"Bill," she said after a while.
"Yes?" I said.
"Nothing." She tugged at a blade of grass.
I couldn't figure that one out. But her hand strayed somewhere near mine. Our fingertips touched, and clung.
We were silent for a long time. Never had I been so happy.
"Bill?"
"Yes?"
"Bill dear, could you ever —"
What she was going to say, and what I might have answered, I will never know. At that moment our silence was shattered by the roar of jets. Down from the sky dropped a spaceship.
Ed Wallace, the pilot, was a white-haired old man in a slouch hat and a stained trench coat. He was a salesman for Clear-Flo, an outfit that cleansed water on a planetary basis. Since I had no need for his services, he thanked me, and left.
But he didn't get very far. His engines turned over once, and stopped with a frightening finality.
I looked over his drive mechanism, and found that a sphinx valve had blown. It would take me a month to make him a new one with hand tools.
"This is terribly awkward," he murmured. "I suppose I'll have to stay here."
"I suppose so," I said.
He looked at his ship regretfully. "Can't understand how it happened," he said.
"Maybe you weakened the valve when you cut it with a hacksaw," I said, and walked off. I had seen the telltale marks.
Mr. Wallace pretended not to hear me. That evening I overheard his report on the interstellar radio, which functioned perfectly. His home office, interestingly enough, was not Clear-Flo, but Central Intelligence.
Mr. Wallace made a good vegetable farmer, even though he spent most of his time sneaking around with camera and notebook. His presence spurred Young Roy to greater efforts. Mavis and I stopped walking in the gloomy forest, and there didn't seem time to return to the yellow and green fields, to finish some unfinished sentences.
But our little settlement prospered. We had other visitors. A man and his wife from Regional Intelligence dropped by, posing as itinerant fruit pickers. They were followed by two girl photographers, secret representatives of the Executive Information Bureau, and then there was a young newspaper man, who was actually from the Idaho Council of Spatial Morals.
Every single one of them blew a sphinx valve when it came time to leave.
I didn't know whether to feel proud or ashamed. A half-dozen agents were watching me — but every one of them was a second rater. And invariably, after a few weeks on my planet, they became involved in farmwork and their Spying efforts dwindled to nothing.
I had bitter moments. I pictured myself as a testing ground for novices, something to cut their teeth on. I was the Suspect they gave to Spies who were too old or too young, inefficient, scatterbrained, or just plain incompetent. I saw myself as a sort of half-pay retirement plan Suspect, a substitute for a pension.
But it didn't bother me too much. I did have a position, although it was a little difficult to define. I was happier than I had ever been on Earth, and my Spies were pleasant and cooperative people.
Our little colony was happy and secure.
I thought it could go on forever.
Then, one fateful night, there was unusual activity. Some important message seemed to be coming in, and all radios were on. I had to ask a few Spies to share sets, to keep from burning out my generator.
Finally all radios were turned off, and the Spies held conferences. I heard them whispering into the small hours. The next morning, they were all assembled in the living room, and their faces were long and somber. Mavis stepped forward as spokeswoman.
"Something terrible has happened," she said to me. "But first, we have something to reveal to you. Bill, none of us are what we seemed. We are all Spies for the government."
"Huh?" I said, not wanting to hurt any feelings.
"It's true," she said. "We've been Spying on you, Bill."
"Huh?" I said again. "Even you?"
"Even me," Mavis said unhappily.
"And now it's all over," Young Roy blurted out
That shook me. "Why?" I asked.
They looked at each other. Finally Mr. Wallace, bending the rim of his hat back and forth in his calloused hands, said, "Bill, a resurvey has just shown that this sector of space is not owned by the United States."
"What country does own it?" I asked.
"Be calm," Mavis said. "Try to understand. This entire sector was overlooked in the international survey, and now it can't be claimed by any country. As the first to settle here, this planet, and several million miles of space surrounding it, belong to you, Bill."
I was too stunned to speak.
"Under the circumstances," Mavis continued, "we have no authorization to be here. So we're leaving immediately."
"But you can't!" I cried. "I haven't repaired your sphinx valves!"
"All Spies carry spare sphinx valves and hacksaw blades," she said gently.
Watching them troop out to their ships I pictured the solitude ahead of me. I would have no government to watch over me. No longer would I hear footsteps in the night, turn, and see the dedicated face of a Spy behind me. No longer would the whirr of an old camera soothe me at work, nor the buzz of a defective recorder lull me to sleep.
And yet, I felt even sorrier for them. Those poor, earnest, clumsy, bungling Spies were returning to a fast, efficient, competitive world. Where would they find another Suspect like me, or another place like my planet?
"Goodbye Bill," Mavis said, offering me her hand.
I watched her walk to Mr. Wallace's ship. It was only then that I realized that she was no longer my Spy.
"Mavis!" I cried, running after her. She hurried toward the ship. I caught her by the arm. "Wait. There was something I started to say in the ship. I wanted to say it again on the picnic."
She tried to pull away from me. In most unromantic tones I croaked, "Mavis, I love you."
She was in my arms. We kissed, and I told her that her home was here, on this planet with its gloomy forests and yellow and green fields. Here with me.
She was too happy to speak.
With Mavis staying, Young Roy reconsidered. Mr. Wallace's vegetables were just ripening, and he wanted to tend them. And everyone else had some chore or other that he couldn't drop.
So here I am — ruler, king, dictator, president, whatever I want to call myself. Spies are beginning to pour in now from every country — not only America.
To feed all my subjects, I'll soon have to import food. But the other rulers are beginning to refuse me aid. They think I've bribed their Spies to desert.
I haven't, I swear it. They just come.
I can't resign, because I own this place. And I haven't the heart to send them away. I'm at the end of my rope.
With my entire population consisting of former government Spies, you'd think I'd have an easy time forming a government of my own. But no, they're completely uncooperative. I'm the absolute ruler of a planet of farmers, dairymen, shepherds and cattle raisers, so I guess we won't starve after all. But that's not the point. The point is: how in hell am I supposed to rule?
Not a single one of these people will Spy for me.
Ask a Foolish Question
Answerer was built to last as long as was necessary — which was quite long, as some races judge time, and not long at all, according to others. But to Answerer, it was just long enough.
As to size, Answerer was large to some and small to others. He could be viewed as complex, although some believed that he was really very simple.
Answerer knew that he was as he should be. Above and beyond all else, he was The Answerer. He Knew.
Of the race that built him, the less said the better. They also Knew, and never said whether they found the knowledge pleasant.