It was early evening before we finally managed to get away from the barbecue.  Thrombley had called the Embassy and told them not to wait dinner for us, so the staff had finished eating and were relaxing in the patio when our car came in through the street gate.  Stonehenge and another man came over to meet us as we got out ­a man I hadn’t met before.

He was a little fellow, half-Latin, half-Oriental; in New Texas costume and wearing a pair of pistols like mine, in State Department Special Services holsters.  He didn’t look like a Dumbarton Oaks product:  I thought he was more likely an alumnus of some private detective agency.

“Mr. Francisco Parros, our Intelligence man,” Stonehenge introduced him.

“Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, Mr. Silk,” Parros said.  “Out checking on some things.  But I saw that bit of shooting, on the telecast screen in a bar over town.  You know, there was a camera right over the bandstand that caught the whole thing ­you and Miss Hickock coming toward the President and his party, Miss Hickock running forward to her father, the waiter going up behind Hutchinson with the knife, and then that beautiful draw and snap shot.  They ran it again a couple of times on the half-hourly newscast.  Everybody in New Austin, maybe on New Texas, is talking about it, now.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” Gomez, the Embassy Secretary, said, joining us.  “You’ve made yourself more popular in the eight hours since you landed than poor Mr. Cumshaw had been able to do in the ten years he spent here.  But, I’m afraid, sir, you’ve given me a good deal of work, answering your fan-mail.”

We went over and sat down at one of the big tables under the arches at the side of the patio.

“Well, that’s all to the good,” I said.  “I’m going to need a lot of local good will, in the next few weeks.  No thanks, Mr. Parros,” I added, as the Intelligence man picked up a bottle and made to pour for me.  “I’ve been practically swimming in superbourbon all afternoon.  A little black coffee, if you don’t mind.  And now, gentlemen, if you’ll all be seated, we’ll see what has to be done.”

“A council of war, in effect, Mr. Ambassador?” Stonehenge inquired.

“Let’s call it a council to estimate the situation.  But I’ll have to find out from you first exactly what the situation here is.”

Thrombley stirred uneasily.  “But sir, I confess that I don’t understand.  Your briefing on Luna....”

“Was practically nonexistent.  I had a total of six hours to get aboard ship, from the moment I was notified that I had been appointed to this Embassy.”

“Incredible!” Thrombley murmured.

I wondered what he’d say if I told him that I thought it was deliberate.

“Naturally, I spent some time on the ship reading up on this planet, but I know practically nothing about what’s been going on here in, say, the last year.  And all I know about the death of Mr. Cumshaw is that he is said to have been killed by three brothers named Bonney.”

“So you’ll want just about everything, Mr. Silk,” Thrombley said.  “Really, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Start with why and how Mr. Cumshaw was killed.  The rest, I believe, will key into that.”

So they began; Thrombley, Stonehenge and Parros doing the talking.  It came to this: 

Ever since we had first established an Embassy on New Texas, the goal of our diplomacy on this planet had been to secure it into the Solar League.  And it was a goal which seemed very little closer to realization now than it had been twenty-three years before.

“You must know, by now, what politics on this planet are like, Mr. Silk,” Thrombley said.

“I have an idea.  One Ambassador gone native, another gone crazy, the third killed himself, the fourth murdered.”

“Yes, indeed.  I’ve been here fifteen years, myself....”

“That’s entirely too long for anybody to be stationed in this place,” I told him.  “If I’m not murdered, myself, in the next couple of weeks, I’m going to see that you and any other member of this staff who’s been here over ten years are rotated home for a tour of duty at Department Headquarters.”

“Oh, would you, Mr. Silk?  I would be so happy....”

Thrombley wasn’t much in the way of an ally, but at least he had a sound, selfish motive for helping me stay alive.  I assured him I would get him sent back to Luna, and then went on with the discussion.

Up until six months ago, Silas Cumshaw had modeled himself after the typical New Texas politician.  He had always worn at least two faces, and had always managed to place himself on every side of every issue at once.  Nothing he ever said could possibly be construed as controversial.  Naturally, the cause of New Texan annexation to the Solar League had made no progress whatever.

