But one man leaned forward instead, frantically studying the shimmering outline of the ship. One man—Berkeley. With the training of the ethnologist, a man who really can deduce an entire civilization from mystifying data, he recognized the tremendous import. At the end of that minute, without warning, a group of figures hovered in the air near the floor of the stadium. ———— Quickly, Berkeley’s eyes assessed their form, their color, the increasing solidity of the humanoids. There are some movements, some gestures, common to all things of intelligence—the pause, the resolution, the lift of pride. "No!" he screamed and started forward. "Oh, no! We’re civilized. We’re intelligent!" He was pulled back, as in his terror he tried to leap from the platform to get at the humanoids. Held there, unable to move, he read the meaning of the actions of the group hovering near the ship. One flashed a shining tentacle around, as if to point to the stadium, the pitifully small spaceship on display, the crowds of people. The leader manifestly ignored him. He flowed forward a pace, his ovoid head held high in pride and arrogance. He pointed a tentacle toward the south end of the stadium, and a pillar of leaping flame arose; fed with no fuel, never to cease its fire, the symbol of possession. He pointed his tentacles to the north, the south, the east, the west. He motioned with his tentacles, as if to encircle all of Earth. He unfurled a scroll and began to read. —MARK CLIFTON & ALEX APOSTOLIDES _Transcribers note_: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.