tions. Then he looked back up at McLeod.
"All right then, professor, what about this afternoon's conference.
_That_ isn't a matter of public record."

"And technically it isn't any of your business, either," McLeod said
tiredly. "But since you have the whole conversation down on tape, I
don't see why you bother asking me. I'm well aware that you can pick
up conversations in my apartment."

Jackson pursed his lips and glanced at another of the agents, who
raised his eyebrows slightly.

McLeod got it in spite of the fact that they didn't intend him to. His
place was bugged, all right, but somehow the Galactic had managed to
nullify their instruments! No wonder they were in such a tizzy.

McLeod smiled, pleased with himself and with the world for the first
time that afternoon. He decided, however, that he'd better volunteer
the information before they threatened him with the Planetary Security
Act. That threat would make him angry, he knew, and he might say
something that would get him in real trouble.

It was all right to badger Jackson up to a certain point, but it would
be foolish to go beyond that.

"However," he went on with hardly a break, "since, as you say, it is
not a matter of public record, I'm perfectly willing to answer any
questions you care to ask."

"Just give us a general rundown of the conversation," Jackson said.
"If I have any questions, I'll ... uh ... ask them at the proper
time."

* * * * *

McLeod did the best he could to give a clear picture of what the
Galactic had wanted. There was really very little to it. The Galactic
was a member of a race that McLeod had never seen before: a humanoid
with red skin--fire-engine, not Amerindian--and a rather
pleasant-looking face, in contrast to the rather crocodilian features
of the Galactic resident. He had introduced himself by an
un-pronounceable name and then had explained that since the name meant
"mild" or "merciful" in one of the ancient tongues of his planet, it
would be perfectly all right if McLeod called him "Clement." Within
minutes, it had been "Clem" and "Mac."

McLeod could see that Jackson didn't quite believe that. Galactics, of
whatever race, were aloof, polite, reserved, and sometimes
irritatingly patronizing--never buddy-buddy. McLeod couldn't help what
Jackson might think; what was important was that it was true.

What Clem wanted was very simple. Clem was--after a manner of
speaking--a literar