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Updated: June 29, 2025
Worrying about Tom wouldn't help Tom, and worrying about Bish wouldn't help Bish, and I had a job to do. What I was getting now, and I was glad I was starting a fresh reel for it, was the beginning of the First Fenris Civil War. A long time from now, when Fenris was an important planet in the Federation, maybe they'd make today a holiday, like Bastille Day or the Fourth of July or Federation Day.
"That was what Nip Spazoni thought when he looked at the ship. Well, after that he talked to your father and to me, and then your father began calling and we heard from Nip." You could see that it absolutely hurt Joe Kivelson to have to owe his life to Bish Ware. "Well, it's lucky anybody listened to him," he grudged. "I wouldn't have."
"I'm a little short of eighteen, but you're sixty. I can see things coming better than you can, and dodge them quicker." Dad gave a rueful little laugh and looked at Bish. "See how it goes?" he asked. "We spend our lives shielding our young and then, all of a sudden, we find they're shielding us." His pipe had gone out again and he relit it.
I screened the Times, after Nip went back to his own ship. Dad said that Bish Ware had called in, with nothing to report but a vague suspicion that something nasty was cooking. Steve Ravick and Leo Belsher were taking things, even the announcement of the Argentine Exotic Organics price, too calmly. "I think so, myself," he added. "That gang has some kind of a knife up their sleeve.
Bishop Wilyum Doane hath an abiding place at Albany, N. Y., a village on the Hudson where the peons of the political bosses most do congregate to leg for bribes. In his recent annual address to the clergy the Bish. lamented bitterly that the American "jingo" was provoking dear patient Christian England to put on her war-paint. "The English press," quoth he, "has been most patient."
The crowd pushed out and off the ship, and the three of us were alone, here in the lounge of the Peenemünde, where the story started and where it ends. Bish says no story ends, ever. He's wrong. Stories die, and nothing in the world is deader than a dead news story. But before they do, they hatch a flock of little ones, and some of them grow into bigger stories still.
I drew a finger across under my chin, and mentioned the class of people who tell no tales. Bish shook his head slowly. "I doubt it," he said. "Not unless it was absolutely necessary. That sort of thing would have a discouraging effect the next time Ravick wanted a special job done. I'm pretty sure he isn't at Hunters' Hall, but he's hiding somewhere."
"After all, Tom and I are just a couple of kids. If you're with us, it'll look a lot more big-paperish." That didn't seem to please Tom too much. Bish shook his head, though, and Tom brightened. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Walt," Bish said. "But I'm going aboard, myself, to see a friend who is en route through to Odin. A Dr. Watson; I have not seen him for years."
"And Al Devis," Tom added. "He came into the conning tower while you were telling the rest of us." The communication screen began buzzing, and I went and put it on. It was Bish Ware, calling from a pay booth somewhere. "I have some early returns," he said. "The cops cleared everybody out of Hunters' Hall except the Ravick gang. Then Ravick reconvened the meeting, with nobody but his gang.
By then, it was time for me to leave for Hunters' Hall. Julio and Mrs. Laden were having their dinner, and Dad and Bish went up to the editorial office. I didn't take a car. Hunters' Hall was only a half dozen blocks south of the Times, toward the waterfront. I carried my radio-under-false-pretense slung from my shoulder, and started downtown on foot.
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