Colonel Valentine Sanders of the Interstellar Patrol had just emerged from a session with the simulator when the call came. Against this opponent, the colonel always lost. Scarcely anyone was able to hold the simulator to a draw until the preset time was up. Nearly always, sooner or later, it found some weakness in the man, and by means of the weakness, beat him. This time, the colonel had wasted a precious fraction of a second congratulating himself on his performance, and that fraction of a second, once wasted, was the margin by which he lost. Now, seeing it all clearly, the colonel was in an angry frame of mind as the call buzzer sounded.
"Code number," demanded the colonel.
On the gray bulkhead opposite, the numeral "4" appeared.
The colonel frowned. "Go ahead."
The gray bulkhead vanished, to show a strongly built man with piercing blue eyes, seated at a desk facing him.
"We have a little problem, Val."
The colonel's expression was alert. "This business with the Space Force?"
"No, that will work out however it works out. If they open fire, we'll fuse a few turrets, to get it across that Imperial Trasimere will stand for no nonsense. Right this minute, we're beaming our recognition signal at them, and this new recruit's ship is giving Larssen enough hints so that even a Space Force general ought to catch on."
"Larssen has high-grade steel between the ears."
"Can't be helped. He's Space Force."
"How did we get in this spot?"
"As nearly as I can figure it out, it started when the main gravitor went haywire on one of Interstellar Rapid Transport's fast freights. The nearest repair facility seemed to be on Boschock III, so they headed there for help."
"Ouch," said the colonel.
"Exactly. They discovered that the settled part of the planet was nothing but a gigantic slum, run by a computer."
"What did they do?"
"We'd like to know. Whatever they did led the planetary computer to divert effort from maintenance and rebuild the repair facility to help them."
"Quite a feat."
"Wasn't it? Since, at that time, we had nothing but a set of out-phased watch satellites observing the planet, we don't know just what they did. But of course, after they left, we watched them, and the watch quickly boiled down to a surveillance of three men—Roberts, the captain; Hammell, the cargo-control officer; and Morrissey, the communications officer. These three took their accumulated leave, and started looking around for a ship to go back to Boschock III."
"So they could perfect what they'd used there before?"
"Why else would anyone go back to that place?"
"Hm-m-m. So then we found out what they were using before they got back?"
"We did not. We sent an 'I'-class crew after them. As usual, we were short-handed, but that should have been enough. However, these three men are tough, and secretive. There wasn't anything to be found. Then Roberts, the captain, latched onto a 'J'-class ship planted in a salvage cluster. It rejected the other two men, but accepted him."
"Complicates the issue."
"Yes. Now we were up against our own stuff. SymComp was perfectly happy, of course, since it could follow what was happening through this J-ship's own symbiotic computer. But where did that leave us? Roberts, of course, merely thought he'd bought a good ship at a comparative bargain price. We couldn't contact him because that would wreck his trial period. Meanwhile, on this end, SymComp was perfectly bland and uninformative. Doubtless Link knew what was going on, but we weren't informed from there, either."
The colonel said curiously, "What happened when these three men got back to Boschock—or Paradise, as they call the miserable hole?"
"What happened? Well, while they'd been gone, the inhabitants had split up into warring factions. When they came back, Roberts presented himself as their liege-lord, Vaughan, Duke of Trasimere—and they accepted him."
The colonel looked startled.
"And that's the ultimate cause for this masquerade we're carrying out right now?"
"That's just the barest suggestion of it. Next, there was a war between Duke Vaughan, and a sorcerer called 'Oggbad.' Where Oggbad came from, we have no idea. But there's some ferocious wild life on that planet, and the wild life cooperated by attacking the city in support of Oggbad."
"Holy—"
"Naturally, the inhabitants suspended their differences to protect themselves against Oggbad. That temporarily ended the factional strife amongst the inhabitants. But you see the significance of all this?"
"Sure. Roberts and the others must have developed an emotional-field generator and learned to use it. It must be big and powerful, too."
"Exactly. And with that, if they choose, they could carve out quite an empire. But they don't seem to be doing that. Instead, as nearly as we can judge, they're trying to straighten out the mess on Boschock III. Now, in brief, that's what brings us here, and if Larssen doesn't run wild on us, we should have them on board shortly, and start to figure this business out."
"Wait, now. With their own E-G, aren't we taking a certain risk in bringing them aboard?"
"If they had with them one of the power that they used on the planet, sure. But Ahrens tells me that's impossible. Anything they've got on their ship, we can beat down. He'll pour on the power as soon as they're in range, and reel them in so dewy-eyed and overcome to be members of the Interstellar Patrol that they'll hand their plans over voluntarily, and be grateful to do it, at that."
The colonel frowned, then shrugged. "Well, that gives a clearer picture of that part anyway. But, that's not what you called about, is it?"
"No. We're already doing about all we can there. This other business is unrelated, except that it adds to the strain. It's nothing of our choosing."
The colonel smiled. "You don't mean the Space Force is calling on us for 'interservice cooperation'?"
"Not the Space Force—PDA."
The colonel's smile faded. "When Planetary Development admits it needs help, it is in a mess. What's got them by the throat this time?"
"Nothing serious. Just two dozen petty kings and princes."
The colonel frowned. "Two dozen petty—"
"You see, PDA is opening up new regions for colonization. Since travel by colonization ship is not the best possible preparation for the rigors of life on a new plan-et, PDA likes to give the colonists a chance to recover, and to finish their fitting out, at a Rest & Refit Center, before the final stage to the colony planet. It generally works out that if the R & R Center is on an Earth-type planet, it simplifies things for everyone. PDA has found exactly one Earth-type planet that's ideally situated as a site for an R & R Center. This planet is already settled by an intelligent life form so human in appearance that, for all practical purposes, you might as well say there's no difference."
"So PDA has to get the approval of these people before they can put their Rest & Refit Center on the planet."
"Exactly. And that's where the fun starts. This place is backward. Each pipsqueak nation on the planet is run by a petty monarch of some kind. A few of these local princes do their jobs. But the bulk of them spend their time popping grapes into their mouths, spurring on the recruit-ing teams for the harem, and figuring out how to wring more taxes out of their subjects."
The colonel thought a moment, then shrugged.
"Then the people should happily vote the princes out of office. Let PDA run the Space Force in there, to cover them while they explain the principle of the vote, and, in no time at all, they'll have the approval of the populace." The colonel leaned back, and clasped his hands around his knee. "That solves the problem."
The figure on the screen smiled sourly, and held up between finger and thumb a small message spool. "This is a record of the story as I got it from PDA. What's on this spool explained the thing to me, and it will explain it to you just as well. Then you can figure out the solution for yourself."
The colonel sat up. "Wait a minute. Then I can—"
"Obviously someone has to handle this mess. And SymComp has made its choice. The problem is all yours."
The wall screen faded out.
Across the room, the "incoming message" lid of a pneumatic chute snapped open. A shiny metal cylinder popped part way out, opened up, and dumped its cargo.
With a clang, the message spool dropped into the tray.