Major Hauk had seen the exhibit, and it made him uneasy. The Fnools, he had declared time and time again, were no joke. But there was something about a Fnool that—well, a Fnool was an idiotic life form. That was the basis of it. No matter what it imitated it retained its midget aspect; a Fnool looked like something given away free at supermarket openings, along with balloons and moist purple orchids. No doubt, Major Hauk had ruminated, it was a survival factor. It disarmed the Fnool’s opponents. Even the name. It was just not possible to take them seriously, even at this very moment when they were infesting Provo, Utah, in the form of miniature real-estate salesmen.

Hauk instructed, “Capture a Fnool in this current guise, Lightfoot, bring it to me and I’ll parley. I feel like capitulating, this time. I’ve been fighting them for twenty years now. I’m worn out.”

“If you get one face to face with you,” Lightfoot cautioned, “it may successfully imitate you and that would be the end. We would have to incinerate both of you, just to be on the safe side.”

Gloomily, Hauk said, “I’ll set up a key password situation with you right now, Captain. The word is masticate. I’ll use it in a sentence… for instance, ‘I’ve got to thoroughly masticate these data.’ The Fnool won’t know that—correct?”

“Yes, Major,” Captain Lightfoot sighed and left the CIA office at once, hurrying to the ‘copter field across the street to begin his trip to Provo, Utah. But he had a feeling of foreboding.

When his ‘copter landed at the end of Provo Canyon on the outskirts of the town, he was at once approached by a two-foot-high man in a gray business suit carrying a briefcase.

“Good morning, sir,” the Fnool piped. “Care to look at some choice lots, all with unobstructed views? Can be subdivided into—”

“Get in the ‘copter,” Lightfoot said, aiming his Army-issue .45 at the Fnool.

“Listen, my friend,” the Fnool said, in a jolly tone of voice. “I can see you’ve never really given any hardheaded thought to the meaning of our race having landed on your planet. Why don’t we step into the office a moment and sit down?” The Fnool indicated a nearby small building in which Lightfoot saw a desk and chairs. Over the office there was a sign:

“ ‘The early bird catches the worm,’ ” the Fnool declared. “And the spoils go to the winner, Captain Lightfoot. By nature’s laws, if we manage to infest your planet and pre-empt you, we’ve got all the forces of evolution and biology on our side.” The Fnool beamed cheerily.

Lightfoot said, “There’s a CIA major back in Washington, D.C. who’s on to you.”

“Major Hauk has defeated us twice,” the Fnool admitted. “We respect him. But he’s a voice crying in the wilderness, in this country, at least. You know perfectly well, Captain, that the average American viewing that exhibit at the Smithsonian merely smiles in a tolerant fashion. There’s just no awareness of the menace.”

By now two other Fnools, also in the form of tiny real-estate salesmen in gray business suits carrying briefcases, had approached. “Look,” one said to the other. “Charley’s captured a Terran.”

“No,” its companion disagreed, “the Terran captured him.”

“All three of you get in the CIA ‘copter,” Lightfoot ordered, waving his .45 at them.

“You’re making a mistake,” the first Fnool said, shaking its head. “But you’re a young man; you’ll mature in time.” It walked to the ‘copter. Then, all at once, it spun and cried, “Death to the Terrans!”

Its briefcase whipped up, a bolt of pure solar energy whined past Lightfoot’s right ear. Lightfoot dropped to one knee and squeezed the trigger of the .45; the Fnool, in the doorway of the ‘copter, pitched head-forward and lay with its briefcase beside it. The other two Fnools watched as Lightfoot cautiously kicked the briefcase away.

“Young,” one of the remaining Fnools said, “but with quick reflexes. Did you see the way he dropped on one knee?”

“Terrans are no joke,” the other agreed. “We’ve got an uphill battle ahead of us.”

“As long as you’re here,” the first of the remaining Fnools said to Lightfoot, “why don’t you put a small deposit down on some valuable unimproved land we’ve got a listing for? I’ll be glad to run you out to have a look at it. Water and electricity available at a slight additional cost.”

“Get in the ‘copter,” Lightfoot repeated, aiming his gun steadily at them.

In Berlin, an Oberstleutnant of the SHD, the Sicherheitsdienst—the West German Security Service—approaching his commanding officer, saluted in what is termed Roman style and said, “General, die Fnoolen sind wieder zuruck. Was sollen wir jetz tun?”

“The Fnools are back?”Hochflieger said, horrified. “Already? But it was only three years ago that we uncovered their network and eradicated them.” Jumping to his feet General Hochflieger paced about his cramped temporary office in the basement of the Bundesrat Gebaude, his large hands clasped behind his back. “And what guise this time? Assistant Ministers of Domestic Finance, as before?”

“No sir,” the Oberstleutnant said. “They have come as gear inspectors of the VW works. Brown suit, clipboard, thick glasses, middle-aged. Fussy. And, as before, nur six-tenths of a meter high.”

“What I detest about the Fnools,” Hochflieger said, “is their ruthless use of science in the service of destruction, especially their medical techniques. They almost defeated us with that virus infection suspended in the gum on the backs of multi-color commemorative stamps.”

“A desperate weapon,” his subordinate agreed, “but rather too fantastic to be successful, ultimately. This time they’ll probably rely on crushing force combined with an absolutely synchronized timetable.”

“Selbsverstandlich,” Hochflieger agreed. “But we’ve nonetheless got to react and defeat them. Inform Terpol.” That was the Terra-wide organization of counterintelligence with headquarters on Luna. “Where, specifically, have they been detected?”

“In Schweinfurt only, so far.”

“Perhaps we should obliterate the Schweinfurt area.”

“They’ll only turn up elsewhere.”

“True.” Hochflieger brooded. “What we must do is pursue Operation Hundefutter to successful culmination.” Hundefutter had developed for the West German Government a sub-species of Terrans six-tenths of a meter high and capable of assuming a variety of forms. They would be used to penetrate the network of Fnool activity and destroy it from within. Hundefutter, financed by the Krupp family, had been held in readiness for just this moment.

“I’ll activate Kommando Einsatzgruppe II,”his subordinate said. “As counter-Fnools they can begin to drop behind Fnool lines near the Schweinfurt area immediately. By nightfall the situation should be in our hands.”

“Gruss Gott,” Hochflieger prayed, nodding. “Well, get the kommando started, and we’ll keep our ears open to see how it proceeds.”

If it failed, he realized, more desperate measures would have to be initiated.

The survival of our race is at stake, Hochflieger said to himself. The next four thousand years of history will be determined by the brave act of a member of the SHD at this hour. Perhaps myself.

He paced about, meditating on that.

In Warsaw the local chief of the People’s Protective Agency for Preserving the Democratic Process—the NNBNDL—read the coded teletype dispatch several times as he sat at his desk drinking tea and eating a late breakfast of sweet rolls and Polish ham. This time disguised as chess players, Serge Nicov said to himself. And each Fnool making use of the queen’s pawn opening, Qp to Q3… a weak opening, he reflected, especially against Kp to K4, even if they draw white. But—