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  “What’s the Hippolyte?”

  “My dear boy, Hippolyte of the Golden Girdle of Ares. Hippolyte of the famous battle axe. The queen of the Amazons, who was betrayed by Heracles.”

  Some of it vaguely came back to Guy Thomas from high school mythology. “What’s all that got to do with here and now?”

  “Oh now, really, darling. Is it different on other planets? So many of the traditions of antiquity are called upon today, simply for the sake of, why, oh dear, I don’t know. It’s always been so. Remember how in your own Earth history that the name of Caesar and the title of Imperator was used for a thousand and more years after Julius himself died? The German Kaiser, the Russian Czar, the British Emperor Rex.”

  Guy said, “So the present government of, uh, Paphlagonia has a queen they call Hippolyte. And she’s supposed to be a reincarnation of the last Hippolyte, and she of the one before. And, I suppose, all the way back to the mythological Hippolyte who had her belt swiped by Heracles as one of his twelve labors.”

  Podner giggled. “You make it sound so silly.” He fluttered a hand. “But I suppose that’s about it. Actually, of course, when the Hippolyte dies, a new one is elected by representatives from each of the families.”

  “Families?”

  Podner looked at him archly. “Oh, not families in the usual sense. From the clans, darling. The genos, as the Greeks called them, or the Roman gens.”

  Guy Thomas was out of his depth. “All right,” he said. “So tomorrow I’m to meet the chief of state and her council.”

  “Good heavens, how exciting. Men so seldom have the opportunity to even see the Hippolyte, not to speak of talking with her. She’s impatient of masculine chatter, so I’m told. Won’t you just be terrified, dear?”

  “I hope not,” Guy muttered. “But look, I’ve got to go to bed. Is there anything else?”

  “Oh dear no,” Podner fluttered. “Do forgive me for keeping you up so long. When you wish breakfast, just switch on the orderbox and call for it. And now, do get your beauty sleep.”

  “Goodnight,” Guy said.

  When the other was gone, he stood for a long moment in the center of the living room, in thought. He let his eyes go around the apartment. After a time he went to the door and threw the lock. It looked adequate.

  He went to the window then, opened it and looked out. It faced on the garden, which completely surrounded the building. He could see down the boulevard, toward the center of town. There was a statue in a plaza not two blocks away. They hadn’t passed it in the hovercar on the way in from the spaceport. A woman, what seemed to be a quiver of arrows on her back, her hand resting on some sort of animal. A dog? No, it looked more like a deer. It came to him. A colossal statue of Diana the Huntress. He sought through his memory and nodded. He knew where he was in the city of Themiscyra.

  He closed the window. There was a knob to polarize the window glass. He turned it.

  He stood in the center of the room again, looking about. Finally he pulled the ring from his finger, took it in his left hand and with the nail of his little finger, activated it by flicking an all but microscopic stud.

  He started at the orderbox and the vizo-phone on the table near the bed, passing the ring over and about, slowly, carefully. There was no reaction. Slowly then, he went about the rest of the room, over each piece of furniture, over each decorative device, up and down the walls. And then into the refresher room.

  It took him a full half hour. Finally he nodded. The room was either not bugged, or if it was, the device was so sophisticated that his equipment couldn’t detect it. He deactivated his sweeper ring, put it back on his finger, and took up the tool kit which Clete had examined so thoroughly on the Schirra. He opened it on the center table of the small living room.

  He pulled out the cutter drill and twisted it expertly. It fell apart into three separate pieces. He laid the pistol grip to one side and picked up another of the tools. This twisted apart as well, this time into two units. He took one of them and attached it to the pistol grip. Still a third tool divided under his fingers. He added a part of it to the pistol grip which was metamorphosing into an entirely different device from that which it had started out.

  He looked at it thoughtfully, reached down into the kit and came up with a medium sized capsule. He slugged it home into the butt, threw the charge lever and then the safety. He stuck the gun into his tunic and under the belt which held his flowing garment together.

