“You threaten me.”

“No, sir. I plead with you. I have come to you first. We wish to negotiate. But we cannot speak easily while we are being hounded. I beg of you, sir—call off you dogs!”

Douglas glanced down, looked up again. “Those warrants, if any, will not be served. As soon as I can track them down they will be canceled.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Douglas glanced at Major Bloch. “You still insist on booking him locally?”

Jubal looked at him contemptuously. “Him? Oh, let him go, he’s merely a fool in uniform. And let’s forget the damages, too. You and I have more serious matters to discuss.”

“You may go, Major.” The S.S. officer saluted and left very abruptly. Douglas continued, “Counsellor, it is my thought that we now need conversations face to face. The matters you raise can hardly be settled over the telephone.”

“I agree.”

“You and your, uh, client will be my guests at the Palace. I’ll send my yacht to pick you up. Can you be ready in an hour?”

Harshaw shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. But that won’t be necessary. We’ll sleep here . . . and when it comes time to meet I’ll dig up a dog sled, or something. No need to send your yacht.”

Mr. Douglas frowned. “Come, Doctor! As you yourself pointed out, these conversations will be quasi-diplomatic in nature. In proffering proper protocol I have, in effect, conceded this. Therefore I must be allowed to provide official hospitality.”

“Well, sir, I might point out that my client has had entirely too much official hospitality already—he had the Devil’s own time getting shut of it.”

Douglas’ face became rigid. “Sir, are you implying—”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m simply saying that Smith has been through quite a lot and is not used to high-level ceremony. He’ll sleep sounder here, where he feels at home. And so shall I. I am a crochety old man, sir, and I prefer my own bed. Or I might point out that our talks may break down and my client and I would be forced to look elsewhere—in which case I would find it embarrassing to be a guest under your roof.”

The Secretary General looked very grim. “Threats again. I thought you trusted me, sir? And I distinctly heard you say that you were ‘ready to negotiate.’”

“I do trust you, sir.” (—about as far as I could throw a fit!) “And we are indeed ready to negotiate. But I use ‘negotiate’ in its original sense, not in this new-fangled meaning of ‘appeasement.’ However, we intend to be reasonable. But we can’t start talks at once in any case; we’re shy one factor and we must wait. How long, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“We expect the administration to be represented at these talks by whatever delegation you choose—and we have the same privilege.”

“Surely. But let’s keep it small. I shall handle this myself, with only an assistant or two. The Solicitor General, I think . . . and our experts in space law. But to transact business you require a small group—the smaller the better.”

“Most certainly. Our group will be small. Smith himself—myself—I’ll bring a Fair Witness—”

“Oh, come now!”

“A Witness does not slow things up. I suggest you retain one also. We’ll have one or two others perhaps—but we lack one key man. I have firm instructions from my client that a fellow named Ben Caxton must be present . . . and I can’t find the beggar.”

Jubal, having spent hours of most complex maneuvering in order to toss in this one remark, now waited with his best poker face to see what would happen. Douglas stared at him. “‘Ben Caxton?’ Surely you don’t mean that cheap winchell?”

“The Ben Caxton I refer to is a newspaperman. He has a column with one of the syndicates.”

“Absolutely out of the question!”

Harshaw shook his head. “Then that’s all, Mr. Secretary. My instructions are firm and give me no leeway. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I beg to be excused now.” He reached out as if to switch off the phone.

“Hold it.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t cut that circuit; I’m not through speaking to you!”

“I most humbly beg the Secretary General’s pardon. We will, of course, wait until he excuses us.”

“Yes, yes, but never mind the formality. Doctor, do you read the tripe that comes out of this Capitol labeled as news?”

“Good Heavens, no!”

“I wish I didn’t have to. It’s preposterous to talk about having a journalist present at these talks in any case. We’ll let them in later, after everything is settled. But even if we were to have any of them present, Caxton would not be one of them. The man is utterly poisonous . . . a keyhole sniffer of the worst sort.”