"The Captain thinks they may have been wiped out by galloping gangrene or something," the Ambassador informed. "Do you want to catch it?"

"Who? Me?" Shelton was horrified. "Good God, no!"

"Neither do I. So we're taking no chances."

"We're giving this world a miss?"

"That's right."

"Good. I'd hate my troops to be decimated without firing a shot."

"But it's all right so long as they have fired a shot?" Grayder inquired.

"You know what I mean. They're supposed to die in battle."

"They're having a run of hard luck," observed Grayder.

Shelton took a poor view of that remark and departed miffed.

The Ambassador said, "Why do you and the Colonel pick on each other from time to time?"

"He's army and I'm navy, Your Excellency. It's traditional."

"Is that so? Then it's a wonder you've not got worlds of your own." He took another useless look outside, went on, "I suppose we'd better signal the news about this dump. I'll get busy and write a report. Immediately it's been transmitted we might as well continue on our way."

"There's nothing to be gained by hanging around, Your Excellency."

"What's the next place?"

Grayder consulted his book. "Referred to only as K229. Its name is not known. Should be a suitable headquarters for you, I think."

"Why?"

"A large number went there. About four millions. That should have given them quite a head start. It ought to be the best developed planet of the lot."

"I'm not so sure. It depends on what they regard as development," opined the Ambassador. "Some of them have weird ideas of where to go and how to go there." Suspicion crept into his fat features. "What sort of lunatics were they?"

"Don't know, Your Excellency. It's the only planet about which the ancient records aren't specific. The colonists are described as assorted dissidents, whatever that means."

"Not as political rebels or incurable morons or religious cultists or anything like that?"

"No-just dissidents."

"It implies that the planet was confiscated by a disorganized rabble. Doesn't seem plausible to me. They couldn't have been widely assorted else they'd have chopped each other to pieces in jig time. They must have had something in common, something strong enough to create unity of purpose."

Grayder shrugged. "Hope of heaven and fear of hell is enough for some folk."

"I'm not frantic with delight over the artificial heavens we've seen so far. And there's much to be said for the so-called Terran hell in spite of all its shortcomings." Emitting a snort of disgust, the Ambassador reached for his pen. "I'll do this report. There's not much to say, thank goodness. Ain't nobody here but us corpses."

"Right," said Grayder. "We'll boost onward immediately you've finished."

The fourth and last planet was the third of ten circling a Sol-type sun. In size, mass, distance from primary and general appearance it was remarkably like Terra, differing only in that it had a little more land, a little less ocean. Icecaps slightly smaller than Terra's gleamed at the north and south poles. Cloud formations straggled across land and seas. There was one large moon.

"Now this looks a lot more like home," approved the Ambassador. "And if after we've landed it feels the same way I'm having it for myself. The consuls are welcome to the loonier places."

"The only consul in this sector is the fellow we left on Hygeia," Grayder pointed out.

Taking no notice, the Ambassador enthused, "One moon. One ordinary moon of about the proper size. That's what I like to see. Half a dozen tiny ones racing each other through the night are too strong a reminder that one is umpteen millions of miles from anywhere. But with the right scenery, the right atmosphere and one moon I could imagine I'm on Terra. I only hope that the people have gained a modicum of plain hoss-sense and learned to behave themselves like decent Terrans."

"That I doubt," said Grayder.

"So do I. However, a reasonable approximation will come near enough to make me happy. So long as they're similar in all other respects they can hold voodoo ceremonies every Thursday afternoon for all I care."

He went silent as the ship closed in and the planet's dayside face rapidly expanded. Then followed the usual circling and photographing. A lot of villages and small towns were to be seen, also cultivated areas of large extent. It was obvious that this planet-while by no means fully exploited-was in the hands of colonists who were energetic and numerically strong.

Relieved that life was full, abundant and apparently free from alien disease, Grayder brought the ship down onto the first hard-standing he saw. Its enormous mass landed feather-like on a long, low hump amid well-tended fields. Again all the ports became filled with faces as everyone had a look at the new world.

The midway airlock opened, the gangway went down. As before, exit was made in strict order of precedence starting with the Ambassador and finishing with Sergeant Major Bid-worthy. Grouping near the bottom of the gangway they spent the first few moments absorbing sunshine and fresh air.

His Excellency scuffled the thick turf under his feet, plucked a blade of it grunting as he stopped. He was so constructed that the effort came close to an athletic feat and gave him a crick in the belly.

"Eight-type grass. See that, Captain? Is it just a coincidence or did they bring seed with them?"

"Could be either. Several grassy worlds are known. And almost all colonists went away loaded with seeds."

"It's another touch of home, anyway. I think I'm going to like this place." The Ambassador gazed into the distance, doing it with pride of ownership. "Looks like there's someone working over there. He's using a little motor-cultivator with a pair of fat wheels. They can't be very backward, it seems. H'm-m-m!" He rubbed a couple of chins. "Bring him here. Well have a talk and find out where it's best to make a start."

"Very well." Captain Grayder turned to Colonel Shelton. "His Excellency wishes to speak to that farmer." He pointed to the faraway figure.

"That farmer," said Shelton to Major Hame. "His Excellency wants him at once."

