ARBITER

                             a novelet by
                            SAM MERWIN, JR.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                 Thrilling Wonder Stories August 1953.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Ivan Rutherford Y Barra, Permanent Secretary of the United Planets,
watched the thin trail of fire in the star-sprinkled night sky and
felt stirrings of familiar panic. Although he had greeted incoming
representatives of the inner and outer planets some three hundred-odd
times during his six-year tenure as Permanent Secretary--although the
curved window through which he watched was a two-foot-thick panel of
plexiquartz--although he knew the descending space-ship was chained
to its landing beam more securely than Prometheus to his mythical
rock--yet panic persisted.

It seemed to Rutherford, as it seemed to everyone else in the reception
building at Lackawanna Spaceport, as if the great ship from Venus were
headed directly for himself, must inevitably squash him like an ant
under a size-twelve boot. It was not a nice feeling.

He looked for reassurance, across the vast girth of the spaceport, at
the flood-lit faery-towers of Newark, rising like some odd subterranean
extrusion from the flat Jersey meadow. Behind him lay the long rampart
of the palisades, behind the palisades the even more incredible
faery-towers of Manhattan.

It would be nice, Rutherford thought, if the intricate negotiations
that lay ahead of him could be managed as simply and safely as would
be the landing of the Venerian ship. He took his big Oom Paul from
his lips, said to Mahmoud Singh, his personal secretary, who stood at
his elbow, "Sometimes I wish protocol didn't demand our presence here
every time a Grade-One space-visitor comes in. When I think of the time
consumed...."

"Unfortunately it's part of your job, sir," said Mahmoud Singh softly.
Like Rutherford he spoke the interplanetary _Lingua Franca_--a
blend of English, Spanish, Russian, German, Hindu and Chinese, with
more recent elements of Venerian, Martian and Ganymedean.

Rutherford studied him through a cloud of pipe-smoke, wishing not
for the first time that Mahmoud were not quite so literal-minded.
His secretary was an attractive young man, wearing his dusky Hindu
head atop the broad-shouldered graceful warrior's body inherited from
Turkish and Circassian forebears on his mother's side.

He wondered what might happen if Mahmoud's passionate heritage should
break through the rigid shell of deportment that encased it--stopped
wondering as the uniformed space-aide at his other elbow said,
"_Oh_-oh! She's still in a spin. Look out below!"

Rutherford felt a sick weakness invade his body. The _Astarte_,
growing ever larger, was spinning slowly, inexorably, as it descended
toward Earth. The inner core was gyroscopically stable, ensuring crew
and passengers against disaster--but with the outer hull still in spin,
the final braking blast might flicker death in any direction. He ground
his teeth hard into the stem of his heavy Boer pipe.

After more than three decades of uneventful landings at Lackawanna,
there had been two like disasters in the past four months. In the
first the braking blast had hurled its lethal brilliance to the
southeast--and the southernmost tip of Jersey City had been sheared off
as by some cosmic spatula. The second, five weeks earlier, had sliced
off the tallest of Hoboken's towers, spreading a rain of molten death
for a radius of half a mile.

This time a sudden plume of pure-white flame--almost blinding even
through the polarized plexiquartz--flared out directly toward Newark.
For a brief endless instant the faery-towers glowed golden--and then,
like gold in a smelter, began to soften, to dissolve. The flame
flickered out as the globular ship came none-too-gently to rest on the
landing area--yet its afterglow persisted and brightened ruddily as
molten steel and stone were transmuted into flame.

[Illustration: The globular ship landed none-too-gently.]

"That tears it," said the uniformed space-aide tersely. "They'll never
stand for three in a row."

Rutherford took the bitten-off stem of his pipe from between his lips,
picked up the pipe itself from the plastoleum floor. He turned to
Mahmoud, whose dark complexion had turned grey, said, "Mahmoud, observe
relief measures taken--and give me a report in the morning. Commodore
Willis"--this to the uniformed space-aide--"please attend me through
the ceremony."

       *       *       *       *       *

Under the circumstances the reception was perfunctory--minus the usual
flourishes the occasion demanded. The horridly beautiful spectacle of
Newark ablaze forbade more than a shell of formality. Juan Kurtz, the
stocky pasty-faced Venerian plenipotentiary, seemed stubbornly set upon
absolving his planet of all guilt.

He said, for the benefit of the vidar-cameras, "Please tell the folk
of Mother Earth that I speak for all Venus when I say that we shall
give freely from our hearts to those who have suffered loss through
this ghastly accident." He went on in his chill precise way, uttering
sympathy that seemed more mental than emotional.

Rutherford's attention, however, was focussed more intently
upon grizzled weed-thin Erasmus Chen-Smith, United Planets
Ambassador-at-Large, who had also come in on the _Astarte_.
Chen-Smith looked definitely unwell. Yellow of countenance, he leaned
heavily on the shoulder of an attendant.

"Sorry, Ivan," he croaked. "Picked up a fine case of Venus
carrot-poisoning. See you tomorrow--three o'clock." Then his eyes
closed, his head fell forward. Had not Commodore Willis leapt in to
give a hand he would have collapsed on the plastoleum floor.

Riding back to Manhattan alongside Kurtz in a United Planets helicar,
Rutherford had a defeatist feeling that the current problems
confronting United Planets and himself were insurmountable. The
disaster at Lackawanna Spaceport might prove the proverbial last straw.

"How serious do you expect the repercussions to be, Excellency?" the
Venerian Plenipotentiary inquired. Like Rutherford's, his eyes were on
the vidar-screen, which displayed in full-colored horror the Newark
holocaust. Like Rutherford's, his real thoughts were elsewhere, his
vista far more universal.

"Very serious, Honorable," Rutherford replied. "My guess is that
Earth Government will suspend operations in all spaceports within
danger-radius of any community pending further safeguards."

"Impossible!" Kurtz exploded, his usual taut diplomatic poise
shattered. "It will mean disruption of all interplanetary trade."

"Is trade so important," Rutherford asked, "when it means destruction
of life?" He looked ruefully at his broken pipe, needing a smoke to
restore his own emotional balance.

