It is our prediction that this little gem will be enjoyed for a long time to come and will be a real money-maker for its publishers. * * * * * _They haven't hanged me yet_, McLeod thought. He sat in his apartment alone and realized that it would take very little to get him hanged. How could one book have aroused such wrath? Even as he thought it, McLeod knew the answer to that question. It wasn't the book. No one who had read it two and a half years before had said anything against it. No, it wasn't the book. It was the Galactic reaction to the book. Already feeling inferior because of the stand-offish attitude of the beings from the stars, the Homeric laughter of those same beings had been too much. It would have been bad enough if that laughter had been generated by one of the Galactics. To have had it generated by an Earthman made it that much worse. Against an Earthman, their rage was far from impotent. Nobody understood _why_ the book was funny, of course. The joke was over their heads, and that made human beings even angrier. He remembered a quotation from a book he had read once. A member of some tribal-taboo culture--African or South Pacific, he forgot which--had been treated at a missionary hospital for something or other and had described his experience. "The white witch doctor protects himself by wearing a little round mirror on his head which reflects back the evil spirits." Could that savage have possibly understood what was humorous about that remark? No. Not even if you explained to him why the doctor used the mirror that way. _Now what?_ McLeod thought. He was out of a job and his bank account was running low. His credit rating had dropped to zero. McLeod heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open and Jackson entered with his squad of U.B.I. men. "Hey!" said McLeod, jumping to his feet. "What do you think this is?" "Shut up, McLeod," Jackson growled. "Get your coat. You're wanted at headquarters." McLeod started to say something, then thought better of it. There was nothing he could say. Nobody would care if the U.B.I. manhandled him. Nobody would protest that his rights were being ignored. If McLeod got his teeth knocked in, Jackson would probably be voted a medal. McLeod didn't say another word. He followed orders. He got his coat and was taken down to the big building on the East River which had begun its career as the United Nations Building. He was bundled up to an office and shoved into a chair. Somebody shoved a paper at him. "Sign this!" "What is it?" McLeod asked, finding his voice. "A receipt. For two thousand dollars. Sign it." McLeod looked the paper over, then looked up at the burly man who had shoved it at him. "_Fifty thousand Galactic credits!_ What is this for?" "The royalty check for your unprintably qualified book has come in, Funny Man. The Government is taking ninety-eight per cent for income taxes. Sign!"