That night I went into the Great Northern desert to the Haremheb Reservation, where the Martians still try to act like Martians. It was Festival night, and when I got there they were doing the dance to the two moons. At times like this you want to leave the Martians alone. With that thought in mind, I pinned my Authority Card to my lapel directly above my badge, and went through the gates. The huge circle fire was burning and the dance was in progress. Briefly, this can be described as something like the ceremonial dances put on centuries ago by the ancient aborigines of North America. There was one important exception, however. Instead of a central fire, the Martians dig a huge circular trench and fill it with dried roots of the _belu_ tree and set fire to it. Being pitch-like, the gnarled fragments burn for hours. Inside this ring sit the spectators, and in the exact center are the dancers. For music, they use the drums. The dancers were both men and women and they were as naked as Martians can get, but their dance was a thing of grace and loveliness. For an instant--before anyone observed me--I stood motionless and watched the sinuously undulating movements, and I thought, as I have often thought before, that this is the one thing the Martians can still do beautifully. Which, in a sad sort of way, is a commentary on the way things have gone since the first rocket-blasting ship set down on these purple sands. I felt the knife dig my spine. Carefully I turned around and pointed my index finger to my badge and card. Bared teeth glittered at me in the flickering light, and then the knife disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Wahanhk," I said. "The Chief. Take me to him." The Martian turned, went away from the half-light of the circle. He led me some yards off to the north to a swooping-tent. Then he stopped, pointed. "Wahanhk," he said. I watched him slip away. Wahanhk is an old Martian. I don't think any Martian before him has ever lived so long--and doubtless none after him will, either. His leathery, almost purple-black skin was rough and had a charred look about it, and up around the eyes were little plaits and folds that had the appearance of being done deliberately by a Martian sand-artist. "Good evening," I said, and sat down before him and crossed my legs. He nodded slowly. His old eyes went to my badge. From there they went to the Authority Card. "Power sign of the Earthmen," he muttered. "Not necessarily," I said. "I'm not here for trouble. I know as well as you do that, before tonight is finished, more than half of your men and women will be drunk on illegal whiskey." He didn't reply to that. "And I don't give a damn about it," I added distinctly.