Part 2

It was a nervousness, a jitteriness, you could _feel_! Heads craned upward to look at the sky, hooves pawed restlessly at the turf. And one by one, the centaurlike denizens of Themis began drifting away, cantering back toward the cluster of hovels which was their capital city.

Even the Thagwar seemed hesitant, uncertain. For a few minutes he tried to carry on like a bold, brave monarch. Then with a little whimper that sounded almost like a whinny, he picked up his bundle of loot and galloped away, too.

Cap Hanson's jaw dropped like a wildcat stock in a bear market.

"Well, I'll be!" he choked. "Now what?"

But Biggs had been studying the sky. Now he frowned.

"Night," he said.

"Eh?"

"Night," repeated Lanse, "or what passes for night on this peculiar little satellite. You see, Themis doesn't revolve on its axis, therefore it has no night or daytime as we on Earth know those periods. And, of course, since it travels about its primary so swiftly, and since Saturn itself emits so strong a _gegenschein_, occultation by the mother planet doesn't create perfect darkness.

"But Themis' invisible little companion swings about Themis. And whenever it comes between this world and the Sun a dark period ensues. I should judge we are about to experience one right now. Yes--see? It is beginning to get dark."

"You mean," stormed Hanson, "everything's called off on account of darkness? The pact ain't goin' to be signed?"

"Apparently not," admitted Lanse ruefully. "Almost all aboriginal races have a deep dread of darkness, you know. Well--"

He shrugged--"there's no sense in our waiting out here until the 'night' period ends. We might as well go back to the ship and be comfortable."

So we did.

Fortunately, the phony "night" didn't last long. Fortunately for me, I mean. Because as soon as we got to the ship, Lanse pranced along with me up to the radio turret, and there pestered the living bejabbers out of me to try to get some word from Earth. But that was strictly no go. My audio was humming like a tenor in a tepid shower. Static galore.

But at last the invisible barrier cutting us off from Sol's light slipped away, and once again we marched out onto the soil of Themis.

Marched out? Huh! This time we sauntered out. We were feeling very carefree and confident, you see, that everything was hunky-dory. Why not? We had been on the verge of signing the new peace pact when darkness interrupted us....

That blind, trusting confidence almost cost us our lives! The Themisites were again gathered around our ship. But when we stepped from the airlock--we stepped out into a hail of lethal fury!

[Illustration: We stepped out of the ship--right into a hail of rocks!]

* * * * *

It was a good break for us that the Themisites had no modern weapons. A couple of Haemholtz pistols in the paws of capable users, or even one .54 millimetre rotor, and yours truly wouldn't be here to chronicle the ensuing events.

But the four-legged scoundrels' armaments were fortunately on the barbaric side. Stones and cudgels, crudely forged spears, incompetently carven bows and arrows that were as inaccurate as a real estate agent's descriptions ... these were the weapons with which we were assailed.

Cap Hanson caught a nice sized chunk of rock amidships, and one of the crewmen had his shoulder opened up by a wobbling spear, but those were our only casualties. Above the hub-bub and furore--the Themisites were howling like a mob of unleashed demons--Lanse cried, "_Back into the ship, quickly!_"

Which was a command requiring no repeat performance. For the next three seconds the airlock port looked like Bargain Day at the Girdle Counter. Then we were all inside once more, safe at home but sore as a student equestrian's coccyx.

The Old Man bellowed, "Unlatch the rotors! Treacherous villains, I'll learn 'em to attack Earthmen! We'll blast them clean off the face of their nasty, sneakin' little globe, the good-for-nothin' horses--"

But Lanse said, "No, Dad--please! Wait a while!"

"Wait? What for?"

"There's something distinctly unusual about this," pondered Lancelot gravely. "A few hours ago they were friendly; now they are screaming for our blood. I don't understand it. But you know my motto: '_Get the theory first!_' If I can learn _why_ they changed so abruptly--"

"What difference does it make why they changed? They did, didn't they? That's all that counts--"

"No, Dad. The important thing is not to overwhelm the Themisites, beat them into submission. It is to settle our differences for all time, establish an enduring peace--" He turned to me--"Sparks, get on the wire, will you? I want a complete report from Earth on the previous peace treaties signed with Themis. Who signed them ... when ... under what circumstances ... everything we can learn."

