d be
explained that Mercurians are _not_ human, even if they do slightly
resemble us. They hatch from eggs, pass one life-phase as frog-like
creatures in their rivers, and in the adult stage turn more human in
appearance. But their skin remains green and fish-belly white. There
is no hair on their warty heads. Their eyes have no lids, and have a
peculiar dead, staring look when they sleep. And they carry a
peculiar, fishy odor with them at all times.

This Mercurian looked at Olear seemingly without interest.

"Where is Morones?" the officer inquired.

"Morones?" the native piped, in English. "Inside. He busy."

"All right. I'm coming in."

"He busy."

"Yeah, move over."

Though the native was a good six inches taller than Olear he stepped
aside when the officer pushed him. Men--and Mercurians--had a way of
doing that when they looked into those colorless eyes. They were not
as phlegmatic as the face. Morones was sitting in his office.

"Well, I'm here," Olear announced, helping himself to a chair.

"Yes"--sourly. "Who invited you?"

Olear looked at the factor levelly, appraising him. A big man, fat,
but the fat well distributed. Saturnine face, dark hair, dark and
bristly beard. The kind that thrived where other men became weak and
fever-ridden. Also, to judge by his present appearance, an unpleasant
companion and a nasty enemy.

"Don't see what difference it makes to you," Olear answered in his own
good time; "but the company invited me."

"They would!" Morones growled. His eyes flickered to the door, and
quick as a cat, Olear leaped to one side, his ray-pencil in his hand.

Morones had not moved, and in the door stood the native, motionless
and without expression. Morones laughed nastily.

"Kind of jumpy, eh? What is it, Nargyll?"

* * * * *

Nargyll burst into a burbling succession of native phrases, which
Olear had some difficulty following.

"Nargyll wants to move your ship into one of the sheds, but the
activator key's gone."

"Yeah, I know," Olear assented casually. "I got it. Leave the ship
till I get ready. Then I'll put it away. Get out, Nargyll."

The native, hesitated, then on the lift of Morones' eyebrows departed.
Olear shifted a chair so that he could watch both Morones and the
door. He reopened the conversation easily:

"Well, we understand each other. You don't want me here and I'm here.
So what are you going to do about it?"

Morones flushed.