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  "And we reached our climax. It's the usual way of putting it, sir, and the words are the right words, but . . . can you imagine an orgasm that's an implosion rather than an explosion? And after that there was the slow, slow falling into a deep velvety darkness, a warm darkness. . . .

  "And. . . .

  "And then it was morning. Most of the others were waking up too. It should have all looked very sordid in the first light, naked bodies sprawled everywhere, but it didn't. And I felt fine, just fine, as fine as everybody looked, as fine as I knew that I looked myself. Somebody had made coffee, and I'd never tasted coffee as good before. It tasted the way that coffee smells when it's being ground. And my cigarette tasted the way that somebody else's cigar usually smells. I'd have liked to have stayed for breakfast with the others, but I had to be getting back to the ship. After all, it was sailing day. So I got back to the ship. I was still feeling fine—on top of the world, on top of all the worlds. I just breezed through all the things I had to do."

  "Including testing the gear," remarked Grimes.

  Pleshoff's face lost its animation. "Yes, sir. The gear. I was there, by myself, in the control room. I saw that the inertial drive was already on Stand By. And then, quite suddenly, the thought came to me, 'Why shouldn't I show the old bastard—sorry, sir, the Old Man I mean-that he's not the only one who can handle a ship?' I knew that he was still in Captain Dunbar's office, and I thought it'd be a fine joke if he saw his precious Caribou lifting off without him."

  "Mphm. A very fine joke," commented Grimes. "You may consider yourself highly fortunate that nobody was hurt or killed. Mphm. I suggest that you tell the authorities the name of your host on that unfortunate evening—although no doubt the local detective force is quite capable of finding it out for themselves. The real villain, of course, is the pusher. If you could name him you'd probably get off with a light sentence."

  "I can't," said Pleshoff dully. "And if I could, I wouldn't."

  Grimes shook his head sadly. "I don't know what trade you'll be entering after the authorities turn you loose—but whatever it is, you'll find that schoolboy code of honor a disadvantage." He got to his feet. "Well, Mr. Pleshoff, we'll do our best for you. We pride ourselves that we look after our own. But I'm afraid that you won't be one of our own for very much longer."

  VI

  "I don't know what today's young people are coming to," complained Captain Dunbar as he and Grimes left the jail. "Drugs. Orgies."

  "I've never taken part in an orgy," said Grimes rather wistfully. "Have you?"

  "Of course not!" snapped Dunbar, looking at his superior in a rather dubious manner. Then, apparently having decided that the Commodore must have been joking, he went on, "Until now we've been clear of all this sort of thing on the Rim Worlds. I always said that it was a big mistake to open these planets to intergalactic trade."

  "Mphm. Where am I staying, by the way?"

  "We've booked you into the Rimrock House, Commodore."

  Grimes sighed. There was a Rimrock House at Port Forlorn, on Lorn, another one at Port Farewell, on Faraway, yet another at Port Edgell, on Thule. From time to time he had stayed at them all. They were the most expensive hotels on the Rim Worlds—but by no means the best. He would have preferred some place with a less pretentious menu but far better food, with the staff not rigged out like Galactic High Admirals, but with far better service. But it would be only for a few days, until he had this Rim Caribou mess sorted out.

  The Rimrock House was one of the huge buildings fronting on to the Central Square. Dunbar drove Grimes the short distance, although he would rather have walked, and promised that he would have the Commodore's gear picked up from Rim Malemute and sent out to the hotel.

  Grimes left the car, walked over the sidewalk to the big doorway, through the force field that prevented the atmosphere of the hotel from being tainted by the excellent fresh air outside. On a world such as Lorn there would have been some point to it, but on Ultimo it was merely a very expensive absurdity. He nodded to the gorgeously uniformed doorman who had saluted him as though he were at least the Federation's First Space Lord. He went to the huge desk behind which a half dozen very pretty girls were chirping to each other like colorful inmates of an aviary. Eventually one of them condescended to notice him.

  "Sir?"

  "My name is Grimes. I am booked in here."

  "Would that be Commodore Grimes, sir?" asked the tall blonde, statuesque in her form-revealing trouser suit of crimson dermitex.

  "Yes."

  "There is a Carlottigram for you, sir. It came in only a few minutes ago." She handed Grimes the dark blue envelope.

  What now? he wondered as he ran a fingernail along the seal fine. What now? The envelope tidily fell apart. He looked at the message it had contained.

  From: Officer Commanding Rim Worlds Navy

  To: Commodore Grimes, D.S.M., O.C., F.H.S.C., R.W.N.R.

  Copies: c/o Rimrock House, Fort Last, Ultimo

  c/o Tug, Rim Malemute, at Fort Last, Ultimo

  c/o Dock Office, Rim Runners, Port Last, Ultimo

  Text: As and from date of origination you are to consider yourself called to Active Service, Rim Worlds Navy, Pay and Allowances as for Commodore First Class, Expenses as requisite. You are to cooperate with Police, Customs and other authorities in investigation of drug smuggling. Indefinite leave of absence from Rim Runners arranged.

