She turned her eyes back to Guy Thomas. "The term queen is antiquated. The Hippolyte is the elected head of the four phylons or tribes of the Paphlagonian Amazons. The office is held for life unless the electorate deposes her." Guy said, "Who composes the electorate?"

"The four heads of the phylons," the major told him as though nothing was more obvious.

He cleared his throat. "All right. How do they get to be heads of the, uh, phylons?"

"Each phylon is composed of ten phratras. The elected heads of the ten phratras elect the chief of their respective phylon."

Guy looked at her. "I know I'll get to the bottom sooner or later," he muttered. "Who elects the heads of the phratras?"

"Each phratra is composed of ten genos. The elected head of each genos votes for the chief of the phratra to which he belongs."

"And…" Guy said patiently.

The major wound it up. "The genos is the basic unit of our society. Its membership has a common name, going back to a supposed common ancestor. All members of the genos have certain rights and duties toward their fellow members."

"Kind of a great big, happy family, eh?" Guy said.

"Exactly. It is a type of family, but composed of thousands of persons."

"And each adult member has the right to vote for the person who represents the genos, eh?"

The major became slightly huffy. "Don't be ridiculous. Not the men, of course."

"Oh," Guy said sarcastically. "Of course not." The major said, "Today the Senate which is composed of the heads of each genos is not in session. You will be received by only the Hippolyte, flanked by her council which consists of the four phylon chiefs. When you are presented, you will bow and remain silent until addressed." She added, "I'll stand next to you. The Hippolyte seldom bothers with men, of course. Try not to make a flat of yourself."

Guy said in a sarcastic tone, "I'll do my best."

Her eyes turned bleak. "Don't be cute with me, boy. I'm handing this job because I was ordered to. But I don't like uppity men, understand?"

"I suspected it all along, Major," Guy got out. "Let's go." Out in the corridors again, they fell into their old pattern of precedence. The major led, followed by the Earthling, followed in turn by Clete and Lysippe. It would seem this building connected to the palace, or wherever it was that the Hippolyte held audience, by an underground passage. At any rate, they stepped into what Guy at first assumed was an elevator, but it turned out to be an elevator with ramifications. It sank, that feeling he could recognize, but at what he would have assumed to be the bottom of the shaft, no door opened. Instead, they began to move swiftly sideways. This continued for several minutes until they stopped, shunted this way, shunted that for a short distance, then began to mount again.

"What is this?" Guy growled. "An amusement park ride?"

"Shut up," the major rapped.

"Shut up yourself," he snapped back.

The three of them stared at him.

Finally Clete laughed. "Sweety," she said, "you're the most effeminate man I ever saw in my life. Damned if I know what Minythyia sees in you. She'd have to spend the first year teaching you your place."

"That'd be fun," Guy muttered. He was getting fed up with this chaotic relationship between the sexes. On top of everything else, that description he'd just had of the workings of the Paphlagonia government made about as much sense as anything else on this crackpot world. What were the duties of these layers upon layers of elected officials? Who profited by what? Who was the dog catcher, and who the Minister of War?"

The car he had mistaken for a simple elevator stopped and the door opened quietly. His eyes widened in shocked disbelief.

They stepped into the biggest, gaudiest hall he had ever seen in his life. It made the surviving cathedrals of antiquity on Earth, at Rome, Seville, Rheims and Istanbul look like peasants' huts in comparison. He closed his eyes momentarily to cut the glare and to suffer in silence.

"What's the matter?" the major growled at him.

He shook his head. "Nothing. I've simply never seen anything like this layout on any planet in the whole system, and we've got some dillies." Clete looked at him questioningly. "I thought you had never been over-space before."

Guy Thomas covered. "I've seen a good many Tri-Di travelogues." The major said, "Come along."

They left Clete and Lysippe at the entry and together began to march down the extended hall, eyes supposedly front, although, all along the way, Guy couldn't resist shooting unbelieving glances left and right.

Could those pillars actually be solid gold? No, of course not. Ridiculous. They were probably simply covered with gold leaf.

Those lines of warriors. Holy Jumping Zen, all armed with scrambler rifles. There was enough fire power present to blow down the city.

Those mosaics over on the wall, the scenes of Amazons and what he assumed were Greek warriors, fighting in chariots. He didn't like the way the mosaics gleamed reflected light. Oh, no. The mosaics, the tiny colored pieces which composed the mural, simply coudn't be gems!

The hall could easily have accomodated an Earth-side football game. There was a self-conscious element in marching down its length. He had read once on one of the historical tapes, about the Italian dictator Mussolini who had an enormous office completely unfurnished except for the dictator's desk at the far corner. A visitor had to walk the full length of the office, becoming more self-conscious every step, to appraoch the other. It had been deliberate, and so, Guy Thomas decided, must this be. All right, so he was impressed by the pomp and wealth of the Amazon Hippolyte. At long last, they came to a halt.

On a dias sat a tall, distinguished-looking woman in her late middle years. Her throne, a heavy wooden chair in which she sat, was simple. The only simple article of furniture or decoration in the whole layout, Guy realized. She was flanked, two to each side, by four other women in her same age group, though none quite so patrician. Their cuirasses were evidently of silver and richly embossed and inlayed with gems, one emeralds, one rubies, one diamonds, one sapphires. Probably, Guy decided, each Amazonian phylon had a symbolic color, a symbolic jewel. The Hippolyte's own cuirass was of simple gold without embellishments.

They stood there for a long moment, Guy thinking, it's your ball, start bouncing it. The Hippolyte finally spoke, her rich, full voice in complete compatibility with her distinguished appearance.

"Present the Earthling," she said.

The major barked, "Citizen Guy Thomas, of Earth, representing the Department of Interplanetary Trade of the United Planets."

Guy bowed, moderately but sufficiently.

The Hippolyte said, "We understand you have come to our world to—"

"Just a minute," the Phylon chief to her immediate right said. The Hippolyte turned to her, eyebrows up. "Yes, Marpesia? You have reason to interrupt me?"

The Pylon chief nodded, without looking at her superior. Her eyes were narrow and on Guy Thomas.

"Only last year, when I was Amazonian Ambassador to to the United Planets, he was pointed out to me at an Octagon reception. His name isn't Guy Thomas and he is not connected with the Department of Interplanetary Trade. His name is Ronald Bronston and he is top trigger-man for Sidney Jakes of the Notorious Section G of the Bureau of Investigation."

VIII

There must have been some sort of signal. Warriors, who had been standing far to the side, were approaching on the double.

Guy Thomas didn't bother to look for a possible way out. The legendary Houdini couldn't have escaped from this monstrous reception hall, throne room, or call it what you will. There must have been a thousand uniformed and armed women present. He stood, unchanging, looking straight ahead.

The Hippolyte held her silence for a long moment. In less than that time, Guy and the major were flanked with a double score of young, efficient-looking guards. The major, he noted, was glaring at him, speechlessly.

The Hippolyte said finally, "You have heard Marpesia's accusation. What is your answer. Earthling?"

Guy took a breath and said, "I am a citizen of United Planets and a resident of the planet Earth. I demand to be turned over to the UP Embassy." The Hippolyte said, "Put him to the question."

He had a warrior at each arm. Less than gently, he was about-faced and marched back to the entrance through which he had come only ten minutes or so earlier. At the entry to the elevator, Clete and Lysippe stared at him but didn't move to join his retinue which consisted of Major Oreithyia and all the guards who could squeeze into the compartment.

He had no way of knowing what methods they had of interrogating him. Simple torture? He assumed that he could bear as much as the next man. But was their torture simple? There had been no hint in the Hippolyte's words to suggest of just what his interrogation would consist.

Would he have a chance to suicide?

Unlikely.

He cursed himself for not having had the foresight to provide himself with a capsule of cyanide. He cursed Sid Jakes for not having thought of it. The elevator compartment sank and then, as before, shunted to the right, stopped, shunted left, stopped, seemed to twist and then moved forward at a clip. No one, not even the major, said a word.

His mind raced, but there was nowhere for it to go. Everything was out of his control. There merest movement and the hands on his arms tightened. Without doubt, some of them bore some type of stun gun. He had enough problems without being muffled by a tuned-down stun gun.

The moving compartment halted, shunted about again and then zoomed upward at a knee bending velocity. It came to a halt and the door opened. They marched him down a corridor which had the odors and atmosphere of a hospital, rather than of a prison or military building.

They hustled him into a room which continued the hospital motif, up to and including an operating table.

"Wait a minute," he blurted inadvertently, even as two of his warrior guards reached down and grabbed him by the ankles. The two at his arms acted in unison and he found himself tossed up onto the table and held firmly.

He didn't see who it was that put the clamps on arms, legs and head. He was unable to move.

Someone blatted orders and all except a few seemed to leave the room. He stared at the ceiling, not bothering to turn his eyes in attempt to see who was entering, who leaving.

He knew what was coming. There was to be no torture.

Shortly his suspicions were fulfilled. He felt a sudden prick in his arm. He clenched his teeth, knowing even as he did how meaningless the gesture was. There was another injection.

He might have known. In all other respects, the Amazonians had proven themselves to be as advanced as any of the member worlds of United Planets. There was no reason to believe they weren't thoroughly familiar with Scop, or its equivalent. He had no illusions. He had just received a shot of Scop and of some other drug as well. There was a period of possibly five minutes in which various mutterings and shuffling went on in the background. He didn't bother to try to look. He kept his eyes on the ceiling.

Finally a voice said, "What is your name?"

Deep within him his soul screamed.

He said, "Ronald Bronston."

"What is your official position?"

"I am an operative of supervisor grade of Section G, of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice, Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, of United Planets."

"Under whose orders are you working?"

"Sidney Jakes."

"What is his position?"

"Assistant to Ross Metaxa."

"Who is Ross Metaxa?"

"Commissioner of Section G."

"From whom does he take orders?"

"I do not know."

There was a pause for a moment and some whispering in the background. Finally the voice came again. "What are you doing on Amazonia?"

"An Amazonian refugee requested aid of the Octagon. I was sent to investigate the situation on this planet."

"What was her name?"

Ronny Bronston remained silent. Within him there was ultimate despair but it was meaningless. He was fully conscious. He was in control of mind and body, save this one thing. Save this one thing.

In the background muttering and an air of disbelief.

A different voice said, "What was his name?"

"Sarpedon."

"What was his genos name?"

"I do not know."

"What do you mean, a refugee?"

"He fled Amazonia to request political asylum and to secure aid."

"What sort of aid?"

"Aid to overthrow the politico-economic system of Amazonia." There was an unbelieving intake of breath in the background.

"What would take its place?"

"I do not know."

"Do you know anything about this projected new politico-economic system?"

"Yes, it would include men in the administration of the planet." There was another short silence.

Finally a voice said, "Would it include women as well?"

"I do not know."

"Where is this Sarpedon now?"

"I do not know."

"Has he returned to Amazonia?"

"I do not know."

"Is he still on Earth?"

"I do not know."

"Do you know anything else about Sarpedon?"

"Yes, he is thought to be dead."

"Why?"

"He disappeared from the apartment which Section G had assigned him." There was a long pause again. Finally still another voice said, "Does this Section G

believe the Amazonian Embassy on Earth is guilty of Sarpedon's death?"

"Yes."

"How did Sarpedon get to Earth?"

"He was smuggled onto the artifical satellite that houses the UP Embassy, and from there returned by regular spaceship."

"Who smuggled him aboard the satellite?"

"The Sons of Liberty."

"The Sons of Liberty! Who in the name of the Goddess are the Sons of Liberty?"

"An underground organization of men."

"An underground organization of men! Don't be ridiculous." That last had come from the background somewhere. It was not a voice Ronny had heard before.

"Quiet," an authoritative speaker said.

The questioning continued. "What is the purpose of this underground organization?"

"To overthrow the present government."

"How?"

"I do not know."

"Do you know the names of any of the members?"

"Yes. Sarpedon, Zeke, Teucer, Damon."

"What are their genos names?"

"I do not know."

"Who is Zeke?"

Ronny Broston remained silent.

"Where did you learn Zeke's name?"

"At the underground drop at Number 35 Hiliopolis Street."

"How did you know this address?"

"It was given to me by Sarpedon."

"Did he give you any other addresses here on Amazonia?"

"No."

"When were you at the underground drop on Heliopolis Street?"

"Last night."

He could hear the major's voice in the background. "Artimis! He was under guard and in bed."

Somebody else snapped, "I assume you were the guard, Major Oreithyia? You realize it's impossible for him to lie."

"Silence," the authoritive voice rapped.

"Who else did you meet at the underground drop?"

"Teucer."

"Who is Teucer?"

"A Lybian refugee."

"Lybian refugee! What do you mean by Lybian refugee?"

"A man who fled Lybia and sought sanctuary in Paphlagonia."

'Sanctuary? Sanctuary with whom?"

"With the Paphlagonian Sons of Liberty."

Someone blurted, "Is there a Lybian Sons of Liberty?"

"Yes."

There was another lengthy silence and muttering in the further parts of the room. Finally, "Who else did you meet at the Heliopolis address?"

"Nobody."

"Where did you meet Damon?"

He remained silent.

"How did you learn Damon's name?"

"Zeke told it to me."

"What did Zeke tell you about Damon?"

"He is the head of the Sons of Liberty."

"How many followers are there of this fantastic organization?"

"Tens of thousands of members and half the male population as inactive sympathizers."

"Ridiculous!" said the voice from the background which had been shushed before.

"Confound it, shut up, Penthesileia," the authoritive voice said. "Go back to this Section G organization, Hippo."

The original inquisitor's voice said, "What is Section G?"

"A department of the Bureau of Investigation of the Department of Justice."

"But what is its purpose?"

"To help overthrow the politico-economic systems of planets on which progress is being held up by restrictive governments."

There was a shocked hush. Someone muttered, "The rumors we heard were correct."

"But that is in direct conflict with Articles One and Two of the United Planets Charter."

Ronny Bronston said nothing.

"Were you sent to Amazonia to help the Sons of Liberty overthrow the present socioeconomic system."

"No."

"Why were you sent to Amazonia?"

"To investigate the situation and discover if the present socioeconomic system was holding up progress."

"Have you come to any conclusion?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"That the present socioeconomic system is holding up progress by preventing half the population from utilizing its full abilities."

"If you made this report, would Section G then take measures to subvert our government?"

"It is most probable."

"Are there any other Section G operatives on Amazonia?"

"It is improbable. If there were, I would most likely have been informed." They squabbled some more in the background.

Finally the demanding voice came again. "Why does the Department of Justice concern itself with the internal affairs of member planets of United Planets?"

"It wishes to institute socioeconomic systems which will lead to the fastest progress of which the planet is capable."

"Progress in which sense?"

