They told him he hated Earth, beating him until he nearly died--for he must be convinced!... It was all part of his indoctrination as a-- Cosmic Saboteur By Frank M. Robinson [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy February 1955 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] They jumped him when he was walking past an alley, a couple of blocks from the stockyards on Chicago's brawling South Side. He had gotten off the "El" two stops down because it was a damn fine Spring morning and he liked to walk through the Polish section and watch the city wake up. He was 17 years old and he hadn't grown cynical with the world yet. He liked the clean, fresh smell of the early morning and he got a kick out of the sleepy-eyed housewives in their ratty bathrobes, banging open the front door to bring in the milk and the morning paper. He'd pick up the live-stock reports, he thought, hop an "El" back uptown and maybe he'd be at Amalgamated News Service only a couple of minutes late. And if they didn't like it, they knew what they could do about it. His kid brother ran copy at the News and he said they could use another boy down there. "_Stan_," Larry had said, "_you're wasting your time at AMS. You won't get as much dough at the News but you'll learn something._" Which was something to consider because Larry was one bright cookie and someday he was really going to be somebody.... It was early morning and nobody had started to work yet--the streets were deserted. There was a chill in the air and he stopped by an open alley to light a weed and take the clamminess out of his lungs. And then he got it. A handful of knuckles right in the mouth, splintering his teeth and splitting his lip so he sprayed blood like somebody had squeezed a sponge. It was hard to get a good look because the shock had filled his eyes with tears. But there were three of them and they were grown men and the biggest he had seen outside of a television wrestling match. He screamed "_Help!_" just once before a hand as big as a typewriter buried itself wrist deep in his stomach. He doubled up and went limp, gasping for breath. One of the men caught him by the jacket collar and pulled him further into the alley, to the back of a restaurant where there was a small mountain of empty boxes and garbage cans full of orange peels and eggshells and stale doughnuts. Nobody said a word.