Not that the Martians had gods. They had lived too long for that, and their deities existed only in their beautifully turned phrases and their hyper-cultured ritual. But the first men from Earth had looted the libraries and shattered the soaring towers. It was a thing no Martian would ever forget--or forgive. It marked Earthmen for what they were. In Martian eyes--precocious barbarians. Targets for Martian subtlety. "I give thanks for your welcome," Marley said slowly, his tongue clumsy on the singing syllables. Tydore inclined his head slightly and indicated that Marley should follow him up the winding ramp that pierced the core of the tower. Each time Marley came, the ritual was the same, as unchanging as the still waters of the dark canals or the frozen loneliness of the red hills beyond. They would pass the first level, where the old engines supplied Tydore with what little heat and sustenance he needed. They would go on to the second level, where the music spools lay in ordered confusion amid the sonic transcribers that Tydore used to weave the sounds of the Martian night into atonal poems of melody. And then they would reach the level of the weapon. It would still be in its crystal case, guarded by a lock of bronze. A lock to which there was one key, and that one key on a silver chain around Tydore's neck. They would pass the weapon by and seek the top level, a platform shielded against the frigid night by a crystal canopy. And there they would begin their nightly fencing with words and ideas under the guise of friendship. Marley's heart was pounding suddenly as he drew near to the weapon. His patience was failing him at long last, he knew. He was sick of Mars, sick of Tydore. Sick of posing as a humble seeker after knowledge. If he could not trick the Martian into parting with the weapon soon, he knew that he must chance violence. He had not dared it before, because he could never be sure that Tydore and his kind were as defenseless as they seemed. It was paradoxical that they should possess a weapon such as _the_ weapon and yet be unwilling or unable to use it. Still it seemed to Marley that such must be the case. He could only explain it to himself by saying that they had lived too long, amid too much deviousness and inverted purpose to be quite virile. They were--the word came readily to mind from the days of his training on Earth--decadent. And the meek did not inherit the earth or anything else, he told himself with satisfaction. Only the militant, the ruthless. * * * * * The time had come, Marley thought, for the calculated risk. Direct action. He could scarcely contain himself as they passed the weapon and climbed to the top level. "You seem preoccupied tonight, Marley," Tydore said, pouring two tiny goblets of wine, "Can it be that you grow tired of Mars?"