 Why was the narrator in so much trouble?
My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwise in front of me. The aliens came in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all of them eager for a Corrigan contract. I thought of it privately as MacTavish IV and referred to it publicly as Ghryne. J. F. Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday to Fifthday of Tenmonth. Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousand languages, always bring them running. It's the best of its kind, the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at the other species of the universe. There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones, one above each arm. But just because we needed him didn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign at anything short of top rate. It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me into the successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some years as an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down, a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in a scientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids, fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and no less than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks. Zero, in fact.
 he was responsible for a non-terrestrial death
 he refused to let certain beings go to Earth  he killed a non-terrestrial  he was responsible for a non-terrestrial death  he was conning non-terrestrials to go to Earth