Clawly's features writhed. Thus, he thought, the Dawn gods must have felt when looking down upon mankind the evening before Ragnarok. To be able to shake those people out of their complacency, make them aware of danger! The seer's words returned to him: "Arm it. Mobilize it. Do not let it wait supine for the hunter--You must give it a reason ... extemporize a danger--Mars." Mars! The seer's disappearance had caused Clawly to miss the idea behind the word, but now, remembering, he grasped it in a flash. A faked Martian invasion. Doctored reports from the First Interplanetary Expedition--mysterious disappearance of spaceships--unknown craft approaching Earth--rumor of a vast fleet--running fights in the stratosphere-- Firemoor of the Extraterrestrial Service was his friend, and believed in his theories. Moreover, Firemoor was daring--even reckless. Many of the young men under him were of similar temperament. The thing could be done! Abruptly Clawly shook his head, scowled. Any such invasion scare would be a criminal hoax. It was a notion that must have been forced upon him by the darker, more wantonly mischievous side of his nature--or by some lingering hypnotic influence of Oktav. And yet-- No! He must forget the notion. Find another way. He slid from the desk, began to pace. Opposition. That was what he needed. Something concrete to fight against. Something, some person, some group, that was opposed to him, that was trying to thwart him at every turn. He stopped, wondering why he had not thought of it before. There were two men who were trying to thwart him, who had shrewdly undermined his and Thorn's theories, two men who had shown an odd personality reversal in the past months, who had impressed him with a fleeting sense of strangeness and alienage. Two members of the World Executive Committee. Conjerly and Tempelmar. * * * * * Brushing the treetops, swooping through leaf-framed gaps, startling a squirrel that had been dozing on an upper branch, Clawly glided into the open and made a running landing on the olive-floored sun-deck of Conjerly's home. It was very quiet. There was only the humming of some bees in the flower garden, up from which sweet, heavy odors drifted sluggishly and curled across the deck. The sun beat down. On all sides without a break, the trees--solid masses of burnished leaves--pressed in. Clawly crossed quietly to the dilated doorway in the cream-colored wall. He did not remove his flying togs. His visor he had thrown open during flight. Raising his hand, he twice broke the invisible beam spanning the doorway. A low musical drone sounded, was repeated. There was no answering sound, no footsteps. Clawly waited. The general quiet, the feeling of lifelessness, made his abused nerves twitch. Forest homes like this, reached only by flying, were devilishly lonely and isolated.