The space-tanned face with its slightly flaring nostrils, and large silver-grey eyes, crowned by the shock of golden mane, began to change subtly under the magical hands of the designer. Slowly the shoulder long hair took on a dull, ruddy sheen, while the coppered complexion paled and a temporary irritant brought a deep flush to his cheeks. With deft movements, the winged brows were darkened and narrowed, and the generous, full lips were pulled slightly inwards and taped with invisi-plastic, until only a thin, cruel curve remained. The Ganymedean stepped back and scrutinized the effect. Quickly it crossed to a part of the circular chamber and then pressed a stud. A great section of the wall sank downward, revealing tier after tier of dazzling costumes already composed. There were gossamer silks from Venus, lustrous as moonlight pools; the opulent gleam of stiff brocades from Mars, as unyielding as the character of that supercilious race. Velvets like crushed petals, embroidered in _Starlimans_, the priceless green diamonds of Mercury; vivid fabrics from distant Neptune, which were not woven at all, but secret plastics worth a small fortune each. And, they were all green--in an infinite gradation of shades, nuances, hues. The artist's hands reached and drew forth a single garment open at the back. And then the real work began. * * * * * Julian's eyes were inscrutable. He had not been asked what effect was to be achieved, or indeed how he wished to be changed. True, nothing of an _organic_ nature had been attempted. But he was not used to this. The Ganymedean designer, whatever it was, was a great artist. Great enough to take liberties, or else possessed of the effrontery of genius. But then, Julian meditated, Ganymedeans were like that. There were times when one didn't know whether to slay them or leave them. Then it occurred to Julian that perhaps the instructions of the _Dekka_ had been specific. But dismissed the thought with a wry smile. Even the Dekka's instructions as to the actual disguise would have been quietly ignored by this creature. It was a work of art, and in that realm, Ganymedeans listened to no one. But his meditation was cut short by the gestures of the artist, which clearly indicated that Julian tilt his head. In his hands he held a tiny bottle, and something like an eye-dropper. "I said _nothing organic_!" Julian reminded him coldly. "A tint, nothing more," the Ganymedean spoke for the first time in soft, slurred accents. "It will only last a few days, then disappear. And, without it, the work is incomplete." Julian submitted reluctantly. The artist was at last finished. One graceful hand motioned toward a huge moon of a mirror suspended by anti-gravitic means, and Julian turned curiously to see what the creature had transformed him into.