  He looked around the room again, as though checking, shook his head and returned the various tools which he had strewn about the table to the tool kit and put it into a closet. He turned the lights out and stepped to the windows and threw them open.

  The nearest light of any brilliance at all was over on the boulevard. Occasionally a hovercar passed, but there were no pedestrians in sight for the moment. It was getting late.

  He swung a leg over the window ledge, lowered himself carefully. His toes, mountain-climber educated, sought proturberances and found them. He had noted earlier that the decorative motif of the building allowed ample scope for the educated climber. He slowly worked his way down the wall to the garden.

  He stood there for a long moment, listening. There was nothing.

  He made his way over to the boulevard and openly strode along it. He walked the better part of a kilometer, stopped for awhile, scowling, at a crossroad, then decided and turned right. The street was narrower here. Narrower and darker. Evidently, the Amazonians had no particular reason to over-illuminate their capital city during the night hours.

  He walked somewhat more rapidly now. He had not wanted to attract what little traffic there had been on the boulevard by a hurried pace. This was different.

  Twenty minutes later, he paused again, then turned to his left, down a way that could have been described more as an alley than a street. It was darker still, but his eyes were used to the dim now.

  It came as an utter surprise when bright light flashed from ahead and to one side of him, and a beam reached out, searchingly, missing him by but a fraction. He could hear brick chipping away on the wall behind him.

  He flung himself to the side and down, the gun instantly in his hand.

  Guy Thomas had been partially blinded, for a moment, by the flash from the other’s weapon, a type of arm he had never come up against before.

  He heard a shuffling in the dark before him. His opponent was evidently shifting position before resuming the attack, obviously avoiding a return of fire in the direction from whence the destructive beam had come.

  “Holy Jumping Zen,” the Earthman muttered under his breath. “This wasn’t in the script!” He thumbed off the safety stud on his gun.

  V

  Happily, Guy Thomas was in a shadowy area, even darker than the balance of the alley-street. It had been pure luck, when he rolled away from the other’s line of fire, that had put him there. He doubted, unless his attacker was using infrared, that the other could make out his position. Guy took his time, studying the layout.

  He decided that a stone doorway, possibly thirty feet up the passage, must be the other’s ambush. The light which had accompanied the beam, must have come from approximately there. Guy brought his left hand up and made his grip on the gun a double one, for greater stability. He tightened the trigger slowly, not quite squeezing off.

  As he stared at the doorway his eyes slowly became more accustomed to the shadows. And, yes, unless vision played him false, he could see the barest suggestion of a figure there. Not enough of a target to expect a hit. He continued to hold his fire.

  His opponent moved slightly. It came to Guy that his foe couldn’t be sure if he had hit his victim or not. The beam had lashed out, Guy had fallen to the street; since then, he had made no motion. Certainly the other was playing it cautious.

  He saw the figure move again, revealing a bit more of itself. Unless he was mistaken, that was a head, half exposed, trying to seek out Guy’s position.

  There was no doubt in Guy�
�s mind whatsoever. The attack had been an attempt at murder. Not just mugging, not just an attempt at robbery. Was it a case of mistaken identity? There would seem to be no other alternative that made sense. But mistaken identity or not, the assassin was interested in murder and nothing short of that. Guy Thomas’ lips were already dry, now they thinned back over his teeth inadvertently.

  The figure moved again. A full half of a human form was revealed. Guy tightened on the trigger, ever so slightly. The silenced, recoiless handweapon coughed.

  There was a scream from up the alley, high pitched at first then trailing off in an attempt at repression. A figure staggered from the doorway, brought itself up sharp, then scurried away in the direction of greater dark. Something clattered to the pavement.

  For a brief moment, Guy, now on one knee, leveled the gun again. But then he shook his head and held fire. The other was winged. His death would avail the Earthling nothing, and might possibly lead to complications.

