"Let _him_ speak, buddy. He works here." "This man," the clerk said, "is a former employee of Space Service. He was just notified of his discharge, and for some reason decided to take it out personally on me." "That so? Okay, friend. Come on with us." "No," Kendall snapped. He bolted past the big blueskin and started wildly for the door--but a hand caught him. He was dragged back. An open palm, calloused and horny, crashed into his face. Then another. Then a fist knocked the air out of his stomach. He doubled up. "Get away from me," he muttered, lashing out with fists and feet. The three blueskins laughed harshly and closed in. Their blows descended one after another. Kendall spun dizzily, bellowing in anger and pain, and started to topple. _It isn't fair_, he thought in the last dim moment of consciousness. _It just isn't fair._ * * * * * He woke up shivering, feeling as if a planet or two had fallen on him. _Those blueskins do a job when they beat a man up_, he thought. Stiffly he rolled over. The chilling winds of Mars came roaring down to bite at him. He was lying in the gutter outside the Space Service office, sprawled out with one hand lying casually along the sidewalk like any drunk's. He was numb all over. Numb and cold. Slowly he began to remember why he was down here in the gutter, and anger began to warm him. He was washed-up. Through. At twenty-seven his career as a spacepilot was over, and he had been booted out of the Space Service office without ceremony. Worse than that--he was stuck here on Mars with about ten dollars in his pocket. It would cost eight thousand to get back home. Eight thousand--and Kathy with a baby coming, and him with no job now. It was enough to make a man kill himself. He started to pull himself wearily to his feet, but his aching muscles wouldn't support him and he sagged into a limp heap on the side of the curb. His head dropped into his hands. A couple of tearless sobs shook him. A man ought to be better prepared for things like this, he told himself. One minute a top-flight spaceman; then a machine gives you a few tests and you're nothing but a bum sobbing in the gutter. A hand touched his shoulder. Instinctively he shrank away. He was in no shape for further fighting. "Leave me alone," he said hollowly. "You want my wallet, take it. There's ten bucks in it." "But I don't want your wallet, Pilot Kendall. I want to help you." Slowly Kendall turned his aching neck and looked up. The speaker was a blueskin, tall and broad like all his race. He was looking down, smiling warmly. "You can't call me _Pilot_ Kendall. I'm not a pilot any more." "That's only temporary," the blueskin said. "Come with me to Das Shamra, and perhaps something can be arranged." Kendall came awake instantly. He rose to his feet--and his six-three was dwarfed by the blueskin's towering height. "What the hell is this? Who's this Das Shamra, and what can he arrange for me?"