Tonight We Steal the Stars (1969) John

Jakes
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020-81680-075

TONIGHT
WE STEAL
THE STARS
John Jakes
John J a k e s

In N G a la xy, only
W olf Dragonard can make the
THE WAGERED WORLD

impossible possible
Laurence M . .lanifer % 5. J . Treibich
02081680-075
 Theft of the Seven Stars is impossible, yet some­
where in II G alaxy there are hushed voices, and
secretive eyes, and long dreams of the Seven Stars
clasped within a closed hand.

And somewhere else in II G alaxy there is a power­

ful and hulking man with golden eyes who could not
even in the wildest drugdream conceive of his fate
being tangled up within the Seven Stars.

This burly man will begin a hunt to stop the most

dangerous and daring crime in history—and he will
end the hunt as one of those who make the impossible
possible. His name is Wolf Dragonard. This is his ad­
venture, in the ninth age of the star kings of II G alaxy.

— ■
■■■ ' ■ ■
■
< ^ '■ ^
Turn this book over for / 4 ^ q ^ O
second complete noVet------- ——
Ace Books has published
two previous novels of
II Galaxy by John Jakes:

WHEN THE STAR KINGS DIE (8 8 1 0 0 -5 0 <f)

THE PLANET WIZARD (6 7 06 0-60 0 )
 TONIGHT
WE STEAL
THE STARS
John Jakes

AN ACE BOOK
Ace Publishing Corporation
1120 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y. 10036
 TONIGHT W E STEAL TH E STABS

Copyright © , 1969, by John Jakes

All Rights Reserved.

Cover by Jack Gaughaiu

For
my wife Rachel,
who might get to like science-fiction
after alL

THE WAGERED WORLD

Copyright © , 1969, by Laurence M. Janifer & S. J. Treibich

Printed in U.S.A.
 PROLOGUE

See again II Galaxy.

In a cold, slow dance of light it revolves through the
abyss, carrying with it the unnumbered planets where dwell
the descendants of the Out-riding in the lightships. From
the First Home, from the Earth, came the builders of its
civilization.
Nine thousand and some years before this, the holocaust of
interplanetary war wracked II Galaxy. The great houses,
the great commercial corporations which had expanded and
extended their domains since beyond even the days o f the
folk-memory, fell.
A hundred thousand planets burned and bled. But from
the devastation, phoenix-like, the houses rose again.
Each house of fabled name—Xero and Genmo, Raca and
Mishubi, Gullffe and Arsgrat, Stanbrans and Easkod and
Ibym—seized power from the wreckage and grew stronger
than before. And at the end of centuries, the house rulers
joined in loose but dominant alliance. These near-immortal
men, these seemingly ageless, deathless star kings, are the
Lords of the Exchange.
Again trade thrives—for those few rich enough tp trade.
The commoners, of Terran stock or otherwise, live in near­
primitive savagery. But the masters o f the great houses
which control the manufacture and flow o f goods accord­
5
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
ing to plans privately devised among themselves live in
opulence and splendor.
And among the Lords, none is more opulent, more splendid
than Genmo I.
H e rules from his home system under the giant white
sun Autus. His commercial house produces most o f the
motive power used throughout II Galaxy: the sleek ground
transpos owned by the Lords and a few o f their wealthy
sycophants; the vehicles employed by the galaxy's police
force, the tough, strapping Regulators; the hyperdrive as­
semblies o f the commercial lightships. By jealous guardi­
anship o f superior technology rebuilt from the ashes of the
interplanet war, the House of Genmo controls transporta­
tion virtually unchallenged.
Lord Genmo, who is now 850 years o f age, bothers little
with the daily business of his commercial house. His official
residence is located on the planet W heel. At other times
he can be found at his summer palace on the bleak planet
o f Whitepeake.
But wherever he travels, there travel also the supreme .
symbols of his authority.
The Seven Stars.
Misnamed by the rabble, these seven priceless jewels re­
present the sun and six planets of the Autus system.
W heel is symbolized by an orangyx as big as a big man's
fist.
Muldoonsworld by a palladine.
Valleja by a scintillant scanth.
Whitepeake by a deeply glowing manerald.
Bruckner-X by a camel.
Gobineaux by a firestone.
And Autus itself, the sun, is represented by a fabulous
white oon.
Now the Seven Stars are on Whitepeake.
In a great open pavilion o f the summer palace the Stars
hang suspended on display for gaping visitors. Forever
whirling, the six jewels revolve aroimd the seventh, the
oon, the sun, in perfect simulated orbits.
Yet the Seven Stars are, so to speak, not fully o f this
world.
By means o f an intricate optical system, they are seen
here, in Genmo's palace, while in actuality, for safety's
sake, they are kept spinning and glowing there, a very
6
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
short but very perilous distance inside a congruent time-
reality controlled by Genmo’s engineering devices; they
are further guarded by the thousands o f soldiers who sur­
round the summer estate.
Therefore theft of the Seven Stars is impossible. Death
and ruin wait for any man who covets them.
And even if it were not so, would any dare to strike
beloved, beneficent Genmo?
None would vow aloud to do so, o f course. But a Lord
who controls so much will also have enemies.
So somewhere in II Galaxy there are hushed voices, and
secretive eyes, and long, languorous dreams o f the Seven
Stars clasped within a closed hand.
And somewhere else in II Galaxy there is a powerful
and hulking man with gold eyes who could not even in the
wildest drugdream conceive o f his fate being tangled up
within the Seven Stars.
H e is of the house and lineage of Dragonard, this burly
man who will begin his hunt in order to stop the perpetra­
tors o f the most daring and dangerous crime in history, and
end his hunt as one o f those who make the impossible pos­
sible.
He is a member o f the Regulators. H e is not called W olf
without a reason.
This is his adventure, in the ninth age o f the star kings
o f II Galaxy.

