and entered the grav-shaft. There was the usual moment of
heaviness as the shaft whisked him upward and deposited him in
front of a thickly carpeted corridor.

Executive level, Kennon thought as he followed the receptionist's
directions. No wonder she had looked respectful. But what was he
doing here? The employment of a veterinarian wasn't important
enough to demand the attention of a senior executive. The
personnel section could handle the details of his application as
well as not. He shrugged. Perhaps veterinarians were more
important on Kardon. He didn't know a thing about this world's
customs.

He opened the unmarked door at the end of the corridor, entered a
small reception room, smiled uncertainly at the woman behind the
desk, and received an answering smile in return.

Come right in, Dr. Kennon. Mr. Alexander is waiting for you.

Alexander! The entrepreneur himself! Why? Numb with surprise
Kennon watched the woman open the intercom on her desk.

"Sir, Dr. Kennon is here," she said.

"Bring him in," a smooth voice replied from the speaker.
Alexander X. M. Alexander, President of Outsold Enterprises - a
lean, dark, wolfish man in his early sixties - eyed Kennon with a
flat predatory intentness that was oddly disquieting. His stare
combined the analytical inspection of the pathologist, the
probing curiosity of the psychiatrist, and the weighing appraisal