"An amateur? Not a chance! Besides, just to make sure, little...." He stopped in the act of tapping his chest. "Say, I don't have a name, do I? What's a good epithet for me, Les? Something with class." The lawyer studied the pale, bony face for a moment or two. "How about John Keats?" he suggested. "Simple and appropriate." The other man thought. "Yeah, I like that. John Keats. Plain, but not like John Smith. Subtle. I'll buy it. Okay, so you think I'm going to take my view-finder off the fake Carmody? I'm going to adhere to that life-form closer than Mary's lamb. So when he knocks off whoever the other guy wants novaed, I can yell doggie. Then the hounds get him--with my flash on him and all, they'll never have the nebula of a notion that they don't have all of me.... I pick up the foliage and rock out to some place where I can buy me a new jewel case, no questions asked. Don't fret, Gorman--you'll get your nibble. I've never played the game with you, have I?" Instead of answering, Gorman asked a question of his own. "Kind of hard on the other guy, isn't it?" "He rates it for sticking me with a piece of statuary like this. Look at it this way, Les--in his own hulk he would've died; this way he's got a chance to live. Yeah, get him to make the flight, Les. You can charm the juice out of a lemon when you want to; it's your line of evil. And don't let on you know he's not the genuine article." "I won't," Gorman sighed. "I only hope I can persuade him to take on the flight. Don't forget it's important to me too, Jed--uh, John." "Make planetfall, then," John Keats said. "So long, Les." "Good-by, Johnny." VII Helen was brushing her long creamy hair at the dressing table when there came a tap at the door to the living room of the suite--a tap so light that it could have been someone accidentally brushing past in the corridor outside. Gabriel sprang up from the bed where he had been lolling, watching her and stood for a moment poised on the balls of his feet, until the knock was repeated more emphatically. He started toward the other room. "But who could be knocking at the door at this hour?" she asked. "It's almost one.... Gabe, do be careful." He halted and looked back at her suspiciously. "Why do you say that? You know you don't care what happens to me?" That last was a question rather than a statement and had a plaintive quaver which failed to touch her. Once she had still been able to feel some compassion; now, nothing he said or did could arouse more than fear and disgust. "If somebody knocks you over the head when you open the door," she murmured, smiling at her own image, "then who will be there to protect me?"