Kurtz snorted, then said, "If the men and women who risk constant death
in the Great Desert of Venus raising colla-cactus for snug Earthfolk
ever heard such sentiments from you--"

"I am fully aware of how they would feel," Rutherford told him firmly.
"Yet they risk their lives deliberately, seeking assured profit. What
profit is there for those who died tonight in Newark--or earlier in
Hoboken and Jersey City?"

The envoy made a deprecatory gesture, said, "But these accidents--the
first in thirty years--it's several thousand to one against there being
another, ever."

Rutherford said, "There need not have been these--if your people had
stuck to the Schupps Drive instead of installing Kennelleys."

This time Kurtz gesture was impatient. He said, "And lose a week at
parihelion in transit? My people would never accept that. Competition
with lighter-gravitied Mars and Ganymede is far too tight to cut
payloads for more fuel _and_ risk having our rivals beat us."

The two officials rode the rest of the way in silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the study of his twelve-room suite at the New Waldorf, Rutherford
replaced the broken stem of the Oom Paul with another kept for
emergencies in a drawer of his black-walnut smoking cabinet. Then he
said, "Jacques, this is the first pipe-stem I've bitten through since I
was awaiting confirmation of my appointment to this post."

Commodore Willis joggled ice-globes in his glass of Martian
lichenwasser. He was a tall well-cut specimen whose unexpectedly alert
and disciplined intelligence twinkled beneath the ineradicable bronze
of deep space. He said, "Want me to stand by, sir?"

"If you wish," said Rutherford. "But it's unlikely we'll get a full
disaster report before morning. I'm going out for a bit."

Minutes later he departed, smiling inwardly at the suspicion he read
on his space-aide's handsome countenance. Possessed of a sound and, to
the more serious souls about him, at times disrupting sense of humor,
Rutherford knew very well what the younger man was thinking. It would
inevitably concern himself and--women.

Chuckling openly he slipped out the private entrance at sidewalk level
beneath his tower apartment, casually acknowledged the salutes of the
two sentries in their slate-grey uniforms, hopped nimbly into a waiting
vehicab. Sinking back onto its airmoss cushions he gave the address of
a house in the Old City.

In the near-total rebuilding of New York that ran parallel with its
development as Interplanetary capital, the city planners had wisely
left a charming segment of the old city, extending from the Plaza
north, along Central Park East to Ninety-sixth Street and east to
Lexington Avenue, intact. Here were mixed in polyglot and charming
disarray the Swedish moderne apartment houses of the mid-twentieth
century, the white-stone-and-concrete structures of the 1920's,
the marble mansions and granite palaces of earlier decades and the
chocolate-colored brownstones that had preceded _them_.

It was to one of the last-named, a rather-shabby house in the
mid-Seventies, that the vehicab took Rutherford. He paid off the driver
and ascended a flight of sandstone steps to a heavy wooden double-door
beside which an antique brass bell-pull gleamed softly in the dimness
of old-fashioned street lights.

He pulled it twice--then three times--then waited. A red-faced
jovial-looking man, his paunch italicized by the long out-of-date
tattersall vest that covered it, opened the door and said, "You are
late, _Brother Goodwin_. The meeting is already in progress."

"It was unavoidable, _Brother van Dyne_," said Rutherford. He
went on inside, climbed a flight of steps to enter a long double-room
that resembled a museum hall. Its walls were hung with every sort
of lethal weapon, from crude flint axe-heads of the troglodytes,
through arbalests, poniards, pistols, pikes and hang-ropes, to modern
ray-inducers. Around three sides of the chamber, in transparent cases,
were miniature reenactments of famous crimes of fact and fiction,
from Cain and Abel, through Aggie Borden, the Pit and the Pendulum,
a tub-slaying by Dr. Crippen and others, to the twenty-first-century
assassination of the Premier of Mars via death-ray.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the open end stood a platform, complete with scholarly-looking lady
speaker, who was addressing some two-score seated listeners on the
trend away from the fictional detective puzzle toward sadistic violence
during the second quarter of the last century. Rutherford nodded to a
scattering of acquaintances as he slipped into a seat.

The Permanent Secretary of the United Planets was an incurable
crime-mystery-story addict. Of all honors that had befallen him he
prized most highly his membership in the Mystofans, a small association
of like addicts who met bi-weekly in the Old City house to discuss
the more arcane aspects of their hobby. Hypnotics and truth sera had
rendered crime detective a mere matter of questioning for almost a
century, had thereby eliminated not only most major felonies but the
literature about them as well.

Half-listening to the speaker, who had just moved from Raymond
Chandler to Mickey Spillane, Rutherford considered how complete was
the democracy of the Mystofans, who hid their outside names and
stations beneath the alias of a favorite author or character. Thus the
tattersall-vested doorman, a disciple of Philo Vance, became _S. S.
van Dyne_ while Rutherford, who delighted in the indolent brilliance
of Nero Wolf, was _Archy Goodwin_, the names of Wolf as well as of
Rex Stout, his creator, having already been preempted.

About him Rutherford recognized _Sister Sayers_, otherwise
a leading woman attorney, _Brother Lecoq_, a Fifth Avenue
shoe-clerk, _Sister Allingham_, a vidar chanteuse, _Brother
Holmes_, in real life a university dean. The members came from all
walks and branches of society, united only by their hobby.

After the speech there was an open symposium, during which the
discussion ranged from such primitives as Poe and Collins to the
sophistications of Agatha Christie and the violences of Dashiell
Hammett, with digressions on the techniques of thuggee and the
mackerel-shine decadence of Matthew Head. Thereafter all moved
downstairs for the traditional pilsener and smorgasbord and good
general talk.

While Rutherford was washing down a piece of smoked salmon with
pilsener, an exceedingly comely young lady approached him and
introduced herself as _Sister Rhinehart_. She explained that
she was a new member and had been given to understand _Brother
Goodwin_ was interested in purchasing original Rex Stout
manuscripts. Large grey eyes, slightly tilted, gleamed with animal
attractiveness as she added, "Of course mine isn't a Nero Wolf--it's
about one of his lesser-known creations, a sheriff named Tecumseh Fox."