"O.Q.," I said. "It's your business. But my money bets on the Skipper's plan. 'Civilize 'em with a gun' is _my_ motto."

Biggs shook his ungainly head disapprovingly.

"That form of reasoning," he declared, "died with the dictatorships. Now, get on the key, Sparks. And, oh--while you're at it, see if there's any news from Diane, will you?"

He was a very anxious looking gent. And no wonder.

* * * * *

Well, after that tempus fidgeted, as it has a habit of doing, the static had cleared, and I established contact with Joe Marlowe at Lunar III. He said he'd try to scare up the info I wanted, but it might take time. I told him to go ahead; I had more time on my hands than a professional watch repairer. So we dillied and dallied, and after a while back he came, loaded with more facts than Mr. Britannica put in his encyclopedia.

The Themis situation, it seemed, was plenty complex. The first peace pact had been signed eight months ago between the Thagwar of Themis and the Solar Space Cruiser, _Ajax_, Col. A. R. Prentiss commanding. Swell! Only two weeks later the Themisites had murdered in cold blood an agent sent there by the Cosmic Corporation to set up a trading post!

The S.S.P. had sent a second expedition. This party reported hostile reception. Then, after a whole day wasted in attempting to get in touch with the Thagwar, the Themisites had suddenly turned friendly--and signed a second treaty.

This one had lasted exactly four days. It was busted when the quadrupeds dittoed the craniums of a party of miners who dropped gravs for fresh water supplies!

Why go on? Expeditions Three, Four, Five and Six had all followed the same pattern ... an agreeable understanding followed by a swift kick in the nose. Our experience was no novelty; we were just number Seven on the Themisite hit-and-run parade.

"In view of the circumstances," Joe Marlowe wound up his report, "the authorities here suggest that Captain Hanson get the situation in hand and get the situation in hand and get the situation in hand and get the situation--"

I cut in on him--but quick!

"Hold everything!" I shot back. "Let's play like he now has the situation in hand. What happens next?"

"Let him contact the Thagwar of Themis," bugged Marlowe, "and contact the Thagwar of Themis and contact the Thagwar of Themis and contact--"

Biggs was in the turret with me. He can read code almost as well as I can. He stared at me curiously.

"What's the matter, Sparks?"

"Don't ask me," I retorted. "I only work here. It sounds like Marlowe's developed a bad case of digital hiccups! Oh, well, we've got the information we wanted, anyhow. I'll sign off." So I did.

Biggs asked, "And--and Diane?"

"No word yet. Joe will let us know. The circuit's still open. Well, you've heard the report. What do you make of it?"

Biggs said slowly, "I don't know, Sparks. It's very peculiar. I'll have to think it over--_Yes? What is it?_"

He spoke this last to the wall audio which had come to life. Cap Hanson answered from the bridge.

"Lanse, are you there, son? Listen, come up to the bridge right away, will you?"

Swift apprehension tightened Biggs' features.

"What's the matter? The Themisites getting violent? They're not attacking the ship?"

Hanson groaned like the guest artist at a seance.

"Just the opposite! Another of them phony 'nights' has passed outside since you two've been fiddlin' around up there. Now it's daylight again ... and there's a mob of Themisites gathered around outside ... _wavin' banners and peltin' the_ Saturn _with flowers_! The Thagwar has just sent a messenger biddin' us friendly welcome to Themis!"

* * * * *

"Great growling guttersnipes!" I spluttered, "What's this all about? One minute they want to kill and boo ... the next they want to bill and coo! Why don't they make up their minds?"

"Probably," decided the skipper, "because they ain't got none. Lanse--?"

"We can't learn anything," said Biggs quietly, "in here. Let's go outside."

So for the third time in as many Themisian 'days', out we pranced, to be greeted by such hooraw and ballyhoo as you never saw. Those same centaurs who, a few short Earthly hours ago had been aiming lethal presents at our kissers were now aiming kisses at our presence! Their leader pranced forward gracefully and made a low bow before Cap Hanson.

"Greetings, Oh child of the Blue World!" he intoned. "As Thagwar of Themis I bid you welcome to our peace-loving little planet--"

"Th-thanks!" said the Old Man, and looked bewildered. "Lanse, son, suppose you--?"

But Lanse was staring curiously at the speaker. He nudged me and whispered, "Sparks, study the Thagwar! Do you notice anything ... well ... _strange_ about him?"

