"George!"

It was Gail Melvin's voice. Barnard saw her in the doorway of Quong Kee's back room. George went dutifully to her, clutching the coin Barnard had handed him. The girl took his hand and pulled him inside.

Barnard regarded the doorway sourly. He looked around Quong Kee's, caught the glance of the maniac who had attacked him. He took his coat and airpac and left hastily.

At the communications center he sent another despatch. Nothing much to report, and he knew the boss wouldn't like it. The System News Service firmly believed that scoops grew on Martian trees and Ron Barnard was expected to pick out a nice one to feed the hungry public.

Jingling the change in his pocket, he sensed something wrong, and pulled out the coins for a look. His lucky coin was missing—a rare twentieth century Buffalo nickel. He had given it to the half wit.

He fingered the bruises the neoin fiend had made on his face and grinned humorlessly. The coin hadn't brought him much luck.

He was going into his hotel when he sighted George Melvin shambling down the street. He paused, waiting for the half-wit to reach him. It was cold, and he wanted to get inside, but leads were scarce. He fell into step beside George.

"Hello, George," he said. "Where do you and Gail live?"

The half wit looked innocently at him. His airpac was strapped around the collar of his coat. Evidently Gail did not consider him intelligent enough even to breathe properly on Mars! Barnard squeezed his own airpac in an automatic motion. Oxygen on Mars was just short of enough for humans. A man would sooner be minus his pants than his airpac, though Martian-born humans needed them only at time of exertion.

"We live in Chicago."

"Yes—that's on Earth. But where do you stay on Mars?"

"In Chicago on Mars, too."

Barnard looked suspiciously at him. But the vacuous expression certainly was not feigned; George Melvin's eyes were less intelligent than a fish's.

"Do you stay at Quong Kee's?" the reporter tried.

 Prev. P 4/28 next