I
The six Regulator Howlers reached the dceanfront boule­
vard and turned left in a rumbling columri. Inside the lead
vehicle, Sectioner W olf Dragonard put the scope on scan
and surveyed the troubled area.
He felt edgy, exhausted from lack of rest. He knew that
what happened in the next hour or so would be regarded
by his superiors as a critical test of his command ability;
as positive or negative evidence of whether he’d recovered
from the drinking binge that had taken him out of action
for almost half a year.
He adjusted the rheostatic handles o f the scope to focus
7
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
the image in the screen above his slingchair. His hands
seemed to weigh pounds apiece. H e was sweating.
This section o f Point Nihil had been only lightly hit by
the riots that had erupted a little less than two days ago.
The Howlers rumbled past shuttered shops and empty walk­
ways on the left. Dragonard saw the smashed-in facade of
a drugdreamer, wreckage where the walkway had been
tom up at an intersection.
The Howler treads clanked and banged on the plastic
roadway. To the right stretched the curving purple beach
lapped by the yellow-green waters o f the artificial ocean.
The ocean, heated to comfortable warmth, was one of
the features which made Point Nihil such an attraction to
the students on holiday. Now, in the glare of the syntho-
sun sinking blue over the water, the beach looked forlorn.
A band o f students wearing the green epaulet ribands of
the House o f Xero ran past. They jeered at the Howlers.
Dragonard scowled but did nothing. His main responsibility
lay ahead, where mobs blocked the boulevard and the
central hostel area was burning.
He coughed suddenly. The air inside the Howler had
a sour, metallic smell. Six men besides himself worked in
close proximity. Console lights changed color, mottled his
squarish face as he watched the scope screen, studying
the black clot in the distance.
That had to be a mob, just waiting for authority to show
its face.
The sky above Point Nihil’s downtown was heavy with
smoke. The blowers built into the dome that covered the
resort would be having trouble coping with the emergency.
H e reminded himself to call back to the spaceport for a
pollution team.
A speaker crackled. “ Regulator column, this is Point Ni­
hil Manager s Office calling.”
Dragonard slapped a switch. “ Sectioner Dragonard speak­
ing. Transmit.”
“Things are very bad down here. W e ’ve been waiting
over an hour for you.”
“W e’re on the way,” Dragonard replied. “ Just passing
Avenue Zee. W e had an accident at the spaceport.”
“ Accident?” The voice grew alarmed. “ W hat kind o f ac­
cident?”
“ Nothing too serious,” Dragonard lied. "W e landed with
8
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
twenty-four Howlers. The eighth one coming off the logis­
tics ship tumbled o ff the unloading ramp. It's mired. So
the rest of my Howlers are stuck aboard until we get the
ramp cleared. I brought the first six Howlers on ahead.
The rest o f the column will follow shortly.”
"Six Howlers aren’t going to be much help against this
land o f insanity.”
Dragonard’s mouth jerked, sour. "You should have
thought of that when the governors o f this planet decided
to put most of Collegium’s money into tourist port facilities
at the expense of commercial landing areas. Regulator ships
can’t come down on those pads where the students dock
their flyers. W e had to land in that glorified swamp.”
A grumble over the speaker. “W ell, get here goddam fast.
W e need you.”
“ Everything will be under control shortly,” Dragonard
snarled. “ Checking out.”
He slapped the switch, returned to a study o f the screen.
He felt the tension building.
This was his first major command responsibility since
Elena died in the flyer collision. He thought of her face
suddenly, fought to drive the image from his mind.
Remembering her hair, her mouth, the way she’d whisper
on a long, chill night—that was bad. She was dead. Her
death had driven him to take restleave, which was nothing
more than an excuse for the prolonged drunk. He’d been
back only one week when this happened.
The column was perhaps ten long squares from the mob
and proceeding at reduced speed; Dragonard glanced down
from his slingchair, which hung high and forward in the
Howler’s central compartment. The chair was suspended
by flexible ropes. He swayed with the motion of the vehicle.
The effect, which had never bothered him in the past, un­
settled his stomach.
He looked down at his kit on the floorboards directly un­
derneath. He thought o f the wineflask inside. He felt guilty.
The tension tightened a notch.
He forced his attention back to the screen. “ Give me
amplifiers.”
His second officer called a terse wilcomply, threw in the
switches. Dragonard’s ears were hit with a brutal, savage
roar from the thousands of students massed across the boule­
vard directly ahead. Flails and maces were being used.
9
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
Their spikes shone in the flare and sputter of burning shops:
One multi-story hostel was completely afire.
Think it out, he said to himself. N o hasty action. No
wrong decisions. The Regulator Boards of Rev will b e
watching the performance.
He wasn’t so sure that he hadn’t already made a wrong
decision by bringing the first six Howlers into the riot area
without the support of the rest of the column. H e hoped
to God his engineers would get the mired Howler free
very soon.
He called for a check on the spaceport situation.
The second officer replied, “ No progress yet, Sectioner.”
A huge man not far past thirty, Sectioner W olf Dragon-
ard watched the scope screen and gnawed bis lip. A very
tricky situation, this.
The rioters were not criminal dregs. They were students
sent to Collegium by the various houses of the Lords of
the Exchange. An airless world where life was sustained
beneath synthosun domes, Collegium was dotted with tech­
nical centers where the students received instruction that
prepared them for lifetime service in the manufacturies o f
the Lords on other planets of II Galaxy.
Three times a year, at holidays, the students from the
various technical colleges poured into Point Nihil for a week
o f fun. There was always minor trouble. But this time,
perhaps due to recent unpopular edicts by the governors
of Collegium limiting student debts, the young men wear­
ing the colors o f the different Lords had come to Point
Nihil in an unusually hostile m ood. W hen street fights
turned to burning and killing, the Regulators were sum­
moned in their big ships.
An amused voice at his elbow said, “ Are you sure pro­
ceeding into the city is wise, Sectioner?”
Dragonard’s gold eyes were slits when he swung around.
Console lights reflected in the three polished metal plates
set into the mangled flesh o f Interrogation Agent Conrad
Vondamm’s cheeks and forehead.
Vondamm was not quite thirty, an ascetically slender man.
He wore black robes, doublet and cape of the I.A. sub­
corps of the Regulators. His mouth was little more than a
leftover pucker of scar tissue. The rest o f his natural face
was equally gnarled. His hands, by contrast, were smooth
and almost womanly. Dragonard saw his own distorted
10
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
image in the polished faceplates. The sight always unnerved
him, as it unnerved suspects whom Vondamm questioned.
Vondamm had been injured in a fuel explosion on a light
destroyer five years ago. Makeshift cosmetic surgery was
conducted on an outplanet immediately afterward. The
plates were set into his head. Their terrifying effect on
those he interrogated made him one of the most success­
ful I.A.’s operating.
“W e need a show of force,” Dragonard said. “ Or are
you planning my strategy these days?”
Vondamm shrugged. “ Merely a comment.”
"A comment suggesting that you could do better, Conrad?”
“ Perhaps. I don’t have a drinking problem. Sir.”
“You goddam son—” Dragonard choked off the rest.
T w o o f his officers were, watching. His cheeks reddened.
God, why did he have to lose his temper? One mistake
now and he’d be through. His temples started to ache, a
recurring aftereffect of the binge.
“ Personally,” Vondamm said, “ I would have waited until
we could mass the entire column. But as you say, Sectioner,
I’m not in command. Pity, isn’t it?”
W ith a whirl of robes Vondamm disappeared into the
clucking machinery at the rear o f the compartment. Drag­
onard seethed.
H e didn't miss the hidden meaning in Vondamm's words.
H e'd known for a long time that Vondamm coveted his
rank, and was simply waiting for him to make a slip.
Vondamm’s accidejit had scarred more than his face. It
had injected a viciousness into his ambition, and cruelty in­
to his interrogations. The savagery o f the latter was legend.
A sharp cry from the second officer diverted Dragon-
ard’s attention to the scope.
The Howler was rolling through smoke. Almost two hun­
dred students had massed outside. Rocks and bits of debris
started to rain on the vehicle’s skin, ping-clang. On the
screen, contorted young faces screamed obscenities. Drag­
onard recognized red epaulet ribands o f trainees of the
House o f Genmo. The Howler began to shudder.
“They’re rocking us, Sectioner,” the second officer shouted.
“ Give me sound from all units.”
H e whipped a neckchain out o f the collar of his tunic,
inserted the plugs in his ears as the sonic generators began
to warble. The rocking subsided.
11
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
Even plugged up, Dragonard experienced throbbing pain
in his eardrums. Blue lights flashed. Good. All six Howlers
were emitting.
The rioters on the screen clutched their heads, began to
flounder. One began vomiting. Another fell to his knees,
was trampled in a sudden exodus from the vicinity of the
lead Howler.
Dragonard wiped sweat from his chin. Better.
“ Give me ahead half.”
“Ahead half, sir.”
The Howler cranked up its speed. On monitors Dragonard
saw the other five Howlers follow. On the screen the mob
parted in front of his vehicle. Suddenly the soundload
diminished.
Before he could growl a question, his second officer ex­
claimed:
“ Malfunction, Sectioner. Our generator's gone.”
Even as Dragonard yelled the order for inspect-and-re-
pair, he knew this was trouble.
The mob discovered that the first Howler was incapaci­
tated. Bloated student faces leered in the screen, pressing
close. The Howler began to rock violently again.
A moment later Dragonard yelled, “W atch it—we're go­
ing over!”
His voice was drowned as the Howler crashed on its
side.

