"What for?"
Kendall explained what Das Shamra had wanted, and what the outcome had been. The old spacer grinned.
"Funny. Same thing happened to me. I said no, and they let me go. It's an old trick, planting a distorter in a man."
"What?" Kendall was suddenly sober. "Distorter? What do you mean?"
He reached across the table and shook the older man.
"Lemme alone. I'll tell you. It's a dodge they use to get men to flunk out. Least they tried it on me; I didn't find out what they did till later. They're damned clever surgeons. They slip up on a spacer when he's asleep and bury a neural distorter on his body. It louses up his reflexes so he flunks the six-monther. They spring the job offer on him. If he takes it, they remove the distorter and he's as good as new. If he turns it down—well, then he finishes like me."
"How come you haven't reported this?"
"What's the use? Who'd believe me? Hey, wait a minute! You didn't finish your drink!"
But Kendall had dashed the full length of the bar, dropped a crumpled bill on the counter, and raced outside. He snagged a taxi.