"No witch-hunt in this group, however," he assured them. "I'll veto anything that looks unfair for the Primaries, but--" He paused and rang the word again. "--_but_--there will be no leniency tolerated from here on down. If Congress thinks it's found a spy, it can execute him on the spot--and I won't lift a finger. This has got to be rooted out and burned." He began to pace again. He began barking crisp orders for specific details of the probe, or rather, for the campaign that would start the probe. The rabble were better at witch-hunts than a government was. Congress had not been assembled for fifteen years, since there had been nothing suspicious to investigate, but once it was called to duty, heads would roll--some of them literally. If some innocent people were hurt, the rabble could only blame themselves, for their own enthusiasm in ruthlessly searching out the underground enemy. Smith couldn't worry about that. If an Asian spy-system were operating in the continent, it had to be crushed quickly. * * * * * When he had outlined the propaganda and string-pulling plans for them, he turned to the other matter--the Red leader's boast of ability to conquer the West. "It's probably foolish talk, but we don't know their present psychology. Double production on our most impressive weapons. Give the artificial-satellite program all the money it wants, and get them moving on it. I want a missile-launching site in space before the end of the year. Pay particular attention to depopulation weapons for use against industrial areas. We may have to strike in a hurry. We've been fools--coasting this way, feeling secure behind the Wall." "You're _not_ contemplating another peace-effort, John?" gasped an elderly Stand-in. "I'm contemplating survival!" the leader snapped. "I don't know that we're in serious danger, but if it takes a peace-effort to make sure, then we'll start one. So fast it'll knock out their industry before they know we've hit them." He stood frozen for a moment, the mask lifted proudly erect. "By Ike, I love the West! And it's not going to suffer any creeping eruption while I'm at its head!" When the President had finished and was ready to leave, the others started donning their masks again. "Just a minute," he grunted. "Number Six." One of the men, about the President's size and build, looked up quickly. "Yes, John?" "Your cloak is stained at the left shoulder. Grease?" Six inspected it curiously, then nodded. "I was inspecting a machine shop, and--" "Never mind. Trade cloaks with me." "Why, if--" Six stopped. His face lost color. "But the others--might have--" "Precisely." Six unclasped it slowly and handed it to the Sixteenth Smith, accepting the President's in return. His face was set in rigid lines, but he made no further protest.