they were not only suspicious, but ready to act on it. He started to edge toward the door, but Robert suddenly reached out and took his arm.  Evan moved swiftly for his size and took up a position before the door, which he kicked shut. Muldoon twisted sharply and was free of the other's grip. He stepped back a couple of paces. What the hell's this all about? Come now, Muldoon, Robert said softly. You didn't think you were crying when unobserved last night. So I was nosy, but what's this rough stuff you're trying to pull? Merely making sure your curiosity will end tonight. Muldoon took a couple of more retreating paces. You mean you're going to get rid of me? Well, maybe you will, and maybe you won't. But even if you do, smile broke through the grim lips of the twin threatening Muldoon. You mean the duplicating machine? Just another piece of rusted scrap among the rest of the junk. Muldoon paled. The evidence he was going to need gone. And of course the money is genuine. We made sure of it, ink, paper, everything. We made sure of it long ago.  But the rest of the planet will know as soon as Evan returns. Muldoon's mind was working swiftly. You got rid of the machine, but what about the junk shop it was in? I'll bet there are more important things there. Indeed there are, but no one will find them.  It was then that Muldoon made his move. He lashed out with a fist, the blow staggered Robert, and Muldoon was crashing his shoulder against the inner door. It burst inward, but before he could get through, Robert grabbed him. The whole side of Muldoon's face went numb as Robert crashed his fist against his jaw. Muldoon knew he didn't stand a chance in a straight-up fight. Not with these two, Robert's hands were reaching for him now. Muldoon grabbed one of his hands with both of his, twisted outward as he grasped two fingers in each hand. Robert's face went putty gray as the bones snapped. Muldoon no longer cared about fair play. His knee came up where it could do the most damage, and Robert sank groveling to the floor. Muldoon whirled too late. The world exploded in a thousand flashes of pain-filled lights. He went crashing backward into the wall. Evan hit him again before he stumbled blindly away from the terrible fist. Let me tell him, Robert groaned. Muldoon pulled himself up from the pain-filled world he had been sent into. There seemed to be two Evans facing him. Then there was only one. A twisted grin came to Muldoon's lips. Come ahead, you rat, he mumbled. Evan came forward, and swift as an adder, Muldoon kicked him just below the kneecap. Evan screamed and collapsed. Muldoon staggered out of the way of the falling body, only to fall into the clutches of Robert's sudden reaching fingers. He fell to the floor. Robert tried to get his good hand up to Muldoon's throat. Muldoon beat at the thick face with both hands, but the others seemed not to feel the pounding fist. Slowly the fingers managed to reach their goal.  His hand found Robert's face, came gently over it until his thumb pressed on one eyeball, and Robert screamed as the thumb became a hooked instrument to blind him. Muldoon rolled away from the others, staggered, somehow erect, but he knew his strength was gone. He couldn't make it to the door, and now Evan had him. And the door burst open, and men poured into the room. Muldoon recognized only one, the head of the treasury's investigation department, before he blacked out. Dina Savry stroked his forehead gently. Does it hurt much, baby? The nurse had left them alone when Dina came into the hospital room. Not now, Muldoon said. What are they going to do to those men, she asked. Oh, twenty years, according to Phillips. Counterfeiting, you know, carries heavy penalties. But I thought the money was good. After all, they had paid rent with C-notes. A slip-up on the bank's part. You see, they made one mistake. The machine they had turned out perfect bills. Every one with the same serial number. Dina's eyes widened. And the junk shop, or whatever it was, she said, I thought I'd let well enough alone. You see, I took care of that during the day. The twins, being criminals, had automatically broken their lease. They also made it possible for me to change clients. Well, it's going to be a huge tank covering that dump and shack. A tank holding an awful lot of natural gas. I got together with the owner of the property, and the utility people yesterday afternoon and worked out a deal. They're going to dump all that junk into the ocean. I'm sorry about the other night, she said suddenly. Is that how you say you're sorry, he asked? Uh-huh, she said as he reached for her. There's a time and place for that. Promise or lips agree. This is the end of Least the Doomsday by Lee Archer. Recording by Tom Weiss.