'm not guarding you--nor do I want the job. As far as I know this
is between you and Kerk and it can stay that way. Leave whenever you
want. And get yourself killed quietly some place so there will be an end
to the trouble you cause once and for all."

"I love you, too," Jason said. "Now brief me on the wildlife."

The only new mutation that routine precautions wouldn't take care of was
a slate-colored lizard that spit a fast nerve poison with deadly
accuracy. Death took place in seconds if the saliva touched any bare
skin. The lizards had to be looked out for, and shot before they came
within range. An hour of lizard-blasting in a training chamber made him
proficient in the exact procedure.

* * * * *

Jason left the sealed buildings quietly and no one saw him go. He
followed the map to the nearest barracks, shuffling tiredly through the
dusty streets. It was a hot, quiet afternoon, broken only by rumblings
from the distance, and the occasional crack of his gun.

It was cool inside the thick-walled barracks buildings, and he collapsed
onto a bench until the sweat dried and his heart stopped pounding. Then
he went to the nearest recreation room to start his search.

Before it began it was finished. None of the Pyrrans kept old artifacts
of any kind and thought the whole idea was very funny. After the
twentieth negative answer Jason was ready to admit defeat in this line
of investigation. There was as much chance of meeting a Pyrran with old
documents as finding a bundle of grandfather's letters in a soldier's
kit bag.

This left a single possibility--verbal histories. Again Jason questioned
with the same lack of results. The fun had worn off the game for the
Pyrrans and they were beginning to growl. Jason stopped while he was
still in one piece. The commissary served him a meal that tasted like
plastic paste and wood pulp. He ate it quickly, then sat brooding over
the empty tray, hating to admit to another dead end. Who could supply
him with answers? All the people he had talked to were so young. They
had no interest or patience for story-telling. That was an old folks'
hobby--and there were no oldsters on Pyrrus.

With one exception that he knew of, the librarian, Poli. It was a
possibility. A man who worked with records and books might have an
interest in some of the older ones. He might even remember reading
volumes now destroyed. A very slim lead indeed, but one that had to be