Stars, Like Dust, The - Isaac Asimov

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Isaac Asimov, noted biochemist and professor and the Boston University School of Medicine, is not only
recognized as one of the greatest science fiction writers of our time, but also has been praised for the
excitement he brings to the writing of scientific fact.
In THE STARS, LIKE DUST, Dr. Asimov’s probing imagination has created a fascinating tale set in a
terrifying world of tomorrow--an adventure that could change from fiction to fact any day now…
isaac asimov
THE STARS,
LIKE DUST
THIS BOOK CONTAINS THE COMPLETE TEXT OF THE ORIGINAL HARDCOVER EDITION
Copyright © 1951 by Isaac Asimov
ONE:
The Bedroom Murmured
The bedroom murmured to itself gently. It was almost below the limits of hearing--an irregular little sound,
yet quite unmistakable, and quite deadly.
But it wasn’t that which awakened Biron Farrill and dragged him out of a heavy, unrefreshing
slumber. He turned his head restlessly from side to side in a futile struggle against the periodic burr-r-r on
the end table.
He put out a clumsy hand without opening his eyes and closed contact.
“Hello,” he mumbled.
Sound tumbled instantly out of the receiver. It was harsh and loud, but Biron lacked the ambition
to reduce the volume.
It said, “May I speak to Biron Farrill?”
Biron said, fuzzily, “Speaking. What d’you want?”
“May I speak to Biron Farrill?” The voice was urgent.
Biron’s eyes opened on the thick darkness. He became conscious of the dry unpleasantness of his
tongue and the faint odor that remained in the room.
He said, “Speaking. Who is this?”
It went on, disregarding him, gathering tension, a loud voice in the night. “Is anyone there? I
would like to speak to Biron Farrill.”
Biron raised himself on one elbow and stared at the place where the visiphone sat. He jabbed at
the vision control and the small screen was alive with light.
“Here I am,” he said. He recognized the smooth, slightly asymmetric features of Sander Jonti.
“Call me in the morning, Jonti.”
He started to turn the instrument off once more, when Jonti said, “Hello, Hello. Is anyone there? Is
this University Hall, Room 526? Hello.”
Biron was suddenly aware that the tiny pilot light which would have indicated a live sending
circuit was not on. He swore under his breath and pushed the switch. It stayed off. Then Jonti gave up, and
the screen went blank, and was merely a small square of featureless light.
Biron turned it off. He hunched his shoulder and tried to burrow into the pillow again. He was
annoyed. In the first place, no one had the right to yell at him in the middle of the night. He looked quickly
at the gently luminous figures just over the headboard. Three-fifteen. House lights wouldn’t go on for
nearly four hours.
Besides, he didn’t like having to wake to the complete darkness of his room. Four years’ custom
had not hardened him to the Earthman’s habit of building structures of reinforced concrete, squat, thick,
and windowless. It was a thousand-year-old tradition dating from the days when the primitive nuclear
bomb had not yet been countered by the force-field defense.
But that was past. Atomic warfare had done its worst to Earth. Most of it was hopelessly
radioactive and useless. There was nothing left to lose, and yet architecture mirrored the old fears, so that
when Biron woke, it was to pure darkness.
Biron rose on his elbow again. That was strange. He waited. It wasn’t the fatal murmur of the
bedroom he had become aware of. It was something perhaps even less noticeable and certainly infinitely
less deadly.
He missed the gentle movement of air that one took so for granted, that trace of continuous
renewal. He tried to swallow easily and failed. The atmosphere seemed to become oppressive even as he
realized the situation. The ventilating system had stopped working, and now he really had a grievance. He
couldn’t even use the visiphone to report the matter.
He tried again, to make sure. The milky square of light sprang out and threw a faint, pearly luster
on the bed. It was receiving, but it wouldn’t send. Well, it didn’t matter. Nothing would be done about it
before day, anyway.
He yawned and groped for his slippers, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. No
ventilation, eh? That would account for the queer smell. He frowned and sniffed sharply two or three times.
No use. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
He made his way to the bathroom, and reached automatically for the light switch, although he
didn’t really need it to draw himself a glass of water. It closed, but uselessly. He tried it several times,
peevishly. Wasn’t anything working? He shrugged, drank in the dark, and felt better. He yawned again on
his way back to the bedroom where he tried the main switch. All the lights were out.
