He sighed. There were always qualifications, never unalloyed successes. "Colonel McLeod, how long would it take your ship to return to the Procyon system?" he asked thoughtfully. McLeod considered the question. "Hardly any time, sir. A few days, maybe. Why?" "Just a wild idea. Tell me about your contact with these--ah--Dirnans." "Well, sir, they landed after we'd spent more than a week surveying New Earth. There were six of them, and they had their translating widget with them. They told us who they were, and wanted to know who we were. We told them. They said they ran the Procyon system, and weren't of a mind to let any alien beings come barging in." "Did they sound hostile?" Walton asked. "Oh, no. Just businesslike. We were trespassing, and they asked us to get off. They were cold about it, but not angry." "Fine," Walton said. "Look here, now. Do you think you could go back to their world as--well as an ambassador from Earth? Bring one of the Dirnans here for treaty talks, and such?" "I suppose so," McLeod said hesitantly. "If it's necessary." "It looks as if it may be. You had no luck in any of the other nearby systems?" "No." "Then Procyon VIII's our main hope. Tell your men we'll offer double pay for this cruise. And make it as fast as you know how." "Hyperspace travel's practically instantaneous," McLeod said. "We spent most of our time cruising on standard ion drive from planet to planet. Maneuvering in the subspace manifold's a snap, though." "Good. Snap it up, then. Back to Nairobi and clear out of there as soon as you're ready. Remember, it's urgent you bring one of the aliens here for treaty talks." "I'll do my best," McLeod said. * * * * * Walton stared at the empty seat where McLeod had been, and tried to picture a green Dirnan sitting there, goggling at him with its three eyes. He was beginning to feel like a juggler. Popeek activity proceeded on so many fronts at once that it quite dazzled him. And every hour there were new challenges to meet, new decisions to make. At the moment, there were too many eggs and not enough baskets. Walton realized he was making the same mistake FitzMaugham had, that of carrying too much of the Popeek workings inside his skull. If anything happened to him, the operation would be fatally paralyzed, and it would be some time before the gears were meshing again. He resolved to keep a journal, to record each day a full and mercilessly honest account of each of the many maneuvers in which he was engaged. He would begin with his private conflict with Fred and the interests Fred represented, follow through with the Lamarre-immortality episode, and include a detailed report on the problems of the subsidiary projects, New Earth and Lang's terraforming group.