THE BALLAD OF LOST C’MELL
by Cordwainer Smith

She got the which of the what-she-did,
Hid the bell with a blot, she did,
But she fell in love with a hominid.
Where is the which of the what-she-did?
from THE BALLAD OF LOST C’MELL

She was a girly girl and they were true men, the lords of creation, but she pitted her wits against them and she won. It had never happened before, and it is sure never to happen again, but she did win. She was not even of human extraction. She was cat-derived, though human in outward shape, which explains the C in front of her name. Her father’s name was C’mackintosh and her name C’mell. She won her tricks against the lawful and assembled Lords of the Instrumentality.
It all happened at Earthport, greatest of buildings, smallest of cities, standing twenty-five kilometers high at the western edge of the Smaller Sea of Earth.
Jestocost had an office outside the fourth valve.

1

Jestocost liked the morning sunshine, while most of the other Lords of Instrumentality did not, so that he had no trouble in keeping the office and the apartments which he had selected. His main office was ninety meters deep, twenty meters high, twenty meters broad. Behind it was the “fourth valve,” almost a thousand hectares in extent. It was shaped helically, like an enormous snail. Jestocost’s apartment, big as it was, was merely one of the pigeonholes in the muffler on the rim of Earthport. Earthport stood like an enormous wineglass, reaching from the magma to the high atmosphere.

Earthport had been built during mankind’s biggest mechanical splurge. Though men had had nuclear rockets since the beginning of consecutive history, they had used chemical rockets to load the interplanetary ion-drive and nuclear-drive vehicles or to assemble the photonic sail-ships for interstellar cruises. Impatient with the troubles of taking things bit by bit into the sky, they had worked out a bfflionton rocket, only to find that it ruined whatever countryside it touched in landing. The Daimoni—people of Earth extraction, who came back from somewhere beyond the stars—had helped men build it of weatherproof, rustproof, timeproof, stressproof material. Then they had gone away and had never come back.
Jestocost often looked around his apartment and wondered what it might have been like when white-hot gas, muted to a whisper, surged out of the valve into his own chamber and the sixty-three other chambers like it. Now he had a back wall of heavy timber, and the valve itself was a great hollow cave where a few wild things lived. Nobody needed that much space any more. The chambers were useful, but the valve did nothing. Planoforming ships whispered in from the stars; they landed at Earthport as a matter of legal convenience, but they made no noise and they certainly had no hot gases.
Jestocost looked at the high clouds far below him and talked to himself,
“Nice day. Good air. No trouble. Better eat.”
Jestocost often talked like that to himself. He was an individual, almost an eccentric. One of the top council of mankind, he had problems, but they were not personal problems. He had a Rembrandt hanging above his bed—the only Rembrandt known in the world, just as he was possibly the only person who could appreciate a Rembrandt. He had the tapestries of a forgotten empire hanging from his back wall. Every morning the sun played a grand opera for him, muting and lighting and shifting the colors so that he could almost imagine that the old days of quarrel, murder and high drama had come back to Earth again. He had a copy of Shakespeare, a copy of Colegrove and two pages of the Book of Ecciesiastes in a locked box beside his bed. Only forty-two people in the universe could read Ancient English, and he was one of them. He drank wine, which he had made by his own robots in his own vineyards on the Sunset coast. He was a man, in short, who had arranged his own life to live comfortably, selfishly and well on the personal side, so that he could give generously and impartially of his talents on the official side.

When he awoke on this particular morning, he had no idea that a beautiful girl was about to fall hopelessly in love with him—that he would find, after a hundred years and more of experience in government, another government on earth just as strong and almost as ancient as his own—that he would willingly fling himself into conspiracy and danger for a cause which he only half understood. All these things were mercifully hidden from him by time, so that his only question on arising was, should he or should he not have a small cup of white wine with his breakfast. On the 173rd day of each year, he always made a point of eating eggs. They were a rare treat, and he did not want to spoil himself by having too many, nor to deprive himself and forget a treat by having none at all. He puttered around the room, muttering, “White wine? White wine?”
C’mell was coming into his life, but he did not know it. She was fated to win; that part, she herself did not know.
Ever since mankind had gone through the Rediscovery of Man, bringing back governments, money, newspapers, national languages, sickness and occasional death, there had been the problem of the underpeople—people who were not human, but merely humanly shaped from the stock of Earth animals. They could speak, sing, read, write, work, love and die; but they were not covered by human law, which simply defined them as “homunculi” and gave them a legal status close to animals or robots. Real people from off-world were always called “hominids.”
Most of the underpeople did their jobs and accepted their half-slave status without question. Some became famous—C’mackintosh had been the first earth-being to manage a fifty-meter broad-jump under normal gravity. His picture was seen in a thousand worlds. His daughter, C’mell, was a girly girl, earning her living by welcoming human beings and hominids from the outworlds and making them feel at home when they reached Earth. She had the privilege of working at Earthport, but she had the duty of working very hard for a living which did not pay well. Human beings and hominids had lived so long in an affluent society that they did not know what it meant to be poor. But the Lords of the Instrumentality had decreed that underpeople—derived from animal stock—should live under the economics of the Ancient World; they had to have their own kind of money to pay for their rooms, their food, their possessions and the education of their children. If they became bankrupt, they went to the Poorhouse, where they were killed painlessly by means of gas.