Biron sat on the bed, placed his large hands on his hard-muscled thighs and considered.
Ordinarily, a thing like this would call for a terrific discussion with the service staff. No one expected hotel
service in a college dormitory, but, by Space, there were certain minimum standards of efficiency one could
demand. Not that it was of vital importance just now. Graduation was coming and he was through. In three
days he’d be saying a last good-by to the room and to the University of Earth; to Earth itself, for that
matter.
Still, he might report it anyway, without particular comment. He could go out and use the hall
phone. They might bring in a self-powered light or even rig up a fan so he could sleep without
psychosomatic choking sensations. If not, to Space with them! Two more nights.
In the light of the useless visiphone, he located a pair of shorts. Over them he slipped a one-piece
jumper, and decided that that would be enough for the purpose. He retained his slippers. There was no
danger of waking anybody even if he clumped down the corridors in spiked shoes, considering the thick,
nearly soundproof partitions of this concrete pile, but he saw no point in changing.
He strode toward the door and pulled at the lever. It descended smoothly and he heard the click
that meant the door release had been activated. Except that it wasn’t. And although his biceps tightened into
lumps, nothing was accomplished.
He stepped away. This was ridiculous. Had there been a general power failure? There couldn’t
have been. The clock was going. The visiphone was still receiving properly.
Wait! It could have been the boys, bless their erratic souls. It was done sometimes. Infantile, of
course, but he’d taken part in these foolish practical jokes himself. It wouldn’t have been difficult, for
instance, for one of his buddies to sneak in during the day and arrange matters. But, no, the ventilation and
lights were working when he had gone to sleep.
Very well, then, during the night. The hall was an old, outmoded structure. It wouldn’t have taken
an engineering genius to hocus the lighting and ventilation circuits. Or to jam the door, either. And now
they would wait for morning and see what would happen when good old Biron found he couldn’t get out.
They would probably let him out toward noon and laugh very hard.
“Ha, ha,” said Biron grimly, under his breath. All right, if that’s the way it was. But he would
have to do something about it; turn the tables some way.
He turned away and his toe kicked something which skidded metallically across the floor. He
could barely make out its shadow moving through the dim visiphone light. He reached under the bed,
patting the floor in a wide arc. He brought it out and held it close to the light. (They weren’t so smart.
They should have put the visiphone entirely out of commission, instead of just yanking out the sending
circuit.)
He found himself holding a small cylinder with a little hole in the blister on top. He put it close to
his nose and sniffed at it. That explained the smell in the room, anyway. It was Hypnite. Of course, the
boys would have had to use it to keep him from waking up while they were busy with the circuits.
Biron could reconstruct the proceedings step by step now. The door was jimmied open, a simple
thing to do, and the only dangerous part, since he might have wakened then. The door might have been
prepared during the day, for that matter, so that it would seem to close and not actually do so. He hadn’t
tested it. Anyway, once open, a can of Hypnite would be put just inside and the door would be closed
again. The anesthetic would leak out slowly, building up to the one in ten thousand concentration
necessary to put him definitely under. Then they could enter--masked, of course. Space! A wet
handkerchief would keep out the Hypnite for fifteen minutes and that would be all the time needed.
It explained the ventilation system situation. That had to be eliminated to keep the Hypnite from
dispersing too quickly. That would have gone first, in fact. The visiphone elimination kept him from
getting help; the door jamming kept him from getting out; and the absence of lights induced panic. Nice
kids!
Biron snorted. It was socially impossible to be thin-skinned about this. A joke was a joke and all
that. Right now, he would have liked to break the door down and have done with it. The well-trained
muscles of his torso tensed at the thought, but it would be useless. The door had been built with atom blasts
in mind. Damn that tradition!
But there had to be some way out. He couldn’t let them get away with it. First, he would need a
light, a real one, not the immovable and unsatisfactory glow of the visiphone. That was no problem. He had
a self-powered flashlight in the clothes closet.
For a moment, as he fingered the closet-door controls, he wondered if they had jammed that too.
But it moved open naturally, and slid smoothly into its wall socket. Biron nodded to himself. It made sense.
There was no reason, particularly, to jam the closet, and they didn’t have too much time, anyway.
And then, with the flashlight in his hand, as he was turning away, the entire structure of his theory
collapsed in a horrible instant. He stiffened, his abdomen ridging with tension, and held his breath,
listening.
