THE MISPLACED BATTLESHIP

By HARRY HARRISON

Illustrated by Schoenherr

HEN it comes to picking
locks and cracking
safes I admit to no
master. The door to Inskipp's
private quarters
had an old-fashioned tumbler drum
that was easier to pick than my teeth.
I must have gone through that door
without breaking step. Quiet as I
was though, Inskipp still heard me.
The light came on and there he was
sitting up in bed pointing a .75 caliber
recoilless at my sternum.

"You should have more brains
than that, diGriz," he snarled.
"Creeping into my room at night!
You could have been shot."

"No I couldn't," I told him, as he
stowed the cannon back under his
pillow. "A man with a curiosity
bump as big as yours will always talk
first and shoot later. And besides—none
of this pussyfooting around in
the dark would be necessary if your
screen was open and I could have
got a call through."

Inskipp yawned and poured himself
a glass of water from the dispenser
unit above the bed. "Just
because I head the Special Corps,
doesn't mean that I am the Special
Corps," he said moistly while he
drained the glass. "I have to sleep
sometime. My screen is open only
for emergency calls, not for every
agent who needs his hand held."

"Meaning I am in the hand-holding
category?" I asked with as much
sweetness as I could.

"Put yourself in any category you
please," he grumbled as he slumped
down in the bed. "And also put
yourself out into the hall and see me
tomorrow during working hours."

He was at my mercy, really. He
wanted sleep so much. And he was
going to be wide awake so very soon.

"Do you know what this is?" I
asked him, poking a large glossy pic
under his long broken nose. One
eye opened slowly.

"Big warship of some kind, looks
like Empire lines. Now for the last
time—go away!" he said.

"A very good guess for this late
at night," I told him cheerily. "It
is a late Empire battleship of the
Warlord class. Undoubtedly one of
the most truly efficient engines of
destruction ever manufactured. Over
a half mile of defensive screens and
armament, that could probably turn
any fleet existent today into fine
radioactive ash—"

"Except for the fact that the last
one was broken up for scrap over a
thousand years ago," he mumbled.

I leaned over and put my lips close
to his ear. So there would be no
chance of misunderstanding. Speaking
softly, but clearly.

"True, true," I said. "But wouldn't
you be just a little bit interested if
I was to tell you that one is being
built today?"

Oh, it was beautiful to watch. The
covers went one way and Inskipp
went the other. In a single unfolding,
in concerted motion he left the
horizontal and recumbent and stood
tensely vertical against the wall. Examining
the pic of the battleship
under the light. He apparently did
not believe in pajama bottoms and
it hurt me to see the goose-bumps
rising on those thin shanks. But if
the legs were thin, the voice was
more than full enough to make up
for the difference.

"Talk, blast you diGriz—talk!" he
roared. "What is this nonsense about
a battleship? Who's building it?"

I had my nail file out and was
touching up a cuticle, holding it out
for inspection before I said anything.
From the corner of my eye I could
see him getting purple about the
face—but he kept quiet. I savored
my small moment of power.

"Put diGriz in charge of the record
room for a while, you said, that
way he can learn the ropes. Burrowing
around in century-old, dusty files
will be just the thing for a free spirit
like Slippery Jim diGriz. Teach him
discipline. Show him what the
Corps stands for. At the same time
it will get the records in shape. They
have been needing reorganization for
quite a while."

Inskipp opened his mouth, made
a choking noise, then closed it. He
undoubtedly realized that any interruption
would only lengthen my explanation,
not shorten it. I smiled
and nodded at his decision, then
continued.

"So you thought you had me safely
out of the way. Breaking my spirit
under the guise of 'giving me a little
background in the Corps' activities.'
In this sense your plan failed. Something
else happened instead. I nosed
through the files and found them
most interesting. Particularly the
C & M setup—the Categorizer and
Memory. That building full of machinery
that takes in and digests
news and reports from all the planets
in the galaxy, indexes it to every
category it can possibly relate, then
files it. Great machine to work with.
I had it digging out spaceship info
for me, something I have always
been interested in—"

"You should be," Inskipp interrupted
rudely. "You've stolen enough
of them in your time."

I gave him a hurt look and went
on—slowly. "I won't bore you with
all the details, since you seem impatient,
but eventually I turned up
this plan." He had it out of my
fingers before it cleared my wallet.

"What are you getting at?" he
mumbled as he ran his eyes over the
blueprints. "This is an ordinary
heavy-cargo and passenger job. It's
no more a Warlord battleship than
I am."

It is hard to curl your lips with
contempt and talk at the same time,
but I succeeded. "Of course. You
don't expect them to file warship
plans with the League Registry, do
you? But, as I said, I know more
than a little bit about ships. It
seemed to me this thing was just too
big for the use intended. Enough
old ships are fuel-wasters, you don't
have to build new ones to do that.
This started me thinking and I
punched for a complete list of ships
that size that had been constructed in
the past. You can imagine my surprise
when, after three minutes of
groaning, the C & M only produced
six. One was built for self-sustaining
colony attempt at the second galaxy.
For all we know she is still on the
way. The other five were all D-class
colonizers, built during the Expansion
when large populations were
moved. Too big to be practical now.

"I was still teased, as I had no
idea what a ship this large could be
used for. So I removed the time interlock
on the C & M and let it pick
around through the entire history of
space to see if it could find a comparison.
It sure did. Right at the
Golden Age of Empire expansion,
the giant Warlord battleships. The
machine even found a blueprint for
me."

Inskipp grabbed again and began
comparing the two prints. I leaned
over his shoulder and pointed out
the interesting parts.

"Notice—if the engine room specs
are changed slightly to include this
cargo hold, there is plenty of room
for the brutes needed. This superstructure—obviously
just tacked onto
the plans—gets thrown away, and
turrets take its place. The hulls are
identical. A change here, a shift
there, and the stodgy freighter becomes
the fast battlewagon. These
changes could be made during construction,
then plans filed. By the
time anyone in the League found out
what was being built the ship would
be finished and launched. Of course,
this could all be coincidence—the
plans of a newly built ship agreeing
to six places with those of a ship
built a thousand years ago. But if
you think so, I will give you hundred-to-one
odds you are wrong, any
size bet you name."

I wasn't winning any sucker bets
that night. Inskipp had led just as
crooked a youth as I had, and needed
no help in smelling a fishy deal.
While he pulled on his clothes he
shot questions at me.

"And the name of the peace-loving
planet that is building this
bad memory from the past?"

"Cittanuvo. Second planet of a B
star in Corona Borealis. No other
colonized planets in the system."

