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somebody in this office who can manage to_do_ something."

  "Do something! You think I'm a magician? I can just make them vanish?What do you want me to do?"

  The senator raised his eyebrows. "You needn't shout, Mr. Heinz. I'm notthe least interested in _what_ you do. My interest is focused completelyon a collection of five thousand letters, telegrams, and visiphone callsI've received in the past three days alone. My constituents, Mr. Heinz,are making themselves clear. If the Grdznth do not go, I go."

  "That would never do, of course," murmured Pete.

  The senator gave Pete a cold, clinical look. "Who is this person?" heasked Tommy.

  "An assistant on the job," Tommy said quickly. "A very excellentPR-man."

  The senator sniffed audibly. "Full of ideas, no doubt."

  "Brimming," said Pete. "Enough ideas to get your constituents off yourneck for a while, at least."

  "Indeed."

  "Indeed," said Pete. "Tommy, how fast can you get a PR-blast topenetrate? How much medium do you control?"

  "Plenty," Tommy gulped.

  "And how fast can you sample response and analyze it?"

  "We can have prelims six hours after the PR-blast. Pete, if you have anidea, tell us!"

  Pete stood up, facing the senator. "Everything else has been tried, butit seems to me one important factor has been missed. One that will takeyour constituents by the ears." He looked at Tommy pityingly. "You'vetried to make them lovable, but they aren't lovable. They aren't evenpassably attractive. There's one thing they _are_ though, at least halfof them."

  Tommy's jaw sagged. "Pregnant," he said.

  "Now see here," said the senator. "If you're trying to make a fool outof me to my face--"

  "Sit down and shut up," said Pete. "If there's one thing the man in thestreet reveres, my friend, it's motherhood. We've got several hundredthousand pregnant Grdznth just waiting for all the little Grdznth toarrive, and nobody's given them a side glance." He turned to Tommy. "Getsome copywriters down here. Get a Grdznth obstetrician or two. We'regoing to put together a PR-blast that will twang the people'sheart-strings like a billion harps."

  The color was back in Tommy's cheeks, and the senator was forgotten as adozen intercom switches began snapping. "We'll need TV hookups, andplenty of newscast space," he said eagerly. "Maybe a few photographs--doyou suppose maybe _baby_ Grdznth are lovable?"

  "They probably look like salamanders," said Pete. "But tell the peopleanything you want. If we're going to get across the sanctity of Grdznthmotherhood, my friend, anything goes."

  "It's genius," chortled Tommy. "Sheer genius."

  "If it sells," the senator added, dubiously.

  "It'll sell," Pete said. "The question is: for how long?"

  * * * * *

  The planning revealed the mark of genius. Nothing sudden, harsh, orcrude--but slowly, in a radio comment here or a newspaper story there,the emphasis began to shift from Grdznth in general to Grdznth asmothers. A Rutgers professor found his TV discussion on "Motherhood asan Experience" suddenly shifted from 6:30 Monday evening to 10:30Saturday night. Copy rolled by the ream from Tommy's office, refinedcopy, hypersensitively edited copy, finding its way into the light ofday through devious channels.

  Three days later a Grdznth miscarriage threatened, and was averted. Itwas only a page 4 item, but it was a beginning.

  Determined movements to expel the Grdznth faltered, trembled withindecision. The Grdznth were ugly, they frightened little children, they_were_ a trifle overbearing in their insufferable stubbornpoliteness--but in a civilized world you just couldn't turn expectantmothers out in the rain.

  Not even expectant Grdznth mothers.

  By the second week the blast was going at full tilt.

  In the Public Relations Bureau building, machines worked on into thenight. As questionnaires came back, spot candid films and street-cornerinterview tapes ran through the projectors on a twenty-four-hourschedule. Tommy Heinz grew thinner and thinner, while Pete nursed sharppost-prandial stomach pains.

  "Why don't people _respond_?" Tommy asked plaintively on the morning thethird week started. "Haven't they got any feelings? The blast is washingover them like a wave and there they sit!" He punched the private wireto Analysis for the fourth time that morning. He got a man with ahag-ridden look in his eye. "How soon?"

  "You want yesterday's rushes?"

  "What do you think I want? Any sign of a lag?"

  "Not a hint. Last night's panel drew like a magnet. The D-Date tag yousuggested has them by the nose."

  "How about the President's talk?"

  The man from Analysis grinned. "He should be campaigning."

  Tommy mopped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. "Okay. Now listen: weneed a special run on all response data we have for tolerance levels.Got that? How soon can we have it?"

  Analysis shook his head. "We could only make a guess with the data sofar."

  "Fine," said Tommy. "Make a guess."

  "Give us three hours," said Analysis.

  "You've got thirty minutes. Get going."

  Turning back to Pete, Tommy rubbed his hands eagerly. "It's starting tosell, boy. I don't know how strong or how good, but it's starting tosell! With the tolerance levels to tell us how long we can expect thisprogram to quiet things down, we can give Charlie a deadline to crackhis differential factor, or it's the ax for Charlie." He chuckled tohimself, and paced the room in an overflow of nervous energy. "I can seeit now. Open shafts instead of elevators. A quick hop to Honolulu for anafternoon on the beach, and back in time for supper. A hundred miles tothe gallon for the Sunday driver. When people begin _seeing_ what theGrdznth are giving us, they'll welcome them with open arms."

  "Hmmm," said Pete.

  "Well, why won't they? The people just didn't trust us, that was all.What does the man in the street know about transmatters? Nothing. Butgive him one, and then try to take it away."

  "Sure, sure," said Pete. "It sounds great. Just a little bit _too_great."

  Tommy blinked at him. "Too great? Are you crazy?"

  "Not crazy. Just getting nervous." Pete jammed his hands into hispockets. "Do you realize where _we're_ standing in this thing? We're outon a limb--way out. We're fighting for time--time for Charlie and hisgang to crack the puzzle, time for the Grdznth girls to gestate. Butwhat are we hearing from Charlie?"

  "Pete, Charlie can't just--"

  "That's right," said Pete. "_Nothing_ is what we're hearing fromCharlie. We've got no transmatter, no null-G, no power, nothing except awhole lot of Grdznth and more coming through just as fast as they can.I'm beginning to wonder what the Grdznth _are_ giving us."

  "Well, they can't gestate forever."

  "Maybe not, but I still have a burning desire to talk to Charlie.Something tells me they're going to be gestating a little too long."

  They put through the call, but Charlie wasn't answering. "Sorry," theoperator said. "Nobody's gotten through there for three days."

  "Three days?" cried Tommy. "What's wrong? Is he dead?"

  "Couldn't be. They burned out two more machines yesterday," said theoperator. "Killed the switchboard for twenty minutes."

  "Get him on the wire," Tommy said. "That's orders."

  "Yes, sir. But first they want you in Analysis."

  Analysis was a shambles. Paper and tape piled knee-deep on the floor.The machines clattered wildly, coughing out reams of paper to be gulpedup by other machines. In a corner office they found the Analysis man,pale but jubilant.

  "The Program," Tommy said. "How's it going?"

  "You can count on the people staying happy for at least another fivemonths." Analysis hesitated an instant. "If they see some baby Grdznthat the end of it all."

  There was dead silence in the room. "Baby Grdznth," Tommy said finally.

  "That's what I said. That's what the people are buying. That's whatthey'd better get."

  Tommy swallowed hard. "And if it happens to be six months?"

  Analysis drew a
finger across his throat.

  Tommy and Pete looked at each other, and Tommy's hands were shaking. "Ithink," he said, "we'd better find Charlie Karns right now."

  * * * * *

  Math Section was like a tomb. The machines