"Boss, you are the most exasperating man I have ever met."

"Long practice. Report."

"And your father met your mother at a swing ding. And he didn't take off his hat."

"They met at a Baptist Sunday-school picnic and both of them believed in the Tooth Fairy. Report."

"Dirty ears. Snot. The trip to Eli-Five was without incident. I found Mr. Mortenson and delivered to him the contents of my trick bellybutton. Routine was interrupted by a most unusual factor: The space city was experiencing an epidemic of respiratory disorder, etiology unknown, and I contracted it. Mr. Mortenson was most kind; he kept me at home and his wives nursed me with great skill and tender loving care. Boss, I want them compensated."

"Noted. Continue."

"I was out of my silly head most of the time. That is why I ran a week behind schedule. But once I felt like traveling I was able to leave at once as Mr. Mortenson told me that I was already carrying the item he had for you. How, Boss? My navel pouch again?"

"Yes and no."

"That's a hell of an answer!"

"Your artificial pochette was used."

"I thought so. Despite the fact that there aren't supposed to be any nerve endings there, I can feel something-pressure, maybe-when it's loaded."

I pressed on my belly around my navel and tightened my belly muscles. "Hey, it's empty! You unloaded it?"

"No. Our antagonists did so."

"Then I failed! Oh, God, Boss, this is awful."

"No," he said gently, "you succeeded. In the face of great danger and monumental obstacles you succeeded perfectly."

"I did?" (Ever had the Victoria Cross pinned on you?) "Boss, cut the double talk and draw me a diagram."

''I will.''

But maybe I had better draw a diagram first. I have a 'possum pouch, created by plastic surgery, behind my bellybutton. It isn't large but you can crowd one whale of a lot of microfilm into a space of about one cubic centimeter. You can't see it because the sphinc

ter valve that serves it holds the navel scar closed. My bellybutton looks normal. Unbiased judges tell me that I have a pretty belly and a sightly navel... which, in some important ways, i~ better than having a pretty face, which I don't have.

The sphincter is a synthetic silicone elastomer that holds the navel tight at all times, even if I am unconscious. This is necessary as there are no nerves there to give voluntary control of contraction and relaxation, such as is possible with the anal, vaginal, and-for some people-throat sphincters. To load the pouch use a dab of K-Y jelly or other nonpetroleum lubricant, and push it in by thumb- no sharp corners, please! To unload it I take the fingers of both hands and pull the artificial sphincter open as much as I can, then press hard with my abdominal muscles-and it pops right out.

The art of smuggling things in the human body has a long history. The classic ways are in the mouth, in the nasal sinuses, in the stomach, the gut, the rectum, vagina, bladder, eye socket of a missing eye, ear canal, and exotic and not very useful methods using tattoos sometimes covered with hair.

Every one of the classic ways is known to every customs officer and every special agent public or private the world round, Luna, space cities, other planets, and anywhere men have reached. So forget them. The only classic method that can still beat a pro is the Purloined Letter. But the Purloined Letter is high art indeed and, even when used perfectly, it should be planted on an innocent who can't give it away under drugs.

Take a look at the next thousand bellybuttons you encounter socially. Now that my pouch has been compromised, it is possible that one or two will conceal surgically emplaced hideaways like mine. You can expect a spate of them soon, then no more will be emplaced as any novelty in smuggling becomes useless once the word gets around. In the meantime customs officers are going to be poking rude fingers into bellybuttons. I hope a lot of those officers get poked in the eye by angry victims-navels tend to be sensitive and ticklish.

"Friday, the weak point of that pochette in you has always been that any skillful interrogation-"

"They were clumsy."

"-or rough interrogation using drugs could force you to mention its existence."

"Must have been after they shot me with babble juice. I don't recall mentioning it."

"Probably. Or word may have come to them through other channels, as several people know of it-you, me, three nurses, two surgeons, one anesthesiologist, possibly others. Too many. No matter how our antagonists knew, they did remove what you were carrying there. But don't look glum; what they received was a very long list reduced to microfilm of all the restaurants listed in a 1928 telephone book of the former city of New York. No doubt there is a computer somewhere working on this list right now, attempting to break the code concealed in it... which will take a long time as there is no code concealed in it. A dummy load. Sense-free."

"And for this I have to chase all the way to Eli-Five, eat scummy food, get sick on the Beanstalk, and be buggered about by brutal bastards!"

"Sorry about the last, Friday. But do you think I would risk the life of my most skillful agent on a useless mission?"

(See why I work for the arrogant bastard? Flattery will get you anywhere.) "Sorry, sir."

"Check your appendectomy scar."

"Huh?" I reached under the sheet and felt it, then flipped the sheet back and looked at it. "What the hell?"

"The incision was less than two centimeters and straight through the scar; no muscle tissue was disturbed. The item was withdrawn about twenty-four hours ago by reopening the same incision. With the accelerated repair methods that were used on you I am told that in two more days you will not be able to find the new scar in the old. But I am very glad that the Mortensons took such good care of you as I am sure that the artificial symptoms induced in you to cover what had to be done to you were not pleasant. By the way, there really is a catarrhal-fever epidemic there-fortuitous window dressing."

Boss paused. I stubbornly refused to ask him what I was carrying-he would not have told me anyhow. Shortly he added, "You were telling me about your trip home."

"The trip down was without incident. Boss, the next time you send me into space I want to go first-class, in an antigrav ship. Not via that silly Indian rope trick." -

"Engineering analysis shows that a skyhook is safer than any ship. The Quito cable was lost through sabotage, not materiel failure."

"Stingy."

"I don't intend to bind the mouths of the kine. You may use antigray from here on if circumstances and timing permit. This time there were reasons to use the Kenya Beanstalk."

"Maybe so, but someone tailed me out of the Beanstalk capsule. As soon as we were alone, I killed him."

I paused. Someday, someday, I am going to cause his face to register surprise. I retackled the subject diagonally:

"Boss, I need a refresher course, with some careful reorientation."

"Really? To what end?"

"My kill reflex is too fast. I don't discriminate. That bloke hadn't done anything to rate killing. Surely, he was tailing me. But I should either have shaken him, there or in Nairobi, or, at most, knocked him cold and placed him on ice while I went elsewhere."

"We'll discuss your possible need later. Continue."

I told him about the Public Eye and "Belsen's" quadruple identity and how I had sent them to the four winds, then I outlined my trip home. He checked me. "You did not mention the destruction of that hotel in Nairobi."

"Huh? But, Boss, that had nothing to do with me. I was halfway to Mombasa."

"My dear Friday, you are too modest. A large number of people and a huge amount of money have gone into trying to keep you from completing your mission, including a last-ditch attempt at our former farm. You may assume, as least hypothesis, that the bombing of the Hilton had as its sole purpose killing you."