er to earthlings."

"Yes, sir."

"I meant 'danger' to the personnel of this fleet--to their esprit, their
indoctrination, their group-efficiency. I take it you see none."

"On the contrary, I see several," said the analyst, coming slowly to his
feet, eyes flashing and darting among them. "Where were you born,
Wingman?" he asked the officer at the opposite end of the desk.

"Lichter Six, Satellite," the officer grunted after a moment of
irritable silence.

"And you?"

"Omega Thrush," said the other wingsman.

All knew without asking that the baron was born in space, his birthplace
one of the planetoid city-states of the Michea Dwarf. Meikl looked
around at them, then ripped up his own sleeve, unsheathed his
rank-dagger, and pricked his forearm with the needle point. A red
droplet appeared, and he wiped at it with a forefinger.

"It's common stuff, gentlemen. We've shed a lot of it. And each of us is
a walking sackful of it." He paused, then turned to touch the point of
his dagger to the viewer, where it left a tiny red trace on the glass,
on the bright crescent of Earth, mist-shrouded, chastely wheeling her
nights into days.

"It came from there," he hissed. "She's your womb, gentlemen. Are you
going back?"

"Are you an analyst or a dramatist, Meikl?" the baron asked sharply,
hoping to relieve the sudden chill in the room. "This becomes silly."

"If you land on her," Meikl promised ominously, "you'll go away with a
fleet full of hate."

Meikl's arm dropped to his side. He sheathed his dagger. "Is my presence
at this meeting still imperative, sir?" he asked the baron.

"Have you anything else to say?"

"Yes--_don't land on Earth_."

"That's a repetition. No further reasons?--in terms of danger to
ourselves?"

The analyst paused. "I can think of nothing worse that could happen to
us," he said slowly, "than just being what we already are."

He snapped his heels formally, bowed to the baron, and stalked out of
the cabin.

"I suggest," said a wingsman, "that we speak to Frewek about tightening
up the discipline in the Intelligence section. That man was in open
contempt, Baron."

"But he was also probably right," sighed the graying officer and
nobleman.

"_Sir--!_"

"Don't worry, Wingsman, there's nothing else to do. We'll have to land.
Make preparations, both of you--and try to make contact with surface.
I'll dictate the message."

When the wingsmen left, it was settled. The baron arose with a s