Zayon said with thought, "Mimas?"
"The Service still doesn't get it," said Devoure with a malignant scowl. "Three men were on The Shooting Starr, obviously. Three entered Mimas; two left; one stayed behind. It was your report, Yonge, I believe, which stressed the fact that Starr always worked with his companion in a party of two."
"He always had," said Yonge.
"And was there no flexibility left in you to consider the possibility of a third? Shall we go then to Mimas?" Devoure seemed to have lost his mad passion for revenge in the stress of this new development, almost to have regained the mocking irony he had displayed when the two Terrestrials had first landed on Titan. "And you will give us the pleasure of your company, Councilman?"
"Certainly, Mr. Devoure," said Lucky.
Bigman moved away, face averted. He felt worse now, he thought, than even in that last moment of robotic advance when the metal limbs were on his arm, ready to smash.
The Shooting Starr was in space again, but not as an independent ship. It was caught in firm magnetic grapple and moved according to the impulses of the engines of the accompanying Sirian ship.
The trip from Titan to Mimas took the better part of two days, and it was a hard time for Lucky, a bitter, suspenseful time.
He missed Bigman, who had been taken from him and placed on the Sirian ship. (The two on separate ships, Devoure had pointed out, were hostages for each other's good behavior.)
It was the Sirian Serviceman, Harrig Zayon, who made the second on the ship. There was a stiffness about him. He made no effort to repeat his original attempt to convert Lucky Starr to Sirian views, and Lucky could not resist taking the offensive in the matter. He asked if Devoure were an example, in Zayon's eyes, of the superior race of human beings that inhabited the Sirian planets.
Zayon said reluctantly, "Devoure has not had the benefit of Service training and Service discipline. He is emotional."
"Your colleague, Yonge, seems to consider it more than that. He makes no secret of his low opinion of Devoure."
"Yonge is-is a representative of an extreme view among the Servicemen. That scar on his arm was received during some internal troubles that attended the rise of the present director of the Central Body to power."
"Devoure's uncle?"
"Yes. The Service was on the side of the previous director, and Yonge followed orders with Serviceman's honor. As a result he was passed over for promotion under the new regime. Oh, they send him out here and appoint him to the committee which will represent Sirius at Vesta, but in actual fact he is under Devoure."
"The director's nephew."
"Yes. And Yonge resents it. Yonge cannot bring himself to understand that the Service is an organ of the state and does not question its policies or have anything to do with the question of which individual or group is to govern it. He is an excellent Serviceman, otherwise."
"But you have not answered the question as to whether you found Devoure a satisfactory representative of the Sirian elite."
Zayon said angrily, "What about your Earth? Have you never had unsatisfactory rulers? Or even vicious ones?"
"Any number," admitted Lucky, "but we are a miscellaneous lot on Earth; we vary. No ruler can stay in power very long if he doesn't represent a compromise among us. Compromising rulers may not be dynamic, but neither are they tyrannical. On Sirius you have developed a sameness among yourselves, and a ruler can go to extremes along the lines of that sameness. For that reason autocracy and force in politics are not the exceptional interlude that they are on Earth, but are the rule with you."
Zayon sighed, but it was long hours before he spoke to Lucky again. It was not until Mimas was large in the visiplate and they were decelerating to land.
Zayon said, "Tell me, Councilman. I ask you on your honor. Is this a trick of some sort?"
Lucky's stomach tightened, but he said calmly, "What do you mean by a trick?"
"Is there really a Councilman on Mimas?"
"Yes, there is. What do you expect? That I have a force knot concealed on Mimas designed to blow us all to nothingness?"
"Perhaps something like that."
"And what would I gain? The destruction of one Sirian ship and a dozen Sirians?"
"You would gain your honor." ~ Lucky shrugged. "I have made a bargain. We have a Councilman down there. I will go and get him and there will be no resistance."
Zayon nodded. "Very well. I suppose you would not make a Sirian after all. You had better stay an Earthman."
Lucky smiled bitterly. That, then, was the source of Zayon's ill humor. His stiff Serviceman's sense of honor objected to Lucky's behavior even when he believed Sirius to be benefiting by it
Back at Port Center, International City, Earth, Chief Councilman Hector Conway waited to leave for Vesta. He had not heard directly from Lucky since The Shooting Starr had moved into the shadow of Hidalgo.
The capsule brought in by Captain Bernold had been specific enough in its curt way and had been marked by Lucky's usual hard common sense. A call for a conference had been the only way out. The President had seen that at once, and though some members of the cabinet were bellicose about matters, they had been overruled.
Even Sirius (quite as Lucky had predicted) had adopted the notion eagerly. It was, obviously, exactly what the Sirian government wanted, a conference that was sure to fail, followed by a war on their own terms. To all outward appearances, they had all the cards.
It was that very fact that had made it so necessary to keep as much as possible from the public. If all details were put on the sub-ether without careful preparation, an indignant public might howl Earth's government irresistibly into war against all the Galaxy. The call for a conference would only make matters worse, since it would be interpreted as a cowardly sell-out to the Sirians.
And yet complete secrecy was impossible, too, and the press was angry and rebellious at being fed diluted government reports. Things were worsening daily.
The President would have to hold out somehow until the conference could take place. And yet, if the conference failed, the present situation would be honey-sweet compared to that which would come.
In the general indignation that would follow, there would be not only war, but the Council of Science would be completely discredited and destroyed, and the Terrestrial Federation would lose its most powerful weapon just when it needed it most.
It had been weeks since Hector Conway had slept without pills, and for the first time in his career he thought earnestly that he should be retiring.
He rose heavily and made his way forward to the ship now being readied for the launching. In a week he would be on Vesta for preliminary discussions with Doremo. That old pink-eyed statesman would be holding the balance of power. There was no doubting that. The very weakness of his small world was what made him powerful. He was the nearest thing to an honest and disinterested neutral in the Galaxy, and even the Sirians would listen to him.
If Conway could get his ear to begin with…
He was scarcely aware of the man approaching to stop him until there was a near collision.
"Eh? What is this?" demanded Conway in annoyance.
The man touched the brim of his hat. "Jan Dieppe of Trans-sub-etheric, Chief. I wonder if you would answer a few questions?"
"No, no. I'm ready to board ship."
"I realize that, sir. It's the very reason Fm stopping you. I won't get another chance. You're heading out for Vesta, of course."
"Yes, of course."
"To see about the outrage on Saturn."
"Well?"
"What do you expect the conference to do, Chief? Do you suppose Sirius will listen to resolutions and votes?"
"Yes, I think Sirius will."
"Do you think the votes will go against her?"
"I'm sure they will. Now may I pass?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but there's something very important just now that Earth's people must know about."