"Scientific progress, industrial progress, progress in education, in freeing the individual from any restriction that prevents him from realizing his abilities." The voice had an impatient edge. "Why does the Department of Justice think it its business to force its version of progress upon sovereign member planets of UP?"

"It believes such progress is necessary to prepare the human race for its eventual confrontation with the aliens."

"What aliens?"

"The intelligent aliens first discovered by the Space Forces over a century ago."

"Discovered where?"

"A space scout came upon a derelict which had obviously been crisped in an interplanetary fight. Its pilot was small but obviously intelligent. The craft was more sophisticated than any we are capable of building."

"Why were not the member planets immediately informed of this?"

"The UP heads decided that the human race must go into all-out preparation for the eventual confrontation with the aliens. Even though the aliens may be peaceful, the stronger the human race the better bargaining position it will be in, whatever the issues that arise upon our two life forms meeting."

The authoritive voice which had, thus far, done none of the questioning, said, "But why were the member planets not informed so that they could unite more strongly in the face of the mutual danger and thus progress together?"

"It was decided by the UP that a common danger does not necessarily unite the human race. The member planets include almost every race and color, socioeconomic system, religion and political governmental form that man has developed over the ages. Many of these, if not all, would reject progress if it threatened their institutions. For instance, a planet with a feudalistic social system would reject any attempts to have a system of free enterprise foisted upon it, no matter what such a change might mean in the way of progress. Another example is the early days of nuclear weapons on Earth. The whole world was faced with destruction, but that did not stop the rush toward war on the part of conflicting socioeconomic systems. Both sides would rather have pulled the whole race down, rather than give up its institutions. Better dead than red, was the slogan on one side, and the opposing side had slogans as strong or stronger. Mutual danger does not necessarily unite the race."

The voice said musingly, "Then the Department of Justice and its cloak-and-dagger arm, Section G, does not believe that Amazonia would necessarily give up its own institutions in the face of a common danger to the race." It was not exactly a question. Ronny Bronston said nothing.

Somebody said, "We've already got more information than we need to bring this to the immediate attention of the Hippolyte."

The authoritive voice rapped, "Put this man under tight guard. Everyone present in this room is to consider herself bound by top priority security. Under no circumstances can anything revealed here be spread. Is that clear?"

There were murmers of earnest assent.

Ronny felt himself being lifted, mattress, arm, leg and head clamps and all from the table onto a hospital operating room cart. He still stared at the ceiling, uncaringly. He felt himself pushed through the door into the corridor. He could sense the warriors about him, but didn't care their number or where they were taking him. They were taking him to what seemed a very ordinary hospital room. He was lifted from the cart and placed on a bed.

"Should we undress him and put him under the sheets?" one of the guards said.

"Why?" another said impatiently. "This boy isn't going to do any sleeping for a good long while. If you ask me, the Hippolyte, the full council and half the scientists in Paphlagonia will be ripping over here within the half hour. Then they'll have our boy here stuck like a pin cushion with more Scop and Come-Along. He'll be lucky if they take time out in the next forty-eight hours to give him some nourishment."

"We shouldn't be talking in front of him."

"Why not?"

"Well, we shouldn't."

"He's not going to repeat anything to anybody."

"How do you know? Did you hear what Marpesia called him? The triggerman of Sidney Jakes. Maybe he doesn't look like much, but that Section G sounds like a rugged outfit and he's evidently one of their top trouble-shooters."

"So what?"

"So we shouldn't talk in front of him. Some day he might get away from us, or be freed for one reason or the other."

The other snorted contempt of that opinion.

"Well, let's go out in the hall and talk. I'm bursting with all this. I've got to discuss it with somebody."

"Leave him here alone?"

"In the name of Artimis, what could possibly happen to him? He's got clamps an elephant couldn't break. Besides that, he's full of Come-Along and Scop, and neither will wear off for hours, He'll obey anybody's orders until the stuff wears off." A face bent over him.

"Ronald Bronston, don't you move from this bed, understand?"

"Yes."

He heard the door open and close and assumed he was alone. He had spilled enough of the inner workings of Section G and the ultimate purpose of United Planets to tear down the work of tens of thousands of dedicated men.

There was small comfort in the fact that as yet they hadn't quite drained him of the secrets his mind held. For one thing, they'd got an inadequate picture of the threat of the aliens. They hadn't asked enough questions to bring out all the ramifications. However, there was no reason to believe that in the immediate future he wouldn't spill every bean. He had no doubts whatsoever that within days Amazonia would broadcast his revelations. Then every member planet in the confederation which feared interference with its institutions would drop away from United Planets. The work of centuries would be ended within within weeks. And all because of Ronald Bronston. He cursed the fact that he had ever attended that Octagon reception. They should have known better. It was a tradition of Section G to avoid the public eye. He heard a door open. Evidently, one of his guards returning, just to check. What was there to check? He couldn't move a muscle and even had he been able to, he had been given orders to remain in this bed, and it was impossible to disobey. He heard footsteps approaching him across the room, and frowned that they seemed to be stealthy.

A face looked down into his. A face that was grinning amusement. She spoke in whisper. "Cutey, I hear you've got yourself into some sort of trouble." It was Minythyia. How had she ever gotten into the room?

She began fussing with his bonds, muttering, "How'd you get into this mess?"

"One of the Hippolyte's council recognized me," Ronny said. She looked up and shot a puzzled glance at him, even as she worked, as though wondering at the Zombie-like inflection of his voice.

"You're under Scop, aren't you?"

Yes."

"Oh, oh. I'm probably getting myself into trouble. Clete didn't know what it was you had supposedly done. You got anything else in you? Or do you know?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Come-Along."

"So! Well, that makes things easier. Get up out of that bed, Cutey." Her order countermanded the one the guard had given him. He arose and looked at her.

Minythyia said, "You look awful with that stuff in you. We've got to get out of here. Follow me."

He followed her, noting that there were two doors to the room. He assumed that through one his guards had passed into the hospital corridor. In fact, he could indistinctly hear their voices.

He followed her through the other door. There was another hospital room, this one empty, on the other side. She hurried through this, he immediately behind. She grasped the knob of the door on the far side of the room and opened it. The room beyond was occupied by an elderly person, in bed.

Minythyia said apologetically, "Sorry to bother you again. That nardy door is still locked and this is the only way to get through."

The patient in the bed murmered something indistinctly.

They passed through the door beyond of that room too and Ronny Bronston found himself, still following the Amazon warrior, in a corridor. It came to him for the first time that his rescuer, if that was her role, was for the first time he had seen her, not garbed in her usual regular uniform. In fact, her dress differed little from his own. A flowing, tunic-like affair that presented her admittedly curvaceous body to much better effect than had the military outfit which tended to suppress breast and hips. They hurried along the deserted corridor which opened in turn to still another. It was larger and Minythyia slowed her pace, as must needs he as well since her order had been to follow me.

They passed various persons, undoubtedly hospital personnel and a few who were obviously either patients or visitors. Ronny and his rescuer passed unnoticed. The left the building through a side entrance and again increased their pace. Minythyia hustled down a stone walk to a sports model hovercar parked in a forbidden zone, going by the signs imbedded in the street.

She vaulted over the side into the driver's seat, snapping, "Get in! Artimis! Hurry!" He climbed in on the passenger's side, hardly in time to avoid being thrown aside by the vehicle's surge forward. They were down an alley, out onto a monstrously large curving driveway, then out into a broad boulevard to be absorbed by the traffic. Ronny noted that she was driving manually and realized why. Had she switched to the less dangerous auto, the traffic computers handling the car would have been able to pinpoint her. He didn't know exactly what was happening, but if it was known, or came out, that Minythyia was his kidnapper from authority, then the hunt would be on in earnest.

She shot a grin over at him. "Clete didn't know what sort of romp you tried to pull off. Only that you were marched away for questioning. Something really criminal?"

"No," he said.

She chuckled abruptly. "It occurs to me that I'll never have another chance like this. Listen, boy, do you think I'm attractive?"

"Yes."

"Back on Earth. Would you have gone for someone like me?"

"Yes.

She laughed, a trifle wryly. "Would you…would you have wanted to…marry me?"

"No."

"Ummmm. That puts me in my place." She laughed again. "And how do you like our fair city?"

"I like it."

They were hurrying down a main artery. Traffic was heavy, though not as badly so as many another capital city Ronny had been in in his time. As he had noted when seeking out Zeke and the Sons of Liberty, the public buildings, squares, fountains and monuments were unrivaled.

Minythyia seemed to be on something like a talking jag, brought about possibly by nervousness. Perhaps it was just coming home to her just how serious a matter her romp was.

She said, "See that building there? Apartment for bachelor girls. That's where your pal Patricia O'Gara has been put up." She chuckled. "She's had to go back to school. She thought she knew all about Amazonia, but she didn't." She pulled off onto a side street and cut speed somewhat through necessity. The little sporthover responded to her faintest touch on the joystick like a dream of delicacy. She swung it hard to the right again and dropped her brake lever.

"Here we are!" she chuckled. "Come on, boy." She vaulted from the car, bustled around to his side as though to open the door for him, but by the time she had arrived he was standing on the walk. She led the way toward a large, heavy wooden door, beautifully carved. It opened before her and they hurried through.

"We're on the third floor," she said. "No elevator. Elevators are masculine. Exercise is good for you. Come on, Cutey."

They ascended the marble stairs.

At the top, she utilized a key and they passed into a moderately large apartment. Ronny looked around. It was surprisingly well done, the taste excellent. For once, the decorative motif had nothing to do with Amazons or Greeks. The murals and paintings were based on nature studies. The main room, in which they stood, was large and comfortably done with chairs, coffee tables and couches. There was what must be a small bar at one end of the room. It looked to Ronny Bronston considerably more like a bachelor's apartment than the one that had been assigned to him in the sanctuary. He stood in the middle of the room, waiting further instructions. Without instructions, he knew, he was free to act on his own, however, he had little doubt but that Minythyia was going to keep him well in hand so long as the Come-Along and Scop controlled him.

She approached him now, grinning mockingly. "So," she said. "At long last. I don't know what there is about you, Cutey, possibly the romantic aspects of you being from over-space."

Her smile turned more mocking still and she put her right hand on his shoulder.

"I thee take," she said softly.

IX

Even under the influence of the powerful drugs, there must have been something in his eyes. Minythyia laughed at him. But in the laughter there was a wry element.

"Of course," she told him, "It's not really finalized until we go before Artimis during the summer solstice, with all the others, to gain her blessing. But unless you wish to throw yourself on the mercies of some other warrior—if she'll take you—you're mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Do you wish to get in touch with some other warrior?" His mind was free to race, in spite of its enslavement. Here, for the moment, he was moderately safe. Safe, he could hope, until the drugs wore off and he would be free to operate. If he contacted someone else—and who was there to contact?—his location would become known. Even here, when she learned the true nature of his conflict with the authorities, he doubted if her infatuation would stand up against patriotism. He was astonished that she had gone this far.

"No," he said, in answer to her question.

Her eyes were mocking once more. "Then you're willing to remain here with me…Cutey?"

"Yes."

She laughed enjoyment.

"All right, here is the arrangement. This is not my apartment. It belongs to a friend. She is away and isn't due back for almost a month. I don't believe Clete or Lysippe or any of the others know I have access. We're safe, especially if we never allow you to be seen on the streets. I'll bring in what supplies we can't get over the auto. In a month's time, things will settle down. Things always settle down, given time. By then, we'll be able to size up the situation and plan what to do. Married to me, you have the rights of a male Amazonian citizen. You'll be under the protection of my genos and through it my phratra and ultimately phylon. Like I said, I don't know what kind of romp you tried to pull off, but there'll be some way to fix it." She twisted her pert face. "I've got some high connections."

She looked at him calculatingly for a moment. "Are you hungry?"

"No."

"If you get hungry, or thirsty, you can dial on the auto. It's tuned to my hour account. Do you know how to do that?"

"Yes."

"All right. Make yourself at home, here. Don't leave the apartment, understand?

Don't leave the apartment under any circumstances."

"Yes."

"I've got several things to do. I've got to look up Lysippe and Clete and establish an alibi. I've got to ditch that car. It could be traced." She winked at him. "Besides, it's not mine. I borrowed it. When I come back, I'll explain a lot of things to you.

"Good heavens, sit down. Don't wait for me to tell you everything. No, just a moment. Kiss me. The way they do on the occasional Tri-Di show tapes we get from Earth."

He kissed her, neither the Scop nor the Come-Along influenced that. She stood back, her eyes shining. "Well," she said. "What would I call you on the Tri-Di? A cad? But then, we're married, aren't we?" Her lips were mocking again.

"Amazonian style, that is."

She was suddenly gone from the apartment.

Ronny Bronston sat down. Except for her direct order to remain in the apartment, he was free to act.

His eyes went about the room desperately. There must be something he could do. Surely she would be gone for at least an hour. Perhaps not. Perhaps within that time she would discover the magnitude of his troubles and be back on the double with Clete and Lysippe, or some other Amazonian warriors, to apprehend him and return him to the questioning.

He went from one room to another. A bedroom, a refresher, an eating alcove with an auto in it. Back to the livingroom.

His eyes hit upon the small bar. By the looks of the whole apartment, Minythyia's friend must be quiet a hedonist. The bar, the decor, some of the murals, all pointed in that direction. He wondered what the equivalent of an orgy, here on Amazonia, might be.

His eyes swung quickly back to the bar and something came to him. Come-Along. It didn't react favorably with alcohol. You couldn't give it to a drunk. It did no more than to make him terribly ill. It was even comparatively ineffective if you dosed someone who had just a couple of belts. To give it to someone in an alcoholic state, was just wasting your time, which was quite a deterent to both espionage agents and Romeos.

He made his way to the bar. It was a bar all right. Two shelves below held bottles, glasses, ice tongs, swizzle sticks, all the universal paraphernalia of the home bar, be it on Earth, Avalon, New Delos…or Amazonia.

Ronny Bronston picked up the handiest bottle and scowled at the label. It meant nothing to him. He wrenched the top off and applied it to his lips. Sickeningly sweet! He couldn't put away much of that. He took up another bottle. Another damned cordial!

He grasped a third bottle. It contained a colorless fluid, something resembling gin or vodka. He tried it and sputtered, shooting a fine spray from his mouth. He looked at the label in respectful wonder. It told him nothing.

Ronny Bronston, though not habitually a heavy drinker, had done his share of nipping in his time. But never on anything as potent as this. He couldn't take it straight. He poured a hefty belt into a tall glass and went into the refresher room for water. There was a faint taste of anis in the far background of the spirit, not too unpleasant. He got the first glass down, feeling the stuff already beginning to warm his belly, and quickly poured another.

He hadn't eaten since breakfast. How long ago was that? It seemed ages. The drink was getting to him quickly. He put down still more and the room began to go hazy. He shook his head, bear-like, and decided to make his try.

