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  “The idea,” Frank said dryly,”is to get away, not to stir up a gun battle. What you want to do is to pull a sneak. I think we had better find a way to keep you under cover until that can be arranged. The chances ought to be good after noon.”

  Jim was about to ask Frank why he thought the chances would be good after noon when Willis repeated the last three words. First he repeated them in Frank's voice, then he said them again in rich, fruity accents of an older man. “Good afternoon!” he intoned.

  “Shut up, Willis.”

  Willis said it again, “Good afternoon, Mark. Sit down, my boy. Always happy to see you.”

  “I've heard that voice,” said Frank, puzzlement in his tones.

  “Thank you, General. How do you do, sir?” Willis went on, now in the precise, rather precious tones of Headmaster Howe.

  “I know!” said Frank. “I've heard it on broadcast; it's Beecher, the Resident Agent General.”

  “Sh—” said Jim, “I want to listen.” Willis continued, again in the fruity voice:

  “Not bad, not too bad for an old man.”

  “Nonsense, General, you're not old.”—Howe's voice again.

  “Kind of you to say so, my boy,” Willis went on. “What have you in the bag? Contraband?”

  Willis repeated Howe's sycophantic laugh. “Hardly. Just a scientific specimen—a rather interesting curiosity I confiscated from one of the students.”

  There was a short pause, then the fruity voice said, “Bless my boots! Mark, wherever did you find this creature?”

  “I just told you, sir,” came Howe's voice. “I was forced to take it away from one of the students.”

  “Yes, yes—but do you have any idea ofwhat you've got?”

  “Certainly, sir; I looked it up. Areocephalopsittacus Bron—”

  “Spare me the learned words, Mark. It's a roundhead, a Martian roundhead. That's not the point. You say you got this from a student; do you think you could buy it from him?” the fruity voice continued eagerly.

  Howe's voice answered slowly,”I hardly think so, sir. I am fairly sure he wouldn't want to sell.” He hesitated, then went on, “Is it important?”

  “Important? That depends on what you mean by'important,’ “ answered the voice of the Resident Agent General. “Would you say that sixty thousand credits was important? Or even seventy thousand? For that is what I am sure the London Zoo will pay for him, over and above the cost of getting him there.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I have a standing order from a broker in London at fifty thousand credits; I've never been able to get him one. I'm sure the price can be boosted.”

  “Indeed?” Howe agreed cautiously. “That would be a fine thing for the Company, wouldn't it?”

  There was a brief silence, then a hearty laugh. “Mark, my boy, you slay me. Now see here—you are hired to run the school, aren't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I'm hired to look out for the interests of the Company, right? We put in a good day's work and earn our pay; that leaves eighteen hours a day that belong to each of us, personally. Are you hired to find strange specimens?”

  “No.”

  “Neither am I. Do you understand me?”

  “I think I do.”

  “I'm sure you do. After all, I know your uncle quite well; I'm sure he wouldn't have sent his nephew out here without explaining the facts of life to him. He understands them very well himself, I can assure you. The fact is, my boy, that there are unlimited opportunities in a place such as this for a smart man, if he will just keep his eyes and ears open. Not graft, you understand.” Willis paused.

  Jim started to say something; Frank said, “Shut up! We don't want to miss any of this.”

  The Resident's voice continued, “Not graft at all. Legitimate business opportunities that are the natural concomitants of our office. Now about this student: what will it take to convince him he should sell? I wouldn't offer him too much or he will become suspicious. We mustn't have that.”

  Howe was slow in replying. “I am almost certain he won't sell, General, but there is another way, possibly.”

  “Yes? I don't understand you.”

  The boys heard Howe explain his peculiar theory of ownership with respect to Willis. They could not see Beecher dig Howe in the ribs but they could hear his choked laughter. “Oh, that is rich! Mark, you slay me, you really do. Your talents are wasted as a schoolteacher; you should be a Resident.”

  “Well,” Howe's voice replied, “I hardly expect to teach school all my life.”

