This, which takes time to record; to read, passed through Wanniston's mind in no flash of staccato continuity, but as a pattern-plan. It was like thinking of a scotch plaid, or a linoleum pattern to the ordinary mortal; it came instantaneously to the energized intellect of John Wanniston, and he knew the whole futile thing from upper left to lower right before Lieutenant Alfred's voice had ceased to echo through Gerd Lel Rayne's workshop. He was framed. He was IT. And as nicely a nasty bit of connivery as ever hit the sight. HE was IT. Wanniston moved with rattlesnake swiftness. He hit the light cord, pulled and twisted. A splurt of sparks came with blackness and Wanniston faded back and down to run, stooped, across the workshop floor avoiding the clutter of machinery and furniture by the faculty of eidetic memory. By sensitivity of mind, he knew where Gerd Lel Rayne kept his spacecraft, and he went there immediately. A _whoosh!_ of passing air and Wanniston was in the stratosphere, free and away. He dropped back again a few minutes later to his office where he bundled his mind machine into the spacecraft before he left Terra forever. Terra. A planetful of fools. They did not respect his superior intellect. They did not even admit it. They hated him for being able to get that which they could not get, and they resented the fact that he was capable of doing it to their misfortune. They gambled with him--and when they lost, they welshed, like stinking cry-babies. But Wanniston was smart. He knew where he'd be appreciated. In the galaxy were men of intellect that would welcome him. Give him another month at the machine. Gerd Lel Rayne. Now he knew the truth about Gerd. Emissary! Magnificent creature; supergenius! Bah! One whose intellect was moronic compared to the Galactic Ones. One who had been placed on Terra because only a moron could be understood by Terrans. The Galactic Ones could understand Terrans after much painful, wearisome prodding and waiting while the Terrans, idiotlike, stumbled through their clumsy sentence structure. But no Terran could understand the pattern-plan of quadruple-ideas that passed from Galactic One to Galactic One--or even the most careful effort of the Galactic One to be patient and redundantly explicit when and if speaking to a Terran. That is why the inbetween--Gerd Lel Rayne. Well, Wanniston was far superior to Gerd Lel Rayne, and another month would see him equal to any of the Galactic Ones. * * * * * Far, long light-years across the galaxy, Wanniston loafed along, taking accelerated treatments and seeking, idly, one of the main planets of the Galactic Ones. He found one, finally, and slid into the spaceport with all the boldness of a sector governor. He decided to brazen it out--obviously the ship would be registered and his lack of license papers might be questioned. So he opened the space lock and stepped to the ground to face one of the attendants.