"Not a question of it," Blunt said. "These pictures prove it. It’s what you might call a lost art. Once upon a time, as with all the fortunate parts of the galaxy, this art was known to the Engrahamites. Through some terrific foul-up, they lost it. Probably a combination of the science of incubation, and the reign of some ghastly square, like Queen Victoria. Thus were the girls of Engraham deprived of the pleasures of love." "The men, too," said Willy. All glared at him reproachfully. To care about the happiness of the Engrahamite men was thought not quite patriotic. "Gradually," Blunt went on, "they must have begun to lose interest. Probably there was some taboo. In the end they probably all thought, oh, to hell with it, and began serving on committees." A long sigh went up. "It is for us," Blunt said softly, treasuring each word, "to restore these unhappy maidens to their original human rights. "But it isn’t going to be easy," Blunt went on. His voice dropped even lower. "Think what would happen if it went sour. Those Doctors would get wind of it. We’d be stuck in the Ship for the rest of the Exploration." There was a sober pause. Finally Banks cleared his throat and said, "Well, how do you think it should be handled, Blunt?" "Well, every beachhead needs an invasion," Blunt said, casually holding out his glass. O’Connors leapt to fill it. "One guy has got to lay the groundwork. Let him enlighten one quail. Explain things to her." He took a long, leisurely drink, and sighed. "This quail will rush around telling the others. Pretty soon there’ll be so many hanging around the ship that—" There was a general rush for cooling beverages. "Right," someone said, when the faculty of speech was recovered. "And necessarily," said Blunt, "this has to be the guy with the most savvy. The one who knows the score. The one most likely to succeed. Check?" All knew what this was leading up to. Martin said unhappily, "Check, Blunt, You’re our boy." ———— Blunt was scheduled to stand guard the next day, but Willy Lanham, eager to assist the cause, volunteered to take over for him. The hours seemed to creep by. His air was swaggering and cool when he returned, and all gathered round with eager curiosity—all but Lanham, who had not recovered from standing guard. Blunt sauntered to the bar, accepted a drink, sipped it, lighted a cigarette, and took a long, pensive drag. Finally he said reminiscently, "What a doll!" Pane, never a subtle man, cried in anguish, "Well, how’d you make out?"