he card and shrugged. "Sign this." He shoved a
dogeared form toward Greg. The table shook slightly as a spaceship
blasted off. Greg signed, glancing over the form.

"This isn't a contract," he said, handing it back. "It's just a release
for you in case something happens to a crew member."

"So we aren't running pleasure trips or slumming expeditions for rich
guys. You were born yesterday if you don't know the freighters are a
little dangerous. We don't know how much money we'll make out of a trip
until we've made it. So we can't settle on any pay now."

"Get me onto the surface of the planet and you get my services free the
whole trip out," Greg said. "Isn't that fair enough?"

"So you want to hop out before the return trip?" The agent's face
darkened. "Just when you've started to learn something useful
aboardship?" A man standing at the door started to move slowly toward
them.

"I've changed my mind." Greg got up, turned, and suddenly an arm
encircled his throat. He twisted fiercely, uselessly, while the
recruiting officer pulled a cloth-covered tube from the desk drawer. The
word _shanghai_ flashed into Greg's mind, an instant before the lead
pipe smashed down against his skull.

* * * * *

Someone was shaking Greg, trying to dislodge his consciousness from the
black, cramped niche into which it was wedged. The hand at his shoulder
gripped hard, shook roughly, and a voice was bellowing into Greg's ears.
Greg moved a hand, experimentally. Instantly he was jerked upright.

"Time to get to work," the voice rumbled loudly. "Let's get this show on
the road. My name's Moore. What's yours?"

Greg poked with stiff fingers at his eyes. Light blinded him. He was in
a small room that might have been an overgrown closet. He sat on the
lower half of a two-tier bunk. There was a webbing of ropes at the other
side, and a couple of small lockers around the other sides. The hand
that had been shaking him belonged to a giant blond fellow who might
have been in his forties.

"Feel better?" The blond giant steadied Greg in a sitting position.

"What's this all about?" Greg felt for the lump on his head.

"Well, they haven't told me about you," the fellow grinned, "but I can
guess. When someone starts to ask about a berth on a freighter, they
figure that he's either a potential crew member or a spy. Either way,
they figure they'd better take him aboard. I got took just the same way,
ten years a