"Knowing nothing of the Little People's culture, I can't say. I don't even understand him most of the time excepting that I have attained the idea that something is very important and must be done immediately. What it is I don't really know, but I gather that it concerns the integrity of a number of stellar races including that of the Little People." "Sounds like corny dialogue from a bum soap opera," said Patricia. "It's a sorry day for civilization when it must depend upon a deal like this." "I'm certain that they understand. The Little Man reviewed the records. Given the apparent understanding of mere records that he has--in spite of not being able to understand me or any other Solarian--he must know that we're all playing fireman in a powderhouse. He is going on through with it in spite of what he must certainly know." "I feel inclined to take a vacation at Lake Stanley or Hawaii until this blows over." Kennebec laughed. "It won't be that bad, and besides, you're a part of this and no matter where you go, you'll be in it. Might as well give up, Pat. You can't run now." "I know," answered Patricia wistfully, "but I'd like to keep out of the way of any flying glass." * * * * * Stellor Downing was Martian by birth and by six hundred years of Martian-born forebears. His family could trace its line back to the first group of Terran colonists that braved the rigors of Martian life before technology created a Martian world that was reasonably well adapted for human life. Downing, being of hard nature, cold and calculating, and murderously swift, should probably have been dark and swarthy with beetling brows and a piercing stare. But Downing lived on Mars, where in spite of the thin atmosphere, Sol's output was low. Downing had light hair, a skin like the baby-soap ads, and pale-blue eyes that looked as innocent. A lot of people had been fooled--but not Martians. Stellor Downing's rapid rise up through the ranks of the Solar Guard was legendary on Mars. His swinging gait was more or less known to all theater-going Martians, and the sound of his voice over the radio was familiar. He wore a double modine belt, with one of the nasty weapons on each hip--where they crossed over his stomach, a dull silver medallion held them together. The medallion was the sharp-shooter's award. Stellor Downing came on the spaceport escorted by six or seven officials. He talked with them until it was time for take-off. Then they all became more serious. "We have no idea what this mission is," said one. "But if you do it honor, you'll get that other star." "That'll make you a Flight Co-ordinator," added another. "I can't make any promises," said Downing. "I'll do my best." "Terra must be really in a hole to call on you," laughed a third. "You're by and far the best flight commander in the Guard."