ith a quiet hiss against the
cabin wall, and, on greased tubes, the desk dropped out of sight beneath
the bunk bed, giving Lord the luxury of an uncluttered floor space eight
feet square. He had the only private quarters on the ship--the usual
distinction reserved for a trade agent in command.

From a narrow wardrobe, curved to fit the projectile walls of the ship,
Lord took a lightweight jacket, marked with the tooled shoulder insignia of
command. He smiled a little as he put it on. He was Martin Lord, trade
agent and heir to the fabulous industrial-trading empire of Hamilton Lord,
Inc.; yet he was afraid to face Ann Howard without the visible trappings of
authority.

* * * * *

He descended the spiral stairway to the midship airlock, a lead-walled
chamber directly above the long power tubes of the _Ceres_. The lock door
hung open, making an improvised landing porch fifty feet above the charred
ground. Lord paused for a moment at the head of the runged landing ladder.
Below him, in the clearing where the ship had come down, he saw the rows of
plastic prefabs which his crew had thrown up--laboratories, sleeping
quarters, a kitchen, and Ann Howard's schoolroom.

Beyond the clearing was the edge of the magnificent forest which covered so
much of this planet. Far away, in the foothills of a distant mountain
range, Lord saw the houses of a village, gleaming in the scarlet blaze of
the setting sun. A world at peace, uncrowded, unscarred by the feverish
excavation and building of man. A world at the zenith of its native
culture, about to be jerked awake by the rude din of civilization. Lord
felt a twinge of the same guilt that had tormented his mind since the
_Ceres_ had first landed, and with an effort he drove it from his mind.

He descended the ladder and crossed the clearing, still blackened from the
landing blast; he pushed open the sliding door of the schoolroom. It was
large and pleasantly yellow-walled, crowded with projectors, view-booths,
stereo-miniatures, and picture books--all the visual aids which Ann Howard
would have used to teach the natives the cultural philosophy of the
Galactic Federation. But the rows of seats were empty, and the gleaming
machines still stood in their cases. For no one had come to Ann's school,
in spite of her extravagant offers of trade goods.

Ann sat waiting, ramrod straight, in front of a green-tinged projectoscope.
She made no compromise with the h