The colonel stared at the spool for a moment, then gave a short bark of a laugh, scooped the spool up, and went out the hatch-type door. A brisk walk down a corridor brought him to an unmarked hatch that gave way at the pressure of his hand. He stepped into a small neat room, one wall of which was lined with books, while another wall bristled with a formidable array of weapons. A small viewer sat on a stand by the desk at the foot of his cot. The colonel shut and locked the hatch, then snapped the spool into the viewer, spun the chair around, and sat down.
He was at once presented with a view of a desk, behind which was seated a fussy-looking individual in a state of considerable nervous tension. On the desk was a nameplate reading, "R. Halstead, Senior Administrator." On the desk were three viewers, several racks of spools, and a pile of reports. A small side table held an ash tray heaped with cigarette butts, a half-empty glass of water, and a small pill bottle with the cap off.
The administrator cleared his throat self-consciously.
"Ah . . . I have been assured by my superiors that it will be within the normal canons of proper procedure to apply through channels to determine the availability of . . . ah . . . interservice assistance regarding a matter of some consequence to the . . . the fullest settlement by humanity of the available interstellar territory consonant with equitable treatment of less-favored inhabitants of the planets in question."
The colonel listened intently. With all this jargon, the administrator must have something to hide. He went on:
"The situation is of more than normal urgency, having been the subject of many exhaustive studies by the foremost authorities in the relevant fields of supply factors and trans-solar jurisprudence . . . "
The colonel waited out a lengthy statement designed to show how much work PDA had done. Then came a complex justification of PDA procedures, which the colonel listened to closely, since he had no idea what esoteric point they might be hung up on now.
In due time there emerged the sentence, " . . . Since, of course, due consideration must be assured for the established customs of the indigenous sentient populace, it would obviously be intrusive and autocratic to force upon them our conception of representative government; a more enlightened policy requires that no such intrusion be tolerated; the existing allocation of administrative authority must be regarded as uniquely suited to the conditions obtaining at the moment amongst the populace; and hence their leaders, whatever the outward apparent form of their government, must be regarded as the duly-chosen representatives of the people . . . "
The colonel hit the replay button. He went over this section until he was satisfied that he knew what it meant: Regardless of circumstances, whoever was in charge when PDA got there, that was who PDA dealt with. In this case, that meant two dozen wrangling petty princes.
The administrator went on, "We find it most unfortunate that these Planetary Representatives, by a vote of eighteen to six, have chosen to reject the building of a Rest & Refit Center on the planet. There is no other suit-able planet for this facility. Obviously, we can't send colonists into this region without proper preparation; and yet, to be true to our own principles, we can't force the local princes to accept the R & R Center. Any administrator who did choose to do that would be removed by higher authority. We can't permit any outsider to use force against them, either. They are our responsibility. We must lead them, not force them. Yet we must have this Rest & Refit Center. Hence we've had no choice but to put the Center out to contract, on the assumption that the contractor will persuade the People's Representatives of the advantages of accepting the Center. Unfortunately, no contractor has felt confident enough to submit a bid."
The administrator now projected three-dimensional views of the planet's location, and its single inhabited continent, showing the rocky, reef-bound coastline, primitive cities, loosely connected by the wandering network of local roads, and fertile river valleys given over to a checkerboard of tiny plots. Then came a view of the people in one of the cities, wrapped in white robes and jostling one another as they streamed across the baked-mud plaza, to hastily jump back as a gilded coach drawn by four weasel-headed animals rushed around the corner. Through the open windows of this coach could be seen an immensely fat individual wrapped in gold and orange cloth. The people, taken by surprise, were a little slow to get out of the way, and a petulant face bellowed orders out the window. The coachman lashed out right and left with a long whip. After the coach passed, the people fell on the ground to kiss the dirt where it had gone by.
The scene vanished, and the administrator said, "We've done our best to find some solution, but unfortunately we haven't succeeded. There seems to be no way to proceed, but the R & R Center is vital. Any assistance you can give us will be deeply appreciated. The remainder of the spool contains a statistical summary of conditions on the planet, for your information."
