competition by James Cozzi. 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 Bologna Times. Competition by James Cozzi. They would learn what caused the murderous disease if it was the last thing they did. Greta. January 18, Earth-time. I wish Max would treat me like a woman. An hour ago at dinner, John Armitage proposed a toast, especially for my benefit. He loves to play the gallant. Big man, silver mane, very blue eyes, a porcelain smile, the head of WSC, the perfect example of the politician-scientist. To the colony, he announced, raising his glass, may Epsilon love them and keep them. May it only be transmittal trouble. Amen. Max said. We drank. Taylor Bishop put down his glass precisely. Bishop is a gray little man with a diffident voice that belies his reputation as the best biochemist in the system. As Farragut hinted otherwise, he asked mildly. Armitage frowned. It would be scarcely prudent for Senator Farragut to alarm the populace with disaster-rumors. Bishop looked at him out of his pale eyes. Besides, it's an election year. The silence was suddenly ugly. Then Armitage chuckled. All right, he said, so the senator wants to be a national hero. The fact still remains that Epsilon had better be habitable, or Pan-Asia will scream we're hogging it. They want war anyway. Within a month. Boom. For a moment I was afraid he was going to make a speech about Earth's suffocating billions, the screaming tension of the Cold War, and the sacred necessity of our mission. If he had, I'd have gotten the weeping shrieks. Some responsibilities are too great to think about. But instead he winked at me. For the first time I began to realize why Armitage was the director of the scientist's world council. Hypothesis, Greta, he said. Epsilon is probably a paradise. Why should the test colony let the rest of the world in on it? They're being selfish. I giggled. We relaxed. After supper, Armitage played chess with Bishop, while I followed Max into the control room. Soon, I said. Planetfall in eighteen hours, Doctor. He said it stiffly, busying himself at the controls.  He is also a fine pilot and magnificent bacteriologist. I wanted to slap him.  Honestly, I said, what do you think? Disease, he said betterly. For the first six months they reported on schedule, remember? A fine, clean planet. No dominant life-forms. Perfect for immigration. Unique. One world in a billion. Abruptly they stopped sending. You figure it. I thought about it. I read your thematic on Venusian viruses, he said abruptly. Good show. You should be an asset to us, Doctor. Thanks, I snapped. I was so furious that I inadvertently looked into the cabin viewplate. Bishop had warned me. It takes years of deep space-time to enable a person to stare at the naked universe without screaming. It got me. The crystal thunder of the stars, that horrible hungry blackness. I remember I was sort of crying and fighting, then Max had me by the shoulders, holding me gently. He was murmuring and stroking my hair. After a time I stopped whimpering. Thanks, I whispered. You better get some sleep, Greta, he said. I turned in. I think I'm falling in love. January 19. Today we made planetfall. It took Max a few hours to home in on the test colony ship. He finally found it on the shore of an inland sea that gleamed like wrinkled blue satin. For a time we cruised in widening spirals trying to detect some signs of life. There was nothing. We finally landed. Max and Armitage donned spacesuits and went toward the colony ship. They came back in a few hours. Very pale. They're dead! Armitage's voice cracked as he came out of the airlock. All of them. Skeletons. Max said. How? Bishop said. Armitage's hands were shaking as he poured a drink. Looks like civil war. But there were a hundred of them, I whispered. They were dedicated. I wonder, Bishop said thoughtfully, white and brown and yellow, Russian and British and German and Chinese and Spanish. They were chosen for technical background rather than emotional stability. Rot! Armitage said like drums beating. It's some alien bug, some toxin. We've got to isolate it. Find an antibody. He went to work. January 22. I'm scared. It's taken three days to finalize the atmospheric tests. Oxygen, nitrogen, helium with trace gases. Those trace gases are stinkers. Bishop discovered a new inert gas, heavier than xenon. He's excited. I'm currently checking stuff that looks like residual organic and am not too happy about it. Still this atmosphere seems pure. Armitage is chafing. It's in the flora, he had insisted today. Something, perhaps, that they ate. He stood with a strained tautness, staring feverishly at the chronometer. Senator Farragut's due to make contact soon. What'll they tell him? That we're working on it, Bishop said dryly, that the four best scientists in the galaxy are working toward the solution. That's good, Armitage said seriously, but they'll worry. You are making progress. I wanted to wrap a pestle around his neck. We were all in the control room an hour later. Armitage practically stood at attention while Farragut's voice boomed from the transmitter. It was very emetic. The senator said the entire hemisphere was waiting for us to announce the planet was safe for immigration. He said the stars were challenged to man. He spoke fearfully of the coming world crisis. Epsilon was man's last chance for survival. Armitage assured him our progress was satisfactory, that within a few days we would have something tangible to report. The senator said we were heroes. Finally it was over. Max yawned. Wonder how many voters start field work at once? Armitage frowned. It's not funny, Saison. Not funny at all. In as much as we've checked out the atmosphere, I suggest we start field work at once. Taylor blanked. We're still testing a few residuals. I happen to be nominal leader of this party. Armitage stood very tall, very determined. Obviously the atmosphere is pure. Let's make some progress. February 2nd. This is progress. For the past 10 days we've worked the clock round. Quantitative analysis, soil, water, flora, fauna, cellular, microscopic. Nothing. Max has discovered a few lethal alkaloids and some greenish tree fungus, but I doubt if the colony were indiscriminate fungus-heaters. Bishop has found a few new unicellular types, but nothing dangerous. There's one tentacled thing that reminds me of a frightened rotifer. Max named it Armitageum. Armitage is pleased. Perhaps the fate of the 100 colonists will remain one of those forever unsolved mysteries, like the fate of the Mary Celeste, or the starship Prometheus. This planet's clean. February 4. Today Max and I went specimen hunting. It must be autumn on Epsilon. Everywhere the trees are a riot of scarlet and ochre. The scrubby bushes are shedding their leaves. Once we came upon a field of thisyl-like plants with spiny seed pods that opened as we watched, the purple spores drifting afield in an eddy of tinted mist. Max said it reminded him of Scotland. He kissed me. On the way back to the ship, we saw two skeletons. Each had its fingers tightly locked, above the other's throat. February 20. We have, to date, analyzed 900 types of plant life for toxin content. Bishop has tested innumerable spores and bacteria. Our slide file is immense and still growing. Max has captured several insects. There is one tiny yellow bush spider with a killing bite, but the species seems to be rare. Bishop has isolated a mold bacterium that could cause a high fever, but its propagation rate is far too low to enable it to last long in the bloodstream. The most dangerous animal seems to be a two-foot-tall arthropod. They're rare and peaceable. Bishop vivisected one yesterday and found nothing alarming. Last night I dreamed about the first expedition. I dreamed they all committed suicide because Epsilon was too good for them.  We're working in a sort of quiet madness, getting no closer to the solution. Armitage talked to Senator Farragut yesterday and hinted darkly that the first ship's hydroponic system went haywire and that an improper carbohydrate imbalance killed the colony. Pretty thin. Farragut's getting impatient. Bishop looks haggard. Max looks grim. February 23rd. Our quantitative tests are slowing down. We play a rubber of bridge each night before retiring. Last night I trumped Max's ace and he snarled at me. We had a fight. This morning I found a bouquet of purple spore thistles at my cabin door. Max is sweet. This afternoon, by mutual consent, we all locked off work and played bridge. Bishop noticed the thistle bouquet and a vase over the chronometer he objected. They're harmless, Max said. Besides, they smell nice. I can hardly wait for tomorrow's rubber. Our work is important, but one does need relaxation. February 25. Armitage is cheating. Yesterday he failed to score one of my overtricks. We argued bitterly about it. Taylor, of course, sided with him. Three hands later Armitage got the bid in hearts. One hundred and fifty honors, he announced. That's a lie, I said. It was only a hundred, he grinned. But thank you, Greta. Now I shunt try the queen finesse. No wonder they've won the last three evenings. Max is furious with them both. February 28. We played all day. Max and I kept losing. I always knew Armitage was a pompous toad, but I never realized he was slimy. This afternoon it was game all, and Armitage overcalled my diamond opener with three spades. Bishop took him to four, and I doubted, counting on my ace-king of hearts and diamonds. I led out my diamond ace and Armitage trumped from his hand. Bishop laid down his dummy. He had clubs and spades solid, with double-ton heart and diamonds. None. Max asked Armitage dangerously. Armitage tittered. I wanted to scratch his eyes out. He drew trump immediately and set up clubs on board, dumping the heart losers from his hand, and finally sloughing two diamonds. Made seven, he said complacently. Less two for the diamond reneg. Makes five. One overtrick doubled. We were vulnerable, so it's game and rubber. I gasped. You reneged deliberately. Certainly. Doubledon and hearts and diamonds in my hand. If you get in, I'm down one. As it was, I made an overtrick. The only penalty for a reneg is two tricks. The rule-book does not differentiate between deliberate and accidental renegs. Sorry! I stared at his floored throat, at his jugular. I could feel my mouth twitching. On the next hand I was dummy. I excused myself and went into the lap. I found a scalpel. I came up quietly behind Armitage, and Bishop saw what I was going to do, and shouted, and I was not nearly fast enough. Armitage ducked, and Bishop tackled me. Thanks, dear," Max said thoughtfully, looking at the cards scattered on the floor. We would have been set one trick. Club Finesse fails. She's crazy," Armitage's mouth worked. The strain's too much for her. I cried. I apologized hysterically. After a while I convinced them I was all right. Max gave me a sedative. We did not play any more bridge. Over supper I kept staring at Armitage's throat. After eating I went for a long walk. When I got back to the ship, everyone was sleeping. March one. Bishop found Armitage this morning in his cabin. He came out, very pale, staring at me.  