The din of arriving horns and sirens had stopped, and a mutter of profanity was developing, when a last vehicle arrived. It was an ambulance, and it came purposefully out of a side avenue and swung toward a particular place as if it knew exactly what it was about. When its way was blocked, it hooted impatiently for passage. Its lights blinked violently red, demanding clearance. A giant fire-fighting unit pulled aside. The ambulance ran past and hooted at a cluster of police trucks. They made way for it. It blared at a gathering of dismounted, irritated truck personnel. It made its way through them. It moved in a straight line for the gate of the Interstellar Embassy.

A hundred yards from that gate, its horn blatted irritably at the car of the acting head of municipal police. That car obediently made way for it.

The ambulance rolled briskly up to the very gate of the embassy. There it stopped. A figure got down from the driver’s seat and walked purposefully in the gate.

Thereafter nothing happened at all until a second figure rolled and toppled itself out on the ground from the seat beside the ambulance driver’s. That figure kicked and writhed on the ground. A policeman went to find out what was the matter.

It was the ambulance driver. Not the one who’d driven the ambulance to the embassy gate, but the one who should have. He was bound hand and foot and not too tightly gagged. When released he swore vividly while panting that he had been captured and bound by somebody who said he was Bron Hoddan and was in a hurry to get back to the Interstellar Embassy.

There was no uproar. Those to whom Hoddan’s name had meaning were struck speechless with rage. The fury of the police was even too deep for tears.

But Bron Hoddan, back in the quarters assigned him in the embassy, unloaded a dozen cooled-off stun-pistols from his pockets and sent word to the ambassador that he was back, and that the note ostensibly from Nedda had actually been a police trap.

Getting ready to retire, he reviewed his situation. In some respects it was not too bad. All but Nedda’s share in trying to trap him, and having a party the same night. He stared morosely at the wall. Then he saw, very simply, that she mightn’t have known even of his arrest. She lived a highly sheltered life. Her father could have had her kept in complete ignorance.

He cheered immediately. This would be his last night on Walden, if he were lucky. Already vague plans revolved in his mind. Yes… he’d achieve splendid things; he’d grow rich; he’d come back and marry that delightful girl, Nedda; and then end as a great man. Already, today, he’d done a number of things worth doing, and on the whole he’d done them well.

WHEN DAWN broke over the capital city of Walden, the sight was appropriately glamorous. There were shining towers and the curving tree-bordered ways, above which innumerable small birds flew. The dawn, in fact, was heralded by chirpings everywhere. During the darkness there had been a deep-toned humming sound, audible all over the city. That was the landing-grid in operation out at the spaceport, letting down a huge liner from Rigel, Cetis, and the Nearer Rim. Presently it would take off for Krim, Darth, and the Coalsack Stars, and if Hoddan were lucky he would be on it. At the earliest part of the day there was only tranquility over the city and the square and the Interstellar Embassy.

At the gate of the embassy enclosure, staff members piled up boxes and bales and parcels for transport to the spaceport. There were dispatches to Delil, where the Interstellar Diplomatic Service had a sector headquarters, and there were packets of embassy-stamped invoices for Lohala and Tralee and Famagusta. There were boxes for Sind and Maja, and metal-bound cases for Kent. The early explorers of this part of the galaxy had christened the huge suns with the names of little villages and territories back on Earth.

The sound of the stacking of freight parcels was crisp and distinct in the morning hush. The dew deposited during the night had not yet dried from the pavement of the square. Damp, unhappy figures loafed nearby. They were the secret police, as yet unrelieved after a night’s vigil about the embassy’s rugged wall. They were sleepy, and their clothing stuck soggily to them, and none of them had anything warm to eat for many hours. They had not, either, anything to look forward to from their superiors. Hoddan was again in sanctuary inside the embassy they’d guarded so ineptly through the dark. He’d gotten out without their leave, and had made a number of their fellows quite uncomfortable. Then he had made all the police and municipal authorities ridiculous by the manner of his return. The police guards about the embassy were positively not in a cheery mood. But one of them saw an embassy servant he knew. He’d stood the man drinks, in times past, to establish a contact that might be useful. He smiled and beckoned to the man.

The embassy servant came briskly to him, rubbing his hands after having put a moderately heavy case of documents on top of the waiting pile.

“That Hoddan,” said the plainclothesman, attempting hearty ruefulness, “he certainly put it over on us last night!”

The servant nodded.

“Look,” said the plainclothesman, “there could be something in it for you if you — hm — wanted to make a little extra money.”

The servant looked regretful.

“No chance,” he said. “He’s leaving today.”

The plainclothesman jumped.

“Today?”

“For Darth,” said the embassy servant. “The ambassador’s shipping him off on the spaceliner that came in last night.”

The plainclothesman dithered.

“How’s he going to get to the spaceport?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said the servant. “They’ve figured out some way. I could use a little extra money, too.”

He lingered, but the plainclothesman was staring at the innocent, inviolable parcels about to leave the embassy for distant parts. He took note of sizes and descriptions. No. Not yet. But if Hoddan was leaving, he had to leave the embassy. If he left the embassy…

The plainclothesman bolted. He made a breathless report by the portable communicator. He told what the embassy servant had said. Orders came back to him. Orders were given in all directions. Somebody was going to distinguish himself by catching Hoddan, and undercover politics worked to decide who it should be. Even the job of guarding the embassy became desirable. So fresh, alert plainclothesmen arrived. They were bright eyed men and bushy tailed, and they took over. Weary, hungry men yielded up their posts. They went home. The man who’d gotten the clue went home too, disgruntled because he wouldn’t be allowed a share in the credit for Hoddan’s actual capture. But he was glad of it later.

Inside the embassy, Hoddan finished his breakfast with the ambassador.

“I’m giving you,” said the ambassador, “a letter to that character on Darth. I told you about him. He’s some sort of nobleman and has need of an electronic engineer. On Darth they’re rare to nonexistent. But his letter wasn’t too specific.”

“I remember,” agreed Hoddan. “I’ll look him up. Thanks.”

“Somehow,” said the ambassador, “I cherish unreasonable hopes for you, you, Hoddan. A psychologist would say that your group identification is low and your cyclothymia practically a minus quantity, while your ergic tension is pleasingly high. He’d mean that with reasonable good fortune you will raise more hell than most. I wish you that good fortune. And Hoddan—”

“Yes?”

“I urge you not to be vengeful,” explained the ambassador, “but I do hope you won’t be too forgiving of these characters who’d have jailed you for life. You’ve scared them badly. It’s very good for them. Anything more you can do along that line will be really a kindness, even though it will positively not be appreciated. But it’ll be well worth doing. I say this because I like the way you plan things. And any time I can be of service…”