ZERO DATA

By CHARLES SAPHRO

 _All the intricate, electronic witchery of the 21st century could not pin guilt on fabulous Lonnie Raichi, the irreproachable philanthropist. But Jason, the cop, was sweating it out ... Searching for that fourth and final and all-knowing rule that would knock Lonnie's "triple ethic" for a gala loop. _

Lonnie Raichi was small, heavily built, wet-eyed, dapper and successful. His success he attributed entirely to his philosophy. 

Not knowing about Lonnie's philosophy, the whole twenty-odd years ofLonnie's success was the abiding crux of Jason's disgust. And this, inspite of the more and more men Jason came to control and the fitfulstream of new techniques and equipment Gov-Pol and Gov-Mil Labs put athis disposal. 

Jason was a cop. In fact, by this Friday the thirteenth in the fall of2009, squirming on what had come to be his pet Gov-Park bench rightacross from the Tiara of Wold in the Fane, he was only one step short ofbeing the Head Cop of Government City. He was good. Gathering in a lotof criminals was what had brought him up the steps. 

But he hadn't gathered in Lonnie. 

It wasn't for lack for trying. Way back, when Lonnie was known simply as"Lonnie, " Jason managed to get a little help from his associates andsuperiors. Sometimes. 

But as Lonnie came to be known as Lon Raichi, then Mr. Raichi, andfinally as "THE Launcelot Raichi" (to Everyone Who Mattered), and asJason's promotions kept pace with his widening experience andpainstakingly acquired knowledge; peculiarly, there seemed to be fewerand fewer persons around who could be made interested in "Lonnie. "

Inside Government and Gov-Pol-Anx as well as among the generalTwo-Worlds public. 

So Jason got less and less help, or even passive cooperation, from hissuperiors. As a matter of fact, the more men he could command, the fewerhe could use on anything that could be construed as concerning Lonnie. 

Equipment, though, was a little different matter. There was usuallyenough so that one unit of a kind could be unobtrusively trained on Mr. Raichi under the care of Jason's own desk sergeant. In 1999, forexample, Moglaut, that erratic and secretive genius in Physlab Nine, came out with a quantum analyzer and probability reproducer. The machineinstalled in Pol-Anx, reconstructed crimes and identified the probablecriminals by their modus operandi and the physical traces they couldn'tavoid leaving at the un-mercy of any of its portable data accumulators. 

On Jason's first attempt it almost came close to Lonnie. It did gatherin the hidden, dead, still twitching, completely uncommunicativecarcasses of the five men who actually relieved the vault of theCitizen's Bank of Berlin of its clutch of millions. It even identifiedthe body of the rocopilot found floating in the Potomac a few days lateras being one of the group, and the killer. It did _not_ locate thearsonized remnants of the plane, though, nor the currency; and onlyachieved the casting of a slight, or subsidiary, third-hand aspersion inthe direction of THE Launcelot Raichi. 

But Lonnie came up with an irrefutable alibi, somehow, and the hasslethat followed made Jason's luck run out. And on Jason's stubborn, secret, subsequent tries, all the analyzer could produce was a report ofzero data whenever Jason, reasonably or unreasonably, believed thatLonnie was involved. 

Every time. 

Zero data when Schicklehitler's marshal's baton disappeared from theBritish Museum. 

[Illustration: _Lonnie on his dream throne ... Jason at his instruments. Was the struggle endless between these two?_]

Zero data when Charlemagne's Crown lapsed unobtrusively from its shrinein Vienna during the Year 2000 Celebration. 

Subsequently, Jason realized that the Berlin job in 1999 had markedLonnie's last essay after money. Other things seemed to occupy Lonnie'smind after he'd sprouted publicly into the status of full-fledged, hyper-respectable, inter-planetary business tycoon; complete with amany-tentacled industrial organization in Moon Colony and a far-flungprospecting unit headquartering at Mars Equatorial. 

Tycoonship was a status with which Everyone Who Mattered was alwayspleased. 

Jason's next attempt on Lonnie had to wait until 2005 and was the resultof two unconnected circumstances. The first was Physlab Nine's secretivegenius, Moglaut, evolving another piece of equipment, a disarmer, which, subsequent to its first use, saved countless cops' lives. The second wasthe discovery in the Valley of Kings, of Amenhotep III's own personalofficial Uraeus. Positively identified beyond the shadow of doubt. 

Jason, playing the hunch he'd built up about Lonnie, rushed a man, armedwith the brand new disarmer, instantly to the scene. 

The next morning, Amenhotep's Uraeus was gone and the corpse of Jason'sman was found--part of it. The right hand, arm, shoulder, and most ofthe head were missing; burned away. And of the disarmer, only a fusedhunk of mixed metals and silver helix remained. 

And the analyzer reported zero data. 

Lab Nine's taciturn and exasperating Moglaut failed to derive anexplanation for either circumstance. 

"I won't shut up, " Jason said, standing on the carpet in front of hissuperior. "He did it. I don't know how, but he did. "

Another spasm of frustration shook him and he slammed his fist down onthe sacred desk. "I've known Lonnie all my life. I know he doesn't knowphfut about anything scientific, and yet he makes a horse's--"

"Captain Jason, I insist that you stop referring to--"

"Makes a--" Jason raised his voice, "horse's--"

"CAPTAIN JASON!"

Jason subsided. 

"Captain, Annex has been most forbearing all these years. We'veoverlooked your incomprehensible phobia--this--this confoundedlyunfounded impossible bias against such an irreproachable philanthropistas Launcelot Raichi--because of the sterling quality of your ... Ah ... Other work. However--"

On the desk, the Commissioner's fingers took up a measured tattoo. "--should this fixed idea begin to encroach on--uh--uh--"

"All right ... Sir. " Sullenly, Jason submitted. "I understand. "

With a self-congratulatory smirk up at the ceiling that separated themfrom Executive Level, the bland face of the Commissioner smoothed out. "All right, Captain, as long as we understand each other ... "

Sourly, Jason got himself back to his own office. Drumming his ownfingers on his own desk and glaring at his own desk sergeant, he purgedhis soul. 

