Slowly, Clyde's eyes focused on her. He smiled. "Let's try it." He let Beryl feed him, sitting on a stool beside his chair and being unnecessarily motherly and coddling about it. For a while after he had eaten, Clyde sat in his chair, looking at Beryl with his new and oddly gentle smile. It seemed to activate some hidden response in her, for she glowed with tenderness. "I suppose," Curtis slurred, "I ought to try to walk now." "Let me help." Stern rose and crossed the room. The Martian rustled like snakes in the weeds, and hissed. Beryl said without suspicion, "Thank you, Al. I knew you'd do whatever you could for Clyde." And she rested her hand trustingly on his arm. What was past was past, not to be wept over, not to be regretted. "Like to walk out in the back for the air?" Stern asked. "The breeze is coming from that direction." "That will do very well," said Curtis, obviously not caring a bit. * * * * * Stern helped Curtis from his chair and supported him under the arm. They went out the back door, the Martian slithering after them. It was cooler in the garden. Stern felt a renewed surge of self-confidence. "The stars--" Curtis stopped to look upward. The night was almost cloudless and there was no moon. The house hid any view of the crowds and the guards holding them back. They were alone in the dark. Curtis started forward again, with the Martian scraping along behind. It would never let Curtis out of its sight as long as it lived; that much was clear to Stern. He guided Curtis to a seat close to the ravine, a favorite spot. Always the Martian was a step--or a slither--behind, and when Curtis sat down, Schaughtowl sat between his beloved master and the precipitous drop. Stern picked up a rock from the rock garden and tossed it into the ravine. The Martian did not take his eyes off Curtis. Stern picked up a larger rock, a sharp, pointed one. He was behind the Martian and Curtis was looking away unseeingly into the night. It was simple, really, and well executed. The beast's skull bashed in easily, being merely thin bones for a thin atmosphere and light gravitation. A push sent it over the edge of the ravine. Curtis sat unnoticing, and the traffic jam out front created more than enough confusion to drown out any noise from the creature's fall. Stern's palm stung. He realized that, before the Martian had pitched over the ravine, a suction pad had for a moment caught at his hand. It had done the beast no good, though. Curiously, the Martian had not guarded itself, only Curtis. Sitting with its back to Stern had really invited attack. The mind-reading ability was just something that Stern had nervously imagined. The police would not be able to tell his rock from any other. The heavy body, its ungainly movement and thin bones would explain everything. Besides, there was no motive for killing the Martian and what penalty could there be? It couldn't be called murder.