11

The overturning Howler flung Dragonard's slingchair a-

gainst the compartment wall like a pendulum. His head
smacked an instrument console. He slid down into the
angle formed by the now-horizontal wall and the vertical
compartment ceiling. One of his men floundered on top of
him. Flails and the cheap racca w ood swagger-sticks af­
fected by the students rattled and banged in rising rhythm
all over the outside of the vehicle.
Sparks shot in red showers from the shorting master con­
sole. Dragonard got hold of his dress dagger, slashed him­
self free o f the slingchair straps, rolled out from beneath the
12
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
other man, who was blinded by blood from a forehead
cut. Smoke billowed in the wake o f the sparks. Another
Regulator groped for the console switches.
“ Leave them alone, Jannus!” Dragonard yelled.
The Regulator had a feverish look. "W e ’ll be roasted
unless we power down, sir.”
"You'll be roasted if you touch—Jannusr
T oo late. The Regulator fastened one hand on an advance
rod, the other on a modulator bar. The moment both hands
completed the circuit the console flashed and dazzled with
light.
Regulator Jannus arched his back and shrieked. Powerage
poured through his body, broiled his skin black even as
Dragonard struggled toward him. Jannus’ body dropped at
Dragonard’s feet. The big Sectioner raked his hand through
his close-cropped white hair, cursed.
Vondamm clutched his arm. “What’s your strategy now,
Sectioner?”
Dragonard ignored him. He shoved past the I.A., whose
faceplates reflected the scope screen blacking out as scream­
ing students beat on the outside lens with racca sticks
and a spike-mace.
Dragonard fought his way ahead. His men seemed dazed,
uncertain. He reached the hatch in the now-vertical ceil­
ing.
"Ready with the blasters. W e’re going out.”
"Ready,” another Regulator rasped. “ The temperature’s
past the failsafe limit. I’d rather get my skull cracked than
cook hiding in here.” The man managed a nervous, what-
the-hell grin.
Dragonard worked on the hatchbolts with his free hand.
He welcomed that grin by his subordinate. The Regulators
were fiercely, even brutally trained, but they developed
esprit de corps in the process. They felt as other men did;
but their training forbade the admission.
The backs of Dragonard’s hands stung from the mount­
ing heat. The face o f the master console was melting. He
fumbled with the last hatchbolt. Somewhere behind him
Conrad Vondamm squealed, "Get us out of here, Sectioner!
Get us out before we all die!”
Deep in his throat Dragonard laughed a silent laugh.
He relished the I.A.’s terror because Vondamm always
seemed master of any situation. Dragonard wiped his palm
13
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
on his breeches to clean off the sweat. Then he attacked
the bolt again, finally got it unfastened.
He tossed his blaster from left to right hand, eased the
hatch back with his elbow.
A torrent o f screams and curses greeted him. The stu­
dents, shadow-figures, clustered outside. Dragonard could
see little else except flames in the amber evening sky. The
synthosun had fallen.
He shoved his blaster through the hatch, crawled out.
The students screamed in fury. But they respected Drag-
onard's weapon. He managed to clamber out and stand
as the ring of students fell back. One by one his men followed.
They formed a little semicircle, backed up against the
overturned vehicle. Obscenities in a dozen different star-
dialects rang through the crowd. Wineflasks passed hand
to hand. Fingers pointed. But the students, several hundred
of them milling here in the cen ter,of the boulevard, were
temporarily at bay.
Touch and go, this. Dragonard’s bristly white hair ruf­
fled in the hot wind that fanned the fires in the multi-story
hostel nearby. Clouds of sparks floated to other, smaller
structures in the vicinity. New fires sprang up almost at
once. Meantime, word had been passed through the mob.
It grew larger moment by moment.
“The rest o f the Howlers should be right behind us,"
Dragonard growled over his shoulder. “ Head for them.”
“ W hy aren't they sounding?" one o f his men whispered.
“Perhaps our difficulty has rendered them like our com­
mander,” Vondamm said. “ Virtually helpless."
“ Shut your mouth, Conrad," Dragonard said.
Vondamm laughed low. “The air restored m y senses. I
was trying to restore yours with a little joke."
“H o," a student cried. “The policeys are fighting each
other.”
“They know better than to fight with us," yelled another.
This produced growls of glee through the immediate
fringes of the mob.
“Bardix,” Dragonard snapped without turning.
‘T o ."
“Turn around. Go up and over the machine. Get a fix
on the other Howlers.”
“They should be close now, sir.”
“ Climb up and be sure. D o it fast so you don't get hurt."
14
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
“Yo,” the man repeated.
His boots clanged as he turned, climbed. The mob stirred.
In the distance the crackling of ray-rifles disturbed the
night. Somewhere a structure collapsed.
The mob parted suddenly. An emaciated student with
a seedy red chinbeard lurched forward. Like those around
him he wore the red epaulet riband o f Genmo's house.
In one hand he carried a wineflask. In another he swung
his racca wood swagger-stick.
“ What's the matter, policeman?” he demanded. “ Afraid
to move out?”
“Just the reverse,” Dragonard answered. His gold eyes were
cold. He raised his blaster. “ W e want you to move.”
The student sniggered. His eyes shone with the after­
effects o f a visit to a drugdreamer. “You'd get one or two.
W e ’d get the lot of you, though. You policeys are always
throwing your authority around, as if you thought the man-
ufacturies would run without us.”
A chorus of agreement. Only one student voice protested:
“D on't bait the son, Larrs. Look at his eyes. Like a god­
dam sphinxcat’s.”
Larrs swigged from his wineflask. “ I don’t truckle for any
yellow-eyed po—stop that one!"
Larrs pointed a bony hand. Dragonard twisted. His man
Bardix was going up and over the side o f the Howler.
Students reached him. A spike-mace descended. Bardix
cried out.
Bardix disappeared, dragged from the Howler by scores
o f hands. Dragonard's stomach flip-flopped. Bardix screamed
one more time. Then the rhythmic pulping of the spike-
mace masked the sound.
“ Scrang them!” Larrs shouted. “ Any son who isn’t a cow ­
ard, scrang the Regs!”
The drunken yell triggered the m ob. It surged ahead,
and Dragonard's professional iciness sloughed away.
Larrs led the band, running at the policemen. His mouth
cracked open in a rotten-teeth smile as he flicked the end
o f his racca stick. A stiletto shot out. He drove it for Drag­
onard's neck.
As the mob closed in from all sides, Dragonard lowered
his shoulder, rammed Larrs in the belly, heaved him up
and over. One of Dragonard's men let go with a blaster. It
15
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
ate through three students and left a smoking hole in the
plasto boulevard. Curses turned to screams.
Larrs tumbled against the overturned Howler, slid down.
He bounced to his feet, came at Dragonard again with
the stiletto bright as a needle. The tip raked Dragonard’s
jawbone. He slid to one side. Larrs’s lunge carried him past.
Dragonard shoved the muzzle o f his blaster into Larrs s
ribs, triggered.
A pit appeared in Larrs’s side. It spilled bone and intestine.
Larrs stuffed one hand into the hole and shrieked again.
“Godbless, policeman! Godbless, 1 didn't mean harm—r
Dragonard kicked the corpse away.
He jumped high, caught the top of the Howler and
clambered up. From a kneeling position he began firing
at the students crowding around the vehicle. Puff-glare,
two of them died. Puff-glare, another.
Vondamm crawled up beside him. The rest o f the sur­
vivors followed. A killing rage was on Dragonard now. He
fired, fired, fired. These assassins had lost their right to be
treated with restraint.
He saw a ribanded student kicking in the skull of one of
his men. The student raised his boot again. Dragonard
disintegrated the student’s head.
“ Here comes the next Howler,” Vondamm panted.
Suddenly the mob melted. The second Howler in the
column nudged alongside. Dragonard jumped aboard.
As he dropped through the hatch he counted six stu­
dents dead, plus two of his own men. The commander o f
the Howler hurriedly vacated his slingchair.
“W e just had a report, Sectioner. The rest o f the column
from the spaceport is coming up. They’re approximately
at Avenue Emm right now.”
Exhausted/ angry, Dragonard rubbed the bridge of his
nose. “All units at full sound.”
“ Full, sir?”
“You heard, mister.”
In five minutes the overturned Howler had been shunted
aside.
In ten the relief column arrived with all horns blasting.
In less than an hour the riot was quelled.
The boulevard was strewn with the bodies o f students
who had fainted under the sonic impact. A last band of
militants faded away down a smoky alley. The upper
16
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
floors of the hostel caved in with a geyser o f fire. Dragonard
switched the scope off scan and he unbuckled the sling-
chair straps, preparing to go outside, assess the damage and
gather prisoners.
He started. Interrogation Agent Vondamm stood at his el­
bow.
“ Congratulations, Sectioner. W e very nearly didn’t bring
that off.”
“ I don’t need your congratulations, Conrad. Especially
when you don’t mean them.”
“ That’s unfair.”
Dragonard scowled at his own reflection in the three
plates. “ The hell. You’re hoping for mistake number one.”
“ Sectioner, whatever do you mean?”
W ith an oath, Dragonard shoved past and climbed out­
side. He didn’t want the warped Interrogation Agent to
see how shaken he was, now that the chaotic battle had
come to an end. He didn’t want to give the slightest indi­
cation o f his exhaustion; of the hammering in his head; of
the double vision that multiplied the burning structures as
he jumped down from the Howler.
The boulevard tilted under him. He clutched the H ow ­
ler’s tread for support.
He thought: W h y are you so damn afraid?
Answered himself: Because Conrad’s right. Conrad knows
Tm shaky. 1 know H too.
The fact that he'd used his blaster on the mob confirmed
it. Legally, of course, he was justified. In the pursuit of
their duty, Regulators could employ appropriate force when
attacked. He and his men had been attacked. If he had
refused to use his blaster, there might well have been an
alternate ending: his entire group tom apart b y the students.
Still, it wasn’t normal for him to fall back on the most
brutal way. He should have worked out a plan of action
that would have saved lives, not taken them.
A little late for that, W olf, he thought as he surveyed
the wreckage of the resort’s main thoroughfare.
All up and down, the line o f Howlers, his men were climb­
ing out with ray-rifles at the ready. Smoke blew, stung the
eyes.
Now. Quickly. W hat was his next m ove? He flagged his
brain.
Yes. Prisoners.
17
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
He called for an audiohorn. As it was being handed
down, he wondered how his reaction to the riot situation
would be greeted by his superiors. He had the uneasy feeling
that tonight he had set his own cause back once more.
Utterly weary, he lifted the audiohom and began bel­
lowing orders.

