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  “What’s happened?” her aide inquired, startled.

  “Nothing very serious,” Pagadan said soothingly. “But it’s likely to keep me busy for the next few hours. Our D.C. investigator on Ulphi may have got an. accidental whiff of what’s rancid on the planet—anyway, somebody’s trying to get her under mental control right now! I’ve got her covered by a tracker, of course, so she’s in no real danger; but I’ll take the Viper’s skiff and go on down as soon as I get you on board. By the way, how soon can you have the hospital ship prepared for its job?”

  Hallerock hesitated a moment. “I suppose it’s ready to start any time. I finished treating the last of the personnel four hours ago.”

  “Good boy,” Pagadan applauded. “I’ve got something in mind—not sure yet whether it will work. But that attack on the D.C. might make it possible for us to wind up the whole Ulphi operation inside the next twenty-four hours!”

  It had started out, three weeks before, looking like such a nice little mission. Since it was her fifth assignment in four months, and since there had been nothing even remotely nice about any of the others, Pagadan could appreciate that.

  Nothing much to do for about three or four weeks now, she’d thought gratefully as she hauled out her skiff for a brief first survey of the planet of Ulphi. She had landed as an ostensible passenger on a Vegan destroyer, the skiff tucked away in one of the destroyer’s gun locks, while the Viper went on orbit at a safe distance overhead. That gleaming deep-space machine looked a trifle too impressive to be a suitable vehicle for Pelial, the minor official of Galactic Zones, which was Pagadan’s local alias. And as Ulphi’s entire population was planet-bound by congenital space-fear, the skiff would provide any required amount of transportation, while serving principally as living quarters and a work-office.

  But there would be really nothing to do. Except, of course, to keep a casual eye on the safety of the other Vegans newly arrived on the planet and co-operate with the Fleet in its unhurried preparations to receive the Bjantas, who were due to appear in about a month for the ninth of their series of raids on Ulphi. Those obliging creatures conducted their operations in cycles of such unvarying regularity that it was a pleasure to go to work on them, once you’d detected their traces and could muster superior force to intercept their next return.

  On Ulphi Bjantas had been reaping their harvest of life and what they could use of civilization’s treasures and tools at periods which lay just a fraction over three standard years apart. It had done no very significant damage as yet, since it had taken eight such raids to frighten the population into revealing its plight by applying for membership in the far-off Confederacy of Vega and the protection that would bring them. The same cosmic clockwork which first set the great Disk on this course would be returning it now, predictably, to the trap Vega had prepared.

  Nothing for Pagadan to worry about. Nobody, actually, seemed to have much confidence that the new shell-cracker beams installed on the Viper to pick up a couple of Bjantas in an unexploded condition would work as they should, but that problem was Lab’s and not hers. And, feeling no doubt that she’d earned a little vacation, they were presenting her meanwhile with these next three weeks on Ulphi. The reports of the officials of other Confederacy government branches who had preceded Pagadan here had described it as a uniquely charming little backwater world of humanity, cut off by the development of planetary space-fear from the major streams of civilization for nearly four hundred years. Left to itself in its amiable climate, Ulphi had flowered gradually into a state of quaint and leisurely prettiness.

  So went the reports!

  Jauntily, then, Pagadan set forth in her skiff to make an aerial survey of this miniature jewel of civilization and pick out a few of the very best spots for some solid, drowsy loafing.

  Two days later, her silver hair curled flat to her skull with outraged shock, she came back on board the Viper. The activated telepath transmitter hummed wish the ship’s full power, as it hurled, her wrathful message to G.Z. Headquarters Central on the planet of Jeltad—in Vega’s system, eight thousand light-years away.

  At Central on Jeltad, a headquarters clerk, on his way out to lunch, paused presently behind the desk of another. His manner was nervous.

  “What’s the Pyramid Effect?” he inquired.

  “You ought to know,” his friend replied. “If you don’t, go punch it from Restricted Psych-Library under that heading. I’ve got a final mission report coming through,” He glanced around. “How come the sudden urge for knowledge, Linky?”

