Harrison gave up and did just that. Gloomily he cycled back to the ship.

His Excellency pinned him with an authoritative optic. "So you're back at last,

Mister. How many are coming and at what time?"

"None, sir," said Harrison, feeling kind of feeble.

"None?" August eyebrows lifted querulously. "Do you mean that they have refused my invitation?"

"No, sir."

"Come out with it, Mister," urged the Ambassador. "Don't stand there gawping as if your push-and-puff contraption has just given birth to a roller-skate. You say they have not refused my invitation-but nobody is coming. What am I supposed to make of that?"

"I didn't ask anyone."

"So you didn't ask?" Turning, he said to Grayder, Shelton and the others, "He didn't ask!" His attention came back to Harrison. "You forgot all about it, I presume? Intoxicated by liberty and the power of man over machine, you flashed around the town at nothing less than eighteen miles per hour, creating consternation among the citizenry, tossing their traffic laws into the ash-can, putting children and elderly persons in peril of their lives, not even troubling to ring your bell or--"

"I don't have a bell, sir," stated Harrison, inwardly resenting this list of enormities. "I have a whistle operated by the rotation of the rear wheel."

"There!" said the Ambassador like one abandoning all hope. He sat down and smacked his forehead several times. "I am reliably informed that somebody is going to get a bubble-pipe." He pointed at Harrison. "And now I learn that he possesses a whistle."

"I designed it myself, sir," Harrison said helpfully.

"I'm sure you did. I can imagine it. I would expect it of you." The Ambassador took a fresh grip on himself. "See here, Mister, I would like you to tell me something in strict confidence, just between the two of us." Leaning forward, he put the question in a whisper that ricocheted seven times around the room. "Why didn't you ask anyone?"

"I couldn't find out who to ask, sir. I did my level best but nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. Or they pretended they didn't."

"Humph!" The Ambassador glanced out of the nearest port, consulted his watch. "The light is fading already. Night will be upon us pretty soon. It's too late for further action." An annoyed grunt. "Another day gone to pot. Two days here and we're still fiddling around." Then he added with grim resignation, "All right, Mister. We're wasting time anyway so we might as well hear your story in full. Tell us what happened in complete detail. That way, we may be able to dig some sense out of it."

Harrison told it, finishing, "It seemed to me, sir, that I could carry on for weeks trying to argue it out with people whose brains are oriented east-west while mine point north-south. One can talk with them from now to doomsday, become really friendly and enjoy the conversation-without 'either side fully understanding what the other is saying."

"So it appears," said the Ambassador dryly. He turned to Grayder. "You've been around a lot and seen many new worlds in your time. What do you make of all this twaddle, if anything?"

"It's a problem in semantics," diagnosed Grayder, who had been compelled by circumstances to study that subject. "One comes across it on many worlds that have been long out of touch, though usually it hasn't developed far enough to become tough and unsolvable. For instance, the first fellow we met on Basileus said, cordially and in what he imagined to be perfect Terran, 'Joy you unboot now!"

"Yes? And what did that mean?"

"Come inside, put on your slippers and be happy. In other words, welcome. It wasn't difficult to understand, Your Excellency, especially when one expects that sort of thing." Grayder cast a thoughtful glance at Harrison and continued, "Here, the problem seems to have developed to a greater extreme. The language remains fluent and retains enough surface similarities to conceal underlying changes, but basic meanings have been altered, concepts discarded and new ones substituted, thought-forms re-angled and, of course, there is the inevitable impact of locally created slang."

"Such as 'Myob,'" offered the Ambassador. "Now there is a queer word without recognizable Earth-root. I don't like the sarcastic way they use it. They make it sound downright insulting. Obviously it has some kind of connection with these obs they keep throwing around. It means 'my obligation' or something like that, but the real significance eludes me."

"There is no connection, sir," put in Harrison. He hesitated, saw that they were waiting for him to go on. "On my way back I met the lady who had directed me to Baines' place. She asked whether I'd found him and I told her I had. We chatted a short while. I asked her what 'Myob' meant. She said it was initial-slang." 'He stopped and fidgeted uneasily.

