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Taratwo's women seemed to average on theskinny side, with the predominant hair coloringsbeing shades of red and black. The men were alsouniformly spare, solemn, mostly unsmiling, butthen there didn't seem to be much to smile abouton Tara, planet of ashes, smoke, half-light. But thegreen salad was tangy. the dressing good sourcream, the meat slightly tough but well flavored.

Hook's conversation between bites was banal.He hoped that the morning's trading had beenprofitable. Pat assured him that it had been. Hookmentioned that there was no export tax on gem-stones. Pat said that was good news indeed. With­out a government bite into his profits he just mightbe able to pay for a complete refitting of theSkim­mer,make her more comfortable, put in a new storage capsule in the library, decontaminate thecloud chambers in the cranky computer.

Pat thought only once that afternoon of the oldman. He tended to believe T. O'Shields, especially when he asked Hook about diamonds and was toldthat Taratwo wasn't a good diamond planet. The chances of Murphy's having a king-size diamondseemed slim. Maybe the old man was a victim oftoo many nights alone in Taratwo's dismal outback,a little mixed up in the head.

Pat asked Hook a few questions about local con­ditions, and as long as his curiosity did not touchon politics, personal freedom, or the quality oflife-style he was answered. Hook's response to asensitive question was to cough, look away, andchange the subject immediately.

Pat had finished his meal and was having a taste of a very good local brandy. "Excellent," he said."Very good."

"Grapes like a volcanic soil," Hook said.

"Make a good export, this."

Hook laughed. "First we have to make enoughfor local consumption."

The buzz of conversation died around them. Thesudden silence was a silence of attention. Pat lookedup, saw that all eyes were directed to the win­dows. A sleek, modern atmospace yacht was waftingdown onto the largest space-port pad.

"The Man," someone at a nearby table said.

"Not likely," someone else said.

"We'll know soon enough."

"More likely the Man's redheaded friend."

"The Man's whore, you mean."

John Hook shifted nervously. He cast a glaretoward the voice, then looked quickly away. Thevoices died into whispers. Then there was silencethroughout the dining room as the port of thesleek yacht hissed open and a female figure dressedin purple skirts emerged and walked gracefully to a luxurious ground

car. "Definitely not the Man," someone said, andthere was a burst of relieved, nervous laughter. "The Leader's yacht?" Pat asked Hook. "But not Himself. He values his privacy. He's seldom seen in public these days." He pushed him­self

away from the table. "My duty calls. I hope that you enjoyed your lunch." "I did," Pat said. "Should you wish to visit our city I have leftword at the terminal to arrange transport for you,"Hook said. "Thanks, but I think I'll go back aboard. I haven'tyet adjusted to Taratwo time." The street outside the restaurant was cordonedoff by lines of neatly uniformed men, tall, strong-looking

men armed with the latest in sidearms. Acaravan of big ground cars came blasting sud­denly around the corner of the building, the leadvehicle wailing a warning. A late-model Zede exec­utive limousine was sandwiched in between twoarmored police cars. As it swept past, Pat got justa glimpse of a pale, feminine face framed by fieryred hair. The Man's redheaded friend? The Man'swhore?

It was none of his affair. All he wanted fromTaratwo now was a passenger and a clear blinkroute for

space. Pat wasn't really sleepy, but he had no desire to go into the city. He stretched his legs by walkingtoward the passenger terminal. Inside there was dusty luxury in leather seats and wide spaces, allempty. Only one counter was manned. Pat caughtthe eye of the stiff-faced young man there andnodded.

"May I help you, sir?" the young man asked. "No, no.I'mjust having a bit of a walk." "Not much to see around here, sir. If you'd liketo go into the city, Captain Hook has arranged avehicle

for you."

"Very kind of him," Pat said. "But I think I'lljust have a walk and go back aboard." He turnedaway and started out of the terminal area. "Sir," the man behind the counter said, "it looksas if we're in for an ashfall this afternoon. I seethat you

don't have a breather. If you'll permit me. . ." He came out from behind the counter with alightweight

respirator unit in his hands. "I think I can make it to the ship without that,"Pat said, although the sky had darkened consider­ably in the short time since he'd left the restaurant.

"If you're not familiar with the effects of anashfall you've got an unpleasant surprise coming." Pat decided to humor the man, stood still whilethe mask was fitted to his face with adjustablestraps. He reached for his pocket. "Oh, no, sir," the young man said. "No charge.All visitors are furnished with breathers throughthe

generosity of Brenden."

Brenden was the Man, the ruler.

"Tell Brenden when you see him that I thank him," Pat said.

A brief smile crossed the young man's stiff face."That's not likely," he said. "But you're welcometo the breather. It's about the only thing that's free on this planet. Just leave it with the customs manwho checks you off."

Before he reached theSkimmer he was glad he'dtaken the mask. Ash was drifting in little windrowson the surface of the port, jetting up around hisfeet at each step. The decontaminator in the airlockwhined and puffed getting rid of the ash whichclung to his clothing and his shoes.

John Hook arrived late in the afternoon, escortedby four armed guards. By then the ashfall was sodense that although theSkimmer's instrumentswarned him of the approach of the vehicle, hedidn't see it until it was within a hundred feet ofthe ship. The decontaminator had to puff and whineagain, and then his gemstones were aboard. Hookwatched in silence as he checked the contents ofthe small cases.

Pat offered coffee. "I wish I had time, CaptainHowe," Hook said. He turned to the armed guardswho were standing by in the airlock, made a mo­tion of dismissal. When the guards were outside,the lock closed. Hook held out his hand. "Have apleasant trip, Captain." He leaned close. "Fivea.m.," he whispered. Pat nodded. Paranoia was catching. Unless Taratwo had techs of incredible cleverness there wasn't a chance of being spied onaboardSkimmer, because Pat had spent a lot ofmoney to make the ship impervious to any pene­tration.

Early evening seemed to be the time for earth tremors. A shock hit the space port just after darkness gave additional impenetrability to the ashfall. Pat could not even see the lights of the cus­toms building.

A piece of nut pie made from an ancient recipeput Pat over his allowance of carbohydrates forthe day, and he tried to work it off in the exercisegym. What the heck. A man had to celebrate nowand then. He quit the exercise early, before he'deven worked up a sweat, and drew another ancientrecipe from the nutrition servo, a concoction of gin, vermouth, and a touch of bitters. Restless,impatient, not at all sleepy, he punched up thefilm list. It was going to be a boring trip home, because there wasn't a film he hadn't seen at leasttwice.

Suddenly he had a mind picture of the redheadedZedeian actress, and, remembering his vivid andrather erotic dream about her, punched up thefilm and settled back.

Corinne Tower was, he decided, as he ignoredaction and dialogue, the most beautiful womanhe'd ever seen. Her hair was a blazing fall of lus­trous glory when she let it hang to shoulder length.Her medium-heavy eyebrows merely drew atten­tion to her emerald-green eyes.

Curious thing, the mind. Were Corinne Tower'semerald-green eyes the reason why he'd almost ignored Taratwo's fine rubies in favor of the emer­alds? Had the Zedeian beauty been there, lurkingin his subconscious with those glowing green eyestelling him, buy emeralds, buy emeralds?