Only Syaloch’s pipe broke the inward-pressing silence. But its burbling seemed quite irreverent.

“Well—” Gregg fumbled helplessly with a meteoric paperweight. “Well, Mr. Syaloch, do you want to ask any more questions?”

“Only one.” The third lids rolled back, and coldness looked out at Steinmann. “If you please, my good man, what is your hobby?”

“Huh? Chess. I play chess. What’s it to you?” Steinmann lowered his head and glared sullenly.

“Nothing else?”

“What else is there?”

Syaloch glanced at the Inspector, who nodded confirmation, and then replied gently: “I see. Thank you. Perhaps we can have a game sometime. I have some small skill of my own. That is all for now, gentlemen.”

They left, moving like things of dream through the low gravity.

“Well?” Gregg’s eyes pleaded with Syaloch. “What next?”

“Very little. I think…yesss, while I am here I should like to watch the technicians at work. In my profession, one needs a broad knowledge of all occupations.”

Gregg sighed.

* * *

Ramanowitz showed the guest around. The Kim Brackney was in and being unloaded. They threaded through a hive of spacesuited men.

“The cops are going to have to raise that embargo soon,” said Ramanowitz. “Either that or admit why they’ve clamped it on. Our warehouses are busting.”

“It would be politic to do so,” nodded Syaloch. “Ah, tell me…is this equipment standard for all stations?”

“Oh, you mean what the boys are wearing and carrying around? Sure. Same issue everywhere.”

“May I inspect it more closely?”

“Hm?” Lord, deliver me from visiting firemen! thought Ramanowitz. He waved a mechanic over to him. “Mr. Syaloch would like you to explain your outfit,” he said with ponderous sarcasm.

“Sure. Regular spacesuit here, reinforced at the seams.” The gauntleted hands moved about, pointing. “Heating coils powered from this capacitance battery. Ten-hour air supply in the tanks. These buckles, you snap your tools into them, so they won’t drift around in free fall. This little can at my belt holds paint that I spray out through this nozzle.”

“Why must spaceships be painted?” asked Syaloch. “There is nothing to corrode the metal.”

“Well, sir, we just call it paint. It’s really gunk, to seal any leaks in the hull till we can install a new plate, or to mark any other kind of damage. Meteor punctures and so on.” The mechanic pressed a trigger and a thin, almost invisible stream jetted out, solidifying as it hit the ground.

“But it cannot readily be seen, can it?” objected the Martian. “I, at least, find it difficult to see clearly in airlessness.”

“That’s right, Light doesn’t diffuse, so…well, anyhow, the stuff is radioactive—not enough to be dangerous, just enough so that the repair crew can spot the place with a Geiger counter.”

“I understand. What is the half-life?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Six months, maybe? It’s supposed to remain detectable for a year.”

“Thank you.” Syaloch stalked off. Ramanowitz had to jump to keep up with those long legs.

“Do you think Carter may have hid the box in his paint can?” suggested the human.