The colonel skimmed through the summary, then turned to a dial on the blank wall against which his desk rested. He tapped out a call number, then his own identification code. A moment later, the wall seemed to vanish, and he was looking at the same strongly built, sharp-eyed man who had given him the assignment, and who now smiled at his expression.
"How do you like it?"
"It's an interesting problem," said the colonel. "As I understand it, it boils down to the fact that PDA has got to have a rest center on this planet, can't get it without interfering locally, and yet its own rules forbid it to interfere locally, since there's a sentient race on the planet."
"Worse yet, PDA can't let anyone else go down there and use force, bribery, or any of the obvious ways to get these princes to change their minds. If it weren't for that, some contractor would have turned the planetary politics inside out, and the R & R Center would be built by now. But the rules are ironclad, even if the result is stupid. And there are watchdog committees to look for any break in observance of the rules. What unavoidably has to be done here is to get results that are just, but possibly—considering only the letter of the law—illegal. PDA isn't set up for that. That's in our department."
"How much help can I count on for this?"
"Anything you want . . . in the line of full departmental aid, equipment, supplies, any free ship you'd like—"
"I was thinking of personnel."
"Well—You know what that situation's like."
"Yeah."
"We're recruiting by every means we can think of, and we're still short-handed. There isn't much we can do about it. Lowering standards certainly won't help." He shook his head. "You can have anyone available. But there are none too many available."
The colonel thought a moment. "Anyone not already assigned, I can use? Anyone?"
"Right."
"O.K. I'll get right at it."
"Good luck."
As the scene faded from the wall, the colonel sat back, his eyes narrowed, and then he sat up and his fingers flashed over the dial. The wall remained blank, but a voice said briskly, "Personnel Monitor."
"The day before yesterday, I administered the oath to a Candidate Dan Bergen, inducting him as a Recruit. I then sent him for routine orientation, and clothing and equipment issue. Where is he now?"
"One moment . . . Recruit Bergen is at this moment arguing with the Quartermaster Assistant regarding the fit of a pair of uniform trousers."
"Then no one has claimed him for any assignment?"
"No. He is only a recruit."
"O.K. Thanks." Rapidly, he punched out a new call. A voice replied, "Project Monitor."
"Any current project with the designation, 'Operation New Vote'?"
"Spell this, please."
The colonel spelled it.
"One moment . . . No. Additionally, we find no past such designation recorded."
"Thanks. Put me through direct to the project controller."
The wall lit up to show a tough-looking individual with sandy hair and an alert watchful expression. "Hello, Val. What can I do for you?"
"I want to register the project-designation, 'Operation New Vote.' I've already checked with monitor."
"O.K. That part's easy."
"For personnel, I'm assigning, first, Recruit Dan Bergen—"
The project controller squinted. "Wait a minute, now. I know what the personnel situation is, of course, but—a recruit?"
"This one we got out of a Space Force guardhouse. The boy is rugged, did splendidly on his physical and attitude tests, is smart and mentally alert—very fine material, and I believe this operation, while not subjecting him to any particular danger, will give him a splendid opportunity to gain an insight into how we operate, and should . . . hm-m-m . . . motivate him excellently for his more formal training when he returns."
"We just want to be sure he does return. Every qualified man we can lay our hands on is worth a basket of diamonds. What is this excursion you're taking him on?"
The colonel briefly described the situation on the planet.
"Hm-m-m," said the project controller. "Why not take a battery of emotional-field generators, and wrench these princes around to the right viewpoint?"
"PDA is duty-bound to watch this planet like a hawk. What happens when all these petty despots suddenly get cooperative? Sure, we've solved the problem for PDA; but we've also presented them a piece of information that's none of their business."
"Yes—They might deduce the existence of the E-G. Hm-m-m . . . and if you provide some logical reason for the princes' change of heart, that logical reason will doubt-less fall under the heading of 'bribery,' 'compulsion,' or something else PDA can't allow."
"Right," the colonel said bluntly.
