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Part VII:
Trap

Colonel John Towers, commanding Independent Division III of the Special Effects Team, drifted down through the moist air with the sun hot on his back, set the gravitor pack to hover, and looked down through his binoculars at a chain of low dark-green equatorial islands that stretched due east to the distant horizon. To the north and south, a placid ocean shimmered unbroken as far as the eye could see.

Scattered along the island chain lay many Centran spaceships, and Towers studied the identifying letters and numbers on a ship almost directly below. This was the command ship of Major General Sark Glossip, Centran Military Overseer of the planet.

Towers, in his many tricky and deceptive assignments for the Centra-Earth alliance, had acquired a knack for recognizing particularly bad situations. He turned back the flap of his holster, and made sure his service automatic slid easily to hand. He glanced up at a glint of reflected sunlight high overhead, and took a small communicator from its case on his belt.

"Logan?"

"Sir?" came the voice of his second-in-command.

"Drop the landing-boats another thousand feet."

Overhead, the bright glint began to change form and position.

Logan's voice came through again. "How do things look?"

"About the same as on the screen. Nothing moving. No Centrans, humanoids, or animals in sight anywhere. But I have the sensation of a hundred sets of unfriendly eyes watching. Do you see anything?"

"No, sir. Nothing worth mentioning."

Towers pressed down the knob of the grav pack's control rod, felt mounting pressure against his eardrums as he dropped, and yawned and swallowed to ease the pressure.

He looked down at the Centran command ship lying on dark sand near the edge of a patch of dark-green brush. The ship had a low bulge along its upper flank, and rising from this, two big thick vertical fins one behind the other. These fins, oval in cross-section, bristled with gun muzzles, spike-bars, and nests of sharpened blades, and were crowned by metal cages backed with mesh.

Logan's voice came through reassuringly.

"Still nothing moving down there, sir. It looks O.K., at least."

"Hm-m-m," said Towers, unconvinced, looking over the guns and spike-bars.

Logan said, "What do you plan to do, sir?"

"Obey orders—when Glossip condescends to give them to me."

Sark Glossip, who had brought Towers to this planet by his call for help, had provided an explanation that was a model of its kind:

"So," Glossip had said, looking out intently from the communicator screen, "the Special Effects Team can straighten out planetary revolts?"

"We've certainly had experience at it," said Towers. "What's the trouble, sir?"

"How about planets that haven't yet been . . . ah . . . fully integrated?"

"You want the Special Effects Team for the initial conquest?"

"Well," said Glossip defensively, "we've run into an unusual situation—"

All Towers handled were unusual situations. But he nodded sympathetically, and looked receptive.

Glossip doubled back on his tracks.

"Is the Special Effects Team used in the initial conquest?"

"Not in the actual landing. But sometimes later on, if the situation is bad enough."

"It's bad here."

"What's wrong, sir?"

"It's an extremely serious situation. Very serious, Towers. Very serious indeed."

Towers listened patiently.

Glossip said, "We're in a tough spot here." His eyes strayed to Towers' insignia of rank. "Colonel—if I understand you correctly—you will give assistance, if I request it."

"Yes. But—"

"Very well. I do request assistance. Now, Towers, I want to discuss this with you."

"Yes, sir," said Towers exasperatedly.

"Down here. So, the first thing for you to do, Towers, is to come down, and we will go over this."

"General, I can do a better job if I have some idea what the mess is before I'm in it."

The Centran thrust out his jaw. "I think this is a much wiser way to handle this, Colonel. And the sooner you get here, the better."

"I can get to the planet—"

Glossip interrupted. "In no circumstances are any of your ships to actually touch down here. This is the first thing you have to remember."

"General, if you'd give me a few details, I could decide much better what—"

"Exactly why I want to discuss this with you, Colonel. As soon as possible—just as soon as you can get here." Glossip frowned thoughtfully. "There isn't any truth, I suppose, in the rumor that your people have developed a one-man gravitor pack?"

"Yes, we—"

"Splendid! Then you can come down using that, and you won't need to bring even a landing-boat to the surface."

Towers opened his mouth, and shut it again.

"Fine," said the general. "Then that's settled. Now, then, we'll want to know exactly when you can get here . . ."

Now, thinking back on this conversation as he drifted down toward the Centran ship, Towers felt again the urge to profanity.

"Logan."

"Sir?"

"I'm going down there now."

"Yes, sir. Good luck."

"Thanks."

Towers dropped more rapidly, scanning sea and island, and seeing nothing move.

Suddenly, Logan said, "Sir—"

"Yes?"

"On high magnification, we've found a great many small translucent objects of some kind, barely afloat—in the water around the island below you."

Towers looked down intently. "Any motion from these things?"

"No, sir. But we don't see any such numbers anywhere else."

"Maybe jellyfish of some kind."

Towers dropped straight for the ship. From here, he could see the gun muzzles in the foreshortened upright fins. The guns pointed not only at sand, brush, and sea, but also at the dented armor of the neighboring fin. Was that to protect against an enemy too close to be reached otherwise? But then, why was only this part of the ship protected against attack?

From below, a voice boomed in Centran:

"Colonel Towers! When we open the bars, drop fast toward the red hatch! When you're four or five reaches away, swerve for the green hatch. We'll drop it as you come through. Don't hesitate, and don't shoot."

The cages atop the big fins swung open, to show beneath them small chambers with large hatches at the bottom. The hatch in the forward fin was painted green, and in the aft fin red. Towers shoved down on the control, and plunged toward the aft fin.

The island, and the Centran ship, sprang up at him, enlarging in a rush.

He yanked the control sidewise and forward, and shot toward the forward hatch.

Suddenly, the air was filled with blue-green flippers, white teeth, and flying slivers of pointed shell.

There was a whine of bullets, the green hatch fell open underfoot, and he yanked up on the control as he plunged into thick darkness and a hammering clang shook the air. The deck sprang out of the gloom, and a voice roared, "Shut and lock! Report!"

Towers landed hard, sank down on his knees, felt the crushing pressure grow light, and barely managed to snap the control to neutral before it threw him back up at the hatch.

From overhead came shouts.

"Green clear!"

"Red clear!"

"Cease fire! Check your walls! New guard, by the red gate!"

Directly before Towers in the sweltering dimness, a Centran captain raised his hand in salute.

"The general's waiting, sir. Follow me."

Towers was barely able to breathe in the overpowering heat. He glanced around, to make out vertical bars that divided the space under this fin from a corresponding space farther aft. On each side, armed Centran guards, stripped to the waist, watched the opposite compartment.

Ahead of Towers, the Centran captain dropped through a hatchway, and Towers followed.

He found himself walking along a narrow corridor cooled by a faint current of air. The captain rounded a corner, and halted at a doorway where a Centran sergeant stood on guard. The guard boredly presented arms, the captain knocked, and a gruff bark answered from within. The captain opened the door, spoke briefly into the room, then turned to Towers.

"Go right in, sir."

Towers stepped in. The heat, in here, was the worst yet.

Across the far corner of the room, under a sluggishly-turning four-bladed ceiling fan, was a desk. In back of the desk was an overturned pivot chair, one clawed foot upraised. Seated at the desk was a burly Centran stripped to the waist, his fur plastered to him as if he'd just stepped out of a shower. A glance was enough to show Towers that this was General Glossip.

General Glossip's frame of mind was evident in the abrupt way he toweled the condensation off a pitcher of ice water, and slapped the towel over the upraised claw of the pivot chair, then glanced to the other side of his desk where a tub of ice trailed streamers of fog in the stifling heat, while condensation trickled onto a sodden bath towel, a thin stream of water curled out toward Glossip's desk, and the general cast a venomous glance at it before looking up at Towers.

Towers, who had crossed the room to stand at attention before the desk, was momentarily distracted by a small green-and-brown striped lizard lying atop one of the broad sluggishly-turning fan blades. This lizard, a blissful expression on its face, apparently had the advantage of the only breeze in the room.

Towers became aware that the general was following his gaze. Towers saluted, and reported his presence.

Glossip's face was expressionless as he returned the salute.

"Well, Colonel," he said dryly, "I see you got here safely."

"I'd have had a better chance with a little more information, sir."

"And just how the devil was I supposed to explain a thing like that to you or anyone else?"

"Exactly what did happen when I was coming in?"

Glossip squinted at him, then nodded sourly. "Happened so fast you didn't have time to see it? Well, Towers, far be it from me to try to explain it." He glanced at the wide harness of the gravitor pack. "Is that the only one of those one-man packs you have?"

"No, sir. We've got others." Towers' voice was unintentionally sharp.

Glossip looked at him coldly. "Do you have any in those landing-boats you're bringing down?"

"We have several of them, sir."

"Could you have one dropped to this ship?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go out, have an extra pack dropped down, and bring it in here."

Glossip reached back and took hold of a brass knob dangling on the end of a slender chain, and there was a bong-bong on the far side of the bulkhead behind him.

The corridor door opened up and a somewhat dull-looking Centran lieutenant saluted.

"Sir?"

"Take Colonel Towers here to the entry port. Inform the officer of the hatch that the colonel is to have every consideration, and may leave by the red or the green as he chooses. He—"

General Glossip paused abruptly.

The lieutenant had suddenly forgotten Glossip, and was looking at Towers' completely furless face and hands. Next he stared to right and left of Towers' ankles. He had that characteristic look of a Centran—one possessing poor manners and dubious intelligence—seeing an Earthman for the first time, and trying to locate the tail.

General Glossip's teeth came together with a snap.

He turned to Towers, very politely.

"Colonel—"

"Sir?"

"If you would just step outside for a moment, while I give Lieutenant Molgrim a few final instructions—"

"Yes, sir."

Towers stepped outside, and could feel the lieutenant's gaze on him the whole distance.

Towers pulled the door shut and stood to the other side from the sergeant on guard.

From behind Towers, the general's voice came through the door, low and angry:

"You sickly lump of Mikeril bait! Stand up! Eyes front! Get that silly look off your face! Was that the first Earthman you ever saw?"

The Centran sergeant glanced up and down the hall, then, strictly contrary to regulations, murmured confidentially, "I was on Earth in the invasion."

Towers hesitated. He should deliver a stiff reprimand. But here at last might be a source of information.

"Yes, sir," murmured the sergeant. "I was only a cub, but I was at General Horsip's headquarters when the counterattack hit. Believe me, there was something. Whatever else they say, I know Earthmen can fight. Anything I can do for you, sir, just send the word for Klas Makkil. In a place like this, we have to stick together, or we're finished."

Towers dumped regulations overboard.

"What is it you're up against on this planet?"

"The toads go through the air so fast you can't see them. That's the worst. Next is that they float underwater with just the curve of their eyes awash. They can spot you, but you can't spot them. By the hairy arm, sir! It's not safe to set foot outside in the daytime, and it isn't much better at night."

"Thanks, Makkil. That's more than the general told me."

"General's all right, sir. But this place has him whipped, and he's too mad to talk about it." The sergeant stood straighter as footsteps approached from the general's office.

The door opened, and the lieutenant came out, trembling all over. "Please follow me, sir."

As Towers started down the hall, the sergeant hissed in his ear, "Go fast, from red."

Beneath the closed red hatch in the aft fin, Towers dropped to a low crouch.

The Centran officer in charge bellowed, "Raise the bars! Drop the hatches!"

Towers glanced up at the disk of dazzling sky directly overhead, snapped the pack control to full lift, straightened his legs in one violent thrust, and shot though the hatch. Abruptly he was in bright sunlight, breathing air that seemed fresh and almost cool.

From the ship dwindling below came a clang as the hatches slammed shut.

