Wahanhk is an old Martian. I don't think any Martian before him has
ever lived so long--and doubtless none after him will, either. His
leathery, almost purple-black skin was rough and had a charred look
about it, and up around the eyes were little plaits and folds that had
the appearance of being done deliberately by a Martian sand-artist.
"Good evening," I said, and sat down before him and crossed my legs.
He nodded slowly. His old eyes went to my badge.
From there they went to the Authority Card.
"Power sign of the Earthmen," he muttered.
"Not necessarily," I said. "I'm not here for trouble. I know as well as
you do that, before tonight is finished, more than half of your men
and women will be drunk on illegal whiskey."
He didn't reply to that.
"And I don't give a damn about it," I added distinctly.
His eyes came deliberately up to mine and stopped there. He said
nothing. He waited. Outside, the drums throbbed, slowly at first, then
moderated in tempo. It was like the throbbing--or sobbing, if you
prefer--of the old, old pumps whose shafts go so tirelessly down into
the planet for such pitifully thin streams of water.
"I'm looking for an Earthwoman," I said. "This particular Earthwoman
took a Martian for a husband."
"That is impossible," he grunted bitterly.
"I would have said so, too," I agreed. "Until this afternoon, that is."
His old, dried lips began to purse and wrinkle.
"I met her little son," I went on. "A little semi-human boy with
Martian features. Or, if you want to turn it around and look at the
other side, a little Martian boy who whistles."
His teeth went together with a snap.