"No," said Kring, "no proof that would be good in court. But everyone in this room now is convinced of your guilt. That must be a terrible burden on your conscience. If I were you I should welcome this opportunity to make some slight amend. I appeal to you, Mr. Rastol, to decline the post of commerce minister." Rastol laughed. "You appeal! You beg! This is the weakness of your system. You yourselves are so weak that your government cannot be strong. I know now that the threats against me tonight all were psychological. Even that Q-gun in your daughter's hands. You would not shoot me. It is against your principles. Fortunately I have no principles, and after I have become commerce minister there will be others like me in the cabinet. And then it will not be long before Mars again has the kind of government a planet like this needs. Now I am going--and if any of you decides to remember any of this in public I shall deny it. And then who do you think will be believed? "Stand aside, young lady. I am leaving." Rastol got up from his chair. This wasn't Scott's show, but he spoke up anyway. It looked as if everything else had failed. He said: "I have quite a story here, Rastol. I haven't been taking notes, but they say I have a stenographic ear." Rastol whirled on him. "Use it, and I'll sue you and Galactic News Service for libel and everything else in the statutes. I'll deny everything and produce two witnesses for every one of yours. You're not dealing with an amateur, young man. And now I say good night, you fools." Kring moved to stand beside his daughter. "There is yet more," he said. "We had hoped to spare you this, although I know now that our concern for your feelings was misguided." "There is no more," said Rastol. "You have bluffed and you have lost." He whipped his hand through the air. "Stand aside. I am going." "Stay," said a new voice. Rastol turned slowly. At the end of the room opposite the door some hangings had parted. Through them from another room had come a tall, cloaked Martian, a young man. Rastol looked at him under a wrinkled forehead. "Who are you?" he asked. "Hello, Father," said Acton. Rastol peered across the room. His face seemed to come apart. It went slack, seemed to turn gray. "You're dead!" cried Rastol. "This is a trick! A disguise! Turn up the lights!" Acton stepped forward to within a foot of the older man. "Look well," he said. "Is it a disguise?" "But you're dead. I know you're dead. I--" "Yes, Father. I should be." Acton's eyes were steady, but without hate. They looked hurt and pitying. "I was at Druro, and you signed the order for my execution yourself. It was carried out, you thought, and the last witness against you was stilled. You thought."