am from Earth." Biron paused, then added, "Your Grace."
The addition pleased her. "Where is that?"
"It is a small planet of the Sirian Sector, Your Grace."
"And what is your name?"
"Biron Malaine, Your Grace."
She stared at him thoughtfully. "From Earth? Can you pilot a space ship?"
Biron almost smiled. She was testing him. She knew very well that space navigation was one of the forbidden sciences in the Tyranni-controlled worlds.
He said, "Yes, Your Grace." He could prove that when the performance test came, if they let him live that long. Space navigation was not a forbidden science en Earth, and in four years one could learn much.
She said, "Very well. And your story?"
He made his decision suddenly. To the guard alone, he would not have dared. But this was a girl, and if she were not lying, if she really were the Director's daughter, she might be a persuasive factor on his behalf.
He said, "There is no assassination plot, Your Grace."
The girl was startled. She turned impatiently to her companion. "Would you take over, Lieutenant? Get the truth out of him."
Biron took a step forward and met the cold thrust of the guard's blaster. He said urgently, "Wait, Your Grace. Listen to me! It was the only way to see the Director. Don't you understand?"
He raised his voice and sent it after her retreating form. "Will you tell His Excellency, at least, that I am Biron Farrill and claim my sanctuary right?"
It was a feeble straw at which to clutch. The old feudal customs had been losing their force with the generations even before the Tyranni came. Now they were archaisms. But there was nothing else. Nothing.
She turned, and her eyebrows were arched. "Are you claiming now to be of the aristocratic order? A moment ago your name was Malaine."
A new voice sounded unexpectedly. "So it was, but it is the second name which is correct. You are Biron Farrill indeed, my good sir. Of course you are. The resemblance is unmistakable.".
A small, smiling man stood in the doorway. His eyes, widely spaced and brilliant, were taking in all of Biron with an amused sharpness. He cocked his narrow face upward at Biron's height and said to the girl, "Don't you recognize him, too, Artemisia?"
Artemisia hurried to him, her voice troubled. "Uncle Oil, What are you doing here?"
"Taking care of my interests, Artemisia. Remember that if there were an assassination, I would be the closest of the Hinriads to the possible succession." Gillbret oth Hinriad winked elaborately, then added, "Oh, get the lieutenant out of here. There isn't any danger."
She ignored that and said, "Have you been sounding the communicator again?"
"But yes. Would you deprive me of an amusement? It is pleasant to eavesdrop on them."
"Not if they catch you."
"The danger is part of the game, my dear. The amusing part. After all, the Tyranni do not hesitate to sound the.Palace. We can't do much without their knowing. Well, turnabout, you know. Aren't you going to introduce me?"
"No, I'm not," she said shortly. "This is none of your business."
"Then I'll introduce you. When I heard his name, I stopped listening and came in." He moved past Artemisia, stepped up to Biron, inspected him with an impersonal smile, and said, "This, is Biron Farrill."
"I have said so myself," said Biron. More than half his attention was upon the lieutenant, who still held his blaster in firing position.
"But you have not added that you are the son of the Rancher of Widemos."
"I would have but for your interruption. In any case, you've got the story now. Obviously, I had to get away from the Tyranni, and that without giving them my real name." Biron waited. This was it, he felt. If the next move was not an immediate arrest, there was still a trifling chance.
Artemisia said, "I see. This is a matter for the Director. You are sure there is no plot of any sort, then."
"None, Your Grace."
"Good. Uncle Gil, will you remain with Mr. Farrill? Lieutenant, will you come with me?"
Biron felt weak. He would have liked to sit down, but no suggestion to that effect was made by Gillbret, who still inspected him with an almost clinical interest.
"The Rancher's son! Amusing!"
Biron brought his attention downward. He was tired of cautious monosyllables and careful phrases. He said abruptly, "Yes, the Rancher's son. It is a congenital situation. Can I help you in any other way?"
Gillbret showed no offense. His thin face merely creased further as his smile widened. He said, "You might satisfy my