  Guy stood erect and walked toward the recess in which the assassin had stood in hiding. There on the ground was the gun the unknown had utilized. Guy picked it up and scowled at it, thrusting his own weapon into his belt again. He had never seen this type of gun but he supposed there was no particular reason why he should have been expected to be acquainted with weapons that had evolved on this world. With three thousand planets in UP, even a full-time expert could hardly be knowledgeable about all the means evolved of dealing out death throughout the worlds.

  He stuck the second weapon in his belt as well, and continued on his way.

  He was nearing his destination now, and began checking the street names, inlaid attractively in mosaic at every crossing, in the pavement itself. He found his narrow street, found his number.

  Guy Thomas hesitated before the stone arch and the door behind it. It was late, indeed. Perhaps he should have waited for another occasion. But he shrugged that off. What other occasion? For all he knew, there might not be any. He had to take what opportunity offered.

  He thumped on the door as gently as was consistent with arousing those within. He waited and then put his hand up again to thump once more.

  But the door opened inward. He peered, to be confronted with darkness.

  “Don’t tread on me,” he said softly, self-consciously.

  “The Sons of Liberty Arise,” a voice whispered back. “Come in.”

  He moved forward. The door closed behind. And then there was light and a burly figure staring at him.

  “Who in Zen are you?” the other rasped.

  “I’m from Earth,” Guy said.

  “Sarpedon got through!”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, good. Where is he? Still on Earth?”

  “He’s probably dead.”

  The other stared anew at the newcomer. “Dead?” he was blankly.

  Guy said, “He disappeared. It’s impossible to disappear on Earth. Or all but impossible. Under the circumstances, we assumed he was dead.”

  “Oh, the bitches,” the big man groaned.

  “We have no evidence who was responsible.”

  “I don’t need evidence. Here, come on in. Follow me.”

  Guy followed him down a stone corridor, along the edge of a patio garden in the middle of which a, small fountain tinkled. These houses were well done. He looked sharply left and right, as he went. Across the patio, two men were talking, their voices low; on their hips they carried quick-draw holsters. They passed a room, door open; five men sat around a table, playing cards. Guy noted two rifles leaning against the wall.

  He followed the other into another room which was comparatively nude of furniture in spite of its size. A large table dominated its center and there were possibly a score of straight chairs, some about the table, some against the walls. The table was piled with a confusion of papers, pamphlets and books. And there was another man seated at it.

  The one who had given Guy entrance said, “I’m Zeke. We don’t use second names in our outfit. This is Teucer.”

  “My name’s Thomas. Guy Thomas.”

  Teucer was a slight, strained man, a hungry look about him. His voice was just this side of being shrill. He said, “Don’t tread on me.”

  Guy Thomas said to them both. “Don’t misunderstand my position. I’m here to investigate. I don’t necessarily back the stand you Sons of Liberty people are taking. I’m here to gather information.”

  “You’re a man, aren’t you?” Zeke said belligerently.

  Guy eyed him.

  Zeke said sourly, “Sit down. Did they only send one? We were hoping for a full landing of Space Marines.”

  Guy took the proffered chair. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “It doesn’t sound ridiculous to us,” Teucer said. “Maybe it wouldn’t be ridiculous to you, if you was a third-rate citizen on a world run by half-crazy mopsies.”

  Zeke said, “Let me tell this, Tuecer. We haven’t got much time now. It’ll be dawn, before too long and Zen knows when we can get together with Damon and the others and have a real meeting.”

  “Who’s Damon?” Guy said.

  “The headman in the Sons of Liberty.”

  “All right, obviously I’ll have to see him sooner or later. Before we go any further; somebody took a shot at me on my way over here. I think I winged him.”

  Both Zeke and Teucer gawked at him. Though both wore the evidently universal tunic which came down, kilt-like, to approximately the knees, in other respect they could hardly have been much different. Zeke was a dark man, gruff and unhappy. Teucer was overly thin, pale of face, quick in nervous movement. They wouldn’t have impressed one as being a team.

  Guy waited for their comment.

  Zeke came to his feet, his face unbelieving, crossed to a niche set into the stone wall and brought forth a flask and three glasses. He brought the things back and set them on the table. He poured three drinks.