It was evident that humanity, having settled all of its own basic problems, was not quite ready to let Earth animals, no matter how much they might be changed, assume a full equality with man.
The Lord Jestocost, seventh of that name, opposed the policy. He
was a man who had little love, no fear, freedom from ambition and
a dedication to his job: but there are passions of government as
deep and challenging as the emotions of love. Two hundred years of
thinking himself right and of being outvoted had instilled in Jestocost
a furious desire to get things done his own way.
Jestocost was one of the few true men who believed in the rights of the underpeople. He did not think that mankind would ever get around to correcting ancient wrongs unless the underpeople themselves had some of the tools of power—weapons, conspiracy, wealth and (above all) organization with which to challenge man. He was not afraid of revolt, but he thirsted for justice with an obsessive yearning which overrode all other considerations.
When the Lords of the Instrumentality heard that there was the rumor of a conspiracy among the underpeople, they left it to the robot police to ferret out.
Jestocost did not.
He set up his own police, using underpeople themselves for the purpose, hoping to recruit enemies who would realize that he was a friendly enemy and who would in course of time bring him into touch with the leaders of the underpeople.
If those leaders existed, they were clever. What sign did a girly girl like C’mell ever give that she was the spearhead of a crisscross of agents who had penetrated Earthport itself? They must, if they existed, be very, very careful. The telepathic monitors, both robotic and human, kept every thought-band under surveillance by random sampling. Even the computers showed nothing more significant than improbable amounts of happiness in minds which had no objective reason for being happy.
The death of her father, the most famous cat-athlete which the underpeople had ever produced, gave Jestocost his first definite clue.
He went to the funeral himself, where the body was packed in an ice-rocket to be shot into space. The mourners were thoroughly mixed with the curiosity-seekers. Sport is international, inter-race, interworld, inter-species. Hominids were there: true men, 100% human, they looked weird and horrible because they or their ancestors had

undergone bodily modifications to meet the life conditions of a thousand worlds.
Underpeople, the animal-derived “homunculi,” were there, most of them in their work clothes, and they looked more human than did the human beings from the outer worlds. None were allowed to grow up if they were less than half the size of man, or more than six times the size of man. They all had to have human features and acceptable human voices. The punishment for failure in their elementary schools was death. Jestocost looked over the crowd and wondered to himself, “We have set up the standards of the toughest kind of survival for these people and we give them the most terrible incentive, life itself, as the condition of absolute progress. What fools we are to think that they will not overtake us!” The true people in the group did not seem to think as he did. They tapped the underpeople peremptorily with their canes, even though this was an underperson’s funeral, and the bear-men, bull-men, cat-men and others yielded immediately and with a babble of apology.
C’mell was close to her father’s icy coffin.
Jestocost not only watched her; she was pretty to watch. He committed an act which was an indecency in an ordinary citizen but lawful for a Lord of the Instrumentality: he peeped into her mind.
And then he found something which he did not expect.
As the coffin left, she cried, “Ee-telly-kelly, help me! help me!”
She had thought phonetically, not in script, and he had only the raw sound oi~ which to base a search.
Jestocost had not become a Lord of the Instrumentality without applying daring. His mind was quick, too quick to be deeply intelligent. He thought by gestalt, not by logic. He determined to force his friendship on the girl.
He decided to await a propitious occasion, and then changed his mind about the time.
As she went home from the funeral, he intruded upon the circle of her grimfaced friends, underpeople who were trying to shield her from the condolences of ifi-mannered but well-meaning sports enthusiasts.
She recognized him, and showed him the proper respect.
“My Lord, I did not expect you here. You knew my father?”
He nodded gravely and addressed sonorous words of consolation and sorrow, words which brought a murmur of approval from humans and underpeople alike.

