“But I acted through necessity, not choice, and, while Mike’s position was improved, it was still not an easy one. Mike was, for the nonce, the acknowledged sovereign of Mars under the legalistic malarky of the Larkin precedent . . . and, as such, was empowered to hand out concessions, trading rights, enclaves, ad nauseam. He must either do these things himself . . . and thus be subjected to pressures even worse than those attendant on great wealth and for which he is even less fitted—or he must abdicate his titular position and allow his Larkin rights to devolve on those twenty-three men now on Mars, i.e., to Douglas.”

Jubal looked pained. “I disliked these alternatives almost equally, since each was based on the detestable doctrine that the Larkin Decision could apply to inhabited planets. Gentlemen, I have never met any Martians, I have no vocation to be their champion—but I could not permit a client of mine to be trapped into such a farce. The Larkin Decision itself had to be rendered void, and all ‘rights’ under it, with respect to the planet Mars—while the matter was still in our hands and without giving the High Court a chance to rule.”

Jubal grinned boyishly. “So I appealed to a higher court for a decision that would nullify the Larkin precedent—I cited a mythical ‘British Colonial Shipping Board.’ I lied myself blue in the face to create a new legal theory. Sovereign honors had been rendered Mike; that was fact, the world had seen it. But sovereign honors may be rendered to a sovereign . . . or to a sovereign’s alter ego, his viceroy or ambassador. So I asserted that Mike was no cardboard sovereign under a silly human precedent not in point—but in awful fact the ambassador of the great Martian nation!”

Jubal sighed. “Sheer bluff . . . and I was scared silly that I would be required to prove my claims. But I was staking my bluff on my hope and strong belief that others—Douglas, and in particular, Kung—would be no more certain of the facts than was I.” Jubal looked around him. “But I ventured to risk that bluff because you three were sitting with us, were Mike’s water brethren. If you three sat by and did not challenge my lies, then Mike must be accepted as the Martian equivalent of ambassador—and the Larkin Decision was a dead issue.”

“I hope it is,” Captain van Tromp said soberly, “but I did not take your statements as lies, Jubal; I took them as simple truth.”

“Eh? But I assure you they were not. I was spinning fancy words, extemporizing.”

“No matter. Inspiration or deduction—I think you told the truth.” The skipper of the Champion hesitated. “Except that I would not call Mike an ambassador—I think he’s an expeditionary force.”

Caxton’s jaw dropped. Harshaw did not dispute him but answered with equal soberness. “In what way, sir?”

Van Tromp said, “I’ll amend that. It would be better to say that I think he’s a scout for an expeditionary force, reconnoitering us for his Martian masters. It is even possible that they are in telepathic contact with him at all times, that he doesn’t even need to report back. I don’t know—but I do know that, after visiting Mars, I find such ideas much easier to swallow . . . and I know this: everybody seems to take it for granted that, finding a human being on Mars, we would of course bring him home and that he would be anxious to come home. Nothing could be further from the truth. Eh, Sven?”

“Mike hated the idea,” agreed Nelson. “We couldn’t even get close to him at first; he was afraid of us. Then he was ordered to go back with us . . . and from then on he did exactly what we told him to do. He behaved like a soldier carrying out with perfect discipline orders that scared him silly.”

“Just a moment,” Caxton protested. “Captain, even so—Mars attack us? Mars? You know more about these things than I do, but wouldn’t that be about like us attacking Jupiter? I mean to say, we have about two and a half times the surface gravity that Mars has, just as Jupiter has about two and a half times our surface gravity. Somewhat analogous differences, each way, on pressure, temperature, atmosphere, and so forth. We couldn’t stay alive on Jupiter . . . and I don’t see how Martians could stand our conditions. Isn’t that true?”

“Close enough,” admitted van Tromp.

“Then tell me why we should attack Jupiter? Or Mars attack us?”

“Mmm . . . Ben, have you seen any of the proposals to attempt a beach head on Jupiter?”

“Yes, but—Well, nothing has ever gotten beyond the dream stage. It isn’t practical.”

“Space fight wasn’t practical less than a century ago. Go back in the files and see what your own colleagues said about it—oh, say about 1940. These Jupiter proposals are, at best, no farther than drawing board—but the engineers working on them are quite serious. They think that, by using all that we’ve learned from deep ocean exploration, plus equipping men with powered suits in which to float, it should be possible to put human beings on Jupiter. And don’t think for a moment that the Martians are any less clever than we are. You should see their cities.”