"Sure!" I assented. "He looks like a veterinarian's mistake; is that what you mean? If it's the color of his eyes you're worrying about, you'd better ask somebody else. These Themisites all look the same to me. Like peas from the same pot."

"That's not what I meant," whispered Biggs. "What strikes me as being odd is that ... remember how proud he was of those ornaments we gave him before the 'night' period set in? He had himself all decked out like a Christmas tree. But now look at him! Not a single decoration!"

"Maybe," I suggested, "he's allergic to tin?"

"And on the other hand," mused Biggs, "_that_ Themisite over there is wearing a bracelet and a brass curtain rod in his nose--"

He was perfectly right. The big boss of Themis was as barren of trinkets as a Pilgrim father. But standing in the background was one of his henchmen glittering like gilt on a joy-joint bar! It was whacky. The Thagwar didn't look to me like the kind of guy--or hoss--who would donate his "tribute" to a subject.

"There's something fishy about this," I said. "Ask him how come, Lanse ... just for the halibut."

"I will," said Biggs, and stepped forward to do so. But before he could pop the question, the Thagwar spoke up.

"Peace," he said hoarsely--no pun intended, pals! Lay down them bricks!--"Peace between your people and mine. And now--did you bring the usual tribute?"

"Usual tribute!" repeated the Old Man starkly. "Of course we did! We give it to you yesterday, you rascally old scoundrel. What's the big idea of--?"

The Thagwar's eyes darkened, and he pawed the ground fretfully.

"That is a mistake, Earthman! You gave me nothing!"

"Wha-a-at! A whole darn caseful of--"

"You gave me," repeated the Thagwar with increasing ominousness, "nothing! You offered a few baubles to the _old_ Thagwar, possibly--"

Cap Hanson groaned and turned agonized eyes to his son-in-law. "Ain't that something, now! Another revolution! Now we got to pay off twice!"

Lanse nodded soberly.

"I suspected something like that. Yes, I'm afraid we must, Dad. Tomkins ... Splicer...."

* * * * *

He called to two of the crew. So we had to do it again. Go through the same old rigmarole. I'll spare you the details this time, since they were the same as before. We donated, the Thagwar accepted, then we started talking peace-terms. The pact was presented, the Thagwar studied it and this time--fortunately--succeeded in stamping it with his official O.Q. before Themis' invisible moon brought night again.

So at last our job was accomplished. As we entered the ship, Cap Hanson was jubilant.

"Thank goodness _that's_ done!" he sighed happily. "And now--back to Earth! And Diane--"

Biggs' Adam's-apple bobbled convulsively in his lean throat. "I--er--I think we'd better wait just a little while longer, Dad," he said mildly.

"Wait? What for? We got the peace pact signed."

"I know. But don't forget, that's only the eighth in a long series of such 'peace pacts.' We'd better stick around a little while and see if they live up to it."

"Stick around a while! How long?"

Lanse glanced through the quartzite viewpanes and said, "Not long. Because--see? It's night again."

"Night! What's night got to do with it?"

"That," said Lanse seriously, "is just what _I_ want to know. If I could only get the theory straight in my mind I might have the answer. Sparks--" He turned to me--"turn on the telaudio. Let's see if we can't get some word--"

So I did, but there was nothing cooking. The circuit was as cold as a divorcee's kiss. And that was bad, because Biggs was growing nervouser and nervouser by the minute. He wanted to get back to Earth so bad he could taste it. But that's Biggs for you. Thorough and painstaking if he undertakes a thing. And he wasn't going to leave Themis until he knew this situation was completely cleared up.

But at last the darkness outside began to lift, and Cap Hanson fidgeted.

"Well, here's what you were waitin' for, boy. Now what?"

"Now," said Biggs, "we see what happens. Are they coming back from their city?"

They were. The Themisites were galloping across the plains toward the _Saturn_ again. They were the romping, roamingest bunch of mavericks I ever saw. "Yup!" I said.

"And--and their attitude?"

"Friendly, of course!" snorted the skipper. "Why shouldn't they be? Didn't we just sign a peace treaty with them? Lanse, I don't know what's ailin' you! You--"

He never finished his denunciation of Biggs. For at that moment the oncoming Themisites hove within hurling distance--and started hurling! Only this time it was not, as it had been a short while before, flowers. This time their expressions of "everlasting peace and affection" were offered with--_stones, arrows, and spears_!

