In any case, we’re having a glorious time, in an unreal and dreamy way. Did any of this seem probable when we set out to grub in the dirt on Higby V?

Same cube, four days later. Much confusion.

Scene: our ship. Hour: late. Cast of characters: me, Jan, Pilazinool. Everyone else asleep.

Mysterious bleeping sounds emerge from ship’s audio system. Who calls us here? Local robots tuning in on our channel? Unlikely. Maybe some Earth ship calling. No Earth ships within a dozen light-years, at least. None expected here for several weeks. What spins? Pilazinool says, unworried, “Tom, see what’s happening over there.”

Tom Rice, Boy Radioman, goes to audio panel, ponders its intricacy a moment, taps buttons and spins dials, meanwhile making official-sounding noises like, “Come in, come in, I’m not reading you, come in.” And so forth. Simultaneously does his best to improve reception so that unknown message from space can be detected. Also switches on recorder, in case anything important is arriving, though he knows innate improbability that someone would call us here.

Out of the receptor comes male human voice, reciting the call numbers of our ship. “Confirm,” voice says. “Do you read me?” it inquires.

“I read you,” I say, feeling like a minor character in a bad tridim film. “Who’s calling? What’s going on?”

“Ultradrive cruiser Pride of Space, Commander Leon Leonidas, calling Captain Nicholas Ludwig.”

“Ludwig’s asleep,” I reply. “So’s just about everybody else. My name’s Tom Rice, and I don’t really have much authority, but—”

Jan, coming over to listen, nudges me and whispers, “Maybe they’re in distress, Tom!”

Thought seems logical. Unscheduled arrival of unknown ultradrive cruiser — emergency landing, maybe — difficulties on board —

I say, “Are you in trouble, Pride of Space?”

“We aren’t. You are. We have orders from Galaxy Central to place you under arrest.”

It dawns on me that the conversation is not going well.

I boost the gain so Pilazinool can catch what’s being said.

“Arrest?” I repeat loudly. “There’s some mistake. We’re an archaeological expedition conducting research in—”

“Exactly. We have instructions to pick up a team of eleven archaeologists and bring the bunch of you back to Galaxy Central at once. I advise cooperation. We’re right upstairs, in orbit around McBurney IV, and we want you to wrap up your work within two hours and get up here into a matching orbit so we can bring you on board. If you don’t cooperate, I’m afraid we’ll have to come down and get you. Please take down the following orbital coordinates—”

“Wait,” I say. “I’ve got to notify the others. I don’t understand anything of what’s going on.”

Jan is already scurrying toward the cabins to wake people up. Pilazinool has removed several limbs. The voice out of the receptors, sounding terribly calm and very, very military, asks me to find one of my superiors and put him on the line right away. I stammer something apologetic and ask my caller to wait.

Dr. Schein, looking sleepy and grim, stumbles into the room.

“It’s a Navy ultradrive ship,” I say. “Sent here by Galaxy Central to arrest us. We’ve got two hours to get off this planet and turn ourselves in.”

Dr. Schein makes a face of disgust, squinting eyes, clamping lips. Goes to audio. “Hello,” he says. “Schein speaking. What’s all this nonsense about?”

Not a good approach. Calm military voice gets icier, explains all over again that our galactic odyssey is at its end. By now everybody else has crowded into the cabin. Nick Ludwig, yawning, demands to know the story. I tell him. Ludwig chews on knuckles and groans. Steen Steen says, “They can’t make us do anything. We’re safe here. If they try to land without permission, the robots will blow them up.”

Jan tells him patiently, “We’d be crazy to defy a Navy ship. Anyway, what good would it do? We’re stuck here until we get ultradrive transport out.”

Dr. Schein, meanwhile, is speaking in low, earnest voice to Pride of Space. Impossible to hear conversation because of general hubbub. When he turns away from audio, he looks old, gray, beaten.

“Somebody go and find Dihn Ruuu,” he says. “We’ve got to leave. Galaxy Central has its clamps on us at last.”

“Don’t give in!” Steen Steen cries. “We’re free agents! The era of slavery is over!”

Dr. Schein ignores him. “Nick,” he says, “get the ship ready. We’re going upstairs.”

Dihn Ruuu arrived; we explained things; and the robot arranged for our quick exit from McBurney IV. We left as we had come, with our engines cut off, and went eerily whistling upward in the grip of the same powerful force that had drawn us down. The robots who were controlling our ascent inserted us neatly into the orbit of the Pride of Space and let go; we switched to our own power, matched velocities with the big star-ship, and let ourselves be pulled into the custody of the Galaxy Central Navy. The sight of Dihn Ruuu brought the whole crew out to gape, up to and including the commander.

Commander Leonidas turned out to be a crisp, dapper little man of about fifty, with pale blue eyes and a warm, sympathetic nature. He made it very clear as soon as we were on board that he was simply doing his job, nothing personal in it.

“I’ve never had to arrest archaeologists before. What were you people doing — smuggling on the side?”

“We have done nothing but legitimate research!” snapped Dr. Horkkk, furious as always.

“Well, maybe so,” Commander Leonidas said, shrugging. “But somebody at Galaxy Central is upset about you. Pick you up at once, that’s what I was told! No delay! Tolerate no opposition! As if I was catching a bunch of sposhing mutineers.”

“What you are doing,” said Dr. Horkkk in his thinnest and nastiest of voices, “is preventing us from completing one of the greatest scientific accomplishments of the past ten thousand years.”

“Really, now? I hadn’t realized—”

“By your interference,” Dr. Horkkk went on, “you interrupt our journey just as we are about to solve the final mystery of the Mirt Korp Ahm, the High Ones, as you call them. You snatch us away at the moment of greatest accomplishment. The stupidity of the military mind is a universal curse that—”

Commander Leonidas’ sunny expression was beginning to darken, and I could see that if Dr. Horkkk kept it up, we’d finish the voyage in irons. Mirrik and Pilazinool saw it too, and tactfully moved in on Dr. Horkkk from opposite sides, pinning him between them and shutting him up.

Absolute dejection was what we all felt. We couldn’t understand what Galaxy Central was up to, but it was utterly clear that we were going to be hauled away from our work, forced to defend our actions before the bureaucrats, and probably prevented permanently from seeing the planet of the High Ones. By the time we got everything straightened out, some other expedition would have been assigned to that plum.

The Commander produced a little data viewer and said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a personnel inventory. As I call your name, would you kindly acknowledge? Dr. Milton Schein?”

“Yes.”

“Pilazinool of Shilamak?”

“Yes.”

He went right through the list. Naturally, 408b of Bellatrix XIV did not reply. On the other hand, one robot of alien design had been added to the group but wasn’t on Commander Leonidas’ roster. Dr. Schein explained impatiently that 408b had been killed in an accident last December, that the robot was a High Ones product that we had picked up at the same time, and that Galaxy Central knew all this anyway, since he had passed it along via TP during our stop at Al-debaran IX.

“Aldebaran IX?” Commander Leonidas repeated blankly. “Your dossier doesn’t include any messages sent from Aldebaran IX.”