His orders had been quite definite: Don't leave the apartment under any circumstances. Ronny shook his head again in attempt to achieve temporary clarity and walked with deliberation toward the door. He took the knob in his hand. And couldn't twist it. He stared down, his eyes bleary. Was it locked? No, it wasn't that. He simply couldn't turn it.

Don't leave the apartment under any circumstances.

He shook his head still again and went back to the bottle. He eyed it, finding difficulty in focusing. He closed one eye. That was considerably better. Hell, he wasn't any molly when it came to guzzle. He could put it down with anybody. Even with his ultimate superior, Ross Metaxa, with that Denebian tequila of his in the stone bottle. He'd show 'em who could drink like a gennulman. Hold his guzzle like a trooper. He took up the bottle with a flourish of braggadocio and applied it to his lips. He got down three or four full gulps before it hit him. He dropped the bottle to the floor, unknowingly. His eyes were glazed now He had never passed out from drink in his life, but this was preciously near it. He tried to achieve clarity by slapping his cheek hard with his right hand.

He staggered toward the door, grasped the knob just in time to prevent falling. There was something he was supposed to remember, he knew. Something about that girl. What was her name? Miny…Minythy…something or other. Something she told him. He couldn't remember.

He swayed and his hand on the knob turned in his effort to keep himself erect. The knob turned and the door pushed open and he staggered into the hall beyond in effort to keep his balance.

He held onto the ironwork banister at the stairs' head, breathing deeply. Zen, but he was drenched. You had to admit that, all right. He was drenched. He had better get out and get some fresh air. Either that or go back into the apartment and climb into bed. Yes, that was it, go back into the apartment and get some sleep. He had to wait for Miny…whatever her name was.

But then he turned sly, even as he wavered, holding onto the banister. Now he remembered. She'd hooked him. Amazon style. Tha's why he hadda get outta this house. He started down the stairs, as only a drunk can navigate stairs. He chortled, "Thas what she thinks. She thinks I'm easy. Thas what she thinks. Nice fella like me. I wanta church wedding, thas what I want. With flowers, and dressed in white an all…"

Unbelievably, he made it down the three flights and then to the street. As he left the building, he was singing to himself, "Somethin old, somethin new, somethin borrowed, somethin blue."

On the street, the fresh air had a small effect on him. Besides that, the change of scene forced him to think anew. He had someplace to go, or he'd better have some place to go. If not, he might as well try to get back up the stairs to the apartment. For a reason he couldn't put his finger on, he didn't want to go back to that apartment. Though, come to think of it, that Miny girl wasn't so bad. She'd got him out of some kind of trouble once, hadn't she? He knew damn well she had, but it was kind of hazy. He took a deep breath and started down the street, in the opposite direction from which he had originally approached with Minythyia.

Just as he reached the corner, he heard a hovercar coming up behind him. Oh, oh. He didn't turn, even when he heard it come to a quick stop before the building. He did a commendable left face, with all a drunk's cunning, and went down the side street. Fifty feet further on there was an opening to the left again. A snort of mews, British style. A courtyard at the end with a water fountain. For reason unbeknownst to himself, he headed toward it.

Only half way there the nausea hit him and he was deathly ill. He emptied his insulted stomach into a doorway, feeling like a pig, but still not caring…not caring about anything. When the retching was over, he resumed his way toward the fountain, somewhat steadier. There was something nagging him from within, don't…leave…the…apartment…under…any…circumstances. But it didn't seem to make much sense.

There were children playing in the litttle courtyard. He ignored them, stumbled to the water and plunged his head into it. He came up for air. Zen! it was cold and good. He plunged his head back in.

The children were standing around watching him, wide-eyed.

He glowered at them. There were, he realized, both boys and girls. All of them wore either shorts or kilts, nor did the attire seem to be based on sex. Some boys wore shorts, some kilts, so did the girls.

He scooped up water with his hand and drank it. It hit his stomach with a chill and for a moment he was afraid he was going to be sick again.

No, that passed. He decided he'd have to get out of here, but quick. Before one of the kids went running to a parent, or teacher, or whatever, and somebody turned up to investigate him.

By the moment, his true situation was coming back to him. He was still drunk, sodden drunk, but his mind was clearing slowly. He couldn't allow himself to be picked up. He had to do something, he couldn't quite remember what.

He retraced his way to the street and turned left on it. What was it he had to do? It came to him in stages. He had to warn somebody about something. He came to a crossing and paused for a moment, scowling. Two pedestrians passed him, a man and a woman. Once again, their garb was so similar as to be almost identical. This crossing. He had been here once before. But he couldn't have been. He shook his head, to clear it further of fumes.

Then it came to him. He had been this way when seeking out the Sons of Liberty. That was it! He had to warn Zeke and the others. He had babbled their address to his Amazon inquisitors. He had to warn them. Unless it was too late. It probably was too late. The Hippolyte's warriors had probably descended on the hapless revolutionaries like a flow of lava.

But he had to see. In spite of his own danger, he owed it to the others to make the attempt. He screwed up his face in memory. He wasn't so very far from the spot where the unknown assassin had shot at him. Yes, it was down this way. As he walked, his lucidity returned, though he still felt nausea from the wringer through which he had put his body. He had drunk an unbelievable amount of alcohol, in far too short a time. Happily, he had vomited much of it up before it had gotten fully into his bloodstream.

He went down this street, up that, his appearance no longer attracting the atttention of others. In his garb he resembled his fellow pedestrians. It had only been his gait, before, that had singled him out. He looked down at his clothing to see if he had messed it at the height of his illness. No, it was reasonably clean and unwrinkled. This was where the shooting match had taken place. It looked considerably different in the light of day. He went more slowly. And this was Heliopolis Street. It was to his surprise that he saw no vehicles before Number 35. No vehicles, nor could he spot any of the Hippolyte's guards. If they were in the vicinity, they would probably be hidden, he realized. But there was nothing he could do about that. He was weaponless and still shaky, but he had to make the attempt.

He pounded on the door, and leaned against it. He was tired from the exercise of his walk, and the drinking had robbed him of considerable strength. He could hear no movement beyond. He pounded again and again.

In exasperation, he tried the knob. The door pushed open.

He went on through. Had the Amazon warriors already been here, and captured the Sons of Liberty on the premises? Were they hidden inside, waiting for more unsuspecting men of the underground to show up? He could readily believe it. Frowning in memory, he retraced the way Zeke had taken him the night before. They had come along this patio garden. There was still no sound in the building. It gave the place an eerie quality. There was the fountain, it was the fountain, it was less attractive in the full light of day. The house had an unkempt quality. Well, it was a secret underground base, not fundamentally a home.

Here was the sparsely furnished room Zeke had taken him to. He entered, his eyes going around. The bottle of wine and three glasses were still there on the table. And in a corner, bound, lay the excitable, emotional Lybian Zeke had introduced as Teucer. He was bound and gagged, and his eyes were wide at Ronny's entrance. He blinked energetically, as though in warning.

Ronny was about to turn, his reflexes still slow, when his assailant hit him from behind.

Even as he fell automatically into a defensive position, he knew the attack was lacking in sophistication. It was the vigorous but unscientific attack of one who had never studied hand-to-hand combat. He ducked and spun right in instinctive counterattack and snagged a section of the other's garment. He felt a blow against his upper back and ignored it.

Still holding onto the other's tunic, he spun again, twisting the garment in such a way that one of the enemy's arms was immobilized. He felt another couple of meaningless blows; the other had a sap, or possibly was using the butt of a shooter, but he was pathetically inept.

It was over almost immediately. Ronny bent and swung, throwing the other heavily against the wall. He heard air escape agonizingly from his opponent's lungs. Ronny looked at him shakily for a moment. His eyes still weren't completely used to the gloom of the unlit room, after coming in from the bright Amazonian sunlight. It was just a kid, a youngster of possibly seventeen or eighteen, and none too large for his age. No wonder he had been so easy to take. His small club, which looked as though it had been improvised from a broom handle, had fallen to the floor. The youngster was unconscious, which wasn't surprising. Ronny would have been more gentle had he known the other's age and size.

He looked back to Teucer, still attempting to blink signals to him. "All right," he growled. He knelt before the other and began to untie him. As a preliminary, he pulled the gag from the slight man's mouth. "What in Zen's happened?"

"Get me out of these nardy ropes," Teucer rasped. "How do I know what happened?

This young cloddy must have got behind me and slugged me one. When I woke up, I was tied like this."

"Where's Zeke?"

"He's gone to keep an appointment with Damon and some of the others. Listen—"

"Just a minute. Leaving you alone?" The other was about free. Teucer came to his feet rubbing his wrists. He bent and rubbed his ankles. "Yes. Listen, I've got a lot of questions to ask you, but we've got to get out of here."

"I'll say we do. The Hippolyte is onto this place. Is there a back entrance?" Teucer stared at him. "How?" he blurted.

"Scop. They put me on Scop and I slipped everything." Teucer groaned. "Come on. Yes, there's a back way. Hurry, we've got to get somewhere we can talk." He sped toward the rear of the house, evidently assuming Ronny was immediately behind.

But there was something about this Ronny Bronston didn't like. He looked down at the unconscious boy. He bent over him and began to search his belt wallet, finding precious little except an hours card. He thought about it, and pocketed the plastic. The other's name was Tanais, and he belonged to the Terpsichore genos. All of which told Ronny nothing. Wasn't Terpsichore the goddess of song, or the dance or something?

There was a banging at the front door.

They'd come at last. Ronny came hurriedly erect. As he started for the door, he looked down at the boy. He shook his head. Even had there been reason, he wasn't up to escaping burdened with the kid. And there was no reason.

He turned and hurried after Teucer, and even as he ran he realized that something had been wrong about Teucer. He had been more collected, less emotional and shrill than the night before. In view of the circumstances, it would have been more reasonable had it been the other way.

He was about to leave the patio garden through the exit which Teucer had taken when he heard the front door bang open. A voice yelled, "Hey! Wait? Holy Jumping Zen, what goes on here?"

It was a male voice.

Ronny came to a halt and turned. It was the burly Zeke, rumbling in, bear-like, a large handgun in one overgrown paw.

Zeke took him in, snorted, and disappeared from sight into the room where Teucer had been bound. Ronny returned, shooting a glance at the door to the street. Zeke had slammed it shut upon his entrance, and thrown a bar.

The Sons of Liberty leader was staring at the still unconscious boy and at the ropes which had once held Teucer.

"Zen," he groaned. "The funker escaped." He bent over the youngster. "Out cold!" Ronny was in the doorway, his face in puzzlement. "I don't understand."

"When did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago." He shook his head. There was still nausea in his stomach and his muscles were like water, particularly after the exertion of the brief struggle. "Teucer was tied up."

"Tied up, is right?" The funker is a traitor, a spy! What happened? What happened to Tanais, here?"

The effects of the Come-Along were evidently completely gone but the Scop was still on him. Ronny couldn't have lied had he wished. He said, "The door was open. I came in to warn you. Teucer was tied up. The boy, here, jumped on my back. I knocked him out before I realized he was just a kid. Teucer told me some cock-and-bull story, evidently, and took off through the back."

Zeke was on one knee at the side of Tanais, his gun at the half-ready, as though not knowing what to expect. He said, "Tanais came from Lybia a few days ago as an exchange student. This morning he contacted us. Teucer had told us that was where he was from and we accepted him. But we know Tanais is from Lybia, his father is top man in the organization there and when he didn't recognize Teucer it was obvious we had a spy from the Hippolyte in our ranks. I went to check with Damon…" But Ronny was shaking his head. "Teucer's no spy from the Hippolyte." Zeke glared at him, coming to his feet. "What are you talking about? Of course he's a spy."

"No. I came to warn you, and we'd better get out of here quickly. The Hippolyte's people had me put under Scop this morning. I spilled practically everything I knew about my mission, those who sent me, and the Sons of Liberty and their program."

"What!"

Ronny held up a hand. "But the thing is, they had never heard of your organization before. So they could hardly have sent Teucer in as a spy."

"They were lying!"

Ronny shook his head. "No they weren't. They were flabbergasted when the drug brought the fact from me that you existed."

Zeke was breathing deeply. "You gave them this address, you flat?" Ronny said evenly, "I was under Scop. I think I still am, at least partially." Zeke's small eyes narrowed further. "Oh, you are, eh? Listen, is the Octagon going to send help to us?"

'I dont know," Ronny said. He tried to keep control of himself but his voice was slipping into the Zombie-inflection.

"Is it most likely they will?"

"Yes."

"How soon?"

"Probably as soon as a report from me gets back."

"How were you to transmit your report?"

"Through my Section G communicator."

"Have you sent any report at all, thus far?"

"No." Ronny Bronston could feel the blisters of cold sweat on his face as he tried to fight the truth serum, but it was useless. He could have tried rushing the other, but Zeke was armed and strong, and the Section G operative was still not fully recovered from his bout with his alcohol antidote.

"Why not?" Zeke pressed.

"My communicator was broken, when someone searched my room." Zeke thought about it for a moment, even as he muttered, "I got to get out of here." He said, "When you report, who is it to?"

"Sid Jakes."

Zeke's face worked in thought, and his breathing came deeper. He nudged the boy at his feet with a toe and the other stirred. "Wake up, damn it!" He looked back at Ronny again, something obviously suddenly occuring to him.

"Holy Zen! they had you. How'd you get away?"

"I was in a hospital. They had taken me there to question me. After half an hour, they decided it was necessary to inform the Hippolyte of what they'd learned. So they left me under guard in a room. The guards stood outside. However, there was another door. A girl named Minythyia came through it."

"Minythyia! Are you sure of that name?"

"Yes. She came out to the Schirra with the customs officials launch as one of the assistants. Later, she attempted to…select me as one of her husbands."

"Minythyia!"

"Yes," Ronny said, still zombie-like.

"All right, what happened?"

"She got me out of the hospital and drove me to the apartment of a friend. Then she left me there, under orders not to leave. She went to secure an alibi."

"Do you know who Minythyia is?"

"She is one of the warriors who—"

"Do you know who else she is?"

"No."

"She's the drivel-happy daughter of the Hippolyte, you cloddy!" There were sounds from the street. Zeke shot his eyes in that direction, then down at the boy who was now beginning to come to his feet.

"Get moving, Tanais. There's a back way out."

Tanais began stumbling toward the back. There was a pounding at the front door, as though of more than one fist.

Zeke took after the boy, his eyes looking over his shoulder, glowering desperately at the source of the noise.

Ronny began to follow.

Thick lips pulled back over the revolutionist's stained teeth. The shooter came up.

"You stay here, my stute friend. You stay here."

Ronny came to a halt, staring. He motioned with his head. "But that'll be the Hippolyte's police."

Zeke was at the back door through which Teucer had disappeared some ten minutes before. They could hear a splintering sound from the front.

