"I said he had you pegged. He knew you were ready to turn him down so he upped with the mool. He knew once you touched the yellow you'd be his pup." "I'm not so damned sure about that--" Mike Mallison was a big game guide--a life he loved. He was a man of action and asked nothing better than the perils of his calling; the stalking of the great Plutonian ice bears; crouching in a Venusian swamp waiting for the ten-ton lizards to blow slime a hundred feet in the air and rise from their lava-hot beds; matching wits with the telepathic Uranian rock wolves, the most elusive beast in the universe; setting his sights on a Martian jet-bat so some Terran millionaire could have a new trophy for his game room. "You're not sure," Nicko was saying in Ganymedian French, "but you'll stay glued to the mool." Mike was busy thinking and didn't ask for a translation. After all, he needed the money and if he didn't take it these two deluded characters would no doubt find someone who would. "Besides," Nicko said in Terran, "the female's a dream. The legs--the torso--very nice to be in space with." "Shut up! This is a business trip! Remember that. Exactly the same as though we were hauling a couple of fat Terran bankers." "Sure. But that kitty's got more in the bank than--" "Get the hell out of here! Go over to the Exchange and see if our new pile came in on that ship." * * * * * Outer Port was a man-made satellite artificially oxygenated and gravitated. It was the largest of a group assembled during the experimental period of the late twenty-first century. Later, methods of shifting asteroids and small planets into desired orbits were developed and the construction of space globes and platforms was discontinued. At that time, the Interplanetary Guild of Space Guides purchased the satellite and moored it on the perimeter of the System to serve as a headquarters for their activities. They smashed a bottle of wine on it and christened it Outer Port after which every guide got drunk by way of celebration. It was a bleak establishment. With no solar supplement, it lay in the eternal twilight of far space, the artificial heat of its surface rising against eternal cold thus causing a perpetual fogging of its atmosphere mixture. So when the _Space Queen_ blasted fifteen hours later, Doree Brandon brightened perceptibly. Professor Brandon remained in the lounge. Nicko was aft, watching the tube primers. Doree was with Mike in the control cabin. "Getting used to Nicko?" Mike asked. Doree smiled. "I owe him an apology. He is--" She looked up suddenly. "He is _he_, isn't he?" Mike laughed. "Nicko is male. Beyond that point he's hard to classify." "That odd face! Those green scales! The four arms were a little difficult to get used to but now I think he's--well, kind of cute." "Good for you." "Where did you ever find him?" "On Mars. I'll tell you about it sometime. Right now I've got to finish setting our primary course."