"Which one?" asked Rutherford, donning a mask of disinterest. If the
girl only realized, a Tecumseh Fox original, by its very rarity, was
far more valuable than a Nero Wolf. It was to mystery manuscript
collectors like comparing a Button Gwynnett autograph to the greater
but far commoner signature of George Washington.

"The title is _Bad for Business_," the girl told him and
Rutherford sensed that if it were genuine he was on the trail of
a major find. Asked how she came to own it _Sister Rhinehart_
explained that her maternal grandfather, an antique fancier, had picked
it up among the contents of an old attic somewhere in Connecticut. "I
hate to part with it," she concluded gravely, "but I'm a Mary Roberts
Rhinehart fan myself and I do need some extra money just now. If I
hadn't happened to be in town for this meeting the idea of selling it
would never have occurred to me."

She added that she could have the script ported in from her Maryland
home by noon on the morrow, would bring it to him after lunch.
Rutherford, excited at the prospect of such a purchase, offered his
name and address but the girl smiled, said she knew who he was and that
her name was Turina Vascelles.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ruefully she added, "I've got to get back to the restoration of my
family's estate. It's an endless job. Builders today no longer seem
to care about doing the sort of work they did so lovingly back in the
nineteen fifties. And the expenses! You can understand why selling this
manuscript should prove a real windfall."

"Of course, my dear," said Rutherford benignly. The lift he got from
the encounter stayed with him all the way back to his suite and, later,
through the three-hour vigil he and Commodore Willis maintained,
listening to reports of the Lackawanna disaster, which grew worse every
few minutes. When at last he turned in, having received word the fire
had been checked, the known deaths had passed two thousand and appeared
to be but a fraction of the total expected.

"Our Venerian friends," he told the commodore over a nightcap of
lichenwasser, "have got to be curbed. If they don't replace their
Kennelleys with Schupps Drives they may find themselves boycotted."

"They'll never do it," said the space-aide somberly. "They can't see
themselves cutting profits for the sake of a few lives. They may try
to boycott Earth if you seek to enforce the rules."

Rutherford sighed and said, "Don't remind me, Jacques. But popular
opinion will cut the ground out from under me if I don't try." He
shrugged, added, "Perhaps science will come up with an answer--or
perhaps poor Chen-Smith has a solution tucked away in that big brain of
his. It's a damned shame he had to come down with carrot-poison just
now."

"Rotten breaks all around," said the commodore, who was beginning to
show the effects of the lichenwasser. He hiccuped, apologized, rose
unsteadily and bade Rutherford good-night.

The Permanent Secretary shed all official worries as he slid into
bed. This ability, plus his sense of humor, enabled him to endure
the ceaseless tensions of his job without cracking. It was commonly
accepted amongst the well-informed that, without his tact and human
talents, the United Planets would long since have fallen into jarring
disunion. But now some insiders were saying openly that the job might
be growing too much even for him.

He came to grips with it at ten the following morning, when he sat
with delegations from Mars and Ganymede at a long table in the East
River Secretariat. The visitors had come to protest the original
Planet Exploitation Agreement of 2016, which put the moons of Jupiter
under Martian dominion and those of Saturn under a Venerian mandate.
At that time, since Man had barely explored, much less exploited, the
satellites of the two heavy planets, the division was academic.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, in 2073, it was topical and red-hot. The Jovian moons had long
since been settled and their colonists, in alliance with Mars, insisted
the treaty be altered to free the moons of Saturn from Venus. They
based their claim on proximity, colonial experience and the fact that
Venus was not yet ready to take advantage of its mandate.

Aloha Svensen, the dark-skinned silver-blond Chief Delegate from
Ganymede, stressed their claim in slow controlled accents that barely
revealed the fires raging beneath. "If the treaty is not soon altered,
our administration will be unable to prevent settlers from colonizing
Titan privately. And if the Venerians seek to remove them we shall have
to support our people with force if necessary."

"Hear, hear!" said Martian Plenipotentiary Feruccio van Zandt.

"We must have _lebensraum_ to follow our natural course of
expansion," the comely Aloha concluded. "We will get it--by peaceful
means _if possible_. But we shall get it, never fear."

"Let's look at the record," said Rutherford. He quoted from a paper
Mahmoud Singh slipped deftly in front of him. "Mars, according to the
most recent census, has a population of two hundred forty-six million,
Ganymede five and a half, the other satellites a total of less than
two. Yet Earth is self-sufficient with a population exceeding six
billions. Do I hear rightly when you talk of _lebensraum_?"

This evoked a storm of protest. Earth, the delegates insisted, was a
rich planet on which life was easy. It was nothing like hacking our
existence on globes never meant for human habitation. Hardship had bred
pioneers of tougher cast than the billions at home, men and women who
could not be curbed by laws to them unreasonable. And so on.

At noon Rutherford presided over the luncheon of official greeting for
the Venerian legates, whose arrival the night before had caused the
Newark holocaust. Nor was the tone lightened by recent news that Earth
Government had suspended operation of all spaceports within twenty
miles of human habitation, pending development of new safety measures.
This left open but a handful of emergency fields in such unlikely
commercial locations as the Andes, the Rockies, the Gobi and Sahara
Deserts.

Juan Kurtz fumed between courses and speeches, once muttered to
Rutherford, "I can't guess the consequences of this ill-considered act,
Excellency--but I fear they may be serious."

"I think we may work something out," replied the Permanent Secretary
with optimism he was far from feeling. He was glad to get back to his
hotel suite for a brief respite following the luncheon. He even toyed
briefly with the idea of resigning and hibernating in the microfilm
library of the Mystofan Club.

He had almost forgotten Turina Vascelles and her manuscript when,
shortly before three o'clock, Mahmoud announced the girl's arrival and
ushered her into his study. She was beguiling in a brief three-piece
boulevard suit, carried a plastocase under one slim arm.

"I do hope you'll find it what you want," she told him, opening the
case on his desk and withdrawing a thick manuscript of yellowed
typewriter bond. She handed him a transparent envelope, added, "And
here are the authentications."

