"Why?" asked Derech.
"He needs help. Where else could he go for it?"
"Anywhere. He has many friends. And he knows Mars better than most
Martians, probably a damn sight better than you do."
"But," said Wales quietly, "outside of the City-States all Earthmen are
being hunted down like rabbits, if they're foolish enough to stay. For
Carey's sake, if you know where he is, tell us. Otherwise he is almost
certain to die."
"He's a grown man," Derech said. "He must carry his own load."
* * * * *
"He's carrying too much ..." Wales said, and then broke off. There was
a sudden gabble of talk, both in the room and outside. Everybody moved
toward the door, out of Carey's vision, except Derech who moved into
it, relaxed and languid and infuriatingly self-assured. Carey could not
hear the sound that had drawn the others but he judged that another
flier was landing. In a few minutes Wales and the others came back, and
now there were some new people with them. Carey squirmed and craned,
getting closer to the crack, and he saw Alan Woodthorpe, his superior,
Administrator of the Rehabilitation Project for Mars, and probably the
most influential man on the planet. Carey knew that he must have rushed
across a thousand miles of desert from his headquarters at Kahora, just
to be here at this moment.
Carey was flattered and deeply moved.
Woodthorpe introduced himself to Derech. He was disarmingly simple
and friendly in his approach, a man driven and wearied by many vital
matters but never forgetting to be warm, gracious, and human. And the
devil of it was that he was exactly what he appeared to be. That was
what made dealing with him so impossibly difficult.