But with his left hand hanging slack at his side, he made the perpetual signal of alarm! alarm! used within the Earthport staff—a repeated tapping of the thumb against the third finger—when they had to set one another on guard without alerting the offworld transients.
She was so upset that she almost spoiled it all. While he was still doing his pious doubletalk, she cried in a loud clear voice:
“You mean me?”
And he went on with his condolences: “. . . and I do mean you, C’mell, to be the worthiest carrier of your father’s name. You are the one to whom we turn in this time of common sorrow. Who could I mean but you if I say that C’mackintosh never did things by halves, and died young as a result of his own zealous conscience? Good-by, C’mell, I go back to my office.”
She arrived forty minutes after he did.

2

He faced her straight away, studying her face.
“This is an important day in your life.”
“Yes, my Lord, a sad one.”
“I do not,” he said, “mean your father’s death and burial. I speak of the future to which we all must turn. Right now, it’s you and me.”
Her eyes widened. She had not thought that he was that kind of man at all. He was an official who moved freely around Earthport, often greeting important offworld visitors and keeping an eye on the bureau of ceremonies. She was a part of the reception team, when a girly girl was needed to calm down a frustrated arrival or to postpone a quarrel. Like the geisha of ancient Japan, she had an honorable profession; she was not a bad girl but a professionally flirtatious hostess. She stared at the Lord Jestocost. He did not look as though he meant anything improperly personal. But, thought she, you can never tell about men.
“You know men,” he said, passing the initiative to her.
“I guess so,” she said. Her face looked odd. She started to give him smile No. 3 (extremely adhesive) which she had learned in the girly-girl school. Realizing it was wrong, she tried to give him an ordinary smile. She felt she had made a face at him.
“Look at me,” he said, “and see if you can trust me. I am going to take both our lives in my hands.”
She looked at him. What imaginable subject could involve him, a

Lord of the Instrumentality, with herself, an undergirl? They never had anything in common. They never would.
But she stared at him.
“I want to help the underpeople.”
He made her blink. That was a crude approach, usually followed by a very raw kind of pass indeed. But his face was ifiuminated by seriousness. She waited.
“Your people do not have enough political power even to talk to us. I will not commit treason to the true-human race, but I am willing to give your side an advantage. If you bargain better with us, it will make all forms of life safer in the long run.”
C’mell stared at the floor, her red hair soft as the fur of a Persian cat. It made her head seem bathed in flames. Her eyes looked human, except that they had the capacity of reflecting when light struck them; the irises were the rich green of the ancient cat. When she looked right at him, looking up from the floor, her glance had the impact of a blow. “What do you want from me?”
He stared right back. “Watch me. Look at my face. Are you sure, sure that I want nothing from you personally?”
She looked bewildered. “What else is there to want from me except personal things? I am a girly girl. I’m not a person of any importance at all, and I do not have much of an education. You know more, sir, than I will ever know.”
“Possibly,” he said, watching her.
She stopped feeling like a girly girl and felt like a citizen. It made her uncomfortable.
“Who,” he said, in a voice of great solemnity, “is your own leader?”
“Commissioner Teadrinker, sir. He’s in charge of all outworld visitors.” She watched Jestocost carefully; he still did not look as if he were playing tricks.
He looked a little cross. “I don’t mean him. He’s part of my own staff. Who’s your leader among the underpeople?”
“My father was, but he died.”
Jestocost said, “Forgive me. Please have a seat. But I don’t mean that.”
She was so tired that she sat down into the chair with an innocent voluptuousness which would have disorganized any ordinary man’s day. She wore girly-girl clothes, which were close enough to the everyday fashion to seem agreeably modish when she stood up. In line

