"The tide doesn't come much higher, Miss Thurland. He'll be all right. Once out of that coma, he won't drop into it again for a day or two, unless he gets more t'ang." "What is this t'ang, Mr. Atlee?" another woman asked. "A Martian drink?" "Yes, it is. High explosive ... and one drink wrecks a man for life. They never get it out of their systems, and they don't much care. It's like the opium off Jupiter, only worse. They'd kill for it. Fortunately, they can't get it any too easily--but it's not fortunate for poor devils like Thorne." They were gone, then. The last had vanished in the misty haze spun by the blazing sunshine on the northern rocks. Heading for the Vulhan caves farther along no doubt. Rock crystals and ancient weapons from some forgotten battle there for the picking up, glittering gew-gaws to pleasure lazy, personally-conducted school-teachers and insurance-brokers on holiday. A crooked grin twisted Thorne's lips. It hadn't been so easy a few years ago. It had been hard. Too hard for Jeff Thorne. Well, there was always t'ang. * * * * * He heaved himself up, shook the sand from his ragged clothes, and lurched unsteadily to the water's edge. Kneeling, he splashed the cool, brackish stuff on his muddy face, his swollen hands. He was running them listlessly through his dark hair, trying to conquer its wild disorder, when a sound behind him brought him about with an oath. His brows darkened. "You're missing the show at the Caves," he pointed out, a sneer in his rasping voice. "Or do you prefer this?" He waved rudely at the hot sand, the dulling ripples, the low, pulpy vegetation crowning the long slope up the beach. The girl watched him steadily, her hands tight upon a small red and white bag, and under her grave, slow regard a dull flush crept along his cheek-bones to lose itself in the stubby tangle of beard. The dark blue eyes were soft and thoughtful and more than a little sad. Mirrored in them, for the first time in many months, Thorne saw for a moment what he had become and the flush died away in a gray-white pallor. It was not pleasant. "You--are Mr. Geoffrey Thorne?" she asked. The rich tones of her voice sent a tingle through the hapless derelict of the void. How long since he had heard a woman say "Mister Thorne"? How long since he had heard a woman so much as address him? His crooked grin returned. "My name is ... Jeff Thorne, Miss," he replied. She smiled in answer, a smile only slightly less awry. "You don't know me, Mr. Thorne. I'm Helen Thurland. A friend of mine, Nancy Bertrand, was once stewardess on your Venus-Titan run. She thought the world of you." "Then I'm glad she didn't accompany you," Thorne rasped. He plunged raggedly up the slope toward the inviting shade of the floppy vegetable trees cresting the rise. "Get out of that sun, girl. It's hotter than you think."