Lounging over the controls, Flint could see his guests behind him in the mirror. Rudely enough, he hadn't been introduced to the men but from their conversation he had determined that Mr. John Leggett--short, black-mustached, slick-haired--was Miss Vaun's legal advisor. Mr. Simon Hudson--short, bald, bug-eyed--was a fur expert. The three faced each other around the two jump seats pulled down from the sides of the cabin. While they talked, Flint had whispered into his radio, "It's a _woman_, Greeno, not a man." Through the plane's plexiglass nose and ceiling, the Ring sparkled in all its glory, like a bridge of jewels across the heavens. But its wonders were wasted on Karen Vaun. "I had no idea it was this far out," she said. Her pale face was bored. "Increased shipping costs," the lawyer said. "The heat, too," the fur expert added, mopping his bald head. "Have to watch out for deterioration." Flint ground his teeth, looked at the clock. Thank Saturn he hadn't long to listen to this--Greeno should show up in a few minutes. But those few minutes were long and before two more of them had elapsed he found himself getting madder and madder. "To make up for shipping rates and deterioration," the lawyer said, toying with his mustache, "we'll have to increase supply." He thumbed through a sheaf of papers in his lap. "At fifty-six ninety per hide--" "One crew of hunters can take five hundred hides a day," Hudson interrupted him. "Think what a hundred crews could do." "I wonder how many feather-deer there are out here," Miss Vaun said. And though Flint bit his lip, it finally slipped out. "Did it ever occur to you," he said over his shoulder, "that the fur business is a murderous racket?" * * * * * The woman stiffened visibly. Indignation flushed her face. Her stooges sat up like startled rabbits. "I beg your pardon!" "The fur business," Flint repeated, eyes on their faces in the mirror. "You're a bunch of butchers. I guess you've never seen a feather-doe standing over the raw carcass of her freshly-skinned faun." He turned in the seat to face them, talking through his teeth. "I've seen a whole planet littered with dead animals--thousands of them--stinking in the sun." "Mr. Flint!" the woman's voice was like a razor. "Obviously you don't know how to converse with a lady. You will please return to your piloting." This scalded Flint. "Why, you walking adding machine! You flat-chested treasurer's report! You haven't an ounce of womanly warmth in you. A _lady_! If you're a lady, I'm a moon-baboon's uncle. All you know is fur prices. If you--" Suddenly his audience was no longer looking at him. Like a quick change of masks, the faces of all three of them had changed from anger to the stark twitching white of sheer terror. Every eye was staring past him, over his shoulder at the view-plate. Instinctively, Flint ducked, whirled around.