Hamilton knew he was the better looking. He had viewed himself too many times on too many color projection screens to have any doubts on that score. But his gray-tipped brown hair looked faintly theatrical when contrasted with Harris’ cropped black head, and his upper lip looked naked beside the other man’s neat black mustache. What was even more disconcerting, his features looked looser and more florid, his clothes not nearly so well fitting. As usual, when Harris entered with a brisk nod Hamilton was annoyed to find the refrain of _There’ll Always Be an England_ running through his head. He said, “Hello, Ian,” waved him to a chair and offered him a cigarette with a defensive geniality. The Englishman shook his head, settled back with a sigh and regarded his host with an I-say-old-man-is-this-exactly-cricket? expression. It occurred to Hamilton that Harris looked at the moment as sad as a Georgia hound dog whose master had eaten up all the steak. The silence lasted until Hamilton said, with a trace of irritation he hated himself for revealing, “Ian, if you came over here to put the evil eye on me, I earnestly suggest that you go back to your own office? Let _me_ be _your_ guest.” The UN representative regarded Hamilton as if he were some animal of a rarely photographed and inexplicable new species. Then he said, mildly, “Park. I find it difficult at times to convince certain regrettably backward branches of our organization that SPR is not a malignant wild growth upon the human social organism--a growth primarily dedicated to the development of disruptive discoveries without regard to their probable effect upon the structure of our society as a whole.” “For heaven’s sake, get to the point, Ian,” said Hamilton. “We’ve been over this a thousand times before. It’s the job of SPR’s scientists to invent what comes bubbling up to the surface of their perhaps oddly constructed minds. It’s my job--and yours--to fit them into the socio-economic pattern.” Harris regarded him with a mute disapproval that made Hamilton feel like a small boy caught cheating in a grade-school test. The UN man said, “Do you really think you’re doing your job, old man?” “I’m doing my best,” said Hamilton, knowing that the toreador capework was about over and the moment of truth about to arrive. “I’m sure you are.” Having made his point, Harris was disposed to be conciliatory. “But what about this Ryan business?” Hamilton sighed, and pushed the shocking pink envelope across the desk. “There it is,” he said simply. “Somebody goofed. I sent out a restraining order under special code the moment I heard that Ryan’s tests were successful.” Harris glanced at the message, frowned, and tossed it back on the desk. “Rough luck, Park,” he said. Then, “Has it occurred to you what it could mean if word gets out generally that this mad genius of yours has developed an instantaneous matter-transmitter?”