For the first time since awakening, he heard the murmuring of the bedroom. He heard the quiet,
irregular chuckling conversation it was holding with itself, and recognized the nature of the sound at once.
It was impossible not to recognize it. The sound was “Earth’s death rattle.” It was the sound that
had been invented one thousand years before.
To be exact, it was the sound of a radiation counter, ticking off the charged particles and the hard
gamma waves that came its way, the soft clicking electronic surges melting into a low murmur. It was the
sound of a counter, counting the only thing it could count--death!
Softly, on tiptoe, Biron backed away. From a distance of six feet he threw the white beam into the
recesses of the closet. The counter was there, in the far corner, but seeing it told him nothing.
It had been there ever since his freshman days. Most freshmen from the Outer Worlds bought a
counter during their first week on Earth. They were very conscious of Earth’s radioactivity then, and felt
the need of protection. Usually they were sold again to the next class, but Biron had never disposed of his.
He was thankful for that now.
He turned to the desk, where he kept his wrist watch while sleeping. It was there. His hand was
shaking a little as he held it up to the flashlight’s beam. The watch strap was an interwoven flexible plastic
of an almost liquidly smooth whiteness. And it was white. He held it away and tried it at different angles. It
was white.
That strap had been another freshman purchase. Hard radiation turned it blue, and blue on Earth
was the color of death. It was easy to wander into a path of radiating soil during the day if you were lost or
careless. The government fenced off as many patches as it could, and of course no one ever approached the
huge areas of death that began several miles outside the city. But the strap was insurance.
If it should ever turn a faint blue, you would show up at the hospital for treatment. There was no
argument about it. The compound of which it was made was precisely as sensitive to radiation as you were,
and appropriate photoelectric instruments could be used to measure the intensity of the blueness so that the
seriousness of the case might be determined quickly.
A bright royal blue was the finish. Just as the color would never change back, neither would you.
There was no cure, no chance, no hope. You just waited anywhere from a day to a week, and all the
hospital could do was to make final arrangements for cremation.
But at least it was still white, and some of the clamor in Biron’s thoughts subsided.
There wasn’t much radioactivity then. Could it be just another angle of the joke? Biron considered
and decided that it couldn’t. Nobody would do that to anyone else. Not on Earth, anyway, where illegal
handling of radioactive material was a capital offense. They took radioactivity seriously here on Earth.
They had to. So nobody would do this without overpowering reason.
He stated the thought to himself carefully and explicitly, facing it boldly. The overpowering
reason, for instance, of a desire to murder. But why? There could be no motive. In his twenty-three years of
life, he had never made a serious enemy. Not this serious. Not murder serious.
He clutched at his clipped hair. This was a ridiculous line of thought, but there was no escaping it.
He stepped cautiously back to the closet. There had to be something there that was sending out radiation;
something that had not been there four hours earlier. He saw it almost at once.
It was a little box not more than six inches in any direction. Biron recognized it and his lower lip
trembled slightly. He had never seen one before, but he had heard of them. He lifted the counter and took it
into the bedroom. The little murmur fell off, almost ceased. It started again when the thin mica partition,
through which the radiation entered, pointed toward the box. There was no question in his mind. It was a
radiation bomb.
The present radiations were not in themselves deadly; they were only a fuse. Somewhere inside
the box a tiny atomic pile was constructed. Short-lived artificial isotopes heated it slowly, permeating it
with the appropriate particles. When the threshold of head and particle density was reached, the pile
reacted. Not in an explosion, usually, although the heat of reaction would serve to fuse the box itself into a
twist of metal, but in a tremendous burst of deadly radiation that would kill anything living within a radius
of six feet to six miles, depending on the bomb’s size.
There was no way of telling when the threshold would be reached. Perhaps not for hours, and
perhaps the next moment. Biron remained standing helplessly, flashlight held loosely in his damp hands.
Half an hour before, the visiphone had awakened him, and he had been at peace then. Now he knew he was
going to die.
Biron didn’t want to die, but he was penned in hopelessly, and there was no place to hide,
He knew the geography of the room. It was at the end of a corridor, so that there was another room
only on one side, and, of course, above and below. He could do nothing about the room above. The room
on the same floor was on the bathroom side, and it adjoined via its own bathroom. He doubted that he could
make himself heard.
That left the room below.
There were a couple of folding chairs in the room, spare seats to accommodate company. He took
one. It made a flat, slapping sound when it hit the floor. He turned it edgewise and the sound became harder
and louder.
