Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell by Eric Frank Russell Page A

The line slowly edged forward, composed of secretaries or other officers of trade guilds, zith -drinking societies, video fan clubs and every other conceivable kind of organization. The skinny oldster moping in the rear was Area Supervisor of the Pan-Sirian Association of Lizard Watchers. The podgy specimen one step ahead of him represented the Pertane Model Rocket Builders Club. There wasn’t one in the entire string who looked capable of spitting in a Spakum eye much less overthrowing his own government.
    Joining the line, Mowry said conversationally to Skinny, “Nuisance this, isn’t it?”
    “Yar. Only the Statue of Jaime knows why it is considered necessary.”
    “Maybe they’re trying to round up people with special talents,” Mowry offered. “Radio experts, photographers and folk like those. They can use all sorts of technicians in wartime.”
    “They could have said so in plain words,” opined Skinny impatiently. “They could have published a list of them and ordered them to report in.”
    “Yar, that’s right.”
    “My group watches lizards. Of what special use is a lizardwatcher, hi?”
    “I can’t imagine. Why watch lizards, anyway?”
    “Have you ever watched them?”
    “No,” admitted Mowry, without shame.
    “Then you don’t know the fascination of it.”
    Podgy turned round and said with a superior air, “My group builds model rockets.
    “Kid stuff,” defined Skinny.
    “That’s what you think. I’ll have you know every member is a potential rocket-engineer and in time of war a rocket-engineer is a valuable—”
    “Move up,” said Skinny, nudging him. They shuffled forward, stopped. Skinny said to Mowry, “What’s your crowd do?”
    “We etch glass.”
    “Well, that’s a high form of art. I have seen some very attractive examples of it myself. They were luxury articles though. A bit beyond the common purse.” He let go a loud sniff. “What good are glass-etchers for winning battles?”
    “You guess,” Mowry invited.
    “Now take rockets,” put in Podgy. “The rocket is essential to space war and—”
    “Move up,” ordered Skinny again.
    They reached the stack of forms, were each given one off the top. The group dispersed, going their various ways while a long line of later comers edged toward the counter. Mowry went to the main post office, sat at a vacant table, filled up the form carefully and neatly. He got some satisfaction out of doing it with a government pen and government ink.
    Title of organization: Dirac Angestun Gesept.
    Purpose of organization: Destruction of present government and termination of war against Terra.
    Customary meeting place: Wherever Kaitempi can't find us.
    Names and addresses of elected officers: You'll find out when it’s too late.
    Attach hereto complete list of members: Nar.
    Signature: Jaime Shallapurta.
    That last touch would get someone hopping mad. It was a calculated insult to the much revered Statue of Jaime. Loosely translated it meant James Stoneybottom.
    He bought an envelope, was about to mail it back to the Bureau when it occurred to him to hot it up still more. Forthwith he took the form to his room, shoved it into the embossing machine and impressed it with the Kaitempi cartouche. Then he posted it.
    This performance pleased him immensely. A month ago it would have been too childish to bother with and the recipients would have dismissed it as the work of someone feeble-minded. But today the circumstances were vastly different. The powers-that-be had revealed themselves as annoyed if not frightened. They were in a poor mood to relish a raspberry. With moderate luck the sardonic registration form would boost their anger and that would be all to the good because a mind filled with fury cannot think in a cool, logical manner.
    When one is fighting a paper-war one uses paper-war tactics that in the long run can be just as lethal as high explosive. And the tactics are not limited in scope by use of one material. The said material