Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition — page 8: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION highly unofficial number was calling, but that could be a lot of people. He thumbed the switch, and an unfamiliar face looked at him, The caller bowed ritually, covering his eyes, and said humbly : “Audience requested with you, my lord.” ‘“‘Now?” asked Brannoch. ‘‘P-p-presently, my lord, when c-convenient.”” The stutter would be taken for the normal nervous- ness of an underling in such an august presence, in case this secret line was tapped—which Brannoch knew very well it was. Actually, the pattern of repeated con- sonants was an identifying pass- word, This was Varis t’u Hayem, a petty Minister and a captain in the Solar militechnic intelligence corps, dressed in civilian clothes and wearing a life-mask. He would not be reporting in person unless it was a matter of urgency. Brannoch led him through a routine of giving his assumed name and business, told him to come up, and cut the circuit. Only then did he allow himself a frown. Rising, he made a careful check of the concealed roboguns and of the needler under his own tunic. It could be an attempt at © assassination, if Chanthavar’s counterspies had learned enough. Or it could— ) | He went swiftly over tu Hayem’s background, and a wry, half-pitying grin twisted his mouth. It was so easy, so terribly easy to break a man. - You met this proud, ambitious aristocrat, whose only real fault was youth and inexperience, at a couple of receptions, drew him out—oh, simple,’ simple; with the dazzling glow of your own birth THE LONG WAY HOME 15 and rank behind you. Your agents in his corps got his psychorecord for you, and you decided he was promising material. So you cultivated him, not much, but even a little attention from the agent of a foreign power was overwhelming if you were a High Noble, an admiral, and an ambassador. You pulled one or two wires for him. You introduced him to really top- flight company, gorgeous appareled nobles of every known state, their magnificent women, their cultivated conversation and splendid homes and rare wines. You gave him the idea that he was listening at the door to plans which would shake the stars— Naturally he did some favors for you, nothing to violate his oath, just stretching a point here and there. You took him to pleasure houses operated with real imagination. You got him gambling, and at first he won incredible sums. Then you moved in for the kill. 3 In a few days his fortune was gone, he was sunk a light-year down in debt, his superiors were getting suspicious of him because of his association with you, his creditors (who were your creatures, which he did not know) attached his property and wife—you had him. And for some three years, now, he had been your spy within his own corps, because only you and your organization propped him up, and because even a tiny illegality performed for you made it possible to blackmail him. Some day, if he gave you something really valuable, you might even buy his wife (with whom he was so foolish as to be in love) and give her back to him. Very easy. Brannoch had neither pleasure nor pain in making a tool out of what had been a man. It was part of his job; in so far as he had any feeling about his broken men, it was one of contempt that they should ever have been so vulnerable. The outer door of the suite scanned t’u Hayem’s fingers and retinae and opened for him. He entered and bowed with the proper formulas. Brannoch did not invite him to sit down. “‘Well?”’ he said. ‘‘Most radiant lord, I have information which may be of interest to you. I thought I had best bring it personally.” yo | Brannoch waited. The pseudo-face before him twitched with an eagernes that some night have thought pathetic. S “My lord, I am as you know stationed at Mesko Field. The day before yesterday, a strange spaceship entered Earth’s atmosphere and was made to Jand there.” T’u Hayem fumbled in his tunic and brought out a spool which he threaded into a scanner. His hands shook. “‘Here is a picture of it.” The scanner threw a three-dimensional image above the table top. Brannoch whistled. “Stormblaze! What kind of a ship is that?” “Incredibly archaic, my lord. See, they even use rockets—a uranium-fission pile for energy, reaction mass expelled as ions—” Brannoch enlarged the image and studied it. ““Hm-m-m, yes. Where is it from?” . “I don’t know, my lord. We referred the question to the Technon itself— records division—and were told that the design is of the very earliest days of space travel, well before gravity control was discovered. Possibly from one of the oldest of the lost colonies.” “Hm-m-m, Then the crew mus’ bey a) ® iG JOO) “aS: Gol