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thing to do at the right time. Now he came back and climbed in beside them.
    “I’ve had the office moved back to Bennington. The intercity teleport manager offered us space.” The locally owned world branches of intercity teleport were independent of Teleport Interstellar, but usually granted courtesy exchanges with the latter. “They’ll be evacuating the city next, if I know the Governor. Just got a cease and desist order—came while you were trying to commit suicide. We’re to stop transmitting at once!”
    He grunted at Vic’s grimace, and motioned the chauffeur on, just as a radiophone call reached them. Vic shook his head at the driver and looked out to see Ptheela ploughing along against the wind, calling to them. The plant woman’s skin was peeling worse than ever.
    Flavin followed Vic’s eyes. “You going to let that ride with us? The way Plathies stink? Damned plants, you can’t trust ’em. Probably mixed up in this trouble. I heard…”
    “Plathgol rates higher in civilization than we do,” Pat stated flatly.
    “Yeah. Ten thousand years stealing culture we had to scratch up for ourselves in a thousand. So the Galactic Council tells us we’ve got to rub our noses to a superior race. Superior
plants!
Nuts!”
    Vic opened the door and reached for Pat’s hand. Flavin frowned, fidgeted, then reached out to pull them back. “Okay, okay. I told you that you were in charge here. If you want to ride with stinking Plathies—well, you’re running things. But don’t blame me if people start throwing mud.” He had the grace to redden faintly as Ptheela came up finally, and changed the subject hastily. “Why can’t we just snap a big hunk of metal over the entrances and seal them up?”
    “Too late,” Ptheela answered, sliding down beside Pat, her English drawing a surprised start from Flavin. “I was inspecting the tanks; they’re field-etched where they touched. That means the field is already outside the building, though it will spread more slowly without the metal to resonate it. Anyhow, you couldn’t get metal plates up.”
    “How long will the air last?” Pat asked.
    Vic shrugged. “A month at breathing level, maybe. Fortunately the field doesn’t spread downward much, with the Betzian design, so it won’t start working on the Earth itself. Flavin, how about getting the experts here? I need help.”
    “Already sent for them,” Flavin grunted. They were heading toward the main part of Bennington now, ten miles from the station. His face was gray and he no longer seemed to notice the somewhat pervasive odor of Ptheela.
    T hey drew up to a converted warehouse finally, and he got out, starting up the steps just as the excited cries of a newsboy reached his ears. He flipped a coin and spread the extra before them.
    It was all over the front page, with alarming statements from the scientists first interviewed and soothing statements from later ones. No Teleport Interstellar man had spoken, but an interview with one of the local teleport engineers had given the basic facts, along with some surprisingly keen guesses as to what would happen next.
    But above everything was the black headline:
BOMB TRANSMITTER, SAYS PAN-ASIA
    The ultimatum issued by Pan-Asia was filled with high-sounding phrases and noble justification, but its basic message was clear enough. Unless the loss of air—air that belonged to everyone—was stopped and all future transmitting of all types halted, together with all dealings with “alien anti-terrestrials,” Pan-Asia would be forced to bomb the transmitters, together with all other resistance.
    “Maybe…” Flavin began doubtfully, but Vic cut him off. His faith in mankind’s right to its accidental niche in the Galactic Council wasn’t increasing much.
    “No dice. The field is a space-strain that is permanent, unless canceled by the right wave-form. The canceling crystal is in the transmitter. Destroy that and the field never can be stopped. It’ll keep growing