"How?"
"It was easy," Mark shrugged. "Your ship was small, dark, and carried no insignia. I watched your men loading supplies secretly. Furthermore, you hadn't filed your destination with Central Bureau. Just the kind of set-up I wanted."
"You know a lot," the big spaceman's eyes went hard. "Are you a sneaking I-S-P? Never mind. I'll see for myself!" He came a step forward, and his gun got playful with the third button on Mark's plasticoid shirt. Expertly the man's fingers went over him.
"Careful, there, I'm ticklish!"
"So's the release on this trigger, so just stand still."
Mark stood still. The search revealed no papers or identification of any kind.
"I'm not I-S-P," Mark told him sincerely. "If I were, do you think you'd ever have lifted gravs from Marsport?"
"Okay, fella. I'm Mal Driscoll. Sorry I had to clip you so hard, but you never should have pointed that contraption at me when I stepped in here. So help me, I thought it was some new kind of weapon." His eyes narrowed. "What is it?"
For a mere second Mark hesitated. He glanced down at the small, stub-lensed box which he had clung to.
"Why, it's—only a camera. New type, invention of my own."