"Never heard of it," Inskipp said
as we took the private drop chute to
his office. "Which may be a good
or a bad sign. Wouldn't be the first
time trouble came from some out-of-the-way
spot I never even knew
existed."

With the automatic disregard for
others of the truly dedicated, he
pressed the scramble button on his
desk. Very quickly sleepy-eyed clerks
and assistants were bringing files and
records. We went through them together.

Modesty prevented me from
speaking first, but I had a very short
wait before Inskipp reached the same
conclusion I had. He hurled a folder
the length of the room and scowled
out at the harsh dawn light.

"The more I look at this thing,"
he said, "the fishier it gets. This
planet seems to have no possible motive
or use for a battleship. But they
are building one—that I will swear
on a stack of one thousand credit
notes as high as this building. Yet
what will they do with it when they
have it built? They have an expanding
culture, no unemployment,
a surplus of heavy metals and ready
markets for all they produce. No
hereditary enemies, feuds or the like.
If it wasn't for this battleship thing,
I would call them an ideal League
planet. I have to know more about
them."

"I've already called the spaceport—in
your name of course," I told
him. "Ordered a fast courier ship.
I'll leave within the hour."

"Aren't you getting a little ahead
of yourself, diGriz," he said. Voice
chill as the icecap. "I still give the
orders and I'll tell you when you're
ready for an independent command."

I was sweetness and light because
a lot depended on his decision. "Just
trying to help, chief, get things ready
in case you wanted more info. And
this isn't really an operation, just a
reconnaissance. I can do that as well
as any of the experienced operators.
And it may give me the experience
I need, so that some day, I, too, will
be qualified to join the ranks...."

"All right," he said. "Stop shoveling
it on while I can still breathe.
Get out there. Find out what is going
on. Then get back. Nothing
else—and that's an order."

By the way he said it, I knew he
thought there was little chance of
its happening that way. Since my
forced induction into the Corps six
months earlier I had been stuck on
this super-secret planetoid that was
its headquarters and main base. I
had very little sitting-down patience
anyway, and it had been long since
exhausted.

It had been interesting at first.
Particularly since up until the time
I was drafted into the Special Corps
I wasn't even certain it really existed.
It was too much like a con man's
nightmare to be real. A secret worry.
After a few happy years of successful
crime you begin to wonder how long
it will last. Planetary police are all
pushovers and you start to feel you
can go on forever if they're your only
competition. What about the League
though? Don't they take any interest
in crime? Just about that time you
hear your first rumor of the Special
Corps and it fits the bad dreams. A
shadowy, powerful group that slip
silently between the stars, ready to
bring the interstellar lawbreaker low.
Sounds like TV drama stuff. I had
been quite surprised to find they
really existed.

I was even more surprised when I
joined them. Of course there was a
little pressure at the time. I had the
alternative choice of instant death.
But I still think it was a wise move.
Under the motto "Set a thief to catch
one," the Corps supposedly made
good use of men like myself to get
rid of the more antisocial types that
infest the universe.

This was still all hearsay to me. I
had been pulled into headquarters
and given routine administration
work for training. Six months of
this had me slightly ga-ga and I
wanted out. Since no one seemed to
be in a hurry to give me an assignment
I had found one for myself.
I had no idea of what would come
if it, but I also had no intention of
returning until the job was done.

A quick stop at supply and record
sections gave me everything I needed.
The sun was barely clear of the horizon
when the silver needle of my
ship lifted in the gray field, then
blasted into space.

The trip took only a few days,
more than enough time to memorize
everything I needed to know about
Cittanuvo. And the more I knew
the less I could understand their need
for a battleship. It didn't fit. Cittanuvo
was a secondary settlement out
of the Cellini system, and I had run
into these settlements before. They
were all united in a loose alliance
and bickered a lot among themselves,
but never came to blows. If anything,
they shared a universal abhorrence of war.

Yet they were secretly building a
battleship.

Since I was only chasing my tail
with this line of thought, I put it
out of my mind and worked on
some tri-di chess problems. This filled
the time until Cittanuvo blinked
into the bow screen.

One of my most effective mottoes
has always been, "Secrecy can be an
obviousity." What the magicians call
misdirection. Let people very obviously
see what you want them to
see, then they'll never notice what
is hidden. This was why I landed
at midday, on the largest field on
the planet, after a very showy approach.
I was already dressed for
my role, and out of the ship before
the landing braces stopped vibrating.
Buckling the fur cape around my
shoulders with the platinum clasp,
I stamped down the ramp. The sturdy
little M-3 robot rumbled after me
with my bags. Heading directly
towards the main gate, I ignored the
scurry of activity around the customs
building. Only when a uniformed
under-official of some kind ran over
to me, did I give the field any
attention.

Before he could talk I did, foot
in the door and stay on top.

"Beautiful planet you have here.
Delightful climate! Ideal spot for
a country home. Friendly people,
always willing to help strangers and
all that I imagine. That's what I
like. Makes me feel grateful. Very
pleased to meet you. I am the Grand
Duke Sant' Angelo." I shook his
hand enthusiastically at this point
and let a one hundred credit note
slip into his palm.

"Now," I added, "I wonder if
you would ask the customs agents to
look at my bags here. Don't want
to waste time, do we? The ship is
open, they can check that whenever
they please."

My manner, clothes, jewelry, the
easy way I passed money around and
the luxurious sheen of my bags,
could mean only one thing. There
was little that was worth smuggling
into or out of Cittanuvo. Certainly
nothing a rich man would be interested
in. The official murmured
something with a smile, spoke a few
words into his phone, and the job
was done.

A small wave of custom men hung
stickers on my luggage, peeked into
one or two for conformity's sake,
and waved me through. I shook
hands all around—a rustling hand-clasp
of course—then was on my
way. A cab was summoned, a hotel
suggested. I nodded agreement and
settled back while the robot loaded
the bags about me.

The ship was completely clean.
Everything I might need for the job
was in my luggage. Some of it quite
lethal and explosive, and very embarrassing
if it was discovered in my
bags. In the safety of my hotel suite
I made a change of clothes and personality.
After the robot had checked
the rooms for bugs.

And very nice gadgets too, these
Corps robots. It looked and acted
like a moron M-3 all the time. It
was anything but. The brain was as
good as any other robot brain I have
known, plus the fact that the chunky
body was crammed with devices and
machines of varying use. It chugged
slowly around the room, moving my
bags and laying out my kit. And all
the time following a careful route
that covered every inch of the suite.
When it had finished it stopped and
called the all-clear.

"All rooms checked. Results negative
except for one optic bug in that
wall."

"Should you be pointing like
that?" I asked the robot. "Might
make people suspicious, you know."