Ill

Three hours later, W olf Dragonard finally located the

room where Conrad Vondamm was interrogating captured
students.
The room was dim, vaulted, smelling o f mold. At other
times it served as a public cafe popular with vacationers
at Point Nihil. It occupied the second subground level be­
neath a complex of souvenir shops three squares from the
main boulevard.
Dragonard stepped past the Regulator on duty at the
plastodoor artfully crafted to resemble a dungeon entrance
o f precious wood. The Regulator saluted. Dragonard hardly
saw. He signed for silence, slipped inside, quickly closed
the door to shut out the light from the corridor.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. As they did, he
began to notice details: overturned pedestal tables; huge
false-front wine casks; racks in which genuine bottles were
crisscrossed with synthetically spun cobwebs. A shimmer­
ing blue-green flame jumped erratically in a lamp niche.
A strobeprobe revolved on its little pedestal. Otherwise the
cafe was dark.
Dragonard stood at the head o f heavy stone stairs one
level above the cafe floor. He didn't move. His mouth
wrenched.
The strobeprobe was an ingenious device utilized by In­
terrogation Agents. It swept wide beams of light across the
face of a suspect. In between the sweeps another housing
focused much more intense light in the suspect's eyes.
Dragonard watched as the humming unit revolved—sweep.
Light whirled around the room. The revolution suddenly
stopped. Calibrated apertures opened with a click. Pin-
beams shot at the eyeballs of a student shivering on a low
stool. .
18
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
The pinbeams remained on long enough to produce acute
discomfort. Then the unsettling sweep began again. A com­
plete cycle took only seconds, resulted in a maddening
rhythm of light and shadow.
Vondamm paced behind the strobeprobe, nearly invisible
in his dark garments. His three faceplates seemed to float,
disembodied. They reflected the sweating face o f the young
man seated in front of the device.
Sweep-flash. Sweep-flash. The student was thin. A faint
bluish cast to his skin indicated mixed blood. He moaned,
twisted his head away.
Vondamm jumped forward, caught the student by the
hair, jerked him around.
"Keep your eyes on the light, Master Traco.”
“ I’ve told you—" Sweep-flash. The student winced. “There
was no organization—”
Vondamm knotted his hand deeper in the student's hair,
forced him to stare into the apertures that blasted his eyes
with white brilliance. “ I don't believe you, Master Traco.”
Vondamm kept his voice cheerful, conversational. Some­
how, it merely added to the horror of his face, all scarred
skin and burnished metal. Vondamm released the student’s
hair with a flourish.
“ No, Master Traco, you’ll have to do better than that.”
“ I swear to the public gods—”
Vondamm waved. “You students will utter any blas­
phemy if it suits your ends.”
Sweep-flash. The student’s face glistened with sweat. He
squeezed his eyelids shut. Dragonard noticed a shredded
riband hanging from his shoulder. Vondamm slapped the
boy’s face.
“ Open your eyes, Master Traco, or I’ll step up the lumens.”
“ I'm going blind,” the student moaned.
“ Nonsense. This is purifying to the soul. You were caught
rioting.”
“W e . . .” The student’s whole body jerked as the strobes
swept across his face. “W e . . . just got angry. W e . . . were
drinking a lot. . . .”
“ And taking drugs,” Vondamm added “W e found a drug-
dreamer plaque in your effects, Master Traco. I have it
here.” The I.A. twinkled a small token in the backwash o f
light.
19
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
The student’s voice rose raw with pain: “ Christ, haven’t
I said I took an experience?”
“Yes, you have indeed admitted your illegal use of drugs
several times over.”
“Then leave me alone! I haven’t anything more to confess.”
“ I refuse to believe that. I refuse to take your word on
so serious a matter until we probe a little more deeply.
After all, addicts can’t be trusted.”
“Addicts?” the student slobbered, near hysteria. “ For God's
sake, a ha'token experience makes me an addict? Everyone
takes—”
“Everyone was not caught firing a shop with a chem
torch, Master Traco.”
“ I admit it, I admit it! Damn you—I was high on the
narcos, all right? But there’s no conspiracy! I don’t know a
thing about a conspiracy! N ow will you turn that light off?
Please. Please do it. Please.”
A shudder crawled up Dragonard’s spine. His anger
quickened again, as it had quickened when he first learned
that Vondamm had chosen an out-of-the-way site for his
interrogations, and had informed no* one of its location.
Dragonard knew why. Vondamm operated best in private,
where counselors could not enforce D.P.
As Dragonard fumed, someone else cried out feebly
down below . He realized other students must be huddled
in the dark. They were privileged to watch the spectacle
while awaiting their turns. Looking hard, Dragonard dis­
covered a few Regulators too. The blue-green flame danced
in its niche.
The longer he watched, the angrier he grew. The last
hours had been trying.
First he’d faced the complexities o f organizing the patrols
to arrest and identify rioters still abroad. Then he’d attended
sessions with the city management o f Point Nihil. The pom­
pous governors of the planet Collegium had flown in by
special shuttle. They seemed to blame Dragonard’s Regu­
lators for the damage to their domed city. Finally came
the infuriating discovery that I.A. Vondamm had chosen a
secret location for his questioning.
Traco the student whimpered, bit his lip. The strobe-
probe revolved, sweep-flash. Vondamm’s face might have
been an ornamental mask worn by a backlands warrior on
one of the truly primitive planets.
20
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
At length Vondamm sighed. "Very well, Master Traco.”
“ Sweet bleeding wounds, believe me! There was no con­
spiracy!”
“There was,” Vondamm insisted. “ A student-organized,
student-led conspiracy to destroy Point Nihil because o f
the governments new edicts on student credit.”
“W e . . . were angry . . .” Traco panted. “W e were
heated up, but %. . there was no plan . . .”
Vondamm smiled. “ I don’t believe you.”
“Take the light away. It’s killing me, I can’t stand the
light any longer!”
“ Unfortunate. You force me to raise the lumen level, not
lower it.”
uTake the light away, please, pleaseP
“ I will not take it away,” Vondamm said, “ because I
do not believe your story.”
“ I d o,” said Dragonard.
The thunder o f his voice had a stupefying effect. Von­
damm spun, his mouth dropping open. His arm twitched,
knocking the strobeprobe. It crashed over.
The revolving lights flashed wildly along the ceiling. An
instant later the pinbeams lit. They pointed into Dragon-
ard's eyes, burned.
“ Shut it off, Conrad,” he bawled. “Then com e up here.”
Defiant, Vondamm pointed to the student. “ D on't release
that man yet.”
Tw o o f the Regulators emerged from the shadows. They
hesitated.
Dragonard held his wrist across his eyes. “ Unless some­
one shuts that damn thing off right now, everybody in this
room is cashiered.”
A Regulator leaped to switch off the strobeprobe. The
cate was plunged into thicker dark, lit only b y the waver­
ing lamp. Conrad Vondamm climbed the stairs swiftly. He
started to speak. Dragonard motioned him outside into the
corridor lit with antique torches. Alongside one o f the
torches, the cate signboard hung smashed.
Once the door had shut, Vondamm began, “ What is the
meaning—”
“ Shut up, Conrad. W h y didn’t you tell me where you
were going?”
Vondamm licked his withered lips. “ I thought you were
too busy to be bothered, Sectioner.”
21
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
Dragonard’s gold eyes shone. “ Really? Or did you just
want privacy?"
“ Naturally, Sectioner, I operate efficiently when I'm un­
disturbed."
“You mean you enjoy your work more completely."
There was hate in Vondamm’s scar-puckered eyes. He
controlled himself, swept his black cloak around his hips
with an almost dainty motion. “ I refuse to acknowledge
that remark."
“Then acknowledge this one, mister. By secreting your­
self with the prisoners, you deprive them o f D.P.”
“ Bahl Due process is a legal sham. It enables the guilty
to hide behind—"
“ It protects innocent people from sadistic bastards like
you, Conrad."
Dragonard’s voice shook. He was letting his temper run
away with him and knew he shouldn't. Yet the metal­
faced man infuriated him.
W h y? a silent voice asked. Because you know he’s wait­
ing for the first slip? Waiting to claim promotion?
“ I could file charges for that obscene insult, Sectioner,"
Vondamm reminded him.
“ And I can cashier you on the spot for insubordination.
I will unless you clear that goddam cellar and take those
prisoners back up to where you're supposed to question them.
The offices of the city management."
“ But if I do that, counselors will soon b e presentl"
“ Counselors are supposed to be present for D.P.!”
N ow it was Vondamm out o f control and shrilling: “ There
was a conspiracy! I'm certain of it. This is the only way to
root it out! Evidently you are unable to recognize facts,
Sectioner. Evidently drinking has made you so addled that—”
W olf Dragonard struck Vondamm with his open hand,
blistering-hard.
In an instant the enormity of Dragonard's error came
home to him. And to Vondamm, who raised one slender
hand to touch the ridges o f scar tissue at the edge o f his
right cheek plate. He did it almost lovingly.
Vondamm smiled.
“The unforgivable breach," he said. “Thank you, Sec­
tioner. I don’t believe you'll trouble me any further this
evening, will you?"
And he turned and reentered the caf6.
22
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
The Regulator on duty at the door watched the whole
thing. H e couldn't conceal his astonishment, and dismay.
“ Eyes ahead, mister,” Dragonard barked. H e spun and
stalked off.
At the foot of the stairs going up, he stopped. He covered
his eyes with one trembling hand. Weariness and anger had
betrayed him. But that was an excuse. Excuses were not
tolerated.
Slowly W olf Dragonard climbed the dark stairs. He saw
none o f his surroundings. H e saw, instead, the wreckage o f
his ow n career.

