Connor nodded. "But, as I told you, you have the right face. We went through photos of several thousand former agents to find your face, Birrel." He paused. Then--"Our only concrete lead to this bunch of whoever-they-are, is that dead man. He was one of them. If he were alive, he could be trailed back to the others. But he isn't alive. So, to find that trail, we have to use a ringer." Birrel was numb with amazement, but he was not a fool, and he got Connor's implication instantly. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book of counter-espionage. You had one of your own men pose as an enemy spy, so that a contact would be made that could lead you to the others. An old trick, and a risky one--even in ordinary circumstances. But in this case, it was fantastic. "Oh, no," said Birrel. "It wouldn't work, there isn't a chance. I don't look that much like him--" "You have the necessary basic feature," Connor said. "The skull-shape, the ears, the things that can't be disguised. Our make-up experts can do the rest." "But how can I pose for a minute as that man, when I don't know his language? The first moment any of the others spoke to me, I'd be through." "We can teach you a fair bit of the language," Connor said. "Enough so that you won't be instantly recognized as a fake. You'd soon be found out--but by then we'd be jumping on them." Birrel stared, wondering if the strain of this hadn't been too much for the man. "_You_ can teach me some of that other-world language?" Connor said, "Grossman can. He is, in case you don't know, one of the world's greatest philologists. He was called in on this weeks ago. Using that spoken commentary on the film-viewer, that voice that each time described a specific pictured scene, he worked away relating words and pictures until he built up the whole language. It's rough yet--but he's got a vocabulary of a couple thousand words, a set of grammar-rules, and--above all--an accurate reproduction of accent and pronunciation, in that recorded voice. Enough, with luck, to get you by for a little time with the others. That should be time enough for us." Garlock interrupted, saying heatedly to Connor, "Look at his face! I tell you, you're giving this to him too fast, you can't throw it at him like this." Connor ignored the protest. He sat down again at the desk, and his bleak eyes held on Birrel's face. "This is how it stands. Where they came from, what that place is like, we haven't a glimmering. How many of them there are on Earth, we don't know either. But one man couldn't come alone. So there are others. All right." He bent forward, his harsh voice beating at Birrel. "We make you look like that dead man. We have Grossman cram you with that language till you can get by. Then we stick you in jail. We announce that an unidentified spy was caught near an atomic installation, weeks ago, and that we're still holding him for questioning. We let that out in the newspapers." "And then?"