"There's Frank's mine," Conley pointed beyond the town toward a low line of hills. "If you look close you can see his shack over there. As you probably know, he was--well, the independent type. Refused to sell out to Tri-Planetary Mining. That's why he went on north when his claim petered out, in an effort to find the source of the radite veins. Want to go over there and look around?" "Later," Jim said shortly. They entered the sprawling town with its curious Martian dwellings. Jim had never ceased to marvel at them. They were conical and glistening, built of a reddish manufactured silica. They were surrounded by an ascending spiral dotted with entrances to the very top. Jim sometimes wondered, too, at the manner in which Martians tolerated so much from the Earthmen. But then, it was well known that activity to a Martian was the final degradation. They looked upon the exertions of the Earthman in a mixture of uncomprehending wonder and supercilious amusement, much as a human might watch the eternal hustle of a colony of ants. Theirs was a world of philosophic contemplation, peace and indolence. Now, as they proceeded along the straggling main street of Riida, Jim wondered about them even more. From various ramps of the conical buildings residents watched them silently. Tall, wasp-waisted Martians, dark and leathery, passed them leisurely on the street without a word. They weren't sullen, it was as though they didn't care. Jim peered into their heavy-lidden eyes. Colorless eyes, always. He was startled at the somnolence he saw there. It struck a vague disturbing note in his brain that was dashed away by Conley's booming voice: "Here we are!" * * * * * They had reached a squat, basaltic building which bore the legend TRI-PLANETARY MINING CORPORATION. "Enter the lair of the Octopus," Conley laughed, glancing at the gilded sign above him. Wessel frowned at the words, and by that token Jim knew that he was a Corporation man to the hilt. Within, Jim found himself in an atmosphere as far removed from Mars as day is from night. The office was plain and unpretentious. There was an old-fashioned desk, a few chairs and some iron lockers against the wall. On the walls, in curious contrast, were pictures of cinema stars several years out of date, and a few yellowed maps of the company's workings. "Not only has Frank's claim petered out," Conley explained, "but Tri-Planet is beginning to. That's the reason Wessel's here, to try and trace these radite veins to their source. We think they must stem from somewhere up in the Cap." Jim nodded. "You haven't many Earthmen here now, have you?" "About a dozen," Conley shrugged. "More than enough to handle what little radite's left." "And we wouldn't even need them," Wessel spoke for the first time, "if we could get these damn lazy Martians to stir themselves."