"Impossible," the robot said with
mechanical surety. "I brushed against
it and it is now unserviceable."

With this assurance I pulled off
my flashy clothes and slipped into
the midnight black dress uniform of
an admiral in the League Grand
Fleet. It came complete with decorations,
gold bullion, and all the necessary
documents. I thought it a
little showy myself, but it was just
the thing to make the right impression
on Cittanuvo. Like many other
planets, this one was uniform-conscious.
Delivery boys, street cleaners,
clerks—all had to have characteristic
uniforms. Much prestige attached to
them, and my black dress outfit
should rate as high as any uniform
in the galaxy.

A long cloak would conceal the
uniform while I left the hotel, but
the gold-encrusted helmet and a
brief case of papers were a problem.
I had never explored all the possibilities
of the pseudo M-3 robot,
perhaps it could be of help.

"You there, short and chunky," I
called. "Do you have any concealed
compartments or drawers built into
your steel hide? If so, let's see."

For a second I thought the robot
had exploded. The thing had more
drawers in it than a battery of cash
registers. Big, small, flat, thin, they
shot out on all sides. One held a
gun and two more were stuffed with
grenades; the rest were empty. I put
the hat in one, the brief case in
another and snapped my fingers. The
drawers slid shut and its metal hide
was as smooth as ever.

I pulled on a fancy sports cap,
buckled the cape up tight, and was
ready to go. The luggage was all
booby-trapped and could defend itself.
Guns, gas, poison needles, the
usual sort of thing. In the last resort
it would blow itself up. The M-3
went down by a freight elevator. I
used a back stairs and we met in
the street.

Since it was still daylight I didn't
take a heli, but rented a groundcar
instead. We had a leisurely drive out
into the country and reached President
Ferraro's house after dark.

As befitted the top official of a
rich planet, the place was a mansion.
But the security precautions were
ludicrous to say the least. I took myself
and a three hundred fifty kilo
robot through the guards and alarms
without causing the slightest stir.
President Ferraro, a bachelor, was
eating his dinner. This gave me
enough undisturbed time to search
his study.

There was absolutely nothing.
Nothing to do with wars or battleships
that is. If I had been interested
in blackmail I had enough
evidence in my hand to support me
for life. I was looking for something
bigger than political corruption,
however.

When Ferraro rolled into his study
after dinner the room was dark. I
heard him murmur something about
the servants and fumble for the
switch. Before he found it, the robot
closed the door and turned on the
lights. I sat behind his desk, all
his personal papers before me—weighted
down with a pistol—and
as fierce a scowl as I could raise
smeared across my face. Before he
got over the shock I snapped an
order at him.

"Come over here and sit down,
quick!"

The robot hustled him across the
room at the same time, so he had
no choice except to obey. When he
saw the papers on the desk his eyes
bulged and he just gurgled a little.
Before he could recover I threw a
thick folder in front of him.

"I am Admiral Thar, League
Grand Fleet. These are my credentials.
You had better check them."
Since they were as good as any real
admiral's I didn't worry in the
slightest. Ferraro went through
them as carefully as he could in his
rattled state, even checking the seals
under UV. It gave him time to
regain a bit of control and he used
it to bluster.

"What do you mean by entering
my private quarters and burglaring—"

"You're in very bad trouble," I
said in as gloomy a voice as I could
muster.

Ferraro's tanned face went a dirty
gray at my words. I pressed the advantage.

"I am arresting you for conspiracy,
extortion, theft, and whatever other
charges develop after a careful review
of these documents. Seize him."
This last order was directed at the
robot who was well briefed in its
role. It rumbled forward and locked
its hand around Ferraro's wrist, handcuff
style. He barely noticed.

"I can explain," he said desperately.
"Everything can be explained.
There is no need to make such
charges. I don't know what papers
you have there, so I wouldn't attempt
to say they are all forgeries. I have
many enemies you know. If the
League knew the difficulties faced on
a backward planet like this...."

"That will be entirely enough," I
snapped, cutting him off with a wave
of my hand. "All those questions will
be answered by a court at the proper
time. There is only one question I
want an answer to now. Why are you
building that battleship?"

The man was a great actor. His
eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped,
he sank back into the chair as if he
had been tapped lightly with a hammer.
When he managed to speak the
words were completely unnecessary;
he had already registered every evidence
of injured innocence.

"What battleship!" he gasped.

"The Warlord class battleship that
is being built at the Cenerentola
Spaceyards. Disguised behind these
blueprints." I threw them across the
desk to him, and pointed to one
corner. "Those are your initials there,
authorizing construction."

Ferraro still had the baffled act going
as he fumbled with the papers,
examined the initials and such. I gave
him plenty of time. He finally put
them down, shaking his head.

"I know nothing about any battleship.
These are the plans for a new
cargo liner. Those are my initials, I
recall putting them there."

I phrased my question carefully, as
I had him right where I wanted him
now. "You deny any knowledge of
the Warlord battleship that is being
built from these modified plans."

"These are the plans for an ordinary
passenger-freighter, that is all I
know."

His words had the simple innocence
of a young child's. Was he ever
caught. I sat back with a relaxed sigh
and lit a cigar.

"Wouldn't you be interested in
knowing something about that robot
who is holding you," I said. He
looked down, as if aware for the first
time that the robot had been holding
him by the wrist during the interview.
"That is no ordinary robot. It
has a number of interesting devices
built into its fingertips. Thermocouples,
galvanometers, things like that.
While you talked it registered your
skin temperature, blood pressure,
amount of perspiration and such. In
other words it is an efficient and fast
working lie detector. We will now
hear all about your lies."

Ferraro pulled away from the robot's
hand as if it had been a poisonous
snake. I blew a relaxed smoke
ring. "Report," I said to the robot.
"Has this man told any lies?"

"Many," the robot said. "Exactly
seventy-four per cent of all statements
he made were fake."

"Very good," I nodded, throwing
the last lock on my trap. "That
means he knows all about this battleship."

"The subject has no knowledge of
the battleship," the robot said coldly.
"All of his statements concerning the
construction of this ship were true."

Now it was my turn for the gaping
and eye-popping act while Ferraro
pulled himself together. He had
no idea I wasn't interested in his
other hanky-panky, but could tell I
had had a low blow. It took an effort,
but I managed to get my mind back
into gear and consider the evidence.

If President Ferraro didn't know
about the battleship, he must have
been taken in by the cover-up job.
But if he wasn't responsible—who
was? Some militaristic clique that
meant to overthrow him and take
power? I didn't know enough about
the planet, so I enlisted Ferraro on
my side.