IV

“ You struck a subordinate,” said Echelon Director Arthur

Yee. “ I know there were extenuating circumstances. And
Vondamm's a twisted one, all right. That's why he has a
record o f successful confessions. Still—” Yee shook his head.
“ It is the unforgivable breach.”
W olf Dragonard stood at attention in front o f his su­
perior. “ I've dictated my papers of resignation, sir.”
Silence.
Echelon Director Arthur Yee regarded him with concern.
Yee was older, nearing retirement. His skin was the color
of slate. It contrasted with his gray hair, which he wore
untrimmed to the dress collar o f his uniform.
The Echelon Director's uniform carried but three cam­
paign ribbons, small and coloful. Dragonard recognized
them all: the Stellaris Rising; the Siege o f Maltby's M oon;
the Month o f Burning. Yee had a trunkful besides.
“ I don't want your goddam resignation,” Yee said at
last. “ And stop standing there like a pillar o f virtue. Sit
down, W olf.”
“ N o thank you, sir.”
“ I said sit down.”
Dragonard obeyed. Yee smiled in a tolerant way. The
tension broke.
Just the surface tension. Dragonard was still wound
tight inside. Three weeks had passed since the night on Col­
legium when the incident happened. He had filed his own
23
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
report, figuring that if he didn’t, Vondamm certainly would.
In due. course he had been relieved of command of the
planet-wide investigation o f the student riots. He had
boarded a Regulator destroyer for the return to Brom-
daagar-8, the headquarters planet o f the galactic police.
He had been planetside only three hours when he was
summoned to this confrontation.
Yee touched a button in his work platform. “ Care for a
drink?”
“ No thanks.”
“ It has its therapeutic benefits,” Yee replied. “ In limited
quantities.”
Dragonard flushed. Yee waited for the brandy bubble to
pop up. W hen it did, he inflated the tube, sucked thought-
fully.
Dragonard had trouble meeting Yee’s gaze. His eyes
roved past the Echelon Director to the plexiwall. Against
a backdrop o f green and umber stars, the vast concrete
complex o f Regulator headquarters spread to the horizon.
It was fully mechanized and illuminated. The Lords of the
Exchange hoarded none o f their technological marvels
when it came to equipping their law enforcers. The trillions
o f commoners on the planets might grub for their existence
by primitive means, but the Regulators were above the
herd. Only now did Dragonard begin to understand just how
much he would miss the work to which he’d devoted his
life.
After another sip Yee said, “ I won’t accept your resigna­
tion, W olf.”
“ Sir, the regulations specify—”
“D on’t quote regulations at me, kindly. I’m familiar with
the punishment. For the offense in question, it's either dis­
missal or suspension at the option o f the commanding offi­
cer. I’m your commanding officer so it’s my option. I—”
Abruptly Yee rubbed the bridge o f his nose, as though
in pain. Then he straightened.
“Excuse me. Bit o f a headache. Been having them lately.
I must check in for the exam soon. But let's get back to
the subject. That’s you, and a fine career being systemati­
cally destroyed.”
Dragonard twisted the heavy signet on the last finger of
his right hand. “ Nothing's been right since Elena died.”
“ Six months ago.”
24
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
"Yes, sir. Such a damn senseless a ccid e n t. . .”
“With the other flyer pilot at fault.”
“Yes, and convicted now. It doesn't help.”
“ So you took to the spirits. I understand your reaction.
I don't admire it.”
Angrily Dragonard said, “ W e'd filed the banns.”
Yee raised a dark hand. “W olf, I understand. But I can’t
excuse an emotional binge which jeopardizes the perform­
ance of this organization. If this were strictly a personal
matter, I'd simply tell you to forget it. It’s not entirely
personal so that’s impossible. Believe me, I also understand
your feelings about Interrogation Agent Vondamm.”
A scowl cut across Dragonard’s face. “ I've made no
charges against him.”
“You don’t need to make charges. I know the man’s tend­
encies. I hear the talk. He envies you, W olf. He envies you
because you’re a top-rank Regulator. Perhaps we need to
have Vondamm psyched, though I’m sure his performance
would suffer.” Yee caressed an old, deep scar in the ebony
o f his face. “ Sometimes this is a pretty nasty trade. Men
like Vondamm serve their purpose.”
Dragonard agreed with a nod. Yee’s voice murmured
on:
“ I know how Vondamm is driven. He has completed the
sectioner examinations. Passed them with highest marks,
I might add. He’s got a brilliant brain. But he knows he
can only advance if a sectioner is either promoted or cash­
iered. Apparently he’s fixed on you as his target.”
“ Damned if I can- understand why, sir. W e’ve been
assigned together a year and a half and I don’t ever re­
member doing anything to anger the man.”
“ O f course not. Not consciously. But your strength—just
being a whole man and good at your job—that’s all it takes,
don’t you see? Your mere existence becomes hateful.”
Put that way, the explanation was depressingly believ­
able. He pulled at his ring. The Echelon Director massaged
his forehead again. Dragonard wondered about that. Phys­
ical debility was something almost unknown to Yee’s make­
up.
Finally the Echelon Director shrugged the pain aside with
an irritated frown, pointed to Dragonard’s ring.
“You come of a good house, W olf. Don't throw that
away.”

25
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
For a bleak moment Dragonard stared down at the ring.
It was old, with an oval black stone. The stone’s long
dimension paralleled the bone of his finger. Into the black
stone were etched the images of two mythical beasts, a
snarling lion and a rising phoenix. It was the sign o f the
House of Dragonard. The ring had been with him since
childhood.
“ I’ve thrown it away already, it seems,” he said.
“ Not necessarily.”
Under heavy white brows, Dragonard’s gold eyes flick­
ered, curious. Yee continued:
“I choose to exercise the option o f suspension. However,
you must clearly understand that your protracted drinking
on your first restleave and your resulting loss o f efficiency,
following Elenas death, have been duly noticed. At this
moment your career is most certainly at stake. Still, pro­
vided you haul yourself together, it’s not beyond salvage.
Therefore I’m posting you onto a second restleave o f one
month. This time, no drinking.”
The hope coursed through Dragonard like a tonic. He
tried to speak, could not.
“For your information,” Yee went on, “Vondamm has al­
ready filed his own charges in addition to yours. The fact
that you filed first actually helped me clear my decision
at the top. Vondamm’s charges have been examined and
dismissed under the heading o f extenuation.” Yee leaned
forward across the work platform. “ Extenuation, however,
can never again be used to cancel any further charges
against you. So don’t make any mistakes, W olf. Rest up.
Enjoy yourself on Korb for a month, and then come back
ready for—”
“K orbr
“Yes. I’m posting you to Blaze City. I understand it’s a
wonderful resort. You’ve never been to the Free Territory,
have you?”
“ I was on the planet Korb once in connection with a
case. Are you certain . . . ?”
Yee's amber eyes focused on his face. “ Don’t question
me, W olf. Just take the restleave, enjoy Blaze City, and
come back prepared to work.”
Yee rose, extended his hard hand.
“ Good luck to you, Sectioner. W e need men like you.
Excuse me now, please. Departmental conference.”

26
 TONIGHT WE STEAL THE STARS
Taking a foldofile o ff the work platform, Yee crossed the
carpet and exited through his private door.
Dragonard was appalled as he left the headquarters build­
ing. H e couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Echelon Director
Arthur Yee posting him to a city that was a known criminal
haven, on a planet where the Regulators had only token
jurisdiction? Insanity!
He wondered whether Yee had done it for shock effect,
to make certain the cure was effective. Did he expect such
an unorthodox solution to work? Dragonard had his doubts.
Enough, he said to himself. You’re giving up to defeat
already if you think that way.

There was no mistake. Private orders arrived in his pi­

geonhole at barracks that night. The orders were complete
with falsified identifications. O f course Yee could arrange
all such matters if he wanted. But it made little sense. Little
sense at all.
Still, Dragonard knew he must go ahead. Refusing at
this stage would be the end of everything.

