First, let me ask you, did you know who 'His Highness' really was?"

The mining engineer shrugged. "You probably know already, so why ask me?

Prime Minister of Simonides, of course ... but you said 'was'?"

"He's dead now. Did you also know he wasn't human--that he was an alien from some ..."

"Not human? You're crazy. He was as human as any of us."

"When we get back I'll show you a full-length X-ray of him if you wish.

He was planning the conquest of our entire Federation and Galaxy. The Corps experts are still working to find out just what the details of his scheme were, but that much we do know. Did you know about all the warships he was building on Algon?"

"Ships? On Algon?" The surprises were coming too fast for Philander to adjust to them.

"Yes. Did you think your mine was all there was there? We know of nine mines of one kind or another, a number of factories, smelters, and three great shipyards. Incidentally, everything is now in the hands of the Corps."

Philander shook his head in stupefaction. "I'm not calling you a liar, sir, but it's hard to believe you. I knew there were several mines, but not that many, nor about the rest."

"It's all true enough. And I'm still 'George' to you, my good friend, not 'sir'."

That was a little too much for the older man. "What a mess I've made of my life," he groaned.

Hanlon was intensely sorry and sympathetic, but in a way he was glad to see this present mood. It would undoubtedly make easier what he wanted to do. He went over, sat on the arm of Philander's chair and put his arm about the other's shoulder. He gently touched that terrible scar. "When and how did you get this?"

Philander shrank away from him, but the story raced across the surface of his mind, and Hanlon read it.

When he (Philander) was about eight, a gang of boys were playing about an old, tumbled-down building, and somehow knocked out the prop holding up its remains. Three others were hurt, Philander got that cut-scar, and his brother was killed.

"And you've felt all these years you were to blame for his death!"

Hanlon exclaimed. "When we get back I'm going to have the best plastic surgeon remove that scar, so it will no longer be a constant reminder.

Then a top psychiatrist will give you some therapy, and help you get your mind at rest. After that you'll be ready to take your place in society as a very valuable citizen."

"You forget what's going to happen to me because of my part in this plot," Philander was still bitter and unconvinced.

"Nothing's going to happen to you--you weren't guilty of anything except having been hypnotized by an alien supermentality," Hanlon said convincingly. "I'll see to that, myself."

Philander looked up in surprise. "You mean you ... a young fellow like you ... can tell the ..."

"Not exactly," Hanlon interrupted with a grin. "But this was my a.s.signment, and my recommendations will govern. The main thing is, will you consent to the plan I've suggested?"

Philander sat for long, thoughtful minutes, then looked up piteously.

"If you only can do it!"

When the cruiser reached Simonides and Hanlon had seen the other mine workers safely in the Corps prison at Base, and Philander installed in a room next to his at the hotel, he called Admiral Hawarden.

"Congratulations on the mop-up, which I understand was one hundred point oh oh oh percent," the officer said.

"Yes, the other end's under control. How about Bohr's notes?"

"They finished last night. We've got a complete list of all the underlings who knew any of the main parts of the conspiracy, and the SS agents have jugged them all."

"Good work."

"You did a grand job, sir. Again, my congratulations."

"Thanks, Admiral Hawarden. I've got to get busy now, on my report to the Council."

"Call on me for any help I can give. I'd offer you my confidential secretary to dictate them to, if it wasn't so secret."

"Thanks. She would be a big help, but we'd better not."

"How'd you know it was a 'she'?"

"Even a pigeon can admire a shapely shape," Hanlon quipped as he disconnected.

The young SS man was just finishing his report the next day when Admiral Newton walked into his hotel room.

"Gosh, Dad, am I _especially_ glad to see you this time!" his son enthused. "I need you to check this report."

"Let's see what you've got." Newton settled down in a big chair to study the report, while Hanlon fidgetted about the room, anxiously.

"A very clear, concise and complete report, Spence," Newton applauded when he finished reading.

"Where do I send it, and to whom?"

His father looked at him quizzically. "Have you forgotten about the special mail box for SS men?"

The younger man looked astounded. "You mean, even a thing like this merely goes in there?"

Newton nodded. "However, in this case, since I would have been the one to pick it up, I'll take it to Base and transmit it to the Council.

Incidentally, future reports should be marked on the envelope 'Report to Federated Council'."

A couple of hours later Admiral Hawarden called Hanlon at the hotel, where he had just finished making arrangements for Philander's operation and treatments.

"Your father and I want you to come to Base at once, sir."

When he arrived in Hawarden's private office, the admiral handed him a pair of silver bars. "These are yours now, Captain Hanlon."

The young man looked up in surprise.

"You were told promotions were swift in the SS--for those who produce,"

his father chuckled. "The Council was very gratified with your report, and ordered the promotion."

Hanlon looked at the two insignia, and his fingers stroked them almost tenderly.

"You miss the uniform, don't you, Spence?" sympathetically.

Hanlon gulped and nodded silently, very close to tears.