Towers glanced up, to see that Logan was evidently alert for treachery. The landing-boats were in a formation of open concentric rings, lowest on the outside, and progressively stepped up toward the center. From this formation, they could open fire on the Centran ship without obstructing each other, or close on it simultaneously from all sides.

Towers slipped his belt communicator into his hand.

"Logan."

"Sir?"

"Lift formation a thousand feet."

From below came a roar, and Towers recognized Glossip's voice:

"Colonel Towers! Your orders were to bring no ship or landing-boat to the surface!"

There was a momentary silence, and Towers deduced that Glossip could see the boats lifting, and realized Towers must already have given the order.

"Very good," came Glossip's voice. "See they don't come within a hundred reaches of the surface, Towers."

"Yes, sir," called Towers obediently. He had the growing suspicion that he and Glossip were going to have a head-on collision soon.

He described Glossip's order to Logan, and asked. "Do we have an extra gravitor pack handy?"

"Yes, sir," said Logan, "though how we'll get it into the ship I don't know. I'll set the pack to descend slowly."

"Good. But—wait a minute."

Towers looked around exasperatedly. Glossip didn't bother to explain. He just gave orders. It was, therefore, a little hard to improvise if his orders turned out to be impractical.

Glossip had ordered Towers to bring the extra pack into the ship. Of course, to do that, Towers had to go through the same thing he'd gone through the last time, with the added handicap of the extra pack. Was there some reason why Glossip wanted Towers himself back in the ship, or would the pack alone be enough? The devil with it.

"And Logan—"

"Sir?"

"Put a coil of fishline and a couple of lead weights, from the survival kit, in the pocket of the pack. Maybe I can guide the pack down to the ship from up here."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later, a dark object detached itself from one of the landing-boats, and began to drift down.

Towers, hovering, could feel the sun through his uniform, and every breath of air seemed to stay where he exhaled it. He lifted up on the control, and climbed toward the pack.

He still had to get that pack into the Centran ship, and before he tried that, it might not be a bad idea to get a little more information.

"Logan, what happened when I went down to the command ship?"

"I wish I knew, sir. It looked like twenty to thirty blue-green mermen materialized around that pair of conning towers."

"Materialized?"

"Well, sir, if they flew, they were too fast to follow."

That, thought Towers, was what Makkil had said. He cleared his throat.

"They materialized over the fins—the 'conning towers'?"

"Well, not over them, at first. They—clumped."

"They what?"

"Well, they—piled up. The impression most of us got was that they didn't appear all at once, but in rapid succession. It seemed that the first ones were lower than the ones that followed. Then they—dematerialized—disappeared and were gone."

Towers shook his head. No wonder Glossip hadn't wanted to talk about it. He looked down at the water, then up at the landing-boat.

"You've got this recorded?"

"Yes, sir. But we haven't had time to check it over."

"Do you have any idea where these things came from, or where they went to?"

"We don't know where they went to. But they apparently came from the water around the island. First, a series of splashes and then they appeared over the ship."

"Splashes?"

"Yes, sir. As if something had just been dropped into the water. I suppose if something came out of the water, fast enough, it would make a splash, too."

"Hm-m-m," Towers thought it over, saw that the pack was close, caught it, and reached into the pocket for the fishline. Just as he drew it out, something in the placid water below threw back a flash of reflected light.

Four feet of glistening teeth and crocodilian head split the water in a streak of foam. There was a wild thrashing, and a humanlike upper body came into view, muscular arms wildly beating the water, mouth wide open and features contorted, the whole body—head, limbs, and torso—blue-green in color. Then the huge jaws twisted sidewise, and there was just a long swell of smooth water marked by a whitish rush of bubbles. Then the distant piercing scream reached Towers, like a reflected flash of agony.

Around the island, a series of low spouts of water flung up and fell back in a splash.

Logan said, "That's roughly what happened before."

From the Centran ship came Glossip's voice:

"Colonel Towers! Bring down the pack!"

Towers started down, counting seventeen places in the sea marked by circular ripples.

Logan was saying, "But the last time that happened, the mermen showed up over the ship."

"The splashes came from the places where you'd noticed some kind of translucent objects?"

"Yes, sir. We were apparently seeing the eyes and maybe part of the brow."

Again, that fit with what Makkil had said. It added up, but what did it add up to?

"Do you still see any in the water around the island?"

"Quite a few. Around on the other side."

Towers slipped the fishline out, and tied one end tightly in a shallow groove in the rod below the control knob. To the other end of the line, he tied one of the small lead weights.

From the ship boomed Glossip's authoritative voice:

"Start for the green hatch, Towers, then swerve for the red!"

Logan said, "Sir, there's another bunch in that inlet south of the ship."

That decided Towers, who hovered above the ship. He roughly centered himself over the red hatch, lowered the weight on the fishline, peered along the swaying line, then called, "Look out below! Keep back from under the red hatch!"

"Towers!" boomed Glossip's voice.

Towers, sighting along the line, seemed to be directly above the hatch, but he needed a check. He released the other small lead weight, and watched it dwindle. It seemed to be dropping straight for the hatch opening.

Glossip's voice roared, "Start for the—" The instructions were interrupted by a bellow of pain and rage.

Towers carefully pressed down the control, and let the pack go. The pack accelerated for the ship.

"General," he called, "I can't swerve in time carrying the pack! I'm dropping it through the red hatch. Have your men grab it, and center the control knob!"

The pack was dwindling fast, headed for the hatch opening.

Near the top of the aft fin, there appeared half-a-dozen blue-green forms, each holding up what appeared to be a kind of large shell. From Towers' angle of vision, these mermen seemed to abruptly displace themselves upward. Then he realized that the first were still in the same position, but more had appeared.

The coiled fishline was leaping from Towers' hand and now he clapped his other hand on it to put a drag on the line, to yank the pack's control to full lift. If he had gauged it properly, the Centrans should be able to grab it once it got in. But would it get past the blue-green forms around the fin? Towers' service automatic was in his hand before he remembered the earlier warning not to fire. Before he could decide whether to squeeze the trigger there was a yell from below, and the blue-green forms were gone.

The pack shot in past the edge of the hatch opening, trailing the fishline. On full lift, it should, according to Towers' estimate, lose enough accumulated momentum so the Centrans could grab it.

From below came a roar, yells, bellowed curses and orders, a loud crashing noise, then a momentary silence. Then there was a burst of ferocious profanity, and the pack shot up out of the hatch, a large furry form clinging to the straps.

For an instant, Towers was paralyzed. Before he recovered, Glossip went past like a rocket headed for outer space, the fishline trailing straight out behind.

Towers grabbed at the line, missed, yanked his own pack control to full lift, took another grab at the line, caught the weight for a moment, then it snapped free.

Towers was rising fast now, and swallowed to equalize the falling pressure against his eardrums. He looked up, and could see that he was gaining. Possibly Glossip had managed to center the control. Towers squinted against the wind, and abruptly shoved his own control all the way down.

Glossip had dwindled to a speck, but this speck was now enlarging like an onrushing meteor.

Glossip went past in a streak, upside down, hanging to the straps, accelerating straight for the island.

Towers shouted, "Center the control!"

Apparently, Towers had caught the weight for just an instant, but that had been enough to snap the control all the way down. Glossip had then continued to pull ahead on accumulated speed, while he and Towers were building up a big acceleration in opposite directions.

As the thought flashed through his mind, Towers was urgently looking for the line. Something blurred toward him, and he seized it and tried to hang on. It yanked his arm straight down, and shot free.

Towers snapped the control knob of his own grav pack to nearly full lift, and peered down.

Below him, Glossip appeared centered over the hatch. Towers prayed fervently and watched. Now there was a twisting motion that Towers hoped meant that the pack had started up again. Now a swarm of blue-green blurs appeared around the fin, apparently trying for a grab at the Centran general. Now they vanished. Glossip was still there. Carefully, Towers eased his pack control down a little to slow the ascent, felt the painful sense of pressure deaden his ears, yawned and swallowed, and got out the communicator.

"Logan—"

"I'm watching, sir."

"If he gets by me, have a landing-boat match velocities over him and brake."

Carefully, Towers gauged speed and position, and, as Glossip climbed past, Towers reached out intently and centered the control. Only when he'd done this, did he spare the attention to look at the general himself.

Glossip, the straps crushed in his hands, eyes tightly shut, had a look of pure bliss on his face.

For a dazed instant, Towers couldn't remember where he'd seen that expression before. Then it dawned on him. He'd seen it down in Glossip's office—on the face of the lizard swinging around on the fan blade.

With the packs slowing to an upward drift, Glossip now opened his eyes.

"Great, Towers! By the hairy arm of the first-born Mikeril!" He beamed as he looked all around. "How do you work this thing?"

Towers dazedly pointed out the control knob. "You move this whichever way you want to go. At the center, you hover. When you move it farther, you get higher velocities. When you move it some more, you get rapid acceleration. At the extreme position, you get maximum acceleration. You don't have to worry about a change in attitude of the pack, because that is internally compensa—"

Glossip let go of the straps with one hand, took hold of the control, and before Towers could stop him, shot for the sky, whirled around as the landing-boats scattered, then plunged for the ocean. Towers snapped the communicator to his lips.

"Logan!"

"Sir?" Logan's voice was that of one earnestly awaiting orders.

Towers started to speak, then stopped. Glossip was now in a steep dive. Now the steep dive stretched out into a shallow dive. Now Glossip was streaking along horizontally, almost skimming the open water. Now the water foamed ahead of him, and a huge snout lifted up, to open out a gigantic set of jaws. Glossip whipped around to one side, reappeared, and streaked in a shallow climb toward the nearest island, where he disappeared against a mottled background.

"Sir?" repeated Logan.

"Just stand clear," said Towers. "Where is he now?"

"Climbing—right in line with the islands. Here he comes!"

Towers looked all around, saw nothing, then there was a roar from overhead. Glossip dove past, swung around in a flat turn, climbed sharply, and stopped dead in the air, beaming.

"Fine, Towers! First rate!" he looked intently at Towers' harness, writhed around, shot one hand, then the other, through the straps, yanked the straps tight, and said, "Now, you saw what happened down there? You saw what these locals can do?"

With an effort, Towers dragged his mind onto the problem. "Yes, I—"

"Good," said Glossip. "Then, you see why I couldn't explain it. How could I explain it? These natives teleport. They can live on land or in the water, and when they're in danger—which is often in that ocean, believe me—there's a little splash as the water rushes in to fill up the space they just left, and they're gone!"

"They're gone. But where to?"

"That's the worst of it. As far as we can discover, they can go to any place they've been before."

Towers digested this, then shook his head.

"General, it seems to me that this is a good planet to leave alone."

"Very true," said Glossip. "And when a man reaches into a barrel, thinking it's empty, and his arm sinks up to the elbow in soft tar—Why, yes, that was a good barrel to stay out of. But his problem now is that he's got his arm in there up to the elbow."

Towers started to speak, then paused. The natives could teleport. They could go anywhere they had already been.

Towers looked down at the Centran ship. He was high enough so that he could see, on neighboring islands, other Centran ships. And he knew that was just a small part of Glossip's force. Frowning, he asked, "What's the extreme range? How far can they teleport?"

"A very good question, Towers. That's the crux of the matter. How far can they teleport? We don't know. And there are a number of wrong ways we can find out."

"When you say they can go 'wherever they've been before'—"

"Let me show you."

Glossip dipped into a shallow dive, and Towers followed. They streaked high over the island, across a narrow strip of water, crossed another island and several Centran ships, then still another island, and a ship with the hatches open and unguarded.

"That," said Glossip, "is one of the ships that set down here earlier. They never knew what hit them."

