"Give the country back to the Indians!" The cry of the over-burdened
citizen. It seemed it was about to come to that!

For a long time I sat there, thinking, trying to hit on an answer that
would save my country. And when the answer finally stirred at the back
of my mind, it was so completely bizarre that I almost missed it
entirely....

"Noble Lo-as-ro," I said, "I must return to the Great White Father and
tell him what I have learned. I will tell him that there is nothing to
be done to oppose the Chief of the Kornesh. Within a few hours I will
return with his reply."

Lo-as-ro inclined his fine head in assent. "Let it be so."

"Until my return," I said, "let the influence of the machine draw back
until it holds helpless only a small section of land about your ship.
Only in this way will I be able to return quickly to the White Chief."

Again Lo-as-ro agreed. I took my leave of him ceremoniously, and a few
minutes later Wetzel and I were hurrying back toward the highway.

* * * * *

Four hours later I was on my way back, this time with four companions.
The plane landed us at the edge of the newly set "dead spot" and the
five of us forced our way through the forest until we reached the
clearing where the spaceship still crouched.

A silent group of Indians watched us as we crossed the open ground.
This time the two robots flanking the doorway did not leave their
posts. As I came up the ramp with my companions, Lo-as-ro appeared in
the doorway of the ship.

He eyed me and the others without expression. I said, "Noble Lo-as-ro,
I have brought with me four of my world's Orbiwah. They have come to
hear your plan for them and their people. I have told them nothing of
what you said to me, only that you have come from another world and
are of their blood."

One by one I presented my companions. Yellow Arm was Johnny Armin, an
old school friend of mine; Iron Eagle, with whom I had spent a year in
Korea, had his telephone listed under the name of Luke Riegel; Strong
Wind was Sidney Storm, whom I had met while spending a year in
Southern California; and Lone Pine, known as Lionel Patterson, lived a
few doors down the street from me in Washington and shot eighteen
holes any day in the low seventies.

The color of their skins, the unmistakable cast of their features,
made up the only passport they needed. At the chief's invitation we
squatted in a rude circle at the top of the ramp, and