nfederacy, every single one of them, depended for their life upon the
accumulators freighted outward from the Sun.

Talk of revolt was in the air, but, lacking a leader, it would get
nowhere. John Moore Mallory was imprisoned on one of the prison
spaceships that plied through the Solar System. Mallory, months ago, had
been secretly transferred from the Callisto prison to the spaceship, but
in a week's time the secret had been spread in angry whispers. If there
had been riots and bloodshed, they would have been to no purpose. For
revolution, even if successful, would gain nothing. It would merely goad
Interplanetary Power into withdrawing, refusing to service the domed
cities on the moons.

* * * * *

Ben Wrail stirred restlessly in his chair. The cigar had gone out. The
radio program blared unheard. His eyes still looked out the window
without seeing Jupiter.

"Damn," said Ben Wrail. Why did he have to go and spoil an evening
thinking about this damned political situation? Despite his part in the
building of the confederacy, he was a businessman, not a politician.
Still, it hurt to see something torn down that he had helped to build,
though he knew that every pioneering strike in history had been taken
over by shrewd, ruthless, powerful operators. Knowing that should have
helped, but it didn't. He and the other Jovian pioneers had hoped it
wouldn't happen and, of course, it had.

"Ben Wrail," said a voice in the room.

Wrail swung around, away from the window.

"Manning!" he yelled, and the man in the center of the room grinned
bleakly at him. "How did you come in without me hearing you? When did
you get here?"

"I'm not here," said Greg. "I'm back on Earth."

"You're what?" asked Wrail blankly. "That's a pretty silly statement,
isn't it, Manning? Or did you decide to loosen up and pull a gag now and
then?"

"I mean it," said Manning. "This is just an image of me. My body is back
on Earth."

"You mean you're dead? You're a ghost?"

The grin widened, but the face was bleak as ever.

"No, Ben, I'm just alive as you are. Let me explain. This is a
television image of me. Three-dimensional television. I can travel
anywhere like this."

Wrail sat down in the chair again. "I don't suppose there'd be any use
trying to shake hands with you."

"No use," agreed Manning's image. "There isn't any hand."

"Nor asking you to have a chair?"

Manning shook his head.

"Anyhow," said