There were murmurs of approval from around the room. A sincere and disinterested concern for the good of mankind was a much more morally justifiable reason for action than the protection of one's own selfish interest. Patinos, the man from Venezuela, looked at Benson with a smile of mild cynicism on his face. The smile signified nothing. Patinos, a sincere and devout Catholic, wore the same expression when he passed through the doors of his church.

«You seem very sure of this, Mr. Benson?»

“Tve given quite some thought to it.»

Borosoff said: «And just how do you propose to stop this madman, Mr. Benson?»

A'l don't know.»

«You don't know?» One of the others at the table lifted his eyebrows a millimeter—for him a sign of complete disapproval. «Then why did you summon us all this distance?»

«I didn't summon you. I asked you. I asked you to approve whatever course of action we might take.»

'This course of action being—»

«Again, I don't know.»

The eyebrows returned to normal. A twitch of the man's lip showed that he was contemplating smiling.

«This—ah—third party?»

«Yes.»

«He has a name?»

«Cronkite. John Cronkite.»

A hush descended upon the company. Them open objections had turned into pensive hesitation which in turn gave way to a nodding acceptance. Benson apart, no one there had ever met Cronkite, but his name was a household word to all of them. In the oil business that name had long been a legend, although at times a far from savory one. They all knew that any of them might require his incomparable services at any time, while at the same time hoping that that day would never come.