The radio in the truck was on. The girl and her brother were listening to a newscast reporting the diplomatic maneuvers of something referred to as the cold war. Impatiently the blind female snapped off the broadcast. Henig heard her say softly, "Have you ever wondered, Fred, what another race might think of us?" "They'd call us fools, I suppose. We have the ability to build so much, but instead we're using our science to destroy ourselves." "But you know, Fred, I don't think that would seem important to an outsider. Perhaps he wouldn't even be aware of the conflict. Simply because we're human beings, Fred, we have something far more significant. We have it because men and women have to live together, because--" "Love?" Her brother laughed. "We take that for granted." "It's a pity we can't see ourselves--just once--as strangers might. We would be able to understand our own greatness, then." But Henig didn't know that, for he wasn't conscious of how much of a change the impact of love had made in himself. He was thinking about the last mate the psychological services had assigned him. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to see her litter of young, hissing and purring in the family nest. It was the first time in his life he had felt the need to go back, and the feeling was a factor no computer could measure. He would have clawed the throat of any scientist who told him such thinking was illogical, for Henig had found what he considered to be the higher logic of emotion. Silently Henig scurried through the forest toward his shuttle, carrying with him a useless sample of dust fastened at the back of his mouth--and an idea that would one day overthrow his computer civilization. An emotion marked for export, from an anthropoid world. The exportable commodity of man.