She hugged the loose mantle tightly across her shoulders and tried vainly to read his face in the murk. "If you're trying to frighten me, you're wasting time," she said, "I have more important fears." Newlin chuckled. Skinny wench, but she had something. There was pride in her, and scorn, and a hot spark that burned through the tones of cold scorn. Something else, too. A hint of desperate courage that baffled him. "I still think you should have tried the panther sweat at the Spacebell," he suggested. "One sip and--" "I know," she snapped. "And I hope you've had yours for tonight. You'll need it. We're almost there." "In that case, we'd better talk," he said curtly. "I still know nothing about you. Who you are, what you want? I don't even know your name." She spoke in low, vibrant tones, but the language seemed unfamiliar to her. She groped for exact words, extracted subtle meanings. But there was a hesitance, an uneasiness, about speech itself, as if she found it a tedious and inflexible medium for thought expressions. "I told you. In a--building, there is a man I must see. He does not wish to see me, and there are barriers I cannot pass. The building is a combination workshop and living quarters, and something else you would not understand. You must go inside for me and induce him to come out to me. My name is Songeen. Tell him that. He will know me, and perhaps he will come. But it has been so long--" Newlin grunted. "That man I must see. One who wouldn't come when you whistled. However long it has been?" "He has changed--greatly. He may be insane. He may be dangerous. In self-defense, it may be necessary for you to kill him. For your protection, I have provided a weapon. Use all other means to persuade him first, but threaten if you have to. And be ready to kill if he attacks you. But dead or alive, bring him to me." * * * * * Suddenly Newlin disliked his errand. Even more, he disliked himself. For a brittle moment, he was moved to turn back, refuse to carry out a bargain he now regretted. Killing for pay, at the whim of a jealous or scorned woman, was too ugly even for his calloused morality. "Preferably dead?" he asked thinly. "Preferably alive," Songeen murmured. "You would not understand, of course. It is because I love him. He will not come, but he must have the chance. And I must send a stranger to kill him, because he has--forgotten." Newlin stiffened angrily. He was on the point of rejecting the girl and her project when a battery of lights moved toward them from the winding lanes of the Park. Too well he knew what they meant.