       *       *       *       *       *

Interplanetary problems faded from Rutherford's consciousness--as he
studied first the authentications, then the manuscript itself, his
interest and excitement mounted. Pending comparison tests with other
Wolf manuscripts, typewriter and fingerprint and radioactive tracer
tests, he could not definitely name it a genuine Rex Stout. But it
looked genuine, it felt genuine, it had the authentic _aura_. When
at last he had completed his examination he told the girl as much,
asked if she'd mind leaving it in his hands while further tests were
made.

"Of course not, _Brother Goodwin_," she said, rising from the
chair in which she had been quietly sitting and smoking an everbac
cigarette. "My address is on the authentication papers." She departed
gracefully and Rutherford, staring wistfully after her and wishing
himself two decades younger, was roused from his reverie by Mahmoud,
who entered to inform him that Erasmus Chen-Smith was waiting in the
small drawing room.

Rutherford looked at his watch, opened his mouth to upbraid his
secretary for not informing him sooner, recalled having left strict
orders not to be disturbed, said nothing. It was close upon four
o'clock, which meant he must have kept the Ambassador-at-Large waiting
almost an hour. He bustled into the small drawing room, apologies ready
on his tongue.

Erasmus Chen-Smith lay on his back, sprawled out on the carpet. His
mouth was open, his skin even yellower than it had been the night
before. He was as dead as a man can be.

Rutherford's first thought was self-recriminatory--it was he who had
sent his colleague on the mission that had caused his death. His second
was to summon help.

The Medical Service experts, quickly upon the scene, were mildly
puzzled. The young physician-in-charge told Rutherford, "Superficial
fluoro-examination reveals sudden crystallization of the liver. You
say he was suffering from Venerian carrot-poison?" He shrugged, added,
"It's odd--we've had no deaths from that disease in five years. Must
have been some peculiarly personal susceptibility. But crystallization
of the liver.... Well, we'll have it pinned in a few hours or days.
We'll keep you informed, Excellency."

"I'd appreciate it," said Rutherford. "The Ambassador was more than a
colleague--he was an old and valued friend."

Mahmoud, close at hand, said piously, "A great misfortune--especially
at this time."

Rutherford filled his pipe, thought it over and nodded. It might be
more than a misfortune--it might be disaster, particularly if the
late Chen-Smith, during the course of his informal investigations
of conditions on Venus, had uncovered any vital facts at variance
with official facts. If the Ambassador-at-Large had kept written
or photographic records--but Rutherford shook his head and inhaled.
So delicate were the times, so reliable the dead man's memory and
character, he had decided not to risk putting anything on tape.

Mahmoud cleared his throat to bring Rutherford out of his abstraction,
said, "I regret intruding at this moment but the Venerian delegation
has been awaiting your presence in the large drawing room--since
three-fifteen. They may resent...."

They did resent. The Permanent Secretary found himself with a
thoroughly disgruntled delegation on his hands. Rutherford apologized,
explained briefly that Chen-Smith was dead. But Kurtz, the Venerian
Plenipotentiary, said stiffly, "On behalf of my planet I can only
express my deepest sympathies. However, the life or death of
Ambassador-at-Large Chen-Smith is not the purpose of our visit."

He paused to look quickly at the Venerian Ambassador, Yamurai Corrigan,
whose hair flamed redder than ever thanks to the unusual pallor of his
face. Rutherford, applying all the Nero Wolf psychological acuteness
he could muster, sought vainly to read the quick disturbed glance the
two official visitors exchanged. Mere anger, in men so disciplined to
the niceties of interplanetary diplomacy, could not account for their
disturbed state.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kurtz, acting as spokesman, looked almost in a state of collapse as he
went on to say, "Our purpose is to make plain to Your Excellency that
the announcement of the closing of the spaceports has been received
with high disfavor at Venus City. My colleague"--with a nod toward
Yamurai Corrigan--"and I have been instructed to inform the United
Planets Secretariat that unless the suspension is revoked within one
week, Earth-time, Venus will be forced to seek other channels for its
commerce."

It was ultimatum, Rutherford realized, as the Venerians bowed
their way out with stiffness unusual even for them. Coupled with
the war-threat of the morning from the Martian and Jovian Satellite
delegations, to say nothing of the tragic death of Chen-Smith, it
represented for Rutherford the most desperate crisis either he or the
United Planet Secretariat had ever faced.

He sank into an armchair, poured some lichenwasser from the carafe
depleted by the Venerians during their wait. But it tasted slightly
bitter and he returned the tumbler to tabletop, barely sipped, said to
the hovering Mahmoud, wondering if his metabolism were awry, "Dat's de
trouble wid dis job. It's disfavor and dat favor and...."

Mahmoud regarded him sadly and said, "Perhaps a brief rest, Excellency.
It has been a most fatiguing night and day."

"Thanks--but not now," replied Rutherford, wondering what perversity
had driven him to the infantile pun in front of his secretary. All at
once he could not abide the sight of him. "Mahmoud," he said, "I want
you to prepare a précis on the new Martian-Satellite demands and the
exact state of negotiations--oh, and on your way out tell Commodore
Willis I want to see him in half an hour."

"Yes, sir," said Mahmoud, bowing respectfully. But his eyes were not
respectful as he said from the door, "Excellency, perhaps I presume but
I still think a brief rest would--"

"It would drive me balmier than you think I am now," he snapped rudely
at the Hindo-Turk. Alone he walked to the window-wall and looked out
at the lacy patterns of Manhattan, bathed in the lingerie hues of
the sunset. But his mind was not on the incredible spectacle. He was
considering patiently the chain of circumstances that had brought the
United Planets and himself into their present predicament.

What Americans of a century ago had termed "the breaks" had been
running against both the organization and himself with a recent
persistence that was more than a little frightening. The squabble
between Mars and Ganymede and Venus over the Saturnian satellites had
long been foreseen, of course. Under ordinary circumstances, while a
major interplanetary problem, it was one that should long since have
been settled by reasonable concessions all around.

But circumstances of late had not been ordinary. The unprecedented
series of spaceport accidents at Lackawanna had made the Venerians even
testier than usual about their rights among the planets. Faced with the
threat of commercial losses through enforced use of the comparatively
light Schupps Drive in their heavier gravity, they had been in no mood
to grant concessions to anyone. Which, in the illogical course of
events, had put up the collective back of the Mars-Ganymede faction.

