[Illustration: Gone Fishing] John Emanuel Fredericks, seated by himself in one of the two Tube operator chairs, ignored the plate. He was stooped slightly forwards, peering absorbedly through the eyepieces of the operator scanner before him. Melvin Simms, Psychologist, strolled in presently through the transit lock's door, stopped behind Fredericks, remarked mildly, "Good evening, doctor." Fredericks started and looked around. "Never heard you arrive, Mel. Where's Ollie?" "He and Spalding dropped in at Spalding's place in Vermont. They should be along in a few minutes." "Spalding?" Fredericks repeated inquiringly. "Our revered president intends to observe the results of Ollie's experiment in person?" "He'll represent the board here," Simms said. "Whereas I, as you may have guessed, represent the outraged psychology department." He nodded at the plate. "That the place?" "That's it. ET Base Eighteen." "Not very sharp in the Tube, is it?" "No. Still plenty of interfering radiation. But it's thinned out enough for contact. Reading 0.19, as of thirty minutes ago." Fredericks indicated the chair beside him. "Sit down if you want a better look." "Thanks." The psychologist settled himself in the chair, leaned forward and peered into the scanner. After a few seconds he remarked, "Not the most hospitable-looking place--" Fredericks grunted. "Any of the ecologists will tell you Eighteen's an unspoiled beauty. No problems there--except the ones we bring along ourselves." Simms grinned faintly. "Well, we're good at doing that, aren't we? Have you looked around for uh ... for McAllen's subject yet?" "No. Felt Ollie should be present when we find out what's happened. Incidentally, how did the meeting go?" "You weren't tuned in?" Simms asked, surprised. "No. Too busy setting things up for contact." "Well"--Simms sat back in his chair--"I may say it was a regular bear garden for a while, doctor. Psychology expressed itself as being astounded, indignant, offended. In a word, they were hopping mad. I kept out of it, though I admit I was startled when McAllen informed me privately this morning of the five-year project he's been conducting on the quiet. He was accused of crimes ranging ... oh, from the clandestine to the inhumane. And, of course, Ollie was giving it back as good as he got." "Of course." "His arguments," Simms went on, pursing his lips reflectively, "were not without merit. That was recognized. Nobody enjoys the idea of euthanasia as a security device. Many of us feel--I do--that it's still preferable to the degree of brain-washing required to produce significant alterations in a personality type of Chard's class." "Ollie feels that, too," Fredericks said. "The upshot of the original situation, as he saw it, was that Barney Chard had been a dead man from the moment he got on the association's trail. Or a permanently deformed personality."