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not linger now but stepped into the second lounge, and Horan had to accompany him.
    â€œI understand you have a fussel hawk.”
    â€œThat is so, Gentle Homo.”
    â€œHave you flown it yet?”
    â€œNo, Gentle Homo. The ship passage left it fretful—we have allowed it cage rest.”
    Those strangely golden eyes flickered to Troy’s middle and the wide belt there.
    â€œYou are of Norden?”
    â€œI was born there,” Troy replied shortly.
    â€œThen you have perhaps already hunted with a fussel.”
    Troy’s lips twitched. “I have seen such hunting. But Norden is many years behind me, Gentle Homo. There was a war.” He kept his tone respectful; in fact he was a little surprised. The stranger had no signs, such as Kyger carried, of being an ex-spacer. Yet not one Korwarian in ten thousand would have recognized Troy’s belt, or would have known that the riders of the Norden-that-was had hunted with fussel hawks in the mountain valleys. He studied the other covertly as he made ready the viewing screen.
    They were nearly the same height, but the Korwarian was perhaps ton planet years older. He did not have the look of a villa aristocrat, not even of one who played hard and kept his body in top condition. Since he wore no official uniform, he was not a member of any of the three services. Yet plainly he was a man who knew action and the outdoors. His skin must be as fair as Troy’s under the even tan of much exposure. In a concession to fashion he had a braided topknot of hair, banded with two golden hold rings, and the hair was a dull red-gold, not far removed in shade from the metal. His loose tunic and kilt were of a creamy-brown nubb-metalla in which a small golden spark flashed here and there as he moved. There were yellow gems in the hilt of his belt knife and ringing his wrist bracelets, so that the whole effect was that of a golden man, yet did not in any way suggest a villa fop.
    â€œI have not seen you here before. Where is Zul?” There was no arrogance in the question. The stranger asked as if he had a real interest in who might serve him.
    â€œHe was injured—there was a flitter smash,” Troy replied somewhat evasively, and then added with the strict truth, “I am C.L., on a fill-time contract.”
    â€œFrom the Dipple?” The other gave the name none of the accent that had made that place of abode a fighting word in Tikil. “Well, and what has Kyger got to offer in his Hathor tri-dees?”
    He seated himself at last, waving aside the selection of smoke sticks and drinks Troy offered. Horan snapped the button and the first of the views flashed on the screen. It was apparent from the series that this would-be customer was interested only in birds of prey that could be trained for the hunt. But when Troy had run through the entire Hathor collection, the man shook his head.
    â€œWhen one knows there is a fine weapon within reach, one does not pick up the second best. If Kyger has a fussel worth training, I shall not order from these.” Now he did pick a smoke stick, struck it against his fingernail to set it burning with its herb-scented smoke. “Ah, Kyger!” He looked up as the merchant entered. “And did you make that stellar sale? How long will the august mother of three worlds have to wait for her new toy?”
    There was something in the lounge, as invisible as the touch from the cats’ cage. This was a tenseness, the faintest possible suggestion of strain. Yet both men were outwardly at ease. Kyger seated himself in another chair as if there were no barriers of rank between them.
    â€œNot too long. I have a pair arriving on the Shammor.”
    â€œSo? Gambling in Terran imports now, Kyger?”
    The ex-spacer shrugged. “They want to build up their export trade—and they are willing to pare prices to open a new market. My friends on the ships pass the word—”
    His customer nodded.