Then there were the more personal, more human, channel breakdowns of
the past twenty-four hours. First, of course, was Chen-Smith's coming
down with Venerian carrot-poison on the _Astarte_. No one else on
the big ship, among crew or passengers, had been similarly affected.
There had followed in quick order the third Lackawanna disaster, the
two ultimata between which was sandwiched Chen-Smith's death.

Rutherford did some silent swearing. It was almost like a conspiracy.
For instance, if Turina Vascelles had not buttonholed him last night
with her Rex Stout manuscript, he would not have arranged to see her
and kept Chen-Smith waiting. The Permanent Secretary cursed the evil
day that had seen his induction into Mystofan membership.

Such thinking, he well knew, was not only idle, it was psychologically
dangerous. He wondered if he were acquiring a persecution complex at
this late date, went back to his barely-sipped glass of lichenwasser,
sipped it again, stared at it....

       *       *       *       *       *

It _did_ taste bitter--beyond any sharpness that might be given it
by his own disturbed metabolism. He sat down, relit his pipe, waited
until Commodore Willis entered, told him to help himself to a drink.
The space-aide poured himself a tumblerful from the carafe, took a
healthy swig, all but spat it out, regarded Rutherford reproachfully.

"Sorry, Jacques," said the latter. "I have to know. What does it taste
like to you?"

"Like a dose of salts," Willis said angrily. "This isn't export
lichenwasser, this is the genuine Martian article."

"I suspected as much," Rutherford told him drily. "Somebody seems to
have made a mistake. The Venerian delegation was here this afternoon.
They looked exceedingly uncomfortable."

"I should hope so!" Willis began to chuckle. Then he grew serious,
added, "I heard about poor Chen-Smith. Another putrid break."

"A tragic one," Rutherford told him absently. His mind was
suddenly operating on all jets. Lichenwasser from Mars, which had
gradually become the favorite interplanetary drink, took two basic
forms--disregarding various flavorings and degrees of intoxicating
strength. The original, or "genuine Martian," had an exceedingly high
mineral content whose effect upon humans unconditioned to the thin
atmosphere of the red planet was that of epsom salts. It was even more
effective upon Venerians than upon Earthmen. Not until this mineral
content was processed out of the drink, as in the "export" variety, had
it attained more than domestic popularity.

Someone, it seemed, had made the error of filling the carafe in the
large drawing room with the native variety, usually reserved only for
visitors from Mars. Or had it been an error? Rutherford got up, entered
the small drawing room next door, put the carafe to his lips, tasted
its contents--and made a face. It was the same.

"Something up?" inquired Commodore Willis, who had followed him
curiously.

"It could be," said Rutherford, again sitting down and pulling on
his pipe. "It just could be." He was probably being an utter damned
fool, he thought, to suspect anything. But if his suspicions proved
justified.... It was too much for a Mystofan. Suppose the chain of
misfortune _had_ been induced; suppose he and United Planets
_were_ facing a conspiracy rather than a chain of misfortune at
all.

He said, "Jacques, I'm probably out of my mind but here it is." And
then he told his space-aide of his growing suspicions. The Commodore
listened with growing excitement, asking occasional questions. But when
Rutherford had finished he shook his handsome head.

"You could be right, chief," he said, "but even if you are and get
the facts, how can you stop our conspirator short of criminal action?
Just about everyone involved has diplomatic immunity to police
interrogation. And without hypnotism or truth sera...."

"Jacques," said Rutherford when his aide's voice trailed off, "have you
ever heard of proof? I know it's old-fashioned but police _did_
use to capture and convict criminals before sera and hypnotism came
into use. They went out and dug up the facts."

Commodore Willis said, "The way I heard it, they just rounded up all
the suspects and beat hell out of them until someone confessed."

Rutherford winced, said, "Such things undoubtedly happened--but not
usually. Especially if the suspects had any standing. Then the police
had to find truth that would stand up in court."

Willis sank into a chair and stared at his chief. "But good Lord, sir!"
he exclaimed. "How are you going to go about it?"

"I'm going to try to assemble all the facts I can get. Also all the
rumors and unproven gossip. Confidentially--very confidentially--I'm
putting you in charge. I want you to get somebody from the _Astarte_
drunk. Find out why the ship spun in if you can--and find out how it
happened that only poor Chen-Smith got carrot-sickness."

"Can do," said the space-aide, sitting up. "Anything else, sir?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Rutherford smiled at his aide's eagerness even though matching
excitement burned within himself. He said, "Perhaps you'll assign
the _Astarte_ investigation to someone you can trust--because
I want you to look up a girl. The name she uses--or used--is Turina
Vascelles. She came to see me this afternoon. I want to know all about
her--especially whom she knows in the United Planets Secretariat." He
went on to describe the girl with the Rex Stout manuscript.

Willis' eyebrows rose. He said, "Turina sounds like quite a dish of
tea. I would be off-duty when she showed today!" He added, "What about
this manuscript she brought you, sir?"

"I'll take care of that little matter myself," Rutherford told him,
getting up. "Remember, Jacques, time is, as they used to say, awasting.
I want this information by breakfast tomorrow."

"On my way," said the Commodore with a grin.

"Good luck, Jacques," said Rutherford, wondering why his military aide
should have a sense of humor while his civilian aide had none. By
rights, he felt, it should be the other way around.

He dined alone that evening and almost at once doubted the wisdom of
having done so. For with solitude he began to consider the strange
death of Chen-Smith and his thoughts at once ranged to poison. By the
time he finished his _potage Ganymede_ he was suffering from a
fine case of heartburn.

It was his first contact with murder--he had already so labeled it in
his mind--and while he enjoyed it vicariously in fiction he found the
fact not only undramatic but frightening. Belching unhappily Rutherford
decided he could not eat another mouthful.

He was in the act of picking up the manuscript Turina Vascelles had
left with him when Mahmoud came in bearing the précis Rutherford had
requested. He regarded his chief with surprise, asked him where he was
going. Rutherford told him it was none of his business, relented to
say, "Just going to show this manuscript--back by midnight."

Reconsidering the "coincidences" of the past twenty-four hours which
had kept him from conferring with Chen-Smith he decided the genuineness
of the manuscript was a key factor. If it were real the coincidence
theory might hold. If not....

