yawning loudly.

"We're late for Strong's meeting over at the Academy," Brett snapped.
"Get up! We've got to leave right away."

Quent Miles looked at the other man, his black eyes gleaming coldly.
"I'll get up when I'm ready," he said slowly.

The two men glared at each other for a moment, and finally Brett lowered
his eyes. Miles grinned and yawned again.

"Come on," said Brett in a less demanding tone. "Let's go. No use
getting Strong down on us before we even get started."

"Steve Strong doesn't scare me," replied Miles.

"All right! He doesn't scare you. He doesn't scare me, either," said
Brett irritably. "Now that we both know that neither of us is scared,
let's get going."

Quent smiled again and rose slowly. "You know something, Charley?" he
said in a deceptively mild voice. "One of these days you're going to get
officious with the wrong spaceman, one that isn't as tolerant as I am,
and you're going to be pounded into space dust."

Quent Miles stood in front of Brett's desk and stretched like a languid
cat. Brett noted the powerful hands and arms and the depth of the
shoulders and chest, all emphasized by the tight-fitting clothes the
spaceman affected. The man was dark and swarthy, and dressed all in
black. Brett had often imagined that if the devil ever took human form