is eyes had reddish flecks in their irises, and their whites
were red like they were inflamed. Even his teeth had a reddish tinge.
Damndest guy I ever saw. Redman was descriptive enough--but Noble! Ha!
that character had all the nobility of a Sand Nan--.

I met him in Marsport. I was fairly well-heeled, having just finished
guiding a couple of Centaurian tourists through the ruins of K'nar.
They didn't believe me when I told them to watch out for Sand Nans.
Claimed that there were no such things. They were kinda violent about
it. Superstition--they said. So when the Nan heaved itself up out of
the sand, they weren't ready at all. They froze long enough for it to
get in two shots with its stingers. They were paralyzed of course, but
I wasn't, and a Nan isn't quick enough to hit a running target. So I
was out of range when the Nan turned its attention to the Centaurians
and started to feed. I took a few pictures of the Nan finishing off
the second tourist--the female one. It wasn't very pretty, but you
learn to keep a camera handy when you're a guide. It gets you out of
all sorts of legal complications later. The real bad thing about it
was that the woman must have gotten stuck with an unripe stinger
because she didn't go quietly like her mate. She kept screaming right
up to the end. I felt bad about it, but there wasn't anything I could
do. You don't argue with a Nan without a blaster, and the Park Service
doesn't allow weapons in Galactic Parks.

* * * * *

Despite the fact that I had our conversation on tape and pictures to
prove what happened, the Park cops took a dim view of the whole
affair. They cancelled my license, but what the hell--I wasn't cut out
for a guide. So when I got back to Marsport, I put in a claim for my
fee, and since their money had gone into the Nan with them, the Claims
Court allowed that I had the right to garnishee the deceaseds'
personal property, which I did. So I was richer by one Starflite class
yacht, a couple of hundred ounces of industrial gold, and a lot of
personal effects which I sold to Abe Feldstein for a hundred and fifty
munits.

Abe wasn't very generous, but what's a Martian to do with Centaurian
gear? Nothing those midgets use is adaptable to us. Even their yacht,
a six passenger job, would barely hold three normal-sized people and
they'd be cramped as kampas in a can. But the hull and drives were in
good shape and I figured that if I sunk a c