"You're going to have to be kind of subtle on this one."
"Yes."
"All right. I'm going to recommend that this recruit be assigned to Operation New Vote. I'll put him on the personnel list provisionally, until we see whether personnel melts its coils over this one. Who else do you want?"
"Recruits Roberts, Hammell, and Morrissey."
The project controller shook his head. "I suppose if this isn't too dangerous for one recruit, then in theory, it's not too dangerous for four. But you need some sprinkling of trained men. One recruit is one thing. Four of them is something else again. I'm afraid I'll have to—"
The colonel spoke quickly. "Well, I agree, if these were ordinary recruits, but these are very exceptional men, who—"
"All our recruits are exceptional men. They're hard to get. That's why we can't have them shot to pieces because they weren't trained in the first place."
"I mean, seasoned men. These are all . . . that is, the captain—"
"What captain?"
The colonel realized that he had come close to letting the cat out of the bag. He started over. "I mean, these men have their own J-ship."
"Ah? You mean, they're all ship-selected?"
There was the catch. If he admitted to the project controller that two of these men had failed to pass the scrutiny of the J-class ship, and had apparently been admitted only on Roberts' say-so, the project controller would naturally decline to let them go along. The colonel said, "What I mean to say is that the captain of the J-ship was formerly captain of a fast transport, which involves plenty of responsibility. He's not likely to be green or rash."
The project controller looked impressed. "What about the other two?"
"They were his cargo-control officer, and his communications officer, on board the transport. His personal selections, apparently. Too bad we can't get more recruits to bring in recruits. It might solve our problem, or ease it anyway."
"Yes—Well, I'm sure Personnel has thought of—"
While the project controller was momentarily distracted with this line of thought, the colonel added, "Anyway, it seems as if they should be reasonably stable men."
"True enough." The tough face frowned, as if in partial awareness of something wrong. Then the controller shrugged. "The main point is, we don't have four unseasoned or suggestible recruits. O.K., who else are you taking?"
"I'll have to check with Personnel to see who's avail-able. I wanted to get these men assigned before anyone grabbed them."
"What about ship and equipment?"
"I'm going to have to study this information to get a preliminary plan. First I wanted to be sure that when I had a plan, I would have somebody to carry it out."
"O.K. I'm definitely assigning the J-crew as a unit. I'm tentatively assigning Recruit Bergen. How's that?"
"Fine. That's a load off my mind."
"I hope this personnel shortage eases up pretty soon. Well, let me know when you have your ship and equipment lined up."
"I will. Thanks."
The wall went blank, and the colonel wiped a fine beading of perspiration from his brow and punched another call number. A voice promptly replied, "Personnel Monitor."
"I'd like to know what personnel are available for assignment."
"One moment . . . No personnel below the equivalent grade of colonel are currently on the Available List. There is a Colonel Valentine—"
"I'm Colonel Valentine."
"Then this is of no assistance."
"Correct. What about new recruits?"
"Only one new recruit is available at this location. One moment . . . This recruit has already been assigned, provisionally, to Operation New Vote."
"How about . . . ah . . . recruits expected to arrive here in the near future?"
"I will check . . . Only three recruits are expected to arrive here in the near future. They are already assigned to Operation New Vote. If you wish to contact the operation commander—"
"Thanks. I'm in charge of that operation."
"Ah. Then that is no help. In summary then, these are the total personnel at this location currently available and unassigned: zero."
"O.K.," said the colonel. "Thanks."
He rapped out another call signal. A new voice replied.
"Ship Operations Monitor."
"Give me a report, please, on the current confrontation between ourselves and the Space Force fleet commanded by General Larssen."
The wall immediately lit, to show, hurtling past against a brilliant backdrop of stars, the rigidly-spaced array of a formidable fleet.
"General Larssen," said the monitor, "has accepted the situation with an ill grace, and is withdrawing under imminent threat of attack by His Royal and Imperial Majesty, Vaughan the First, backed by the massed power of Imperial Trasimere, as symbolized by this dreadnought."
