Solidoporting from a base projector to a field target was a standard means of moving goods across the vast distances of Venus. Any inanimate object could be 'ported; animate beings couldn't because the process involved certain minor but distressing molecular changes in protoplasm. A few people had found this out the hard way when 'porting was first introduced. Morrison waited. The aerial whirlpool became a mouth three feet in diameter. From the mouth stepped a chrome-plated robot carrying a large sack. "Oh, it's you," Morrison said. "Yes, sir," the robot said, now completely clear of the field. "Williams 4 at your service with the Venus Mail." It was a robot of medium height, thin-shanked and flat-footed, humanoid in appearance, amiable in disposition. For twenty-three years it had been Venus's entire postal service--sorter, deliverer, and dead storage. It had been built to last, and for twenty-three years the mails had always come through. "Here we are, Mr. Morrison," Williams 4 said. "Only twice-a-month mail call in the desert, I'm sorry to say, but it comes promptly and that's a blessing. This is for you. And this. I think there's one more. Sandcar broke down, eh?" "It sure did," Morrison said, taking his letters. Williams 4 went on rummaging through its bag. Although it was a superbly efficient postman, the old robot was known as the worst gossip on three planets. "There's one more in here somewhere," Williams 4 said. "Too bad about the sandcar. They just don't build 'em like they did in my youth. Take my advice, young man. Turn back if you still have the chance." Morrison shook his head. "Foolish, downright foolish," the old robot said. "Pity you don't have my perspective. Too many's the time I've come across you boys lying in the sand in the dried-out sack of your skin, or with your bones gnawed to splinters by the sandwolves and the filthy black kites. Twenty-three years I've been delivering mail to fine-looking young men like you, and each one thinking he's unique and different." * * * * * The robot's eyecells became distant with memory. "But they _aren't_ different," Williams 4 said. "They're as alike as robots off the assembly line--especially after the wolves get through with them. And then I have to send their letters and personal effects back to their loved ones on Earth." "I know," Morrison said. "But some get through, don't they?" "Sure they do," the robot said. "I've seen men make one, two, three fortunes. And then die on the sands trying to make a fourth." "Not me," Morrison said. "I just want one. Then I'm going to buy me an undersea farm on Earth." The robot shuddered. "I have a dread of salt water. But to each his own. Good luck, young man." The robot looked Morrison over carefully--probably to see what he had in the way of personal effects--then climbed back into the aerial whirlpool. In a moment, it was gone. In another moment, the whirlpool had vanished.