A MATTER OF TASTE By JOSEPH WESLEY When a planet turns in an insurance claim, it could run to more than real money. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] CASE RL472 XYA 386. Oral report of Claims Adjuster Mark Atkinson (#384 762). Transcribed by Telepath Operator #842 765J (Tellus). First and Final Report. CASE CLOSING SYMBOL: AAA. I arrived on the fourth planet of Sunder's Pride stark naked and stood comfortably in the snow, listening to the wind howl by, while waiting for the Expedition Manager to approach from the edge of the small clearing and welcome me. The Manager's name is Obadiah Jones. Like the rest of the expedition, he's from one of the minor Vegan colonies—Kinnison III—but he's undifferentiated Earth stock. He bustled forward, wearing a full protective suit and helmet—the temperature is thirty degrees below zero centigrade at noon and the atmosphere is poisonous—but I could see the expression of relief on his face through his face plate. "You're from Interstellar Insurance?" he panted under the one and a half G of Sunder's Pride. I assented with a dignified nod. He looked me up and down—my skin wasn't even showing goose pimples, of course—and then shrugged his shoulders. "The insurance company sent a first-class Mental Control Operator, I see, but it was a waste of talent. Maybe they didn't believe our reports. We've had our own operators here—good ones, too—and they haven't been able to find any solution. The Aliens are much better at all sorts of Mind Control than even our most talented men. I know our Policy says that you can keep us from calling in the military authorities for a week, but it's just a waste of time—and, more important, it's a waste of lives, too. I suggest that you give us authority to call in the Navy right away." "How many lives have you lost so far?" I asked. "Only a dozen, but at regular intervals." "That hardly seems excessive for an exploratory expedition," I commented. He shook his head impatiently. "I said at regular intervals. The Aliens treat us like we were cattle. Or sheep."
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