Now what'll I do for a partner? You can't prove it," I said. We'll have to confine her to quarters. Max said wearily. I'll tell Farragut. And let him know the expedition is failing? Max sighed. You're right. We'll tell them Armitage had an accident. I said seriously. It was obviously suicide. His mind snapped. Oh God! Max said. They buried Armitage this afternoon. From my cabin I watched them dig the grave. Cheaters never prosper. March two. Max talked with Senator Farragut this morning. He said Armitage had died a hero's death. Farragut sounds worried. The Pan-Asians have withdrawn their embassy from Imperial Africa. Tension is mounting on the home-front. Immigration must start this week. Max was very reassuring. Just a few final tests, Senator. We want to make sure. We puttered in our laboratories all afternoon. Bishop seemed bored. After dinner he suggested three-handed bridge, and Max said he knew a better game, a friendly game his grandmother had taught him. Hearts. March five. It's a plot. All day long Bishop and Max have managed to give me the Queen of Spades. It's deliberate, of course. Three times I've tried for the moon, and Bishop has held out one damned little heart at the end. Once Max was slightly ahead on points, and Bishop demanded to see the score. I thought for a moment they would come to blows, but Bishop apologized.  Quite, Max said. When we finally turned in, Bishop was ahead on points. Too far ahead. March six. I suppose it's Bishop's laugh. It has a peculiar horse-like stridentcy that makes me want to tear out his throat. Twice today I've broken down and cried when he made a jackpot. I'm not going to cry any more. Supper was the usual. Beef, yeast, and vita ale. I remember setting Bishop's plate in front of him, and the way his pale eyes gleamed between mouthfuls. Three thousand points ahead, he gloated. You'll never catch me now. Never, never! That was when he gripped his throat and began writhing on the floor. Max felt his pulse. He stared at me. Very nice, he said. Quick, did you use a derivative of that green fungus? I said nothing. Max's nostrils were white and pinched. Must I make an autopsy? Why bother, I said. It's obviously heart failure. Yes, why bother, he said. He looked tired.  I'll bring your meals. I don't trust you. His laughter had a touch of madness. March 10. Max unlocked my cabin door this morning. He looked drawn. Listen, he said. I've checked my respiration, pulse, saliva, temperature—all normal. So come here, he said. I followed him into the lab. He indicated a microscope. His eyes were bright. Well, a drop in my blood, he said. Look, I squinted into the microscope. I saw purple discs. Oddly, they did not attack the red blood cells. There was no fission, no mitosis. The leukocytes, strangely enough, let them alone. My hands were shaking as I took a sterile slide and pricked my finger. I put the slide under the microscope. I adjusted the lens and stared. Purple discs swimming in my bloodstream, thriving, minding their own business. Me too, I said. They're inert, Max said hoarsely. They don't affect metabolism, cause fever, or interfere with the body chemistry in any way. Do they remind you of anything? I thought about it. Then I went to the slide file that was marked flora negative. Right, Max said. The purple thistle spores. The atmosphere is clogged with them. Greta, my sweet, we are infected. I feel fine, I said. All day long we ran tests. Negative tests. We seem to be disgustingly healthy. Symbiosis, Max said finally. Live and let live. Apparently, we're hosts. Only one thing disturbs me. Most symbiotes do something for their host. Something to enhance the host's survival potential. We played chess this evening. I won. Max is furious. He's such a poor sport. March 11. Max talked with Senator Farragut this morning. He gave Epsilon a clean bill of health, and the senator thanked God. The first starship will leave tonight, the senator said, right on schedule, with ten thousand colonists aboard. Your world, heroes! Max and I played chess the rest of the day. Max won consistently. He utilizes a viancetto that is utterly impregnable. If he wins tomorrow, I shall have to kill him. Max. March 13. It was, of course, necessary for me to destroy Armitage in Bishop. They won far too often. But I am sorry about Greta. Yet I had to strangle her. If she hadn't started that infernal queen's pawn opening, it would have been different. She beat me six times running, and on the last game I pulled a superb orangutan. But it was too late. She saw mate in four and gave me that serpent smirk I know so well. How could I have ever been in love with her? March 14. Frightfully boring to be alone, I have a thought. Chess. Right hand against left. White and black. Jolly good. March 16. I haven't much time. Left was black this morning, and I beat him four out of five. We're in the lab now. He's watching me scribble this. His thumb and forefinger are twitching and fury. He looks like some great white spider about to spring. He sees the scalpel by the microscope. Now his fingers are inching toward it. Treacherous beast, I'm stronger. If he tries to amputate. End of Competition by James Cossey. Devils Asteroid by Manly Wade Wellman. 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. Devils Asteroid by Manly Wade Wellman. It was not very large as asteroids go, but about it clung a silvery mist of atmosphere. Deeper flashes through the mist-betokened water and green patches hinted of rich vegetation. The space patroller circled the little world knowledgeably, like a wasp buzzing around an apple. In the control room by the forward ports, the Martian skipper addressed his terrestrial companion. I wish you joy of your new home, he heard. Like many Martians, he was braced upright on his lower tentacles by hoops and buckles around his bladdery body so that he had roughly a human form over which lay a strange loose armor of light plates. In the breathing hole of his petal-tufted skull was lodged an artificial voice box that achieved words. I regret. Fitzhupar glowered back. He was tall, even for a man of earth, and his long-jawed young face darkened with wrath. Regret nothing, he snapped.  Hell, repeated the Martian reproachfully. But it is a splendid miniature world, nineteen of your miles in diameter, with artificial gravity center to hold air and water, sewn, too, with terrestrial plants and companions of your own race.  I can see that, Captain. The tufted head wagged. Under treaty between Mars and earth, judges of one planet cannot sentence to death criminals from the other, not even for murder. It wasn't for murder, exploded Parr. I struck in self-defense. I cannot argue the point. Your victim was a high official, perhaps insolent, but you earth folk forget how easy our craniums crack under your blows.  You are exiled. Prepare to disembark. Behind them three Martian space-hands sprawling like squids near the control board made flute-like comments to each other. The tentacle of each twiddled and electro-automatic pistol. Remove tunic and boots directed the skipper. You will not need them. Quickly, sir. Parr glared at the levelled weapons of the space-hands, then shucked his upper garment and kicked off his boots. He stood up straight and lean muscled in a pair of duck shorts. His fists clenched at his sides. Now we ground, the skipper continued, and even as he spoke there came the shock of the landfall. The inner panel opened, then the outer hatch. Sunlight beat into the chamber. Good-bye, said the skipper formally. You have thirty seconds' earth-time to walk clear of our blasts before we take off. March. Parr strode out upon dark, rich soil. He sensed behind him the silent quiver of Martian laughter and felt a new ecstasy of hate for his late guards, their race and the red planet that spawned them. Not until he heard the rumble and swish of the ship's departure did he take note of the little world that was now his prison home. At first view it wasn't really bad. At second it wasn't really strange. The sky, by virtue of an earth-type atmosphere, shone blue with wispy clouds, and around the small plane on which he stood, sprouted clumps and thickets of green tropical trees. Heathery ferns with white and yellow edges to their leaves grew under his bare feet. The sun hovering at Zenith gave a July warmth to the air. The narrow horizon was very near, of course, but the variety of thickets and the broken nature of the land beyond kept it from seeming too different from the skyline of earth. Parr decided that he might learn to endure, even to enjoy. Meanwhile, what about the other terrestrials exiled here? And as Parr wondered, he heard their sudden excited voices. Threats and oaths rent the balmy air. Through the turmoil resounded solid blows. Parr broke into a run, shoved through some broad-leafed bushes, and found himself in the midst of the excitement. A dozen men with scraggly beards and skimpy rags of clothing were setting upon an unclassifiable creature that snarled and fought back. It was a wrecked and coarsely hairy. Parr saw that much before the enigma gave up the unequal fight and ran clumsily away into a mass of bright flowered shrub. Excrations and a volley of sticks and stones speeded its flight. Then the mob was aware of Parr.  One of them tall and thin spoke diffidently. You just arrived? I was just booted out ten minutes ago, Parr informed him. Why? Because your our new chief responded the thin man bowing. The latest comer always commands here. Parr must have goggled for the thin one smiled through tawny stubble. The latest comer is always the highest and wisest he elaborated. He is healthiest, best. The longer you stay on this asteroid, the lower you fall. Parr thought he was being joked with and scowled, but his informant smiled the broader. My name is Saddow. Here, under sentence for theft of Martian government property. I'm Fitz you, Parr. They said I was a murderer. It's a lie. One or two chuckled at that, and the one who called himself Saddow said, we all feel unjustly condemned. Meet the others, Jeffords, Wayne, Haldacott. Each man, as named, bowed to Parr. The final introduction was of a sallow frowning lump of a fellow called Shanklin. I was boss until you came, volunteered this last man. Now you take over. He waved toward a little cluster of grass huts, half hidden among ferny palms. This is our capital city. You get the largest house, until somebody new shows up, then you step down, like me. He spoke with ill grace. Parr did not reply at once, but studied these folk who were putting themselves under his rule. They would not have been handsome, even if shaved and dressed properly. Indeed, two or three had the coarse, low-browed look of profound degenerates. Back into Parr's mind came the words of Saddow. The longer you stay, the lower you fall. Gentlemen, said Parr at last. Before I accept command or other office, give me information. Just now you were acting violently. You, Saddow, started explaining. Go ahead.  They obeyed with one or two backward glances. Left alone with Parr, Saddow looked up with a wise, friendly expression. I won't waste time trying to be scientific or convincing. I'll give you facts. We older exiles know them only too well. This asteroid seems a sort of Eden to you, I daresay. I told the Martians that I knew there was a catch somewhere. Your instincts sound. The catch is this. Living creatures, terrestrials anyway, degenerate here. They go backward in evolution, become— Saddow broke off a moment, for his lips had begun to quiver. They become beasts, he finished. What? growled Parr. You mean that men turn into apes? Yes, and the apes turn into lower creatures. Those become lower creatures still. Saddow's eyes were earnest and doful. The process may run back and down to the worm for all we can judge. We try not to think too much about it. This is a joke of some kind, protested Parr, but Saddow was not smiling. Martian joke, perhaps. The treaty keeps them from killing us, and this is their alternative punishment. It makes death trivial by comparison. You don't believe. It's hard. But you see that some of us, oldest in point of exile, are sliding back into bestiality, and you saw us drive away, as our custom is, a man who had definitely become a beast. That thing was a man? prompted Parr, his spine chilling.  