Then, one evening, at a banquet, he had executed a complete 180-degree turn, delivering a speech in which he proclaimed that union with the Solar League was the only possible way in which New Texans could retain even a vestige of local sovereignty.  He had talked about an invasion as though the enemy’s ships were already coming out of hyperspace, and had named the invader, calling the z’Srauff “our common enemy.”  The z’Srauff Ambassador, also present, had immediately gotten up and stalked out, amid a derisive chorus of barking and baying from the New Texans.  The New Texans were first shocked and then wildly delighted; they had been so used to hearing nothing but inanitiés and high-order abstractions from their public figures that the Solar League Ambassador had become a hero overnight.

“Sounds as though there is a really strong sentiment at what used to be called the grass-roots level in favor of annexation,” I commented.

“There is,” Parros told me.  “Of course, there is a very strong isolationist, anti-annexation, sentiment, too.  The sentiment in favor of annexation is based on the point Mr. Cumshaw made ­the danger of conquest by the z’Srauff.  Against that, of course, there is fear of higher taxes, fear of loss of local sovereignty, fear of abrogation of local customs and institutions, and chauvinistic pride.”

“We can deal with some of that by furnishing guarantees of local self-government; the emotional objections can be met by convincing them that we need the great planet of New Texas to add glory and luster to the Solar League,” I said.  “You think, then, that Mr. Cumshaw was assassinated by opponents of annexation?”

“Of course, sir,” Thrombley replied.  “These Bonneys were only hirelings.  Here’s what happened, on the day of the murder: 

“It was the day after a holiday, a big one here on New Texas, celebrating some military victory by the Texans on Terra, a battle called San Jacinto.  We didn’t have any business to handle, because all the local officials were home nursing hangovers, so when Colonel Hickock called ­”

“Who?” I asked sharply.

“Colonel Hickock.  The father of the young lady you were so attentive to at the barbecue.  He and Mr. Cumshaw had become great friends, beginning shortly before the speech the Ambassador made at that banquet.  He called about 0900, inviting Mr. Cumshaw out to his ranch for the day, and as there was nothing in the way of official business, Mr. Cumshaw said he’d be out by 1030.

“When he got there, there was an aircar circling about, near the ranchhouse.  As Mr. Cumshaw got out of his car and started up the front steps, somebody in this car landed it on the driveway and began shooting with a twenty-mm auto-rifle.  Mr. Cumshaw was hit several times, and killed instantly.”

“The fellows who did the shooting were damned lucky,” Stonehenge took over.  “Hickock’s a big rancher.  I don’t know how much you know about supercow-ranching, sir, but those things have to be herded with tanks and light aircraft, so that every rancher has at his disposal a fairly good small air-armor combat team.  Naturally, all the big ranchers are colonels in the Armed Reserve.  Hickock has about fifteen fast fighters, and thirty medium tanks armed with fifty-mm guns.  He also has some AA-guns around his ranch house ­every once in a while, these ranchers get to squabbling among themselves.

“Well, these three Bonney brothers were just turning away when a burst from the ranch house caught their jet assembly, and they could only get as far as Bonneyville, thirty miles away, before they had to land.  They landed right in front of the town jail.

“This Bonneyville’s an awful shantytown; everybody in it is related to everybody else.  The mayor, for instance, Kettle-Belly Sam Bonney, is an uncle of theirs.

“These three boys ­Switchblade Joe Bonney, Jack-High Abe Bonney and Turkey-Buzzard Tom Bonney ­immediately claimed sanctuary in the jail, on the grounds that they had been near to ­get that; I think that indicates the line they’re going to take at the trial ­near to a political assassination.  They were immediately given the protection of the jail, which is about the only well-constructed building in the place, practically a fort.”

“You think that was planned in advance?” I asked.

