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  Jerry entered into the fray.

  “I don’t know about that. Some have been under observation for a long time. Take the Judeo-Christian religion. It can be traced back without unreasonable change for thousands of years.”

  She overrode him. “Oh, can it? Or has it been changed over and over again down through the centuries to suit the current situation? Take the Laws of Moses, supposedly the direct word of Jehova to humanity. Who among your Jews or Christians have followed them for centuries past? Who could? Time after time, the religious books of the great religions are edited, to update them. Sometimes a fragment remains which must puzzle the less than scholarly. For instance, let me remember, yes, 1 Kings XV.12 and 2 Kings XXI 11.7 of the Old Testament. Over the years it must have proved somewhat puzzling for the faithful to read of the expulsion of the sodomistic priests from the Temple in Jerusalem. What sodomistic priests? they must have wondered, not knowing that the worship of the pagan goddess Cybele was widespread among the supposedly monotheistic Hebrews up until just before the Exile. Cybele’s worship was one of the most gruesome of the ancient world. Her male devotees tried to achieve ecstatic union with her by emasculating themselves and dressing like women. All this, of course, has been edited out of the holy book now perused by the followers of this faith.”

  Guy Thomas was looking at her in some surprise. She was the only woman aboard, but that restrained her not at all when it came to argumentation dealing with her beliefs.

  She pressed after Jerry. “Unchanging? Jesus, as a Jew, celebrated the Sabbath on Saturday, as did Mary, Joseph and all the disciples and early saints. His followers don’t; they celebrate Sunday, the Day of the Sun, of the pagans. Why? Or take Jesus’ supposed birthday. Early Christians considered January 6th the date of the Nativity, but about the beginning of the 4th Century, December 25th was adopted. By coincidence it was also the winter sostice which people were used to observing, and the birthday of the rival god Mithra, who at the time was racing neck and neck with the Christians to secure dominance of the Roman Empire.” The fact was, Pat O’Gara seldom lost an argument, if only because she was willing to stick it out, hours on end, if need be, until her opponent wearied of the debate, or had to stand his watch.

  Evidently, she wasn’t overly worried about her lack of visas. And, ordinarily, she would have been right. The visa was a permission to land, seldom required on most of the member worlds of the United Planets. And even less often was an exit visa needed for a citizen of one world to leave that planet for another. Most usually, only the more backward, the more reactionary of governments required the bureaucratic red tape involved in the issuing of visas, or even the possession of a UP passport. Only a minority of worlds were afraid that their institutions would be subverted, their sometimes extreme religious beliefs held up to scorn or their sociopolitical system threatened, if outsiders were allowed to come among them.

  But Amazonia? Pat O’Gara simply couldn’t believe that the world of her dreams could possibly be serious about the requirement for a landing visa for visitors from any other UP planet.

  The captain, when the matter had been brought before him by Rex Ravelle, had shrugged and had had a few words to say to his second officer on his not having checked the passengers’ passports before burn off of the Schirra. He was not going to upset his schedule to return Citizeness O’Gara to Earth, but if the Amazonian immigration authorities prevented her landing, he was going to have no alternative but to continue with her until they reached far Phyrgia and then returned to Earth. If such was necessary, Citizeness O’Gara was going to be held responsible for the full fare.

  She tossed her head at that. “I have no funds, Captain Buchwald. I told you I was a refugee from my home planet. I used my last credit to exchange for my ticket to Amazonia.”

  He looked at her in bafflement. Captain Buchwald was not used to being baffled, his life was so organized as to avoid such upsets.

  “But what did you plan to do, if they refused to allow you to land, Citizeness O’Gara?” he asked in bewilderment.

  “I planned to argue with them,” she said defiantly.

  Rex Ravelle chortled in the background. They arrived off Amazonia during the sleeping hours and went into orbit around the destination of the passengers while those two were asleep, not having been informed by the ship’s officers that their goal was so near. It was not deliberate. Each had assumed that someone else had notified the travelers.

  They awoke, then, to find the ship’s personnel hurrying through an abbreviated breakfast so as to be ready to receive port officials.

