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suppose I could find one?’
    'Doubt it. You see ‘em sometimes, hanging around the Martians. Not many of ‘em.’ He turned back to his reading—a New York Times , more than two years old.
    The boys finished, paid their bills, and prepared to go outside. The cook-waiter-station-agent said, ‘Hold on. Where are you kids going?’
    'Syrtis Minor.’
    'Not that. Where are you going right now? Why don't you wait in the dormitory? Take a nap if you like.’
    'We thought we would kind of explore around outside,’ explained Jim.
    'Okay. But stay away from the city.’
    'Why?’
    'Because the Company doesn't allow it, that's why. Not without permission. So stay clear of it.’
    'How do we get permission?’ Jim persisted.
    'You can't. Cynia hasn't been opened up to exploitation yet.’ He went back to his reading.
    Jim was about to continue the matter but Frank tugged at his sleeve. They went outside together. Jim said, ‘I don't think he has any business telling us we can't go to Cynia.’
    'What's the difference? He thinks he has.’
    'What'll we do now?’
    'Go to Cynia, of course. Only we won't consult his nibs.’
    'Suppose he catches us?’
    'How can he? He won't stir off that stool he's warming. Come on.’
    'Okay.’ They set out to the east. The going was not too easy; there was no road of any sort and all the plant growth bordering the canal was spread out to its greatest extent to catch the rays of the midday sun. But Mars’ low gravity makes walking easy work even over rough ground. They came shortly to the bank of Oeroe and followed it to the right, toward the city.
    The way was easy along the smooth stone of the bank. The air was warm and balmy even though the surface of the canal was still partly frozen. The sun was high; they were the better part of a thousand miles closer to the equator than they had been at daybreak.
    'Warm,’ said Willis. ‘Willis want down.’
    'Okay,’ Jim agreed, ‘but don't fall in.’
    'Willis not fall in.’ Jim put him down and the little creature went skipping and rolling along the bank, with occasional excursions into the thick vegetation, like a puppy exploring a new pasture.
    They had gone perhaps a mile and the towers of the city were higher in the sky when they encountered a Martian. He was a small specimen of his sort, being not over twelve feet tall. He was standing quite still, all three of his legs down, apparently lost in contemplation of the whichness of what. The eye facing them stared unblinkingly.
    Jim and Frank were, of course, used to Martians and recognized that this one was busy in his ‘other world'; they stopped talking and continued on past him, being careful not to brush against his legs.
    Not so Willis. He went darting around the Martian's peds, rubbing against them, then stopped and let out a couple of mournful croaks.
    The Martian stirred, looked around him, and suddenly bent and scooped Willis up.
    'Hey!’ yelled Jim. ‘Put him down!’
    No answer.
    Jim turned hastily to Frank. ‘You talk to him, Frank. I'll never be able to make him understand me. Please!’ Of the Martian dominant language Jim understood little and spoke less. Frank was somewhat better, but only by comparison. Those who speak Martian complain that it hurts their throats.
    'What'll I say?’
    'Tell him to put Willis down!’
    'Relax. Martians never hurt anybody.’
    'Well, tell him to put Willis down, then.’
    'I'll try.’ Frank screwed up his mouth and got to work. His accent, bad at best, was made worse by the respirator and by nervousness. Nevertheless he clucked and croaked his way through a phrase that seemed to mean what Jim wanted. Nothing happened.
    He tried again, using a different idiom; still nothing happened. ‘It's no good, Jim,’ he admitted. ‘Either he doesn't understand me or he doesn't want to bother to listen.’
    Jim shouted, ‘Willis! Hey, Willis! Are you all right?’
    'Willis fine!’
    'Jump down! I'll catch you.’
    'Willis fine.’
    The Martian wobbled