He stopped a few feet away and called, "Randy, it's me. Hale. Don't shoot. I'm coming in to talk to you." Randy's voice, soft and oddly echoed by the temple walls, floated from the black slit. "Come on in, Hale. I won a bet with myself, that they'd holler for you." Hale walked on, slowly, one hand brushing his blaster butt at each step. Again the sensation of strangeness, of wrongness, that he should be afraid of being shot by Randy. Five years ago Randy had been a lean, fox-eyed kid, inclined to be touchy, but no hard-case. But after five years in the excrescent canal-towns, the smoke-filled dives where a coin on the bar bought a drink or a drug and, more covertly tendered, a life--five years in a sour pool, floating with the scums that even fresh water collects when it settles--and now, a looting and a killing-- Hale felt cold, and he was perspiring. The blaster was a solid weight on his thigh. He reached the doorway and stood uncertainly, knowing the men behind him were watching him. Wondering if he'll kill me, he thought. Maybe he's turned into a ring-tailed killer. Kid, kid, why did you have to do it? Why didn't you get off Mars, like I told you to? The hollow, echoed voice said, "Come on in. I wouldn't shoot you, Hale." But the voice had a thin sound to it, and Hale thought, He might. The doorway was about two feet across, in a wall six feet thick. Smooth marble rustled the leather at Hale's shoulders as he entered the thick blackness. Three paces, echoing, and his fingertips told him he had reached the interior. He felt with his feet, located the top of the shallow steps that every such temple contained--five steps down into a trench which had once held precious water, then three steps up to the temple floor. His bootheels rang sharply--five, two across the trench, three--then he stood in darkness, waiting. Randy said, "You've gained some weight, Hale. Or is it the jacket?" Sort of amused, but with that same thin sound. Hale said, "Both." He took a forward step, at an angle, and saw the faint flood of moonlight appear on the temple floor and knew that Randy could no longer see him. He said, "Weiss said to tell you it's no use." "George's out there, eh? Thought I recognized his voice. I wonder who tipped them off. I've made some enemies along the canals, I suppose." Startlingly, a match flamed in the blackness, became an orange glow that rose to the cigarette between Randy's lips. He was over near a wall, his gun in his other hand. He puffed hard and his face glowed masklike, his eyes seeking Hale. Hale, blinking, saw that Randy hadn't changed much. He was still dark and slender, his brown eyes large and bright. But now his hair came down fully to the fur collar of his jacket, in the manner of the canal crowd. The movement that brought him to Hale's side was graceful. "How many are they, Hale? Think I could break for it?" Hale said, "It'd be quicker than the redboys."