I glare at the captain. Don't talk that way about Shep. The captain stares at my ankle. "Sorry, Halloway. I meant, bury that 'dog,' you men. Give him full honors. You were lucky, son, another second and those knife-teeth'd bored through your ankle-cuff metal." I don't know what he means. I'm wearing sneakers, sir. "Oh, yeah, so you are. Yeah. Well, I'm sorry, Halloway. I know how you must feel about--Shep. He was a fine dog." I think about it a moment and my eyes fill up, wet. * * * * * There'll be a picnic and a hike; the captain says. Three hours now the boys have carried luggage from the metal house. The way they talk, this'll be some picnic. Some seem afraid, but who worries about copperheads and water-moccasins and crawfish? Not me. No, sir. Not me. Gus Bartz, sweating beside me on some apparatus, squints at me. "What's eatin' you, Halloway?" I smile. Me? Nothing. Why? "You and that act with that Martian worm." What're you talking about? What worm? The captain interrupts, nervously. "Bartz, lay off Halloway. The doctor'll explain why. Ask him." Bartz goes away, scratching his head. The captain pats my shoulder. "You're our strong-arm man, Halloway. You've got muscles from working on the rocket engines. So keep alert today, eh, on your hike to look over the territory? Keep your--b.b. gun--ready." Beavers, do you think, sir? The captain swallows hard and blinks. "Unh--oh, beavers, yeah, beavers. Sure. Beavers! Maybe. Mountain lions and Indians, too, I hear. Never can tell. Be careful." Mountain lions and Indians in New York in this day and age? Aw, sir. "Let it go. Keep alert, anyhow. Smoke?" I don't smoke, sir. A strong mind in a healthy body, you know the old rule. "The old rule. Oh, _yes_. The _old_ rule. Only joking. I don't want a smoke anyway. Like hell." What was that last, sir? "Nothing, Halloway, carry on, carry on." I help the others work, now. Are we taking the yellow street-car to the edge of town, Gus? "We're using propulsion belts, skimming low over the dead seas." How's that again, Gus? "I said, we're takin' the yellow street-car to the end of the line, yeah." We're ready. Everyone's packed, spreading out. We're going in groups of four. Down Main Street past the pie factory, over the bridge, through the tunnel, past the circus grounds and we'll rendezvous, says the captain, at a place he points to on a queer, disjointed map. _Whoosh!_ We're off! I forgot to pay my fare. "That's okay, I paid it." Thanks, captain. We're really traveling. The cypresses and the maples flash by. _Kaawhoom!_ I wouldn't admit this to anyone but you, sir, but momentarily, there, I didn't see this street-car. Suddenly we moved in empty space, nothing supporting us, and I didn't see any car. But _now_ I see it, sir. The captain gazes at me as at a nine-day miracle. "You do, eh?" Yes, sir. I clutch upward. Here's the strap. I'm holding it.