  Linky jerked a thumb hack towards his desk transmitter. “I got that new Lannai Z. A. on just before the end of my stretch. She was blowing her silver top about things in general—had me lining up interviews with everybody from Snoops to the Old Man for her! The Pyramid Effect seems to be part of it.”

  The other clerk snickered. “She’s just diving into a mission then. I had her on a few times while she was in Zonal Training. She’ll swear like a Terran till she hits her stride. After that, the rougher things get the sweeter she grows. You want to wait a little? If I get this beam through, I’ll turn it over to a recorder and join you for lunch.”

  “All right.” Linky hesitated a moment and then drifted hack towards his desk. At a point well outside the vision range of its transmitter screen, he stopped and listened.

  “. . . Well, why didn’t anybody know?” Pagadan’s voice, came, muted but crackling. “That Department of Cultures investigator has been on Ulphi for over a month now, and others just as long! You get copies of their reports, don’t you? You couldn’t put any two of them together without seeing that another Telep-Two thinks he’s invented the Pyramid Effect out here—there isn’t a thing on the crummy little planet that doesn’t show it! And I’ll be the daughter of a C-Class human,” she added bitterly, “it isn’t a type-case in full flower, with all the trimmings! Including immortalization and the Siva Psychosis,. No, I do not want Lab to home any of their findings out to me! Tell them I’m staying right here on telepath till they’ve sorted out what I gave them. Where’s Snoops, that evil little man? Or can somebody locate that fuddle-headed, skinny, blond clerk I had on a few minutes—”

  Linky tiptoed gently back out of hearing.

  “She’s talking to Correlation now,” he reported to his friend. “Not at the sweetness stage yet. I think I’ll put in a little time checking the Library at that.”

  The other clerk nodded without looking up. “You could use the Head’s information cabinet. He just went out.”

  “Pyramid Effect,” Psych-Library Information instructed Linky gently a minute later. “Restricted, Galactic Zones. Result of the use of an expanding series of psychimpulse-multipliers, organic, or otherwise, by Telepaths of the Orders Two to Four, for the transference of directional patterns, compulsions, illusions, et cetera, to large numbers of subjects.

  “The significant feature of the Pyramid Effect is its elimination of excessive drain on the directing mentality, achieved by utilizing the neural or neural-type energies of the multipliers themselves in transferring the directed impulses from one stage to the next.

  “Techniques required to establish the first and second stages of multipliers’ are classified as Undesirable General Knowledge. Though not infrequently developed independently by Telepaths above the primary level, their employment in any form is prohibited throughout the Confederacy of Vega and variously discouraged by responsible governments elsewhere.

  “Establishment of the third stage, and subsequent stages, of impulse-multipliers involves a technique-variant rarely developed by uninstructed Telepaths below the Order of Five. It is classified, under all circumstances, as Prohibited General Knowledge and is subject to deletion under the regulations pertaining to that classification.

  “Methodology of the Pyramid Effect may be obtained in detail under the heading ‘Techniques: Pyramid Effect’—”

  The gentle voice subsided.

  “Hm-m-m!” said Linky. He glanced about but t
here was nobody else in immediate range of the information cabinet. He tapped out “Techniques: Pyramid Effect,” and punched.

  “The information applied for,” another voice stated tonelessly, “is restricted to Zone Agent levels and above. Your identification?”

  Linky scowled, punched “Cancellation” quickly, murmured “Nuts!” and tapped another set of keys.

  “Psychimpulse-multiplier,” the gentle voice came back. “Restricted, Galactic Zones. Any person, organic entity, energy form, or mentalized instrument employed in distributing the various types of telepathic impulses to subjects beyond the scope of the directing mentality in range or number—Refer to ‘Pyramid Effect’—”

  That seemed to be that. What else was the Z. A. crying about? Oh, yes!

