Jasper Warmack suppressed an urge to scratch his nose.  He sat on the floor in his shorts, his arms immersed up to their greasy elbows in the entrails of a thirteen inch hundred-fold cannon barrel rifler.  Depressing a lever with his big toe, he moved a pair of tweezers inside, and something clicked into place.  His face split into a grease-smudged grin.  For Warmack, one of the advantages of the skilled labor shortage was that he had so few good mechanics, sometimes he had an excuse to fix something himself.

     His receptionist, through a speaker on the wall, hummed a few notes of "Planetary Issue Blues," a popular military song, as a gentle interruption of his chain of thought.  "Jass," it said, "John Doe is coming down the hall.  Are you in?"

     Warmack had a computer receptionist.  Its standing instructions were to recognize this John Doe but not to require a retinal scan, and then to forget he'd been here.

     "All right," Warmack said.  "I'll see him."

     He crossed the office with his arms full of greasy tools, and nudged a button on a large cabinet.  A tray of solvent slid out.  He dumped the tools into it, and the tray slid back into the cabinet.  At the touch of another button, a little robot wheeled out of the bottom of the cabinet and started shampooing the greasy spots on the carpet.

     Warmack was cleaning up at a sink when John Doe came in.  He was a portly man with a shiny head and nervous eyes.  He was very well dressed, which identified him as a bureaucrat.

     "Hello, Ombarth," said Warmack.  "How are Mary and the kids?"

     "Mary's bugging me for a car of her own.  I keep telling her on a salary of seven million I just can't afford it.  Little Jackie has a black eye.  She and some friends were own at the other end of town, eating in front of poor people.  Bill made the swim team.  How about you--has your allergy problem cleared up yet?"

     Warmack shook his head.  Thinking of it, he scratched his side.  "My latest specialist thinks I may be allergic to machine oil."  He snorted.

     "I heard you canceled all your appointments for next week.  Going somewhere?"

     Warmack grinned.  "I won the Fiji Sweepstakes!  God, I need that vacation!  Had to outbid two Counselors and sheikh for it.  That was before the Revenue Department dumped on me, but I just go the results yesterday."

     "I thought they cleaned up that contest, after the scandal."

     "They did, the rest of the spots went to honest winners.  By the way, aren't you early?  It's three weeks until you need my bribe on the battledrone package."

     Ombarth glanced around quickly.  "Are you sure this office is secure?"

     "Sure."  His arms covered with gray soap lather, Warmack rubbed a smudge on his hairy thigh.  "I've already figured out my bid, anyway.  The drones for 11 billion, plus 4 million for your Diemos account, 30 million for the Committee to Bail out Terramartian, the mineral rights to Dragon Eye for your nephew, and one and a half million for miscellaneous clerks and officials."

     It was a larger bribe than Warmack routinely offered.  There were two companies which usually underbid him on System Patrol contracts: Planetary Ordinance, which always overran its budget by 50% and then demanded a subsidy (it was owned by three of the generals who doled out arms contracts), and Lowran-Kafti, which built weapons that tended to blow up in the operators' hands (but Emil Kafti was a master of blackmail).  Earth's armed forces usually ended up getting what they wanted from Warmack, but only after wasting time and money on one or the other of his competitors.  This time, Warmack couldn't wait; he needed the money now.  The Revenue Directorate, to help tide the garment industry through the National Emergency (one of the Directors owed the garment lobby a big favor), had imposed a special lump-sum tax on Warmack Armaments, for an amount just exceeding Warmack's total liquid assets.

     Ombarth looked wistful.  "I can't accept bribes this time.  The contract is yours.  On one condition."

     "What's that?"  Warmack rinsed himself messily.  The little carpet robot did an about-face and puttered toward him.

     Ombarth examined the underside of a plastic chair, then sat down.  His small black eyes darted back and forth, lighting for an instant here and a moment there, like a pair of jittery insects.  Warmack had never seen him so security conscious.  "I've been drafted into System Intelligence for this job, Warmack, because my coming to you won't attract attention.  What I'm about to tell you is in the utmost confidence.  It's--well, I'm not at liberty to tell you what level of secrecy they've assigned to it.  Is your window shielded from audio beams?"

     "Yes," Warmack said with a touch of exasperation.  "What is the string attached to the drone contract?"

     "It has to do with the immigration problem."  Ombarth raised his voice above the whine of the hand-dryer Warmack was using.  "People with skills, you know, deserting the Solar System, in favor of the frontier planets."

