I wondered how long I'd sit there before they fed me. Or if they would feed me at all. Hell, no one knew I was on Mars. My last contact with my regular associates had been my good-by to Marge at the office. For all anyone knew, I'd been arrested for anarchy, or something. I knew, with a cold sinking feeling, that no one would even ask about me. Security had taken me, Security was good for the country, and Security never made mistakes. Topic closed. Jery Delvin written off as an uninteresting memory. There seemed to be nothing to do but think, so I did a lot of it. I noted with chagrin that they hadn't removed my belt, or socks. I could, if I so desired, escape my fate by simply knotting them into a cord, and passing one end through the overhead air grillwork and the other about my neck. Maybe that was the reason why they hadn't taken them. I had a distinct feeling, a served-my-purpose feeling, that whether I died by my own hand or of claustrophobia made little difference to Baxter and his boys. I folded my hands behind my head and sank back onto the hard cot, puzzling over everything that had happened to me. The Brain selects me as the key figure in the finding of the missing Space Scouts. Fine, so far. Just what my duties are, it doesn't say, but I'm the man for the job, whatever it is. Okay. So Baxter hands over the Amnesty, I get a preliminary lead from Anders, the pilot of the Scouts. I take off for Mars to find the kids, who seem to have left of their own volition. Swell. Only, a cute blonde by the unlikely name of Snow White filches the Amnesty, and nearly has me tossed in prison. Except that Baxter, still on my side, gets me loose. I take off looking for Snow, and get mickeyed in a Martian bar. Then-- Then things start getting confusing. I get loose and come upon a sort of council of Earthmen, dickering with a sugarfoot, a supposedly dumb animal, for me and my collapser. I get spotted, the men try to snatch me, and they all get vaporized by the sugarfoot, who runs off. I follow, and next thing, another mob is on my heels. Same bit with the sugarfoot. Zzzzzzurp! No more men! Only this time it doesn't run off. It dallies a bit, and tries to get me to go somewhere with it. Why it has suddenly decided to take me along, I don't know, because it had the opportunity much earlier, when it made its first massacre. However, I decline the invitation, and, like a good boy, report all events to Security. Upshot: I am stashed in a solid rock cell, possibly never to emerge alive. I lay there pondering these facts. One thing seemed clear: I didn't know the angles. What was Snow's angle? Or Baxter's? Or the sugarfoot's? Or the mob's? Hell, what was mine?