our universe…these are all part of the ‘emptiness’ of your world, just as your existence forms a part of the emptiness of our atom. Do you see?"
"Vaguely," said Dirk humbly. "Only vaguely. We, the young men of my era, are not an educated people, Ptan Slador. There was a time in Earth’s history when all men were free to study where and as they wished, read what they willed. It is not so now. Only the highborn are permitted to own books, or borrow them from the Overlord’s crypts; only those designated by the Emperor are taught to read and write. The rest of us, hungry for a crust of knowledge, must gather in hidden places to learn our letters from instructors who risk their lives to teach us."
"You mean," cried the girl, "one man has dared grasp so much power? So much evil power?"
Slador nodded gravely.
"Yes, my dear. I have long believed some such situation existed on our neighbor world. From scenes I have witnessed through the visor, snatches of whispered conversation, I guessed such might be the case. It is a sorry plight for a once proud world. Drowned in a sea of ignorance, sunken in a slough of misery and despair, mankind is beaten helpless—"
Dirk laughed gratingly.
"Pardon me, sir. Not beaten. Not helpless. We are ignorant, yes…but not yet have all of us abandoned hope of striking off our shackles.
"We have a secret organization, fostered by the late Dr. Townsend, led until recently by myself, now headed by the bravest of my former comrades: Neil Hardesty. The members of this clan are pledged to one purpose…the overthrow of Graed Garroway, tyrant of the Solar System.
"Our greatest hope for success lay in Dr. Townsend’s invention, the teleport. It is quite impossible to muster an armed band on any of the planets under Garroway’s thumb. His spies are everywhere. Even—" Dirk finished bitterly—"among our own supposed comrades.
"Therefore we had planned to transport our bodies to some extra-Solar world, there gird ourselves for a last fight against Garroway’s minions. That was our dream. But now—"
He paused, shaking his head sorrowfully. That dream was now ended. Dr. Townsend’s secret weapon was not what had been hoped. Instead—
*
Then, even as he despaired, understanding drove home with blinding force. The weapon was not a failure! It was a success…but in another way than had been planned. He cried aloud: "But, yes! I’ve been blind! This way is just as good…perhaps better!"
"What way, Dirk Morris?" asked the girl.
"There is no need to seek a far planet of a far sun! We planned that solely because we did not know anything about the existence of your world, your universe.
"Nadron shall be our rallying spot! It is the ideal spot wherein to gather our forces. Close to Earth…seconds, not light-years, from the foe we would crush—"
"A moment, Earthman!" interrupted Slador. "You mean to use our world as the breeding-place for conflict on yours? Is that your thought?"
"But of course. What better place?"
The Ptan shook his head gravely.
"I am sorry, my son. But I fear that is impossible. The Council would never permit it."
"Council?"
"Our government. Here we have a World Council, made up of the oldest and wisest amongst us. Many, many centuries ago the question was raised as to whether we of Nadron should establish and maintain intercourse between our neighboring planets.
"After a lengthy period of observation and study, it was decided we should not. It was the Council’s judgment—" Here Slador flushed with thin apology—"that Earth is in too primitive a stage of development for such a union.
"Wherever and whenever we watched affairs unfolding, we saw war, strife, bickering and discontent. We saw poverty and hunger…perils unknown in our own quiet civilization. We heard the roar of gunfire and the bombastic mouthings of warlords. We found, in short, no culture worthy of inclusion in our own placid existence.
"At that time was the Law laid down…that we of Nadron should not embroil ourselves in Earth’s affairs until such time as a civilized Earth should be able to meet us on a plane of equal amity.
"Therefore—" sighed the Ptan—"despite my private sympathy with your cause, I am compelled to warn you that you may not use Nadron as host for your gathering forces. Though a peaceful world, we have means of enforcing this edict. I am sorry, but you must develop other plans."
Dirk stared at the speaker strickenly, realizing the logic of all Slador had said, but feeling, nevertheless, sick despair that Earth’s past madnesses should now so destroy the only chance of present salvation. He turned to the girl, who returned his gaze with a helpless little shrug of sympathy.
He wet his lips, said hoarsely, "But…but if you do not help us, Earth is doomed to tyranny for countless decades to come. You cannot refuse us your aid—"
Slador said smoothly, surprisingly, "I have not said I would not aid you. I have merely forbidden your forces the soil of Nadron. But there are…other ways of helping. Ways not under the ban of our Council’s sage decision."
Hope surged in Morris like a welling tide.
"There are?" he cried. "What ways, Ptan Slador?"
"Have you forgotten," asked Slador, "the strangeness of your own existence here? Or is it that you do not yet see how this can be bent to use? Listen, my son—"
He spoke, and Dirk Morris listened with ever growing interest.
III
Corporal Ned Tandred, Precinct Collector of Taxes in the Ninth Ward, Thirty-Fourth district of Greater Globe City, did not like his job.
As he wheeled his unicar through the twilight shaded streets of the city, hemmed by a rush of bustling traffic, he thought regretfully of those from whom he had this day forced payment of tithes—tribute—they could ill afford.
An old man…an even older widow…the husband of an invalid wife and father of three small children…a young man unable, now new taxes had been exacted, to marry the girl who had been waiting for him seven long years…these were just a few of the humble lives the Emperor’s recent edict had driven to newer, deeper, sloughs of despair. And he, Corporal Tandred, had been the unwilling instrument through which Garroway had dipped once again into the pockets of his subjects.
"Subjects!" grunted Corporal Tandred. "Not subjects…slaves! That’s what we are, all of us. Myself included!" He tugged savagely at the handle of his unicar, careening the tiny one-wheeled vehicle perilously to the curb of the avenue as a gigantic, gray-green armored tanker of the Imperial Army roared belligerently up the center of the street, hogging the road and scattering traffic before it. "Miserable serfs, all of us! If I thought there were half a chance of getting away with it, I’d skip this filthy uniform and—"
He stopped suddenly, a strange sensation coming over him. The sensation of somehow being watched…listened to.
He peered cautiously over his shoulder. No…no one in the car but himself. The communications unit was dull; no chance his rebellious grumbling had been overhead by a keen-eared Headquarters clerk.
Corporal Tandred breathed a sigh of relief. Nerves. Just plain nerves…that was all that bothered him. That was the result of living under constant surveillance, inescapable oppression. You got the feeling of never being free.
"This cursed money!" he grumbled again. "If I could get away with it, I’d throw it in the Captain’s face! In the Overlord’s face! Thieving—"
Once more he stopped in midsentence, his lips a wide and fearful O of bewilderment. This time he had made no mistake! There was someone near him. A voice spoke in his ear.
"Make no such foolish gesture, Corporal! "
Corporal Tandred recovered control of his car with a sudden effort. He depressed