planet.

On Earth, however, things became less and less tranquil with every day
that passed. For, in deciding not to publish anything, Garlock had not
considered at all the basic function and the tremendous ability, power,
and scope of _The Press_. And Galaxian Hall had never before been closed
to the public; not for any hour of any day of any year of its existence.
A non-profit organization, dependent upon the public for its tremendous
income, the Galaxian Society had always courted that public in every
possible ethical way.

Thus, in the first hour of closure, a bored reporter came out, read the
smoothly-phrased notice, and lepped it in to the desk. It might be
worth, he thought, half an inch.

Later in the day, however, the world's most sensitive news-nose began to
itch. Did, or did not, this quiet, unannounced closing smell
ever-so-slightly of cheese? Wherefore, Benjamin Bundy, the newscaster
who had covered the starship's maiden flight, went out himself to look
the thing over. He found the whole field closed. Not only closed, but
Gunther-blocked impenetrably tight. He studied the announcement, his
sixth sense--the born newsman's sense for news--probing every word.

"Regret ... research ... of such extreme delicacy ... vibration ...
temperature control ... one one-hundredth of one degree Centigrade...."

He sought out his long-time acquaintance Banks; finding him in a
temporary office half a block away from the Hall. "What's the story,
Jerry?" he asked. "The _real_ story, I mean?"

"You know, as much about it as I do, Ben. Garlock and James don't waste
time trying to detail me on that kind of business, you know."

This should have satisfied any newshawk, but Bundy's nose still itched.
He mulled things over for a minute, then probed, finding that he could
read nothing except Banks' outermost, most superficial thoughts.

"Well ... maybe ... but...." Then Bundy plunged. "All you have to do,
Jerry, is tell me screens-half-down that your damn story is true."

"And that's the one thing I can't do," Banks admitted; and Bundy could
not detect that any part of his sheepishness was feigned. "You're just
too damned smart, Ben."

"Oh--one of _those_ things? So that's it?"

"Yup. I told Evans it might not work."

That should have satisfied the reporter, but it didn't. "Now it doesn't
smell just a trifle cheesy; it stinks like rotten fish. You won't go
screens down on that one, either."

"No comment."

"Oh, joy!