The official smiled poisonously. "That would be the easy way out for you, Coran. What's the matter—the job too tough for you?"
"I can't stand the smell of perfume around here. And the jobs don't come too tough. Relax, big shot. I'll run your stinking little errand for you. But it's the last one. When I hand your two-vikdal bad man over to you, I'm through. Make out my resignation that way, and I'll sign it before I leave."
The official laughed and stood up. "Resignation accepted—upon completion of assignment. You're a hard case, Coran. Up to a point, you're even right. But you don't belong any more, not in this part of the universe. It took pioneers like you and Jomian to bang the holes in our fishbowl world, but we need men with dull routine minds to bring order into it. Unofficially, I'm sorry to see you go. Nowadays a man conforms or he gets out."
"Skip the bouquets and the funeral oration. What's the layout on the job you want done?"
The official threw a file card across the desk. "There's the man you want. The picture won't help you much, since he'll probably be wearing a plastic face-mask."
Coran glanced at it and shrugged. "Not much to go on. Any other leads?"
"Yes." The official glanced at his wrist-chron. "We know that he will be on the Venus transport X-1143—the Aphrodite—which leaves in three hours. Probably the woman, too. Whatever happens, they must not reach Venus alive."
Coran caught an implication in the words. "What do you mean 'Whatever happens?'"