Palanth was waiting for him, the eternal handkerchief pressed against his nose. A brilliant panagran, blood-red and flashing made a deep spot of color against his left ear-lobe. Everything about him seemed indolent, aesthetic, super-refined. And the exquisite fragrances from the known universe with which he drenched his squares of silk, thanks to his mania against human odors, added to the foppish effect. "Have you come to twist the tail of the comet, O thou especially not wanted?" * * * * * Palanth waved his handkerchief diffusing jasmines in the rich austerity of the lobby, as he lounged back against the column with a sigh that might have meant anything. His yellow tunic--as near the color of gold as he dared, without actually being the hue reserved for the Supreme head of the Council, shimmered like watered silk. His slender hands flashed with _acerines_ and _calchuites_. "Breath-taking, as usual," Mark was grinning from ear to ear, "specially that godawful jungle fumes you're soaked in ... arrgh! I can't breathe!" "My only defense against you creatures," Palanth said languidly. "I need replenishing, Mark, shall we go?" "Lord, yes. I could eat an Europan." Mark checked himself as an odd tight expression came into his eyes, and his hand tightened on something hard inside a lower pocket of his tunic. He fell unaccountably silent for a moment. Palanth strode beside him with a lithe, tigerish stride which belied his now forgotten languid pose of a few minutes ago. His deceptive exterior--which many to their final regret had found could disappear like lightning, still made him seem a Planetarian fop whom the Council permitted harmless foibles for reasons of their own. "I never hoped to see you again after that crash on Europa." Palanth exclaimed with a relieved sigh. "You're so reckless, Mark, and death is so permanent!" "Of course, _you_ are not reckless," Mark taunted with obvious irony, remembering how the Martian International could explode into action like an enraged Martian Hella. "In your superior wisdom, there's no reason to take chances--everything's planned in advance, logically, coldly.... Bah. Do you recall that little incident on Venus when they served you imitation Thassalian and that little Venusian baggage tried to dope you with...." "Cease! O chattering...." Palanth interrupted as near being embarrassed as it was possible for him to be. The rest of what he said was buried in the perfumed handkerchief which he hastily pressed against his face as they joined the crowds that filled the avenue. "But what are you here for? It is permissible to know?" Mark asked soberly at last. "I may as well tell you," Palanth said, his tones muffled by the handkerchief. "You'd never have the imagination to guess!"