By now he's probably recruited two hundred skills from two hundred planets, Joe realized. I'm not the only one getting peculiar letters et cetera. He saw in his mind a great cannon being fired, and out of it special delivery letters, thousands of them, addressed to various life-form individuals throughout the galaxy.

And oh god, he thought. The police are spotting it; they barged into my room minutes after I consulted the bank. Last night, those two; they knew already what these letters and weird note floating in the water closet of the toilet mean. They could have told me. But of course they wouldn't; that would be too natural, too humane.

His phone buzzed. He lifted the receiver.

"I contacted the encyclopedia," Smith said, as his image appeared on the screen. "Plowman's Planet is space argot for Sirius five. Since I had hold of the encyclopedia I took the opportunity of asking it more. I thought you might appreciate it."

"Yes," Joe said.

"One vast old creature lives there. Apparently infirm."

"You mean it's sick?" Joe asked.

"Well, you know... age and such like. Dormant; that's what it's been."

"Is it menacing?"

"How could it be menacing if it's dormant as well as infirm? It's senile. Yes, that's the word—senile."

Joe asked, "Has it ever said anything?"

"Not really."

"Not even the time of day?"

"Ten years ago it came to briefly and asked for an orbiting weather-station satellite."

"What did it pay for it with?"

"It didn't. It's indigent. We contributed it free, and we threw in a news type satellite along with the weather one."

"Broke and senile," Joe said. He felt glum. "Well," he said, "I guess I won't be getting any money out of it."

"Why? Were you suing it?"