"I just heard the new-flash," said Cross. He had the same clipped, exact voice he'd had years ago, Stanley realized. "You're really on the spot this time, aren't you, Will? That's why I called. I like your ideas on machinery. I've always thought of machines, myself, as nothing but extensions of man's frustrations and emotions, his losses and compensations in life. We agree. But you're wrong this time, Will. You made a mistake today." "Now, don't _you_ start on me! You're my last friend," retorted Stanley tiredly. "What else could I do--destroy the rocket?" "That would be negative. No good. Give them something positive. Tell them to go ahead," advised Cross, pleasantly enough. "Warn them, like a kindly father, of the consequences. Then, when their fingers are burnt--" "Humanity might go down the drain," finished Stanley abruptly. "Not if you play your cards right, control the variables. There must be some way around them without getting yourself mangled. I'm ready to help when you have a plan. Think it over." "I still think blowing the damn thing up would be--" "They'd build a bigger one. And they'd persecute you and your family the rest of your life," explained Cross logically. "You and I may know that science hasn't contributed one whit to man's _mental_ progress, but Mr. Everyman likes his babies diapered in disposable tissues and likes to travel from Siberia to Johnstown like an infuriated bullet. You can't stop them, you can only divert them a bit." Stanley grasped the hand-audio, tightly. He listened. * * * * * A great roar of 'copters sounded out in the afternoon sky, directly overhead. The house shook. Althea sprang up lithely and ran to look out. "I can't talk any more, Cross. I'll call you back. _They're_ outside, waiting for me, now...." Cross' voice faded like a dream. "Remember what I tell you. Let them go ahead." Stanley walked to the door, opened it, stepped half through. A radio voice boomed out of the bright blue sky. "STANLEY!" it shouted. It was Simpson's voice. "STANLEY! COME OUT AND TALK! COME OUT AND TELL US, STANLEY! STANLEY!" Althea would not stay in. She walked with him out onto the moist green lawn, in the open. The heavens were flooded with 'copters whirling. The sun shook in its place. 'Copters hung everywhere, like huge hummingbirds, swiveling, whirring. Five hundred of them, at least, shadowing the lawns and shaking the house-tops. "OH, _THERE_ YOUR ARE, STANLEY!" Stanley shaded his eyes. His lips drew away from his teeth in a grimace, as he stared upward, tense and afraid. "IT'S AFTER THREE O'CLOCK, STANLEY!" came the dull boom of words.