ion, there was a group of Vega VI dominants who were hard to
distinguish from humans if you didn't look closely enough to notice
their complete hairlessness and the absence of neck.

And of course there were the inevitable Martians--giant, big-chested,
spindly-limbed, red-hued parodies of humanity; friendly, good-natured
and alert. But I don't really suppose they should be classed among the
oddities of the place.

As one of my colleagues commented in a national publication not long
ago: "The only place a Martian is a novelty any more is on Mars."

I fully expect the 2080 census to show a Martian population on Earth
more than double that of the home planet. So far, the Martians seem to
be the only extraterrestrials who've really taken root here. And that's
a problem, too.

But how the hell did I get off on that?

[Illustration]

I was finishing my second martini, sitting in a booth with my feet
propped on the seat opposite me and catching snatches of a conversation
between an Earth girl and a Vega VI Romeo at a nearby table. It was
pretty unsavory conversation, and I guess I was shaking my head sternly
when a shadow fell over me.

"Another of the same," I said, looking up--but it wasn't the waiter.

It was an enormous, red-skinned, balloon-chested, white-togaed Martian,
and his little wrinkled face was smiling like I was long-lost Uncle
Eddie whom he hadn't seen for forty years. When he threw open his long,
spindly arms and screeched a loud, "Ahh!" I was beginning to think maybe
I was.

"Mr. Langston!" he shrilled. "How gladly to see you! Where been? We
missing you colossal!" Then he slapped one fragile hand against his
protruding chest, looked up at the ceiling and squeaked: "Clean living
and Suns-Rays Incorporated!" He looked at me again, smiling.

"Huh?" I said. "Oh, yeah. Sure as hell. Clean living and Suns-Rays
etcetera. Damn right. Pull up a chair, Blek, old boy."

* * * * *

As far as I'm concerned, one Martian looks pretty much like another; but
now I recognized this one. There was only one extraterrestrial in the
little screwball health-cult with which I had become rather loosely
acquainted in the past two weeks, and this was him.

I moved my feet and Zan Matl Blekeke sat down, exuding sunshine and
clean living all over the place. We ordered drinks. He was elated as
blazes about something, and I decided I might as well let him tell me
about it--and knowing the typic