On a non-meeting night the Mystofan clubhouse held only the staff and
a few researchers and scholars digging into the microfilm library on
the third floor. Rutherford checked through the Rex Stout file first,
found that while the Club had in its possession or knew the record or
whereabouts of almost all Stout manuscripts, it did not have a copy of
_Bad for Business_.

Rutherford sighed, then demanded filmostats of manuscripts
chronologically bracketing the one the girl had given him. A few
minutes of study in the comparison viewer assured him that his
deductive instincts had not led him astray. There was no doubt that
the author or his typist had used a different machine on _Bad for
Business_--or that it had been typed at a later date, perhaps as a
prop in the web of deception of which he was beginning to think himself
the center.

He turned in the manuscript for more professional testing, which would
determine the period of the typewriter used, the age of the paper and
other tiny but conclusive facts. Personally he felt satisfied it was
intended as a hoax, probably a temporary one by its crudeness.

Then, on impulse, he turned to toxicology. Lichenwasser was listed
as definitely non-poisonous, though the laxative qualities of its
unprocessed varieties were mentioned. Discouraged, he looked up mineral
salts, which were under the same heading, found nothing relevant save
in one minute sub-heading, in which it was stated that salts given
to anyone taking a sulfa derivative, could produce death through
crystallosis of the liver. He turned to Venerian carrot-sickness--and
then he closed the book and went home.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a rather haggard Jacques Willis who roused him early the next
morning, his eyes alight above the circles beneath them. He mixed
himself an antiope, gave Rutherford a verbal report while the latter
dressed. "That was quite an assignment, sir," he began.

"Did you find the girl?" the Permanent Secretary asked.

"Oh, I found her all right," said the space-aide. "She's not exactly
unknown around the hotel." He paused, fought back a grin, added
solemnly, "She works out of Zora MacLean's."

Rutherford needed a moment to digest this. He had accepted the
certainty that the peddler of the false Stout manuscript was not what
she pretended--but her poise and appearance were scarcely in accord
with his preconceived notion of a professional joy-girl. Rutherford,
who had all his life shied clear of commercial sex, was shaken, even
though he told himself he was an idiot to feel thus about her.

"I called on Zora and managed to worm some facts out of her," Willis
went on. He coughed discreetly, added, "We're old friends--it's part of
my job to see that visiting space-officers are--suitably entertained
while in town."

"I'm well aware of that," said Rutherford drily.

The younger man went on. "Hilda--the girl's real name is Hilda
Considine--has been out on call for a couple of days. I finally managed
to run her down--and _that_ took some doing--by pretending she was
wanted by one of the Venerian Embassy's staff. Your little playmate is
quite a dish!" He paused for a reminiscent leer.

"You may skip the irrelevant details," Rutherford told him.

"Yes, Your Relevance," countered the space-aide, grinning. Then, "All
Hilda knew was she'd drawn a chore that included being put into an
outfit called Mystofans with phony references to contact you." Willis
looked at his chief slyly, added, "I never knew you went in for that
sort of frivolity, sir."

"You may skip my frivolities as well," said Rutherford.

The account from then on was concise. Hilda-Turina had carried out
orders, had been well-paid by a large amiable gentleman with an
eccentric fondness for old-fashioned waistcoats. So, Rutherford thought
a trifle sadly, _Brother van Dyne_ was one of them. He asked when
the girl had drawn the assignment.

"Just a couple of days back," Willis replied promptly.

Rutherford wondered how the conspirators could have prepared the false
manuscript so quickly. Then he began to realize to what lengths they
had gone in planning. They had evidently had _Bad for Business_
ready for some time, had merely called in the girl at the last moment.
He asked Willis about the _Astarte_.

"I put Captain Krakauskas on the job," the space-aide told him. "Johnny
has friends in the Venerian fleet, including some of the gang aboard
the _Astarte_. He had to buy a lot of lichenwasser but he finally
dug it out of one of the mates. The Venerians swear their Kennelleys
are safe. The first foul-up--the Jersey City one--they're ready to
accept as one of those things that are bound to happen every thirty
years or so. But the others...." Willis shrugged.

"Sabotage?" said Rutherford.

"They swear it--and a cute job too." Rutherford shook his close-cropped
head, added, "They're still working on it--very hush-hush. Oh, and
there's no doubt Ambassador Chen-Smith was deliberately poisoned. They
found a cache of the stuff in the garbage-disposal unit. The chef and
his gang got hypnosis and truth sera but nobody knew from nothing. The
whole gang's getting nervy."

"I hardly blame them," said Rutherford thoughtfully. "Well, if we
can clear the mess up at this end they can stop worrying. Somebody's
stirring a thick finger in the interplanetary stew."

"You can say that again, sir," Commodore Willis affirmed. "I hope my
work has been satisfactory."

"You have done very well, Jacques--especially for a first effort,"
Rutherford told him, then added, "You might ask Mahmoud to invite the
Martian Ganymedean and Venerian representatives here for a breakfast
conference. Eleven o'clock--and be on hand yourself."

"I wouldn't miss it for a trip to Centaurus," said Commodore Willis as
he left the bedroom.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the space-aide had left Rutherford rose and paced the carpet. He
felt a stirring in his adrenal glands, a rising sense of excitement.
Like Nero Wolf, his idol, he was going to bring the human elements of a
criminal conspiracy together and, instead of applying the twenty-first
century commonplaces of hypnotics and truth sera, was going to confront
them with material elements amounting to proof. And if he handled the
situation correctly he was going to save the Solar System from disaster.

But less pleasant emotions undermined his euphoria. What, he wondered,
if he were wrong, wholly or partially, in the theory he had reared?
What if, instead of triumph and peace, the breakfast conference instead
brought failure and with it a quickening of the factors threatening the
planets with dissolution?

It was not, for the usually calm Rutherford, a happy time.

The breakfast itself was sumptuous. The long sideboard and even longer
table in the large dining room of Rutherford's suite were laden with
such comestibles as swamp plums from Venus, moss oranges from Mars
and ice bread from Ganymede, to supplement such Earth staples as
kumquat juice, plankton steaks, hashed-brown plantains and grilled
shark's tongues. For beverages, along with coffee and tea, there were
stone brandy from the asteroid settlements and the inevitable Martian
lichenwasser.