The commercial lightship Nova Deluxe carried Dragon­

ard into the Free Territory three days later.
He traveled as W ylie Dun, independently registered mer­
cantilist. Yee’s staff had taken pains to give him a back­
ground that would be suitably at home in Blaze City. Most
independent mercantilists dealt in profitable sidelines—main­
ly duty-exempt smuggled goods.
The Free Territory system under the red giant Vendome-2
consisted o f three planets. Yarm, the largest, was unin­
habitable. The second planet out from the giant, Enter­
prise, was a booming commercial world, and the smallest
of the three. The planet’s commercial colony had been
founded by rebellious immigrants from the Autus system
governed by Genmo I.
In less than fifteen years, Enterprise had changed from
a remote trade-staging world to a globe crowded with
manufacturies. This was due to the leadership of the man
27
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
artist, the decorator, the paper mills’ agent, and, last of all, the printer and the
binder. This was not the way the old-time printers had planned their books.
With all their mechanical limitations, they had followed architectural lines kept
consistent and harmonious because controlled by a single mind, while the
finished volume of the eighteen-nineties was a composite production of many
minds, with no architectural plan. No wonder that the volumes manufactured,
even in the most famous Presses, failed to compare with those produced in
Venice by Jenson and Aldus four centuries earlier!
When I succeeded John Wilson as head of the University Press in 1895, I
determined to carry out the resolution I had formed four years earlier, while
sitting in on the Eugene Field conference, of following the example of the
early master-printers so far as this could be done amidst modern conditions.
Some of my publisher friends were partially convinced by my contention that
if the printer properly fulfilled his function he must know how to express his
clients’ mental conception of the physical attributes of prospective volumes in
terms of type, paper, presswork, and binding better than they could do it
themselves. The Kelmscott publications, which appeared at this time, were of
great value in emphasizing my contention, for William Morris placed printing
back among the fine arts after it had lapsed into a trade.
I had no idea, when I presented my plan, of persuading my friends to
produce typographical monuments. No demand has ever existed for volumes
of this type adequate to the excessive cost involved by the perfection of
materials, the accuracy of editorial detail, the supreme excellence of
typography and presswork, and the glory of the binding. Sweynheim and
Pannartz, Gutenberg’s successors, were ruined by their experiments in Greek;
the Aldine Press in Venice was saved only by the intervention of Jean Grolier;
Henri Étienne was ruined by his famous Thesaurus, and Christophe Plantin
would have been bankrupted by his Polyglot Bible had he not retrieved his
fortunes by later and meaner publications. Nor was I unmindful of similar
examples that might have been cited from more modern efforts, made by
ambitious publishers and printers.
What I wanted to do was to build low-cost volumes upon the same
principles as de luxe editions, eliminating the expensive materials but retaining
the harmony and consistency that come from designing the book from an
architectural standpoint. It adds little to the expense to select a type that
properly expresses the thought which the author wishes to convey; or to have
the presses touch the letters into the paper in such a way as to become a part
of it, without that heavy impression which makes the reverse side appear like
an example of Braille; or to find a paper (even made by machine!) soft to the
feel and grateful to the eye, on which the page is placed with well-considered
margins; or to use illustrations or decorations, if warranted at all, in such a way
as to assist the imagination of the reader rather than to divert him from the
text; to plan a title page which, like the door to a house, invites the reader to
open it and proceed, its type lines carefully balanced with the blank; or to bind
(even in cloth!) with trig squares and with design or lettering in keeping with
the printing inside.
By degrees the publishers began to realize that this could be done, and
when once established, the idea of treating the making of books as a
manufacturing problem instead of as a series of contracts with different
concerns, no one of which knew what the others were doing, found favor. The
authors also preferred it, for their literary children now went forth to the
world in more becoming dress. Thus serving in the capacity of book architect
and typographical advisor, instead of merely as a contrasting printer, these
years have been lived in a veritable Kingdom of Books, in company with
interesting people,—authors and artists as well as publishers,—in a delightfully
intimate way because I have been permitted to be a part of the great
adventure.

During these years I have seen dramatic changes. Wages were somewhat
advanced between 1891 and the outbreak of the World War, but even at this
latter date the cost of manufacturing books was less than half of what it is now.
This is the great problem which publishers have to face today. When the cost
of everything doubled after the World War, the public accepted the necessity
of paying twice the price for a theater ticket as a matter of course; but when
the retail price of books was advanced in proportion to the cost of
manufacture, there was a great outcry among buyers that authors, publishers,
and booksellers were opportunists, demanding an unwarranted profit. As a
matter of fact, the novel which used to sell at $1.35 per copy should now sell
at $2.50 if the increased costs were properly apportioned. The publisher today
is forced to decline many promising first novels because the small margin of
profit demands a comparatively large first edition.
 Unless a publisher can sell 5,000 copies as a minimum it is impossible for
him to make any profit upon a novel. Taking this as a basis, and a novel as
containing 320 pages, suppose we see how the $2.00 retail price distributes
itself. The cost of manufacture, including the typesetting, electrotype plates,
cover design, jacket, brass dies, presswork, paper, and binding, amounts to 42
cents per copy (in England, about 37 cents). The publisher’s cost of running
his office, which he calls “overhead,” is 36 cents per copy. The minimum
royalty received by an author is 10 per cent. of the retail price, which would
give him 20 cents. This makes a total cost of 98 cents a copy, without
advertising. But a book must be advertised.
Every fifty dollars spent in advertising on a five thousand edition adds a
cent to the publisher’s cost. The free copies distributed for press reviews
represent no trifling item. A thousand dollars is not a large amount to be spent
for advertising, and this means 20 cents a copy on a 5000 edition, making a
total cost of $1.18 per copy and reducing the publisher’s profit to 2 cents, since
he sells a two-dollar book to the retail bookseller for $1.20. The bookseller
figures that his cost of doing business is one-third the amount of his sales, or,
on a two-dollar book, 67 cents. This then shows a net profit to the retail
bookseller of 13 cents, to the publisher of 2 cents, and to the author of 20
cents a copy.
Beyond this, there is an additional expense to both bookseller and
publisher which the buyer of books is likely to overlook. It is impossible to
know just when the demand for a book will cease, and this means that the
publisher and the bookseller are frequently left with copies on hand which
have to be disposed of at a price below cost. This is an expense that has to be
included in the book business just as much as in handling fruit, flowers, or
other perishable goods.
When a publisher is able to figure on a large demand for the first edition,
he can cut down the cost of manufacture materially; but, on the other hand,
this is at least partially offset by the fact that authors whose books warrant
large first editions demand considerably more than 10 per cent. royalty, and
the advertising item on a big seller runs into large figures.

I wish I might say that I had seen a dramatic change in the methods
employed in the retail bookstores! There still exists, with a few notable
exceptions, the same lack of realization that familiarity with the goods one has
to sell is as necessary in merchandizing books as with any other commodity.
Salesmen in many otherwise well-organized retail bookstores are still painfully
ignorant of their proper functions and indifferent to the legitimate
requirements of their prospective customers.
Some years ago, when one of my novels was having its run, I happened to
be in New York at a time when a friend was sailing for Europe. He had
announced his intention of purchasing a copy of my book to read on the
steamer, and I asked him to permit me to send it to him with the author’s
compliments. Lest any reader be astonished to learn that an author ever buys a
copy of his own book, let me record the fact that except for the twelve which
form a part of his contract with the publisher, he pays cash for every copy he
gives away. Mark Twain dedicated the first edition of The Jumping Frog to “John
Smith.” In the second edition he omitted the dedication, explaining that in
dedicating the volume as he did, he had felt sure that at least all the John
Smiths would buy books. To his consternation he found that they all expected
complimentary copies, and he was hoist by his own petard!
With the idea of carrying out my promise to my friend, I stepped into one
of the largest bookstores in New York, and approached a clerk, asking him for
the book by title. My pride was somewhat hurt to find that even the name was
entirely unfamiliar to him. He ran over various volumes upon the counter, and
then turned to me, saying, “We don’t carry that book, but we have several
others here which I am sure you would like better.”
“Undoubtedly you have,” I agreed with him; “but that is beside the point. I
am the author of the book I asked for, and I wish to secure a copy to give to a
friend. I am surprised that a store like this does not carry it.”
Leaning nonchalantly on a large, circular pile of books near him, the clerk
took upon himself the education of the author.
“It would require a store much larger than this to carry every book that is
published, wouldn’t it?” he asked cheerfully. “Of course each author naturally
thinks his book should have the place of honor on the bookstalls, but we have
to be governed by the demand.”
It was humiliating to learn the real reason why this house failed to carry
my book. I had to say something to explain my presumption even in assuming
that I might find it there, so in my confusion I stammered,
 “But I understood from the publishers that the book was selling very
well.”
“Oh, yes,” the clerk replied indulgently; “they have to say that to their
authors to keep them satisfied!”
With the matter thus definitely settled, nothing remained but to make my
escape as gracefully as circumstances would permit. As I started to leave, the
clerk resumed his standing position, and my eye happened to rest on the pile
of perhaps two hundred books upon which he had been half-reclining. The
jacket was strikingly familiar. Turning to the clerk I said severely,
“Would you mind glancing at that pile of books from which you have just
risen?”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, smiling and handing me a copy, “that is the very book
we were looking for, isn’t it?”
It seemed my opportunity to become the educator, and I seized it.
“Young man,” I said, “if you would discontinue the practice of letting my
books support you, and sell a few copies so that they might support me, it
would be a whole lot better for both of us.”
“Ha, ha!” he laughed, graciously pleased with my sally; “that’s a good line,
isn’t it? I really must read your book!”