Parr squinted at the huts, around the doors of which lounged the other men. That looks like a permanent community, Saddow. It is, but the population's floating. I came here three months ago, earth months, and the place was operating under the rules I outlined. Latest comer, necessarily the highest-grade human being, to be chief. Those who degenerate beyond a certain point, to be driven out. The rest to live peaceably together, helping each other. Parr only half heard him. Evolution turned backward. It can't be true. It's against nature. Martians war against nature, replied Saddow pithily. Mars is a dead world, and its people are devils. They'd be the logical explorers to find a place where such things can be and to make use of it. Don't believe me if you don't want to. Time and life here will convince you. In the days that followed, the asteroid turned once in approximately 22 hours. Parr was driven to belief. Perhaps the slowness of the ideas dawning kept him from some form of insanity. Every man of the little group that called him chief was on the way to being a man no more. There were stooped backs among them, a forward hang to arms, a sprouting of coarse-lank hair. Farheads fell away, noses flattened coarsely, eyes grew small and shifty. Saddow informed Parr that such evidences of degeneration meant a residence of a year or so on the exile asteroid. We'll be driving one or two of them away pretty soon, he observed. What then, asked Parr, what happens to the ones that are driven out? Sometimes we'd notice them peering through the brush, but mostly they haul out by themselves a little away from here, shaggy, brutes, like our earliest fathers. There are lower types still. They stay completely clear of us. Parr asked the question that had haunted him since his first hour of exile. Saddow, do you see any change in me? Saddow smiled and shook his head. You won't alter in the least for a month. That was reasonable. Man, Parr remembered, has been pretty much the same for the past ten thousand years. If a year brought out the beast in the afflicted exiles, then that year must count for a good hundred thousand years turned backward. Five years would be five hundred thousand of reverse evolution. In that time one would be reduced to something definitely animal. Beyond that one would drop into the category of tailed monkeys or rodent crawlers, reptiles next, and then—I'll kill myself first, he thought—but even as he made the promise he knew he would not. Cowards took the suicide way out. The final gilding to unjust cruel mastery by the Martians. Parr stiffened his shoulders that had grown tanned and vigorous in the healthy air. He spoke grimly to Saddow. I don't accept all this yet. It's happened to others, but not to me so far. There's a way of stopping this and paying off those Martians' swine, if it can be done. I'm with you, Chief, cried Saddow, and they shook hands. Heartened he made inquiries. The Martian space patroller came every month or so to drop a new exile. It always landed on the plane where Parr had first set foot to the asteroid. That gave him an idea, and he held conference in the early evening with Saddow, Shanklin, and one or two others of the higher grade. We could capture that craft, urged Parr. There's only a skipper in three Martians. Yes, with pistols and ray throwers, objected Shanklin. Too big a risk. What's the alternative, demanded Saddow? You want to stay here and turn monkey, Shanklin? Chief, he added to Parr. I said once that I was on your side. I'll follow wherever you lead. Me too, threw in Jeffords, a sturdy man of middle age who had been sentenced for killing a Martian in a brawl.  We fork and pull it off without Shanklin. But Shanklin agreed with something like good humor to stand by the vote of the majority. The others of the community assented readily, for they were used to acting at the will of their wiser companions. And at the next arrival of the Martian patroller, an observer posted by Parr in a treetop reported its coming whole hours away. They made a quick disposal of forces around the rocket-scorched plane that did duty for a landing field. Parr consulted for a last moment with Saddow, Shanklin, Jeffords and hauled a cut. We'll lead the rushes from different directions, he said. As the hatchway comes open, the patroller will stall for a moment. Can't take off until it's airtight everywhere. I'll give a yell for signal. Then everybody charge, jam the tubes by smacking the soft metal collars at the nozzles. We can straighten them back when the ship's ours. Out to your places now. The first one at the hatch will probably be shot or raid, grumbled Shanklin. I'll be first there, Parr promised him. Who wants to live forever anyway? Posts everybody, here she comes in. Tense, quick breathing moments thereafter as the craft descended and lodged. Then the hatchway opened. Parr, crouching in a clump of bushes with two followers, raised his voice in a battle yell and rushed. A figure had come forward to the open hatch, slender and topped with tawny curls. It paused and shrank back at the sudden apparition of Parr and his men leaping forward. Tentacles swarmed out, trying to push or pull the figure aside, so as to close the hatch again. That took more seconds. Then Parr had crossed the intervening space. Without even looking at the new coming exile who had so providentially forestalled the closing of the hatch, he clutched a shoulder and heaved mightily. The Martian whose tentacles had reached from within came floundering out, dragging along. It was the skipper whose ironic acquaintance Parr had made in his own voyage out, all dressed in that loose plate armor. Parr wrenched a pistol from a tentacle. Yelling again, he fired through the open hatchway. Two space-hands ducked out of sight. Wave One yelled Parr, and for a moment he thought they had. But not all his followers had charged with his own bold immediacy. Sadal on one side of the ship, Jeffords and Haldicott on the other had run in close and were walloping manfully at the nozzles of the rocket tubes. The outer metal yielded under the blows, threatening to clog the throats of the blasts. Only at the rear was there no attack. Shanklin and with him three or four of the lesser men had hung back. The few moments to lay there was enough to make all the difference. Thinking and acting wisely, even without a leader, the Martian space-hands met the emergency. They had withdrawn from the open hatchway, but could reach the mechanism that closed it. Parr was too late to jump in after them. Then one of them fired the undamaged rear tubes. Swish! Wang! The ship took off so abruptly that Parr barely dodged a side in time. Dragging along with him the new terrestrial, whose shoulder he clutched, and also the surprised Martian skipper. The rocket blasts, dragging fiery fingers across the plane, struck down Haldicott and Jeffords, and bowled over two of the laggards with Shanklin's belated contingent. Then it was away, moving jumbily with its half-wrecked side tubes, but nevertheless escaping. Parr swore a great oath that made this stranger gasp, and then Parr had time to see that this was a woman and young. She was briefly dressed in blouse and shorts. Her tawny hair was tumbled, her blue eyes wide. To her still clung the Martian skipper, and Parr covered him with the captured pistol. Next instant Shanklin arrived at last, struck out with his club, and shattered the flour-like cranium inside the plated cap. The skipper fell dead on the spot. I wanted him for a prisoner! growled Parr. What good would that do flung back Shanklin roughly? The ship's what we wanted. It's gone. You bungled Parr. Parr was about to reply with the obvious charge that Shanklin's own hesitancy had done much to cause the failure when Saddow spoke. This young lady, Miss, are you an exile? Because he spoke in the same fashion that he had once employed to Parr, then you're our new chief, the latest comrade commands. Why, why? stammered the girl. Wait a minute, interposed Parr again. Let's take stock of ourselves. Haldacott and Jeffords killed, and a couple of others. Shanklin barked at him. You don't give the orders any more. We've got a new chief, and you're just one of the rabble, like me. He made a heavily gallant bow toward the latest arrival. May I ask your name, lady? I'm Verena Pemberton, she said. But what's the meaning of all this? Shanklin and Saddow began to explain. The others gathered interestingly around. Parr felt suddenly left out and stooped to look at the dead Martian. The body wore several useful things, a belt with ammunition and a knife combination, shoes on the thickened ends of the tentacles, and that strange armor. As Parr moved to retrieve these, his companions called out to halt him. The new chief will decide about those things, said Shanklin, officially. Especially the gun. Can I have it? To avoid a crisis, Parr passed the weapon to the girl, who nodded thanks and slid it into her own waist belt. Shanklin asked for and received the knife. Saddow was the only man slender enough to wear the shoes and gratefully donned them. Parr looked once again at the armor, which he had drawn free of its dead owner. What's that for? asked Shanklin. Parr made no answer, because he did not know. The armor was too loosely hung together for protection against weapons. It certainly was no space overall, and it had nothing of the elegance that might make it a Martian uniform of office. Casting back, Parr remembered that the skipper had worn it at the time when he, Parr, was landed, but not during the voyage out. He shook his head over the mystery. Let that belong to you. The girl Verena Pemberton was telling him. It has plates of metal that may be turned to use. Perhaps. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something important, but checked herself. If you'll come with us, Saddow told her respectfully, we'll show you where we live and where you will rule. They held counsel that night among the grass-huts, the nine that were left after the unsuccessful attack on the patroller. Verena Pemberton, very pretty in her brief sports costumes, sat on the stump that was chief's place, but Shanklin did most of the talking. Nobody will argue about our life and prospects being good here, he thundered. But there's no use in making things worse when they're bad enough. He shook a thick forefinger at Fitzhuparr, who wore the armor he had stripped from the dead Martian. You were chief and what you said goes. But you're not chief now.  Yes, growled one of the lower fallen listeners, a furry-shouldered buck-toothed clod named Wayne. That blast almost got me, right behind Haldicott. His eyes grown small, gleamed nastily at Parr. We ought to condemn this, man. Please, interposed Saddow, who alone remained friendly to Parr. It's for the chief to condemn. He looked to Verena Pemberton, who shook her head slowly. I feel, she ventured with her eyes on Parr, that this ought to be left up to you as a voting-body. Shanklin sprang to his feet. Fair enough, he bawled. I call Parr guilty. All who think like me say, I. I. I. I. They were all agreeing except Saddow, who looked shrunken and sad and frightened. Shanklin smirked.  