"Are you involved in the destruction of the city? Answer!"
The man swallowed angrily. "I know nothing about any destruction of any
city. And furthermore--"
"He is telling the truth," the metal box said tonelessly.
"Next person." The Leiter moved down the aisle.
A thin, bald-headed man stood up nervously. "No, sir," he said. "I don't
know a thing about it."
"He is telling the truth," the box affirmed.
"Next person! Stand up!"
One person after another stood, answered, and sat down again in relief.
At last there were only a few people left who had not been questioned.
The Leiter paused, studying them intently.
"Only five left. The three must be among you. We have narrowed it down."
His hand moved to his belt. Something flashed, a rod of pale fire. He
raised the rod, pointing it steadily at the five people. "All right, the
first one of you. What do you know about this destruction? Are you
involved with the destruction of our city?"
"No, not at all," the man murmured.
"Yes, he's telling the truth," the box intoned.
"Next!"
"Nothing-- I know nothing. I had nothing to do with it."
"True," the box said.
The ship was silent. Three people remained, a middle-aged man and his
wife and their son, a boy of about twelve. They stood in the corner,
staring white-faced at the Leiter, at the rod in his dark fingers.
"It must be you," the Leiter grated, moving toward them. The Martian
soldiers raised their guns. "It _must_ be you. You there, the boy. What
do you know about the destruction of our city? Answer!"
The boy shook his head. "Nothing," he whispered.
The box was silent for a moment. "He is telling the truth," it said
reluctantly.
"Next!"
"Nothing," the woman muttered. "Nothing."
"The truth."
"Next!"
"I had nothing to do with blowing up your city," the man said. "You're
wasting your time."
"It is the truth," the box said.
For a long time the Leiter stood, toying with his rod. At last he pushed
it back in his belt and signalled the soldiers toward the exit lock.
"You may proceed on your trip," he said. He walked after the soldiers.
At the hatch he stopped, looking back at the passengers, his face grim.
"You may go-- But Mars will not allow her enemies to escape. The three
saboteurs will be caught, I promise you." He rubbed his dark jaw
thoughtfully. "It is strange. I was certain they were on this ship."
Again he looked coldly around at the Terrans.
"Perhaps I was wrong. All right, proceed! But remember: the three will
be caught, even if it takes endless years. Mars will catch them and
punish them! I swear it!"
* * * * *
For a long time no one spoke. The ship lumbered through space again, its
jets firing evenly, calmly, moving the passengers toward their own
planet, toward home. Behind them Deimos and the red ball that was Mars
dropped farther and farther away each moment, disappearing and fading
into the distance.
A sigh of relief passed through the passengers. "What a lot of hot air
that was," one grumbled.
"Barbarians!" a woman said.
A few of them stood up, moving out into the aisle, toward the lounge and
the cocktail bar. Beside Thacher the girl got to her feet, pulling her
jacket around her shoulders.
"Pardon me," she said, stepping past him.
"Going to the bar?" Thacher said. "Mind if I come along?"
"I suppose not."
They followed the others into the lounge, walking together up the aisle.
"You know," Thacher said, "I don't even know your name, yet."
"My name is Mara Gordon."
"Mara? That's a nice name. What part of Terra are you from? North
America? New York?"
"I've been in New York," Mara said. "New York is very lovely." She was
slender and pretty, with a cloud of dark hair tumbling down her neck,
against her leather jacket.
They entered the lounge and stood undecided.
"Let's sit at a table," Mara said, looking around at the people at the
bar, mostly men. "Perhaps that table over there."
"But someone's there already," Thacher said. The heavy-set business man
had sat down at the table and deposited his sample case on the floor.
"Do we want to sit with _him_?"
"Oh, it's all right," Mara said, crossing to the table. "May we sit
here?" she said to the man.
The man looked up, half-rising. "It's a pleasure," he murmured. He
studied Thacher intently. "However, a friend of mine will be joining me
in a moment."
"I'm sure there's room enough for us all," Mara said. She seated herself
and Thacher helped her with her chair. He sat down, too, glancing up
suddenly at Mara and the business man. They were looking at each other
almost as if something had passed between them. The man was middle-aged,
with a florid face and tired, grey eyes. His hands were mottled with the
veins showing thickly. At the moment he was tapping nervously.
"My name's Thacher," Thacher said to him, holding out his hand. "Bob
Thacher. Since we're going to be together for a while we might as well
get to know each other."
The man studied him. Slowly his hand came out. "Why not? My name's
Erickson. Ralf Erickson."
"Erickson?" Thacher smiled. "You look like a commercial man, to me." He
nodded toward the sample case on the floor. "Am I right?"
The man named Erickson started to answer, but at that moment there was a
stir. A thin man of about thirty had come up to the table, his eyes
bright, staring down at them warmly. "Well, we're on our way," he said
to Erickson.
"Hello, Mara." He pulled out a chair and sat down quickly, folding his
hands on the table before him. He noticed Thacher and drew back a
little. "Pardon me," he murmured.
"Bob Thacher is my name," Thacher said. "I hope I'm not intruding
here." He glanced around at the three of them, Mara, alert, watching him
intently, heavy-set Erickson, his face blank, and this person. "Say, do
you three know each other?" he asked suddenly.
There was silence.
The robot attendant slid over soundlessly, poised to take their orders.
Erickson roused himself. "Let's see," he murmured. "What will we have?
Mara?"
"Whiskey and water."
"You, Jan?"