"Kring is a gentleman even when he's dealing with a louse, Rastol, but I'm no diplomat. I'm just a hardheaded old trader from Earth, and maybe some people think my language is crude. But I say what I think, and I don't like you and your kind. Usually I don't mix in politics--my business is construction. I started when I was a young squirt and built things with my hands, and they got calloused. Now I sit in a fine office and scoot around in a fine air-car, and other men do the dirty work. But that's honest work. The dirty work I can't stomach is your kind, Rastol, and since I've got the chance to undo some of it, or maybe prevent some more of it, I asked Kring to let me speak my piece." Scott could easily have been persuaded, if he hadn't known better, that World Government Investigator Toby Black was just that rockribbed businessman-with-a-conscience that he was pretending to be. Toby went on: "The reason I saw Druro the way mighty few people saw it was that somebody slipped up. Druro was also a factory town and there was room there for a new plant. God knows you had enough slave labor to make it damned profitable. So I was invited by your Rockheads to look over parts of the town so my company could make a bid on building the plant they wanted. But I saw more than you fascists intended, Rastol. I'm an old country boy and I get up early. One day I got up earlier than those gorillas who were supposed to tag around with me to keep my nose clean. And my nose got good and dirty, Rastol. The stench of Druro is still in it. I got out and talked to the people in town, and the people had plenty to tell me about that camp just over the hill. Some of the people I spoke to had been inside it, and they knew what they were talking about." "An interesting anecdote, Mr. Black," Rastol interrupted, "but I must confess that I see no relevance." Toby lighted a cigarette and spat out the smoke. "The relevance is coming right up. I heard a lot of different things about Druro from a lot of different people, but one of the things I heard over and over again was the same. It was the name of the man whose signature sent those thousands to their death. I don't have to tell you, Rastol, what that name was. You sign your letters with it every day." * * * * * "You can prove nothing," snapped Rastol, his composure jolted for the first time. "It would be your word against mine, and why should anyone believe you?" "That's true," said Toby. "There's no proof. After I heard of your acquittal I got good and mad about it, and I made a special trip to see if I could find some of those people I'd talked to back then--to get affidavits, if they wouldn't testify in person, to get new evidence. But you and your Rockheads did a good job, all right. You practically wiped out Druro. There wasn't a soul left who would testify against you or any other fascist." "You see? You have no proof."