Hold on, put in Verena Pemberton. If I'm chief, I'll draw the line there. Don't kill him. Shanklin bowed toward her. I was wrong to suggest that before a woman. Then, he's to be kicked out? There was a chorus of approving yells, and all saved Saddow jumped up to look for sticks and stones. Parr laid his hand on the club he had borne in the skirmish that day. Now, wait! he said, clearly and harshly, and the whole party faced him, Saddow, wainly, the girl questioningly, the rest angrily. I'm to be kicked out, Parr repeated. I'll accept that. I'll go. But, and the club lifted itself in his right hand. I'm not going to be rough-housed. I've seen it happen here, and none of it for me. Oh, no! Shanklin had picked up a club of his own, and grinned fiercely. No! Let me go and I leave without having to be whipped out of camp. Mom, me, and I promise to die fighting. Right here. He stamped a foot on the ground. I'll crack a skull or two before I wink out. That's a solemn statement of fact. Let him go, said Verena Pemberton again, this time with a ring of authority. He wears that armor, and he'll put up a fight. We can't spare any more men. Thank you, Parr told her bleakly. He gave Shanklin a last long stare of challenge, then turned on his heel and walked away toward the thickets amid deep silence.  It seemed to be his last hope, fading away. He pushed in among thick, leafy stems. A voice hailed him, and a figure blacker then the gloom tramped close to him across a little grassy clearing. You? They drive you out? A thick, unsure voice accosted him. Parr hefted his club wondering if this would be an enemy. Yes, they drove me out. I am exiled from among exiles. The others seemed perplexed over these words as though they stated a situation too complicated. Parr's eyes, growing used to the darkness, saw that this was a grotesque, shaggy form, one of the degenerate outcasts from the village. Repeated his interrogator. You come to us. Make one more in camp. Come. Among tall trees, thickly grown lay a throng of sleepers. Parr's companion led him there and made an awkward gesture. You lie down. You sleep. Tomorrow, boss talk. So, saying the beast man curled up at the root of a tree, Parr sat down with his back against another trunk, the club across his knees. But he did not sleep. This plainly enough was the outcast hoard. It clung together the gregariousness of humanity not yet winnowed out by degeneration. It had a ruler too. Tomorrow, boss talk. Talk of what? In what fashion? Thus Parr meditated during the long moonless night. He also took time to examine once more his captured armor. Its metal plates clamped upon a garment of leatheroid, covered his body and limbs even the backs of his hands as well as his neck and scalp. Yet, as he had decided before, it was no great protection against violence. As clothing it was superfluous on this tropical planetoid. What then? He could not see, but he could feel. His fingers questioned all over one plate, probing and tapping. The plate was hollow. In reality, two saucer-shaped plates with their concave faces together. They gave off a muffled clink of hollowness when he tapped them. When he shook the armor, there was something extra in the sound, and that impelled him to hold a plate close to his ear. He heard a soft rhythmic whirr of machinery. There's a vibration in this stuff, he summed up in his mind. What for to protect against what? Then suddenly he had it. The greatest menace of the whole tiny world was the force that reversed evolution. The vibration must be designed to neutralize that force. I'm immune! cried Fitzupar aloud, and in the early dawn that now crept into the grove, his sleeping companions began to wake and rise and gape at him. He gaped back, with the shocked fascination that any intelligent person would feel at viewing such reconstructions of his ancestors. At almost the first glance, he saw that the newest evolutionary thought was correct. These were simian, but not apes. Ape and man, as he had often heard, sprang from the same common forefather, low-browed, muzzle-faced, hairy. Such were these in varying degrees of intensity. None wore clothes. Grinning mouths exhibited fang-like teeth. Bare chests broadened powerfully. Clumsy hands with short ineffectual thumbs made foolish gestures. But the feet, for instance, were not like hands. They were flat pedestals with forward projecting toes. The legs, though short, were powerful. Man's father decided Par must have had something of the bear about his appearance, and the most bearlike of the twenty or thirty beast men heaved himself erect and came slouching across toward Par.  None of the others present were nearly as large, nor were any of the men who had driven Par forth. Six feet six towered this hare-thicketed ogre with a chest like a drae-horse and arms as thick as stove-pipes. One hand, the thumb had trouble opposing the great cucumber fingers, flourished a club almost as long as Par's whole body. I boss, thundered this monster impressively. Throw down stick. Par had risen, his own club poised for defense. The giant's free hand pointed to the weapon. Throw down. It repeated with a growl as bearlike as the body. Not me, said Par, and ducked away from the tree-trunk against which he might be pinned. What's the idea? I didn't do anything to you. I boss, said his threatener again. Nobody fight me. True, true, chorused the others sycophantically. Ling, he boss. Throw down club. You new man. Par saw what they meant. With the other community the newest and therefore most advanced individual ruled. In this more primitive society the strongest held sway until a stronger displaced him. The giant called Ling was by no means the most human-seeming creature there, but he was plainly the ruler and plainly meant so to continue.  As the six-foot bludgeon whirled upward between him and the sky he cast down his own stick in token of surrender. No argument, Ling, he said sensibly. There was laughter at that and silly applause. Ling swung around and stripped bear his great pointed fangs in a snarl. Silence fell abruptly, and he faced Par again. You, he said. You got on! And he stepped close, tapping the plates on Par's chest. It's armor, said Par. R. R.  Well, said Ling. I want. I wear. He fumbled at the fastenings. Par jumped clear of him. He had accepted authority a moment ago, but this armor was his insurance against becoming a beast. It's mine, he objected. Solemnly Ling shook his great browless head as big as a coal-scuttle and fringed with bristly beard. Mine, he said roughly. I boss. You? He caught Par by the arm and dragged him close. So quick and powerful was the clutch that it almost dislocated Par's shoulder. By sheer instinct Par struck with his free fist. Square and solid on that coarse-bearded chin landed Par's knuckles with their covering of armor plate, and Ling, confident to the point of innocence because of his strength and authority, had neither guarded nor prepared. His great head jerked back as though it would fly from his shoulders, and Par, wrenching loose, followed up the advantage because a second's hesitation would be his downfall. He hit Ling on the lower end of the breastbone, where his belly would be softest. Above him he heard the beast-giant grunt in pain, and then Par swung roundabout to score on the jaw again. Ling actually gave back, dropping his immense bludgeon. A body less firmly pedestal upon powerful legs and scoop-shoveled feet would have gone down. It took a moment for him to recover.  Par had stooped and caught up his own discarded club.  Ling's hands flashed up like a shortstop, snatched the stick in mid-air, and broke it in two like a carrot. Another roar and Ling charged, head down, and arms outflung for a pulverizing grapple. Par sprang sideways. Ling blundered past.  His whole body bounded back from the impact, and down he went in a quivering moaning heap. He did not get up. Par backed away, gazing at the others. They stood silent in a score of attitudes like children playing at moving statues. Then, cried one, Lou Boss. A chorus of cries and howls greeted this. They gathered round Par with fawning faces. You Boss! You fight Ling! Beat him! Ha! You Boss! At the racket, Ling recovered a little and managed to squirm into a sitting posture. Yes, he said. You Boss! With one hand holding his half-smashed skull, he lifted the other in salute to Par. It took time, several days, but Par got over his first revulsion at the bestial traits of his new companions. After all, in shedding the wit and grace of man, they were recovering the honest simplicity of animals. For instance, Ling was not malicious about being displaced as Janklin had been. Two, there was much more real mutual helpfulness, if not so much talk about it. When one of the horde found a new crop of berries or roots or nuts, he set up a yell for his friends to come and share. A couple of oldsters, doddering and incompetent gargoyles, were fed and cared for by the younger beast men. And all stood ready to obey Par's slightest word or gesture. Thus, though it was a new thought to them, several went exploring with him to the north pole of their world. The journey was no more than fifteen miles, but took them across grassy, foodless plains which had never been worth negotiation. Par chose Ling and another comparatively intelligent specimen who called himself Ruba. Isaac, the mild-mannered one who had first met and guided Par on the night of his banishment from the human village, also pleaded to go. Several others would have joined the party, but the deterioration of legs and feet made them poor walkers. The four went single file. Par, then Big Ling, then Ruba, then Isaac. Each carried on a vine sling a leaf package of fruit and a melon for quenching thirst. They also carried clubs. The plain was well grassed, as high as Ling's knuckled knee. Occasionally small creatures hopped or scuttled away. The beast men threw stones until Par told them to stop. He could not help but wonder if those scurriers had once been men. The hot sun made him sweat under his plate armor, but not for all the solar system would he have laid it aside. They paused for noonday lunch in a grove of ferny trees beyond the plain, then scaled some rough lava-like rocks. In the early afternoon, they came to what must be the asteroid's northern pole. Like most asteroids, this was originally jagged and irregular. Martian engineers in fitting it artificially to support life had roughed it into a sphere and pulverized quantities of the rock into soil. Here at the apex was a ring of rough naked hills, enclosing a pit into which the sun could not look. Ling catching up with Par on the brow of the circular range pointed with his great club. Look like Mouth of World! he hazarded. Dark, maybe World Hungry, eat us! Maybe, agreed Par.  Isaac also came alongside. Mouth? he repeated after Ling. Look down! Men in there! There was a movement sure enough and a flare of something, a torch of punky wood. Isaac was right. Men were inside this polder depression. Come on, said Par at once, and began to scramble down the steep, gloomy inner slope. Ling grimaced but followed lest his companions think him afraid. Ruba and Isaac, who feared to be left behind, stayed close to his heels. The light of the torch flared more brightly. Par could make out figures in its glow. Two of them. The torch itself was wedged in a crack of the rock, and beneath its flame the couple seemed to tug and wrench at something that gleamed darkly, like a great metal toadstool at the bottom of the depression. So engrossed were the workers that they did not notice Par and his companions, and Par drawing near had time to recognize them both. One was Saddow, who would have remained his friend. The other was Verena Pemberton. In the torchlight she looked browner and more vigorous than when he had seen her last. What are you doing? he called to them. Abruptly they both snapped erect and looked toward him. Saddow seized the torch and whirled it on high, shedding light. Verena Pemberton peered at the newcomers. Oh, she said. It's you, Par. Well, get out of here. Par stood his ground, studying the toadstool thing they had been laboring over. It was a wheel-like disk of metal set upon an axle that sprouted from the floor of rock. By turning it they could finish opening a great rock-faced panel nearby. Get out! repeated the girl with a hard edge on her voice. Par felt himself grow angry. Take it easy, he said.  