“Okay, but you know these Mexcity characters, four pages missing from that damn Log, Doug missing, the _Lenin_ missing. And now you not only _won’t_ talk, but what they’re saying is, you _can’t_. You see what I mean? Christ, you read enough science fiction and horror stuff to see the picture. And you can believe me, they’ve got lobbies working nights painting the pic. Not just in Mexcity, either. You should see the Sunday supplement trash on tri-di!” “I’ve seen it. What do you mean--lobbies?” “The Undersea Dome crowd, Arctic reclamation. Half a dozen of ’em. Mostly the Undersea bunch, though.” “Undersea? I thought that bunch was so rich they didn’t _bother_ with Congress?” Chris laughed. “You think that means they don’t want public money to work with?” Wendt shook his head and grinned: a nice young boyish grin, rueful, amused. “Okay, look,” Chris said. “They’ve got a bill going in now to cut _all_ Space money outside of routine Lab funds, only for maintenance, see?, and some work on the stuff you brought back. But no new ship. Not even a refit for the old bird. No Venus job. You know what that means?” Johnny nodded. He still smiled; but now it had twisted to the new one-sided kind. “Damn it, they’re _scared_,” Chris said. “And damn it, you scared ’em! Johnny, you know even pressure from a group like Undersea wouldn’t work if those guys didn’t know all the folks back home were scared right out of their pants too?” “That’s right.” Chris looked at him, shook his head. “What the _hell_ is out there?” he asked. “_What made you feel this way?_” Wendt stood up and paced the length of the big room and back again. “Okay!” he said. “You want to know what’s out there? I’ll tell you. All right, I’ll tell you, and you can have a good laugh and forget all about it. Forget it until you manage to wheedle some more dough out of Congress, and send some other poor goof out there. Then if he gets back alive and tells you the same thing, you might even start to believe it. “I’ll tell you what’s out there: _God_, that’s what. Mars is heaven, see--just like it said in the story--only different--and God lives there. So if you know some guy holy enough to meet up with the Hot Shot in person, send him on out. Otherwise, you better forget the whole thing.” Chris stood up stiffly. “Okay,” he said. “I know when I’m licked.” “What’s the matter?” Johnny said bitterly. “You’re not laughing. Don’t you think it’s funny?” “No. Maybe I haven’t got any sense of humor. You know how us dedicated souls are. Anyhow, the joke is on me.” It was only after Chris left that Johnny realized the older man hadn’t believed that he meant it. _Score one for the psychers_, he thought; at least they could tell when he was not kidding. _They’d_ believe that one all right: believe that he meant it; what would bug _them_ was trying to figure out what he meant _by_ it. Which was a good question too, when you thought of it....