ted faceplate, seemed exceedingly nervous, turning to
look in all directions.

"Don't worry," Jason said, fighting to keep a tone of smug
satisfaction out of his voice, "I'll take care of things for you. I
don't know what kind of horror stories you may have heard about
Pyrrus--but they're all true. That's a nice looking heat ray you have
there, but I doubt if you could move fast enough to use it."

The figure lowered the gun and fumbled for a switch on the front of
the space armor, it clicked and a speaker diaphragm rustled.

"I'm looking for a man called Jason dinAlt. Can you tell me if he is
on this planet or if he has left?"

It was impossible to tell the speaker's tone from the rasping
diaphragm, and no face was visible that might betray an emotion. This
was the moment when Jason should have shown caution, and have
remembered that there were thousands of policemen scattered across the
galaxy who would heartily enjoy putting him under arrest. Yet he
couldn't imagine any of them going to the trouble of following him
here. And certainly there could be very little danger from a
spacesuited man with a rifle, not to the man who had learned to take
Pyrrus on its own terms, and live.

"I'm Jason dinAlt," he said. "What do you want me for?"

"I've come a long way to find you," the speaker rasped. "Now"--the
gloved hand pointed--"what is THAT?"

Jason's reactions were instantaneous, conditioned to move without
thought. He wheeled, crouched, the gun in his hand and finger
quivering lightly on the trigger, pointed in the indicated direction.
There was nothing unusual to be seen, just an empty field and the
control building at the edge.

"Whatever are you talking about ..." Jason asked, then stopped as it
became very obvious what the stranger had been talking about. The
large, flanged mouth of the maser-projector ground into the small of
his back. His own gun snapped halfway out of its holster, buzzed
briefly, then slipped back as he realized his position.

"That's much better," the stranger said. "If you attempt to move,
turn, lower your gun hand or do anything I don't like I'll pull this
trigger and...."

"I know," Jason sighed, careful to stand with every muscle frozen.
"You will pull the trigger and burn a nice round hole through my
backbone and intestines. But I would just like to know why? Who is it
that is so interested in my worthless old carcass that they were
willing to pay interstellar freight charges to