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  “Anyway, the principle of intervention to stop all wars, invited or not, led to things like the Great Jehad and the Brazil-Argentine affair. Small-scale war fought to prevent large-scale war. Then when the Russian government appealed for help against its nationalist insurgents, and got it, the precedent of active intervention within a country’s own boundaries was set—much to the good and much to the distaste of almost every government, including the American. The conservatives were in power here about that time, you remember, trying unsuccessfully to patch up the Socialist Depression, and they nearly walked us out of membership. Not quite, though—And those other international functions, research and trade regulation and so on, have been growing apace.

  “You see where this is leading? I’ve told you many times before”—a safe guess, that—“but I’ll tell you again: The U.N. is in the process of becoming a federal world government. Already it has its own Inspectorate, its own small police force, and its Lunar Guard. Slowly, grudgingly, the nations are being induced to disarm—we abolished our own draft ten years or so back, remember? There’s a movement afoot to internationalize the planets and the ocean developments, put them under direct U.N. authority. We’ve had international currency stabilization for a long time now—sooner or later, we’ll adopt one money unit for the world. Tariffs are virtually extinct. Oh, I could go on all day.

  “Previous proposals to make a world government of the U.N. were voted down. Nations were too shortsighted. But it is nevertheless happening, slowly, piece by piece, so that the final official unification of man will be only a formality. Understand? Of course you do. It’s obvious. The trouble is, our enemies have begun to understand it too.”

  Naysmith lit a cigarette for himself and scowled at the blue cloud swirling from his nostrils. “There are so many who would like to break the U.N. There are nationalists and militarists of all kinds, all countries, men who would rise to power if the old anarchy returned—and the need for power is a physical hunger in that sort. There are big men of industry, finance, and politics, who’d like to cut their enterprises loose from regulation. There are labor leaders who want a return of the old strife which means power and profit for them. There are religionists of a dozen sorts who don’t like our population-control campaigns. There are cranks and fanatics who seek a chance to impose their own beliefs, everyone from Syndics to Neocommunists, Pilgrims to Hedonists. There are those who were hurt by some or other U.N. action—perhaps they lost a son in one of our campaigns, perhaps a new development or policy wiped out their business—they want revenge. Oh, there are a thousand kinds of them, and if once the U.N. collapses they’ll all be free to go fishing in troubled waters.”

  “Tell me something new,” said Jeanne impatiently.

  “I have to lead up to it, darling. I have to explain what this latest threat is. You see, all these enemies of ours are getting together. All over the world, they’re shelving their many quarrels and uniting into a great secret organization whose one purpose is to weaken and destroy the U.N. You wouldn’t think fanatical nationalists of different countries could co-operate? Well, they can, because it’s the only way they’ll ever have a chance later on to attack each other. The leadership of this organization, which we Un-men somewhat inelegantly refer to as the gang, is brilliant; a lot of big men are members and the whole thing

  is beautifully set up. Such entities as the Americanist Party have become fronts for the gang. Whole governments are backing them, governments which are Reluctant U.N. members only because of public opinion at home and the pressure that can be brought to bear on nonmembers. Kwang-ti’s successors brought China back in, I’m sure, only to ruin us from within. U.N. Councilors are among their creatures, and I know not how many U.N. employees.”

  Naysmith smiled humorlessly. “Even now, the great bulk of people throughout the world are pro-U.N., looking on it as a deliverer from the hell they’ve survived. So one way the enemy has to destroy us is by sabotage from inside. Corruption, arrogance, inefficiency, illegal actions—perpetrated by their own agents in the U.N. and becoming matters of public knowledge. You’ve heard a lot of that, and you’ll hear still more in the months to come if this is allowed to go on. Another way is to ferret out some of our darker secrets—secrets which every government necessarily has—and make them known to the right people. All right, let’s face it: Kwang-ti was assassinated by an Un-man. We thought the job had been passed off as the work of democratic conspirators, but apparently there’s been a leak somewhere and the Chinese accusation is shaking the whole frail edifice of international co-operation. The Council will stall as long as possible, but eventually it’ll have to disown the Service’s action and heads will roll. Valuable heads.