Between each blow, he waited; wondering if he could rouse the sleeper below and annoy him
sufficiently to have him report the disturbance.
Abruptly, he caught a faint noise, and paused, the splintering chair raised above his head. The
noise came again, like a faint shout. It was from the direction of the door.
He dropped the chair and yelled in return. He crushed his ear up against the crack where door
joined wall, but the fit was good, and the sound even there was dim.
But he could make out his own name being called.
“Farrill! Farrill!” several times over, and something else. Maybe “Are you in there?” or “Are you
all right?”
He roared back, “Get the door open.” He shouted it three or four times. He was in a feverish sweat
of impatience. The bomb might be on the point of letting loose even now.
He thought they heard him. At least, the muffled cry came back, “Watch out. Something,
something, blaster.” He knew what they meant and backed hurriedly away from the door.
There were a couple of sharp, cracking sounds, and he could actually feel the vibrations set up in
the air of the room. Then there followed a splitting noise and the door was flung inward. Light poured in
from the corridor.
Biron dashed out, arms flung wide. “Don’t come in,” he yelled. “For the love of Earth, don’t come
in. There’s a radiation bomb in there.”
He was facing two men. One was Jonti. The other was Esbak, the superintendent. He was only
partly dressed.
“A radiation bomb?” he stuttered.
But Jonti said, “What size?” Jonti’s blaster was still in his hand, and that alone jarred with the
dandyish effect of his ensemble, even at this time of night.
Biron could only gesture with his hands.
“All right,” said Jonti. He seemed quite cool about it, as he turned to the superintendent. “You’d
better evacuate the rooms in this area, and if you have leadsheets anywhere on the university grounds, have
them brought out here to line the corridor. And I wouldn’t let anyone in there before morning.”
He turned to Biron. “It probably has a twelve-to-eighteen-foot radius. How did it get there?”
“I don’t know,” said Biron. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “If you don’t mind,
I’ve got to sit down somewhere.” He threw a glance at his wrist, then realized his wrist watch was still in
the room. He had a wild impulse to return after it.
There was action now. Students were being hustled out of their rooms.
“Come with me,” said Jonti. “I think you had better sit down too. “
Biron said, “What brought you out to my room? Not that I’m not thankful, you understand.”
“I called you. There was no answer, and I had to see you.”
“To see me?” He spoke carefully, trying to control his irregular breathing. “Why?”
“To warn you that your life was in danger.”
Biron laughed raggedly. “I found out.”
“That was only the first attempt. They’ll try again.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“Not here, Farrill,” said Jonti. “We need privacy for this. You’re a marked man, and I may already
have endangered myself as well.”
TWO:
The Net Across Space
The student lounge was empty; it was dark as well. At four-thirty in the morning it could scarcely have
been otherwise. Yet Jonti hesitated a moment as he held the door open, listening for occupants.
“No,” he said softly, “leave the lights out. We won’t need them to talk.”
“I’ve had enough of the dark for one night,” muttered Biron.
“We’ll leave the door ajar.”
Biron lacked the will to argue. He dropped into the nearest chair and watched the rectangle of light
through the closing door narrow down to a thin line. Now that it was all over, he was getting the shakes.
Jonti steadied the door and rested his little swagger stick upon the crack of light on the floor.
“Watch it. It will tell us if anyone passes, or if the door moves.”
Biron said, “Please, I’m not in a conspiratorial mood. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate your
telling me whatever it is you want to tell me. You’ve saved my life, I know, and tomorrow I’ll be properly
thankful. Right now, I could do with a short drink and a long rest.”
“I can imagine your feelings,” Jonti said, “but the too-long rest you might have had has been
avoided, momentarily. I would like to make it more than just momentarily. Do you know that I know your
father?”
The question was an abrupt one, and Biron raised his eyebrows, a gesture lost in the dark. He said,
“He has never mentioned knowing you.”
“I would be surprised if he did. He doesn’t know me by the name I use here. Have you heard from
your father recently, by the way?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because he is in great danger.”
“What?”
Jonti’s hand found the other’s arm in the dimness and gripped it firmly. “Please! Keep your voice
as it has been.” Biron realized, for the first time that they had been whispering.
Jonti resumed, “I’ll be more specific. Your father has been taken into custody. You understand the
significance?”
