aturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a
tragic twenty-five per cent.

Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the
grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.

"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost
skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down
he'd be half way home.

I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport
local for another. He'll be here any minute."

Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered
coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black
needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.

"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.

I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had
displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His
comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too
soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the
infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.

"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, _we're_ still here.
We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed
spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at
ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers,
would you?"

Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better
no museek den bad museek."

Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a
feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass
man will be here."

"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I
hear him coming now."

Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His
naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding
balloon.

"Five meenutes!" he shrieked. "Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he
whirled away.

We waited.

Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his
chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.

"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune.
Course, you don't live more than five years there--"

"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.

"Using what for fare?" I asked. "Your brains?"

Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of
Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too
bad. We're so young, too."