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From the top of a purple-swathed knoll he looked down across a twisting red stream toward the suburbs of the city. Magnificent black-stone villas, surrounded by stylized gardens, were on both sides of the green highway.

Further on, close to the city, were the crowded workers’ quarters, behind them, hidden in a faint mist, the rectangular masses of public buildings reaching up toward the stars. This was as Paul Sorgel had so often described it. Such grandeur could only belong to the capital city of the Vininese Confederacy.

Under the brow of the knoll Dirrul saw one of the stone block buildings within its protective double walls. A huge trumpet-like transmitter was exposed at the top of the structure. In some ways it resembled the Beam Transmitters on Agron but the differences were so striking Dirrul knew it was a totally new device–possibly a more efficient variation invented by the Vininese. The faint hum of machinery and the regular movement of the sending tube indicated that the machine was running–but for what purpose Dirrul could only guess.

The yard between the two walls was patrolled by a smartly disciplined score of Vininese. Dirrul considered going to them to ask for transportation to the city but changed his mind. It was very possible that the installation was secret. The guards might have had instructions to dispose immediately of any intruder. On the whole it seemed wiser to go a little farther to one of the walled villas.

Dirrul walked half a thousand feet along the green highway and turned up the drive leading toward one of the sprawling mansions. As he passed the portals of the open gate an alarm bell clanged–seconds later five Vininese infantry surrounded him, prodding him into the house with their gleaming weapons. In precise Vininese, carefully enunciated, Dirrul tried to explain what he wanted–but the guards made no reply, merely staring at him with cold glazed eyes, comprehending nothing.

They threw him roughly into a dark room, where a slim Vininese waited in a lounge chair. As Dirrul’s eyes grew accustomed to the faint light he saw that the Vininese held a snub-nosed rocket-pistol.

“Your permit?” the Vininese asked languidly.

“Yesterday I came here from–“

“Then you have no permit. I must shoot you, of course.”

“Sir, I have a message from Agron! You must take me to Headquarters!”

“Oh, you’re a tourist. But this is a prohibited area. From the dust on your tunic, I take it you have done a great deal of walking. A pity, my friend–naturally you’ve seen the transmitters.”

“We have them on Agron but it is of no importance.”

The Vininese threw back his head and laughed, “Oh, no–of no importance–you have seen nothing!”

“I do not understand you,” Dirrul said desperately. “My Vininese is very poor. But you must help me. I bring news of the Movement on Agron and time is short.” Anxiously Dirrul plunged into his story, tripping repeatedly over the involved syntax of Vinin to his host’s obvious amusement.

Eventually, however, he made his point, for the tall Vininese said, “Then you must be the agent who sent the teleray report. We’ve been looking for you, sir. We feared, after you crashed, that you might have been taken by the vagabonds.” Still holding Dirrul centered in the gunsight the Vininese picked up a portable teleray and asked for Headquarters.

While he waited he added, “You must forgive this reception, my friend from Agron. We have been having so much trouble with the vagabonds lately we must all go armed. Here in the transmission area we must be particularly alert.”

His tone was warm but the gun never wavered. When he made his connection he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece, too rapidly for Dirrul to work out an accurate translation. It seemed, however, that the conversation was centered around the transmitters rather than the report Dirrul had to make. The Vininese finished the dialogue and smiled engagingly at Dirrul.

“I am to take you to the capital, my friend,” he said. “They are preparing a reception for you. You are a hero of Vinin, to have braved so much for the cause.”