Pink frowned momentarily. There was a false note somewhere, but he
couldn't put his finger on it. He tried to remember all he could about
the dying race of Martians. What Ynohp was saying was correct, as nearly
as he could recall, but ... he shrugged. My God! he thought, this
critter's over four thousand years old!

Well, Circe's about forty-five.

The hell she is. She's twenty-seven, which was her age when her ship was
wrecked, plus about one actual year of life which equals the eighteen
she was lost in the Slugjet. Twenty-eight, then, really. I'm thirty-one.
Not a bad combination.

Hey, boy, you're a confirmed bachelor, remember?

He chuckled. Who says so? He took a look at Circe. The prettiest
spaceman who ever came my way, he said to himself happily.

The dinner broke up. Space etiquette demanded that he escort the Martian
to his stateroom first, for the four-armed little gray man was senior to
a mere organicus officer; when he returned to the mess hall, he found
that Joe Silver had whisked Circe away to show her the new improvements
in space drives and other technical details.

"At least," said Bill Calico, "he said he was going to."

Pink went off to talk to Jerry, who was a lousy substitute for a
beautiful girl.

He found his O. O. tinkering with the life-scanner.

"Something wrong," Jerry said through his teeth. He was a slim young
man--Pink, who stood six-three and hefted in at two hundred, would have
made two of Jerry--and his normally joyous expression was now writhed
into a frown. "The red light's not on, but the scanner's not working."

"How d'you know?"

"Had a hunch. Don't ask me why--unless it's that the Martian makes me
suspicious. Anyway, I tested the scanner; turned it inside and aimed it
all over the ship. Nothing doing. No life in here, according to it. So
something's the matter with it, and I'm damned if I can figure what."

Pink said, "That means what?"

"Means that if Fawcett or any of his men are out there, we won't know
it. We could flash right by them, or through 'em for that matter, and
never know it."

"Nothing more serious, though?"

"That's bad enough, isn't it?" Jerry asked him.

"Sure, sure." Pink shook himself. "I feel--I guess _wary_ is the word."
Jerry looked a question. "Yeah," said Pinkham uncomfortably, "it's the
Martian. A nice guy and all, but he makes me wonder."

"Four thousand years plus," nodded Jerry.

"No, not that. I think that's possible. It's som