"--damned equipment would only work, I'd gather him in! They couldn'tstop me, then! But--" Jason choked. When he could speak again, "He'snever studied a lick in his life, I tell you! Yet he makes a he-cow'sbehind out of the best man and the best scientific equipment Annex canprovide! How? How, I ask you! He doesn't know the first blasted thingabout any blasted thing in any blasted science!"

 * * * * *

That was true. Conversely, Jason didn't know about Lonnie's philosophy. 

Nowadays, Lonnie called it a "philosophy. " He told reporters it was"based on a triple ethic. " (Inside his skull, a small boy jumped up anddown in glee over the magnificent language he was able to use. ) But healways replied only with a superior smile when asked by reporters to putthe philosophy and the triple ethic into words. If pressed, heparaphrased an Ancient Man: "You know my works. Judge by them. "

He was referring, of course, to his having branched out into patronizingthe Arts. He'd even erected Raichi Museum just across the velvety greencircle of Gov-Park from Government's own Fane of Artifacts. 

The reporters would go away and write more articles about his modestyand the superlative treasures of Earth, Moon and Mars that weregathered in the Raichi Galleries; protected, the papers always boasted, by the same ultra-safety mechanisms that guarded the mile-long, one-gallery-wide, glass-fronted Fane itself. Government affably made uptwo of every anti-break-and-entry device nowadays. One for the Fane andthe other for Raichi Museum. 

Despite occasional grumbles in the letters-to-the-editor columns, thepapers never seemed to inquire into why so many priceless trans-worldsartifacts got into Lonnie's private ownership instead of Government'spublic Fane. And while some artists and architects (unendowed by Lonnie)succeeded in publicly proclaiming Raichi Museum gaudy, such carpingswere but to be expected, particularly from modernists. 

Actually, Everyone Who Mattered felt Raichi Museum's granite walls weremuch more dignified than the narrow, glass-faced arcade that was theFane, wide open to the most disrespectfully casual public inspection allthe time. Why, even late at night gawking loiterers pressed their nosesagainst the glass; black, clumsy images pinned to the blazing whitenesshurled by radionic tubes against the back wall of snowy marble fromMars' arctic quarries. Besides, that glass, proof though it was againstanything but an atomic explosion, still made every true art lover feeldisquietingly insecure. 

No, on the whole, the papers and reporters and true art lovers who feltthe Public's treasures should be more secure than visible, neverquestioned Lonnie's doing good to so much Art. 

Thus, nowadays, nobody did anything but accept Lonnie. Except Jason. Andhe, perforce, took out his disgust not on hounding the sacrosanctLonnie, but on that crackpot, mumchance, captive genius of Physlab Nine. With the result that, late in 2007, Pol-Anx had an electronicservo-tracer. 

Pending construction of sufficient hundreds of thousands more for fullAnx use, Jason swore Lab Nine to secrecy and installed the pilot modelin his own office. He had enough authority for that. 

It was a hellishly unbuildable and deceptively simple gadget, thattracer. Simply tune it in on the encephalo-aura, the brain wave patternof any individual ... And monitor. It never let go until deliberatelyswitched off by the operator. It tracked; pinpointed the subjectaccurately up to twenty thousand miles. It stopped humming and startedpanting in proportionately ascending decibels when the subject becametense, nervous, afraid. It also directed pocket-sized trackers of itsown Damoclean beam. It made it a cinch to gather in known criminals inthe very midst of their first subsequent flagrante delicto. 

Jason latched the servo-tracer on Lonnie and settled down to wait. 

At 10 p. M. , local mean time, January 25, 2008, the tracer hiccupped and, all by itself, _went to sleep_!

Jason blinked. Jiggled the gadget. Swore. Either the gadget was haywireor Lonnie was up to something, and, as usual, was making a--

Jason bawled for four reliable squad men he'd mentally selected before. If he could find Lonnie--catch Lonnie in actual performance of anact--then Commissioner or no Commissioner, Executive Level or noExecutive Level... !

He roared from Pol-Anx with the men, past the flank of Government Fane, across the Park and around the bulk of Raichi Museum to Lonnie's mansionin its shadow. Leaped from the gyro-van, sweeping his men out into a fanfor the neighborhood. 

Nothing. Placid. Tree-shadowed, lawn-swept streets, ebony and silver inthe light the moon reflected from solar space. 

He'd missed. Too late. Lonnie was gone ... Or was he?

Jason didn't give himself time to think; his men time to get even amomentary hesitation started. He shoved his thumb hard against the doorchimes and his shield under the butler's nose. 

Yes, Mr. Raichi was at home. Then, after an interval nicely calculatedto allow Jason to feel how acutely precarious his position stood, "Mr. Raichi is accessible. "

Lonnie was bland. Blandly accepting Jason's urgent story of a known ... Er ... Jewel thief traced to the neighborhood. Blandly amenable toJason's suggestion that his men be permitted to go over the mansion(once he'd started this damfool caper, he had to go through with it). Lonnie so bland that Jason felt a skitter of perspiration down hisbackbone while his men hustled up the soaring circle of the stair. 

II

"Since I've been disturbed anyway, " Lonnie offered, "I'll show youaround. "

"Thanks, " Jason shook his head stiffly. "I'll just wait. "

"I think you should come. "

Shrugging, Jason followed, eyes stubbornly downcast. 

