Jem smiled. "There's nothing to apologize for, Joe. When the time comes for her to settle down, she'll do it." "Tell me, Jem--" Kimmensen started awkwardly. But he had to ask. "Do you like Susanne? I think you do, but tell me anyhow." Jem nodded quietly. "Very much. She's moody and she's headstrong. But that'll change. When it does, I'll ask her." Kimmensen nodded to himself. Once again, his judgment of Bendix was confirmed. Most young people were full of action. Everything had to be done now. They hadn't lived long enough to understand how many tomorrows there were in even the shortest life. But Jem was different. He was always willing to wait and let things unfold themselves. He was cautious and solemn beyond his years. He'd make Susanne the best possible husband, and an excellent president for the League. "It's just as well we've got a little time," Jem was saying. "I was wondering how much you knew about Anse Messerschmidt." Kimmensen frowned. "Messerschmidt? Nothing. And everything. His kind're all cut out of the same pattern." Jem frowned with him. "I've seen him once or twice. He's about my age, and we've bumped into each other at friends' houses. He's one of those swaggering fellows, always ready to start an argument." "He'll start one too many, one day." "I hope so." Kimmensen grunted, and they relapsed into silence. Nevertheless, he felt a peculiar uneasiness. When he heard the other plane settling down outside his house, he gripped his glass tighter. He locked his eyes on the figure of Susanne walking quickly up to the living room wall, and the lean shadow behind her. Then the panel opened, and Susanne and her escort stepped out of the night and into the living room. Kimmensen took a sudden breath. He knew Susanne, and he knew that whatever she did was somehow always the worst possible thing. A deep, pain-ridden shadow crossed his face. Susanne turned her face to look up at the man standing as quietly as one of Death's outriders beside her. "Hello, Father," she said calmly. "Hello, Jem. I'd like you both to meet Anse Messerschmidt." CHAPTER II It had happened at almost exactly four o'clock that afternoon. As he did at least once each day, Kimmensen had been checking his Direct Power side-arm. The weapon lay on the desk blotter in front of him. The calloused heel of his right palm held it pressed against the blotter while his forefinger pushed the buttplate aside. He moved the safety slide, pulling the focus grid out of the way, and depressed the squeeze triggers with his index and little fingers, holding the weapon securely in his folded-over palm. Inside the butt, the coil began taking power from the mysterious _somewhere_ it was aligned on. Old Dubrovic, with his sheaves of notations and encoded symbology, could have told him. But Dubrovic had been killed in one spiteful last gasp of the old regime, for giving the world as much as he had.