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accelerometer mounted among the other tell-tale instruments on the bulkhead of his cabin. Von Tannenbaum was a good man, a good officer, a good navigator.

    There was a sharp rap on his door.

    "Come in," called Grimes, swiveling his seat so that he faced the caller. This, he realized, would be his passenger, anticipating the captain's invitation to an introductory drink and talk.

    He was not a big man, this Mr. Alberto, and at first he gave an impression of plumpness, of softness. But it was obvious from the way that he moved that his bulk was solid muscle, not fat. He was clad in the dark grey that was almost a Civil Service uniform—and even Grimes, who knew little of the niceties of civilian tailoring, could see that both the material and the cut of Alberto's suit were superb. He had a broad yet very ordinary looking face; his hair was black and glossy, his eyes black and rather dull. His expression was petulant. He demanded rather then asked, "Why have we slowed down?"

    Grimes bit back a sharp retort. After all, he was only a junior officer, in spite of his command, and his passenger probably piled on far more G's than a mere lieutenant. He replied, "I have adjusted to a comfortable actual velocity, Mr. Alberto, so as to arrive three days, local, before the deadline. I trust that this suits your plans."

    "Three days . . ." Alberto smiled—and his face was transformed abruptly from that of a sulky baby to that of a contented child. It was, Grimes realized, no more than a deliberate turning of charm—but, he admitted to himself, it was effective. "Three days . . . That will give me ample time to settle down, Captain, before I start work. And I know, as well as you do, that overly heavy acceleration can be tiring."

    "Won't you sit down, Mr. Alberto? A drink, perhaps?"

    "Thank you, Captain. A dry sherry, if I may . . ."

    Grimes grinned apologetically. "I'm afraid that these Couriers haven't much of a cellar. I can offer you gin, scotch, brandy . . ."

    "A gin and lime, then."

    The Lieutenant busied himself at his little bar, mixed the drinks, gave Alberto his glass, raised his own in salute. "Here's to crime!"

    Alberto smiled again. "Why do you say that, Captain?"

    "It's just one of those toasts that's going the rounds in the Service. Not so long ago it was, 'Down the hatch!' Before that it was, 'Here's mud in yer eye' . . ."

    "I see." Alberto sipped appreciatively. "Good gin, this."

    "Not bad. We get it from Van Diemen's Planet." There was a brief silence. Then, "Will you be long on Doncaster, Mr. Alberto? I rather gained the impression that we're supposed to wait there until you've finished your . . . business."

    "It shouldn't take long."

    "Diplomatic?"

    "You could call it that." Again the smile—but why should those white teeth look so carnivorous? Imagination, thought Grimes.

    "Another drink?"

    "Why, yes. I like to relax when I can."

    "Yours is demanding work?"

    "And so is yours, Captain."

    The brassy music of a bugle drifted into the cabin through the intercom.

    "Mess call," said Grimes.

    "You do things in style, Captain."

    Grimes shrugged. "We have a tape for all the calls in general use. As for the tucker . . ." He shrugged again. "We don't run to a cook in a ship of this class. Sparks—Mr. Slovotny—prepares the meals in space. As a chef he's a good radio officer . . ."

    "Do you think he'd mind if I took over?" asked Alberto. "After all, I'm the only idler aboard this vessel."

    "We'll think about it," said Grimes.

     

    "You know what I think, Captain . . ." said Beadle.

    "I'm not a telepath, Number One," said Grimes. "Tell me."

    The two men were sitting at ease in the Courier's control room. Each of them was conscious of a certain tightness in the waistband of his uniform shorts. Grimes was suppressing a tendency to burp gently. Alberto, once he had been given a free hand in the galley, had speedily changed shipboard eating from a necessity to a pleasure.