with her profession, her clothes were designed to be unexpectedly and provocatively revealing when she sat down—not revealing enough to shock the man with their brazenness, but so slit, tripped and cut that he got far more visual stimulation than he expected.
“I must ask you to pull your clothing together a little,” said Jestocost in a clinical tone of voice. “I am a man, even if I am an official, and this interview is more important to you and to me than any distraction would be.”
She was a little frightened by his tone. She had meant no challenge. With the funeral that day, she meant nothing at all; these clothes were the only kind she had.
He read all this in her face.
Relentlessly, he pursued the subject.
“Young lady, I asked about your leader. You name your boss and you name your father. I want your leader.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, on the edge of a sob, “I don’t understand.”
Then, he thought to himself, I’ve got to take a gamble. He thrust the mental dagger home, almost drove his words like steel straight into her face. “Who . .“ he said slowly and icily, “is . . . Ee.
telly. . . kelly?”
The girl’s face had been cream-colored, pale with sorrow. Now she went white. She twisted away from him. Her eyes glowed like twin fires.
Her eyes. . . like twin fires.
(No undergirl, thought Jestocost as he reeled, could hypnotize me.)
Her eyes. . . were like cold fires.
The room faded around him. The girl disappeared. Her eyes became a single white, cold fire.
Within this fire stood the figure of a man. His arms were wings, but he had human hands growing at the elbows of his wings. His face was clear, white, cold as the marble of an ancient statue; his eyes were opaque white. “I am the E-telekeli. You will believe in me. You may speak to my daughter C’mell.”
The image faded.
Jestocost saw the girl staring as she sat awkwardly on the chair, looking blindly through him. He was on the edge of making a joke about her hypnotic capacity when he saw that she was stifi deeply hypnotized, even after he had been released. She had stiffened and

again her clothing had fallen into its planned disarray. The effect was not stimulating; it was pathetic beyond words, as though an accident had happened to a pretty child. He spoke to her.
He spoke to her, not really expecting an answer.
“Who are you?” he said to her, testing her hypnosis.
“I am he whose name is never said aloud,” said the girl in a sharp whisper, “I am he whose secret you have penetrated. I have printed my image and my name in your mind.”
Jestocost did not quarrel with ghosts like this. He snapped out a decision. “If I open my mind, will you search it while I watch you? Are you good enough to do that?”
“I am very good,” hissed the voice in the girl’s mouth.
C’mell arose and put her two hands on his shoulders. She looked into his eyes. He looked back. A strong telepath himself, Jestocost was not prepared for the enormous thought-voltage which poured out of her.
Look in my mind, he commanded, for the subject of underpeople only.
I see it, thought the mind behind C’mell.
Do you see what I mean to do for the underpeople?
Jestocost heard the girl breathing hard as her mind served as a relay to his. He tried to remain calm so that he could see which part of his mind was being searched. Very good so far, he thought to himself. An intelligence like that on Earth itself, he thought—and we of the Lords not knowing it!
The girl hacked out a dry little laugh.
Jestocost thought at the mind, Sorry. Go ahead.
This plan of yours—thought the strange mind—may I see more of it?
That’s all there is.
Oh, said the strange mind, you want me to think for you. Can you give me the keys in the Bank and Bell which pertain to destroying underpeople?
You can have the information keys if I can ever get them, thought Jestocost, but not the control keys and not the master switch of the Bell.
Fair enough, thought the other mind, and what do I pay for them?
You support me in my policies before the Instrumentality. You keep the underpeople reasonable, if you can, when the time comes to negotiate. You maintain honor and good faith in all subsequent agree-

ments. But how can I get the keys? It would take me a year to figure them out myself.
Let the girl look once, thought the strange mind, and I will be behind her. Fair?
Fair, thought Jestocost.
Break? thought the mind.
How do we re-connect? thought Jestocost back.
As before. Through the girl. Never say my name. Don’t think it if you can help it. Break?
Break! thought Jestocost.
The girl, who had been holding his shoulders, drew his face down and kissed him firmly and warmly. He had never touched an under-person before, and it never had occurred to him that he might kiss one. It was pleasant, but he took her arms away from his neck, half-turned her around, and let her lean against him.
“Daddy!” she sighed happily.
Suddenly she stiffened, looked at his face, and sprang for the door. “Jestocost!” she cried. “Lord Jestocost! What am I doing here?”
“Your duty is done, my girl. You may go.”
She staggered back into the room. “I’m going to be sick,” she said. She vomited on his floor.
He pushed a button for a cleaning robot and slapped his desk-top for coffee.
She relaxed and talked about his hopes for the underpeople. She stayed an hour. By the time she left they had a plan. Neither of them had mentioned E-telekeli, neither had put purposes in the open. If the monitors had been listening, they would have found no single sentence or paragraph which was suspicious.
When she had gone, Jestocost looked out of his window. He saw the clouds far below and he knew the world below him was in twilight. He had planned to help the underpeople, and he had met powers of which organized mankind had no conception or perception. He was righter than he had thought. He had to go on through.
But as partner—C’mell herself!
Was there ever an odder diplomat in the history of worlds?