  Guy had come into the salon first, looking over his shoulder at Jerry Muirhead who had brushed hurriedly past him, a piece of toast still in hand.

  “What’s the emergency?” Guy said to the steward.

  Happy Harrison shifted his little eyes about. For the present the lounge was empty. He sneered, “These deck officers—nothing to do with themselves, week on end—when something comes up they gotta charge around showing how-important-like, they are. I shoulda gone in for deck, instead of this nardy steward department.”

  “What’s up?” Guy repeated.

  “Them big mopsies are coming alongside. What’d’ya think? Customs and immigration and all that curd.” Rex Ravelle came bearing in, grabbed up a cup of coffee, took a deep swallow, popped his eyes as though he was about to spit it all out again. He got the coffee down and glared at the steward.

  “Harrison, damn your cloddy soul. As long as we’re in space the coffee is too cold to drink. But come up with a hurry and it’s so boiling hot you’d crisp yourself drinking it.”

  “Always complaints on this kettle,” Happy whined. “I don’t know why I’ze ever so flat as to sign up on the Schirra”

  Guy said to Rex Ravelle, “When are they coming aboard? These are the Amazonian authorities, eh?”

  “Right as rain, fella,” Rex told him, blowing on his coffee. He cocked his head to one side as though he had heard a sound that hadn’t come through to the other. “That’s contact. They’ll be here in a couple of minutes. Happy, Holy Jumping Zen, get a move on. Get some refreshments on the table. Some guzzle, some sandwich things.”

  “Guzzle,” the steward said indignantly. “You know there ain’t supposed to be no alcohol in space, Second.”

  “Knock it, we’re not legally in space. We’re in planet orbit. These mopsies are two-fisted bottle babies. Get some guzzle on the table. You got to butter these curves up. It’s not like most planets. Amazonians don’t want you to be coming around. Doing business here’d like to drive you drivel-happy.”

  Happy, grumbling, got about it.

  A few minutes later the second officer set down his coffee and faced the entry.

  “Ah, welcome aboard, Major.”

  Guy Thomas did a double take.

  Through the entry strode a figure straight out of the historical fiction Tri-Di shows. It took a fraction of a second for him to realize that it was a woman.

  Not that…well, not that it didn’t look like a woman. It was a woman, all right. It was just that…

  She was probably about five foot ten. It was the high boots, which had an effect of looking like greaves, that gave her the added inch or two of height, and then the helmet, which wasn’t really gold, on quick second scrutiny, also exaggerated her size. Nor was she as brawny as first impression gave out. That was attained by the cuirass she wore, and partly by the heavy military cloak that hung from her shoulders almost to her ankles. Strictly out of a Tri-Di historical, Guy Thomas decided all over again, and so were the others who pressed behind her, somewhat less ostentatiously dressed, but in the same tradition.

  “Morning,” she snapped to Rex Ravelle. Her eyes went around the small salon, touched on Happy Harrison, who had shrunk back into his pantry corner, touched on Guy Thomas, and went on.

  There were four of them in all. The major, as Rex had ranked her, alone was weaponless. Her three assistants bore quick draw holsters on one hip, a decorative short sw
ord, or possibly heavy dagger would be the better term, on the other. Their helmets were a pseudo-silver, rather than gold. They looked remarkably efficient. All, including the major, wore their hair short in what would have been called page-boy bobs in an earlier age, and all wore a type of heavy shorts, reminiscent of the pedal-pushers of the past.

  Rex said hospitably, “The skipper suggested you might like a bit of refreshment before coming up to his office for business.”

  One of the younger women caught up a bottle of pseudo-whiskey from the table where Harrison had laid it out along with sandwich meats, cheese and other cold table spread.

  “Artimis!” she chuckled. “Earthside guzzle!” She stuck the bottle to her mouth and gurgled.

  Happy Harrison’s face expressed pain.

  The major gruffed, half humorously, “Easy, Lysippe, you wouldn’t want to get drenched on this nice men’s ship!”

