of beauty around him. The far purple
ridges had changed now, as a light bloomed behind them to gleam like
azure through old crystal. Then the two moons shot over the horizon;
huge silver bullets riding the thin atmosphere.

The oldest planet. Had it ever been great? Were the bones of any dead
civilizations mouldering beneath this strange yellow soil? Smith closed
his eyes while the cool Martian breezes soothed his face. Greatness.
What was greatness after all? Merely a matter of viewpoint perhaps.

Smith got up and moved slowly toward his tent. Out in the shadows he
could feel the grins of the Martians. "Goodnight," he called.

But there was no answer.

* * * * *

"I put them out there," Cleve said. "It seemed as good a place as any."

"Fine," Larkin rumbled. He wore boots and britches and a big,
wide-brimmed hat. He had on soft leather gloves. He looked like an
empire builder.

The Martians were standing around grinning at the pile of shovels lying
in the fuzz-bush. The Martians seemed interested and appeared to
communicate with one another in some imperceptible manner.

Larkin shoved through the circle of green men, pushing rudely. He
stopped, picked up one of the shovels; thrust it toward a Martian. The
Martian took it in his hands.

"It's very important that you _tell_ them--that you don't show them,"
Cleve said. "You must not do any of the work yourself."

"I'll handle it," Larkin snapped. "Now, you--all of you! Grab a shovel.
Pick 'em up, see? Pick 'em up! We've got work to do. A ditch to dig."

Larkin's pantomime was a universal language. "We start the ditch here.
Right here--you fella! Get digging! And put your back into that shovel.
Hit hard or maybe it gives the whip--understand?" Larkin made a
threatening motion toward the lash coiled at his belt.

Smith, already on the scene, turned as Evans and Dane arrived carrying
undefined plastic. They snapped the cylinders and chairs appeared;
chairs--and a table upon which Carter and Lewis, bringing up the rear,
placed a pitcher of beer, glasses and a box of cigars.

Cleve, the psychologist, looked with satisfaction upon the string of
Martians manipulating the shovels. "All right," he said. "Let's sit
down. Pour the beer, one of you."

"Allow me," Smith said. He fought to straighten the smile bending his
lips. He picked up the pitcher and poured beer into the glasses. It all
seemed so absurd; these grim-faced men acting