The old-time publisher is passing, and the author is largely to blame. I have
seen the close association—in many cases the profound friendship—between
author and publisher broken by the commercialism fostered by some literary
agents and completed by competitive bids made by one publishing house to
beguile a popular author away from another. There was a time when a writer
was proud to be classified as a “Macmillan,” or a “Harper” author. He felt
himself a part of the publisher’s organization, and had no hesitation in taking
his literary problems to the editorial advisor of the house whose imprint
appeared upon the title pages of his volumes. A celebrated Boston authoress
once found herself absolutely at a standstill on a partially completed novel. She
confided her dilemma to her publisher, who immediately sent one of his
editorial staff to the rescue. They spent two weeks working together over the
manuscript, solved the problems, and the novel, when published, was the most
successful of the season.
Several publishers have acknowledged to me that in offering unusually
high royalties to authors they have no expectation of breaking even, but that to
have a popular title upon their list increases the sales of their entire line. The
publisher from whom the popular writer is filched has usually done his share
in helping him attain his popularity. The royalty he pays is a fair division of the
profits. He cannot, in justice to his other authors, pay him a further premium.
Ethics, perhaps, has no place in business, but the relation between author
and publisher seems to me to be beyond a business covenant. A publisher may
deliberately add an author to his list at a loss in order to accomplish a specific
purpose, but this practice cannot be continued indefinitely. A far-sighted
author will consider the matter seriously before he becomes an opportunist.

In England this questionable practice has been of much slower growth.

The House of Murray, in London, is one of those still conducted on the old-
time basis. John Murray IV, the present head of the business, has no interest in
any author who comes to him for any reason other than a desire to have the
Murray imprint upon his book. It is more than a business. The publishing
offices at 50a, Albemarle Street adjoin and open out of the Murray home. In
the library is still shown the fireplace where John Murray III burned Byron’s
Memoirs, after purchasing them at an enormous price, because he deemed that
their publication would do injury to the reputation of the writer and of the
House itself.
John Murray II was one of the publishers of Scott’s Marmion. In those days
it was customary for publishers to share their contracts. Constable had
purchased from Scott for £1,000 the copyright of Marmion without having
seen a single line, and the honorarium was paid the author before the poem was
completed or the manuscript delivered. Constable, however, promptly
disposed of a one-fourth interest to Mr. Miller of Albemarle Street, and
another one fourth to John Murray, then of Fleet Street.
By 1829 Scott had succeeded in getting into his own hands nearly all his
copyrights, one of the outstanding items being this one-quarter interest in
Marmion held by Mr. Murray. Longmans and Constable had tried in vain to
purchase it. When, however, Scott himself approached Murray through
Lockhart, the following letter from Mr. Murray was the result:
So highly do I estimate the honour of being even in so small a degree the publisher
of the author of the poem that no pecuniary consideration whatever can induce me to
part with it. But there is a consideration of another kind that would make it painful
to me if I were to retain it a moment longer. I mean the knowledge of its being required
by the author, into whose hands it was spontaneously resigned at the same instant that
I read the request.
There has always been a vast difference in authors in the attitude they
assume toward the transformation of their manuscripts into printed books.
Most of them leave every detail to their publishers, but a few take a deep and
intelligent personal interest. Bernard Shaw is to be included in the latter group.
A leading Boston publisher once telephoned me that an unknown English
author had submitted a manuscript for publication, but that it was too
socialistic in its nature to be acceptable. Then the publisher added that the
author had asked, in case this house did not care to publish the volume, that
arrangements be made to have the book printed in this country in order to
secure American copyright.
“We don’t care to have anything to do with it,” was the statement; “but I
thought perhaps you might like to manufacture the book.”
“Who is the author?” I inquired.
“It’s a man named Shaw.”
“What is the rest of his name?”
“Wait a minute and I’ll find out.”
Leaving the telephone for a moment, the publisher returned and said,
“His name is G. Bernard Shaw. Did you ever hear of him?”
“Yes,” I replied; “I met him last summer in London through Cobden-
Sanderson, and I should be glad to undertake the manufacture of the book for
Mr. Shaw.”
“All right,” came the answer. “Have your boy call for the manuscript.”
This manuscript was Man and Superman.
 From that day and for many years, Shaw and I carried on a desultory
correspondence, his letters proving most original and diverting. On one
occasion he took me severely to task for having used two sizes of type upon a
title page. He wrote four pages to prove what poor taste and workmanship this
represented, and then ended the letter with these words, “But, after all, any
other printer would have used sixteen instead of two, so I bless you for your
restraint!”
We had another lengthy discussion on the use of apostrophes in printing.
“I have made no attempt to deal with the apostrophes you introduce,” he
wrote; “but my own usage is carefully considered and the inconsistencies are
only apparent. For instance, Ive, youve, lets, thats, are quite unmistakable, but Ill,
hell, shell, for I’ll, he’ll, she’ll, are impossible without a phonetic alphabet to
distinguish between long and short e. In such cases I retain the apostrophe, in
all others I discard it. Now you may ask me why I discard it. Solely because it
spoils the printing. If you print a Bible you can make a handsome job of it
because there are no apostrophes or inverted commas to break up the
letterpress with holes and dots. Until people are forced to have some
consideration for a book as something to look at as well as something to read,
we shall never get rid of these senseless disfigurements that have destroyed all
the old sense of beauty in printing.”
“Ninety-nine per cent. of the secret of good printing,” Shaw continued, “is
not to have patches of white or trickling rivers of it trailing down a page, like
rain-drops on a window. Horrible! White is the enemy of the printer. Black,
rich, fat, even black, without gray patches, is, or should be, his pride. Leads and
quads and displays of different kinds of type should be reserved for insurance
prospectuses and advertisements of lost dogs.…”
His enthusiasm for William Morris’ leaf ornaments is not shared by all
booklovers. Glance at any of the Kelmscott volumes, and you will find these
glorified oak leaves scattered over the type page in absolutely unrelated
fashion,—a greater blemish, to some eyes, than occasional variation in spacing.
Shaw writes:
If you look at one of the books printed by William Morris, the greatest printer of
the XIX century, and one of the greatest printers of all the centuries, you will see that
he occasionally puts in a little leaf ornament, or something of the kind. The idiots in
America who tried to imitate Morris, not understanding this, peppered such things all
over their “art” books, and generally managed to stick in an extra large quad before
each to show how little they understood about the business. Morris doesn’t do this in
his own books. He rewrites the sentence so as to make it justify, without bringing one
gap underneath another in the line above. But in printing other people’s books, which
he had no right to alter, he sometimes found it impossible to avoid this. Then, sooner
than spoil the rich, even color of his block of letterpress by a big white hole, he filled it
up with a leaf.
Do not dismiss this as not being “business.” I assure you, I have a book which
Morris gave me, a single copy, by selling which I could cover the entire cost of printing
my books, and its value is due solely to its having been manufactured in the way I
advocate; there’s absolutely no other secret about it; and there is no reason why you
should not make yourself famous through all the ages by turning out editions of
standard works on these lines whilst other printers are exhausting themselves in dirty
felt end papers, sham Kelmscott capitals, leaf ornaments in quad sauce, and then
wondering why nobody in Europe will pay twopence for them, whilst Kelmscott books
and Doves Press books of Morris’ friends, Emery Walker and Cobden-Sanderson,
fetch fancy prices before the ink is thoroughly dry.… After this I shall have to get you
to print all my future books, so please have this treatise printed in letters of gold and
preserved for future reference
CHAPTER III

Friends through Type

 III
FRIENDS THROUGH TYPE

In 1903 I again visited Italy to continue my study of the art of printing in

the old monasteries and libraries, sailing on the S. S. Canopic from Boston to
Naples. Among the passengers on board I met Horace Fletcher, returning to
his home in Venice. At that time his volume Menticulture was having a
tremendous run. I had enjoyed reading the book, and in its author I discovered
a unique and charming personality; in fact, I have never met so perfect an
expression of practical optimism. His humor was infectious, his philosophy
appealing, his quiet persistency irresistible.
To many people the name of Horace Fletcher has become associated with
the Gladstonian doctrine of excessive chewing, but this falls far short of the
whole truth. His scheme was the broadest imaginable, and thorough
mastication was only the hub into which the other spokes of the wheel of his
philosophy of life were to be fitted. The scheme was nothing less than a
cultivation of progressive human efficiency. Believing that absolute health is
the real basis of human happiness and advancement, and that health depends
upon an intelligent treatment of food in the mouth together with knowledge
of how best to furnish the fuel that is actually required to run the human
engine, Horace Fletcher sought for and found perfect guides among the
natural human instincts and physiologic facilities, and demonstrated that his
theories were facts.

