technical word by which it referred to the possibility that a
boy-meets-girl assignment might not come off.
Jo hailed a hopper. Once inside he stripped himself of the
mustache, the bald spot, the forehead creasesall the make-
up which had given him his mask of friendly innocuousness.
The hoppy watched the whole process in the rear-view
mirror. Jo glanced up and met his eyes.
“Pardon me, mister, but I figured you didn’t care if I saw
you. You must be a Service man.”
“That’s right. Take me to Service HQ, will you?”
“Sure enough.” The hoppy gunned his machine. It rose
smoothly to the express level. “First time I ever got close to
a Service man. Didn’t hardly believe it at first when I saw
you taking your face off. You sure looked different.”
“Have to, sometimes,” Jo said, preoccupied.
“I’ll bet. No wonder you know all about everything before
it breaks. You must have a thousand faces each, your own
mother wouldn’t know you, eh? Don’t you care if I know
about your snooping around in disguise?”
Jo grinned. The grin created a tiny pulling sensation across
one curve of his cheek, just next to his nose. He stripped
away the overlooked bit of tissue and examined it critically.
“Of course not. Disguise is an elementary part of Service
work. Anyone could guess that. We don’t use it often, as a
matter of factonly on very simple assignments.”
“Oh.” The hoppy sounded slightly disappointed, as melo-
drama faded. He drove silently for about a minute. Then,
speculatively: “Sometimes I think the Service must have
time-travel, the things they pull. . . . Well, here you are.