  (Signed) Kravitz.

  "Mphm," grunted Grimes thoughtfully. He could imagine what had been happening. High-up politicians must have been getting concerned about the general deterioration of Rim Worlds morals, and some of them must have demanded that the Navy do something about the smuggling in of drugs. And Admiral Kravitz—Grimes could just picture him—must have said, "We'll put Commodore Grimes on the job. Anything at all off-beat is right up his alley." And if Grimes were successful in stopping the traffic the Navy would take the credit. If he made a mess of things, it would be pointed out that, after all, he was only a Reserve Officer, not Navy proper. On past occasions Sonya had worked with him—but that had been when the Federation and the Confederacy had been acting in concert. On this occasion they would not be. The majority of Federated Planets approved the permissive society. The Rim Worlds did not, repeat not.

  Oh, well, thought Grimes, I suppose I'd better do something about something. For a start, I'd better organize transport for myself. Billy Williams is a Reserve Commander, and Rim Malemute is rated as a naval auxiliary vessel. And the Navy has a yard here, at Port Last, and an armory. It's time I did some telephoning. It's just as well that the Admiralty will be footing the bills.

  A smartly uniformed boy took him up to his suite. Once there Grimes called Rim Malemute, by now hooked into the planetary telephone service, and told Williams to come out to see him as soon as possible. Then he spoke to Rim Runners' Port Last Manager, telling him that he, Grimes, had been called to Active Service. He dictated a Priority Carlottigram to be sent to Admiral Kravitz, requesting the services of the Malemute and her personnel. He rang the O.I.C. Port Last Base, introducing himself and warning the officer that probably he would require some modifications made to the tug. He sent another Carlottigram, this one to Sonya, saying, Involved in fun and games. See if you can get yourself asked to the party. He caught Captain Dunbar at his office, and told him what was happening. Finally he rang the Port Last Chief Collector of Customs.

  "Grimes here. Commodore Grimes. I've been instructed to work with you people on this drug running business."

  "Oh, yes, Commodore. The Navy told us that they were putting a senior officer on to it. Hang on a moment, will you? There's a friend of yours here would like a word with you."

  A friend? thought Grimes. If I had any friends on this world they wouldn't be in the Customs Department.

  But he recognized the face that appeared in the little screen of the telephone. It was Billinghurst, who said, "A very good day to you, Commodore. I suppose you came here over the Rim Caribou affair. I was here when
it happened. There's been a conference of all the senior Customs Officers of the Rim Worlds. Yes, about this drug business." He laughed fatly. "I think you'll admit, now, that sending out Circulars isn't quite good enough!"

  VII

  In the days that followed Grimes was busy. The modifications to Rim Malemute—mainly the fitting of weaponry—he left in Williams' capable hands, concerning himself with setting up some kind of an organization and with reading all the official reports that were made available to him. Pleshoff, he learned, had been very unlucky. In the vast majority of cases those who smoked dreamy weed functioned normally on awakening. He learned, too, that the drug was not one on which one became hooked, although those who had participated in a dream time, as it was called, wished to repeat the experience as soon as possible. But, as far as he could determine, the stuff was no more dangerous than alcohol, and its over-all effects were far less damaging. Still, he had been ordered to help stamp out the traffic—and, as Sonya had said, there were far too many utterly unworthy people making far too big profits from it.

  For much of the time he was having to work with Billinghurst who, even though Port Forlorn was his own bailiwick, had been put in general charge of the investigation by his Department. Grimes acquired a grudging respect for the man's capabilities although it was still impossible to like him. Billinghurst, however, insisted on treating Grimes as an old friend. His attitude was, we're both Lorners. We have to stand together against these Ultimo hicks.

  He said, "We'll not be able to rely too much on the police, Commodore. They're like all policemen, everywhere. When it comes to dealing with members of the criminal classes they're quite efficient, but when they tangle with students, or spheres, they go all hysterical."

  "Spheres?" asked Grimes.

  "You should study the jargon. They call themselves spheres. They call people like us blocks. We block the spheres from rolling."

  "And just how do the . . . er . . . spheres roll, Mr. Billinghurst?"

  "Doing anything tonight, Commodore? There's a roll around at the Dominey Hall. You and I will have to wear false beards and dress the part; spheres come in all ages and sizes. Young Pahvani—his sister is in your office—will be with us. He's been growing his own beard so he can play the part of a sphere if necessary. He'll tell you what to wear, and all the rest of it."

  Grimes changed into his sphere outfit in Pahvani's room, in the unpretentious hotel in which the young Customs Officer was living. He surveyed himself rather dubiously in the full-length mirror. Black leather shorts—but that part of it wasn't so bad, he was used to wearing shorts with uniform. Bare legs—well, at least he maintained a good tan. Ornate, metal-studded sandals, looking like the sort of footwear that Roman legionaries must have worn. A short shirt, worn outside the shorts, basically dark green but liberally decorated with improbable scarlet and orange blossoms. A string of glass beads, each one a different shade of blue, and each one perfectly spherical. And the beard . . . it matched the hair of his head perfectly, but that was all that could be said in its favour. It was not the sort of beard that Grimes would ever have grown. It was too long, too untidy, untrimmed, uncombed.

