could handle the details of his application as well as not. He shrugged. Perhaps veterinarians were more important on Kardon. He didn’t know a thing about this world’s customs.
He opened the unmarked door at the end of the corridor, entered a small reception room, smiled uncertainly at the woman behind the desk, and received an answering smile in return.
Come right in, Dr. Kennon. Mr. Alexander is waiting for you.
Alexander! The entrepreneur himself! Why? Numb with surprise Kennon watched the woman open the intercom on her desk.
“Sir, Dr. Kennon is here,” she said.
“Bring him in,” a smooth voice replied from the speaker. Alexander X. M. Alexander, President of Outworld Enterprises—a lean, dark, wolfish man in his early sixties—eyed Kennon with a flat predatory intentness that was oddly disquieting. His stare combined the analytical inspection of the pathologist, the probing curiosity of the psychiatrist, and the weighing appraisal of the butcher. Kennon’s thoughts about Alexander’s youth vanished that instant. Those eyes belonged to a leader on the battlefield of galactic business.
Kennon felt the conditioned respect for authority surge through him in a smothering wave. Grimly he fought it down, knowing it was a sign of weakness that would do him no good in the interview which lay ahead.
“So you’re Kennon,” Alexander said. His lingua franca was clean and accentless. “I expected someone older.”
“Frankly, sir, so did I,” Kennon replied.
Alexander smiled, an oddly pleasant smile that transformed the hard straight lines in his face into friendly curves. “Business, Dr. Kennon, is not the sole property of age.”
“Nor is a veterinary degree,” Kennon replied.
“True. But one thinks of a Betan as someone ancient and sedate.”
“Ours is an old planet—but we still have new generations.”
“A fact most of us outsiders find hard to believe,” Alexander said. “I picture your world as an
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