  “You won't, you won't. We'll find an agency for you. After all, the school will be smaller and of less importance after the non-migration policy goes into effect.”

  (“What's he talking about?” whispered Frank—”Quiet!” Jim answered.)

  “Is there any news about that?” Howe wanted to know.

  “I expect to hear from your uncle momentarily. You might stop in again this evening, my boy; I may have news.”

  The remainder of the conversation was of no special interest, but Willis plowed on with it nevertheless. The boys listened until Howe had made his farewell, after which Willis shut up.

  Jim was frothing. “Put Willis in a zoo! Why, the very idea! I hope he does catch me leaving; I'd welcome an excuse to take a shot at him!”

  “Easy, fellow! I wonder,” Frank went on, “what that business was about a ‘non-migration’ policy?”

  “I thought he said ‘immigration.’ “

  “I'm sure it was ‘non-migration.’ What time is it?”

  “About three.”

  “We've got three hours, more or less. Jim, let's see what else we can coax out of Willis. I've got a hunch it may be important.”

  “Okay.” Jim picked the fuzz ball up and said, “Willis old fellow, what else do you know? Tell Jim everything you've heard— everything.”

  Willis was happy to oblige. He reeled off bits of dialog for the next hour, most of it concerned with unimportant routine of the school. At last the boys were rewarded by hearing again the unctuous tones of Gaines Beecher:

  “Mark, my boy—”

  “Oh—come in, General. Sit down. Happy to see you.”

  “I just stopped by to say that I have gotten a dispatch from your dear uncle. He added a postscript sending his regards to you.”

  “That's nice. Thank you, sir.”

  “Not at all. Close that door, will you?” Willis put in sound effects of a door being closed. “Now we can talk. The dispatch, of course, concerned the non-migration policy.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am happy to say that the board came around to your uncle's point of view. South Colony will stay where it is; this next ship load and the one following it will go to North Colony, where the new immigrants will have nearly twelve months of summer in which to prepare for the northern winter. What are you chuckling about?”

  “Nothing important, sir. One of the students, a great lout named Kelly, was telling me today what his father was going to do to me when he came through here at migration. I am looking forward to seeing his face when he learns that his father will not show up.”

  “You are not to tell him anything of the sort,” the Resident's voice said sharply.

  “Eh?”

  “I want all this handled with the least possible friction. No one must know until the last possible moment. There are hotheads among the colonials who will oppose this policy, even though it has already been proved that, with reasonable precautions, the dangers of a Martian winter are negligible. My plan is to postpone migration two weeks on some excuse, then postpone it again. By the time I announce the change it will be too late to do anything but comply.”

  “Ingenious!”

  “Thank you. It's really the only way to handle colonials, my boy. You haven't been here long enough to know them the way I do. They are a neurotic lot, most of them failures back on Earth, and they will drive you wild with their demands if you are not firm with them. They don't seem
to understand that all that they are and all that they have they owe directly to the Company. Take this new policy: if you let the colonists have their own way, they would continue to follow the Sun, like so many rich playboys— and at the Company's expense.”

  Willis shifted to Howe's voice. “I quite agree. If their children are any guide, they are a rebellious and unruly lot.”

  “Really shiftless,” agreed the other voice. “You must be firm with them. I must be going. Oh, about that, uh, specimen: you have it in a safe place?”

  “Yes indeed, sir. Locked in this cabinet.”

  “Hmm … it might be better to bring it to my quarters.”

  “Hardly necessary,” Howe's voice denied. “Notice the lock on that door? It will be safe.”

  There were good-byes said and Willis shut up.

  Frank cursed steadily and bitterly under his breath.

  FLIGHT

  JIM SHOOK HIM BY THE SHOULDER. “SNAP OUT OF IT AND help me. I'm going to be late.”

  “That fat slug,” Frank said softly, “I wonder how he would like to tackle a winter at Charax? Maybe he'd like to stay inside for eleven or twelve months at a time—or go outside when it's a hundred below. I'd like to see him freeze to death—slowly.”

