They called him Gypsy, nothing more.  A tall, quiet man, dark-complected and without the almost universal Oriental cast of the human race, he had a strong Roman nose and dark, flashing eyes that were a hypnotic mask.  Gypsy was not a Com Policeman; in fact, he seemed to hate all authority and authority figures.  Marquoz had run into him some years before on a back-water planet where Gypsy was playing his pipe and passing the hat.  That had been the first time Marquoz had performed the dance, impromptu, and they became fast friends.  Even now, the Chugach knew little about his human companion and understood less.  Deep down, though, each seemed to sense a kindred spark in their attitudes toward themselves and others.

They had hit upon the act almost at once, and it proved even more effective when they discovered that, on most planets, people took the little dragon for some sort of exotic animal - not so unusual when you consider that most Corn citizens never left the planet of their birth and knew as little about elsewhere as ordinary people had since time immemorial.


Marquoz was snoozing in the stateroom while Gypsy strolled on the deck.  The Chugach awoke with a snort and a tiny puff of smoke from his nostrils as the door opened and the man entered.  There was no pretense at being a pet on ship; spacefarers generally recognized all the races.  One reptilian lid popped open and watched as the man entered.  "So?  Find anything you didn't find on the last three thousand ships we've been on?"

Gypsy flopped on the bunk, sighed, and spat.  "Naw, I got up to the passenger lounge and there was one of those superwomen there - the ones with tails, you know? - spoutin' all the religious guff.  Maybe I should'a gone into the religion racket - lots of bucks and an easy life.  I did do some faith healing once."

Both dragon eyes popped open.  "You?  A faith healer?"  Again the smoky snort, this time of derisive amusement.

Gypsy's shaggy head nodded slightly.  "Yeah. Great scam.  Whip 'em all up, sing a lotta hymns, then summon the sick to be cured.  Put a shill or two in the crowd so's you can have a couple of real cures to get things started.  Bums'll do it for a fiver good actors, too, if you don't pay 'em until after the scam.  Who knows?  If you actually cure anybody legit you make a fortune; if you don't, well, it's because they didn't have enough faith.  Part of the secret of a good scam -  always put the blame for the breakdown on the mark."

"Didyou really cure anybody?" Marquoz asked, skeptical but interested.

"Oh, sure, one or two here and there," Gypsy responded matter-of-factly.  "The mind can cure a lot of ills on its own if the person really believes.  Hell, I can stop my bleeding at will and refuse to recognize pain - the needle scam, you remember."

The Chugach nodded.  "I still don't know how you do that.  Must be something different in our two races.  Put a needle into me anywhere and it hurts like hell.  I'm still feeling the Dreel immunization shot."

Gypsy chuckled.  "Naw, I don't think it's anything racial.  I think anybody with a good brain can do it.  It's really willpower."

Marquoz shrugged.  "Have it your way.  No one of my race has come close to it.  I think thhere's more to it than you believe - something humans can do, and perhaps some others, but not we. any more than you can snort fire and smoke."