3

In less than a week they had decided what to do. It was the council of the Lords of the Instrumentality at which they would work—the

brain center itself. The risk was high, but the entire job could be done in a few minutes if it were done at the Bell itself.
This is the sort of thing which interested Jestocost.
He did not know that C’mell watched him with two different facets of her mind. One side of her was alertly and wholeheartedly his fellow-conspirator, utterly in sympathy with the revolutionary aims to which they were both committed. The other side of her—was feminine.
She had a womanliness which was truer than that of any hominid woman. She knew the value of her trained smile, her splendidly kept red hair with its unimaginably soft texture, her lithe young figure with firm breasts and persuasive hips. She knew down to the last millimeter the effect which her legs had on hominid men. True humans kept few secrets from her. The men betrayed themselves by their unfulfillable desires, the women by their irrepressible jealousies. But she knew people best of all by not being one herself. She had to learn by imitation, and imitation is conscious. A thousand little things which ordinary women took for granted, or thought about just once in a whole lifetime, were subjects of acute and intelligent study to her. She was a girl by profession; she was a human by assimilation: she was an inquisitive cat in her genetic nature. Now she was faffing in love with Jestocost, and she knew it.
Even she did not realize that the romance would sometime leak out into rumor, be magnified into legend, distilled into romance. She had no idea of the ballad about herself that would open with the lines which became famous much later:

She got the which of the what-she-did,
Hid the bell with a blot, she did,
But she fell in love with a hominid.
Where is the which of the what-she-did?

All this lay in the future, and she did not know it.
She knew her own past.
She remembered the off-Earth prince who had rested his head in her lap and had said, sipping his glass of moti by way of farewell:
“Funny, C’mell, you’re not even a person and you’re the most intelligent human being I’ve met in this place. Do you know it made my planet poor to send me here? And what did I get out of them? Nothing, nothing, and a thousand times nothing. But you, now. If

you’d been running the government of Earth, I’d have gotten what my people need, and this world would be richer too. Manhome, they call it. Manhome, my eye! The only smart person on it is a female cat.”
He ran his fingers around her ankle. She did not stir. That was part of hospitality, and she had her own ways of making sure that hospitality did not go too far. Earth police were watching her; to them, she was a convenience maintained for outworld people, something like a soft chair in the Earthport lobbies or a drinking fountain with acid-tasting water for strangers who could not tolerate the insipid water of Earth. She was not expected to have feelings or to get involved. If she had ever caused an incident, they would have punished her fiercely, as they often punished animals or underpeople, or else (after a short formal hearing with no appeal) they would have destroyed her, as the law allowed and custom encouraged.
She had kissed a thousand men, maybe fifteen hundred. She had made them feel welcome and she had gotten their complaints or their secrets out of them as they left. It was a living, emotionally tiring but intellectually very stimulating. Sometimes it made her laugh to look at human women with their pointed-up noses and their proud airs, and to realize that she knew more about the men who belonged to the human women than the human women themselves ever did.
Once a policewoman had had to read over the record of two pioneers from New Mars. C’mell had been given the job of keeping in very close touch with them. When the policewoman got through reading the report she looked at C’mell and her face was distorted with jealousy and prudish rage.
“Cat, you call yourself. Cat! You’re a pig, you’re a dog, you’re an animal. You may be working for Earth but don’t ever get the idea that you’re as good as a person. I think it’s a crime that the Instrumentality lets monsters like you greet real human beings from outside! I can’t stop it. But may the Bell help you, girl, if you ever touch a real Earth man! If you ever get near one! If you ever try tricks here! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” C’mell had said. To herself she thought, “That poor thing doesn’t know how to select her own clothes or how to do her own hair. No wonder she resents somebody who manages to be pretty.”
Perhaps the policewoman thought that raw hatred would be shock-