"... My library ... My den ... Bar. Care for a drink? Well, suityourself. " As the lights of the den dimmed and one wall swooshedsmoothly into the ceiling. "My theatre ... The usual tri-di stereo, ofcourse, but I've had a couple of the new tight beams installed tochannel Moon and Mars on the cube. Much better than the usual stagedbilge. Say, that reminds me, a couple hours ago Mars projector had ascanner on one of the exploration parties caught out in a psychosonicstorm. Jove, did they wriggle! Even in atomsuits they were better thanMessalina Magdalen working on her last G-string. Here, I'll switch iton. Maybe the rescue team's--"

Building up inside the hundreds of thousands of layers of crystallizedplastic came a reddish, three-dimensional landscape, as if viewed from aheight. Orange dust swirled across a gaunt, clawed plain under atransparent pink haze. A feeling as of sub-visual vibration, emanatingfrom the cube, tugged at Jason's eyelids. 

No life. 

"--Nope; they've cleaned up the carcasses already. Too bad. Tell youwhat, though. Next time I catch it happening, I'll phone you and--"

"Don't bother. "

"Suit yourself. " Lonnie shifted and went on, lightly. "I'm not at allsatisfied with the color, are you? It's off a little, don't youthink?... Well?... Well!"

Unwillingly, Jason moved his attention to the cube. Eyes widening, hestudied it. "No. You're wrong. That's good! The tech who poured thatstereo did a damned good job. It's--"

"Not good enough for me! That's not exactly what I saw up at VulcanCity. If those lazy--"

"Look, you can't expect exactly the same reflectivity from crystallizedplastic that you get from molecules of atmosphere, no matter howscientifically the pouring and layering is controlled. It's--they're twodifferent materials. Leaving aside the ion-index differential andquality of incident light, you still can't--"

"_I_ can ... " As the pause lengthened, Jason's gaze was finally drawn toLonnie's face. "You still haven't changed a bit, have you, Jasey? Stillall wrapped up in _how_ any collection of doodads work instead of justfor what it'll do. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if that hasn'talways been the difference between us. Where's it got you?"

Jason strode for the door. 

"Wait a minute. " Lonnie's voice came louder. "Better wait, copper. I'mnot through ... That's better. "

From behind Jason came the sound of rubbing palms. "We've come a longway from Gimlet Street, haven't we, Jasey? You particularly. Captain. Promotions. Pay raises ... " Then Lonnie was in front of him, staring up. "You're quite a substantial citizen now. Yes? Well, look at that. Go on, look at it. "

Against the side wall stood a gigantic triptych. More than life size, the central panel canopied the statue of a Mongol potentate; the twoside wings, a pair of guards in bas-relief. All three wrought inchryselephantine gold and ivory; the gold with flowing pallidhighlights. Damascened armor, encrusted with jewels, girdled the chestof the Asiatic Prince; helmeted the sullen head carved from a singleimmensity of ivory. 

Ruby eyes glared arrogantly under ebon brows. Against the statue'sfolded shins, its pommel negligently gripped by one immovable, ivoryhand, leaned a short Turkish scimitar of watered steel. Beneath thecarved hassock upon which the statue sat, a dais of three steps fellaway to the floor. 

"That's Genghis Khan, " Lonnie said. "I had him made. That isn't goldhe's made of; that's aureum--and it cost plenty to have the silver mixedin. It makes it better. And I get the best! A hundred thousand, it costme. And thirty-six thousand more to brace the wall and floor. It's good. It's the best that's made!"

He came up on tiptoe, thrusting his chin as close as possible to Jason'saverted face. "Why don't you buy one for your place, Captain?"

 * * * * *

Jason stared into the malevolent eyes of the statue. 

"Huh ... Hu-hu ... Hu-ha-ha-ha ... " At the dais, Lonnie put his foot onthe second step and patted Genghis Khan familiarly on one ivory knee. "Ilike this old boy. He had the right idea. I have it. You haven't. Younever had. If you had, you'd'a listened to the proposition I made youway back then. Remember when Aggie told you about it? Say, I wonderwhat's become of her, anyway. Do you know? What? What'd you say?"

Jason cleared his throat. Hard. 

"Well?"

Jason swallowed. Blood pounded in his temples. 

"Jasey, you're stupid. "

Jason made his eyes close. Let them re-open slowly. 

"You were born stupid and you've stayed stupid. "

Still Jason held back an answer. 

"You're nothing but a stupid, go-where-you're-sent, do-what-you're-toldcop! What do you say to that! If you want to keep on being one, answerme! Answer me!"

Deliberately, Jason jerked his chin at the statue. "That's anotherexample of what I mean. "

"_What?!!_" screamed Lonnie. 

"Reflectivity. The silver in the gold. Two different metals and wherethey're not well fused. That sword blade, too. Just the misalignment ofmolecules in the surface of the steel makes it look wavy, and ripplewhen the light changes or you move. Different even in two parts of thesame material. That's why you can't get the stereo cube to reproducecolor-feel exactly. " Breathing heavily, Jason had to let his voice fadeout. 

"Gaaa ... " Lonnie convulsed. "Who cares!" Laugh sounds rolled out of histhroat. "You'll never change. "

He flicked his hand at Jason, brushing him away. 

But, as Jason, white-faced, herded his men out through the costlygrandeurs of the vestibule, Lonnie called from the inner hall:"Copper ... "

Jason turned, waited. 

"You amused me, so it's all right this time. You can keep yourpenny-ante job. But don't try for me again. You cross my path again, I'll smear you. And what's more, I'll use whatever you're trying, tosmear you with. Get that! Get it good! Now get out!"

Back in Jason's office, the desk sergeant reported as Jason came in. "Funny thing. That there tracer started to hum again soon after you wasout for a while. Quit again 'bout five minutes ago, though. "

Jason gritted his teeth, banished the sergeant, and spent five minutesalone gripping the edge of his desk. Then he yanked Lab Nine's silentgenius down to his office. That didn't help for the tracer stayedasleep. Not even a hiccup rewarded Moglaut's most active efforts onLonnie's wave length. On others, fine. Through the night and on into thenext day, Jason kept Moglaut at work. 

Late in the morning, Authority at Peiping televised publicly that theMace of Alexander was gone from its satin pillow in the proof-glass casein the alarm-wired room off the machine-weapon-guarded main corridor ofthe security-policed Temple of Mankind. 

