Cudyk opened the door.

A few aliens were sitting at the round tables in the big outer room. Cudyk watched Harkway's face, and saw his eyes widen with shock. The Niori were something to see, the first time.

They were tall and erect, and their anatomy was not even remotely like man's. They had six limbs each, two for walking, four for manipulation. Their bodies were covered by a pale, horny integument which grew in irregular sections, so that you could tell the age of a Niori by the width of the growth-areas between the plates of his armor. But you saw none of those things at first. You saw the two glowing violet eyes, set wide apart in a helmet-shaped head, and the startlingly beautiful markings on the smooth shell of the face—blue on pale cream, like an ancient porcelain tile. And you saw the crest—a curved, lucent shape that even in a lighted room glowed with its own frost-blue. No Niori ever walked in darkness.

Cudyk guided Harkway toward the door at the far end of the room. "We'll see who's in the back room," he said. "There is usually a small gathering at this hour."

The inner room was more brightly lit than the other. Down the center, in front of a row of empty booths, was a long table. Three men sat at one end of it, with teacups and a bowl of lichee nuts between them. They looked up as Cudyk and Harkway came in.

"Gentlemen," said Cudyk, "may I present Mr. Harkway, who is here on a mission from the Minority People's League? Mr. Burgess, Father Exarkos, Mr. Ferguson."

The three shook hands with Harkway, Father Exarkos smiling pleasantly, the other two with more guarded expressions. The priest was in his fifties, grey-haired, hollow-templed, with high orbital ridges and a square, mobile mouth. He said, in English oddly accented by a mixture of French and Greek, "Please sit down, both of you ... I understand that your first evening here has been not too pleasant, Mr. Harkway. I hope the rest of your stay will be more so."

Burgess snorted, not quite loudly enough to be deliberately rude. His face had a pleasant, even a handsome cast except for the expression of petulance he was now wearing. He was a few years younger than the priest: a big-boned, big-featured man whose slightly curved back and hollowed cheeks showed that he had lost bulk since his prime.

Ferguson's pale face was expressive but completely controlled. The gambler's eyes were narrow and unreadable, the lips and the long muscles of the jaw showing nothing more than surface emotion. He asked politely, "Planning to stay long, Mr. Harkway?"

"That all depends, Mr. Ferguson, on—to be blunt, on what sort of a reception I get. I won't try to conceal from you the fact that my role here is that of a political propagandist. I want to convince as many people as I can that the Minority People's movement is the best hope of the human race. If I can find that there's some chance of succeeding, I'll stay as long as necessary. If not—"

"I'm afraid we won't be seeing much of you, in that case, Mr. Harkway," said Burgess. His tone was scrupulously correct, but his nostrils were quivering with repressed indignation.

"What makes you say that, Mr. Burgess?" Harkway asked, turning his intent, serious gaze on the older man.

"Your program, as I understand it," said Burgess, "aims at putting humanity on an equal basis with various assorted races of lizards, beetles and other vermin. I don't think you will find much sympathy for that program here, sir."

"I'm glad to say that, through no fault of your own, you're mistaken," said Harkway, smiling slightly. "I think you're referring to the program of the right wing of the League, which was dominant for the last several years. It's true that for that period, the M.P.L.'s line was to work for the gradual integration of human beings—and other repressed races—into the society of the planets on which they live. But that's all done with now. The left wing, to which I belong, has won a decisive victory at the League elections.

"Our program," Harkway continued earnestly, "rejects the doctrine of assimilation as a biological and cultural absurdity. What we propose to do, and with sufficient help will do, is to return humanity to its homeland—to reconstitute Earth as an autonomous, civilized member of the galactic entity. We realize, of course, that this is a gigantic undertaking, and that much aid will be required from the other races of the galaxy.... Were you about to say something, Mr. Burgess?"

Burgess said bitterly, "What you mean, in plain words, Mr. Harkway, is that you think we all ought to go home—dissolve Earth's galactic empire—give it all back to the natives. I don't think you'll find much support for that, either."

Harkway bit his lip, and cast a glance at Cudyk that seemed to say, You warned me, but I forgot. He turned to Ferguson, who was smiling around his cigar as blandly as if nothing out of the way had been said. "What is your view, Mr. Ferguson?"