“No, I certainly don’t understand. Who has taken him into custody, and what are you getting at?
Why are you bothering me?” Biron’s temples were throbbing. The Hypnite and the near death had made it
impossible to fence with the cool dandy sitting so close to him that his whispers were as plain as shouts.
“Surely,” came the whisper, “you have some inkling of the work your father is doing?”
“If you know my father, you know he is Rancher of Widemos. That is his work.”
Jonti said, “Well, there is no reason you should trust me, other than that I am risking my own life
for you. But I already know all that you can tell me. As an example, I know that your father has been
conspiring against the Tyranni.”
“I deny that,” said Biron tensely. “Your service to me this night does not give you the right to
make such statements about my father.”
“You are foolishly evasive, young man, and you are wasting my time. Don’t you see that the
situation is beyond verbal fencing? I’ll say it outright. Your father is in the custody of the Tyranni. He may
be dead by now.”
“I don’t believe you.” Biron half rose.
“I am in a position to know.”
“Let’s break this off, Jonti. I am in no mood for mystery, and I resent this attempt of yours to--”
“Well, to what?” Jonti’s voice lost some of its refined edge. “What do I gain by telling you this?
May I remind you that this knowledge of mine, which you will not accept, made it plain to me that an
attempt might be made to kill you. Judge by what has happened, Farrill.”
Biron said, “Start again and tell it straight. I’ll listen.”
“Very well. I imagine, Farrill, that you know me to be a fellow countryman from the Nebular
Kingdoms, although I’ve been passing myself off as a Vegan.”
“I judged that might be a possibility by your accent. It didn’t seem important.”
“It’s important, my friend. I came here because, like your father, I didn’t like the Tyranni. They’ve
been oppressing our people for fifty years. That’s a long time.”
“I’m not a politician.”
Again Jonti’s voice had an irritated edge to it. “Oh, I’m not one of their agents trying to get you
into trouble. I’m telling you the truth. They caught me a year ago as they have caught your father now. But
I managed to get away, and came to Earth where I thought I might be safe until I was ready to return.
That’s all I need to tell you about myself.”
“It is more than I have asked for, sir.” Biron could not force the unfriendliness out of his voice.
Jonti affected him unfavorably with his too-precise mannerisms.
“I know that. But it is necessary to tell you so much at least, for it was in this manner that I met
your father. He worked with me, or, rather, I with him. He knew me but not in his official capacity as the
greatest nobleman on the planet of Nephelos. You understand me?”
Biron nodded uselessly in the darkness and said, “Yes.”
“It is not necessary to go into that further. My sources of information have been maintained even
here, and I know that he has been imprisoned. It is knowledge. If it were merely suspicion, this attempt on
your life would have been sufficient proof.”
“In what way?”
“If the Tyranni have the father, would they leave the son at large?”
“Are you trying to tell me that the Tyranni set that radiation bomb in my room? That’s
impossible.”
“Why is it impossible? Can’t you understand their position? The Tyranni rule fifty worlds; they
are outnumbered hundreds to one. In such a position, simple force is insufficient. Devious methods,
intrigue, assassination are their specialties. The net they weave across space is a wide one, and close-
meshed. I can well believe that it extends across five hundred light-years to Earth.”
Biron was still in the grip of his nightmare. In the distance there were the faint sounds of the lead
shields being moved into place. In his room the counter must still be murmuring.
He said, “It doesn’t make sense. I am going back to Nephelos this week. They would know that.
Why should they kill me here? If they’d wait, they’d have me.” He was relieved to find the flaw, eager to
believe his own logic.
Jonti leaned closer and his spiced breath stirred the hairs on Biron’s temple. “Your father is
popular. His death--and once imprisoned by the Tyranni, his execution becomes a probability you must
face--will be resented even by the cowed slave race the Tyranni are trying to breed. You could rally that
resentment as the new Rancher of Widemos, and to execute you as well would double the danger for them.
To make martyrs is not their purpose. But if you were to die in a faraway world, by accident, it would be
convenient for them.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Biron. It had become his only defense.
Jonti rose, adjusting his thin gloves. He said, “You go too far, Farrill. Your role would be more
convincing if you pretended to no such complete ignorance. Your father has been shielding you from
reality for your own protection, presumably, yet I doubt that you could remain completely uninfluenced by
his beliefs. Your hate for the Tyranni cannot help being a reflection of his own. You cannot help being
ready to fight them.”
