Star Hunter | Page 4

Expert psycho-techs--Wass had them. Men who had slipped over the border of the law,
had entered Wass' organization and prospered there. There were some techs crooked
enough to enjoy such a project for its own sake, indulging in forbidden experimentation.
For a moment, but only for a moment, something in Hume jibbed at the intent of carrying
through his plan. Then he shrugged that tinge aside.
"How soon do you wish to move?"
"How long will preparation take?" Hume asked in return, for the second time battling a
taste of concern.
"Three months, maybe four. There's research to be done and tapes to be made."
"It will be six months probably before the Guild sets up a safari for Jumala."
Wass smiled. "That need not worry us. When the time comes for a safari, there shall also
be clients, impeccable clients, asking for it to be planned."
There would be, too, Hume knew. Wass' influence reached into places where the Veep
himself was totally unknown. Yes, he could count on an excellent, well above suspicion,
set of clients to discover Rynch Brodie when the time came.
"I can deliver the boy tonight, or early tomorrow morning. Where?"
"You are sure of your selection?"
"He fulfills the requirements, the right age, general appearance. A boy who will not be
missed, who has no kin, no ties, and who will drop out of sight without any questions to
be asked."
"Very well. Get him at once. Deliver him here."
Wass swept one hand across the table surface. On the red of the stone there glowed for
seconds an address. Hume noted it, nodded. It was one in the center of the port town, one
which could be visited at an odd hour without exciting any curiosity. He rose.
"He will be there."
"Tomorrow, at your convenience," Wass added, "you will come to this place." Again the
palm moved and a second address showed on the table.
"There you will begin your tape for our use. It may take several sessions."
"I'm ready. I still have the long report to make to the Guild, so the material is still
available on my note tapes."

"Excellent. Out-Hunter Hume, I salute a new colleague." At last Wass' right hand came
up from the table. "May we both have luck equal to our industry."
"Luck to equal our desires," Hume corrected him.
"A very telling phrase, Out-Hunter. Luck to equal our desires. Yes, let us both deserve
that."

2
The Starfall was a long way down scale from the pleasure houses of the upper town. Here
strange vices were also merchandise, but not such exotics as Wass provided. This was
strictly for crewmen of the star freighters who could be speedily and expertly separated
from a voyage's pay in an evening. The tantalizing scents of Wass' terraces were reduced
here to simply smells, the majority of which were not fragrant.
There had already been two fatal duels that evening. A tubeman from a rim ship had
challenged a space miner to settle a difference with those vicious whips made from the
tail casings of Flangoid flying lizards, an encounter which left both men in ribbons, one
dead, one dying. And a scarred, ex-space marine had blaster-flamed one of the
Star-and-Comet dealers into charred human ash.
The young man who had been ordered to help clear away the second loser retired to the
stinking alley outside to lose the meal which was part of his meager day's pay. Now he
crawled back inside, his face greenish, one hand pressed to his middle section.
He was thin, the fine bones of his face tight under the pallid skin, his ribs showing even
through the sleazy fabric of the threadbare tunic with its house seal. When he leaned his
head back against the grime encrusted wall, raising his face to the light, his hair had the
glint of bright chestnut, a gold which was also red. And for his swamper's labor he was
almost fastidiously clean.
"You--Lansor!"
He shivered as if an icy wind had found him and opened his eyes. They seemed
disproportionately large in his skin and bone face and were of an odd shade, neither green
nor blue, but somewhere between.
"Get going, you! Ain't paying out good credits for you to sit there like you was buying on
your own!" The Salarkian who loomed above him spoke accentless, idiomatic Basic
Space which came strangely from between his yellow lips. A furred hand thrust the
handle of a mop-up stick at the young man, a taloned thumb jerked the direction in which
to use that evil-smelling object. Vye Lansor levered himself up the wall, took the mop,
setting his teeth grimly.
Someone had spilled a mug of Kardo and the deep purple liquid was already patterning

the