"Ozona stands for the decencies of life," the fat man grated, "not alphabet bombs and pituitary gas. Its purpose is to save a town, not help kill a world." "But why should _I_ be driven out?" Madson persisted. "I'm just a poet singing the beauties of the simple life unmarred by science." "Not simple enough for Ozona!" the fat man snorted. "We happen to know, Mr. Poet Madson, that you've written some stories about free love. We don't want anyone telling Ozona girls it's all right to be careless." "But those were just ideas, ideas in a story," Madson protested. "I wasn't advocating--" "No difference," the fat man cut him short. "Talk to a woman about ideas and pretty soon she gets some." His voice became almost kindly. "Look here, if you wanted a woman without getting hitched to her, why didn't you go to shantytown?" Madson squared his shoulders. "You've missed the whole point. I'd never do such a thing. I never have." "Then you shouldn't have boasted," the fat man said. "And you shouldn't have fooled around with Councilman Classen's daughter." At the name, Ellenby came out of his trance and looked sharply at Madson, who said indignantly, "I wasn't fooling around with Vera-Ellen, whatever her crazy father says. She came to my office because she has poetic ability and I wanted to encourage it." "Yeah, so she'd encourage you," the fat man finished. "That girl's wild enough already, which I suppose is what you mean by poetic ability. And in this town, her father's word counts." He hitched up his belt. "And now, professors, it's time you started." Madson and Ellenby looked at each other doubtfully. The young man with the squirtgun raised its acid-etched muzzle. The fat man looked hard at Madson and Ellenby. "I think I hear alarm clocks going off," he said quietly. They watched the two men trudge a hundred yards, watched Ellenby shift the rolled-up towel under his elbow to the other side, watched Madson pause to thumb tobacco into a pipe and glance carelessly back, then shove the pipe in his pocket and go on hurriedly. "Couple of pretty harmless coots, if you ask me," the young man with the shotgun observed. "Sure," the fat man agreed, "but we got to remember peoples' feelings and keep Ozona straight. We don't like mobs or fear _or_ girls gone wild." The young man with the shotgun grinned. "That Vera-Ellen," he murmured, shaking his head. "You better keep _your_ mind off her too," the fat man said sourly. "She's wild enough without anybody to encourage her poetic ability or anything else. It's a good thing we gave those two their walking papers." "They'll probably walk right into the arms of the Harvey gang," the young man with the squirtgun remarked, "especially if they try to short-cut." "Pretty small pickings for Harvey, those two," the young man with the shotgun countered. "Which won't please him at all." The fat man shrugged. "Their own fault. If only they'd had sense enough to keep their mouths shut. Early in life."