“Fan it to keep it going,” responded Matt, fed up and making no effort to conceal the fact. He returned to the counter with the air of one who has no time to waste on half-wits.

“He’d put it out,” informed the brunette. “What else would you expect him to do?”

“Supposing he couldn’t?”

“He’d call in others to help him.”

“And would they?”

“Of course,” she assured, surveying him with pity. “They’d be planting a nice crop of strong obs, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes, I guess so.” He began to feel stalled, but made a last shot at the problem. “What if the fire were too big and fast for passers-by to tackle?”

“Seth would summon the fire squad.”

Defeat receded. A touch of triumph replaced it.

“Ah, so there is a fire squad! That’s what I meant by something official. That’s what I’ve been after all along. Quick; tell me where I can find the depot.”

“Bottom end of Twelfth. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.” He got up in a hurry. “See you again sometime.” Going out fast, he grabbed his bicycle, shoved off from the curb.

The fire depot was a big place holding four telescopic ladders, a spray tower and two multiple pumps, all motorized on the usual array of fat rubber balls. Inside, Harrison came face to face with a small man wearing immense plus fours.

“Looking for someone?” asked the small man.

“The fire chief,” said Harrison.

“Who’s he?”

By this time prepared for that sort of thing, Harrison spoke as one would to a child. “See here, mister, this is a fire-fighting outfit. Somebody bosses it. Somebody organizes the shebang, fills forms, presses buttons, recommends promotions, kicks the shiftless, takes all the credit, transfers all the blame and generally lords it around. He’s the most important guy in the bunch and everybody knows it.” His forefinger tapped the other’s chest. “And he’s the fella I’m going to talk to if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Nobody’s any more important than anyone else. How can they be? I think you’re crazy.”

“You’re welcome to think what you like, but I’m telling you that—”

A shrill bell clamored, cutting off the sentence. Twenty men appeared as if by magic, boarded a ladder and a multi-pump, roared into the street.

Squat, basin-shaped helmets were the crews’ only item of common attire. Apart from these, they plumbed the depths of sartorial iniquity. The man with the plus fours, who had gained the pump in one bold leap, was whirled out standing between a fat firefighter wearing a rainbow-hued cummerbund and a thin one sporting a canary yellow kilt. A latecomer decorated with earrings shaped like little bells hotly pursued the pump, snatched at its tailboard, missed, disconsolately watched the outfit disappear from sight. He mooched back, swinging his helmet in one hand.

“Just my lousy luck,” he informed the gaping Harrison. “The sweetest call of the year. A big brewery. The sooner they get there the bigger the obs they’ll plant on it.” He licked his lips at the thought, sat on a coil of canvas hose. “Oh, well, maybe it’s all for the good of my health.”

“Tell me something,” Harrison insisted. “How do you get a living?”

“There’s a heck of a question. You can see for yourself. I’m on the fire squad.”

“I know. What I mean is, who pays you?”

“Pays me?”

“Gives you money for all this.”

“You talk kind of peculiar. What is money?”

Harrison rubbed his cranium to assist the circulation of blood through the brain. What is money? Yeouw. He tried another angle. “Supposing your wife needs a new coat, how does she get it?”

“Goes to a store saddled with fire-obs, of course. She kills one or two for them.”’

“But what if no clothing store has had a fire?”

“You’re pretty ignorant, brother. Where in this world do you come from?” His ear bells swung as he studied the other a moment, then went on, “Almost all stores have fire-obs. If they’ve any sense, they allocate so many per month by way of insurance. They look ahead, just in case, see? They plant obs on us, in a way, so that when we rush to the rescue we’ve got to kill off a dollop of theirs before we can plant any new ones of our own. That stops us overdoing it and making hogs of ourselves. Sort of cuts down the stores’ liabilities. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe, but—”

“I get it now,” interrupted the other, narrowing his eyes. “You’re from that spaceship. You’re an Antigand.”

“I’m a Terran,” said Harrison with suitable dignity. “What’s more, all the folk who originally settled this planet were Terrans.”

“You trying to teach me history?” He gave a harsh laugh. “You’re wrong. There was a five per cent strain of Martian.”

“Even the Martians are descended from Terran settlers,” riposted Harrison.

“So what? That was a devil of a long time back. Things change, in case you haven’t heard. We’ve no Terrans or Martians on this world—except for your crowd which has come in unasked. We’re all Gands here. And you nosey pokes are Antigands.”

“We aren’t anti-anything that I know of. Where did you get that idea?”

“Myob!” said the other, suddenly determined to refuse further agreement. He tossed his helmet to one side, spat on the floor.

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Go trundle your scooter.”

Harrison gave up and did just that. He pedaled gloomily back to the ship.

His Excellency pinned him with an authoritative optic. “So you’re back at last, mister. How many are coming and at what time?”

“None, sir,” said Harrison, feeling kind of feeble.

“None?” August eyebrows rose up. “Do you mean that they have refused my invitation?”

“No, sir.”

The ambassador waited a moment, then said, “Come out with it, mister. Don’t stand there gawking as if your push-and-puff contraption has just given birth to a roller skate. You say they haven’t refused my invitation—but nobody is coming. What am I to make of that?”

“I didn’t ask anyone.”

“So you didn’t ask!” Turning, he said to Grayder, Shelton and the others, “He didn’t ask!” His attention came back to Harrison. “You forgot all about it, I presume? Intoxicated by liberty and the power of man over machine, you flashed around the town at nothing less than eighteen miles per hour, creating consternation among the citizenry, tossing their traffic laws into the ash can, putting persons in peril of their lives, not even troubling to ring your bell or—”