. It was part of the odd grace of movement, of the fine,
angular features, of the curious emotion which dwelt upon them, sad and
subdued. Even her costume was as out of place in the Spacebell as her
mood; the dress was simply cut and expensive, but drab for the time and
place. It clung about a slight, well-formed body in smoothly curved
lines that seemed almost a part of her. Only her hands and eyes showed
nervous tension.

At first he thought her eyes were cold, but it was something racial
rather than personal. He noticed that they were large and luminous--like
moonstones--with a pearly opaque glimmer as if only upper layers colored
and reflected light. In their depths was an odd effect, like metalflakes
drifting through ribboned moonlight with abysses of deepest shadow
beyond. There was pain, trouble, and sadness in them, and behind that,
fear--a desperate fear. You thought of wailing, haunted moonlight, and
of dreadful things fled from in dreams.

Newlin's first thought was that she was one of the new-made widows, and
was likely to be all too human about it. Later, when he had begun to
doubt that she was all-human, her physical charms still went inside him
and turned like a dull knife. He was no more immune to animal attraction
than the next man, but in this particular woman there was something else
even more intriguing and unpredictable. He felt a powerful impulse to do
something to relieve her of that paralyzing supernatural dread.

A situation pregnant with violence was working up at one of the gaming
tables but Newlin wilfully tore his attention from the mounting tension
between the fat Martian gambler and an ugly character from Ganymede.

"Anything I can do for you, sister?"

Her smile was strange, thoughtful, preoccupied. "Yes," she told him.
"There is something you can do for me. Unless your question was purely
professional. If so, forget it. I need something stronger than the--the
liquors you serve here."

Newlin grinned sourly. "You don't know our drinks. One sip and a mouse
snarls at a snow-leopard. The question was not purely professional. Not
my profession, anyhow. I don't know about yours. Or do I?"

* * * * *

Her head jerked on its slender stalk of neck. Pale eyes stared into his;
her lips twisted in cold scorn.

"I don't think you do. And I'll do without your help. Perhaps you'd
better go back to polishing glassware."

The rebuke failed to impress Newlin. He w