“The surplus. teeth can be pulled. Surgical removal of a sliver of cartilage will fasten your ears back good and tight, leaving no visible evidence of the operation. Painless and easy, with complete healing in two weeks. That is medical evidence; so don’t argue it.” Again the craggy twitch. “As for the purple complexion, its nothing startling: There are some Terrans a good deal more purple-faced than any Sirian, they having acquired the colour via many gallons of booze. We can fix you up with a dye guaranteed firm for four months, also a retinting kit that will enable you to carry on as much longer as may be necessary.”

“But—”

“Listen to me. You were born in Masham, capital city of Diracta which is the Sirian home planet. Your father was a trader there at the time. You lived on Diracta until age seventeen when you returned with your parents to Terra. Luckily you happen to be a half-pint of just about Sirian size and build. You are now twenty-six and still speak perfect Sirian with a decided Mashambi accent which, if anything, is an advantage. It lends plausibility. About fifty million Sirians speak with Mashambi accents. You’re a natural for the job we have in mind”

“What if I invite you to thrust the job right up the air-shaft?” asked Mowry, with great interest.

“I would regret it,” said Wolf, coldly, “because in time of war it is an old, well-founded adage that one volunteer is worth a thousand conscripts.”

“Meaning I’d get my call-up papers?” Mowry made a gesture of irritation. “Damn!—I’d rather walk into something of my own accord than be frog marched into it”

“So it says here,” informed Wolf, motioning toward the file. “James Mowry, twenty-six, restless and pigheaded—can be trusted to do anything at all—provided the alternative is worse.”

“Sounds like my father. Did he tell you that.”