Zeke's gun came up slowly, his teeth were still bared. He said, snarl in his voice,

"That's right. We couldn't let you fall into their hands again, could we, fella?" Ronny spun in desperation, the charge from the other's gun missing him infinitesimally, crumbling the stone of the doorway in which he had been standing. He was out of range of the other's fire, back again in the room where he had found Teucer. Zeke was going to have to come and get him if he wanted another shot, and Zeke didn't have the time. The front door came down with a crash. In fact, Zeke was already most likely gone. If he wasn't then Ronny's next move was sudden death.

Because he came charging out again, into the patio from which he had just stepped in retreat, ten seconds earlier.

His gamble had paid off. Zeke and Tanais were gone.

Ronny sped for the door through which the two Sons of Liberty had just passed. He had danger before and danger behind, and why he chose the first he had no idea.

X

Had it not been for the sounds of Zeke and his young companion before him, he probably would never have found the way of retreat. The building was a meandering one, something in the nature of a Spanish or Mexican habitation of early times. The wall on Heliopolis Street had been blank, save for the door. From the outside, there was little to indicate what lay within.

Within was surprisingly extensive. There were three small patios in all, with numerous rooms of varying size leading off. It had been a sumptuous house, in its time; now it was run down.

In a way, it was a labyrinth and a person unfamiliar with the windings of its halls and walks could have become temporarily lost.

Ronny pounded after the faint sounds of Zeke and Tanais, running as softly, himself, as he could. He didn't know whether the girl warriors behind him had actually seen him or not. But in any case they would spread through this building in brief moments. He had to get out.

Suddenly he could hear Zeke no longer.

The other had either paused, waiting for Ronny and for another shot at him, or he had passed out of the house and made his escape.

The only alternative Ronny could accept was the latter. He continued to run in the direction he had last heard the Sons of Liberty head who had so strangely and murderously turned on him. He came abruptly to a narrow door and instinctively knew that beyond lay the street. In fact, he could hear the sounds of a hovercar lifting and then zooming ahead. Ronny prayed to whatever gods might be listening that it was Zeke making his getaway. He grabbed the door latch and flung it open, half expecting a blast from the big man's shooter.

There was no blast. There was no sign of Zeke or Tanais in the alleyway beyond. They had already made good their escape.

He wished that he had time to think about Teucer and Minythyia, and about Zeke, for that matter. Why in the name of the Holy Ultimate had the man tried to finish Ronny off?

He sped down the alley, hoping he was taking a direction that would place him as far as possible from the Amazons behind in as short a period of time. He came out on a side-street, puffing, and brought on himself the stares of various pedestrians in the vicinity.

He slowed down to a walk, grinning inanely, as though ashamed of being caught running.

"Beautiful day, eh?" he said to the world in general. Somebody snorted. All turned to look away from him.

He walked as rapidly as was compatible with his desire to remain inconspicuous. His sickness had given way now to more simple symptoms of hangover. He had a crushing headache and was still up to less than his full strength, but at least he felt his mind was clear.

As he walked, he tried to think it out.

Most things he could think of added up to very little sense. First, why wasn't this whole" area saturated with Hippolyte's police, warriors, guards—call them what you would? He had been on various police-state planets during his years with Section G. If there was one thing they had in common, it was a plentitude of armed, competent secret police. He couldn't imagine that house on Heliopolis Street not having been overrun with Hippolyte's people within a matter of a quarter hour after he had revealed the situation of the underground hideaway.

And Zeke! Why had the revolutionary attempted to kill him? Was Zeke, rather than Teucer, the traitor to the Sons of Liberty? Had Teucer found out something about the big man? Why had Zeke been, well, indignant, at the suggestion that the Hippolyte's people had never heard of the underground?

And Minythyia! How could it possibly make sense that the daughter of the Hippolyte was serving as an ordinary police private, or whatever she was? How could such people as the major and Clete treat her, address her, as though she was a nobody?

The splendor of the throne room of Hippolyte's palace gave lie to any theory that there was a comradeship between these women warriors that would allow the daughter of the supreme ruler to be treated as an equal by low ranking officials. And Teucer! How did Teucer fit into it all? What was it the other was so anxious to talk over with him! And if he wasn't a refugee from Lybia, what was he?

He called it all quits for the time and looked about. He was at a large square. Before him was a park with four colossal statues dominating its center. He concentrated, in spite of the headache, recalling the maps supplied by Sarpedon in the Octagon. The maps of Themiscyra.

Yes, he thought he knew where he was. The river, the Thermodon, would be over that way about four blocks. In that direction, to his right, was the sanctuary. Perhaps a mile away. He dare not go there. If anything seemed likely at all, it was that the Amazon police were going through his things with fine-toothed combs. He wondered with wry humor what poor Podner Bates was making of it all. He hoped the little man wasn't in trouble for befriending Ronny Bronston.

The police were after him, his only contact with the Sons of Liberty, Zeke, had tried to kill him. He had no way of communicating with his superiors, nowhere to go and no funds…

Wait a minute. There were no funds, here on Amazonia.

He stuck a hand into the belt pouch of his outfit and fished forth the plastic card he had taken from Tanais when he had searched the boy there on the floor. He stopped long enough to scrutinize the thing more carefully than he had before. It revealed little. His name and genos name. His address and, yes, the fact that he was a student. Thank the Holy Ultimate that students were paid to attend school in this fantastic economy. Tanais would have a supply of hours to his credit. The card, without doubt was valid.

If it wasn't, he, Ronny Bronston, would soon find out.

In his walking, he had passed several of what he assumed were taxi. stands. Empty hovercars waiting for fares. There was a stand located alongside the park. Taking his chances, he opened the door of a cab and slid inside, behind the driver's joystick. He looked over the controls, noted the fare box screen and figured out its workings. He had driven twice with the major in limousines, once with Minythyia in a sports vehicle. Beyond that, he had driven hovercars, of slightly different design, on a dozen different worlds. On most, the wheel was used, but he had operated cars directed by sticks before. If anything, they provided a more delicate control. He began experimenting. You dropped this lever. No, first you dropped the brake. Then you lifted clear of the street with this.

A voice said, "You have forgotten to put your hours card on the screen, Madam." He jerked his head around, inadvertently.

The voice was some sort of built-in recording. He brought his purloined card out and put it on the screen, and started all over again.

He was going to have to operate it manually. He had no idea of how to set the coordinates on the auto controls. He would have had to have a more complete knowledge of the city for that.

He got under way without much difficulty and concentrated on his destination. He was going to have to experiment, he wasn't quite sure of the location. However, he made it with little difficulty, cruising up and down the streets until he spotted the place. There were hovercars before it, but none that looked particularly as though they were police or military.

He stopped, removed the stolen hours card from the screen and climbed from the vehicle, half expecting it to say something further. It didn't, and the moment he was out, took off into the traffic, evidently heading for some taxi park. He looked after it. Give credit where due. It was an efficiently handled service.

He looked up at the building. A fairly large number of persons were coming and going through the elaborate entrance. Most of them were women, but there were a few males. He continued to have difficulty telling them apart. Civilian clothes were all but identical. This was a continuing surprise. His first impression, picked up on the ship, and later in his audience with the Hippolyte, was that practically all women wore the armor-like uniform of the Amazon warrior. But here there were no such outfits in sight. It was a minor puzzle, and he had major ones to solve. He mounted the steps and entered the building. Now his problem had only begun. He was afraid to ask questions. Just as surely as he did, he would stand out like a walrus in a goldfish bowl. He doubted that his destination was on the first floor, although it might have been. He mounted, instead, to the second, and prowled up and down, hopefully. Ronny Bronston's luck continued to hold. There were name plates on the doors. He found what he was looking for twenty minutes later on the third floor: Patricia O'Gara There was a door eye and he activated it.

In less than a minute the door opened and she was there, smiling at him. This was the crux, now. If she showed any indication that she was aware of the morning's developments, he was going to have to overpower her. She said "Why, Guy!

Guy Thomas!"

He grinned at her. "Can I come in?"

She stepped back. "Of course. So you managed to land all right. How in the name of Artimis did you know where I was?"

"Minythyia pointed the building out." The questions didn't bother him. At long last the Scop had worn off.

He followed her into a small living room. Evidently, she had been assigned a fairly comfortable apartment by the powers that be. She had been on the planet a couple of days before he landed.

"Minythyia?" she said, even while gesturing toward a seat for him. "I'll bet this will come as a surprise to you. Do you know who that madcap Mynythyia is?"

"You mean the daughter of the Hippolyte?" He sank into the chair with relief.

"Ummm, somebody mentioned it. Imagine her acting as a lowly customs officer." Pat said primly, "Everybody works on Amazonia. There are no parasites. Only children and the retired are without positions."

"Great," Ronny said, "but you expect a bit of nepotism even in the feminine Utopia. Look, I'm famished. You haven't got anything to eat around here, have you? And some pain killer? I've got a headache."

"Why, of course," she said. "The auto's in here. Order anything you wish. Oh, I forgot. Do you have an hours card?"

"Well, no." He was going to have to take it easy with the card of Tanais. He had no way of knowing whether or not, or when, the student might report the loss of that valuable document. He couldn't afford to have the computers on the lookout for it. She said, "You can use mine. You'd be amazed at the efficiency here. Within hours after I was off the Schirra, they'd assigned me this apartment, enrolled me in a school where I have special tutors to give me a foundation in the Amazonia culture, and began crediting me with hours for the time I put into my studies. I'm already a citizen. Isn't that wonderful?"

"I suppose so," he told her, following her into the small dining alcove. She put her card on the payment screen and he stared down at the extensive menu set into the auto-table. After taking the headache-relieving pill, he dialed more food than he could reasonably have eaten.

"You are hungry," she said. "There is no nepotism on Amazonia." The change of subject had stopped him for a moment. "Oh," he said finally, watching the food begin to emerge. "Why not? It's a natural development, you'd think."

"Not if you understand the workings of an advanced society," she told him righteously. "Since there is no profit to be gained by being, say, an admiral, rather than an ordinary seaman, there's no motive in attempting to push your offspring into positions she can't competently occupy."

He was eating hungrily. "That's right, everybody gets paid exactly one hour for putting in one hour's time, don't they? But there are other things than, uh, crass material payment. An admiral has power, position, honors, that sort of jetsam."

"And how stupid they are unless you've earned them. Back on my home planet, Victoria, we have universities that grant so-called honorary degrees. Politicians, soldiers and what not, who can hardly read the sport sections of newstapes, or write more than their own names, are given doctor's degrees. All it does, actually, is water down the deserved acknowledgement of the accomplishments of the scholars who have really earned such degrees."

He was still forcing food into his mouth as though starved. He could hardly know when he would be able to eat again.

However, he couldn't help bite away at the hand that was feeding him. "Sure, great. A real feminine Utopia. However—"

"Amazonia isn't a Utopia, Guy," she said. "Utopia is a dream world, a perfect world. We Amazonians realize that there is always another rung up the ladder of progress. Utopia can never be reached, but even if it could be, we would not wish it. The satisfaction is to be found in the common effort upward."

"Very inspiring," Ronny said sarcastically. "It'll be a great day when in the course of this progress they get around to examining their marriage laws." She scowled at him, a hint of color beginning to come to her cheeks. He couldn't help but remember the endless run-ins she'd had with Rex Ravelle on the Schirra.

"Marriage laws?" she said. "There is no marriage on Amazonia. They passed beyond that institution a century and more ago."

He had been about to devour a chunk of some vegetable he had found in his stew, a vegetable he had never come upon elsewhere. Now he put down his fork and stared at her.

"Are you completely drivel-happy?" he demanded. "No marriage on Amazonia! I've never seen so damn much marriage in my life. And such an easy way of getting into it!" It was her turn to stare. "Why, why, you've simply been misinformed," she said definitely.

"Look," he said. "This tutoring you've been taking; hasn't anybody mentioned the fact that any Amazonia warrior can have three husbands?"

"Oh, don't be a cloddy. Of course they can have three husbands, though that's hardly what you'd call them. And a man can have three 'wives' for that matter, if he wished. Amazonians don't believe in restricting personal relationships with too many laws. Actually, though, useage frowns on promiscuity and having close relations with even two or three persons at a time is considered rather far-out. However, some people are just built that way. They're not one-man women, or one-woman men. You've had the problem down through the ages. On your own planet, Earth, don't you have people who are continually getting married and getting divorced? And on my planet, Victoria, it isn't at all unknown for a man to be supposedly happily married, but on the side be maintaining one or more mistresses."

"Now wait a minute," Ronny said accusingly, pointing at her with his fork. "I'm not talking about exceptional people having affairs, or getting too many divorces. I'm talking about the basic family. The way I understand it, an Amazonian warrior can have three husbands and she keeps them cooped up in what amounts to a harem." She rolled her eyes upward as though in plea to heaven. "See here. In the first place, that term warrior is nonsense. It means no more than calling every woman a lady on Earth or Victoria. The original meaning of lady was a titled woman, a gentlewoman, but eventually the term became a gentilism, and you called any female a lady, even if she was an alcoholic thief. The same on Amazonia. Some people like to draw on mythology, continuously, just for fun. Have you noticed how much of the art is based on Amazonian myth? But to hear you talk, you'd think every woman on the planet was a swaggering soldier."

"All right, so I'll admit that I've been surprised there aren't more women in uniform. That's besides the immediate point."

"I was getting to the fact that you've been confused by some of the terminology. Far from the family on Amazonia consisting of a bully of a female warrior, dominating a harem full of men, there is no family at all."

Ronny pushed the rest of his food away.

"Zen!" he said. "That brings up a picture. No family at all. I suppose they find their children under cabbage leaves in the garden."

She had to laugh, in spite of the fact that her face was already characteristically flushed in the debate.

"Don't be drivel-happy," she said. "This goes back to one of the arguments we had on the Schirra, the fact that nothing is so changing as human institutions. And among these is the family. Down through the ages we have seen evolve every type family imaginable, and we have seen, as well, periods when there was no family at all."

" When?" he demanded. "I'll admit we've had different types of family, under special conditions. Polygamy under the Arabs, because so many of the men were killed off in battle that there was a surplus of women; and polyandry, up in Tibet, before the advent of modern medicine. There was a surplus of men because so many women died in childbirth at that high altitude. But when was there no family at all? You've got to have some sort of family."

"To begin with," she said, "that example of yours of the Tibetans is probably wrong. Inadequate reporters of Tibetan society were probably describing a form of family that was one of the very oldest. All the men of the clan were married to all the women, all the children belonged to everybody. Your prejudiced reporter, his modern sensibilities shocked upon seeing such a society, might well report that the women had more than one husband. Of course they did, and the men more than one wife." Ronny was eyeing her in disbelief.