Parros nodded emphatically.  “I do.  There was a hell of a big gang of these Bonneys at the jail, almost the entire able-bodied population of the place.  As soon as Switchblade and Jack-High and Turkey-Buzzard landed, they were rushed inside and all the doors barred.  About three minutes later, the Hickock outfit started coming in, first aircraft and then armor.  They gave that town a regular Georgie Patton style blitzing.”

“Yes.  I’m only sorry I wasn’t there to see it,” Stonehenge put in.  “They knocked down or burned most of the shanties, and then they went to work on the jail.  The aircraft began dumping these firebombs and stun-bombs that they use to stop supercow stampedes, and the tank-guns began to punch holes in the walls.  As soon as Kettle-Belly saw what he had on his hands, he radioed a call for Ranger protection.  Our friend Captain Nelson went out to see what the trouble was.”

“Yes.  I got the story of that from Nelson,” Parros put in.  “Much as he hated to do it, he had to protect the Bonneys.  And as soon as he’d taken a hand, Hickock had to call off his gang.  But he was smart.  He grabbed everything relating to the killing ­the aircar and the twenty-mm auto-rifle in particular ­and he’s keeping them under cover.  Very few people know about that, or about the fact that on physical evidence alone, he has the killing pinned on the Bonneys so well that they’ll never get away with this story of being merely innocent witnesses.”

“The rest, Mr. Silk, is up to us,” Thrombley said.  “I have Colonel Hickock’s assurance that he will give us every assistance, but we simply must see to it that those creatures with the outlandish names are convicted.”

I didn’t have a chance to say anything to that:  at that moment, one of the servants ushered Captain Nelson toward us.

“Good evening, Captain,” I greeted the Ranger.  “Join us, seeing that you’re on foreign soil and consequently not on duty.”

He sat down with us and poured a drink.

“I thought you might be interested,” he said.  “We gave that waiter a going-over.  We wanted to know who put him up to it.  He tried to sell us the line that he was a New Texan patriot, trying to kill a tyrant, but we finally got the truth out of him.  He was paid a thousand pesos to do the job, by a character they call Snake-Eyes Sam Bonney.  A cousin of the three who killed Mr. Cumshaw.”

“Nephew of Kettle-Belly Sam,” Parros interjected.  “You pick him up?”

Nelson shook his head disgustedly.  “He’s out in the high grass somewhere.  We’re still looking for him.  Oh, yes, and I just heard that the trial of Switchblade, and Jack-High and Turkey-Buzzard is scheduled for three days from now.  You’ll be notified in due form tomorrow, but I thought you might like to know in advance.”

“I certainly do, and thank you, Captain....  We were just talking about you when you arrived,” I mentioned.  “About the arrest, or rescue, or whatever you call it, of that trio.”

“Yeah.  One of the jobs I’m not particularly proud of.  Pity Hickock’s boys didn’t get hold of them before I got there.  It’d of saved everybody a lot of trouble.”

“Just what impression did you get at the time, Captain?” I asked.  “You think Kettle-Belly knew in advance what they were going to do?”

“Sure he did.  They had the whole jail fortified.  Not like a jail usually is, to keep people from getting out; but like a fort, to keep people from getting in.  There were no prisoners inside.  I found out that they had all been released that morning.”

He stopped, seemed to be weighing his words, then continued, speaking very slowly.

“Let me tell you first some things I can’t testify to, couple of things that I figure went wrong with their plans.

“One of Colonel Hickock’s men was on the porch to greet Mr. Cumshaw and he recognized the Bonneys.  That was lucky; otherwise we might still be lookin’ and wonderin’ who did the shootin’, which might not have been good for New Texas.”

He cocked an eyebrow and I nodded.  The Solar League, in similar cases, had regarded such planetary governments as due for change without notice and had promptly made the change.

“Number two,” Captain Nelson continued, “that AA-shot which hit their aircar.  I don’t think they intended to land at the jail ­it was just sort of a reserve hiding-hole.  But because they’d been hit, they had to land.  And they’d been slowed down so much that they couldn’t dispose of the evidence before the Colonel’s boys were tappin’ on the door ‘n’ askin’, couldn’t they come in.”