They shot out over the sea, and on an island to one side and far below was another Centran ship with a pair of heavily-protected upright fins.

"Now," said the general, "stay here, and watch closely."

Towers hovered, as Glossip dropped toward the ship in a long glide, paused above it, and bellowed orders. Directly above the aft fin, Glossip slowly began a vertical descent. Below, the metal cages swung up and out. Glossip descended with elaborate caution, as if afraid he might somehow miss the hatch and get hung up on the spikes. When he was about twenty feet above that hatch, suddenly there appeared a ring of blue-green forms around the bristling fin. Their arms were uplifted, holding something. Before there was time to see what, there was a similar ring of blue-green forms above them, arms stretched up and out, where suddenly another blue-green ring materialized, completely surrounding Glossip.

Glossip blurred into motion, tore his way through the cage of bodies, slashed, kicked, punched, and left in a rapidly accelerating climb, clutching something in one hand.

Below, the blue-green figures vanished, then abruptly one appeared near Glossip, vanished, and reappeared, face twisted in pain, close beside Glossip, to scream savagely and reach out with a curved blue-white blade. This native was so close that, for the first time, Towers noticed that in place of ears there were oval membranes, now noticeably bulged out, at each side of the head.

The big muscles in the general's arms and chest stood out under the fur. His fist smashed out like a mace.

The blue-green figure dropped, turning over and over, and growing smaller and smaller as it fell toward the sea. As it hit, the water shot out in an explosion.

Instantly, a writhing nest of rubbery arms reached up, and jerked the body under. A whitish stream of bubbles burst briefly to the surface, then disappeared.

Glossip swung up beside Towers, and now Towers could see what he was carrying was a brownish shell, roughly a foot across, and very thin along one edge, where a number of small oval bits apparently had been broken off.

Glossip glanced at Towers, "Did you see how they worked that? How they showed up one atop the other?"

"Yes. But I don't see why."

"They can go anywhere they've been before. But what does that mean? This planet is swinging around the sun, while turning on its axis. Its location is changing from moment to moment, and so is the location of everything on it. What these natives teleport to is, therefore, a familiar object. Unfortunately, the object doesn't have to be very big."

Towers looked at the shell. "That—"

Glossip nodded. "It's big enough, or massive enough, so that they can sense its structural pattern, or whatever it is that they do. And then—they can go to it."

The implications hit Towers like a combination of blows.

"When they teleport, they can carry things with them?"

Glossip smiled. "That's it."

"Each of them can go to any place he's familiar with?"

"Right."

"And if one has been to a particular place, there's nothing to prevent him from going there carrying some object that others have become familiar with?"

"That's standard procedure."

"Therefore, wherever one can go, they all can go."

"Exactly."

"And one or more of them has learned the molecular pattern—or whatever they need to know—of some part of each of your ships?"

"Correct."

For the first time, the situation seemed to fall into place. The Centrans had an entire invasion force cooped up in its ships by a population of teleports, the limits of whose power they didn't know, and they couldn't leave because wherever they went, the teleports might go, too.

Towers spent the evening on his headquarters ship. After making sure the state of affairs on the planet was explained to his own men, so they could adapt themselves to the incredible facts, he spent his time studying a selection of reports ferried up by one of Glossip's landing-boats, and gingerly transferred by way of a charged container, in case the natives put in an appearance. Towers and Logan split the stack of reports, and started working their way through. They weren't long in finding that, however bad the situation looked at any given moment, it looked worse after reading the next report.

"Phew!" said Logan, "Listen to this: 'As there is no sign of local humanoid inhabitants on this planet, and as its climate is unsuitable, agricultural land severely limited, and any ore bodies apparently located at the bottom of an ocean populated by inimical forms of life, there appears to be no point in directing sizable forces to this world. We recommend that there be set up a signal-and-life-saving station on the planet, for use in the event of spaceship disasters. The climate might make the planet useful for disciplining troops, and as a punishment station for troublemakers in general. Conditions, though oppressive here, are so free from danger that the signal-and-aid-station might well be manned by a category of troops not suitable for more exacting duties."

Towers blinked. "What report is that?"

" 'Planet A6-3EJ4166B—A Summary.' "

"One of their initial reports?"

"Yes. And stuck to the bottom is another, titled, 'Disappearance on A6-3EJ4166B.' Listen to the last sentence: 'No sign of any possible cause has been found. The garrison has disappeared without a trace. The only clue is that most of the portable weapons have also disappeared.' "

"That's nice," said Towers. "That adds a dimension that wasn't there before. This report follows directly after the other one you read?"

"Right. The first recommends the signal-and-life-saving station. The next tells what happened to it."

"What I've been reading is more recent. Here's one titled 'Troop Exercises After Dark.' Apparently the Centrans started out thinking they had an unpopulated planet, but listen to what they're up against now: 'We conclude, therefore, that to prevent disciplinary problems, exercise in the open air is necessary. Since such exercise in daylight hours is precluded by the casualty rate, after-dark exercise becomes necessary. In summary, the correct procedure includes the following steps:

" '1) The armored tractors must thoroughly rake and stir the sand, discharging into the sea any object larger than a hand's breadth. The tractor crews must look over the outside of the entry ports, and clear away any enemy hidden on the blind sides.

" '2) Occupy the hatch chambers. Swing up the gun mounts and searchlights.

" '3) Sweep adjacent land and water by searchlight, to blind natives in the vicinity.

" '4) Extend ladder and slat rests beyond the spike-bars.

" '5) Send out the slat-emplacement parties.

" '6) Sweep the area again with searchlights.

" '7) Send out the troops, by teams, opening and closing the bars for each party.

" '8) The scrub and other non-sand environs of the ship must be kept well trapped and mined. This must be checked daily.

" '9) For their own peace of mind, the troops must be armed. The guards, of course, must be heavily armed. The exercising troops, however, may be armed only with unloaded guns. Otherwise any disorder may result in heavy losses. Since darts are easily hidden, the only way to assure unloaded guns is to remove the bolts on exit, detailing a suitable officer and party to tag the bolts.

" 'If these steps are properly carried out, night exercise becomes feasible, due to the enemy's inferior night vision. But all precautions must be maintained, day and night.' "

Logan shook his head. "What a mess to get into on an apparently empty planet. It seems almost like a trap."

"It doesn't seem possible," said Towers, "considering that local inhabitants were here first, and all the Centrans had to do was stay away. But—let's try this one." He picked up a report he'd briefly glanced at earlier, and opened it to the back. " 'In summary,' " he read, " 'the testimony obtained from this native, Goshal, who was found washed ashore severely wounded, and brought back to health by our medical team, clearly indicates that the locals are divided into clans or tribes, each of which is warlike and aggressive. The whole population is united only rarely, in times of emergency. Each tribe possesses a number of islands, located at intervals around the planet. Constant warfare follows from population pressure. The land area is small—only the chain of equatorial islands—while the enormous ocean is occupied by creatures of all degrees of ferocity. This leaves only the limited land space, and the shallow offshore waters thickly grown with krunga weed, and usually avoided by the open-sea life forms.

" 'Because of the resulting competition for more territory, the local natives have become extremely cunning in the use of their limited array of weapons and their unusual power; but they are often frustrated by this weakness of their weapons and the enormous escape potentiality of the power. The native, Goshal, agreed, saying that the initial attack on our life-saving-station was for the main purpose of seizing weapons.' "

Towers lowered the report. "There's that aspect again."

Logan nodded gloomily.

Towers found his place: " 'It therefore appears that these natives fall into a category difficult to deal with: They are technologically backward, because of a lack of suitable materials on the planet. They are, however, possessed of a formidable power, which apparently developed out of the necessities of life on this world. They are subtle—from long practice—in warfare, using various forms of deception, sudden ambushes, and traps, which apparently are the only reliable ways of dealing with enemies possessed of such an effective power of escape.

" 'It follows that we must be very careful to avoid further weapons captures by the natives.

" 'It is also evident that to arrive at a treaty of any reliable kind with these natives involves unexpected difficulties, because of their nature and past history of deceit. The more reasonable and attractive the suggestion made to them, the more cunningly hidden and cleverly designed will seem the inevitable trap their experience tells them must be concealed in the agreement.

" 'The only solution appears to be bring an overpowering force to the planet.' "

"Whew," said Logan, "what's an 'overpowering force' in a setup like this?"

Towers nodded. "That ignores maintenance and supply problems, and the fact that the Centrans have more to think of than just this one planet, which in itself is practically worthless to them, anyway." He was about to set the report aside, but frowned and separated the pages. Like all the others, this report looked as if it had been stored in a steam bath.

Logan said, "Does it tell how the Centrans carried out a conversation with this native?"

"Here we are," said Towers. " ' . . . His pronunciation being imperfect but recognizable. The men, after applying tourniquets, carried him over to the aid station on the far side of the island. Goshal asked again to be put out of his misery, objecting that our methods created pain without serving the purpose, and that our troops were not right in causing him pain since he was not of the tribe that had attacked our expedition, but had learned our tongue from a wounded prisoner traded to his tribe by the neighboring tribe, the "green snakes".' "

"So the Centrans didn't know the local language. The locals learned the Centran language."

"Apparently."

"This looks worse and worse," said Logan. "The natives are intelligent, and past masters of deception. You can't beat them, because you can't catch them. You can't trust any agreement with them, because they're masters of deceit. And you can't get away from them, because wherever you go, they can go, too."

Towers moodily reached for the unread reports. "Let's find out if there's more bad news."

The two men read in silence for a long time, then Towers tossed the last report aside in disgust. Logan read on a while longer, then looked up. The two men glanced at each other.

"Well," said Towers, "most of this just reinforces what we knew. But there's something in this last report. The local food here is indigestible for the Centrans. And the locals get nothing from Centran food. What this boils down to is that there's a continuous supply problem, which will get worse if the Centrans bring in more troops."

Logan nodded. "That fits."

"What did you find out?"

Logan said dryly, "In an earlier expedition, a good many locals were transported in Centran landing-boats to the prison ship."

"The what?"

"Prison ship."

Towers stared as the implications hit him.

Logan said, "If we ever start to forget these locals are tricky, these are just the reports to remind us."

Towers forced himself to sit back.

Logan said, "The first thing to remember is that Glossip is in charge of the fourth bunch of Centrans to hit this planet. The first was the team that scouted the planet, and recommended establishment of a signal-and-life-saving station. This first bunch apparently got away safely. The next Centrans came with the signal-and-life-saving station. The natives captured them and seized their weapons. This meant an unexplained cut-off of communications, which led to an investigation. This was the third Centran expedition. Their report, in turn, brought down Glossip and the invasion force. It was the third bunch that set up the prison ship."

"What happened?"

Logan picked up a handful of papers:

" 'The natives were quite easily captured as they floundered up out of the water swinging their crude weapons of shell. Our men disarmed them quickly, and headed them into the landing-boats, whence they were transferred to the prison ship. Several were taken aboard the Guard ship for attempted interrogation, and language studies.' "

Towers sat back slowly. "Then what?"

