We found a television set and turned it on, listening for word of the cobalt-bomb. We got recorded _canzoni_ sung by a reedy tenor. We dialed, and found the Neapolitan equivalent of a soap opera, complete with the wise, fat old mother and the sobbing new daughter-in-law. It was like that on all the stations, while Rena and I stared at each other in disbelief. Finally, at the regular hourly newscast, we got a flicker: "An unidentified explosion," the announcer was saying, "far out at sea, caused alarm to many persons last night. Although the origins are not known, it is thought that there is no danger. However, there has been temporary disturbance to all long-lines communications, and air travel is grounded while the explosion is being investigated." We switched to the radio: it was true. Only the UHF television bands were on the air. I said, "I can't figure that. If there's enough disturbance to ruin long-distance transmission, it ought to show up on the television." Rena said doubtfully, "I do not remember for sure, Tom, but is there not something about television which limits its distance?" "Well--I suppose so, yes. It's a line of sight transmission, on these frequencies at any rate. I don't suppose it has to be, except that all the television bands fall in VHF or UHF channels." "Yes. And then, is it not possible that only the distance transmission is interrupted? On purpose, I mean?" I slammed my hand on the arm of the chair. "On purpose! The Company--they are trying to keep this thing localized. But the idiots, don't they know that's impossible? Does Defoe think he can let the world burn up without doing anything to stop it--just by keeping the people from knowing what happened?" She shrugged. "I don't know, Tom." I didn't know either, but I suspected--and so did she. It was out of the question that the Company, with its infinite resources, its nerve-fibers running into every part of the world, should not know just what that bomb was, and what it would do. And what few days the world had--before the fall-out became dangerous--were none too many. Already the word should have been spread, and the first groups alerted for movement into the vaults, to wait out the day when the air would be pure again. If it was being delayed, there could be no good reason for it. * * * * * The only reason was Defoe. But what, I asked myself miserably, was Millen Carmody doing all this while? Was he going to sit back and placidly permit Defoe to pervert every ideal of the Company? I could not believe it. It was not possible that the man who had written the inspiring words in the Handbook could be guilty of genocide. Rena excused herself to look in on her father. Almost ashamed of myself, I took the battered book from my pocket and opened it to check on Millen Carmody's own preface. It was hard to reconcile the immensely reassuring words with what I had seen. And, as I read them, I no longer felt safe and comforted.