Gaya Lel Rayne's entry into the grand ballroom had the same effect, just as it always had. In another woman it might have produced triangle-trouble, but Gaya's attraction for men was not her only charm; the woman who hated her for her ability to draw men was one who did not know her. Once introduced, and permitted to talk with Gaya, the jealous dislike died, for Gaya was not far below her husband in wit and intelligence. Like all intelligent people, Gaya was capable of making herself liked by all, even in the face of dislike. Those who still felt the twinge of jealousy often pitied her; feeling that her beauty was compensation for the necessity that she be of high intelligence, and quite certain of their husbands, whom they knew would not care to live their lives with a woman who outshone them in every field. They knew also that there was but one man on the whole planet that Gaya loved--Gerd. He was the only man she could possibly love and the only man who could possibly love her. Gerd was the only man who could even keep up with her thought-processes. Gerd had his amusement, too. Partly in payment for the slight put upon them by their husbands, Gerd was surrounded by women as he entered. And they knew that he was more than capable of running far ahead of their own devious thought-processes, a condition which they hoped was untrue in their husbands. Yet he was interesting and attractive, and equally as versatile as his wife. The party took on a faster air, and all were dazzled save one. Andrew Tremaine stood on the side lines and watched. He saw Gaya whirl from man to man across the dance floor and with equal amusement he saw Gerd moving through a closely-knit crowd. He wished fervently for someone to discuss it with, but even his wife was in the press of people about Gerd Lel Rayne. Emissaries, he thought. Ambassadors who cut their mentality because they did not care to appear so far beyond their friends would certainly develop a contempt. It must be so, if for no other reason than it could not be otherwise. Andrew wondered what made them tick. He'd heard from Gene Leglen briefly. It was not good. A negative result--which was inconclusive. Yet, according to the letter, the thought-process frequencies had been inspected carefully by the most delicate detector that Gene could make, and he had found nothing out of line. Strays from the I.Q. Register machine that ran continually in the shielded vault below the psychology building in government square were recorded; a few pip-markers leaked out of the intent-register on strong impulses and caused Gene's machine to chatter wildly at long and indefinite times; even a few infra-faint recordings came from the intent-register machine as a matrix was sent through to record changes from a previous marking were caught on Gene's detector. But nothing with overall intensity. Nothing that could be expected to block the operation of nine tenths of a man's brain.