"You'll have a cover job," she explained wearily. "You can't just wander around with no visible source of income, unless you're a member of the nobility, and it would be risky to elevate you to the peerage." "What kind of a job will I have?" Clarey asked, brightening a little at the idea of possibly having something interesting to do. "They call it _librarian_. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but Colonel Blynn--he's our chief officer on the planet--says that after indoctrination you ought to be able to handle it." Clarey already knew that jobs on Damorlan weren't officially assigned, but that employer and employee somehow managed to find each other and work out arrangements themselves. Sometimes, Han now explained, employers would advertise for employees. Colonel Blynn had answered such a job in Vangtor on his behalf from an accommodation address in Ventimor. "You were hired sight unseen, because you came cheap. So they probably won't check your references. Let's hope not, anyway." * * * * * The trip to Damorlan was one long aching agony. Since luxury liners naturally didn't touch on Damorlan, he was sent out on a service freighter, built for maximum stowage rather than comfort. Most of the time he was spacesick. The only thing that comforted him was that it would be ten years before he'd have to go back. They landed on the Earthmen's spaceport--the only spaceport, of course--at Barshwat, and he was hustled off to Earth Headquarters in an animal-drawn cart that made him realize there were other ailments besides spacesickness. "Afraid you're going to have to hole up in my suite while you're with us," Colonel Blynn apologized when Clarey was safely inside. "The rest of the establishment is crawling with native servants--daytimes, anyway; they sleep out--but they have orders never to come near my quarters." He looked interestedly at Clarey. "Amazing how the plastosurgeons got you to look exactly like a native. Those boys really know their stuff. Maybe I _will_ have my nose fixed next time I go Earthside." Clarey glared venomously at the tall, handsome, dark young officer. "Don't worry," Blynn soothed him. "I'm sure when you go back they'll be able to make you look exactly the way you were before." He gave Clarey a general briefing and explained to him that the additional allowance he'd be receiving--since he couldn't be expected to live on a Damorlant salary--would come from an alleged rich aunt in Barshwat. "Where'll you get the native currency?" Clarey asked. "We do some restricted trading with the natives, bring materials that're in short supply; salt, breakfast cereals, pigments, thread--stuff like that. Nothing strategic, nothing they could possibly use against us ... unless they decide to strangle us with our own string." He guffawed ear-splittingly. * * * * *