Logan leafed through another sheaf of papers. "This one is headed, 'Night Attack on the Guard Detail':

" 'The first attempt came from the direction of the Interrogation Room, preceded by a loud clatter, a hideous yell, and a sound like an avalanche. The Guard, survivors of the Earth campaign, rolled out of their bunks, guns in hand, and fired down the corridors. The stitching-guns got into action at once. Then the attack broke off, and resumed from the direction of the C.O.'s office. That was stopped by grenades, but started up again from the direction of the landing-boat ramp. This attack was broken up by the C.O., using his own stitching-gun. The attack then resumed at all places at once, with terrific intensity, and moderate casualties now resulted on our side, since the use of Centran weapons by the enemy led to the belief that our men were firing on each other. Following repeated repulse, the enemy attacks were finally broken off, and the enemy withdrew, taking his dead. The Guard reoccupied the remainder of the ship, and discovered that the hatches were all still shut and under control, but that a number of portholes had been smashed open. This peculiar fact has raised a number of questions. In the first place, it was obvious to seasoned troops that withdrawal of this sizable force, with their dead and wounded, could not have been carried out through these portholes. Moreover, while the glass from the smashed ports was on the inside, so was a quantity of sand, suggesting that the glass had fallen outside, then been brought back inside, purely as a deception. But if the enemy did not gain entry through the ports, and the hatches were still shut and under control, how did they get in? The ship was not holed anywhere. This matter deserves study.' "

Logan looked through the reports and pulled out one headed, "Analysis of the Attack on the Guard Ship":

" 'There is thus no way to avoid facing the apparent impossibility. The fact is that the portholes could not have been broken open in the beginning without alerting the guards by means of the electric alarm, which sounded later, when the attack was already under way.

" 'The electric warning system's recording drum shows the breaking of the ports to have taken place respectively at 0101, 0106, and 0112, while the attack started a little before 0100.

" 'At 0100, the hull of the ship, including all hatches and portholes, was intact.

" 'Nevertheless, at 0100, the attack was already underway.

" 'The only local natives on board, admitted by our own men, were the three taken aboard for interrogation and language study. No others had been admitted.

" 'Nevertheless, the attack was carried out by large forces of the local natives, inside the ship.

" 'In short, with only three of the enemy on board, and the hull intact with all openings shut, a very large force of the enemy gained entrance, without forcing any of the openings.

" 'The conclusion is inescapable that the enemy in some way passed through the walls of the ship.

" 'We are now faced with the phenomenon of the broken portholes. Since they were not broken to obtain entrance, why were they broken? The fact that nearly all the glass was placed inside, though much of it would have fallen outside, suggests that the purpose was deception. While it is impossible to infer motive with rigorous accuracy, let us consider the implications.

" 'What would be the effects of this deception?

" 'Bear in mind that an attack had been carried out, at night, on a ship fully sealed and protected, with guards on duty, but with no special reason for alertness on the part of the troops, who had just that day helped repulse with ease the "attack" of the local humanoids. Would these troops have any reason to expect trouble? The attack had been defeated. The weapons of the enemy were feeble. The enemy's physical prowess, out of the water, had been demonstrated to be negligible. The prisoners, under attempted interrogation, had showed a pathetic desire to please, and had cooperated readily in the first language studies. The only cause of discomfort was the heat. The troops were tired after a day of strain, culminating in relief that the supposed enemy was harmless. What reason was there for an attacker to expect a strong resistance?

" 'Now, then, having obtained a high degree of reassurance and presumed unreadiness on the part of the defenders, the natives delivered an overwhelming attack. That the attack failed is due to no neglect on their part, but to bad luck. The staff, in sending the improvised investigation force to the planet, happened to find a large detachment of the former Headquarters Guard of Horsip's Earth Invasion Force in a convenient location to be rerouted. These troops, survivors of the worst action on record, awarded the platinum nova as a unit, are to all intents and purposes unsurprisable. Military surprise presupposes reliance on an incorrect assumption as to the enemy's intent or capability. As a result of their past experiences, the troops of the Guard consider all such estimates unreliable. They maintain, by ingrained habit, the maximum state of readiness.

" 'It was pure bad luck that brought the enemy attack up against such troops. In all ordinary circumstances, this attack would have succeeded, the troops would have been wiped out, and the smashed portholes would have suggested that entry had been made in this way.

" 'The analysis, however, cannot stop at this point. Grant that the enemy had every reason to expect the attack to be successful. Grant that preparations were made to mislead any investigator as to the means of entrance. The question arises, why mislead?

" 'For the answer, we need to consider outside facts, not included in the attack on this one ship.

" 'On the same night, the laboratory ship, where the natives had been physically examined the day before, was attacked, and the crew wiped out. A porthole was found smashed, and the hatches open.

" 'On this same night, an attempted attack was made against the headquarters ship, from the landing-boat locker. A disturbance there during the night was heard by the officer of the deck, who decided it was a drunken spree of formidable proportions, and left it locked up. Next morning, the locker was entered by a strong party, and found empty; there were, however, signs of an ineffectual attempt to open the lock.

" 'Meanwhile, the fourth ship, the landing-forces ship, was traveling over the island chain looking for anything that might account for the disappearance of the life-saving station. By the time this ship returned, it was to be expected that the personnel of the other ships would have been wiped out. A seemingly reasonable explanation would help lull the remainder of the force.

" 'We now have the final conclusion to unravel from the evidence. The attackers were able, by some means, to pass through the walls of this ship. Why, in that case, were they unable to pass through the walls of the headquarters ship? Examination of the records reveals that native prisoners were not brought into this ship, though they were ferried to the prison ship in the landing-boat of the headquarters ship, and hence had entered this landing-boat, which returned to the landing-boat locker of the headquarters ship. We are driven to the conclusion that the natives were able only to enter places where one of their number had already been.

" 'We are obviously confronted with an opponent possessed of an extraordinary power, and extremely capable in ambush warfare. And there still remains hanging over our heads the possibility that the enemy is concealing some new surprise. Extreme caution is necessary.' "

Involuntarily, Towers whistled. "This was a conclusion of the third expedition?"

Logan nodded. "The deductions of one Derk Moggil on the fourth ship—the ship that was away when the natives attacked."

"They seem to have sent some good men on that third expedition. I'd like to have a talk with this Derk Moggil. I wonder if he's still on the planet?"

Logan shook his head. "His name was on a list of those invalided out after the massacre of most of the third expedition."

"The natives sprang the new surprise Moggil was afraid of?"

Logan nodded. "The Centrans hadn't yet figured out the actual way this teleportation worked. When the soldiers found some large pretty shells lying on the beach one day, they took them on board for souvenirs. The natives then wiped out most of the troops on the headquarters and landing-forces ships."

"How about the Guard ship?"

"The Guards were apparently too busy cleaning their guns and practicing angle shots down the corridors to pay much attention to souvenirs. The locals tried another attack the same night they hit the other two ships. But the Guard ship turned out to be crammed with booby traps every place the natives had been before. For good measure, the Centrans flashed lights on and off, and bounced timed grenades off the walls while observers watching through periscopes called the shots. The bulkheads of some of these places where the locals materialized had been reinforced and holed so the Centrans could fire machine guns through them from the other side. One had a kind of dispenser that dropped Bouncing Betsy mines every time the soldier on watch saw another local show up. It was supposed to be a surprise attack, but it worked out as a slaughter. After about five minutes, the natives quit."

Towers nodded with grudging approval. "Where the situation's hopeless, they clear out."

"And come back again from another angle."

"They tried again?"

"The night after next. They showed up just long enough to bring in some things like snakes, in woven baskets, and turn them loose. Apparently these were supposed to be poisonous, but the shock of the booby traps and mines going off killed them. The next night, the locals tried again, with a kind of biting insect. But the insects didn't like the taste of the Centrans, generally wouldn't bite, and died when they did bite. About that time, Glossip and his invasion force were diverted to the planet, and pretty soon the natives had something to think about besides the Guard."

"How long after Glossip got here till he called us in?"

"Judging by the dates, it couldn't have been much over a month."

Towers frowned. "Just suppose, for the sake of argument, that this teleportation ability of theirs will let them reach the nearest habitable solar system? Then what?"

"They still can't get there until they've been there."

"I wonder where the ships of the original scouting expedition set down last? Where did they go after they left here? What other ships were at the place where they set down, and where did they go?"

Logan looked startled. "You mean, what if natives stowed away, say, on a Centran ship?"

"What if by any means they get off this planet, into a position to put this ability of theirs in use on a large scale? If the practical limit is half a planetary diameter, that's impressive, but it's a local problem. On the other hand, what if the practical limit is thirty light-years? This changes the scale entirely. The fact that the original scouting expedition didn't see anything doesn't prove a thing. The natives operate by indirection. If they would go to all that effort to deceive the third Centran expedition, who knows what they may have done to the first expedition?"

"It is peculiar that first expedition didn't see anything."

"Deception is second nature with these natives. They rely on it regularly in their warfare with their neighbors. I wonder if this fight with the Centrans doesn't fit right into their usual framework with no trouble at all."

"A different neighbor, you mean?"

"Correct. And a war with him, started off with maximum deception."

"Hm-m-m. The scouting expedition didn't see anyone here at all. The occupants of the life-saving station disappeared without a trace. The investigating team almost got wiped out. But look, if their aim is conquest on a large scale, why not stay hidden—only come out at night to touch the side of the ship, or whatever they do so they go to it? The Centrans would never know what hit them."

"If they'd done that, the Centrans might have given up trying to figure out what happened here, and left, taking their ships, their weapons, and their equipment with them. The locals had already fooled the first expedition. They'd easily overcome the second expedition. Why shouldn't they think they could overpower the third expedition? Then they'd have all the equipment, and all those weapons, and wouldn't the Centrans send a fourth expedition, too?"

Logan swore. "You think they planned it this way from the beginning?"

Towers shrugged. "As the Centran report says, it's impossible to deduce motive with certainty. But it sure seems to fit."

"In that case, whether meant that way or not, this planet was a trap, set and baited from the beginning."

"That's what I have in mind."

Logan shook his head. "God help us if the brute-force boys get hold of this one."

"Luckily, Glossip seems to have sense. Suppose you get those Centran scout ships traced, and I'll see what we can do to ease things for Glossip."

"I just hope the scout ships from that first expedition didn't go straight to some crossroads of commerce."

Towers, his mind already elaborating an idea that had occurred to him, said absently, "One way to find out."

The two men were hard at work, when the communicator on Towers' desk buzzed, buzzed again, and he flipped it on.

"Sir," said an apologetic lieutenant, "we have an emergency call from General Glossip."

"Put him on."

The screen flickered, and Glossip appeared, in full battle dress. His face was intent, and his eyes glittered.

"Listen, Towers. Can you hear that?"

In the background was the prolonged crash of small-arms fire in a confined space.

Towers, dazed by the suddenness of this, could only say, "I hear it."

"Nine out of every ten ships I've got are under attack. The remaining one out of ten can't be reached. We don't know how they got inside, and there's nothing for us to do but fight to the finish. Keep out of it, Towers. I just want you to know what's going on. Your orders are to stay completely off this planet."

"Yes, sir. But—"

"You can't help us by getting stuck in it yourself."

"Yes, sir."

The screen went blank.

Towers glanced at Logan, who was talking to someone on his desk screen. Towers shoved his chair back. Now what? He couldn't sit here while Glossip and his men were slaughtered. Yet he had Glossip's orders to stay off the planet. Suppose he dropped leech-canisters on the Centran ships? The canisters would attach themselves to the hulls, and bore their way through. Then they would flood the ships with sick gas. Towers reached for the communicator, then paused. If he did that, he would certainly put the Centrans out of action, but who knew about the body chemistry of the locals?

Frowning, Towers reached for the communicator, and called his intelligence chief.

A harried face appeared.

"Sir?"

"What's going on down there?"

"I've been wondering whether to call you. There's nothing visible taking place. But in the last ten minutes, we've had two reports of a terrific racket on the sound pickups, apparently from the Centran ships."

"They've been boarded. Let me know what happens."

"Yes, sir."

