MacKenzie Thornwald had landed on Bleekman's Planet less than eight hours before. He was a young man, tall and dark and hard-looking, with the deep tan of the veteran spaceman. Ten years with the Interstellar Police had strengthened him and taught him to take care of himself.
He'd still be in the service except for the loss of his left arm, which had been burned off by a Mark X rifle during a skirmish. It had earned Thornwald a medal and a fat retirement pension. So he had decided to take it easy for the rest of his life.
He had picked Bleekman's Planet. It was well out of the more civilized areas of the Galaxy, a frontier planet out on the Rim. Bleekman's Planet had, as yet, only one city—Velliston.
The setup had looked good. There was money to be made on a frontier planet, away from the main stream of Galactic civilization. Mac Thornwald had wanted to settle down in a small, sparsely-populated area and just take it easy the rest of his life. And Bleekman's Planet had looked like just the place.
He couldn't have been wronger. Trouble started the moment he got off the space shuttle from the liner.
"Here you are, pal," the shuttle pilot said. "All set?"
"Sure," Thornwald said. He scooped up his baggage with his one good arm and walked down the ramp. Behind him, the shuttle blasted off, heading back to the mother ship above. Thornwald paused at the landing, with his suitcase dangling from his arm and his trunk at his side, looking at the Bleekman's Planet Spaceport.
"Over here, you," said a cold voice.
Thornwald glanced over and saw two men approaching him in uniform. "We're the customs inspectors," the taller of the two said. "We'll have to look at your baggage."