MR. CUPPY ran a savage eye down the list of payments to the Hunt Club, Inc. When he noted the total to date, his thin, sharp face screwed into a mask of rage. He flicked sparkling eyes at his waiting assistant 'in the briefest of glances, and jabbed a stud on his desk with a shaking finger.

Then he addressed a burning look at the young man who had totted the account, who stood waiting for instructions.

"Well?" Mr. Cuppy barked. "What are you waiting for? Your arteries to harden?"

"N-no, Sir," the young man stammered. "I thought--"

"Ha!" Mr. Cuppy exploded caustically. "Not in my memory. Get back to your work."

As the young man fled, a face filled the desk screen before Mr. Cuppy. The face was large, young, with calm dark eyes and a mouth which bespoke a kind of deadly humor.

It was a face to command the respect of men, for it was quietly arrogant, sure of its power, poised, self-possessed. It was a face before which employees would touch their foreheads with index and middle fingers. And so they did-all but Mr. Cuppy.

"Junior," he said with gentle, quiet fury, "just what are you trying to do?" His voice began to rise. "Break up Trading Posts, Inc.?" This was as much of a roar as Mr. Cuppy's aging lungs could manage.

The face in the screen cracked a tiny smile. "What have I done now, Mr. Cuppy?" The face sighed. "When my father turned this company over to me, he told me there'd be days like this."

Mr. Cuppy thrust the list of payments at the Screenscreen. "Look! Just take a look! For six whole months we've been paying out good money-good money, mind you-to Thorne Raglan to find a couple of space tramps. Did he find them? No! And are you still throwing good money after bad? You are. Loren Bradley, this nonsense must stop!"

"But, Mr. Cuppy. I need those men."

"Why? You can hire a hundred, a thousand good engineers for half what you're paying just to find Ben Wellman and ... and ... what the devil's his name?"

"Harold Stopes."

"You've scoured the universe," Mr. Cuppy went on testily. "And now"-he paused, bit his thin lips in an effort to keep his voice from trembling-"you bring a man from Mars to hunt for them and ... and, damme, pay his transportation!"

WMr. Cuppy spluttered to silence, glared at the image of Loren Bradley IV. Bradley's broad mouth twitched with amusement.

"Mr. Cuppy, I have more bad news for you."

Mr. Cuppy glared.

"Maybe you'd better come to my office," Bradley suggested. "If you see what I'm buying, you may approve. I suspect that you can still appreciate beauty."

"Pah!" Mr. Cuppy spat, and cut the circuit.

He tapped the list of expenses with a thoughtful finger for a moment, then strode into the corridor on short, brisk legs. He stepped on a moving ramp, ignoring employees who touched their forehead at his green badge, and was lifted to the next floor. He padded along the corridor, breezed through President Bradley's reception room without a nod to the pretty girl at a desk and thrust through Loren Bradley's door.

"Now what?" he demanded.

Bradley waved a large hand at a girl in civilian tunic. "Miss Jones this is Mr. Cuppy, my chief accountant and man behind the throne. He runs this organization, in his way. Mr. Cuppy, touch the head to Jennifer Jones, our newest employee."

"UmpbUmph!" Mr. Cuppy grunted, and inspected her.

His eyes did not light with appreciation of her startling blond beauty. No smile of delight touched his mouth as noted her shrewd blue eyes, her lithe form, her long brown legs, her small feet and graceful hands. He was sternly silent.

"I'm terribly excited over it," she said in a voice which did not indicate any excitement whatever. "Imagine me, Jenny Jones, working for Trading Posts. Why, it's the biggest thing in the universe. Daddy says it is the universe."

Mr. Cuppy turned sourly to Bradley. "Why tell me, Junior? You can surely hire clerks without tying up the whole organization in a verbal spree." He turned to Jennifer. "I am unable to express my wild delight, Miss Jones, in the fact that you are to be one of us. This old heart throbs like a Jovian spacer, this gray head spins like a Jovian moon. Good day!"

He turned abruptly away, but halted when Loren Bradley spoke sharply. "Cuppy!"

Mr. Cuppy turned to see Bradley's face no longer pleasant, to listen to words without a trace of amusement.

"Mr. Cuppy, you will carry Miss Jennifer's salary-a large salary, by the way-and her expenses as a charge to the Wellman-Stopes account. You will be informed of the accounts."

Mr. Cuppy purpled. "You will not speak to me in that tone of voice, you young puppy! I'll take orders, but not like that."

Bradley smiled, not with amusement. "When I please, I shall speak to you as I please, Cuppy. It pleases me now to apologize. However, the order stands."

"And what," demanded Mr. Cuppy, "is this young lady to do? We've spent a fortune already with Hunt Club, Inc. Is she Thorne Raglan's niece? Are we to add nepotism to our business crimes?"

