Dolf Kellton. They were all happy; how much, he wondered, because he
was Conn Maxwell, Rodney Maxwell's son, home from Terra, and how much
because of what they hoped he'd tell them. Kurt Fawzi, edging him
aside, was the first to speak of it.

"Conn, what did you find out?" he whispered. "Do you know where it
is?"

He stammered, then saw Tom Brangwyn and Colonel Klem Zareff
approaching, the older man tottering on a silver-headed cane and the
younger keeping pace with him. Neither of them had been born on
Poictesme. Tom Brangwyn had always been reticent about where he came
from, but Hathor was a good guess. There had been political trouble on
Hathor twenty years ago; the losers had had to get off-planet in a
hurry to dodge firing squads. Klem Zareff never was reticent about his
past. He came from Ashmodai, one of the System States planets, and he
had commanded a regiment, and finally a division that had been blasted
down to less than regimental strength, in the Alliance Army. He always
wore a little rosette of System States black and green on his coat.

"Hello, boy," he croaked, extending a hand. "Good to see you again."

"It sure is, Conn," the town marshal agreed, then lowered his voice.
"Find out anything definite?"

"We didn't have much time, Conn," Kurt Fawzi said, "but we've
arranged a little celebration for you. We'll start it with a dinner at
Senta's."

"You couldn't have done anything I'd have liked better, Mr. Fawzi. I'd
have to have a meal at Senta's before I'd really feel at home."

"Well, it'll be a couple of hours. Suppose we all go up to my office,
in the meantime. Give the ladies a chance to fix up for the party, and
have a little drink and a talk together."

"You want to do that, Conn?" his father asked. There was an odd
undernote of anxiety, or reluctance, in his voice.

"Yes, of course. I'd like that."

His father turned to speak to his mother and Flora. Kurt Fawzi was
speaking to his wife, interrupting himself to shout instructions to
some laborers who were bringing up a contragravity skid. Conn turned
to Colonel Zareff.

"Good melon crop this year?" he asked.

The old Rebel cursed. "Gehenna of a big crop; we're up to our necks in
melons. This time next year we'll be washing our feet in brandy."

"Hold onto it and age it; you ought to see what they charge for a
drink of Poictesme brandy on Terra."

"This isn't Terra, and we aren't selling it by the drink," Colonel
Zareff said. "We're