"Yes," said Scat. "So few of us."
Their eyes met.
The slidewalk creaked and this time there were footsteps. Click-Click
walked out with the tray of tapes he had been assembling. "By his
looks, a bishop at least," he coded cryptically.
The door opened and there swept in a red-faced figure, colorfully
august in the brown and gold robes of the Reformed and Reconciled
Churches of the World. His stern, bloodshot eyes instantly fixed
themselves on the remains of the Executive Council of the Young
Freeworkers. They hastily excused themselves. They didn't exactly slink
out, but they obviously had a hard time fighting the impulse.
The churchman wheeled on Scat. "I am the Reverend Arthur Allerdyce
Bassett, spiritual monitor of Bronsco," he announced in a booming
voice. "I have come to voice religion's protest against a publication
which seeks to pander to the vilest impulses in man and bug, to reduce
a creature made in the Lord's image to equality with his machines, to
besmirch human dignity and sully the purity of Earth's womanhood by
advocacy of open commerce with the foulest and most pruriently prying
minds in all creation!"
He paused for breath.
Scat figuratively rubbed his hands. This was something he could get his
teeth into. He could hardly wait to bring up the Missionary.
Fifteen minutes later the Reverend Bassett stalked out spluttering
threats; he'd done everything but mention the Mystic X by name.
* * * * *
Scat's satisfied grin evaporated fast. He paced restlessly. Twice he
pounded his palm and his lips formed the syllables, "Kemmerdygn." He
recorded at an editorial, had to keep back-taping, gave it up. Finally
he sat down at his desk and flashed Ten Mile.
"I want to talk-see Mr. Kemmerdygn."
"I'll connect you with his secretarial offices."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Kemmerdygn is in conference."
"He'll be interested," Scat told the pretty, efficient-looking girl.
"Tell him I want to beam a story about how he's begun to install at Ten
Mile the most up-to-date and humane Martian-protective devices of any
mine in the world."
A brief wait.
"Mr. Kemmerdygn has no comment. Good day."
Click-Click came in. He extended his pinchers for Scat's inspection.
"My new manicure," he explained. "I've been forging the pincher-ridge
patterns of one of those Martians we're keeping for the Underground.
That's the only identification that means anything to a human. Get the
idea?"
Scat frowned. "Too risky. You might get into Ten Mile, but I don't
think you'd get out; we need you here."
"They need me more. Out there in their holes, while I can hop into a
vacuum tank every night...." Suddenly Click-Click's pinchers stiffened.
"Len's outside," he coded tersely. "I think he wants you; looks like
they've brought a finder."
"Finder!" Scat shot up. "Got the cans ready?"
"Yes. Shall we put them in?"
"Not yet. But be ready."
He hurried out. There was a utility car with the Kemmerdygn insignia
parked in front. Two scowling bug guards were arguing with Len. Their
hands were suggestively near their squirt guns. One of them had a
dirty-smocked girl by the wrist. She had a silly, open mouthed grin
that just seemed to stay there; she drooled.
"We were telling him you got Ten Mile bugs inside," the bug guard
explained to Scat.
Scat looked at him steadily. "We employ Martians to run the beam.
They've confused your finder."
The guard pulled the girl to him. "Look Piggie," he said, "these people
got bugs of their own. Maybe it's those you been feeling?" She shook
her head stubbornly, like a little child. "It's our Ten Mile bugs you
feel then? You're sure?" Her head bobbed up and down.
Bug finders were human beings with an inborn sensitivity to Martian
telepathy, usually mentally defective. They could not interpret the
telepathy, but they had an uncanny knack for distinguishing the
characteristic thought-waves of an individual Martian.
The guard looked up at Scat. "We're coming in, Mister; Piggie never
misses." He put his hand on his squirt gun.
4
Scat felt very conscious of his artificial arm. There was a tremor in
the stump he couldn't control. From the door behind him he heard the
code for "Catch!" He half turned and picked a blaster out of the air
with his good hand.
"Not on my property," he told the guard.
The guard hesitated. "Okay then. Make us do it the hard way," he said.
They got in the car and drove off, Piggie making inarticulate sounds of
protest and having to be dragged.
Scat's eyes followed them. "Get out the truck," he told Len. "You're
going to Manford to buy groceries. Click-Click, can your visitors.
Fast."
"Underground?" Len asked with a look. Scat nodded.
About the time Len was ready to roll, the bug guards came jetting back,
accompanied by a policeman who looked and acted exactly like them,
except for the uniform.
"Got a warrant to search your place for fugitive bugs," he told Scat.
"Hold on there!" he called to Len, who was starting the truck. "Let's
have a look before you get away."
The bug guard led Piggie to the truck. She was making anxious, eager
noises. Unexpectedly Click-Click came out from behind the truck, so
that they almost collided. Piggie squealed and backed off, flapping her
arms. The guard grabbed at his squirt gun, but Scat interposed.
"Your bug done that on purpose," the guard blustered threateningly. "He
knows Piggie's no good for as much as ten minutes after she gets that
close to a bug."
They searched the truck thoroughly. The body was empty except for some
boxes of tape scrap and three medium sized cannisters conspicuously
labeled in red:
CAUTION!
BEAM REFUSE GAS
Standard Container
Len's hand hovered over one of the cocks. "Want a sniff?" he asked
pleasantly.
The guard gave him a sour look. Beam refuse gas was so deadly a poison
that it could not safely be disposed of by any ordinary methods. It
had to be shipped to a reconditioning plant in containers that were
seamless--supposedly.
And these three cannisters actually contained beam refuse gas under
standard pressure--they'd have to, in order to pass the minute
inspection made at the regional border.
But the shell of a Martian is one of the most impermeable armors
ever developed by organic evolution, and when quiescent he can go
upwards for an hour without breathing. This is because he is built
for an extremely rarified atmosphere--his physiology is typical of
a depleted-planet economy. On Mars his inhalation/exhalation ratio
is about 100/1. The chief problem in acclimitizing him to Earth is
teaching him to inhale as infrequently as he exhales--otherwise
oxygen-drowning occurs. A Martian's lungs are really oxygen
accumulators. He has 100 per cent utilization of inhaled oxygen, and
he exhales pure carbon dioxide freighted with other respiratory
excretions--hence the "bad breath" so obnoxious to human beings.
* * * * *
With a jaunty wave of his hand, Len crawled off and the search moved
inside the building. Scat stayed with them to make sure nothing was
overlooked. But Piggie, recovered, maintained with sullen headshakes
that she no longer felt the presence of Ten Mile bugs, and after that
the guards lost interest. Scat could tell that they were puzzling as to
how he'd smuggled out the bugs while they were getting the warrant--for
undoubtedly there'd been Kemmerdygn spies watching the _Newsbeam_
building to prevent just such a move.
Afterwards Scat said to Click-Click, "I was a little worried when they
took your pincher-prints."
"Anticipated," the Martian coded laconically. "I removed the forgeries,
but since I have the casts they can easily be replaced. At first I
thought of letting the guards pick me up here, but that would be too
suspicious."
"It's going to be suspicious wherever it happens," said Scat,
shaking his head. "In any case, you won't be able to pass bug-finder
identification. Don't do it, Click-Click."
"You told Len to drop in at the _Free Martian_ offices and fetch a
Martian to replace me?"
"You're bound and determined then?"
"Yes."