"Hemophilia. He couldn't pass the physical. He thought they were plotting against him. Still, I'm grateful for the chance at a little astrogation." With the barest hint of a smile, Kelly said, "I understand it's possible to bring a ship sidewise through the Slot at Terra." "Please don't try," Beliakoff begged, shuddering. "I knew we should have waited for Kyne's replacement at Mala." "We'd still be there, with a cargo of kvash turning sour." "I was afraid it would sour anyhow," Beliakoff said, with a worrier's knack for finding trouble. "Mala is the slowest loading port this side of the Rift. I must admit, however, they didn't do badly this time." "Noticed that, did you?" Kelly asked. "Hm? Did you find a way of speeding them up?" "Sure. Gave them Kyne's old dog-eared books. They're crazy about books. Really hustled for them." Beliakoff said nothing for several seconds, but his long, sallow face became pale. "You what?" "Gave 'em the books. Don't worry," Kelly said quickly. "Kyne gave them to me before they hauled him away." "You gave the _warfare books_ to the people on Mala?" "You mean I shouldn't have? Why not? What's wrong with Mala?" "Plenty." Beliakoff grimly did some quick figuring. "It'll be a year, their time, when we can get back. Kelly, take us out of hyperspace!" "Now?" Kelly gasped. "Here?" "At once!" "But we might come out inside a star or--" "That," Beliakoff said, his voice filled with righteousness, "simply cannot be helped. We must return at once to Mala!" * * * * * General Drak, Commander of the Forces of the Empress, Wearer of the Gold Star of Mala, sat at his desk in the Supreme Command Post, which had recently been converted from a hardware store. He was engaged in a fiery argument over the telephone with Nob, the Empress's right-hand man. "But damn it all," General Drak shouted, "I must have it! I am the Supreme Commander, the General of All the Armies of the Dictatorship! Doesn't that mean anything?" "Not under the circumstances," Nob answered. Two soldiers, standing guard in the General's quarters, listened interestedly. "Think he'll get it?" one asked. "Not a chance," the other answered. Drak glared them into silence, then returned to the argument. "Will you please attempt to understand my position?" he said hoarsely. "You put me in command. At my orders, the Armies of the Dictatorship move against the Allied Democracies. All the other generals obey me. _Me!_ Correct?" "He's got a point," one soldier said. "He'll never get it," the other replied. "Shut up, you two!" Drak roared. "Nob, aren't I right? It's the Earthly way, Nob. Authority must be recognized!" "I'm sorry," Nob said. "Extremely sorry. Personally, I sympathize with you. But the _Book of Terran Rank Equivalents_ is quite specific. Seven shoulder stars are the most--the absolute most--that any general can wear. I absolutely cannot allow you to wear eight."