“Hard to say,” Prentiss answered. “Thanks. Well--here’s luck!” He sipped appreciatively. “Okay, you win. The Dutch gin _is_ better.” He picked up the memo he’d been looking at while the General mixed drinks. “I can’t see anything in here that will make headlines--that’s sure.” “Okay.” Harbridge settled down in an anachronistically solid-comfortable leather chair. “What _are_ you going to make ’em with, then?” Al Prentiss shrugged one gray dacron shoulder. “What’s the rush?” _You wouldn’t understand, boy, if I spelled out every word!_ This particular rush had started a _long_ time ago--for some people. For others, including all or damn-near-all PR men, the General thought, there _was_ no rush: just the crush of the crowd. “That’s my problem,” he said heavily. “Now _your_ problem is getting the Dome in the papers, and getting it in good.” Prentiss studied his chief’s face, and nodded. “Okay. So let’s take it from One. How much of this stuff has been released before?” Harbridge frowned. “Just the general background. Nothing on the genetic structure at any time. Seems to me, the only thing that went out was a film made up from their lab micros, with a very basic sound-track--you know, the little Mars whachahoosies in their natural habitat?--the symbiosis stuff, or fission or fusion, or whatever these dingusses do instead of screw--that kind of thing. That’s about a year ago, I guess, little less. On the other hand, I think the only stuff mentioned here that’s been officially classified is the chromosome chart stuff: or anything that was done before June 1, come to think of it, unless it’s been released. That was the last full regular report, and _they_ get stamped before they’re read.” “So I’m stupid,” said Prentiss, “but what’s such hot news about chromosomes? We all got ’em.” He stood up abruptly. “Damn it, sir, you just can’t make good copy out of what a bunch of amoebas do for sex--even if they come from Mars.” He held the papers fanned out, and looked at them with scorn. Harbridge took the sheets, and held them in his lap. A slow smile spread on his face. “All right, Al. I’ll give you a story to write. Two of ’em. First one is the bugs. Just what’s in here, but no details. Leave out the chromosomes: they might not be copy to you, lad, but they’re hot, believe me. Now let’s see.” He put his drink down, picked up the papers again, and reached for a clipboard and pencil. Then he went through carefully checking and crossing-out.