Neither can this be said to be your country. We've as much right here as you. For of us! added Rubo with threatening logic. Two of you, fight! Par, said Saddow, do as Miss Pemberton tells you. Leave here. And if I don't? Temporized Par, who felt the eagerness of his beast men for some sort of skirmish. Verena Pemberton took something from her belt and pointed it. A brittle report resounded. An electro-automatic pellet exploded almost between Par's feet, digging a hole in the rock. He jumped back, so did his three comrades from whose memories had not faded the knowledge of firearms. The next shot, she warned, will be a little higher and more carefully placed.  They win, said Par. Come on, boys. They retired to the upper combing of rock with the sun at their backs. There Par motioned them into hiding behind jagged boulders. Time passed, several hours of it. Finally they saw Saddow and Verena Pemberton depart on the other side of the hole. Good! rumbled Ling. We followed. Sneak up. Grab. Kill. Not us, Par ruled. No war against women, Ling. But we'll go down where they were working and see what it's all about. They groped their way down again. At the bottom of the pit valley, they found the metal projection so like a mighty steering wheel. Saddow's torch lay there, extinguished, and Par still carried a radium lighter in the pocket of his shabby shorts. He made a light and looked. The big panel or rock that had been half open was closed. As for the wheel, it had been bent and jammed by powerful blows with a rock. He could not budge it, nor could the mighty Ling, nor could all of them together. They were inside this asteroid, decided Par, half to himself, down where the Martians planted the artificial gravity machinery. Having been there, they fixed things so nobody will follow them. Only blasting rays could open up a way, and those would probably wreck the mechanism and send air, water, and exiles all flying into space. All this she did. Why? Why what? asked Isaac, not comprehending. Yes, why what? repeated Par. I can only guess, Isaac, and none of my guesses have been worth much lately. Let's go home and keep an eye peeled on our neighbors. The Martians had come again, the same space patroller repaired and twice as many hands and a new skipper. They carried no terrestrial exile. For once, their errand was different. Four of them, harnessed into a wrecked human posture, armed and armored, stood around the evening fire in the central clearing of the village, now ruled by Verena Pemberton. The skipper was being insistent, but not particularly deadly. We recognize that four dead among you will settle for one dead Martian, he told the gathered exiles. The more so as you assure me that the man responsible has been driven from among you. But we make one demand, the armor taken from the body of the dead Martian. I am sorry about that, the chieftainess replied from her side. We didn't know that you valued it.  Get the armor again and we'll refrain from punitive measures. Why do you want the armor so much? inquired Shanklin boldly. He himself had never thought of it as worth much. He was more satisfied to have the knife which he now hid behind him lest the Martians see and claim, but the skipper only shook his peddled skull. It is no problem of yours, he snubbed Shanklin. And to Verena Pemberton, what time shall we grant you, a day, two days? Come before the end of that time and report to me at the patrol vessel. He turned and led his followers back toward the plain where the ship was parked. Night had well fallen and silence hung about the vessel. Only a rectangle of soft light showed the open hatchway. The Martian officer led the way thither, ducked his head, entered. Powerful, hairy hands caught and overpowered him before he could collect himself for resistance. Other hands had disarmed him and were dragging him away. His three companions, narrowly escaping the same fate, fell back and drew their guns and ray-throwers. A voice warned them sharply. Don't fire, any of you. We've got your friends in here and we've taken their electro-automatics. Give us the slightest reason and we'll wipe them out first. You second. Who are you? shrilled one of the Martians, lowering his weapon. My name's Fitz-you-par, came back the grim reply. You framed me into this exile. It's going to prove the worst day's work you Martian flower faces ever did. Not a move, any of you. The ship's mine, and I'm going to take off it dawn. The three discomfitted hands trapped away again. Inside the control room, Parr spoke to his shaggy followers who grinned and twinkled like so many gnomes doing mischief. They won't dare rush us, he said. But two of you, Ling and Isaac, stay at the door with those guns. Dead sure you can still use them? You, Ruba, come here to the controls. You say you once flew spacecraft? Ruba's broad-course hand ruffled the brushy hair that grew on his almost browless head. Once, he agreed dulfily. Now I... many things I don't remember. His face flat-nosed and blubber-lipped grew bleak and plaintiff as he gazed upon instruments he once had mastered. You'll remember. Parr assured him vehemently. I never flew anything but a short-shot pleasure cruiser, but I'm beginning to dope things out. We'll help each other, Ruba. Don't you want to get away from here? Go home? Home? Breathed Ruba and the ears of the others pointed. Some of those ears and all of them hairy pricked up visibly at that word. Well, there you are, Parr said encouragingly. Sweat your brains, lad. We've gotten till dawn. Then away we go. You will never manage. Slurred the skipper from the corner where the Martian captives bound securely sprawled under custody of a beast man with a lever bar for a club. These animals have not the power.   Come on, Ruba. Isn't this the rocket-gauge? Please, remember how it operates? The capture of the ship had been easy. So easy. The guard had been well kept only until the skipper and his party had gone out of sight toward the human village. Nobody ever expected trouble from beast men, and the watch on board had not dreamed of a rush until they were down and secure. But this, the rationalization of intricate space machinery, was by contrast a doleful obstacle. Please remember, Parr pleaded with Ruba again. And so for hours and at last prodded and cajoled and bullied the degenerated intelligence of Ruba had partially responded. His clumsy pause, once so skillful, coaxed the mechanism into life. The blasts emitted preliminary belches. The whole fabric of the ship quivered like a sleeper slowly waking. Can you get her nose up, Ruba? Parr found himself able to inquire at last. Eh, boss, spoke Ling from his watch at the door. Come, I see White Thing. Parr hurried across to look. The White Thing was a tattered shirt held aloft on a stick. From the direction of the village came several figures, Martian and Terrestrial. Parr recognized the bearer of the flag of Truce. It was Verena Pemberton. With her walked the three Martian hands whom he had warned off. Their tentacles lifted to ask for Parley, their weapons sheathed at their belts. Sadal was there, and Shanklin. Ready guns, Parr warned Ling and Isaac. Stand clear of us out there, he yelled. We're going to take off. Fits you, Parr, called back Verena Pemberton. You must not. Oh, must I not? he taunted her. Who's so free with her orders? I've got a gun myself this time. Better keep your distance. The others stopped at the warning, but the girl came forward. You wouldn't shoot a woman, she announced confidently. Listen to me. Parr looked back to where Ruba was fumbling the ship into more definite action. Go on and talk, he baited her. I give you one minute. You've got to give up this foolish idea, she said earnestly. It can't succeed, even if you take off. No, if about it. We're doing wonders. Make your goodbyes short. I wish you joy of this asteroid, ma'am. Suppose you do get away, she conceded. Suppose, though it's a small crowded ship, you reach earth and land safely. What then?  Exhibit these poor devils to show what the Martians do to terrestrials they convict. And then? Yes. And then? She cut in passionately. Don't you see, Parr, relations between Mars and Earth are at a breaking point now. They have been for long. The Martians are technically within their rights when they dump us here, but you'll be a pirate, a thief, a fugitive from justice. You can cause a break, perhaps war, and for what? For getting away, for giving freedom to my only friends on this asteroid, said Parr. Freedom? she repeated. You think they can be free on Earth? Can they face their wives or mothers as they are now, no longer men? Boss, said Ling suddenly and brokenly. She tell true. I won't go home. It was like cold water that sudden rush of ghastly truth upon Parr. The girl was right. His victory would be the saddest of defeats. He looked around him at the beast men who had placed themselves under his control. What would happen to them on Earth? Prison? Asylum? Zoo? Arena Pemberton, he called. I think you win. The hairy ones crowded around him, sensing a change in plan. He spoke quickly. It's all off, boys. Get out, one at a time, and rush away for cover. Nobody will hurt you, and we'll be no worse off than we were. He raised his voice again. If I clear out, will we be left alone? You must give back that armor, she told him. The Martians insist. It's a deal. He stripped the stuff from him and threw it across the floor to lie beside the bound prisoners.  We're getting out. They departed at his orders, all of them. Ling and Isaac went last, dropping the stolen guns they had held so unhandily. Parr waited for all of them to be gone. Then he himself left the ship. At once, bullets began to wicker around him. He dodged behind the ship, then ran crookedly for cover. By great good luck, he was not hit. His beast men hurried to him among the bushes. Hmm! Boss! they asked anxiously. Ship no good! What we do! He looked over his shoulder. Somewhere in the night enemies hunted for him. The beastfolk were beneath contempt, would be left alone. Only he had shown himself too dangerous to be allowed to live. Goodbye, boys, he said with real regret. I'm not much of a boss if I bring bullets among you. Get back home, and let me haul out by myself. I mean it, he said sternly as they hesitated. On your way, and don't get close to me again. Death's catching. They trampled away into the gloom with quarrelous backward looks. Parr took a lonely trail in an opposite direction. After a moment he paused, tingling with suspense. Heavy feet were following him. Who's coming? he challenged and ducked to avoid a possible shot. None came. The heavy tread came nearer. Boss? It was Ling. I told you to go away, reminded Parr gruffly. I not go, Ling retorted. You know make me.   Those others they maybe pick new boss.  I'll be hunted, maybe killed.  