“I gather the Colonel’s task-force was becoming insistent,” I prompted him.

The big Ranger grinned.  “Now we’re on things I can testify to.

“When I got there, what had been the cell-block was on fire, and they were trying to defend the mayor’s office and the warden’s office.  These Bonneys gave me the line that they’d been witnesses to the killing of Mr. Cumshaw by Colonel Hickock and that the Hickock outfit was trying to rub them out to keep them from testifying.  I just laughed and started to walk out.  Finally, they confessed that they’d shot Mr. Cumshaw, but they claimed it was right of action against political malfeasance.  When they did that, I had to take them in.”

“They confessed to you, before you arrested them?” I wanted to be sure of that point.

“That’s right.  I’m going to testify to that, Monday, when the trial is held.  And that ain’t all:  we got their fingerprints off the car, off the gun, off some shells still in the clip, and we have the gun identified to the shells that killed Mr. Cumshaw.  We got their confession fully corroborated.”

I asked him if he’d give Mr. Parros a complete statement of what he’d seen and heard at Bonneyville.  He was more than willing and I suggested that they go into Parros’ office, where they’d be undisturbed.  The Ranger and my Intelligence man got up and took a bottle of superbourbon with them.  As they were leaving, Nelson turned to Hoddy, who was still with us.

“You’ll have to look to your laurels, Hoddy,” Nelson said.  “Your Ambassador seems to be making quite a reputation for himself as a gunfighter.”

“Look,” Hoddy said, and though he was facing Nelson, I felt he was really talking to Stonehenge, “before I’d go up against this guy, I’d shoot myself.  That way, I could be sure I’d get a nice painless job.”

After they were gone, I turned to Stonehenge and Thrombley.  “This seems to be a carefully prearranged killing.”

They agreed.

“Then they knew in advance that Mr. Cumshaw would be on Colonel Hickock’s front steps at about 1030. How did they find that out?”

“Why ... why, I’m sure I don’t know,” Thrombley said.  It was most obvious that the idea had never occurred to him before and a side glance told me that the thought was new to Stonehenge also.  “Colonel Hickock called at 0900.  Mr. Cumshaw left the Embassy in an aircar a few minutes later.  It took an hour and a half to fly out to the Hickock ranch....”

“I don’t like the implications, Mr. Silk,” Stonehenge said.  “I can’t believe that was how it happened.  In the first place, Colonel Hickock isn’t that sort of man:  he doesn’t use his hospitality to trap people to their death.  In the second place, he wouldn’t have needed to use people like these Bonneys.  His own men would do anything for him.  In the third place, he is one of the leaders of the annexation movement here and this was obviously an anti-annexation job.  And in the fourth place ­”

“Hold it!” I checked him.  “Are you sure he’s really on the annexation side?”

He opened his mouth to answer me quickly, then closed it, waited a moment, answered me slowly.  “I can guess what you are thinking, Mr. Silk.  But, remember, when Colonel Hickock came here as our first Ambassador, he came here as a man with a mission.  He had studied the problem and he believed in what he came for.  He has never changed.

“Let me emphasize this, sir:  we know he has never changed.  For our own protection, we’ve had to check on every real leader of the annexation movement, screening them for crackpots who might do us more harm than good.  The Colonel is with us all the way.

“And now, in the fourth place, underlined by what I’ve just said, the Colonel and Mr. Cumshaw were really friends.”

“Now you’re talking!” Hoddy burst in.  “I’ve knowed A. J. ever since I was a kid.  Ever since he married old Colonel MacTodd’s daughter.  That just ain’t the way A. J. works!”

“On the other hand, Mr. Ambassador,” Thrombley said, keeping his gaze fixed on Hoddy’s hands and apparently ready to both duck and shut up if Hoddy moved a finger, “you will recall, I think, that Colonel Hickock did do everything in his power to see that these Bonney brothers did not reach court alive.  And, let me add,” he was getting bolder, tilting his chin up a little, “it’s a choice as simple as this:  either Colonel Hickock told them, or we have ­and this is unbelievable ­a traitor in the Embassy itself.”

