One of the men climbed over the body, poked around inside the cab and announced, "He is, you know."

"What d'you mean?"

"He's chained to the steering column."

"Nonsense. Let me see." He had a look and found that it was so. A chain and a small but heavy and complicated padlock linked the driver's leg to his coach. "Where's the key?"

"Search me," invited the driver. They did just that. The effort proved futile. No key. "Who's got it?"

"Myob!"

"Shove him back into his seat," ordered Bidworthy, looking savage. "Well take the passengers. One yap is as good as another so far as I'm concerned." Striding to the doors, he jerked them open. "All out and make it snappy."

Nobody budged. They studied him silently, with various expressions not one of which did anything to help his ego. The fat man with the candy striped hat mooned at him sardonically. Bidworthy decided that he did not like the fat man and that a stiff course of military calisthenics might thin him down a bit.

"You can come out on your feet," he suggested to the passengers in general and the fat man in particular, "or on your necks. Whichever you prefer. Make up your minds."

"If you can't use your head you can at least use your eyes," commented the fat man happily. He shifted in his seat to the accompaniment of metallic clanking noises.

Bidworthy accepted the idea, leaning through the doors for a better look. Then he clambered into the vehicle, went its full length while carefully studying each passenger. His florid features were two shades darker when he emerged and spoke to Sergeant Gleed.

"They are all chained. Every one of them." He glared at the driver. "What's the purpose of manacling the lot?"

"Myob!" said the driver airily. "Who has the keys?"

"Myob!"

Taking a deep breath, Bidworthy declaimed to nobody in particular, "Every once in a while I hear of somebody running amok and laying them out by the dozens. I've always wondered why-but now I know." He gnawed his knuckles, added to Gleed, "We can't run this contraption to the ship with that dummy blocking the controls. Either we must find the keys or get tools and cut them loose."

"Or you could wave us on our way and then go take a pill," offered the driver.

"Shut up! If I'm stuck here another million years I'll see to it that-"

"Here's the Colonel," muttered Gleed, giving him a nudge.

Colonel Shelton arrived, walked once slowly and officiously around the outside of the coach, examined its construction and weighed up its occupants. He flinched at the striped hat whose owner leered at him through the glass. Then he came over to the disgruntled group.

"What's the trouble this time, Sergeant Major?"

"They're as crazy as all the others, sir. They're full of impudence and say, 'Myob' and couldn't care less about His Excellency. They don't want to come out and we can't make them because they're chained in their seats."

"Chained?" Shelton's eyebrows lifted halfway toward his hair. "What on earth for?"

"I don't know, sir. All I can tell you is that they're fastened in like a bunch of gangsters being hauled to the pokey and-"

Shelton moved off without waiting to hear the rest. He had a look for himself, came back.

"You may have something there, Sergeant Major. But I don't think they are criminals."

"No, sir?"

"No." He threw a significant glance towards the fat man's colorful headgear and several other sartorial eccentricities including a ginger-haired individual's foot-wide polka-dotted bow. "It's more likely they're a consignment of lunatics being taken to an asylum. I'll ask the driver." Going to the cab, he said, "Do you mind telling me your destination?"

"Yes," responded the other.

"Very well, where is it?"

"Look," said the driver, "are we talking the same language?"

"Eh? Why?"

"You've just asked me whether I mind and I said yes." He made a disparaging

gesture. "I do mind."

"You refuse to tell?"

"Your aim's improving, Sonny."

"Sonny?" put in Bidworthy, vibrant with outrage. "Do you realize that you are

speaking to a colonel?"

"What's a colonel?" asked the driver interestedly.

"By hokey, if you-"

"Leave this to me," insisted Shelton, waving the furious Bidworthy down. His

expression was cold as he returned attention to the driver. "On your way. I'm sorry

you've been detained."

"Think nothing of it," said the driver with exaggerated politeness. "I'll do as much for you some day."

With that enigmatic remark he let his machine roll forward. The patrol parted to make room. Building up its whine to the top note, the coach sped down the road and diminished into the dusty distance.

"This planet," swore Bidworthy, staring purple-faced after it, "has more no-good bums in need of discipline than any place this side of-" "Calm yourself, Sergeant Major," urged Shelton. "I feel exactly the same way as you do-but I'm taking care of my arteries. Blowing them full of bumps like seaweed won't solve any problems."

