I assented with a dignified nod.
He looked me up and down—my skin wasn't even showing goose pimples, of course—and then shrugged his shoulders. "The insurance company sent a first-class Mental Control Operator, I see, but it was a waste of talent. Maybe they didn't believe our reports. We've had our own operators here—good ones, too—and they haven't been able to find any solution. The Aliens are much better at all sorts of Mind Control than even our most talented men. I know our Policy says that you can keep us from calling in the military authorities for a week, but it's just a waste of time—and, more important, it's a waste of lives, too. I suggest that you give us authority to call in the Navy right away."
"How many lives have you lost so far?" I asked.
"Only a dozen, but at regular intervals."
"That hardly seems excessive for an exploratory expedition," I commented.
He shook his head impatiently. "I said at regular intervals. The Aliens treat us like we were cattle. Or sheep."
"Not exactly," I said, "or you would scarcely have called me in. You must be operating at a profit, and that means you're trading with these Aliens."
He scowled, but did not deny it.
Of course I knew this already. As an independent Claims Adjuster, it goes without saying that I'd checked into the case before teleporting to the planet. Their profit was enormous, and our losses would be proportionately large if the military was invited to come in and spoil trade while saving lives.