That statement rocked even Hoddy.  Even though he was probably no more than one of Natalenko’s little men, he still couldn’t help knowing how thoroughly we were screened, indoctrinated, and ­let’s face it ­mind-conditioned.  A traitor among us was unthinkable because we just couldn’t think that way.

The silence, the sorrow, were palpable.  Then I remembered, told them, Hickock himself had been a Department man.

Stonehenge gripped his head between his hands and squeezed as if trying to bring out an idea.  “All right, Mr. Ambassador, where are we now?  Nobody who knew could have told the Bonney boys where Mr. Cumshaw would be at 1030, yet the three men were there waiting for him.  You take it from there.  I’m just a simple military man and I’m ready to go back to the simple military life as soon as possible.”

I turned to Gomez.  “There could be an obvious explanation.  Bring us the official telescreen log.  Let’s see what calls were made.  Maybe Mr. Cumshaw himself said something to someone that gave his destination away.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Thrombley told me.  “None of the junior clerks were on duty, and I took the only three calls that came in, myself.  First, there was the call from Colonel Hickock.  Then, the call about the wrist watch.  And then, a couple of hours later, the call from the Hickock ranch, about Mr. Cumshaw’s death.”

“What was the call about the wrist watch?” I asked.

“Oh, that was from the z’Srauff Embassy,” Thrombley said.  “For some time, Mr. Cumshaw had been trying to get one of the very precise watches which the z’Srauff manufacture on their home planet.  The z’Srauff Ambassador called, that day, to tell him that they had one for him and wanted to know when it was to be delivered.  I told them the Ambassador was out, and they wanted to know where they could call him and I ­”

I had never seen a man look more horror-stricken.

“Oh, my God!  I’m the one who told them!”

What could I say?  Not much, but I tried.  “How could you know, Mr. Thrombley?  You did the natural, the normal, the proper thing, on a call from one Ambassador to another.”

I turned to the others, who, like me, preferred not to look at Thrombley.  “They must have had a spy outside who told them the Ambassador had left the Embassy.  Alone, right?  And that was just what they’d been waiting for.

“But what’s this about the watch, though.  There’s more to this than a simple favor from one Ambassador to another.”

“My turn, Mr. Ambassador,” Stonehenge interrupted.  “Mr. Cumshaw had been trying to get one of the things at my insistence.  Naval Intelligence is very much interested in them and we want a sample.  The z’Srauff watches are very peculiar ­they’re operated by radium decay, which, of course is a universal constant.  They’re uniform to a tenth second and they’re all synchronized with the official time at the capital city of the principal z’Srauff planet.  The time used by the z’Srauff Navy.”

Stonehenge deliberately paused, let that last phrase hang heavily in the air for a moment, then he continued.

“They’re supposed to be used in religious observances ­timing hours of prayer, I believe.  They can, of course, have other uses.

“For example, I can imagine all those watches giving the wearer a light electric shock, or ringing a little bell, all over New Texas, at exactly the same moment.  And then I can imagine all the z’Srauff running down into nice deep holes in the ground.”

He looked at his own watch.  “And that reminds me:  my gang of pirates are at the spaceport by now, ready to blast off.  I wonder if someone could drive me there.”

“I’ll drive him, boss,” Hoddy volunteered.  “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ else.”

I was wondering how I could break that up, plausibly and without betraying my suspicions, when Parros and Captain Nelson came out and joined us.

“I have a lot of stuff here,” Parros said.  “Stuff we never seemed to have noticed.  For instance ­”

I interrupted.  “Commander Stonehenge’s going to the spaceport, now,” I said.  “Suppose you ride with him, and brief him on what you learned, on the way.  Then, when he’s aboard, come back and tell us.”

Hoddy looked at me for a long ten seconds.  His expression started by being exasperated and ended by betraying grudging admiration.