This was easy—even without the
threat of exposure of the documents
I had found in his files. Using their
disclosure as a prod I could have
made him jump through hoops. It
wasn't necessary. As soon as I showed
him the different blueprints and explained
the possibilities he understood.
If anything, he was more eager
than I was to find out who was using
his administration as a cat's-paw. By
silent agreement the documents were
forgotten.

We agreed that the next logical
step would be the Cenerentola Spaceyards.
He had some idea of sniffing
around quietly first, trying to get a
line to his political opponents. I gave
him to understand that the League,
and the League Navy in particular,
wanted to stop the construction of the
battleship. After that he could play
his politics. With this point understood
he called his car and squadron
of guards and we made a parade to
the shipyards. It was a four-hour
drive and we made plans on the way
down.

The spaceyard manager was named
Rocca, and he was happily asleep
when we arrived. But not for long.
The parade of uniforms and guns in
the middle of the night had him
frightened into a state where he could
hardly walk. I imagine he was as full
of petty larceny as Ferraro. No innocent
man could have looked so terror
stricken. Taking advantage of the
situation, I latched my motorized lie
detector onto him and began snapping
the questions.

Even before I had all the answers
I began to get the drift of things.
They were a little frightening, too.
The manager of the spaceyard that
was building the ship had no idea of
its true nature.

Anyone with less self-esteem than
myself—or who had led a more honest
early life—might have doubted
his own reasoning at that moment. I
didn't. The ship on the ways still
resembled a warship to six places.
And knowing human nature the way
I do, that was too much of a coincidence
to expect. Occam's razor always
points the way. If there are two
choices to take, take the simpler. In
this case I chose the natural acquisitive
instinct of man as opposed to
blind chance and accident. Nevertheless
I put the theory to the test.

Looking over the original blueprints
again, the big superstructure
hit my eye. In order to turn the ship
into a warship that would have to be
one of the first things to go.

"Rocca!" I barked, in what I
hoped was authentic old space-dog
manner. "Look at these plans, at this
space-going front porch here. Is it
still being built onto the ship?"

He shook his head at once and
said, "No, the plans were changed.
We had to fit in some kind of new
meteor-repelling gear for operating
in the planetary debris belt."

I flipped through my case and
drew out a plan. "Does your new
gear look anything like this?" I asked,
throwing it across the table to
him.

He rubbed his jaw while he looked
at it. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "I
don't want to say for certain. After
all these details aren't in my department,
I'm just responsible for final
assembly, not unit work. But this
surely looks like the thing they installed.
Big thing. Lots of power
leads—"

It was a battleship all right, no
doubt of that now. I was mentally
reaching around to pat myself on the
back when the meaning of his words
sank in.

"Installed!" I shouted. "Did you
say installed?"

Rocca collapsed away from my roar
and gnawed his nails. "Yes—" he
said, "not too long ago. I remember
there was some trouble...."

"And what else!" I interrupted
him. Cold moisture was beginning to
collect along my spine now. "The
drives, controls—are they in, too?"

"Why, yes," he said. "How did
you know? The normal scheduling
was changed around, causing a great
deal of unnecessary trouble."

The cold sweat was now a running
river of fear. I was beginning to have
the feeling that I had been missing
the boat all along the line. The original
estimated date of completion was
nearly a year away. But there was no
real reason why that couldn't be
changed, too.

"Cars! Guns!" I bellowed. "To the
spaceyard. If that ship is anywhere
near completion, we are in big, big
trouble!"

All the bored guards had a great
time with the sirens, lights, accelerators
on the floor and that sort of
thing. We blasted a screaming hole
through the night right to the spaceyard
and through the gate.

It didn't make any difference, we
were still too late. A uniformed
watchman frantically waved to us and
the whole convoy jerked to a stop.

The ship was gone.

Rocca couldn't believe it, neither
could the president. They wandered
up and down the empty ways where
it had been built. I just crunched
down in the back of the car, chewing
my cigar to pieces and cursing myself
for being a fool.

I had missed the obvious fact, being
carried away by the thought of a
planetary government building a warship.
The government was involved
for sure—but only as a pawn. No
little planet-bound political mind
could have dreamed up as big a
scheme as this. I smelled a rat—a
stainless steel one. Someone who
operated the way I had done before
my conversion.

Now that the rodent was well out
of the bag I knew just where to look,
and had a pretty good idea of what
I would find. Rocca, the spaceyard
manager, had staggered back and was
pulling at his hair, cursing and crying
at the same time. President Ferraro
had his gun out and was staring
at it grimly. It was hard to tell if he
was thinking of murder or suicide. I
didn't care which. All he had to
worry about was the next election,
when the voters and the political
competition would carve him up for
losing the ship. My troubles were a
little bigger.

I had to find the battleship before
it blasted its way across the galaxy.

"Rocca!" I shouted. "Get into the
car. I want to see your records—all
of your records—and I want to see
them right now."

He climbed wearily in and had
directed the driver before he fully
realized what was happening. Blinking
at the sickly light of dawn
brought him slowly back to reality.

"But ... admiral ... the hour!
Everyone will be asleep...."

I just growled, but it was enough.
Rocca caught the idea from my expression
and grabbed the car phone.
The office doors were open when we
got there.

Normally I curse the paper tangles
of bureaucracy, but this was one
time when I blessed them all. These
people had it down to a fine science.
Not a rivet fell, but that its fall was
noted—in quintuplicate. And later
followed up with a memo, rivet,
wastage, query. The facts I needed
were all neatly tucked away in their
paper catacombs. All I had to do was
sniff them out. I didn't try to look for
first causes, this would have taken too
long. Instead I concentrated my attention
on the recent modifications, like
the gun turret, that would quickly
give me a trail to the guilty parties.

Once the clerks understood what I
had in mind they hurled themselves
into their work, urged on by the fires
of patriotism and the burning voices
of their superiors. All I had to do
was suggest a line of search and the
relevant documents would begin appearing
at once.

Bit by bit a pattern started to
emerge. A delicate webwork of forgery,
bribery, chicanery and falsehood.
It could only have been conceived by
a mind as brilliantly crooked as my
own. I chewed my lip with jealousy.
Like all great ideas, this one was
basically simple.

A party or parties unknown had
neatly warped the ship construction
program to their own ends. Undoubtedly
they had started the program for
the giant transport, that would have
to be checked later. And once the
program was underway, it had been
guided with a skill that bordered on
genius. Orders were originated in
many places, passed on, changed and
shuffled. I painfully traced each one
to its source. Many times the source
was a forgery. Some changes seemed
to be unexplainable, until I noticed
the officers in question had a temporary
secretary while their normal assistants
were ill. All the girls had
food poisoning, a regular epidemic it
seemed. Each of them in turn had
been replaced by the same girl. She
stayed just long enough in each position
to see that the battleship plan
moved forward one more notch.

