The job of softening up Earth for the invasion began to pass entirely from the hands of the advancemen. From a ticklish, dangerous proposition at first to a virtual certain mailing day. The world wide mechanism of delivery swung into operation from time zone to time zone, and, in the scheme of conquest the advancemen passed from integral factors to inconsequential objects. All over America, from East to West, within the space of a single day the post office became aware of the increased, the tremendously increased volume. Previously in certain sections there had been signals in the form of out-bound dribbles. Now there were in-bound floods rising suddenly to the peak intensity of overtime inundations. A million packages, some large, some small, some brown wrapped, white wrapped, light, heavy--no two alike, no way to tell the new influx from the normal handling. At the very first each office saw the rush as a unique phenomenon--for there was no reason to report it to a higher echelon which might have instituted an investigation. Merely to take care of the rush, that was all. To process the all-at-once congestion of parcels to be door to door delivered. Later to be marveled at. Lines formed at parcel windows; trucks spewed out their cargos. Lights burned late; clerks cursed and sweated; parcels mounted higher and higher. Nor did it break all at once in the press. The afternoon editions carried a couple of fillers about how Christmas seemed to be coming early for the citizens of Saco, Maine, and how a tiny Nevada town whose post office was cob-webby from lack of use suddenly found itself doing a land office business. Most of the morning editions carried a whimsical AP article that the late radio newscasters picked up and rebroadcast. Then after most West Coast stations were off the air for the night events began to snowball in the East. The breakfast newscasts carried the first stories. The morning papers began to tie in the various incidents and reach astonishing conclusions.... * * * * * The propeller was not even turning over. The plane, wheeled out of the hangar, was waiting, cold, and the pilot lounged by the office, smoking a cigarette. The sky was black, and here and there before the blatant searchlights sprouting from dance halls and super markets, clumps of lacy California clouds fluttered like dingy sheepwool in a half-speed Mix-Master. Parr, tossing a handful of bills at the driver, leaped from the cab and ran frantically toward the office. The wait was terrible. Should the Oholos arrive, he was boxed in spaciously, with no escape. In gnawing at the inner side of his lower lip, he bit through his disguise into real flesh and real blood. There were forms to sign, responsibility to be waived. And with every minute, _they_ drew nearer. Finally the airplane motor coughed into reluctant life, and Parr could feel the coldness of artificial leather against his back.