     Warmack nodded.  That was why he did some of his own repair work.  People with salable skills moved to the Fringe, where they could make a decent living and spend it.  At least that was one of the reasons they went, the only one Warmack understood.  On Earth, a person had to be rich, like him, in order to enjoy a tolerable degree of privacy and creature comforts.  He got a tube of skin lotion out of his desk and started rubbing it on spots that felt like they needed it.

     Ombarth went on, "It used to be, at least, that we could keep the scientists and other top-level professionals, if we allowed them a reasonable measure of money and privileges.  This hasn't been in the papers, but since the educational restrictions were put on immigration five months ago, even those people have been disappearing one by one.  Even after we lowered their tax brackets for them.  It doesn't make any sense."

     "Well," Warmack said, pulling on the nice suit he'd shed in order to fix the rifler, "isn't it just as well they're going?  Slave labor isn't very reliable anyway."

     "I don't know what you mean.  There's no slavery on Earth.  We certainly can't let all our best brains get away.  And here's the problem: Up to now, the people who have escaped have done it one by one, with a near certainty of getting caught if they try to get clear off the planet.  But now it looks like a smuggling ring from Witch's Tit has got a device that will foil System Patrol's mass detectors."

     Warmack whistled.  "With the radar foiler they came up with two years ago, that means--"
 Ombarth finished the sentence.  "They can land on Earth undetected whenever they want, and haul out scientists by the gross."

     "It'd put us at a military disadvantage, too," said Warmack, finally recognizing a connection between this problem and himself.  He took out a pencil and a pad.  "It's not quite my line, but if you want me to try and duplicate their foiler--"

     "No," said Ombarth.  "Intelligence analyzed that approach, and decided you aren't capable of it.  So they've come up with a more effective use of your time."

     Warmack said nothing, but his pencil lead snapped, making a deep gouge in the pad.  He scratched his chin thoughtfully.

     Ombarth went on, "You see, about four months ago three physicists disappeared.  Their lines of research, combined, could have resulted in a means of foiling a mass detector.  In fact, we were beginning to hope they might come up with something of the sort for our side.  Planetary security has been so tight since the immigration ruling that NO unauthorized person should have been able to leave this planet, and yet a total of twelve top scientists have disappeared."

     "Hiding on Earth somewhere."

     "That's what we thought, at first.  But about three and a half months ago, on Witch's Tit, this smuggling company--Velasquez Confidential Spaceways--started buying scientific equipment and setting up a lab which is obviously tailor-made for the research of these particular three scientists: Friday on non-temporal physics, Sand on ethereal fields, and Kopeck on impossible particles.  It looked like they had somehow escaped.  And then last week, we were sure.  The diplomatic vessel Star Nymph arrived from Witch's Tit with a quarter-ton of aspirin tablets.  We didn't even know it until the stuff hit the streets, the price went down, and the headache-related crime rate dropped.  The cops told Customs, and Customs told System Intelligence."

     "Is it high quality stuff?" said Warmack, wondering where he could get some.

     "It's genuine Giles-Very from Cannabia, 37% stronger than the leading brand.  But that's not the point.  The Star Nymph landed openly in a public dock right here in Watch the Sky, carrying about two hundred fifty unaccounted-for kilograms which our mass detectors missed.  Do you see what that means?  They must have the foiler.  Only Friday, Sand, and Kopeck could have developed it, and only with certain expensive equipment such as the Psyche 12 computer.  There are only five of those computers on Earth, they all belong to the government, and those renegades haven't had access to them in the last four and a half months.  Before that time, they definitely were not close to designing a working foiler.  So they must have been smuggled off the Earth somehow."

     "Well," said Warmack with a shrug, "what do you expect me to do about it?"

     "Obviously, we have to get the plans for that foiler.  We've arranged for someone from System Intelligence, a man named Aaron Lamb, to ride the Star Nymph on its return journey.  He'll steal the plans."

     "So?"

     "You'll be on the Star Nymph, too, and after Lamb transmits the plans to us, you'll expose him as a spy."

     "What?"

     "And then, of course, you'll catch the next ship home, and build our battledrones for us."

     "Why expose Lamb?"

     "Intelligence wants to get rid of him.  He's a top spy.  His specialty is chemicals--drugs, poisons.  The effect he has on people can be fiendishly subtle.  He's without conscience, and he's totally loyal to System Patrol.  He's the perfect agent, except for one this."  Ombarth paused for effect.  "The man has gone off the edge.  We're talking ‘deep end' here.  Maybe he dipped into his own pillbox.  He still acts almost normal, but his EEG is coming up strange and his responses on psychotests are very ominous.  According to a team of psychiatrists, the prognosis is gradually increasing paranoia, culminating in a complete departure from reality and quite likely a killing spree."