Biron shrugged.
Jonti said, “He may even recognize your new adulthood to the point of putting you to use. You are
conveniently here on Earth and it is not unlikely you may be combining your education with a definite
assignment. An assignment, perhaps, for the failure of which the Tyranni are ready to kill you.”
“That’s silly melodrama.”
“Is it? Let it be so, then. If the truth will not persuade you now, events will later. There will be
other attempts on your life, and the next one will succeed. From this moment on, Farrill, you are a dead
man.”
Biron looked up. “Wait! What’s your own private interest in the matter?”
“I am a patriot. I would like to see the Kingdoms free again, with governments of their own
choosing.”
“No. Your private interest. I cannot accept idealism only, because I won’t believe it of you. I am
sorry if that offends you.” Biron’s words pounded doggedly.
Jonti seated himself again. He said, “My lands have been confiscated. Before my exile it was not
comfortable to be forced to take orders from those dwarfs. And since then it has become more imperative
than ever to become once again the man my grandfather had been before the Tyranni came. Is that enough
of a practical reason for wanting a revolution? Your father would have been a leader of that revolution.
Failing him, you!”
“I? I am twenty-three and know nothing of all this. You could find better men.”
“Undoubtedly I could, but no one else is the son of your father. If your father is killed, you will be
Rancher of Widemos, and as such you would be valuable to me if you were only twelve and an idiot
besides. I need you for the same reason the Tyranni must be rid of you. And if my necessity is
unconvincing to you, surely theirs cannot be. There was a radiation bomb in your room. It could only have
been meant to kill you. Who else would want to kill you?”
Jonti waited patiently and picked up the other’s whisper.
“No one,” said Biron. “No one would want to kill me that I know of. Then it’s true about my
father!”
“It is true. View it as a casualty of war.”
“You think that would make it better? They’ll put up a monument to him someday, perhaps? One
with a radiating inscription that you can see ten thousand miles out in space?” His voice was becoming a bit
ragged. “Is that supposed to make me happy?”
Jonti waited, but Biron said nothing more. Jonti said, “What do you intend doing?”
“I’m going home.”
“You still don’t understand your position, then.”
“I said, I’m going home. What do you want me to do? If he’s alive, I’ll get him out of there. And
if he’s dead, I’ll--I’ll--”
“Quiet!” The older man’s voice was coldly annoyed. “You rave like a child. You can’t go to
Nephelos. Don’t you see that you can’t? Am I talking to an infant or to a young man of sense?
Biron muttered, “What do you suggest?”
“Do you know the Director of Rhodia?”
“The friend of the Tyranni? I know the man. I know who he is. Everyone in the Kingdoms knows
who he is. Hinrik V, Director of Rhodia.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No.”
“That is what I meant. If you haven’t met him, you don’t know him. He is an imbecile, Farrill. I
mean it literally. But when the Ranchy of Widemos is confiscated by the Tyranni--and it will be, as my
lands were--it will be awarded to Hinrik. There the Tyranni will feel them to be safe, and there you must
go.”
“Why?”
“Because Hinrik, at least, has influence with the Tyranni; as much influence as a lickspittle puppet
may have. He may arrange to have you reinstated.”
“I don’t see why. He’s more likely to turn me over to them.”
“So he is. But you’ll be on your guard against it, and there is a fighting chance you may avoid it.
Remember, the title you carry is valuable and important, but it is not all-sufficient. In this business of
conspiracy, one must be practical above all. Men will rally about you out of sentiment and respect for your
name, but to hold them, you will need money.”
Biron considered. “I need time to decide.”
“You have no time. Your time ran out when the radiation bomb was planted in your room. Let us
take action. I can give you a letter of introduction to Hinrik of Rhodia.”
“You know him so well, then?”
Your suspicion never sleeps very soundly, does it? I once headed a mission to Hinrik’s court on
behalf of the Autarch of Lingane. His imbecile’s mind will probably not remember me, but he will not dare
to show he has forgotten. It will serve as introduction and you can improvise from there. I will have the
letter for you in the morning. There is a ship leaving for Rhodia at noon. I have tickets for you. I am leaving
myself, but by another route. Don’t linger. You’re all through here, aren’t you?”
“There is the diploma presentation.”
A scrap of parchment; Does it matter to you?”
“Not now.”
“Do you have money?”