Rutherford noted with grim inner amusement that the Venerian delegation
ate sparingly, looked green about the jowls. The Martians and their
satellite allies showed slightly more normal gusto. But even their
usually hearty appetites were restrained by the tension that gripped
all present. Politeness was present but in gelid form and conversation
was subject to fits and starts like a leaky jet.

Finally, when the table had been cleared, the Permanent Secretary
gathered himself and said, "Very well, ladies and gentlemen--to
business. I believe all of us are facing problems that demand immediate
settlement."

There was a sudden babel of voices, followed by equally sudden silence,
as each speaker halted to let the others continue. Rutherford smiled
thinly, wished he had not eaten, nerved himself for the supreme effort
ahead. He wondered if Nero Wolf had ever felt as unsure as he in a
similar situation.

He said quietly, "I hope that for a few minutes you will allow me to
talk without interruption. Discussions, questions and explanations may
follow when I have finished--if they are necessary."

There was another moment of silence. Juan Kurtz opened his mouth to
speak, then closed it and nodded. The others murmured their assent.
Rutherford looked at them one by one, then at Mahmoud Singh and
Commodore Willis, who sat at the far end of the long table he headed.
He cleared his throat, began to speak.

"If possible," he told them, "I want each of you to hear me out with
all the detachment you can muster. There are many and complex issues
involved and each must be considered in its proper relations to the
others. However, the basic problem is an ancient one--it reaches back
to the dawn of civilization, when the first small mudhut community
branched forth its first subsidiary settlement.

"That settlement grew and solved its own problems of survival--and in
doing so came into conflict with the differing needs of the parent
community. Ultimately the communities separated--perhaps peacefully but
more probably in bloody battle with axe and sling. And thereby was set
a pattern that applies down to the present day."

       *       *       *       *       *

He paused to fill his pipe and light it, continued with, "The colonies
of North America revolted from Britain in the eighteenth century to
become the United States. A hundred or more years ago, when the vast
British and French and Dutch empires dissolved following World War Two,
it looked as if the colonial problem were ended forever.

"But then came space-flight and settlement of the near planets. No one
knows better than you how different from life on Earth is existence on
Mars or Venus or the Jovian moons or the rough-and-ready asteroids.
Each planet and satellite has, in its own way, proved inhospitable
to Man, has induced in its inhabitants a return in some form to more
primitive ways of life to insure survival.

"To all of your peoples the restrictions imposed by Earth have become
increasingly burdensome--as has competition for markets here and on
your neighboring planets and satellites. Hardship has bred impatience
and exasperation, especially since Earth, with its vast population, has
remained the chief market.

"On Mars, with its immense desert areas, new soil is demanded to feed
a growing population. It is perhaps only natural that, having already
settled the Jovian moons, Mars' more aggressive citizens should eye
greedily the moons of Saturn, left fallow by their Venerian owners."

Juan Kurtz' chin set stubbornly and again he opened his mouth to
speak. But Rutherford quelled the bristling Venerian with a smile
and a gesture, went on to say, "The people of Venus, with its heavier
gravity, resent any attempt to regulate the power of their space-drives
in the name of safety on Earth. Such regulation imposes on them a
definite commercial handicap, not shared by the inhabitants of the
other planets.

"The recent tragic accidents at Lackawanna and the popular reaction
they caused have brought matters to a head. Within the past twenty-four
hours I have received ultimata from both sides. Venus threatens to
bypass Earth entirely in favor of direct trade with Mars and Ganymede.
Mars and Ganymede threaten to occupy Titan and other Saturnian
satellites by force unless mandate restrictions are changed."

"Which my people will never permit," growled Kurtz sotto voce.

Rutherford ignored him, said, "These conflicts, serious as they are,
in themselves present no insoluble problems. Wise concessions by all
parties involved, including Earth, could until two days ago have
settled them to the satisfaction of all--perhaps may yet do so. Any
other course, ladies and gentlemen, is unthinkable. For war, with
the weapons that exist today, would inevitably damage and might even
destroy the entire inhabited Solar System."

Aloha Svensen, looking like a South Sea Viking woman, said, "War,
even total destruction, may under some conditions be preferable to
unendurable peace."

Feruccio van Zandt, the Martian envoy, looked unhappy but nodded his
support of the bellicose Ganymedean. Rutherford studied them both
briefly, then shook his head and said, "I think not. As a preliminary
step toward negotiation I sent Ambassador-at-Large Erasmus Chen-Smith
to Venus to investigate true conditions and feelings there at first
hand. As you know he returned on the _Astarte_."

He paused again, to relight his Oom Paul, told them, "And with his
return we pick up another and more dangerous thread. On the final meal
before landing Chen-Smith was given an induced case of Venerian
carrot-poisoning."

"_Induced?_" queried Juan Kurtz, his gaze darkening. "Explain
yourself more fully, please, Excellency."

"It is my intention," Rutherford told him. "Honorable, if you will
question your ship's officers you'll discover that the poison was
recovered from the garbage-disposal unit before atomization."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kurtz looked about to burst but managed to restrain himself. Rutherford
asked, "Now why should anyone take such a desperate measure to give an
important personage a non-fatal poison? Undoubtedly because Chen-Smith,
in the course of his investigation, had discovered something amounting
to guilty knowledge. He was poisoned so that he would be unable to
report to me immediately upon landing, thus affording the poisoner or
someone higher in the chain of conspiracy time to dissuade him from
making a report. When Chen-Smith refused he was murdered viciously in
this very suite yesterday afternoon."

"Murdered?" said the Martian envoy. "Chain of conspiracy? Surely,
Excellency, such words are a trifle melodramatic."

"I hardly think so in view of the evidence I have assembled,"
Rutherford replied.

"Evidence?" asked Aloha Svensen. "What do you mean by evidence,
Excellency?"

"Concrete proof of what occurred," replied Rutherford. "Statements by
witnesses, means and methods, revelation of motive and opportunity on
the part of those implicated."

"This is archaic," snorted Juan Kurtz. "May I inquire why such methods
were deemed needful in such instance?"

