She thought for a moment. "No. I'm not certain about that. He could have been, I suppose, but I don't think I ever noticed."

"Is there anything else you remember about him?"

She shook her head slowly. "Not much, I'm afraid. He was just a person who came through the office now and then. He had an odd way of talking. He spoke very slowly. He separated his words, just ... like ... this. Most of the girls laughed at him, and when they did he'd turn around and walk away without saying anything. And—oh, yes, sometimes he'd talk about California. I guess that was where he was from. I never found out anything about his personal life."

"But you didn't laugh at him?"

"No. I couldn't laugh at him. He was just too—pathetic."

"Have you heard from him since you came back?"

"He sent me a Christmas card once. He didn't know my address on Earth, so he sent it to the office on Mars so it would be forwarded. It didn't reach me until July!"

"How long ago was that?"

"It must be four years ago. It was a couple of years after I left Mars."

I dropped Mike Gregory, and tried to learn something about Stella Emerson.

She was twenty-eight. She'd worked for two years on Mars, and then she came back and got a job as private secretary with a small firm manufacturing plastic textiles. She made enough money for her own needs, and was able to save a little. She liked having a place of her own. She had a sister in Boston, and an aunt over in Newark, and they visited her occasionally. She led a quiet life, with books, and visits to the art institutes, and working with her hobby, which was photography.

It all sounded wonderful to me. The quiet life. A detective gets enough excitement on the job. If he can't relax at home, he's going to be a blight on the mortality tables.

We were on our second cup of coffee, by then, and I motioned the old fiddler over to our table.

His bloodshot eyes peered out ever a two-week growth of beard. I slipped him a dollar bill. "How about giving us a melody."

He gave us a 

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