“Then I fear your errand is wasted,” said the other. “If there is no war, then we shall not evacuate. Even if there were, I should hesitate to uproot my people. They would have to leave so much of what they have wrought and love behind them.” “I assure you,” said Pryor, wondering just how stupid the patriarch was, “that you will receive ample compensation.” “Can you then arrange ample compensation for human hearts?” the old man asked. Pryor braced himself and drained his mug. To his surprise, the whiskey or whatever it was, went down smoothly. He said, “I’m afraid you don’t understand the situation, sir. This planet, Rigel Four, is the subject for testing of the deadliest new bomb ever made. The experiment is already under way. You and your people must evacuate. Of course, if our plotters had known of your existence--” “They’d have selected another world to blow up,” the Dominie finished for him. “I fear they’ll have to make the change anyway. Our title to this planet is quite clear and above-board. Allow me to show you.” He rose, crossed to a lovingly carved and polished cabinet, and withdrew not a vidiroll but some actual ancient documents, handed them to Pryor. Pryor looked at them with growing excitement. It was a planet charter, beyond question, granted some two centuries before by Interplanetary Control, the predecessor of Interstellar Control. It stated that Arnold MacRae, Ian Stephenson and Alexandra Hamilton had purchased, in goods, cash and services, the full rights to Rigel IV, hereafter to be known as Nevis. It added that the rights were to run in perpetuity, save only in the case of interstellar war and then only during the existence of a state of war. Somebody had slipped when Marshal Wellington Smith selected Rigel IV for his planet-busting test. Pryor suspected the listing of this world under Nevis, among the titled planets, rather than as Rigel IV among the untitled, plus the antiquity of the deal and the small size and isolation of the settlement, had caused the error. He stood up, noting that the floor seemed to slant where it had been level when he entered. He said, “There’s been a serious error, I fear. Can you have me driven to my ship at once? I must report it while there is still time.” “Certainly, young man,” said the Dominie, rising. Back in Lab Able, Pryor ran his hands over his face, which felt unreasonably hot. He punched in the outspeaker, called the _Erebus_ and explained the situation. At its conclusion, he added innocently, “Shall I call in Interstellar for checking and aid? Over.” He had to wait almost half an hour, Earth-time, for the reply to come through. In the meantime, he could picture the consternation among the smug brass hats on the flagship. He hummed the Antarean ditty again, feeling strangely relaxed and comfortable.