the corridor illuminated between leaf and
blossom walls. A grotesque lump of crystal leered at him from the
heart of a tharsala lilly bed. The intricate carving of a devilish
nonhuman set of features was a work of alien art. Tendrils of smoke
curled from the thing's flat nostrils, and Hume sniffed the scent of a
narcotic he recognized. He smiled. Such measures might soften up the
usual civ Wass interviewed here. But a star pilot turned out-hunter
was immunized against such mind clouding.

There was a door, the lintel and posts of which had more carving, but
this time Terran, Hume thought--old, very old. Perhaps rumor was
right, Milfors Wass might be truly native Terran and not second,
third, nor fourth generation star stock as most of those who reached
Nahuatl were.

The room beyond that elaborately carved entrance was, in contrast,
severe. Rust walls were bare of any pattern save an oval disk of
cloudy golden shimmer behind the chair at the long table of solid ruby
rock from Nahuatl's poisonous sister planet of Xipe. Without a pause
he walked to the chair and seated himself without invitation to wait
in the empty room.

That clouded oval might be a com device. Hume refused to look at it
after his first glance. This interview was to be person to person. If
Wass did not appear within a reasonable length of time he would leave.

And Hume hoped to any unseen watcher he presented the appearance of a
man not impressed by stage settings. After all he was now in the
seller's space boots, and it was a seller's market.

Ras Hume rested his right hand on the table. Against the polished glow
of the stone, the substance of it was flesh-tanned brown--a perfect
match for his left. And the subtle difference between true flesh and
false was no hindrance in the use of those fingers or their strength.
Save that it had pushed him out of command of a cargo-cum-liner and
hurled him down from the pinnacle of a star pilot. There were bitter
brackets about his mouth, set there by that hand as deeply as if
carved with a knife.

It had been four years--planet time--since he had lifted the Rigal
Rover from the launch pad on Sargon Two. He had suspected it might be
a tricky voyage with young Tors Wazalitz, who was a third owner of the
Kogan-Bors-Wazalitz line, and a Gratz chewer. But one did not argue
with the owners, except when the safety of the ship was concerned. The
Rigal Rover had made a crash landing at Alexbut, and a badly injured