A heady, throbbing rhythm beat like surf in Gavin's ears. The light was dim, rosy, intimate. Gavin threaded his way between the seated patrons conscious of laughter, of bare shoulders and arms, of vivid splashes of color. "Here, sir," said the waiter. Gavin sat down and ordered bourbon. A Martian girl was executing a barbaric dance in a cleared space in the center of the floor. When the waiter brought Gavin his drink, he sipped it guardedly, dividing his attention between the dancer and the entrance. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone come inside. He turned his head and immediately stiffened. It was Nadia Petrovna. She was alone. The girl paused at the edge of the tables, her long black eyes sweeping the room. When they reached Gavin, they halted. She waved and started for his table. Her costume, Gavin realized, must have been designed individually for Nadia by one of the great Martian fashion artists. Two plates of thinnest rose plastic inlaid with delicate gold lace work had been moulded to conform exactly to her high small breasts. What kept them in place was a mystery—one which Gavin wouldn't have been above solving. A full skirt of rose satin hung low on slim ample hips and fell to the instep of her gold sandals. He stood up as she approached, holding a chair for her. She didn't sit down. Her face appeared whiter than when he had last seen her in Trev's office. She said hurriedly, in an undertone. "Where have you been? The party was cancelled. We've been scouring Venusport for you. The Nova sails in an hour." "Sit down," said Gavin. "But ..." she began and then sank into the chair. Gavin took his seat, saying, "The Nova wasn't scheduled to sail until tomorrow." "I know." Her voice was urgent. "It's an emergency of some sort. I don't know what's happened. Captain Cabot got our clearance from the port of authorities just a few minutes ago. Hurry, please. I've a cab waiting outside." She started to push back from the table. "We've an hour," said Gavin dryly. His hard blue eyes regarded the girl with a thoughtful stare. There had been no record of this girl in the T.I.S.'s secret file. What did it mean? He wondered again why she had lied for him in Trev's office. He asked suddenly, "Does the Temple have a back door?" "I don't know." "We're going to find out." He stood up and left money on the table. When Nadia still hesitated, Gavin took her arm lightly but firmly and urged her toward the stage door. A yellow-skinned Venusian, his green eyes cold as glass, stopped them at the entrance of the passage. "You can't come backstage," he said. On the dance floor, a flock of girls dressed like Ganymedian natives were performing an orgiastic dance. The drums in the orchestra beat out a sultry rhythm. Gavin reached in his pocket for a bill. A disturbance at the main door caused him to look up quickly. A man had just entered across the room. It was Mr. X.