By Ron Goulart

Not anyone knew who, or what, Whistler was--except that "he" was once the mastermind of the Interplanetary research organization, referred to as Suicide, Inc. Its orders have been issued via floating terminals and done by means of androids and humanoids. And one human ex-criminal named Smith...

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Sample text

The big snakeman, bright robes flapping, swung back up onto his grout. " He turned his mount, waved at them and rode off to rejoin his associates. " "I'll hasten," promised Cruz. o o o The catman's crimson turban rose straight up off his furry orange head, unraveling in the process. "Begone," suggested Cruz, lowering his metal hand. "Ah, effendi," the catman attempted to explain as the unfurled turban settled back down, festooning his head and shoulders, "I merely brushed against you on this foul and crowded thoroughfare.

Cruz held out his metal hand toward the correspondent. " "I'm in no flapping mood to admire some halfassed crip's prosthetic—” Zzzzzzzummmmmm! The thin stunbeam had come humming out of Cruz' middle finger to hit the lizardman smack in the chest. Balls Merloo dropped right down to the van floor, his various artificial portions producing assorted clicks, clangs and thunks. "Calamity," said the blonde, still shaking. Smith moved to the doorway, caught the handle of the open door. "Good news, Norbert," he called out before tugging it shut.

Smith grinned. "When I first heard who the Whistler folks had stuck me with," he admitted, "I was nonplussed. No, make that ticked off. But then . . " Saint bounced once in his glazbottom rocker. "They are," said Smith. "Anyway, I decided that both of you are well qualified for this job. Cruz, you know the wilds of this planet, and you're a first-rate tracker and guide. You do tend to—” "I get distracted," admitted Cruz. " He shrugged. " "I'm a corker," he acknowledged, rubbing his green palms together.

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