Then a guard called down to Dane, ordering him up the ladder and out of the tank. Brief minutes later, two other spacemen escorted him to the threshold of a room ornate enough for Dane to assume that it must be the captain's office. * * * * * The door-guard ordered a halt. Beyond him, Dane could glimpse Pfaff, standing inside the office. But the Security rep's whole manner proved a disappointment. Far from ranting, he wore an air of sullen, savage, inadequately-repressed fury. The thick, bruised lips were drawn tight, the bullet-head tilted forward a fraction as if to avoid someone's gaze. Then the guard pushed Dane forward again, and he saw the reason for the Security man's manner. For Nelva Guthrie and the spaceship's captain stood side by side across from Pfaff. The officer, bland-faced, stared toward the far corner of the ceiling, and Dane interpreted the way the man's mouth twisted to mean that this was a moment long anticipated and thoroughly savored. But no trace of amusement showed in Nelva Guthrie's pale, lovely face. Eyes blazing, she lanced barbed words straight at Pfaff: "--and so, in spite of the protests of this ship's officers, you intentionally and maliciously violated my orders, Mr. Pfaff?" Muttered incoherence. "Answer me, Mr. Pfaff!" "Not maliciously, I said." "Oh, really, Mr. Pfaff?" Nelva Guthrie's grey eyes sparked. The ash blonde hair rippled as she tossed her head in a quick, impatient movement. "What would you call it, then, when you abuse a man to the point that he takes refuge in a bem-tank, after I've particularly emphasized it's vital not to upset him?" A mumble. "Speak up, Mr. Pfaff!" "All right, I will!" All at once the other seemed to have lost all control over his temper. The massive shoulders hunched forward; the lumpy face thrust out, bold and belligerent, in the manner of the Pfaff whom Dane remembered. "I wanted to know how come this chitza got stranded on that asteroid. I still do, and I'm going to find out, even with you here." "Indeed?" "You bet indeed! You think Security moves over for every little bobtailed slazot out of Records? I'm rep on this ship, and I'm labeling this whole business as Security jurisdiction! You don't like it, you can state your case to Thorburg Jessup!" Color came to the girl's cheeks. Her voice, icy calm, dropped even lower than before. "How old do you think I am, Mr. Pfaff?" "How old--?" The Security rep stared; stumbled. "How should I know? What's that got to do with this?" "You'll see. Meanwhile, please make an estimate." "Well ... maybe twenty-five." "You're quite close. I'm twenty-six." "So?" "So how many twenty-six-year-old women do you know who are supervisors of planetary record centers?" Pfaff's mouth opened, then closed again with no word uttered. Nelva Guthrie said, "Some men, Mr. Pfaff, might deduce from this that such a woman has certain--contacts." The Security agent still held his silence.