  “Now if at the proper moment, with the U.N. badly weakened, whole nations walking out again, public confidence trembling, there should be military revolutions within key nations—and the Moon bases seized by ground troops from a nearby colony—Do you see it? Do you see the return of international anarchy, dictatorship, war—and every Un-man in the Solar System hunted to his death?”

  VIII.

  By a roundabout course avoiding the major towns and colonies, it was many hours even at the airboat’s speed to Naysmith’s goal. He found his powers of invention somewhat taxed enroute. First he had to give Jeanne a half true account of his whereabouts in the past weeks. Then Bobby, precociously articulate—as he should be with both parents well into the genius class—felt disturbed by the gravity of his elders and the imminent re-disappearance of a father whom he obviously worshiped, and could only be comforted by Naysmith’s long impromptu saga of Crock O’Dile, a green Irish alligator who worked at the Gideon Kleinmein Home for Helpless and Houseless Horses. Finally there were others to contend with, a couple of filling station operators and the clerk in a sporting goods store where he purchased supplies—they had to be convinced in an unobtrusive way that these were dully everyday customers to be forgotten as soon as they were gone. It all seemed to go off easily enough, but Naysmith was cold with the tension of wondering whether any of these people had heard the broadcast alarms. Obviously not, so far—but when they got home and, inevitably, were informed, Would they remember well enough?

  He zigzagged oyer Washington, crossing into British Columbia above an empty stretch of forest. There was no official reason for an American to stop, but the border was a logical place for the S-men to watch.

  “Will the Canadian police co-operate in hunting us?” asked Jeanne.

  “I don’t know,” said Naysmith. “It all depends. You see, American Security, with its broad independent powers, has an anti-U.N. head, but on the other hand the President is pro-U.N. as everybody knows, and Fourre will doubtless see to it that he learns who this wanted criminal is. He can’t actually countermand the chase without putting himself in an untenable position, but he can obstruct it in many ways and can perhaps tip off the Canadian government. All on the q.t., of course.”

  The boat swung east until it was following the mighty spine of the Rockies, an immensity of stone and forest and snow turning gold with sunset. Naysmith had spent several vacations here, camping and painting, and knew where he was headed. It was after dark when he slanted the boat downward, feeling his way with the radar.

  There was an abandoned uraniumhunting base here, one of the shacks still habitable. Naysmith bounced the boat to a halt on the edge of a steep cliff, cut the engines, and yawned hugely. “End of the line,” he said.

  They climbed out, burdened with equipment, food, and the sleeping child. Naysmith wheeled the vehicle under a tall pine and led the way up a slope. Jeanne drew a lungful of the sharp moonlit air and sighed. “Martin, it’s beautiful! Why didn’t you ever take me here before?”

  He didn’t answer. His flashlight picked out the crumbling face of the shack, its bare wood and metal blurred with many years. The door creaked open on darkness. Inside, it was bare, the flooring rotted away to a soft black mold, a few sticks of broken furniture scattered like bones. Taking a pu
rchased ax, he went into the woods after spruce boughs, heaping them under the sleeping bags which Jeanne had laid out. Bobby whimpered a little in his dreams, but they didn’t wake him to eat.

  Naysmith’s watch showed midnight before the cabin was in order. He strolled out for a final cigarette and Jeanne followed to stand beside him. Her fingers closed about his.

  The moon was nearly full, rising over a peak whose heights were one glitter of snow. Stars wheeled enormously overhead, flashing and flashing in the keen cold air. The forests growing up the slant of this mountain soughed with wind, tall and dark and heady-scented, filled with night and mystery. Down in the gorge there was a river, a long gleam of broken moonlight, the fresh wild noise of its brawling passage drifting up to them. Somewhere an owl hooted.