Towers' mind raced through the long catalog of special weapons and devices developed in fights on other planets. Wasn't there even one he could use? Suppose he used close-trained lions and gorillas, with their controllers operating through the new visual linkage? Could they be counted on to attack the locals and not the Centrans? Was there time to do it? His mind whirled with calculations. So long to "awaken" them, so long to explain the situation to the controllers, so long to get them down to the planet. It would have to be cleared with Glossip, and the Centran troops would have to have some idea what was happening, or they would attack the animals as well as the locals.

Towers shook his head. There wasn't time.

The communicator buzzed.

"Sir," said the Intelligence chief, "now the portholes are being knocked out of the ships."

"That fits. Let me know what else shows up."

"Yes, sir."

Towers' mind was racing. Suppose he flooded the Centran ships with yellow jackets? They would sting the Centrans. But would they touch the natives? Mild methods were unreliable. But anything certainly lethal for the locals would finish the Centrans, too. How to strike at one set of people fighting at close quarters without hurting the other set?

On the desk beside the communicator, the second hand was steadily sweeping around. If he was going to do anything, it would have to be done fast. But, with two sets of them tangled up in close combat, how—

For an instant, some remembered fact seemed to present itself, to show the problem in a clearer light; but it was for an instant only, leaving Towers blankly trying to recover what had flashed through his mind and gone on. Carefully, he groped along a vanishing trail of mental associations. Something about separating two sets of people? Something he'd seen down there? Had he ever seen anything, in the brief time since he'd been here—some instance in which the locals had reacted differently from the Centrans, been at a disadvantage, or displayed a weakness?

The communicator buzzed. Towers snapped it on.

"Sir," said the tense Communications officer. "General Glossip."

The screen showed a chaotic flash of Centran troops, drifting powder smoke, swiftly-shifting groups of blue-green forms, now here, now there, always two or three of them to one of the Centrans. Before Towers' eyes, the Centrans went down. There was no panic. The troops were fighting. But their blows didn't land. And always, each Centran soldier was attacked by two or three of his enemies, appearing in a flash from nowhere, to strike from the side or rear, and vanish.

Glossip's voice came through. "Do you see this, Towers?"

"I see it. Listen, we can drop close-trained animals down there—"

"No time, Towers. By the time you get anything here, it will all be over. Do you see how they fight?"

"I see it."

"Are you recording this?"

"Yes, sir. Automatically."

"Then there's a record, at least. They'll believe it at headquarters. I think I see what happened here. They can change position so fast you hardly see them. If, as our men went out for their night exercise, carrying their rifles, these locals simply flashed through the shadows for an instant, near the ship, long enough to contact the rifles, or do whatever they do, they would then have their homing objects, which the men would carry back into the ships with them."

Towers nodded dazedly. There it was—Yet another trap.

On the screen, Glossip straightened, and his voice came across clearly. "This is a direct order, Towers. Keep out of this. There's no time now for you to do anything. Better destroy that pack you wore down here, by the way. Good luck, Towers."

Then, with his attention elsewhere, the thought came back to Towers. He instantly focused his whole awareness on it, and abruptly the situation seemed to change form. Yes, it was too late for him to intervene physically. But he could still send information.

Glossip was turning from the screen.

Towers said, "General—Lift your ships!"

Glossip turned back. "They'll only learn—" He saw Towers' face, and whirled out of sight of the screen. An instant later, a high-pitched whistle cut through the din, in a combination of tones repeated again and again, and then the communicator buzzed urgently.

Towers, vaguely aware of Logan speaking earnestly into his own communicator, snapped down the Hold switch, put the new call on the screen, and saw his Intelligence officer.

"Sir, several of the Centran ships are lifting fast."

"Good." Towers called his Communications officer.

"Sir?"

"All the Centran ships should lift shortly. If they don't lift in the next two minutes, beam the order to lift ship, and either open hatches or smash some portholes. And keep lifting as long as the outside air is thick enough to breathe."

The Communications officer blinked. "Yes, sir."

Towers snapped the Hold switch back, and there was Glossip, turned partly away from the screen, his face tense.

Frowning, Towers thought over his brief flash of insight. Everything seemed to hold together. Why should a mechanism develop if it wasn't needed? And hadn't it been shown by that humanoid that had attacked Glossip? But then, suppose he was wrong?

Towers snapped down the Hold switch, and called Gunnery. A major with a bulldog jaw appeared on the screen.

Towers said, "The Centran ships have been boarded by the locals and there's a chance that the locals may get control of some of them. If so, we want to be ready to destroy those ships ourselves."

"If you need us, sir, we'll be ready."

"Good." Towers switched back to Glossip, found that nothing had changed but the background noise, which was now more screams than shooting, and called the Officer of the Watch. The earnest face of Lieutenant Cartwright appeared on the screen.

Towers said, "Have you had any trouble from the active equipment locker? I left my grav pack there, and it seems to me the locals may have had opportunity to convert it into a 'homing object' while I was down there."

Cartwright's eyes narrowed. "I'll check on it, sir. It will only take a few minutes to find out."

"You don't plan to just open the hatch and look in?"

"No, sir. I'll seal the adjoining corridors before I do anything else."

"Go to it."

Towers switched back to Glossip, and at the same moment became vaguely aware that Logan was standing beside the desk. But Towers' attention was fixed on the screen.

Glossip was turned sidewise, gun in hand. His face bore the smile of the man who has been attacked by a robber, and now the robber is at his mercy. Glossip stepped out of range of the screen, and came back dragging a blue-green figure by the arm. The creature's face was twisted in agony, and both hands were pressed to the membranes, on either side of the head, that served as ears.

Glossip looked at Towers. "You were right! I'll get in touch with you as soon as we clean up the remnants."

Glossip vanished from the screen, and Towers became vaguely aware of Logan's voice saying, "Sir, we no sooner got started on this than we unearthed a query from a Centran space depot, asking information about this planet's surface."

"Why did they ask about that?"

"It seems that a Centran scout ship broke down, and turned up at the space depot for repairs. An officer noticed a brownish shell stuck to the scout ship, apparently for decoration. It seems that some of the scout pilots will mount on their ship a plume, skull, or some other souvenir of the planet they've scouted, as a sort of trophy. This is strictly contrary to regulations, and the Centrans are cracking down on it. Well, this shell is stuck on with some kind of powerful adhesive, but the scout insists he didn't put it there. The officials at the depot want to know what the surface of the planet here is like, and what the chance is of a thing like this happening with no help from the pilot."

"Where is this stuck onto the ship?"

"On the underside, where the ship would naturally set down."

"How big?"

"Roughly a foot across."

"Sounds exactly like their favorite homing object."

"Yes, sir. We've been assuming the locals could use any large object. Maybe they can't."

Towers shook his head. "How much did you hear of what's going on down there?"

"Just the last few exchanges on the screen."

Towers described what had happened. Logan listened in amazement and shook his head. "Then it follows they don't need these shells to home on. Then why did they put one on the ship?"

"More peculiar yet, why did they put it where the ship would land on it?"

Logan said quietly: "The shell would break when they land."

"That's it."

Logan said in exasperation: "They apparently, in some way, familiarize themselves with the molecular structure of an object, and then they can home on it—guide themselves when they 'jump' to the place where the object is. Perhaps each object has a characteristic—call it a 'wave-state'—that the teleports can detect and use to guide themselves to the place where the object is. So, they take great pains to stick a homing object to a departing scout ship, and they stick it where it will be destroyed when the scout ship lands—which is exactly when they will want to use it."

"Right," said Towers. "That's it exactly."

"But how? Once it's mashed to bits in the landing, that will change the characteristic wave-form, won't it?"

"Yes, and tell them that the ship has landed."

Logan looked startled.

"Otherwise," said Towers, "how do they know when the ship has reached another planet? It's there that they want to come out, not somewhere in between planets."

"And then they home on the ship itself? Yes, I see it. The molecular structure of the ship won't change substantially. The fact that it remains uninjured, and the shell is destroyed, suggests that the ship has set down. In that case, it follows that they did plan ahead. Even though they weren't seen, they were active when the first Centran expedition scouted the planet."

Towers said, "Apparently they aren't lacking in the taste, or the ability, for conquest. All they've been lacking is opportunity."

Logan, looking stunned, sat down at his desk. "In the short space of time since that first Centran scouting expedition, these teleports have worked out a technique for getting to other planets, destroyed a Centran life-saving station, captured its crew, learned the Centran tongue, seized a quantity of Centran weapons and learned how to use them, surprised a Centran force sent to investigate, wiped out most of it, attacked an entire Centran planetary invasion force, and came within a hair's breadth of—"

Towers' communicator buzzed. He snapped it on, to see, through the open visor of a suit of battle armor, the serious face of Cartwright, the Officer of the Watch, who stepped to one side to show half-a-dozen blue-green bodies lying on the deck inside the active equipment locker—a long, high, narrow room with rows of clamp-fastener shelves on one side, and snap hooks on the other side. On one of the shelves lay the grav pack Towers had used on the planet. At the far end of the locker was the closed hatch leading to the outside air lock. Back out of sight of the camera was the corridor to the spray baths and the air lock to the interior of the ship. It was possible to enter the ship by any of several routes, but as a means to cut down the admission of germs and parasites, this was the route taken on returning from a trip to a strange planet, and it was the route Towers had used. On leaving the equipment locker, he had shut the inner doors that cut down air circulation—and the screen was now showing the view through this doorway into the locker, where the blue-green bodies lay like so many rag dolls. Half hidden under a muscular blue-green arm was what looked like a large shell inside a case of tightly-woven fiber that fit like a thick tire on a broad wheel.

Towers looked the bodies over carefully. They all showed plain evidence of having run into a terrific concentration of fire.

"Are there any more to the screen?"

"Yes, sir."

"What happened?"

"We set up two mesh barriers in the corridors, in case anything came out of the locker in a rush. The first barrier was right outside the locker door here, and the second was back up the corridor with the guns behind it. I came up behind the first barrier to use a hand grapple on the locker doors. There wasn't a rustle from the other side as I eased the door open. Then here was a yell, a shower of darts, and the whole net bulged back as six or eight hit it at once. I was knocked flat on my back. A kind of shell wrapped with fiber—there it is on the deck there—hit the net and flattened up against it, and another of these natives materialized in the air on this side of the barrier. He had an armload of shells, and as I went down I could see him cast them down the corridor. I yelled 'Open fire!' That did it, sir. But if we hadn't suspected they were in there, we wouldn't have had a chance."

The screen drew back, to show a metal frame tightly fitted against the walls of the corridor, with a net, now badly torn, stretched so that it blocked the passage, yet at first was scarcely visible. The view swung around, to show more blue-green forms strewn on the deck. Farther down the corridor was another frame and net, and, behind, it, a pair of short-range nine-barrel fusion guns set up side by side with armored men prone behind them, and behind them, another pair set higher on their adjustable mounts, and angled slightly upward.

Towers glanced back at the motionless forms on the deck.

"Is that all the attackers?"

"No, sir. I think we had fifty here for a moment or two. Apparently they decided it wasn't working, and left."

Towers thought it over in silence.

"Let's have a better view of that deck."

The scene tilted, and he was looking at motionless blue-green forms with many tiny oval fragments of shell scattered amongst them.

"That can't be the armload of shells you mentioned."

"No, sir. Maybe they took them back with them."