  “Sure, sure,” agreed Jim. “But give me a hand.”

  Frank turned suddenly and took down Jim's outdoors suit. He flung it at him, then took down his own and started climbing rapidly into it. Jim stared. “Hey—what yuh doin’?”

  “I'm going with you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think I'm going to sit here and do lessons when somebody is planning to trick my mother into being forced to last out a high-latitude winter? My own mother? Mom's got a bad heart; it would kill her.” He turned and started digging things out of the locker. “Let's get moving.”

  Jim hesitated, then said, “Sure, Frank, but how about your plans? If you quit school now you'll never be a rocket pilot.”

  “The deuce with that! This is more important.”

  “I can warn everybody of what's up just as well as two of us can.”

  “The matter is settled, I tell you.”

  “Okay. Just wanted to be sure you knew your own mind. Let's go.” Jim climbed into his own suit, zipped it up, tightened the straps, and then started picking over his belongings. He was forced to throw away a large part, as he wanted Willis to travel in his bag.

  He picked up Willis. “Look, fellow,” he said, “we're going home. I want you to ride inside here, where it's nice and warm.”

  “Willis go for ride?”

  “Willis go for ride. But I want you to stay inside and not say one word until I take you out. Understand?”

  “Willis not talk?”

  “Willis not talk at all, not till Jim takes him out.”

  “Okay, Jim boy.” Willis thought about it and added, “Willis play music?”

  “No! Not a sound, not a word. No music. Willis close up and stay closed up.”

  “Okay, Jim boy,” Willis answered in aggrieved tones and promptly made a smooth ball of himself. Jim dropped him into the bag and zipped it.

  “Come on,” said Frank. “Let's find Smitty get our guns, and get going.”

  “The Sun won't be up for nearly an hour.”

  “We'll have to risk it. Say, how much money have you got?”

  “Not much. Why?”

  “Our fare home, dope.”

  “Oh—”Jim had been so preoccupied with other matters that he had not thought about the price of a ticket. The trip to the school had been free, of course, but they had no travel authorization for this trip; cash would be required.

  They pooled resources—not enough for one ticket, much less than enough for two. “What’11 we do?” asked Jim.

  “We'll get it out of Smitty.”

  “How?”

  “We'll get it. I'll tear off his arm and beat him over the head with it if I have to. Let's go.”

  “Don't forget your ice skates.”

  Smythe roomed alone, a tribute to his winning personality. When they shook him, he wakened quickly and said, “Very well, officer, I'll go quietly.”

  “Smitty,” said Jim, “we want our—we want those packages.”

  “I'm closed for the night. Come back in the morning.”

  “We got to have them now.”

  Smythe got out of bed. “There's an extra charge for night service, of course.” He stood on his bunk, removed the grille from his air intake, reached far inside, and hauled out the wrapped guns.

  Jim and Frank tore off the wrappings and belted their guns on. Smythe watched them with raised eyebrows. Frank added, “We've got to have some money.” He named the amount.

  “Why come to me?”

  “Because I know you've got it.”

  “So? And what do I get in return? A sweet smile?”

  “No.” Frank got out his slide rule, a beautiful circular instrument with twenty-one scales. “How much for that?”

  “Mmm—six credits.”

  “Don't be silly! It cost my father twenty-five.”

  “Eight, then. I won't be able to get more than ten for it.”

  “Take it as security for fifteen.”

  “Ten, cash. I don't run a pawn shop.” Jim's slide rule went for a smaller amount, then both their watches, followed by lesser items at lower prices.

  At last they had nothing left to sell but their skates, and both boys refused the suggestion although they were still twelve credits short of what they needed. “You've just got to trust us for the rest, Smitty” Frank told him.

  Smythe studied the ceiling. “Well, seeing what good customers you've been, I might add that I also collect autographs.”

  “Huh?”

  “I'll have both of yours, on one I.O.U., at six per cent—per month. The security will be the pound of flesh nearest your heart.”