  Jeanne shivered in the chill breeze and crept against Naysmith. He drew his mantle around both of them, holding her close. The little red eye of his cigarette waxed and waned in the dark.

  “It’s so lovely here,” she whispered. “Do you have to go?”

  “Yes.” His answer came harshly out of his throat. “You’ve supplies enough for a month. If anyone chances by, then you’re of course just a camper on vacation—but I doubt they will, this is an isolated spot. If I’m not back within three weeks, though, follow the river down—there’s a small colony about fifty miles from here. Or I may send one of our agents to get you. He’ll have a password . . . let’s see . . . ‘The crocodiles grow green in Ireland.’ O.K.?”

  Her laugh was muted and wistful.

  “I’m sorry to lay such a burden on you, darling,” he said contritely.

  “It’s nothing—except that you’ll be away, a hunted man, and I won’t know—” She bit her lip. Her face was white in the streaming moon-glow. “This is a terrible world we live in.”

  “No, Jeanne. It’s a . . . a potentially lovely world. My job is to help keep it that way.” He chucked her under the chin, fighting to smile. “Don’t let it worry you. Good night, sweet princess.”

  She kissed him with a terrible yearning. For an instant Naysmith hung back. Should I tell her? She’s safely away now—she has a right to know I’m not her husband.

  “What’s wrong, Marty? You seem so strange—”

  I don’t dare. I can’t tell her—not while the enemy is abroad, not while there’s a chance of their catching her. And a little longer in her fool’s paradise—I can drop out of sight, let someone else give her the news. You coward!

  He surrendered. But it was a cruel thing to know, that she was really clasping a dead man to her.

  They walked slowly back to the cabin.

  Colonel Samsey woke with an animal swiftness and sat up in bed. Sleep drained from him as he saw the tall figure etched black against his open balcony door. He grabbed for the gun under his pillow.

  “I wouldn’t try that, friend.” The voice was soft. Moonlight streamed in to glitter on the pistol in the intruder’s hand.

  “Who are you?” Samsey gasped it out, hardly aware of the incredible fact yet. Why—he was a hundred and fifty stories up—his front entrance was guarded, and no copter could so silently have put this masked figure on his balcony—

  “Out of bed, boy. Fast! O.K., now clasp your hands on top of your head.”

  Samsey felt the night wind cold on his body. It was a helplessness, this standing without his uniform and pistol belt, looking down the muzzle of a stranger’s gun. His close-cropped scalp felt stubbly under his palms.

  “How did you get in?” he whispered.

  Naysmith didn’t feel it necessary to explain the process. He had walked from the old highway on which he had landed his jet and used vacuum shoes and gloves to climb the sheer face of Denver Unit. “Better ask why I came,” he said.

  “All right, blast you! Why? This is a gross violation of privacy, plus menace and—” Samsey closed his mouth with a snap. Legality had plainly gone by the board.

  “I want some information.” Naysmith seated himself halfway on a table, one leg swinging easily, the gun steady in his right hand while his left fumbled in a belt pouch. “And you, as a high-ranking officer in the American Guard and a well-known associate of Roger Wade, seemed likeliest to have it.”

  “You’re crazy! This is—We’re just a patriotic society. You know that. Or should. We—”

  “Cram it, Samsey,” said Naysmith wearily. “The American Guard has ranks, uniforms, weapons, and drills. Every member belongs to the Americanist Party. You’re a private army, Nazi style, and you’ve done the murders, robberies, and beatings of the Party for the past five years. As soon as the government is able to prove that in court, you’ll all go to the Antarctic mines and you know it. Your hope is that your faction can be in power before there’s a case against you!”

  “Libel! We’re a patriotic social group—”

  “I regret my approach,” said Naysmith sardonically. And he did. Direct attack of this sort was not only unlawful, it was crude and of very limited value. But he hadn’t much choice. He had to get some kind of line on the enemy’s plans, and the outlawing of the Brotherhood and the general suspicion cast on the Service meant that standard detective approaches were pretty well eliminated for the time being. Half a loaf—“Nevertheless, I want certain information. The big objective right now is to overthrow the U.N. How do you intend to accomplish that? Specifically, what is your next assignment?”

