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The operator at either end was cut off as the tight official beams met in mid space. A different voice, older and deep bass, said, "Relax, Phil." The Ambassador let his silvery cloak fall from its dramatic sweep about his shoulders and stood naturally, tall, a little stooped, heavy-shouldered, greying in the prime of his life at seventy-five. His screen, which had been flashing to him a montage of the crowds in Times Square, in Trafalgar Square, in the Champ de Mars, in Red Square, filled with a view of Center Room, from which the Earth was governed.

The bass voice, backed by a large and friendly smile, belonged to the President, who sat at the head of the great ivory table in the huge, soft-lit room. They all were there, the men whom custom deprived of a name when it gave them their titles—the Executive Secretary, the Coordinator for Education, the Coordinator for Energy, the Terrestrial and Astral Coordinators for Commerce and the half-dozen others who possessed the ten-year term. If, privately, they called each other George and Ahmed and Sven, it was for relaxation from the standard of dignity expected of them.