Hebster shut his eyes, remembering the strip of bunting that had fallen from the eagle’s beak when it had turned to gasp. There had been words printed on the bunting, words too small to see at the distance, but he was sure the words would have read “E Pluribus Unum.” He was as certain of that as he was of the necessity of acting unconcerned over the whole incident, as unconcerned as the Primeys. Professor Kleimbocher said Primeys were mental drunkards. But why did they give everyone else the D.T.s?

He opened his eyes. “Well,” he said, “what have you to sell?”

Silence for a moment. Theseus seemed to forget the point he was trying to make; S.S. Lusitania stared at Larry.

Larry scratched his right side through heavy, stinking cloth.

“Oh, an infallible method for defeating anyone who attempts to apply the reductio ad absurdum to a reasonable proposition you advance.” He yawned smugly and began scratching his left side.

Hebster grinned because he was feeling so good. “No. Can’t use it.”

“Can’t use it?” The old man was trying hard to look amazed. He shook his head. He stole a sideways glance at S.S. Lusitania.

She smiled again and wriggled to the floor. “Larry still isn’t talking a language you can understand, Mr. Hebster,” she cooed, very much like a fertilizer factory being friendly. “We came here with something we know you need badly. Very badly.”

“Yes?” They’re like those two Primeys last month, Hebster exulted: they don’t know what’s good and what isn’t. Wonder if their masters would know. Well, and if they did —who does business with Aliens?