”
“Oh, brother!” Yvette snorted. “And I use the term advisedly. If you didn’t recognize Grand Duke Zander von
Wilmenhorst on sight! Ob no, he isn’t much of anybody just one-half Stanley blood and the fifth from the Throne
itself, is all. You’d better break out your Peerage and start studying it.”
“Uh-huh. What a cover for the Head-my God, be owns Sector Four!”
They slept until half past two; then went into the main tent to watch the climax of the matinee. They watched, with
trained and minutely observant eyes, Yvette and Jules d’Alembert perform flawlessly a heart-stopping variation of
the act they themselves had performed the night before.
Five minutes later, the younger couple still in spangles, the four d’Alemberts sat at a table in the commissary. The
two men looked very much alike; so did the two girls which was not surprising, since the two couples were two
pairs of twins born of the same parents three years apart. No one except a DesPlainian could have told the two men
or the two girls apart except by direct comparison. To the personnel of the Circus of the Galaxy this success of top
stars was routine. In the two-hundred-year history of the Circus there had been almost a hundred pairs called ‘Jules
and Yvette d’Alembert’; there would continue to be a succession of them, one new pair every two or three years, as
long as the Circus should endure.
“How’d we do, Gran’paw?” the younger brother asked. “It must have been a treat to see a good performance of your
act.”
“Close the orifice, Jules,’ the younger girl broke in. “Oh” you’re calling me Jules already?”
“Certainly. You are Jules now. What I started to say was, that’s the way people break their arms, patting themselves
on the back so much.”
“Okay. What I meant was. I’m glad the Head pulled them out of the Circus for special duty. It wouldn’t be too long
before they’d spatter themselves all over the ring the way their joints are creaking now. How about that, Jules?” and
Jules grinned at Jules.
“That is very true and very sad, Jules,” Jules agreed, as a waitress came up to take their orders. “These ancient and
unwieldly bones are just about ready for the fertilizer mill. The old-time pep is all shot. . . .”
“Stop crying, Jules, poor dear,” the waitress said. She was, of course, a d’Alembert, too; and she had been a star.
“Before I break down and dilute your soup with a flood of tears of my own. The King and Queen are dead, et cetera.
So what? You’re just getting started on your real jobs. The usual?”
“Not quite,” Yvette said. “You can get fresh orange juice here and I’m drowning myself in it. Squeeze me half a liter,
please Felice dear, besides the usual.”
“Drowning yourself is right,” the younger Yvette said, darkly. “I’ve got to watch my figure; so I’ll have one small
glass of lemon sour and a lamb chop.”
After eating, the older Jules and Yvette left the Circus-without a ripple to show that they had gone.
V
Communism could gain no foot-hold on the new, raw planets. Communists wanted to agitate, not work; and on
the planets a man either worked or died. Confined to Earth and no longer able to keep its masses in line by
the imaginary menace of warmongering Capitalism, and facing squarely the fact that men will not produce
efficiently under the lash, Communism came to a very low ebb . . . until it was saved by Premier Koslov, a
strong and able executive, who in 2020 made himself King Boris I of Earth and formed a harsh but just
absolute monarchy based upon the profit motive. (Stanhope, Elements of Empire, p. 76).
Citizens of Earth
Jules and Yvette studied, analyzed and restudied fortyseven spools of top-secret data, then sent them-top-
secretly-through channels back to the Head. Then they visited more or less openly almost every district of Earth.
At every point they encountered the same not-right odor. Something was definitely wrong. Security had been
breached-within the Service itself!
To Jules and Yvette d’Alembert the situation shrieked for action-instant effective action, at that. If the Service
caught a chill, a hundred outlying planets lay under the threat of double pneumonia. For the Service was the
ganglionic nerve system of the Stanleys themselves . . . and every bright, burning star, every immensely long, black
spacelane, every whirling world and pocket of cosmic dust trembled and shook when those nerves tingled.