He turned and spat over his shoulder in contempt for all marauding Martians and their vassal earth folk. You, me, we stay together, boss. Come on then, said Parr. Ling, you're all right. Good talk, said Ling. They went to the other side of the little spinning world and there nobody bothered them. Time and space were relative as once Einstein remarked to illustrate a rather different situation. Anyway, the village under Verena Pemberton numbered only eight men. Parr and Ling could avoid that many easily on a world with nearly nine hundred square miles of brush, rock, and gully. In a grove among grapevines they built a shelter and there dwelt for many weeks. Ling wore well as a soul friend and partner. Looking at the big devoted fellow, Parr did not feel so revolted as at their first glimpse of each other.  But now he was only big and burly and not so hairy as Parr had once supposed. As for his face, all tusk and jaw and no brow, where had Parr gotten such an idea of it? Homely it was, brutal it wasn't. I get it, mused Parr. I'm beginning to degenerate. I'm falling into the Beastman class, closer to Ling's type. Like can't disgust like. Oh well, why bother about what I can't help? He felt resigned to his fate, but then he thought of another. Verena Pemberton, the girl who might have been a pleasant companion in happier, easier circumstances. She had banished him, threatened him, weedled him out of victory. She too would be slipping back to the Beast. Her body would warp her skin grow hairy, her teeth lengthen and sharpen. Ugh! That at least revolted him. Look, boss! said Ling, rising from where he lounged with a cluster of grapes in his big hand. People coming! Two of them!  They're men, not Beastmen. They must be looking for trouble. Couldn't come to a better place to find it! rejoined Ling, spitting between his palm and the half of his cudgel to tighten his grip. The two of them walked boldly into view. I see you, Saddow, shot at Parr clearly, for there was no mistaking the gaunt-freckled figure in the lead. Who's that with you? The other man must be a new arrival. He was youngish and merry-faced as he drew closer with black curly hair and a pointed beard.  He were a breach clint of woven grasses and looked expectantly at Parr. They aren't armed! pointed out Ling, and it was true. The pair carried sticks, but only as staffs. Parr! said Al, was shouting back. Thank heaven I found you. We need you badly. He came close, and Parr hefted his club. No funny business. He challenged, but said Al gestured the challenge aside. I'm not here to fight. I say you're needed. Things have gone wrong awfully. The others got to feeling that there was no reason to obey a woman chief even though Miss Pemberton has many good impulses. I agreed to that, not at Parr, remembering the girl's many strange behaviors. I daresay she wasn't much of a leader. Saddow did not argue the point. Shanklin as the previous newest man grabbed back the chieftaincy. He plunged ahead. Those other fools backed him. When I tried to defend Miss Pemberton, they drove me out. I stumbled among the others. That crowd you used to capture the patroller and got a line on where you were. I came for help. One phrase had stuck in Parr's mind. You tried to defend that girl?  No. Shanklin as chief and king figures he needs a queen. She's not bad looking. He's going to marry her unless—Parr snorted, and Saddow's voice grew angry. Cursed man, I'm not casting you for a night of the brown table or a valiant space hero who arrives in the nick of time at the television drama. Simplify it, Parr.  You ought to be chief still, running things justly, and it isn't justice for a girl to be married unofficially to someone she doesn't like. Miss Pemberton despises Shanklin. Now do you get my point? Or are you afraid? It was Ling who made answer. My boss isn't afraid of anything. He'll straighten that mess out. Parr glanced at the big fellow. Thanks for making up my mind for me, Ling. Well, you two have talked me into something. Saddow Shanklin's big paw. And he now had time to view the stranger at close hand. Who's this with you? The man with the black curls looked genially surprised. You know me, boss. I'm Frank Rupert. Parr stared. Never heard of you. You're joking why I almost got that Martian patroller into space when Miss Pemberton—Parr sprang at him and caught him by his shoulders. You were Ruba, Rupert. It's only that you didn't talk plain before. What's happened to you, man? Saddow hastily answered. The degeneration force is obviated, reversed. All those who were beast men are coming back. Some of the later arrivals completely normal again. Haven't you noticed a change in this big husk? Parr turned and looked at Ling. So that was it. Day by day, that change had not been enough to impress him. As Ling had climbed back along his lost evolutionary trail, Parr had thought that he himself was slipping down. Don't stop and scratch your head over at Parr. Saddow scolded him. It'll take a lot of explaining, and we haven't the time. You said you'd help get Miss Pemberton out of her jam. Come on. It was like the television thrillers after all, Parr reflected. But Saddow was right on one count. Parr didn't quite fill the role of the space hero. He had neither the close-clipped moustache nor the gleaming top boots. But he did have the regulation-deep, unfathomable eyes and the murderous impulse. It was just after noon. Shanklin, as Chief King, had also set up for a priest. In the center of the village clearing he stood holding a sullen and pale Verena Pemberton by one wrist, while he recited what garbelings of the marriage service he remembered. His subordinates were gathered to leer and applaud. They did not know of the rush until it was all over them. Parr smote one on the side of the neck and spilled him into a squalling heap. Saddow, Ling, and Rupert overwhelmed the rest of the audience while Parr charged on into Shanklin. His impact interrupted the words, I take this woman, just after the appropriate syllable. Woe! As once before with Ling, Parr dusted Shanklin's jaw with his fist, followed with a digging jab to the solar plexus, and swung again to the jaw. Shanklin tottered, reeled back, and Parr closed in again.   Shanklin retreated another two paces and from his girdle snatched the Martian knife. He opened its longest blade with a snap. Verena Pemberton screamed. Then, above the commotion of battle, sounded the flat smack of an electro-automatic. Shanklin swore murderously, dropping his knife. His knuckles were torn open by the grazing pellet. And Parr, glancing in the direction whence the shot came, realized with savage disgust that the space hero had come after all. There stood a gorgeous young spark in absolutely conventional space hero costume, not forgetting the top boots or the close-clipped moustache. Parr moved back as if to allow this young demigod the center of the stage. But Verena Pemberton was not playing the part of heroin. Instead of rushing in and embracing, she set her slim hands on her hips. She spoke and her voice was acid. It's high time you came, Captain Warrell. I did my part of the job weeks ago. The handsome fellow in uniform chuckled. We weren't late.  Saw what this fellow I shot loose from the knife had in mind whole hours ago. But we also saw these others. And he nodded toward Parr. They sneaked up in such a business-like manner I hadn't the heart to spoil their rescue. Other uniformed men, hands of the terrestrial space fleet were coming into view from among the bowels. They, too, were armed. Ling walked across to Parr a struggling captive under each arm. What are these strangers up to, boss? He demanded. Say the word, and I'll ring that officer's neck. I never liked officers anyway. Wait. Parr bade him. Then to the man called Captain Warrell. Just what are you doing here? This asteroid, replied Warrell, is now terrestrial territory. We're fortifying it against the Martians. War was declared three weeks ago, and we made rocket tracks for this little crumb. It's an ideal base for a flanking attack. Parr scowled. You're fortifying, he repeated. Well, you'd better shag out of here, there's a power, not working just now, but— No fear of that. Verena Pemberton told him. She was smiling. I can explain best by starting at the start. Recently we got a report of what the Martians were doing out here. We realized that Earth must take care of her own, these poor devils who were being pushed back into animalism. Also, with war inevitable. You aren't starting at the start, objected Parr. Where do you fit into all this? You're no soldier. Oh, but she is, Captain Warrell said, offering Parr a cigarette from a platinum case. She's a colonel of intelligence, high-ranking. Wonderful job you've done, Colonel Pemberton. She took up the tale again. If the reverse evolution power could be destroyed, this artificially habitable rock in space would be a great prize for our navy to capture. So I took a big chance, got myself framed to a charge of murder on Mars, and was the first woman ever sent here. I knew fairly accurately when the war would break out, and figured I had months to do my work. That captured armor gave me the clue. All I knew was that it gave off a vibration, not at Parr. Exactly. Which meant that the evolution reverse was vibratory, too. I confided in Saddall, and he and I pieced the rest of the riddle together. The vibrator would be inside, where nobody would venture for fear of jamming the gravity core. But we ventured.  More than that, we reversed it, started it again at top speed to cause a recovery from the degeneration process. Clever, these Martians. They fix it so you can shuttle to and fro in development. Already the higher beastmen are back to normal, like Rupert there, and the others will be all right soon. You had every right to chase me off at the end of a pistol, said Parr. I might have gummed the works badly. You nearly did that anyway, Verena Pemberton accused. Fighting, raiding, stirring up the Martians who might have put a crimp in my plans any moment. But, being the type you are, you couldn't do otherwise. I recognized that when I gave you the protective armor. He gazed at her. Why didn't you keep it for yourself? No. And she shook her tawny head. I figured to win or lose very promptly. But you, armored against degeneration, might live after me and be an awful problem to the Martians. Remember, I didn't make you give it back until I had done what I came to do. Whirl spoke again. Colonel, these exiles must stay until all effects of the degeneration influence is gone. They'll figure as civilians with colonists' rights. That means they must have a governor to cooperate with the military garrison. Will that be you? Shanglin dared to speak. I am chief. Arrest that man. The girl told two space hands. No, Captain. But I'm senior officer and I'll make an appointment. By far the best fitted person for the governorship is Fitsu Parr. The other exiles had pressed close to listen. Sadal, the diplomatic, at once set up a cheer. Ling added his own loyal bellow, and the others joined in. Parr's ears burned with embarrassment. Have it your way, he said to the ball. We'll live here, get normal, and help all we can. But first, what have we to eat? We've got guests. No, Governor. You're the guest of the garrison, protested Captain Whirl. Come aboard my ship. I'll lend you a uniform and you'll preside at the head of the table tonight. Marina Pemberton. Parr addressed the girl who had caused so much trouble and change on the little world of exile. Will you come and sit at my right hand there? A pleasure. She smiled and put her arm through his. Everybody cheered again and both Parr and the girl blushed. End of Devils Asteroid by Manly Wade Wellman. Heist Job on Thizar by Randall Garrett. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Norman Elfer. Heist Job on Thizar by Randall Garrett. Anson Drake sat quietly in the flamebird room of the Royal Gandalf Hotel, listening to the alien but soothing strains of the native orchestra and sipping a drink. He knew perfectly well he had no business displaying himself in public on the planet Thizar. There were influential Thizarians who held no love for a certain earth man named Anson Drake. It didn't particularly bother Drake. Life was danger and danger was life to him, and Anson Drake was known on half a hundred planets as a man who could take care of himself. Even so, he wouldn't have bothered to come if it had not been for the fact that Byron Belgozad was a pompous braggart. Belgozad had already suffered at the hands of Anson Drake. Some years before, a narcotics gang had smashed high, wide, and handsome on Thizar. Three men had died from an overdose of their own thionite drug, and 50,000 credits of illicit gang had vanished into nowhere. The Thizarian police didn't know who had done the job, and they didn't know who had financed the ring. But Belgozad knew that Anson Drake was the farmer, and Drake knew that Byron Belgozad was the latter, and each one was waiting for his chance to get the other. A week before, Drake had been relaxing happily on a beach on Seldon II, twelve light years from Thizar, reading a news fax. He had become interested in an article which told of the sentencing of a certain young lady to seven years and sell it on prison, when his attention was attracted by another headline. Byron Belgozad buys Algol necklace. Thizar, GNS. Byron Belgozad, wealthy Thizarian financier, has purchased the fabulous necklace of Algol, it was announced today. The necklace, made of match star diamonds, is estimated to be worth more than a million credits, although the price paid by Belgozad is not known. Illustration. The coronation of Thizar was a thing of vast magnificence. Such an interesting bit seemed worthy of further investigation, so Drake had immediately booked passage on the first space liner to Thizar. And thus it was that an immaculately dressed, broad-shouldered, handsome young man sat quietly in the flamebird room of Thizar's flushiest hostility, surveying his surroundings with steady green eyes, and wondering how he was going to get his hands on the necklace of Algol. The police couldn't touch Belgozad, but Anson Drake could and would. Hello, Drake, said a cold voice at his elbow. Drake turned and looked into the sardonically smiling face of Jomis Dobigel, the heavy-set, dark-faced Thizarian who worked with Belgozad. Well, well, Anson said smiling if it isn't Little Bo Peep. How is the dope business? How is the big dope himself? Dabagel's face soured. You're very funny, Earthman. But we don't like Earthmen here. Do sit down, Dabi, and tell me all about it. The last I heard, which was three hours ago, the government of Thizar was perfectly happy to have me here. In fact, they were good enough to stamp my passport to prove it. Dabagel pulled out a chair and sat down, keeping his hands beneath the table. What are you doing here, Drake? he asked in a cold voice. I couldn't help it, Drake said, blamely. I was drawn back by the memory of the natural beauties of your planet, the very thought of the fat, flabby face of old Belgozad, decorated with a bulbous nose that is renowned throughout the galaxy, was irresistible. So here I am. Dabagel's dark face grew even darker. I know you, Drake, and I know why you're here. Tomorrow is the date for the coronation of his serenity, the shan of Thizar. True, Drake agreed, and I wouldn't miss it for all the loot in Andromeda. A celebration like that is worth traveling parsecs to see. Dabagel leaned across the table. Belgozad is a noble of the realm, he said slowly. He'll be at the coronation. You know he's going to wear the necklace of algal as well as anyone, and you. Suddenly he leaned forward a little further, his right hand stabbing out toward Drake's leg beneath the table. But Anson Drake was ready for him. Dabagel's hand was a full three inches from Drake's thigh, when a set of fingers grasped his wrist in a vice-like hold. Steely fingers bit in, pressing nerves against bone. With a gasp, Dabagel opened his hand. A small metallic cylinder dropped out. Drake caught at it with his free hand and smiled. That's impolite, Dabby. It isn't proper to try to give your host an injection when he doesn't want it. Casually he put the cylinder against the arm, which he still held, and squeezed the little metal tube. There's a faint pop. Drake released the arm and handed back the cylinder. Dabagel's face was white. I imagine that was twelve-hour poison, Drake said kindly. If you hurry, old Belgozad will give you the antidote. It will be painful, but he shrugged.  The next time you try to get in you're victim with one of those things. Don't do it by talking to him about things he already knows. It doesn't distract him enough. Dabagel stood up, his fist clenched. I'll get you for this, Drake. Then he turned and stalked off through the crowd. No one had noticed the little by-play. Drake smiled serifically and finished his drink. Dabagel was going to be uncomfortable for a while. Twelve-hour poison was a complex protein that could be varied in several thousand ways, and only an antidote made from the right variation would work for each poison. And if the antidote wasn't given, the victim died within twelve hours. And even if the antidote was given, getting over the poison wasn't any fun at all. Reflecting happily on the plight of Jomis Dabagel, Anson Drake paid his bill, tipped the waiter liberally, and strolled out of the flamed bird room and into the lobby of the Royal Gandal Hotel. The coronation would begin tomorrow, and he didn't want to miss the beginning of it. The chance coronation was THE affair of Thizar. He went over to the robot news vendor and dropped a coin in the slot. The reproducer hummed and a freshly printed news fax dropped out. He headed to the lift tube, which whisked him up to his room on the 81st floor. He inserted his key in the lock and pressed the button on the tip. The electronic lock opened, and the door slid into the wall. Before entering, Drake took a look at the detector on his wrist. There is no sign of anything having entered the room since he had left it. Only then did he go inside. With one of the more powerful financiers of Thizar out after his blood, there was no way of knowing what might happen, and therefore no reason to take chances. There were some worlds, where Anson Drake would no more have stayed in a public hotel than he would have jumped into an atomic furnace, especially if his enemy was a man as influential as Belguzad. But Thizar was a civilized and reasonably well-policed planet. The police were honest, and the courts were just. Even Belguzad couldn't do anything openly. Drake locked his door, sang to himself in a pleasant baritone while he bathed, put on his pajamas, and lay down on his bed to read the paper. It was mostly full of coronation news. Noble so-and-so would wear such-and-such. Narch Bishop would do thus-and-so. There was another item about Belguzad. His daughter was ill, and would be unable to attend. Bloody shame, thought Drake.  There was no further mention of the necklace of algal. He was second only to the crown jewels of the Shan himself. The precautions being taken were fantastic. At a quick guess, about half the crowd would be policemen. The door announcer chimed in. Drake sat up and punched the door TV. The screen showed the face of a girl standing at his door. Drake smiled in appreciation. She had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a smooth tanned complexion. It was a beautiful face, and it showed promise of having a body to match. Who may I ask is calling a gentleman at this ungodly hour, and thus compromising her reputation in fair name. The girl smiled, showing even white teeth, and her eyes sparkled, showing flickers of little golden flames against the round. I see I found the right room. That voice couldn't belong to anyone but Anson Drake. Then she lowered her voice and said softly, Let me in. I'm Norma Knight. Drake felt a tinge of psychic electricity flow over his skin. There was a promise of danger and excitement in the air. Norma Knight was known throughout this whole sector of the galaxy, as the cleverest jewel thief the human race had ever spawned. Drake had never met her, but he had definitely heard of her. He touched the admission stud, and the door slid silently aside. There was no doubt about it. Her body did match her face. Do come in, Norma, he said. She stepped inside and Drake touched the closing button. The door slid shut behind her. She stood there for a moment looking at him, and Drake took the opportunity to study the girl more closely. At last she said, So, you're Anson Drake. You're even better looking than I'd heard you were. Congratulations. I have a good press agent, Drake said modestly. What's on your mind? He waged his hand at a nearby chair. The same thing that's on yours, I suspect, she said. Do you have a drink to spare? Drake unlimbered himself from the bed, selected a bottle from the menu, and dialed. The robot bell hopped word, and a chute opened down the wall, and a bottle slid out. Drake poured and handed the tumbler to the girl and said, This is your party. What do you have in mind? The girl took a sip of her drink before she answered. Then she looked up at Drake with her deep brown eyes. Two things. One, I have no intention or desire to compete with Anson Drake for the necklace of Algon. Both of us might end up in jail with nothing for our pains. Two, I have a foolproof method of getting the necklace, but none for getting it off the planet. I think you probably have a way. Trick not a dime. I daresay I could swing it. How does it happen that you don't have an avenue of disposal planned? She looked bleak for a moment. The man who was to help me decided to back out at the last minute. He didn't know what the job was, and I wouldn't tell him because I didn't trust him. And you trust me? Her eyes were very trustful. I've heard a lot about you, Drake, and I happen to know that you never double-cross anyone unless they double-cross you first. Trade about is fair play, to quote an ancient maxim Drake said. Grinning. And I'm a firm believer in fair play. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, what do you have to offer? Why shouldn't I just pinch the gems myself into a quick-flit across the galaxy? That would give me all the loot. She shook her head.  He knows you're here. His own private police and a Shan's own guard will be at the coronation to protect all that jewelry. She cocked her pretty head to one side and looked at him. What's between you and Belgazad, anyway? I stole his toys when he was a child, said Drake, and he hasn't trusted me since. How do you propose to get the necklace of Algol if I'd hint?  