Ferguson waved his cigar amiably. "You'll have to count me out, Mr. Harkway. I'm doing okay as things are—I have no reason to want any changes."

Harkway turned to the little priest. "And you, Father Exarkos?"

The Greek shrugged and smiled. "I wish you all the luck in the universe, sincerely," he said. "But I am afraid I believe that no material methods can rescue man from his dilemma."

"If I've given any offense," said Burgess suddenly, "I can leave."

Harkway stared at him for a moment, gears almost visibly slipping in his head. Then he said, "Of course not, Mr. Burgess, please don't think that for a moment. I respect your views—"

Burgess looked around him with a wounded expression. "I know," he said with difficulty, "that I am in a minority—here—"

Father Exarkos put a hand on his arm and murmured something. Harkway leaned forward impulsively across the table and said, "Mr. Burgess, I've traveled a long way in the hope of discussing these problems with men of intelligence and standing in their community, like yourself. I hope you'll stay and give me the benefit of your experience. I shall be very much the loser if you don't."

Burgess was visibly struggling with his emotions. He stood up and said, "No—no—not tonight. I'm upset. Please excuse me." Head bowed, he walked out of the room.

There was a short silence. "Did I do the wrong thing?" asked Harkway.

"No, no," said Father Exarkos. "It was not your fault—there was nothing you could do. You must excuse him. He is a good man, but he has suffered too much. Since his wife died—of a disease contracted during one of the Famines, you understand—he has not been himself."

Harkway nodded, looking both older and more human than he had a moment before. "If we can only turn back the clock," he said. "Put Humpty Dumpty together again, as you expressed it, Mr. Cudyk." He smiled apologetically at them. "I won't harangue you any more tonight—I'll save that for the meeting tomorrow. But I hope that some of you will come to see it my way."

Father Exarkos' eyebrows lifted. "You are planning to hold a public meeting tomorrow?"

"Yes. There's some difficulty about space—Mayor Seu tells me that the town hall is already booked for the next three days—but I'm confident that I can find some suitable place. If necessary, I'll make it an open-air meeting."

Rack, thought Cudyk. Rack usually stays in town for only two or three days at a time. Seu is trying to keep Harkway under cover until he leaves. It won't work.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark shape in the doorway, and his first thought was that Burgess had come back. But it was not Burgess. It was a squat, bandy-legged man with huge shoulders and arms, wearing a leather jacket and a limp military cap. Cudyk sat perfectly still, warning Exarkos with his eyes.

The squat man walked casually up the table, nodding almost imperceptibly to Ferguson. He ignored the others, except the M.P.L. man. "Your name Harkway?" he asked. He pronounced it with the flat Boston "a": "Haakway".

"That's right," said Harkway.

"Got a message for you," said the squat man. "From Captain Lawrence Rack, United Uth Space Navy."

"The Earth Space Navy was dissolved twenty years ago," said Harkway.

The squat man sighed. "You wanna heah the message or don't you?" he asked.

"Go ahead," said Harkway. His nostrils were pale, and a muscle stood out at the side of his jaw.

"Heah it is. You're plannin' to hold a meetin' of the vehmin lovehs society, right?"

As Harkway began to reply, the squat man leaned across the table and backhanded him across the mouth, knocking him sideways out of his chair.

"Don't," said the squat man. He turned and strolled out.

Cudyk and Ferguson helped Harkway up. The man's eyes were staring wildly out of his pale face, and a thin trickle of blood was running from a pulped lip. "Who was that man?" he asked in a whisper.

"His name is Monk," said Cudyk. "At least that is the only name he has been known to answer to. He is one of Rack's lieutenants—Rack, as you probably know, is the leader of the activists in this sector. Mr. Harkway, I'm sorry this happened. But I advise you to wait for a week or so before you hold your meeting. There is no question of courage involved. It would be suicide."

Harkway looked at him blindly. "The meeting will be held as planned," he said, and walked out, stiff-legged.

Ferguson shook his head, laughed, and shook his head again. Cudyk exchanged a hopeless glance with Father Exarkos, and then followed Harkway out of the room.

