"Thigpen!" Veta Hall ran towards him, out of the shadows at the far end of the room. Gladness rang in her voice; shone from her face. "You came! You came!" "Did I have a choice?" Ross' smile held little mirth. "I got you into this, Veta; trussed you up in a sack like a pigeon for Cheng to grab. The least I can do is try to get you out." "Don't worry, Thigpen. You can get her out." Igor Cheng speaking, this time. Ross turned sharply. The scar-faced, black-browed smuggler-slaver-outlaw stood just beyond the barred door, lips peeled back in a death's head grin. His thumbs were hooked in his broad belt, and his expression was that of a man well-satisfied with his world. Ross' face went wooden. "You ready to talk?" Cheng prodded. "Would I be here if I wasn't?" "Well, where's that formula? Let's see it!" Cheng thrust a hairy hand between the bars. Ross shrugged. "Did you think I'd be fool enough to bring it with me?" "Then what--?" "You'll have to take us to it." "Where?" "Venus. That place you crashed me." Cheng leaned on the bars--brutal face darkening; scar livid. His voice came out a snarl: "Don't try it, you starbo! Don't try it!" Ross met the slaver's glare coldly. "What shouldn't I try?" "That yodor Venus business!" Cheng gripped one of the doorbars with thick fingers. "My pickup crew brought in a gorvide detector. We went over every inch of your carrier; that whole section we traveled. And all we came up with was this!" Reaching into a pocket, he brought out Ross' doloid identification band and tossed it down on the floor of the cell. Momentarily, Ross' eyes narrowed a fraction; that was all. "You take that too good, you zanat!" the slaver observed. "You held too tight on it. So maybe you better start off this party by saying who Stewart Ross is, and how you got your picture on his bracelet." Ross shook his head, a fraction too swiftly. "I've never seen it before." "Don't waste your breath, starbo!" Cheng leaned on the bars. "I call the turn here, and I say you talk--about Tornelescu's formula; that band, there; anything at all. You can do it quick, or you can hurt awhile first. Make up your mind." "In that case--" "You're still stalling. You came here to stall." The slaver's scar twitched. "You thought you'd send me off on some ban-crazy run, while you sneaked away with the girl. Only it won't work." A fragmentary pause. "Where's that formula?" "I don't know--" "I said, it won't work!" Cheng gestured to his men. "Strip the lousy chitza. See if it's in his stuff." A brief flurry of struggle; then a search--the thorough kind of search that took account of every seam, every stain; coins, flamer, writer, pad. It netted nothing. Cheng said, "Good enough, Thigpen. I'm glad you're this stubborn. It gives me a chance to loosen you up." He turned to his men. "Bring 'em in." Wordless, Ross pulled on his clothes. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.