The Mace, symbol of Alexander's power, was a pretty little baton barelytwo feet long. Its staff was mastodon ivory, the paleontologists haddetermined. One end sported a solid ball of gold hardly as big as afist; studded with rubies, but none set quite so close as to actuallytouch. 

The other end, balancing the ball of gold, mounted the largest singlepolished emerald crystal in the discovered universe. Neither the Moon orMars had produced anything in the emerald line equivalent to what hadcome out of the mists of Earthly history. 

 * * * * *

Disregarding the bulletin, Jason kept Moglaut at the servo-tracer. Inthe night's smallest hours it began placidly to hum on Lonnie's auraagain. 

"What happened?" Jason said. "What did you do?"

Moglaut shrugged. 

"You must have done something. What was it?"

Moglaut, not looking up from the purring machine, shook his head. 

"All right. You can go now. " Jason watched the genius disappearhurriedly through the door. From the door he watched the man scutterdown the long, long corridor out of sight. The first thing in themorning, Jason promised himself, he'd have a session about Moglaut withLab Nine's chief. 

The first thing in the morning brought word that Lab Nine's erraticgenius had stumbled himself out of the seventeenth-floor window of hissuburban apartment to his death. Lab Nine's chief clucked sorrowfully. 

Jason shook his head and wondered. After exhaustive investigation (zerodata) he still wondered. That's all he was able to do, wonder. 

The second time Jason's servo-tracer on Lonnie hiccupped and dozed offwas at 12:01 a. M. , August 7th, 2008, just one day after the DiamondThrone arrived on Earth. The single, glittering diamond crystal, misshapen like an armchair and larger than one, had been mined out ofthe core of Tycho's crater. And it was also just two days before theMoon Throne would have been installed in the unbreakable safety ofRaichi Museum!

"Jason, you're insane, " his superior told him when Jason, reinforced byan astounding public furore, brought the matter up. "He owned it. He hadno reason to steal it from himself. Besides, one man alone couldn'tbudge that enormous--"

"It won't do any harm to look-see. "

"It can do a lot of harm!" The Commissioner glanced quickly at theceiling. "I'll have nothing to do with it. That's all. "

Officially, Jason's hands were tied. But secretly he maneuvered thetransfer of a five-layers-down undercover man from Madras to GovernmentCity. And, coincidentally, in the ordinary routine of operation, RaichiMuseum took on a new janitor; a little brown man who grinned constantlyand was fanatical about dust. He was a good, reliable man and when hereported that neither the Diamond Throne nor any of the other missingglories were anywhere in the Museum, Jason had to believe him. 

As a matter of fact, it wouldn't have done Jason any good to haveinstalled the little brown man in Lonnie's mansion, either. Thelock--not the apparent one openly in the den door, but the real one--wasas unobtrusive and foolproof as twenty-first-century engineering couldmake it. And Lonnie always made sure he was alone and unobserved in theden before he locked it and sauntered across to bestow a peculiar, multiple tweak to the nose of Genghis Khan. 

He enjoyed the gesture. On Christmas Eve he grinned broadly while thetriptych pivoted in the wall, let him off in the Kruppmartite-walled, pulsing radiance of his very secret, very, very personal throne room, and swung back into place. 

His grin changed to an expression of imperial dignity as he encasedhimself in Catherine the Great's ermine Robe of State and grasped theMace of Alexander in his good left hand. But then the royal mien gaveway to a sullen scowl as he hesitated between Charlemagne's Crown andAmenhotep's Uraeus. 

Actually, neither one was worthy of him. Both purely regional coronetsbelonged over in the farthest dusty corner behind the curtain, alongwith Schicklehitler's shabby baton and that crummy Peacock Throne. Whathe really needed was a crown worthily symbolic of the position he'd makeit possible to publicly assume in the not-too-distant future. 

It was a damned imposition that he had to put up with. Well, he'd makethem do since they were the best to be had. Adjusting the Crown ofCharlemagne upon his brow, he stood on tiptoe to wriggle his way backinto the embrace of the titanic crystal that was the Diamond Throne. There, he relaxed and gave himself over to the contemplation of theglories of Lonnie. 

Who but he had developed such an efficient philosophy to such anunfailingly incisive point? Certainly not Old Boswell who, back in theearly days had thought to be teaching him. 

"Rule One, my boy, " he remembered the old patrician twittering, "there'salways someone to pull your chestnuts out of the fire for you--for aprice. Pay it. Then add a plus to the payment and the man's yours to useagain and again. "

But even in those days as a callow, trusting youth, he'd been smarterthan Boswell. Observing, from the safety of the sidelines, the way theold fool had finally tripped up, he'd added a codicil of his own toRule One: "Make sure the payment's _final_!"

(... Witness the Berlin chestnut pullers. And the unobtrusive andundiscovered spate of their predecessors whose usefulness had becomeoutweighed ... )

Then Boswell had said, "Rule Two: You don't have to know the how ofanything. All you have to know is _the man who does_. He always has aprice. The currency is usually odd, but find it, pay it, then proceedper Rule One. "

Even tonight, in his own Throne Room, Lonnie flushed heavily at the wayhe'd accepted at face value what came next. "By the way, " Old Boswellhad added smoothly, "no connection of course, my boy, but the topicreminded me. Here are the keys to that daffodil-hued tri-phibian youogled at Sporter's exhibit. I must admit you have an eye for dashingmachinery even though I can't agree with your esthetics. No--no ... It'syours. I feel that you've earned it and more by--"

He'd rushed to the garage to gloat over the mono-cyclic, gyro-stabilized, U-powered model with the seat that flattened into aconvenient bed at the touch of a button. The tri-phib, he recalled, inwhich he'd coaxed Agnes into taking her first ride. 

