he door. "It's about time you
showed up!" cried the little man in the cell. "Great day! Lucky they
sent you, pal. Why, I've been in here for years--"

"Look, Zeckler, the name is Meyerhoff, and I'm not your pal," Meyerhoff
snapped. "And you've been here for two weeks, three days, and
approximately four hours. You're getting as bad as your gentle guards
when it comes to bandying the truth around." He peered through the dim
light at the gaunt face of the prisoner. Zeckler's face was dark with a
week's beard, and his bloodshot eyes belied the cocky grin on his lips.
His clothes were smeared and sodden, streaked with great splotches of
mud and moss. Meyerhoff's face softened a little. "So Harry Zeckler's in
a jam again," he said. "You _look_ as if they'd treated you like a
brother."

The little man snorted. "These overgrown teddy-bears don't know what
brotherhood means, nor humanity, either. Bread and water I've been
getting, nothing more, and then only if they feel like bringing it
down." He sank wearily down on the rock bench along the wall. "I thought
you'd never get here! I sent an appeal to the Terran Consulate the first
day I was arrested. What happened? I mean, all they had to do was get a
man over here, get the extradition papers signed, and provide
transportation off the planet for me. Why so much time? I've been
sitting here rotting--" He broke off in mid-sentence and stared at
Meyerhoff. "You _brought_ the papers, didn't you? I mean, we can leave
now?"

Meyerhoff stared at the little man with a mixture of pity and disgust.
"You are a prize fool," he said finally. "Did you know that?"

Zeckler's eyes widened. "What do you mean, fool? So I spend a couple of
weeks in this pneumonia trap. The deal was worth it! I've got three
million credits sitting in the Terran Consulate on Altair V, just
waiting for me to walk in and pick them up. Three million credits--do
you hear? That's enough to set me up for life!"

Meyerhoff nodded grimly. "_If_ you live long enough to walk in and pick
them up, that is."

"What do you mean, if?"

Meyerhoff sank down beside the man, his voice a tense whisper in the
musty cell. "I mean that right now you are practically dead. You may not
know it, but you are. You walk into a newly opened planet with your
smart little bag of tricks, walk in here with a shaky passport and no
permit, with no knowledge of the natives outside of two paragraphs of
inaccuracies in the Explorer's Guide, and e