ing to C’mell. It wasn’t. Underpeople were used to hatred, and it was not any worse raw than it was when cooked with politeness and served like poison. They had to live with it.
But now, it was all changed.
She had fallen in love with Jestocost.
Did he love her?
Impossible. No, not impossible. Unlawful, unlikely, indecent—yes, all these, but not impossible. Surely he felt something of her love.
If he did, he gave no sign of it.
People and underpeople had fallen in love many times before. The underpeople were always destroyed and the real people brainwashed. There were laws against that kind of thing. The scientists among people had created the underpeople, had given them capacities which real people did not have (the fifty-meter jump, the telepath two miles underground, the turtle-man waiting a thousand years next to an emergency door, the cow-man guarding a gate without reward), and the scientists had also given many of the underpeople the human shape. It was handier that way. The human eye, the five-fingered hand, the human size—these were convenient for engineering reasons. By making underpeople the same size and shape as people, more or less, the scientists eliminated the need for two or three or a dozen different sets of furniture. The human form was good enough for all of them.
But they had forgotten the human heart.
And now she, C’mell had fallen in love with a man, a true man old enough to have been her own father’s grandfather.
But she didn’t feel daughterly about him at all. She remembered that with her own father there was an easy comradeship, an innocent and forthcoming affection, which masked the fact that he was considerably more cat-like than she was. Between them there was an aching void of forever-unspoken words—things that couldn’t quite be said by either of them, perhaps things that couldn’t be said at all. They were so close to each other that they could get no closer. This created enormous distance, which was heartbreaking but unutterable. Her father had died, and now this true man was here, with all the kindness— “That’s it,” she whispered to herself, “with all the kindness that
none of these passing men have ever really shown. With all the depth which my poor underpeople can never get. Not that it’s not in them. But they’re born like dirt, treated like dirt, put away like dirt when

they die. How can any of my own men develop real kindness? There’s a special sort of majesty to kindness. It’s the best part there is to being people. And he has whole oceans of it in him. And it’s strange, strange, strange that he’s never given his real love to any human woman.”
She stopped, cold.
Then she consoled herself and whispered on, “Or if he did, it’s so long ago that it doesn’t matter now. He’s got me. Does he know it?”

4

The Lord Jestocost did know, and yet he didn’t. He was used to getting loyalty from people, because he offered loyalty and honor in his daily work. He was even familiar with loyalty becoming obsessive and seeking physical form, particularly from women, children and underpeople. He had always coped with it before. He was gambling on the fact that C’mell was a wonderfully intelligent person, and that as a girly girl, working on the hospitality staff of the Earthport police, she must have learned to control her personal feelings.
“We’re born in the wrong age,” he thought, “when I meet the most intelligent and beautiful female I’ve ever met, and then have to put business first. But this stuff about people and underpeople is sticky. Sticky. We’ve got to keep personalities out of it.”
So he thought. Perhaps he was right.
If the nameless one, whom he did not dare to remember, commanded an attack on the Bell itself, that was worth their lives. Their emotions could not come into it. The Bell mattered: justice mattered:
the perpetual return of mankind to progress mattered. He did not matter, because he had already done most of his work. C’mell did not matter, because their failure would leave her with mere under-people forever. The Bell did count.
The price of what he proposed to do was high, but the entire job could be done in a few minutes if it were done at the Bell itself.
The Bell, of course, was not a Bell. It was a three-dimensional situation table, three times the height of a man. It was set one story below the meeting room, and shaped roughly like an ancient bell. The meeting table of the Lords of the Instrumentality had a circle cut out of it, so that the Lords could look down into the Bell at whatever situation one of them called up either manually or telepathically. The Bank below it, hidden by the floor, was the key memory-bank of

the entire system. Duplicates existed at thirty-odd other places on Earth. Two duplicates lay hidden in interstellar space, one of them beside the ninety-million-mile gold-colored ship left over from the War against Raumsog and the other masked as an asteroid.
Most of the Lords were offworld on the business of the Tnstrumentality.
Only three besides Jestocost were present—the Lady Johanna Gnade, the Lord Issan Olascoaga and the Lord William Not-from-here. (The Not-from-heres were a great Norstrilian family which had migrated back to Earth many generations before.)
The E-telekeli told Jestocost the rudiments of a plan.
He was to bring C’mell into the chambers on a summons.
The summons was to be serious.
They should avoid her summary death by automatic justice, if the relays began to trip.
C’mell would go into partial trance in the chamber.
He was then to call the items in the Bell which E-telekeli wanted traced. A single call would be enough. E-telekeli would take the responsibility for tracing them. The other Lords would be distracted by him, E-telekeli.
It was simple in appearance.
The complication came in action.
The plan seemed ifimsy, but there was nothing which Jestocost could do at this time. He began to curse himself for letting his passion for policy involve him in the intrigue. It was too late to back out with honor; besides, he had given his word; besides, he liked C’mell—as a being, not as a girly girl—and he would hate to see her marked with disappointment for life. He knew how the underpeople cherished their identities and their status.
With heavy heart but quick mind he went to the council chamber. A dog-girl, one of the routine messengers whom he had seen many months outside the door, gave him the minutes.
He wondered how C’mell or E-telekeli would reach him, once he was inside the chamber with its tight net of telepathic intercepts.
He sat wearily at the table— And almost jumped out of his chair.
The conspirators had forged the minutes themselves, and the top item was: “C’mell daughter to C’mackintosh, cat-stock (pure) lot 1138, confession of. Subject: conspiracy to export homuncular material. Reference: planet De Prinsensmacht.”