This girl was obviously the assistant
to the Mastermind who originated
the scheme. He sat in the center of
the plot, like a spider on its web,
pulling the strings that set things into
motion. My first thought that a gang
was involved proved wrong. All my
secondary suspects turned out to be
simple forgeries, not individuals. In
the few cases where forgery wasn't
adequate, my mysterious X had apparently
hired himself to do the job.
X himself had the permanent job of
Assistant Engineering Designer. One
by one the untangled threads ran to
this office. He also had a secretary
whose "illnesses" coincided with her
employment in other offices.

When I straightened up from my
desk the ache in my back stabbed like
a hot wire. I swallowed a painkiller
and looked around at my drooping,
sack-eyed assistants who had shared
the sleepless seventy-two hour task.
They sat or slumped against the
furniture, waiting for my conclusions.
Even President Ferraro was there, his
hair looking scraggly where he had
pulled out handfuls.

"You've found them, the criminal
ring?" he asked, his fingers groping
over his scalp for a fresh hold.

"I have found them, yes," I said
hoarsely. "But not a criminal ring.
An inspired master criminal—who
apparently has more executive ability
in one ear lobe than all your bribe-bloated
bureaucrats—and his female
assistant. They pulled the entire job
by themselves. His name, or undoubtedly
pseudoname, is Pepe Nero. The
girl is called Angelina...."

"Arrest them at once! Guards ...
guards—" Ferraro's voice died away
as he ran out of the room. I talked
to his vanishing back.

"That is just what we intend to do,
but it's a little difficult at the moment
since they are the ones who not only
built the battleship, but undoubtedly
stole it as well. It was fully automated
so no crew is necessary."

"What do you plan to do?" one
of the clerks asked.

"I shall do nothing," I told him,
with the snapped precision of an old
space dog. "The League fleet is already
closing in on the renegades and
you will be informed of the capture.
Thank you for your assistance."

I threw them as snappy a salute as
I could muster and they filed out.
Staring gloomily at their backs I envied
for one moment their simple
faith in the League Navy. When in
reality the vengeful fleet was just as
imaginary as my admiral's rating.
This was still a job for the Corps.
Inskipp would have to be given the
latest information at once. I had sent
him a psigram about the theft, but
there was no answer as yet. Maybe
the identity of the thieves would stir
some response out of him.

My message was in code, but it
could be quickly broken if someone
wanted to try hard enough. I took it
to the message center myself. The
psiman was in his transparent cubicle
and I locked myself in with him. His
eyes were unfocused as he spoke
softly into a mike, pulling in a message
from somewhere across the galaxy.
Outside the rushing transcribers
copied, coded and filed messages, but
no sound penetrated the insulated
wall. I waited until his attention
clicked back into the room, and
handed him the sheets of paper.

"League Central 14—rush," I told
him.

He raised his eyebrows, but didn't
ask any questions. Establishing contact
only took a few seconds, as they
had an entire battery of psimen for
their communications. He read the
code words carefully, shaping them
with his mouth but not speaking
aloud, the power of his thoughts carrying
across the light-years of distance.
As soon as he was finished I
took back the sheet, tore it up and
pocketed the pieces.

I had my answer back quickly
enough, Inskipp must have been
hovering around waiting for my message.
The mike was turned off to the
transcribers outside, and I took the
code groups down in shorthand myself.

"... xybb dfil fdno, and if you
don't—don't come back!"

The message broke into clear at
the end and the psiman smiled as he
spoke the words. I broke the point
off my stylus and growled at him not
to repeat any of this message, as it
was classified, and I would personally
see him shot if he did. That got
rid of the smile, but didn't make me
feel any better.

The decoded message turned out
not to be as bad as I had imagined.
Until further notice I was in charge
of tracking and capturing the stolen
battleship. I could call on the League
for any aid I needed. I would keep
my identity as an admiral for the
rest of the job. I was to keep him
informed of progress. Only those
ominous last words in clear kept my
happiness from being complete.

I had been handed my long-awaited
assignment. But translated
into simple terms my orders were to
get the battleship, or it would be my
neck. Never a word about my efforts
in uncovering the plot in the first
place. This is a heartless world we
live in.

This moment of self-pity relaxed
me and I immediately went to bed.
Since my main job now was waiting,
I could wait just as well asleep.

And waiting was all I could do.
Of course there were secondary tasks,
such as ordering a Naval cruiser for
my own use, and digging for more
information on the thieves, but these
really were secondary to my main
purpose. Which was waiting for bad
news. There was no place I could go
that would be better situated for the
chase than Cittanuvo. The missing
ship could have gone in any direction.
With each passing minute the
sphere of probable locations grew
larger by the power of the squared
cube. I kept the on-watch crew of
the cruiser at duty stations and confined
the rest within a one hundred
yard radius of the ship.

There was little more information
on Pepe and Angelina, they had
covered their tracks well. Their origin
was unknown, though the fact they
both talked with a slight accent suggested
an off-world origin. There was
one dim picture of Pepe, chubby but
looking too grim to be a happy fat
boy. There was no picture of the girl.
I shuffled the meager findings, controlled
my impatience, and kept the
ship's psiman busy pulling in all the
reports of any kind of trouble in
space. The navigator and I plotted
their locations in his tank, comparing
the positions in relation to the growing
sphere that enclosed all the possible
locations of the stolen ship.
Some of the disasters and apparent
accidents hit inside this area, but
further investigation proved them all
to have natural causes.

I had left standing orders that all
reports falling inside the danger area
were to be brought to me at any time.
The messenger woke me from a deep
sleep, turning on the light and handing
me the slip of paper. I blinked
myself awake, read the first two lines,
and pressed the action station alarm
over my bunk. I'll say this, the Navy
boys know their business. When the
sirens screamed, the crew secured
ship and blasted off before I had
finished reading the report. As soon
as my eyeballs unsquashed back into
focus I read it through, then once
more, carefully, from the beginning.

It looked like the one we had been
waiting for. There were no witnesses
to the tragedy, but a number of monitor
stations had picked up the discharge
static of a large energy weapon
being fired. Triangulation had lead
investigators to the spot where they
found a freighter, Ogget's Dream,
with a hole punched through it as
big as a railroad tunnel. The freighter's
cargo of plutonium was gone.

I read Pepe in every line of the
message. Since he was flying an
undermanned battleship, he had used
it in the most efficient way possible.
If he attempted to negotiate or
threaten another ship, the element
of chance would be introduced. So
he had simply roared up to the
unsuspecting freighter and blasted her
with the monster guns his battleship
packed. All eighteen men aboard had
been killed instantly. The thieves
were now murderers.