She went on. "That was a pretty primitive family if you ask me. In fact, I would call it no family at all. As man evolved, he hit upon a taboo, here and there, which prevented such relationships as those between parents and children. You can imagine the advantage this soon led to between those groups who had such a taboo, and those who didn't—gentically speaking. Later on, some groups adopted a taboo against brother and sister relationships and again, those tribes which followed such a custom outstripped the ones who held onto the other type 'family'.

"All this, of course, is oversimplifying. But eventually, out of these successful taboos, grew gentile society, in which each tribe was divided into genos as the Greeks had it, or gens as the Latins called them. It was forbidden to marry within your own gens. You had to take a husband or wife from some other gens, either within your own tribe, or from some other. All children from the relationship became members of the woman's gens, when descent was in the female line. Later this was changed to descent in the male line and you took the name of your father's gens. Very well, what it amounted to was that the gens was one enormous 'family.' All the children were the collective responsibility of the whole gens. All the adults were the mothers and fathers of all the children.

"However, this system fell of with the advent of civilization, the growth of herds and, with agriculture, the ownership of land. A man wanted his own children, who worked with him in the herds or in the fields, to inherit his property. He didn't want it to go to the gens of his wife, as was the old system, or even his own gens. Slowly the family became monogamous, consisting only of a man, his wife, and his children."

"Now wait a minute," Ronny said. He was already tiring of both the subject and the lecture, but there was no easy way to break it off. "You mean not until comparatively recent times have we had a one-man-married-to-one-woman deal?"

"No, I don't mean that. I think that as soon as our race had evolved much further than the outright animal, it began to tend toward a pairing relationship. That is, one man and one woman. This, I think, is eventually the normal relationship toward which we are trending and have always been. Even under gentile society, the usual thing was for one man and one woman to have a relationship. In those days it was easily broken and both could go their way, both were equal, neither had ties on the other. Man and woman complement each other. They act as a team and, instinctively you might say, the pairing family is the natural one."

She plowed on. "But, yes, what we know as marriage and the family today, is comparatively recent. The marriage laws which developed, the marriage ceremonies, the religious teachings, the cultural taboos we came to think of as natural and normal, are new developments historically speaking. With the advent of the monogamous family, several needs had to be met. The man, wishing his children to inherit, had to make sure he was the father. Thus women were segregated, kept virtual prisoners in the gynaecea of the Greeks, the harem of the Arabs, the seraglio of the Turks. The laws and mores were such that a woman must be a virgin at marriage, but that was winked at in the man's case. In fact, under the Code Napoleon, for example, the law conceded the right of the man to be unfaithful. A woman who was caught in adultery was punished with death, in some societies. There were other angles to these new marriage laws, however. In this new type family, with the man controlling all the wealth, the woman and children had to be protected from his being a complete brute. The laws forced him to remain with her during her pregnancy and while the children were young. He was obligated to support them."

Ronny said impatiently, "Look, I don't have time to take a complete course in the history of marriage and the family. Bring it down to here and now. What's all this about there being no family and no marriage on Amazonia?"

She flushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to bore you."

"You're not boring me, confound it." he growled. "I'm just trying to make heads and tails of what goes on in this drivel-happy country."

"Very well. Times have changed again. In a truly affluent society, the woman is no longer dependent upon the man, nor he on her. Nor, are the children dependent upon either. As in the days of the gens, society as a whole sees that nothing harms the child."

"You mean," he said accusingly, "parents don't raise their own kids on this crazy planet?"

"It's not the way I'd put it, but at the risk of shocking your conservative beliefs, Guy Thomas—"

"Call me Ronny," he said wearily, "everybody else does."

"A nickname? With a name like Guy, I wouldn't think you needed a nickname. You know, you certainly seem different than you were on the Schirra. It's as though you were playing a part then."

"Go on about raising the kids," he said.

"Actually, for the past couple of millennia during which parents were in a position to be complete dictators over their children, no matter how unfitted they were for the position—''

"Hey, now wait a minute!"

"Why? Take an example. A silly little slob in her mid-teens goes out with a juvenile delinquent on a drunken party. In the back of the vehicle in which they've been speeding up and down the roads, threatening the lives of others, she fails to take certain precautions. The slob who was her companion, is forced to marry her. Nine months later, the child is born, and, hocus-pocus, a miracle takes place. She is a sainted mother. They're parents! And ipso facto, capable of raising, training, educating the child. Artimis, Ronny! You don't subscribe to this, do you?"

"It's a rather extreme example," he said wryly.

"Not as extreme as all that. How many parents had the time, the training, the intelligence level, sometimes even the desire, to raise healthy, balanced children? One set of parents in ten? I doubt if it was any more."

"So in Amazonia the State raises the children."

"There is no State in Amazonia."

He closed his eyes in pain. "Here we go again," he said. He opened them and glared at her. "But before we go into that, I don't want to miss something we passed over. In all this gobbledygook about family and marriage, you seem to have left out the consideration of one very basic item, in your coldblooded scientific approach."

"What other approach can science have?" she scoffed. "In science you deal with facts, not romanticism."

"That's the point I wanted to bring up. In everything you've said about the relationship between man and woman, and between parents and children, you haven't even had a nod in passing at the word love."

She looked at him scornfully. "So?"

"So the very basis of these relationships are just that. Love. And that remains unchanging down through the centuries, though it may sound like a lot of jetsam to an ethnologist such as yourself."

She sighed in exasperation. "Ronny, you keep insisting on believing that the institutions with which you are familiar are unchanging and have always been. Actually, that term love, as you're using it, is a comparatively modern invention. Romantic love first came on the scene during the Middle Ages—back when so many of the aristocracy were off on crusade, when romantic verse and song were being developed by the troubadours and those fair knights who were smart enough to stay at home from the wars, and when adultery was the full time occupation of a considerable portion of the gentry who had nothing else to do."

"Cynicism doesn't become you, Pat," Ronny said.

She sighed again. "Down through the ages there has always been passion, and there's always been lust, and, of course, above all there has always been the sexual instinct. But romantic love, I repeat, is a fairly new invention. If you will read the mythology of the Greeks, the doings of the Gods, you'll see that they had lust aplenty, but can you point out one myth that portrays true romantic love, with its self sacrifice and so forth? Or get into the historic period. Can you find in all the writings of the Romans, a real love affair? Did the wives of any of the Emperors love them? Compared to the later timeless romances such as that between Disraeli and his wife, Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, President Madison and his Dolly, or even the Duke of Windsor and the woman he loved?"

She snorted at him. "Here on Amazonia, for possibly the first time, we can contemplate a true love between the sexes. No longer does one economically dominate the other. No longer is one at the mercy of the other, because of unfair laws. Both are equal, and—"

"Oh, now, really…" he began, overriding her voice. And it was then that the door hummed.

Pat looked at the screen. "I wasn't expecting anybody," she frowned. The frown turned into a scowl. "It must be broken. There's no one on the screen." Ronny swiveled, quickly. The screen set in the door showed blank. Pat O'Gara reached toward the release button set into the control arm of her chair. He said, "Wait a minute, Pat!"

But she had already pressed.

The door opened and Minythyia, clothed in her Amazon uniform, a quick draw holster on her right hip, was revealed, leaning on the door jam. She grinned at them mockingly. "So," she said, "leave you for half an hour and you dash off to some other women. I can see we're going to have some words in our family, Cutey."

Pat said, "Minythyia!"

The Amazon said to Ronny, "Come along, boy. We've got a date with my mother. She evidently has a few questions she'd like to ask you."

XI

Minythyia followed him down to the street silently. The overcar she'd had earlier was parked near the curb, once again, he noted, in a zone marked prohibited. He was somewhat surprised that she had no other guards with her.

"How'd you know where I was?" he said.

She chuckled, as though fondly, at him. "Where else could you be? You had no place else to go. I forgot it at first but then, after I left mother and the others, I recalled pointing Pat O'Gara's building out to you."

"I was a flat to come here," he muttered. "You realize, obviously, that Citizeness O'Gara had nothing to do with it. I intruded on her. She knows nothing about me, nor why I'm on Amazonia."

"Of course, Cutey," Minythia yawned. She banged at the control levers of the little vehicle, brought them off the street and zoomed forward, pressing him back into the seat.

He was disgusted with himself. He had spent the last precious half hour batting his gums about non-essentials when he should have been desperately trying to figure out some manner in which he could have escaped this insane planet. Some manner in which he could have appropriated a space launch and got himself out to the UP Embassy. Instead, here he was, recaptured by a slip of a girl—or so she appeared, when not in uniform. He looked over at her. It was the confounded uniform that made these women look so aggressive and truculent.

He said in nasty irritation, "Where'd you people ever come up with the idea that women made superior warriors to men?"

She looked at him from the side of her eyes, mockingly, as usual. "My dear husband, whoever contended that women make better warriors than men? Didn't Heracles and Theseus and their Greeks clobber the original Hippolyte and her warriors? And Achilles, when he fought Penthesileia before the walls of Troy, did he have any trouble defeating her?" she leered. "And you know what the legends tell us he did to her afterwards. But anyway, no. I'd never claim that women made better warriors than men. Now soldiers are another thing."

"What are you talking about?" he grumbled. They were driving into an area he hadn't been in before. Probably to the palace, he decided. He wondered how far it was. He could vaguely remember this part of town from the map he had been shown, but he couldn't remember where the palace was located. Confound it, where had the palace been on the chart that Sarpedon had shown them at the Octagon?

She was going on, even as she zipped up one street, down another, in a heart sinking display of a racing driver's art.

"Back in the old days, the good old days, I suppose you'd call them, admittedly a man could take a woman. A 120 pound man, in a fight with a 120 pound woman, could mop the floor with her assuming equal, normal physical development and training. Man is capable of a peak power output about four times that of a woman his size. However…there's an however, you must realize."

"However," he muttered disgustedly. He had few illusions of what was going to happen to him, once they had him under Scop again. They'd drain every bit of information he had in his brain, from childhood on. Every detail of the workings of Section G with which he was familiar, would be theirs to utilize. They'd get as complete a list of agents, and their secret whereabouts, that he, Ronny Bronston, could provide.

"However, a woman can endure a continuing strain longer than a man. How many men could bear up under a difficult childbirth? At any rate, back when warriors fought with swords, men had the ascendency. But it began to taper off, dear husband, when weapons began to change, when even the bayonet became antiquated, since you never got near enough to the enemy to use a sticker. Even back in the so-called First World War, women were beginning to show up in combat, especially among the Russians. By the Second World War they were in full swing. Literally millions of women used every type of weapon, once again especially among the Russians. There were women flying aces, women commanders of warships, women artillerists, and especially women infantry. And it wasn't the Russians alone. The British discovered that the female anti-aircraft crews ran up at least as high scores as the male ones. You see, women have more patience, more stolidity. But possibly the real proof was seen in the Israeli-Arab wars. It was soon found that a 120 pound girl could buck a Brenn gun just as efficiently as a man, and was less apt to wind up with a galloping case of battle fatigue, if the fight went on too long, or if the shelling got a bit too heavy. Oh yes, women might make poorer warriors, but, believe me, husband dear, it has finally developed that they make better soldiers."

She was evidently taking short cuts by going down less traffic ridden main arteries. For the moment, they were on an empty street.

Ronny growled, "I seem to be going from one lecture to another today. But at least, I think I've got something from this one."

She looked at him from the side of her eyes, slowing down for a sharp turn. "Oh…?" He snapped, "Yes." His hand snaked out and switched the engine off. "The fact that man is admittedly better, hand to hand."

She tried to whip her gun from its holster, but his hand was before hers. Open, it slammed the gun deeply down into the holster. And he kept his left hand over the weapon, even as he reached out with his right.

Her eyes wide, she began to shrill something, squirming to escape him. Ronny chopped her expertly behind the ear, and didn't even wait to watch her slump. He brought the vehicle to a bucking halt, awkward as he was with the controls in this position.

His eyes went quickly up and down the street. There were some pedestrians, more than a block away. And several hovercars in the distance. No one, seemingly, had seen the fray.

He heard a yell from above him, darted his eyes up. He had thought himself unobserved too soon. On the third floor of the building before which they had come to a stop, a man was leaning from, a window, shouting as though demented.

"Traitor," Ronny muttered. He hurried out of the car and around to her side. He opened the door that she customarily vaulted, and dragged her forth. He carried her, noting, somewhat to his surprise, that she wasn't nearly as heavy as he would have expected, and unsuspectedly soft in his arms. He set her down bodily against the wall of the building. The apartment occupant above continued to shout blue murder. Another head popped from another window, this time in a building across the way. A scream, sounding ludicrously feminine in this land of Amazons, reached for the skies. He whipped the gun from Minythyia's holster, stuck it in his belt, dashed back to the car, and slid into the seat she had forcibly been hauled from. He banged the controls, for a moment ineffectually.

She had come awake. "Ronny!" she yelled at him. "Come back…!"

"Oh great," he muttered sarcastically. He had the sporthover underway now, and realized why she had driven like a racing zealot. This souped-up vehicle took the bit in its teeth. He blasted down the street as though all demons were, after him.

"You don't understand…!" her voice faded after him. He grunted at that with sour humor. He didn't understand was right, but he understood enough to keep away from that gang of hefty inquisitors, and those armed to the teeth bully-girls in the Hippolyte's palace. This was one honeymoon Minythyia could count him out of.

He sped down the narrow way, took a quick right turn into the first street that appealed to him. Sped some more, and turned again. It would take a time, now, for them to find him.

However, he knew he was going to have to go to ground. He couldn't indefinitely prowl the streets of Themiscyra in this sporthover and expect to keep away from the Hippolyte's people forever. He had seen too many examples of Amazonian efficiency to doubt that once they set their nets it was just a matter of time until he was fished in. But where could he go?

He had emerged into a broader avenue, one of the main arteries, and he slowed to keep attention from falling upon his speeding two seater. He hadn't been on this particular boulevard before, but it checked out in impressive beauty with the others. Public buildings, libraries, he assumed, fountains, monuments, parks, plazas, theatres…

He was passing a theatre now. It was more or less of a replica of the Pantheon, Roman, rather than Greek. Very beautiful…

He jammed the brake down suddenly and goggled.

After a long moment, he brought the little hovercar over to the curb and left it to walk to the display advertising the show within. There were various posters in the old-fashioned style. Basically photographs, he decided, but then touched up with an artist's imagination. It was evidently some sort of variety show, a vaudeville sort of thing, beloved of all centuries. But it was the poster's subject that had caused him to come to a halt, for there stood Clete in a gaudy costume. In her left hand she held half a dozen throwing knives by their points. In her right hand she had a single knife, ready for a cast. Beyond her stood what was obviously an assistant, an apple on the top of his head. The old but ageless William Tell bit.

But that wasn't all.

In one of the other posters he recognized still another face. A face that made it too utterly much.

