when
viewed from Earth. Every book on Mars gave the fact that the canals were
either an illusion or something which could not be detected on the
surface of the planet.

He glanced back toward the rocket that still pointed skyward back on the
field, and then forward toward the city of Marsport, sprawling out in a
mess of slums beyond the edges of the dome that had been built to hold
air over the central part. And at last he stirred and reached for the
yellow stub.

He grimaced at the ONE WAY stamped on it, then tore it into
bits and let the pieces scatter over the floor. He counted them as they
fell; thirty pieces, one for each year of his life. Little ones for the
two years he'd wasted as a cop. Shreds for the four years as a kid in
the ring before that--he'd never made the top. Bigger bits for two years
also wasted in trying his hand at professional gambling; and the six
final pieces that spelled his rise from a special reporter helping out
with a police shake-up coverage, through a regular leg-man turning up
rackets, and on up like a meteor until.... He'd made his big scoop, all
right. He'd dug up enough about the Mercury scandals to double
circulation.

And the government had explained what a fool he'd been for printing half
of a story that was never supposed to be printed until all could be
revealed. They'd given Bruce Gordon his final assignment.

He shrugged. He'd bought a suit of airtight coveralls and a helmet at
the field; he had some cash, and a set of reader cards in his pocket.
The supply house, Earthside, had assured him that this pattern had never
been exported to Mars. With them and the knife he'd selected, he might
get by.

The Solar Security office had given him the knife practice, to make sure
he could use it, just as they'd made sure he hadn't taken extra money
with him beyond the regulation amount.

"You're a traitor, and we'd like nothing better than seeing your guts
spilled," the Security man had told him. "That paper you swiped was
marked top secret. But we don't get many men with your background--cop,
tinhorn, fighter--who have brains enough for our work. So you're bound
for Mars, rather than the Mercury mines. If..."

It was a big _if_, and a vague one. They needed men on Mars who could
act as links in their information bureau, and be ready to work on their
side when the expected trouble came. They wanted men who could serve
them loyally, even without orders. If he did them enough servi