Towers fought down the urge to profanity. The active equipment locker, and that whole stretch of corridor adjacent to it, was now as open to attack as if it were part of the planet. By the same token, it was denied to Towers, except for armored men, and all that was needed was one slip, and the whole ship would be wide open. He didn't like the way the opposition traded blow for blow. It was painfully obvious who had the initiative, and there was no point stepping the fight up a little bit at a time, so as to make a staircase for them to climb by stages until they perfected their measures up to the level of Centra and Earth combined. What was needed was a blow delivered with a force they couldn't understand, from a direction they didn't expect. The difficulty was, the target could move from place to place with lightning rapidity. And since their technology was primitive, there was no way to strike at them through that. With due care, and enough shrewdness and force, over a long period of time, it would probably be possible to exterminate the whole race—provided they never succeeded in establishing themselves on another planet—but that would violate Centran principles, and deny the advantages that might conceivably come from an eventual change in the natives' attitude. And that was the crux of the matter. How to change that desire for conquest into something more like an honest interest in cooperation?

These thoughts went through Towers' mind in rapid succession, and he was only vaguely aware of Cartwright walking down the corridor, the visor of his armor down, to talk to the men at the fusion guns. Then an obvious fact penetrated to Towers' consciousness, and he called, "Did they touch your armor?"

"Yes, sir."

Before Towers could say more, half-a-dozen blue-green forms appeared on all sides of the Officer of the Watch. The multiple short-range fusion guns let loose a murderous burst.

The attack was over as fast as it started. But amongst the sprawled attackers lay an unusually large shell. The Officer of the Watch, protected from the fire by his armor, picked up the shell and threw it the length of the corridor. It apparently hit the net near the door to the equipment locker, bounced back into sight on the screen, and split in half when it struck the deck.

Towers studied it coldly.

Each half of this shell was as big as an ordinary shell.

Cartwright raised his visor and looked questioningly at Towers.

Towers adjusted the screen, and was fairly sure he could see traces of some dark substance along the line of the break in the shell.

"Why not walk down and just see if there isn't something like glue along the break in that shell?"

Cartwright walked down the corridor, filled the screen, and said, "Yes, sir. There's a hardened streak of some kind. Shall I smash the pieces?"

Towers thought it over. Every few minutes, there seemed to be some new example of craft and cunning. The teleports looked more formidable by the hour. When opportunity offered, they wiped out whole military commands at once. Against stiffer opposition, they contented themselves with establishing a toehold, and expanding it by steps into a bridgehead. Towers had started out feeling an underlying sympathy he often felt for the objects of Centran Planetary Integration. But by now, the sympathy had congealed into loathing. Now there was this clever new stunt with the oversize shell. Had they tried this before, and found that the victims carried the broken pieces with other rubbish into another part of the ship, and a new section was opened to attack? Or was it a distraction, to draw attention from the fact that Cartwright's armor would provide easy access to whatever part of the ship that armor was in? Or was there some other clever booby trap involved?

"Better leave it where it is," said Towers. "I don't see that they gain anything by it."

"Sir, I'm just wondering, can they sense the relative positions of two objects they've 'learned'?"

"Maybe. But I don't think that's going to help them."

"But, if they could, there might be an advantage in introducing a number of such objects into a ship. Something similar to triangulation may be involved."

Towers nodded. "Maybe that was their reason. But they aren't going to get beyond this part of the ship if we can help it."

"In that case, sir, the sooner I get out of this armor, the better."

Towers' eyes narrowed, then he smiled. "And if they can tell the relative position of different parts of that armor, when do you suppose the next batch of them will come through?"

"When I've got it about half off. I won't be able to defend myself, and if the fusion guns fire, I'll get hit, too."

"Right."

"Sir, suppose we put on masks, and fill the corridor with chlorine gas?"

"First, we don't know how fast it would affect them. Second, it would surprise them, but probably not so much that they couldn't get away—to spread the warning."

"It might make them more wary about coming through."

"That's the third reason why we shouldn't do it."

Towers considered this latest predicament. Before Lieutenant Cartwright could go back into the part of the ship that was safe, he had to get out of the armor. If he didn't, any part of the ship he went to would be unsafe. But to get out of the armor meant to open himself to attack.

"Sir, if you'd have them send up another suit, I could take this off piece by piece—"

"And have them come through when the piece you've got off is the breastplate? No, we'll get you out of there, but not dead, if we can help it."

At Towers' instructions, a false deck was welded into place behind the fusion guns. The fusion guns then drew back behind it, and two new nets were put up, in front of the guns. Cartwright cut away the old net, stepped up on the low false deck, hesitated, sat down inside the nearest net, and suddenly his feet were out of sight, then his legs, and he squirmed and twisted and then he was completely inside the claustrophobic space that had been left open under one side of the false deck. Since there was no room under there for anyone else, a teleport who came through there would wind up with the false deck embedded in his body. On the other hand, if he came through overhead, the false deck would serve as a shield.

As Lieutenant Cartwright squirmed out of his breastplate, there was an earsplitting yell, a shower of darts, a shell hit the first barrier, a blue-green form materialized behind it, to scatter an armload of shells, and the corridor was filled with the crisscrossing radiance of the fusion beams. The corridor was a shambles when the attack was over. A technician in armor cut through the lower edge of the net, the fusion guns made a barrier of energy overhead, and Cartwright crawled back to safety.

All that, Towers told himself, to get one man free of the attention of the "natives."

As soon as the men were safely out of the corridor, the ship was treated as if it had suffered heavy battle damage. The air was pumped out of the active equipment locker, the corridor, and all adjacent parts of the ship, back to the reinforcing walls. The locker and corridor were then completely cut out, and, plate by plate, they were cut up and melted down, in space. At the same time, in a nearby landing-boat, a nervous surgical team dissected a number of the native dead.

While this was going on, a total of twenty-six more teleports appeared, in and around the corridor that was being disassembled, and were at once blown apart by their own internal pressure. But in the landing-boat where the dissection was carried out, nothing interfered except the surgeons' uneasy urge to look over their shoulders.

Towers now went to a separate landing-boat, to talk to Glossip.

Glossip, to Towers' surprise, was beaming broadly.

"It's all relative, Towers," he explained. "When you expect quick victory, a little delay seems like a setback. When you expect to be slaughtered, if you come out somewhere near, even, it seems like a victory. In this case, I was prepared to be finished off, following which the planet would have been subjected to methodical bombardment with nuclear weapons until that race of teleports was as close to extinction as brute force and persistence would bring them. Instead, that piece of advice of yours opens up new possibilities. It also demonstrates that Centra was right to make the alliance with Earth."

Towers looked puzzled. "Was there any question about that?"

Glossip shrugged. "You've been busy, solving problems that some people don't know exist. Therefore, you've missed a few points that we can't overlook much longer. After this is over with, if it can be solved, you may find yourself up against a tougher proposition."

"I never hope to see a tougher proposition than these teleports."

"Well, Towers," said Glossip, smiling, "if you're able to beat them, it stands to reason that you are a tougher proposition."

Towers, puzzled and vaguely exasperated, decided to drag the conversation back onto the subject.

"Sir, that's what I'd like to get cleared up: How this collection of frustrated conquerors is going to be jammed back onto their own planet."

Glossip's air of well-being vanished.

"Jammed back onto their planet? What do you mean, Towers? They haven't got off it yet."

"Yes, sir. But unfortunately, they seem to have thought that out in the beginning, before anyone was aware they existed." He described the scout ship, with shell stuck to it in such a way that a landing would break the shell. He described his and Logan's idea of how that had come about, and added, "Maybe Logan and I are wrong, but—"

"No," said Glossip. "It fits in with what's happened here. That's exactly what they would think of."

"Well, sir," said Towers, "we should know soon. Major Logan is tracing the rest of those scout ships. If we find, for instance, that one of them has landed on an oversize, warm, wet, roughly Earth-type planet, and if the scout ship has a few odd bits of shell stuck to its underside, then we shouldn't be surprised to find, before long, that any other ship that touches down there is likely to suffer a sudden disappearance of the crew and weapons."

Glossip shook his head in disgust, then the light of craft and shrewdness lit up his eyes. "Hm-m-m, Towers. Now, just suppose, instead of a warm wet planet—"

Towers smiled. "I've been thinking the same thing."

"What we want," said Glossip, "are two things. First, to get loose from this place, with a whole skin. Second, to jar the minds of these teleports onto something besides killing everyone they can reach."

Towers nodded. "Their standard procedure seems to have two stages: First, spread homing objects into the territory of the opposition. Second, attack to kill, with stunning shock-effect and overwhelming force. Considering the conditions on this planet, it must seem almost as natural as breathing."

"It seems to me that our idea, once we put it into action, ought to do something to this automatic procedure of theirs."

"Yes. Of course, a lot might depend on what the dissection shows."

"Yes," said Glossip. "It will be interesting to see just what that turns up."

The surgeons, after several long, nerve-wracking sessions, duly submitted a report that boiled down to a statement that the natives were typically humanoid in their body structure, with certain little-understood organs somewhat more developed than in the people of Earth or Centra—but that this was well within the limits of normally-to-be- expected variations; that there was a complicated digestive system, apparently designed to handle a wide variety of local foods. An analysis of the contents of the digestive tract was appended, with sketches and photographs to give some clue to the local diet.

Towers and Logan, and later Glossip, searched backwards and forwards through the report for some explanation of the locals' teleporting ability. But there was no explanation there. There was, instead, a long statement about the development of the skeletal and muscular systems, and special adaptations for swimming, such as partial webs between the fingers and the elongated toes, eyes capable of being thrust forward under the brow ridges for purposes of better observation, a large chest with exceptionally powerful muscles, the absence of external ears, and speculation as to the hypothetical superiority, underwater, of the membrane that took the place of the external ear.

Towers skimmed over the question of streamline form typical of underwater creatures, but paid close attention to a description of an arrangement in the ear that permitted the mechanism to withstand comparatively heavy pressures, as the chain of small bones that transmitted sound vibrations came to rest inside a supporting cage of bone, while most of the external membrane itself was pressed back against a porous bony surface that apparently could support it at any depths likely to be reached in the offshore waters near the islands.

There was no arrangement for adapting to low external pressures, the report went on, apparently because there was little likelihood of experiencing them on the planet. There were no high mountains to climb, the planet's axis was vertical to the plane of the ecliptic, eliminating seasonal extremes, the weather seemed uniform, and the report theorized that in the event of unusually low atmospheric pressure, a sense of "unease" would be felt, possibly leading the humanoids to teleport to another locality, or to dive into the warm waters, where the resulting pressure would promptly eliminate any discomfort.

"Too bad," said Logan, "they didn't just evolve gills and have done with it."

"Probably wouldn't have worked," said Towers. "They'd have been in competition with the sea life, and it's formidable."

Logan nodded. "But at least we'd have understood which mechanism did what."

Towers leafed back through the report. "Whatever it is, the surgeons could have the organ used for teleporting—if there is a special organ for teleporting—right under their hands and never know it. But what puzzles me is—as far as it's possible to tell from this—we've got everything they've got."

Logan smiled. "Who knows? Maybe they could show us how to do it."

"Provided they'd stick around long enough without putting a knife in us."

"There is that difficulty. Well, what now?"

"The first thing is to find some way to get several tons of stuff they can eat off the planet and into storage. The trouble is, they can't eat our food, so we may have to bring food all the way from here to feed them."

"Sir, feed them?"

"So we can keep them alive while we bring them back from other planets."

"I thought the whole idea was to keep them from ever getting to other planets."

"The idea is to keep them from carrying out their program of conquest, without having to divert manpower from halfway around the universe to do it. What's the best way to stop someone from carrying out a program of conquest?"

Logan cast a belligerent look toward the planet below.

"Flatten them out. If necessary, kill them."

"That may be the surest way, if you can do it. But suppose you can convince them that there's no profit whatever in their program of conquest, that there is, in the nature of things, nothing to gain by it?"