* * * * *

Well, Hanson's roar of rage threatened to lift the top clean off the control turret.

"Dastards!" he screamed. "Vandals, murderers and things that rhyme with what I first called 'em! This is all I'm goin' to take from them four-legged scoundrels. Call up the men, Sparks! Tell 'em to man the guns! We're goin' to blast them murderin' skunks from here to Kingdom Come--"

"Wait, Dad!" pleaded Biggs feverishly. "I think I'm beginning to understand--faintly. If you'll give me just a little more time--"

"Time your Aunt Nellie! I've done all the delayin' I'm goin' to--"

It was at that moment the telaudio, which I had set to vocode any message which came in on the Luna circuit, began squawking. It was faint at first, and sort of garbled, with lots of static, but it cleared as it went along.

"Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," it called, "aboard the _Saturn_--congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy!"

"B-b-b-boy!" gasped Biggs. His face turned every color in the spectrum, and a couple that haven't been invented yet. "A--a boy!"

"_Yippee!_" howled the Old Man, his thoughts of vengeance on the Themisites temporarily forgotten. "A grandson! I'm a grampaw! _Yippee!_"

"Congratulations, Lanse!" I said. "A boy, eh? Swell! Another Biggs in space, one of these days--"

"S-s-see if you can get Earth, Sparks," chattered Biggs. "F-f-find out how Diane is."

"Right!" I snapped. "I'll get at it immediately."

I started for the radio room. But before I had taken two steps the audio began talking again.

"Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," it called, "aboard the _Saturn_--congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy!"

My face sort of blanched. I turned to Biggs. "Congratulations," I offered, "again, Lanse! Golly--_two_ boys!"

Hanson demanded, "Whaddya mean, two boys! That's a repeat message, you dope!"

Lanse smiled sort of feebly.

"I--I'm afraid not, Dad," he said. "If it were a repeat message, Marlowe would have said, 'Repeat.' Sparks is right. I--I'm the father of twins!"

"Well, I'll be darned!" ejaculated the Old Man. Then, rallying, "Twins, eh? Good! That makes me _two_ grampaws, eh? Fine! I'm twice as gla--"

He stopped, his jaw dropping strickenly. For again Joe Marlowe's voice was rolling through the control turret.

"Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," it called, "aboard the _Saturn_--congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy--"

"G-g-gracious!" gasped Biggs, and fell into a chair. "_Triplets!_"

* * * * *

This time I addressed myself to Hanson. "Congratulations, Skipper," I said. "Now you're _three_ grampaws. If Diane keeps _this_ up, you'll be able to man a whole cruiser."

The Old Man's face was fiery.

"Now, hold everything!" he stormed. "This is goin' too far! Diane don't have to overdo it, just because we're not there! There's such a thing as--_Triplets_! I won't allow it!"

"What's the matter," I grinned at him, "afraid of the Three Little Biggs, Skipper. Don't be a big bad wolf!"

But even _I_ didn't think it was funny when, at that moment, Joe Marlowe's familiar tones rolled through the room _again_.

"Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," he called, "aboard the _Saturn_--congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy--"

"Gosh!" I gulped. "This is turning into a parade!"

Cap Hanson's face was a study in technicolor. His jowls were dangling to his third weskit button. But oddly enough, at this third dire pronouncement, Lancelot Biggs did not even wince. Instead, his eyes brightened; he rose from the chair into which, a moment before, he had tumbled.

"No!" he yelled. "Not a parade--a solution!"

"Huh?" I gaped at him. "Solution to what? The unemployment problem?"

"No, Sparks! All our troubles! Quadruplets? No! Triplets? No! Twins? No, not even that! Just one baby!"

"Y-you mean," I asked him, "that's a repeat message? But, Lanse, you know as well as I do Joe would have announced it as a repeat--"

"Certainly. But what we're hearing is the same message over and over again!"

"Huh!" Hanson forced the query, new hope in every wrinkle of his brow.

"Yes. Remember how Marlowe's orders got grooved before, Sparks? Well, this is some more of the same thing! I know _why_, too. And I _also_ know why we've been having so much trouble with the Themisites!"

"Y-you do? Why?"

"The moon! The invisible moon--that's the answer! Tell me, Sparks--what sort of things are invisible?"

