an taste."

The pilot muttered something behind us. Howlet turned his head.

"Don't worry about it, Hughie," he retorted. "It'll be all over the
dome by tomorrow anyway."

"But they said not to--"

"Mr. Lewis won't say anything, and he's not the only spacer who'll
guess it."

* * * * *

It was easy to figure out. Ships did little exploring in the Belt
now--plenty of untouched rocks there but nothing really unknown.
"Exploring" could only mean that a hop to Jupiter was in the works at
last. There had already been rumors about a few wide swings outside
the Belt.

Well, it was just about time.

I would have liked to go too, and it was more than just a spacer's
curiosity. To my mind, man _had_ to move out in space. Being only
halfway in control of his own planetary system was no state to be
found in by the first interstellar visitors.

That is a meeting bound to happen sooner or later. It would be better
for the human race to be able to do the visiting, I thought.

The inside of Jorgensen's always surprised new visitors to Asaph Dome.
It was different from anything on Earth, and yet not too much like the
real Mars either. That way, Jorgensen hoped to catch both the
sandeaters and the tourists. The latter came to rough it in local
color, the former to dream of a better world.

"Hey! Look at the stars over the bar!" exclaimed Howlet.

To begin with, the bar was of pinkish sandstone, smoothed and covered
by a coating of plastic. Behind it, instead of less imaginative
mirrors or bottle displays, Jorgensen had had some drifter paint a
night desert: all dull pink and bronze crags smothering in sand under
a black sky. The stars twinkled like glass beads, which they were.
Lights were dim enough to hide the Martian austerity of the metal
furnishings.

"The Earth tourists spend a lot of time here," I told the trio. "Seems
they'd rather look at that sky than the real one outside the dome."

The dining room was for the souls of the locals, who could admire the
desert more conveniently than find a good meal. It was mostly green
and white, with a good deal of the white being crystal. In the
corners stood fake pine trees which Jorgensen had repainted every
month; but what drew the sandeaters was the little fountain in the
middle of the room.

Real water!

Of course, it was the same gallon or two pumped around and around, but
clear, flowing water is a sight on Mars. When the muddy trickl