  The other two Amazons crowded up to get at the food and drink. “The Goddess forbid!” one roared, rather than spoke. “Lysippe’s a mean drunk if there ever was one.” However, she too took up a full bottle, rather than bothering with the time-consuming amenity of a glass.

  Guy Thomas was sitting a bit beyond at a smaller table.

  One of the girls, busy building a king-size sandwich, looked over at him and winked. “Hi, Cutey,” she said. “That’s a pretty little suit you’re wearing.”

  Guy Thomas blinked.

  Rex said, “Dig in, ladies.”

  “Ladies!” the one called Lysippe guffawed. “That’s a good one. Hey, Minythyia, did ya hear that?” She took another hefty swig from her bottle.

  The major was working a cork from a champagne bottle. She said to Rex, who was standing back a few feet, watching them, a half twist on his mouth, “What’s this about a passenger?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I have the papers here.” He half lifted a hand which held his heavy envelope. “In fact, there’s two. This is one of them. From Earth. Citizen Guy Thomas.” He motioned toward Guy with the envelope.

  “Guy Thomas!” the major blurted. “Guy Thomas! We’ve issued no entry visa for a Guy Thomas.”

  Guy came to his feet. “But…but there must be some mistake.”

  “Minythyia! Hand me that damned directive! Minythyia, the slightest in build and evidently the youngest of the four, dropped her imbibbing and enthusiastic eating long enough to deliver a paper from the heavy leather wallet she had slung over one shoulder.

  The major ripped it from her hand and glared at it. “We have records to show only one passenger, and the entry visa was issued to Gay Thomas, not Guy Thomas.”

  III

  The Earthling was uncomprehending. He stared at the domineering port official. “But…it’s obviously some minor mistake in transmission. I…I secured my visa from the Amazonian Embassy in Greater Washington. They were most cooperative and…” He let the sentence dribble away.

  The Amazon major threw the paper to the table top and slapped it with the back of her hand.

  “It says Gay Thomas! What in the name of the Goddess did you say your name was?”

  “Guy. G-u-y. Don’t you see? A mistake. Only one letter wrong.” He seemed bewildered.

  “One letter wrong! You blithering flat! You’re a man!”

  He looked at her. There didn’t seem to be any answer to that.

  “Cute, too,” the assistant they called Minythyia said. Of the four port officials, she alone had gone to the nicety of pouring her drink into a glass.

  “Quiet!” the major rasped.

  Unfazed, Minythyia said easily, “All I meant was, if he lands, I saw him first.” She winked at Guy. He stared at her in dismay. She wasn’t quite so awesome as the others, not so large, but she managed to project the same swagger.

  The major spun back to Rex Ravelle. “What’s this curd about another passenger?”

  Pat O’Gara came through the entry at that exact moment. For once, the fiery feminist was spellbound. She took in the four Amazonians, her eyes slowly going rounder.

  Rex Ravelle chortled. “Major, may I introduce Citizeness Patricia O’Gara, refugee from the planet Victoria.”

  “Refugee!” The one named Lysippe took her bottle away from her mouth long enough to say, “Why you poor kid.”

  “Shut up!” the major roared.

  Rex Ravelle looked at her strangely, as though there seemed more of a hassle here than he had expected. He said, placatingly, “Don’t let it worry you, Major. The skipper has already stated he would take Citizeness O’Gara on with us, and finally back to Earth, if you forbade her setting down here. It’s no problem.” He added, absently, “Even though she hasn’t any exchange—Earth type, Victorian type, or Amazonian, whatever that is.”

  The Amazonian officer glared at him but for the moment seemed speechless.

  Pat said weakly, “I…I thought…” Then she took a cue from the Guy Thomas conversation book. She let the sentence fade away.

  The eyes of the four Amazonians were on the girl. She seemed to shrink a few inches in stature.

  Minythyia said gruffly, “What’re you a refugee from?”

  Rex Ravelle laughed. “A planet that’s as strongly male dominated as Amazonia is female, evidently.”

  Lysippe had put her bottle down on the table. She said, lowly, “I think I’ve heard of this Victoria. They’ve got the sexes all mixed up even worse than usual. The men are really on top. It must be gruesome.”

