"Here! What the devil, Hanu?" Indignation stirred the returning lethargy gripping the derelict, and he came up with an angry jerk. The long fish-spear dropped, the razored blade resting across the fallen money as if to slice it in two. The Martian's voice was thin, but gravely dignified. "No, Thorne. No man goes to the City." "What the devil do you mean?" * * * * * Hanu groped for words in the lingua franca which served the races for communication on all the inner worlds. He stroked thoughtfully at his thick Boer beard, pain in his great round eyes. "You came here, friend Thorne, in great trouble. The devil-juice was in your blood and your friends had driven you forth as all who drink the t'ang must go. We are simple folk. My people were glad of you, for we have been friendly to your Earthmen, and I have been glad, truly glad. You have been good and our friend, in spite of the t'ang. We have asked nothing of you." "I know that," Thorne rapped impatiently. He edged nearer the fallen money. "I've had food, clothing, and shelter from your people. Perhaps I've even had friendship. I needed it. But why refuse me now?" The Martian impaled a note on his spear and held it out to Thorne. His long-nosed face grew stern and the lean body tightened. "We refuse nothing, friend Thorne. You are no longer with us, or of us. Take up your money if you will, but go." "Why?" The great eyes swung up the beach, then back to the sagging beachcomber. The note fluttered from his blade. "A woman's money, friend Thorne. Not even t'ang can excuse beggary." Thorne staggered back. Shuddering, icy nausea ripped through his worn frame. Clenching his fists, he turned his back on the tall Martian that his blinding shame might not be seen. A rustle of paper told him the native chieftain was gathering up the fallen currency. He did not turn. But a gentle poke from the spear-butt awoke him from his daze and he turned at last, to find his money presented at his breast upon the chief's blade. Slowly he took it, slowly tore it across and across, dropping it listlessly upon the sand. "Where shall I go?" he asked, more of the empty air than of the grave Martian watching him so sadly. The native shook his grey-maned head. "Where shall any t'anger go?" he replied. The sting of the epithet, although innocently meant by the generous Martian, twisted Thorne's sodden mind until he pounded his temples with a groan of empty pain. "Where, indeed, good Hanu?" Almost he laughed, throwing wide his tattered arms in the remnants of the brave red International jacket. "To the north Vulhan City and the gutter, to the south your people and a greater contempt than theirs, for I have tried to be their friend. Oh, I know, Hanu! It's in your eyes. It's in mine, too. There for good and all. So what's left but the sea again ... and no petty fool to drag me forth to shame me even before you, the last of all my friends."