William Wrightwood, Senior, faced Commissioner Morehouse openly. "But so many—?" he faltered. Wrightwood was wearing his foster son's clothing and it looked a bit incongruous to see the jaunty uniform on the elderly Wrightwood.
Morehouse shrugged. "The reptilian culture from Sector Eight is as helpful as the cockeyed gang of cat-men from Nine."
"But—"
"Of course they're not reptiles nor cats. None of them have ever been within a hundred light years of Terra. But they're sentient, brilliantly so. They love their own music and their own literature and their own art, none of which means anything to any other culture, really. But we have a common ground to base the Galactic Civilization upon—someday. We all have the fear of destruction and the willingness to fight against it. To help our neighbor fight it, even though he sees colors we cannot, and can hear sounds we cannot hear."
"My mighty little empire looks a bit small—"
"Indeed."
"Morehouse, it strikes me that you're up a tree."
"I am?"
"You've got a fine man here trapped in a lousy job. I'll bet a hat I can get farther along than either you or he can about finding the truth about the Astarte." Wrightwood smiled. "Then you can take him off that job."
"Maybe," smiled Morehouse. "But remember that I'm giving the orders. I can also rescind them—providing they need rescinding."