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folded it and hid it in the hem of her skirt.
    “I wonder how many there are of those so-called peddlers,” Ray said musingly. “I’d be interested to know how many free samples of Merry Meal they’re going to manage to give away before they’re caught.”
    The first ordinary household object needed was a common radio set; he had noticed that. The second, the filament from a five-year light-bulb. And next—he’d have to look again, but now was not the time. The other cab had drawn abreast with theirs.
    Later. And if the authorities found the coupon in the cuff of his trousers, they, he knew, would somehow manage to bring him another.
    He put his arm around Joan. “I think we’ll be all right.”
    The other cab, now, was nosing theirs to the curb and the two FBI men were waving in a menacing, official manner to the driver to stop.
    “Shall I stop?” the driver said tensely to Ray.
    “Sure,” he said. And, taking a deep breath, prepared himself.

The War with the Fnools
    Captain Edgar Lightfoot of CIA said, “Darn it, the Fnools are back again, Major. They’ve taken over Provo, Utah.”
    With a groan, Major Hauk signaled his secretary to bring him the Fnool dossier from the locked archives. “What form are they assuming this time?” he asked briskly.
    “Tiny real-estate salesmen,” Lightfoot said.
    Last time, Major Hauk reflected, it had been filling station attendants. That was the thing about the Fnools. When one took a particular shape they all took that shape. Of course, it made detection for CIA fieldmen much easier. But it did make the Fnools look absurd, and Hauk did not enjoy fighting an absurd enemy; it was a quality which tended to diffuse over both sides and even up to his own office.
    “Do you think they’d come to terms?” Hauk said, half-rhetorically. “We could afford to sacrifice Provo, Utah, if they’d be willing to circumscribe themselves there. We could even add those portions of Salt Lake City which are paved with hideous old red brick.”
    Lightfoot said, “Fnools never compromise, Major. Their goal is Sol System domination. For all time.”
    Leaning over Major Hauk’s shoulder, Miss Smith said, “Here is the Fnool dossier, sir.” With her free hand she pressed the top of her blouse against herself in a gesture indicating either advanced tuberculosis or advanced modesty. There were certain indications that it was the latter.
    “Miss Smith,” Major Hauk complained, “here are the Fnools trying to take over the Sol System and I’m handed their dossier by a woman with a forty-two inch bosom. Isn’t that a trifle schizophrenic—for me, at least?” He carefully averted his eyes from her, remembering his wife and the two children. “Wear something else from here on out,” he told her. “Or swaddle yourself. I mean, my God, let’s be reasonable: let’s be realistic.”
    “Yes, Major,” Miss Smith said. “But remember, I was selected at random from the CIA employees pool. I didn’t ask to be your secretary.”
    With Captain Lightfoot beside him, Major Hauk laid out the documents that made up the Fnool dossier.
    In the Smithsonian there was a huge Fnool, standing three feet high, stuffed and preserved in a natural habitat-type cubicle. School children for years had marveled at this Fnool, which was shown with pistol aimed at Terran innocents. By pressing a button, the school children caused the Terrans (not stuffed but imitation) to flee, whereupon the Fnool extinguished them with its advanced solar-powered weapon… and the exhibit reverted to its original stately scene, ready to begin all over again.
    Major Hauk had seen the exhibit, and it made him uneasy. The Fnools, he had declared time and time again, were no joke. But there was something about a Fnool that—well, a Fnool was an idiotic life form. That was the basis of it. No matter what it imitated it retained its midget aspect; a Fnool looked like something given away free at supermarket openings, along with