I was under pressure now to act.
And under a greater pressure not to
make any mistakes. Roly-poly Pepe
had shown himself to be a ruthless
killer. He knew what he wanted—then
reached out and took it. Destroying
anyone who stood in his way.
More people would die before this
was over, it was up to me to keep
that number as small as possible.

Ideally I should have rushed out
the fleet with guns blazing and dragged
him to justice. Very nice, and I
wished it could be done that way.
Except where was he? A battleship
may be gigantic on some terms of
reference, but in the immensity of the
galaxy it is microscopically infinitesimal.
As long as it stayed out of the
regular lanes of commerce, and clear
of detector stations and planets, it
would never be found.

Then how could I find it—and
having found it, catch it? When the
infernal thing was more than a match
for any ship it might meet. That was
my problem. It had kept me awake
nights and talking to myself days,
since there was no easy answer.

I had to construct a solution, slowly
and carefully. Since I couldn't be
sure where Pepe was going to be
next, I had to make him go where I
wanted him to.

There were some things in my
favor. The most important was the
fact I had forced him to make his
play before he was absolutely ready.
It wasn't chance that he had left the
same day I arrived on Cittanuvo. Any
plan as elaborate as his certainly included
warning of approaching danger.
The drive on the battleship, as
well as controls and primary armament
had been installed weeks before
I showed up. Much of the subsidiary
work remained to be done when the
ship had left. One witness of the
theft had graphically described the
power lines and cables dangling from
the ship's locks when she lifted.

My arrival had forced Pepe off
balance. Now I had to keep pushing
until he fell. This meant I had to
think as he did, fall into his plan,
think ahead—then trap him. Set a
thief to catch a thief. A great theory,
only I felt uncomfortably on the spot
when I tried to put it into practice.

A drink helped, as did a cigar.
Puffing on it, staring at the smooth
bulkhead, relaxed me a bit. After all—there
aren't that many things you
can do with a battleship. You can't
run a big con, blow safes or make
burmedex with it. It is hell-on-jets
for space piracy, but that's about all.

"Great, great—but why a battleship?"

I was talking to myself, normally a
bad sign, but right now I didn't care.
The mood of space piracy had seized
me and I had been going along fine.
Until this glaring inconsistency jumped
out and hit me square in the
eye.

Why a battleship? Why all the
trouble and years of work to get a
ship that two people could just barely
manage? With a tenth of the effort
Pepe could have had a cruiser that
would have suited his purposes just
as well.

Just as good for space piracy, that
is—but not for his purposes. He had
wanted a battleship, and he had gotten
himself a battleship. Which
meant he had more in mind than
simple piracy. What? It was obvious
that Pepe was a monomaniac, an
egomaniac, and as psychotic as a
shorted computer. Some day the mystery
of how he had slipped through
the screen of official testing would
have to be investigated. That wasn't
my concern now. He still had to be
caught.

A plan was beginning to take
shape in my head, but I didn't rush
it. First I had to be sure that I knew
him well. Any man that can con an
entire world into building a battleship
for him—then steal it from
them—is not going to stop there. The
ship would need a crew, a base for
refueling and a mission.

Fuel had been taken care of first,
the gutted hull of Ogget's Dream
was silent witness to that. There were
countless planets that could be used
as a base. Getting a crew would be
more difficult in these peaceful times,
although I could think of a few answers
to that one, too. Raid the mental
hospitals and jails. Do that often
enough and you would have a crew
that would make any pirate chief
proud. Though piracy was, of course,
too mean an ambition to ascribe to
this boy. Did he want to rule a whole
planet—or maybe an entire system?
Or more? I shuddered a bit as the
thought hit me. Was there really anything
that could stop a plan like this
once it got rolling? During the Kingly
Wars any number of types with a
couple of ships and less brains than
Pepe had set up just this kind of
empire. They were all pulled down
in the end, since their success depended
on one-man rule. But the
price that had to be paid first!

This was the plan and I felt in my
bones that I was right. I might be
wrong on some of the minor details,
they weren't important. I knew the
general outline of the idea, just as
when I bumped into a mark I knew
how much he could be taken for, and
just how to do it. There are natural
laws in crime as in every other field
of human endeavor. I knew this
was it.

"Get the Communications Officer
in here at once," I shouted at the
intercom. "Also a couple of clerks
with transcribers. And fast—this is
a matter of life or death!" This last
had a hollow ring, and I realized my
enthusiasm had carried me out of
character. I buttoned my collar,
straightened my ribbons and squared
my shoulders. By the time they knocked
on the door I was all admiral
again.

Acting on my orders the ship
dropped out of warpdrive so our psiman
could get through to the other
operators. Captain Steng grumbled as
we floated there with the engines
silent, wasting precious days, while
half his crew was involved in getting
out what appeared to be insane instructions.
My plan was beyond his
understanding. Which is, of course,
why he is a captain and I'm an admiral,
even a temporary one.

Following my orders, the navigator
again constructed a sphere of
speculation in his tank. The surface
of the sphere contacted all the star
systems a days flight ahead of the
maximum flight of the stolen battleship.
There weren't too many of these
at first and the psiman could handle
them all, calling each in turn and
sending by news releases to the
Naval Public Relations officers there.
As the sphere kept growing he started
to drop behind, steadily losing
ground. By this time I had a general
release prepared, along with directions
for use and follow up, which he
sent to Central 14. The battery of
psimen there contacted the individual
planets and all we had to do
was keep adding to the list of
planets.

The release and follow-ups all
harped on one theme. I expanded on
it, waxed enthusiastic, condemned it,
and worked it into an interview. I
wrote as many variations as I could,
so it could be slipped into as many
different formats as possible. In one
form or another I wanted the basic
information in every magazine,
newspaper and journal inside that
expanding sphere.

"What in the devil does this nonsense
mean?" Captain Steng asked
peevishly. He had long since given
up the entire operation as a futile
one, and spent most of the time in
his cabin worrying about the affect
of it on his service record. Boredom
or curiosity had driven him out, and
he was reading one of my releases
with horror.

"Billionaire to found own world
... space yacht filled with luxuries
to last a hundred years," the captain's
face grew red as he flipped
through the stack of notes. "What
connection does this tripe have with
catching those murderers?"

When we were alone he was anything
but courteous to me, having
assured himself by not-too-subtle
questioning that I was a spurious admiral.
There was no doubt I was
still in charge, but our relationship
was anything but formal.

