"Good. That's the smart thing to do. And don't
let him buffalo you. We know you out here in the Belt, Martin. I've been
out here for thirty years, and I know what kind of guts it takes to do
the things you've done. Those men don't understand space. Nobody
understands space until he's lived in it and worked in it, and had cold
death only a fraction of an inch away from his skin for hours and days
at a time. No matter what those Earthies say, we know you've got more
guts than anybody else in the Belt--to say nothing of those
stay-at-homes on Earth."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," the detective said. But they were only
words. He knew that BenChaim meant exactly what he said--or thought he
meant it. But he also knew that BenChaim and others would always wonder
why he had turned the job down.

_God!_ he thought, _I wish I knew!_ The thought was only momentary.
Then, as it had done so many times before, his mind veered away from the
dangerous subject.

Moishe BenChaim stood up. "Well, that's all I had to say, Mr. Martin. I
just wanted to warn you that that man might be coming around and to tell
you how I felt. Remember what I said about jumping through a hoop. Any
time you need me, for anything at all, you just say so. Understand?"

"I understand," the detective said, forcing a smile. He rose and shook
the industrialist's outstretched hand. "And thanks again," he added.

After BenChaim had gone, the detective sat thinking, toying with a
pencil on his desk. Moishe BenChaim, like so many others in the Belt,
had come out with nothing but his brain and his two hands and the
equipment necessary to keep him alive. In thirty years, he had parlayed
that into one of the biggest fortunes in the Solar System. It was men
like that whose respect he valued, and, on the surface, he apparently
had that respect. But refusing the Nipe job would dull the bright sheen
of that respect, and he knew it. BenChaim had talked about how foolish
it would be to try to beat the Nipe in a face-to-face encounter, but he
hadn't meant it. He knew perfectly well that all Stanley Martin would be
expected to do would be to find out where the Nipe's hideout was. Once
that had been accomplished, men and machines--most especially
machines--could wipe the monster from the face of the Earth. One
well-placed bomb would do it, if the authorities only knew where to
place that bomb. If only--

Again his mind veered away, refusing to consider the Nipe too carefull