"Hey, Mac!" he said by way of introduction. "Could you use an act?" The irate manager surveyed the big, purposeful man inside the oxysuit, grinned and said: "Listen, Goldilocks, whatcha think this is--a bearded man's convention?" "Never mind about the customers!" the engineer burst in repartee, smiling though his heart was grim. "I've a trained, talking Ganymedean ape here. I'll give you an act that'll knock 'em wild if you'll announce me now and give me a dressing room for about ten minutes. Oke?" A system was hanging on the balance in the weighing of a few, short, seemingly lightly-spoken words--the future of many kindred races sprung from a common sun who labored now under greatest stress--And the grinning manager must have sensed the aura of seriousness and power about the unshaven man and his strange companion, for his face grew sober. "What's the act like, pal?" "Ever hear the '_Saga-of-Sal_'?" "I've heard _of_ it!" "Tonight you'll hear _it_!" Frederix's heart was beating with the power surges of a liquid-rocket's blast as he hurried into the dressing room, completely removed his helmet, splashed on fiery pseudo-pirate make-up, darkened his golden beard, and then turned his attention to the stoic robot. Time flew with the beating of his heart. Removing the robot's system of speech, he set the disks awhirl, loosening the bolts which held the 144 common units of enunciation in a fixed order. Transcribing his reedy falsetto onto the disks, remembering some of the great poem, extemporizing with his natural flair for poetry, he recited some of the choicest lines; then locked the enunciator unit and lay the robot aside with an air of confidence and satisfaction. Carefully he obliterated with make-up any distinguishing signs on the government suit; then hurried out into the wings, the monkey-thing scurrying before-- (The rockets are coming from Kaa, from Kaa, Out of Kaa flashing flames in the night.) * * * * * All spacemen have heard the "Saga-of-Sal," repeated from expedition quarters on Pluto into the English colony in Mercury's twilight zone, Sal, the throaty torch-singer from dear old Boston at the very sound of whose magic voice the maharajahs of Mars went into ecstasy and who spurned them all to marry a blue midget from Callisto. Conceived by some long-dead bard with the virile, full style of a Kipling, it had been handed from mouth to mouth, every minstrel singing it differently; but none of them ever had cause to sing it quite like Hunter Frederix and his futuristic concept of a vaudeville stooge did that wild night in the Spacasino while he waited, his life hanging on a thread, anticipating momentary recognition, praying for the sound of rockets out of Kaa.