Logan blinked. "Well—Yes, but—"

"In fact," said Towers, "couldn't you say a conqueror is flattened out and killed as a conqueror, once he discovers that the result of his clever schemes is likely to be pure agony?"

Logan looked at Towers attentively.

"How do we do that to them?"

The next few days brought word of the other Centran scout ships. They had separated, and all but one had so far found nothing worth mentioning. That one had moored alongside a large desolate chunk of nickel iron, and by pure miscalculation on the part of the scout, the ship banged into this floating chunk of ore before the scout got his beacon and claim-plate anchored in place. On returning, he was stupefied to find eighteen blue-green bodies, a large assortment of weapons, and eighteen unbroken shells, drifting alongside the ship which had a few fragments of broken shell still stuck to it, and innumerable bits and slivers drifting around loose. There was no other ship in sight, and the big chunk of ore offered no sign of an entry or exit. The scout blinked, uttered a fervent prayer, and lost no time getting photographic evidence. He then consulted his "Manual of Official Rules and Procedures," and found that he now had no choice but to report this airless block as an "inhabited planetoid." Finds in this category were so rare as to create a sensation when the report came in, followed on closer examination by massive censorship. Only by the authority of the Supreme Staff was the lid pried loose, and then Logan and Towers looked at the photographs and glanced at each other.

"Well," said Logan, "that proves it. They can teleport to a great distance, once they have a homing object to jump to."

"Yes," said Towers, "and it also shows us something else."

"They're eager for conquest. This scout scarcely left the ship and came back, and there they were."

"And they have a definite technique. They come through in a flash, one wave following another. When they're winning, there's no end of them. When they're losing, they stop coming through. How do they know which to do?"

"Maybe one of them flashes through, then goes back and gives the word."

Towers shook his head. "What if he doesn't live to go back? No, I've studied the films of that business in the corridor, and that isn't how it works. They come in waves. In the corridor here, one came through, and threw out a stack of shells. To each shell came another teleport, each carrying, as far as the field of view shows us, a shell under his left arm, the thinnest edge of it gripped between fingers and thumb of his left hand, and in one swift motion of his left hand, he flung this out."

Logan frowned. "Yes, but what—"

Towers yanked a large envelope out of a stack on his desk, pulled out a handful of blown-up photographs, selected a number showing the chaos in the corridor, the air seemingly jammed with natives, the fusion beams searing into them as they flung out the shells that would serve the next wave as homing objects. Carefully, Towers examined each photograph before handing it over.

Each photograph Towers selected showed a shell in the foreground. And each shell showed in its edge at least one small curving break.

"How," said Towers, "do they know when to come through, and when to stop? In the corridor, we have on the film upwards of forty of them in one attack alone. Some were killed and others got away. But the Centran scout, when he accidentally let his ship drift into the ore body and smash the shell, came up against only eighteen of them. Plus eighteen shells."

Towers glanced at the report of the scout. One plate showed the shells drifting in space amongst the shambles of eighteen bodies, and assorted rifles, splat-guns, and grenades. The sight was horrible enough, but the nearest shells, lit up starkly by the flash that accompanied the shot, looked perfect and unbroken. He handed the report to Logan.

"Compare the shells that were followed by another wave of attack with those that were not followed by another wave of attack."

"Hm-m-m. Yes, I see."

"It's been a puzzle all along how they signaled the next wave. It might have been that they went back and notified them. It might have been telepathy. Or it might be that it's done by means of these shells. After all, why do they always use them when they come through? We know they can use other objects. Why don't they come through carrying a captured spanner from a Centran ship, or a captured Centran helmet? Why isn't it enough that they come through with a Centran rifle that another of them has 'learned'? What conceivable advantage is there to lugging this shell along?"

Logan said, "Let's see now. On some level of consciousness they 'learn,' or familiarize themselves, with an object. This object apparently gives off some kind of signal that enables them to home on it. If the object ceases to exist, the signal ceases, too. But, if the object isn't actually smashed, if a small piece is broken off, then most of the object is still there—maybe the signal would still be transmitted, but the character of it would be altered." Logan looked up in astonishment. "It might be like a radio tone that abruptly changed pitch."

"Yes."

"And that would explain their using the shells. It's a little inconvenient to break a piece off a rifle or a helmet. Well, if so, we've finally got a way to trap them for a change."

Towers nodded. "If our assumptions are right, we should be able to hit them so hard it will jar their automatic-conquest habit down into their throats—where they will choke on it."

The following months passed under the painful handicaps imposed by the fact that the locals were on the watch to take advantage of any slip, and this added complexities to the problems of dealing with an unfamiliar planet that no one had thought of before. Dredges were sent down to collect edible plants for use later, and immediately ran head on into the fact that the off shore waters were thick with a honeycomb network of coral-like structures, traversed only by various fish, the locals, and a kind of stretched-out alligator with long armor-tipped snout, numerous pairs of legs, and a highly flexible body. While the coral dulled cutters and jammed machinery, the alligators specialized in punching through the sieve-like containers that held the contents, to get at schools of small fish trapped amongst the vegetation inside.

Meanwhile, the natives pulled out cotter pins, hauled on sprockets and gears, and then swam down to locate the pieces, and tried to deduce what these things were good for. Small TV cameras attached to the machines showed what was going on. The coral was wearing out the machinery, the alligators were living a life of ease and luxury, and the humanoids were demonstrating a fantastic mechanical stupidity, as evidenced by the fact that they swam around the dredge, prodding it with shell-tipped spears, apparently seeking the heart of the beast. But their idea of damage seemed accurate enough. Anything capable of being pulled off, they pulled off, and if it was big enough, they ran their hands over it, with a peculiar expression of concentration, suggesting that they were converting it into a homing object.

It was now up to the technicians to devise a machine that could either avoid or chew through and spit out the coral, resist the efforts of the alligators, and meanwhile stand off the locals. One difficulty followed another, and before it was over the Special Effects Team had devised an armored dredge with underwater cannon and shock generators, and enough circuitry to wire a city. This behemoth was a success until it chewed a path completely through the coral-like barrier, to the outer sea. In through the channel came a beast like the offspring of a mammoth lobster mated to a giant squid. Whatever this creature was, the dredge had apparently intruded into its territory, and by the time it got through, the dredge was scattered over a hundred square miles of ocean bottom. Then there was nothing to do but build another one.

Glossip, meanwhile, had gotten hold of a nuclear furnace and steel works suitable for converting metallic asteroids into sheets, bars and tubes, and he was slowly and methodically running his contaminated space fleet in one end of this and out the other, where his crew labored to convert the sheets, bars and tubes back into space-ships. The frustrations were maddening, and meanwhile the Centran high command grudgingly doled out items that couldn't be reconstructed, and accompanied the dole with a flood of warnings about the mounting expense. All that made it possible was that the Centrans never used anything complicated where something simple would do the job. When they finally ran into absolutely impossible problems, a crew of experts would show up with the necessary materials and precision tools, and with much shaking of heads and wise advice for the future, put the finishing touches to the work.

At the end, Glossip had a fleet that was not much worse than the fleet he'd had before, and he could walk down the corridor without the thought that half a hundred teleports might spring out at him any minute. Towers by then had large quantities of local food on the way to various planets where scout ships orbited patiently. The local natives had a large collection of miscellaneous parts they were trying to somehow fire, explode, or otherwise put to useful service. Everyone but the natives was worn out, and no one was absolutely certain that they hadn't somehow insinuated a booby trap into the works somewhere.

Glossip, however, remained as persistent as a river eating its way through a mountain, and Towers was kept busy adding refinements to what he thought might prove to be the only real surprise this race of teleports had ever experienced. But always some part of the plan was weaker than the others, so his work went on and on, until it finally reached the point where he had covered everything he could conceive to be possible, and for good measure, quite a few things he couldn't conceive to be possible.

The food was now at the planets, under refrigeration. The scout ships were ready to land. The planets were waiting patiently for whoever might care to come down.

Everything seemed as ready as it could be, so Towers gave the signal for the first scout ships to set down.

Seated at his multiple screen, Towers looked from one to another of the landing fields. One view showed slush a foot deep, with occasional showers of sleet lashing past almost horizontally. At the top of the screen, little images of comparison gauges showed atmospheric pressure far below that on the teleports' home world, while, thanks to a relatively small planetary diameter, the surface gravity was painfully higher.

Another planet had a heavier gravity and thinner atmosphere, with impressive ranges of volcanoes belching clouds of sulfurous fumes over a landscape of cracked earth and bubbling pits of mud, while occasional patches of scrawny vegetation gave the only sign of life.

One of the colder planets had something extra, in the form of humanoids whose protruding muzzles, and all but nonexistent foreheads, were somewhat compensated for by thick fur, exceptionally powerful jaws, and sharp teeth. Considerable numbers of these humanoids, their small eyes glinting shrewdly, were behind the protective rock walls at the edge of the landing ground. Eagerly, they were breaking bits off the edge of large brownish shells, and then carrying the shells and broken-off bits to a Centran bundled in furs, who in return handed out copper disks the size of saucers. These disks the humanoids carried through a nearby stone doorway, to emerge beaming, with handfuls of steel traps, hatchets, knives and small sacks marked with the Centran word for salt. The Centran who accepted the broken bits and the shells dropped the bits in a leather bag, and handed the shells to humanoid children, who tucked them under their left arms and darted off, the grown-ups pounding after them. As the delightful game went on, shells broke and were discarded, and the shaggy humanoids began glancing around eagerly for whole shells that might have been overlooked.

Towers, watching the scene on the screen, suddenly watched more intently.

Over the landing ground, sinking slowly through a brief shower of sleet, the first of the scout ships was coming down.

Slowly the ship settled into the slush, and its weight came to rest on the shell fixed to its underside. Beneath the slush, the shell crushed on the hard-packed pebbly surface.

Towers watched intently. How long would a warlike race stay alert for the possible conquest of a planet?

Around the scout ship, heavily-armed blue-green figures suddenly appeared, shells clutched under left arms, faces lit with a look of determination and triumph.

Then the powerful gravity took hold. The wind lashed out with a fresh volley of sleet. The slush extracted heat from bodies accustomed to equatorial waters. The thin atmosphere declined to push back the internal pressures in lungs and body cavities.

The expression of triumph vanished in a look of shock. Hands were clasped over eyes and ear membranes. Mouths opened, distended chests deflated. The look of shock gave way to agony.

From the low rock walls along the edge of the field came a shout. Shaggy figures rushed out, the sleet striking harmlessly against thick fur, the slush seeking in vain to draw heat from insulation perfected over ages of exposure to varying extremes. The heavy gravity and thin air no more troubled them than seaweed and water disturb a fish, and now the first shaggy figures reached these peculiar blue-green things, hesitated, then put their minds on what really counted, grasped the shells and broke off the first small bits.

An instant later, other blue-green things appeared, with other shells.

More humanoids came splashing through the slush, each seizing one of the precious shells, and each carefully breaking off a small piece.

More blue-green shell bearers appeared, to announce their arrival with gruff coughs and screams.

Here was wealth unending!

The landing ground swarmed with shaggy humanoids.

The blue-green figures multiplied in successive waves of horrified shock.

When an unmanageable catastrophe seemed certain, an amplified voice boomed out in the local tongue that only those who got back before the sun bit the edge of the world could trade their shells. For the time of darkness and moon, a new kind of shell was to be given out.

The humanoids squinted into the storm with practiced gaze, and left in a rush across the field.

Centran stretcher-bearers now filed out, to carry the writhing blue-green forms to a ship at the far edge of the landing ground, which was to serve as combination pressure chamber and first-aid center. Meanwhile another screen showed a landing ground on a different planet, where another scout ship was just settling down. The first scout ship now lifted, to be melted shortly into scrap, as the crushers moved out to grind up the pebbly surface where it had landed.

