desk.
The Commissioner spoke to him for the first time. "As you may know"-his voice was high-pitched, thin-"the old Rancher of Widemos, your father, has been executed for treason."
His faded eyes were fixed on Biron's. There seemed nothing beyond mildness in them.
Biron remained stolid. It bothered him that he could do nothing. It would have been so much more satisfying to howl at them, to flail madly at them, but that would not make his father less dead. He thought he knew the reason for this initial statement. It was intended to break him down, to make him give himself away. Well, it wouldn't.
He said evenly, "I am Biron Malaine of Earth. If you are questioning my identity, I would like to communicate with the Terrestrial Consul."
"Ah yes, but we are at a purely informal stage just now. You are Biron Malaine, you say, of Earth. And yet"-Aratap indicated the papers before him-"there are letters here which were written by Widemos to his son. There is a college registration receipt and tickets to commencement exercises made out to a Biron Farrill. They were found in your baggage."
Biron felt desperate but he did not let it show. "My baggage was searched illegally, so that I deny that those can be admitted as evidence."
"We are not in a court of law, Mr. Farrill or Malaine. How do you explain them?"
"If they were found in my baggage, they were placed there by someone else."
The Commissioner passed it by, and Biron felt amazed. His statements sounded so thin, so patently foolish. Yet the Commissioner did not remark upon them, but only tapped the black capsule with his forefinger. "And this introduction to the Director of Rhodia? Also not yours?"
"No, that is mine." Biron had planned that. The introduction did not mention his name. He said, "There is a plot to assassinate the Director-"
He stopped, appalled. It sounded so completely unconvincing when he finally put the beginning of his carefully prepared speech into actual sound. Surely the Commissioner was smiling cynically at him?
But Aratap was not. He merely sighed a little and with quick, practiced gestures removed contact lenses from his eyes and placed them carefully in a glass of saline solution that stood on the desk before him. His naked eyeballs were a little watery.
He said, "And you know of it? Even back on Earth, five hundred light-years away? Our own police here on Rhodia have not heard of it."
"The police are here. The plot is being developed on Earth."
"I see. And are you their agent? Or are you going to warn Hinrik against them?"
"The latter, of course."
"Indeed? And why do you intend to warn him?"
"For the substantial reward which I expect to get."
Aratap smiled. "That, at least, rings true and lends a certain truthful gloss to your previous statements. What are the details of the plot you speak of?"
"That is for the Director only."
A momentary hesitation, then a shrug. "Very well. The Tyranni are not interested and do not concern themselves with local politics. We will arrange an interview between yourself and the Director and that will be our contribution to his safety. My men will hold you until your baggage can be collected, and then you will be free to go. Remove him."
The last was to the armed men, who left with Biron. Aratap replaced his contact lenses, an action which removed 'instantly that look of vague incompetence their absence had seemed to induce.
He said to the major, who had remained, "We will keep an eye, I think, on this young Farrill."
The officer nodded shortly. "Good! For a moment I thought you might have been taken in. To me, his story was quite incoherent."
"It was. It's just that which makes him maneuverable for the while. All young fools who get their notions of interstellar intrigue from the video spy thrillers are easily handled. lie is, of course, the son of the ex-Rancher."
And now the major hesitated. "Are you sure? It's a vague and unsatisfactory accusation we have against him."
"You mean that it might be arranged evidence after all? For what purpose?"
"It could mean that he is a decoy, sacrificed to divert our attention from a real Biron Farrill elsewhere."
"No. Improbably theatrical, that. Besides, we have a photocube."
"What? Of the boy?"
"Of the Rancher's son. Would you like to see it?"
"I certainly would."
Aratap lifted the paperweight upon his desk. It was a simple glass cube, three inches on each side, black and opaque. He said, "I meant to confront him with it if it had