Hop O' My Thumb

No name in human speech was black enough for the man who was surrendering Earth to the aliens ... but Everson knew that the only way to keep his world from slavery was to link it to the invaders—with a cosmic ball and chain!
George Everson descended hastily from the air liner, and the flying steps of a street escalator carried him up into the Star Building, but not before the crowd surging behind the fence a hundred yards away had caught sight of him. How they recognized him in the growing dusk he didn't know. His gray hair and mustache, the sensitive lines of his face were unobtrusive, anonymous—but recognize him they did. Probably hate had sharpened their vision, for the chorus of yells that overtook him was fierce. It was clear enough that they didn't like traitors.
He smiled wearily, knowing, without pausing to make sure, that his hand-picked guards were keeping them in check, and dropped wearily into a convenient desk chair. As it headed for his office, he switched on the visor, and his secretary's anxious face met his eyes. We've been expecting you, Mr. Everson.
Any messages?
A great many of them, sir.
What do they say about the surrender? he asked.
Most of them are protests, sir. Official resignations—
The resignees have been replaced, according to plan?
Naturally, Mr. Everson.
And they are proceeding to carry out the surrender, as ordered?
Well, not quite. A few said they couldn't stomach it, Mr. Everson. They resigned too.
See that they are replaced with names selected from List C. The surrender must go through.