"This tripe and nonsense," I told
him, "is the bait that will snag our
fish. A trap for Pepe and his partner
in crime."

"Who is this mysterious billionaire?"

"Me," I said. "I've always wanted
to be rich."

"But this ship, the space yacht,
where is it?"

"Being built now in the naval
shipyard at Udrydde. We're almost
ready to go there now, soon as this
batch of instructions goes out."

Captain Steng dropped the releases
onto the table, then carefully
wiped his hands off to remove any
possible infection. He was trying to
be fair and considerate of my views,
and not succeeding in the slightest.

"It doesn't make sense," he growled.
"How can you be sure this killer
will ever read one of these things.
And if he does—why should he be
interested? It looks to me as if you
are wasting time while he slips
through your fingers. The alarm
should be out and every ship notified.
The Navy alerted and patrols
set on all spacelanes—"

"Which he could easily avoid by
going around, or better yet not even
bother about, since he can lick any
ship we have. That's not the answer,"
I told him. "This Pepe is
smart and as tricky as a fixed gambling
machine. That's his strength—and
his weakness as well. Characters
like that never think it possible
for someone else to outthink them.
Which is what I'm going to do."

"Modest, aren't you," Steng said.

"I try not to be," I told him.
"False modesty is the refuge of the
incompetent. I'm going to catch this
thug and I'll tell you how I'll do it.
He's going to hit again soon, and
wherever he hits there will be some
kind of a periodical with my plant
in it. Whatever else he is after, he
is going to take all of the magazines
and papers he can find. Partly to satisfy
his own ego, but mostly to keep
track of the things he is interested
in. Such as ship sailings."

"You're just guessing—you don't
know all this."

His automatic assumption of my
incompetence was beginning to get
me annoyed. I bridled my temper
and tried one last time.

"Yes, I'm guessing—an informed
guess—but I do know some facts as
well. Ogget's Dream was cleaned out
of all reading matter, that was one
of the first things I checked. We
can't stop the battleship from attacking
again, but we can see to it that
the time after that she sails into a
trap."

"I don't know," the captain said,
"it sounds to me like...."

I never heard what it sounded like,
which is all right since he was getting
under my skin and might have been
tempted to pull my pseudo-rank. The
alarm sirens cut his sentence off and
we foot-raced to the communications
room.

Captain Steng won by a nose, it
was his ship and he knew all the
shortcuts. The psiman was holding
out a transcription, but he summed
it up in one sentence. He looked at
me while he talked and his face was
hard and cold.

"They hit again, knocked out a
Navy supply satellite, thirty-four
men dead."

"If your plan doesn't work, admiral,"
the captain whispered hoarsely
in my ear, "I'll personally see that
you're flayed alive!"

"If my plan doesn't work, captain—there
won't be enough of my skin
left to pick up with a tweezer. Now
if you please, I'd like to get to
Udrydde and pick up my ship as
soon as possible."

The easy-going hatred and contempt
of all my associates had annoyed
me, thrown me off balance. I
was thinking with anger now, not
with logic. Forcing a bit of control,
I ordered my thoughts, checking off
a mental list.

"Belay that last command," I
shouted, getting back into my old
space-dog mood. "Get a call through
first and find out if any of our plants
were picked up during the raid."

While the psiman unfocused his
eyes and mumbled under his breath
I riffled some papers, relaxed and
cool. The ratings and officers waited
tensely, and made some slight attempt
to conceal their hatred of me.
It took about ten minutes to get an
answer.

"Affirmative," the psiman said. "A
store ship docked there twenty hours
before the attack. Among other
things, it left newspapers containing
the article."

"Very good," I said calmly. "Send
a general order to suspend all future
activity with the planted releases.
Send it by psimen only, no
mention on any other Naval signaling
equipment, there's a good chance
now it might be 'overheard'."

I strolled out slowly, in command
of the situation. Keeping my face
turned away so they couldn't see the
cold sweat.

It was a fast run to Udrydde
where my billionaire's yacht, the
Eldorado, was waiting. The dockyard
commander showed me the ship, and
made a noble effort to control his
curiosity. I took a sadistic revenge
on the Navy by not telling him a
word about my mission. After
checking out the controls and special
apparatus with the technicians, I
cleared the ship. There was a tape
in the automatic navigator that
would put me on the course mentioned
in all the articles, just a press
of a button and I would be on my
way. I pressed the button.

It was a beautiful ship, and the
dockyard had been lavish with their
attention to detail. From bow to
rear tubes she was plated in pure
gold. There are other metals with a
higher albedo, but none that give a
richer effect. All the fittings, inside
and out, were either machine-turned
or plated. All this work could not
have been done in the time allotted,
the Navy must have adapted a luxury
yacht to my needs.

Everything was ready. Either Pepe
would make his move—or I would
sail on to my billionaire's paradise
planet. If that happened, it would be
best if I stayed there.

Now that I was in space, past the
point of no return, all the doubts
that I had dismissed fought for attention.
The plan that had seemed so
clear and logical now began to look
like a patched and crazy makeshift.

"Hold on there, sailor," I said to
myself. Using my best admiral's
voice. "Nothing has changed. It's
still the best and only plan possible
under the circumstances."

Was it? Could I be sure that Pepe,
flying his mountain of a ship and
eating Navy rations, would be interested
in some of the comforts and
luxuries of life? Or if the luxuries
didn't catch his eye, would he be
interested in the planetary homesteading
gear? I had loaded the cards
with all the things he might want,
and planted the information where
he could get it. He had the bait now—but
would he grab the hook?

I couldn't tell. And I could work
myself into a neurotic state if I kept
running through the worry cycle. It
took an effort to concentrate on anything
else, but it had to be made. The
next four days passed very slowly.

When the alarm blew off, all I felt
was an intense sensation of relief. I
might be dead and blasted to dust in
the next few minutes, but that didn't
seem to make much difference.

Pepe had swallowed the bait.
There was only one ship in the galaxy
that could knock back a blip that
big at such a distance. It was closing
fast, using the raw energy of the
battleship engines for a headlong approach.
My ship bucked a bit as the
tug-beams locked on at maximum distance.
The radio bleeped at me for
attention at the same time. I waited
as long as I dared, then flipped it on.
The voice boomed out.

"... That you are under the guns
of a warship! Don't attempt to run,
signal, take evasive action, or in any
other way...."

"Who are you—and what the
devil do you want?" I spluttered into
the mike. I had my scanner on, so
they could see me, but my own screen
stayed dark. They weren't sending
any picture. In a way it made my act
easier, I just played to an unseen
audience. They could see the rich cut
of my clothes, the luxurious cabin
behind me. Of course they couldn't
see my hands.