  “You don’t expect—”

  Samsey recoiled as Naysmith moved. The Un-man’s left hand came out of his pouch like a striking snake even as his body hurtled across the floor. The right arm grasped Samsey’s biceps, twisting him around in front of the intruder, a knee in his back, while the hypodermic needle plunged into his neck.

  Samsey struggled, gasping. The muscles holding him were like steel, cat-lithe, meeting his every wrench with practiced ease. And now the great wave of dizziness came, he lurched and Naysmith supported him, easing him back to the bed.

  The hypo had been filled with four cubic centimeters of a neoscopaneurine mixture, very nearly a lethal dose. But it would act fast! Naysmith did not think the colonel had been immunized against such truth drugs—the gang wouldn’t trust its lower echelons that much.

  Moonlight barred the mindlessly drooling face on the pillow with a streak of icy silver. It was very quiet here, only the man’s labored breathing and the sigh of wind blowing the curtains at the balcony door. Naysmith gave his victim a stimulant injection, waited a couple of minutes, and began his interrogation.

  Truth drugs have been misnamed. They do not intrinsically force the subject to speak truth; they damp those higher brain centers needed to invent a lie or even to inhibit response. The subject babbles, with a strong tendency to babble on those subjects he has previously been most concerned to keep secret; and a skilled psychologist-can lead the general direction of the talk.

  First, of course, the private nastinesses which every human has buried within himself came out, like suppuration from an inflamed wound. Naysmith had been through this before, but he grimaced—Samsey was an especially bad sort, a jungled darkness of perverted instinct. These aggressively manly types often were. Naysmith continued patiently until he got onto more interesting topics.

  Samsey didn’t know anyone higher in the gang than Wade. Well, that was to be expected. In fact, Naysmith thought scornfully, he, the outsider, knew more about the organization of the enemy than any one member below the very top ranks. But that was a pretty general human characteristic too—a man did his job, for whatever motives of power, profit, or simple existence he might have, and didn’t even try to learn where it fitted into the great general pattern. The synthesizing mentality is tragically rare.

  But a free society at least permitted its members to learn, and a rational society encouraged them to do so; whereas totalitarianism, from the bossy foreman to the hemispheric dictator, was based on the deliberate suppression of communications. Where there was no feedback, there could be no stability except through the living death of imposed
intellectual rigidity.

  Back to business! Here came something he had been waiting for, the next task for the American Guard’s thugs. The Phobos was due in from Mars in a week. Guardsmen were supposed to arrange the death of one Barney Rosenberg, passenger, as soon as possible after his debarkation on Earth. Why? The reason was not given and had not been asked for, but a good description of the man was available.

  Mars—yes, the Guard was also using a privately owned spaceship to run arms to a secret base in the Thyle II country, where they were picked up by Pilgrims.

  So! The Pilgrims were in on the gang. The Service had suspected as much, but here was proof. This might be the biggest break of all, but Naysmith had a hunch that it was incidental. Somehow, the murder of an obscure returnee from Mars impressed him as involving greater issues.

  There wasn’t more which seemed worth the risk of waiting. Naysmith had a final experiment to try.

  Samsey was a rugged specimen, already beginning to pull out of his daze. Naysmith switched on a lamp, its radiance falling across the distorted face below him. The eyes focused blurrily on his sheening mask. Slowly, he lifted it.

  “Who am I, Samsey?” he asked quietly.

  A sob rattled in the throat. “Donner . . . but you’re dead. We killed you in Chicago. You died, you’re dead.”

  That settled that. Naysmith replaced his mask. Systematically, he repaired the alarms he had annulled for his entry and checked the room for traces of his presence. None. Then he took Samsey’s gun from beneath the pillow. Silenced, naturally. He folded the lax fingers about the trigger and blew the colonel’s brains out.