  “Take it,” said Jim.

  Finished, they started to leave. Smythe said, “My crystal ball tells me that you gentlemen are about to fade away. How?”

  “Just walk out,” Jim told him.

  “Hmm … it does not seem to have come to your attention that the front door is now locked at night. Our friend and mentor, Mr. Howe, unlocks it himself when he arrives in the morn-mg.”

  “You're kidding!”

  “Go see for yourself.”

  Frank tugged Jim's arm. “Come on. We'll bust it down if we have to.”

  “Why do things the hard way?” inquired Smythe. “Go out through the kitchen.”

  “You mean the back door's not locked?” demanded Frank.

  “Oh, it's locked all right.”

  “Then quit making silly suggestions.”

  “I should be offended at that,” Smythe answered, “but I consider the source. While the back door is locked, it did not occur to brother Howe to install a lock on the garbage dump.”

  “The garbage dump,” exploded Jim.

  “Take it or leave it. It's your only way to sneak out.”

  “We'll take it,” decided Frank. “Come on, Jim.”

  “Hold on,” put in Smythe.”One of you can operate the dump for the other, but who's going to do it for the second man? He's stuck.”

  “Oh, I see.” Frank looked at him. “You are.”

  “And what am I offered?”

  “Confound you, Smitty how would you like a lump on the head? You've already taken us for everything but our eyeteeth.”

  Smythe shrugged. “Did I refuse? After all, I told you about it. Very well, I'll chalk it up to overhead—good will, full measure, advertising. Besides, I don't like to see my clients fall afoul of the law.”

  They went quickly to the school's large kitchen. Smythe's cautious progress through the corridors showed long familiarity with casual disregard of rules. Once there, Smythe said, “All right, who goes first?”

  Jim eyed the dump with distaste. It was a metal cylinder, barrel-size, laid on its side in the wall. It could be rotated on its main axis by means of a lever
set in the wall; a large opening in it permitted refuse to be placed in it from inside the building, then removed from the outside, without disturbing the pressurization of the building—the simplest sort of a pressure lock. The interior showed ample signs of the use for which it was intended. “I'll go first,” he volunteered and settled his mask over his face.

  “Wait a second,” said Frank. He had been eyeing the stocks of canned foods racked around the room. Now he dumped spare clothing from his bag and started replacing it with cans.

  “Hurry up,” Smythe insisted.”I want to get back to my beddy-bye before the morning bell rings.”

  “Yes, why bother?” protested Jim. “We'll be home in a few hours.”

  “Just a hunch. Okay, I'm ready.”

  Jim climbed into the dump, drawing up his knees and clutching his bag to his chest. The cylinder rotated around him; he felt a sudden drop in pressure and a bitter cold draft. Then he was picking himself up from the pavement of the alley behind the school.

  The cylinder creaked back to the loading position; in a moment Frank landed beside him. Jim helped him up. “Boy, are you a mess!” he said, brushing at a bit of mashed potato that clung to his chum's suit.

  “So are you, but there's no time to worry about it. Gee, but it's cold!”

  “It'll be warmer soon. Let's go.” The pink glow of the coming Sun was already lighting the eastern sky, even though the air was still midnight cold. They hurried down the alley to the street in back of the school and along it to the right. This portion of the city was entirely terrestrial and could have been a city in Alaska or Norway, but beyond them, etched against the lightening sky, were the ancient towers of Syrtis Minor, denying the Earthlike appearance of the street.

  They came, as they had planned, to a tributary canal and sat down to put on their skates. They were racers, with 22-inch razorlike blades, intended for speed alone. Jim finished first and lowered himself to the ice. “Better hurry,” he said. “I almost froze my behind.”

  “You're telling me!”

  “This ice is almost too hard to take an edge.”

  Frank joined him; they picked up their bags and set out. A few hundred yards away the little waterway gave into the Grand Canal of the city; they turned into it and made speed for the scooter station. Despite the exercise they were tingling with cold by the time they got to it.