As the evidence grew it became clear that there were two courses of action. They could patiently, painstakingly
search, sift and study . . . and hope for a break . . . or they could plunge themselves into a trouble spot-offer
themselves as bait-risk life and limb on a gamble, and trust to mind and muscle to get them out. These were the
choices….
But really, there was no choice-because they were the d’Alemberts.
“Out of everything we’ve learned I can see only three points of attack outside of Durward itself,” Jules said,
thoughtfully. “Algonia, Nevander, and Aston. Years apart. Three forged Patents of Royalty. Eighty-nine good agents
down the drain . . . most of them probably as smart as we are . . . in spite of all the help the local SOTE could give
them. . . .” He paused.
“Uh-huh. Go on. Or because of it.”
“Check. The higher the SOTE the solider the security. We think. But that thing in the Head’s office didn’t smell
exactly like Coty’s L’Arigon.”
“I’ll say it didn’t. Usually they commit suicide or get their throats cut” but he simply disappeared. Absolutely
vanished.”
“So we’ll roll our own, except maybe for tops. So the big question is, what’s our best cover?”
“Well” we can’t be Earthers, that’s for sure.” Yvette shrugged her shoulders and indicated his shape and her own.
“Nor Delfians, to stand inspection. We’re obviously DesPlainians. No other high-gravity planets were ever
colonized, were there? Except Purity” of course . . . I wonder.”
Jules frowned in thought. “That’s a thought, sis; that splinter-group of crackpots on Purity. We can be Puritans.”
Yvette nibbled her lip. “But would it work? They won’t have anything to do with anybody they don’t absolutely have
to. Everybody’s too sinful. They expect all the other planets, especially mother-planet DesPlaines, to be whiffed
into incandescent vapor any minute by the wrath of God. There are a lot of renegade Puritans” though. Sinners.”
“That’s what I meant. We’ll play it that they kicked us off because we got to be too sinful. We liked to dance and
play cards and drink soda pop-to say nothing of mining gold and platinum and diamonds and emeralds and boot-
legging all our stuff to Earth. That’s the way we made all our money. Remember?”
Yvette laughed. “Just dimly. I must have been looking the other way at the time, but you can fill me in. They have
kicked a lot of people off of Purity for doing just that-and for much smaller sins, as well. Go ahead; it listens
good.”
“Okay” but I don’t know exactly what . . . get into compound low, brain, and start grinding . . . how about this? We’ll
have the Head make us ex-Puritan Citizens of Earth. You know how toplofty and you-be-damned Earthers are, out
on the planets.”
“Uh-buh, and we’ll be toploftier and you-be-damneder than anybody. I like.”
“Right. Concealment by obviousness. But as you said” not too many people ever even heard of Purity, and with our
builds-your build especially-but wait a minute, how about disguising me? Hair down to my shoulders; waved and
liquid-golded. Eyebrows shaved to a different shape and golded. Handle-bar moustache, waxed to points and
golded. A cockeyed hat with gold plumes two feet long.
Cloth-of-gold sleeveless jersey and tight purple trunks. Arms and legs bare. A million dollars worth of jewellery-
genuine-and a big, heavy swagger-stick that’s really a blaster on one end and a stunner on the other. Think anybody’d
recognize me as a DesPlainian in that kind of a fancy rig?”
“I’ll say they wouldn’t!” Yvette laughed delightedly” “anywhere on DesPlaines they’d shoot you on sight. The idea
being that everyone would look at you and not bother to even wonder whether I was a DesPlainian or not.” “Uh-huh.
Maybe it’s a bit thin, but. . . .”
“I’ve got news for you, Buster.” Yvette laughed again. “Not only it’s thin, but also if you think I’m going to play little
brown hen to that gorgeous hunk of rooster you’re out of your mind. I’ll design me a costume that will knock
everybody’s eyes right out of their sockets-one that no DesPlainian woman would be caught dead in at a catfight.”
“Now you’re chirping, birdie!”
“That’ll be fun! But it’ll take months to grow your hair … a wig? Uh-huh.”
“Uh-huh is correct. Too chancy. But they’ve been working on this case for sixty-seven years, so a few extra weeks