He walked back to the hovercar in thought. Some of the pieces, just some of them, were beginning to fit into place.

When he got back into the hovercar, he sat for a moment, ignoring anyone who might have been looking at him. His mouth worked, and he rubbed it thoughtfully, roughly with the knuckles of his left hand, so roughly that it stung. A woman was coming up the street and was due to pass within a few feet of him. He said to her suddenly. "I beg your pardon. I'm from out of town. Could you tell me where I can get a newspaper?"

She smiled at him. "Right up the street there at the entrance to the pneumatics. Don't you have a screen in your car? You'd get exactly the same thing by dialing NEWS."

"Thanks," he told her, without inflection.

When she was gone, he sat and concentrated some more. Finally he took the shooter he had appropriated from Minythyia and holding it low, between his knees, inspected it. He had never seen the model before, but he was experienced enough with handguns to figure out its working. It was evidently constructed to throw some sort of projectile, probably a small bullet, with or without either an explosive or a gas cartridge. A somewhat primitive weapon, by the standards of the more militaristically inclined planets of UP, but one that had its uses under circumstances. The difficulty was, there was no clip in the butt.

It was useless.

He looked at it and grunted. Some warrior Minythyia had turned out to be. He tossed the shooter to the floor at his feet and started up the car again. He brought back, before memory's eye, the map of the city and directed the speedy little vehicle at a definite destination this time. However, he drove more slowly than he had before. There was still quite a bit to think about.

He passed the bachelor sanctuary, as the major had called it, drove around to its rear and parked the car.

He stood there for a moment, looking at the building, and figuring out where his quarters had been. Then he found a path that wandered through, the garden and made his way to the area beneath the windows of that suite. Looking up now, he was mildly surprised that he had been able to climb down the wall with such ease. The handholds and footholds didn't look as promising as all that.

He found the gun he had ditched only that morning, in the bush where he had thrown it.

He couldn't afford to be spotted with it in his hand, and tucked it into his belt, without further examination. He had checked it this morning, knew it was charged, knew how it was operated. He doubted if he'd be overly accurate with the weapon at any range at all, at first, but, then, he doubted that he would be using it at any great distance.

He walked around the building and into the entrance he had used before. Inside, he walked up one of the halls aimlessly until he met an inhabitant. The other was hurrying to some destination or other, but Ronny asked him, "Could you tell me what apartment Podner has?"

"Podner Bates? He's in forty, isn't he?" The man hustled on. Ronny Bronston figured out the numbering system of the apartments and finally found forty.

He pulled the same trick that Minythyia had at Pat O'Gara's place. He put his hand over the door's eye before activating it. Inside, Podner, if he was at home, would see nothing but black on his screen.

The door opened and Podner was there, blinking.

Ronny pushed his way past him. He looked about the room. It was far from the frilly affair he had been given the night before. It was a man's apartment—comfortable, scruffed-up furniture that had seen many a shoe rested upon it, a bar with a goodly selection of liquor. Paintings on the wall that would appeal to the masculine taste whether it be on Earth, New Delos, Victoria, or, Ronny Bronston was beginning to understand, Amazonia.

Ronny looked at the other. "You've forgotten your curly wig." Podner fluttered a hand at him. "Oh, darling, you know how it is. A boy simply has to get out of his frills once in awhile. Don't you just hate girdles?" Ronny looked at him wryly, "I never had one on," he said. "And I doubt if you have either."

He held a moment's silence and then said, "You're an actor." Podner blinked at him. He looked disgusted. "Damn it," he said, "What'd I do wrong?"

"Nothing," Ronny said. "Come along. I've got to talk with you, and I don't think I'm safe here."

"Why should I come with you?" Podner said sourly. "Damn it, I thought I was doing fine in that part. Minythyia is going to be furious with me." Ronny put his tunic back a few inches so that the gun in his belt was revealed. He tapped it two or three times with his forefinger. "Let's go," he said, his voice cold. The other stared at the gun. "Holy Ultimate," he said, all the astonishment in the galaxy in his voice. "You mean it. You're threatening me with violence." They marched out of the building and toward the car.

Ronny said, "What happened to my luggage?"

"Major Oreithyia and some others came and got it a couple of hours ago." Ronny grunted disgust, but he couldn't have expected anything else. They climbed into the car, and he looked at the other man, remembering his own attack upon Minythyia shortly before. He said, "Look, Podner, don't try anything. I realize that sissy act of yours was laid on and that you're no molly, however, in this sort of thing, I'm a pro."

"I'm sure you are," Podner muttered unhappily. "I'm not resisting. I'm not a hero." Ronny got under way. He looked from the side of his eyes at the other, trying to dope him out. "What are you? Obviously, you support the Amazonian government."

"Of course," the other said strongly. "Why not?" It's the best government I've ever heard or read about, and I'm interested in the subject." Ronny said evenly, "Oh? My own ideas would lead a little nearer to democracy. You're like a dog licking the hand of the master that has just clobbered him."

"Democracy!" Podner snorted in scorn. "We've gone far beyond democracy on Amazonia."

"Oh, you have, eh? And just what do you find beyond democracy?"

"In the first place, I doubt if you know what the word means," the actor said in high scorn. "Where are we going?"

"You'll find out. So I don't know what democracy means. Please enlighten me."

"Very well. As you possibly know, ancient man's governmental institutions were based on the gens, or genos, as the Greeks called them." Ronny continued to tool the speedster down the boulevard. "So everybody's been telling me," he complained.

"Very well, when city states began to form and new institutions take the place of old, the former ways needed change. A council of chiefs was inadequate to handle municipal affairs. The first attempt to handle the problem is credited in legend to Theuseus, but that's undoubtedly nonsense. It wasn't until Solon, about 549 B.C. that they took the first big step to end gentile society and begin a new form of representation based on geographic factors and on property, rather than on family. In Athens, by the time of Cleisthenes in 509 B.C. the changes were culminated. Instead of being represented in government from the genos into which you were born, you were represented from the deme, or city ward, in which you lived and according to the amount of property you controlled. Democracy, then, actually means rule of the city wards."

"Great," Ronny said sarcastically. "However, the word has come to mean rule of the people."

"Then seldom, if ever, did the reality live up to definition. Take a look down through history. The Athenians with their supposed democracy, in which only the citizens were allowed to vote and the overwhelming majority of the people, the slaves, were not. Florence and Venice and the other Italian republics. Who voted besides the wealthy merchants, the propertied elements? Bring it down to more modern times. Did you labor under the illusion that the soldiers who followed Washington at Valley Forge were allowed the vote after the revolution was won? Comparatively few of them, I'm afraid. Property requirements were stiff before you could vote in the early United States."

"They loosened up later," Ronny said.

"Yes, but by then they had new restrictions, some of them not so obvious. By the middle of the 20th Century, they had the so-called two party system. You could vote for the candidates of either one or the other. The trouble was they both stood for the same thing and represented the same elements. Laws were passed that made it all but impossible for a third party with conflicting principles to get on the ballot. Rule by the people? Take the election of 1960 during which Kennedy, one of the most popular political figures of the century, became president. He had some thirty-four million votes cast for him. The population at the time was one hundred and eighty million, so that you can figure that a bit more than one American out of six voted for him. The others either voted against, didn't vote at all though eligible because of cynicism or whatever reason, weren't allowed to vote because of restrictions based on race or education, or weren't allowed to vote due to insufficient age. One out of six. This is rule by the people?"

"All right," Ronny said. "So you've gone beyond democracy."

"Yes. Actually, rule by the people is only valid under certain circumstances. For instance, would you be willing to abide by the vote of the Roman mob such as it had become in the early centuries of the Empire?"

"So what are the conditions under which it becomes valid?" Some other parts of Ronny Bronston's puzzle were beginning to fall into place. He continued to needle the actor, getting a crumb of information here, another there.

"Only when the electorate is composed of peers. To use a simple illustration, suppose five men are shipwrecked upon an island. If they average out in intelligence, experience and ability, then the only sensible method of deciding who should fish, who should collect coconuts, who should haul water and who should build huts, is the vote. But suppose only two of these men fit that description and one of the others is a moron, another a homicidal maniac and the other in a conditon of shock due to the experiences of the shipwreck. The vote then becomes silly."

"All right," Ronny said passively. "Under what conditions are men peers so that they're competent to vote for their governmental officials?" Podner's tone had long since taken on a superior, professorial tone. "My dear Guy, man has come up with but three schemes of representation down through the centuries. The first based on the family, kinship; the second based on geographical lines and property."

"And the third?"

"Based on your work, your profession, where you hold down your job."

"There we're peers, eh?"

"Yes. If a man is knowledgeable at all, he's knowledgeable when he talks shop. He may not know the duties of a senator as compared to those of a bishop, he may be tempted to vote for a president because the man projects well on a TriDi, or one with an excellent staff of speechwriters. He might be an absolute flat when it comes to politics—I suspect most people are—but on the job he's knowledgeable, whether he works at digging ditches or in a laboratory.

"Let's picture an industry here on Amazonia. Say the hat-making industry. In one of the hat planets there is a gang of eight men who must vote for one of their number to be foreman. Since they work each day with each other, they are in the best position to know who among them is best suited to hold down the job. It is to their interest to elect the best man, since a good foreman can so coordinate their efforts as to make the job easier for all. Very well. The dozen or so foremen in that particular section of the plant work together each day on the problems involved in being a foreman. They elect from their number a section supervisor. The section supervisors of the plant, who also work together each day,select from their number a factory manager. All the factory managers of the hat industry of all Paphlagonia send representatives to an industry-wide conference of the clothing industry, which meets periodically, and in turn sends representatives to the central congress of the nation. There, of course, are the delegates from each field of endeavor, not only manufacturing, but from the professions and from the arts as well. At this congress is planned the production of the nation."

"Syndicalism," Ronny muttered. "They messed around with the idea in the 19th century in Europe."

"I beg your pardon?" Podner said.

Ronny coud begin to anticipate more of his puzzle pieces falling into position. He said, drawing the other out with argument. "Ummm. I see your idea. But look. That's a pretty limited democracy. Your gang of unskilled laborers on the bottom can vote for their foreman, but that's all. Suppose the overwhelming majority in the plant are opposed to the, say, manager? There's no way of getting rid of him. Only the section supervisors have anything to say about him."

Podner nodded. "It's an interesting question, and highly debated. In fact, over in Lybia, they're trying another system. There, the foremen can only nominate a section supervisor, and he must be confirmed by a majority vote of all the men who are to work under him. In turn, the supervisors can only nominate from their number a manager of the factory, and all employees of the plant must vote to confirm him in office. And so up, all the way to the central congress."

Another piece had dropped into place. The puzzle was beginning to show final form. It wasn't complete by any means, but it was shaping up. Ronny, still searching, said, as though half in sympathy, "Ummm. That sounds very fine. Another form of democracy, perhaps. But how does the Hippolyte come into this, and those heads of the pylons, and women's domination of the planet?"

"Oh, that's not important. That's civil government." Ronny darted a sharp glance at him. "How do you mean…?" But suddenly the other's mouth clamped shut. "I talk too much," he muttered. Ronny said quickly, "I thought the Hippolyte was the supreme head of Paphlagonia. The chief of state."

"She is," Podner said lowly.

"Well, how does that fit in with the central congress bit?"

"I've said enough," Podner muttered, unhappily. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"Here," Ronny told him, swinging into the curb. "I suspect it's one place nobody will be searching for me."

Podner Bates looked up at the building, showing no signs that he had ever seen it before.

He said, "You realize, of course, that this amounts to kidnapping? I'm accompanying you under duress."

Ronny had to laugh, even as he left the hovercar. " You're complaining? You should've been through what I have in the past twenty-four hours or so. Amazonia, ha!" He had the actor precede him to the entrance and then up the stairs. Ronny said, in half explanation, "I was here just a short time ago. I doubt if anyone would expect me to return. We can talk it out further, and there's someone else here that might help out with a few matters."

The door of Patricia O'Gara's apartment was ajar. Ronny scowled at that. Instead of activating the eye, he pushed his way through, saying over his shoulder, "Don't try to buzz off. A beam in the leg doesn't look good, fella."

Podner grunted.

Ronny Bronston came to an abrupt halt, his right hand flicked to the gun in his belt. On the floor, partly obscured to his view, lay a girl. Over her, back turned, bent a figure, a gun in one hand.

Ronny snapped, "Drop the shooter!"

The figure stiffened, held the pose for a moment, then let the gun go. The head turned. The man came slowly erect.

Ronny said, "Teucer!"

The other looked at him warily, his hands held wide from his body, palms forward, showing he was taking no action.

Ronny Bronston said, "Get over there by the window. Quick!" Teucer said, "She's dying."

Minythyia, her face contorted in pain, opened her eyes and stared up at the Section G operative.

Ronny said, even as he sank to his knees beside her, "What happened? This doesn't make sense. This doesn't fit in!"

"It fits in," Teucer growled from his position near the window. There was no belligerence in him.

"Artimis!" Podner Bates ejaculated. "It's the Hippolyte's daughter! She's been hurt. We've got to get help."

"Shut up!" Teucer said wearily.

Minythyia looked up at Ronny Bronston. Pain racked her again. She whispered,

"Cutey…kiss me the way they do in the Tri-Di shows from Earth…" His face agonized, he bent toward her.

But she was dead.

XII

Ronny Bronston came up, Arctic cold. The gun was steady in his hand. He looked at Teucer.

"Who killed her?"

Teucer took a deep breath. "Evidently, you did."

"Make more sense, and fast. You're right on the edge. On the very edge."

"Look at the shooter."

Ronny stared down at it. It was an H-Gun. It was his own H-Gun, last seen, dismantled, in his supposed tool kit.

Teucer said, "Tuned to your coordinates, and controlled from the Octagon. Nobody else in the system can use it without blowing themselves up. Except possibly some other Section G agent, fully acquainted with the gismo." Ronny looked at him for a long moment. "Who are you working under?" he said finally.

"Supervisor Lee Chang Ghu. And you?"

"Sid Jakes."

Teucer said, "I thought I made you, there at Heliopolis Street, but I didn't have time for identification. What happened to you there? I thought you were following me."

"I got hung up. I didn't have much of an idea of what was going on at that time."

"I could see you didn't," Teucer said.

"Have you got your badge?"

The slightly built man reached into his belt and brought forth a wallet. He flicked it open. There was a badge inside that gleamed silver when he touched it with his finger, and read simply, Matt Halloday, Section G, Bureau of Investigation.

"Where's yours?" Teucer said.

"I didn't dare bring it," Ronny said. "We knew how thoroughly I'd be searched when they found it was a man wanting to land on Amazonia, rather than the girl the visa was issued to. My name's Bronston."

"I've heard about the work you did on Phyrgia," Matt Halloday nodded. Podner Bates had gone into the bedroom and returned now with a sheet which he draped over the dead girl. He looked at the others. "What are you two talking about?" They ignored him.

