the week-end ahead had shown promise of bringing matters
to a head and maybe, considering everything, well, what the hell....

Doak looked at the newsscreen over the water cooler and saw,
_Stormy and some rain. Temp. 93. 1730._

A gong sounded.

The other wage-slaves rose with assorted sighs, looking forward to the
week-end. Doak dialed June's number.

His outside screen lighted up and there she was, her hair in curlers
but luscious as a peach. "Hi," she said. And then frowned at the
seriousness of his smile.

"Look, June," he said, "I--I've got to go out of town."

"I'll _bet_," she said.

"So help me, kid, it's...." Well, he couldn't say what it was. "I'll
phone you, though, as soon--"

His screen went blank. He dialed again, and again. The screen stayed
blank.

Ryder came out from his office, his hat on, looking weary. He managed
a smile for Doak. "You'd better get to the cashier before he closes,
if you haven't already."

"Yes, sir," Doak said. "Dubbinville, wasn't it?"

"Dubbinville," Ryder said. "My old Wisconsin home. You'll find it
beautiful this time of the year. You'll love it, Doak."

"Yes, sir," Doak said.

The cashier was just getting ready to close when Doak came to the
window. "Week-end trip," Doak said. "Secret."

"How much?"

Doak faced him squarely. "Two thousand."

The cashier seemed to wince but Doak's gaze didn't relent. He was only
three years behind in his taxes now and this extra moola on the
swindle-sheet could bring him two months closer. Anyone who was only
two years behind on his taxes was considered a very solid citizen.

The cashier reached down to pull up four packets of twenties. "Well,"
he said quietly, "it's not _my_ money." He tossed the two thousand out
to Doak and yawned. "Remind me about it Monday if I forget, will you?
I'm not much good the end of the week."

_Or any other part of the week_, Doak thought. He said, "If I'm back,
Monday. If I'm not I'll scream for more."

"You do that well," the cashier said and reached up to turn off the
light overhead.

It was hot outside. The sun seemed to be imprisoned in the white
corridor that stretched for miles between the government buildings and
the ashment of the parking lot glittered like broken glass.

* * * * *

From the mines of Mars the ashment came, the best paving surface known
to man. And what was Mars but mines? With all their grand talk, who
wanted to leave Mother Earth