"Maybe so, sir, but--"

"We're up against something mighty peculiar here," Shelton went on. "We've got to find out precisely what it is and how best to cope with it. In all probability it means we'll have to devise new tactics. So far the patrol has achieved nothing. It is wasting its time. Obviously we'll have to concoct a more effective method of getting into touch with the powers-that-be. March the men back to the ship, Sergeant Major."

"Very well, sir." Bidworthy saluted, swung around, clicked his heels, opened a cavernous mouth. "Patro-o-ol... right form!"

Aboard ship the resulting conference lasted well into the night and halfway through the following morning. During these argumentative hours various oddments of traffic, mostly vehicular, passed along the road. But nothing paused to view the monster spaceship, nobody approached for a friendly word with its crew. The strange inhabitants of this world seemed to be afflicted with a local form of mental blindness, unable to see a thing until it was thrust into their faces and then surveying it squint-eyed.

One passer-by in mid-morning was a long, low truck whining on two dozen balls and loaded with girls wearing bright head-scarves. The girls were tunefully singing something about one little kiss before we part, dear. A number of troops loafing near the gangway came eagerly to Me, waved, whistled and yoohooed. Their effort was a total waste for the singing continued without break or pause and nobody waved back.

To add to the discomfiture of the love-hungry, Bidworthy stuck his head out of the airlock and rasped, "If you monkeys are bursting with surplus energy I can find a few jobs for you to do-nice, dirty ones." He seared them one at a time before he withdrew.

Up near the ship's nose the top brass sat around the chartroom's horseshoe table and debated the situation. Most of them were content to repeat with extra emphasis what they had said the previous evening, there being no new points to bring up.

"Are you certain," the Ambassador asked Grayder, "that this planet has not been visited since the last emigration transport dumped its final load four centuries ago?"

"I'm quite positive, Your Excellency. Any such visit would be on record."

"Yes, if made by a Terran ship. But what about others? I feel it in my bones that at some time or other these people have fallen foul of one or more vessels calling unofficially and been leery of spaceships ever since. Perhaps somebody got tough with them and tried to muscle in where he wasn't wanted. Or perhaps they've had to beat off a gang of pirates. Or maybe they've been swindled by unscrupulous traders."

"Absolutely impossible, Your Excellency," declared Grayder, suppressing a smile. "Emigration was so widely scattered over so large a number of worlds that even today every one of them is under-populated, under-developed and utterly unable to build spaceships of any kind no matter how rudimentary. Some may have the technical know-how but they lack the industrial facilities, of which they need plenty."

"Yes, that is what I've always understood."

Grayder went on, "All Blieder-drive vessels are built in the system of Sol and registered as Terran ships. Complete track is kept of their movements and their whereabouts are always known. The only other spaceships in existence are eighty or ninety antiquated rocket jobs bought at scrap price by the Epsilon system for haulage work between its fourteen closely-spaced planets. An old-fashioned rocket-ship couldn't reach this world in a hundred years."

"No, of course not."

"Unofficial boats capable of this long range just don't exist," Grayder assured. "Neither do space buccaneers and for much the same reason. A Blieder-drive ship is so costly that a would-be pirate would have to be a billionaire to become a pirate."

"Then," said the Ambassador heavily, "back we go to my original theory; that a lot of inbreeding has made them crazier than their colonizing ancestors."

"There's plenty to be said in favor of that idea," put in Shelton. "You should have seen the coach-load I looked over. There was a fellow like a bankrupt mortician wearing odd shoes, one brown and one a repulsive yellow. Also a moonfaced gump sporting a hat apparently made from the skin of a barber's pole, all stripy." With a sad attempt at wit, he finished, "The only thing missing was his bubble-pipe-and probably he'll be given that when he arrives."

"Arrives where?"

"I don't know, Your Excellency. They refused to tell us where they were going."

Giving him a satirical look, the Ambassador remarked, "Well, that is a valuable addition to the sum total of our knowledge. Our minds are now enriched by the thought that an anonymous individual may be presented with a futile object for an indefinable purpose when he reaches his unknown destination."

