Down another grade, then another, until there was left only His Excellency’s barber, boot wiper and valet, crew members with the lowly status of O.S.—Ordinary Spaceman—the military nonentities in the ranks, and a few temporary ink-pot fillers dreaming of the day when they would be made permanent and given a desk of their own. This last collection of unfortunates remained aboard to clean ship and refrain from smoking, by command.

Had this world been alien, hostile and well-armed, the order of exit would have been reversed, exemplifying the Biblical promise that the last shall be first and the first shall be last. But this planet, although officially new, unofficially was not new and certainly was not alien. In ledgers and dusty files some two hundred light-years away it was recorded as a cryptic number and classified as a ripe plum long overdue for picking. There had been considerable delay in the harvesting due to a superabundance of other still riper plums elsewhere.

According to the records, this planet was on the outermost fringe of a huge assortment of worlds which had been settled immediately following the Great Explosion. Every school child knew all about the Great Explosion, which was no more than the spectacular name given to the bursting outward of masses of humanity when the Blieder drive superseded atomic-powered rockets and practically handed them the cosmos on a platter.

At that time, between three and five hundred years ago, every family, group, cult or clique that imagined it could do better some place else had taken to the star trails. The restless, the ambitious, the malcontents, the eccentrics, the antisocial, the fidgety and the just plain curious, away they had roared by the dozens, the hundreds, the thousands.

Some two hundred thousand had come to this particular world, the last of them arriving three centuries back. As usual, ninety per cent of the mainstream had consisted of friends, relatives or acquaintances of the first-comers, people persuaded to follow the bold example of Uncle Eddie or Good Old Joe.

If they had since doubled themselves six or seven times over, there now ought to be several millions of them. That they had increased far beyond their original strength had been evident during the approach, for while no great cities were visible there were many medium to smallish towns and a large number of villages.

His Excellency looked with approval at the turf under his feet, plucked a blade of it, grunting as he stooped. He was so constructed that this effort approximated to an athletic feat and gave him a crick in the belly.

“Earth-type grass. Notice that, captain? Is it just a coincidence, or did they bring seed with them?”

“Coincidence, probably,” said Captain Grayder. “I’ve come across four grassy worlds so for. No reason why there shouldn’t be others.”

“No, I suppose not.” His Excellency gazed into the distance, doing it with pride of ownership. “Looks like there’s someone plowing over there. He’s using a little engine between a pair of fat wheels. They can’t be so backward. Hm-m-m!” He rubbed a couple of chins. “Bring him here. We’ll have a talk, find out where it’s best to get started.”

“Very well.” Captain Grayder turned to Colonel Shelton, boss of the troops. “His Excellency wishes to speak to that farmer.” He pointed to the faraway figure.

“The farmer,” said Shelton to Major Hame. “His Excellency wants him at once.”

“Bring that farmer here,” Hame ordered lieutenant Deacon. “Quickly!”

“Go get that farmer,” Deacon told Sergeant Major Bidworthy. “And hurry—His Excellency is waiting!”

The sergeant major, a big, purple-faced man, sought around for a lesser rank, remembered that they were all cleaning ship and not smoking. He, it seemed, was elected.

Tramping across four fields and coming within hailing distance of his objective, he performed a precise military halt and released a barracks-square bellow of, “Hi, you!” He waved urgently.

The former stopped, wiped his forehead, looked around. His manner suggested that the mountainous bulk of the battleship was a mirage such as are five a penny around these parts. Bidworthy waved again, making it an authoritative summons. The farmer calmly waved back, got on with his plowing.

Sergeant Major Bidworthy employed an expletive which—when its flames had died out—meant, “Dear me!” and marched fifty paces nearer. He could now see that the other was bushy-browed and leather-faced.

“Hi!”

Stopping the plow again, the farmer leaned on a shaft, picked his teeth.

Struck by the notion that perhaps during the last three centuries the old Earth-language had been dropped in favor of some other lingo, Bidworthy asked, “Can you understand me?”

“Can any person understand another?” inquired the farmer, with clear diction. He turned to resume his task.

Bidworthy was afflicted with a moment of confusion. Recovering, he informed hurriedly, “His Excellency, the Earth Ambassador, wishes to speak with you at once.”

“So?” The other eyed him speculatively. “How come that he is excellent?”

“He is a person of considerable importance,” said Bidworthy, unable to decide whether the other was being funny at his expense or alternatively was what is known as a character. A good many of these isolated planet-scratchers liked to think of themselves as characters.

“Of considerable importance,” echoed the farmer, narrowing his eyes at the horizon. He appeared to be trying to grasp an alien concept. After a while, he inquired, “What will happen to your home world when this person dies?”

“Nothing,” Bidworthy admitted.

“It will roll on as usual?”

“Of course.”

“Then,” declared the farmer, flatly, “he cannot be important.” With that, his little engine went chuff-chuff and the wheels rolled forward and the plow plowed.

Digging his nails into the palms of his hands, Bidworthy spent half a minute gathering oxygen before, he said, in hoarse tones, “I cannot return without at least a message for His Excellency.”

“Indeed?” The other was incredulous. “What is to stop you?” Then, noting the alarming increase in Bidworthy’s color, he added with compassion, “Oh, well, you may tell him that I said”—he paused while he thought it over—“God bless you and good-by!”

Sergeant Major Bidworthy was a powerful man who weighed two-twenty pounds, had hopped around the cosmos for twenty years, and feared nothing. He had never been known to permit the shiver of one hair—but he was trembling all over by the time he got back to the ship.

His Excellency fastened a cold eye upon him and demanded, “Well?”

“He won’t come.” Bidworthy’s veins stood out on his forehead. “And, sir, if only I could have him in my field company for a few months I’d straighten him up and teach him to move at the double.”

“I don’t doubt that, sergeant major,” soothed His Excellency. He continued in a whispered aside to Colonel Shelton. “He’s a good fellow but no diplomat. Too abrupt and harsh voiced. Better go yourself and fetch that farmer. We can’t sit here forever waiting to find out where to begin.”

“Very well, your excellency.” Colonel Shelton trudged across the fields, caught up with the plow. Smiling pleasantly, he said, “Good morning, my man!”

Stopping his plow, the farmer sighed as if it were another of those days one has sometimes. His eyes were dark-brown, almost black, as they looked at the other.

“What makes you think I’m your man?” he inquired.

“It is a figure of speech,” explained Shelton. He could see what was wrong now. Bidworthy had fallen foul of an irascible type. Two dogs snarling at one another, Shelton went on, “I was only trying to be courteous.”

“Well,” meditated the farmer, “I reckon that’s something worth trying for.”

Pinking a little, Shelton continued with determination. “I am commanded to request the pleasure of your company at the ship.”

“Think they’ll get any pleasure out of my company?” asked the other, disconcertingly bland.

“I’m sure of it,” said Shelton.

“You’re a liar,” said the farmer.

His color deepening, Colonel Shelton snapped, “I do not permit people to call me a liar.”

“You’ve just permitted it,” the other pointed out.

Letting it pass, Shelton insisted, “Are you coming to the ship or are you not?”

“I am not.”

“Why not?”