As he remembered the stories, though, corpsmen seemed to appear from nowhere when there was serious trouble. No one ever seemed to call them in. No one even knew how to get in touch with them. He shrugged.

The men of the Special Corps, he remembered, were reputed to be something in the superhuman line.

For a large part of his life, he had dreamed of working with them, but he had been unable to find any way of so much as applying for membership in their select group. So, he'd done the next best thing.

He'd gone into the Stellar Guard. And he'd lasted only a little more than three years.

Somehow, he'd taken it from there. He was still a little hazy as to how he'd managed to land in prison on Kell's planet. It had been a mere stopover.

There had been no trial. Obviously, they had searched his luggage at the hotel, but there had been no discussion. He'd simply been beamed into unconsciousness.

After he'd gotten to Opertal, someone had told him the length of his sentence and they'd a.s.signed him to the prison machine shop, to learn a useful trade and the duties of a citizen of Kellonia.

He smiled wryly. They had taught him machinery. And they'd introduced him to their culture. The trade was good. The culture--?

His memory slid back, past the prison--past the years in Kendall Hall, and beyond.

He was ten years old again.

It was a sunny day in a park and Billy Darfield was holding forth.

"Yeah," the boy was saying, "Dad told me about the time he met one of them. They look just like anyone else. Only, when things go wrong, there they are, just all at once. And when they tell you to do something, you've had it." He closed his eyes dreamily.

"Oh, boy," he said happily, "how I'd love to be like that! Wouldn't it be fun to tell old Winant, 'go off some place and drown yourself'?"

Stan smiled incredulously. "Aw, I've heard a lot about the Special Corps, too. They've just got a lot of authority, that's all. They can call in the whole Stellar Guard if they need 'em. Who's going to get wise with somebody that can do that?"

Billy shook his head positively. "Dad told me all about them, and he knows. He saw one of 'em chase a king right off his throne once.

Wasn't anybody to help him, either. They've got all they need, all by themselves. Just have to tell people, that's all."

With a jerk, Stan came to the present. He slopped water over his hands.

"Too bad I can't do something like that myself," he thought. "I'd like to tell a few people to go out and drown themselves, right now." He grinned ruefully.

"Only one trouble. I can't. Probably just a lot of rumor, anyway."

But there was something behind those stories of the Special Corps, he was sure. They didn't get official publicity, but there were pages of history that seemed somehow incomplete. There must have been someone around with a lot more than the usual ability to get things done, but whoever he had been, he was never mentioned.

He shrugged and turned away from the washstand.

"Hope that bell rings pretty soon," he told himself. "I'd better get chow and go to work before I really go nuts."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A demonstrator had the back off from one of the big Lambert-Howell sprayers. As the man started to point out a feed a.s.sembly, another prisoner stepped directly in front of Graham.

Stan shook his head impatiently and moved aside. Again, the man was in front of him, blocking his view. Again, Stan moved.

The third time the man blocked his view, Stan touched his shoulder.

"Hey, Chum," he said mildly, "how about holding still a while. The rest of us would sort of like to see, too."

For several seconds, the other froze. Then he whirled, to present a scowling face.

"Who you pushing around, little rat? Keep your greasy paws to yourself, see." He turned again, then took a sudden, heavy step back.

Stan moved his foot aside and the man's heel banged down on the stone floor. For a heartbeat, Stan regarded the fellow consideringly, then he shook his head.

"Stay in orbit, remember?" he told himself. He moved aside, going to the other side of the group around the fabricator.

Now he remembered the man. Val Vernay had been working on the fabricators when Stan had come to the shop.

Somehow, he had never run an acceptable program, but he hung around the demonstrations, unable to comprehend the explanations--resentful of those who showed apt.i.tude.

He glanced aside as Stan moved, then pushed his way across until he was again in front of the smaller man. Stan sighed resignedly.

Again, the heavy foot crashed toward the rear. This time, the temptation was too great. Deftly, Stan swung his toe through a small arc, sweeping Vernay's ankle aside and putting the man off balance.

He moved quickly away, further trapping the ankle and getting clear of the flailing arms.

For a breathless instant, Vernay tried to hop on one foot, his arms windmilling as he fought to regain his balance. Then he crashed to the floor, his head banging violently against the stones.

Stan looked at the body in consternation. He had merely intended to make the fellow look a little silly.

"Hope he's got a hard head," he told himself.

The workroom guard came up warily.

"What's all this?"

"I don't know, sir." Stan managed a vaguely puzzled look. "First thing I knew, he was swinging his arms all over the place. Then he went down. Maybe he had a fit, huh?"

"Yeah." The guard was sardonic. "Yeah, maybe he had a fit. Well, no more trouble out of him for a while." He raised his voice.

"Hey, you over by the first-aid kit. Grab that stretcher."

Big Carl Marlo was in his bunk when Stan came into the cell. He looked up with a grin.

"Hey, kid, you start at the top, huh?"

"What do you mean?"

"This Vernay, what else? Like I said, you start at the top. I didn't think you got it when I told you about the muscle racket. How'd I know you was already figuring something?" Marlo shook his head admiringly.

"Real nice job, too. You take it easy, set this chump up, and there you are. Only you get a real big fish. Think you can handle this guy again?"