Shelton subsided wishing that he had never seen the fat man or, for that matter, the fat man's cockeyed world.

"Somewhere they've got a capital, a civic seat, a center of government wherein function the people who hold all the strings," the Ambassador asserted. "We've got to find that place before we can take over and reorganize on up-to-date lines. A capital is big by the standards of its own administrative area. It is never an ordinary, nondescript place. It has obvious physical features giving it importance above the average. It should be easily visible from the air. We must make a systematic search for it-in fact that's what we should have done in the first place. Other planets' capital cities have been identified without trouble. What's the hoodoo on this one?"

"See for yourself, Your Excellency." Grayder poked several photographs across the table. "The situation is rather similar to that on Hygeia. You can see the two hemispheres quite clearly. They reveal nothing resembling a superior city. There isn't even a town conspicuously larger than its fellows or possessing enough outstanding features to set it apart from the others."

"I don't put great faith in pictures especially when taken at high speed or great altitude. The naked eye always can see more. We've got four lifeboats that should be able to search this world from pole to pole. Why don't we use them?"

"Because, Your Excellency, they were not designed for such a purpose."

"Does that matter so long as they get results?"

Patiently, Grayder explained, "They were built to be launched in free space and to hit up forty thousand miles an hour. They are ordinary, old-style rocket-ships to be used only in a grave emergency."

"Well, what of it?"

"It is not possible to make efficient ground-survey with the naked eye at any speed in excess of about four hundred miles per hour. Keep the lifeboats down to that and you'd be trying to fly them at landing-speed, muffling their tubes, balling up their motors, creating a terrible waste of fuel and inviting a crash which you're likely to get before you're through."

"Then," commented the Ambassador, "it is high time we had Blieder-drive lifeboats on Blieder-drive ships."

"I couldn't agree more, Your Excellency. But the smallest Blieder apparatus has an Earth-mass of more than three hundred tons. That's far too much for little boats." Picking up the photographs, Grayder slid them into a drawer. "The trouble with us is that everything we've got moves a heck of a lot too fast. What we really need is an ancient, propeller-driven airplane. It could do something that we can't-it could go slow."

"You might as well yearn for a bicycle," scoffed the Ambassador, feeling thwarted.

"We have a bicycle," Grayder informed. "Tenth Engineer Harrison owns one."

"And he has actually brought it with him?"

"It goes everywhere he goes. There's a rumor that he sleeps with it."

"A spaceman toting a bicycle!" The Ambassador blew his nose with a loud honk. "I take it that he is thrilled by the sense of immense velocity it gives him, an ecstatic feeling of rushing headlong through space?"

"I wouldn't know, Your Excellency."

"H'm! Bring this Harrison here. I'd like to see him. Perhaps we can set a crackpot to catch a crackpot."

Going to the caller-board, Grayder spoke over the ship's system. "Tenth Engineer Harrison will report to the chart-room at once."

Within ten minutes Harrison appeared, breathless and disheveled. He had walked fast three-quarters of a mile from the Blieder room. He was thin and woebegone, expecting trouble. His ears were large enough to cut out the pedaling with the wind behind him and he wiggled them nervously as he faced the assembled officers. The Ambassador examined him with curiosity, much as a zoologist would inspect a pink giraffe.

"Mister, I understand that you possess a bicycle."

At once on the defensive, Harrison said, "There's nothing against it in the regulations, sir, and therefore--"

"Damn the regulations," swore the Ambassador. "Can you ride the thing?"

"Of course, sir."

"All right. We're stalled in the middle of a crazy situation and we're turning to crazy methods to get moving. Upon your ability and willingness to ride a bicycle the fate of an empire may stand or fall. Do you understand me, Mister?"

"I do, sir," said Harrison, unable to make head or tail of this.

"So I want you to do an extremely important job for me. I want you to get out your bicycle, ride into town, find the mayor, sheriff, grand panjandrum, supreme galootie or whatever he is called, and tell him that he is officially invited to evening dinner along with any other civic dignitaries he cares to bring. That, of course, includes their wives."

"Very well, sir."

"Informal attire," added the Ambassador.

Harrison jerked up one ear and dropped the other. "What was that, sir?"