Freedman felt a cold stab go up his back. He had never thought it would be like this. Jerry Graham, and now Pete. Old Folley who had raised him since he was a kid. He straightened his shoulders. "If that's the way it is," he said. "That's just the way it is," Folley said, and looked down at the desk top with brooding eyes. Freedman turned and went out. * * * * * Blair Freedman's room was barren. His things were packed neatly into three trunks in the center of the floor. Freedman stood near the window looking down into the street. The car from the Warrior Patrol would be here shortly to pick him up. He looked around the place for the last time. A queer feeling of homesickness swept over him. This room at the Setric Hotel had served him for the past ten years. Now he was leaving it to take over quarters in the splendid barracks of the Warrior Patrol of the Parma Air Force. A knock sounded on the door. Thinking the boy had come up for his bags, he called: "Come in." Freedman didn't look up as the door opened. He heard footsteps near the door, then a quiet, feminine voice said: "Do you usually ignore your visitors?" Freedman straightened, his face red, to stare with surprise at the slim, honey-haired girl inside the door. She wore the uniform of the Space Merchants of Vestena. Her neat figure seemed molded into the scanty leather breeches and gold-cloth vest. A small light-gun hung loosely from the belt around her waist. Was it his imagination, or did the fingers of her right hand poise lightly over the gun? "Hello," he said slowly. "I don't think I know you. I had expected...." She nodded. "The porter," she said. "Yes, I had to bribe him to let me come up." Blair Freedman felt new warmth in his face. Anger, rising slowly, made his fingers clench. "Why was it so necessary to see me?" He didn't like it. The Space Merchants were neutral, but the satellite Vestena was stalling waiting to declare war. Could she be a spy? The girl walked across the room and looked down on the busy square below. Her back was turned to him. She had a way of coolly going about her business as though he didn't exist, and speaking to him only when she was ready to do so. He watched the slim, well-built figure, the maze of fluffy gold that hung about the back of her neck. "You're Blair Freedman," she said, without turning around. "You knew that before you came up here." Silence. "You're going to join the Warrior Patrol?" "If that's any of your business, yes." He was blazing mad. Mad because she had the nerve to walk calmly into his room and question him. "See here," he snapped, "I've got work to do. You've said your piece. Now get out of here before I call the management." She whirled around, facing him, solemn blue eyes staring into his.