And so the call went out to Earth. The Uranians had destroyed an Earth Fleet at 0622 Greenwich on April 13, 2072. Right after the _Polaris_ grounded, its officers were summoned to appear before the World Court. All the officials were there. Every branch of science was well-represented. Third Officer Webster led off. He minutely described what he had seen. He explained how the _Polaris_ had acted. But it had happened so fast that his description was sketchy. No one was able to figure out how the Uranians had done it. Webster's best guess was: "It looked like the ships were yanked off their course and just broke up under the strain--like a strong magnetic field suddenly appeared in the middle of them. But that couldn't be." The others agreed. Scientists long ago had found that things like death rays and peculiar beams could never exist. It was impossible to get enough energy in an extended beam to have any effect on anything. Several hypotheses were proposed and rapidly shattered. The question of what had done it reached a blank wall. But even more puzzling was the question of _why_. The Uranians were utterly incapable of bearing the malice necessary to start a war. They were as detached and unemotional as a rock. Again the Court got nowhere. Doctor Trant stood up. "I don't think we can separate the two questions, _how_ and _why_. So I recommend that we play back all the tapes we've made since we first contacted Uranus. Most of us know the whole story already, but with all of us listening together we might pick up something we've missed." * * * * * It was a good idea. The Court decided to start the recital the following day in the Great Auditorium; it would take until then to get everything organized. In the meantime the scanners continued to watch Uranus for signs of any hostile move. That night the Spacemen's Bar was unusually crowded. It was mostly due to the Uranus situation, but not entirely. Third Officer Hanford Webster had been a Third Officer for six months now. He was due to pop again anytime and get busted. And when he did the Spacemen didn't want to miss it. Han Webster was a monster of a man, huge and ugly. He had a face like a bottle of warts topped with a great shock of brown hair. He stood six feet seven, barefoot, and weighed in at two-hundred and sixty-three pounds, plus or minus five. Yet there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. He had hands like two bales of hay and legs that were as big as most men's waist. Despite his bulk he moved like a cat; he was beautifully coordinated. None of those that knew him ever realized he was ugly. His quick laugh and ready friendliness seemed to change his warty complexion into one of peaches and cream. He was probably the most popular man in the whole select group of Spacemen. There was only one thing wrong with him; he never took the trouble to avoid trouble.