The Martian Tape was one of the trickiest things that Scat handled. Any hint of agitation or even of attempted enlightenment among owned Martians was strictly forbidden--that was one point where the government would crack down fast. Hence the Martian Tape, adapted to beam-perception, had to be, and was, purely recreational--devoted to vastly complex brain-teasers in solid geometry and other mental sports dear to Martians. Click-Click continued, "These two somehow managed to slip past the bug guard; they're begging me to send them to the Reservation." 3 The Martian Reservation had been established in Antarctica by an administration noted for its uneasy and fluctuating liberalism--much like the present one. The Reservation had been a bone of contention ever since. On it, Martians were to all intents free from human supervision. Although conditions were none too good, and food supply was always a critical problem, it served as a beacon of hope to enslaved Martia. It was largely because of the existence of the Reservation that border patrols, ground and sky, local and regional, had been made almost fantastically heavy. "You've told them the dangers?" asked Scat. "They still want to go." "Okay then; get the cans ready. And for cripes sake keep them in the icebox until!" There were a half dozen pallid, flat-chested youths waiting in the outer office. They acted nervous, and whenever the slidewalk in front creaked with the weight of a passer-by, they'd all look around quickly and then remember that you couldn't see through the glastic any more. When no footsteps came, they'd relax a little. One of them hurried up. "Mr. Scatterday?" "That's right." Instantly the youth adopted a conspiratorial air. His companions crowded behind him, craning their necks but keeping an eye cocked on the door. "We're the Executive Council of the Young Freeworkers," he whispered hoarsely. "It's an undercover movement in the Bronsco Young Peoples' Organization. We want to thank you for your editorial _End-Product of Patronage--Feudalism!_ It was just like listening to our own constitution--only better expressed." "Thanks." "Gee, Mr. Scatterday, _we_ don't like being pensioners of Kemmerdygn," the youth continued, a little more human now that he had discharged his mission. "We don't want to spend our lives playing games and getting an endless third-rate education and being Kemmerdygn's cheering section. We're only pensioners because our fathers were. But what can we do? All the restricted jobs have a waiting list a light-year long, and we're too poor to buy the specialized education that's required for most of them. Kemmerdygn keeps cutting down the pension-allotments--just like you said."