The original was a short-short tale about a wrestler and a cowboy and a video comedian, a space-farce. There was a piece headed _Editorial_ by Martha Klein. It had a sub-heading--_For Those Who Are Willing To Fight_. It was a stirring and vigorous call to arms against the Arnold Law. It was as subversive as anything Doak had seen in his Department career. He folded the magazine, and put it into an upper jacket pocket. He went to the third room and saw the paper stacked there and the bottles of ink and new stencils. He went back to the stairs, and quietly down them. From the living room, he heard-- "'... From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, An honest man's the noblest work of God!'" This was more like it, except for that last line the bard had borrowed. This was the true giant, and who was quoting him? It was not the contralto voice. Who? He moved out to the kitchen and back to his vantage point. He took off the infra-scope and looked into the living room. It was the old gent, with the beard. And who else could it be? For wasn't he the cream of the lot, the most obvious scholar, the most evident gentleman? Scholarship and breeding seemed to flow from every hair in his beard. "O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! From whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blessed with health and peace and sweet content! And, O, may heaven their--" Doak felt a stirring in him and tears moved down his cheeks and he turned, quickly and silently, and went out the back door. He was no child at his mother's knee, he was no mewling kitten--he was a Security Officer and this was subversion. Outside the stars were bright in a black sky. He stood in the back yard, breathing heavily, ashamed at the sudden surge of feeling that had moved through him. Some streak of adolescence, he thought, stirred by the words he had remembered from his mother's lips. He walked slowly back toward town. He could call in local help and round up the gang back there in the house. He could wash this up tonight and be back in Washington tomorrow morning. With June. The prospect of being with June had lost its flavor somehow. And if this was a widely published magazine, he had a larger duty than merely apprehending the gang. All of the magazine's readers were breaking the law and a real operative comes in with a complete, clean case. Mrs. Klein still sat on her front porch. "Any luck?" she asked, as he came up to sit on the glider near her chair. "Some. I'll see him again tomorrow." Her voice was dry. "One of our most prominent citizens, the Senator. The other's Glen Ryder. I guess you know who he is." He stiffened, trying to see her face in the dark. "Ryder? Oh, yes, in the Security Department."