III

The details of that recollection brought up his spirits again and, hereminded himself, the lesson had sunk in; had developed into his mostuseful ethic. After his narrow scrape with Jason's quantum analyzer inthe Berlin incident, it hadn't taken long for a good, one-man detectiveagency to locate Physlab Nine's frenetic genius, Moglaut. It had takenlonger to discover Moglaut's currency but, after much shadowing, the'tec had come through handsomely. Lonnie, automatically applying hisfully-developed Ethic One, always considered it a nice sentimental touchthat the one-man agency's final case was successful. 

Moglaut's price was a prim, brunette soprano who wore her eyes disguisedbehind heavy tortoiseshell. The ill-cut garb she could afford addedgreatly to her staid appearance, obscuring a certain full-bodiedlitheness. She earned a throttled existence soloing at funerals and inthe worship halls of obscure, rigidly fanatic offshoot sects. 

Her consuming passion was to be an opera prima donna. 

Lonnie never tried to understand why Moglaut sat fascinated throughendless sin-busting sermons and lachrymose requiems. To hurryafterwards, with the jerky motions, the glazed eyes of a zombie, tosubsequent rendezvous with the soprano at his suburban apartment. It wasentirely sufficient in Lonnie's philosophy that Moglaut did. 

The soprano's continuing suburban cooperation was insured by Lonnie'sjudicious doling out of exactly the cash to keep a tenth-rate operacompany barely functioning in a lesser quarter of Government City. Oddly, he found it pleased him and from that grew his wide patronizingof the Arts. 

The immediate result of the situation he created and controlled sodeftly was Moglaut's production of a closed-plenum grid suit. 

None of Gov-Pol, Gov-Mil or Gov-Econ labs found out about it; much lessPol-Anx or Government itself. Moglaut did all the work in the tinycomplete lab Lonnie set up in the suburbs. 

Lonnie didn't care what electronic witchery took place in the minutespatial interstices between the finely-woven mesh of flexible tantalum. Sufficient for him, the silvery white suit once donned and triple-zippedthrough hood and glove-endings, he was immune to ordinary Earthlyphenomena; free to move about, do what he wished, untraceably. In it, his words were not vulnerable to the sono-beam's eavesdropping. Photo-electric and magneto-photonic watchdogs ignored him. Even the mostdelicately sensitive thermo-couples continued their dreams of freezingflame undisturbed. Jason's quantum analyzer couldn't pick up theleavings of a glance--all that the suit permitted out into the physicalworld. 

The suit had its limitations, of course. Lonnie could see out, but thesuit could also be seen. That required sometimes intricate advanceplanning to offset. Also, occasionally, manipulating the field of thegrid to permit mechanical contact with the physical world was a triflecumbersome but never annoyingly so. All it took was a modicum ofstep-by-step thought and some care not to leave a personal trace for thequantum analyzer to pick up. No actual trouble. And, finally, Moglauthad warned that the compact power unit pocketed on the left breast had ahalf-life of only thirteen years. 

That left Lonnie placid. He took the suit for granted and used it forwhat it let him do. 

When something more was needed, he was convinced his philosophy wouldprovide it. 

He didn't waste time trying to determine whether possession of the suitor previous experiences leading to his insistence on its developmentbrought into focus the third ethic of his philosophy: "Rules One and Twoare valuable and have their use. But when the chips are really down, _doit yourself_!" Instead, he toddled about personally acquiring thetrappings of omnipotent royalty with little thought for the means. 

 * * * * *

But while he was about that business, the very limitations of the gridsuit furnished an unending challenge to Moglaut's genius. And out of asideline experiment incited by that challenge came the disarmer whichJason greeted with such fruitless glee. 

Fruitless because, of course, before turning the disarmer over to LabNine and Pol-Anx, Moglaut devised a new, infinitely stronger, moreversatile power pack for Lonnie's suit. A power pack controlled by asimple rheostat in the palm of the left-hand glove, but whose energyderived from the electron-kinetic properties of pent and shieldedtritium. Not simple. In fact, solving the problem of penning andshielding tritium in a portable package delayed the appearance ofJason's disarmer two whole years. 

That power pack and the reciprocating properties of the fields of thegrid suit itself made a dilly of a combination. Before, theclosed-plenum mesh kept Lonnie from leaving traces. Now, anything onceembraced within the palpitating fields of the grid moved with and howthe suit moved; not in accord with the natural laws of the surroundingcontinuum. That neat new attribute took care of the cubic yard or so ofDiamond Throne. 

And the ravenous tritium was malignant. Let any external power beapplied against the plenum and it would be smashed, hurled back fullforce upon its source. 

Jason had an undiagnosed example of that when he got only part of hisman back from the Valley of Kings. 

It was the power-pack-grid-suit combo that made a sleeping Buddha of theservo-tracer on the night of Jason's call at Lonnie's mansion; bollixedup the elaborate guards of the Peiping Temple of Mankind; and, whenJason so openly displayed suspicion of the genius, made child's play ofwhat the newspapers headlined as "Scientist's Amazing Suicide LovePact. "

Lonnie grinned, remembering the incident. Then other memories--thingshe'd witnessed through a tight-beam scanner secreted in the suburbanapartment--crowded his mind; stirring him restlessly on the DiamondThrone. Divesting himself of imperial appurtenances, he started for acertain locked file in the den to check the specifications of availableper-diem empresses. 

Making sure the triptych was snugly in place behind him, he paused toflip the switch on the stereo cube. Maybe Messalina Magdalen or one ofthe lesser ecdysiasts was presenting the perfection of her techniquesover the private channel at the moment, an event he would appreciate. 

Instead, the private channel presented, as the cube glowed and cleared, the same red, clawed landscape he'd shown to Jason months before. Thedisembodied voice of the commentator on Mars--not the lyrical publicannouncer, but the industrial economist who served the privatechannel--picked up in mid-word: "... Early to have much data on thescience and material resources this dead civilization possessed, but Irecommend that every Corporation in Induscomm Cabal should place atechnical party at Mars Equatorial as soon as possible. We shall now keyin with the public spacecast. Note the texture and color range of theadornments and artifacts. I venture that these items will prove popularamong you who can well afford such rare treasures. However, subtlety inacquiring them is suggested. While common clamor for Public ownership isunder control, overt provocation is not recommended. Here is thecut-over ... "

The scene in the cube flashed and coalesced, dazzling Lonnie's eyes fora moment. He was conscious of the landscape rushing "up"; of giganticwalls and spires rising out of the obscurity of a quarried chasm totower briefly against the pink haze of the Martian sky, then expand togive the impression of engulfing him before the scanner lens settledunder the center of a leaping, vaulted dome. 

