ry well," said Curtis, obviously not caring a bit.

* * * * *

Stern helped Curtis from his chair and supported him under the arm. They
went out the back door, the Martian slithering after them. It was cooler
in the garden. Stern felt a renewed surge of self-confidence.

"The stars--" Curtis stopped to look upward.

The night was almost cloudless and there was no moon. The house hid any
view of the crowds and the guards holding them back. They were alone in
the dark.

Curtis started forward again, with the Martian scraping along behind. It
would never let Curtis out of its sight as long as it lived; that much
was clear to Stern.

He guided Curtis to a seat close to the ravine, a favorite spot. Always
the Martian was a step--or a slither--behind, and when Curtis sat down,
Schaughtowl sat between his beloved master and the precipitous drop.

Stern picked up a rock from the rock garden and tossed it into the
ravine. The Martian did not take his eyes off Curtis. Stern picked up a
larger rock, a sharp, pointed one. He was behind the Martian and Curtis
was looking away unseeingly into the night.

It was simple, really, and well executed. The beast's skull bashed in
easily, being merely thin bones for a thin atmosphere and light
gravitation. A push sent it over the edge of the ravine.

Curtis sat unnoticing, and the traffic jam out front created more than
enough confusion to drown out any noise from the creature's fall.

Stern's palm stung. He realized that, before the Martian had pitched
over the ravine, a suction pad had for a moment caught at his hand. It
had done the beast no good, though.

Curiously, the Martian had not guarded itself, only Curtis. Sitting with
its back to Stern had really invited attack. The mind-reading ability
was just something that Stern had nervously imagined.

The police would not be able to tell his rock from any other. The heavy
body, its ungainly movement and thin bones would explain everything.
Besides, there was no motive for killing the Martian and what penalty
could there be? It couldn't be called murder.

Stern looked at the palm of his right hand, the one that had held the
rock. It stung a little, but in the darkness he couldn't see it. A
stinger of some kind, like a bee, probably. The hell with it--couldn't
be fatal or Curtis would have warned them about it.

The Martian had been walking by the ravine and had clumsily fallen in.
He would repo