"It doesn't matter who we are,"
the radio boomed again. "Just obey
orders if you care to live. Stay away
from the controls until we have tied
on, then do exactly as I say."

There were two distant clangs as
magnetic grapples hit the hull. A
little later the ship lurched, drawn
home against the battleship. I let my
eyes roll in fear, looking around for
a way to escape—and taking a peek
at the outside scanners. The yacht
was flush against the space-filling
bulk of the other ship. I pressed the
button that sent the torch-wielding
robot on his way.

"Now let me tell you something,"
I snapped into the mike, wiping away
the worried billionaire expression.
"First I'll repeat your own warning—obey
orders if you want to live. I'll
show you why——"

When I threw the big switch a
carefully worked out sequence took
place. First, of course, the hull was
magnetized and the bombs fused. A
light blinked as the scanner in the
cabin turned off, and the one in the
generator room came on. I checked
the monitor screen to make sure, then
started into the spacesuit. It had to
be done fast, at the same time it was
necessary to talk naturally. They must
still think of me as sitting in the control
room.

"That's the ship's generators you're
looking at," I said. "Ninety-eight per
cent of their output is now feeding
into coils that make an electromagnet
of this ship's hull. You will find it
very hard to separate us. And I would
advise you not to try."

The suit was on, and I kept the
running chatter up through the mike
in the helmet, relaying to the ship's
transmitter. The scene in the monitor
receiver changed.

"You are now looking at a hydrogen
bomb that is primed and aware
of the magnetic field holding our
ships together. It will, of course, go
off if you try to pull away."

I grabbed up the monitor receiver
and ran towards the air lock.

"This is a different bomb now," I
said, keeping one eye on the screen
and the other on the slowly opening
outer door. "This one has receptors
on the hull. Attempt to destroy any
part of this ship, or even gain entry
to it, and this one will detonate."

I was in space now, leaping across
to the gigantic wall of the other ship.

"What do you want?" These were
the first words Pepe had spoken since
his first threats.

"I want to talk to you, arrange a
deal. Something that would be profitable
for both of us. But let me first
show you the rest of the bombs, so
you won't get any strange ideas about
co-operating."

Of course I had to show him the
rest of the bombs, there was no getting
out of it. The scanners in the
ship were following a planned program.
I made light talk about all my
massive armament that would carry
us both to perdition, while I climbed
through the hole in the battleship's
hull. There was no armor or warning
devices at this spot, it had been
chosen carefully from the blueprints.

"Yeah, yeah ... I take your word
for it, you're a flying bomb. So stop
with this roving reporter bit and tell
me what you have in mind."

This time I didn't answer him,
because I was running and panting
like a dog, and had the mike turned
off. Just ahead, if the blueprints were
right, was the door to the control
room. Pepe should be there.

I stepped through, gun out, and
pointed it at the back of his head.
Angelina stood next to him, looking
at the screen.

"The game's over," I said. "Stand
up slowly and keep your hands in
sight."

"What do you mean," he said
angrily, looking at the screen in
front of him. The girl caught wise
first. She spun around and pointed.

"He's here!"

They both stared, gaped at me,
caught off guard and completely unprepared.

"You're under arrest, crime-king,"
I told him. "And your girl friend."

Angelina rolled her eyes up and
slid slowly to the floor. Real or
faked, I didn't care. I kept the gun
on Pepe's pudgy form while he
picked her up and carried her to an
acceleration couch against the wall.

"What ... what will happen
now?" He quavered the question.
His pouchy jaws shook and I swear
there were tears in his eyes. I was not
impressed by his acting since I could
clearly remember the dead men floating
in space. He stumbled over to a
chair, half dropping into it.

"Will they do anything to me?"
Angelina asked. Her eyes were open
now.

"I have no idea of what will happen
to you," I told her truthfully.
"That is up to the courts to decide."

"But he made me do all those
things," she wailed. She was young,
dark and beautiful, the tears did
nothing to spoil this.

Pepe dropped his face into his
hands and his shoulders shook. I
flicked the gun his way and snapped
at him.

"Sit up, Pepe. I find it very hard
to believe that you are crying. There
are some Naval ships on the way
now, the automatic alarm was triggered
about a minute ago. I'm sure
they'll be glad to see the man
who...."

"Don't let them take me, please!"
Angelina was on her feet now, her
back pressed to the wall. "They'll put
me in prison, do things to my mind!"
She shrunk away as she spoke, stumbling
along the wall. I looked back
at Pepe, not wanting to have my
eyes off him for an instant.

"There's nothing I can do," I told
her. I glanced her way and a small
door was swinging open and she was
gone.

"Don't try to run," I shouted after
her, "it can't do any good!"

Pepe made a strangling noise and
I looked back to him quickly. He
was sitting up now and his face was
dry of tears. In fact he was laughing,
not crying.

"So she caught you, too, Mr.
Wise-cop, poor little Angelina with
the soft eyes." He broke down again,
shaking with laughter.

"What do you mean," I growled.

"Don't you catch yet? The story
she told you was true—except she
twisted it around a bit. The whole
plan, building the battleship, then
stealing it, was hers. She pulled me
into it, played me like an accordion.
I fell in love with her, hating myself
and happy at the same time.
Well—I'm glad now it's over. At
least I gave her a chance to get
away, I owe her that much. Though
I thought I would explode when she
went into that innocence act!"

The cold feeling was now a ball
of ice that threatened to paralyze me.
"You're lying," I said hoarsely, and
even I didn't believe it.

"Sorry. That's the way it is. Your
brain-boys will pick my skull to
pieces and find out the truth anyway.
There's no point in lying now."

"We'll search the ship, she can't
hide for long."

"She won't have to," Pepe said.
"There's a fast scout we picked up,
stowed in one of the holds. That
must be it leaving now." We could
feel the vibration, distantly through
the floor.

"The Navy will get her," I told
him, with far more conviction than
I felt.

"Maybe," he said, suddenly
slumped and tired, no longer laughing.
"Maybe they will. But I gave
her her chance. It is all over for me
now, but she knows that I loved her
to the end." He bared his teeth in
sudden pain. "Not that she will
care in the slightest."

I kept the gun on him and neither
of us moved while the Navy ships
pulled up and their boots stamped
outside. I had captured my battleship
and the raids were over. And I
couldn't be blamed if the girl had
slipped away. If she evaded the
Navy ships, that was their fault, not
mine.

I had my victory all right.

Then why did it taste like ashes
in my mouth?

It's a big galaxy, but it wasn't
going to be big enough to hide Angelina
now. I can be conned once—but
only once. The next time we
met things were going to be very
different.

THE END