  “Wine,” he said. He took his up. “Who could it have been?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Guy said reasonably. “A footpad? A common stickup man? But the thing is, he tried to kill me, not just roll me for my money.”

  Teucer was shaking his head. “I’ve read about how things are on Earth, but there’s not what you’d call stickup men here in Themiscyra. For all practical purposes, there’s no crime. It’s all one big crime, maybe, but—”

  Zeke cut in. “The thing is,” he told Guy, “that there’s no money. Not like you know it. So it’s not much use being a footpad, or whatever it was you called him. All he could get from crisping you would be your watch, your ring. It’s not worth it.”

  Guy didn’t like this. It added a factor that simply shouldn’t have been here. It worried him. He said, “How many knew I was coming?”

  Zeke scowled at him. “How do you mean? Nobody knew you were coming. How could we know you were coming?” Sarpedon had no way of getting a message back to us.”

  Guy said, “Look. Let’s start at beginnings. Tell me, briefly, your position. I say briefly, because, of course, I heard your Sarpedon’s story.” He took up his glass and took a swallow. The wine was excellent, clean and fruity and similar to a Soave from that area of Earth once known as Italy.

  Zeke took a deep draught of his own winea wiped his mouth with the back of a beefy paw and said, “All right. Here we go. It’s got to the point on Amazonia where we can’t stand it any longer, understand? Men I mean. You get to the point finally where you can’t stand it any longer, right?”

  Guy said, “Go on.”

  “All right. A guy here, a guy there, began talking, began studying up on history, especially the history of revolts, revolutions, armed rebellions. The mopsies can’t hide it all. If they want to be educated themselves, they’ve got to run the chance of us getting educated too. It’s too hard to hide books and reading tapes. Anyway, it started with a single man here and there and began to grow. The message began to spread. Then, suddenly, almost overnight, we found ourselves with an organization, and unde
rground, the Sons of Liberty. It’s spread. It’s spread all over, not only in Paphlagonia but Lybia. The men over there are as fed up as we are here.”

  “And how’s the movement going?” Guy said carefully.

  “It’s all set to blow. There’s only one thing. Precious few men ever get the chance to work out with weapons, guns, explosives, that sort of thing.”

  Guy Thomas thought of Podner Bates and nodded understanding.

  “The moment our underground stuck its head up, it’d be a bloodbath. Well, I guess that part of it’s already obvious to you. At any rate, we decided to send a representative to United Planets. It wasn’t easy. It’s practically impossible for a man to leave Amazonia.”

  “So I understand,” Guy nodded, sipping at the wine again.

  Teucer filled all three of the glasses again. He began to say something but Zeke held up a hand.

  “Sarpedon was one of our best. He was, well, one of the top male athletes in Paphlagonia—they let us participate in some sports.” He grunted disgust. “At any rate, he was tops. He and Damon were kind of like brothers. I knew him myself. He was our best.” He paused momentarily and bit out, “The bitches, oh the bitches!”

  “Go ahead,” Guy said.

  “Well, the way we did it, we smuggled him out to the artificial satellite where the United Planets embassy is. We plotted it thoroughly, taking lots of time, and we finally made it. Hippolyte’s gang never found out.”

  “You’re lucky,” Guy said evenly, “the embassy didn’t turn him back to the authorities.”

  “Why should they? That satellite embassy is United Planets territory. He demanded political refuge.”

  “It’s not ordinarily the sort of thing you can claim from UP,” Guy said. “Amazonia is a member planet herself. It’s not as though Sarpedon was claiming political refuge from Avalon or some other sovereign world. But go on.”

  Zeke snorted. “Most of the personnel on that satellite are men. They have an idea of what we go through down here. At any rate, they took Sarpedon in, gave him a great welcome, didn’t let old Hippolyte’s government hear a word about it. At the first chance they sent him back to Earth to have his say to the United Planets Assembly. Well, from what you report, he made it. The only thing surprises me, you’re here all alone. Where’s the rest?”