ge, very poor oil
portrait of a very stout, graying man dressed in a ridiculous green
suit with a little white turban-like affair on the top of his head.
Underneath was a little brass plaque with words Tam could barely make
out:

Abraham L. Ferrel

(1947-1986)

Founder and First President
Marsport Mines, Incorporated

"Unto such men as these,
we look to leadership."

Tam stared at the picture, his lip curling slightly. He glanced
anxiously at the clock as another man was admitted to the small back
office.

Then another man. Anger began creeping into Tam's face, and he fought
to keep the scowl away, to keep from showing his concern. The hands of
the clock crept around, then around again. It was almost noon. Not a
very new dodge, Tam thought coldly. Not very new at all. Finally the
small cold flame of anger got the better of him, and he rose and
walked over to the desk. "I'm still here," he said patiently. "I'd
like to see Mr. Randall."

The girl stared at him indignantly, and flipped an intercom switch.
"That Peters application is still out here," she said brittlely. "Do
you want to see him, or not?"

There was a moment of silence. Then the voice on the intercom grated,
"Yes, I guess so. Send him in."

The office was smaller, immaculately neat. Two visiphone units hung on
a switchboard at the man's elbow. Tam's eyes caught the familiar
equipment, recognized the interplanetary power coils on one. Then he
turned his eyes to the man behind the desk.

"Now, then, what are you after?" asked the man, settling his bulk down
behind the desk, his eyes guarded, revealing a trace of boredom.

* * * * *

Tam was suddenly bitterly ashamed of his shabby appearance, the
two-day stubble on his chin. He felt a dampness on his forehead, and
tried to muster some of the old power and determination into his
voice. "I need a job," he said. "I've had plenty of experience with
radio-electronics and remote control power operations. I'd make a good
mine-operator--"

"I can read," the man cut in sharply, gesturing toward the application
form with the ink blot in the middle. "I read all about your
experience. But I can't use you. There aren't any more openings."

Tam's ears went red. "But you're always advertising," he countered.
"You don't have to worry about me working on Mars, either--I've worked
on Mars before, and I can work six, seven h