Carl picked up the bills and rapped them across his knuckles. For just a moment he toyed with the idea of throwing them back in the playboy's face. He didn't. Not only was five thousand dollars a lot of money, but his curiosity was aroused. "I'm listening," he said. Norman Hamlin braced his bony elbows on the table and leaned toward him. "Mr. Keating, in the course of the three trips you made to Mars with the military, what was it that stood out foremost in your mind?" "Men's emotions vary," Carl said carefully. "An architect would probably admire the beauty of the Martian cities, while a gourmet would savor the taste of candied encoms. Probably the thing that impressed me most was the friendliness of the people." Hamlin drummed his fingers on the table. "I see," he said. "You'd say, then, it was a reasonably nice place to live?" "Reasonably nice," Carl agreed. "Certainly nicer than the science-fiction writers had pictured it." "Better than Earth?" Carl shook his head. "Not as far as I'm concerned. My tastes run to sandy beaches and women with real eyelashes. That's just my personal opinion you understand. There's almost eighty-thousand people who disagree with me--I believe that was the latest migration figures." Hamlin thumped his pipe against the edge of the table. "I understand you've just returned from Venus, Mr. Keating. Can you give us a short briefing concerning your reactions to that planet?" * * * * * Carl eyed the man warily. "I'll be as brief as possible. There's been four landings on Venus in almost forty years. All these have been made by the military. That to me is a pretty substantial indication that no one would go there unless they were ordered to!" Hamlin smiled. "I didn't mean quite as brief as that, Mr. Keating. I had rather hoped you'd be a little more explicit." Carl frowned. "I find it a bit hard to understand just what you're driving at Dr. Hamlin. After all, there's been over a hundred books written on the subject. What can I add to the books? Maybe I could cram in a few more ghastly adjectives, but even then it wouldn't explain what the place was really like. You'd have to go there to find that out. "How can you explain to someone sitting in a comfortable drawing room, the terrors of plodding through a swamp, knee deep in green fog, and wondering when a forty foot reptile is going to sink its teeth into your leg. How can you explain the sheer mental fatigue of waiting for a needle-nosed scorpion to puncture your space jumper, knowing that the atmosphere right on the other side of your face-plate can kill you in thirty seconds. How do you explain an atmosphere of chlorine and ammonia for that matter--or a color. I say purple-brown to you and it don't mean a thing. But look at the angry purple-brown landscape of Venus for two years like I did and you'd know what I mean.