  “Siva Psychosis,” the gentle voice resumed obligingly. “Symptom of the intermediate to concluding stages of the Autocrat Circuit in human-type mentalities—Refer to ‘Multiple Murder Causes’—”

  Linky grimaced.

  “Got what you wanted?” The other clerk was standing behind him.

  Linky got up. “No,” lie said. “Let’s go anyhow. Your Final Mission come through?”

  His friend shook his head.

  “The guy got it. Ship and all. The automatic death signals just started coming in. That bong-bong . . . bong-bong stuff always gets on my nerves!” He motioned Linky into an elevator ahead of him. “They ought to work out a different sort of signal.”

  “Understand you’ve been having some trouble with Department of Cultures personnel,” Snoops told the transmitter genially.

  “Just one of them,” Pagadan replied, regarding him with disfavor. Probably, he wasn’t really evil but he certainly looked it—aged in evil, and wizened with it. Also, he had been, just now, very hard to find. “That particular one,” she added, “is worse than any dozen others I’ve run into, so far!”

  “DC-CFI 1227, eh?” Snoops nodded. “Don’t have to make up a dossier for you on her. Got it all ready.”

  “We’ve had trouble with her before, then?”

  “Oh, sure! Lots of times. System Chief Jasse—beautiful big thing, isn’t she?” Snoops chuckled. “I’ve got any number of three-dimensionals of her.”

  “You would have,” said Pagadan sourly. “For a flagpole, she’s not so bad looking, at that. Must be eight feet if she’s an inch!”

  “Eight foot two,” Snoops corrected. “What’s she up to now, that place you’re at—Ulphi?”

  “Minding other people’s business like any D.C. Mostly mine, though she doesn’t know that. I’m objecting particularly to her practice of pestering the Fleet for information they either don’t have or aren’t allowed to give for reasons of plain standard operational security. There’s a destroyer commander stationed here who says every time she looks at him now, he gets a feeling he’d better watch his step or he’ll get turned over and whacked.”

  “She wouldn’t do that,” Snoops said earnestly. “She’s a good girl, that Jasse. Terribly conscientious, that’s all. You want that dossier homed out to you or right now, vocally?”

  “Both. Right now I want mostly background stuff, so I’ll know how to work her. I’d psycho it out of her myself, but she’s using a pretty good mind shield and I can’t spend too much mission-time on the Department of Cultures.”

  Snoops nodded, cleared his throat, rolled his eyes up reflectively, closed them and began!

  “Age twenty-five, or near enough to make no difference. Type A-Class Human, unknown racial variant. Citizen of the Confederacy; home-planet Jeltad. Birthplace unknown-parentage ditto; presumably spacer stock.”

  “Details on that!” interrupted Pagadan.

  He’d intended to, Snoops said, looking patient.

  Subject, at about the age of three, had been picked up in space, literally, and in a rather improbable section-high in the northern latitudes where the suns thinned out into the figurative Rim. A Vegan scout, pausing to inspect an area littered with the battle-torn wreckage of four ships, found her drifting about there unconscious and half-alive, in a spacesuit designed for a very tall adult—the kind of adult she eventually became.

  Investigation indicated she was the only survivor of what must have been an almost insanely savage and probably very brief engagement. There was some messy evidence that one of the ships had been crewed by either five or six of her kind. The other three had been manned by Lartessians, a branch of human space marauders with whom Vega’s patrol forces were more familiar than they particularly wanted to be.

  So was Pagadan. “They fight just like that, the crazy apes! And they’re no slouches—our little pet’s people must he a rugged lot to break even with them at three-to-one odds. But we’ve got no record at all of that breed?”

  “He’d checked pretty closely but without results,” Snoops shrugged. “And so, naturally enough, had Jasse herself later on. She’d grown up in the family of the scout’s second pilot. They were earnest Traditionalists, so it wasn’t surprising that at sixteen she entered the Traditionalist College on Jeltad. She was a brilliant student and a spectacular athlete—twice a winner in Vega’s System Games.”

  “Doing what?” inquired Pagadan curiously.

