amazingly full-bodied for a Martian. Her round, firm body and sensual lips made him suspect that she was a half-breed, a delightful combination of Martian grace and Earthly sultriness.

Monk smiled as he saw her again in his mind's vision.

She slid off her antelope-like lozelle, came to him slowly with her small, naked feet swishing through the sand.

"It is all right for us to camp by you?" she asked, her eyes wide. "We will not bother you?"

"Not at all," Monk answered, his heart pounding. After all, it'd been six months since he'd even seen a woman—any kind of woman.

"What is your name?" the girl asked.

"Monk, they call me. Monk O'Hara." He could feel the blood pulsing through his temples.

"I am Tooli." She curtsied. "You like me?"

"Yeah," Monk, breathed. "I like you a lot."

Later, through the ports of his sandcar, he watched her lithe movements as she and her father set up their tent. Throughout the night, his sleep was thin and restless, his mind on fire with the vision of the dark, lovely face.

So early this morning he'd gone to her again. "How about some coffee, kid? Got plenty in the sandcar."

She crinkled her nose teasingly. "Yes, I like Earth coffee. My bocle come too?"

"No, just you, kid. Your old man's busy taking down the tent."

She nodded eagerly, smiling. "Yes, I come. I like you."

What greater invitation did a man need?

But in the sandcar the little fool screamed. The old Martian darted into the car, yanked Monk away from Tooli, and descended on him like an enraged beast.

Monk hadn't meant to kill the old Martian. He'd meant only to silence his shrill screams and stop the frenzied flailing of his fists.

How could he have known that the thin neck would snap like a rotten stick under his first blow?

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