The shop was empty except for young Nick Pappageorge, dozing behind the long counter, and the pale morning sunlight that streamed through the plastic window. Most of the counter was in shadow, but stray fingers of light picked out gem trays here and there, turning them into minuscule galaxies of frosty brilliance.

Two Niori, walking arm in arm, paused in front of the window display, then went on. Two human youngsters raced by, shouting. Cudyk caught only a glimpse of them through the pierced screen that closed off the back of his shop, but he recognized them by their voices: Red Gorciak and Stan Eleftheris.

There were few children now, and they were growing up wild. Cudyk wondered briefly what it must be like to be a child born into this microcosm, knowing no other. He dismissed the thought; it was simply one more thing about which there was no use to worry.

Cudyk had not spoken to anyone that morning, but he knew approximately what was happening. Seu would have been busy most of the night, covering up the traces of last evening's riot. Now, probably, he was explaining it away to Zydh Oran, the Niori Outgroup Commissioner. Harkway was making preparations for his meeting—another thing for Seu to worry about when he got through cleaning up the last mess.

Barring miracles, today was going to be very bad.

Seu came in, moving quickly. He walked directly to the rear of the shop. His normally bland face looked worried, and there were beads of sweat on his wide forehead, although the morning was cool.

"Sit down," said Cudyk. "You've seen Zydh Oran?"

Seu made a dismissing gesture. "Nothing. Not pleasant, but nothing. The same as usual—he tells me what happened, I deny it. He knows, but under their laws he can't do anything."

"Someday it will be bad," said Cudyk.

"Yes. Someday. Laszlo—you've got to do something about Harkway. Otherwise he's going to be killed tonight, and there will be a stink from here to Sirius. I had to tell him he could use Town Hall—he was all ready to hold a torch-light meeting in the streets."

"I tried," said Cudyk.

"Try again. Please. Your ethnic background is closer to his than mine. He respects you, I think. Perhaps he's even read some of your books. If anyone can persuade him, you can."

"What did he say when you talked to him?"

"An ox. A brain made of soap and granite. He says it is a matter of principle. I knew then that I could do nothing. When an Anglo-Saxon talks about his principles, you may as well go home. He won't accept a weapon, he won't postpone the meeting. I think he wants to be a martyr."

Cudyk frowned. "Maybe he does. Have you seen Rack?"

"No. Ferguson pretends not to know where he is."

"That's rather odd. What is his motive, do you think?"

Seu said, "Basically, he is afraid of Rack. He cooperates with him—they use each other—but you know that it's not a marriage of minds. He knows that Rack is stronger than he is, because he is only an amoral egotist, and Rack is a fanatic. I think he believes this business may be Rack's downfall, and he would like that."

He stood up. "I have to go. Will you do it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let me know." Seu walked out, as hastily as he had entered.

Nick Pappageorge had roused himself and was polishing a tall, fluted silver vase. Cudyk said, "Nick, go and find out where Mr. Harkway is. If he isn't busy, ask him if he'll do me the favor of dropping around to see me. Otherwise, just come back and tell me where he is; I'll go to him."

Nick said, "Sure, Mr. Cudyk," and went out.

Cudyk stared at the tray of unsorted gems on the desk before him. He stirred them with his forefinger, separating out an emerald, two aquamarines, a large turquoise and a star sapphire. That was all he had had to begin with—his dead wife's jewels, carried half across Europe when a loaf of bread was worth more than all the gem stones in the world. The sapphire had bought his passage on the alien ship; the others had been his original stock-in-trade, first at the refugee center on Alfhal, then here on Palumbar. Now he was a prosperous importer, with a business that netted him the equivalent of ten thousand pounds a year.

But the wealth was ashes; he would have traded all of it for one loaf of bread, eaten in peace, on an Earth that had not sunk back to barbarism.

Momentum, he told himself. Momentum, and a remnant of curiosity. Those are the only reasons I can think of why I do not blow out my brains. I wonder what keeps the others from it? Seu? Chong Yin? I don't know. Burgess has his fantasy, though it cracks now and then. Ferguson has the sensibility of a jackal. Rack, as Seu said, is a fanatic. But why do the rest of them keep on? For what?