pen hatch, and he could hear a murmur of voices as he
jackknifed in the opposite direction.

"At least two of them are up there," he grunted.

He wondered which of the other three cabins was occupied, meanwhile
pulling himself along by the ladder rungs welded to one corner of the
shaft. He reached a slightly wider section aft, which boasted
entrances to two air locks, a spacesuit locker, a galley, and a head.
He entered the last, noting the murmur of air-conditioning machinery
on the other side of the bulkhead.

Tremont hooked a foot under a toehold to maintain his position facing
a mirror. He plugged in his razor, turned on the exhauster in the slot
below the mirror to keep the clippings out of his eyes, and began to
shave. As the beard disappeared, he considered the deals he had come
to Centauri to put through.

"A funny business!" he told his image. "Dealing in ideas! Can you
really sell a man's thoughts?"

Beginning to work around his chin, he decided that it actually was
practical. Ideas, in fact, were almost the only kind of import worth
bringing from Sol to Alpha Centauri. Large-scale shipments of
necessities were handled by the Federated Governments. To carry even
precious or power metals to Earth or to return with any type of
manufactured luxury was simply too expensive in money, fuel, effort,
and time.

On the other hand, traveling back every five years to buy up plans and
licenses for the latest inventions or processes--_that_ was profitable
enough to provide a good living for many a man in Tremont's business.
All he needed were a number of reliable contacts and a good knowledge
of the needs of the three planets and four satellites colonized in
the Centaurian system.

Only three days earlier, Tremont had returned from his most recent
trip to the old star, landing from the great interstellar ship on the
outer moon of Centauri VII. There he leased this small rocket--the
_Annabel_, registered more officially as the AC7-4-525--for his local
traveling. It would be another five days before he reached the
inhabited moons of Centauri VI.

He stopped next in the galley for a quick breakfast out of tubes,
regretting the greater convenience of the starship, then returned the
towel and razor to his cabin. He decided that his slightly rumpled
shirt and slacks of utilitarian gray would do for another day. About
thirty-eight, an inch or two less than six feet and muscularly slim,
Tremont had an air of habitual ne