“I wish you would. It’d be worth while, I think.” “So do I. I’ll call Haynes and ask him to rush a ship out there to get us a fine-tooth on it.” “Thanks, Phil.” “And there was something else. . . . Oh yes, your friend Fairchild. Narcotics wants him, badly.” “I’m not surprised. Alive? That might take some doing.” “Or dead. No difference, as long as they have his head for positive identification,” and at Cloud’s surprised expression Strong went on: “They don’t want him planting any more Trenconian broadleaf, is all, which he’ll keep on doing as long as he’s alive and loose.” “I see. Wish I’d known sooner; we probably could have caught him on Tominga.” “I doubt it. They’ve been checking back on him, and he’s a very, _very_ sharp operator. He makes long flits, fast . . . in peculiar directions. But if you stumble across him again, grab him or blast. . . .” “Just a minute, chief. You mean to say the _Patrol_ can’t _find_ him?” “Just that. He’s in with a big, strong mob; probably heads it. They’ve been looking for him ever since you found out that he wasn’t killed on Deka.” “I’m . . . I’m speechless. But Graves . . . but Graves was dead, of course . . . didn’t _anybody_ know Fairchild’s personal pattern?” “That’s exactly it; nobody that they could get hold of knows his _real_ pattern at all. All we’ve got that we can depend on are his retinals. That shows the kind of operator he is. So if you get a chance, blast him, but leave at least one eye whole and bring it in, in deep-freeze. Nothing else at the moment, is there?” “Not that I know of. Clear ether, Phil!” “Clear ether, Storm!” The plate went black and Cloud turned soberly to Joan. “Well, that clears Fairchild up, but doesn’t help with the real mystery. So, unless we can dig some more dope out of this stuff on the chart, we can’t do much until we get that finetooth.” Joan left the room, and Cloud, after racking his brain for an hour, got up, shook himself, and went down the corridor to his “private” office—which had long since ceased to be private, as far as his friends were concerned—where he found Vesta and Thlaskin talking busily in spaceal. Or, rather, the Vegian was talking; the pilot was listening attentively. “. . . think _I’m_ built, you ought to’ve seen _this_ tomato,” Vesta was narrating blithely. “What I mean, she’s a _dish_!” She went into a wrigglesome rhythm which, starting at the neck, flowed smoothly down her splendidly-modeled body to the ankles. “_Stacked?_ She’s stacked like Gilroy’s Tower, Buster—an honest-to-god DISH, believe me, and raring to go. We were on one of those long-week-end jaunts around the system—you know, one of those deals where things are pretty apt to get just a hair off the green at times. . . .” “But hey!” Thlaskin protested. “You said yourself a while back you wasn’t old enough for that kind of monkey-business!” “Oh, I wasn’t,” Vesta agreed, candidly enough. “I still ain’t. I just went along for the ride.”