with a vaulted ceiling. Shaking his head groggily,
Ben looked for the source of the silken voice. He was alone in the room.

His eyes ran down the length of his body. The flash gun was gone from his
belt. That was hardly unexpected. But the belt was gone too. So were his
clothes. He was clad in a loose robe of shimmering white cloth.

That meant he had been unconscious for some time. How long? Ben would have
given much to know. Suddenly he let out an unearthly moan, threw his arms
wide and rolled off the couch. He lay still.

The silken voice was raised again and added to it was another, more
masculine. Then a door opened and two people stepped into the room. Ben sat
up and grinned at them, especially at the woman.

"I thought that would get you," he said. "It's not hospitable to hide from
your guest."

"Resourceful, isn't he?" The woman raised her eyebrows in mock admiration.
Her companion growled a reply which Ben couldn't quite catch.

They were an odd pair, the woman towering well above ten feet but perfectly
formed, her skin the color of pink marble; the man more beast than human.
The women of Saturn were as tall as she, Ben had time to think, but not
nearly as beautiful.

"Welcome to Teris, Ben Sessions," she said. Her smile was the smile of the
serpent of Eden.

"You're pretty resourceful yourself," Ben grinned.

He had carried no papers except a blanket permit from Interstellar Flight.
He wondered if the precaution he and Carson had taken would prove to be in
vain. The woman spoke again.

"Ben Sessions, graduate of Neptune School of Rockets; born in Taos, New
Mexico, Earth; third of four children; unmarried, unattached at present;
first position, co-pilot Earth-Vega Express . . ."

She seemed to be choosing items at random from a memorized list. The
exhibition was intended to impress Ben and it was succeeding. More than
that, however, it was frightening. He held his breath as she neared the
end.

". . . two years with Interstellar Communications; presently a licensed
space explorer, non-affiliated."

"Pretty good," Ben said.

It was better than that. It was perfect. Only the end was wrong. He and
Carson had worked that out with the psychoanalyst. The two of them had
wanted to falsify the entire biography, but the analyst had convinced them
he was right.

"One lie I might attempt to pound into your very subconscious by hypnotism;
a dozen would be spread too thin. We would leave holes. Under the