“They don’t like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin,” Chip said. “But the Cap’n knows I’m the best cook in the Merchant Service. They won’t mess with me.”

“What has Mr. Tony got on the Captain, Chip?” Retief asked.

“They’re in some kind o’ crooked business together. You want some more smoked turkey?”

“Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen’s Worlds?”

“Dunno. Hasn’t been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. I sure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I was yer age.”

“I’ll bet you can still handle it, old timer. What are Jorgensen’s Worlds like?”

“One of’em’s cold as hell and three of’em’s colder. Most o’ the Jorgies live on Svea; that’s the least froze up. Man don’t enjoy eatin’ his own cookin’ like he does somebody else’s.”

“That’s where I’m lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo’s the Captain got aboard for Jorgensen’s?”

“Derned if I know. In and out o’ there like a grasshopper, ever few weeks. Don’t never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says. Don’t know what we even run in there for.”

“Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?”

“To Alabaster. That’s nine days’ run in-sector from Jorgensen’s. You ain’t got another one of them cigars, have you?”

“Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.”

“Plenty o’ space, mister. We got a dozen empty cabins.” Chip puffed the cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee and brandy.

“Them Sweaties is what I don’t like,” he said.

Retief looked at him questioningly.

“You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin’ devils. Skinny legs, like a lobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin’ head. You can see the pulse beatin’ when they get riled.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure,” Retief said.

“You prob’ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh every trip out. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin’.”

There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.

“I ain’t superstitious ner nothin’,” Chip said. “But I’ll be triple-damned if that ain’t them boarding us now.”

Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door, accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavy knock shook the door.

“They got to look you over,” Chip whispered. “Nosy damn Sweaties.”

“Unlock it, Chip.” The chef opened the door.

“Come in, damn you,” he said.

A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hooflike feet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-set compound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees. Behind the alien, the Captain hovered nervously.