none of Swinburne—when this happened, his development as a human being of full depth and breadth was at an end.

When he became hypnotized by his toys—

When motion and force became an obsession—

When the means became an end in itself; when the tool became the raison-d'etre, rather than the structure it had been fashioned only to help build, then the point of civilization had been hopelessly lost, and thinking men had but one alternative: leave, and start over.

And so, banded together, they had left.

It had not been so difficult. For to the Ancestors, a tool was always that and nothing more. They could not build spaceships, but they could buy them, and so they had.

They could not navigate Space nor pilot their craft, so they hired the technicians and engineers who could.

And when the Ancestors had arrived at a planet of their choice (the scientists had been duly proud of their superior accomplishment in being able to find just such a planet—and of course were paid more than the engineers and technicians) the Ancestors gave them all sizable bonuses and sent them packing back to Earth where there were so many fine Things to spend their money on.

The Ancestors had, of course, been called dreamers, ivory-towerists, alarmists, fools. They had been called madmen who lived in the unenlightened past, believers in some foolishness called artistic integrity; schizoids who were afraid to face Reality. Posh, polish, and good riddance muttered the sane ones over their charts and oscilloscopes as the last of the Ancestors' ships blasted free of Earth. Muttered, of course, because there was, somehow, a vague awareness that the Culture-Vultures hadn't left in fear of the bright, quick Machines, but in—well, they said, in disgust!

Good riddance to childish rubbish.

But now, apparently, the men of Earth had gotten themselves into something so peculiarly impossible that they were desperate enough to face the cutting wit of the fat-bottomed Artists on Ste. Catherine, who wouldn't be able to say "I told you so" in a straightforward, matter-of-fact way and let it go at that. Oh, no. But it would be better to have their damned articulate tongues tear you apart than an S-field.

The moment of reflection was spent, and Angelo asked the question.

"And how can we help you?" was all he 

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