Towers watched thoughtfully. Now the question was, would the teleports be able to use their ability to escape?

Logan said finally, "Either they're in no hurry to go home, or they can't."

"When they're startled, they apparently can't use their power. I imagine they've never been startled like this before."

"In that case," said Logan smiling, "we will supply the transportation."

"And everything possible will have to be done to learn their language. Meanwhile, we may be able to find out something more about this planet."

While the ships carrying the dazed teleports were on their way back toward their home planet, the disguised pickups were already there—little things that drifted quietly down in the night. In the waters close off shore, careful reproductions of the stretched-out alligators served as reconnaissance vehicles and it became clear that the locals had a number of secrets they hadn't yet disclosed.

On the basis of all Towers had seen, it was evident that the natives teleported out of the water onto the land, or from one place on land to another place on land, but they hadn't been seen to teleport into the water. The trouble was, there were times when a number of natives vanished at once, and didn't show up elsewhere. What had happened? The obvious answer seemed to be that they had gone into the water somewhere out of sight of the pickups. But then, why were they never seen to do it? There were times when a raiding party surprised a band of locals on land, and Towers had watched fights where the sequence of shifts in position was a fantasy of rapid flickerings from spot to spot as the local inhabitants tried to convert a superiority in known local positions into an advantage that would place them behind the attackers for just a second or two. This rapid shift in position was never seen in the water, the only maneuvers there being fancy swimming or sudden escapes to a location on land.

Glossip, listening to Towers' report on the situation, sat back, frowning.

"Where," Towers was saying, "do they go? Our coverage, on land, is about perfect."

"Somewhere, Towers, they've got a cavern, or a set of hollowed-out tunnels, that we haven't found."

"If so, we can't detect them."

"They might be too deep to detect."

"Well, you may be right, sir. But there's another possibility."

Glossip looked uneasy. "What?"

"Suppose that some tens, hundred, or even thousands of years ago, another race capable of space travel landed on this planet?"

Glossip winced. "You think when these teleports vanish completely, they're going to another planet?"

"It's a possibility, sir. You notice how neatly they responded to the arrival of the scout ships. It almost seemed as if they'd had practice."

Glossip thought it over without enthusiasm.

"In which case, Towers, we may run into them on another planet."

"Yes, sir."

"Then we'll have to study them continuously, to learn everything we can. We don't want to be unprepared a second time. But—if they have another planet, or several other planets, mustn't they have experienced already the shocks they came up against this time?"

"Probably some of them would have experienced them, but those that did would have died. Really severe conditions stop them from teleporting, and when they can't teleport, how do they get back to let anyone know what's happened? In their case, the bearer of really evil tidings can't travel."

"Then the race would end up only on planets fairly well suited to it, and would be denied knowledge of planets severely unsuited to it."

"Yes, sir. And with their lack of adaptability, minor changes could make a planet severely unsuited to them."

"We'll have to send out a warning on planets of this type. Luckily, we're not too anxious to acquire planets of this type. Well, Towers, I hope you haven't noticed any other little anomalies."

"There is one other thing that has us puzzled."

Glossip looked apprehensive. "What's that?"

"According to our picture of this, when they teleport, either from water or air, there should be a clap, as the air rushes in to fill the space vacated."

"There's no sound, so far as we've noticed. Except for a clatter, when these shells drop to the deck."

"But, you seee, they vacate a space, so why isn't there a clap as the air rushes in to fill the empty space?"

"It follows the space must not be empty."

"But in that case, sir, they evidently replace the air when they depart. How? All we can think of is that they teleport in one direction, and air instantaneously goes in the other direction. Air from the space to which they teleport fills the space which they empty."

Glossip looked exasperated. "As soon as we work out the details of this, Towers, our troubles multiply. Look here. If they do it that way, it follows that they vacate the space into which they teleport their own bodies. We could do without this complication. It's bad enough that they can teleport themselves. What do we get into if we find they can reverse-teleport objects in the opposite direction?"

Towers shook his head.

"At least, we've never seen any sign that they do that. We've never known them to arrive in anything but empty space—that is, space empty so far as large bodies of solids or liquids are concerned. It seems to follow that, for some reason, they can't do it."

"Then," said Glossip, looking relieved, "that solves that problem."

"No," said Towers regretfully, "it just shifts it around a little.

"We've never known one of them to teleport anywhere without coming out in empty space. We've supposed that they get a signal from their homing object. That seems to make sense. But how do they know whether the space adjacent to that homing object is clear or not? Is the signal affected by the physical objects in its vicinity?"

"Maybe," said Glossip, "they just try to come through, and if there isn't enough empty space, they can't do it."

"Yes, sir. But no matter how you slice it, if there's any signal picked up, either by trial and error, or their conscious or subconscious faculties, it follows that, to that extent, they've got a kind of radar operating in the vicinity of any homing object they've managed to plant in somebody else's territory."

Glossip thought it over, and swore. "Well, we can count on it, any time a life form has an advantage, it will wring out the last drop of gain, at the expense of other life forms. Let's just hope the return of their teleport invasion force has the effect on the rest that it ought to."

When the first of the ships arrived, Towers watched intently as a special landing boat, covered with a thick tarry gunk, set down on one of the islands.

There was an instantaneous appearance of blue-green figures surrounding the ship, and they at once smacked their hands against it. Their hands instantly sank into the gunk, and when they tried to pull loose, they were stuck fast. They promptly vanished, leaving a number of hand-shaped holes in the gunk. They reappeared with an irritated look, and changed position rapidly, apparently expecting someone to open fire. Instead, after a brief pause, a section of the ship began to exude more thick sticky substance, and a massive hatch swung open, the edges drawing out long bluey strands that broke, to hang in a curtain of large drops on threads and ropes of gunk. From the sides of the hatchway, streams of gunk oozed out. From inside, emaciated blue-green figures, bandaged around the ear membranes, some of them with bandages over their foreheads, eyes, and other parts of their bodies, staggered forward on slatted duckboards, and dropped unsteadily to the ground.

The teleports outside stared, rushed forward as if to get at the interior, got a look into a black chamber plastered top, bottom, and on all sides with a coat of thick sticky gunk, with nothing in there that could be touched except the easily disposable duckboards, and then several rushed forward and thrust their hands determinedly into the coating over the outside of the hull. After a few moments of pressure, they jerked back with a startled angry look. Their surprise evidently affected either their teleporting ability or their presence of mind. Instead of vanishing and reappearing at a distance, they pulled back, drawing out long strands of thick sticky adhesive. On close examination this adhesive turned out of have numerous small pointed objects in it, some straight, some curved, and many with ends like fishhooks. A quick look into the holes from which their hands had been withdrawn disclosed what appeared to be parallel hairs lying on the surface of the gunk underneath. A hard pressure against these produced screams, a sudden jump backwards, and the brief emergence of parallel razor-sharp edges. A glance at the underside of the ship disclosed short gunk-covered legs, not only hard to get at, but probably disposable. Another look inside seemed to offer no better prospects. The structure of the slowly oozing gunk couldn't be learned, because it didn't remain constant, and nothing else could be reached.

Meanwhile, the returning teleports were now outside the ship, and those who had stayed at home stared at them incredulously, and began to ask questions. The returnees tapped their bandaged ears. The local teleports pointed, vanished, and reappeared after a moment. The returnees spoke moodily. The locals looked shocked. They pointed at the sky, at the sea, smiled blissfully, and turned their palms upwards. The returnees looked sour, made wavy motions with their hands a foot or so above the ground, raked the air with their hands, picked up a handful of sand and hurled it through the air, coughed. They silently portrayed men freezing to death in a blizzard, with the added attraction of trying to keep their ears from bursting and their eyes from popping out of their heads.

The locals looked incredulous, and began to argue.

Just then, a loud voice issued from the ship, in the local tongue:

"Whoever wishes to visit a distant world, toss your shell into the ship. We will let you know when it's there."

The locals vanished.

The ship stayed where it was.

The locals reappeared with guns, and opened fire.

The voice spoke again:

"The darts do no damage, because what they strike is either too soft to be hurt, or so hard it doesn't matter. You waste strength you should save for enemies."

The teleports vanished.

The ship stayed there.

The teleports reappeared, ringing the ship, each bearing a shell which he pressed hard against the tarry surface.

Here was the real test of the Special Effect Team's carefully compounded gunk:

The shells fell off.

The voice said patiently, "The shells must be placed inside. Then we will deliver them."

For the first time, the locals looked jarred, and glanced at each other, to exchange angry comments.

Meanwhile, those who had just returned were walking around, feeling of bushes, dropping to their knees to place their hands flat on the sand, walking into the water to let it lap gently at their feet. Abruptly, one of them vanished, to reappear six feet away, beaming.

Amongst the locals who hadn't left the planet, disorder had now reached the point where some vanished, to reappear uncertainly with guns.

Glossip, watching the screen with Towers, said, "You've done it, Towers! I never hoped to see them in confusion."

"They've been able to fit everything else into the framework of conflict, which is apparently their specialty. But whether this confusion will spread, or—"

A large blue-green figure appeared, wearing a headdress of shells of pink and gold, raised his hands, and in the abrupt silence, spoke a single word. All of the locals, except this entity and the returnees, vanished; then one or two of the returnees disappeared. The one with the headdress remained, looking at the gunk-covered ship with no very pleasant expression.

The voice spoke from the ship: "More people may be returned from other planets later. Those who wish to travel there may place their shells within."

The entity with the headdress started to speak, changed his mind, glared, and vanished.

Glossip beamed. "Well, Towers, that may not be victory, as yet; but after what we've been through, it's highly satisfying to get a draw out of it."

"Provided we're careful, we ought to get that much, anyway. Meanwhile, they can't help but learn, from those who've come back, just what they risk when they make a jump to invade another world. Who knows? It might change their attitude."

"That's what we've been trying for; for just between you and me, Towers, by now I'd be well content to leave them bottled up indefinitely. I can do without these manifestations of psychic power, if you know what I mean."

Towers nodded, happened to glance at a scene of the planet, coming in on a screen across the room, and frowned.

Glossip was saying, "It's a relief, at least, to find that material means and devices, with some careful thought, can beat psychic power. But still—"

Towers looked at the screen again. What the deuce was that, anyway, but a kind of mechanical clairvoyance? As a matter of fact, when you thought about it, how did any of the achievements of advanced technology differ from what psychic powers were supposed to do? And, come to think of it—"

"General," said Towers, "what did you say it was that beat those teleports?"

"Why, material means and careful thought," said Glossip. "What else? Certainly we have no psychic power."

Towers thought it over. What did "psychic" mean but "not in the realm of the physical?" And what was "power" but "that which does work?" If a man could do twice as much work with a machine as without it, the extra work was naturally credited to the machine. But where did the machine come from? First, somebody had to think, and get an idea. Therefore, ultimately the extra work done by the machine could be credited to the thought. But thought was "not in the realm of the physical." Therefore, since it did work, it was power; and since it was not in the realm of the physical, it was psychic; and if that didn't make it psychic power, what would?

Glossip was looking at Towers wonderingly. "Why, Towers, what do you have in mind?"

Towers shook his head. There were some things it just didn't pay to try to explain. "I was just thinking, sir, these people have been operating a kind of trap, based on their psychic power. It occurred to me—it would only have been justice for them to catch a race of wizards in their trap."

Glossip smiled.

"I'd certainly enjoy seeing a thing like that, Towers. Unfortunately, such things are too good to be true. They don't actually happen."

Towers nodded. "Maybe not, sir."

But he wasn't so sure.

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Framed