"Keep going," urged the Ambassador. "After some of the sulphurous comments I've heard emerging from the Blieder-room ventilation-shaft, I can stomach anything. What does it mean?"

"M-y-o-b," informed Harrison, slightly embarrassed. "Mind- your-own-business."

"Ah!" The other gained color. "So that is what they've been telling me all along?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Evidently they've a lot to learn." His neck swelled with undiplomatic fury, he smacked a fat hand upon the table and declaimed loudly, "And they're going to learn it!"

"Yes, sir," agreed Harrison, becoming more uneasy and anxious to get out. "May I go now and tend to my bicycle?"

"Yes, you may," said the Ambassador in the same noisy tones. He performed a couple of meaningless gestures, turned a florid face on Captain Grayder.

"Bicycle! Does anyone on this vessel own a sling-shot?"

"I doubt it, Your Excellency, but I will make inquiries, if you wish."

"Don't be an imbecile," ordered the Ambassador. "We have our full quota of hollow-heads already."

Chapter 10.

Postponed until early morning, the next conference was relatively short and sweet. The Ambassador took a seat, harumphed importantly, straightened his tie, frowned around the table.

"Let us have another look at what we've got. We know that this planet's mules call themselves Gands, don't take any interest in their Terran origin and insist on referring to us as Antigands. This implies an education and resultant outlook inimical to ourselves. They've been trained from childhood to take it for granted that whenever we appeared upon the scene we would prove to be against whatever they are for."

"And we haven't the remotest notion of what they are for," put in Colonel Shelton, quite unnecessarily. But it served to show that he was among those present, paying full attention, and ready to lend the full support of his powerful intellect.

"I am only too aware of our ignorance in that respect," said the Ambassador, with a touch of acid. "They are maintaining a conspiracy of silence about their prime motivation. We have got to break it somehow."

"That," offered Shelton, unabashed, "is the problem."

Taking no notice, the Ambassador continued, "They have a peculiar, moneyless economic system which, in my opinion, manages to function only because it is afflicted with large surpluses. It won't survive a day when over-population brings serious shortages. This economic set-up appears to be based on a mixture of cooperative techniques, private enterprise, a kindergarten's honor system and plain, unadorned gimme. That makes it a good deal crazier than the food-in-thebank system they use on Epsilon's four outer planets."

"But it works," observed Grayder pointedly.

"After a fashion. That flap-eared engineer's bicycle works -and so does he while riding it. A motorized job would save him a lot of sweat." Highly pleased with this analogy, the Ambassador enjoyed the flavor of it for a few seconds before he continued. "This local scheme of economics-if you can call it a scheme-almost certainly is the end-result of the haphazard development of some hick eccentricity imported by the original settlers. It is long overdue for motorizing, so to speak. They know it as well as we do. But they don't want it because mentally they're four hundred years behind the times. They are afraid of change, improvement, efficiency-like many backward peoples. Moreover, there's little doubt that some of them have a vested interest in keeping things exactly as they are." He sniffed loudly to express his contempt. "They are antagonistic toward us simply because they don't want to be disturbed."

His stare went round the table, daring one of them to remark that this might be as good a reason as any other. They were too disciplined to fall into that trap. None offered a comment and so he went on.

"In due time, after we have gained a proper grip on affairs, we're going to have a long and tedious task on our hands. We'll have to overhaul their entire educational system with a view to eliminating anti-Terran prejudices and bringing them up to date on the facts of life. That's had to be done on several other planets though not to anything like the extent as will be necessary here."

"Well cope," promised someone.

Ignoring him, the Ambassador finished, "However, all that is in the future. Our real problem is in the present. It is in our laps right now, namely, where are the reins of power and who is holding them? We must solve that before we can make genuine progress. How are we going to do it?" Folding hands over his paunch, he added, "Get your wits to work and let us have some bright suggestions."

Grayder stood up, a big, leather-bound book in his hands.

"Your Excellency, I don't think we need exercise our minds about new plans for making contact and gaining essential information. The next move is likely to be imposed upon us."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a good many old-timers in my crew. There are some among the troops as well. Space-lawyers, every one of them." He tapped the book significantly. "They know Space Regulations as well as I do. Sometimes I think they know too much."

