* * * * * Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells. John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his _Zloomph_ automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes. Goon-Face was still cautious. "Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?" "Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay--just as long as you want him." "Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract." "Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli." Just a few minutes later tragedy struck. A reporter from the _Marsport Times_ ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes. "This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed. "I--I'm scared. "Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity." We watched. John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook. John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble. John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly. The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously. John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly. "He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!" I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better--" We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon. "He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole." I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll--well, we'll help you." "We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration. "We're going to make a more scientific approach." "How?" John asked. Fat Boy gulped. "Just wait another day," I said. "We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work." "No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay--until tomorrow." * * * * * All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: _What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?_