“Exactly. You’re getting the idea. Cosmeticians and plastic surgery. He could look like a Crevenian, or thirty years old and two hundred pounds and slouchy. He could look like anything. He undoubtedly has a background so perfectly established that fifteen thoroughly honest Vegians would swear by eleven of their gods that he hasn’t left his home town for ten years. So every intelligent being on Vegia who hasn’t got a live tail, with live blood circulating in it, is going under the Lens and through the wringer if we have to keep Vegia in quarantine for a solid year. He is _not_ going to get away from us this time.” “I’m betting on you, Nordquist. Clear ether!” The Lensman signed off and Cloud, at the end of the specified hour, undressed and redressed and went to the computer room. All the others except Joe were already there. “Hi, peoples!” Cloud called; then did a double-take. “Wow! And likewise, Yipes! How come the tri-di outfits didn’t all collapse, Joan, when those two spectaculars took up cybernetics?” “I’ll never know, Storm.” Joan shook her head wonderingly, then went on via thought; and Cloud felt her pang of sheer jealousy. “Why is it that big girls are always so much more beautiful than little ones? And the more clothes they take off the better they look? It simply isn’t _fair_!” Cloud’s mind reached out and meshed with hers. “Sure it is, sweetheart. They’re beauties; you can’t take that away from them. . . .” And beauties they certainly were. Helen, as has been said, was lissom and dark. Her hair was black, her eyes a midnight blue, her skin a deep, golden brown. Barbara, not quite as tall—five feet seven, perhaps—was equally beautifully proportioned, and even more striking-looking. Her skin was tanned ivory, her eyes were gray, her hair was a shoulder-length, carefully-careless mass of gleaming, flowing, wavy silver. “. . . they’ve got a lot of stuff: but believe me, there are several grand lots of stuff they _haven’t_ got, too. I wouldn’t trade half of you for either one of them—or both of them together.” “I believe that—at least, about _both_ of them,” Joan giggled mentally, “but how many men. . . .” “Well, how many men do you want?” Cloud interrupted. “Touché, Storm . . . but do you really. . . .” What would have developed into a scene of purely mental lovemaking was put to an end by the arrival of Joe Mackay, who also paused and made appropriate noises of appreciation. “But there’s one thing I don’t quite like about this deal,” he said finally. “I’m not too easy in my mind about making love to a moll who is packing a Mark Twenty Eight DeLameter. The darn thing might go off.” “Keep your distance, then, Lieutenant Mackay!” Helen laughed. “Well, are we ready?”