“That is what I came about,” said the Patrolman. “It may seem strange, but I will make it short: I bear a most urgent request from Galactic headquarters that you refuse the crown when it is offered you tonight and direct that it be given to your younger brother Kian.”

For a moment the sheer barefaced effrontery of it held Duwan paralyzed. Then the black rage that made him grab for his sword was throttled by a grim control, and when he spoke his voice was unnaturally level: “You must be mad.”

“Perfectly sane, I assure you. But hurry, please, the procession will be here soon.”

“But what imaginable reason—Why, Kian is more hopelessly conservative than even my father—And the League constitution specifically forbids interference in the internal affairs of member planets—” Duwan shook his head, slowly, slowly. “I can’t comprehend it.”

“The Patrol recognizes no laws save those of its own making—otherwise there is only immediate necessity,” said the human cynically. “I will tell you why we wish this later, if you desire, but there is no time now. You must agree at once.”

“Why…you are just crazy—” The rage came again, bitter in Duwan’s throat: “If you try to impose your will forcibly on Cromman, you’ll find that our boast of being a warrior race is not idle.”

“There is no question of force. It is not necessary.” The Patrolman reached into his portfolio. “You traveled quite a bit through the Galaxy some years ago. And the moral code of Cromman is stern and inflexible. Those two facts are sufficient.”

With a horrible feeling of having stepped over the edge of the world, Duwan watched him extract a bundle of stereofilms, psychographs, and other material from his case. “When the chiefs arrive with the crown,” said the Patrolman smugly, “I will explain that, while the League does not wish to meddle, it feels it to be a duty to warn its member planets against making mistakes. And the coronation of a Zordoch who had been guilty of, shall we say, moral turpitude in the fleshpots of the Galaxy, would be a definite mistake.”

“But—” With a feeling of physical illness, Duwan looked at the pictures. “But…by the Spirit, I was young then—”

“So you were. But will that matter to Cromman?”

“I…I’ll deny—”

“Stereofilms could be faked, yes, but not psychographic recordings, and there are plenty of scientists on Cromman who know that. Also we could produce a Crommanite or two who had been with you—”

“But—Oh, no!—Why, one of those Crommanites was a Patrolman who…who took me to that place—”

“Certainly. In fact, just between us—and I shall deny it on oath if you repeat it in public—the Patrol maintains that house and others like it and makes a point of persuading as many influential and potentially influential beings as possible to have a fling there. The records we get are often useful later on.”

Duwan reached for his sword. The Patrolman said evenly: “If I fail to report back, this evidence will be made public. I think you will be wiser to refuse the Zordochy for reasons of…well, ill health. Then this information can safely gather dust in the Patrol’s secret files.”