"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, _we're_ still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?" Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek." Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here." "Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now." Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon. "Five meenutes!" he shrieked. "Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away. We waited. Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale. "Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there--" "Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head. "Using what for fare?" I asked. "Your brains?" Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too." The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano. Then it happened. * * * * * From the entrance of _The Space Room_ came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass. The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face. His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty. The bass thumped down upon the bandstand. "Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan." A moment's silence. "Your plan?" I echoed at last. "How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already. Hummm, I thought.