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  A MATTER OF IMPORTANCE

  BY MURRAY LEINSTER

  Illustrated by Bernklau

  [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding ScienceFiction September 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  _The importance of a matter is almost entirely a matter of your attitude. And whether you call something "a riot" or "a war" ... well, there is a difference, but what is it?_

  Nobody ever saw the message-torp. It wasn't to be expected. It came inon a course that extended backward to somewhere near the Rift--wherethere used to be Huks--and for a very, very long way it had traveled asonly message-torps do travel. It hopped half a light-year in overdrive,and came back to normality long enough for its photocells to inspect thestar-filled universe all about. Then it hopped another half light-year,and so on. For a long, long time it traveled in this jerky fashion.

  Eventually, moving as it did in the straightest of straight lines, itsphotocells reported that it neared a star which had achievedfirst-magnitude brightness. It paused a little longer than usual whileits action-circuits shifted. Then it swung to aim for the bright star,which was the sol-type sun Varenga. The torp sped toward it on a newschedule. Its overdrive hops dropped to light-month length. Its pausesin normality were longer. They lasted almost the fiftieth of a second.

  When Varenga had reached a suitably greater brightness in themessage-torp's estimation, it paused long enough to blast out itsrecorded message. It had been designed for this purpose and no other.Its overdrive hops shortened to one light-hour of distance covered.Regularly, its transmitter flung out a repetition of what it had beensent so far to say. In time it arrived within the limits of the Varengasystem. Its hops diminished to light-minutes of distance only. It ceasedto correct its course. It hurtled through the orbits of all the planets,uttering silently screamed duplicates of the broadcasts now left behind,to arrive later.

  It did not fall into the sun, of course. The odds were infinitelyagainst such a happening. It pounded past the sun, shrieking its news,and hurtled on out to the illimitable emptiness beyond. It was stillsquealing when it went out of human knowledge forever.

  * * * * *

  The state of things was routine. Sergeant Madden had the traffic deskthat morning. He would reach retirement age in two more years, and itwas a nagging reminder that he grew old. He didn't like it. There wasanother matter. His son Timmy had a girl, and she was on the way toVarenga IV on the _Cerberus_, and when she arrived Timmy would become amarried man. Sergeant Madden contemplated this prospect. By the time hisretirement came up, in the ordinary course of events he could very wellbe a grandfather. He was unable to imagine it. He rumbled to himself.

  The telefax hummed and ejected a sheet of paper on top of other sheetsin the desk's "In" cubicle. Sergeant Madden glanced absently at it. Itwas an operations-report sheet, to be referred to if necessary, butotherwise simply to be filed at the end of the day.

  A voice crackled overhead.

  "_Attention Traffic_," said the voice. "_The following report has beenreceived and verified as off-planet. Message follows._" That voiceceased and was replaced by another, which wavered and wabbled from theelectron-spurts normal to solar systems and which make for auroras onplanets. "_Mayday mayday mayday_," said the second voice. "_Call forhelp. Call for help. Ship_ Cerberus _major breakdown overdrive headingProcyron III for refuge. Help urgently needed._" There was a pause."_Mayday mayday mayday. Call for help--_"

  Sergeant Madden's face went blank. Timmy's girl was on the _Cerberus_.Then he growled and riffled swiftly through the operations-report sheetsthat had come in since his tour of duty began. He found the one helooked for. Yes. Patrolman Timothy Madden was now in overdrive in squadship 740, delivering the monthly precinct report to Headquarters. Hewould be back in eight days. Maybe a trifle less, with his girl due toarrive on the _Cerberus_ in nine and him to be married in ten. But--

  Sergeant Madden swore. As a prospective bridegroom, Timmy's place was onthis call for help to the _Cerberus_. But he wasn't available. It was inhis line, because it was specifically a traffic job. The cops handledtraffic, naturally, as they handled sanitary-code enforcement anddelinks and mercantile offenses and murderers and swindlers and missingpersons. Everything was dumped on the cops. They'd even handled the Huksin time gone by--which in still earlier times would have been called aspace war and put down in all the history books. It was routine for thecops to handle the disabled or partly disabled _Cerberus_.

  * * * * *

  Sergeant Madden pushed a button marked "_Traffic Emergency_" and held itdown until it lighted.

  "You got that _Cerberus_ report?" he demanded of the air about him.

  "Just," said a voice overhead.

  "What've you got on hand?" demanded Sergeant Madden.

  "The _Aldeb_'s here," said the voice. "There's a minor overhaul goingon, but we can get her going in six hours. She's slow, but you knowher."

  "Hm-m-m. Yeah," said Sergeant Madden. He added vexedly: "My son Timmy'sgirl is on board the _Cerberus_. He'll be wild he wasn't here. I'm goingto take the ready squad ship and go on out. Passengers always fret whenthere's trouble and no cop around. Too bad Timmy's off on assignment."

  "Yeah," said the Traffic Emergency voice. "Too bad. But we'll get the_Aldeb_ off in six hours."

  Sergeant Madden pushed another button. It lighted.

  "Madden," he rumbled. "Desk. The _Cerberus_' had a breakdown. She'slimpin' over to Procyron III for refuge to wait for help. The _Aldeb_'lldo the job on her, but I'm going to ride the squad ship out and make upthe report. Who's next on call-duty?"

  "Willis," said a crisp voice. "Squad ship 390. He's up for next call.Playing squint-eye in the squad room now."

  "Pull him loose," Sergeant Madden ordered, "and send somebody to takethe desk. Tell Willis I'll be on the tarmac in five minutes."

  "Check," said the crisp voice.

  Sergeant Madden lifted his thumb. All this was standard operationalprocedure. A man had the desk. An emergency call came in. That man tookit and somebody else took the desk. Eminently fair. No favoritism; nothrowing weight around; no glory-grabbing. Not that there was much gloryin being a cop. But as long as a man was a cop, he was good. SergeantMadden reflected with satisfaction that even if he was getting on toretirement age, he was still a cop.

  He made two more calls. One was to Records for the customary fullinformation on the _Cerberus_ and on the Procyron system. The other wasto the flat where Timmy lived with him. It was going to be lonely whenTimmy got married and had a home of his own. Sergeant Madden dialed formessage-recording and gruffly left word for Timmy. He, Timmy's father,was going on ahead to make the report on the _Cerberus_. Timmy wasn't toworry. The ship might be a few days late, but Timmy'd better make themost of them. He'd be married a long time!

  Sergeant Madden got up, grunting, from his chair. Somebody came in totake over the desk. Sergeant Madden nodded and waved his hand. He wentout and took the slide-stair down to the tarmac where squad ship 390waited in standard police readiness. Patrolman Willis arrived at thestubby little craft seconds after the sergeant.

  "Procyron III," said Sergeant Madden, rumbling. "I figure three days.You told your wife?"

  "I called," said Patrolman Willis resignedly.

  They climbed into the squad ship. Police ships, naturally, had theirspecial drive, which could lift them off without rocket aid and gavethem plenty of speed, but filled up the hull with so muc
h machinery thatit was only practical for such ships. Commercial craft were satisfiedwith low-power drives, which meant that spaceport facilities lifted themto space and pulled them down again. They carried rockets for emergencylanding, but the main thing was that they had a profitable pay load.Squad ships didn't carry anything but two men and their equipment.

  Sergeant Madden dogged the door shut. The ship fell up toward the sky.The heavens became that blackness-studded-with-jewels which is space. Agreat yellow sun flared astern. A half-bright, half-dark globe laybelow-the planet Varenga IV, on which the precinct police station forthis part of the galaxy had its location.

  Patrolman Willis, frowning with care, established the squad