the switchboard operator swung around and called:
"It's the commissioner, Dr. Peterson. I just got through to him."
Peterson picked up the phone.

"John," he shouted into the instrument, "Peterson here. Where have you
been?" Tinny, audible squawks came from the phone and Peterson held it
away from his ear.

"Yes, I know all about it," he said. "Yes ... yes ... yes. I know
you've had a time with the papers. Yes, I heard the radio. Yes, John, I
know it sounds pretty ridiculous. What? Get up to the ranch and find
out. Where do you think I'm calling from?"

The squawking rattled the receiver and Peterson winced.

"Look, commissioner," he broke in, "I can't put a stop to those
stories. What? I said I can't put a stop to the stories for one reason.
They're true."

The only sound that came from the phone was the steady hum of the line.

"Are you there, John?" Peterson asked. There was an indistinct mumble
from Washington. "Now listen carefully, John. What I need out here just
as quickly as you can round them up and get them aboard a plane is the
best team of biogeneticists in the country.

"What? No, I don't need a team of psychiatrists, commissioner. I am
perfectly normal." Peterson paused. "I think!"

He talked with his chief for another fifteen minutes. At two other
telephones around the big table, his chief deputy and the senior
security officer of the task force handled a half dozen calls during
Peterson's lengthy conversation. When Peterson hung up, the machinery
was in motion gathering the nation's top biochemists, animal
geneticists, agricultural and animal husbandry experts and a baker's
dozen of other assorted -ists, ready to package and ship them by plane
and train to the main AEC facility at Frenchman's Flat and to the
Circle T.

Peterson sighed gustily as he laid down the phone and reached for his
pipe. Across the table, his assistant put a hand over the mouthpiece of
his telephone and leaned towards Peterson.

"It's the Associated Press in New York," he whispered. "They're hotter
than a pistol about the blackout and threatening to call the President
and every congressman in Washington if we don't crack loose with
something."

"Why couldn't I have flunked Algebra Two," Peterson moaned. "No, I had
to be a genius. Now look at me. A milkmaid." He looked at his watch.
"Tell 'em we'll hold a press conference at 8:00 a.m. outside the ranch
gate."

The assistant spoke briefly into the phone and again turn