ed yourself with a jury-rigged
economic trading system. But what happens when some really bright
overlord decides to by-pass his local enemies? He'll drop fifty planet
bombs out of your peaceful skies and collect your vassal worlds before
they can rearm. You won't know about that, though. You'll be wiped
out!"

"I wouldn't call our friends vassals, or say the system was jury-rigged,"
Flannery objected. "Ever hear of paradynamics? The papers call it
the ability to manipulate relationships, when we let them write a
speculative article. It's what lets us rebuild worlds in less than half
a century--and form the first completely peaceful politico-economic
culture we've ever known. Besides, I never said we had no weapons for
our defense."

Duke considered it, trying to keep a firm footing on the shifting
quicksand of the other's arguments. He knew a little of paradynamics,
of course, but only as something supposed to remake the world and all
science in some abstract future. It had been originated as a complex
mathematical analysis of nuclear relationships, and had been seized on
for some reason by the sociologists. It had no bearing he could see on
the main argument.

"It won't wash, Flannery. Without a fleet, it won't matter if you have
the plans of every weapon ever invented. The first time a smart power
takes the chance, you'll run out of time."

"We didn't!" Flannery swung to the control board that served as his
desk, and his fingers seemed to play idly with the dials. From
somewhere below them, there was a heavy vibration, as if great engines
had sprung into life. He pressed another switch.

* * * * *

[Illustration: FLANNERY]

Abruptly, the room was gone. There was a night sky above them, almost
starless, and with a great, glaring moon shining down, to show a rough,
mossy terrain that seemed covered endlessly with row after row of
rusting, crumbling spaceships. Atomic cannon spilled from their
hatches, and broken ramps led down to the ground. Down one clearer lane
among the countless ships that surrounded him, Duke saw what might be a
distant fire with a few bent figures around it, giving the impression
of age.

Beside him, Flannery sat in his chair, holding a small control. There
was nothing else of the office visible.

The director shook his head. "It's no illusion, O'Neill. You're
here--fifty odd thousand light-years from Earth, where we transferred
the attacking f