“Enough.”
“Very well. Too much would be suspicious.” He spoke sharply. “Farrill!”
Biron stirred out of what was nearly a stupor. “What?”
“Get back to the others. Tell no one you are leaving. Let the act speak.”
Biron nodded dumbly. Far away in the recesses of his mind there was the thought that his mission
remained unaccomplished and that in this way, too, he failed his dying father. He was racked with a futile
bitterness. He might have been told more. He might have shared the dangers. He should not have been
allowed to act in ignorance.
And now that he knew the truth, or at least more of it, concerning the extent of his father’s role in
conspiracy, there was an added importance to the document he was to have obtained from Earth’s archives.
But there was no time any longer. No time to get the document. No time to wonder about it. No time to
save his father. No time, perhaps, to live.
He said, “I’ll do as you say, Jonti.”
Sander Jonti looked briefly out over the university campus as he paused on the steps of the
dormitory. Certainly there was no admiration in his glance.
As he stepped down the bricked walk that wound unsubtly through the pseudo-rustic atmosphere
affected by all urban campuses since antiquity, he could see the lights of the city’s single important street
gleam just ahead. Past it, drowned in daytime, but visible now, was the eternal radioactive blue of the
horizon, mute witness of prehistoric wars.
Jonti considered the sky for a moment. Over fifty years had passed since the Tyranni had come
and put a sudden end to the separate lives of two dozen sprawling, brawling political units in the depths
beyond the Nebula. Now, suddenly and prematurely, the peace of strangulation lay upon them.
The storm that had caught them in one vast thunderclap had been something from which they had
not yet recovered. It had left only a sort of twitching that futilely agitated a world here and there, now and
then. To organize those twitchings, to align them into a single well-timed heave would be a difficult task,
and a long one. Well, he had been rusticating here on Earth long enough. It was time to go back.
The others, back home, were probably trying to get in touch with him at his rooms right now.
He lengthened his stride a bit.
He caught the beam as he entered his room. It was a personal beam, for whose security there were
as yet no fears and in whose privacy there was no chink. No formal receiver was required; no thing of metal
and wires to catch the faint, drifting surges of electrons, with their whispered impulses swimming through
hyperspace from a world half a thousand light-years away.
Space itself was polarized in his room, and prepared for reception. Its fabric was smoothed out of
randomness. There was no way of detecting that polarization, except by receiving. And in that particular
volume of space, only his own mind could act as receiver; since only the electrical characteristics of his
own particular nerve-cell system could resonate to the vibrations of the carrier beam that bore the message.
The message was as private as the unique characteristics of his own brain waves, and in all the
universe, with its quadrillions of human beings, the odds against a duplication sufficiently close to allow
one man to pick up another’s personal wave was a twenty-figured number to one.
Jonti’s brain tickled to the call as it whined through the endless empty incomprehensibility of
hyperspace.
“…calling…calling…calling…calling…”
Sending was not quite so simple a job as receiving. A mechanical contrivance was needed to set
up the highly specific carrier wave that would carry back to the contact beyond the Nebula. That was
contained in the ornamental button that he carried on his right shoulder. It was automatically activated
when he stepped into his volume of space polarization, and after that he had only to think purposefully and
with concentration.
“Here I am!” No need for more specific identification.
The dull repetition of the calling signal halted and became words that took form within his mind.
“We greet you, sir. Widemos has been executed. The news is, of course, not yet public.”
“It does not surprise me. Was anyone else implicated?”
“No, sir. The Rancher made no statements at any time. A brave and loyal man.”
“Yes. But it takes more than simply bravery and loyalty, or he would not have been caught. A
little more cowardice might have been useful. No matter! I have spoken to his son, the new Rancher, who
has already had his brush with death. He will be put to use.”
“May one inquire in what manner, sir?”
“It is better to let events answer your question. Certainly I cannot foretell consequences at this
early date. Tomorrow he will set off to see Hinrik of Rhodia. “
摘要：

ABOUTTHEAUTHORIsaacAsimov,notedbiochemistandprofessorandtheBostonUniversitySchoolofMedicine,isnotonlyrecognizedasoneofthegreatestsciencefictionwritersofourtime,butalsohasbeenpraisedfortheexcitementhebringstothewritingofscientificfact.InTHESTARS,LIKEDUST,Dr.Asimov’sprobingimaginationhascreatedafascin...

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