The last of the swarming figures vanished into the great cylinder. A muted gong-sound thrummed through the night. A voice called, urgently. "The Kha Niish did not order us away because men are solving their own problems," the alien said. "We leave you to destroy yourselves, as you will, because man is one of the rare failures of the Galactic Urge. You are a race of incorrigibles." Later Manson sat woodenly in his gyro, waiting for volition to return, the scent of scorched earth and ozone and trampled clover strong in his nostrils. _We Earthmen have another inerrant old saw_, he thought bitterly. _An excruciatingly funny one dealing with silk purses and sows' ears...._ For a long time he sat quietly, straining his eyes to follow the last faint rocket-streak that arced upward against the stars. Then the stasis that held him fell away, and he reached for the blast gun that lay under his feet.