"Because," said Rutherford, "it seemed at least possible that certain
guilty parties might be vested with diplomatic immunity to the
techniques of our twenty-first century police." Then, as a murmur
of protest arose, "Fortunately such is not the case. Investigation,
however, has disclosed a subtle and intensely dangerous and
well-planned conspiracy.

"For instance, the use of carrot-poison to keep poor Chen-Smith from
talking to me caused us to suspect a branch of the conspiracy aboard
the _Astarte_, which in turn caused us to suspect the nature of
the recent Lackawanna accidents. We have reason, if not proof, to feel
certain that the last two were the result of deliberate sabotage. In
this instance truth sera are being applied to the crew voluntarily, and
should turn up the culprits in short order."

Kurtz actually beamed and said, "Then the spaceport suspension--"

"Will be relaxed as soon as the facts are learned," Rutherford told
him. "But to get back--this discovery suggested that Chen-Smith was
made ill, later killed, because he had the misfortune to learn that
someone _was_ tampering with the Kennelleys."

"Just how was Ambassador-at-Large Chen-Smith--murdered?" asked an
undefiant and curious Aloha Svensen. "There has been no public report
of such a crime."

"Because it has not yet been reported," Rutherford told them. He turned
to the pale Venerians and said, "I owe you gentlemen an apology. I have
reason to believe you may have suffered some slight indisposition as a
result of your visit here yesterday."

There was an uncomfortable stirring among the Venerians. The Martians
and Ganymedeans looked curious. Kurtz finally said with a deprecatory
gesture, "It was nothing, Excellency."

"It was the poison that killed Chen-Smith," Rutherford stated.
Despite a stir of alarm he went on to say, "Do not worry--it will do
you no further harm. You see, our criminal substituted unprocessed
lichenwasser in the drawing-room carafes of this suite. And when
Chen-Smith refused to alter his report, he pretended amiability and
offered him a drink--and Chen-Smith died."

"Then why are we alive, Excellency?" Kurtz inquired.

"Because you had not been given an induced and highly aggravated
form of carrot-poisoning, gentlemen," Rutherford told them. "I have
established that during the early miracle-drug era of the twentieth
century great care had to be taken not to give patients under sulfa
treatment saline laxatives lest they die of crystallization of the
liver.

"My poor colleague was first given a powerful Venerian sulfa poison,
far more dangerous than any of the sulfa derivatives our ancestors
knew, then impregnated with unprocessed lichenwasser. He was dead in
but a few minutes. Had we not suspected some of the circumstances
surrounding his death we might never have discovered the conspiracy--or
at any rate not in time. As it is, I feel safe in assuring you that we
shall be able to meet within a day or so and solve our problems without
vicious artificially stimulated enmities to hamper our work."

"But what was the motive behind this conspiracy?" Aloha Svensen asked,
frowning.

"The oldest motive for crime outside of hunger--power," Rutherford
replied. "Our chief conspirator is a man who, through sublimation of
his craving to rule the System, is willing in the name of the highest
possible motives to let part of that System destroy itself so that he
can seize the reins. He is socially as dangerous as a Communist--or a
Puritan."

"Who is this murderer?" the woman from Ganymede was beginning to glow
with anger.

"Why"--Rutherford looked around the table blandly, "I'm afraid it's my
somewhat too-efficient secretary, Mahmoud Singh. He thought of every
factor but one when he brewed his unpleasant little brew--a man who
never lived. I fear that his literal mind could never encompass such an
intangible."

"You're joking, sir," said Mahmoud Singh from the end of the table.
"You must need a vacation."

"I'll overlook your insolence, Mahmoud," said Rutherford. "But if
anyone takes a vacation it will be you, I fear."

"Who was this man who never lived?" Kurtz inquired.

"His name was Nero Wolf," said Rutherford. "He was a fat figure of
twentieth-century mystery fiction"--he paused to look down at his own
modest paunch--"who solved crimes by studying people and deducing how
they would behave in certain situations." He eyed Mahmoud sternly,
added, "No, Mahmoud, it has to be you."

"So far I have heard no evidence at all that points to me," replied the
secretary silkily. "And as your secretary I am hardly in a position to
waive immunity to truth sera and hypnotics."

"True enough." Rutherford was almost jovial. "But we have
evidence--plenty of it. Hilda Considine has already talked--and our
mutual friend with the fondness for loud waistcoats is currently under
hypnotics in the hands of the police."

Mahmoud's dark skin went ashy grey. As he sat there he seemed to
shrivel and dissolve like one of the towers of Newark for whose
destruction he had been responsible. He said, "You are not fit to hold
your post--a trifler, a jester, a player of games." He was speaking
directly to Rutherford. "Any System which places a man like you on top
deserves the purge it was going to get. And then would come the chance
to rebuild...."

"Why, you!" cried Commodore Willis, pinioning Mahmoud's arms as the
latter pulled a ray-inducer from beneath his jacket. A flurry of
expertly-planted fists reduced the murderer to unconsciousness.

It was some little while before he was taken away under guard and the
delegates, their congratulations complete, departed.

Rutherford, feeling at once sixteen and a hundred years old, refilled
his pipe in the study and smiled at Commodore Willis, who blurted,
"What put you onto Mahmoud anyway, sir?"

"Simple deduction, Jacques," replied Rutherford. "It had to be someone
who knew about my belonging to the Mystofans. The members are sworn to
secrecy and most of them are honest. It had to be someone who knew my
appointments and habits. Once I scented the shape of the conspiracy it
wasn't hard to put the finger on poor Mahmoud."

"_Poor_ Mahmoud!" Willis snorted. "Why not me?"

"Don't be an idiot," Rutherford told him. "You know I'll transfer you
back to space-duty whenever you wish. Why murder to get it?"

"And sit cooped up in one of those tin bathrooms for weeks on end!"
retorted the space-aide. "No thanks--there's more action here. By the
way, sir, about this--these Mystofans--how does a guy get to be a
member?"

Rutherford considered his space-aide thoughtfully, recalled that
the action-type had its place in mystery fiction as well as the big
brains. He said, "It's not easy but I'll help you with your entrance
thesis--_Brother Martin Kane_."