"And that's wrong, is it?" Walton closed his eyes for a moment. "_Why?_" "Because they won't listen! You gave them a sermon when you should have been punching at them! Sweet reason! You can't be _sweet_ if you want to sell your product to seven billion morons!" "Is that all they are?" Walton asked. "Just morons?" Percy chuckled. "In the long run, yes. Give them their daily bread and their one room to live in, and they won't give a damn what happens to the world. FitzMaugham sold them Popeek the way you'd sell a car without turbines. He hoodwinked them into buying something they hadn't thought about or wanted." "They _needed_ Popeek, whether they wanted it or not. No one needs a car without turbines." "Bad analogy, then," Percy said. "But it's true. They don't care a blast about Popeek, except where it affects them. If you'd told them that these aliens would kill them all if they didn't act nice, you'd have gotten across. But this sweetness and light business--oh, no, Roy. It just doesn't work." "Is that all you have to tell me?" Walton asked. "I guess so. I just wanted to show you where you had a big chance and muffed it. Where we could have helped you out if you'd let us. I don't want you to think I'm being rude or critical, Roy; I'm just trying to be helpful." "Okay, Lee. Get out." "Huh?" "Go away. Go sell ice to the Eskimos. Leave me alone, yes?" "If that's the way you want it. Hell, Roy, don't brood over it. We can still fix things up before that alien gets here. We can put the content of tonight's speech across so smoothly that they won't even know we're--" "_Get out!_" Percy skittered for the door. He paused and said, "You're all wrought up, Roy. You ought to take a pill or something for your nerves." * * * * * Well, he had his answer. An expert evaluation of the content and effect of his speech. Dammit, he had _tried_ to reach them. Percy said he hadn't, and Percy probably was right, little as Walton cared to admit the fact to himself. But was Percy's approach the only one? Did you have to lie to them, push them, treat them as seven billion morons? Maybe. Right now billions of human beings--the same human beings Walton was expending so much energy to save--were staring at the kaleidowhirl programs on their videos. Their eyes were getting fixed, glassy. Their mouths were beginning to sag open, their cheeks to wobble, their lips to droop pendulously, as the hypnosis of the color patterns took effect. This was humanity. They were busy forgetting all the things they had just been forced to listen to. All the big words, like _mandate_ and _eventually_ and _wholesale destruction_. Just so many harsh syllables to be wiped away by the soothing swirl of the colors. And somewhere else, possibly, a poet named Prior was listening to his baby's coughing and trying to write a poem--a poem that Walton and a few others would read excitedly, while the billions would ignore it.