The plants looked Terran, and apparently were rooted in soil, though there must be miles of ice beneath. Artificial sunlight poured on the whole area from the top. Murdoch had heard, and now was sure, that something held an atmosphere in the place. "What are we waiting for?" Waverill wanted to know. Murdoch reached for a switch and said, simply, "Hello." * * * * * The voice that answered was precise and uninflected. "Who are you." "My employer is Frederick Waverill. He has an appointment." "And you." "Gilbert Murdoch." There was a pause, then, "Gilbert Andrew Murdoch. Age thirty-four. Born in the state called Illinois." Murdoch, startled, hesitated, then realized he'd probably been asked a question. "Er--that's right." "There is a price on your head Murdoch." Murdoch hesitated again, then said, "There'd be a price on your own if Earth dared to put it there." Waverill gripped the arms of his seat and stood up, too vigorously for the light gravity. "Never mind all that. I hired this man because he could make the contact and get me here. Can you give me back my eyes?" "We can but first of all I must warn both of you against trying to steal anything from us or prying into our methods. Several Terrans have tried but none have escaped alive." Waverill made an impatient gesture. "I've already got more money than I can count. I've spent a lot of it, a very great lot, on the metal you wanted, and I have it here in the ship." "We have already perceived it and we do not care what it has cost you. We are not altruists." That, thought Murdoch, could be believed. He felt clammy. If they knew so much about him, they might also be aware of the years he'd spent sifting and assessing the rumors about them that circulated around the tenuous outlaw community of space. Still, he'd been as discreet as was humanly possible. He wondered if Waverill knew more than he pretended. He thought not; Murdoch's own knowledge was largely meticulous deduction. This much Murdoch knew with enough certainty to gamble his life on it: the treatments here involved a strange virus-like thing which multiplied in one's veins and, for presumably selfish or instinctive reasons, helped the body to repair and maintain itself. He knew for dead certain that the aliens always carefully destroyed the virus in a patient's veins before letting him go. He thought he knew why. The problem was to smuggle out any viable amount of the virus. Even a few cells, he thought, would be enough if he could get away from here and get them into his own blood. For it would multiply; and what would be the going price for a drop of one's blood--for a thousandth of a drop--if it carried virtual immortality? A man could very nearly buy Earth. * * * * * The voice was speaking again. "Move straight ahead. The field will be opened for you."