"Why?" I stammered, "dark things seen against a dark background ... light things seen against a light background ... objects marked with protective coloration...."

"And _transparent_ things!" chortled Biggs. "Transparent things with just sufficient mass to cause refraction of light! That's what Themis' moon is made of! Pure, unadulterated galena in its natural form is a colorless, transparent substance, sufficiently opaque to occult Themis, but also with enough mass to refract normal light rays! And galena is--"

"I get it!" I hollered. "A natural wave-trap for radio transmission. Back in the early days of the Twentieth Century, galena was the substance used in the manufacture of experimental so-called 'crystal sets'!"

"By golly, you're right, Lanse! That satellite is large enough to capture and retain a record of Joe Marlowe's voice, and as it revolves it keeps re-transmitting it to us over and over again--"

"Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," repeated the voice of Marlowe--"aboard the _Saturn_--congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy!"

"--like that!" said Biggs. "Yes! Notice how Joe's voice always catches a little just before he says 'congratulations'? It's been the same fault every time."

"O.Q.," broke in the Old Man. "Maybe you're right. You usually are. But what's that got to do with the way the Themisites keeps changin' their attitude towards us? Don't tell me they got galena in their veins?"

* * * * *

Biggs shook his head firmly.

"No, that's another question entirely. But it can be solved by the same theory."

"Huh?"

"Twins!" said Biggs. "Or, rather, multiple rulers! Sparks, you said you couldn't tell the difference between one Themisite and another--"

"That's right."

"Neither can I. Neither can any Earthman. That's why we've been unable to understand their psychology and--more important still--their form of government."

"Government!" burst in the Old Man. "Now he talks about government. What's that got to do with--"

"Why," explained Lancelot, "everything! The Themisites have one of the rarest forms of self-rule known. But one which early in the Greek civilization had its counterpart on earth. You see, they are an _omnigarchy_!"

"A who-ni-whichy?" I choked.

"Omnigarchy! From the Latin base _omni-_, meaning all! You see, on this world--everyone takes his turn at being Thagwar! Every day a new Themisite becomes master over his brethren until the next 'night' period. That is why the Thagwar we signed our pact with today denied having received any gifts. He told the truth. We had given our tributes to the Thagwar of the preceding day.

"That is--must be!--also why peace pacts have been broken with such regularity. Each succeeding Thagwar feels he, being now ruler, is entitled to a share of the 'spoils' that go with the signing of a treaty--and being not obligated to uphold the signature of a deposed Thagwar leads a movement against colonists in an effort to win his rights. The individual natures of these Thagwars dictates the form of movement. If the Thagwar is a naturally peace-loving creature he comes with soft words and flowers; if he is a brutal type, he attempts to take his tribute by force."

I demanded wildly, "But--but how the dickens are we ever going to form a permanent treaty with a race that changes rulers once a day? Especially when a Themisian day is only a couple of Earth hours?"

Biggs shrugged. "That," he declaimed, "is not our problem, but that of the Interplanetary Union. My private opinion is that, since Themis has a limited population, the best way to assure peace would be to buy over every single Themisite. Of course, that means a terrific initial expenditure, but--"

"But," said the Old Man, "we've done what we was sent here for. We signed a peace pact--which ain't worth the paper it's printed on--and we found out why all former treaties was failures. So if you ask me, the best thing we can do is git out of here before one of them periodic Thagwars, smarter than the rest, discovers a way to wreck our ship. What say, son?"

"That," nodded Biggs, "would be my idea, too. Our task is finished; we'll leave it to the Space Patrolmen to figure out the rest. Come on, Dad--let's lift gravs for home and Lancelot, Junior!"

"For Lance--!" The Old Man frowned. "Oh, no! No more silly names like that in our family. That young man's name is gonna be Waldemar--after me!"

"Lancelot!" said Lancelot stubbornly.

"Waldemar!" said Waldemar Hanson the same way.

"Lancelot!"

"Waldemar!"

* * * * *

So we all went home and met Christopher Biggs. Only trouble with those two shipmates of mine is that they forgot Diane Hanson, who, being the daughter of Waldemar and the wife of Lancelot, has a stubborn streak of her own.

Kit Biggs weighed seven pounds and eight ounces. He and his mother are both doing fine, thanks. Biggs is doing O.Q., too. He's got a new title now. Around his home, that is. He's First Mate in Charge of the Three-Cornered Pants Department.