"Only in laboratory cultures, sir," sighed the analyst. "Under rigid control to make certain there's no restimulant. In practice, in a planet-wide society, there's constant accidental restimulation, unconsciously occuring. A determinant gets restimulated, pops back to original intensity, and gets passed on. In practice, a kult'laenger linkage never really dies out--although, it can stay recessive and unconscious." "That's too bad," a wingsman growled sourly. "We'll wake it up, won't we?" "Let's not be callous," the other wingsman grunted in sarcasm. "Analyst Meikl has sensitivities." The analyst stared from one to the other of them in growing consternation, then looked pleadingly at the baron. "Sir, I was _summoned_ here to offer my opinions about landing on Earth. You asked about possible cultural dangers. I've told you." "You discussed the danger to earthlings." "Yes, sir." "I meant 'danger' to the personnel of this fleet--to their esprit, their indoctrination, their group-efficiency. I take it you see none." "On the contrary, I see several," said the analyst, coming slowly to his feet, eyes flashing and darting among them. "Where were you born, Wingman?" he asked the officer at the opposite end of the desk. "Lichter Six, Satellite," the officer grunted after a moment of irritable silence. "And you?" "Omega Thrush," said the other wingsman. All knew without asking that the baron was born in space, his birthplace one of the planetoid city-states of the Michea Dwarf. Meikl looked around at them, then ripped up his own sleeve, unsheathed his rank-dagger, and pricked his forearm with the needle point. A red droplet appeared, and he wiped at it with a forefinger. "It's common stuff, gentlemen. We've shed a lot of it. And each of us is a walking sackful of it." He paused, then turned to touch the point of his dagger to the viewer, where it left a tiny red trace on the glass, on the bright crescent of Earth, mist-shrouded, chastely wheeling her nights into days. "It came from there," he hissed. "She's your womb, gentlemen. Are you going back?" "Are you an analyst or a dramatist, Meikl?" the baron asked sharply, hoping to relieve the sudden chill in the room. "This becomes silly." "If you land on her," Meikl promised ominously, "you'll go away with a fleet full of hate." Meikl's arm dropped to his side. He sheathed his dagger. "Is my presence at this meeting still imperative, sir?" he asked the baron. "Have you anything else to say?" "Yes--_don't land on Earth_." "That's a repetition. No further reasons?--in terms of danger to ourselves?" The analyst paused. "I can think of nothing worse that could happen to us," he said slowly, "than just being what we already are." He snapped his heels formally, bowed to the baron, and stalked out of the cabin. "I suggest," said a wingsman, "that we speak to Frewek about tightening up the discipline in the Intelligence section. That man was in open contempt, Baron."