Margaret St. Clair Read Free

as he was concerned, Mars and the pig both stank.
    A good deal farther on he encountered the second man. He was a small, dark tzintz (Martian for “bozo”) with a thin little goatee. George circled around him warily, making sure th at he was really wearing a camellia and that it really was black, before he spoke.
    “Perfumed Mars, planet of perfumes,” he said. “Rubbledyrubbledryrubbledlyrube,” the stranger said, his head bent.
    George paused. A suspicion was stirring in his mind. What the man had answered might have been Old Martian, of course, but surely the countersign would have been in Terrese, like the sign itself. And anyhow, it hadn’t sounded like a language at all, just mumbling.
    “Perfumed Mars, planet of perfumes,” he said for the fourth time that night.
    “Rubbledlvrube,” the thin dark tzintz answered, more briefly. He stuck out his hand.
    George drew back. There was a fishy odor about this. It smelled as bad as the pig. “No you don’t,” he snapped. I —”
    The next thing he knew he was lying at the bottom of one of the drainage pits, a lump as big as a rhea egg on his head. From above someone was speaking to him.
    “Be reasonable!” the voice said scoldingly . “How do you expect me to pull you up if you won’t cooperate? Do be reasonable!”
    Something brushed George lightly on the face. He sat up, rubbing the lump on his head and trying not to groan.
    “That’s better,” the voice said encouragingly. “Now you’re being reasonable. The next time I cast for you with the shari, take hold of the mesh and pull yourself up.”
    Once more there came a light touch on George’s face. He looked up. A girl was leaning over the edge of the drainage pit, trailing her shari at him.
    The shari is an invariable part of the costume of Martian women of every class. A long, strong, slender net, as richly ornamented as the means of its owner will allow, it is used to carry parcels, tie up the hair, transport young children, and as an emergency brassiere. A Martian woman would feel naked without it and, by Terrestrial standards, she very nearly would be. This was the first time George had ever been asked to climb up one. As it trailed over his face again he hooked his fingers in it and pulled himself upright.
    “That’s fine!” the girl cried. Even in the poor light he could see that she was a good-looking girl —though not, of course, as pretty as Darleen. Darleen was like a picture, never a hair out of place. “You hold on, and I’ll tie it around the winch.”
    Still holding the shari she got lightly to her feet and whirled off into the darkness. “Hook your fingers and toes in the mesh!” she called back. George obeyed. After a moment the shari began to move slowly upward. Obviously the girl had tied its end to a hand winch and was pulling him up. He only hop e d the shari wouldn’t break.
    He stepped out on the level just as the mesh of the shari gave an ominous creak. He was still disentangling himself from it when the girl came back. She was panting a little and her dark red hair was disarranged. “Tore my shar i some,” she observed ruefully, taking the net from George. She smoothed her hair with a skillful hand, settled the shari around her head so that it fell in a glinting golden cascade over her nape, and drew the shari’s end through her girdle in front to f o rm a garment which, if not exactly modest, was adequate.
    Her toilet completed, she looked scrutinizingly at George. “My, he certainly hit you hard,” she said. “Did he get away with the pig?”
    George winced. The pig was something he didn’t want to be rem inded of. And anyhow, what did this girl know about it? “What pig?” he asked warily.
    “Oh, be reasonable. You know very well what I mean. Id-ris’ pig. You should have taken better care of it.”
    “Um.”
    “Well, you should. Say, what’s your name?”
    “George.”
    “Well, mine’s Blixa. I was supposed to pick up the pig.”
    This was a