Scott knew what the masks represented. They were brought out every Landing Day and worn in the streets for the traditional celebrations. The masks were all of women--Earth women. Few Earth women had come to Mars, but Earth's advertising had come as soon as the planet was opened to trade. And with the ads had come the art which hadn't changed in centuries. A pretty face, it was reasoned--if there was any reasoning--ought to sell as much soap or cigarettes on Mars as it had on Earth. Hence the masks, representing Earth's greatest contribution thus far to the culture of its neighboring planet--advertising and the female face. "What's up, Ylia?" Scott asked. "We're having a meeting, sort of, and Father would like you to come, if you can." "Why sure," he said. "When is it?" "Anytime you get there. You see, you're sort of part of it." "Will there be anything I can use in the roundup?" Scott asked. "There's nothing in it so far except color stuff on Landing Day. It has to go off in a few hours." "You're the newsman," Ylia said. "Why not come and see?" "Good enough," he said. "There's something Father would like you to bring with you." "I don't usually carry a gun," said Scott, "but I guess I could scrounge one up if I had to." "Nothing like that. I think you have what he needs right in your files. The Green Arrow affair. You do have it, don't you?" "Of course. We have copies of all the stories on it that Galactic sent out. I can dig them up in a couple of minutes." "No," said Ylia. "Not that part of it. What we want is the information you didn't send out." "Oh?" said Scott. * * * * * The Green Arrow was the name the news services had given a guerrilla leader who'd spearheaded the resistance movement against the Rockheads before World Government had got around to any definite action. The name came from a chalk symbol he had left behind him after each raid or foray. Around the Green Arrow had rallied a handful of partisans who had not been content with W.G.'s slow and not-so-sure methods of deposing the Rockhead regime. They were men of ideals and, more than that, of action. Somewhere in the desert below Syrtis had been the Arrow's headquarters. All the punitive expeditions of the Rockheads had failed to find him. No one had known who he was. On the rare occasions that an Arrow man was captured, no amount of torture could get a single secret from him.