During the years that followed I served as his typographic mentor. He was
eager to try weird and ingenious experiments to bring out the various points of
his theories through unique typographical arrangement (see opp. page). It
required all my skill and diplomacy to convince him that type possessed rigid
limitations, and that to gain his emphasis he must adopt less complicated
methods. From this association we became the closest of friends, and
presuming upon this relation I used to banter him upon being so casual. His
copy was never ready when the compositors needed it; he was always late in
returning his proofs. The manufacture of a Fletcher book was a hectic
experience, yet no one ever seemed to take exceptions. This was characteristic
of the man. He moved and acted upon suddenly formed impulses, never
planning ahead yet always securing exactly what he wanted, and those
inconvenienced the most always seemed to enjoy it.

A Page of Horace Fletcher Manuscript

“I believe,” he used to say, “in hitching one’s wagon to a star, but I always
keep my bag packed and close at hand ready to change stars at a moment’s
notice. It is only by doing this that you can give things a chance to happen to
you.”
 Among the volumes Fletcher had with him on board ship was one he had
purchased in Italy, printed in a type I did not recognize but which greatly
attracted me by its beauty. The book bore the imprint: Parma: Co’tipi Bodoniani.
Some weeks later, in a small, second-hand bookstore in Florence, I happened
upon a volume printed in the same type, which I purchased and took at once
to my friend, Doctor Guido Biagi, at the Laurenziana Library.
“The work of Giambattista Bodoni is not familiar to you?” he inquired in
surprise. “It is he who revived in Italy the glory of the Aldi. He and Firmin
Didot in Paris were the fathers of modern type design at the beginning of the
nineteenth century.”
“Is this type still in use?” I inquired.
“No,” Biagi answered. “When Bodoni died there was no one worthy to
continue its use, so his matrices and punches are kept intact, exactly as he left
them. They are on exhibition in the library at Parma, just as the old Plantin
relics are preserved in the museum at Antwerp.”
 GIAMBATTISTA BODONI, 1740–1813
From Engraving at the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris

I immediately took steps through our Ambassador at Rome to gain

permission from the Italian Government to recut this face for use in America.
After considerable difficulty and delay this permission was granted, with a
proviso that I should not allow any of the type made from my proposed
matrices to get into the hands of Italian printers, as this would detract from
the prestige of the city of Parma. It was a condition to which I was quite
willing to subscribe! Within a year I have received a prospectus from a revived
Bodoni Press at Montagnola di Lugano, Switzerland, announcing that the
exclusive use of the original types of Giambattista Bodoni has been given them
by the Italian Government. This would seem to indicate that the early
governmental objections have disappeared.
While searching around to secure the fullest set of patterns, I stumbled
upon the fact that Bodoni and Didot had based their types upon the same
model, and that Didot had made use of his font particularly in the wonderful
editions published in Paris at the very beginning of the nineteenth century. I
then hurried to Paris to see whether these matrices were in existence. There,
after a search through the foundries, I discovered the original punches, long
discarded, in the foundry of Peignot, to whom I gave an order to cast the
different sizes of type, which I had shipped to America.
This was the first type based on this model ever to come into this country.
The Bodoni face has since been recut by typefounders as well as for the
typesetting machines, and is today one of the most popular faces in common
use. Personally I prefer the Bodoni letter to that of Didot (see opp. page). The
Frenchman succumbed to the elegance of his period, and by lightening the
thin lines robbed the design of the virility that Bodoni retained. I am not in
sympathy with the excessive height of the ascending letters, which frequently
extend beyond the capitals; but when one considers how radical a departure
from precedent this type was, he must admire the skill and courage of the
designers. William Morris cared little for it,—“The sweltering hideousness of
the Bodoni letter,” he exclaimed; “the most illegible type that was ever cut,
with its preposterous thicks and thins”; while Theodore L. De Vinne, in his
Practice of Typography, writes:
The beauty of the Bodoni letters consists in their regularity, in their clearness, and
in their conformity to the taste of the race, nation, and age in which the work was first
written, and finally in the grace of the characters, independent of time or place.
When authorities differ to such a wide extent, the student of type design
must draw his own conclusions!
 The Bodoni Letter (bottom) compared with the Didot Letter (top)

Fletcher’s idea of an appointment was something to be kept if or when

convenient, yet he never seemed to offend any one. He did nothing he did not
wish to do, and his methods of extricating himself from unwelcome
responsibilities always amused rather than annoyed. “If you don’t want to do a
thing very badly,” he confided to me on one such occasion, “do it very badly.”
 HORACE FLETCHER IN 1915

On board the Canopic Fletcher was surrounded by an admiring and

interested group. General Leonard Wood was on his way to study colonial
government abroad before taking up his first administration as Governor of
the Philippines. On his staff was General Hugh Lennox Scott, who later
succeeded General Wood as Chief of Staff of the United States Army. The
conversations and discussions in the smokeroom each evening after dinner
were illuminating and fascinating. General Wood had but recently completed
his work as Governor of Cuba, and he talked freely of his experiences there,
while General Scott was full of reminiscences of his extraordinary adventures
with the Indians. He later played an important part in bringing peace to the
Philippines.
 It was at one of these four-cornered sessions in the smokeroom that we
first learned of Fletcher’s ambition to revolutionize the world in its methods of
eating. That he would actually accomplish this no one of us believed, but the
fact remains. The smokeroom steward was serving the coffee, inquiring of
each one how many lumps of sugar he required. Fletcher, to our amazement,
called for five! It was a grand-stand play in a way, but he secured his audience
as completely as do the tambourines and the singing of the Salvation Army.
“Why are you surprised?” he demanded with seeming innocence. “I am
simply taking a coffee liqueur, in which there is less sugar now than there is in
your chartreuse or benedictine. But I am mixing it with the saliva, which is
more than you are doing. The sugar, as you take it, becomes acid in the
stomach and retards digestion; by my method, it is changed into grape sugar,
which is easily assimilated.”
“To insalivate one’s liquor,” he explained to us, “gives one the most
exquisite pleasure imaginable, but it is a terrific test of quality. It brings out the
richness of flavor, which is lost when one gulps the wine down. Did you ever
notice the way a tea-taster sips his tea?”
As he talked he exposed the ignorance of the entire group on physiological
matters to an embarrassing extent, clinching his remarks by asking General
Wood the question,
“Would you engage as chauffeur for your automobile a man who knew as
little about his motor as you know about your own human engine?”
No one ever loved a practical joke better than Horace Fletcher. I was a
guest at a dinner he once gave at the Graduates’ Club in New Haven. Among
the others present were President Hadley of Yale, John Hays Hammond,
Walter Camp, and Professor Lounsbury. There was considerable curiosity and
some speculation concerning what would constitute a Fletcher dinner. At the
proper time we were shown into a private room, where the table was set with
the severest simplicity. Instead of china, white crockery was used, and the chief
table decorations were three large crockery pitchers filled with ice water. At
each plate was a crockery saucer, containing a shredded-wheat biscuit. It was
amusing to glance around and note the expressions of dismay upon the faces
of the guests. Their worst apprehensions were being confirmed! Just as we
were well seated, the headwaiter came to the door and announced that by
mistake we had been shown into the wrong room, whereupon Fletcher, with
an inimitable twinkle in his eye, led the way into another private dining room,
where we sat down to one of the most sumptuous repasts I have ever enjoyed.
Today, twenty years after his campaign, it is almost forgotten that the
American breakfast was at that time a heavy meal. Horace Fletcher
revolutionized the practice of eating, and interjected the word fletcherize into
the English language. As a disciple of Fletcher Sir Thomas Barlow, physician-
in-chief to King Edward VII, persuaded royalty to set the style by cutting
down the formal dinner from three hours to an hour and a half, with a
corresponding relief to the digestive apparatus of the guests. In Belgium,
during the World War, working with Herbert Hoover, Fletcher taught the
impoverished people how to sustain themselves upon meager rations. Among
his admirers and devoted friends were such profound thinkers as William
James who, in response to a letter from him, wrote, “Your excessive reaction
to the stimulus of my grateful approval makes you remind me of those rich
soils which, when you tickle them with a straw, smile with a harvest”; and
Henry James, who closes a letter: “Come and bring with you plenary
absolution to the thankless subject who yet dares light the lamp of gratitude to
you at each day’s end of his life.”

My acquaintance with Henry James came through my close association

with the late Sir Sidney Lee, the Shakesperian authority, and Horace Fletcher.
“Don’t be surprised if he is brusque or uncivil,” Sir Sidney whispered to
me just before I met him at dinner; “one can never tell how he is going to act.”
As a matter of fact, I found Henry James a most genial and enjoyable
dinner companion, and never, during the few later occasions when I had the
pleasure of being with him, did he display those characteristics of ill humor
and brusqueness which have been attributed to him. It may not be generally
known that all his life—until he met Horace Fletcher—he suffered torments
from chronic indigestion, or that it was in Fletcherism that he found his first
relief. In a typically involved Jamesian letter to his brother William he writes
(February, 1909):
It is impossible save in a long talk to make you understand how the blessed
Fletcherism—so extra blessed—lulled me, charmed me, beguiled me, from the first
into the convenience of not having to drag myself out into eternal walking. One must