He wasn't being followed. Not now. But he knew his life wasn't going to be worth much unless he got off Mars in a hurry. And he had no way of doing that. He couldn't even radio Earth for money. There was no such thing as a collect call between planets--the cost of transmission was too great to risk a refusal--and in his present battered condition he knew he would never find anyone who'd lend him enough to call Kathy. His shoulders slumped despondently. A neon sign said, "BAR" and he decided to go in. For six years in the Space Service he had kept away from liquor. He had plenty of lost time to make up for now. He took a seat at a table in the rear. When the bartender approached, he said "Double _valdoz_. Straight." Kendall slouched and nursed the drink, then ordered another. And another. Drinks were cheap, on Mars. After a while another Earthman came over and hovered by Kendall's ear. "Mind if I sit with you a while, friend?" "Go right ahead. The seat's free." The newcomer was a man in his late thirties, seedy and weary looking. A week's growth of beard sprouted on his face. He was, Kendall knew, an ex-spacer living from day to day on Mars, probably looking for a handout. Kendall shuddered. He saw his own future staring him in the face. "I'm almost out of cash," he said. "I can't buy you a drink." "Didn't ask for one. I'll pay for my own. Just want company. Someone to talk to." It developed, after a while, that the newcomer was--as Kendall had guessed--a former spaceman. He, like Kendall, had flunked his six-month test between legs of an Earth-Mars run. That had been four years ago. He was still here, doing menial jobs to stay alive. "That's okay," Kendall said, slurring his words. He had already had much too many _valdoz_ doubles. "I won't live long. Some bigwig here is out for my neck." "What for?" Kendall explained what Das Shamra had wanted, and what the outcome had been. The old spacer grinned. "Funny. Same thing happened to me. I said no, and they let me go. It's an old trick, planting a distorter in a man." "_What?_" Kendall was suddenly sober. "Distorter? What do you mean?" He reached across the table and shook the older man. "Lemme alone. I'll tell you. It's a dodge they use to get men to flunk out. Least they tried it on me; I didn't find out what they did till later. They're damned clever surgeons. They slip up on a spacer when he's asleep and bury a neural distorter on his body. It louses up his reflexes so he flunks the six-monther. They spring the job offer on him. If he takes it, they remove the distorter and he's as good as new. If he turns it down--well, then he finishes like me." "How come you haven't reported this?" "What's the use? Who'd believe me? Hey, wait a minute! You didn't finish your drink!" * * * * * But Kendall had dashed the full length of the bar, dropped a crumpled bill on the counter, and raced outside. He snagged a taxi. "Hotel Cosmos, in a hurry."