f the
beings from the stars, the Homeric laughter of those same beings had
been too much. It would have been bad enough if that laughter had been
generated by one of the Galactics. To have had it generated by an
Earthman made it that much worse. Against an Earthman, their rage was
far from impotent.

Nobody understood _why_ the book was funny, of course. The joke was
over their heads, and that made human beings even angrier.

He remembered a quotation from a book he had read once. A member of
some tribal-taboo culture--African or South Pacific, he forgot
which--had been treated at a missionary hospital for something or
other and had described his experience.

"The white witch doctor protects himself by wearing a little round
mirror on his head which reflects back the evil spirits."

Could that savage have possibly understood what was humorous about
that remark? No. Not even if you explained to him why the doctor used
the mirror that way.

_Now what?_ McLeod thought. He was out of a job and his bank account
was running low. His credit rating had dropped to zero.

McLeod heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open and Jackson
entered with his squad of U.B.I. men.

"Hey!" said McLeod, jumping to his feet. "What do you think this is?"

"Shut up, McLeod," Jackson growled. "Get your coat. You're wanted at
headquarters."

McLeod started to say something, then thought better of it. There was
nothing he could say. Nobody would care if the U.B.I. manhandled him.
Nobody would protest that his rights were being ignored. If McLeod got
his teeth knocked in, Jackson would probably be voted a medal.

McLeod didn't say another word. He followed orders. He got his coat
and was taken down to the big building on the East River which had
begun its career as the United Nations Building.

He was bundled up to an office and shoved into a chair.

Somebody shoved a paper at him. "Sign this!"

"What is it?" McLeod asked, finding his voice.

"A receipt. For two thousand dollars. Sign it."

McLeod looked the paper over, then looked up at the burly man who had
shoved it at him. "_Fifty thousand Galactic credits!_ What is this
for?"

"The royalty check for your unprintably qualified book has come in,
Funny Man. The Government is taking ninety-eight per cent for income
taxes. Sign!"

McLeod pushed the paper back across the desk. "No. I won't. You can
confiscate my money. I can't stop that, I guess. But I won't give it
lega