There was absolute silence in Wienis’s chambers when the image of Prince Lefkin appeared at the televisor. There had been one startled gasp from the regent at the haggard face and shredded uniform of his son, and then he collapsed into a chair, face contorted with surprise and apprehension.

Hardin listened stolidly, hands clasped lightly in his lap, while the just-crowned King Lepold sat shriveled in the most shadowy corner, biting spasmodically at his goldbraided sleeve. Even the soldiers had lost the emotionless stare that is the prerogative of the military, and, from where they lined up against the door, nuclear blasts ready, peered furtively at the figure upon the televisor.

Lefkin spoke, reluctantly, with a tired voice that paused at intervals as though he were being prompted—and not gently:

“The Anacreonian navy … aware of the nature of its mission … and refusing to be a party … to abominable sacrilege … is returning to Anacreon … with the following ultimatum issued … to those blaspheming sinners … who would dare to use profane force … against the Foundation … source of all blessings … and against the Galactic Spirit. Cease at once all war against … the true faith … and guarantee in a manner suiting us of the navy … as represented by our … priest-attendant, Theo Aporat … that such war will never in the future … be resumed, and that”—here a long pause, and then continuing—“and that the one-time prince regent, Wienis … be imprisoned … and tried before an ecclesiastical court … for his crimes. Otherwise the royal navy … upon returning to Anacreon … will blast the palace to the ground … and take whatever other measures … are necessary … to destroy the nest of sinners … and the den of destroyers … of men’s souls that now prevail.”

The voice ended with half a sob and the screen went blank.

Hardin’s fingers passed rapidly over the nucleo-bulb and its light faded until in the dimness, the hitherto regent, the king, and the soldiers were hazy-edged shadows; and for the first time it could be seen that an aura encompassed Hardin.

It was not the blazing light that was the prerogative of kings, but one less spectacular, less impressive, and yet one more effective in its own way, and more useful.

Hardin’s voice was softly ironic as he addressed the same Wienis who had one hour earlier declared him a prisoner of war and Terminus on the point of destruction, and who now was a huddled shadow, broken and silent.

“There is an old fable,” said Hardin, “as old perhaps as humanity, for the oldest records containing it are merely copies of other records still older, that might interest you. It runs as follows:

“A horse having a wolf as a powerful and dangerous enemy lived in constant fear of his life. Being driven to desperation, it occurred to him to seek a strong ally. Whereupon he approached a man, and offered