I opened the humidor on his desk, took out a cigar, smelled it, bit off the end, lit it, and took a deep puff before answering him. I settled down into a comfortable chair and pointed the lighted end of the cigar in his direction. "Between one or the other of us we had tried everything, everything. I realized finally that it would have to be an entirely different approach." * * * * * I took another satisfying drag on the cigar, then went on. "I tried lettuce, cabbage, corn, string-beans--everything in fact that the hydroponic tanks on Mars could supply in the way of earth type food. None of it worked." "What in hell are you talking about?" Marks blurted. I ignored him. "Finally it came to me. Lettuce and the other vegetables I offered would be too _light_ for them. I tried walnut hulls and then peach pits, and that worked like a charm." "You must be insane." "You don't seem to understand, Marks," I told him. "There was no other way of getting a zloor on board an earth bound rocket, so I made pets of a couple of them. They love peach pits--regular delicacy for them." I added reflectively. "You'd be surprised how well trained I've got Frankie and Johnny; I'll hate to give them up." I tapped the ash of the cigar off on his heavy carpet and said, "However, business is business. Let's see, by our contract you owe me five credits for each month I've been gone, plus a seven hundred credit bonus for bringing back two live zloors, then there's that thousand credit wager we made." He snapped on his inter-office communicator and growled instructions to his secretary to find whether or not I had brought back two live zloors in the Mars rocket. We sat there silently while she checked. I puffed on the cigar with appreciation and dropped the ashes, pointedly, on the floor. He was irritated, but wouldn't give me the satisfaction of complaining. I knew I was being childish, but I loved it. The inter-office communicator buzzed and he listened to his secretary's report, then reached down into his desk for a checkbook. He said while he was writing it, "I'm sure you'll be pleased to know, Prescott, that in spite of this sum I'm giving you, I'll still make a considerable profit on this deal." I took the check and examined it carefully. "Ummm," I told him. "But I wouldn't be very surprised if a good deal of that profit is going to be melting away." "Eh? What do you mean?" he snapped. I told him, "The other boys up on Mars are still well equipped with peach pits. They're all making pets too. The next few rockets from Mars are going to be loaded with zloors, Westley, old man. You're going to have a flock of bets to pay off--and, besides that, I'm wondering if the government is going to want that many zloors. As I understand it, two is all that they contracted for with you. Of course, you'll have to pay the boys for them--"