LAIR OF THE DRAGONBIRD By Robert Silverberg Nobody on Venus knew if the dragonbird was flesh and blood or a robot. But one thing was certain--some men would kill to find out! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy December 1956 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Dan Elliot sat in the muggy gloom of the Vestend Bar on the outskirts of Venus City, and grinned at his reflection in the mottled mirror. "Congratulations," he said to himself. "You are now the owner of the _Space Needle II_." It had taken him five years, but it was worth it. The insurance money from the crashed _Space Needle_ had just barely covered the down payment on the new ship, and it had taken five years to pay for the rest of it. But now--the ship was his. And he was celebrating. The only trouble was the final payment had nearly left him penniless, and the only place he could afford to bend an elbow was a dive like the Vestend. Suddenly someone lurched against his back, and the drink in his hand slopped over the bar. "Why don't you watch what you're doin' buddy?" a harsh voice said. Elliot turned around. "I didn't--" "Oh, a wise guy, eh?" Customers began to draw around the bickering duo. Elliot sized up his antagonist--a burly, nondescript man with a seam running down from one ear to his chin. "I'm not looking for trouble," Elliot said. "But if--" A fist erupted from nowhere and sent him spinning back against the bar. He elbowed up and drove a punch into the burly man's stomach, followed with a ringing blow to the jaw. The other staggered-- And a third entered the brawl. Elliot felt a punch rake across his face, blocked a kick aimed for his groin, and barrelled across the room, striking out angrily at his assailants. By now the room was filled with moving, cursing, gesticulating men, while the bartender ducked to safety. Elliot plunged through the mob and found the man who had struck him the first time. He seized him by the collar and drove him to the floor, just as someone yelled, "Watch that table!" He turned--not nearly in time. The flying table caught the back of his head with a sickening _thunk_, and he dropped unconscious to the floor. A cold rag splashed wetly on his face, and a heavy voice said: "Bring him out of it. He's not badly hurt." * * * * * Elliot opened his eyes slowly. He was no longer in the Vestend, but in a large, well-decorated office. Behind a gleaming-surfaced desk sat a short, fat man with jowls that jiggled as he spoke, and standing to his left was a brawny, not-too-intelligent-looking man with a heavy spacetan. "How do you feel, Mr. Elliot?" the fat man asked. "All right, I guess." He rubbed the back of his head. "What happened?"