"Jonas Scatterday the Liberator!" Donnolan's eyes became crooked blue needles of bigotry. "Seems to me I recall you're a bug-smuggler, too. Mixed up in the Underground Skyway to Antarctica...." "Get off my property," Scat repeated. As Donnolan sidled out, he uttered those famous last words which are as old as wishful thinking--and blustering cowardice. "You can't do this to me!" In the transmission room, Scat explained the changed situation to the _Newsbeam_ employees, with Click-Click standing beside him. A grizzled old beam-doctor expressed their sentiments. "I guess we'll stick with you, Mister. I won't say we like it, but it's our jobs." Scat nodded unenthusiastically. He knew the arrangement wouldn't last out the day, but as Click-Click had observed, there were a lot of things he did for the sake of the record. * * * * * Ten minutes later they had the Missionary sizzling on the beam, after a brief editorial statement of the new ownership and policy. Click-Click had fetched the master tapes from the car. Anachronistically speaking, the Missionary was dynamite. Scat switched him in on the transmission room screen and sat down to listen, unmindful of the guardedly resentful looks he got from the staff. As he listened, his lanky frame relaxed and his stony features softened a little. The Missionary wasn't blind, but he had the spiritual look some blind men get. He was cadaverous; his voice got under your ribs. "Living machines! It is by virtue of that legal fiction that we have denied the Martians even the humanitarian treatment we grant to domestic animals, that we have revived an institution as vile as it is old in order to exploit them, that we have spurned all communion with their gentle minds. Living machines! The Earth's bad conscience is the best testimony to the falsity of that fiction, though even the most confirmed Martian-hater recognizes it. He says, succinctly, 'Bug'. "But they're soulless, you claim. Inhuman. Without feelings. Well, fellow free-citizens of the World Confederation, I went to preach the Word to those living machines on their home planet. I had to fight Outer Spaceways to get permission to do it; I had to live in a cramped little pressure hut and wear a space-suit whenever I went among them; I had to shiver under their meager sun because fuel supplies were somehow always late in getting to me. But I was happy because I was going to teach the Martians our religion. "I soon found out, however, that it was they who ought to be teaching me!" A scene of Martian religious ceremonies followed, one of the few shots that humans had been able to obtain. The speaker's voice continued. [Illustration: It was one of the few shootings of Martian religious ceremonies that humans had been able to take.] "Lacking their perception and telepathy, it wasn't easy to get in contact with their minds, but we discovered ways. I found out how they live, what they believe in.