THE SPA OF THE STARS

JOE BLAINE sat, limp as a pillow, in his swivel chair, chewing morbidly at a dead cigar. The desk supported his feet. He stroked his pink jowl with a hand that was all flesh and no bone. His mood was one of gloom.

Many extremes had enlivened Joe Blaine's life: triumphs, failures, vicissitudes of many sorts. But never such an abysmal piece of cheese as the Spa of the Stars.

Outside, the white sun Eta Pisces shone with a tingling radiance on a landscape sparkling white, blue and green. ("Enjoy the zestful light of the Cluster's healthiest sun in surroundings of inexpressible beauty" - excerpt from the Spa's brochure.)

A lazy sea folded surf along a beach of pure sand behind which a wall of jungle rose four hundred feet, steep as a cliff. ("Vacation at the edge of unexplored jungle mysteries," read the brochure, and the illustration showed a lovely nude woman with apple-green skin standing under a tree blazing with red and black flowers.)

A big hotel, miles of beach, a hundred orange and green cabanas, an open-air dance pavilion, a theater, tennis courts, sail boats, an arcade of expensive shops, a race-track with grandstand and stables - this was the Spa of the Stars just as Joe Blaine had conceived it. Nothing was lacking but the nude green woman. If Joe Blaine had known where to get one, she'd have been there too.

There was another discrepancy. Joe had envisioned the lobby full of stylish women, the beach covered with bronze flesh. In his mind's-eye he had seen the grandstand black with sportsmen, all anxious to dispute the wisdom of the odds he had set. Each of the seven bars - as he had pictured them - were lined three deep, with the bartenders sweating and complaining of overwork... Joe Blaine grunted and threw his cigar out the window.

The door split back and Mayla, his secretary, entered. Her hair was bright as the sands of the beach; she had eyes blue as the sea before it toppled to surf. She was slender, flexible, and her flesh had the compelling, clutchable look of a marshmallow. She was a creature of instinct, rather than intellect, and this suited Joe Blaine very well. Crossing the room, she patted the pink spot on his scalp.

"Cheer up, Joe, it can't be that bad."

The words catalyzed Joe's smouldering dejection to an angry bray.

"How could it be worse? You tell me... Ten million munits sunk into the place and three paying guests!"

Mayla settled herself into a chair, thoughtfully puffed alight a cigarette.

"Just wait till the noise of those accidents dies down... They'll be back like flies. After all, we got a lot of publicity-"

"Publicity! Huh! Nine bathers killed by sea-beetles the first day. The gorilla-things dragging those girls into the jungle. Not to mention the flying snakes and the dragons-Lord, the dragons! And you talk about publicity!"

Mayla pursed her lips. "Well - maybe you're right. I suppose it would look bad to somebody who didn't know the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"I mean about Kolama being a wild planet, and not explored or civilized."

"You think, then," said Blaine with great earnestness, "that people don't mind being chewed up by horrible creatures so long as it's out on a wild planet?"

She shook her head. "No, not that exactly - "

"Good," said Joe. "I'm relieved."

" - I just mean that maybe they'd make a few allowances."

Blaine threw up his hands and sank back in an attitude of defeat. He reached for a new cigar and lit it.

"Maybe," said Mayla after a short pause, "we could advertise it like a big game lodge, and people would come for excitement."

He reproached her with a glance. "You ought to know that nobody hunts big game - or any kind of game - if there's a chance of them getting hurt. The odds are even out here; that'll keep away the jokers after cheap blood..."

The telescreen buzzed. Joe turned impatiently. "Now what..." He snapped the switch. The screen glowed pink. "Long distance, looks like."

"Starport calling Joe Blaine," came the operator's voice.

"Speaking."

On the screen appeared a narrow face - all eyes, nose and teeth, a face that was crafty and calculating, and yet possessed of a quality that women thought attractive. This was Blaine's partner, Lucky Woolrich.

"Now what the devil do you want?" demanded Joe. "Do you know it costs eight munits a minute interplanet?"

Lucky said curtly, "Just wanted to find out if you've got it licked."

"Licked!" yelled Joe. "Are you crazy? I'm scared to set foot outside the hotel!"

"We've got to do something," Woolrich told him. "Ten million munits is an awful swipe of scratch!"

"We sure agree there."

"I don't get it," said Lucky. "The place got built without accidents. Nothing bothered us until we started, to operate. Don't that seem fishy to you?"

"Fishy as all get out. I can't figure it. I've tried."

Lucky said, "Well, I called mainly to tell you I'm coming on out. Ought to be there in four days or so. I'm bringing a trouble-shooter - "

"We don't need a trouble-shooter," snapped Blaine. "We need a dragon-shooter and a water-beetle shooter and a flying-snake shooter. Lots of 'em."

Lucky ignored the comment. "I've got the man to help us out if anyone can. He's highly recommended. Magnus Ridolph. A well-known genius. Invented the musical-kaleidoscope."

"That's the ticket," said Blaine. "We'll dance 'em to death."

"Lay off the comics, Joe!" rasped Lucky. "Eight munits a minute is cheap when we're talking business; for jokes it's extravagant."

"I might as well have some fun for my money," said Blaine peevishly. "Ten million munits and every cent buying headaches."

"See you in four days," said Lucky coldly. The screen went dull.

Joe stood up, walked back and forth. Mayla watched with proud possessiveness. She, who could have had forty-nine out of any fifty men, thought Joe was the cutest thing she'd ever seen.

A tall angular man in the red and blue uniform of the Spa came bounding into the office, knees raising as high as his chin with every step.

"Well, Wilbur?" snapped Blaine.

"Golly, Joe - you know that little old deaf lady? The cranky one?"

"Of course I know her. I know every one of our three guests. What about her?"

"One of them dragons just now came at her. Would have got her, too, if she hadn't ducked under a bench. Just swung down out of the sky, big as a house. Lordy, she's spittin' mad! Says she's gonna sue you, because the thing dove at her on hotel property."

Joe Blaine pulled at his scant hair, turned his cigar up between clenched teeth. "Give me strength, give me strength.

"How about a drink?" Mayla suggested.

Wilbur concurred. "Mix one for me too."

Seen in the flesh, Lucky was not as tall as he looked on the telescreen - hardly as tall as Joe, but thinner, neater. "Joe," he said, "meet Mr. Ridolph. He's the expert I was telling you about." Lucky waved an arm at the slight man with the distinguished white beard who had wandered abstractedly into the lobby, looking here and there, in all directions, like a child on a circus midway.

Blaine took one look, eyed Lucky in disgust.

"Expert? That old goat? On what?" he muttered. Aloud, with effusive cordiality: "How do you do, Mr. Ridolph? So glad you could come to help. We sure need an expert out here to figure out our problems."

Magnus Ridolph shook hands fastidiously. "Yes," he said. "How do you do, Mr. Woolrich?"

"I'm Woolrich," said Lucky briskly. "This is Mr. Blaine."

"How do you do?" And Magnus Ridolph nodded, to assure them that he took the correction in good part. "You have a pleasant resort, very peaceful and quiet, just as I like it."

Blaine rolled his eyes upwards. "It's not peaceful and I don't like it quiet."