     Warmack raised his finger to point out a flaw in System Intelligence's plan, but Ombarth kept talking.  "If it happens here, he could wipe out half our agents, because he knows who they are, every last one.  If we try to assassinate him and fail, as we easily could, he'll go on his spree that much sooner.  It would be impossible for our agents to guard themselves against all the different types of poison he might use.  He could poison the city's water supply, or worse.  Some of the chemical tools Intelligence has trusted to him--well, better to let the smugglers finish him off for us."

     "What about me?" said Warmack, standing up with such energy that he knocked over his chair.  "I don't want to go anywhere near this guy!"

     "Oh, you'll be all right.  He doesn't know you.  Intelligence has determined that you're uniquely qualified for this job."  He nodded toward the cannon barrel rifler, still sitting incongruously in the middle of the carpet.  "Any starship captain would be glad to have a mechanic like you.  We'll eliminate the Star Nymph's present mechanic, and you'll apply for the job.  You'll get it, for sure."

     Warmack was at a loss to express the weirdness of sending a vitally needed industrialist to do a dangerous job for which hundreds of people must be qualified.  He only stood and stared.  His hand drifted upward, as though by its own volition, and began rhythmically scratching his chest.

     The government man went on blandly, "Plus, of course, you're in good shape, quick-witted, practical, and not memorable to look at.  You would have made a great spy, Warmack."

     "But you know how valuable I am to the System, Ombarth.  This is crazy."  The blank expression on Ombarth's face made his voice weaken as he added, "For pete's sake, send somebody else."  He was beginning to recognize the implacable determination his government always displayed when it embarked on any exceptionally stupid course of action.  Sensing doom, he paced the carpet.

     Ombarth spread his hands in a gesture of sympathy.  His soft features formed an expression of sympathy but it didn't look real.  For all their superficial cordiality, Warmack knew the man disliked him.  "My own judgement would have said to send somebody else.  But Intelligence is, after all, Intelligent.  They're in on secrets we don't know about.  I guess they've got their reasons."

     The yours-not-to-reason-why argument caught Warmack's attention.  He knew what that line usually covered up.  He stopped pacing and said bitterly, "I get it.  As the rest of the System operates, so does Intelligence.  Interested parties have bought a decision.  Ombarth!  If I am killed on this damn fool stunt, Warmack Armaments will go bankrupt.  As I see it, either Planetary Ordinance of Lowran-Kafti must be behind this trap.  Don't you recognize the short-sightedness of this game?  Neither of those companies can arm the Earth.  They're good at political intrigue but they can't build weapons that work.  Whatever the wisdom of the arms race and the National Emergency may be, Ombarth--whether it's really necessary or a political convenience--you can't keep it going without me.  I'm the only competent producer left in my field.  So go, and get your so-called Intelligence off my back!"

     "You can't just walk away from this!" Ombarth protested.  "I wasn't in on this decision and I don't know how it was made, but I can tell you that you're jinxed in high places.  You're under suspicion.  You've got to prove your loyalty."

     "What the hell have I ever done to invite suspicion?"  Warmack was not, in fact, loyal to the National Terrestrial Republic or to the System-Wide Council of Accord, but he considered himself comfortable, which in his mind added up to the same thing.  He was an intelligent man, but the things he valued were very, very simple.

     Ombarth said, "The boys in L.A. have never felt sure of you.  I don't know why, but I get the same feeling myself, sometimes--as though you're not connected into the things we're doing, though God knows you're as deeply involved as any of us.  It doesn't matter who suggested that you undertake a little risk on behalf of your planet and system.  The point is, here's a chance to prove that you can be counted on.  After you do this, you won't be bothered so much by underbidding from Planetary Ordinance and Lowran-Kafti.  You'll have the inside track on arms contracts.  You want that, don't you?"

     Warmack scowled.  "And if I don't play spy for you?"

     "You won't get the battledrone contract.  Warmack Armaments will go under.  You couldn't afford to start another business and you know you couldn't get a first-class job anywhere, with enemies in high places."

     He would lose his chef and his cleaning drones and his car and all the little things that made it nice to live on Earth.  He would have to get a middle income job somewhere, and share an efficiency apartment with three other people, and ride a bus to work.  Just thinking about it made his skin crawl.  He reached for the lotion.

     "All right," he said.  "But you don't have to take care of the Star Nymph's mechanic.  I'll do it."

     Ombarth folded his hands and smiled smugly.