Scat's satisfied grin evaporated fast. He paced restlessly. Twice he pounded his palm and his lips formed the syllables, "Kemmerdygn." He recorded at an editorial, had to keep back-taping, gave it up. Finally he sat down at his desk and flashed Ten Mile. "I want to talk-see Mr. Kemmerdygn." "I'll connect you with his secretarial offices." "I'm sorry, but Mr. Kemmerdygn is in conference." "He'll be interested," Scat told the pretty, efficient-looking girl. "Tell him I want to beam a story about how he's begun to install at Ten Mile the most up-to-date and humane Martian-protective devices of any mine in the world." A brief wait. "Mr. Kemmerdygn has no comment. Good day." Click-Click came in. He extended his pinchers for Scat's inspection. "My new manicure," he explained. "I've been forging the pincher-ridge patterns of one of those Martians we're keeping for the Underground. That's the only identification that means anything to a human. Get the idea?" Scat frowned. "Too risky. You might get into Ten Mile, but I don't think you'd get out; we need you here." "They need me more. Out there in their holes, while I can hop into a vacuum tank every night...." Suddenly Click-Click's pinchers stiffened. "Len's outside," he coded tersely. "I think he wants you; looks like they've brought a finder." "Finder!" Scat shot up. "Got the cans ready?" "Yes. Shall we put them in?" "Not yet. But be ready." He hurried out. There was a utility car with the Kemmerdygn insignia parked in front. Two scowling bug guards were arguing with Len. Their hands were suggestively near their squirt guns. One of them had a dirty-smocked girl by the wrist. She had a silly, open mouthed grin that just seemed to stay there; she drooled. "We were telling him you got Ten Mile bugs inside," the bug guard explained to Scat. Scat looked at him steadily. "We employ Martians to run the beam. They've confused your finder." The guard pulled the girl to him. "Look Piggie," he said, "these people got bugs of their own. Maybe it's those you been feeling?" She shook her head stubbornly, like a little child. "It's our Ten Mile bugs you feel then? You're sure?" Her head bobbed up and down. Bug finders were human beings with an inborn sensitivity to Martian telepathy, usually mentally defective. They could not interpret the telepathy, but they had an uncanny knack for distinguishing the characteristic thought-waves of an individual Martian. The guard looked up at Scat. "We're coming in, Mister; Piggie never misses." He put his hand on his squirt gun. 4 Scat felt very conscious of his artificial arm. There was a tremor in the stump he couldn't control. From the door behind him he heard the code for "Catch!" He half turned and picked a blaster out of the air with his good hand. "Not on my property," he told the guard.