A soft chime interrupted Bradley's answer, and he spoke into his communivox. "Ali?"

"Mr. Raglan on your visivox, sir."

"Connect me."

Thorne Raglan didn't look like a hunter. He was moonfaced, with a glow like that goddess of the night. This effect, perhaps, was wrought by small blue eyes that twinkled over mounded pink cheeks. His short pug nose was almost lost in an expanse of geniality.

"Lorry," he said to Loren Bradley IV, "I touch the head. How's the old space robber?"

"Hello, Thorny." Bradley said quietly. "I'm pretty busy, as a matter of fact."

"Then I won't keep you, chum. Brief, that's Raglan. Everything's brief about me but my waistline and my bills. EhEli? Well, here it is, short as a dead comet's tail. Craig Marten arrives at Spaceport 9 in thirty minutes. Got it? Good-by."

"Wait!" Bradley said. "I want to ask a couple of questions. Your reports on Wellman and Stopes, and your biographical material on Marten show that the three could have met at one time on Pluto. Do you know anything about it?"

"Certainly, Lorry. That's why I'm bringing Craig from our Mars office. He's been a damned good director, but he has at least seen our quarry, which is more than the rest of my staff can say. You know, I've told you that I suspect one or another of our men has seen them here, but, hell, bow how would he know? I'll turn all my dope over to Craig and he'll run 'em down in short order."

Bradley pounced on the hint of new information. "Here? What makes you think they're here?"

"I was going to surprise you, Lorry," Raglan said affably, "but you caught me up. They've been traced here-by Craig."

Bradley's dark face lighted with an unaccustomed took of pleasure. "Good work, Thorny. There'll be a bonus for you."

Raglan's chuckles, as he cut off, were mingled with a low moan from Mr. Cuppy.

"What am I going to tell the stockholders in my next report?" he wailed. "Do you realize, Junior, that more' than sixty million persons have actual cash invested in this corporation? Are they going to like their quarterly dividend to be cut because you want to meet a couple of tramps?"

"I'm sure you can fix it, Cuppy," Bradley said with a half smile. "You always have, for three generations of us. Now. You asked what Miss Jones would do to earn her salary. She's to make an acquaintance, develop it into friendship, and marriage if necessary."

Mr. Cuppy was so startled he could say nothing for a moment. When he did speak, the fire was gone. "A matrimonial bureau," he murmured sadly. "What next?"

Bradley covered a combination of desk studs with his fingers. When the chime sounded, he spoke into his communivox.

"Spaceport 9 immediately. Bring him here."

"Yup," said a voice.

Bradley cut the circuit, raised an eyebrow at Jennifer Jones. "You're clear on everything?"

"I believe so," she said crisply. "How soon shall I meet him?"

"Within the hour."

"Is my, apartment ready?"

"I don't know," Bradley said. "Check with my secretary on your way out."

She turned to Mr. Cuppy. "I am very happy," she said in tones which held no trace of happiness, "to be with you, Mr. Cuppy. I touch the head." She did so, and swung out on slim brown legs.

Mr. Cuppy watched her with hard, light eyes, then turned to his employer. There was no bluster in Mr. Cuppy now, He was in deadly earnest. His voice was quieter, and did not quaver any more.

"Junior, please explain this."

"Sit down, Mr. Cuppy." He waited while the little accountant did so. "It's very simple. I think I can trust Craig Marten, because Thorne Raglan vouches for him. But I can't afford to trust him. On this matter, I can't trust anybody, except perhaps Jennifer Jones. She's got to be all right, because I can lift a finger and ruin her. She knows it, and will deliver."

Some of Mr. Cuppy's crispness came back. "Deliver what, for the love of Heaven?"

"Wellman and Stopes, Mr. Cuppy. When Craig Marten finds them, she will inform me, and I'll take care of them personally."

"But Craig Marten is hired to inform you." Mr. Cuppy protested. "Why double the expense?"

I "And suppose," Bradley said, "that Marten decides to double-cross me. Suppose he is offered more than I can pay. Miss Jones will be a good investment in that event."

"But what makes you suspect him? And where will a couple of no-goods like Wellman and Stopes get that kind of money?"

"I don't suspect him, Mr. Cuppy. But I can't afford not to go through the motions. That kind of money? Mr. Cuppy, I have information which hints at a large fund, plenty large to buy Craig Marten. If that should happen, and if Wellman and Stopes should elude us, we are done for, you and I. Done for, Mr. Cuppy."

"Don't be so blasted mysterious, Junior!" Mr. Cuppy snapped. "What will they do, drop a nova on us?"