"Mm-m-m," said the colonel, scowling. It was all right to go along with this masquerade, so far as the outside was concerned. But to dish it out to their own people seemed like too much. "And when," said the colonel dryly, "is His Royal and Imperial Majesty due to get here?"
"At any moment."
The colonel came to his feet. "What bay?"
"Center Main Number One."
"Thanks."
He was out the hatch and running up the corridor in an instant. If he delayed, Intelligence would grab his men for a prolonged interrogation. It would be all he could do any-way to get Intelligence to settle for a memory simulation. And to do that, he had better be right on the spot when they got here.
He stopped at a door marked in glowing green letters, "Express," pulled it open, jumped into the empty gray shaft within. "Center Main Bay Number One! Emergency! The Chief's business!"
The walls blurred around him.
A cool voice spoke from a slim strip grille running along the length of the shaft.
"Relax your muscles. Physical resistance may create severe pain and bodily injury."
The colonel relaxed, and closed his eyes to shut out the dizzying blur as the walls flashed past. More and more rapidly, his limp body bent and twisted at each curve of the shaft, his movements progressively more forced and violent, as if against his will he were being put through a course of strenuous calisthenics. And then the rapidity and force of these movements mounted until he felt as if he were being shoved through a winding twisting maze at top speed. Yet he felt no sense of forward motion at all. He concentrated on staying relaxed, his attention focused first on the muscles of this limb, then of that, as his body bowed and jerked like a marionette run by a madman.
Then the motions began to slow, and he allowed himself to open his eyes. He had time to remind himself not to use that phrase, "The Chief's business" quite so lightheartedly the next time.
Then the door of the grav shaft opened up and spat him out, the words from the grille reaching him, "Center Main Bay Number One is straight ahead."
He strode swiftly down the broad corridor, through a wide thick double door, and then there stretched out before him a space huge in itself, though small in relation to the size of the ship, in which rows of racks of various sizes stood nearly empty. Here and there a ship, itself of respectable size, nestled in a rack exactly fitted to it, a rack equally well-fitted holding it from above, so that no sudden acceleration or shift in gravitic field could tear the moored ship loose.
All this was familiar to the colonel, and he had also expected the score or so of men, some of them with Intelligence insignia, who stood a little back from the near end of the entrance, waiting. Nevertheless, something unusual in the air led him to look around uneasily.
To his right, in the surveillance shell projecting out beyond the near end of the membrane, half-a-dozen men operated big E-G machines. The men leaned back in their raised seats, guiding the snouts of the machines according to the image of a battered J-class ship on the wall before them, visible almost as clearly as if seen though a sheet of glass. These machines, no doubt, were only a part of Ahrens' overpowering battery of emotional-field generators. The colonel frowned. Just as long as they were overpower-ing. He wasn't eager to find himself in a battle of E-G machines, however weak the other side might be by comparison. Just let Ahrens pop them out of their ship in a wave of devotion and awe, and the colonel would have them on his team before there was time to say "Yes," "No," or "But," and while Intelligence was still choked on its own outrage.
Alertly, he watched the image of the ship move forward, and then, from his viewpoint, it vanished. The E-G operators, receiving slightly different patterns of light from their viewpoints, raised the snouts of their machines an instant later, and threw the main switches to "Off" lest they unintentionally affect their own people. The nearest E-G operator now raised a fluorescent yellow-and-black paddle overhead. An answering wave from behind the rack told of the E-G machines concealed there, taking up the slack.
And that gave the colonel's uneasiness a focus.
Had there been a gap between the coverage of one set of machines and the turning on of the others? And if so, why?
Then the nose of the J-ship appeared through the thick membrane, the membrane close against it at all points, so that no slightest detectable loss of air took place. The gradually-appearing J-ship, though obviously battle-worn, blazed in gold and platinum, and now a dazzling set of three coats of arms flashed into view.
The colonel felt an unaccountable sense of awe.
He heard an indrawing of breath from the men waiting in the bay.
The glittering J-ship was now fully inside.
. . . And now the colonel was stricken with an urge to drop reverently to his knees.