"And no wreckage of the vessel itself," Samms went on, half audibly. "Either they have succeeded far beyond their wildest hopes or else ... more probably...." He fell silent and switched off the plate. Were his two friends, those intrepid scientists, alive and triumphant, or had they gone to lengthen the list of victims of that man-killing space-ship? Reason told him that they were gone. They _must_ be gone, or else the ultra-beams--energies of such unthinkable velocity of propagation that man's most sensitive instruments had never been able even to estimate it--would have held the ship's transmitter in spite of any velocity attainable by matter under any conceivable conditions. The ship must have been disintegrated as soon as Rodebush released his forces. And yet, had not the physicist dimly foreseen the possibility of such an actual velocity--or had he? However, individuals could come and go, but the Service went on. Samms squared his shoulders unconsciously; and slowly, grimly, made his way back to his private office. "Mr. Fairchild would like to have a moment as soon as possible, sir," his secretary informed him even before he sat down. "Senator Morgan has been here all day, you know, and he insists on seeing you personally." "Oh, that kind, eh? All right, I'll see him. Get Fairchild, please ... Dick? Can you talk, or is he there listening?" "No, he's heckling Saunders at the moment. He's been here long enough. Can you take a minute and throw him out?" "Of course, if you say so, but why not throw the hooks into him yourself, as usual?" "He wants to lay down the law to you, personally. He's a Big Shot, you know, and his group is kicking up quite a row, so it might be better to have it come straight from the top. Besides, you've got a unique knack--when you throw a harpoon, the harpoonee doesn't forget it." "All right. He's the uplifter and leveler-off. Down with Triplanetary, up with National Sovereignty. We're power-mad dictators--iron-heel-on-the- necks-of-the-people, and so on. But what's he like, personally? Thick-skinned, of course--got a brain?" "Rhinoceros. He's got a brain, but it's definitely weaseloid. Bear down--sink it in full length, and then twist it." "O.K. You've got a harpoon, of course?" "Three of 'em!" Fairchild, Head of Triplanetary's Public Relations, grinned with relish. "Boss Jim Towne owns him in fee simple. The number of his hot lock box is N469T414. His subbest sub-rosa girl-friend is Fi-Chi le Bay ... yes, everything that the name implies. She got a super-deluxe fur coat--Martian tekkyl, no less--out of that Mackenzie River power deal. Triple play, you might say--Clander to Morgan to le Bay." "Nice. Bring him in."