And whatever they say, they'll be speaking for the world."

Olduk—called jokingly the Old Duck—wended his way between the aisles toward the rostrum, drawing his cape about him. The cape was not an affectation. He realized that as a Martian he possessed several unhuman appendages which human beings did not care to look upon.

He faced the session, his wrinkled old face expressionless, though his double-lidded eyes conveyed the seriousness with which he faced his problem.

"Honorable Speaker," he said, bowing to the Speaker. "Honorable fellow delegates," he added, and bowed low. "I drink to you." He seized a beaker of water in a horny hand, and drained it in a single gulp.

He set the beaker down. His reddish eyes swept the assembly.

He said, "I am ever thankful you me to speak allow. Think, I will tell you what I wish, fellow delegates.

"Difficult me to talk this language, though here I have lived on Earth twenty years, making friends with Earthmen. I am not as I was in leaving Mars. I am changed with sundry operations, that I may live here well. Thus my voice is hard to speak, and harder still to learn difficult language. Laughing I will not like, please?"

He paused. His abnormally receptive ears again picked up the whisperings of the two secretaries.

"He's said exactly the same thing the past five sessions."

Olduk said in his impersonal voice:

"Before I make my plea for the water my planet needs, let me tell a myth that I read with enjoyment. It is the story of Tantalus, fellow delegates. Tantalus was placed by the gods in a river of purest water; when he wished to drink, recede the water would. So his thirst for ages tortured him.

"Poor Tantalus," said Olduk.

He seized the refilled beaker, and drained it at a single gulp.

"Shall Mars be Tantalus? Or shall Earth be Tantalus?"

"Mars is Tantalus," a whisper floated from the gallery.

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