Suddenly John Firth understood the fallacy of his fanaticism. A society was like a living body, an integrated organism of many members. No one could function without the others. No man--no group of men--could create an isolate world. The social equation seemed as clear to Firth as the simplest sum in arithmetic. Each man was a part of a functioning social unit which included them all. Each man's talent, whether it was the plodding docility of a moron or the brilliance of genius, belonged to all men. In the meantime, the workers found that they could not run Firth's world alone, either. They gloried in forbidden luxuries until they were satiated. Shortly they became as indolent as the aristocracy had been; and the food supply was nearly exhausted. The treaty they made was direct and to the point: the two groups agreed to live in equality, sharing the burden of the labor and the accumulated wealth of knowledge. The treaty was made when you were a child; we have perfected the technique of co-operation within one generation. We're ready, now, to go back to Earth. You'll be with us? Fine, Chris! No. Please, no apologies. I understand why you intended to destroy our ship; others have attempted it, too. No harm was done. You're free,--entirely free ... ... The Organizer waited until he was alone in the office. Then, with trembling, aging hands, he took the log book out of the safe and slowly made another entry: _Chris was the last, I think. He accepted the lie, just as most of the others have. When they return to Earth, they will be sound men with whole minds. For them Firth's world will always stand as a symbol of man's highest achievement in co-operation. May this sham, in some small way, expiate the crime and the folly of my arrogant delusion._ John Firth's head dropped on his arm and his shoulders shook; but the sobs were sobs of relief. Chris was saved; Chris would go back. That mattered very much--for Chris was his grandson.