Ronny said, "What's this about me killing…my wife?"

"Your wife!" the other Section G operative blurted, but then went on. "When I got here, on the off-chance I might find you with this Patricia O'Gara, Minythyia was like that. A few minutes to live. I've seen H-Gun wounds before…so have you. The gun was on the floor beside her. What happens when she's found and the hippolytes' people come in? You'll get the credit."

"But why…!"

Halloday looked around the small apartment. "I wish there was a drink around this place."

"I'll go round up a bottle," Podner Bates said.

Ronny looked at him. "Like curd, you will. You stay here with us. We're going to need some answers, and quickly."

The actor looked him in the eye. "I'm on your side, gentlemen. I was a friend of Minythyia's. It was she who brought me into this game, this masquerade. I know neither of you killed her. I don't know who possibly could have. There is no crime on Amazonia. This is unprecedented."

"No crime!" Ronny blurted his rage.

Podner looked at him, shaking his head. "Unless you count crime deeds performed by mentally upset persons. We deal with such, of course, in our hospitals. We have no police, no criminal courts, no jails." He added bitterly. "And no need of them save when we are invaded by strangers from over-space."

Ronny turned to Matt Halloday. "I'm surprised we didn't know about each other's presence here on Amazonia. What's your assignment?"

"To track down a defecter. A Section G operative who decided to leave the service."

"What's wrong with that?"

"He didn't bother to go through the usual process of submitting to memorywash, and to turn in such items as his Model H shooter, his badge and his communicator." Ronny Bronston waited for more.

Halloday said, "He'd been stationed on Palermo. He must have gotten together with some of the old Maffeo outfit, remnants of the administration we were instrumental in overthrowing."

"I worked on that," Ronny nodded.

"I know you did. At any rate, the boys evidently struck upon the biggest attempted romp in the history of crime. They weren't interested in anything short of taking over a whole planet, an advanced one at that. Why, next to these stutes, Ghengis Khan, Tamerlane and Alexander were all cloddies."

He went on. "You see, somehow or other they'd hit upon the true nature of this planet, Amazonia. They must have decided it was a plum just waiting for the picking. A whole world…all but defenseless."

Ronny had some questions, then and there, but he didn't interrupt.

"The Maffeo gang couldn't have swung it themselves, but with the aid of Damon Kane—"

"Who?"

"Our Section G turncoat. With his help they figured it all out. They had a small spacescout, hidden away from the days when they dominated Palermo. That enabled them to transfer their forces from Palermo to Amazonia. Later on, it was also used to bring Alfredo Verrocchio back from Earth, where you had met him."

"Alfredo Verrocchio?" Ronny scowled.

"You knew him as Sarpedon. Supposedly a citizen of Amazonia. You and Zeke talked about him."

"Sarpedon! He disappeared."

The other Section G operative nodded. "That was all part of the plot they were building up against Amazonia's government, in the eyes of the Bureau of Investigation. It looked as though the Amazonian Embassy to United Planets must have done away with him. Actually, he was simply picked up by their spacescout and brought back here again."

Ronny said slowly, "His fling had been that all males were being exploited here, and that United Planets should intervene."

Podner Bates laughed sourly at that.

Halloday went on. "I'm not sure of details, of course. The part that interested me was getting Damon Kane before he could spill too much of the inside workings of Section G. I was far too late, of course. The very essence of their scheme involved such secrets."

"I still don't quite get it," Ronny said.

"Damon and Alfredo Verrocchio and their gang were working on the old saying that there is as much wealth to be made in the collapse of a civilization as there is in the building. And they were working on Kane's knowledge that when Section G comes upon a world that is supposedly being held back by some restrictive governmental, religious or socieconomic system, it takes secret steps to overthrow such a government. Once again, I don't know all the details, but their basic plan was to organize their outfit which they dubbed the Sons of Liberty, and project it as a farflung, militant organization, capable and desirous of taking over the reins of government once the Hippolyte on Paphlagonia and the Myrine in Lybia had been overthrown. Actually, they really had only a handful of malcontents, romantics and crackpots." Ronny said, "How many members are there in this supposed revolutionary movement?"

"I don't know. But I doubt if there's more than a couple of thousand on both continents."

Podner said in puzzlement, "This is all new to me. I've never even heard of the Sons of Liberty."

Matt Halloday looked at him. "I doubt if many have. They wouldn't even approach someone, unless they already knew he was a misfit who couldn't have made the grade under any sane social system. But you would have heard of them, all right, if, through the workings of Section G, they had taken over all news media, the Tri-Di, vi-ziophone and all other methods of communication. How much of a fight could Hippolyte's outfit have put up against such a coup?"

The actor shook his head. "None. Practically none. I told you we haven't any police—except, of course, traffic officials, that sort of thing." Ronny said, "How many are there of this Maffeo gang which Damon Kane leads?"

"I've met about five of them, I think. They try to blend in with the Amazonian Sons of Liberty, pretend to be Amazonians themselves, but you can tell the difference if you're looking."

"Zeke's one, eh?"

"Of course."

Ronny said, "Something just cleared up. There was an attempt to kill me on the way to that Heliopolis Street hideout. They must have known I was coming. Possibly they have someone planted in the Hippolyte's offices. They tried to kill me." Matt Halloday scowled. "I don't know if that makes sense."

"Oh, yes it does," Ronny mused. "They also searched my room and broke my communicator so I couldn't get in touch with Sid Jakes to make a report. They were afraid of me making a report. It might not completely bear out what Sarpedon had reported. I was better dead than alive. Damon could have told them that Section G looks after it's own. Something like the old days when a criminal killed a cop. All police dropped everything, until the cop-killer was caught. That had to be the rule, if crooks were to be taught that they just couldn't afford to kill policemen. Kill hold-up victims in the line of work, even kill bank presidents during a stick-up, but don't kill a cop, or you've had it.

"What do you think would have happened, if word had got back to the Bureau of Investigation that supervisor Ronald Bronston had been shot down on the streets of Themiscyra? Hippolyte's government would have immediately been given credit, and, probably with precious little further investigation of the true situation, Section G would have landed on her like a ton of bricks. The present government would have been tossed into the wastebin. Leaving who? Leaving our Damon and his gang. Once Section G pulls a romp, they fade out quickly, leaving the scene to the locals. They don't want to be conspicuous. Some of the other restrictive governments of other worlds might smell a rat."

Podner looked down at the sheet covered girl. "But why Minythyia?" he wailed.

"What possible reason did they have for killing her?" Ronny shook his head, as miserable as the actor. "She must have walked in on them when they were kidnapping Pat O'Gara. They killed two birds with one stone. They finished off the witness, and then, by leaving my Model H shooter, placed the blame on me. That in turn should have infuriated the Hippolyte against the Bureau of Investigation and made more likely some overt move on her part which would sooner or later bring the weight of the Bureau against her."

Halloday looked at him, thoughtfully. "Why snatch Miss O'Gara?"

"She's a citizen of Victoria. If something happens to her, on Amazonia, then Article Two of the UP Charter has been brought into effect…" He broke off and snapped suddenly, "Zen! What are we standing around and jabbering about here? They're going to kill the girl. Nothing else makes sense. They're getting desperate. Zeke tried to shoot me again, after I untied you. They must be afraid the fat's in the fire, that I might be getting on to them, not to speak of you. Let's get going!"

"Going where?" Matt growled. "That Heliopolis address was the only one I knew. I wasn't with them long enough to find out where Damon and Sarpedon make their central headquarters. Zeke suspected I wasn't one of the usual Amazonian crackpots who joined the Sons of Liberty, no matter how I tried to act the part." Ronny rapped, "He gave me another address. Come on. He'll remember they did, and possibly they'll evacuate the place." He rammed his gun into his waistband. Podner said, "How about me?"

They both looked at him, impatiently. "Can you handle a shooter?" Halloday rasped.

"I…I know the theory."

"That you're supposed to point it, and pull the trigger, eh?" Halloday shot a look at Ronny.

Ronny pulled the gun he had rescued from the bushes and tossed it to the actor. "All right, anybody's better than nothing. Zen knows how many of them might be there." They hurried down the stairs and to the two-seater hovercar.

Ronny rapped. "Podner'll have to sit on your lap."

"That'll make us nice and conspicuous," Matt growled.

"Why should we mind being conspicuous?" Podner demanded. "From now on we'll all on the side of the authorities."

"He's got a point," Ronny said. "All bets are down, now. Let's go!" The hovercar lifted, only slightly sluggish under the unusual weight, and hummed forward.

"I think I can remember this," Ronny growled. "It's over on the edge of the river."

They found the house which wasn't overly dissimilar to the underground retreat on Heliopolis. They drove past and completely around the edge of the block. The back faced the river. There were small craft tied up there.

Ronny came to a halt and cased the situation. "Any ideas?" he muttered to Matt. Matt looked at him sourly. "You're supervisor rank. I'm just a full operative. You figure it out. Those Maffeo stutes are just as good with a shooter as we are." Ronny grunted. "Zeke missed me twice."

"Third time is lucky," Matt said dryly.

Ronny said, "All right, Podner. I'm glad we brought you. Get yourself into a boat. One of those tied up behind the houses either to the right or left of our place. If anybody comes out carrying a shooter, except Matt or me, unlimber that artillery I gave you and keep blasting away. It plies a beam that knocks chunks out of anything it touches." He turned to Matt. "You've got your own Model H?"

"Yes. Happily, I'd hidden my shooter, badge and communicator, Zeke didn't find them when he overpowered me. He had gone to check with Damon, to find out what to do with me. You let me loose, and when I saw you weren't following me, I figured you had been nabbed and went on to get my equipment. It wasn't until later I figured out that if you'd escaped you might go to Patricia O'Gara.'s I made my way over there and came on the scene a few minutes later."

"All right, just so you have it. Let's go!"

They rounded the corner again. As they walked, Ronny said tightly, "Our only chance is complete surprise. One of us will go over the roofs and down. All these houses evidently have patio gardens inside. The other will burn the front door down and go in that way. One thing. They're not going to think in terms of taking prisoners. We can't either."

Matt looked at him questioningly.

Ronny growled, "Every one of this Maffeo gang know the real workings of Section G. We can't afford to allow any of them to babble, later on." Matt nodded, uncomfortably.

Ronny said, "Any choice? Over the roof, or through the door?" The other said, "You can go over the roof."

Ronny snorted. They were approaching their destination, walking rapidly, on the off chance a lookout would spot them. At the door next to the hideout, Ronny said, "Give me a few minutes, then come in shooting."

Matt said nothing.

Ronny flicked his gun from his belt, blasted the door of the neighboring house, cutting a complete ring about the knob. It feel inward and he pushed his way inside. There was a hall beyond, and a man hurrying down it, wide-eyed, toward him. Ronny striding quickly snapped, "Interplanetary police. There's a criminal next door. I'm going over the roof to get him. Where's the stairs?" The other bug-eyed him.

"The stairs!" Ronny roared, making a gesture with the gun.

"That…that way. What do you mean, Interplanetary Police?" Ronny ignored him. He took the stairs three at a time. There was a second story, devoted evidently largely to sleeping quarters and refresher rooms, and then a narrower stairway leading up again. The roof, he decided was probably utilized for sunbathing, contemplation of sunsets, and probably for teenagers necking on a starlit night. He came out onto the roof.

Across from him, a man—it was Zeke!—was peering over the roofs edge, down into the street, and bringing up a short barrelled scrambler.

Ronny burned a hole in him through which he could have rammed his arm. Zeke tumbled forward, and a moment later the sound of his body, thudding on the street below, came back. And with it, a crash of splintered wood. Evidently, Matt was on his way in.

Ronny grunted, even as he vaulted the low parapet which separated the two houses. He hurried over to the patio edge and looked down. For the moment, he could see no one below. But even as he began to look up, to locate the stairway, two figures came running from a side-room, dragging at handguns holstered at their sides. He brought his own weapon up to eye level and squeezed off with care. They toppled over, all but cut in two.

The stairs were in approximately the same position as they had been in the house he had just come through. He scurried over to them, instinctively bent low, as men run when under fire.

He burst the door open and started down.

Half way up the stairs an unknown, seemingly weaponless, his eyes wide in fear, shot a terrified look up at him. Ronny didn't lose pace. The other toppled over backward when he shot the right side of his head completely away. He was on the second floor now. He ran completely around it, spotting nothing. The doors were all closed. He could hear the sounds of Matt Halloday's activities going on below. Flinging his shoulder against the last door, Ronny let his momentum take him far into the center of the room. He spun, his gun sweeping. There was nobody present. Back into the hall, still at full pace. He took the next room, duplicated his maneuver. The room was empty, but there was a refresher connected with it. He kicked the door open. A man stood in the auto-shower, evidently unaware of the noises in the building, due to the sound of pressured water. At sight of Ronny, he attempted to scramble in the direction of his clothes. Ronny cut him down mercilessly, turned and was gone before the nude bather hit the floor.

Back into the hall, still running.

He bashed down the next door. On the bed, bound and gagged, was Pat O'Gara. He didn't even take the time to grin at her. He was out in the hall again. This time the next door but one flew open and two men, guns in hand, came running out.

He used the Model H weapon as though it was a hose. He had seen them first. He kicked in the remaining door on that floor. The room was empty. He headed for the stairs again. Below, there was a shambles. He nearly tripped over one body as he headed for the patio.

There he found Matt Halloday, struggling to keep on his feet. With his left hand, the Section G operative was holding the stump of his right arm, severed near the elbow.

"Two of them, one of them Sarpedon, heading for the back. They'll finish that poor Podner yoke."

Ronny shot an agonized look at his colleague, even as he dashed by. Matt was fated to bleed to death in minutes.

There were sounds ahead of him, offering the direction of his way. Gun at the ready, he sped toward them. He met the two returning, their guns held ready too. Ronny Bronston dropped flat, gun hand extended, trigger tight back. The hallway flew apart.

He stumbled to his feet again, pressed ahead, stumbling through gore, his legs wet with blood. He burst out onto the boat landing.

There were no boats there. Over to his right, Podner Bates was wavering a gun at him.

"It's me!" Ronny barked. "Did any get away?"

"No," Podner yelled shrilly, his voice on the edge of cracking.

"Where're the boats?"

"I…I sank.them all with the gun when I heard all the noise." Ronny shook his head at him, in admiration. "All right, come on. I'm afraid Matt's had it." Without waiting for the actor, he turned and headed back, already feeling the trembling that invariably hit him after extreme action. He mustn't let the nausea hit him. Matt had to be taken care of—if it wasn't too late.

The other Section G operative was sprawled in the garden, ludicrously crushing a bed of the largest pansies Ronny Bronston had ever seen. Ronny dropped his gun and fell to his knees before the wounded man. He rolled him over roughly. To his relief, the severed arm was partially cauterized and bleeding comparative little. He wondered as he worked, what sort of weapon had hit the other.