To Lonnie, the many-acred enclosure meant nothing with its shimmering, stone-lace pillars, its tapestries that flamed with color or tracedghostlike, barely discernible outlines on the walls. Nor did any thoughtenter his mind of the exactness of the reflected color in the stereocube. Hands clenched into aching fists, he stood leaning forward;striving by sheer will-power to span the void of space and force thescanner lens closer to the truncated pyramid of steps atop which, on ablock of plain black stone, a dessicated mummy sat erect, hands foldedin its reedy lap and on its head a blazing, coruscating radiance. 

A _Crown_!

IV

Dazedly, Lonnie was conscious of the public announcer's rhapsodizing:"... Gov-Anth's ethnologists and linguistics experts are making someprogress toward deciphering the inscription carved on the plaque. Wait!Here's a note from Gawley Worin. You remember Gawley Worin, our famousleg-man, folks, don't you? Well, here's a note. It ... Listen to this, folks! Listen! This is the beginning of the first rough translation ofthe inscription. Listen ... 

"'We, Wold, last of the Imperial Family of Wold who exercise our Powerfrom Wold, the Imperial City, throughout Wold, the Planet. We, last ofthe line of Wold, who alone may wear the Tiara which is Our Power, andour Symbol of Power, and the Symbol of Our Power throughout all the edosof Raii's life-taking light, without fear, facing the fate--'"

Hissing, Lonnie cut the stereo switch. He'd seen enough. Darting acrossthe den, he opened his communico. "Get me Sykes in our Mars unit, " heordered the operator. "Make sure what I say is scrambled. While you'rewaiting, get through to Denisen at Gov-Forn, then Raikes at Gov-Planet, then Butchwaeu in Gov-Int. And keep this line closed--that means you, too--while I'm talking. "

Lonnie--THE Launcelot Raichi--was going after what he wanted. 

Just under a mile away, Jason turned from the public stereo in therotunda of Pol-Anx. Tapping the cold bit of his pipe against his teethas he walked, he sought the ease of his chair. In the privacy of hisoffice he began to ponder. 

The months' developments gave him no surprise. Because it was the firstcontact Humanity had had with a non-human race, the Mars discoveriesmade an overwhelming impression on the man in the street. The result wasthat for the first time in Post-Synthesis history all artifacts werereserved for Earth Public!!!

Everyone Who Mattered screamed, except Lonnie. He evinced a bidingcalmness while attending the ceremonies marking the installation of theTiara of Wold in the exact center of Government's own Fane of Artifacts;even smiling benignly on certain Gov-Ficials who seemed to perspire morethan the coolness of the evening warranted. 

Jason, loitering on the grass of Gov-Park, noted the smile and theperspiration. The perspirers reminded him of small boys expecting awhipping. 

Once the dedication ceremonies were over, Lonnie never returned to theFane to examine the Tiara. 

It was Jason the Tiara seemed to fascinate. He spent more and more time, particularly evenings, crouching on the bench in Gov-Park across fromthe Tiara, ignoring the constant stream of awed tourists silhouettedagainst the blaze of light. He kept in constant touch with his desksergeant through his pocket communico, so Annex business didn't suffer. And the summer was warm, to say the least, so that several Gov-Ficialswere almost regretful that the dignity of their positions forbadefollowing Jason's example. 

But then, too, no mere cop had their responsibilities. 

None of them was conscious of how habitually Jason frowned, scratchedhis head, moved uneasily on the pleasant bench. Occasionally, he wouldsnap his fingers and the frown would relax. He'd switch on thecommunico and speak briefly. Immediately thereafter, one or the other ofthe hand-picked four in Jason's personal squad would raise his eyebrowsslightly--safely, since the pocket communico did not project video--andtake up a new position or new duties. Or, an equipment unit in Op-roomat Anx would be indifferently retuned by heedless techs. 

Then for a while Jason would vent smoke pleasantly from his malodorouspipe until the frown would settle back between his eyebrows and he'dbegin to squirm on the bench again, glancing warily at Executive Level, feeling helpless about the inadequacy of his resources. 

But Lonnie had gotten over feeling sad about _his_ resources monthsearlier. 

The night he'd returned from the Tiara ceremonies he'd locked himself inhis den and let the on-view smile his face was wearing lapse. He tweakedGenghis Khan's nose viciously and slammed himself down in the DiamondThrone without donning a single imperial trapping, pounding his fist onthe cool mineral facet and staring morosely at the grid suit hanging inits place on the wall. 

The grid suit wouldn't help him this time. The cover-alls that hadeverything except the necessary invisibility to--

_Invisibility!_

Slowly, Lonnie began to grin. Very little later he had an obscurebiochemist hooked, and ended his instructions with: "... Don't care ifit needs concentrated essence of chameleon juice. Invent it. And itbetter work for there's going to be a total shortage of neo-hyperacth attwo-twenty-eight per cc for wifey!"

The biochemist delivered. Lonnie didn't stop to question if it reallywas essence of chameleon juice. He hurried with the beaker of viscousfluid to his throne room, drenched every square centimeter of the gridsuit with it and watched breathlessly through the hours while it dried. 

In the glowing, shadowless illumination, the suit gradually disappeared. First, the wall against which it hung shone mistily through it. Thenthere was wall, slightly outlined by a greyish cast. And at last, onlyan indescribable fuzziness that had to be sensed rather than seen. 

