The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip that Salvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries who espoused the principle of "turning the other cheek" to evildoers. Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutly religious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken upon himself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the God he worshipped. That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God of anger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvation sometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvation acknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to be the best hand with a gun! Now Chip gave quiet answer. "I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well, Syd--sure you won't change your mind and come along?" "No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing this jalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em." "O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!" And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the _Chickadee_ onto the soil of the asteroid Danae. * * * * * Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the town beyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice _lucentite_ Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terra normal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for its cradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System, and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulders with citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians, petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus, Earthman--all were here. Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. A brilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to: XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom--Casino--Dancing 100--Lovely Hostesses--100 He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vying for the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2) helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftly as possible from the credits in his money belt. Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true; but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passed through it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusians were straining the structure with a native "sing-stomp," and ended up finally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private bar unfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender. The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chip entered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting. "Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?" This was more like it! Chip grinned. "Scotch," he said. "_Old Spaceman._ And let's have a new bottle, Curly. None of that doctored swill."