Bradley sighed. "The story is too long and complicated to tell now. I haven't time. But I tell you that the very existence of Trading Posts, Inc., depends on our finding Wellman and Stopes before it is too late."

Mr. Cuppy rose. "Very well. Do you remember what I said when this search was launched? I said to put a two-dollar want ad on telecast. But no. You wanted to do it in the grand manner. I have a word or two to say--"

Craig Marten had finished packing, ordered a bottle of Mercurian wine, and settled back to enjoy the sunny liquid when a knock on his stateroom door brought a mild oath to his lips. He pushed plastibags out of the way and answered the knock.

The long, homely handsome face of Jorg van Hooten was not quite as serious as usual. It seemed to Craig that the young diplomat must have received cheering news. He was almost smiling.

"I know you wanted to rest on this last leg of the drop," Van Hooten apologized, "but I've just had a radiograph."

"Come in, come in. Sit down. I'll get another glass."

The two young men drank their usual toast.

"Freedom," they said, and touched glasses.

"So?" Craig said. "What's new?"

"Organized unrest," Van Hooten replied. "It will help. A hundred colonists killed at Mars Port Main when they tried to capture a Trading Post spacer. Maybe Congress will listen this time. The first rumbling of revolt should bring them upright."

Craig's space-tanned face set in lines of puzzlement. He turned his glass with lean brown hands and frowned into it, eyes dark with thought.

"Aren't you jumping the gun, Van? They're not organized. One spaceship wouldn't do them much good. They need a fleet."

Young Van Hooten pushed aside this minor point. "They're not after the ships themselves. You know there arc,e hundreds in the Mars bone yard. Ships are scrapped on Mars because their metal is worth more there than on Earth. Many of them could be put into serviceable condition-if. If the Baltex formula could be duplicated."

"I still don't get it."

"Why, Craig!" Van Hooten was astonished. "Why do you think Martians are barred from approaching spacers nearer than five hundred yards? You know they can copy anything once they nose around with their mind tendrils. Let one Martian into the control room of a spacer, and Trading Post's monopoly is broken. That was the reason for the attack. It was unsuccessful, yes. But there'll be others. Some day, one will be successful."

"Well, I don't like it." Craig's long jaw slid out like a landing fender. "I've got here"-he tapped his waist, around which, under his shorts, was strapped a belt-"the answer. If I can deliver this fund to Wellman and Stopes, we won't need Baltex."

Van Hooten shrugged. "It's the better part of strategy meanwhile, Craig, to play up this revolt angle. If the World Congress will add a rider to the agreement with Trading Posts, allowing the planetary colonies to trade among themselves, we will gain time and save lives. Because how do we know you can find Wellman and Stopes?"

"Remember the Hunt Club slogan," Craig said grimly. "'Some Day We'll Find You."'

"Some day isn't good enough, Craig."

"That day isn't far. I feel it."

Craig's mouth set in a stubborn line. From the moment he had consented to deliver this fund to the vanished engineers, he had had conflicting problems. He had to hide his purpose from the Earth central office, and he didn't like it. He and Thorny had knocked around the System together.

In addition to his distaste of not playing quite fair with his boss, Craig distrusted political deals. Look where such deals had brought the System. He didn't know the details, but it was perfectly obvious that a deal had been made between Pier Duvain and Loren Bradley some generations ago when the former took off on the first spacer for Mars.

Since that time, the Bradleys had maintained a monopoly on trading. All shipping to and from the colonies cleared through Trading Posts, Inc. The colonies were held in economic bondage of a sort, their pattern of life determined by the mother planet.

One thing was clear. The colonies would break away eventually, by revolt or other means.

One means was here, in his money belt. Wellman and Stopes had a process, a new method of propelling spacers. All they needed was backing, and Craig had it-a great fund collected in driplets all over the System from colonials who wanted to cut the economic apron strings of Mother Earth.

"Sometimes," Craig said with a touch of bitterness, "I wish I'd never got into this."

"Don't you want the colonies to be self-sufficient?" Van Hooten demanded.

"Oh, sure. But my personal position is rather uncomfortable."

"Revolt," Van Hooten said, "whether economic or by violence, is never pleasant-to either side." He got to his feet. "Well, we're almost in. You'll let me know who your client is?"

"If Thorny will tell me," Craig said. "It may be confidential."

"It's rather vital that I know, Craig. If your boss has thrown in with--"

"Thorny doesn't 'throw in' with anybody, Van. He's in this business for money. He's hired to find somebody, dead beat, husband, wife, what-not, and he charges a fee. I doubt if he has any political convictions. But he does know how to keep his mouth buttoned. I'll see what I can find out, though. Shall we eat as soon as we land? I want a big, big, really big, fresh steak. I've been dreaming of one for a week."

"Right," Van Hooten said, and left.