The head of Section G nodded agreement. “Very well,” he said. “As I mentioned earlier, the charred body you were all invited to see no longer indicates a threat to us.” He paused, wanting the drama.
“
“Because, a few weeks ago, a small exploration task force, driving out beyond the point thus far ventured to, by even the most adventurous of our race, came upon the three star systems which were the origin of our little dead space traveler.”
“You mean,” the burly representative from Goshen roared, “that we now know where the sneaky little rats come from and they only dominate three star systems?”
Metaxa nodded. “From all we can find, they had evidently spread over a complex of some twelve planets. Planets similar in nature to those that will support our own life form. Our little aliens were also oxygen breathers.” He grunted and flicked his head in his dour, characteristic mannerism. “I see most of you have noted my use of the past tense.”
He dropped his last bomb. “Our exploring fleet found that each of their twelve planets were now supporting a methane-hydrogen-ammonia atmosphere. They found also that evidently the switch in atmospheres, from one predominately nitrogen-oxygen, had come so suddenly that the inhabitants had no time to attempt protection. They died. Perhaps some survived for a time, including those that might have been in space, when the atmosphere was switched. If so, it would seem they were destroyed by other means. Perhaps our specimen in the other room was one of these. At any rate, ladies and gentlemen of the human race, this whole life form has been completely destroyed by some other intelligent alien life form beyond it.” He looked about the large hall with its some two thousand rulers of the member planets. “That, by the way, should be at least a partial answer to the question of whether or not this life form, still further beyond, can be considered benevolent.”
There were a hundred questions being roared at him. He ignored them, largely, trying to answer a few that seemed more pertinent.
Someone called, “Where was this discovery of the three star systems made?”
Metaxa said, “Surprisingly near our member planet of Phrygia, which, of course, is the furtherest from Mother Earth in the direction of the galaxy’s center.”
Irene Kasansky turned to Sid Jakes and said, “Terry wants to talk to you.” She handed him a Section G hand communicator.
Sid spoke into it, his eyes darting around the crowded conference room even as he spoke.
He snapped, “All right, I’ll be right over.” He handed the communicator back to Irene, and said to Ronny Branston, “Come on, Ronny. They’re going to be yelling back and forth in here for hours.”
Out in the corridor, Ronny said, “What’s up?”
The Supervisor summoned a three wheeler. “Terry’s cracked that news-hen Daniels, or whatever her name is. Metaxa doesn’t need us for awhile. Let’s see what she has to say. Imagine that mopsy’s gall, trying to crack Section G security.”
They climbed onto the three wheeler, and Sid Jakes dialed Interrogation.
Ronny said mildly, “If you ask me, the woman’s pretty stute to have got as far as she did. We ought to recruit her.”
“Sure, sure,” Sid Jakes laughed. “She’d stay with us for a year or so, until she knew every secret in the Commissariat, then go running back to Interplanetary News again. Once a newshound, always… Oops, here we are.”
Interrogation had come a long way since the days of the Gestapo of the Third Reich, or even the cellar room with the bright light and the rubber hoses of the Land of Liberty.
Rita Daniels was sitting at her ease in a comfortable chair. Terry Harper was across from her. There was a low table with refreshments between them. Inconspicuously in the background was a Section G stenographer, in case human witness were necessary.
Terry got up when his supervisor entered. He was an old-timer in the bureau, due soon for retirement, which he didn’t look forward to. Section G operatives were strong on the dream.
He said, “Sid, as far as the girl knows, only her editor is aware she’s here.”
While Ronny Bronston sank into a chair, Sid Jakes perched on the stenographer’s desk. He said pleasantly to the news-woman, “And how did he find out something was cooking at the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs?”
The other’s face worked under the pressure of trying to fight off the influence of the drug. “I don’t know,” she said.
Sid looked at Terry. “You sent a man over to the editor yet?”
“Not yet, Sid. Since, so far as she knows, only the editor is involved, I though you might want to play it as stute as possible. If we don’t have to throw weight around, well and good.”
Sid patted him on the arm, happily. “Good man, Terry.” He spun on Ronny. “Get over to Interplanetary News…” He looked at Rita Daniels, “What’s this editor’s name?”
“Rosen. He’s on the Octagon desk.”
Sid’s eyes darted back to Ronny. “Bring him over, but in such a way that no ripples are started in his office.”
“Oh, great,” Ronny said. “No ripples. Just sugar talk him into coming into our lair, eh?”
Sid Jakes grinned at him happily. “Ronny, old boy, if you can’t do it ripplelessly, nobody can. You’re the most inconspicuous man in the bureau.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
III
The nadirscraper, which housed Interplanetary News, delved a good two hundred levels beneath the surface of Greater Washington. As was the prevailing trend, the face presented to the world of the open air was Antiquity Revival: in this case, Egyptian. Although Ronny Bronston had never been in the establishment before, he had passed it on many occasions, never failing to wince at the architect’s conception of the Temple of Luxor.
Now he made his way up an immense approach, flanked by a score of marble sphinxes, through an entrada of soaring columns, seemingly open to the sky, but undoubtedly roofed with ultra-transparent plasti.
There was no point in being less than direct. He marched up to the reception desk, pressed an activating button before one of the live screens, and said, “Bronston of the Department of Justice, Bureau of Investigation, to see Citizen Rosen of the Octagon Desk. Soonest.”
The voice said, “Your identification, please.”
Ronny Bronston brought forth a flat wallet and performed an operation, which came down—unbeknownst to him—in all identicalness, from a long past period of law enforcement.
He flashed his buzzer.
It was a simple enough silver badge, which glowed somewhat strangely when his hand came in touch with it. It read, merely,
“Than kue, Citizen Bronston. Please state your reason for desiring an appointment with Citizen Rosen.”
Ronny said testily, “Bureau of Investigation matter, of a security nature.”
“Than kue…” the voice faded away.
Almost immediately, a three wheeler approached, and its voicebox said, “Citizen Bronston. Please be seated.”
He mounted the scooter, and noted how quickly the pseudo-Egyptian decor melted away, as soon as they had entered a ramp leading into the depths.
The three wheeler took him, first, to a bank of elevators, plunged him an unknown number of levels, emerged, and then darted into corridor traffic.
