He opened the door and stepped inside. Moving cautiously, ready to turn tail and get out if something looked wrong, Kendall followed him. The blueskin knelt. "This is Pilot Kendall." "Pleased to meet you, Pilot Kendall," said an immensely fat Martian humped in an encircling webwork cradle. His small eyes were burned in rings of fat; his slit-like mouth was spread in a broad, unsavory grin. "I am Das Shamra," he said, in a deep, harsh voice. Kendall poised himself on the balls of his toes, waiting uncertainly. "Why did you bring me here?" "All in good time. Sit down, won't you? Care for a drink?" He indicated a dark bottle of _valdoz_ by his side. Kendall shook his head immediately. "No, I don't want any." "Ah, I see. A spacepilot must beware lest he damage the all-important reflexes. Very well, then; I shall drink alone unless you object." "Go right ahead," Kendall said tightly. "And I'm not worried about my reflexes. I just want to keep a clear head while you tell me whatever you want to tell me." "You sound as if you don't trust me," Das Shamra wheezed. His fat body quivered as the liquor went down. "A most unfortunate attitude." Kendall drummed on the edge of his chair impatiently. "You sent your boy out to bring me here. What for?" The Martian smiled bleakly at him. "How badly would you like to get back to your native world, Mr. Kendall?" Kendall was silent for a moment. Then he said, "What the hell do you mean?" "I mean that I'm aware of your unfortunate run-in with several of the local police this morning. They happened to be in my employ, and they told me your motive for causing a disturbance. I offer my sympathies, Mr. Kendall." _He's dropped the Pilot_, Kendall thought. _Now it's just plain_ Mister. "Okay, you know then. Sympathy isn't enough." "I'm aware of that," Das Shamra said. "But is eight thousand dollars enough?" Kendall stiffened. "Eight thousand dollars is exactly the passage-fee back to Earth," he said. "It happens to be exactly the sum I need." His voice was cold and flat. Das Shamra grinned affably. "Indeed? Then we can talk business--for eight thousand dollars happens to be exactly the sum I'm prepared to offer you if you do a certain job for me." "What kind of a job?" "Piloting a spaceship." "But that's impossible--" Kendall started to say, and stopped. By law, all space commerce was to be handled through Space Service and its authorized pilots. There was a reason for that; a spaceship out of control could destroy half a continent in a crash landing, and so only authorized personnel could be permitted to handle spacecraft. No private piloting was allowed. But it might be worthwhile to hear him out. "Go on," Kendall said. "Give some details." "First I must know if you're interested." "I might be. Talk away."