e shot at with death ray guns.

We got this one night on the fourth bench in Central Park, where we
met by appointment a man who phoned us earlier but refused to tell his
name. When we took one look at him we did not ask for his credentials,
we just knew he came from Mars.

This is what he told us:

Shortly after the end of World War II, a syndicate composed of
underworld big-shots from Chicago, Detroit and Greenpoint planned to
build a new Las Vegas in the Nevada desert. This was to be a plush
project for big spenders, with Vegas and Reno reserved for the
hoi-polloi.

There was to be service by a private airline. It would be so
ultra-ultra that suckers with only a million would be thumbed away and
guys with two million would have to come in through the back door.

The Mafia sent a couple of front men to explore the desert. Somewhere
out beyond the atom project they stumbled on what seemed to be the
answer to their prayer.

It was a huge, mausoleum-like structure, standing alone in the desert
hundreds of miles from nowhere, unique, exclusive and mysterious. The
prospectors assumed it was the last remnant of some fabulous and
long-dead ghost-mining town.

The entire population consisted of one, a little duffer with a white
goatee and thick lensed spectacles, wearing boots, chaps and a silk
hat.

"This your place, bud?" one of the hoods asked.

When he signified it was, the boys bought it. The price was
agreeable--after they pulled a wicked-looking rod.

Then the money guys came to look over their purchase. They couldn't
make head or tail of it, and you can hardly blame them, because inside
the great structure they found a huge contraption that looked like a
cigar (Havana Perfecto) standing on end.

"What the hell is this," they asked the character in the opera hat, in
what is known as a menacing attitude.

* * * * *

The old pappy guy offered to show them. He escorted them into the
cigar, pressed a button here and there, and before you could say "Al
Capone" the roof of the shed slid back and they began to move upward
at a terrific rate of speed.

Three or four of the Mafia chieftains were old hop-heads and felt at
home. In fact, one of them remarked, "Boy, are we gone." And he was
right.

The soberer Mafistas, after recovering from their first shock, laid
ungentle fists on their conductor. "What goes on?" he was asked.

"This is a space ship and we are headed for Mars.