  The major said, her voice for once without dominating inflection, “What’d they do to you, kid?” Then her eyes came up and suddenly swept Ravelle, Guy and even Happy Harrison contemptuously. “No, don’t try to tell us now.”

  She turned to Pat again and looked at her for a long moment. She said finally, sharply, “You’re not a deviate, are you? We don’t go for that sort of abnormality on Amazonia.”

  “Deviate?” Pat said blankly. Rex Ravelle began to chuckle softly. The major glared at him, then turned her eyes back to Pat. “How come you’re in drag?”

  “Drag?”

  Guy Thomas cleared his throat, apologetically. “Uh, Major, there’s nothing out of line in Citizeness O’Gara’s clothing. I understand it’s the usual garb on Victoria. I’ve seen similar dresses on historic tapes of the Earth Victorian period.”

  The four uniformed women looked unbelievingly at Pat O’Gara for awhile until she flushed, and they turned their eyes away quickly.

  The major snapped at Rex, “What are you laughing at you overfed yoke? Look at the clothes they put on this poor kid. It’s enough to give her an inferiority complex.”

  But Rex Ravelle wasn’t that easily squelched. “Aw, come on, Major. You’ve probably never been over-space, but you should realize that what’s the top of style in clothes on one planet can be a laughingstock on another. How do you think your own outfits would react on people on, say, on New Delos, or Earth, for that matter, although they’re used to just about anything on Earth.”

  The major’s voice was dangerously gentle. “And what’s wrong with our uniforms?”

  Rex backpedalled only slightly. “Well, for one thing, there’s a lot of anachronism. For instance, those little swords. They’re obviously just for pretty. What in the world good would an overgrown cheeseknife do in combat? You’d…”

  The major’s manner was still deceptively gentle. She took one step to the table, laden with its cold buffet and took up an uncut red cheese, about the size of a small grapefruit. She looked in Ravelle’s eyes as she hefted it once or twice.

  She snapped suddenly, “Clete!” and tossed it into the air.

  In a blur of motion, one of her three aides flicked her supposed for-pretty knife from its scabbard and without swinging back, let fly. There was a whoosh as the weapon penetrated the rind of the cheese, the whole blade passing through until halted by the guard. Cheese and knife clattered to the metal decking.

  The warrior called Clete reclaimed her weapon, grumbling as she inspected the nick that had been acquired. She tossed the c
heese to the Schirra’s second officer for his inspection. It was hardly necessary, it was obvious that the hit had been a bull’s eye.

  The major hadn’t bothered to watch developments after she had tossed the target. She had returned to Pat, thoughtfully. She said, “I’ll check back with my superiors, kid. Don’t worry about it. We’re not as tough as we’re supposed to be on this planet.”

  “Oh, I know it,” Pat gushed suddenly. “It’s been man’s rule that’s caused all the hurt, down through the centuries.”

  The major looked at her thoughtfully some more and grunted.

  Lysippe chuckled.

  The major turned back to Guy Thomas. “Now, you’re another thing. You probably think you’re pretty stute, getting an entry visa under false pretenses. Letting them think you were a woman.”

  “But it wasn’t that at all.”

  “What do you want to land on Amazonia for?” the girl Clete said in all honesty. “Are you drivel-happy?”

  “Shut up, Clete,” the major said. But she looked at Guy. “Well?”

  Guy held his hands up, in the ages-old gesture of weary submission. “I’m from the Department of Interplanetary Trade of United Planets. Our job is to expedite trade between the member planets.”

  “Why?”

  Guy said patiently, “The whole purpose of UP is to keep peace between the member planets. To keep peace and encourage progress. We sponsor trade as one way of achieving those goals. Very well, some time ago the member planet Avalon, through her UP embassy on Earth, revealed her interest in acquiring rather large quantities of titanium. For a time, Statistics was stymied, the metal is unusually scarce, or, at least, difficult to extract from most of the ores that bear it. Then through one of your own embassy officials, I don’t know which, it was dropped at a reception that Amazonia was long on titanium but short on Niobium. Perhaps you call it columbium on your planet.”