"You will be permitted to keep your room until you find new quarters. The rest is your own responsibility." He considered that for a long moment. "Do you have any suggestions as to how I might go about earning my living?" he asked. "If you have any serviceable skill, you will probably be able to find employment for it. If not--" Sites shrugged. "How would I know what skills would be useful here? I know practically nothing about you." "I'm afraid that's your own problem," Srtes said. "If you are unable to adapt, you will not survive. It is the natural law." The alien's eyes narrowed. He seemed to be holding in check a cold anger. "Tell me," he said. "Do you consider yourselves just?" Srtes' hair bristled until his head appeared twice its normal size. He half rose from his hassock, then slowly resumed his seat. I admired his self-restraint. "We consider ourselves extremely fair," he said carefully. "Only the strong have the right to survive, and the fact that they do survive proves their strength. What you are determines your end. We are demanding nothing more from you than we expect from our own citizens. Weaklings and inefficients are perishing every day on the ragged confines of our civilization. In simple justice I can offer you nothing more." The Earthling's shoulders had gradually drooped as Srtes spoke. "Yours is a harsh philosophy," he mumbled at the end. "It is our means of being certain that we maintain our race's fitness," Srtes explained patiently. "On this world only the strong and their progeny survive. As long as that natural struggle continues the strength of each generation will become greater." The alien seemed to recognize Srtes' sincerity. He rose tiredly. "Thanks, for the explanation at least," he said, as he left the office. * * * * * The next step would be mine. During the rest of the afternoon, as I watched on the visi-screen, the Earthling kept to his room. Most of the day he lay on his sleeping rug, with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The rest of the time he paced aimlessly. The next morning he ate the last of his porridge, and as the day progressed I recognized that much of his unrest must be prompted by hunger. Yet his battered body needed the rest he was giving it. He napped shortly after dusk, but only for a short time. When he awoke he put on his jacket and went outside. On the screen I followed his forlorn wanderings about the city. After several hours he stopped and leaned against a wooden building. The night breeze had risen to its near-gale intensity by this time, and he pulled his jacket closer about him. It was only a few degrees below freezing, and he should have been warm enough, but I understood his race was unable to withstand any great degree of cold. And he was sore and hungry.