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brisk voice. “There’s Port Libertad, sir. That statue you can see, just to the north of the spaceport, is Lady Liberty. She was copied from the old Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, on Earth. Those two big ships are bulkies, here to load grain. Some worlds, though, prefer to import the flour that’s been milled here, on Liberia. Don’t ask me why; I’m a spaceman, not an economist. Do you see that smaller ship? She’s a fairly regular visitor. Willy Willy, owned by Able Enterprises. The master’s Captain Aloysius Dreeble. A nasty little bastard on a nasty trade. He comes here to recruit entertainers—so called—for the brothels on quite a few of the frontier worlds.”
    “And New Venusberg,” said Grimes. “That’s where I last met him.”
    “You know him, sir?”
    “All right, all right. I don’t like him. And he doesn’t like me.”
    Looking out and down Grimes could see the triangle of winking, bright, scarlet lights that marked the tender’s berth. He picked up a pair of binoculars and stared through them. He could make out a body of men drawn up in military formation, flags streaming from portable standards, the burnished metal of musical instruments from which the afternoon sun was brightly reflected. A guard of honor and a band. . . .
    From the speaker of the transceiver, through which the tender had been in communication from Aerospace Control, came a sudden blast of music, the drums almost drowning out the trumpets.
    “They’re warming up,” said Raoul sardonically. “Be prepared to be deafened by our glorious planetary anthem as soon as you set foot on Liberian soil.”
    “And a twenty-gun salute?” Grimes asked, half seriously.
    “No. I did hear some of the Terran Army officers discussing it before I boarded to lift off for the rendezvous with Sobraon. It seems that if you’d been landing in a Terran warship the Captain would have been able to accord the courtesy of a salute, in reply, to Madam President. But as you’ve no guns to fire you get none fired in your honor.”
    “This protocol,” said Grimes, “is a complicated business.”
    “Isn’t it, sir? We should never have strayed from the simple ways of our ancestors. They’d have given a gun salute to an Earth-appointed governor—and not with blanks, either!”
    Looking at Raoul’s face Grimes saw that the words had been spoken only in jest—but Miguel, when he spoke, was serious enough.
    “If all that we’ve heard of Governor Grimes is true, Raoul, Bardon’s Bullies would love to give him his twenty guns, each one loaded with H.E.!”
    “There are more subtle ways of getting rid of unpopular governors than that,” Raoul Sanchez said with sudden bitterness. Then, to Grimes, “My brother was the late Governor Wibberley’s personal pilot.”
    A man with motive, thought Grimes. A double motive. His girlfriend and his brother, both . . . murdered.
    He asked, “Are you qualified for atmosphere flight, Captain?”
    “Yes, sir. Both LTA and HTA.” He grinned. “Are you offering me a job, Your Excellency? I already have one, you know.”
    “I’m offering you a job. I warn you that it mightn’t be good for your health.”
    “It wasn’t good for my brother’s health, either. All right, I receive your signal, loud and clear. You think that I might be interested in . . . revenge?”
    “That thought had flickered across my mind.”
    “I am so interested. And now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll try to get this crate down in one piece.”
    And had he fallen into a trap? Grimes wondered. Wasn’t it too much of a coincidence that these young men in the shuttle should all be OAP members, opposed to the present regime on Liberia? Were Raoul’s stories, about his girl and his brother, true? (That could be checked.)
    But he would have to employ some personal staff and he would prefer, whenever possible, to make his own choices. Any made for him by Colonel Bardon would be suspect from the start. And, thought Grimes,