The liar. I hadn't made a move while he'd been looking into that porthole. His poor pitiful weak old rheumy eyes had seen every move I made while he was polishing his "glasses." I shrugged and stepped away from the programmer. "You start it," I said. "I won't take the responsibility." "It's orders," Gascoigne said woodenly. He started the tape running again. "It's their responsibility. What did you want to talk to me about, anyhow?" "Col. Gascoigne, have you ever killed anybody?" He looked startled. "Yes, once I did," he said, almost eagerly. "I crashed a plane into a house. Killed the whole family. Walked away with nothing worse than a burned leg--good as new after a couple of muscle stabilizations. That's what made me shift from piloting to weapons; that leg's not quite good enough to fly with any more." "Tough." He snickered suddenly, explosively. "And now look at me," he said. "I'm going to kill my _own_ family in a little while. And millions of other people. Maybe the whole world." How long was "a little while"? "What have you got against it?" I said. "Against what--the world? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Look at me: I'm king of the hill up here. I can't complain." He paused and licked his lips. "It was different when I was a kid," he said. "Not so dull, then. In those days you could get a real newspaper, that you could unfold for the first time yourself, and pick out what you wanted to read. Not like now, when the news comes to you predigested on a piece of paper out of your radio. That's what's the matter with it, if you ask me." "What's the matter with what?" "With the news--that's why it's always bad these days. Everything's had something done to it. The milk is homogenized, the bread is sliced, the cars steer themselves, the phonographs will produce sounds no musical instrument could make. Too much meddling, too many people who can't keep their hands off things. Ever fire a kiln?" "Me?" I said, startled. "No, I didn't think so. Nobody makes pottery these days. Not by hand. And if they did, who'd buy it? They don't want something that's been made. They want something that's been Done To." The tape kept on traveling. Down below, there was a heavy rumble, difficult to identify specifically: something heavy being shifted on tracks, or maybe a freight lock opening. "So now you're going to Do Something to the Earth," I said slowly. "Not me. It's orders." "Orders from inside, Col. Gascoigne. There's nothing on the spools." What else could I do? I didn't have time to take him through two years of psychoanalysis and bring him to his own insight. Besides, I'm not licensed to practice medicine--not on Earth. "I didn't want to say so, but I have to now." "Say what?" Gascoigne said suspiciously. "That I'm crazy or something?"