Walker pounded his desk. “What the hell is going on? I can’t get Security Data, you come marching in here with security men ... what gives?” Meriwether gestured to the guards, and they came forward and each took one of Walker’s arms. “You’re out of a job, Walker,” snarled General Marcus Meriwether. “In the name of God, _why_?” “You know very well. Take him to security detention, Sergeant.” And suddenly he knew. Meriwether stared indignantly when he started laughing. It was a hell of a thing to laugh at, but it was also the most hilarious tragedy he ever hoped to encounter. Millet. _Security risk._ Untouchable. Millet would finish his great unified theory, and go down in history as neither Walker nor Meriwether nor the genius who invented the Confederation’s neural weapon would. Millet was as safe as he could possibly want to be. And so was the Interplanetary Confederation. *END* Transcribers note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction February 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.