Some forty minutes later, she was finished. She shut off the feeder, opened the ejector, and waited. Before she'd finished buffing the nails on her left hand, the ejector began clicking. "Report Received" emerged on the tape. Mala shrugged and pushed back her chair, but another series of clicks stopped her. "Urgently request operator stand by for results emergency session, Federated Galactic Council, being called at this time. Business: Continuing reports of CPCNC-Earth on York Sector." Mala stared at the tape, and slowly her eyes grew wide and her lips parted. Then she threw the inter-departmental switch and rang Commissioner Dobu. As soon as Dobu's face materialized on the screen, she said, "Peaceful Sir! I've just received a message that indicates the Galactic Council is going to take action on your reports!" A half-hour later, the Earth Council of Prevention and Correction of Non-Conformity was reconvened, waiting for the Galactic Council's decision. They were all wondering whether it would be sterilization or euthanasia. * * * * * John Stevens was irritable. He'd been that way for weeks now, or was it months? Anyway, life was getting to be a foul-blooded pain! He saw the empty can, kicked it, watched it bounce along the cracked pavement. When it stopped bouncing, he was again faced with his problem: What to do on a hot July afternoon? He considered going down to Frank's Vizio Palace, but decided against it. Not that he was afraid of the Sinais, but it was too hot to invade enemy territory alone. Besides, he had brained all this month's vizios and new ones wouldn't be in for at least a week. So he leaned against the tenement's warped wall and looked for more cans to kick. On a day like this, he thought, a kid could almost wish vacation was over and school back in operation. Then he saw Pete Smith and waved a languid hand. "How's the pure-blood?" he asked. "Living," Pete answered. "And I can see Mr. Aryan's doing all right for--" Both froze as the patrol bubble turned the corner on racing treads and pulled up short. John considered making a run for it, but saw it was too late. Pete had arrived at the same conclusion. "They picked our lips on the vocal-box," Pete whispered. "We're in trouble." John didn't have a chance to answer. The two Blasts were out of their bubble and coming toward them. The tall one said mechanically, "Section twenty-seven, Earth Ordinances, using profane language on public lanes. Subsection twelve, covering classification of terms of racial-superiority as profanity due to its negation of established fact and the harmful effects--" "Oh, shove it, Blast," Pete muttered. "We know the public scroll. So you picked us up on the box. So what?" The CPCNC officer looked at him. "You people never will learn. Why don't you accept the status quo, learn to live like human beings?" "That's what I always say," John murmured sarcastically.