The Lady Johanna Gnade had already pushed the buttons for the planet concerned. The people there, Earth by origin, were enormously strong but they had gone to great pains to maintain the original Earth appearance. One of their first-men was at the moment on Earth. He bore the title of the Twilight Prince (Prins van de Schemering) and he was on a mixed diplomatic and trading mission.
Since Jestocost was a little late, C’mell was being brought into the room as he glanced over the minutes.
The Lord Not-from-here asked Jestocost if he would preside.
“I beg you, sir and scholar,” he said, “to join me in asking the Lord Issan to preside this time.”
The presidency was a formality. Jestocost could watch the Bell and Bank better if he did not have to chair the meeting too.
C’mell wore the clothing of a prisoner. On her it looked good. He had never seen her wearing anything but girly-girl clothes before. The pale-blue prison tunic made her look very young, very human, very tender and very frightened. The cat family showed only in the fiery cascade of her hair and the lithe power of her body as she sat, demure and erect.
Lord Issan asked her: “You have confessed. Confess again.”
“This man,” and she pointed at a picture of the Twilight Prince, “wanted to go to the place where they torment human children for a show.”
“What!” cried three of the Lords together.
“What place?” said the Lady Johanna, who was bitterly in favor of kindness.
“It’s run by a man who looks like this gentleman here,” said C’mell, pointing at Jestocost. Quickly, so that nobody could stop her, but modestly, so that none of them thought to doubt her, she circled the room and touched Jestocost’s shoulder. He felt a thrifi of contact-telepathy and heard bird-cackle in her brain. Then he knew that the E-telekeli was in touch with her.
“The man who has the place,” said C’mell, “is five pounds lighter than this gentleman, two inches shorter, and he has red hair. His place is at the Cold Sunset corner of Earthport, down the boulevard and under the boulevard. Underpeople, some of them with bad reputations, live in that neighborhood.”
The Bell went milky, flashing through hundreds of combinations of bad underpeople in that part of the city. Jestocost felt himself staring at the casual milkiness with unwanted concentration.

The Bell cleared.
It showed the vague image of a room in which children were playing Hallowe’en tricks.
The Lady Johanna laughed, “Those aren’t people. They’re robots. It’s just a dull old play.”
“Then,” added C’mell, “he wanted a dollar and a shilling to take home. Real ones. There was a robot who had found some.”
“What are those?” said Lord Issan.
“Ancient money—the real money of old America and old Australia,” cried Lord William. “I have copies, but there are no originals outside the state museum.” He was an ardent, passionate collector of coins.
“The robot found them in an old hiding place right under Earth-port.”
Lord Wiffiam almost shouted at the Bell. “Run through every hiding place and get me that money.”
The Bell clouded. In finding the bad neighborhoods it had flashed every police point in the Northwest sector of the tower. Now it scanned all the police points under the tower, and ran dizzily through thousands of combinations before it settled on an old toolroom. A robot was polishing circular pieces of metal.
When Lord William saw the polishing, he was furious. “Get that here,” he shouted. “I want to buy those myself!”
“All right,” said Lord Issan. “It’s a little irregular, but all right.”
The machine showed the key search devices and brought the robot to the escalator.
The Lord Issan said, “This isn’t much of a case.”
C’mell sniveled. She was a good actress. “Then he wanted me to get a homunculus egg. One of the E-type, derived from birds, for him to take home.”
Issan put on the search device.
“Maybe,” said C’mell, “somebody has already put it in the disposal series.”
The Bell and the Bank ran through all the disposal devices at high speed. Jestocost felt his nerves go on edge. No human being could have memorized these thousands of patterns as they flashed across the Bell too fast for human eyes, but the brain reading the Bell through his eyes was not human. It might even be locked into a computer of its own. It was, thought Jestocost, an indignity for a Lord of the Instrumentality to be used as a human spy-glass.

