"Ranson, Terrestial Intelligence." The special agent offered his card. "You sent to Earth a while ago for an operator?"
Jared Haller nodded. He was a big, rough-featured individual with gray leonine hair. A battering-ram of a man, one would think, who hammered his way through life by sheer force and drive. But as Ranson looked closer, he could see lines of worry, of fear, etched about the strong mouth, and a species of terror within the shaggy-browed eyes.
"Yes," said Jared Haller. "I sent for an operator. You got here quickly, Mr. Ranson!"
"Seven days out of earth on the express-liner Arrow." Ranson wondered why Haller didn't come to the point. Even Terrestial Intelligence headquarters in New York hadn't known why a T.I. man was wanted on Mars ... but Haller was one of the few persons sufficiently important to have an operator sent without explanation as to why he was wanted. Ranson put it directly. "Why did you require the help of T.I., Mr. Haller?" he asked.
"Because we're up against something a little too big for the Mercian police force to handle." Jared Haller's strong hands tapped nervously upon the desk. "No one has greater respect for our local authorities than myself. Captain Maxwell is a personal friend of mine. But I understood that T.I. men had the benefit of certain amazing devices, remarkable inventions, which make it easy for them to track down criminals."
Ranson nodded. That was true. T.I. didn't allow its secret devices to be used by any other agency, for fear they might become known to the criminals and outlaws of the solar system. But Haller still hadn't told what crime had taken place. This time Ranson applied the spur of silence. It worked.
"Mr. Ranson," Haller leaned forward, his face a gray grim mask, "someone, something, is working to gain control of the Martian Broadcasting Company! And I don't have to tell you that whoever controls M.B.C. controls Mars! Here's the set-up! Our company, although state owned, is largely free from red-tape, so long as we stress the good work we terrestials are doing on Mars and keep any revolutionary propaganda off the air-waves. Except for myself, and half a dozen other earthmen in responsible positions, our staff is largely Martian. That's in line with our policy of teaching Mars our civilization until it's ready for autonomy. Which it isn't yet, by quite some. As you know."
Ranson nodded, eyes intent as the pattern unfolded.
"All right." Haller snapped. "You see the situation. Remove us ... the few terrestials at the top of M.B.C ... and Martian staff would carry on until new men came out from Earth to take our places. But suppose during that period with no check on their activities, they started to dish out nationalist propaganda? One hour's program, with the old Martian war-songs being played and some rabble-rouser yelling 'down with the terrestial oppressors' and there'd be a revolution. Millions of reddies against a few police, a couple of regiments of the Foreign Legion. It'd be a cinch."
"But," ... Ranson frowned ... "this is only an interesting supposition. The reddies are civilized, peaceful."