"So here's what they do. They send down a secret fifth columnist. His job is to spread propaganda over the planet, to prepare humans for their advent, make them amenable to this alien culture. Of course he's to build them up in human minds, make them think their cosmic crusade is beneficent and noble. How would he start?" "Buy a newspaper. Buy ten." "Under ordinary circumstances, sure. But wouldn't it be hard to slyly mention what great guys the Whoziz are in a daily newspaper? Any comment about his home folks would stick out like a sore thumb. No. It would have to be something less obvious. How about him buying a science fic--" A long thin shadow blotted the opaque glass door in front of me. The door opened. Wallace Starr stepped in. "Shall I get to work on it?" Ric asked. "Yeah. And make it good." I hung up. Starr walked over to my desk. I picked up my letter opener. "You might have told me," he preluded. "What?" "The changes naturally. I spent three hours at the printers last night. Didn't get home until after two." * * * * * He stalked into his office and slammed the door behind him. Then I phoned the printers. "Lemme talk to Corky," I told the girl who answered. "Mr. Corkendahl is not here," her Brooklynese voice trilled. "Mr. Corkendahl is home in bed, on account of he spent half the night rechanging some changes for Mr. Starr." "Was Mr. Starr there last night?" "Why yes." "Sure?" "Mr. Corkendahl informed me he was here until almost two. Mr. Corkendahl is not in the habit of prevaricating, Mr. Field." I hung up in a daze. If Wallace Starr was definitely not in his loft apartment at twelve-thirty last night, then.... I rang up Alice. No answer. I rang her every fifteen minutes until she did. "Where were you?" I demanded. "Why, Max." She sounded piqued. "All right, I'll tell you. I was up at Wallace Starr's apartment." "But he's here!" "I know. I waited until he left. Then I went up to the loft. I told the janitor I worked for Mr. Starr and he let me in. I went over the place with a fine-tooth comb. Max, there's simply nothing there to get excited about. He's quite neat for a bachelor. Everything very prosaic and natural, except for that big amateur radio of his." "Amateur radio?" "You know. Amateur sending and receiving. Mr. Starr is a ham." "H-ham?" I swallowed hard. "Alice, you're right. I'm going off my rocker." "Just overwork," she protested, soothingly. "You take your science fiction too seriously. What you need is a nice vacation, away from the office and everything that even smells like work." "I'll do it," I said meekly. Right then a thought hit me. It had been simmering in my mind for a long time. Now it exploded into words. "Alice--let's make it a honeymoon!" She gasped. "Max, are you sure you're well enough?" "Am I? You're just what the doctor ordered to put me back on my rollers. Will you marry me, Alice? Please?" "Yes, Max. Whenever you say."