  Javelin, and one of those swimming events; Snoops wasn’t sure just which—She still attended the College intermittently; but at nineteen she’d started to work as a field investigator for the Department of Cultures. Which wasn’t surprising either, since Cultures was practically the political extension of the powerful Traditionalist Creed—They had made her a System Chief only three years later.

  “About that time,” Snoops concluded, “was when we started having trouble with Jasse. She’s smart enough to suspect that whatever Galactic Zones is doing doesn’t jibe entirely with our official purpose in life.” He looked mildly amused. “Seems to think we might be some kind of secret police—you know how Traditionalists feel about anything like that!”

  Pagadan nodded. “Everything open and aboveboard. They mean well, bless them!”

  She went silent then, reflecting; while the alien black-and-silver eyes continued to look at Snoops, or through him possibly, at something else.

  He heard himself saying uneasily, “You’re not going to do her any harm, Zone Agent?”

  “Now why should I be doing System Chief Jasse any harm?” Pagadan inquired, much too innocently. “A good girl, like you say. And so lovely looking, too—in spite of that eight-foot altitude.”

  “Eight foot two,” Snoops corrected mechanically. He didn’t feel at all reassured.

  II.

  The assistant to the Chief of G.Z. Office of Correlation entered the room to which his superior had summoned him and found the general gazing pensively upon a freshly assembled illumined case-chart.

  The assistant glanced at the chart number and shrugged sympathetically.

  “I understand she wants to speak to you personally,” he remarked. “Is it as bad as she indicates?”

  “Colonel Deibos,” the general said, without turning his head. “I’m glad you’re here. Yes, it’s just about as bad!” He nodded at the upper right region of the chart where a massed group of symbols flickered uncertainly. “That’s the bulk of the information we got from the Zone Agent concerning the planet of Ulphi just now. Most of the rest of it has been available to this office for weeks.”

  Both men studied the chart silently for a moment.

  “It’s a mess, certainly!” the colonel admitted then. “But I’m sure the Agent understands that when an emergency is not indicated in advance all incoming information is necessarily handled here in a routine manner, which frequently involves a considerable time-lag in correlation.”

  “No doubt she does,” agreed the general. “However, we kept running into her socially when she’s around the System, my wife and I. Particularly my wife. You understand that I should like our summation of this case to be as nearly perfect as we can make it?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I’m going to re
ad it,” the general sighed. “I want you to check me closely. If you’re doubtful on any point of interpretation at all, kindly interrupt me at once.”

  They bent over the chart together.

  “The over-all pattern on Ulphi,” the general stated, “is obviously that produced by an immortalized A-Class human intellect, Sub-Class Twelve, variant Telep-Two—as developed in planetary or small-system isolation, over a period of between three and five centuries.”

  He’d lapsed promptly, Colonel Deibos noted with a trace of amusement, into a lecturer’s tone and style. Being one of the two men primarily responsible for devising the psychomathematics of correlation and making it understandable to others, the general had found plenty of opportunity to acquire such mannerisms.

  “In that time,” he went on, “the system of general controls has, of course, become almost completely automatic. There is, however, continuing and fairly intensive activity on the part of the directing mentality. Development of the Siva Psychosis is at a phase typical for the elapsed period—concealed and formalized killings cloaked in sacrificial symbolism. Quantitatively, they have not begun as yet to affect the population level. The open and indiscriminate slaughter preceding the sudden final decline presumably would not appear, then, for at least another century.

  “Of primary significance for the identification of the controlling mentality is this central grouping of formulae. Within the historical period which must have seen the early stages of the mentality’s dominance, the science of Ulphi—then practically at Galactic par—was channeled for thirty-eight years into a research connected with the various problems of personal organic immortality. Obviously, under such conditions, only the wildest sort of bad luck could prevent discovery and co-ordination of the three basic requirements for any of the forms of individual perpetuation presently developed.

  “We note, however, that within the next two years the investigation became completely discredited, was dropped and has not been resumed since.