"And so-?" Grayder opened the book. "Regulation 127 says that on a hostile world the crew serves on a war-footing until back in free space. On a non-hostile world they serve on a peace-footing."

"What of it?"

"Regulation 131A says that on a peace-footing the crew- with the exception of a minimum number required to keep the vessel's services in trim-is entitled to liberty immediately after unloading cargo or within seventy-two Earth-hours of arrival, whichever period is the shorter." He glanced up. "By mid-day the men will be all set for land-leave and itching to go. There will be trouble if they are not allowed out."

"Oh, will there?" The Ambassador smiled lopsidedly. "What if we declare this world to be hostile? That will pin their ears back, won't it?"

Impassively consulting his book, Grayder said, "Regulation 148 says that a hostile world is defined as any planet that systematically opposes Terran citizens by force." He turned to the next page. "For the purpose of these regulations, force is defined as any course of action calculated to inflict physical injury, regardless of whether or not the said action succeeds in its intent."

"I don't agree." The Ambassador frowned his strong disapproval. "A world can be psychologically hostile without resorting to force. We have an example right here. It can't be called a friendly world."

"There are no friendly worlds within the meaning of Space Regulations," Grayder informed. "Every planet falls into one of two classifications: hostile or non-hostile." He tapped the hard leather cover. "It's all in the book."

"We'd be prize fools to let a mere book order us around or allow the crew to boss us, either. Throw it out of the port. Stick it into the disintegrator. Get rid of it any way you like- and forget it."

"Begging your pardon, Your Excellency, but I can't do that." Grayder opened the tome at its beginning. "Basic regulations 1A, IB and 1C include the following: whether in space or on land, a vessel's personnel remain under direct command of its captain or his nominee who will be guided solely and at all times by Space Regulations and will be responsible only to the Space Committee situated on Terra. The same applies to all troops, officials and civilian passengers aboard a space-traversing vessel, whether said vessel is in flight or grounded-regardless of rank or authority they are subordinate to the captain or his nominee. A nominee is defined as a ship's first, second or third officer performing the duties of a captain when the latter is incapacitated or absent."

"What all that rigmarole means is that you are king of your castle," remarked the Ambassador, none too pleased. "If we don't like it we must get out of the ship."

"With the greatest respect, Your Excellency, I must agree that that is the position. I cannot help it-regulations are regulations. And the men know it!" Grayder placed the book on the table, poked it away from him. "It's highly likely that the men will wait until mid-day, pressing their pants, creaming their hair and generally prettying themselves up. They will then make approach to me in proper manner to which I cannot object. They will request the first mate to submit their leave roster for my approval." He gave a deep sigh. "The worst I could do would be to quibble about a few names and switch some of them around. But I cannot refuse leave to a full quota."

"Liberty to paint the town red might be a good thing after all," suggested Shelton, not averse to doing some painting himself. "A dump like this wakes up with a vengeance when the fleet's in port. We should make useful contacts by the dozens. And that's what we want, isn't it?"

"We want to pin down this planet's political leaders," retorted the Ambassador. "I can't see them powdering their faces, putting on their best hats and rushing out to give the yoohoo to a crowd of hungry sailors." His plump features quirked. "We've got to find the needles in this haystack and that job won't be done by ratings on the rampage."

"You may be right, Your Excellency," put in Grayder. "But we'll have to take a chance on it. If the men insist on going out I lack the power to prevent them. Only one thing can give me the power."

"And what is that?"

"Clear, indisputable evidence enabling me to define this world as hostile within the meaning of Space Regulations."

"Well, can't we arrange that somehow?" Without waiting for a reply, the Ambassador pursued, "Every crew has its stupid and incurable trouble-maker. Find yours, give him a double shot of Venusian cognac, tell him he's being granted immediate liberty-then warn him that he may not enjoy it because these lousy Gands view us as a reason why people dig up the drains. After that, push him out of the airlock. When he returns with a black eye and a boastful story about the other fellow's condition, declare this world hostile." He waved an expressive hand. "And there you are. Physical violence. All according to the book."