He heard Podner Bates coming up behind and called over his shoulder, "Something I can make a tourniquet from. Quick, you damned cloddy!" Bates scrambled around, and returned in seconds with a torn piece of cloth and a stick.

Ronny worked over the fallen man desperately. Podner came back again, a large piece of torn tunic in his hands, part of the cloth bloody.

"Here," he said, a bandage."

Ronny utilized it, then sat back on his heels. He pulled in a double lungful of air. He said finally, "Pat O'Gara's up in that room, one door from the left. Top of the stairs. You better go get her, she's probably scared to death." There was no response and he looked up.

The actor was looking greenish about the gills. There were three bodies, in various stages of disintegration, strewn about the patio. The sickening stench of warm blood and flesh was everywhere.

Ronny said, "All right, I'll go. Watch Matt."

This time his progress up the stairs was slow. His feet dragged. Why had he bothered to worry about Podner's delicacy? He was as near complete collapse himself. Day was coming to an end. The last twenty-four hours had been the most filled in his life.

He pushed the door open and made his way to her bed. He sat down on the edge of it and laboriously began to untie her. He took the gag out last. Her eyes had been wide on him, taking in the blood on his legs, splattered on his tunic. He felt like an unskilled laborer in a slaughterhouse—and evidently looked and smelled like one. He was too tired to care.

She began to blurt something.

"Shut up," he muttered. "You're all right. You're safe." He stood again and stumbled toward the room's refresher.

The door opened before he reached it and a man stepped out. There was a Model H

gun in his hand and it was leveled at Ronny's stomach. There was a sardonic smile on the other's face.

"Supervisor Bronston, I assume. The fair-haired boy of Sid Jakes and Ross Metaxa." Ronny's own gun was out in the garden where he had dropped it while attending Matt.

He licked dry lips and said wearily, "Damon Kane."

"That's right. Like the Northwest Mounties of legend, you seem to have fouled everything up in the nick of time, you funcker."

Ronny looked at him and shook his head, wearily. Even this emergency couldn't get through his accumulated weariness. He had been going practically all last night and all today into dust, at the top peak of his resources. He hadn't even completely recovered from his hangover of this morning. He was through.

"Why not get it over?" he said.

"Why not?" the Section G renegade snarled. "You've flunked this, Bronston. I don't know how many of my Palermo men you've finished off—"

"All of them," Ronny grunted. "Get it over with, Kane."

"…but I've still got all the nucleus I need among the Amazonians. I'll make a report over my communicator to Sid Jakes, in your name, that'll have Section G here with in weeks. And when they pull down this phoney socioeconomic system, don't think I won't build a new one to my own specifications. We'll take this planet like Grant took…" As he talked, his finger tightened on the trigger.

And suddenly the gun exploded, blasting his chest and lower face into nothingness, sending him reeling back into the refresher room from which he had emerged. Ronny shook his head.

"He evidently didn't know that when Matt Halloday finally realized what was going on, that he simply got in touch with Section G, on his communicator, and had the gun assigned to Damon Kane's coordinates changed. Anybody trying to fire it, without the correct coordinates just blows the booby trap."

He turned to say something to Pat O'Gara, who was sitting upright in bed now, a fist to her mouth, her face ghost-like. But then he felt the mists roll in, and fell to the floor himself.

Ronny Bronston awakened in bed.

It was a clean, light room, and he felt unbelievably clean himself. A woman—who must have been a doctor, she looked like a doctor—said, "You're awake."

"Not very," he said. "Go away." And went back to sleep. When he awoke again, nothing had changed, save that two persons sat next to his bed and several more stood behind, none of whom he immediately recognized save Major Oreithyia, who for the first time he had seen her, was not in uniform. No, he did recognize the others now. They were members of the committee who had questioned him before he had been taken in to meet the Hippolyte.

Of the two seated women, one was the Hippolyte herself. However, she wasn't garbed now in the regal outfit of the palace throne room. She still bore her strength of character in her face, but the air of supreme command was gone. He didn't recognize the woman seated next to her and it must have shown in his eyes.

The Hippolyte said, "This is the Myrine of Lybia."

Ronny nodded, he had guessed, even as she spoke. The Hippolyte said, "Are you strong enough to talk? The doctor says your wound is doing nicely." He hadn't even known he had been wounded. He wondered which of the enemy had managed to hit him. It didn't surprise him. In the heat of combat you often copped one without feeling it until later.

"I'm all right," he said.

The Hippolyte said, "The Schirra is still in orbit. Evidently, the satellite which houses the UP Embassy has some personnel which wishes to transfer back to Earth. Do you think you can undertake the reembark and return to Earth with a message from Amazonia to the Department of Interplanetary Justice and whatever other officials are involved in this sweeping scheme to prod all man-settled planets into progress?" Ronny looked at the two of them warily. He shook his head. "I don't think I have a clear enough picture as yet, to give a comprehensive report." The Hippolyte nodded. "You will have. In actuality, it's all very simple. Ask us what you will. We'll cooperate. The Myrine has come all the way from Lybia to join in my final discussion with you."

Ronny looked at the Lybian Amazon head. She held the same dignity as did the Hippolyte, but was evidently prone to hold her peace.

He said. "It was all show, wasn't it?"

"Largely."

"Podner mentioned that you have no police. You have no armies either, have you?

Neither one of you?"

"That is correct," the Hippolyte said. "We haven't had for almost two centuries." Ronny shook his head, again. "When I was given this assignment, I went to the Octagon library. I checked everything it had on Amazonia, which was precious little. A great deal of it dealt with the founding of your organization, its original principles, the things you did on Earth to recruit members. It held all the bylaws of your organization, all the plans you expected to put through once you landed on your colony planet. All the pamphlets and books dealing with the Amazon movement, and why it was rebelling against man's domination."

Myrine opened her mouth for the first time, coming forth with nothing more than a chuckle.

"That was over two centuries ago," the Hippolyte said. "I think we'll save time, Ronald Bronston, if I take over. You see, at first I imagine we were something like the Mormons who settled Utah back in the old times. We had a multitude of ideas, principles, beliefs, and a great deal of faith in what, as we look back at it today, was obviously extremism. But we were no incompetents. And like the Mormons we quickly became pragmatic. Just as they gave up their polygamy when it proved impractical, we gave up the domination of one sex over the other. Not so quickly, perhaps, but step by step."

The Myrine twisted her face in humor and it suddenly came to Ronny Bronston that she was an extremely handsome woman and must have been a beauty in her youth. She said, "We still have a few signs of it about, especially here in Paphlagonia." The Hippolyte nodded. "More symbols than anything else, even here. At any rate, once again, similar to the Mormons, when our first colony ships landed all property was community owned, save, of course, personal things. Our original ideas of a female-dominated socioeconomic commonwealth proved nonsense within the year. The smallest unit of a life form is that unit which can reproduce itself. In the case of the human race, a woman and a man…"

The Amazon leader of Lybia twisted her face again.

"Or, as Citizen Bronston would undoubtedly put it, a man and a woman." Ronny grinned at her suddenly. He would have liked to have known this person better, and doubted that he would ever have the opportunity.

"At any rate," the Hippolyte went on, "our experiments revealed that only as a partnership can the relationship reach its ultimates. And so we adapted. We had various advantages over many other Earth colonies, I am sure. In spite of our initial enthusiasms, we were not fools. Our colonists were composed of survival types. Nor were we inadequately equipped. A great many of our society back on the home planet who weren't able to come, gave their full support of our attempt. We must have been one of the richest colonizations that ever burnt off into the stars. In short, we had the wherewithal to experiment, and the good luck to have one of the richest planets man has yet discovered.

"And so we prospered. We experimented here, we experimented there. Now you see the result we have thus far attained."

"When did you stop having a military?" Ronny asked curiously.

"From the beginning. We're women, remember."

Ronny said dryly, "I seem to remember such women in history as Elizabeth the First, Catherine the Great and Zenobia who didn't exactly avoid war." Hippolyte nodded. "But they were women living in a man's world, and having to adopt men's methods in order to realize their ambitions. Ours was a woman's world. One of our original revolts was against the incessant armed conflict that has persisted since the early days of man's dominance."

He said, "Why the big masquerade? Why let those stories go around about the Amazons on this planet, the harems of men?"

The small group standing behind the two seated Amazon leaders stirred in suppressed laughter.

"Why encourage all this nonsense by such things as sending as delegates to the UP

on Earth, big strapping muscular type women, all done up in uniforms that look straight out of the Trojan War?"

The Hippolyte chuckled wryly. "I thought anyone as astute as yourself, Ronald Bronston, would have figured that out by this time. We were defenseless. We neither had, nor wanted a military. But we knew we stood alone, a matriarchy in a confederation of two or three thousand planets dominated by men. Frankly, we were afraid. We were afraid man's instinct would be to pull us down. So it was we put up our false front. So it was we let rumors spread that we would give any man pause before he landed on our world. Of recent decades, our spies have brought rumors back to us that intensified our fears. We heard that the institutions of some of the member planets of UP were being subverted. That governments were being overthrown through the connivance of certain UP agencies." She nodded. "What you told us under Scop made us realize our fears were well grounded."

Ronny avoided that and went back. "If there isn't any real conflict between your two major continents, why don't you have world government?"

One of the standees, a man Ronny vaguely recalled as Aeasus, interrupted for the first time.. Ronny had pegged him before as some sort of economist. He said, "Don't you see? We act as controls upon each other. If we attempt some new theory, and there seems to be an alternative, we let one continent try this system, the other that." He added, sourly, "Sometimes both are wrong." Ronny was nodding in memory. "Podner Bates was telling me about your method of voting. In Lybia, you seem to have a variation on popular democracy—through industrial representation, of course—and in Paphalagonia, more nearly a representative one."

Someone said from behind, "That's correct."

Ronny said, "But what's all this about you being the Myrine and you the Hippolyte, and the pylons and the genos and such?"

The Hippolyte sighed wryly. "You probably read some of it in those early papers you scanned at the Octagon library. At first we tried to go back to gentile society, based on descent in the matrilineal line, and with women only given the vote. Some of the symbols of this we still retain, such as descent in the female line, which obviously is at least as sensible as descent in the male line. But, bit by bit, real government control was taken away from this organization and handed over to the central production congress until at long last our body was in charge only of civil matters." The Myrine said here, "I beg our pardon, my dear. Even that applies only here in Paphlagonia. In Lybia we are experimenting with universl suffrage even in civil matters, and making it an 'industry' involving men as well as women and with representation in our central congress."

"What do you mean, civil matters?" Ronny said.

"Matters pertaining not to production and such problems, but to every day civic life. Traffic problems, planning of a city's supply of water and disposal of sewage, organization of festivals, judging of disputes between citizens. In the old days, before we had eliminated crime for all practical purposes, police, courts, prisons, that sort of thing."

Ronny said, "Just one other matter. This system of paying in hours. Where'd you come up with that silly idea that all time is worth exactly the same?" Aeasus blurted, "What's silly about it, you flat!"

The Myrine laughed heartily.

She bent a friendly eye on Ronny and said, "You're quite right. In Lybia, we have varying values for an hour. A highly trained man's time can be worth several times as many hours as an unskilled man. We still count by hours, but we have different scales." The Hippolyte grumbled, "It's an experiment we haven't concluded as yet. We're not sure if Lybia's right or not."

She changed the subject. "Purely to satisfy my own curiosity, how did you see through the elaborate show we put on for you? Frankly, when Oreithyia told us you were a man, we were in a tizzy. We wanted the columbium very badly, but we didn't want you to come in contact with our world as it is. My…" her face showed quick pain

"…my daughter helped out, planning an extensive masquerade in which she seemed to take considerable pleasure. She always was fascinated by Earth, which is why she liked to meet the incoming spaceships as one of the customs officers." She hesitated. "Perhaps that is why she became attracted to you, personally."

Ronny said softly, "At the end, I assure you, the attraction was reciprocated. I don't know what it was that first made me smell a rat. Many things, I suppose. One of the matters that confused me considerably, though, was your throne room and all those hundreds of guards and attendants, playing court to you. It bore out everything I'd ever heard about Amazonia. Why, it was like a gigantic Tri-Di historical spectacular show." The Hippolyte said dryly, "That's exactly what it was. We took you to a Tri-Di set. Our people love this sort of show and our entertainment industry produces a good many of them. To impress you, Minythyia simply made arrangements to take the set over, bag and baggage. Those soliders and attendants were all actors and extras. There is no such thing as a palace or throne room here in Themiscyra." Ronny took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. "Well, several things gave me hints. For instance, Podner Bates was presented to me as though he was a typical Amazonian male, but no other males I met seemed to be like him. I was given the impression that all women were warriors, but then never saw anyone in uniform except those I came officially in contact with. But the payoff was when I saw Clete, and Podner, on a theater billboard. Clete had done that little act of hers, showing what efficient warriors Amazonians were, by making a bullseye throwing her short sword. But the billboard told me she was a professional knife thrower. Quite a coincidence. No, the whole thing didn't hold together. I was told there were no newspapers or broadcasts. I can see why, now. If I had seen one, the beans would have been spilled. Another thing that didn't fit was the fact that Tanais was an exchange student from Lybia. How could you have exchange students if you were continually at war?" He looked at the Hippolyte quizzically. "What's all this about I thee wed and the three husbands and all?"

All of the assembled Amazonians joined him in smiling.

The Hippolyte said, "Minythyia dredged that up from the very early years of the new colony, as one of the bits of business to frighten you into hurrying up and concluding our transactions as soon as possible. Actually, of course, we have a pairing arrangement between the sexes. Both marriage and divorce are very simple, but we Amazonians go two-by-two. Any more questions?"

He thought about it and shook his head.

She said, "We have considered what you revealed under Scop and the Myrine and I, as symbol chiefs of state, wish to put ourselves on record as supporting United Planets in that organization's efforts to promote progress on the member planets. Our opinion, of course, is subject to the approval of the congresses of Paphlagonia and Lybia but I have little doubt but that they will concur."

Ronny said slowly, "There is more to this matter of the intelligent aliens than I disclosed, however, I'm sure that the Octagon will be sending you representatives to go into it in detail. It's not up to me."

The Hippolyte and Myrine nodded, and the former said, "We can then expect you to rejoin the Schirra and inform your superiors of our stand, and of our desire to remain under our cloak of secrecy? I am afraid your colleague, Citizen Halloday, will have to return by the next spacecraft that comes through. Our physicians are grafting a new lower arm."

Ronny shrugged. "Right. United Planets doesn't contend that there is only one road to progress. In fact, it's most anxious to push experimentation, not only in the sciences and production techniques, but in socioeconomic fields as well."