"It might be just as well," Smith agreed, considering. "They may give us more business in the future." He pushed back his chair and rose. "Let's take a break while I see if any new reports have come in. Then maybe we can work out something on the new mess." THREE Louis Taranto sat on his heels against the baked clay wall of the cell, watching the sweat run down the face of his companion. Though he privately considered Harvey Meyers a very weak link, he had so far restrained himself from hinting as much. They were in this hole together, and he might well need the blubbery loudmouth's help to get out--if there were any way to get out. Meyers sat on the single bench with which their jailers had provided them, staring mournfully at the rude table upon which he rested his elbows. He was unusually quiet, as if the heat had drained him of all anxiety. _Sloppy bum!_ thought Taranto. _He could at least comb his hair!_ They were allowed occasional access to toilet articles which the Syssokans had obtained from the one Terran officially in residence on the planet. Taranto had shaved the day before, but the other had not bothered for more than a week. Meyers was perhaps an inch short of six feet and must weigh two hundred pounds Terran. He had a loose mouth between pudgy cheeks. His little blue eyes seemed always to be prying except during periods such as the present when he was feeling sorry for himself. He had been a medic in the same spaceship in which Taranto had been a ventilation mechanic. "Glad I was never sick," Taranto muttered to himself. Meyers looked up. "Huh?" "I said I'm glad I was never sick," repeated Taranto deliberately, thinking, _Let him figure that out if he can!_ "This heat's enough to make anybody sick," complained Meyers. "Why do they have to keep us up on the top floor of the tower, anyway?" "You expect a luxury suite in the cellar? What kind of jail were you ever in where the prisoners got the best?" "Who says I was ever in jail?" demanded Meyers defensively. Taranto grinned slightly, but made no reply. After a moment, the other returned to his study of the table. He breathed in loudly, his shoulders heaving as if he had been running. To avoid the sight, Taranto let his eyes wander for the thousandth time around the walls of the square cell. The large blocks of baked clay were turning from dun to gray in the twilight seeping through the four small window openings. Overhead, they curved together to form a high arch that was the peak of the tower. Besides table and bench, the room contained a clay water jug a yard high, a wooden bucket, a battered copper cooking pot, and a pile of coarse straw upon which lay the two gray shirts the spacers had discarded in the heat. In the center of the floor was a wooden trap door which Taranto eyed speculatively. He reminded himself that he must suppress his longing to smash the next Syssokan head that appeared in the opening.