"A blow to my ego, but proof that you're the right man for this job. I'm General Spano. And this is my Mistress, Secretary Han Vollard." The girl inclined her head. "At least you must know my name?" Spano said querulously. "I've heard it," Clarey admitted. "'The Fiend of Fomalhaut,' they call you," he went on before he could catch himself and stop the words. The girl clapped her hand over her mouth, but the laughter spilled out over and around it, pretty U-E laughter. Spano finally laughed, too. "It's a phrase that might be used about any military man. One carries out one's orders to the best of one's ability." "Besides," Clarey observed in a non-Archivistic manner, "what concern have I with your military morality?" "He's absolutely perfect for the job, Steff!" she cried. "I didn't think the machines were that good!" "We mustn't underestimate the machines, Han," Spano said. "They're efficient, very efficient. Someday they'll take over from us." "There're some things they'll never be able to do," she said. Her hazel eyes lingered on Clarey's. "Aren't you glad, Archivist?" "Sub-Archivist," he corrected her frostily. "And I hadn't really thought about it." "That's not what the machines say, Sub-Archivist," she told him, her voice candy-sweet. "They deep-probed your mind. You don't do anything, but you've thought about it a lot, haven't you?" Clarey felt the blood surge up. "My thoughts are my own concern. You haven't the right to use them to taunt me." "But I think you're attractive," she protested. "Honestly I do. In a different way. Just go to a good tailor, put on a little weight, dye your hair, and--" "And I wouldn't be different any more," Clarey finished. That wasn't true; he would always be different. Not that he was deformed, just unappealing. He was below average height and his eyes and hair and skin were too light. In the past, he knew, there had been pale races and dark races on Earth. With the discovery of other intelligent life-forms to discriminate against together, the different races had fused into a swarthy unity. Of course he could hide his etiolation with dye and cosmetics, but those of really good quality cost more than he could afford, and cheap maquillage was worse than none. Besides, why should his appearance mean anything to anybody but himself? He'd had enough beating around the bush! "Would you mind telling me exactly what the job is?" "Intelligence agent," said Spano. "Isn't it exciting?" she put in. "Aren't you thrilled?" * * * * * Clarey bounced angrily from his chair. "I won't sit here and be ridiculed!" "Why ridiculed?" Spano asked. "Don't you consider yourself an intelligent man?" "Being an intelligence agent has nothing to do with intelligence!" Clarey said furiously. "The whole thing's silly, straight out of the tri-dis." "What do you have against the tri-dis, Sub-Archivist?" Spano's voice was very quiet.