"Mr. Mead, will you give Mr. Holliday the details on the new planet?" he
said, trying to get his handkerchief out without smearing his suit. He
could almost hear Bussard snickering.

* * * * *

Holliday signed the new option contract and shook Marlowe's hand. "I'd
like to thank you again, sir. Looking at it from my point of view, it's
something for nothing--at least, while I'm alive. And it's a very nice
planet, too, from the way Mr. Mead described it. Even better than
Karlshaven."

"Nevertheless, Mr. Holliday," Marlowe said, "you have done the Union a
great service. We would consider it an honor if you allowed us to enter
your planet in our records under the name of Holliday."

He kept his eyes away from Mead.

Martin Holliday's eyes were shining. "Thank you, Mr. Marlowe," he said
huskily.

Marlowe could think of no reply. Finally, he simply nodded. "It's been a
pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holliday. We've arranged transportation, and
your shuttle will be taking off very shortly."

Holliday's face began to bead with fresh perspiration at the thought of
bulkheads enclosing him once more, but he managed to smile, and then
ask, hesitantly: "May I ... may I wait for the shuttle out here, sir?"

"Certainly. We'll arrange for that. Well, good-by, Mr. Holliday."

"Good-by, Mr. Marlowe. Good-by, Mr. Bussard. And good-by, Mr. Mead. I
don't suppose you'll be seeing me again."

"Good luck, Mr. Holliday," Mead said.

* * * * *

Marlowe twisted awkwardly on the car's back seat, wiping futilely at the
long smear of chocolate on his trouser pocket.

Well, he thought, at least he'd given the old man his name on the star
maps until Earthmen stopped roving.

At least he'd given him that.

Mead was looking at him. "I don't suppose we've got time to let him die
in peace, have we?" he asked.

Marlowe shook his head.

"I suppose we'll have to start breaking him immediately, won't we?"

Marlowe nodded.

"I'll get at it right away, sir."

_Dave!_ Does everyone have to hate me? Can't anyone understand? Even
you, uh--Creed. Even you, Mead?

IX.

Dalish ud Klavan, stooped and withered, sat hopelessly, opposite
Marlowe, who sat behind his desk like a grizzled polar bear, his
thinning mane of white hair unkempt and straggling.

"Marlowe, my people are strangling," the old Dovenilid said.

Marlowe looked at him silently.

"The Holliday Republic has sign