Beside her sat a sleek, mustached young man in ruffled lavender shirt and pink tights, his fingers covered with rings. "Sit down and eat with me, musician," invited Meta. Somewhat dubiously, Cornel took a seat at her right, across the table from the beruffled escort. "Meta, I wish you wouldn't demean yourself by taking up with tramps and guttersnipes," objected her companion, wrinkling his nose. "Leave me, Passo," she ordered, waving an imperious hand. "Why should I sup with painted popinjays when I can adore genius?" Passo flushed and his mouth fell open. But he arose and slunk quietly away. "Now, musician," said Meta, leaning over the table so that her powdered breasts brushed the glassware, "tell me, what was that last number you played?" "One of my own compositions," he said diffidently. The odor of food was too much for him, and he leaned across the table to appropriate Passo's untouched salad. "Its name is _Wind in the Canals_." "It should be _Le Vent dans les Canals_," she said. "You should title your compositions in French--they will be more fashionable." "I don't know French," he said, munching a stick of celery. "We don't speak French on Mars." She laughed, a laugh like the music of his playing. "You will, my genius," she promised him. Her eyes ran over his lean face, his unkempt hair. "You look as though you could use shelter and clothing. Come home with me tonight. I shall give your genius to the world." * * * * * Cornel never had experienced such luxury as was his in the apartment Meta assigned to him in her magnificent home in Jersi. He had his personal servant. New clothes were waiting for him. A barber cut his hair when he had finished a hot, scented bath, and the big bed in which he slept was soft as down. Meta asked no information of him until they met at a late breakfast the next morning. There, beautiful in translucent white negligee, she sipped her coffee and asked questions. "I came from Mars to get help for my people," he said. "We need guns and supplies, food and oxygen equipment." "You're one of the Charax rebels?" she asked. "Rebels?" He snorted. "We're free people, fighting for our freedom. We want self-government, we want to own our land and our homes, we want the right to rule our own lives." "That's guaranteed in the Constitution," said Meta. "Earth's Constitution. Mars isn't Earth. The Mars Corporation controls both spaceports. It owns all business and industry on Mars. It's milking the planet dry of resources and profits, and it's set up a company government that makes the people of Mars no better than slaves." He smiled a bitter smile.