ut of Cercy's hand and riffled through them.

"Hmm. Wonder if there's any historical parallel? Don't suppose so." He
raised his head. "Although this isn't conclusive, it seems logical
enough. Any other defense would involve recognition of the weapon
first, then an appraisal, then a countermove predicated on the
potentialities of the weapon. The Ambassador's defense would be a lot
faster and safer. He wouldn't have to recognize the weapon. I suppose
his body simply _identifies_, in some way, with the menace at hand."

"Did the Analyzer say there was any way of breaking this defense?"
Cercy asked.

"The Analyzer stated definitely that there was no way, if the premise
were true," Malley answered gloomily.

"We can discard that judgment," Darrig said. "The machine is limited."

"But we still haven't got any way of stopping him," Malley pointed
out. "And he's still broadcasting that beam."

Cercy thought for a moment. "Call in every expert you can find. We're
going to throw the book at the Ambassador. I know," he said, looking
at Darrig's dubious expression, "but we have to try."

* * * * *

During the next few days, every combination and permutation of death
was thrown at the Ambassador. He was showered with weapons, ranging
from Stone-Age axes to modern high-powered rifles, peppered with hand
grenades, drowned in acid, suffocated in poison gas.

He kept shrugging his shoulders philosophically, and continued to work
on the new typewriter they had given him.

Bacteria was piped in, first the known germ diseases, then mutated
species.

The diplomat didn't even sneeze.

He was showered with electricity, radiation, wooden weapons, iron
weapons, copper weapons, brass weapons, uranium weapons--anything and
everything, just to cover all possibilities.

He didn't suffer a scratch, but his room looked as though a bar-room
brawl had been going on in it continually for fifty years.

Malley was working on an idea of his own, as was Darrig. The physicist
interrupted himself long enough to remind Cercy of the Baldur myth.
Baldur had been showered with every kind of weapon and remained
unscathed, because everything on Earth had promised to love him.
Everything, except the mistletoe. When a little twig of it was shot at
him, he died.

Cercy turned away impatiently, but had an order of mistletoe sent up,
just in case.

It was, at least, no less effective than the explosive shells or the
bo