as anyone else. MacCauley drew an easy breath, his first in two hours, and then—

The interpreter sing-songed, "Forty Earth-dollars, please. Filing fee."

MacCauley's eyes narrowed. The old squeeze play. "Don't be a sap," he said flatly, his thin lips tight against his teeth. "I haven't got forty cents. That little louse took everything that was in my pocket."

The Venusian smirked, and regarded his greenish, webbed hand with great interest. "That is very bad, my friend," he said, and flicked a flea from a fold in the skin of his wrinkled wrist. "Here on Pallas we have a law; the citizens must be protected. When a foreigner makes an accusation against a citizen, it is quite possible that he is wrong, and a great injustice will have been done. As you know, there is only one way to soothe a Palladian ... money."

MacCauley cursed bitterly, harsh, biting oaths. "All right," he said then, forcing his tone to evenness. "I'll sign a guarantee of the money. When you catch this pickpocket, you'll reclaim the money; then I'll put up the bond pending trial."

By great effort the interpreter managed to look shocked. "That is absurd. You must pay now; if the Palladian is innocent, he will not have the money. No, it is impossible."

"If he's innocent it'll be because you caught the wrong guy. Why, by all the Plutonian Ice Devils, should I have to pay for your mistake?"

The green-skinned man smirked again. "It is the law. The law is very strict. If you do not like it, you can go back to the planet you came from." And he turned away, busying himself with some important-looking papers, dusty and much-handled. MacCauley was not too preoccupied to note that the blubbery Venusian was holding them upside-down.

MacCauley socked his balled fist into his palm and wondered if pacing the littered floor would help. He was now, he assured himself, in the worst of all fixes. The time he'd been trapped between two hostile groups of Mercurians who were settling a private argument with quarter-mile lightning bolts was a pleasure compared to this. Then he'd had his guns, at least, and no restrictions about using them.

He had to have his kit. Which meant getting his money back. It was necessary, he decided, to play his trump card. He hadn't wanted to reveal himself as a free-lancing TPL man; word would be sure to leak out. But he certainly couldn't accomplish 

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