"Bring that farmer here," Hame ordered Lieutenant Deacon, "Quickly."

"Go get that fanner," Deacon told Sergeant Major Bid-worthy. "And hurry-His Excellency is waiting."

Bidworthy sought around for a lesser rank, remembered that they were all inside, cleaning ship and not smoking, by his order. He, it seemed, was elected.

Tramping across four fields and coming within hailing distance of his objective, he performed a precise military halt, released a barracks square bellow of, "Hi, you!" and waved urgently.

The farmer stopped his steady trudging behind the tiny cultivator, wiped his forehead, glanced casually around. His indifferent manner suggested that the mountainous bulk of the ship was a mirage such as are five a penny around these parts. Bidworthy waved again, making it an authoritative summons. Now suddenly aware of the Sergeant Major's existence, the farmer calmly waved back, resumed his work.

Bidworthy employed a brief but pungent expletive which-when its flames had died out-meant, "Dear me!" and marched fifty paces nearer. He could now see that the other was bushy-browed, leather-faced, tall and lean.

"Hi!" he bawled.

Stopping the cultivator again, the fanner leaned on one of its shafts and idly picked his teeth.

Smitten by the ingenious thought that perhaps during the last few centuries the old Terran language had been abandoned in favor of some other lingo, Bidworthy approached to within normal talking distance and asked, "Can you understand me?"

"Can any person understand another?" inquired the farmer with clear diction.

Bidworthy found himself afflicted with a moment of confusion. Recovering, he informed hurriedly, "His Excellency the Earth Ambassador wishes to speak with you at once."

"Is that so?" The other eyed him speculatively, had another pick at this teeth. "And what makes him excellent?"

"He is a person of considerable importance," said Bid-worthy, unable to decide whether the other was trying to be funny at his expense or alternatively was what is known as a character. A lot of these long-isolated pioneering types liked to think of themselves as characters.

"Of considerable importance," echoed the farmer, narrowing his eyes at the horizon. He appeared to be trying to grasp a completely alien concept. After a while, he inquired, "What will happen to your home world when this person dies?"

"Nothing," Bidworthy admitted. "It will roll on as before?"

"Yes."

"Round and round the sun?"

"Of course."

"Then," declared the fanner flatly, "if his existence or non-existence makes no difference he cannot be important." With that, his little engine went chuff-chuff and the cultivator rolled forward.

Digging his nails into the palms of his hands, Bidworthy spent half a minute gathering oxygen before he said in hoarse tones, "Are you going to speak to the Ambassador or not?"

"Not."

"I cannot return without at least a message for His Excellency."

"Indeed?" The other was incredulous. "What is to stop you?" Then, noticing the alarming increase in Bidworthy's color, he added with compassion, "Oh, well, you may tell him that I said"-he paused while he thought it over-"God bless you and good-bye."

Sergeant Major Bidworthy was a powerful man who weighed more than two hundred pounds, had roamed the cosmos for twenty-five years and feared nothing. He had never been known to permit the shiver of one hair-but he was trembling all over by the time he got back to the base of the gangway.

His Excellency fastened a cold eye upon him and demanded, "Well?"

"He refuses to come." Bidworthy's veins stood out on his forehead. "And, sir, if only I could have him in the space troops for a few months I'd straighten him up and teach him to move at the double."

"I don't doubt that, Sergeant Major," the Ambassador soothed. He continued in a whispered aside to Colonel Shelton. "He's a good fellow but no diplomat. Too abrupt and harsh-voiced. Better go yourself and fetch that farmer. We can't loaf around forever waiting to learn where to begin."

"Very well, Your Excellency." Trudging across the field, Shelton caught up with the farmer, smiled pleasantly and said, "Good morning, my man."

Stopping his machine, the farmer sighed as if ft were one of those days one has sometimes. His eyes were dark brown, almost black as they regarded the newcomer.

"What makes you think I'm your man?""It is a figure of speech," explained Shelton. He could see what was wrong now. Bidworthy had fallen foul of an irascible type. They'd been like two dogs snarling at one another. Oh, well, as a high-ranking officer he was competent to handle anybody, the good and the bad, the sweet and the sour, the jovial and the liverish.

Shelton went on oilily, "I was only trying to be courteous."

"It must be said," meditated the farmer, "that that is something worth trying for-if

you can make it."

Pinking a little, Shelton continued with determination, "I am commanded to request the pleasure of your company at the ship."

"Commanded?"

"Yes."

"Really and truly commanded?"

"Yes."

The other appeared to wander into a momentary daydream before he came back

and asked blandly, "Think they'll get any pleasure out of my company?"

"I'm sure of it," said Shelton.

"You're a liar," said the farmer.

His color deepening, Colonel Shelton snapped, "I do not permit people to call me

a liar."

"You've just permitted it," the farmer pointed out Letting it pass, Shelton insisted, "Are you coming to the ship?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Myob!" said the farmer.

"What was that?"

"Myob!" he repeated. It sounded like some sort of insult.

Shelton went back, told the Ambassador, "That fellow is one of those too-clever

types. At the finish all I could get out of him was 'Myob' whatever that mans."