Yet this insignificant Imperial bit of space held an estimated four million suns. Maybe half of those had been visited at least once. About a hundred thousand worlds of theirs might be considered to belong to the Empire, though for most the connection was ghostly tenuous … It was too much. There were too many environments, races, cultures, lives, messages. No mind, no government could know the whole, let alone cope.

Nevertheless that sprawl of planets, peoples, provinces, and protectorates must somehow cope, or see the Long Night fall. Barbarians, who had gotten spaceships and nuclear weapons too early in their history, prowled the borders; the civilized Roidhunate of Merseia probed, withdrew a little—seldom the whole way—waited, probed again … Rigel caught Flandry’s eye, a beacon amidst the great enemy’s dominions. The Taurian Sector lay in that direction, fronting the Wilderness beyond which dwelt the Merseians.

“You must know something I don’t, if you claim the Dennitzans are brewing trouble,” he said. “However, are you sure what you know is true?”

“What can you tell me about them?” Hazeltine gave back.

“Hm? Why—um, yes, that’s sensible, first making clear to you what information and ideas I have.”

“Especially since they must reflect what the higher-ups believe, which I’m not certain about.”

“Neither am I, really. My attention’s been directed elsewhere, Tauria seeming as reliably under control as any division of the Empire.”

“After your experience there?”

“Precisely on account of it. Very well. We’ll save time if I run barefoot through the obvious. Then you needn’t interrogate me, groping around for what you may not have suspected hitherto.”

Hazeltine nodded. “Besides,” he said, “I’ve never been in those parts myself.”

“Oh? You mentioned assignments which concerned the Merseia-ward frontier and our large green playmates.”