  There was one consolation; Billinghurst, who did not have the build for this sort of rig, looked even worse than Grimes, his spindly legs uglily incongruous under the gross bulk of his body. Sub-Inspector Pahvani looked quite good. His beard suited him. He could have been an old-time Indian mystic.

  It was only a short walk from the hotel to the Dominey Hall, which was situated in the Old Town suburb of Port Last, differing from the ancient sheet metal buildings around it only in size. It was a huge barn of a place with no pretentions to architectural style. Projected into the air above it, in huge, shimmering letters of blue fire, were the words:

  TONITE! TONITE!

  ROLL-AROUND

  TONITE!

  Already there were crowds converging on the hall—men, of all ages, dressed as Grimes and his companions were dressed, girls and women, shaven-headed, most of them, similarly attired, although their shorts were much shorter and many of the shirts were practically transparent.

  There were police, too, obvious in their blue and silver uniforms. One of them, when Grimes stopped to stare at the crowd, poked him quite painfully with his club, snarling, "Move along there, you bearded wonder! Move along!" Grimes decided to move along. Billinghurst chuckled and murmured, "You see what I mean about the Police Force, John."

  "I see, Joe. And I feel it!"

  They reached the door, where Pahvani paid the admission for all three of them. There were no seats in the hall. There was a platform in the centre of the floor, as yet unoccupied. The glaring lights overhead were red and green, blue and yellow. The air was hot and already heavy with the odour of perspiring and not overly clean humanity. Many of the women had already removed their shirts and a few of the men had done so.

  "What band tonight, Francis?" asked Billinghurst casually.

  "The Music of the Spheres, sir."

  "Watch it!" snarled Billinghurst.

  "The Music of the Spheres, Joe."

  "Appropriate, I suppose," commented Grimes. He saw that a circle of flooring in the centre of the platform was sinking, was vanishing from sight. Some sort of elevator, he supposed. It would have been impossible for the bandsmen to struggle to their places through this crowd.

  Yes, it was an elevator. It brought up the instrumentalists—three bearded men with electric guitars, three more with small drums, one seated at a piano, and an enormously fat blonde girl who was holding a microphone.

  They started almost at once—the guitars snarling, the drums thudding, the piano holding the tune together. The fat girl yelled into the microphone and her voice, vastly amplified, came at them from all corners of the hall.

  "Driftin'

  "An' dreamin',

  "No lyin',

  "No schemin'

  "Just you, an' me,

  "An' he, an' she,

  "Just we,

  "Ain't yer gonna drift an' dream some time with me?"

  So it went on, for quite some time. Grimes was not enjoying himself much. He suspected that Billinghurst was not either. But young Pahvani was reveling in the music with its odd, broken rhythm—like an inertial drive unit slightly on the blink, thought Grimes nastily—as were most of the others in the crowd. But the real Roll Around had not yet started.

  When it did there was, at last, some rhythm in the music—unsubtle, compelling. As though stirred by a giant spoon the crowd began to move, clockwise, around the hall, marching in step to the insistent drums, stepping high, bringing feet thudding down on the reverberant floor. It was impossible not to join in, physically as well as psychologically. To the snarling guitars and growling drums they marched, to the amplified bass beat of the flogged piano, to the words that the fat woman was belting out in an almost baritone.

  "Rolling free, rolling free!

  "Give a shock to the blocks—One, two, three!

  "Oh, we'll roll the bastards under

  "And we'll break them all asunder,

  "Rolling free, rolling free, rolling free!"

  Grimes was singing as loudly as anybody. So was Pahvani. Billinghurst was merely muttering the words, without enthusiasm.

  Round, and round, and round again. Pahvani had got his shirt off somehow. Grimes, sweating profusely, would have liked to have done the same, but in this crush it was impossible. He saw that some of the women had, with fantastic agility, contrived to strip themselves stark naked.

  "Over land, over sea, we go rolling, rolling free,

  "And we'll always go rolling along!

  "Over hill, over dale, you will see our dusty trail,

  "As we always go rolling along."

  Round, and round, and round again. Tramp, stamp, tramp, stamp! Overhead the lights were swinging to the percussive heat of the music.

  "An all you blocks stop growlin',

  "Or this is what we'll do!

  "The spheres was made for roll
in,

  "They'll roll right over you!"

  "I was hoping," gasped Billinghurst, contriving to whisper and pant simultaneously, "to pick something up here."

  "That one looks quite nice," suggested Grimes, who had got his second wind. "A bit sweaty, but aren't we all?"

  "No . . . not . . . that! Information."

  "A rolling sphere gathers no moss," Grimes told him.

  Round, and round, and round again. Tramp, tramp, tramp! Stamp, stamp, stamp!

  "When the spheres come rolling in,

  "When the spheres come rolling in,

  "We're gonna be in that number