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Leonards looked terribly pale. “You’ll turn me over to them?”

Devall shrugged, “I didn’t say that. But look at it from my position. I’m leader of a cultural and military mission. Our purpose is to live among these people, learn their ways, guide them as much as we can in our limited time here. We at least try to make a pretense of respecting their rights as individuals and as a species, you know.

“Well, now it’s squarely on the line. Are we friends living among them and helping them, or are we overlords grinding them under our thumbs?”

“Sir, I’d say that was an oversimplification/’ Leonards remarked hesitantly.

“Maybe so. But the issue’s clear enough. If we turn them down, it means we’re setting up a gulf of superiority between Earth and these aliens, despite the big show we made about being brothers. And word will spread to other planets. We try to sound like friends, but our actions in the celebrated Leonards case reveal our true colors. We’re arrogant, imperialistic, patronizing, and— well, do you see?”

“So you’re going to turn me over to them for trial, then/’ the boy said quietly.

Devall shook his head. He felt old, very old, at fifty. “I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind yet. If I turn you over, it’ll certainly set a dangerous precedent. And if I don’t—I’m not sure what will happen.” He shrugged. “I’m going to refer the case back to Earth. It isn’t my decision to make.”

But it was his decision to make, he thought, as he left the boy’s quarters and headed stiff-legged toward the communications shack. He was on the spot, and only he could judge the complex of factors that controlled the case. Earth would almost certainly pass the buck back to him.

He was grateful for one thing, though: at least Leonards hadn’t made an appeal to him on family grounds. That was cause for pride, and some relief. The fact that the boy was his nephew was something he’d have to blot rigorously from his mind until all this was over.

The signalman was busy in the back of the shack, bent over a crowded worktable. Devall waited a moment, cleared his throat gently, and said, “Mr. Rory?”

Rory turned. “Yes, Colonel?”

“Put through a subradio solido to Earth for me, immediately. To Director Thornton at the E-T Department. And yell for me when you’ve made contact.”

It took twenty minutes for the subspace impulse to leap out across the light-years and find a receiver on Earth, ten minutes more for it to pass through the relay point and on to Rio. Devall returned to the shack to find the lambent green solido field in tune and waiting for him. He stepped through and discovered himself standing a few feet before the desk of the E-T Department’s head. Thornton’s image was sharp, but the desk seemed to waver at the edges. Solid non-organic objects always came through poorly.

Quickly Devall reviewed the situation. Thornton sat patiently, unmoving, till the end of it; hands knotted rigidly, lean face set, he might have been a statue. Finally he commented, “Unpleasant business.”

“Quite.”

“The alien is returning tomorrow, you say? I’m afraid that doesn’t give us much time to hold a staff meeting and explore the problem, Colonel Devall.”

“I could probably delay him a few days.”

Thornton’s thin lips formed a tight bloodless line. After an instant he said, “No. Take whatever action you deem necessary, Colonel. If the psychological pattern of the race is such that unfortunate consequences would result if you refused to allow them to try your man, then you must certainly turn him over. If the step can be avoided, of course, avoid it. The man must be punished in any case.”

The director smiled bleakly. “You’re one of our best men, Colonel. I’m confident you’ll arrive at an ultimately satisfactory resolution to this incident.”

“Thank you, sir,” Devall said, in a dry, uncertain voice. He nodded and stepped back out of field range. Thornton’s image seemed to flicker; Devall caught one last dismissing sentence, “Report back to me when the matter is settled,” and then the field died.

He stood alone in the shabby communications shack, blinking out the sudden darkness that rolled in over him after the solidophone’s intense light, and after a moment began to pick his way over the heaps of equipment and out into the compound.

It was as he had expected. Thornton was a good man, but he was a civilian appointee, subject to government control. He disliked making top-level decisions— particularly when a colonel a few hundred light-years away could be pitchforked into making them for him.

Well, he thought, at least I notified Earth. The rest of the affair is in my hands.

Significantly, there was a red sunset again that night.

He called a meeting of his top staff men for 0915 the following morning. Work at the base had all but suspended; the linguistics team was confined to the area, and Devall had ordered guards posted at all exits. Violence could rise unexpectedly among even the most placid of alien peoples; it was impossible to predict the moment when a racial circuit-breaker would cease to function and fierce hatred burst forth.

They listened in silence to the tapes of Leonards’ statements, Meyer’s comments, and the brief interview Devall had had with the five aliens. Devall punched the cut-off stud and glanced rapidly round the table at his men: two majors, a captain, and a quartet of lieutenants comprised his high staff, and one of the lieutenants was confined to quarters.

“That’s the picture. The old high priest is showing up here about noon for my answer. I thought I’d toss the thing open for staff discussion first.”

Major Dudley asked for the floor.

He was a short, stocky man with dark flashing eyes, and on several occasions in the past had been known to disagree violently with Devall on matters of procedure. Devall had picked him for four successive trips, despite this; the colonel believed in diversity of opinion, and Dudley was a tremendously efficient organizer as well.

“Major?”

“Sir, it doesn’t seem to me that there’s any question of what action to take. It’s impossible to hand Leonards over to them for trial. It’s—un-Earthlike!”

Devall frowned. “Would you elaborate, Major?”

“Simple enough. We’re the race who developed the space-drive—therefore, we’re the galaxy’s most advanced race. I think that goes without saying.”

“It does not,” Devall commented. “But go ahead.”

Scowling, Dudley said, “Regardless of your opinion, sir—the aliens we’ve encountered so far have all regarded us as their obvious superiors. I don’t think that can be denied—and I think it can only be attributed to the fact that we are their superiors. Well, if we give up Leonards for trial, it cheapens our position. It makes us look weak, spineless. We—”

“You’re suggesting, then,” Devall broke in, “that we hold the position of overlords in the galaxy —and by yielding to our serfs, we may lose all control over them. Is this your belief, Major?” Devall glared at him.

Dudley met the colonel’s angry gaze calmly. “Basically, yes. Dammit, sir, I’ve tried to make you see this ever since the Hegath expedition. We’re not out here in the stars to collect butterflies and squirrels! We—”

“Out of order,” Devall snapped coldly. “This is a cultural mission as well as a military, Major—and so long as I’m in command it remains primarily cultural.” He felt on the verge of losing his temper. He glanced away from Dudley and said, “Major Grey, could I hear from you?”