V

He took the fuzziness off its hanger and threw it up in the air towardthe center light. The light was undimmed. The fuzziness was air. Itsprawled down across the Throne and became diamond, except for thesleeve that dangled; part air, part intricately patterned Persiancarpet. It wasn't a fuzziness, exactly, it was more of a faint tone ofdifference in the color-texture feel. It was as though what was behindthe suit was miraculously translated to its facing surface and thenreflected to the eye within the nth of utter fidelity. 

Grinning, slowly Lonnie's lower lip crept out and up to squeeze itsmate. Then, because it was always better to be sure, he donned the suitto try it against a variety of experimental backgrounds, indoors andout. 

Over at Pol-Anx, the servo-tracer went to sleep; the desk sergeantyanked the creaking joints of his bunioned feet down off Jason's desk;on the bench in Gov-Park, Jason's communico squeaked briefly and Jasonand his four men rose to emergency alert. 

Two hours later, the Wold Tiara still coruscating in the Fane's blaze oflight, the servo-tracer picked up its placid humming. Jason's communicosqueaked again and Jason's men relaxed while Jason himself clutched hishead with both hands and whispered bitter things. 

At the same time, Lonnie, whistling cheerfully, drew his legs out of thesuit, shook it straight and hung it back on the wall. He was sure now. As sure as he was that the little biochemist and his wife and quintet ofdaughters would not want for neo-hyperacth or anything else any longer. He giggled a little, thinking of Jason crouched on the bench, glaringvacantly, utterly unconscious of Lonnie passing across the grass soclose beside him. 

At his own convenience, Lonnie selected his night; a full-moon nightbecause his now-invisible grid suit didn't require dark. He picked afairly early hour, too, because what matter if a few yawps gawked as theTiara vanished? And that one of those yawps would be Jason, stodgily onhis bench, gave Lonnie an extra fillip. Perhaps it was just for thishe'd let Jason plug along on a cold trail all these years. 

So that night, wearily from his bench in Gov-Park, Jason looked up atFriday the 13th's full moon swimming amiably through its own reflectednight-brightness. His brain, tired of its everlasting shuttle betweenworries, presented him with a disconnected memory-fact: "As cited byZollner, " Jason found himself quoting a forgotten textbook, "the Moon'sreflectivity is point one seven four ... Nuts!" Angrily, he broke off, thumbed the button of his communico, growled into the microphone on hislapel, "Report. "

"Adams, " came promptly back. "West Entry. Nothing. "

"McGillis. Patrolling rear wall. All clear in both directions as far asI can see. An' I can see both ends of the Fane in all this moonlight, Chief. "

"Holland. At Raichi House. Nothing. "

"Johnson. East Entry. More of the same. " Then, "Say, Jase, how about it?These double shifts are getting me. "

"What's the matter with you, now?"

"My feet hurt, Jase. Neither one of us is as young as we used to be, remember. How about knocking off?"

"Hmphf ... " Johnson, Jason thought, was getting old. He'd been a goodman in his day but-- Hey, he was still a good man! It was Jason's ownstubbornness that was wearing Johnson down. Jason's uselessstubbornness. After all, without the backing of Anx or Gov, withoutresults from the equipment he had filched to use on Lonnie, what was theuse of everlastingly sticking around the Tiara like a fly buzzingmolasso-saccharine anyway? Jason opened his mouth to send them all home, pressed the communico button and--shelved the relieving ordertemporarily. Instead, he blasted into the microphone: "Sergeant!SERGEANT!"

From the communico, an intermittent drone became a gasping gulp; changedinto a violent yawn and only then turned into startled speech. "Yeah?Huh?... Yeah, Chief!"

"Sergeant, if I ever catch you asleep again, you won't ever get yourpension. "

"Chief, I wasn't asleep! Honest! I--"

"All right. What's happening up there?"

"Nothin' ... Nothin' ... I wasn't asleep, Chief. I'd'a called you 'fanything--"

 * * * * *

Something bright, or was it dull, plucked at the edge of Jason's vision. Inside the Fane, far down at one end. A thin, vertical bar of differencein the blaze of light. Chin half turned, Jason stared. What?... 

"_Chief!_ That tracer's asleep--I mean--that there tracer's just GONEt'sleep! I mean--Chief! It's--"

"Shut up!" Jason hissed. "Holland! If you've let anyone slip past youout of that house--"

"Nobody did. You know me better than that, Chief. "

"Adams! McGillis! Johnson! What's happening?"

"Nothing ... "

"Not a thing ... "

"_Johnson!_" Jason licked suddenly dry lips. "Dammit, Johnson, report!... _Johnson!_"

Silence. 

Grimly, Jason watched the vertical bar of different brightness edge backto the Fane's East wall and disappear into the even dazzle of themarble. He had a feeling it wasn't any use calling Johnson again. Ever. 

"Chief, what's up? What do we do?"

"Huh? Oh ... You, Holland, get over to the East Entry as fast as yourlegs'll stretch. "

"There in three minutes flat!"

"You, too, McGillis. "

"On my way!"

"Adams, you stick at that West Entry. If anything gets past you, I'll--"

"Don't worry, Chief. I've got Johnson to even up for. "

Not watching how he ran, Jason hurled himself toward the East Entry; hiseyes following, in the opposite direction, a dullness moving in theblaze inside the Fane. A smoothly moving, white on white, unfaced ghostof whiteness within, a part of, the blazing radionic light. Just as herounded the East end of the Fane, he glimpsed the vertical bar ofwhiteness again--the edge of the marble slab that was the entry door, reflecting the blazing light at a different angle. Behind it, McGillis'stightly grinning face. Under McGillis's face, the stab of blue-whitelight reflected a glancing ray from the old-fashioned solid-missileservice pistol that Jason had insisted all four men arm themselves withfor this assignment. 

Over the sound of his own labored breathing as he plunged through theEast Entry, Jason heard panting behind him. Holland. Holland betteringhis promised three minutes--and with a forbidden disarmer in his hand. Guiltily, Jason felt the weight of the disarmer he had himself secretedunder his armpit. 

