er experiments were based, are
alterations of this."

"But just what is your objective, and how well have you succeeded?"
persisted Nuwell.

"Ability to survive under Martian conditions."

"I know. This is stated in all previous inspection reports. I want
something more specific."

"Why, ability to survive in an almost oxygen-free atmosphere, of course.
As well as can be determined, the Martians do this by deriving oxygen
from surface solids and storing it in their humps under compression,
very much like an oxygen tank.

"I've succeeded to some degree with my children. All of them can go an
hour or two without breathing. What I don't understand is that no
capacities like that were included in the genetic changes on Adam and
Brute, and yet they've gradually developed an ability to do much better.
Both of them were out on the desert the entire day today without
oxygen."

Nuwell was silent for a moment, tapping the tips of his fingers
together, apparently in deep thought. Then he said:

"Maya, I think we've reached the point where you had better retire to
your room and let us to talk privately. You can question Dr. Hennessey
in the morning about any attempts the rebels may have made to contact
him."

Maya obeyed silently, rather glad to get away and think things over
alone. When she had come to Mars as an agent of the Earth government, it
had not occurred to her that there would be areas of information from
which the local government would bar her. She recognized that such a
prohibition was perfectly valid, but she was a little offended,
nevertheless.

Her room was a spacious one on the ground level, and boasted one of
Ultra Vires' few large windows. Maya unpacked her bag, and gratefully
stripped off her boots and socks, her tunic and baggy trousers. In
underpants, she went into the small bathroom, washed cosmetics from her
face and brushed down her thick, short hair.

Donning her light sleeping garment, she sat down on the edge of her bed.
She was very tired from the long drive and, almost without thinking, she
did not get up to turn out the light. She thought at it.

The switch clicked and the light went out.

She felt foolish and a little frightened. She had never told Nuwell of
this sort of thing. Can a woman ask her witch-hunting lover: "Do you
think I'm a witch?"

With almost total recall, as though she heard it spoken, she remembered
the summation speech Nuwell had made the first time she had seen