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fine. Having picked a particular fugitive, the bounty hunter would punch the person's name and ID number into the terminal, and request a hunting license for that particular individual. This was an important step, since capturing or killing a fugitive without a license was considered a public service, and produced nothing more than a thank you letter.
    McCade grinned to himself. It had happened to him once. And he'd sworn it would never happen again. Which is why he'd spent a lot of time and energy convincing Swanson-Pierce to offer a little extra motivation in the form of a reward. A sort of Imperial bounty.
    Public service was well and good, but there was retirement to think about and besides, there was always the chance somebody might blow his ass off. Deep down, however, he knew the idea of giving Walt something for free just plain grated on his nerves. So, one million credits seemed like a nice round number. Sara resisted at first, until McCade suggested that perhaps Swanson-Pierce should throw in a class "A" fusion reactor for Alice as well, and then she'd jumped on the bandwagon with a vengeance. A class "A" reactor would provide enough power for the planet's needs well into the future. Walt never knew what hit him. Sara quickly had him wrapped around her little finger. In fact, Walt was damned lucky to get off that easy. McCade smiled at the thought.
    "You're grinnin' like a roid miner on his way out of a pleasure dome," Rico observed, dropping into the copilot's chair.
    "Well, there she is, Rico," McCade replied, waving his cigar butt at the main viewscreen. Terra more than filled the screen now as McCade slipped them into a descending orbit. "Trouble."
    Rico shrugged philosophically. "I dunno, ol' sport. Seems ta me we've got 'em outnumbered. Wait till they get a load o' Phil."
    Suddenly a rigidly calm female voice flooded the intercom. "Alert. Alert. My scanners indicate a dangerous carnivore is aboard and about to enter the control area. I recommend immediate use of class 'A' hand weapons."
    "I thought you said you'd have that damned computer fixed," Phil growled as he stepped into the control room. The voice was a deep basso and emanated from a shaggy, bearlike form which had just appeared from the ship's lounge. Phil was a human variant, biosculpted for life on iceworlds like Alice. He was a highly trained biologist . . . although he didn't look it . . . since very few scientists are seven feet tall and weigh three hundred pounds. Clad only in a plaid kilt of his own design, Phil made an imposing figure. He had large rounded ears, a short snout, and a shiny black nose. But Phil also had other less obvious attributes. Among them were infrared vision, amplified muscle response, and razor-sharp durasteel claws. For short periods of time he could go into full augmentation making him the biological equivalent of a killing machine. Which accounted for his presence. The search for Alexander was likely to get rough, and since the other two had rescued him from the slave pens of Lakor, and paid off his indenture, he figured he owed them one.
    "Sorry about the computer, Phil. I just haven't had time yet to get it fixed, but I will."
    Phil sat down and lit a dope stick. "I hope so. A rude computer can turn into a dead computer real easy." He looked up at the main screen. "Well, there she is, the planet named dirt."
    "Yup," McCade said, glancing over his shoulder. "Fortunately it's winter where we're going, but it's still going to be a bit warm for you."
    Phil growled deep in his throat. "Maybe I'll luck out and run into a blizzard."
    Pegasus bucked a little as she hit a layer of colder air, and McCade gently forced her nose back down. "Damned little chance of that, Phil. This isn't Alice, you know. Weather programmers don't go in for blizzards. It generates too many hysterical com calls. Hell, you'll be lucky if it rains."
    "Yeah, I know," Phil agreed regretfully, "but a guy can hope."
    No one answered, and all were