Then there wasn't time for thinking or feeling, only for running downthe dazzling half-mile inside the Fane to the Tiara. Up ahead, thedifferent-white shape was motionless in front of it. Oddly, a dark, vertical line appeared from the top to what would be the waist of theshape. And for the instant it took the Tiara to vanish inside, Jason sawclearly in the radiant light the profile of Lonnie's unmistakable face. Saw Lonnie's eyes swivel in the direction of the thundering echoes oftheir footfalls in the silence of the Fane. Saw Lonnie turn toward them, the dark line disappearing from waist to top as if it had never been. 

Once more the different-whiteness moved. Toward them. Edging for theback wall to skirt around them; one limb-shape fumbling in the palm ofthe other. 

"No you don't!" McGillis, ahead of Jason, yelled, his howl drowned inthe smacking crack of his pistol. 

There seemed to be a waver in the different-whiteness. A small black dotappeared against it; hung briefly, apparently unsupported, in the air;then the undistorted bullet dropped inertly to the floor. 

"You _still_ won't!" McGillis hurled himself, shoulders low and legsdriving, at the shape. Two feet from it, he rebounded sharply, trod onthe rolling bullet, went down, his head splatting dully against themarble floor. 

Holland grunted. Crouched to leap. Thrust his disarmer high, ready tosnap into line. 

"Hold it!" Jason commanded. Silently, eyelids barely separated to endurethe dazzle, he stared at the different-whiteness that confronted him. "Imade it this time, Lonnie, " he called. "Caught up with you-- No!" Hisarm flung out, startling him with the feel of his disarmer now oddly inhis hand. 

"Don't move!"

The white-within-white's limb-shapes moved up, the hand-ends one overthe other. Through the minute spaces the overlapping fingers left, glimpses of a thin dark line appeared. The hood was open a trifle atmouth level, and from the opening Lonnie's voice emerged, siftingthrough the protecting screen of gloves. "You can't see me! You_can't_!"

"No? Take one step sideways. Just _one_! Stop!"

The different-whiteness had moved, and Holland had moved with it;crouching now, alertly motionless, in his new position. Jason changedthe angle of his own facing. "Now do you think we can't see you?"

"But ... But how!"

"Your albedo is showing, " Jason chuckled harshly. "You never would takethe trouble to learn the _how_ of anything, Lonnie. Sure, your damneddisguise is the same color as the marble. Maybe even exactly the same. But the material is different, and the surface texture; it doesn't havethe same degree or quality of reflectivity to incident light that marbledoes!

"Eighty years ago, even the commercial photographers knew aboutalbedo--one of 'em made a picture of a cat, white on white. I told youabout the reflectivity in your stereo cube. But you wouldn't listen, Lonnie, would you?" Jason let out a bursting peal of laughter. "_So youtripped over your own albedo!_"

Through the dying echoes of his own laughter, Jason caught Lonnie'sharsh whisper. "You haven't got me, copper!"

 * * * * *

The black line marking the opening in the grid suit disappeared. Thebarely-discernible limb-shapes dropped, one hand-end again fumbling atthe rheostat in the palm of the other. 

"I'll get him, Chief!" Holland was in action, his disarmer snapping downinto aim. 

"No!" Jason roared. "Holland, don't!"

Too late. Under the pressure of Holland's finger, the disarmer'sinvisible ion-stream tightened to the thread-thin lethal intensity, leaped out against the suit's grid. Then the disarmer was luminous evenin the dazzle; even through the flesh of Holland's fist. Hollandscreamed and squirmed and dropped. Part of him--the part that wasn'tburned away--reached the floor. 

The stench of carbonized flesh scoured Jason's nostrils. Stupidly, hestared down at the headless, shoulderless, armless torso; black ... Sooty ... Against the snowy gleam of the floor; conscious of thesidelong, round-about approach of the different-white figure. He'dfailed again. Lonnie, in that damned suit, was impervious. 

Slowly, he raised his eyes from the thing on the floor to the thingapproaching. One consolation, he himself wouldn't go on living afterthis. With grim frustration, he raised his arm in a final, fruitlessgesture and hurled the useless disarmer at the shape of Lonnie. 

It halted, dead, in mid-air, a yard away from the shape-thing. Droppedstraight down, clanging against the floor. 

A quiver as of mirth appeared to shake the different-whiteness. Itstooped. One hand-end fumbled at the palmed rheostat, then dropped topick up the disarmer. Fumbled again at the rheostat while the figurestraightened up to point the glistening projector at Jason's belly. 

The dark opening in the hood appeared again. 

Lonnie's voice chortled, "Told you I'd use whatever you tried to smearyou with. Goodbye, Jasey ... "

The dark line was gone. The disarmer, turned to lethal potential, settled in the shape's hand-end and began to spout. Jason went stiff. Every muscle of his body clenching to withstand obliteration. 

He waited for it. Tight ... Except his eyes that, in spite ofthemselves, opened. 

Caught within the field, the full power of the disarmer poured itselfinto the suit. The suit's capacity absorbed it. Almost. Then turned thecombined energies on itself. 

With the smell of frying organic matter, slowly the grid-coverallsappeared in dazzling radiance within the dazzle of the Fane's lights;glowed in it; red--then white--hot. Whiter than the light itself--far, far lighter than any reflected rays could make it. 

Inside the all-encompassing, roasting grid of the melting suit, Lonnie writhed. Faintly, as the suit failed, his screams camethrough--momentarily. Then they were gone as the fused, molten heapsubsided lower ... Lower ... Began to trickle across the dazzling, ice-white marble of the floor. 

Afterward, had Jason known anything at all about Lonnie's Philosophy, he'd have immediately supplied another "rule"; making a foursome out ofthe "Triple Ethic": "If you do it yourself, make sure you know _what_you're doing. "

Transcriber's Note:

 This etext was produced from _Planet Stories_ September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.