He wasn't sure she understood, but he put his arm around her waist and she rested her head against his shoulder. They continued a dozen steps down the path, until it ended at a silvery lagoon. Here, she touched the radio button of her wristwatch--rented on a weekly basis--and the rhythm of a jazz band filled the tropical air. Walther took her wrist, shut off the radio. He turned her toward him and held her face tightly between the palms of his hands. "No television," he said firmly, "No radio--no nothing--except this...." She yielded with a faint smile. Her eyes closed, but their lips had scarcely touched when she tried to draw back. "Not that way," Walther told her. "This way...." He held her face firmly teaching her the kind of kisses that were used in a frontier world where people had time to make love. She struggled away from the unnaturalness of his kissing, then slowly she ceased to struggle. Suddenly, the lagoon was lighted by a brilliant spotlight, and a servo-robot stepped out of the shadows. It said pleasantly: "Since only tourists come to this spot, it is presumed that you come from some distant planet. Therefore, let me point out that all couples are limited to two minutes by the lagoon. If you hurry, you can catch a native dance number before the next stratoway leaves." In the same pleasant tone, the servo-robot began to repeat these words in the other ancient languages of Earth. Maria's breath came in short, trembling gasps. Her lips were still apart, and she touched them with the tip of her tongue. "_Weil nur Touristen nach diesem Fleckchen Erde kommen_ ..." the servo-robot droned along in its pleasing voice. "Oh, shut up!" Walther growled. He took Maria by the arm and led her back up the path. "Somehow," he promised her fervently, "Somewhere--we're going to finish that." "Dthgn," she whispered in breathless wonder. * * * * * The first shipment of "tools and machinery" had been assembled at the Uniport landing. Walther received a formal notice to this effect from the local Exchange Bank. The same evening, in a backstage dressing room, he and Willy Fritsh received a rather more informative report from the gentleman who was their contact with the bootleg underworld. Every item in the shipment was listed and described with meticulous care. By reference to a leather-bound pocket notebook, the contact managed to furnish additional details.