“But your concepts of strategy are Neanderthal.”

Caxton sighed. “I feel better, Jubal. For a moment there I thought you had become softly sentimental in your old age.”

“When I do, please shoot me. Captain, how many men did you leave on Mars?”

“Twenty-three.”

“And what is their status, under the Larkin Decision?”

Van Tromp looked troubled. “I’m not supposed to talk.”

“Then don’t,” Jubal reassured him. “I can deduce it, and so can Ben.”

Dr. Nelson said, “Skipper, both Stinky and I are civilians again. I shall talk where and how I please—”

“And shall I,” agreed Mahmoud.

“—and if they want to make trouble for me, they know what they can do with my reserve commission. What business has the government, telling us we can’t talk? Those chair-warmers didn’t go to Mars. We did.”

“Stow it, Sven. I intended to talk—these are our water brothers. But, Ben, I would rather not see this in your column. I would like to command a space ship again.”

“Captain, I know the meaning of ‘off the record.’ But if you’ll feel easier, I’ll join Mike and the girls for a while—I want to see Jill anyhow.”

“Please don’t leave. But . . . this is among water brothers. The government is in a stew about that nominal colony we left behind. Every man in it joined in signing away his so-called Larkin rights—assigned them to the government—before we left Earth. Mike’s presence when we got to Mars confused things enormously. I’m no lawyer, but I understood that, if Mike did waive his rights, whatever they might be, that would put the administration in the driver’s seat when it came to parceling out things of value.”

“What things of value?” demanded Caxton. “Other than pure science, I mean. Look, Skipper, I’m not running down your achievement, but from all I’ve seen and heard, Mars isn’t exactly valuable real estate for human beings. Or are there assets that are still classified ‘drop dead before reading’?”

Van Tromp shook his head. “No, the scientific and technical reports are all declassified, I believe. But, Ben, the Moon was a worthless hunk of rock when we first got it. Now look at it.”

“Touché,” Caxton admitted. “I wish my grandpappy had bought Lunar Enterprises instead of Canadian uranium. I don’t have Jubal’s objections to being rich.” He added, “But, in any case, Mars is already inhabited.”

Van Tromp looked unhappy. “Yes. But—Stinky, you tell him.”

Mahmoud said, “Ben, there is plenty of room on Mars for human colonization . . . and, so far as I was ever able to find out, the Martians would not interfere. They did not object when we told them we intended to leave a colony behind. Nor did they seem pleased. Not even interested. We’re flying our flag and claiming extraterritoriality right now. But our status may be more like that of one of those ant cities under glass one sometimes sees in school rooms. I was never able to grok it.”

Jubal nodded. “Precisely. Myself, too. This morning I did not have the slightest idea of the true situation . . . except that I knew that the government was anxious to get those so-called Larkin rights from Mike. Beyond that I was ignorant. So I assumed that the government was equally ignorant and went boldly ahead. ‘Audacity, always audacity’—soundest principal of strategy. In practicing medicine I learned that when you are most at loss is the time when you must appear confident. In law I had learned that, when your case seems hopeless, you must impress the jury with your relaxed certainty.”

Jubal grinned. “Once, when I was a kid in high school, I won a debate on shipping subsidies by quoting an over-whelming argument from the files of the British Colonial Shipping Board. The opposition was totally unable to refute me—because there never was a ‘British Colonial Shipping Board.’ I had made it up, whole cloth.

“I was equally shameless this morning. The administration wanted Mike’s ‘Larkin rights’ and was scared silly that we might make a deal with Kung or somebody. So I used their greed and worry to wring out of them that ultimate logical absurdity of their fantastic legal theory, a public acknowledgment in unmistakable diplomatic protocol that Mike was a sovereign equal of the Federation itself—and must be treated accordingly!” Jubal looked smug.

“Thereby,” Ben said dryly, “putting yourself up the well-known creek without a paddle.”

“Ben, Ben,” Jubal said chidingly. “Wrong metaphor. Not a canoe, but a tiger. Or a throne. By their own logic they had publicly crowned Mike. Need I point out that, despite the old saw about uneasy heads and crowns, it is nevertheless safer to be publicly a king than it is to be a pretender in hiding? A king can usually abdicate to save his neck; a pretender may renounce his pretensions but it makes his neck no safer—less so, in fact; it leaves him naked to his enemies. No, Ben, Kung saw that Mike’s position had been enormously strengthened by a few bars of music and an old sheet, even if you did not—and Kung did not like it a bit.