"Regulation 148A," said Grayder, "emphasizing that opposition by force must be systematic, warns that individual brawls may not be construed as evidence of hostility."

The Ambassador turned an irate face upon the senior civil servant. "When you return to Terra-if ever you do get back-you can tell the appropriate department how the space service is balled up, hamstrung, semi-paralysed and generally handicapped by bureaucrats who write books."

Before the other could think up a reply in defense of his own kind, without contradicting the Ambassador, a knock came at the door. First Mate Morgan entered, saluted smartly, offered Grayder a sheet of paper.

"First leave roster, sir. Do you approve it?"

More than four hundred men went to town in the early afternoon. They advanced upon it in the usual manner of people long overdue for the bright lights, that is to say, eagerly, expectantly, in gangs of two, three, six or ten.

Gleed attached himself to Harrison. They were two odd rankers, Gleed being the only sergeant on liberty while Harrison was the only tenth engineer. They were also the only two fish out of water since both were in civilian clothes and Gleed missed his uniform, Harrison felt naked without his bicycle. These trifling features gave them enough in common to justify at least one day's companionship.

"This one's a honey," declared Gleed with great enthusiasm. "I've been on a good many liberty jaunts in my time but this one's a honey. On all other trips the boys ran up against the same problem: what to use for money. They had to go forth like a battalion of Santa Clauses, loaded up with anything that might serve for barter. Almost always nine-tenths of it wasn't of any use and had to be carted back to the ship."

"On Persephone," informed Harrison, "a long-shanked Milik offered me a twenty-karat, blue-tinted, first-water diamond for my bike."

"Jeepers, didn't you take it?"

"What was the good? I'd have had to go back sixteen light-years for another bike."

"But, man, you could exist without a bike for a while."

"I can exist without a diamond. I can't ride around on a diamond."

"Neither can you sell a bicycle for the price of a spotter Moon-boat."

"Yes, I can. I just told you this Milik offered me a rock like an egg."

"It's a crying shame. You could have got a fortune for that blinder, if it had no flaws." Sergeant Gleed smacked his lips at the thought of it. "Money and plenty of it, that's what I like. And that's what makes this trip a winner. Every other time we've gone out, Grayder, Shelton and Bidworthy have lectured us in turn about creating a favorable impression, behaving in a spacemanlike manner and so forth. But this time Grayder talks about money."

"The Ambassador put him up to it."

"I like it all the same," enthused Gleed. "An extra one week's pay, a bottle of cognac and double liberty for any man who brings back to the ship an adult Gand, male or female, who is sociable and willing to talk."

"It won't be easily earned."

"One month's extra pay for whoever gets the name and address of the town's chief civic dignitary. Two months' for the name and accurate location of the world's capital city." He whistled happily, added, "Somebody is going to make it rich and it won't be Bidworthy. His name didn't come out of the hat. I know-I was holding it."

Ceasing his chatter, he turned to watch a tall, lithe blonde striding past. Harrison pulled at his arm.

"Here's Baines' place that I told you about. Let's go in."

"Oh, all right." Gleed followed with reluctance, his attention still directed down the street.

"Good afternoon," said Harrison to Jeff Baines.

"Which it isn't," contradicted Baines. "Trade's bad. There's a semi-final being played and it has drawn half the town away. They'll come home and start thinking about their bellies long after I've closed. Probably they'll make a rush on me tomorrow morning and I won't be able to serve them fast enough."

"How can trade be bad if you don't make money even when it's good?" inquired Gleed, reasonably applying the information Harrison had given him.

Jeff's big moon eyes went over him slowly then turned to Harrison. "So he's another bum off your boat, eh? What's he talking about?"

"Money," explained Harrison. "It's stuff we use to simplify trade. It's printed stuff, like documentary obs of various sizes."

"That tells me a lot," Jeff Baines observed. "It tells a crowd that has to make a printed record of every ob is not to be trusted-because they don't even trust each other." He waddled to his high stool and squatted on it. His breathing was labored and wheezy. "And that confirms what our schools have always taught, namely, that an Antigand would swindle his widowed mother."

"Your schools have got it wrong," assured Harrison.