"There's no shortage of information turning up," he conceded at last. "The infantry is doing a good job . . ." He let the rider hang.

"But what . . . ?" Hunt sighed.

"But . . . the interpretation. There's something too dogmatic—too rigid—about the way the big names higher up are using the information. It's as if they can't think outside the rats they've thought inside for years. Maybe they're overspecialized—won't admit any possibility that goes against what they've always believed."

"For instance?"

"Oh, I don't know . . . Well, take Danchekker, for one. He's always accepted orthodox evolutionary theory—all his life, I suppose; therefore, Charlie must be from Earth. Nothing else is possible. The accepted theory must be right, so that much is fixed; you have to work everything else to fit in with that."

"You think he's wrong? That Charlie came from somewhere else?"

"Hell, I don't know. He could be right. But it's not his conclusion that I don't like; it's his way of getting there. This problem's going to need more flexibility before it's cracked."

Lyn nodded slowly to herself, as if Hunt had confirmed something.

"I thought you might say something like that," she mused. "Gregg will be interested to hear it. He wondered the same thing, too."

Hunt had the feeling that the questions had been more than just an accidental turn of conversation. He looked at her long and hard.

"Why should Gregg be interested?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised. Gregg knows a lot about you two. He's interested in anything anybody has to say. It's people, see—Gregg's a genius with people. He knows what makes them tick. It's the biggest part of his job."

"Well, if it's a people problem he's got," Hunt said. "Why doesn't he fix it?"

Suddenly Lyn switched moods and seemed to make light of the whole subject, as if she had learned all she needed to for the time being.

"Oh, he will—when he gets the feeling that the time's right. He's very good with timing, too." She decided to finish the matter entirely. "Anyhow, it's time for lunch." She stood up and slipped a hand through an arm on either side. "How about two crazy Limeys treating a poor girl from the Colonies to a drink?"

Chapter Eight

The progress meeting, in the main conference room of the Navcomms Headquarters building, had been in session for just over two hours. About two dozen persons were seated or sprawled around the large table that stood in the center of the room, by now reduced to a shambles of files, papers, overflowing ashtrays, and half-empty glasses.