It had been an anonymous tip that had brought Wellesley to Ophir, but in all the inhabited universe, he knew, the Bureau was the sole guardian of the classic blood strain, and it took no chances. "What's 'inbreeding,' pa?" said Joseph, tugging solemnly at his father's sleeve. "A naughty word of the middle ages," said Sealilly thickly. "A bugaboo of the mighty sky-chiefs. If we do not co-operate we bring their lightning upon our heads. Yet, what must we do?" Wellesley did not smile. "You must inform the colonists that I wish to interview each member of every family and clan briefly, beginning tomorrow morning at seven. I do not mind in the least being _persona non grata_, but if any person fails to show up, or if there is any trouble, you will be held personally responsible. Moreover, I do not think you are as drunk as you would like me to believe." Amos Sealilly bowed, took a flask from his pocket and drained it. "One other thing. I shall need a place to sleep." Sealilly smiled. "There is an abandoned native daub-hut behind my house. You are welcome to it." "It will serve," answered Wellesley coldly. "There are natives in the area then?" "Yes. Bipeds, though not mammalian, you will find. In fact, quite low in the scale of evolution. They are nearsighted and harmless by day, but you will be wise to keep to your hut after dark." "I can take care of myself." "I'll show you the place," Joseph offered. "I can carry your space kit, too." * * * * * "Over there is my ship," Joseph said, pointing. "We are making ready to put out for Arcturus." There was a bright constancy about Joseph that clutched at the heart. Not Lieutenant Wellesley's heart, of course, he reminded himself. The "ship" was indeed the rusty, peaked foretank from some ancient freighter, complete with hatch. It was set on end at the edge of the swamp. To any boy it would have been a starship. It was already dusk. The Ophirian daub-hut was not so bad as he expected. It was massive. The orifice had been enlarged into a door. Windows had been added. The only furnishing was the rude couch. It was a measure of Sealilly's hostility. Joseph spied the ferrax-thing scuttling across the lawn and dived at it. The two of them rolled over and over, Joseph laughing, the animal growling and spitting. Wellesley went in, closed the door and removed his official log from its case. The next two hours were spent in a carefully worded account--for space logs are part of the permanent records of the Galactic Court, among others--of the events of the day, including a bleak and perhaps prejudiced account of the character of Aidennsport and of Amos Sealilly.