"All right. I'm coming in."
"He busy."
"Yeah, move over."
Though the native was a good six inches taller than Olear he stepped aside when the officer pushed him. Men—and Mercurians—had a way of doing that when they looked into those colorless eyes. They were not as phlegmatic as the face. Morones was sitting in his office.
"Well, I'm here," Olear announced, helping himself to a chair.
"Yes"—sourly. "Who invited you?"
Olear looked at the factor levelly, appraising him. A big man, fat, but the fat well distributed. Saturnine face, dark hair, dark and bristly beard. The kind that thrived where other men became weak and fever-ridden. Also, to judge by his present appearance, an unpleasant companion and a nasty enemy.
"Don't see what difference it makes to you," Olear answered in his own good time; "but the company invited me."
"They would!" Morones growled. His eyes flickered to the door, and quick as a cat, Olear leaped to one side, his ray-pencil in his hand.
Morones had not moved, and in the door stood the native, motionless and without expression. Morones laughed nastily.