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weather disturbances throughout the country, caused by the unprecedented and disastrously severe low over Bennington. People were complaining of the air, already claiming they could feel it growing thinner, though that was sheer hysterical nonsense. Also, the Galactic Envoy was missing.
    The editorial of the Bennington Times came on last, pointing a finger at Vic for changing the circuits, but blaming it on the aliens who hoarded their knowledge so callously. There was just enough truth in the charge to be dangerous. Bennington was close enough to the transmitter to explain the undertones of lynch law that permeated the editorial.
    “I’ll put a stop to that,” Flavin told Vic angrily. “I’ve got enough pull to make them pull a complete retraction. But it won’t undo all the harm.”
    V ic felt the automatic, and it seemed less of a nuisance now. “I notice no news on Pan-Asia’s ultimatum.”
    “Yeah. I hear the story was killed by Presidential emergency powers, and Pan-Asia has agreed to a three-day stay—no more. My information isn’t the best, but I gather we’ll bomb it ourselves if it isn’t cleared up by then.”
    Vic climbed out at the local station office, with the others trailing. In the waiting room, a vaguely catlike male from Sardax waited, clutching a few broken ornaments and a thin sheaf of Galactic credits. One of his four arms was obviously broken and yellow blood oozed from a score of wounds.
    But he only shrugged at Vic’s whistled questions, and his answer in Code was unperturbed. “No matter. In a few moments I ship to Chicago, then home. My attackers smelled strongly of hate, but I escaped.” His whistle caught at a signal from the routing office, and he hurried off, with a final sentence. “They will survive, I am told.”
    Remembering the talons on the Sardaxan’s hands, Vic grinned wryly. They were a peaceful race, but pragmatic enough to see no advantage in being killed.
    Vic threw open the door to his little office and the four went in. It wasn’t until he started toward his desk that he noticed his visitor.
    The Galactic Envoy might have been the robot he claimed, but there was no sign of it. He was dressed casually in expensive tweeds, lounging gracefully in a chair, with a touch of a smile on his face. Now he got up, holding out a hand to Vic.
    “I heard you were running things. Haven’t seen you since I helped pick you for the first year class, but I keep informed. Thought I’d drop by to tell you the Council has given official approval to your full authority over the Earth Branch of Teleport Interstellar, and I’ve filed the information with the U. N. and your President.”
    Vic lifted his head. “Why me?”
    “You’ve learned all the theory Earth has, you’ve had more practical experience with more stations than anyone else, and you’ve undoubtedly picked Ptheela’s brains dry by now. You’re the obvious man.”
    “I’d a lot rather see one of your high and mighty Galactic experts take over!”
    The Envoy shook his head gently. “We’ve found that the race causing the trouble usually is the race best fitted to solve it. The same ingenuity that maneuvered the sabotage—it
was
sabotage, by the way—will help you solve it, perhaps. The Council may not care much for your grab first rule in economics and politics, but it never doubted that you represent one of the most ingenious races we have met. You see, there really are
no
inferior races.”
    “Sabotage?” Pat looked sick. “Who’d be that stupid and vicious?”
    T he Envoy smiled faintly. “Who’d give the Knights of Terra money for a recruiting drive? I can’t play much part in things here—I’ve got limited abilities, a touch of telepathy, a little more knowledge than you, and a certain in-built skill at handling political situations. Your own government is busy examining the ramifications of the plot now. It had to be an inside job, as you call it.”
    “Earth for Earth, and down with the