the chronometer above it, the big translite
map of their position tilted from the opposite bulkhead. A heavy planet
native, he felt vaguely uneasy on this Gienah III with its gravity of
only seven-eighths Terran Standard. The surgical scars on his neck where
the micro-communications equipment had been inserted itched maddeningly.
He scratched.

"Hah!" said Stetson. "Politicians!"

A thin black insect with shell-like wings flew in Orne's port, settled
in his close-cropped red hair. Orne pulled the insect gently from his
hair, released it. Again it tried to land in his hair. He ducked. It
flew across the bridge, out the port beside Stetson.

There was a thick-muscled, no-fat look to Orne, but something about his
blocky, off-center features suggested a clown.

"I'm getting tired of waiting," he said.

"_You're_ tired! Hah!"

A breeze rippled the tops of the green ocean below them. Here and there,
red and purple flowers jutted from the verdure, bending and nodding like
an attentive audience.

"Just look at that blasted jungle!" barked Stetson. "Them and their
stupid orders!"

A call bell tinkled on the bridge control console. The red light above
the speaker grid began blinking. Stetson shot an angry glance at it.
"Yeah, Hal?"

"O.K., Stet. Orders just came through. We use Plan C. ComGO says to
brief the field man, and jet out of here."

"Did you ask them about using another field man?"

Orne looked up attentively.

The speaker said: "Yes. They said we have to use Orne because of the
records on the _Delphinus_."

"Well then, will they give us more time to brief him?"

"Negative. It's crash priority. ComGO expects to blast the planet
anyway."

Stetson glared at the grid. "Those fat-headed, lard-bottomed,
pig-brained ... POLITICIANS!" He took two deep breaths, subsided. "O.K.
Tell them we'll comply."

"One more thing, Stet."

"What now?"

"I've got a confirmed contact."

Instantly, Stetson was poised on the balls of his feet, alert. "Where?"

"About ten kilometers out. Section AAB-6."

"How many?"

"A mob. You want I should count them?"

"No. What're they doing?"

"Making a beeline for us. You better get a move on."

"O.K. Keep us posted."

"Right."

* * * * *

Stetson looked across at his junior field man. "Orne, if you decide you
want out of this assignment, you just say the word. I'll back you to the
hilt."

"Why should I want out of my first field ass