He walked through the silent corridors of the ship, a lonely figure in the black uniform of the Inhibition Corps, and once he stared through the porthole at Eden XXI, a mottled sphere receding into the star-frosted night. His mouth twisted. Conceive a colony in fear, breed it in terror. Watch it adapt, grow. If it grows too fast, hurt it. Hurt it with disease, famine, dictatorship. If it keeps growing--destroy it. The captain came down the corridor and stood at respectful attention before the black uniform. "Stereo call, Commander. Prime Base." Saxon slowly went to his cabin. The stereo panel was flashing steady crimson to designate top priority and he restrained a savage impulse to shut the thing off. He slumped in the control chair, and the tri-di image of a man at a desk slowly coalesced. It was a granite-featured old man with eyes like blue ice, and Saxon's head snapped sharply erect. It was Primus Gant, Corps Director. At ninety parsecs Gant's features were slightly hazed, but his voice was clear, sharp as a sword. "Report, Commander." "My extrapolation went through an hour ago. Also my resignation." Nothing moved in Gant's face or his eyes. Saxon said stiffly, "Planetfall uneventful. Area inimical. Initial shock conception, probable God-betrayal mythology by fourth generation. Those things in the forest should get thirty percent of them the first week. Weaponless, they'll run. The two to one female ratio should make for an agricultural matriarchy by the sixth generation. Recommend intermittent check at that time." He took a slow angry breath. "Why didn't we give them weapons?" Gant's smile was acid. "Because we haven't yet tried an agricultural matriarchy, Commander. Because the lower the initial survival factor, the slower the culture development. Getting squeamish?" Saxon said doggedly, "They didn't have a chance." "Neither did twenty million people on Earth in the last atomic war." The Director's voice was soft. "All colonists volunteer. Some have a vision. Others have a latent power drive that stasis can't satisfy. They're misfits regardless, potential threats to stasis. Remember your last leave, Commander? I believe you met my son." Saxon nodded curtly. He remembered the Director's son as a quiet, soft-spoken youth with the yearning for far places in his eyes. "I had hoped he would qualify for the Corps." Gant looked suddenly old, tired. "Instead he's volunteering for Colonial Service. Did you ever lose a son, Commander?" They stared at each other across the humming emptiness and Saxon finally whispered, "I'm sorry." "Stasis is all we can afford," the Director said numbly. "Man can't have Utopia yet. Because he's still--Man. Perhaps he'll never have it. But by God he'll try! Resignation withdrawn?" Saxon nodded. He could not speak.