on Sargol's soil," his soft slur of speech ended in a rich chuckle.

Dane snorted and tried to estimate progress over one shoulder.

"The things we have to do for Trade!" his comment carried a hint of
present embarrassment. "Get it well in--this stuff's supposed to hold for
hours. It'd better. According to Van those Salariki can talk your ears
right off your head and say nothing worth hearing. And we have to sit and
listen until we get a straight answer out of them. Phew!" He shook his
head. In such close quarters the scent, pleasing as it was, was also
overpowering. "We would have to pick a world such as this--"

Rip's dark fingers halted their circular motion. "Dane," he warned,
"don't you go talking against this venture. We got it soft and we're
going to be credit-happy--if it works out--"

But, perversely, Dane held to a gloomier view of the immediate future.
"_If_," he repeated. "There's a galaxy of 'ifs' in this Sargol
proposition. All very well for you to rest easy on your fins--you don't
have to run about smelling like a spice works before you can get the time
of day from one of the natives!"

Rip put down the jar of cream. "Different worlds, different customs," he
iterated the old tag of the Service. "Be glad this one is so easy to
conform to. There are some I can think of--There," he ended his massage
with a stinging slap. "You're all evenly greased. Good thing you don't
have Van's bulk to cover. It takes him a good hour to get his cream
on--even with Frank helping to spread. Your clothes ought to be steamed
up and ready, too, by now--"