The suave exterior of the U.S. Envoy to World Dome, the Honorable Andrew Kenneth Gahagan--a diplomat of the old school--appeared sadly shaken on the phone screen: whether by emotion, bad radio transmission, or creeping senility, Thad could not tell. When he heard what the Honorable Gahagan had to say, he ruled out the likelihood of poor transmission. The other two choices remained equally possible, since the biochemist had no way of knowing just _how_ serious, realistically speaking, a Red “invasion” of territorial boundaries might be. “It can’t wait two-three hours?” he asked. “Dr. Christensen will be here at seven, and I think it should be authorized by him personally.” “My own feeling in the matter,” said the Honorable Gahagan “is that it should be authorized by Mexcity or not at all. I felt obliged, however, to determine your attitudes before communicating with State on the matter.” Thad felt an almost irrepressible urge to say, _Oh, hell, tell ’em come on over, if they’ll send their bio chief in the party_ ... or perhaps, _You know, some of the babes there aren’t bad. Tell ’em to shoot us a photo and we’ll look for ourselves_ ... or even just, _Oh, foof!_ He exercised his will power to its fullest extent and said instead: “Look, let me buzz you back in five minutes. I’ve got something here I have to get out of the way, and then I’ll see what we can do about it.” He switched off and said to Kutler, who had come in sometime during the conversation, “You get that bit?” “Just the tailend.” “The Honorable is all worked up because the Reds have asked permission to conduct a search for the pilot--girl pilot, I might add--of a helicopter of theirs that seems to have landed in some kind of trouble inside our zone. I wouldn’t’ve thought twice myself, but Old Horsefeathers has me worried. And maybe with this whole Security investigation bit--” “Man, you don’t read the news. It’s sex they’re discovering now, not Security,” Phil interjected. “Oh. Well, maybe being as it’s a _girl_ pilot--Got it!” he said suddenly. “What do you think of doing it this way? Tell ’em sure, and we’ll help. Set it up so any search team is mixed? Then there can’t be any snooping or anything. What do you think?” “Sounds good to me,” Phil said. “It can’t wait till Chris comes, hey?” “This babe has been missing about twelve hours, and they don’t know if she’s hurt or in shock or anything.” “Well, we can’t very well _refuse_ permission then. I guess the mixed search is about the best bet.” “Yeah.” He reached for the phone switch, hesitated, picked up a scrap of paper from the desk. “Do me a favor, will you? Get a few guys to run on out to this location right away and look over the plane. That’s where it’s supposed to be. Meantime, I’ll tell Ole Mustachios what the score is, and let--Nope. I’ll call Plato _first_, and then tell Gahagan. That way he can’t stall.”