"But master," the alien protested, "it takes a great deal of work to construct our units. Our lumber escapes so badly no matter how often we beat it into submission. Our work capacity is limited, as you are aware. Is it really desirable to overwork us so much?" The captain was a little shocked. Was this humorless, methodical android really protesting a command from his Master? "How do you suppose the ten you are putting in status feel about it?" he managed. "They would doubtlessly prefer not to be overworked. Our fatigue channels can only stand so much." But it wasn't the work, Barnhart suddenly knew. It was the idea that there could be _eleven_ houses, instead of ten. The concept of only ninety quronos and a master must be only slightly less hideous to them. They couldn't really be so overjoyed to see him. A third rocket jarred off, rising unsteadily but surely in the low gravity. It was a fairly primitive device--evidently all they retained from the original model supplied them by the Master. Barnhart looked at the figures on the ground. Only seven. "The ones in status go into the rockets!" Barnhart gasped. "And circle in the proper orbits," the Leader agreed. This time he saw the quronos lifting a stiff form and taking it to the crude rocket. It looked entirely too much like a human body. Barnhart looked away. But at the edge of his peripheral vision he saw the quronos halt and stand up their fellow in status. He glanced at his wrist. Fifteen hundred hours. The aliens began geoplancting. Barnhart ran his tongue over his teeth, noting that they needed brushing. He came to himself with a start. Of course. He had almost forgot. Barnhart faced the others and joined them in geoplancting. A hideous cry built from one plateau of fury to another. "_He's no better than us!_" the Leader screamed. _Ninth day_ I have made a serious mistake. While it was necessary for me to conform to the quronos' ritual to get myself recognized, I should not have continued to adhere to it. Apparently by these creatures' warped reasoning I established myself as a reasoning creature by first joining them in their routine; but when I continued to act in accord with them I proved myself no better than they are. As Master I am supposed to be superior and above their mundane routine. At the moment they are milling belligerently outside my force-field screen. As I look into their stupid, imaginationless faces I can only think that somewhere in the past they were invented by some unorthodox Terran scientist, probably of English descent. They-- Wait. The force field. It's wavering. It must have been damaged when it got tramped underfoot. They are going to get in to me. It--