That would be telling. You let me take care of my part, and I'll let you take care of yours. Drake shook his head, not so slowly. Absolutely not. We either work together or we don't work at all. The girl frowned and thought for a moment and then reached into the belt pouch at her side and pulled out a square of electro-engraved plastic. She handed it to Drake. Underneath all the flowery verbiage, it boiled down to an invitation to attend the post-coronation reception. It was addressed to Miss Caroline Smith, and was signed and sealed by the Shan of the Tsar himself. I'm Caroline Smith, she said. I've managed to get in good with the family of Belgazad, and he wangled the invitation. Now the plan is this. Right after the invocation, while the new Shan is being prepared in his special coronation robes, the nobles have to change their uniforms from red to green. Belgazad will go into his suite in the palace to change. He'll be accompanied by two guards. One will stay outside, and the other will help Belgazad dress. I've got the room next to his, and I've managed to get the key that unlocks the door between them. I'll use this. She pulled a small globe of metal from her pouch. It's a sleep gas bomb. It'll knock him out for at least 20 minutes. No one will come in during that time, and I'll be able to get the necklace and get out of the palace before they wake up. They'll know you did it, Trig pointed out. If you're still missing when they come in, the thief's identity will be obvious. She nodded. That's where you come in. I'll simply go out into the garden and throw it over the wall to you. We'll meet here afterwards. Trig thought it over and smiled devilsually. It sounds fine. Now let's coordinate everything. They went over the whole plot again, this time with a chart of the palace to mark everything out, and a time schedule was arranged. Then they toasted to success, and the girl left. When she was gone, Anson Drake smiled ruefully to himself and opened a secret compartment in his suitcase. From it, he removed a long strand of glittering jewels. A perfect imitation, Drake said. And you're very pretty. It's a shame I won't be able to hang you around the neck of Belgazette in place of the real Nicholas of Algon. But his original plan had been more dangerous than the present one. And Anson Drake was always ready to deserve a good plan for a better one. Coronation Day dawned bright and clear, and the festivities began early. There were speeches and parades and dancing in the streets. A huge fleet of high-flying rockets rumbled high in the stratosphere, filling the sky with white traceries of their exhaust. For all of the czar, it was a holiday, a day of rejoicing and happiness. Cheers for the shan, fill the streets, and strings of music came from the speakers of the public communications systems. Anson Drake missed most of the fun. He was too busy making plans. The day passed as he worked. The czar's son began to set as the time for the actual crowning of the shan approached. At the proper time, Drake was waiting in the shadows outside the palace walls. There were eyes watching him, and he knew it. But he only smiled softly to himself and waited. It was the girl on the other side of the wall. I'm here, whispered Drake. Something that glittered faintly in the soft light of the twin moons of the czar arched over the wall. Drake caught it in his hands. It was the necklace of Al Gaul. He slipped it into a small plastic box he was carrying, and then glanced at the detector on his wrist. The screen showed a pale blue pip, which indicated that someone was hiding the shadows a few yards to his right. Drake didn't even glance toward the spy. He put the plastic box containing the necklace into his belt pouch and strode away from the palace. He had, he figured, about 20 minutes. He headed directly for the spaceship terminal. Never once did he look back, but the detector on his wrist told him he was being closely followed. Excellent. Inside the terminal, he went directly to the baggage lockers. He found one that was empty, inserted a coin, and opened it. From his pouch, he took a plastic box, put it in the locker, switched on the lock with his key, and strode away. He glanced again at his detector. He was no longer being followed by the same man. Another had taken up his trail. It figured, it figured. He went straight to the hotel candle, making sure his tail didn't lose him. Not until he were in the lobby did he make any attempt to shake the man who was following him. He went into the bar, ordered a drink, and took a sip. He left his change in the drink on the bar and headed out the door in the direction of the men's room. Whoever was following him wouldn't realize for a minute or two he was leaving for good. A man doesn't usually leave change in an unfinished drink in a bar. Drake took the lift tube up to his room and attended to some unfinished business and waited. Less than three minutes later, the door was opened. In walked Fire and Belgazette and his lieutenant, Joe Ms. Dobbagell. Both of them looked triumphant and they were surrounded by a squad of royal police. There he is, said Dobbagell. Arrest him! A policeman stepped forward. Anson Drake, I arrest you in the name of the Shan, he said. Drake grinned. On what charge? The theft of the necklace of Algon. Drake looked directly at Belgazette.  You can't talk that away. Dobbagell snarled and stepped forward. Who says so, ugly? At that, Dobbagell stepped forward and threw a hard punch from his shoulders. Traded Drake's face. It never landed. Drake sidestepped and brought a smashing uppercut up from his knees. He lifted Dobbagell off his feet and sent him crashing back against old Belgazette, toppling them both to the floor. The policeman had all drawn their guns, but Drake was standing placidly in the middle of the room, his hands high above his head regarding the scene calmly. I'll go quietly. I've got no quarrel with the police. One of the officers led him into the hall while the others searched his room. Belgazette was sputtering incoherently. Another policeman was trying to wake up Dobbagell. If you're looking for the necklace of Algon, Drake said, you won't find it there. The captain of the police squad said, we know that, Mr. Drake. We are merely looking for other evidence. We already have the necklace. He reached in his belt pouch and took out a small plastic box. He opened it disclosing a glittering rope of jewels. You're seen depositing this in a baggage locker at the spaceship terminal. We have witnesses who saw you, and we had it removed under police supervision. Byron Belgazette smiled nastily. This time you won't get away, Drake. Stealing anything from the Palace of the Shan carries a minimum penalty of 20 years in Tazar prison. Drake said nothing as I took him off to the Royal Police Station and locked him in a cell. It was late afternoon of the next day when the prosecutor for the Shan visited Drake's cell. He was a tall, imposing man, and Drake knew him by reputation as an honest and energetic man. Mr. Drake, you said, he's sat down in a chair in the cell. You have refused to speak to anyone but me. I am, of course, perfectly willing to be of any assistance, but I'm afraid I must warn you that any statement made to me will be used against you at the trial. Drake leaned back in his own chair. One nice thing about the Tsar he reflected, they had comfortable jails. My Lord Prosecutor, he said, I'd like to make a statement. As I understand it, Belgazette claims he was gassed along with the police guard who was with him. When he woke up, the necklace was gone. He didn't see as assailant. That is, corrects of the prosecutor. Drake grinned. That was the way it had to be. Belgazette couldn't possibly bribe the cops. So they both had to be gassed. If he didn't see as assailant, how does he know who it was? You were followed from the palace by Jomas Dabajel, who saw you put the necklace into the baggage locker. There were several other witnesses to that. Drake leaned forward. Let me point out, my Lord Prosecutor, the only evidence you have that I was anywhere near the palace is the word of Jomas Dabajel. And he didn't see me inside the palace. I was outside the wall. The prosecutor shrugged. We admit the possibility of an assistant inside the walls of the palace. He said, We are investigating that now. But even if we never find your accomplice, we have proof that you were implicated, and that is enough. But what proof do you have? Drake said blandly. Why, the necklace itself, of course, the prosecutor looked as though he suspected Drake of having taken leave of his senses. Drake shook his head. That necklace is mine. I can prove it. It was made for me by a respectable jeweler on Seldon, too. It's a very good imitation, but it's a phony. If they aren't diamonds, they are simply well-cut crystals of titanium dioxide. Check them if you don't believe me. The Lord Prosecutor looked dumbfounded. But what? Why? Drake said, I brought it to give to my good friend, the noble Belgazad. Of course it would be a gross insult to wear them at the Shands coronation. But he could wear them at other functions. And how does my good friend repay me? By having me arrested. My Lord Prosecutor, I am a wronged man. The Prosecutor swallowed heavily and stood up. The necklace has, naturally, been impounded by the police. I shall have the stones tested. You'll find their phonies, Drake said. And that means one of two things. Either they are not the ones stolen from Belgazad, or Belgazad has mortally insulted his shan by wearing false jewels to the coronation. Well, we shall see about this, said the Lord Prosecutor. Anson Drake, free as a lark, was packing his clothes in his hotel realm when the announcer chimed. He punched the TV pick up and grinned. It was the girl. When the door slid aside, she came in smiling. She got away with it, Drake. Wonderful. I don't know how you did it, but… Did what, Drake's looked innocent. Kid away with the necklace, of course. I don't know how it happened that Dabajel was here, but… But, but, but, Drake said, smiling. You don't seem to know very much at all, do you? What, what do you mean? Drake put his last article of clothing in his suitcase and snapped it shut. I'll probably be searched pretty thoroughly when I get to their spaceport, he said coolly. But they won't find anything out on innocent man. Where is the necklace, she asked in a throaty voice. Drake pretended not to hear. It's a funny thing, he said. Old Belgazad would never let the necklace out of his hands, except to get me. He thought I'd get it back by making sure I was followed, but he made two mistakes. The girl put her arms around his neck. His mistakes don't matter as long as we have the necklace, do they? Anson Drake was never a man to turn down an invitation like that. He held her in his arms and kissed her long and lingeringly. When he broke away, he went on as though nothing had happened. Two mistakes.  If it was as easy to steal jewels from the palace as all that, nothing would be safe and bizarre. The second mistake was sending his daughter to trap me. The girl gasped and stepped back. It was very foolish of you, Ms. Belgazad, he went on calmly. You see, I hadn't to know the real Norman Knight was sentenced to seven years and celled on prison over a week ago. Unfortunately, the news hadn't reached the czar yet. I knew from the first the whole thing was to be a frame-up. It's too bad your father had to use the real necklace. It's a shame you lost it. The girl's eyes blazed. You, you thief, you— She used words which no self-respecting lady is supposed to use. Drake waited until she was finished and then said, Oh no, Ms. Belgazad, I'm no thief. Your father can't consider the loss of that necklace as a fine for running narcotics. And you can tell him that if I catch him again, it will be worse. I don't like his kind of slime. And I'll do my best to get rid of them. That's all, Ms. B. It was nice knowing you. He walked out of the room, leaving her to stand there in helpless fury. His phony necklace had come in handy after all. The police had thought they had the real one, so they never bothered to check the black mail service for a small package mailed to Seldon too. All he had had to do was drop it into the mail chute from his room and then cool his heels in jail while the black mails got rid of the loot for him. The necklace valgol would be waiting for him when he got to Seldon too. End of Heist Job on Tizar by Randall Garrett