The cabin door was open and warm amber light spilled out into the blackness. All the boys were out by this time, getting into their coveralls and stamping around and making the usual newspaper chatter. As I came up, the _Post_ said: "We brung your opposition along, Carmichael--Hogan of the _Trib_." The _News_ said: "Now's as good a time as any for the wrasslin' match, eh? You been in training, Carmichael?" His voice had a nasty snigger to it and I thought: "Oh-ho, this Hogan probably scales two twenty and he'll mop me up, but very good--to the great satisfaction, no doubt, of my confrere from the _News_." Only when they shoved Hogan forward, he wasn't so big, so I thought: "At a time like this--let's get it over with fast." I took a little sprint through the dark and grabbed Hogan around the chest and dumped him to the ground. I said: "O.K., opposition, that's--" Suddenly I realized this Hogan'd been soft--soft but firm, if you get me. I looked down at her, full of astonishment and she looked up at me, full of indignation, and the rest of the crowd roared with laughter. I said: "I'll be a pie-eyed emu!" * * * * * And then, my friends, six dozen catastrophes and cataclysms and volcanoes and hurricanes and everything else hit me. The C-S began shouting and then the controller and after a moment, the cops. Only by that time the four of them were on top of me and all over me, so to speak. Little Yarr came tearing up, screaming at Groating and Groating yelled back and Yarr tried to bash my head in with his little fists. They yanked me to my feet and marched me off while the reporters and this Halley Hogan girl stared. I can't tell you much about what happened after that--the debating and the discussing and the interminable sound and fury, because most of the time I was busy being locked up. All I can tell you is that I was it. Me. I. I was the one man we were trying to stop. I--innocent me. I was X, the mad scientist and Y, the ruthless dictator and Z, the alien planet--all rolled into one. I was the one guy the Earth was looking to stop. Sure--because you see if you twist "I'll be a pie-eyed emu" enough, you get FitzJohn's equation: i = (b/a) π i e/μ..." I don't know how my future son is going to figure I was talking mathematics. I guess it'll just be another one of those incidents that turn into legend and get pretty well changed in the process. I mean the way an infant will say "goo" and by the time his pop gets finished telling about it it's become the Preamble to the Credo. What? No, I'm not married--yet. In fact, that's why I'm stationed up here editing a two-sheet weekly on this God-forsaken asteroid. Old Groating, he calls it protective promotion. Well, sure, it's a better job than reporting. The C-S said they wouldn't have broken up an existing marriage, but he was going to keep us apart until they can work something out on the Prognosticator.