Slowly Diomedes and Brasidus made their way down the ramp from the airlock.  Both were silent, and the Sergeant, at least, was being hard put to sort and to evaluate the multitude of new impressions that had crowded upon him.  The coffee - could it be a habit-forming drug?  But it was good.  And that burning weed the fumes of which Lieutenant Commander Grimes had inhaled with such enjoyment.  And the un-Spartan luxury in which Grimes lived - luxury utterly unsuitable for a fighting man.  And this Interstellar Federation, an officer of whose navy - although it was called the Survey Service - he claimed to be.

And those oddly disturbing Arcadians (if they were Arcadians) - the doctor Lazenby, the steward Sheila, and one or two more whom the Spartans had glimpsed on their way ashore...

They were out of earshot of the ship now, halfway between the airlock and the gate, outside which Hector and the other hoplites had stiffened to attention.  Diomedes said, "Come to my office, Sergeant.  I want to talk things over with you.  There's a lot that I don't understand, but much of it strengthens my suspicions."

"Of whom, sir?  This Lieutenant Commander Grimes?"

"No.  He's just a spaceman, the same as Captain Bill and Captain Jim of the Venus and the Hera.  If his service prefers to tack a double-barreled label on him, that's his worry.  Oh, I want to find out where the ship is from and what's the real reason for its visit, but my main suspicions are much nearer home."

They passed through the gate, opened for them and locked after them by Hector.  Old Cleon approached them, was brushed off by Diomedes.  They continued their march to the office, although in the case of Diomedes it was more of a waddle.

"In my job," went on the Security Captain, buckling on his pistol belt as he walked, "I'm no respecter of persons.  I shouldn't be earning my pay if I were."  He gestured upwards.  "Flight Admiral Ajax up there, for example.  He holds his rank - and his life - only because I do not choose to act yet.  When I do..."  He closed his pudgy fist decisively and suggestively.  "You're an ambitious man, Brasidus.  And an intelligent one.  I've had my eye on you for some time.  I have been thinking of asking to have you transferred to Security.  And when Diomedes asks, people hurry to oblige him."

"Thank you, sir."

"With promotion to lieutenant, of course."

"Thank you, sir."

"Think nothing of it.  I need a young assistant for the... the legwork."  He smiled, showing all his uneven, discolored teeth, obviously pleased with the expression that he had just coined.  "The legwork," he repeated.

The two men entered the Spaceport Security Office, passed through into Diomedes' private room.  At the Captain's order, Brasidus sat down.  The chair was hard, comfortless, yet he felt far happier on it than he had felt in the luxury of Lieutenant Commander Grimes' day cabin.  Diomedes produced a flagon of beer, two mugs.  He poured.  "To our... partnership," he said.

"To our partnership, sir."