Requiem for a Ruler of Worlds by Brian Daley

if possible. However, that didn't dovetail with Bear's plan to make the pilot mission a shining achievement and propaganda victory.
    And so the waiting room at Earth's last remaining spaceport, closed to the public, was filled with recording teams and their equipment. All material would be heavily edited later on, naturally. In the event that this mission came to a bad end too, the recordings could be disposed of. The first successful mission would be the one palmed off on Terrans at large as Project Shepherd's initial one.
    "Make sure you have the letter of Free Import," Supervisor Bear reminded Floyt for the third time.
    "In fact, let me see it."
    He sighed and extracted it. The Earthservice letter of Free Import was a rare document; few Terrans had even heard the term. The one-page form, bearing Floyt's name in glowing characters, cited regulations of which he was totally ignorant. It authorized him to return to his place of residence—presumably with his inheritance—without hindrance or interference from Earthservice customs officials or Peaceguardians. What with the many interbureaucratic rivalries and feuds, Bear was taking no chances on having to share Project Shepherd's thunder with anyone, or having the bequest or its proceeds diverted from her own budget.
    He carefully resealed it into an inner pocket of the awkward anticontamination suit he wore. The suit, like almost everything he was to take, had been provided by Earthservice psychprop analysts. It was decked out with medical gear, urine and excreta reservoirs, decontamination kits, and testing paraphernalia. It was armored against radiation, and its cumbersome helmet, which Floyt carried under his arm, had arrangements for eating, drinking, regurgitation, and purging of nasal cavities and ears.
    Provision had even been made for keeping the wearer's eyes clear of discharge and the like.
    The anticontamination suit had an airpack and heating and cooling equipment but, as Floyt had already discovered, no apparatus for dealing with an itch on the wearer's calf.
    Just as Earthservice intended, Floyt looked as if he was bound for a radioactive wasteland teeming with demented plague carriers—which, Alacrity thought, looking at him, was exactly the way the breakabout felt about Earth.
    Of course, Floyt's wife and daughter were present. Seduced by the luxuries and perquisites that she too could share in her father's absence, Reesa had set aside the tailoring of a pseudodeerskin wardrobe.
    Balensa wore her finest; Floyt found himself staring at her even though it hurt.
    Reesa and Balensa's comments and responses had been composed for them by Bear and her psychprop director. They showed great affection for Floyt and profound concern for his safety; the audience had to be reminded that offworld travel was risky and uncomfortable. Mother and daughter made evident their pride and the fact that they couldn't wait to have Floyt home, a hero of Terra. They were modest about their own home-front courage.
    Alacrity sat in a corner, much ignored, which was fine with him. Earthservice didn't want to make much of the offworlder's role in the mission.
    "I'm going along in case he needs his excreta bag changed," he'd deadpanned to one pickup, and that had been that.
    He looked different now from the young man Bear and Floyt were somewhat used to. Earthservice had reclaimed his warbag from a spaceport lockbox. He wore a blue-gray shipsuit, a bit faded and worn, its ship-patch and insignia mounts bare. It had numerous carry-loops and cargo pockets on hips, legs, arms, and chest. A high collar, worn open, concealed a hood. The full-body insert for heating and cooling was a compact bulge in his right hip pocket. Instead of soft ship's shoes, he wore a pair of pathfinder boots he'd bought on So Far, comfortable despite their knee guards and protective reinforcement.
    Next to him, his warbag held just about everything he owned. Reesa appraised him from across the room, noticing the slim