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spheres’; there should not be any boundaries in space. And, to be sure, appalling fatuity: a blank refusal to read the record which proved Alerion’s intentions toward Earth, a positive eagerness to give the enemy the time and resources he needed to prepare for his next encroachment,
    But what can a man do?
    Heim claimed his flyer at the garage and fretted while TrafCon stalled about sending him aloft. Quite a time passed before the pattern of vehicle movement released him. He went on manual for a while, to have the satisfaction of personally getting away. The gravitrons in this Moonraker were custom-built, with power to lift him far into the stratosphere. Otherwise the flyer was nothing special; he was fairly indifferent to creature comforts. He set the autopilot for Orly, took a long hot bath, got some whale from the freezer and made himself a ‘burger for lunch, and bunked out for a couple of hours.
    The clock woke him with the ‘Light Cavalry Overture’ and handed him a mug of coffee. He changed into fresh clothes – somewhat formal, gold on the collar and down the pants – while the flyer slanted in for a landing. Momentarily he debated whether to go armed, for he would be carrying Vadász’s package. But no, that might start more argument than it was worth. If he failed here too, he doubted if there would be any further use for New Europe’s appeal. No action would be possible, except to get roaring drunk and afterwards consider emigration to an especially remote planet.
    Entering the Douane office, he showed his ID and got a thirty-day permit. France, being less crowded than most countries, was rather stuffy about letting people in. But this official was balm and unguents from the moment he saw Heim’s name. ‘Ah, yes, yes, monsieur, we ’ave been told to expect ce pleasure of your company. A car is waiting for you. Does monsieur ’ave any baggage ’e wishes carried? No?
Bien
, cis way, please, and ’ave a mos’ pleasant visit.’
    Quite a contrast with what Endre Vadász must have experienced. But he was only a musician of genius. Gunnar Heimheaded a well-known manufacturing concern and was son-in-law to Curt Wingate, who sat on the board of General Nucleonics. If Gunnar Heim requested a private interview with Michel Coquelin, minister of extraterrestrial affairs and head of French representatives in the World Parliament, why, of course, of course.
    Even so, he had crowded his schedule. Twyman had leaned backwards to oblige him about seeing Cynbe; nevertheless, the peacemongers were fairly sure to have agents keeping tabs on him, and if he didn’t move fast they might find ways to head him off.
    The car entered Paris by ground. Blue dusk was deepening into night. The trees along the boulevards had turned their leaves, red and yellow splashed against Baron Haussmann’s stately old walls or scrittling among the legs of pretty girls as they walked with their men. The outdoor cafes had little custom at this season. Heim was as glad of that. Paris could have made him remember too many things.
    The car stopped at the Quai d’Orsay and let him out. He heard the Seine lap darkly against its embankment, under the thin chill wind. Otherwise the district was quiet, with scant traffic, the whirr of the city machines nearly lost. But sky-glow hid the stars.
    Gendarmes stood guard. Their faces were tense above the flapping capes. All France was tensed and bitter, one heard. Heim was conducted down long corridors where not a few people were working late, to Coquelin’s office.
    The minister laid aside a stack of papers and rose to greet him. ‘How do you do,’ he said. The tone was weary but the English flawless. That was luck; Heim’s French had gotten creaky over the years. Coquelin gestured at a worn, comfortable old-style chair by his desk. ‘Please be seated. Would you like a cigar?’
    ‘No, thanks, I’m a pipe man.’ Heim took his out.
    ‘I too.’ Coquelin’s face meshed in crow’s feet and