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operator apologized. “Mr. Trent is not receiving calls, by doctors’ orders.”
    So Rondinella Fugate was right; an Eldon Trent did exist at James Riddle and in all probability he was Palmer Eldritch. It was certainly worth making the trip; the odds looked good.
    —Looked good, he thought wryly, that I’ll encounter Eldritch, have some kind of altercation with him, God knows what, and eventually bring about his death. A man that at this point in time I don’t even know. And I’ll find myself arraigned; I won’t get away with it. What a prospect.
    But his curiosity was aroused. In all his manifold operations he had never found the need of killing anyone under any circumstances. Whatever it was that would occur between him and Palmer Eldritch had to be unique; definitely a trip to Ganymede was indicated.
    It would be difficult to turn back now. Because he had the acute intuition that this would turn out to be what he hoped. And Rondinella Fugate had only said that he would be accused of the murder; there was no datum as to a successful conviction.
    Convicting a man of his stature of a capital crime, even through the UN authorities, would take some doing.
    He was willing to let them try.

THREE
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    In a bar hard by P. P. Layouts, Richard Hnatt sat sipping a Tequila Sour, his display case on the table before him. He knew goddamn well there was nothing wrong with Emily’s pots; her work was saleable. The problem had to do with her ex-husband and his position of power.
    And Barney Mayerson had exercised that power.
    I have to call Emily and tell her, Hnatt said to himself. He started to his feet.
    A man blocked his way, a peculiar round specimen mounted on spindly legs.
    “Who are you?” Hnatt said.
    The man bobbed toylike in front of him, meanwhile digging into his pocket as if scratching at a familiar microorganism that possessed parasitic proclivities that had survived the test of time. However, what he produced at last was a business card. “We’re interested in your ceramic ware, Mr. Hatt. Natt. However you say it.”
    “Icholtz,” Hnatt said, reading the card; it gave only the name, no further info, not even a vidnumber. “But what I have with me are just samples. I’ll give you the names of retail outlets stocking our line. But these—”
    “Are for minning,” the toylike man, Mr. Icholtz, said, nodding. “And that’s what we want. We intend to min your ceramics, Mr. Hnatt; we believe that Mayerson is wrong—they will become fash, and very soon.”
    Hnatt stared at him. “You want to min, and you’re not from P. P. Layouts?” But no one else minned. Everyone knew P. P. Layouts had a monopoly.
    Seating himself at the table beside the display case, Mr. Icholtz brought out his wallet and began counting out skins. “Very little publicity will be attached to this at first. But eventually—” He offered Hnatt the stack of brown, wrinkled, truffle-skins which served as tender in the Sol system: the only molecule, a unique protein amino acid, which could not be duplicated by the Printers, the Biltong life forms employed in place of automated assembly lines by many of Terra’s industries.
    “I’ll have to check with my wife,” Hnatt said.
    “Aren’t you the representative of your firm?”
    “Y-yes.” He accepted the pile of skins.
    “The contract.” Icholtz produced a document, spread it flat on the table; he extended a pen. “It gives us an exclusive.”
    As he bent to sign, Richard Hnatt saw the name of Icholtz’ firm on the contract. Chew-Z Manufacturers of Boston. He had never heard of them. Chew-Z…it reminded him of another product, exactly which he could not recall. It was only after he had signed and Icholtz was tearing loose his copy that he remembered.
    The illegal hallucinogenic drug Can-D, used in the colonies in conjunction with the Perky Pat layouts.
    He had an intuition compounded by deep unease. But it was too late to back out. Icholtz was gathering up the display case; the