in his voice as he said it. In face he was little different than the other two, although perhaps a year or two older. But for all practical purposes they were the same—the high foreheads, the too-closely-spaced blue eyes, the sharp, disciplined features, the lack of any genuine character at all. They were as much of the same bolt of cloth as the uniforms they wore.

"Of course," Angelo smiled. "Our memories here on Ste. Catherine are fortunately long, and our libraries are well-filled—and well-used! And of course we have been expecting you."

"Expecting us?"

"Naturally," and again Angelo smiled. "It is a philosophical truth after all—Man is a social creature by nature, and as such, must continually seek the company of his own kind. And of course," and there was the hint of a repressed glitter in the old man's eyes, "the people of Earth have always known, and have—have never forgotten where we of Ste. Catherine were to be found."

The leader reddened and seemed on the point of explosive speech, and the muscles of his jaw hardened as he controlled his impulse. Angelo waited.

"You are of course—correct," he said after a moment's pause. "And it will perhaps be best for all that we understand each other clearly from the beginning. We come to you in some embarrassment, we come to you asking a favor." The last word the leader uttered with a distaste that the best of his self-discipline could not control, and Angelo chuckled inwardly. A favor, was it? Embarrassed, were they? He could quite imagine!

"Perhaps," Angelo said, "it would be more comfortable to discuss your mission in my studio. Will you gentlemen follow me, please?"

He turned and began walking back to where the others waited, and the three men from Earth followed him. At first they balked for the briefest moment, but they followed him.

The studio of Angelo, Dean of Masters, was open to the sky like his court-yard, for this was the fair season on Ste. Catherine in this latitude, and not yet time to draw the transparent tarpaulin skylight across the tops of the studio walls. Angelo had seated himself near the center of the superbly-muraled room, on one of the low, colorful cushions so widely preferred in the colony to the more formal furniture that was still to be found, to some extent, in the shops and homes of the artisans. Artists in their own way, of course—and some practical work had to be put up with to satisfy the 

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