“I know that! Stand by.” Hurulta switched off again. There was something of a giant dynamo about him as he swung on Sevulan.

“What sort of planet is this Shang V?” he snarled.

“Little known, lord,” faltered the officer. “A big world, as I recall. Twice our gravity, mostly hydrogen atmosphere—storms of unparalleled violence, volcanic upheavals, a hell planet! I don’t see how they would dare—”

“They must be relying on sheer audacity,” snapped Hurulta. “Well, they won’t get away with it! No ultimatum this time—no message of any kind. You will organize a task force to go there at once and blow them off it!”

* * *

The Arkazhik was in an ugly mood, and his subordinates tried to make themselves invisible as he stamped past them. But then, the whole planet was foul-tempered and jumpy. The Garvish and Shang operations had been—still were—messy and costly enterprises which completely disrupted the schedule for Tukatan. That the Patrol fleet had been gone when the Ulugani arrived at Shang, saving them a battle, was small consolation, for it meant that the enemy was still at large, he could strike anywhere, any time, bringing death and ruin out of the big spaces. That meant an elaborate warning system around Tumu, tying up hundreds of thousands of trained spacemen; it meant the inconveniences of civilian defense, force-screens over all cities, transportation slowed, space-raid drills, spy scares, nervousness among the commoners that was not far from exploding into hysteria. It meant that the unrewarding Shang System must also be garrisoned, lest the Patrol sneak back there. It meant irritation, delay, expense, and a turbulent cabinet meeting in which Hurulta had needed all his personality to control the dissatisfied members.

He took a grav-shaft now, dropping through many levels to a corridor hewn out of the rock below the capitol. Along this he stalked, the boots of his guards slamming a hollow rhythm back from the walls, until he came to a certain door. This he entered, to find a colonel of Intelligence seated among his instruments. The colonel bowed low. The little being in the chair merely cowered.

“What planet is this from?” grunted Hurulta. “Nobody told me that.”

The small one spoke up in a fluting voice that could not hide his terror. He was a skinny, four-armed, greenish being, with a bulging-eyed head that seemed too big for his body. “Please, lord, I am from—”

“I didn’t ask you,” barked Hurulta, snapping at him. The oversized head rocked back on the spindling neck, and the prisoner began to cry. “Well?”

“From Aldebaran VIII, lord,” said the colonel. “A League planet. His name is Goln, and he is a trader who has operated in this sector for a number of years. We pulled him in, together with all other aliens, according to your orders, lord, two days ago. No physical duress was necessary—in panic, he submitted to the usual truth-finding procedures. It turned out that he is a Patrol agent.”

“That much I have already been told,” snorted Hurulta. “What of it? Why should that concern me? He hasn’t learned anything of value, has he?”