“Why, not at all!” Vesta waved the objection away with an airy flirt of her tail. “You’re friends of mine! And everybody’s real friends are always welcome, you know, everywhere. And it’ll be small and quiet; only six or eight hundred are being asked, they say. . . .” she paused for a moment: “. . . of course, after it gets around that we have _you_ there, a couple of thousand or so strangers will come in too; but they’ll all smell nice, so it’ll be QX.” “How do you know what they’ll smell like?” Cloud asked. “Why, they’ll smell like our crowd, of course. If they didn’t they wouldn’t _want_ to come in. It’s QX, then?” “For us two, yes; but of course we can’t speak for the others.” “Thanks, you wonderful people; I’ll go ask them right now.” “Joan, have you blown your stack completely?” Cloud demanded. “Small—quiet—six or eight _hundred_ invited—a couple of thousand or _so_ gate-crashers—what do you want to go to a brawl like _that_ for?” “The chance is too good to miss—it’s priceless. . . .” She paused, then added, obliquely: “Storm, have you any idea at all of what Vesta thinks of you? You haven’t snooped, I’m sure.” “No, and I don’t intend to.” “Maybe you ought to,” Joan snickered a little, “except that it would inflate your ego too much. It’s hard to describe. It’s not exactly love—and not exactly worship, either god-worship or hero-worship. It isn’t exactly adoration, but it’s very much stronger than mere admiration. A mixture of all these, perhaps, and half a dozen others, coupled with a simply unbelievable amount of _pride_ that you are her friend. It’s a peculiarly Vegian thing, that Tellurians simply do not feel. But here’s why I’m so enthused. It has been over twenty years since any non-Vegian has attended one of these uniquely Vegian parties except as an outsider, and a Vegian party with outsiders looking on isn’t a Vegian party at all. But we Storm, will be going as insiders!” “Are you sure of that?” “Positive. Oh, I know it isn’t _us_ she wants, but _you_; but that won’t make any difference. As Vesta’s friend—‘friend’ in this case having a very special meaning—you’re in the center of the inner circle. As friends of yours, the rest of us are in, too. Not in the inner circle, perhaps, but well inside the outside circle, at least. See?” “Dimly. ‘A friend of a friend of a friend of a very good friend of mine,’ eh? I’ve heard that ditty, but I never thought it meant anything.” “It does here. We’re going to have a time. See you in about an hour?” “Just about. I’ve got to check with Nordquist.” “Here I am, Storm,” the Lensman’s thought came in. Then, as Cloud went toward his quarters, it went on: “Just want to tell you we won’t have anything for you to do here. This is going to be a straight combing job.” “That won’t be too tough, will it? A Tellurian, sixty, tall, thin, grave, distinguished-looking . . . or maybe. . . .”