The machine blotted up.
“You’re a fraud,” cried the Lord Issan. “There’s no evidence.”
“Maybe the offworlder tried,” said the Lady Johanna.
“Shadow him,” said Lord William. “If he would steal ancient coins he would steal anything.”
The Lady Johanna turned to C’mell. “You’re a silly thing. You have wasted our time and you have kept us from serious inter-world business.”
“It is inter-world business,” wept C’mell. She let her hand slip from Jestocost’s shoulder, where it had rested all the time. The body-to-body relay broke and the telepathic link broke with it.
“We should judge that,” said Lord Issan.
“You might have been punished,” said Lady Johanna.
The Lord Jestocost had said nothing, but there was a glow of happiness in him. If the E-telekeli was half as good as he seemed, the underpeople had a list of checkpoints and escape routes which would make it easier to hide from the capricious sentence of painless death which human authorities meted out.

5

There was singing in the corridors that night.
Underpeople burst into happiness for no visible reason.
C’mell danced a wild cat dance for the next customer who came in from outworld stations, that very evening. When she got home to bed, she knelt before the picture of her father C’mackintosh and thanked the E-telekeli for what Jestocost had done.
But the story became known a few generations later, when the Lord Jestocost had won acclaim for being the champion of the under-people and when the authorities, still unaware of E-telekeli, accepted the elected representatives of the underpeople as negotiators for better terms of life; and C’mell had died long since.
She had first had along, good life.
She became a female chef when she was too old to be a girly girl. Her food was famous. Jestocost once visited her. At the end of the meal he had asked, “There’s a silly rhyme among the underpeople. No human beings know it except me.”
“I don’t care about rhymes,” she said.
“This is called ‘The what-she-did.’”
C’mell blushed all the way down to the neckline of her capacious

blouse. She had filled out a lot in middle age. Running the restaurant had helped.
“Oh, that rhyme!” she said. “It’s silly.”
“It says you were in love with a hominid.”
“No,” she said. “I wasn’t.” Her green eyes, as beautiful as ever, stared deeply into his. Jestocost felt uncomfortable. This was getting personal. He liked political relationships; personal things made him uncomfortable.
The light in the room shifted and her cat eyes blazed at him, she looked like the magical fire-haired girl he had known.
“I wasn’t in love. You couldn’t call it that. . . .“
Her heart cried out, It was you, it was you, it was you.
“But the rhyme,” insisted Jestocost, “says it was a hominid. It wasn’t that Prins van de Schemering?”
“Who was he?” C’mell asked the question quietly, but her emotions cried out, Darling, will you never, never know?
“The strong man.”
“Oh, him. I’ve forgotten him.”
Jestocost rose from the table. “You’ve had a good life, C’mell. You’ve been a citizen, a committeewoman, a leader. And do you even know how many children you have had?”
“Seventy-three,” she snapped at him. “Just because they’re multiple doesn’t mean we don’t know them.”
His playfulness left him. His face was grave, his voice kindly. “I meant no harm, C’mell.”
He never knew that when he left she went back to the kitchen and cried for a while. It was Jestocost whom she had vainly loved ever since they had been comrades, many long years ago.
Even after she died, at the full age of five-score and three, he kept seeing her about the corridors and shafts of Earthport. Many of her great-granddaughters looked just like her and several of them practiced the girly-girl business with huge success.
They were not half-slaves. They were citizens (reserved grade) and they had photopasses which protected their property, their identity and their rights. Jestocost was the godfather to them all; he was often embarrassed when the most voluptuous creatures in the universe threw playful kisses at him. All he asked was fufflilment of his political passions, not his personal ones. He had always been in love, madly in love— With justice itself.

At last, his own time came, and he knew that he was dying, and he was not sorry. He had had a wife, hundreds of years ago, and had loved her well; their children had passed into the generations of man.
In the ending, he wanted to know something, and he called to a nameless one (or to his successor) far beneath the ground. He called with his mind till it was a scream.
I have helped your people.
“Yes,” came back the faintest of faraway whispers, inside his head.
I am dying. I must know. Did she love me?
“She went on without you, so much did she love you. She let you go, for your sake, not for hers. She really loved you. More than death. More than life. More than time. You will never be apart.”
Never apart?
“No, not in the memory of man,” said the voice, and was then still.
Jestocost lay back on his pillow and waited for the day to end.