"It's an authentic exploitation of actual rituals once held by the Martians," Don said. "It has a pagan religious significance. The moons were male and female, and when they--ah--united their light, the Martians held feasts, fertility rituals--highly symbolic rites." "Only symbolic?" said Mrs. Ericson, pretending blasé disappointment. "Well," grinned Don, "the Martians were only human. Just as--ah--well--I must say that a number of tourists have a tendency to chuck their inhibitions during the rituals. But if not on Mars, then where?" "I still say," yelled Mr. Ericson from his camel, "that you should spring a live Martian on us." "We get plenty of calls for them," Don said. "But so far we haven't been able to scare up any." "What did they look like?" asked Mrs. Ericson. "Nobody knows. The only Martians around now are--ghosts," Don said, with a strange softness. "A few old prospectors, fakirs, beggars live in these hills--hermits. They claim they see Martians, know they're here. They believe in ghosts. The Martian sun drives them crazy." "Like that old man we saw coming out here," said Mr. Ericson. Don nodded. "They're dangerous. You must stay away from them, you understand. Or you'll get the contamination." For the first time, Madeleine felt that Don was touching something real. She straightened. "Contamination?" "Those crazy old guys are like lepers. They stay apart from everybody else. But if you go to them, you pay for it. And if you're contaminated, it'll cost. If you really get it, you can't be cured at all. You die." No one said anything. Odd, Madeleine thought, his coming out with scare talk. Didn't seem to be good propaganda. Then she got it, and laughed a little. "Sensationalism," she said. "Pure bunk." "What is this contamination?" Mr. Ericson said. "An alien virus. Martian. Nobody's been able to isolate it. If a case isn't too bad we cure it in the antiseptic wards, but otherwise--well, you just wither away and die in a few hours. You're all shriveled up and look like a mummy." "That's horrible!" whispered Mrs. Ericson. "They're diseased fakirs who say they can read the sands, predict your future, bring you paradise, for five credits. But stay away from them!" And just at that moment, as though on cue, Madeleine thought, the old man stepped out about fifty feet in front of Don's camel, and blocked the narrow trail. "Caravan halt!" Don yelled and raised his hand. Not knowing why, laughing and exclaiming, the long line of the caravan halted. And Madeleine stared ahead into the old man's face. The old man was dirty, bent and very ancient and hairless, with only a soiled robe of crude but heavy cloth hanging on his frame. There was nothing that seemed very much alive about him except his eyes. Even he was a stereotype, she thought. The classic old hermit character. The yogi, the magi, the wise old man, the Hindu Rope Trick, look into my crystal ball, I am the teller of the sands--