“No, lord, not about us. He was a trader too, as he claimed. He merely reported to Wing Alak from time to time, telling him whatever he had learned anywhere. Under our questioning, he revealed a distinct impression that Alak is interested in Umung.”

“Umung…hm-m-m-…the insectiles, aren’t they? About thirty light-years off, on the edge of our cluster.”

“Yes, lord. He has traded with them for many years. They are a completely organized race, with little individual personality, but the collective intelligence is high. They are also, perhaps, the most skillful workers in the galaxy.”

“Yes. It comes back to me now, Did Alak intend to organize them against us?”

“Not as far as this Goln knows, lord. They are totally unwarlike, have too little initiative to make good soldiers. Goln’s impression is that the Patrol would like to deal with them, secretly, trading raw materials difficult to obtain on their world for finished products. That would, obviously, simplify the enemy supply problem.”

“So…it…would.” Hurulta stood in thought for a moment. Then, whirling on Goln, he made his voice a roar: “All right, scum, how well do you know Umung?”

The Aldebaranian shrieked in utter panic. When he found his voice again, he gasped: “Well, most excellent lord. I know it w-w-well—”

“You’ll obey us and be rewarded, or you’ll be pulled apart cell by cell. Which shall it be?”

“I…obey, my lord. The ps-s-s-sychomachines w-will show how well I m-mean to obey—”

“Good. I want you to prepare a dossier on Umung. Use the machines to help you remember everything. Correlate it with all information available in Intelligence files. Submit the complete report to me within an eight-day.

“I…I will try, l-lord—”

Hurulta turned back toward the door. No one dared speak to him as he went down the corridor, but his mind was busy.

Umung—yes. It had real possibilities. From all he had heard of it, Umung was a treasure chest. He had to prevent Alak’s using it, of course—

But the Patrol! As long as they were in this vicinity, he could not declare war on the League. That might be just the excuse they wanted. He’d fight them if he caught them, but until then it was safer to wait, consolidate his victories.

But it wouldn’t take much to occupy Umung. Not if its natives were as docile as all reports had it. And then he could show some real progress to those fat money barons. Already the war would have begun to pay off, and they’d support him in further schemes, let him build up his own power and prestige until the day he turned on them and broke them.

Umung, yes. By all the hells, yes!

* * *

Imagine a creature somewhat like an ant—only in general outline, to be sure. It stands a meter tall on two horny legs whose cilia, rubbed together, are its voice organs. There is one pair of tentacles, ending in supple boneless fingers; above them are the true arms, and there is a small stalk on the wrist of each arm holding an eye with microscopic vision. The head is faceless, little more than a set of jaws and a pair of larger eye-stalks for normal seeing. The creature is utterly obedient to the mass-mind of its hivelike community, a patient, tireless, delicate worker. Apart from food and reproduction, its only need is work. Once you have persuaded the mass-mind—embodied in the queen—that it is to its advantage to do as you say, a hundred thousand little brown artisans are ready to slave to the death for you.