Graves thrust a key into an orifice and a plate swung open, revealing a chute into which the bodies were dumped. The two retraced their steps to the manager’s office. “Well, that’s all we can feed to the disintegrator.” Fairchild lit an Alsakanite cigarette and exhaled appreciatively. “Why? Going soft on us?” “No. The ice is getting too thin.” “Whaddya mean, ‘thin’?” Graves demanded. “The Patrol inspectors are ours—all that count. Our records are fixed. Everything’s on the green.” “That’s what _you_ think,” the scientist sneered. “You’re supposed to be smart. Are you? Our accident rate is up three hundredths; industrial hazard rate and employee turnover about three and a half; and the Narcotics Division alone knows how much we have upped total bootleg sales. Those figures are all in the Patrol’s books. How can you give such facts the brush-off?” “We don’t have to.” Graves laughed comfortably. “Even a half of one percent wouldn’t excite suspicion. Our distribution is so uniform throughout the galaxy that they can’t center it. They can’t possibly trace anything back to us. Besides, with our lily-white reputation, other firms would get knocked off in time to give us plenty of warning. Lutzenschiffer’s, for instance, is putting out Heroin by the ton.” “So what?” Fairchild remained entirely unconvinced. “Nobody else is putting out what comes out of cave two seventeen—demand and price prove that. What you don’t seem to get, Graves, is that some of those damned Lensmen have _brains_. Suppose they decide to put a couple of Lensmen onto this job—then what? The minute anybody runs a rigid statistical analysis on us, we’re done for.” “Um . . . m.” This was a distinctly disquieting thought, in view of the impossibility of concealing anything from a Lensman who was really on the prowl. “That wouldn’t be so good. What would you do?” “I’d shut down two seventeen—and the whole hush-hush end—until we can get our records straight and our death-rate down to the old ten-year average. That’s the only way we can be really safe.” “Shut down! The way they’re pushing us for production? Don’t be an idiot—the chief would toss us both down the chute.” “Oh, I don’t mean without permission. Talk him into it. It’d be best for everybody, over the long pull, believe me.” “Not a chance. He’d blow his stack. If we can’t dope out something better than that, we go on as is.” “The next-best thing would be to use some new form of death to clean up our books.” “Wonderful!” Graves snorted contemptuously. “What would we add to what we’ve got now—bubonic plague?” “A loose atomic vortex.” “Wh-o-o-o-sh!” The fat man deflated, then came back up, gasping for air. “Man, you’re completely _nuts_! There’s only one on the planet, and it’s . . . or do you mean . . . but _nobody_ ever touched one of those things off deliberately . . . can it be done?”