Pryor explained as best he could--and, unexpectedly, he seemed to be thinking and expressing himself more clearly than ever before. He told them about the rise of the aggressive elements in Sirius Sector, about the plebescite that had put Wellington Smith in power. “They’re fretting under the restrictions of IC,” he said, “and they’re seeking to gather sufficient strength to obtain concessions. As long as they remain within IC limits, they can’t be touched.” The Dominie said quietly, “It’s the same dreadful story, Mary. Too many people, too many unhappy people, restlessness, conspiracy, war. This time the whole universe will suffer.” Then, to Pryor, “But if your Star Marshal obliterates an inhabited IC planet, he’ll be in trouble, will he not?” “If he should dare do such a thing--and I feel sure he won’t,” said Pryor, “he’ll be as good as ruined.” For some reason he added, as an afterthought, “That is, if IC hears of it.” “I see,” said the patriarch, nodding thoughtfully. His wife said, “There’s a dance in the kirk vestry this evening, Mr. Pryor. I hope you’ll be in attendance. Naturally, you’ll honor us by being our guest overnight.” Pryor found the kirk vestry without trouble. It was an extension of the big building with the white spire and less than fifty meters from the Dominie’s house. He intended merely to get someone to drive him to his ship and get his message out. But when he heard the shrill, rhythmic combination of bagpipes and fiddle, something stirred deep in his ancestral memory and he forgot about all else. He danced with the girl of the surface-car and she showed him the steps of the strange dances and his feet had magic in them. He laughed with the men and drank more of the whiskey and the night became a golden whirl of primitive excitement such as he had never known. He needed the help of two of the young men to get him back to the Dominie’s house, where he was undressed and put into a soft warm object they called a bed. He knew no more until the concussion of the explosion brought him sharply out of his drunken slumber. Although his tongue was thick with fur and his head rattled as if it were filled with dried pebbles, he woke up sober. Through the bedroom window, he saw the flickering brilliance of the exploded bomb mounting slowly toward the stars. He turned and, with a strange sickness in his stomach, scrambled into his clothing. Outside, he could hear the little community coming to life. He hadn’t believed they would do it. When he got out of the vehicle, he saw an odd little mound of molten metal where Lab Able had stood in silver serenity a few minutes earlier. Silently, he cursed the ruthless militarists who were going to blast Rigel IV to dust, and cursed his own irresponsibility for not sending the message that would have put a halt to their plans. Somebody said in the odd accent that was already becoming familiar, “What happened, Mr. Pryor?”