The squat man walked casually up the table, nodding almost imperceptibly to Ferguson. He ignored the others, except the M.P.L. man. "Your name Harkway?" he asked. He pronounced it with the flat Boston "a": "Haakway". "That's right," said Harkway. "Got a message for you," said the squat man. "From Captain Lawrence Rack, United Uth Space Navy." "The Earth Space Navy was dissolved twenty years ago," said Harkway. The squat man sighed. "You wanna heah the message or don't you?" he asked. "Go ahead," said Harkway. His nostrils were pale, and a muscle stood out at the side of his jaw. "Heah it is. You're plannin' to hold a meetin' of the vehmin lovehs society, right?" As Harkway began to reply, the squat man leaned across the table and backhanded him across the mouth, knocking him sideways out of his chair. "Don't," said the squat man. He turned and strolled out. Cudyk and Ferguson helped Harkway up. The man's eyes were staring wildly out of his pale face, and a thin trickle of blood was running from a pulped lip. "Who was that man?" he asked in a whisper. "His name is Monk," said Cudyk. "At least that is the only name he has been known to answer to. He is one of Rack's lieutenants--Rack, as you probably know, is the leader of the activists in this sector. Mr. Harkway, I'm sorry this happened. But I advise you to wait for a week or so before you hold your meeting. There is no question of courage involved. It would be suicide." Harkway looked at him blindly. "The meeting will be held as planned," he said, and walked out, stiff-legged. Ferguson shook his head, laughed, and shook his head again. Cudyk exchanged a hopeless glance with Father Exarkos, and then followed Harkway out of the room. * * * * * The shop was empty except for young Nick Pappageorge, dozing behind the long counter, and the pale morning sunlight that streamed through the plastic window. Most of the counter was in shadow, but stray fingers of light picked out gem trays here and there, turning them into minuscule galaxies of frosty brilliance. Two Niori, walking arm in arm, paused in front of the window display, then went on. Two human youngsters raced by, shouting. Cudyk caught only a glimpse of them through the pierced screen that closed off the back of his shop, but he recognized them by their voices: Red Gorciak and Stan Eleftheris. There were few children now, and they were growing up wild. Cudyk wondered briefly what it must be like to be a child born into this microcosm, knowing no other. He dismissed the thought; it was simply one more thing about which there was no use to worry.