Finally it came through. When he got it unscrambled, it was orders to sit tight while higher authority dealt with the situation. He signed off, chuckling, and went back outside to the ancient surface-car, where the young man and a young woman were waiting for him. He had left the message recorder on, resolved to return in two hours for further orders. If there were none, he was going to call in IC. Come what might, he was back in the big picture with a vengeance. When they reached the Dominie’s house, the girl said, “When you’re through eating, perhaps you’ll come to the kirk vestry. We’ll be having a small dance.” He looked at her more closely and, in spite of the rosy and unnatural whiteness of her skin, noted that she was comely. He resolved to visit the kirk vestry as soon as politeness would permit, whatever a kirk vestry might be. He drank more of the Dominie’s uisquebaugh before dinner and found himself asking, “Pardon me, sir, but would you answer one question?” And, at the older man’s nod, “Why are you so few?” “We are few by choice,” was the reply. “Our forefathers long ago left Earth for Proxima Centauri Seven, in one of the earliest migrations, to escape overcrowding. My people and I like room to breathe in, room to roam and work without restriction. When PC Seven grew too crowded, we pooled our resources and purchased this world. In those days, planets such as this were cheap enough. The Control was glad to have them settled. Since then, we have limited our numbers to avoid a repetition of what went before.” Thinking of a life spent in the crowded cities of crowded planets or in the cramped quarters of starships, Pryor understood. It had been in search of space and freedom that he had joined the service--only to exchange urban jamming for the prisons of strict discipline and limited space. “You’ve created a dream,” Pryor said. The Dominie put down his empty mug and said gravely, “Don’t think it’s been easy. Adapting to the most hospitable alien world is a backbreaking job. But we’ve never been afraid of work.” “I can see that,” said Pryor, feeling oddly useless. He wondered how he would fare without buttons to push, circuits to serve him. The Dominie’s wife, a tall, handsome woman with the frame of a percheron, appeared and announced that dinner was ready. Thanks to the whiskey, or perhaps to his absorption in his exotic surroundings, Pryor found himself actually eating meat--and actually enjoying it. The mutton was crisp and black on the outside, tender and pink in the center, and the vegetables and fruits served with it constituted a rich new experience. During the meal, the Dominie’s wife said, “Tell me, Mr. Pryor, if the universe is not at war, why do they wish to blow up our planet?”