"Easy!" Smith soothed him. "We have an embassy and spaceport there, remember, that you've been relying on. You had them make some inquiries, didn't you?" "Had to confirm the report somehow. All we had was the story of a kidnapping from the captain of that freighter. It might not have been true." "I realize that," said Smith. "It wouldn't have been the first time a spacer got left behind because he didn't make countdown--or because they didn't want him around at payoff." "Sure," Parrish agreed smoothly. "You could tell us about that." Lydman turned to look at him, so suddenly that a silence fell among them. Parrish averted his gaze uncomfortably, and reached into the breast pocket of his maroon jacket for a box of cigarettes. He busied himself puffing one alight from the chemical lighter set in the bottom of the box. _One day I'll have to pull them apart_, thought Smith, _and I'm not big enough. Where does my wife get the nerve to say the neighbors don't know what to make of an average guy like me, just because I can't talk about my work?_ "At any rate," he said quietly, "they took the attitude that even to ask them about the incident was insulting. It seemed to rock the top brass." "What do _they_ know about Yoleen?" growled Lydman, giving up his scrutiny of Parrish. "Not a thing, probably. They make decisions on the basis of how many toes they've stubbed lately. Right now, it sounds like only routine panic. That reminds me--I meant to check with Emil Starke about that." He shoved back his chair and stepped over to a phone table nearby. Switching on both screen and sound, he waited until the cute little blonde at the board came on. "Pauline, get me Emil Starke at the D.I.R., please. Extension 1563." "Yes, Mr. Smith," said Pauline and disappeared from the screen. In a few moments, Smith was greeting a man of about fifty, gray at the temples to the point of appearing over-distinguished. "Listen, Emil," he said, getting down to business after the amenities about families and children had been observed. "I have a case on my hands concerning a planet named Yoleen--" The man on the screen was already nodding. "Yes, I heard they were chewing you about that this morning," he said, smiling. "I trust you preserved some sort of sang-froid?" "What's in their minds?" asked Smith. "Oh ... it seems that the Space Force is nervous over the Yoleenites. They are unable to evaluate the culture comfortably. To cover themselves, I imagine, they send a warning now and then on the possibilities of hostile relations." "Anything to it?" Starke grimaced briefly. "Unlikely. Some of the lads upstairs let it make them nervous." Smith chuckled. "Upstairs," they came and went, but Starke and men like him ran things and knew what went on. "Then I can go ahead without covering my tracks too deeply?" he asked. "I mean, I won't have to lie openly to my boss?"