"That water bed looks awfully good," Kinsman said tiredly as Landau disconnected the last sensor probe from the medical computer.

"It should," the Russian said. "Your blood pressure is very low." The miniaturized analyzer on the desk gave a gentle ting with its little bell, and automatically displayed its analysis of Kinsman's blood sample on the computer's screen.

"Ahh-hmm," Landau muttered, studying the readout graph's snaking lines. "Blood sugar is also low, as I suspected. You need food and rest."

Kinsman closed his eyes. "I'm too tired to eat. God, we 540 must have told the same story three dozen times."

"Sixteen times," Harriman corrected from the wheeled dining table. "Another dozen coming tomorrow."

Landau scratched at his beard. "Very well. Let's get you bedded down, and then we can feed you with the IV."

"No you don't." Kinsman's aversion to having holes poked through his skin overcame his fatigue. "I'll eat some real food." He cranked the seat back up and rolled to the dining table. "If there's anything left after these two chow- hounds," he added, looking over the nearly empty table.

"Sixteen times," Harriman repeated thoughtfully, clutching a steak sandwich with both hands. "After listening to your spiel all day and night I could give your song-and- dance routine in my sleep."

"I'll do it sixteen thousand times," Kinsman said, "if it'll do any good."

"It did good," Marrett said firmly. He had a bottle of beer in one big hand; he disdained a glass. "Every one of the people who came in here today is connected right back to the power centers in their governments. No flunkies or dodos in the bunch of 'em. They might not all have had much rank, but hell, most big-shot diplomats are nothing but assholes any- way."

"Hey, watch that!" Harriman snapped, frowning.

Marrett raised his beer bottle in salute. "Present compa- ny excepted."

Harriman kept his stern visage. "There's a lot of nasty comments I could make about engineers."

"I'm a meteorologist."

Harriman glanced heavenward. "The Lord has delivered him unto my hands!"

Landau pulled up a chair and reached for one of the few remaining sandwiches.

"You think we got our message across to them?" Kins- man asked Marrett.

"Yep. They knew the story before they came in here. De Paolo's seen to that. They just had to meet you, size you up, and play their estimation of you against their estimates of what they stand to gain or lose by going along with De Paolo's scheme."

Kinsman shook his head once and got a fresh lance of pain from the servomotors whining just behind his ears. "I wonder about De Paolo's plan," he said. "He claims that he's not aiming at a world dictatorship . . ."

"You want to know if you can trust him?" Marrett asked. "He's honest. He means what he says."

"But what about the people around him?" Kinsman wondered. "And the people after him?"

Marrett started to shrug, but Harriman said, "What the hell did you expect, Chet?"

"What do you mean?"

With a shake of his head, Harriman explained, "Don't you see that De Paolo's plans are the logical extension of your own? Follows as the night the day. All he's doing is building a permanent structure where you've been improvising lean-tos and pup tents. De Paolo sees further than you do, my boy. What he wants is a solid edifice."

"You mean a jail?"