The Ancestors had, of course, been called dreamers, ivory-towerists, alarmists, fools. They had been called madmen who lived in the unenlightened past, believers in some foolishness called artistic integrity; schizoids who were afraid to face Reality. Posh, polish, and good riddance muttered the sane ones over their charts and oscilloscopes as the last of the Ancestors' ships blasted free of Earth. Muttered, of course, because there was, somehow, a vague awareness that the Culture-Vultures hadn't left in fear of the bright, quick Machines, but in--well, _they_ said, in _disgust_! Good riddance to childish rubbish. But now, apparently, the men of Earth had gotten themselves into something so peculiarly impossible that they were desperate enough to face the cutting wit of the fat-bottomed Artists on Ste. Catherine, who wouldn't be able to say "I told you so" in a straightforward, matter-of-fact way and let it go at that. Oh, no. But it would be better to have their damned articulate tongues tear you apart than an S-field. * * * * * The moment of reflection was spent, and Angelo asked the question. "And how can we help you?" was all he said. The leader took a deep breath. "One moment," Angelo said as he was about to speak. "Just a word of warning if you please. If you want anything of us at all, simply state your case in plain language. Don't try to 'sell' us anything--we can beat you roundly at that! And if we agree to your request, you will accept _exactly_ what we give you; beggars, no matter how expert in _some_ things, are still not in the position of choosers! A matter, after all, of--shall we say, artistic integrity?" The leader's eyes flashed: _Damn you and your infernal artistic integrity!_ but it was his mouth which, fortunately for him under the circumstances, did the talking. "Very well. As I said, both Sides are in perfect technological and therefore military balance--" "Balance _is_ so important," interrupted Angelo. Behind him, Ojar, the Orator was having a difficult time repressing a yelp of pure mirth. It was unfair, of course, to bait these stumble-witted fellows like this, but it _was_ amusing--especially when Angelo did it, who, though a Painter, was well up on his word-play. "... Perhaps you have already noticed," Angelo was going on, quite oblivious to the perspiration on the leader's high forehead, and exactly as Ojar had expected, "how well we of Ste. Catherine observe the Fundamental Laws of Order. The Rhythm of our very way of life, for example--but excuse me! You were outlining your request...." The leader had reddened helplessly, and his subordinates had both stolen quick glances at him. It was as though images of the man himself, reflected from mirrors at either side, had suddenly taken on a volition of movement of their own. But quite quickly they became well-behaved images again.